The Hellenistic Court

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THEHELLENISTICCOURT

THE HELLENISTIC COURT

MONARCHIC POWER AND ELITE SOCIETY FROM ALEXANDER TO CLEOPATRA

edited by Andrew Erskine, Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones and Shane Wallace

The Classical Press of Wales First published in 2017 by The Classical Press of Wales 15 Rosehill Terrace, Swansea SA1 6JN Tel: +44 (0)1792 458397 www.classicalpressofwales.co.uk

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ISBN 978-1-910589-62-5

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Typeset by Louise Jones, and printed and bound in the UK by Gomer Press, Llandysul, Ceredigion, Wales ––––––––––––––––– The Classical Press of Wales, an independent venture, was founded in 1993, initially to support the work of classicists and ancient historians in Wales and their collaborators from further aﬁeld. More recently it has published work initiated by scholars internationally. While retaining a special loyalty to Wales and the Celtic countries, the Press welcomes scholarly contributions from all parts of the world.

The symbol of the Press is the Red Kite. This bird, once widespread in Britain, was reduced by 1905 to some ﬁve individuals conﬁned to a small area known as ‘The Desert of Wales’ – the upper Tywi valley. Geneticists report that the stock was saved from terminal inbreeding by the arrival of one stray female bird from Germany. After much careful protection, the Red Kite now thrives – in Wales and beyond. CONTENTS

Page List of Contributors ix Abbreviations xiii Introduction xv Andrew Erskine, Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones and Shane Wallace

PART I DEVELOPMENT

1 Court, Kingship, and Royal Style in the Early Hellenistic Period 1 Shane Wallace 2 At Home with Royalty: Re-viewing the Hellenistic Palace 31 Janett Morgan 3 The Seleucid and Achaemenid Court: Continuity or Change? 69 David Engels

PART II LIFE AT COURT

4 Βίος αὐλικός: The Multiple Ways of Life of Courtiers in the Hellenistic Age 101 Ivana Savalli-Lestrade 5 Eunuchs, Renegades and Concubines: The ‘Paradox of Power’ and the Promotion of Favourites in the Hellenistic Empires 121 Rolf Strootman 6 Callimachus, Theocritus and Ptolemaic Court Etiquette 143 Ivana Petrovic

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PART III MARRIAGE 7 Symbol and Ceremony: Royal Weddings in the Hellenistic Age 165 Sheila L. Ager 8 Once a Seleucid, Always a Seleucid: Seleucid Princesses and their Nuptial Courts 189 Alex McAuley

PART IV BEYOND THE PALACE 9 In the Mirror of Hetairai. Tracing Aspects of the Interaction Between Polis Life and Court Life in the Early Hellenistic Age 213 Kostas Buraselis 10 Image and Communication in the Seleucid Kingdom: the King, the Court and the Cities 231 Paola Ceccarelli 11 Outside the Capital: the Ptolemaic Court and its Courtiers 257 Dorothy J. Thompson 12 ‘Court-ing the Public’: the Attalid Court and Domestic Display 269 Craig Hardiman

PART V CROSSING CULTURES 13 Hellenistic Court Patronage and the non-Greek World 295 Erich Gruen 14 Bithynia and Cappadocia: Royal Courts and Ruling Society in the Minor Hellenistic Monarchies 319 Oleg Gabelko 15 Deserving the Court’s Trust: Jews in Ptolemaic Egypt 343 Livia Capponi

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PART VI DISLOYALTY AND DEATH 16 Misconduct and Disloyalty in the Seleucid Court 359 Peter Franz Mittag 17 The Hands of Gods? Poison in the Hellenistic Court 373 Stephanie Winder 18 The Royal Court in Ancient Macedonia: the Evidence for Royal Tombs 409 Olga Palagia Index 433

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CONTRIBUTORS

Sheila Ager is a Full Professor of Classical Studies at the University of Waterloo, Canada, and a Research Associate with the Waterloo Institute for Hellenistic Studies. Her publications include work on interstate relations (Interstate Arbitrations in the Greek World, 337–90 BC, 1996), Hellenistic monarchy, and the history of individual poleis. Kostas Buraselis is Professor of Ancient History and Vice Rector of Academic Affairs and International Relations at the University of Athens. His main scholarly interests are the political and institutional history of the Hellenistic world and the Roman imperial period in the Greek East, ancient ruler cult, and modern historiography on the ancient world. He has published and edited several volumes and articles on related subjects. Livia Capponi is a Researcher in Ancient History at the University of Pavia. She works on Hellenistic and Roman Egypt, papyrology, and Roman history. Her publications include Augustan Egypt: The Creation of a Roman province (2005), Il tempio di Leontopoli in Egitto: Identità politica e religiosa dei Giudei di Onia (2007), and Roman Egypt (2011). Paola Ceccarelli is Lecturer in Greek History at University College London. Recent publications include Ancient Greek Letter-writing: A Cultural History (2013) and an edited volume Water and Identity in the Ancient Mediterranean (2012). Her next project is an edition of the letters of the Seleucid kings and administrators. David Engels is Professor for Roman History at the Université libre de Bruxelles and director of the journal and series Latomus. His research interests focus on Roman religion, the Hellenistic East and the philosophy of history. He is the author of Das römische Vorzeichenwesen (2007) and Le déclin. La crise de l’Union européenne et la chute de la République romaine (2013). Andrew Erskine is Professor of Ancient History at the University of Edinburgh. He is the author of The Hellenistic Stoa: Political Thought and Action, Troy between Greece and Rome: Local Tradition and Imperial Power and Roman Imperialism. Edited books include A Companion to the Hellenistic World and, with Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones, Creating a Hellenistic World. He is a general editor of the Encyclopedia of Ancient History.

Contributors

Oleg Gabelko is Professor of Ancient History at the Institute for Oriental and Classical Studies, Russian State University for the Humanities. His main research interests are Hellenistic Asia Minor, the genealogies of the Hellenistic monarchies, Thrace, and the Eastern Celts. He is the author of The History of the Bithynian Kingdom (2005, in Russian) and about a hundred articles. Erich S. Gruen is Gladys Rehard Wood Professor Emeritus of History and Classics, University of California, Berkeley. He works at the junction of Hellenistic, Roman, and Jewish history. His books include The Last Generation of the Roman Republic, The Hellenistic World and the Coming of Rome, Heritage and Hellenism, and Rethinking the Other in Antiquity. Craig I. Hardiman is an Associate Professor of Classical Studies at the University of Waterloo. He works and has published in the ﬁelds of Greek and Roman art, with special interests in Hellenistic sculpture, domestic art and decoration, ancient aesthetic theory and the applications of neuroscience to the study of ancient art. Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones is Professor of Ancient History at Cardiff University. He specializes in Achaemenid Persia, Greek socio-cultural history and the reception of antiquity in popular culture. He is the author of Aphrodite’s Tortoise: The Veiled Woman of Ancient Greece, Ctesias’ History of Persia: Tales of the Orient (co-authored with James Robson), King and Court in Ancient Persia 559–331 BCE, and of the forthcoming Designs on the Past – How Hollywood Created the Ancient World. Alex McAuley is Lecturer in Hellenistic History at Cardiff University. In addition to his main research on globalization and localism in the Hellenistic world, he has several current and forthcoming articles on Hellenistic dynastic practice, royal women, and ancient federalism. He is also the main author of the Seleucid Genealogy project: http://www.seleucid-genealogy.com. Peter Franz Mittag is Professor of Ancient History at Cologne University. His research interests cover Seleucid history, the contorniates and Roman medallions. His books include Antiochos IV. Epiphanes: Eine politische Biographie (2006). Currently he is working on the medallions of Antoninus Pius. Janett Morgan is Honorary Research Associate at Royal Holloway, University of London. Her research uses material and textual evidence to explore culture, gender and religion in classical Greece and Achaemenid Persia. She is the author of Greek Perspectives of the Achaemenid Empire: Persia through the Looking-Glass (2016).

Contributors

Olga Palagia is Professor of Classical Archaeology at the National and Kapodistrian University of Athens. Her research interests are Greek sculpture and Macedonian painting. Her recent publications include two edited volumes published by Cambridge University Press, Art in Athens during the Peloponnesian War (2009) and Greek Sculpture: Function, Materials and Techniques in the Archaic and Classical Periods (2006). Ivana Petrovic is Hugh H. Obear Professor of Classics at the University of Virginia. She has published Von den Toren des Hades zu den Hallen des Olymp: Artemiskult bei Theokrit und Kallimachos (2007) and (with Andreaj Petrovic) volume 1 of Inner Purity and Pollution in Greek Religion (2016). She has also co-edited volumes on the Roman triumph (2008) and on Greek Archaic epigram (2010). Ivana Savalli-Lestrade is Directeur de recherche du CNRS (Anthropologie et Histoire des Mondes Antiques, Paris), specialist in Hellenistic history. Her research focuses on the mobility of ancient Greeks, on the structure of Hellenistic royal power and on the interaction between cities and kings. She is the author of Les philoi royaux dans l’Asie hellénistique (1998). She edited Des Rois au Prince: Pratiques du pouvoir monarchique dans l’Orient hellénistique et romain (with I. Cogitore, 2010) and L’Éolide dans l’ombre de Pergame (2016). Rolf Strootman is associate professor of Ancient History at the University of Utrecht. His research focuses on empire, cultural encounters and globalization in Central Asia and the Near East during the Hellenistic period. He is the author of Courts and Elites in the Hellenistic Empires: The Near East after the Achaemenids, 330–30 BCE (2014), a study of the royal court as an instrument of empire in the Argead, Seleucid, Ptolemaic and Antigonid kingdoms. Dorothy J. Thompson, Fellow of Girton College, Cambridge, is an ancient historian with a particular interest in Hellenistic Egypt. She is a Fellow of the British Academy and an Honorary President of the International Society of Papyrologists. The second edition of her prizewinning Memphis under the Ptolemies was published in 2012. Shane Wallace is Walsh Family Lecturer in Classics and Ancient History at Trinity College Dublin. His research focuses on the history and epigraphy of the early Hellenistic Period. He is currently completing a book entitled ‘The Politics of Freedom: Kings and Cities in the Early Hellenistic Period’.

Contributors

Stephanie Winder was, until 2014, a lecturer in Classics at the University of Edinburgh. She specializes in Hellenistic poetry and culture as well as gender and reception theory. She has published on Cavafy and contemporary Greek poetry and now lives in Greece.

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ABBREVIATIONS

Abbreviations for ancient texts follow the Oxford Classical Dictionary (4th edition) for the most part or are easily identiﬁable. For papyrological abbreviations such as P.Berol., P.Cair.Zen, P.Herc see http://scriptorium.lib.duke.edu/papyrus/texts/clist.html

AvP Altertümer von Pergamon. BNJ Brill’s New Jacoby, http://referenceworks.brillonline.com/browse/brill-s-new-jacoby Bull. épig. Bulletin épigraphique, published in Revue des études grecques. C.Jud.Syr.Eg. van ’t Dack, E. et al., The Judaean-Syrian-Egyptian Conﬂict of 103–101 BC: A Multilingual Dossier Concerning a ‘War of Sceptres’, Brussels, 1989. CGC Catalogue général des antiquités égyptiennes du Musée du Caire. Cairo, 1901–. CID Lefèvre, F. Corpus des Inscriptions de Delphes 4: Documents amphictioniques, Paris, 2002. CPJ Corpus Papyrorum Judaicarum DNP Der Neue Pauly, Leiden, 1996–, http://referenceworks.brillonline.com/browse/brill-s-new-pauly FD Fouilles de Delphes, Paris, 1902–. FGrH Jacoby, F., Die Fragmente der griechischen Historiker, 1923–. FHG Müller, C., Fragmenta Historicorum Graecorum, Paris, 1841–70. GHI Rhodes, P. J. and Osborne, R., Greek Historical Inscriptions 404–323 BC, Oxford, 2003. I.Adramytteion Stauber, J., Die Bucht von Adramytteion, 1996 (IK 50–51). I.Delos Durrbach, F. et al., Inscriptions de Délos, Paris, 1926–1972. I.Didyma Rehm, A., Didyma II: Die Inschriften, Berlin, 1958. I.Ephesos Wankel, H., Merkelbach, R., et al., Die Inschriften von Ephesos, 1979–81 (IK 11–17). I.Erythrai Engelmann, H. and Merkelbach, R., Die Inschriften von Erythrai und Klazomenai, 1972–73 (IK 1). IEstremo Oriente Canali de Rossi, F., Iscrizioni dello estremo oriente Greco, 2004 (IK 65). I.Iasos Blümel, W., Die Inschriften von Iasos, 1985 (IK 28). I.Ilion Frisch, P., Die Inschriften von Ilion, 1975 (IK 3). I.Lampsakos Frisch, P., Die Inschriften von Lampsakos, 1978 (IK 6). I.Labraunda Crampa, J., Labraunda III.1: The Greek Inscriptions, Part I: 1–12 (Period of Olympichus), Lund, 1969.

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Abbreviations

I.Mylasa Blümel, W., Die Inschriften von Mylasa, 1987–88 (IK 34-5). IG Inscriptiones Graecae, 1873–. IGLSyr Jalabert, L. et al., Inscriptions grecques et latines de la Syrie, Paris, 1929–1970. IK Inschriften griechischer Städte aus Kleinasien, Bonn, 1972–. IMetr Bernard, E., Inscriptions métriques de l’Égypte gréco–romaine, Paris, 1969. LSJ Liddell, H. G., Scott, R. and Jones, H. S., A Greek-English Lexicon, Oxford, 9th edn, 1940. OGIS Dittenberger, W., Orientis Graeci Inscriptiones Selectae, Leipzig, 1903–5. PHI Packard Humanities Institute Greek Inscriptions (http://epigraphy.packhum.org). PPhrurDiosk Cowey, J. M. S., Maresch, K. and Barnes, C., Das Archiv des Phrurarchen Dioskurides (154–145 v.Chr.?) (P.Phrur.Diosk.), Papyrologica Coloniensia 30, Paderborn, 2003. PPolitIud Cowey, J. M. S. and Maresch, K., Urkunden des Politeuma der Juden von Herakleopolis (144/3–133/2 v.Chr.) (P.Polit.Iud.), Papyrologia Coloniensia 29, Wiesbaden, 2001. Pros. Ptol. VI Peremans, W. et al., 1968 Prosopographia Ptolemaica VI: La cour, les relations internationales et les possessions extérieures, la vie culturelle, Leuven, 1968. RC Welles, C. B., Royal Correspondence in the Hellenistic Period, New Haven, 1934. RE Pauly, A., Wissowa, G. and Kroll, W., Realencyclopädie des classischen Altertumswissenschaft, 1893–. RIG Michel, C., Recueil d’inscriptions grecques, Brussels, 1897–1900. SB Preisigke, F. et al., Sammelbuch griechischer Urkunden aus Ägypten, 1915–. SEG Supplementum Epigraphicum Graecum, 1923–. Seleucid Coins I Houghton, A. and Lorber, C., Seleucid Coins: A Comprehensive Catalogue, part 1, New York, Lancaster, and London, 2002. Seleucid Coins II Houghton, A., Lorber, C. and Hoover, O., Seleucid Coins: A Comprehensive Catalogue, part 2, New York, Lancaster, and London, 2008. Syll.3 Dittenberger, W., Sylloge Inscriptionum Graecarum. 3rd edn, Leipzig, 1915–24. UPZ Wilcken, U., Urkunden der Ptolemäerzeit (ältere Funde). Berlin and Leipzig. Vol. 1: Papyri aus Unterägypten, 1922–27; vol. 2: Papyri aus Oberägypten, 1957.

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INTRODUCTION

Andrew Erskine, Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones and Shane Wallace

There was a time when all ‘proper’ historians turned their critical and quizzical eyes to kings and courts, but as the twentieth century progressed, court studies became unfashionable and by the 1970s courts were seen as moribund institutions and the study of kings and courtiers was thought old-fashioned at best or, at worst, simply irrelevant. But the new century has seen a revival of interest in ancient court studies and a growing recognition that the court cannot be sidelined by historians. A volume edited by Antony Spawforth, The Court and Court Society in Ancient Monarchies, was published in 2007 (and has received a paperback edition too) and a few years later the American Journal of Philology produced a special issue on Classical Courts and Courtiers.1 More specific studies have also appeared. In 2010 Bruno Jacobs and Robert Rollinger edited Der Achämenidenhof / The Achaemenid Court, the first volume to be entirely dedicated to this subject. It is a rich collection of historical, archaeological, art-historical, and literary studies by leading experts in the Achaemenid field and has already improved our general understanding of the structures and functions of the court and whetted the appetite for future research. Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones furthered the investigation of the Persian court by exploring aspects of protocol, display, hierarchy, and gender in his King and Court in Ancient Persia 559–331 BCE (2013) and in 2014 Rolf Strootman’s Courts and Elites in the Hellenistic Empires: The Near East After the Achaemenids made an important contribution to both Hellenistic studies and court studies as a whole.2 Kings are fashionable again in scholarship. Court studies are back too.3 Given that royal courts played a central role in ancient Near Eastern and Egyptian politics and culture, and in the political and cultural sphere of classical-period Macedonia, attention must be given to the merging of court traditions in the rich (if frustrating) sources of the Hellenistic world. But what exactly was ‘the Hellenistic court’? On the face of things, the English word ‘court’ has two basic meanings: a group of people, including the monarch and the individuals who served him, and the architectural compound(s) where these people live and where court activities operate. But, in fact, defining the complexities of the court is more difficult than first appears. Around AD 1190 Walter Map, a Welsh cleric at the court of king Henry II of England, attempted to articulate the

Andrew Erskine, Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones and Shane Wallace nebulous nature of the court in which he lived in a treatise called De Nugis Curialium (‘On the Trifles of Courtiers’) which, with its famous, if somewhat exasperated tone of phrase, has been much quoted by historians of court societies ever since in their own attempts to voice a definition of this most ambiguous of royal institutions: ‘In the court I exist and of the court I speak, but what the court is, God knows, I know not.’ This is a fitting place to start our investigation into the Hellenistic court, because in spite of recent sophisticated scholarly advances in the field of ancient court-studies, in the quest for the Hellenistic court we ultimately share with Walter Map a frustration with the difficulty of defining what precisely a ‘court’ is. Map was annoyed by the fact that his contemporaries could interchangeably refer to the ‘court’ as a location (palace, castle, hall), an institution (the ‘office of court’), a group of people (the royal retinue or entourage), or even an event (‘holding court’). The court could also be a ‘place’ where myths and legends were created on the stage of monarchy, as well as being a ‘place’ which was legendary in its own right (like king Arthur’s court at Camelot). Courtiers in successive times and places have tried in vain to articulate the institution that created and defined them, but none have done it with such sublime irony as Walter Map. Part of the difficulty in understanding the construction, functioning, and ideology of the Hellenistic court lies with the source materials available for our study: Macedonian, Greek, Iranian, Egyptian, and other Near Eastern epigraphy, iconographic materials, fragmentary bureaucratic texts, repetitive and formulaic royal inscriptions, and scattered archaeological remains provide only piecemeal evidence for court structure, while, as we will quickly see, Greek (and Latin) literary texts can be as fulsome in their vivid descriptions of the court as they are judgmental or fantastical. Accessing the Hellenistic court is fraught with difficulties. Can we talk of one ‘type’ of Hellenistic court? Or must we think of the court in the Hellenistic era as an amalgam of a myriad of different court traditions from different parts of the pre-Alexander world, retaining their individual local traits? Or were the various diverse court styles of the pre-Alexander period given a new cogency through an over-arching Macedonian identity? Might comparative court studies of other royal cultures provide models of how to think about the courts of the Hellenistic kings? For instance, the renowned modern historian of Tudor England, Geoffrey Elton, once wrote that ‘the only definition of the court which makes sense...is that it comprised of all those who at any given time were within “his grace’s house”’ – suggesting that, predominately, the court was seen to be a social space comprised of all the individuals who circled around the king, regardless of social rank.4 Elton contends that these varied

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Introduction individuals, the socially diverse members of the royal retinue should, en masse, be classified as ‘courtiers’; their presence within the extended ‘family’ of the royal household qualified them as such. Can Elton’s model of an extended entourage work for the Hellenistic court too? Perhaps, although David Starkey has rejected Elton’s hypothesis by suggesting that the ‘court’ consisted of the nobility and elite of the kingdom alone; therefore, Starkey has argued, lesser-persons such as guards, grooms, stable-hands, servants, cooks, and all other labouring household personnel should not be incorporated into the definition of ‘court’ at all.5 Their occupations denied them the privilege of being a courtier. Starkey’s is, perhaps, a short-sighted approach and his ideas may not apply easily to the courts of the Hellenistic era. Certain individuals with regular (and prima facie menial) tasks were in fact members of what can be termed an ‘inner court’; they were servants with close access to the king (and even to the king’s actual body in the cases of wardrobe officials, grooms, barbers and beauticians, or even doctors and chefs), and though they might be ignobly born, these individuals had the potential to wield great power and influence. Elton’s definition of a ‘courtier’ is more persuasive: membership of the court should include all individuals with access to the monarch’s presence in any form, and regardless of high or low birth (or indeed of sex) this fact alone made them eligible to be ‘courtiers’. This is the appropriate way to think about the Hellenistic court as well. There are nuances to take into consideration. In Tudor England, when the court ‘occurred’ in one of the monarch’s official residences, household ordinances and rules of ceremony regulated who could gain sight of the monarch. Within the royal residences access to rooms and spaces was successively more restrictive as one progressed through the palace. Tudor historians can therefore speak of an ‘inner court’ (meaning the rooms occupied by the king on an intimate basis and of the people who worked within as both ministers of state and intimate body-servants) and of an ‘outer court’ – meaning the public areas of the residence (including large throne rooms and banqueting halls) and the people who served the public functions or were in the king’s orbit on a more temporary basis. Thus under the Tudors only peers of the realm and the closest of the monarch’s servants were allowed to enter the Withdrawing Room – an intensely private place reserved for the monarch’s intimate relaxation hours. However, the barriers which restricted access were constantly being assaulted by courtiers who sought more intimate physical closeness to the monarch; for access to the monarch not only meant the opportunity to importune a favour, but also implied to all onlookers that the privileged gainer of access had social eminence. Tom Bishop has perceptively noted

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Andrew Erskine, Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones and Shane Wallace that, ‘the court often functioned like a series of locked rooms, with those on the outside always trying keys, and those on the inside constantly changing the locks’.6 The concept of an ‘inner court’ and an ‘outer court’ is applicable, perhaps in a more abstract sense, to the Hellenistic royal households too, and the various courts of the Hellenistic rulers can best be understood as operating around these two axes. The people who naturally orbited within the inner court were members of the royal family (a king’s mother, wives, concubines, children, siblings, personal slaves) as well as nobles from the highest ranking families of the realm, and those granted the honorific title ‘philos’ of the king. Bureaucrats and administrators, ambassadors, eunuchs, and physicians made up the outer court. The Hellenistic court, just like that of the Tudors, obviously attracted individuals who sought access to the monarch, but it functioned as more than a place simply to catch the monarch’s eye, because the court was the social and cultural centre of the kingdom as well as a recruitment office and seat of bureaucracy for the administration. We can, however, look for an interesting alternative definition of ‘court’ to that provided by Elton in a proposition of Rodríguez-Salgado, who regards the court as the residing place of sovereign power but not necessarily of the sovereign per se. Even when the king was in absentia, his monarchic authority nonetheless remained present amongst a group of people or in a fixed locale so that it was ‘the monarch’s residual authority, not his presence, [which] was the prerequisite of a court’.7 This probably holds true for the Hellenistic kings and their courts too.8 The kings’ powers could be expressed in proxy so that their physical presence was not necessarily needed. Rodríguez-Salgado’s idea can be extended, however, since dignitaries, ambassadors, and even royal women might have deputized for the king’s authority as they travelled around the lands of the Hellenistic kingdoms with their own courtly entourages in the name of the king. As was true of the Persian court, we need to recognise that the Hellenistic kings were forever moving around their realms – for war, diplomacy, ceremonial, inspection reviews, or simply ‘to be seen.’ And where the king went, so went the court and, as an extension, the state too. Of fundamental importance to the development of court studies has been Norbert Elias’ Die höfische Gesellschaft (1969; only partially updated from his 1933 Habilitationschrift), published in an English translation of 1983 (with revisions in 2006) as The Court Society. More of a Weber-inspired sociologist than a historian, Elias articulated a model of court society which focused sharply upon a study of Bourbon French monarchy at the palace of Versailles, and employed as a core text for his study the rich and detailed

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Introduction memoirs of the Duc de Saint-Simon (1675–1755) who lived as part of, profited from, and was ultimately almost destroyed by, the French royal court. Elias suggested that Louis XIV constructed his court as an effective political tool in order to consolidate and augment an absolutist rule through which the French nobility could be tamed and domesticated; stripped of effective power and occupied instead with the minutiae of etiquette and courtly ceremonial, the elite of French society became obsessed with their positions in the orbit of the Sun King, thereby forgetting that they were ostensibly prisoners within a gilded cage.9 Elias inferred that his model for the nature and workings of the French court could be utilized in the study of other courts. However, Elias’ model has not passed without criticism: Jeroen Duindam in particular has questioned Elias’ image of Versailles and has challenged the strength of his argument, criticising especially the absence of a serious political dimension in Elias’ work.10 Nonetheless, Elias’ Court Society quickly laid out the ground-plan for further research and his work has provided a stimulus for historians of court societies of other times and places, as we shall see in later chapters of this book. While these European ideologies of court society provide much valuable material for consideration in the study of the Hellenistic court, we must speculate on the question whether or not early-modern western courts like those of the Tudors and Bourbons are the most apropos models to explore (see the alternatives offered by Duindam, Artan and Kunt 2011). After all, the Christian courts of pre-industrial Europe never fully experienced the true weight of an absolute monarchy (like that of the Hellenistic kings) in the way that courts of the pre-modern Middle East and Far East experienced absolutism. Perhaps better comparative models for the courts of the Hellenistic rulers can be found in the structures, institutions, practices, and ideologies of the non-Christian court civilizations of the east, such as the dynastic courts of the later Muslim empires (both the Abbasids and the Mughals come easily to mind).11 Profitable comparisons might also be made with the royal courts of the Maya – an ever-growing and rich field of current scholarship.12 The Christian European courts moulded themselves around the figure of a king who, whilst undeniably authoritative, nonetheless had his power tempered by clergy and politicians. European Christian monarchy was counter-balanced by political groups from among the social classes and castes of the realm, whereas the absolute tribute-gathering rulers of the east tended to govern with greater independent autocracy as kings fused their political rule with their integral religious identity, so that they were not answerable to a clergy or an independent parliament. Moreover, a

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Andrew Erskine, Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones and Shane Wallace

Christian monarch could, at best, be a serial monogamist – marrying one wife and replacing her with another only upon her death or divorce – so that the number of legitimate offspring born to a king was limited by the childbearing capabilities of his queen. Bastards born to a Christian king’s mistresses might swell the royal nurseries, but these children (privileged though they might be) could never shake off the fact of illegitimacy and the resulting disapproval of a Church that was keen to uphold the sanctity of marriage. Consequently, the royal succession and royal authority was sharply curtailed by the laws of the Church, as only legitimate sons could inherit the throne. In contrast, the polygamous unions of non-Christian monarchs with their numerous wives and concubines resulted in multiple offspring who were free of the social stigma of bastardy; the sons of concubines had the potential to become kings, but, even if they did not reach the heights of rulership, they could nonetheless serve their royal fathers by performing duties in the government or the military. In fact, this lack of social stigma over legitimacy propagated and unified the ruling eastern dynasties in tight family bonds which were never experienced by Christian monarchies on such an influentially mammoth scale. Reproductive capabilities went hand in hand with dynastic success.13 The Greeks – obsessed with issues of legitimacy – never understood the value of polygamous unions for the functioning and longevity of a monarchic house, but how did Near Eastern traditions of polygamy and succession affect the construction of Hellenistic royal dynasties and the functioning of the courts? Daniel Ogden has explored the pressures of Hellenistic dynastic reproduction, but much remains to be done.14 There can be no doubt that the pioneering work of Norbert Elias and other historians of western monarchies will continue to provide influential ways to examine court societies of antiquity: Maria Brosius’ significant study of the Persian court (2007) benefits from such an approach,15 as does Strootman’s 2014 investigation into Hellenistic court societies. But an even better understanding of the Hellenistic court can be achieved if historians look to comparative models beyond Elias and the western models of court society to open up questions of court ideologies, religion, ceremonials, and the rituals of royal hunts and feasts, of marriage practices, dynastic reproduction, and gender roles. It is now acknowledged as fact that as the Persian Empire expanded its territory in the Near East through wildly successful military campaigns, so the ruling dynasty came into contact with pre-existing court structures which proved to be influential in the formatting of a definable Achaemenid court society. Ancient Egyptian, Neo-Assyrian, Babylonian, Urartian,

Introduction

Levantine, and Anatolian courts all provided the Achaemenids with blueprints for constructing a courtly identity and, as with all forms of art and architecture, the Persians readily took from these mature royal societies the elements which they found most appealing or meaningful and blended them to create something definably ‘Achaemenid’.16 This is not to deny that the Persians had their own developing court style before the conquests of Cyrus II. But just as the Achaemenids drew inspiration from the older court societies of the Near East, so too the fully codified Persian court structure and its antecedents went on to influence the rulers of the Hellenistic world. Following his overthrow of Darius III, Alexander of Macedon enthusiastically embraced important Achaemenid court rituals and structures, and in turn some of these entered into the Hellenistic world through the practices of the Seleucid monarchs.17 Of course, there was a gulf of around 230 years between the reigns of the Persian kings Cyrus II and Darius III and some 250 years separate the reign of Alexander III and the fall of the Seleucid kingdom; the political and cultural worlds of these monarchs might have changed considerably, and while they may have utilized the same palaces, we cannot say with any certainly that their courts remained unaltered over the centuries. But what role did Macedonian traditions play in the Hellenistic courts? Were Pharaonic Egyptian elements to be found at the Ptolemaic court?18 The definition of the court in its post-Alexander context can be encapsulated in several important and interrelated ways. The court was a circle of elite people and attendants (‘courtiers’ in the broadest sense of the word) in orbit around a monarch as well as being a larger environment of political, military, economic, and cultural structures which converged within the monarch’s household; the court was therefore the vibrant contact-point between the monarch and the ruling classes at regional and local levels of the Empire. The court was also an architecturally defined series of permanent and portable spaces: the private rooms, the bureaucratic quarters, and the public halls and courtyards of the royal residences, wherein the rituals of royalty were enacted and where the monarch received homage, threw banquets, entertained, and relaxed.19 In the case of the Hellenistic kings – as with their Achaemenid and Pharaonic predecessors – it is especially important to remember that the court was not a single place per se: the court moved regularly. The court was the setting of royal ceremonial and a place wherein a theatrical display of power was created and presented through audiences, feasting, and even hunting. Taken together, the people of the inner- and outer courts constituted hoi peri te¯n aule¯n (οἱ περὶ τὴν αὐλήν), ‘those around the court’ , or aulikoi, ‘those of the court’, although the word aule¯ (‘court’, ‘yard’, ‘garden’) itself was

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Andrew Erskine, Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones and Shane Wallace rarely used by the Greeks as a synonym for ‘palace’ or ‘residence’; the possessive noun basileion or basileia – roughly, ‘the king’s habitation’, was used instead.20 The royal court influenced many of the key areas of Hellenistic culture and society. It was the centre of politics, bureaucracy and administration, the military, and perhaps even a religious centre with rituals enacted around the person of the ruler; the court was also the intellectual, artistic, and cultural centre of the Hellenistic kingdoms, and artisans of all sorts flocked there to receive patronage from the monarchs. The court was without doubt the hub for the creation of imperial royal ideology and the dissemination point for all forms of official royal dogma. The papers in this volume examine the role of palace institutions in the cultural and political milieu of the disparate societies that made up the Hellenistic eastern Mediterranean. Together they re-affirm the importance of recognizing the royal court as a major element in the culture of the Greek-speaking world in the period c. 323–31 BC. The Hellenistic world was vast and diverse, its core encompassing the Balkans, Asia Minor, Syria, Egypt and Iran. It extended eastwards to the edges of India and westwards into Sicily.21 So it is not surprising that each of the royal courts was distinctive, drawing on the traditions of its region and developing in response to local conditions. Yet at the same time they also had much in common, certainly enough to justify the use of the term ‘Hellenistic court’ as the title for the present collection of essays. This volume then is an opportunity to explore both what they shared and what made them distinctive. The evidence for the Hellenistic court, as for the Hellenistic world in general, is very varied. Epigraphy is particularly important, especially given the shortcomings of the literary sources, which with the notable exception of the second-century BC historian Polybius usually date from considerably later. Much of this literary evidence was written by Greeks under Roman rule and experience of Roman emperors may have coloured the interpretation of the Hellenistic kings and their courts. Another problem is the overwhelmingly Greek character of the surviving evidence, which can easily lead to a distorted view, although Egypt can offer a little more balance, as Dorothy Thompson demonstrates. The origins of the ‘Hellenistic court’ are complex. The Macedonian court of Philip II and Alexander III will have been a powerful influence on rulers who were largely Macedonian, but the now-defunct Achaemenid court, both in itself and as appropriated by Alexander, also served to shape what followed. This is something that comes out most strongly in the case of the Seleucid court, as David Engels shows in his examination of the relationship between it and its Achaemenid predecessor. But the emergence of these courts was part of a single phenomenon as Shane

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Wallace brings out in the opening chapter. Strikingly even before any of the Successors laid claim to the royal title they were already developing court institutions. The creation of these courts was thus part of a process of competition and imitation among the Successors. Despite the influence of the Achaemenid court, sentiment as well as experience may have given the Macedonian court priority. Over a hundred years after Alexander’s death a member of the Ptolemaic court could return from Macedon impressed by the way things were done there.22 Less expected is the contribution of the polis to the Hellenistic court, something that comes out in several of the chapters in this volume. The absolute rule of the monarch and the civic world of the polis might seem to be polar opposites, but to pose the relationship in this way would be to oversimplify it and miss much that is important. A strong Greek component in the royal courts brought with it the culture and values of the polis. This was not something that began with the Hellenistic court. Macedon had long sought to be part of the world of the Greek polis. Already in the fifth century a Macedonian king was competing in the Olympics and another was inviting Greek literary figures to the court.23 It was not simply that leading figures in Greek poleis could be found at the court of kings but that the two institutions were, in some respects at least, closely linked, the one imitating the other. Greek courtiers were also citizens of a polis, they maintained ties with their home-state and many would eventually return there. One consequence of this, as Ivana Savalli- Lestrade points out, was that they brought to the court an emphasis on friendship (philia) that was such an important feature of the polis and civic institutions more generally. The institution of the philoi should not, however, be traced back only to the polis. The title was also used at the Achaemenid court,24 but the one need not exclude the other as an influence. The coincidence of civic values and Achaemenid court tradition may have made the institution both more attractive and more meaningful in the context of the court. It was not only the male relationships of the polis that had an impact on the court. Kostas Buraselis argues that hetairai, traditionally female companions of members of the civic elite, came to be integrated into the king’s entourage. Nor was the influence solely in one direction: Athenian New Comedy in the form of Menander responded by giving hetairai greater prominence on the stage. The influence of the court could be more direct than this. Craig Hardiman, taking the example of Pergamon, suggests that rich households deliberately imitated the royal palaces both in their interior décor and in their emphasis on dining. Of course none of this is to suggest that the relationship between polis and king was an easy one; it was shaped, after all, by a fundamental inequality

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Andrew Erskine, Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones and Shane Wallace of power. Frank Walbank summarised the tension between city and king nicely as arising ‘out of the existence, side by side, of two elements, both with their own traditions, yet forced by historical events to come to terms with each other’.25 The difference between civic and monarchic practice and ideology is evident in Paola Ceccarelli’s chapter on Seleucid correspondence. Here she draws attention to the way royal letters follow patterns quite distinct from polis documents and in the process emphasise personal power of the king. Those around the king, whose individual identity tends to be erased in the royal letters, form the subject of the chapters by Ivana Savalli-Lestrade and Rolf Strootman. Savalli-Lestrade explores the various roles of those philoi who were part of the king’s inner circle. Strootman, on the other hand, turns to the later third century when the increasing influence of formal, hereditary philoi meant that kings sought to bypass them by relying more heavily on favourites, such as eunuchs who were outsiders to the established court society. When the relationship between king and court went wrong, then assassination could be one way of resolving it; that and other forms of misconduct among courtiers are the subject of Peter Franz Mittag’s chapter. The ideology of the Hellenistic court may have placed stress on the role of philia, but that has not stopped the observers of the court, both ancient and modern, representing it as a dangerous place to be, full of rivalry and intrigue. While this is undoubtedly true, the assumption that poisoning, especially by women, was relatively commonplace in the Hellenistic court is challenged by Stephanie Winder. More important than actual poisoning was the king’s knowledge of poison, something frequently remarked upon in our sources and itself a reflection of the king’s power. In practice if a king wanted to eliminate someone, he usually had few qualms about doing it violently and publicly. Banquets in particular were a suitable forum for the king’s display of violent authority, an early precedent established by Alexander’s killing of Kleitos. Other examples include Polyperchon’s strangling of Alexander’s son Herakles, Pyrrhos’ killing of his co-ruler Neoptolemos and Demetrios’ murder of Alexander V, the son of Kassandros, on his way out of a banquet.26 The latter example is taken up by Olga Palagia, who suggests that the Macedonian tomb discovered at Agios Athanasios near Thessaloniki may have belonged to Alexander V, hence the painting of a banquet that adorns its facade. Public killing was far more in the character of Hellenistic kingship than underhand poisoning. It reinforced the king’s warrior image. It should be noted too that with the exception of Kleitos these killings were all premeditated and all the victims were rivals for the throne or potential rivals. The banquet setting thus allowed the king to make a statement about the absolute nature of his rule to the assembled court.

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The Seleucids and Ptolemies were dynasties with their origins in Macedon but the majority of their subjects were neither Macedonian nor Greek. What place if any was there for the native, non-Greek population in the courts of the Hellenistic dynasties? This has been a recurring question in the scholarship of the Hellenistic court and any answer has to deal with Christian Habicht’s influential 1958 paper in which he contended that very few of the indigenous population were ever part of the ruling elite of the Hellenistic kingdoms. This was forcefully challenged back in 1993 by Susan Sherwin-White and Amélie Kuhrt, who pointed out, among other arguments, the dangers of relying on Greek names to identify Greeks. But although there is now a greater willingness to believe that the non- Greeks played a role at court, there is still no consensus as to how this may have worked in practice.27 Divergent approaches can be found in the chapters of Strootman (section 7) and Engels (section 3). A problem is the lack of identifiable native voices. The Jews offer an exception here and it is significant that, when Livia Capponi gathers together the evidence for Jews at court, it largely comes from Jewish sources (albeit in Greek). Other features of the court also suggest a greater openness than that posited by Habicht. There is the intellectual openness of the early Hellenistic kings who were prepared to act as patrons to those writing about the traditions and history of their new subjects – and in the case of Manetho and Berossos the writers were themselves part of that native population (Erich Gruen). In Egypt the court would regularly take its leave of Alexandria and move up the Nile to Memphis, engaging with both Greeks and Egyptians on the way (Dorothy Thompson). Then there was the Seleucid practice of marrying their own royal women into neighbouring native ruling families, such as those of Armenia and Cappadocia, a practice which would have given each family a presence in the court of the other (Alex McAuley). Such minor non-Greek dynasties provide an interesting contrast with the major kingdoms, taking on elements of the Greco-Macedonian courts while at the same maintaining their own identity (Oleg Gabelko). The court was made up of a shifting collection of people with the king at their centre. In this sense it was rather vague and amorphous, but it could also be made visible to those outside it. Most obviously this could be done by giving it a permanent architectural presence in the form of a palace, although it is important here not to import modern notions of the palace (see the cautionary remarks of Janett Morgan). This was no Versailles with all the courtiers living uncomfortably in the one building. In Macedon even the king’s two sons could each have a separate house.28 Alternatively the court might be put on display in a more transitory manner, whether through the spectacle and ceremony of the royal wedding (Sheila Ager) or

xxv

Andrew Erskine, Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones and Shane Wallace a stately passage along the Nile in a royal barge (Dorothy Thompson). The grandeur of the court is captured in Alexandrian poetry that finds parallels for the court in gatherings of the Olympian gods; in this context the king’s very rare public appearances take on the character of a divine epiphany (Ivana Petrovic). Where next? If ancient court studies are to bourgeon effectively – as they surely must – then it is essential that ancient courts are recognized by scholars as vital centres of politics, economy, and all forms of culture; the ancient courts must not be seen as pariah institutions. There are very many questions yet to be asked about the symbolism, form, and function of the Hellenistic royal court. Important themes such as royal household management, court administration, military duties at court, scribal and artistic aspects of the court have yet to be tackled. What about the group- dynamics of the court? What roles did each member or the court, or the sub-groups they formed, play? What roles did the artists of the royal court discharge? How best do we analyse power relations between the court and other sectors of Hellenistic society? How was gender ideology perceived in the courts of a diverse Hellenistic world? The questions only increase. What maintained the court in purely material terms – that is to say, what did people eat? Where was food cooked and how was it served? How did people in a court live, sleep, and function? Then there are the overarching questions: what was the mechanism of tribute extraction? Did it work along the Achaemenid model? Were the Hellenistic royal courts ‘theatre states’, removed from the ‘reality’ of Hellenistic life? How can iconography help unlock the closed world of the court? For surely it can. The speculations are many, the answers as yet are few. But slowly our knowledge of the Hellenistic court is yielding results. The potential for future scholarship is enormous. This volume has its origins in a very stimulating and sociable conference on the Hellenistic Court held at the University of Edinburgh in February 2011. The present collection, however, is very much a development from that conference rather than a printed version of it. Several of the papers were commissioned subsequently in order to cover important areas that were not treated at the conference itself. Many members of the School of History, Classics and Archaeology have helped at various stages, but we are particularly grateful to Alvin Jackson, who as Head of School intervened to save us from a sudden escalation in accommodation costs brought about by a Six Nations Rugby match. We are indebted to the Iran Heritage Foundation for a generous grant towards staging the conference. Thanks also to Danny Pucknell for help with the index.

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Notes 1 American Journal of Philology, vol. 132.1, 2011, guest-edited by David Potter and Richard Talbert. 2 Based on Strootman 2007. 3 See for instance a new study by Calandra 2011 on Ptolemaic court architecture and the institution of the court. 4 Elton 1983, 38. 5 Starkey 1987, 5. 6 Bishop 1998, 89. 7 Rodríguez-Salgado 1991, 207. 8 And for the Achaemenid monarch too, of course; see Tuplin 1998. 9 See also Burke 1994. 10 Duindam 2003. 11 Eraly 1997; Kennedy 2004; see also Fuess and Hartung 2011 and Rawski 1998. 12 Inomata and Houston 2001. 13 Scheidel 2009. 14 Ogden 1999. See further Alonso Troncoso 2005. 15 See also Brosius 2010. 16 On Near Eastern courts see further Spence 2007; Barjamovic 2011. 17 Spawforth 2007a; Fredricksmeyer 1997. 18 An introduction to Pharaonic court life is provided by Shaw 2012. 19 Nielsen 1999 and 2001. 20 On this terminology, see especially Morgan, this volume, section 1, and Hardiman, this volume, section 1. 21 On Hellenistic Bactria in the east, see Holt 1999; Prag and Quinn 2013 make the case for the west as part of the Hellenistic world. 22 Polyb. 16.22.3–5. 23 Alexander I at Olympics: Hdt. 5.22; on Archelaos and patronage, Borza 1993; Moloney 2014 (taking the theme into the 4th century). 24 Engels, this volume, section 2; Wiesehöfer 1980. 25 Walbank 1993, 116. 26 Kleitos: Plut. Alex. 50–2; Arr. Anab. 4.8.1–9.9; Herakles: Plut. Mor. 530d; Neoptolemos: Plut. Pyrrh. 5; Alexander V: Plut. Demetr. 36. 27 See, for instance, Brüggemann 2010, 19–57, who argues against Habicht’s ‘herrschende Gesellschaft’ and makes the case that networks of power were built between the philoi-elites to the king through personal connections. The choice of philoi was based on pragmatic not ethnic considerations, and in the first generation many may have already served under the Achaemenids. 28 Livy 40.7 for the separate residences of Perseus and Demetrios, sons of Philip V.

Bibliography Alonso Troncoso, V. (ed.) 2005 ∆ΙΑ∆ΟΧΟΣ ΤΗΣ ΒΑΣΙΛΕΙΑΣ: La figura del sucesor en la realeza helenística, Madrid. Barjamovic, G. 2011 ‘Pride, pomp and circumstance: palace, court and household in Assyria

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879–612 BCE’, in J. Duindam, T. Artan and M. Kunt (eds), Royal Courts in Dynastic States. A Global Perspective, Leiden, 27–61. Bishop, T. 1989 ‘The gingerbread host: tradition and novelty in the Jacobean masque’, in D. Bevington and P. Holbrook (eds), The Politics of the Stuart Court Masque, Cambridge, 88–120. Borza, E. 1993 ‘The philhellenism of Archelaus’, in Ancient Macedonia, vol. 5, Thessaloniki, 237–44. Brosius, M. 2007 ‘Old out of new? Court and court ceremonies in Achaemenid Persia’, in Spawforth 2007, 17–57. 2010 ‘Das Hofzeremoniell’ in Jacobs and Rollinger 2010, 459–71. Brüggemann, T. 2010 ‘Vom Machtanspruch zur Herrschaft. Prolegomena zu einer Studie über die Organisation königlicher Herrschaft im Seleukidenreich’, in T. Brüggemann, et al., Studia Hellenistica et Historiographica. Festschrift für Andreas Mehl, Gutenberg, 19–57. Burke, P. 1994 The Fabrication of Louis XIV, New Haven. Calandra, E. 2001 The Ephemeral and the Eternal. The Pavilion of Ptolemy Philadelphos in the Court of Alexandria, Athens. Duindam, J. 2003 Vienna and Versailles: The Courts of Europe’s Dynastic Rivals, 1550–1780, Cambridge. Duindam, J., Artan, T. and Kunt, M. (eds) 2011 Royal Courts in Dynastic States. A Global Perspective, Leiden. Elias, N. 1983 The Court Society, Oxford. Elton, G. 1983 ‘Tudor government. The points of contact III: the court’, in G. Elton (ed.), Studies in Tudor and Stuart Politics and Government, Cambridge, 38–57. Eraly, A. 1997 The Mughal World. India’s Tainted Paradise, London. Fredricksmeyer, E. A. 1997 ‘The origin of Alexander’s royal insignia’. Transactions and Proceedings of the American Philological Association 127, 97–109. Fuess, A. and Hartung, J.-P. (eds) 2011 Court Cultures in the Muslim World, London. Habicht, C. 1958 ‘Die herrschende Gesellschaft in den hellenistischen Monarchien’, Vierteljahresschrift für Sozial- und Wirtsschaftgeschichte, 45, 1–16 (translated as ‘The ruling class in the Hellenistic monarchies’, in C. Habicht, The Hellenistic Monarchies. Selected Papers, Ann Arbor, 2006, 26–41). Holt, F. 1999 Thundering Zeus: The Making of Hellenistic Bactria, Berkeley.

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Inomata, T. and Houston, S. D. (eds) 2001 Royal Courts of the Ancient Maya, Boulder. Jacobs, B. and Rollinger, R. (eds) 2010 Der Achämenidenhof / The Achaemenid Court, Wiesbaden. Kennedy, H. 2004 The Court of the Caliphs. The Rise of Islam’s Greatest Dynasty, London. Llewellyn-Jones, L. 2013 King and Court in Ancient Persia 559–331 BCE, Edinburgh. Moloney, E. P. 2014 ‘“Philippus in acie tutior quam in theatro fuit...” (Curtius 9.6.25). The Macedonian kings and Greek theatre’, in E. Csapo, H. R. Goette, J. R. Green, and P. J. Wilson (eds) Greek Theatre in the Fourth Century BC, Berlin, 231–48. Nielsen, I. 1999 Hellenistic Palaces, Aarhus. 2001 (ed.) The Royal Palace Institution in the First Millennium BC. Regional Development and cultural interchange between East and West, Aarhus. Ogden, D. 1999 Polygamy, Prostitutes and Death. The Hellenistic Dynasties, London. Prag, J. and Quinn, J. C. (eds) 2013 The Hellenistic West: Rethinking the Ancient Mediterranean, Cambridge. Rawski, E. S. 1998 The Last Emperors: A Social History of Qing Imperial Institutions, Berkeley. Rodríguez-Salgado, M. J. 1991 ‘The court of Philip II of Spain’, in R. G. Asch and A. M. Birke (eds), Princes, Patronage, and the Nobility. The Court at the Beginning of the Modern Age, c. 1450–1650, London and Oxford, 206–44. Scheidel, W. 2009 ‘Sex and empire. A Darwinian perspective’, in I. Morris and W. Scheidel (eds), The Dynamics of Ancient Empires. State Power from Assyria to Byzantium, Oxford, 255–324. Shaw, G. J. 2012 The Pharaoh. Life at Court and on Campaign, London. Sherwin-White, S. and Kuhrt, A. 1993 From Samarkhand to Sardis. A New Approach to the Seleucid Empire, London. Spawforth, A. J. S. 2007a ‘The court of Alexander the Great’, in Spawforth 2007b, 82–120. 2007b (ed.) The Court and Court Society in Ancient Monarchies, Cambridge. Spence, K. 2007 ‘Court and palace in ancient Egypt: the Amarna Period and the Later Eighteenth Dynasty’, in Spawforth 2007, 267–328. Starkey, D. 1987 ‘Court history in perspective’, in D. Starkey (ed.), The English Court. From the Wars of the Roses to the Civil War, London, 1–24. Strootman, R. 2007 ‘The Hellenistic Royal Court. Court Culture, Ceremonial and Ideology in Greece, Egypt and the Near East, 336–30 BCE’, PhD Thesis, Utrecht.

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2014 Courts and Elites in the Hellenistic Empires: The Near East after the Achaemenids, Edinburgh. Tuplin, C. 1998 ‘The seasonal migration of Achaemenid kings: a report on old and new evidence’, in M. Brosius and A. Kuhrt (eds), Studies in Persian History: Essays in Memory of David M. Lewis, Leiden, 63–114. Walbank, F. W. 1993 ‘Response’, in A. Bulloch, E. S. Gruen, A. A. Long and A. Stewart (eds), Images and Ideologies: Self-definition in the Hellenistic world, Berkeley, 116–25. Wiesehöfer, J. 1980 ‘Die “Freunde” und “Wohltater” des Großkonigs’, Studia lranica 9, 7–21.

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PARTI

DEVELOPMENT

COURT,KINGSHIPANDROYALSTYLEINTHE EARLYHELLENISTICPERIOD

Shane Wallace

Kingship. It is neither descent nor legitimacy which gives monarchies to men, but the ability to command an army and to handle affairs competently. Such was the case with Philip and the Successors of Alexander. For Alexander’s natural son was in no way helped by his kinship with him, because of his weakness of spirit, while those who had no connection with Alexander became kings of almost the whole inhabited world. Suda, sv Βασιλεία, B147b (Austin 2006, no. 45)

The court is an institution intrinsically connected with kingship and monarchy. Yet, even though Alexander’s Successors did not assume the title ‘king’ until almost two decades after his death, they each engaged in competitive displays of royal style and quickly developed the institutions and procedures of their own courts. By the time of Antigonos’ declaration of kingship in 306 the Hellenistic kingdoms existed in all but name. These new king-less courts led to the development of new monarchic features, the emulation of Argead and Achaemenid precedents, and the imitation of Alexander’s own court and royal style. At the same time, these years also gave rise to the gradual dissolution of the Argead dynasty of Macedon whereby the joint kings Alexander IV and Philip III Arrhidaios were manipulated, isolated, and eventually assassinated in the power struggles of Alexander’s Successors. This chapter explores the connections between the court, kingship, and royal style from 323–306. I approach this question in three parts. First, I examine how the joint kings Philip-Arrhidaios and Alexander IV were used and manipulated by their different guardians to maintain or express

Shane Wallace their own power. Second, I analyse the development of royal style under Alexander’s Successors, paying particular attention to the ways in which they adopted and adapted the Persian elements of his court and of his royal style when establishing their own power-bases and claims to kingship. Third, I argue that Alexander’s Successors began to establish their own claims to kingship from very soon after his death. They did this in various ways, but the process already seems clear as early as 323. The court was a manifestation of royalty, but when the Argead dynasty was in decline aspects of Alexander’s court and royal style could be emulated and appropriated by others to strengthen their own claims to rule. Alexander’s example was paramount and the imitation of the Persian features of his court and royal style in particular reveals the dynamic and experimental nature of Macedonian kingship in the years after his death. Rather than simply being a manifestation of kingship, such imitation could operate as the means by which one laid claim to power, authority, or even kingship. The connection between royal style and royal intentions is not altogether clear, however, as many of the features employed – Alexander- imitatio, purple robes and rugs, couches, and general displays of opulence – were simply part of the language of power employed by Alexander’s Successors. In short, emulation of Alexander’s court and royal style could be used to represent royal intentions, but they need not always have done so. By analysing the ways in which Alexander’s Successors manipulated the Argead kings and adopted and adapted aspects of Alexander’s court and royal style, we can better understand the close, interconnected relationship between king, court, and power in the early Hellenistic period.

1. The kings Philip-Arrhidaios and Alexander IV ‘Nothing remains of him apart from the material which is always excluded from immortality.’ 1 Alexander’s body, effects, and family were important tools in the wars of his Successors since they offered connection to the royal family and legitimation through association with the now dead king. The process began before Alexander’s death when he passed his ring and his wife Roxane’s hand to Perdikkas,2 thus designating him regent and perhaps calling for him to marry Alexander’s soon-to-be widow.3 Perdikkas never married Roxane, but Plutarch does claim that he worked with her to kill Stateira and her sister Drypetis, daughters of Darius III, whom Alexander and Hephaistion had married at the mass wedding at Susa (Plut. Alex. 77.4).4 Perdikkas drew legitimacy from his control of the king’s relics and his regency of the joint kings. After Alexander’s death Perdikkas called together in the royal quarters

Court, kingship and royal style in the early Hellenistic period

(the regia, according to Curtius Rufus)5 the leading commanders and unveiled before them Alexander’s empty throne, on which he had placed the king’s diadem, robes, and arms, and to which he added the ring earlier given to him by Alexander. These were Alexander’s actual effects, recently used by him in the exercise of royal power. Their symbolic value, even when separated from the king’s body, should not be underestimated.6 Perdikkas himself arranged and staged the event, a set piece carefully designed to secure and strengthen his pre-eminence after Alexander’s death.7 The exposure of Alexander’s effects symbolised Perdikkas’ control over the royal court while the return of Alexander’s ring reminded the audience that the late king had designated Perdikkas his successor; indeed, Meleagros could claim that such actions revealed Perdikkas’ royal aspirations (Curt. 10.6.21). Perdikkas continually drew power from his regency of the two kings and his connection with the royal family. He ordered and oversaw the creation of Alexander’s funerary wagon (Diod. Sic. 18.3.5, 26.1–2, 28.2) and he brought both Philip-Arrhidaios and Alexander IV on campaign to Cappadocia.8 After the execution of Kynnana he oversaw the marriage of Philip-Arrhidaios and Adea-Eurydike, reluctantly extending the royal family but maintaining a tight grip on it.9 Perdikkas allegedly planned to repudiate his wife Nikaia, daughter of Antipater, in favour of a marriage with Kleopatra, Alexander’s full sister.10 He restored Samos to the Samians in the name of the kings11 and both accompanied him on his Egyptian campaign in summer 321.12 Finally, Perdikkas planned to bury Alexander at Aigai rather than Siwah, the king’s original wish, intending no doubt to accompany the body back to Macedon at the head of the royal army and oust Antipater.13 Perdikkas’ plans encountered difﬁculty when Ptolemy stole Alexander’s body.14 Perdikkas’ subsequent invasion of Egypt was a failure and led to his death, while Ptolemy, ﬁrst interring Alexander’s body in Memphis, where he initiated games and a festival in his honour (Diod. Sic. 18.28.4–6), later moved the king’s body to a purpose-built mausoleum in Alexandria where it remained on display.15 As Alexander had overseen the burial of Philip II so too did Ptolemy oversee the interment of his predecessor.16 The process was one of royal legitimisation and a claim could be made that, in burying the previous king, Ptolemy was making a claim to be Alexander’s legitimate heir.17 After Perdikkas’ death control of the kings, the regency, and the royal court passed to Antipater.18 The redistribution of the satrapies at Triparadeisos in autumn 320 was made in the names of Philip-Arrhidaios and Alexander IV, but our sources do not thereafter show Antipater using the kings to authorise his position as Perdikkas had done. Rather, Antipater seems to have moved the kings backstage. The reason perhaps lay in the

Shane Wallace nature of his power, which was based more on personal achievement than on royal authority. His position in Greece and Macedon was secure after the Lamian War and he had ruled Europe continuously since 334, with little or no need for continual royal justification; he had even disobeyed Alexander’s orders to stand down and go to Babylon in 324/3.19 During Alexander’s absence he had suppressed revolts by Seuthes of Thrace and Agis III of Sparta, as well as defeating in 323/2 the Athenian-led alliance in the Lamian War, and he had bolstered his position by installing garrisons, governors, and tyrants loyal to him throughout Greece.20 Antipater had a sound, secure, and well-established power base in Europe, which relied on personal ability and loyalty rather than royal authority. The kings, consisting of a mentally deficient adult and a toddler, were potent symbols of royal authority and could be exploited differently according to the needs of each regent. Antipater recognised this and by isolating the kings and keeping them under close watch in Macedon (Diod. Sic. 18.39.7; Arr. Succ. 1.38, 42–5) he neutralised their propaganda potential to his opponents. His actions are not surprising as his opponents had repeatedly used the kings against him: Perdikkas had planned to marry Kleopatra and return to Macedon with Alexander’s body, the two kings, and the royal army; Adea-Eurydike tried to take control of the regency and rouse the Macedonians against Antipater;21 at Tyre in 315 Antigonos claimed before his Macedonian troops that Kassandros had imprisoned Roxane and Alexander IV and married Thessalonike by force (Diod. Sic. 19.61.1–3). The kings were powerful figureheads, Antipater’s isolation of them was in every sense pragmatic and sensible. The situation changed under Polyperchon. As many of Antipater’s partisans, governors, and garrisons remained loyal to his son Kassandros (Diod. Sic. 18.55, 57.1, 69.3–4), Polyperchon emphasised his guardianship of the two kings as a way of drawing support from the Macedonians. The kings formed the basis of Polyperchon’s power and, like Perdikkas, he took them on campaign with him. Both kings are mentioned in connection with Polyperchon in the honorary decree for Thersippos of Nesos and the treaty with Messene of 318/7.22 They also appear individually, with each being employed differently depending on the context. Olympias is offered the guardianship of her biological grandson Alexander IV alone, not her stepson Philip-Arrhidaios, whom she later had killed (Diod. Sic. 18.57.2). However, when royal authority is needed in Greece and Asia Minor preference is given to Philip-Arrhidaios, who would have been more familiar through his prominence in Macedon before Alexander’s Asian campaign (he had been betrothed to Ada, daughter of Pixodaros, Satrap of Karia, see Plut. Alex. 10.2) and more acceptable through his Greco-

Court, kingship and royal style in the early Hellenistic period

Macedonian lineage (he did not share Alexander IV’s mixed bloodline and Asian birth). The Edict to the Greek cities is written in his name alone (Diod. Sic. 18.56), so too the letter to Eresos concerning the return of its exiles (GHI 83 §4) and the dedication of a gymnasium in Mylasa in c.318/7 (I.Mylasa 21; cf. SEG XXXIII 872). Further, when Polyperchon hosts the Athenian embassies at Pharygai in Phokis it is Philip-Arrhidaios, not Alexander IV, who holds court and chairs proceedings. Polyperchon placed the king beneath a golden canopy (ouraniskos) and surrounded him with his royal philoi (see further below); no mention is made of Alexander IV. The scene at Pharygai reveals the extent of Macedonian royal authority over the Greek cities and the degree to which Polyperchon structured and disseminated his power via king and court. The insecurity of Polyperchon’s position in the war against Kassandros forced him to rely on his status as regent and to display his control of the royal court. The earlier security of Antipater’s position meant that he did not have to. The different use of the royal court by both Successors depended on the particular military and political contexts in which they found themselves. In the war between Kassandros and Polyperchon the dual kingship fractured. Threatened by the impending return of Olympias and buoyed by rising anti-Polyperchon sentiment in Macedon, Adea-Eurydike rediscovered her voice and offered the regency of her husband Philip- Arrhidaios to Kassandros, who was only too happy to accept as it brought him legitimacy and support in Macedon.23 Adea-Eurydike was defeated and driven to suicide by Olympias who also had Philip-Arrhidaios killed.24 Once Kassandros gained control of Macedon in spring 316 he buried Philip-Arrhidaios, Adea-Eurydike, and Kynnana with royal honours but, as Diodorus makes clear, stripped Roxane and Alexander IV of their royal status and placed them under house arrest in Amphipolis.25 This allowed Kassandros to appear loyal to the memory of the previous Argead king while simultaneously isolating the ruling king and laying the foundations for his own dynasty. Diodorus (19.52.1) argues that Kassandros’ marriage to Thessalonike, his foundation of Kassandreia, Thessaloniki, and Thebes, and his burial of the royal family all reveal his royal pretensions (below §3). Alexander IV, however, remained king in name if not in trappings. The Peace of the Dynasts in 311 was undertaken in his name – according to its terms he would assume control of Europe once he came of age – and in Macedon he was widely expected to assume the throne.26 His execution on Kassandros’ order shortly after the Peace of the Dynasts in 311 cannot have been a surprise once word of it leaked out.27 Nonetheless, in keeping with his earlier display of piety to Philip-Arrhidaios, Kassandros may have ensured Alexander IV’s burial in Aigai.28

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The kings, and by extension the royal court, were pawns in the wars of Alexander’s Successors. Neither Philip-Arrhidaios nor Alexander IV could function independent of others. Royal power was held in the hands of regents, each of whom employed the kings differently. Perdikkas and Polyperchon based their power on their control over the royal family, relying on the connection with the Argead dynasty and Alexander’s memory and relics to legitimise their positions. Antipater and Kassandros, on the other hand, seem to have isolated and – in Kassandros’ case especially – delegitimized the royal family. Although their aims were different – Antipater is not given royal pretensions – both based their power primarily on personal ability and loyalty, rather than on the legitimacy offered by their regency of the kings. Antipater’s loyalty to the kings caused him to pass the regency to Polyperchon rather than his son Kassandros, thus plunging Macedon proper into civil war. Kassandros, on the other hand, had no loyalty to the kings beyond the legitimacy conferred by marriage to Alexander’s half-sister Thessalonike. The kings and their court may have been pawns of Alexander’s Successors, but their signiﬁcance and the ways in which they were employed varied from regent to regent and depended on the aims and the military and political situation of each.

2. The court and royal style ‘Hagnon of Teos used to wear silver nails in his boots.’ 29 Alexander had been king in Macedon for a mere two years before invading Asia Minor. By the time of his death he had developed a highly original style of kingship that blended both Macedonian and Achaemenid elements.30 It was this style of kingship that his companions were familiar with, emulated, and brought back with them to Macedon and Greece: Leonnatos copied Alexander’s hairstyle and also had an agema of hetairoi (Suda, sv Λεοννάτος, Λ249), Krateros emulated Alexander in all respects bar the diadem and was honoured by the Macedonian troops ‘as a king’ (Suda, sv Κρατερός, K2335; Arr. Succ. F19), while Demetrios imitated Alexander’s image and Pyrrhos his character (Plut. Demetr. 41; Pyrrhus 8.2).31 Unsurprisingly, Alexander’s Successors adopted and adapted elements of Alexander’s court procedures and royal style when dealing with subjects, allies, or foreign embassies. Stavros Paspalas and Christoph Schäfer have noted some of the Achaemenid dynamics of this royal style, but much remains to be said.32 Philip-Arrhidaios, Eumenes, Peukestas, Krateros, and Kleitos the White all emulated certain eastern facets of Alexander’s kingship, in particular his dress and the physical layout of his court. These examples elucidate the early experiments in self-presentation by Alexander’s Successors and show how inﬂuential Alexander’s hybrid royal style was after his death. Further,

Court, kingship and royal style in the early Hellenistic period they reveal the local dynamics of self-presentation whereby the imagery and representation of power and kingship could be tailored to suit a local audience, be it Macedonian, Persian, or Greek. In his war with Kassandros, Polyperchon based his authority on his position as regent and his control of the royal court. The kings were a physical emblem of his position, a reminder of his status and authority, and he relied heavily on them in his dealings with both Greeks and Macedonians. Polyperchon’s display of the court of Philip-Arrhidaios at Pharygai in spring 318 deliberately echoed Alexander’s court in its integration of both Macedonian and Persian features.33 Beneath a golden canopy (ouraniskos) the king sat with Polyperchon and his philoi, perhaps on a golden throne like that earlier used by Alexander.34 The ouraniskos, a purple canopy embroidered with stars or a map of the heavens, is a well-known feature of Persian royal tents and Stavros Paspalas plausibly draws a connection with Alexander’s earlier use of the ouraniskos and royal tent (Plut. Alex. 37.4; Phylarchos FGrH 81 F41), suggesting that Polyperchon was repeating something that Alexander himself had adopted from Achaemenid Persia.35 Alexander’s tent was part of the trappings of royalty on the move and had served numerous functions, one of which was as a medium for transacting business and dispensing justice.36 The purpose here is identical. Two embassies arrive from Athens, the king listens to both and adjudicates between them, eventually passing judgement on Phokion and his partisans. The presence of the philoi next to Philip- Arrhidaios, under the ouraniskos, again echoes Alexander’s royal court where his philoi frequently appeared seated next to him, often on silver couches.37 Polyperchon’s integration of both Persian and Macedonian court elements not only references Alexander’s earlier example, it also advertises Philip-Arrhidaios’ legitimate control over the entirety of Alexander’s empire in Europe and Asia, at a time when civil war was slowly pulling it apart. For Polyperchon, Philip-Arrhidaios was the more acceptable ‘European’ face of the dual monarchy. Yet, at Pharygai Polyperchon chose to present him in a Persian-style court, an incongruity that reveals how deeply ingrained the Persian features of Alexander’s court had become in the representation of Macedonian monarchy, even in Europe. In Asia Minor, Polyperchon appointed Eumenes royal general, giving him control of the Silver Shields and access to the royal treasury at Kyinda. Eumenes’ leadership, however, was not uncontested. Diodorus (19.60.1– 61.2) and Plutarch (Eum. 13.2–3) record that Antigenes and Teutamos, leaders of the Silver Shields, only supported Eumenes with reluctance. The problem lay primarily with the symbols of power; Polyaenus (Strat. 4.8.2) states that Antigenes and Teutamos refused to meet Eumenes in his tent

Shane Wallace as this implied his leadership over them. Eumenes’ solution, perhaps in emulation of Perdikkas,38 was to have the Macedonians set up a royal tent within which he placed an empty golden throne with a diadem, sceptre, golden crown, and arms. Here, before Alexander’s empty throne, Eumenes and his fellow commanders were to meet and debate daily.39 Eumenes removed the symbol of his authority – meeting in his own tent – and replaced it with the tent and effects of Alexander. Attenders were treated as equals under Alexander’s symbolic authority and all decisions became communal. Nonetheless, Eumenes maintained control. Alexander’s tent was his idea, so he acted as council chairman.40 Also, his tent was located next to Alexander’s (Polyaenus, Strat. 4.8.2), symbolising his pre-eminence among the generals and closeness to Alexander. Like Perdikkas and Polyperchon, Eumenes used the royal court and the memory of Alexander to effect unity and facilitate the exercise of his own authority. Christoph Schäfer has argued that since the tent scene contains numerous oriental elements it must have been directed at a non- Macedonian audience.41 Before meeting in Alexander’s tent to take counsel together, all commanders were to burn incense at a fire-altar in front of Alexander’s throne and perform proskynesis to it (Diod. Sic. 18.60.6–61.1; Polyaenus, Strat. 4.8.2). As both of these actions are Persian in form, Schäfer suggests that Eumenes’ audience went beyond his fellow generals to the non-Greco-Macedonian troops in his army. These native Asian troops could identify most with the symbolism of the fire-altars, proskynesis, and empty throne, all of which were symbols of eastern divinity and kingship.42 Joseph Roisman, however, has rightly argued that the troops were excluded from the tent and the event was directed solely at the Macedonian commanders.43 It is perhaps better to view Eumenes’ actions at Kyinda within the wider context of royal style and experimentation in the years after Alexander’s death. Philip-Arrhidaios’ use of the ouraniskos, Peukestas’ banquet in Persis, and the self-presentation of Kleitos and Krateros after the Lamian War (see below) all display elite Macedonian familiarity with, and integration of, Persian royal imagery. Eumenes’ use of a fire-altar and proskynesis in Alexander’s tent reflects as much the hybrid style of Alexander’s kingship as it does the specific need to win over Persian troops. Alexander had earlier tried unsuccessfully to introduce proskynesis among his Greek and Macedonian troops – a scene that included fire-altars – and he had the sacred fires extinguished throughout the empire upon Hephaistion’s death.44 While the episode at Kyinda would have been intelligible to Persian troops, we cannot say, as Schäfer does, that it was designed for them or even that they were present. Eumenes did, however, deploy Alexander’s tent for a second time in

Court, kingship and royal style in the early Hellenistic period

Susiana (Diod. Sic. 19.15.1–4). Here a local Persian audience may have been envisaged, particularly since Eumenes was competing with Peukestas, the satrap of Persis, for leadership of the coalition forces, most of whom were Persian or from the Upper Satrapies.45 The fire-altar and proskynesis would have made Alexander, his reconstituted court, and the ceremony of worship intelligible and familiar to a Persian audience. In addition to the leading Macedonians, Eumenes may also have sought to win over the Persian commanders and troops by presenting them with a specifically Persian image of their last king and his court, while simultaneously emphasising his own closeness to Alexander. The scene at Kyinda may not have been designed with a Persian audience in mind, but the Persian dynamics of the scene could easily have been exploited in Susiana where the Persian troops were prominent and Peukestas, satrap of Persis and contender for Eumenes’ authority, was highly influential. Eumenes’ use of Alexander’s tent in Susiana was a challenge to Peukestas and an appeal to his Persian troops. Peukestas responded by granting benefactions and arranging a lavish banquet in Persis designed to win over the army’s support.46 This banquet must be understood as appealing in part at least to the Persian commanders and troops on whom he largely based his authority. Peukestas dressed and spoke Persian, making him popular with his subjects but causing tension with the Macedonians,47 and he based his claim to command on his Persian troops, his local popularity, and his position under Alexander (Diod. Sic. 19.15.1). Accordingly, at the centre of the banquet Peukestas erected statues of Philip II and Alexander, to which sacrifices were made. Around these were four concentric rings of guests: first, generals, hipparchs, and leading Persians, each with their own couch; second, lower rank commanders; third, Silver Shields and hetairoi; fourth, mercenaries and allies. The banquet was a mix of both Macedonian and Persian features. The statue of Philip II must have been included to appeal to the Macedonian contingent, in particular the Silver Shields and commanders who had served under him. By including Alexander Peukestas reminded the audience of his role as bodyguard and his claim to closeness with, and distinction under, the king. However, the majority of the coalition forces were non-Macedonian (Diod. Sic. 19.14.5–8) and Peukestas acknowledged this by including the leading Persians in the innermost ring and seating them on silver couches, as Alexander had frequently done for his closest philoi.48 Persians were more privileged at Peukestas’ banquet in Persis than they were at Alexander’s banquet in Opis, where they had been confined en masse to the second tier. Persian influence at Peukestas’ banquet may also be detectable in the feast’s circular seating plan. This imitated the

Shane Wallace concentric circles of Alexander’s feast of reconciliation at Opis (Arr. Anab. 7.11.8–9) – itself perhaps later imitated by Mithridates (App. Mith. 66) – and his audience tent, which also had a circular arrangement.49 If, as Spawforth and others have suggested, feasting in concentric circles was a Persian custom, then Peukestas was emulating Alexander emulating the Achaemenids.50 This is signiﬁcant. In addition to reminding the Macedonians of their reconciliation with Alexander at Opis, Peukestas’ banquet would also have reminded the Persians of their integration at Opis, while its circular seating plan would have emphasised and replicated the Persian aspects of Alexander’s court and kingship. Through this banquet, Peukestas sought to gain the support of both Persian and Macedonian troops and present himself as Alexander’s legitimate successor in Persis. Interestingly, he did so by emulating, among other things, the Persian features of Alexander’s court. Two anecdotes regarding the actions of Krateros and Kleitos the White during the Lamian War further display how Alexander’s Successors emulated the Persian features of his court and royal style. Moreover, they cause us to think about how Alexander’s Successors, as a cultural and political ruling elite, sought to represent themselves after his death via a process of luxury-display and Alexander-imitatio. The audience for such display is important. Eumenes and Peukestas used Persianisms to appeal to both Macedonian and Persian audiences, but Krateros and Kleitos, as victors in the Lamian War by land and sea respectively, were engaging not only with an Athenian audience but also with each other. That is, they engaged in a competitive process of emulation and rivalry manifested through the adoption and adaptation of Alexander’s royal style. It is important to remember that Alexander’s Successors were elite, ambitious, wealthy individuals whose self-presentation must have been, to a certain degree, self-referential and designed as much for elite as for public consumption. The displays of opulence that they engaged in both during and after Alexander’s lifetime were part of the normal, competitive language of image and authority. There are numerous examples of Alexander’s philoi at court acting in this manner: Hagnon of Teos wore silver nails in his boots, Leonnatos had sand from Egypt brought on campaign with him for use in his gymnastic exercises and, with Perdikkas, had elaborate travelling gymnasia that covered an entire stade, while Leonnatos, Menelaos, and Philotas had curtains for hunting that enclosed a space of a hundred stades circumference.51 The examples of Krateros and Kleitos the White further show that Alexander’s Successors were playing off one-another and displaying through their victories, dress, and actions their competing claims to power and perhaps even kingship. Their

Court, kingship and royal style in the early Hellenistic period imitation of the specifically Persian features of Alexander’s court and royal style stresses again the importance of these elements in the representation of power and re-emphasises the nuanced nature of the relationship between power, court, and kingship. According to the treatise On Style, after the battle of Krannon Krateros (and presumably Antipater) greeted ambassadors from the defeated Athenians, one of whom was Demetrios of Phaleron.52 The author describes Krateros as ‘seated aloft on a golden couch, wearing a purple mantle and receiving the Greek embassies with haughty pride’, which earned Demetrios’ scorn.53 There are echoes of both Alexander and the Achaemenids here. The scene echoes Alexander’s court, where the king received embassies seated upon a golden throne with his friends arranged around him on couches, often with silver feet, features that also appeared in the Persian court (see nn. 34, 37). Chares of Mytilene (FGrH 125 F4) adds that Alexander’s tent was held aloft by gold-covered, purple-draped columns. The scene is also reminiscent of the Persian court. Krateros’ raised couch may imitate the Persian throne, which was frequently depicted on a raised dais or platform,54 while the appearance of purple brings to mind the fourth-century Greek historian Herakleides of Kyme’s description of the Great King holding court on a golden throne surrounded by four golden columns covered in purple hangings (FGrH 689 F1). Krateros’ purple robe was obviously a striking and important detail and it signifies further the eastern influences on his self-presentation. Purple was a sign of power and wealth throughout antiquity and became institutionalised as a status symbol for the king and his ruling elite by the Persians.55 Alexander gave purple cloaks to his hetairoi (Diod. Sic. 17.77.5) and 500 Susan noblemen (Phylarchos FGrH 81 F41; Polyaenus, Strat. 4.3.24), an action with Achaemenid and near eastern precedents.56 Eumenes also gave purple hats (kausiai) and cloaks (chlamydes) to his troops, a gesture usually reserved for royalty (Plut. Eum. 8.7). Krateros’ purple cloak denotes not only his position in the Macedonian ruling elite, but also his emulation of Alexander, specifically his court and oriental dress, and his personal closeness to the king, from whom he perhaps received the cloak. Plutarch records that Krateros was a staunch traditionalist and a vocal opponent of Alexander’s orientalism, and this view has been frequently repeated in modern scholarship.57 The treatise On Style, however, shows Krateros employing these same orientalisms in his dealings with Athens and, presumably, other Greek states. This is more in keeping with the Suda’s claim (sv Κρατερός, 2335; Arr. Succ. F19) that Krateros ‘had the pride of a king, and stood out for his splendid clothing – he followed Alexander in all the finery of his attire, apart from the diadem’ and that the troops

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58 ‘respected Krateros like a king’ (οἷα βασιλέα). No opponent of eastern dress here. Krateros’ closeness to the king and his acceptance of Alexander as ‘King of Asia’ can be seen in the lion hunt monument at Delphi. This monument, a bronze sculptural group showing Krateros saving Alexander’s life while on a hunt in Asia, was commissioned c.322/1, shortly after Krateros’ victory in the Lamian War and immediately prior to his return to Asia in 320; it was perhaps completed as early as 320.59 With this dedication Krateros promoted to a Greek audience Alexander’s claim to be ‘King of Asia’.60 Further, the iconography of the lion hunt may suggest royal aspirations on Krateros’ own part since the lion could be a symbol of kingship, especially in Asia.61 And we should not forget that Krateros and Antipater were preparing to invade Asia Minor in 320 to contend with Perdikkas and the kings. Krateros was extremely popular after Alexander’s death (Plut. Alex. 47.9–10; Eum. 6.3, 7.1–2, 8.1–2; Demetr. 14.2–3). Plutarch (Eum. 6.2) says that this was because the troops remembered his frequent opposition to Alexander’s Persianisms. Arrian (Succ. F19; Suda, sv Κρατερός, K2335) says that it lay in part with his royal dress and bearing. Krateros may have opposed Alexander’s orientalisms during the king’s life but it would appear that after Alexander’s death Krateros was not entirely the Macedonian traditionalist Plutarch made him out to be.62 This should not surprise us. Like many of his contemporaries, Krateros emulated Alexander, who was heavily inﬂuenced by Persian royal display.63 Krateros’ haughty, regal appearance before the Athenian ambassadors after the battle of Krannon, his dedication of the lion hunt monument to Alexander as ‘King of Asia’, and his emulation of Alexander’s dress and bearing reveal the degree to which Alexander’s Successors, even one-time traditionalists such as Krateros, adopted and adapted the Persian elements of Alexander’s court and dress in their own self-presentation after the king’s death. Krateros’ actions after his victory on land in the Lamian War must be juxtaposed with Kleitos’ victories on sea. Plutarch records that ‘Kleitos, having sunk three or four Greek triremes at Amorgos was acclaimed Poseidon and carried a trident’.64 The scene brings to mind the Nauarch’s Monument at Delphi where, after his victory at Aegospotami, Lysander was depicted being crowned by Poseidon.65 The monument proclaimed that Lysander’s victories were equal to those of Poseidon and that he was almost a god himself. By assuming Poseidon’s trident, the deﬁning feature of the divinity, and being addressed as him – by whom is unclear, perhaps his troops – Kleitos was also claiming semi-divine status and emphasising his victory over the Athenians as worthy of Poseidon. Kleitos’ emulation of Poseidon should be understood in the wider context of victory and self-

Court, kingship and royal style in the early Hellenistic period

Fig. 1.1: Silver tetradrachm of Demetrios Poliorketes, c. 289–288, minted Amphipolis. Obverse: diademed portrait of Demetrios with horns. Reverse: Poseidon holding trident, inscribed ‘King Demetrios’. Newell 1927: 111–18 (courtesy of Classical Numismatic Group, www.cngcoins.com). presentation in the early Hellenistic period, whereby assuming the physical attributes of a god displayed that god’s patronage as well as the individual’s own claim to quasi-divinity. Ephippos (FGrH 126 F5) claims that Alexander dressed as Ammon, Artemis, Hermes, and Herakles, while we know that he also imitated Dionysos and claimed descent from Zeus-Ammon.66 The Athenian pankratiast and Olympic victor Dioxippos emulated Herakles by wearing a lion skin and carrying a club (Diod. Sic. 17.100.1– 101.6; Curt. 9.7.16–26).67 Olympias dressed as a Bacchic reveller in her battle with Adea-Eurydike (Duris FGrH 76 F52). Demetrios Poliorketes’ portrait coins from 301 onwards depict him with the horns of Poseidon, from whom he was said to be descended (see Fig. 1.1; Duris FGrH 76 F13); the horns likely symbolise his naval prowess, Poseidon’s patronage, and his victory in the Battle of Cyprian Salamis, from which he drew his claim to kingship (Plut. Demetr. 17).68 Kleitos’ trident and acclamation as Poseidon served a similar function: they symbolised his victory over the Athenians at Amorgos, Poseidon’s patronage, and his claim to power in the wars of Alexander’s Successors. Phylarchos and Agatharchides add that ‘whenever Kleitos, who was called the White, had business to transact, he walked about on purple cloths (ἐπὶ πορφυρῶν ἱµατίων) while conversing with those who had audience with him.’69 Since this passage comes from the tenth and ﬁnal book of Agatharchides’ Asian Affairs, dealing with the period after Alexander,70 it should be taken in conjunction with Kleitos’ emulation of Poseidon after the Battle of Amorgos, when he was at his most powerful. This is the most plausible context for Kleitos’ receiving embassies and presenting himself in such a lavish and regal style. Further, since purple was widely associated with the gods in the Greek world it makes sense to connect this passage with Kleitos’ emulation of Poseidon.71

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Kleitos’ purple robes carry many of the same connotations as Krateros’: status, power, closeness to, and emulation of, Alexander. There is, however, an added Persian dynamic in the fact that these himatia are used as rugs for Kleitos to walk on. The Persian king, as described by the fourth- century historians Herakleides of Kyme (FGrH 689 F1) and Dinon of Kolophon (FGrH 690 F26), did not let their feet touch the ground in public and walked on rugs when in the palace.72 Alexander imitated this at the mass wedding at Susa when ‘the structure was decorated sumptuously and magniﬁcently with expensive draperies and ﬁne linens, and underfoot with purple and crimson rugs interwoven with gold.’73 Demetrios Poliorketes ensured that he continually walked on purple by wearing ‘gold- embroidered felt shoes made from unmixed purple’.74 Later, Ptolemy Philadelphos’ audience tent had ‘Persian carpets’ spread underfoot.75 By spreading purple himatia beneath his feet when transacting business and meeting ambassadors, Kleitos was imitating Alexander’s actions at Susa and Achaemenid royal self-presentation. The verb used to describe Kleitos’ actions – χρηµατίζειν – is also used to describe Alexander holding court in his tent, conducting business (Phylarchos FGrH 81 F41; Aelian VH 9.3), judging cases (Polyaenus, Strat. 4.3.24), and receiving embassies (Diod. Sic. 17.113.1–4).76 It is likely that Kleitos was using a tent when hosting embassies, again perhaps in emulation of Alexander; it would make more sense to spread purple robes indoors rather than outdoors.77 Phylarchos’ depiction of Kleitos greeting embassies on purple robes may also contain interesting Athenian inter-textual references. One is reminded in particular of Alkibiades’ appearance at the theatre dressed in purple while acting as choregos (Ath. 12.534c: ἐν πορφυρίδι εἰσιὼν εἰς τὸ θέατρον), his public display of purple robes (Plut. Alc. 16.1: θηλύτητας ἐσθήτων 78 ἁλουργῶν ἑλκοµένων δι’ ἀγορᾶς), and his use of a Persian tent, provided by the Ephesians, at the Olympic games of 416 (Andoc. 4.30: σκηνὴν µὲν 79 Περσικὴν). However, something subtler may also be evident. The image of a conqueror, here Kleitos, having campaigned in the east, now returning victorious to Greece, and walking on purple robes, echoes that of Aeschylus’ Agamemnon (lines 906–65) when the king returns to Argos and is compelled to descend from his chariot and walk a purple-strewn path (line 910: πορφυρόστρωτος πόρος) to his palace. Aeschylus thrice calls the 80 purple garments spread beneath Agamemnon εἵµατα (lines 921, 960, 963) while Phylarchos and Agatharchides, according to the intermediary source Athenaeus, call those spread beneath Kleitos πορφυρῶν ἱµατίων; Aelian calls them πορφυρῶν εἱµάτων. The distinction between himatia and heimata is slight and the key image remains of a victorious conqueror returning from the east and walking on purple. It is very possible that Phylarchos was

Court, kingship and royal style in the early Hellenistic period deliberately juxtaposing Kleitos and Agamemnon. The historian knew Aeschylus’ work and used his etymology of the Kouretes in the 11th book of his European Affairs (FGrH 81 F23), the companion piece to his Asian Affairs. It is also perhaps noteworthy that Aeschylus’ explanation on the etymology of the Kouretes concerns luxury, a theme central to Phylarchos’ depiction of Kleitos.81 Agamemnon was hesitant to walk the purple path, claiming that it was something an eastern monarch such as Priam would do (lines 926–35), a comparison that Klytemnestra herself makes. A comparison with Agamemnon would depict Kleitos as hubristic and corrupted by the east, in keeping with his emulation of Alexander and the Persian kings. In walking on the purple robes, and being addressed as Poseidon, Kleitos is, like Agamemnon, acting impiously and hubristically. Phylarchos’ possible – I would say likely – reference to Aeschylus’ Agamemnon also gives the depiction of Kleitos tragic flavour. It establishes a theme of eastern hubris and corruption and implies a dramatic, impending fall. Kleitos’ famous defeat and death after his initial victory over Nikanor at the Hellespont may be implied (Diod. Sic. 18.72; Marm. Par. 115–16). Such tragic connotations should not be surprising. Leosthenes was presented in a heroic manner in Hyperides’ Epitaphios and the Lamian War itself was the subject of the epic poem the Lamiaka by Choirilos of Iasos, a contemporary of Alexander.82 The possible depiction of Kleitos as Agamemnon – whether Phylarchos’ or not – contains a learned inter-textual reference suitable for an Athenian context and fits within a wider context whereby the individuals and events of the Lamian War could be the subject of literary works. The aforementioned examples – Philip-Arrhidaios, Eumenes, Peukestas, Krateros, and Kleitos – all show how Alexander offered his Successors a model for the display of power and kingship. The years after Alexander’s death were a period of experimentation in the display of power and of how deeply the mixed Persian-Macedonian style of Alexander’s kingship had influenced his Successors. Eumenes and Peukestas show how eastern features of royal display had become familiar to Persian and Macedonian troops, but Philip-Arrhidaios, Krateros, and Kleitos show how unpopular these features were to a Greek audience unaccustomed to Persian royal display. We are also cautioned to think about the audience for such display. Eumenes and Peukestas mimicked the Persian dynamics of Alexander’s court in order to appeal, perhaps surprisingly, to both Macedonians and Persians, while Kleitos and Krateros show that Alexander-imitatio was part of the competition between Successors and a feature of the representation of the claims to power made after Alexander’s death.

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3. The court and kingship ‘A throne is not to be shared and several men were aspiring to it.’ 83 After Alexander’s death royal power lay in the hands of whoever controlled the royal family. However, many of Alexander’s generals were acting and representing themselves in increasingly royal ways and some appear to have sought the throne themselves. The means by which they went about this differed and some were more successful than others. I have examined above the importance of acting as regent and imitating Alexander’s dress, court, and royal style. However, there were other ways in which Alexander’s Successors laid claim to royal status: marriage into the royal family, burial of one’s predecessor, overseeing eponymous foundations, and assuming royal prerogatives. Marriage into the royal family offered legitimacy through existing royal structures (Diod. Sic. 18.23.3, 19.52.1, 20.37.4). Marriage between Perdikkas and Roxane was perhaps intimated by Alexander on his deathbed, which would have made Perdikkas uncle to Alexander IV and facilitated his assumption of the throne.84 Statira, and perhaps Parysatis, Alexander’s Persian wives, were killed by Roxane and Perdikkas, thus denying potential contenders for the throne the chance to marry Alexander’s widows of royal Persian blood (see n. 4 above). Perdikkas and Leonnatos were of royal stock (Curt. 10.7.8; Suda, sv Λεοννάτος, 249; Arr. Succ. F12) and both planned to take control of Macedon and marry Alexander’s full sister Kleopatra, which would have made them uncles to Alexander IV.85 Kleopatra’s hand was also sought by at least Antigonos, Ptolemy, Kassandros, and Lysimachos (Diod. Sic. 20.37; Heidelberg Epitome FGrH 155 F4). Kassandros, however, was the only Successor to marry an Argead. His union with Thessalonike, daughter of Philip II and half-sister of Alexander,86 gave him legitimacy in Macedon, a position within the Argead dynasty, and a claim to the throne. Antigonos acknowledged the importance of this marriage when he tried to undermine it by calling it illegitimate (Diod. Sic. 19.61.2). Burial of the previous king’s body could strengthen one’s claim to the throne (see n. 16). Perdikkas planned to return to Macedon at the head of the royal army and bury Alexander in Aigai. Ptolemy, however, stole the body and, by staging funerary games and ensuring its interment, presented himself as Alexander’s successor and heir. Antigonos ensured that Kleopatra, whose death he had arranged, was buried with Macedonian royal honours, thus advertising his piety to and defence of the royal family, while also stressing his role as successor to it.87 Kassandros, most prominently, buried Philip-Arrhidaios, Adea-Eurydike, and Kynnana in Aigai while denying burial to Olympias. His actions punished Olympias,

Court, kingship and royal style in the early Hellenistic period the murderer of the legitimate king, and presented himself as the king’s successor. Kassandros may eventually have granted Alexander IV a royal burial, further cementing his position as successor to the Argead kings. Eponymous foundations could also denote royal intentions. Philip II founded Philippopolis in the early 350s and re-founded Krenides as Philippi, where he may have received cult.88 Alexander, in his turn, founded Alexandropolis in 340 and numerous Alexandrias throughout the east.89 Alexander’s Successors founded further Alexandrias as signs of piety to the dead king,90 but they also founded cities named after themselves and their wives. Kassandros founded both Thessaloniki91 and Kassandreia92 in 316/5, in emulation of Philip II and Alexander.93 As the ﬁrst city named after a Hellenistic queen, Thessaloniki shows the queen’s importance in legitimising Kassandros’ position within Macedon.94 Lysimachos founded Lysimacheia c.309, Ptolemy founded Ptolemais in the Thebaid, but the date is uncertain, while Antigonos founded Antigoneia Troas after 311 and Antigoneia-on-the-Orontes in 306, from which he and his son Demetrios were probably declared kings.95 Eponymous foundations imprinted one’s rule physically on the land and promoted one’s family as dynasty. Alexander’s Successors soon began to act in ways traditionally reserved for kings. Perdikkas and Leonnatos both sought the kingship, while Krateros emulated Alexander and was honoured by the Macedonian troops ‘as a king’ (Suda, sv Κρατερός, K2335; Arr. Succ. F19). Eumenes was voted his own bodyguard (Plut. Eum. 8.11; Just. Epit. 14.1.9–10) and gave to his troops such honours as ‘kings bestow upon their philoi’ by distributing ‘purple caps and military cloaks...a special gift of royalty among Macedonians’ (Plut. Eum. 8.7).96 Antigonos twice distributed satrapies among his friends, but without Perdikkas’ and Antipater’s earlier deference to royal authority.97 Diodorus’ image of Antigonos sitting in court among his philoi reﬂects Alexander’s and Philip-Arrhidaios’ actions and shows Antigonos acting in a decidedly royal way (19.48.1). Erich Gruen argues that royal aspirations are not attributed to Antigonos, but numerous sources speak of his royal aspirations and actions from at least 316 onwards.98 Diodorus records that Antigonos was ‘honoured in royal style (τιµῆς…ἠξιώθη βασιλικῆς), as if he were lord of Asia’ by the inhabitants of Persis in summer of either 316 or 315, shortly before Seleukos honoured him with ‘royal gifts’ (δωρεαῖς τε βασιλικαῖς) on his arrival in Babylon (Diod. Sic. 19.48.1, 55.2; cf. Polyaenus, Strat. 4.6.13).99 Further, both Diodorus (18.58.4) and the Heidelberg Epitome (FGrH 155 F3.2) explicitly state that Antigonos sought the kingship. The sources continually highlight Demetrios’ royal qualities and his dynastic role as Antigonos’ successor.100 Seleukos transacted business among the Persians as king (Plut.

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Demetr. 18.3) and Ptolemy is twice called king of Egypt by Diodorus before 306 (18.21.9, 20.27.1). Bosworth has argued that the royal title was used informally by Ptolemy long before his ofﬁcial acceptance of it in late 305 or early 304.101 In short, Alexander’s Successors were acting as kings and widely recognised as such in practice if not in name long before their eventual declarations of kingship.

4. Conclusion The role played by the court and royal style in the years after Alexander’s death was a diverse but important one. Each of his Successors had his own court, which existed concurrently with that of the legitimate Argead kings, Philip-Arrhidaios and Alexander IV. Unsurprisingly, the Argead court was a major influence on the courts of the Successors. Perdikkas and Polyperchon drew upon the kings and the Argead court to enforce their own positions, while Antipater isolated the kings in order to strengthen his. Kassandros, in turn, disenfranchised Philip-Arrhidaios and eradicated the Argead dynasty in order to strengthen his own claim to kingship. The royal style employed by Alexander’s Successors served numerous functions. Achaemenid features, such as purple robes, circular banquets, tents, and elevated thrones, became part of the language of power among Alexander’s Successors and marked out an individual as a potential claimant to Alexander’s throne. A process of contestation and emulation may be discerned with each Successor trying to out-do the other in royal style. Alexander’s Persianisms remained important in the representation of power and kingship in the early Hellenistic world. The interplay, indeed contestation, of such Persianisms between Eumenes and Peukestas, Krateros and Kleitos show how the years after Alexander’s death were a period of experimentation and rivalry in elite Macedonian self-representation. Royal ambitions were entertained by some of Alexander’s Successors immediately after his death, and they are ascribed explicitly to Perdikkas and Leonnatos. Harpalos honoured his courtesan Pythonike with βασιλικαῖς δωρεαῖς during her lifetime (Diod. Sic. 17.108.5) while Rhodes was also honoured with βασιλικαῖς δωρεαῖς (Diod. Sic. 20.81.3) by Alexander’s successors pre-305.102 However, since ostentatious luxury and Alexander- imitatio were part of the lingua franca of the early Hellenistic period, it is difficult to distinguish between royal style and royal aspirations, if indeed such a distinction can or should be drawn.103 Because Antigonos, Ptolemy, Lysimachos, and Kassandros eventually became kings there is a tendency, both ancient and modern, to ascribe royal intentions to them from the very beginning and to interpret their actions in this light. Krateros, Kleitos, and Peukestas are more difficult to interpret. Royal aspirations are not

Court, kingship and royal style in the early Hellenistic period attributed to them, but their actions show that they were emulating Alexander, adapting his royal style, and assuming royal prerogatives. Any royal aspirations they might have had – and we cannot deny that they might have existed – would have been no less valid than those of Antigonos or Ptolemy. One’s claim to the throne could be promoted by emulating royal style and court structures, but we cannot conclusively state that each and every use of either denoted an explicit claim to royal status because on one level such display was just part of the discourse of power among Alexander’s Successors. In short, no clear and distinct separation between royal style and royal status existed. The years after Alexander’s death were a period of confusion over the future and indeed nature of the kingship and they saw intense experimentation in the representation of power and royalty.

Acknowledgements Earlier versions of this paper were presented as research seminars in both NUI Maynooth and University College Cork. I am grateful to Andrew Erskine and Brian McGing for their many useful comments. I have beneﬁted much from conversations with Alexander Meeus, Kyle Erickson, and Martine Cuypers.

Notes 1 Curt. 10.6.7: nihil aliud ex eo superest quam quod semper ab immortalitate seducitur, attributed to Peridikkas. 2 Alexander’s ring: Diod. Sic. 17.117.3, 18.2.4; Curt. 10.5.4, 6.16–18; Just. Epit. 12.15.12–13; Nepos Eum. 2.1; Liber de Morte 112; Heidelberg Epitome FGrH 155 F1.2; Lucian Dial. mort. 13.2. The story is not recorded by Arrian (Anab. 7.26.3) or Plutarch (Alex. 76), which caused Hammond (1983, 7) to doubt it, but see Badian’s response (1987, 605 n. 1). Roxane: Liber de Morte 112, 118; Trogus F28a. 3 Regency: Hamilton 1969, 22; Rathmann 2005, 25–6; Yardley, et al. 2011, 69–70. Alexander had Philip II’s royal seal when he was regent of Macedon in 340 (Plut. Alex. 9.1). Marriage: Heckel 1992, 144; Ogden 1999, 46–7; O’Neil 2002, 166 n. 37. 4 Carney (2000, 110–11) suggests that instead of executing Stateira’s sister, Drypetis, Perdikkas probably executed Parysatis, daughter of Artaxerxes III and wife of Alexander, cf. Brosius 2003, 177. Roxane was probably allying with Perdikkas to remove potential opponents and ensure power for her child, should it be male (Ogden 1999, 43–4; Carney 2000, 106–7, 146–8; 2003, 245–6; O’Neil 2002, 164–8; Holt 2005, 86–91; Heckel 2006, 241–2). 5 Alexander’s death (10.5.8–9), Perdikkas’ exposure of the throne (10.6.1–7), and the declaration of Philip-Arrhidaios as king (10.7.7, 8.8–9, 16) all took place in the regia. 6 Curtius (10.7.16–19) records that Alexander’s body was in a different room during these proceedings.

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7 Errington 1976, 139; Meeus 2009b, 238. 8 Plut. Eum. 3.7; Diod. Sic. 18.16.1, 22.1 (mentioning just Philip-Arrhidaios). Bosworth (1993) argues that this was the context for the declaration of Alexander IV as king, though Yardley, et al. propose a later date (2011, 138; Arr. Succ. 1.21–4). 9 Polyaenus, Strat. 8.60; Arr. Succ. 1.21–4 with Simonetti Agostinetti 1993, 60–2; Yardley, et al. 2011, 142–3. 10 Arr. Succ. 1.21, 26; Just. Epit. 13.6.4–8; Diod. Sic. 18.23, 25.3; Heckel 1992, 156– 63; Meeus 2009c, 73–80. 11 Diod. Sic. 18.18.6 with IG XII (6) 1, 42, ll.64–5. 12 Arr. Succ. 1.28; Diod. Sic. 18.29.1, 36.6–7; Strabo 17.1.8. 13 Siwah: Curt. 10.5.4; Just. Epit. 12.15.7, 13.4.6; Diod. Sic. 18.28.3, 3.5; Liber de Morte 108, 119; Ps.-Kallisthenes 3.34. Aigai: Paus. 1.6.3; Arr. Succ. 1.25, F24.1–5; cf. Just. Epit. 7.2.2–4. For interpretation, see Badian 1967, 185–9; Errington 1970 64–5; 1976, 142; Goukowsky 1978, 140–1; Heckel 1992, 156; Simonetti Agostinetti 1999; Meeus 2009b, 242–3; Yardley, et al. 2011, 84. Demades, who was in communication with Perdikkas, assumed that he would cross into Europe (Diod. Sic. 18.48.2; Arr. Succ. 1.14; Plut. Phoc. 30.5; Dem. 31.3). 14 Arr. Succ. 1.25, 24.1–5; Paus. 1.6.3; Strabo 17.1.8; Aelian VH 12.64 with Prandi 2005, 140–1; cf. Ps.-Kallisthenes 3.34. On the theft and propaganda value of Alexander’s body see, Seibert 1969, 96–102, 110–12; Müller 1973, 59–61; Errington 1976, 141–5; Erskine 2002; Landucci Gattinoni 2008, 129–38; Atkinson and Yardley 2009, 242–6; Yardley, et al. 2011, 82–4. 15 Memphis: Marm. Par. 112a; Curt. 10.10.20; Paus. 1.6.3; Ps.-Kallisthenes 3.34; Fraser 1972, 31–2. Notably, Memphis was Perdikkas’ goal in his invasion of Egypt (Diod. Sic. 18.34.6; Landucci Gattinoni 2008, 153; Atkinson and Yardley 2009, 243). Alexandria: Diod. Sic. 18.28.3; Curt. 10.10.20; Ps.-Kallisthenes 3.34; Heidelberg Epitome FGrH 155 F2.1; cf. Strabo 17.1.8. 16 Diod. Sic. 17.2.1; Just. Epit. 11.2.1; FGrH 148 F1 (POxy. 1798): τὸ δὲ σῶµ[α | τοῦ Φιλ]ίππου θερά||[πουσι θάψ]αι παρέδωκ[ε|...... π]ερὶ τὴν [ταφὴν]. For legitimacy and burial in Macedonian kingship, see Parsons 1979; Hammond 1989, 219–20; Stewart 1993, 222; Simonetti Agostinetti 1993, 62–4; Rives-Gal 1996, 163; Erskine 2002, 171; Schäfer 2002, 59–60; Alonso 2009; Meeus 2009b, 242. 17 Diod. Sic. 18.28.4; Paus. 1.6.3; Alonso 2009, 276–87; see further below §3. 18 Diod. Sic. 18.39; Arr. Succ. 1.31–8; Heidelberg Epitome FGrH 155 F1.4. On the events of Triparadeisos, see Simonetti Agostinetti 1993, 79–87; Landucci Gattinoni 2008, 168–84; Yardley, et al. 2011, 161–3. For the ‘low’ date of autumn 320, see most recently Yardley, et al. 2011, 8–22. 19 Arr. Anab. 7.12.4; Just. Epit. 12.12.9; Grifﬁth 1965. 20 Paus. 7.10.1; Diod. Sic. 18.18.5–8, cf. 17.7–8. 21 Arr. Succ. 1.31–3; Diod. Sic. 18.39.1–4; Polyaenus, Strat. 4.6.4; Roisman 2012, 136–44. 22 I Adramytteion II 34, ll.23–9; SEG XLIII 135. 23 Just. Epit. 14.5.1–5 (with Yardley, et al. 2011, 191–201); Oros. 3.23.29; Diod. Sic. 19.11.1–2 (with Meeus 2009a, 77–86). 24 Diod. Sic. 19.11; Just. Epit. 14.5–10.6; Carney 2006, 73–7. 25 Diod. Sic. 19.52.4–5; Diyllus FGrH 73 F1; Just. Epit. 14.6.13; Oros. 3.23.32; Palagia 2000, 197–8; O’Neil 2000, 123; Alonso 2009, 287–8. 26 Diod. Sic. 19.105.1–4; Heidelberg Epitome FGrH 155 F1.6.

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27 Diod. Sic. 19.105.2–4 with Meeus 2009a, 378–9; Trog. Prol. 15; Just. Epit. 11.10.2–3, 13.2.7, 14.6.2, 15.2.4–5 with Yardley, et al. 2011, 233–7; Heidelberg Epitome FGrH 155 F2.2; Marm. Par. 121; Paus. 9.7.2; Porphyry FGrH 260 F3.3; App. Syr. 54.275; cf. Oros. 3.23.38; Schachermeyr 1920; Boerma 1979, 261–6; Wheatley 1998, 16–18; Landucci Gattinoni 2003, 129–32. 28 See, most recently, Alonso 2009, 288–92. 29 Plut. Alex. 40.1: Ἅγνωνα µὲν τὸν Τήϊον ἀργυροῦς ἐν ταῖς κρηπῖσιν ἥλους φορεῖν; Pliny HN 33.50. 30 Fredricksmeyer 2000. 31 On Alexander-imitatio in general, see Heuß 1954; Bohm 1989; Müller 2009 Wallace, forthcoming. 32 Schäfer 2002, 24–6, 31–2; Paspalas 2005. 33 Polyperchon’s audience consisted of Greeks, Macedonians, and foreigners (Plut. Phoc. 33). 34 Plut. Phoc. 33.5–7; Diod. Sic. 18.66.1–3. Alexander’s golden throne: Ephippos FGrH 126 F4; Phylarchos FGrH 81 F41; Polyaenus, Strat. 4.3.24; Aelian VH 8.7, 9.3; cf. Polykleitos FGrH 128 F1; Curt. 9.7.15; Fredricksmeyer 2000, 152, 159–61. The golden throne was a Persian feature: Herakleides FGrH 689 F1; Xen. Hell. 1.5.3; cf. Fredricksmeyer 2000, 158–9; Schäfer 2002, 26–32. Empty, golden thrones appeared in the procession of Ptolemy Philadelphos for both Alexander and Ptolemy Soter (Kallixeinos of Rhodes FGrH 627 F2.34; Rice 1983, 116–7; Thompson 2000, 378–9; Schäfer 2002, 35–6). Upon these were placed golden crowns, probably as symbols of past kingship (Picard 1954, 8–10). Ptolemy Soter also appears in Zeus’ palace on a golden throne next to Alexander and Herakles (Theoc. Id. 17.16–19), perhaps echoing Zeus’ golden throne in the Iliad (8.442, cf. 436). 35 Photius Lexicon s.v. οὐρανός; cf. Herakleides FGrH 689 F5 (σκηνὴν οὐρανοφόρον ἀνθινὴν); Paspalas 2005, 77–81. On Persian royal tents, see now Llewellyn-Jones 2013, 88–92. For the use of an ouraniskos by Ptolemy Philadelphos, see Kallixeinos of Rhodes FGrH 627 F2. 36 Phylarchos FGrH 81 F41; Polyaenus, Strat. 4.3.24; Aelian VH 9.3; Spawforth 2007, esp. 95. 37 Chares FGrH 125 F4; Aelian VH 8.7. Couches with gold and silver feet also appeared at the Persian court: Herakleides FGrH 689 FF2, 5; cf. Plut. Art. 22.5–6. Note also Athenion’s entry into Athens in 88: ἐπ᾿ ἀργυρόποδος κατακοµίζεται φορείου καὶ πορφυρῶν στρωµάτων (Poseidonios FGrH 87 F36). 38 Errington 1976, 139–40. 39 Diod. Sic. 18.60.4–61.3, 19.15.3–4; Plut. Eum. 13.3–4; Nepos Eum. 7.2–3; Polyaenus, Strat. 4.8.2; Picard 1954, 4–9; Errington 1976, 140–1; Schäfer 2002, 19–37; Anson 2004, 150–2; Roisman 2012, 182–4. 40 Polyaenus, Strat. 4.8.2; Bosworth 1992, 68; Hatzopoulos 1996, 344–5. 41 2002, 24–6, 31–2. 42 Picard 1954; Fredricksmeyer 2000, 158; Schäfer 2002, 31–2. 43 Roisman 2012, 182–4. There would have been very few Persian troops to witness the scene at Kyinda anyway. Diodorus (18.59.1) records 500 horsemen and 2000 troops for Eumenes at this stage, excluding the Silver Shields, while Plutarch (Eum. 12.3) says that he gained 1000 horsemen after Nora, probably Cappadocians. 44 Chares FGrH 125 F14a; Diod. Sic. 17.114.4; Schachermeyr 1970, 38–48.

