Diodorus Siculus and the World of the Late Roman Republic Ii Iii

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Diodorus Siculus and the World of the Late Roman Republic ii iii

Diodorus Siculus and the World of the Late Roman Republic z

CHARLES E. MUNTZ

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Muntz, Charles Edward, 1980– author. Title: Diodorus Siculus and the world of the late Roman republic / Charles E. Muntz. Description: New York, NY : Oxford University Press, [2017] | Includes bibliographical references and index. | Description based on print version record and CIP data provided by publisher; resource not viewed. Identifiers: LCCN 2016018875 (print) | LCCN 2016017895 (ebook) | ISBN 9780190498726 (hardback) | ISBN 9780190498733 (ebook) | ISBN 9780190498740 (online) Subjects: LCSH: Diodorus, Siculus. | Diodorus, Siculus. Bibliotheca historica. | Rome—Intellectual life. | History, Ancient—Historiography. Classification: LCC D58.D23 (print) | LCC D58.D23 M35 2016 (ebook) | DDC 937/.02—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016018875

1 3 5 7 9 8 6 4 2 Printed by Sheridan Books, Inc., United States of America v

In memoriam Diskin Clay Lawrence Richardson, Jr. vi â vii

Contents

Acknowledgments ix Abbreviations xi

1. Diodorus, Quellenforschung, and Beyond 1 2. Organizing the World 27 3. The Origins of Civilization 57 4. Mythical History 89 5. The Deified Culture Bringers 133 6. Kings, Kingship, and Rome 191 7. The Roman Civil Wars and the Bibliotheke 215

Bibliography 249 Index Locorum 269 General Index 281 viii ix

Acknowledgments

I would like to thank the many individuals who have helped me bring this book to fruition. Rosaria Munson, Georgia Machemer, and Oxford’s anonymous referees provided wonderfully insightful criticism of the manuscript. The Loeb Classical Library Foundation offered generous funding to support my research. Fulbright College and the Department of History at the University of Arkansas provided both funding and a sabbatical to work on the manuscript. Cambridge University and Wolfson College graciously hosted me as the Arkansas Visiting Fellow in 2014–2015, and I would like to single out Meg Westbury of the Wolfson College Library for her assistance during the year. Peter Green and Robert Drews both took the time to write recommendations for me. Stefan Vranka and his staff at Oxford University Press guided me through the publishing process. Part of Chapter 4 was first presented at the conference Diodorus Siculus: Shared Myths, World Community, and Universal History in Glasgow in 2011, and I want to thank conference organizers Lisa Hau, Alexander Meeus, and Brian Sheridan and all the other participants for their feedback and encouragement. My wonderful colleagues in the History Department and Classical Studies Program at the University of Arkansas provided much moral support, and helped me by reading and commenting on fellowship proposals and book prospectuses. I would like to thank especially Lynda Coon, Tricia Starks, J. Laurence Hare, Kathryn Sloan, Michael Pierce, and Daniel Levine. In the University of Arkansas Library, I am particularly grateful to Beth Juhl and everyone in Interlibrary Loan. This book has its origins in my Duke dissertation, and I would like to thank the original members of my com- mittee, Peter Burian, Kent Rigsby, Diskin Clay, and especially my advisor, the magnificent Mary T. Boatwright. I would also like to thank Lawrence Richardson, Jr., whose class on Cicero was one of the greatest I ever took. Sadly, neither Diskin nor Larry could see the finished work. And finally, thanks to my parents, for everything. x xi

Abbreviations

Abbreviations of ancient sources follow the conventions of the Oxford Classical Dictionary, 4th edition. For the letters of Cicero I have given both the traditional numbering, and the revised numbering employed by Shackleton-Bailey, abbreviated SB. The following abbreviations of modern works are used: BNJ Worthington, I., ed. (2008–) Brill’s New Jacoby. Leiden: Brill. http://referenceworks.brillonline.com/cluster/Jacoby%20 Online. Cited by historian number. DK Diels, H. and W, Kranz, eds. (1951–1952). Fragmente der Vorsokratiker. 6th ed. Berlin: Grunewald. FGrH Jacoby, F. (1923–1958) Die Fragmente der griechischen Historiker. Leiden: E. J. Brill. Cited by historian number. FRHist Cornell, T. J., ed. (2013). The Fragments of the Roman Historians. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Cited by historian number. GGM Müller, C., ed. (1835-1861). Geographi Graeci Minores. Paris: A. Firmin Didot. IGLS Jalabert, L., R. Mouterde, J.P. Rey-Coquais, eds. (1929–) Inscriptiones grecques et latines de la Syrie. Paris: P. Geuthner. IGRR Cagnat, R., J. Toutain, P. Jouguet, and G. Lafaye, ed. (1911– 1927) Inscriptiones Graecae ad Res Romanas Pertinentes. Paris: E. Leroux. ILLRP Degrassi, A., ed. (1965–) Inscriptiones Latinae Liberae ei Rei Republicae. Firenze: La Nuova Italia. OCD4 Hornblower, S., A. Spawforth, and E. Eidinow, eds. (2012). The Oxford Classical Dictionary. 4th edition. Oxford: Oxford University Press. OEAE Redford, D. B., ed. (2001). The Oxford Encyclopedia of Ancient Egypt. Oxford: Oxford University Press. xii

xii Abbreviations

OGI Dittenberg, W., ed. (1903–1905) Orientis Graeci Inscriptiones Selectae. Leipzig: S. Hirzel. POxy Grenfell, B. P. et al. (1898–) The Oxyrhynchus Papyri. London: The Egypt Exploration Society. RE Pauly, A., G. Wissowa, and W. Kroll (1903–1978). Paulys real- encyclopädie der classischen altertumswissenschaft. Stuttgart: J.B. Metzler. SIG Dittenberger, W. (1915–1924). Sylloge Inscriptionum Graecarum. 3rd edition. Leipzig: S. Hirzelium. TGF Nauck, A. and B. Snell, B., eds. (1889-1964). Tragicorum Graecorum fragmenta. Hildesheim: Olms. xiii

Diodorus Siculus and the World of the Late Roman Republic xiv 1

1 Diodorus, Quellenforschung, and Beyond

A man inherited a field in which was an accumulation of old stone, part of an older hall. Of the old stone, some had already been used in building the house in which he actually lived, not far from the old house of his fathers. Of the rest he took some and built a tower. But his friends coming perceived at once (without troubling to climb the steps) that these stones had formerly belonged to a more ancient building. So they pushed the tower over, with no little labour, in order to look for hidden carvings and inscriptions, or to discover whence the man’s distant forefathers had obtained their building material. Some suspecting a deposit of coal under the soil began to dig for it, and forgot even the stones. They all said: “This tower is most interesting.” But they also said (after pushing it over): “What a muddle it is in!” And even the man’s own descendants, who might have been expected to consider what he had been about, were heard to murmur: “He is such an odd fellow! Imagine his using these old stones just to build a nonsensical tower! Why did he not restore the old house? He had no sense of proportion.” But from the top of that tower the man had been able to look out upon the sea. —J. R. R. Tolkien, “Beowulf: The Monsters and the Critics”

More than two thousand years ago a Greek provincial from Sicily wrote one of the most remarkable works to survive from antiquity, no less than a history of the entire world from the beginning of life to his own time. This Greek, Diodorus Siculus, called his work the Bibliotheke, as it encompassed 2

2 Diodorus Siculus

an entire historical library in a single work.1 Today it is one of the longest and most important histories to survive from the classical world. But, like the builder of Tolkien’s tower, Diodorus built his history out of earlier works. Scholars have been far more interested in tearing down the tower of the Bibliotheke to reconstruct those works, while criticizing Diodorus as an “odd fellow,” than in examining what Diodorus and the Bibliotheke have to tell us. This study takes the opposite approach and climbs the tower to look out on the sea. There is a remarkable vista to be seen. Diodorus is a valuable witness to one of the most turbulent periods of antiquity, the transition from the Roman Republic to the Empire. Diodorus was working on the Bibliotheke in Alexandria during the 50s and witnessed the chaos surrounding the collapse of the Ptolemies and the Roman interventions. He was in Rome during the mid-40s when Caesar achieved supreme power and then lost his life. And he knew the depredations that Octavian inflicted on his homeland of Sicily during the 30s. As a Greek provincial, he provides a very different perspective on his times than Roman insiders such as Cicero or Sallust. Moreover, Diodorus is a unique witness. Whereas nearly all other attested Greek intellectuals from the period are associated with prominent Romans or Roman families, Diodorus has no known connections. He is a true outsider. The Bibliotheke itself covers none of these events beyond a handful of brief references and allusions, which is itself highly suggestive. But the turbulence of the times pervades the entire work and has fundamentally shaped Diodorus’s worldview. This is especially true in the opening books of the Bibliotheke, which may ostensibly deal with the earliest “barbarian” civilizations but, as the present study shows, are very much oriented toward the world of Rome and the intellectual debates of Diodorus’s own times. Indeed, from the perspective of understanding Diodorus and his world, the first three books are perhaps the most important in the entire Bibliotheke as they establish the tone of the entire work. Regardless of what sources Diodorus used, it was his decision and his alone to devote the first three books of the Bibliotheke to the Egyptians, Assyrians, Indians, Libyans, and others. Diodorus uses these ancient barbarians to define the physical, political, and cultural boundaries of the late Roman Republic

1. On the title of Bibliotheke and its cosmopolitan overtones, see Too (2010) 143–169, and on the larger trend toward encyclopaedism in the late Republic König and Woolf (2013) 50–52. â 3

Diodorus, Quellenforschung, and Beyond 3

and to contribute to some of the major intellectual and political debates of his day, such as how civilization emerged, the relationship of myth and history, the nature of ruler cult, the best forms of government, and why empires endure. But for an outsider it was still dangerous to engage in such incendiary topics, even indirectly, and there is the very real possibility that Diodorus may have been prevented from publishing or even finishing the Bibliotheke.

A Greek Intellectual in the Late Roman Republic Diodorus lived during one of the best-âdocumented periods of antiquity and wrote one of the longest extant works. Yet no contemporary reference to him or his work survives. Only two ancient sources, both centuries later, provide any biographical information. Jerome, in his edition of the Chronicle of Eusebius, says under the year 49 BCE that “Diodorus Siculus, a writer of Greek history, becomes famous” (Diodorus Siculus Graecae scriptor historiae clarus habetur). The Suda states in its entry for Diodorus that “he lived during the time of Augustus and earlier” (γέγονε δὲ ἐπὶ τῶν χρόνων Αὐγούστου Καίσαρος καὶ ἐπανῶ). Given that ancient writers often determined a writer’s floruit based on a mechanical calculation of when he would have been about forty, both these dates must be taken with a large grain of salt.2 Diodorus himself gives us some biographical information in the Bibliotheke, his only known work. He names his hometown as Agyrium, modern Agíra, in Sicily (1.4.4). The earliest date in his own life that he mentions is the 180th Olympiad, 60–â56 BCE (1.44.1), when he was in Egypt. Moreover, before Ptolemy XII Auletes was declared a friend of Rome (1.83.8), an event that took place in 59, Diodorus witnessed an Egyptian mob kill a Roman emissary over the death of a cat. Thus Diodorus would have been in Egypt by around the year 60, at an age, it seems reasonable to conjecture, of about thirty, which would give him a birthdate around the year 90. Elsewhere in Book 1 Diodorus declares that the Macedonians had been ruling Egypt for 276 years, which, taking his dating of Alexander’s entry into Egypt in 331 (1.49.1) as the starting point, gives a date of about 55, at which point Diodorus must have still been working on Book 1, and may still have been in Egypt. Diodorus indirectly reveals that he was in Rome

2. Sacks (1990) 164, Green (2006) 2 n. 4. 4

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by 45, since he saw the Rostra while it was still outside the Senate house (12.26.1), and Caesar removed it in that year.3 Diodorus says that he lived at Rome for some time because of the excellent resources of the city for research, and he may have spent the remainder of his life there, although this is not certain.4 The latest reference to a contemporary event in the extant portion of the Bibliotheke is to Octavian’s expulsion of the inhabitants of Tauromenium in Sicily (16.7.1), which apparently happened in 36 or soon thereafter (cf. Appian, B Civ. 5.109). In Book 1 Diodorus also remarks that the Ptolemies were the most recent dynasty to rule Egypt, which gives a terminal date of 31/30 when Octavian annexed Egypt after the battle of Actium (1.44.4). Diodorus himself tells us in the proëm that he spent thirty years doing research and traveling to perform autopsy (1.4.1). If we assume that Diodorus spent several years working before coming to Alexandria, that would put the terminal date in the middle to late 30s, which tallies with the other references in the work discussed above.5 Diodorus also tells us in the proëm that “my undertaking is completed, but the books are so far unpublished” (ἡ μὲν ὑπόθεσις ἔχει τέλος, αἱ βίβλοι δὲ μέχρι τοῦ νῦν ἀνέκδοτοι τυγχάνουσιν οὖσαι, 1.4.6), a curious statement that suggests Diodorus was still in the process of revising his work; his failure to remove it from the proëm suggests that he may not have finished and the work as a whole was published after his death.6 We will analyze these problems further in Chapter 7. Despite the lack of information about Diodorus specifically, we are much better informed about other Greek intellectuals during the late Republican period, which helps shed some light on the historian. We know that Diodorus spent time in Egypt, and it would not at all be surprising if he availed himself of the resources in Alexandria, such as the library and museum.7 But in the proëm of the Bibliotheke it is Rome, and Rome alone, that Diodorus praises: “For the preeminence of this city, which stretches its power to the ends of the inhabited world, offered the most accessible and abundant resources for us during the long time we spent

3. Casevitz (1972) xi n. 1, Rubincam (1987) 326–327. 4. Green (2006) 5. 5. On Diodorus’s possible working methods, see Rubincam (1987) 313–328, and my Chapter 7. 6. First suggested by Green (2006) 30. 7. On the continuing intellectual activity at Alexandria during this period, see Hatzimichali (2011) 25–30 and Hatzimichali (2013a) 167–182. 5

Diodorus, Quellenforschung, and Beyond 5

there” (ἡ γὰρ ταύτης τῆς πόλεως ὑπεροχή, διατείνουσα τῇ δυνάμει πρὸς τὰ πέρατα τῆς οἰκουμένης, ἑτοιμοτάτας καὶ πλείστας ἡμῖν ἀφορμὰς παρέσχετο παρεπιδημήσασιν ἐν αὐτῇ πλείω χρόνον, 1.4.3). This is not surprising. During the first century BCE there was a great shift of Greek intellectual activity toward Rome. Diodorus himself speaks of people flocking to Rome “just like rivers into the always receptive sea” (ὡσπερεὶ ποταμοί τινες εἰς τὴν πάντα δυναμένην δέχεσθαι θάλατταν, 34/35.6), and although Diodorus is not attested in any contemporary sources, many others are.8 Like Diodorus, they were drawn to Rome for its resources, such as libraries and archives.9 Diodorus even boasts of his “great experience” (πολλὴν ἐμπειρίαν, 1.4.4) in Latin.10 But more important was the availability of wealthy patrons. As the Hellenistic kingdoms fell, Roman aristocrats increasingly began to support Greek intellectuals and their activities. These aristocrats, in their patronage, may well have seen themselves as taking the place of Hellenistic kings.11 Rome, with hundreds of senators and an even larger body of equites, provided many possibilities for patronage, along with a well-educated and appreciative audience for a Greek intellectual. For the Roman, association with a Greek intellectual gave an air of refinement and culture, as well as a certain cachet.12 This was a mutual relationship, then, and there seems to have been some flexibility for the Greek intellectual in the sort of association he established; the historian and philosopher Posidonius, for example, judiciously declined to write an account of Cicero’s consulship for Cicero himself (Att. 2.1.1–2 = SB 21).13 Indeed, in the documented examples from the first century it was always the Roman who sought out the intellectual, and not the other way around, indicating that a Greek had to have already produced something of note to attract a patron.14

8. Hidber (2011) 122–123 provides a useful list of the major Greek scholars associated with Rome during the late Republic and early Augustan period. 9. Presumably it is to libraries that Diodorus alludes in 1.4.3; see further Chapter 7. 10. Hidber (2011) 117–118. 11. Rawson (1985) 105. 12. Crawford (1978) 193–208 argues that for the Romans, association with Greek intellectuals was valuable primarily for the snob factor, although he perhaps exaggerates the importance of this. See also Gold (1985) 319 n. 25. 13. Yarrow (2006) 28–29. 14. Ibid. 25–30. 6

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This can be seen in the case of one of the best-documented Greek intellectuals at Rome, the poet Archias, whose Roman citizenship was defended by Cicero himself in 62. Archias arrived in Rome around 102 from Antioch, after gaining plaudits for his poems throughout Greece, Sicily, and southern Italy. Cicero portrays Archias as gaining access to a powerful patron, and a powerful, but appreciative, audience of prominent aristocrats. Archias wrote poetry on contemporary subjects, including the Cimbric Wars and the Mithridatic Wars, and thus gained access to the very figures who had taken part in the affairs he was versifying.15 These relationships with the most powerful leaders and dynasts had great potential for the intellectual, especially one whose ambitions went beyond just involvement with the ruling class to actually gaining some measure of influence and power.16 Liv Yarrow identifies two paths by which a provincial intellectual such as Diodorus could gain such power or influence. The first is to be appointed by the Romans into some position of authority over others. The second is for the intellectual to become an advisor, teacher, or confidant of an important and powerful Roman.17 The latter is especially associated with philosophers, and Plutarch even wrote a short essay entitled “That a Philosopher Ought to Converse Especially with Men in Power” (Περὶ τοῦ ὅτι μάλιστα τοῖς ἡγεμόσι δεῖ τὸν φιλόσοφον διαλέγεσθαι = Moralia 776a).18 Not only philosophers, but also other types of intellectuals are readily found as advisors to the most prominent dynasts. Pompey the Great’s close circle included Lucius Lucceius, Lucius Scribonius Libo, and Theophanes of Mytilene (FGrH 188), all of whom were historians.19 The danger for intellectuals was that becoming too closely aligned to a family or individual who wound up on the wrong side, as happened frequently during the turbulent last decades of the Roman Republic, could destroy their influence and even cost them their lives.20

15. Gold (1987) 73–86, Yarrow (2006) 26–28. 16. Gold (1987) 39–67 surveys the development of this over the Republican period. 17. Yarrow (2006) 46–47. 18. This has to be the best title of any ancient work. Rawson (1989) provides an overview of the motif, focusing primarily on philosophers in the imperial period, while Yarrow (2006) 44–48 examines the range of intellectuals in the Republican period. 19. Rawson (1985) 105. 20. Yarrow (2006) 31–32 describes some intellectuals who were caught on the wrong side. 7

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Theophanes of Mytilene is especially notable. A writer of contemporary history, he likely became acquainted with Pompey during the Mithridatic War (66–63), and his closeness with Pompey may, as Yarrow suggests, have given him special access to Mithridates’s archives for his work. It may also be that it was Theophanes’s historical writing that first drew Pompey to him. Cicero attested in the Pro Archia (24) of 62 that Theophanes earned Roman citizenship from Pompey for his pro-Roman writings, although perhaps Theophanes’s political status in Mytilene also contributed to his importance for the great general. Yet Theophanes sacrificed this standing in Mytilene for the chance to enter the world of Roman politics, even though this meant being dependent on his relationship with Pompey for his power. By the year 59 Theophanes was so ensconced in the Roman political scene that Cicero expected an offer of a position on the embassy to Alexandria to be delivered by him (Att. 2.5 = SB 25). Two other brief snip- pets of information suggest that Theophanes advised Cicero via Atticus on avoiding exile (Att. 8.12.5 = SB 162) and that he dissuaded Pompey from taking part in the movement to restore Ptolemy XII Auletes in Alexandria. Judging from the evidence of Cicero’s letters, it appears that Theophanes was particularly active “behind the scenes” and offered a “back door” to Pompey.21 In a letter from March 49 Cicero even counts Theophanes as part of the group on which Rome’s survival rests (Att 9.11.4 = SB 178). Despite this position, Theophanes was never fully accepted as a Roman, and is referred to by Cicero derisively as “the Greek” (e.g., Att. 9.10.5 = SB 177, Att. 5.11.3 = SB 104).22 Theophanes is clearly an exceptional case, but he does serve as an example of how far a Greek provincial historian could advance in an advi- sory position in the Roman world. Whether or not Diodorus envisaged himself having such a prominent role is doubtful. But the Bibliotheke itself makes clear that he believes strongly in the necessity of great rulers having wise advisors and that history, with its wealth of examples good and bad, constitutes the ultimate wise advisor. Diodorus explains that it is because history commemorates great deeds that men are inspired to found cities, pass laws, and discover new arts and sciences to benefit mankind (1.2.1).

21. Ibid. 63–64. 22. For Theophanes in general, see Gold (1985), Gold (1987) 87–107, Yarrow (2006) 54–67, Bowie (2011) 181–183. On Theophanes as part of Pompey’s intellectual circle, note Anderson (1963) 28–56. 8

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Diodorus further propounds that “it is good to be able to use the mistakes of others as examples to set things right” (καλὸν γὰρ τὸ δύνασθαι τοῖς τῶν ἄλλων ἀγνοήμασι πρὸς διόρθωσιν χρῆσθαι παραδείγμασι) and “to be able to imitate the successes of the past” (ἔχειν … μίμησιν τῶν ἐπιτετευγμένων, 1.1.4). It is one of Diodorus’s core beliefs that “the acquisition of [historical knowledge] is the most useful thing for all the chances of life” (πρὸς ἁπάσας τὰς τοῦ βίου περστάσεις χρησιμωτάτην … εἶναι τὴν ταύτης ἀνάληψιν, 1.1.4). Kenneth Sacks refers to this as the “moral utility” of history.”23 Diodorus goes on in the proëm (4–5) to explicitly compare the historian to Heracles, because the beneficence of the wealth of examples and human experiences he offers to his readers is comparable to the benefits of the hero’s labors.24 These are the statements of an intellectual who clearly has great expecta- tions and high hopes for his history and his ability to influence his audience, and these themes will be seen repeatedly in the Bibliotheke. Despite this, Diodorus alone among attested Greek historians of this period is not associated with any particular teaching circle or Roman family. We know of other Sicilians from this time, such as Caecilius of Calacte and Sextus Clodius, who had access to and were involved with the elite, but no contemporary source mentions Diodorus.25 In spite of Diodorus’s praise of the city of Rome and its resources, the Bibliotheke gives no hint of any connection with specific Romans. Our evidence, especially after Cicero’s death, is not so detailed and comprehensive that the lack of reference to Diodorus must indicate that he did not partake in society in Rome. But given that in all other documented cases Roman patrons approached already established Greek intellectuals, Diodorus must have been trying to attract that kind of attention and patronage with the Bibliotheke, yet for some reason failed to do so, much as he also apparently failed to publish the work. This perspective of an outsider attempting to join the conversation is unique to Diodorus among our sources from the period. And it

23. Sacks (1990) 24–36 and Sacks (1981) 132–137 analyze this concept in Greek historical thought and Diodorus’s own take on it. On the purposes of Hellenistic historians in general, see Walbank (1990b). See further Yarrow (2006) 80–81 and Sheridan (2010) 44–45 on history as a repository of examples. History as having a moral purpose through the examples it provides probably goes back to Xenophon and Isocrates in the fourth century, although none of the extant works prior to Diodorus emphasize it as strongly as he does. Strogetsky (1983) 102 notes that Diodorus’s praise of history and history as a repository of examples is very similar to Cicero’s in Orat. 120 and Leg. 1.5. 24. Sulimani (2011) 22–23. 25. Sacks (1990) 188–189. The earliest mention of Diodorus is Pliny, N.H. pref. 25. 9

Diodorus, Quellenforschung, and Beyond 9

means that the first part of the Bibliotheke, which forms a unit, would have been especially important for introducing Diodorus’s ideas to his audience and establishing him as an intellectual force.26 This part of the Bibliotheke must be understood in this late Republican context despite the superficial focus on the ancient barbarian civilizations such as the Egyptians, Assyrians, Indians, and others. The following chapters will explore in detail how Diodorus uses the barbarians to engage with the intellectual and political issues of the late Republic, but for the moment two examples will demonstrate how connected the opening books of the Bibliotheke are to his own times.27 In Book 1 Diodorus describes the magnificent tomb of the Egyptian king Osymandyas (Rameses II). At the peak of this tomb is a circular border whose circumference is 365 cubits, each cubit-long section representing a day of the year and inscribed with astrological information (1.49.5).28 This establishes the Egyptian year as 365 days in length. In the following chapter, Diodorus briefly describes the Egyptian calendar. Here he remarks that the Egyptians use a solar calendar, with twelve months of thirty days with 5¼ days added every year, giving a 365¼-day year (1.50.2). But as a matter of fact, Diodorus is wrong about this. The Egyptian calendar was indeed 365 days long, as shown by the calendar in Osymandyas’s tomb (1.49.5), and it consisted of twelve months of thirty days each for a neat 360 days. Five epagomenal days were then added for a 365-day year, which became the standard Egyptian civil calendar. How the Egyptians arrived at a year of 365 days is unclear, but it does not appear to be from precise solar observations.29 Moreover, the Egyptian calendar was missing the extra

26. These books have been relatively neglected by modern scholars, with the exception of Sulimani (2011), who remarks on this lack of attention (335–336). To give one example of this neglect, Hau (2009) 171–197 basically ignores Books 1–5 despite the presence of the moralizing features she is analyzing in those books. 27. On the Greek use of “barbarian” nations, especially Egypt, as vehicles for social and political debates, or as sources of “privileged” information, see Vlassopoulos (2013) 202–212, although his citations are almost all Classical. For the use of Egypt in particular prior to the Hellenistic period, see Froidefond (1971) 231–353, Vasunia (2001) 183–246, Hartog (2002) 211–228, esp. 214–225 on the changing role of Egypt as a source of ancient wisdom. 28. On this building, see Burton (1972) 152–154 with references to earlier studies. She notes that the astrological ceiling, at least as Diodorus describes it, is fictitious, since 365 cubits around is far too large for the Ramesseum. On the other hand, Diodorus’s description of the tomb reliefs, which depict the battle of Kadesh, is generally accurate. See Breasted (1904) for a detailed modern description (with transcriptions) of the surviving reliefs. 29. The origins of the Egyptian civil calendar are beyond the scope of this chapter, but for an overview see OEAE, s.v. “Calendar.” The classic study of the Egyptian calendar is Parker 10

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quarter day of a solar year, and although the Egyptians seem to have been well aware that their calendar was falling out of synchronization with the seasons they made no effort to fix it.30 This was well known to the Greeks; Herodotus tells us that the Egyptians were the first people to divide the year into twelve months of thirty days apiece, with five days at the end (2.4), which he praises as superior to the Greek system of adding an intercalary month every other year. But he does not say that this is a solar calendar, instead stating that the Egyptians claimed they developed it from the stars. During the reign of Ptolemy III Euergetes (r. 246–221) an effort was made by the Macedonians to begin adding an extra quarter day to the year in order to bring the Egyptian calendar into sync with the solar year, as recorded in the famous Canopus decree of 238 (OGI 56). However, this measure failed due to opposition from the Egyptian priests.31 It is doubtful that Hecataeus of Abdera, Diodorus’s putative source for this section, would have made an error such as this. But around the time Diodorus was writing the Bibliotheke, a 365¼-day calendar was very much in vogue. After his victories in the civil wars, Julius Caesar reformed the chaotic Roman calendar by introducing a 365¼-day year in 47. The calendar went into use in 46 after an extra sixty-seven days were added to bring the Roman calendar back into sync with the seasons.32 Thus the 365¼-day solar calendar that Diodorus erroneously attributes to the Egyptians is identical in length to the calendar Caesar introduced. And several ancient sources suggest that Caesar got his calendar from Egypt. Appian, writing in the second century and himself from Alexandria, tells us that Caesar “changed [the calendar] to a solar cycle, as the Egyptians do” (ἐς τὸν τοῦ ἡλίου δρόμον μετέβαλεν, ὡς ἦγον Αἰγύπτιοι, B Civ. 2.154), while Cassius Dio, writing in the early third century, says that Caesar “got this system from his stay in Alexandria” (τοῦτο δὲ ἐκ τῆς ἐν Ἀλεξανδρείᾳ διατριβῆς ἔλαβε, 43.26.2). Most of the other sources that speak of Caesar’s calendar are silent on its origin.33 But Pliny the Elder attributes it to an

(1950), esp. 51–56 on the civil calendar. More recent studies, which continue to debate on the problems of the origins of the year and of the relationship between civil and lunar calendars, include Krauss (1985) 183–192, Wells (1995) 1–37, Bomhard (1999) 8–10. 30. On the Egyptian awareness of the length of the solar year, from the rising of Sothis (Sirius), see Krauss (1985) 201. Bomhard (1999) 8–9 quotes several Egyptian sources on the inadequacy of their calendar. 31. Bickerman (1968) 41. 32. Ibid. 43–46, Samuel (1972) 158–164, Hannah (2005) 98–112, Feeney (2007) 193–196. 33. I.e., Suet. Iul. 40, Plut. Caes. 59, Censorinus DN 20.8–11, Macrob. Sat. 1.14.6–12. 11

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otherwise unknown Sosigenes (18.211–212). 34 A 365¼-day solar year must have been fairly well known by the mid-first century, so too much emphasis should not be placed on the specific place or person from whom Caesar got the form of the calendar. But Egypt was widely seen as a land of ancient knowledge, and attributing the calendar to it may have provided a useful intellectual justification in the face of Roman opposition.35 Thus, Diodorus is “mistakenly” attributing a calendar of 365¼ days to Egypt around the same time Caesar is introducing his 365¼-day calendar in Rome and possibly ascribing an Egyptian origin to it. It is very unlikely that this is a coincidence. I suspect that Diodorus would not have gone to such lengths falsely describing Egypt’s calendar if he had not wished to provide at least some intellectual support for Caesar, whom he admired greatly, as we shall see. A second example of Diodorus using the medium of barbarians to engage with contemporary issues is his promotion of clemency, ἐπιείκεια. At the time when Diodorus was writing, clemency was associated above all with Julius Caesar, and it is significant that when he highlights this trait in the first three books it is often in conjunction with topics of particular relevance for the late Republic. Clemency is particularly associated with two barbarian rulers, Sesoösis the Egyptian and Arbaces the Mede.36 For example, before Sesoösis could undertake a large military expedition he “was binding everyone to himself by his affability and clement practices” (πάντας δὲ ταῖς ὁμιλίαις καὶ τῇ τῶν τρόπων ἐπιεικείᾳ προσήγετο, 1.54.2) and accordingly “released unharmed all convicted of crimes against the king and those imprisoned for silver from their debt” (τῶν τε γὰρ βασιλικῶν ἐγκλημάτων ἅπαντας ἀθῴους ἀφῆκε καὶ τοὺς πρὸς ἀργύριον συγκεκλειμένους ἀπέλυσε τοῦ χρέους, 1.54.2). Debt relief was a recurrent issue in the late Republican period; it was a driving factor behind the Catilinarian conspiracy of 63, for example. Cicero expresses the fear that this will be part of Caesar’s program (Att. 10.8.2 = SB 199), and following the expulsion of Pompey from Rome in 49 there were widespread calls for debt relief, which several of Caesar’s underlings actually attempted to effect despite Caesar’s opposition.

34. Hannah (2005) 113–114 suggests he was an Alexandrian Greek. 35. Holleman (1978) 496–498, Samuel (1972) 155 n. 2. On Egypt as a source of wisdom, see n. 27 above and pp. 227–228. 36. Sulimani (2011) 82–108 catalogues Diodorus’s employment of ἐπιείκεια and related terms throughout the Bibliotheke. 12

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Diodorus is especially interested in clemency toward conquered peoples, which is not surprising given his own status as a Roman provincial. He notes that Sesoösis dealt clemently (ἐπιεικῶς, 1.55.10) with his foreign subjects, and exacted tribute only according to their ability (κατὰ δύναμιν). The other instance of Sesoösis’s clemency that Diodorus highlights involves a rebellion by Babylonian slave laborers, who wreaked havoc in Egypt until they were granted amnesty (ἄδεια, 1.56.3) and established a colony on the spot of their rebellion. This is such an important point for Diodorus that he breaks the narrative flow to give another example of this kind of clemency. Menelaus, stopping in Egypt on his return from the Trojan War, had a number of Trojan captives rebel against him until he granted them safety and freedom (συγχωρηθείσης αὐτοῖς τῆς ἀσφαλείας, 1.56.4). As a Sicilian, Diodorus would have been quite familiar with slave rebellions against the Romans, and expresses an opposition to slavery in general (2.39.5), so it is unsurprising that he should single this out and suggest that rulers take such a mild approach.37 Diodorus highlights clemency even more sharply in his account of the first king of the Medes, Arbaces, who leads the rebellion that overthrows the Assyrian Sardanapallus. Following this Arbaces immediately distributes gifts to his companions. Belesys, the Babylonian seer who served as a wise advisor, asks for the remains of Sardanapallus, knowing that they contain valuable gold and silver. The request is granted, but the seer is caught in this deception. Arbaces then shows his concern for justice, and “appoints as judges the generals who campaigned with him” (δικαστὰς ἀπέδειξε τοὺς συναγωνισαμένους στρατηγούς, 2.28.4). This court sentenced Belesys to death for his deception and theft, “but the king, being magnanimous and desiring to mark the beginning of his reign with clemency, both released Belesys from the punishments and permitted him to have the gold and silver he had absconded with” (ὁ δὲ βασιλεύς, μεγαλόψυχος ὢν καὶ τὴν ἀρχὴν τῆς ἡγεμονίας βουλόμενος ἐπιεικῆ παρέχεσθαι, τῶν τε κινδύνων ἀπέλυσε τὸν Βέλεσυν καὶ τὸν ἀποκεκομισμένον ἄργυρον καὶ χρυσὸν ἔχειν συνεχώρησεν, 2.28.5). Arbaces did not even take away his rule of the Babylonians, on the grounds that his former service outweighed his later crimes.

37. On the fragments of Diodorus describing the slave rebellions, see Yarrow (2006) 221–225 and 336–339. The surviving excerpts deal mainly with the personalities of the slave leaders, not on the conduct or resolution of the rebellions. 13

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This show of clemency proves to be a wise decision on the part of Arbaces, since “when his clemency had become widely known he gained uncommon goodwill together with high repute from the nations, everyone judging the man who conducted himself in such a way toward criminals to be worthy of kingship” (διαβοηθείσης δὲ τῆς ἐπιεικείας οὐ τὴν τυχοῦσαν εὔνοιαν ἅμα καὶ δόξαν παρὰ τῶν ἐθνῶν ἀπηνέγκατο, πάντων κρινόντων ἄξιον εἶναι τῆς βασιλείας τὸν οὕτω προσενεχθέντα τοῖς ἀδικήσασιν, 2.28.6). Arbaces further showed clemency toward the inhabitants of Nineveh, resettling them and returning all their possessions, even though he had the city itself leveled. More than any other characteristic, it is clemency for which Diodorus praises Arbaces. Iris Sulimani analyzed earlier Greek historical writing and found that no author emphasizes clemency to the extent that Diodorus does.38 Sacks argued that clemency is the most important aspect of an empire’s approach to its subjects for Diodorus.39 The prominence of clemency with certain rulers of the opening books of the Bibliotheke doubtlessly reflects Diodorus’s own time, when Caesar famously made it a hallmark of his leadership. Reading the account of Arbaces, one finds it difficult not to think of Caesar at the start of the civil wars, when he captured his bitter enemy Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus, only to let him go, even letting him keep ill-gotten funds, much as Arbaces does with Belesys (Caes. B Civ. 1.23). And as Arbaces’s clemency greatly enhanced his reputation, so too did Caesar’s greatly enhance his standing in Italy (Cic. Att. 8.16.2 = SB 166).40 These examples show how Diodorus can use the medium of the ancient barbarians to indirectly engage with two of the major issues of his own time. Even if he was using sources written with wholly different periods in mind, his own selection, summarization, and adaptation reflect his context. We shall see in the coming chapters that Julius Caesar’s presence in the first three books of theBibliotheke is not limited to these two examples.

38. Sulimani (2011) 82–108. 39. Sacks (1990) 42–46. See also my Chapter 6. 40. On Caesar’s clemency see Konstan (2005). Sulimani (2011) 89–90 finds it surprising that Diodorus refers specifically to Caesar’s clemency only once (at 32.27.3, in his eulogy of the dictator) but given that there are only a handful of direct references to Caesar this is perhaps not so odd. 14

14 Diodorus Siculus Diodorus and Quellenforschung The Bibliotheke provides a unique perspective on a critical period in ancient history, but it is also the longest extant Greek historical work from any period of antiquity and one of the most important sources available for scholars. Of the original forty books, fifteen survive. Books 1–5 cover the ancient barbarians and part of the Greek mythical period, while Books 11–20 provide a continuous narrative of Mediterranean history from 480 down to 302. The extensive fragments of 21–40, mostly drawn from Byzantine excerptors, provide an important part of the evidence for the often meagerly documented Hellenistic period and Roman Republic.41 It has been estimated that Diodorus is actually the most frequently cited of all ancient Greek historians.42 But like the builder of Tolkien’s tower, the stones Diodorus used to construct the Bibliotheke came from earlier times. In composing his history, Diodorus drew on a veritable who’s who of Greek historians whose works were widely read in antiquity but did not survive the long centuries of transmission, including Ephorus of Cyme, Posidonius of Apamea, Megasthenes, Ctesias of Cnidus, Hecataeus of Abdera, and Hieronymus of Cardia. Modern scholars have been far more interested in tearing down Diodorus’s tower in order to rebuild these lost historians. And like the “odd fellow” of Tolkien’s tower, Diodorus has not been well regarded by modern scholarship. Indeed, it is hard to find another author from antiquity who has been the subject of as much vitriol as Diodorus. The great historian B. G. Niebuhr, in his histories of Rome, variously declared that Diodorus was “naïve … unlearned … totally spiritless … without judgment … incompetent even as an epitomizer.”43 Eduard Schwartz, in his classic Pauly-Wissowa article on Diodorus, said that “Diodorus’s work could hardly be called a book.”44 William Tarn remarked that Diodorus “was not a competent historian, but that he naturally did not recognize; he is rather stupid, but honestly in earnest; he writes what he thinks is history.”45 And as recently as 1998, P. Stylianou declared that Diodorus was

41. See Chamoux, Bertrac, and Vernière (1993) cxxiii–cxlix for a catalogue of these excerptors. 42. Sacks (1990) 206. 43. Niebuhr (1851) 8, 206, 223. 44. Schwartz, RE V s.v. Diodoros [38], 663. 45. Tarn (1948) vol. 2, 63. 15

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“a mere epitomizer and an incompetent one at that.”46 These and many similar statements from some of the most eminent historians of the past 150 years make for discouraging reading for anyone coming to the study of Diodorus.47 The reasons for this extreme contempt can be found in Diodorus’s perceived use of his sources. Except for the final (and largely nonextant) portions of the Bibliotheke, Diodorus is writing noncontemporary history, about events outside his own lifetime. This means he has to rely on earlier written histories to compose his narrative, a fact that he himself acknowledges in the proëm and that was true of any ancient historian writing noncontemporary history, including many of Diodorus’s predecessors, contemporaries, and successors (e.g., Ephorus, Theopompus, Polybius, Livy). But it has long been evident that for portions of his narrative for which an earlier source is also extant—for example, Herodotus, Thucydides, and Xenophon—Diodorus differs substantially from that source in tone, literary style, content, and even the overall structure of the narrative. Scholars interpreted this to mean that Diodorus must have extensively used sources that are no longer extant, while ignoring the better-known and still-extant writers.48 This held out the promise that with careful research these original sources might be identified and even reconstructed on the basis of Diodorus’s secondary narrative. So began the scholarship of Quellenforschung, which dominated Diodoran studies throughout the nineteenth century and well into the twentieth. Even today its effects are still felt. The practitioners of this type of scholarship on Diodorus, influenced by nineteenth-century positivism, took it as axiomatic that “Diodorus is incapable of intruding into the text to any significant degree.”49 According to this view, Diodorus mechanically copied a single source for a particular period, introducing errors due to his own stupidity or need to condense an original, making the occasional banal comment, and even contradicting other parts of his own text when

46. Stylianou (1998) 49. 47. Further examples of this contempt can be found in Sheridan (2010) 40–41 and Sulimani (2011) 4–5. 48. Volquardsen (1868) 28–47. Cf. Murray (1972) 210. 49. As Sacks (1990) 4 sums it up. Green (2006) 25 makes a useful comparison with the idea of the uncorrupted manuscript tradition in textual criticism, dominant in the nineteenth century but now seen as problematic due to cross-contamination between manuscripts of different families. 16

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two sources were in conflict. Oswyn Murray summed up Diodorus’s perceived method as “mechanically abbreviating one source and interpolating into it passages from other works … with such incompetence that it is in general possible to isolate the main source and discuss it sensibly.”50 All that scholars needed to do was identify the individual source for a given part of the narrative, which could then be “discussed sensibly.” And so Diodorus’s text was scrutinized for any clues to his sources, or any signs, such as errors or contradictions, that might have shown where his use of one source ended and another began. This type of scholarship began to hit its stride with the work of C. Volquardsen in 1868 and perhaps reached its peak in Schwartz’s classic article on Diodorus for Pauly-Wissowa in 1903, although even he was forced to acknowledge that there were places where Diodorus would introduce material drawn from a secondary source into the narrative drawn from the main source.51 It became the prevailing scholarly orthodoxy, and its influence can be seen throughout the limited scholarship on Diodorus as well as the scholarship on his putative sources. Once a source was identified, Diodorus could then be used as a ready stand-in for that author. Diodorus’s text then might be used to identify other texts that may have drawn on the same source. Felix Jacoby, in Die Fragmente der griechischen Historiker, included lengthy passages of Diodorus, sometimes almost full books, in his entries on authors such as Hecataeus, Timaeus, Ephorus, and Megasthenes.52 Such scholarship has a tendency to become circular. For example, when POxy 1610 was discovered, it was recognized as a fragment of the source of Diodorus 11.60.6–11.61.1. Since the source of Diodorus 11 was believed to be the fourth-century historian Ephorus of Cyme, POxy 1610 was labeled as a fragment of Ephorus. It was then used to argue that Diodorus had copied Ephorus extensively. But as Peter Green has pointed out, all this proves is that POxy 1610 is likely from Diodorus’s source.53 The assumption that this is Ephorus is based on the belief that Diodorus simply copied Ephorus for all of Book 11, and not on any actual evidence that Ephorus

50. Murray (1975) 215. 51. Schwartz, RE V s.v. Diodoros [38], 663–704. 52. Hecataeus of Abdera (FGrH 264) F25 is perhaps the most notable example of this, consisting of almost the entirety of the first book of Diodorus. 53. Green (2006) 26–27. 17

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was Diodorus’s source for this particular passage.54 And yet from these very battered pieces of papyrus, corresponding to about twenty lines of Diodorus’s narrative, the editors B. Grenfell and A. Hunt made the sweeping conclusions that Diodorus “was practically incapable of original composition,” that he “followed Ephorus almost blindly,” and that as a result of this “servility” Diodorus “probably prevented us from losing very much when Books X–XV of the older historian perished.”55 Perhaps not surprisingly, a side effect of this scholarship was contempt for Diodorus himself. To acknowledge that he did more than simply summarize earlier authorities would undermine the reconstruction of those writers. All the faults and errors of his work (and he certainly makes plenty of mistakes, as one might expect in a forty-volume work written or at least copied on cumbersome papyrus scrolls over an extended period) could be readily pinned onto Diodorus, while his putative sources could be idealized and praised for their contributions to ancient historiography. As Katherine Clarke remarked in her study of Posidonius, “attributing the majority of unacknowledged pieces of high-quality thought in authors such as Diodorus and Strabo to their superior predecessor, Posidonius … tends to take on a momentum of its own. As Diodorus and Strabo are stripped of their ‘clever’ passages, they become increasingly unworthy of such pieces and all the more likely to lose them … [Posidonius] becomes proportionately more intelligent and all the more likely to have been the source of high-level discourse.”56 And so Diodorus essentially became an “un-historian.” Even the Cambridge History of Classical Literature, which purports to cover all of Greek literature from Homer until the high Roman Empire, does not have a section on Diodorus, barely mentioning this author whose text is the longest of any Greek historian to survive and the only extant example of the genre from the first century BCE.57

54. Note, for example Africa (1962) 86–89, who argues that there really is no hard evidence for the identification of the papyrus with Ephorus. Africa however is unable to offer a better candidate for authorship. Rubincam (1976) 357–366 cautiously accepts the attribution to Ephorus, but notes how Diodorus is much freer in his abridgment of this section than otherwise supposed, while most recently Parmeggiani (2011) 376–382 argues that the papyrus is at best an epitome of Ephorus, and of little use for reconstructing his work or Diodorus’s adaptation of it. 55. Grenfell and Hunt (1919) 113. 56. Clarke (1999a) 132. 57. Easterling and Knox (1985). In contrast, Dionysius of Halicarnassus, Arrian, Appian, Cassius Dio, and Herodian all have their own sections. 18

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Since the Second World War a slow reevaluation, both of Diodorus and of the basic tenets of Quellenforschung, has been taking place. Jonas Palm, in an exhaustive analysis of Diodorus’s language, found that the literary style of the Bibliotheke is quite consistent regardless of what source Diodorus may have been using.58 Robert Drews showed that there are clear signs of Diodorus’s own opinion influencing how he presented some material traditionally attributed to Ephorus.59 But it is a measure of how little regard there was for Diodorus that even when scholars began to prove that he did more than simply recapitulate other authors, they attacked him instead for not faithfully reprising an earlier work. For instance, Thomas Cole complained about Diodorus’s “violent and gratuitous rearrangement of source material.”60 Among ancient writers, only Diodorus could be condemned both for being a mindless summarizer and for having the temerity to rework his material. There has also been increasing recognition that the assumptions underlying much of the scholarship of Quellenforschung as it is applied to Diodorus are at best simplistic. P. A. Brunt, in a major article on the problems with fragments and epitomes, concluded that scholars have “often been over-confident in delineating the scope of lost histories and the qualities of their authors” and that summaries and epitomes “reflect the interests of the authors who cite or summarize lost works as much as or more than the characteristics of the works concerned.”61 Dominique Lenfant cleverly demonstrated the truth of this by an examination of quotations and paraphrases of Herodotus by later authors, finding that we would have a very warped view of what his history was actually like if we had to rely solely on those “fragments.”62 More recently, A. B. Bosworth elegantly demonstrated that secondary source historians like Diodorus could quite extensively reshape their material even while remaining true to the basic factual narrative. Bosworth examined whether or not ancient historians invent or fabricate additional material to add to an earlier account that they are using as a source. His

58. Palm (1955). 59. Drews (1960, 1962). 60. Cole (1967) 175. See my Chapters 3 and 5. 61. Brunt (1980) 494. On the changing understanding of historical fragments and summaries, see also Strasburger (1977), Schepens (1997) 166–168, and Humphreys (1997) 207–224. 62. Lenfant (1999) 103–121. 19

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conclusion, based on the various historians of Alexander the Great, was that although historians drawing on earlier accounts kept closely to the facts and narrative in their sources, “the nature of the game was to oper- ate with the material at one’s disposal, identifying and criticizing false- hood and bias, combining details from several sources into a composite picture not paralleled in any single source, but not adding invention of one’s own.” Selection was itself a part of the creative process, as Bosworth reminded us. And the same historical episode could be shaped by a secondary ancient historian to convey a very different message from that of the original historian, even while the basic factual narrative remained the same. As Bosworth put it, “reportage and opinion are selected, adapted, and woven together in a new blend with a different emphasis.”63 Even if Diodorus did rely on a single source for a given book or part of a book (and this is far from proven, as will be seen below), he is going to be reinterpreting it commensurate with his own beliefs and aims. A passage on Egypt that may have had a particular meaning in the context of an author writing under the early Ptolemies can acquire a very different meaning when Diodorus adapts it in the time of the late Roman Republic. As Philip Stadter remarks, “Diodorus’ history too is a prism, altering the material it transmits.”64 Scholars can no longer simply turn to Diodorus and treat his account as a window through which they can see Ephorus or Hecataeus, or whatever other source he may have been using. Diodorus must be read while keeping his own intellectual context in mind. However, the older source-critical approach to Diodorus is still very influential. Stylianou, in his commentary on Diodorus Book 15, generally treated the text of Diodorus as if it were the lost history of Ephorus when he agreed with it, and when he found fault with it dismissed it as simply the work of a lazy epitomizer marked by “incompetence, lack of care, and ignorance.”65 The new edition of the fragmentary Greek historians, Brill’s New Jacoby, follows in Jacoby’s footsteps by including lengthy passages of Diodorus (and other historians), sometimes with little comment on the historiographical difficulties involved.66 Indeed, whereas Jacoby

63. Bosworth (2003) 194–195. 64. Stadter (1992) 85. 65. Stylianou (1998) 137. Cf. the review of Green (1999). 66. Note the criticisms of Lenfant (2009) 397–398. Again, F25 of Hecataeus of Abdera (BNJ 264) is a good example, consisting as it does of almost the entirety of Book 1 of the Bibliotheke. Lang’s BNJ commentary makes no mention of how Diodorus and his own aims and context 20

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at least differentiated between fragments or portions of fragments that were directly attributed to the earlier authors and fragments that were not by type size, the new edition makes no such distinction. A new, ongoing Italian commentary on Diodorus is also largely concerned with matters of Quellenforschung,67 leading Catherine Rubincam to remark that “the effect of this approach is to treat the Bibliotheca as little more than a collection of excerpts from those otherwise lost earlier historical works, and thus to depreciate the author’s own contribution to his book. This ignores the serious questions that have been raised by some recent Diodoran scholarship concerning the nature and extent of the presumed ‘fidelity of Diodorus to his models.’ ”68 Despite this conservatism in some quarters, increasingly the scholarship on Diodorus is beginning to reflect the advances in our understanding of how ancient historians operated. Kenneth Sacks’s seminal work Diodorus Siculus and the First Century, the first monograph on Diodorus in English, even if not challenging the basic source attributions of earlier scholars, displayed how Diodorus’s own creativity could be seen in certain aspects of the work. Sacks argued that the Bibliotheke was “a document substantially reflecting the intellectual and political attitudes of the late Hellenistic period.”69 Although Sacks’s conclusions were not without controversy,70 since the publication of his book much of the limited scholarship on Diodorus has continued to show independence of thought in the presentation of his material. Only one monograph on Diodorus has been published in English since Sacks, Iris Sulimani’s detailed examination of the heroic civilizing figures or culture bringers of the Bibliotheke;71 but other scholars have begun to discover Diodorus’s own independent value, especially as a source for his own era, and make use of it. Liv Yarrow, for example, extensively used the fragments of Diodorus’s account of Rome as part of her study on provincial attitudes toward the Roman Empire, and

might have influenced the presentation of Egypt in Book 1, or how this might make its use problematic to reconstruct Hecataeus, assuming Hecataeus is indeed the source. 67. Ambaglio, Landucci, and Bravi (2008). Ambaglio’s earlier scholarship (Ambaglio 1995) showed a much more open attitude toward Diodorus. 68. Rubincam (2009). 69. Sacks (1990) 5. 70. E.g., Stylianou (1991). 71. Sulimani (2011). â 21

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Thomas Schmitz examined Diodorus’s place at a critical point in Greek intellectual history, looking back to the Classical period, but also ahead to the Second Sophistic.72 Peter Green, on the other hand, has challenged many of the underlying assumptions about Diodorus and his sources that even Sacks accepted, and found a far more complicated source picture in Diodorus’s account of the Pentecontaetia.73 Scholars of no-âlonger-âextant historians whom Diodorus employed are also increasingly reevaluating Diodorus as a source, and finding that he must be used far more cautiously than earlier scholars such as Jacoby did. Giovanni Parmeggiani, in the first major study of Ephorus since 1935, reexamined the portions of Diodorus that were supposedly summarized from the earlier historian and concluded that Diodorus regularly rearranged and reinterpreted his material, and was thus not a reliable guide for reconstructing his predecessor.74 Christopher Baron, in his reevaluation of the historian Timaeus, another major source for Diodorus, similarly found that using Diodorus as a straight epitome of the earlier author was problematic at best.75 The present study builds on the work of all these scholars, but focuses on Diodorus’s oft-âneglected barbarian prehistories and ethnographies to demonstrate how closely even they are tied into the world of the late Roman Republic.76

The Sources of Books 1–â3 Since the present study is concerned largely with Books 1–â3 of the Bibliotheke, let us briefly outline their content and examine what is known about their sources. Book 1 opens with the proëm to the entire Bibliotheke, followed by a brief account of the origins of life and an account of the start of civilization commonly known as the Kulturgeschichte. The remainder of the book is taken up with Egypt, including a theogony, a geography, an historical narrative, and an account of Egyptian laws and customs. Book 2 begins with accounts of the Assyrians, Babylonians, and Medes, and then

72. Yarrow (2006), esp. 103–â122 on the historiographical problems dealing with fragments and epitomes, and Schmitz (2011). 73. Green (2006). 74. Parmeggiani (2011) 349–â394, esp. 354–â355. On the changing approach to Ephorus, see also Luraghi (2014) 147 and n. 54. 75. Baron (2013), esp. 12–â14, 176–â178, 215–â218. 76. Sulimani (2011) 335–â336 notes this neglect of Books 1–â5, which her own monograph of course challenges. 22

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covers the Indians, Scythians, Amazons, Hyperboreans, Arabs, and the mysterious Island of the Sun in the Indian Ocean. Book 3 opens with the Ethiopians, and then covers the peoples of the Red Sea, the Amazons of Libya, and finally the Libyan myths about the gods. The proëm of Book 1 and the whole Bibliotheke, with its high-minded rhetoric about the importance of history as a benefactor of mankind, has been variously ascribed to Posidonius or Ephorus, or some amalgam of sources. Now it is usually acknowledged to be Diodorus’s own work, but perhaps more because it seems to be, as A. D. Nock said, the work of “a small man with pretensions” rather than a significant contribution to Greek historiography.77 The accounts of the origins of life (1.7) and of civilization (1.8) have been the subject of much debate, giving rise to two major schools of thought. The first contends that they derive ultimately from Hecataeus of Abdera, a contemporary of Ptolemy I, the second that they are composites of common beliefs of Diodorus’s own time.78 This issue will be examined more closely in Chapters 3 and 5. Of the remainder of Book 1, chapters 32–41 are normally assigned to Agatharchides, the last source cited by Diodorus on the flooding of the Nile, while the bulk of the Egyptian account is supposedly taken from Hecataeus of Abdera. But there are serious problems with this attribution.79 Diodorus names Hecataeus only once in the entire book, in conjunction with a monument in Egyptian Thebes. This in and of itself is not proof enough that almost the entirety of Diodorus’s Egyptian narrative derives from this one author. The four extant fragments from Hecataeus’s Egyptian narrative preserved by other authors provide very little support for the thesis that Hecataeus was Diodorus’s principle source. Both Diodorus and Hecataeus (Diogenes Laertius 1.10.11 = FGrH 264 F1), for example, note that the sun and the moon are called Osiris and Isis by the Egyptians, but this was such a general and widespread belief that it can hardly be taken to prove that Diodorus must have gotten it from Hecataeus.80 A more specific citation of

77. Nock (1959) 5, Kidd (1989) 40–41. See the analysis of the proëm in Sacks (1990) 9–12 and Canfora (1990) 316–318. 78. Cole (1967) argues they derive from Hecataeus of Abdera, and ultimately Democritus, while Spoerri (1959) and Burton (1970) argue that they derive from common beliefs of Diodorus’s own time. 79. Muntz (2011) deals with this issue in greater detail. 80. Besides Hecataeus, Diogenes Laertius (1.10.11) also cites Manetho for this belief. Plutarch De Is. et Os. 51–2, 372a–e, Apuleius, Met. 11.1, 24, and Eusebius, Praep. evang. 3.2.6 all contain 23

Diodorus, Quellenforschung, and Beyond 23

Hecataeus comes from Plutarch, who notes that the Egyptian king drank a certain amount of wine in conjunction with his priestly duties (De Is. et Os. 6.353b–c = F5), which has been connected to a statement made by Diodorus about the regimen of the Egyptian king (1.70.11–12). But Diodorus describes the regulation of the king’s entire diet, not just wine, and does not place it in a religious context as Hecataeus did. The two accounts are more different than alike. Finally, it must be remembered that Diodorus traveled in Egypt at least as far south as Thebes (1.46.7), and contrary to scholars such as Alan Lloyd, who claimed that “Diodorus … was not the man to take more trouble than he had to,”81 it is difficult to believe that Diodorus did not follow in the long Greek tradition of talking with the Egyptian priests.82 The first section of Book 2 (2.1–34) is traditionally attributed to Ctesias of Cnidus, the early-fourth- century historian who was associated with the Persian court of Artaxerxes II.83 Diodorus cites Ctesias eleven times, and clearly used him extensively, even repeating bad mistakes from the older historian, such as locating Nineveh on the Euphrates instead of the Tigris (2.3.2). But as J. M. Bigwood has shown on the basis of the other fragments of Ctesias, Diodorus has substantially reshaped Ctesias’s narrative, rewriting it in his own literary style, omitting or greatly condens- ing huge amounts of material, and introducing a strong moralizing tone. Moreover, Diodorus does not simply summarize Ctesias, but introduces significant material from other writers such as Cleitarchus and an otherwise unknown Athenaeus.84

this equation as well. See Spoerri (1959) 204–205 and Griffiths (1970) 496–497 for further citations. 81. Lloyd (1974) 288. 82. Moyer (2011) 42–43 discusses the importance of Egyptian priests as a source of knowledge for the Greeks, as does Vannicelli (2001) 212–214 in the case of Herodotus. Marincola (1997) 109 also notes Aristotle, Eudoxus of Cnidus, Heliodorus, and Aristides as authors who cite Egyptian priests, and remarks that the “priests seem to have been busy at all times with tourists.” 83. Eck (2003) xiii–xlvi has a useful overview of the possible sources for Book 2. For Ctesias in general, see Lenfant (2007) 202–205. The fragments of Ctesias have recently been edited by both Lenfant (2004) and Stronk (2010), and translated by Llewellyn-Jones and Robson (2010). 84. Bigwood (1980) 195–207. Her conclusion is echoed by other scholars, e.g., Llewellyn- Jones and Robson (2010) 40: “All in all then, it must be conceded that Diodorus is not an accurate reflection of Ctesias.” 24

24 Diodorus Siculus

For India, Diodorus’s account (2.35–41) is normally accepted as derived from Megasthenes (FGrH 715), an author of the late fourth or early third century, although Diodorus nowhere names Megasthenes as his authority. Jacoby included this entire passage as F4 of Megasthenes, although he bracketed off a few passages as Diodorus’s own interpolations. Here at least we have a partial control, since Megasthenes was explicitly used by both Strabo and Arrian as a source for their accounts of India. In some instances where the narratives of all three authors overlap, we can see that Diodorus must have followed Megasthenes quite closely in places, such as in the account of the Indian castes. But in other places Diodorus differs, sometimes considerably, from Strabo and Arrian. Diodorus, for example, gives different dimensions for India, and in his account of the Indian Dionysus he indicates that the god stayed in India and fathered a dynasty, while Arrian indicates that it was one of Dionysus’s companions who did this. This shows that Diodorus is exerting far more control over his source material than has been commonly accepted.85 The sources for the rest of Book 2 are more problematic. For the Hyperboreans (2.47) and the Island of the Sun (2.55–60), Diodorus specifically cites Hecataeus and Iambulus, respectively. But for the remainder, on the Scythians, Amazons, and Arabians, he gives no sources. However, one name that often comes up for sections of Diodorus without a clear source is the mid-first-century historian and philosopher Posidonius. It is likely that Diodorus was familiar with Posidonius’s work, but in the extant portions of the Bibliotheke he never once cites him. Despite this, for a long time there was a tendency to treat large sections of Diodorus as essentially Posidonius; Theiler, in his edition of Posidonius, printed some eighty-two pages of the Bibliotheke.86 But only in three places, none from Book 2, do we have fragments of Posidonius that can show Diodorus’s usage of him, and even then it is clear Diodorus is not faithfully copying his source.87 Edelstein and Kidd, in their edition of Posidonius, do not include a single passage of Diodorus.88

85. Muntz (2012) examines Diodorus’s use of Megasthenes in greater detail than is possible here. 86. Theiler (1982). Note also Malitz (1983), who extensively uses unattributed passages from Diodorus to reconstruct Posidonius. It is not just Diodorus who suffers this; Goodyear (1965) 19 remarks on the fashion “for finding Posidonius behind everything not explicitly ascribed to someone else,” also noted by Clarke (1999a) 131–132, and Yarrow (2006) 116–117. 87. On this, see Kidd (1988) 284, 293–295, 308–315; and Riggsby (2006) 47–58. 88. Kidd (1997) 225–236, esp. 234. See also Clarke (1999a) 130–139 for a most insightful discussion of the problems with reconstructing Posidonius. 25

Diodorus, Quellenforschung, and Beyond 25

There is no hard evidence for Posidonius, or any other known author, as one of Diodorus’s sources for his accounts of the Scythians, Amazons, and Arabians. With Book 3 we are on more secure ground.89 For the account of Ethiopia, Diodorus tells us that Book 2 of the Asia of Agatharchides of Cnidus and Book 8 of Artemidorus of Ephesus are his sources (3.11.2), although he leaves open the possibility that some information has come from his own experiences in Egypt (3.11.3). For the section on the peoples of the Red Sea (3.15–48), Diodorus twice names Agatharchides (3.18.4, 3.48.4) as a source. Here we also have a partial control in the summary of Agatharchides’s On the Red Sea made by the Byzantine scholar Photius, which enables us to see that Diodorus did keep fairly close to the basic structure and information that Agatharchides presented.90 But even here it can be shown that Diodorus has exerted a subtle influence over his material and reshaped it in places to better fit his own understanding of the development of civilization, which will be explored in Chapter 3. Similarly, for the second half of Book 3 Diodorus helpfully informs us that his main source is Dionysius, known elsewhere as Scytobrachion (FGrH 32 T3 = 3.52.3), both for the Libyan Amazons and for the long account of the Libyan Dionysus (3.66.5– 74), and it seems safe to assume that Dionysius is also the source for the Atlantian account of the gods. But a section on Greek versions of Dionysus (3.62–66.3) appears to come from another source or sources.91 As we can see, Diodorus’s use of source material, at least in the first three books, is actually quite complicated. In a fairly short section, such as that on India, Diodorus can work with a variety of sources without distinguishing between them. Even when he is ostensibly drawing on one source, traces of other sources can be detected, as with his use of Ctesias. Diodorus’s smooth prose doubtlessly conceals many other places where he has combined sources or introduced additional material. This means that we need to beware of drawing overly broad conclusions about Diodorus’s sources over long stretches of his narrative. At the same time, we also need to be more aware of his own impact on his material and how he presents it. In Book 2, for example, Diodorus is responsible for the arrangement of

89. Bommelaer (2002) ix–xlii has a useful overview of the source problems in Book 3. 90. Ibid. xxi–xxxi, Palm (1955) 16–27, Sheridan (2010) 43–44. Burstein (1989) usefully presents English translations of both Photius and Diodorus side by side. See further Chapter 3. 91. Bommelaer (2002) xxxi–xlii. On Dionysius in general, see Rusten (1982) and Constantakopoulou, BNJ 32 Commentary. 26

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material from at least seven, and probably more, sources into a coherent whole. How he organizes his material reveals something about him and his world. Even if we accept the most extreme formulation of Diodorus as a simple, mechanical epitomator, we need to remember that selection and summarization themselves are creative acts, albeit not the most glamor- ous ones.92 Although it would be far easier if we could see what Diodorus chose to exclude, what he chose to include can still tell us about him and his world. An account or argument from a fourth- or third-century source acquires a new meaning when it is being presented and read by an historian for an audience of the first century, regardless of how the original historian may have intended it. Diodorus was not writing in an historical vacuum, and, as this study will show, he was constantly attempting to engage in the intellectual debates of his time. As a Greek provincial, shut off from the normal avenues of power, writing history was how he was able to do this.

92. Bosworth (2003) 194–195. 27

2 Organizing the World

Arnaldo Momigliano once remarked that “taken literally the idea of universal history verges on absurdity.”1 The most rigorous definition of universal history calls for it to be all-encompassing, to “deal with the history of mankind from the earliest times, and in all parts of the world known.”2 For a single author to deal with everything, to be truly universal, is a virtual impossibility, and yet Diodorus in his own history could claim that “we will try fully to discuss the events which have been handed down to memory in all regions of the inhabited world” (περὶ δὲ τῶν πράξεων τῶν παραδεδομένων μὲν εἰς μνήμην, γενομένων δὲ ἐν τοῖς γνωριζομένοις τόποις τῆς οἰκουμένης, διεξιέναι πειρασόμεθα, 1.9.1). And Diodorus was not alone—two slightly later authors, writing under the reign of Augustus, wrote histories with similarly universal spatial and temporal reaches. Pompeius Trogus’s Philippic History spanned some 44 books and the universal history of Nicolaus of Damascus 144 books, although neither survives in anything like the form of the extant text of Diodorus. But none of Diodorus’s predecessors could claim such an expansive reach, although several of them were important innovators in the development of this universal historiography. This can be traced to the gradual expansion of the Greek world and Greek knowledge of the wider world that began in the fourth century and accelerated during the Hellenistic period.3 Ephorus of Cyme, a fourth-century author, is perhaps the first

1. Momigliano (1982) 533. 2. Alonso-Núñez (1990) 173; cf. Clarke (1999b). 3. On universal history in the ancient world and the problems with the term in general, see Alonso-Núñez (1990, 1999), Marincola (2007), Yarrow (2006) 124–125, Tully (2014), and Sacks (1981) 96–109. Marincola, Yarrow, and Sacks all suggest that ancient universal history had two branches, the truly universal variety represented by Diodorus, Nicolaus, and 28

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historian with a claim to “universality.” But Ephorus, although his coverage of the Greeks was far more comprehensive than any previous author, limited himself chronologically to the period after the return of the Heraclidae and geographically to the Greek world and those who came into contact with it.4 Two of Ephorus’s poorly attested contemporaries, Zoilus and Anaximenes, wrote histories of the Greeks encompassing a fuller time span than Ephorus, but the length of these two works (three and twelve books, respectively, as opposed to thirty for Ephorus) indicates they were not particularly comprehensive.5 In the second century Polybius limited himself temporally to the period after 220, the time when he felt that history started to become universal because the entire world was coming under the sway of Rome. Posidonius’s history from the mid-âfirst century was apparently far-âranging geographically, but temporally limited to the period after that covered by Polybius.6 Diodorus is therefore the first known author to attempt to comprehensively encompass all of time and space in his history, and in particular he is the first universal historian to integrate the early history of the non-âGreeks into his work.7 He approaches the problems of organizing his material very seriously, and his construction of Books 1–â3 reveals a great deal about how he understands the world in the mid-âfirst century.

Organizing a Universal History Recent scholarship has increasingly found that Diodorus approaches the problems of organizing the Bibliotheke and making it accessible to his readers, despite its vast reach, with considerable care.8 For instance, every extant book has at the very least an outline of the contents, usually as part of a larger proëm, and often has a review of the contents of the previous book

Trogus, and a variety limited by either a theme or a temporal period, as with Polybius and Posidonius. 4. On the problems with Ephorus as a “universal historian,” see especially Tully (2014) and Marincola (2007) 171–â172. 5. See pp. 96–99. 6. Alonso-âNúñez (2002) 11–â16, 71–â86. On Polybius’s universalism, see also Hartog (2010) 35–â39 and Clarke (1999a) 114–â120. 7. Sulimani (2011) 45–â53 analyzes Diodorus’s originality in the scope of his history further, and argues strongly that Diodorus is a pioneer whose contribution has been underestimated. 8. Clarke (1999b) 252. 29

Organizing the World 29

or books. 2.1.1–2 outlines the Egyptian narrative in Book 1, while 3.1.1–2 outlines Book 1 again, more briefly, followed by an outline of Book 2. Book 4 begins with Diodorus’s formal justification for including mythology, but makes a brief remark (4.1.5) that the preceding books have covered the other nations (τοῖς ἄλλοις). This system obviously makes finding a particular book on papyrus scrolls more convenient.9 Beyond that, Diodorus evidently took great care with his cross-referencing to facilitate easier connections between books. In a groundbreaking series of articles, Catherine Rubincam found that Diodorus’s cross-referencing is actually more accurate than that of almost any other extant ancient historian.10 Additionally, within the individual books themselves Diodorus includes a large number of markers, in consistent language, to indicate digressions, shifts in the narrative, beginnings, and endings. At the start of Book 5 Diodorus has a longer discussion in which he emphasizes the importance of arranging his material, and he criticizes the historian Timaeus for including so many digressions and so much polemic against other authors. Diodorus instead praises Ephorus for organizing his books κατὰ γένος (see below). Throughout the Bibliotheke there are remarks by Diodorus about the need to keep things in due proportion, or that he cannot pass over something unremarked.11 It is also clear that Diodorus took seriously the problem of imposing unity on his wide-ranging material as well. As Katherine Clarke shows, in the extant Books 11–20 Diodorus creates a continuous flow of history by linking the beginning and ending points of a number of historians. So at 13.48 he notes that Thucydides’s history ends and that the histories of Xenophon and Theopompus begin at that chronological point (411). Ephorus’s ending point was also the starting point of the second part of Diyllus’s history (16.76). Not only does this have the effect of creating a continuing narrative of history, it also allows Diodorus to mark out his own universality in encompassing all that these earlier historians cover. As Clarke puts it, “he is just as universal as history itself.”12 More importantly, Diodorus—and the universal historians who followed him—needed to find a system on which to arrange historical events

9. Sulimani (2011) 109–112. 10. Rubincam (1998a) 67–87. 11. Sulimani (2011) 109–112. 12. Clarke (1999b) 259–260. 30

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happening in all parts of the inhabited world, events that may not have been connected in any way. Presenting events in some form of chronological order seems to be the most common method. Diodorus’s predecessor Ephorus, whose history of the Greek world from the return of the Heraclidae to the fourth century is an important antecedent for Diodorus, seems to have organized his work on largely chronological grounds, but divided it up between the major regions he covered, although the precise arrangement is unclear.13 Polybius organized his work chronologically, even if it meant breaking up the narrative flow to cover events happening in different regions during a given year. Of the universal historians who followed Diodorus, too little survives of Nicolaus to make many definitive statements about how precisely his work was organized (see below). But Justin, in introducing his epitome of Pompeius Trogus, declared that “Pompeius summarized their [earlier historians’] material within a chronological framework while also pursuing a topic from beginning to end” (ea omnia Pompeius divisa temporibus et serie rerum digesta conposuit, Pref. 3). However, Justin’s epitome as it stands betrays no overarching chronological framework, such as Olympiads or chronological years. Diodorus is clearly interested in problems of chronology and includes a discussion of the problems involved in the proëm. He notes that for the periods before the Trojan War he has not tried to date events closely, because there is no reliable chronology. Sacks believes that Diodorus is obliquely referencing the Chronology of Castor of Rhodes, which purported to accurately date events prior to the Trojan War. But Diodorus explains that for the time period after the Trojan War he follows the Chronology of Apollodorus of Athens (1.5).14 Within the historical books (11–20) of the Bibliotheke Diodorus opts for a fairly strict chronological structure, marking off years. And to give a universal structure to his overall chronology, he provides Athenian archon years, Roman consular years, and Olympiads, and he attempts to synchronize all of them, resulting in numerous inaccuracies.15 A more serious problem with this approach, and one for which Diodorus has been criticized, is that in trying to present every event that happened in a single year he must constantly shift his narrative back and

13. Sulimani (2011) 113–114, Alonso-Núñez (2002) 38–39, Drews (1976, 1963). But Parmeggiani (2011) rejects this organization. 14. Sacks (1990) 65. 15. Clarke (1999b) 257–259. 31

Organizing the World 31

forth between regions, a problem of which he was well aware (17.1), and that afflicts other historians as well. Diodorus has several techniques he employs in order to maintain a degree of unity under this scheme. First, he is very interested in coincidences, in unrelated events that supposedly took place at the same time.16 At points Diodorus will break his chronological system to provide greater background about a hitherto unmentioned site or event.17 Finally, he will devote certain books largely to a single topic, with briefer digressions to cover other notable events. Book 17, dealing with Alexander the Great, is the main example of this. But ultimately, in Books 7–40 it is the chronological system that prevails and provides unity in the Bibliotheke. But this still leaves the time before the Trojan War, the period for which Diodorus declares “we do not strictly order” (oὐ διοριζόμεθα βεβαίως, 1.5.1). For the later books there was a relatively clear chronological narrative that Diodorus could follow, which earlier scholars such as Apollodorus of Athens had worked out in detail. But the early books were more problematic. They cover mythology and early history, not just of the Greeks but also of the non-Greek barbarians whose histories were far older and could not always be readily synchronized with Greek chronology. Yet Diodorus is just as concerned with organizing them as with the historical books, and given the lack of obvious models among his predecessors for combining this material, the construction of these books tells us far more about Diodorus’s own understanding of the world than the later books do. Diodorus himself thought of the first six books as two sets of three books. In the proëm he outlines that the first six books deal with the “events and mythologies before the Trojan War, the first three detailing the antiquities of the barbarians, the next three the antiquities of the Greeks” (τὰς πρὸ τῶν Τρ ωικῶν πράξεις καὶ μυθολογίας, καὶ τούτων αἱ μὲν προηγούμεναι τρεῖς τὰς βαρβαρικάς, αἱ δ’ ἑξῆς σχεδὸν τὰς τῶν Ἑλλήνων ἀρχαιολογίας, 1.4.6), the next eleven with the Trojan War down to the death of Alexander the Great, and the final twenty-three down to the beginning of Caesar’s campaigns in Gaul.18 Catherine Rubincam has argued that Diodorus originally adopted

16. Feeny (2007) 43–44, Clarke (1999b) 267. 17. Clarke (1999b) 270–271. 18. Despite Diodorus’s remark at 1.4.6, he uses the Trojan War as a chronological cut-off for only the Greeks. In Books 1–3 there is no consistent standard employed. The Egyptian and Near Eastern accounts go down to the Persian conquests, and the Trojan War is rarely referenced in the other barbarian narratives. See further pp. 118–124. 32

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a hexadic structure for the entire Bibliotheke, similar to Livy’s decadal structure.19 We will consider this further in Chapter 7, but it is clear that Diodorus envisioned the first part of the Bibliotheke as two triads. Notably, Books 2 and 3 are two of only three extant books of the Bibliotheke without their own proëmia (11 is the other), which also suggests they are meant to be read together with 1. Moreover, the structure of Books 1–3 demonstrates that Diodorus thought of them as a unit. At first glance, beyond the unifying theme of “barbarian,” they seem to have an amazingly eclectic range of material. The first book covers the emergence of life and civilization before turning to the Egyptian gods, the geography of Egypt and the mysteries of the Nile, the history of Egypt and its kings, the laws and customs of Egypt, and Greeks who have profited from it. Book 2 covers the history and ethnography of Asiatic peoples, including the Assyrians, Babylonians, Scythians, Indian, Arabians, and Hyperboreans. Book 3 covers the Ethiopians, the various peoples living around the Red Sea, and the Amazons, Atlantians (as in the inhabitants of the region around the Atlas mountains, not Plato’s island), and Libyans of Africa. As we have seen, Diodorus used a wide range of sources in composing these books. But he also brings order to this material, despite its heterogeneous nature, through a variety of techniques. For example, in Book 2 he uses a Scythian tribe, the Sacae, to link the major Asian powers. The last chapter of the Assyrian section (2.34) describes how there was a long war between the Medes and the Sacae. Chapter 35 then begins the Indian section, and would seem to mark a sharp break in the narrative along with the change in source from Ctesias to Megasthenes. But Diodorus, in describing the geography of India at 2.35.1, explains how it is separated on the north from the Sacae by the Emodus mountains. There are actually good parallel fragments from Megasthenes for this part of Diodorus, none of which mention the Sacae, indicating that it was Diodorus who made the connection.20 The section following India deals with Scythia, and Diodorus mentions in passing, without further elaboration, that a Scythian king gave his name to the Sacae (2.43.5). This is a small detail, but one that links three sections of this book, drawn from at least three sources.