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45 Diodorus (19.14.5–8) records detailed figures for the troops furnished from the Upper Satrapies. 46 Diod. Sic. 19.21–23; cf. Plut. Eum. 14.3; Polyaenus, Strat. 4.8.3; Bosworth 2002, 255–6. 47 Arr. Anab. 6.30.3, 7.6.3, cf. 7.23.3; Diod. Sic. 19.14.5, 48.5. Peukestas was not the only Macedonian to wear Persian dress (Meeus 2009a, 121–2). 48 Above n. 37. 49 Phylarchos FGrH 81 F41; Polyaenus, Strat. 4.3.24; Aelian VH 9.3; cf. Chares FGrH 125 F4. 50 Briant 1996, 258–9, 323; Vössing 2004, 51 n. 1; Spawforth 2007, 100–1, 103; contra Lane Fox 2007, 291. Xenophon (Cyr. 7.5.41, 8.5.8) twice describes the circular disposition of troops within the Persian court. 51 Phylarchos FGrH 81 F41 and Agatharchides FGrH 86 F3 [apud Ath. 12.539b– 540b]; Plut. Alex. 40.1; Ael. VH 9.3; Pliny HN 35.168. 52 Chiron 2001, 320–70; Paspalas 2005, 83. The date and authorship of On Style are much debated, see Marini 2007. Demetrios of Phaleron has been proposed as a possible author but the identification is no longer widely accepted. 53 Demetr. Eloc. 289: Κρατερὸν τὸν Μακεδόνα ἐπὶ χρυσῆς κλίνης καθεζόµενον µετέωρον͵ καὶ ἐν πορφυρᾷ χλανίδι͵ καὶ ὑπερηφάνως ἀποδεχόµενον τὰς πρεσβείας τῶν Ἑλλήνων. See also Plut. Phoc. 26.3–4; Diod. Sic. 18.18.1–6; cf. P Berol. 13045, ll.279–87. 54 Briant 2002, 217–22 with figs. 20–2, cf. 211 with fig. 16. 55 Reinhold 1970, esp.17–21; Strootman 2007, 374–84. 56 Reinhold 1970, 18–20; Bosworth 1980, 5; Fredricksmeyer 2000, 155; Spawforth 2007, 93–4; Llewellyn-Jones 2013, 65–6. Alexander allegedly recovered 5,000 talents of purple from Susa (Plut. Alex. 36.1). 57 Plut. Alex. 47.5; Eum. 6.2; cf. Mor. 337a. On Krateros as traditionalist, see for example Bosworth 1980, 7; Heckel 1992, 108; 2006, 97; Palagia 2000, 185–6; Paspalas 2000, 215; Anson 2006, 47; Yardley et al. 2011, 74–5. 58 οὐ πρόσω ὄγκου βασιλικοῦ, τῆς τε σκευῆς τῇ λαµπρότητι διαφέρων, καὶ παντὶ τῷ κόσµῳ κατὰ τὸν Ἀλέξανδρον ἔσταλτο πλὴν τοῦ διαδήµατος. Yardley (2011, 312) translates the phrase ὄγκου βασιλικοῦ as ‘the pride of a king’, while Shipley (Suda Online: www.stoa.org/sol/) translates it as ‘royal bulk’. ὄγκος can carry the meanings ‘bulk, size, mass’ as well as ‘importance, dignity, pride’ (LSJ s.v. ὄγκος). 59 FD III (4) 137; Stewart 1993, 270–7 [sources]; Paspalas 2000 [analysis]; see also Bosworth 2002, 276–7. On the date of the monument, see now Dunn and Wheatley 2012. For Krateros’ actions after Alexander’s death, see Anson 2012. 60 For Alexander as ‘King of Asia’, see Fredricksmeyer 2000. 61 Plut. Alex. 40.4; Palagia 2000, 181–200, esp. 181–6. 62 A point touched on by Roisman (2012, 115–16). 63 See, for example, Atkinson 1994, 66; Fredricksmeyer 2000, 152, 159–61; Paspalas 2005, 86–7; Spawforth 2007. On Alexander’s use of a golden throne, most likely in emulation of the Persian king, see above n. 34. 64 Plut. Mor. 338a: Κλεῖτος ἐν Ἀµοργῷ τρεῖς ἢ τέτταρας Ἑλληνικὰς ἀνατρέψας τριήρεις Ποσειδῶν ἀνηγορεύθη καὶ τρίαιναν ἐφόρει. 65 Paus. 10.9.4–5; Bommelaer 1981, 14–16; Cartledge 1987, 82–6. 66 Dionysos: Arr. Anab. 6.28.1–2; Curt. 9.10.24–9. Zeus-Ammon: Just. Epit. 11.11.7–11; Plut. Alex. 27.3–6; cf. Kallisthenes FGrH 124 F14; Plut. Alex. 33.1.

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67 So too Milon of Kroton in the late 6th century (Diod. Sic. 12.9.6). 68 Newell (1927, 40–1, 64–73), Mørkholm (1991, 77–81), and Bergmann (1998, 23–5) think that the horns refer to Poseidon; Thonemann (2005, 83–6) suggests Dionysos (cf. Plut. Demetr. 2.3). 69 FGrH 81 F41 and FGrH 86 F3 (apud Ath. Deip. 12.539b–c): Κλεῖτος δ‘ ὁ Λευκὸς καλούµενος ὅτε χρηµατίζειν µέλλοι, ἐπὶ πορφυρῶν ἱµατίων διαπεριπατῶν τοῖς ἐντυγχάνουσιν διελέγετο. See also, Aelian VH 9.3: Κλεῖτος δὲ εἴποτε µέλλοι τισὶ χρηµατίζειν͵ ἐπὶ πορφυρῶν εἱµάτων βαδίζων τοὺς δεοµένους προσίετο. 70 The manuscript specifies the tenth book of Agatharchides (Ἀγαθαρχίδης ὁ Κνίδιος ἐν τῶι δεκάτωι Περὶ Ἀσίας), but Jacoby emended this to read the eighth (Ἀγαθαρχίδης ὁ Κνίδιος ἐν τῶι ἡ Περὶ ᾽Ασίας), which Burstein criticises in his recent edition for Brill’s New Jacoby. 71 Reinhold 1970, 22–4; Strootman 2007, 383–4. 72 Crane 1993, 122–3. Pharnabazos sat on embroidered carpets (ῥαπτά) when he met Agesilaos (Xen. Hell. 4.1.30). Note also the himatia spread beneath Jesus’ feet on his entry into Jerusalem (Mark 11.6–7). 73 Chares FGrH 125 F4: κατεσκεύαστο δὲ ὁ οἶκος πολυτελῶς καὶ µεγαλοπρεπῶς ἱµατίοις τε καὶ ὀθονίοις πολυτελέσιν, ὑπὸ δὲ ταῦτα πορφυροῖς καὶ φοινικοῖς χρυσουφέσιν; Reinhold 1970, 29–30. 74 Plut. Demetr. 41.4: ἐκ πορφύρας ἀκράτου συµπεπιληµένης χρυσοβαφεῖς πεποιηµένον ἐµβάδας; cf. Duris FGrH 76 F14. 75 Kallixeinos of Rhodes FGrH 627 F2: ψιλαὶ δὲ Περσικαὶ τὴν ἀνὰ µέσον τῶν ποδῶν χώραν ἐκάλυπτον. 76 Spawforth (2007, 118) argues that χρηµατίζειν is used to refer to Alexander’s continued audience-giving, not just a specific moment. It is also used to describe the Persian king conducting official business from his golden throne (Herakleides FGrH 689 F1). 77 Though Kotys of Thrace covered the agora in purple when Iphikrates married his daughter (Ath. 4.131a). 78 Note Xenophanes’ description of the Kolophonians (West frag. 3): ἤιεσαν εἰς ἀγορὴν παναλουργέα φάρε’ ἔχοντες. 79 On Alkibiades’ elite display, see Gribble 1999, especially pp. 29–89. Dionysios of Syracuse brought a similar tent to the Olympic Games of 388 (Dion. Hal. Lys. 29): τὴν τοῦ τυράννου σκηνὴν χρυσῷ τε καὶ πορφύρᾳ καὶ ἄλλῳ πλούτῳ πολλῷ κεκοσµηµένην. Cf. Plut. Them. 25.1 on Hiero of Syracuse erecting at Olympia σκηνήν τινα κατεσκευασµένην πολυτελῶς. 80 Agamemnon’s garments are also called ἀργυρώνητοι ὑφαί (949), ποικίλα κάλλη (923, cf. 926, 936), ἁλουργῆ (946), and πορφύραι (957); see Fraenkel 1950, 412–3. The nature of these items has engendered comment, see in particular Morrell 1997, esp.155–7; McNeil 2005; Sailor and Stroup 1999, 169–78. Crane (1993, 131–2) looks at the appearance of πορφύρεα εἵµατα in Classical literature, but he does not mention the passages of Phylarchos, Agatharchides, and Aelian. 81 Phylarchos FGrH 81 F23 (Aeschylus F313, Nauck): τοὺς δὲ Κουρῆτας Φύλαρχος διὰ τῆς ι α τῶν ῾Ιστοριῶν Αἰσχύλον ἱστορεῖν διὰ τὴν τρυφὴν τυχεῖν τῆς προσηγορίας: χλιδῶν τε πλόκαµος ὥστε παρθένοις ἁβραῖς· ὅθεν καλεῖν Κουρῆτα λαὸν ἥινεσαν. 82 Herrman 2009, 61–2; Walsh 2011. 83 Curt. 10.9.1: nam et insociabile est regnum et a pluribus expetebatur.

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84 Curt. 10.6.20–4; Atkinson and Yardley 2009, 145. Miron (2000, 44–50; cf. Meeus 2009c, 70) points to the examples of Archelaos, Ptolemaios of Aloros, and Antigonos Doson, each of whom became king by marrying the deceased king’s wife and assuming the regency of his son. 85 Perdikkas: Just. Epit. 13.6.4–8; Diod. Sic. 18.23.3, 25.3. Leonnatos: Plut. Eum. 3.5; cf. Nepos Eum. 2.4. See also, Seibert 1967, 12–16, 20–1; O’Neil 2000, 121–2; Meeus 2009c, 71–80. 86 Diod. Sic. 52.1; Just. Epit. 14.6.13; Paus. 8.7.7, 9.7.3; Porphyry FGrH 260 FF3–4; Syncellus Chron. 320; Heidelberg Epitome FGrH 155 F2.4. 87 Diod. Sic. 20.37.6; Alonso 2009, 278, 292. 88 Philippopolis: Hansen and Nielsen 2004, no. 655. Philippi: Diod. 16.3.7, 8.6; App. B Civ. 4.105; Hansen and Nielsen 2004, nos 632, 637. Cult: SEG XLV 867. 89 Plut. Alex. 9.1 with Hamilton 1969, 22–3 and Hansen and Nielsen 2004, no. 652; Cohen 1995, 82; Fraser 1996. 90 Seleukos founded two (App. Syr. 57), Lysimachos re-founded Antigoneia Troas as Alexandria (Strabo 13.1.26), and Alexandria-by-Issos was perhaps founded by Antigonos (Cohen 2006, 73–6). 91 Cohen 1995, 101–5. On the date and context, see Vickers 1972, 159; Carney 1988, 136 and 2000, 158; Cohen 1995, 101–2; O’Neil 2000, 123; Landucci Gattinoni 2003, 98. 92 Cohen 1995, 95–9. Landucci Gattinoni (2003, 96–104) deals with Kassandros’ Macedonian foundations. Lysippos designed a special amphora for the occasion (Ath. 11.784c; Palagia 2000, 198) and the event was perhaps the subject of Lykophron’s Kassandreis (Lightfoot 2002, 222). 93 Errington 1978, 123; Carney 2000, 291 n. 12; O’Neil 2000, 123. 94 Carney 1988, on cities founded after Hellenistic queens. 95 Lysimacheia: Cohen 1995, 82–7; Ptolemais: Cohen 2006, 350–2; Antigoneia Troas: Cohen 1995, 145–8; Antigoneia-on-the-Orontes: Billows 1990, 157; Cohen 2006, 76–9. 96 Hornblower (1981, 162), Bosworth (1992, 73), and Schäfer (2002, 102) suggest that this does not reﬂect his own royal aspirations, but his closeness to the royal house, in whose name he would have presented the gifts (cf. Anson 2004, 121 n. 18). Even so, Eumenes is assuming a role reserved for Macedonian royalty. 97 In 319 (Diod. Sic. 18.50) and 316 (Diod. Sic. 19.48); see Bosworth 2002, 162–3. 98 Gruen 1985, 253–4. 99 None of this amounts to an actual declaration of kingship, as Ritter (1965, 101 n. 2) proposed, nor does it mean that he termed himself ‘Lord of Asia’ (Meeus 2009a, 242–3). Rather, it is the local Persian recognition of an individual who held power equal to that of royalty. Müller (1973, 47–8) plausibly suggests that Peukestas, who had recently held the banquet in Persis, may have arranged these honours. 100 Diod. Sic. 19.81.3–4, 85.2–3, 93.4, 97.3, cf. 20.92.3–4; Plut. Demetr. 2.2–3 (cf. Alex. 4.1–4). Müller (1973, 48–9) points to Demetrios’ important role as signifying, indeed personifying, dynasty. For Demetrios’ emulation of Alexander, see Plut. Demetr. 41–42; cf. Pyrr. 8.1; Lucian Ind. 21 with Stewart 1993, 411–2. 101 Bosworth 2000; Plut. Demetr. 17.6; SEG XVII 639; IK.Iasos 2–3 (on which, see also Giovannini 2004, 78–9). On the date of Ptolemy’s assumption of kingship, see Yardley, et al. 2011, 244–5.

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102 As Meeus (2009a, 269) emphasises, it is the giver of the gifts that is royal. Note also Plut. Eum. 8.12; Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 19.17.1. On Harpalos and Pythonike, see Buraselis in this volume. 103 Plutarch’s description (Cleom. 13) of what one would not see at the ‘court’ of Kleomenes III of Sparta offers a fair idea of what one might expect to see at a Hellenistic court of the late 3rd century, the absence of which made the court of Kleomenes – a real and titled king – unusual: πρὸς δὲ Κλεοµένη βαδίζοντες, ὄντα τε δὴ βασιλέα καὶ καλούµενον, εἶθ’ ὁρῶντες οὐ πορφύρας τινὰς οὐδὲ χλαίνας περὶ αὐτὸν οὐδὲ κλινιδίων καὶ φορείων κατασκευάς, οὐδ’ ὑπ’ ἀγγέλων ὄχλου καὶ θυρωρῶν ἢ διὰ γραµµατέων χρηµατίζοντα χαλεπῶς καὶ µόλις.

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E. Hall (eds), Greek and Roman Actors. Aspects of an Ancient Profession, Cambridge, 209–24. Marini, N. 2007 Demetrio, Lo Stile. Rome. McNeil, L. 2005 ‘Bridal cloths, cover-ups, and kharis: the “carpet scene” in Aeschylus’ Agamemnon’, Greece & Rome 52, 1–17. Meeus, A. 2009a ‘The History of the Diadochoi in Book XIX of Diodorus Siculus’ Bibliotheca Historica. A Historical and Historiographical Commentary’, PhD thesis, Catholic University of Leuven. 2009b ‘Alexander’s image in the age of the Successors’, in W. Heckel and L. Tritle (eds), Alexander the Great. A New History, Malden/Oxford, 235–50. 2009c ‘Kleopatra and the Diadochoi’, in P. Van Nuffelen (ed.), Faces of Hellenism, Leuven, 63–92. Miron, D. 2000 ‘Transmitters and representatives of power: royal women in ancient Macedonia’, Ancient Society 30, 35–52. Mørkholm, O. 1991 Early Hellenistic Coinage from the Accession of Alexander to the Peace of Apamea (336–186 BC), Cambridge. Morrell, K. S. 1997 ‘The fabric of persuasion: Clytaemnestra, Agamemnon, and the sea of garments’, Classical Journal 92, 141–65. Müller, O. 1973 Antigonus Monophthalmus und ‘Das Jahr der Könige’, Bonn. Müller, S. 2009 ‘Die Problematik der Nachahmung – imitatio und aemulatio bei Alexander III. von Makedonien’, in J. Bung, M.-C. Gruber, and S. Kühn (eds), Plagiate. Fälschungen, Imitate und andere Strategien aus zweiter Hand, Berlin, 73–83. Nauck, A. 1889 Tragicorum Graecorum fragmenta, 2nd ed. Leipzig. Newell, E. T. 1927 The Coinages of Demetrius Poliorcetes, Oxford. O’Neil, J. L. 2000 ‘The creation of new dynasties after the death of Alexander the Great’, Prudentia 32, 118–37. 2002 ‘Iranian wives and their roles in Macedonian royal courts’, Prudentia 34, 159–77. Ogden, D. 1999 Polygamy, Prostitutes and Death: The Hellenistic dynasties, Swansea. Palagia, O. 2000 ‘Hephaestion’s pyre and the royal hunt of Alexander’, in A. B. Bosworth and E. J. Baynham (eds), Alexander the Great in Fact and Fiction, Oxford, 167–206. Parsons, P. J. 1979 ‘The burial of Philip II’, American Journal of Ancient History 4, 97–101.

Court, kingship and royal style in the early Hellenistic period

Paspalas, S. A. 2000 ‘The taurophonos leon and Craterus’ monument at Delphi’, in G. R. Tsetskhladze, A. J. N. W. Prag, and A. M. Snodgrass (eds), Periplous. Papers on Classical Art and Archaeology Presented to Sir John Boardman, London, 211–21. 2005 ‘Philip Arrhidaios at court – an ill-advised Persianism? Macedonian royal display in the wake of Alexander’, Klio 87, 72–101. Picard, C. 1954 ‘Le trône vide d’Alexandre dans la cérémonie de Cyinda et le culte du trône vide à travers le monde gréco-romain’, Cahiers Archaeologiques 7, 1–17. Prandi, L. 2005 Memorie storiche dei Greci in Claudio Eliano, Rome. Rathmann, M. 2005 Perdikkas zwischen 323 und 320. Nachlassverwalter des Alexanderreiches oder Autokrat?, Vienna. Reinhold, M. 1970 History of Purple as a Status Symbol in Antiquity, Brussels. Rice, E. E. 1983 The Grand Procession of Ptolemy Philadelphus, Oxford. Ritter, H. W. 1965 Diadem und Königsherrschaft, Munich. Rives-Gal, G. 1996 ‘Funérailles, politique et idéologie monarchique dans le royaume de Macédoine de Philippe II à Demetrios Poliorcete (336–282 av. J.-C.)’, PhD thesis, University of Toulouse. Roisman, J. 2012 Alexander’s Veterans and the Early Wars of the Successors, Austin. Sailor, D. and Stroup, S. C. 1999 ‘ΦΘΟΝΟΣ ∆’ ΑΠΕΣΤΩ: the translation of transgression in Aiskhylos’ Agamemnon’, Classical Antiquity 18, 153–82. Schachermeyr, F. 1920 ‘Das Ende des makedonischen Königshauses’, Klio 16, 332–7. 1970 Alexander in Babylon und die Reichsordnung nach seinem Tod, Vienna. Schäfer, C. 2002 Eumenes von Kardia und der Kampf um die Macht im Alexanderreich, Frankfurt. Seibert, J. 1967 Historiche Beiträge zu den dynastichen Verbindungen in hellenisticher Zeit, Wiesbaden. 1969 Untersuchungen zur Geschichte Ptolemaios I, Munich. Simonetti Agostinetti, A. 1993 Flavio Arriano. Gli Eventi dopo Alessandro, Rome. 1999 ‘La tradizione su Tolemeo e le contese spoglie di Alessandro Magno’, in D. Foraboschi (ed.), Storiograﬁa ed erudizione, Milan, 113–30. Spawforth, A. 2007 ‘The court of Alexander the Great between Europe and Asia’, in A. Spawforth, (ed.), The Court and Court Society in Ancient Monarchies, Cambridge, 82–120.

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Stewart, A. 1993 Faces of Power: Alexander’s Image and Hellenistic Politics, Berkeley. Strootman, R. 2007 ‘The Hellenistic Royal Court: Court Culture, Ceremonial and Ideology in Greece, Egypt and the Near East, 336–30 BCE’, PhD thesis, University of Utrecht. Thompson, D. J. 2000 ‘Philadelphus’ procession: dynastic power in a Mediterranean context’, in L. Mooren (ed.), Politics, Administration and Society in the Hellenistic and Roman World, Leuven, 365–88. Thonemann, P. 2005 ‘The tragic king: Demetrios Poliorketes and the city of Athens’, in O. Hekster and R. Fowler (eds), Imaginary Kings: Royal Images in the Ancient Near East, Greece and Rome, Stuttgart, 63–86. Vickers, M. 1972 ‘Hellenistic Thessaloniki’, Journal of Hellenic Studies 92, 156–70. Vössing, K. 2004 Mensa Regia. Das Bankett beim hellenistischen König und beim römischen Kaiser, Munich. Wallace, S. Forthcoming ‘Metalexandron: receptions of Alexander in the Hellenistic and Roman worlds’, in K. Moore (ed.), A Companion to the Reception of Alexander the Great, Leiden. Walsh, J. 2011 ‘The Lamiaka of Choerilus of Iasos and the genesis of the term “Lamian War”’, Classical Quarterly 61, 538–44. West, M. L. 1972 Iambi et elegi Graeci, vol. 2, Oxford. Wheatley, P. 1998 ‘The date of Polyperchon’s invasion of Macedonia and the murder of Heracles’, Antichthon 32, 12–23. Yardley, J. C., Wheatley, P. and Heckel, W. 2011 Justin: Epitome of the Philippic History of Pompeius Trogus, Volume II: Books 13–15: The Successors to Alexander the Great, Oxford.

ATHOMEWITHROYALTY:RE-VIEWING THEHELLENISTIC‘PALACE’

Janett Morgan

Ὁ δ’ ἐκέλευε αὐτοὺς οἰκία τε ἑωυτῷ ἄξια τῆς βασιληίης οἰκοδοµῆσαι καὶ κρατῦναι αὐτὸν δορυφόροισι. ποιεῦσι δὴ ταῦτα οἱ Μῆδοι. Oἰκοδοµέουσί τε γὰρ αὐτῷ οἰκία µεγάλα τε καὶ ἰσχυρά, ἵνα αὐτὸς ἔφρασε τῆς χώρης… He [Deioces] ordered them to build palaces worthy of him, and strengthen his power with a bodyguard. The Medes did this. They built for him palaces both big and strong in the areas of land that he indicated to them... Herodotus 1.98 (trans. de Sélincourt 1996)

As the contributors to this volume show, no king can rule in isolation. All kings require an apparatus of support made up of people and rules that can take many different shapes and forms. We tend to cluster these people and patterns of behaviour under the umbrella title of ‘the court’. However the word ‘court’ can also indicate the setting in which these agents perform.1 It is a physical as well as a social and political world in which the king creates for himself a ‘theatre of power’.2 So when Deioces, an ordinary man, becomes the ruler of the Medes, his first act is to order the Medes to construct buildings and he withdraws into these, communicating with his people though emissaries.3 In creating buildings for his exclusive use, Deioces defines his role as king in a physical and ideological sense; the buildings conceal his presence and limit his accessibility, yet they also ensure that he remains a visible feature in the landscape and in the lives of men.4 Although Herodotus is writing in the fifth century BC, his model offers a neat paradigm for the Hellenistic period where men seized power that was not theirs by right and sought to reinforce their right to rule by actions of control, display and construction. Herodotus’ tale of Deioces also offers us an opportunity to reflect on our own understanding of royal building and buildings. As de Sélincourt’s translation above shows, we identify the buildings of kings as ‘palaces’. In this chapter, I want to re-examine the way that we construct and explain the buildings created and used by Hellenistic rulers and their courts.

Janett Morgan

I will argue that when we view all royal buildings through the ﬁlter of a ‘palace’ it can obscure our view of the unique relationship between rulers, power and the built environment in antiquity and encourage us to mould the evidence into a particular shape. This can have serious implications for the way in which we describe and explain the Hellenistic monarch and his court. I begin by showing why the term ‘palace’ is problematic for studies of buildings through ancient texts and material evidence and will then focus on four case studies, to illustrate the beneﬁts of a wider, more contextual approach. I will use evidence from three Hellenistic sites: Vergina, Pergamon and Alexandria. These examples have been chosen in order to present views from different sources, locations, times and royal builders within the Hellenistic world. As the Achaemenid court and its royal buildings are often seen as an inspiration for the behaviour of Hellenistic kings, I have also included comparative material from the royal buildings at Persepolis.5

1. At home with the ‘palace’ ‘Palace’ is the default name that we use for any large private building complex in the Greek past from prehistory to the Hellenistic era.6 It is a term that we are familiar with and understand. It is a term that still figures in everyday life for many European citizens, yet the word ‘palace’ is not Greek, it is not even ancient. It comes from the Old French word ‘palais’, which in turn is derived from the word ‘Palatium’ or Palatine, the famous hill in Rome where the city’s most powerful men lived and where Emperors built their residences. Indeed the Palatine and the Emperor became so intertwined that the house of the Emperor acquired the title of the ‘Palatium’.7 As Christianity became the official religion of the Roman Empire, the Emperor became a central figure in the Christian polity. At this time, a man could gain power by birth or conquest but he could exercise it only with the authority of the church. In the late eighth century Charlemagne, soon to be crowned Emperor of the Romans by Pope Leo, began constructing a Palatium at Aachen. This imposing and luxurious building contained not only residential and political areas but also a cathedral, linking his reign to the power of God and expressing his authority and right to rule.8 As a result, the word ‘palace’ came to describe the seat of a ruler with his god and his government at his side.9 The word ‘palace’ and the meanings of ‘palace’ are thus post-Hellenistic. It is a word derived from the powers and behaviour of Roman Emperors. It is based on the desire of medieval monarchs and rulers to connect themselves to Rome, spiritual heart of the medieval church and a source of power for the medieval king, and thus justify their exercise of power. A ‘palace’ is

At home with royalty: re-viewing the Hellenistic palace therefore a building that combines the powers of king, state and church in one monumental structure. When we use ‘palace’ to describe the wide range of buildings in ancient texts and material remains, we convert them into a form that makes sense to us. This creates a problem in that it encourages us to translate ancient words in a determined manner when a more ﬂuid or nuanced translation would allow us to see a wider range of possibilities. This is of especial relevance as there is no single word to describe ancient ruler buildings in the sense of ‘palace’.10 If we turn back to our original passage by Herodotus, we can see that the word used to describe Deioces’ building is οἰκία. Although de Sélincourt translates this as ‘palace’, it is a word that can carry a number of meanings, from a simple urban house to the home or estate of a king and to a temple, the house of a god.11 It comes from the verb οἰκέω, meaning to dwell or inhabit, and is used in texts to differentiate a place that is occupied from a place that is not.12 It is a general term, not a word that can be assimilated directly to the modern conception of a palace. Indeed, in many cases ancient authors seek to qualify ownership or use of an οἶκος by linking it directly to speciﬁc groups or individuals. In a lawcourt speech, Lysias’ defendant refers to ‘my building’ (τὴς οἰκίας τὴς ἐµὴς); in a play by Menander, a character refers to ‘our building’ (τὴν οἰκίαν 13 τὴν ἡµετέραν). In other texts, the meaning of ‘home’ is given by reference to the presence of a father or a hearth in the building; a home is the building where the head of the family or the site of family worship can be found.14 In the same manner, authors can indicate a relationship between a ruler and their buildings more clearly by linking them together. So, Apollonius Rhodius tells us that Jason, leader of the Argonauts, walks through Lemnos ‘until he comes to the splendid building of [Queen] Hypsipyle’ (ὄφρ’ ἀγλαὰ δώµαθ’ ἵκανεν Ὑψιπύλης) and later walks into the ‘royal building of Hypsipyle’ (Ὑψιπύλης βασιλήιον ἐς δόµον). The author of the de Mundo writes of the ‘wondrous royal building’ of the Achaemenid king (θαυµαστὸν βασίλειον 15 οἶκον). Diodorus places Olympias in a βασιλικὴ οἰκία at Pydna. Writers can make clearer links between a ruler and their buildings 16 through the use of the noun τό βασίλειον (or in its plural form τά βασίλεια). It is a term used frequently to describe the buildings of Achaemenid kings. Herodotus tells us that Cambyses held a meeting before the walls of his building: ὑπὸ τὸ βασιλήιον τεῖχος. Xenophon writes of the βασίλειον of Cyaxarus, while Cyrus dreams at night in his βασίλειον. Ktesias notes that the eunuch Bagapates had all the keys to the royal buildings (ὃς τὰς κλεῖς πάσας τῶν βασιλείων εἶχε). Strabo and Diodorus similarly refer to Persepolis 17 and Susa as τό βασίλειον. While the use of τό βασίλειον might appear to take us nearer to a dedicated term, we still cannot apply the translation

Janett Morgan

‘palace’ with full confidence. Greek authors use τό βασίλειον to explain the 18 power of the king. When Xenophon identifies a βασίλειον in Armenia, it is a building inhabited by a satrap not a king. His choice of term may reveal the presence of a monumental building, but in linking the building directly to the king, Xenophon evokes an image of royal presence and royal power. The satraps hold their power at the behest of the king; they are his representatives in the furthest reaches of his land. Repetition of the same architectural forms and decorative styles at centres of power throughout the empire are not mere imitation of the Great King but part of a system of power, control and presence ensuring that the king’s centrality and the centrality of his rule are made clear throughout the lands.19 The language of Greek architecture is fluid and terms such as τὸ βασίλειον are not part of a strict architectural terminology but a way to give meaning to buildings at a particular point in time. We can see this most clearly in Aeschines’ description of Athenian urban buildings, where one space can carry many meanings according to who is using it at the time:

οὐ γὰρ τὰ οἰκήµατα οὐδ’ αἱ οἰκήσεις τὰς ἐπωνυµίας τοῖς ἐνοικήσασι παρέχουσιν, ἀλλ’ οἱ ἐνοικήσαντες τὰς τῶν ἰδίων ἐπιτηδευµάτων ἐπωνυµίας τοῖς τόποις παρασκευάζουσιν. For it is neither the building nor the act of dwelling there which gives names to those living in them, but it is the inhabitants who give to places the names of their own practices.20 In Athens, it is the body of the owner or user that defines the space. Indeed, in describing the building associated with the tyrant Dionysios in Sicily, Diodorus does not call it τὸ βασίλειον but calls it τὰ τυραννεῖα (place of the tyrant).21 As the king owns the whole land, his buildings are not simply places of residence but become an extension of his body and define the landscape as his possession. This interplay between structure, power and presence offers us a different perspective on relations between rulers and their buildings, which we diminish by ‘insisting on over-precise identifications’.22 A further example of the problem of over-precise definitions can be found in the word ἡ αὐλή. This is most commonly translated as ‘courtyard’ but scholars have also translated it as ‘court’ in the political sense and occasionally as ‘palace’. In Herodotus’ Histories, Darius and his co-conspirators run into the courtyard at Susa in their search for the false king Smerdis, although a blacksmith digging a well in his courtyard in Tegea finds the bones of a huge man. Strabo places a courtyard in the Labyrinth in Egypt, while Diodorus places the Augean horses in an αὐλή for Herakles 23 to clean. In its political sense ἡ αὐλή is used to indicate those who serve

At home with royalty: re-viewing the Hellenistic palace the king.24 Olympias goes to Pydna with soldiers who ‘were accustomed to serve about the court’ (τῶν περὶ τὴν αὐλὴν εἰωθότων διατρίβειν στρατιωτῶν). Polybius notes the suspicion of ‘those around the court’, that is, the courtiers (οἰ περὶ τὴν αὐλήν) at the death of Epigenes, advisor to the newly- crowned Antiochos III. Antiochos IV Epiphanes sometimes escapes the 25 servants ‘from his court’ (ἐκ τῆς αὐλῆς) to wander the streets. The αὐλή is also a structure: according to Diodorus, the Successor general Eumenes of Kardia seeks to quell internal rivalry by asking the satraps and other generals at Susiana to meet ‘in the royal tent’ (εἰς τὴν βασιλικὴν αὐλήν), while Polybius describes how in Corinth Leontios, Megaleas and Ptolemaios try to intimidate Philip by stirring up the peltasts and royal guard who ‘wrenched the doors off the king’s accommodation and smashed the roof tiles’ (ἐκβάλλειν δὲ τὰς θύρας καὶ κατακόπτειν τὸν κέραµον τῆς τοῦ βασιλέως 26 αὐλῆς). The last two examples are clearly different types of buildings, which suggests that the word ἡ αὐλή can take varied meanings depending on the author using it and the occasion when he uses it. The word ‘palace’ may not be appropriate as a translation for each of these structures and we need to look more closely at contexts of use in order to fully understand the implications of the words used by our ancient sources.

2. Imposing ‘palaces’ and material remains From a material perspective, when we call an ancient building a ‘palace’, we risk projecting onto it a set of expectations about use, user and society. We allow our familiarity with palaces of the modern era to dictate our understanding of the form and functions played by ancient buildings. This creates a number of serious problems: first, we risk developing a ‘check-list’ approach to the evidence, seeking the spaces we expect to find. We view the palace as a residential building; it is the home of a king and the centre of court society.27 We therefore expect to find residential areas, such as bedrooms, living rooms and kitchens, writing these functions onto ancient architecture even when there is little evidence for them.28 We see the palace as a place of entertainment; it is the location of lavish banquets and other forms of revelry.29 So, we identify spaces as dining rooms or reception rooms.30 As the seat of the king, the palace is also a deeply symbolic building, reflecting the power of the monarch in society.31 We look for symbolic decoration and evidence of spaces that enhance the king’s majesty, such as throne rooms.32 Finally, the modern palace is a centre of power, the administrative hub of the kingdom.33 So, we search for evidence of archives, libraries or places where documents could have been stored and mark spaces accordingly.34 We can see an example of this approach in the excavations at Persepolis.

Janett Morgan

From the time of its earliest excavation by Herzfeld and Schmidt, Persepolis was labelled a ‘palace’.35 In the excavation volumes, Hauser’s plan of the terrace shows the areas that we would expect to find within a modern palace, including a Throne Hall, Council Hall, Treasury and Garrison. Other spaces are identified as residential, such as the ‘Palace of Darius’ and the ‘Palace of Xerxes’, even though these identifications are often speculative rather than certain.36 Schmidt’s identification of the Council Hall corrected Herzfeld’s earlier, more neutral choice of name, the Tripylon.37 He explains the reason for his choice as due to ‘the newly uncovered reliefs of dignitaries’, which showed that the building was ‘used not only for conferences of state but also for festive assemblies, such as banquets for the king and his nobles’. While scenes on the staircase of the building certainly show a procession of men in court dress and riding dress ascending, the reason for this display cannot be clearly ascertained. It is by no means certain that their presence is intended to relate directly to activities in the building, making Schmidt’s choice of name tenuous at best.38 Similarly, in his identification of the ‘Throne Hall’ Schmidt seeks to differentiate the role of the space from that of the Apadana, despite their obvious structural similarities. He notes, ‘It appears senseless to us that the second hall should have been intended for the same purposes as the first…’39 He searches for an alternative use for the building, concluding that it was ‘a treasure hall of palatial proportions’ or ‘palace museum’ for the display of treasure due to its proximity to the building that he identified as the Treasury.40 Schmidt could not determine the roles played by spaces at Persepolis with certainty but this did not prevent him from shaping them through the filter of palatial expectations and labelling them accordingly. We find a similar approach in Inge Nielsen’s book on Hellenistic royal buildings, which sets out a ‘check-list’ of nine key functions associated with ‘palaces’, representative, ceremonial, social, religious, defensive, administrative, ‘public’ service, recreation and residence.41 Adhering to the maxim ‘form follows function’ Nielsen examines pre-Hellenistic and then Hellenistic royal buildings, searching in the material remains for evidence of these functions.42 Nielsen’s approach creates a self-proving model; it prioritises perceived similarities above differences and homogenises the evidence to establish a view of the past where ancient societies construct and use their space in identical ways. This creates a second set of problems: as we focus on similarities, we may begin to see common features as evidence of common practices.43 The relationship between power, status and architecture is a complex one; patrons and architects are influenced by the social and political circumstances in which they lived. While features, such as peristyle courts, may appear similar, this does not mean that the

At home with royalty: re-viewing the Hellenistic palace spaces were viewed or used in the same way at each site.44 Equally, we cannot assume that their use remains unchanging as time passes and they pass through the hands of new owners. The bouleute¯ria in the cities of the Hellenistic east took the shape of the bouleute¯rion at Athens, yet the societies that made them were very different; Mausolus built one at Priene; the Attalids built one at Pergamon.45 These bouleute¯ria were constructed to show status or reveal political affiliation, not to house fully functioning replicas of the Athenian democratic council.46 While certain general features of kingship, such as building as an expression of power, might be shared by groups across time and place, each culture will still have its own, individual way of viewing or using the spaces.47 When we search for a ‘palace’ we risk losing sight of the subtleties of cultural difference. All cultures create architecture that reflects and reinforces their own identity and the word ‘palace’ is most appropriate to its time and place in the modern world. A third problem created by the intrusion of modern terms and ideas is that they mask the fact that our ancient evidence is not as clear as we would like it to be.48 As Hellström has pointed out, modern scholars use ‘palace’ in a very loose way, so that a range of buildings, even religious sanctuaries, can be fitted into this single category.49 The remains of buildings are frequently fragmentary; some are so damaged that understanding spatial arrangements becomes an impossible feat.50 This means that we prioritise the more complete models above the more partial ones in our investigations or treat evidence from a site as complete rather than looking contextually at the different stages in its evolution.51 Texts are equally fragmentary and difficult to use. In many cases, we have no truly contemporary accounts and approach Macedonian and Persian buildings through the filter of Athenian texts or later authors.52 To present a more authoritative picture we combine our sources, mixing material from different genres and across time and geographical distance to create composite models. We bring together stories of Alexander’s tent, the ‘Letter of Aristeas’ and Vitruvius to create model Hellenistic palaces.53 We use earlier evidence to explain later behaviour.54 Nielsen’s suggestion that we can use Greek descriptions of Persian life ‘with circumspection’ to understand Seleucid and Ptolemaic courts, since they inherited part of their court ceremonial from Persia, is an extremely dangerous approach to take.55 As Finley has presciently observed, we collapse distinctions so that centuries become as years and millennia as decades; in merging sources we risk turning Hellenistic monarchy into a monolithic cultural entity.56 Approaches that focus on homogeneity do so at the expense of difference. The final problem caused by our application of the term ‘palace’ is that it smothers the fact that ancient buildings do not always follow the

Janett Morgan spatial patterns of modern palaces. Some ‘palaces’, such as the structure at Pella, are single, concentrated buildings, while others such as Persepolis and Alexandria consist of separated structures spread out across a site.57 We therefore end up with ‘palaces’ within a ‘palace’, as at Persepolis. In these cases, scholars tend to apply the term ‘palace-complexes’ and then seek to identify the different structures at the site with functions associated with state, religion and royal display, as we see in discussions of Persepolis and Alexandria.58 Yet, the organisation of a site is a deliberate act, which is designed to present a message to the viewer and reﬂect the needs of the builder. Rather than seeking the ‘palace’, we should be looking to understand why such choices were made and how the organisation of royal buildings could have played an important role in the ideology of kingship at particular sites. When we search for ‘palaces’, we focus our attention too strictly on the function of spaces in order to prove and discuss a building’s royal status. This means that we ignore the more subtle relationships between use and user that are embedded in the structure of ancient sites or language of ancient texts. The remainder of this chapter will explore a number of cases in order to illustrate the beneﬁts of a wider approach. In each case, I will show why the term ‘palace’ is not appropriate and will consider what we can learn if we ‘re-view’ the evidence from an alternative perspective. I will refer to ‘royal buildings’ rather than ‘palaces’, in order to facilitate this approach, except where the word ‘palace’ is traditionally part of a building’s name.

3. Moving status: Persepolis and Vergina We will begin with a study of two buildings that are traditionally described as ‘palaces’, the ‘Palace’ at Vergina and the ‘Palace of Darius’ at Persepolis, both of which can be explored only through their material remains.59 Construction at Persepolis began at around 515 BC in the reign of Darius I with the creation of a large, artificial terrace on which buildings were later placed.60 The buildings are described as part of a unified whole, making the entire terrace a ‘palace-complex’.61 Schmidt identified two royal residences at the site, the ‘Palace of Darius’ and the ‘Palace of Xerxes’, after inscriptions found on the buildings. The two buildings were similar in their structure, with a central hypostyle hall, adjacent rooms and a columned portico.62 The ‘Palace of Darius’ was relatively small, measuring approximately 1,160m2 and there is no clear evidence of what functions its internal spaces served.63 For Schmidt, the key feature identifying the structure as residential was the carved reliefs. He noted that there were ‘domestic servants, carrying provisions needed for the king’s table’ and that the

At home with royalty: re-viewing the Hellenistic palace

‘…domestic character of the north-eastern apartment is emphasised by the fact that all inner doorways are ornamented with reliefs of personal attendants of the king’.64 Schmidt interpreted the figures carrying the food as servants and those carrying the oil as performing personal services for the king in his place of residence. Schmidt’s reading has been called into question by later scholars. According to inscriptions on the building, it was not completed during the reign of Darius but during the reign of his son Xerxes, making it difficult to see how it could be a residence for Darius.65 Wilber suggests that the building may have been a ceremonial banqueting hall, as servants on the reliefs appear to be carrying food.66 For Sancisi-Weerdenburg, the animals and food shown on the reliefs may be symbolic rather than representations of actual events. She suggests that the items may represent a local tithe, the baji, or the King’s portion of produce.67 Root sees the carved figures of Persepolis as part of a sculptural program that integrates king and people in a study of imperial harmony. She further suggests that the figures act as a means to centre the space of Persepolis round the body of the king.68 In the ‘Palace of Darius’, the eunuch courtiers offer a parasol to the king at exit doors and produce towels and perfume on internal doors. The king is shown moving through, rather than living in the building.69 In order to understand the ‘Palace of Darius’ more fully, it is important to take into account the relationship of the carved figures to the building and of the building to the overall program at the site. We will explore the evidence for meaning by considering how it was experienced by the viewer, what message it conveyed and its likely impact. The construction of Persepolis took place on a piecemeal basis, with different buildings being added by different kings.70 Darius is linked to the construction of several of the buildings, including the monumental stairway, Treasury and Apadana and the ‘Palace of Darius’.71 If we take a more experiential approach to the site, it is interesting to note that the buildings are all designed to be seen from afar by those approaching Persepolis, as the terrace raises its buildings above the plain. Ancient visitors to the site came onto the terrace from the north side and were immediately faced with the monumental Apadana.72 This blocked access to the ‘Palace of Darius’, though it did not block its visibility, as this royal building was placed at a greater height than others at the site.73 Visitors could see the smaller, higher building but first had to negotiate the structure in front of it. As they moved closer, the smaller building behind ceased to be visible and their gaze was filled with the larger Apadana. The Apadana had a series of clearly visible entrances and exits marked by monumental staircases, which directed the gaze towards the interior, and its deep

Janett Morgan columned porches, which gave an illusion of visibility and openness. This sense of directed movement was enhanced by carved reliefs of the different peoples of the Empire bringing gifts or tribute to the Great King.74 The stone procession filtered into the great hall of the monumental Apadana, echoing the actions of entrants to the site. While the lower areas at Persepolis and the Apadana appear to be more freely accessible, large groups could not move onwards to the ‘Palace of Darius’, as access routes were restricted.75 If we view this idea in conjunction with the images of procession and the evocation of the king’s presence in the ‘Palace of Darius’, we can see that those who ascend to the ‘palace’ are moving away from the main complex to enter a more restricted and exclusive space.76 The two buildings can be read as part of a unified picture that reveals and affirms the status of the visitor. It is entirely possible that those who move towards the highest building are honoured visitors who have been granted the right to approach the king for an audience; their ascent is an action that reveals and reinforces their own social or political status. This fits with texts that emphasise the separation of king from people and the honour accorded to those permitted to enter his presence.77 The carved figures are not simple representations of household servants performing household acts but part of a complex expression of power. They are the servants closest to the king with permission to enter his presence and even to perform personal services for him. They walk alongside the approaching visitor, reinforcing the honour and prestige of his journey towards the king’s presence. The building emphasises the presence and power of the king but, due to its smaller size and place in the overall programme at Persepolis, we cannot see it fulfilling all of the roles played by a modern palace. It is more likely to be a reception building, which casts doubt on the certainty of Schmidt’s identification of the structure as a residential ‘palace’. In contrast with the site at Persepolis, the royal building at Vergina stood alone on a raised terrace.78 Although solitary, it was part of an urban settlement.79 To the north and east of the building, the excavators found houses of the Hellenistic period.80 The building was much larger than the ‘Palace of Darius’ with dimensions of 104.50m by 88.50m, giving an area of 9,248.25m2 and is generally dated to the later fourth century BC.81 Its entrance was enclosed within a monumental propylon with a triple entrance and guarded with an imposing ramp.82 The internal space was dominated by a large interior court, with peristyle porches, which controlled access to the rooms surrounding it.83 Amongst the rooms, Andronikos identified a ‘royal suite’ for dining (Rooms EFG) and possibly a religious space, the Tholos of Herakles, which contained an inscription

At home with royalty: re-viewing the Hellenistic palace emphasising the personal relationship between the king and his divine ancestor.84 Andronikos calls the Tholos a ‘Throne Room’.85 Although we have evidence for religion and feasting at Vergina, Kottaridi notes the absence of any private evidence within the building.86 Even though upper storeys may have been present above two sides of the peristyle court, there are no clear signs of residence here.87 Again, the building does not present all of the functions of a ‘palace’. If we turn instead to study from the perspective of viewer, message and impact, certain features of the Vergina building begin to dominate the picture. The main door into the building was not clearly visible but was concealed within a monumental entranceway consisting of three successive entrances. Kutbay suggests that the use of the triple entrance deliberately evoked known styles from royal buildings in Assyria, Babylon and the ‘Palace of Darius’ at Persepolis, offering the visitor an image of royal ownership.88 This hints at the importance of social or political display at the site. The triple entrance was approached via a ramp. While this may have been a security feature, making the visitor clearly visible, we must also recognise the possibility that it was part of the symbolic theatricality of the site, designed to overawe the suppliant and to reflect their status to observers, as they were raised above them in traversing the ramp. This brought the visitors into the triple entranceway at which point they moved out of the vision of on-lookers and, passing through the main door, entered the internal spaces. Kottaridi offers an interesting assessment of the symbolism of the structure, suggesting that the architecture evokes the image of a temple but places a king, not a god, at its centre.89 While the function of internal spaces at Persepolis can be difficult to identify, many of the rooms inside Vergina can be linked to the act of dining through the presence of border areas that correspond with the placement of couches. There were nine dining rooms, lavishly appointed with mosaics and painted walls.90 Kutbay estimates the total number of couches in the rooms at 178.91 Bearing in mind that each couch could hold one or two men, this suggests a dining presence of up to 356 men; the number might be more if other rooms held seated diners.92 Dining dominates our view of the building’s function. Indeed, Tomlinson suggests that the building was constructed solely for the purpose of dining, rather than as a more general ‘palace’ building.93 The building stands alone and it is entirely possible that its use was limited to festivals and other occasions when it was necessary for the king to display largesse.94 This fits with texts, which show that dining was an essential expression of royal Macedonian power, involving large numbers of people and extravagant displays of wealth. At the heart of these celebrations were the spaces created for

Janett Morgan dining. Diodorus tells us that Alexander gave a banquet at Dion before leaving for Asia and used a 100-couch tent. The 100-couch tent was also used for the weddings of Alexander’s men and Achaemenid women at Susa.95 These displays continued in the world after Alexander, as we see in the dining tent created by Ptolemy II Philadelphos for his celebration for Dionysos in Alexandria and in Ptolemy IV Philopator’s construction of his extraordinary river barge Thalamegos, a floating dining tent.96 The two sites show interesting differences in the access that they afford to visitors. Boucharlat notes that Persian royal buildings sat apart from cities and it is certainly true that access to the terrace was controlled; however, the arrangement of buildings at Persepolis was clearly intended to accommodate and encourage engagement by large groups of people.97 The use of staircases and entrances to direct visitors and the organisation of the Persepolis buildings on different levels suggest an intentional progression in movement and also increasing selection by internal restrictions on access. It appears that the multitude was welcomed onto the site and to move through it but not to enter the Great King’s presence unless invited. The king thus maintained a symbolic presence before his people as they entered and exited the terrace, through the visibly raised reception building (the ‘Palace of Darius’). The attention and experience of the multitude were focused on the Apadana, which loomed large in the view they were offered as they moved towards it. The king’s power and majesty was implied within the interior of the monumental Apadana but it was presence at a distance. Access to the king was clearly restricted by the architectural management of spaces and controls on access routes to the smaller reception building behind the Apadana. While the lower areas of Persepolis were open and appear to have been designed for very large groups to enter and engage with the monumental buildings, at Vergina there is more of a sense of division. The people stay in the city and it is only the chosen ones that enter the single royal building at the site. The concealed entrance, single doorway and invisibility and inaccessibility of the interior confirm that access was afforded to a restricted group, rather than open to all. The visible procession to the interior publicly reflected the equal status of the entrants into Vergina while, once within the building, true status was reflected at events there. The presence and number of dining spaces show that status within was conferred by the place where a man sat and its proximity to the Macedonian king.98 Hatzopoulos suggests that the Macedonian king ate with his officers and philoi in ‘a spirit of freedom and essential equality’ but it is interesting that this assertion of status is kept private, away from public eyes.99 It suggests the need to keep participants’ honour satisfied by

At home with royalty: re-viewing the Hellenistic palace allowing them to enter as equals and to keep divisions in status a more private matter between members of the group.100 Vergina is perhaps better understood as a court building, rather than a ‘palace’. Open to the royal household and invited guests, the structure offered the king a means to distribute largesse amongst followers and create, change or reinforce the status of those who comprised his court.101

4. Transforming power: de-constructing the ‘palace’ at Pergamon Our third site is Pergamon in Asia Minor, which we can access not only through material remains but also through texts.102 While Nielsen and others write of the ‘palace of Pergamon’, there are a number of possible royal buildings rather than one and the function of these cannot always be determined with complete accuracy.103 The royal buildings are integrated into an urban setting; as such they cannot be read as a ‘palace-complex’, neither are they a single ‘palace’ building. Our interpretation of the site is assisted by textual references to the background and achievements of the ruling dynasty, the Attalids.104 The Attalids took power at Pergamon as a result of circumstance rather than heredity. Strabo tells us that Philetairos, founder of the Attalid dynasty, arrived in Pergamon as manager of the treasury for Lysimachos.105 According to sources, Philetairos was a eunuch who switched allegiance from Lysimachos to Seleukos, showing a keen eye for an opportunity, and was allowed to rule Pergamon as a vassal. The settlement at Pergamon was already in existence when Philetairos arrived but was small and of little significance.106 In its earliest phases, Pergamon was a defended fort.107 Indeed, Evans calls the Kaikos Valley of the fourth century a ‘wild west’ of different interest groups.108 It was only when Attalos, the grand-nephew of Philetairos, defeated the Gauls that the family achieved royal status through the acquisition of land by the spear. Attalos declared himself king and was named a son of Dionysos by Delphi.109 Attalos fortified the settlement, placing a wall around the early city. Within the boundaries, Attalos embellished pre-existing temples and set up other structures. He set up a royal building in ‘Palace IV’, which has a similar structure to Vergina of central court and adjacent rooms.110 The tale of the Attalid rise to power influences our interpretation of the organisation and structures at Pergamon. Scholars tend to view the architecture and art at the site as drawing on and copying ideas from Pella, Antioch, Alexandria and western Anatolia.111 It has been suggested that Attalos as a ‘self-made’ king used ideas from other royal building programmes to define and enhance his status. His links with Athens have been explained as an attempt to hide his ‘dubious origins’ and as a way of justifying and expressing his power.112 According to Livy, Attalos went to

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Athens to save it from siege and was received as a saviour.113 Attalos then showed his power by placing monumental dedications on the Athenian acropolis and at Delphi.114 The building programme at Pergamon is presented as a patchwork of copying, a ‘hybridisation’, that was used to create a ‘new’ monarchy.115 Narratives of hybridisation tend to focus on locating the source of the copied element at the expense of viewing the more important role of transformation as an expression of power in antiquity. From Assyrian kings to Classical Athens, Mediterranean rulers used motifs, styles and forms from the cultures of others. Within the Achaemenid palaces, scholars have identified a range of influences on the architecture and sculpture, including Egyptian, Assyrian, Mesopotamian, Elamite as well as Lydian and Ionian.116 Scholars explain this ‘borrowing’ as part of the need to develop a sculptural programme that defined new empires.117 Kuhrt explains the use of Mesopotamian and Egyptian forms as part of the need of Achaemenid kings to ‘cast themselves in the role of legitimate rulers’.118 Yet what we have here is not simple taking, copying or integrating of material to create new forms but a power-play, a transformation of the cultures of others to authorise and display power.119 This behaviour has more in common with ‘skilled-crafting’, as described by Helms.120 It is the conscious manipulation of forms from the cultures of others to illustrate power. In using elements from other kings and societies, Attalos is following precedents from Near Eastern monarchies and earlier kings of Asia Minor. Rather than seeing Pella as a model for Attalos, we gain a better understanding of his behaviour from a comparison with the building programme of Mausolus of Karia.121 Mausolus was one of the greatest builders in antiquity and his actions mimic those of the Persian king in the display and exercise of power. He built harbours and fortifications and cities, such as Priene.122 He moved people, shifting his capital from Mylasa to Halikarnassos, and enlarging it by moving in people from other settlements.123 At Halikarnassos, Mausolus began the construction of a huge, dynastic tomb, which was integrated into the urban space.124 It displayed scenes and styles influenced by Achaemenid, Anatolian and Greek forms.125 Mausolus also developed the sanctuary at Labraunda and linked it to Halikarnassos in a physical and religious manner by a processional way and festival.126 Amongst the features that he constructed at Labraunda were a propylon, stoai, a sacred way linking sanctuary to city and two dining buildings.127 The buildings were self-contained units of two rooms, an outer cella and large inner hall, which were decorated and also inscribed with the word ‘andro¯nes’, a word associated in Classical Greek texts with the practices of Near Eastern kings.128 The structures bore

At home with royalty: re-viewing the Hellenistic palace individually the names of Mausolus and his brother Idrieus.129 Mausolus thus created a link between himself and the god, drawing power from his proximity to Zeus Labraundeus as well as from his command of resources and distribution of largesse. If we look again at Pergamon, we can see similar elements in the early building programme. Kutbay suggests that the Attalids’ ability to build was constrained by the lack of space on the acropolis but this could also be a deliberate choice.130 Ruler and people were integrated at Pergamon as they were at Halikarnassos, as Evans notes that there is no clear division between city and citadel.131 This may be an important component of Anatolian kingship. Attalos developed religious sites, where he placed symbols celebrating his victory, next to buildings where gods were worshipped, just as Mausolus sought to create a ruler cult and common cult for his people. Attalos also created ‘Palace IV’. At 1050m2 ‘Palace IV’ is even smaller than the ‘Palace of Darius’ and most of its internal spaces appear to be linked to dining.132 There was little evidence of habitation in the building and it is likely that it was a discrete dining space, an andro¯n or elite reception space for the ruler, just as Mausolus had created at Labraunda and as we have already seen at Vergina. The royal buildings and sanctuaries at the summit of Pergamon were made a focal point by their location at the heights and also by the development of a processional route from the Temple of Athena Nikephoros, past the spaces of the city, such as the agora, to the temenos of Athena on the acropolis, where Athena stood alongside a statue of Attalos Soter.133 Attalos’ behaviour reﬂects wider patterns of ruler building in Asia Minor. While Mausolus showed his power by transforming Anatolian, Achaemenid Persian and Greek forms of art and architecture, Attalos transformed Macedonian and Athenian forms to display his. In doing this, he ‘built onto’ their achievements, treating them as founders in the same way that Achaemenid kings completed the buildings of their predecessors.134 In order to display his right to exercise power, a king also had to show his own command over resources and his power to change the physical landscape as a mark of his rule. This is not a simple conceit but an important element of kingship, which we fail to see if we view through the ﬁlter of cultural copying. Achaemenid kings each built their own royal buildings, rather than simply re-using those of their predecessors.135 Pergamon’s greatest expansion came under the rule of Eumenes II, son of Attalos who expanded the site into a lower city region.136 While Attalos made sculptural dedications at the Temenos of Athena Nikephoros after his victory against the Gauls, it was his son Eumenes who built there.137 Attalos needed to assert his rule but Eumenes needed to show his ability

Janett Morgan to transform and thus his right to rule after his father. The construction of ‘Palace V’ and development of Pergamon by Eumenes II reﬂects this.138 The simplicity and small scale of ‘Palace IV’ suggest that it did not fulﬁl all of the functions of a ‘palace’ in the modern sense. Evans suggests that the Attalids may have also had homes elsewhere in the city, making ‘Palace IV’ and the Acropolis a place of display and symbol of power.139 Again, if we move away from the search for a ‘palace’ and re-view the evidence, we gain a deeper perspective on traditions of kingship in Anatolian communities.

5. Powerful in-tent: royal building at Alexandria Although many remains from the Ptolemaic period exist in Alexandria, they are fragmentary and scholars have not been able to use them to understand or reconstruct clear patterns of royal building and spatial use.140 Instead, we remain reliant on the descriptions of authors from Kallixeinos of Rhodes to Plutarch, whose material dates from the third century BC to the second century AD.141 This immediately presents us with a problem: buildings and cities do not remain static but are expanded, contracted and rebuilt as owners, users, fashions and needs change. The Alexandria of Plutarch will not necessarily be the Alexandria of Kallixeinos. In order to consider what we can learn from descriptions of the royal buildings, we must focus on specific times and authors. For the purposes of this case study we will focus on the evidence from Polybius, who offers an account set in Alexandria from around 203/2 BC of Agathokles’ assumption of regency and downfall following the death of Ptolemy IV. In his account Polybius uses two words to describe the royal buildings. The first, τὰ βασίλεια, is used only once in the story and is usually translated as ‘palace’. The second ἡ αὐλή is used more frequently in the text; again it is translated as ‘palace’ or ‘court’. Polybius’ use of two different terms is deliberate and indicates that he sees the βασίλεια and αὐλή as separate features. This is confirmed by closer study of the text. The βασίλεια appears in his description of the people’s revolt. We are told that the Macedonian soldiers joined in to attack the 142 ‘audience gate of the royal space’ (χρηµατιστικὸν πυλῶνα τῶν βασιλείων). Polybius uses the word πυλών (gate) consistently throughout his text to refer to city gates or the gates of a military camp.143 We are safe in presuming that the gate is a form of locked entrance portal and that, in conjunction with τὰ βασίλεια, we are looking at a structure. However, this structure is not a building but a defined area. In his description of Ecbatana, Polybius notes that τὰ βασίλεια was near to seven stadia (1,295m) in circumference.144 The internal area of this space would be around

At home with royalty: re-viewing the Hellenistic palace

134,000m2 or 13 hectares in size. To put this into perspective, the dimensions of Buckingham Palace are 108 x 120m, giving an area of 145 roughly 1.3 hectares. Polybius’ βασίλεια at Ecbatana was ten times the size of Buckingham Palace. In comparison, the area of the entire complex at Pella was 25,000m2 or 2.5 hectares, while Vergina was 12,500 m2 or 146 1.25 hectares. This confirms that Polybius is not using τὰ βασίλεια here to refer to a building but to an area, which is supported by his comment later in the same chapter, that it contains separate buildings within (µέρος 147 κατασκευασµάτων). This further matches the later description of a royal area in Alexandria by Strabo.148 The audience gate (χρηµατιστικὸς πυλών) appears only once in Polybius’ text, but he makes a second reference to a king’s audience space in the story of Theodotos’ attempt to assassinate Ptolemy IV.149 Theodotos sneaks into the camp of Ptolemy before the Battle of Raphia but fails because Ptolemy slept ‘away from the public, audience tent’ (τῆς ἐπιφανοῦς καὶ χρηµατιστικῆς σκηνῆς). This is a space created on campaign. It is clearly designed to enhance the majesty of the king but is a temporary rather than a permanent space. It is an official space within a camp that is a direct reflection of the king’s power. It may also be a dividing space, conceptually separating the army from king whilst he is engaging directly with them. Rather than a gate, the χρηµατιστικὸς πυλών at Alexandria may well be a propylon-type entrance. As we have already seen, monumental entrances were an important component of the royal building at Vergina and can also be viewed at Pella.150 These could be an integral part of a building but could also stand alone, as we see in the site at Samothrace where a large, free-standing propylon was constructed as an entrance to the site by Ptolemy II Philadelphos.151 Other propylons were constructed at sanctuaries in Egypt, which clearly suggests that the monumental entrance played an important role in Ptolemaic conceptions of monumental political and religious space.152 What we are looking at is an area with a gate but this is more than a simple royal park. The area is a symbol of royal status and control; it is interesting to consider this evidence in light of the fact that the Ptolemies were an invading minority.153 It is perhaps better to see the basileia as an enclave, created, adorned and ruled by the king.154 Nielsen calls it a ‘Greek town in the town’.155 Its presence offers a statement of power over the indigenous people. This makes the Macedonian attack on the audience gate highly symbolic as this is the point where king and city truly meet.156 The people have breached the space that divides them from the king and in doing this they have diminished his power. It is important to note, however, that this spatial division between king and people is more conceptual than

Janett Morgan real; the people seem to have no problem in ﬂooding into the royal enclave when searching for the king.157 There is no clear description of the internal arrangements of the royal enclave but we can glean from Polybius’ tale that there are different 158 structures within it. We are told that there is a burial area, the βασιλικοὶ 159 οἴκοι, a theatre and a square and a stadium. There are open spaces around the structures and possibly walkways or passages between some of the structures, as we are told that the king is led to a vaulted passage (σῦριγξ) between Maeander and the palaestra.160 There is a large building called the αὐλή, where Agathokles speaks to the army and there are also residences in the royal area, as we are told that Agathokles and Agathokleia go from the 161 αὐλή to their own, separate places (καταλύσεις). Finally Polybius tells us that there are soldiers’ tents (σκηνάς) in a section facing the city. Walbank suggests that σκηνή can be translated as ‘barracks’ here, noting that the soldiers would ‘hardly be in tents or simple huts at this date’.162 As we have already seen, ἡ αὐλή can be used to indicate people who serve the king, whether guards or courtiers, and can also be used to refer to a building.163 Nielsen suggests that the entire complex at Alexandria can be called an αὐλή but this does not ﬁt with the patterns in Polybius’ use of the 164 word. There is an αὐλή in Corinth, which has a roof and is clearly being used by the king; it is a space that is directly linked with the king who denies the courtier Apelles access to it and thus to his presence.165 We are told that Antiochos Epiphanes sneaks out from his αὐλή to roam the city at night; he also celebrates games and sets aside his αὐλή for use by the Roman 166 ambassadors, even giving them his diadem. The αὐλή in these examples is clearly a single structure, not an enclave. The link between king and αὐλή suggests that the αὐλή may be an important part of the symbolism of royalty and power. What do we know of the αὐλή at Alexandria? We know that it is a discrete structure, as there are open spaces around it.167 We know that it has a number of peristyles (περίστυλοι), as Polybius writes that Agathokles calls a meeting in the largest of these.168 Polybius uses the word ‘peristyle’ at only one other point in his Histories, to note the presence of many peristyles in the royal area at Ecbatana.169 As we have already seen, Iranian architecture did not use internal peristylar courts; the columns and porches were external rather than internal. The word ‘peristyle’ simply indicates an enclosed space with colonnades and we can posit a number of possibilities. This could be a central court, in the style of Vergina, or an open area within the royal district that was surrounded by buildings with colonnaded porches. Polybius’ reference to the peristyle at Ecbatana could indicate a covered hall with internal columns, in the style of the Apadana. It is

At home with royalty: re-viewing the Hellenistic palace important to remember that Polybius is an outsider here. He is seeking to describe the buildings and culture of societies that are not native to him, to an audience of Greeks who may never have seen them. In such cases, the speaker uses terms that make sense to the audience. Just as we have tended to apply ‘palace’ to any large, royal building in antiquity, so Polybius may be using ‘peristyle’ to explain any enclosed structure with columns. All that we can be clear on is that the αὐλή is a large space, as a meeting is held here with the troops and a speaker’s platform needs to be placed there for the audience to hear the speaker. Polybius’ description of the confinement and escape of the traitor Moiragenes further suggests that access within the αὐλή is not strictly controlled by its internal spatial arrangements. Moiragenes is taken to its furthest space for questioning yet is able to escape and run naked through the αὐλή to reach the tents of the Macedonians without being noticed.170 The αὐλή is the place where the king can be found and it is most frequently associated with banqueting. We are told that Agathokles hears of the revolt in Alexandria whilst banqueting; his subsequent actions reveal 171 that the banquet is in the αὐλή. Elsewhere, Polybius criticises Timaios’ portrayal of the philosopher Aristotle as a glutton who forced his way into 172 every αὐλή and σκηνή guided by his stomach. We can see this role clearly in a later Ptolemaic text, the Letter of Aristeas, which is a work of the second century BC that describes an earlier visit of Hebrew scholars from Jerusalem to the court of Ptolemy II Philadelphos. Here the αὐλή is a space that is clearly linked to the power of the king and to displays of power. It is where 173 the king holds public audiences (δηµόσιον χρηµατισµόν) and receives guests. It is not the place where the scholars stay; we are told that the king orders the best quarters (καταλύµατα) to be made ready for them near the 174 headland. The scholars come to the αὐλή each morning to greet the king 175 before going to a separate space to work. Our clearest view of the αὐλή in this text is as a dining space; it is the setting for the many banquets that the king holds with the scholars.176 Although he has seized power, Agathokles does not live in the αὐλή. Polybius tells us that he and Agathokleia have their own separate places 177 (καταλύσεις). Polybius’ use of καταλύσεις is interesting as he is not using the word to identify a specific building here but to emphasise the movement of Agathokles and Agathokleia from an official space to one that is private, yet still a part of the royal area. His use of καταλύσεις echoes its employment by other authors to indicate temporary accommodation in a larger structure, 178 such as lodgings. Polybius also uses καταλύσεις to describe Hasdrubal’s location when the Carthaginian is killed by a Celt with a grudge.179 Polybius does not tell us exactly where Hasdrubal was, but as we have already been

Janett Morgan told that he had created his own basileia in Iberia, it is reasonable to assume that he is also in his own private quarters of this royal area.180 Polybius further uses it to identify the places where the friends of Demetrios resided while he was hostage in Rome.181 These friends included Nikanor, later his general, suggesting that they are part of the hostage group with Demetrios and placed at different locations in Rome, under the control of Roman minders. If we approach Polybius’ tale searching for a check-list of ‘palace’ features, we limit our ability to understand the ideology behind the structure and organisation of space at Alexandria. Polybius presents us with an image of separate structures, separate areas and the presence of the army next to the king in the royal district, the basileia. It is possible that Polybius’ decision to use καταλύσεις is deliberate and designed to evoke an image of a military control or occupation. The Ptolemies, Hasdrubal and Demetrios were all outsiders occupying or being held in a place that was not native to them.182 The image of an army camp is given further emphasis by the many references to soldiers and their accommodation within and near the royal area. We know that the soldiers are close to the king at Alexandria, as they are able to gather together quickly for a meeting, and a meeting with other regiments can take place easily too.183 Billows notes that the Macedonians were ‘military monarchies, founded upon, maintained by and exploited for the benefit of armies’.184 The structure of the royal district may reflect the intertwined relationship of the king and his army. As the tale of Agathokles shows, if the army do not support the de facto ruler, the structures of power are useless.185 The organisation of the royal district at Alexandria may reflect its origins as a military zone in an occupied land.186 It may also offer us an insight into Macedonian attitudes to urban space. If we look at the city of Pella, developed by Philip II, we can see that this too is a model of organised planning.187 While scholars have seen the adoption of a grid plan at Pella and other Macedonian sites as influenced by contacts with nearby Greek colonies, these contacts were waning in the later fourth century BC.188 It is interesting that our best evidence for planned Argead cities in Macedonia does not appear until the reign of Philip II, who also re-structured the army and territory, and enjoyed great military success.189 For Macedonians, planned settlements may have evoked the symbolism of the planned army camp and reflected the power of the king who created them. This may explain the military air in Polybius’ choice of words and in his description of the Macedonian royal district to his audience. The combination of a separated royal district, with separated buildings and large army presence may also reflect the symbolic importance of

At home with royalty: re-viewing the Hellenistic palace peripatetic kingship. Macedonian kings travelled far with their armies to conquer lands and moved around their territories to control them.190 While they had access to the resources necessary to build permanent structures, tents continued to play a vital role in the displays of power by Macedonian kings. The description of the tent of Ptolemy II Philopator includes columns, vaulted porticoes, a main hall and lavish decoration.191 These structures should not be viewed as a temporary solution to a lack of space but as a key component in the display of royal identity and power. As we have already observed, they reﬂect the king’s access to resources and ability to mobilise those resources for his own requirements. Nielsen suggests that the tent was constructed according to Achaemenid models but there is evidence that the tent was already an important component in Macedonian kingship before the defeat of the Great King, for example, Alexander gave a feast in a 100-couch tent at the sanctuary at Dion and in 192 the wedding celebrations at Susa. It is possible that the tent (σκηνή) and the αὐλή are spaces with similar functions and perhaps architecture too. Both reﬂect the king’s power and are spaces used for receptions and dining. Indeed, the architecture of Vergina may offer us a view of an elite Macedonian tent made in permanent materials. We can see the importance of dining space as an expression of royal power in the construction of the Thalamegos, Ptolemy IV’s huge Nile barge, and in the tale of his attempted assassination before the Battle of Raphia. In each of these cases, the king carries his dining and reception space with him.193 As the Thalamegos is a ship, all of the royal buildings, shrines, dining, reception and residential areas that were spread through the royal district were concentrated here into one self-contained structure; ironically this ship is perhaps the nearest that we come to a correlation with the modern palace.

6. Viewing from the inside: royal inscriptions at Persepolis Our views of Alexandria come from outsiders: Kallixeinos of Rhodes was a writer of the second century BC, who wrote a four-book study On Alexandria. Unfortunately we know little of his background and audience. Polybius was an Achaean Greek and Honigman suggests that the author of the Letter of Aristeas was not a court insider but an Alexandrian Jew, writing in the second century BC.194 Each writer had in mind their own audience and agenda, which may have affected their presentation. We cannot be sure that the views of our authors fully represent the way that kings viewed or used their buildings. In light of this, in our ﬁnal study we return to Persepolis. The buildings at Persepolis contained a number of inscriptions that described the role of the king as a builder; what light do these shed on royal building and royal ideology?

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The language of the Achaemenids was Old Persian and there are a number of words for buildings in the Old Persian components of the inscriptions. The word viθ– and its variations are usually translated as ‘house, royal house, clan or court’.195 In its role as a term for the family group as well as their possessions, viθ– mirrors the Greek word οἶκος and offers little insight into the specific function of spaces.196 We also find the word ‘hadiš’, derived from the Indo-European word ‘to sit’, giving the sense of ‘seat’.197 Hadiš appears on two inscriptions of Xerxes. In XPc, a trilingual inscription placed in the entrance portico of the ‘Palace of Darius’, Xerxes notes that, ‘the King Darius, my father, built this hadiš’.198 In XPd, from the entrance to the stairway of the ‘Palace of Xerxes’, Xerxes notes that, ‘By the Grace of Ahuramazda, I made this hadiš’.199 As a result of its placement, scholars have assumed that the term hadiš refers to the buildings on which it is placed and have interpreted it as ‘palace’ but this is not without problems.200 The ‘Palace of Darius’ also contains an inscription by Darius, placed in the corridor linking the entrance and principal room and noting, ‘I built this tacˇara’.201 The word tacˇara can also be seen in inscriptions from column bases (XPj, XPm) found in fragments across the ‘Palace of Xerxes’ and the ‘harem’. In these Xerxes declares, ‘I built this tacˇara’.202 We thus have two different words connected to the same building by different kings. Lecoq explains the use of two, distinct terms by identifying hadiš as the building itself and tacˇara as a space within it.203 While this is possible, I believe that this argument is weakened by a wider study of Achaemenid monumental architecture. The terms hadiš and tacˇara are also found inscribed at Susa by Darius and Xerxes. Darius notes on the Foundation Tablet (DSf 7) that he has built his hadiš.204 The fragments of this inscription were spread across the site, with the highest concentration in the area of the building identified as the Apadana.205 Xerxes too records that Darius, his father, built a hadiš (XSa), while noting that he built a hadiš here after becoming king (XSc). Darius further notes that he has built a tacˇara (DSd). These latter examples are mostly from column bases, which were spread across the site, making it difficult to identify their original locations.206 Although Achaemenid architecture shares certain features, such as the hypostyle hall, the arrangement of buildings at Persepolis and Susa is very different. The clear, separate form of the ‘residential palaces’ from Persepolis is not repeated at Susa, where the spaces are arranged around courtyards in a more organic and integrated manner. We may, again, have fallen into the trap of interpreting ancient words as architectural terminology. As Stolper notes, Achaemenid inscriptions communicate the presence

At home with royalty: re-viewing the Hellenistic palace of the king and the use of three languages reveals his power over his subjects.207 The words may thus present different messages of power for different audiences. For Elamites and Babylonians, the inscriptions are not necessarily there to be read but to offer a visual symbol of power. They show the power of the king to take and use their words to enforce his power. For fellow Persians, the inscriptions may represent an assertion of the king’s right to rule. Given the centrality of the king in Achaemenid ideology, the hadiš and tacˇara may not be architectural terms that label a specific style of building but may indicate roles played by the king or roles performed by him at certain times. Lecoq notes that hadiš means ‘to seat’, while tacˇara may indicate ‘to go’ or ‘to flow’.208 While he remains bemused by the meaning of the latter, which bears little resemblance to ideas of a palace, it is interesting that both words are linked to action. The words may not be labels for buildings but show that the king has achieved certain milestones in the exercise of power. It is interesting that Xerxes is keen to point out that he made a hadiš at Susa after becoming king (XSc). Hadiš and tacˇara may indicate the king’s assumption of power or his continued holding of power. Hence, Xerxes’ creation of a hadiš is an act of establishment on taking power, just as Darius’ hadiš at Susa (DSf) is the act of establishing a kingdom, rather than building a ‘palace’. Darius’ tacˇara at Persepolis is perhaps a sign of the continuity of his rule. Drawing on this idea, we could suggest that the terms are temporal and could relate to different types of occasion where the king expresses his majesty and reveals his power by monumental building. It may also be possible that the same building could be hadiš at some times and tacˇara at others. Achaemenid spaces and the words associated with them cannot be treated as simple views of royal domestic life. The buildings, the art and the inscriptions all reflect regal power and describe relations between the king, his lands and his people. As with textual sources, we cannot fully appreciate the complex potential of the words and spaces if we seek to define the meanings of these words rigidly.

7. Final observations In our desire to ﬁnd a ‘palace’ every time we see a ruler, we force ancient evidence into predetermined patterns of spatial function. We allow our understanding of modern palaces to shape the course of our investigations and ignore the important symbolic messages displayed in the appearance and organisation of ancient royal buildings. We ignore the fact that status is personal: in antiquity a ‘palace’ does not make a king; it is the presence of the king that gives meaning to the building and the lives of the people within it.209 We ignore the fact that ancient society is not static or

Janett Morgan consistent: it changes with time, circumstances and personalities. There was a gulf of around 230 years between the reigns of Cyrus and Darius III in Persia and 252 years between Kleopatra VII and Ptolemy I in Egypt. The worlds in which these monarchs lived were very different, and while they may have used the same buildings, we cannot be certain that they and the courts that they created around them used these buildings in the same way. Hellenistic monarchs and Achaemenid kings built as a means to express and maintain status and they did so in ways that were signiﬁcantly different, stimulated and shaped by their unique social and political circumstances. If we are to get a deeper understanding of relations between the Hellenistic courts and their kings, we must begin by moving away from the ‘palace’.

Notes 1 Herman 1997, 200–1, 203. 2 Strootman 2014, 42–53, 54–9, 57. 3 Hdt 1.96–101. 4 See [Arist.], de Mundo 398a for a similar view of the Persian king who remains invisible whilst ruling from within his wonderful building. 5 Nielsen 1999, 11, 35–51, 132 (on Alexandria). 6 For prehistoric examples, see excavations at Knossos (Evans 1921–1935); Pylos (Blegen, Rawson and Lang 1966–1973). For Hellenistic examples, see Kutbay 1998, Nielsen 1999. 7 For a detailed discussion of the origins of the word ‘palace’, see Oxford English Dictionary; for the archaeology of the Palatium, see Claridge 2010, 125–59. 8 For a full discussion of the reign of Charlemagne and construction of the Palace at Aachen, see Collins 1998. 9 For contemporary uses of palatium, see Paul the Deacon’s late-8th-century Historia Langobardorum, 2.27 for palatium as a building, 3.11 as political body. 10 Funck 1996. 11 For οἰκία as house, see Lys.1.6, 18, 22, 40; as the home of the kings of Paphos, see Diod. Sic. 20.21.3; as royal family, see Polyb. 2.37.7, 2.50.9, 3.16.3–4; as kingdom or royal estate, see Polyb. 2.37.7; and as temple, see Diod. Sic. 4.67.3. 12 Buildings can also be identiﬁed using terms derived from the verb δέµω, meaning ‘to build’, see the example below. 13 Lys. 1. 4, 15, 25, 38; Men. Sam. 649–50. 14 Eur. Med. 681; Lycurg. Leoc. 131; Din. Demosthenes 66.4–5. 15 Ap. Rhod. 1.785–6, 853; [Arist]. de Mundo 398a.14–15; Diod. Sic. 19.51.5. 16 Herman 1997, 204–5; Strootman 2014, 38–40, 55. 17 Herodotus: 3.74 (Cambyses), cf. also 1.30 (Croesus); Xenophon: Cyr. 2.4.3 (Cyaxarus), 8.7.2 (Cyrus), cf. also 2.4.4; Ktesias: Phot. Bibl. [72] 37a26–40a5 = §9–33 (§16). Stronk 2010, 326–7; Nichols 2008, 98, 169; Strabo 15.3.3; Diod. Sic. 17.70.1 18 Xen. Anab. 4.4.2. See also Xen. Anab. 3.4.24 for a βασίλειον in Assyria. 19 Hdt. 5.25, see Tuplin 2011, 165. After the Scythian expedition, Darius sets up two

At home with royalty: re-viewing the Hellenistic palace pillars of white marble and engraves on them the names of those nations in his army, one in Assyrian and one in Greek; unfortunately Herodotus does not list the lands (Hdt. 4.87). 20 Aeschin. In Tim. 123–4. 21 Diod. Sic. 16.70.4. 22 Kurtz and Boardman 1986, 35–70. 23 Hdt. 3.77; 1.68; Strabo 17.1.3; Diod. Sic. 4.13.3. 24 Herman 1997, 23–15; Strootman 2014, 38. 25 Olympias: Diod. Sic. 19.35.7; Epigenes: Polyb. 5.50.14; Antiochos IV: Polyb. 26.1. 26 Diod. Sic. 19.15.3, cf. Plut. Eum. 13.3–4; Polyb. 5.25.3 (trans. Waterfield). 27 A modern palace can also be the home of a Bishop or the monumental and luxurious home of an ordinary citizen (Oxford English Dictionary, sv ‘palace’). For Bishop’s palaces, see Wyn Evans and Turner 2005 (St. Davids); Tatton-Brown 2000 (Lambeth). 28 For examples, see entries in Nielsen’s Catalogue (1999, 244–307). 29 The court of the Sun King, Louis XIV, centred around the king at the Château de Versailles (Milford 1971). The entertainment function is also recognised in the use of ‘palaces’ as a name for entertainment venues, such as the Hammersmith Palais in London. 30 For examples, see Andronikos 1984, 38–46; Hoepfner 1996. 31 As we find in the Palace of Whitehall, home to the Kings of England from 1530– 1698 (Thurley 2003). Similarly, in recent revolutions, the palaces of Saddam Hussein at Babylon and Baghdad and the palaces of the Gaddafi family in Libya were attacked in the aftermath of their downfall, indicating the intimate relationship between the ruler and his palace. 32 Examples of these can be found in Achaemenid palaces, see Wilber 1989; Curtis and Razmjou 2005. 33 As monarchies in Western Europe fell, the palaces of kings became the homes of government. In England the Palace of Westminster changed in use from king’s home in the 11th century, to court and administrative building in the 14th century before eventually becoming the centre of democratic government (Field 2006). 34 These often prove difficult to locate, see Nielsen 1999, Cat.No.13 (Anaktoron of Demetrias), 14 (Pergamon), 18 (Palace of Nippur). 35 See Schmidt 1953, esp.1–7. For examples of the use of the term palace, see Schmidt 1953; Stronach 1963, 1964, 1965; Hammond 1992; Perrot 2013. 36 The plan is included as a supplement in Schmidt 1953. 37 Schmidt 1953, 107. 38 The name ‘Triple Portal’ is restored in the later study of Persepolis by Wilber (1989, 1). 39 Schmidt 1953, 129. 40 Schmidt 1953, 129–30. 41 Nielsen 1999, 13–14, 25–26. 42 Nielsen 1999, 27–80. The connections between the list and architecture are set out explicitly in the Catalogue as are the many occasions where room function cannot be identified (Nielsen 1999, 244–307). See also Nielsen 1996. 43 Kutbay calls the ‘palace’ an ‘architectural type’ (1998, 2).

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44 Kutbay lists as common the main entrance, peristyle, pastas, andro¯n and cult room (1998, 93). 45 Hansen and Fischer-Hansen 1994, 41, 72 (Priene), 33 (Pergamon). Other examples of cities with bouleute¯ria listed by Hansen and Fischer-Hansen include Halikarnassos (1994, 39) and Miletos (1994, 40). For the full list see Hansen and Fischer-Hansen 1994, 37–44. 46 At Pisidia, Bracke notes that the buildings revealed the adoption of a ‘Hellenistic’ way of life (1993, 27). See also details of the buildings at Priene and Pergamon (Tomlinson 1992, 84–95, 110–121). 47 For a more contextual approach, see Kopsacheili 2011. 48 Strootman 2014, 54. Many scholars have pointed out the problems that result from using modern terms to describe ancient domestic buildings: see Jameson 1990, 184; Goldberg 1999, 143; Nevett 1997, 283–4; Foxhall 2000, 495; Morgan 2010, 52–6. 49 Hellström 1996, 165, 169. 50 For example, ‘Kleopatra’s’ Palace, submerged in the waters off Alexandria. 51 For example, Kopsacheili selects on the basis of preservation (2011, 18) while Kutbay (1998, 46–57) offers a condensed explanation of Alexandria with a list of buildings that were clearly set up by different rulers and at different times. 52 See for instance the unsatisfactory description of a Persian palace in [Arist.], de Mundo 398a, which, although it may be from the late 4th century, is most likely from the 1st century AD: Kuhrt 2007, 581. Similarly we do not know, when reading later writers such as Strabo, what changes may have taken place between a building’s period of use and the time of writing. 53 Nielsen 1999, 18–25. 54 As in Kutbay (1998) and Nielsen (1999). 55 Nielsen 1999, 14–15. 56 Finley 1977, 17. 57 Pella (Nielsen 1999, 88; Strootman 2014, 60–3); Persepolis (Curtis and Razmjou 2005); Alexandria (Nielsen 1996, 210). 58 ‘Palace-complex’ is a term frequently employed by Nielsen to indicate an area with monumental royal buildings, including a number identiﬁed as ‘palaces’ (Nielsen 1999, 11–12, 35–51). A similar view of public and private space at the site can be found in Frankfort 1954, 218. See also Briant 2002, 86–8. 59 For a plan of Persepolis, see Wilber 1989, 1; for a plan of Vergina, see Hoepfner 1996, Fig.5. 60 Curtis and Razmjou 2005, 34; Wilber 1989, 28–36. 61 Nielsen 1999, 11–12. 62 Schmidt 1953, 222. 63 To put into perspective, this size is roughly one-eighth of an international rugby pitch, for example, the pitch at the Millennium Stadium in Cardiff, which measures 9,480m2 (http://www.millenniumstadium.com/information/facts_and_ﬁgures.php). 64 Schmidt 1953, 225, 227. 65 Wilber 1989, 55. 66 Wilber 1989, 57. 67 Sancisi-Weerdenburg 1998, 29–30. See also Lecoq 1997, 101–2; Briant 2002, 398, 439; Llewellyn-Jones 2013, 77–8.

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68 Root 1990, 134; 1979, 3. 69 Root 1979, 287–8. 70 Kopsacheili offers a good overview of the building phases and builders (2011, 20–1). 71 Wilber 1989, 36. Wilber also links Darius to the Tripylon but this has been disputed by Roaf (1983, 142–4). 72 Stronach suggests that this view was deliberately engineered by the creation of a single staircase onto the platform (2001, 104). The central hall of the Apadana measured 3,600m2, based on measurement of 197 feet square in Wilber (1989, 44). 73 Lawrence notes that the Palaces of Darius and Xerxes were 18m above the plain (1951, 116). 74 Wilber 1989, 40–3, pl.18–23. 75 Wilber notes that those leaving the Apadana at the rear still did not have a direct gaze into the ‘Palace of Darius’ but had to go around a corner in order to gain access to the stairs (1989, 53). 76 For a recent study of access and movement in this area, see Downes 2011, 60–1. 77 On the separation of the king, see Hdt. 1.99.1, Athen. 4.145b–d (Herakleides), Arist. [Mund ] 39 fr.14. See also Funck 1996, 47. 78 Nielsen 1999, 81; Drougou 2011, 247. For discussions of the building, see Kutbay 1998, 18–28; Nielsen 1999, 81–4; Saatsoglou-Paliadeli 2001; Drougou 2011; Kottaridi 2011; Kopsacheili 2011, 18–20; Strootman 2014, 63–5. 79 Drougou 2011; Kottaridi 2011, 299; Kopsacheili 2011, 27. 80 Andronikos 1984, 39. 81 Andronikos 1984, 39. Hatzopoulos estimates its internal area to be 8,300m2 (2001, 192). The date is a matter of debate Andronikos (1984, 39) and Kutbay (1998, 20) suggest the end of the 4th century while Hoepfner (1996, 9–17) and Kottaridi link the building to the reign of Philip II (2011, 300–4). 82 Andronikos 1984, 39; Nielsen 1999, 81; Kottaridi 2011, 330; Strootman 2014, 64. 83 Saatsoglou-Paliadeli 2001, 204–5; Kopsacheili 2011, 19. 84 Andronikos 1984, 42, 38. Andronikos’ identiﬁcation has been queried by Hatzopoulos who dates the Herakles inscription found in the Tholos to 179–168 BC (1996, II, no.30). Hatzopoulos further suggests that the inscription found its way into the Tholos by accident but this latter suggestion has not been followed by more recent scholars such as Saatsoglou-Paliadeli (1999, 354) and Kottaridi (2011, 326). 85 Andronikos 1984, 42. Saatsoglou-Paliadeli interprets the room as a religious space (2001, 203). Cooper and Morris 1990, 75, n.31 suggest that the Tholos could have been a seated dining room. 86 Kottaridi 2011, 328–9. 87 Hoepfner 1996, 17; Kottaridi 2011, 328–9. 88 Kutbay 1998, 21, 98–9. 89 Kottaridi 2011, 330. 90 Kutbay 1998, 118; Kottaridi 2011, 323–8. 91 Kutbay 1998, 119. 92 Cooper and Morris note that some banquets were seated rather than reclining, such as in the Athenian prytaneion (1990). 93 Tomlinson 1970, 314–15. Kutbay too notices the strong links between ‘banqueting houses’ and many Hellenistic ruler buildings (1998, 79, 139).

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94 Hoepfner (1996, 17) links it directly to the wedding of Phillip II’s daughter (Diod. Sic. 16.92). 95 Dion: Diod. Sic. 17.6.4; Susa: Athen. 12.538c [Chares]. 96 Athen. 9.196a–7c, 204d–6c [Kallixeinos]. See further Thompson 2013 and Hardiman, this volume, section 1. 97 Boucharlat 2001, 121. On structures around Persepolis, see Sumner 1986. 98 As we see in the tale of the downfall of Kleitos (Plut. Alex. 51.3). 99 Hatzopoulos 2001, 193. 100 Elias sees court events as a means to pacify the nobility (1983), while Strootman notes that intense competition required careful management (2014, 33, 43–4). 101 For a discussion on the role of the court, see Strootman 2014, 34–8. 102 For plans and descriptions of the site, see Radt 1999, 64–5; Strootman 2014, 83–8. For plans of the royal buildings, see Hoepfner 1996, Fig.16. 103 Nielsen 1999, 102–11; Kutbay 1998, 6–18. 104 For a list of sources, see Nielsen 1999, 270–2 (Cat. 15). 105 Strabo 12.3.8, 13.4.1, 18.41.3. See also Polyb. 23.11.7–8; Kosmetatou 2003, 159–74. 106 Radt notes habitation from the 7th and 6th centuries BC (2001, 43–5). It appears in Xenophon’s Anabasis and is held by Hellas, wife of Gongylos (7–8). Evans calls it a ‘modest fortress’ (2012, 123). 107 Tomlinson 1992, 112; Evans 2012, 7. 108 Evans 2012, 4. 109 Evans 2012, 19–23, cf. also Billows 1995, 24–33; Strootman 2014, 83; Diod. Sic. 34–35.13; Nielsen 1999, 123–4. 110 Nielsen 1999, 103; Evans 2012, 123–4; for the development of the acropolis and the palace buildings there, see also Seaman 2016 and Hardiman, this volume, section 2 (with plans). 111 Nielsen 1999, 110–11; Kopsacheili 2011, 31. 112 Kosmetatou 2003, 166; Gates 2003, 279–87; cf. Strootman 2014, 85. 113 Livy 31.14.12; Evans 2012, 50. 114 Kosmetatou 2003, 162, 170; Paus. 1.25.2. 115 Kopsacheili 2011, esp.25–9; Nielsen 1996, 211. As Strootman notes, the doctrine of copying/inspiration is a theme that extends into discussions of all Hellenistic royal buildings (2014, 57). 116 See Boardman 2000, 102–22; Talebian 2008. 117 Waters 2014, 51, 80; Starr 1977, 54–8; Boardman 2000, 102. See Sinopoli 1994 for a general discussion on how empires represent themselves. 118 Kuhrt 2001, 102. 119 Wallace-Hadrill 2008, 12; Morgan 2016. 120 Helms 1993. 121 For a general study, see Hornblower 1982. 122 Vitr. 2.8.10–11, 13; Lawrence 1983, 249 (Priene). 123 Kallisthenes FGrH 124 F25. 124 Lawrence 1983, 252. 125 Cahill 1988; Carstens 2002; Cook 2005. 126 Ruzicka 1992, 46–55. 127 Hellström 1996.

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128 Umholtz 2002; Morgan 2011. 129 Hellström 1996. 130 Kutbay 1998, 18. 131 Evans 2012, 123–4, Strootman (2014, 83) compares Pergamon with Alexandria. 132 Kutbay 1998, 6–13; Nielsen 1999, 103–5. 133 Strootman 2014, 84–5. 134 As we have already seen, Xerxes completed the ‘Palace of Darius’ after the death of his father (Wilber 1989, 55). On the importance of following traditions of kingship in Anatolia and the Near East, see Root 1994. 135 Strabo 15.3.21. The themes of ‘taking’ and ‘transforming’ as expressions of control and power can be seen clearly in the Foundation Deposit from Susa (Curtis and Razmjou 2005, 56). 136 Gates 2003, 279–87. 137 Nielsen 1999, 110; Kosmetatou 2003, 162, 170. 138 Nielsen 1999, 103; Evans 2012, 124. 139 Evans 2012, 123–4. 140 For an overview, see Kutbay 1998, 46–57; Nielsen 1999, 130–8; 1996, 210–11; Strootman 2014, 74–83. 141 For a list of archaeological and textual sources, see Nielsen 1999, Cat. 20. 142 Polyb. 15.31.2–3 143 For examples of πυλών as gate of a city or camp, see Polyb. 1.40.3, 4,57.3, 8.25.7. 144 Polyb. 10.27.9 145 Dimensions from http://www.royal.gov.uk/theroyalresidences/buckingham palace/buckinghampalace.aspx 146 Pella (Hatzopoulos 2001, 192), Vergina (Kottaridi 2011, 297). 147 Walbank calls the basileion ‘a complex’ (1967, 239). For Strootman it is a ‘royal district’ (2014, 77). 148 Strabo 7.1.8. Nielsen too notes the similarities in descriptions of Alexandrian and Persian royal spaces (1996, 211). 149 Polyb. 5.81. 150 Vergina (Nielsen 1999, 81); Pella (Nielsen 1999, 89). 151 Frazer 1982, 198–201. 152 For examples at Karnak, see Blyth 2006, 209–235. 153 The symbolic importance of creating a basileia can be seen in the Carthaginian general Hasdrubal’s creation of one in Iberia. According to Polybius Hasdrubal sets up a basileia as he wished to have royal power (Polyb. 10.10.9, 8.32.2). 154 Nielsen notes that the Ptolemies did not use the buildings of their predecessors but built their own (1999, 130). 155 Nielsen 1996, 211. 156 Hatzopoulos 2001. 157 Polyb. 15.32.1, 15.30.9. 158 Nielsen 1999, 25–6; 1996, 210; Strootman 2014, 56–6. 159 βασιλικοὶ οἴκοι (15.25.11), theatre and square (15.30.4), stadium (15.30.3). 160 Open spaces (15.30.4), σῦριγξ (15.30.6). On the σῦριγξ, see McKenzie 2007, 67. 161 Polyb. 15.25.3; 15.32.10. Walbank translates καταλύσεις as ‘homes’ (1979, 492).

Janett Morgan

162 Polyb. 15.29.1–2; Walbank 1979, 489 163 Guards (Polyb. 4.67.6; 5.65.5); courtiers (Polyb. 5.34.4; 5.36.1). 164 Nielsen 1999, 130. 165 Polyb. 5.23.3; 5.26.9; Herman 1997, 205. 166 Polyb. 26.1.1; 30.27.3. 167 Polyb. 15.30.4. 168 Polyb. 15.25.3. 169 Polyb. 10.27.10. 170 Polyb. 15.27.8; 15.28.4. 171 Polyb. 15.30.5. 172 Polyb. 12.8.4. 173 Ep. Arist. 81, 173. 174 Ep. Arist. 181. 175 This is simply a topos (Ep. Arist. 304). 176 Ep. Arist. 301. 177 Polyb. 15.32.10. 178 For examples, see LSJ s.v. κατάλυσις. 179 Polyb. 2.36.1. 180 Polyb. 10.10.9, 8.32.2. 181 Polyb. 2.36.1; 31.14.5. 182 Diodorus Siculus uses the word to describe the billet of troops (14.93). 183 Polyb. 15.26.1; 15.26.9. 184 Billows 1995, 20. See also Strootman 2014, 50–53. 185 Herman 1997, 214, 215–16. 186 Ma calls the Macedonians a ‘colonial elite’ (2003, 187). Billows 1995, 23. 187 Strabo 7 fr.20. 188 Archibald 2000, 215; Hammond 1989, 9–19. 189 Archibald 2000; Hatzopoulos and Paschidis 2004: 794. 190 This is especially true of the Seleucid dynasty (Strootman 2014, 55). 191 Athen. 196a–197c (Kallixeinos of Rhodes). 192 Diod. Sic. 17.16.4, Athen. 12.359d, with Spawforth 2007, 94–7 plus his appendix of sources. 193 Thalamegos (Athen. 5.205a–6d [Kallixeinos of Rhodes]). Nielsen calls the correlation between the Thalamegos and royal tents ‘striking’ (1999, 136); see also Thompson 2013 and Hardiman, this volume. On the assassination: Polyb. 5.81 and this section, above. 194 Marincola 2001; Honigman 2003. See also Thackeray 1904, 1–3. 195 Kent and Emeneau 1950, 208. 196 For examples at Persepolis, see inscriptions DPe 24, DPh 10 and XPh 58. 197 Kent and Emeneau 1950, 213; Lecoq 1997, 101. 198 Lecoq 1997, 100, 253. 199 Lecoq 1997, 102, 253–4. 200 Kuhrt 2007, 300, n.1. 201 Lecoq 1997, 100, 226–7. 202 Lecoq 1997, 103, 259, 261. 203 Lecoq 1997, 101–2. 204 Lecoq 1997, 111–12, 235; Vallat 2013.

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205 Another reference was on a column base at the site (DSj). 206 Vallat 2013, 282. 207 Stolper 2005, 18, 24. We can see a similar message in a statue of Darius from Susa, which depicts him in Egyptian artistic style but wearing a Persian court robe. The base uses Egyptian and three other cuneiform scripts to say ‘Here is the stone statue which Darius ordered to be made in Egypt, so that he who sees it in the future will know that a Persian man holds Egypt’ (Curtis and Razmjou 2005, 99). 208 Lecoq 1997, 101. 209 This helps us to understand the need for each Achaemenid king to create his own buildings on accession (Strabo 15.3.21) and why Alexander chose to burn Persepolis (Diod. Sic. 17.70–2).

Bibliography Andronikos, M. 1984 Vergina. The Royal Tombs and the Ancient City, Athens. Archibald, Z. H. 2000 ‘Space, hierarchy and community in archaic and classical Macedonia, Thessaly and Thrace’, in R. Brock and S. Hodkinson (eds), Alternatives to Athens. Varieties of Political Organisation in Ancient Greece, Oxford, 212–33. Billows, R. A. 1995 Kings and Colonists. Aspects of Macedonian Imperialism, Leiden. Blegen, C. W., Rawson, M. and Lang, M. L. 1966–73 The Palace of Nestor at Pylos in Western Messenia, Princeton, N.J. Blyth, E. 2006 Karnak: Evolution of a temple, Oxford. Boardman, J. 2000 Persia and the West: An archaeological investigation of the genesis of Achaemenid art, London. Boucharlat, R. 2001 ‘The palace and the royal Achaemenid city: two case studies – Pasargadae and Susa’, in I. Neilsen (ed.), The Royal Palace Institution in the First Millennium BC, Aarhus, 113–22. Bracke, H. 1993 ‘Pisidia in Hellenistic times (334–25 BC)’, in M. Waelkens (ed.), Sagalassos I: ﬁrst general report on the survey (1986–1989) and excavations (1990–1991), Leuven, 15–36. Briant, P. 2002 From Cyrus to Alexander. A History of the Persian Empire, Winona Lake, In. Cahill, N. 1988 ‘Tas¸ Kule: a Persian-period tomb near Phokaia’, American Journal of Archaeology 92, 481–501. Carstens, A. M. 2002 ‘Tomb cult on the Halikarnassos penninsula’, American Journal of Archaeology 106, 391–409. Claridge, A. 2010 Rome. An Oxford Archaeological Guide, Oxford.

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Collins, R. 1998 Charlemagne, Toronto. Cook, B. E. 2005 Relief Sculpture of the Mausoleum at Halicarnassus, Oxford. Cooper, F. and Morris, S. 1990 ‘Dining in round buildings’, in O. Murray (ed.), Sympotica. A Symposium on the Symposium, Oxford, 66–85. Curtis, J. and Razmjou, S. 2005 ‘The Palace’, in J. Curtis and N. Tallis (eds), Forgotten Empire: The world of Ancient Persia, London, 50–103. De Sélincourt, A. 1996 Herodotus. The Histories. London. Downes, S. 2011 ‘Aesthetics of Empire in Athens and Persia,’ PhD diss., University College London. Drougou, S. 2011 ‘Vergina, the ancient city of Aegae’, in R. J. Lane Fox (ed.), Brill’s Companion to Ancient Macedonia, Leiden, 243–56. Elias, N. 1983 The Court Society, Oxford. Evans, A., Sir. 1921–35 The Palace of Minos: A comparative account of the successive stages of the early Cretan civilisation as illustrated by the discoveries at Knossos, Vol. I–II.2, London. Evans, R. J. 2012 A History of Pergamum: Beyond Hellenistic kingship, London. Field, J. 2006 The Story of Parliament in the Palace of Westminster, London. Finley, M. I. 1977 The World of Odysseus, London. Foxhall, L. 2000 ‘The running sands of time: archaeology and the short term’, World Archaeology 31, 484–98. Frankfort, H. 1954 The Art and Architecture of the Ancient Orient, Harmondsworth. Frazer, A. 1982 ‘Macedonia and Samothrace: two architectural late bloomers’, in B. Barr- Sharrar and E. N. Borza (eds), Macedonia and Greece in Late Classical and Early Hellenistic Times, Washington D.C., 191–203. Funck, B. 1996 ‘Beobachtungen zum Begriff der Herrscherpalastes und seiner machtpolitischen Funktion im hellenistischen Raum. Prolegomena zur Typologie der hellenistischen Herrschaftspaläste’, in Hoepfner and Brands, 1996, 44–55. Gates, C. 2003 Ancient Cities. The Archaeology of Urban Life in the Ancient Near East and Egypt, Greece and Rome, London.

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Goldberg, M. 1999 ‘Spatial and behavioural negotiation in classical Athenian houses’, in P. M. Allison (ed.), The Archaeology of Household Activities, London, 142–61. Hammond, N. G. L. 1989 The Macedonian State: Origins, institutions and history, Oxford. 1992 ‘The archaeological and literary evidence for the burning of the Persepolis Palace’, Classical Quarterly 42, 358–64. Hansen M. H. and Fischer-Hansen, T. 1994 ‘Monumental political architecture in Archaic and Classical Greek poleis, evidence and historical signiﬁcance’, in D. Whitehead (ed.), From Political Architecture to Stephanus Byzantius. Sources for the Ancient Greek Polis, Stuttgart, 23–90. Hatzopoulos, M. B. 1996 Macedonian Institutions under the Kings. A Historical and Epigraphic Study, Vol. II, Meletemata 22, Paris. 2001 ‘Macedonian palaces: where king and city meet’, in I. Neilsen (ed.), The Royal Palace Institution in the First Millennium BC, Aarhus, 189–98. Hatzopoulos, M. B. and Paschidis, P. 2004 ‘Makedonia’, in M. H. Hansen and T. H. Nielsen (eds), An Inventory of Archaic and Classical Poleis, Oxford, 794–809. Hellström, O. 1996 ‘The Andrones at Labraunda. Dining halls for proto-hellenistic kings’, in Hoepfner and Brands, 1996, 164–9. Helms, M. W. 1993 Craft and the Kingly Ideal. Art, Trade and Power, Austin. Herman, G. 1997 ‘The court society of the Hellenistic Age’, in P. Cartledge, P. Garnsey and E. Gruen (eds), Hellenistic Constructs. Essays in Culture, History and Historiography, Berkeley, 199–224. Hoepfner, W. 1996 ‘Zum Typus der Basileia und der königlichen Andrones’, in Hoepfner and Brands, 1996, 1–43. Hoepfner, W. and Brands, G. (eds) 1996 Basileia. Die Paläste der hellenistischen Könige, Mainz. Honigman, S. 2003 The Septuagint and Homeric Scholarship in Alexandria. A Study in the Narrative of the ‘Letter of Aristeas’, London. Hornblower, S. 1982 Mausolus, Oxford. Jameson, M. H. 1990 ‘Private space and the Greek city’, in O. Murray and S. Price (eds), The Greek City from Homer to Alexander, Oxford, 171–95. Kent, R. G. and Emeneau, M. B. 1950 Old Persian, Grammar, Texts, Lexicon, New Haven. Kopsacheili, M. 2011 ‘Hybridisation of palace architecture: Hellenistic royal palaces and Governors’ seats’, in A. Kouremenos, S. Chandrasekaran and R. Rossi

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(eds), From Pella to Gandhara. Hybridisation and Identity in the Art and Architecture of the Hellenistic East, Oxford, 17–34. Kosmetatou, E. 2003 ‘The Attalids of Pergamon’, in A. Erskine (ed.), A Companion to the Hellenistic World, Oxford, 159–74. Kottaridi, A. 2011 ‘The palace of Aegae’, in R.J. Lane Fox (ed.), Brill’s Companion to Ancient Macedonia, Leiden, 297–333. Kuhrt, A. 2001 ‘The Achaemenid Persian empire (c. 550–330 BCE): continuities, adaptations, transformations’, in S. E. Alcock, T. N. D’Altroy, K. D. Morrison and C. M. Sinoploi (eds), Empires. Perspectives from Archaeology and History, Cambridge, 93–123. 2007 The Persian Empire. A Corpus of Sources from the Achaemenid Period, London. Kurtz, D. C. and Boardman, J. 1986 ‘Booners’, in Greek Vases in the John Paul Getty Museum, Malibu, 35–70. Kutbay, B. L. 1998 Palaces and Large Residences of the Hellenistic Age, Lewiston. Lawrence, A. W. 1951 ‘The Acropolis and Persepolis’, Journal of Hellenic Studies 71, 111–19. 1983 Greek Architecture, New Haven. Lecoq, P. 1997 Les inscriptions de la Perse achéménide, Paris. Llewellyn-Jones, L. 2013 King and Court in Ancient Persia, 559–331 BCE, Edinburgh. Ma, J. 2003 ‘Peer polity interaction in the Hellenistic Age’, Past and Present 180, 9–39. Marincola, J. 2001 Greek Historians, Oxford. McKenzie, J. 2007 The Architecture of Alexandria and Egypt, c. 300 BC to AD 200, New Haven. Milford, N. 1971 The Sun King Louis XIV at Versailles, London. Morgan, J. 2010 The Classical Greek House, Exeter. 2011 ‘Drunken men and modern myths: searching for the andron in Classical Greece’, in S. D. Lambert (ed.), Sociable Man. Essays in Greek Social Behaviour in Honour of Nick Fisher, Swansea, 267–90. 2016 Greek Perspectives of the Achaemenid Empire: Persia through the looking-glass, Edinburgh. Nevett, L. C. 1997 ‘Perceptions of domestic space in Roman Italy’, in B. Rawson and P. Weaver (eds), The Roman Family in Italy: Status, sentiment, space, Oxford, 281–98. Nichols, A. 2008 ‘The Complete Fragments of Ctesias of Cnidus. Translation and Commentary with an Introduction’, PhD thesis, University of Florida.

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Nielsen, I. 1996 ‘Oriental models for Hellenistic palaces?’, in Hoepfner and Brands, 1996, 209–12. 1999 Hellenistic Palaces. Tradition and Renewal, Aarhus. Perrot, J. (ed.) 2013 The Palace of Darius at Susa: The great royal residence of Achaemenid Persia, London. Radt, W. 1999 Pergamon: Geschichte und Bauten einer antiken Metropole, Darmstadt. 2001 ‘The urban development of Pergamon’, in D. Parrish (ed.), Urbanism in Western Asia Minor, Portsmouth R. I., 43–56. Roaf, M. 1983 ‘Sculptures and sculptors at Persepolis’, Iran 21, 1–164. Root, M. C. 1979 The King and Kingship in Achaemenid Art. Essays on the Creation of an Iconography of Empire, Leiden. 1990 ‘Circles of artistic programming: strategies for studying creative process at Persepolis’, in A. C. Gunter (ed.), Investigating Artistic Environments in the Ancient Near East, Washington DC, 115–39. 1994 ‘Lifting the veil. Artistic transmission beyond the bounds of historical periodisation’, in H. Sancisi-Weerdenburg, A. Kuhrt and M. C. Root (eds), Achaemenid History VIII. Continuity and Change. Proceedings of the Last Achaemenid History Workshop April 6–8, 1990, Ann Arbor, Michigan, Leiden, 9–37. Ruzicka, S. 1992 Politics of a Persian Dynasty. The Hecatomnids in the Fourth Century BC, Norman. Saatsoglou-Paliadeli, C. 1999 ‘In the shadow of history: the emergence of archaeology’, Annual of the British School at Athens 94, 353–67. 2001 ‘The palace of Vergina-Aegae and its surroundings’, in I. Neilsen (ed.), The Royal Palace Institution in the First Millennium BC, Aarhus, 201–13. Sancisi-Weerdenburg, H. 1998 ‘Baji’, in M. Brosius and A. Kuhrt (eds), Studies in Persian History. Essays in Memory of David M. Lewis, Leiden, 23–4. Schmidt, E. F. 1953 Persepolis I. Structures, Reliefs, Inscriptions, Chicago. Seaman, K. 2016 ‘Pergamon and Pergamene inﬂuence’, in M. M. Miles (ed.), A Companion to Greek Architecture, Chichester, 406–23. Sinopoli, C. M. 1994 ‘The archaeology of Empires’, Annual Review of Anthropology 23, 159–80. Spawforth A. J. S. 2007 ‘The court of Alexander the Great between Europe and Asia’, in A. J. S. Spawforth (ed.), The Court and Court Society in Ancient Monarchies, Cambridge, 82–120. Starr, C. G. 1977 ‘Greeks and Persians in the fourth century BC. Part II’, Iranica Antiqua 12, 49–115.

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Stolper, M. W. 2005 ‘Achaemenid languages and inscriptions’, in J. Curtis and N. Tallis (eds), Forgotten Empire: The world of Achaemenid Persia, London, 18–24. Stronach, D. B. 1963 ‘Excavations at Pasargadae: First Preliminary Report’, Iran 1, 19–42. 1964 ‘Excavations at Pasargadae: Second Preliminary Report’, Iran 2, 21–39. 1965 ‘Excavations at Pasargadae: Third Preliminary Report’, Iran 3, 9–40. 2001 ‘From Cyrus to Darius: notes on art and architecture in early Achaemenid palaces’, in I. Neilsen (ed.), The Royal Palace Institution in the First Millennium BC, Aarhus, 95–111. Stronk, J. P. 2010 Ctesias’ Persian History. Part I: Introduction, text and translation, Düsseldorf. Strootman, R. 2014 Courts and Elites in the Hellenistic Empires, Edinburgh. Sumner, W. M. 1986 ‘Achaemenid settlement in the Persepolis plain’, American Journal of Archaeology 90, 3–31. Talebian, M. H. 2008 ‘Persia and Greece. The role of cultural interactions in the architecture of Persepolis-Pasargadae’, in S.M.R. Darbandi and A. Zournatzi (eds), Ancient Greece and Ancient Iran. Cross Cultural Encounters, Athens, 175–93. Tatton-Brown, T. W. T. 2000 Lambeth Palace. A History of the Archbishops of Canterbury and their Houses, London. Thompson, D. 2013 ‘Hellenistic royal barges’, in K. Buraselis, K. et al. (eds), The Ptolemies, the Sea and the Nile: Studies in waterborne power, Cambridge, 185–96. Thurley, S. 2003 Hampton Court: A social and architectural history, New Haven. Tomlinson, R. A. 1970 ‘Ancient Macedonian symposia’, in B. Laourdas and C. Makaronas (eds), Ancient Macedonia: Papers read at the First International Symposium held in Thessaloniki 26–29 August 1968, Thessaloniki, 308–15. 1992 From Mycenae to Constantinople. The Evolution of the Ancient City, London. Tuplin, C. 2011 ‘The limits of Persianization. Some reﬂections on cultural links in the Persian Empire’, in E.S. Gruen (ed.), Cultural Identity in the Ancient Mediterranean, Los Angeles, 150–82. Umholtz, G. 2002 ‘Architraval arrogance? Dedicatory inscriptions in Greek architecture of the Classical period’, Hesperia 71, 261–93. Vallat, F. 2013 ‘The main Achaemenid inscriptions of Susa’, in J. Perrot (ed.), The Palace of Darius at Susa: The Great Royal Residence of Achaemenid Persia, London, 281–95. Walbank, F. W. 1967 A Historical Commentary on Polybius, Vol. II, Commentary on Books VII–XVII, Oxford.

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THEACHAEMENIDANDSELEUCIDCOURT: CONTINUITYORCHANGE?

David Engels

1. Introduction The intriguing complexities of pre-modern court-life should not make us forget that the main functions of court or aulic institutions have remained essentially the same from the Babylonians to the Bourbons, such as organising the prince’s daily life, caring for his security, increasing his prestige, integrating the elites and, finally, facilitating the territory’s government.1 This also applies to the Seleucid and the Achaemenid courts, whose fundamental similarities with courts even up to late medieval Burgundy have only recently been convincingly stressed,2 so that similarities between the Seleucid and the Achaemenid courts may not (only) be due to phenomena of specific institutional continuity, but rather to general anthropological automatisms. This is all the more frustrating as the question of continuity or discontinuity between these two empires is of the utmost importance for our general assessment not only of Hellenistic court life, but of Middle Eastern statecraft in general, as the Seleucids were the direct institutional link between the Achaemenid and the Parthian Empire as well as the driving force behind the making of Hellenistic Asia. An adequate analysis of the Seleucid empire’s place within the history of the Iranian world thus is of the utmost importance to our investigation of long-term continuity or discontinuity of Middle Eastern history.3 Indeed, if we consider the Seleucids as foreign intruders into the history of the Middle East, as scholarship often has,4 frequently stressing the Iranians’ opposition to Greek rule,5 we have to explain how the Seleucids managed to control the Persian heartlands without major conflicts for such a long time despite the alleged resistance to them. We would also have to show why the revival of major features of the Achaemenid imperial ideology was due only to the Parthians and not to the earlier Frataraka, the Persian dynasts under Seleucid rule.6 If, on the other hand, the Seleucids were fully concerned with the Oriental parts of their realm, as suggested by the works of Sherwin-White and Kuhrt, and have to be considered as the ideological

David Engels and institutional heirs of the Achaemenids, then we have to face the complex problem why this ‘Oriental’ identity left so few traces in our evidence.7 Court life, as one of the most important expressions of the difficult relation between the ruler and his elite, is thus not a peripheral, but a central aspect of this questioning.8 Unfortunately, when dealing with the Achaemenid and the Seleucid courts, we are confronted with two main problems: on the one hand, our knowledge about the life and institutions of both courts mainly relies on sources coming from the outside, written by Greek (and occasionally Jewish) authors without any immediate inner knowledge of either court and for an essentially foreign (and potentially hostile) readership. Thus, when consulting these writers, we have to be aware that they possibly either mirrored only information of immediate interest to themselves and their readership, or that they stylised and even invented facts in accordance with their own political or literary agenda.9 On the other hand, archaeological or material evidence for both courts is extremely scarce, perhaps even more so for the Seleucids than the Achaemenids, and what little is preserved mostly concerns regions peripheral to the core of the empire, such as Asia Minor, and excludes the Syrian and Iranian heartlands of both realms. In the following, we will try to sketch some main difficulties and perspectives of this general situation by examining four issues: first, the institutional background of central Seleucid court functions; second, the personnel policy of the Seleucid kings; third, the architectural setting of the court; and fourth, the problematic evidence of some literary sources describing salient features of the Seleucid court.

2. The court’s institutions In the ﬁrst place, we have to discuss one of the major aulic ofﬁces outside the regular imperial administration: the function of the king’s philoi. According to our Greek sources the Achaemenid kings10 were already accustomed to bestow the title of philos or/and euergete¯s upon chosen individuals and to write down their names in a book.11 They also created the somewhat superior or aristocratic categories of syngeneis (συγγενεῖς, kinsmen) and, perhaps, of ὁµότιµοι τοῖς συγγενέσιν (those equal in honour to the syngeneis),12 a court elite supported by the institution of a school of pages.13 At least some of these people will also have been part of the king’s inner council, whose opinion the Great King seems mostly to have followed, if we believe our Greek evidence.14 All this is scarcely original,15 as the necessity of asking advice from one’s friends is also a commonplace in Greek constitutional literature since Isocrates (2.27f ) and is attested not only at the court of Greek tyrants such as the Academic Hermias, but also

The Achaemenid and Seleucid court: continuity or change? at the Macedonian court with its hetairoi (companions) and its syngeneis composed of high aristocrats and personal friends, and its well-known school of pages that Seleukos was a member of until the age of 20/24.16 Under Alexander, the number of hetairoi quickly exceeded a hundred. Moreover, once he was in Asia, he seems to have assimilated the Achaemenid syngeneis and homotimoi to the status of hetairoi.17 From this point on, the title hetairoi only designated court members, whereas the closer ‘friends’ were distinguished by possessing the right to wear a purple garment.18 Seleukos had had time to observe not only Alexander’s military court for nearly 11 years, but also, during his years at Alexandria, the gradual construction of Ptolemaic institutions. He too adopted the institution of the king’s philoi when he had to integrate his personal followers into a more formal structure, at the time he held his first independent court at Babylon and founded his new state.19 Unfortunately, evidence for the early Seleucid court is very scarce and a more complex hierarchy, differentiating between different grades of friendship, is only attested from the reign of Seleukos IV.20 At this time major territorial losses in the East and West and the growing importance of the Syrian elites threatened the king’s authority and had to be controlled by the attribution of various titles and paraphernalia such as golden ornaments, probably influenced by the Ptolemaic court.21 As the Achaemenid and the Macedonian ruler, the Seleucid king bestowed the title of philos through the assignment of a purple garment and a purple hat and the inclusion in an official list.22 The tasks of the philoi, often emerging from the pool of royal pages,23 were numerous, as the king expected them to accompany him during his daily activities,24 to counsel him during his military or civil synhedrion 25 (at least if the king considered them reliable enough),26 to judge traitors or usurpers,27 to officiate as envoys to foreign countries28 and to take over administrative duties in the provinces. If we try, after this very brief sketch of a complex issue, to look for fundamental differences between the Seleucid and the Achaemenid courts, we have to notice first that the Seleucid aristocracy of philoi – like Hellenistic aristocracy in general – was mainly based on individual merit and only secondarily on descent, in contrast to the Persian court aristocracy, but our fragmentary sources may possibly deceive us about the familial antecedents of numerous Hellenistic courtiers. However, it seems there were no institutions comparable in social charisma29 with the ‘seven’ great families of the Achaemenid court30 who had (nearly) unrestricted access to the king and who exclusively furnished – if we believe Herodotus – the Great King’s wives.31 Indeed, at least in theory, the Seleucid king alone decided on who should be awarded the title of philos and, at least nominally, he was

David Engels at liberty to renew or cancel friendship with his father’s philoi, leaving – in theory – no place for the establishment of a court aristocracy.32 Nevertheless, this might not have applied to late Seleucid times, where certain philoi constituted real dynasties and probably attained something like an aristocratic status.33 Another difference between the Achaemenid and the Seleucid philoi seems to have been that the Achaemenid king did not refer to the support of his philoi in public, but legitimated his decisions by his own will only, whereas the Seleucids, even though they sometimes acted against the will of their friends,34 at least occasionally referred to the counsels of their philoi in official statements, as is attested for Seleukos II.35 Finally, we might recall competition between the Hellenistic courts, making it possible for individual philoi to abandon their king and return to their home-cities, sometimes situated outside the realm, such as Apollonios of Miletos in 170.36 Of course, the philoi are merely the best known, but certainly not the only or most important feature of Seleucid court life, which also comprised institutions much closer to the Achaemenid than to the Macedonian example. We may cite the role held by the queen and her entourage, whose political weight is perhaps more comparable to the role of the queen at the Achaemenid court than of the Macedonian queen.37 Thus, the Seleucid queen for example regularly appears on her own in inscriptions as benefactress of Greek cities and is honoured by them as a political player in her own right;38 a fact perhaps due to the ideological importance of the empire’s first queen Apama, the daughter of the Bactrian noble Spitamenes,39 who provided her husband Seleukos I and her son Antiochos I with a first- class dynastic legitimacy. Similarly, we may underline the office of chancellor (or, if one prefers the orientalising fashion, ‘grand vizier’), which apparently did not exist in Greece, but which was well known at the Achaemenid court, where the Hazarapatiš, originally commander of the guard (chiliarchos), sometimes came to be considered as second in command after the king.40 Alexander seems to have deemed this office to be useful and appointed Perdikkas 41 chiliarchos. The office was then adopted under the name of ὁ ἐπὶ τῶν πραγµάτων by the Seleucids, and even though the first known chancellor dates from the time of Seleukos III, it is probable that the office already 42 existed under the early Seleucids. Even from outside the realm, the ὁ ἐπὶ τῶν πραγµάτων was obviously considered a typical feature of the Seleucid monarchy,43 and many of these prime ministers indeed actively shaped the destinies of the kingdom,44 at times even in opposition to the king.45 As a last random factor of court life, we may stress the presence of eunuchs at the Seleucid court, most prominently known through Lucian’s

The Achaemenid and Seleucid court: continuity or change? semi-legendary Kombabos or the better attested Krateros, physician to queen Kleopatra Thea and educator, as well as one of the foremost philoi, of Antiochos IX.46 If, as has been supposed, all physicians attending to princesses and queens were eunuchs,47 this would indicate even more continuity or at least toleration of another Oriental practice in the midst of the royal court. Of course, eunuchs are already attested in classical Athens,48 but their association with somewhat shadowy fantasms of the ‘Oriental world’ are beyond question. Employment not only in a private context, but also in high political ofﬁces thus seems to be a further ‘Oriental’ heritage of the Eastern Hellenistic courts and probably originated from the sudden importance former Achaemenid eunuchs, traditionally inﬂuential at the Great King’s court,49 gained at the military court of Alexander.50 Even though we do not know if there ever was a formalised association of court eunuchs as under the Achaemenids and Alexander, it seems not impossible that some remnants of these political traditions may have survived at the Seleucid court as they obviously did in Ptolemaic Egypt.51

3. The politics of personnel Although not without interest, these somewhat randomly presented similarities and differences between some Achaemenid and Seleucid aulic institutions are not particularly helpful for the discussion of fundamental continuity and discontinuity between both courts, as our lack of relevant sources hinders us from elaborating any conclusive assessment. Indeed, similarities may simply be due to fundamental structural necessities characterising the institutions of nearly all pre-modern monarchies, whereas dissimilarities may be due less to speciﬁc intentional choices than to the general political evolution of the Hellenistic times. In order to add a further dimension to our investigation, it thus might be interesting to consider to what extent the Seleucids established continuity – or discontinuity – with the court of their predecessors not only through the preservation or reshaping of ofﬁces, but also through the inclusion of Iranians in their court personnel.52 It comes as no surprise that the Macedonian and Persian courts were, as most ancient empires, arranged around an ethnic core sometimes labelled, perhaps somewhat unhappily, ‘Reichsvolk’ or ‘ethno-classe dominante’,53 even though the Achaemenids were particularly careful to include members of the local elites at least in the lower levels of imperial administration, and seem to have refrained from a systematic ‘Iranisation’ of their realm.54 Nevertheless, the Achaemenids ultimately relied on the military domination of the Iranian ethne over the rest of the empire. Following the Macedonian conquest, however, and particularly after

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Alexander’s death and the severance of ties with mainland Greece and Macedonia, this system of the hegemony of one ethnos over others seemed potentially compromised, as the new Greco-Macedonian rulers, in contrast to the Persian ‘ethno-classe’, were disseminated throughout the whole Near and Middle East instead of settling in a compact group in the heart of the empire (at least up to the massive colonisation and Hellenisation of Syria). This quite logically should have implied not only a certain necessity of conserving existing administrative structures, but also of permitting the former non-Greek elite to continue sharing power in order to maintain stability and prevent resentment. Such was a strategy already outlined by Alexander, who employed numerous non-Greeks not only at his court, but also in senior administrative positions, as he confirmed, for example, eighteen former Achaemenid satraps (ten of whom he had to remove later for various reasons).55 Considering to what extent the Seleucids staffed the court structures inherited from Alexander and based on Babylonian or Persian infra- structures, let us look first at what has been labelled the ‘Inner Court’, i.e. again the group of royal philoi. It is a salient feature that our sources, contrary to what might be expected from the preceding reflections, nearly exclusively mention philoi bearing Greek names, who, moreover, often also were citizens of a Greek polis.56 The only non-Greek philos (excepting Hannibal and the quite late cases of the dynasts Jonathan, Simon and Malchos), the Syrian Kombabos, an alleged ‘friend’ of Seleukos I, is only attested by Lucian and may be considered a fictional person, nevertheless reflecting the no less interesting existence of a literary image of a Seleucid court populated by Orientals and eunuchs.57 All this seems to indicate, at first view, a certain rejection of Alexander’s politics of safeguarding the rule of the Hellenic military minority by merging the Macedonian and Persian elites. Nevertheless, some elements may challenge the picture of the purely ‘Hellenic’ nature of the king’s friends and his court. Indeed, if we consider that municipal officials could be given Greek names by the king,58 as is well attested at least in Uruk with the family of Anu-uballit/Nikarchos, who was the city’s governor and had been awarded a Greek name by Seleukos II himself,59 we may wonder if this onomastic habit was only restricted to Babylonia or the middle levels of administration, or extended also to the upper levels and the court and explains perhaps the origin of the somewhat curious satrap ‘Dionysios the Mede’.60 Even some of the Seleucid kings seem to have originally borne Iranian names before adopting the dynastic names of ‘Antiochos’ and ‘Seleukos’.61 This possibility of the existence of numerous Oriental officials bearing Greek names is rendered still more plausible by the fact that Greek cities

The Achaemenid and Seleucid court: continuity or change? occasionally used to confer their citizenship upon distinguished non-Greek Seleucid subjects such as officers and soldiers,62 who may then have adopted Greek names or given Greek names to their children in order to express their pride and new civic allegiance. It would be surprising if the Greek cities had not also extended this custom to the higher officials of the court. Thus, we cannot absolutely exclude that some of the allegedly Greek philoi were, in fact, non-Greeks bearing Greek names.63 This hypothesis is made even more plausible when considering comparable material from outside the Seleucid realm, such as the well-documented dual names in Ptolemaic Egypt. We also should remind ourselves that the presence of Seleukos’ Bactrian wife Apama at the royal court may have implied at least for the early Seleucids the permanent presence and influence of some members of her family and of other Iranian aristocrats, implying also the possibility, even the high probability, of subsequent mixed marriages with Greek and Macedonian families, whose offspring then might have adopted Greek names. This is even more probable as Plutarch suggests that Seleukos I’s administration expressly favoured, as Alexander had done, mixed marriages, as is shown by the charge levelled against the Spartan king Leonidas that he ‘was the father of two children by a woman of Asia who had been given him as a wife by one of the lieutenants of Seleukos’.64 This attitude was also valid for the royal house, as the Seleucids regularly contracted marriages with Iranian noble houses, implying the regular reinforcement of the Iranian element at the Seleucid court.65 Interestingly, most of these families traced their ancestry back to one of the Persians’ seven great aristocratic houses – an amazing feature, as the Seleucids thus continued what was supposed to be the Achaemenids’ custom of contracting marriages precisely with members of these seven families.66 Thus, the Ariarathid house of Cappadocia claimed descent from Otanes (Anaphas), one of the Seven,67 and was linked to the Seleucids by the marriage of Ariarathes III with Stratonike, daughter of Antiochos II,68 as well as of Ariarathes IV with Antiochis, a daughter of Antiochos III.69 Similarly, the house of Pontos also claimed descent from Otanes,70 and was linked to the Seleucids through the marriage of Mithridates II with Laodike, sister of Seleukos II,71 of Antiochos III and Achaios with two daughters Mithridates II had with Laodike,72 and of Pharnakes I with Nysa, perhaps a grand-daughter of Antiochos III.73 Another self-designated descendant from a member of one of the seven great houses, Hydarnes, was the Orontid Dynasty of Armenia,74 and here too, we know of marriage ties, as king Xerxes of Sophene received through Antiochos III his sister Antiochis (who incidentally poisoned her husband later...).75 If we add to this the later

David Engels marriages with the Parthian house,76 it becomes quite clear that the Seleucid dynasty systematically fostered dynastic ties with Iranian noble families going (allegedly) back to Achaemenid times and thus continued marriage traditions usually associated with the Achaemenid Great Kings. Unfortunately, our evidence only concerns the king’s immediate circle, but it would be surprising if the royal courtiers did not imitate this Iranian marriage practice at their level, thus reinforcing even more the Oriental element at the Seleucid court. Furthermore, and most importantly for the analysis of our prosopographical evidence, we have to consider that nearly all historiographical and epigraphical sources are Greek. This constitutes a major problem. As Greek historiography unfortunately almost exclusively considered ‘Western events’,77 it is quite natural that it only reflects the existence of Greek- speaking philoi and courtiers, involved in dealings with the Western Greek city-states and dynasties, whereas Iranian or Babylonian courtiers, probably assigned to deal with their home territories, will scarcely have interested our Greek authors. Similarly, our Greek epigraphical evidence also seems highly biased, as it is almost by definition wholly dependent on Greek city- life and thus mainly interested in personal ties between the respective polis and some specific individuals. Hence, despite our apparently overwhelming evidence,78 we cannot conclude at all from the silence of our sources that there were never Oriental philoi or high-ranking courtiers, nor that the prosopographical situation of the Greek philoi is a direct indicator for the rest of Seleucid court personnel. The presence of Oriental courtiers and even philoi is not only possible, it is also highly probable, as a comparison with other Hellenistic kingdoms shows. If we consider the philoi of the Pontic kings, only 3 out of 16 known individuals bear non-Greek names;79 even worse, if we count the philoi of the Arsacid kings, only 1 out of the 11 known individuals bears a non-Greek name.80 As it certainly would be most absurd to conclude that the Pontic or the Parthian courts were almost exclusively staffed with Greeks, it seems necessary to be equally cautious when considering the Seleucid state, even more so if we remember our earlier argument about the possible adoption of Greek names by Oriental officials. Such a multicultural composition for the Seleucid court seems even more probable if we consider the composition of the ‘Outer Court’, constituted not only by the realm’s high officials such as the satrapal governors (emerging often, perhaps even always, from the pool of philoi),81 but also by the high military officers and the client dynasts, considered as parts of the court when visiting the king (or visited by him). In this context, we might cite, in addition to Hannibal,82 and skipping the non-Greek philoi

The Achaemenid and Seleucid court: continuity or change? from Asia Minor, the example of the Arab dynast Malchos, tropheus (tutor, guardian) of Antiochos VI,83 or of the Jewish dynasts and philoi Jonathan and Simon, only known as ‘friends’ thanks to Hellenistic Jewish sources like Maccabees and to Josephus.84 Accordingly we should be very careful in considering them as a fundamental exception to a general rule, simply because the Iranian territories had no historiography comparable to the Hellenistic one. Indeed, as even a minor Arab dynast and two renegade Jewish dynasts have been made philoi by the king – despite the fact that the ferocious Jewish revolt was triggered not only by political, but also by important cultural and religious issues – we should be very careful before excluding the possibility that the Seleucids conferred the same title onto other client dynasts like the Frataraka, the rulers of Charakene, Osrhoene or Commagene, whose dealings with and presence at the Seleucid court is less well known because of the lack of local historiography. Furthermore, the Seleucid ‘outer court’ was constituted not only by the king’s high officials or clients in the satrapies, but also by high military officials, a certain number of whom are not only unmistakably non- Greek,85 but clearly Iranian, showing that the new regime endeavoured to integrate the Achaemenids’ former ‘ethno-classe dominante’ into the new state. The most spectacular example is the case of the Armeno-Iranian nobles Artaxias and Zariadris who were appointed satraps of Armenia by Antiochos III at the end of the third century.86 It is unknown if they were considered as philoi of the king already before their appointment – the contrary should be surprising – but it seems quite logical to suppose that they and their suite were present at the royal court before setting out for Armenia. The same may apply to some other persons from the long list of other Iranian officials87 such as Oborzas, a Persian military commander dispatched to quell a rebellion of Greek or Macedonian settlers,88 Aribazos, strategos in Kilikia in 246,89 Omanes, Iranian commander of the Persian garrison at Old Magnesia in 244,90 Aspianas ‘the Mede’, a high military commander under Antiochos III at Raphia in 217,91 another Aribazos, governor of Sardis under Achaios in 213,92 Ardys, military commander under Antiochos III between 221 and 197,93 Mithridates, another general under Antiochos III in his war against Xerxes of Armenia,94 Hyspaosines, governor of Southern Babylonia under Antiochos IV,95 or to Dionysios ‘the Mede’, satrap of Mesopotamia under Demetrios II.96 It would seem surprising if these officials, their families, servants and suite were never present at the court before, during or after their nomination for the office for which they are attested. Given the particular Hellenocentric nature of our sources, we cannot exclude the presence of other non-Greek courtiers97 and the personnel dealing with their particular

David Engels needs. Of course, it is beyond question that there always were more Macedonians and Greeks in each high administrative or military ofﬁce than Iranians or other Orientals;98 nevertheless, it would be false to suppose that the precise ratio in our ﬂawed and fragmentary prosopographical evidence is representative of the actual ethnic proportions at the Seleucid court.

4. The architectural setting So far, we have considered mainly continuities and changes related to the administration of the court and the prosopography of its officials. Evidently, however, neither the Achaemenid nor the Seleucid court can be satisfactorily reduced to mere abstract institutions or ephemeral personal networks, as we also have to consider a factor probably much more salient to the eyes of a contemporary visitor to the royal court: the architectural setting of the king’s residence. Already, the Achaemenids were fully conscious of the ideological and political importance of the palaces they used during their various peregrinations across their empire,99 as is shown not only by the re-using of former palatial structures such as at Babylon,100 but also the creation of a new architectural language as at Persepolis. Using and combining architectural and ornamental details from all regions of their empire in the construction of their court and employing builders and artists from all over their realm, the Achaemenids deliberately created a new imperial architecture which expressed the unity of their empire and was systematically imitated by their satraps in their provincial courts.101 Alexander’s attitude towards his predecessors’ artistic heritage is more difficult to assess, as he had sent ambivalent signals by burning the palaces of Persepolis but establishing his own court in the Babylonian Palace and the Great King’s other traditional dwellings.102 We do not know how a genuine example of Alexander’s palatial architecture would have looked – the only (and earliest, so probably least representative) example might have been the royal palace at Alexandria-Egypt – but it is possible that the few remnants of Seleucid architecture reflect projects going back to the time of Alexander’s organisation of his new realm.103 Indeed, the Seleucids seem to have largely tried to integrate Achaemenid traditions into their own architecture. Not only was an Achaemenid-style palace rebuilt on the terraces of Persepolis (palace H),104 as residence of either the Persian satrap or of the client dynasty of the Frataraka, but most capital cities whose importance is attested for the Achaemenids also continued to serve as administrative centres, mints and royal residences for the Seleucid kings, such as Babylon, Susa, Ekbatana, or Tape (or Syrinx) in Hyrcania.105 These show that the Seleucid rulers not only followed the Achaemenids’ nomadic

The Achaemenid and Seleucid court: continuity or change? habits at least initially, but also preserved the function of long-established traditional centres. Some sources even suggest that the Seleucids occasionally directly inhabited older palatial structures. This certainly applies to the palace of Babylon before Seleukos founded Seleukeia as his new Mesopotamian capital, but also seems to have been true for genuine Achaemenid structures. Thus Polybius, Strabo, and Pliny are often cited as evidence concerning the continued use of the Achaemenid residence at Ekbatana.106 Similarly, it is probable that the Seleucids residing at Susa also used Achaemenid palatial structures, either the old palace of Darius with its Apadana, later slowly abandoned and ending up divided into many private habitations,107 or the so-called ‘palais du donjon’.108 It is difficult to assume that the Seleucids inhabited these Achaemenid residences without tolerating a continuity of at least some basic functional features of the traditional court life and etiquette intimately linked to the architecture of these places. Some elements even show that the Seleucids not only promoted various forms of continuity in the use of the Achaemenid courts, but also even actively created such continuity where it was missing, as in the palaces they constructed themselves.109 Unfortunately, our knowledge about the royal palaces of the Tetrapolis or of Seleukeia-Tigris is very slight; nevertheless, recently, the structural similarities of all these palaces has been convincingly underlined110 and traced back to the main features of the Northern palace of Babylon after its Achaemenid remodelling. Some remains from Seleukeia-Tigris, Seleukos’ first capital, even attest the deliberate use of Achaemenid-style column bases.111 Clearly, this intentional use of Persian ornaments in the midst of Seleukos’ new Mesopotamian capital cannot be explained by the king’s wish to respect local traditions – Babylonian rather than Iranian112 – but was to express cultural and ideological continuity with the Great King’s imperial architecture and thus to draw legitimacy from the acceptance of the Achaemenid artistic heritage. This aim of continuing rather than breaking with Achaemenid forms is also shown at the utmost extremity of the realm; for the only well- preserved Seleucid palace is the so-called ‘governor’s palace’ at the still nameless Eastern Bactrian city at Ai Khanoum, filling nearly a quarter of the Hippodamian urban grid.113 The founding of the city has been variously attributed to Alexander, to Antiochos I or even – though not with very convincing arguments – to the Graeco-Bactrian kings,114 and the precise chronology of the different phases of construction is still somewhat debated, as much of the original masonry was dismantled after the abandonment of the site and as the actual mud-brick structure reflects mainly the late Graeco-Bactrian period. Nevertheless, it seems beyond

David Engels dispute that the city’s main palatial structure, constructed during the first half of the third century, follows an architectural pattern essentially influenced by Iranian and Babylonian palatial architecture not only in its outer aspect, but also in its inner form.115 Thus, the scattering of diverse administrative and recreational buildings as well as what seem to have been the houses of the courtiers across a large area of palatial gardens recalls not only the architectural configuration of Alexander’s court at Babylon, but also that of various Achaemenid palaces.116 But most of all, the combination of different parallel courts, opening on to a central audience hall, enclosed by many small rooms with a somewhat rigid symmetry and separated by long corridors merges Babylonian features known from the Babylonian Northern palace and the Babylonian-style palace situated behind the Apadana in Susa with more typically Iranian architecture. Thus, the perpendicularly flexed axes of the entrance gateway (bordering the main street) and the audience-court at Ai Khanoum exactly correspond to the positioning of the ceremonial gates and the audience-halls at Susa, Pasargadai and Persepolis. Similarly, the curious pronaos leading up to the central audience room with its four rows of six columns combines features from Persian multi-columned interiors with the architectural structure of the usually only two-rowed column-entrances to Achaemenid audience rooms (Susa, Pasargadai, Persepolis) or Iranian fire-temples (like the Seleucid-period temple of Takht-i Sangin or the Frataraka-temple in Persepolis). The treasury building of the palace of Ai Khanoum is also very similar to Achaemenid treasuries such as Persepolis. It is all the more obvious that the striking similarities between official Seleucid architecture and the traditional features of the major Achaemenid courts were scarcely accidental or due to the preferences of the Bactrian builders. If one considers the architecture of the temples erected at the same time within the new Seleucid colonies, they too combine in an often strikingly syncretistic way Greek, Iranian, Mesopotamian and Syrian features.117 Since we also find Iranian elements in Babylonia and Babylonian elements in Iran, combined even with Greek ornaments, it becomes quite clear that the fusion of the artistic styles of the empire’s major regions was not the result of simple hazard, but rather part of a deliberate centralised building programme which endeavoured to continue the Achaemenids’ attempts to create a multicultural imperial architecture.

5. Literary descriptions Ai Khanoum shows that, at least in the founding phase of Seleucid rule, the new Hellenistic rulers deliberately tried not only to use, but even to re- create an architectural setting embedded in a long-term Achaemenid

The Achaemenid and Seleucid court: continuity or change? continuity. Unfortunately, the impression thus created is only attested in a handful of literary texts, and in addition to the small number of sources, it is precisely the allusion to the ‘Oriental’ aspects of the Seleucid court which makes the historical value of these literary texts even more disputable. Indeed, the fundamental link between the Achaemenid kings and the members of their court was the unequal exchange of presents, enabling not only the king to claim loyalty in exchange for gifts or offices, but also permitting the subjects to present the king with gifts in order to maintain or increase their social position in the court hierarchy, a system then reproduced on a smaller scale at the satrapal level. The deployment of often considerable wealth and luxury seemed to the Greek visitors to the Persian court one of its most striking features. Hence, it was quickly established as a redundant literary stereotype first of Achaemenid rule,118 then, after its demise, of the greater Oriental Hellenistic courts, who in many ways filled the literary gap left by the disappearance of the Achaemenids. It is thus very difficult to assess to what extent the presumed existence of ‘Oriental’ features at the Seleucid court stressed by our sources corresponds to actual facts or only to traditional topoi applied to the description of the Seleucid court in order to meet the expectations of a Greek readership in want of Orientalism à la Herodotus or Ktesias.119 A passage from Plutarch gives a typical example of this problem, as the author opposes the modesty of the third-century Spartan court with the contemporary luxury of Seleukos, reporting that, ‘there was in Leonidas a very marked departure from the traditions of his country, since for a long time he had frequented satrapal courts and had been a servile follower of Seleukos, and now sought to transfer the pomp which prevailed abroad into Hellenic relations and a constitutional government, where they were out of place.’120 The passage might seem, at first view, especially evocative and to attest the existence of obviously ‘un-Greek’ ‘satrapal courts’ (αὐλαῖς σατραπικαῖς) characterised by luxury and wealth (τὸν ἐκεῖθεν ὄγκον). However, we have to be aware of the fact that Plutarch or his sources used the description of the Seleucid court in order to create a foil to compare the opposition between Oriental luxury and traditional Spartan modesty,121 using two long-established literary stereotypes in order to describe events linked to a quite different, Hellenistic context. This also applies to a similar passage out of the same biography, where Plutarch explains ‘For in the matter of property, he said, he could not equal the other kings, since the servants and slaves of the satraps and overseers of Ptolemy and Seleukos had larger possessions than all the kings of Sparta put together’.122 Again, the terminology employed by Plutarch deepens the impression of literary stylisation, not only assimilating the Seleucids (and interestingly also the

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Ptolemies) to Achaemenid stereotypes, but referring again to the office of ‘satrap’,123 typically associated with the Achaemenids and only scarcely attested in the Seleucid administration,124 and unknown or at least unusual in Ptolemaic administration. A somewhat similar reservatio mentalis should be made for the allusions in Livy to the murderous eunuchs at Antiochos III’s court,125 reflecting well-known stereotypes from Ktesias or Herodotus,126 or for the numerous descriptions in Athenaeus of Seleucid dinner parties and symposia, suggesting excesses all too easily deemed ‘Oriental’ by a Greek readership.127 Similarly, our sources tend to underline not only the enormous wealth, but also the complexity of the Seleucid court, making the king himself a kind of prisoner to courtly routine, not unlike the Persian king. Seleukos thus complained about the incredible amount of paperwork,128 Antiochos III was obliged to feign illness in order to escape the court ceremonial and plan the removal of his minister Hermeias,129 and Antiochos IV is criticised for abandoning the attitude of royal dignity in order to contribute personally to the practical details of organising festivities.130 Furthermore, one might refer to Justin/Pompeius Trogus, who partially based his account on the histories of the Syrian philosopher Poseidonios and gives a short account of the court of Antiochos VII accompanying the king into his war against the Parthians: ‘three hundred thousand camp followers, of whom the greater number were cooks, bakers, and stage-players, attending on eighty thousand armed men. Of silver and gold, it is certain, there was such an abundance that the common soldiers fastened their buskins with gold, and trod upon the metal for the love of which nations contend with the sword. Their cooking instruments, too, were of silver, as if they were going to a banquet, not to a field of battle.’131 Again, we might be tempted to parallel this account with similar descriptions of the Great King’s apparently inefficient and effeminate army and consider it as literary stylisation by the author or his anti-Seleucid sources, trying to model the Seleucids after the Achaemenids in order to discredit them in the eyes of the contemporary Roman and Greek reader.132 It is a historiographical feature known from other authors who systematically underline parallels between the Seleucids and the Achaemenids on the one hand, and between their Greek or Roman enemies and the Athenians of old on the other hand.133 At the same time, the topical criticism of ‘Oriental’ luxury may also be explained by some important historians’ (like Poseidonios’) generally inimical attitude towards the Hellenistic inhabitants of Syria,134 conditioned as much by racial prejudices135 as by the philosophically based rejection of the Hellenistic ideal of luxury, tryphe¯.136 Nevertheless, we know at least one instance of a stereotyped Seleucid court used not in order to discredit anyone, but, on

The Achaemenid and Seleucid court: continuity or change? the contrary, in order to enhance legitimacy. Indeed, during the first Sicilian slave revolt, when the slave leader Eunous adopted the name ‘Antiochos’ and tried to create a Syrian kingdom in Sicily, the main features of the contemporary Seleucid court were consciously copied by the insurrectionists in order to legitimate a new order fundamentally opposed to the Roman republic.137 However, some other examples show that the stereotype of an opulent ‘Oriental’ Seleucid court life was a topos followed not only by Greek sources, but also by Oriental ones. Thus, we might cite, for example, the well- known episode concerning the love-sick Antiochos I, which features a certain numbers of references to the court, such as the host of household servants the king’s physician makes pass before the prince, or the important role held by the physician himself.138 The narration strongly resembles other Hellenistic stories139 and might even be modelled, as proposed by Funck, after popular Oriental tales connected to Ishtar,140 and one should therefore hesitate in citing it as valuable source for the court life during the time of Seleukos I. Nevertheless, the syncretism of Oriental imagery and Seleucid reality shows how the ‘Hellenistic’ Seleucid court could become the projection screen of obviously autochthonous legends.141 Similarly, we should not forget the already mentioned legend of Stratonike and the eunuch Kombabos, set at the court of Seleukos, who is interestingly labelled as ‘king of the Assyrians’ by the author.142 Again, it is most improbable that this narration reflects any kind of reality, but the overwhelming similarities with legends concerning other Iranian royal houses such as the Sasanians143 and probably the Achaemenids144 show how the Seleucid court could be seen by its Oriental subjects as a plausible stage for the re-enactment of local legends and thus must not have appeared genuinely different from the courts of its predecessors.145 In this spirit, we can also suppose that some other stories, more inconspicuous and transmitted through Greek sources, may in fact reflect contemporary anecdotes popular with the Seleucids’ Oriental population. Thus, Antiochos IV is criticised for appearing in public without a sufficient suite, trying to mingle incognito with his population and speaking with the first person encountered, a story resembling more the Oriental tradition of the ‘king in disguise’ (like Harun ar-Rashid and many others) than Greek tales.146 Similarly, Poseidonios of Apamea criticises Antiochos IX for hunting without his court and only accompanied by some slaves in order to attack lions, panthers and wild boars with his bare hands.147 It is obvious that this passage not only refers to the general liking of Macedonian kings for hunting,148 but points more precisely, as do similar tales concerning

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Alexander and Seleukos I,149 to Babylonian and Achaemenid traditions, insisting on the fact that the king was supposed to hunt without the direct interference of his court and had to ﬁght all by himself against animals traditionally dangerous for local agriculture and stock-breeding.150 Thus, the similarities concerning the Seleucid court’s obvious stylisation as Oriental in Greek literary sources as well as in the scarce remnants of Oriental traditions offer an intriguing perspective. If, indeed, Greek contemporaries as well as the Seleucids’ Oriental subjects assumed the Seleucid court should correspond to certain traditional stereotypes, should we suppose the Seleucids themselves, with all the care they devoted to their propaganda,151 would have thought it wise to differ from these images which everyone else seems to have imposed on them?

6. Conclusion In conclusion, our short investigation leaves us with a somewhat embarrassing, though not unexpected, picture of the Seleucid court: First, concerning the continuity of aulic institutions, it seems quite clear that the similarities between Alexander’s and the Achaemenids’ courts and the subsequent parallels with the Seleucid institutions did not necessarily issue from a deliberate choice by the early Seleucids, but were due partly to historical evolution, partly to features so typical for all ancient courts that they do not have much value for the assessment of continuity or discontinuity. Thus, there is not much to gain from this side. Second, concerning the integration of the former Achaemenid ‘ethno- classe dominante’ into the new Seleucid aulic structures, the impression of a typically ‘Greek’ court, at least as far as concerns the staffing of the synhedrion of the king’s ‘friends’, is a direct consequence of our literary and epigraphical sources, dealing exclusively with Greek questions, as is shown by the absurd fact that nearly all known ‘friends’ of the Parthian kings also bear Greek names. As our Jewish sources show the existence of Jewish philoi, it would be surprising if the Seleucid court did not feature a significant number of other, more or less Hellenised non-Greek philoi and officials from all regions of the realm and most notably from the Iranian territories, a supposition underlined by the Seleucid marriage policy and the rich prosopography of Seleucid high officials with Iranian names. Third, the impression of a Seleucid court deliberately trying to gain legitimacy by creating continuities with its Achaemenid predecessor is amplified when considering the Seleucid palaces. The Seleucids not only, like Alexander, regularly used Babylonian and Achaemenid palaces, they also tried to adopt the specificities of the syncretistic Achaemenid imperial architecture in the building of their new colonies and even their palaces, as

The Achaemenid and Seleucid court: continuity or change? shown by the lay-out of the palace at Ai Khanoum, which combines Babylonian and Achaemenid elements. Fourth, and most unfortunately, the complex court life that took place in these structures is more or less unknown to us, except for some particular episodes. It is nonetheless interesting – and somewhat exasperating – that most sources mentioning ‘Oriental’ aspects resembling Achaemenid traditions are so inﬂuenced by the classical literary stereotype opposing Greek virtue and modesty to ‘Oriental’ wealth and decadence, that they seem almost utterly unreliable. Nevertheless, some scattered fragments attest the continuity of a regal behaviour styled after Near and Middle Eastern models, and the literary use of the Seleucid court as setting of re-enactments of Oriental legendary or mythological narrations shows that the Seleucids and their court were not considered as foreign intruders by their subjects, but very quickly managed to be integrated into a centuries-old aulic continuity.

Notes 1 Paravicini 1996, 66. For methodological background and literature, cf. also – besides Elias 1969 – the introduction to Spawforth 2007, 1–16. 2 Hirschbiegel 2010a and 2010b. 3 Engels 2011b and 2014a. 4 Altheim 1947 vol. 1, Edson 1958, Habicht 1958. 5 Eddy 1961. 6 Parthians: Engels 2014b; Frataraka: Engels 2013a. 7 Kuhrt and Sherwin-White 1987, Sherwin-White and Kuhrt 1993, cf. Bickerman 1966, Broughton 1970, Briant 1990 and 1994, McKenzie 1994 and the papers in Briant and Joannès 2006 for Seleucids as heirs. On the problem of oriental identity, Engels 2013a and Engels 2017. 8 For a general introduction to the topic Weber 1996. 9 For the Achaemenid court in ancient historiography, cf. Bernard 2010, Tuplin 2010, Mathys 2010. On historiography on (and from) the Seleucids, Edson 1958, Primo 2009. 10 Concerning the Achaemenid court, cf. Ehtecham 1946, Toynbee 1955, Frei and Koch 1984, Tuplin 1987, Briant 1996, Jacobs and Rollinger 2010. 11 Court titles: Hdt. 8.85.3, Thuc. 1.129, Esther 6.1 f., Diod. Sic. 11.56.5, Arr. Anab. 3.27.4, Athen. 1.30a. Book: Hdt. 3.140, 8.85 f., Esther 6.1. See further Wiesehöfer 1980. 12 Gauger 1977 supposes an erroneous Hellenistic projection back into Achaemenid times. 13 Hdt. 1.135, Xen. Cyr. 1.2.2–14, Strabo 15.3.18. 14 Hdt. 7.8, Diod. Sic. 11.56.4. 15 Indeed, the king’s ‘friends’ were an institution typical for most royal courts in every culture, cf. Schmitt 2005a, 463 f. 16 Hermias: Bickerman 1938, 49; Macedon: Theopompos FGrH 115 F 224 ff., cf. Hampl 1934, 66–77, Hammond 1990, Strootman 2007, 181–8.

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17 Arr. Anab. 7.3, but see Gauger 1977. 18 Diod. Sic. 17.104.1; concerning Alexander’s φίλοι and ἑταῖροι cf. Stagakis 1970; purple coat: Athen. 12.539f–540a. 19 For the Seleucid state in general, Bickerman 1938, Bengtson 1952/64, Musti 1966, and Capdetrey 2007. 20 For the Seleucid court, Carsana 1996, Grainger 1997, Savalli-Lestrade 1998, Strootman 2007 and 2011. First evidence of complex hierarchy: RC 45; but probable allusions in RC 36.20, Joseph. AJ 12.148 and Athen. 4.155b. Bickerman 1938, 41 f. and Momigliano 1933 suppose (on the basis of RC 45, OGIS 255 and 256) the following ranks: τῶν φίλων τῶν τιµωµένων φίλων τῶν πρώτων φίλων τῶν πρῶτων καὶ προτιµωµένων φίλων συγγενής. Concerning the category of συγγενής (2 Macc. 11.12), τροφεύς (OGIS 256) and σύντροφευς (OGIS 247), cf. Bickerman 1938, 42f; Savalli- Lestrade 1998, 258–74 and in this volume; Strootman 2011, 85–7. 21 1 Macc. 4.38, 2 Macc. 4.38, 3 Esdr. 4.22, 6.8. Concerning the cursus honorum of a φίλος, cf. the various titles and ranks attributed to the Maccabean Jonathan (1 Macc. 8.14, 10.20, 10.65, 10.89, 11.27, 11.58). Importance of Syrian elites: Engels 2013b; Ptolemaic inﬂuence: Schmitt 2005a, 464. 22 Purple: 1 Macc. 4.38., 2 Macc. 4.38; list: 1 Macc. 10.65. 23 Attested since Antiochos III and IV (Polyb. 30.25.16). Cf. Savalli-Lestrade 1998, 377. 24 Polyb. 5.56.10, 5.83.1, 8.21.1, Livy 33.41.9, Plut. Mor. 184d. They also shared the king’s ﬂight (Plut. Mor. 508d) and death (Joseph. AJ 13.368). 25 Polyb. 5.38, 5.41, 5.45.6, 5.49, 5.50.6, 29.11, 2 Macc. 6.28 and 60, Diod. Sic. 28.21, 34.1 and 16, Livy 34.17, Joseph. AJ 12.149 and 263, Just. Epit. 31.5. Cf. in general Corradi 1929, Savalli-Lestrade 2003. 26 Thus, Hannibal was excluded from Antiochos III’s friends (Livy 35.19.1), whereas the Epicurean Philonides declined Demetrios I’s invitation to enter his friends’ synhedrion. Concerning the biography of Philonides, cf. Crönert 1900, Habicht 1984, Gera 1999 and Gallo 2002. 27 Polyb. 8.21.2, 2 Macc. 4.44. 28 Livy 35.15. In certain cases, the φίλοι also received embassies (Livy 35.15) and even acted as representatives of the king, as Themision and Aristos for Antiochos II (Phylarchos FGrH 81 F6 = Athen. 10.438d) or Andronikos for Antiochos IV (2 Macc. 4.31). 29 RC 11.12, RC 45. Cf. also Just. Epit. 31.6.1–3, attesting obvious concurrence between the friends of Antiochos III. That the status of ‘friend’ depended on the living king is shown by RC 22.9; nevertheless, one could refer to one’s status as ‘friend’ of the late king (OGIS 256). 30 Cf. Briant 1996, 119–27 and 140–9. 31 Hdt. 3.84, although the passage is disputed and already contradicted in 3.88 – cf. Briant 1996, 143 f. – it is not without interest for the Seleucid marriage policy, as most Iranian families with whom the Seleucids intermarried claimed descent from one of these seven families, see Section 3 below. 32 Renewing: RC 22; cancelling: Diod. Sic. 34.3. 33 E.g. the small ‘dynasty’ of the Philonideis (IG II2 1236 and OGIS 241), Carsana 1996, C 24 and E 24 f., Grainger 1997, 87 and 113, Savalli-Lestrade 1998, n°46, 50 and 60.

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34 Antiochos VII disregarding his friends’ advice to destroy the Jewish people (Poseidonios FGrH 87 F109 = Diod. Sic. 34.1). 35 Inscr. Milet. 116, l. 9–10. OGIS 219, RC 22 36 Herrmann 1987, 175–82; see also Savalli-Lestrade, this volume. 37 Political weight: see e.g. SEG 26.1226; Achaemenid queen: Athen. 12.556b; cf. Demandt 1995, 118; Macedonian queen: Wiesehöfer 1996, 33, cf. also Macurdy 1932, Carney 1991. 38 Cf. IDidyma 479 and 480. 39 Arr. Anab. 7.4.6. 40 Aesch. Pers. 304, Diod. Sic. 18.48.5, Nep. Con. 3.2, Ael. VH 1.21, Plut. Them. 27.2–7; cf. Szemerenyi 1975, 375 ff., Briant 1994, 291–8, Briant 1996, 269–71, Keaveney 2010. 41 Just. Epit. 12.15.12. Concerning the question of the Chiliarchy under Alexander, cf. also the debate between Meeus 2009 and Collins 2012. 42 Cf. Corradi 1929, 256–67, Bickerman 1938, 187 f., Ehling 1998, Capdetrey 2007, 280–2. On the best known case, Hermeias, Schmitt 1964, 150–8; title and office are first attested in Polyb. 5.41.2; for continuity since Achaemenid times: Corradi 1929, 257, Ehling 1998, 97; gradual emergence of the office: Schmitt 2005 b, 957, Capdetrey 2007, 282. 43 Cf. the first Sicilian slave revolt, where the slave king, the Apamean Eunous, not only took over the name Antiochos, but also invested a ‘Hermeias’ (Diod. Sic. 34.2.14) with some power, deliberately recalling the situation under Antiochos III. Cf. Green 1961, 20, Engels 2014a passim and Morton 2013. 44 Attested as holders of the office: Hermeias (under Antiochos III), Heliodoros (Seleukos IV), Andronikos and Lysias (Antiochos IV and V), Bakchides (Demetrios I), Ammonios (Alexander Balas), Lasthenes (Demetrios II) and Herakleion (Antiochos VIII). Hermeias even supervised military expeditions, jurisdiction and diplomacy (Polyb. 5.42.7, 50.2, 54.10); Heliodoros acted as inspector in Phoinikia and confiscated the treasure from the temple of Jerusalem (2 Macc. 3.8). 45 Antiochos III killed his chancellor Hermeias (Polyb. 5.56), whereas Seleukos IV was killed by his own chancellor Heliodoros in 175 (App. Syr. 45), see further Mittag, this volume. 46 Kombabos: Luc. Syr.D. 19–26, cf. below, section 3; Krateros: Euseb. Chron. 1.257 Schoene,OGIS 256. See also Porph. FGrH 260 F 20 or Livy 35.15.4, supposing Antiochos III ordered his eunuchs to poison his son (gravem successorem eum instare senectuti suae patrem credentem per spadones quosdam, talium ministeriis facinorum acceptos regibus, ueneno sustulisse). On eunuchs, see also Guyot 1980 and Strootman, this volume. 47 Ehling 2002, 52. 48 Plat. Prot. 314c. 49 Briant 1996, 279–88, Llewellyn-Jones 2002, 38 f. 50 Weber 2007. 51 One may recall Eulaios for Ptolemy VI; Potheinos for Ptolemy XIII; Ganymedes for Arsinoe IV. 52 Concerning Seleucid court prosopography, cf. Bengtson 1951, Carsana 1996, Grainger 1997, Savalli-Lestrade 1998, Mehl 2003, Istasse 2006. 53 Cf. Briant 1988b; for the term of ‘Reichsvolk’ cf. e.g. Leppin 2005, 87.

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54 Concerning Iranian military settlements in Asia Minor, cf. Xen. Cyr. 8.1.6 and 8, 8.6.10, Strabo 13.4.13, Sekunda 1985, 1988, 1991. 55 An overview over Alexander’s satrapies in Diod. Sic. 18.16.1; cf. also Tarn 1948, 137. 56 Cf. Habicht 1958, Savalli-Lestrade 1998, Muccioli 2001. 57 Luc. Syr.D. 18–25 (Carsana 1996, E 1, Savalli-Lestrade 1998, n° 4); Sherwin- White and Kuhrt 1993, 25. 58 Sherwin-White 1987, Sarkisian 1976. 59 Clay 1915, 81–4, n° 52 (Carsana 1996, C 5). 60 Diod. Sic. 33.28 (Grainger 1997, 88 n°3). 61 Cf. Antiochos IV who seems to have been originally named Mithridates: SEG 37, 1987, 859 (A 1–4) from the year 198/7 (see also Livy 33.19.9). For further references, see below. 62 Cf. OGIS 229, where the city of Smyrna confers its citizenship upon Omanes and his Persian soldiers. 63 Cf. Sherwin-White and Kuhrt 1993, 124 f. and 150 f. 64 Plut. Agis 11: ὡς ἐκ γυναικὸς Ἀσιανῆς, ἣν τῶν Σελεύκου τινὸς ὑπάρχων αὐτῷ συνοικίσαντος ἔσχε, τεκνώσαιτο δύο παιδία [...]. The reference ‘from Asia’ very probably refers to a woman of non-Hellenic origin, as the author would have given a reference to a speciﬁc city of Asia Minor if a Greek place was concerned. 65 Concerning the special role of marriage in Antiochos’ restitution of the Seleucid empire, cf. Engels 2014a. For Seleucid marriage policy in relation to Cyrene, Cappadocia, and Armenia, see McAuley, this volume. 66 Hdt. 3.84. As stated above, this passage is disputed and already contradicted by Hdt. 3.88, but this does not alter the fact that the tradition Herodotus records seems to have been still considered as valid in his own time and thus might also have been of some importance in the Hellenistic era. 67 Hdt. 3.83 f., Diod. Sic. 31.19.1–5. Cf. Panitschek 1986–87, Henke 2005. 68 Diod. Sic. 31.19.6, Euseb. Chron. 1.251 Schöne, Chron. Arm. 118 Karst.; cf. Günther 1995. 69 Diod. Sic. 31.19.7, App. Syr. 5, Zonar. 9.18.7; cf. Schmitt 1964, 24, Segre 1972, Günther 1995, Capdetrey 2007, 242. 70 Polyb. 5.43, Diod. Sic. 19.40.2; see also App. Mithr. 9. Cf. also Panitschek 1986–87. 71 Just. Epit. 38.5.3, Euseb. Chron. 1.251 Schöne, Chron. Arm. 118 Karst. 72 Polyb. 5.43.1 f., 7.4.5, 8.21.7, 8.22.11. 73 OGIS 771. 74 Strabo 11.14.15. Hydarnes and the Orontids’ ancestry: Markwart 1928, Schottky 1989, 76–85, Sherwin-White and Kuhrt 1993, 193 f.; the Orontids under Achaemenid rule: Xen. Anab. 2.4.8 and 3.4.13, Arr. Anab. 3.8.5, Plut. Art. 27. 75 Polyb. 8.23; John of Antioch F53 (FHG IV p. 557), cf. also Schmitt 1964, 28 and Capdetrey 2007, 131. 76 App. Syr. 67, Just. Epit. 38.9–12 (Demetrios II and Rhodogune; Phraates II and a daughter of Demetrios II). 77 Concerning the general lack of interest of Greek literature for events outside the immediate scope of Hellenism, cf. Momigliano 1975. 78 Habicht 1958 calculated that in the 3rd century, only 2.5% of the Seleucid imperial elite consisted of non-Greeks, and though this theory has been heavily challenged by

The Achaemenid and Seleucid court: continuity or change?

Sherwin-White and Kuhrt 1993 and others, it is still very influential; cf. Weber 1996, 40 f., Savalli-Lestrade 1998, 216–33, Capdetrey 2007, 385, Strootman 2007, 124–9 etc. 79 Moaphernes (Strabo 11.2.18; 12.3.33), Olthakos (Plut. Luc. 16.1–4; App. Mithr. 79; Front. Strat. 2.5.30) and Sobadakos (App. Mithr. 79). 80 Menarnaios (P.Dura 19, l. III 1.3). 81 Cfr. the examples of Patrokles under Seleukos I or of Zeuxis under Antiochos III. 82 Livy 35.19.6, Just. Epit. 31.6.1 (Savalli-Lestrade 1998, n° 31). 83 1 Macc. 11.39 f., Diod. Sic. 32.9d, 33.4a, Joseph. AJ 13.131, App. Syr. 68 (Carsana 1996, E 39; Grainger 1997, 95). 84 Jonathan: 1 Macc. 10.16; Simon: 1 Macc. 13.36 (Carsana 1996, A 24, Savalli- Lestrade 1998, n° 77; 79; 81 f. and 87). 85 See a list in Istasse 2006. The conclusion in Bengtson 1951, 137 is still valid, stating that ‘von einer Zurücksetzung oder gar Diskriminierung der Iranier, genauer der iranischen Oberschicht, unter den Seleukiden [kann] keine Rede sein.’ 86 Polyb. 21.34.1, Livy 38.14.3; Diod. Sic. 31.17a; Strab. 11.14.5 and 15 (Carsana 1996, A 11 and 12; Grainger 1997, 83 and 122). 87 We exclude from this list officials with Jewish, Syrian or Babylonian background (see Istasse 2006) and also the Frataraka, whose exact status is much too difficult to deal with in this short paper. See basically Wiesehöfer 1996 and his further studies such as Wiesehöfer 2011, but compare now, with a wholly new chronology, Engels 2013a. 88 Polyaen. 7.40 (Grainger 1997, 110); cf. Engels 2013a concerning the problematic identification with the Frataraka dynast Vahbarz. 89 Cf. the Papyrus Gurob from the Fayyûm; publ. in P.Petr. II 45; III 144 = FGrH 160 (Grainger 1997, 81 n° 1). 90 OGIS 229 (Carsana 1996, D 10; Grainger 1997, 110). 91 Polyb. 5.79.7 (Carsana 1996, D 28; Grainger 1997, 83) 92 Polyb. 7.17.9, 7.18.4 and 7, 8.21.9 (Carsana 1996, D 16; Grainger 1997, 81 n° 2) 93 Polyb. 5.53.3; 5.60.4–8, Livy 33.19.9–10. Ardys is a somewhat difficult case, as Livy considers him as son of the king (‘praemissis terra cum exercitu filiis duobus Ardye ac Mithridate’), which is still challenged by some scholars because of the Iranian onomastics of the names of himself and his brother Mithridates, suggesting Antiochos the Great gave his sons typical Iranian names. Against Ardys as the king’s son: Holleaux 1912, Grainger 1997, 81; in favour: Schmitt 1964, 23, Mehl 1999, 18–26, Mittag, 2006, 34 f. 94 Polyb. 8.23.2–5. Livy 33.19.3 also considers the general Mithridates as son of Antiochos III; an assumption equally challenged in the past for the reasons given above – cf. Holleaux 1912 – but now affirmed by SEG 37, 1987, 859. 95 Plin. HN 6.139; cf. also Bellinger 1942 (Carsana 1996, A 21; Grainger 1997, 95). 96 Diod. Sic. 33.28 (Carsana 1996, A 27; Grainger 1997, 88 n°3). 97 A small indicator may be the ostraka from the treasury of the palace of Ai Khanoum, bearing the names of at least 5 Iranian individuals perhaps employed by the financial administration. Nevertheless, they seem to date from the 2nd century BC and are thus no direct proof for similar conditions under the early Seleucids. Cf. Grenet 1983, Picard 1984, Coloru 2009, 265–9. 98 On the basis of Carsana 1996 and Grainger 1997, Istasse 2006 enumerates 9

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‘Oriental’ territorial governors vs. 13 or 14 of Macedonian and 6 of Greek origin. As for the military commanders, he counts 4 Iranians (5 with Oborzas), 2 Syrians and 8 from Asia Minor vs. 25 Greeks and 16 Macedonians. 99 Briant 1988a. For Achaemenid palaces and the problems of interpretation, see also Morgan, this volume. 100 Achaemenid period of Babylon: Wiesehöfer 1999 and Jursa 2008. 101 On Achaemenid imperial architecture, see e.g. Boardman 2000. 102 Cf. Schachermeyr 1970, 38–48. 103 Concerning what little remains of Seleucid palatial architecture, see in general Nielsen 1994, Hoepfner and Brands 1996, Held 2002 and 2004. 104 Tilia 1972, 255–7, 316 f.; Wiesehöfer 1996, 68–79; Boucharlat 2006. 105 Polyb. 10.31.5; Strabo 11.7.2. 106 Polyb. 10.27; Strabo 11.13.5; Pliny HN 6.17. 107 Boucharlat 1990; 2006. 108 This palatial structure, used in Hellenistic times, was either already constructed by the Achaemenids, or, if it had been erected under the Seleucids, shows the huge influence of Iranian architecture on the new regime, see Mecquenem 1938; Steve, Vallat, and Gasche 2002–3, 486 f. 109 Sherwin-White and Kuhrt 1993, 38: ‘They surrounded themselves and were surrounded by Achaemenid (as well as Babylonian) royal architecture and art.’ 110 Held 2002 and 2004. 111 Cf. Hopkins 1972, 18–21 (with ill. 15), supposing the bases were placed before a Hellenistic heroon; Downey 1988, 56 f., considering the bases as spoils from Babylon. 112 Cf. e.g. Scharrer 1999. 113 Concerning the governor’s palace in Ai Khanoum, cf. the excavation reports by Bernard (publ. in Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-lettres. Comptes rendus des séances 1967, 1969–72, 1974–1976, 1978, 1980) and Rapin 1992. 114 Alexander: Bernard 1967 (with sometimes contradictory datings); Leriche 1974, 252; Holt 1988, 62 f.; Antiochos: Pugachenkova 1988, 61. Circa 250: Narain 1987, criticised by Posch 1995, 16–19. 115 Colledge 1987, 143 ff. and Coloru 2009, 19 f. 116 On the influence of Persian and Egyptian gardens on Hellenistic gardens, Evyasaf 2010; Alexander at Babylon: Schachermeyr 1970, 64; Achaemenid palaces: Nielsen 1994, 44 and Funck 1996, 51. 117 Held 2005 and 2014. 118 Briant 1996, 319–39; Bernard 2010; Tuplin 2010; Mathys 2010. 119 On the place of the Seleucids in ancient literature, cf. Edson 1958 and Primo 2009, 109–308, cf. e.g. Bernard 2010 on Herodotus. 120 Plut. Agis. 3.9: ἦν τις ἐν τῷ Λεωνίδᾳ τῶν πατρῴων ἐπιφανὴς ἐκδιαίτησις, ἅτε δὴ χρόνον ἠλινδηµένῳ πολὺν ἐν αὐλαῖς σατραπικαῖς καὶ τεθεραπευκότι Σέλευκον, εἶτα τὸν ἐκεῖθεν ὄγκον εἰς ῾Ελληνικὰ πράγµατα καὶ νόµιµον ἀρχὴν οὐκ ἐµµελῶς µεταφέροντι. (transl. based on B. Perrin, Loeb). The passage seems, curiously, missing from Primo 2009. 121 I thank Shane Wallace who reminds me also of the Spartan Pausanias’ comparison of Persian and Spartan cuisine after the Battle of Plataia (Hdt. 9.82) and in general of his characterisation as influenced by Persia and the east (e.g. Thuc. 1.95, 130; Demosth. Neaira 30–32; Athen. 59.97–8). Concerning the construction of a utopic Sparta in Hellenism, cf. Tigerstedt 1965; Schmal 1996 with literature.

The Achaemenid and Seleucid court: continuity or change?

122 Plut. Agis. 7.1–2: ὡς χρήµασι µὲν οὐ δυνάµενος πρὸς τοὺς ἄλλους βασιλεῖς ἐξισωθῆναι σατραπῶν γὰρ οἰκέτας καὶ δούλους ἐπιτρόπων Πτολεµαίου καὶ Σελεύκου κεκτῆσθαι πλείονα συµπάντων ὁµοῦ τῶν ἐν Σπάρτῃ βασιλέων [...]. 123 Cf. Klinkott 2005. 124 Cf. still Bengtson 1952/64. 125 Livy 35.15.4 (also missing in Primo 2009). 126 See, e.g., Hdt. 3.92; 8.105 and Pirngruber 2011. 127 Concerning the use (and abuse) of alcohol at the Achaemenid court: Briant 1996, 264. Passages such as Athen. 4.155b, describing Antiochos III dancing at one of his parties, might also refer to the Persian custom described at Xen. Cyr. 8.7.1 or Athen. 10.534e. 128 Plut. Mor. 790b. 129 Polyb. 5.56.7. 130 Diod. Sic. 31.16. 131 Just. Epit. 38.10.2–4: Sed luxuriae non minor apparatus quam militiae fuit, quippe octoginta milia armatorum secuta sunt trecenta lixarum, ex quibus cocorum pistorum maior numerus fuit. Argenti certe aurique tantum, ut etiam gregarii milites auro caligas ﬁgerent proculcarentque materiam cuius amore populi ferro dimicant. Culinarum quoque argentea instrumenta fuere, prorsus quasi ad epulas, non ad bellum pergerent. (transl. J. S. Watson). 132 Cf. also Momigliano 1979. 133 In relation to Greek enemies see, e.g., Livy 33.20.1–3, 35.49, cf. similar examples in Paratore 1966 and Bertinelli 1979; for Roman enemies, note the descriptions of the battle order at Magnesia, Livy 37.40, App. Syr. 32. 134 Cf. Malitz 1983, 7. Quite obviously, Poseidonios’ apparent loathing of his fellow countrymen seems to have not only philosophical, but also biographical causes. 135 Cf. e.g. Cic. Prov. cons. 10 (Iudeis et Syris, nationibus natis servituti), Livy 35.49.8, 36.17.5. Cf. also Engels 2011a. 136 Cf. Passerini 1934 and Heinen 1983. 137 Engels 2011a. 138 Cf. the version in Luc. Syr.D. 17. See also Val. Max. 5.7. ext. 1, App. Syr. 61, Plut. Demetr. 38.11. On the episode, Breebart 1967, Funck 1974, Brodersen 1985 and Fischer 1993. 139 Again, I have to thank Shane Wallace for reminding me of Antigonos’ interest in Demetrios’ courtesans (Plut. Demetr. 19.3–6) and about the account of Demo, Demetrios, and Antigonos (Athen. 13.40 [578a–b]). 140 Funck 1974. Criticism: Brodersen 1985. 141 This seems even more valid if one considers the possibility that the story might also be connected with pantomime, as pointed out to me by Andrew Erskine; cf. Swain 1992, 78. 142 Luc. Syr.D. 19–26. Cf. Lightfoot 2003, 373–402. 143 Cf. the story about Ardashir, his son Shapur and his minister in Firdausi’s Shahnameh. 144 Briant 1996, 283. 145 Compare also Engels 2013a. 146 Polyb. 26.1.1. This narrative motif is usually indexed as K 1812 (cf. Thompson 1955). One might refer to the homecoming Ulysses as Greek equivalent to the Harun

David Engels ar-Rashid-motif, but the main difference is that Ulysses assumes his disguise in order to regain his kingdom from the outside, whereas the ‘Oriental king’ wants to overcome his aulic seclusion and know his realm from the inside. 147 Diod. Sic. 34.34. 148 Diod. Sic. 31.39. 149 App. Syr. 57, explaining how Seleukos protected Alexander with his bare hands from a wild bull. Appian then states that this was the reason why Seleukos’ statues were ornamented with horns, apparently ignoring the iconographic allusion to the Alexandrian Ammon’s horns. This aetiology, then, may have been mainly directed towards an oriental audience and seems to have Iranian connotations, as it recalls an iconographic type later applied to Mithras. This hypothesis is even more interesting if we consider similar legends concerning e.g. Megabyzus interceding to protect Artaxerxes I (Ktesias FGrH 688 F14 §43) or Lysimachos’ or Perdikkas’ ﬁght against lions in Persia (Curt. 8.1.15, Ael. 12.39), two anecdotes considered by Briant 1996 as clearly inspired by Persian traditions. Cf. also Engels 2010. 150 Cf. Briant 1991 with literature. 151 Cf. e.g. Engels 2010.

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Rapin, C. 1992 La trésorerie du palais hellénistique d’Ai Khanoum, Paris. Sarkisian, G. K. 1976 ‘Greek personal names in Uruk and the Graeco-Babyloniaca problem’, in J. Harmatta and G. Komoroczy (eds), Wirtschaft und Gesellschaft im alten Vorderasien, Budapest, 495–503. Savalli-Lestrade, I. 1998 Les ‘philoi’ royaux dans l’Asie hellénistique, Geneva. 2003 ‘L’élaboration de la décision royale dans l’Orient hellénistique’, in F. Prost (ed.), L’Orient méditerranéen de la mort d’Alexandre aux campagnes de Pompée, Rennes, 17–36. Schachermeyer, F. 1970 Alexander in Babylon und die Reichsordnung nach seinem Tode, Vienna. Scharrer, U. 1999 ‘Seleukos I. und das babylonische Königtum’, in K. Brodersen (ed.), Zwischen West und Ost. Studien zur Geschichte des Seleukidenreichs, Hamburg, 95–128. Schmal, S. 1996 ‘Sparta als politische Utopie’, in B. Funck (ed.), Hellenismus: Beiträge zur Erforschung von Akkulturation und politischer Ordnung in den Staaten des hellenistischen Zeitalters, Tübingen, 653–70. Schmitt, H. H. 1964 Untersuchungen zur Geschichte Antiochos des Großen und seiner Zeit, Wiesbaden. 2005a ‘Hoftitel’, in Lexikon des Hellenismus, 463–65. 2005b ‘Seleukidenreich’, in Lexikon des Hellenismus, 956–84. Schottky, M. 1989 Media Atropatene und Groß-Atropatene in hellenistischer Zeit, Bonn. Segre, M. 1972 ‘La regina Antiochide di Cappadocia’, Past & Present 27, 182–5. Sekunda, N. 1985 ‘Achaemenid colonization in Lydia’, Revue des Études Anciennes 87, 7–30. 1988 ‘Persian settlement in Hellespontine Phrygia’, Achaemenid History III, 175–96. 1991 ‘Achaemenid settlements in Caria, Lycia and greater Phrygia’, in Achaemenid History VI, 83–143. Sherwin-White, S. 1987 ‘Seleucid Babylonia: a case study for the installation and the development of Greek rule’, in A. Kuhrt and S. Sherwin-White (eds), Hellenism in the East, London, 1–31. Sherwin-White, S. and Kuhrt, A. 1993 From Samarkhand to Sardis. A New Approach to the Seleucid Empire, London. Spawforth, A. J. S. (ed.) 2007 The Court and Court Society in Ancient Monarchies, Cambridge. Stagakis, G. 1970 ‘Observations on the hetairoi of Alexander the Great’, Ancient Macedonia 1, 86–102. Steve, M.-J., Vallat, F., and Gasche, H. 2002–3 ‘Suse’, Supplément au Dictionnaire de la Bible 73/74, 359–651.

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Strootman, R. 2007 The Hellenistic Court. Court Culture, Ceremonial and Ideology in Greece, Egypt and the Near East, 336–30 BCE, diss., Utrecht (PhD) 2011 ‘Hellenistic court society. The Seleukid imperial court under Antiochos the Great, 223–187 BCE’, in J. Duindam et al. (eds), Royal Courts in Dynastic States and Empires: A Global Perspective, Leiden/Boston, 63–89. 2014 Courts and Elites in the Hellenistic Empires. The Near East after the Achaemenids, c. 330 to 30 BCE, Edinburgh. Swain, S. 1992 ‘Novel and Pantomime in Plutarch’s Antony’, Hermes 120, 76–82. Szemerenyi, O. 1975 ‘Iranica V’, Acta Iranica 5, 313–94. Tarn, W. W. 1948 Alexander the Great, Cambridge. Thompson, S. 1955 Motif-Index of Folk-Literature: A classiﬁcation of narrative elements. Revised and enlarged edition, Bloomington. Tigerstedt, E. 1965 The Legend of Sparta in Classical Antiquity, Stockholm. Tilia, A. B. 1972 Studies and Restorations at Persepolis and Other Sites of Fars, vol. 1, Rome. Toynbee, A. 1955 ‘The administrative geography of the Achaemenian empire’, in A. Toynbee (ed.), A Study of History VII, 2nd ed., Oxford. Tuplin, C. 1987 ‘The administration of the Achaemenid empire’, in I. Carradice (ed.), Coinage and Administration in the Athenian and Persian Empire, Oxford. 2010 ‘Xenophon and Achaemenid courts: a survey of evidence’, in Jacobs and Rollinger (eds) 2010, 189–230. Weber, G. 1996 ‘Interaktion, Repräsentation und Herrschaft’, in A. Winterling (ed.), Zwischen ‘Haus’ und ‘Staat’. Antike Höfe im Vergleich, Munich, 27–71. 2007 ‘Der Hof Alexanders des Großen als soziales System’, Saeculum 39, 229–64. Wiesehöfer, J. 1980 ‘Die “Freunde” und “Wohltater” des Großkonigs’, Studia lranica 9, 7–21. 1996 ‘Discordia et Defectio – Dynamis kai Pithanourgia: die frühen Seleukiden und Iran’, in B. Funck (ed.), Hellenismus: Beiträge zur Erforschung von Akkulturation und politischer Ordnung in den Staaten des hellenistischen Zeitalters, Tübingen, 29–56. 1999 ‘Kontinuität oder Zäsur? Babylon under den Achaimeniden’, in J. Renger (ed.), Babylon: Focus Mesopotamischer Geschichte, Wiege früher Gelehrsamheit, Mythos in der Moderne, Saarbrücken, 167–88. 2011 ‘Frataraka rule in Seleucid Persis: a new appraisal’, A. Erskine and L. Llewellyn-Jones (eds), Creating a Hellenistic World, Swansea, 107–21.

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PARTII

LIFEATCOURT

ΒΙΟΣ ΑΥΛΙΚΟΣ: THEMULTIPLEWAYSOFLIFE OFCOURTIERSINTHEHELLENISTICAGE

Ivana Savalli-Lestrade

In 1528, just one year after he fell out of favour with Pope Clement VII, and one year before his death in Toledo, Count Baldassarre Castiglione published at Venice Il libro del Cortegiano (The Book of the Courtier), which he had started to write in 1508. His aim was to codify the life of the Italian courts of the Renaissance. This was a milieu which Castiglione knew very well because of his noble birth and his own career as an officer and diplomat in the service of the Gonzaga and of the Montefeltro. In his book he outlined an ideal cortegiania, which contrasted with the brutal political habits of his time and which was intended as an alternative and a consolation to the lost freedom of the ancient signorie, following the French invasion of 1499.1 The ‘courtier’ that Castiglione invented was above all an identity mask. He represented an absolutely positive hero, who probably never served as political model, but enjoyed enormous cultural influence and became an autonomous prototype of the well-educated gentleman in western Europe.2 For a Greek author, it would have been impossible to write about an ideal 3 βίος αὐλικός (life of a courtier), because the Hellenistic courts could never be legitimated as real alternatives to city-states. Hellenistic courtiers, ‘at one moment universally envied and at the next universally pitied’ (Polyb. 5.26.13: µακάριοι καὶ παρὰ πόδας ἐλεεινοὶ γίνονται), are depicted as basically unhappy and lacking in freedom. More importantly, their social behaviour was deeply rooted in the traditional culture of Greek civic elites, exactly as the refined conduct of Castiglione’s courtier was largely indebted to the ‘civic’ humanism of Italian independent city-republics.4 But what is

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Ivana Savalli-Lestrade significant in my opinion is that, contrary to the lifestyle of courtiers in the Renaissance and subsequent periods, the social behaviour of Hellenistic courtiers lacked any original or distinctive qualities, never becoming a model for the ruling classes of free poleis. Greeks could not conceive any real alternative to the βίος πολιτικός (life of a citizen). In theory, this means that no successful and honourable life was possible for anyone outside the polis. In practice, Greeks brought with them wherever they lived, in private associations, villages or at the king’s court, their habits of political sociability which rested on philia (friendship). It is beyond the scope of this chapter to examine the very complex topic of philia and polyphilia (multiple friendship) in the Hellenistic courts.5 I would reformulate briefly three points which I have already emphasized elsewhere: 1) King’s friends ( philoi) were, so to speak, the ‘politically correct’ mask of the Hellenistic courtiers. The only conceivable ‘good’ aulikos (αὐλικός, courtier) is the loyal friend, who is a wise adviser to the king, handles frankness ( parrhe¯sia) with tact and behaves in a friendly manner to other friends.6 2) Ambivalence was structural to this social group: a king’s friends were intermediaries between polis and kingdom;7 they helped strengthen or weaken the dynastic continuity.8 3) Hellenistic court society represents a new kind of κοινωνία (association), with a complex network of multiple friendships: a) between king and friends; b) between friends of the king; c) between friends of friends of the king,9 and so on, every network virtually replicating the first one.10 It is not superfluous to recall that philia was a general term embracing many kinds of relationships between individuals or states. ‘Aulic’ philia was a personal utilitarian bond, which co-existed with inequality between friends and, above all, between king and friends.11 Rivalries and murders seem to have been widespread – although loyalty and real affection are not to be underestimated – but what matters is that the Hellenistic courts adopted the code of philia to structure their social behaviour and that inequalities and hierarchy were formalized only more than a century after Alexander’s death.12 Many detailed studies of royal friends as members of the ‘outer court’ or as mediators between kings and cities have been conducted over recent years,13 so I shall focus on some aspects of their function as courtiers, aulikoi, that is to say as members of the ‘inner court’. The present contribution is part of a larger project devoted to the ‘métier de roi et la vie de cour à l’époque hellénistique’ (The craft of king and the court life in the

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ΒΙΟΣ ΑΥΛΙΚΟΣ: The multiple ways of life of courtiers in the Hellenistic age Hellenistic period’) on which I have been working for several years with a view to a comprehensive study.

2. ‘Real’ friends and courtiers: the dynamics of shared power 2.1. Education: τροφεῖς and σύντροφοι Education was the most important factor in the development of royal conduct. People who shared, in one way or another, ‘royal’ education are usually highly ranked in aulic hierarchy. First of all, we have the τιθηνός (tithe¯nos) and τροφεύς (tropheus), ‘tutors’ who 14 were the general supervisors of princes’ παιδεία (education). They were carefully chosen more for their moral authority and their trustworthiness than for their specific competences, as a well-known inscription shows about Aristod- (or Aristot-) of Ephesos, appointed by Attalos II as responsible for the education of his pupil and nephew, the future Attalos III: not only because he surpassed many in his experience of speaking and ability to teach it, but also because through his character he seemed worthy of all [praise] and the most suitable person to associate with a young man. For it is clear to all that young men endowed with a natural excellence of character imitate the manners of those in charge of them.15 Clearly, tutors were very influential courtiers in normal times,16 although our documents report mostly on the few who are associated with the most unusual circumstances: Diodoros, who helped the future Demetrios I Soter to return to Antioch;17 Krateros of Antioch, a eunuch whom Kleopatra Thea sent away to Kyzikos with the future Antiochos IX (129) – one of the sons she had from her third husband, King Antiochos VII – to save Antiochos from a feared revenge by her second husband, King Demetrios II;18 Apollodoros and Helenos, who were successively tutors of the future Ptolemy X Alexander I: the first probably accompanied the young prince in Kos from 131 to 124, the second was with him in Cyprus from 117 to 107;19 and the anonymous tutors, teachers and pedagogues who marched with King Perseus’ children in Aemilius Paulus’ triumph (Plut. Aem. 32). Before dying, a king designated a member of his family (usually his wife or his brother), or even a tutor, as ‘regent’ of the kingdom – whatever the title may have been – during the minority of the crown prince. Since it would have been very risky had one courtier alone been put at the head of royal affairs (the court system could not allow such a privilege, which is after all the royal privilege), a compromise was found in a kind of dyarchy, as the government of Sosibios and Agathokles20 or of Eulaios and Lenaios shows, during the minorities of Ptolemy V and Ptolemy VI respectively, 21 with a dual guardianship (ἐπιτροπεία) and joint management of affairs.

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But competition was very strong, as we learn from the struggle, after the death of Antiochos IV (November/December 164), between Philippos and Lysias, both of whom claimed to be the unique legitimate tropheus of 22 Antiochos V and the chief minister (ἐπὶ τῶν πραγµάτων). It is to be expected that real affection existed between tropheus and prince. Antipatros of Sidon (2nd–1st centuries) depicts in a well-known epigram23 a tutor of a young Ptolemy crying and covering his head with ashes after the untimely death of his pupil. The prince could be Ptolemy Eupator, who died in 152 at the age of 12 (?), and the anonymous tutor (τιθηνητήρ) could possibly be Andromachos – grandson of Ptolemy of Megalopolis, a courtier of Ptolemy IV and of Ptolemy V – who is also known to have been ambassador earlier and could have been appointed strate¯gos of Cyprus during Eupator’s lifetime or thereafter. Of course, the tutor’s tears, if genuine, could also have been directed towards himself, as he considered the implications of his pupil’s death for his own position at court.24 If we consider friends who were brought up with princes, the syntrophoi 25 (σύντροφοι, foster-brothers), we find a similar pattern of behaviour, but with stronger tensions between proximity and rivalry. Like the tropheus but to a greater extent, the syntrophoi could be appointed to military or civil responsibilities outside the court, but they are mainly known as active in the vicinity of the king: one can think, on the one hand, of the famous Nikanor, the chamberlain of Antiochos III,26 or of Dorylaos II who, as ‘keeper of the dagger’ (ἐπὶ τοῦ ἐγχειριδίου), was probably in charge of the security of Mithridates VI;27 and on the other hand, about the three Pergamenian brothers, Apollonides,28 Asklepi(a)des29 and Theophilos,30 who followed prince Attalos and King Eumenes II to Thessaly during the third Macedonian war. Just as in the case of the tropheus, the syntrophos could share the captivity of their royal companion; one thinks of the three Milesian brothers, Apollonios,31 Meleagros32 and Menestheus,33 who spent many years in Rome with Demetrios I Soter. Syntrophoi, and to a lesser extent tropheis, belonged to families living for several generations in the service of kings: they were αὐλικοί from birth. It is still unknown how precisely this shared education between princes, syntrophoi and tutors worked, particularly if every prince had his own syntrophoi. In view of the growing evidence pertaining to the Seleucids and the Attalids, I think that syntrophoi were clearly identified by their relationship with one prince alone, even when the age difference between a prince and his brothers was minimal.34 This is an interesting datum, which highlights the complexity of the court social system: given the high rates of

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ΒΙΟΣ ΑΥΛΙΚΟΣ: The multiple ways of life of courtiers in the Hellenistic age death by illness, accident or murder in the royal family, the first-born child of the king possibly received no privileged education until his majority and courtiers could not know in advance if their children were going to be brought up with the future heir to the throne. Furthermore, courtiers were probably not allowed to split their children among several princes: the three sons of Theophilos of Pergamon (a friend of King Attalos I?) were all raised with prince Attalos while those of Apollonios of Miletos, a very influential friend of King Seleukos and for a while of King Antiochos IV too, were raised with prince Demetrios.

2.2. Σύντροφοι: the Egyptian exception? No royal syntrophos is known from any inscription or papyrus concerning the Ptolemies. As was the case for Giuseppe Corradi in 1929, we can only 35 quote two passages from Polybius, one concerning anonymous σύντροφοι τῆς Ἀρσινόης γεγεηµέναι τινὲς παιδίσκαι, who clubbed to death Philammon, who had been responsible for the queen’s murder, strangled his son and and killed his wife after dragging her naked into the street (Polyb. 15.33.11), the other concerning Aristonikos who εὐνοῦχος µὲν ἦν, ἐκ παιδίου δ’ ἐγεγόνει σύντροφος τῷ βασιλεῖ (‘he was a eunuch, but he had been a syntrophos to the king since childhood’, Polyb. 22.22.1). The first text has been generally understood as referring to young noble girls brought up with the queen,36 but I wonder if this is what Polybius (or his source) really meant. When Arsinoe III died, she was probably 25–30 years old,37 so that neither she nor her syntrophoi could have been described as ‘young girls’. Furthermore, the word paidiske¯ does not imply youth, but an inferior status, and connotes a maidservant or a female slave:38 this meaning fits better the specific context – the terrible cruelty of the ‘Egyptian’ mob39 – and the general context of the entourage of princesses and queens.40 We may conclude that Arsinoe’s murder was avenged by some of her servants, who had been attached, in one way or another, to the princess’ education. In the second text, syntrophos contrasts with eunouchos, a word with very negative connotations in Greek society. Actually, Aristonikos appears to have performed relevant diplomatic and military tasks under Ptolemy V and to have been appointed priest of Alexander in 187/6; Polybius gives a very flattering portrait of him.41 The question is, was Aristonikos’ father a wealthy and influential Ptolemaic courtier? Aristonikos is registered as son of Aristonikos and an Alexandrian in a very important Delphic proxeny list (Syll.3 585, l.140). It has been suggested that his patronymic and ethnic were fictitious, like those of Krateros – a eunuch, in the service of Queen Kleopatra Thea (a Ptolemaic princess!), and tutor of prince

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Antiochos Philopator – who was son of Krateros and an Antiochian; both Aristonikos and Krateros were perhaps former slaves or freedmen’s sons.42 If we consider the widespread phenomenon of the threptoi, children raised in families other than their own,43 and the status of people generally involved in elementary education in the Graeco-Roman world,44 then the presence of non-free persons as syntrophoi of Ptolemaic princes and princesses or the presence of freedmen and eunuchs among their tutors, is not surprising. Nonetheless, the absence of high dignitaries recorded as syntrophoi in Ptolemaic documentary sources warrants an explanation. Could it be that the Ptolemaic court system did not encourage real friendship between king’s sons and courtiers’ sons? Whatever the reason for such exclusion – and without forgetting the danger of argumenta e silentio – this policy reinforced royal status, because it increased the distance between king and courtiers.

2.3. A syntrophos who resembled a king too much By contrast, and to conclude this topic, we must recall the example of Heliodoros, who was syntrophos and chief minister (ἐπὶ τῶν πραγµάτων) of King Seleukos IV and allegedly responsible for his murder in 175.45 In a well-known dedication from Delos (IG XI 4, 1114), the king could say that he behaved with his friend as he did with himself (πρὸς ὃν ἔχει τε κ[αὶ ἔξ]ει ὡς πρὸς ἑαυτόν). It was a strong and noble statement of philia expressed by the king, recognizing complete reciprocity, but events demonstrated that this kind of philia was not suitable for a monarch, because too much proximity blurred status differences between king and courtiers.46 A new inscription from Tel Maresha concerns another syntrophos of Seleukos IV, whose name was Olympiodoros and whose career was very similar to that of Nikanor, syntrophos of Antiochos III.47 Since King Seleukos IV appointed him as supervisor (archiereus or high-priest), of the sanctuaries of Koile Syria and Phoenicia, Dov Gera acutely suggested that Olympiodoros was the true protagonist of the famous Jerusalem affair, whom the author of 2 Maccabees replaced with the powerful chief minister Heliodoros, because of his higher rank and of his alleged role in the plot against Seleukos IV.48 In the light of the new epigraphical evidence, the story of 2 Maccabees appears even more interesting as an imaginary representation of a ‘bad’ friend who, when he tried to plunder the holy treasury of the Temple in Jerusalem, acted exactly as a ‘bad’ Seleucid king would have been expected to do, even if, unlike King Antiochos III or King Antiochos IV, Heliodoros was punished not by death nor by a fatal illness, but suffered only flagellation.

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ΒΙΟΣ ΑΥΛΙΚΟΣ: The multiple ways of life of courtiers in the Hellenistic age 2.4. Friends’ and courtiers’ careers Among those individuals who were part of the first circle of courtiers and could act as the most reliable friends, we find also many with expert skills, such as poets, scholars, actors and physicians. Some of these were so close to the royal oikos that they did not need to be styled philoi or aulikoi. For that reason, as Leon Mooren aptly stated some forty years ago,49 ‘real’ philoi – who were also ‘real’ courtiers – are paradoxically more difficult to identify than ‘titular’ philoi. However, proximity to the king was the clearest sign of royal favour and this is why dedications or letters which inform us about the career of outstanding personalities usually refer only to their ‘domestic’ offices, or put these offices first. In the Attalid kingdom, Demetrios of Pergamon is called first ‘keeper of the seal ’ of the deceased king Eumenes II, then ‘strate¯gos of Ephesos and of Ephesian territory.’ In the Pontic kingdom, Dorylaos II is presented as ‘syntrophos and keeper of the dagger, furthermore general of the army of King Mithridates VI Eupator’. In the Ptolemaic realm, Apollodoros is above all τροφεὺς καὶ τιθηνός of prince Ptolemy X Alexander I, then epistrate¯gos of the cho¯ra, thereafter πρὸς ταῖς ἀνακρίσεσι (central judicial authority in Alexandria, probably Apollodoros’ earliest appointment); Helenos, ex-strate¯gos of Cyprus, is also called tropheus of the same prince Ptolemy between 116 and 114; when Ptolemy X became king of Cyprus, Helenos took back his function of strate¯gos, but his responsibility as tropheus had priority; finally, Stolos, after becoming nauarch of Cyprus and chancellor (ἐπιστολαγράφος), is still recorded as archedeatros (ἀρχεδέατρος, seneschal) of Ptolemy IX Soter II.50 My conclusion is that, however brilliant a courtier’s/philos’ career had been, his domestic functions and early personal relationships with the king were the most determining. Although the cooperation of networks of friends was doubtless crucial, the royal χάρις (both ‘favour’ and ‘gratefulness’) appeared officially as the only source of success and promotion for every courtier. The dossier concerning Olympiodoros, dated to midsummer 178, adds more information on this matter, at the very beginning of the aulic reform – the hierarchy of honorific titles connected with offices – which occurred almost simultaneously in the Ptolemaic and in the Seleucid kingdoms. To justify the new appointment of his friend, King Seleukos IV states that ‘he had created confidence in our opinion about him from times past. For having been brought up with us, and having earned the best disposition in everything, he was properly placed in charge of the bedchamber, having shown himself worthy of this trust, and was rightfully appointed to be (one) of the “first friends”, having made the most zealous proofs of his affection towards us’.51

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Since Nikanor, syntrophos and chamberlain of Antiochos III, belonged to the class of the friends in 209, Dov Gera has rightfully suggested that the class of the ‘first friends’ was created after 209 and before 178.52 This title is afterwards bestowed, in the Seleucid realm, on five people.53 In one case no close relationship with the royal oikos could be identified.54 In the last four, the title is held by dignitaries who certainly or probably held a domestic function: Menochares,55 chancellor under Demetrios I (162–150); Krateros, who was later tutor of prince Antiochos Philopator, but started his career possibly in the service of Queen Kleopatra Thea, as we have already seen, and was affiliated to the class of the ‘first friends’ of King Antiochos VII evidently after the royal marriage (138); Sosistratos, who dedicated statues of both Krateros and of prince Antiochos Philopator in Delos,56 and an anonymous individual who was, under Antiochos VII and Kleopatra Thea, chief secretary of the army and governor of the Phoenician littoral, but who uses language that suggests intimacy with the royal family.57 While more evidence is needed for us to conclude that during the second century the office of chamberlain became systematically associated with the title of ‘first friend’, it seems that the ‘aulic hierarchy’ was working in the Seleucid court at an early period, independent of the fact that friends and courtiers were appointed in the civil, financial or military administration. This evolution appears to be different from that reconstructed by Leon Mooren for the Ptolemaic kingdom, where the aulic titulature seems to have been introduced originally to reassert the value of bureaucracy.58

3. Courtiers’ lifestyle 3.1 Pomp, fashion, communication, identity When Heliodoros made his entrance into the Temple of Jerusalem, he was surrounded by a large suite (παραδροµή) of Friends (συνήθεις) and protected 59 by an escort of guards (δορυφόροι). Such pomp, which the author of 2 Maccabees emphasizes to contrast with the shameful punishment Heliodoros suffered from God’s angels, was probably usual for high officers and courtiers, and even for their family members. We have in Polybius two interesting examples of public demonstrations of superiority staged by courtiers. The first concerns Apelles (the powerful prime minister of Philip V), just when he fell publicly into disgrace. After entering the city of Corinth with great pomp, surrounded by a number of officers and soldiers, Apelles was forbidden to enter the royal quarters by the king’s mace-bearers (ῥαβδοῦχοι): ‘his followers at once began to drop away quite openly, so that finally he reached his lodging accompanied only by his own servants’.60 The second concerns Oinanthe, mother of

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ΒΙΟΣ ΑΥΛΙΚΟΣ: The multiple ways of life of courtiers in the Hellenistic age Agathokles, a Ptolemaic courtier and guardian of Ptolemy V Epiphanes. During the turmoil in Alexandria after the deaths of Ptolemy IV and Arsinoe III, she took refuge in the Thesmophorion. When some noble ladies came up to console her, Oinanthe ordered her mace-bearers to drive them away and strike those who refused to leave (Polyb. 15.29.8–13). Those demonstrations of influence and power or intimidation clearly imitate, on a smaller scale, the king’s patterns of conduct. They form an essential part of courtiers’ lifestyle, because not only do they materialise and keep the distance between aulikoi and common people, but they also contributed to reinforcing the differences of status among the aulikoi themselves. The same can be said about dresses, jewellery, publicity, language, and even onomastics. Courtiers wear the finest clothes, of purple-dyed or embroidered and colourful textiles, golden brooches offered by kings, rings with the king’s portrait;61 they are represented by statues in the agorai of cities or in the most venerable sanctuaries;62 they were celebrated by poets, or have books dedicated to them;63 they are called in some cases ‘father’ or ‘brother’ by the king64 and give their sons and daughters royal names.65 These strategies of distinction were reproduced among courtiers too, depending on hierarchy and power; we hear, for example, how Aristomenes of Akarnania, at the beginning of his career in Ptolemaic service, flattered Agathokles, presenting him with a golden crown, wearing a ring with Agathokles’ portrait engraved on it and giving his daughter the name of Agathokleia (Polyb. 15.31.8–9). Similarly, following the attractive hypothesis of Dennis Glew, Zipoites of Bithynia named his son Nikomedes after a very powerful philos of Antigonos the One-Eyed, Nikomedes of Kos, who contributed to the establishment of friendly relations between his patron and the Bithynian dynast.66 Fashion was even a matter of identity and competition between rival courts, as we know from Polybius when speaking of Ptolemy, Sosibios’ son, who came back from Pella full of admiration for the elegance of the young Macedonian courtiers (τοῖς περὶ τὴν αὐλὴν νεανίσκοις) but full of contempt for the Egyptianised courtiers of Alexandria.67 Phylarchos’ description of Alexander’s ceremonial of the royal audience68 and the recently published frieze of the Hagios Athanasios Tomb near Thessaloniki69 offer a vivid illustration of the brightly-coloured Macedonian fashion at the beginning of the third century. On that subject, we can also remember that in AD 70 Antiochos IV Epiphanes, king of multicultural Kommagene, had a military corps d’élite made of the tallest young men, called Macedonians, who were trained and dressed in the Macedonian fashion (Joseph. BJ 5.460–5).

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We are very poorly informed about the daily life of courtiers, especially concerning the location and architecture of their houses. We can only say, first, that Friends may have lived in houses as large and luxurious as those excavated south of the agora at Pella,70 second, that they were probably close to the royal palace, as was the case for the younger Sosibios in Alexandria71 or Philonides of Laodikeia.72 The relevant fact is that, according to current information, royal Friends did not live in the same place as the king: they enjoyed ‘free’ access to him, but did not share permanent accommodation in the aule¯; and were usually summoned for special audiences.73 We know from Livy that princes too did not live in regia: Perseus and Demetrios, sons of Philip V, each had his own house in Pella, distinct from the king’s palace.74 This is a very important feature of the Hellenistic court society. Louis XIV would and could force nobles to live in Versailles (the ‘domestication’ so brilliantly discovered and analysed by Norbert Elias): by this rule, Louis XIV reaffirmed his power over them and proclaimed that proximity with the king, though in cramped and badly heated apartments, was more important for nobles than autonomy and comfort in their own splendid Parisian or country hôtels. Hellenistic kings never tried to have friends or officers live with them. It would have been too dangerous for royal security and royal prerogatives, which were not so fully respected and codified as in Louis XIV’s time. Among people enjoying free status, only the most trustworthy courtiers had this privilege, such as chamberlains, personal bodyguards, tropheis, doctors, and some military bodies, firstly the βασιλικοὶ παῖδες (Royal Pages) and νεανίσκοι (Royal Youths) who were in charge of the security of the king.75 To live out of the royal palace gave courtiers some liberty, which was nevertheless relative because of mutual control among themselves and was sometimes strongly repressed, as the history of Skopas shows.76 All in all, the life of the courtier was surely attractive for the average citizen and for the notables of the Greek poleis who entered the service of a king, because it offered many more opportunities for becoming rich and powerful. Rivalries, betrayals, disgrace, and capital executions were all calculated risks, and we should not extend to all courtiers what we know for the most famous, ambitious and unhappy of them.

3.2. Back to the πατρίς Let me now formulate again the question that I posed some years ago:77 to what extent did Greek citizens who became courtiers forget their own patris and the civic way of life? It is not just a matter of moral values and political ideology. At court, a courtier or a philos could favour his fellow- citizens more than if he had never moved away, especially if he was not

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ΒΙΟΣ ΑΥΛΙΚΟΣ: The multiple ways of life of courtiers in the Hellenistic age from birth one of the endoxoi or protoi of the city. The point is, that even without considering the emotional or cultural dimension of his attachment, it was important for him to keep the connections with his patris because networks of friends and parents beyond the court could help him build his career as well as providing assistance in case of misfortune. The fact that external family and friendship ties were important and strong for courtiers was fully recognized by Agathokles, who shrewdly exploited this factor when he planned to remove all men of distinction from Egypt in 203/2.78 Above all, the patris could be a place of safety in case of political troubles at the court, as we can speculate in the case of Nikomedes of Kos and of Eudemos of Seleukeia. Nikomedes returned, probably after the defeat and death of King Antigonos the One-Eyed at Ipsos (301), to Kos, where two large engraved stelai recorded more than thirty honorific decrees collected by him during his brilliant and long career;79 similarly Eudemos, philos of Antiochos IV, returned at some point (after Antiochos IV’s death?) to his own city, Seleukeia on the Kalykadnos (in Kilikia), where his collection of honorific decrees was engraved on two stelai discovered on the acropolis.80 How did these personalities, accustomed to the splendour and the etiquette of the court society, readjust to the narrower and more egalitarian structure of the polis-system? How did politai react to the return of rich and famous philoi and aulikoi? It would be very interesting to know the process and the effects of this many-sided interaction between men and lifestyles, but unfortunately our documents are very limited on these issues.81 One thing is clear though: when returning home, courtiers did not give away their habitus, the social and mental dispositions to dominate that they had cultivated while staying with a king. One of the major actors of the crisis of 204/3 in Alexandria, the general Tlepolemos, who was grandson of one Tlepolemos who had served under Ptolemy II, is mentioned as priest pro poleo¯s (probably of Leto) in Ptolemaic Xanthos already in 206/5. Having been defeated by Aristomenes, he left Egypt and returned to his ancestral homeland, where he is again mentioned as priest pro poleo¯s in Xanthos in 202/1. After the Seleucid conquest of Lykia, Tlepolemos still retained the same priesthood, which seems to have been, or possibly to have become through his agency, a lifelong and hereditary office.82 As a ‘false eponym’, Tlepolemos’ name was written during his lifetime on all the public documents of Xanthos, just after the mention of the annual priest of 83 the royal dynastic cult. For a brilliant αὐλικός whose ambitions have been definitively frustrated, holding a long-lasting civic office was a good way of exhibiting superiority and indeed a kind of revenge on the hazard and volatility of royal distinctions. In less dramatic situations, courtiers who had successfully gone through

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Ivana Savalli-Lestrade all kinds of events usually asked for, and obtained, what are called ‘golden parachutes’ in the business world today, comfortable pensions as landowners or high-priests. Examples include the anonymous friend who was appointed by King Antiochos III high priest of the sanctuaries of Apollo and Artemis Daittai in Daphne, near Antioch in Syria;84 Aristolochos, who received at the request of King Seleukos IV the citizenship of Seleukeia of Syria, the city where he had decided to retire, and a statue in the agora;85 Asklepides, who apparently spent the end of his life in a city near Pergamon;86 and many philoi and courtiers who, being rich landowners or having obtained land tenures in the vicinity of poleis as rewards for their services,87 retired to their estates and may have involved themselves in civic matters. Finally, I would say that, despite the wide variety of their itineraries, many philoi and courtiers surely had one aspiration in common: to end their life far from the machinations of the court and from ‘the sound and the fury’ of History. Less spectacular than betraying or abandoning one’s king, the decision to return to civic life, even if we do not know how common it was, reveals how fragile the model of the βίος αὐλικός could be.

Acknowledgements I am very grateful to Prof. Andrew Erskine, Prof. Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones and Dr Shane Wallace for their warm hospitality in Edinburgh. I am also greatly in debt to Prof. Erskine and to Dr Wallace for carefully editing the text and for their judicious suggestions. I wish to thank Prof. John Ma, who very kindly sent to me a preprint of his study on the Antigonid Court, and Prof. Kostas Buraselis, for helpful discussions about polis-court interaction. All English translations from Greek or Latin authors are from the Loeb Classical Library.

Notes 1 Cf. Burke 1995, especially 33–8. There is a well-documented dossier on Castiglione’s life and work on the Italian website Castiglione: Pathways Through Italian Literature: Internet Culturale: Italian Writers (http://www.internetculturale.it/opencms/ opencms/directories/ViaggiNelTesto/castiglione/eng/index.html) 2 Burke 1995, 117–57. 3 This formula appears only in Philod. P.Herc.1018 (Dorandi 1994, 13), concerning Persaios of Kition, who ‘travelled with Antigonos (Gonatas), having chosen to live like a courtier rather than like a philosopher’ [(σ)ὺν (Ἀ)ντιγόνῳ καὶ | (ἅ)µα περ(ι)πλανᾶσθαι, τὸ(ν) | αὐλικόν, οὐ τὸν φιλό(σ)ο|φον ᾑρηµένον βίον]. Erskine (2011, 178–9) rightly argues that the opposition between these two lifestyles expresses Philodemos’ Epicurean point of view. 4 Burke 1995, 34, quoting Hans Baron 1955.

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5 Konstan 1997. 6 Cf. Savalli-Lestrade 1998, 334–54. See the negative portrait of Agathokles, friend of King Ptolemy IV, in Polyb. 15.34.3–4: ‘Agathokles displayed neither courage in war nor conspicuous ability, nor was he fortunate and exemplary in his management of affairs, nor, finally, had he that acuteness and mischievous address which serve a courtier’s ends (τὴν αὐλικὴν ἀγχίνοιαν καὶ κακοπραγµοσύνην διαφέρουσαν) and which made Sosibios and several others so successful until the end of their lives in their management of king after king’. 7 Savalli-Lestrade 1998; 1996, on the Attalids. 8 Savalli-Lestrade 1998, 250, 389–92. 9 We know from a newly published inscription from Phrygia that one Koteies – a citizen of Tabai and philos of Eumenes II – employed in the war against the Galatians the oikeioi neaniskoi, in my opinion young men of Koteies’ family and entourage, trained in the military: Guizzi 2006, 181–203; cf. P. Hamon, Bull. épig. 2009, 440. 10 A very fragmentary Athenian decree of 306/5 (IG II2 471) honours the oikeioi (friends or relatives?) of Lykiskos (whose status is actually unknown: see Paschidis 2008, 86, n. 1) for having supported the Athenians while at the court of the kings Antigonos and Demetrios. 11 Compare the opposite views defended by Weber 1997 and Meissner 2000; there is a very interesting analysis of unequal friendships in Azoulay 2004, 281–318. 12 As pointed by Buraselis (1994, 26), this was a strong difference between the φίλοι τοῦ βασιλέως and Caesaris amici. 13 On this topic, see Herman 1987; 1997; Paschidis 2008. 14 On Ptolemaic educators, see Eichgrün 1961, 183–93. 15 I.Ephesos 202+add. p.6; Savalli-Lestrade 1996, 171–2; Habicht 2005, 125–6. English translation by Austin 2006, no. 246. 16 So Eumenes, tutor of a Seleucid king (Antiochos IV?), known from an Athenian decree honouring his son, [Z/M]enodoros, who was a friend of King Antiochos VII: Savalli-Lestrade 1998, 85, 91–2. 17 Savalli-Lestrade 1998, 68. 18 OGIS 256 (Durrbach 1921: no. 110); Savalli-Lestrade 1998, 83. Krateros was possibly in the service of princess Kleopatra before she became a Seleucid queen: Savalli-Lestrade 2003, 66 n. 28. See below, n. 40. 19 Van’t Dack 1989/1990. 20 Hölbl 1994, 119–20; Huss 2001, 474–86; Buraselis 2005, 100–01. 21 Hölbl 1994, 129–30; Huss 2001, 540–1. 22 Philippos: Savalli-Lestrade 1998, 61–2; Lysias: Savalli-Lestrade 1998, 56–9; Muccioli 2000, 261–4; 273. Cf. Mittag 2006, 330–1. 23 Anth. Pal. 7.241. Cf. Gow-Page 1965, I, 204 and II, 54–5. 24 On Andromachos, who also had military competence and may have been appointed strate¯gos of Cyprus, cf. Mooren 1975, no. 0376. Further bibliography – and a new date on Ptolemy Eupator’s death – in Huss 2001, 576–8. See also Savalli- Lestrade 2009, 144–5. 25 Corradi 1929, 209–81; on the syntrophoi of King Kleomenes III of Sparta, see Ogden 1996, 218–24; Levy 2003, 158–9. 26 Savalli-Lestrade 1998, 34–5. 27 Savalli-Lestrade 1998, 179–80.