19. Rubincam (1998b) 229–233. 20. Muntz (2012) 25. 33

Organizing the World 33

Another connection within these books is the figure of Lycurgus, a Thracian king. Whereas the Sacae help connect three geographically close regions, Lycurgus helps connect several thematically similar figures, Osiris, Myrina, and Dionysus. In the first book, Osiris kills the Thracian king Lycurgus for opposing his civilizing mission (1.20.2). In Book 3, it is Mopsus, a Thracian exiled by Lycurgus, who finally defeats the Libyan Amazon Queen Myrina and her hitherto unbeatable army (3.55.10–11). Later in the same book, the Libyan Dionysus defeats the Thracians and torments and crucifies Lycurgus (3.65.5). Lycurgus also serves to connect the fourth book to the first three, as Diodorus includes him among the impious punished by the Greek Dionysus (4.3.4). These examples show how Diodorus can weave together the diverse material of these books, both geographical and thematic. But their unity is also shown by the large number of allusions to material elsewhere within these books, although Diodorus does not specifically point to other sections of the work as he does with his cross-references. For example, in describing cities founded by Babylonian captives of the Egyptian King Sesoösis, Diodorus remarks that Ctesias preserves an alternate account in which the cities were founded by followers of the Assyrian queen Semiramis when she came through Egypt. Semiramis is described in detail in Book 2, and her sojourn in Egypt is mentioned at 2.14.3 and 2.16.1, although Diodorus here makes no mention of her people settling in Egypt, presumably to avoid the potential doublet. Other references of this nature are more oblique. At 1.89.2 Diodorus briefly mentions bandits who infest both Arabia and Libya. When Diodorus describes Arabia in Book 2, he indeed talks about a group of Arabs who “live a life of robbery, and range far over the neighboring land, plundering it” (ἔχουσι δὲ βίον λῃστρικόν, καὶ πολλὴν τῆς ὁμόρου χώρας κατατρέχοντες λῃστεύουσιν, 2.48.2). Then in Book 3, describing the various tribes living in Libya, Diodorus notes one “that is always thieving, unexpectedly making raids from the desert and seizing whatever is at hand” (ἀεὶ λῃστεύει, ἀπροσδοκήτως δὲ τὰς ἐμβολὰς ἐκ τῆς ἐρήμου ποιούμενον ἁρπάζει τὰ παρατυχόντα, 3.49.2). In his account of Egyptian geography, Diodorus explains that part of the Nile drains into Libya, where it is sucked into the desert, and part into the Red Sea region toward Arabia, where it creates great marshes that are home to many people (1.32.4). These seem to be the same regions in which the Rhizophagi live, described at 3.23. In the same section, Diodorus mentions the wild beasts of Ethiopia (1.33.4), which are in turn described in detail at 3.35–36 in conjunction with the 34

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boundary between Ethiopia and Libya. At 2.51.3–4 Diodorus notes that the strength of the sun generates the greatest variety of animals, and he cites the crocodiles and hippopotami of Egypt, the reptiles of Ethiopia and Libya, and the elephants of India as examples. All either have been or will be described elsewhere in Books 1–3. Similarly, at 2.53.1–4 in describing Arabia Diodorus explains that it is because of the warmth of the sun that the race of birds began to fly, and that this also accounts for their many colors. He proceeds to go over the countries of which this is especially true: Babylonia, Syria, India, the Red Sea region, Ethiopia, and parts of Libya. All are regions that Diodorus covers in the first three books, albeit without describing the birds there. In several cases, Diodorus does not so much make allusions to another section of the first three books as deliberately avoid a detailed description on a topic in one place, only to give it in another. This enables him to avoid redundancy, while at the same time implicitly giving his endorsement of one claim or another. For example, Egypt was particularly well known for its “sacred writing” or hieroglyphics. Diodorus is interested in written records (see pp. 120–124) and brings this up in passing multiple times in Book 1: a stele to Osiris and Isis is written in hieroglyphics (τοῖς ἱεροῖς γράμμασιν, 1.27.3), the king Tnephachthus inscribed a curse in hieroglyphics (1.45.2), Sesoösis set up stelae throughout the world in “the Egyptian writing known as sacred” (Αἰγυπτίοις γράμμασι τοιῖς ἱεροῖς λεγομένοις, 1.55.7), and finally that the Egyptian education system has two kinds of writing, “the kind called sacred” (τά τε ἱερὰ καλούμενα, 1.81.1) and a more general style.21 This last section in particular would be an obvious place to describe the sacred writing. However, in spite of Diodorus’s obvious interest in the subject, he does not describe hieroglyphics in Book 1. But he does in Book 3, in the Ethiopian narrative. At 3.3.5 Diodorus states that the Ethiopians have two kinds of writing, which were adopted by the Egyptians, the type learned by everyone (demotic) and the sacred kind (τά δ’ ἱερὰ καλούμενα), which is used only by priests in Egypt but by everyone in Ethiopia. Diodorus goes on to give a more detailed description of hieroglyphics at 3.4, the only occasion where he actually uses the term ἱερογλυφικῶν γραμμάτων. This could easily have gone into the Egyptian narrative, and in all likelihood Diodorus’s sources for Book 1 would have included a description of the

21. In actuality, there were three kinds of writing in Egypt: hieroglyphics, hieratic, and demotic. See Burton (1972) 236. Diodorus is not alone in believing there were only two; cf. Herodotus 2.36. 35

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famous Egyptian system of writing, but Diodorus has opted to include it in the Ethiopian narrative. In doing so, he avoids covering the same material twice, and perhaps subtly tells his audience that he feels the Ethiopians are the proper inventors of this writing system. The reverse is also true. At 3.3.4 Diodorus remarks that the Ethiopian burials are very similar to Egyptian, but having already described Egyptian burials he does not bother to repeat himself. In the Ethiopian section Diodorus describes the working of the gold mines on the southern border of Egypt, which are overseen by the Egyptian king (3.14), a fact hinted at in the Egyptian narrative (1.33.3). The upper reaches of the Nile in Ethiopia, including the important island and city of Meroë, are described in Book 1, but not in Book 3. Meroë is mentioned several times in the later book, but Diodorus evidently expects his readers to remember its importance from reading Book 1. Ultimately, we do not know how Diodorus’s various sources may have presented this information, but it is clear that Diodorus has avoided much overlap between sections of his work. The unity of Books 1–3 can also be seen in one of their major features, the culture bringers. These figures will be discussed in detail in Chapter 5, but several of them make worldwide expeditions and the places they visit correspond closely with the regions described in Books 1–3. Osiris (1.18–20) goes to Ethiopia first (described in Book 3), and then continues along the coast of the Red Sea (described in 3), then to India (2.35–42), and eventually to the other civilizations in Asia (the rest of Book 2) before crossing over to Thrace and Greece. Sesoösis (1.53.5–6, 55.1–8) conquers Arabia, Libya, Ethiopia, the Red Sea Region, India beyond even the Ganges, and Asia including the Scythians as far as the river Tanaïs, which is also mentioned at 2.43.2 as the farthest boundary of the Scythians, and Babylon. Eventually, Sesoösis made it into Europe as far as Thrace. The Assyrian Ninus was unable to conquer Arabia (described at 2.48–54), but did conquer Babylon (described at 2.7–9), Armenia (not described), and Media (at 2.32–34). Ninus then desired to seize all of Asia from the Tanaïs (the boundary of Sesoösis’s campaigns) to the Nile. He started with Bactria, which is not described elsewhere. His wife, Semiramis, subdued Egypt, Libya, and Ethiopia, and finally invaded India (described at 2.35–42) where she was defeated (2.14.3–4). Finally, the Libyan version of Dionysus embarked on his own world tour, beginning with Egypt (3.73.4) and covering the inhabited world (3.73.6), traveling as far as India (3.73.7), until he turned around to head back to the Mediterranean. Diodorus does not list all the regions and countries this Dionysus visited, perhaps because it 36

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would be covering the same ground again and he wants to look forward to the Greeks in Books 4–â6. So with the exception of Armenia, which is not described at all, and Thrace, Diodorus’s culture bringers are basically traveling the same world Diodorus describes in Books 1–â3. It is clear that Diodorus took great pains over organizing his material in these books. But this still leaves the problem of the larger ordering and arrangement of different peoples and nations. There was no model for Diodorus to use in these books, however derivative of earlier sources the Bibliotheke might have been, for although there were a number of authors who dealt with one race of barbarians or another—âHecataeus of Abdera on Egypt, Megasthenes on India, and Ctesias on the Assyrians—thereâ was no precedent in Greek historiography for a work combining them all. There were, however, organizational schemes available to Diodorus, which he could have employed but interestingly did not. His arrangement of the material in Books 1–â3 is his own, as the following examination will show, and both his organizational choices and the methods he implicitly rejects reveal a great deal about Diodorus’s worldview and his own place within the Roman Empire.

The Succession of Empires Given Diodorus’s great interest in chronology, one might expect him to prefer a chronological approach to the material of the first three books. Even if dates could not be determined precisely, a relative scheme would be feasible. As it happens, by the time of the late Roman Republic there was a widely known and accepted system for organizing the chronology of the eastern barbarian kingdoms based on a sequence or succession of world empires. This sequence began with the Assyrians, who were overthrown by the Medes, who in turn were overthrown by the Persians. The Macedonians then overthrew the Persians, and finally the Romans triumphed over the Macedonians. This understanding of world history may go back to Herodotus, who in his history of the rise of the Persians describes the Assyrians as ruling “inland Asia” for 520 years (1.95.2), until the Medes revolted, followed by the other ethnic groups controlled by the Assyrians (1.102.2). But this is not an immediate replacement of one empire for another, since the Medes were initially disorganized and lacked central rule.22

22. On the motif in general, see Alonso-âNúñez (2002), Momigliano (1982), Mendels (1981), Flusser (1972), and Swain (1940). 37

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Ctesias appears to be the first Greek historian to formally lay out a sequence of near-eastern monarchies. A Greek who served as physician in the court of Artaxerxes II, he had access (or so he claimed) to Persian traditions and wrote a history of the Persian Empire (Persica) in twenty- three books. Of these, 1–3 dealt with the Assyrians, 4–6 with the Medes, and the remainder with Persians down to the reign of Artaxerxes II. The work is known entirely from later authors. Diodorus himself used Ctesias as his main source for early near-eastern history, compressing the historian’s first six books into thirty-four chapters at the beginning of Book 2, with information drawn from other historians included as well (see p. 23). Diodorus at least provides us with a basic outline of Ctesias, showing the Assyrians being overthrown by the Medes, and then the Medes in turn by the Persians. So at least from the time of Ctesias this sequence was part of Greek thought, becoming more widespread after Alexander the Great’s overthrow of the Persians, which left the Macedonians as the next world empire in the succession.23 Agatharchides of Cnidus (FGrH 86) may have used this scheme to organize Asiatic history from the Assyrians down to the Macedonian conquests in his Affairs in Asia, written in the second century BCE, although the fragments are too sparse to be certain.24 Eventually the scheme penetrated Roman thought. The earliest evidence for the cycle of empires in Roman historiography is probably the “On the Chronology of the Roman People” (de annis populi Romani) of Aemilius Sura (FRHist 103). This work is known from a single fragment, an apparent gloss or interpolation in Velleius Paterculus that reads: “First of all peoples the Assyrians ruled the world, then the Medes, afterwards the Persians, then the Macedonians. Then, not long after Carthage was defeated, the two kings Philip and Antiochus, who came from the Macedonians, were overthrown, and supreme power came to the Roman people” (Assyrii principes omnium gentium rerum potiti sunt, deinde Medi, postea Persae, deinde Macedones; exinde duo- bus regibus Philippo et Antiocho, qui a Macedonibus oriundi erant, haud multo post Carthaginem subactam devictis summa imperii ad populum Romanum pervenit, = Vell. 1.6.6). Aemilius Sura is otherwise

23. Momigliano (1982) 544–545. On Diodorus’s use of Ctesias see Chapter 1. 24. Burstein (1989) 18–19. Marcotte (2001) 409 argued that the work was actually organized along ethnographic lines, against which see Burstein, BNJ 86 T2 Commentary. Diodorus employed Agatharchides’s On the Red Sea and the second book of his Affairs in Asia in Book 3, but gives no indication that he was familiar with the historian’s other works. 38

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unattested, and the dating of this fragment is open to question. However, most scholars place Sura after the second Macedonian War and before the third (between 197 and 171) because of his references to Philip V and Antiochus III, which would confirm that this sequence of empires was known among the Roman elites by the middle of the second century, and that some Romans were already seeing themselves as the fifth empire in the succession.25 Polybius, writing in the mid-second century, knows about the succession of empires as well, although he does not employ it as a means of organizing his universal history. Indeed, Polybius seems to reject this idea of empires as an organizing principle in general, focusing instead on when the affairs of the world became interwoven around the expansion of Rome. But Polybius does offer further evidence that this sequence was well known in Roman elite circles by the time of the Third Punic War (149–146). According to Appian, explicitly citing Polybius, while watching the fall of Carthage Scipio Aemilianus reflected on the destruction that “the empires of the Assyrians, and the Medes, and the Persians, greatest in their times, all suffered, and even the empire of the Macedonians, the most recently renowned” (ἔπαθε δὲ ἡ Ἀσσυρίων καὶ Μήδων καὶ Περσῶν ἐπ’ ἐκείνοις ἀρχὴ μεγίστη γενομένη καὶ ἠ μάλιστα ἔχαγχος ἐκλάμψασα ἡ Μακεδόνων). Scipio went on to quote verses on the fall of Troy, and freely told Polybius that he was thinking about the ultimate fate of Rome (Poly. 38.22 = App. Pun. 132). Both F. Walbank and A. E. Astin argued that this could not have been what Polybius actually wrote, since two other versions of this event, both apparently drawn on Polybius, lack the reference to the sequence of empires.26 Momigliano, by contrast, remarked that “one would need very strong arguments to admit such interference by Appian with the account of the scene

25. Swain (1940) 2–5 argued for this period on the basis of the content of the fragment as well as certain linguistic features that mark the Latin as from the second-century BCE. This dating was accepted by Walbank (1963) 8, Flusser (1972) 159–160, Momigliano (1982) 544–545, Alonso-Núñez (1989), and Kramer (2005) 149–50. Mendels (1981) 331–332 rejects this dating, primarily on the assumption that the context of the fragment could well have been a speech looking back in time, similar to that of M. Aemilius Lepidus at Sallust Hist. 1.55.4. Although the context of fragments is of course a major problem (see Chapter 1), I find Mendels’s suggestion highly unlikely. It is clear from the title of Sura’s work, de annis populi Romani, that it dealt with chronology, and the passage of Velleius being glossed is also chronological in nature. However, Mendels (1981) 332–333 correctly rejects Swain’s contention that Ennius also refers to the sequence of empires as completely unsupported. See also Atkinson (2002) 308–310. 26. Astin (1967) 282–283, Walbank (1979) 3.722–725. 39

Organizing the World 39

which he explicitly takes from Polybius” and therefore “the reference to the four empires must be attributed to Polybius.”27 Certainly the succession of empires was well known and widespread during the early Augustan period, soon after Diodorus was writing. Dionysius of Halicarnassus includes the cycle of empires in the introduction to his Roman Antiquities. He declares that Rome has far surpassed empires of the past in both splendor and duration (1.2.1) and explains that the Assyrian Empire, although long lasting, was very small. The Medes overthrew it, and ruled a greater territory, but lasted a short time. The Persians overthrew the Medes and ruled almost all of Asia, but were checked repeatedly when they tried to expand into Europe and endured for only two hundred years before being overthrown by the Macedonians. And the Macedonians immediately began to decline after Alexander the Great’s death, and did not subjugate the expanse that Rome did (1.2.2–4). Rome, Dionysius concludes, rules every accessible and inhabited country and sea, and has lasted longer than any state before (1.3.3–4). This is a sophisticated twist on the sequence of empires; for Dionysius, it is not necessarily a sequential explanation for world powers, with one empire inexorably succeeding another. Instead, he uses it to imply that there is little likelihood of Rome’s power being toppled, and that there is no nation that disputes Rome’s universal dominion or resists Roman rule (1.3.5). This theory of successive world empires culminating in Rome continues to appear well into the imperial period, indicating that it became an accepted part of historiography. Tacitus clearly alludes to it in the Histories, remarking that “while the Orient was under the control of the Assyrians, Medes, and Persians” (dum Assyrios penes Medosque et Persas Oriens fuit, 5.8.1), they regarded the Jews as the least of the subjects. Tacitus then refers to Macedonian rule of the Jews, and finally Roman. The Greek Appian, writing in the mid-second century, also refers to the Assyrians, Medes, and Persians as the three greatest empires prior to Philip and Alexander the Great (τριῶν τῶνδε μεγίστων ἡγεμονιῶν, pref. 34). The empire of Alexander and the successor states are described next, and then the importance of Rome. Appian concludes that the Romans have achieved an empire of both greatness and long duration (pref. 35). Another author of the Second Sophistic, Aelius Aristides, refers to this motif in his Panathenaicus, tracing the rise of Rome in parallel with the

27. Momigliano (1982) 544. 40

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first four empires: “There is memory of five kingdoms, may there not be more. Of these, during the time of the Assyrians the first deeds of the city [i.e., Rome] took place, and such matters of the gods fall in this time. And during the second kingdom, the city was rising. During the period of the third she conquered for the whole time. And in the time of the fourth she alone held out, and emerged as the best of the others” (ἀλλὰ μὴν πέντε μέν ἐστι μνήμη βασιλειῶν, μὴ γένοιτο δὲ πλειόνων· τούτων δ’ ἐπὶ μὲν τῆς Ἀσσυρίων τῆς πρεσβυτάτης αἱ πρῶται τῆς πόλεώς εἰσι πράξεις, καὶ ὅσα τῶν θείων, εἰς τοῦτον ἐμπίπτει τὸν χρόνον· ἐπὶ δὲ τῆς δευτέρας ᾔρετο ἡ πόλις· τὴν δὲ τρίτην διὰ τέλους ἐνίκησεν· ἐν δὲ τῇ τετάρτῃ μόνη μὲν ἀντέσχεν, ἄριστα δὲ ἀπήλλαξε τῶν ἄλλων, 183). Aelius concludes that “during the time of the best and in every way greatest empire now established it has first place in the Greek world, and has done so well that no one could easily hope for old times instead of the present” (ἐπὶ δὲ τῆς πάντα ἀρίστης καὶ μεγίστης τῆς νυνὶ καθεστηκυίας τὰ πρεσβεῖα παντὸς ἔχει τοῦ Ἑλληνικοῦ, καὶ πέπραγεν οὕτως ὥστε μὴ ῥᾳδίως ἄν τινα αὐτῇ τἀρχαῖα ἀντὶ τῶν παρόντων συνεύξασθαι, 184). By the time of Augustus, and probably much earlier, there was widespread acceptance of a sequence of empires ending with Rome. However, none of the afore-mentioned authors actually used it as an organizational principle for their works. But the other universal historians from the decades following Diodorus’s time are another matter. First, we have the Philippic History of Pompeius Trogus, as preserved in Justin’s epitome. Trogus took this sequence of empires as the basic organizational structure of his history. He began his history with Ninus, the first king of Assyria, and the first to have an “unprecedented lust for dominion” (1.1.4) and to desire an empire for himself. He conquered the peoples of the whole near east before dying and was then succeeded by his wife, Semiramis, and eventually his son. Trogus stated that the Assyrians ruled this empire for thirteen hundred years (1.2.13). The last king was called Sardanapallus, but he was overthrown by the Median Arbactus, who “transferred the empire from the Assyrians to the Medes (1.3.6).” Many Median kings followed, culminating in Astyages, who was overthrown by Cyrus the Persian and the “empire of the Medes ended after 350 years” (1.6.17). Justin’s account of Trogus’s description of the Assyrians and the Medes is brief in the extreme, and it is likely that the full version had substantially more detail. The remainder of Trogus’s first book contained the Persian history through Darius I’s invasion of Scythia. Trogus used, in the fashion of Herodotus, the advance of the Persians to introduce other peoples with whom they 41

Organizing the World 41

came into contact. So Book 2 contained the Scythians and their history, including their own conquests in Europe and Asia. Trogus concluded that section with Darius’s failed invasion of Scythia, before describing the subsequent Ionian revolt. This in turn allowed him to introduce the Athenians and their history, and segue into the Greco-Persian wars. Book 3 opens with Xerxes, but then shifts to the contemporary breakdown of relations between Athens and Sparta, which in turn is the jumping-off point for a history of Sparta from the reforms of Lycurgus down to the origins of the Peloponnesian War. Trogus continued to cover Greek affairs through the end of Book 6 with the death of Epaminondas. This allowed Trogus to shift into Philip II’s conquests. Books 7 through 9 covered the early history of the Macedonians and Philip’s reign down to his murder. At the end of Book 9 Justin/Trogus concluded that Philip laid the basis for a world empire that his son would bring to fruition. Book 10 covers Persian history in the fourth century down to the invasion of Alexander, while Alexander himself is the subject of 11 and 12. This sequence of empires clearly provided Trogus with a very handy organizational scheme for the first part of his history. Interestingly, even though Dionysius of Halicarnassus and Appian both seem to have interpreted it as culminating in Rome as the greatest and most enduring of all the empires, Trogus pairs Rome at the end of his work with the Parthian Empire, suggesting that he saw a sixth empire as being on the rise. This sequence was flexible enough that it could be used by both pro- and anti- Roman authors (see below). The Augustan author Nicolaus of Damascus (FGrH 90) also wrote a universal history, in 144 books. However, although we have a good idea of Trogus’s organizational scheme thanks to Justin’s epitome, Nicolaus’s work survives only in fragments. But, judging by these, we may say that Nicolaus similarly began his work with the Assyrians, and covered the overthrow of the Medes by the Persians in Book 6. Nicolaus’s use of the succession of empires is further elaborated by two of the fragments from his work. F3 describes the overthrow of the Assyrian Sardanapallus by the Medes, explaining “they also contrived to attack the entire power [of Sardanapallus] and to transfer the empire of the Assyrians to the Medes” (καὶ κοινῇ βουλεύουσιν ἐπιθέσθαι τῇ ὅλῃ ἀρχῇ τά τε Ἀσσυρίων κράτη μεταστῆσαι εἰς Μήδους). F66 deals with the overthrow of the Medes by the Persians: “during the reign [of Astyages] a great change occurred, in which the empire went from the Medes to the Persians” (ἐπὶ τούτου βασιλεύοντος ἡ μεγάλη γίνεται μεταβολή, καθ᾽ ἣν εἰς Πέρσας ἐκ Μήδων περιῆλθεν ἡ ἀρχή). 42

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Judging by these fragments, Nicolaus accepted the succession of empires and used it to organize the first part of his history, although none of the surviving fragments deal with the Macedonian or Roman empires and their place in the sequence.28 For the Augustan universal historians, this sequence of five empires provided a useful method of arranging and understanding the history of the pre-Greco- Roman empires, and a convenient way of linking the Macedonian and Roman Empires to these earlier world powers. As Alonso-Núñez remarks, “the theory of succession of world empires … is a key point for writing world history.”29 Moreover, the succession of empires could also be readily adapted to the ideological aims or beliefs of a given author, whether pro- or anti-Roman. Dionysius of Halicarnassus, writing a few decades after Diodorus, declared that if someone were to compare cities and states to determine which one had the greatest empire, “he would see that the Roman Empire surpassed by far all those remembered before it, not only in the extent of its empire and the glory of its deeds, which no account has yet given their full due, but also the extent of its duration down to our own time” (μακρῷ δή τινι τὴν Ῥωμαίων ἡγεμονίαν ἁπάσας ὑπερβεβλημένην ὄψεται τὰς πρὸ αὐτῆς μνημονευομένας, οὐ μόνον κατὰ τὸ μέγεθος τῆς ἀρχῆς καὶ κατὰ τὸ κάλλος τῶν πράξεων, ἃς οὔπω κεκόσμηκε λόγος οὐδεὶς ἀξίως, ἀλλὰ καὶ κατὰ τὸ μῆκος τοῦ περιειληφότος αὐτὴν χρόνου μέχρι τῆς καθ’ ἡμᾶς ἡλικίας, 1.2.1). Appian, writing more than a hundred years later, expanded on this to justify Rome as the greatest empire in the world: “and again the duration of the empires of the Assyrians, Medes, and Persians, the three greatest before Alexander the son of Philip, put together did not even reach 900 years, as long as the Romans have already existed to the present, and I think that the magnitude of their empire was not even half the size of the hegemony of the Romans” (Ἀσσυρίων τε αὖ καὶ Μήδων καὶ Περσῶν, τριῶν τῶνδε μεγίστων ἡγεμονιῶν εἰς Ἀλέξανδρον τὸν Φιλίππου, συντιθεμένων οὔτ’ ἂν ὁ χρόνος ἐφίκοιτο τῶν ἐνακοσίων ἐτῶν, ὅσα ἐστὶ Ῥωμαίοις ἐς τὸν παρόντα χρόνον, τό τε μέγεθος τῆς ἀρχῆς τῆς ἐκείνων οὐδὲ ἐς ἥμισυ νομίζω τῆσδε τῆς ἡγεμονίας ἀπαντᾶν, Pref. 34–35). Appian

28. Parmentier and Barone (2011) xxiv–xxviii give a useful outline of what is know about the organization of Nicolaus based on the fragments that can be clearly assigned to specific books. 29. Alonso-Núñez (2002) 100. Cf. Ingelbert (2014) 240–246. By contrast, Engels (2010) 74, although accepting the prevalence of the sequence of empires, feels that Alonso-Núñez may be overstating its importance for universal historiography. 43

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goes on to argue that Rome is bound only by the edges of the world itself, while the previous empires, including the Macedonian, were geographically very limited.30 So the succession of empires could very easily be seen as culminating in Rome as the greatest and largest of them all. However, the sequence of empires was also used by opponents of Rome. Apocalyptic literature from the second century BCE on down is full of anti-Roman sentiment, and the succession of empires appears in this context.31 Perhaps Pompeius Trogus used it in this fashion, since he did not show Rome as the ultimate development. Rather, Trogus concluded his work both with the Celts and Spaniards, whom the Romans had most recently conquered, and with the rise of the Parthians. Trogus remarked that the Parthians shared rule of the world with Rome, having already defeated them three times. Momigliano calls this conclusion a “master- stroke—a piece of really good historical imagination.”32 At the very least Trogus is limiting the extent of Roman power, and may be hinting at the possibility that the Parthians will eventually become the sixth empire in the sequence.33 The cycle of empires could just as easily be used by an anti-Roman as a pro-Roman. The sequence of empires was a long-lived, easily adaptable method of conceiving the world.34 Moreover, it provided a convenient way of including other peoples and nations, through digressions as the prevailing empire conquered them. This is reminiscent of Herodotus, who used the Persian conquests as point of departure for discussing other peoples, and it appears to also be the technique employed by Trogus. One might readily expect, especially given the view of Diodorus as “not the man to take more trouble than he had to,”35 that he would have availed himself of this as the organizing principle of his history, at least for the first, “barbarian” part. But this is not the case at all. Diodorus certainly knows about this theory but has structured the Bibliotheke in such a way as to implicitly

30. Alonso-Núñez (1984) 640–644 provides a detailed analysis of this passage in Appian. 31. Swain (1940), Flusser (1972). 32. Momigliano (1982) 549. 33. Clarke (1999b) 263. Other scholars have argued for Trogus as being outright anti-Roman, most notably Alonso-Núñez (1992), but it is impossible to be certain given the state of his work. Note Yarrow (2006) 110–116. 34. Indeed, the concept long outlived the Roman Empire; see Vlassopoulos (2007) 20–22. 35. Lloyd (1974) 288. 44

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reject it. Indeed, by making Assyria the second empire in the Bibliotheke, after Egypt in Book 1, Diodorus is discrediting the succession of empires even before he begins to describe it. When he begins describing the eastern empires that make up the traditional sequence, he emphasizes how their power was limited, and breaks up the narrative so that one empire does not follow directly on the previous one. The first thirty-four chapters of Diodorus’s second book, drawn mainly on Ctesias, begin with the familiar scheme of the Assyrians, ruled by Ninus and then Semiramis, conquering most of Asia, and then ruling for an extended period. The Assyrians were in turn overthrown by the Medes, led by Arbaces (the Arbactus of Trogus), and the section concludes with a brief notice that the Median kingdom passed to the Persians, and a promise to describe it in detail at the appropriate time (2.34.6), before Diodorus shifts to his account of India. The first rulers of Assyria certainly receive their due for creating a world empire. Ninus “himself undertook to conquer all the nations of Asia, and after seventeen years he was the master of all of them except India and Bactria” (αὐτὸς δ’ ἐπῄει τὰ κατὰ τὴν Ἀσίαν ἔθνη καταστρεφόμενος, καὶ χρόνον ἑπτακαιδεκαετῆ καταναλώσας πλὴν Ἰνδῶν καὶ Βακτριανῶν τῶν ἄλλων ἁπάντων κύριος ἐγένετο, 2.2.1); and Diodorus, explicitly citing Ctesias, proceeds to give a list of the main ones (2.2.3). His wife and successor, Semiramis, is similarly shown as the ruler of a very powerful empire, which she extends even further. But the major part and climax of Diodorus’s account of Semiramis is her disastrous failed invasion of India (2.16–19), vividly showing the limits of Assyria. And although Diodorus, citing Ctesias, gives the duration of the Assyrian Empire as thirteen hundred years (the same as Trogus), he goes on to say that he is not going to discuss individual kings because they accomplished nothing worth mentioning (2.21.8). This wholesale exclusion sharply diminishes the status of Assyria before Diodorus moves on to the final Assyrian king, Sardanapallus, and the fall of his empire. The leader of the rebellion is a Mede, Arbaces, but Diodorus heavily emphasizes the importance of other nations, in particular Babylon, Persia, and Arabia (2.24.3–6), and even refers to “the four nations” (τεττάρων ἐθνῶν, 2.24.8) working in concert to rebel. Throughout the narrative the Babylonians, particularly the seer Belesys, play a major role. This is all missing from Trogus/Justin’s account, which speaks only of the Medes.36

36. Much of this may be due to Justin’s own abridgement, of course. 45

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And at the conclusion, Diodorus declares that the Assyrian Empire “was destroyed by the Medes” (ὑπὸ Μήδων κατελύθη, 2.28.8), not replaced by the Medes. This again stands in contrast to Trogus, who concludes “he [Arbaces] transferred the empire from the Assyrians to the Medes” (is imperium ab Assyriis ad Medos transfert, 2.3.6). Trogus, judging by the prologues and Justin’s epitome, apparently immediately moved on to the history of the Medes. Diodorus, however, embarks on a lengthy description of Babylonian astronomy (2.29–31, fore- shadowed in the Egyptian narrative in Book 1) and breaks the transition from Assyria to Media.37 Only at chapter 32 does Diodorus return to the Medes and describe their rise. He does state that they had a mighty empire (τῆς μεγίστης ἡγεμονίας), but then says that historians are at odds over their history (2.32.1), first citing Herodotus for the information that the Assyrians were conquered by the Medes, but that no Median king arose for many generations to claim supreme power (2.32.2; Diodorus gives a different length for the Assyrian Empire here, five hundred years instead of the thirteen hundred of Ctesias) until Cyaxares (the Deioces of Herodotus), who “became for the Medes the founder of the their world empire” (τοῖς Μήδοις ἀρχηγὸν γενέσθαι τῆς τῶν ὅλων ἡγεμονίας, 2.32.3). Diodorus promises to give a fuller account of this in the appropriate spot (presumably the lost Book 8), further emphasizing the discontinuity between Assyrians and Medes. Overall, this account discredits the idea that a Median Empire immediately succeeded or inherited the kingdom of the Assyrians. Only at this point does Diodorus give Ctesias’s account of the Medes. By emphasizing the differing versions, Diodorus leaves the empire of the Medes shrouded in uncertainty. He begins the Ctesian version by recalling the overthrow of the Assyrians by Arbaces. But Diodorus hardly portrays the Medes as a world empire, focusing on their wars with the Cadusii and the revolt of the Parthians. Diodorus again disrupts the narrative to describe the Sacae and their queen Zarina (2.34.3–5, see p. 32 on how the Sacae connect different parts of book 2). At the conclusion, Diodorus names the Median king who was overthrown by Cyrus, Aspandas (Astyages) and does make two brief mentions that the kingdom of the Medes is transferred (μετέστησε, μεταπεσεῖν) to the Persians (2.33.6, 2.34.6). However, he eschews a chronological narrative here, and declares that he will deal with

37. Interestingly, Diodorus makes a clear distinction between Medes and Babylonians, something many ancient Greek historians failed to do. See Drews (1965) 130. 46

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the fall of the Medes at the proper time, presumably in the lost ninth book, again breaking up the sequence of empires. By structuring his narrative in this way and separating the Assyrians, Medes, and Persians, Diodorus deliberately plays down the idea of a sequence of world empires, at least prior to the Persians, as well as the idea of one people directly inheriting the previous empire. In addition, Diodorus has postponed the Assyrians until his second book, and devoted a mere twenty-âeight chapters to them, followed by a mere six on the Medes, before moving on to India. And when Diodorus finally reaches Alexander the Great in Book 17, he makes no reference to the cycle of empires either.38 It is clear that not only does Diodorus reject the sequence of empires as a means for ordering his history; he also dismisses it as a way of understanding the flow of history.

Geographical Schemes Although Diodorus eschews any sort of chronological arrangement of the various peoples in Books 1–â3, there is a clear geographical arrangement. But even here Diodorus’s own creativity can be seen. Book 1 deals with Egypt, Book 2 with the peoples of Asia (ἐν ταύτῃ δ’ ἀναγράψομεν τὰς κατὰ τὴν Ἀσίαν γενομένας πράξεις ἐν τοῖς ἀρχαίοις χρόνοις, 2.1.3), and Book 3 with the peoples of Africa and the Red Sea coast. Only in Books 4–â6 does Diodorus deal with the Greeks, and the non-Greco-â âRoman peoples of Europe receive barely a mention. This organization of the known world is unique to Diodorus, and shows the control he exerted over how he arranged his material, since there were numerous geographical descriptions of the inhabited world, the oikoumene, available. Diodorus is known to have used at least two of them, Books 4 and 5 (FGrH 70 F30–âF53) of Ephorus’s history and the eleven-âbook Geography of Artemidorus, with hints that he may have been familiar with the work of Eratosthenes as well. Ephorus is perhaps the most significant of these, since he had a separate section in his history for geography (FGrH 70 T12 = Strabo 8.1.1) and Diodorus is generally considered to have borrowed extensively from him. His geographical account was contained in Books 4 and 5, the former definitely being entitled Europe (FGrH 70 F42 = Strabo 7.3.9, and F30–â42 for the known fragments) and the latter presumably being entitled Asia, or perhaps Asia and Africa (FGrH 70 F43–â53). This geographical overview

38. Noted by Atkinson (2002) 313. 47

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seems to have been quite influential on later historians such as Demetrius of Callatis (FGrH 85), who called his work “On Asia and Europe,” and Strabo.39 Unfortunately, the fragments of these books, especially 5, are so scanty as to make any reconstruction of them uncertain, although perhaps Ephorus followed the coastline of the Mediterranean from the Pillars of Heracles eastward to the Black Sea, and returned along the coast of Asia and African to his starting point.40 It is clear that Ephorus envisioned the world as rectangular, following the Ionian geographers, with four parts—Ethiopia to the south, Scythia to the North, Celtica to the west, and India to the East (F30a and b = Strabo 1.2.28 and Cosmas Indicopleustes, Topographia Christiana 2.148), using sunrises and sunsets to mark off the regions. Strabo remarks on how dated this conception was, at least in regard to Ethiopia (τὴν παλαιὰν περὶ τῆς Αἰθιοπίας δόξαν). Ephorus’s general division of the oikoumene has little resemblance to that of Diodorus (who also knows the world is spherical, 1.40.5). When Diodorus remarks in the context of Ephorus’s theory on the flooding of the Nile that “one should not seek from Ephorus precision in every case, observing that he has paid little attention to the truth in many things” (ἀλλὰ γὰρ οὐκ ἄν τις παρ’ Ἐφόρῳ ζητήσειεν ἐκ παντὸς τρόπου τἀκριβές, ὁρῶν αὐτὸν ἐν πολλοῖς ὠλιγωρηκότα τῆς ἀληθείας, 1.39.13) he is probably thinking of Ephorus’s out-of-date geographical information.41 Artemidorus’s Geography, in eleven books, is more problematic than Ephorus, given the paucity of fragments, but we can be sure that Diodorus used it (3.11.2), at least for information about Africa and the Red Sea coast.42

39. On Ephorus’s geographical influence, see Engels (1999) 127–144. For Demetrius of Callatis, see Engels (2009) 187–192. 40. I do not think the fragments support such a precise outline of Ephorus’s organization of these books, but certainly this periplus organization was quite common in geographical works. See Clarke (1999a) 197–201. Ephorus’s geographical layout is discussed in Barber (1935) 28–30, Engels (1999) 135–137, and Parmeggiani (2011) 219–263, esp. 224–225 and 252– 253. Breglia (2001) 151–152 suggests that Ephorus was attempting to underline the centrality of the Greek world in his geography. 41. It is asserted, e.g., Meister (1973–74) 454–459, that since Diodorus used Ephorus as a source for later books, he could not possibly have held this opinion and therefore mind- lessly copied it from his source. Against this see Chapter 1, and Sacks (1990) 111–112, to which I would add that every scholar must know that it is possible to draw information from a source even when one is in disagreement with it. On Ephorus’s later reputation in antiquity, which was not always high, see Schepens (1977) 96 and Parmeggiani (2011) 34–79. 42. Marcian’s epitome is in GGM 2.574–576, while Stiehle (1856) 193–244 collects the fragments. The authenticity of the new Artemidorus papyrus seems to be too much in doubt at this point to consider; see Janko (2010) 403–410. 48

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And there is a clear geographic procession: Books 2–6 cover the northern part of the world moving from west to east, Books 7–9 do the same for the southern half of the world, and Books 10–11 culminate with Asia Minor.43 But despite Diodorus’s use of Artemidorus, his schema bears even less resemblance to the Bibliotheke than that of Ephorus. Perhaps the most important geographical description of the world to be written in the Hellenistic period was the Geography of Eratosthenes of Cyrene, combining both theoretical geography and real geographical information to organize and describe the oikoumene. Diodorus is not interested in theory, but Eratosthenes’s description of the world (Book 3 of the Geography) would have been very useful.44 Although Diodorus nowhere mentions Eratosthenes, there are several places in the Bibliotheke that suggest at least a passing familiarity with his Geography. Diodorus’s physical description of India bears a greater resemblance to that of Eratosthenes than to Megasthenes, usually considered the source of Diodorus’s Indica, and at 3.38.1 Diodorus uses the term “Atlantic” in the same way Eratosthenes did, to designate the entire encircling ocean and not just the modern Atlantic.45 Eratosthenes divided the world into northern and southern halves, roughly with an east-west line through the Mediterranean (F47 Roller = III A2 Berger), with endpoints at the Pillars of Heracles on the west and by India in the east. He further organized the world into what he called “Sealstones” (F66 = III B2, B5). The first sealstone in the southern half is India, followed by Ariana, followed by Mesopotamia, Arabia, Egypt, and Ethiopia, and then presumably Libya. The divisions of the northern half of Eratosthenes’s world are less clear, but he appears to begin in the north- east (F110 = III B68) with the Scythians and proceeds to Anatolia, and then to Europe.46 This arrangement bears no relationship to Diodorus,

43. More specifically, Book 1 consisted of introductory material; Book 2 covered Spain; Book 3 Lusitania; Book 4 Italy, Sicily, and Illyria; Book 5 Greece; Book 6 apparently Thessaly, Thrace, and the northern Black Sea Region. Book 7 covered Libya, and Book 8 (which Diodorus used as a source for Book 3) Egypt, Arabia, and the Ethiopian and Red Sea regions. Book 9 covered India, Parthia, and the Levant; Book 10 Pisidia, Lycia, Caria, and Ionia; and Book 11 Mysia, Bithynia, Cappadocia, Pontus, and Scythia. 44. There is a fine recent edition of Eratosthenes’sGeography : Roller (2010). Greek texts of the fragments may be found in Berger (1880). 45. Muntz (2012) 24–31, Oldfather et al. (1935) 195 n. 2. 46. Roller (2010) 24–29. 49

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except that Eratosthenes also begins with non-Greeks and the eastern part of the world. Diodorus has not adopted the organization of Ephorus, or Artemidorus, or Eratosthenes, any more than he has adopted the succession of empires, to organize his work. It is worth briefly considering theGeographies from the Roman period to see if Diodorus has anything in common with their arrangements of the world. Strabo’s Geography postdates Diodorus by several decades, but is the closest contemporary work we have. He devotes his first two books largely to geographical theory, something that is noticeably absent from Diodorus. Then starting with Iberia in Book 3, Strabo makes a clockwise progression around the Mediterranean in the manner of a periplus. Only with Book 12 does he cover Asia Minor, and only the final three books, 15–17, cover the regions of Africa and Asia on which Diodorus focuses in 1–3. Geographically speaking, Strabo and Diodorus appear to have polar opposite visions of the world. Two Roman authors from the early Empire also give alternate lay- outs for the world. Pomponius Mela wrote a Description of the World in three books during the reign of Claudius. The first two books take the basic form of a periplus around the Mediterranean, beginning with the Pillars of Heracles and proceeding east along the African coast to Syria, Asia Minor, and finally the Black Sea region. Book 2 covers the Scythians and then proceeds west along the northern Mediterranean coast across Thrace, Macedonia, Greece, Italy, Gaul, and finally Spain, before concluding with several chapters on islands. Book 3 covers the outer coastlines and the peoples living inland. The second half of this book deals with India, Arabia, the Red Sea regions, and the coast of Africa.47 Again, this bears little relationship to Diodorus, and, except for Egypt, seems to downplay regions that Diodorus highlights. Finally, Books 3–6 of Pliny’s Natural History provide a geographical description of the world. Book 3 covers the western Mediterranean; Book 4 the eastern Mediterranean, Black Sea, and northern Europe; Book 5 Africa, the Middle East, and Anatolia; and Book 6 Asia. Again, this layout bears no resemblance to Diodorus. And notably, aside from Eratosthenes, all these geographical sources begin with Europe or the Mediterranean. But Diodorus takes a different approach in

47. Romer (1998) offers a convenient introduction, translation, and commentary of this author. Shcheglov (2014) analyzes the Greek sources of Mela, which were largely Hellenistic. 50

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Books 1–â3, one with a very eastern focus, and virtually ignores the western Mediterranean world, which was certainly full of “barbarians.”

Diodorus’s Organization of the World Clearly Diodorus does not use any preexisting political or geographical scheme to organize the first three books of his history. The organization of those books is his, and his alone, which proves Diodorus’s own creativity in matters of arrangement, and offers insight into how Diodorus understands the oikoumene in the mid-âfirst century BCE. First, there is a clear focus on Egypt. One effect of the succession of empires, as Momigliano notes, is to leave no place for Egypt, so Diodorus’s placement of Egypt at the forefront of the Bibliotheke is another sign of his rejection of that scheme.48 Egypt’s civilization was universally acknowledged as being extremely ancient, and there was a long Greek tradition of Egypt as a source of wisdom.49 But there were no traditions of Egypt as an all-conqueringâ power (with the exception of Sesoösis) ruling a large, multiethnic empire as there were for Assyria, Media, Persia, and finally the Macedonians. Indeed, Egypt had been conquered by the Persians, rather than conquering others. Despite this, Egypt is the only civilization to which Diodorus devotes an entire book. He says that he starts with Egypt because it is where mythology places the origins of the gods and the first observations of the stars (1.9.6),50 but this only hints at the central place Egypt plays in the Bibliotheke. Egypt is the only “complete” civilization that Diodorus presents in the first three books. In the Egyptian narrative, he describes Egyptian myths, the geography of Egypt including the great puzzle of the Nile, the early primitive Egyptians, Egyptian history, famous Egyptian buildings and construction projects, Egyptian laws and customs, and Egyptian influence on the Greeks. Every other civilization described in Books 2 and 3 has some of these elements; none has all of them. The description of Assyria, for example, has historical narrative and descriptions of famous buildings and cities but nothing else. India has a detailed geography, some early myth, laws, and customs, but basically no history. Arabia has geography and customs, but little history. The Ethiopians have geography and customs, but

48. Momigliano (1982) 545–â546. 49. See p. 9 n. 27. 50. Gruen (2011b) 91–â92. 51

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no history. The peoples of the Red Sea have very detailed geographies and ethnographies, but nothing else. The Libyans have mythology and some geography, but no customs or history. Only Egypt has everything. It is, for Diodorus, the complete civilization. Geographically speaking, by placing Egypt first Diodorus is essentially making that country the center of the inhabited world.51 This can also be seen in how he arranges the other civilizations and peoples he discusses in Books 2 and 3. In Book 2 he follows an eastward progression away from Egypt, beginning with Assyria, then followed by Babylon, Media (briefly), and finally India, one of the traditional boundaries of the world.52 Having covered Asia on an east-west axis, he then covers it on a north-south axis. North of Assyria and India are the Scythians and Amazons, and continuing further to the north Diodorus comes to another traditional boundary of the end of the world, the island of the Hyperboreans.53 He then switches to the south and covers Arabia, before concluding with the mysterious island of the Sun described by Iambulus (2.55–60). This is known only from Diodorus’s summary and Lucian, who remarks in his own fantastic tale that Iambulus is a liar (Ver. hist. 1.3). Though Diodorus has been criticized for his credulity about an island so fictitious that Clay and Purvis remark it is “washed in the waves produced by Plato’s Atlantis sinking into the Atlantic,” it actually serves as a southern counterpart to the island of the Hyperboreans in the north, marking the furthest reaches of the inhabited world in the east.54 Book 3 begins with Ethiopia, which marks the southward progression from Egypt. Ever since Homer, the Greeks saw Ethiopia as marking the southern extent of the oikoumene, below which it became too hot for life.55 From there, Diodorus progresses eastward toward the Red Sea coast (including the Persian Gulf and the southern coast of Asia). He then switches and covers the various Libyan nations on the western side of Egypt, as far as the inhabitants of the Atlas Mountains, yet another traditional boundary of the world.56 Thus, in Books 2 and 3 Diodorus is using

51. Note also Sulimani (2011) 169. 52. Romm (1992) 82–88. 53. Ibid. 60–67 and Skinner (2012) 62–64. 54. Clay and Purvis (1999) 48. Cf. Sacks (1990) 69. On the Hellenistic interest in utopias, and how it is reflected by Diodorus, see Gabba (1981) 58–60 and Sartori (1984) 518–520. 55. Romm (1992) 49–60. 56. Sulimani (2011) 185 and n. 67. 52

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these boundaries to define the oikoumene, and in the process showing how Egypt is at the center. Books 2 and 3 both begin with the ancient civilizations that are most likely to be held up as competitors or rivals to Egypt in antiquity or authority. Assyria is important, as we have seen, as the first great Asiatic empire, but Ethiopia is also important for the Greeks as perhaps the oldest civilization. Diodorus acknowledges their preeminence in Books 2 and 3, but also, by putting them front and center in these books, he invites the comparison with Egypt, which has a full book all to itself. In this way, he further highlights the central place of Egypt in his vision of the world. So while Books 1–3 define the borders of the world, the cumulative effect of their structure highlights Egypt above all other nations. We may right- fully speak of Diodorus’s Egyptomania, and in the following chapters we will see what characteristics of Egypt he emphasizes above all others. However, Diodorus is not only promoting Egypt in the first three books, but also indirectly highlighting another great empire by what he leaves out of these books. By the time Diodorus was writing, the Greeks were well aware of the much larger world of western and northern Europe, and indeed had been for some time. Despite this, the rest of Europe is missing from Diodorus’s three “barbarian” books, including the Iberians, Galatians, and Britons. Both Artemidorus and Eratosthenes included those regions, and Diodorus’s slightly older contemporary Posidonius included a detailed Celtic ethnography in his history. Diodorus could even use the island of Britain to mark off another edge of the world, much as he did with the land of the Hyperboreans and the others in Books 2 and 3. So why did he exclude these regions from his barbarian narrative? The answer is that Diodorus did not intend to ignore the western barbarians. At 3.38 he begins his discussion of the Arabian Gulf (modern Red Sea) by remarking that “this region of the inhabited world and the region around the British Isles and the far northern regions have not entered into the general knowledge of mankind” (τοῦτο γὰρ τὸ μέρος τῆς οἰκουμένης καὶ τὸ περὶ τὰς Βρεττανικὰς νήσους καὶ τὴν ἄρκτον ἥκιστα πέπτωκεν ὑπὸ τὴν κοινὴν ἀνθρώπων ἐπίγνωσιν, 3.38.2). Diodorus is comparing far south and far north, but he goes on to add that he will discuss the northern part of the inhabited world “when we describe the deeds of Gaius Caesar—for this man extended Roman rule to all these furthest parts and brought it about that the formerly unknown region fell into the annals of history” (ὅταν τὰς Γαΐου Καίσαρος πράξεις ἀναγράφωμεν· οὗτος γὰρ τὴν Ῥωμαίων 53

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ἡγεμονίαν εἰς ἐκεῖνα τὰ μέρη πορρωτάτω προβιβάσας πάντα τὸν πρότερον ἀγνοούμενον τόπον ἐποίησε πεσεῖν εἰς σύνταξιν ἱστορίας, 3.38.2–3). So Diodorus is acknowledging in the case of Britain and the northernmost regions of the known world that they could have a place in the first books, the books devoted to the barbarians, but that he prefers a different arrangement, in which those areas are placed in the context of their conquest at the hands of the Romans. This principle must underlie the content of the first three books. All of the regions described within those books—Egypt, Assyria, India, Scythia, Ethiopia, the Red Sea region, and Libya—are areas that the Romans had not yet conquered when Diodorus started writing. Regions that had fallen under Roman control, such as Carthage and the coast of Syria, are ignored in this section even though they would have fit in geographically. Diodorus is thus revealing both the limitations and potential of Roman power with this organization.57 On the one hand, Diodorus’s emphasis in the first three books of the Bibliotheke on the areas of the world that were not yet under Roman sway shows the limits of Roman rule. But on the other hand, by the time Diodorus was writing it must have been clear that Egypt at least would soon be under Roman control, and he may well have believed that some of the other areas he described would follow; Caesar was preparing an eastern campaign in 44, and Mark Antony made several forays in that direction in the 30s. Indeed, the Bibliotheke may well be map- ping out potential future Roman conquests by indicating which areas in the east were the most prosperous and richest in natural resources. In the various ethnographies and geographies in Books 1–3, Diodorus is especially interested in the natural riches of various lands. The wealth of Egypt due to the flooding of the Nile was well known (1.35), but Diodorus also remarks that the border between Egypt and Ethiopia was full of valuable metals (1.33.3, 3.14). Additionally, India was flush in agricultural products and had two growing seasons (2.36). Some parts of Arabia were rich in extremely rare plants (2.48–49), and Ethiopia contained yet more fertile regions (3.10). The Bibliotheke is not commenting solely on the limits of Roman power, but rather on the opportunities still to come for the Romans.58

57. Yarrow (2006) 154–156 notes that even though Rome is almost completely absent from the first part of the Bibliotheke, Diodorus does occasionally use the Romans as a benchmark for comparison, as at 2.5.7, 2.17.3, 3.38. 58. This is in contrast to the motif, becoming prominent in Roman sources, of Rome as having already conquered the world. Note Nicolet (1991) 29–47. One can contrast Diodorus’s 54

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Similarly, Diodorus’s rejection of the succession of empires is also indicative of his view toward the potential of Rome. The succession of empires could be interpreted in two ways, depending on whether a writer was pro- or anti-Roman. Pro-Roman authors such as Dionysius or Appian emphasized Rome as the culmination of this sequence: the biggest, most powerful, and longest-enduring empire. Anti-Roman authors could emphasize the inevitable downfall of Rome as the next empire rose. Diodorus, by rejecting and discrediting the succession of empires, is doing neither. Rome is neither destined to fail nor in the final state of development.59 Diodorus’s emphasis on Egypt points to what Rome lacks: longevity. The Egyptian narrative constantly emphasizes the period of time in which Egypt was a wealthy, stable kingdom, far longer than Rome had endured. Diodorus is holding out the possibility, through the example of Egypt, of Rome’s achieving that kind of long-term wealth and stability. We will explore the secrets of Egypt’s longevity and how it relates to the political situation in Rome in Diodorus’s own time in Chapter 6. This analysis also suggests that Diodorus planned to organize his later books around the Roman conquests, introducing new peoples as Rome advanced, an approach analogous to how Herodotus used the advance of the Persians to introduce the various peoples they conquered. To apply this to Rome would be a major innovation in historiography, and it is a pity the later books are so fragmentary that we cannot tell how far Diodorus may have taken this arrangement. But one example that proves Diodorus did use this organizational scheme survives in the fragments of Book 40. This book covered Pompey’s Asian conquests, including Judaea (40.3). It is here that Diodorus includes a history and ethnography of the Jews, drawn from Hecataeus of Abdera (FGrH 264 F6). Indeed, Diodorus introduces this section: “since we are intending to cover the war [of Pompey] against the Jews, it is appropriate to give in summary the foundation of this nation from the beginning and their customs” (ἡμεῖς δὲ μέλλοντες ἀναγράφειν τὸν πρὸς Ἰουδαίους πόλεμον, οἰκεῖον εἶναι διαλαμβάνομεν προδιελθεῖν ἐν

emphasis on areas not conquered by Rome with the organization of Strabo’s Geography, which places Rome at the center of the oikoumene and downplays the regions not under Roman control. See Clarke (1999a) 216–228 and 307–313. Roller (2015) 142–155 examines the Roman expansion to the edges of the oikoumene and beyond in the late Republican period. 59. Sacks (1990) 158 sees Diodorus’s omission of the succession of empires as negative: “He does not wish to give the impression that the Roman achievement was part of some inevitable process in history.” 55

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κεφαλαίοις τήν τε τοῦ ἔθνους τούτου ἐξ ἀρχῆς κτίσιν καὶ τὰ παρ’ αὐτοῖς νόμιμα, 40.3.1). The Jews would have fit quite easily within the framework of either Book 1 or Book 2. Indeed, Diodorus explicitly cites Hecataeus, whom he used as one of his sources for both Books 1 and 2, as his source for the Jews.60 And as noted above, Diodorus specifically states that he will cover Britain when he comes to the campaigns of Julius Caesar to the island. At the very least Diodorus is quite willing to rearrange his source material in order to highlight the Roman conquests. Interestingly, Diodorus does cover the Iberians and Gauls, just not in the Roman narrative. Rather, in Book 5, after discussing some of the western islands, he declares “we do not think it inappropriate to discuss briefly the neighboring tribes of Europe which we neglected in the previous books” (οὐκ ἀνοίκειον εἶναι νομίζομεν περὶ τῶν πλησίον τῆς Εὐρώπης ἐθνῶν βραχέα διελθεῖν, ἃ παραλελοίπαμεν ἐν ταῖς πρότερον βίβλοις, 5.24.1). What follows is hardly brief—sixteen chapters dealing with the Celts, some twenty-five pages of Teubner text. And far from being appropriate, this lengthy section actually stands out as highly inappropriate for Book 5. In the proëm to that book, Diodorus muses on the importance of organization, and praises his predecessor Ephorus for “having organized each book according to topic” (τῶν γὰρ βίβλων ἑκάστην πεποίηκε περιέχειν κατὰ γένος τὰς πράξεις, 5.1.4 = FGrH 70 T11).61 He declares that he prefers this method of organization, and “as much as possible follows this plan” (κατὰ τὸ δυνατὸν ἀντεχόμεθα ταύτης τῆς προαιρέσεως, 5.1.4). Having made this declaration, he says of Book 5 “designating this as the ‘Island Book’, in accordance with this title we will speak about Sicily first” (καὶ ταύτην τὴν βίβλον ἐπιγράφοντες νησιωτικὴν ἀκολούθως τῇ γραφῇ περὶ πρώτης τῆς Σικελίας ἐροῦμεν, 5.2.1). Book 5 is the only book in the extant Bibliotheke that Diodorus titles in this way. Given how specific he is about the book having a particular geographic reach, and that geographic reach being “Islands,” the lengthy section on the Celts and Iberians—“hardly islands!”

60. Muntz (2011). 61. What exactly Ephorus meant by κατὰ γένος is a matter of long-running dispute. Parmeggiani (2011) 156–164 is skeptical, perhaps too skeptical, that the phrase κατὰ γένος is at all useful in understanding Ephorus’s organization. Drews (1963) 244–255 and Drews (1976) 497–498 conclude that the phrase means Ephorus organized each book of his history around a major geographical area. Parker, Commentary on BNJ 70 T11 suggests that this does not rule out that some sections of Ephorus were also thematically defined. In the case of Diodorus’s fifth book, “Islands” refers to both the geographic reach and the theme. 56

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Rawson exclaims62—in the middle of the book sticks out like a sore thumb. The only way to explain this incongruity is to assume that the Celtic ethnography was originally meant to be in another part of the Bibliotheke, but Diodorus relocated it. The most likely place for at least part of it would be in an account of Julius Caesar’s Gallic and British Wars, which Diodorus promised but never wrote. We will return to this conundrum in Chapter 7.

62. Rawson (1985) 254. 57

3 The Origins of Civilization

As we saw in the last chapter, Diodorus exerts great control over the arrangement of his material in the first three books. Equally important is the control he has over what he chooses to include in those books. For instance, he devotes the first book of the Bibliotheke to Egypt, but chooses to preface the Egyptian narrative with anthropological descriptions of the beginnings of life and the origins of civilization (1.6.3–1.9), passages not paralleled in the other extant universal historians.1 More than almost any other sections of Diodorus, these chapters have been cannibalized in search of the original sources, with scant attention paid to Diodorus’s purpose in including them in such a prominent position in the first place. Much as Diodorus’s overall arrangement of Books 1–3 defines the entire inhabited world, chapters 6–9 of Book 1 define universal themes that underlie the development of all mankind. They cannot be isolated from the rest of Books 1–3, but form a crucial underpinning for a philosophical grasp of the whole.2 No other extant historian of the ancient world takes this attitude. In a classic essay, Arnaldo Momigliano, lamenting the loss of the philosophical background to Diodorus’s and other authors’ accounts of the progress of civilization, declares “even if we were much better informed we would hardly find cultural developments as one of the central themes of Greek historical research. More specifically, we would not

1. Cole (1967) 4 suggests that beginning a universal history with the origins of civilization was not uncommon, but cites only this passage of Diodorus as an example, although discussions of the origins of civilization may have prefaced local histories of regions with inhabitants claiming to be autochthonous, e.g., Philochorus (FGrH 328 F2a and b). This is far from the general, universal account that Diodorus gives. 2. Sacks (1990) 56–64. 58

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find universal histories built on schemes of cultural development.”3 But Diodorus, at least in the first books of theBibliotheke , does just that, and establishes a paradigm for the evolution of civilization, which, although based on earlier philosophical theories, is his own. He uses it to introduce and explain key themes of historical causality and development that are relevant even to the conflicts in the late Roman Republic.

The Origins of Life Diodorus begins this section immediately after the proëm with a brief account of the beginning of life (1.6.3–â7.7). According to his understanding, it was a combination of heat and moisture that produced the earliest living creatures. The heat warmed the land, which fermented and produced giant pustules, which eventually broke open to produce all living things (1.7.3–4).â The type of creature produced depended on the mixture of moisture, warmth, and earth (1.7.5). Eventually the earth grew more solid through the heat of the sun and the winds, and was no longer able to gen- erate large creatures (1.7.6). None of this is original to Diodorus. The theory of spontaneous generation of life can be found in many other sources, including Ovid’s Metamorphoses, written several decades after the Bibliotheke, and may go back as far as the fifth century.4 But Diodorus is establishing a paradigm that he can and does apply elsewhere in the Bibliotheke. Just a few chapters later, he gives the Egyptian explanation for the origins of life in Egypt, which corresponds closely with his description of how life first originated: “for it seems the heavy rain which fell in other regions mixed with the heat native to Egypt itself, and the air became exceedingly well-â tempered for the generation of all living things in the beginning” (τῆς γὰρ παρὰ τοῖς ἄλλοις ἐπομβρίας τῷ παρ’ ἑαυτοῖς γινομένῳ καύματι μιγείσης εἰκὸς εὐκρατότατον γενέσθαι τὸν ἀέρα πρὸς τὴν ἐξ ἀρχῆς τῶν πάντων ζωογονίαν, 1.10.5). Elsewhere in this chapter Diodorus cites as evidence the generation of life that was taking place in Egypt even in his own time, in pools of water, with some animals emerging fully formed, and “others half-âformed and joined to the earth itself” (τινὰ δὲ ἡμιτελῆ καὶ πρὸς αὐτῇ συμφυῆ τῇ

3. Momigliano (1982) 541. 4. On the zoogony, see Spoerri (1959) 1–â37. On Ovid and the possibility that he was familiar with Diodorus, see Wheeler (2002) 187–â189. â 59

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γῇ, 1.10.7). As a result there is an extraordinary diversity of animal life in Egypt. The element of heat comes up again when Diodorus describes the reason for the incredible variety of animals in Arabia: “for this land, being far to the south, seems to breathe the power of the sun, the greatest cre- ator of life” (δοκεῖ γὰρ ἡ συνεγγίζουσα χώρα τῇ μεσημβρίᾳ τὴν ἀφ’ ἡλίου δύναμιν ζωτικωτάτην οὖσαν πολλὴν ἐμπνεῖσθαι, 2.51.3). The liquid element is missing, but since Diodorus has already introduced it twice in Book 1 he may be forgiven for assuming the reader remembers it. Indeed, in the very next section he draws a parallel to the abundance of animal life in Arabia with Egypt (διὰ δὲ τὰς αὐτὰς αἰτίας, 2.52.4), along with Ethiopia, India, and Libya. India would seem to be a prime candidate to discuss the origins of life again, but Diodorus does not do so. However, in the Ethiopian narrative at the start of Book 3 he cites the Ethiopians as arguing that generation of life from wet earth heated by the sun is most likely to have taken place in their country, and they can justifiably call themselves autochthonous (3.2.1). So, even though he introduces this theory in the abstract at the start of Book 1, it forms the basis for his presentations of life beginning throughout the first three books. In the same fashion, the account of the origins of civilization and the progress of man that follows (1.8) underlies many sections, not only in Books 1–â3 but throughout the Bibliotheke.

The Origins of Civilization The progress of man is a common theme in Greek literature and thought. As far back as Hesiod, “progress” was viewed as gradual degradation of mankind, from a “golden age” through ages represented by progressively baser metals down to the present “iron age” (Op. 106–â200). Momigliano points to this as the start of universal history, since Hesiod was the first author to posit a universal scheme for understanding the progress of history, although he conceded that there was “very little historical observation” behind it.5 This motif of an earlier golden age was picked up by philosophers such as Plato (Plt. 271a–â272b) and is present in Roman authors as well, notably Virgil (Aen. 8.319–â327).6 However, at some point the Greeks began to develop alternative views of human progress, one of

5. Momigliano (1982) 534–â536. 6. See Kidd (1988) 961–â963. 60

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which understood mankind as advancing to the present from an original primitive state rather than degrading from a “golden age.” This can be seen in the fifth-century Attic tragedians. The Prometheus Bound of Aeschylus depicted Prometheus as showing a primitive and suffering mankind how to better itself through the gift of fire and skills such as building, astronomy, and writing (436–506). Prometheus serves as the divine agent or culture bringer to improve mankind’s lot. Sophocles, in the famous Ode to Man in the Antigone, depicted mankind as advancing purely on its own, without divine assistance (332–375). Euripides also had a brief description of the progress of man in the Supplices (201–215). These passages, along with the account of man given by Protagoras in Plato’s dialogue of the same name (321c–328d) and other fragments from the sophists and presocratics have been taken to indicate that the progress of man and the development of civilization was a topic of great interest by the late fifth century and that sophisticated theories of mankind’s development were being devised and debated.7 Consistent with this tradition, Diodorus lays out an account of the development of early humans and the progress of civilization in chapter 8 of Book 1, a section often referred to as the Kulturgeschichte. According to him, early humans lived a bestial life, with all of them looking out only for themselves, and living off of plant life (1.8.1). But attacked by wild beasts, mankind was forced by expediency (σύμφερον) and fear (φόβος) to begin to work together (1.8.2). When people started to cooperate, they were required to communicate and gradually assigned meanings to sounds. Since this happened independently all over the world, diverse languages and eventually nations came into being as a result of the same universal forces (1.8.3–4). Gradually man was taught by trial and error, that is to say, experience (πείρας), to take shelter in caves and store fruits. Fire and additional elements that improved man’s life were discovered, and Diodorus concludes by declaring that need or necessity (χρεία) was the primary teacher of man, and that man was naturally well equipped to learn (1.8.9). This passage has been perhaps the most studied and debated part of the first three books of theBibliotheke . In 1912 Karl Reinhardt attributed the theory behind it to the fifth-century philosopher Democritus, via Hecataeus of Abdera, Diodorus’s putative source for Book 1. Reinhardt further argued that what is now chapter 8 was originally contained in a

7. Blundell (1986) 171–180. 61

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larger Egyptian narrative, noting that when Diodorus describes the origins of Egyptian civilization at the beginning of chapter 10, there is very little overlap with chapter 8. Reinhardt concluded from this that chapter 8 was originally prefaced to the account of the Egyptian priests that Diodorus quotes beginning at chapter 10 and that presumably came from Hecataeus. Diodorus stripped it of its Egyptian context and placed it instead at the end of his general introduction.8 Reinhardt’s argument initially gained widespread acceptance,9 but gradually the attribution was disputed by scholars.10 “The violent and gratuitous rearrangement of source material” by Diodorus that Reinhardt’s theory required was highly problematic for scholars of the traditional school of Diodoran criticism, which held that he was unable to tamper with his source material to such an extreme degree.11 Instead, J. Morrison and others argued that Diodorus’s account was in fact pre-atomistic; they linked Diodorus’s description of the progress of man in chapter 8 with the sophist Protagoras, who lays out his theory of civilization in Plato’s Protagoras (321c–328d).12 G. Vlastos in turn denied this attribution. Vlastos pointed out that Diodorus’s theory of language development is more complex than Protagoras’s, and that the principal role of need (χρεία) in furthering civilization in Diodorus is absent from Protagoras altogether. Instead, he argued that the doctrine of need was indeed Democritean, and that, although there was probably corruption or simplification during its transmission to Diodorus, the entirety of chapter 8 was broadly Democritean as well. On the other hand, Vlastos recognized that since it is impossible to see just how much may have been corrupted by the time Diodorus committed it to papyrus, the value of chapter 8 for reconstructing Democritus is small.13 Since Vlastos, there have been two extensive studies dealing with this passage of Diodorus, and in particular its relationship with other accounts of the development of civilization dating from the late-Republican/

8. Reinhardt (1912) 495–99. 9. As noted by Cole (1967) vii and Dodds (1973) 10. Note that this passage of Diodorus is DK 68 B5. 10. Morrison (1941) 9. 11. Pfligersdorfer (1959) 144, quoted in Cole (1967) 175. 12. Morrison (1941) 9–11. 13. Vlastos (1946) 54–59. 62

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early-Augustan period. Three of these accounts—by Posidonius (partially preserved in Epistle 90 of Seneca), in Book 5 of the De rerum natura of Lucretius, and at the start of Book 2 of Vitruvius’s De architectura—have sur- vived and hold many similarities both to each other and to Diodorus. There are, however, significant differences between these four accounts as well, and no one version perfectly overlaps with another. The first study, Walter Spoerri’s Späthellenistische Berichte über Welt, Kultur, und Götter, sharply disputed the attribution of Diodorus’s Kulturgeschichte to Democritus or a Democritean source. Noting apparent dissimilarities and incongruities in Diodorus’s account and the difficulties in reconciling everything with any single known author or philosophical school, Spoerri concluded that Diodorus’s philosophy was highly eclectic, and that even the individual chapters did not necessarily contain a single, unified philosophy. He also contended that the account of the progress of Egyptian civilization under the tutelage of the gods beginning in chapter 10 and its apparent lack of connection with chapter 8’s account of the progress of mankind through the medium of χρεία meant that Diodorus used multiple sources describing the development of civilization and simply did not notice the overlap.14 Spoerri argued that nothing in this section of Diodorus was incompatible with widely attested views of the first century BCE.15 This view was endorsed by Ann Burton in her commentary on Book 1. She probably did not mean it as a compliment when she remarked, “Diodorus avoids everything that would betray a coherent philosophical point of view.”16 The second major study, Thomas Cole’s Democritus and the Sources of Greek Anthropology, reached the opposite conclusion from Spoerri’s work. Cole resurrected Reinhardt’s thesis and provided a much more detailed and sophisticated argument to support it. From a painstaking comparison of Diodorus, Lucretius, Posidonius, and Vitruvius, Cole attempted to reconstruct an Ur-source for the Kulturgeschichte, which he argued must ultimately derive from Democritus. Like Reinhardt, Cole saw Diodorus as receiving this theory through Hecataeus of Abdera, Diodorus’s putative

14. Spoerri (1959) 129, 163. 15. Ibid. 132–212. 16. Burton (1972) on 8. It should be noted that eclecticism in philosophy was extremely common in the first century BCE, and in spite of the contempt scholars like Burton sometimes show for it, it is by no means a sign of intellectual failing. See Hatzimichali (2011) 9–66 passim and Dillon and Long (1988) 1–14. 63

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source for Book 1, but seriously mutilating it in the process by dividing it up among several sections of the first book of theBibliotheke . Although the parallels between the various authors Cole discusses indicate a single basic understanding of the progress of man behind them, there are many differences, some quite significant, to show that not all of these authors were drawing directly on the same hypothetical source, so perhaps it is not as incompatible with the eclecticism in Diodorus postu- lated by Spoerri as might first appear. Cole argued that the source of the Kulturgeschichte is ultimately Democritus, but his thesis does not seem to have gained widespread acceptance, although his textual analysis of these passages remains the most comprehensive available.17 The fact that four major authors, two Greek and two Latin (Posidonius, Diodorus, Lucretius, Vitruvius), all working in Rome in the first century BCE, describe the origins of civilization similarly would seem to point to an authority closer to their own time than the fifth-century Democritus.18 Indeed, these differing accounts point to a larger intellectual debate to which Diodorus is contributing in mid-to-late-first-century Rome on the beginnings of civilization.19 Regardless of the ultimate source of the Kulturgeschichte, the presence of these contemporaneous accounts of Lucretius, Posidonius, and Vitruvius provides us with the opportunity to compare Diodorus’s own account with theirs and better see what he emphasizes and how he integrates it into the Bibliotheke.

Diodorus’s Kulturgeschichte

According to Diodorus, citing unknown authorities (φασί, 1.8.1), the first men “led an undisciplined and bestial life, going out for sustenance everywhere, and partaking of the most tender herbs and the fruits growing on trees” (ἐν ἀτάκτῳ καὶ θηριώδει βίῳ καθεστῶτας σποράδην ἐπὶ τὰς νομὰς ἐξιέναι, καὶ προσφέρεσθαι τῆς τε βοτάνης τὴν προσηνεστάτην καὶ

17. For example, Dodds (1973) 11 declares that Cole’s attempt “seems doomed to failure” and states that either Diodorus or a predecessor simply consulted an out-of- date doxographic manual and put together a summary of rationalist opinions. Other evaluations of this passage and its relevance for Hecataeus or Democritus have been similarly skeptical; see Bertelli (1980) 527–532 and Warren (2001) 150–159. More recent work on Democritus has not paid much attention to this passage either; note the papers in Brancacci and Morel (2007). 18. Burton (1972) 50. 19. Sacks (1990) 58–59 and Spoerri (1959) 144–148 on χρεία in particular during this period. 64

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τοὺς αὐτομάτους ἀπὸ τῶν δένδρων καρπούς, 1.8.1). This idea is paralleled in Lucretius, according to whom “through many turns of the sun through the heavens men were living their lives in the manner of much-wandering beasts. Neither was there any sturdy guide of the curved plow nor did anyone know to work fields with iron or to plant new shoots in the ground nor to cut old branches from tall trees. What the sun and rain had given, what the earth grew by itself, that was gift enough to satisfy their breasts” (multaque per caelum solis volventia lustra volgivago vitam tractabant more ferarum. nec robustus erat curvi moderator aratri quisquam, nec scibat ferro molirier arva nec nova defodere in terram virgulta neque altis arboribus veteres decidere falcibus ramos. quod sol atque imbres deder- ant, quod terra crearat sponte sua, satis id placabat pectora donum, 5.932– 938). Lucretius’s basic account is the same as Diodorus, but there is a trace of “Golden Age” thought overlaying it. This can be seen in Lucretius’s emphasis on early man’s stronger resistance to illness, strange food, heat, and cold (5.927–930), and the relative abundance of food from the earth (5.944).20 Diodorus stresses mankind’s primitive, bestial state more sharply. Diodorus maintains this emphasis in the next passage, claiming that “then, being attacked by wild animals men were taught by expediency to come to each other’s aid, and being gathered together because of their fear they gradually perceived from this their similarities” (καὶ πολεμουμένους μὲν ὑπὸ τῶν θηρίων ἀλλήλοις βοηθεῖν ὑπὸ τοῦ συμφέροντος διδασκομένους, ἀθροιζομένους δὲ διὰ τὸν φόβον ἐπιγινώσκειν ἐκ τοῦ κατὰ μικρὸν τοὺς ἀλλήλων τύπους, 1.8.2). Here the best parallel is in Vitruvius: “therefore, on account of the invention of fire, among men there arose gathering and deliberation and social intercourse, and many came together in a single place” (ergo cum propter ignis inventionem conventus initio apud homines et concilium et convictus esset natus, et in unum locum plures convenirent, 2.1.2). But the differences with Diodorus are quite sharp. For Vitruvius mankind begins to come together and develop society on the basis of the invention of fire (which he described in the previous section). Diodorus traces the origins of society to a completely different factor, the fear generated by external threats faced by early humans. Rather than depicting humans as coming together as the result of a major discovery that will better their lives, Diodorus continues to portray early man

20. Campbell (2003) 189, 195. 65

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as living a wretched existence, forced to cooperate for self-preservation, “by expediency” (ὑπὸ τοῦ συμφέροντος) and “because of fear” (διὰ τὸν φόβον), a metus hostilis. This is a very different presentation than what is in Vitruvius, but it fits in with Diodorus’s greater emphasis on the bestial state of early man. Diodorus does not even include the discovery of fire in this passage. Lucretius also mentions man being attacked by wild animals, but in his account this is not the catalyst for causing mankind to begin to cooperate (5.982–987).21 And when Lucretius does discuss humans banding together, it is a sign of their softening, brought about again by the introduction of fire (5.1019–1020). For Diodorus, only when primitive men are driven together by their fear do they begin to recognize each other as being the same species and begin to create and advance civilization. The immediate result of this in Diodorus’s narrative is that mankind, forced by this metus hostilis to cooperate, starts to devise speech, gradually hitting on particular sounds to indicate specific things: “although the sounds mixed were unintelligible, by gradually articulating words and agreeing with one another on symbols for each thing which was at hand, they made clear to each other the meaning of every term” (τῆς φωνῆς δ’ ἀσήμου καὶ συγκεχυμένης οὔσης ἐκ τοῦ κατ’ ὀλίγον διαρθροῦν τὰς λέξεις, καὶ πρὸς ἀλλήλους τιθέντας σύμβολα περὶ ἑκάστου τῶν ὑποκειμένων γνώριμον σφίσιν αὐτοῖς ποιῆσαι τὴν περὶ ἁπάντων ἑρμηνείαν, 1.8.3).22 The best parallel is again in Vitruvius, except here the discovery of fire provides the impetus: “in this meeting of mankind sounds were uttered in various ways, and by daily practice they established words as they hit upon them, then by more frequently indicating things by experience, by chance they began to speak as things happened and thus they created conversations among themselves” (in eo hominum congressu cum profundebantur aliter e spir- itu voces, cotidiana consuetudine vocabula, ut obtigerant, constituerunt, deinde significando res saepius in usu ex eventu fari fortuito coeperunt et ita sermones inter se procreaverunt, 2.1.1).23 These passages are very close in thought, but Diodorus appears to emphasize the primitiveness of early man more than Vitruvius, as use of the words ἀσήμου and συγκεχυμένης

21. Wild animals come up regularly in Diodorus’s accounts of primitive peoples; see further in this chapter and Sacks (1990) 59. 22. Diodorus’s understanding of the growth of speech is quite sophisticated and has received much attention from scholars trying to determine out of which philosophical school it arose. See Morrison (1941) 9–11, Vlastos (1946) 51–54, Spoerri (1959) 134–143, and Cole (1967) 60–69. 23. There is a textual issue with Vitruvius aliter; see Cole (1967) 33 n. 10. 66

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shows. The theme of cooperation is also stronger in Diodorus (πρὸς ἀλλήλους), fittingly given the emphasis in the preceding sentence, and fire as the motivating force is entirely absent, just as the metus hostilis is absent from Vitruvius. At this point in the narrative (1.8.4) Diodorus makes an important observation: this process was going on in different places throughout the entire world, resulting in innumerable groups developing their own systems of speech, and is thus the ultimate origin of all the original nations of the world. Diodorus uses this passage, unparalleled in any of the other Kulturgeschichte texts, to explain the beginnings of civilization and history. For a universal historian, there is the obvious importance of the origin of nations and the different accounts they will have of their early societies, but also important is the unity of the human experience; people are forced together in the same way all over the world. Diodorus continues to explain that, despite humanity’s newly found cooperativeness, its lot was still wretched: “accordingly, the first humans had discovered none of the things useful for life, being naked without clothes, and unaware of dwellings and fire, and wholly ignorant of cultivated foods” (τοὺς οὖν πρώτους τῶν ἀνθρώπων μηδενὸς τῶν πρὸς βίον χρησίμων εὑρημένου ἐπιπόνως διάγειν, γυμνοὺς μὲν ἐσθῆτος ὄντας, οἰκήσεως δὲ καὶ πυρὸς ἀήθεις, τροφῆς δ’ ἡμέρου παντελῶς ἀνεννοήτους, 1.8.5). For Diodorus, food is the most important element here. Even the basics of uncultivated foods were unknown: “for since they knew nothing of the harvesting of wild food, they made no store of foodstuffs for their needs. Therefore many of them perished during the winters on account of the cold and the lack of food” (καὶ γὰρ τὴν συγκομιδὴν τῆς ἀγρίας τροφῆς ἀγνοοῦντας μηδεμίαν τῶν καρπῶν εἰς τὰς ἐνδείας ποιεῖσθαι παράθεσιν· διὸ καὶ πολλοὺς αὐτῶν ἀπόλλυσθαι κατὰ τοὺς χειμῶνας διά τε τὸ ψῦχος καὶ τὴν σπάνιν τῆς τροφῆς, 1.8.6). The closest parallel is in Lucretius: “then lack of food drove weakened bodies to death, now, to the contrary, abundance overwhelms them” (tum penuria deinde cibi languentia leto membra dabat, contra nunc rerum copia mersat, 5.1007–1008). But Lucretius is missing the ideas of harvesting and food storage here, which are critical to Diodorus, and is more interested in drawing the contrast with his own times when food is overabundant. Diodorus’s narrative here may appear to overlap with his initial opening at 1.8.1. Each passage deals with food, the first with mankind’s reliance on the fruits of the earth, the second with their ignorance of cultivated foods. Since this seems to repeat what has already been stated at 1.8.1, both 67

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Spoerri and Cole take this as a sign of some form of source manipulation by Diodorus. Spoerri sees it as proof that Diodorus’s account does not come from a single source, but is rather a mixture of multiple contemporary ideas. Cole for his part believes this is proof that Diodorus is in fact extracting his Kulturgeschichte from two separate sections of a single, larger source.24 However, no information is actually repeated between 1.8.1 and 1.8.5. Instead, 1.8.5 offers a brief description of the basic rudiments of civilization that are lacking—clothing, shelter, fire, and cultivated food— while 1.8.1 speaks of primitive man like a wild beast. Diodorus is clearly drawing a distinction between the primitive, beast-like man of 1.8.1 and the slightly more advanced nonbestial man created by cooperation and the beginnings of language described in 1.8.3–4. He is emphasizing that the beginning of cooperation and speech does not automatically entail the beginnings of civilization, but is just one step along the path. By emphasizing what mankind still lacks, Diodorus is able to make the next step sharper. Early humans, according to Diodorus, began to solve these needs and adjust to their environment: “From this little by little they were taught by experience to escape to caves in the winter and to store those fruits able to be preserved” (ἐκ δὲ τοῦ κατ’ ὀλίγον ὑπὸ τῆς πείρας διδασκομένους εἴς τε τὰ σπήλαια καταφεύγειν ἐν τῷ χειμῶνι καὶ τῶν καρπῶν τοὺς φυλάττεσθαι δυναμένους ἀποτίθεσθαι, 1.8.7). Diodorus is introducing a new theme here. Whereas before, in 1.8.2, mankind was being taught “by expediency” (ὑπὸ τοῦ συμφέροντος διδασκομένους) now mankind is “taught by experience” (ὑπὸ τῆς πείρας διδασκομένους). The introduction of this new teacher is a further sign that Diodorus is not carelessly repeating the same basic stage in mankind’s advance, but rather has a coherent understanding of the process. Diodorus continues: “and with the knowledge of fire and other useful things, gradually both the crafts and other suitable things for helping the common life were discovered” (γνωσθέντος δὲ τοῦ πυρὸς καὶ τῶν ἄλλων τῶν χρησίμων κατὰ μικρὸν καὶ τὰς τέχνας εὑρεθῆναι καὶ τἄλλα τὰ δυνάμενα τὸν κοινὸν βίον ὠφελῆσαι, 1.8.8). Lucretius expresses a very similar sentiment, but is more explicit about how these discoveries are made: “and daily those who were outstanding in genius and bold of heart were showing mankind how to change their former life and lifestyle with new inventions and fire” (inque dies magis hi victum vitamque priorem commutare novis monstrabant rebus et igni, ingenio qui praestabant et corde vigebant,

24. Spoerri (1959) 162, Cole (1967) 187. 68

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5.1105–1107). Importantly, Diodorus does not talk about people of genius as the movers of these new inventions here, but instead uses the passive voice without an agent. As we shall see in Chapter 5, Diodorus postpones his introduction of these people, the culture bringers, to heighten the contrast with the forces he introduces in the Kulturgeschichte as the drivers of mankind’s development. Here, Diodorus emphasizes another force: “for, in general, necessity (χρεία) itself was the teacher of all things for mankind, instructing in every regard an animal [i.e., man] well endowed by nature and having as helpers in all things hands and speech and shrewdness of mind” (καθόλου γὰρ πάντων τὴν χρείαν αὐτὴν διδάσκολον γενέσθαι τοῖς ἀνθρώποις, ὑφηγουμένην οἰκείως τὴν ἑκάστου μάθησιν εὐφυεῖ ζῴῳ καὶ συνεργοὺς ἔχοντι πρὸς ἅπαντα χεῖρας καὶ λόγον καὶ ψυχῆς ἀγχίνοιαν, 1.8.9). In contrast with the opening, when man was starting out as no better than a wild animal, Diodorus ends by emphasizing the unique natural (εὐφυεῖ) endowments that have enabled man to far surpass the other animals. Throughout this passage Diodorus is interested in the forces that influence or teach mankind; the particular word he uses at the end, χρεία, is especially noteworthy. Χρεία is an important word in a number of Greek philosophical schools and has several basic meanings, including “need, want, necessity” and “using, use.”25 Several scholars have equated χρεία here with the former meaning,26 and the pairing with διδάσκαλος recalls the proverbial “necessity teaches wisdom, even if one is slow” (χρεία διδάσκει, κἂν βραδύς τις ᾖ, σοφόν, TGF, Eur. fr. 715). Cole in contrast wants it to have the latter meaning here.27 But in fact, Diodorus has chosen a word that can accommodate both the sense of necessity as the teacher of man (as seen at 1.8.2, ὑπὸ τοῦ συμφέροντος διδασκομένους) and the sense of practice and experience as the teacher of man (as seen at 1.8.7, ὑπὸ τῆς πείρας διδασκομένους).28 The tragedian Moschion, in a fragment on the progress of man with other similarities to Diodorus, has “compulsion or long practice” (ἀνάγκην εἴτε τῇ μακρᾷ τριβῇ, TGF fr. 6.21) as the teachers of mankind. But for Diodorus it is χρεία as need or necessity that is more prominent. The basic mechanism he lays out for mankind to advance in

25. Sacks (1990) 58, Spoerri (1959) 144–148. 26. Vlastos (1946) 56 n. 21 equates χρεία with ἀνάγκη here, which Xanthakis-Karamos (1981) 413 accepts and illustrates with further examples in other texts on progress. 27. Cole (1967) 41 and n. 27. 28. Sacks (1990) 58–59. 69

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chapter 8 is clear: there must be an external force such as fear that drives humans together, and only then do they develop language and start to gain the experience that is necessary for civilization to progress. Both Lucretius and Vitruvius have summaries of mankind’s early advance that Cole cites as parallels to Diodorus’s conclusion. Vitruvius summarizes that “into one place many came, having from nature a gift beyond other animals, that they should walk erect and not on all fours and should gaze on the magnificence of earth and stars, and by hands and limbs they should easily undertake whatever they wished” (et in unum locum plures convenirent habentes ab natura praemium praeter reliqua animalia, ut non proni sed erecti ambularent mundique et astrorum mag- nificentiam aspicerent, item manibus et articulis quam vellent rem facili- ter tractarent 2.2.1). This parallels Diodorus’s emphasis on man’s unique natural endowments as compared to other creatures, but Vitruvius lacks Diodorus’s depiction of necessity as the teacher of man. However, this concept may be present in Lucretius’s summary at the end of Book 5: “Navigation and the cultivation of fields, fortifications, laws, arms, streets, clothes, and other things of this sort, rewards, and also all the sweet delicacy of life, songs, paintings and clever polished statues: about these things experience (usus) and the inventiveness of an active mind together gradually taught mankind step by step. Thus time gradually brings each thing into the open and reason lifts it into the shores of light; for they were watching one thing become clear from another, until they came to the highest peak of the arts” (Navigia atque agri culturas moenia leges arma vias vestes cetera de genere horum, praemia, deli- cias quoque vitae funditus omnis, carmina, picturas et daedala signa polita usus et impigrae simul experientia mentis paulatim docuit pedetemptim progredientis. sic unum quicquid paulatim protrahit aetas in medium ratioque in luminis erigit oras; namque alid ex alio clarescere corde vide- bant, artibus ad summum donec venere cacumen, 5.1448–1457). In this passage, Lucretius emphasizes the gradual nature of man’s development, as Diodorus does. The key word here is usus, translated as experience. Cole points to this as being a parallel for Diodorus’s χρεία, and in Epicurean philosophy χρεία is translated as usus.29 But Diodorus clearly has the concept of necessity as well, which is absent from Lucretius.

29. Gale (2009) 215 notes that Lucretius here leaves no room for “the intervention of divine or semi-divine benefactors,” which become very important for Diodorus and further distinguish him from Lucretius. See Chapter 5. 70

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Ultimately, none of these concepts are original to Diodorus, although his overall Kulturgeschichte is unique despite the parallels of individual elements with other authors. However, Thomas Cole, in his reconstruction of the Kulturgeschichte, believes that a substantial amount of material in Diodorus outside of chapter 1.8 is also part of a hypothetical original Kulturgeschichte. He includes Diodorus’s description of the discovery of fire at 1.13.3 and of agriculture at 1.14.1, his account of the development of arts and technical skills at 1.15.4–5, and finally the discovery of astronomy and music at 1.16.1. All of this comes from Diodorus’s account of the Egyptian gods, particularly Osiris and Isis. Neither Vitruvius nor Lucretius has such material spread over two distinct sections as Diodorus does, but Cole, following Reinhardt, argues that in fact these two separate sections were once one, and that Diodorus has willfully violated his original source. This problem will be explored further in Chapter 5. Besides the role of χρεία and the metus hostilis in driving man’s development, the environment also shapes the evolution of civilization as Diodorus understands it. The harshness of nature (φύσις) forces men together to adopt strategies for survival that lead to the beginnings of civilization. As Diodorus notes, different groups arise in different regions, and an important theme going forward in the first five books is the role of the natural environment in shaping these peoples.30 For example, in his discussion of plants in Egypt, Diodorus notes that “many other types of plants capable of supplying men with necessary needs grow throughout Egypt abundantly” (πολλὰ δὲ καὶ ἄλλα τὰ δυνάμενα τὰς ἀναγκαίας χρείας παρέχεσθαι τοὶς ἀνθρώποις δαψιλῆ φύεται κατὰ τὴν Αἴγυπτον, 1.34.11). The expression τὰς ἀναγκαίας χρείας forcefully recalls χρεία and the importance of food from plants in the Kulturgeschichte and points to a critical feature of the Egyptian natural environment, its fertility, which had a great impact on that nation’s development and importance. Although this passage illustrates how crucial the nature of the environment is for fulfilling man’s needs, it remains true for Diodorus and most of the ancient Greek thinkers that man’s own nature is εὐφυεῖ, uniquely able to adapt to any environment and to adapt any environment to himself (cf. Xen. Mem. 1.4.3–14).

30. This idea of environmental determinism is not original to Diodorus, but goes back at least to the fifth century BCE. The Hippocratic Airs, Waters, Places is perhaps the most prominent example. See Clarke (1999a) 27–32 and 294–299. Sacks (1990) 37 acknowledges the force of nature in Diodorus, but downplays its importance too much. Note also Osborne (2007) 24–40, esp. 27–29, on nature as providing benefactions that aid mankind in Herodotus. 71

The Origins of Civilization 71 Diodorus’s Kulturgeschichte in Practice The forces and paradigms that Diodorus introduces in the Kulturgeschichte are quite prominent at other points in the first three books of the Bibliotheke, a sign that, whatever their source, we are dealing with his own understanding of how the world works. For Diodorus, this reconstruction of early man and the forces that create civilization is not merely a rhetorical flourish. Rather, he is laying out universal principles that underlie mankind’s advancement. These principles can be seen in his descriptions of various primitive peoples in the first part of theBibliotheke . These peoples are still in the beginning stages of man’s development, having not yet discovered the various elements that make advanced civilization a reality. All of these accounts conform closely to the pattern found in the general Kulturgeschichte, and in one major case we have comparative material that suggests Diodorus has altered his source material to conform better with the paradigm he laid out in chapter 8. The first primitive people Diodorus describes are the early Egyptians at 1.43, who, he explains, got their earliest food from various plants growing in the Nile marshes, “trying each type by tasting it” (πεῖραν διὰ τῆς γεύσεως ἑκάστου λαμβάνοντας, 1.43.1), that is, they were “taught by experience” (ὑπὸ τῆς πείρας διδασκομένους, 1.8.7). Indeed, they discovered their staple food, one that was both tasty and nourishing, by “observing how fit is was for cattle” (καὶ γὰρ τοῖς κτήνεσι ταύτην θεωρεῖσθαι προσηνῆ, 1.43.2), a discovery that revealed man’s capacity to learn (cf. ψυχῆς ἀγχίνοιαν, 1.8.9), as well as his similarity to wild animals even at this later stage. The early Egyptians were also supplied with food by their environment, for the Nile would flood and recede, leaving pools full of easily caught fish. In addition to food, the marshes supplied them with clothing and shelter (1.43.4), a feature that distinguishes Egypt from the general Kulturgeschichte, in which Diodorus says that early man learned to take shelter in caves. In this region dominated by the Nile, the peculiarities of the terrain and climate have triggered a different response to the need for shelter. But the Kulturgeschichte of 1.8 is flexible enough to accommodate such differences. Consistent with 1.8, Diodorus emphasizes that this primitive life among the Egyptians lasted for a long time (πολλοὺς … χρόνους, 1.43.5) before agriculture was discovered by either Isis or an early king. And as evidence for this primitive state of the early Egyptians, he declares that “traces of these practices continue among the herders in Egypt” (ἴχνη δὲ τούτων διαμένειν παρὰ τοῖς νομεῦσι τοῖς κατ’ Αἴγυπτον, 1.43.4). In other words, Diodorus is 72

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supporting this reconstruction of early Egyptian life through autopsy of how some Egyptians still live. For Diodorus, the Kulturgeschichte is not an abstract theory, but rather an understanding of early man that is confirmed, in part, by autopsy of still-existing primitive cultures, whether his own or the descriptions he read in other authors. It is very likely that Diodorus’s presentation of the Kulturgeschichte has both shaped and been shaped by these cultures. But this reveals a broader point about Diodorus: in general, he is more interested in real-world examples than in theories about how the world should work. This makes sense given his emphasis on history as a repository of real-world examples and experience in the proëm. There is another account of primitivism in Book 1 that needs to be considered. This passage does not deal with an early society as such, but rather with civilized men who have been cast into a situation where modern civilization does not exist. The Egyptian king Actisanes rounded up all the thieves in Egypt, and punished them by cutting off their noses and settling them in a colony, appropriately named Rhinocolura, in “a desert land lacking nearly everything useful” (χώραν ἔρημον καὶ πάντων σχεδὸν τῶν χρησίμων ἄπορον, 1.60.9). Hit with this harsh environment, the thieves “lived in a manner appropriate to the poverty around them, with nature compelling them to contrive everything to counter their destitu- tion” (ἐπενόησαν βίον οἰκεῖον τῆς περὶ αὐτοὺς ἐνδείας, ἀναγκαζούσης τῆς φύσεως πρὸς τὴν ἀπορίαν πάντα μηχανᾶσθαι, 1.60.9). These thieves are not primitive man, but they are still in a situation similar to what Diodorus describes in 1.8, and they are compelled by their environment to cooperate in order to find a means of survival. This passage stresses the importance of natural environment (φύσις) more strongly than 1.8, but the basic point is the same. Another occurrence of this theme comes in a description of the origins of animal worship among the Egyptians, which Diodorus attributes to “some” (τινες) authorities.31 In this account, mankind ceased “from the lifestyle of wild beasts” (ἐκ τοῦ θηριώδους βίου, 1.90.1) and first gathered into groups (συναγομένων … τῶν ἀνθρώπων), just as described in the first part of the Kulturgeschichte. But at the beginning of this development Diodorus introduces a new factor, that men were now constantly fighting among themselves, and the stronger were always triumphing over the weaker (ἀεὶ τοῦ πλέον δυναμένου τὸν ἀσθενέστερον κατισχύοντος), until some of the

31. On the origins of animal worship, see further pp. 228–232. 73

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weaker men, “taught by expediency” (ὑπὸ τοῦ συμφέροντος διδαχθέντας), banded together and were joined by additional people driven by fear. Over time these bands became strong and were able to ward off attacks by others (1.90.1–2). The phrase “taught by expediency” parallels 1.8.2 (ὑπὸ τοῦ συμφέροντος διδασκομένους) and draws attention to a humorous paradox. At 1.8 men banded together due to the attacks of wild animals. Here, men banded together to fight off the attacks of other men, and, as if to commemorate the past, they did so under standards depicting wild animals, which later become sacred. But in this passage Diodorus is also showing how the themes of the Kulturgeschichte apply far more broadly than just the development of primitive man: the fear of a powerful enemy, whether man or beast, the metus hostilis, helps drive formation of societies to ward off such threats. This will become very important further on. The next primitive peoples to be described are the early Indians. Diodorus, in a passage which he ascribes to “their myths” (μυθολογοῦσι), explains that “the most ancient men ate the fruits of the earth that grew wild, and were clothed with the skins of native animals” (τοὺς ἀρχαιοτάτους ἀνθρώπους τροφαῖς μὲν κεχρῆσθαι τοῖς αὐτομάτως φυομένοις ἐκ τῆς γῆς καρποῖς, ἐσθῆσι δὲ ταῖς δοραῖς τῶν ἐγχωρίων ζῴων, 2.38.2). This fits in nicely with the statements in the Kulturgeschichte about man’s early food (1.8.5). And as at 1.8, the Indians only gradually (κατ’ ὀλίγον) developed other useful things for life. Here Diodorus concludes with virtually the same sentence as at 1.8.9—“necessity (χρεία) itself was the teacher of all things for mankind, instructing in every regard an animal well-endowed naturally and having as helpers in all things hands and speech and shrewdness of mind” (τῆς χρείας αὐτῆς ὑφηγουμένης εὐφυεῖ ζῴῳ καὶ συνεργοὺς ἔχοντι πρὸς ἅπαντα χεῖρας καὶ λόγον καὶ ψυχῆς ἀγχίνοιαν, 2.38.2)—and he doubtlessly wants readers to recognize the similarities with the development of man in the original Kulturgeschichte. In the case of the Indian passage, we have a partial control that per- mits us to see that Diodorus has likely reworked his source material. It is widely accepted that his Indica was largely based on Indica of Megasthenes (FGrH 715), although Diodorus never cites this author.32 Both Strabo and Arrian also drew extensively on Megasthenes for their accounts of India. Arrian, citing Megasthenes, provides an account of the earliest Indians (F12 = Indica 7.3–4), but it bears little resemblance to the account in

32. See Muntz (2012) 33–34, and p. 24. 74

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Diodorus. Arrian explains that the earliest Indians were nomadic. They wore the skins of wild animals, as in Diodorus, and ate the bark of a particular type of tree—reasonably close to Diodorus’s wild fruits of the earth. But Arrian also says that the earliest Indians were carnivores who ate the raw meat of wild animals, information missing from Diodorus. And Arrian has nothing comparable to Diodorus’s emphasis on discovery and necessity. If Diodorus has used Megasthenes’s account of the earlier Indians, he has reinterpreted it to match his own understanding of the development of civilization, as expressed at 1.8, or the source identification is wrong. The next description of a primitive people comes in the account of the Ethiopians at the start of Book 3. A group of Ethiopians dwelling along the Nile “are entirely savage in their souls and appear like wild beasts” (καὶ ταῖς μὲν ψυχαῖς παντελῶς ὑπάρχουσιν ἄγριοι καὶ τὸ θηριῶδες ἐμφαίνοντες, 3.8.2), and like early man in the Kulturgeschichte, “have none of the things practiced by others for civilized life” (τῶν δὲ παρὰ τοῖς ἄλλοις ἐπιτηδευομένων εἰς βίον ἥμερον οὐδ’ ὁτιοῦν ἔχοντες, 3.8.3). For clothing, many go naked, while others use animal skins to cover their genitalia, and still others wear hair shirts. For food, they eat fruits that grow in marshes and on trees, again like the generic early men. But some of these Ethiopians sow ses- ame and lotus, which is to say they have started developing agriculture, one of the signs of more advanced civilization indicated in 1.8.8. However, this group of Ethiopians stands out amid all their neighbors who have not reached such a level of sophistication, again suggesting how slow this development is. A number of these Ethiopians are also skilled with the bow and hunt birds. Though hunting was not mentioned in the original Kulturgeschichte, it can easily be accommodated by the framework. In addition, Diodorus uses the skill of hunting to emphasize one of the more important lessons of the Kulturgeschichte, that “it helps them satisfy the need of nature” (δι’ ὧν τὴν τῆς φύσεως ἔνδειαν ἀναπληροῦσιν, 3.8.6). Need has driven these Ethiopians, just as at 1.8. Diodorus’s most detailed narrative of primitive peoples comes in Book 3, in a long passage describing the Arabian gulf. Conveniently Diodorus tells us here that his major source is Agatharchides, supplemented with information from Artemidorus and Diodorus’s own conversations with ambassadors from the region when he was in Egypt (see p. 25). Even better, Agatharchides’s account, from the second book of his On the Red Sea, 75

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is preserved in an epitome by the Byzantine scholar Photius, and provides a base of comparison between Diodorus and his major source.33 Throughout thirty-odd chapters of this section Diodorus repeatedly emphasizes the importance of necessity and the natural environment as the dominant factors in shaping the lives of these most primitive peoples, clearly relating them to the account of early man in the Kulturgeschichte. The first group described by Diodorus are Fish-eaters who live just inside the Arabian gulf, do not wear clothes, and hold their women and children in common, “like herds of animals” (παραπλησίως ταὶς τῶν θρεμμάτων ἀγέλαις, 3.15.2). Diodorus repeats this wild-animal comparison several more times. He concludes his description with the Fish-eaters’ eating hab- its, remarking that “they have a lifestyle similar to wild animals living in dens” (παραπλησίαν διάθεσιν ἔχοντες τοῖς φωλεύουσι τῶν θηρίων, 3.16.7). Finally, in his description of the Fish-eaters’ journeys inland for water, Diodorus likens them to “herds of cattle” (ταῖς ἀγέλαις τῶν βοῶν, 3.17.3). Diodorus also refers to the language of the Fish-eaters in two places. The first is to “inarticulate songs” (ταῖς ἀνάρθροις ᾠδαῖς, 3.17.1) which are sung during their seafood buffet, also mentioned in Photius’s summary of Agatharchides (ᾠδαῖς ἀνάρθροις, 37). The second reference is more interesting. As the Fish-eaters journey inland for water, they “all send forth an inarticulate sound, only making a noise” (πάντων φωνὴν ἀφιέντων οὐκ ἔναρθρον, ἀλλ’ ἦχον μόνον ἀποτελοῦσαν, 3.17.3). This recalls the section of the Kulturgeschichte when humans were beginning to communicate, but before they had begun to agree on the meanings of sounds and words. This incomprehensible speech is absent from the summary of Photius, and its connection back to the Kulturgeschichte suggests that Diodorus probably added it. Furthermore, like primitive man in the Kulturgeschichte, a key concern for the Fish-eaters is gathering food. In the original Kulturgeschichte it consisted of the fruits of the earth, but among the Fish-eaters, as the name Ἰχθυοφάγοι implies, it is fish. Primitive man and the Fish-Eaters are further linked in that both peoples are supplied with their sustenance

33. On Photius and his methods, see Palm (1955) 15–26; Wilson (1983) 89–119, esp. 95– 99; and Treadgold (1980) on the broader nature of his Bibliotheke. Sacks (1990) 58 and Sartori (1984) 509–512 both note the apparent additions by Diodorus of χρεία to sections of Agatharchides discussed below. 76

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by nature’s bounty, as Diodorus makes plain when he declares that the Fish-eaters found fish in such plenty that it was “as though Poseidon was performing the work of Demeter” (ὡς ἂν τοῦ Ποσειδῶνος τὸ τῆς Δήμητρος ἔργον μετειληφότος, 3.16.4), a claim that is entirely absent from Photius’s version of Agatharchides. Again, as is witnessed in the Kulturgeschichte, in most civilizations where food is obtained from the environment, it comes from wild plants, but unusually for the Fish-eaters it is seafood, as if the whole conception of a Kulturgeschichte were flexible enough to encompass the fruits of the sea as well as of the earth. Diodorus also repeatedly emphasizes how the lives of the Fish-eaters are shaped by their environment. Nature, through the form of the rocky coasts, gives them a means to satisfy that most basic need, their hunger, through narrow channels and passages (τούτων δὲ τῇ χρείᾳ τῶν ἐγχωρίων πεφυκότων ἁρμαζόντως, 3.15.3). These passages are blocked up by the Fish-eaters, so at that at high tide they fill with water and fish unable to escape when the tide goes out. The Fish-eaters then attack the marine life, some of it quite large, with sharp goat horns and jagged rocks. This basic formulation is present in both Diodorus and Photius’s summary of Agatharchides. However, Photius, describing the shoreline, states “[the shore] has deep hollows and irregular caves and narrow channels and winding branches” (καὶ κοιλάδας βαθείας ἔχουσι καὶ φάραγγας ἀνωμάλους καὶ στενοὺς αὐλῶνας καὶ σκολιὰς ἐκτροπάς, 32). Diodorus has a near-identical formulation, but with a critical extra phrase: “there are not only deep hollows but also irregular caves and narrow channels entirely with curved branches, which were divided by nature” (εἰσιν οὐ μόνον βαθεῖαι κοιλάδες, ἀλλὰ καὶ φάραγγες ἀνώμαλοι καὶ στενοὶ παντελῶς αὐλῶνες σκολιαῖς ἐκτροπαῖς ὑπὸ τῆς φύσεως διειλημμένοι, 3.15.3). Diodorus is emphasizing something entirely absent from Photius, that nature, as an active force (note the genitive of agent), has shaped this environment that is so critical to the Fish-eaters’ way of life and they have taken advantage of it. A few lines later Diodorus makes another remark about the influence of nature and necessity, which is also absent from Agatharchides as summarized by Photius. Whereas Photius simply states that the Fish-eaters subdue their catch, Diodorus has a much more detailed description of how the natives rush out and divide into groups. The most difficult marine animals are killed through the use of sharpened goat horns and rocks. The conclusion is distinctly Diodorus: “For in all ways necessity teaches nature, which appropriately adapts the resources at hand to the desired usage” (πάντα γὰρ ἡ χρεία διδάσκει τὴν φύσιν, οἰκείως τοῖς ὑποκειμένοις καιροῖς ἁρμοζομένην πρὸς τὴν ἐκ τῆς ἐλπίδος εὐχρηστίαν, 3.15.7). In other words, man’s needs for survival force him to use his natural environment 77

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creatively, as the Fish-eaters do. Mankind goes from being totally at the mercy of nature to using its innate talents to surmount problems. This goes back to the passages in Book 1, and shows how closely linked they are to the rest of the first three books of theBibliotheke . Besides food, the development of language also comes up in Diodorus’s descriptions of the Fish-eaters: “they do not use language, but by imitative hand movements they indicate each thing which they need” (αὐτοὺς διαλέκτῳ μὲν μὴ χρῆσθαι, μιμητικῇ δὲ δηλώσει διὰ τῶν χειρῶν διασημαίνειν ἕκαστα τῶν πρὸς τὴν χρείαν ἀνηκόντων, 3.18.6). Here we have the same sentiment in Photius, and in fact he appears to be quoting Agatharchides directly at this point instead of paraphrasing: “From this (the author says) I think that they do not have a common language, but with custom and sign and sounds and imitative movements they administer everything connected with their lifestyle” (ὅθεν (φησὶν ὁ συγγραφεύς) ἔγωγε νομίζω μηδὲ χαρακτῆρα εὔγνωστον ἔχειν αὐτοὺς, ἐθισμῷ δὲ καὶ νεύματι ἤχοις τε καὶ μιμητικῇ δηλώσει διοικεῖν πάντα τὰ πρὸς τὸν βίον, 41). Χρεία is completely absent from the quote of Agatharchides, but Diodorus adds it as the force motivating development of communication. This goes back to the description in chapter 8, where it was fear and the need to band together to survive that forced mankind to develop speech. These Fish-eaters are at the very beginning of the process. Such differences between Diodorus and his source provide evidence for how Diodorus can and will impose his own understanding of the world onto a passage he has extracted from another author, even while following that author closely. A few chapters later Diodorus describes how the Fish-eaters and the seals in the area live in mutual harmony, respecting each other. Photius (42) remarks that this is just like two tribes of men, a comparison Diodorus omits because it would undermine his emphasis on the similarity of the Fish- eaters to wild animals. Instead, he comes back to the importance of χρεία for determining their way of life, concluding that it was “fashioned either by long custom or by the force of necessity through hardship” (εἴτε ἐθισμῷ διὰ τὸν χρόνον εἴτε ἀναγκαίᾳ χρείᾳ διὰ τὸ κατεπεῖγον ἡρμοσμένος, 3.18.7). These themes of φύσις and χρεία continue to come up as Diodorus moves on to describe the various types of dwellings the Fish-eaters inhabit. According to Photius, Agatharchides described three types of shelter: caves, huts constructed out of the ribs of whales34 and covered in seaweed, and

34. Photius actually says the ribs of fish, but this seems to be a simple mistake for the whale ribs of Diodorus. 78

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huts constructed from the trunks of a tree resembling the olive. Diodorus has these same three types of dwelling, but observes that the various tribes of Fish-eaters “inhabit different types of homes according to the peculiar nature of their own circumstances” (πρὸς δὲ τὰς τῆς περιστάσεως ἰδιότητας διηλλαγμέναις ἐμβιοῦσι, 3.19.1), a remark that is not present in Photius. We see this again with Diodorus’s description of the dwellings themselves. In particular, he notes the efficacy of the whale rib and seaweed dwellings in keeping out the fierce heat. Diodorus concludes that “necessity in accordance with nature guides them to this self-taught technique” (τῆς κατὰ φύσιν χρείας αὐτοδίδακτον τέχνην ὑφηγουμένης, 3.19.2), echoing the phrasing that he uses at 1.8.9, 2.38, and 3.15.7. In other words, the necessity imposed on the Fish-eaters by the rough nature of their country forced them to learn to use their surroundings and peculiar circumstances in order to survive. Agatharchides next describes the Turtle-eaters, whose prey leave behind giant shells that are so readily adapted for numerous purposes that Photius concludes “that the same thing is ship, house, container, food for the aforementioned peoples” (ὥστε εἶναι τὸ αὐτὸ ναῦν, οἰκίαν, ἀγγεῖον, τροφὴν τοῖς εἰρημένοις ἀνθρώποις, 48). Diodorus has almost the same conclusion, but again he adds his own interpretation about the natural environment: “nature seems to have fulfilled many needs with a single gift: for the same thing for them is food, container, house, ship” (ὥστε δοκεῖν τούτοις τὴν φύσιν δεδωρῆσθαι μιᾷ χάριτι πολλὰς χρείας· τὴν γὰρ αὐτὴν αὐτοῖς εἶναι τροφήν, ἀγγεῖον, οἰκίαν, ναῦν, 3.21.5). It is noteworthy that Diodorus preserves the asyndeton that we also see in Photius while adding his own explanation, showing that even when he is following a source very closely, he adds his own interpretation. We can clearly see this again a few chapters further on with the Ethiopian race called simply the Hunters. This is a race that has been forced into a greater degree of cooperation because of the wild beasts. Diodorus says that they even sleep in trees because of this metus hostilis (διὰ τὸν ἀπὸ τῶν θηρίων φόβον, 3.25.1), recalling early man’s fear of wild animals at 1.8.2. Photius notes that they sleep in trees because of the animals in the region, but he does not include the key concept that they are forced to do this by fear. The hunters have also devised techniques to deal with these animals: they hunt in groups, and have devised weapons and ambush tac- tics to overcome the superior strength of the animals, neatly paralleling early men banding together to fight wild animals at 1.8.2. That Diodorus 79

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is interpreting the hunters in the terms of the Kulturgeschichte can also be seen in their understanding of the power of necessity for forcing them to improve their lot and become stronger in their own educational system. Boys are taught archery at an early age, but only those who hit the target are fed. As a result, all the men are amazing marksmen, “having been extremely well taught by the blows of hunger” (κάλλιστα διδασκόμενοι ταῖς τοῦ λιμοῦ πληγαῖς, 3.25.5), a specific example of how “need itself is teacher” (τὴν χρείαν αὐτὴν διδάσκαλον γενέσθαι) to a creature well suited “for all things in hands and reason and shrewdness of mind” (πρὸς ἅπαντα χεῖρας καὶ λόγον καὶ ψυχῆς ἀγχίνοιαν, 1.8.9). Photius’s summary of Agatharchides (52) includes the hunters as well, but whereas he mentions their skill with the bow, he does not talk at all about how they train their children, nor in detail about their various techniques for fighting wild animals. Strabo mentions these people too, and says that “it is customary for them to have archery contests for adolescent boys” (ἔθος δ’ ἐστὶν αὐτοῖς ἀγῶνα τοξείας προτιθέναι τοῖς ἀνήβοις παισί, 16.4.9); but he makes no mention of the driving role of hunger either. Even if the information about the instruc- tion of the hunters comes from Agatharchides, it seems probable that the explanation for its efficacy is Diodorus’s own.

Diodorus’s Kulturgeschichte and Historical Causality The Kulturgeschichte is not simply an academic reconstruction of early life for Diodorus. He is using it to introduce universal themes that help explain the growth of civilization and applying them elsewhere as precepts for leadership. For example, good rulers recognize the needs of their people and fulfill them, essentially co-opting the χρεία of the Kulturgeschichte. When Ptolemy II constructs a canal connecting the Nile to the Red Sea, Diodorus remarks that a problem the king faced was the potential inundation of Egypt, which the king avoided with a clever lock on the canal. Thus, Diodorus explains, “need was shrewdly fulfilled” εὐστόχως( ἐκλαμβανομένης τῆς χρείας, 1.33.11). Another example of this is seen in the historical Egyptian narrative, where Diodorus describes the construction of Lake Moeris by a king of the same name. He concludes that no one can praise the king highly enough for “the utility (χρείαν) derived from this lake and the common good for the inhabitants of Egypt” (τὴν δὲ χρείαν τὴν ἐκ ταύτης καὶ κοινωφελίαν τοῖς τὴν Αἴγυπτον οἰκοῦσιν, 1.51.7). 80

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As we shall see in Chapter 5, one of the key aspects of the culture bringers is that they fulfill the needs of mankind, replacing the forces of the Kulturgeschichte. The importance of this theme for Diodorus can also be seen outside of the early books, most notably in his account of the origins of the Peloponnesian War in Book 12. Diodorus blames the outbreak of the war on Pericles and the need to cover up his misuse of public funds. Two of Pericles’s associates, Pheidias the sculptor and Anaxagoras the sophist, were being brought up on charges with an aim to discrediting Pericles himself. However, Pericles understood what a powerful force χρεία could be. Diodorus tells us that he recognized that “in war noble men were particularly respected by the people because of the great need for them” (τὸν δῆμον ἐν μὲν τοῖς πολεμικοῖς ἔργοις θαυμάζοντα τοὺς ἀγαθοὺς ἄνδρας διὰ τὰς κατεπειγούσας χρείας, 12.39.3), and understanding this he provoked the war “so that the city having need of the virtue and generalship of Pericles” (ὅπως χρείαν ἔχουσα τῆς Περικλέους ἀρετῆς καὶ στρατηγίας, 12.39.3) would ignore the accusations being made against him. Thus Pericles rather than addressing χρεία creates it, and so manipulates the populace to do what he wants because he understands their need for his leadership. This is part of a longer passage dealing with the origins of the war (12.38–41.1), and, since Diodorus conveniently concludes it with the remark that “such were some of the causes of Peloponnesian War, as Ephorus recorded” (αἰτίαι μὲν οὖν τοῦ Πελοποννησιακοῦ πολέμου τοιαῦταί τινες ὑπῆρξαν, ὡς Ἔφορος ἀνέγραψε, 12.41.1), it is dutifully included in its entirety as F196 of Ephorus (FGrH 70) by Jacoby.35 But I believe that Diodorus has reinterpreted his source here and that this is an important test case of his willingness to work his own ideas and understanding of the historical process into an account from one of his major sources. There are two passages that can potentially be used as controls on Diodorus’s usage of Ephorus here. The first is in Plutarch’sLife of Pericles 31–32. 36 Plutarch has largely the same account of the origins of the war as Diodorus, although besides Anaxagoras and Pheidias he also includes

35. There is some debate about whether this entire passage comes from Ephorus. Jacoby, followed by Barber (1935), argued that chapter 38 came from another source, while Parker, BNJ 70 F196 Commentary argues that the entire passage derives from Ephorus, but from two separate passages that Diodorus has awkwardly combined. Parmeggiani (2011) 417–422 also finds Ephorus behind F196, albeit with a more complex reinterpretation by Diodorus. No one disputes the Ephoran derivation of chapter 39. 36. Stadter (1989) 287–305 discusses Plutarch’s adaptation of Ephorus here. 81

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Pericles’s mistress Aspasia. According to Plutarch, Pericles “since, on account of the trial of Pheidias, he had offended the demos, [ fearing a jury trial] set ablaze the looming, smoldering war, hoping to scatter the accusations and to reduce the people’s jealousy, since in great deeds and dangers the city committed itself to him alone because of his worth and power” (ὡς δὲ διὰ Φειδίου προσέπταισε τῷ δήμῳ, [φοβηθεὶς τὸ δικαστήριον] μέλλοντα τὸν πόλεμον καὶ ὑποτυφόμενον ἐξέκαυσεν, ἐλπίζων διασκεδάσειν τὰ ἐγκλήματα καὶ ταπεινώσειν τὸν φθόνον, ἐν πράγμασι μεγάλοις καὶ κινδύνοις τῆς πόλεως ἐκείνῳ μόνῳ διὰ τὸ ἀξίωμα καὶ τὴν δύναμιν ἀναθείσης ἑαυτήν, 32.6). Although Plutarch, like Diodorus, describes Pericles as deliberately provoking the war to deal with his own political problems, there is little overlap in language and he does not attribute Pericles’s actions to an understanding of χρεία and its effect on the citizens of Athens, but rather to the general tendency of the Athenians to turn to him in times of crisis. The other control we have on this account is a fragment of Aristodemus (FGrH 104), about whom almost nothing is known but who may date to the second century ce. In a brief passage Aristodemus states that Pericles, after the trial of Pheidias, “desiring to prevent a trial of himself contrived this war, passing the decree against the Megarians” (βουλόμενος ἐκκλῖναι τὰς κρίσεις ἐπολιτεύσατο τὸν πόλεμον τούτον, γράψας τὸ κατὰ Μεγαρέων ψήφισμα, F1.16.1). This is obviously extremely condensed, but it shows no sign of the concept that Pericles understood he could abuse the Athenians’ need for him, so important for Diodorus.37 Lastly, this passage of Diodorus is the only occurrence in the fragments of Ephorus of the word χρεία with the meaning of need or necessity.38 The balance of evidence then points to Diodorus himself reinterpreting this portion of Ephorus in a way that highlights one of his favorite concepts as an explanation for a major historical event. Besides Pericles, Diodorus portrays one other figure in the extant historical portion of the Bibliotheke as understanding the importance of

37. On Aristodemus and his use of Ephorus, see now Pownall, BNJ 104 F1.16.1 Commentary and Biographical Essay, and Parmeggiani (2011) 420 n. 114. 38. Parmeggiani (2011) 422–458 and Parmeggiani (2014) esp. 122–128 discuss Diodorus’s adaptation of this passage and its relevance to the origins of the Peloponnesian War, but include no comment on the importance of χρεία here. Outside this passage of Diodorus, χρεία appears only once in the fragments of Ephorus where it can plausibly be his own language, at F1, where it means “debt.” 82

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χρεία and how he could use it to advance his own interests, the Diadoch Eumenes of Cardia. While besieged by Antigonus the One-Eyed at Nora, Eumenes considered surrendering, but in light of the wars raging among the Diadochi, “accordingly, he was hoping (and this was true) that many would have need of him on account of his judgment and his experience in warfare, and also because of his unusual steadfastness in any promise” (ἤλπίζειν οὖν, ὅπερ ἦν πρὸς ἀλήθειαν, πολλοὺς αὐτοῦ χρείαν ἕξειν διά τε τὴν φρόνησιν καὶ τὴν ἐμπειρίαν τῶν πολεμικῶν, ἔτι δὲ τὴν ὑπερβολὴν τῆς ἐν τῇ πίστει βεβαιότητος, 18.42.2). Similar to Pericles, Eumenes understands the power of necessity, and how he can use it to his own advantage. This comes up again in 18.60; now Eumenes is pondering his position as a foreigner without claim to power who was both despised and envied even while he was needed. To allay this jealousy, though the need of others for his skills was just as he predicted, Eumenes presents himself as respond- ing entirely to this need, declaring to the troops that “even now he had unwillingly obeyed this need” (καὶ γάρ νῦν οὐχ ἑκουσίως αὐτὸν ὑπακηκοέναι πρὸς ταύτην τὴν χρείαν, 18.60.3) and comes up with the famous stratagem of having all debates take place before a throne and diadem representing Alexander the Great (18.60.5–6). For Diodorus, Eumenes is an effective leader in part because he understands χρεία and its effect on people, and is able to manipulate it to serve his own ends, much as Pericles did. In the case of Eumenes, Diodorus is probably drawing on the history of Hieronymus of Cardia (FGrH 154). Hieronymus was one of Eumenes’s confidantes, and Diodorus mentions him at the start of this passage (18.42.1). A number of other authors also employed Hieronymus, including Plutarch and Cornelius Nepos in their biographies of Eumenes, Pompeius Trogus in his universal history, and Arrian in his account of the Diadochi, so we have some control over how Diodorus is reinterpreting his source material.39 None of these other sources have Diodorus’s explanation that Eumenes was inspired to fight because he understood the necessity for leaders like him. Plutarch (Eum. 13.2–3) has the story of how the other commanders were envious of Eumenes and that he erected the throne to Alexander, but nothing is similar to Diodorus’s usage of χρεία. Nepos also has Eumenes fearing the envy of other commanders and erecting the

39. On these sources and their use of Hieronymus, see Hornblower (1981), Hadley (2001), and Roisman (2010). 83

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throne, but again there is nothing resembling Diodorus’s understanding of χρεία (Eum. 7). Perhaps the most famous anecdote about Eumenes also illustrates this. During the siege of Nora, Eumenes’s horses were unable to exercise properly, and he recognized that “they would be useless for the service (χρεία) in a cavalry battle” (πρὸς τὴν ἐν ταῖς ἱππομαχίαις χρείαν ἀχρήστους ἐσομένους, 18.42.3). Faced with this need, Eumenes devised an unusual, yet highly efficacious, method for exercising his mounts in place. Both Plutarch (Eum. 11.4–5) and Nepos (Eum. 5.4) have this anecdote, but neither includes Diodorus’s statement that Eumenes was anticipating the needs of cavalry battles. This, combined with Diodorus overall use of χρεία, suggest that this is his own subtle addition to the narrative of Hieronymus, rather than subtractions of Plutarch and Nepos. Even more significant is the appearance of elements of the Kulturgeschichte in Diodorus’s narrative of the late Roman Republic. The fragmentary nature of the later books of Diodorus makes evaluating his arguments difficult, yet several passages are very suggestive. Perhaps the most tantalizing piece comes in a fragment from Book 31 quoted by Photius in which Diodorus appears to be describing the secrets of Rome’s success. According to this, the most eminent men in Rome competed with each other for fame, and “through [this competition] all the greatest affairs were being brought to a successful conclusion for the people” (δι’ ὧν ἅπαντα σχεδὸν τὰ μέγιστα τῷ δήμῳ κατορθοῦνται). The Romans here must have been competing for the fame of the state as a whole, since Diodorus goes on to explain “from this it came to pass that some were performing the greatest acts, competing to magnify what was expedient for all, but others, seeking undeserved renown and undermining the achievements of each other, were harming their country” (ἐξ οὗ συμβαίνει μάλιστα τοὺς μὲν πράσσειν τὰ κάλλιστα τῶν ἔργων, ἁμιλλωμένους αὔξειν τὸ κοινῇ συμφέρον, τοὺς δ’ ἄλλους ἀδικοδοξοῦντας καὶ τὰς ἀλλήλων ἐπιβολὰς λυμαινομένους βλάπτειν τὴν πατρίδα, 31.6). This passage of Diodorus presumably explained a particular Roman success; the fragment begins with διόπερ. Unfortunately, we lack the precise context of this statement. Photius tells us it comes from Book 31, but the section he quotes before this one, dealing with an embassy of Rhodes, does not fit the context. But the basic meaning is clear. At its height, the Roman state had developed to the point where leading men competed to benefit the state as a whole, not their own interests. This passage, especially the word συμφέρον, recalls the original Kulturgeschichte in which early men are driven to cooperate because it is 84

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expedient for their own survival. In the earlier passage it was fear of wild beasts, of external threats to survival that drove this cooperation among early men. This fragment of Diodorus gives no indication of how or why it became expedient for the Romans to compete to benefit the state the most, but a second fragment offers an explanation, and shows how closely linked the Bibliotheke is to the events of Diodorus’s own lifetime. This fragment comes from Book 34 or 35. In the course of an obitu- ary for P. Cornelius Scipio Nasica Serapio, who died while consul in 111, Diodorus describes famous deeds of his ancestors. One of them, P. Cornelius Scipio Nasica Corculum, is praised for his opposition to Cato the Elder in the debate on the eve of the Third Punic War. Diodorus claims that Scipio’s arguments were regarded by the most intelligent senators as being far superior to Cato’s. These arguments included the need for Rome to display herself as “greater than great,” which Diodorus gives in indirect discourse before adding in direct discourse that “while Carthage was preserved the fear from this state was compelling the Romans to be of one mind and to rule their subjects clemently and honorably” (σωζομένης μὲν τῆς Καρχηδόνος ὁ ἀπὸ ταύτης φόβος ἠνάγκαζεν ὁμονοεῖν τοὺς Ῥωμαίους καὶ τῶν ὑποτεταγμένων ἐπιεικῶς καὶ ἐνδόξως ἄρχειν, 34/35.33.5), which was the best way to maintain an empire. Once Carthage was destroyed, this metus hostilis would be removed, and Scipio predicted long civil wars and rebellions by allies subjected to Rome’s rapacity, which Diodorus remarks “all came upon Rome after the destruction of Carthage” (ἅπερ ἅπαντα συνέβη τῇ Ῥώμῃ μετὰ τὴν τῆς Καρχηδόνος κατασκαφήν) just as Scipio foretold (τὰ προαγορευθέντα ὑπὸ τοῦ Σκιπίωνος, 34/35.33.6).40 So here, in a passage foreshadowing the Roman civil wars that dominated his own lifetime, Diodorus is reintroducing the concept of metus hostilis, which first caused early man to cooperate, as also having forced the Romans to cooperate and compete for the benefit and survival of their state. The idea that the downfall of the Roman Republic is due to withdrawal of the fear of Carthage following the Third Punic War is not unique to Diodorus by any means. Scipio’s arguments in the Senate are reported by other authorities, several of whom also attribute the stability and success of Rome to the fear of Carthage. Astin sees this metus hostilis as taking three forms in ancient authors: first, an external source of fear was needed to encourage Rome’s warlike qualities; second, without this fear Rome

40. Yarrow (2006) 241 notes this passage plays into the larger theme in Diodorus of treating allies and subject states properly. See further Chapter 6. 85

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would be stricken with internal strife; third, without this fear Rome would become tyrannical toward her subject peoples and other foreign powers. It is the latter two reasons that are given by Diodorus, who is the earliest extant author to attribute this argument to Scipio Nasica.41 But Astin’s categories do not capture the full range of how this argument is employed by various authors. For instance, Plutarch, whom Astin notes as falling into the second category in his life of Cato the Elder, tells how Scipio’s opposition stemmed from his belief that the populace was becoming insolent and that this growing insolence would cause them to throw off the rule of the Senate. And “therefore [Scipio] was wishing that this fear hang over the people as check like a rein on the brashness of the majority” (ἐβούλετο τοῦτον γοῦν τὸν φόβον ὥσπερ χαλινὸν ἐπικεῖσθαι σωφρονιστῆρα τῇ θρασύτητι τῶν πολλῶν, Cat. Mai. 27.3). Accordingly, Plutarch presents Scipio making a similar argument to his Diodoran counterpart, but whereas Plutarch sees this fear as necessary for keeping the unwashed masses in check, Diodorus presents it as necessary for forcing Romans of all stripes to work together, and to treat their allies and subjects well. St. Augustine furnishes another variation. He describes Scipio as “fearing that security was an enemy to weak souls, and saw that fear was a necessary and suitable teacher for citizens just as to small children” (timens infirmis animis hostem securitatem et tamquam pupillis civibus idoneum tutorem necessarium videns esse terrorem, De civ. D. 1.30). Scipio, Augustine explains, was right. Once Carthage was destroyed Rome descended into factional strife, brutal civil wars, and the passion for domination that was especially strong in the Romans finally manifested itself in a few men, who subjected the rest to slavery. For Augustine, it is the lust for power that is the cause of Rome’s downfall. Although Diodorus is the earliest author to attribute the concept of a metus hostilis specifically to Scipio Nasica, the concept itself goes back at least to the fourth century in Greek political and philosophical thought. Plato, in the Laws, attributes the terror caused by the Persian invasion with helping to unify the Athenians (Leg. 3.698b–699b).42 Polybius is the first

41. Astin (1967) 276 and n. 4. Whether or not Scipio actually made this particular argument is debatable. The other authors who attribute this argument in some form to Scipio Nasica are Orosius, 4.23.9, Zonaras (Cassius Dio) 9.30, Plutarch, Cat. Mai. 27.3, Aug. De civ. D. 1.30, and Florus 1.31.5. 42. Earl (1961) 47 n. 5 also cites Xen. Cyr. 3.1.26 and Arist. Pol. 7.1334a–b, but neither of these passages has the precise concept of metus hostilis as found elsewhere. 86

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writer we know of to include this line of reasoning in an historical work. He declares in a discussion of the general reasons for the decline of states in Book 6 that “whenever a polity, having endured most of the great dangers, reaches supreme power and uncontested rule” (ὅταν γὰρ πολλοὺς καὶ μεγάλους κινδύνους διωσαμένη πολιτεία μετὰ ταῦτα εἰς ὑπεροχὴν καὶ δυναστείαν ἀδήριτον ἀφίκηται, 6.57.5) the resultant prosperity causes life to become far more extravagant and citizens to become far more com- petitive with each other. Polybius does not explicitly cite metus hostilis here, but it seems to underlie the principle he is espousing. In his overview of the Roman constitution he remarks that “whenever some common fear from abroad forces them [i.e., the Romans] to cooperate and work with one another” (ὅταν μὲν γάρ τις ἔξωθεν κοινὸς φόβος ἐπιστὰς ἀναγκάσῃ σφᾶς συμφρονεῖν καὶ συνεργεῖν ἀλλήλοις, 6.18.2), Rome develops an irresistible power. But Polybius goes on to explain that Rome’s unique mixed constitution counterbalances the resultant accumulation of wealth and affluence (6.18.5–6), apparently negating the need for a metus hostilis.43 Notably, the fragments of Polybius’s own account of the debate between Scipio and Cato do not include any mention of the concept that fear of an external enemy was necessary to keep Rome strong.44 This theory, that removal of fear of Carthage led to Rome’s decline, was developing in Roman historiography in the late Republic when Diodorus was writing. We can see this in Diodorus’s contemporary Sallust, who most fully applies the concept of metus hostilis to Rome after the Third Punic War. The concept is absent from Sallust’s first work, the Bellum Catilinum (ca. 42-41), in which fortune cruelly began to turn against Rome (10.1).45 But in his second monograph, the Bellum Iugurthinum, in tracing the decline of Rome Sallust omits fortune entirely and declares that “before the destruction of Carthage the people and the Roman Senate were running the Republic serenely and modestly between themselves, and there was neither the competition for glory nor for power among the citizens: the fear of the enemy kept the citizenry in noble pursuits” (nam ante Carthaginem deletam populus et senatus Romanus placide modeste- que inter se rem publicam tractabant, neque gloriae neque dominationis

43. Walbank (1957) 1.697. 44. The relevant book of Polybius is fragmentary, and so it is entirely possible that the idea was mentioned in a lost passage. See Astin (1967) 278–279. 45. Although Comber and Balmaceda (2009) 218 think the metus hostilis may still lurk in the background of this passage. 87

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certamen inter civis erat: metus hostilis in bonis artibus civitatem retine- bat, 41.2). This passage, with its emphasis on the absence of citizens competing for individual advantage, is similar in concept to Diodorus’s remark in 31. But according to Sallust, after the destruction of Carthage, “when that dread had left their minds, as is clear, licentiousness and pride, which profitable times love, entered” (ubi illa formido mentibus decessit, scilicet ea, quae res secundae amant, lascivia atque superbia incessere, 41.3). Sallust apparently developed the theme of the removal of fear following the destruction of Carthage as precipitating Rome’s decline even further in his final work, the Histories, where he made the metus hostilis a major factor in Rome’s history starting with the development of the Republic: “while the fear of Tarquin and the fierce war with Etruria were present, justice and restraint endured” (dum metus a Tarquinio et bellum grave cum Etruria positum est, aequo et modesto iure agitatum, 1.10). Sallust sees the following centuries as a time of continued strife between patri- cians and plebs, which came to an end only with the Second Punic War (1.10), or when Rome again had a mortal foreign enemy, and that it was between the second and third Punic Wars that the Roman state enjoyed the greatest harmony (1.9). But, according to Sallust, “after the removal of the Punic fear the way was clear for rivalries” (postquam remoto metu Punico simultates exercere vacuum fuit, 1.12) and the Republic began to collapse.46 Over the course of Sallust’s works, we see a definite progression of the importance of a metus hostilis as an explanation for Rome’s decline. Livy too frequently references metus hostilis in his early books, describing Numa Pompilius for example as replacing the fear of foreign enemies with the fear of heaven (1.19.4), although he does not highlight it when discussing the decline of Rome in the preface, preferring instead to focus on the effects ofluxuria (also present in Sallust and Diodorus; see pp. 194–197).47 These references suggest that this explanation became prominent in Rome in the second half of the first century, when Diodorus was writing. I think it is quite likely that Diodorus’s inclusion of the concept, in both the Kulturgeschichte and other passages, is partly a reflection of this historical thinking. In the preceding chapter, we saw how much Diodorus’s

46. Noted by Syme (1964) 182–183, although he does not develop this theme in Sallust. But McGushin (1992) 77–83 sees the metus hostilis as underlying much of Sallust’s thinking in these fragments. 47. Miles (1995) 77–80. Note also Livy 2.32.6, 2.39.7, 2.54.3, and 3.9.1, and Ogilvie (1965) 94–95. 88

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history is oriented toward Rome, and these passages are further proof not only of his Roman outlook, but also that he is using his accounts of primitive societies to reveal some of the basic forces that drive civilization, even advanced ones like Rome, and to engage with the historical debates of his own time regarding the decline of the Republic. 89

4 Mythical History

In the previous chapters, we have seen the control that Diodorus exerts over the content and structure of the first part of theBibliotheke , in accordance with his understanding of the world in which he lived. Notably, his inclusion of a Kulturgeschichte is practically unique among extant historical works. In Book 1 the Kulturgeschichte is immediately followed by a mythology of the Egyptian gods, which sets the stage for other mythologies throughout the early books, culminating in the mythology of the Greeks in Books 4–6. If anything, Diodorus’s mythical histories are even more unusual in ancient historiography than his anthropological history. Inclusion of a comprehensive, narrative treatment of the mythical period beginning with the gods is notable because historians for several centuries before Diodorus had not treated myth as a serious part of history, let alone in a thorough, detailed manner as the very start of history. John Marincola calls this break with these established trends in Greek historiography “daring.”1 Diodorus himself remarks that “the first rank of the later historians refrained from the treatment of ancient mythology on account of the difficulty, and undertook to document more recent events” (τῶν μεταγενεστέρων ἱστοριογράφων οἱ πρωτεύοντες τῇ δόξῃ τῆς μὲν ἀρχαίας μυθολογίας ἀπέστησαν διὰ τὴν δυσχέρειαν, τὰς δὲ νεωτέρας πράξεις ἀναγράφειν ἐπεχείρησαν, 4.1.2). Indeed, he specifically cites the failure of some of his predecessors to cover “the ancient mythologies” (τὰς παλαιὰς μυθολογίας, 1.3.2) as a reason to prefer his own work in the proëm. We shall see that he approaches mythology seriously and thoughtfully, influenced by the development of a separate mythographical genre in the

1. Marincola (1997) 119. 90

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Hellenistic period. He fully understands the problems that the mythical period and the need to render myth fit for history pose for the historian. And just as Diodorus is not the only author of the late Republican period to explore the origins of society, he is not the only historian to grapple with the difficulties myth presents, underscoring again how much the Bibliotheke is a product of his times. In this chapter we shall explore some of the ramifications of Diodorus’s decision to include the mythical period in the Bibliotheke.

Mythology and History Before Diodorus Myth and history had a long and problematic relationship before Diodorus. Indeed, they have had a long and problematic relationship since his time, and the scholarly consensus, if one can even be spoken of, has gone from seeing a progression of Greek thought from mythos to logos, to seeing no great distinction between historical and mythical time in Greek thought, to perhaps now understanding a middle ground between these two poles.2 For the Greeks themselves, as Fritz Graf summarizes, “it was self-âevident … that heroic myth, if not divine myth as well, related to the events of their past, and that this historical reality could be detected in the myths and reconstructed from them” using a variety of approaches.3 This debate is largely beyond the scope of the present study, but I would propose that beginning with Herodotus the Greek historians understood that, even if there was an historical reality behind them, for various reasons the events of their distant past could not be suitably treated by the historian, and constituted what we might call a mythical period or spatium mythicum. Or, as Denis Feeney puts it, “the activity of demarcating between myth and history mattered in the ancient historiographical tradition.”4 Many of the earliest Greek prose authors or logographers dealt extensively with the distant past in their works, “without embarrassment and surely without prejudice to truth,” among them Hecataeus of Miletus, Acousilaus, Pherecydes, Hellanicus, and many others.5 The scanty

2. On this larger debate, see most recently Fowler (2011), with copious reference to earlier scholarship. 3. Graf (1993) 121. See also Fornara (1983) 7–â12, Veyne (1988), and Calame (2003). 4. Feeney (2007) 69. 5. Fowler (2000) xxviii. The mythographical fragments of these authors are in ibid., with the commentary recently published. They are also included in Jacoby, FGrH and the BNJ. 91

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fragments of these writers show that even the earliest seem to have taken a fairly critical approach to mythical accounts. Hecataeus of Miletus opened his Genealogies with an attack on these accounts: “I write these things that seem to me to be true, for the stories of the Greeks are both many and laughable, as it appears to me” (τάδε γράφω, ὥς μοι δοκεῖ ἀληθέα εἶναι· οἱ γὰρ Ἑλλήνων λόγοι πολλοί τε καὶ γελοῖοι, ὡς ἐμοὶ φαίνονται, εἰσίν, FGrH 1 F1). With Hecataeus we see one approach to myths that ancient critics could take: rationalization, or explaining myth as misunderstand- ing of perfectly plausible things or events. For example, in F27 Hecataeus explained that Cerberus was actually an extremely venomous snake, called the “Hound of Hades” because anyone bitten by it died immediately. Pausanias, our source for this passage, explains that “Hecataeus the Milesian found a likely explanation” ( Ἑκαταῖος μὲν ὁ Μιλήσιος λόγον εὗρεν εἰκότα, 3.25.5). The term εἰκός, “likely” or “reasonable,” became a critical criterion by which stories can be evaluated and rationalized.6 By contrast, Hecataeus also included such fantastic elements as the talking ram of Phrixus (F17), so perhaps his rationalizing tendencies should not be overstated. However, with the Histories of Herodotus we have a new attitude, and as A. E. Wardman remarks, “history, in the sense of Herodotean enquiry, has almost put myth out of business.”7 Herodotus does not use the word μῦθος or μυθολογία to describe the distant past.8 But he clearly has a conception of a distant mythical period that is somehow beyond the reach of the historian. In his own proëm he famously begins by giving the origins of the hostility between east and west, as recounted by the “learned Persians,” culminating in the Trojan War. But Herodotus immediately dismisses this account in order to begin with the man who he himself knows first wronged the Greeks (1.5). So the historian’s own knowledge, as a result of his inquiry, forms a dividing line. Herodotus is certainly not creating a sharp division here; elsewhere he does not question that the Trojan War was an actual historical event and even provides an Egyptian version of the war that he regards as far more plausible than the Greek (2.112–120). But there is still something inacces- sible about the events and figures of the distant past. In a famous passage

6. Hawes (2014) 1–13, Graf (1993) 123–124. On rationalization, see further below. 7. Wardman (1960) 403. 8. On the word μῦθος in Herodotus, see Fowler (2011) 47, Moyer (2011) 78–79, and Saïd (2007) 77–78. Note also the discussions in Quintilian (Inst. 2.42) and Sextus Empiricus (Math. 1.263). 92

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discussing the tyrant Polycrates of Samos, Herodotus remarks that he was among the first Greeks to want to rule the sea after Minos of Knossos, but “of the so-called human race” (τῆς δὲ ἀνθρωπηίης λεγομένης γενεῆς, 3.122.2) Polycrates was the first. Rosaria Munson sees Herodotus’s understanding of this mythical period that Minos inhabits as guided by three basic principles. First, as with other times, factual truths of this period can be recovered only through inquiry. Second, this is complicated by the remoteness of the period and the willingness of people to manipulate it for their own ends (as the Persians do with the Trojan War). Finally, as a result, this period is to a large extent unknowable and mysterious (like Minos) for the historian and difficult to treat properly.9 The second historian in this process of demarcating history from mythology is Thucydides. In the famous Archaeology at the start of his work (1.2–19), Thucydides “extracts from these [mythical] narratives a plausible account by turning heroes into human beings who respond to similar economic and political motives as contemporary men.”10 But Thucydides then immediately emphasizes the limited nature of this treatment: “such I found the events of the distant past, which are difficult to trust in every detail that has come down to us” (τὰ μὲν οὖν παλαιὰ τοιαῦτα ηὗρον, χαλεπὰ ὄντα παντὶ ἑξῆς τεκμηρίῳ πιστεῦσαι, 1.20.1). Thucy dides declines to go beyond this limited reconstruction of the distant past, and indeed is quite critical of those who make the attempt. He criticizes poets and logographers who are more interested in pleasing the ear than in the truth by presenting “untestable things, many of which have been reduced by time to untrustworthy mythology” (ὄντα ἀνεξέλεγκτα καὶ τὰ πολλὰ ὑπὸ χρόνου αὐτῶν ἀπίστως ἐπὶ τὸ μυθῶδες ἐκνενικηκότα, 1.22.1). The phrase τὸ μυθῶδες here probably goes beyond mythology to include the more romantic and fantastic elements, such as the marvels in Herodotus.11 Two

9. Munson (2012) 195–201. Note also Leyden (1950) 94–95, Vannicelli (2001) 215–218, and Feeney (2007) 72–76. Feeney emphasizes the temporal difference between more recent events and the distant past as vital for Herodotus. Fowler (2011) esp. 46–48 analyzes Herodotus’s place in fifth-century intellectual developments. 10. Munson (2012) 195–196. Note also Leyden (1950) 97–101 on Thucydides’s attempt to sci- entifically reconstruct the distant past via the present. 11. This is the traditional reading of the contrast between μυθῶδες and σαφές, on which see Gomme (1972) 149 and Wardman (1960) 403–405. An alternate reading, taking μυθῶδες as referring to praise and panegyric for the audience, has been proposed by Flory (1990) 193–208. Hornblower (1991) 61 accepts this, but Marincola (1997) 117–118 and n. 285 and Calame (2003) 14 both reject it. 93

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chapters later, Thucydides again emphasizes how the absence of a mythical element proves the superiority of his history, declaring that “although the nonmythic seems less pleasurable to the ear, many will want to have a clear view both of present events and of similar events which will happen again in the future, human nature being what it is” (καὶ ἐς μὲν ἀκρόασιν ἴσως τὸ μὴ μυθῶδες αὐτῶν ἀτερπέστερον φανεῖται· ὅσοι δὲ βουλήσονται τῶν τε γενομένων τὸ σαφὲς σκοπεῖν καὶ τῶν μελλόντων ποτὲ αὖθις κατὰ τὸ ἀνθρώπινον τοιούτων καὶ παραπλησίων ἔσεσθαι, 1.22.4). As before, the key word is τὸ μυθῶδες, “the mythic,” which here contrasts with τὸ σαφές, “the clarity,” of contemporary history. As Marincola states, “it is a tribute to the influence of Thucydides that after him myth could only with difficulty be rescued or redeemed.”12 Wardman divides the credit more evenly, declaring that “the effect of [Herodotus’] work and Thucydides’s preface was to push myth to the edge of historical writing.”13 The fourth-century historian Ephorus (FGrH 70) appears to have articulated a division of mythology and history more clearly than either Herodotus or Thucydides, although how clearly is a matter of dispute. Diodorus himself tells us in his own justification of mythology that “Ephorus of Cyme, a pupil of Isocrates, when he undertook to write a general history, passed over ancient mythology and, narrating affairs from the return of the Heraclidae, made this the starting point of his history” ( Ἔφορος μὲν γὰρ ὁ Κυμαῖος, Ἰσοκράτους ὢν μαθητής, ὑποστησάμενος γράφειν τὰς κοινὰς πράξεις, τὰς μὲν παλαιὰς μυθολογίας ὑπερέβη, τὰ δ᾽ ἀπὸ τῆς Ἡρακλειδῶν καθόδου πραχθέντα συνταξάμενος ταύτην ἀρχὴν ἐποιήσατο τῆς ἱστορίας, Τ8 = 4.1.3). This passage has traditionally been interpreted to show that Ephorus understood a period he thought to be mythical (spatium mythicum) and the period he believed to be historical (spatium historicum), with the Doric invasion as a dividing point between them.14 More recently several scholars have questioned these conclusions and argued that Ephorus was not attempting to set a firm line between myth and

12. Marincola (1997) 117–118. 13. Wardman (1960) 406. 14. Note for example Barber (1935) 22, Wardman (1960) 408–409, Schepens (1977) 106–108, Fornara (1983) 8–9, Canfora (1990) 318–319, Pownall (2004) 114–115, Pownall (2006) 353–355, Feeney (2007) 78, Engels (2010) 74, and Fowler (2011) 51–52. Parmeggiani (1999) 109 n. 7 gives additional bibliography. Jacoby (FGrH 70 T8 Commentary) along with Schepens and Bollansée (2004) 67, thought that Diodorus may have specifically been rebutting the pro- logue of Ephorus’s history here. 94

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history.15 It is worth briefly examining the evidence for Ephorus’s approach to mythology and whether he distinguished it sharply from history. Besides Diodorus, the lexicographer Harpocration directly quotes Ephorus’s attitude toward myths, probably from the proëm of his history: “but regarding ancient affairs we think that those covering events in this way [sc. detailed] are most untrustworthy, because we believe that neither all these deeds nor most of the speeches are likely to be remembered for such a long time” (περὶ δὲ τῶν παλαιῶν τοὺς οὕτω διεξιόντας ἀπιθανωτάτους εἶναι νομίζομεν, ὑπολαμβάνοντες οὐτε τὰς πράξεις ἁπάσας οὐτε τῶν λόγων τοὺς πλείστους εἰκὸς εἶναι μνημονεύεσθαι διὰ τοσούτων, F9). Harpocration uses the phrase τῶν παλαιῶν to describe the earliest times Ephorus omits, but it is clear that this is the same as Diodorus’s τὰς παλαιὰς μυθολογίας and that Ephorus deliberately excluded from his history the period he believed was mythological. This is certainly in the vein of the sentiments in Thucydides. In addition, Strabo, discussing Ephorus’s reputation for truthfulness, states that the historian made a point of “cas- tigating those who love myths in the writing of history” (ἐπιτιμήσας γοῦν τοῖς φιλομυθοῦσιν ἐν τῇ τῆς ἱστορίας γραφῇ, F31b = 9.3.11). All of this suggests that Ephorus took a sharper stance against myth as a part of history, although he himself was not above including mythical digressions and background information (see below). At the same time Ephorus set a much more distant starting point for his work than either Herodotus or Thucydides did, one that took him much closer to times that could be considered “mythical.”16 Ephorus dated his starting point, the return of the Heraclidae, to 1069 BCE (F223).17 As Diodorus puts it, Ephorus “passed over ancient mythology and, narrating affairs from the return of the Heraclidae, made this the starting point of his history,” which certainly suggests that he perceives Ephorus as defining a point when the distant past ceases to be “history” as he understands it and becomes mythology. Luraghi suggests that too much has been read

15. Most notably Parmeggiani (1999), Parmeggiani (2011) 74–78, and Luraghi (2014) 133–138. 16. See Clarke (2008) 96–106. 17. See Parker, BNJ 70 F223 Commentary on this date. Fornara (1983) 8–9 and Pownall (2004) 114 suggest that this starting point may have partially been influenced by the terminal point of Hellanicus’s Genealogies. Notably, Fowler (2000) xxx, in choosing which fragments to include in his collection of Early Greek Mythography, excluded all fragments dealing with events after the return of the Heraclidae. 95

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into this passage of Diodorus, which is after all in the context of a general polemic against exclusion of myth in history, and that there are other reasons Ephorus may have chosen the return of the Heraclidae as his starting point. Luraghi argues convincingly that the Doric invasion was especially relevant to the fourth-century context in which Ephorus was writing.18 But explaining Ephorus’s starting point in this fashion does not rule out that he was also setting an upper boundary on “historical” knowledge—indeed, by making the return of the Heraclidae the first legitimate historical event, Ephorus further enhances its importance for a fourth-century audience. And besides the plain reading of Diodorus’s text, there are passages from Aelius Theon, the first-century author of Progymnasmata, that also indicate Ephorus used the return of the Heraclidae to mark the point where myth ends and verifiable history begins. Ephorus apparently gave the mythical background of Heracles in the introduction to his work; Theon cites several examples of Ephorus’s account of Heracles in a section he identifies as “mythical accounts” διηγημάτων( μὲν μυθικῶν), and then in the next section, introduced as “factual accounts” (τῶν δὲ πραγματικῶν διηγήσεων, F13, F17 = 2.67.8, 2.67.11), Theon refers to “matters from Ephorus’s first book regarding the division of the Peloponnese during the return of the Heraclidae” (παρὰ μὲν Ἐφόρου ἐκ τῆς πρώτης τὰ περὶ τὴν διαίρεσιν τῆς Πελοποννήσου κατὰ τὴν τῶν Ἡρακλειδῶν κάθοδον, F18a = 2.67.12).19 Although Ephorus’s starting point of the Doric invasion was no doubt a complex one, this passage and Diodorus’s testimony show that it was at least partially justified as the first “historical” event. Despite this stance, Ephorus did occasionally include a mythological story in a digression or in a passage with background information. Besides elements of the Heracles myths at the very beginning of his work, Ephorus’s most notable mythical inclusion is the origin of the Delphic Oracle (F31b = Strabo 9.3.11–12). Strabo, after remarking on Ephorus’s reputation for truthfulness and his castigation of myth (ante), criticizes his strongly rationalized account of the founding of the Oracle. “If he did not regard these things as myths,” Strabo wonders, “why was it necessary to call the mythical Themis a woman, and the mythical dragon a man? Unless he wished to blend the genre of myth and the genre of history?”

18. Luraghi (2014) 135–148. 19. Note also Parker, BNJ 70 F18a Commentary: “Theon contrasts the ‘factual narratives’ with the ‘mythological tales’.” 96

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(εἰ δὲ ταῦτα μὴ ὑπελάμβανε μύθους εἶναι, τί ἐχρῆν τὴν μυθευομένην Θέμιν γυναῖκα καλεῖν, τὸν δὲ μυθευόμενον δράκοντα ἄνθρωπον; πλὴν εἰ συγχεῖν ἐβούλετο τὸν τε τῆς ἱστορίας καὶ τὸν τοῦ μύθου τόπον, F31b = 9.3.12). Strabo’s criticism shows that by the early first century CE myth could be a difficult thing to include in a serious history, even rationalized and in a digression.20 But despite Strabo’s criticism, it appears that including the occasional mythical digression, as Ephorus did, remained an accepted part of Greek historiography for at least some authors. Ephorus’s contemporary Theopompus was famous for his digressions on an eclectic range of topics in his Philippica, and evidently included a number of mythical stories (cf. Cic. Leg. 1.5). Polybius perhaps had Theopompus in mind when he remarked that “the most learned of ancient historians seem to give their readers a break in this fashion, some using mythical and descriptive digressions, and others factual digressions” (τῶν ἀρχαίων συγγραφέων οἱ λογιώτατοι δοκοῦσί μοι προσαναπεπαῦσθαι τῷ τρόπῳ τούτῳ, τινὲς μὲν μυθικαῖς καὶ διηγηματικαῖς κεχρημένοι παρεκβάσεσι, τινὲς δὲ καὶ πραγματικαῖς, 38.6.1 = FGrH 115 T29).21 But this is a long way from treating the mythical period comprehensively as the start of history, which Diodorus does in the Bibliotheke. Two other fourth-century historians, Zoilus and Anaximenes, may represent a last attempt to treat mythology as a part of history prior to Diodorus, but the limited remains of their work make it rash to draw any broad conclusions.22 Zoilus of Amphipolis (FGrH 71) was noted in antiquity as a Homeric critic, but, according to the Suda, he also composed a “History from the Birth of the Gods until the Death of Philip in three books” (Ἱστορίαν ἀπὸ θεογονίας ἕως τῆς Φιλίππου τελευτῆς, βιβλία γʹ, T1). This work is mentioned only by the Suda, and there are no fragments attributed to it. In any case, if this history was only three books long and went down to the death of Philip, it is difficult to see how Zoilus could have covered the mythical period in any detail. Similar problems surround Anaximenes of Lampsacus (FGrH 72), who is identified by theSuda as a student of both the above-mentioned Zoilus

20. On this passage, see Pownall (2006). 21. Wardman (1960) 406–408. 22. Indeed, Schepens and Bollansée (2004) 62–63 suggest that Ephorus may have been reacting against Anaximenes and Zoilus when he chose to exclude myth from his history. 97

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and Diogenes the Cynic, and as a teacher of Alexander the Great. The title of Anaximenes’s history is uncertain. Diodorus gives First [Inquiry?] of Greek Affairs τὴν( πρώτην τῶν Ἑλληνικῶν [sc. ἱστορίην?]), but Athenaeus calls the work First Inquiries (ταῖς Πρώταις ἐπιγραφομέναις Ἱστορίαις, F3). Harpocration refers to it simply as a Ἑλληνικῶν (F2).23 Only two fragments are directly attributed to this work (F2–3), along with five others that Jacoby assigned to it (F22–26). The most important evidence for Anaximenes’s historical work comes from Diodorus himself, who notes that “Anaximenes of Lampsacus composed the First [Inquiry] of Greek Affairs, beginning with a theogony and the first race of men, and going down to the Battle of Mantineia and the death of Epaminondas; and he encompassed nearly all the deeds of both Greeks and barbarians in twelve books” (Ἀναξιμένης δὲ ὁ Λαμψακηνὸς τὴν πρώτην τῶν Ἑλληνικῶν ἀνέγραψεν ἀρξάμενος ἀπὸ θεογονίας καὶ ἀπὸ τοῦ πρώτου γένους τῶν ἀνθρώπων, κατέστροφε δ᾽ εἰς τὴν ἐν Μαντινείᾳ μάχην καὶ τὴν Ἐπαμεινώνδου τελευτήν· περιέλαβε δὲ πάσας σχεδὸν τάς τε τῶν Ἑλλήνων καὶ βαρβάρων πράξεις ἐν βύβλοις δώδεκα, T14 = 15.89.3). Testimony for the range of Anaximenes’s history also comes from Pausanias, who reports seeing a statue of the author at Olympia and remarks that “he wrote about the ancient affairs in Greece, and such deeds that Philip son of Amyntas and Alexander later accomplished, everything in a similar fashion” (ὃς τὰ ἐν Ἕλλησιν ἀρχαῖα καὶ ὅσα Φίλιππος ὁ Ἀμύντου καὶ ὕστερον Ἀλέξανδρος εἰργάσατο, συνέγραψεν ὁμοίως ἅπαντα, T6 = Pausanias 6.18.2). Pausanias is apparently referring to three separate works by Anaximenes: the history referred to by Diodorus, a history of Philip of Macedon, and a history of Alexander the Great. Scholars have interpreted Pausanias’s description of Anaximenes’s work as ὁμοίως ἅπαντα as indicating that it was a universal history, and made connections with the roughly contemporary universal history of Ephorus.24 But grammatically the phrase looks as though it should apply to all three works mentioned by Pausanias and so perhaps should be understood as meaning that Anaximenes composed all three works in the same style or on the same organizational principles. Moreover, Polybius, writing much closer to Ephorus’s and Anaximenes’s time than Diodorus or Pausanias did, declares that “Ephorus was the first and only

23. On the title, see Pownall, BNJ F72 F2 Commentary. 24. E.g., Pownall, BNJ F72 T6 Commentary. Pownall, following Jones’s Loeb edition of Pausanias, understands the phrase ὁμοίως ἅπαντα as meaning universal history. 98

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to have undertaken to compose a universal history” ( Ἔφορον τὸν πρῶτον καὶ μόνον ἐπιβεβλημένον τὰ καθόλου γράφειν, 5.33.2 = FGrH 70 Τ7).25 This suggests that Anaximenes’s history was not nearly as comprehensive or universal as the brief notice in Diodorus would seem to indicate.26 As with Zoilus, there are problems with taking Anaximenes as treating the mythical period seriously at the start of his history. The statement of Diodorus that Anaximenes began with a theogony and covered the deeds of the Greeks and Barbarians down to the battle of Mantineia may not accurately reflect the nature of Anaximenes’s work. Diodorus actually describes the Histories of Herodotus in strikingly similar terms: “Herodotus, starting with the time before the Trojan War, has written a general history of nearly everything that happened in the inhabited world in nine books” (Ἡρόδοτος ἀρξάμενος πρὸ τῶν Τρ ωικῶν χρόνων γέγραφε κοινὰς σχεδόν τι τὰς τῆς οἰκουμένης πράξεις ἐν βίβλοις ἐννέα, 11.37.6) down to the battle of Mycale and the siege of Sestus. Although it is not inaccurate to say that Herodotus began with the period before the Trojan War, it is very misleading. Diodorus’s comment about the range of Anaximenes is likely to be similarly misleading, and it is possible that “theogony and the first race of men” refers not to any extensive treatment, but rather to a brief proëm or introduction. Moreover, twelve books to cover such a span of history is quite small; Ephorus wrote thirty to cover a much shorter period. Any theogony and discussion of the first men must have been quite abbreviated in Anaximenes’s work. Fragment 2, which states that the amphic- tyones “took their name from the assembled perioikoi of Delphi, as Anaximenes says in book 1 of his Hellenica” (ἀπὸ τοῦ περιοίκους εἶναι τῶν Δελφῶν τοὺς συναχθέντας, ὡς Ἀναξιμένης ἐν ᾱ Ἑλληνικῶν, F2), provides some evidence of this. This comment is most logically attached to an account of the First Sacred War, when the amphictyony first took control of the Delphic oracle. This shadowy affair evidently took place in the early sixth century.27 If this is the case, the first book of Anaximenes must have

25. But see Chapter 2, nn. 3 and 4, on the problems with identifying universal history before the first century. 26. It is possible that Diodorus was not directly familiar with Anaximenes’s work, and accessed this information from a chronographic listing of historians. See Stylianou (1998) 31–32 and Sacks (1990) 77. 27. Pownall, BNJ 72 F2 Commentary. On the problems and historicity of the First Sacred War, see Davies (1994) 193–212 and Sánchez (2001) 58–80. The first secure evidence for the amphictyony is the contract to rebuild the temple of Apollo after the fire of 548 (Hdt. 7.200). 99

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covered an extraordinary amount of material, if it indeed started with a theogony. Anaximenes’s treatment of the earliest period must have been extremely brief, hardly comparable to Diodorus’s extensive treatment of Greek myths. Moreover, there is reason to doubt that Anaximenes was seen as a particularly important or influential historian. Dionysius of Halicarnassus remarks on Anaximenes’s range—history, poetry treatises, rhetorical handbooks, political debates, and lawsuits—but goes on to declare that “he is not at all perfect in any of these genres, but is weak and unpersua- sive in my view” (οὐ μέντοι τέλειόν γε ἐν οὐδεμιᾷ τούτων τῶν ἰδεῶν, ἀ λ λ᾽ ἀσθενῆ καὶ ἀπίθανον ὄντα θεωρῶν, T13a = De Isaeo 19). It is doubtful that Diodorus considers Anaximenes as belonging to “the first rank of the later historians” (τῶν μεταγενεστέρων ἱστοριογράφων οἱ πρωτεύοντες, 4.1.2) who declined to cover the mythical period in their works. The historians of the Hellenistic period, with one possible exception, avoided covering the mythical period. In their ranks were figures such as Hieronymus, Duris, Polybius, Posidonius, and the historians of Alexander the Great, all of whom dealt with contemporary or near-contemporary history. Polybius, however, does remark on the suitability of myth for digressions, as we have already seen, and he believes that behind the Homeric epics there were real historical events (34.2.9–11). But he generally expresses skepticism about myth being a legitimate part of history. Discussing the rivers of Italy, he briefly mentions the story of Phaëton, but immediately dismisses it as only suitable for “tragedy and the like” (καὶ πᾶσαν δὴ τὴν τραγικὴν καὶ ταύτῃ προσεοικυῖαν ὕλην, 2.16.13). Of course, the temporal limits that Polybius set for himself meant that he did not have to cover myth.28 The possible exception is Timaeus, the third-century historian of Magna Graecia (FGrH 566) who was an important source for Diodorus. The fragments of Timaeus show that he included a number of mythical stories as part of the background of the western Greeks and his justification of their importance in the larger Greek world. In line with his larger polemic against Timaeus, Polybius complains that “this writer in his own explanations is full of dreams, prodigies, and fantastic myths and in general base superstition and a womanly love of the marvelous” (ἐν δὲ ταῖς ἰδίαις ἀποφάσεσιν ἐνυπνίων καὶ τεράτων καὶ μύθων ἀπιθάνων καὶ

28. On Polybius and myth in general, see Walbank (1990a) 15–30. 100

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συλλήβδην δεισιδαιμονίας ἀγεννοῦς καὶ τερατείας γυναικώδους ἐστὶ πλήρης, T19 = 12.24.5). The traditional view is that the first five books of Timaeus’s history, which Jacoby dubbed a Προκατασκευή, constituted in part a detailed prehistory of Sicily, including these myths.29 If Jacoby’s reconstruction is correct, Timaeus represents an important model for Diodorus’s treatment of the whole mythical period. However, only six fragments are specifically cited as belonging to these first five books, and none of them deals with mythology. Christopher Baron’s recent study of Timaeus argues that he may have used a Herodotean approach and that many of the fragments grouped together by Jacoby as mythical may have been spread throughout the narrative as digressions and background stories.30 If this is the case, Timaeus’s approach would fit in with the flexibility that historians like Theopompus and Ephorus evinced as to the kind of material they included in their digressions. Timaeus’s treatment of myth thus differs significantly from Diodorus’s, in that he neither attempts to treat the mythical period in a comprehensive, narrative fashion nor makes it the focus of the opening books of his history. One other type of historical writing needs to be considered. Hellenistic chronographers, even if not historians in the strictest sense, also attempted to set a firm marker where the historical period begins and the mythical ends, similar to Ephorus. Eratosthenes of Cyrene (FGrH 241), the great polymath of the third century BCE, devised the first comprehensive chronological system of the Greek-speaking world, using Olympiads as a universal system of dating and avoiding the tangled web of local systems employed by the various Greek states. Eratosthenes’s endpoint was the death of Alexander the Great. This Chronographiae consisted of tables, not an historical narrative. Eratosthenes also worked out dates for the period before the First Olympiad (776 BCE), going all the way back to the end of the Trojan War, which he dated to 1184/83. This was a major work that, as P. M. Fraser explained, “presented for the first time a reasonable chronological system of Greek history which eschewed the mythological.”31 Eratosthenes’s approach was very influential among later authors. Dionysius of Halicarnassus (F1b = 1.74.3) notes that he both accepts the

29. Pearson (1987) 53–90, building on Jacoby, attempts to reconstruct Timaeus’s early books as a chronological treatment of Sicilian myth through passages in Diodorus and other authors who deal with Sicilian mythology and history. 30. Baron (2013) 1–16, 224–231. 31. Fraser (1972) 1.457. See also Pownall, BNJ 241 F1a commentary. â 101

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reliability of Eratosthenes’s work and has shown how Roman chronology could be fitted within it. Apollodorus of Athens (FGrH 244), the great scholar of the second century BCE, wrote his own Chronica based on Eratosthenes, which kept the starting date of the Trojan War but expanded the coverage down to Apollodorus’s own time. Diodorus himself used Apollodorus’s work extensively for his chronological information (1.5.1). Thus, Diodorus is clearly going against a strong trend of excluding the mythical period from Greek historical writing, going back at least to Ephorus. Myth was relegated at best to digressions, and even that second-â class treatment left an author open to criticism, as when Strabo attacked Ephorus over the origin of the Delphic Oracle. Timaeus’s history may have shown a more open attitude to the mythical period, but no previous historian attempted to cover myth in such a detailed, orderly fashion as Diodorus does. This shows again how much control Diodorus exerts over the content and arrangement of the Bibliotheke. But it also shows his intellectual connections with a broader range of Greek scholarship than just history.