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28 Savalli-Lestrade 1998, 144–5. 29 Savalli-Lestrade 1998, 129. Public funerals for Asklepi(a)des are attested in a posthumous decree known through an inscription from Lydia, published by Malay 1999, no. 182. The exact provenance (Philadelphia? Apollonia on the Maeander? Tabai?) is much debated: see the more recent discussion in Thonemann 2003, who also provides a more complete text (cf. SEG LIII 1542) and suggests that Asklepi(a)des occupied the function of regional oikonomos (not a very convincing hypothesis, given Asklepi(a)des’ high aulic status). 30 Savalli-Lestrade 1998, 140–1 (the parallel with the supposed two Milesian brothers, Hippodamos and Hippostratos, strate¯goi of Lysimachos, is no more pertinent: see P. Gauthier, Bull. épig. 2007, 421; SEG LVI 999). 31 Savalli-Lestrade 1998, 65–6. 32 Savalli-Lestrade 1998, 59, 69. 33 Savalli-Lestrade 1998, 69. 34 In the new inscription from Lydia (above n. 29) Asklepi(a)des son of Theophilos is described (lines 2–3) as συντεθραµµένος Ἀττάλωι τῶι τοῦ βασιλέως ἀδελφῶι. In the dossier from Tel Maresha (see p. 6 and n. 46), Olympiodoros is presented (line 29) as τραφεὶς γὰρ µεθ᾽ ἡµῶν by King Seleukos IV, 2 or 3 years older than Antiochos IV, who had his own syntrophoi. Note also that Sosandros, who was by alliance related to the Attalid family, is precisely described by Attalos III (RC 66, lines 2–3) as σύντροφος of his father (Eumenes II), even if Attalos II wrote (RC 65, lines 1–2) Σωσάνδρου τοῦ συντρόφου ἡµῶν, a courtesy formula in my opinion. 35 Corradi 1929, 276. Lumbroso 1870, 208, quotes furthermore 3 Macc. 5.32, referring to Hermon, keeper of the elephants, whom Ptolemy IV spared because of their common education (συντροφία). 36 So W. R. Paton in the Loeb edition, IV, 551: ‘At the same time some young girls who had been Arsinoë’s close companions’; P. Waltz (Polybe, Histoire, Classiques Garnier, Paris 1921, III, 149): ‘Cependant quelques jeunes femmes, qui avaient été les compagnes d’Arsinoè’. Denis Roussel’s translation (Polybe, Histoire, La Pléiade, Paris 1970, 797) is more neutral: ‘Dans le même temps quelques femmes qui, dans leur enfance, avaient été les compagnes d’Arsinoè’. 37 When Arsinoe III married Ptolemy IV (in the summer 222: Huss 2001, 382 n. 4), she was possibly a child: see Ogden 1999, 81. She bore Ptolemy V in 210. 38 Robert 1936, 140, 144; Clarysse, Thompson and Luft 2006, 261. 39 Polyb. 15.30.9–10, 33; on Polybius’ biased description of the Alexandrian population, see Walbank 1979, 53 and Erskine 2013, 346–52. 40 We can mention Danae, supposedly hetaira, counsellor (πάρεδρος) and confidante (πιστευοµένη) of Laodike II (Athen. 13.64) and the loyal maids of Berenike Syra (Polyaen. Strat. 8.50). Concerning eunuchs, cf. Krateros, who was chief physician and chamberlain of Kleopatra Thea (see above n. 18 and section 2.4 below), Ganymedes, who was the nutricius of Queen Arsinoe IV (Pros. Ptol. VI 14643), and the anonymous eunuch and tutor of Ioulia (II) of the Tarkondimotid dynasty of Kilikia (Savalli- Lestrade 1998, 204). 41 On Aristonikos, see Mooren 1975, no. 0191; on court eunuchs in the Hellenistic period Guyot 1980, 104–20 (see also Strootman, this volume). Other eunuchs known in the entourage of Ptolemaic Kings are Eulaios (PP VI 14602), nutricius of King Ptolemy V and epitropos together with the enfranchised Lenaios (PP VI 14612);

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Potheinos and Achillas (an Egyptian), who were both epitropoi and tithenoi of Ptolemy XIII (Mooren 1975, nos. 028 and 029). 42 Guyot 1980, 103. 43 Ricl 2009. 44 Cribiore 2001, 45–73. 45 For the assassination see Mittag, this volume, section 5. 46 Savalli-Lestrade 1998, 44–6; 344–5. 47 Cotton and Wörrle 2007; Gera 2009; Jones 2009; Bencivenni 2011. 48 Gera 2009, 149. 49 Mooren 1975, 32: ‘in many cases no title or formula is employed for persons who can be characterized, without the slightest doubt, as philoi’. 50 See Savalli-Lestrade 1998, 383–4. 51 Inscription of Tel Maresha, lines 27–8, 30–5. I adopt the Greek text and the English translation of Jones 2009, 102–3. 52 Gera 2009, 132–3. 53 Savalli-Lestrade 1998, 270 n. 75. 54 [Menodot?]os, satrap of Seleukis: Savalli-Lestrade 1998, 93–4. 55 Savalli-Lestrade 1998, 70. 56 Savalli-Lestrade 1998, 86. 57 Savalli-Lestrade 1998, 87. The anonymous officer of SEG XX 423 consecrates his offering on behalf of the King, of the Queen and of their παιδιά, ‘babies’, a more sensitive word than τέκνα. Furthermore, he gives special cult titles to Demetrios I (Megistos) and Kleopatra (Thea Euete¯ria: cf. Muccioli 2003, 110–11). 58 Mooren 1977, especially 54–5 and 204–6. 59 2 Macc. 3.24, 28, 31. 60 Polyb. 5.26.9–12. Cf. Ma 2011, 522–3. 61Clothes and jewellery: Savalli-Lestrade 1998, 48, 77–8, 90–1, 173. 62 Statues: nearly all persons honoured with a statue by a king or a king’s friend are possibly friends of the king (see Savalli-Lestrade 1998, XIII). On the general topic of honorific statues in the ancient Greek world see Ma 2013. 63 Kallikrates: Pos. 12.74 and Bingen 2002; Philitas of Kos: Pos. 10.63 (statue in his homeland by order of king Ptolemy I) and Prioux 2007, 19–76; Queyrel 2010. Sosibios: Callim. fr. 384 Pfeiffer. Books addressed to the courtiers: the physician Andreas, personal doctor of Ptolemy IV, dedicated a work to Sosibios the Elder (Mooren 1975, no. 018, h: Soranos 2.17.53). 64 Savalli-Lestrade 1998, 58–9 (Lysias), 80–1 (Lasthenes), 182 (Metrodoros of Skepsis). Philip V called Aratos son of Klinias ‘father’, his political and moral educator: cf. Livy 32.21.23 (cum senem infelicem parentem etiam appellare solitus esset) with Paschidis 2008, 246 n. 5. Following Muccioli 2000, syngene¯s existed as a court title in the Seleucid kingdom in the years 180–170. The new Heliodoros/Olympiodoros dossier shows that the adelphos address was already working in royal administration under Seleukos IV: see Cotton and Wörrle 2007, 199–200. 65 Dynastic names: Savalli-Lestrade 1998, 33. 66 Glew 2005; Gabelko, this volume. 67 Polyb. 16.22.4–5, with Hatzopoulos 1994, 100; Ma 2011, 539. 68 FGrH 81 F41 and Savalli-Lestrade 2007, 103, n. 63; Wallace, this volume. 69 Tsimbidou-Avloniti 2004 and 2005; Palagia, this volume.

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70 See further Hardiman, this volume, especially the end of Section 1. 71 Polyb. 15.32.8: house located not far from the stadion, which was near the basileia. 72 Joseph. AJ 13.35–6 with Savalli-Lestrade 1998, 71. This palace was a fortified building (tetrapyrgion) in the suburbs of the city of Antioch, different from the old palace located on the small island on the Orontes (Nielsen 1994, 153–4). 73 After having concealed his barbarian mercenaries in the palace, Attalos III summoned the friends who were under suspicion (the most powerful of his father’s friends, presumably living in Pergamon) and had all of them killed (Diod. Sic. 34.3). 74 Livy 40.7–8 with Hatzopoulos 2001, 193; Ma 2011, 538. 75 The royal army was normally stationed near the basileia – which were usually constructed on fortified akropoleis or included a citadel – as we know from Ptolemaic Alexandria, where Macedonian soldiers lived in barracks on the akra (Polyb. 15.28.4). For the special cases of the royal palaces of Aigai and Pella, see Hatzopoulos 2001, 191–2. 76 Polyb. 18.53: when Skopas was suspected of treason his house was surrounded by soldiers and elephants by order of King Ptolemy V. 77 Savalli-Lestrade 1996, 151–2; Savalli-Lestrade 1998, 335 sq. 78 Polyb. 15.25.14: ‘he also appointed Ptolemy, son of Agesarchos, to Rome, with the idea that he would not hurry to his post, but would remain in Greece when he reached that country and meet his friends and relatives there, the object of Agathokles being to remove all men of distinction from Egypt’. 79 IG XII 4.1, 129–30. Nikomedes had a prominent role in Greek affairs ca 320 BC. Since there is no mention of King Demetrios in his epigraphic dossier, we can infer that, at some point after the death of Antigonos, Nikomedes retired to Kos. 80 Syll.3 644/5 and I.Lampsakos 6. On both Nikomedes and Eudemos, see Savalli- Lestrade 2012, 44–6. 81 According to van Bremen 2008, 374f, the Kymaian benefactress Archippe may have spent most of her life at the Seleucid court in Antioch, before returning to her patris. 82 One hiereus pro poleo¯s is attested in an unpublished inscription of Xanthos dated by the priest of Alexander and the Adelphoi, and by Arsinoe’s kane¯phoros to 239/8 (Bousquet 1988, 24 n. 10). On Tlepolemos and his family, see Schuler 2010, 76 n. 46, who provides (74–81) a careful analysis of the hiereis pro poleo¯s in Lykia and elsewhere in Asia Minor. 83 On royal and civic eponymies, see Buraselis 2010, whose attractive hypothesis (426) on Tlepolemos’ role in the introduction of dynastic eponymy in Lykia is invalidated by the decree of Xanthos quoted in the previous note (Schuler 2010, 74–81; Savalli-Lestrade 2010, 127–36). 84 Savalli-Lestrade 1998, 39–41. 85 Savalli-Lestrade 1998, 42–4. 86 Above n. 29 and n. 34. 87 The best known cases are those of Aristodikides and of Larichos under King Antiochos I (Capdetrey 2007, 147–58). On earlier exemples of do¯reai in Asia Minor, see Thonemann 2009.

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Lumbroso, G. 1870 Recherches sur l’économie politique de l’Égypte sous les Lagides, Turin. Ma, J. 2010 ‘Le roi en ses images’, in I. Savalli-Lestrade and I. Cogitore (eds), Des rois au prince. Pratiques du pouvoir monarchique dans l’Orient hellénistique et romain, Grenoble, 147–64. 2011 ‘Court, king and power in Antigonid Macedonia’, in R. Lane Fox (ed.), Brill’s Companion to Ancient Macedon, Leiden, 521–43. 2013 Statues and Cities. Honorific Portraits and Civic Identity in the Hellenistic World, Oxford. Malay, H. 1999 Researches in Lydia, Mysia, and Aeolis, Vienna. Meissner, B. 2000 ‘Hofmann und Herrscher. Was es für die Griechen hiess, Freund eines Königs zu sein’, Archiv für Kulturgeschichte 82, 1–36. Mittag, P. 2006 Antiochos IV. Epiphanes. Eine politische Biographie, Berlin. Mooren, L. 1975 The Aulic Titulature in Ptolemaic Egypt: Introduction and prosopography, Brussels. 1977 La hiérarchie de cour ptolémaïque, Leuven. Muccioli, F. 2000 ‘Crisi e trasformazione del regno Seleucide tra il II e il I secolo a.C.’, in L. Mooren (ed.), Politics, Administration and Society in the Hellenistic and the Roman World, Leuven, 251–72. 2003 ‘Cleopatra Thea, una regina tolemaica nella dinastia dei Seleucidi’, in N. Bonacasa et al. (eds), Faraoni come dei. Tolemei come faraoni, Turin-Palermo, 105–16. Nielsen, I. 1994 Hellenistic Palaces: Tradition and renewal, Aarhus. Ogden, D. 1996 Greek Bastardy in the Classical and Hellenistic periods, Oxford. 1999 Polygamy, Prostitutes and Death: The Hellenistic dynasties, Swansea and London. Paschidis, P. 2008 Between City and King. Prosopographical Studies on the Intermediaries between the Cities of the Greek Mainland and the Royal Courts in the Hellenistic Period (322– 190 BC), Athens. Prioux, E. 2007 Regards alexandrins: histoire et théorie des arts dans l’épigramme hellénistique, Louvain and Paris. Queyrel, F. 2010 ‘Ekphrasis et perception alexandrine: la réception des œuvres d’art à Alexandrie sous les premiers Lagides’, Antike Kunst 53, 23–48. Ricl, M. 2009 ‘Legal and social status of threptoi and related categories in narrative and documentary sources’, in H. M. Cotton et al. (eds), From Hellenism to Islam. Cultural and Linguistic Change in the Roman Near-East, Cambridge, 93–114.

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Robert, L. 1936 ‘Études d’épigraphie grecque, XLIII. Sur les affranchissements de Suse’, Revue de Philologie, de Littérature et d’Histoire anciennes, ser. III, 10, 2, 136–52 (Opera Minora Selecta II, 1216–31). Savalli-Lestrade, I. 1996 ‘Citoyens et courtisans: le cas des philoi des Attalides’, Chiron 26, 149–81. 1998 Les philoi royaux dans l’Asie hellénistique, Geneva. 2003 ‘La place des reines à la cour et dans le royaume à l’époque hellénistique’, in A. Bielman and R. Frei-Stolba (eds), Les femmes antiques entre sphère privée et sphère publique, Berne, 59–76. 2007 ‘L’art de recevoir à la cour des Lagides’, in J.-P. Caillet and M. Sot (eds), L’audience, rituels et cadres spatiaux dans l’Antiquité et le haut Moyen Âge, Paris, 93–111. 2009 ‘Usages civiques et usages dynastiques de la damnatio memoriae dans le monde hellénistique (323–30 av. J.-C.)’, in S. Benoist et al. (eds), Mémoires partagées, mémoires disputées, écriture et réécriture de l’histoire, Metz, 127–58. 2010 ‘Intitulés royaux et intitulés civiques dans les inscriptions de cités sujettes de Carie et de Lycie (Amyzon, Eurômos, Xanthos). Histoire politique et mutations institutionnelles’, in B. Virgilio (ed.), Studi Ellenistici 24, 127–48. 2012 ‘Collections de citoyennetés et internationalisation des élites civiques dans l’Asie Mineure hellénistique’, in A. Heller and A.-V. Pont (eds), Patries d’origine et patries électives, 2009, Bordeaux, 39–59. Schuler, C. 2010 ‘Priester in Lykien: eine neue Inschrift aus dem Territorium von Patara’, Epigraphica Anatolica 73, 69–86. Thonemann, P. J. 2003 ‘Hellenistic inscriptions from Lydia’, Epigraphica Anatolica 36, 95–108. 2009 ‘Estates and the land in early Hellenistic Asia Minor. The estate of Krateuas’, Chiron 39, 363–93. Tsimbidou-Avloniti, M. 2004 ‘Les peintures funéraires d’Aghios Athanassios’, in S. Descamps-Lequime (ed.), Peinture et couleur dans le monde grec antique, Paris, 57–67. 2005 Μακεδονικοί τάφοι στον Φοίνικα και στον Ἀγιο Ἀθανάσιο Θεσσαλονίκης, Athens. van Bremen, R. 2008 ‘The date and context of the Kymaian decrees for Archippe (SEG 33 1035– 1041)’, Revue des Études Anciennes 110, 357–82. Van’t Dack, E. 1989/1990 ‘Apollodôros et Helenos: deux ΤΡΟΦΕΙΣ de Ptolémée X Alexandre I’, Sacris Erudiri 31, 429–41. Walbank, F. W. 1979 ‘Egypt in Polybius’, in J. Ruffle et al. (eds), Glimpses of Ancient Egypt: Studies in honor of H.W. Fairman, Warminster, 180–9 (= Polybius, Rome and the Hellenistic World, Cambridge 2002, 53–69). Weber, G. 1997 ‘Interaktion, Repräsentation und Herrschaft. Der Königshof im Hellenismus’, in A. Winterling (ed.), Zwischen ‘Haus’ und ‘Staat’. Antike Höfe im Vergleich, Munich, 27–71.

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EUNUCHS,RENEGADESANDCONCUBINES: THE‘PARADOXOFPOWER’ANDTHE PROMOTIONOFFAVOURITESINTHE HELLENISTICEMPIRES

Rolf Strootman

1. The Hellenistic philos: useful but difficult to control An anecdote of Antigonos Gonatas related by Plutarch (Mor. 183d) has become a classic text for the modern paradigm that Hellenistic kings were absolute rulers who selected their Friends at will: When a young man, the son of a brave father, but not himself having any reputation for being a good soldier, suggested that it would be right for him to be given the same gifts his father had received, Antigonos said: ‘My boy, I give rewards for the excellence of a man, not for the excellence of his father’. This anecdote expresses an ideal. But in doing so it exposes what probably was the reality: the reality of philoi claiming hereditary rights to status at court. Both literary sources and epigraphical documents convey the impression that rulers freely selected philoi for their loyalty and personal merit. This ideal had been pithily expressed by Aristotle, who wrote that ‘monarchs make many hands and ears and feet their own, for they appoint persons who are friends of their rule and of themselves as their fellow-rulers’ (Pol. 1287b). Although this could be true, rulers were mainly in a position to do so when successful in war, acquiring land and wealth and prestige to distribute among their followers and to pay their armies (like Alexander, Antigonos, Seleukos). Successful warfare could thus bring about the sudden rise of rulers of relatively humble background such as Pyrrhos.1 But when expansion came to a halt, the conqueror, and especially his successor, would find himself faced with an established elite, confronted with unruly vassals, and in dire need of sources of income. Philip and Alexander had endeavoured to create a court in which not ancestry but the favour of the king determined who would rise to

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Rolf Strootman prominence. Alexander had been relatively successful in achieving this objective. He owed this success to the enormous scale of his conquests and of the looting that took place. The Diadochs, Alexander’s immediate successors, inherited both the scale and the flexibility of Alexander’s empire and court. How successful they really were in selecting their courtiers on the basis of loyalty and merit is difficult to ascertain, but it seems that the Diadochs had better opportunities to do so than their successors. Hellenistic rulers thereafter were aided by ‘friends’.2 These philoi were dependent on the monarchy as an institution but not necessarily loyal to the individual monarch: the king could in principle be replaced by another member of the dynasty. Disloyalty to the dynasty was less common than disloyalty to an individual king. In the course of the third century new aristocracies with hereditary prerogatives came into existence and ancestry again became a criterion for status at court. The longer the kingdoms existed, the more the families of leading philoi – who were rewarded for their services to the crown with riches, estates and status – acquired sources of income and prestige of their own. Kings often found it difficult to unseat and replace by their own intimates the established members of the royal council once they had acquired a position of power and influence. Landed estates distributed among the friends of a king may in theory have been open to reconsideration by his successor. But it is hardly believable that this was easy for kings to achieve in practice. Hellenistic rulers could of course try to keep their courts divided by encouraging aulic rivalries for favour and ‘amphimetric’ rivalry among the royal wives.3 But that was a delicate strategy. It could easily backfire when conflicts got out of control. Unruly philoi were a recurrent problem when the royal title passed from a deceased king to his successor. Aulic opposition went hand in hand with the lack of funds kings often experienced at their accession. The ruthless methods Alexander employed to eliminate the grandees of his father’s reign are well known. It happened too, notoriously, at the beginning of the reigns of Antiochos III and Philip V.4 According to Diodorus (35.3), Attalos III killed all the friends of his father when he became king. And Ptolemy VIII (‘Physkon’) allegedly began his reign with a brutal purging of his court, continuing Alexander’s method of accusing opposition leaders of treason.5 Young kings without military success of their own were particularly vulnerable. When Antiochos III and his followers competed with the faction of Hermeias for control of the court and the army, Polybius (5.50.4–5) comments that the king, troubled as he was by Hermeias’ machinations and enthralled by the obligations of the court, and permanently surrounded by a host of guards and courtiers, was not even master of himself.

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Eunuchs, renegades and concubines: the ‘paradox of power’...

Antiochos, like Alexander in his conflict with Parmenion and the Macedonian high nobility, was ultimately victorious in the struggle with his predecessor’s philoi and presumably this is precisely why this struggle has been recorded in detail. It seems safe to assume that there were also instances when powerful courtiers silently retained their influence.

2. From gilded cage to paradox of power When in 1969 Die höfische Gesellschaft was finally published, Norbert Elias’ model of the court became enormously influential virtually overnight because it presented the court for the first time as a social system, as something of real historical significance. Elias in particular conceptualized the court as an instrument in the hands of the king to pacify and control the provincial nobility. In Elias’ view, this was a prerequisite for the development of early modern absolutism; absolutism in turn was the prerequisite for the establishment of the centralized nation state, in which the use of legitimate violence became a state monopoly. Elias’ main source were the memoirs of Saint-Simon. His model of the court therefore was based mainly on the French royal household in the later reign of Louis XIV. Since the 1980s, however, historians have come to distrust the official absolutist claims of early modern monarchy, and hence have begun to reconsider Elias’ views on European state formation.6 Direct criticism of Elias’ model was put forward in a study of the court of the Elector of Cologne by Aloys Winterling (1986). Elias’ model did not fit the Elector’s court as neatly as it should. Various other case studies have since undermined Elias’ assumptions, culminating inter alia in the methodological re-evaluation of Elias’ model by Jeroen Duindam (2003). In particular the comprehension of the court as a ‘gilded cage’, used by the king to control the nobility, has been criticized. If indeed there was a concentration of power at the expense of the periphery, as Elias maintained, this did not necessarily entail a loss of power on the part of the aristocracy: ‘elites could gain in the centre what they had lost in the periphery’, Duindam wrote.7 In Elias’ view, the king drained the aristocrats’ financial resources by first luring them to court and then forcing them to make staggering status expenditures (for housing, servants, clothing, feasts, and gifts). But most of all the treasury of the king, being the person of highest status, would have been burdened by such obligations. Monopoliz- ation of military power by the centre moreover meant that the king became financially responsible for the upkeep of the armed forces. The French kings often had to borrow money to meet the growing costs of court and army: from private money-lenders in the cities but sometimes even from the nobility, viz. from the courtiers.8 There is a notorious Hellenistic

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Rolf Strootman example of this too: Antiochos III at the beginning of his reign was forced to accept money from the ‘bad’ courtier Hermeias, who at that time controlled the court. Hermeias demanded in return control of the army and the elimination of his principal rival, the ‘good’ courtier Epigenes, who was the most powerful ally of the king.9 King Antiochos duly obliged. Specifically in imperial situations, it is a priority of rulers to secure the allegiance of military leaders, both centrally appointed commanders and local aristocrats. As noted above, the creation of a group loyal to the king continually required substantial rewards for success, such as land grants, gifts, privileges, titles and honours.10 Duindam noted that ‘[i]t appears to be a universal principle that handing out favours is temporarily effective as an instrument of power, but eventually burdens the dispenser with newly- established interest-groups.’11 We may call this the ‘paradox of power’: to exert power a ruler has to delegate power and thereby encourages the emergence of an independent elite defending its privileges and acting on behalf of its own clientele. At the Hellenistic courts, too, philoi had obligations towards their own friends and relatives. Powerful philoi controlled their own patronage networks.12 The size of a philos’ personal following, and the status of his xenoi, were indicative of his status and power.13 Being a patron obliged philoi to act in the interest of their own clients and in the interest of their cities of origin. As long as philoi were dependent on the king for their status, the king could maintain some control. In practice philoi, who normally came from civic elite families, disposed of sources of power of their own in addition to the landed estates and economic privileges they received from the king.14 In sum: we should allow the possibility that the court, rather than being at all times an instrument of the king to control the philoi, could also have been an instrument of the philoi to control the king. However, the conviction that absolutist pretensions in monarchical representation entailed absolute power in actuality continues to inform modern views of Hellenistic kingship, and helps keep alive the belief that the advent of Hellenistic monarchy terminated ‘Greek freedom’. Thus Burkhard Meissner (2000) maintained that Hellenistic kings could so arbitrarily appoint and dismiss philoi that the friends became totally dependent, subservient sycophants.15 Gabriel Herman (1997) argued in a more nuanced manner that the philoi were dependent on the favour of the king, but neither endeavoured to go beyond the model of Elias.

3. Wicked and hungry for power: enter the favourite One strategy employed by kings to try to curtail the autonomy of the philoi was the promotion of a ‘favourite’: an outsider of sorts who did not

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Eunuchs, renegades and concubines have an independent power base or hereditary rights to warrant the high position to which he (or she) was elevated by means of ‘favour’. Favour is basically the measure of access to the king awarded to a courtier.16 Kings tried to favour some individuals disproportionately in order to create a protective shield between themselves and the nobility. Favourites are mainly associated with Europe between c. 1550 and 1650, and the word first of all brings to mind such individuals as Buckingham, Olivares and Richelieu – although the archetypal example, even in the modern literature on the courts of the Ancien Régime, is Sejanus, the unpopular favourite who was in control of affairs in Rome while the emperor Tiberius secluded himself on the island of Capri. In early modern Europe, favourites appear especially when power relation within a state were being renegotiated.17 As I will expound below, favourites turn up at the Hellenistic courts too, and, I would argue, in similar contexts. We encounter them at the Argead court in the reigns of Philip and especially Alexander, who employed favourites in his struggle with the hetairoi. The Seleucids and Ptolemies from c. 220 used favourites to counterbalance the growing power of a landowning class of Greek philoi.18 Favourites do not constitute a well-delineated category. They vary from the passing concubine to the seemingly all-powerful minister-favourite.19 So what are favourites, what is their use, and how can we recognize them when they turn up in the sources? Modern studies of various premodern courts broadly acknowledge three principal characteristics of favourites. First, they often have no connections with the established court elite.20 Second, they ideally should not be able to produce (legal) offspring to inherit their high status and prerogatives.21 Third, they usually hold no formal position within the court hierarchy: although they have exclusive routine access to the king’s presence, their bond with the king is personal; if they do hold an aulic office, it is often connected with the king’s personal sphere like Lord of the Bedchamber (or, at Alexander’s court, so¯matophylax).22 As the king distances himself more and more from the regular court society, courtiers are forced to deal with the favourite instead. Because a favourite derives his elevated position not from pedigree, Hausmacht, or magistracy but from the informal privilege of having access to the king, the king ideally can withdraw his favour arbitrarily by denying the favourite access. Unlike many aulic title holders and court officials, favourites typically have no formal right to demand access. Especially when all these conditions are true, one is justified in speaking of a favourite. In addition, three functions of favourites may be distinguished. First, because of their proximity to the monarch, they form a screen between the king and the court society, controlling access.23

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Second, they take responsibility for unpopular measures. And third, they stand up against powerful courtiers in the king’s stead. Given the almost universal presence of court favourites, it is not difficult to identify them in the sources. There are various conspicuous characteristics. I will list the three most eye-catching. First, there will be markers of ‘otherness’ – they are Egyptians, eunuchs, priests, exiled men, women. Second, they usually have a bad reputation.24 In the eyes of his enemies, and subsequently in the sources as well, the favourite becomes the archetypal wicked counsellor, avaricious and hungry for power. The other courtiers are said to hate him because of his unjustified influence on the king. The favourite will be accused of having put the monarch under a spell, manipulating him in private with the purpose of taking control of the kingdom.25 Sometimes, as in the case of Elizabeth I and Essex or Alexander and Hephaistion, there are erotic connotations to the favourite’s supposed influence with the ruler.26 Third, the favourite is sacrificed when things go wrong, so that the king, pleading his own innocence, may restore good relations with the court nobility. To quote a Hellenistic example: Philip [V], the king of the Macedonians, had by him a certain knavish fellow, Herakleides of Taras, who in private conversations made many false and malicious charges against the philoi whom Philip held in high esteem. Eventually Philip sank so low in impiety as to murder five leading members of the synedrion. From that point on his situation deteriorated, and by embarking on unnecessary wars he came near losing his kingdom at the hands of the Romans. For none of his Friends any longer dared speak their minds or rebuke the king’s folly for fear of his impetuous temper.27 Here the favourite is held responsible by implication for the elimination of some ‘leading members’ of the Royal Council. He is said to be wicked and is accused of manipulating the king ‘in private conversations’. But there is one thing that our source, Diodorus, does not explain: how this hateful person succeeded in having routine access to the king, in contrast to ‘leading members’ of the court who apparently were unable to influence the king in private conversations. Further on Diodorus does say that as soon as Philip’s popularity dwindled because of his lack of success against the Romans, he blamed Herakleides for it and had him locked up.28 A favourite thus rises to power through the arbitrary conferment of royal favour. The fear of falling from grace again theoretically secures a favourite’s loyalty. But precisely because the king bestows favour on him disproportionally, the favourite in turn can bestow privileges on others and become himself the central hub of a patronage web. As a result, his power becomes ingrained in the court system, giving him the opportunity to actually influence decision-making.29 As Werner Paravicini noted, there is

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Eunuchs, renegades and concubines always the difficult question whether we are dealing with rule by means of a favourite (to the advantage of the king) or rule by a favourite (for his own benefit).30 A Hellenistic example of this is the case of Apelles, a mighty man in the entourage of Antigonos Doson who retained his position in the early years of Doson’s successor, Philip V: ‘The governors and dignitaries in Macedonia and Thessaly referred all matters to him, while the Greek cities in voting gifts and honours made little mention of the king, but Apelles was all in all to them’ (Polyb. 5.25.5). This is why kings often contrive the downfall of their favourites before they become too powerful. Indeed, the fact that sooner or later they always fall from grace may be considered another defining characteristic of a true favourite.31 Philip V arranged the downfall of Apelles by first secretly securing the collaboration of Apelles’ enemies and then publicly denying him ‘access’: After arriving with great pomp owing to the number of officers and soldiers who had flocked to meet him, [Apelles] proceeded immediately to the royal quarters. He was about to enter, as was his custom, when one of the guards, acting on orders [of the king], stopped him, saying that the king was engaged. Disconcerted by this unexpected affront, Apelles...withdrew much abashed, upon which his followers at once began to drop away quite openly, so that finally he reached his private quarters accompanied only by his own servants.32 Philip literally shut the door. Apelles was still invited to public banquets and continued to receive other such formal honours, ‘but he was no longer admitted to the king’s intimacy’; he eventually committed suicide together with some of his closest friends; his remaining associates were put on trial before the synedrion and the army assembly and executed on charges of cowardice and insult.33 It would certainly be interesting to investigate more comprehensively what different strategies Hellenistic kings employed to confer and withdraw ‘favour’, but that would be beyond the scope of this chapter. We will now turn to the various types of favourites known from the Hellenistic world.

4. Hellenistic kings and their favourites Hellenistic kings employed favourites from varying social backgrounds, among them exiles, defectors from rival courts, foreigners, eunuchs and – last but not least – women. The overview given below is no more than a preliminary exploration. A first category – exiles and defectors – consists of men who had forcibly abandoned their aboriginal social milieu; and because they had become refugees they became reliant on the favour of the host who was

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Rolf Strootman willing to give them sanctuary.34 The host offered them security and a chance to regain status and influence. The most exemplary instance is Hannibal, who took refuge at the Seleucid court in 196 after his defeat by Scipio in the Second Punic War. Hannibal became a senior advisor of Antiochos III during the Seleucid-Roman war of 191–188.35 The Carthaginian commander obviously was an anomaly in the Seleucid synedrion, distrusted and hated by the other philoi. He nevertheless enjoyed the full confidence of the king, who sought his advice in personal interviews and entrusted him with important special commands.36 Roman hatred for Hannibal (and vice versa) secured his loyalty to Antiochos. Another example at the court of Antiochos III is Alexandros the Akarnanian, who formerly had held the crucial post of major-domo (and/or captain of the guard) at the court of the Antigonid king Philip V.37 After Philip had been defeated by the Romans at Kynoskephalai, Alexandros attached himself to the Seleucid household. There he made an exceptional career, becoming a member of the royal synedrion specializing in Greek and Roman matters and serving the king as a general during the Greek campaign of 191.38 In Alexandria, Demetrios of Phaleron rose to power under Ptolemy I after having been driven from Athens by Demetrios Poliorketes, an enemy of Ptolemy. And when Kleomenes, the Lacedaemonian king, was exiled from Sparta, he and his followers found a warm welcome at the Alexandrian court, too, where Ptolemy Euergetes did all he could to win his friendship with favours, honours and gifts.39 Men of power could moreover go from one court to another on a voluntary basis. When an influential philos did so, his own personal friends and retinue could go with him.40 It seems that this happened particularly when the original master had violated the unwritten laws of philia and xenia.41 The king who had been abandoned, however, would still think of it as betrayal and this prevented the defector’s return, which in turn secured his loyalty to the dynasty to which he had defected.42 An interesting case is Theodotos the Aetolian, a former Ptolemaic philos who became a favourite of Antiochos the Great, and whose career can be in part reconstructed from Polybius. As military governor of Ptolemaic Syria, Theodotos had successfully defended his province against the superior forces of Antiochos in the first year of the Fourth Syrian War (219–217). Because his own king, Ptolemy IV, failed to give him the proper rewards and honours for his services, Theodotos felt deeply insulted.43 He retaliated by sending a letter to Antiochos, offering the surrender of the cities under his control.44 Theodotos’ reward was a lightning career at the Seleucid court. The next winter he was given the command of all garrisons in Koile-Syria, and in the

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Eunuchs, renegades and concubines campaigning season of 218 held several crucial commands in the Seleucid field army.45 At the Battle of Raphia in 217, Theodotos led the 10,000 Silver Shields, the royal infantry guard.46 On the eve of this battle, Theodotos made himself a name by a daring action: sneaking into the Ptolemaic army camp in the dead of night with only two companions, he found his way to the Royal Pavilion, killed the guards, tried (unsuccessfully) to assassinate king Ptolemy, and returned unharmed to the Seleucid camp – a feat inspired more by his personal desire for honour and revenge than by a wish to impress Antiochos, whose goodwill he had already secured.47 The last time we hear of Theodotos, is during the war with Achaios (216–213), when he led the decisive assault on the citadel of Sardis.48 Another type of favourite was the social outsider. A well-known instance is Alexander’s secretary, Eumenes of Kardia. As a Greek, Eumenes was an anomaly in the top ranks of the Macedonian court, and his loyalty to (or dependence on) the Argead house remained proverbial even after Alexander’s death. At the Ptolemaic court of the second and first centuries BC, Egyptians, as well as eunuchs, turn up in powerful positions.49 There was for instance a certain Aristonikos, a prominent philos of an unknown Ptolemy of the second century. He was a eunuch and his uniqueness is emphasized by Polybius: As an adult he proved to be more masculine in courage and character than eunuchs usually are. For he was a born soldier and spent most of his time in the company of other such men, and studying military matters. He was also very good in the art of conversation. In addition to that he was by nature benevolent (which is rare) and generous.50 Then there was an unidentified Egyptian from Memphis, known from the hieroglyphic grave-stele erected in his honour by his grandmother Thatot, who stated that he was ‘in the king’s service and transmitted reports to the magistrates; the king preferred him to his courtiers for each secret counsel in the palace.’51 Between 169 and 164, Ptolemy VI had an Egyptian favourite called Petosarapis, known also by the Greek name of Dionysios. Diodorus says that Petosarapis wielded greater influence at court than anyone else; he also says that Petosarapis tried to stir rebellion and to win control of the kingdom himself.52 In other words: a typical favourite. Let us now turn to the Seleucids. King Demetrios II (145–139 and 129–125) hid behind a general known as Dionysios the Mede, perhaps a eunuch, and Antiochos VII (139–129) favoured a eunuch called Krateros, whom he entrusted with the care of his minor son, the later king Antiochos IX (113–95), and as king, Antiochos IX too held Krateros in great esteem.53 Eunuchs were uncommon at the Ptolemaic and Seleucid courts,54 unlike

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Rolf Strootman the courts of the non-Greek (Iranian) kingdoms of the Hellenistic period.55 So when they do turn up, as in the cases mentioned here, they are probably favourites (a more common political function of eunuchs in the Hellenistic period seems to have been the guarding of royal treasuries). Eunuchs are stereotyped as favourites by Livy (35.15.4), who characteristically claims that Antiochos III had his own son murdered by eunuchs, ‘who normally serve kings by committing such crimes.’56 As far as we can tell, eunuchs did not hold institutionalized positions at the Macedonian royal households, and their castration may have had a religious background rather than being connected with the task of protecting harems, which did not exist at these courts.

5. Concubines and consorts A common type of favourite at many Macedonian courts were palace women. Apart from the official royal wives, concubines of the king often acquired power and influence at court on account of their closeness to the king. In the literary sources we often find the topos of the royal concubine as a vulgar, unscrupulous, power-hungry courtesan who turns the king into a ‘slave’: In the temples of Alexandria there were many statues of Kleino, the cupbearer of Ptolemy Philadelphos, representing her in a chiton and holding a rhyton. And are not some of the richest houses [in Alexandria] owned by Myrtion, Mnesis and Potheine? But what are Mnesis and Potheine but flute-players, and was Myrtion not one of those vulgar professional mime actors? And was Ptolemy Philopator not the slave of the courtesan Agathokleia, who brought the kingdom to the brink of collapse?57 This passage unwittingly underlines the power that an ‘official’ royal maîtresse might have. In the often antipathetic historiography they are stereotyped as depraved common girls or even prostitutes who seduce and enthral the king (but see Buraselis on civic hetairai in this volume).58 For instance, the principal concubine of Ptolemy Philopator, the ‘courtesan’ Agathokleia (Polyb. 14.11.5), is described by Plutarch (Amat. 9) as a ‘Samian dancing girl’. In reality she was the full sister of Agathokles, Ptolemy’s minister-favourite – in other words: a woman of noble birth connected through kinship with one of the most powerful men in the empire. Polybius’ claim, cited above, that Ptolemy Philadelphos set up statues of his concubines in sanctuaries, indicates that being a royal concubine was also a formal public role – an aulic office, reminiscent of the official maîtresse en titre at the court of Louis XIV.59 A concubine of course would not become ‘first minister’. But she could help regulate access to the king by acting as broker, as well as perhaps being an intermediary between a ‘minister-favourite’ and the king because she

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Eunuchs, renegades and concubines was in a position to communicate with the king in private, without other people being present – as in the example of the favourite Agathokles and his sister Agathokleia.60 A king’s relationship with a concubine therefore, I would suggest, could in principle constitute a semi-marital link with a member of his own court. In the informal face-to-face society that the court basically was, these women undoubtedly were themselves able to exert influence on the king too.61 A second reason for maintaining relationships with concubines may have been to produce offspring: either loyal ‘bastard’ sons to whom responsibilities could be delegated, or girls to be given away in marriage to cement alliances inside or outside the court. Thus a complex web of connections likely interlinked the members of the court, involving kinship and various informal associations, in addition to the philia-networks and semi-formal system of aulic titulature that we hear most of in our sources. An official spouse, too, could be a favourite because she could be given authority on account of her official status as basilissa. When Antiochos III was campaigning in the Aegean having his eldest son with him, his consort, Laodike, represented him as monarch elsewhere, maintaining diplomatic contacts with the cities of Asia Minor on his behalf and having authority over the household treasury and royal officials, as is clear from a famous letter of Laodike to Iasos of c. 195.62 Interestingly, in the letter to Iasos, Laodike states that she is acting ‘in accordance with the wishes of my brother [the king]’ – an expression of fictive kinship stressing the closeness of husband and wife (rather than an adoption of the Ptolemaic brother- sister nomenclature).63Antiochos himself likewise emphasized that Laodike was his other self by calling her ‘our sister and queen’ in his correspondence.64 Queens held an ambiguous position in the Seleucid kingdom. On the one hand they were outsiders in the male world of the government and army; on the other hand they were central figures in the royal households, perhaps being in charge of the internal economic aspects of the oikos (a suggestion that perhaps warrants more research). As consort of the reigning king and mother of his son(s), the queen partook in the basileia, impersonating royal authority. Because of polygamous marriage – her son could in principle be replaced as heir apparent – a ‘first wife’ could be expected to be a loyal ally of the reigning king, and to regard the interests of her husband’s family as her own. In the Seleucid empire it seems that a queen was promoted to the cardinal position of a ‘first wife’ by conferring on her a diadem and the title of basilissa, and this was one of the strategies kings potentially had at their disposal to forestall the so-called ‘amphimetric disputes’ that potentially threatened the unity of the household.65

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6. Conclusion The increasing presence of favourites at the courts of the Ptolemies and Seleucids provides indirect evidence for the development of the society of philoi into a landed aristocracy with a firm hold on the army and the court. The rise of favourites at the Hellenistic courts after c. 220 BC in all probability was a reaction to that.66 It furthermore surely is no coincidence that Antiochos III, who radically rearranged his court and more than any other Hellenistic king seems to have availed himself of various types of favourites, was also responsible for the re-emergence and re-organization of the Seleucid Empire after decades of contraction. His military success enabled him to reorganize his court and the reorganization of his court enabled him to reorganize and expand the empire. Here, as in the case of the new Antigonid (naval) imperialism of Philip V, the emergence of favourites is clearly connected with political change. There may be yet a third reason why the identification of favourites at the Hellenistic courts may be of relevance: it may shed new light on the current controversy over the ethnicity of Hellenistic philoi. More than half a century ago, Christian Habicht argued that the Seleucid imperial elite was constituted almost entirely by Greeks and Macedonians. However, Kuhrt and Sherwin-White influentially undermined this view by objecting to Habicht’s use of onomastic evidence to identify ethnicity, stressing the incidental presence of non-Greeks among the Seleucid philoi and pointing to a ‘western’ bias in the literary sources.67 However, the notion that behind Greek personal names non-Greeks may be hidden, who have adopted Hellenic identities, involves methodological problems of its own – especially concerning the definition (and relevance) of ‘ethnicity’ and ‘identity’. I hope to have shown that the presence of Egyptians like Petosarapis at the Ptolemaic, or a Dionysios ‘the Mede’ at the Seleucid court, is in itself no evidence of a strong non-Greek presence and influence at the Ptolemaic and Seleucid courts. What counts is the origin of the philoi rather than their expressed or perceived ‘ethnicity’. If one looks, not at the names of philoi, but at their recorded places of origin or affiliation, it becomes clear that philoi, even in the Seleucid and Ptolemaic empires after c. 200, were predominantly connected with the civic elites of poleis in the Aegean and Asia Minor (which in itself implies wide ethnic disparity!).68 The royal philoi not only were commanders and administrators but also functioned as intermediaries between the imperial centre and the cities. What made these people of disparate backgrounds into a single social group, more or less, is that they were linked to each other and to the king by means of philia, an ancient

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Greek form of ritualized friendship; together with philia, the related form of traditional guest-friendship known as xenia (or philoxenia) provided international communication networks by means of which imperial control of Greek or ‘Hellenized’ cities was established.69 This was of pivotal importance for the empires since cities were the key to accessing agrarian surpluses, financial capital, and infrastructure. The fact that royal philoi and their kinsmen acted as the agents of empire in the poleis accounts for the predominance of ‘Hellenes’ among the Seleucid and Ptolemaic philoi and their domination, together with Macedonian aristocrats, of the highest imperial offices. It does not explain, however, the noticeable absence in both literary and epigraphical documentation of non-Greek courtiers. The exceptional appearance of non-Hellenes as favourites among the philoi only underlines their relative absence. Perhaps we have been looking for them in the wrong place. There is little doubt that many people unconnected with Hellenic poleis were present at the royal courts too. Since Egypt was the main source of wealth and manpower for the Ptolemaic monarchy, representatives of Egyptian temples and other local elite families must have been present at court, as well as the representatives of non-Greek civic elites from other parts of the empire.70 At the Seleucid court, the presence of Iranians must have been considerable. The huge numbers of (heavy) cavalry in Seleucid armies from the Battle of Ipsos to the Grand Procession of Antiochos IV in c. 166, suggests that the Seleucids maintained good relations with the Iranian aristocracies who controlled the countryside. As is now more often admitted, the Iranian east was conspicuously loyal to the Seleucid house rather than inherently rebellious.71 From the wedding of Seleukos and Apama at Susa in 324, the Seleucid house through regular marital exchanges had become connected in an increasingly complex manner with various, especially western Iranian, (vassal) dynasties; like philoi, these royal women no doubt played crucial roles as mediators because they retained links with their original households.72 In the first decades after the death of Alexander, Iranian aristocracies had retreated to the peripheries of the Hellenistic world in reaction to the upsurge of Greek philoi at the imperial centre and their own subsequent exclusion. From c. 200 they returned. The importance of local rulers increased significantly with the imperial re-organizations of Antiochos III.73 Representatives of dynastic households from Bithynia, Cappadocia, Pontos, Armenia, Commagene, and Bactria, must therefore have been present at the Seleucid household regularly. On a more irregular basis, delegates of many dynasts and chieftains unconnected through kinship with the imperial family will have been present in the broad stretches of the

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Rolf Strootman outer court during the grand events of the monarchy (weddings, inaugurations, anniversaries, festivals). Provincial aristocracies controlled access to the military resources of the Middle East, whereas the philoi, being a civic social group, secured the loyalty of cities and access to capital. In conclusion: the philoi may after all have been predominantly polis-people, not because others were absent from the courts, but because non-civic courtiers were attached to the royal households by other means than philia. It was especially from among their ranks that kings recruited favourites to ‘infiltrate’ the ranks of the philoi and thereby counterbalance the power of the established court elite.

Notes 1 The need to keep finding new sources of income and prestige presumably accounts for Pyrrhos’ seemingly erratic strategic decisions, cf. Plut. Pyrrh. 26.2: ‘since he had no money he sought for a war by which he could maintain his army’. The desperate moves made by Demetrios Poliorketes at the end of his career are a case in point too. Friends of Antiochos III shared in the booty and received land in conquered territories during the king’s war in Asia Minor (Orth 1977, 170). According to the ‘Military Regulation from Amphipolis’, sharing in the booty was a formally regulated right of the philoi of Philip V (Roussel 1934, 46). On warfare as a means to generate income see Austin 1986. 2 On the philoi, and the social composition and dynamics of the Hellenistic courts in general, see Strootman 2014, esp. 91–184. 3 Courtly rivalries in general: Herman 1997, Strootman 2007, 169–72. For ‘amphimetric disputes’ (rivalries over the succession among royal wives and their entourages) see Ogden 1999, esp. ix–xi, with Strootman 2007, 117, for the possibility that kings encouraged these rivalries. 4 See Herman 1997, discussing both conflicts; cf. Strootman 2011. 5 Diod. Sic. 33.6a: ‘There were many persons whom he snared on false charges of plotting against him, and cruelly and illegally put to death; others he charged with various false accusations, and driving them into exile confiscated their property.’ 6 See Henshall 1992, Burke 1992. The resulting new view is summarized by Kaiser and Pecˇar 2003, 9: ‘Politische Herrschaftsgewalt war zu keiner Zeit in der Hand einer Person konzentriert. Stets waren mehrere Personen und Personengruppen involviert, wenn politische Entscheidungen beraten, getroffen und umgesetzt werden sollten. Die Monarchien und Fürstenherrschaften des Ancien Régime sind da keine Ausnahme.’ (‘At no time was political power concentrated solely in the hands of one person. There always were more individuals, or groups of individuals, involved when political decisions needed to be deliberated, decided upon, or amended. The monarchies and princedoms of the Ancien Régime were no exceptions to this.’) 7 Duindam 2003, 10. 8 Duindam 1994, 86. 9 Polyb. 5.50.4–5, cf. Strootman 2007, 147, and 2011. Diodorus (29.29) has preserved an anecdote in which a courtier asked Ptolemy V Epiphanes where he

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Eunuchs, renegades and concubines would find sufficient money to finance a campaign against the Seleucids; the king simply pointed to his philoi and said: ‘There, walking about, are my money-bags.’ According to Diod. Sic. 33.6(a), Ptolemy VIII in 145 confiscated the property of the philoi he had exiled to fill his own empty coffers; cf. Diod. Sic. 33.4.3 on Demetrios Nikator employing the same strategy. 10 Sinopoli, 1994, 167, Duindam 1994, 50–1. 11 Duindam 1994, 50. 12 E.g. Plut. Cleom. 32.2, Diod. Sic. 34.3.1, Agatharchides FGrH 86 F2 (=FHG II 476) [apud Athen. 4.155d]. According to Athen. 6.251c the philosopher Persaios, a philos of Antigonos Gonatas, even had a parasite of his own, a certain Ariston of Chios; on Persaios as a courtier see Erskine 2011. 13 Herman 1997, 216, cf. Herman 1987, 151. 14 The enormous wealth of philoi is stressed inter alios by Diod. Sic. 33.20 and Polyb. 15.25.28. 15 Meissner 2000, 26–8. 16 On the dynamics of ‘favour’ and ‘access’ see Winterling 2004. 17 The coincidental appearance of these three seemingly all-powerful ‘surrogate sovereigns’ (Brockliss 1999, 280) was first connected with the growing complexity of the state apparatus in the age of early absolutism by Bérenger 1974, cf. Elliott, 1999, 4–7, Feros 1999, 210, Asch 2003, 29–35. 18 Strootman 2007, 94–101, Strootman 2011. 19 Variant types of favourites are discussed by Kaiser and Pecˇar 2003, 11–14. 20 Asch 2004, 528–9. 21 Brockliss 1999, 281–2. 22 Asch 2003, 24–5, Asch 2004, 517–19, Brockliss 1999, 280, Kaiser and Pecˇar 2003, 16. 23 Feros 1999, 219, Hirschbiegel 2004, 37–8, Paravicini 2004, 17, Thompson 1999, 22–3. 24 Elliott 1999, 1: the ‘centuries-old tradition of hostility’. 25 Asch 2004, 526–7, cf. Feros 1999, a study of contemporary authors’ reactions to the early-17th-century favourites: ‘Even if the royal favourite did not attempt to usurp the king’s crown, he surely transformed his monarch into a tyrant through his undeserved influence and evil advice’ (p. 208). Compare the ancient topos of the promising young king who becomes a tyrant when corrupted by flattery and the advice of wicked counsellors (e.g. Philip V, Nero). 26 Asch 2003, 24, Asch 2004, 527–8. 27 Diod. Sic. 28.2; cf. Polyb. 13.4. 28 Diod. Sic. 28.9; Livy 32.5. In 171 or 170. 29 Kaiser and Pecˇar 2003, 12–13. 30 Paravicini 2004, 18, cf. Polyb. 5.50.4–5, emphasizing that Hermeias’ power rested on his prerogative to be in the presence of king Antiochos at all times. 31 Asch 2004, 516: ‘Je lauter der Lärm beim Sturz eines fürstlichen Vertrauten, desto sicherer kann man sich sein, daß es sich wirklich um einen Favoriten handelte.’ (‘The more spectacular the fall of a royal confidant, the more we can be sure that this person really was a favourite.’) Cf. Horowski 2004, 115, on the ‘dramatic downfall’ of Lauzunat at the court of Louis XIV in 1671. 32 Polyb. 5.26.9–14. It is in this context that Polybius makes his famous remark on

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Rolf Strootman the shifting fortunes of courtiers, who ‘are now worth a copper and now worth a talent, and...at the nod of the king are at one moment universally envied and at the next universally pitied.’ 33 Polyb. 5.26.15–29.6. Compare 2 Macc. 4.34–8, on Antiochos IV sacrificing his favourite Andronikos when rioting broke out in Antioch, blaming him for the murder of the high-priest Onias: Andronikos’ purple robe was taken from him, after which he was given over to the angry mob to meet his death; see Mittag, this volume, 1a. 34 The prominence of exiles is noted also by O’Neil 2003, 516, cf. Habicht 1958, 9. 35 Livy 34.42.6–14: comite et consiliario eodem ad bellum; cf. 37.45.16; Polyb. 21.17. 36 Hannibal distrusted by the philoi: Livy 34.14.4–5, 19.1, 42.5–14, cf. App. Syr. 10. Trusted by the king: Diod. Sic. 29.3; Livy 34.19.7, 42.6–14; 36.6.7, 15.2, 41.2, cf. 34.7.1–21; 37.8.3, 24.4. 37 Polyb. 4.87.5; 4.87.8: epi te¯s therapeias. Cf. Livy 35.18.1–8. 38 Livy 35.18.2; 36.11.6, 20.5. The admiral of Antiochos’ Aegean fleet during the war with Rome, Polyxenidas of Rhodes, who had a seat in the synedrion, was an exiled man too (Livy 37.10.1; App. Syr. 21; cf. Livy 36.43.4–7). After the war, Antiochos III offered hospitality to Aetolian leaders who had fought against the Romans (Livy 36.12.4; 37.45.17; Polyb. 21.17.7). 39 Plut. Cleom. 32.3. 40 Polyb. 5.70.10. 41 Herman 1987, 8. 42 A case in point is Ptolemaios Makron, the Ptolemaic governor of Cyprus who surrendered his province to Antiochos IV Epiphanes, and after the Ptolemaic recapture of the island was entrusted with the governorship of Koile-Syria and Phoenicia by the Seleucid king; when, however, he fell from grace after Epiphanes’ death, Ptolemaios Makron was confronted with his betrayal and committed suicide (2 Macc. 10.12–13). See further on this theme, Mittag, this volume. 43 Polyb. 5.40.1–3. 44 Polyb. 4.37.5; 5.61.3–6 and 8–9, cf. 5.62.2. Pace Mooren 1982, 95, who is probably wrong in thinking of Theodotos’ behaviour as ‘corruption’. 45 Polyb. 5.66.5, 68.9–10, 69.3. 46 Polyb. 5.79.3. 47 Polyb. 5.81.1–7. 48 Polyb. 7.16.1–18.10. 49 On the prominence of Egyptians at the court of Ptolemy I and II see Lloyd 2011. 50 Polyb. 22.22.1–5 ap. Suda 3925, s.v. ‘Aristonikos’; Asch 2004, 529, notes that it is normal that favourites are presented as either the meanest of flatterers among the courtiers or as the most courtly gentlemen of all. Ptolemy VI Philometor allegedly entrusted ‘his entire kingdom’ to Onias IV, the exiled claimant to the Jerusalemite high priesthood, and a Judaean general named Dositheos (Jos. C.Ap. 2.49); Kleopatra III later gave the command of the Ptolemaic army in Palestine to Onias’ sons, Chelkias and Ananias ( Jos. AJ 13.324–55); cf. O’Neil 2006, 18, and Capponi in this volume. On the status of eunuchs as ‘outsiders’ at the courts of various ancient empires see Tougher 2002; cf. Hopkins’ 1978 classic treatment of eunuchs as outsiders at the later Roman court. 51 Quaegebeur 1980, 78–9, cf. Turner 1984, 126–7.

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52 Diod. Sic. 31.15a.1–4. 53 Diod. Sic. 33.28.1; RIG no. 1158. ‘Mede’, like ‘Persian’, presumably is a designation of ethnicity vaguely denoting a person of Iranian or ‘eastern’ descent (cf. Oates 1963). For the eunuch Krateros see Eus., Chron., p. 257 ed. Schoene- Petermann, and IDelos 1547 (OGIS 256). 54 Powerful eunuchs at Hellenistic courts: Porph. FGrH 260 F20 (Seleucid, second half of the 2nd century); Livy 35.15.4 (Seleucid, 193); Diod. Sic. 30.15.1 (Ptolemaic, 169); Caes. B Civ. 3.112 (Ptolemaic, c. 50). Alexander’s trusted eunuch Bagoas (Curt. 10.1.22–38) was originally a favourite of Darius III – he was thus an outsider among the Macedonians in more than one respect. 55 Guyot 1980, 92–120. 56 For the stereotypes associated with ‘Oriental’ eunuchs in Greek historiography see Llewellyn-Jones 2002. 57 Polyb. 14.11.2–5. Similar characterisations of Agathokleia in Plut. Cleom. 33; Just. Epit. 30.1.7; Strabo 17.795. Both Justin and Polybius accuse Agathokleia of having murdered queen Arsinoe, the latter (15.25.12) even holding her responsible for the death of Philopator himself. Diodorus (33.13) relates how Ptolemy VIII’s concubine, Eirene, persuaded the king to become a murderer. Nikolaos of Damaskos (FHG III 414 [apud. Ath. 593a]) says about Myrrhine, a concubine of Demetrios Poliorketes: ‘although he did not give her the diadem, he gave her a share in the royal power.’ See also Ogden 2008; Buraselis, this volume. 58 Cf. Ogden 2011, on the formal status of concubines of Argead and Antigonid kings. 59 Other official designations in use in the 18th century were maîtresse déclarée, maîtresse du Roi and maîtresse actuelle (Horowski 2004, 98–107); cf. Hanken 1996, tracing the evolution of the ‘office’ of maîtresse at the French court, arguing that the changing position of concubines reflects changing political circumstances. 60 A similar intermediary role could be performed by the king’s personal physician, as in the case of Antiochos III and his doctor Apollophanes (Polyb. 5.56.2–3 and 6–7), who later acquired a seat in the royal council (Polyb. 5.58.3); Antiochos had to feign a illness in order to talk with his physician without others being present (cf. n. 28). 61Cf. Horowski 2004, 104–7. 62 Austin 198; SEG XXVI 1226. 63 Strootman 2007, 178–80; pace Carney 2011, 207. 64 Austin 191 and 200. 65 Strootman 2007, 114–18; for the emergence of the title of basilissa for royal women in the Hellenistic kingdoms see Carney 1991. I agree with Ogden 1999 that amphimetric disputes posed a threat to the royal households and incidentally caused severe crises; they did not, however, structurally undermine the Macedonian empires, causing their steady decline and ultimately their collapse. In fact, rather than answering to a template of decline and fall, and accompanying ‘decadence’ (see e.g. Green 2007, 103), the Seleucid and Ptolemaic empires are remarkable for their resilience and ability to overcome crises (Strootman in press). Also see Wright 2011, correctly stressing that ‘except for an early struggle between Seleukos II and Antiochos Hierax, and a brief incident between Philip I and Demetrios III, succession by primogeniture was respected within each patrilineal branch of the Seleukidae, ...until the mid-90s BC’ (46). 66 The exponential growth of aulic titles after c. 220 at the Seleucid and Ptolemaic

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Rolf Strootman courts, too, may have been an instrument by which ‘strong’ kings such as Antiochos III tried to regulate access and better control their courtiers in reaction to an increasing independence of the philoi, but could under weaker kings easily become a means for philoi to secure and strengthen their positions (Strootman 2011; also see Dreyer 2011, likewise arguing that the complex of aulic titulature originated with strong rulers of the late 3rd century rather than being a symptom of 2nd-century decline, but suggesting a different motivation in the case of Antiochos III, namely the need to organize newly conquered territories). 67 Habicht 1958; Kuhrt and Sherwin-White 1993, 124–5. 68 Strootman 2014, 126–131; cf. Savalli-Lestrade 1996; 1998; O’Neil 2003; 2006. 69 Herman 1997, 207–8; on philia and xenia in general see Herman 1987. 70 According to Josephus AJ 12.4.3 (169), the 3rd-century Ptolemaic policy of farming out the imperial tax-lease in Levantine lands on a yearly basis compelled representatives of local elite families to travel to the court and engage in a competition with their peers: ‘Now it happened that at this time all the principal men and rulers went up out of the cities of Syria and Phoenicia, to bid for their taxes; for every year the king sold them to the men of the greatest power in every city’ (transl. Whiston). The distribution of gifts was essential for obtaining access to the king’s inner circle, see Jos., AJ 12.4.4 and 10 (175 and 224); cf. 2 Macc. 4.18–20. 71 The post-colonial view of Iranian ‘indigenous’ resistance to ‘foreign’ occupation was popularized by Eddy 1961. 72 Strootman 2007, 110–11; Gabelko, this volume. 73 See Engels 2011; Strootman 2010 and 2011.

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Herman, G. 1987 Ritualised Friendship and the Greek City, Cambridge. 1997 ‘The court society of the Hellenistic age’, in P. Cartledge, P. Garnsey and E. Gruen (eds), Hellenistic Constructs: Essays in culture, history, and historiography, Berkeley, 199–224. Hirschbiegel, J. 2004 ‘Zur theoretischen Konstruktion der Figur des Günstlings’, in J. Hirschbiegel and W. Paravicini (eds), Der Fall des Günstlings. Hofparteien in Europa vom 13. bis zum 17. Jahrhundert, Ostfildern, 23–40. Hopkins, K. 1978 ‘The political power of eunuchs’, in id. (ed.), Conquerors and Slaves, Cambridge, 197–242. Horowski, L. 2004 ‘Das Erbe des Favouriten. Minister, Mätressen und Günstlinge am Hof Ludwigs XIV’, in J. Hirschbiegel and W. Paravicini (eds), Der Fall des Günstlings. Hofparteien in Europa vom 13. bis zum 17. Jahrhundert, Ostfildern, 77–126. Kaiser, M. and Pecˇar, A. 2003 ‘Reichsfürsten und ihre Favouriten. Die Ausprägung eines Struktur- phänomens unter den politischen Bedingungen des Alten Reiches’, in M. Kaiser and A. Pecˇar (eds), Der zweite Mann im Staat. Oberste Amtsträger und Favouriten im Umkreis der Reichsfürsten in der Frühen Neuzeit, Berlin, 9–19. Kuhrt, A. and Sherwin-White, S. 1993 From Samarkhand to Sardis: A new approach to the Seleucid empire, London. Llewellyn-Jones, L. 2002 ‘Eunuchs and the royal harem in Achaemenid Persia’, in S. Tougher (ed.), Eunuchs in Antiquity and Beyond, Swansea, 19–49. Lloyd, A. B. 2011 ‘From satrapy to Hellenistic kingdom: the case of Egypt’, in A. Erskine and L. Llewellyn-Jones (eds), Creating a Hellenistic World, Swansea, 83–106. Meissner, B. 2000 ‘Hofmann und Herrscher. Was es für Griechen hieß, Freund eines Königs zu sein’, Archiv für Kulturgeschichte 82, 1–36. Mooren, L. 1982 Mooren, L., ‘Korruption in der hellenistischen Führungsschicht’, in W. Schuller (ed.), Korruption im Altertum. Konstanzer Symposium, Oktober 1979, Munich, 93–102. O’Neil, J. L. 2003 ‘The ethnic origins of the friends of the Antigonid kings of Macedon’, Classical Quarterly 53, 510–22. 2006 ‘Places of origin of the officials of Ptolemaic Egypt’, Historia 55, 16–25. Oates, J. F. 1963 ‘The status designation Πέρσης, τῆς ἐπιγονῆς’, Yale Classical Studies 18, 1–129. Ogden, D. 1999 Polygamy, Prostitutes and Death: The Hellenistic dynasties, Swansea and London. 2008 ‘Bilistiche and the prominence of courtesans in the Ptolemaic tradition’, in

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P. McKechnie and P. Guillaume (eds), Ptolemy Philadelphus and his World, Leiden, 353–85. 2011 ‘How to marry a courtesan in the Macedonian courts’, in A. Erskine and L. Llewellyn-Jones (eds), Creating a Hellenistic World, Swansea, 221–46. Orth, W. 1977 Königlicher Machtanspruch und städtische Freiheit. Untersuchungen zu den politischen Beziehungen zwischen den ersten Seleukidenherrschern (Seleukos I., Antiochos I., Antiochos II.) und den Städten des westlichen Kleinasien, Munich. Paravicini, W. 2004 ‘Der Fall des Günstlings. Hofparteien in Europa vom 13. bis zum 17. Jahrhundert’, in J. Hirschbiegel and W. Paravicini (eds), Der Fall des Günstlings. Hofparteien in Europa vom 13. bis zum 17. Jahrhundert, Ostfildern, 13–20. Quaegebeur, J. 1980 ‘The genealogy of the Memphite high priest family in the hellenistic period’, in D. J. Crawford et al. (eds), Studies on Ptolemaic Memphis, Leuven, 43–82. Roussel, P. 1934 ‘Un règlement militaire de l’époque macédonienne’, Revue archéologique 6, 39–47. Savalli-Lestrade, I. 1996 ‘Courtisans et citoyens: le cas des philoi attalides’, Chiron 26, 149–81. 1998 Les ‘philoi royaux’ dans l’Asie hellénistique, Geneva. Sinopoli, C. M. 1994 ‘The archaeology of empires’, Annual Review of Anthropology 23, 159–80. Strootman, R. 2007 ‘The Hellenistic Royal Court. Court Culture, Ceremonial and Ideology in Greece, Egypt and the Near East, 336–30 BCE’, PhD thesis, Utrecht University. 2010 ‘Queen of kings: Cleopatra VII and the donations of Alexandria’, in M. Facella and T. Kaizer (eds), Kingdoms and Principalities in the Roman Near East, Stuttgart, 139–58. 2011 ‘Hellenistic court society: The Seleukid imperial court under Antiochos the Great, 223–187 BCE’, in J. Duindam, M. Kunt and T. Artan (eds), Royal Courts in Dynastic States and Empires: A Global Perspective, Leiden, 63–89. 2014 Courts and Elites in the Hellenistic Empires: The Near East after the Achaemenids, 330–30 BCE, Edinburgh. In press ‘The coming of the Parthians: crisis and resilience in Seleukid Iran in the reign of Seleukos II’, in K. Erickson (ed.), War Within the Family: the Seleucid Empire in the 3rd Century BC, Swansea. Thompson, I. A. A. 1999 ‘The institutional background to the rise of the Minister-Favourite’, in L.W.B. Brockliss and J.H. Elliott (eds), The World of the Favourite, New York, 13–25. Tougher, S. 2002 ‘In or out? Origins of court eunuchs’, in id. (ed.), Eunuchs in Antiquity and Beyond, Swansea, 143–59.

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Turner, E. G. 1984 ‘Ptolemaic Egypt’, in F. W. Walbank et al. (ed.), The Cambridge Ancient History. Vol. 7.1: The Hellenistic Age, Cambridge, 118–74. Winterling, A. 1986 Der Hof der Kurfürsten von Köln 1688–1794. Eine Fallstudie zur Bedeutung ‘absolutistischer’ Hofhaltung, Bonn. 2004 ‘“Hof”. Versuch einer idealtypischen Bestimmung anhand der mittelalter- lichen und neufrühzeitlichen Geschichte’, in R. Butz, J. Hirschbiegel and D. Willoweit (eds), Hof und Theorie, Cologne, Vienna, 77–90. Wright, N. L. 2011 ‘The iconography of succession under the late Seleukids’, in N. L. Wright (ed.), Coins From the Asia Minor and the East: Selections From the Colin E. Pitchfork Collection. Ancient Coins in Australian Collections 2, Sidney, 41–6.

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Ivana Petrovic

In the year 333 BC at Issus, Alexander defeated the Persian army, personally led by Darius III in the second great battle for primacy in Asia. The Persian king managed to escape the battlefield, but he left behind his entire family and magnificent spoils. Curtius Rufus, reflecting on the instability of human fortune, writes of the event: The men who had formerly decorated Darius’ tent and fitted it out with all kinds of extravagant and opulent furnishings were now keeping back the very same things for Alexander, as if for their old master.1 In his Life of Alexander, Plutarch remarks on the same event: Returning to the camp, Alexander found that his men (...) had picked out for him the tent of Darius, which was full to overflowing with gorgeous servitors and furniture, and many treasures. Straightway, then, Alexander put off his armour and went to the bath, saying: ‘Let us go and wash off the sweat of the battle in the bath of Darius.’ ‘No, indeed’, said one of his companions, ‘but rather in that of Alexander; for the property of the conquered must belong to the conqueror, and be called his’. And when he saw the basins and pitchers and tubs and caskets, all of gold, and curiously wrought, while the apartment was marvellously fragrant with spices and unguents, and when he passed from this into a tent which was worthy of admiration for its size and height, and for the adornment of the couch and tables and banquet prepared for him he turned his eyes upon his companions and said: ‘This, as it would seem, is to be a king.’2 As the power changed hands, so did the court, and the remarks of Curtius Rufus and Plutarch demonstrate what the makings of the court were in the eyes of the historians of the Imperial period. Both stress the importance of opulence and luxury and the existence of servants who know how to manage it. If the conqueror’s rewards are material possessions, the booty of the future king of Asia goes beyond that – it is an entirely new way of life. A royal court, in all its luxury, was not only the outward marker of Alexander’s new status, but an essential component of it.

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It is true that Alexander’s Macedonian predecessors also paid significant attention to royal ceremonial and display,3 but Alexander realized that much more was necessary in order to present himself as the new king of Asia. The first step was to acquire a court worthy of the king of kings.4 Not only did Alexander appropriate Darius’ luxurious tents, he also took over Darius’ whole family, left behind as the Persian king hastily retreated from the battlefield. Darius’ mother Sisygambis, his sister-wife Stateira and Darius’ children were treated like members of Alexander’s own family.5 This was not only gentlemanly of Alexander, it was an important indicator of his abilities as a statesman. Alexander realized that after the battle at Issus, fortune had dropped into his lap an instant court and he jumped at the opportunity to seize it. To the pompous complex of tents with equipment and servants at the ready, to the extended royal family with a harem and countless advisers and satraps Darius had left behind, only the person of the king needed to be added in order to complete the new court. As his military successes increased his power in Asia, Alexander assumed further insignia of power, all taken over from the Achaemenids: after the decisive victory over Darius’ forces at Gaugamela in 331 BC, Alexander adopted the title ‘King of Asia’, a diadem, and a throne.6 To these were added further symbols of royal power: after the sack of Persepolis, Alexander gradually adopted the Persian royal dress, introduced Asian chamberlains called rhabdouchoi (‘rod-holders’) at court, took Darius’ brother Oxyathres as a personal bodyguard, and appointed an eisangeleus (royal usher). As the king was now constantly accompanied by the rod- holders, bodyguards and spear-bearers, he became less and less accessible.7 Restricted access to the king was not merely a safety measure, but was one of the essential characteristics of the kingly majesty in the Persian Empire.8 Greek institutions, too, went through gradual changes. Even the symposion, which provided an important setting for elite males to reinforce their solidarity, changed under the influence of Persian customs. Whereas the traditional Greek symposion had no seats of honour, and the equality of the symposiasts was reinforced by the rectangular arrangement of benches along the walls of the andron, sources recording the dining habits of Alexander testify that he had acquired a golden throne while his companions reclined on couches with silver legs.9 Alexander also indulged in the lavish consumption typical of the Persian royal court: he dined with sixty or seventy companions, and had introduced Persian offices such as the chief cup-bearer and edeatros (taster of royal dishes).10 At the splendid mass wedding celebration at Susa, Alexander even classified and rated his friends according to the Persian tradition: those closest to the king ate inside with him, while others dined in the courtyard.11 This was a distinctly

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Persian custom.12 Persian kings used the institutions of the royal hunt and the symposion for displays of power and court hierarchy. Access to the king was restricted and getting near him was a sign of great honour. Seating order at symposia was an important indicator of the internal hierarchy and it changed constantly according to the wishes of the Persian king. Those most honoured were allowed to sit closer to the king and to ride with him in the royal hunt. This custom, too, was adopted by Alexander.13 On the one hand Alexander became less accessible for everyone, including his Macedonian subjects. On the other hand, he had employed Persian rod-bearers and had admitted a Persian to the highly respectable office of personal body-guard.14 In adopting Persian etiquette and insignia of royal power Alexander was following the example of his father Philip II, but the significant difference between the two seems to have been the extent to which Alexander had adapted to the Persian way of life and the fact that he had admitted non-Macedonians to the highest offices. Personal service of the king was a mark of great honour during Philip’s reign and Alexander had, for instance, appointed none other than Ptolemy as his edeatros. Allowing a Persian to serve as the king’s personal body-guard and appointing Persian rhabdouchoi caused the Macedonians to grow resentful. Describing the murder of Kleitos in his Life of Alexander, Plutarch puts the following accusation in the mouth of the Macedonian officer: ‘We think those already dead are the lucky ones for not living to see Macedonians flogged with Median rods and pleading with Persians for a chance to see our king.’15 However strong the opposition to the royal ceremonial was among Alexander’s generals, when after his death they themselves came to power, they, too, took over the court etiquette and insignia of royal power from the conquered nations. However, in contemporary literature the royal way of life and court etiquette were presented not as a barbarian influence, but as an imitation of the ancient and ancestral Greek institution. Ancient Greeks had a royal court, one that was common to all and equally at home in democratic and oligarchic states as in tyrannies and monarchies – the royal family of Olympians. King Zeus, queen Hera, their powerful siblings, princely children and royal parents became an important paradigm for justifying and negotiating royal power in the Hellenistic period. Alexander was subsequently adopted into this Olympian royal family and his example was used in the royal propaganda, not as that of a man who had appropriated foreign etiquette, but as a god who was admitted to the royal family of the Olympians due to his impact, benefactions and charisma. Even though there are sources testifying to the reluctance of some Greek communities, mainly Athens and Sparta, to accept the divinization of

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Alexander, already during his lifetime and certainly after his death the cult of Alexander became very popular throughout the Greek world.16 Perhaps in a conscious effort to avoid the dangerous example of Alexander, who was perceived as too open in his adoption of Persian ways, his successors tried to present the court as a replica of the hierarchy and modes of behaviour of the Greek divine royal family. The model of Greek gods was used as a powerful communicative paradigm in the process of establishing and strengthening of Hellenistic royal families.17 This was accomplished in two ways: on the one hand, Hellenistic kings consciously imitated the gods, as they had adopted the language of religious ritual in order to communicate with their subjects. On the other hand, the court etiquette, institution of the courtiers, royal family and every-day life of the kings influenced and shaped the way the gods were presented in contemporary literature. As the Hellenistic kings adopted the Olympian court as their model, the gods in Hellenistic poetry begin to resemble Hellenistic kings. Earthly and divine kingship intersect in literature to such an extent that it is sometimes impossible to distinguish between the way poets present the kings and the gods.18 A notorious and much-discussed example of this blurred line is the Hymn to Zeus, where Callimachus arguably uses the mode of accession of the Olympian royal family in order to explain the dynastic politics of the Ptolemies.19 Callimachus rejects the Homeric story of the division of power by drawing lots in favour of the Hesiodic model (Theog. 881–5), where Poseidon and Hades offer the power to their younger sibling Zeus. This has been interpreted as a reference to Ptolemy II Philadelphus’ accession to co-regency with his father and an explanation of the reason why his older brothers were not given the crown. The parallel would have been even more obvious if the hymn was performed on the occasion of the Basileia festival in honour of Zeus Basileus, as was suggested by James Clauss.20 Other obvious pairings of the kings and gods in Callimachus’ Hymns are a further passage in the Hymn to Zeus 21 where the power of the king is explained as coming from the will of Zeus, or the passage from the Hymn to Apollo where Callimachus equates fighting with his king to fighting Apollo himself.22 The only statement in the hymns where the king is explicitly called ‘god’ is placed in the mouth of Apollo.23 Hellenistic poetry deals with the interplay between the Olympian gods and the Ptolemaic kings in a subtle and sophisticated manner, never quite equating the Olymian gods with the kings but rather adopting divine modes and patterns of behaviour as a paradigm and backdrop for life at court. In some instances we can even glimpse particular elements of court etiquette in the way Hellenistic poets describe the behaviour of the gods

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Callimachus, Theocritus and Ptolemaic court etiquette and the kings. I will illustrate this argument by discussing three motifs in Hellenistic poetry: the depiction of royal and divine epiphany; the allusions to the institution of the courtier, especially the basilikoi paides, royal bodyguards and philoi; and the depiction of sympotic etiquette.

1. Royal and divine epiphany – staging the presence of the king What is court society? Relying on the studies of modern and ancient courts from Elias’ 1969 seminal monograph to the present day, it can be argued that the court is a set of norms and rules of conduct regulating access to the ruler and the behaviour of the ruler and those surrounding him – an elevation of a space and entourage to the level of abstraction.24 Courts exist in order to simultaneously display and conceal the ruler. The important question is: who gets to see the king? During Alexander’s reign it became increasingly difficult to gain access to the king, and his companions saw this as his adopting barbarian customs.25 Hellenistic kings were equally – if not more! – inaccessible, but they used the model of Greek gods in order to convey the message that epiphany is a special treat which they may choose to provide in order to reward their loyal subjects. The Ptolemies lived in a complex palace which was physically connected to several shrines – that of Alexander and the Muses, for example.26 The vicinity of the library also conveyed the impression of a holy ground, since libraries were traditionally connected to great temples.27 As we know from Theocritus’ 15th Idyll, the royal palace was occasionally open to the general public on special, festive days.28 Can it be a coincidence that the only depiction of the court we have in third-century poetry is Theocritus’ presentation of the festival of Adonis organized by Arsinoe II? Theocritus allows his audience to experience the court atmosphere through the eyes and ears of two common inhabitants of Alexandria, who have to fight the crowds in order to enter the palace, where they marvel at the fineries and opulence and get to experience the lavish festival display and listen to the performance of the highly skilled poetess. Admitting the citizens to the palace on the occasion of festivals was probably a conscious strategy on the part of the kings, with the aim of demonstrating the similarity of their palaces with the temples of Greek gods, which were also often open and accessible only on festive days. The result of this strategy was an association of divine epiphany with the epiphany of kings. In Callimachus’ Hymns, divine epiphany plays a very important role and is one of the most common motifs.29 Three of six hymns depict festivals in which the god in the form of a statue was presented to the worshippers. In every one of these hymns, epiphany is represented as restricted to a

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Ivana Petrovic specific circle of those who somehow deserved to see the god. In the Hymn to Apollo, only the esthloi and megaloi will see the god.30 In the Hymn on the Bath of Athena, it is the circle of the goddess’ female attendants who will get to see her – those who will take the image to the river and wash it. In the Hymn to Demeter, only women who have fasted shall behold the sacred objects. Access to the innermost part of Demeter’s sanctuary is restricted to the initiates.31 Nowhere does Callimachus state that the same rules apply to the kings, but he does compare gods with the kings throughout his hymns; he puts them on a par and uses divine examples in order to explain quite particular relationships and decisions of the Ptolemaic rulers. By presenting the gods as inaccessible to all and visible only to the chosen few, esthloi, Callimachus was making an important point about the accessibility of the kings. Seeing the god, in the form of a statue or a priest impersonating a god, was a pinnacle of Greek religious festivals and such epiphanies were carefully staged. Hellenistic kings adopt this mode of self- presentation: they celebrate festivals in which their own statues are carried in the processions together with those of the gods; they open the courts and admit the subjects on festive days, just as in Greek temples.32 The parallels between the epiphany of the god and the staged presence of the king are noted in other types of texts as well. Diotogenes, quoted by Stobaios as the author of the treatise Peri Basileias,33 characterised ideal kingship as ‘an imitation of the gods’34 and recommended that the monarch set himself apart from human failings and ‘astonish the onlookers by his staged appearances and studied pose’.35 Also worth noting is the way an epiphany of the king Ptolemy I is recorded together with that of the gods and consciously paralleled with instances of divine epiphanies in the Lindian Chronicle.36 Notorious is the hymn, which the Athenians performed in honour of Demetrios Poliorketes in 291 BC, where his arrival is quite literally celebrated as divine epiphany.37 In this respect, the poetry goes hand-in-hand with the royal propaganda, not necessarily under its direct influence but perhaps simply recording what has in the third century BC become apparent to all: the king’s epiphany is a rare treat and resembles that of the gods.

2. Courtiers: philoi, basilikoi paides, somatophylakes a) Philoi tou Basileo¯s Our knowledge about everyday life at Hellenistic courts is limited and not much is known about the institution of the courtier. Those surrounding the king are usually referred to as philoi tou basileo¯s. Philos (‘friend’) is regarded as a technical term for the courtier. The relationship of philia, which the Hellenistic monarchs had with their courtiers, was very different from the

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Callimachus, Theocritus and Ptolemaic court etiquette traditional ancient Greek egalitarian friendship.38 Quite like the symposion which had been transformed from an aristocratic institution displaying the equality of participants into a vivid manifestation of ranking in the royal power-structure, ritualized friendship (philia) which was once based on equality, reciprocity, xenia and gift-exchange came to represent complete dependence and hierarchy of power. In the Hellenistic age, philoi were royal aides active at the courts of all diadochs. These powerful men maintained bonds with their cities of origin and served as intermediaries, representing the king in their native city and the interests of the city at court. They channelled their own power through their groups of philoi at court and in their native cities. Royal philoi could be entrusted with all kinds of tasks – from military and diplomatic to serving as eponymous priest of the royal cult39 or educating young princes. At first, the court titulature was simple and the title and status of philos was not hereditary, but entirely based on personal merit. The court titles from third-century Alexandria include ‘head of Museum’ (epistate¯s tou mouseiou), ‘honoured’ or ‘first friend’ (timo¯menos or pro¯tos philos); ‘relative of the king’ (syngene¯s), ‘master of the hunt’ (archikyne¯gos), major-domo (dioike¯te¯s), and foster-brother (syntrophos), a title reserved for those who used to serve the king as basilikoi paides.40 Philoi were personally bound to the king, who displayed his friendship by lavish gift-giving. Since bestowing of gifts was one-sided and not reciprocal, it was therefore generally understood as a sign of complete dependence. Gabriel Hermann demonstrated that the dependence on the king and the willingness of philoi to accept gifts without being able to reciprocate was the reason why their position is often described as kolakeia and parasitic in the written sources.41 Paradoxically, the most influential men of the third century were themselves completely dependent on the will and whims of the kings. The friends of the early rulers were adopted on the criteria of achievement, skill and loyalty and so, even though they were high-ranking at courts and belonged to the richest group in the Hellenistic world, their position was not secure and they were constantly plagued by rivalries and obsessed with outward paraphernalia of power, importance and status.42 Their position is poignantly summed up by Polybios, who quipped that ‘courtiers at the nod of a king are at one moment universally envied, and at the next, universally pitied’.43 The position of royal philoi was in some way comparable to that of the mythic friends of the gods: humans who were, by virtue of being divine friends, elevated to a high status, but could not enjoy a reciprocal relationship based on equality with the gods. Such friends could be richly rewarded, but also cruelly punished. Since the term philos was used as a

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Ivana Petrovic terminus technicus for the courtier, surely the depictions of philoi of the gods in Hellenistic poetry could have a political dimension, too.44 Callimachus devotes several interesting passages to his own and divine philoi. In my opinion highly relevant for the contemporary atmosphere at court is the list of Artemis’ favourite companions. In the central part of the Hymn to Artemis, the poet devotes thirty-five verses to a catalogue of the favourite companions of the goddess,45 and asserts that these were her escorts in the hunt, ‘the first who wore swift bows and arrow-holding quivers on their shoulders’.46 Goddesses’ companions in hunt might recall the court-title ‘master of the hunt’ (archikyne¯gos) and the prestige this position bestowed on the close circle of royal friends. The fact that the goddess is invited to rank her companions47 and to select the few favourites amongst many suggests vying for divine favour. In the system of honorific titulature at court, the very existence of titles such as ‘first friend’ ( pro¯tos philos) implies a hierarchy in which some friends were more important than others. By presenting a process of stratification and selection of favourites among divine companions, Callimachus might have drawn parallels between Olympian etiquette and life at court. Such passages could perhaps also implicitly evoke the power-struggles at court. In the same passage, the poet depicts the lavish gifts Artemis has in store for her favourites Britomartis, Cyrene, Procris, Antikleia, Atalante. Both the process of selection of the few favourites and the one-sided gift-giving are evocative of the way philia was used as a political instrument at Hellenistic courts. Callimachus also wishes to be included in the number of goddesses’ philoi. Having enumerated the benefactions Artemis bestows upon the inhabitants of her favourite city, the poet expresses a request to be included in the inner circle of the blessed citizens himself, together with his own circle of philoi:

πότνια, τῶν εἴη µὲν ἐµοὶ φίλος ὅστις ἀληθής, εἴην δ᾿ αὐτός, ἄνασσα, µέλοι δέ µοι αἰὲν ἀοιδή· Mistress, may whoever is a true friend of mine be among these and may I myself be one of them, Queen, and have song always as my care.48 The carefully chosen words of address ( potnia and anassa) strike a balance between the Olympian goddess and the Ptolemaic queen and transport the listener from the palace on Olympus to the earthly court, where royal blessings could mean the difference between a life of unimagined luxury and prestige and total ruin. We know that Callimachus enjoyed royal patronage himself and that it was due to the royal support that he could dedicate himself entirely to literary and scholarly pursuits.49 However, being privy to court life, he must have also been painfully aware of the perils of

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Callimachus, Theocritus and Ptolemaic court etiquette losing royal favour. Not by chance, I think, does the poet also provide at the very end of the Hymn to Artemis a terrifying catalogue of those who disrespected the goddess. Some of them used to be her philoi, and were punished gravely for various acts of disrespect.50 By providing mythic exempla for philia and its breaches, Callimachus vividly depicts the dangers of the position of admirable prestige, but also of complete dependence on the monarch. One such cautionary tale is inserted also in the Hymn on the Bath of Athena. It features a mortal woman Chariklo and the goddess Athena. This story could be interpreted as an illustration of the one-sided and unequal relations between the monarch and the philos. Chariklo was Athena’s favourite nymph, ‘beloved by the goddess above her companions’ (58: πουλύ τι καὶ πέρι δὴ φίλατο τᾶν ἑταρᾶν). However, Chariklo’s son Teiresias once chanced upon Athena when she was bathing and saw her naked.51 Athena punished him with blindness. Heartbroken, Chariklo cried (86): What have you done to my boy, potnia? Is such the friendship of you goddesses? (τοιαῦται, δαίµονες, ἐστὲ φίλαι;). The courtiers were painfully familiar with the phenomenon of the rise and imminent fall from grace. The episode must have also appealed to the Schadenfreude of those not included in the prestigious circles of philoi. Scholars have wondered about the lengthy speech of Athena in which she provides an explanation for her actions and argues that the blinding of Teiresias was a suitable punishment (97–130). I think that this passage might be interpreted in the light of Hellenistic court customs and be taken to illustrate that even the kings were bound by rules and that they were aware of the fact that they were being observed by their courtiers and other, rival kings. Athena quotes the example of Artemis, who was much more bloodthirsty and had implemented a far harsher punishment in a similar situation. Perhaps this parallel reminded contemporary audiences of the excessively brutal methods which the Hellenistic rulers used in order to rise to power and to secure it, and of the horrible punishments they inflicted on rivals and those who betrayed them. The prime example of one such ruler was Alexander the Great, who was fiercely devoted to his friends but was also famous for cruelly punishing those who enraged him. In comparison to one such king, others, who inflicted less cruel punishments and resorted to the laws and regulations instead of acting in blind rage, could be considered rational and even compassionate.52 Seen in this light, the myth implies that Hellenistic rulers, too, were bound by rules – rules they inherited from Alexander and their predecessors on the throne. Athena quotes the law of Zeus as the reason for the punishment of Teiresias – one that she, too, must obey (100–2). Callimachus stresses that the source of Athena’s power is the authority of Zeus (131–6).53

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By narrating the story of Athena and Chariklo, Callimachus emphasizes an important aspect sometimes overlooked in studies of royal power and its constraints: kings, too, were permanently observed by the courtiers and their every decision, every step, every policy, was constantly analysed and judged. Examples of bad and good decisions could forever be commemorated in poetry and prose works of their contemporaries. Rather than presenting a relationship of the king and the courtiers as one of complete and one-sided dependence, Callimachus intimates that it was a far more sensitive balancing act of negotiation and manipulation, subject to constant re-evaluation and scrutiny. b) Basilikoi paides During the reigns of Philip II, Alexander, and his successors, the royal companions had to serve the king in ways thus far unattested for a free aristocratic member of the Greek elite. Paides basilikoi, royal pages, highborn young men between 14 and 18 years old who were raised at the Macedonian court, served the king in the hunt and as bodyguards. Members of the elite seven-man bodyguard of the Macedonian king were recruited from their ranks.54 We know that the institution of so¯matophylakes and basilikoi paides also existed at the Ptolemaic court.55 They belonged to the uppermost echelons of the courtiers. Those who served the king as basilikoi paides later gained the exclusive privilege to call the king syntrophos (foster-brother).56 In order to depict personal service to the king as something desirable, Olympian gods also gain personal servants in the Hymns of Callimachus and in the Idylls of Theocritus. Illustrative for the understanding of a court as an institution for the preservation and implementation of power are passages in Callimachus’ Hymn to Artemis where the education of the divine princess Artemis is narrated. Callimachus offers a suggestive picture of the way a goddess inherits not only the perks of power, but also an obligation to help the inhabitants of the cities. At first, little Artemis wants to avoid cities and to have mountains as her domain, but Zeus gives her thirty cities and makes her a goddess of justice57 thus imparting something of his own role to his little daughter. Noblesse oblige, indeed! As the goddess acquires various attributes and signs of prestige, we see her behaving according to Ptolemaic royal etiquette: she immediately acquires a circle of attendants reminiscent of basilikoi paides.58 She requests and is given sixty Oceanid nymphs and twenty daughters of the Cretan river Amnisos (13–17). The number (eighty) and the status (nymphs) of her attendants correspond to the dignity of the divine princess. These nymphs are supposed to assist Artemis in the hunt and care for her dogs and deer (16–17). Size of entourage is a timeless

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Callimachus, Theocritus and Ptolemaic court etiquette indicator of power and influence, equally at home in ancient Alexandria and in modern-day Hollywood.59 Callimachus also stresses that the parents of the nymphs, the Cretan river Kairatos and sea-goddess Tethys, perceived their daughters’ positions as honourable (44–45):

χαῖρε δὲ Καίρατος ποταµὸς µέγα, χαῖρε δὲ Τηθύς, οὕνεκα θυγατέρας Λητωίδι πέµπον ἀµορβούς. The river Kairatos rejoiced greatly, and Tethys rejoiced, too, because they sent their daughters as attendants to the daughter of Leto. As soon as the goddess has acquired the fetishes of power, Callimachus wishes to be included in her inner circle and – with a tongue-in-cheek reference to the philoi of the Alexandrian royal court – asks to be a privileged member of the in-crowd (136–7). c) So¯matophylakes Apart from the nymphs who help her with the hunting gear and tend to her dogs and chariot, Artemis has true gods as bodyguards and helpers. Callimachus gives a detailed description of the way the goddess entered the royal palace at Olympus (140–69). As she arrives in her chariot, Hermes and Herakles immediately appear in order to assist her and take her weapons and pray. Callimachus even offers a succession story connected to the office of divine bodyguard: earlier, this service was performed by Apollo, now however Herakles holds the position of Artemis’ helper (144–5). The very same motif of gods as so¯matophylakes also appears in Theocritus’ Idyll 17, which is one of the most overt pieces of royal propaganda we have from the third century BC.60 In this encomium of the Ptolemaic dynasty, the poet presents Alexander and Ptolemy Soter as gods in Olympus.61 After a feast, they are escorting Herakles home to Hebe, acting as his bodyguards – the one is carrying his bow and quiver, the other his iron club.62 It is noteworthy that such passages are very rare in the Iliad and when gods are mentioned as helping other gods the scholiasts are at pains to explain this occurrence away. For instance, the Iliad features a unique scene with Poseidon unyoking the horses of Zeus. In the Scholia, this is explained not as servitude (‘not because of Zeus’ distinction’), but as brotherly love and a sign of Poseidon’s role as protector of horses.63 In Callimachus and Theocritus, these passages are lengthy and detailed and, in my opinion, serve the purpose of offering a divine parallel for courtly etiquette. The position of king’s servant becomes more dignified if it has parallels in the Olympia do¯mata.

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3. Symposia My final parallel between life at court and life of Olympian gods will be the seating order. As mentioned above, Alexander the Great introduced places of honour in the previously egalitarian institution of a symposion. Even in the Homeric depictions of assemblies of the gods, where Zeus sits on a golden throne, we do not see any evidence of other seats of honour.64 Yet Theocritus is careful to note that Ptolemy Soter possesses a golden throne at Olympus and that Alexander sits at his side:

τῆνον καὶ µακάρεσσι πατὴρ ὁµότιµον ἔθηκεν ἀθανάτοις, καί οἱ χρύσεος θρόνος ἐν ∆ιὸς οἴκωι δέδµηται· παρὰ δ᾿ αὐτὸν Ἀλέξανδρος φίλα εἰδώς ἑδριάει, Πέρσαισι βαρὺς θεὸς αἰολοµίτρας. ἀντία δ᾿ Ἡρακλῆος ἕδρα κενταυροφόνοιο ἵδρυται στερεοῖο τετυγµένα ἐξ ἀδάµαντος. Him the father made equal in honour even to the blessed immortals, and a golden throne is built for him in the house of Zeus; beside him, kindly disposed, sits Alexander, the god of the dancing diadem, who brought destruction to the Persians. Facing them is established the seat of centaur- slaying Herakles, fashioned from solid adamant.65 The poet has a delicate diplomatic touch, since it is not possible to tell who is sitting on the right side of whom. Thus Ptolemy and Alexander are put on a par, facing their common ancestor Herakles. In the corpus of Callimachus’ hymns, we have several important indicators of the seating order: Apollo sits on the right side of Zeus, and this place is even explained as an indicator of his power (‘he has the power, since he sits on the right hand of Zeus’.)66 Artemis sits next to Apollo.67 In the corpus of Callimachus’ hymns, we can reconstruct the seating order at Olympus. This seating order further corresponds to the order of Callimachus’ hymns (Zeus, Apollo, Artemis) and, as argued by Marco Fantuzzi, it also mirrors the order and position of the hymns on the papyrus roll.68 Doubtlessly, the seating order at the court of the Ptolemies was also an important indicator of one’s prestige and importance in the court hierarchy. The Olympian court is again used as a foil for depicting royal etiquette in the Hellenistic kingdoms.

Conclusion In the Hymn to Zeus, Callimachus presents himself as having his own entourage, and asks the god to be favourable to his friends (68–9).

θήκαο δ’ οἰωνῶν µέγ’ ὑπείροχον ἀγγελιώτην σῶν τεράων· ἅ τ’ ἐµοῖσι φίλοις ἐνδέξια φαίνοις

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The most excellent of birds you made the messenger of your signs; may your signs be favourable to my friends! Callimachus must have been a philos of the kings himself, close to the sources of power and channelling this power on his own circle of philoi. I do not think it was necessary for the kings to instruct Callimachus in how to present the court; rather it was a common policy, naturally arising from the fact that these men lived in close proximity and shared the benefits and perks of power. Callimachus came from a distinguished and aristocratic Cyrenaean family69 and was perhaps even a member of the basilikoi paides in his youth.70 There was no designated PR in the Ptolemaic monarchy. The kings knew they could rely on their friends and that it was in their own best interest to promote the joint cause.

Notes 1 Curt. 3.11.23. Translation: Heckel and Yardley 2004. 2 Plut. Alex. 20.10–13. Translation: J. Henderson, Loeb 1919. On Alexander’s tent as court see Spawforth 2007, 87–8, 94–7 with an appendix listing all evidence for Alexander’s state tents with a commentary (pp. 112–20). 3 On the Macedonian court: Heermann 1986; Kienast 1973; Spawforth 2007, 90– 2 with important remarks on the Persian influence on the court in Pella even prior to Alexander’s succession; for its influence on the Argead and Hellenistic courts, see also Wallace and Engels in this volume. 4 On Alexander’s court: Berve 1926 vol. 1, 3–100; Spawforth 2007. 5 Alexander’s treatment of Sisygambis: Curt. 5.2.8 and 10.5.18–25. Alexander’s treatment of Darius’ wife and children: Curt. 3.11.20–12.17; 3.12.21–6; Just. Epit. 11.9.11–16. 6 Fredricksmeyer 2000 with references and further literature. 7 On Alexander’s increasing remoteness as a result of the introduction of Persian court ceremonial, Spawforth 2007, 93–4; 106–9. 8 Restricted access to the king was very much a feature of the Achaemenid court, see Llewellyn-Jones 2013, 44–8. 9 Both cited by Herakleides of Kyme as features of the Persian court: FGrH 689 F2 and 5. On Alexander’s use of a golden throne, Fredricksmeyer 2000, 152, 159–60, 161. There is some evidence testifying to Philip’s use of the elevated chair to signify his special rank on public occasions, which would be an indicator of Persian influence at the Macedonian court preceding Alexander’s succession, see Spawforth 2007, 91. On Persian influence at the court of Philip II, Kienast 1973. 10 Spawforth 2007, 99–101 with references and bibliography. 11 On the seating: Athen. 12.538c (= Chares FGrH 125 F4); Ael. VH 8.7. Arrian (Anab. 7.4) notes that ‘the marriages were conducted in the Persian manner’, cf. Plut. Eum. 1.7. On Alexander’s adopting of the Persian feasting arrangements, Spawforth 2007, 100. 12 On the Persian court ceremonial during the rule of Achaemenids, Brosius 2007. Spawforth 2007, 100 also argues for Persian influence on Alexander’s dining habits. 13 Alexander’s general Krateros commemorated one such hunt with a monument

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Ivana Petrovic he dedicated at Delphi (Plut. Alex. 50). On the political implications of the monument, Stewart 1993, 270–274, who argues that the dedication was a visible manifestation of Krateros’ office as prostate¯s and was devised in order to propagate his high standing at court and even an aptitude to step into Alexander’s shoes. 14 According to Diodorus (17.77.4) and the Metz Epitome (1–2), Alexander appointed Darius’ brother Oxyathres as a bodyguard. Quintus Curtius Rufus (6.2.11) claims that Oxyathres was enrolled amongst the Hetairoi. 15 Plut. Alex. 51.1. Whereas Plutarch tends to interpret Alexander’s adoption of Persian customs as an important step in the politics of inclusion (see also Cleom., esp. 13 on the influence of this policy on Alexander’s successors), other ancient sources present a more negative view. Arrian (Anab. 7.6.2–5) provides a summary of Alexander’s ‘orientalism’ and concludes: ‘It looked as if Alexander was developing a completely barbarian disposition, and placing Macedonian customs and the Macedonians themselves at a low level of esteem.’ Curtius (6.6.1–10) remarks that Alexander ‘relinquished control over his appetites’ and adds that the Macedonians ‘felt they had lost more by victory than they had gained by war’ as a result of surrendering to foreign ways, and saw Alexander as ‘demoted from King of Macedon to satrap of Darius’. Doubtlessly, each ancient writer interpreted Alexander’s decisions in the light of their own time and position, but it cannot be contested that Alexander had changed his behaviour and had adopted Persian insignia of power and court ceremonial. On the thorny question of Alexander’s policy of fusion, see Berve 1938; Bosworth 1980; Hamilton 1987. 16 On Alexander’s divinity: Balsdon 1950; Habicht 1970, 17–25; Edmunds 1971; Fredricksmeyer 1979; Badian 1981; Chaniotis 2003, Worthington 2004. On the longevity, diffusion and popularity of his cult: Habicht 1970, 25; 185; Chaniotis 2003, 435. See now the reassessment of the question in Dreyer 2009. 17 Literature on the divinity of Hellenistic rulers is vast. Habicht 1970 is still fundamental. For a discussion of scholarship and an overview of older literature see Buraselis 2003; Chaniotis 2003; Petrovic 2015. On the ruler cult in Egypt: Qaegebeur 1978, 1989, 1995, 1998; Lanciers 1988; Hauben 1989; Koenen 1993; Hu 1994 and 2001; Melaerts 1998; Minas 1998; Pfeiffer 2008. 18 I will not discuss all aspects of Hellenistic poetry pertaining to the kings and kingship, but will limit my scope to representations of Ptolemaic court ceremonial. On royal propaganda in Hellenistic poetry, Fraser 1972 vol. 1, 305–793; Clauss 1986; Koenen 1993; Weber 1993; Cameron 1995; Stephens 1998 and 2003; Asper 2001; Hunter 2003; Fantuzzi and Hunter 2004; Depew 2004; Bing 2008 and 2009; Barbantani 2010 and 2011; Strootman 2010. 19 Callim. Hymn 1.58–67. See Barbantani 2011, 182–9 with bibliography. 20 Clauss 1986. 21 Callim. Hymn 1.79–90. This passage, as well as Theoc. Id. 17.73–6 and the Hymn to Isis of Isidoros, displays similar sentiments. See on this Fantuzzi and Hunter 2004, 352–4 and Barbantani 2011, 185. 22 Callim. Hymn 2.25–7. Similar is Theoc. Id. 22.212. See Barbantani 2011, 190. 23 Callim. Hymn 4.162–6. 24 For an overview of the way modern theory about the court influenced the study of Hellenistic monarchies, see Herman 1997; Spawforth 2007 ‘Introduction’ and now Strootman 2011, 63–6.

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25 Herakleides of Kyme (FGrH 689 F2) has an interesting account of visibility and invisibility at the Persian court. 26 On the Ptolemaic palace in Alexandria, Fraser 1972 vol. 1, 11–37; Kutbay 1998; M. Clauss 2003. On Alexander’s tomb, Chugg 2004. 27 On the Alexandrian Museion, Fraser 1972 vol. 1, 312–19; Weber 1993, 74–81. On the libraries and temples, Männlein-Robert 2010, 161–6. 28 On Theoc. Id. 15 and the Ptolemaic propaganda, Weber 1993, 170–1 (on the Adonia), 215–16. 29 On the role of epiphany in the Hymns of Callimachus, Petrovic 2007, 116, 123, 127, 130, 136–7, 142–54, 211–12; Platt 2011, 175–80. 30 Callim. Hymn 2.9–11. 31 Callim. Hymn 6.128 f. 32 Chaniotis 1997 is a groundbreaking study on staging public life in the Hellenistic period with references and bibliography. On the way the kings have adopted and appropriated the rituals previously reserved for the gods, Habicht 1970. 33 The date of this treatise is uncertain and the proposed dating ranges from the Early Hellenistic period to the 2nd or 3rd century AD, see Chaniotis 1997, 236. However we date the text, the observation is significant and illustrative of the way Hellenistic rulers presented themselves. 34 Stobaeus 4.7.62 (p. 42.17–43.9 Delatte). 35 Stobaeus 4.7.62 (p. 45.10–11 Delatte). 36 Syll.3 725 (FGrH 532), D 95–115. See also the commentary of Higbie 2003. In the inscription Athena twice announces the epiphany of Zeus, who sends the rain the help the citizens. Her third appearance announces the soteriological epiphany of king Ptolemy, who replaces Zeus as the one Lindians should turn to in the time of need. See Petrovic 2015, 429–32. 37 Athen. 6.63, 253d–f (= Douris FGrH 76 F13). On this see now Chaniotis 2011. 38 On philoi as courtiers, Herman 1980/81, 1997; Weber 1993, 130–54; Savalli- Lestrade 1998; Habicht 2006; Strootman 2010; see also in this volume, in particular, Savalli-Lestrade, Strootman, and Thompson. 39 In his discussion of prosopography of the Ptolemaic court, Weber 1993, 130–154 distinguishes between philoi, men of letters, and priests (religiöse Funktionäre), but there is in my opinion no need to make such sharp distinctions, especially considering the variety and importance of duties the poets were sometimes given (Prostate¯s tou mouseiou was an important court-title, men of letters were educators of the princes and of basilikoi paides and were also entrusted with diplomatic, even military tasks). Strootman (2010, 37–40) persuasively argues for inclusion of men of letters in the class of philoi. Particularly illuminating is his interpretation of Theocritus 16 as an attempt of the poet to be accepted by Hiero as his philos (pp. 37–9). Similarly, persons appointed as priests of important cults and religious officials such as kane¯phoros were high-ranking aristocrats, even close relatives of the kings. (For a list of eponymous priests, Clarysse and Van der Veken 1983.) Persons acting as priests of the royal cult in Alexandria include Menelaos, brother of king Ptolemy I (Clarysse and Van der Veken nr. 7); Simon of Samos, son of Kallikrates, one of the highest ranking philoi at the court of Ptolemy II, was a priest of Arsinoe Aphrodite, and Kallikrates himself acted as eponymous priest of the royal cult (Weber 1993, 141 with notes 1 and 3).