Diodorus and Hellenistic Mythography Another genre of scholarship was flourishing during the Hellenistic period and may have given Diodorus the impetus to integrate myth into history: the genre of mythography. Mythography is a problematic and badly understudied part of Greek literature and thought, and Hellenistic mythography is particularly thorny due to the limited nature of the extant works.32 But from the fourth century on, corresponding to the time when Greek historiography was taking a much more exclusionary attitude toward mythology, this genre devoted to cataloguing, studying, and explicating the Greek myths developed. This was a serious field of scholarship, which could take scholars into remote branches of literature.33 Albert Henrichs

32. The fundamental starting place for Hellenistic mythography is still Henrichs (1986). More recently, Cameron (2004) deals extensively with Hellenistic mythographic remnants in the context of Roman mythography. Higbie (2007) provides a useful survey of the major extant authors. Overall, Hellenistic mythography remains badly understudied; note that of the fourteen essays in a major collection on ancient mythography (Trzaskoma and Smith 2013), only one (Bremmer 2013) specifically deals with the Hellenistic period. On the distinction between the Hellenistic mythographers and the earlier Greek authors who also dealt with mythology, see Fowler (2000) xxvii–âxxviii. 33. For example, Apollodorus of Athens and his discovery of the obscure epic poem Meropis, told in Henrichs (1986) 242. 102

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sees two broad types of mythographical work being written during the Hellenistic period. First, there are works dedicated to detailing, in prose, the myths in various major works of literature. This is clearly related to the scholarly research on Homer, Hesiod, Pindar, and other authors being performed at Alexandria. The results of this can be seen in the rich mythological information preserved in the scholia on these and other authors, but also in independent works that circulated as literary companions and aids, such as the so-called Mythographus Homericus, preserved both in the D scholia to the Iliad and as an independent work.34 The second category of mythographic works consists of collections of individual myths, usually organized around a particular theme or topic. Extant examples are the love stories of Parthenius, the metamorphoses of Antoninus Liberalis, and the catasterisms falsely attributed to Eratosthenes. Some of these collections, such as those of Palaephatus and Conon, are quite eclectic and defy easy categorization.35 The approaches taken by the authors of these collections vary as widely as their contents. Some simply retell myths unified by a particular theme or topic, but others engage them more critically. Probably the best attested of the latter category are the works of Dionysius Scytobrachion, which included a heavily rationalized Argonautica and an account of Libya, both of which were used extensively by Diodorus.36 Beyond works such as these there are a large number of so-called subliterary or paraliterary papyri containing mythical information such as genealogies, indicating the intense interest in researching myths.37 This was clearly an extensive field, and the existence of serious scholarship devoted to explicating and untangling mythology must have had an impact on Diodorus’s decision to include it in his history. Conspicuously absent from the extant and attested Hellenistic mythographical works is a general handbook of Greek mythology. As Alan Cameron explains, “almost all of the Greek mythographers we know of

34. Henrichs (1986) 243 and Cameron (2004) 52–69. On the Mythographus Homericus in particular, see Montanari (1995) and Rossum-Steenbeek (1998) 85–118. 35. Henrichs (1986) 243. 36. On Scytobrachion and mythography, see Rusten (1982) esp. 93–112. 37. On the importance of catalogues and genealogies for Greek mythology, see Henrichs (1986) 244–256 and Graf (1993) 125–131. For the papyrus remains, see Rossum-Steenbeek (1998) 119–156. 103

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are ‘specialized’ works, dealing with just one aspect of the field (genealogies, catasterisms, aetiologies, love stories, transformation) … the only comprehensive handbook in Greek we know of [is] the Bibliotheca of Ps- Apollodorus.”38 But this overlooks the Bibliotheke of Diodorus—his mythological narratives in Books 4 and 5 and the lost Book 6 fit the description of a general handbook of Greek mythology quite nicely, even if they are part of a larger history. The fact that mythology was just one part of the Bibliotheke should not detract from this achievement. Indeed, in quoting Robert Drews’s description of Diodorus, that “he set out to present the world with a clear, concise account of all its history, thereby obviating for the reader the necessity of contending with numerous isolated and discon- nected treatises,”39 Smith and Trzaskoma remark that “if one replaces the word ‘history’ with ‘myths’, the first part of the formulation provides a fair description of what Apollodorus seems to have been after, a clear concise account of the whole of Greek myth.”40 The absence of a general mythological handbook alongside the more serious works of Dionysius Scytobrachion has led some scholars to pos- tulate the existence of one that Diodorus could have copied for his Greek mythology.41 However, such a hypothetical handbook has left no trace in the surviving works and fragments, and we should not deny Diodorus the ability to draw on a variety of sources to create a thorough overview of mythology. As we have seen in Book 2 of the Bibliotheke, to create an overview of Asia Diodorus combines, at the very least, Ctesias’s account of Assyrian history, Megasthenes’s Indica, unknown sources on Arabia and Scythia, Hecataeus on the Hyperboreans, and the mysterious Iambulus on the Island of the Sun.42 There is no reason Diodorus could not have compiled sources on various aspects of Greek mythology to create his narrative in Books 4–6. And perhaps Diodorus refers to the work of combing through myriad mythographical works when he speaks of the sheer difficulty of the task (διὰ τὴν δυσχέρειαν) that has deterred other historians from treating mythology, a task he finds worthwhile: “but we have the opposite judgment, and have undertaken the labor involved and devoted

38. Cameron (2004) 37. 39. Drews (1962) 383. 40. Smith and Trzaskoma (2007) xxx. 41. Schwartz, RE V s.v. Diodoros [38], 673–678; Rusten (1982) 16 n. 15 and 117. 42. See pp. 21–26. 104

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all the care to ancient accounts” (ἡμεῖς δὲ τὴν ἐναντίαν τούτοις κρίσιν ἔχοντες, καὶ τὸν ἐκ τῆς ἀναγραφῆς πόνον ὑποστάντες, τὴν πᾶσαν ἐπιμέλειαν ἐποιησάμεθα τῆς ἀρχαιολογίας, 4.1.4).43 There are several features in Book 4 that suggest Diodorus’s familiarity with a range of mythographic work. Genealogies are an important element of mythography, as noted above, and in the preface to Book 4 about the problems with mythology Diodorus remarks that “the variety and number of genealogies of heroes, demigods, and other men makes their exposi- tion difficult”ἡ ( ποικιλία καὶ τὸ πλῆθος τῶν γενεαλογουμένων ἡρώων τε καὶ ἡμιθέων καὶ τῶν ἄλλων ἀνδρῶν δυσέφικτον ἔχει τὴν ἀπαγγελίαν, 4.1.1). Throughout Book 4 Diodorus gives the genealogies of major figures, some of which are quite extensive (e.g., the ancestry of Nestor at 4.68, the Lapiths at 4.69, the Asopids and Aeacids at 4.72) and deserve to be evaluated alongside other mythographic remains. Another common theme in Hellenistic mythography found in Diodorus is catasterismography. Although earlier authors such as the fourth-âcentury Eudoxus of Cnidus (the source of Aratus of Soli) wrote extensive prose works detailing the constellations and how to locate them, Eratosthenes was the first author known to compose a “Catasterisms,” a systematic collection of the myths associated with constellations. The work that survives under his name is not the original, but may be an abridgment.44 Diodorus includes a number of catasterisms, which suggests an interest in this subfield of mythography (4.43, 4.61, 4.80, 4.85), although his versions do not match up with those in Ps-âEratosthenes. Diodorus’s comprehensive treatment of mythology needs to be considered as innovative not only in the context of Greek historiography, but also in the context of Greek mythography.45

Making Myth into History Diodorus is breaking with the prevailing trends in Greek historiography of the previous few centuries with his detailed mythology in the opening books of the Bibliotheke. This does not mean that Diodorus sees myth as the same as history; far from it. At the start of Book 4, beginning the

43. But see Marincola (1997) 148–â158 on an historian’s “labors.” 44. Condos (1997) 17–â20, Hard (2015) xii–âxx. 45. Higbie (2007) does not even mention Diodorus in her overview of Hellenistic mythography, and the essays in Trzaskoma and Smith (2013) cite Diodorus only occasionally for a mythical variant. 105

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narrative of the myths of the Greeks, Diodorus explains the problems for a writer treating myths. These include the sheer antiquity of the events; inability to date them accurately; the vast number of heroes, demigods, and men; and above all that “those who have written on the most ancient deeds and mythologies are themselves at odds” (ἀναγεγραφότας τὰς ἀρχαιοτάτας πράξεις τε καὶ μυθολογίας ἀσυμφώνους εἶναι πρὸς ἀλλήλους, 4.1.1).46 A few chapters later Diodorus notes that “in general, in mythological histories it is not at all fitting to scrutinize the truth sharply” καθόλου( μὲν γὰρ ἐν ταῖς μυθολογουμέναις ἱστορίαις οὐκ ἐκ παντὸς τρόπου πικρῶς τὴν ἀλήθειαν ἐξεταστέον, 4.8.4). He acknowledges standards of historiography, but believes they should be relaxed when dealing with the mythical past. This is especially true of Heracles, who spread civilization throughout the world and was given immortality for his achievements; his deeds deserve to be commemorated (4.8.5).47 This actually echoes the proëm of the Bibliotheke, where Diodorus explains that it is because history commemorates great deeds that men are inspired to found cities, pass laws, and discover new arts and sciences to benefit mankind (1.2.1).48 Again, the chief example Diodorus gives is that of Heracles (1.2.4). Myth, despite its many problems for the historian, is worthy of inclusion in history because the purpose of history, as Diodorus understands it, is to preserve the great deeds of men as an inspiration, and even though the details can be argued over, no one disputes that mythical figures such as Heracles bestowed great benefactions on the entire human race. Mythology therefore has a serious purpose and needs to be treated seriously, and Diodorus recognizes that history, and especially universal history, as he defines it, requires this.49 But, as the passages noted above show, Diodorus realizes that myth cannot be approached in the same fashion as history, and that a degree of uncertainty needs to be accepted about mythical tales. Occasionally he reminds his readers of this: “in general the ancient myths do not give a simple and consistent account; therefore it is no wonder if we should

46. Marincola (1997) 119–121. 47. Cf. Mortley (1996) 81–99, who notes that Diodorus is not interested in fact versus fiction here, but does not deal with the larger purposes of myth in Diodorus and how it is relevant to the present. 48. See pp. 7–8. 49. Marincola (1997) 120–121. 106

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come across some ancient accounts which do not agree among all the poets and historians” (καθόλου δὲ τοὺς παλαιοὺς μύθους οὐχ ἁπλῆν οὐδὲ συμπεφωνημένην ἱστορίαν ἔχειν συμβέβηκε· διόπερ οὐ χρὴ θαυμάζειν, ἐάν τινα τῶν ἀρχαιολογουμένων μὴ συμφώνως ἅπασι τοῖς ποιηταῖς καὶ συγγραφεῦσι συγκρίνωμεν, 4.44.5–6). Accordingly, Diodorus is very careful throughout the first five books, and presumably in the lost sixth book, to indicate what he considers to be mythical material. In the process he also grapples with the problem of where “history” begins and myth ends in a universal history. When he wants to mark off a narrative as mythical, he places it in indirect discourse and introduces it with a verb, frequently μυθολογεῖν without a subject.50 This is especially important in the first three books, which mix “mythical” narratives with the ethnography and legitimate early history of “barbarians.” For example, at 1.9.6, as he begins the account of the Egyptian gods, he justifies his decision to start with Egypt on the grounds that “the genesis of the gods is said in myth to be in Egypt” (κατὰ τὴν Αἴγυπτον θεῶν τε γενέσεις ὑπάρξαι μυθολογοῦνται, 1.9.6). The Egyptian theogony that follows is then given in indirect discourse through chapter 29. In contrast, the historical narrative of the Egyptian kings (1.45–68) is given primarily in direct discourse. On the other hand, the Assyrian history at the start of Book 2 is not designated as mythical with any of the vocabulary Diodorus has used, and is given in direct discourse. However, certain elements in it are said to be “myths.” When he comes to the birth of Semiramis, Diodorus quotes the “mythology of the most learned” (μυθολογοῦσιν οἱ λογιώτατοι, 2.4.3) and switches to indirect discourse for a fantastic narrative, which includes a goddess turned into a fish and doves raising the infant Semiramis. At the start of the next chapter about Semiramis’s early life, Diodorus refers to the preceding chapter about her birth as the μυθολογούμενα, and then switches back to direct discourse to describe her life (2.5), which does not contain such fantastic elements until her death. At the end of the narrative about Semiramis, he says she mysteriously disappeared, as if she had gone to the gods. He adds that “some mythologers say that she became a dove” (ἔνιοι δὲ μυθολογοῦντες αὐτὴν γενέσθαι περιστεράν, 2.20.2), clearly marking it off from the historical narrative. And this distinction is continued. In the Indian narrative in the next part of Book 2, the story of Dionysus and Heracles is introduced by the

50. Noted briefly by ibid. 121. 107

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statement “the most knowledgeable of the Indians say in their myths …” (μυθολογοῦσι δὲ παρὰ τοῖς Ἰνδοῖς οἱ λογιώτατοι, 2.38.3), followed by an account in indirect discourse. In the following Scythian narrative, again we have clear identification of mythical material combined with indirect discourse (2.43.3). Diodorus shifts out of indirect discourse when he discusses Scythian material he considers historical (2.44.1–2), but then immediately shifts back to indirect discourse when he discusses the background of the Amazons (2.45). The accounts of the Hyperboreans are mythical (μυθολογούμενα, τὰς παλαιὰς μυθολογίας 2.47.1) and told in indirect discourse drawn from Hecataeus (of Abdera) and certain others ( Ἑκαταῖος καί τινες ἕτεροί φασιν). The account of the Arabs that follows is essentially ethnographic and geographic, not mythical, and given in direct discourse. The largest mythical section in the first three books is the lengthy description of the Amazons of Libya, Atlantians, and the Libyan Dionysus, making up the final part of Book 3. Diodorus begins with the Amazons, and makes their antiquity clear; many generations before the Trojan War, they were already gone (πολλαῖς γενεαῖς πρότερον τῶν Τρ ωικῶν, 3.52.2). He specifically cites Dionysius (Scytobrachion) as his source, and gives this account in indirect discourse, with the occasional reminder about its mythical nature (e.g., μυθολογοῦσι, 3.53.4, 3.55.9, 3.55.11). The Amazons are followed by the mythology of the Atlantians, which Diodorus says does not differ greatly from that of the Greeks. Again, he identifies the sections as mythical through his terminology (μυθολογοῦσι, 3.56.3) and use of indirect discourse. This allows Diodorus to keep the mythical narratives distinct from the more factual ethnographic and historical narratives in the first three books. Because Book 4 is designated as a mythical book from the start and does not contain the sort of ethnographic material that is mixed into the previous three (4.1.5), Diodorus does not always maintain indirect discourse throughout the entire book. Even so, he still regularly reminds his readers that he is dealing with problematic mythical material. For example, in discussing the apples of the Hesperides, Diodorus remarks that “about these apples the writers of myths disagree” (περὶ δὲ τῶν μήλων τούτων διαπεφωνήκασιν οἱ μυθογράφοι, 4.26.2, cf. 4.44.5–6 quoted above). It is worth noting that Diodorus uses the word μῦθος as well, though for him the word normally means not a myth, but a story that is false. To give just one example, in his description of Ethiopia Diodorus talks about the animals, including enormous snakes of unbelievable size (τοῖς μεγέθεσιν ἄπιστα). He adds “for if certain people have declared that they have seen 108

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snakes one-hundred cubits long, they can correctly be assumed to have told falsely, not only by us, but also by all others” (ἑκατὸν γὰρ πηχῶν τὸ μῆκος ἑορακέναι τινὲς ἀποφαινόμενοι δικαίως ἂν οὐχ ὑφ’ ἡμῶν μόνον, ἀλλὰ καὶ ὑπὸ τῶν ἄλλων ἁπάντων ψευδολογεῖν ὑποληφθείησαν, 3.36.1). But Diodorus goes on to describe the largest snakes that actually have been seen. They were brought to Alexandria following an expedition of Ptolemy II, and were thirty cubits long—not a hundred cubits, but still pretty impressive. Diodorus concludes “therefore, since a snake of such a great size has been seen in public, it is not right to doubt the Ethiopians, nor to take this oft-repeated account of theirs as a myth” (διόπερ τηλικούτου μεγέθους ὄφεως εἰς ὄψιν κοινὴν κατηντηκότος οὐκ ἄξιον ἀπιστεῖν τοῖς Αἰθίοψιν οὐδὲ μῦθον ὑπολαμβάνειν τὸ θρυλούμενον ὑπ’ αὐτῶν, 3.37.9). Giant snakes could easily be labeled a myth, and certainly snakes of one hundred cubits are, but where there is good contemporary evidence, one should not doubt them. For Diodorus, a “myth” is a story that is completely false and totally outside the realm of probability, or one that cannot be corroborated with actual autopsy.51 Although Diodorus is careful to indicate when he regards a narrative as “mythical,” he recognizes that this is not enough to render myth suitable for history. Throughout the Bibliotheke he employs several strategies, all with long pedigrees in Greek thought, to, as Plutarch puts it, make “myth, purified by reason, submit and take on the appearance of history” (ἐκκαθαιρόμενον λόγῳ τὸ μυθῶδες ὑπακοῦσαι καὶ λαβεῖν ἱστορίας ὄψιν, Thes. 1.3).52 Broadly speaking, there were three approaches to interpreting myth available to the historian: rationalization, Euhemerism, and allegoresis. However, the boundaries between the three are not always clear, and generally Greek authors were not overly concerned with adhering to a strict dogma or method in interpreting their mythology.53 Diodorus himself employs all three approaches in his mythical narratives. Rationalization is sometimes referred to as Palaephatan rationalization, after its most famous practitioner, the mysterious Palaephatus from the fourth century BCE. Thinkers such as Palaephatus understood that myths “must accord with the laws of possibility as distilled from the experience of contemporary reality” and so they “reverse-engineered [myths]

51. Sulimani (2011) 10–14 briefly discusses Diodorus’s terminology, but does not note that he differentiates between μῦθος and μυθολογεῖν. 52. On Plutarch, see Pelling (2002) 171–189. 53. Hawes (2014) 23–25. Stern (2003) 54–62 would add etymology as a fourth mode of interpretation. 109

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to show that these stories of fabulous monsters and other-worldly deeds derive in fact from prosaic events.”54 To give an example from Diodorus, in the Egyptian narrative of Book 1 he describes how the Nile overflowed with such violence that it was dubbed “Eagle” (Ἀετός) and destroyed the section of Egypt governed by a man named Prometheus. Distraught, Prometheus contemplated suicide but was saved when Heracles turned back the flood through stopping a breach. Diodorus remarks that “for this reason, some Greek poets turned this event into a false story” (διὸ καὶ τῶν παρ’ Ἕλλησι ποιητῶν τινας εἰς μῦθον ἀγαγεῖν τὸ πραχθέν, 1.19.3), in which Heracles rescued Prometheus from an eagle that was gnawing at his liver. This version bears all the hallmarks of rationalization. A supernatural event is explained as a natural phenomenon, there has been misinterpretation of a name, and the entire incident has been corrupted by poets.55 Many mythical stories in Diodorus are rationalized in this sort of fashion, most prominently in the Argonautica in Book 4, drawn extensively on the work of Dionysius Scytobrachion.56 I suspect that Diodorus’s presentation of the Trojan War in Book 7 relied heavily on this method as well. This form of “rationalization is not so much a theory for explaining myth as a method of explaining away discrepancies within myths; in this way, it often produces short-sighted solutions satisfactory only within the immediate context.”57 It works best for individual stories and does not provide an overarching approach to understanding mythology as a whole as it can be difficult to apply consistently.58 In particular, rationalization seems to be most effective when the gods can be left out of the story altogether. Palaephatus, for example, leaves the gods out of his individual myths.59 For Diodorus, who extensively covers the gods in his mythological sections, it is insufficient. But allegoresis and Euhemerism both fill this need. Allegoresis, simply put, explains the immortal gods or “celestial gods” (τῶν ἐν οὐρανῷ θεῶν, 1.12.10)

54. Hawes (2014) 3. Ibid. 2–21 provides an overview of this technique of rationalization, which was in no way monolithic. 55. The only other version of the Prometheus myth that uses this rationalization comes from a fragment of the On Libya of Agroitas (BNJ 762 F4a), although it lacks the Egyptian context of Diodorus. BNJ includes this passage of Diodorus as F4b of Agroitas, although Diodorus nowhere cites him. 56. Rusten (1982) 93–101. 57. Hawes (2014) 13. 58. Note Ambaglio (1995) 39–53. 59. Stern (2003) 56. 110

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as natural or ethical forces and processes. Ancient allegoresis is a very complex tradition, spanning a wide array of works.60 Unlike Palaephatan rationalization, which was applied to an extensive range of mythical accounts, allegoresis focuses especially on interpreting the works of Homer and Hesiod, and aims to uncover not historical truths, but philosophical ones. It tries to find in “[poets’] mythic plots deeply hidden expressions of acceptable scientific and philosophical doctrines.”61 Central to allegoresis is the use of etymology to reveal the hidden meanings of words and names.62 Although employed by a number of philosophical schools, this approach to divinity is particularly associated with the Stoics.63 Diodorus employs an allegorical approach three times in the Bibliotheke, but only to explain the gods and not mythology in its entirety. Moreover, each allegorical presentation of the gods is immediately followed by a Euhemeristic one, Diodorus’s third approach to myth. The first allegorical reading is at the start of the Egyptian mythology. The Egyptians themselves look to the heavens and identify the sun and moon as deities and name them Osiris and Isis. These two gods control the whole universe by regulating the cycle of the seasons. In addition, almost all of the physical matter necessary for life is furnished by these gods, the sun contributing fire (τὸ πῦρ) and spirit (τὸ πνεῦμα), the moon wetness (τὸ ὑγρόν) and dry- ness (τὸ ξηρόν), and both together air (τὸ ἀερῶδες). The Egyptians identify all five elements as gods as well and “assign to each a specific name according to their nature” (προσηγορίαν ἰδίαν ἑκάστῳ θεῖναι κατὰ τὸ οἰκεῖον, 1.12.1). After explaining the etymologies, including the myth that Athena was born from the head of Zeus (i.e., the spirit), Diodorus states that “such the Egyptians say are the facts about the gods in heaven and their eternal creation” (περὶ μὲν οὖν τῶν ἐν οὐρανῷ θεῶν καὶ γένεσιν ἀίδιον ἐσχηκότων τοσαῦτα λέγουσιν Αἰγύπτιοι, 1.12.10), before moving on to a Euhemeristic presentation of the “terrestrial” gods in the following chapter.64

60. In general, see Dawson (1992), Brisson (2004) esp. 29–55, Stern (2003) 57–60, Russell and Konstan (2005) xi–xxix, and Most (2010) 26–38. 61. Hawes (2014) 28–35. 62. Dawson (1992) 27–32, Allen (2005). 63. Most (2010) 27–34. The fullest account of the Stoic allegorical interpretation of the gods is found at Cicero, De Natura Deorum 2.63–69, on which see Dyck (2003). 64. Spoerri (1959) 170–174, Burton (1972) 66. This particular set of equations does not match a philosophical school; earth, air, fire, and water are all part of Stoic cosmology, but spirit appears to be Peripatetic in origin. Again, Diodorus’s philosophy is highly eclectic. 111

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Diodorus’s second equation of the gods with natural forces comes in Book 3, in a lengthy section discussing the problems with the god Dionysus. Unlike the Egyptian theogony, where the allegorical gods are presented as an established belief among the Egyptians, this section presents a larger dispute over the nature of the god Dionysus. One school of thought argues that Dionysus never existed in any human form whatsoever, and that his name means simply “gift of wine.” Diodorus describes these authors as φυσιολογοῦντες, “explaining from natural principles” (3.62.3). Besides the name Dionysus, these authorities also explain the epithet Dimetor, “twice- born,” as derived from the first birth when the vine begins to grow from the ground, and the second from when fruit begins to blossom (3.62.5). This allegorical interpretation is then used to rationalize the major parts of the Dionysus myth, and again it is followed by a Euhemeristic interpretation of Dionysus. The third allegorical presentation of the gods occurred in the lost Book 6. But according to Eusebius, Diodorus wrote that “ancient men” handed down two conceptions of the gods, the first of which explained that gods “such as the sun and the moon and the other stars through heaven, and in addition to these the winds and other elements having a similar nature, each has an eternal beginning and an eternal permanence” (οἷον ἥλιόν τε καὶ σελήνην καὶ τὰ ἄλλα ἄστρα τὰ κατ’ οὐρανόν, πρὸς δὲ τούτοις ἀνέμους καὶ τοὺς ἄλλους τοὺς τῆς ὁμοίας φύσεως τούτοις τετευχότας· τούτων γὰρ ἕκαστον ἀίδιον ἔχειν τὴν γένεσιν καὶ τὴν διαμονήν, 6.1.2), while the others were the terrestrial gods who received immortal honors for their benefactions to mankind. The remainder of this section, as quoted by Eusebius, is taken up with Diodorus’s account of the “terrestrial” gods as discovered by Euhemerus. This passage is exceedingly brief, and Eusebius has certainly summarized a more detailed account, corresponding to the version in the Egyptian theogony. Similarities in the vocabulary and language (γένεσιν ἀίδιον ἐσχηκότων, ἀίδιον ἔχειν τὴν γένεσιν καὶ τὴν διαμονήν) between the two passages show that Diodorus has the same basic concepts in mind, as does the pairing of the allegorical interpretation with the Euhemeristic interpretation of the gods. Indeed, some scholars have argued that Euhemerus was in fact Diodorus’s source for the allegorical gods.65 But a close reading of the passage suggests otherwise. Eusebius introduces the

65. Notably Baumgarten (1996). 112

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passage: “Diodorus says these things in the third book of his histories. And the same writer also in the sixth book [drawing] from the writing of Euhemerus of Messene confirms the same theology, saying the following” (ταῦτα ὁ Διόδωρος ἐν τῇ τρίτῃ τῶν ἱστοριῶν. ὁ δ’ αὐτὸς καὶ ἐν τῇ ἕκτῃ ἀπὸ τῆς Εὐημέρου τοῦ Μεσσηνίου γραφῆς ἐπικυροῖ τὴν αὐτὴν θεολογίαν, ὧδε κατὰ λέξιν φάσκων, 6.1.1). The ταῦτα refers to the immediately preceding section of Eusebius, which is a summary of Diodorus 3.56–61 dealing with the Atlantian gods, who are presented Euhemeristically. But there is no mention in the earlier passage of gods as allegories for natural forces, meaning Eusebius’s phrase τὴν αὐτὴν θεολογίαν must refer to the narrative of Euhemerus that Diodorus summarizes following 6.1.2, and does not include the remark about the eternal gods preceding it in Eusebius’s quotation. In addition, in this fragment Diodorus does not introduce Euhemerus as the source until 6.1.3, after the brief mention of the gods as forces of nature: “and about the terrestrial gods many varied accounts have been handed down by both historians and mythographers; and among the historians is Euhemerus the author of the Sacred History” (περὶ δὲ τῶν ἐπιγείων θεῶν πολλοὶ καὶ ποικίλοι παραδέδονται λόγοι παρὰ τοῖς ἱστορικοῖς τε καὶ μυθογράφοις· καὶ τῶν μὲν ἱστορικῶν Εὐήμερος, ὁ τὴν Ἱερὰν Ἀναγραφὴν ποιησάμενος). All of this indicates that we should not take Euhemerus as Diodorus’s source for the celestial gods, or assume that it was Euhemerus who first combined these two separate approaches to mythology.66 Indeed, this combination of the two approaches may well have come from Diodorus himself, who, as was noted in the last chapter, has an eclectic approach to philosophy. Perhaps it represents another form of universality, in that the Bibliotheke encompasses interpretations of the gods from multiple intellectual movements. Through these allegorical versions, as Baumgarten says, “divinity was thus preserved in a form in which sophisticated people could believe, while the benefits of mythology were retained in a manner which was less embar- rassing.”67 But Diodorus does not exploit allegory beyond these passages,

66. Cohen-Skalli (2012), the most recent edition of the fragments of Book 6, also takes the view that Diodorus’s quotation of Euhemerus does not start until 6.1.3, when Diodorus first names him. The only evidence for Euhemerus as the source of the celestial gods in Book 6 comes at 6.1.8, when Uranus, the first king, sets up an altar to the heavenly gods. But this could easily be an addition of Diodorus to connect separate accounts. 67. Baumgarten (1996) 102. He refers specifically to his understanding of Euhemerus, but given the fluidity of this form of mythical interpretation I believe he is drawing too sharp a 113

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and this must ultimately be due to his belief that history needs to inspire men to do great deeds through examples. Osiris as the personification of the sun does not fulfill this requirement in the least. But Euhemerism, Diodorus’s third and final approach to interpreting myth, does. And it is this approach—depicting the gods as mortal kings and heroes, or culture bringers, who have been honored for their benefactions—that dominates the presentation of the gods in the Bibliotheke and provides an overarching framework for presenting mythology in the first three books. Thus in Book 1, besides the primal forces of nature, the Egyptians “say that there were other gods who were earth-born, mortal in the beginning, but through their intelligence and their universal benefaction for mankind have obtained immortality, and some of them had been kings in Egypt as well” (ἄλλους δ’ ἐκ τούτων ἐπιγείους γενέσθαι φασίν, ὑπάρξαντας μὲν θνητούς, διὰ δὲ σύνεσιν καὶ κοινὴν ἀνθρώπων εὐεργεσίαν τετευχότας τῆς ἀθανασίας, ὧν ἐνίους καὶ βασιλεῖς γεγονέναι κατὰ τὴν Αἴγυπτον, 1.13.1). Similarly, in the fragment of Book 6 Diodorus declares that “they say there are other terrestrial gods, who obtained immortal honor and fame on account of their benefactions towards mankind, such as Heracles, Dionysus, Aristaeus, and others of a similar kind” (ἑτέρους δὲ λέγουσιν ἐπιγείους γενέσθαι θεούς, διὰ δὲ τὰς εἰς ἀνθρώπους εὐεργεσίας ἀθανάτου τετευχότας τιμῆς τε καὶ δόξης, οἷον Ἡρακλέα, Διόνυσον, Ἀρισταῖον, καὶ τοὺς ἄλλους τοὺς τούτοις ὁμοίους, 6.1.2). The great majority of the deities depicted in the first six books are presented in this fashion, including Isis and Osiris in Book 1, Dionysus and Heracles in the Indian narrative in Book 2, the Atlantian gods in Book 3, Heracles in Book 4, the gods in Book 5, and the lost theogony in Book 6. Almost seventy figures in total are identified as receiving immortality.68 This interpretation of mythology has a long intellectual heritage, at least as far back as the fifth-century sophist Prodicus,69 but is most famously associated with Euhemerus of Messene, a somewhat elusive figure. It cannot even be said for certain whether he came from Messene in Sicily or in Greece, although the weight of evidence favors the former. He was associated with the court of Cassander in Macedonia in the early third century BCE and wrote The Sacred History ( Ἱερὰ Ἀναγραφή), in which he described

division in trying to distinguish this from the Stoics. Moreover, it is not clear that this doctrine is from Euhemerus, as noted above. 68. Sacks (1990) 71. 69. Henrichs (1984) 139–158. The papyrus in question is P.Herc.1428. 114

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his (fictional) visit to the island of Panchaea. There he learned that the Olympian gods were in fact mortals deified for their contributions to mankind. Euhemerus was so important that the general belief in the gods as deified mortals is known as Euhemerism.70 No direct fragments or quotations of Euhemerus’s work survive, and we are primarily dependent on much later references and summaries. Among the most important of these is Diodorus’s account from Book 6 of the Bibliotheke, which is preserved through Eusebius. Unfortunately, the quotation of Eusebius is itself quite abbreviated; in barely nine lines in the Teubner text he describes the family tree of Zeus but few of his actual achievements. Babylon, Syria, and Cilicia are mentioned as desti- nations of Zeus, but probably much of Diodorus as well as Euhemerus has been abridged into the line “and he visited many other races and was honored and named a god by all” (καὶ ἄλλα δὲ πλεῖστα ἔθνη ἐπελθόντα παρ’ ἅπασι τιμηθῆναι καὶ θεὸν ἀναγορευθῆναι, 6.1.10). Eusebius then adds that Diodorus had “these accounts and more of a similar sort about the gods as if they were mortals” (ταῦτα καὶ τὰ τούτοις παραπλήσια ὡς περὶ θνητῶν ἀνδρῶν περὶ τῶν θεῶν διελθὼν, 6.1.11), so presumably both Euhemerus and Diodorus gave far more extensive accounts here. Notably missing are Dionysus and Heracles, whom Diodorus promotes as the culture bringers par excellence elsewhere (see Chapter 5), although Eusebius mentioned them in the introduction to the Euhemerus narrative (6.1.2). Another important source for Euhemerus is the fragments of the Latin translation of the Sacred History made by the Roman poet Ennius in the second century BCE. It was through Ennius that the ideas of Euhemerus first seem to have reached Rome, to which we shall return in the next chapter. Euhemerus’s work was successful enough that he attracted very prominent critics. His near-contemporary Callimachus attacked “the maker of old Panchaion Zeus, babbling away scribbling blasphemous books” (τὸν πάλαι Πάγχαιον ὁ πλάσας Ζᾶνα γέρων λαλάζων ἄδικα βιβλία ψήχει, Iambi 1.10–11). Plutarch, writing much later, vents that Euhemerus, “drawing up an account of untrustworthy and non-existent mythology, publicized through the whole world every atheism, and all those regarded as gods he reduced to the same level of generals and admirals and kings who lived long ago”

70. Winiarczyk (2013) provides a useful overview of the evidence for Euhemerus as well as an extensive survey of the modern scholarship on him. See also De Angelis and Garstad (2006), who argue for a Sicilian background to Euhemerus. On Euhemerism and its value for interpreting myth, see Hawes (2014) 25–27, Honigman (2009), and Stern (2003) 56–57. 115

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(ὃς αὐτὸς ἀντίγραφα συνθεὶς ἀπίστου καὶ ἀνυπάρκτου μυθολογίας πᾶσαν ἀθεότητα κατασκεδάννυσι τῆς οἰκουμένης, τοὺς νομιζομένους θεοὺς πάντας ὁμαλῶς διαγράφων εἰς ὀνόματα στρατηγῶν καὶ ναυάρχων καὶ βασιλέων ὡς δὴ πάλαι γεγονότων, De Is. et Os. 360a). Later the Christians cited him as evidence for the foolishness of pagan beliefs, and this Christian attitude has probably subtly affected the attitude of many modern scholars toward him. But he seems to have been taken quite seriously as a thinker and been very influential. Other authors also wrote works describing the origins of the gods in deified mortal culture bringers, probably under his influence. The best attested of these is Dionysius Scytobrachion, known almost exclusively from Diodorus’s use of his accounts of Libya and the Argonauts.71 Without better testimonia or direct fragments of the original work, it is impossible to reconstruct precisely what Euhemerus thought, or what his purposes in writing the Sacred History were. Certainly Euhemerus wished to contribute to the long-running debates in Greek philosophy over the nature and origin of the gods. Beyond that, the work has variously been interpreted as a utopian fantasy, an ideal state, a satire on ruler cult, a justification of ruler cult, an attempt to undermine traditional belief in the gods, an explanation of the origin of religion, and a sophisticated reinterpretation of Greek mythology. Some of these interpretations are not mutually exclusive.72 Whatever Euhemerus’s own aims for his work were, for Diodorus it is important in two ways. First, it provides an intellectual foundation for ruler cult. If the Olympian gods themselves were originally mortals, why should modern rulers who performed great benefactions not receive similar honors? The ramifications of this will be explored in the next chapter. Second, Euhemerism makes it possible for Diodorus to his- toricize the gods for the Bibliotheke. Euhemerus confronted the need to explain away the often-disreputable stories about the immortal gods told in Homer and other poets. Once he had made the conclusion that the gods were deified mortals, it was easy enough to use the same techniques of rationalization employed by Herodotus, Thucydides, and others to render their deeds plausible to a

71. Winiarczyk (2013) 125–128, Rusten (1982) 102–112. 72. Winiarczyk (2013) 99–108 surveys various interpretations of the Sacred History, but is too ready to dismiss those that do not fit with his interpretation of the work as an explanation of the origin of religion and part of a larger early Hellenistic debate on ruler cult. Note Garstad (2003) 310 and Hawes (2014) 27 n. 58. 116

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contemporary audience.73 As Hawes puts it, “Euhemerism demonstrates a broadly historicist understanding of the world and thus shares with ratio- nalistic interpretation a narrow concern with ‘historical’ truth.” But unlike rationalization, which is primarily a way of interpreting individual narratives, Euhemerism provides a far-reaching methodological framework.74 A major influence on Euhemerus must have been the accomplishments of Alexander the Great. Just as the thalassocracies of his own time enabled Thucydides to interpret Minos and Agamemnon in similar terms, the world conquest of Alexander enabled Hellenistic authors to reinterpret the gods, especially figures like Dionysus and Heracles, whose mythology already included a travel component. Honigman sums it up: “What made Euhemerus a historian in Diodorus’ … eyes, was the fact that he transmitted a ‘rational’ history of the gods—their res gestae, in Ennius’ words.”75 The Euhemeristic approach to the gods dominates the mythical narratives of the first six books of the Bibliotheke. It is the principle technique that Diodorus uses in his mythography, and whereas in the Libyan and Greek accounts in Books 3 and 6 he was following Euhemerus himself and the Euhemerizing Dionysius Scytobrachion, it is probable that some of the other Euhemeristic interpretations of the gods are Diodorus’s own. For example, Diodorus is normally assumed to be following Hecataeus of Abdera for the Egyptian theogony, although the evidence for this is exceedingly slim.76 I think it is likely that presenting the Egyptian gods in a Euhemeristic fashion is Diodorus’s own interpretation.77 Egyptian theology, which equated mortal kings with Horus during their life and Osiris after death, seems especially suited to be interpreted (or rather, misunderstood) by a Euhemerist like Diodorus. And given Diodorus’s own statement that he begins with the Egyptians because mythology places the origin of the gods there, it is highly probable that he is using them to introduce his Euhemeristic approach and give it a stronger veneer of respect- ability by crediting it to the most ancient of civilizations.78

73. Honigman (2009) 28–30, Baumgarten (1996) 102. 74. Hawes (2014) 27. 75. Honigman (2009) 9. 76. See pp. 22–23. 77. Winiarczyk (2013) 64–66, Sacks (1990) 66, and Spoerri (1959) 189–195 all accept this. At least one earlier writer, Leon of Pella (FGrH 659), seems to have propounded a Euhemeristic view of the Egyptian gods. See Rusten (1980) 197–201 on the problems with this author. 78. On the Egyptian conception of the gods, see Burton (1972) 54–67. 117

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So Euhemerism provided Diodorus with a framework for presenting the gods as mortal heroes who benefited mankind. But Diodorus wants to make these mythical figures as historical as possible. As Iris Sulimani has shown, Diodorus is very careful to locate his gods-turned- heroes in the historical world and to provide them with real historical routes for their expeditions. For example, Osiris in Book 1 begins in Egypt, travels south to Ethiopia, and continues along the coast of the Red Sea to India via Arabia. As noted in my Chapter 2, these are all regions that Diodorus describes in the first three books. The most detailed of all is Heracles’s journey in Book 4, which begins in Greece and takes him completely around the Mediterranean. Myrina, the mythical queen of the Libyan Amazons in Book 3, follows a route strikingly similar to that of Alexander the Great, except for direction. As Sulimani notes, “the journeys … seem as though they have been made by historical figures. They are, for the most part, well planned; the heroes go from one point to another in a reasonable order and they usually return home, thus completing a circle.” The locations where the heroes stop, moreover, are almost all important historically, for various reasons. That Diodorus intends for his mythical itineraries to be seen as real is also shown by their similarities with the journeys undertaken by historical figures in Books 1–3 such as Sesoösis and Semiramis. Egypt in particular is central to almost all the major journeys in the first five books, and we have already noted that Diodorus organizes the Bibliotheke so as to highlight Egypt above all other nations.79 By making his gods into mortals and situating them in real historical places, Diodorus brings the mythical world closer to the world of history than any other author. It is clear that, despite his willingness to go against existing trends in Greek historiography in treating myth comprehensively, Diodorus understands very well the problems myth poses. But for him, the historiographical value out- weighs these problems. The value of myths will be examined further in the next chapter. But there is still the problem of deciding where a particular nation’s story ceases to be mythical and becomes legitimate history, and here Diodorus employs a criterion that has not previously been articulated in Greek historiography.

79. Sulimani (2011) 165–169. She discusses important sites and routes in detail at 170–227 and finds that many were very relevant in the first century BCE. 118

118 Diodorus Siculus Separating Myth and History Denis Feeney has shown how chronology and dating became critical ways in which the Greek and Roman historians demarcated myth from history. It was apparently Ephorus who first defined a specific point, the return of the Heraclidae, when the past could be treated by the historian and no longer belonged to the mythical period. A major aspect of this point for Ephorus was apparently that it could be dated. However, the return of the Heraclidae did not become the favored point for the beginning of ancient historical chronology. Rather, the Greeks preferred the Trojan War and the first Olympiad as the most common markers. Eratosthenes began his chronography with the fall of Troy, and was followed by Apollodorus of Athens in this. In contrast, the Roman antiquarian Varro, as described by Censorinus, named the time before the First Olympiad as the mythical period.80 Diodorus, as noted in Chapter 2, is interested in chronology and clearly understands that the Trojan War is a critical chronological point for Greek history. In his proëm he states outright that “of the time periods contained within this work we do not try to date those before the Trojan War precisely because there is no reliable chronological table about these events available” (τῶν δὲ χρόνων τούτων περιειλημμένων ἐν ταύτῃ τῇ πραγματείᾳ τοὺς μὲν πρὸ τῶν Τρ ωικῶν οὐ διοριζόμεθα βεβαίως διὰ τὸ μηδὲν παράπηγμα παρειληφέναι περὶ τούτων πιστευόμενον, 1.5.1).81 But for events after the Trojan War, Diodorus says he follows Apollodorus of Athens. And not only does he use the Trojan War as the first reliable chronological point, he also makes it the separation between the mythical books and the historical books: “the first six of our books encompass the events and mythology before the Trojan War, the first three the antiquities of the Barbarians, the following three mainly the antiquities of the Greeks” (τῶν γὰρ βίβλων ἡμῖν ἓξ μὲν αἱ πρῶται περιέχουσι τὰς πρὸ τῶν Τρ ωικῶν πράξεις καὶ μυθολογίας, καὶ τούτων αἱ μὲν προηγούμεναι τρεῖς τὰς βαρβαρικάς, αἱ δ’ ἑξῆς σχεδὸν τὰς τῶν Ἑλλήνων ἀρχαιολογίας, 1.4.6). The following books consist “of

80. Feeney (2007) 77–â86. On the Greek attempts to date the Trojan War, see Burkert (1995) 139–â148. For Varro, see below. 81. In denying that the time before the Trojan War can be dated, Diodorus is following Apollodorus and Eratosthenes, but as Sacks (1990) 65 argues he is also implicitly rejecting the first-âcentury BCE Chronica of Castor of Rhodes, who claimed to be able to date the mythical period precisely. 119

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a universal history from the Trojan War” (τὰς ἀπὸ τῶν Τρ ωικῶν κοινὰς πράξεις, 1.4.6) down to events in his own lifetime. The Trojan War is thus a critical marker between history and mythology for him. However, there is a problem that Diodorus confronts in using this traditional chronological division between the mythical and historical periods: he covers not just the Greeks in these first six books, but also the barbarians. It is clear that the Trojan War divide is less useful for “barbarian” history, and Diodorus does not synchronize either Egyptian or Assyrian history with it. He could easily have accomplished this as well; among the accomplishments of the Assyrians he notes the dispatch of Memnon to Troy (2.22), and there was a well-established Egyptian version of the Trojan War (Hdt. 2.112–120) in the reign of the pharaoh Proteus, of which Diodorus makes no mention. His Egyptian narrative goes down to the Persian conquest, and his Assyrian narrative similarly continues down to the rise of the Medes, making the rise of the Persians a much more important chronological marker outside of Greek history. But he does not see this as a division between mythical and historical times for the barbarians, since he also knows that the civilizations of both Egypt and Assyria developed much earlier than that of the Greeks. As we have noted, he is careful to demarcate the narratives in the first three books he deems mythical. What is his criterion for this separation? The answer comes in a short passage near the beginning of Book 1, at chapter 9, which connects the description of the beginning of life and the first human societies, which was discussed in the last chapter, the Kulturgeschichte (1.8), and the beginning of the Egyptian mythological narrative at 1.10. Thomas Cole derides chapter 9 as “obscure” and able “to be harmonized only with difficulty.” Although Diodorus, admittedly, is not as clear here as he could be, the passage is nevertheless important for showing how he tries to divide mythology and history.82 In the first section of this chapter he simply states that he will now try to give a complete account of “the events handed down in memory which took place in the known regions of the inhabited world” (περὶ δὲ τῶν πράξεων τῶν παραδεδομένων μὲν εἰς μνήμην, γενομένων δὲ ἐν τοῖς γνωριζομένοις τόποις τῆς οἰκουμένης, 1.9.1). This looks like a simple bridge from the Kulturgeschichte to the first part of the world he will cover. But Diodorus then immediately declares that “we are neither able to say ourselves who the first kings were, nor do

82. Cole (1967) 178. 120

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we agree with those historical writers who say that they know” (τοὺς μὲν οὖν πρώτους ὑπάρξαντας βασιλεῖς οὔτ’ αὐτοὶ λέγειν ἔχομεν οὔτε τῶν ἱστορικῶν τοῖς ἐπαγγελλομένοις εἰδέναι συγκατατιθέμεθα, 1.9.2). Since there has not been a mention of kings yet, this passage at first appears to be a non sequi- tur. Diodorus explains that “it is impossible for the discovery of writing to be so old that the first kings were contemporary with it” (ἀδύνατον γὰρ τὴν εὕρεσιν τῶν γραμμάτων οὕτως εἶναι παλαιὰν ὥστε τοῖς πρώτοις βασιλεῦσιν ἡλικιώτιδα γενέσθαι, 1.9.2). Furthermore, “even if someone should grant this [that there was writing at the time of the first kings], the race of historians at least appears to be a recent development in the life of mankind” (εἰ δέ τις καὶ τοῦτο συγχωρήσαι, τό γε τῶν ἱστοριογράφων γένος παντελῶς φαίνεται νεωστὶ τῷ κοινῷ βίῳ συνεσταμένον, 1.9.2). In spite of this lack of historical documentation, as Diodorus says, “not only the Greeks but also many of the barbarians argue about the antiquity of mankind, saying that they are autochthonous and the first of all men to discover the necessities of life, and that the deeds done by them were the first judged worthy of recording” (περὶ δὲ τῆς τοῦ γένους ἀρχαιότητος οὐ μόνον ἀμφισβητοῦσιν Ἕλληνες, ἀλλὰ καὶ πολλοὶ τῶν βαρβάρων, ἑαυτοὺς αὐτόχθονας λέγοντες καὶ πρώτους τῶν ἁπάντων ἀνθρώπων εὑρετὰς γενέσθαι τῶν ἐν τῷ βίῳ χρησίμων, καὶ τὰς γενομένας παρ’ αὐτοῖς πράξεις ἐκ πλείστων χρόνων ἀναγραφῆς ἠξιῶσθαι, 1.9.3). What Diodorus is saying in these three sections is that almost every nation and race is convinced that not only is it the oldest, but it also made the initial discoveries for civilized life and had the first kings. However, it is impossible for a historian to determine which civilization is telling the truth, since writing did not exist in the earliest times, and the writing of history itself developed later than the actual invention of writing. It is only with the existence of written records that it becomes possible to make definitive judgments about which civilization is indeed the oldest, and those records do not exist. Accordingly, Diodorus will not make definitive statements about who the first kings were, and he thinks any historians who do so are frauds. This is a logical argument, although it would perhaps be clearer if Diodorus had ordered it 1.9.3–1.9.2– 1.9.1. As a result of this, Diodorus declares that “we will not distinguish about the antiquity of each people precisely, nor which races are earlier than the others in time and by how many years” (ἡμεῖς δὲ περὶ μὲν τῆς ἑκάστων παλαιότητος τἀκριβὲς καὶ τίνων προτερεῖ τὰ ἔθνη τῶν ἄλλων τοῖς χρόνοις καὶ πόσοις ἔτεσιν οὐκ ἂν διορισαίμεθα, 1.9.4). Unable and unwilling to make these kinds of judgments about the antiquity and earliest deeds 121

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of each people, Diodorus declares that he will simply “record what each nation has to say about its antiquity and early deeds in the main points” (τὰ δὲ λεγόμενα παρ’ ἑκάστοις περὶ τῆς ἀρχαιότητος καὶ τῶν παλαιῶν πράξεων ἐν κεφαλαίοις ἀναγράψομεν, 1.9.4).83 This explains why Diodorus provides narratives in the first three, indeed the first six, books that overlap or in some cases contradict—not because he is so inept that he does not realize he has already provided an account of, for example, Dionysus, but because he is repeating what he has heard from each nation, and he can not and does not adjudicate about which is correct or closer to the truth. Diodorus makes this clear again in his remarks at the end of the Egyptian theogony, when he notes “in general there is much disagreement about these gods” (καθόλου δὲ πολλή τίς ἐστι διαφωνία περὶ τούτων τῶν θεῶν, 1.25.1) and gives a few examples of how gods are given various names by different peoples—Osiris is called Serapis by some, Dionysus by others, Pluto by still others, while some say that Serapis is actually the Greek Pluto. Indeed, these passages foreshadow the later passages in which Diodorus reminds his readers of the inability to know the precise truth in these early mythical narratives (e.g., 4.44.5–6). 84 What chapter 9 is really doing by making the distinction between the earliest deeds of a people remembered only in memory and thus unreli- able and the later deeds documented by historians is introducing a new paradigm for the division between myth and history. For Diodorus, the critical marker for separating mythical history from real history is not a fixed chronological point, but rather the development of historical writing in each individual civilization. Diodorus is actually setting up another division as well: chapter 9 links the Kulturgeschichte of chapter 8 to the rest of the Bibliotheke. Chapter 8 describes how the first humans came to cooperate and developed the first languages and the first societies, which eventually develop into the nations of the world. But this initial time does not even exist in human memory; at best it can be reconstructed through conjecture. Diodorus is therefore laying out a tripartite division of human existence: the first part, which exists only in theory; the second part, which

83. Although Diodorus does not use the word μυθολογία here, he is clearly talking about the mythical period as shown by his use of terms designating antiquity, τῆς ἀρχαιότητος καὶ τῶν παλαιῶν πράξεων, which echo the terminology used at 1.4.6, 4.1.1, and other passages. See also Wardman (1960) 408 and Marincola (1997) 119. 84. Note also Sacks (1990) 66. 122

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is ancient and has been handed down in human memory as mythology; and the third part, which consists of legitimate, documented history.85 This use of writing to mark the start of history is not just empty rhetoric on the part of Diodorus. Narratives in the first three books introduced as being drawn from historical records are not marked off by words such as μυθολογεῖν. We have already noted that chapters 10– 29 of the first book mark the Egyptian mythological section. As if to drive home the division between the mythical Egyptian history and the factual, instead of passing directly into the account of the historical Egyptian kings Diodorus gives a lengthy description of the geography of Egypt and the ancient problem of the sources and flooding of the Nile (1.30–41), including a discussion of the various theories of a number of authorities. This geographical inter- lude, anchored firmly in the realms of science and autopsy, reestablishes Diodorus’s seriousness about presenting a proper factual narrative in addition to a mythical one. Then, before beginning the narrative of the historical kings, Diodorus reviews the overall chronology of Egypt, which is very important to him, and how long gods and mortals ruled. Diodorus then explains for how many years native Egyptians, Ethiopians, Persians, and Macedonians variously ruled Egypt (1.44.2–4) and adds that “about all of them the priests have records in sacred books handed down from ancient times to successive priests” (περὶ ὧν ἁπάντων οἱ μὲν ἱερεῖς εἶχον ἀναγραφὰς ἐν ταῖς ἱεραῖς βίβλοις ἐκ παλαιῶν χρόνων ἀεὶ τοῖς διαδόχοις παραδεδομένας, 1.44.4). For the kings of Egypt, then, going back thousands of years, there are legitimate historical records in Diodorus’s view.86 Similarly, in Book 2 Diodorus presents the Assyrian kings as documented in legitimate records. Though there was no memory of the earliest kings, he declares that “Ninus the first king of the Assyrians handed down to us in history and memory accomplished great deeds” (πρῶτος δὲ τῶν εἰς ἱστορίαν καὶ μνήμην παραδεδομένων ἡμῖν Νίνος ὁ βασιλεὺς τῶν Ἀσσυρίων μεγάλας πράξεις ἐπετελέσατο, 2.1.4). The combination of history with memory presupposes written history here. In the next chapter, before going on to cite Ctesias of Cnidus as his source for the narrative of Ninus,

85. Ibid. 63 notes that Diodorus was interested in the invention of writing and kept an open mind about who discovered it first. 86. The motif of Egyptian records stretching far back in time is not new to Diodorus; it is found as early as Plato, Timaeus 23e–24a, and implied at Herodotus 2.142. See Vannicelli (2001) 218–230. 123

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he remarks “no one historian has written about the battles individually or the number of all conquered peoples” (τὰς μὲν οὖν καθ’ ἕκαστα μάχας ἢ τὸν ἀριθμὸν ἁπάντων τῶν καταπολεμηθέντων οὐδεὶς τῶν συγγραφέων ἀνέγραψε, 2.2.2). Taken together, these statements indicate Diodorus believed that the deeds of the Assyrians, at least from Ninus on, were properly recorded by historians, but not in the detail expected of modern writers. His presentation of this in direct speech instead of indirect is further proof that he considers it truly historical as opposed to mythical. In the next section on Semiramis, after giving an account drawn largely from the historian Ctesias, Diodorus offers an alternative version of her birth, which, he tells us, can be found in Athenaeus and certain other authors (Ἀθήναιος δὲ καί τινες τῶν ἄλλων συγγραφέων, 2.20.3). Then he adds a comment making clear that, even while dismissing stories of her birth as mythical, he still regards this period as legitimately documented history: “such are the disagreements which exist among historians” (τοιαύτας ἀντιλογίας εἶναι συμβαίνει παρὰ τοῖς συγγραφεῦσι, 2.20.5). Finally, in regard to the successors of Semiramis and Ninus, Diodorus remarks that none of them did anything worth recording (by him, anyway), and the only thing “which has received an historical mention” (μόνη γὰρ τέτευχεν ἀναγραφῆς, 2.22.1) was the dispatch of Memnon to Troy, concluding “the barbarians say that such are the affairs of Memnon recorded in the royal records” (περὶ μὲν οὖν Μέμνονος τοιαῦτ’ ἐν ταῖς βασιλικαῖς ἀναγραφαῖς ἱστορεῖσθαί φασιν οἱ βάρβαροι, 2.22.5). This judgment of Memnon as historical fits with Diodorus’s presentation of the Trojan War in Book 7, the first Greek “historical” book. So the availability of written records is the critical factor in Diodorus’s presentation of barbarian history. By beginning Book 7 with the Trojan War he was conforming to the chronological division of Eratosthenes and Apollodorus, but the fragments of this book hint that he may have also justified this event as the starting point for the historical books on the basis of the availability of written sources as well. Fragment 1, from Tzetzes, states that “Homer according to Dionysius the cycle composer is said to have lived at the time of the war against Thebes and the war of the Greeks on behalf of Helen. And Diodorus is in agreement with Dionysius, as are countless others as well” (ὁ κατὰ Διονύσιον ἄνδρα τὸν κυκλογράφον ἐπὶ τῶν δύο στρατειῶν λεγόμενος ὑπάρχειν, Θηβαϊκῆς Ἑλλήνων τε τῆς διὰ τὴν Ἑλένην. Διόδωρός τε σύντροχα λέγει Διονυσίῳ, καὶ ἕτεροι μυρίοι δέ, Hist. 12.179–188). Fragment 2, from the Anecdota Parisiana, states simply “Diodorus says that Homer died prior to the return of the Heraclidae” 124

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(Διόδωρος ἀποδείκνυσι τοῦτον [Homerum] πρὸ τῆς Ἡρακλειδῶν καθόδου τετελευτηκότα, 2, p. 227). These fragments both indicate that Diodorus dated Homer to the time of the Trojan War or soon thereafter, making the Iliad at least a contemporary written account, albeit not an historical one. Elsewhere Diodorus, in common with many historians, expresses considerable contempt for ancient poets and their role in distorting and falsifying ancient mythology. For instance, in the Egyptian mythology he remarks “after writers of myth and poets took this origin story, the theaters were filled with it and belief in the story became fixed and unchangeable for later generations” (παραλαβόντων τῶν μυθογράφων καὶ ποιητῶν τὸ γένος, ἐμπεπλῆσθαι τὰ θέατρα, καὶ τοῖς ἐπιγινομένοις ἰσχυρὰν πίστιν καὶ ἀμετάθετον γενέσθαι, 1.23.8). In Book 4, describing the Labors of Heracles, Diodorus complains that “the poets tell the myth, according to the customary telling of marvels, that Heracles alone and without soldiers accomplished these famous feats” (τοὺς δὲ ποιητὰς διὰ τὴν συνήθη τερατολογίαν μυθολογῆσαι μόνον τὸν Ἡρακλέα καὶ γυμνὸν ὅπλων τελέσαι τοὺς τεθρυλημένους ἄθλους, 4.53.7). But Homer is something of a special case, and Diodorus cites him on a number of occasions as a supporting authority in the first part of the Bibliotheke. In the Egyptian mythology he provides evidence for the meaning of certain names; for instance, he explains that Osiris means “many-eyed,” a reference to the sun’s rays being an appropriate explanation, according to Diodorus, because the sun, with his rays, just like many eyes, sees all the land and sea. To back up this interpretation, he quotes Homer’s line about “the sun who sees all things and hears all things” (ἠέλιός θ’, ὅς πάντ’ ἐφορᾷ καὶ πάντ’ ἐπακούει, Od. 12.323 κτλ.). In Book 4 Homer is cited at the end of Heracles’s narrative, for the detail that Heracles married “fair-ankled Hebe” (Od. 11.602–603) and again as evidence that Erichthonius was the wealthiest of mortal men (Il. 20.220–221). I think it is quite likely that Diodorus saw Homer as a salvageable historical source through rationalizing techniques, and he was not alone in this regard, as we shall see below with Strabo.87

87. The allegorical interpretation of Homer was most closely associated with the Stoics, but Homer was of course subjected to a number of rationalizing and allegorical interpretations, and his value as a source much debated in antiquity. Note Hatzimichali (2013b) 71–72 and, more generally, Kim (2010). â 125

Mythical History 125 Mythology in Diodorus’s Near-âContemporaries Diodorus breaks with longstanding Greek historiographical attitudes toward myth, but he does so in a considered manner that recognizes the problems inherent in treating the distant past. How does this relate to other scholars working with history near the end of the first century? First, let us consider two Greek historians, Strabo and Dionysius of Halicarnassus, who were writing a few decades after Diodorus. Strabo, as we have seen, was quite critical of Ephorus for including myths, even rationalized versions, in his digressions. But elsewhere in his Geography Strabo has a more complex view of the place of mythology. As he understands it, mythology has a practical value, since “whenever both the amazing and the marvelous are added, it heightens pleasure, which is a charm for learning” (ὅταν δὲ προσῇ καὶ τὸ θαυμαστὸν καὶ τὸ τερατῶδες, ἐπιτείνει τὴν ἡδονήν, ἥπερ ἐστὶ τοῦ μανθάνειν φίλτρον, 1.2.8). Myths can be used to inspire both children and adults, and stories such as the labors of Theseus and Heracles can inspire men to try to emulate them, while the divine punishments suffered by others can deter men from evil actions. Thus myth has very practical applications for Strabo, as it also does for Diodorus.88 Strabo is particularly interested in Homer’s role in propagating myth. In his view, Homer took real historical events and added fictional elements to make them more popular: “thus having taken the actual event of the Trojan War [Homer] adorned it with manufactured myths, and the wandering of Odysseus similarly. But to attach a fantastic story without any truth to it is not Homeric” (οὕτω δὴ τόν τε Ἰλιακὸν πόλεμον γεγονότα παραλαβὼν ἐκόσμησε ταῖς μυθοποιίαις, καὶ τὴν Ὀδυσσέως πλάνην ὡσαύτως· ἐκ μηδενὸς δὲ ἀληθοῦς ἀνάπτειν κενὴν τερατολογίαν οὐχ Ὁμηρικόν, 1.2.9). For Strabo, then, the fantastic can be stripped out of Homer, and he demonstrates this with his examination of the wanderings of Odysseus in his first book.89 So Strabo, despite his sharp criticism of Ephorus, has a fairly complicated and nuanced view of how mythical accounts, at least in Homer, can be approached by an historian. Although the nature of the Geography did not require him to give long narrative mythical accounts, there is still a great unease about the propriety of including mythical stories in the Geography at numerous points (e.g., 9.4.18, 10.3.23), and Strabo clearly is not happy

88. Malinowski (2001) 107–â108, Gabba (1991) 127–â129. 89. Kim (2010) 47–â84. Malinowski (2001) 112–â113. Cf. Dueck (2005), Biraschi (2005). 126

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about it.90 And one element of myth, namely the gods, seems to have been largely avoided by Strabo. Indeed, I would contend that in the passage cited above criticizing Ephorus it is as much that Ephorus dared to rationalize the gods as the inclusion of a myth in history that angered Strabo. This is quite different from both Diodorus’s promotion of myth in history and his inclusion of the gods in an historicized form. The other major Greek author of the Augustan period to deal with myth is Dionysius of Halicarnassus. The first book of hisRoman Antiquities deals with the history of Italy up to the time of Romulus and Remus, which Dionysius presents not as a narrative history but as an antiquarian discussion of various early peoples of Italy and their origins. Indeed, his major source is the great Roman antiquarian Varro, although he cites numerous other authorities. Dionysius is willing to give more detailed accounts, which he identifies as “mythical” at several points. For example, after introducing the Tyrrhenians, Dionysius goes on to cite “those who tell myths about the migrants” (οἱ δὲ μετανάστας μυθολογοῦντες, 1.27.1) as a preface to his discussion of the origins of their leader Tyrrhenus and the Tyrrhenians, before finally concluding that they were most likely native to Italy. In this passage, the “myths” are one type of evidence to be weighed against various authorities and the standard of plausibility. The story of Heracles in Italy offers another example of Dionysius’s approach. He opens his account by declaring that some of the stories told about Heracles are more mythical, and others more truthful (ἔστι δὲ τῶν ὑπὲρ τοῦ δαίμονος τοῦδε λεγομένων τὰ μὲν μυθικώτερα, τὰ δ’ ἀληθέστερα, 1.39.1). Dionysius goes on to give the “mythical” (ὁ μυθικός) version of Heracles in Italy, in which the hero was driving Geryon’s cattle to Argos and took a nap in Latium. A thief named Cacus stole some of the cattle and concealed the theft by pulling them backward by their tails. Heracles, on awakening, found the cave where Cacus was hiding, and by bringing the rest of the cattle to the entrance was able to get the stolen cows to reveal themselves. He then killed Cacus and set up an altar to Jupiter nearby. The locals were grateful, and their king, Evander, became the first to offer Heracles divine honors. This version already shows signs of rationalizing: Virgil’s version of Cacus is a huge fire-breathing monster. Nevertheless, Dionysius goes on to give “the more truthful story, which many of those describing Heracles’s deeds in the manner of history have

90. Malinowski (2001) 118–119. 127

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used” (ὁ δ’ ἀληθέστερος, ᾧ πολλοὶ τῶν ἐν ἱστορίας σχήματι τὰς πράξεις αὐτοῦ διηγησαμένων ἐχρήσαντο, 1.41.1). In this version Heracles is at the head of an army, overthrowing despots, suppressing bandits, building cities and roads—in short, fully rationalized (cf. Diodorus 4.53.7). Heracles tarried in Italy not because he was driving cattle, but because it was too stormy for ships to sail and not all of Italy submitted to him. In this variant, Cacus was a barbaric chieftain who opposed Hercules, and accordingly was crushed by him. So Dionysius has a much more open attitude toward mythology than most earlier authors, but unlike Diodorus he does not present myths as a continuous narrative, and has a much sharper eye for what he thinks is “true.” As Gabba puts it, “Dionysius is … closer to Diodorus [than to Strabo], even if he cannot … bring himself to accept the necessity of a different set of historical criteria for the archaic period in Rome, as opposed to later epochs.”91 But unlike Diodorus, Dionysius is far less willing to deal with mythology involving the gods. For example, in giving the background to Romulus and Remus, he reports that “most writers give a mythical account that an image of the god” (οἱ δὲ πλεῖστοι μυθολογοῦσι τοῦ δαίμονος εἴδωλον, 1.77.2) impregnated Rhea and that all of this was accompanied by many supernatural signs. Dionysius declares that this is not the appropriate place to decide “whether it is better to condemn these stories as human misdeeds attributed to the gods since the god abides no deed unworthy of his incorruptible and blessed nature” (πότερον καταφρονεῖν ὡς ἀνθρωπίνων ῥᾳδιουργημάτων εἰς θεοὺς ἀναφερομένων μηδὲν ἂν τοῦ θεοῦ λειτούργημα τῆς ἀφθάρτου καὶ μακαρίας φύσεως ἀνάξιον ὑπομένοντος, 1.77.3), or “whether to admit even these accounts, since everything in the universe has been mixed, and between divine and mortal a third nature exists, the race of daemons, which mixes sometimes with men, sometimes with gods, and from which, it is said, the mythical race of heroes was begotten” (ἢ καὶ ταύτας παραδέχεσθαι τὰς ἱστορίας, ὡς ἀνακεκραμένης τῆς ἁπάσης οὐσίας τοῦ κόσμου καὶ μεταξὺ τοῦ θείου καὶ θνητοῦ γένους τρίτης τινὸς ὑπαρχούσης φύσεως, ἣν τὸ δαιμόνων φῦλον ἐπέχει, τοτὲ μὲν ἀνθρώποις, τοτὲ δὲ θεοῖς ἐπιμιγνύμενον, ἐξ οὗ ὁ λόγος ἔχει τὸ μυθευόμενον ἡρώων φῦναι γένος, 1.77.3). Instead, Dionysius declares that “it is not fitting to examine these things here and what has been said by philosophers

91. Gabba (1991) 129. Unfortunately, Diodorus’s account of Romulus and Remus from Book 8 only partially survives. The extant portion gives no hint about Diodorus’s position on their “divine” heritage. 128

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about them is sufficient” (οὔτε καιρὸς ἐν τῷ παρόντι διασκοπεῖν ἀρκεῖ τε ὅσα φιλοσόφοις περὶ αὐτῶν ἐλέχθη, 1.77.3). Unlike Diodorus, who has no problem including the gods in his mythologies, Dionysius would rather acknowledge this as a religious and philosophical debate that is not proper for history. What he can be sure of is that Rhea got pregnant, but that the divine was involved is treated with extreme skepticism. Dionysius returns more generally to this problem in Book 2. Discussing Romulus’s foundation of various Roman institutions, he praises the first Roman king because “he cast out all those handing down myths about the gods in which some blasphemies or slanders are attributed to them, regarding them as wicked and hurtful and unseemly, and unworthy not only of the gods but even of good men, and he instructed men to speak the best things about the gods and to regard nothing unworthy of their blessed nature” (τοὺς δὲ παραδεδομένους περὶ αὐτῶν μύθους, ἐν οἷς βλασφημίαι τινὲς ἔνεισι κατ’ αὐτῶν ἢ κακηγορίαι, πονηροὺς καὶ ἀνωφελεῖς καὶ ἀσχήμονας ὑπολαβὼν εἶναι καὶ οὐχ ὅτι θεῶν ἀλλ’ οὐδ’ ἀνθρώπων ἀγαθῶν ἀξίους, ἅπαντας ἐξέβαλε καὶ παρεσκεύασε τοὺς ἀνθρώπους <τὰ> κράτιστα περὶ θεῶν λέγειν τε καὶ φρονεῖν μηδὲν αὐτοῖς προσάπτοντας ἀνάξιον ἐπιτήδευμα τῆς μακαρίας φύσεως, 2.18.3). Dionysius gives his approval for this policy, and goes on to add that even though he understands that “there is some usefulness for mankind in the Greek myths” (τῶν Ἑλληνικῶν μύθων εἰσί τινες ἀνθρώποις χρήσιμοι, 2.20.1), specifically in philosophical interpretations, “nevertheless I take a cautious approach towards them” (ὅμως εὐλαβῶς διάκειμαι πρὸς αὐτοὺς, 2.20.2). Dionysius explains that “the great unwashed masses love to take these accounts of the gods in the worst way, and suffer in one of two ways: either they condemn the gods as entangled in every sort of evil, or they do not refrain from any disgrace or lawlessness since they see the same things attributed to the gods” (ὁ δὲ πολὺς καὶ ἀφιλοσόφητος ὄχλος ἐπὶ τὰ χείρω λαμβάνειν φιλεῖ τοὺς περὶ αὐτῶν λόγους καὶ δυεῖν πάσχει θάτερον, ἢ καταφρονεῖ τῶν θεῶν ὡς ἐν πολλῇ κακοδαιμονίᾳ κυλινδουμένων, ἢ τῶν αἰσχίστων τε καὶ παρανομωτάτων οὐδενὸς ἀπέχεται θεοῖς αὐτὰ προσκείμενα ὁρῶν, 2.20.2). Here then is the critical difference between Diodorus and Dionysius. For Diodorus, the deeds of the gods, as he presents them, are a source of inspiration for men; but Dionysius is not willing to go so far in his rationalizing, although he has a more open attitude toward mythology than earlier historians. Even among his Greek near- contemporary historians, Diodorus’s treatment of mythology is unique. Interestingly, there are stronger parallels regarding the treatment of myth between Diodorus and some of his Roman near contemporaries 129

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than the Greeks. For example, the Roman polymath Varro has a tripartite division of time similar to that of Diodorus. According to a fragment preserved by Censorinus, Varro divides the mythical (μυθικόν) period and the historical (ἱστορικόν) period, explaining that “things that happened [in historic time] are contained in true histories” (res in eo gestae veris historiis continentur, de Die Natali, 21.1). Varro also gives a chronological dividing point between these periods, the first Olympiad. In addition to the division between the mythical and the historical, he also separates the mythical time from an even earlier period that he calls ἄδηλον “unclear” because nothing is known about it, analogous, I would propose, to the pre-mythical period Diodorus reconstructs anthropologically in chapter 8. In Varro’s case, however, the two periods are separated by a cataclysm, presumably the great flood. Whether he attempted any sort of anthropological reconstruction of the earliest period the way Diodorus did is unknown. And although Varro gives a chronological marker to divide mythical and historical periods, like Diodorus he also points to the existence of written records as defining historical time as opposed to mythical.92 W. Ludwig argued that the poet Ovid, whose writing we saw holds similarities to Diodorus’s account on the origin of life, may also have seen human history as divided into three periods in the Metamorphoses, an early period (1.5–451), a mythological period (1.452–11.193), and an historical period (11.194–15.870), and was inspired by universal historiography to attempt this chronological comprehensiveness.93 As with Varro, a key division here between the first two periods appears to be the great flood, while the marker of the beginning of the historical period is the building of Troy. Ludwig’s conclusions have not met with much acceptance among Ovidian scholars, but Stephen Wheeler has recently revived them and argued that Ovid has indeed been influenced by universal historiography.94 Even more significant than the possible link with Varro and Ovid is the connection between Diodorus and Livy, who, not long after Diodorus’s

92. The origins of Varro’s tripartite division are unclear. Jacoby, on FGrH 241 F1c, suggested that it derived ultimately from Eratosthenes, but there is no evidence that Varro used Eratosthenes or that Eratosthenes theorized about a period before the Trojan War. Ax (2000) 359 suggests that Varro derived it from Castor of Rhodes, but Möller (2005) 256–257 thinks this unlikely. Fraccaro (1907) 99 believed that it was Varro’s own creation. 93. Ludwig (1965) 74–86, esp. 80. 94. Schmidt (1991) 43ff. argues against Ludwig. See Wheeler (2002) 163–189, esp. 182–189. However, Wheeler makes no mention of Varro, who might seem a more obvious candidate to influence Ovid. 130

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floruit, began writing his massive 142-book history of Rome. In many ways Livy and Diodorus have similar conceptions of history. Livy declares that “what especially makes the study of history healthy and profitable is that you see examples of every kind of experience laid out as if on a conspicu- ous monument, from which you can choose for yourself and your state what to imitate, and that which you should shun as base in both conception and result” (hoc illud est praecipue in cognitione rerum salubre ac frugiferum, omnis te exempli documenta in inlustri posita monumento intueri; inde tibi tuaeque rei publicae quod imitere capias, inde foedum inceptu foedum exitu quod vites, Pref. 10). This is close to Diodorus’s declarations that history provides more than a lifetime of experience and incites men to great deeds (1.1.5, 1.2.1, et al.).95 Like Diodorus, Livy deals with the problem of treating mythology in history. In his preface, he notes that events “before the founding of the city, or rather the city to be founded, are more adorned with poetic myths than with the uncorrupted monuments of history” (ante conditam condendamve urbem poeticis magis decora fabulis quam incorruptis rerum gestarum monumentis traduntur, Pref. 6). Even so, Livy still reports many of these poeticae fabulae in the first book. Although he does not come out and say that mythology should be subjected to different standards than history, like Diodorus he does distance himself from its accuracy: “these things I neither affirm nor refute” (ea nec adfirmare nec refellere in animo est,Pref . 6). Part of the distinction, as Livy sees it, is the extreme chronological gap: “this favor is given to antiquity, that by mixing human matters with the divine the foundations of cities are made more august” (datur haec venia antiquitati ut miscendo humana divinis primordia urbium augustiora faciat, Pref. 7). However, at the beginning of the second pentad Livy throws some of his earlier statements into doubt. He begins by noting that Roman history from the foundation of the city to the Gallic sack was “obscure due to its extreme age, like things barely perceived from a great distance” (res cum vetustate nimia obscuras velut quae magno ex intervallo loci vix cernuntur, 6.1.2). This is far from the “uncorrupted monuments of history.” Livy, as Feeney remarks, formerly “had drawn a line between myth and history around the time of the Romulean foundation of the city, but the ‘fresh start in 390 redraws the limits of the historically verifiable’.”96 John Henderson

95. See pp. 7–8 on this “moral utility” of history. 96. Feeney (2007) 102, quoting Kraus (1994) 26. 131

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goes further, suggesting outright that the first five books of Livy may constitute “a mythical preface to the history ‘proper’.”97 This makes the first pentad of Livy analogous with Diodorus 1–6, except that Livy is dealing with a single people and Diodorus with many. Feeney sees the date of the Gallic sack, 390 BCE, as the key point in defining where Roman history really begins for Livy in this passage, but even though chronology is clearly important here, Livy gives another factor.98 He explains that the written records, which were the “sole trustworthy guardian of the memory of past events” (una custodia fidelis memoriae rerum gestarum, 6.1.2), had almost all been destroyed when the Gauls sacked and burned Rome in 390.99 But for the following period, Livy indicates that for that time the history of Rome is “clearer and more certain” (clariora … certioraque, 6.1.3). And his statement that written records are the one true guardian of history shows that he sees them, more so than the date, as the principal dividing line between the obscure events of the past and the historically verifiable. Thus, it is in a near-contemporary Roman historian that we find the closest parallel for Diodorus’s employment of historical records as the key dividing point between myth and history, although Livy does not come out and specifically say that 1–5 is a Roman mythology, and does not treat the gods. Neither Livy nor Ovid nor Varro offers a perfect parallel with Diodorus; nor do they precisely parallel each other. Still, the fact is that all these authors are meditating on the divisions of mythology and history and offering similar solutions. We have already seen parallels between Diodorus and Roman historical thought in my Chapter 3, and this offers further evidence for his kinship with the intellectual world of Rome in the middle to late first century BCE. Now let us examine the ramifications of Diodorus’s mythical histories, and particularly his treatment of the gods, which is unique among his near-contemporaries.

97. Henderson (1998) 318. Vasaly (2002) 275–278 also notes the mythical character of much of the opening of Livy, as well as the sharp division between Books 1–5 and the history beginning in Book 6. 98. Feeney (2007) 100–103. 99. Plutarch Num. 1.1 cites the Roman historian “Clodius” as explaining that the ancient records of Rome were lost in the Gallic sack. If this is Livy’s source, Quintus Claudius Quadrigarius, it might indicate a strain of Roman history that rejected the earlier times Livy is reacting against. Note Vasaly (2002) 275 and Oakley (1997) 381–382. Oakley notes that there is no firm point in Livy 2–10 where authentic records actually begin. 132 133

5 The Deified Culture Bringers

In the last chapter we saw that Diodorus breaks with the longstanding custom in Greek historiography of avoiding the mythical period. As part of his treatment of mythology, he employs a Euhemeristic approach to histo- ricize the gods as mortals who accomplished great deeds and were deified by later generations of mankind. These gods-as- mortals, usually described as culture bringers or culture heroes, dominate the opening books of the Bibliotheke, and clearly form a fundamental part of Diodorus’s own beliefs.1 The culture bringers are not original to Diodorus, but he emphasizes them to an extent not seen in other authors and contrasts them with the themes of progress that we have explored in Chapter 3. Indeed, these mythical figures are so prominent and so important for Diodorus that they probably drove his decision to include mythology in the first place and forced him to justify it, another example of how interconnected the opening books are despite their eclectic contents. Moreover, his presentation of the culture bringers is closely linked with the transition from Roman Republic to Empire, and through these figures he is able to engage with Roman intellectual debates over deification in general, and the deification of Julius Caesar in particular. The Oxford Classical Dictionary defines culture bringers as “mythical figures who are credited with the invention of important cultural achievements.”2 They are by no means unique to Greek mythology.3 Iris Sulimani prefers the phrase “culture hero” because she believes it better

1. As Sacks (1990) 69–72 notes. 2. OCD4 s.v. culture-bringer. 3. Momigliano (1982) 539–542. 134

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encompasses the activities of these figures, but the two terms are essentially synonymous.4 I prefer culture bringers because the key aspect of these figures for Diodorus is that they spread their civilizing benefactions to all mankind. For example, in Book 1 Diodorus ascribes to the Egyptians the belief that there are gods who were “mortal in the beginning, but through their intelligence and their universal benefaction for mankind have obtained immortality, and some of them had been kings in Egypt as well” (ἄλλους δ’ ἐκ τούτων ἐπιγείους γενέσθαι φασίν, ὑπάρξαντας μὲν θνητούς, διὰ δὲ σύνεσιν καὶ κοινὴν ἀνθρώπων εὐεργεσίαν τετευχότας τῆς ἀθανασίας, ὧν ἐνίους καὶ βασιλεῖς γεγονέναι κατὰ τὴν Αἴγυπτον, 1.13.1). Similarly, in a fragment of Book 6 Diodorus declares that there are gods “who obtained immortal honor and fame on account of their benefactions towards mankind, such as Heracles, Dionysus, Aristaeus, and others of a similar sort” (ἑτέρους δὲ λέγουσιν ἐπιγείους γενέσθαι θεούς, διὰ δὲ τὰς εἰς ἀνθρώπους εὐεργεσίας ἀθανάτου τετευχότας τιμῆς τε καὶ δόξης, οἷον Ἡρακλέα, Διόνυσον, Ἀρισταῖον, καὶ τοὺς ἄλλους τοὺς τούτοις ὁμοίους, 6.1.2). There are dozens of figures in the first part of theBibliotheke whom Diodorus depicts as spreading benefactions among mankind. Sacks counts seventy instances when a figure is noted as achieving immortality for his benefactions.5 However, the number whom Diodorus describes in detail is smaller and he presents the main culture bringers according to a basic paradigm. The ruler of the people currently being described (Egyptians, Libyans, Greeks), usually identified with one of the traditional Olympian gods, especially Dionysus (Osiris according to the Egyptians) but also Zeus or Heracles, bestows great benefactions on his or her own people. These benefactions usually relate foremost to agriculture, but also include founding cities, developing laws, and introducing religious cult. Having benefited his or her own people so much, the culture bringer then decides to visit the entire world to spread these trappings of civilization. The desire of the culture bringer to achieve divinity is often given as a further motivation for the culture expedition.6 Over the course of the expedition, civilization is spread to the furthest reaches of the world, and usually culture bringers are recognized as the

4. Sulimani (2011) 14. She also uses the term missionary to describe the activity of these figures, but I find it too weighted with the idea of spreading religion, especially Christianity, to be helpful. 5. Sacks (1990) 70. See further below. 6. On Diodorus’s language of benefactions and its consistency, see Sulimani (2011) 64–66. 135

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benefactors they are and welcomed with open arms. Sometimes they are acknowledged as gods by their beneficiaries while the culture bringers are still alive. At some point the culture bringers will have to fight a major war or battle against those who would resist them and their benefactions. Afterward they return to their native land, and following their death Diodorus will declare, using slight variations on the same phrase, that they “obtained immortal honor” (τυχεῖν τῆς ἀθανασίας τιμῆς).7 These culture bringers are in turn worshipped as gods down to Diodorus’s own time. As we saw in the last chapter, culture bringers have a long history in intellectual circles, going back to fifth-century sophists, but during the Hellenistic period they were part of the intellectual underpinnings for ruler cult, and by Diodorus’s own time they were becoming important in Roman intellectual debates as well. Within Greek historiography, however, no other writer emphasizes them to the extent that Diodorus does.8 Sulimani has recently published a detailed study of culture bringers and their role in what she calls “the pagan mission” in Diodorus. Sulimani argues that there are six major culture bringers in the first five books of Diodorus: Osiris, Sesoösis, Semiramis, Myrina, Dionysus, and Heracles. However, even though these six figures all share certain aspects of the culture-bringer paradigm, Sulimani downplays critical differences between them. In particular, some of the figures become gods, while others do not, a distinction that is extremely important for Diodorus and that ties in both to his own theories of historiography and to debates raging in his own time about potential deification of Julius Caesar.

Culture Bringers and Kulturgeschichte The centrality of the culture bringers to Diodorus’s worldview can be seen not only in his vigorous defense of mythology, which makes it possible to include them in the Bibliotheke, but also in how he both integrates and contrasts their accomplishments with themes for the advancement of civilization that he has already established in the Kulturgeschichte at 1.8. This theory, as we have seen, has numerous parallels with accounts in other authors from the late first century BCE, including Lucretius, Vitruvius,

7. On the variations in Diodorus’s phraseology, see ibid. 67. Sacks (1990) 71 notes that Diodorus’s phraseology is unique to the Bibliotheke. 8. Sulimani (2011) 74–76 and 79–80. 136

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and Posidonius, although the last-named survives only in a summary in an epistle of Seneca. There are a number of elements related to the progress of man that are prominent in one or more of these other authors, but missing from Diodorus’s own Kulturgeschichte. Thomas Cole, in his larger analysis of these authors, identifies the elements missing from Diodorus’s description of early man in 1.8 as the discovery of fire; grain and its method of cultivation; the effects of competition and emulation on the growth of the useful arts; further technological developments relating to mining, metallurgy, warfare, and agriculture; and the non-essential arts such as astronomy and music.9 However, even though Diodorus does not include these elements of civilization in his account of early man in chapter 8, they are very prominent in his accounts of the culture bringers. Cole himself noted that these themes all appear in Book 1 in the theogony of the Egyptian gods that begins at 1.12, and despite the fact that both passages dealt with the advance of civilization, there was virtually no overlap between them, as might be expected if Diodorus drew on two separate sources. Cole, with considerable ingenuity, posited that originally the Kulturgeschichte as it stands in Diodorus was part of the Egyptian theogony. He suggested Diodorus wanted some way to transition from the preface to the Egyptian narrative, and already having an Egyptian account that presumably included a Kulturgeschichte, he simply extracted elements from that and inserted them after the preface. Thus chapters 7 and 8 were “an effort to bridge the gap between the high-sounding rhetoric of the preface and the uninspired collection of excerpts which follows” at the expense of “some violence” to his source.10 But, as we have already seen in chapter 3, Diodorus’s Kulturgeschichte, with its emphasis on χρεία and metus hostilis as the drivers of mankind’s advancement, stands on its own, and provides an internally consistent account that is clearly related to the other accounts of primitive peoples in the Bibliotheke. The Egyptian theogony similarly is a unified account, emphasizing mankind’s advancement being driven by culture bringers. By carefully avoiding any overlap between them, Diodorus is in fact presenting two very different ways in which mankind advances, both with long

9. Cole (1967) 30–46. 10. Ibid. 176–180. Much of Cole’s argument rests on perceived incongruities between sections in chapters 6–9 that are not always apparent to me. 137

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histories in Greek thought. Sacks argued χρεία and culture bringers were two dissimilar, but compatible modes of progress and suggested that it is another example of Diodorus’s universalism in history.11 But Diodorus’s employment of these modes of advancement is more complex than Sacks allowed. It must be noted that Diodorus does allude to the various inventions noted by Cole as missing in the Kulturgeschichte in chapter 8. At 1.8.8, following his remark on experience teaching men to store food and find shelter, Diodorus states, “and after fire and other useful things were discovered, gradually other skills and things capable of helping the common life of man were discovered” (γνωσθέντος δὲ τοῦ πυρὸς καὶ τῶν ἄλλων τῶν χρησίμων κατὰ μικρὸν καὶ τὰς τέχνας εὑρεθῆναι καὶ τἄλλα τὰ δυνάμενα τὸν κοινὸν βίον ὠφελῆσαι). This is then followed by his declaration that necessity itself is man’s teacher. In the context of the Kulturgeschichte, then, these skills and discoveries are part of a long process. Placement of this description at the end of the passage also suggests that Diodorus sees these features as marking man’s advancement beyond the primitive state described in the Kulturgeschichte. This sets him apart from Lucretius and Vitruvius, who still see these elements as part of early man’s development. Let us now examine these specific features in Diodorus’s account to see how he uses them to promote the culture bringer. Perhaps the most noteworthy feature that is missing from Diodorus’s Kulturgeschichte is the discovery of fire. Lucretius offers two explanations for mankind’s discovery of fire: either through lightning strikes or by tree branches rubbing together in high winds and igniting by friction. As both Gale and Campbell note, Lucretius is denying any role at all for a divine figure showing mankind fire.12 Lucretius adds that man was further taught by the sun to use the heat of fire for cooking (5.1091–1104). Vitruvius’s account of the discovery of fire actually opens his own version of the Kulturgeschichte. He does not mention lightning as the cause of fire, but instead gives a more elaborate version of the theory of friction. Vitruvius explains how humans perceived that the heat of fire was advantageous, and began adding fuel in order to keep the flames alive, and over the course of this action people began to show each other through signs how good fire was. From this they began to fix specific meanings to sounds, and as a

11. Sacks (1990) 61–64. 12. Gale (2009) 190–191, Campbell (2003) 322–326. 138

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result conversation and speech eventually developed. So Vitruvius makes the chance discovery of fire the origin of civilization (2.1.1–2). For both Vitruvius and Lucretius, fire is an important element in the development of man—for Vitruvius, the most important element. Diodorus, for his part, has only the briefest mention of it in his own Kulturgeschichte at 1.8.8. But he does have a detailed account of the discovery of fire in the Egyptian theogony a few chapters later. According to the Egyptian priests, the discoverer of fire was Hephaestus. Lightning struck a tree in the mountains and set a forest alight. Hephaestus went up to this fire, and because it was winter he found the heat enjoyable. He added fuel to the fire to keep it burning, and “called the other men to enjoy the benefit from it” (προκαλεῖσθαι τοὺς ἄλλους ἀνθρώπους πρὸς τὴν ἐξ αὐτοῦ γινομένην εὐχρηστίαν, 1.13.3). And so the Egyptian Hephaestus “through the benefit of this discovery obtained rule” (διὰ τὴν εὐχρηστίαν ταύτην τυχόντα τῆς ἡγεμονίας, 1.13.3) over the Egyptians. Diodorus’s account obviously bears striking similarities to the descriptions in both Lucretius and Vitruvius.13 He has the same physical explanation for fire as Lucretius—a lightning strike—and the same account of someone approaching fire, enjoying the heat, and adding fuel as Vitruvius. Where Diodorus differs dramatically is in the specific setting in Egypt and the fact that the man who discovers the usefulness of fire is an actual person, the Egyptian king Hephaestus, as opposed to some unknown group of people as in Vitruvius or Lucretius. For Diodorus it is through the action of a gifted leader, the first culture bringer, that fire is both discovered and distributed to mankind. Fire is less significant for Diodorus than the invention of agriculture, which is perhaps not surprising given the emphasis he places on food in the narratives discussed in chapter 3. Of the other first-century authors Cole uses as parallels, only Lucretius includes any mention of agriculture, and his description, which follows directly on his account of the discovery of fire, is quite brief—simply that the sun taught man to cook food with fire (5.1101–1104). 14 Diodorus sets the discovery of agriculture in the context of the Egyptian theogony, at the start of a long account of Osiris and Isis. At a time when the Egyptians were cannibalistic, Isis discovered

13. Cole (1967) 15–17 makes this passage the starting point for his larger reconstruction of a single Kulturgeschichte. 14. Ibid. 30–31. 139

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wheat and barley growing wild (but unknown to early man) and Osiris devised cultivation of these grains. As a result of these discoveries, the early Egyptians abandoned cannibalism for the obviously superior new food.15 This is entirely different from the brief mention in Lucretius, with its emphasis on cooking. As with fire, Diodorus sharply emphasizes that specific individuals discovered the basics of agriculture and disseminated the knowledge. Diodorus actually relates discovery of agriculture as the work of a culture bringer at several points in the first three books of theBibliotheke . For example, in the brief account of the earliest Indians, discussed in chapter 3, we saw that they lived off wild fruits (2.38.2). But it is Dionysus who “cultivated storage of fruits and gave this knowledge to the Indians, along with the discovery of wine and of other things useful for life” (τῆς παραθέσεως τῶν καρπῶν ἐπιμεληθέντα μεταδιδόναι τοῖς Ἰνδοῖς, καὶ τὴν εὕρεσιν τοῦ οἴνου καὶ τῶν ἄλλων τῶν εἰς τὸν βίον χρησίμων παραδοῦναι, 2.38.5). In Book 3 the Atlantian Uranus “stopped his subjects from their lawless and bestial life, discovering the uses of cultivated fruits and their storage, and not a few other useful things” (καὶ τῆς μὲν ἀνομίας καὶ τοῦ θηριώδους βίου παῦσαι τοὺς ὑπακούοντας, εὑρόντα τὰς τῶν ἡμέρων καρπῶν χρείας καὶ παραθέσεις καὶ τῶν ἄλλων τῶν χρησίμων οὐκ ὀλίγα, 3.56.3), nicely paralleling Osiris in Book 1. Elsewhere in Book 3 Diodorus repeatedly attributes the discovery of important elements of agriculture, such as viticulture or storage of fruits, and their dissemination, to variants of Dionysus (3.63.2– 4, 3.64.2, 3.70.8). In all these examples, agriculture is the discovery of an individual leader, who then spreads the knowledge to others. We saw in chapter 3 that a great leader anticipates and fulfills the needs of his people, and spreading agriculture is the ultimate example of this. Whatever its origins, this is one of Diodorus’s fundamental beliefs.16 Moreover, Diodorus wants his audience to compare and contrast the actions of the culture bringer with the progress of man in the Kulturgeschichte of chapter 8. The key point is that mankind adopted agriculture “because it seemed advantageous to stop killing one another” (διὰ τὸ φαίνεσθαι συμφέρον ὑπάρχειν ἀπέχεσθαι τῆς κατ’ ἀλλήλων ὠμότητος, 1.14.1), clearly

15. Cannibalism as a mark of primitive society is also seen at Moschion fr. 6.14–15. In addition, [Plato] Epinomis 974e–976c ascribes elimination of cannibalism to the discovery of cultivation. On the latter, see Cole (1967) 103–104. 16. On the importance of agriculture and its spread in Diodorus, see also Sulimani (2011) 230–235. 140

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recalling 1.8.2, when early men “were taught to help one another by advantage” (ἀλλήλοις βοηθεῖν ὑπὸ τοῦ συμφέροντος διδασκομένους). Man is still being taught by advantage, but now those advantages are being provided by the agency of the culture bringer, in this case Osiris. This is not the result of Diodorus extracting one passage from the other; rather, he is asking his readers to compare the two theories about how civilization can develop in order to see which way is superior. Continuing with themes Cole sees as belonging to an original Kulturgeschichte, at 1.14.3 Diodorus describes how Isis established laws that caused the early Egyptians “to cease from lawless violence and insolence through the fear of retribution” (τῆς ἀθέσμου βίας καὶ ὕβρεως παύσασθαι διὰ τὸν ἀπὸ τῆς τιμωρίας φόβον). Cole sees this as parallel with Lucretius’s “then neighbors began to join in friendship among themselves, eager to neither harm nor be harmed” (tunc et amicitiem coeperunt iungere aventes finitimi inter se nec laedere nec violari, 5.1019–20). 17 But this is an inappropriate equivalence. Lucretius sees this as a mutually agreed act between neighbors, whereas Diodorus has it imposed from above by the law-giving figure of Isis.18 In addition, Diodorus’s emphasis on fear as a deterrent for committing crime fits in with his overall philosophy in the Kulturgeschichte, where it is the metus hostilis that first causes men to come together. Leaders who understand the basic elements of human nature and how to influence them can advance the progress of mankind or their own interests (note the example of Pericles in Chapter 3). And as with agriculture, Diodorus attributes law giving to a number of other civilizing rulers in the same vein as Isis and Osiris. The Indian Dionysus “introduced both laws and courts” (καὶ νόμους εἰσηγήσασθαι καὶ δικαστήρια, 2.38.5), while the Libyan Uranus forced his subjects to cease from lawlessness (τῆς ἀνομίας, 3.56.3), and the Cretan Cronus introduced justice to mankind (5.66.4).19 A broader theme that is also present in these accounts is the effect of competition on the development of the useful arts. Diodorus, Lucretius, and Vitruvius all include this in some form.20 Vitruvius explains that “by

17. Cole (1967) 32–36. 18. Campbell (2003) 275–276 notes that there is no need for a lawgiver in Lucretius’s Epicurean account. 19. Sulimani (2011) 298–300 briefly touches on this, but does not recognize establishment of laws as a major part of the culture-bringer paradigm. 20. Cole (1967) 32–35. 141

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observing other houses and adding new concepts to their own knowledge, all men were making better types of shelter. But since men were imitative and teachable by nature, through daily boasting of their innovations they were showing each other the results of their building, and so by exercising their talents in competition with each other, every day their judgment was improving” (tunc observantes aliena tecta et adicientes suis cogitationibus res novas, efficiebant in dies meliora genera casarum. cum essent autem homines imitabili docilique natura, cotidie inventionibus gloriantes alius alii ostendebant aedificiorum effectus, et ita exercentes ingenia certationi- bus in dies melioribus iudiciis efficiebantur, 2.1.2–3). This is competition in its purest form. Lucretius, on the other hand, says that “increasingly, day by day men who were outstanding in intelligence and vigorous in mind were showing others how to change their old life and way of living for new things” (inque dies magis hi victum vitamque priorem commutare novis monstrabant rebus et igni ingenio qui praestabant et corde vigebant, 5.1105–1107). Only here does Lucretius introduce the idea that gifted rulers play a role in mankind’s advancement, and they are anonymous and faceless.21 In contrast, Diodorus presents culture bringers as the motivating force behind competition. In the Egyptian theogony, Osiris and Isis honored “those discovering crafts or practicing anything useful” (τοὺς τὰς τέχνας ἀνευρίσκοντας ἢ μεθοδεύοντάς τι τῶν χρησίμων, 1.15.4)—an early example of state-funded research and development, perhaps also echoing the patronage of the arts and sciences practiced by Hellenistic kings. Consequently craftsmen began innovating new tools for cultivation and hunting, and as a result, “striving for glory [they] tamed the land” (φιλοτίμως ἐξημερῶσαι τὴν χώραν, 1.15.5). In sharp contrast to mankind’s development in the Kulturgeschichte, which is slow and based on experience and practice, Diodorus shows in this passage how a gifted leader can encourage rapid advancement through bestowing τιμή. This is completely absent from Vitruvius, and barely present in Lucretius. These are the main elements of the hypothetical Kulturgeschichte that Cole believes Diodorus has cut from his own passage at 1.8 and presented elsewhere. But Cole’s selective extraction of elements from Diodorus’s narrative of Osiris also has the effect of overlooking many other elements that are equally important for Diodorus in the Egyptian theogony and the

21. Gale (2009) 192. 142

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other culture-bringer narratives. First, there is city foundation. Osiris is described as founding Egyptian Thebes or Diospolis, the hundred-gated city.22 Connected with the establishment of Thebes is establishment of proper religious cult: Osiris builds a temple to Zeus and Hera, and smaller chapels to Zeus and all the other gods (whom Diodorus has already listed), and assigns a priest to each. This is further taken up in the description of Osiris’s helper Hermes, who establishes the more specific rituals and honors due to the gods (1.15.3).23 In the context of agriculture, which is perhaps the most important aspect of civilization for Diodorus, he particularly marks out Osiris as the discoverer of grape cultivation and the manu- facture of wine, thus taking cultivation beyond merely supplying food to supplying pleasurable food.24 These elements are present in the culture- bringer narratives throughout the Bibliotheke. Diodorus’s own Kulturgeschichte of chapter 8 is complemented and filled out by the actions of the culture bringers in the Egyptian theogony that follows. This is not gratuitous violence being done to Diodorus’s sources, as Cole would have it, but as Sacks argues, a “logical bridge between χρεία and the unique individual … necessity was a general condition for all heroes, while culture heroes arose in specific locations to help every civilization progress.” However, although Sacks goes further and argues that “necessity and individual benefactors work in harmony and emphasize [Diodorus’s] universal sympathies,” here he is fundamentally misreading what Diodorus is trying to accomplish.25 The Kulturgeschichte of chapter 8 contains the suggestion that through the continuing action of χρεία mankind would eventually learn skills such as agriculture, but by so firmly attributing those elements to culture bringers Diodorus is making it clear that he regards them as the better means by far for advancing civilization. Fear as a driving force is eliminated with the culture bringers. The Kulturgeschichte and the various passages that follow its parameters elsewhere in the Bibliotheke provide an understanding for the earliest development of man. But for the more sophisticated aspects of civilization such as fire, agriculture, and laws, Diodorus wants his audience to recognize

22. Sulimani (2011) 265–280 places this in the context of Hellenistic city foundation beginning with Alexander the Great. 23. Ibid. 280–283. 24. Ibid. 235–240. 25. Sacks (1990) 68. 143

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and celebrate the superiority of the culture bringer. This antithesis occurs repeatedly in the Bibliotheke. The first and most obvious contrast is between the original Kulturgeschichte at chapter 8 and the Egyptian theogony in the following chapters, particularly the narrative of Osiris. The initial Kulturgeschichte is a work of theory, but once we reach the first kings we are entering the world of mythology. The choice of Osiris and the Egyptians out of the various options for the contrast with the theoretical development of early man serves to further highlight the place of Egypt in the Bibliotheke. But we see the contrast again later in Book 1 as well. Diodorus includes a description of the primitive Egyptians at 1.43 that, as we saw in my Chapter 3, closely follows the parameters of the Kulturgeschichte in chapter 8. Diodorus concludes this account by stating that the Egyptians subsisted in this primitive manner for a long time (πολλοὺς χρόνους) before discovering the edible fruits of the earth. This fits into the pattern ofKulturgeschichte quite nicely, but Diodorus adds that “of these [ fruits] there was also the bread of the lotus” (ὧν εἶναι καὶ τὸν ἐκ τοῦ λωτοῦ γινόμενον ἄρτον, 1.43.5). This goes beyond the simple harvesting of the fruits of the earth outlined in the Kulturgeschichte and moves into the realm of agriculture. In the very next sentence, Diodorus states that some attribute the discovery of these to Isis, others to an early king called Menas. He continues that, according to the Egyptian priests, Hermes discovered the other branches of learning and the arts, but other things necessary for life were discovered by their kings, and as a result kingship was conferred on those leaders who were the greatest benefactors of the people. Though not nearly as detailed as the Osiris narrative, we still have the basic contrast between primitive people slowly developing under the Kulturgeschichte and the developments fos- tered by a benefactor. The next significant description of a primitive people comes in the account of India (2.38). Here, as we have seen, Diodorus directly repeats his remark about the importance of χρεία from his original Kulturgeschichte, clearly inviting his readers to think back to the passage in Book 1. And the account of the earliest Indians is immediately followed by a narrative of Dionysus. Diodorus describes briefly how Dionysus arrived in India with an army and introduced storage of fruits, the discovery of wine, and “other things useful for life” (τῶν ἄλλων τῶν εἰς τὸν βίον χρησίμων παραδοῦναι, 2.38.5). Use of the word χρησίμων recalls χρεία and helps link these two critical concepts in Diodorus; what makes the culture hero so successful and so important is his ability to fill theχρεία of mankind, as at 1.14. 144

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Significantly, the longest and most detailed description of primitive peoples, the Red Sea narrative (3.15–48),â is the one that is not followed by a culture bringer. Here we have no king or leader to introduce the advanced elements of civilization, and as a result these societies remain primitive even to Diodorus’s own time.26 However, there is sharp contrast with the equally long account of the Atlantian gods that dominates the second half of Book 3, running for some thirty-âfive pages of text (3.56–â74), and includes numerous culture bringers traversing the world.

Hellenistic Ruler Cult Thus far the culture bringers we have noted in Diodorus are all Euhemerized versions of Greek and Egyptian gods, mortals who are deified for their benefactions to mankind. But Sulimani argues that there are several other culture bringers in the Bibliotheke, namely Sesoösis, Semiramis, and Myrina. However, although these three figures all share certain aspects of the culture-âbringer paradigm with Dionysus, Heracles, and others, Diodorus does not acknowledge them as gods in the Euhemeristic sense. This distinction between those who become gods and those who do not is extremely important for Diodorus and ties in both to his own theories of historiography and to debates raging in his own time about ruler cult and potential deification of Julius Caesar. Worship of living or recently deceased figures as gods flies so much in the face of Judeo-âChristian beliefs that it is often difficult to understand the underlying Greek and Roman values.27 And even though Greek mythology provided several precedents of mortals who achieved divinity (Heracles being the most famous), for much of classical Greek history there was strong resistance to the idea of worshipping actual historical figures, whether living or dead. This was identified with eastern decadence, and the widespread belief that the Persians worshipped their kings as living gods. Isocrates, to give one example, in his polemic against the Persians in the Panegyricus remarked that “they prostrate themselves to a mortal man and address him as a divinity, and deem the gods less great than men” (θνητὸν μὲν ἄνδρα προσκυνοῦντες καὶ δαίμονα προσαγορεύοντες, τῶν δὲ

26. Sartori (1984) 508–â510 notes how these primitive peoples stand in contrast to the surrounding books. 27. See, for example, Price (1984) 11–â18 and Gradel (2002) 1–â4 on this problem. 145

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θεῶν μᾶλλον ἢ τῶν ἀνθρώπων ὀλιγωροῦντες, 151). The Greeks did have the institution of hero cult, but despite some superficial similarities this was quite unlike worshipping a king as a divinity.28 The first Greek political leader we know of to receive divine honors was the Spartan Lysander from the island of Samos, according to the historian Duris (FGrH 76 F71) and confirmed in epigraphic evidence. Ruler cult was still a radical innovation, and between Lysander and Alexander no other individual is securely attested as having received it.29 But the reign of Alexander the Great changed all of this. Alexander went farther afield and accomplished more than any man known to the Greeks before him, so much so that the deeds of the gods had to be expanded to match or exceed his.30 Alexander famously broached the question of whether humans could receive worship comparable to divinities. The Alexander historians approached this via the famous debate over proskynesis, or obeisance, a Persian custom toward their rulers that was misunderstood by the Greeks such as Isocrates as worshipping a living person (cf. Hdt. 7.136). Both Arrian and Curtius Rufus report versions of this debate among Alexander’s followers. According to Arrian, the sophist Anaxarchus argued “that Alexander was much more justly thought a god than Dionysus and Heracles, not because of the magnitude and greatness of Alexander’s achievements” (ὡς πολὺ δικαιότερον ἂν θεὸν νομιζόμενον Ἀλέξανδρον Διονύσου τε καὶ Ἡρακλέους, μὴ ὅτι τῶν ἔργων ἕνεκα ὅσα καὶ ἡλίκα καταπέπρακται Ἀλεξάνδρῳ, 4.10.6) but because it would give the Macedonians their own god to worship. Anaxarchus added that “there was no argument but that they would honor Alexander as a god on his departure from mankind; so much more just to reward him while he was still alive than after his death, when the honor would avail him nothing” (καὶ γὰρ οὐδὲ ἐκεῖνο εἶναι ἀμφίλογον ὅτι ἀπελθόντα γε ἐξ ἀνθρώπων ὡς θεὸν τιμήσουσι· πόσῳ δὴ δικαιότερον ζῶντα γεραίρειν ἤπερ τελευτήσαντα ἐς οὐδὲν ὄφελος τῷ τιμωμένῳ, 4.10.7). Curtius put similar arguments in

28. As Price (1984) 34 notes “heroic cult with its association with mortality would have been an inappropriate classificatory system for a king.” 29. Badian (1981) 33–44, refuting the conclusions of Habicht (1970) 3–17. There is some evidence for Philip II receiving some form of cult—SEG XLVIII 708, 835 indicates there was a temene of Philip at Philippi—but this may be heroic cult rather than divine honors. See Dreyer (2009) 229. 30. Bosworth (1996) 140–166 explains the evolution of Dionysus into a rival for Alexander to equal and surpass. 146

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the mouth of Cleon, who added that the Persian custom of worshipping their kings as gods was a prudent move: “Not even Hercules and Father Liber were called gods before they had conquered the envy of their fellow men: so much too posterity believes as the present age attests” (ne Herculem quidem et Patrem Liberum prius dicatos deos, quam vicissent secum viventium invidiam: tantundem quoque posteros credere, quantum praesens aetas spopondisset, 8.5.11).31 Notably, the divinities used as exemplars by both authors are Dionysus and Heracles, and the implica- tion is that they achieved divinity in part for their achievements among mankind. During the final year of his life Alexander apparently took the step of requesting that the Greek city-states begin worshipping him as a living god. The circumstances and nature of this have been much debated, although the evidence is quite scanty. In Athens one Demades apparently proposed granting Alexander divine honors, while Lycurgus argued that worshippers of Alexander would have to purify themselves after every ritual (Plut. Mor. 842d). Less is known about the debate in Sparta beyond a famous remark by a certain Damis: “If Alexander wishes to be a god, then let him be a god (Aelian VH 11.19).” As A. B. Bosworth remarks, “if Athens and Sparta, cities inveterately hostile to Macedon, could seriously enter- tain the establishment of cult honours for Alexander, similar motions would have been passed with alacrity in cities which were friendly, or more pliable.”32 Much ink has been spilled over this, but a key element seems clear: Alexander wanted Greek city-states to worship him in some fashion as a god while he was still alive.33 In the wake of Alexander’s death, ruler cult became far more widespread in the Greek-speaking world. As Badian remarks, “once the bar- rier was breached, the flood—not unexpectedly—followed.”34 Bosworth remarks that “the precedent for the worship of a living man was firmly established and cults were offered to his Successors with greater frequency

31. On this debate and the historiographical problems surrounding it, see Badian (1981) 48–54. 32. Bosworth (1988) 288–289. Badian (1981) 54–66 suggests the arguments given over proskynesis in Arrian and Curtius may in fact originate in a debate over divine honors in Athens in 324/3. 33. E.g., Meyer (1924) 265–314, Tarn (1948) 2.370–373, Balsdon (1950) 383–388, Habicht (1970) 272–273, Badian (1981) 54–66, Bosworth (1988) 288–289, Dreyer (2009) 229–234. 34. Badian (1981) 43. 147

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and magnificence.”35 The most famous attestation of early ruler cult is an ithyphallic hymn from Athens dedicated to Demetrius Poliorcetes. It justifies divine honors in this way: “for the other gods are either far off, or they do not have ears, or they do not exist, or they offer nothing to us, but we see you here, not wood or stone, but real; therefore we pray to you. First, make peace, most beloved; for you are lord” (ἄλλοι μὲν ἢ μακρὰν γὰρ ἀπέχουσιν θεοὶ ἢ οὐκ ἔχουσιν ὦτα ἢ οὐκ εἰσὶν ἢ οὐ προσέχουσιν ἡμῖν οὐδὲ ἕν, σὲ δὲ παρόνθ᾽ ὁρῶμεν, οὐ ξύλινον οὐδὲ λίθινον, ἀ λ λ᾽ ἀληθινόν· εὐχόμεσθα δή σοι. πρῶτον μὲν εἰρήνην ποίησον, φίλτατε· κύριος γὰρ εἶ σύ, Ath. 6.63 p. 253d–f). As Chaniotis puts it, “what makes Demetrios divine is his power to offer protection to the Athenians and vengeance against those who had attacked them. In this sense the poem fully corresponds to the Greek idea of divinity, an essential feature of which is not immortality but the willingness to hear the prayers of men and offer them help in need.”36 The Hellenistic period saw for the first time in the Greek world individuals with immense power that went far beyond an individual polis, who could, in terms of benefactions, surpass even the gods. In this context, rendering them some form of divine honors is entirely understandable, and the epithets monarchs use show this: “Savior” (σωτήρ) and “Manifest” (ἐπιφανής), which are frequently used of gods, and “winner of fair victories” (καλλίνικος), a common epithet of Heracles who provided an important precedent for a mortal transcending the boundary of divinity. An important word in ruler cult, especially for still-living monarchs, was ἰσοθέος, “equal to the gods,” which could subtly imply that a ruler was not a deity even while placing him on the level of the gods. The epithet θεός, “god,” was usually reserved until after death.37 Ruler cult was not a monolithic institution, but one that varied quite widely during the Hellenistic period, depending on the dynasty and its relationship with its subjects and dependents, although a major theme is always bestowal of benefactions.38 In regions with well-established Greek poleis, normally monarchs would allow individual cities to establish a cult to them rather than impose it top-down, as the Athenians do for Demetrius. The Ptolemaic dynasty preferred to establish cults themselves,

35. Bosworth (1988) 290. 36. Chaniotis (2003) 431–433. See further Chaniotis (2011). 37. Chaniotis (2003) 433. 38. Sacks (1990) 69–70, Chaniotis (2003) 432–433. 148

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as Ptolemy II did for his father and his wife after their deaths. Starting with Antiochus III we see Seleucid monarchs establishing their own cults while they were still alive, and cult becomes less about rewarding benefactors, and more about recognizing the power of a king.39 Not surprisingly, given the rapid proliferation of ruler cult there were attempts to give it a more solid theoretical background. The most important theorist on this was the early Hellenistic writer Euhemerus of Messene, whom we met in the last chapter. Little is known about him or his work, which is largely preserved in indirect fragments from Diodorus and Ennius, but we have already seen that his philosophy provided Diodorus with a means of historicizing the deeds of the gods for inclusion in the Bibliotheke. Euhemerism also provided an explanation and justification for Hellenistic ruler cult. Indeed, some scholars believe that this was a major intention of the Sacred History.40 Heinrich Dörrie took this thesis further and suggested that Euhemerus in fact was attempting to explain to contemporary rulers how they could become divinities.41 This then is the intellectual and historical background to Diodorus’s deified culture bringers. Although he clearly subscribes to the general belief in the gods as deified mortals, he probably does not agree with Euhemerus on every point. In particular, for Diodorus the principle culture bringer is not Zeus, but Dionysus. Nonetheless, the gods as deified culture bringers is a major theme in the opening books of the Bibliotheke, and a major reason Diodorus justifies mythology must be because it enables him to highlight and legitimize the mythical culture bringers and show how mortals can become gods.

Becoming a God in the Bibliotheke Diodorus makes deification of mortal rulers for their benefactions an inte- gral part of his theory of history. As he explains in the proëm, the purpose of history is to provide inspiration and a repository of examples of great men: “in general it is by the commemoration of good deeds from history that some are inspired to become the founders of cities, others to introduce laws bringing security to everyday life, and many, loving glory, to discover

39. Chaniotis (2003) 436–437, Fishwick (1987) I,1 11–17. 40. Winiarczyk (2013) 101–103 surveys the scholarship on this interpretation. 41. Dörrie (1964) 218–224. 149

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arts and crafts for the benefit of the race of mankind” καθόλου( δὲ διὰ τὴν ἐκ ταύτης ἐπ’ ἀγαθῷ μνήμην οἱ μὲν κτίσται πόλεων γενέσθαι προεκλήθησαν, οἱ δὲ νόμους εἰσηγήσασθαι περιέχοντας τῷ κοινῷ βίῳ τὴν ἀσφάλειαν, πολλοὶ δ’ ἐπιστήμας καὶ τέχνας ἐξευρεῖν ἐφιλοτιμήθησαν πρὸς εὐεργεσίαν τοῦ γένους τῶν ἀνθρώπων, 1.2.1). The deified culture bringers are the most inspirational and beneficial leaders of them all. Acknowledging and worshipping them as gods is a means by which their supreme examples are commemorated and passed along to inspire future generations, which is why Diodorus emphasizes the spread of their cults. Writing history itself fulfills this role as well. Diodorus declares “I think it good for right- thinking men to receive immortal fame in exchange for mortal labors” (καλὸν δ’, οἶμαι, τοῖς εὖ φρονοῦσι θνητῶν πόνων ἀντικαταλλάξασθαι τὴν ἀθάνατον εὐφημίαν, 1.2.4), and immediately gives the example of Heracles as a figure who performed great undertakings “in order to obtain immortality, having benefited the race of mankind” (ἵνα τὸ γένος τῶν ἀνθρώπων εὐεργετήσας τύχῃ τῆς ἀθανασίας). These deified rulers inspire historians like Diodorus, who in turn write history to inspire later leaders by furthering the glory of the original deified culture bringers. As Diodorus states, men who do nothing are for- gotten when they die, “but for those who have won fame on account of their virtue their deeds are remembered for all time, proclaimed by the most divine voice of history” (τοῖς δὲ δι’ ἀρετὴν περιποιησαμένοις δόξαν αἱ πράξεις ἅπαντα τὸν αἰῶνα μνημονεύονται, διαβοώμεναι τῷ θειοτάτῳ τῆς ἱστορίας στόματι, 1.2.3). In turn, this elevates the historian into the role of culture bringer as well, as Diodorus observes: “praise must be awarded first and foremost to history, the cause [of these benefactions]” (ἀποδοτέον τῶν ἐπαίνων τὸ πρωτεῖον τῇ τούτων μάλιστ’ αἰτίᾳ ἱστορίᾳ, 1.2.1).42 But even if Diodorus’s philosophy has clear connections with Hellenistic ruler cult, particularly the emphasis on benefactions, he has far higher standards for deification and how a ruler can achieve it. The paradigm of the deified culture bringer is established in the Egyptian theogony, and by using this most ancient of civilizations Diodorus enhances the validity of his Euhemerized gods. Diodorus explains that the Egyptians teach that there are gods “who were mortals but on account of their intelligence and common benefactions for mankind have obtained immortality, some of whom had even been kings in Egypt” (ὑπάρξαντας

42. Cf. Sacks (1990) 80. 150

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μὲν θνητούς, διὰ δὲ σύνεσιν καὶ κοινὴν ἀνθρώπων εὐεργεσίαν τετευχότας τῆς ἀθανασίας, ὧν ἐνίους καὶ βασιλεῖς γεγονέναι κατὰ τὴν Αἴγυπτον, 1.13.1). So immediately Diodorus lays out his criterion to reach divinity. Benefactions were a major element in Hellenistic ruler cult, but Diodorus is raising the bar. His culture bringers need to bring their benefactions to all of mankind, not just a few cities, or their own kingdom, or a small part of the globe. The very first Egyptian culture bringer Diodorus describes is Hephaestus, who discovers fire ante( ) and then “invited the rest of mankind to enjoy the advantage which came from it” (προκαλεῖσθαι τοὺς ἄλλους ἀνθρώπους πρὸς τὴν ἐξ αὐτοῦ γινομένην εὐχρηστίαν, 1.13.3), as Oldfather translates. But in the Egyptian narrative Osiris and Isis serve as the first detailed examples of the culture bringers who achieve deification. The key factor is not the benefactions that Osiris bestows on his own people, great as they are, but rather that he spreads them all over the world on his grand tour. Diodorus depicts Osiris as understanding this as he prepares to leave Egypt: “for he thought that by stopping mankind from its bestial lifestyle and making them adopt a civilized way of life he would obtain immortal honors because of the greatness of this benefaction” (ὑπολαμβάνειν γὰρ αὐτὸν ὅτι παύσας τῆς ἀγριότητος τοὺς ἀνθρώπους καὶ διαίτης ἡμέρου μεταλαβεῖν ποιήσας τιμῶν ἀθανάτων τεύξεται διὰ τὸ μέγεθος τῆς εὐεργεσίας, 1.17.2). Thus Osiris undertakes his successful tour of the inhabited world, and when he returns to Egypt “because of the greatness of his benefactions all agree he obtained immortality and honor equal to the heavenly gods” (διὰ τὸ μέγεθος τῶν εὐεργεσιῶν συμπεφωνημένην λαβεῖν παρὰ πᾶσι τὴν ἀθανασίαν καὶ τὴν ἴσην τοῖς οὐρανίοις τιμήν, 1.20.5). What is especially noteworthy is that Osiris is, according to Diodorus, still alive when he begins to receive these divine honors; it is entirely appropriate for his beneficiaries to honor him in this way. But Osiris still has to die to make the final step: “after these events he transferred from mankind to the gods, and obtained from Isis and Hermes sacrifices and the other most renowned honors” (μετὰ δὲ ταῦτ’ ἐξ ἀνθρώπων εἰς θεοὺς μεταστάντα τυχεῖν ὑπὸ Ἴσιδος καὶ Ἑρμοῦ θυσιῶν καὶ τῶν ἄλλων τῶν ἐπιφανεστάτων τιμῶν. 1.20.6). Diodorus is showing that although it is proper to begin honoring Osiris’s immortality while he is still alive, death is a prerequisite for full divine honors. Diodorus also reveals that more than individual sacrifices to Osiris by Isis and Hermes is needed to establish Osiris as a god: “they also established rites and promulgated many mystical elements, magnifying the power of the god” (τούτους δὲ καὶ τελετὰς καταδεῖξαι καὶ πολλὰ μυστικῶς εἰσηγήσασθαι, μεγαλύνοντας τοῦ θεοῦ τὴν δύναμιν, 1.20.6). These activities involve the larger 151

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community, which is essential for preserving and spreading the memory of Osiris and his divinity. For Diodorus, religious rites and rituals perform a function analogous to history in honoring these benefactors and handing down the memory of their achievements. In addition, Isis took the pieces of Osiris’s body and distributed them among the Egyptian priests: “reminding them of his benefactions she bade them bury the body in their individual districts and to honor Osiris as a god” (καὶ τῶν εὐεργεσιῶν ὑπομνήσασαν παρακαλέσαι θάψαντας ἐν τοῖς ἰδίοις τόποις τὸ σῶμα τιμᾶν ὡς θεὸν τὸν Ὄσιριν, 1.21.6). To sweeten the deal, Isis also gave the priests a third part of the country to cover the worship of the gods, thereby ensuring the continuity of the cult. So for Diodorus a major portion of ruler cult is the action of the government in establishing and maintaining the cult, as Isis does here for Osiris. As described above, Hellenistic ruler cult could be either offered from grateful subjects to a king, as the Athenians do for Demetrius, or imposed by the central government, as many of the other dynasties do. Diodorus requires both, demonstrating that his deified rulers must be far more universal than Hellenistic kings. As for Isis, she spent the rest of her life single, surpassing all in her benefactions. And so “in a similar fashion [to Osiris] she also transferred from mankind to the gods and obtained immortal honors and was buried in Memphis, where her shrine is visible up until now, being in the sacred dis- trict of Hephaestus” (ὁμοίως δὲ καὶ ταύτην μεταστᾶσαν ἐξ ἀνθρώπων τυχεῖν ἀθανάτων τιμῶν καὶ ταφῆναι κατὰ τὴν Μέμφιν, ὅπου δείκνυται μέχρι τοῦ νῦν ὁ σηκός, ὑπάρχων ἐν τῷ τεμένει τοῦ Ἡφαίστου, 1.22.2). The phrasing describing Isis’s deification is almost identical to that of Osiris. Notably, Diodorus is quite vague about what exactly constitutes divine honors after death. Osiris specifically receives sacrifices, while Isis gets a shrine. But there are apparently numerous other honors and rituals that are attached to both figures, which Diodorus merely acknowledges with generic phrases such as τῶν ἄλλων τῶν ἐπιφανεστάτων τιμῶν. These are important for furthering the cult and ensuring that the examples of Osiris and Isis survive, but the details are unimportant. What matters for Diodorus is outlining the circumstances under which ruler cult is justified. He is not interested in explaining the specific details of how a cult should be conducted once it has been established, only the circumstances under which a ruler merits deification. This points to an audience struggling to come to grips with whether to worship a ruler, rather than one trying to understand the best way to do so.43

43. Sulimani (2011) 296–298 suggests that part of this process is “converting” the various native peoples Osiris and the other culture bringers visit, by introducing new gods and new 152

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Osiris sets the paradigm for the culture bringers and what they must accomplish to attain immortality in the remainder of Diodorus’s narrative. In Book 2, the Indians have two culture bringers, Dionysus and Heracles, whose deification is described in the same language as with Isis and Osiris: “[Dionysus] in general as the founder of many good works was thought to become a god and obtained immortal honors” (καθόλου δὲ πολλῶν καὶ καλῶν ἔργων εἰσηγητὴν γενόμενον θεὸν νομισθῆναι καὶ τυχεῖν ἀθανάτων τιμῶν, 2.38.5). Similarly, with Heracles we have a list of beneficial accomplishments, including clearing India of wild beasts, founding many cities, and creating a new political organization. Only after describing these accomplishments does Diodorus declare, “and Heracles, after he had departed from mankind, received immortal honors” (καὶ τὸν μὲν Ἡρακλέα τὴν ἐξ ἀνθρώπων μετάστασιν ποιησάμενον ἀθανάτου τυχεῖν τιμῆς, 2.39.4).44 The third book of the Bibliotheke ends with Diodorus’s longest extant account of deified rulers, the narrative of the Atlantians of Libya, whose credibility he is at some pains to establish. With the Egyptian gods he could rely on a long tradition in Greek thought making Egypt one of the original sources of religion. The Atlantians were far less well known, so Diodorus specifically tells us that his source is one Dionysius, known elsewhere as Dionysius Scytobrachion (FGrH 32 F7 and 8), and that Dionysius had gotten much of his information from various poets (3.67).45 Still, at the opening of the section Diodorus makes a point of declaring “we deem it not improper to discuss their myths about the origin of the gods, because they do not differ much from the myths of the Greeks” (οὐκ ἀνοίκειον ἡγούμεθα διελθεῖν τὰ μυθολογούμενα παρ’ αὐτοῖς περὶ τῆς τῶν θεῶν γενέσεως, διὰ τὸ μὴ πολὺ διαλλάττειν αὐτὰ τῶν μυθολογουμένων παρ’ Ἕλλησιν, 3.56.1). Diodorus begins with Uranus, who in true culture-bringer fashion gathered his people into cities, convinced them to give up a bestial lifestyle, introduced the basics of agriculture, and did numerous other things

religious values. I think this misunderstands Diodorus’s understanding of deification here. He is not interested in whether anyone is “converted,” but rather in that the inspirational memory of the culture bringer is preserved through religious worship and rituals, much as it is preserved through the medium of history. 44. On Diodorus as having shaped this account independently of his reputed source, Megasthenes, see Winiarczyk (2013) 145–146, Muntz (2012) 32–35, and Sacks (1990) 72. 45. On Dionysius in general, see Rusten (1982), esp. 102–112 on the Libyan narrative, and now BNJ 32 F7 and 8 commentary. 153

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benefiting mankind. He also subdued much of the world to his west and north (3.56.3). This whole passage seems to be quite abbreviated, probably because Diodorus prefers to focus on Dionysus, his culture bringer of choice. But he does describe how Uranus discovered the motions of the stars and planets, and used this to predict the seasons. As a result, “many, being unaware of the eternal order of the stars and marveling at events according to his predictions, believed that the author of these shared in divine nature, and after his departure from mankind both for his benefactions and his knowledge of the stars they allotted him immortal honors” (διὸ καὶ τοὺς πολλούς, ἀγνοοῦντας μὲν τὴν τῶν ἄστρων αἰώνιον τάξιν, θαυμάζοντας δὲ τὰ γινόμενα κατὰ τὰς προρρήσεις, ὑπολαβεῖν τὸν τούτων εἰσηγητὴν θείας μετέχειν φύσεως, μετὰ δὲ τὴν ἐξ ἀνθρώπων αὐτοῦ μετάστασιν διά τε τὰς εὐεργεσίας καὶ τὴν τῶν ἄστρων ἐπίγνωσιν ἀθανάτους τιμὰς ἀπονεῖμαι, 3.56.5). As with Osiris, deification is not a given, but requires the assent and favor of many people to be brought about after death. The account of the Atlantians continues with several other figures who become gods. But the original account of Dionysius Scytobrachion apparently culminated with Zeus son of Cronus. As in Greek mythology, the Atlantian Cronus is a wicked ruler. As Diodorus describes, Zeus overcame his father in battle and visited the whole inhabited world conferring benefactions, and so naturally “for these reasons after his departure from men he was named Zên because on his account mankind was living well and he was raised to the heavens by the honor paid to him by his beneficiaries, and all were eagerly naming him a god and the lord of the whole universe for eternity” (ἀνθ’ ὧν μετὰ τὴν ἐξ ἀνθρώπων μετάστασιν ὀνομασθῆναι μὲν Ζῆνα διὰ τὸ δοκεῖν τοῦ καλῶς ζῆν αἴτιον γενέσθαι τοῖς ἀνθρώποις, καθιδρυθῆναι δ’ ἐν τῷ κόσμῳ τῇ τῶν εὖ παθόντων τιμῇ, πάντων προθύμως ἀναγορευόντων θεὸν καὶ κύριον εἰς τὸν αἰῶνα τοῦ σύμπαντος κόσμου, 3.61.6). The basic paradigm remains the same, and Diodorus is focused on the qualifications for deification, not on the details of the rites and rituals that result. Following the description of the Libyan Zeus, Diodorus gives a long account of Dionysus, which closes out Book 3 and the “barbarian” history. Rather than just discussing the Libyan version of Dionysus, as he does with the Indian and Egypt versions, he begins with an overview of Greek thought on the nature of Dionysus, starting with allegorical interpretations of the god (3.62–66.3). This section does not appear to be drawn from Scytobrachion, and Rusten and Jacoby both fail to include it in their fragments. The bulk of the section is taken up with discussing the numerous versions of Dionysus in mythology, and the likelihood that there were 154

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multiple figures named Dionysus.46 But all of them were culture bringers, and all were deified as a result. The first Dionysus is said to originate in India and after spreading agriculture across India he visited the entire inhabited world with an army to spread the knowledge, “and having shared the other discoveries with all, after he departed from mankind he obtained immortal honor from those who had benefited” ὁμοίως( δὲ καὶ τῶν ἄλλων εὑρημάτων μεταδόντα πᾶσι τυχεῖν αὐτὸν μετὰ τὴν ἐξ ἀνθρώπων μετάστασιν ἀθανάτου τιμῆς παρὰ τοῖς εὖ παθοῦσιν, 3.63.4).47 The second figure known as Dionysus similarly did much to improve agriculture, “by which the masses were freed from great suffering; because of this his beneficiaries allotted him honors and sacrifices equal to the gods, with all mankind eagerly granting him immortality because of the magnitude of his benefactions” (δι’ ὧν ἀπολυθῆναι τοὺς ὄχλους τῆς πολλῆς κακοπαθείας· ἀνθ’ ὧν τοὺς εὖ παθόντας ἀπονεῖμαι τιμὰς ἰσοθέους αὐτῷ καὶ θυσίας, προθύμως ἁπάντων ἀνθρώπων διὰ τὸ μέγεθος τῆς εὐεργεσίας ἀπονειμάντων τὴν ἀθανασίαν, 3.64.1–2). The third Dionysus is the traditional Greek son of Semele, who is similarly accomplished, although Diodorus does not describe his deification (he does call him a god at 3.65.1). And finally Diodorus adds that numerous cities have their own accounts of the god (3.66.1–3). This whole passage discussing the different forms of Dionysus is actually quite out of place, since Diodorus explicitly says he is presenting the Greek beliefs about the deity (οἰκεῖον εἶναι διαλαμβάνομεν προσθεῖναι τὰ μυθολογούμενα περὶ τοῦ θεοῦ τούτου παρὰ τοῖς Ἕλλησι, 3.62.1), despite the fact that this is still the “barbarian” section of the Bibliotheke. We will return to this problem in chapter 7. Beginning at 3.66.4 Diodorus returns to the Libyans and gives an account of the Libyan Dionysus, again drawing on Dionysius Scytobrachion. This Dionysus balances Osiris at the start of Book 1 to round out the first three books of the Bibliotheke. And as with the other culture bringers, Dionysus “wished to give to the race of mankind his discoveries, hoping through the scale of his benefaction to obtain immortal honors” (βουληθῆναι τῷ γένει τῶν ἀνθρώπων μεταδοῦναι τῶν ἰδίων εὑρημάτων, ἐλπίσαντα διὰ τὸ μέγεθος τῆς εὐεργεσίας ἀθανάτων τεύξεσθαι τιμῶν, 3.70.8), echoing his Egyptian counterpart. The narrative of the

46. Cicero, De Natura Deorum 3.58 suggests as many as five figures named Dionysus. 47. Notably, this contradicts Diodorus’s own account of Dionysus in the Indian narrative (2.38), where he seems to be an immigrant to India. 155

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Libyan Dionysus offers further information about Diodorus’s understanding of deification. As with Osiris, the process begins while he is still alive, and Diodorus notes three points where Dionysus is hailed as a god. The first comes from his clement treatment of prisoners after his battle with the wicked Cronus: “he freed them from the charges and gave them permission either to join him or to leave as they wished. All chose to join him. And because of the unexpected salvation, they venerated him as a god” (ἀπολύσαντος δ’ αὐτοὺς τῶν ἐγκλημάτων καὶ τὴν ἐξουσίαν δόντος εἴτε συστρατεύειν εἴτε ἀπιέναι βούλοιντο, πάντας ἑλέσθαι συστρατεύειν· διὰ δὲ τὸ παράδοξον τῆς σωτηρίας προσκυνεῖν αὐτοὺς ὡς θεόν, 3.71.5). The second occurrence takes places before Dionysus sets out against Cronus again, when, “as the mythologers say, his tutor Aristaeus offered a sacrifice and was thus the first of men to sacrifice to him as a god”μυθολογοῦσιν ( Ἀρισταῖον τὸν ἐπιστάτην αὐτοῦ θυσίαν τε παραστῆσαι καὶ πρῶτον ἀνθρώπων ὡς θεῷ θῦσαι, 3.72.1). Finally, on the normal culture-bringer world tour, as “his fame spread everywhere no one treated him as an enemy, but all were eagerly listening to him and were honoring him as a god with praise and sacrifices” (πάντῃ δὲ διαδιδομένης περὶ αὐτοῦ φήμης ἀγαθῆς μηδένα καθάπερ πρὸς πολέμιον ἀντιτάττεσθαι, πάντας δὲ προθύμως ὑπακούοντας ἐπαίνοις καὶ θυσίαις ὡς θεὸν τιμᾶν, 3.73.5). Notably, in the narrative of the Libyan Dionysus we have an example of the ruler himself establishing a cult to a living relation. Dionysus regarded his father Ammon’s prediction that “he would be deemed a god” (θεὸν νομισθήσεσθαι) as showing that Ammon was a true prophet and so “he established an oracle of his father and after rebuilding the city he declared honors to him as a god and set up overseers for the oracle” (τε χρηστήριον ἱδρύσατο τοῦ πατρὸς καὶ τὴν πόλιν οἰκοδομήσας τιμὰς ὥρισεν ὡς θεῷ καὶ τοὺς ἐπιμελησομένους τοῦ μαντείου κατέστησε, 3.73.1). This allows Diodorus to have an established ancient authority, the Oracle of Ammon, endorse his chief criterion for becoming a god: “Dionysus consulted the god about his expedition, and received from his father the prediction that he would obtain immortal honors by bestowing benefactions on mankind” (τὸν Διόνυσον χρήσασθαι τῷ θεῷ περὶ τῆς στρατείας, καὶ λαβεῖν παρὰ τοῦ πατρὸς χρησμὸν ὅτι τοὺς ἀνθρώπους εὐεργετῶν τεύξεται τῆς ἀθανασίας, 3.73.3).48 And Diodorus makes it clear a few chapters later that it is only after death that Ammon is truly divine (3.73.8).

48. On the importance of this oracle, see Rusten (1982) 110–111. 156

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So the Libyan Dionysus undertakes his grand tour, culminating in his final battle with, and defeat of, Cronus. Finally, “after these events Ammon and Dionysus departed from the mortal world for immortality” (μετὰ δὲ ταῦτα Ἄμμωνος καὶ Διονύσου μεταστάντων ἐκ τῆς ἀνθρωπίνης φύσεως εἰς τὴν ἀθανασίαν, 3.73.8) and were succeeded by Zeus. Diodorus is thus presenting the same basic process as he does in Book 1, despite the different source. The culture bringer starts to be hailed as a god during his lifetime, and may even have divine honors paid to him, but it is only with death that he achieves immortality. This immortality is guaranteed only inasmuch as later generations establish rituals and continue to celebrate and honor the god, as here by Linus, Orpheus, and Thyomoetes (3.67), Dionysius Scytobrachion, and Diodorus himself.49 This is clearly how Diodorus understands the process, regardless of what his sources might have said. It is worth noting that Diodorus has apparently changed the focus of this narrative from his source. For Dionysius Scytobrachion, Zeus seems to have been the most important god, and his narrative apparently ended with Zeus’s reign (3.73.8). But for Diodorus it is Dionysus, and he has reworked Dionysius’s narrative to highlight Dionysus, who occupied an earlier place in the narrative, at the end of the book instead of Zeus. We can see this in gaps in the first section on the Atlantian gods (3.56–61), where Dionysus should appear but does not, despite the remainder of Book 3 being taken up by his exploits (3.62–74). According to Dionysius, Dionysus was the illegitimate son of Amaltheia by a king named Ammon. Ammon was married to Rhea, the daughter of Uranus, at the time (3.68.1). But Rhea was first mentioned at 3.57.2, and at 3.61.1 Diodorus stated that she married Cronus and gave birth to Zeus. Only at 3.68.1 do we find out that first she was married to Ammon, and only after she discovered his affair with Amaltheia and the existence of his illegitimate son Dionysus did she join Cronus (3.71.1). Similarly, the wickedness of Cronus and his fellow Titans is mentioned at 3.61.1, but it is not until 3.71ff. that Diodorus explains this and narrates the war of Ammon, Dionysus, and the other Olympians with the Titans. The goodness of the Libyan Zeus is referenced at 3.61.6, but Diodorus tells of his birth again at 3.72.6, and then recounts in more detail his rejection of his wicked father, Cronus, and rise to power under Dionysus. All of this disrupts the narrative of

49. These “sources” were made up by Dionysius Scytobrachion, an all-too- common issue in mythographical accounts. Note Cameron (2004) 124–163. 157

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Dionysius, but serves to highlight Dionysus at the end of the first triad, just as Dionysus (in the guise of Osiris) was prominent in the opening of the first three books. Diodorus himself draws attention to this (3.62.1) and even includes another brief account of other figures named Dionysus who were also culture bringers at 3.74 to round off the Libyan narrative. Through his discussion of the various versions of Dionysus, Diodorus is able to expound his beliefs about culture bringers and ruler cult using the examples from the barbarians, while making it plain that Dionysus, in whatever guise, is the most important of these figures by far. Diodorus makes this clear in declaration of the universality of Dionysus at the end of Book 3: “therefore while all men disagree with each other about the honors due the other gods, for Dionysus alone they are agreed about his immortality” (διὸ καὶ πάντας τοὺς ἀνθρώπους ἐν ταῖς πρὸς τοὺς ἄλλους θεοὺς τιμαῖς οὐχ ὁμοίαν ἔχοντας προαίρεσιν ἀλλήλοις σχεδὸν ἐπὶ μόνου τοῦ Διονύσου συμφωνουμένην ἀποδεικνύειν μαρτυρίαν τῆς ἀθανασίας, 3.73.6). He is the universal god for the universal history. Books 4–6 continue to have these deified culture bringers, although they are not as prominent as in 1–3. A large part of Book 4 (8–39) is taken up with the labors of Heracles, which are depicted in a much-less-rationalized fashion than the myths in 1–3. Diodorus probably felt constrained to recount the more traditional narratives of the son of Zeus now that he was specifically discussing Greek as opposed to barbarian mythology. Still, the dominant part of the Heracles narrative is his labors across the whole of the inhabited world, which includes a strong civilizing element in keeping with the barbarian culture bringers. For example, at 4.17.3 Heracles clears Crete of wild beasts, at 4.17.4 he places large areas of Libya under cultivation, and at 4.19.1 he imposes law and order on the Gauls. His apotheosis, however, is very much the traditional Greek account. In Diodorus’s telling of the Argonauts, where he is again following Dionysius Scytobrachion, he returns to Heracles, and notes that after gathering an army “he traversed the inhabited world, bestowing benefactions on the race of men, and for these benefactions he achieved immortality, as is widely agreed” (πᾶσαν ἐπελθεῖν τὴν οἰκουμένην εὐεργετοῦντα τὸ γένος τῶν ἀνθρώπων· ἀνθ’ ὧν τυχεῖν αὐτὸν συμφωνουμένης ἀθανασίας, 4.53.7), conforming to his established culture-bringer pattern. Diodorus adds that “the poets tell the myth, according to the customary telling of marvels, that Heracles alone and without soldiers accomplished these famous feats” (τοὺς δὲ ποιητὰς διὰ τὴν συνήθη τερατολογίαν μυθολογῆσαι μόνον τὸν Ἡρακλέα καὶ γυμνὸν ὅπλων τελέσαι τοὺς τεθρυλημένους ἄθλους, 4.53.7), perhaps telling his readers that 158

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although he has presented the traditional account of Heracles earlier in the book, he does not feel it is entirely trustworthy. Culture bringers come up again in Book 5 in Diodorus’s account of the myths of the Cretans (5.64–â77). Unlike Heracles in Book 4, this account is heavily rationalized: “the Cretan myths say that most of the gods who obtained immortal honors on account of their universal benefactions originated among them” (καὶ τῶν θεῶν δὲ τοὺς πλείστους μυθολογοῦσι παρ’ ἑαυτοῖς γενέσθαι τοὺς διὰ τὰς κοινὰς εὐεργεσίας τυχόντας ἀθανάτων τιμῶν, 5.64.2). Notably, “each was a discoverer of things for mankind, and on account of this benefaction for all people they obtained eternal honors and fame” (ἕκαστόν τινων εὑρετὴν γενέσθαι τοῖς ἀνθρώποις, καὶ διὰ τὴν εἰς ἅπαντας εὐεργεσίαν τυχεῖν τιμῶν καὶ μνήμης ἀενάου, 5.66.3), a conclusion Diodorus repeats several times in this account. In contrast with his Libyan counterpart, the Cretan Cronus is described as a great civilizer who visited much of the inhabited world, establishing law and justice (5.66.4–â6). Diodorus goes on to describe the Olympian gods in a Euhemeristic fashion, along with their individual discoveries that benefited mankind. The most prominent deity in this account is Zeus, who makes the culture-â bringer world tour, although this is described very briefly (5.71–â72.5). Finally, in Book 6 Diodorus gives his summary of Euhemerus’s own account of the gods, which is partially preserved by Eusebius. In the same book Diodorus also gives, according to Eusebius, the myths as given in Hesiod, Homer, and Orpheus (6.1.11). These would have been the traditional succession myths about the origins of the Greek gods, and Diodorus probably presented them as disreputable if Eusebius has quoted him correctly in saying that those authors and others “had fabricated the most monstrous myths about the gods” (τερατωδεστέρους μύθους περὶ θεῶν πεπλάκασιν, 6.1.3). It is significant that Diodorus chose to place this section in Book 6 rather than in Book 4, where chronologically it would seem to make the most sense. But by placing his theogonies of the Greeks in Book 6 Diodorus rounds off and ends his first hexad on a firmly Euhemeristic note, and perhaps completes a circle begun with the Egyptian theogony near the start of Book 1.

Ruler Cult Rejects? Given that there are some seventy figures mentioned as receiving divine honors in the first part of the Bibliotheke, one might think that Diodorus is quite ready to acknowledge the divinity of accomplished rulers. But in 159

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fact, this number is deceptive. Almost all these figures are just versions of the traditional Olympian gods, as told from the perspectives of the Egyptians, Indians, Libyans, Cretans, and Euhemerus. Diodorus is in fact quite miserly about allotting divine honors, even in circumstances that at first glance might seem to warrant it. Two of the figures whom Sulimani identifies as culture bringers in the first five books, Sesoösis and Myrina, are significantly not described by Diodorus as achieving immortal honors, and the claim of divinity for Semiramis seems to be treated skeptically by him. Let us examine these figures and see why they do not receive immortal honors. Perhaps the most prominent ruler who does not receive divine honors in the first part of theBibliotheke is Sesoösis the Egyptian king, described at 1.53–57.50 Sesoösis has many similarities with Osiris, and indeed it has been noted that their narratives parallel one another in many ways.51 Murray suggested this was a sign that Diodorus used two sources, one based on the other, without recognizing the overlap.52 But the similarity is deliberate, not the accidental result of Diodorus’s inability to recognize adaptations by his sources, because he is contrasting the two leaders. Osiris for Diodorus is the archetype of the culture bringer, who first spreads benefactions throughout Egypt and then civilizes the entire world. Sesoösis, on the other hand, is sharply portrayed as a conqueror, not a civilizer. As a young man he was sent to Arabia, where “he conquered the entire race of the Arabs, which had never been enslaved before that time” (κατεστρέψατο τὸ ἔθνος ἅπαν τὸ τῶν Ἀράβων, ἀδούλωτον τὸν πρὸ τοῦ χρόνον γεγονός) and then “he made the greater part of Libya subject to him” (τὴν πλείστην τῆς Λιβύης ὑπήκοον ἐποιήσατο, 1.53.6). After Sesoösis succeeded his father, “elevated by his previous deeds he undertook to subjugate the whole inhabited world” (ταῖς προκατεργασθείσαις πράξεσι

50. The earliest narrative of this king is Herodotus 2.102–110, but an historical kernel lies in three pharaohs named Senwosret and Amenemhet III of the XII dynasty. By Diodorus’s time the narrative had undergone considerable expansion to give the Egyptians a ruler comparable to Alexander the Great. See Malaise (1966), Lloyd (1982) 37–40, and Murray (1970) 162–164. Diodorus is the only author with the spelling Sesoösis. Other variant spellings are Sesotris, Sesonchosis, and Sostris. The Roman historian Tacitus does use the spelling Sesosis at Annals 6.28, so perhaps this is a Latin variant that Diodorus picked up during his stay in Rome. 51. Their itineraries are basically identical, except Osiris is not stopped in Thrace. Both bring back much wealth, and both are the subject of attempts on their lives by their brothers. 52. Murray (1970) 149. 160

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μετεωρισθείς, ἐπεβάλετο τὴν οἰκουμένην κατακτήσασθαι, 1.53.7). Osiris, by contrast, undertook his expedition with the hope of spreading civilization and becoming a god (1.17.1–2)— very different motivations. This motif of conquest continues to be emphasized in Sesoösis’s world tour. When his expedition begins, Sesoösis first attacked Ethiopia, “and having subjugated them he forced this people to pay a tribute of ebony and gold and elephant tusks” (καὶ καταπολεμήσας ἠνάγκασε τὸ ἔθνος φόρους τελεῖν ἔβενον καὶ χρυσὸν καὶ τῶν ἐλεφάντων τοὺς ὀδόντας, 1.55.1). Sesoösis goes on to build a fleet and “conquered the coastal regions as far as India” (τῆς ἠπείρου τὰ παρὰ θάλατταν μέρη κατεστρέψατο μέχρι τῆς Ἰνδικῆς); marching overland to India, he “conquered all of Asia” (κατεστρέψατο πᾶσαν τὴν Ἀσίαν, 1.55.2), and “similarly he subjugated both the rest of Asia and most of the Cyclades” (ὁμοίως δὲ καὶ τὴν λοιπὴν Ἀσίαν ἅπασαν ὑπήκοον ἐποιήσατο καὶ τῶν Κυκλάδων νήσων τὰς πλείους, 1.55.6). Only in Thrace is Sesoösis checked and forced to turn back, again in contrast to Osiris, whose expedition was peaceful but still overcame obstacles in Thrace (1.20.2). This is not to say that Sesoösis should be understood as a wicked or evil king. His benefactions to the native Egyptians are very great (1.54.2–3). Sesoösis brings such an enormous quantity of spoils and captives back to Egypt that “it came to pass that all of Egypt was filled with every type of benefit” τὴν( Αἴγυπτον ἅπασαν συνέβη παντοίας ὠφελείας ἐμπλησθῆναι, 1.55.12). Sesoösis’s benefactions include temples throughout Egypt, huge offerings to the gods (1.57.5), and enormous irrigation projects, which enhance Egypt’s agricultural production and provide an excellent defense against invasion (1.57.1–3). Even when some of his captives revolt, the rebellion is quelled “in the end with amnesty being granted to them” (τέλος δὲ δοθείσης ἀδείας αὐτοῖς, 1.56.3), an act of clemency of which Caesar would have approved (see Chapter 1). And Diodorus does attribute a desire to Sesoösis for immortality of a sort. But this comes only after the conqueror returns to Egypt, when Sesoösis, “loving fame and striving for eternal memory undertook great works, amazing in both design and expense, procuring immortal fame for himself” (φιλόδοξος ὢν καὶ τῆς εἰς τὸν αἰῶνα μνήμης ὀρεγόμενος κατεσκεύασεν ἔργα μεγάλα καὶ θαυμαστὰ ταῖς ἐπινοίαις καὶ ταῖς χορηγίαις, ἑαυτῷ μὲν ἀθάνατον περιποιοῦντα δόξαν, 1.56.1). His own fame becomes immortal, but he himself does not achieve immortality, as the difference in language and phrasing from Osiris and the others shows. After a reign of thirty-three years, Sesoösis takes his own life rather than go blind, with 161

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no mention that he obtained divine honors. Given his status as the most renowned Egyptian king and Egyptian beliefs in the divinity of their rulers (of which Diodorus was well aware, 1.90.2–3), it is likely that there would have been versions of the story where he was deified.53 Even if there were not, it would have been very easy for Diodorus to have suggested that he was deified because his accomplishments were so great, but he does not.54 Next we have Semiramis (2.7–20), the most prominent figure in the Assyrian narrative.55 Diodorus introduces her reign by noting that “by nature she wanted to accomplish great things, and seeking renown she desired to surpass the fame of her predecessor [Ninus]” (οὖσα φύσει μεγαλεπίβολος καὶ φιλοτιμουμένη τῇ δόξῃ τὸν βεβασιλευκότα πρὸ αὐτῆς ὑπερθέσθαι, 2.7.2), echoing the language he uses elsewhere. To do this, Semiramis undertakes massive building projects in her territory, beginning with construction of Babylon, which Diodorus describes at length (2.7.2–2.11). But many of the projects Diodorus mentions benefit Semiramis as opposed to her people. She builds two palaces for herself, one of which was extraordinarily large and included a lavish illustration of her and Ninus hunting. Semiramis also has the Euphrates diverted, which recalls some of Sesoösis’s works on the Nile. But Semiramis’s river work is solely to build a passageway so that she can pass between her palaces without having to cross the river. After it is complete, the Euphrates again flows on its original course. Only after constructing all these things does Semiramis show piety and build a temple to Zeus in the center of the city. The temple is spectacular, but still it is not Semiramis’s priority. Moreover, there is no mention anywhere of construction projects undertaken specifically to benefit the people, suggesting that Diodorus does not approve of Semiramis’s preoccupation with herself. Diodorus drives this point home by describing the famous Hanging Gardens, which were built not for the people, but for the concubine of a later Syrian king (2.10).