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40 On the Ptolemaic court titles, Peremans and van’t Dack 1968; Mooren 1975; Herman 1980/81, 103–9; Savalli-Lestrade 1998. 41 Herman 1980/81. 42 On the power-struggles amongst the philoi, Herman 1997, 214–22. 43 Polyb. 5.26.13–14; see Savalli-Lestrade in this volume. 44 Weber (1993) provides an exhaustive discussion of poetry commissioned by or dedicated to the royal philoi but is very skeptical regarding the mention of friends in the mythic context or Callimachus’ frequent mentioning of his own philoi, p. 293: ‘Der Bezugsramen einiger Passagen aus den kallimacheischen Hymnen, wenn der Dichter ‘seine Freunde’ ins Spiel bringt, bleibt unklar. Angesichts des mehrfachen Vorkommens wäre auch an eine topische Verwendung zu denken.’ 45 Callim. Hymn 3.189–224. 46 Callim. Hymn 3. 212–213. 47 Callim. Hymn 3. 184–185: ‘Which of the nymphs did you love above all others, and which heroines did you have as your companions?’ 48 Callim. Hymn 3.136–7. Callimachus often places requests on behalf of his own philoi in the addresses to the gods in his Hymns (Hymn 1.69; Hymn 6.116–7). 49 On Ptolemaic patronage of Callimachus, Weber 1993, 87–95; Cameron 1995. 50 Callim. Hymn 3. 260–8. 51 It is noteworthy that Chariklo is accompanying Athena when she bathes. At the court of Alexander and his successors, the chamberlains, specially selected for their wit and fidelity, accompanied the king when bathing and dressing. 52 Athen. 12.537e testifies that on occasion, Alexander would dress up as Artemis. 53 Zeus as the ultimate source of royal power is a motif which appears throughout Callimachus’ and Theocritus’ poetry. 54 On basilikoi paides under Alexander and earlier Macedonian monarchs, Hammond 1990; Spawforth 2007, 84–5; Carney 2015. Their main duties during the reign of Alexander were guarding the king’s bedroom, attending him on the hunt, seeing to his personal needs, and grooming his horses (Arr. Anab. 4.13.1; Curt. 5.1.42; 8.6.2–6). 55 On basilikoi paides and so¯matophylakes at the Ptolemaic court: Polyb. 15.33.11; Mooren 1975, 2–7, 52–80; Fraser 1972 vol. 1, 101–2; Herman 1980/81, 103–49. 56 Polyb. 15.33.11, 22.22.1–2. 57 For a discussion of the representation of the cult of Artemis in this hymn, Petrovic 2007, 182–264. 58 Tantalizingly, Polybius mentions female syntrophoi of the queen Arsinoe III at the Ptolemaic court in the late 3rd century (15.33.11–12). Perhaps there was an institution of female basilikoi paides at the Ptolemaic court as well. Polybius qualifies them as σύντροφοι τῆς Ἀρσινόης γεγενηµέναι τινὲς παιδίσκαι (‘some young girls who had been Arsinoe’s close companions’) and describes their savage revenge for the murder of their queen in 204 BC; on these see also Savalli-Lestrade, this volume, section 2.2. 59 On the importance of entourage at the Hellenistic courts, Herman 1997, 216–18. 60 On the Ptolemaic propaganda in Theocritus 17, see Weber 1993, 214–16, 247; Hunter 2003. 61 Theoc. Id. 17.16–25. 62 Theoc. Id. 17.28–33. Weber 1993, 215 argues that this passage could be seen as ‘witziger poetischer Einfall, der sich auch vom Motiv her auf der Symposionsebene

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Callimachus, Theocritus and Ptolemaic court etiquette bewegte, die auch in der Realität für einen Teil der höfischen Gesellschaft in Anspruch genommen werden kann’, but does not discuss the way it possibly mirrors courtly etiquette. 63 Hom. Il. 8.438–41. Scholion Il. 8.440a1: ἵππους µὲν λῦσε κλυτὸς ἐννοσίγαιος: ἐπεὶ ἵππιός ἐστιν ὁ θεός. ἱκανὸν δὲ πρὸς φιλαδελφίαν τοῦτο. a2: διὰ φιλαδελφίαν τοῦτο, οὐ διὰ τὴν τοῦ ∆ιὸς ποιεῖ ἐνδοξότητα. The A-scholia are largely based on Hellenistic scholarship on Homer and the reluctance of the scholiast to accept Poseidon as a servant of Zeus may be based in contemporary ideas on the Hellenistic court. As co-regents, Poseidon and Zeus would be perceived as equals. 64 Hom. Il. 1.533–8, 8.438–45. Highly interesting in this respect is Plutarch’s essay ‘Whether the host should arrange the placing of his guests or leave it to the guests themselves’ (Table–Talk 1.2; Mor. 615–620). Plutarch is at pains to find Homeric examples for places of honour at divine assemblies. He could not come up with explicit examples for seats of honour and adduces two implicit ones: Poseidon occupies the place in the middle (Iliad 20.15) and Athena sits next to her father (Iliad 24.100; Plut. Mor. 617). Far from being illustrative of divine seats of honour, Plutarch’s examples testify that, apart from asserting that Zeus’ position is special, the Homeric epics are silent on the topic. Had he wanted to turn to Hellenistic poetry for examples of the seating order at divine assemblies, Plutarch could have found many examples. 65 Theoc. Id. 17.16-21. Text and translation: Hunter 2003. 66 Callim. Hymn 2.29. 67 Callim. Hymn 3.169. 68 Fantuzzi 2011, 449f. 69 Petrovic 2011, 284 with references and bibliography. 70 As argued by Cameron 1995, 4-5.

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Hunter, R. L. 2003 Theocritus, Encomium of Ptolemy Philadelphus. Text and Translation with Introduction and Commentary, Berkeley. Huß, W. 1994 Der makedonische König und die ägyptischen Priester. Studien zur Geschichte des ptolemäischen Ägypten, Stuttgart. 2001 Ägypten in hellenistischer Zeit, Munich. Kienast, D. 1973 Philip II von Makedonien und das Reich der Achaimeniden, Munich. Koenen, L. 1993 ‘The Ptolemaic king as a religious figure’ in A. W. Bulloch, E. S. Gruen, A. A. Long, and A. Stewart (eds), Images and Ideologies: Self-definition in the Hellenistic World, Berkeley 25–116. Kutbay, B. L. 1998 Palaces and Large Residences of the Hellenistic Age, Lampeter. Lanciers, E. 1988 ‘Die Vergöttlichung und die Ehe des Ptolemaios IV. und der Arsinoe III.’ Archiv für Papyrusforschung und verwandte Gebiete 34, 27–32. Llewellyn-Jones, L. 2013 King and Court in Ancient Persia (559–331 BCE), Edinburgh. Männlein-Robert, I. 2010 ‘Zwischen Musen und Museion oder die poetische (Er)Findung Griechenlands in den Aitien des Kallimachos,’ in G. Weber (ed.), Alexandria und das ptolemäische Ägypten. Kulturbegegnungen in hellenistischer Zeit, Berlin, 160–86. Melaerts, H. 1998 (ed.), Le culte du souverain dans l’Égypte ptolémaïque au IIIe siècle avant notre ère. Actes du colloque international, Bruxelles 10 mai 1995, Leuven. Minas, M. 1998 ‘Die ΚΑΝΗΦΟΡΟΣ. Aspekte des ptolemäischen Dynastiekults’, in Melaerts 1998, 43–60. Mooren, L. 1975 The Aulic Titulature in Ptolemaic Egypt. Introduction and Prosopography, Brussels. Peremans, W. and Dack, E. van’t 1968 Prosopographia Ptolemaica, volume VI: La cour, les relations interntionales, et les possessions extérieures, la vie culturelle, Louvain. Petrovic, I. 2007 Von den Toren des Hades zu den Hallen des Olymp. Artemiskult bei Theokrit und Kallimachos. Leiden. 2011 ‘Callimachus and contemporary religion: the Hymn to Apollo’, in B. Acosta- Hughes, L. Lehnus and S. Stephens (eds), Brill’s Companion to Callimachus, Leiden, 264–85. 2015 ‘Deification: gods or men?’, in E. Eidinow and J. Kindt (eds), Oxford Handbook of Greek Religion, Oxford, 429–43. Pfeiffer, S. 2008 Herrscher- und Dynastiekulte im Ptolemäerreich: Systematik und Einordnung der Kultformen, Munich.

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Platt, V. 2011 Facing the Gods, Epiphany and Representation in Graeco-Roman Art, Literature and Religion, Cambridge. Quaegebeur, J. 1978 ‘Reines ptolémaïques et traditions égyptiennes’, in H. Maehler and V. M. Strocka (eds), Das Ptolemäische Ägypten, Mainz, 245–62. 1989 ‘The Egyptian clergy and the cult of the Ptolemaic dynasty’, Ancient Society 20, 93–116. 1995 À la recherche du haut clergé thébain à l’époque ptolémaïque’, in S. P. Vleeming (ed.), Hundred-Gated Thebes. Acts of a Colloquium on Thebes and the Theban Area in the Graeco-Roman Period, Leiden, 139–62. 1998 ‘Documents égyptiens anciens et nouveaux relatifs à Arsinoé Philadelphe’, in H. Melaerts (ed.), Le culte du souverain dans l’Égypte ptolémaïque au IIIe siècle avant notre ère. Actes du colloque international, Bruxelles 10 mai 1995, Leuven, 73–108. Savalli-Lestrade, I. 1998 Les Philoi Royaux dans l’Asie Hellenistique, Geneva. Spawforth, A. J. S. 2007 ‘The court of Alexander the Great between Europe and Asia’ in A. Spawforth (ed.), The Court and Court Society in ancient Monarchies, Cambridge, 82–120. Stephens, S. A. 1998 ‘Callimachus at court’, in M. A. Harder, R. F. Regtuit, and G. C. Wakker (eds), Genre in Hellenistic Poetry, Groningen, 167–85. 2003 Seeing Double. Intercultural Poetics in Ptolemaic Alexandria, Berkeley. Stewart, A. S. 1993 Faces of Power. Alexander’s Image and Hellenistic Politics, Berkeley. Strootman, R. 2010 ‘Literature and the kings’, in J. Clauss and M. Cuypers (eds), A Companion to Hellenistic Literature, Chichester, 30–46. 2011 ‘Hellenistic court society: the Seleukid imperial court under Antiochos the Great, 223–187 BCE’, in J. Duindam, T. Artan and M. Kunt (eds), Royal Courts in Dynastic States and Empires: A Global Perspective, Leiden, 63–89. Weber, G. 1993 Dichtung und höfische Gesellschaft. Die Rezeption von Zeitgeschichte am Hof der ersten drei Ptolemaeer, Stuttgart. Worthington, I. 2004 Alexander the Great. Man and God, London.

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PARTIII

MARRIAGE

SYMBOLANDCEREMONY: ROYALWEDDINGSINTHEHELLENISTICAGE

Sheila L. Ager

The 2011 wedding of Prince William and Kate Middleton was a clear demonstration of the avid interest inspired by royal weddings. An estimated 750 million people around the world watched the wedding of William’s parents in 1981, and perhaps as many as two billion viewers tuned in to the later ceremony uniting the prince and his bride. Throughout history the public has been fascinated with the splendid weddings of famous figures such as Grace Kelly and Prince Rainier, Victoria and Albert, Louis XIII and Anne of Austria, Arthur Tudor and Catherine of Aragon, and many more. The fervent global attention paid to twenty-first century royal weddings, not only in Britain but also in the Netherlands, Denmark, Norway, Sweden, Spain, and Monaco, suggests that royal weddings are public symbols that extend far beyond the private emotions of the individuals involved. Indeed, the fitness of rulers to rule and leaders to lead is for many measured by their ‘private’ lives.1 In the context of a volume on the Hellenistic court, and in the face of mounting scholarship on the importance of royal women in the Hellenistic monarchies, it seems timely to explore the significance of the royal wedding, and to suggest some possible directions for further research.2 This chapter therefore seeks to make some suggestions as to the symbolic reasons for the widespread and apparently eternal investment that societies have in the weddings and the marriages of sovereigns.3 It does not seek to pin down every detail of a royal wedding in strict order: such an exploration lies beyond the scope of the present work, and is, I think, impossible in any

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Sheila L. Ager case, particularly if it rests on an assumption that there was a strict order to all royal weddings, or that there was no evolution over time.

1. Ceremony If we are to construct a semi-coherent picture of Hellenistic royal weddings, we need to tease nuggets of information out of scattered literary sources and material evidence. We also need to engage in analogy with what we know of ordinary marriage ceremonies in antiquity; such analogy necessitates a certain amount of speculation. What culture would Graeco- Macedonian Hellenistic rulers draw on for their wedding rituals? This chapter makes a perhaps dangerous a priori assumption that Classical Greek models might predominate.4 Such an approach admittedly scants specifically Macedonian customs (and might there have been additional rituals drawn from local cultures?). Against Vatin, Elizabeth Carney cautions against relying too much on Classical Greek weddings as prototypes – but they do perhaps permit us to have a starting-point for a preliminary investigation.5 We are best informed about Classical Athenian practice, where sources on the juridical aspects of marriage emphasize two things: the initial agreement between the bride’s father and the prospective groom (ἐγγύη) 6 and the handing over of the bride at the time of the wedding (ἔκδοσις). I do not propose to spend time discussing these putative juridical aspects, chiefly because we have next to no detail on these matters in the context of a Hellenistic royal wedding, but also because juridical matters could no doubt be settled exactly as the parties chose. Royal marriages could create their own legitimacy – after all, how else could weddings such as those between Philip V and Polykrateia or Ptolemy VIII and Kleopatra III have been ‘adjudicated’? Philip had allegedly stolen Polykrateia from her husband the younger Aratos. As for Kleopatra III, with her father dead and her mother apparently inimical to her daughter’s marriage, it does not seem that Ptolemy VIII would have wasted any effort trying to fulfill some kind of putative legal process.7 Nevertheless, it is certainly clear that most royal weddings could not have taken place without some initial formal agreement between the parties, an agreement that might specify the size of the dowry, and might also formulate the terms of a treaty. As for ekdosis, since the father of a royal bride was often not present at the wedding, perhaps the formality was simply dispensed with; or it might be dealt with by proxy.8 There were not a few cases of so-called autoekdosis, where the bride gave herself away; but even in such a case, there must have been some preliminary negotiation, such as that alleged to have taken place between Arsinoe II and Ptolemy Keraunos.9

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The one certain fact we have about royal Hellenistic weddings is that they were celebrated with conspicuous display. Several sources speak of the pomp and ceremony with which royal weddings – both endogamous and exogamous10 – were formalized.11 Antiochos III, a ruler famous for his exploitation of marriage as a tool of policy, celebrated his own wedding with his cousin Laodike ‘with royal magnificence’ (µεγαλοπρεπῶς καὶ 12 βασιλικῶς). His later marriage to a Euboian commoner was also accompanied by much pageantry.13 The Antigonid ruler Perseus no doubt solemnized his union with another Seleucid Laodike amidst great festivities, if we may judge by the size of the bridal escort.14 As for the Ptolemies, weddings must have been yet another occasion for the sort of conspicuous public display they loved: Justin speaks of extravagant ceremonies for the weddings of Arsinoe II and Kleopatra II.15 Unfortunately, very few sources provide any detail beyond the pronouncement that pomp was a regularly expected characteristic of a royal wedding. Nevertheless, without pushing the speculations too far, it is probably safe to say that among the specifics of royal wedding celebrations were the following events, actions, or rituals. In the case of an exogamous royal marriage, before the wedding celebrations themselves could commence, there was the matter of the journey of the royal bride.16 According to Appian, the entire Rhodian fleet accompanied Perseus’ Seleucid bride Laodike on her journey to the Antigonid court in the 170s.17 The escort also included various dignitaries, though not Seleukos IV himself. Eumenes of Pergamon used this escort as a weapon to inflame Roman fear and anger against Perseus and against Rhodes. The grandeur and lavish display of the procession not only shouted the wealth and power of Hellenistic rulers to the world – Polybius says that it was Perseus who was responsible for the refit of the entire Rhodian navy18 – it was also a clear signal of Antigonid-Rhodian-Seleucid friendship. When Ptolemy II sent his daughter Berenike (Syra) to marry Antiochos II in 252 BC, he gave her such a wealth of dowry that she came to be known as Berenike Phernophoros, the ‘Dowry-Bringer’.19 Ptolemy himself accompanied his daughter as far as Pelousion, and his dioike¯te¯s Apollonios escorted her from there to the Syrian borders of the Seleucid realm, where she would have been met by Seleucid representatives.20 There was no doubt a great deal of pageantry involved in this procession: Ptolemy II was well- known for his taste for pomp, and as a marriage pact sealing the end of a war, it was particularly necessary for Ptolemaic wealth and power to be on display. The fact that the king himself went no further than Pelousion and that his chief minister took the princess only as far as the Seleucid border

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Sheila L. Ager begs the question of Berenike’s solitude at the wedding ceremony. Who would have been there to represent her father and her family? Could her blood mother Arsinoe I have accompanied her?21 The sources say nothing of this, but the choice to abandon Berenike at the border turned out to be a sad omen of her ultimate isolation and death.22 Where did royal weddings normally take place? Endogamous Ptolemaic marriages were no doubt formalized at the court in Alexandria, while Seleucid weddings might be celebrated at any of the capitals in the realm. Antiochos II probably married Berenike Syra in Antioch; Antiochos III married his bride Laodike in Seleukeia-Zeugma, whither she had been escorted by Antiochos’ officer Diognetos.23 In other cases, however, the choice of location would have been more complex. Antiochos III, having affianced his daughter Kleopatra I to the young Ptolemy V in the wake of the Fifth Syrian War, showed some diplomacy in the selection of a setting for the wedding celebrations. Rather than forcing Ptolemy V to lose face by traveling through Syria (territory only recently taken from the Ptolemaic kingdom), and rather than losing face himself by traveling all the way to Alexandria (still Ptolemy’s realm), the Seleucid king compromised by holding the wedding at Raphia on the borders of both kingdoms.24 Once the bride (or groom) arrived at the destination, preparations could begin for the ceremony itself. Athenian vase paintings from the Classical period indicate that the adornment of the bride was an important part of pre-ceremonial activity.25 A princess would be dressed in her best, and there were probably women’s ceremonies attached to the stages of preparing the bride, analogous to what we see in the vase paintings: the bridal bath, perfuming, makeup, hair arrangement, and clothing.26 The dress preferred in vase representations appears to have consisted of a thin chiton with a himation over top, both garments often richly decorated with embroidery. Jewellery is also evident in the vase paintings, and no doubt royal brides wore the finest pieces from their dowries as evidence of their own and their father’s wealth and importance. Vase paintings also typically show the bride wearing a tiara, a stephane¯, while over the back of the bride’s head hangs a veil.27 The combination evokes many coin portraits of Hellenistic queens such as Arsinoe II, Berenike II, Arsinoe III, Kleopatra I, Laodike (wife of Seleukos IV and Antiochos IV), Kleopatra Thea, and Kleopatra Selene.28 The profile of these queens as presented on their coinage almost always shows the combination of diadem or tiara plus veil, and though it is common to see these portraits as having divinizing elements,29 it is hard not to see also a connection to the portrayal of brides.

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Male dress, in antiquity as today, seems to have taken a back seat to the splendour of the bride’s adornments. Vase paintings suggest that a groom would be well-dressed in a himation, with a wreath or tainia with leaves in his hair. Presumably royal husbands were also well groomed for the ceremony. The available evidence does not allow us to say whether the groom might have worn military accoutrements, as is often the case in modern royal weddings. The vase representations of ordinary weddings do not support such a notion; the only husband-wife scenes where men are portrayed in military dress appear to be scenes of leave-taking. Nevertheless, we may speculate that the central role of the Hellenistic king as warrior and defender of his realm might be displayed in some elements of martial dress at his wedding.30 The central action of a royal wedding – the words or actions that bestowed wedded status upon the pair – is nowhere preserved for us. If it mirrored ordinary weddings, we might assume that the bride’s father formally gave away the bride with some words about the begetting of legitimate children. But the bride’s father was frequently not present at his daughter’s nuptials and, as we have seen in the case of Berenike Syra, there might be no male relative there at all. Ekdosis might have occurred earlier (when a father handed his daughter over to those who were to convey her to her wedding) or it might occur at the wedding itself with someone standing in for her father; either case would have required the use of proxies. Detailed matters of dowry and political promises would have been worked out ahead of time through diplomatic channels: the ceremony itself may well have been quite brief. Easier to determine are other circumstances of the celebrations, which would feature much glitter and glamour. Invocation of the gods was certainly a significant part of some royal wedding ceremonies, and was probably integral to all of them.31 Diodorus tells us of the ‘splendid sacrifices’ planned by Philip II for the wedding of his daughter Kleopatra to Alexander of Epeiros, and Justin too speaks of the lavish sacrifices prepared by Arsinoe II for her wedding to her half-brother Keraunos.32 On a smaller scale a royal bride probably made a more personal sacrifice. It was common practice for a virginal bride to dedicate a lock of her hair to a goddess such as Artemis or Aphrodite.33 That royal brides would also make such a dedication seems evident from Callimachus’ poem, famously translated by Catullus, on the lock of hair dedicated by Berenike II to Arsinoe-Aphrodite.34 The conceit of the poem is that the dedication was the result of a vow made for Ptolemy III’s safe return from the Third Syrian War, but the emphasis on brides throughout also evokes the custom of the dedication of a bride’s hair. The act of dedication was no doubt a public

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Sheila L. Ager one, and Callimachus’ poem was also a clear public statement of the role of this new bride in the dynasty and the kingdom.35 Poetry and music would naturally have featured prominently in wedding celebrations.36 Such musical performances might have been arranged as contests, given that games too were evidently a feature of many royal weddings. Philip II planned ‘brilliant musical contests’ for the wedding of his daughter, and possibly athletic games as well.37 Athenaeus provides us with a vivid description of the musical recitals and dramatic performances that accompanied the mass wedding organised by Alexander at Susa.38 Plutarch tells us that musical and poetic performances at a royal wedding could be employed to send strategic messages (such as to deflect attention from the incestuous nature of the marriage of Ptolemy II and Arsinoe II).39 Conspicuous consumption was the rule for Hellenistic royal weddings. The literary sources speak of enormous outlay of resources on all sides: Alexander the Great’s gift of a golden cup to each of the nine thousand guests at the mass wedding in Susa; Perseus’ gift of golden mementoes to all the sailors of the Rhodian fleet; Berenike Syra’s dowry, which comprised an ‘unlimited’ supply of gold and silver.40 Scholarship on the Ptolemaic dynasty has for some time now pointed out the royal penchant for lavish display of wealth (and hence power); the Seleucids could hardly afford to fall behind in such a competition, and judging from Perseus’ generosity to the Rhodians, it seems that the Antigonids too felt the pressure to peacock. Such displays of wealth covered a variety of what we might think of as the consumer aspects of wedding ceremonial: the bride’s dowry (Kleopatra Thea brought into the marriage with Alexander Balas a dowry consisting of ‘as much silver and gold as a king was expected to give’); the numerous gift exchanges (Philip II received multiple gold crowns from individuals and poleis on the occasion of his daughter’s wedding); and the feasting (Philip at Aigai and his son at Susa provided enormous banquets).41 Even the smallest of non-royal weddings are inherently public, not private. ‘It is the established custom,’ says Athenaeus, ‘to hold symposia in connection with the wedding ceremony, partly to honour the gods of marriage, and partly to serve as a kind of public witness to the union.’42 But at an ordinary commoner wedding, there were levels and stages of public and private: a bride might briefly be unveiled for the guests, but would probably be re-veiled for the journey to the groom’s home.43 Were the more private aspects of an ordinary wedding celebrated publicly in the case of a royal wedding? For example, did the royal bride appear unveiled in public? The happy occasion of royal nuptials was intended to extend its joy, its fruitfulness, and its general beneficence to all the people, not just the elite guests present at the actual ceremony. ‘All these thousands and

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Symbol and ceremony: Royal weddings in the Hellenistic age thousands of people happy,’ said Diana Princess of Wales of her wedding day, ‘It was just wonderful’.44 Ancient vase representations present the journey to the groom’s house after the marriage ceremony as a central aspect of the occasion.45 Perhaps in Hellenistic royal weddings the bride and groom engaged in some such procession, presenting themselves to the public, just as Kate and William drove in an open vehicle from Westminster Abbey to Buckingham Palace, and subsequently appeared on the balcony.46 Was coronation ‘automatic’ for royal brides? It does not seem so: Laodike did not become Antiochos III’s ‘queen’ until they traveled from Seleukeia-Zeugma, where they had married, to Antioch, where he 47 proclaimed her as such: βασίλισσαν ἀποδείξας τὴν Λαοδίκην. On the other hand, if we can believe Justin, a coronation might be simultaneous with the wedding, as in the case of Ptolemy Keraunos and Arsinoe II.48 In the case of royal Hellenistic women, there is always a degree of fuzziness about just what it meant to be called a basilissa in any case.49 What seems more clear are the potential consequences for a groom who marries a basilissa. A de facto ruler such as Kassandros could bolster his legitimacy through marriage into a moribund dynasty: Thessalonike did not precisely bring him the throne of Macedon, but her connection to Philip II was useful to his position. By the mid-second century in Ptolemaic Egypt, wedding the queen was key to claiming the kingdom, even for a member of the royal house: thus Ptolemy VIII’s marriage to Kleopatra II in 145 BC.50 In the Seleucid kingdom as well, wedding a royal bride could boost one’s claim to the throne: Antiochos VII’s marriage to Kleopatra Thea assisted his assertion of kingly status.51 The festivities of a royal wedding could entail a general holiday for all: the 2011 royal wedding was marked by a public holiday in Britain, and Arsinoe II declared a holiday for everyone in Kassandreia (the entirety of her ‘realm’) on the occasion of her wedding to Keraunos.52 One day of holiday passes quickly, of course, and so a very common aspect of modern royal weddings is souvenir production, enabling ordinary people to have a tangible and lasting commemoration of a day of special meaning. Special issues of coinage were (and are) a favoured mode of memorializing a royal wedding. In addition to portraits of veiled queens, we also have jugate coinage that features the Hellenistic husband-wife pair in a representation that might have been intended to commemorate a wedding and emphasize the ruling dyad (Fig. 7.1).53 There are also the interesting sardonyx carvings, such as the ‘Gonzaga Cameo’, with jugate portraits that may portray Arsinoe II and a helmeted Ptolemy II, but the identification of these portraits is very uncertain.54

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Fig. 7.1: Silver tetradrachm with portraits of Kleopatra Thea, daughter of Ptolemy VI, and her first husband, the Seleucid Alexander I Balas, perhaps issued in commemoration of their wedding in 150 BC (SC II no. 1841, from Syrian Ptolemaïs). The unusual arrangement of the jugate portrait (with Kleopatra’s image in the anterior position), the cornucopia in the left field, and the kalathos (a headdress typically associated with divine figures) worn by Kleopatra all emphasize the significance of this bride and of the Ptolemaic patronage she represents (courtesy of Classical Numismatic Group, www.cngcoins.com).

2. Symbolism We have already touched on aspects of wedding and marital symbolism in the previous section – it is not always possible to disentangle a symbol from the outward expression of it. For instance, weddings in most cultures are a celebratory event and quite naturally entail a certain amount of obvious consumerism, as we have seen; yet there are layers of symbolism inherent in such consumerism that may not be as immediately obvious as the behaviour itself. In this section I would like to elaborate on some aspects already mentioned and introduce some others. As before, it is often a challenge to separate ‘wedding’ interpretations from ‘marriage’ interpretations. Perhaps the most obvious symbolic message of a royal wedding – in antiquity and today – is that of peaceful dynastic continuity. The beneficences of the celebration – holidays, gifts, feasts – are representative of the much larger beneficence of stability, harmony, and prosperity for the entire kingdom. Royal Hellenistic weddings were a symbol of amity, of homonoia, and of the expectation of such benefits continuing into the indefinite future under the legitimate heirs of the royal couple. Very powerful would be the symbolism of a wedding such as that between Stratonike and Antiochos I. Formerly married to Antiochos’ father, Seleukos I, Stratonike was handed over to his heir by her elderly husband, allegedly because Antiochos was so despairingly in love with his youthful stepmother that he had come close to the point of death.55 The transfer of Seleukos’ bride to his heir Antiochos was surely a symbolic transfer of royal power, and particularly of the fertility and future of the line. But the love

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Symbol and ceremony: Royal weddings in the Hellenistic age story was significant too, and is echoed in accounts of other royal weddings: sexual love and desire between king and queen is repeatedly emphasized in artistic and literary portrayals alike and it is not surprising that Hellenistic queens were commonly associated with Aphrodite.56 ‘Marital devotion,’ says Richard Hunter, became ‘a standard motif of Hellenistic ruler-ideology’.57 That the reality of a royal wedding between, say, the Ptolemaic and the Seleucid realms might have come closer to being an instrument of dominance, power, and advantage, does not necessarily negate its positive symbolic value. The wedding between Berenike Syra and Antiochos II offers rich, complex, and perhaps internally contradictory grounds for interpreting both the political reality and the symbolism of the connection. For example, who actually ‘won’ the Second Syrian War? Was Berenike’s huge dowry a war indemnity in disguise? Or was it intended to assist her in creating networks at a court where she was bound to be isolated?58 Was the Ptolemaic princess foisted on the Seleucid king with a view to making him renounce his sons by Laodike? Some of these questions move beyond the matter of the wedding proper, and could be pursued in the context of Hellenistic royal marriage in general.59 Symbolic or real amity for some might be threatening to others. For both the Attalids and the Romans, Perseus’ wedding to the Seleucid princess Laodike represented a dangerous friendship between Seleucids, Antigonids, and their Rhodian go-betweens. A truly amicable marriage alliance – not to mention a dazzling wedding escort – signified not only power, but the willingness to advertise it, and neither Rome nor Pergamon would have wanted to see such a concatenation of clout. Although the Rhodian escort of Laodike is often minimized by modern scholars as a rationale for the Roman censure of Rhodes after 168 BC, it is hard not to see the simultaneous chastisement of all three parties – Macedon, Rhodes, and the Seleucid kingdom – as part of a coherent policy springing from concerns about the triad as a whole.60 If marriage alliances were representative of power, so too was the conspicuous consumption of royal wedding ceremonies. Wealth has always implied power, whether because money buys influence, friends, and arms, or because the display of excessive luxury is representative of the exalted and unique stature of royalty.61 A royal wedding, as we have seen, was the perfect opportunity for giving and getting splendid gifts, and, as a symbol of power, the giving might be more important than the getting. The benefactor is always in the superior position, and for Ptolemy II, like the medieval Chinese emperor, the glory he obtained probably more than compensated for the expense of his daughter’s enormous dowry.62

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It was suggested above that the portrayal of queens with diadem/tiara and veil might have been intended to evoke their identity as brides, the purpose being to draw attention to the fertility and prosperity that royal brides represented, long after the wedding had passed.63 If Lloyd Llewellyn- Jones is correct in arguing that artists often portrayed women without veils even in circumstances where they would typically be wearing one, it follows that when an artist portrayed a woman with a veil, there was a deliberate intent behind it.64 The portraiture of queens is often held to assimilate them to goddesses, but bride may be the more significant role. Goddesses such as Hera, Persephone, and Aphrodite also wear bridal headgear in non- wedding settings, and Oakley argues that the tiara and veil may be meant to emphasize the connection of these goddesses with the beneficent fertility associated with brides.65 I find it significant that Kleopatra VII never appears with a veil; instead she typically wears the diadem (and only occasionally the tiara). Although she portrayed herself as a mother on her Cyprian coinage, and was probably happy to be taken for a goddess at any time, she does not ever appear to have portrayed herself as a bride. That she did not do so is consonant with my view that she and Antony never went through a wedding ceremony.66 Veils are an aspect of wedding culture that is both widespread and enduring, and the veiling of a bride is rich with symbolism. Brides are beings in transition, moving through a rite of passage that involves separation and subsequent re-incorporation into society.67 Such transition takes a bride through a liminal place (or non-place), a space outside the normal social structures. Turner says that individuals experiencing transition are thus ‘structurally invisible’. It is appropriate then to veil them, and van Gennep lists veiling (along with cutting of the hair and other common pre-nuptial rites) among the general rituals of separation and 68 transition. The νύµφη, the virginal girl, who undergoes the transition from the unmarried to the married state, is prey to malevolent forces, and the veil may serve to protect her.69 But does the veil also serve to protect others from her? Mary Douglas speaks of the spiritual power of those who travel through liminal places, and unmarried nubile girls were in some respects already uncanny creatures.70 Avatars of Artemis, ‘nymphs’ in every sense of the word, they were both highly sexual, and yet unavailable and dangerous until properly enclosed within legitimate marriage.71 Symbolically, a nymphe¯ brings the power of her own essence and her liminal experience into the marriage. This symbolism might be particularly striking when the royal bride was ‘other’, a stranger from another kingdom. The weight of dynastic continuity tended to rest on the bride and her latent fertility. Royal weddings might emphasize political power, but

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Symbol and ceremony: Royal weddings in the Hellenistic age weddings of any kind are representative of creative power. Classical Greek wedding celebrations featured ritual and ceremony intended to enhance fertility: the father of the bride would solemnly announce that he gave his daughter to the groom ‘for the ploughing of legitimate children’, and the newly-wedded couple would be showered with nuts and dried fruits as symbols of the seeds of procreation.72 Such fertility was superlatively important in royal brides. Ptolemy II – anxious that his daughter Berenike bear a royal heir – is said to have sent her Nile water to drink, the water of that river being thought to be conducive to pregnancy.73 But the power of a royal bride was not solely the creative force of her sexual fertility. Her productive, life-giving power could also be associated with symbols of empire and victory, Nike being, after all, feminine.74 The names of many royal wives and daughters of the Hellenistic era support this conceit: Nikaia, Nikesipolis, Thessalonike, Berenike, Stratonike, Polykrateia, and so on. Philip II made a habit of taking brides from each territory that he bound to himself.75 The two weddings binding Alexander the Great to his Iranian brides had differing practical motives – the marriage to Roxane was intended to appease Alexander’s new subjects in the northeastern part of his empire, while that to Stateira marked the conclusion of his campaigning – but in both cases his wedding of a woman was symbolic of his winning of a territory. ‘Who but Alexander combined nuptial songs with sieges and battle-fields?’ asks Plutarch.76 In spite of Plutarch’s implied doubt about the ability of Alexander’s successors to emulate him, the brides of other Hellenistic sovereigns were also associated with military struggles and ultimate victory. Callimachus’ poem suggests that Berenike II’s role as a bride was central to her prayers for Ptolemy III’s safety and success in war. The presence of Arsinoe II with her brother-husband at Pithom in the Second Syrian War and that of Arsinoe III with her sibling-spouse at Raphia in 217 BC also speak to the symbolic significance of royal wives in this context, even though in these examples the women were not newly-wedded brides.77 Although we know of no Hellenistic queens who actually emulated the Argead women Kynane and Adea-Eurydike by personally undertaking military training, queens were present at not a few battlefields in the Hellenistic age. Some, such as Kleopatra III or Kleopatra VII, were asserting their own authority, but in other cases – as with Arsinoe II and Arsinoe III – the presence of the queen presaged the victory of the king.78 In a more passive sense widespread symbolic notions about women as land – as fertile fields to be ploughed, in the phrase of the traditional Greek wedding ceremony – would have facilitated the representation of royal brides as symbols of victory, territory and empire. This symbolism attains

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Sheila L. Ager explicit expression in Philip II naming his daughters ‘Thessalonike’ and ‘Europa’; in the women who represented Corinth and other poleis in Philadelphos’ famous procession; in Antiochos III’s marriage to a beautiful Chalkidian girl whom he subsequently renamed ‘Euboia’; and in all the royal foundations of the Hellenistic period that were named for queens.79 While royal brides might be associated with empire, it is impossible to think (as some ancient writers did) that Antiochos III would actually have ceded the long-sought and long-fought-over territory of Koile Syria back to Ptolemaic Egypt as a dowry for his daughter Kleopatra.80 But the association of women with land and empire could certainly have facilitated the fiction that he did, and it was surely a conveniently happy enough rumour that Ptolemaic Egypt would have been loath to quash it. There remains one rather thorny issue to be discussed: the symbolism of wedding journeys and wedding venues. The communis opinio concerning royal visits in the Hellenistic period is that it was generally the weaker or lower-status party that would travel to the court of the stronger.81 Ptolemy II may have chosen not to escort his daughter as far as the Seleucid court because to do so might imply that he was subordinate to the Seleucid ruler. At the same time it has been observed that it was usually the weaker party that received the bride.82 The superior party in a marriage alliance thus imposed his own blood on the inferior party. Eumenes II rejected a marriage with the daughter of Antiochos III on the grounds that to become Antiochos’ son-in-law would give Antiochos too much authority over Eumenes’ own kingdom.83 This unfortunate aspect of the symbolism of marital alliances also explains Philip II’s anger with his son Alexander when the latter rashly betrothed himself to a daughter of Pixodaros of Karia.84 But there are many significant exceptions to these ‘rules’. In contra- distinction to the motives that may have been active in Philadelphos’ case, Ptolemy VI Philometor’s presence at his daughter’s wedding in Ptolemais- Ake may be construed as a sign of his superior power and his sponsorship of the Seleucid pretender Alexander I Balas.85 That Philometor remained in control of the situation is evident from his later decision to remove Kleopatra Thea from Balas and bestow her hand instead upon his new protégé, Demetrios II.86 As for Seleukos IV, while he did not accompany his daughter’s bridal journey to Macedon, it may only have been because the Seleucid king was barred by the Treaty of Apamea from traveling so far west. There was a long history of friendship and intermarriage between Antigonids and Seleucids, and it is doubtful that any observers would have drawn the conclusion that Seleukos’ realm was inferior to Perseus’ if the former had come to visit the latter, or, conversely, that Perseus was the weaker partner since he was taking on a Seleucid bride. And while

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Antiochos III had a penchant for marrying off his daughters to subordinate kingdoms (including Egypt), he took his own two brides from lesser stock than himself: the royal family of Pontos and a commoner family in 87 Greece. Perhaps a king able to use the appellation µέγας in his own lifetime had no need to worry about being brought down by his in-laws.

3. Directions for further research? This chapter has only scratched the surface of the topic of Hellenistic royal weddings. In spite of the scarcity of detailed sources, I think there are possibilities for pushing research forward in this area. Several recent publications have employed the lens of anthropology and sociology to examine the symbolism of royal wedding rituals and practices from the medieval to the modern period.88 There is a great deal that is universal about the royal wedding and its meaning, and much scope to examine it in the context of more up-to-date research on rhetoric, performance theory, and other avenues of approach than I have employed here. Particularly valuable would be an exploration of non-Greek cultural practices and models and what impact they might have had on the Hellenistic royal wedding. Another area that seems to me worth exploring is the possible continuing evocation of bridal status and nuptial characteristics in reference to Hellenistic queens. I have suggested that in addition to the literary record of court poetry, the material record (numismatic and sculpted portraits) also engages in such evocation. If this is so, the meaning and significance of ‘nymphic’ portrayals of the Hellenistic queen deserves further work. Such an examination could also pursue the links between weddings and (pseudo)deification of the royal couple. Finally, I think that some of our assumptions about royal visits and whether it was in some sense considered ‘demeaning’ to accept a royal bride from another kingdom deserve further attention and a more nuanced approach. There are too many contradictions, exceptions, and subtle (or significant) differences in pattern among Hellenistic royal marriages (this chapter has moreover tended to focus only on the weddings of ruling pairs). The Persian king took women from all corners of his empire, and Alexander (on a much smaller scale) did the same. No one could possibly claim that Alexander’s Bactrian father-in-law Oxyartes held the upper hand. Royal weddings, ancient or modern, are often held to inaugurate a new age.89 ‘It was such a happy day,’ said Charles Spencer of his sister Diana’s wedding to Prince Charles. ‘Everyone was so elated, and it just seemed like a new era’.90 Alexander’s marriage to Stateira in 324, along with the weddings of dozens of his Macedonian companions to Iranian women, was one of the most staggering of his court displays, and it is obvious that

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Sheila L. Ager the wedding was one of the clearest symbols of Alexander’s policy of blending Persian with Macedonian.91 The mass wedding at Susa was a climactic expression of the creation of something new: a new empire, and to go with it, a new court. Acknowledgements I am grateful to my colleague Monica d’Agostini of the University of Bologna for sharing with me her research on Seleucid royal women, and to my graduate student Michaela Tatu for her creation of a database of Hellenistic queens.

Notes 1 Witness the impeachment of American President Bill Clinton in 1998. Conversely, Queen Victoria’s position as a devoted and loving wife and mother did much to embed ‘family values’ as a signature of the Victorian Age. 2 On Hellenistic royal women see, int. al., Le Bohec 1993; Savalli-Lestrade 1997; 2003; Miron 2000; Bielman-Sánchez 2003; Cos¸kun and McAuley 2016 and the many publications by Elizabeth Carney. 3 While my intention has been to focus this paper on royal weddings rather than royal marriage, slippage has inevitably occurred. For royal marriage(s), see especially Siebert 1967; Vatin 1970, 57–114; Ogden 1999 passim. 4 See, e.g., Vatin 1970, 90. 5 Carney 2000a, 18; Vatin 1970, 62 (who may be seeking too hard to find juridical models). 6 See Redfield 1982; Oakley and Sinos 1993; Oakley 1995; Cavalier 1996; Vérilhac and Vial 1998; Llewellyn-Jones 2003. 7 Livy 27.31.8; Just. Epit. 38.8.5. 8 See further below. 9 Just. Epit. 24.2.3–10. 10 I have here defined exogamy as marriage with an individual from another state or kingdom (including vassal kingdoms) and endogamy as marriage with an individual from one’s own kingdom. A discussion of the origins and reasons for the ultra-endogamy of the Ptolemies lies beyond the scope of this paper: see Ager 2005; Buraselis 2008. 11 See Ogden 1999, 74; Vatin 1970, 77, 81; Savalli-Lestrade 2003, 62–3. 12 Polyb. 5.43.3 (Loeb). 13 Polyb. 20.8; Diod. Sic. 29.2; Plut. Flam.16; App. Syr. 16.6–9. 14 Polyb. 25.4.8–10; Livy 42.12.3; App. Mak. 11.2. 15 Just. Epit. 24.3, 38.8 (exaggerated in order to enhance the contrasting horrors of the murder of the brides’ children?). See also Diod. Sic. 16.91–3; Just. Epit. 9.6.1–3; Plut. Alex. 70.2; Polyaenus Strat. 4.6.1; I Macc. 10.58. Vatin 1970 (78–80) suggests that the ‘wedding scene’ in the cave between Jason and Medea in book 4 of Apollonios’ Argonautika may reflect real Ptolemaic weddings. 16 Given that most royal unions were patrilocal, it was usually, though not always, the bride who made the journey rather than the groom. I am not aware of any evidence for pageantry surrounding a groom’s journey. 17 I Macc. 11.2; Polyb. 25.4.8–10; Livy 42.12.3–4. The people of Delos awarded

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Laodike an honorary decree for benefactions granted to the island in the course of her journey (IG XI.4 1074). According to Livy, a similar procession accompanied Perseus’ sister on her way to marry Prusias of Bithynia (42.12.4). 18 Polyb. 25.4.10, where Perseus also presents each of the sailors with a golden gift, a στελγίς, most likely a tiara, on the basis of a comparable wedding gift at Athen. 4.128c. 19 Porph. BNJ 260 F43. See Grainger 2010, 138. 20 Porph. BNJ 260 F43; P. Cair. Zen. II 59242 and 59251; see also Reekmans 2005. 21 We have no way of knowing whether Arsinoe I was still alive. Eurydike the daughter of Antipater performed the act of ekdosis for her daughter Ptolemais when the latter married Demetrios Poliorketes (Plut. Demetr. 46.3). 22 When Antiochos II died in 246, Berenike and her young son Antiochos – who was clearly intended by the Ptolemaic side of the house to succeed his father – fell victim to the faction supporting the claims of Antiochos’ older son by Laodike, Seleukos II. 23 Polyb. 5.43.1–3. 24 Livy 35.13.4. Was the choice of Raphia intended to remove the sting of Antiochos’ defeat there in 217 BC? 25 See Lissarague 1992, 142–3. 26 Lissarague 1992; Oakley and Sinos 1993, 14–20. 27 Llewellyn-Jones 2003, chapter 8. As in antiquity, so today: virtually all modern royal brides have sported tiaras and veils (Kate Middleton wore a tiara loaned to her by Queen Elizabeth), but royalty has no monopoly on this ornament. 28 For Ptolemaic queens, see Smith 1988 pl. 75; Walker and Higgs 2001, nos. 69–71, 78–81, 93, 94 (Arsinoe III appears with the tiara, but without the veil). For the Seleucid queens, see Seleucid Coins II nos. 1318, 1332, 1368, 1371, 1407, 1421, 1422, 1441, 1477, 1840, 1841, 1843–6, 1860, 1861, 2258–62, 2265, 2268–73, 2276, 2277, 2484–6. 29 Smith 1988, 43. 30 See Austin 1986; Roy 1998. For Macedonian military dress at gala occasions see Plut. Ant. 54; Smith 1988, 32–3, notes that it was not typical to portray a Hellenistic king in civilian dress. It was evidently Macedonian custom for the bride and groom to cut the wedding-loaf with a sword (Curt. 8.4.27–8; Ogden 1999, 44); at the weddings of Prince Rainier and Grace Kelly in 1956 and King Abdullah of Jordan and Rania Al-Yassin in 1993, bride and groom together cut the wedding cake with a sword. 31 See Carney 2000a, 205–6. 32 Diod. Sic. 16.91.4 (θυσίας µεγαλοπρεπεῖς); Just. Epit. 24.3.4. Cf. Polyaenus Strat. 4.6.1. 33 Redfield 1982, 190–1; Reeder 1995, 126. 34 Callimachus Aitia 4 fr. 110 (Pfeiffer); Catullus 66. The poet Damagetos memorializes a dedication of a lock of hair to Artemis by Arsinoe (III?) (Greek Anthology 6.277); see Nachtergael 1980; Gutzwiller 1992, 372. 35 See Gutzwiller 1992; Hollis 1992; Llewellyn-Jones and Winder 2011. 36 Lasserre 1959; Vatin 1970, 78; Hague 1983; Contiades-Tsitsoni 1990; Le Bohec- Bouhet 2006. 37 Diod. Sic. 16.91.5, 93–4; see also Just. Epit. 9.6.3. 38 538e–9a. 39 Or to enhance it (see Ager 2005)?; Plut. Mor. 736e–f. 40 Plut. Alex. 70.2; Polyb. 25.4.10; Porph. BNJ 260 F43. 41 Joseph. AJ. 13.82; Diod. Sic. 16.92.1; Arr. Anab. 7.4. Cf. Athen. 4.128b–30d; on the feasting I am also tempted to compare George R. R. Martin’s description of the

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Sheila L. Ager wedding banquet of Prince Joffrey, with its fantastical seventy-seven courses, as depicted in his novel A Storm of Swords. 42 Athen. 5.185b (Loeb). Cf. also 4.131a–c. 43 See Llewellyn-Jones 2003, chapter 8. 44 Evans 2012, 82. 45 Lissarrague 1992, 144–54. 46 See Strootman 2014, 249–50, on the impressive – and fatal – procession staged by Philip II at the wedding of his daughter Kleopatra to Alexander of Epeiros. 47 Polyb. 5.43.4 (see, however, Caneva 2013, 138, who suggests that the Antioch ‘ceremony’ simply consisted of Antiochos’ public presentation of his new queen). 48 Just. Epit. 24.3. See Savalli-Lestrade 2003, 62–3, for the view that marriage would include proclamation of the royal title. 49 See Carney 1991; 2000a, 225–8. 50 Just. Epit. 38.8. Cf. also the case of Kleopatra Berenike and Ptolemy XI Alexander II (Porph. BNJ 260 F2[11]). 51 On marriage as a legitimating tool, see Carney 2000a, 201–2; Bielman-Sánchez 2003. 52 Just. Epit. 24.3.4. 53 The jugate coinage of Kleopatra Thea and Alexander Balas is typically presumed to be a marriage issue (Houghton 1988; Fleischer 1991, 76–7, nos. 43g–h and 44a; Meyer 1992/3; Seleucid Coins II nos. 1841, 1843–6). See also Hoover 2002 on the elephant coinage of Laodike IV (Seleucid Coins II nos. 1318, 1332, etc.) and Seleucid Coins I, 200 and no. 570, for speculation about a coinage issue perhaps celebrating the wedding of Berenike Phernophoros to Antiochos II. 54 See Laubscher 1995; Hölbl 2001, 37. A helmeted Ptolemy might suggest martial dress for a husband (as suggested above), but this is probably to push speculation too far. 55 Plut. Demetr. 38; App. Syr. 59–61. See Breebaart 1967; Brodersen 1985; Fischer 1993; Ogden 1999, 122–4; Müller 2004; Hillgruber 2010. The wedding of Kleopatra Selene to Antiochos X, the son of her deceased husband Antiochos IX, was structurally similar but seems to have inspired ridicule rather than romance (App. Syr. 69–70). 56 Gutzwiller 1992; Carney 2000b; Bielman-Sánchez 2003; Barbantani 2005; Llewellyn-Jones and Winder 2011, who emphasize the power of the royal sexual union (262); Carney 2013; Caneva 2013; 2014. Other Hellenistic (alleged) love-matches: Alexander and Roxane (Plut. Mor. 332e, 338d; Arrian Anab. 4.19.5–6; Curtius 8.4.22–28); Antiochos III and Euboia (Polyb. 20.8.2; Diod. Sic. 29.2; App. Syr. 16; Athen. 10.439e–f); Ptolemy IX and Kleopatra IV (Just. Epit. 39.3.2). Cf. Plut. Mor. 329d–e. 57 Hunter 2003, 129–30. 58 In the Classical Athenian model, a woman’s dowry would be under her husband’s control; given the considerable evidence we have for Hellenistic queens owning and managing property, maintaining their own officials, making their own benefactions, and so forth, we cannot assume that a Hellenistic king would control the entirety of his queen’s dowry. Cf. Ramsey 2011 and 2016. 59 See Grainger 2010 for a recent discussion. For Seleucid practice, see McAuley, this volume. 60 Polyb. 25.4.5–10, on which Berthold 1984, 174–6 and Gruen 1984, 555–6; see also section 1 above. 61 See Tondriau 1948; Austin 1986, 459–61; Ager 2005. On the exceedingly sumptuous character of royal weddings in the 18th-century Ottoman Empire, see Artan 2011. 62 The medieval Chinese emperors made a practice of sending out treasure-ships,

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Symbol and ceremony: Royal weddings in the Hellenistic age embassies that would give wealthy gifts to surrounding nations, the premise being that China was the source of all good things and that its ruler lacked for nothing; see Boorstin 1983, 192–3. On the anthropology of gift exchanges – and the royal bride herself as the ultimate gift – see Barrow 2004. 63 Many of the coins with veiled queens feature also the cornucopia, a symbol of beneficence and plenty (Schwentzel 2000). On queens being associated with weddings, see I.Iasos 4 = PHI Iasos 4 and 93 (ll. 21–5 and 84–91), on which see also Iossif and Lorber 2007, and also PHI Teos 31 (ll. 79–80); Ramsey 2011. For other evocations of queens as brides in art and literature, see Pantos 1987; Bacchielli 1995; Barbantani 2005. See also Gutzwiller 1992; Caccamo Caltabiano 1996; Jackson 2001; Parente 2002; Hunter 2003 (‘the paradigmatic marriage of Philadelphus and Arsinoe is an endlessly repeated series of “weddings”’ [191]). 64 Llewellyn-Jones 2003, 85–120. Hellenistic queens are portrayed both with and without veils. 65 See Oakley 1995, 70–1; Reeder 1995, 128. 66 Ager 2013. I do not believe the veiled bust from Cherchel, occasionally identified as Kleopatra VII, to be a portrait of the queen (Walker and Higgs 2001, no. 262). Lucia Criscuolo (1989) argues that Kleopatra never married her brothers either. As noted above, Arsinoe III appears without a veil in her coin portraits, but unlike Kleopatra, she regularly wears the tiara, and never the diadem alone. Berenike II is generally represented veiled on the precious metal coinage, but a series of bronze coins shows her diademed and veiled: Lorder 2014, 158–9. 67 See the classic interpretations of Arnold van Gennep (1960, 116–45) and Victor Turner (1967, 93–111); see also Redfield 1982; Leduc 1992; Lissarague 1992; Oakley and Sinos 1993, 3; Llewellyn-Jones 2003, passim, and particularly 215–20; Hersch 2010, 2; cf. Zanger 1997, 15–16 and passim. 68 Turner 1967, 96; van Gennep 1960, 130; cf. Llewellyn-Jones 2003, 202–6. 69 Cf. Gutzwiller 1992, 371. On the symbolic importance of the veil, see also Toutain 1940; Perentidis 1993; 2002; Llewellyn-Jones 2003; Gherchanoc 2006. 70 Douglas 1966, 94–104. 71 See Redfield 1982, 191; cf. Llewellyn-Jones 2003, 244 and chapter 9. 72 Oakley and Sinos 1993, 34; Reeder 1995, 127. 73 Athen. 2.45c. 74 Thus we find Hellenistic queens associated with warrior aspects: Luppe 2004; Stephens 2005; Carrez-Maratray 2008. See also Iossif and Lorber 2007; Pillonel 2008; Carney 2011, 200. Winged Nikai are often associated with brides in Classical vase paintings (Oakley and Sinos 1993, 20). 75 Athen. 13.557b (αἰεὶ κατὰ πόλεµον ἐγάµει). 76 Plut. Mor 332d (Loeb); see also 338d. An obvious answer to Plutarch’s question, of course, is that Alexander’s father did. 77 Polyb. 5.83–84; Hölbl 2001, 40, 131; Carney 2004; 2011. Lanciers 1988 puts the wedding of Ptolemy IV and Arsinoe III in 220 BC, though previous writers had associated it with the Battle of Raphia. 78 See Pillonel 2008. 79 Athen. 13.557b–e; 5.201e; Polyb. 20.8; Diod. Sic. 29.2; App. Syr. 16.6–9. On the royal settlements of the Hellenistic Age, see Carney 1988; Cohen 1995; 2006; Carney 2000a, 207–9; Mueller 2006; and cf. Marshall 2007. 80 App. Syr. 5; Joseph. AJ 12.154; Porph. BNJ 260 F47; Jerome Comm. Dan. 11.17;

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Polyb. 28.20. It is similarly inconceivable that Ptolemy II relinquished his portion of Syria as part of Berenike Syra’s dowry (see Hölbl 2001, 44–5). 81 See Whitehorne 1994, 81; Ogden 1999, 148. 82 See Boornazian Diel 2007 for the same pattern among Aztec elites. It is noteworthy that the ruling Ptolemies eschewed foreign brides almost from the start. 83 Polyb. 21.20; App. Syr. 5. 84 Plut. Alex. 10. 85 Joseph. AJ 13.80–2; 1 Macc. 10.51–8; Hölbl 2001, 192–3. It is perhaps significant that Ptolemy was attended by a substantial Ptolemaic military force, thereby offsetting any notion that he was the weaker party. A king who travelled to his daughter’s wedding without such a force might even have exposed himself to the danger of becoming a hostage. 86 Joseph. AJ 13.103–20; 1 Macc. 11.1.8–12; Diod. Sic. 32.9c. 87 The need to resolve the contradictions of status may have led to Antiochos III marrying his son and daughter to each other in Ptolemaic fashion (App. Syr. 4). 88 For example, Wade 1996; Saco 1997; Zanger 1997; Cornette 1999; Heesakkers 2000; Martin 2003; 2004; Barrow 2004; Canova-Green 2004; Gömöri 2004; Antenhofer 2007; Oakley-Brown and Wilkinson 2009. 89 Gutzwiller 1992; Gömöri 2004. 90 Evans 2012, 68. 91 Plut. Mor. 329d–f.

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Princess Elizabeth and Frederick of Pfalz’, Journal of European Studies 34, 215–24. Grainger, J. D. 2010 The Syrian Wars, Leiden and Boston. Gruen, E. 1984 The Hellenistic World and the Coming of Rome. Ithaca. Gutzwiller, K. 1992 ‘Callimachus’ lock of Berenice: fantasy, romance, and propaganda’, American Journal of Philology 113, 359–85. Hague, R. 1983 ‘Ancient Greek wedding songs: the tradition of praise’, Journal of Folklore Research, 20, 131–43. Heesakkers, C. L. 2000 ‘The ambassador of the Republic of Letters at the wedding of Prince Philip of Spain and Queen Mary of England: Hadrianus Junius and his Philippeis’, in J. C. Rodriguez et al. (eds), Acta Conventus Neo-Latini Abulensis 207, 325–32. Hersch, K. 2010 The Roman Wedding: Ritual and meaning in Antiquity, Cambridge. Hillgruber, M. 2010 ‘Liebe, Weisheit und Verzicht. Zu Herkunft und Entwicklung der Geschichte von Antiochos und Stratonike’, in T. Brüggemann et al. (eds), Studia Hellenistica et Historica: Festschrift für Andreas Mehl, Gutenberg, 73–102. Hölbl, G. 2001 A History of the Ptolemaic Empire, London and New York. Hollis, A. S. 1992 ‘The nuptial rite in Catullus 66 and Callimachus’ poetry for Berenice’, Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 91, 21–8. Hoover, O. D. 2002 ‘Two Seleucid notes’, American Journal of Numismatics 14, 73–87. Houghton, A. 1988 ‘The double portrait coins of Alexander I Balas and Cleopatra Thea’, Swiss Numismatic Review 67, 85–93. Hunter, R. 2003 Theocritus: Encomium of Ptolemy Philadelphus, Berkeley, Los Angeles, and London. Iossif, P. and Lorber, C. C. 2007 ‘Laodikai and the goddess Nikephoros’, L’Antiquité Classique 76, 63–88. Jackson, S. 2001 ‘Callimachus: “Coma Berenices”: origins’, Mnemosyne 54, 1–9. Lanciers, E. 1988 ‘Die Vergöttlichung und die Ehe des Ptolemaios IV. und der Arsinoe III.’, Archiv für Papyrusforschung 34, 27–32. Lasserre, F. 1959 ‘Aux origines de l’Anthologie: I. Le papyrus P. Brit. Mus. Inv. 589 (Pack 1121)’, Rheinisches Museum 102, 222–47. Laubscher, H. P. 1995 ‘Der “Kameo Gonzaga” – Rom oder Alexandria?’ Mitteilungen des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts, Athenische Abteilung 110, 387–424.

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Le Bohec, S. 1993 ‘Les reines de Macédoine de la mort d’Alexandre à celle de Persée’, Cahiers du Centre Gustave-Glotz 4, 229–45. Le Bohec-Bouhet, S. 2006 ‘Réflexions sur la place de la femme dans la Macédoine antique’, in M. V. Chatzopoulos, A.-M. Guimier-Sorbets, and Y. Morizot (eds), Rois, cités, nécropoles: rites et monuments en Macédoine, Athens, 187–98. Leduc, C. 1992 ‘Marriage in ancient Greece’, in Schmitt Pantel (ed.) 2002, 235–94. Lissarrague, F. 1992 ‘Figures of women’, in Schmitt Pantel (ed.) 2002, 139–229. Llewellyn-Jones, L. 2003 Aphrodite’s Tortoise. The Veiled Woman of Ancient Greece, Swansea. Llewellyn-Jones, L. and Winder, S. 2011 ‘A key to Berenike’s lock? The Hathoric model of queenship in early Ptolemaic Egypt’, in Erskine and Llewellyn-Jones (eds) 2011, 247–68. Lorber, C. C. 2014 ‘The royal portrait on Ptolemaic coinage’, in A. Lichtenberger et al. (eds), Bildwert. Nominalspezifische. Luppe, W. 2004 ‘Weihung eines Schweißtuches für Arsinoe: Poseidipp Kol. VI 10–17/Nr. 36’, Archiv für Papyrusforschung 50, 13–14. Marshall, E. 2007 ‘Marriage imagery and gender dynamics in Cyrene’s foundation myths: intermarriage between Cyreneans and Libyans’, in L. Gasperini and S. M. Marengo (eds), Cirene e la Cirenaica nell’ antichità, Rome, 411–32. Martin, R. 2003 ‘Archival sleuths and documentary transpositions: notes on the typology and textology of Muscovite royal wedding descriptions’, Russian History 30, 253–300. 2004 ‘Choreographing the “Tsar’s happy occasion”: tradition, change, and dynastic legitimacy in the weddings of Tsar Mikhail Romanov’, Slavic Review 63, 794–817. Meyer, M. 1992/3 ‘Mutter, Ehefrau und Herrscherin. Darstellungen der Königin auf seleukidischen Münzen’, Hephaistos 11/12: 107–32. Miron, D. 2000 ‘Transmitters and representatives of power: royal women in ancient Macedonia’, Ancient Society 30, 35–52. Mueller, K. 2006 Settlements of the Ptolemies. City Foundations and New Settlements in the Hellenistic World, Leuven. Müller, C. W. 2004 ‘Der König, der kranke Prinz und der kluge Arzt. Eine hellenistische Novelle in kaiserzeitlicher Brechung’, in J. P. Clausen (ed.), Iubilet cum Bonna Rhenus, Berlin, 91–114.

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Nachtergael, G. 1980 ‘Bérénice II, Arsinoé III et l’offrande de la boucle’, Chronique d’Égypte 55, 240–53. Oakley, J. H. 1995 ‘Nuptial nuances: wedding images in non-wedding scenes of myth’, in Reeder 1995, 63–73. Oakley, J. H. and Sinos, R. 1993 The Wedding in Ancient Athens, Madison and London. Oakley-Brown, L. and Wilkinson, L. J. (eds) 2009 The Rituals and Rhetoric of Queenship: Medieval to Early Modern, Dublin. Ogden, D. 1999 Polygamy, Prostitutes, and Death. The Hellenistic Dynasties, London. Pantos, P. A. 1987 ‘Bérénice II Démèter’, Bulletin de correspondance hellénique 111, 343–52. Parente, A. R. 2002 ‘Ritrattistica e simbologia sulle monete di Arsinoe II’, Numismatica e antichità classiche 31, 259–80. Perentidis, S. 1993 ‘Dévoilement rituel et cadeau nuptial en Grèce et à Byzance: continuité ou rupture?’ Revue historique de droit français et étranger 71, 1–18. 2002 Pratiques de mariage et nuances de continuité dans le monde grec, Montpellier. Pillonel, C. 2008 ‘Les reines hellénistiques sur les champs de bataille’, in Bertholet et al. (eds) 2008, 117–45. Ramsey, G. 2011 ‘The queen and the city: royal female intervention and patronage in Hellenistic civic communities’, Gender and History 23.3, 510–27. 2016 ‘The diplomacy of Seleukid women: Apama and Stratonike’, in A. Cos¸kun and A. McAuley (eds), Seleukid Royal Women. Creation, Representation and Distortion of Hellenistic Queenship in the Seleukid Empire, Stuttgart, 87–104. Redfield, J. 1982 ‘Notes on the Greek wedding’, Arethusa 15, 181–201. Reeder, E. D. (ed.) 1995 Pandora: Women in Classical Greece, Princeton. Reekmans, T. 2005 ‘Les préparatifs du départ de Bérénice pour la Syrie’, Chronique d’Égypte 80, 219–28. Roy, J. 1998 ‘The masculinity of the Hellenistic king’, in L. Foxhall and J. Salmon (eds), When Men Were Men: Masculinity, Power and Identity in Classical Antiquity, London and New York, 111–135. Saco, D. 1997 ‘Gendering sovereignty: marriage and international relations in Elizabethan times’, European Journal of International Relations 3(3), 219–318. Savalli-Lestrade, I. 1997 ‘Il ruolo pubblico delle regine ellenistiche’, in S. Alessandri (ed.), Ἱστορίη: studi offerti dagli allievi a Giuseppe Nenci, Galatina, 415–32.

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2003 ‘La place des reines à la cour et dans le royaume à l’époque hellénistique’, in R. Frei-Stolba, A. Bielman, and O. Bianchi (eds), Les femmes antiques entre sphère privée et sphère publique, Berne, 59–76. Schmitt Pantel, P. (ed) 1992 A History of Women in the West I: From Ancient Goddesses to Christian Saints, Cambridge and London. Trans. A. Goldhammer. Schwentzel, C. G. 2000 ‘Les cornes d’abondance ptolémaïques dans la numismatique’, Cahiers de recherches de l’Institut de Papyrologie et d’Égyptologie de Lille 21, 99–103. Siebert, J. 1967 Historische Beiträge zu den dynastischen Verbindungen in hellenistischer Zeit, Wiesbaden. Smith, R. R. R. 1988 Hellenistic Royal Portraits, Oxford. Stephens, S. 2005 ‘Battle of the books’, in K. Gutzwiller (ed.), The New Posidippus: A Hellenistic poetry book, Oxford, 229–48. Strootman, R. 2014 Courts and Elites in the Hellenistic Empires. The Near East after the Achaemenids, c. 330 to 30 BCE, Edinburgh. Tondriau, J.-L. 1948 ‘La tryphè: philosophie royale ptolémaïque’, Revue des études anciennes 50, 49–54. Toutain, J. 1940 ‘Le rite nuptial de l’anakalypterion’, Revue des études anciennes 1940, 345–53. Turner, V. 1967 The Forest of Symbols, Ithaca. Van Gennep, A. 1960 The Rites of Passage, London. Vatin, C. 1970 Recherches sur le mariage et la condition de la femme mariée à l’époque hellénistique, Paris. Vérilhac, A.-M. and Vial, C. 1998 Le mariage grec du VI e siècle av. J.-C. à l’époque d’Auguste, Paris. Wade, M. 1996 Triumphus Nuptialis Danicus. German Court Culture and Denmark: The ‘Great Wedding’ of 1634, Wiesbaden. Walker, S. and Higgs, P. (eds) 2001 Cleopatra of Egypt: From history to myth, Princeton. Whitehorne, J. 1994 Cleopatras, London. Zanger, A. E. 1997 Scenes from the Marriage of Louis XIV: Nuptial fictions and the making of absolutist power, Stanford.

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ONCEASELEUCID,ALWAYSASELEUCID: SELEUCIDPRINCESSESANDTHEIR NUPTIALCOURTS

Alex McAuley

Just as the Seleucid royal family was a far larger group than the reigning king, queen, and heir, the realm of Seleucid dynastic politics similarly extended beyond the confines of the main house and into the courts of the various subordinate dynasts who played a pivotal role in the administration of the Empire. Seleucid preference for rule via regional client proxy over direct administration of conquered territory has been well discussed, as have the means by which the Seleucid kings subordinated these regional potentates militarily, politically, and economically.1 What has received less attention – though perhaps of equal importance in the broader framework of imperial strategy – is how the Seleucids interacted with their regional clients in the dynastic arena. As they were stitched into the imperial fold with pledges of loyalty, the newly-recognised kings of Cyrene, Cappadocia, and Armenia were likewise brought into the extended Seleucid family through a series of diplomatic marriages to Seleucid princesses, generally a daughter or sister of the reigning king. The tie of marriage was naturally meant to buttress the dynast’s bonds of allegiance with an added strand of interrelation, further intertwining the fates of subordinate and overlord. Yet these marriages were far from being either instantaneous or even purely emblematic markers of solidarity: rather they signify only the beginning of a longer pattern of Seleucid intervention in the courtly politics of their clients.2 The principal agents of such persistent interference, I shall argue, were the same Seleucid princesses whose marriages sealed these alliances in the first place. These women were neither meant to be merely passive tokens of legitimacy – i.e. the recognition within and without a kingdom of a reigning monarch’s (and family’s) rightful claim to rule – nor did they forfeit their connection to the house of their birth upon marriage. Instead they remained closely attuned to the currents of favour and opinion of both their nuptial and natal houses, frequently intervening in the affairs of

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Alex McAuley the former in service of the interests of the latter. My aim in this chapter is to examine the role of such Seleucid women in their nuptial courts, to consider if and how they steered the course of the dynasties into which they married by the manipulation of the court, and lastly how they fit into the broader mechanism of imperial administration. To do so, I shall examine the career, as it were, of four such women: Apama of Cyrene, Stratonike of Cappadocia, Antiochis of Cappadocia, and Antiochis of Armenia.3 Having considered them individually, I shall then turn to a more general consideration of their place within royal ideology, and suggest possible precedents.

1. Prefatory remarks By way of preface I ought to make three remarks to situate the current discussion within the growing corpus of scholarly literature on Hellenistic royal women. First, despite the remarkable progress of research on royal women of late, there is still a nearly omnipresent tendency amongst scholars to focus solely on the reigning queen of a particular dynasty and to take her as paradigmatic of royal women in general; the place of the most prominent female is seen as representative of the place of every other female in the dynasty.4 Yet this to me seems akin to looking only at part of the picture and presuming it stands in for the rest, and we do so at the expense of recognising the diversity of female influence amongst the Seleucids or any other Hellenistic dynasty. While elsewhere we can acknowledge the primacy of the ‘nuclear family’ of King/Husband, Queen/Wife, and Son/Heir in Seleucid dynastic practice and self- representation, its prominence does not equate to exclusivity and we must remember that the royal family was much larger than just this reigning triad. Simply because a Seleucid woman is excluded from the immediate nuclear family does not imply that she likewise falls out of royal ideology (here used to mean the attitudes, norms, and sentiments that guide the internal and external conduct of a dynasty), nor does it mean that she is relegated to dynastic obscurity.5 These ‘secondary’ women – considered such because they are not part of the path of ‘primary’ succession – have perhaps an equally important, albeit markedly different, part to play as their more prominent female relatives. It is not my intention here to undermine unquestionably valuable existing research on royal females; instead I aim to broaden the scope of our analysis with the inclusion of these ‘secondary’ women as diversifying influences on more monolithic models of Hellenistic royalty. Secondly, when such ‘secondary’ women do fall under scholarly scrutiny they tend to be dismissed as one-time-use diplomatic commodities with

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Once a Seleucid, always a Seleucid: Seleucid princesses and their nuptial courts symbolic utility and little else.6 An interpretative consensus has emerged in which secondary women enjoy momentary prominence at the time of their marriage as part of a diplomatic manoeuvre then promptly fade out of consideration. In these arrangements they have little sway and are given even less agency. They are described as ‘legitimating tokens’ and, in the case of Kleopatra Thea, as being given away ‘as if she were a piece of furniture.’7 Bielman-Sánchez, I believe, neatly captures such sentiments with her assertion that ‘les hommes demeuraient les maîtres d’un jeu dont les femmes étaient les pions passifs’ (Men remained the masters of a game in which women were passive pawns).8 Along with this approach comes the perception that the attachment of such women to their natal houses – both abstractly in terms of identity, and practically in terms of communication – was severed by their marriage to another dynasty.9 Yet the proliferation of research on the court has shown that the highest echelons of Hellenistic dynasties were strikingly diverse environments, filled with nuanced roles and expectations, and it seems that we ought to look for (and indeed embrace) the same complexity within the royal families that we find amongst their retinue. My overarching methodological aim is thus to demonstrate quite the opposite of these prevailing sentiments. These women maintained a very active and close connection to the house of their birth, and if anything they did not fully come to dynastic prominence until their betrothal to another house. Finally, when I use the term ‘Hellenization’ I do so with hesitation. I do not want to imply the complete transformation of a kingdom along Classical Greek norms, but rather I intend the term to mean the conscious emulation of Hellenistic royal culture (material and otherwise) and practice amongst a comparatively narrow, traditionally non-Greek elite.10 It is, I would argue, a strictly confined process, and one that is geared more towards external dialogue with other ‘Hellenistic’ polities than the communication of power and status internally. They were, in essence, adopting and adapting the conventions of the highest stratum of Hellenistic potentates as a means of gaining access to it.

2. Apama of Cyrene To begin we turn to Cyrene in 275, on the eve of the outbreak of the First Syrian War. Though Magas – son of Berenike in her first marriage and thus stepson of Ptolemy I – had been a loyal Ptolemaic administrator during the reign of his stepfather, after the accession of his stepbrother Ptolemy II there appeared a growing rift between Alexandria and the Cyrenaica.11 Precisely why Magas was gradually estranged from the Ptolemies remains obscure, though it seems likely that a combination of

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Alex McAuley personal ambition coupled with mounting antagonism between the Cyrenaean governor and Philadelphos are to blame.12 Magas’ disaffection with his present station must have caught the eye of Antiochos I as he was manoeuvring against Ptolemy II in Syria. Although Pausanias suggests that Magas, already married to Apama, incited his Seleucid father-in-law to break his treaty with the Ptolemies, I would argue that our source has reversed both the chronology and the impetus behind Magas’ rebellion.13 I think it more likely that Antiochos solicited Cyrenaean support for his campaign against Egypt and approached Magas with the prospect of an alliance.14 This alliance, once struck, was then sealed by the marriage of Antiochos’ daughter Apama to the Cyrenaean potentate.15 With this shift in allegiance came a concurrent shift in status for Magas, who was elevated to the rank of basileus by the support of the Seleucids.16 Transferred to Cyrene in confirmation of a new alliance, Apama’s presence in Libya brought with it a wellspring of legitimacy for the emergent king of a newly-minted Hellenistic kingdom. The Seleucid woman, for her part, thus plays the role of king-maker by imparting some measure of Seleucid recognition and stature to her husband. While the revolt of Magas proved unsuccessful, he was neither immediately reconciled with Alexandria nor did he cease to act as an independent Hellenistic king.17 With his Seleucid bride by his side at court, the Cyrenaean monarch acted as any king in the period was wont to do: coinage bearing his name and Cyrenaean symbols was struck, as were treaties with Crete and elsewhere.18 The basileus led campaigns against Libyan tribes and in return was honoured with votive inscriptions and perhaps a royal cult as well.19 Mentions of Cyrene in Plutarch and Athenaeus reveal the presence of a literary court, and Magas himself was renowned for his justice and temperance.20 His repute was such that he was listed alongside Antiochos, Ptolemy, and Antigonos on the decree of King Ashoka, the Mauryan Emperor who sent Buddhist emissaries throughout the Eastern Mediterranean.21 None of this, I suspect, would have been possible without the support of the Seleucids, incarnate in his prestigious bride. Apama, for her part, had a far bigger role to play than simply that of legitimating symbol. Though she fades into obscurity after her marriage, she reappears after the death of her husband in c. 250 and intervenes in the Cyrenaean court in a manner that reveals both her sensitivity to broader political developments, and the longevity of her attachment to her nuptial house. Roughly a decade before his death, Magas had settled his differences with Philadelphos in a reconciliation that was meant to be symbolically confirmed with the marriage of his daughter, Berenike, to the future

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Ptolemy III.22 It would seem that the abolition of the Seleucid-Cyrenaean alliance – an alliance sealed by her own marriage – which this betrothal signified was an insufferable prospect for Apama, who acted quickly after Magas’ death to realign the kingdom with Seleucid interests. Presumably for lack of an eligible Seleucid male for her daughter to marry, Apama instead sought the next best thing. Justin recounts that she petitioned Antigonos Gonatas for a replacement groom, who then sent his half- brother Demetrios Kalos to wed the Cyrenaean princess.23 Though Justin refers to her as ‘Arsinoe,’ the lack of any other attested wife for Magas along with the distinctly Seleucid flavour of Apama’s intervention leaves me in little doubt that our source made neither his first nor his last onomastic mistake.24 Apama’s choice of an Antigonid husband for Berenike was as convenient as it was calculating: the first half of the third century revolves around the alliance of the Antigonids and Seleucids against the Ptolemies, a trend that had continued with the accession of Antiochos II. The new Seleucid king had just renewed this with the marriage of his sister Stratonike to Gonatas’ son Demetrios II.25 Apama’s importation of an Antigonid groom not only steered Cyrene back into line with the Seleucids, but also provided another reinforcing link in the alliance between her nuptial house and their allies.26 Yet for Apama to have made such a replacement successfully also reveals the depth of her influence at court: to intervene against the plans of her husband must have required the support of both the elite of the city and of the military. Justin (26.3.4–8) then goes on to recount a tale of scandalous intrigue in the Cyrenaean court: according to the Epitomator, once Demetrios Kalos arrived in Cyrene his passions were directed not towards his young wife Berenike, but her mother, Apama. The two pursue an illicit affair which, combined with the resentment his haughty bearing engendered among the city’s citizenry, gave rise to a conspiracy to overthrow him. Popular support then rallied around Berenike, and the conspirators barged in on the incestuous couple in flagrante delicto. Despite Apama’s desperate pleas to save her lover, Kalos is killed, and she in turn is overthrown. While these alleged sexual escapades seem like little more than typically Justinian intrigue and debaucherous fluff, I suspect there may be a kernel of truth in his account of resentment towards the abuses of Demetrios being translated into popular support for Berenike.27 Although Apama’s intervention in Cyrenaean succession was ultimately unsuccessful, the attempt is telling in itself. That she actively and decisively manipulated her nuptial court in order to realign it with Seleucid interests after over 25 years of marriage speaks to the longevity of her attachment to her Seleucid roots, as well as

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Alex McAuley her enduring loyalty to the interests of her brother.28 In the same vein, that she remained so closely attuned to political developments shows that she was far from an out-of-touch bystander on the fringes of the political scene, but rather an active player in her own right. The two principal patterns that I wish to highlight in the career of Apama are first her immense symbolic (and perhaps actual) role in the legitimation of Magas as a Hellenistic king, and thus Cyrene as a Hellenistic kingdom, and second her active and decisive intervention in her nuptial court in promotion of Seleucid interests. These two motifs, so prominently visible in her ‘career’, are ones that we shall see reappear elsewhere in the Seleucid Empire.

3. Stratonike of Cappadocia Turning from Cyrene to Asia Minor, we see that the foundations of Seleucid intervention in the Cappadocian court were first laid by Stratonike, daughter of Antiochos II, who arrived at the court as another diplomatic bride.29 While Stratonike did not intervene in Cappadocian politics with the flair or panache of Apama, she nevertheless provides a prime example of how these secondary women acted as catalysts of the Hellenization of the kingdoms into which they married. In her career, we see a rather different, more passive, side of such secondary female influence that was nevertheless impactful. The Cappadocian court that developed during her lifetime would later provide the milieu in which subsequent Seleucid women – especially Stratonike’s descendant Antiochis – would manoeuvre with such profound effect, and thus this process of the Hellenization of the court merits further consideration.30 During the first half of the third century, what would become the Cappadocian kingdom had been persistently beset by Gallic invasions and competition with the rival dynasts of Anatolia.31 The family of Ariamnes, formerly an Iranian Achaemenid satrapal line, had gradually managed to consolidate enough influence to enforce some measure of control over the region. To buttress his as-yet tenuous claim to authority, Ariamnes sought an alliance with Antiochos II Theos in c. 250.32 Antiochos II, for his part, seemed more than willing to permit Cappadocia some semblance of independence so long as its fealty was guaranteed. The alliance was sealed with the marriage of Ariamnes’ son Ariarathes (III) to Antiochos’ daughter, Stratonike. Although the precise date of the marriage is difficult to discern, I place it between 255 and 250 since by that point Stratonike would have been of marriageable age.33 Regardless of the date, we see the familiar mechanism at work: a fledgling regional dynast seeks the support of the prestigious Seleucids to

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Once a Seleucid, always a Seleucid: Seleucid princesses and their nuptial courts strengthen his domestic position, which support is then given along with a Seleucid bride. Stratonike’s presence in court was again an ever-present reminder of the Seleucid backing for Ariamnes and Ariarathes, and having a Seleucid princess in the family gave it a level of prestige that could not be matched by rival claimants. The Seleucids, for their part, were able to delegate regional control to a local dynasty that was now related to the main family. Stratonike again became the symbol of both this delegation of control and the newly forged link between the Cappadocian kingdom and the Seleucid Empire. What is of most interest to our current discussion is the almost immediate imitation of Seleucid dynastic practice by the Cappadocians concurrent with the marriage. In the same passage in which Diodorus recounts the alliance, he also mentions that the Cappadocian king named his son co-ruler at the time of his marriage: Of his three sons Ariamnes, the eldest, inherited the kingdom; he arranged a marital alliance with Antiochos (called Theos), whose daughter Stratonike he married to his eldest son Ariarathes. And being a man unusually devoted to his children, he placed the diadem upon his son’s head, made him joint ruler, and shared with him on equal terms all the privileges of kingship.34 The simultaneity of Ariarathes’ marriage to Stratonike and his appointment as co-regent imitates not only Seleucid dynastic ideology but literal practice. The entire scenario is unmistakably reminiscent of Antiochos I’s concurrent marriage and co-regency in 292/1: the concerned father, seeking to secure his dynastic future and clearly delineate the path of succession, gives a strategically important bride to his favoured son at the same time as he announces his share in the rule of the kingdom.35 The bride herself is thus both a symbol of and support to the young co-regent’s legitimacy, while the entire mechanism functions as a sort of pre-mortem succession. Although the precise dynamics of the rather ‘unique’ Seleucid example, in which Seleukos I transferred his own (much younger) wife to his son Antiochos at the same time as he made him co-regent, were impossible to mimic (Stratonike was not Ariarathes’ stepmother), the concurrence of the two acts is nevertheless striking. With this manoeuvre it seems that Ariamnes was mimicking the Seleucid concept of the ‘nuclear family,’ albeit with a slightly reorganized structure.36 Cappadocian dynastic ideology was thus consciously modelled after the example of their Seleucid overlords, and was put into practice at the same time as the Seleucid princess arrived in the court. It is therefore safe to conclude that the Cappadocians accepted both a representative of the Seleucids and their dynastic mechanisms with the marriage of Stratonike and the future king Ariarathes III.

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Fig. 8.1: Silver tetradrachm of Ariarathes V, dated to 133/132 BC. Obverse: diademed portrait of Ariarathes V. Reverse: Athena with Nike. Simonetta 2, SNG von Aulock 6263 (courtesy of Classical Numismatic Group, www.cngcoins.com)

The Hellenization – or perhaps ‘Seleucidization’ – of Cappadocian dynastic practice is only part of a much broader swathe of cultural realignment that occurred during and after the reign of Ariamnes. Just as in Cyrene, the marriage also marked the emergence of Cappadocia as a recognized kingdom when Ariamnes was elevated to basileus by his Seleucid patrons. While it is likely that his family had claimed kingship over the region for several generations, the title would have been rather empty – especially to the Greek world – until he gained recognition from the Seleucids. The dynasts shed their Iranian roots and instead adopted the guise of Greek kings, minting coins with Athena and Nike on the reverse and their own diademed portraits on the obverse (Fig. 8.1).37 By bringing the Seleucid bride into its court, Cappadocia was bringing itself into a much broader world of Greek politics to which Stratonike provided access. Rather than the bride being grafted into the identity and traditions of her nuptial house, it appears that quite the opposite occurred in Cappadocia: the house into which Stratonike married quickly adopted the identity of her natal house. Instead of subsuming her into their own practices, they were subsumed into the Seleucid dynastic tradition. This, I believe, stands as a stark indication that such women did not cease being Seleucid upon marriage but rather persisted as both icons of their natal house and bearers of its tradition.

4. Antiochis of Cappadocia With the seeds of Hellenism having been sown in the Cappadocian court during the lifetime of Stratonike, the next Seleucid princess to be married into the dynasty would enter a somewhat more familiar environment. The bonds of allegiance and interrelation between the houses were renewed with the marriage of Antiochis, daughter of Antiochos III, to Ariarathes IV

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– who would have been her cousin given the previous intermarriage of the two dynasties.38 As with Stratonike, the precise date of the marriage is uncertain: although Appian mentions that this manoeuvre is part of a broader attempt to consolidate his allies against the Romans, the ages of those involved suggest that perhaps it was instead part of Antiochos III’s reconsolidation of Asia Minor.39 The former scenario would place the marriage closer to 196, while the latter around 210–205. Regardless, the marriage’s fundamentally diplomatic character and strategic function remain essentially the same. Antiochis, like her predecessor Stratonike, sealed the alliance with her marriage and in her person represented the Seleucid mandate of the Cappadocians.40 Yet as with Apama, Antiochis had much more than the role of momentary symbol to play, and neither was she a purely passive addition to the Cappadocian court. Bevan’s characteristically pithy comment that Ariarathes ‘was no mate for one of those tigresses whom the old Macedonian blood continued to produce’ in this case is perhaps more insightful than hyperbolic.41 Diodorus relates a bizarre episode in which the beguiling Antiochis foists two false sons on her unsuspecting husband: Ariarathes...in turn married a daughter of Antiochos (the Great), Antiochis by name, an utterly unscrupulous woman (ὀνοµαζοµένην Ἀντιοχίδα, πανοῦργον µάλιστα). Failing to have children, she palmed off on her unwitting husband two supposititious sons, Ariarathes and Holophernes. After a certain time, however, she ceased to be barren and unexpectedly bore two daughters and a single son, named Mithridates. Thereupon, after revealing the truth to her husband, she arranged for the elder of the supposititious sons to be sent off to Rome with a suitable stipend, and the younger to Ionia, in order to avoid any dispute with the legitimate son over the kingdom.42 Diodorus’ account is as vexing as it is lacking in detail. The entire affair smacks of the sort of scandalous female court intrigue that pervades Justin and thus cannot be taken as purely literal. So what are we to make of this alleged deception of naive Ariarathes by his beguiling wife? I ought to make three observations that allow us to unravel the dynamics of power and influence at work. First, whenever Diodorus – or any ancient author, for that matter – speaks of a wicked or morally corrupt woman (in this case ‘πανοῦργος µάλιστα’), I generally take it not as an indication of their inherent morality but rather as a sign of their influence. As has been extensively noted, Greek authors both fear and decry the influence of women in the male arena of politics and thus the more a woman is derided by the ancient sources, the greater her influence was in actuality.43 Especially in Diodorus, women are particularly disparaged when they do not behave as merely passive figures,

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Alex McAuley and have the potential to sow domestic discord and mislead the men around them.44 Whether or not such pejorative judgements are even partially accurate reflections of their character cannot be known, but at the very least we can take them as a sign of their clout. We can thus safely assume that Antiochis was influential in the affairs of the Cappadocian court, and this influence accounts for Diodorus’ disparaging dismissal of her as ‘utterly unscrupulous.’ Second, consideration of historical context begins to shed some light on Antiochis’ motivations. Although Ariarathes IV was at first a loyal ally of Antiochos III, after his overlord’s crushing defeats at Thermopylai and Magnesia and the crippling terms of Apamea, the Cappadocian decided to abandon the sinking ship of the Seleucids and cast his lot elsewhere.45 Ariarathes became a friend of the Roman Senate, struck an alliance with the Attalids, and even went so far as to marry one of his daughters to Eumenes.46 During the period in which Antiochis was resident in the court, Cappadocian allegiance to the Seleucids – which her marriage was meant to reinforce and symbolize – thus gradually faded as the kingdom aligned itself instead with their antagonists. Third, if we reduce Antiochis’ intervention to its most basic elements and strip away the more fantastical details, it becomes evident that the actions of the Seleucid princess pertain entirely to the realm of succession. Regardless of the accusations of scandal and immorality, Antiochis was clearly involving herself in steering the path of Cappadocian succession. By bringing two sons to prominence in the Cappadocian court she was attempting to bolster their case for succession, then her subsequent denunciation of them essentially disqualified them. Branded as illegitimate and despatched to Rome and Ionia, Ariarathes and Holophernes were removed from innermost circles of the court in both a literal and figurative sense.47 Having done away with her two now-undesirable candidates, Antiochis then put forward her favoured son Mithridates – the future Ariarathes V – as the clear successor. Given Diodorus’ lack of elaboration we are left with little more than speculation as to why Antiochis would have dismissed these two potential claimants. Other episodes in Seleucid history reveal the same mechanism of substituting one heir for another, more desirable candidate, namely the accession of Antiochos II in place of his older brother Seleukos who was killed on grounds of conspiracy. Perhaps Apama’s replacement of Ptolemy III with Demetrios Kalos provides an analogous situation, in which Antiochis would have sensed that either of her two sons would have been unsympathetic to Seleucid interests and replaced them with the more malleable Mithridates. Bearing in mind the date of her marriage and the

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Once a Seleucid, always a Seleucid: Seleucid princesses and their nuptial courts context of the 160s and 150s BC which Diodorus describes in book 31, perhaps Antiochis feared that the kingdom would lean too far towards the Romans and the Attalids if either of the two sons were to succeed, and hence replaced them with the more sympathetic Ariarathes.48 As we shall shortly see in the case of Antiochis of Armenia, in the post-Apamea climate such fears regarding loyalty were not unfounded. Whether or not the manoeuvre worked is another question which is beyond the scope of this chapter, and while the tumult of the 150s BC in Cappadocia merits further examination, Antiochis’ attempt is revealing regardless of its success or failure. In this broader strategic context, then, Antiochis’ actions become strikingly similar to Apama’s manipulation of Cyrenaean succession. In Cyrene, Apama intervened in succession by manipulating the court with the aim of realigning the kingdom with Seleucid interests after Magas’ machinations threatened to return it to the Ptolemaic fold; a change of dynastic allegiance in her nuptial house prompted her intervention. I would argue that the same scenario occurred in Cappadocia: Antiochis, realizing that her nuptial house had drifted away from her father, decided to take matters into her own hands. By promoting a favoured candidate who would presumably prove more friendly to Seleucid interests, Antiochis, just like Apama, was promoting the interests of her natal house by wielding her influence in her nuptial court. As long as Cappadocia remained allied with the Seleucids, Antiochis appears to have been contentedly idle, but after the client dynasty reneged on its allegiance to her brother, Antiochis intervened with the aim of steering it back onto a Seleucid course. Her orchestration of dynastic succession seems to have worked quite well, as her favoured son Mithridates came to the throne after his father’s death and took the name Ariarathes (V). I ought to make brief mention of Ariarathes and his reign in order to underscore the effects of both Antiochis’ short-term intervention and the longer-term Hellenization of the Cappadocian court. Ariarathes V was the first Cappadocian monarch to garner substantial recognition in the Greek- speaking world, and Diodorus’ praise of the king’s philhellenism reveals at once the extent of his involvement in Greek affairs, and the depth to which his Greek education – likely arranged by his mother – took root.49 His cultivation of art, philosophy, and literature in his kingdom, his patronage of a literary court, and his benefaction towards his friends and allies serve to demonstrate how fully he had embraced the courtly traditions of the Greek world. While it would perhaps be unrealistic to attribute either his reign or his philhellenism exclusively to his mother, I would argue that Antiochis nonetheless exerted a profound influence on the young king by

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Alex McAuley her engineering of the line of succession and her role in the upbringing and education of her young son. As with Apama, Antiochis’ machinations met with mixed results: while she succeeded in clearing a path to dynastic primacy for her chosen son, that son eventually proved to be a stronger ally to Rome than to the Seleucids. Regardless of the outcome, the effort and the attempt are still telling. In the case of Antiochis we again see that neither geography nor time seems to have caused her Seleucid roots to fade. The recurrent themes of the Seleucid princess as a catalyst – either active or passive – of the Hellenization of the client dynasty, and her courtly intervention in succession to serve Seleucid interests again reveal the depth and endurance of the loyalty of such Seleucid women to the house of their birth.

5. Antiochis of Armenia While there was perhaps a subtlety to Antiochis’ influence on the Cappadocian court, for our final example we turn to the much more direct intervention of her homonymous aunt in her own nuptial court of Armenia. The circumstances leading to her marriage are similarly uncomplicated. Like many subordinate dynasts, Xerxes of Armenia revolted against the young Antiochos III during the tremulous early years of the Seleucid king’s reign. Yet the revolt proved short-lived, as Antiochos III swept through Armenia in 212 and the rebellious Xerxes promptly surrendered at Armosata.50 Polybius recounts that despite emphatic calls from the intimates of Antiochos at court to do away with him, Antiochos instead decided to use Xerxes as a display of his mercy and clemency.51 Pardoning the now-penitent Xerxes, Antiochos accepted his pledges of loyalty, recognised his subordinate rule in Armenia, reduced his tribute, and gave him his sister Antiochis to marry.52Again, the marriage of the Seleucid princess at first had the predominantly symbolic function of confirming the alliance, but in this instance it seems that Antiochis was meant to serve as a warning to Xerxes as well as a symbol of Seleucid recognition of his continued right to rule. Antiochis’ continued presence at court then must have been an ominous reminder of Xerxes’ dependence on the mercy of Antiochos, as well as the persistent spectre of his authority. As much as it could be a potent source of legitimation and recognition, having such a Seleucid princess as a bride was generally a double-edged sword. At first it seems that Antiochis was meant to keep an eye on her previously-rebellious husband both passively by her mere presence at court and actively by monitoring the affairs of the Armenians. For a time this appears to have worked reasonably well: Xerxes’ loyalty was assured,

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Seleucid control of Armenia was successfully delegated to a local subordinate, and all the while Antiochos, Polybius tells us, enjoyed the gratitude of the Armenians for such a magnanimous display of mercy.53 At an uncertain point after his renewed subordination to Antiochos III – likely after the Peace of Apamea, given the trend – Xerxes’ loyalty began to waver. A fragment of John of Antioch relates what I consider to be a completely plausible scenario: sensing that her husband was about to rebel, at the behest of her brother Antiochis took matters into her own hands and simply did away with her insubordinate husband by murdering him.54 Chahin captures the sheer pragmatism behind the move nicely when he writes that she did so ‘to put an end to the embarrassing situation.’55 With the murder of Xerxes, the head of the rebellious element in the Armenian court was at least temporarily removed, and the kingdom’s continued standing as a Seleucid client appeared assured for the moment. In the aftermath of Xerxes’ assassination, Armenia is enveloped by evidentiary darkness although we can surmise that at least parts of the kingdom remained within the Seleucid orbit for the next decades.56 For the time being, Antiochis’ unsubtle intervention succeeded. Aside from being indicative that the ultimate loyalty of Antiochis was to her brother and not to her husband or his kingdom, the Armenian case is telling of the practical purpose of these Seleucid women in their nuptial courts. Antiochis’ murder of Xerxes was neither spontaneous nor completely independent, and rather reveals that the young Seleucid had been placed in the Armenian court with the very pragmatic intention of keeping her brother informed about the conduct of his sometime subordinate. In this she was as much an active agent of Antiochos III’s interests as she was a symbol of them; her role was not meant to be passive in either preconception or in execution. Rather her brother seems to have placed her in Armenia because he was well aware that he could count on her persistent loyalty to her natal family and to him in particular, and that if called upon she would act in service of Seleucid interests even if it was to the detriment of her husband’s kingdom. The example of Antiochis in Armenia, for all of its simplicity, is perhaps the most telling of all the trends we have considered thus far. Her symbolic role in the reconciliation of Xerxes and her brother is self-evident, as is her persistent loyalty to her natal house and her willingness to intervene in the house into which she married. Perhaps most telling, though, is the observation that Antiochos III consciously used his sister as a reliable agent of imperial administration by marrying her to a particularly troublesome dynast. Her role in the entire episode reveals not only the extent of her loyalty, but moreover the extent of her brother’s trust in that loyalty and in her capabilities. Antiochis was

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Alex McAuley neither meant to be, nor was she, a mere piece of diplomatic furniture adorning the Armenian court.

6. Patterns and conclusions The most prominent common threads that run through the marriages and careers of these four ‘secondary’ women are their inherently diplomatic character, and their inseparable link with the consolidation and administration of the empire. In addition to their dynastic role as representatives of Seleucid prestige whose marriages symbolized a newly-forged political link between two houses, I hope that I have shown that these women had a practical utility in maintaining not only this diplomatic relationship itself, but also its character and direction throughout their married lives. They did so passively by means of their mere presence, and actively by more direct intervention in their nuptial courts when they felt it necessary. The placement of such secondary women in the courts of Seleucid clients nuances the feudalistic model of Seleucid imperialism elaborated most recently by David Engels by providing another subtle mechanism of surveillance and control.57 Although the Seleucids had fairly restricted options when it came to policing and influencing local administrators, they were not entirely without such choices. There is a subtlety to the use of such secondary women as a means of ensuring the loyalty of regional subordinates that reveals the Seleucids to be perhaps unwilling (or unable) to resort to more overt tactics, but that also shows them to be somewhere between suspicious and distrustful of their subordinates. The interventions of these women in their respective nuptial courts also suggests that while the Seleucids were content to give their subordinates an air of regional autonomy, in practice they were on something of a shorter leash. The mere presence of a Seleucid woman in court was a constant reminder that imperial eyes were watching local developments. With regard to public relations, this allowed Seleucid kings to maintain the appearance of magnanimity and benevolent generosity – part and parcel of what Engels describes as a ‘moral code protecting the vassals’ – while still ensuring some dynastic leverage.58 This was a subtle mechanism to be sure, but nevertheless one that could prove quite effective. On the broader level of imperial structure, the marriages of these secondary women span the web of dynastic interrelation that covered most of the Seleucid realm and confirmed the network of loyalty between the Seleucids and their vassals. The proto-feudal structure of vassalistic loyalty created and maintained by the marriages and actions of these Seleucid women was integral to the Seleucid approach to empire. Rather than taking this as an early indication of Seleucid weakness and decline, I am instead

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Once a Seleucid, always a Seleucid: Seleucid princesses and their nuptial courts inclined to consider this as a shift in imperial practice, not a desperate attempt to cling to diminishing power.59 For such women to be seen as desirable brides implies broad recognition of Seleucid prestige within the empire and without. While the kingdoms into which these women married were neither fully nor broadly integrated in a cultural sense per se, their inclusion in the extended Seleucid family and their eager adoption of Seleucid dynastic and courtly practice does provide at least one vector of assimilation. The adoption of such a vassal system and its perpetuation as a means of overcoming the cultural and ethnic disparity of the Seleucid realm would, in practice, have been a markedly more difficult task to accomplish without their involvement. On the level of identity, given their practical place in Seleucid imperial practice, it is fitting that it would be in the interests of the Seleucid kings that their female relatives maintain an enduring and public attachment to their natal house. We can perhaps draw a parallel between this and the ideology underscoring Seleucid city foundations: the cities themselves were most heavily concentrated where Seleucid power was thought to be the most tenuous, and were meant to be bastions of Hellenism whose mere existence functioned as an ever-present reminder of Seleucid authority.60 Had they simply assimilated into their non-Greek cultural surroundings they would have lost their imperial efficacy. The same can be said of the Seleucid princesses: had they married into such external dynasties, lost their Seleucid connection and identity, and simply been subsumed into their new dynastic background they would have lost their prominence as persistent reminders of Seleucid authority and the obligation of such dynasts thereto. They would, in short, have been far less effective or even useful had they not remained distinctly Seleucid. The attachment of such a prominent role and ideological weight to these secondary women naturally begs the question of what had been their sources of inspiration. While the satrapal system itself is distinctly Achaemenid, I can see little of Achaemenid precedent at work in such a mechanism. The ready willingness of the Seleucid kings to marry their sisters and daughters to acknowledged subordinates would have been unthinkable to the Achaemenid kings. For a Persian ruler to give away so easily his prized daughters to foreigners and subordinates would imply an equality of status between overlord and vassal that was incompatible with the absolute supremacy of the king in Achaemenid royal ideology.61 However the Seleucids very well may have borrowed from the Neo- Assyrian/Babylonian tradition of kingship when they implemented such a system: the Neo-Assyrians were similar to the Persians in many aspects of dynastic practice save for the haughtily unilateral attitude of the Persians

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Alex McAuley towards marriage.62 Instead they proved themselves to be content to send their princesses off to their subordinates in marriages intended to confirm a client’s status in a manner strikingly similar to the instances I have discussed above. Yet in the Near-Eastern context we see no trace of the kind of prominent visibility given to Seleucid royal women, and certainly not amongst secondary women. Neither do we see the sort of active involvement and intervention in courtly affairs exhibited by our Seleucid case studies. The only roughly parallel examples I have yet been able to uncover for such daring female activity are, interestingly, from amongst the prominent women of the Archaic and Classical periods in Greece. Lynette Mitchell has recently examined the careers of several prominent Archaic and Classical women, including both Macedonian examples (Olympias notable among them) and others drawn from Sicily, Attica, and Thessaly from the seventh century through to the fourth. Her conclusions regarding the role of such women are nearly identical to our own characterisation of Seleucid princesses: they acted as representatives of their natal houses, they marry into other prominent families in diplomatic arrangements, they intervene in the affairs of their nuptial houses, and they remain consistently sensitive to broader political developments.63 The verve and self-assurance of these women, their awareness of their standing and importance in the promotion of their families’ interests, and their visibility in political affairs all make them appear to be a deep source of inspiration for their Seleucid counterparts. Mitchell sums up the ramifications of her Archaic and Classical findings by concluding that while ‘they were perhaps not as historically visible as the royal women of the Hellenistic courts, they preceded them and provided models for them and their behaviour.’64 While of course this is true of all the Hellenistic dynasties, it seems that the Seleucids utilised the prominence of such women along with the practicality of their role with particular enthusiasm. This is, in short, a pattern that also has its origins in the Greek world writ large, rather than being strictly an Eastern adaptation. Perhaps Bevan’s remark on Antiochis of Cappadocia thus ought to be amended to read that the Cappadocian king was unprepared to accept one of those tigresses whom the old Greek line continued to produce in the sense that we are not dealing here with an exclusively Macedonian phenomenon. The ideological prominence and active agency of these Seleucid women both in their natal dynasty and nuptial houses is neither exclusively Greek nor near-Eastern, but a practice that aptly reflects the combination of re- appropriation and innovation that characterises Seleucid dynastic practice in general. It was, in essence, a distinctly Seleucid method of governing

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Once a Seleucid, always a Seleucid: Seleucid princesses and their nuptial courts inter-dynastic relations and maintaining the networks of loyalty and allegiance that bound the empire. Given the manner in which the Seleucids privileged the entire royal family rather than just one monarch in everything ranging from city foundations to temple benefactions, and how legitimacy was diffused throughout the entire dynasty, it perhaps comes as little surprise that women like Apama, Stratonike, and the two Antiochises would be acutely aware of their own importance and thus would have few qualms about intervening in their nuptial courts. Yet for all of their prominence and influence, we must bear in mind that they ultimately had little or no choice in the matter. Their reigning brothers and fathers despatched them throughout the empire as they saw fit, and while we must acknowledge the agency and activity of these women in their respective nuptial courts, at the same time we must also acknowledge their obedient passivity in accepting the lot given to them by their male relatives. A vector of empowerment for such secondary women to be sure, but not one that we can consider emancipatory or equalizing. Though they were indispensable assets in Imperial administration, in the end they were, much like the men to whom they were married, only subordinates. In this sense although men did, as Bielman-Sánchez noted, remain the masters of the Seleucid dynastic game, the women were not quite the purely passive pawns that they might seem at first glance.

Acknowledgements My sincerest thanks go to Prof. Andrew Erskine, Prof. Lloyd Llewellyn- Jones, and Dr. Shane Wallace for their sage editorial insight past and present, and their kind invitation to contribute to this volume. Prof. David Engels and Prof. Lynette Mitchell generously shared manuscripts of their forthcoming publications, both of which were indispensable in situating the above in a broader analytical framework. An early draft of this chapter was presented at Seleucid Study Day 2 on November 9, 2011 at the University of Waterloo and I am greatly indebted to the organisers and participants for their stimulating discussion and feedback, as well as for their friendship, collegiality, and collaboration. I also owe my thanks to Prof. Hans Beck, Prof. John Serrati, and Ms. Emma Harper for their careful and insightful reading of the early manuscript. All mistakes, errors, omissions, and oversights are, and remain, mine alone.

Notes 1 Capdetrey 2007 and Bikerman 1938 provide systematic analysis of Seleucid satrapal and client rule, as do Sherwin-White and Kuhrt 1993, Bevan 1902, Aperghis 2004 and Grainger 2010. Most recently, Engels 2011. The forthcoming volume edited

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Alex McAuley by Erickson also discusses this mechanism in the first century of Seleucid rule, specifically the contributions by Strootman, Mitchell and McAuley. 2 In this sense I must disagree with Grainger 2010, 138–9 when he argues that royal intermarriages ‘dealt essentially with the past and not the present’. I would instead assert the opposite, that in the Seleucid context in particular they are meant to lay the groundwork for future relations. 3 For more detailed biographical details of each woman, I ask the reader to refer to my on-line Genealogy of the Seleucids at http://www.seleucid-genealogy.com. 4 We can trace the origin of this to Bevan 1902, 2.16–53 and 210–80, Bouché- Leclercq 1913–14, Macurdy 1927 and 1932, 1–15, and see it perpetuated in the more recent works of Nourse 2002 and Bielman-Sánchez 2003. To some extent, Carney 1991, 2000, 2005, and 2006 perpetuates this trend, as do Savalli-Lestrade 1994 and 2003. 5 The notion of the Seleucid royal family presenting itself as a simplified ‘nuclear’ family is introduced by Carney 2011, 205, and elaborated in McAuley 2011, 18–36. 6 The prevailing sentiment in Ogden 1999, Macurdy 1927 and 1932. 7 Ogden 1999, 155, Whitehorne 2001, 150–63 on Kleopatra Thea. 8 Bielman-Sánchez 2003, 47, who echoes the assertions of Bikerman 1938, 26–7 and Bevan 1902, 2.16–53. 9 An observation first made by Carney 2011, 201, and I must yield to her brilliant review of the current scholarly consensus. Although she introduces the notion that we have underestimated royal female agency and activity – especially in diplomatic marriages – the avenue has not yet been pursued. 10 See Gabelko in this volume for further analysis of the Hellenization of Anatolian dynasties and their courts. 11 Paus. 1.7.1, Bagnall 1976, 26–7. Laronde 1987 provides the most expansive analysis of the Cyrenaica during the Hellenistic period to date. 12 In this I agree with Marquaille 2008, 44 and Chamoux 1956, 27. 13 τότε δὴ οὗτος ὁ Μάγας ἀποστήσας Πτολεµαίου Κυρηναίους ἤλαυνεν ἐπ᾽ Αἴγυπτον (Paus. 1.7.1) and Μάγας δὲ ἤδη γυναῖκα ἔχων Ἀπάµην Ἀντιόχου τοῦ Σελεύκου θυγατέρα (Paus. 1.7.3). 14 This represents the current scholarly consensus, put forward by Bevan 1902, 1.147, Chamoux 1956, Grainger 1990a, 208, and 2010, 81–91 and Laronde 1987. 15 The Apama discussed here is DNP Apama [3], and Apama (1) in Grainger 1997. For her identification, cf. Porphyry FGrH 260 F32.5.. 16 Magas is identified as basileus in an inscription that has been placed at roughly the same time as his revolt: text, translation, and commentary in Chamoux 1958. He is also identified as king in later treaties discussed in Machu 1951. His early status as obedient strate¯gos to Ptolemy I, juxtaposed against his later kingly actions after his revolt, make c. 275 essentially the only plausible date at which he would have taken the royal title. 17 Paus. 1.7.3; Polyb. 2.28 on the failure of the revolt; for the narrative of the war itself, Grainger 2010, 75–95. 18 Treaty negotiations: Bile 2005, 19–21. Diplomatic autonomy: Chamoux 1956, 31. Building projects and general administration: Laronde 1987, 360–72. Coinage: Caltabiano 1996. 19 Votive inscriptions: Chamoux 1958. Potential royal cult: Marquaille 2003. 20 Plut. Mor. 9; Athen. 12.550.

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21 Thapar 1997, 255–7, translated in Austin 2006, no. 178. 22 Just. Epit. 26.1–3 for the betrothal. The political dynamics of the reconciliation are discussed by Buttrey 1992, 63 and Laronde 1987, 380–1. Also cf. Grainger 2010, 146–50. 23 Just. Epit. 26.3.1–7. 24 The identification has recently been supported by a fragment of Callimachus F 110 on P.Oxy 20.2258. I owe the last reference to Chris Bennett’s ‘Apama’ ns. 6–8 in his online genealogy of the Ptolemies (http://www.tyndalehouse.com/Egypt/ ptolemies/genealogy_full.htm). 25 I refer again to my on-line genealogy for the other marriages mentioned (see n. 3 above). For the broader political context Grainger 2010, 147–9, Laronde 1987, 280–1 and Bevan 1902 1.181. 26 Grainger 1990a, 207 describes the longer trend of interrelation between the two houses. Bevan 1902, 1.173 and Grainger 2010, 147–8 discuss the reorientation of Cyrene through this Antigonid marriage. 27 Just. Epit. 26.3.6–7 also nuances this by mentioning that there was a good deal of popular support for Ptolemy as well. I elaborate on the questionable historicity of this tale in McAuley 2016, and refer readers to my on-line genealogy s.v. ‘Apama’ for further biographical details. For further discussion of the early reign of Berenike in Cyrene, see Llewellyn-Jones and Winder 2011. 28 I elaborate on the politics behind Apama’s intervention and the mechanism of her power in far greater detail in McAuley 2016. 29 Stratonike = Stratonike [5] in DNP, Stratonike (2) in Grainger 1997, 67–8; Eus. Chron. 1.40.6. 30 For the subsequent history of Hellenistic Cappadocia, see Gabelko in this volume, specifically sections 2, 3, and 5. He, however, proposes an alternative identification of Stratonike as the sister, not daughter, of Antiochos II. 31 Grainger 2010, 131; and 1997, 639–40. Sherwin-White and Kuhrt 1993, 32–6 also discuss the Galatian invasions. 32 Diod. Sic. 31.19.6; on the Achaemenid/Iranian roots of the Cappadocians: Diod. Sic. 31.19.1–3. 33 Diod. Sic. 31.19.6. The marriage is also discussed in Macurdy 1932, 83, Bevan 1902 2.57–9 and Grainger 2010, 131, who agrees with our dating here which he initially proposed in Grainger 1997, 67–8. Ariarathes III = DNP Ariarathes [3]. 34 Diod. Sic. 31.19.6 (trans. Walton). 35 On the marriage of Antiochos I and Stratonike: Plut. Dem. 38, App. Syr. 59–61; discussed by Breebaart 1967 and Ogden 1999. 36 Carney 2011, 205; Nourse 2002, 228; McAuley 2011, 18–36. 37 Diod. Sic. 31.19.1–6; Sherwin-White and Kuhrt 1993, 187 and van Dam 2002, 20–8. 38 Antiochis = DNP Antiochis [4], Antiochis (1) in Grainger 1997. Ariarathes IV = DNP Ariarathes [4], Ariarathes (4) in Grainger 1997. 39 App. Syr. 5 mentions the connection to the Thracian campaign. Hansen 1947, 68–73 agrees with Appian. I am more inclined to agree with Bevan 1902, 2.57–9 and Ma 2000, 92–3 in placing this in the context of Antiochos III’s reconquest of Asia Minor. 40 App. Syr. 5; Diod. Sic. 31.19.6–7; Polyb. 31.17.2.