53. Burton (1972) 165 notes that Senwosret I and Amenemhet III of the XII dynasty, two of the historical models for Sesoösis, were both later regarded as divine. 54. Sulimani (2011) 296 suggests that Diodorus’s statement that Sesoösis put images of himself in temples accords with the Hellenistic ruler-cult practice of σύνναος θεός, but this is insignificant given the absence of all of Diodorus’s regular terminology. 55. Semiramis probably originates in the Assyrian queen Sammuramat and other figures. On the development of her legend, see Dalley (2005) who is perhaps too willing to discount the Greek role in shaping and forming the story. 162

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Like Sesoösis, Semiramis undertakes a great military expedition (μετὰ πολλῆς δυνάμεως, 2.13.1). On this expedition she completes more building projects in areas she already controls, including cutting a path through the Zagros mountains because “she was eagerly desiring to leave an immortal mark of herself, and to make a short road” (ἐφιλοτιμεῖτο οὖν ἅμα μὲν μνημεῖον ἀθάνατον ἑαυτῆς ἀπολιπεῖν, ἅμα δὲ σύντομον ποιήσασθαι τὴν ὁδόν, 2.13.5), echoing the desires of Sesoösis to gain immortal memory. Semiramis left many other traces of her journey through Asia, including numerous other roads and passes, as well as mounds that were still visible in Diodorus’s own time (2.14.1–2). In Media she found a high plateau “on which she built extravagant buildings for luxury” (καθ’ ἣν οἰκοδομήματα πολυτελῆ πρὸς τρυφὴν ἐποίησεν, 2.13.3), where she “spent much time and enjoyed everything connected with luxury” (συχνὸν ἐνδιατρίψασα χρόνον καὶ πάντων τῶν εἰς τρυφὴν ἀνηκόντων ἀπολαύσασα, 2.13.4), foreshadowing the decadence of the later Assyrians. In Ecbatana, she builds another expensive (πολυτελῆ) palace, but also undertakes a project for the benefit of others, in this case large-scale irrigation of the region (2.13.6–8). As she continues into the mountains of Asia, Semiramis builds expensive roads as well (ὁδοὺς πολυτελεῖς, 2.14.1). Thus far, Diodorus’s account of Semiramis primarily describes her actions within territory she already ruled. But following her return from a visit to Egypt, “having great forces and having been at peace for a long time she was eager for glory and to achieve some glorious deed in war” (ἔχουσα δὲ δυνάμεις μεγάλας καὶ πολυχρόνιον εἰρήνην ἄγουσα φιλοτίμως ἔσχε πρᾶξαί τι λαμπρὸν κατὰ πόλεμον, 2.16.1). And so, she resolves to invade India. This is not so different from Sesoösis’s war of conquest, but here Diodorus specifically notes that Semiramis “had been in no way wronged” μηδὲν( προαδικηθεῖσα, 2.16.4) by the Indians, casting her in a negative light from the outset. Diodorus’s account of Semiramis’s invasion of India is lengthy and detailed (2.16–19), and it only serves to emphasize the magnitude of her failure in the end, when Semiramis loses two-thirds of her army and is forced to retreat. Unlike Sesoösis, where no hint is given by Diodorus that he achieves immortal honors, with Semiramis he at least acknowledges the possibility.56 While she was in Egypt, she visited the oracle of Zeus-Ammon and asked about her own end. “And it is said that the response was that she

56. Ibid. 18–19 argues there may be a real historical basis for Semiramis’s alleged divinity. 163

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would vanish from mankind and obtain immortal honor from some of the tribes in Asia. This would happen whenever her son Ninyas conspired against her” (λέγεται δ’ αὐτῇ γενέσθαι λόγιον ἐξ ἀνθρώπων ἀφανισθήσεσθαι καὶ κατὰ τὴν Ἀσίαν παρ’ ἐνίοις τῶν ἐθνῶν ἀθανάτου τεύξεσθαι τιμῆς· ὅπερ ἔσεσθαι καθ’ ὃν ἂν χρόνον ὁ υἱὸς αὐτῇ Νινύας ἐπιβουλεύσῃ, 2.14.3). From the outset, this lacks the universal scope that the cult of Osiris or Dionysus receives. This prophecy comes to fulfillment later on, and when Semiramis discovers the plotting of her son “having handed the kingdom to him and ordered the governors to obey him, she swiftly made herself unseen, as if she was going to be transferred to the gods as per the oracle” (τοὐναντίον δὲ τὴν βασιλείαν αὐτῷ παραδοῦσα καὶ τοῖς ὑπάρχοις ἀκούειν ἐκείνου προστάξασα, ταχέως ἠφάνισεν ἑαυτήν, ὡς εἰς θεοὺς κατὰ τὸν χρησμὸν μεταστησομένη, 2.20.1). The transitive ἠφάνισεν ἑαυτήν and the qualify- ing ὡς stand in stark contrast to the more definitive declarations of a figure receiving divine honors, and Diodorus does not use a variation on his phrase τυχεῖν τῆς ἀθανασίας τιμῆς. In addition, although Diodorus depicts the other culture bringers as receiving immortality from their grateful beneficiaries, he implies that Semiramis is trying to trick her subjects. Diodorus further hedges on Semiramis’s divinity by immediately giving a mythical version: “but some tellers of myth say that she became a dove, and flew away with many birds which had landed on her home; therefore the Assyrians also honor the dove as a god, immortalizing Semiramis” (ἔνιοι δὲ μυθολογοῦντές φασιν αὐτὴν γενέσθαι περιστεράν, καὶ πολλῶν ὀρνέων εἰς τὴν οἰκίαν καταπετασθέντων μετ’ ἐκείνων ἐκπετασθῆναι· διὸ καὶ τοὺς Ἀσσυρίους τὴν περιστερὰν τιμᾶν ὡς θεόν, ἀπαθανατίζοντας τὴν Σεμίραμιν, 2.20.2). We have seen that to be mythical for Diodorus is not to be false, but by placing this fantastic, unrationalized story in a clearly historical section he is casting grave doubt on Semiramis’s divinity and the metamorphosis. His language is different from how he describes other deified culture bringers, particularly use of the verb ἀπαθανατίζοντας.57 Moreover, Diodorus immediately adds that “this woman, accordingly, having ruled all of Asia except India died in the aforesaid manner” (αὕτη μὲν οὖν βασιλεύσασα τῆς Ἀσίας ἁπάσης πλὴν Ἰνδῶν ἐτελεύτησε τὸν προειρημένον

57. The verb is used only three other times in the Bibliotheke: 1.2.4, 1.94.2, 4.7.4. In the first instance, in the proëm, the word refers to history, which immortalizes achievements of great men. The second time the verb refers to the tribe of the Getae, who claim to be immortal. The third time describes students of the muse Polyhymnia, whose poetry has immortalized them. In none of these instances is the word used for ruler cult, and it cannot be regarded as a synonym for the terminology Diodorus uses elsewhere. 164

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τρόπον) with no mention of enduring divine honors. Diodorus is clearly rejecting the idea that Semiramis legitimately achieves divinity. The final globetrotter who does not achieve divinity is Myrina, the queen of the Libyan Amazons, described in Book 3 (and drawn from Dionysius Scytobrachion). Unlike Sesoösis and Semiramis, both of whom are presented by Diodorus as historical figures, Myrina is in a mythical section. Nonetheless, there are similarities between these three figures, probably all deriving from the need to match Alexander the Great.58 The Amazons were “afflicted by an urge to attack the greater part of the inhabited world” (ὁρμῆς αὐταῖς ἐμπεσούσης ἐπελθεῖν πολλὰ μέρη τῆς οἰκουμένης, 3.54.1). Myrina, their queen, first attacked the Atlantians in the city of Cerne, and when she took the city she killed all the adult males, enslaved the women and children, and razed the city (3.54.4). This did have the effect of so terrifying the other Atlantians that they surrendered to Myrina, who then behaved very honorably toward them, and even helped them in their war with the Gorgons. From there Myrina and the Amazons moved east to Egypt, where they befriended Horus, and then began conquering the Arabians, Syrians, and other peoples of the eastern Mediterranean. As with Sesoösis and Semiramis, Diodorus repeatedly emphasizes the military nature of Myrina’s expedition. She “waged war against the Arabs and killed many of them” (πρὸς δ’ Ἄραβας διαπολεμήσασαν καὶ πολλοὺς αὐτῶν ἀνελοῦσαν), she “conquered Syria” (τὴν μὲν Συρίαν καταστρέψασθαι), and she “waged war on the tribes around the Taurus too” (καταπολεμῆσαι δ’ αὐτὴν καὶ τὰ περὶ τὸν Ταῦρον ἔθνη, 3.55.4–5). Myrina also has some of the more positive elements of the culture bringer. She was pious, and set up altars to the Mother of the Gods on Samothrace (3.55.8). She founded numerous cities in Asia Minor, but even here the shadow of militarism is present: “after picking out the tracts of the conquered lands most suitable for city foundation, she founded many cities” (τῆς δὲ δορικτήτου χώρας ἐκλεξαμένην τοὺς εὐθέτους τόπους εἰς πόλεων κτίσεις οἰκοδομῆσαι πλείους πόλεις, 3.55.6). And like Semiramis, Myrina’s grand designs also ended in disaster. She got involved in a battle with Thracians (who also stopped Sesoösis), and was killed along with the greater part of her army. Eventually, the Amazons drew back into their part of Libya (3.55.10–11); Diodorus has already told the reader that they were destroyed much later by Heracles, who “was thinking it would be terrible

58. Rusten (1982) 106–107. 165

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if in trying to benefit the whole of mankind he were to overlook any race ruled by women” (δεινὸν ἡγούμενος, εἰ προελόμενος τὸ γένος κοινῇ τῶν ἀνθρώπων εὐεργετεῖν περιόψεταί τινα τῶν ἐθνῶν γυναικοκρατούμενα, 3.55.3), a foreshadowing of the Heracles narrative at 4.18. But there is no hint that Myrina deserves or was presented as receiving divine honors. Rusten suggests that her narrative was intended to pave the way for the much greater achievements of Dionysus, which follow in Book 3 and which were discussed above.59 Thus, all three of these figures fulfill some of the elements of the culture-bringer paradigm. They all undertake impressive building projects and city foundations; Sesoösis and Semiramis in particular have projects that confer great benefactions on their own people. The activities of Sesoösis even provide major agricultural benefits. All undertake military expeditions, which cover much of the inhabited world, and achieve great conquests.60 But none of these figures achieve divinity the way Osiris, Dionysus, and the others do. What are they lacking? It seems clear, given the emphasis on the military prowess of them all, that Diodorus is arguing that conquest alone is not a surefire path to deification. Nor are benefactions, however large, unless they are directed beyond the conqueror’s native land; both Sesoösis and Semiramis largely confine their euerget- ism toward their own people. The true culture bringer who merits divinity both spreads the benefits of civilization to those people who do not yet have it and enhances the lives of those who already do, whether they are their own subjects or not. Diodorus is arguing that divinity is a rare honor, and only the most superlative individuals merit it. Through such strict standards, Diodorus is attempting to salvage and reinvigorate the ideas of ruler cult. Euhemerus probably originally wrote the Sacred History to help justify Hellenistic ruler cult; by Diodorus’s lifetime it had veered increasingly into caricature, as a string of weak kings in the Seleucid, Ptolemaic, and various minor dynasties took on ever more titles with divine connotations, and even the names of established divinities. The Hellenistic king with whom Diodorus would have been most familiar was Ptolemy XII, nicknamed “Auletes” or “the Flautist.” This Ptolemy took

59. Rusten (1982) 107. 60. Sulimani (2011) 307–310 notes that the culture bringers sometimes have to take up arms against a hostile force, but she does not make the distinction between those whose mission is to spread civilization and those who seek primarily to conquer. 166

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as his formal name Neos Dionysus, the Young Dionysus (1.44.1), and was the first of the dynasty to includeθεός , god, as one of his official titles. But he was a thoroughly mediocre figure who was driven out of Alexandria by his own subjects, and had to repeatedly bribe the Romans to restore him to his throne, causing much destruction and chaos in Alexandria, some of which Diodorus would have seen while he was in Egypt.61 Another example is Antiochus I of Commagene, who managed to par- lay the strategic importance of his small kingdom on the upper Euphrates into a friendship with Rome.62 Around 40 BCE, while still alive, he left a monument on the summit of Nemrud Daǧ describing and depicting his divine status (OGI 383 = IGRR 3, 999 = IGLS I, 1). Antiochus calls himself “Antiochus the Great King, the Just God Manifest, Friend of the Romans and Friend of the Greeks” ([βασιλεὺς μέ]γας Ἀντίοχος θεὸς | Δίκαιος [ Ἐπιφ]αν[ὴς] Φιλορώμαιος καὶ | Φιλέ[λλ]ην, 1–3). His soul will go to the heavenly throne of Zeus Oromasdes on his death (41–44), and he describes how, at the direction of the gods, he places his own image among theirs (53–65). The accompanying relief shows Antiochus mingling with the gods, clearly their equal. The inscription goes on to describe the rites and rituals that accompany Antiochus’s cult. As Fishwick remarks, “coming from the ruler of a petty kingdom, all this would be laughable if it did not yield precious evidence for the final development of Hellenistic ruler cult.”63 The Romans could easily object to granting divine honors to such unworthy recipients. Indeed, Tacitus, writing perhaps 150 years later, says that descendants of Pompey’s Greek advisor Theophanes of Mytilene were persecuted in part on the grounds that “Greek sycophancy granted Theophanes divine honors after death” (defuncto Theophani caelestis honores Graeca adulatio tribuerat, Ann. 6.18), an undeserved tribute.64 The theme of rejecting unworthy individuals from deification appears in satirical works of the empire, and may have been a common motif. The Apocolocyntosis depicts the deified Augustus mocking Claudius’s attempt to be admitted to the number of the gods: “Who will worship this god? Who will believe in him? As long as you make gods like this, no one will

61. Hölbl (2001) 222–230. On Diodorus in Egypt, see Sulimani (2011) 129. 62. Sullivan (1977) 763–770. 63. Fishwick (1987) I,1 18–19. 64. Gradel (2002) 8. 167

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believe that you are gods” (hunc deum quis colet? Quis credit? Dum tales deos facitis, nemo vos deos esse credit, 11.4).65 Diodorus’s Euhemerism, by granting divine status to only the greatest of benefactors, is far purer than later Hellenistic ruler cult, probably purer than Euhemerus ever intended. The strictness of Diodorus when it comes to deification can be seen in his approach to the many historical figures he describes who received some form of divine honors. Sacks identifies about a dozen historical figures as being recognized as receiving divine honors in Diodorus, while Sulimani sees only a handful.66 However, most of the figures that Sacks claims Diodorus recognizes as deified in fact received heroic honors. Ruler cult and hero cult were distinct phenomena, as Diodorus clearly understands.67 In the proëm he notes that of many great men “some have obtained heroic honors, others honors equal to the gods” (οἱ μὲν ἡρωικῶν, οἱ δὲ ἰσοθέων τιμῶν ἔτυχον, 1.2.4), and all are worthy to be commemorated by history. He repeats the same sentiment in the opening of Book 4: “on account of their universal benefactions, later generations have honored some with sacrifices equal to the gods, and others with sacrifices appropriate for heroes” (διὰ τὰς κοινὰς εὐεργεσίας οἱ μεταγενέστεροι τοὺς μὲν ἰσοθέοις, τοὺς δ’ ἡρωικαῖς θυσίαις ἐτίμησαν, 4.1.4). By contrast, since Diodorus does not regard the Olympian gods as supernatural beings, the term ἰσοθέος, often used in the context of ruler cult, does not necessarily serve to distinguish categories of gods. Diodorus does use the word occasionally when dealing with the gods in the first three books, sometimes in unusual theological circumstances. For example, in establishing the cult of Osiris, Isis believed his missing genitalia “no less worthy than the rest of honors equal to the gods” (οὐδὲν ἧττον τῶν ἄλλων ἀξιωθῆναι τιμῶν ἰσοθέων, 1.22.6). Infrequently, Diodorus also uses the word for one of the Euhemerized gods, as at 3.64.2, where the second Dionysus is accorded “honors and sacrifices equal to the gods” τιμὰς( ἰσοθέους … καὶ θυσίας). The description of Osiris’s honors on his return to Egypt, “honor equal to the heavenly gods” (τὴν ἴσην τοῖς οὐρανίοις τιμήν, 1.20.5), echoes this as well. However, Diodorus’s preferred expression for describing deification is “obtained immortal honor” τυχεῖν( τῆς ἀθανασίας τιμῆς), as we have seen.

65. Eden (1984) 124. Cf. Lucian, Deor. conc. 4–12. 66. Sulimani (2011) 65–72, Sacks (1990) 73 n. 88. 67. Price (1984) 34. 168

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Sacks cites a number of figures to whom Diodorus is clearly allotting heroic, not divine, honors. In the case of Gelon of Syracuse “the populace built a noteworthy tomb and honored Gelon with heroic honors” (ὁ μὲν δῆμος τάφον ἀξιόλογον ἐπιστήσας ἡρωικαῖς τιμαῖς ἐτίμησε τὸν Γέλωνα, 11.38.5). Similarly, Hiero of Syracuse on his death “obtained heroic honors as the founder of the city” (καὶ τιμῶν ἡρωικῶν ἔτυχεν, ὡς ἂν κτίστης γεγονὼς τῆς πόλεως, 11.66.4). The Syracusans “honored [Diocles] on his death with heroic honors and built a temple for him at public expense” (τελευτήσαντα τιμαῖς ἡρωικαῖς ἐτίμησαν καὶ νεὼν ᾠκοδόμησαν δημοσίᾳ, 13.35.2). When the Syracusans elected Dion as general, “they allotted him heroic honors” (τιμὰς ἀπένειμεν ἡρωικάς), and honored him both as benefactor (εὐεργέτην) and savior (σωτῆρα, 16.20.6). Although these figures are spread over several books, Diodorus describes them all as receiving heroic honors in language entirely distinct from that used of the Euhemerized gods, and Sacks is incorrect to equate them.68 The figures Sacks cites from the Hellenistic period are more interesting, since ruler cult was by then an established institution. First, following the death of Hephaestion Diodorus describes how Alexander ordered that he be worshipped as “god coadjutor” (θεῷ παρέδρῳ) and that the Oracle of Ammon had said to “sacrifice to Hephaestion as a god” θύειν( Ἡφαιστίωνι θεῷ, 17.115.6). But Diodorus is merely describing what happened, not giving his assent or acknowledging Hephaestion as a god by his (high) standards, despite the Oracle. Similarly, when Diodorus notes that the Rhodians asked and received permission from the Oracle to honor Ptolemy I as a god, he himself does not give his assent (20.100.3)—his standards are higher than those of Zeus-Ammon. Demetrius liberates the people of Sicyon, for which “he obtained honors equal to the gods from his beneficiaries” (τιμῶν ἰσοθέων ἔτυχε παρὰ τοῖς εὖ παθοῦσι, 20.102.3). This is the language of ruler cult, but it also echoes Diodorus’s descriptions of the culture bringers. However, in the case of Demetrius, these honors are fleeting, as Diodorus goes on to explain: “but time, broken by change, can- celed these” (ἀλλὰ ταῦτα μὲν ὁ χρόνος διαληφθεὶς πραγμάτων μεταβολαῖς ἠκύρωσεν, 20.102.3). Here then is the clear difference between these rulers receiving τιμαὶ ἰσοθέοι, and the deified culture bringers: the honors of the latter have stood the test of time.

68. Cf. Sulimani (2011) 68–69. 169

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Other possible deified rulers are in the fragmentary books, making it harder to evaluate Diodorus’s view of them. The Achaean general Philopoemen is described as “perchance through some divine providence receiv[ing] honors equal to the gods because of the unfortunate events surrounding his demise” (ὡσπερεί τινι θείᾳ προνοίᾳ τὰς ἰσοθέους τιμὰς ἠλλάξατο τῶν κατὰ τὴν τελευτὴν ἀπηντηκότων ἀκληρημάτων, 29.18). The Roman general Quintus Mucius Scaevola “obtained honors equal to the gods from those who had benefited from him” παρὰ( μὲν τοῖς εὐεργετηθεῖσι τιμῶν ἰσοθέων ἔτυχε, 37.6). This at least echoes the language Diodorus uses of deified culture bringers and their benefactions. But in Scaevola’s case the limited nature of these τιμῶν ἰσοθέων is immediately made clear: “and from his fellow citizens he received many tributes for his successes” (παρὰ δὲ τῶν πολιτῶν πολλὰς ἀμοιβὰς τῶν κατορθωμάτων ἀπέλαβε, 37.6). This is far from the universal acclaim of the culture bringers. Two historical figures identified by Sulimani are actually calledθεός by Diodorus.69 The first is Darius I of Persia, whom Diodorus depicts in Book 1 as undertaking a special study of the laws of Egypt, and then following those laws in his own reign: “And, on account of this, he received such honor that he was called a god by the Egyptians while still alive, and after death he obtained honors equal to the kings of Egypt who ruled according to the ancient laws” (καὶ διὰ τοῦτο τηλικαύτης τυχεῖν τιμῆς ὥσθ’ ὑπὸ τῶν Αἰγυπτίων ζῶντα μὲν θεὸν προσαγορεύεσθαι μόνον τῶν ἁπάντων βασιλέων, τελευτήσαντα δὲ τιμῶν τυχεῖν ἴσων τοῖς τὸ παλαιὸν νομιμώτατα βασιλεύσασι κατ’ Αἴγυπτον, 1.95.5). Unfortunately, the section of Diodorus in which he would have dealt with Darius’s reign in depth is not extant, so we cannot determine if he accepted Darius as having been deified. But the second part of the remark, that Darius obtained honors equal to those of the ancient kings of Egypt and not divine honors, suggests that the Egyptians tempered their initial enthusiasm and did not undertake to recognize Darius as a deity after his death.70 The second figure noted by Sulimani, perhaps surprisingly, is Mithridates VI Eupator Dionysus, the king of Pontus who was the main enemy of Rome in the east during the first half of the first century BCE. Describing the reaction by the Greeks of Asia Minor to the initial success of his war against the Romans in 88, Diodorus states that “it was possible to

69. Ibid. 69–70. 70. A point made by Sacks (1990) 182–183. 170

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see ambassadors from all the cities with proclamations calling him to their countries and declaring him god and savior” (παρῆν δὲ ὁρᾶν ἀπὸ πασῶν τῶν πόλεων πρεσβευτὰς μετὰ ψηφισμάτων καλούντων αὐτὸν εἰς τὰς ἰδίας πατρίδας καὶ θεὸν καὶ σωτῆρα προσαγορευόντων, 37.26). This reference is hard to interpret because it is only a fragment, but I suspect that the rest of the Mithridates narrative would have made it clear that the Greek cities were premature in the declaration of him as a god, making this statement a highly ironic one. And again, the second step, that he receives honors after his death, would certainly be missing.71 In common with figures like Sesoösis, most of these leaders are depicted as bestowing benefactions, although not on the same scale. Sulimani argues that despite the differences in vocabulary and scale, “this divergence does not reflect a fundamental difference between two sections of the Bibliotheke” and that regarding terminology “most of the historical figures did not become divine.”72 But this fundamentally misreads Diodorus’s purposes in his presentation of the culture bringers. They demonstrate what is required to become divine on Diodorus’s terms, and reveal why these later figures do not become divine. And so there is a great gap between them, with two exceptions. The first is Aeneas, the Trojan hero who came to Italy. In a fragment of Book 7, the first of the “historical” books, preserved by Eusebius and Syncellus, Diodorus describes Aeneas as having taken up rule of the Latins three years after the fall of Troy, and then after being king for three years “he disappeared from men and obtained immortal honors” (ἐξ ἀνθρώπων ἠφανίσθη καὶ τιμῶν ἔτυχεν ἀθανάτων, 7.5.2). Assuming this has been preserved accurately, Diodorus is using his preferred language of deification with regard to Aeneas. Too little of his account survives to say much about why Aeneas achieved immortality, but Diodorus does add that Aeneas’s grandson, Iulius, became pontifex maximus and was the ancestor of the Julian clan that existed in his own time (7.5.8). Julius Caesar and later Octavian promoted their descent from Aeneas, and Virgil foretells of his immortality in the Aeneid. It is not a coincidence that the other historical figure that clearly receives immortality in theBibliotheke is Julius Caesar;

71. On Mithridates in historiography of the late Republic and early Empire, see Yarrow (2006) 316–333. 72. Sulimani (2011) 72. 171

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Diodorus may have been endorsing his claims to divine descent with this passage.73 Before considering Diodorus’s depiction of Caesar’s deification and Roman attitudes to ruler cult, let us examine one very important historical figure to whom Diodorus noticeably does not grant divine status, Alexander the Great. It is no coincidence that the campaigns of Myrina, Semiramis, and Sesoösis resemble Alexander’s in so many ways; it was important for Alexander to surpass them (cf. Arrian, Anabasis 6.24), but it was also important for different peoples to promote their own, pre- Alexander heroes as being just as accomplished as the Great.74 At times this is made explicit by Diodorus. Sesoösis “not only traversed all the territory later conquered by Alexander, but also some peoples whose territory the later figure did not even reach” οὐ( μόνον γὰρ τὴν ὕστερον ὑπ’ Ἀλεξάνδρου τοῦ Μακεδόνος κατακτηθεῖσαν χώραν ἐπῆλθεν, ἀλλὰ καί τινα τῶν ἐθνῶν ὧν ἐκεῖνος οὐ παρέβαλεν εἰς τὴν χώραν, 1.55.3), namely the region beyond the Ganges in India. Alexander the Great is referred to more than any other historical figure in Books 1–3, but never once does Diodorus suggest that he achieved divinity or that there was a cult to him.75 Nor is there any sign of this in Diodorus’s seventeenth book, which contains the earliest extant narrative of Alexander the Great. Unfortunately, the book has several lacunae, including the section that would have included the debate on proskynesis, depriving us of the comparison with his depictions of ruler cult in Books 1–3 and with Arrian’s and Curtius’s accounts. Indeed, although Diodorus might have been expected to make the connection between Alexander and Heracles and Dionysus very strongly, especially given the parallels between the journeys of all three of them, in Book 17 he does not.76 The closest Diodorus comes to any divine recognition

73. Cf. the calendar passage in Book 1, discussed in my Chapters 1 and 7. Sacks (1990) 154–157 discusses Aeneas in the Bibliotheke briefly, but sees Diodorus primarily as discrediting the Roman version of his legend. I think this passage in Book 7 and the passage in Book 4 Sacks examines are both too brief to draw such firm conclusions. Yarrow (2006) 178–179 offers a more positive assessment of Diodorus’s presentation of the ancestry of the Julians. 74. On the development of Dionysus and his relationship with Alexander, see Bosworth (1999) 3 and Bosworth (1996) 140–166. On Sesoösis, see Murray (1970) 162–163 and Lloyd (1982) 37–40; and on Myrina, see Rusten (1982) 106–107. On Semiramis and Alexander’s campaigns, see Sulimani (2005). Sulimani (2011) 343–344 suggests that Heracles’s campaigns in the west reflect the plans attributed to Alexander the Great. 75. 1.3.3, 1.4.6, 1.26.1, 1.50.6, 1.55.2, 1.84.8, 2.31.2, 2.31.9, 2.37.3, 3.47.9, 4.15.4. 76. Diodorus does note that Heracles had tried to besiege the Rock of Aornus, at 17.85.2. 172

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comes when Alexander makes a peace with the tribe of the Sambastae, and “is honored by them with heroic honors” (τιμαῖς ἡρωικαῖς ὑπὸ τῶν ἐγχωρίων ἐτιμήθη, 17.102.4). Mention of Alexander being treated as a divinity is also absent from Book 18, although Ptolemy is said to have honored him with “heroic sacrifices” θυσίαις( ἡρωικαῖς, 18.28.4). This is especially surprising, since the cult of Alexander was an historical fact. We have already seen that Alexander sought divine honors during his own lifetime and probably requested that the Greeks formally worship him in the last year of his life. Unlike the later Hellenistic rulers, Alexander had in many ways succeeded in equaling or even surpassing the deeds of the gods; after his death, his cult seems to have been established and persisted in numerous regions.77 It is very telling, given how the deeds of the culture bringers were to a certain extent inspired by Alexander, that Diodorus does not rank him in their midst. But for Diodorus, Alexander bears too many similarities with Sesoösis, Semiramis, and Myrina—âhe is first and foremost a conqueror.78 This survey confirms that even though Diodorus may be a staunch believer that the gods were mortals who achieved immortality for their services to mankind, he is extremely reluctant to grant this status to anyone who fails to meet his high standards. This leaves Julius Caesar as the last, and by far the most interesting, figure to be acknowledged as a god by Diodorus. But before we examine his presentation of Caesar, we need to step back and look at the Roman attitudes toward deified rulers in the late Republic.

Ruler Cult and Rome Ruler cult is often seen as antithetical to the Roman Republic, and there is much truth to this. In an aristocratic society where the offices of state were structured so as to prevent any one individual from acquiring too much power, and where the foundational story revolved around expulsion

77. On the evidence for Alexander’s posthumous cult, see Habicht (1970) 17–â36. Note also Chaniotis (2003) 434–â435. 78. Green (1978) 4–6â argues that the Romans of Diodorus’s time were generally apathetic about Alexander the Great, with the possible exception of Pompey. If so, then this may show that Diodorus knows his audience will perhaps be less receptive to Alexander as a model. Alexander does frequently display acts of clemency in Diodorus, though; note Sulimani (2011) 86. 173

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of absolute monarchs, ruler cult had no place, and indeed could not have existed.79 When the citizens of Asia voted a temple and monument dedicated to Cicero and his brother Quintus, Cicero refused, explaining that even though he understood the temple was really intended for Rome, he did not want to arouse envy among those who did not merit such honors (Q. Fr. 1.1.26 = SB 1). Cicero later boasted that when he was governor of Cilicia he had refused to accept any statues, shrines, or quadrigae (statua, fana, τέθριπτα, Att. 5.21 = SB 114). This is the same attitude that prevented the Senate from decreeing anything more honorific than a togate statue for one of its members, even a triumphant general. As Zanker puts it, “The sober and egalitarian style of togate statues thus reflected a strictly ordered power structure with officials rotating every year. Rival aristocrats held each other’s ambitions in check and would not tolerate undue honors, let alone superhuman attributes, being accorded the accomplishments of one individual,” in contrast to the Hellenistic kings.80 But the Romans did have an important precedent for deification in their own ritual of the triumph, when a victorious general essentially became Jupiter Optimus Maximus for a day, complete with costume apparently matching that of the cult statue on the Capitoline. And there were other examples of one individual holding extreme power over others, which have been likened to the relationship between men and gods, such as the paterfamilias or the master-slave relationship. Less well attested are private cults and honors, which doubtlessly existed.81 As Rome encroached further on the Greek east, the Romans experi- enced Hellenistic ruler cult firsthand. Prominent commanders could be granted divine rites by Greek cities. T. Quinctius Flamininus was dubbed a σωτήρ (savior), received a cult with a priest in Chalcis, and had games held in his honor in the Peloponnese. By the time of the Roman conquests, the

79. Taylor (1931) 54. 80. Zanker (1988) 5. 81. Beard (2007) 225–238, Gradel (2002) 32–51. Gradel argues that the Romans did not con- ceive of gods and humans in absolute terms but rather in relative terms. Jupiter was not seen as a god, but as a superhuman being. This made ruler cult far more palatable in Rome than the traditional view holds, since there were no mortal-immortal boundaries to transgress. However, this is a very problematic viewpoint; see Levene (2012) 41–81. Gradel deliberately does not engage with the intellectual debates on the nature of gods in authors such as Cicero and Euhemerus, limiting his relevance for religious views among the Roman elite whom Diodorus is addressing. Still, there is definitely some truth to his claim that the Romans did not object to ruler cult so much as they objected to ruler cult for unworthy people. 174

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Greeks, as a matter of form, were used to offering cult to their overlords, and even created a Dea Roma as a sort of replacement for the Hellenistic kings to whom they were used to offering cult.82 And even though Cicero may have been reluctant to allow a temple to be dedicated to himself, some of his contemporaries were not so hesitant. His predecessor in Cilicia, Appius Claudius, accepted a temple in his honor and complained that Cicero was not pushing for its completion (Fam. 3.7 = SB 71).83 But such rites and offerings were meaningless in Rome. Nevertheless, Greek ideas about deification and ruler cult began to fil- ter into Rome by the early second century. The great Roman poet Ennius translated Euhemerus’s Sacred History into Latin at about that time. As with Euhemerus’s original work, the aims of Ennius’s translation are unclear. One school of thought suggests that he was promoting a rational and skeptical view of the gods. Winiarczyk believes it more likely that Ennius was actually attempting to promote the idea that living individuals could be included among the gods in recognition of their accomplishments. In particular, Ennius may have been trying to lay the intellectual foundations among Roman elites for deifying the most accomplished Roman of his day, Publius Cornelius Scipio Africanus, the conqueror of Hannibal.84 Ennius also composed a Scipio, which several scholars have argued was an outright attempt to deify Scipio, but only three fragments survive.85 Even so, “the apotheosis of the victor of Zama never occurred because Roman society was not prepared for it.”86 Other Romans seem to have accepted Euhemerism too. The second century historian L. Cassius Hemina (FRHist 6 F1–3) apparently argued that the gods were originally humans as well.87 Even if ruler cult and deification of mortals did not gain acceptance in Rome itself, the Romans still had to confront it in the Greek east. An

82. Taylor (1931) 35–40, Fishwick (1987) I,1 46–51 offer additional examples of Roman commanders. For Dea Roma as a replacement object of ruler cult, see Mellor (1975) 20–26 and passim. 83. Taylor (1931) 38–39. 84. Winiarczyk (2013) 109–122, Bosworth (1999) 5. 85. Elter (1907) was the first to make this argument, which was accepted by Galinsky (1966) 227–228 and Weinstock (1971) 294. See Winiarczyk (2013) 113 n. 24 for additional references. 86. Winiarczyk (2013) 114. 87. Briscoe, FRHist I.223. 175

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interesting example of Rome’s encounters with ruler cult is recorded in a lengthy decree from 73 BCE dealing with payment of taxes by the town of Oropus in central Greece (IG VIII 413 = SIG 747). The sanctuary of Amphiaraus had been granted tax-exempt status as a sacred site by the dictator Sulla, but the publicani later claimed the right to farm taxes there. The case was heard by the consuls and a group of sixteen senators. Part of the debate was over the status of Amphiaraus, whom the Greeks argued was a god, while the publicani argued the opposite (οὔτε ὁ Ἀμφιάραος … θεός ἐστιν, ll. 27–28). The commission, following the rulings of Sulla, accepted Amphiaraus as a god and ruled in favor of Oropus.88 Interestingly, one member of this commission was Cicero (who mentions the episode at Nat. D. 3.49), and it is Cicero’s writings that provide us with the most insight into Roman attitudes toward deified rulers, an issue that grows increasingly prominent with the rise of such figures as Pompey the Great and Julius Caesar. Pompey himself, in an inscription he erected in Asia Minor quoted by Diodorus, boasts that he “extended the boundaries of the empire to the boundaries of the world” (τὰ ὅρια τῆς ἡγεμονίας τοῖς ὅροις τῆς γῆς προσβιβάσας, 40.4), and in an inscription, quoted by Pliny the Elder, which Pompey set up in the temple of Minerva in Rome, he declares that he “conquered all the lands between Lake Maeotis and the Red Sea” (receptis terris a Maeotis ad Rubrum Mare subactis, N.H. 7.97). Pliny, perhaps echoing Pompey’s own propaganda, notes that “he equalled not only Alexander the Great in the magnificence of his accomplishments, but also Hercules and Father Liber [Dionysus]” (aequato non modo Alexandri Magni rerum fulgore, sed etiam Herculis prope ac Liberi patris, N.H. 7.95), two of Diodorus’s culture bringers. With claims such as these, Pompey is pushing the boundaries of what a mere mortal can accomplish and reaching toward deification.89 As Spencer Cole (not to be confused with Thomas Cole) has recently shown, deification of rulers is a frequent concern of Cicero in his public speeches, philosophical works, and letters. Well before Caesar’s unprecedented honors put him on the course toward state-sanctioned deification,

88. Levene (2012) 58–59. He suggests that the issue may have been complicated by the lack of an intermediate status between man and god, such as a Greek heros or daimon, in Roman thought. 89. On these inscriptions, see Vogel-Weidemann (1985) 57–75. Cole (2013) 59 connects Pliny’s remarks with Pompey’s own propaganda. 176

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Cicero was exploring the nature of ruler cult and exploiting its conceits in his own rhetoric. In his early speeches praising Pompey, for example, he repeatedly represents the general as somehow greater than normal men, as a divine gift, while avoiding the rhetorical extreme of promoting Pompey as a deity in the Hellenistic fashion. So in the Pro lege Manilia, Pompey has divino consilio ac singulari virtute (10), he has incredibilis ac divina virtus (33, 36), and he is seen by the Greeks of the east “not like one sent from this city, but as one descended from heaven” (sicut aliquem non ex hac urbe missum, sed de caelo delapsum, 40). Pompey’s abilities are divine, and the Greeks perceive him as divine, but Cicero stops short of even rhetorically naming Pompey himself as divine. This use of the language of divinity continues in Cicero’s speeches, and by the mid-50s he is starting to set out the qualifications for a mortal to reach divinity. In the Pro Rabirio Postumo of 54, praising Caesar’s accomplishments, Cicero states that they “are driven by great rewards and the eternal memory of mankind, and it is not surprising that he who has desired immortality should accomplish these things” (sed magnis excitata sunt praemiis ac memoria hominum sempiterna. Quo minus admirandum est eum facere illa qui immortalitatem concupiverit, 42).90 This rhetorical emphasis on the desire of Caesar to achieve immortality as driving his accomplishments is very reminiscent of Diodorus’s culture bringers. In the Pro Plancio, also of 54, Cicero suggests that the critical aspect of these deeds is that they benefit theRes Publica: “for those who have given their life for the Republic—call me a fool if you like—I think, by Hercules, have not so much died as achieved immortality” (nam qui pro re publica vitam ediderunt-licet me desipere dicatis-numquam me hercule eos mortem potius quam immortalitatem adsecutos putavi, 90). Through his use of divine metaphors and language and his emphasis on service to the Republic as the key to immortality, Cicero, Cole explains, “is proposing a final rung on thecursus honorum, the ultimate reward in a reconstructed meritocracy for Rome.”91 It can be argued that much of the language of divinity in the speeches is at least in part rhetorical, but Cicero is also exploring the ability of men to become divinities in his great philosophical works of the 50s and 40s. In the Republic, he presents Romulus as a deified ruler in the Euhemeristic

90. Cole (2013) 34–46, 74–84. 91. Ibid. 75–76. 177

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sense. Crucially, his primary source is Ennius, whom he quotes at the start of Book 5: “the Roman state stands on ancient customs and men” (moribus antiquis res stat Romana virisque, 5.1). Throughout the Republic Ennius is presented as an authoritative source, alongside such ancient records as the Annales Maximi. It was Ennius who translated Euhemerus’s Sacred History into Latin and introduced its concepts into Rome, and it may well have been Ennius who first described Romulus as having become the god Quirinus.92 The primary interlocutor of the Republic, Scipio Aemilianus, even quotes Ennius to prove that the early Romans looked to Romulus as a god (1.64), enabling Cicero to present the deified king as an ancient precedent.93 Furthermore, in Book 2 of the Republic Scipio describes the foundation of Rome, beginning not with the Trojans but with Romulus. Immediately the idea of Romulus’s divine parentage is introduced, which Scipio justifies: “for we should follow this tradition, especially since it is not only ancient, but also has been handed down wisely from our ancestors, that those who deserved well from the community be considered as divine not only from talent, but also by birth” (concedamus enim famae hominum, praesertim non inveteratae solum, sed etiam sapienter a maioribus prodi- tae, bene meriti de rebus communibus ut genere etiam putarentur, non solum ingenio esse divino, 2.4). From the outset of the Romulus narrative, “claims of divine descent—like those made by Caesar’s family—are converted from a prerogative to a civic reward by Scipio’s rationale.”94 Scipio presents his account of Romulus’s reign as fully historical, and the early Romans as quite sophisticated. Romulus’s choice of location for the city, for instance, carefully gains the advantages of a coastal location without its vices by placing it along a broad river flowing to the sea, a decision Scipio refers to as divinus (2.10). Finally, after his thirty-seven-year reign Romulus disappeared following an eclipse, and Scipio explains that “he was believed to have been placed among the gods; which no mortal is ever able to achieve without an uncommon reputation for virtue” (deorum in numero conlocatus putaretur; quam opinionem nemo umquam morta- lis adsequi potuit sine eximia virtutis gloria, 2.17). This perhaps foreshadows the discussion on the immortality of the soul in the Dream of Scipio

92. Weinstock (1971) 175–177 notes however that there is no evidence for this. 93. Cole (2013) 85–91. 94. Ibid. 92. 178

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in Book 6, when Scipio Africanus explains that there is a special place in the heavens for all “who save, preserve, help, and increase their country” (qui patriam conservaverint, adiuverint, auxerint, 6.13). For Cicero, immortality is dependent on civic contributions, although the dream need not specifically refer to ruler cult.95 It is interesting how much emphasis Cicero places on the sophistication of the early Romans who accepted Romulus as a god. Scipio sums it up: “and Romulus must be even more admired, because others, who are said to have become gods from men, lived in a less learned era of men, when there was a proclivity for fabrication, since the uneducated are easily driven to belief, but we know that the age of Romulus was less than 600 years ago, when literacy and learning were already old and every ancient misconception had been rooted out from the primitive life of men” (Atque hoc eo magis est in Romulo admirandum, quod ceteri, qui dii ex hominibus facti esse dicuntur, minus eruditis hominum saeculis fuerunt, ut fingendi proclivis esset ratio, cum imperiti facile ad credendum inpel- lerentur, Romuli autem aetatem minus his sescentis annis iam invetera- tis litteris atque doctrinis omnique illo antiquo ex inculta hominum vita errore sublato fuisse cernimus, 2.18). Scipio acknowledges some mythical elements in the Romulus story, but for the time of the king’s adulthood declares that he has moved “from myth to fact” (a fabulis ad facta venia- mus, 2.4). So like Diodorus Cicero in the Republic realizes the problematic nature of early history and its relationship with mythology. But also like Diodorus, who covered the foundation of Rome in the “historical” Book 8, Cicero places Rome’s early legends firmly in the realm of legitimate history.96 Cicero is justifying ruler cult, at least for Romulus, in Roman terms, much as Diodorus justifies his version of ruler cult through his presentation of the barbarian societies like Egypt and Libya. Although Cicero is by no means embracing a fully Euhemeristic approach to all the gods, in the Republic deification of Romulus is a real thing. This is touched on again in De Legibus, where the character of Marcus explains the laws surrounding the gods, and declares that the Romans need to worship “the gods, both those who have always inhabited the

95. Ibid. 92–103. 96. Although some of the fragments of Diodorus 8 deal with Romulus, they do not give any sign that Diodorus regarded him as achieving deification. Yarrow (2006) 171–172 suggests that Diodorus may have emphasized some of the “least appealing” aspects of the legend, although all the elements Diodorus includes are attested elsewhere. 179

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heavens and those whom their deeds have placed in heaven: Hercules, Liber, Aesculapius, Castor, Pollux, Quirinus” (Divos et eos qui caelestes semper habiti sunt colunto et ollos quos endo caelo merita locaverunt, Herculem, Liberum, Aesculapium, Castorem, Pollucem, Quirinum, 2.19) as well as good qualities such as Mens, Virtus, Pietas, and Fides. Cicero also makes it clear that he is not simply talking about the immortality of the soul: “but the fact that the law commands the worship of those of the human race who have been consecrated, just as Hercules and the rest, indicates that the souls of all are immortal, but those of the brave and the good are divine” (Quod autem ex hominum genere consecratos, sicut Herculem et ceteros, coli lex iubet, indicat omnium quidem animos immortales esse, sed fortium bonorumque divinos, 2.27). Cicero clearly has no problem with the Euhemeristic conceit that at least some of the gods, including Diodorus’s heroes Dionysus and Heracles, were originally mortal men who received divinity for their benefactions.97 In his later philosophical writings the theme of deification continues to be important for Cicero (e.g., Fin. 3.66). But it is in the De Natura Deorum that Cicero most fully presents an actual debate, one that must have been ongoing in Roman intellectual circles, about the possibility of mortal men becoming gods. This dialogue is set in 76, and while a young Cicero is present he is almost entirely silent. Unlike many other dialogues, where one figure predominates, inDe Natura Deorum he makes all three participants intellectual powerhouses from their respective schools: Velleius the Epicurean, Balbus the Stoic, and Cotta the Academic, although the Epicurean receives something of a short shrift. Although many earlier scholars believed that the skeptical Cotta represents Cicero’s viewpoint, more recent work has shown how evenly matched he is with Balbus and that Cicero is not endorsing either side.98 Notably, at the end, “to Velleius the argument of Cotta seemed truer, but to me (Cicero) that of Balbus seemed closer to an image of truth” (ut Velleio Cottae disputatio verior, mihi Balbi ad veritatis similitudinem videretur esse propensior, 3.95). Hardly a ringing endorsement of either, but that is Cicero’s point.

97. Cole (2013) 103–110. 98. The traditional view that Cotta speaks for Cicero is expressed by Linderski (1982) and Momigliano (1984) 207–208. Tarán (1987) explains the problems with this point of view. On the exploratory nature of De natura deorum, and its companion De divinatione, see Beard (1986) and Schofield (1986). See also Fott (2012) 152–180 and Cole (2013) 150–151. 180

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Over the course of the dialogue deification of humans comes up repeatedly. Euhemerus and Ennius are brought up by Cotta as proponents of the belief that heroic individuals ascended to the gods, which Cotta ridicules (1.119). In the second book, Balbus examines the types of gods, and presents the Euhemeristic view. He explains that “human experience and common practice have undertaken to raise to heaven through their fame and our thanks those distinguished by their benefactions” (suscepit autem vita hominum consuetudoque communis ut beneficiis excellentis viros in caelum fama ac voluntate tollerent, 2.62). Balbus goes on to name Hercules, Castor and Pollux, Aesculapius, Liber (with a side note that it is Dionysus who is meant), and Romulus. Cotta has an extensive discussion of the problems with Balbus’s theology (3.41–62), but it is Balbus who most thoroughly defends traditional Roman religion.99 Cicero, in this dialogue, recognizes that there are no easy answers, but rather, as Schofield puts it, “present[s]‌ as forcefully and sympathetically as possible the views of different schools so that readers can make up their own minds.”100 Such was the intellectual debate into which Diodorus was wading with his Euhemeristic barbarian deities. Following the death of his daughter Tullia in 45, the idea of deification became extremely personal for Cicero. In a fragment from the now-lost Consolatio that he wrote for himself, Cicero acknowledges that “we see many men and women from the human race in the number of the gods, and we venerate their most august shrines in the cities and fields, and we approve of the wisdom of those by whose skills and discoveries we hold all of life to have been nourished and established by laws and institutions” (mares et feminas complures ex hominibus in deorum numero esse videa- mus et eorum in urbibus atque agris augustissima delubra veneremur, adsentiamur eorum sapientiae quorum ingeniis et inventis omnem vitam legibus et institutis excultam constitutamque habemus, Fr. 14 = Inst 1.15–20). Here Cicero endorses a view of deified gods quite similar to that of Diodorus, complete with the acknowledgment that they are primarily culture bringers. Cicero goes on to say that Tullia is fully worthy to be consecrated, and declares “but indeed, I will do it, and you, best, most-learned of all, I will consecrate among the immortal gods with their approval according to the judgment of all mortals” (quod quidem faciam, teque omnium

99. Cole (2013) 151–162. 100. Schofield (1986) 63. 181

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optimam, doctissimam, approbantibus diis immortalibus ipsis in eorum coetu locatam ad opinionem omnium mortalium consecrabo). The letters to Atticus from this period are full of references to Cicero’s attempts to bring this project to fruition through construction of a shrine or temple (fanum) for Tullia. Cicero notes: “I have several of those authors from whom I am currently reading all the time say that that which I have often brought up with you ought to be done [i.e., building the fanum]” (etenim habeo non nullos ex iis quos nunc lectito auctores qui dicant fieri id oportere quod saepe tecum egi, 12.18.1 = SB 254), but he does not specify who these authors were. The issue comes up again a few weeks later, when Cicero bluntly declares, “I want a shrine to be made and it is impossible to convince me otherwise” (Fanum fieri volo, neque hoc mihi suaderi potest). Cicero goes on to explain that “I want to avoid any similarity with a tomb, not so much because of the legal penalty, but so that I might best obtain apotheosis” (sepulcri similitudinem effugere non tam propter poenam legis studeo quam ut maxime adsequar ἀποθέωσιν, 12.36.1 = SB 275) and that he wants to ensure that the shrine continue to have religious importance for posterity.101 It is clear that Cicero understood this was quite novel. In the same letter, Cicero repeatedly asks Atticus to “please forgive me, whatever you think of this” (quod velim mihi ignoscas, cuicuimodi est, 12.18.1 = SB 254). Later, when Cicero has made apotheosis his avowed goal, he begs Atticus: “you must bear these silly (I admit) fancies of mine; for I have no one, not even myself, with whom I can confide as boldly as with you” (hae meae tibi ineptiae fateor enim ferendae sunt; nam habeo ne me quidem ipsum qui- cum tam audacter communicem quam te, 12.18.1 = SB 254). Leaving aside the issue of whether Tullia was worthy of deification, what is significant about this episode is that Cicero understands fully that deification does not take place on its own, but requires the living to actively promote it and establish its rituals, just as in Diodorus the culture bringers require those who come after them to establish and preserve the cult and hand down the memory of the god’s accomplishments and benefactions. Thus in Cicero’s works we see a strong interest in deification of mortals under certain circumstances, which actually has many similarities with Diodorus. Cicero’s thoughts on the matter evolve, and De Natura Deorum especially suggests

101. On Tullia’s deification, see especially Shackleton-Bailey (1965-70) 5.404–413. His remark (404 n. 1) “What put this idea into Cicero’s head there is no telling” is revealing. Cole (2013) 1–6 treats this incident with less incredulity. 182

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a healthy debate going on in Rome at this time, as would be expected with the rise to power of Caesar.102 Cicero is not the only Roman intellectual to write on deified mortals. Varro, who we have already seen has some interesting similarities with Diodorus on myth and chronology, also broached the subject in his great work on Roman religion, Antiquitates Rerum Divinarum. He explained that “there are some gods who are fixed and eternal from the beginning, others who were made immortal out of men; and of these some are private, others communal; private gods are those whom certain individual peoples worship, such as Faunus with us, Amphiaraus with the Thebans, Tyndareus with the Spartans, while communal gods are universal, such as Castor, Pollux, Liber, and Hercules” (deos alios esse, qui ab initio certi et sempiterni sunt, alios qui immortales ex hominibus facti sunt; et de his ipsis alios esse privatos, alios communes; privatos, quos unaquaeque gens colit, ut nos Faunum, Thebani Amphiaraum, Lacedaemonii Tyndareum, communes, quos universi, ut Castorem Pollucem Liberum Herculem, f. 32 Carduans). Notably absent is Romulus.103 In De Gente Populi Romani, published in 43, when the debate over Caesar’s deification must have been at its height, Varro showed particular interest in mortal rulers who were deified for their services to mankind, although he may not have been advo- cating for Caesar’s deification, as is often assumed.104 It was also Varro who apparently first attempted to explain the difference between divus and deus, concluding that divus was the appropriate term for eternal gods, and deus for deified humans. This analysis of the words was eventually inverted as divus became associated specifically with deified rulers, beginning with Caesar.105

102. Cole (2013) 162–169 explores this theme further in Cicero’s other philosophical works from the 40s. 103. Ibid. 105–106. 104. Taylor (1934) 221–229, Sulimani (2011) 76–77. Contrary to them, Baier (1999) argues that Varro was asserting what he saw as legitimate “Roman” religious practice against foreign influence: “We may infer that the conservative Varro also regarded the deification of human beings with reservation, as something foreign and un-Roman.” Even if we accept this argument, it still shows that the idea of deifying humans was widespread in mid-first-century Rome. 105. Wardle (2002) 181–191 analyzes the usage of these words in more detail, and concludes that divus was chosen as Caesar’s cult title because it was seen as the more archaic of the two words for god and because it was the preferred term in legal writing. 183

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What these works show is a vigorous intellectual debate in the late Republic over the nature of divinity and the ability of mortals to achieve it. By depicting his ideas on ruler cult and deification through his barbarian culture bringers, Diodorus is able to engage with this debate at Rome from a very different angle than Cicero and Varro. There is no doubt that a major impetus to this debate was the consolidation of absolute power by Julius Caesar, who was receiving numerous honors paving the way for his eventual deification as Divus Iulius. Cicero, in his public works in this period, is engaging with this debate as well, and again there are some interesting similarities with Diodorus. In the speeches praising Caesar, Spencer Cole sees Cicero as chart- ing a path toward deification that embodies the ideas he was setting out as early as the Republic. In the Pro Marcello of 46, Cicero “takes Caesar to the verge of divinity” but “insistently connects this status to his clemency and his placing the interests of the Republic before his own.”106 At the opening of the speech, Cicero declares that he cannot pass over “such gentleness, such unknown and unheard-of clemency, such moderation in supreme power over all things, and such amazing and nearly divine wisdom” (Tantam enim mansuetudinem, tam inusitatam inauditamque clementiam, tantum in summa potestate rerum omnium modum, tam denique incredibilem sapientiam ac paene divinam, 1.1). The clementia Cicero praises was the key virtue that Caesar promoted during the civil wars and afterward (cf. Att. 8.16.1–2 = SB 166 and my Chapter 1). Cicero goes on to explain to Caesar that “his greatness lies in his willingness to restore the Republic and its institutions,” which is, in Cicero’s earlier works, the key criterion for immortality. So Cicero is laying a path toward deification for Caesar, but on Cicero’s terms, emphasizing the primacy of the state.107 Particularly interesting is Cicero’s downplaying of Caesar’s conquests in the Pro Marcello:

You have conquered tribes barbarous in brutality, uncountable in number, infinite in extent, abounding in every sort of resource: but you have conquered those who are readily conquered by their nature and condition. For there is no power so great which cannot

106. Cole (2013) 113. 107. Ibid. 115–116. 184

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be beaten down and broken by sword and strength. To conquer the spirit, to restrain wrath, to temper victory, not only to raise the fallen foe who excels in nobility, genius, and virtue but also to enhance his previous dignity, the man who does these things I compare not with the greatest men, but say he is most like a god. Domuisti gentis immanitate barbaras, multitudine innumera- bilis, locis infinitas, omni copiarum genere abundantis: sed tamen ea vicisti, quae et naturam et condicionem ut vinci possent habe- bant. Nulla est enim tanta vis, quae non ferro et viribus debilitari frangique possit. Animum vincere, iracundiam cohibere, victoriam temperare, adversarium nobilitate, ingenio, virtute praestantem non modo extollere iacentem, sed etiam amplificare eius pristinam dignitatem, haec qui fecit, non ego eum cum summis viris com- paro, sed simillimum deo iudico (8).

Much like Diodorus, Cicero does not see success at war and conquest as the key to achieving divinity. But Cicero and Diodorus part company on how one can achieve divinity. Even though clemency is important for Diodorus, and the ability of the ruler to benefit his own people is also important, neither is a guaranteed path to deification, whereas for Cicero it is the supreme benefactor of the state who is most worthy of divinity. But this difference should be expected, given Diodorus’s status as a provincial outsider compared with Cicero’s ultimate insider position. Cicero and Varro (and Diodorus) are of course not writing independently of the politics of the mid-40s, but must be seen in the context of the debate over the honors that Caesar was receiving in the last years of his life. The details about what was offered to Caesar, when it was offered, and when he was formally declared to be a god have been the subject of much debate, further complicated by the lateness of one source (Cassius Dio) and the polemical nature of the other (Cicero’s Philippics). Of the two most recent studies on Roman ruler cult, Spencer Cole accepts that Caesar was formally deified while still alive, but Koortbojian expresses considerable skepticism.108 The issue is beyond the present study, but it

108. Ibid. 170–174, Koortbojian (2013) 15–49. At 23 he notes that one problem, frequently overlooked by scholars, is the difficulty of understanding “the difference between being honored as a god, decreed to be one, and … made one” in our source material. Weinstock (1971) remains fundamental on the deification of Caesar. See also Gradel (2002) 54–72 and Fishwick (1987) I,1 56–77. 185

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is worth pointing out that the Philippics show that deification of Caesar was a hot-button issue, one that Cicero could exploit from several sides to attack Antony. In the first Philippic, Cicero attacks Antony for a decree of supplicationes for Caesar (1.13) and declares “but I could not be led to join any dead man with the religion of the immortal gods, to supplicate him publicly who already had a tomb where offerings could be made” (adduci tamen non possem, ut quemquam mortuum coniungerem cum deorum immortalium religione, ut, cuius sepulcrum usquam extet, ubi parente- tur, ei publice supplicetur, 1.13), thus making the argument one of human versus divine. Given Cicero’s own blurring of the human and divine in his earlier works, this is disingenuous. And in the second Philippic, Cicero could ask, why, since Antony is the flamen to Divus Iulius, has he not been formally inaugurated and is he not following through on the divine honors granted to Caesar (2.110–111)? Cicero goes on to list the various honors, adding “I approve of none of these” (mihi vero nihil istorum placet, 2.111). But as Octavian came to prominence, Cicero heavily promoted him as a divine savior who would counter Antony, using much the same language as he had earlier used of Pompey and Caesar. Cicero’s appropria- tion of Octavian meant that Antony could now be specifically criticized for neglecting Caesar’s cult, as in the thirteenth Philippic, delivered near the end of Cicero’s life: “why, most ungrateful man, have you abandoned his priesthood?” (cuius, homo ingratissime, flaminium cur reliquisti? 13.41)109 Such was the debate into which Diodorus was wading with the start of the Bibliotheke. Let us now look specifically at how Diodorus depicts Caesar. He calls Caesar a god on four separate occasions; however the terminology he employs for Caesar is unique.110 The first instance comes in the proëm, when he sets the terminal date of the Bibliotheke as Caesar’s campaigns in Gaul (1.4.7); the second in Book 4, discussing the city of Alesia and Caesar’s eventual capture of it (4.19.3); the third in Book 5, in a brief excursus on Britain; and the final time, in a fragment of Book 32 describing Caesar’s re-foundation of Corinth. Only once, in Book 3, is Caesar mentioned by Diodorus without being called a god, which suggests this portion of the Bibliotheke was written prior to his deification.

109. Cole (2013) 170–184. 110. Sulimani (2011) 70–71, Sacks (1990) 182. 186

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Diodorus did not write his planned account of Caesar’s campaigns in Gaul and his acts in Rome, which would have given a basis of comparison with the deified culture bringers.111 But each mention of Caesar offers a clue as to why Diodorus might have accepted him as a legitimate god, while rejecting figures such as Alexander the Great. Caesar, as Diodorus presents him, conforms more closely to the culture-bringer pattern than any other historical figure. In his first mention of Caesar in the proëm, he declares that “Gaius Iulius Caesar, who has been named a god on account of his accomplishments, subdued the most numerous and warlike tribes of the Celts, and advanced the empire of Rome to the islands of Britain” (καθ’ ὃν ἡγούμενος Γά ι ο ς Ἰούλιος Καῖσαρ ὁ διὰ τὰς πράξεις προσαγορευθεὶς θεὸς κατεπολέμησε μὲν τὰ πλεῖστα καὶ μαχιμώτατα τῶν Κελτῶν ἔθνη, προεβίβασε δὲ τὴν ἡγεμονίαν τῆς Ῥώμης μέχρι τῶν Βρεττανικῶν νήσων, 1.4.7). Diodorus draws attention to two aspects of Caesar here: his military conquest and his extension of Roman power to the farthest reaches of the world. These are repeated in the later mentions of Caesar. Picking up the theme of conquest, in the account of Heracles in Book 4, Diodorus notes that “in the end [Alesia] was taken and sacked by Gaius Caesar who was called a god for the magnitude of his accomplishments, and subjected it to the Romans along with all the other Celts” (τὸ δὲ τελευταῖον ὑπὸ Γαΐου Καίσαρος τοῦ διὰ τὸ μέγεθος τῶν πράξεων θεοῦ προσαγορευθέντος ἐκ βίας ἁλοῦσα συνηναγκάσθη μετὰ πάντων τῶν ἄλλων Κελτῶν ὑποταγῆναι Ῥωμαίοις, 4.19.3). We have already seen that, although most of the culture bringers have success in warfare, military conquest alone does not justify deification for Diodorus. But notably, the Celts are described as μαχιμώτατα, giving Caesar much greater justification than, say, Semiramis against the Indians. Moreover, the conquests of the culture bringers are justified by their spread of civilization and elimination of barbarism. There is a strong element of that with Caesar and the Gauls even in these brief comments. In Book 4 Diodorus explains how Heracles had made great strides in civilizing the Celts when he founded Alesia, but in the generations following his campaign “it came about that the inhabitants on a whole were barba- rized” (πάντας τοὺς ἐνοικοῦντας ἐκβαρβαρωθῆναι συνέβη, 4.19.2). Diodorus is implying that Caesar has a civilizing mission in this passage. This may also be seen in Book 5, where Diodorus has his misplaced ethnography of the Gauls and also mentions Caesar’s conquests. Diodorus does not depict

111. On the original terminal date of the Bibliotheke, see Chapter 7. 187

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the Gauls as devoid of civilization (5.31.5), but he certainly emphasizes their savage aspects. Some of the Gauls even practice cannibalism (5.32.3), an act the culture bringers end (cf. 1.14.1). It is the Gauls who are the true aggressors, as Diodorus makes clear (5.32.4–5). Had he written his account of Caesar’s campaigns in Gaul, he no doubt would have depicted Caesar with a strong civilizing mission, while playing down the wars as raw conquest. This puts Caesar much more in line with Osiris, Dionysus, and Heracles than with Sesoösis, Semiramis, Myrina, or Alexander the Great. The other aspect of Caesar that puts him in the ranks of the culture bringers is his push toward the farthest reaches of the world. Diodorus is very explicit about the magnitude of Caesar’s achievements in this respect. In Book 3 he promises that he will cover the British Islands and the far northern reaches of the world “when we record the deeds of Gaius Caesar; for this man extended the hegemony of the Romans to these furthest reaches and brought areas formerly unknown into the narrative of history” (ὅταν τὰς Γαΐου Καίσαρος πράξεις ἀναγράφωμεν· οὗτος γὰρ τὴν Ῥωμαίων ἡγεμονίαν εἰς ἐκεῖνα τὰ μέρη πορρωτάτω προβιβάσας πάντα τὸν πρότερον ἀγνοούμενον τόπον ἐποίησε πεσεῖν εἰς σύνταξιν ἱστορίας, 3.38.2–3). Then, in Book 5, in his brief digression on Britain, Diodorus declares that the island had never before been invaded by foreigners, “since neither Dionysus nor Heracles, nor any other hero attacked it, we are told” (οὔτε γὰρ Διόνυσον οὔθ’ Ἡρακλέα παρειλήφαμεν οὔτε τῶν ἄλλων ἡρώων ἐστρατευμένον ἐπ’ αὐτήν, 5.21.2). But, he continues, “in our time Gaius Caesar, who has been named a god on account of his accomplishments, became the first man in memory to have conquered the island, and after defeating the Britons compelled them to pay tribute” (καθ’ ἡμᾶς δὲ Γά ι ο ς Καῖσαρ ὁ διὰ τὰς πράξεις ἐπονομασθεὶς θεὸς πρῶτος τῶν μνημονευομένων ἐχειρώσατο τὴν νῆσον, καὶ τοὺς Βρεττανοὺς καταπολεμήσας ἠνάγκασε τελεῖν ὡρισμένους φόρους, 5.21.2). A few chapters later, discussing the rivers of Gaul, Diodorus draws attention to the fact that “Caesar, who has been called a god” (Καῖσαρ ὁ κληθεὶς θεὸς, 5.25.4) had bridged the Rhine, another major achievement. Caesar actually builds on and even surpasses the achievements of the earlier culture bringers. The final, and most elaborate, mention of Caesar comes in Book 32 and is virtually a eulogy, although it is actually part of a digression on the destruction of Corinth by the Romans in 146. It is Caesar who “came to such sympathy and love for glory that with great haste he restored this city” (εἰς τοιαύτην ἦλθε συμπάθειαν καὶ φιλοδοξίαν ὥστε μετὰ πολλῆς σπουδῆς πάλιν αὐτὴν ἀναστῆσαι, 32.27.3) when he saw the ruins. Diodorus 188

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particularly emphasizes Caesar’s clemency in this passage, a quality that comes up with some regularity in the early books and that Cicero also emphasized in his Caesarian speeches: “for although his ancestors treated the city most harshly, this man by his own clemency made restitution for their severity, preferring forgiveness to vengeance” (τῶν γὰρ προγόνων αὐτοῦ σκληρότερον κεχρημένων τῇ πόλει, οὗτος διὰ τῆς ἰδίας ἡμερότητος διωρθώσατο τὰς ἐκείνων ἀποτομίας, προκρίνας τῆς τιμωρίας τὴν συγγνώμην, 32.27.3).112 Caesar’s re-foundation of Corinth also fulfills the need for the culture bringer to benefit not just his own peoples, but the conquered as well (Diodorus conveniently passes over the fact that a Roman colony was placed on the site of the former Greek city). Accordingly, the reasons for acknowledging Caesar as a god are quite clear for Diodorus. Caesar has made military conquests at the edges of the world, surpassing the achievements of Dionysus and Heracles, but he has done so among peoples who are still savages and need to be civilized. Caesar spreads benefactions, including to former enemies as seen in his re-foundation of Corinth. Had Diodorus written a full narrative of Caesar, the connections between him and the culture bringers of Books 1–3 would be even more explicit, but as they stand these books are providing intellectual support for Caesar’s deification. One puzzling aspect of Caesar’s divinity in Diodorus needs to be addressed. As we have seen, Diodorus uses variations on the phrase “he left the realm of mortals and achieved immortality” to describe the deification of his culture bringers in Books 1–5. But for Caesar, Diodorus always uses a variation on the phrase “he was named a god for his accomplishments”: ὁ διὰ τὰς πράξεις προσαγορευθεὶς θεὸς, 1.4.7, τοῦ διὰ τὸ μέγεθος τῶν πράξεων θεοῦ προσαγορευθέντος, 4.19.3, ὁ διὰ τὰς πράξεις ἐπονομασθεὶς θεὸς, 5.21.2, Καῖσαρ ὁ κληθεὶς θεὸς, 5.25.4, ὁ διὰ τὰς πράξεις ὀνομασθεὶς θεὸς, 32.27.3. This discrepancy was noted by both Sacks and Sulimani, but neither attempted to explain it. The solution lies in understanding that deification is not an instanta- neous process for Diodorus. Several of his culture bringers start to receive divine honors before they have died. The Libyan Dionysus, for example, is “honor[ed] with praises and sacrifices as a god” ἐπαίνοις( καὶ θυσίαις ὡς

112. On the importance of clemency in Diodorus, see Sulimani (2011) 82–108 and my Chapter 1. Sacks (1990) 74 notes that the language of this passage recalls Diodorus’s praise of Heracles at 4.8.5. Note also that the Libyan Dionysus was first hailed as a god for an act of clemency (3.71.5, discussed above). 189

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θεὸν τιμᾶν, 3.73.5) while still alive. But only after death is full deification achieved, and only after establishment of cult, sacrifices, rituals, and the praise of poets and historians. This is a long process, which helps ensure that only the most worthy are ultimately acknowledged as divine. As noted above, divine honors, especially those given while alive, could be fleeting. Demetrius Poliorcetes was granted divine honors, according to Diodorus, but they were destroyed by the passage of time because he ultimately did not deserve them. In the case of Caesar, the Senate seems to have begun taking steps toward deifying him as early as 46, with more elements coming in early 44. After Caesar’s death, it took years and intense political pressure before his cult was firmly established, probably in early 42.113 Even then, Caesar’s cult had an uncertain place in the Roman pantheon amid the clash of Octavian and Antony. Diodorus’s phrasing reflects this. For him, Caesar is in an ambiguous place, apparently fully worthy to be regarded as a god, but with his cult only beginning to spread and without the long-term seal of approval. In this regard the Bibliotheke itself has a role to play by laying out the criteria for becoming a god and showing how Caesar fulfills them. Diodorus is well aware of his own role, as he makes clear at the end of Caesar’s eulogy in Book 32: “In general, this man by his virtue and skill in speaking and military prowess and indifference to gain may be justly approved and given praise for his kindness by history. For in the magnitude of his accomplishments he surpassed all Romans before him” (καθόλου δὲ ὁ ἀνὴρ οὗτος εὐγενείᾳ τε καὶ λόγου δεινότητι καὶ στρατηγήμασι πολεμικοῖς καὶ ἀφιλαργυρίᾳ ἀποδοχῆς δίκαιός ἐστιν ἀξιοῦσθαι καὶ διὰ τῆς ἱστορίας ἄξιον ἀπονέμειν αὐτῷ τὸν τῆς χρηστότητος ἔπαινον. μεγέθει γὰρ πράξεων ἅπαντας τοὺς πρὸ ἑαυτοῦ Ῥωμαίους ὑπερέθετο, 32.27.3). The critical element here is διὰ τῆς ἱστορίας—as in the proëm, it is history that will ultimately confirm Caesar’s divinity, as it has that of Heracles and Dionysus, by passing along his example to later generations. Diodorus knows he is only at the very beginning of the process.

113. Weinstock (1971) 386–391 argues that Caesar’s cult was formally established only on January 1, 42. Against this, see Fishwick (1987) I,1 75. 190 191

6 Kings, Kingship, and Rome

In the last chapter we saw how Diodorus makes use of the deified culture bringers to define his theory of ruler cult in the opening books of the Bibliotheke. These figures also serve as examples of good leaders who inspire future rulers to perform great deeds. Indeed, that is one reason it is so important that they be preserved and worshipped, so as to make their inspirational examples known throughout the ages. The culture bringers are not the only leaders Diodorus depicts in the Bibliotheke. One of his main purposes is to catalogue examples of good and bad leaders from the entire span of history, beginning with the kings of Egypt. And though the need to commemorate good leaders and their defining qualities as exemplars is a long historical trope, he sees it as particularly important for the times in which he is writing. Toward the end of the Bibliotheke, in Book 37, he even includes a lengthy passage highlighting Roman governors that he thinks are particularly deserving of emulation. However, he does not only want to reveal the characteristics of good leaders; he also wants to show how a state can be structured in order to produce them. As with ruler cult, Diodorus uses the examples of the barbarians to engage with delicate topics of his own times, namely monarchy, its benefits, and how it can be properly instituted. There was already a considerable intellectual background on rulers and kingship in philosophical circles for Diodorus to draw on. As far back as Xenophon’s Cyropaedia, the Greeks were considering the nature of monarchy and the qualities that defined a good monarch.1 The topic comes up with some frequency in the works of Plato and Aristotle, but

1. On the Cyropaedia, see Farber (1979). 192

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understandably, since the Greek poleis did not have kings, this was not a prominent topic in fifth- and early-fourth- century political discourse. This changes with the conquests of Philip II of Macedon and Alexander the Great, and the subsequent Hellenistic dynasties of the Successors. A large number of treatises “On Kingship” (Περὶ Βασιλείας) are attested in every major Hellenistic philosophical school, indicating that this was a widespread topic of interest.2 However, none of these works survives for comparison.3 Diodorus’s own account of the Egyptian monarchy is recognized as having its roots in these works, as does a section of the Letter to Philocrates of Aristeas, in which Ptolemy II is depicted asking Jewish scholars a series of questions about how to be a proper king.4 Portions of three neo-Pythagorean treatises also survive that are possibly Hellenistic, or that perhaps reflect Hellenistic thinking on kingship.5 There are also fragments of Philodemus’s On the Good King According to Homer from the mid-first century BCE.6 Notably, from the surviving evidence, these kingship treatises do not seem to have examined other forms of government, as Polybius does in his famous analysis of constitutions.7 Despite the wide range of material from a number of philosophical schools, there does not seem to have been a diversity of opinion as to what made a good king. As Cairns puts it, “The general picture for the hellenistic period is of a proliferation of books about kingship, written from all viewpoints, including philosophical ones, but on the whole converg- ing in their conclusions.”8 Broadly speaking, these conclusions were that the good king should possess the classical four cardinal virtues of justice (δικαιοσύνη), self-control (σωφροσύνη), wisdom (σοφία/φρόνησις), and

2. Hellenistic kingship literature is surveyed by Murray (2007) 13–28, Schofield (2005) 742– 744, Hahm (2006) 457–464, Walbank (1984) 75–84, Aalders (1975) 17–27, and Goodenough (1928) 55–102. 3. Murray (2007) 21–27 offers a possible reconstruction of what a kingship treatise might have looked like. 4. On Aristeas and kingship, see especially Murray (1967). 5. The authors are Diotogenes, Ecphantus, and Sthenidas. Texts are in Thesleff (1965). Schofield (2005) 742 argues for an imperial date and suggests that they reflect middle Platonist thought. Cf. Murray (1968) 676–677. Cairns (1989) 13–14 acknowledges the problems in dating, but suggests the basic thought in the texts is still Hellenistic. 6. Schofield (2005) 742–743. 7. Aalders (1975) 3–4. 8. Cairns (1989) 15. Schofield (2005) 743–744 reaches a similar conclusion. â 193

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courage (ἀνδρεία), along with other virtues, including (but not limited to) piety (εὐσέβεια), clemency (ἐπιείκεια), kindness (φιλανθρωπία, εὐεργεσία), generosity, foresight (πρόνοια), observance of the law (εὐνοία), and concern for his people.9 These various ideals are prominent in Roman thought as well. In the Pro Rege Deiotaro of 45, Cicero describes the good king as being “brave, just, austere, serious, magnanimous, liberal, beneficent, kind, and generous” (fortem, iustum, severum, gravem, magnanimum, largum, benefi- cum, liberalem), adding that he personally believes “frugality, that is to say moderation and temperance, is the greatest virtue” (frugalitatem, id est modestiam et temperantiam, virtutem maximam, 26) a king can have. Cicero’s Republic also emphasizes some of these traits as indicative of the ideal statesman, while Aeneas in Virgil’s Aeneid embodies many as well.10 Philodemus wrote his treatise On the Good King According to Homer for his Roman patron L. Calpurnius Piso (Cos. 58), and these characteristics continue to come up later in the praise of Roman emperors.11 These stereotypes about the good king, banal as they seem, persisted well into the medieval period, and even down to the present day. Notably, there does not seem to have been any discussion of bad kings in this type of literature; as Aalders remarks, “Hellenistic political theory takes for granted without more ado that the ruler is ipso facto a good king, a person with the highest ethical qualities.”12 But these qualities are not limited to kings, for Diodorus’s own descriptions of Roman governors embody them as well.

The Failure of Rome Diodorus’s account of exemplary Roman governors survives only in excerpts made during the Byzantine period, so we cannot be certain of its original length. But it was clearly very important to him, and he justifies this section because a historian writes not only to commemorate men who deserve praise, but also “in order that the wicked be turned aside from evil

9. Cairns (1989) 18–21â provides a more extensive list with detailed references to secondary scholarship. See also the summary in Schofield (2005) 743. 10. On the virtues of the statesman in the Republic, see Powell (2012), and in the Aeneid, see Cairns (1989). 11. See the survey in Wallace-âHadrill (1981). 12. Aalders (1975) 22. 194

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through the censures of history, and the good reach the proper way of life through the praise of eternal glory” (ἵν’ οἱ μὲν πονηροὶ τῶν ἀνθρώπων διὰ τῆς κατὰ τὴν ἱστορίαν βλασφημίας ἀποτρέπωνται τῆς ἐπὶ τὴν κακίαν ὁρμῆς, οἱ δὲ ἀγαθοὶ διὰ τοὺς ἐκ τῆς αἰωνίου δόξης ἐπαίνους ἀντέχεσθαι τῶν καλῶν ἐπιτηδευμάτων ὀρέγωνται, 37.4), echoing the sentiments expressed in the proëm to the entire Bibliotheke.13 In the surviving excerpts of what was probably a longer section, at least two Roman governors are singled out, Q. Mucius Scaevola and Lucius Asyllius (probably L. Sempronius Asellio).14 Not surprisingly, given Diodorus’s own provincial status, it is chiefly for their actions in the provinces that he praises these men. Scaevola took the best of his friends to be an advisor, he paid for his expenses out of his own pocket, and in general by “employing plainness and simplicity and incorruptible honesty he rescued the province [of Asia] from its previous calamities” (λιτότητι καὶ ἀφελείᾳ χρώμενος καὶ ἀκεραίῳ τῇ δικαιοσύνῃ τὴν ἐπαρχίαν ἀνέλαβεν ἐκ τῶν προγεγονότων ἀκληρημάτων, 37.5.1). Diodorus especially praises Scaevola for standing up for the provincials against the unjust greed of the Roman tax farmers. Like Scaevola (as Diodorus makes explicit), Asyllius chose good advisors, one of whom was “a devotee of the old-fashioned conservative way of life” (ζηλωτὴς τῆς ἀρχαίας καὶ σώφρονος ἀγωγῆς, 37.8.1), and another a most pious individual. Asyllius devoted himself to administration of justice, and like Scaevola in Asia he restored his province of Sicily to prosperity (37.8.4). As Sacks has shown, mild treatment of conquered subjects is a major theme in the historical books of Diodorus, so it is not surprising that it should be attributed to Roman governors as well.15 But Diodorus is interested in far more than the traits of a good ruler or governor in this section. He deliberately places it at a critical point in his narrative of the late Republic and uses these Roman governors to highlight the extent to which Rome, from its previous heights, has fallen into decadence. In another excerpt from 37 that clearly leads into the account of the governors, Diodorus explains that the early Romans “by following the best laws and customs eventually reached the point that they achieved the greatest and most renowned empire in memory” (νόμοις τε καὶ ἀγωγαῖς

13. See pp. 7–8. 14. A fragment dealing with the proconsulship of C. Sentius (37.6) is also included here by Walton, although it deals with him only tangentially. On identifying these figures, see Badian (1968), 2–3. 15. Note the start of Book 32 and Sacks (1990) 42–46, Sacks (1994) 216–220. 195

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ἀρίστοις χρώμενοι κατ’ ὀλίγον ηὐξήθησαν ἐπὶ τοσοῦτον ὥστε ἡγεμονίαν ἐπιφανεστάτην καὶ μεγίστην τῶν μνημονευομένων κατακτήσασθαι, 37.3.1), but “after the end of warfare the youth were turned to luxury and decadence, holding their wealth as the leader of their desires” (ἐτράπησαν γὰρ οἱ νέοι μετὰ τὴν ἐκ τῶν πολέμων ἄνεσιν εἰς τρυφὴν καὶ ἀκολασίαν, χορηγὸν ἔχοντες τὸν πλοῦτον ταῖς ἐπιθυμίαις, 37.3.2). In Rome ease was preferred to warfare, luxury to frugality, and the most esteemed people were not those of high moral character, but those who passed their lives in pursuit of pleasures. Diodorus goes on to detail some of the more extreme examples of this phenomenon, such as lavish dinner parties, costly delicacies, and wearing delicate, feminine clothing in public.16 The good governors Diodorus describes attempt to buck the trend and “were striving to change the zeal for the aforementioned way of life” (ἐπεβάλοντό…μετατίθεσθαι τὸν τῆς προειρημένης ἀγωγῆς ζῆλον, 37.3.5) through the examples of their own good conduct. Although this passage deals strictly with Rome and the failure of Roman values, Diodorus has already laid the groundwork for it in his narratives of the barbarians. We saw in Chapter 3 that one of the basic forces driving the development of civilization is the metus hostilis, and this is an underlying theme in Diodorus’s account of the Roman Republic. He depicted Scipio Nasica as warning the Romans that without the fear of Carthage, Rome would become overly rapacious and her subjects and allies would revolt. That rapacity, against which his ideal governors strive, has bred the decadence Diodorus describes “after the end of warfare.” He is here showing another result of the removal of that fear: not only are the Romans no longer forced to work for the common good, but now Rome has gone from a system with the best laws and customs, which promotes good leaders, to one that encourages the decadent, in which “the drive towards wickedness is irremediable” (ἀδιορθώτου δ’ οὔσης τῆς ἐπὶ τὸ κακὸν ὁρμῆς, 37.3.5); as Scipio predicted, the allies rebel in what Diodorus refers to as the greatest war of all time (37.1.1). The idea that contemporary society has been corrupted by luxury and wealth is another theme that is by no means unique to Diodorus; Polybius, for example, describes Scipio Aemilianus’s efforts to lead a virtuous life at a time when the youth of Rome were increasingly turning to a life of luxury,

16. On this passage in the larger context of Diodorus’s portrayal of the Romans, see Yarrow (2006) 203–208. 196

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believing that Rome’s power was undisputed (31.25).17 Later he notes that the Senate decided to go to war in Dalmatia in 157/6, in part because they did not want the inhabitants of Italy to become effeminate ἀποθηλύνεσθαι( ) through an extended period of peace (32.13.6). But the moral fall of Rome seems to have been in particular vogue among Diodorus’s near contemporaries during the late Roman Republic and early Augustan period.18 As with the concept of metus hostilis, it is Sallust who provides the closest parallels. In the Bellum Catilinae, as Diodorus does, he contrasts the Romans of old, who were pious and took nothing from the conquered except the ability to do harm, with the more recent representatives of Rome, who stripped allies of all they had (12.4–5). Sallust emphasizes the greed and avarice of the Romans more than Diodorus, but the end result is strikingly similar among the young people of Rome: a passion for lewdness, sexual depravity, gluttony and the desire for exotic foods, and even feminization of men (13.2–3). Sallust brings up this theme again in the opening of the Bellum Iugurthinum (1.4) and in Marius’s speech to the Roman people, in which he condemns the Roman aristocracy for falling away from the high ideals set by their ancestors into a life of luxury and greed, concluding that “most unjustly, luxury and idleness, the most wicked of skills, do not harm those who cultivate them, but have been a disaster for the innocent Republic” (iniustissime luxuria et ignavia, pessimae artes, illis, qui coluere eas, nihil officiunt, rei publicae innoxiae cladi sunt, 85.43). Livy also cites the decline of Roman morality in his time. In his preface he notes that there was no society into which “greed and luxury came so late, nor where for so long poverty and thrift were held in honor [as Rome]” (tam serae avaritia luxuriaque immigraverint, nec ubi tantus ac tam diu paupertati ac parsimoniae honos fuerit, Pref. 11), but “recently wealth has brought greed and the abundance of pleasure has brought the desire through luxury and wantonness of self-ruin and the ruin of all else” (nuper divitiae avaritiam et abundantes voluptates desiderium per luxum atque libidinem pereundi perdendique omnia invexere, Pref. 12). And like Diodorus, Livy is pessimistic about the possibility for improvement in times when “we are able to endure neither our vices nor their remedies”

17. Walbank (1979) 500 notes that this passage is very similar to those in Diodorus. 18. Note Cic. Cael. 29. On the motif of moral failure and excessive luxury leading to Rome’s ruin, see now Gorman and Gorman (2014), esp. 326–344. They argue that the motif is a Roman one that Greek authors, among them Diodorus, adapted beginning in the first century BCE. â 197

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(nec vitia nostra nec remedia pati possumus, Pref. 9). In his emphasis on moral depravity, greed, and excessive luxury as a critical part of the decline of the Republic, Diodorus is in good company.19

The Egyptian Monarchy As with ruler cult, the ancient barbarians enable Diodorus to engage with these contemporary issues indirectly. It is surely no coincidence that the very first historical (as opposed to mythical) ruler he describes in the Egyptian narrative, Menas, introduced a costly and extravagant way of life into Egypt.20 So bad was this that Diodorus immediately describes how a much later king, Tnephachthus, denounced luxury and inscribed a malediction against Menas in the Temple of Zeus at Thebes (1.45), showing that the Egyptians at least could throw off the curse of decadence. Unfortunately, it took a long time: Menas’s descendants ruled for more than 1,040 years and accomplished nothing worthy of record (μηδὲν ἄξιον ἀναγραφῆς, 1.45.3), surely the ultimate condemnation from a historian. But Diodorus is also showing that it is possible for a determined ruler to rescue a state that has fallen into this sort of moral depravity, although he seems to have become more pessimistic by the time he wrote his account of Rome and found “the drive towards wickedness is irremediable” (37.3.5) despite the few who tried to resist it. Egypt, by contrast, develops a monarchy that is able to resist this sort of depravity and endure for thousands of years. Diodorus’s narrative of the Egyptian kings, most of whom illustrate the diverse aspects of a good ruler, serves primarily to lay the foundations for the real core of his Egyptian narrative, the description of Egyptian monarchy. This differs quite radically from what is known of kingship literature. Rather than exhorting a particular king (such as in the Letter to Philocrates) or monarchs in general to abide by the principles of the treatise and pursue

19. On Livy and the role of luxuria, see Miles (1995) 76–88.â It is impossible to tell from the fragment of Diodorus how he may have applied this explanation throughout the larger narrative of the late Republic, but as Wiseman (2010) shows, in Sallust and other authors greed and avarice are closely linked to the growing arrogance of Roman aristocrats. On the larger theme of morality in the Roman Republic, see Earl (1967) 11–â58, Lintott (1972) 626–638,â and now Gorman and Gorman (2014) 326–â350. 20. Apparently the Min of Herodotus 2.99, who makes no comments on his luxurious way of life. Plutarch (De Is. et Os. 354a–b) has the same basic account of Diodorus, except he calls the first king Meinis, and the later king Technactis. 198

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the requisite virtues, Diodorus instead describes a system designed to force monarchs to follow these principles. His narrative does not so much highlight what makes a good monarch, but rather what made Egypt such a stable, long-lasting monarchy. In this way, Diodorus is following in the footsteps of Polybius, who in his sixth book explained that one of his chief goals is to explain to his readers “how and by what sort of government it happened that nearly the entire inhabited world was conquered and fell under the dominion of a single power, that of the Romans, in less than fifty-three years” (πῶς καὶ τίνι γένει πολιτείας ἐπικρατηθέντα σχεδὸν πάντα τὰ κατὰ τὴν οἰκουμένην ἐν οὐδ’ ὅλοις πεντήκοντα καὶ τρισὶν ἔτεσιν ὑπὸ μίαν ἀρχὴν τὴν Ῥωμαίων ἔπεσεν, 6.2.3). Diodorus has similar goals for his description of the Egyptian government (1.69–76), but in keeping with his beliefs that conquest and domination are not the highest achievement, he has different standards for evaluating the success of a state: “And the Egyptians say that the best proof of these things is that for more than 4,700 years Egypt was ruled by kings, most of whom were native born, and was the most prosperous land in the entire inhabited world. For these things would not have happened unless a people employed the best customs, laws, and establishments for every kind of liberal art” (καὶ τούτων μεγίστην ἀπόδειξίν φασιν εἶναι τὸ τῆς Αἰγύπτου πλείω τῶν ἑπτακοσίων καὶ τετρακισχιλίων ἐτῶν βασιλεῦσαι τοὺς πλείους ἐγγενεῖς καὶ τὴν χώραν εὐδαιμονεστάτην ὑπάρξαι τῆς ἁπάσης οἰκουμένης· ταῦτα γὰρ οὐκ ἄν ποτε γενέσθαι μὴ οὐ τῶν ἀνθρώπων χρωμένων κρατίστοις ἔθεσι καὶ νόμοις καὶ τοῖς κατὰ πᾶσαν παιδείαν ἐπιτηδεύμασιν 1.69.5–6). Diodorus believes a state should be judged primarily on its stability and endurance. Rome, with its mere seven-hundred-year history and chronic civil strife at the time Diodorus is writing, has neither. Indeed, the historical narrative that precedes the description of the Egyptian monarchy emphasizes Egypt’s longevity far more than the achievements of any king, even Sesoösis. Following the very first king, Menas, his fifty-two descendants all ruled in succession for over a millennium without any noteworthy achievements. After these kings came Busiris, the founder of Thebes, and his eight descendants (1.45.4). At Thebes, there were tombs of forty-seven kings according to the priests (1.46.7), culminating in the tomb of Osymandyas. He in turn had at least eight descendants, only the last of whom, Uchoreus, is named (1.50.3). Twelve generations (1.51.5) after this king comes Moeris, and seven generations after him came Sesoösis (1.53.1). Following the son of Sesoösis, “many successors did nothing worthy of record” (συχνοὶ τῶν διαδεξαμένων τὴν ἀρχήν τινες οὐδὲν ἔπραξαν 199

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ἀναγραφῆς ἄξιον), until Amasis became king “many generations later” (πολλαῖς δ’ ὕστερον γενεαῖς, 1.60.1). Amasis is followed by Actisanes, and then Mendes. Only then does Diodorus allow that Egypt had a period of instability, going five generations without a king. But this is passed over quickly, and again we have kings in Proteus and his son Remphis. Seven generations follow, with the eighth being Chemmis, the first pyramid builder, and then his brother Cephren. The third of the pyramid builders was Mycerinus, followed by Bocchoris (1.65.1). “Much later” (πολλοῖς δ’ ὕστερον χρόνοις, 1.65.2) came Sabaco. He was followed by only the second period of instability, with no ruler for two years, followed by a fifteen- year rule by twelve aristocrats, followed by the seizure of sole power by Psammetichus. Four generations later Apries was king, until he was overthrown by another Amasis, who in turn was conquered by the Persian Cambyses after a reign of fifty-three years (1.68.6). It is futile to try to calculate precisely how many kings there were or precisely how long all these reigns would have lasted from Diodorus’s historical narrative.21 But he demonstrates that the Egyptians had an extremely stable and long-lasting system with only a few periods of instability, none of which did any lasting harm to the country. For Diodorus’s audience, this begs the question of “how” just as much as Polybius’s account of the rapid rise of Rome did, and the description of the Egyptian state that follows answers the question by describing the “best laws and customs” (χρωμένων κρατίστοις ἔθεσι καὶ νόμοις) the Egyptians employed. This claim that Egypt enjoyed the best laws and customs is strikingly similar to the assertion in Book 37 that, prior to the end of warfare, the Romans were “employing the best laws and way of life” (νόμοις τε καὶ ἀγωγαῖς ἀρίστοις χρώμενοι, 37.3.1). This is unlikely to be a coincidence. Although it is doubtful that Diodorus would expect a reader of Book 37 to remember a specific passage in Book 1 (or vice versa), the belief among the Roman elite that their system of government was the best was likely widespread at the time. Cicero places just such a belief in the mouth of Scipio in the Republic. After explaining the three traditional constitutions and the mixed constitution of the Romans, Scipio forcefully declares that

21. As Burton (1972) 192 remarks “Diodorus clearly had little conception of the chronology of Egyptian history.” Diodorus, in common with Herodotus and other Greek sources, consistently places the dominance of Thebes earlier than that of Memphis, when the opposite was in fact true. See ibid. 145. On the extreme age of Egypt as a motif in Greek thought, see Moyer (2011) 63–64. 200

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“no other state, in constitution or structure or training can be compared with this one which our fathers received from our ancestors and passed on to us” (nullam omnium rerum publicarum aut constitutione aut discrip- tione aut disciplina conferendam esse cum ea, quam patres nostri nobis acceptam iam inde a maioribus reliquerunt, 1.70). By allowing the ancient Egyptians to make the first claim to the best form of government in the Bibliotheke, Diodorus is challenging the Roman belief in efficacy of their government, which was in sorry shape by the 50s. Diodorus’s Egyptian monarchy is therefore not depicted as a theoretical or idealized system, any more than Polybius’s mixed Roman constitution is, but rather as an actual, real-world monarchy. His description of it thus fulfills a similar function to Polybius’s description of the Roman constitution. For Diodorus the most important aspect is not that it is a monarchy, but that “everything has been controlled by the regulations of laws” (ἦν ἅπαντα τεταγμένα νόμων ἐπιταγαῖς, 1.70.1), including state functions, and even how the kings live their lives. Accordingly, Egyptian kings were wholly unlike “others who have kingly power and do everything according to their own desire without checks” (τοῖς ἄλλοις τοῖς ἐν μοναρχικαῖς ἐξουσίαις οὖσι καὶ πάντα πράττουσι κατὰ τὴν ἑαυτῶν προαίρεσιν ἀνυπευθύνως, 1.70.1). Nevertheless, most of the individual elements in Diodorus’s account have long pedigrees in Greek thought. As Murray remarks, Egypt as presented in Diodorus was “a little exotic, [but] would have satisfied most Greek political philosophers.”22 And it is also related to Hellenistic kingship treatises. When Diodorus describes the prayers made by Egyptian priests for their kings, it reads like a list of the virtues outlined above. First, the priest prays for the health of the king provided that he behaves “justly toward his subjects” (τὰ πρὸς τοὺς ὑποτεταγμένους δίκαια, 1.70.5). The priest then enumerates every virtue of the king: piety (εὐσεβῶς) toward the gods, mild- est behavior toward his own people (ἡμερώτατα), self-control (ἐγκρατής), justice (δίκαιος), and magnanimity (μεγαλόψυχος). The king must display honesty (ἀψευδὴς) and generosity (μεταδοτικὸς τῶν ἀγαθῶν), be above normal desires (πάσης ἐπιθυμίας κρείττων), punish crimes less harshly than

22. Murray (1970) 150. There was already a tradition of Egypt as a model state by the 4th century with Isocrates, Busiris, and Plato, Politicus 290d-e and Timaeus 24a being the most prominent examples. Plato, however, backs away from it in Laws 5, 747a. See Froidefond (1971) 231–353, Vasunia (2001) esp. 183–246, and Hartog (2002) 211–228, esp. 214–225 on the changing role of Egypt as a source of ancient wisdom, although their examples are mainly classical. 201

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they otherwise deserved, and be more generous to benefactors than they were to him (1.70.7).23 But the account of the Egyptian monarchy is not simply a reflection of kingship literature. Significantly, Diodorus emphasizes the elements that most closely tally with the qualities he highlights in the passages in Book 37 and elsewhere. As with the Roman governors whom Diodorus first describes as choosing good advisors, so too in his description of the Egyptian kings the very first thing he explains is their advisors and how they are selected. The king is surrounded with “all sons of the most renowned priests, over twenty years old, and the best educated of their countrymen” (τῶν ἐπιφανεστάτων ἱερέων υἱοὶ πάντες, ὑπὲρ εἴκοσι μὲν ἔτη γεγονότες, πεπαιδευμένοι δὲ κάλλιστα τῶν ὁμοεθνῶν, 1.70.2). Having such well-educated, high-born attendants at all times ensures the king “practices nothing base” (μηδὲν ἐπιτηδεύῃ φαῦλον, 1.70.2), since, as Diodorus concludes, “no one progresses toward evil power unless he has some ser- vants for those passions” (οὐδεὶς γὰρ ἐπὶ πλέον κακίας προβαίνει δυνάστης, ἐὰν μὴ τοὺς ὑπηρετήσοντας ἔχῃ ταῖς ἐπιθυμίαις, 1.70.2). Diodorus’s king is human, subject to normal desires that must be tamed in order to ensure that he is a good ruler. And the first step toward taming them is to ensure that the king has good advisors around him. But even though these men in Egypt are drawn from the priestly caste, Diodorus does not emphasize the religious aspect. For him, what is important is that they have been the best educated (πεπαιδευμένοι κάλλιστα). Perhaps the focus on these wise advisors here and in the section on Roman governors reflects Diodorus’s own position or ambitions (see pp. 6–8).24 The next aspect of the Egyptian monarch that most interests Diodorus is tight regulation of his life. The king’s daily routine is precisely laid out so that he performs all the tasks necessary for his job: “in every aspect the king had to do what was required by law, not what seemed good to him” (ἐκ παντὸς τρόπου καθῆκον ἦν τὸν βασιλέα πράττειν τὸ συντεταγμένον, οὐ τὸ δεδογμένον ἑαυτῷ, 1.70.3), making him the embodiment of self-control. The first order of every day was to deal with all the administrative business,

23. Murray (1970) 157–158 finds a parallel for this in a ceremony practiced at the Temple of Horus at Edfu under Ptolemy VI Philometor. 24. This also has an obvious counterpart in the Macedonian king’s companions, the royal pages, and in Alexander the Great’s own upbringing. Note ibid. 163. But Burton (1972) 165 says that it was customary for royal children to be educated with the children of the nobility in Egypt. 202

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so that in “knowing precisely everything going on throughout the kingdom” (εἰδὼς ἀκριβῶς ἕκαστα τῶν κατὰ τὴν βασιλείαν συντελουμένων, 1.70.4) the king could make the proper decisions. Next came the sacrifice to the gods and the prayer described above. While the king and all the priests were still assembled, “the sacred scribe read out selected counsels and deeds of the most renowned men from the sacred books, so that the holder of power over all would keep the best inclinations in mind while he turned towards the allotted administration of affairs” (ὁ μὲν ἱερογραμματεὺς παρανεγίνωσκέ τινας συμβουλίας συμφερούσας καὶ πράξεις ἐκ τῶν ἱερῶν βίβλων τῶν ἐπιφανεστάτων ἀνδρῶν, ὅπως ὁ τῶν ὅλων τὴν ἡγεμονίαν ἔχων τὰς καλλίστας προαιρέσεις τῇ διανοίᾳ θεωρήσας οὕτω πρὸς τὴν τεταγμένην τῶν κατὰ μέρος τρέπηται διοίκησιν, 1.70.9). It is especially noteworthy that these “sacred books” apparently are not about religious ritual or even the deeds of the gods, but about the deeds and advice of previous great leaders. These books sound suspiciously like historical writings, not religious writings, which fits in well with Diodorus’s belief in history as the ultimate teacher of great leaders. The Egyptians, in other words, embody his ideals of history. Following the reading, the king continues with his daily ritual. Diodorus is particularly fascinated by the king’s diet, which “generally speaking was drawn up so moderately that it did not seem to be the work of a lawgiver but rather created by the best of doctors” (καθόλου δὲ τὰ περὶ τὴν δίαιταν οὕτως ὑπῆρχε συμμέτρως διατεταγμένα ὥστε δοκεῖν μὴ νομοθέτην, ἀλλὰ τὸν ἄριστον τῶν ἰατρῶν συντεταχέναι τῆς ὑγιείας στοχαζόμενον, 1.70.12). Among other things, this diet allowed the king to eat only healthy meats like veal and duck, and to drink only as much wine as would leave him sober. The emphasis on diet is also significant, given that one of the signs Diodorus and other authors give of Rome’s decline in the late Republic is the extravagant culinary indulgence. There are no 100 drachma bottles of wine or 400 drachma jars of smoked fish (37.3.5) to be found at the Egyptian king’s table. The emphasis throughout this section is on the king’s adherence to the law and on the role of law in maintaining the king’s self-control and ensuring justice. Again, this is a quality Diodorus emphasized with the Roman governors; Scaevola was able to restore his province in part by “precise and incorruptible administration of justice” (ταῖς μὲν δικαιοδοσίαις ἀδιαφθόροις καὶ ἀκριβέσι χρησάμενος, 37.5.2) and Asyllius similarly focused on this (37.8.4). Diodorus marvels that it was “much more amazing that it was not possible for the kings to pass judgment nor to conduct any business, nor 203

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even to punish anyone through pride or anger or any other unjust cause, but only to do what the laws laid down about each item permitted” (πολλῷ θαυμασιώτερον ἦν τὸ μήτε δικάζειν μήτε χρηματίζειν τὸ τυχὸν αὐτοῖς ἐξεῖναι, μηδὲ τιμωρήσασθαι μηδένα δι’ ὕβριν ἢ διὰ θυμὸν ἤ τινα ἄλλην αἰτίαν ἄδικον, ἀλλὰ καθάπερ οἱ περὶ ἑκάστων κείμενοι νόμοι προσέταττον, 1.71.1). Subordination of the king to law in Diodorus is particularly interesting, as there is evidence that in Hellenistic thought the opposite was true, “that the king is elevated above written law, that his example and his virtue com- pel his subjects to do what is right and good; in other words, that he is the law incarnate.”25 But the Egyptians have gone the other way and, as Murray succinctly puts it, established a constitutional monarchy.26 Despite these constraints on their actions, Diodorus explains that the Egyptian kings believed they had the happiest lives as a result of this strict regimen, believing that “other men by thoughtlessly indulging in their natural desires do many things which bring harm or danger, and many times some people, even knowing that they are about to commit a crime nevertheless perform wicked deeds, driven by either love or hate or some other passion” (τοὺς μὲν γὰρ ἄλλους ἀνθρώπους ἐνόμιζον ἀλογίστως τοῖς φυσικοῖς πάθεσι χαριζομένους πολλὰ πράττειν τῶν φερόντων βλάβας ἢ κινδύνους, καὶ πολλάκις ἐνίους εἰδότας ὅτι μέλλουσιν ἁμαρτάνειν μηδὲν ἧττον πράττειν τὰ φαῦλα, κατισχυομένους ὑπ’ ἔρωτος ἢ μίσους ἤ τινος ἑτέρου πάθους, 1.71.3). The contrast with the self-indulgent Romans of Diodorus’s own times is evident. As proof of how well this whole system worked, Diodorus recounts the attitude of the people of Egypt toward their kings: “collectively all the inhabitants throughout Egypt are not as concerned for their wives and children and other possessions as much as for the safety of their kings” (συλλήβδην ἅπαντες οἱ κατ’ Αἴγυπτον οὐχ οὕτω γυναικῶν καὶ τέκνων καὶ τῶν ἄλλων τῶν ὑπαρχόντων αὐτοῖς ἀγαθῶν ἐφρόντιζον ὡς τῆς τῶν βασιλέων ἀσφαλείας, 1.71.4). Diodorus describes the mourning of the people and the funerals of the kings in great detail (1.72), a process that also serves as a warning to those who transgress the established customs, since if the people are opposed then a king might not receive a proper burial. This makes a nice analogue to the culture bringers we examined in Chapter 5, who perform their great deeds in part because they desire immortality;

25. Aalders (1975) 26–27. 26. Murray (1970) 159. 204

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a king behaves properly because he desires to be remembered as a good king (and perhaps make it into the sacred books), and not as an evil one. Indeed, Diodorus’s historical narrative of Egypt has several examples of kings who suffer the fate of bad kings, particularly the pyramid builders (1.64). The account of the Egyptian monarchs embraces a large number of other customs and regulations of the Egyptian government, but unsurpris- ingly Diodorus emphasizes the detailed administration of justice in Egypt the most. He attributes to the Egyptians the belief that “for lawbreakers to be punished, and the wronged to obtain assistance will be the best antidote for wrongdoing; but if the fear of punishment is eliminated by bribery or favoritism, then the disintegration of society would follow” (τῶν μὲν παρανομούντων κολαζομένων, τῶν δ’ ἀδικουμένων βοηθείας τυγχανόντων, ἀρίστη διόρθωσις ἔσται τῶν ἁμαρτημάτων· εἰ δ’ ὁ φόβος ὁ γινόμενος ἐκ τῶν κρίσεων τοῖς παρανομοῦσιν ἀνατρέποιτο χρήμασιν ἢ χάρισιν, ἐσομένην ἑώρων τοῦ κοινοῦ βίου σύγχυσιν, 1.75.2). To ensure this, the Egyptians, according to Diodorus, choose thirty judges from the best men of Heliopolis, Memphis, and Thebes, from whom one was elected chief justice. These judges had eight volumes of legal code to guide them. There were no speeches; rather, accuser and plaintiff would present their cases in writing, and the judges would promptly decide. Diodorus is particularly intrigued by this lack of oratory and devotes considerable space (1.76) to justifying the practice: “for even the techniques of orators and the magic of the delivery and the tears of the wronged would cause many to overlook the severity of the laws and the strictness of the truth” (καὶ γὰρ τὰς τέχνας τῶν ῥητόρων καὶ τὴν τῆς ὑποκρίσεως γοητείαν καὶ τὰ τῶν κινδυνευόντων δάκρυα πολλοὺς προτρέπεσθαι παρορᾶν τὸ τῶν νόμων ἀπότομον καὶ τὴν τῆς ἀληθείας ἀκρίβειαν, 1.76.1). Diodorus further notes that the propensity of even the most respected judges to be carried away by an orator’s eloquence or by pity is eliminated through use of written briefs, and this system is also more just for those who cannot speak well. Oldfather remarks that “it is interesting that the Egyptians are supposed to be familiar with the weak- nesses of the Attic courts,” but Diodorus’s description is equally relevant to Rome.27

27. Oldfather (1933) 263 n. 1. Gruen (2011b) 94 also tentatively suggests this passage has Roman connotations. 205

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There is a revealing example of this from the excerpts of the later books in the trial of Saturninus (36.12, 15). As tribune in 103, Saturninus accused the ambassadors of Mithridates of bribery and was then himself charged with insulting the ambassadors in 101. The Romans, as Diodorus portrays them, were, because of their deep respect for the sanctity of ambassadors, so horrified that Saturninus stood accused of a capital crime. As Yarrow remarks, when Saturninus fell from the high Roman standards, “the greater portion of the Roman population has pulled the course of events back within the standards of the community.”28 But Diodorus portrays Saturninus’s legal strategy as making use of precisely the tricks the Egyptian system is designed to neutralize: “[Saturninus] turned to common pity for the unfortunate, and he put aside his expensive clothing for shabby clothes, and letting his hair and beard grow he went to the common people in the city. Falling down at the knees of some and grasping the hands of others, he begged and implored them with tears to aid him in his problems” (κατέφυγεν ἐπὶ τὸν κοινὸν τῶν ἀκληρούντων ἔλεον, καὶ τὴν ἐσθῆτα τὴν πολυτελῆ κατέθετο, πιναρὰν δὲ μεταμφιασάμενος καὶ κόμην καὶ πώγωνα τρέφων περιῄει τοὺς κατὰ τὴν πόλιν ὄχλους, καὶ τοῖς μὲν πρὸς τὰ γόνατα πίπτων, τοῖς δὲ ταῖς χερσὶν ἐπιφυόμενος ἐδεῖτο καὶ μετὰ δακρύων καθικέτευε βοηθῆσαι τοῖς ἀκληρήμασιν 36.15.2). Diodorus explains that this display managed to get Saturninus off, and even elected as tribune for the following year. And it recalls the Egyptian recognition that orators “by the witchcraft of their delivery and the tears of the accused would persuade many to overlook the strictness of the laws and the sharpness of the truth.” Some Romans recognized the severity of Saturninus’s crime and the need for proper justice, but Diodorus portrays their legal system as too open to the very problems that the Egyptians, as he explains it, seek to avoid. Diodorus concludes his lengthy account of Egyptian laws, kings, and customs with a disclaimer of sorts: “They [the Egyptians] say that in later times many good laws were changed, after Macedonians conquered the country and brought to an end the rule of the native-born kings” (ἐν δὲ τοῖς ὕστερον χρόνοις πολλὰ τῶν καλῶς ἔχειν δοκούντων νομίμων φασὶ κινηθῆναι, Μακεδόνων ἐπικρατησάντων καὶ καταλυσάντων εἰς τέλος τὴν βασιλείαν τῶν ἐγχωρίων, 1.95.6). In other words, the decadent Ptolemies, with whom the

28. Yarrow (2006) 197–198, 204. 206

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Romans would have been familiar, should not be seen as representative of Egypt at its best.

The Assyrian Monarchy For Diodorus, Egypt’s longevity and prosperity is proof that a monarchy, properly constructed and organized, is the most ideal form of government. But Egypt is not the only monarchical system he describes. The Assyrians, rivals to the Egyptians in importance among ancient authors, have their own system, and Diodorus sets up a sharp contrast between the two. Egypt presents a case study in how a system can perpetuate good kings; Assyria offers a system that produces only decadent rulers. Diodorus explicitly attributes it to Ninyas, the son of Ninus and Semiramis.29 Unlike the Egyptian system, which was designed to focus the king on the needs of his kingdom, even at the expense of the king’s own personal freedom, Ninyas “believed the purpose of a happy reign to be the pursuit of all pleasures without any restraint” (ὑπολαμβάνων βασιλείας εὐδαίμονος εἶναι τέλος τὸ πάσαις χρῆσθαι ταῖς ἡδοναῖς ἀνεπικωλύτως, 2.21.2). Consequently, he “was pursuing wantonness and sluggishness and wanted to never feel bad or have any care” (ἐζήλου δὲ τρυφὴν καὶ ῥᾳθυμίαν καὶ τὸ μηδέποτε κακοπαθεῖν μηδὲ μεριμνᾶν, 2.21.2). Oriental dissolution and decadence is an old stereotype long predating Diodorus.30 But what is interesting is that he explains how Ninyas actually develops a monarchical system to perpetuate this debased lifestyle, “for the safety of his rule and out of the fear of those ruled by him” (πρὸς δὲ τὴν ἀσφάλειαν τῆς ἀρχῆς καὶ τὸν κατὰ τῶν ἀρχομένων γινόμενον φόβον, 2.21.3). This system consists of a steady rotation of troops throughout the empire, so that Ninyas’s subjects should always be in awe of the king and his power, and his commanders never stationed together for too long, since “an extended period of command gives commanders both experience of the arts of war and purpose, and above all else provides them with an

29. Lenfant (2004) 51 n. 237 notes a further contrast: “A la reine guerrière succède le roi efféminé, l’inversion des attributs sexuels contribuant, chez les Grecs, à désigner implicite- ment l’Orient comme un univers aberrant.” 30. On the tradition of Oriental decadence, especially in Greek historiography, see Sancisi-â Weerdenburg (1987) 33–â45, Boncquet (1987) 128, Murphy (1989) 28 n. 60, Briant (2002) 202–â208, and Lenfant (2014) 201–â204. Sulimani (2011) 61 notes that the theme of decadence is emphasized far more with the Assyrians than elsewhere in the Bibliotheke. 207

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excellent starting point for rebellion and conspiracy” (ὁ γὰρ πολὺς χρόνος τῆς στρατείας ἐμπειρίαν τε τῶν κατὰ τὸν πόλεμον καὶ φρόνημα τοῖς ἡγεμόσι περιτίθησι, καὶ τὸ πλεῖστον ἀφορμὰς παρέχεται μεγάλας πρὸς ἀπόστασιν καὶ συνωμοσίαν κατὰ τῶν ἡγουμένων, 2.21.6).31 The end result of the Assyrian kingship system is that “the king was never seen by any outsider and that all were ignorant of the decadence around him, and no one dared to blaspheme even in speech against him, fearing him as an unseen god” (τὸ δὲ μηδ’ ὑφ’ ἑνὸς τῶν ἔξωθεν θεωρεῖσθαι τῆς μὲν περὶ αὐτὸν τρυφῆς ἄγνοιαν παρείχετο πᾶσι, καθάπερ δὲ θεὸν ἀόρατον διὰ τὸν φόβον ἕκαστος οὐδὲ λόγῳ βλασφημεῖν ἐτόλμα, 2.21.7). As we saw in the last chapter, Diodorus is very interested in how people can become gods, and he has very high standards. Ninyas, by creating such a mock- ery of true deification, is to be held in especial contempt. There is nothing about justice, nothing about benefiting the people, and nothing about proper respect toward the gods in this system. All the rest of the Assyrian kings followed the example of Ninyas (2.21.8). As with Egypt, the Assyrian Empire is long-lived: thirty generations, or some thirteen hundred years down to Sardanapallus, the last king. But whereas Egypt, during its forty- seven-hundred-year existence, produced a number of noteworthy kings, according to Diodorus none of the Assyrian kings over this span accomplished anything worth recording (διὰ τὸν μηδὲν ὑπ’ αὐτῶν πεπτρᾶχθαι μνήμης ἄξιον, 2.22.1), again the ultimate condemnation from an historian. Instead Diodorus, in contrast with the Egyptian narrative with its brief mention of the Persian conquest, records in detail the destruction of the Assyrian empire. He ultimately attributes this fall to the decadence of its kings triggering an internal rebellion by Assyria’s subjects. Diodorus describes the thirtieth and final king, Sardanapallus, as having “surpassed all who came before him in luxury and sloth” (ὑπερῆρεν ἅπαντας τοὺς πρὸ αὐτοῦ τρυφῇ καὶ ῥᾳθυμίᾳ, 2.23.1), living and even speaking like a woman (2.23.1–2),32 concluding that “not only did this man end his life disgrace- fully, but he also utterly destroyed the empire of the Assyrians” (οὐ μόνον αὐτὸς αἰσχρῶς κατέστρεψε τὸν βίον, ἀλλὰ καὶ τὴν Ἀσσυρίων ἡγεμονίαν ἄρδην ἀνέτρεψε, 2.23.4).33 The rebellion was led by Arbaces, the commander of

31. Boncquet (1987) 128 speculates that this actually reflects Achaemenid practice, but notes that no other author mentions this constant rotation of troops. 32. Compare with the Roman youths who wear female clothes in the Forum at 37.3.4. 33. Oldfather (1933) 424 n. 1 remarks that the “account of the dissolute Sardanapallus is not borne out … indeed by Diodorus himself.” This suggests that the emphasis on his 208

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the Medes, and despite being urged on by a Babylonian seer it is only after he gains admittance to the king’s chambers by bribing a eunuch and observes firsthand “[Sardanapallus’s] decadence and zeal for womanly desires” (καὶ τήν τε τρυφὴν αὐτοῦ καὶ τὸν γυναικώδη τῶν ἐπιτηδευμάτων ζῆλον, 2.24.4) that the Mede unifies the other Assyrian subjects under his command and begins the revolt that brings down the king.34 In the case of the Assyrians, we do have some control on Diodorus’s usage of his probable source, in this case Ctesias of Cnidus.35 Unfortunately, the parallel fragments to Diodorus’s description of their monarchy (FGrH 688 F1b) are meager. The first comes from Athenaeus (12.38 = F1n), who cites Ctesias’s third book as showing that all who ruled Asia were concerned with luxury (περὶ τρυφὴν σπουδάσαι), especially Ninyas, the son of Semiramis and Ninus: “and accordingly this man while remaining inside and luxuriating was being seen by no one, except the eunuchs and his own wives” (καὶ οὗτος οὖν ἔνδον μένων καὶ τρυφῶν ὑπ’ οὐδενὸς ἑωρᾶτο, εἰ μὴ ὑπὸ τῶν εὐνούχων καὶ τῶν ἰδίων γυναικῶν). The only other fragment comes from the Armenian version of Eusebius’s Chronicle (p. 29, 10–26 Karst = F1oα). Eusebius cites Cephalion (FGrH 93) as stating that Ninyas never accomplished anything notable, and then enumerated the other rulers of Assyria as being effeminate and unwarlike, and that nobody saw them face to face except their concubines and eunuchs. It is likely that Cephalion was abridging Ctesias. These fragments confirm the stereotype that Assyrian kings reveled in decadence and were not seen by people outside the palace, as Diodorus states. But they do not give any indication of the system Diodorus describes, by which the kings remained in power by staying unknown to their subjects or by rotating troops, leaving open the possibility that Diodorus has reworked or added to what Ctesias said in order to provide a better negative counterpart to the Egyptian system. This contrast between Egypt and Assyria also foreshadows the contrast in Book 37 of the Romans of old, following the best laws and customs,

decadence belongs to Diodorus, and not to Ctesias. Note also Gorman and Gorman (2014) 362–364. 34. Yarrow (2006) 201–202 argues that “cultivation of relations with the soldiery” is the most important characteristic of a successful Roman commander for Diodorus, not surprisingly given the reliance of Caesar and others on their armies, in which case Sardanapallus’s failure to cultivate good relations with his troops is another failing with relevance to the late Republic. 35. See Chapter 1. 209

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and the newer generations wallowing in self-pleasure. Through these two kingdoms, Diodorus is thus able to indirectly compare the Romans of the past with the Romans of his own time, and perhaps issue a warning about their future. Another aspect of the Assyrian Empire relating directly to Rome is its destruction at the hands of subject peoples. The Assyrians from Ninyas onward used fear of the unseen king to keep their peoples in line (2.21.6–7, quoted above). Sacks has shown that a central theme in Diodorus’s depiction of empires in the historical books is that empires fall when they attempt to rule their subjects through fear and terror rather than justice and clemency. Certainly Diodorus’s exemplary Roman governors, with their just administration of the provinces, are exceptions rather than the rule in the first century, and the conceit is also present in Diodorus’s contemporaries Cicero (Off. 2.26–29) and Sallust (Cat. 2.4). Sacks concludes that the description of the fall of Assyria “may have been intended as a warning to Rome,” although “Diodorus perhaps felt more comfortable allowing the reader to draw his own conclusions about Rome’s fate.”36 Diodorus may also be making a connection to the Social or Marsic War, the rebellion of Rome’s allied states that he explains was caused by the increasingly rapacious and decadent Roman state (37.2.1, 37.3).37 The fall of the decadent Assyrian empire at the hands of its subjects thus establishes this theme in the Bibliotheke, and provides further evidence of how closely linked the barbarians of Diodorus are to the world of Rome. Notably, it is the destroyer of the Assyrians, Arbaces, who is so prominently associated with the idea of clemency (Chapter 1), further reinforcing this connection to Rome and Roman politics. Whereas Sacks denies that Diodorus was interested in moral decay as a cause of the fall of empires, in the case of Assyria it is the decadence of Sardanapallus that ultimately triggers the revolt, suggesting that the growing decadence of the Romans could one day lead them down a similar path. The medium of the barbarians again allows Diodorus to indirectly comment on his own times.38

36. Sacks (1990) 42–51, esp. 44. 37. See Yarrow (2006) 215–219 on Diodorus’s description of the Social War. 38. Sacks (1990) 42–51 and Sacks (1994) 216–220. Sacks denies that Diodorus was interested in moral decline despite the long passage in Book 37 on the grounds that the thought comes from Posidonius (46 n. 94), but Diodorus would not have provided such a lengthy condemnation of contemporary Roman values if he did not agree with it. Yarrow (2006) 204–205 takes this passage as representative of Diodorus’s views. Clarke (1999a) 187 cites other fragments where Posidonius is concerned with eastern degeneracy, but notes that most come from Athenaeus and may be more reflective of his views than Posidonius’s. 210

210 Diodorus Siculus Diodorus, Monarchy, and Rome Diodorus’s preferred form of government is clearly monarchy. The culture bringers who replace the metus hostilis as the driver of civilization are all depicted as monarchs, and although Assyria certainly shows the dangers of a poorly constructed monarchy, Egypt is an example of a monarchy done right. Even the proëm of the Bibliotheke emphasizes the great deeds performed by individuals.39 As with ruler cult, the ancient barbarians allow Diodorus to engage with sensitive issues of his own times and advo- cate his preferred form of government. More so than ruler cult, however, monarchy could be a dangerous thing to promote in the late Republic, as Julius Caesar found out. Cicero, in the Republic, famously makes a pointed remark about kings: “following the expulsion of Tarquin as great a hatred for the name of king held the Roman people as the longing for a king had held them after the death, or rather the departure of Romulus. So it was that then they longed for a king, but after the expulsion of Tarquin they could not bear to hear the name of king” (expulsoque Tarquinio tantum odium populum Romanum regalis nominis tenuit, quantum tenuerat post obitum vel potius excessum Romuli desiderium. Itaque ut tum carere rege, sic pulso Tarquinio nomen regis audire non poterat, 2.52). The truth of Rome’s relationship with kings is more complicated, as Andrew Erskine has demonstrated. Aside from Tarquinius Superbus, the Roman kings were in fact portrayed quite favorably in the annalistic tradition extending back to Fabius Pictor, and if anything, the portraits of them become even more favorable as the tradition develops. In Republican literature, the word rex and its cognates do not have overtly negative connotations. Moreover, a number of Roman institutions, such as the rex sacrorum, had at least some regal connotations. However, this attitude changed as the Romans came into greater and greater contact with the Hellenistic monarchs after the Second Punic War. Now many kings were actually Rome’s enemies, and Roman propaganda toward the Greeks, following the Hellenistic model, emphasized the aspect of liberation from tyrannical rule. Given Rome’s own political institutions, this inevitably took on an antimonarchical tone. But this was not a deep-âseated hatred of kings, and the evidence suggests that the Romans had very mixed feelings

39. One might go so far as to say that Diodorus is a believer in the “great man theory of history” of Carlyle (1841). 211

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about monarchs.40 Elizabeth Rawson compares it to the modern view of European monarchs by Americans: “a mixture of distaste and conscious superiority on the one hand, and attraction and a hidden inferiority complex on the other.”41 But as Rome became more powerful and the Hellenistic monarchies more and more pathetic, kings were less attractive.42 Figures such as Ptolemy XII could hardly command much respect at Rome, and it seems that monarchs were becoming entwined with stereotypes of eastern decadence.43 Cicero, in the Verrine orations, compares Verres to the “barbarian kings of the Persians or Syrians” (reges barbaros Persarum ac Syrorum, 2.3.76) who take multiple wives and excessively indulge in the pleasures of the flesh; Diodorus’s own account of the Assyrian monarchs fits into this paradigm. The eastern stereotype becomes far more real for Cicero with the rise of Caesar and the outbreak of the civil wars. In a letter from May 49, he muses on what a Caesarian victory would mean: “I see slaughter if he should win, and an attack on private property, a return of exiles, debt cancellation, and honors for the basest of men, and despotism intolerable not only for a Roman, but even for a Persian” (nam caedam video si vicerit et impetum in privatorum pecunias et exsulum reditum et tabulas novas et turpissimorum honores et regnum non modo Romano homini sed ne Persae quidem cuiquam tolerabile, Att. 10.8.2 = SB 199).44 Yet the eastern monarch did not necessarily have to be negative; Cicero mentions Cyrus the Great as the exemplar of a good king in the Republic (1.43, 1.44). And in the speech defending King Deiotarus of Galatia in Asia Minor, noted above, Cicero is quite fulsome in his praise for the king’s virtues. Cicero’s most detailed attack on the concept of monarchy comes in the second speech against the agrarian law of Rullus. Here he attacks Rullus as proposing to give magistrates not praetorian but kingly power. Cicero enumerates this as the monarchical authority to raise money without limits, convict and punish people without due process or appeal, hold office without

40. Erskine (1991) 106–113. See also Rawson (1975) 149–152, and for a broader analysis of the Roman portrayals of their regal period, Classen (1962, 1965). 41. Rawson (1975) 152. 42. Ibid. 157–158. 43. Also notable in this regard is Diodorus’s portrayal of Ptolemy VIII, “Physcon,” who seems to have embodied all the stereotypes of eastern decadence. See Yarrow (2006) 292–302. 44. Erskine (1991) 114, 118–119. 212

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accountability, enact eminent domain, travel anywhere within the empire, set aside convictions, remove judges, and generally do whatever they want “with supreme military and judicial power over all things” (summo cum imperio iudicioque rerum omnium, 2.33–34). Cicero adds that even the term king does not adequately describe the powers Rullus wants to bestow, “for there was never any monarchy which at least constrained itself by certain boundaries, if not by any law” (nullum enim regnum fuit umquam quod non se, si minus iure aliquo, at regionibus tamen certis contineret, 2.35), whereas Rullus’s commissioners lack even that most basic limitation.45 But even Cicero uses antimonarchical rhetoric rather rarely in his political invective, mostly when attacking Caesar or Marc Antony (e.g., Phil. 2.34).46 The Epicurean philosopher Philodemus could even write a treatise for his Roman patron L. Calpurnius Piso (Cos. 58) entitled On the Good King According to Homer. The work, while denouncing tyrants, illustrated many of the virtues common to kingship literature with examples of kings from the Iliad and the Odyssey, Nestor and Odysseus being the most frequent exemplars.47 Discussion of kingship was a legitimate if potentially touchy subject for debate in the late Republic. Cicero himself, despite his rhetorical use of monarchs and monarchy to attack his opponents, shows a more nuanced view of the subject, particularly in the Republic. We saw that Scipio Aemilianus argues in the dialogue that a constitution mixing the three simple forms of monarchy, aristocracy, and democracy, like that of the Roman Republic, is the best form of government. However, pressed by Laelius to choose which of the simple constitutions he would prefer, Scipio declares for monarchy (1.54). In the discussion that follows, unfortunately quite fragmentary, Scipio likens monarchy to control of the mind by judgment and control of the universe by Jupiter. He further elucidates parallel cases where a single ruler is best, as in a household or in times of crisis (1.61–63). However, Scipio makes quite clear the qualification to monarchy: “the rule of individuals is

45. Ibid. 113–114. 46. Ibid. 114. 47. This text, found in Herculaneum, has been the subject of much debate. Dorandi (1982) is the most recent edition, and a translation can be found in Asmis (1991). A range of dates from the 70s to the 40s BCE has been proposed. Murray (1965) 177–182 argued it would have been written on the occasion of Piso’s consulship. Dorandi (1982) 42–45 proposed a date in the 70s, which Murray (1984) 157–160 accepted, suggesting the work revealed more about literary patronage than politics. However, Gigante (1995) 63–78 argued strongly for understanding it as a condemnation of tyranny and civil war. 213

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best, as long as they are just” (singulorum dominatus, si modo iusti sint, esse optimos, 1.62). It takes only one bad king to subvert the entire form: “when the king begins to be unjust, that form of government perishes on the spot, and that same man is a tyrant, the worst form of government yet the closest to the best” (cum rex iniustus esse coepit, perit illud ilico genus, et est idem ille tyrannus, deterrimum genus et finitimum optimo, 1.65). Cicero returns to this theme in Book 2 of the Republic when he describes the fall of the last Roman king, Tarquinius Superbus. Scipio repeats his earlier claim that monarchy was good, but it could too easily turn into the worst kind of government, as it does with Tarquinius. He asks, “Do you see therefore how a master was created from a king, and how because of the fault of one man the form of the state was transformed from good into the worst?” (videtisne igitur ut de rege dominus extiterit, uniusque vitio genus rei publicae ex bono in deterrimum conversum sit? 2.47). The king has become a tyrant, and Scipio declares that he is worse than a wild beast, asking “Who would say this man is human, who wants no shared justice, no mutual human society with his own citizens, or even with the whole human race?” (quis enim hunc hominem rite dixerit, qui sibi cum suis civibus, qui denique cum omni hominum genere nullam iuris communionem, nullam humanitatis societatem velit? 2.48). Thus Cicero points specifically to lack of justice and isolation from the rest of civilization as separating tyrant from king. This is the intellectual context in which Diodorus is propounding a positive view of the Egyptian monarchy. As a provincial experiencing the Roman Republic in its death throes, he is probably far less enamored of the virtues of the mixed constitution than Cicero, although he was certainly familiar with it.48 Indeed, in the long passage from Book 37 in which he chronicles Rome’s descent into decadent luxury, he remarks that “there was no remedy for the rush into evil” (ἀδιορθώτου δ’ οὔσης τῆς ἐπὶ τὸ κακὸν ὁρμῆς, 37.3.5), suggesting that a theme in Diodorus’s later books was the inevitability of the Roman Republic’s fall once its descent into decadence and dissolution had begun. Diodorus’s depictions of the barbarian kings and kingship systems are therefore his way of engaging, albeit obliquely, with the Romans and offering his own examples of how a monarchy can be constructed.

48. Diodorus used Polybius extensively as a source in later books, and presumably knew his famous analysis of the Roman constitution in Book 6. He also claimed familiarity with Latin, although there is nothing to suggest he knew Cicero’s works. 214

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At the same time, Diodorus is not telling the Romans to set up a monarchy controlled by priests any more than Hecataeus of Abdera may have been advising Ptolemy I to do that.49 Indeed, Diodorus’s statement at the start of the description of the Egyptian monarchy that he is relating “both the most unusual customs and the customs most able to help the readers” (τά τε παραδοξότατα καὶ τὰ μάλιστα ὠφελῆσαι δυνάμενα τοὺς ἀναγινώσκοντας, 1.69.2) is an invitation to pick and choose. Diodorus even includes an account of famous Greeks who were influenced by various aspects of Egypt (1.96–97) to further justify borrowing from the most ancient of civilizations. But Diodorus is confronting head-on the major objections of Cicero and presumably others, namely the readiness of monarchy to turn into unjust tyranny, and the lack of restraints on a king. By emphasizing so strongly that the Egyptian kings were bound by law, Diodorus addresses this problem. Indeed, the detailed account he gives of the Egyptian legal process makes it clear that the king cannot arbitrarily decide cases or deny people due process, two of Cicero’s biggest concerns. Cicero’s other major objection to monarchy in the Republic is the king’s isolation, and again the Egyptian system that Diodorus presents avoids this by specifically giving the king companions in the sons of the Egyptian priests. As noted, Diodorus gives very little emphasis to their religious status. Rather, what is important for him is that these figures are the best educated. That the priests control a large portion of Egypt makes them less a religious class, and more a landed aristocracy with a religious component. This might be more acceptable to Romans than it would seem at first, since the Romans did not have a separate priestly caste, but instead had a multitude of priesthoods that were filled by the aristocracy—Julius Caesar was the Pontifex Maximus, and Cicero was elected an augur late in life. In essence, Diodorus is saying that a monarchy does not mean the end of the Roman aristocracy; done properly, it can include and celebrate it. Ultimately, Diodorus uses Egypt to challenge the stereotype of kings as decadent and lawless. The Egyptian king’s life is so closely regulated that he cannot simply indulge himself, unlike the Assyrians (or Roman youths). Diodorus is, in effect, both saying the Romans can develop a strong, stable, and just monarchy, and challenging them to do so. History has provided the Romans with examples of how to build a stable state, and it is up to the Romans to take what they can from those examples.

49. Murray (1970) 153. 215

7 The Roman Civil Wars and the Bibliotheke

The previous chapters have demonstrated how closely linked the Bibliotheke is to the world of the late Republic, even in the opening books, where Diodorus is describing the antiquities of the barbarians. The very shape of the world he describes in Books 1–3 has been dictated by the accomplishments of the Romans, and through the exemplars of the Egyptians, Assyrians, and others Diodorus is able to engage with some of the major intellectual debates going on in Rome during the middle part of the first century BCE: the origins of life and civilization, the place of myth in history, the nature of monarchy and empire, and ruler cult. This was a vibrant period for almost all areas of scholarship and intellectual activity, and it is understandable that Diodorus would want to be part of it. But just as the Bibliotheke needs to be understood in the context of the mid-to- late- first-century BCE, so it has to be understood how that context affected its creation. It should be no surprise that Rome looms so large over the Bibliotheke, even in the early books, nor that Diodorus should be attempting to join in the intellectual conversations of his times—as discussed in Chapter 1, there was a great movement of intellectual activity toward Rome, of which Diodorus was a part. In the proëm of the Bibliotheke he praises Rome as an intellectual center: “For the preeminence of this city, which stretches its power to the ends of the inhabited world, offered the most accessible and abundant resources for us during the long time we spent there” (ἡ γὰρ ταύτης τῆς πόλεως ὑπεροχή, διατείνουσα τῇ δυνάμει πρὸς τὰ πέρατα τῆς οἰκουμένης, ἑτοιμοτάτας καὶ πλείστας ἡμῖν ἀφορμὰς παρέσχετο 216

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παρεπιδημήσασιν ἐν αὐτῇ πλείω χρόνον, 1.4.3). But as we saw, Diodorus is not linked to any particular Roman patron or intellectual circle, unlike the great majority of Greek scholars at Rome attested in this time period. Sacks, followed by Green, suggests that Diodorus was ill at ease in Roman society, and that his criticism of oratory, such as in the passage on Egyptian lawcourts (1.76; see pp. 204–205), and of contemporary philosophers “would not endear him to the intellectual class at Rome, or to its patrons,” especially given the turbulence of the period.1 But these passages constitute a minuscule portion of the Bibliotheke, and the criticisms contained within them could hardly ostracize Diodorus from the intellectual circles of the time. Indeed, they are far outweighed by the examples we have seen where he is clearly engaging with contemporary issues. Nor is he writing an anti-Roman work. His attitude toward Rome is complex, with admiration and praise mixed with criticism, much of it paralleled in Roman historical works, as we have seen.2 And actual Roman history occupies only a small part of the Bibliotheke. So even though Sacks and Green are certainly correct that Diodorus was writing in a dangerous time and that this strongly shaped the Bibliotheke, their depiction of Diodorus as isolated from society is problematic. At the very least, he must have made connections to gain access to the great private libraries.3 We need to find better explanations for these problems, and in order to do that we first need to get a better sense for when Diodorus was writing.

1. Sacks (1990) 189, Green (2006) 240. Besides the Egyptian passage, Diodorus also criticizes orators at 12.53.4 and philosophers at 2.29.5–6, 9.9, and 10.7.3. Only 9.9 amounts to a serious attack on philosophers, and even this attacks their hypocrisy, not the ideas of philosophy itself. 2. As seen many times in previous chapters. The fullest exploration of Diodorus’s attitudes toward Rome is Yarrow (2006), which focuses on passages in which Diodorus is directly dealing with the Romans. 3. On the libraries in Rome in general, see Houston (2014) 12–38. Caesar had planned a public library in Rome and chosen Varro to organize it, but this did not come to fruition before his assassination. In the end, the first public library in Rome was founded by Asinius Pollio in 38, with more following. See Bowie (2013) 238–244. But large private libraries had been in existence for more than a century, at least since Aemilius Paullus (Plut. Aem. 28.7) seized the library of Perseus as a spoil of war. Very large private collections are attested by the late Republican period, particularly the library of Lucullus, which seems to have functioned as a quasi-public library, and the library of Cicero. See Dix (2000, 2013). â 217

The Roman Civil Wars and the Bibliotheke 217 Dating Diodorus Unfortunately, as noted in Chapter 1, we have only very limited information about the timing of Diodorus’s composition. He tells us in the proëm that he worked on the Bibliotheke for thirty years (1.4.1). The first date he gives us concerning himself is that he was in Egypt during the 180th Olympiad, 60–â56 BCE (1.44.1), and that he witnessed an Egyptian mob kill a Roman emissary over the death of a cat before Ptolemy XII Auletes was declared a friend of Rome (1.83.8). This event took place in 59, so Diodorus would be in Egypt by the year 60 or so. Taking that as the starting point of composition would yield a completion date of about 30, and this simple calculation has been accepted by recent scholars.4 We cannot assume that Diodorus simply started writing Book 1 in 60, however. Considerable research and advanced planning must have gone into the work, as we have seen in the organization of Books 1–â3. Rubincam has also demonstrated this through extensive analysis of Diodorus’s own, highly accurate cross-âreferences, many of which point forward to later parts of the Bibliotheke.5 Diodorus also remarks in Book 1 that the Ptolemies were the latest rulers of Egypt, and that the Macedonians had been ruling Egypt for 276 years, which, taking Diodorus’s placement of Alexander’s crossing into Egypt of 331 (1.49.1) as the starting point, gives a date of 55 for that passage. The clear allusion to Caesar’s calendar, discussed in Chapter 1, indicates that Diodorus was still working on Book 1 after 46. It is impossible to believe it took Diodorus a decade to write a single book, and so much of that period must have been spent doing research and taking notes for the entire Bibliotheke.6 Other references in the first five books point to a period of composition for them at least in the late 40s. In Book 3 he promises to give an account of Caesar’s campaigns in Britain at a later point, showing that he was writing this section after 54. Book 3 also contains his only reference to Caesar sans divinity, suggesting the particular passage was written prior to 42, while the passages in Book 5 referencing Caesar’s divinity

4. Rubincam (1987) 324. 5. Ibid., and Rubincam (1989, 1998a). 6. Rubincam (1987) 325–â326 suggests on analogy to Cassius Dio that Diodorus spent perhaps fifteen years doing research, compiling notes, and planning, and then fifteen years actually writing the Bibliotheke, which fits in well with the contemporary references in the work. Although I have never seen this explicitly stated, it often seems to be assumed that the creation of the Bibliotheke was Diodorus’s prime or even sole occupation, but if he also had to make a living then that might in part account for the long gestation. 218

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should indicate they were written after 42 (pp. 188–189).7 These references suggest that the first three books reached their current form between 46 and 42. Finally, Diodorus must have had a pretty good idea of how far into contemporary events he wished to go by the time he was finishing the opening books, since he promises to cover Caesar’s campaigns in Gaul and Britain in Books 3 and 5, and it appears that his original chosen terminal date was 46 (see below). We also know that Diodorus was in Rome by the time he was finishing these books—a remark at 12.26.1 indicates he saw the Rostra in front of the senate house, and Caesar had it removed in 45—and he spent considerable time there (1.4.3).8 Perhaps Diodorus was still in Egypt during Caesar’s war with Pompey and came to Rome in the period immediately following Caesar’s expedition; Suetonius tells us Caesar tried to encourage emigration to Rome by “teachers of the liberal arts” (liberalium artium doctores, Iul. 42.1) with offers of citizenship.9 This timetable actually fits in quite well with the themes we have seen in the first three books. The issue of ruler cult in particular looks as if it should surround the controversy over Caesar’s deification, which began even before Caesar’s death, and similarly the discussion of monarchy best fits the time when Caesar seemed to be taking Rome down the path to one- man rule. Other elements, such as the division of myth and history seen in Varro, and the importance of the metus hostilis seen in Sallust, also fit into this general period, but too little is known about precisely when Varro and Sallust were writing to say for certain. They may be a few years later, in the early 30s. The debate over the development of civilization is seen in Lucretius, whose De Rerum Natura is praised by Cicero in a letter from 54 (Q. Fra. 2.10.3), in Posidonius, who was also still active in the early 50s, and also in Vitruvius, who was writing under Augustus, and so only generally fixes Diodorus in this period. As for the date of composition of Books 4–40, unfortunately Diodorus gives us almost nothing to go on. In Book 16 he mentions that Octavian expelled the inhabitants of the city of Tauromenium in Sicily in his own

7. Ibid. fig. 3 provides a convenient table of references to events after 60 in the Bibliotheke. 8. Noted by Casevitz (1972) xi n. 1, and accepted by Sacks (1990) 161 and Green (2006) 5 and 214 n. 113. 9. If Diodorus had been researching at Alexandria, the damage the Library there suffered in 48 may well have spurred him to look for new resources in Rome as well. On the Library and its function following this destruction, see Hatzimichali (2013a) 167–182 and Bagnall (2002) 351–356. 219

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lifetime, and that the city received a colony of Roman citizens (16.7.1). Diodorus does not indicate when this happened, but according to Appian Octavian was barred from Tauromenium in 36 during his war with Sextus Pompeius (B Civ. 5.109). Cassius Dio says that Octavian punished towns in Sicily that refused to surrender during the campaign in 36 (49.12.5). Presumably Tauromenium was among them, and Octavian expelled the inhabitants and established a colony soon afterward, perhaps 35 or 34.10 Sacks argues further that references to Sicilian enfranchisement at 13.35.3 and 16.70.4–6 indicate that those books were written between 43 and 36. Sacks also suggests that Diodorus’s use of the word “tyrant- slayer” (τυραννοκτονός, 16.14.1, 16.65.6), the earliest attestations of the word in Greek, indicates he was writing Book 16 after Caesar’s death.11 Assuming that the date of 30 is approximately correct for completion of the Bibliotheke, this all suggests that Diodorus was writing the later books at a fairly rapid pace in the 30s. Recently Sulimani has argued that Diodorus must have been working on the Bibliotheke well into the 20s, but her arguments rest primarily on perceived allusions in the text of the Bibliotheke that do not convince. For example, she notes that Diodorus depicts Osiris, Sesoösis, and Heracles as all working on the Egyptian irrigation system, and argues this is connected to Augustus’s refurbishment of the agricultural system along the Nile. But irrigation is such a major part of the Egyptian agricultural system in all periods that there is no reason to assume a connection. Similarly, that envoys came from India to meet Augustus need not have inspired Diodorus to include India in his work, especially given its long tradition as one of the ends of the world. India is in any case fully integrated into Book 2 (see Chapter 2), and was presumably part of the original conception of the Bibliotheke.12 Although it certainly cannot be ruled out that Diodorus was working well into the period after Actium, there is no solid evidence to show that he was, and the lack of any references to events after 36 suggests he was not. Further, if Diodorus was still revising the first six books in particular as late as the 20s, one might have expected him to have at least removed the unfulfilled promises to cover Caesar’s Gallic campaigns.

10. Sacks (1990) 168. On the dating of this event, see also Reinhold (1988) 32. For the significance of this passage, see further below. 11. Sacks (1998) 437–442. 12. Sulimani (2011) 31–37. 220

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What little we do know about the Bibliotheke shows that Diodorus’s composition almost perfectly overlapped Caesar’s tumultuous first consulship, the period of the so-called First Triumvirate between Caesar, Pompey, and Crassus, which dominated Roman politics in the 50s, the Roman civil war between Caesar and Pompey, Caesar’s dictatorship and assassination, and the Triumvirate of Octavian, Antony, and Lepidus, which saw further warfare throughout the Mediterranean world, culminating in the showdown between Octavian and Antony at Actium. Scholars have not overlooked the possibility that the Roman civil wars had an impact on composition of the Bibliotheke. In particular there is a major internal contradiction regarding the point at which Diodorus planned to conclude the Bibliotheke. In the proëm he states clearly that he intends to finish his history at the year 60, and carefully establishes the date both with references to the Olympiad and the Athenian archon year, and as the beginning of the Gallic War (1.4.7). However, he almost immediately then says that he will end his history with the 730th year after the first Olympiad (1.5.1), 776 BCE. This makes the terminus of Diodorus’s history not 60, but 46. Even though Book 40, the final one, is very fragmentary, the last datable event in the fragments is the Catilinarian conspiracy of 63, and the book covers material as far back as 69. Books 21–39 cover about twelve years of history apiece, with quite a bit of variation, and it seems likely that as Diodorus drew closer to his own times each book covered a shorter period in more detail, as is the case with Livy. This means that Book 40 certainly did not go down to 46, and likely ended around 60.13 Traditionally, this contradiction has been explained with Diodorus’s assumed stupidity—he used a source with an incorrect date for the beginning of the Gallic War, and did not notice the error.14 More recently, however, both Rubincam and Sacks have argued that such a mistake is highly implausible. As Sacks remarks, “it is unthinkable that [Diodorus] could make such a gross error involving a contemporary event.”15 Further evidence that this is not a simple mistake is shown by Diodorus’s repeated promises in the early books to cover the ethnography of Britain when he reaches Caesar’s campaigns on the island, which started in 55 (3.38.2–3,

13. Rubincam (1998b) 231 n. 13 provides an analysis of book lengths. 14. Schwartz, RE V s.v. Diodoros [38], 665; Burton (1972) 40–42. Oldfather (1933) xix suggests instead that “as Diodorus grew old and perhaps a little tired, he gave up on his original plan.” 15. Rubincam (1989) 39–61, Sacks (1990) 170. 221

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5.21.2, and 5.22.1). Rubincam contends, on the basis of her analysis of other forward-looking references in the Bibliotheke, that Diodorus would not have made these promises if he did not fully intend to keep them when he was writing the early books.16 Green suggests that better proof is provided by Diodorus’s clear knowledge of both Britain and Caesar’s campaigns there and that he would not have researched them if he did not intend to include them at some point.17 Diodorus must have originally planned the terminus of his history to be 46 and not 60. Sacks and Green both argue for an explanation for this contradiction rooted in the turmoil and chaos of the Roman civil wars when Diodorus was writing and presumably publishing. The most striking difference between the termini of 60 and 46 is that the former date excludes almost the entire career of Julius Caesar. Indeed, if Diodorus had gone down to 46, he could have concluded his work with Caesar’s magnificent quadru- ple triumph. This is significant, since even in the work as it stands, ending before the most important phases of Caesar’s life and career from his consulship of 59 on, there are still a number of signs pointing to Diodorus’s intense admiration for the dictator.18 The passage in Book 32 (see pp. 187– 188) praising Caesar’s decision to refound the city of Corinth reads like a eulogy to the dictator. But it seems Diodorus discovered that near-contem - porary history, especially when so many participants or their descendants were still alive, was far too risky a proposition, especially when it came to a figure such as Caesar. Tacitus notes this problem with recent history in the Annales, and says that even writing about the reign of Tiberius decades later he still had to confront the problem that many descendants of the principle actors in the period remained, and that “even glory and virtue have enemies, since they reveal their opposites too clearly” (etiam gloria ac virtus infensos habet, ut nimis ex propinquo diversa arguens, 4.33).

The Civil Wars and the Start of the Bibliotheke It is not surprising, given the contradiction between parts of the Bibliotheke over the terminal date, and the obvious relation to the contemporary events Diodorus intended to describe, that scholars have focused on the end of

16. Rubincam (1989) 41 n. 7 and 50 n. 23. 17. Green (2006) 238 and n. 8. 18. Sacks (1990) 169–184, Green (2006) 238–239. 222

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the work as the point where the conflicts of Diodorus’s own day had an impact on his composition. However, I would argue that the Roman civil wars actually had a major impact on the beginning of the Bibliotheke, and on Diodorus’s ability, or rather inability, to publish his work as a whole. In the proëm Diodorus makes a somewhat curious statement: “my undertaking is completed, but the books are so far unpublished” (ἡ μὲν ὑπόθεσις ἔχει τέλος, αἱ βίβλοι δὲ μέχρι τοῦ νῦν ἀνέκδοτοι τυγχάνουσιν οὖσαι, 1.4.6). Green argues that Diodorus’s failure to remove this statement shows he has not finished revising the work and probably died before he could, leaving it to others to publish.19 Certainly Diodorus’s failure to remove this statement suggests that the Bibliotheke was not in the final form he was intending.20 But this statement raises a major question: Why would Diodorus not have started publishing the work? After all, if he hoped to establish himself as an intellectual in the Roman world, he needed to get his work out. At the very least he must have been giving oral recitations of portions of the Bibliotheke; to preface a work with a statement that it has not been published makes sense only if Diodorus was circulating it in some form, presumably in private or semiprivate gatherings such as those alluded to by Horace (Sat. 1.4.73), but perhaps also in more formal recitationes such as those attributed to his contemporary Asinius Pollio (Sen. Controv. 4 pr. 2) and to the Greek historian Timagenes (FGrH 88 T3 = Sen. De Ira 3.23.6) which became more common under the empire.21 If Diodorus was giving oral recitations, presumably he would begin each with part of the proëm, regardless of what part of the Bibliotheke he was reading. This explains the glaring contradiction of the terminal date for the Bibliotheke between the two passages of the proëm that are so close together (1.4.7 and 1.5.1); the first four chapters of theBibliotheke could be readily used by Diodorus as an introduction to his readings, and so reflect his latest thinking and plans, while chapter 5, with its pedantic discussion of chronology, was probably recited less frequently and so not updated. It also explains why he would specifically refer to his work as unpublished. But this still leaves the problem of why he did not start to publish the work.

19. Green (2006) 8–9. 20. Cicero (Att. 14.17 = SB 371) also uses the word ἀνέκδοτον to describe an unpublished work in need of revision. 21. On the recitatio as a means of publication, see Winsbury (2009) 95–110, and on ancient historians reading their work more generally, see Momigliano (1978) 62–64. 223

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Diodorus’s apparent failure to publish is made even more glaring by the organization of his work, which seems to have been conceived as a number of smaller, more easily publishable units. Rubincam argues that Diodorus originally planned his work around hexads. From the average number of years covered in each book, she argues that for the period from 60 to 46 Diodorus would have needed two books, giving a planned total of forty-two for the entire Bibliotheke instead of forty. It has long been noted that the first six books, dealing with prehistory and myth, form a very neat unit, and we saw above how closely interconnected their contents are. Moreover, in the prefaces to Books 13 and 19 Diodorus refers back to the previous books in groups of six and eighteen, suggesting he planned his work in seven hexads but did not attempt to substantially redivide his material when he changed his terminal date, leaving the last hexad two books short, and perhaps he deemphasized the hexadic nature of the work.22 Diodorus’s younger contemporary Livy offers a good parallel for how an historian could organize a large work into smaller, more convenient pieces. Livy organized his books into pentads, and used his prefaces to clearly mark the divisions between the units. For Livy, the pentad formed the basic unit. A pentad could stand by itself, or it could be paired with another to form a decade.23 Although Rubincam focuses on the hexad as the basic unit of the Bibliotheke, Diodorus may have intended to break his work down into smaller units of three books, much as Livy’s decades can be broken down into pentads. We can see a triadic structure in the division of Books 1–3, dealing with barbarian myth and prehistory, and Books 4–6, dealing with Greek myth and prehistory, a division Diodorus himself suggests in the proëm of Book 1. Proof that these triads were intended as two units is furnished by repetition of some of Diodorus’s philosophy of history in the proëm of Book 4. In addition, the first major subject of Book 4 is Dionysus and his exploits (4.2–6; see below), which forms a neat parallel with the detailed account of Osiris at the start of Book 1, and connects back to the Libyan Dionysus at the end of Book 3. But dividing books of a history into equal units does more than just give a tidy organizational scheme. It also gives an historian extremely convenient units to publish. This seems to be how Livy published his massive

22. Rubincam (1998b) 229–233. 23. Luce (1977) 3–9. 224

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undertaking, and it would have made perfect sense for Diodorus to do the same. As a Greek intellectual in Rome who would need to establish his reputation, Diodorus must have been more eager than Livy to put parts of his work into widespread circulation. We know that Archias, Posidonius, and Theophanes, our best-âattested Greek intellectuals at Rome in the late Republican period, received recognition for their works that helped bring them into the circles of the elite at Rome and gain patronage. Readings and recitations could only take Diodorus so far; to establish himself it was vitally important that he get part of his work out into the world as quickly as possible.24 That he did not formally publish his opening books suggests that Diodorus came to regard them as dangerous because of the political climate, and the question is why, since their content appears to be completely removed from the world of Roman politics. But as we have seen in the previous chapters, major issues of the late Republican period lie behind their subject matter. Though Diodorus discusses numerous barbarian cultures, Egypt is clearly highlighted as the most important and the most valuable as an historical model. Similarly, numerous figures are described as being deified for their benefactions to mankind, but it is Dionysus, or Osiris, who is presented by Diodorus as the supreme culture bringer. Diodorus is engaging with the intellectual and political world of the late Republic, but how receptive would they have been to these mes- sengers? When he began writing, he had good reason to believe an audience would have an open mind toward Dionysus and Egypt, but events turned sharply against him, and it is here that we must look for answers to the questions posed above.

Dionysus and Egypt in the Roman Republic The Romans had a sometimes problematic relationship with Dionysus, or Bacchus or Liber Pater as they often called him. In the plays of Plautus from the late third and early second century, there are a number of references to bacchic cult, suggesting it was well-âknown, if considered secre- tive and exotic.25 In 186 BCE there was a large-âscale crackdown on the cult of Dionysus throughout Italy, a sign of how widespread and popular it had become. This bacchanalian affair is described in detail by Livy

24. As every young scholar knows, it is “publish or perish.” 25. Beard, North, and Price (1998) 92–â93, Gruen (1990) 150–â152. 225

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(39.8–19), with part of the Senatus Consultum preserved in an inscription as well (ILLRP 511). This affair and how it fits into Roman politics of the second century has been the subject of much debate and is beyond the current study.26 But it is worth noting the various actions Livy associates with the cult of Dionysus, which he compares to an infectious disease spreading across Italy. Alcohol and extreme inebriation play a critical role, and help inflame sexual passions, leading to all sorts of debauchery and other crimes such as perjury, forgery, even murder (39.8). The cult of Dionysus, as Livy describes it being practiced in 186, has little to do with Diodorus’s culture bringer. Despite this crackdown, by the first century BCE the cult of Dionysus was widespread in Italy, and his importance for agriculture widely acknowledged. Varro, for example, in the opening of the De Rustica invokes among other gods “Ceres and Liber, because their fruits are most necessary for life; for by them food and drink come from the farm” (Cererem et Liberum, quod horum fructus maxime necessari ad victum; ab his enim cibus et potio venit e fundo, 1.1.5).27 Cicero, at least, knows of Dionysus as a spreader of civilization in the Euhemeristic sense, as we saw in Chapter 5. In De Legibus (2.19) Dionysus is one of the figures he says should be worshipped for his benefactions to mankind. And in De Natura Deorum Balbus brings up Liber Pater as a figure who ascended to heaven for his benefactions toward mankind (2.62). Notably, he makes a point of specifying that by Liber Pater he means Dionysus, which suggests this understanding of the god was not widely known. Overall, this shows that although there was certainly a negative perception of Dionysus, and in particular the wilder aspects of his cult, his importance as a god of agriculture and a civilizer was also an acceptable interpretation in the late Republic, and it is this version of the god that Diodorus emphatically promotes. Roman attitudes toward Egypt are more complex in this period, especially given their tangled relationship with Ptolemy XII. The earliest references to Egypt in Roman authors appear to be secondhand via Greek sources, but by the mid-first century Catullus makes reference to the Egyptian god Harpocrates as a metaphor for silence (74.4, 102.4) and Varro displays knowledge of Egyptian grammar (Ling. 8.65), revealing familiarity

26. Gruen (1990) 34–78 provides a useful overview of the problems surrounding the bacchanalian affair. See also Briscoe (2008) 230–290 and for the fullest study, Pailler (1988). 27. Bruhl (1953) 119–126. 226

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with the country and its culture among the Roman elite.28 Archaeological evidence appears to show Egyptian motifs and artifacts creeping into Italy toward the end of the second century BCE.29 The famous Nile mosaic at Praeneste is traditionally dated to 120–110.30 Several less detailed Nile mosaics are dated to the following decades, but none come from Rome itself.31 In Rome, there are a few coins with Egyptian motifs such as the lotus blossom, the crown of Isis, the sistrum, hippopotami, and crocodiles as control marks. The precise significance of these is unclear, but it seems likely that these motifs were chosen primarily for the exoticism, rather than to convey any religious or cultural overtones.32 Their existence does show some basic familiarity with Egyptian motifs and some interest on the part of the Romans about Egypt by the time Diodorus is writing. This familiarity can be seen more clearly in the spread of the cult of Isis. This cult was of course quite ancient, and it was encouraged (along with the Ptolemaic replacement for Osiris, Serapis) by the Ptolemies as it spread across the eastern Mediterranean, and then into the west. The cult apparently proved very popular with slaves, freedmen, and women in Italy. Temples are attested for Isis in Puteoli in 105 BCE and Pompeii in 80 BCE. But whereas other eastern cults, such as that of Cybele, had been imported into Rome following consultation with the Sibylline Books, the cult of Isis grew on its own, apparently to the consternation of at least some of the ruling class, who tried to suppress it. In 59 the Senate ordered that altars to Egyptian gods be destroyed, but they were soon replaced (Tert. Ad Nat. 1.10.17). In 53 the Senate ordered the temples of Isis and Serapis closed (Dio Cass. 40.47.4), and again in 50 (Val. Max. 1.3.4). These repeated attempts at suppression point to the popularity of the cult, which may have become a political issue as well. In 43 as part of the bargain between Octavian, Antony, and Lepidus that created the triumvirate, a new Iseum was promised in Rome (Dio Cass. 47.15.4), but apparently was never

28. Smelik and Hemelrijk (1984) 1920–1921. 29. Egyptian and Egyptianizing artifacts from Italy are cataloged by Malaise (1972). It is only in the decades after Actium when such items become widespread, however, and how they should be interpreted continues to be debated. See Swetnam-Burland (2007) for a useful overview of the problems. 30. On the Praeneste mosaic, see Meyboom (1995) for the most detailed description and interpretation. Note also Schrijvers (2007) 223–239 and Walker (2003). 31. Meyboom (1995) 80–84. 32. Ibid. 155–159, Versluys (2003) 422–428, 440–441. 227

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built.33 What this limited evidence suggests is that, even though certain elements of Egyptian religion were seen as problematic by the Roman Senate, it did have a strong appeal among factions of the Roman populace. This is the same basic attitude we find in Cicero’s writings of the period, which provide our best evidence for the Roman elite’s view of Egypt in the Late Republic. Smelik and Hemelrijk feel that Cicero has a negative attitude toward Egypt, but the reality is more complex. The harshest comment Cicero makes about Egypt comes in the Pro Postumo, when he names Alexandria as “the origin of all tricks, of all deceits, from which all the plots of writers of mimes originate” (illinc omnes praestigiae, illinc, inquam, omnes fallaciae, omnia denique ab eis mimorum argumenta nata sunt, 35). But care needs to be taken in drawing sweeping conclusions from Cicero’s rhetoric. Many references to Egypt in his works are in relation to Ptolemy XII and his efforts to secure Roman support, and are neutral toward the country as a whole. In 59, when he was expecting to be made a special envoy to Ptolemy XII, Cicero told Atticus that “indeed I want, and have wanted for a while, to visit Alexandria and the rest of Egypt” (cupio equi- dem et iam pridem cupio Alexandream reliquamque Aegyptum visere, Att. 2.5.1 = SB 25).34 Egypt’s place as a source of ancient wisdom is acknowledged in Cicero’s philosophical writings as well. In the Republic Scipio mentions that “after the death of Socrates Plato first went to Egypt in order to study” (Platonem Socrate mortuo primum in Aegyptum discendi causa, Rep. 1.16).35 Then in Republic 3 Scipio’s friend Philus, comparing ideas of justice, says that if one could take to the air and see the world, “He would first see in the uncorrupted race of the Egyptians, which preserves in writing the memory of most ages and events” (videat primum in illa incorrupta maxume gente Aegyptiorum, quae plurimorum saeculorum et eventorum memoriam litteris continet, 3.14). And in De Finibus, asking rhetorically if a philosophical system can give happiness, Cicero says if that is not true then “Why

33. Donalson (2003) 115–125. He would go so far as to see the vow of an Iseum as a conces- sion of Octavian toward Antony, representing a “Cleopatra” party, but I do not think this is tenable given that Cleopatra had left Rome in 44, and it was another two years before Antony met Cleopatra at Tarsus and began his affair with her. 34. Smelik and Hemelrijk (1984) 1921–1922. Gruen (2011b) 107–111 notes that Alexandria, which was largely a Greek city, should not be equated with Egypt as a whole. 35. Zetzel (1995) 113 indicates that this is the earliest reference to Plato’s trip to Egypt. 228

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did Plato travel through Egypt to get numbers and astronomy from the barbarian priests” (cur Plato Aegyptum peragravit, ut a sacerdotibus bar- baris numeros et caelestia acciperet, Fin. 5.87), and similarly asks, Why did Pythagoras and Democritus also travel there? Cicero’s attitude toward Egypt becomes more negative with respect to religion, and in particular Egyptian animal worship. In the same passage of Book 3 of the Republic quoted above, Philus notes that the Egyptians worship a particular bull as the god Apis, and “many other monsters and animals of every type among them are numbered as gods” (multaque alia portenta apud eosdem et cuiusque generis beluas numero consecratas deorum Rep. 3.14). The larger passage (3.14–17) is relatively nonjudgmen- tal, as Philus is merely trying to illustrate how diverse people are. However, in De Natura Deorum the Epicurean Velleius attacks worship of animals, “the lunacy of the Egyptians, [as] in the same category” (Aegyptiorumque in eodem genere dementiam, 1.43) as the monstrosity of the Persian Magi. But Cotta, in the course of his rebuttal of Velleius, explains that “the very Egyptians, who are mocked by us, deified no beast unless it had some utility which they took from it” (ipsi, qui inridentur, Aegyptii nullam beluam nisi ob aliquam utilitatem, quam ex ea caperent, consecraverunt, 1.101) and goes on to describe the benefits provided by the ibis in detail. He adds he could explain the benefits provided by the ichneumon, crocodile, cat, and dog as well, but he does not wish to spend too much time on the topic. Yet Cotta in Book 3 also discusses the problem of which gods to worship, and asks, if they are going to include abstract concepts such as Natio and figures such Isis and Serapis, how they can exclude various animals such as those worshipped by the Egyptians (3.47). A line needs to be drawn somewhere, and Cotta makes further objections to figures such as Circe and Amphiaraus (3.48–49). Egyptian animal worship is thus marked out, but it is not condemned here, at least no more than the other objects of worship Cotta raises.36 But in the Tusculan Disputations, Cicero asks, “Who is ignorant of the custom of the Egyptians? Their minds are infected with depraved beliefs, they would submit to torture before harming an ibis or an asp, or a cat or a dog or a crocodile—even if they should do something without real- izing it, they would shirk no penalty” (Aegyptiorum morem quis ignorat?