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41 Bevan 1902, 2.57. 42 Diod. Sic. 31.19.7 (trans. Walton). 43 A notion best captured and explained by Carney 1995. 44 Women in prominent positions, or those who act in ways that are contrary to Diodorus’ sense of propriety and morality, are frequently discussed in the most scathing terms. Perhaps the most poignant example of this is the influence of the courtesan Thaïs of Athens at the destruction of Persepolis in Diod. Sic. 17.72. The fact that she is responsible for the palace’s destruction, rather than Alexander, transforms the entire act into a desecration and perversion of natural order. Elsewhere, women who flout divine law are justly punished for their impiety at Diod. Sic. 16.64.2–3, one of whom is reduced to the shameful state of a courtesan. Passion for women is equally dangerous and drives men to irrational extremes, as with the tale of Titus Minutius at 36.2.2–5. For the opposite example of female virtue being equated with total passivity and preservation of their purity, see Diodorus on Lucretia at 10.21.1–3. In general, women are grouped together with children as passive figures in narratives of warfare and conquest, e.g. 12.72.7, 13.57.2, 13.104.7 and 17.46.4, but their active influence makes Diodorus wary. The topic has yet to be fully explored and merits further consideration, but his quotation of Philomelon at 12.14.2–4 and subsequent warnings about the perils of marriage and potential discord of wives, and stepmothers in particular, seems more than just comic recapitulation. 45 Polyb. 21.45, Livy 38.39.6; Hansen 1947, 68–75; DNP s.v. Ariarathes [4]. Also, APR (Cos¸ kun 2010) s.v. ‘Ariarathes IV.’ 46 Hansen 1947, 73–6. 47 Note that while Diodorus (31.9.7) refers to the brother of Ariarathes as ‘Holophernes’, other ancient sources such as Justin (35.1.2) and Polybius (32.25) identify him instead as ‘Orophernes’ – the names, however, are clearly so similar that these sources must be referring to the same person. 48 Given that Ariarathes V is generally held to have succeeded to the throne in 163, we can place his birth at some point in the 180s. He would presumably have been the youngest among his siblings, a notion which the length of his reign would reinforce. In this context he would be coming of age in the aftermath of Apamea, during which his father was leaning towards active support of the Romans and Attalids, and perhaps his brothers were involved in the campaigns in support of Eumenes. 49 Diod. Sic. 31.19.7–8. For a more systematic elaboration, see van Dam 2002, 20–45. His city foundations are listed in Strabo 12.2.7. Grainger 1997, 640 provides a concise overview of his main activities. 50 Xerxes = DNP Xerxes [3]. His revolt is recounted at Polyb. 8.23.1–2. The history of his family’s involvement with the Seleucids is best discussed by Chahin 2001, 188–92. Again, there is precious little scholarship on the kingdom itself or the matter in question. 51 Polyb. 8.23.2–5; Chahin 2001, 190. 52 Elaborated on by Bevan 1902, 2.15–6 and Grainger 2010, 280–3. The terms are related by Polyb. 8.23.5. 53 Polyb. 8.23.5. 54 John of Antioch fr.53 = FHG IV.557; Grainger (2010, 283) asserts that this murder essentially severs all Seleucid ties with the Armenians. 55 Chahin 2001, 190.

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56 The almost total lack of narrative and literary sources for Armenia after Xerxes precludes any firm conclusions. Strabo 11.14.15 suggests that a king named Orontes, whom Chahin (2001, 191–2) identifies as ‘Orontes-Ervand IV’, reigned around 200 BC at a time when the kingdom was becoming more closely united with Commagene. An ‘independent’ kingdom of Greater Armenia does not emerge until the late 2nd century BC, and thus we can surmise that there were regions of Armenia which continued to pay tribute to the Seleucids at least until the death of Antiochos III. For the (admittedly patchy) narrative reconstruction, see Chahin 2001, 193–6. 57 Engels 2011, 19–25 and Capdetrey 2007, 229–57. See also Engels, this volume, section 3, where he suggests that there may be continuity between Seleucid and Achaemenid practice. 58 Engels 2011, 30. 59 For the traditional view of subordinate rule being a sign of weakness, cf. Engels 2011, 22 n. 27. 60 A sentiment best captured in Grainger 1990b and Gatier 2003, 97–105. 61 For a more thorough summary of possible precedents: McAuley 2011, 9–17. Also Cook 1983, 134–5 and Brosius 1996, 62–6. 62 Regarding the neo-Assyrian and Babylonian precedent: Melville 2004. 63 Mitchell 2012, with particular emphasis on the Greek examples drawn at 6–10. Her conclusion that ‘Macedonian basileia, where women played an intrinsic role in the business of ruling, was not as unique as is often supposed’ (21) is one that ought to be borne in mind beyond simply treatments of royal women. 64 Mitchell 2012, 21.

Bibliography Aperghis, G. G. 2004 The Seleucid Royal Economy, Cambridge. Austin, M. M. 2006 The Hellenistic World From Alexander to the Roman Conquest: A selection of ancient sources in translation, 2nd edn, Cambridge. Bagnall, R. S. 1976 The Administration of Ptolemaic Possessions Outside Egypt, Leiden. Bevan, E. R. 1902 The House of Seleucus, London. Bielman-Sánchez, A. 2003 ‘Régner au féminin. Réflexions sur les reines attalides et séleucides’, in F. Prost (ed.), L’Orient méditerranéen de la mort d’Alexandre aux campagnes de Pompée, Rennes, 41–64. Bikerman, E. 1938 Institutions des Séleucides, Paris. Bile, M. 2005 ‘Le traité d’alliance entre les Oreioi de Crète et le roi de Cyrène Magas’, in F. Poli and G. Vottéro (eds), De Cyrène à Catherine: trois mille ans de Libyennes, Nancy, 19–28. Bouché-Leclercq, A. 1913–14 Histoire des Séleucides, Paris.

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Breebaart, A. B. 1967 ‘King Seleucus I, Antiochus, and Stratonice’, Mnemosyne 20, 154–64. Brosius, M. 1996 Women in Ancient Persia, 559–331 BC, Oxford. Buttrey, T. V. 1992 ‘The coins and the cult’, Expedition 34, 60–6. Caltabiano, M. C. 1996 ‘Berenice II. Il ruolo di una basilissa rivelato dalle sue monete’, in E. Catani and S. M. Marengo (eds), La Cirenaica in età antica, Macerata, 97–112. 1998 ‘La basileia di Berenike II e il progetto di una diarchia’, in L. Gasperini and S. M. Marengo (eds), Cirene e la Cirenaica nell’antichità: Atti del convegno internazionale di studi, Rome, 105–24. Capdetrey, L. 2007 Le pouvoir séleucide: territoire, administration, et finances d’un royaume hellénistique, Rennes. Carney, E. D. 1991 ‘“What’s in a name?” The emergence of a title for royal women in the Hellenistic period’ in S. B. Pomeroy (ed.), Women’s History and Ancient History, Chapel Hill, 154–72. 1995 ‘Women and Basileia: legitimacy and female political action in Macedonia’, Classical Journal 90, 367–91. 2000 Women and Monarchy in Macedonia, Norman, Oklahoma. 2005 ‘Women and dunasteia in Caria’, American Journal of Philology 126, 65–91. 2006 Olympias, Mother of Alexander the Great, London. 2011 ‘Being royal and female in the early Hellenistic period’ in A. Erskine and L. Llewellyn-Jones (eds), Creating a Hellenistic World, Swansea, 195–220. Chahin, M. 2001 The Kingdom of Armenia: A history, Surrey. Chamoux, F. 1956 ‘Le roi Magas’, Revue Historique 216, 18–34. 1958 ‘Épigramme de Cyrène en l’honneur du roi Magas’, Bulletin de Correspondance Hellénique 82, 571–87. Cook, J. M. 1983 The Persian Empire, London. Cos¸kun, A. 2010 Amici Populi Romani (APR 03): Prosopography of the foreign friends of Rome, Waterloo, On. 2010. URL: www.altaycoskun.com/apr. Engels, D. 2011 ‘Middle Eastern “feudalism” and Seleucid dissolution’, in K. Erickson and G. Ramsey (eds), Seleucid Dissolution: The Sinking of the Anchor, Wiesbaden, 19–36. Erickson, K. (ed.) Forthcoming War within the Family: The Seleucid Empire in the 3rd century BC, Swansea. Gatier, P.-L. 2003 ‘Évolutions culturelles dans les sociétés du Proche-Orient syrien à l’époque

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hellénistique’, in F. Prost (ed.), L’Orient méditerranéen de la mort d’Alexandre aux campagnes de Pompée, Rennes, 97–116. Grainger, J. D. 1990a Seleukos I Nikator, London. 1990b The Cities of Seleukid Syria, London. 1997 A Seleukid Prosopography and Gazeteer, Leiden. 2010 The Syrian Wars, Leiden. Hansen, E. V. 1947 The Attalids of Pergamon, Ithaca. Laronde, A. 1987 Cyrène et la Libye hellénistique, Paris. Ma, J. 2000 Antiochos III and the Cities of Western Asia Minor, Oxford. Machu, J. 1951 ‘Cyrène: la cité et le souverain à l’époque hellénistique’, Revue Historique 205, 41–55. Macurdy, G. H. 1927 ‘Eurydice and the evidence for woman power in early Macedonia’, American Journal of Philology 48, 201–14. 1932 Hellenistic Queens: A study of woman-power in Macedonia, Seleucid Syria, and Ptolemaic Egypt, Boston. Marquaille, C. 2003 ‘Ptolemaic royal cult in Cyrenaica’, Libyan Studies 34, 25–42. 2008 ‘The foreign policy of Ptolemy II’, in P. McKechnie and P. Guillame (eds), Ptolemy II Philadelphus and his World, Leiden, 39–64. McAuley, A. 2011 ‘The genealogy of the Seleucids: Seleucid marriage, succession, and descent revisited’ M.Sc. Dissertation, University of Edinburgh. Available online at http://www.seleucid-genealogy.com. 2016 ‘Princess and tigress: Apama of Cyrene’, in A. Cos¸kun and A. McAuley (eds), Seleukid Royal Women: Creation, representation and distortion of Hellenistic queenship in the Seleukid Empire, Stuttgart, 175–90. Melville, S. 2004 ‘Neo-Assyrian women and male identity: status as a social tool’, Journal of the American Oriental Society 124, 37–57. Mitchell, L. 2012 ‘The women of ruling families in Archaic and Classical Greece’, Classical Quarterly 62, 1–21. Nourse, K. L. 2002 ‘Women and the early development of royal power in the Hellenistic East’, PhD dissertation, University of Pennsylvania. Ogden, D. 1999 Polygamy, Prostitutes, and Death: The Hellenistic dynasties, Swansea. Savalli-Lestrade, I. 1994 ‘Il ruolo pubblico delle regine ellenistiche’, in S. Alessandri (ed.) Historie. Studie offerti dagli allievi a Giuseppe Nenci in occasione del suo settantesimo compleanno, Lecce, 415–32.

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2003 ‘La place des reines à la cour et dans le royaume à l’époque hellénistique’, R. Frei-Stolba, A. Bielman and O. Bianchi (eds), Les femmes antiques entre sphère privée et sphère publique: actes du diplôme d’études avancées, Universités de Lausanne et Neuchâtel, Berne, 59–76. Sherwin-White, S. and Kuhrt, A. 1993 From Samarkhand to Sardis: A new approach to the Seleucid Empire, Berkeley. Thapar, R. 1997 As´oka and the Decline of the Mauryas, revised edn, Oxford. Van Dam, R. 2002 Kingdom of Snow: Roman rule and Greek culture in Cappadocia, Philadelphia. Whitehorne, J. E. G. 2001 Cleopatras, London.

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PARTIV

BEYONDTHEPALACE

INTHEMIRROROF HETAIRAI. TRACINGASPECTSOFTHEINTERACTION BETWEEN POLIS LIFEANDCOURTLIFE INTHEEARLYHELLENISTICAGE

Kostas Buraselis

1. The position of hetairai in Greek cities and their connections with politicians and other important citizens before Alexander Hetairai were not outsiders but important insiders of Greek polis life already in the Classical period. As the famous passage in the Pseudo-Demosthenic speech Against Neaira puts it, Athenians considered hetairai (literally ‘companions’) to be for the sake of pleasure, while pallakai (concubines) were to take care of their masters’ bodies, and wives ( gynaikes, game¯tai ) were there to bear lawful children and guard the household.1 Those ‘companions’ were often (but not exclusively) foreigners and, as their name itself unmistakably suggests, able to offer their mates not only sexual comfort but also the sense of companionship which the latter would otherwise only associate with and expect from male friends and life- partners. To attain this, they seem often to have possessed artistic and intellectual capacities which enabled them to be entertaining and useful to their companions, certainly not to bore but even to advise them. A goldmine of relevant information on hetairai is provided in the thirteenth book of Athenaeus’ Deipnosophistai, a curious, erudite table-talk encyclopedia of the early third century AD, where various older testimonies on the subject have been utilized.2 It emerges from this and our other sources that many important politicians and intellectual ﬁgures of Classical Greece were associated, even in the form of an enduring relationship, with hetairai, some of them deservedly famous in their own right. Themistokles

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Kostas Buraselis was reported not only to have been the son of such a Thracian woman (Habrotonon) but also to have once playfully entered Athens on a chariot drawn by four hetairai whose names later tradition preserved.3 While the historicity of this story may be doubted, its existence is itself revealing. The status of the famous Aspasia is disputed but she certainly was, if not herself a hetaira any more while consort of Perikles, at least an experienced trainer of young hetairai according to ancient tradition. She was credited with rhetorical skill admired even by Plato, and after Perikles’ death she was able to attach herself to another Athenian of means, Lysikles, whom she allegedly helped to political prominence.4 Alkibiades was also connected with two such women, the famous Theodote, Sokrates’ dialogue partner in Xenophon,5 and the faithful Timandra who followed him to the end and buried his body after he was trapped and killed by the Persians in Phrygia in 404.6 The list goes on. Konon had a similar relationship with a Thracian hetaira, from whom his equally well-known son Timotheos was said to be born. Timotheos defended his birth, saying that he was ‘grateful to his mother because it was through her that he was Konon’s son’.7 The inﬂuential fourth-century politician Aristophon, who re-activated the exclusion of children of non-Athenian mothers from citizenship, was remembered to have also fathered a child from the hetaira Choregis.8 The evidence linking not only politicians but also men of letters with ‘hetairic consorts’ may be appropriately introduced by Sophokles whom ancient tradition credited with two successive such liaisons (Theoris, then Archippe).9 Isokrates had his Lagiska and Metaneira,10 while also Athenian metics like Lysias and Aristotle consorted with such women, whose speciﬁc names are also reported (Lagis and Herpyllis).11 Almost all orator- politicians engaged in the struggle between Philip’s Macedonia and Athens shared in this male habit of their polis: Demosthenes himself,12 his political comrade Hypereides,13 and also Demades14 from the opposite camp. Hypereides was not only notoriously connected with Phryne but also credited with a local arrangement of his other hetairai, housing the luxurious Myrrhine at his home in the asty (from which his son had to leave), Aristagora at Peiraieus and Phila at Eleusis, the latter subsequently also housed at his home. There is similar evidence, though understandably much more limited, connecting well-known male personalities with this category of women also in other cities of the Greek world (e.g. Corinth).15 The impression is that by the end of the Classical age of Greece hetairai had become, as has been pertinently observed, ‘a steady ingredient of Greek social life’, that is polis life.16

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2. Hetairai and the Macedonian court until Alexander That slave concubines were not unknown at the Macedonian court is shown already by Archelaos’ birth from the doule¯ (slave woman) Simiche, as reported in our sources.17 However, the first clear case we know of a female entertainer and personal courtesan of a Macedonian king is the Thessalian Philinna of Larissa at Philip II’s court. According to ancient sources she was a ‘dance-girl’ (orche¯stris) with whom Philip entered into a relationship from which Arrhidaios, the later king Philip-Arrhidaios after Alexander’s death, was born.18 Some points of her personality and connection with Philip should be noted. First, Philip is reported to have seen in this and his further personal connection with a Pheraian girl, Nikesipolis, a tactical move to win over the feelings of the Thessalians, so important for the integration of Thessaly into his kingdom. As Nikesipolis seems to have been a member of the house of Iason, Philinna may also have belonged to the old family of the Aleaudai of Larissa,19 and thus Philip’s whole plan here can well have aimed at his interconnection with Thessalian aristocracy. We cannot know for sure. However, Philinna was definitely not a slave: she was a free woman from Larissa who managed to entertain the king and give birth to a recognized (though mentally disabled) son of his. Entertainment girls were not unknown at Philip’s court: in another instance we hear of flute-girls (aule¯trides) active there.20 Philinna seems to have been something more than a flute-girl. On the other hand, she is not credited in our sources with any form of greater influence on the king or important activity at his court. We do not need to take seriously Justin’s varying characterization of her, once as saltatrix and once as scortum (a whore), but there is no indication in the sources that her position or influence beside Philip could have been anything but limited.

3.The position of hetairai under Alexander and in the early Hellenistic Age a) Alexander and Thais While hetairai go on playing an important role in polis society in the age of Alexander and the Successors, it is in this period that they also dynamically enter the royal entourage. The ﬁrst case in point is Thais, notoriously connected with Alexander and the burning of Persepolis. Most ancient sources concur that she was not only an Athenian but also the person who initiated the plan, in the drunken circle of the royal symposium, that the Persian capital be burnt in revenge for what Thais’ home city had suffered from Persian hands in Xerxes’ times.21 Plutarch comments expressly that she ‘came up with words ﬁtting her home city’s character, though surpassing her own position’.22 Diodorus adds the detail that she

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Kostas Buraselis subsequently led the whole furious act of arson and was even the second person after Alexander to have thrown a burning torch into the Persian palace.23 Although Plutarch also preserves the tradition that Alexander soon regretted this inebriated decision and ordered his men to put out the fire, the influence of Thais on Alexander and her ability to enforce an important initiative on the ruler of the Greek-Persian world is indisputable. This was no more a simply amusing hetaira, but an even briefly (but decisively!) co-governing hetaira. One may further think that an Athenian woman promoting the ‘revenge theme’ of Alexander’s expedition at Persepolis was not a negligible element in the king’s propaganda of integration into traditional anti-barbarian policy in Greece. Thais’ later life also betrays her importance and place of actual honour in Alexander’s and later court life. After Alexander’s death she entered into a long-standing relationship with Ptolemy I, to whom she bore no fewer than three children: Leontiskos, Lagos and Eirene.24 The fact that one of these was named after Ptolemy’s father (Lagos), but also the additional information we possess that Eirene was married to King Eunostos of Cyprian Soloi, show that her position beside the founder of the Ptolemaic dynasty is not to be underestimated. Menander’s comedy Thais may have been inspired by that influential female personality.25 Hetairai had by then not simply joined royal courts but also begun introducing there the established habits of the Greek cities and the social behaviour of their citizens. The partnership of hetairai, while remaining a distinct trait in the life of these citizens, now triumphantly enters the royal life-style. b) Harpalos and his hetairai Tendencies in the elements of a monarchic style often appear even more clearly in their parallel adoption by the monarch’s important subordinates. This is the case with the notorious Harpalos and his successive relationships with Pythionike and Glykera.26 Alexander’s ‘minister of finances’ at Babylon knew how to employ the wealth of the conquered Persian Empire entrusted to him also for his pleasures, a basic one of which was the invitation and lavish entertainment at his official seat of hetairic consorts from Athens. The first, Pythionike, was not only granted a royal-style stay27 while alive (until c.326/5) but also honoured subsequently with two grave monuments, one at Babylon itself and one in Athens, an outstanding edifice on the Sacred Way from the city to Eleusis.28 Furthermore, Harpalos managed to erect in Athens an altar and a temple of Aphrodite-Pythionike,29 thus connecting the cult of the goddess of love with the parallel honours to her splendid servant in his personal service. She bore him a daughter later (after his death) cared for by his Athenian

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In the mirror of hetairai friend Charikles, the son-in-law of Phokion.30 For a later author Pythionike’s relationship with Harpalos could be even described as a sort of marriage.31 Harpalos reserved the deceased Pythionike’s place beside him and the consequent royal-like honours for another courtesan of Athenian provenance, Glykera.32 In her case we find even more explicit the mention of a hetaira’s royal accommodation in Alexander’s Asia: she was installed by Harpalos at Tarsos in Kilikia ‘in the royal palace’ with all due honours for a queen,33 and later followed her lover in his flight to Greece. Her relationship with Harpalos seems to be seen in our sources as a part of the friendly connection with Athens cultivated by him, leading also to a substantial supply of grain to the city and the award of Athenian citizenship to such a benefactor.34 In a piece of contemporaneous comic poetry he was alluded to as ‘Pallides’, most probably – and tellingly – a descendant of Pallas, a true Athenian.35 Both courtesans represented not simple love affairs of a Macedonian potentate but his intention to affiliate and integrate himself as far as possible into the world of the Athenian polis and its social life. Harpalos probably regarded this policy as of vital importance in view of his quite predictable alienation from Alexander and his plans thereafter. c) Developments in the early Hellenistic Age The parallel development of civic and dynastic styles of private life is further noticeable in Athens, where we again have sufficient evidence to detect it, after Alexander. Thus, again, two politicians of diametrically opposite allegiances as Demetrios of Phaleron and Stratokles both appear in our sources as enjoying and dependent on female companionship of the sort in question. The Peripatetic governor of Athens was connected with the hetaira Lampito and his devotion to her may be seen in the fact that he was pleased to be called by her own name; one could say that he regarded her as a sort of ‘alter ego’.36 Stratokles had taken the latter’s colleague Phylakion (‘the small guardian’) into his home as regular consort and was ready to disclose to her in joke his cynical estimate of a statesman’s job.37 Plutarch’s comment, in the same context, on Stratokles’ conduct is also noteworthy: Poliorketes’ right-hand man in Athens seemed to imitate through his dirty speech and life the old Kleon’s unrestrained ease with 38 the people (πρὸς τὸν δῆµον εὐχέρεια). In other words, these traits seemed to correspond to a by then traditional image of the popular leader, sharing, and up to a point representing, popular trends. Hellenistic monarchs possibly developed further Alexander’s weighty example concerning the place accorded to hetairai at their courts (as already

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Kostas Buraselis seen in the case of Ptolemy I and Thais). Simultaneously, they certainly inserted themselves into an established civic tradition by adopting such partnerships. This may be best exemplified by Hypereides’ Myrrhine, already mentioned above, for she is most probably not simply synonymous but identical – period and context fully allow it – with one of Demetrios Poliorketes’ famous hetairai.39 We know from a fragment of Nikolaos of Damascus in Athenaeus that she was a Samian and stood at the side of her royal consort with all prerogatives becoming a Hellenistic queen but for the diadem.40 The king whose rule and life were so intensely connected with the first city of Greece partly and naturally followed in the footsteps of illustrious civic bonviveurs. Not only this specific succession of hetairic companionship but also the frequency, the origin and the quality of Demetrios’ courtesans are significant. For the royal patron-master of Athens had a high, and notorious, record of such liaisons, partly staged in the city of Athena Parthenos. Ogden’s useful ‘Repertorium of sources for Hellenistic royal courtesans’ lists nine such named hetairai in the case of Poliorketes.41 Only Ptolemy II Philadelphos could compete with (and outnumber) him in this among early Hellenistic rulers, being himself associated with eleven such women according to our sources.42 Three of Demetrios’ hetairai were of expressly mentioned Attic origin, thus apparently Athenian citizens:43 Leaina,44 Melitta/Mania45 and the notorious Lamia,46 whose Athenian father is mentioned by name (Kleanor). One should not overlook at this point that Demetrios tried also to integrate himself into Athenian standards through one of his ‘proper’ marriages: with Euthydike (or Eurydike), who claimed descent from Miltiades and thus embodied her husband’s strategy of connection with one of the most emblematic Athenian families.47 Much of the information on Demetrios’ hetairai is found in Athenaeus, as already seen, but ultimately derives from the Chreiai (roughly Anecdotes), a contemporaneous work of the early Hellenistic poet Machon, who spent a large part of his life at the Ptolemaic court.48 Little is known of Leaina apart from her Attic origin and the establishment of a cult to her as a way of flattering Demetrios. Melitta, nicknamed and finally renamed as Mania (‘craziness, infatuation’), a name fitting her fame, is better known thanks to her having been treated more extensively in Athenaeus’ extracts of Machon. She appears there as a woman of small stature but great beauty and able speech, who could give witty retorts and cite appropriately classical verses on various occasions. She had once been connected simultaneously with two Olympic victors, which should also indicate her widespread appeal. Thus Demetrios’ relationship with her added not only to her but also to his own fame in Athens and the Greek world.

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In the mirror of hetairai

Lamia may be called the main hetaira of Demetrios, the only consort he ever really loved himself while he was loved by the others, as Plutarch (Demetr. 16) remarks. However, her professional activity (she was also a good flute-player) predated this relationship as she was older than he and joined him only as part of the Ptolemaic booty gained by the young king after his victory at Salamis (Cyprus) in 306. Her position by Demetrios’ side practically equalled that of any of his royal consorts.49 She was characterized by grace but also possessed a clever mind and an ability to discuss,50 which emerges, apart from some witty remarks, in the argument against the so-called ‘judgment of Bokchoris’. The latter was an Egyptian tale about the claim of an earlier hetaira, Thonis, to a remuneration even from a man who had dreamt of enjoying her love. Bokchoris had wittily rejected the claim, a verdict to which now Lamia objected with real sophistic skill: if Thonis’ wishful lover did take a sort of satisfaction, he should pay for it. Her influence on Demetrios and the envy of his queens and friends towards her are expressly mentioned.51 These feelings of Demetrios’ women and courtiers may indeed seem justified when we remember that she had even been able to offer the Sikyonians a portico.52 The gift matched the generosity of a queen,53 and its recipients were well chosen as Sikyon had been re-founded by and renamed after her lover Demetrios. It further matched perfectly an Athenian benefactress as its name, Poikile¯Stoa, was probably inspired by the homonymous, famous building in the Athenian agora. The fact that Demetrios’ daughter from Lamia received the same name as his main queen, Phila, is equally eloquent on the mother’s weight in the king’s life. Besides, not only did he invite her to visit him but he also did not hesitate to visit her in her house in full armour and bearing his diadem: her abode was thus openly declared a royal domicile, an extension of the royal court as it were. Furthermore, Demetrios housed her with him, at least temporarily, in the Parthenon, a fact bitterly echoed in verses of an Athenian adversary (the comic poet Philippides). However, her indisputable power inspired the institution of a cult of Aphrodite Lamia at Athens and Thebes.54 Her personal expenses, borne by the Athenians, earned her the nickname helepolis,55 the siege- machine to conquer a city, a fitting attribute for Demetrios ‘the Besieger’. In reality, however, she seems to have mainly represented Demetrios’ own almost unconditional surrender to a standard element of polis life and his integration into the latter’s accepted social norms. The ruler’s power simply intensified civic habits ad nauseam (or ad ruinam). The diverse hetairic services that Hypereides had indulged at his own expense, the king presumed to enjoy at the expense of the Athenians. Thus the king’s attempts to connect with Athens and other cities under his rule

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(e.g. Samos) by associating with local hetairai, as practised by Philip II in Thessaly and later by Antiochos III at Chalkis,56 were not always successful. Demetrios may have assumed civic habits, but he exercised them as a royal privilege which he felt was owed to him by subordinate cities. The situation was probably different with hetairai residing at the Ptolemaic court. There, the liaisons of Soter or Philadelphos (and later Ptolemies also) with important women from ‘old Greece’ (e.g. the famous Macedonian Bilistiche under Philadelphos)57 may have worked in the eyes of their Greek subjects and allies as a useful link with the ideological centre of the dynasty. Similar connections with Egyptian women (e.g. Didyme of Philadelphos)58 may have won them sympathy from the local population. Machon’s work at Alexandria (see above) may thus be fittingly framed. In general, the introduction of such monarchic relationships was a significant element in the evolution of Macedonian monarchy since Alexander and in its interaction with the world of the Greek polis. Not only queens but also hetairai now belonged to, influenced and characterized the royal entourage.59

4. The hetairai in New Comedy The importance to which hetairai rose in the circles of early Hellenistic monarchy may further be traced by their portrayal in early Hellenistic New Comedy (with its Roman echoes) and specifically Menander’s preserved work. Hetairai were, of course, no newcomers to the stage of New Comedy. They were already established figures in the Middle Comedy of the fourth century BC. However, some evolution in their presentation from one period of Greek comedy to the other has been observed: while mention of known, real hetairai was frequent in Middle Comedy, this does not seem to be the case in the subsequent phase of Greek comedy.60 Menander’s Thais, mentioned before, may be the only exception.61 In New Comedy there is also no known case of simple prostitutes (pornai) appearing in main roles: the hetairai have eclipsed them as a comic type.62 Apart from these differences, there is – in Menander especially – a remarkable tendency to portray at least some of the staged hetairai in a sympathetic, even positive light, which has already been recognized by Plutarch.63 In Menander’s preserved work we encounter such female figures as Chrysis in Samia or Habrotonon in Epitrepontes, whose humanity and cleverness decisively influence the course of action. Also the other female protagonists of the Athenian poet are often portrayed as self- confident, strong personalities who sometimes dare to oppose narrow- minded, self-interested, clumsy and impetuous men, some of whom are

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In the mirror of hetairai otherwise hard men of action such as soldiers and officers. Thus Pamphile in Epitrepontes resolutely opposes her father’s efforts to divorce her from her husband inclined to debauchery; Philoumene flees from the house of the officer who was her master (and suitor) in Sikyonioi; Glykera flees from the house of the officer who has cut her hair (that is degraded her to the appearance of a slave or a hetaira) in a fit of unjustified jealousy in Perikeiromene; Krateia valiantly opposes the brave soldier Thrasonides’ love in Misoumenos because she erroneously holds him, her master, responsible for her brother’s death.64 Even in Roman comedies known to derive from Menander’s pieces, as e.g. the Cistellaria based on his Synaristosai,65 hetairai take up central roles and are depicted in partly positive colours (Melaenis in Cistellaria has acted as foster-mother of the once exposed baby Selenium and trained her as a hetaira to save her from hunger).66 Menander was, of course, a great admirer of women.67 However, it seems reasonable to set all these characteristics of New Comedy against the background of contemporary society where hetairai played roles of increased importance beside Hellenistic rulers. Even the observed fact that known hetairai of this period (apart from the uncertain case of Thais) do not appear as protagonists in New Comedy, as far as our admittedly fragmentary evidence suggests, may fit into this interpretation: for New Comedy is known to have generally and wisely refrained from clear references to powerful public figures, which would have been dangerous.68 Nevertheless, a masterly poetic hand such as Menander’s may have woven into his stories discreet allusions to historical realities. Samia seems to be a case in point. The play has usually been dated c. 310 but a date slightly later (c. 305) is increasingly considered.69 Its central character is the hetaira Chrysis from Samos who lives in Athens housed by an older Athenian gentleman, Demeas. The latter’s adoptive son, Moschion, fathers a baby by a neighbouring girl and wishes first to hide this from his father so that the well-meaning Chrysis undertakes to present the baby as her own. The father understands that his son is the real father of the baby but suspects that Chrysis has betrayed him and throws her out, until the truth is found and the happy ending comes. Now, as we saw, Poliorketes’ ‘hetairic queen’ Myrrhine was a Samian. On the other hand, Chrysis was also the name of another courtesan of Demetrios.70 The motive of an erotic antagonism between father and son (to be proved false in the comedy) seems also not to have been unknown in the house of the early Antigonids as we have the tradition that Monophthalmos and Poliorketes were once rivals for the heart of the hetaira Demo (a name strongly reminiscent of Demeas).71 Even the adoptive son’s identity as ‘Moschion’ reminds one of the alternative tradition found in Plutarch that Demetrios was only an adopted son of

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Monophthalmos.72 There seem to be here too many coincidences. Therefore a positive echo of Demetrios’ inﬂuential hetairai may have been carefully distilled into Menander’s work here and elsewhere.

5. Epilogue For a fittingly brief epilogue one may cite here some fine verses from Plautus’ Cistellaria, deriving – as we saw – from Menander’s Synaristosai. The old hetaira expounds and defends there her basic strategy as follows: My Selenium, it is more advantageous for a lady (matrona) to love one man and end her years with him whom she once married. On the other hand, a hetaira (meretrix) is very similar to a prosperous city: it cannot sustain itself without many men.73 If we may indeed recognize here the echo of a Menandrian phrase, that is thoughts expressed against the background of early Hellenistic cities, the latter’s citizens seem to have become able to appreciate better the significance of these women’s activities. The cities, for their survival, had to adopt a similar multi-dependent strategy. Nota bene, their welfare relied not simply on ‘many men’ but on many ‘strong men’, especially the monarchs competing for civic favour and support of their plans. The mirror of hetairai reflected realities concerning mutual monarchic and civic adaptation. Habits of the polis74 had intruded upon the royal court but the latter’s norms flashed back on the stage of the polis, theatrical or not.75

Notes 1 [Dem]. 59.122: τὰς µὲν γὰρ ἑταίρας ἡδονῆς ἕνεκ’ ἔχοµεν, τὰς δὲ παλλακὰς τῆς καθ’ ἡµέραν θεραπείας τοῦ σώµατος, τὰς δὲ γυναῖκας τοῦ παιδοποιεῖσθαι γνησίως καὶ τῶν ἔνδον φύλακα πιστὴν ἔχειν. On the terms hetaira, porne¯, pallake¯ see already the clarifying remarks by Hauschild 1933, 7–9; further Brown 1990, esp. 247–50. Some good remarks on the free character of a hetaira’s position vs. her lovers (in contrast to that of a porne¯) in Davidson 1997, 109–36, although his description of the word hetaira itself as ‘a euphemism’ (135) misses the essence of her social outlook, cf. Pomeroy 1975, 89. 2 One should note that Athenaeus was naturally interested in demonstrating the continuity of sympotic culture, and this helps explain his emphasis on hetairai (I owe this remark to Oswyn Murray). 3 Athen. 13.37 (576c): Θεµιστοκλῆς τε, ὥς φησιν Ἰδοµενεύς [BNJ 338 F4a, cf. F4b], οὐχ ἅρµα ζευξάµενος ἑταιρῶν πληθούσης ἀγορᾶς εἰσήλασεν εἰς τὸ ἄστυ; ἦσαν δ‘ αὗται Λάµια καὶ Σκιώνη καὶ Σατύρα καὶ Νάννιον. οὐ καὶ αὐτὸς Θεµιστοκλῆς ἐξ ἑταίρας ἦν γεγενηµένος ὄνοµα Ἁβροτόνου; ὡς Ἀµφικράτης ἱστορεῖ ἐν τῷ περὶ Ἐνδόξων Ἀνδρῶν συγγράµµατι [FHG IV 300]: Ἁβρότονον Θρήισσα γυνὴ γένος· ἀλλὰ τεκέσθαι τὸν µέγαν Ἕλλησιν φασὶ Θεµιστοκλέα.

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4 Plut. Per. 24, especially 5–7: τὴν δ‘ Ἀσπασίαν οἱ µὲν ὡς σοφήν τινα καὶ πολιτικὴν ὑπὸ τοῦ Περικλέους σπουδασθῆναι λέγουσι· καὶ γὰρ Σωκράτης ἔστιν ὅτε µετὰ τῶν γνωρίµων ἐφοίτα, καὶ τὰς γυναῖκας ἀκροασοµένας οἱ συνήθεις ἦγον ὡς αὐτήν, καίπερ οὐ κοσµίου προεστῶσαν ἐργασίας οὐδὲ σεµνῆς, ἀλλὰ παιδίσκας ἑταιρούσας τρέφουσαν. Αἰσχίνης δέ φησι καὶ Λυσικλέα τὸν προβατοκάπηλον ἐξ ἀγεννοῦς καὶ ταπεινοῦ τὴν φύσιν Ἀθηναίων γενέσθαι πρῶτον Ἀσπασίᾳ συνόντα µετὰ τὴν Περικλέους τελευτήν. ἐν δὲ τῷ Μενεξένῳ τῷ Πλάτωνος [235e], εἰ καὶ µετὰ παιδιᾶς τὰ πρῶτα γέγραπται, τοσοῦτόν γ’ ἱστορίας ἔνεστιν, ὅτι δόξαν εἶχε τὸ γύναιον ἐπὶ ῥητορικῇ πολλοῖς Ἀθηναίων ὁµιλεῖν. 5 Memorabilia 3.11. 6 Timandra and Alkibiades: Plut. Alc. 39; Athen. 12.48 (535c), 13.34 (574e). Cf. W. Göber, RE VI. A1 (1936), s.v. Timandra (3), 1230: she was ‘the mother of Lais the younger’. 7 Athen. 13.38 (577a–c): Τιµόθεος δ’ ὁ στρατηγήσας Ἀθηναίων ἐπιφανῶς ἑταίρας ἦν υἱὸς Θρᾴττης τὸ γένος, σεµνῆς δ’ ἄλλως τοὺς τρόπους. µεταβάλλουσαι γὰρ αἱ τοιαῦται εἰς τὸ σῶφρον τῶν ἐπὶ τούτῳ σεµνυνοµένων εἰσὶ βελτίους. ὁ δὲ Τιµόθεος καὶ σκωπτόµενός ποτε ὅτι τοιαύτης εἴη µητρὸς ‘καὶ χάριν γε αὐτῇ, φησίν, οἶδα, ὅτι δι’ αὐτὴν Κόνωνός εἰµι υἱός.’ 8 Ibid: Ἀριστοφῶν δ’ ὁ ῥήτωρ ὁ τὸν νόµον εἰσενεγκὼν ἐπ’ Εὐκλείδου ἄρχοντος, ὃς ἂν µὴ ἐξ ἀστῆς γένηται νόθον εἶναι, αὐτὸς ἀπεδείχθη ὑπὸ Καλλιάδου τοῦ κωµικοῦ ἐκ Χορηγίδος τῆς ἑταίρας παιδοποιησάµενος, ὡς ὁ αὐτὸς ἱστορεῖ Καρύστιος ἐν τρίτῳ Ὑποµνηµάτων. 9 Athen. 13.61 (592a–b). 10 Athen. 13.62 (592 b, d). Cf. Schiassi 1951, 222–3. 11 Athen. 13.62 (592c), 56 (589c). 12 Athen. 13.63 (592e). 13 Athen. 13.58 (590c): Ὑπερείδης δ’ ὁ ῥήτωρ ἐκ τῆς πατρῴας οἰκίας τὸν υἱὸν ἀποβαλὼν Γλαύκιππον Μυρρίνην τὴν πολυτελεστάτην ἑταίραν ἀνέλαβε, καὶ ταύτην µὲν ἐν ἄστει εἶχεν, ἐν Πειραιεῖ δὲ Ἀρισταγόραν, Φίλαν δ’ ἐν Ἐλευσῖνι, ἣν πολλῶν ὠνησάµενος χρηµάτων εἶχεν ἐλευθερώσας, ὕστερον δὲ καὶ οἰκουρὸν αὐτὴν ἐποιήσατο, ὡς Ἰδοµενεὺς ἱστορεῖ. ἐν δὲ τῷ ὑπὲρ Φρύνης λόγῳ Ὑπερείδης ὁµολογῶν ἐρᾶν τῆς γυναικὸς καὶ οὐδέπω τοῦ ἔρωτος ἀπηλλαγµένος τὴν προειρηµένην Μυρρίνην εἰς τὴν οἰκίαν εἰσήγαγεν. 14 Athen. 13.61 (591f): connection with a hetaira aule¯tris. 15 Thus the natural background of the connection between Diogenes and Lais in Athenaeus (13.55 [588e–f]) should be Corinth. 16 Schuller 2008, 75: ‘Hetären waren zu einem festen Bestandteil der griechischen Gesellschaft geworden’; cf. further ibid. 133. 17 Ael. VH 12.43; Pl. Grg. 471. 18 Athen. 13.5 (557c) [Satyros FHG III 161]: οἰκειώσασθαι δὲ θέλων καὶ τὸ Θετταλῶν ἔθνος ἐπαιδοποιήσατο ἐκ δύο Θετταλίδων γυναικῶν, ὧν ἣ µὲν ἦν Φεραία Νικησίπολις, ἥτις αὐτῷ ἐγέννησε Θετταλονίκην, ἣ δὲ Λαρισαία Φίλιννα, ἐξ ἧς Ἀρριδαῖον ἐτέκνωσε. Athen. 13.40 (578a) [Ptolemaios Agesarchou FHG III 67]: Πτολεµαῖος δ’ ὁ τοῦ Ἀγησάρχου ἐν ταῖς περὶ τὸν Φιλοπάτορα Ἱστορίαις βασιλέων ἐρωµένας ἀναγράφων φησίν· Φιλίππου τοῦ Μακεδόνας αὐξήσαντος Φίλινναν τὴν ὀρχηστρίδα, ἐξ ἧς καὶ γεννῆσαι Ἀρριδαῖον τὸν µετ’ Ἀλέξανδρον βασιλεύσαντα. Just. Epit. 9.8.2 (‘ex Larissaea saltatrice ﬁlium’) and 13.2.11 (‘ex Larissaeo scorto’). Cf. Ogden 1999, esp. 25; 2011, 222. Ogden’s effort to conclude an actual wife’s status for Philinna, however, does not convince, for she is not mentioned in our sources (quoted above) as Philip’s wife but only as the mother of one of his sons. 19 Hammond and Grifﬁth 1979, 225, 278–9, 524, 677; Ogden 1999, loc. cit. and 38 (nn. 153–4).

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20 Athen. 10.46 (435b–c). That the use of experienced courtesans was not unknown at Philip’s court is also shown by the story of the hetaira Kallixeina the Thessalian to whom Olympias is reported to have entrusted the erotic enticement of Alexander (Theophrastus in Athen. 10.45 [435a]). The Thessalian pallake¯ Pankaste with whom Alexander had his first sexual intercourse, in Aelian (VH 12.34), may well be a doublet of Kallixeina (Ogden 2011, 224). 21 Diod. Sic. 17.72: she was γυνὴ πολῖτις τῶν ἀδικηθέντων (sc. τῶν Ἀθηναίων), cf. Plut. Alex. 38; Curt. 5.7; Athen. (Kleitarchos) 13.37 (576d–e). Neither the fact that Kleitarchos seems to be the oldest testimony of Thais’ action at Persepolis nor the silence of Arrian (Anab. 3.18.11–12) and Strabo (15.3.6) on her involvement are decisive arguments for discrediting the whole story. Both these latter sources mention the official motive of the ‘Greek revenge’ against the old Persian devastations in Greece, which could be best combined with Thais’ personal interest and intervention. Cf. Berve 1926 II 175 (no. 359); Borza 1972; Ogden 1999, 235–6; most recently Iversen 2011, 190 (with a survey of previous literature). 22 Plut. Alex. 38: ἅµα τῇ µέθῃ λόγον εἰπεῖν προήχθη, τῷ µὲν τῆς πατρίδος ἤθει πρέποντα, µείζονα δὲ ἢ καθ’αὑτήν. 23 Diod. Sic. 17.72: καθηγουµένης τῆς πράξεως Θαΐδος τῆς ἑταίρας. Αὕτη δὲ µετὰ τὸν βασιλέα πρώτη τὴν δᾷδα καιοµένην ἠκόντισεν εἰς τὰ βασίλεια. Curtius (5.7.2) also mentions that the ‘pelices’ (concubines) collaborated in the actual arson. 24 Athen. 13.37 (576d–e). That her liaison with Ptolemy postdated Alexander’s death is clearly suggested by Plut. Alex. 38.2 (Θαῒς ἡ Πτολεµαίου τοῦ βασιλεύσαντος 3 ὕστερον ἑταίρα). Syll. 314 B.7–8, where her and Ptolemy I’s son Lagos appears as victor in a chariot-race at the Lykaia of 308 (thus as a boy of about 14) is no evidence against that: the official winner was most probably also here just the sponsor and not the charioteer himself. 25 Athen. 13.21 (567c), cf. now Iversen 2011. 26 The relevant sources collected and discussed already by Berve 1926 II 75–80 (no. 143: Harpalos), 338 (no. 676: Pythionike), 112–3 (no. 231: Glykera). On Pythionike’s age: Schiassi 1951, 239–42. Cf. further Ogden 1999, esp. 231–2, 278; Müller 2006; Schuller 2008, 79–80 and below. 27 Diod. Sic. 17.108.5: ζῶσάν τε αὐτὴν βασιλικαῖς δωρεαῖς ἐτίµησε (sc. Ἅρπαλος). 28 Theopompos FGrH 115 F253. Diod. Sic. 17.108.5; Plut. Phoc. 22; Paus. 1.37.5; Ath. 13.67–8 (including the fragment of Theopompos cited). 29 Theopompos loc. cit. The model thus established becomes obvious in the later cult of Aphrodite-Lamia to honour Poliorketes’ mistress (see below) and of Aphrodite-Belestiche (Plut. Amat. 753e) for Ptolemy II’s similar consort, cf. Ogden 1999, 221, 262; 2011, 227. On the identification / assimilation / association of Hellenistic queens with Aphrodite (i.a.): van Nuffelen 1998/9, esp. 183–4; Aneziri, in Buraselis- Aneziri 2004, esp. 175–6 (with earlier literature). 30 Plut. Phoc. 22. 31 However, it would be more prudent not to put such a formal weight on Pausanias’ ἔγηµε (1.37.5) as Ogden (2011, 227) seems to do in his effort almost to equate with proper marriages this and other relationships of Macedonian rulers with courtesans. Distinction between partnership and marriage seems to have still been possible, then and now. 32 Athen. 13.50 (586c–d) and 68 (595d–596b), containing fragments from Theopompos of Chios (see following note) and other earlier authors.

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33 Theopompos FGrH 115 F254b: παρέδωκέν (sc. Harpalos) τε αὐτῇ κατοικεῖν ἐν τοῖς βασιλείοις τοῖς ἐν Ταρσῷ καὶ ὁρᾷ ὑπὸ τοῦ λαοῦ προσκυνουµένην καὶ βασίλισσαν προσαγορευοµένην. Cf. ibid F254a. 34 On the evidence of a fragment from the satirical drama of Alexander’s age Agen as excerpted by Athen. 13.68 (596a–b): {Β.} καὶ µὴν ἀκούω µυριάδας τὸν Ἅρπαλον / αὐτοῖσι τῶν Ἀγῆνος οὐκ ἐλάσσονας / σίτου διαπέµψαι καὶ πολίτην γεγονέναι. / {Α.} Γλυκέρας ὁ σῖτος οὗτος ἦν· ἔσται δ’ ἴσως / αὐτοῖσιν ὀλέθρου κοὐχ ἑταίρας ἀρραβών. The correct sense of the latter phrase seems to be that the city acquired that quantity of grain thanks to Glykera, that is her relationship with Harpalos, not from Glykera through Harpalos (pace Ogden 2011, 225). 35 In the fragment of Agen (above n. 34), with Athenaeus’ comment (ibid): Παλλίδην δ’ ἐνταῦθα ἐκάλεσε τὸν Ἅρπαλον. The correct interpretation has been proposed by Sutton 1980, cf. Ogden 2011, 226 with notes. 36 Diog. Laert. 5.76. Cf. Athen. 13.65 (593f), of dubious authenticity. 37 Plut. Demetr. 11: Ἦν δὲ καὶ τἆλλα παράτολµος ὁ Στρατοκλῆς…καὶ τῇ βωµολοχίᾳ καὶ βδελυρίᾳ τοῦ παλαιοῦ Κλέωνος ἀποµιµεῖσθαι δοκῶν τὴν πρὸς τὸν δῆµον εὐχέρειαν. Ἔσχε δὲ τὴν ἑταίραν Φυλάκιον ἀνειληφώς, καί ποτ’ αὐτῷ πρὸς δεῖπνον ἐξ ἀγορᾶς πριαµένης ἐγκεφάλους καὶ τραχήλους «παπαί» εἶπε «τοιαῦτα γ’ ὠψώνηκας οἷς σφαιρίζοµεν οἱ πολιτευόµενοι». 38 LSJ s.v. εὐχέρεια translates this as ‘unscrupulous conduct’, which is too weak. 39 Schiassi (1951, 242, 244) would place her birth c. 370. This can be only approximate and certainly cannot exclude a relationship with both Hypereides and, later, Poliorketes. The identification is also accepted by Schuller (2008, 71). Ogden (1999, 239) seems to regard them as different persons. In the case of the connection of Demetrios of Phaleron with a Lamia found in Diogenes Laertius (5.76 [from Favorinus]: ἀστῇ καὶ εὐγενεῖ συνῴκει Λαµίᾳ τῇ ἐρωµένῃ) one should rather accept with Ogden (1999, 232) a later confusion between Demetrios Poliorketes and his namesake the philosopher. Cf. already F. Geyer, RE XII 1 (1924), 547 in the same (but hesitant) sense: ‘möchte ich, wenn auch die Möglichkeit zuzugeben ist, für eine Verwechslung halten’. 40 Athen. 13.64 (593a) [Nikolaos of Damaskos FGrH 90 F90]: ἔξω τοῦ διαδήµατος κοινωνὸν εἶχε τῆς βασιλείας. 41 Ogden 1999, 280–1, where Kratesipolis should be deleted as she seems to have been chosen to be an additional wife and not a ‘courtesan’ of the king. On Demetrios’ hetairai and their significance see also the interesting remarks by Müller 2009, especially 41–7 (although I find it difficult to share her basic idea that ‘Demetrius deployed his hetairas as signs of his divine fosterage’ [46]; the connection with the modes of Greek city-life seems to me to have been his greatest gain). 42 Cf. Ogden 1999, 278–9; Schuller 2008, 80–1. 43 There seems to be no reason to suppose with Hunter (1994, 130) that hetairai were always of foreign origin and lacked Athenian citizenship. 44 Athen. 6.62 (253a), excerpted from Demochares: cult (not necessarily of Aphrodite-Leaina on the basis of the context, pace Ogden 1999, 262); 13.38 (577c): ἤρα δὲ καὶ Λεαίνης καὶ αὐτῆς ἑταίρας Ἀττικῆς ὁ ∆ηµήτριος. 45 Athen. 13.40–42 (578a–579d), mostly from Machon who expressly mentioned her origin as Ἀττικὴ γυνή (578b). 46 Plut. Demetr. 16, 19, 24, 26–7; Ath. 6.62 (253a–b), 13.38–39 (577c–f); Ael. VH 12.17.

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47 Plut. Demetr. 14, 53 (Eurydike). Diod. Sic. 20.40.5–6 (Euthydike, which should be the correct form in the genos of Miltiades: Osborne – Byrne 1994, 169 s.v.). Cf. Ogden 1999, 175; Habicht 1995, 74, 86. 48 This may even be partly the reason for the larger number of hetairai attributed to Ptolemy II in our sources as noted above. Machon’s host should excel also in this civic trait in comparison with Demetrios, his ‘second best’. 49 Ogden (2011, 228–31) tried to recognize elements of a more or less formal marriage in this relationship. However, the evidence adduced is too thin for that. Neither the terms γυνή nor συνῴκει, which we may conclude refer to that connection in later sources (analysed ibid.), nor the idea of a ‘sacred marriage’ between Demetrios and his courtesan in the Parthenon of Athens may be thought convincing arguments for such a thesis. Lamia simply had all the practical virtues of a wife and queen but formalities counted, too, and even a king was neither able nor perhaps unwisely ready to dispose of them. 50 Athen. 13.39 (577d): ἦν δὲ ἡ Λάµια σφόδρα εὔθικτος καὶ ἀστικὴ πρὸς τὰς ἀποκρίσεις. 51 Plut. Demetr. 27: οὐ µόνον δὲ ταῖς γαµεταῖς, ἀλλὰ καὶ τοῖς φίλοις τοῦ ∆ηµητρίου ζῆλον καὶ φθόνον εὐηµεροῦσα (sc. Λάµια) καὶ στεργοµένη παρεῖχεν. 52 Athen. 13.38 (577c), from Polemon. 53 Cf. Schuller 2008, 80. 54 Philippides: Plut. Demetr. 26; cult: Athen. 6.62 (253a–b). 55 Plut. Demetr. 27: διὸ καὶ τῶν κωµικῶν τις οὐ φαύλως τὴν Λάµιαν Ἑλέπολιν ἀληθῶς προσεῖπε. 56 On the marriage of Antiochos III in 191 to a noble Chalcidian, symbolically renamed Euboia, see Polyb. 20.8.1–5, on whom depend Livy 36.11.1–4; Diod. Sic. 29.2.1, App. Syr. 16, and later sources. Cf. Walbank 1979, 75. 57 The sources are collected in Ogden 1999, 279, cf. ibid 244–5. Cf. Schuller 2008, 81. 58 See Ogden 1999 and Schuller 2008, 81 with sources and discussion. 59 Cf. Ogden 1999, esp. 221–3; 2011. Simple courtesans, like Philinna’s fellow entertainers at Philip II’s court (see above), may well have been a usual phenomenon of the Macedonian court at any time also before Alexander, but women of the intellectual capacities and inﬂuence of civic hetairai seem to have been a later addition, as our evidence clearly suggests. 60 Thus already Hauschild 1933, 71 (conclusions); Gil 1975/6, esp. 66. 61 Cf. n. 25 above. 62 Nesselrath 1990, esp. 319. 63 Mor. 712c: τὰ δὲ πρὸς τὰς ἑταίρας, ἂν µὲν ὦσιν ἰταµαὶ καὶ θρασεῖαι, διακόπτεται σωφρονισµοῖς τισιν ἢ µετανοίαις τῶν νέων, ταῖς δὲ χρησταῖς καὶ ἀντερώσαις ἢ πατήρ τις ἀνευρίσκεται γνήσιος ἢ χρόνος τις ἐπιµετρεῖται τῷ ἔρωτι συµπεριφορὰν αἰδοῦς ἔχων φιλάνθρωπον. Cf. the general remarks already by Hauschild 1933, loc. cit.; Gil 1975/6, 69–71; Henry 1985, 110–11; Brown 1990, 255–8. In the speciﬁc case of Chrysis in Samia see (inter alia) the pertinent observations by Krieter-Spiro 1997, 48, 167; Dedousi 2006, 14–15. One may also further consult on the place of women in Menander (inter alia) Fantham 1975; Salmenkivi 1997, esp. 186–9. 64 Arnott 1997–2000 ad loc. 65 Blume 1998, 163–4. 66 Cf. Schuller 2008, 99.

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67 Suda s.v. Μένανδρος: καὶ περὶ γυναῖκας ἐµµανέστατος. 68 Buraselis 2009, 35 f. with sources and further literature. See also O’Sullivan 2009 who collects and discusses (esp. 64–71) the evidence on anti-Antigonid hints in the Athenian comedy of this period; however, only the character of Philippides’ militant views seems to be certain. 69 See most recently the discussion and the conclusion of Dedousi 2006, 31 (previously advocating a date c. 310 but now obviously not excluding a later one). 70 Plut. Demetr. 24 (here mentioned as porne¯). One may also note that the combination of the name Chrysis for a hetaira and the Samian origin is repeated in Menander’s Eunuchos: Krieter-Spiro 1997, 52, n. 7. 71 Athen. 13.40 (578a–b). However, the conflict between Monophthalmos and Poliorketes over Demo seems dubious. See Ogden 1999, 173, 177, 247. 72 Plut. Demetr. 2. 73 Plaut. Cist. 78–81: ‘Matronae magis cónducibilest istuc, mea Selenium, unum amare et cúm eo aetatem exigere quoi nuptast semel. verum enim méretrix fortunati est oppidi simillima: non potest suam rem obtinere sola sine multis viris’. Cf. the shrewd remark by Fantham 1975, 51, n. 21: ‘economically hetaerae could only survive if there was a sizable clientele of financially independent mature men’. On the related notion of royal tryphe¯, see Ogden 1999, 269. 74 Cf. Demetrios’(Phalereus’ grandson’s) list of the noble citizen’s characteristic actions and pleasures, to which a kalliste¯hetaira belonged, in Ath. 4.64 (167e–f ), with the remarks in Schuller 2008, 77–8, 83–5. 75 Cf. the gradual influence of the royal family model on the civic level in Hellenistic times as worked out by van Bremen (2003, 328–9). On theatricality as a basic trait of political life in Hellenistic times see now the penetrating analysis by Chaniotis 2009.

Bibliography Arnott, W. G. 1997–2000 Menander, 3 vols., Loeb Classical Library, Cambridge, Mass. Berve, H. 1926 Das Alexanderreich auf prosopographischer Grundlage, vol. 2: Prosopographie, Munich. Blume, H.-D. 1998 Menander, Darmstadt. Borza E. 1972 ‘Fire from heaven: Alexander at Persepolis’, Classical Philology 67, 233–45. Brown, P. G. McC. 1990 ‘Plots and prostitutes in Greek new comedy’, Papers of the Leeds International Latin Seminar 6, 241–66. Buraselis, K. 2009 ‘∆ύσκολοι άνθρωποι και δύσκολοι καιροί. Μενάνδρεια κωµωδία και πρώιµη ελληνιστική εποχή’, in I. Kralli (ed.), έατρο και κοινωνία στη διαδροµή της ελληνικής ιστορίας, Αθήνα, 33–49.

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Buraselis, K. and Aneziri, S. 2004 ‘Die griechische und hellenistische Apotheose’, in Thesaurus Cultus et Rituum Antiquorum II, 158–86. Chaniotis A. 2009 Θεατρικότητα και δηµόσιος βίος στον ελληνιστικό κόσµο, Herakleion. Davidson, J. 1997 Courtesans and Fishcakes: The consuming passions of Classical Athens, London. Dedousi, C. 2006 Σαµία, επιστ. έκδ. της Χ. ∆., Αθήνα: Ακαδηµία Αθηνών (Βιβλιοθήκη Α. Μανούση). Fantham, H. 1975 ‘Sex, status and survival in Hellenistic Athens: astudy of women in new comedy’, Phoenix 29, 44–74. Gil, L. 1975/6 ‘Los profesionales del amor en la Comedia Media y Nueva’, Estudios clásicos 19, 59–88. Habicht, C. 1995 Athen. Die Geschichte der Stadt in hellenistischer Zeit, Munich. Hammond, N. G. L. and Grifﬁth, G. T. 1979 A History of Macedonia, vol. 2, Oxford. Hauschild, H. 1933 Die Gestalt der Hetäre in der griechischen Komödie, Diss. Leipzig. Henry, M. M. 1985 Menander’s Courtesans and the Greek Comic Tradition, Frankfurt. Hunter, R. L. 1994 The New Comedy of Greece and Rome, 2nd edn, Cambridge. Iversen, P. A. 2011 ‘Menander’s Thaïs: Hac primum iuvenum lascivos lusit amores’, Classical Quarterly 61, 186–91. Krieter-Spiro, M. 1997 Sklaven, Köche und Hetären. Das Dienstpersonal bei Menander, Stuttgart. Müller, S. 2006 ‘Alexander, Harpalos und die Ehren für Pythionike und Glykera: Überlegungen zu den Repräsentationsformen des Schatzmeisters in Babylon und Tarsos’, in V. Lica and D. Nedu (eds), Philia. Festschrift für Gerhard Wirth zum 80. Geburtstag, Historia Antiqua Galatiensis II, Gala i, 71–106. 2009 ‘In the favour of Aphrodite: Sulla, Demetrius Poliorcetes, and the symbolic value of the hetaira’, Ancient History Bulletin 23, 38–49. Nesselrath, H.-G. 1990 Die attische Mittlere Komödie. Ihre Stellung in der antiken Literaturkritik und Literaturgeschichte, Berlin. Ogden, D. 1999 Polygamy, Prostitutes and Death. The Hellenistic Dynasties, London and Swansea. 2011 ‘How to marry a courtesan in the Macedonian courts’, in A. Erskine and L. Llewellyn-Jones (eds), Creating a Hellenistic World, Swansea, 221–46.

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Osborne, M. J. and Byrne, S. G. 1994 A Lexicon of Greek Personal Names, II: Attica, Oxford. O’Sullivan, L. 2009 ‘History from comic hypotheses: Stratocles, Lachares, and P.Oxy. 1235’, Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies 49, 53–79. Pomeroy, S. B. 1975 Goddesses, Whores, Wives and Slaves. Women in Classical Antiquity, New York. Salmenkivi, E. 1997 ‘Family life in the comedies of Menander’, in J. Frösén (ed.), Early Hellenistic Athens. Symptoms of a Change, Helsinki, 183–94. Schiassi, G. 1951 ‘De temporum quaestionibus ad Atticas IV saeculi meretrices et eiusdem comicas fabulas pertinentibus’, Rivista di ﬁlologia e di istruzione classica 79, 217–45. Schuller, W. 2008 Die Welt der Hetären. Berühmte Frauen zwischen Legende und Wirklichkeit, Stuttgart. Sutton, D. F. 1980 ‘Harpalus as Pallides’, Rheinisches Museum für Philologie 123, 96. van Bremen, R. 2003 ‘Family structures’, in A. Erskine (ed.), A Companion to the Hellenistic World, Oxford, 313–30. van Nuffelen, P. 1998/9 ‘Le culte des souverains hellénistiques, le gui de la religion grecque’, Ancient Society 29, 175–89. Walbank, F. W. 1979 A Historical Commentary on Polybius, vol. 3, Oxford.

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IMAGEANDCOMMUNICATIONINTHE SELEUCIDKINGDOM:THEKING,THECOURT ANDTHECITIES

Paola Ceccarelli

1. Introduction The balance of power on which the Hellenistic kingdoms rested was delicate. In the first instance, the king’s power depended on his personal charisma, confirmed by his continued success, especially in war, which implied divine support.1 Other important factors included the king’s perceived ability to distribute justice and bring peace to his subjects and, rather paradoxically, legitimacy through descent.2 All these elements impacted on the king’s ability to mobilize a consensus around his decisions. The reactions caused by Alexander’s request in 324 that the poleis readmit exiles, or the trouble that Philip V took, in 219 and again in 214, when asking the city of Larissa to admit new citizens into their ranks, show that no king could in all cases simply give orders.3 The issue may have been particularly acute for the Seleucid kings, whose rule, to use Austin’s words, ‘depended on a judicious blend of pressure and persuasion’.4 Issues of communication between the king and his subjects were thus of fundamental importance; historical narratives as well as countless anecdotes testify to the delicate balance between royal distance on the one hand and attention to specific individuals and communities on the other.5 Accessibility and punctilious attention to the correspondence are part of the image of the ideal king presented by the Hellenistic literature on kingship, and against this ideal all Hellenistic kings, from Philip and Alexander to the successors, were measured;6 whether they successfully managed to live up to it is of course a different matter. The epigraphical documents too, with their emphasis on the visits and wishes of embassies or individuals, stress the importance of direct contact with the king and his court.7 However, opportunities for direct contact, given the vast expanses of territory controlled by the Hellenistic kings, will have been limited to a small part of the population of the kingdom. The arrival of the king in a city was thus by definition an extraordinary moment, almost a divine epiphany;8

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Paola Ceccarelli and such moments, even in the case of kings constantly on the move, such as the Seleucids, cannot have been too frequent. As a result, contact with members of the court, and contact with the words of the king, as transmitted in his letters, will have played an important role. The public reading of a royal letter by the king’s friend or ambassador in the agora or in the assembly functioned as a substitute for a direct appearance or epiphany, and the inscription of a royal pronouncement within the enclosure of a sanctuary enabled a similar experience of vicarious royal presence in the act of reading.9 How exactly was such communication framed, and what role did the court play in what has been described as a ‘network of bilateral relationships between the ruling king and the communities in his sphere of power’?10 The importance of the court for the survival of a territorial monarchy has repeatedly been stressed: the court is the centre from which the king projects his identity as monarch towards the outer world; it constitutes the notional place where the relationship between the king and the elites, whose support he needs in order to control an extended territory, is negotiated.11 Members of the court formed the king’s council and, thus, the kingdom’s ruling class; at the same time, these court members had connections with communities both within and outside the kingdom, or might form them, for instance as a result of being granted citizenship; communication between the king and the cities or ethne¯ could be channelled through these individuals.12 In what follows, I shall focus on those acts of communication that involved some form of speech – as recorded in inscriptions or papyri. Even though some attention to the ways in which such speech was monument- alised is therefore inevitably part of the present investigation, the emphasis here does not lie on the ‘spectacular’ aspects of royal power and its projection in the form of royal audiences, festivals, processions, benefactions, the establishment of cults and temples or the architectural design of residences. Rather, I want to focus on the entourage of the king to see how members of the court, as well as important representatives of the cities, are presented in the official documents emanating from the royal chanceries. For this reason I shall also leave aside the information (and the documents) transmitted through the literary tradition. Throughout, the focus will be on the Seleucid kingdom, and more specifically, not least because of the limits of the evidence available, on the relationship with the Greek cities of Asia Minor and the Mediterranean world.13 It is worth noting at the outset that the chancery responsible for the main official documents was itself part of the court, since its head would be one of the persons from the close entourage of the king: the person

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Image and communication in the Seleucid kingdom who took care of the royal correspondence, the epistolagraphos, had to follow the king wherever he went, and some of the official letters still give the impression of having been dictated directly by the king himself.14 The close connection between the court and the office of secretary is borne out by the curriculum of the three Seleucid epistolagraphoi known to date. Of the first, Dionysios, active under Antiochos IV, Polybius says that he was one of the friends;15 the second, Menochares son of Dionysios, is characterized in a dedication by the synodos of the Delians as ‘one of the first friends ([τῶν πρώτων φί]λων) of king Demetrios I, and epistolagraphos’; similarly the third, Bithys son of Thraseas, defines himself, in a dedication made in Delos, as 16 συνγενὴς καὶ ἐπιστολαγράφος of Antiochos IV Epiphanes. Obviously as orders cascaded down the administrative chain, the connection with the court would become looser: while we should assume a degree of shared training, some minor officials may have been influenced by local, rather than courtly and Seleucid, traditions.17

2. The documents: a typology What kind of image do the official documents present of the king, his court, and his/their relationship to the larger world? First, it is necessary to address a typological issue. The documents emanating from the Seleucid chanceries have been variously classified;18 I suggest that they may be helpfully divided into three main categories, based on their addressee(s) and purpose: a) letters sent by the king or an administrator to cities, sanctuaries or ethne¯, often in response to the visit of an embassy, accepting honours awarded or dealing with some specific request or issue; these form the majority of the surviving documentation. b) letters sent by the king or an official to an official, and dealing with a specific internal issue. c) letters sent by the king or an official to an official, but dealing with a general issue. Three dossiers (two of them preserved in multiple copies) exemplify this type of document: the earliest one (c. 209 BC) concerns the nomination of Nikanor to a high-priesthood and the supervision of all sanctuaries ‘beyond the Taurus’; the second (193 BC) deals with the institution of a state cult for Laodike; the last (c. 187–175 BC) provides for the nomination of Olympiodoros to the supervision of the sanctuaries in Koile Syria and Phoenicia.19 The distinction between second and third type is not always clear-cut (both may carry the order of inscription, for instance, while the letters of the first group never do). Furthermore, some documents do not fit any of these

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Paola Ceccarelli categories. Thus, the letter sent by Antiochos VIII to Ptolemy X Alexander I (RC 71, dated to 109 BC) offers a unique instance of a diplomatic transaction between kings, in connection with the affairs of a specific city, Seleukeia in Pieria. Unique to date is also the hypomne¯matismos (memorandum) with which a king Antiochos grants privileges to the Zeus of Baitokaike, although its uniqueness is tempered by the presence of an introductory letter by the same king.20 A dossier from Skythopolis preserves two documents sent by an official to the king, which the writer calls hypomne¯mata (petitions): these offer a unique example (for what concerns the Seleucid kingdom) of the way a powerful official would address the king in writing.21 The hypomne¯ma addressed by the Sidonians in Jamnia to Antiochos V Eupator would show, if more of it were preserved, how a group addressed the king.22 Finally, a document in Uruk preserves what is to date the only certain reference, within the Seleucid administration, to a diagramma (edict, regulation, ordinance): thus, general regulations may have been issued under this label – none has survived.23 Notwithstanding these exceptions, the three main categories of missives proposed above capture and characterize most of the surviving Seleucid administrative correspondence. The documents produced by the Seleucid chancery, whether emanating from the king or from administrators, and whether addressed to cities and other groups or to administrators, always follow the epistolary format. Moreover, the king always refers to them as 24 letters (ἐπιστολή). The recipients did not necessarily share this point of view and at times refer to the letter as a prostagma, or ‘order’. The earliest surviving attestation of prostagma occurs in the dossier concerning the sale of lands to Laodike. It comprises a report by a hyparchos, that makes reference to the prostagma of the oikonomos Nikanor. Since we do not have Nikanor’s original order or missive, it is impossible to determine which generic form it took.25 Instances of royal correspondence (and its reception) offer less ambiguous evidence. In all copies of the dossiers regulating the nomination of Nikanor to the high-priesthood of the sanctuaries in the lands beyond the Taurus and instituting a state cult for Laodike, the first officials in the hierarchical chain (respectively, Zeuxis for the first dossier, Anaximbrotos and Menedemos for the second) refer to the royal letter as an ‘order’, prostagma, when transmitting it to their subordinates;26 similarly, in the dossier concerning the nomination of Olympiodoros to the supervision of the sanctuaries of the satrapy of Koile Syria and Phoenicia, Heliodoros, the official who is first in the hierarchical chain, in his own letter to his subordinate defines the royal letter as a prostagma.27 Finally, the decree with which Seleukeia-in- Pieria answers the letter sent by Seleukos IV concerning honours for his philos Aristolochos also refers (twice) to the royal document with prostagma.28

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The administration, then, in a process of reception, may turn the royal letter into a royal order, thereby rendering explicit the power of the royal word.29 But it is significant that these letters are addressed to administrators, and that it is administrators who in their letters choose to label the royal letters prostagmata.30 The one apparent exception, the decree of Seleukeia-in-Pieria, is not really an exception, since Seleukeia was under the control of a Seleucid governor, the epistate¯s Theogenes, to whom the royal letter had been addressed in the first instance, and who, we may suppose, will have loomed large in the redaction of the answering decree.31 At any rate: barring one already-mentioned exception, the document explicitly labelled as hypomne¯matismos and included in the letter sent by a king Antiochos to a functionary, Euphemos, in charge of the temple of Baitokaike (a document written in the third person, and closing with the unusual formulation ∆εήσει οὖν γραφῆναι οἷς εἴ|θισται, ἵνα γένηται ἀκολούθως τοῖς δηλουµένοις, ‘it will therefore be necessary to write to the usual officials, so that action is taken in accordance with these instructions’), the king himself always speaks of ‘epistles’, and the actual format is indeed that of a letter, whatever the name given to the document by intermediaries or recipients.32 The Seleucids dealt with their political and administrative tasks through letters.

3. Communicative strategies: the prescript While these documents had different addressees and purposes, the basic elements that shape the image of king and court for the readers or hearers remain the same: monumental context (i.e. the means and place of publication, which may vary); explicit statements (the ‘content’ of the letter) which address the specific situation, and which also vary; and implicit strategies, such as the use of a particular type of language, that remain largely constant.33 In what follows, I shall focus on the implicit strategies; more specifically, I shall look at the use and implications of the letter- format, as this is the overarching constant in the communicative strategy of the Seleucids; at the presentation of the actors (sender, addressees, ambassadors, intermediaries); and at how the reason for the decision and the decision itself are expressed. The conventions of Greek epistolary style regulate the Seleucid correspondence: an opening formula in the third person is followed by the body of the letter, in the first person, in which the king or the administrator states his reason for writing, gives his decision or makes an exhortation; the letter closes with a formulaic greeting. In the prescript, sender and addressee(s) are usually indicated by their name only: the father’s name is absent, as is any indication of title or

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Paola Ceccarelli function, though an exception is made for the qualification βασιλεύς that usually precedes the name of the king. From the end of the third century BC onwards, instances of the honorary titles ‘father’ and ‘brother’ for the addressee are attested in the prescript, both epigraphically and in the documents transmitted by the literary tradition.34 The letter of Antiochos VIII to Ptolemy X Alexander I, dated to 109 BC, also presents a very full prescript: ‘King Antiochos to King Ptolemy Alexander his brother, greetings’ ([β]ασιλεὺς Ἀντίοχος βασιλεῖ Πτολεµαίωι τῶι καὶ [Ἀλ]εξάνδρωι τῶι ἀδελφῶι χαίρειν, RC 71); but here a king is addressing another king. Similarly, the two hypomne¯mata addressed by the strate¯gos and archiereus Ptolemy to king Antiochos, part of the dossier from Skythopolis, specify the nature of Ptolemy’s office in the prescript: but this is unsurprising, in a document addressed to the king.35 The absence of any details as to function, family or origin in the prescripts of most official letters is significant, as some prescripts otherwise testify to a remarkable attention for the identity of the addressees. Thus, while letters addressed to Greek cities usually open with greetings to the council and the people, Seleukos IV opens the already-mentioned letter to the city of Seleukeia-in-Pieria (a Seleucid foundation) concerning his friend Aristolochos with ‘greetings to Theophilos and the magistrates and the city of the Seleukeians-in-Pieria’. The city decree inscribed just before the letter shows that Theophilos was the epistate¯s of the city: thus, even while omitting to refer to Theophilos’ exact function, the king took care to address all parties involved, paying moreover close attention to their constitutional status: although the standard form of greeting for a Greek city is e.g. Μιλησίων τῆι βουλῆι καὶ τῶι δήµωι χαίρειν, here greetings are addressed to the epistate¯s, to the city, πόλις, and to its magistrates, ἄρχοντες, but there is (for good reason) no mention of boule¯ or de¯mos.36

4. Communicative strategies: the body of the letter After the prescript, in agreement with Greek epistolary usage, the sender switches to the ﬁrst person (usually plural for the Seleucids, whether it is the king or a magistrate who writes);37 the second person (singular or plural, depending on the situation) is used for the recipient, while the third person is reserved for other persons or groups mentioned in the body of the letter.38 The tendency to mention persons only by their name, without any indications of their origins, is present also within the body of the letter; this applies to the addressee(s) as well as to other parties, and independently of whether they are Seleucid functionaries or local intermediaries.39 When writing to the Milesians in 287 BC, Seleukos I simply states: ‘Polianthes is bringing my donation’. When writing to Sardis in 213 BC, the queen

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Laodike refers to the ambassadors who visited her by their name only: Metrodoros, Metrophanes, Sokrates and Herakleides; the names of their fathers are not mentioned – in contrast to the fragmentary city decree that precedes the letter of Laodike on the stone: it gives, as is usual for city decrees, the name of Herakleides’ father: Sokrates.40 Here too, there are exceptions. In a letter to the city of Mylasa, the dynast Olympichos states that the Mylasan ambassadors showed him the letters sent to the city by ‘Ptolemy the brother of king Ptolemy’.41 Similarly, in the letter introducing the cult of Laodike the new priestess of the royal cult is identified with reference to her father and grandfather: ‘Berenike, the daughter of Ptolemy the son of Lysimachos, who is...connected to us through kinship’.42 Since the name of the new priestess was to be used to date official documents, it was vital to avoid confusions; but here as in the case of the letter of Olympichos, the identification offers an opportunity to signpost a kinship with the royal house. The only two other instances of identification through the father’s name that I am aware of in Seleucid official documents do not occur in letters. In the already- mentioned dossier concerning the sale to another Laodike of the village of Pannos, the main actors (Metrophanes, Laodike herself, the administrator of Laodike’s properties Arrhidaios, the archivist Timoxenos, and the hyparchos [...]krates) are mentioned by their name and their function only; but in the periorismos, the document by the hyparchos which sets out the limits of the land, the names and origin of the locals who have attested to the exact border are given in full: Menekrates son of Bacchios, of the ko¯me¯ of Pythos, Daos son of Azaretos, and Medeios son of Metrodoros, both of the ko¯me¯ of Pannos.43 The same happens with the donation of lands to the Zeus of Baitokaike: in the hypomne¯matismos conveying the royal decision, the village is defined as ‘previously owned by Demetrios, son of Demetrios and grandson of Mnasaios...in the satrapy of Apamea’.44 However, these last two documents are not letters; these men are certainly not part of the court, nor ‘intermediaries’ from the cities; the precision is required, because these locals have attested to the exact confines of the land being sold or given. Furthermore, these documents are all addressed to Seleucid functionaries, not to cities. The above-mentioned documents are the only instances of patronyms in the entire Seleucid correspondence. Never, in letters addressed to a city, is the father’s name of any individual mentioned. In those instances in which both the decree (with names and patronyms) and the royal letter are preserved on the same stone, the contrast is striking. As for the origins: we have seen that the origin of the men attesting to the confines of the land was mentioned in the periorismos concerning the sale of land to Laodike; but that document was not a letter, and the origin of

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Paola Ceccarelli the witnesses was pertinent to the delimitation of the land in question. The only other instance in which the origin of an individual is mentioned within all of the official Seleucid correspondence is the dossier concerning Aristodikides of Assos: although the name of his father is nowhere given, his origin is stated.45 Within this same dossier, Meleagros, the Seleucid official who is in charge of the affair, is mentioned in the prescript without any further details; when a problem arises because a certain Athenaios is already in possession of the land which the king initially intended to give to Aristodikides, Athenaios is indicated not through his father’s name, nor through his geographical origin, but through his function as commander 46 of the naval base, ὁ ἐπὶ τοῦ ναυστάθµου. The new piece of land to be given to Aristodikides is characterized as ‘the land formerly of Meleagros’, without any further details: but this Meleagros clearly cannot have been the governor mentioned in the prescript.47 Thus even in situations where indications as to the exact identity of the people mentioned would be useful, they tend to be avoided;48 the best explanation for the reference to Assos as the origin of Aristodikides is to accept it as idiosyncratic. This situation has caused more than a passing moment of discomfort to historians, since it renders identifications extremely difficult.49 But it is worth going beyond the discomfort, to try to look for the meaning, or at any rate the potential impact, of the absence of precise details. Of course, the main reason for such a situation lies in the choice of the letter-form: the letter presupposes an exchange within a community, it presupposes that people know each other and are part of a community. But had they wanted, the royal Seleucid chancery could have chosen a different format, or could have modified the letter-format to suit their needs, as is at times the case, and as the poleis that occasionally made use of letters for diplomatic purposes did.50 Interestingly, the Seleucid chancery did not do so, and the reason must be that such a situation suited the kind of image the king wanted to project. As stated by John Ma, ‘this practice reflects the practical language of empire, and the empire’s awareness of itself as an ideally rational state, autonomously organized’.51 This is certainly true; but we need to accommodate also the lack of identification by patronym of the intermediaries from the cities, which is particularly striking when contrasted with the importance of, and attention to, precise identification in the documents emanating from the cities.52 I suggest that the choice of an epistolary format and the lack of personal details results in presenting the king, the court, and the persons named in the letter as part of one and the same community, notionally members of the same family, and sharing in the same interests (the same πράγµατα), while at the same time it deprives everyone but the king of any links with a personal past or a place of origin,

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Image and communication in the Seleucid kingdom of any personal identity beyond their shared one as members of the kingdom. The frequent references to the ancestors of the king, to the similar policies of the royal brother/sister/wife/children, and to earlier meetings and benefactions are of course also part of this strategy of familial inclusion and simultaneous effacement, as is the use of specific types of titles related to the notions of friendship and kinship.53 The lack of precision concerning the identity of the people mentioned in royal letters has a further dimension, because up to a point it extends also to their function: ambassadors are qualified as such, and the letters nominating friends to some specific function go over the services rendered and the new function to which the friend has been nominated (so for the dossier concerning Nikanor). There are also a few instances in which people are qualified by their specific function (strate¯gos or dioike¯te¯s), as for instance Athenaios (officer of the naval camp) in the dossier concerning Aristodikides, or as the administrator Arrhidaios, the archivist Timoxenos, and the hyparchos [...]krates, in the dossier concerning the sale of land to Laodike: but these instances pale when viewed against the background of the entire Seleucid royal correspondence.54 Again, the letters that give details as to the exact position of the persons mentioned are mainly letters internal to the administration, not letters sent to the cities, although as a general rule, the documents from the reign of Antiochos III onwards tend to be more forthcoming with information on the status of people mentioned. Arguably, the presence of details as to the function within the Seleucid administration, when coupled with the lack of details as to the individual’s ‘identity’ in traditional Greek terms, would have reinforced the impression that the royal household (the court, the οἰκία) was the centre of the named individual’s identity.55

5. The ‘royal voice’ Let us now look at the way in which the reasons for the king’s intervention are presented in royal correspondence. In Greek decrees, the reason for the decision being taken (the so-called ‘motivation clause’) is typically introduced by ἐπειδή (‘whereas, since...’). Interestingly, the reason for a royal decision, as expressed in a royal letter, is only very rarely introduced with an ἐπειδή clause. In all of the letters of Seleucid kings or administrators preserved on stone, ἐπειδή, as far as I can tell, appears only three times, in a letter of Antiochos II to Erythrai, in the recently published letter sent by a Seleucid high administrator to the Limyreis, and in the letter with which Antiochos III nominates a chief governor at Daphne.56 The ﬁrst instance introduces a real motivation clause, which forms the basis for the royal decision that follows: ‘And since Tharsynon, Pythes and Bottas declared

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Paola Ceccarelli that under Alexander and Antigonos your city was autonomous and free from tribute, and our ancestors were constantly zealous on its behalf, seeing that their decision was just...’; but interestingly, the motivation is an 57 earlier royal decision. Also in the letter to the Limyreis ἐπειδή introduces a motivation – but here, it is an administrator’s decision that is thus motivated, not a king’s.58 As for the last instance, it introduces an extremely ‘weak’ motivation: a long participial clause (‘as the chief-priesthood requires a man devoted…gods’) states the speciﬁc needs to be covered through the appointment; ἐπειδή here only introduces the king’s action of having nominated a priest (ἐπειδὴ...ἀποδεδείχαµεν, ‘for...we have appointed him chief-priest’), and not any independent reason.59 The other term that can also introduce a motivation clause, ἐπεί, appears only twice in the Seleucid correspondence. It introduces a motivation, in the account rendered by the inhabitants of an unknown city, as preserved in a very fragmentary letter from a royal ofﬁcial; and, in the dossier concerning the institution of a state cult for Laodike, it introduces what I have called a weak motivation: ‘since in the districts under your administration Berenike has been appointed (or Laodike, in the other two copies: ἐπεὶ οὖν [ἀποδ]έδεικται)’: the earlier royal choice of Berenike (and Laodike) as chief priestess is not explained, it is simply given as the reason why now her name should be mentioned in contracts.60 The picture of motivation offered by the analysis of the documents of the Seleucid chancery appears to coincide with that presented by the other Hellenistic chanceries;61 the tendency towards the avoidance of a formal motivation clause is probably due to the desire to present the decision of the king as entirely free, or due to the king’s own personal considerations, and not as resulting from any one external event. But something else may also have come into play here – a desire to cultivate a style of speech different from that of the city-decrees, which do emphasize external motivation through the use of ἐπειδή-clauses. This is all the more likely, since we capture a similar complementarity in the way in which kings and cities present their decisions. Strikingly, while in Greek cities the decision taken and announced in a decree was usually expressed through a form of δοκέω (ἔδοξε...δεδόχθαι...), forms of δοκέω are entirely absent from the extant correspondence of the Seleucids, and are extremely rare in all of the correspondence of the Hellenistic chanceries: the Hellenistic kings announced their decisions through other verbs.62 This applies both to letters sent to the cities, and to letters sent to administrators, whether dealing with an internal or an external issue: through all of the Seleucid correspondence, there is no difference in the treatment of motivation and decision.63

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6. Implications The above has a number of implications, both on the formal level and on the historical level. The systematic avoidance of forms of δοκέω, and the tendency to avoid ἐπειδή when introducing a motivation, which is a constant in all documents emanating from Seleucid authorities, reinforces the point made above, namely that there is no formal distinction between ἐπιστολή and πρόσταγµα. A distinction may instead be found in the prescription for engraving the letter: such a request is never made in a letter addressed to a city, but we find it in letters addressed to functionaries and concerning internal issues for which a public guarantee is sought (as for the sale of lands to Laodike), or internal issues that concern actually a large part of the kingdom (the dossiers concerning the nominations of Nikanor and Olympiodoros, for instance).64 Furthermore, while the Seleucid letters addressed to cities exhibit a great diversity in display-practices, the epigraphical display of those letters that were inscribed on the specific order of the king is characterized by a striking uniformity: they are all engraved on relatively long and thin gabled stelai. This shape is used for documents found in various regions of Asia Minor, but also in Iran – it was thus not local custom that dictated the choice, but a centralized directive, aiming at emphasizing, also visually, the distinctiveness – and the universal reach – of the royal word.65 This concerns the monumental level; but also from the point of view of the language, the uniform treatment by the Seleucid administration of both motivation and decision implies that we must be careful when speaking of a ‘porosity’ between the royal language and that of the civic decrees. Certainly, entire sentences from city- decrees may be incorporated within the royal letter; and entire sentences from royal letters may be incorporated within the answering city-decree.66 Moreover, the language used is often the same in both types of documents: the common language of euergetism.67 However, the analysis of the way in which motivation and decision are presented shows that it is not just the use of the first person, or the presence of a prescript and greetings, that separate the royal letter from the decree: the distinction between the two forms of communication runs deeper. Interestingly, the relatively few 68 letters by Greek cities that survive do not appear to avoid δοκέω or ἐπειδή: the avoidance is thus not simply the consequence of the adoption of the letter-form by the Seleucid chancery, but implies a conscious choice, the choice of emphasizing the personal discourse of the king.69 As for the absence of reference to the origins, biological or geographical, of the individuals mentioned in the letters: it is difficult to evaluate how much of it depends on adherence to the conventions of epistolary form, and how much of it is intentional; in the case of dedications, at any rate, the

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Paola Ceccarelli king clearly had no problems in giving details, as is shown by the dedication honouring Heliodoros, ‘son of Aischylos, syntrophos and the official put in charge of the affairs (ἐπὶ τῶν πραγµάτων)’, made by king Seleukos IV in Delos.70 I am thus certainly not arguing that the expansion of the horizons caused by the Hellenistic kingdoms brought about a weakening of family ties, or an estrangement from the city of origin.71 However, the quasi- anonymity imposed on individuals in the royal letters constitutes an attempt at uprooting them, and at presenting a picture where the only loyalty is to the king and the only referent is the royal authority (the Empire). The abundance of information on the royal family and its connections takes the place of the details specific to individuals, thus reinforcing the effect. The individuals are thus subsumed within the royal family: the official display of family feelings and of a familial style emphasized the ‘patrimonial’ nature of the state, ‘organized and described 72 as a family business (πράγµατα)’. As John Ma has pointed out, this ideology of pervasive, accepted, imperial presence was a tool of domination in itself, a means of naturalizing empire;73 the letter-form, and the specific strategies pursued within it (refusal of the ‘political’ means of indicating identity, i.e. patronym and origin; substitution of the motivation clause by a weak motivation and by the language of euergetism; refusal of the ‘political’ terminology for expressing decision, and choice of alternative forms) formed part of the armoury employed by the chancery. In his study of the decrees honouring the followers of the early Hellenistic rulers, Herman emphasized that the epigraphic evidence of the decrees conveyed a subjective picture of ancient reality: ‘it does not tell us how the relations between rulers and followers were structured in actuality, but how it was thought appropriate to present them to the public of the Greek cities.’74 The same applies to the documents of the Seleucid chancery, and to the persons and actions they present. The courtiers, who emerge so vividly as carriers of the action in Polybius’ work, and who played such an important part in the relationships between the king and the poleis, as the honorific decrees voted for them show, mostly are, in the ideologized language of the Seleucid chancery, simply names, without any individual background apart from their earlier (and future) relationship with the king; the collective story of the kingdom replaces, in these texts, their individual story.

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Notes 1 Gehrke 1982, 252–3; Virgilio 2003. For the Seleucids, Austin 2003, 121–2 succinctly states: ‘Royalty...was a matter of recognized personal status, not tied to a specific ethnic or geographical context’. Dedications by Hellenistic kings to the gods of much- frequented sanctuaries are meant to demonstrate their victorious image, and to convey the king’s political claims to the public: see e.g. Bringmann 1992, 12–13. 2 The Hellenistic treatises on monarchy emphasize the justice and peace brought about by the king (Walbank 1984, 75–84; Bringmann 1992); justice and peace are also thematized in numerous documents emanating from the kings. Legitimacy through descent: Roy 1998. Paradoxes: Ma 2008. 3 Mari 2009, 91–4. Alexander and the exiles: Diod. Sic. 17.109.1, 18.8.2–4, 55–7; see also [Plut.] Mor. 221A; Curt. 10.2, 4–7; Just. Epit. 13. 5, 2–4. Letters of Philip V to Larisa: Syll.3 543 = IG IX 2, 517. 4 Austin 2003, 124. Capdetrey 2007, 21–84 emphasizes the ideological aspects of power and the ‘creation’ of a Seleucid space. See also Ma 2004, 26–28 [1999, 30–33]. 5 Plut. Demetr. 42, contrasts Philip, praised for his ease of access, and Demetrios; see also Plut. An seni 790a–b, on Seleukos and the necessity for a king of reading and writing letters; Polyb. 5.34.3–5, on how Ptolemy IV Philopator, on his accession to the throne, showed himself inattentive and difficult of approach (ἀνεπίστατον µὲν καὶ δυσέντευκτον) to members of the court and administrators, thus endangering the kingdom. See Weber 1997; Savalli-Lestrade 2007, 93–5; Virgilio 2010a, 102–5; Petrovic this volume. 6 Diod. Sic. 1.70.4. The idealised picture of Ptolemy in Diod. Sic. 1.70.1–10 may go back to Hekataios of Abdera (so Jacoby on FGrH 264 F25, and Walbank 1984, 77–8); but see Muntz 2011, who problematizes the assumption. The Letter of Aristeas certainly portrays a Ptolemy attentive to people and justice (Savalli-Lestrade 2007). 7 Numerous Seleucid letters open with a reference to the arrival of ambassadors or individuals: e.g. SEG XXX 1279; RC 9, 11 = I.Ilion 33c; RC 15, 17. Direct contact between the king and his subjects is usually viewed positively; but contrast the negative view of Antiochos IV Epiphanes’ nocturnal rambles through Antiochia in Polyb. 26.1; Diod. Sic. 29.32, 31.16. On the rules of interaction and etiquette regulating court life and contact with the king, see Herman 1997, esp. 203–4, 211–22. 8 See the recently published decree from Aigai, Malay and Ricl 2009, 40 l. 4–5: ἦι θεοὶ οἱ ἐ[πι]φανέ[ν|τε]ς τιµῶνται Σέλευκος καὶ Ἀντίοχος (SEG LIX 1406). A decree from Teos (SEG XLI 1003 = Ma 2004 [1999], no. 17) remembers the personal intervention of the king in the assembly (ll. 16–17), which the polis then embedded in its cultic life, through ritual repetition. On epiphanies, see Petrovic §1 in this volume. 9 On the presence of the king (παρουσία becomes, in Ptolemaic Egypt, the term describing the visit of a king, as well as, characteristically, the tax to be paid for the visit), see Savalli-Lestrade 2003, 35; on the effect of parousia caused by the reception of a letter, Ceccarelli 2013, 23, 29. 10 Austin 2003, 123. 11 Weber 1997; Herman 1997; Spawforth 2007 for Alexander; close discussion of the court of Antiochos III in Strootman 2011a. 12 On the court and its role, see Herman 1997; Paschidis 2013. Issues of definition, especially in regard to titles, are discussed in Savalli-Lestrade 1998, passim (esp. 256–7 and 266 for the difficulty of knowing whether an official is also a philos; see also Savalli-

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Lestrade 2001). For the contact between king and cities, see Strootman 2011b, with ample bibliography; on local intermediaries, Paschidis 2008. 13 On the diversity of interactions within the very diverse territories controlled by the Hellenistic kings, see Ma 2003a, 179–83; such diversity applies particularly to the Seleucids: Ramsey 2011. A welcome addition to the Near Eastern material is the letter of a king Seleukos (the second?) to his administrator Herophantos, from Drangiana, Rougemont 2012 no. 80 bis. 14 Schubart 1920. 15 Polyb. 30.25.16 (= Athen. 5.195b): ἑνὸς γὰρ τῶν φίλων, ∆ιονυσίου τοῦ ἐπιστολαγράφου, χίλιοι παῖδες ἐπόµπευσαν ἀργυρώµατα ἔχοντες, ὧν οὐδὲν ἐλάττον’ ὁλκὴν εἶχεν δραχµῶν χιλίων (this makes his very high status clear: cf. Walbank 1957–79, III 453). The office existed already under Alexander the Great, when it was the prerogative of a member of the court: an inscription on the wall of the gymnasion at Tauromenion states that Kallisthenes served under Alexander in that capacity (SEG XXVI 1123). 16 I. Délos 1543 and I. Délos 1549, respectively. On Dionysios, Menochares and Bithys see Savalli-Lestrade 1998, 53, 70, and 87–8 respectively; if Menochares’ father is the Dionysios who was secretary under Antiochos IV, then the office could be transmitted within a family. On the title, see Muccioli 2001; a connection between the title of ἐπιστολαγράφος and that of συγγενής is well attested for the Ptolemaic kingdom from the last third of the 2nd century BC. Hellenistic chanceries are discussed in Virgilio 2010a, 112–16; Virgilio 2011, 55–69. 17 Above, n. 13. The unique instance of a Seleucid ‘non-epistolary’ prostagma, C.Ord.Ptol. 32 (Βασιλέως Ἀντιόχου προστάξαντος. | τοῖς ἐν τῶι Κροκοδιλοπολίτηι κληρού|[χοις…] (the rest is lost), dating to the very short period during which Antiochos IV Epiphanes controlled Egypt, in 169 BC, might be a case in point: this opening is characteristic of the Lagid chancery, although the designation ‘Krokodilopolites’ for the Arsinoite nome may imply a reaction against the local tradition (Lenger 19802, 78); the Ptolemaic scheme is however altered by the insertion of the name of the king, extremely rare in Lagid non-epistolary prostagmata (Bencivenni 2011, 143). 18 See notably Holleaux 1933, 13–19 [=1942, 211–12]; Bikerman 1938, 190–7; more recently Capdetrey 2006, 106–12; 2007, 335–41; Wörrle 2010, 365–7; Bencivenni 2011. 19 References below, nn. 26 and 27. On the various administrative levels touched by the correspondence, and on the possibility that at times some levels may have been omitted in order to emphasize the direct presence of the king, see Bertrand 2006. 20 RC 70 = IGLSyr 7 4028, probably end of the 2nd century BC, rather than Antiochos II or III. On the form, cf. Bikerman 1938, 195; Capdetrey 2006, 110. 21 SEG XXIX 1613, d and f (199–195 BC): [βασ]ιλεῖ µεγάλω[ι] Ἀντιόχωι ὑπόµνηµα [παρὰ Πτολ]εµ[αίου] στρατηγοῦ | [καὶ] ἀρχιερέως. ἀξιῶ, ἐάν σοι φαίνηται, [β]ασιλεῦ, [γραφῆναι…], strikingly, written in the first person singular, while the king is addressed with the second person singular; the choice may betray Ptolemaic influence, as the writer had served under Ptolemy, before changing camp. Another instance of high official writing to a king, the letter of Adeimantos to Demetrios Poliorketes (SEG XLV 479 = CID 4 no. 11) is discussed by Wallace 2013. 22 SEG XLI 1556 (163 BC). On these documents and on the form taken by the royal answer (a validation of the hypomne¯ma), see Bikerman 1938, 196–7; Capdetrey 2006, 111–12.

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23 Van der Spek 1995; Capdetrey 2006, 109; 2007, 337. An inscription from Kolophon mentioning the farming of civic taxes κατὰ τὸ διάγραµµα τοῦ βασιλέως (ll. 23–4), may refer to a Seleucid or a Ptolemaic regulation (SEG XLVIII 1404, dated to 300–250 BC). The label πρόγραµµα in Joseph. AJ 12. 145 could be an inference, as it is not part of the royal message, which may itself have undergone modifications. 24 A point stressed by Bencivenni 2011, 140. 25 I.Didyma 492 ll. 57–9 (=RC 20, ll. 5–7). The hyparchos implicitly considers all documents he has received as prostagmata; this is to date the only instance of the use of prostagma for the letter of an administrator. Within this dossier, the royal letter with the sale is defined ὠνή (l. 43) by the king himself, and πρᾶσις as well as ὠνή by the administrator writing the covering letter (l. 7 and 16): the content may override formal determinations. 26 Nikanor: prostagma in SEG XXXVII 1010 (the stele from Pamukçu), l. 10 and SEG LIV 1353. ll. 8 and 21 (the stele from Philomelion: here, one of the lesser administrators, Aineias, in passing on the instructions to his subordinate Demetrios distinguishes between the letter of Zeuxis and the prostagma of Antiochos, ll. 7–8); but epistole¯ within the royal letter, SEG XXXVII 1010, l. 47 (cf. Ma 2004 [1999], no. 4). Cult of Laodike: RC 36–7 (= Ma 2004 [1999], no. 37, l. 2: πρόσταγµα, but cf. ἐπιστολῶν in the royal letter, l. 35); for the other copies, see Robert 1949, 5–31 (from Nehavend), and Robert 1967 (from Kermanshah) = I.Estremo Oriente nos. 277–8 and 271–2 respectively. 27 Cotton and Wörrle 2007, with the new fragments in Gera 2009; Jones 2009; Bencivenni 2011. 28 RC 45 = IGLSyr III 2, 1183, ll. 2–3 and 23, dated to 186 BC. Detailed analysis of the language employed by the royal chancery and the city in Holleaux 1933 [= Holleaux 1942, 205–54]. 29 Wörrle 2010, 365–7; Bencivenni 2011. Proposals to label these texts as ‘epistolary prostagmata’ are in my opinion misleading: formally, these are letters. While the offices of ἐπιστολογράφος, ὑποµνηµατογράφος and ὁ ἐπὶ τῶν προσταγµάτων are attested in Lagid Egypt, only that of ἐπιστολαγράφος is known for the Seleucids (Virgilio 2010a, 115; Virgilio 2011, 63–4; Bencivenni 2011, 144). 30 On the ideological effect obtained by the fact that these documents address officials only, without even mentioning the communities concerned by the decisions, see Ma 2004, 109–11 [=1999, 147–50]. The use of the term prostagma by a high official writing to a subordinate has also hierarchical implications, as it strengthens the position of the writer: Bencivenni 2011, 147. 31 Bencivenni (2011, 143) emphasizes that cities that were not subordinate in the way Seleukeia was always refer in their decrees to the king’s communications as letters, even when they actually were orders: e.g. SEG I 366.16–18 (letters of Antiochos II brought by Boulagoras to Samos in c. 246 BC and addressed to the city, to the Seleucid phrourarchos based in Anaia, and to the dioike¯te¯s, and containing what must have been orders). 32 Baitokaike: RC 70 = IGLSyr 7 4028 ll. 30–1 = Austin 2006, no. 172 (above, n. 20). Cf. Wörrle 2010, 365–7, who rightly emphasizes the fluidity of the whole category of epistolary prostagma. I fully agree with Bencivenni’s main points; indeed, the absence of documents introduced with βασιλέως προστάξαντος in the Seleucid kingdom is striking and says much about perceptions of empire and differences in respect to

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Ptolemaic Egypt (for the unique instance of Seleucid non-epistolary prostagma, see above, n. 17). 33 On the language of euergetism, and in general on the rhetoric underlying and underpinning the interaction between the Seleucid kings and the cities, see Ma 2004, 139–45 [= 1999, 186–94], with further references. 34 Epigraphically: in the dossier concerning Olympiodoros (above, n. 27), the king writes to Heliodoros ‘his brother’, and Heliodoros to Dorymenes ‘his brother’. Literary tradition: Joseph. AJ 12.148 (Βασιλεὺς Ἀντίοχος Ζεύξιδι τῷ πατρὶ). In the context of a story of forged letters, Plutarch, Pyrrhus 6. 6–7 records that Ptolemy used to open his letters to Pyrrhus with ὁ πατὴρ τῷ υἱῷ χαίρειν – but he refers here to private letters. 35 SEG XXIX 1613, d and f (above, n. 21). Petitioners addressing the king in a hypomne¯ma may mention the king’s title: Ptolemy addresses the king Antiochos ‘the Great’; the Sidonians, Antiochos Eupator (above n. 22); Bikerman 1938, 196. On the choice of royal titles and their importance see Muccioli 2001 and 2013, as well as van Nuffelen 2009. 36 RC 45, ll. 1–2 (= IGLSyr 3, 2 1183, ll. 29–30): βασιλεὺς Σέλευκος Θεοφίλωι καὶ Σελευκέων | τῶν ἐµ Πιερίαι τοῖς ἄρχουσι καὶ τῆι πόλει χαίρειν. Similarly, when writing to Laodikea-in-Media in 193 BC to transmit information on the institution of a cult of Laodike, Menedemos greets the governor, Apollodotos, the archontes and the city: Μενέδηµος Ἀπολλοδότωι καὶ Λαοδικέων | τοῖς ἄρχουσι καὶ τῆι πόλει χαίρειν, I.Estremo Oriente 277. 37 Virgilio 2010a, 120–2 (and 2011, 37, 208–11 and 224–30) makes a case against the ‘rule’ of the use of first person plural by the Seleucid kings. There are indeed oscillations; but Virgilio himself accepts that most instances fit the rule. Moreover, some of those that do not (e.g. the dossier from Teos, SEG XLI 1003–5 = Ma 2004 [1999], no. 19, A–D; the letter of Laodike to Iasos, SEG LII 1043 = Ma 2004 [1999], no. 26) can be explained through the specific situation (see Ma 2004, 365 [=1999, 320–321] for the possibility that the letters Ma 2004 [1999] no. 19 B–D may emanate from Antiochos the younger and his queen). In the recently published, very fragmentary, letter of a Queen Laodike to Kolophon (Debord 2013, 15–17), the περὶ ἐµοῦ γενόµεν[ον at l. 7, if the reading is correct, might be explained by the fact that the Queen must differentiate between herself and the king. 38 This may seem evident to us, as it coincides with our modern, occidental habits of letter-writing. But this need not always be the case; the sender for instance might refer to himself (or to the addressee) in the third person. In the Sumerian and Akkadian letters of the pre-Sargonic and Sargonic period, the addressee is referred to with the third person, as in the prescript (Kienast and Volk 1995, 4–6); similarly in the administrative letters of the Ur III period (Sollberger 1966, 3); Old Babylonian used the third person for the addressee as a courtesy form, besides the direct address in the second person (Sallaberger 1999, 22–48 and 49–73, compare German ‘Sie’ and Italian ‘Lei’); in the earliest Greek letter, SEG XXVI 845, the sender (Achillodoros) refers to himself in the third person (see Ceccarelli 2013, 38–9, 45, and 335–6). 39 J. and L. Robert 1983, 114–15, and Ma 2004, 104 and 156–7 [= 1999, 141 and 207–208], have remarked on this feature. The following list of persons identified by name only shows how widespread the practice is: Polianthes, a royal functionary (RC 5, 288/7 BC); Sopatros, a Seleucid functionary and addressee of the letter, but also the ambassadors of the Athymbrianoi Iatrokles, Artemidoros and Timotheos

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(RC 9, 281 BC); Meleagros (RC 10–13, c. 275 BC); Tharsynon, Pythes and Bottas, the ambassadors sent by the Erythraioi, as well as Alexander and Antigonos, the kings (RC 15, c. 270–60 BC); Metrophanes, Laodike, Arrhidaios (acting manager for Laodike), Timoxenos (the archivist), Nikomachos (the oikonomos), and the hyparch [...]krates, in the dossier concerning the sale of land to Laodike (RC 18–20); Glaukippos and Diomandros, sent by the Milesians to Seleukos II (RC 22, c. 246 BC); Herophantos, in the letter from Drangiana edited by Rougemont 2012, no. 80bis; Diogeitos, presumably a Koan ambassador (RC 26, 242 BC); Sophron, in a letter of Olympichos (at the time a Seleucid administrator) to Mylasa (SEG XL 970, c. 240 BC); Zeuxis and Ktesikles (Seleucid administrators) and a local intermediary Metrodoros, in a letter of Antiochos III to Sardis (SEG XLIII 862, 213 BC); Metrodoros, Metrophanes, Sokrates and Herakleides, ambassadors of the Sardianoi, in a letter of Laodike to Sardis (SEG XXXIX 1284, 213 BC); Zeuxis in a letter of Antiochos III to Sardis (SEG XXXIX 1285, c. 213 BC); Philotas, Bithys, Zeuxis, Nikanor and Dion in the dossier concerning the priesthood of Nikanor (SEG XXXVII 1010, 209 BC); Philomelos, Aineas, Demetrios in the copy from Philomelion (SEG LIV 1237); Demophon, Philiskos and Pheres, ambassadors of the Magnesians, in the letters concerning the festival of the Leukophryena (RC 31 and 32, c. 205 BC); Ikadion and Anaxarchos, administrators, in the dossier concerning the group established on Ikaros (SEG XXXV 1476); Pythodotos and Polythrous, ambassadors of the Teians (SEG XLI 1003); Ptolemy, in a letter to Amyzon (RC 38); Apollophanes (a doctor) in a letter to Kos (SEG XXXIII 673); Aristeas, in a letter by an administrator to Seleukeia Tralleis, also mentioning Themistokles ‘the strate¯gos’(RC 41); Kleon and Heliodoros (dioike¯tai), Ptolemy (strate¯gos and archiereus), Marsyas, Theodotos, Lysanias, Apollophanes, Leon, Ploutogenes and Dionikos, in the Skythopolis dossier (SEG XXIX 1613); Strouthion (the dioike¯te¯s) in the letter of Laodike to Iasos (SEG XXXVI 984); the ambassadors Phanias, Hermias, Aischrion, Apollonios, Hermogenes, Iason, Aineas, Parmenides, Pankrates, Dias, Euandros, Thargelios, Hermias, Aristeas, Menekrates, Herakleodoros, Dionysios, Proteas, Dionysikles, Antileon, Hierokles and Menes, in Zeuxis’ letter to Herakleia (SEG XXXVII 859B); [...]orou and [...]doros (but no patronyms) in a fragmentary letter to Sardis (SEG XXXVII 1003); [...]yndos, Aichmon and Iphikrates, ambassadors of the Limyreans (Wörrle 2011); Anaximbrotos, Menedemos, Apollodotos, and Thoas, in the various copies of the letter ordering the institution of royal cult for Laodike; Theophilos and Aristolochos in the letter of Seleukos IV to Seleukeia in Pieria (RC 45); Heliodoros, Dorymenes, Diophanes, and Olympiodoros, in the dossier concerning Olympiodoros (above n. 27); Euphemos (RC 70). 40 Resp. RC 5 (Polianthes at ll. 15 and 22 of the stele = l. 6 and 17 of the royal letter), and SEG XXXIX 1284 = Ma 2004 [1999], no. 2. 41 I.Labraunda 3, ll. 5–6; the identiﬁcation of this Ptolemy is disputed. 42 Both in the letter sent by Antiochos III to Anaximbrotos, and in the covering one of Anaximbrotos to Dionytas: RC 36, ll. 4–5, and 37, ll. 31–2. Her father is Ptolemy of Telmessos. The two other copies of the dossier, sent to Media, nominate as priestess Laodike, daughter of Antiochos III. 43 The dossier is RC 18–20 (= I.Didyma 492), dated to 254/3; it comprises a letter of Antiochos II to Metrophanes (RC 19); a letter of Metrophanes to a subordinate (RC 18); and the report on the delimitation of the borders by the hyparchos (RC 20).