36. Smelik and Hemelrijk (1984) 1957 claim that Cotta is bringing up animal worship here “because of the disgust it provides,” but this whole passage is rather neutral in tone, with animal worship one of several ways of illustrating a larger theological issue. 229

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quorum inbutae mentes pravitatis erroribus quamvis carnificinam prius subierint quam ibim aut aspidem aut faelem aut canem aut corcodillum violenti quorum etiamsi inprudentes quippiam fecerint, poenam nullam recusent, Tus. 5.78). Cicero was not alone among the Roman intelligentsia of the period in finding animal worship repulsive at times. According to Servius’s commentary on Virgil, “Varro was outraged at the worship of Alexandrian Gods in Rome” (Varro indignatur Alexandrinos deos Romae coli, ad Aen. 8.698). Yet Cotta’s remarks in De Natura Deorum reveal that the Roman elite was also aware of the more complex issues underlying Egyptian animal worship. Given this conflicting attitude toward animal worship, it is significant that Diodorus devotes considerable space to explaining and justifying the practice. In his opening Egyptian theology, the practice is mentioned, but only briefly. Rather, he saves detailed discussion of animal worship for his account of Egyptian customs. Smelik and Hemelrijk find it surprising that Diodorus has separated this from the theogony, but it actually makes perfect sense.37 By partitioning Egyptian theriomorphism, Diodorus ensures that it does not distract from his presentation of Osiris and Isis as the prototypical culture bringers, and deemphasizes the centrality of animal worship to Egyptian religion. Instead, it becomes another ethnographic marvel. In the theogony itself, Diodorus refers only briefly to animal cult. The five eternal deities sometimes appear as sacred animals (1.12.9) and several animals are worshipped because gods wore their skins at some point (1.11.4, 1.18.1), a simple mythical rationalization. Most significantly, near the end of the theogony Diodorus explains that the sacred bulls Apis and Mnevis were worshipped as gods “since these animals especially helped the discoverers of the cultivation of grain, both in respect to sow- ing and as a general aid in every aspect of farming” (ταῦτα γὰρ τὰ ζῷα τοῖς εὑροῦσι τὸν τοῦ σίτου καρπὸν συνεργῆσαι μάλιστα πρός τε τὸν σπόρον καὶ τὰς κοινὰς ἁπάντων ἐκ τῆς γεωργίας ὠφελείας, 1.21.11). In other words, the bulls are worshipped because of their benefactions toward mankind, the same explanation Cotta gives in De Natura Deorum, making them an extension of the culture-bringer paradigm. Diodorus places his more extensive discussion of animal worship near the end of Book 1 (83–90). At the start of the section, he is at some pains to demonstrate the sincerity of Egyptian beliefs and the seriousness with

37. Smelik and Hemelrijk (1984) 1898. 230

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which they take the sacred animals, which is shown by the treatment the animals receive and the worship of the Egyptians (1.83–85). This leads to Diodorus’s famous account of seeing an Egyptian mob attack a Roman soldier after he killed a cat (1.83.8). Not even fear of Rome was enough to save this man. The remainder of this section is taken up with the Egyptian accounts of the origins of animal worship, which Diodorus acknowledges is “altogether marvelous and beyond belief” (πάντα δὲ θαυμάσια καὶ μείζω πίστεως, 1.86.1). The Egyptians, according to Diodorus, have several explanations for animal worship, indicating that they themselves are uncertain as to its origins. Diodorus dismisses the first explanation as “entirely mythical and fitting for the simplicity of ancient times” (τὴν μὲν πρώτην μυθώδη παντελῶς καὶ τῆς ἀρχαϊκῆς ἁπλότητος οἰκείαν, 1.86.2). According to this account, when the gods first came into the world, they were overpowered by vast numbers of lawless men and had to escape by assuming the forms of animals. After the victory of the gods, they made those animals whose forms they had assumed sacred (1.86.3).38 The second origin given by Diodorus is far more rationalized: the early Egyptians fought in divisions led by standards with animals on them, and attributed their successes to those animals. And so the Egyptians began to worship them (1.86.4–5). These explanations are both dealt with quickly. Diodorus devotes far more space to the third explanation, which is that the Egyptians worship particular animals because “each of them benefits the common life and mankind in general” (ἕκαστον αὐτῶν προσφέρεται πρὸς τὴν ὠφέλειαν τοῦ κοινοῦ βίου καὶ τῶν ἀνθρώπων, 1.87.1), language echoing what Diodorus uses for the culture bringers and recalling the explanation he gives for worshipping bulls at 1.21.11, as well as the account of Cotta at De Natura Deorum 1.101. Diodorus goes on to give utilitarian explanations for the Egyptian worship of numerous animals, connecting each to a particular benefit; for example, sheep provide both wool to protect the body and milk and cheese for consumption (1.87.2). This helps to normalize the Egyptian worship of animals by simply making it an extension of the same Euhemeristic paradigm that not only Diodorus but also authors like Cicero use, as we saw in Chapter 5. In a similar fashion, Diodorus recalls the Kulturgeschichte of 1.8 in his final explanation, in which weaker men were forced to unite to fight

38. This explanation is also given in Ovid, Metamorphoses 5.318–331. See Rosati (2009) 268–272. 231

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off the attacks of the stronger, and they did so under the banners depicting various animals that later became sacred (1.90.1–2; see pp. 72–73). Diodorus employs two other approaches to make animal worship more palatable, if not completely normalize it, to a Graeco-Roman audience. First, he likens certain elements of it to Greek religious rites. The Egyptian worship of the goat for its tendency to copulate is connected to the Greek Priapus, Pan, and the satyrs, and to rituals surrounding the phallus. Diodorus notes that “in general not only the Egyptians, but also many others have sanctified the genitalia with religious rites, as being responsible for the creation of all life” (καθόλου δὲ τὸ αἰδοῖον οὐκ Αἰγυπτίους μόνον, ἀλλὰ καὶ τῶν ἄλλων οὐκ ὀλίγους καθιερωκέναι κατὰ τὰς τελετάς, ὡς αἴτιον τῆς τῶν ζῴων γενέσεως, 1.88.2). This serves to remind his audience that every religious system has its peculiarities. The second approach is the opposite of the first, justifying Egyptian animal worship as specific to circumstances in Egypt. Animal worship is thus made intelligible by the peculiarities of that strange and marvelous country. The ichneumon, for example, kills crocodile eggs, and even the crocodiles themselves. If not for this animal, Diodorus informs his audience, the Nile would become impassable because of the vast number of crocodiles (1.87.4–5). But the Egyptians also worship the crocodiles themselves, because they provide such an effective defense for the country (1.89.1–2).39 Ultimately, Diodorus has put together probably as effective a defense of an unusual custom as would have been possible; Smelik and Hemelrijk say that he “almost overexerts himself” trying to explain it.40 Diodorus does not seem to have been a great admirer of Egyptian theriomorphism, but at the very least he has done his best to ensure that it does not discredit Egypt as the model ancient civilization. Overall, from this limited evidence we can say that even if there was suspicion and hostility to Egyptian religion among the Romans, there was also an interest in the country coupled with awareness of its ancient history and reputation as a source of wisdom.41 The political controversies surrounding Auletes probably spurred further interest in Egypt on the part of the Romans (and as we saw, Diodorus makes a point of distinguishing

39. Diodorus perhaps has in mind Perdiccas’s ill-fated invasion of Egypt, during which a number of his troops were eaten by crocodiles while attempting to cross the Nile (18.35.5–6). 40. Smelik and Hemelrijk (1984) 1900. 41. See also Gruen (2011b) 107–111. 232

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between pharaonic Egypt and the Ptolemaic dynasty). Finally, Caesar’s expedition to Egypt could not help but excite curiosity about the country and its ancient civilization. Diodorus’s promotion of Egypt in particular at the start of the Bibliotheke would, in the context of the mid-â40s, be perfectly acceptable in Rome, just as his promotion of Dionysus as the supreme culture bringer would be. One other possible issue with Egypt needs to be noted. When Caesar returned to Rome, he brought Cleopatra VII, by then his mistress, with him. Dio tells us that Cleopatra’s residence in Rome with Caesar caused something of a scandal (43.27.3), and Cicero wrote to Atticus of his hatred for the queen and her arrogance (Att. 15.15.2 = SB 393), although the precise cause of this outburst is unknown. There is reason to think that this has been greatly exaggerated, although Cleopatra certainly left Rome soon after Caesar’s assassination.42 Even Cicero was displaying a more tolerant attitude to Egypt in works such as De Natura Deorum during that same period, and there is no evidence that Egypt’s reputation was seriously blackened by the presence of a Ptolemaic queen in Caesar’s home.

Diodorus after the Ides of March Following the assassination of Julius Caesar on March 15, 44, the Roman world was plunged into a chaotic and rapidly changing political situation that frequently turned to open warfare between factions and dynasts struggling to obtain power.43 As we saw earlier, the internal evidence of the dates of the Bibliotheke indicates that at least the opening three or six books reached completion within a few years of Caesar’s murder. How feasible would it have been for Diodorus to publish them as they were finished, whether in a group of the first three or the first six? Certainly in the immediate wake of Caesar’s death it is difficult to see how Diodorus could have published anything like the opening books of the Bibliotheke, with their praise of monarchy and deified rulers. Caesar had been murdered as a tyrant and his deification was too much in doubt; his successor as consul in 44, Dolabella, tore down an impromptu altar erected to the fallen dictator in the Forum, to the delight of Cicero (Att. 14.14.4–â5 = SB 368). Cicero’s letters from this period document the rapidly changing situation, and the

42. Williams (2001) 192, Gruen (2011a) 45–â49. 43. Syme (1939) remains the classic narrative of this period. 233

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number of figures, both established and new in politics, struggling to gain the upper hand.44 And for people who were not in the forefront of those struggling for power, this was a time of extreme doubt and fear, as can be seen in the large number of prodigies from the period following Caesar’s death, recorded in sources such as Julius Obsequens and Virgil’s First Georgic (1.463–468).45 The political situation in Italy at least became clearer in November 43, when the young Octavian, Mark Antony, and M. Aemilius Lepidus formed the triumvirate “for the restoration of the Republic” (Lex Titia). However, all three had armies with substantial financial commitments, and so in order to fund them and their future wars the triumvirs embarked on extensive proscriptions, both eliminating enemies and potential enemies and confiscating their property. Perhaps several thousand people in Italy were killed as a result. This was a very chaotic process that could be and was easily abused, fostering a climate of fear and uncertainty in Italy. The example of Cicero, who was proscribed for his attacks on Mark Antony, served as a warning to anyone who would speak too freely against the triumvirs. The historian Asinius Pollio supposedly remarked: “But I keep quiet. It is not easy to write against one who can proscribe you” (At ego taceo. Non est enim facile in eum scribere qui potest proscribere, Macrob. Sat. 2.4.21).46 It is difficult to imagine Diodorus sticking his neck out in anything like this kind of climate, even if his work contained no overt attack on the triumvirs. One side effect of the proscriptions must have been to greatly narrow the available pool of Romans with the wealth and inclination to patronize Greek intellectuals. This might account for the lack of any known connections between Diodorus and specific Romans or intellectual circles. Since Diodorus was in Rome by 45, he might have been cultivating Roman patrons only to lose them during this period. Perhaps Diodorus suffered more directly; it is often assumed that that he was independently well off.47 Such money would have been a tempting target for the triumvirs.

44. Osgood (2006) 28–39. 45. Ibid. 19–25. 46. Ibid. 62–82, with references to earlier scholarship on the proscriptions. Syme (1939) 187–201 captures well the tenor of the period. 47. Green (2006) 240: “Diodorus … probably possessed a fairly substantial private income.” If this was true, it would be remarkable for him to have preserved his wealth throughout the 234

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Matters did not improve in the following years. The triumvirs went on to defeat the assassins of Caesar at Philippi, which was followed by rapid demobilization of their armies. This in turn required a massive settlement program, both in Italy and overseas, for the veterans, causing widespread disruption and hardship for those on the losing end. The Perugine War in Italy between Octavian and Mark Antony’s wife and brother was one result of this. Sextus Pompeius proved a continuous thorn in the side of Octavian, repeatedly disrupting Italy’s food supplies from Sicily and causing much hardship. Proscriptions ended, but overall, as Osgood remarks, “For the men and women of Italy the years after Brundisium were a time of cautious tip-toeing.”48 Roman literature surviving from this period is full of rumination on Rome’s downfall; the monographs of Sallust, with their emphasis on greed, ambition, and moral decay as destroying Rome, stand out in particular, but the early poems of Horace (especially Satire 1) and Virgil (Georgics 2.505–512) reflect this as well.49 Yet the early 30s might have provided Diodorus with the best opportunity to begin publishing the first part of theBibliotheke , as there is a noticeable revival of intellectual activity in Rome and Italy. In the wake of his triumph of 39, Asinius Pollio founded the first public library in Rome in the Hall of Liberty near the Forum, and probably spent a substantial part of the 30s equipping it with Greek and Latin manuscripts. Authors such as Varro, Atticus, Quintus Tubero, and Cornelius Nepos wrote works that celebrated the achievements of past Romans and elevated them to the same level as those of the Greeks. Pollio’s library, with separate sections for both Greek and Latin works, made a similar point: that Rome had arrived on the scene intellectually and could compete with the Greeks.50 When Diodorus comments on the great availability of resources in Rome (1.4.3), he is reflecting this as well. The inconsistent picture of Rome in the Bibliotheke, sometimes favorable as in the proëm, sometimes quite negative, and sometimes mixed but with hope for the future, probably reflects in part the uncertainty and rapidly changing situation in the fifteen years following Caesar’s death.

40s and 30s. Cicero’s friend Atticus was able to do so, but he was an exceptional case—as Syme (1939) 193 says, “his wealth alone should have procured his doom.” 48. Osgood (2006) 207. 49. Ibid. 306–312. 50. Ibid. 294–296. 235

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Other trends in the early 30s point to a favorable time for Diodorus and for the Bibliotheke. Latin literature of this time often referenced themes of decay, moral deterioration, and greed as having driven Rome’s decline, but there was a growing sense of optimism as well. The major source of military action in the west, the fight between Octavian and Sextus Pompeius in Sicily, ended with Octavian’s success in 36. In the wake of his victory, Octavian increasingly promoted himself as the universal ruler guarantee- ing peace and began reshaping his image into that of a true public servant, and not just a warlord, more in line with the characteristics of the ideal ruler that Diodorus promotes.51 This is perhaps best seen in the large-scale public works that Octavian and his supporters were undertaking. Octavian repaired older buildings, such as the Theater of Pompey, and completed earlier projects, such as the Curia Iulia, but he also began his massive construction projects that would, as he famously claimed later, transform Rome from a city of brick into a city of marble during this time. Significantly, Octavian displayed a willingness to undertake beneficial construction projects even at the expense of his own private plans. He had been buying prime property on the Palatine Hill to expand the house of Hortensius, which he had acquired during the proscriptions, but a bolt of lightning struck one of the lots. Taking the divine hint, Octavian donated the property to the public and built a magnificent Temple to Apollo on it, thus showing himself more interested in piety and the public good than in his own private pleasure (and strength- ening his association with the god who was now his neighbor). It is interesting to contrast this with Semiramis’s construction projects, discussed in Chapter 5, which contained implied criticism from Diodorus because she focused on her private luxury first, and on the public good second. Indeed, many of the buildings undertaken by Octavian and his followers were temples, emphasizing his piety, or large-scale public works— precisely the sorts of projects with broad benefits that Diodorus praises in the Bibliotheke. The most important of these by far was Agrippa’s reha- bilitation of Rome’s water supply, begun in 34 with the repair of the Aqua Marcia, and continuing in 33 with repairs to other aqueducts and construction of the new Aqua Iulia.52 It is easy to see Diodorus approving of these works, since many of the biggest benefactions he describes in the

51. Ibid. 324–327. Note also Zanker (1988) 50–77. 52. Osgood (2006) 324–333. 236

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first part of the Bibliotheke revolve around water supplies and irrigation. Even Caesar’s deification was moving forward. As discussed in Chapter 5, Diodorus understood deification as a long process requiring the work of the living. While Octavian had been calling himself Divi Filius and the cult to Caesar was established, it was only around 35 or so that he undertook to construct a temple in the forum by the altar that had been erected on the site of Caesar’s cremation. Coins struck around the same time began advertising the temple even before construction started.53 It is worth noting that there is a single reference in the extant Bibliotheke to this period. Discussing mid-fourth- century Sicilian history, Diodorus describes the foundation of Tauromenium and that “the city had earned well-deserved renown but in the end during our life after Caesar expelled the inhabitants from their country it received a Roman colony” (ἡ δὲ πόλις ἀξιόλογον ἀξίωμα περιποιησαμένη τὸ τελευταῖον ἐν τῷ καθ’ ἡμᾶς βίῳ Καίσαρος ἀναστήσαντος τοὺς Ταυρομενίτας ἐκ τῆς πατρίδος τῶν Ῥωμαίων ἀποικίαν ἐδέξατο, 16.7.1). This apparently took place in 36 and was a punishment for supporting Sextus Pompeius. This is both the latest event referenced in the Bibliotheke and the only reference to Octavian. Other evidence, primarily archaeological, suggests that Sicily suffered quite severely under Octavian, after prospering under Sextus Pompeius and having even received Roman citizenship under Antony.54 That Diodorus would break his narrative to make this point suggests anger at how Octavian treated his homeland of Sicily, in contrast with the principles of clemency Julius Caesar had espoused, despite the blandness of the language. But this disapproval is hardly so pronounced or prominent that it would make Diodorus fearful of publishing the Bibliotheke, as Green argues.55 The final explanation for why Diodorus did not publish does not lie in his approval or disapproval of Octavian or in his depiction of Rome in the later books, but rather in his use of Egypt and Dionysus as his principle exemplars in the opening books. For during this time the rivalry between Octavian and Mark Antony was building, and Octavian was exploiting Antony’s associations with both Egypt and Dionysus in order to destroy

53. Koortbojian (2013) 41–43. 54. On Octavian’s treatment of Sicily, see Stone (1983) 11–22 and Rubincam (1985) 521–522. The evidence for Sicilian enfranchisement is discussed by Sacks (1990) 207–210. 55. Green (2006) 240–241. â 237

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his opponent. Here is why Diodorus failed—âindeed, why he would not have been able—âto publish the Bibliotheke in Rome during the 30s.

Octavian vs. Egypt and Dionysus As part of the agreement between the triumvirs, Antony took charge of the eastern part of the Roman Empire, and when the triumvirate was renewed for five years in 37 the empire again was divided between Antony in the East and Octavian in the west. In many ways the east was a far more desir- able half to control, since it offered the greatest scope for military conquest and glory in the war with the Parthians. It also brought Antony into close contact with Egypt and its queen, Cleopatra VII, with whom he had his famous affair. From a very early point, Antony began to identify himself, or allowed himself to be identified, with Diodorus’s hero Dionysus. Now, for a ruler to identify himself with a god was not particularly radical by the standards of the east, as we saw in Chapter 5—âseveral rulers, including Ptolemy XII, had even taken the name of “Young Dionysus”—âbut for a Roman to so readily embrace the part was certainly new. During the 30s Octavian was able to exploit Antony’s identification with Dionysus to help destroy his credibility in Italy. All the negative characteristics of the god and his cult, the sort of drunken revelries and debaucheries Livy describes in relation to the bacchanalian affair (see above), could be played up. Antony could be portrayed as addicted to sex and eastern luxury. These attacks were highly effective with Romans and Italians, “powerful charges in a society desperate to end civil war.”56 Above all there was the charge of inebriation Cicero had already used to attack Antony as far back as the Philippics. Antony himself felt the need to publish a refutation of this charge, On His Drunkenness (De sua ebrietate), which Zanker suggests may have in part been an encomium to Dionysus.57 In such an environment the positive features of the god, such as Diodorus portrays, would be completely obscured. Antony is first connected to the god by Plutarch when he made his entrance into Ephesus in 41 and was hailed as Dionysus the Beneficent

56. Osgood (2006) 344–â345. 57. Zanker (1988) 60. See also Marasco (1992) and Scott (1929) on the De sua ebrietate. Zanker (1988) 46 discusses the forms these attacks on Antony may have taken in Rome by exploiting the iconography of Dionysus. 238

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Giver of Joy (Ant. 24.3). This took place in a Bacchic procession, with women arrayed like bacchants and men and boys like satyrs and Pan leading the way, waving ivy and thyrsi, the symbols of the god, with musical accompaniment on harps, pipes, and flutes.58 Antony is next attested as taking the role of Dionysus when he returned to the east in 39, and began to encourage people to make the connection. Dio tells us that at Athens at this time Antony did many things contrary to Roman tradition, including “calling himself the young Dionysus and demanding to be so called by others” (Διόνυσον ἑαυτὸν νέον αὐτός τε ἐκάλει καὶ ὑπὸ τῶν ἄλλων ὀνομάζεσθαι ἠξίου, 48.39.2). A fragment of the historian Socrates of Rhodes claims that Antony decorated a theater in Athens with various Dionysiac ornaments, “just as if it were in a Bacchic cave” (ὥσπερ ἐπὶ τῶν Βακχικῶν ἄντρων γίνεται, FGrH 192 F2). Around this same time Asian mints began putting out a series of cistophoric tetradrachms portraying Antony with the obverse side wreathed in ivy, a Dionysiac allusion.59 Antony’s association with Dionysus was eventually complemented by his liaison with Cleopatra to give Octavian yet another line of attack. Thanks to his affair with the Egyptian queen, Antony could be further linked with stereotypes of eastern decadence and also portrayed as emasculated by a foreign queen. The Dionysus connection was even more important now, since he was equated with the Egyptian Osiris. Cassius Dio remarks that Antony maintained his self-control, but finally “he was indulging with Cleopatra and the other Egyptians, until he was altogether corrupted” (τῇ τε Κλεοπάτρᾳ καὶ τοῖς ἄλλοις Αἰγυπτίοις συνετρύφα, μέχρις οὗ παντελῶς κατελύθη, 48.27.2). We have already seen that in the 50s and 40s Egypt did not necessarily have negative connotations for the Romans, but as Williams says, “properly exploited, the latent uncertainty in many Roman minds about the propriety of Egyptian rites could potentially redound to Antony’s considerable discredit.”60 Thus the stereotype of eastern dissolution that Diodorus tried so hard to separate from Egypt now became a major part of Octavian’s propaganda war against Mark Antony.61 Antony’s

58. Only Plutarch connects Antony to Dionysus this early, and Pelling (1988) 179 expresses skepticism that it was as important as the biographer indicates. 59. Williams (2001) 193, Pelling (1988) 208–209. 60. Williams (2001) 194–195. 61. See generally Huzar (1978) 188–202 and Williams (2001) 190–199. 239

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absence from Rome only added to this, since Octavian could portray him as “going native” and under the thumb of a foreign queen. Antony himself does not seem to have realized how damaging his actions could be to his image in Rome. Following his Armenian campaign in 34, he even celebrated what Plutarch calls a triumph in Alexandria (ἐθριάμβευσεν, Ant. 50.6), but it was probably a large Dionysiac procession. Either way, it provided fodder for Octavian’s propaganda; now Antony was both debasing a hallowed Roman tradition and performing it in a foreign country to boot!62 Velleius Paterculus probably refers to this when he explains that Antony “had ordered himself to be hailed as Father Liber, and at Alexandria went about in a chariot with an ivy wreath around his head, wrapped in a gold cloak, holding a thyrsus [the wand wreathed in ivy carried by followers of Dionysus], and wearing cothurnae [boots of Dionysus] (se Liberum Patrem appellari iussisset, cum redimitus hederis crocotaque velatus aurea et thyrsum tenens cothurnisque succinctus curru velut Liber Pater vectus esset Alexandriae, 2.82.4).63 To the Romans, it seemed as though Antony was giving their victories to the Egyptians (Plut. Ant. 50). Antony did further damage in the same year with the “Donation of Alexandria” when he gave eastern kingdoms to Cleopatra and his children by her. When Octavian got hold of Antony’s will and had it read, revealing his huge bequests to his children by Cleopatra and the request to be buried in Alexandria, it was only the climax of this propaganda campaign.64 At the final declaration of war, Cassius Dio enumerates the reasons the Romans turned against Antony, focusing on his subordination to Cleopatra. The final straw, according to Dio, was the report that Antony and Cleopatra were posing for statues and portraits as Osiris or Dionysus and Isis or Selene, “which more than anything made him seem delusional and bewitched by some magic of hers” (ἐξ οὗπερ καὶ τὰ μάλιστα ἔκφρων ὑπ’ αὐτῆς ἐκ μαγγανείας τινὸς γεγονέναι ἔδοξεν, 50.5.3).65 Antony’s association with Cleopatra not only had more than a whiff of eastern decadence about it, it also enabled Octavian to portray the fight against Antony as a war against a foreign power, and not a renewed civil war. The Egyptian people were similarly dehumanized as part of this

62. Pelling (1988) 241. 63. See Woodman (1983) 211–215. 64. Osgood (2006) 353–354. 65. Note also Reinhold (1988) 95–96. 240

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propaganda campaign; Osgood likens it to the portrayal of the Japanese as various animals in American propaganda during the Second World War. This was all the more necessary for Octavian, since so many of Antony’s advisors and troops were in fact Roman. In a speech of Octavian that is probably based on propaganda of the time (Dio Cass. 50.24–30), the future Augustus rhetorically asks the Roman army if, after all they had accomplished, they should endure Alexandrians and Egyptians as masters (“for what else could you call them that would be truer or worse?” τί γὰρ ἂν ἄλλο τις αὐτοὺς χεῖρον ἢ ἀληθέστερον εἰπεῖν ἔχοι;), who worship animals as gods, embalm their bodies, and worst of all follow a woman. Antony, bewitched by Cleopatra, is no longer a Roman but an Egyptian. Octavian lists all the ways in which Antony has betrayed his country and gods by following Cleopatra, concluding “and finally he has also named himself Osiris and Dionysus” (καὶ τὸ τελευταῖον καὶ ἑαυτὸν Ὄσιριν καὶ Διόνυσον ἐπικεκληκότα, 50.25.4). For Octavian’s war against Antony, both Dionysus and Egypt had to be destroyed.66 Afterward, Octavian exploited the conquest for all it was worth, as the large issues of coinage marked “Aegypta Capta” demonstrate. Egypt was reduced to a spoil of war, not a source of ancient wisdom.67 Sources such as Dio and Plutarch are of course much later, but we can see in Augustan poetry how effectively Octavian exploited these stereotypes of Egyptian decadence, and how they persisted after Actium. Horace, in the ninth epode, written very soon after the battle, is horrified that “a Roman, alas—you will deny it in the future—bears a post and arms, yet enslaved to a woman, and, a soldier no less, is able to serve wrinkled eunuchs, and among military standards the sun gazes on a filthy canopy” (Romanus, eheu, —postero negabitis—emancipatus feminae fert vallum et arma miles et spadonibus servire rugosis potest, interque signa turpe militaria sol aspicit conopium, 9.11–16). A few years later, in the Odes Horace is similarly critical of Cleopatra, and by extension Egypt. Cleopatra, unnamed, is a fatale monstrum, a “queen preparing mad destruction for the Capitoline and for the empire with a troop of base vice-ridden men, a woman out of control, drunk with sweet fortune, hoping for anything” (Capitolio regina dementis ruinas funus et imperio parabat contami- nato cum grege turpium morbo virorum, quidlibet impotens sperare

66. Osgood (2006) 354–356. 67. Williams (2001) 197–199. 241

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fortunaque dulci ebria, 1.37.6–12). This invective is tempered in the second half of the poem, when Cleopatra’s noble death is described. Notably, Horace points to Cleopatra’s inebriation with fortune, surely an allusion to Octavian’s attacks on Antony’s drunkenness.68 Virgil, if anything, embraces this propaganda even more bluntly. In the Aeneid, written in the decade after Actium, he depicts the battle at the culmination of the Shield of Aeneas very much as an epic clash of Roman versus Egyptian civilizations: “On the other side is Antony with barbaric wealth and a diversity of arms, conqueror of the peoples of the east and the Red Sea, bringing Egypt and eastern might and furthest Bactria with him, and following—the horror!—an Egyptian wife” (hinc ope barbarica vari- isque Antonius armis, victor ab Aurorae populis et litore rubro, Aegyptum virisque Orientis et ultima secum Bactra vehit, sequiturque (nefas) Aegyptia coniunx, 8.685–688). Virgil portrays this as a clash of religions as well—“and monstrous gods of every shape and barking Anubis bear arms against Neptune and Venus and Minerva” (omnigenumque deum mon- stra et latrator Anubis contra Neptunum et Venerem contraque Minervam tela tenent, 8.698–700). He combines contempt for Antony, contempt for a foreign woman, contempt for the east in general, and contempt for Egyptian religion in a single passage.69 The clash of east and west occurs again at Aeneid 12.458–461, where Thymbraeus, a Trojan, slays an Italian with the improbable name of Osiris. The sudden occurrence of the name of an Egyptian god for an Italian war- rior, mentioned nowhere else in the poem, has caused some confusion. But, as J. Reed has argued, “this is a battle of the 30s B.C.E., not of the heroic age.” Thymbraeus, Osiris’s slayer, is mentioned only here in the Aeneid, but a character of the same name occurs in the Iliad. There he is also mentioned once, at 11.320–321, as a victim for the Greek Diomedes. This gives Thymbraeus a Trojan connection, reinforced by the river of the Troad called Thymbris. However, the name also recalls Thybris, the alternate appellation of the Tiber that Virgil uses. Thymbraeus thus has both a Trojan and a Latin connection, just as the future Romans will. By giving his opponent an Egyptian name, and not just any Egyptian name but that of the god identified with Octavian’s foe Antony, Virgil makes this a battle between the Roman and the quintessential anti-Roman of Augustan

68. Osgood (2006) 356–357, Maehler (2003) 206–208, Pelling (2001) 294–295. 69. Maehler (2003) 208–209, Pelling (2001) 295–296. 242

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propaganda.70 Even in the roughly contemporaneous elegies of Propertius this anti-âEgyptian theme breaks through, most prominently in 3.11, where he heaps abuse on an unnamed Cleopatra. The specter of Egyptian worship of animals looms large here as well: Cleopatra “dared to oppose our Jupiter with barking Anubis” (ausa Iovi nostro latrantem opponere Anubium, 3.11.41).71 This negative vision of Egypt would persist in Roman culture long after Actium; the Nilotic scenes preserved from the decades following the battle parody and mock Egyptian culture, in contrast with the famous mosaic at Praeneste.72 “Egypt became synonymous with moral depravity and licentiousness: the cities of Alexandria and Canopus continued to represent the symbols of luxury and excess,” even as the Romans had a perverse fascination, bordering perhaps on “Egyptomania,” for Egyptian culture and art, and the cult of Isis maintained and even expanded its popularity.73 With the passage of time, these feelings toward Egypt faded somewhat; in the Res Gestae, written more than forty years later, Egypt is just one province among many conquered by Augustus, although the negative stereotypes remained.74 Dionysus perhaps recovered his reputation more quickly; Virgil in the Aeneid has Augustus surpass the achievements of both Heracles and Dionysus (6.801–â805) in the manner of Alexander the Great.75

A Thwarted Intellectual Let us step back and consider what this suggests about Diodorus and the composition and publication of the Bibliotheke. He presumably did much of the original research for the Bibliotheke in Alexandria from 60 onward, perhaps making other trips in the eastern world during this period. By 46 he was in Rome, with Julius Caesar at the height of his success. At this point Diodorus was early enough in the composition of the Bibliotheke to

70. Reed (1989) 399–â404. 71. Maehler (2003) 209–â210. 72. Walker (2003) 191–â202. 73. Rosati (2009) 284–â287. 74. The supreme negative example is Juvenal 15. 75. Bosworth (1999) 2–â4. 243

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insert the reference to the calendar into Book 1, and at this point he probably made the decision to bring his history down to 46 as a terminal point. By the time of Caesar’s death, most of Books 1–3 were nearly complete, as shown by the references to Caesar’s campaigns and the importance of ruler cult. But as the references to a deified Caesar in Books 4 and 5 show, Diodorus still hoped to engage with the intellectual debates of the late 40s—perhaps assuming that things would calm down quickly in Rome. However, Diodorus soon found a rapidly changing and uncertain political situation, where a wrong move could easily translate to death in the proscriptions. This was not a favorable time to begin publishing the Bibliotheke, so presumably he continued writing, perhaps presenting selected parts to people in his immediate circle. This was likely the point at which he decided to omit Caesar’s career from the Bibliotheke, deem- phasizing the original hexadic nature at the same time. Perhaps the Celtic ethnography was inserted into Book 5, maybe originally for a recitation, around this time as well, and remained despite the incongruity with the “Island Book.” As the 30s progressed the mood in Rome improved, and perhaps Diodorus prepared to start publishing the Bibliotheke again. In Book 40 he notes that certain of his books were pirated before he had given his final seal of approval (40.8). It seems likely that these would have been the earliest books, suggesting they were close to publication well before the rest of the Bibliotheke was finished. Perhaps he was on the verge of publishing and pulled them back when he realized how strongly the mood was turning against both Dionysus and Egypt, but some copies slipped through anyway. In any case, Octavian’s propaganda war against Antony began to heat up, perhaps as early as 39, when Antony is first securely attested as identifying with Dionysus, and it became more and more problematic for Diodorus to publish the Bibliotheke. The emphasis on Egypt and Dionysus would have put him squarely into Mark Antony’s corner. Would Diodorus have wanted to be identified as a supporter of Antony? If nothing else, Antony had arranged for full Roman citizenship for Sicily in the wake of Caesar’s death.76 Certainly Antony maintained a strong base of support and many allies in Rome right up to the declaration of war— perhaps three hundred senators left Italy to join him.77 There must have

76. Sacks (1990) 207–210. 77. Osgood (2006) 353. 244

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been pushback from them against Octavian, defending Antony’s associations with Egypt and Dionysus. One of the problems with reconstructing the history of this period is that almost all our evidence is from Augustan sources, and so it is impossible to see how well Diodorus’s portrayal of Egypt and Dionysus in the first part of the Bibliotheke might have fit in with Antony’s own propaganda and counterpropaganda against Octavian. Perhaps Diodorus did see himself as a supporter of Antony. Conversely, the surviving books give no sign whatsoever of support for Antony, and the praise of Rome, not Alexandria, in the proëm suggests that Diodorus was not seduced by Antony’s eastern monarchy. Perhaps Antony’s embrace of the more licentious elements of Dionysus—the drinking, the debauchery—along with the overall air of eastern decadence surrounding his court offended Diodorus as well. Or perhaps Diodorus did not feel confident enough in his own position to commit definitely to Antony. As Green puts it, “Diodorus, like so many others, would still, right up to the end, have been hedging his bets between Octavian and Antony.”78 Some incongruities in the opening books of the Bibliotheke may be directly attributable to Diodorus’s struggle to avoid contemporary problems, or to try to play to both sides. In Book 3, as we saw in my Chapter 5, Diodorus includes a long Euhemeristic account of the Libyan Dionysus, drawn from Dionysius Scytobrachion. However, he prefaces this with an overview of Greek accounts of the god (3.62–66.3) that does not appear to be from Dionysius and that awkwardly breaks up the larger Libyan/Atlantian narrative.79 This section gives an allegorical explanation of Dionysus, along with descriptions of three separate figures called Dionysus, each a culture bringer deified for his contributions to mankind. But then in Book 4, which is devoted to Greek myths, Diodorus returns to Dionysus. After acknowledging that he has already discussed barbarian views of the god, including those of the Egyptians and the Indians, he declares that now he will discuss what the Greeks say about the god. He goes on to give a rather traditional account of Semele’s impregnation by Zeus and her subsequent demise when Zeus revealed himself in all his divine glory to her, although Diodorus omits the part about Zeus raising the baby in his thigh. The

78. Green (2006) 239. 79. Diodorus ends his account of the Libyan Dionysus with brief descriptions of two more Dionysuses (3.74). This redundancy with the Dionysuses in 3.62–66 further highlights how incongruous that section is with the rest of the book. 245

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basic narrative of Dionysus discovering wine and traveling the world is present, albeit in far less detail than the earlier accounts (4.2–3). Diodorus also makes a point of briefly describing current worship of Dionysus in many Greek cities. Every other year it is lawful (νόμινον) for maidens to carry the thyrsus and feel the inspiration of the god (συνενθουσιάζειν) and cry “Euai” while worshipping the god. Older women in groups sacrifice, honor Dionysus with hymns, and celebrate his mysteries. Diodorus emphasizes the ordered, controlled nature of these rites and their infrequency and that it is not some wild, out-of-control cult (4.3.3). He concludes this section with the statement that “generally the myths say that of the gods Dionysus and Demeter, because they excel in benefactions from their discovery of good things, receive the greatest favor from mankind” (καθόλου δὲ μυθολογοῦσι τῶν θεῶν μεγίστης ἀποδοχῆς τυγχάνειν παρ’ ἀνθρώποις τοὺς ταῖς εὐεργεσίαις ὑπερβαλομένους κατὰ τὴν εὕρεσιν τῶν ἀγαθῶν Διόνυσόν τε καὶ Δήμητραν, 4.3.5). This praise is quite muted compared to the Euhemeristic Dionysus of the earlier books. Diodorus does acknowledge that some authors claim there was an earlier Dionysus born of Zeus and Persephone, and that these authors claim the later son of Semele was “effeminate in physique and wholly delicate” (τῷ σώματι γενέσθαι τρυφερὸν καὶ παντελῶς ἁπαλόν) and “prone to the pleasures of love” (πρὸς τὰς ἀφροδισιακὰς ἡδονὰς εὐκατάφορον, 4.4.2). This Dionysus undertook his campaigns accompanied by bands of women, but when he was at peace he wore “flowery and luxuriously delicate clothes” (ἐσθῆσιν ἀνθειναῖς καὶ κατὰ τὴν μαλακότητα τρυφεραῖς, 4.4.4). He also introduced the band worn around the head, the mitra, as a cure for hangover headaches, and from this in later times derived the diadem of kings (4.4.4). Finally, the narthex is associated with Dionysus because his followers, drinking unmixed wine, became drunk and harmed each other with wooden staffs, and so Dionysus replaced them with the narthex to avoid such injuries. Diodorus goes on to note the origins of some of the various epithets attached to Dionysus, and his importance in encourag- ing music. But it is striking how different in tone this passage is from the accounts of the god in Books 1–3. Gone is Dionysus the culture bringer, deified for his contribution to mankind. Diodorus spends far less time on Dionysus in 4, a mere four chapters, than he did in the earlier books. The contrasting descriptions of Dionysus in Books 3 and 4 clearly have different purposes. The first passage glorifies Dionysus as the supreme culture bringer, while the second attempts to explain his cult and is more open to acknowledging some of the darker aspects of it, at least with some 246

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variants of the god. I suspect that Diodorus originally planned much of the material on the Greek Dionysuses that appears in Book 3 to originally go into Book 4, but as Dionysus became a more and more problematic figure he opted to write a new section, and to preserve his older material he relocated it. This would enable him to circulate or recite Book 4 more widely without fear of crossing the wrong people. Perhaps Diodorus could then continue to present Books 1–3, with their Euhemeristic Dionysuses and praise of Egypt, to close friends and intimates, or to supporters of Mark Antony. It is striking that the two sections in the first five books that are most incongruous with Diodorus’s stated plans, the passage in Book 3 and the Celtic ethnography in Book 5, can both be tied into contemporary Roman politics. This bowing to contemporary politics as far as Dionysus is concerned may also be visible in the proëm. When Diodorus explains that it is important for men to receive immortal honors for their mortal labors, the example he gives is not Dionysus, but Heracles. Both are important as culture bringers, but Dionysus is far more prominent in the Bibliotheke. However, Heracles is a much safer choice; although Mark Antony claimed to be descended from a son of Heracles (Plut. Ant. 4), he did not as seriously identify himself with him as he did with Dionysus once he was in the east.80 And unlike Dionysus, there was a strong tradition of Heracles passing through Italy and benefiting the native Italians by defeating the villainous Cacus, for which the Italians offered the first sacrifices to him (Livy 1.7.3–12, Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 1.39–44). By giving the example of Heracles, Diodorus could continue to use the proëm to introduce recitations from the Bibliotheke, as suggested above, without fear of crossing anyone. But he embarked on no wholesale revision of Books 1–3; perhaps Diodorus hoped for a better time to publish if Antony won, or perhaps the Bibliotheke was not his top priority by the late 30s. Or perhaps he was too true to his values, and his belief in Egypt as the greatest civilization and Dionysus as the greatest culture bringer, to compromise them any more than he had to, even if it meant continuing to hold back the Bibliotheke as a whole. Perhaps, as Green suggests, he did not actually live to see it published. This attempted reconstruction of Diodorus in Rome is of necessity speculative, but it fits what we know of the period and how the content of

80. Zanker (1988) 45–46. 247

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the Bibliotheke fits into it. In particular, it explains not only why Diodorus apparently never published the Bibliotheke as a whole, but also some of the major incongruities in the first five books as he continued to present portions to audiences, and perhaps continued trying to develop a reputation or patronage for the day when the political situation became better. Like so many others, Diodorus was caught in a chaotic and turbulent period, and if the failure or inability to complete and publish the Bibliotheke was the worst that he endured, he could count himself fortunate. 248 249

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Ambaglio, D, F. Landucci, and L. Bravi. (2008). Diodoro Siculo. Biblioteca Storica. Commento storico: Introduzione generale. Milan: Vita e Pensiero. Bommelaer, B., ed. (2002). Diodore de Sicile: Bibliothèque Historique, Livre III. Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Boncquet, J. (1987). Diodorus Siculus (II, 1–34) over Mesopotamië: een historische kom- mentaar. Verhandelingen van de Koninklijke Academie voor Wetenschappen, Letteren en Schone Kunsten van België, Klasse der Letteren; 122. Burton, A. (1972). Diodorus Siculus, Book I: A Commentary. Leiden: Brill. Casevitz, M., ed. (1972). Diodore de Sicile. Bibliothèque Historique, Livre XII. Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Chamoux, F., P. Bertrac, and Y. Vernière, eds. (1993). Diodore de Sicile. Bibliothèque Historique, Livre I. Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Cohen-Skalli, A., ed. (2012). Diodore de Sicile: Bibliothèque historique: Fragments, Tome I: Livres VI–X. Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Eck, B., ed. (2003). Diodore de Sicile: Bibliothèque Historique, Livre II. Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Eyring, N. (1793–1807). Diodori Siculi Bibliothecae Historicae Libri Qui Supersunt, e recensione Petri Wesselingii cum interpretatione Latinia Laur. Rhodamni atque annotationibus variorum integris indicibusque locupletissimis. Amsterdam: Ex Topographia Societatis. Green, P. (2006). Diodorus Siculus Books 11–12.37.1: Greek History, 480–431 BC—the Alternative Version. Austin: University of Texas Press. Murphy, E. (1989). The Antiquities of Asia: A Translation with Notes of Book II of the Library of History of Diodorus Siculus. New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction. Oldfather, C. H., et al. (1933–1967). Diodorus Siculus: Library of History. 12 vols. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. 250

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Index Locorum

Aelian Preface Varia Historia 34–35: 39, 42 11.19: 146 Punica Aelius Aristides 132: 38 Panathenaicus Apuleius 183–184: 39–40 Metamorphosis Aemilius Sura (FRHist 103) 11.1, 24: 22n80 F1: 37–38 Aristodemus (FGrH 104) Aeschylus F1.16.1: 81 Prometheus Vinctus Aristotle 436–506: 60 Politica Agatharchides 7.1334a–b: 85n42 On the Red Sea Arrian 32: 76 Anabasis 37: 75 4.10.6–7: 145 41: 77 6.24: 171 42: 77 Indica 48: 78 7.3–4: 73–74 52: 79 Athenaeus Anaximenes (FGrH 72) 6.63: 147 T6: 97 12.38: 208 T13a: 99 Augustine T14: 97 De civitate Dei F2: 97, 98 1.30: 85 F3: 97 Appian Caesar Bellum Civile Bellum Civile 2.154: 10 1.23: 13 5.109: 4, 219 270

270 Index Locorum

Callimachus Pro Caelio Iambics 29: 196n18 1.10–11: 114 Consolatio Cassius Dio Fr. 14: 180 9.30: 85n41 Pro rege Deiotaro 40.47.4: 226 26: 193 43.26.2: 10 Ad familiares 43.27.3: 232 3.7 = SB 71: 174 47.15.4: 226 De finibus 48.27.2: 238 3.66: 179 48.39.2: 238 5.87: 227–228 49.12.5: 219 De lege agraria 50.5.3: 239 2.33–35: 211–212 50.24–30: 240 Pro lege Manilia Cassius Hemina, L. (FRHist 6) 10: 176 F1–3: 174 33: 176 Catullus 36: 176 74.4: 225 40: 176 102.4: 225 De Legibus Censorinus (citing Varro) 1.5: 8n23, 96 De die natali 2.19: 178–179, 225 20.8–11: 10n33 2.27: 179 21.1: 129 Pro Marcello Cicero 1.1: 183 Pro Archia 8: 183–184 24: 7 De natura deorum Ad Atticum 1.43: 228 2.1.1–2 = SB 21: 5 1.101: 228, 230 2.5 = SB 25: 7 1.119: 180 2.5.1 = SB 25: 227 2.62: 180, 225 5.11.3 = SB 104: 7 2.63–69: 110n63 5.21 = SB 114: 173 3.41–62: 180 8.12.5 = SB 162: 7 3.47–49: 228 8.16.1–2 = SB 166: 183 3.49: 175 8.16.2 = SB 166: 13 3.58: 154n46 9.11.4 = SB 178: 7 3.95: 179 10.8.2 = SB 99: 11, 211 De Officiis 12.18.1 = SB 254: 181 2.26–29: 209 12.36.1 = SB 275: 181 Orator ad M. Brutum 14.14.4–5 = SB 368: 232 120: 8n23 14.17 = SB 371: 222n20 Philippics 15.15.2 = SB 393: 232 1.13: 185 271

Index Locorum 271

2.34: 212 1.3.2: 89 2.110–111: 185 1.3.3: 171n75 13.41: 185 1.4–5: 8 Pro Plancio 1.4.1: 217 90: 176 1.4.3: 4–5, 215–216, 234 Ad Quintum fratrum 1.4.4: 3, 5 1.1.26 = SB 1: 173 1.4.6: 4, 31, 118–119, 121n83, 171n75, 222 2.10.3 = SB 14: 218 1.4.7: 186, 188, 220, 222 Pro Rabirio Postumo 1.5: 30 35: 227 1.5.1: 31, 101, 118, 220, 222 42: 176 1.6.3–1.9: 57 Republic 1.6.3–7.7: 58 1.16: 227 1.7: 22, 136 1.43–44: 211 1.7.3–6: 58 1.54: 212 1.8: 22, 72, 135–136, 142–143 1.61–63: 212–213 1.8.1: 60, 63–64, 66–67 1.64: 177 1.8.2: 60, 64–65, 67, 68, 73, 78, 140 1.65: 213 1.8.3: 65–66 1.70: 199–201 1.8.3–4: 60, 67 2.4: 177, 178 1.8.4: 66 2.10: 177 1.8.5: 73 2.17: 177 1.8.5–6: 66–67 2.18: 178 1.8.7: 67, 68, 71 2.47–48: 213 1.8.8: 67, 74, 137 2.52: 210 1.8.9: 60, 68, 71, 73, 78, 79 3.14: 227, 228 1.9.1: 27 5.1: 177 1.9.1–4: 119–121 6.13: 177–178 1.9.6: 106 Tusculanae disputationes 1.10.5: 58 5.78: 228–229 1.10.7: 58–59 In Verrem 1.11.4: 229 2.3.76: 211 1.12.1: 110 Ctesias (FGrH 688) 1.12.9: 229 F1n: 208 1.12.10: 109, 110 F1oα: 208 1.13.1: 113, 134, 149–150 Curtius Rufus 1.13.3: 70, 138, 150 8.5.11: 145–146 1.14: 143 1.14.1: 70, 139, 187 Diodorus Siculus 1.14.3: 140 1.2.1: 7, 105, 148–149 1.15.3: 142 1.2.3: 149 1.15.4–5: 70, 141 1.2.4: 105, 149, 163n57, 167 1.16.1: 70 272

272 Index Locorum

Diodorus Siculus (Cont.) 1.51.1: 198 1.17.1–2: 160 1.51.7: 79 1.17.2: 150 1.53–57: 159–161 1.18–20: 35 1.53.1: 198 1.18.1: 229 1.53.5–6: 35 1.19.3: 109 1.53.6–7: 159–160 1.20.2: 33, 160 1.54.2: 11 1.20.5: 167 1.54.2–3: 160 1.20.5–6: 150 1.55.1–2: 160 1.21.6: 151 1.55.1–8: 35 1.21.11: 229, 230 1.55.3: 171 1.22.2: 151 1.55.6: 160 1.22.6: 167 1.55.7: 34 1.23.8: 124 1.55.10: 12 1.25.1: 121 1.55.12: 160 1.26.1: 171n75 1.56.1: 160 1.27.3: 34 1.56.3: 12, 160 1.30–41: 122 1.56.4: 12 1.32.4: 33 1.57.1–3: 160 1.33.3: 35, 53 1.57.5: 160 1.33.4: 33 1.60.1: 198–199 1.33.11: 79 1.60.9: 72 1.34.11: 70 1.64: 204 1.35: 53 1.65.1–2: 199 1.39.13: 47 1.68.6: 199 1.40.5: 47 1.69–76: 198–204 1.43: 71–72, 143 1.69.2: 214 1.43.5: 143 1.69.5–6: 198 1.44.1: 3, 165–166, 217 1.70.1: 200 1.44.2–4: 122 1.70.2: 201 1.44.4: 4 1.70.3: 201 1.45–68: 106 1.70.4: 201–202 1.45: 197 1.70.5: 200 1.45.2: 34 1.70.7: 200–201 1.45.3: 197 1.70.9: 202 1.45.4: 198 1.70.11–12: 23 1.46.7: 23, 198 1.70.12: 202 1.49.1: 3, 217 1.71.1: 202–203 1.49.5: 9 1.71.3: 203 1.50.2: 9 1.71.4: 203 1.50.3: 198 1.72: 203 1.50.6: 171n75 1.75.2: 204 273

Index Locorum 273

1.76: 204, 216 2.17.3: 53n57 1.81.1: 34 2.20.1: 163 1.83–90: 229–313 2.20.2: 106, 163 1.83.8: 3, 217, 230 2.20.3: 123 1.84.8: 171n75 2.20.5: 123 1.86.2–5: 230 2.21.2–3: 206 1.87.1–2: 230 2.21.6–7: 206–207, 209 1.87.4–5: 231 2.21.8: 44, 207 1.88.2: 231 2.22: 119 1.89.1–2: 231 2.22.1: 123, 207 1.89.2: 33 2.22.5: 123 1.90.1–2: 72–73, 230–231 2.23.1–2: 207 1.90.2–3: 161 2.23.4: 207 1.94.2: 163n57 2.24.3–6: 44 1.95.5: 169 2.24.4: 208 1.95.6: 205 2.24.8: 44 1.96–7: 214 2.28.4–6: 12–13 2.1–34: 23 2.28.8: 45 2.1.1–2: 29 2.29–31: 45 2.1.3: 46 2.29.5–6: 216n1 2.1.4: 122 2.31.1–2: 45 2.2.1: 44 2.31.2: 171n75 2.2.2: 123 2.31.9: 171n75 2.2.3: 44 2.32–34: 35 2.3.2: 23 2.32.3: 45 2.4.3: 106 2.33.6: 45 2.5: 106 2.34: 32 2.5.7: 53n57 2.34.3–5: 45 2.7–9: 35 2.34.6: 44, 45 2.7–20: 161–164 2.35–41: 24, 35 bis 2.7.2–2.11: 161 2.35.1: 32 2.10: 161 2.36: 53 2.13.1: 162 2.37.3: 171n75 2.13.3–4: 162 2.38: 154n47 2.13.5: 162 2.38.2: 73, 78, 139 2.13.6–8: 162 2.38.3: 107 2.14.1–2: 162 2.38.5: 139, 140, 143, 152 2.14.3: 33, 162–163 2.39.4: 152 2.14.3–4: 35 2.39.5: 12 2.16–19: 44, 162 2.43.2: 35 2.16.1: 33, 162 2.43.3: 107 2.16.4: 162 2.43.5: 32 274

274 Index Locorum

Diodorus Siculus (Cont.) 3.38.2–3: 52–53, 187, 220–221 2.44.1–2: 107 3.47.9: 171n75 2.45: 107 3.48.4: 25 2.47: 24 3.49.2: 33 2.47.1: 107 3.52.2: 107 2.48–49: 53 3.52.3: 25 2.48–54: 35 3.53.4: 107 2.48.2: 33 3.54.1: 164 2.51.3: 59 3.54.4: 164 2.51.3–4: 34 3.55.3: 164–165 2.52.4: 59 3.55.4–5: 164 2.53.1–4: 34 3.55.6: 164 2.55–60: 24, 51 3.55.8: 164 3.1.1–2: 29 3.55.9: 107 3.2.1: 59 3.55.10–11: 33, 164 3.3.4: 35 3.55.11: 107 3.3.5: 34 3.56–74: 144 3.4: 34 3.56.1: 152 3.8.2–3: 74 3.56.3: 107, 139, 140, 152–153 3.8.6: 74 3.56.5: 153 3.10: 53 3.57.2: 156 3.11.2: 25, 47 3.61.1: 156 3.14: 35, 53 3.61.6: 153, 156 3.15–48: 25, 144 3.62–66.3: 25, 153, 244 3.15.2: 75 3.62.1: 154, 157 3.15.3: 76 3.62.3: 111 3.15.7: 76, 78 3.62.5: 111 3.16.4: 76 3.63.2–4: 139 3.16.7: 75 3.63.4: 154 3.17.1: 75 3.64.1–2: 154 3.17.3: 75 3.64.2: 139, 167 3.18.4: 25 3.65.1: 154 3.18.6: 77 3.65.5: 33 3.18.7: 77 3.66.1–3: 154 3.19.1–2: 78 3.66.5–74: 25 3.21.5: 78 3.67: 152, 156 3.23: 33 3.68.1: 156 3.25: 78–79 3.70.8: 139, 154 3.35–36: 33–34 3.71.1: 156 3.36.1: 107–108 3.71.5: 155 3.37.9: 108 3.72.1: 155 3.38: 53n57 3.72.6: 156 3.38.1: 48 3.73.1–3: 155 275

Index Locorum 275

3.73.4: 35 5.24.1: 55 3.73.5: 155, 188–189 5.25.4: 187, 188 3.73.6: 35, 157 5.31.5: 186–187 3.73.7: 35 5.32.3: 187 3.73.8: 155, 156 5.32.4–5: 187 3.74: 157, 244n79 5.64–77: 158 4.1.1: 104, 105, 121n83 5.64.2: 158 4.1.2: 89, 99 5.66.3–6: 158 4.1.3: 93 5.66.4: 140 4.1.4: 103–104, 167 5.71–72.5: 158 4.1.5: 29, 107 6.1.1: 112 4.2–3: 244–245 6.1.2: 111, 113, 114, 134 4.2–6: 223 6.1.3: 112, 158 4.3.3: 245 6.1.8: 112n66 4.3.4: 33 6.1.10–11: 114 4.3.5: 245 6.1.11: 58 4.4.2: 245 7.1: 123 4.4.4: 245 7.2: 123–124 4.7.4: 163n57 7.5.2: 170 4.8–39: 157–158 7.5.8: 170 4.8.4: 105 9.9: 216n1 4.8.5: 105 10.7.3: 216n1 4.15.4: 171n75 11.37.6: 98 4.17.3: 157 11.38.5: 168 4.17.4: 157 11.60.6–61.5: 16–17 4.18: 165 11.66.4: 168 4.19.1: 157 12.26.1: 4, 218 4.19.2: 186 12.38–41.1: 80 4.19.3: 186, 188 12.53.4: 216n1 4.26.2: 107 13.35.2: 168 4.43: 104 13.35.3: 219 4.44.5–6: 105–106, 107, 121 13.84: 29 4.53.7: 124, 127, 157 15.89.3: 97 4.61: 104 16.14.1: 219 4.68: 104 16.20.6: 168 4.69: 104 16.65.6: 219 4.72: 104 16.70.4–6: 219 4.80: 104 16.71: 4, 218–219, 236 4.85: 104 16.76: 29 5.1.4: 55 17.1: 31 5.2.1: 55 17.85.2: 171n76 5.21.2: 187, 188, 220–221 17.102.4: 172 5.22.1: 220–221 17.115.6: 168 276

276 Index Locorum

Diodorus Siculus (Cont.) 1.77.3: 127–128 18.28.4: 172 2.18.3: 128 18.42.1: 82 2.20.1–2: 128 18.42.2: 82 De Isaeo 18.42.3: 83 19: 99 18.60: 82 Dionysius Scytobrachion (FGrH 32) 20.100.3: 168 F7–8: 152 20.102.3: 168 Duris (FGrH 76) 29.18: 169 F71: 145 31.6: 83–84 32.27.3: 187–188, 189 Ephorus (FGrH 70) 34/35.6: 5 T7: 97–98 34/35.33.5–6: 84 T8: 93 36.12: 205 T11: 55 36.15: 205 T12: 46 37.1.1: 195 F9: 94 37.2.1: 209 F13: 95 37.3: 194–195, 209 F17: 95 37.3.1: 199 F18a: 95 37.3.4: 207n32 F30: 47 37.3.5: 197, 202, 213 F31b: 94, 95–96 37.4: 193–194 F42: 46 37.5.1: 194 F191: 16–17 37.5.2: 202 F196: 80–81 37.6: 169, 194n14 F223: 94 37.8.1: 194 Eratosthenes 37.8.4: 194, 202 Chronography 37.26: 169–170 F1b: 100–101 40.3: 54–55 Geography 40.4: 175 F47 = III A2: 48 40.8: 243 F66 = III B2, B5: 48 Diogenes Laertius F110 = III B68: 48 1.10.11: 22 Euripides Dionysius of Halicarnassus Fr. 715: 68 Antiquitates Romanae Supplices 1.2–3.5: 39 201–215: 60 1.2.1: 42 1.27.1: 126 Florus 1.39–44: 246 1.31.5: 85n41 1.39.1: 126 1.41.1: 126–127 Hecataeus of Abdera (FGrH 264) 1.77.2: 127 F1: 22 277

Index Locorum 277

F5: 22–23 Isocrates F6: 54–55 Panegyricus F25: 16n52, 19n66 151: 144–145 Hecataeus of Miletus (FGrH 1) Livy F1: 91 Pref. 6: 130 F17: 91 Pref. 7: 130 F27: 91 Pref. 9: 196–197 Herodotus Pref. 10: 130 1.5: 91 Pref. 11: 196 1.95.2: 36 Pref. 12: 196 1.102.2: 36 1.1.5: 130 2.4: 10 1.2.1: 130 2.99: 197n20 1.7.3–12: 246 2.102–110: 159n50 1.19.4: 87 2.112–120: 91, 119 2.32.6: 87n47 2.142: 122n86 2.39.7: 87n47 3.122.2: 91–92 2.54.3: 87n47 7.136: 145 3.9.1: 87n47 Hesiod 6.1.2: 130–131 Opera et Dies 6.1.3: 131 106–200: 59 39.8–19: 224–225 Homer Lucian Iliad Deorum concilium 11.320–321: 241 4–12: 167n65 20.220–221: 124 Vera historia Odyssey 1.3: 51 11.602–603: 124 Lucretius 12.323: 124 5.927–930: 64 Horace 5.932–938: 64 Epodes 5.944: 64 9.11–16: 240 5.982–987: 65 Odes 5.1007–1008: 66 1.37.6–12: 240–241 5.1019–1020: 65, 140 Satires 5.1091–1104: 137 1.4.73: 222 5.1101–1104: 138 5.1105–1107: 67–68, 141 IGLS 5.1448–1457: 69 I, 1: 166 IGRR Macrobius 3, 999: 166 Saturnalia ILLRP 1.14.6–12: 10n33 511: 225 2.4.21: 233 278

278 Index Locorum

Megasthenes (FGrH 715) Pliny the Elder F4: 24 Pref. 25: 8n25 F12: 73–74 7.95: 175 Moschion 7.97: 175 Fr. 6.14–15: 139n15 18.211–212: 10–11 Fr. 6.21: 68 Plutarch Aemilius Paullus Nepos 28.7: 216n3 Eumenes Antony 5.4: 83 4: 246 7: 82–83 24.3: 237–238 Nicolaus of Damascus (FGrH 90) 50.6: 239 F3: 41 Caesar F66: 41 59: 10n33 Cato Maior OGI 27.3: 85 56: 10 Eumenes 383: 166 11.4–5: 83 Orosius 13.2–3: 82 4.23.9: 85n41 De Iside et Osiride Ovid 353b–c: 22–23 Metamorphoses 354a–b: 197n20 5.318–331: 230n38 360a: 114–115 372a–e: 22n80 Pausanias Moralia 3.25.5: 91 776a: 6 6.18.2: 97 842d: 146 Philochorus (FGrH 328) Pericles F2: 57n1 31–32: 80–81 Plato Theseus Epinomis 1.3: 108 974e–976c: 139n15 Polybius Leges 2.16.13: 99 3.698b–699b: 85 5.33.2: 97–98 Politicus 6.2.3: 198 271a–272b: 59 6.18: 86 290d–e: 200n22 6.57.5: 86 Protagoras 12.24.5: 99–100 321c–328d: 60, 61 31.25: 195–196 Timaeus 32.13.6: 196 23e–24a: 122n86 34.2.9–11: 99 24a: 200n22 38.22: 38 279

Index Locorum 279

Pompeius Trogus SIG Pref. 3: 30 747: 174–175 1.1.4: 40 Socrates of Rhodes (FGrH 192) 1.2.13: 40 F2: 238 1.3.6: 40 Sophocles 1.6.17: 40 Antigone 2.3.6: 45 332–375: 60 POxy Strabo 1610: 16–17 1.2.8: 125 Propertius 1.2.9: 125 3.11.41: 242 1.2.28: 47 7.3.9: 46 Quintilian 8.1.1: 46 Institutio oratoria 9.3.11–12: 94, 95–96 2.42: 91n8 9.4.18: 125 10.3.23: 125 Sallust 16.4.9: 79 Bellum Catilinae Suetonius 2.4: 209 Divus Iulius 10.1: 86 40: 10n33 12.4–5: 196 42.1: 218 13.2–3: 196 Bellum Iugurthinum Tacitus 1.4: 196 Annales 41.2–3: 86–87 4.33: 221 85.43: 196 6.18: 166 Historiae 6.28: 159n50 1.9–12: 87 Historiae 1.55.4: 38n25 5.8.1: 39 Seneca (the Elder) Tertullian Controversiae Ad nationes 4 pr. 2: 222 1.10.17: 226 Seneca (the Younger) Theopompus (FGrH 115) Apocolocyntosis T29: 96 11.4: 166–167 Thucydides De Ira 1.2–19: 92 3.23.6: 222 1.20.1: 92 Servius (citing Varro) 1.22.1: 92 8.698: 229 1.22.4: 92–93 Sextus Empiricus Timaeus (FGrH 566) Adversus mathematicos T19: 99–100 1.263: 91n8 Timagenes (FGrH 88) T3: 222 280

280 Index Locorum

Valerius Maximus 12.458–461: 241–242 1.3.4: 226 Georgics Varro. See also Censorinus; 1.463–468: 233 Servius 2.505–512: 234 Antiquitates rerum divinarum Vitruvius f. 32: 182 2.1.1: 65 De lingua Latina 2.1.1–2: 137–138 8.65: 225 2.1.2–3: 140–141 De re rustica 2.1.2: 64 1.1.5: 225 2.2.1: 69 Velleius Paterculus 1.6.6: 37–38 Xenophon 2.82.4: 239 Cyropaedia Virgil 3.1.26: 85n42 Aeneid Memorabilia 6.801–805: 242 1.4.3–14: 70 8.319–327: 59 8.685–688: 241 Zoilus (FGrH 71) 8.698–700: 241 T1: 96 281

General Index

Actisanes 72, 199 Asinius Pollio, C. 222, 233, 234 Actium 4, 219, 220, 240–242 Assyria 12, 32, 33, 35, 50–53, 119, Aemilius Sura 37–38 122–123, 214 Aeneas 170–171, 193 as first world empire 36–46 passim Agatharchides 22, 25, 37, 74–79 monarchy of 206–209 agriculture 70, 71, 74, 134, 136, 138–139, overthrow of 12, 207–209 142, 143, 152, 154, 225 See also Ninus; Ninyas; Alexander the Great 31, 37, 39, 41, 46, Sardanapallus; Semiramis 82, 97, 100, 116, 117, 145–146, 164, Asyllius, L. (perhaps L. Sempronius 168, 171–172, 175, 186, 187, 242 Asellio) 194, 202 Alexandria 2, 4, 7, 10, 166, 227, 239, Atlas Mountains 32, 51 242, 244 allegoresis 109–113 Bibliotheke Amazons 24–25, 51, 107, 117, 164 date of 217–221 Ammon 155–156, 162–163, 168 organization of 28–36, 43–56, Anaximenes 28, 96–99 223–224 animal worship 72–73, 228–232 publication of 221–224, 246–247 Antiochus I of Commagene 166–167 sources of 14–26, 73–79, 80–83 Antony, Mark 53, 185, 189, 212, 220, Britain 52–53, 55, 185–187, 217–218, 226, 233, 236, 237–242, 220–221 243–244, 246 Apollodorus of Athens 30, 31, 101, 103, Caecilius of Calacte 8 118, 123 Caesar 2, 4, 211, 214, 217, 218, 220–221, Appian 10, 38, 39, 42–43, 54 232–233, 242–243 Arbaces (Arbactus) 11–13, 40, 44–45, calendar reform of 10–11 207–209 campaigns of 31, 52–53, 55, 186–187 Archias 6, 224 clemency of 11–13, 160, 183 Arrian 24, 73–74, 82, 145 deification of 133, 135, 182–189, 236 Artemidorus 25, 46, 47–48, 52, 74 calendar 9–11 282

282 General Index

Cassius Hemina, L. 174 Dionysus 24, 25, 33, 35–36, 106–107, chronology 30–31, 36, 100–101, 118–119, 111, 113, 116, 121, 134–135, 139, 140, 122, 199, 222 143, 145–146, 148, 152, 153–157, Cicero 5, 6, 7, 8, 11, 188, 199–200, 163, 165, 167, 171, 175, 179–180, 209, 218 182, 187–189, 223, 224–225, 232, on deification 173, 174, 175–185 237–240, 242, 244–246. See also on Egypt 225, 227–229 Osiris on kings 193, 210–214 Domitius Ahenobarbus, L. 13 civilization, origins of. See Kulturgeschichte Egypt 3, 4, 19, 21–23, 32, 33, 34–35, 44, clemency 11–13, 155, 160, 183–184, 53, 60–61, 70, 71–73, 106, 109, 119, 187–188, 209, 236 122, 160, 162, 164, 169 Cleopatra VII 232, 237–242 calendar of 9–11 Cornelius Scipio Aemilianus, P. 38–39, centrality in Bibliotheke 50–52, 54, 195–196 117, 143 Cornelius Scipio Africanus, P. 174 monarchy of 122, 192, 197–206, Cornelius Scipio Nasica, P. 84–86, 195 208–209, 210, 213–214 Ctesias 14, 23, 25, 32, 33, 36, 37, 44–45, origins of life in 58–59 122–123, 208 Rome and 52–53, 225–232, 238–246 culture bringers 35–36, 68, 80, 112–116, theogony 110–111, 113, 116, 117, 121, 134, 133–144 passim, 148–158 passim, 163, 136, 138–139, 141–142, 143, 168, 170, 172, 180–181, 183, 186–188, 149–152, 158 203, 210, 230, 246 See also animal worship; Isis; Osiris; Cyrus 211 Sesoösis empires, succession of 36–46, 54–55 Darius I 169 Ennius 114, 148, 174, 177, 180 Demetrius of Callatis 47 Ephorus 16–17, 18, 19, 21, 22, 27–30, Demetrius Poliorcetes 147, 168, 189 46–47, 55, 80–81, 93–96, 98, Democritus of Abdera 60–63 100–101, 118, 125–126 Diodorus Siculus Eratosthenes 48–49, 52, 100–101, 104, Caesar and 10–11, 185–189, 220–221 118, 123 life of 3–4, 217–219 Ethiopia 25, 33–35, 47, 48, 50–53 Quellenforschung and 14–26 passim, 59, 74, 107–108, 117, Rome and 83–88, 193–197, 205, 122, 160 208–209, 213–214, 215–216, Euhemerus 111–116, 148, 158, 165, 167, 221–223, 232–236, 242–247 174, 177, 180 See also Bibliotheke Eumenes 82–83 Dion of Syracuse 168 fire, discovery of 60, 64–70 passim, Dionysius of Halicarnassus 39, 42, 99, 137–138 100–101, 126–128 Fish-eaters 75–78 Dionysius Scytobrachion 25, 102, 107, 109, 115, 152–157, 164, 244 Gelon of Syracuse 168 283

General Index 283

Hecataeus of Abdera 10, 22–23, 24, 36, Megasthenes 24, 32, 36, 48, 73–74 54–55, 60–62, 103, 107, 116, 214 Memnon 119, 123 Hecataeus of Miletus 90–91 Menas 143, 197, 198 Hephaestion 168 Meroë 35 Heracles 8, 95, 105, 106–107, 109, 113, metus hostilis 64–66, 70, 73, 78, 84–88, 114, 116, 124, 125, 126–127, 134, 135, 136, 140, 195–196, 210, 218 144, 145–146, 149, 152, 157–158, Mithridates VI 7, 169–170, 205 164–165, 171, 179, 186–189 passim, Mucius Scaevola, Q. 169, 194, 202 242, 246 Myrina 33, 117, 135, 144, 159, 164–165, 171, Herodotus 10, 18, 36, 43, 45, 54, 172, 187 90–92, 98 mythography 101–104 Hiero of Syracuse 168 mythology 29, 50, 148, 153–154, 157–158 hieroglyphics 34–35 Diodorus and 89–90, 101, 103–124, Hieronymus of Cardia 82–83 125–131 passim Homer 51, 102, 110, 115, 123–124, Greek historians and 90–101, 125–128 125–126, 158 historicizing of 104–118 Horace 222, 234, 240–241 Romans and 129–131, 178 Hyperboreans 24, 51, 107 See also allegoresis; Euhemerus; rationalization Iambulus 24, 51, 103 India 24, 32, 34, 35–36, 44, 48, 49, necessity (χρεία) 60–61, 67–69, 70, 50–51, 53, 59, 73–74, 143, 152, 154, 72–83 passim, 136–137, 142–144 160, 162, 171, 219 need. See necessity Isis 22, 34, 70, 71, 110, 113, 138–139, 140, Nicolaus of Damascus 27, 30, 41–42 141, 150–151, 167, 226–227, 229, Ninus 35, 40, 44, 122–123, 206, 208 239, 242 Ninyas 162–163, 206–209

Jerome 3 Octavian 2, 4, 170, 185, 189, 218–219, Judaea 54–55 220, 226, 233–247 Osiris 22, 33, 35, 70, 110, 113, 116, 117, Kulturgeschichte 60–88, 121, 124, 134, 138–143, 150–152, 157, 135–144, 230–231 159–160, 163, 165, 167, 187, 219, 223, 224, 229, 238–242. See also language, development of 60, 61, Dionysus 65–66, 75, 77, 121–122 Osymandyas 9–10 Libya 22, 25, 33–34, 35, 51, 107, 117, Ovid 58, 129 152–157 passim, 159, 164–165 Livy 87–88, 129–131, 196–197, 223–224, Palaephatus 102, 108–109 225, 237 Pausanias 91, 97 Lucretius 62–70 passim, 135, 137–141 Pericles 80–82 passim, 218 Philodemus 193, 212 Lysander 145 Philopoemen 169 284

284 General Index

Photius 25, 74–79 passim Sacae 32, 45 Pliny the Elder 10–11, 49, 175 Sallust 2, 86–87, 196, 209, 218, 234 Plutarch 6, 23, 80–83, 85, 108, 114, Sardanapallus 12, 40, 41, 44, 207–209 237–238 Saturninus, L. Appuleius 205 Polybius 28, 30, 38–39, 85–86, 96, 97, Scipio. See Cornelius 99, 192, 195–196, 198–200 Semiramis 33, 35, 40, 44, 106, 117, 123, Polycrates of Samos 91–92 135, 144, 159, 161–164, 165, 171, 172, Pompeius, Sextus 219, 234–236 passim 186, 187, 206 Pompeius Trogus 27, 30, 40–41, 43, 82 Sesoösis 11–12, 33, 34, 35, 50, 117, 135, Pompey the Great 6–7, 54–55, 175–176, 144, 159–161, 165, 171, 172, 187, 198, 218, 220 219 Pomponius Mela 49 Social War 209 Posidonius 5, 17, 22, 24–25, 28, 52, 62, Strabo 17, 24, 47, 49, 79, 94–96, 101, 63, 136, 218, 224 125–126 Prodicus 113 Protagoras 60, 61 Tacitus 39, 166, 221 Ptolemy I 22, 147–148, 168, 172, 214 Tauromenium 4, 218–219, 236 Ptolemy II 79, 108, 147–148, 192 Theophanes of Mytilene 6, 7, 166, 224 Ptolemy XII 3, 7, 165–166, 211, 217, 225, Theopompus 96, 100 227, 237 theriomorphism. See animal worship Thucydides 92–93, 94, 116 Quellenforschung 14–21 Timaeus 21, 29, 99–100 Quinctius Flamininus, T. 173 Timagenes 222 Tnephachthus 34, 197 rationalization 91, 108–110, 115 Trojan War 30–31, 91–92, 100–101, 109, Rome 118–119, 123–124, 125 as defined by Diodorus 52–56 as intellectual center 3–9, 233–235 universal history 27–28, 40–43, 96–99 Romulus 127–128, 176–178, 180, 182, 210 ruler cult 115, 135, 218, 236 Varro 118, 129, 182–183, 218, 225, 229 Alexander the Great and 145–146, Virgil 59, 126, 170, 193, 233, 234, 241–242 171–172 Vitruvius 62–70 passim, 135, 137–141 Caesar and 133, 135, 182–189, 236 passim, 218 Diodorus and 148–172 origins of 144–148 Zeus 114, 134, 148, 153, 156–157, 158, 244 Roman attitudes towards 172–185 Zoilus 28, 96 See also Euhemerus zoogony 58–59 285 286 287 288 289 290