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44 RC 70. Welles (1934, 285–6) notes that this information probably came from a land-register, just as the information concerning the delimitation of the land sold to Laodike (RC 18–20) was to be inscribed in the archives in Sardis. 45 RC 13, 10, and 12 = I.Ilion 33 a, b, c, of 275/4 BC. 46 RC 12 = I.Ilion 33, ll. 53–4. 47 RC 11 = I.Ilion 33, l. 29 48 As Shane Wallace points out to me, another excellent example is the letter of Antigonus to Scepsis, RC 1: much ink has been spilt on the identity of the individuals mentioned (see, for instance, Hauben 1987). 49 So J. and L. Robert 1983, 114–15. 50 For letters from poleis see Ceccarelli 2013, 311–30 and appendix 3. 51 2004, 156 [=1999, 207–8]. 52 On the importance and practices of identification in the Greek polis, see Bertrand 2007. 53 References to ancestors: Antiochos I or II to Erythrai, RC 15 = I.Erythrai I 31, ll. 23–4 (c. 270–60 BC); Seleukos II to Miletos, RC 22 = I.Didyma 493, ll. 2–3 (c. 246 BC); reference to policy under grandfather in letter of Seleukos (II or III) from Drangiana, Rougemont 2012, no. 80bis; in the dossier on the nomination of Nikanor, Ma 2004 [1999], no. 4, ll. 40–1 (209 BC); in the letter of Antiochos III (?) to Ilion, RC 42 = I.Ilion 37, Ma 2004 [1999], no. 34, ll. 3–4 (197–6 BC?); in the nomination of archiereus in Daphne by Antiochos III (c. 189 BC), RC 44, IGLSyr 3.2, 992, ll. 26–7; in the letter of Seleukos to Heliodoros (above n. 27); in the letter of Seleukos to Seleukeia in Pieria concerning Aristolochos, RC 45= IGLSyr.3, 2 1183, ll. 32–3 (‘goodwill to our father, our brother and ourselves’). References to family: letter of Laodike to Sardis, mentioning her brother (the king), and the children (παιδιά), SEG XXXIX 1284 = Ma 2004 [1999], no. 2; references to Laodike, the son Antiochos, the other sons Seleukos and Mithridates, in the letter of Antiochos III to Herakleia, and generic ones to the kings, the children, and ancestors in that of Zeuxis (SEG XXXVII 859); to her brother, in Laodike’s letter to Iasos, Ma 2004 [1999] no. 26, ll. 4–10 and 29–32 (c. 196 BC); larger discussion in Schmitt 1991. Titles, friendship and kinship: Savalli-Lestrade 1998; Mitchell 2009; Muccioli 2000, 2001, 2013; Van Nuffelen 2009. On the issue in general, van Bremen 2003; specific focus on the terminology of the oikos and on familial terminology among the Seleucids in Coloru 2012. 54 Aristodikides is a philos, I.Ilion 33, 36–8 and 59–61 (this is the first attestation of the title for the Seleucids, cf. Savalli-Lestrade 1998, 11–12 and 263); Seleukos II, writing to Olympichos (I.Labraunda 1.1, SEG XL 969), refers to Korrhis as ‘the priest of Zeus of Labraunda’. Nikanor is philos and ὁ ἐπὶ τοῦ κοιτῶνος in the king’s letter; the latter only in Zeuxis’ letter; his new post is defined with precision, archiereus and supervisor. Apollophanes is ‘doctor of ourselves and our brother’, SEG XXXIII 673; functionaries (τοῖς ἐπὶ τῶν πραγµάτων τεταγµένοις) are mentioned in RC 31; the letter by an administrator to Seleukeia Tralleis (RC 41) refers to Themistokles ‘the strate¯gos’; in the dossier from Skythopolis (SEG XXIX 1613) Ptolemy is referred to as strate¯gos and archiereus, Kleon and Heliodoros as dioiketai, there are an oikonomos and anonymous phrourarchs; Strouthion appears as dioikete¯s in Laodike’s letter to Iasos (SEG XXXVI 984); a dioikete¯s whose name is lost appeared in the letter of Antiochos III to Herakleia (SEG XXXVII 859); a dioikete¯s (name lost) was mentioned in RC 43, sent by Antiochos III to the Plutonion in Nysa; Aristolochos is τῶν τιµοµένων φίλων (RC 45); Heliodoros is

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περὶ τῶν πραγµάτων in the recently published dossier concerning Olympiodoros (above). 55 Herman (1980–81), in analyzing 57 decrees honouring followers of Hellenistic rulers over the period 330–280 BC, proposed that the lack of precisions in the early decrees of the cities implied the refusal of explicitly acknowledging the royal authority; but see Savalli-Lestrade 1998, 251–81, and in particular 275–81. Paschidis 2013 suggests that the egalitarian overtones of the non-codified court terminology underlined the friends’ total dependency on the king, while at the same time enhancing their authority in dealing with other power structures. 56 RC 15; Wörrle 2011; and RC 44. Virgilio 2010b (=Virgilio 2011, 123 and 128), has proposed to restore ἐπειδή in the lacuna at the beginning of l. 2 of the very fragmentary royal letter from the sanctuary of Sinuri in Karia; similarly, ἐπειδή has been restored at ll. 3–4 of the answer of Antiochos V Eupator to the Sidonians in Jamnia (SEG XLI 1556); in both cases, alternative restorations are possible. 57 RC 15, l. 21: καὶ ἐπειδὴ οἱ περὶ Θαρσύνοντα καὶ Πυθῆν καὶ Βοτ|τᾶν ἀπέφαινον διότι ἐπί τε Ἀλεξάνδρου καὶ Ἀντιγόνου αὐτό|[ν]οµος ἦν καὶ ἀφορολόγητος ἡ πόλις ὑµῶν, καὶ οἱ ἡµέτεροι πρόγο|[νοι] ἔσπευδον ἀεί ποτε περὶ αὐτῆς, θεωροῦντες τούτους τε κρί|[ναν]τας δικαίως…. 58 Wörrle 2011 (at l. 7 ἐπειδή is certain, but the context is extremely fragmentary; the date is c. 197). 59 RC 44, ll. 18–31. That the nominee had been a valued friend of the royal house had been mentioned in the opening of the letter. For a detailed analysis of the overall structure of the letter, see Welles 1934, 182–5. 60 SEG XXXVII 1003 (Ma 2004 [1999], no. 36, l. 7: καὶ ἐπεὶ ἀπελ[ογίσ]αντ[ο…]; probably c. 197 BC); and RC 36, ll. 17–18 (from Dodurga, Ma 2004 [1999], no. 37) = ll. 13–14 of the copy from Kermanshah, ll. 26–7 of that from Nehavend (references above, n. 26). 61 There are only two further instances of ἐπειδή in Welles 1934: RC 3, l. 79, not for a motivation, and RC 7, l. 9, to introduce a motivation. One ἐπειδή appears in the corpus of the ordinances of the Ptolemies (Lenger 19802, 23.1). Among recently published documents, the letter of Eumenes II to the inhabitants of Toriaion (SEG XLVII 1745, ll. 39–43) offers another fascinating case of ἐπειδή for a ‘weak’ motivation. As for ἐπεί, there are only 9 further instances of it in Welles 1934 (RC 1, ll. 13 and 16; 3, ll. 31 and 86; 21, l. 6; 54, l. 8; 60, l. 9; 65, ll. 11 and 15; 67, l. 1; 73, l. 3; 75, l. 1); and four more in Lenger 19802 (C.Ord.Ptol. 45, l. 7, where the meaning is not causal; 52, l. 22, in a letter addressed to Ptolemy Euergetes, his sister Kleopatra and his wife Kleopatra by priests; and 53, l. 85 and 54, l. 8, two collections of ordinances and amnesties by Ptolemy Euergetes II, Kleopatra II and Kleopatra III (dated to 121/0– 118 BC). Cf. Ceccarelli 2013, 306–7. 62 Only five letters in Welles 1934 use forms of δοκέω: two by Antigonos (RC 1, ll. 64 and 70 and RC 4, ll. 7–8); two by Eumenes II (RC 52, l. 23, where the term refers to a decision of the Ionian league, not to a royal one, and RC 53 II b, ll. 7–9, not for any decision, but to state the impression that the king has formed of the situation); and RC 61, l. 6, again not for an official decision (the latter is announced at l. 20: ἔκρινον 2 οὖν). εἰ δοκεῖ (or ἐὰν δοκῆι) appears three times in Lenger 1980 (in 58, l. 17; 62, ll. 16 and 19; and 63, ll. 11 and 15) always in requests addressed to the kings, with the meaning ‘if you please’. Since Welles’ publication (1934) numerous other royal letters

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Paola Ceccarelli have been found – their number has probably doubled. The lack of an updated corpus makes it very difficult to extend the analysis to all royal correspondence; but there is no reason to expect a different distribution. See also Ceccarelli 2013, 300–306, with contrastive discussion of some instances in which dynasts attempted to emulate, rather than avoid, civic forms (so for instance Mausolos, I.Labraunda 1: [ἔ]δοξε Μαυσσώλλωι καὶ [Ἀρτε]µισίηι· ἐπειδ[ὴ] Κνώσιοι…). 63 A form of δοκέω is used in a document transmitted by Josephus: in AJ 12.148, the letter ‘to Zeuxis father’, where we find βουλευσαµένῳ µοι µετὰ τῶν φίλων τί δεῖ ποιεῖν, ἔδοξεν; similarly, an ἐπεί appears in a letter of Antiochos IV in which, again, the king is presented as deciding with his friends: ἐπεὶ οὖν συµβουλευοµένοις ἡµῖν µετὰ τῶν φίλων (Joseph. AJ 12.263). Without going as far as contesting the authenticity of these documents, it is evident that their text might have been easily (and accidentally!) modified. Discussion of the way in which decisions are taken and presented, and specifically of the role of the courtiers in the decisional process, in Savalli-Lestrade 2003, 22–6; for Macedon, Hatzopoulos 2013. 64 Bencivenni 2010; 2011, 145. Meleagros does suggest to the Ilieis that it might be a good idea to inscribe the agreement with Aristodikides (RC 13; I.Ilion 33a, ll. 13–17); but this is not requested in the royal letter. 65 Bencivenni 2011. 66 The phenomenon described by Chaniotis (1999) as ‘Empfängerformular’. 67 Ma 2004, 136–55 [=1999, 182–206]; Mitchell 2009. 68 Ceccarelli 2013, 311–30. 69 Note also the important remarks of Paschidis 2013 on the ‘hierarchical exception’ whereby a city can express philia towards a king, but a king does not manifest philia towards a polis. Notwithstanding the contrary opinion of Capdetrey 2006, 116–17; 2007, 340–1, the conclusions of Bertrand (1985, 115) seem to me to remain valid. 70 IG XI 4, 1113. 71 See the excellent discussion of van Bremen 2003. 72 Ma 2004, 110 [=1999, 148]. See also Bertrand 2006; and Paschidis 2013, who emphasizes how the absence of court rules, codified hierarchies and specialization of administrative functions consolidate the centripetal tendency of monarchical rule. 73 Ma 2004, 11 [=1999, 150]. On the role of royal rhetoric in the construction of the empire, see also Ma 2003b. 74 Herman 1980–81, 104.

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Bertrand, J.-M. 1985 ‘Formes de discours politique: décrets des cités grecques et correspondance des rois hellénistiques’, Revue historique de droit français et étranger 63, 469–81 (and then in C. Nicolet (ed.), Du pouvoir dans l’antiquité: mots et réalités, Paris 1990, 101–16). 2006 ‘Réflexions sur les modalités de la correspondance dans les administrations hellénistiques’, in L. Capdetrey and J. Nélis-Clement (ed.), La circulation de l’information dans les états antiques, Bordeaux, 89–104. 2007 ‘A propos de l’identification des personnes dans la cité athénienne classique’, in C. Couvenhes and S. Milanezi (eds), Individus, groupes et politique à Athènes, de Solon à Mithridate, Tours, 201–14. Bikerman, E. 1938 Institutions des Séleucides, Paris. Bringmann, K. 1992 ‘The king as benefactor: some remarks on ideal kingship in the age of Hellenism’, in A. W. Bulloch, E. S. Gruen, A. A. Long, and A. Stewart (eds), Images and Ideologies: Self-definition in the Hellenistic world, Berkeley 1993, 7–25. Capdetrey, L. 2006 ‘Pouvoir et écrit: production, reproduction, et circulation des documents dans l’administration séleucide’, in L. Capdetrey and J. Nélis-Clement (ed.), La circulation de l’information dans les états antiques, Bordeaux, 105–25. 2007 Le pouvoir séleucide. Territoire, administration, finances d’un royaume hellénistique (312–129 avant J.C.), Rennes 2007. Ceccarelli, P. 2013 Ancient Greek Letter Writing. A Cultural History (600 BC–150 BC), Oxford. (forthcoming) ‘Letters and decrees, or political styles in the ancient world’, in P. Ceccarelli, L. Doering, T. Foegen and I. Gildenhard (eds), Letters and Communities: Studies in the Socio-Political Dimensions of Ancient Epistolography, Oxford. Chaniotis, A. 1999 ‘Empfängerformular und Urkundenfälschung: Bemerkungen zum Urkundendossier vom Magnesia am Maeander’, in R. G. Khoury (ed.), Urkunden und Urkundenformulare im klassischen Altertum und in den orientalischen Kulturen, Heidelberg, 51–69. Coloru, O. 2012 ‘The language of the oikos and the language of power in the Seleukid kingdom’, in R. Laurence and A. Strömberg (eds), Families in the Greco- Roman World, London and New York, 84–94. Cotton, H. and M. Wörrle. 2007 ‘Seleukos IV to Heliodoros. A new dossier of royal correspondence from Israel’, Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik, 159, 191–205. Debord, P. 2013 ‘Le pays de Colophon (Colophon, Claros, Notion) et les Séleucides’, Revue des études anciennes 115, 5–27. Gehrke, H.-J. 1982 ‘Der siegreiche König: Überlegungen zur hellenistischen Monarchie’, Archiv für Kulturgeschichte 64, 247–78.

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Gera, D. 2009 ‘Heliodoros, Olympiodoros, and the temples of Koilê Syria and Phoinikê’, Zeitscript für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 169, 125–55. Hatzopoulos, M. 2013 ‘Le vocabulaire de la prise de décision dans les sources littéraires et épigraphiques de la Macédoine antique’, in M. Mari and J. Thornton (eds), Parole in Movimento. Linguaggio politico e lessico storiograﬁco nel mondo ellenistico, Pisa – Rome, 61–70. Hauben , H. 1987 ‘Who is who in Antigonus’ letter to the Scepsians (OGIS 5 = Welles, Royal Correspondence 1)’, Epigraphica Anatolica 9, 29–36. Herman, G. 1980/81 ‘The “Friends” of the early Hellenistic rulers: servants or ofﬁcials?’, Talanta 12/13, 103–49 1997 ‘The court society of the Hellenistic age’, in P. Cartledge, P. Garnsey, and E. Gruen (eds), Hellenistic Constructs. Essays in Culture, History, and Historiography, Berkeley, 199–224. Holleaux, M. 1933 ‘Une inscription de Séleucie de Piérie’, Bulletin de Correspondance Hellénique, 6–67 (and then in Etudes d’épigraphie et d’histoire grecque III, 1942, 199–254). Jones, C. P. 2009 ‘The inscription from Tel Maresha for Olympiodoros’, Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 171, 100–4. Kienast, B. and Volk, K. 1995 Die Sumerischen und Akkadischen Briefe des III Jahrtausends aus der Zeit vor der III. Dynastie von Ur, Stuttgart. Lenger, M.-T. 19802 Corpus des Ordonnances des Ptolémées, Brussels. Ma, J. 2003a ‘Kings’, in A. Erskine (ed.), A Companion to the Hellenistic World, Oxford, 177–95. 2003b ‘Dans les pas d’Antiochos III: l’Asie mineure entre pouvoir et discours’, in F. Prost (ed.), L’Orient méditerranéen de la mort d’Alexandre aux campagnes de Pompée. Cités et royaumes à l’époque hellénistique, Rennes, 243–59. 2004 Antiochos III et les cités de l’Asie Mineure Occidentale, Paris [revised French edition of Antiochos III and the Cities of Asia Minor, Oxford 1999]. 2008 ‘Paradigms and paradoxes in the Hellenistic world’, in B. Virgilio (ed.), Studi Ellenistici 20, Pisa-Roma, 371–85. Malay, H. and M. Ricl 2009 ‘Two new Hellenistic decrees from Aigai in Aiolis’, Epigraphica Anatolica 42, 39–53. Mari, M. 2009 ‘La tradizione delle libere poleis e l’opposizione ai sovrani. L’evoluzione del linguaggio della politica nella Grecia ellenistica’, in G. Urso (ed.), Ordine e sovversione nel mondo greco e romano, Pisa, 87–112. Mitchell, L. 2009 ‘The rules of the game: three studies in friendship, equality and politics’, in

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L. Mitchell and L. Rubinstein (eds), Greek History and Epigraphy. Essays in Honour of P.J. Rhodes, Swansea, 1–32. Muccioli, F. 2000 ‘Crisi e trasformazione del regno seleucide tra il II e il I secolo a. C.: titolatura, ruolo e competenze dei συγγενεῖς’, in L. Mooren (ed.), Politics, Administration and Society in the Hellenistic and Roman World, Leuven 251–74. 2001 ‘La scelta delle titolature dei Seleucidi: il ruolo dei φίλοι e delle classi dirigenti cittadine’, Simblos 3, 295–318. 2013 Gli epiteti ufficiali dei re ellenistici, Stuttgart. Muntz, C. E. 2011 ‘The sources of Diodorus Siculus Book 1’, Classical Quarterly 61.2, 574–94. Paschidis, P. 2008 Between City and King. Prosopographical Studies on the Intermediaries Between the Cities of the Greek Mainland and the Aegean and the Royal Courts in the Hellenistic Period (322–190 BC), Athens. 2013 ‘Φίλοι and Φιλία between Poleis and kings in the Hellenistic period’, in M. Mari and J. Thornton (eds), Parole in Movimento. Linguaggio politico e lessico storiografico nel mondo ellenistico, Pisa – Rome, 283–98. Ramsey, G. 2011 ‘Seleucid administration: effectiveness and disfunction among officials’, in K. Erickson and G. Ramsey (eds), Seleucid Dissolution: The sinking of the anchor, Wiesbaden. Robert, J. and L. 1983 Fouilles d’Amyzon en Carie. Tome I. Exploration, histoire, monnaie et inscriptions, Paris. Robert, L. 1949 Hellenica. Recueil d’épigraphie, de numismatique et d’antiquités grecques, VII, Paris. 1967 ‘Encore une inscription grecque de l’Iran’, Comptes rendus de l’Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres, 281–97. Rougemont, G. 2012 Inscriptions grecques d’Iran et d’Asie centrale (Corpus inscriptionum Iranicarum, Part II, 1: Inscriptions in non-Iranian languages), London. Roy, J. 1998 ‘The masculinity of the Hellenistic king’, in L. Foxhall and J. Salmon (eds), When Men were Men: Masculinity, Power and Identity in Classical Antiquity, London, 111–35. Sallaberger, W. 1999 “Wenn du mein Bruder bist...” Interaktion und Textgestaltung in altbabylonischen Alltagsbriefen, Groningen. Savalli-Lestrade, I. 1998 Les Philoi royaux dans l’Asie hellénistique, Geneva. 2001 ‘Amici del re, alti funzionari e gestione del potere principalmente nell’Asia Minore ellenistica’, Simblos 3, 263–94. 2003 ‘L’élaboration de la décision royale dans l’Orient hellénistique’, in F. Prost (ed.), L’Orient méditerranéen de la mort d’Alexandre aux campagnes de Pompée, Rennes, 17–39. 2007 ‘L’art de recevoir à la cour des Lagides’, in J.-P. Caillet and M. Sot (eds),

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L’Audience. Rituels et cadres spatiaux dans l’antiquité et le haut Moyen-Age, Paris, 93–111. Schmitt, H. H. 1991 ‘Zur Inszenierung des Privatlebens des hellenistischen Herrschers’, in J. Seibert (ed.), Hellenistische Studien. Gedenkschrift für Hermann Bengtson, Munich, 75–86. Schubart, W. 1920 ‘Bemerkungen zum Stile hellenistischer Königsbriefe’, Archiv für Papyrusforschung 6, 324–47. Sollberger, E. 1966 The Business and Administrative Correspondence under the Kings of Ur, Locust Valley. Spawforth, A. 2007 ‘The court of Alexander the Great between Europe and Asia’, in A. Spawforth (ed.), The Court and Court Societies in Ancient Monarchies, Cambridge, 82–120. Strootman, R. 2011a ‘Hellenistic court society: the Seleukid imperial court under Antiochos the Great, 223–187 BCE’, in J. Duindam, T. Artan and M. Kunt (eds), Royal Courts in Dynastic States and Empires: A global perspective, Leiden, 63–89. 2011b ‘Kings and cities in the Hellenistic age’, in O.M. van Nijf and R. Alston (eds), Political Culture in the Greek City after the Classical Age, Leuven, 141–53. van Bremen, R. 2003 ‘Family structures’, in A. Erskine (eds), A Companion to the Hellenistic World, Oxford, 313–30. van der Spek, R. 1995 ‘Landownership in Babylonian cuneiform documents’, in M.J. Geller, H. Maehler and A. D. E. Lewis (eds), Legal Documents of the Hellenistic World, London, 173–245. van Nuffelen, 2009 ‘The name game: Hellenistic historians and royal epithets’, in P. van Nuffelen (ed.), Faces of Hellenism: Studies in the history of the Eastern Mediterranean (4th Century BC–5th Century AD), Leuven, 93–111. Virgilio, B. 2003 Lancia, diadema e porpora: il re e la regalità ellenistica, 2nd ed., Pisa. 2010a ‘La correspondance du roi hellénistique’, in I. Savalli-Lestrade and I. Cogitore (eds), Des rois aux prince. Pratiques du pouvoir monarchique dans l’Orient hellénistique et romain, Grenoble, 101–22. 2010b ‘L’epistola reale dal santuario di Sinuri presso Mylasa in Caria, sulla base dei calchi del Fonds Louis Robert della Académie des Inscriptions et Belles- Lettres’, in S. Bussi and D. Foraboschi (eds), Roma e l’eredità ellenistica, Pisa-Roma, 55–107. 2011 Le roi écrit: la correspondance du souverain hellénistique, suivie de deux lettres d’Antiochos III à partir de Louis Robert et d’Adolf Wilhelm, Pisa. Walbank, F. W. 1957–79 A Historical Commentary on Polybius, 3 Vols., Oxford.

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1984 ‘Monarchies and monarchic ideas’, in F. W. Walbank, A. E. Astin, M. W. Frederiksen and R. M. Ogilvie (eds), Cambridge Ancient History 7.1, The Hellenistic World, Cambridge, 62–100. Wallace, S. 2013 ‘Adeimantos of Lampsakos and the development of the early Hellenistic philos’, in V.A. Troncoso and E.M. Anson (eds), After Alexander: The time of the Diadochi (323–281 BC), Oxford, 142–57. Weber, G. 1997 ‘Integration, Representation und Herrschaft. Der Königshof im Hellenismus’, in Zwischen ‘Haus’ und ‘Staat’. Antike Höfe im Vergleich (Historische Zeitschrift, Beiheifte 23), 27–71. Welles, C. B. 1934 Royal Correspondence in the Hellenistic Period, New Haven. Wörrle, M. 2010 ‘Epigraphische Forschungen zur Geschichte Lykiens IX. Ein ptolemäisches Prostagma aus Limyra über Mißstände beim Steuereinzug’, Chiron 40, 359–94. 2011 ‘Epigraphische Forschungen zur Geschichte Lykiens X. Limyra in seleukidischer Hand’, Chiron 41, 377–415.

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OUTSIDETHECAPITAL:THEPTOLEMAIC COURTANDITSCOURTIERS

Dorothy J. Thompson

This investigation starts not in Alexandria but in Rome where, in the autumn of 164 BC, Ptolemy VI Philometor arrived to plead for his kingdom. The king’s younger brother, Ptolemy VIII Euergetes II, had taken advantage of uprisings in the kingdom to oust his elder brother. Philometor, Diodorus reports, brushed aside the gift of apparel (including a diadem) and the mount suitable for a visiting king that was offered him by his cousin Demetrios and persisted in his planned entry to Rome – on foot, ‘in the miserable guise of a commoner’, accompanied by just one eunuch and three slaves. He stayed with an Alexandrian landscape artist, who had often been his guest in Alexandria, in his cheap and shabby garret before coming in front of the senate to plead his case.1 This was the ﬁrst occasion that a Ptolemy had taken what was to become a well-worn path to Rome in an attempt to secure his throne. Here my interest in Diodorus’ account is in raising questions about the role of the Ptolemaic court outside Alexandria, where it was normally centred. My emphasis in this chapter is on how the Ptolemaic court – the monarch and those who surrounded him2 – functioned when away from its home base. How was it managed from within – what was the role of the king or of others? – and how was it perceived from without? In entering Rome on foot like a regular beggar and lodging in an artist’s garret, Ptolemy was surely playing an unexpected part. The senate apologised for the way they had failed to receive him, so to some degree this drama worked. Play- acting, as we shall ﬁnd, was a feature of the Ptolemaic court. Next, there is the question of the make-up of the court and its origins – how Persian, Egyptian or Greco-Macedonian was the Ptolemaic court, and how indeed did its composition change over time? When he entered Rome, Philometor was accompanied by an absolute minimum of staff – one eunuch and three slaves – but that eunuch is of interest as representing another feature of the Ptolemaic court which seems likely to have derived from Achaemenid practice, probably reaching Egypt through the court of

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Alexander.3 And in Hellenistic Egypt eunuchs are regularly found playing important roles in the politics of the Ptolemaic court.4 What else can we find of the make-up of the court as it functioned outside the capital? What sorts of sources can we use – inscriptions, papyri, material culture – to supplement Greek writers? And a further aspect of interest, though little documented in the material to be discussed below, is the military aspect of the court, the role of the royal bodyguard and the troops of the royal guard, so often crucial to the survival of a ruler in Egypt.5 A further aspect that interests me is royal wealth and its use in the court by the crown. In the case of Philometor in Rome, wealth was only notable in its absence but, in staying with that artist in his garret, the deposed king was calling in the dues of past royal favours granted back home. Ptolemaic gold was powerful; it was often joined by other precious gifts, which served to support the regime. Whether aiming for a sociological analysis, on the model of Norbert Elias in his study of the court system of Louis XIV, or else the more anthropological approach exemplified by Le Roy Ladurie, as students of the ancient world we are limited in what we can do with the sources that survive. We lack the wonderful memoirs of the Duc de Saint-Simon.6 Nevertheless, if we ask our questions and try to answer these from what we have, new aspects may be illuminated. So, in this somewhat limited enquiry,7 papyri and hieroglyphic inscriptions from Ptolemaic Egypt form important sources of evidence. The focus now moves back from Rome to Egypt, more specifically to the city of Memphis some 40 km south of modern Cairo. Memphis was the earlier capital of the country and under the Ptolemies it remained a key religious centre. Here lay the temple of Ptah, where the kings were crowned, and up on the desert edge of North Saqqara, in the area of the necropolis, was the great Serapeum. For the new Macedonian pharaohs acceptance by the Memphite priesthood was important – so too was the reverse – and in the mid second century BC Ptolemaic rulers were regularly to be found visiting Memphis for the start of the Egyptian New Year on 1 Thoth.8 So, in 163 BC, having regained his throne, Ptolemy VI Philometor together with his sister queen Kleopatra II and, we may assume, key members of his court came to reside in Memphis for the New Year festival starting 3 October. A large find of papyrus texts from a Macedonian soldier, one Ptolemaios son of Glaukias who lived in the Serapeum for some 20 years during these troubled times,9 allows a glimpse as to what was involved when royalty came to town. Egypt, of course, differed from the other Hellenistic kingdoms in being unified by the Nile. During royal progresses, the king and queen will often

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Outside the capital: the Ptolemaic court and its courtiers have stayed on board their royal barge, but in Memphis they had a palace.10 In 163 BC, therefore, when Ptolemy VI and his queen Kleopatra II came to visit, it was probably here that they stayed.11 On arrival in the city the royal couple would climb the desert escarpment to the Serapeum to sacriﬁce to the gods of the place.12 There, like the later emperors of Rome on their travels, they were greeted with petitions from their subjects, who now used this written form of communication in the hopes of righting their wrongs. So, in October 163 BC, the royal couple received one of many complaints made about the underpayment of their rations from the Serapeum twins who, engaged for the mourning ceremonies for the Apis bull, were protegées of Ptolemaios son of Glaukias.13 The actual delivery of such petitions (termed enteuxeis), of which a large number survive, provides an interesting case study in the combination of new and old in the Ptolemies’ dealings with their subjects. In the palace in Alexandria, as we learn from Polybius’ account of the overthrow of the courtier Agathokles, there was a pylon or temple gateway which served as a point of meeting between the court and the public.14 In Memphis, however, it was at a traditional window of appearances (a thyris) that such a transaction took place, a place where sovereigns would show themselves in a temple.15 Here the twins’ petition was presented to the king himself and his queen, as they appeared at the window on display to all around.16 One can only imagine the security in place, with the royal bodyguards and other military personnel. The question, however, for which I have no answer is how the rulers appeared. Was this in the dress of Egyptian pharaohs or was there a Macedonian royal robe which they wore? Certainly what Greeks denigrated as mere show was a recognised feature of the Ptolemaic court. Aiming to dislodge Aratos of Sikyon from the court of Ptolemy II, Antigonos Gonatas of Macedon had (according to Plutarch) described how all there 17 was τραγῳδία and σκηνογραφία – theatre and painted scenery. Later, under Ptolemy IV, Kleomenes of Sparta, who was staying on at the court in the hopes of Ptolemaic support in regaining his throne,18 was set up by the courtier Sosibios: he had been long enough in Alexandria to see the court for what it was ‘beneath the bright lights’, ‘behind the scenes’ as it were.19 Kleopatra’s dramatic meeting with Antony comes to mind – on her golden barge on the river Kydnos in the guise of Aphrodite.20 The Greeks maybe were scornful of such pomp and circumstance,21 but in Egypt this was serious business. And so, my question remains, when Ptolemy Philometor appeared at the window of appearances in the Memphite Serapeum, as the recipient of petitions penned in Greek, did the king wear Egyptian dress

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Dorothy J. Thompson and did he wear an Egyptian crown or did he wear his Greek-style diadem? I suspect the former – at Memphis at the coronation ceremony he was certainly crowned with the double crown of Upper and Lower Egypt and on Egyptian monuments Ptolemies were regularly portrayed with this crown.22 But the image of a pharaoh on a temple wall is never the same as a photo, and we cannot know for sure the answer to my question. The record of royal visits up and down the Nile is reasonably extensive.23 Such royal tours of inspection were a crucial means of reinforcing the unity of the two lands of Upper and Lower Egypt. They might also serve political ends, in the entertainment of visitors from overseas. Eudoxos of Kyzikos, for instance, who came to Alexandria as a sacred envoy, joined the king (Ptolemy VIII) and his court (οἱ περὶ αὐτόν) on their travels along the Nile before leaving on his voyages of Red Sea exploration.24 Somewhat later too, the hieroglyphic funerary stele of Psenptais, the high priest of Memphis who died in 41 BC, carries a record of mutual visiting, and thus provides a glimpse both of the make-up of the court and of how royal relations might be managed in respect of influential representatives of the Egyptian priesthood.25 Following his officiation at the royal coronation in Memphis, Psenptais visited the capital Alexandria where he met the king who gave him costly gifts; the king – i.e. Ptolemy XII Neos Dionysos (Auletes) also known as Philopator Philadelphos – would then come to visit him in Memphis. Relations between the crown and the high priest of Memphis were important for both sides involved and in this hieroglyphic record we find a description of the retinue with which a ruler travelled – his wives, his family and his key courtiers: I visited the residence of the Greek kings, which is on the shore of the sea, west of Semaneterwi known as Rhakotis [i.e. Alexandria]. The king of Upper and Lower Egypt, he who unifies the Two Lands, Philadelphos Philopator, the young Osiris [i.e. Neos Dionysos], came with solemnity from his palace of Life and Power. He dismounted at the temple of Isis, Lady of Yat-Wadjat and he made her great and generous offerings.26 He came out to process around the temple of Isis in his chariot. It was the king himself who drove his chariot. Round my head he bound a fine diadem of gold and many precious stones with the king’s portrait at its centre. I performed my role as priest whilst he sent out a royal rescript throughout the land saying ‘I have appointed Psenptais, the high priest of Memphis, to be my prophet, and I have granted him annual responsibility for temple affairs in Upper and Lower Egypt’. Then the king would come to Memphis whenever he travelled south, or returned back north, inspecting the country. He would come to the town of Anchtawy [part of the upper city (the necropolis) of Memphis]; he would come to my funerary foundation with his important courtiers, his wives and his children and with all his goods to enjoy the offerings and to pass time on the feast day of the gods and goddesses who

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dwell in Khanefer, so great was the pleasure in the heart of the Lord of the Two Lands. He raised me to the head of his courtiers, for I am an extremely wealthy man in possession of beautiful dancing girls. The high priest of Memphis was a key appointment in the country and the reciprocal relations between such a man and the king were likely to benefit them both. We may also note the role of costly gifts made by the crown to its courtiers in pursuit of the smooth running of the system.27 The dancing girls (or ‘goodly harem’ in Glanville’s translation) are a further sign of the high priest’s wealth and standing in Egyptian society. The Egyptologist Philippe Derchain describes the visit of Ptolemy Auletes to the Memphite necropolis as a picnic. Maybe, but in this case a picnic also served to cement key political and personal relations. There are two further aspects to this account worth noting. First, continuing the earlier theme of dress, we may note the emphasis on adornment. It was a headband set with jewels and precious stones with the royal portrait on it that Auletes gave to Psenptais in Alexandria.28 Other courtiers had distinctive apparel. In describing the royal court at an earlier date, Polybius distinguishes between those in Alexandria – court members, that is, and palace officials29 – and those on royal business in the countryside – those, that is, who made up the administration, those who are sometimes termed the ‘outer court’.30 We do not, I think, know if in Alexandria, as at the Achaemenid court,31 there existed a specific court dress, but we do know of one distinguishing item for those in the upper echelons of the administration. A fascinating group of double funerary stelae from the El-Hassaia necropolis near Edfu record the lives of local notables in Greek and Egyptian form. One of those so commemorated in Greek is Apollonios son of Ptolemaios, who in his metrical epitaph speaks as follows: I am Apollonios son of famous Ptolemaios, whom the Euerktai honoured with the mitra, the sacred gift which marks the kinsman (of the king)...32

εἰµὶ γὰρ εὐκλειοῦς Ἀπολλώνιος ὁ Πτολεµαίου κοῦρος, ὃν Εὐέρκται µίτρᾳ ἐπηγλάισαν, συγγενικῆς δόξης ἱερὸν γέρας· The ‘Euerktai’ who awarded Apollonios’ father his mitra were Ptolemy VIII Euergetes II and his queen(s), and in ‘kinsman’ (συγγενής, here in the form συγγενικὴ δόξα) we meet an honoriﬁc court title. From the late second century BC in Egypt such titles were attached to certain members of the administrative hierarchical structure.33 As ‘kinsman’, therefore, Ptolemaios held a rank in the administration. Here, however, it is the mitra that is of particular interest, as the distinguishing mark of such an ofﬁcial. This would

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Dorothy J. Thompson appear to have been a distinctive form of headband for ‘kinsmen’, different from that containing the royal portrait which was granted to the high priest Psenptais. Such a headband, in this case tied in front, may be seen illustrated on the black basalt sarcophagus now in the Louvre of Dioskourides, the high ofﬁcial who served as dioike¯te¯s in the 160s BC.34 Yet other forms of headband are known, and more work is desirable in charting changes in such Ptolemaic court apparel.35 Secondly of interest in the biographical account of the Memphite high priest Psenptais is what this tells us of the make-up of the Ptolemaic court. For this, it is clear, was not just a Greco-Macedonian court,representing the new rulers of the land,36 but from the start Egyptians were included among the friends of the king. Ethnically, this was a mixed court and, among a majority of Greeks, the king also had Egyptian royal friends, especially prominent priests, like Psenptais or, under Ptolemies I and II, the high priest of Heliopolis, Manetho, who wrote a history of Egypt in Greek.37 Others too are known. Petosiris, high priest of Thoth at Hermopolis, whose extensively decorated tomb survives from the very early Ptolemaic period, claimed, in the long biographical inscription written up on the east wall of tomb chapel 92, that: I was favoured by the ruler of Egypt. I was loved by his courtiers.38 ‘Being loved by his courtiers’ certainly implies that Petosiris himself was at home at court, and other priests too made this claim. So Onnophris (Egyptian Wennefer) from Memphis, whose early Ptolemaic sarcophagus lid is now in the Cairo Museum, summarized his life as follows: I was a lover of drink, a lord of the feast day, It was my passion to roam the marshes. I spent life on earth in the King’s favour; I was beloved of his courtiers.39 Somewhat later, in the reign of Ptolemy III, another Memphite, this time a priestess named Tathotis, records on a stele set up by her mother how: ...his son (i.e. her grandson) was in the service of the Lord of the Two Lands and transmitted reports to the magistrates. They (i.e. he and his father) preceded all the courtiers in approaching the king for each secret counsel in the palace.40 We must of course allow for traditional expressions and self-promotion displayed on these hieroglyphic monuments – tomb-chambers, sarcophagi, statues and funerary stelae – but the frequency with which prominent Egyptian priests claim connections with the king and his court must,

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I believe, represent a degree at least of reality.41 Historically this is important.42 The claim to royal access made by these Egyptians requires us to accept the picture of a Ptolemaic court that was not exclusively Greek. And the role of the court as it travelled outside the capital will have been reinforced through such connections. In the administration too, we find Egyptians managing the king’s affairs or commanding his troops as members of his ‘outer court’, but they had less need to boast of their influence. This came automatically together with their post, and they too, like members of the family buried near Edfu, were also regularly priests. In recent years there has been a growing realisation of the degree to which the use of a Greek name and Greek ways may mask an Egyptian background.43 The prime example of this phenomenon is probably the dioike¯te¯s Dioskourides, whom we have just met wearing a mitra. Until his traditional black basalt sarcophagus was identified by Philippe Collembert we were unaware that this high official, well-known from the Serapeum archive,44 had an Egyptian mother and that on death Dioskourides might opt to be buried Egyptian-style. This has been a salutary lesson. Dioskourides was surely not alone,45 and an ethnic mix within the Ptolemaic court will have been important for the acceptance of the new pharaohs and for how the court through its representatives both functioned and was perceived in the countryside of Egypt outside Alexandria.

Notes 1 Diod. Sic. 31.18.1–2; cf. Val. Max. 5.1.1f, for the senate’s shocked reaction. 2 On different groups of courtiers, see Herman 1997, 213. 3 On the Achaemenid court, see Brosius 2007, 26; Kuhrt 2007, 577; Plut. Artax. 30.2; on Alexander’s orientalising court, Spawforth 2007b. 4 As, for example, Eulaios (on death of Kleopatra I): Polyb. 28.21; Diod. Sic. 30.15, with an emphasis on spectacle; eunuchs used by Kleopatra III scheming to oust Ptolemy IX Soter in 107 BC, Paus. 1.9.2; those with different factions under Kleopatra VII: Plut. Caes. 48.3; Dio 42.36.1 and 39.2; cf. Heinen 2009, 86–91, for Potheinos; Dio 42.39.1 and 40.1, for Ganymede; Plut. Ant. 60.1, for Mardion; Dio 50.5.2, more generally. 5 The following groups are known from the Ptolemaic court: so¯matophylakes, epilektoi machimoi peri te¯n aule¯n, hippeis kai pezoi peri te¯n aule¯n, cf. Mooren 1975, 172–4, on ‘the king’s military house’. 6 Elias 1983; Le Roy Ladurie 1997; cf. Saint-Simon 1953. 7 The rival Ptolemaic courts in Cyrene and Cyprus offer scope for further enquiry. 8 ἐπιδηµεῖν was the verb used to signify such visits; royal residence might also be termed παρουσία, see Thompson 2012, 138. 9 On the period, see Veïsse 2004; Jördens and Quack 2011. 10 On royal progresses, see Clarysse 2000; for the royal barge of Ptolemy IV

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Philopator, see Athen. 5.204d–6c, 205d, with separate women’s quarters (γυναικωνῖτις), perhaps with implications for the palace in Alexandria (Ogden 1999, 275). On royal barges more generally, see Thompson 2013, 189–92. 11 For the palace lying to the north of the city, see Thompson 2012, 7, 11–12. 12 UPZ I 42, ll.3–7. 13 UPZ I 20, cf. 42.4, referring to 163 BC. 14 Polyb. 15.31.2, τὸν χρηµατιστικὸν πυλῶνα τῶν βασιλείων. 15 On Middle Kingdom windows of appearance, see Spence 2007. 16 UPZ I 53, ll.4–6, with note, cf. UPZ I pp. 63–5. The word used is θυρίς. 17 Plut. Arat. 15.3; cf. Chaniotis 1997. 18 Polyb. 5.35.1; cf. Plut. Cleom. 32.3, in receipt of an annual allowance (σύνταξις) of 24 talents. 19 Polyb. 5.35.10, τεθεαµένος µὲν ὑπ᾽ αὐγὰς αὐτῶν τὰ πράγµατα. 20 Plut. Ant. 26.1–3. 21 On Polybius’ picture (and dislike) of court society, see Herman 1997, 211, 223. In, for example, Polyb. 15.34.4, Agathokles is described as lacking τὴν αὐλικὴν ἀγχίνοιαν καὶ κακοπραγµοσύνην διαφέρουσαν; cf. 5.26.13, on the fickleness of life for a courtier. 22 OGIS I 90, l.44 (196 BC), the Pschent crown. On the Euergetes gate at Karnak, for instance, Ptolemy III is shown, together with Berenike II, wearing the heb-sed (or 30-year jubilee) robe of a pharaoh together with the double crown, Quaegebeur 1988, 51, fig. 22. 23 Collected and analysed by Clarysse 2000. To these may now be added: SB XXII 15762, ll.20–22 (13 July 210 BC), παρουσία of the king in Memphis; P. Tebt. I 48, ll.13–14 (c. 113 BC), special purchase of wheat for the king’s visit. 24 Strabo 2.3.4 (C98) from Poseidonios; cf. Habicht 2013, 198–9. 25 British Museum 886 (Harris stele). See Derchain 1998, 1165; Gorre 2009, 329–33, no. 65. The translation I provide is based on that of Gorre, but see too S. R. K. Glanville in Bevan 1927, 347–8. 26 This temple of Isis is likely to be that laid out by Alexander for the Egyptian goddess, Arr. Anab. 3.1.5. I follow Glanville and Gorre in locating this in Alexandria; Derchain 1998, 1160–1, prefers a Memphite location on a separate occasion. 27 Gifts play a regular part in court relations, cf. Herman 1997, 217–18; Spawforth 2007b, 93, 107–8. Athen. 11.493f–4b, on Ptolemy II’s use of σύνταξις for his courtiers; Plut. Arat. 13.4, the same monarch’s gifts to Sikyon in recognition of Aratos; Athen. 12.552c, Panaretos receives 12 talents a year from Ptolemy III; on Kleomenes’ syntaxis of 24 talents from Ptolemy IV, see note 18 above. 28 At a later date, perhaps even on this model, a headband or ‘bust-crown’ with the portrait of the emperor was worn by priests in the Roman imperial cult, see Riccardi 2007, 381–2, also denoting an agonothete. I thank Olga Palagia for this observation. 29 Polyb. 5.34.4, οἱ περὶ τὴν αὐλήν, cf. 5.41.3, οἱ ἐν ὑπεροχαῖς ὄντες τῶν περὶ τὴν αὐλήν; 16.22.8, οἱ αὐλικοί. The category covers a multiplicity of posts, see Mooren 1975, 170–86. 30 Polyb. 5.34.4, οἱ τὰ κατὰ τὴν Αἴγυπτον χειρίζοντες. For the distinction between the ‘inner’ and the ‘outer court’, see Spawforth 2007a, 4; Brosius 2007, 35. 31 For the Achaemenid court, see Kuhrt 2007, 576–9; Strabo 15.3.19 (C734), on distinctions in Persian dress. On distinctive honorific dress for Egyptian συγγενεῖς, see now Moyer 2011, 33–7 and especially n. 35, ‘a chito¯n of the Pharaoh and a crown of gold’. 32 CGC no. 9205 = IMetr. 5 = C.Jud.Syr.Eg. inscr. 2, ll.3–5; cf. Yoyotte 1969. The court role of συγγενής is discussed by Moyer 2011, 19–38, with Plate 2.

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33 See Mooren 1977, 22–4, 84–8. 34 Collombert 2000; Baines 2004, 42–4, with ﬁg. 2. On the mitra, see Yoyotte 1969, 139; C.Jud.Syr.Eg. inscr. 2, ll.4–5 n.; Moyer 2011, 32–7. 35 The headband of Dioskourides, tied in front, is unlike those depicted on the statues of Pachom / Hierax (Moyer 2011, 34) 2, ll.4–5 son of Hierax (Spiegelberg 1932, 20; CGC no. 50047); see Moyer 2011, 323–75, with full bibliographical details. 36 As already suggested by Lloyd 2002, 131. The claim of Herman 1997, 223, needs some modiﬁcation. 37 For Manetho, see further Gruen, this volume, section 4. 38 Translated by Lichtheim 1980, 44–54 at 48. For his tomb, see Lefebvre 1923– 1924; for the date, see Menu 1998, 250, suggesting Alexander as the ruler; Baines 2004, 45–7, preferring early in the reign of Ptolemy I. 39 CGC no. 29310 = Gorre 2009, 281–4. The translation is that of Lichtheim 1980, 55. The precise date is still questioned; if this does predate the Ptolemies, cf. Gorre 2009, 282–3, it well illustrates the traditional aspect of such claims, without necessarily negating their later applicability. 40 Vienna stele 5857 = Gorre 2009, 227–31, no. 47, ll.4–5 (230–220 BC). 41 ‘The grandees of Lower Egypt’ who advised Ptolemy on the status of the land of the gods Pe and Dep according to the Satrap Stele (311 BC) could represent a prototype of such Egyptian courtiers, see Lloyd 2011, 95. 42 See too Legras 2002, 970–1; Moyer 2011. 43 See already Clarysse 1985; 1992, 53–6. 44 For his role in getting Apollonios, the younger son of Glaukias, into the army, see Thompson 2012, 231–2. 45 Similar examples may be Dorion in the late 2nd century (Thompson 2012, 94–5 and 105–6) or Platon in the early 1st century BC (Coulon 2002).

Bibliography For papyri, see: http://scriptorium.lib.duke.edu/papyrus/texts/clist.html Baines, J. 2004 ‘Egyptian elite self-presentation in the context of Ptolemaic rule’, in W. V. Harris and G. Rufﬁni (eds), Ancient Alexandria between Egypt and Greece, Leiden, 33–61. Bevan, E. 1927 A History of Egypt under the Ptolemaic Dynasty, London (reprinted as The House of Ptolemy, Chicago, 1968). Brosius, M. 2007 ‘New out of old? Court and court ceremonies in Achaemenid Persia’, in Spawforth 2007, 17–57. Buraselis, K., Stefanou, M. and Thompson, D. J. (eds), 2013 The Ptolemies, the Sea and the Nile. Studies in Waterborne Power, Cambridge. Chaniotis, A. 1997 ‘Theatricality beyond the theater. Staging public life in the Hellenistic world’, Pallas 47, 219–59.

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Clarysse, W. 1985 ‘Greeks and Egyptians in the Ptolemaic army and administration’, Aegyptus 65, 57–66. 1992 ‘Some Greeks in Egypt’, in J. H. Johnson (ed.), Life in a Multi-Cultural Society. Egypt from Cambyses to Constantine and Beyond, Chicago, 51–6. 2000 ‘The Ptolemies visiting the Egyptian chora’, in L. Mooren (ed.), Politics, Administration and Society in the Hellenistic and Roman World. Proceedings of the International Colloquium, Bertinoro 12–24 July 1997, Leuven, 29–75. Collombert, P. 2000 ‘Religion égyptienne et culture grecque: l’exemple de ∆ιοσκουρίδης’, Chronique d’Égypte 75, 47–63. Coulon, L. 2002 ‘Quand Amon parle à Platon. (La statuaire Caire JE 38033)’, Revue d’Égyptologie 52, 85–112. Derchain, P. 1998 ‘Le pique-nique de l’Aulète’, in W. Clarysse, A. Schoors and H. Willems (eds), Egyptian Religion: The last thousand years. Studies Dedicated to the Memory of Jan Quaegebeur, II, Leuven, 1155–67. Elias, N. 1983 The Court Society, Oxford. Gorre, G. 2009 Les relations du clergé égyptien et des Lagides d’après les sources privées, Leuven. Habicht, C. 2013 ‘Eudoxus of Cyzicus and Ptolemaic exploration’, in Buraselis et al., 197–206. Heinen, H. 2009 Kleopatra-Studien. Gesammelte Schriften sur ausgehenden Ptolemäerzeit, Konstanz. Herman, G. 1997 ‘The court society of the Hellenistic age’, in P. Cartledge, P. Garnsey, and E. Gruen (eds), Hellenistic Constructs: Essays in Culture, History, and Historiography, Berkeley, 199–224. Jördens, A. and Quack, J. F. 2011 Ägypten zwischen innerem Zwist und äusserem Druck. Die Zeit Ptolemaios’ VI. bis VIII., Wiesbaden. Kuhrt, A. 2007 The Persian Empire. A Corpus of Sources from the Achaemenid Period, London. Le Roy Ladurie, E. 1997 Saint-Simon ou le système de la Cour, Paris. Lefebvre, G. 1923–1924 Le tombeau de Pétosiris. 3 vols, Cairo. Legras, B. 2002 ‘À la recherche des experts: le cadre méthodologique’, Revue Historique 307, 969–85. Lichtheim, M. 1980 Ancient Egyptian Literature. III, The Late Period, Berkeley. Lloyd, A. B. 2002 ‘The Egyptian elite in the early Ptolemaic period: some hieroglyphic

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evidence’, in D. Ogden (ed.), The Hellenistic World: New Perspectives, Swansea, 117–36. 2011 ‘From satrapy to Hellenistic kingdom: the case of Egypt,’ in A. Erskine and L. Llewellyn-Jones (eds), Creating a Hellenistic World, Swansea, 83–105. Menu, B. 1998 ‘Le tombeau de Pétosiris (4). Le souverain de l’Égypte’, Bulletin de l’lnstitut français d’Archéologie Orientale 98, 247–62. Mooren, L. 1975 The Aulic Titulature in Ptolemaic Egypt. Introduction and Prosopography, Brussels. 1977 La hiérarchie de la cour ptolémaique. Contribution à l’étude des institutions et des classes dirigeantes à l’époque hellénistique, Leuven. Moyer, I. S. 2011 ‘Court, chora, and culture in late Ptolemaic Egypt’, American Journal of Philology 132, 15–44. Ogden, D. 1999 Polygamy, Prostitutes and Death. The Hellenistic Dynasties, Swansea. Quaegebeur, J. 1988 ‘Cleopatra VII and the cults of the Ptolemaic queens’, in R. S. Bianchi (ed.), Cleopatra’s Egypt. Age of the Ptolemies, New York, 41–54. Riccardi, L. A. 2009 ‘The bust-crown, the Panhellenion and Eleusis’, Hesperia 76, 365–90. Saint-Simon, Duc de 1953 Louis XIV at Versailles: a selection from the memoirs of the Duc de Saint-Simon, trans. D. Flower, London. Spawforth, A. J. S. 2007 The Court and Court Society in Ancient Monarchies, Cambridge. 2007a ‘Introduction’, in Spawforth 2007, 1–16. 2007b ‘The court of Alexander the Great between Europe and Asia’, in Spawforth 2007, 82–120. Spence, K. 2007 ‘Court and palace in ancient Egypt: the Amarna period and later Eighteenth Dynasty’, in Spawforth 2007, 267–328. Spiegelberg, W. 1932 Die demotische Denkmäler, 3, Demotische Inschriften und Papyri (Catalogue général des antiquités égyptiennes du Musée du Caire), Berlin. Thompson, D. J. 2012 Memphis under the Ptolemies, 2nd ed. Princeton. 2013 ‘Hellenistic royal barges’, in Buraselis et al. (eds), 185–96. Veîsse, A.-E. 2004 Les ‘révoltes égyptiennes’. Recherches sur les troubles intérieures en Égypte du régne de Ptolémée III à la conquête romaine, Leuven. Yoyotte, J. 1969 ‘Bakhthis: religion égyptienne et culture grecque à Edfou’, in Religions en Égypte hellénistique et romaine, Colloque de Strasbourg 16–18 mai 1967, Paris, 127–41.

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‘COURT-INGTHEPUBLIC’:THEATTALIDCOURT ANDDOMESTICDISPLAY

Craig Hardiman

Studies of the royal court have largely focused on questions of structure, conduct and ceremony. These have stressed that a court, more than being a physical space and its trappings, is a series of power relationships that help to support the institution and so create the social dynamics that give it shape and character. As applied to the Hellenistic court, this approach has illustrated the importance of the symbiotic relationship between the ruler and the members of the court, along with the specific notion that the Hellenistic court was centred on a palace/domestic structure.1 These relationships often depend on royal favour, patronage and gift exchange systems and so it is not surprising that others in this volume have suggested that there are complex relationships between the courts of the Hellenistic kings and the broader society, the one influencing the other.2 One aspect of this court system that has been overlooked, however, is the way in which these new Hellenistic courts offered a paradigm on which other wealthy individuals could model their own homes. In essence this was a pattern that allowed the elite to display their wealth, taste and cultural acumen in a way that mirrored that of the Hellenistic monarchs. This aspirational use and decoration of homes can be traced back to the late Classical period, by which time it had already become the subject of philosophical criticism.3 The major difficulty for any examination of the phenomenon is that so very little of the physical element, especially the interior decoration, of the palace complexes survive. Nonetheless the ancient testimonia do compensate for this by presenting examples that testify to the material wealth of the royal courts.

1. Hellenistic ‘court’ decoration Prior to the Hellenistic period, the term αὐλή referred to an open air courtyard in the home and was as old as Homer.4 During the Hellenistic period, however, the term came to designate an entire palace, although sometimes it retained its primary meaning as the central courtyard of the

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Craig Hardiman palace. This change may have occurred in the fourth century, but it had certainly taken place by the time of Theocritus, who refers to the Ptolemaic 5 palace at Alexandria as an αὐλή. Polybius uses the term often and almost exclusively to refer to a royal palace.6 Tamm has suggested that the shift in understanding of the term may relate to the satrapal courts of the Persian Empire that are first called αὐλαί. Persian monarchs and satraps were accustomed to entertaining in large courts, which the Greeks may have interpreted as αὐλαί κατάστεγοι (‘covered courtyards’), as Herodotus did with regard to Egyptian hypostyle (roofed and multi-columned) halls.7 The Diadochoi likely used such αὐλαί for royal audiences and it may be that the pivotal figure in all this was Alexander the Great, as he adopted so much of Persian trappings over the course of his reign. This was not solely an adoption of foreign customs, however, as Alexander himself was brought up in a wealthy and luxurious palace. Whatever general wealth surrounded the young prince in his youth, the decoration in the palace was particularly noteworthy. Alexander’s great-grandfather, Archelaos I, had hired the noted painter Zeuxis to decorate the palace at Pella.8 His father continued this tradition of artistic patronage by hiring such artists as Euphranor, Chares, Leochares and Lysippos to create works to commemorate the royal family both at home and abroad.9 Perhaps from this background, it comes as little surprise that Alexander himself liked elaborate decoration in his personal surroundings. Athenaeus quotes several earlier authors that attest to the king’s sense of luxury and desire to surround himself with finery.10 The best-attested example of this may be the pavilion he erected in 324 BC to celebrate the mass marriage of his troops at Susa. Athenaeus, quoting Chares of Mytilene who accompanied Alexander on his campaign, describes the tent as follows:

κατασκεύαστο δὲ ὁ οἶκος πολυτελῶς καὶ µεγαλοπρεπῶς ἱµατίοις τε καὶ ὀθονίοις πολυτελέσιν, ὑπὸ δὲ ταῦτα πορφυροῖς καὶ φοινικοῖς χρυσουφέσιν. τοῦ δὲ µένειν τὴν σκηνὴν ὑπέκειντο κίονες εἰκοσαπήχεις περίχρυσοι καὶ διάλιθοι καὶ περιάργυροι. περιεβέβληντο δὲ ἐν τῷ περιβόλῳ πολυτελεῖς αὐλαῖαι 11 ζῳωτοὶ καὶ διάχρυσοι, κανόνας ἔχουσαι περιχρύσους καὶ περιαργύρους. The structure was expensively and ostentatiously decorated with costly draperies and linen cloths, beneath which was purple and scarlet fabric with gold woven in to it. Gilded columns 30 feet high [9.15 m], set with precious stones and covered with silver, were set beneath the canopy to keep it in place. Expensive curtains with animals woven into them and shot through with gold extended around the perimeter; the rods that held them were gilded and silvered. Tapestries, rugs and expensive furniture were all present to reﬂect the magniﬁcence of both the occasion and the ruler. Brown is correct to note

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‘Court-ing the public’: the Attalid court and domestic display that while some authors state that Alexander expressed moderation on campaign, his disbelief in witnessing the wealth of Darius’ tent was more a question of degree than of absolute shock.12 Even if this was the case, he soon took to liking this grand style; for he lived in many of the palaces of the defeated Persian king, especially the one in Babylon, as it ‘surpassed by far the others in size and in all other respects’.13 After the death of Alexander the literary sources on royal palace decoration fall off, but there are some hints at the type of luxury in which the Hellenistic monarchs lived. Several different types of structures are mentioned that seem to imitate or be based on ‘palace’ (however we conceive of the term) architecture and mimic the importance placed on social interaction and structures, such as lavish dining areas. This kind of architectural structure is perhaps most famously mirrored in the impressive pavilion erected by Ptolemy II as part of his grand procession in the early third century BC and described in detail by Kallixeinos of Rhodes as reported by Athenaeus.14 This pavilion, which may have been modeled on or inspired by Alexander’s royal tent, was a colonnaded hall covered by a canopy with enough space to hold 130 dining couches. In addition to the possible inﬂuence of Alexander’s tent, there may have been a local element as the structure seems to model itself architecturally on an Egyptian oikos (with its upper row of columns, high roof and clerestory windows). Nonetheless, while there may have been multiple inspirations, the spatial arrangements and decorations are more clearly in a Greco-Macedonian tradition.15 The pavilion was full of tapestries, golden tripods, curtains, carpets, paintings by artists from the Sikyonian school and sculptures created by the foremost artists of the day. The whole is described as καλή εἰς ὑπερβολὴν ἀξία τε ἀκοῆς (‘extraordinarily beautiful and well worth hearing about’). What is most important is how public this tent would have been. For it is here that Ptolemy would have entertained and impressed not only foreign dignitaries, but also his own courtiers and nobility.16 As with earlier, similar structures, it is in these public areas that such conspicuous wealth is best displayed in order to have maximum impact. In the later third century, Ptolemy IV continued this luxurious tradition by building a pleasure barge that was often used as the Egyptian ship of state, the Thalamegos. The boat was laid out over two decks and had many features typical of a Greek house plan – dining rooms, porticoes and many other rooms of a type found in Hellenistic villas.17 The largest such room seems to have been a dining room capable of holding twenty dining couches and was noted for a lavishly expensive ivory sculpted frieze.18 There was also a room with ﬁve couches, along with a shrine to Aphrodite, and another room with a shrine to Dionysos with portraits of the royal

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Craig Hardiman family.19 A similar type of vehicle with a spatial layout and decoration similar to a ‘floating palace’ may have been the trading/war barge of Hieron II of Syracuse know as the Syrakousia. Though the architecture of this ship is less well understood than the Thalamegos, rooms of various types and uses were present including a seemingly ‘public’ dining room and the whole was famous for its lavish decoration, most famously a mosaic that told the whole story of the Iliad.20 Thus whether with palace, pavilion, or royal barge the rulers of the Hellenistic period had a clear picture of lavishly decorating their structures with an emphasis on the communal, or more ‘public’, areas such as dining rooms in order to maximize their ability to display wealth, taste and opulence to outsiders and courtiers alike. To be sure the term ‘public’ may be thought of as a spectrum with varying degrees of ‘public’, but in general its use here is meant to suggest those areas where a majority of the visitors (whether they were dignitaries, courtiers, local elites or the general populace) come into the presence of the king and members of his family. This is something that also seems to hold for the houses of the Hellenistic period. Over time and under the influence of the monarchs, the wealthy elite adopt these trappings and increasingly decorate their homes with an emphasis on their courtyards and andro¯nes (dining rooms), just as the rulers had done. It was simply the scale that was different. The difficulty in this analysis, however, is the paucity of remains. While the literary sources offer convincing evidence for the decorative splendour of these courts, few actually remain and little in the way of decorative finds has been recovered. The palace at Vergina is an example, where the architectural remains illustrate a clear emphasis on public dining and entertaining, but little interior decoration has survived.21 In addition a site like Demetrias is poorly preserved and may well have been a ‘fortified’ residence and not a main palace site.22 When one then looks at those sites with sufficient domestic remains – Olynthos, Priene, Eretria, Halieis and Delos – the issue is that these were not capital cities and thus contained no palace structures. The ancient Macedonian capital site of Pella would seem to hold the possibility for analyzing both types of structures at once, given the discovery there of a palace together with several large domestic buildings, but the state of preservation and interpretive disagreements mean that a comparison between the ‘palace’ and the houses may not offer a viable analysis. Houses at Pella, such as the House of Dionysos, with its famed Lion Hunt mosaic, and the House of Helen, with its Abduction of Helen mosaic, were certainly owned by the wealthy elite of Pella, but they have also been interpreted as ‘palatial houses’ owned by the king’s philoi and having an official, rather than solely domestic, function. No matter

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‘Court-ing the public’: the Attalid court and domestic display the function(s), however, the overall size, the quality of mosaic decoration and the layout suggests a certain mimicry of ‘palatial’ trends. There was likely a cultural imperative on the part of these elites to mimic the trends found in the palace.23 There is one site, however, that may offer a proper ‘in site’ comparison, given the totality of archaeological remains, to illustrate this connection between palatial ‘court’ display and later domestic display – the Anatolian site of Pergamon.

2. Royal palaces and structures at Pergamon The site of Pergamon, so famous for the Great Altar of Zeus, has also revealed a unique combination of structures over the citadel, which includes both royal and non-royal domestic structures allowing for comparison. The initial investigations on the acropolis uncovered the ﬁrst domestic remains in the form of the Attalid palaces (see Fig. 12.1). Much of this early scholarship has focused on the two structures that have been identiﬁed as royal residences, the so-called palaces of Attalos I (Palace IV) and Eumenes II (Palace V). The older tradition asserts that these were separate buildings that served as the ‘palace’ for each monarch. More recent interpretations, however, suggest that the two buildings may be contemporary

Fig. 12.1: Reconstruction of the Acropolis of Pergamon with the ‘Palaces’. Drawn by Wendy Ou Yang (based on an image from the archaeological site of Pergamon).

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Craig Hardiman and associated with one another. An unused coffer block for the Altar of Zeus was uncovered in the socle of the back wall of the eastern portico of Palace V, suggesting a date contemporary with the reign of Eumenes II. It has been persuasively argued that Palace V was the ofﬁcial building of the monarch (for receptions and such), while Palace IV was his personal residence.24 Although different in size and function from the domestic structures of non-royals, they nonetheless provide important parallels for the architectural layout and decoration of large-scale residences of the Hellenistic period. Actual domestic remains have been uncovered throughout the city, including near the Altar of Zeus and the Upper Agora, but most were unearthed to the south of the Lower Gymnasium. Although many of these houses were built in the third and second centuries, several underwent extensive renovations and alterations during the early Imperial period. Thus a house like the House of the Consul Attalos can have Hellenistic mosaics and a ground plan that is in the main Hellenistic, while the interior architecture and its wall paintings are early Imperial.25 Although such chronology for the domestic remains may make connections to the Hellenistic palaces conjectural, it is still important to realize that the site of Pergamon is so far unique in the Hellenistic world in having so many royal and non-royal residences (along with their decoration) surviving side by side.

Fig. 12.2: Plan of Palace V at Pergamon. Drawn by Wendy Ou Yang (Adapted from Pinkwart and Stammnitz 1984 Abb. 15b).

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Before turning to the non-palatial domestic remains, it is important to look at the interpretations of function for the palatial structures, as this may illustrate similar functional uses, or set ‘use-precedents’, in the houses. As noted above, Palace V is now interpreted as the ‘official’ building of Eumenes II, while Palace IV is considered to have been the king’s private residence (see Fig. 12.2). ‘Official’, in this case, may be viewed in many ways as ‘public’; for this building seems to have been the royal dining hall and it was here that the monarch held state banquets and royal receptions. A total of seven andro¯nes have been reconstructed around the central peristyle courtyard, ranging in size from a room to hold seven couches to one that could hold twenty-two. In all, the dining complex could have been used for anything from a small gathering to a large banquet, with a total of ninety-nine couches.26 Such large and lavish parties would have served several social and political functions, not the least of which was to illustrate the munificence and splendour of the Pergamene kings both to outsiders and to the king’s own courtiers or nobles. To this end, Palace V is one of the most richly decorated Hellenistic buildings, with architectural embellishments, wall painting, mosaic and sculpture all surviving in the archaeological record in spite of heavy robbing in the Byzantine period. Perhaps the most striking decorative element from Palace V is a series of five fragmentary sculpted panels that seem to have been installed between the columns of the upper story of the peristyle court (see Figs. 12.3 and 12.4).27 These panels had as their themes three identified subjects:

Fig. 12.3: Telephos Panel from Palace V. Winter 1908 no. 358, pp. 284–285 (Beiblatt 36).

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Fig. 12.4: Trojan War Panel from Palace V. Winter 1908 no. 357, pp. 283–284 (Beiblatt 39). the story of Telephos, the Trojan War and the Gigantomachy. These themes would have been extremely familiar to an audience at Pergamon and on their own carried all the intended meanings here – political, cultural, artistic – as they did on the Altar of Zeus.28 In addition, they also served to establish a visual and conceptual link between the public hall of the king and the Altar of Zeus. Having walked past the Altar on the main road, a visitor to the citadel would then have passed the temenos for the cult of the Pergamene rulers on his way to Palace V. Upon entering the courtyard, the viewer would see the panels and not only recall the sculpture on the Altar, but also the immediate impact of passing through the sacred area of the Altar’s dedicants. In the ‘home’ of the king, the visitor would have the visual manifestation of the kingdom’s (and its monarch’s) place in the Hellenic world.29 From the peristyle courtyard, individuals would have been seated in particular dining rooms and the andro¯nes in Palace V exemplify the emphasis placed on decoration in andro¯nes more widely. Several mosaics were found here, the most famous being the so-called ‘Hephaistion Mosaic’. Found in Room K, the ﬂoor is well noted for its multiple decorative bands of guilloche, garlands inhabited by Erotes and grasshoppers, waves and a meander done in perspective.30 Several central panels are poorly preserved but one represents a curled parchment with the ‘inscription’

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ΗΦΑΙΣΤΙΩΝ ΕΠΟΙΕΙ (‘Hephaistion made (me)’). Evidence also suggests that the room was paneled in multicolour white and blue-gray marble adding to the overall visual effect. A statuette of a dancing woman was also found in this room, which seems to match the general size and type found in other, non-royal Hellenistic domestic contexts.31 The woman depicted is a dancing female conceived in a broadly archaistic style, though with heavy torsion and movement (see Fig. 12.5). The piece stands 1.10 m, with the left arm, both feet and the plinth all restored.32 The piece was not found in situ, so little may be said for certain about the spatial context, though two possibilities may exist. If the statue was originally with the mosaic, it seems unlikely that it would have been in the center of the Fig. 12.5: Dancing Maenad from Palace V. Winter 1908 no. 43, p. 63 room. The Hephaistion Mosaic, more (Beiblatt 8). than many others, demands active viewing: the Erotes and grasshoppers play in the foliage, while other points of visual interest and action abound. To place the statue on a plinth/base in the middle of the room would detract from the ability to view the mosaic, in addition to eliminating space for furniture and possibly causing problems of traffic flow during a symposium.33 No remains survive of the walls of the room, though it is possible that the statue was placed in a niche. Such an arrangement, however, runs counter to one view, which suggests that the statue was part of a multi-figural group of dancers.34 Although not in the immediate vicinity of the andro¯n, visible from its door, in the middle of the western wall of the courtyard, foundations for a large rectangular structure were uncovered. Measuring 6.70 m x 2.60 m, this structure was probably the foundations for either an altar or a base.35 Such a grand altar may have suited the ostentation of the Attalid kings, but courtyard altars tended to be smaller and portable. No small finds or debris associated with permanent altars or cult activity were found, and the small north-easternmost room of the structure has been identified as a small shrine. Inside, a mosaic of patterned bands and figural panels was uncovered, along with the socle for an altar. Such elaborate decoration,

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Craig Hardiman taken together with the archaeological evidence, suggests that the room was used for worship, perhaps for the dynasty’s patron deity Dionysos, whose appropriateness for this building is obvious.36 Such an elaborate and permanent worship area within Palace V, along with the lack of any other finds suggesting cult activity, would favour the interpretation of the foundations as those for a base. If the dancing female from the andro¯n were part of a multi-figural group, then such a base would have been large enough to support the suggested three figures. The Pergamon Dancer is also described as having a back that is ‘only quickly finished’. This lack of attention to the back and a deeply carved and active front suggests a primary frontal view, something that could be arranged on this base in a paratactic composition.37 The base would also be in a prime location for viewing – diners would have to pass the group on the way to any of the northern dining rooms, while the base would have been visible from the doorways of any of the other dining rooms in the complex. If the statue was part of a multi-figural group, then the foundations for the base would be an ideal candidate for the group’s location, with the dancer ending up in the andro¯n at a later date. Lastly, a figural mosaic of three panels surrounded by a garlanded border was uncovered in the altar room. The one panel that survives is of a parrot and of a type known in many copies throughout the material record (see Fig. 12.6).38 This mosaic is a fine example of the type of commonplace image that seems to have been popular at Pergamon. Pliny the Elder notes that Sosos worked at Pergamon laying versions of his famous ‘unswept floor’ and ‘doves on a drinking vessel’ (NH 36.184). Sosos is the only named mosaicist to come down to us in the literary sources and seems to have been the greatest practitioner of the art-form. Other examples

Fig. 12.6: Parrot Mosaic Panel. Image obtained from Wikimedia Commons © Deror Avi.

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‘Court-ing the public’: the Attalid court and domestic display illustrate the importance the Attalids placed on art: after the sack of Corinth in 146 BC, Attalos II paid 600,000 denarii for a picture of Dionysos by the fourth-century artist Aristeides (NH 35.24). Statue bases at Pergamon, likely for relocated works, have the inscribed signatures of Myron, Praxiteles and Xenokrates (IvP 135–140) – the cream of the sculptural crop. Other expropriated works or even copies of famous pieces could be mentioned, but many were erected in the sanctuary of Athena Nikephoros – an area on the second highest terrace that included a temple and was eventually enclosed by stoas – and fully illustrated the religious, personal, political and aesthetic nature of such works for the Attalids. One can think of Theocritus’ Idyll 15 and Herodas’ Mime 4 for viewing in similar circumstances. In Theocritus’ poem, two women discuss the art objects they see in the palace grounds at Alexandria. In Herodas’ poem, two women discuss the art objects they see in the sanctuary of Asklepios on Kos. Both poems reﬂect artistic material displayed publicly by Hellenistic patrons (likely Ptolemaic in both instances) and include famous and well known types of art. This would seem to provide an insight into the kind of experience one may have had in Pergamon and elsewhere.39 To be sure, there are levels to many of the ‘public’ displays suggested. An open air sanctuary may have had a broader public than those associated with the interiors of royal buildings, or the houses of private individuals, but the general point of displaying material in the most public way possible within each context holds. It is to this last context that we now turn.

3. Non-royal households at Pergamon A quick overview of the domestic remains will help establish the ‘domestic picture’ at Pergamon, especially given that this material, in both its Hellenistic and Roman phases, has been a major focus of recent study at the site. Although scattered remains of domestic architecture have been uncovered throughout the site, the two primary areas of excavated remains are just west of the Lower Market and north and northwest of the Upper Gymnasium along the Main Road. The area to the west of the Lower Market was examined ﬁrst and revealed several large peristyle houses with rooms arranged along two or three of the court’s sides. The largest example of these houses is House I, although a total of ﬁve were uncovered in this area (see Fig. 12.7). Immediately one is drawn to the size of these houses and especially to how large the courtyard is in relation to the house on the whole. House I had an overall size of ca. 1500 m2 with the courtyard accounting for 32% of the overall ground plan. House II is much smaller at 675 m2 but has a similarly large courtyard accounting for 45% of the house’s total area. This implies that the courtyard was particularly

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Craig Hardiman important within the spatial dynamics of the home. These two houses are of the ‘L’-shaped courtyard type, each with a series of three rooms to the north of the court and a hall-like room off the entranceway connected to a series of other, smaller rooms. Some have proposed that the ‘L’-shaped courtyard type may have been derived from Hellenistic palace architecture,

Fig. 12.7: House Plans from Pergamon. A = Palace IV; B = Palace V; 1 = House I; 2 = House II; 3 = House III; 4 = House of Consul Attalos. Drawn by Wendy Ou Yang (Adapted from Pinkwart and Stammnitz 1984, Abb 15).

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‘Court-ing the public’: the Attalid court and domestic display as both of these defining features are known from the ‘palaces’ at Pergamon and Vergina (Palatitsa).40 Again, while definitive conclusions may elude us, this evidence suggests that the spatial arrangements of Hellenistic houses were in part modelled on earlier, ‘palatial’ typologies. It is now necessary to look at the importance placed on entertaining and dining in these houses in so far as it can be determined from an examination of their decoration and the relationship between this and palace decoration. While the identification of andro¯nes within homes is often difficult architecturally, the situation is made more problematic at Pergamon by the lack of appropriate archaeological assemblages, such as furniture and dining ware. Nonetheless, Wulf-Rheidt has argued for an identification of andro¯nes at the site based on certain architectural forms and parallels. As a starting point, she examined several courtyard houses that were unearthed in the city just off the main road, to the northwest of the Upper Gymnasium. The type of houses found include those with a peristyle courtyard (Peristyle House I) and those with a courtyard with a colonnaded hall to one side (Courtyard Houses I, II and III). From the plans of these houses, it is clear that they owe a certain debt to what have been called both the pastas and prostas forms of Greek housing construction. As at Priene, there are small rooms off the prostas to the east that parallel Hoepfner’s and Schwandner’s identifications of andro¯nes.41 Perhaps one of the best examples to underscore this issue is the House of the Consul Attalos. Although of mixed Hellenistic and Imperial date (see beginning of Section 2 above), this building provides an interesting insight into dining facilities at Pergamon. To the east of the peristyle courtyard is a large, hall-like room whose foundation is Hellenistic in date. The undecorated border running around the central opus sectile area of the floor led to an early identification of the room as an andro¯n with an undecorated area for couches.42 The presence of a large square room near the home’s entrance or courtyard is a feature of several of the homes at Pergamon and thus emphasizes the importance of placing dining facilities near the more public areas of the home, as is evident elsewhere in the Hellenistic world.43 Often, these halls are placed strategically, opposite the main entrance to the home providing a clear axial view from the entrance to the largest room in the house. In addition to these halls, Wulf-Rheidt identifies other smaller rooms radiating off the courtyard as andro¯nes, based on their offset door and general architectural similarity to andro¯nes at Priene.44 Thus, in spite of the paucity of the material record, one can reasonably infer that dining played an important role in Pergamene domestic life, as it seems to have done at other Hellenistic sites, and that the dining room and courtyard were key public areas within the home. While we are limited in terms of the domestic decorative material that

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Craig Hardiman has survived, the best corpus of material that we can study is that of sculpture. It is among the more common categories of material found in house and palace excavations and, when found, it can often provide valuable insight into decorative design and intent. As an example, a small, 0.20 m in height, marble head of a female was uncovered ‘on a floor near the entrance’ of Room 2 in House II.45 While the piece has been dated by the excavators to the late Hellenistic period, House II has several phases ranging from the late Hellenistic to Imperial times suggesting that the piece could have been original or an heirloom displayed in a later context. It is noteworthy, however, that Room 2 is a primary display area within the home. The room was the middle one of a series of three rooms arranged to the immediate north of the peristyle court, an arrangement that was visually emphasized by having a columnar opening that looked onto the courtyard in Room 2, rather than having a door.46 The walls of this opening are Hellenistic in date but the opening itself may have been created when the house underwent extensive remodelling in the second century AD. During this remodelling phase, the visual importance of this area was emphasized as lavish mosaics and stucco wall paintings were placed in several of the home’s rooms, including Room 2.47 This arrangement may reflect the spatial and decorative situation in the home during the Hellenistic period. If it does, then the marble female head would have been placed in an important display area, visible from several vantages through the courtyard for all to see. Next are three bronze statues: a Herakles Farnese, a Satyr possibly holding a wine jar, now missing, and a soldier with cuirass, lance and helmet. The figures range from 0.184 m to 0.35 m and their small size may indicate that were intended as small, tabletop pieces.48 Although the statues have been dated to the late Hellenistic period on stylistic grounds, they were uncovered in Room 4b of Peristyle House II, located below a destruction layer above the ground-level of Roman building phase 5. Thus their archaeological context is no earlier than the late second century AD. During building phase 5, Room 4 was a dining complex capable of accommodating nine couches, decorated with a patterned mosaic. The room itself is very similar architecturally to the aforementioned Room 2 of House II. It is the central of three rooms with a columned opening instead of a door that looks out onto the peristyle courtyard. Here too the walls are of Hellenistic date, but re-used in the Roman period. This architectural arrangement actually pre-dates phase 5, such that the spatial dynamics of the room and courtyard had not changed significantly from the first century BC.49 Although speculative, this suggests that the pieces could have been displayed similarly in their original context. The statues may even

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‘Court-ing the public’: the Attalid court and domestic display have been heirloom pieces, something that would imply a long display life within the home. They more than likely belonged in Room 4 during the second century AD, with a familiar display context: in a lavishly decorated dining area. Other domestic statuary of Hellenistic date may be mentioned: a statuette of a small nude child, 0.154 m in height with a base of 0.022 m, which seems to have been finished equally on all sides and so displayed in the round; an Aphrodite, 0.30 m in height, of the Venus Genetrix type; two heads, one of a Dionysos and the other possibly Ariadne; and lastly a bronze statuette of a Satyr, 0.15 m in height, whose pelt and left hand are worked flat at the rear.50 All of these pieces conform to the type of sculptural material, small in size and often of Aphrodite, Dionysos and his cortège, one finds in Hellenistic homes from sites such as Olynthos, Priene and Delos. Given such decorative material, along with what has survived architecturally, the picture at Pergamon is of a series of domestic structures richly decorated and centered around the public areas of the home – courtyards and dining rooms – that would have announced the wealth and taste to all those who entered the home. This conspicuous consumption, and interest in display settings, mirror what has been for long associated with Roman villas, but which increasingly is being seen as a Greek phenomenon, and one whose impetus comes from similar ideologies found among the Hellenistic courts.51 Certainty is not possible, in part because the stratigraphy at Pergamon is so difficult. The dramatic slope of the hill has meant that much has been washed down over the course of the city’s history. As such it is difficult to distinguish between Hellenistic and Roman levels and so there are few houses that could be definitively dated to the Hellenistic period. Scholars have, however, largely determined that many houses of Roman date reflect similarities found in the remaining Hellenistic material. The same holds true for the domestic decoration – much is of Roman date, such as the famed mosaics from Building Z, but what has survived may accurately reflect spatial dynamics, display and artistic types as they existed in the Hellenistic period. What is particularly illuminating is the material uncovered in the Attalid palaces. These palaces and halls were heavily decorated, had entertaining as a prime function and architecturally seem to form a type that will be used for later large Hellenistic residences. It is likely that the Attalids set decorative and architectural trends that were followed by their people just as had happened earlier among the fourth-century kings and tyrants. Indeed, it was among the Macedonians that a fondness for dining and a concomitant interest in decorating their palaces and dining rooms seem to have taken a foothold and set a trend for the rest of the

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Hellenistic period.52 Earlier, ﬁfth-century BC homes among the Greeks seem for the most part to have been sparsely decorated, with a sharp increase in domestic decoration in the later part of the fourth century into the Hellenistic period. In essence this turned the large rich homes of individuals, with an emphasis on lavish decoration of public space, into miniature courts.

Notes 1 Elias 1976; Herman 1997; Strootman 2014. 2 See for instance the chapters by Buraselis and Ceccarelli; note also the ﬁnal section of Savalli-Lestrade’s chapter on philoi returning to their home city, and Palagia on the difﬁculty of distinguishing Macedonian royal and elite tombs. For the φιλοí relationships, see Herman 1997. 3 Plato, Resp. 372d–3a, Xen. Mem. 3.8.10, cf. also Xen. Oec. 9.4 for decorated living rooms on a country estate. There is some textual evidence that suggests rare examples (such as the house of Alkibiades in Athens, cf. Plut. Alc. 16.4) existed in the Classical period, but it is over the course of the 4th century that the great houses and palaces of the Macedonian royalty began to serve as aspirational exempla for later Hellenistic monarchs as well as the elites. For a collection of the testimonia, see Hardiman 2005, 18–41, and in general Brecoulaki 2016, 672–4. 4 See e.g., Hom. Il. 11.774, Plato, Prt. 311a, Resp. 1.328c; Athen. 10.437b. On the term and its meanings and history, see Hellmann 1992, s.v. αὔλειος, α, ον; αὐλή, ἡ; Ginouvès 1998, 14, 152, 155 n. 38, 186 n. 108. See Tamm 1968, 141–68. 5 Theoc. Id. 15.60; further on Theocritus see Petrovic, esp. section 1. Athen. 5.189e preserves quotations from Menander and Diphilos that are used as examples of the new use of the term. He suggests that the term refers to palace courtyards where troops or bodyguards would camp to protect their ruler. See also Morgan, this volume, section 1. 6 Polyb. 5.25.3, 5.25.9, 5.25.12, 5.34.4, 5.40.2, 15.28.4, 15.30.4. For a brief analysis, see Tamm 1968, 159. 7 Hdt. 2.148. See Tamm 1968, 156–61. 8 Ael. VH 14.17. In a similar vein, Dionysios I of Syracuse is said to have had ornate dining couches and decorous tapestries in his palace (Polyb. 12.24.1–3; Walbank 1967, 380). These tapestries may well have been displayed in the palace and may have been matched by similar displays when a Syracusan delegation set up pavilions at Olympia (Diod. Sic. 14.109). Here, we know that the display in the pavilion was lavish on purpose (ἵνα θαυµασθείη µᾶλλον ὁ τύραννος ὑπὸ τῆς Ἑλλάδος, Dion. Hal. De Lysia 29). While no other decoration is mentioned, the display context illustrates a desire for personal statements and aggrandizement recalling Archelaos and other sole rulers. 9 The most famous example likely being the Argead royal portraits erected in the Philippeion at Olympia. See Paus. 5.20.10; Schultz 2009. 10 For a list and commentary on these quotations, see Brown 1996, 94–5. 11 Athen. 12.538d. A shorter description is found in Ael. VH 8.7. Text and translations of Athenaeus by S. Douglas Olson (Loeb). This may also show the

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‘Court-ing the public’: the Attalid court and domestic display inﬂuence of Persian ‘luxury’ on Alexander. The theme of Alexander’s ‘Persianism’ is explored in this volume by Shane Wallace. See in general Spawforth, 2007. 12 Plut. Vit. Alex. 20.8. Brown 1996, 95. 13 Strabo 15.3.9–10. 14 Athen. 5.196a–197c = FGrH iii.58. See Studniczka 1914 for an analysis and reconstruction of this pavilion, esp. 30–47, 133–61 for the pavilion’s relationship to the ἀνδρῶνες of domestic houses. For the procession in general, see Rice 1983. 15 Vitr. De arch. 6.3.8–9. Studniczka 1914, 106; Grimm 1981, 23, n. 12; Rice 1983, 149; Kutbay 1998, 48. Haeberline 2009; Calandra 2011; Emme 2013. 16 ‘Furthermore, the elements of the boats, pavilion, and procession are arranged with a calculated eye to their effect on the spectator (this is to be expected in the case of the pavilion, which must have been intended as a place of royal hospitality for the important foreign theoroi attending the festival of which the Grand Procession was a part)’. Rice 1983, 150. See also Sheila Ager in this volume who discusses the public nature and importance of royal weddings. 17 Athen. 5.204e–206c. The elements often illustrated as typical of a Greek home are, of course, aggrandized into ‘palatial’ form. On the architecture of this barge, see Raeder 1988, 365–7. Grimm 1981, 17–18, views both the pavilion of Ptolemy II and the Thalamegos as examples of ‘Hofkunst’. Strootman 2014, 78–79. 1 8 τῇ χορηγίᾳ δὲ ἀξιοθαύµαστα, Athen. 5.205b–c. On Kallixeinos’ interests in art, see Rice 1983, 158–9. This particular comment has been used to date the author and uncover whether he saw the Thalamegos while it was still in use or later, but this seems an appropriate personal comment. See Studniczka 1914, 17–18; Caspari 1916, 8; Rice 1983, 168–9. 19 Athen. 5.205d–f. This last room held thirteen couches and so it too may have served as a dining room. 20 Athen. 5.206f–9e. See Casson 1971, 191–9. It is described as having an Ἀφροδίσιον τρίκλινον, usually interpreted as a three-couched shrine of Aphrodite but it might be preferable to understand Ἀφροδίσιον as an adjective qualifying ‘three- couched room’, which may have been a dining room or room for a sympotic activities given the adjective’s sexual overtones. Though the purpose of the Syrakousia was different from that of the Thalamegos, Duncan-Jones 1977, 332, has suggested that the ship was still a statement as to the tyrant’s ‘ability to mobilize resources’. Thus it is as much of a public statement as a palace. In general see Thompson 2013. The Nemi ships built by the Roman emperor Caligula were based on these Hellenistic royal barges but were smaller in size. For an interesting parallel, see Ucelli 1950; Bonino 1989. 21 While the decorative architectural elements are of high quality, the primary ﬁnd was a mosaic in Room 13, see Dunbabin 1999, 15. In general, see Tomlinson 1970; Kutbay 1998, 18–28; Nielsen 1999, 83–4; Kottaridi 2013. 22 The palace at Demetrias is in such poor condition, but what remains seems to suggest a (probable) large number of dining rooms like Vergina, see Marzolff 1996; Nielsen 1999, 93–4; Winter 2006, 163. 23 Nielsen 1999, 84–85. For the palace at Pella, see Kutbay 1998, 40; Siganidou 1996, 144–7. Nielsen (1999, 91) notes the heavy robbing and re-use of material over the centuries that has left little beyond the foundation of the palace. As such, little may be made of this structure at the moment. On the House of Dionysos, see

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Makaronas and Giouri 1989, 151–6; Kutbay 1998, 37–9; Nielsen 1999, 85–8. On the House of Helen, see Makaronas and Giouri 1989, 54–123. On the mosaics, see Makaronas and Giouri 1989, 124–40; Petsas 1965; Dunbabin 1999, 10–15. This difficulty lies in the poor preservation of palace sites in general and in palace sites that have significant domestic remains. Still, analyses of the ancient testimonia and remains in the critical period of the 4th–2nd centuries BC would suggest a model where the elites copy heavily from the royals, see Hardiman 2005, 60–134; Brecoulaki 2016, 674. 24 For the traditional view, see Kawerau and Wiegand 1930, 25–39, 65–9; Hansen 1971, 274–5; Kutbay 1998, 6–18. More recent interpretation, see Nielsen 1999, 102–11; Radt 1999, 63–78. Another group of buildings at the northern end of the citadel, building complex I, may have been the palace of Attalos I, see Hoepfner 1997, 35–40. 25 On this house, see Dörpfeld 1907, 167–89; Radt 1981, 416–17; Radt 1999, 95–101; Wulf 1999, 168–9. 26 This number ninety-nine is significant, as it seems to reflect the number of dining spaces for Alexander’s aforementioned pavilion. Many of the andro¯nes from Palace V are identified based on architectural parallels found at the palace at Vergina, again suggesting an architectural link with Macedonia, see Hoepfner 1996, 24–5. Nielsen (1999, 110–11) also sees a link with Macedonian architecture, but prefers the palace at Pella as a possible inspiration. Certainly the palace at Vergina (Palatitsa) is noted for its large number of possible dining rooms, see Andronikos 1984, 43; Kutbay 1998, 18–28; Nielsen 1999, 83–4. Alongside the architecture, this focus on dining as an especially important social/political function for the ruling élite may have spread from Macedonia. Thus Tomlinson (1970) would see the Macedonian palace as primarily a banqueting facility. For banqueting as a social practice in the time of Alexander, see Borza 1983; Carney 2007. Palace V also served as inspiration for a later ruler, as Augustus seems to have used it as a model when he built his house on the Palatine Hill. The width of Augustus’ peristyle court is the same as the Pergamene banqueting hall, see Hoepfner 1997, 37–8, 172, n. 64; Caretonni 1983, 10; Nielsen 1993, 212–16. 27 See Winter 1908, AvP VII.2, nos. 356–58, Beiblatt 36, 39. The panels were found in several contexts in the area of the market/Byzantine Wall of the upper terrace, suggesting use in the area, see Winter 1908, AvP VII.2, 282–4. Schober (1940, 160–8) believed that the panels were placed on the propylon to the Athena terrace. Their findspot certainly allows for such a placement, though decorated panels between upper story columns on propyla tend to be panoply reliefs, as on the stoa of Attalos II and the propylon, both for the precinct of Athena on the citadel. Ridgway (2000, 31) thought that these may have belonged to the propylon of the Altar Terrace. Hoepfner (1997, 39, 172, n. 65) is probably correct in his placement of the reliefs, though wrong in suggesting that the subject matter is too ‘dignified’ for placement on a gate. 28 The Gigantomachy (Winter 1908, AvP VII.2, no. 356) and the Trojan War (Winter 1908, AvP VII.2, no. 357) are secure as subjects from the iconography of their panels. The story of Telephos (Winter 1908, AvP VII.2, no. 358) is less secure. The relief shows a heavily muscled man leaning with one foot on a rock standing before a seated female figure. Winter (1908, AvP VII.2, 285) originally suggested that the figures could be Odysseus before Athena, and though a shield is present at the foot of the female, she has no aegis. Winter also suggested the possibility of Hephaistos before Thetis, though again there is no iconography to identify positively either figure.

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These suggestions would place the image in the tale of the Trojan War. Ridgway 2000, 32, seems to follow Hoepfner (1997, 39), who identifies the scene from the tale of Telephos, but provides no reasons. The seated female is reminiscent of the seated Auge from panel 8 of the Telephos frieze on the Great Altar, suggesting that the representation is from the tale of Telephos. Thus, with the presence of the shield, the scene could represent the newly arrived Telephos receiving arms from Auge, as on panels 16 and 17 on the Telephos frieze. 29 The ‘palace’ may have been non- (or quasi-) religious, but visitors still would have passed the temenos of the ruler cult on their way past the Altar and on up to Palace V. The secular and the religious were closely intertwined. 30 Kawerau and Wiegand 1930, 63–5, pls. XVI–XIX; Salzmann 1991, 436–7; Dunbabin 1999, 28–9. 31 Most such statues are ca. 1m in height or less, and many represent the Dionysisac thiasos, such as this dancer (maenad?) from Palace V. See Hardiman 2005 for an analysis. 32 Pergamon Museum inv. no. 43. See Winter 1908, AvP VII.1, 63–5, 67–9; Heidenreich 1935, 687–9; Schober 1951, 144–6; Fullerton 1987, 267; Ridgway 2000, 314–16. The depositional context for the sculpture, coupled with Fullerton’s stylistic analysis of the statue, dates the piece to the second quarter of the 2nd century BC, during the reign of Eumenes II. 33 The mosaics from Pergamon are noted for their use of trompe l’oeil and their status as valued ‘pictures’ laid on the floor rather than the wall. See Dunbabin 1999, 26–30. 34 Winter (1908, AvP VII.1, 65) suggested that the piece was part of a group set up in the Attalid palace, while (Heidenreich 1935, 689–90) believed the statues were part of a Charites group by the sculptor Boupalos mentioned by Pausanias (9.35.6). Boupalos is known to be a sculptor from the 6th century BC, but the notion that the dancer was part of a multi-figural group has held. The piece most often associated with the dancer is a torso from Bergama (Istanbul Arch. Mus. Inv. no. 481) discovered in a mosque, see Winter 1908, AvP VII.1, 65–7, no. 44. Schober (1951, 145–6) is misleading when he states that the two were found together, as the Bergama Torso was uncovered two years earlier and at a distance. The pieces are, however, usually discussed in the same context and seen as a group based on multi-figural parallels found in relief sculpture, see Fullerton 1987, 268–72; Ridgway 2000, 314–16. 35 Kutbay 1998, 14; Radt 1999, 68. 36 For this altar room in general, see Ohlemutz 1968, 94–6; Kutbay 1998, 15. 37 Winter 1908, AvP VII.1, 64 notes the finishing on the back, which is picked up by Ridgway (2000, 316), who asserts that the piece displays the Archaic ‘law of frontality’, in spite of its suggested motion. This would then necessitate a frontal viewing. Whether the frontal viewing of the piece was established via a paratactic display or in a circular pattern to mimic certain dancing reliefs on round bases, any base associated with the monument would likely have taken up too much volume to be placed inside the andro¯n proper. 38 Kawerau and Wiegand 1930, 63, pl. XV; Dunbabin 1999, 27–8. 39 See Hardiman 2012, 271–4. 40 For the initial excavations, see Dorpfeld 1904, 116–20. Pinkwart and Stammnitz (1984, 25–36) reinterpret much of the domestic remains. The ‘L’ shape is opposed to the ‘U’ shape where rooms may be found on three sides of a courtyard, see Pinkwart and Stammnitz, 1984, 36–42; Heermann 1986, 345–62. These typologies are rejected

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Craig Hardiman by Wulf, who simply analyzes the architecture in terms of numbers and combinations of rooms, see Wulf-Rheidt 1998, esp. 308; Wulf 1990, 149–90. 41 See Wulf-Rheidt 1998, 302–6; Hoepfner and Schwandner 1994, 38–42. While the problems associated with Hoepfner’s and Schwandner’s identifications and typologies are noted, architectural identification at Pergamon remains the only viable method of room identification. The steep slope of the site is prone to erosion that will often wash material down the side of the hill into secondary deposits. In addition, constant robbing of the site and centuries of overbuild means that little stratified material from the Hellenistic period in this area survives in situ. 42 Dörpfeld 1907, 183, Tabs XIV–XV. 43 Wulf-Rheidt 1998, 311–12. Other houses with such a hall or similar hall-like rooms include the Hellenistic Peristyle House under the Heroon for the worship of the Pergamene Kings, House I, House II, House III and Building Z. 44 Wulf-Rheidt 1998, 312; Hoepfner and Schwandner 1994, 216–17. 45 Pinkwart and Stammnitz 1984, 109, S2, 2–13, 25–33, 42–55, 67–72. 46 ‘This suite of rooms consequently leaped to the eye of every visitor entering the house’; see Wulf-Radt 1998, 314. In many respects, this arrangement parallels the architecture of room 9 of the House of the Mosaics at Eretria, see Hardiman 2011. 47 For the decoration of House II at this time, see Pinkwart and Stammnitz 1984, 81–6, 98–105. 48 For these three statues, see Pinkwart 1972, 115–39. 49 For this house in general, see Wulf 1999, 23–70, and for phase 5, 61–7. 50 Winter 1908, AvP VII.2, 193, cat. no. 200; 58, cat. no. 39; 369–70, cat. no. 469. The Satyr was found ‘beim Abräumen des Terrains südöstlich vom Altarplatz auf Grundmauern hellenistischer Wohnungen’ (Winter 1908, AvP VII.2, 369). Harward (1982, 201) is correct to note that the excavation context is such that the piece could well have washed down the slope, making a domestic connection more uncertain. By the publication date of 1908, however, the Hellenistic houses uncovered southeast of the Altar platform were those under the Upper Market. The slope between the Altar and the Upper market is fairly steep, but the houses date to the 3rd century BC and so predate the construction of the Altar. Underneath the Altar were also found houses of the same date, suggesting that if the statue had washed down the slope, it would have done so from a domestic area, see Schrammen 1906, 85–7; Wulf-Reidt 1998, 300. The only other possibility is that it was a votive from the upper sanctuary. 51 Hardiman 2005, 243–79; Adrianou 2009; Westgate 2010; Brecoulaki 2016. 52 The Macedonian elite use of dining is well known, see Sawada 2010, 393–9 for an overview. This was part of a larger trend among the Hellenistic dynasts to stage public events for their own benefit. This is explored by Sheila Ager and Janett Morgan in this volume, see also Chaniotis 1997. The Attalids’ version of this ‘public persona’ may have been slightly less conspicuous, but they still used this type of image control and dutiful elites would have mirrored their leader’s tastes, see Kosmetatou 2003, 166–73. As regards architecture and decoration, our evidence is limited but mostly involves the desire of elites to mimic what was being displayed in royal houses. An overview may be found in Winter 2006, 157–82. A site like Delos provides a wider socio-economic picture, see Trümper 1998; Trümper 2005; Nevett 2010, 43–88. The wider phenomenon may be observed in Burn 2004, 43–9, 100–19; Brecoulaki 2016.

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PARTV

CROSSINGCULTURES

HELLENISTICPATRONAGEANDTHE NON-GREEKWORLD

Erich S. Gruen

Alexander the Great had lit up the ancient world like a meteor in the sky as he shot through the Mediterranean and the Near Eastern world. Only a brief moment in the history of antiquity, but one whose impact was felt everywhere and whose legacy was long. The achievements, swift and sudden conquest of the Persian empire, the march of Hellenic forces all the way across the Iranian plateau to the mountains of Afghanistan and into the fabled land of India, left contemporaries and historians awe-struck, a source of intimidation not only to his foes – but to his successors. The shadow of Alexander loomed over the Diadochoi, a stimulus to emulation, a benchmark against which they could measure themselves, yet also an imposing presence whose accomplishments could hardly be matched, let alone surpassed. The marshals and generals of Alexander’s army (some of them at least) were formidable ﬁgures, larger than life, men such as Antigonos Monophthalmos, Ptolemy Soter, Seleukos Nikator, Lysimachos, and Kassandros, who became founders of new kingdoms or dynasties that shaped the Hellenistic world. They laid their claim not on the basis of territorial holdings or hereditary lineage but, in the mould of Alexander, on grounds of singular achievements, political power, and the aura of authority. The projection of prestige and prominence played a large part in this emulation. Military success, of course, was essential – but not sufﬁcient. Artistic, literary, and cultural patronage had an important place in the decades after Alexander when the dynasts struggled to establish their identity, to justify their authority, and to cast an image of eminence that

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Erich S. Gruen would prove their worthiness as heirs of Alexander. The model already existed. A host of intellectuals, including historians, philosophers, poets, and scientific investigators, formed part of Alexander’s company on his Asian expedition.1 And the royal courts in subsequent generations proved to be promoters and financiers of numerous gifted (and sometimes not so gifted) writers, scholars, and artists. In Alexandria, the funding of the Mouseion and the sponsorship of celebrated figures such as Theocritus and Callimachus set Ptolemaic patronage in the most glittering light. Similar promotion, however, existed in other courts for which we possess much less evidence – but enough to assure that the Ptolemies were by no means unique. A drive to exhibit wealth and status through the patronage of intellectual activities may have been especially intense in the decades after Alexander’s death. The newly emerging monarchies felt the need to display distinction through magnanimity. Cultivation of learning and the arts could elevate the repute of the rulers and underscore the legitimacy of Hellenic infiltration into the lands of the Near East. So, at least, it is regularly understood – and not without reason. Cultural promotion stemming from early Hellenistic courts would allow the kings to represent themselves as champions of Hellenism in regions associated with near-eastern traditions and centuries of Persian dominance. They had thus gone beyond Alexander; military conquest would be enhanced by royal promulgation of the life of the mind. The Successors would expand and entrench Greek traditions radiating from the new capitals and courts at Alexandria, Antioch, Seleukeia, and Pergamon.2 Yet that is not the whole story. An intriguing phenomenon marked the literary productivity of the late fourth and early third centuries, the first age of the Diadochoi. A number of writers with connections to the royal courts picked up the pen not to glorify the deeds of the dynasts nor to advance Hellenic intellectual causes but to investigate and spread knowledge of non-Greek peoples and lands. This perhaps surprising feature merits close attention.3 It offers a telling perspective upon the intellectual activity fostered by Hellenistic rulers and the patronage of the courts. Evidence is fragmentary. What survives may be just a fraction of the productivity. We are told, for example, that many Greek writers who visited Thebes in the age of Ptolemy I wrote histories of Egypt.4 A remarkable statement, perhaps an exaggeration; none of them survives. But it serves as an index of how much we may have lost.

1. Hekataios of Abdera We do, however, know a little something about one of those Greek historians of Egypt: Hekataios of Abdera. Our sources identify that individual as one who ﬂourished in the era of Alexander the Great and

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Hellenistic court patronage and the non-Greek world associated with Ptolemy, son of Lagos, i.e. Ptolemy I Soter, the former general of Alexander who became first Greek ruler of Egypt.5 The precise dates of his stay in Egypt remain in dispute, some time in the last two decades of the fourth century.6 A number of works stood to his credit. One holds particular significance for our purposes: a treatise, monograph, or history of Egypt, the Aigyptiaka.7 That a Greek intellectual of some stature should compose a serious study of Egypt or the Egyptians in the time of Ptolemy Soter and evidently with the backing of the king is a fact of real consequence. Few direct fragments survive of Hekataios’ work on Egyptian matters. But, as is generally agreed, a substantial portion of the first book of Diodorus’ universal history, the book that treats Egypt, draws heavily upon Hekataios. That permits us to recover the general scope, structure, and content of the treatise, even though verbatim precision eludes us.8 Hekataios was not, of course, the first Greek writer to take up the subject of Egypt and to be fascinated by it. A century earlier Herodotus produced a celebrated excursus on that land, occupying the whole of Book II of his Histories. Hekataios knew that work and shared many of its sympathies.9 In fact, the predominantly favourable account of Egyptian history and practices that appears in Herodotus becomes still more laudatory in the hands of Hekataios. The Hellenistic historian produced a work that combined history, ethnography, and geography, a serious and substantial study. Insofar as one can judge from the sequence in Diodorus’ recasting, it began with the mythic origins of the nation, including a version of the flood story, the gods, heroes, and kings who stood at the onset of Egypt’s history. Hekataios proceeded with a detailed description of the topography and geography of the land, a major focus placed inevitably upon the Nile, its features, and its advantages. There follows an extended historical segment, taking up the story after the legendary pre-history, concentrated selectively on the actions, accomplishments, or failings of individual kings, down to the Persian conquest of the later sixth century BC. The remainder of the work constitutes an ethnographic investigation that encompasses royal protocol, the administration of the country, the structure of society, the judicial and legal system, education, religion, and burial customs.10 On the face of it, a fairly wide survey. The tone and tenor require emphasis. The picture that the Greek historian presents is one highly favourable to Egypt, even at the expense of the Greeks. He sets Egypt at the origins of the universe, the first nation to come into existence, blessed with an advantageous climate and the benefits of the Nile.11 Hekataios treats the gods and heroes of the nation with respect, blending in stories of Greek mythological figures,

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Erich S. Gruen acknowledging the deities Isis and Osiris but liberally ascribing the names of Greek gods to Egyptian divinities, an interpretatio Graeca for his readership, but also one in which Egypt clearly possesses precedence. So, for instance, Osiris appoints Herakles, his kinsman and subordinate, as governor over his dominions, and placed his own son, conveniently named Macedon, as ruler of the land subsequently known as Macedonia.12 Some Hellenic myths are represented as mere offshoots and reformulations of Egyptian legend. Prometheus, in one such tale, appears as an Egyptian who governed a district on the Nile and was reduced to despair by raging floodwaters until Herakles arrived to halt the overflow and restore the river to its normal boundaries. That deed, according to the narrative, was then transformed by Greeks into the story of Herakles slaying the eagle that had been devouring Prometheus’ liver.13 A particularly noteworthy piece of information. The Greek historian acknowledges that the Hellenic legend is merely derivative. The Egyptian story takes priority. There is much more along these lines in the text. Egyptians alleged that they were the first to observe the stars, that they discovered the foundations of geometry and most of the arts, and that they introduced the best laws.14 The historian admired Egyptian legal and political institutions, claiming, among other things, that the Greeks adopted a number of them.15 Still more remarkable perhaps is the historian’s transmission of Egyptian boasts about their responsibility for founding several of the most celebrated sites of antiquity. They claimed as their own Belus (Baal) the founder of Babylon, Danaos the colonizer of Argos, even Moses founding father of the Jewish nation. All were Egyptians.16 Indeed Athens itself, according to Egyptian informants, owed its existence to colonists from Sais in Egypt, a number of Athenian rulers like Erechtheus were actually Egyptians, and various Athenian institutions took their origins from Egypt.17 That was too much for Diodorus. He issued a disclaimer, ascribing to the Egyptians an exaggerated sense of self- importance that induced them to make extravagant and unfounded assertions about peopling a large portion of the world.18 How much of this was bought by Hekataios we cannot say. But he did transmit the testimony of the priests. Admiration for things Egyptian, in any case, comes through clearly. A long list of Greek sages, poets, lawgivers, and legendary figures, according to the historian, trooped in and out of Egypt, bringing back with them models for wisdom, learning, law, and institutions which they could apply in their own homelands. Visitors eager to partake of Egyptian lore, tradition, and experience included Orpheus, Homer, Pythagoras, Solon, Plato, and Democritus, plus a host of Greek scientists and artists.19

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Even Greek mythology could be turned to Egyptian credit. The famed tale of Daedalus, the semi-divine craftsman who constructed the labyrinth in Crete where the Minotaur was housed, received an Egyptian gloss. The great artist got the idea from a visit to Egypt where he found the original labyrinth designed as a tomb for the king. And just to rub it in, the historian adds that the labyrinth in Crete has long since disappeared, whereas that in Egypt still stands proudly.20 The most striking and explicit assertion comes in the extended narrative of Egypt’s greatest warrior monarch Sesoosis (Sesostris). Hekataios hews closely to the account of Sesoosis’ exploits in Herodotus, the glorious victories over Arabia, Ethiopia, Phoenicia, and Syria, and even the crossing into Europe where he subdued Scythians and Thracians before leaving markers and memorials of his triumphs.21 But Hekataios goes beyond Herodotus most notably in one regard. He records a great campaign by Sesoosis into the distant east, the conquest of all Asia, and the march of Egyptian troops beyond the Ganges and across India. In case anyone missed the allusion, the historian afﬁrms directly that Sesoosis traversed all the lands that Alexander the Great would later subdue, but exceeded his accomplishment by passing into territory that even Alexander never ventured to enter.22 The comment deserves emphasis. An ancient Egyptian monarch outstripped the Hellenic world’s most fabled warrior and most spectacular conqueror. And that comparison in which Alexander comes off second best appeared, it seems, in the work of a Greek intellectual who had been a contemporary of Alexander and who wrote in the time of Alexander’s general Ptolemy Soter, himself a historian of Alexander and now ruler of Egypt. What does one make of all this? Here is a Greek historian in the days, and probably at the court, of Ptolemy I, a monarch striving to install and entrench Greek dominion in Egypt. Yet Hekataios’ treatise, delving deeply into the distant past of the land and people, presented a highly encomiastic account of Egypt’s antiquity, values, and achievements, even to the detriment of Hellas. The paradox has invited a number of explanations. Almost all of them, however, begin with the premise that Ptolemy prompted the work and that in some sense it served the interests of the court. One can see it as a command performance providing a Utopian image of Pharaonic Egypt as indirect gloriﬁcation of Ptolemy’s realm.23 Or in an expansion of this view the work has been reckoned as a vehicle for associating the new Hellenistic kingdom with all the admirable qualities attributed to the Egypt of old, thus to inspire the immigration of military manpower and the intellectual elite of the Greek world.24 Or it can be interpreted as a work of propaganda, a shot across the bow of other Hellenistic monarchs, an instrument in Ptolemy’s competitive battle of the

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Erich S. Gruen books, a means whereby to get a jump on his rivals by attracting intellectuals to his court who would underscore the superiority of Egypt over the nations ruled by his competitors.25 On a slightly different hypothesis, Hekataios supplied for Ptolemy a philosophical underpinning for his dominion, appealing to the Greeks in Egypt by framing the new realm as exemplifying the ideal state of Hellenic political theory, but also to the indigenous population by setting their own nation’s history in the most celebratory light.26 Despite their differences all of these theories concur in believing that Hekataios aimed to advance the goals of the Ptolemaic court. A problem exists with such reconstructions. None ﬁts easily with the thrust of Hekataios’ text as adapted by Diodorus. As we have seen, Egyptians repeatedly take precedence over Greeks in antiquity, wisdom, justice, law, institutions, and intellectual accomplishment. Greek sages and statesmen, not to mention deities and legendary heroes, owe much of their skill and discrimination to sojourns in Egypt. Even the dazzling deeds of Hellas’ greatest military genius did not quite match those of an Egyptian Pharaoh. Egypt thus appears as an aspiration, even an admonition, to Ptolemy. Hekataios drew heavily upon the records of the priests. And the priests loom large in his story of governance in the Pharaonic era. He observes that Egyptian kings did not possess quite the untrammelled power wielded by other monarchs. Their acts were circumscribed by the obligation to respect law and tradition and their chief advisers were men of the noblest priestly families who held the Pharaoh to account for adherence to established prescriptions.27 The High Priest stood with the king on ritual occasions, when the populace gathered about, and prayed to the gods for Pharaoh’s health and prosperity – if he practices justice to his subjects. His praises of the king had as their objective to remind him of the proper mode of conduct that would keep him on the path of virtue.28 Kings were held accountable even after death. Praise and criticism had free rein at the funeral, and, if balance tipped to the negative, they could be denied a public burial – a strong incentive for good behaviour.29 It is not easy to believe that Ptolemy fostered restrictions of this sort on royal power. Hekataios would hardly build such a portrait of Pharaonic governance on the prodding of the Ptolemaic king. Not that one should take the reverse line and posit that the historian engaged in indirect critique of the regime.30 But it may be salutary to reframe the discussion by removing it from the strictly political realm. Composition of an in-depth study of the people and land under the aegis of the Hellenistic king would have obvious advantages. A history and ethnography of Egypt could bring fame to Hekataios and invaluable information to the Ptolemaic court. If a

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Hellenistic court patronage and the non-Greek world strong tradition buttressed priestly authority, it behoved the Ptolemies to know that. If animal worship had deep roots in Egyptian consciousness for reasons that could be articulated, it was important to know that as well. If national memory enshrined certain figures, legendary or historical, and continued to revere them, Ptolemy would be remiss to ignore them. It does not follow that pragmatism alone spurred the production of Hekataios’ history or even played a major role in it. The historian also composed a work on the Hyperboreans, a subject of fantasy that could hardly have possessed pragmatic value. Hekataios went his own way. A history of Egypt had obvious attraction for him. It had the character of both great antiquity and of exoticism. Postulating a political agenda is unnecessary and unwarranted. The objective may be no more than straightforward ethnography. To be sure, the king had something to gain. Prestige accrued by having prominent writers in his entourage carried advantage. But that does not explain encouragement of scholarly investigation into non-Greek peoples. A simpler explanation may be preferable. As is well known, the expedition of Alexander into distant parts and unknown lands spurred a spate of scientific and geographical treatises that whetted the appetites of explorers and prodded the imaginations of intellectuals. Hekataios’ work fits well enough into that cultural context. Ptolemy Soter need not have had ulterior motives in welcoming Hekataios to court.

2. Megasthenes Royal encouragement of research into other cultures went well beyond the patronage of Hekataios. The phenomenon had resonance elsewhere in the Hellenistic Near East. Mention should be made of another Greek writer, Megasthenes, a close contemporary of Hekataios, who produced a full- scale study of India, the Indika, which was widely used by later writers, including Strabo, Diodorus, Pliny, and Arrian – although they did not always have complimentary things to say about him.31 All too little is known about Megasthenes, not even where he came from. That constitutes a frustrating blank in our testimony. His dates too lack precision but they certainly fall in the period of the late fourth and early third centuries, i.e. the age of the Diadochoi. He was not the ﬁrst to write about India. Herodotus and Ktesias, at least, preceded him.32 Herodotus’ excursus on the Indians, however, comes in the context of discussing the peoples under the Persian empire. And Ktesias’ Indika may itself be only a small part of his major work, the Persika, rather than a separate publication.33 The full treatment by Megasthenes, it appears, stands in a different category, an expansive study devoted just to the topic of India. It is no coincidence that it was

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Erich S. Gruen composed in the time of Alexander’s Successors, in the wake of the conqueror’s expedition to the east that fired the imaginations of Greek intellectuals eager to learn more about exotic peoples and places. The quality of the research may have left something to be desired. Strabo disparages all writers about India as fabricating facts, Deimachos the worst of them – and a close second is Megasthenes.34 But the drive to expound upon foreign cultures is clear. Did that drive receive impetus from the court? That is not quite so clear, but highly probable. We know that Megasthenes spent some time with Sibyrtios, Alexander’s satrap in Arachosia, who retained his post for a number of years in the turbulent times after the king’s death.35 At some point, he became associated with Seleukos I Nikator, one of the most successful of Alexander’s Successors, founder of the Seleucid dynasty, ruler of Babylonia and Syria and much else besides.36 We know further that Megasthenes served on a diplomatic mission to the court of Sandrokottos (Chandragupta), the great king of India who established the Mauryan empire.37 Indeed Megasthenes frequently spoke of visiting Sandrokottos, evidently a source of pride.38 He claimed a close acquaintanceship with the Indian emperor.39 That imposing ruler engaged in the celebrated negotiations in 304 with Seleukos I, a turning point in Greek relations with the far east, which brought a peace treaty and five hundred elephants for the Macedonian monarch but conceded most of India to Sandrokottos.40 Whether Megasthenes served on that particular mission we are not explicitly told.41 Nor do we know who sent him as a delegate to the Indian prince. But the fact that he did serve as an emissary to Sandrokottos, and that he was in the entourage first of Sibyrtios, then of Seleukos himself, provides powerful testimony to his stature at court. One may without hazard conclude that royal subsidization lay behind his visit or visits to India and facilitated the composition and circulation of his Indika. What provided stimulus for this influential work? A favoured suggestion has it that Megasthenes acted as propagandist for the Seleucid regime, subsidized as answer to Hekataios’ glorification of the Ptolemies, hence a part of the competitive rivalry among Hellenistic dynasts.42 The hypothesis is unnecessary and implausible. If Megasthenes served the political interests of Seleukos, why write a history and ethnography of India, a land that the king had recently resigned to a native ruler?43 Here again politics may not be at issue. Megasthenes’ treatise included extensive discussion of the geography, ethnography, institutions, officialdom, flora and fauna of India, with a mixture of research and fantasy. The organization and character of the work can be reconstructed from writers like Diodorus, Strabo, and Arrian, who plainly used it – even though they expressed their reservations about it.44

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Megasthenes has considerable respect for India and its people. They are of remarkable health and stature, skilled craftsmen, and highly valued farmers. None of India’s habitants come from abroad, an autochthonous nation that neither receives nor sends out colonies.45 Their caste system sets philosophers at its pinnacle, while also honouring its farmers, shepherds, and herdsmen, subsidizing its craftsmen, soldiers, and officials, and paying due deference to those of high birth and wisdom who serve as advisers to the king, governors of the realm, and judges.46 He places strong emphasis upon the Indian devotion to self-restraint, frugality, and simplicity of life.47 The Indians reserve high praise for virtue, wisdom, and truth.48 That does not mean that Megasthenes withholds all criticism. He observes that Indian soldiers indulge themselves in drink and idleness, since they live off the public dole. And the class of officials with the task of inspecting public affairs and reporting secretly to the king employs courtesans to that purpose.49 But the general assessment is overwhelmingly positive. Megasthenes carried no brief, any more than Hekataios did, for a celebration of Hellenism and its spread into the far distant regions of the east. He does recount a version of the Dionysos myth, told him by the most learned of Indians.50 The thrust of this tale, however, is not that Dionysos brought Greek civilization to the primitive Indians but that the Indians themselves, by honouring their benefactor, transformed him into a god, thus giving their own twist to the legend of Dionysos’ overseas adventures. They showed even greater ingenuity in appropriating Herakles for themselves as well.51 Their tale clearly draws on Hellenic legend. But Megasthenes accepts and transmits the Indian version that has Herakles native to their country, founder of their cities, and generator of their earliest dynasty. It is easy to dismiss this as an interpretatio Graeca, but that is to miss the point. The Greek historian does not impose Hellenic legendary figures to account for the origins of Indian civilization. Instead, he has the Indians usurp those figures, transform them into their own heroes, and assert their own priority. Megasthenes re-confirms that significance in his exposition on Indian philosophers. As we have seen, he reports that the philosophers are held in the highest esteem, in the first and most honoured caste. And he goes further in singling out the Brahmans as the philosophic elite of most distinguished repute. They receive intellectual nurture even in the womb, then are taught with great care by ever more distinguished mentors as they grow in years, leading lives of austerity and unwavering self-control – until they retire from this monk-like existence at the age of thirty-seven!52 The description here is of particularly piquant interest. Megasthenes does not

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Erich S. Gruen propound a simplistically idealized portrait of the ascetic philosopher. Once they reach thirty-seven, the Brahmans are free to enjoy their material possessions, acquire (in moderate fashion) luxury items like linen garments, gold rings, even earrings, eat meat – and marry as many wives as possible. This astonishing license is limited only by the requirement that the retired Brahmans speak no philosophy with their wives, lest the wives choose their own life of austerity and abandon their husbands! The account is almost parodic. Certainly it is not designed to advocate Brahmanism as an unalloyed utopian existence. Megasthenes, in fact, remarks quite strikingly that Brahman views on the natural world suggest a form of mental simplicity and that the caste is better at deeds than at words. They rely mainly on myths to convey their beliefs. And their myths largely overlap with those of the Greeks.53 This surprising statement deﬁes ready interpretation. Megasthenes asserts neither Indian priority nor Greek superiority. Elsewhere in the Indika, he offers a similarly noteworthy observation: that opinions about the natural world expressed by the ancients (i.e. the ancient Greeks) can also be found among philosophers outside Greece, like the Jews in Syria and the Brahmans in India.54 We are clearly not dealing here with a commission to establish the beneﬁts of Hellenism in the far east. Nor does the reverse hold: a mere construct of Indians by Megasthenes to diminish his fellow-Greeks by comparison. The idea of a cultural agenda is no more plausible than a political agenda. The author is more clear-eyed than he is often given credit for. The era ushered in by Alexander’s conquests provided incentive for energetic intellectual explorations of little-known peoples and places. Seleukos recognized this as well as Ptolemy did. The newly emerging Hellenistic courts found satisfaction in promoting those explorations and extending the horizon of learning beyond the boundaries of the Greek world.

3. Berossos The patronage could extend also to writers who themselves were non- Greeks. A priest of the great Babylonian god Bel Marduk turns up surprisingly in this context. Berossos, the intellectual from Babylon, composed a work in three books called Babyloniaka or Chaldaika, in Greek. That a history of one’s own land should be composed by a Babylonian in Greek is itself a matter of some signiﬁcance. Of Berossos the man and the writer we know next to nothing. He provides the information that he was born in the time of Alexander the Great, and that he published his book in the time of Antiochos I, i.e. in the early third century.55 His priesthood of Bel gave him access to archives and

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Hellenistic court patronage and the non-Greek world records that formed the basis for his composition of the Babyloniaka.56 The job also brought a deep acquaintance with Chaldean lore and science, and earned him a reputation as one with exceptional skills and knowledge of astronomy, leading to the establishment of his own school of that discipline at Kos.57 For some, he reached nearly legendary status, reportedly the father of a sibyl.58 Such scraps of biography largely exhaust our knowledge of the man. The Babyloniaka itself, insofar as we can judge from the bits and pieces still extant, was something of a hybrid.59 Berossos was steeped in Babylonian lore and conscientious about consulting priestly archives. At the same time he was not only conversant with the Greek language but familiar (to some extent) with Greek historiographical writing. The first book and part of the second, treating the creation tale, the chronicle of antediluvian rulers, and the Flood, fit the traditions of Near Eastern mythology, Sumerian legends, and the Enuma Elish, but plainly drew also on Babylonian records that included antediluvian monarchs in their king lists. The subsequent compilation of rulers and deeds through the Persian period relied heavily on information derived from the archives of his native land. The very concern with ancient records, combined with mythological stories, is symbolized by Berossos’ account of Xisuthros (his Noah figure) who buried tablets that contained all knowledge prior to the Flood so that they could be dug up again after the waters receded.60 The transmission of this fundamentally Mesopotamian material, however, had its own Hellenic frame. The autobiographical notice at the outset where Berossos identifies himself as a contemporary of Alexander is strictly Hellenic, as are the geographic and ethnographic descriptions that have no parallels in Near Eastern writings.61 Equally telling is Berossos’ resort to allegorical interpretation of traditional legends such as the god Bel cutting Tiamat in half to make the heavens and the earth.62 His use of Greek equivalents for Mesopotamian gods is noteworthy: so Kronos appears for Ea or Enki, Bel is equated with Zeus, Sandes with Herakles, and Anaites with Aphrodite.63 The purpose may have been in part to guide his Greek readers. But it also reflects an authentic blend of Babylonian tradition and Hellenic method.64 Why did a priest of Bel produce a history of Babylon in Greek? One item in the scraps of Berossos’ biography that survive deserves particular note. He published his work in the time of King Antiochos.65 Since he was born, we are told, during the reign of Alexander the Great, the king referred to must have been Antiochos I, son of Seleukos I, one of Alexander’s great marshals and founder of the Seleucid dynasty. This puts the publication of the book early in Antiochos’ reign which began in 281 or, possibly in the period of the joint reign of Seleukos and Antiochos between 293 and 281.66

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In short, Berossos worked in the same era as Hekataios and Megasthenes, the age of the Diadochoi. And the explicit mention of Antiochos suggests that Berossos like the others enjoyed royal backing and encouragement. It is unlikely that the Babylonian priest would have conceived and carried through this project (Berossos’ Greek was not strong or elegant) without the patronage of the court. What would have been the objective? Some have stressed Berossos’ nationalist aims. Since Babylon was now part of the Seleucid dominions, the patriotic priest felt the urgency to remind Antiochos of Babylon’s antiquity, traditions, and glorious history. He would thereby indirectly flatter the king by pointing out that his sway included the most ancient and accomplished of cities, the celebrated cradle of civilization.67 It is not, however, obvious that Antiochos needed such instruction. Alexander had shown great respect for Babylon and envisioned it as a major centre in his future plans, it had served as an important base of support for Seleukos in the wars of the Successors, and it retained the vitality of its ancient traditions and institutions.68 Indeed Antiochos himself was instrumental in promoting its rituals and refurbishing its temples.69 He did not require Berossos’ book to call it to his attention. Did Berossos then compose his work not to win over Antiochos to the cause of Babylon but to thank him for what he had already done and to encourage a continued regard for the city?70 It is not easy to imagine that the king, if indeed he took time to read the book closely, would find a lengthy recounting of Babylon’s legendary origins, the chronicle of its kings, the feats of its rulers, and its experience under Persian governance to be an edifying expression of thanks for his regard. Some scholars have taken this symbiotic relationship still further: Berossos did not so much seek to ingratiate himself with the king, as serve royal interests at the behest of the crown. Antiochos’ patronage enlisted the Babylonian priest in a propaganda war that responded to Hekataios’ comparable efforts on behalf of the Ptolemaic dynasty in Egypt. Just as Hekataios implicitly linked the Ptolemies to the revered heroes and kings of Pharaonic times, so Berossos presented the Seleucids as heirs to the great figures of Babylonian antiquity.71 The proposition presumes kingly directives carried out by an artistic agent of the court. Are we therefore to imagine a readership swayed by Hekataios’ Aigyptiaka who would then be re-educated by Berossos’ Babyloniaka and come to realize that the deeds of ancient Babylonian kings outstripped those of the Pharaohs or that Babylonian traditions could more than hold their own with Egyptians, thereby concluding that Seleucid rule was preferable to Ptolemaic? Where would such a readership be found and how likely is it that their sentiments

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Hellenistic court patronage and the non-Greek world would be tipped one way or the other by these learned treatises? The whole scenario of Berossos as royal pawn in a propaganda exchange needs to be abandoned. Should one then invert the scenario? Might Berossos’ work be a form of resistance or rejection of Hellenic infiltration, rather than an effort to solicit the support or advance the interests of the Seleucid regime?72 This reverse angle might have some appeal if there were any evidence for a culture clash between Mesopotamian traditions and Greek values. The fact that Berossos at one point critiques Greek historians for stating that the Assyrian queen Semiramis founded Babylon and was responsible for its marvels hardly counts as such evidence.73 Seleucid respect for the Babylonian past was consistently high. Berossos would not have much of a constituency for a piece of political or intellectual resistance. Once again it will be salutary to abandon the path of politics, propaganda, or persuasion. The conception of an extended study of Babylon in Greek may have come from Berossos or from the court but the aims in any case coincided. The author, sufficiently learned to produce a major work in a language other than his own, plainly looked to an audience beyond his countrymen. A serious study of Babylonian legends, traditions, and history would address the curiosity of Greeks dwelling in Seleucid centres of authority, including Babylon itself. It would allow the author to extol the great antiquity and the glorious achievements of his native land to the Greeks scattered in settlements throughout the Seleucid empire. How many of them actually read the book we cannot tell, and it matters little. Berossos had the satisfaction of spreading the glories of Babylon beyond the borders of Mesopotamia to those of another culture who could now appreciate and acknowledge them. The Seleucid king and court could take pride in promoting the project, not just as an exhibit of patronage but as a means of deepening their own comprehension of and connection to that ancient people now part of their empire whose roots and accomplishments stretched back to the hoary mists of antiquity. The age of the Diadochoi, when Hellenistic kingdoms took shape in distant lands, generated an atmosphere that stimulated investigation into exotic peoples and cultures. That stimulus brought both gratification and advantage to the Hellenistic court.

4. Manetho Another writer of some signiﬁcance ﬁts this pattern. The learned Egyptian Manetho of Sebennytos in the delta served as a priest in Heliopolis. He was plainly a man of parts, consulted by Ptolemy I in identifying the statue of a god brought to Alexandria as Sarapis.74 Whether or not this came in

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Erich S. Gruen conjunction with introducing the cult of Sarapis into Egypt, it is clear that Manetho had the ear of the king in religious matters. Like Berossos, the indigenous priest of Bel who produced a work on Babylon in Greek under the patronage of the Seleucids, so Manetho, the indigenous priest probably of Ra, produced a comparable work on Egypt in Greek with the backing of the Ptolemies. It may be no coincidence that the two authors are linked more than once in our sources. The Byzantine monk Syncellus rather nastily, but usefully for us, denounces both of them for claiming that a Babylonian and an Egyptian dynasty respectively existed prior to the Flood and for producing false chronologies each to glorify his own national legacy. His text also supplies the information that Berossos preceded Manetho and was imitated by him and that the two were close in time and probably overlapped.75 This appropriately suits the rest of our evidence that places each in the late fourth and early third century, the first generation or so of the Diadochoi.76 Encouragement of native intellectuals with access to priestly archives to turn their researches into volumes in Greek was common to both Seleucids and Ptolemies. Manetho earned high repute for his erudition. Josephus describes him as both a native Egyptian and one schooled in Greek paideia. That verdict is echoed elsewhere.77 Our sources provide titles of no fewer than eight different works to his credit, although some may be wrongly attributed or refer to parts of a book rather than a whole. The major product, however, was the Aegyptiaka, composed in three volumes. Its contents have survived only in part, and we do not know what proportion of the whole the surviving fragments constitute. The first book, it appears, like that of Berossos, reached back into the mythological past, beginning with the gods and demi-gods who stood at the dawn of Egyptian history or pseudo- history. The rest of the first book and the subsequent ones traced the rulers of Egypt from the first mortal kings through Nectanebos, the last native- born monarch, in the mid fourth century. The chronology alone, divided into thirty dynasties, became the standard framework for Egyptian history and endures today.78 The thoroughness and reliability of the Aegyptiaka remain in dispute. The fragments are too few to allow for a firm judgment. Josephus reports on Manetho’s own authority that he composed his work on the basis of sacred tablets and holy writings, evidently the priestly chronicles.79 There is no reason to question the claim. Manetho was a priest and would have temple archives available to him, a wealth of information contained not only in official records and sacred scrolls, but inscriptions, tablets, and papyri, as well as knowledgeable oral informants.80 The degree to which he made use of histories of Egypt composed by Greeks is a matter of

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Hellenistic court patronage and the non-Greek world conjecture. He was familiar enough with Herodotus to take pot shots at him.81 We even have reference to a work entitled Against Herodotus, which may be a separate treatise or, more probably, extracts from the Aegyptiaka.82 But that reflects standard churlishness toward predecessors rather than substantial dependence on their work. Whether Manetho also made use of Hekataios is less certain.83 Manetho in any case, fluent in Greek, also exhibits knowledge of Hellenic literature and myth, particularly Homer.84 The learned priest blended a Greek paideia with Egyptian records and his native legacy. What lay behind the enterprise that issued in the Aegyptiaka? For some, Manetho was an ardent Egyptian nationalist, a voice of the indigenous people seeking to establish an identity rooted in ancient history and superior to that of the sovereign power.85 That, of course, would make it difficult to account for the fact that Manetho composed his work in Greek. On a more nuanced interpretation, Manetho worked not at cross-purposes, but in parallel, with Ptolemaic interests. The court ushered in a policy that promoted an image linking the Ptolemies to the glories of the Pharaonic past, and Manetho’s work could advance that image with the Egyptian populace.86 But there is nothing in the surviving fragments that evokes the Ptolemies at all. And a composition in Greek would not easily seep into the consciousness of the native population. Does Manetho’s effort then reflect a competitive historiography, an Egyptian response to the Babylonian Berossos, a rivalry between the Ptolemaic and Seleucid dynasties, each seeking to establish the greater antiquity and accomplishments of his land?87 Some such conclusion may have been reached by Syncellus many centuries later. He issued a plague upon both houses denouncing both Berossos and Manetho for unduly exalting their nations and for giving them a greater antiquity than they merited.88 But even he does not claim that they were engaged in a polemic with one another. Indeed he supplies the information (however uncertain and unreliable it may be) that Manetho imitated Berossos.89 Nothing indicates or implies that they served as advocates of their respective Hellenistic kingdoms. On a more positive assessment, it has been maintained that Manetho as an Egyptian patriot aimed only at recovering the truth of his nation’s history and at correcting the errors perpetrated by Greek historians.90 That would be a worthy objective, no doubt. We know that he did take some pride in refuting Herodotus on various points of Egyptian history.91 Whether this accounts for the genesis and motivation of Manetho’s entire project, however, may be doubted. The fragments that survive cover very little ground in common with Herodotus. Manetho’s undertaking, no small

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Erich S. Gruen matter, cannot be reduced to petty quibbling about Herodotus’ mistakes on Egyptian matters. Did this work provide a kind of mirror for princes? Did Manetho intend to address Ptolemy, to remind him of the glories and longevity of Pharaonic yesteryear, to supply him with a model of proper governance and respect for native cult and an admonition regarding legitimate rule in the eyes of the priesthood and the populace?92 That hope might conceivably have formed part of the work’s projected effect. But Manetho can hardly have had Ptolemy alone in mind as potential reader. The king is unlikely to have ploughed through the density of the Aegyptiaka looking for lessons on how to administer his kingdom. Pragmatic motives need not be applicable here. The case for a cross- cultural polemic or an intellectual competition is weak, as are those for political collaboration with the court or the creation of a guide to proper royal behaviour. Manetho, like Berossos, laid out the story of his nation for Greek readers and for Egyptian intellectuals conversant with Greek as a proud exhibit of its qualities and accomplishments. The story, unlike previous ones in Greek, would be composed by an Egyptian with access to records, archives, and priestly memory, intended as an authoritative account of Egypt’s long and impressive past. The Ptolemaic court sponsored it not to advertise the regime, appease the priests, or promote a cultural amalgam. The work took its place as part of a broader phenomenon in the early Hellenistic Near East: court patronage for writers who could provide reliable narratives of ancient lands now under Hellenic sway, a means of gaining deeper understanding of the traditions, practices, and ethos of people whose world Greek conquerors and settlers had entered – and where they expected to stay.

5. Conclusion The phenomenon was doubtless more widespread than our scanty evidence can attest. Expansion of the Hellenic community into distant lands naturally sparked intellectual inquiry into the peoples encountered. And the hand of the court can readily be inferred. Two other instances offer brief glimpses. Demodamas of Miletos, a relatively obscure ﬁgure in this company, earned a substantial military reputation as a general of both Seleukos I and his son Antiochos I. He also advertised a connection with the royal family through decrees in his home town of Miletos honouring Seleukos, his wife Apame, and Antiochos for benefactions to the city and its sanctuary.93 His military exploits in Seleucid service included an expedition that brought Hellenic arms beyond the Jaxartes river in the far east. Storied and legendary ﬁgures had reached that distant site – Herakles,

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Dionysos, Cyrus, Semiramis, and Alexander himself – but none had gone further. Demodamas actually crossed the river, established a new boundary, and set up altars to his city’s deity, Apollo of Didyma, to mark the accomplishment.94 More pertinent for our purposes, he wrote on this subject, describing the Sogdianians and, no doubt, other peoples of the region. The connection between close association with the crown and close investigation of foreign peoples recurs here again. That information comes only from a stray notice in Pliny the Elder, a vivid example of how much more we must have lost. One other example involves a historian of far greater stature. Hieronymos of Kardia was an intimate in turn of two of Alexander’s Successors, first Eumenes of Kardia, his own region, with a family tie, then Antigonos Monophthalmos, perhaps the greatest of the Diadochoi. He engaged in the service of three generations of the Antigonids, Monophthalmos, Demetrios Poliorketes, and Antigonos Gonatas. And he became the preeminent historian of the age of the Successors. His work, though largely lost, lies behind our main narrative in Diodorus of Sicily, made his reputation, and was never superseded.95 Less well known, however, is the fact that Hieronymos, for the purposes of his history, conducted research into foreign lands and peoples, and included them, at least as excursuses, in his account of the wars of the Diadochoi. Diodorus preserves Hieronymos’ relatively detailed ethnographic digression on the Nabataean Arabs, the first time that people enters into our literary record.96 Once again, the era of diadochic expansion and royal patronage served to promote intellectual forays into foreign nations. Finally and most briefly, the combination of royal favour and probing into the cultures of the alien may shed unexpected light on a very different but far more celebrated episode: the translation of the Hebrew Bible into Greek. Our earliest testimony on that event comes in the so-called Letter of Aristeas, composed by a Hellenized Jew probably in the mid second century BC, but set in the court of Ptolemy II Philadelphos. The famous tale need not be recounted here. In brief, it depicts the king as initiator and patron of this enterprise, generous, respectful, and admiring of the Jews. Under his sponsorship, Jewish sages were brought from Jerusalem to Alexandria, were warmly welcomed, hosted lavishly by Ptolemy, and provided with the facilities to carry out their task. The completed translation evoked considerable gratitude from the Alexandrian Jews who had, for the most part, lost their Hebrew, but also from the king who could now place a copy of the Scriptures in Greek in the great Library of Alexandria. The narrative, entertaining and often amusing, is widely acknowledged as fictitious, at least predominantly so.97 Whether such an

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Erich S. Gruen event ever occurred in the court of Ptolemy, however, matters little for our purposes. The fact that the author could concoct such a scenario is what counts. It suggests that an episode of this sort would possess a fundamental plausibility to his audience. The idea of a Hellenistic court providing patronage to an intellectual enterprise that brought the traditions of a non-Greek people to the consciousness of a Greek readership would not have been surprising or unusual. In the context of our discussion of Hekataios, Megasthenes, Berossos, Manetho and others, it makes perfect sense – even if it never happened. This practice did not constitute bringing Hellenism to the alien. Rather it brought alien wisdom to the Hellenic world.

Notes 1 Weber 1992, 67–70. 2 Strootman 2007, 202–16; idem 2010, 30–45; idem 2014, 159–164. 3 This essay was composed prior to the appearance of John Dillery’s new and much fuller study of the subject. Space does not allow any serious engagement with his book. Several footnotes, however, will direct readers to Dillery’s important discussions of various relevant matters. 4 Diod. Sic. 1.46.8. 5 Joseph. Ap. 1.183: Ἀλεξάνδρῳ τῷ βασιλεῖ συνκαµάσας καὶ Πτολεµαίῳ τῷ Λάγου συγγενόµενος; Diod. Sic. 1.46.8; Suda, p. 417 (West). 6 For discussion of the dates, see Murray 1970, 142–4, and 1972, Bar-Kochva 1996, 15–16. Burstein 1992, 46, goes beyond the evidence in claiming that Hekataios served Ptolemy as a diplomat. Similarly, Bar-Kochva 1996, 7–8. 7 The exact title is not certain; probably τὰ Αἰγυπτιακά or περὶ τῶν Αἰγυπτίων. Cf. Bar- Kochva 1996, 9. 8 The classic discussions are those of Schwartz 1885, 223–62; cf. Schwartz 1903, 669–72, and Jacoby 1912, 2750–69, who go too far in seeing Diodorus as essentially reproducing Hekataios. See Murray 1970, 144–52; Burton 1972, 1–34; Drews 1973, 123–32; Sterling 1992, 61–4; Dillery 2015, 23–5. 9 Even criticisms of Herodotus show that he read him; Diod. Sic. 1.69.7. See the careful comparisons of Herodotus’ text with the material in Diodorus’ ﬁrst book by Sterling 1992, 64–73; cf. Burstein 1992. The idea that Hekataios employed not Herodotus but an unknown source who drew on Herodotus inserts an unnecessary and implausible form of Quellenforschung. 10 For a convenient summary and outline, see Murray 1970, 146. 11 Diod. Sic. 1.10.1. 12 Diod. Sic. 1.17.3, 1.18.1, 1.20.2. 13 Diod. Sic. 1.19.1–3. Cf. Burton 1972, 11–12. 14 Diod. Sic. 1.69.5–6. See also Diod. Sic. 1.50.1–2, on the Thebans. 15 Diod. Sic. 1.69.2, 1.71.1–5, 1.72.1–6, 1.73.5–6, 1.75.1–3, 1.77.5, 1.77.9, 1.79.3–4. 16 Diod. Sic. 1.28.1–2. 17 Diod. Sic. 1.28.4–1.29.4.

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18 Diod. Sic. 1.29.5–6. 19 Diod. Sic. 1.69.4, 1.79.4, 1.96–98. 20 Diod. Sic. 1.61.1–4, 1.97.5. One might notice also the snide remark that Egyptian belief in Isis’ healing powers is based on observable facts rather than mythic stories like those of the Greeks; Diod. Sic. 1.25.4. But this is almost certainly Diodorus’ comment, not that of Hekataios, since he cites as witness the spread of Isis’ cult through nearly the whole inhabited world. That spread had not yet come in the time of Hekataios. 21 Hdt. 2.102–110, Diod. 1.53–58. Cf. Sterling 1992, 66. 22 Diod. 1.55.3–4. Cf. Murray 1970, 162–4. 23 Welles 1949, 39–44. See also Fraser 1972, 497, 721, n. 18, who questions the ‘command performance’ but is otherwise sympathetic to the hypothesis. 24 Bar-Kochva 1996, 16–17. 25 Murray 1970, 166. 26 Sterling 1992, 73–5. 27 Diod. Sic. 1.70.1–4, 1.71.1. 28 Diod. Sic. 1.70.5–8. 29 Diod. Sic. 1.72.5–6. 30 Such is the view of Schwartz 1885, 260–2. 31 The most extensive study of Megasthenes is that of Zambrini 1982 and 1985. He offers a thorough review of prior scholarship at 1982, 73–102. Cf. also Karttunen 1997, 69–93. 32 Hdt. 3.98–106. Many of the surviving fragments of Ktesias come from Photius, Bibl. 72, p. 45a21–46a37, 46b25–47b4. See also Diod. Sic. 2.35–42; Strabo, 15.1.35–60; Arrian, Ind. 3–15. They form the basis of Jacoby’s collection in FGrH IIIC, no. 715 (pp. 603–39). 33 The evidence is not clear on this; see Aelian, NA 16.31; Paus. 9.21.4; Photius, Bibl. 72, p. 45a20. On Ktesias generally, see the ﬁne introduction by Llewellyn-Jones and Robson 2010, 1–87; see also Parker 2008, 28–33. 34 Strabo, 2.1.9. Cf. 15.1.37, 15.1.44, 15.1.56–7; Arrian, Ind. 15.5–7; other references and discussion of Megasthenes’ reliability in Brown 1955, 27–33. 35 Arrian, Anab. 5.6.2. On Sibyrtios, see Billows 1990, 432–3. 36 Clem. Alex. Strom. 1.15.72.5. 37 Strabo, 2.1.9, 15.1.36. 38 Arrian, Anab. 5.6.2: πολλάκις δἐ λέγει ἀφικέσθαι παρὰ Σανδράκοττον τὸν Ἰνδῶν βασιλέα. That passage should not be rendered, as it often is, to mean that Megasthenes made frequent trips to Sandrokottos. So, rightly, Bosworth 1996, 117. See also Arrian, Ind. 5.3. 39 Arrian, Ind. 5.3: συγγένεσθαι γὰρ Σανδροκόττῳ λέγει. 40 Strabo, 15.2.9. 41 Bosworth 1996, 113–27, argues that the mission came under Sibyrtios, between 320 and 318, an intriguing but highly speculative suggestion. Cf. Brown 1957, 12–13. Even if right, however, this would not preclude a subsequent trip in the time of Seleukos. Cf. Bar-Kochva 2010, 139–41. And it is unlikely that Sibyrtios would have been in a position to sponsor the writings of Megasthenes. 42 Murray 1970, 166; 1972, 208; Zambrini 1985, 785–97; cf. Sterling 1992, 101. 43 Bosworth 1996, 123–4, and Bar-Kochva 2010, 141–2, are properly sceptical.

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44 See, especially, Diod. Sic. 2.35–42; Strabo, 15.35–60; Arrian, Ind. 1–17. On the structure and content of the work generally, see Zambrini 1985, 797–853. Sterling 1992, 93–5, supplies a useful juxtaposition of passages. Cf. the balanced judgment of Megasthenes’ trustworthiness by Brown 1957, 12–24. Bar-Kochva 1996, 200–5, also attempts a summary of the supposed contents of the work. 45 Diod. Sic. 2.36, 2.38. Cf. Strabo, 15.1.6; Arrian, Ind. 5.4–5, 9.12. 46 Diod. Sic. 2.40–1; Strabo, 15.1.39–41, 15.1.46–9; Arrian, Ind. 11.1–12.9. On the caste system in Megasthenes’ account, which owes something to Greek conceptual- ization, see Zambrini 1985, 797–817. 47 Strabo, 15.1.53. 48 Strabo, 15.1.54. 49 Strabo, 15.1.47–48. 50 Diod. Sic. 2.38.3–6; Arrian, Ind. 7.4–8.3. 51 Diod. Sic. 2.39.1–4; Arrian, Ind. 8.4–9.8. 52 Strabo, 15.1.59. 53 Strabo, 15.1.59. 54 Clem. Alex. Strom. 1.15.72.5. 55 Clem. Alex. Strom.1.122.1; Euseb. PE, 10.11.8–9; Syncellus, 25–27. 56 Syncellus, 25. 57 Vitruvius, 9.2.1, 9.6.2; Pliny, HN 7.123; Joseph. CAp. 1.129. 58 Paus. 10.12.9; Pseudo-Justin, Ad Gentes, 37; Suda, s.v. Delphic Sibyl. 59 The fragments of the work are collected by Jacoby as FrGH IIIc, no. 680 (pp. 364–97). Convenient translations by Burstein 1978, 13–30; Verbrugghe and Wickersham 1996, 43–67. For reconstructions of the contents, see Burstein 1978, 6–8; Kuhrt 1987, 33–6, 44–8; Sterling 1992, 108–13; Verbrugghe and Wickersham 1996, 15–27; Dillery 2007, 222. See now the extended analysis by Dillery 2015, 220–300, a vital contribution for any further work on the topic. The authenticity of the fragments on astronomy and astrology is accepted by most scholars, but seriously questioned by Kuhrt 1987, 36– 44. See the strong arguments for authenticity by Dillery 2015, 240–53. 60 Syncellus, 53–5. On the Mesopotamian sources of Berossos’ work, see Komoróczy 1973, 125–52; Drews 1975, 39–55; Kuhrt 1987, 46; Sterling 1992, 111–12; Verbrugghe and Wickersham 1996, 15–24; Dillery 2007, 223; idem 2015, 58–73, 220–240. 61 Syncellus, 50. 62 Syncellus, 52–3. 63 Agathias, Hist. 2.4; Syncellus, 534. 64 On the Greek elements in the book, see Kuhrt 1987, 47–8; Sterling 1992, 113–15; Verbrugghe and Wickersham 1996, 25–26; Dillery 2007, 224; idem 2015, 73–84, 267–300, who sees a successful blend of the Mesopotamian and the Hellenic inﬂuences. 65 Clem. Alex. Strom. 1.122.1; Euseb. Praep. Evang. 10.11.8–9. 66 Clem. Alex. Strom. 1.122.1; Euseb. PE, 10.11.8–9. 67 Sterling 1992, 116. 68 Sherwin-White 1987, 14–21. 69 Kuhrt 1987, 48–52. 70 The possibility is canvassed by Kuhrt 1987, 54–5, with some sympathy, but ultimately rejected. 71 Murray 1970, 166; Kuhrt 1987, 55–6. Kuhrt even proposes that Berossos’ highly

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Hellenistic court patronage and the non-Greek world favourable portrayal of Nabopolassar and his son Nebuchadnezzar was designed to preﬁgure the activities of Seleukos and Antiochos, a real stretch. Cf. also Dillery 2007, 224; idem 2015, 290–93. 72 Oelsner 1978, 113–14. 73 Joseph. Ap. 1.142. 74 Plut. Isis and Osiris, 361F–362A. 75 Syncellus, 27, 29–30; cf. Joseph. AJ 1.107; Tertullian, Apol. 19.5–6; Malalas, Chron. 59. For a critical assessment of Syncellus’ testimony, see Moyer 2013, 209–16. 76 On the few and ambiguous bits of information on Manetho’s life and career, see Waddell 1940, ix–xiv; Fraser 1972, 505–6; Sterling 1992, 117–19; Verbrugghe and Wickersham 1996, 95–7; Moyer 2011, 85–8. Moyer 2013, 208–9, puts Manetho’s work in the time of Ptolemy II. See now Dillery 2015, viii–ix, 161–162. 77 Joseph. Ap. 173: Μανέθως δ’ ἠν τὸ γένος Αἰγύπτιος, ἀνὴρ τῆς Ἑλληνικῆς µετεσχηκὼς παιδείας. See also Aelian, NA. 10.16; Syncellus, 97. 78 Redford 1986, 203–332. Reconstructions of the complex textual tradition may be found in Laqueur 1928, 1061–101; Waddell 1940, xv–xx; Fraser 1972, 506–10; Sterling 1992, 119–26; Verbrugghe and Wickersham 1996, 97–102; Moyer 2011, 92–5. On Manetho’s weaving together of king-list structure and narrative, see Moyer 2011, 103–40; Dillery 2015, xi–xii. The vexed question of Manetho’s supposed hostility to Jews and inversion of the Exodus story and where the boundary lies in Josephus’ report between the authentic text of Manetho and that of a spurious Manetho has received extensive discussion. It needs no recapitulation here. See the treatment, with bibliographical references, in Gruen 1998, 55–65. The controversy is usefully summed up by Barclay 2007, 335–7, with additional bibliography. See now Dillery 2015, 315–42. 79 Joseph. Ap. 1.73, 1.104–105, 1.228. 80 On the probable Egyptian sources of Manetho, see Laqueur 1928, 1091–9; Waddell 1940, xx–xxiv; Redford 1986, 206–29; Verbrugghe and Wickersham 1996, 103–7; Moyer 2011, 125–40. 81 Joseph. Ap. 1.73; Syncellus, 105. 82 Eustathius, Comm. Ad Hom. Il. 11.480. 83 Murray 1970, 167–8, assumes it unquestioningly. Armayor 1985, 7–11, has Manetho depend exclusively on Greek historians of Egypt, an excessive and wholly implausible conclusion. Sterling 1992, 128–32, usefully sets parallel passages of the three historians side by side, but his conclusion that Manetho’s version is merely a condensed recapitulation of Hekataios is excessive. By contrast, the view of Mendels 1990, 93–4, 97, 108, goes too far in the other direction, denying that Manetho owed anything to prior Greek accounts. Similarly, Redford 1986, 206–29. Moyer 2011, 96–125, stresses the Egyptian background. Dillery 1999, 97–109, takes a more moderate line that sees echoes of Greek writings in Manetho but a deeper Egyptian textual tradition. 84 Verbrugghe and Wickersham 1996, 107–8. 85 Eddy 1961, 295. 86 Mendels 1990, 93–108. 87 Waddell 1940, x; Sterling 1992, 133–4; Verbrugghe and Wickersham 1996, 115. 88 Syncellus, 27, 30. 89 Syncellus, 29. Moyer 2013, 207–216, questions the reliability of Syncellus on the relationship of Berossos and Manetho.

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90 Verbrugghe and Wickersham 1996, 119. Cf. Barclay 2007, 52. 91 Joseph. Ap. 1.73; Syncellus, 105. 92 Dillery 1999, 111–12; idem 2007, 227–9; idem 2015, 217–19; Moyer 2011, 140–1. 93 I.Didyma, 479–80. 94 Pliny, HN, 6.49. See Sherwin-White and Kuhrt 1993, 25–7; Dillery 2015, 28–30; cf. Holt 1999, 27. 95 On Hieronymos generally, see the excellent study of Hornblower 1981, passim. See also the succinct but valuable remarks of Billows 1990, 329–33. 96 Diod. 19.94.2–19.95.1; Hornblower 1981, 144–53; Bosworth 2002, 187–209. 97 The recent discussion by Rajak 2009, 24–63, makes a good case for elements of historicity or at least historical echoes in the myth, but even she acknowledges that the tale as we have it is largely an invention. On the amusing aspects, see Gruen 1998, 206–22, and 2008, 134–56, with bibliography. Additional bibliography can be found in Rajak 2009, loc. cit.

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Parker, G. 2008 The Making of Roman India, Cambridge. Rajak, T. 2009 Translation and Survival: The Greek Bible of the ancient Jewish diaspora, Oxford. Redford, D. B. 1986 Pharaonic King Lists, Annals and Day Books: A contribution to the study of the Egyptian sense of history, Mississauga, Ontario. Schwartz, E. 1885 ‘Hekataios von Teos’, Rheinisches Museum für Philologie 40, 223–62. 1903 ‘Diodoros’, Realencyclopädie der classischen Altertumswissenschaft 5.1, 669–72. Sherwin-White, S. 1987 ‘Seleucid Babylonia: a case study for the installation and development of Greek rule’, in A. Kuhrt and S. Sherwin-White (eds), Hellenism in the East, Berkeley, 1–31. Sherwin-White, S. and Kuhrt, A. 1993 From Samarkhand to Sardis: A new approach to the Seleucid Empire, Berkeley. Sterling, G. E. 1992 Historiography and Self-Deﬁnition: Josephos, Luke-Acts and apologetic historiography, Leiden. Strootman, R. 2007 ‘The Hellenistic Royal Court Culture, Ceremonial, and Ideology in Greece, Egypt, and the Near East’, Diss. Utrecht. 2010 ‘Literature and the kings’, in J. J. Clauss and M. Cuypers (eds), A Companion to Hellenistic Literature, Oxford, 30–45. 2014 Courts and Elites in the Hellenistic Empires, Edinburgh. Verbrugghe, G. P. and Wickersham, J. M. 1996 Berossos and Manetho: Native traditions in ancient Mesopotamia and Egypt, Ann Arbor. Waddell, W. G. 1940 Manetho, Cambridge, Mass. Weber, G. 1992 ‘Poesie und Poeten an den Höfen vorhellenistischer Monarchen’, Klio 74, 25–77. Welles, C. B. 1949 ‘The Ptolemaic administration in Egypt’, Journal of Juristic Papyrology 3, 39–44. Zambrini, A. 1982 and 1985 ‘Gli Ἰνδικά di Megasthene’, Annali della Scuola normale superiore di Pisa 12, 71–149; and 15, 781–853.

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BITHYNIAANDCAPPADOCIA: ROYALCOURTSANDRULINGSOCIETYINTHE MINORHELLENISTICMONARCHIES

Oleg Gabelko

1. The minor monarchies and the direction of modern scholarship As an integral part of the make-up of the Hellenistic monarchies, the royal court was a focused reflection of those features of state power inherent in each of those kingdoms. Its structure and functioning reveal both characteristics that were common to all Hellenistic states as well as distinctive peculiarities caused by geographic, ethno-political, cultural, religious, and other factors. However, apart from very rare exceptions, the scholarly literature has almost always concentrated on Alexander’s empire, the Successors’ states and the three major Hellenistic monarchies ruled by the Antigonid, Seleucid and Ptolemaic dynasties.1 At the same time, the minor Hellenistic monarchies in Anatolia have tended to be unjustifiably neglected as a brief review of modern scholarship illustrates. First of all, there is the superficial fact that Bithynia, Pontos and Cappadocia, along with Parthia and some other states, were not subdued by the Macedonians; or if they were, it was only for a short time. They arose as independent kingdoms as a result of military resistance against the Successors and were led by members of a hereditary Anatolian aristocracy who actively but selectively borrowed elements of Greek culture and Macedonian statehood.2 This must have a priori affected relations between the local and Greco-Macedonian population, the number and status of Greek poleis and, consequently, the structure of the ruling society and royal courts in those kingdoms. Since Theodore Reinach in the late nineteenth century, historiography has paid considerable attention to ‘the Oriental element’ in the structure of the royal court and politics of the kingdom of Pontos: the court harem and eunuchs, the practice of naming the king’s progeny, composition of the body of ‘friends’, Achaemenid genealogy and titulature, Persian and Anatolian dynastic symbols, etc.3 This is especially true for the reign of Mithridates VI Eupator of Pontos, historically the most significant period

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Oleg Gabelko of rule and the one richest in literary evidence. In recent years in particular, many specialists have addressed these issues, so in relation to Pontos the subject may be considered heavily studied.4 However, the cases of Bithynia and Cappadocia are quite different, even though both kingdoms have, since Reinach, frequently been viewed as elements composing, together with Pontos, a certain unity (an apparent geographical unity first of all).5 Curiously enough, in works on general subjects there appear side-by-side two definitions of Asia Minor’s monarchies: either they are qualified as ‘barbarian’ or ‘semi-barbarian’ states,6 or, on the contrary, the authors stress the close resemblance between the Anatolian kingdoms and the major Hellenistic states, especially in respect of the main features of political and socio-economic development.7 This dichotomy, however, is largely imaginary, a result of insufficient attention being paid to the fact that, although originally ‘semi-barbarian’, the states of Asia Minor evolved gradually in the same direction as other Hellenistic states. This naturally leads to the necessity of studying the ways and means by which that evolution occurred, and this is what the present chapter aims to do. Another basis, on which Anatolian monarchies may be treated as typologically close to each other, is their assignment to ‘second-rank’ Hellenistic states,8 although there is no doubt that the genetic links between Pontos and Cappadocia caused by their shared Iranian and Achaemenid heritage within this unity were much stronger than their ties with Bithynia.9 Until not long ago the history of the Bithynian and Cappadocian monarchies had been insufficiently studied, which may be viewed as a kind of historiographic paradox. In modern classical studies there have been only two books dedicated especially to the history of the Bithynian kingdom, one sixty years ago by the Italian scholar Giovanni Vitucci and the other by the present author.10 For Hellenistic Cappadocia there is no monograph at all. There are reasons for this, not least the state of the sources. The history of these areas of Asia Minor during the Hellenistic period is very scantily reflected in both the works of ancient historians and the epigraphic evidence (the numismatic material is somewhat better, as Reinach has already demonstrated).11 As a result, the Bithynian and the Cappadocian kingdoms are overshadowed by their neighbours in Asia Minor, Pergamon and Pontos, to say nothing of the major Hellenistic states. At the same time, the history of the Roman provinces, which came to replace these monarchies, is far better attested and attracts more attention on the part of researchers; this is why the Hellenistic period is often treated as no more than a kind of ‘introduction’ to the Roman epoch. If the Cappadocian and the Bithynian kingdoms do become objects of dedicated research (as the ‘predecessors’ of the Roman provinces), it is, as

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Bithynia and Cappadocia a rule, conducted in a purely empirical manner and attempts at conceptual generalization are still very rare.12 Finally, one might witness a kind of ‘inertia’ in the development of historiography, which is chiefly oriented towards further elaboration of well-researched subjects, to the detriment of other, less popular ones. The situation changed significantly when in 2009 there appeared a sound book by a German researcher Christoph Michels, dedicated to three kingdoms of Asia Minor: Bithynia, Pontos, and Cappadocia.13 Undoubtedly, this monograph must be appreciated as a serious breakthrough in the study of Hellenistic Asia Minor. However, written in quite a traditional manner and essentially following the scheme that was, brilliantly implemented in Elias Bikerman’s study of the Seleucid state,14 the book gives a full and clear idea only of the state institutions of the three monarchies in Asia Minor, not of their historical development. It appears even more important that Michels speaks chiefly of the Hellenization of the royal courts and societies of those kingdoms and of the matrimonial, dynastic, and philhellenic policy of their royal houses.15 As a result, the specifically local character of the Anatolian monarchies is, in my opinion, again overlooked to a considerable degree. The main purpose of my work is quite different. I aim to identify those elements of the court societies of Bithynia and Cappadocia that are purely local and which are therefore largely independent of Greek and Macedonian ethno-social structures and political and cultural traditions. An analytical study of such elements will enable us to recognise the peculiarities of the structure of monarchic power in these two states and may help us to study and explain a number of crucial events in their dynastic and political history. It should be noted that direct literary evidence for the everyday life and functioning of the royal courts in Cappadocia and Bithynia is very limited and consequently it is most fruitfully analysed in the context of our understanding of the structure of their ruling society more broadly.

2. Two royal houses: differences and similarities If we start with an analysis of the nature of the court society’s ‘core’ in Bithynia and Cappadocia, i.e. the dynasty itself, its origin, the monarchical ﬁgure and his close relations, then the existence of local roots is beyond doubt. In the genealogy of Bithynian kings cited by Memnon of Herakleia the dynasty’s origins go at least as deep as the second half of the ﬁfth century.16 All the early representatives of the dynasty have non-Greek (evidently original Bithynian) names, such as Doidalsos, Boteiros, Bas, Zipoites; Memnon also contains rather accurate chronologies of their ages

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Oleg Gabelko and length of rule.17 The sole royal male name of Hellenic origin to gain a foothold in the Bithynian ruling house was Nikomedes (for the exception of Sokrates, see n. 22). Its appearance, according to Glew’s interesting, though not fully proved, hypothesis, had resulted from the supposed xenic relations between the first Bithynian king Zipoites and a noble man from the Island of Kos named Nikomedes, son of Aristander who had served under Antigonos Monophthalmos.18 This is very likely the first example of Greek cultural standards adopted by the Bithynian ruling house, but, later, names of local origin prevail in the dynasty again: Ziaelas, Prusias, and probably Mukaporis.19 The wives of the first members of the dynasty whose names we know (more specifically, only those of Nikomedes I) also had non-Greek names: Ditizela20 and Etazeta.21 Based on the fragmentary literary reports, there may have existed official or unofficial concubinage at the Bithynian court at least in the final period of the dynasty’s existence.22 The peculiarity of the political and legal status of the Ariarathid royal house in Cappadocia was that, being of Persian origin, they were foreigners to the native population of Cappadocia, which should always be taken into account when analyzing the Cappadocian kings’ internal and external policies and the propaganda employed by them.23 Diodorus, in his narrative of the Cappadocian dynasty, gives a multi-generational and detailed genealogy of the Ariarathids, the main features of which may be identified as follows: 1) an effort to emphasize the family’s ancient Persian origin and kinship with the Achaemenids, for which purpose the writer employs Iranian ‘heroic’ traditions (as in Polybius’ fragment about the origin of the Cappadocian kings’ rule); 2) a parallel wish to prove that the rulers in Cappadocia were indigenous and did not act in the capacity of Achaemenid satraps, but from the very beginning were almost independent kings.24 Apparently, this version was created in the reign of Ariarathes V as he is depicted by Diodorus in exceptionally flattering colours.25 Although there is no doubt that the genealogy is a sham (especially its earlier stages), it seems that these examples enable us to state with much confidence that the Bithynian and Cappadocian rulers had court historiographers who also performed propagandistic functions.26 As these ‘minor monarchies’ developed militarily and politically, it became necessary for them to find other ways of legitimising their power. Of great importance here were the marriages that took place between the members of the Seleucid dynasty and the royal houses of Cappadocia and Pontos and, to a certain degree, Bithynia. Two points deserve particular attention. Firstly, these marriage alliances were a very serious concession on the part of the Seleucids to ‘minor dynasties’: the marriage of the successor to the Cappadocian throne, the future Ariarathes III, to the sister

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(wrongly considered by scholars to be the daughter) of Antiochos II Theos (ca 260 BC) was the first of its kind where a female descendant of the Macedonian royal line was married without compulsion to a member of the barbarian political elite.27 Earlier, Lysimachos who was held captive by Dromichaites, king of the Getai, was forced, as Pausanias stresses, to marry his daughter to the king.28 Thus, the Macedonian rulers of Asia showed de facto that they recognized the status of the Anatolian aristocracy as nearly equal to their own.29 Secondly, the Asian rulers appreciated this step at its true value, which, in my opinion, is confirmed by Georgios Syncellus, the Byzantine chronicler. Syncellus, apparently relying on a trustworthy tradition, gives the numerical lengths of the three Anatolian dynasties, figures that at the first sight appear to be quite obscure. But detailed analysis demonstrates that this ‘reckoning of the regnal years’, which was by no means identified as a royal era in the strict sense, takes its beginning from the moment that their matrimonial links were established with the Seleucids.30

3. The nobility Besides marital and dynastic politics, an important feature of any Hellenistic court society was an ability to overcome very numerous dynastic crises typical of that period. Once again, Bithynia and Cappadocia appear to have had something in common, which distinguished them from the majority of Hellenistic monarchies. Analysis of literary reports (those by Memnon in the first place) allows us to speak with much confidence of the existence of a thick stratum of local aristocracy in Bithynia commonly referred to as simply hoi Bithynoi, which in crucial times exerted their influence (which must have rested on a certain institutional foundation) upon the state of affairs in the country. As an example, evidently not by accident, Zipoites II, Nikomedes I’s younger brother and enemy in the civil war of the 270s, is described by Memnon as Zipoites ho Bithynos:31 apparently, he tried to oppose his philhellenic brother by appealing to traditional Bithynian institutions and identity.32 Undoubtedly, the most vivid examples of the Bithynians’ activity in the arena of domestic and even foreign politics are the events of the civil war of 250s, when, after the death of Nikomedes I, they attempted to resolve the dynastic crisis by organizing the marriage of the king’s widow to his brother, and later formed a resistance movement against the usurper Ziaelas, the late king’s son from his first marriage.33 This is probably the very period to which we should date the inscription from Kallatis which, according to Vinogradov’s restoration, speaks of a Bithynian embassy sent to a certain king where the Bithynoi acted as an independent political force.34

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Finally, the official power to rule the country in the time of its occupation by Mithridates VI Eupator during the first war against Rome may have been delegated by the Pontic king to no one individual but to members of the highest Bithynian nobility, as it is shown by the wording of the Treaty of Dardanos cited by Memnon, where Bithynoi are also mentioned.35 In this context, one should also understand the title Basileus Bithyno¯n evidenced in Ziaelas’ letter to the people of Kos and, probably, restored also in the letter of Nikomedes IV(?) to the citizens of Aphrodisias: both letters contain the titulature of the ‘legitimate’ king, who had united the country under his rule after periods of internal disturbance, and thus assumed to a certain degree the powers of ‘Bithynians’.36 In Cappadocia we can also find traces of certain powers held by the local aristocracy; let us list the instances of the exercise of those powers in chronological order. According to Strabo, after the victory over Antiochos III, the Romans concluded treaties and alliances with nations and kings and all of the kings were personally and exclusively afforded that honour with the exception of the king of Cappadocia, who was honoured together with his people (ethnos).37 Most probably, it is the Cappadocian nobility that the ‘people’ should be understood to mean.38 Next, the dramatic situation that had emerged in the country after the widow of Ariarathes V had killed five of her six sons was, as narrated by Justin, resolved by means of intervention by the Cappadocians: the latter murdered the cruel queen and enthroned the sole survivor of her children under the name of Ariarathes VI.39 Finally, following the death of the last representatives of the Ariarathid line, the Roman Senate granted Cappadocia ‘liberty’, which the Cappadocians declined. After that, the country held a vote to elect a new king. As a result, rule over the country was passed to Ariobarzanes, who became the founder of a new dynasty.40 In the assessment of these episodes one can hardly agree completely with Ballesteros Pastor who believes that, in contrast to the Pontic kingdom where the appointment of a successor was the king’s exceptional prerogative, in Cappadocia a candidate for the throne was to be approved by the people.41 The above examples do not provide a basis for stating that such an arrangement was customary; most likely, the Iranian and Cappadocian nobility interfered in the course of dynastic crises only in truly critical situations (this, perhaps, rested on some formal procedures). In addition to that, the nobility had certain ‘rights of representation’ in interstate affairs, which were not at all connected with approving a new monarch. A reason for the existence of certain powers held by the local nobility in Bithynia and Cappadocia should probably be looked for not in their common roots, but in the similarity of their statuses in the court societies of both

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Bithynia and Cappadocia dynasties which from their very beginning had ‘national’ (i.e. more traditionalistic) rather than ‘personal’ origins. It seems permissible to draw an analogy to the powers of the Paphlagonians in running the state42 and even to the probable existence in Macedonia, alongside the monarchical power, of certain state-governing organs associated with the traditional aristocratic institutions.43 In the case of Cappadocia we must not altogether discard the influence of the Achaemenid concept of the ‘people-army’ (kara¯) clearly expressed, specifically, in the Bisutun Inscription, where it occurs over fifty times.44 However, in these states there were also other political and legal mechanisms to settle internal crises, which have not yet attracted due attention on the part of researchers. It is fairly certain that these means had local ethnic roots: Thracian in Bithynia and Iranian in Cappadocia.

4. Stability and instability One may observe a very peculiar mode that existed in Bithynia and that served to alleviate dynastic strife and its consequences. In the course of such dramatic events, the country would have been divided into several semi-independent domains according to the number of dynasty members aspiring to central authority (sometimes even more than two). This may be viewed as analogous to the paradynastai that existed in Thrace, a traditional institution that assumes the division of the territory into several parts under the authority of the different members of the royal house.45 Three events of the kind may be traced in Bithynia’s history, and it is unlikely to be a coincidence that they were connected with those same cases in which it was necessary to exercise the powers of the Bithynoi (on whom see the beginning of the previous section). The ﬁrst of these events was the war against Nikomedes I that was fought by his brother Zipoites ‘Bithynos’ who held the area of Bithynia known as Thynian Thrace. This need not suggest that Zipoites had usurped power in that area, as he might have had a legitimate right to it. The second event was the civil war between Nikomedes I’s sons from his two marriages that ended, as Memnon records, ‘by agreements’, which appeared advantageous to Ziaelas’ enemies, the Herakleians.46 So, it is unlikely that Ziaelas would have immediately become the ruler of the whole of Bithynia, as most scholars believe. Evidently, part of the country was under the rule of his stepbrother Zipoites III, who unexpectedly resumed his claims to the throne about thirty years later.47 Dionysios of Byzantion’s reference to a Bithynian ‘king’ named Moukaporis is probably best understood in the context of one of these episodes: he could be a brother of either Nikomedes or Ziaelas.48 We know that both these kings had more than one brother, each of whom might have laid a claim to his own domain in

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Oleg Gabelko a situation of fierce dynastic disturbances under respective circumstances. Finally, the conflict that resulted in the division of the country between the last Bithynian king Nikomedes IV Philopator and his stepbrother Sokrates in 93/92–89/88 has reliable enough numismatic evidence: during that time two series of tetradrachms were struck with different royal portraits minted in various Bithynian cities.49 The Cappadocian kings, as far as we can judge, wishing to ensure stability for their dynasty, attempted to reproduce certain Achaemenid norms, such as power transfer by a living and still capable king to his successor.50 According to Diodorus and Justin, it was Ariarathes III himself who passed the throne to his son Ariarathes, who was still a boy.51 And Ariarathes IV, too, intended to transfer power prior to his death to the youngest of his sons, the future Ariarathes V Philopator.52 We should not discount the possibility that all these episodes, which lay stress on the relations of ‘true kinship’ inside the ruling house, were strongly emphasized in Ariarathes V’s propagandistic program in order to prove the chance character of the first (that we know of ) severe dynastic crisis, namely the removal from power of Ariarathes V by his brother Orophernes, and to create a good image of the dynasty.53 But there is other evidence based on independent tradition which relates to a similar episode connected with the later Cappadocian dynasty of the Ariobarzanids. For instance, the procedure of abdication of the father in favour of his son – the transfer of the diadem in the literal sense – is described in detail by Valerius Maximus, who records the power transfer from Ariobarzanes I to Ariobarzanes II in 63.54 As it took place in the presence of Pompey, Sullivan believes that the leading part in this case was played by concerns of foreign policy, namely the Roman intention to replace the old king, who had previously lost his throne many times and who was apparently faced with strong opposition to his power inside the country, with a more advantageous figure.55 But in this case there functions a certain legal mechanism which had regulated relations in the ruling house as far back as the Ariarathids’ reign. In this instance, Herodotus’ evidence may clarify the nature of these events: the Persians had a custom in accordance with which the king when launching a military expedition was to nominate his successor, and this is what took place before the death of Darius I in 486 when monarchic power was transferred by him to Xerxes.56 The purpose of this proceeding is obvious, to ensure appropriate power transfer in the state should the king perish in war. But it should be mentioned that this practice (which had already undergone significant changes according to our literary sources) contributed little to the preservation of internal political stability in Cappadocia.

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5. Life at court Unfortunately, due to the scarcity of literary evidence little is known of the daily life of the Bithynian and Cappadocian royal courts. To all appearances, in the reign of Nikomedes I, the Bithynian capital of Nikomedia founded by him was a centre of culture, science and arts.57 This is testified, for example, by the work of the sculptor Doidalsos, the creator of the famous ‘Bathing Aphrodite’, and, quite probably, the effigy of the dynasty’s protector Zeus Stratios placed in the chief temple of Nikomedia.58 It is probable that this very statue had served as a prototype for the image most commonly used on Bithynian royal tetradrachms, starting in the reign of Prusias I, perhaps as a symbol of his victory over the Galatian Aegosages in 216 BC (see Fig. 14.1).59 Already Nikomedes I, who generally proved to be quite an energetic ruler, talented general and diplomat, was, from the words of the comic poet Euphron reported by Athenaeus, a connoisseur of culinary art.60 The traditional pastime of that monarch was hunting, for which purpose there were quite favourable conditions in Bithynia. Arrian, as reported by Tzetzes, recorded the first-class Molossian dogs bred by Nikomedes I. His grandson Prusias II not only received the ironic nickname of Kyne¯gos, the Hunter, but also created a whole zoo.61 Hunting was also very popular among the local aristocrats as testified by Bithynian funerary stelai.62 The same Prusias II is accused by the Kalchedonian historian Nikandros for his love of luxury, comfort and drinking. Interestingly, according to Nikandros, a cupbearer to a Bithynian Nikomedes (apparently, one of Prusias II’s three successors, each of whom had the same name) was called Secundus, although, obviously, it is unlikely that he was a Roman (more likely, he was a freedman).63 In spite of Bithynia’s economic and political crisis at the beginning of the first century BC, the court at Nikomedia was still famous for its luxury.

Fig. 14.1: Silver tetradrachm of Prusias I of Bithynia. Obverse: a diademed portrait of Prusias. Reverse: Zeus (Stratios?) crowning the name ‘Prusias’ with a wreath (courtesy of Classical Numismatic Group, www.cngcoins.com).

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So, Cicero condemns the Bithynian kings’ custom of using a sedan chair (lectica) with eight bearers, a custom that was also adopted by Verres.64 This theme of Bithynian luxury is continued in the famous story about the young Caesar’s stay as a guest of Nikomedes IV Philopator.65 Galen in his work On the Antidotes mentions that a certain king Nikomedes used some medical means to protect himself against poisoning.66 This information testifies in favour of two obscure passages suggesting that Nikomedes III was poisoned, unlike his luckier ‘favourite enemy’ Mithridates VI Eupator.67 In general, the Bithynian royal court differed little in all these respects from other courts. It is not quite clear where and how the members of the Bithynian royal house ended the course of their lives. Nikomedes I’s wife Ditizela was mauled to death by his dog and buried in the new capital, Nikomedia.68 The royal burial places may be the vaults, raided already in ancient times, near the settlement of Uchtepeler in the vicinity of the city of Izmit (the modern name of Nikomedia).69 But the question of Prusias I’s burial place has not yet been unequivocally resolved. Unfortunately, Dio Chrysostom’s report does not conclusively indicate whether that king was buried in Nikomedia or Prusa-ad-Olympum.70 There are also doubts concerning Prusias II. The splendid monumental sarcophagus in the vicinity of Nikaia that has partially survived to the present day is sometimes considered to be his burial place as the king always showed a strong preference for that city rather than the capital, at least towards the end of his reign.71 So far as we see, there did not exist a common royal necropolis in Bithynia. We are still less informed about analogous aspects in the history of the royal court in Cappadocia. With relative confidence one can speak only of the special role of the royal feasts, including those given on the occasion of a new king’s accession to the throne, which probably originated with the Achaemenids. Polybius tells of he¯gemones in Cappadocia who were summoned to a feast by Ariarathes V while Diodorus informs us of the honours granted after the accession ‘to the friends, to those in the positions of authority and the other subordinate officials’ – the events described here are probably the same.72 Richard Frye believes that provincial governors, satraps, and members of the local nobility who were at the court of the Achaemenid King of Kings may have been the monarch’s table companions, which was considered to be the highest honour.73 This should probably also be viewed as a manifestation of Persian traditions on Cappadocian soil. Finally, we do not have grounds to distrust the reports about those changes which took place at the Cappadocian court (and, to a certain degree, in society as a whole) as a result of Ariarathes V Philopator’s energetic activity as a ‘promoter’ of Greek culture, education, and

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Bithynia and Cappadocia philosophy, which he knew well and valued.74 We also need to mention here the devotion of the usurper Orophernes to ‘reﬁned Ionian extravagance’ (τὴν Ἰακὴν καὶ τεχνιτικὴν ἀσωτίαν), which Polybius claimed he introduced into the kingdom, an accusation that may stem from Orophernes’ stay in Ionia where he had been sent to avoid possible dynastic crises.75 We have listed those parts of the history of Bithynia and Cappadocia in which the interaction of the court society and the ruling society took place chieﬂy in the state-political sphere. Yet what did those structures look like in their purely ethnic aspect?

6. Ethnicity and power: at court and beyond Strong evidence has recently been presented that there had existed in Bithynia numerous social strata which in their main parameters differed considerably from what may be observed in other Hellenistic states. On the basis of a complex study of the Hellenistic-era Bithynian funerary stelai from the countryside and spread across the region, Thomas Corsten concluded that the individuals who had borne non-Greek names and had been buried under high-quality and expensive stelai (most of which bear an image of a horseman and a battle-scene) had been high-ranking military colonists – cavalry officers and owners of large estates and land possessions.76 It is also significant that soon after Bithynia had become a Roman province, native names on such monuments disappeared to give way to Greek and, later, Latin ones.77 As for the bearers of those indigenous names,78 they, undoubtedly, might have belonged to the Bithynian ruling society. Based on epigraphic evidence, ethnic Bithynians may be traced as holding governing posts of various levels. The best known is the inscription in honour of Meniskos, epistate¯s of Prusa-ad-Olympum, son of Ze(n?)obrodios.79 From an inscription found between Nikaia and Prusa it is known that Susarion, son of Theophilos, performed the functions of grammateus (secretary) to the dioike¯te¯s (the inscription also contains other local names).80 The Bithynian court reveals the presence of the king’s ‘friends’ and, probably, bodyguards (so¯matophylakes).81 Their ethnic composition is hard to judge with any confidence due to the lack of evidence. Yet two of Prusias II’s courtiers, who together with the king were proclaimed proxenoi and euergetai of the Kretan polis of Aptera, had Thracian-Bithynian names (all in all, we know of six Bithynian ambassadors who, most probably, were the king’s ‘friends’).82 As to the ‘friends’ of the Cappadocian king, there are in total five

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Oleg Gabelko individuals who are known either as royal philoi or as ambassadors; it is curious that four of them were connected with the usurper Orophernes.83 It is possible also to add to this list a certain Theotimos, mentioned by Polybius.84 The name of Orophernes’ ambassador to Priene, Hyperanthes, could be Iranian, something which has previously been overlooked.85 King Ariarathes IV’s ‘friends’ are collectively mentioned alongside his children and army in a decree of Kos,86 and the Cappadocian kings’ ‘friends’ in general are noted by Strabo.87 The formula used in the Koan inscription fully complies with the requirements of Hellenistic diplomatic conventions, whereas the possession of vast and exceedingly rich areas of land and strongholds by the king’s ‘friends’, mentioned by Strabo, as unanimously agreed on by scholars, adequately reﬂects phenomena of purely Iranian origin.88 It may sound ironic, but we have no information as to how far the native Cappadocian population had access to power in their own country: there is no evidence from this period that could throw light on this question.89 The only possible exception could be notorious Gordius, Mithridates Eupator’s ‘agent’ at the Ariarathid court (mentioned many times in Book 38 of Trogus’ work) as far as the non-Iranian, perhaps Cappadocian,90 character of his name might suggest. It seems best to conﬁne ourselves to the proposition that in Cappadocia there existed a mixed Iranian and Cappadocian nobility that composed the basis of the local ruling society.

7. Conclusions To draw a conclusion, I would like to observe the following. The literary evidence demonstrates that the royal courts of both Bithynia and Cappadocia, although possessing some distinctive characteristics, do not reveal any fundamental differences in the basic features of their organization and daily life from what may be observed in other Hellenistic monarchies. But the functioning of the court societies in these states demonstrates that their obvious distinctiveness was rooted in the pre- Hellenistic past, and, importantly, that quite a significant role was played by those social forces that composed a considerable part of the ruling society. Despite the vagueness of our information, there is little doubt that this system did not undergo any radical change over the Hellenistic period (unlike, for example, the states of Egypt or areas of Asia belonging to the Seleucid empire). This ethno-social and political order became enriched through the inflow of Greeks and Macedonians (apparently, Bithynia enjoyed a greater inflow due to its geographic location),91 but the local population certainly remained subjects of their traditional monarchs and not of the western newcomers. The upper social strata in the states of

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Hellenistic Anatolia maintained their social and political positions, and, despite the indubitable presence of Greeks and Macedonians (military and civilian functionaries, doctors, historians, scientists, artists, etc) at the royal courts of Bithynia, Pontos and Cappadocia, we cannot apply the characteristic advanced by Christian Habicht in relation to the ruling society of the Hellenistic states as almost exclusively Greek and Macedonian:92 evidently, the situation in a large part of Anatolia was quite different. Therefore, Bithynia, Cappadocia (and Pontos, as far as we may judge from the results of other studies) should be seen as representing a distinctive aspect of the development of Hellenistic civilization, one which is characterized by a balanced synthesis of Greek-Macedonian and Iranian- Anatolian principles.93

Acknowledgements I would like to express my deep gratitude to Andrew Erskine, Shane Wallace, and Anton Powell, whose help and advice were invaluable for me, and to Alexander Unzhakov, who kindly agreed to translate the text of my work. Of course, all possible mistakes and inaccuracies remain my own.

Notes 1 It should be noted that it was the example of these states that C. Habicht made use of in order to formulate the notion of The Ruling Society (die herrschende Gesellschaft) – one of the key concepts in understanding the nature of the Hellenistic world (Habicht 1958; English translation: Habicht 2006). For a similar focus see Strootman 2014’s study of court society. 2 See on Pontos and Cappadocia: Ballesteros Pastor 2013; on Bithynia: Scholten 2007. 3 Reinach 1890. 4 On these subjects, see, for example: McGing 1986; Portanova 1988; Olshausen 1990; Bosworth and Wheatley 1997; McGing 1998; Gulenkov 2001; Højte 2009; Ballesteros Pastor 2015 and many others. 5 Reinach 1888. 6 Jones 1940, 21; Rostovtzeff 1941, 552; McShane 1964, 59, 96; Klose 1972, 2; Avi- Yonah 1978, 171; Kreißig 1984, 177. 7 Vitucci 1953, 127; Zel’jin 1953, 153; Eddy 1961, 165; Walbank 1981, 75; Heinen 1984, 422; Adams 2007, 47. 8 Kobes 1996; on the second-rank powers in the wider Hellenistic context see Koehn 2007. 9 On this very basis (apart from the natural geographical factor) they were grouped into a complex of states and studied in a very recent and comprehensive dissertation: Ghita 2010a. 10 Vitucci 1953 – this short monograph is now rather dated; Gabelko 2005. 11 Reinach 1888.

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12 To a degree, a similar tendency may be traced already in older research: Magie 1951. Other examples: Harris 1982; Fernoux 2004; Bekker-Nielsen 2008; Madsen 2009 (on Bithynia); Sözen 1998; Thierry 2002 (on Cappadocia). 13 Michels 2009. 14 Bikerman 1938. 15 This approach was employed in Hannestad’s sound article (1996) and Fernoux’s monograph (2004, 23–111). 16 Memn. FGrH 434 F1 §12.3–5. 17 For the most detailed discussion of the origin, onomastics and genealogical links of the Bithynian dynasty, see Gabelko 2005, 415–57. 18 Glew 2005. Such a case of naming one’s son and heir to the throne after a person of no royal rank appears rather unusual, but its historical authenticity may be supported by the existence of extremely close links between Bithynia and Kos in the 3rd century, which were shown in the letter of Ziaelas to the people of Kos (Syll.3 456 = RC 25 = Rigsby 1996, 11 = IG XII 4, 1 209) as well as in the message addressed to them by an ‘unknown king’ (Rigsby 1996, 12 = IG XII 4, 1 213): there are strong grounds to associate the latter document with the Bithynian royal house too (Gabelko 2005, 214–18, 482–3, Balakhvantsev, 2011). But, on another hand, there is an opinion that Nikomedes may have taken his Greek name by changing an original Bithynian one (on the moment of ascending the throne?), see Hannestad 1996, 74; cf. Gabelko 2005, 421, n. 22. 19 Dionysius of Byzantium, Per Bospori navigatione 96. 20 Arr. Bith. F63 Roos (apud Tzetz. Chil. 3.950). Arrian points to the Phrygian origin of this woman; cf. the similar name ‘Dintizila’ in I.Prusa I, 80 and in inscription from S¸ile: Peschlow et al. 2002, 436–7. Pliny the Elder (HN 8.144) gives instead of this name the rather unclear ‘Consingis’. It is very likely that there is a corruption in the manuscript tradition (see Gabelko 2005, 428; Corsten 2006a). 21 Memnon FGrH 434 F1 §14.1. This name has Thracian roots: Corsten 2006a, 121. 22 The second Nikomedes III Euergetes’ son, Sokrates, was born by the king’s concubine, Hagne by name, a native of Kyzikos (Gran. Lic. 35.29.7 Flemish). It should be noted that, although concubinage would not be unexpected in the Cappadocian kingdom due to a high density of Iranian-Achaemenid political traditions, there is no direct evidence for it. Still, a son of a certain king Ariarathes named Demetrios, mentioned by Polybius under 155/4 (33.12.1), was probably not the son of Ariarathes V Philopator, the reigning Cappadocian king, who would have been too young at the time. Consequently, he must have been a son of the previous monarch, Ariarathes IV Eusebius, born by some unknown woman (a concubine?). See Hopp 1977, 77 n. 102; in more detail: Gabelko 2009b, 109–10. 23 As in Pontos, too: McGing 1998, 106. 24 Diod. Sic. 31.19.1–9, 21–22, cf. Polyb. F90. 25 Diod. Sic. 31.19.8, 21–22. 26 For the fullest account of the Ariarathid royal house, its dynastic policy and propaganda, see Breglia Pulci Doria 1978; Panitschek 1987–1988; Müller 1991, Günther 1995; Debord 1999, 98–101, 105–10; Gabelko 2009b. 27 Gabelko and Kuzmin 2008, 142–53, arguing that it was the sister not the daughter. The woman in question was Stratonike, treated in detailed by Alex McAuley in this volume, chapter 7, section 3, in the context of a discussion of Seleucid marriage policy. 28 Paus. 1.9.6. On this marriage see Seibert 1967, 95–6.

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29 The reason why the Seleucids took this step should be looked for in geography (it was this state which possessed vast areas in Asia Minor and lay in proximity to Pontos and, especially, Great Cappadocia and was therefore interested in normalizing relations with them) as well as in the fact that the Seleucid dynasty, in consequence of the marriage of its founder, Seleukos I, to Apama, was partly of Iranian origin (Strabo 12.8.15; Arr. Anab. 7.4.6). On this: Harders 2016, 27–35; Engels and Erickson 2016, 39–45, 51–9; Ramsey 2015, 87–97. 30 In detail, see Gabelko 2009a. However, more signiﬁcant for the Bithynians, who were commonly in a state of tension with the Seleucids, were, later on, their matrimonial links with the Antigonids; see Seibert 1967, 116; Gabelko 2005, 245, 432–3. 31 Memnon FGrH 434 F1 §9.5. 32 As Xenophon’s famous passage (Anab. 6.4.2) reports, the Bithynians were traditionally hostile towards Greeks. 33 The only source is again Memnon FGrH 434 F1 §14.1–2. 34 SGDI 3089 = I.Kallatis 7 l. 10. This hypothesis was generally supported by Avram (2003, 1193–6). 35 Memnon FGrH 434 F1 §25.2. The treaty also mentions Cappadocia, but only as a land – not the Cappadocians as a people. 36 Ziaelas: Syll.3 456 = RC 25 = Rigsby 1996, 11 = IG XII 4, 1, l. 1; Nikomedes: Reynolds 1982, 20–6 no. 4, line 1. See also Gabelko 2005, 383 n. 298. The well-known episode in which Nikomedes II assumed power after he had rebelled against his father, Prusias II, unpopular in Bithynia, and was declared king by the Bithynian soldiers (App. Mithr. 5) can hardly serve as an indicator that Bithynian troops possessed any ‘formal’ rights to enthrone kings. That was an example of usurpation of power, and in such cases, of course, legal norms are pushed aside. 37 Strabo 12.2.11. 38 Reinach 1890, 149; Sullivan 1990, 55; Mastrocinque 1999, 29 n. 63. 39 Just. Epit. 37.1.4–5. By mistake, Justin refers to Ariarathes VI’s mother as Laodike, but there is a unique coin minted on behalf of this queen together with her son where she bears the name of Nysa (Simonetta 1977, 29, table 3 no. 11; Simonetta 2007, 60–1, 129 table X no. 1). 40 Strabo 12.2.11; Just. Epit. 37.2.8. 41 Ballesteros Pastor 2005, 127–8. 42 The events of the end of the 2nd century BC, connected with the occupation of this country by Mithridates VI Eupator and Nikomedes III Euergetes ( Just. Epit. 37.4.3– 9) and consequent enthronement of the latter’s son who then took the Paphlagonian dynastic name Pylaimenes (see Gabelko 2005, 353–5, 368–9), suggest that the Paphlagonian aristocracy actively participated in them. 43 The discussion about the role of the army and the people’s assembly in Macedonia has a rather long history presented in the numerous works of such scholars as F. Granier, N. G. L. Hammond, A. Aymard, F. W. Walbank, R. M. Errrington, P. Briant, E. Borza, M. Hatzopoulos. See the useful historiographic review by Kuzmin 2009, 21–9 (the author himself is rather skeptical concerning the signiﬁcant rights of the ‘Macedonians’ under the Antigonids). 44 DB. 18E, H, N; 19F, K; 24F; 25B, E, I, K, S, V; 26F, P, 27H; 28H; 29F, P; 30H; 31H, L; 33F, J, L, P; 35I, N; 36B, D, E, J; 38J, K, O; 41B, F, G, L, P, 42D, J; 45C, J, O; 46H; 47C, H; 50B, F, G; 71L; 74B; F.

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45 On the Odrysian kingdom see Zlatkovskaya, 1971, 230–2. A similar practice is attested in Epirus (see Kazarov, 2009, 402–10, with earlier literature), but it is impossible to think of a common origin of these institutions in the two countries. 46 FGrH 434 F1 §14.2 47 This idea was advanced (without much argumentation, however) rather long ago. See Reinach 1888, 232; cf. Habicht 1972, 390; De Souza 1999, 56; in most detail see Gabelko 2005, 205–6, 442–3; Balakhvantsev 2011. For an attempt of Zipoites III (Tiboites) to regain power with the help of the people of Byzantion during the war against Prusias I in 220: Polyb. 4.50.8–9. 48 Dionysius of Byzantum, Per Bospoi navigatione 96. The name is found among Thracian kings: it was the name of one of the members of the royal house of the Odrysians (IG II/III2 3443), a tribe with which the ‘official’ genealogy of the Bithynians proclaimed their kinship. See Gabelko 2005, 73–5. 49 De Callataÿ 1996, 79–80, 275–7; Gabelko 2005, 378–80. This situation took place during the period of Nikomedes’ expulsion from Bithynia, but the continuation of his coinage could reflect the possible formal division of the kingdom between two rivals. 50 It may well be that Diodorus’ rather obscure reports about the co-reign of the earlier Ariarathids (31.19.3–4, 6) should be interpreted in this way. The co-reign of Ariaramnes and Ariarathes (III), however, is evidenced by numismatic materials. See Gabelko 2009b, 105 (with sources and earlier literature). 51 Diod. Sic. 31.19.6; Just. Epit. 29.1.4. 52 Diod. Sic. 31.19.8. See Müller 1991, 408; Günther, 1995, 51–2 n. 22. There is little doubt that the groups of local nobility, who supported pro-Pergamene and pro- Seleucid views, were involved in the dramatic events at the court in Mazaka in the 160s – 150s (Günther 1995, 54); in this situation, however, one can hardly suspect that they possessed ‘official’ leverage to exercise influence on Ariarathid dynastic policy. 53 Cf.: Müller 1991, 407. 54 Val. Max. 5.7. ext. 2 55 Sullivan 1980, 1137, who at the same time rightfully observes that this aim, quite logical by itself, was not achieved. 56 Hdt. 7.2–4. There is also valuable epigraphic evidence on this event – the so-called ‘Harem Inscription’ from Persepolis (XPf 4E). On Achaemenid succession practice see Briant 2002. 57 For Nikomedes’ attempt to buy the statue of Aphrodite of Knidos (Pliny, HN 8.12; 36.21), see Corso 1990. 58 Arr. Bith. F20 (apud Eustath. ad. Dionys. 355). It is noteworthy that Zeus Stratios was also believed to be the protector of the Pontic dynasty, see Cumont 1901. 59 For an analysis of this image, see Le Rider, 1983. Hannestad 1996, 80–1, however, believes that it could be identified with Zeus Nikephoros. For victory over Aegosages, Polyb. 5.111.1–7. 60 Euphron F11 = Athen. 1.7d–f. This report is also important due to the fact that it indicates that Nikomedes had been in ‘Scythia’ – it is the only piece of direct evidence for contacts between Bithynia and territories north of the Black Sea. 61 Arr. Bith. F63 Roos (apud Tzetz. Chil. 3.950). The mention of dogs in connection with the ‘Thracian king’ (Nikomedes I) in the prophecy of the Kalchedonian oracle

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Bithynia and Cappadocia reported by Zosimos (2.36–7) also seems quite trustworthy, see Parke 1982; Gabelko 2009c, 217–8. For Prusias the Hunter and his zoo, see App. Mithr. 2; Suda. s.v. The¯ria. 62 See the stele of Mokazis (Merkelbach and Blümel 1995); see also Cremer 1992, 25, 126–127; Taf. 6. 63 Nicand. FGrH 700 FF1–2. 64 Cic. In Verr. 2.5.27, cf. also Catull. Carm. 10, where Bithynian bearers feature prominently. 65 Suet. Caes. 2, 49; Dio Cass. 43.20.4; on this episode, Osgood 2008. 66 Galen. De antidot. 14.147. 67 Gran. Lic. 35.29.7; Pliny the Elder NH. 8.65.5; on poisoning, see Winder, this volume. 68 Arr. Bith. F63 Roos (apud Tzetz. Chil. 3.950). 69 Gabelko 2005, 34 n. 68. 70 Dio. Chrys. 47.17. For a review of the opinions on this passage, see Leschhorn 1984, 280–1. 71 Prusias II was, however, killed in Nikomedia (App. Mithr. 7; Diod. Sic. 32.21; Zonar. 9.28). On this monument, see Kleiner 1957. 72 Polyb. 31.17.1; Diod. Sic. 31.21.1. 73 Hdt. 5.24; Frye 1963, 107–8. On the Achaemenids’ table companions and counsellors, see Wiesehöfer 1980. 74 Diod. Sic. 31.19.7, perhaps alluding to a lost passage of Polybius. For a compendium of data concerning the philhellenism and euergetism of the Ariarathids, see Michels 2009, 122–41. 75 Polyb. 32.11.10. Of course, this phrase could reflect the negative attitude of Polybius to the Cappadocian usurper. 76 Corsten 2007. Fernoux 2004, 93–111, nevertheless, sees in this monument various aspects of the hellenization of the Bithynian population, which seems to be right only in part. 77 Corsten 2006b, who believes that an explanation of this phenomenon could be that from the beginning of Roman rule native Bithynians were confined to the lower social strata. 78 On the ratio of the common Thracian and specifically Bithynian onomastics, see Gabelko 2005, 515–23; Cf. Özlem-Aytaçlar 2010. I am inclined not to stress their common identity, mostly on the basis of the specific character of the names from Corsten’s list, the majority of which are not attested in Thrace, but only in Bithynia. 79 Robert 1937, 228–35; I.Prusa I no. 1. 80 S¸ahin 1982, 305a–307a no. 1588. It has been pointed out that the indigenous names of this inscription belong to the men of the younger generation and women (Guinea Diaz 1997, 31–2). Could this fact indicate a ‘de-hellenization’ (of course, local and temporary) of the Bithynian cho¯ra? 81 Friends: Robert 1937, 238; Savalli-Lestrade 1998, 193–4; bodyguards of Nikomedes II: App. Mithr. 5, cf. Mithr. 6: five hundred selected Thracians from Europe, who guarded Prusias II in the course of the same events. 82 Olshausen 1974, 255–8. 83 Olshausen 1974, 261–3; Savalli-Lestrade 1998, 194–7. 84 Polyb. 32.11.9; but, in so far as the text of this passage is corrupt, it cannot be

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Oleg Gabelko excluded that this person should be identified with Orophernes’ ambassador to Rome, Timotheus (Polyb. 32.10.4). 85 RC 63; Olshausen 1974, 260 no. 182; Savalli-Lestrade 1998, 195; the name belonged to a very high-born Persian, the son of Darius and Fratagune, who died in the battle of Thermopylae, Hdt. 7.224, cf. Xenophon of Ephesos 3.2.2. 86 Pugliese Caratelli 1972; Piejko 1983; Gabelko 2009b, 108. 87 Strabo 12.2.9. See Magie 1951, I 201, who emphasizes that ‘they [the great nobles] appear to have enjoyed greater power here [in Cappadocia] than in Pontos’. 88 Savalli-Lestrade 1998, 197; Michels 2009, 31, esp. Ghita 2010b. 89 See, however, several Cappadocian names in the important inscription from ancient Hanisa: Michels 2013. 90 Robert 1963, 526, 548–9. 91 Tarn and Griffith quite reasonably note that Bithynia was more hellenized than Pontos and Cappadocia (1952, 170–1). The reason for this may have been not only geographical factors, but also the fact that Bithynia’s ethno-cultural heritage was not as vast and various as the Iranian tradition in Cappadocia and Pontos (Cary 1932, 98). 92 Habicht 2006, 29–30, who examines the ‘great’ Hellenistic monarchies and makes some reservations in this context only concerning the ‘old ruling group of Persians and other Iranians’; the states of Asia Minor are not involved here. Nevertheless, in Pontus with its strong Iranian traditions one might possibly find amongst the representatives of its ruling society the Paphlagonians as well, see Gabelko 2013, 117–27. 93 Cf. the peer-polity interaction of Scholten 2007 and Michels 2013.

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Leschhorn, W. 1984 ‘Gründer der Stadt’. Studien zu einen politisch-religiösen Phänomen der griechischen Geschichte, Stuttgart. Madsen, J. M. 2009 Eager to be Roman: Greek response to Roman rule in Pontus and Bithynia, London. Magie, D. 1951 Roman Rule in Asia Minor, Princeton. Mastrocinque, A. 1999 Studi sulle guerre Mitridatiche, Stuttgart. McGing, B. 1986 The Foreign Policy of Mithridates VI Eupator King of Pontus, Leiden. 1998 ‘Na rubezhe. Kul’tura i istorija Pontijskogo tsarstva’ (On the fringes. Culture and history of the Pontic Kingdom; in Russian), Vestnik drevnej istorii 3, 97–111. McShane, R. B. 1964 The Foreign Policy of the Attalids of Pergamum, Urbana. Merkelbach, R. and Blümel, W. 1995 ‘Grabepigramm auf Mokazis’, Epigraphica Anatolica 25, 67–9. Michels, C. 2009 Kulturtransfer und monarchischer ‘Philhellenismus’. Bithynien, Pontos und Kappadokien in hellenistischer Zeit, Göttingen. 2013 ‘The spread of polis institutions in Hellenistic Cappadocia and the Peer Polity Interaction Model’, in E. Stavrianopoulou (ed.), Shifting Social Imaginaries in the Hellenistic World. Narrations, Practices, and Images, Leiden, 283–307. Müller, H. 1991 ‘Königin Stratonike, Tochter des Königs Ariarathes’, Chiron 21, 393–424. Olshausen, E. 1974 Prosopographie der hellenistischen Königsgesandten. Teil I. Von Triparadeisos bis Pydna, Leuven. 1990 ‘Götter, Heroen und ihre Kulte in Pontos. Ein erster Bericht’, Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt II.18.3, 1865–906. Osgood, J. 2008 ‘Caesar and Nicomedes’, Classical Quarterly 58, 687–91. Özlem-Aytaçlar, P. 2010 ‘Onomastic Survey of the Indigenous Population in the North-Western Asia Minor’, in R. W. V. Catling and F. Marchand with the assistance of M. Sasanow (eds), Onomatologos: Studies in Greek Personal Names presented to Elaine Matthew, Oxford, 506–29. Panitschek, P. 1987–88 ‘Zu den genealogischen Konstruktionen der Dynastien von Pontos und Kappadokien’, Rivista storica dell’Antichit 17–18, 73–95. Parke, H. 1982 ‘The attribution of the oracles in Zosimus, New History 2.37’, Classical Quarterly 32, 441–4 Peschlow, U., Peschlow-Bindokat, A. and Wörrle, M. 2002 ‘Die Sammlung Turan Beler in Kumbaba bei ile (II). Antike und byzantinische Denkmäler von der bithynische Schwarzmeerküste’,

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Mitteilungen des Deutschen Archäologisches Instituts. Istanbulische Abteilung 52, 429–522 Piejko, F. 1983 ‘A decree of Cos in honor of the Cappadocian Royal Couple’, La parola del passato 38, 200–7. Portanova, J. J. 1988 ‘The Associates of Mithridates VI of Pontus’, PhD Dissertation, Columbia University. Pugliese Caratelli, J. 1972 ‘La regina Antiochide di Cappadocia’, La parola del passato 27, 182–5. Ramsey, G. 2016 ‘The diplomacy of Seleukid women: Apama and Stratonike’, in Cos¸ kun and McAuley 2016, 87–104. Reinach, T. 1888 Numismatique ancienne: Trois royaumes de l’Asie Mineure: Cappadoce, Bithynie, Pont, Paris. 1890 Mithridate Eupator, roi de Pont, Paris. Reynolds, J. 1982 Aphrodisias and Rome. Documents from the Excavation of the Theatre at Aphrodisias Conducted by Professor Kenan T. Erim, together with some related texts, London. Rigsby, K. J. 1996 Asylia. Territorial Inviolability in the Hellenistic World, Berkeley. Robert, L. 1937 Études anatoliennes, Paris. 1963 Noms indigènes dans l’Asie-Mineure gréco-romaine, Paris. Rostovtzeff, M. I. 1941 The Social and Economic History of the Hellenistic World, I–III, Oxford. S¸ahin, S. 1982 Katalog der antiken Inschriften des Museums von Iznik (Nikaia), IK 10, II, 2. Savalli-Lestrade, I. 1998 Les philoi royaux de l’Asie hellénistique, Geneva. Scholten, J. 2007 ‘Building Hellenistic Bithynia’, in H. Elton and G. Reger (eds), Regionalism in Hellenistic and Roman Asia Minor, Paris, 17–24. Seibert, J. 1967 Historische Beiträge zu den Dynastischen Verbindungen in hellenistischer Zeit, Wiesbaden. Simonetta, B. 1977 The Coins of the Cappadocian Kings, Fribourg. 2007 The Coinage of the Cappadocian Kings: A revision and a catalogue of the Simonetta Collection, Pisa. Sözen, M. (ed.) 1998 Cappadocia, Istanbul. Strootman, R. 2014 Courts and Elites in the Hellenistic Empires. The Near East after the Achaemenids, c. 330 to 30 BCE, Edinburgh.

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Sullivan, R. D. 1980 ‘The dynasty of Cappadocia’, Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt II.7.2, 1125–68. 1990 Near Eastern Royalty and Rome, 100–30 BC, Toronto. Tarn, W. W. and Grifﬁth, G. T. 1952 Hellenistic Civilization, 3rd edn, London. Thierry, N. 2002 La Cappadoce de l’Antiquité au Moyen Âge, Paris. Vitucci, G. 1953 Il regno di Bitinia, Rome. Walbank, F. W. 1981 The Hellenistic World, London. Wiesehöfer, J. 1980 ‘Die “Freunde” und “Wohltater” des Grosskönigs’, Studia Iranica 9, 7–21. Zel’jin, K. K. 1953 ‘Osnovnye cherty ellenizma’ (The main features of Hellenism; in Russian), Vestnik drevnej istorii 4, 145–56. Zlatkovskaya, T. D. 1971 Vozniknovenije gosudarstva u frakijtsev (State Formation by the Thracians; in Russian), Moscow.

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DESERVINGTHECOURT’STRUST: JEWSINPTOLEMAICEGYPT

Livia Capponi

1. A Jewish colony in Ptolemaic Egypt In a famous passage of the Jewish Antiquities the Jewish historian Josephus, writing in the late ﬁrst century AD, quotes some remarks about the Jews of Egypt made by the geographer and historian Strabo: …in Egypt territory has been set apart for a Jewish settlement, and in Alexandria a great part of the city has been allocated to this nation. And an ethnarch of their own has been installed, who governs the people and adjudicates suits and supervises contracts and ordinances, just as if he were 1 the head of a sovereign state (ὡς ἂν πολιτείας ἄρχων αὐτοτελοῦς). These comments describe the situation shortly after the end of the Ptolemaic kingdom, when Strabo was in Egypt in the entourage of the prefect Aelius Gallus (around 25–23 BC), but refer back to how things were under the Ptolemies. So with land assigned to them and a leader called the ethnarche¯s, ‘chief of the nation’, who governed independently from the Ptolemaic crown, the Jewish ethnos effectively formed a state within a state. The idea of the powerful role of some leading Jews at the Ptolemaic court itself emerges from a passage in Josephus’ Contra Apionem, which states that Ptolemy VI Philometor (180–145 BC) and his consort Kleopatra II ‘entrusted their entire kingdom to Jews (τὴν βασιλείαν ὅλην τὴν ἑαυτῶν Ἰουδαίοις ἐπίστευσαν)’, and placed the army under the command of the Jewish generals Onias and Dositheos.2 This passage is usually taken as an exaggeration on the part of Josephus, who embellished the history of the relationships between the Jews and the Hellenistic rulers for apologetic purposes.3 Later in the same book Josephus again highlights the Ptolemies’ extensive trust in the Jews, something that he sees as continuing under the Roman emperors.4 These statements still need a proper historical interpretation, and raise several questions: what was the role of the leaders of the Jews of Egypt at the Ptolemaic court? In what sense did the Ptolemies entrust their kingdom to the Jews? In recent years some progress has been made on the history

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Livia Capponi of the Jewish settlement in Egypt, by John M. G. Barclay and in particular by Sandra Gambetti, who has reviewed the sources on the creation of a Jewish community at Alexandria under Ptolemy I Soter, showing that the indication in Josephus of the existence of a Jewish community as early as Ptolemy I is not legendary, but historically founded and supported by various items of literary and documentary evidence.5 In 2011, I reinterpreted a passage in the Contra Apionem which Josephus claims to have taken from Ptolemy I’s historian Hekataios of Abdera about the first settlement of Jews in Egypt, and argued that the passage probably contained a kernel of truth, that there is no concrete reason to suppose that Hekataios is a fictional figure, and that the idea of a ‘Pseudo-Hekataios’ is to be discarded as a creation of modern scholars.6 This paper selects some figures of the best-known and most prominent Jews at the Ptolemaic court and reviews the literary and documentary sources on their careers, in order to explore their role in both internal affairs and international diplomacy. This paper does not survey all the documentary evidence about Jews in Ptolemaic Egypt, but attempts to investigate when and why Jews reached positions of prominence or became renowned at court in the Ptolemaic period.

2. Ezekias the high priest and Ptolemy I According to the literary sources, about 100,000 Jews were taken to Egypt as prisoners of war after the conquest of Syria and Judaea by Ptolemy I Soter, and speciﬁcally in the aftermath of his victory over Demetrios Poliorketes at the battle of Gaza of 312 BC.7 A fragment of Ptolemy’s historian and diplomat Hekataios of Abdera cited by Josephus in Contra Apionem 1.186–9 talks about the encounter between Hekataios, who had gone to Syria in the entourage of the king, and Ezekias, a Jewish high priest who organised the new Jewish settlement in Egypt.8 Josephus cited this passage probably because it talked of the speciﬁc civil rights and the constitution that was assigned to the Jews on that occasion, in order to emphasize the good relations between the Ptolemaic monarchy and the Jews. The passage runs: Now Hekataios further says this, that after the battle at Gaza, Ptolemy became master of the territories of Syria and many of the people, when they heard about Ptolemy’s kindness and benevolence, wanted to go with him to Egypt and to share in the political affairs. One of these, he says, was Ezekias, ‘a high-priest of the Judaeans, a man about sixty-six years old, of high standing among his fellow countrymen and no fool intellectually, and moreover an able speaker, and as experienced as anyone in political affairs’. Indeed, he says, ‘the total number of the Judaeans’ priests who receive a tenth of the produce and who administer public affairs is about 1500.’ Referring again to the man mentioned above, he says: ‘This man, when he

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had acquired this honour and had become our acquaintance (ὁ ἄνθρωπος τετευχὼς τῆς τιµῆς ταύτης καὶ συνήθης ἡµῖν γενόµενος), gathered some of those in his company and read to them the complete dispersal [sc. of the Jews in Egypt]; for he had their settlement and the constitution written’.9 Ezekias, the leader of the Jews who went to Egypt with Ptolemy Soter, was archiereus, high priest, of the Jews. The exact meaning of this title is the subject of debate, as all the other sources show that the high priest of Jerusalem at the time was Onias.10 Stern thought that the title archiereus with no article or further specification was a general rank indicator that applied to all the members of high priestly families; this usage apparently became common in the post-Hellenistic period, which led some scholars to doubt that the usage could apply to our passage; however, Stern’s view could still stand, in the first place because the title without an article is found in the Letter of Aristeas, a product of the Hellenistic period, and also because it could reflect Josephus’ own editorial intervention on Hekataios in the first century AD.11 Jewish coinage shows the name in Hebrew of Hizqiyahu, that is, Ezekias, as the treasurer, or finance minister of the temple under the high priesthood of Onias.12 It thus seems that Ezekias was not the high priest of the temple of Jerusalem, but a governor, or, as Stern suggested, the treasurer of the Temple.13 In sum, Ezekias might have been the high priest of the new Jewish settlement in Egypt, as the term archiereus meant chief priest in the sense of leader of a temple community.14 The fact that his age is recorded, anyway, suggests that his name and dates were preserved on a list of high priests stored in some official archive, and the description of his virtues and rhetorical skills reminds us of other descriptions of high priests who were deemed to be naturally superior.15 It is even possible to hypothesise that Ptolemy I Soter appointed Ezekias high priest of the Jews for a short period in the aftermath of the battle of Gaza, before the Jews were led to Egypt, in order to organise the transfer, but that this title was not officially recognised by subsequent high priests of Jerusalem. As a matter of fact, Hekataios reports that Ptolemy conferred on Ezekias an unspecified official honour (τιµή), which may well be the aforementioned high priesthood, although this is not guaranteed. After having received this honour, Ezekias became συνήθης, ‘attached, acquaintance, familiar’ to ‘us’, that is, in my view, to both Ptolemy and Hekataios, or to the court as a whole.16 This passage sounds like a description of the official admission to court, that is, a ceremony that showed that Ezekias was worthy of the court’s trust. As the Letter of Aristeas reports, Ptolemy Soter divided up the conquered Jews in two groups: ‘the young were placed in the army, while those who were apt to stay with the king, and deserved the trust of the court, were assigned specific tasks and services’.17 To sum up,

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Livia Capponi what must have happened under Ptolemy Soter was the creation of a military colony of Jews not only at Alexandria, but also in different sites in Egypt. The aforementioned studies by Gambetti have shown that the existence of a Jewish community in Alexandria by Ptolemy I is historically proven. The account of Hekataios in Josephus no longer needs to be reduced to ﬁction.18

3. Mosollamos/Messalamos the soldier and Ptolemy I In the follow-up to the story of Ezekias, Josephus quotes another story from the same section in the historical account of Hekataios of Abdera about an archer of the army of Alexander called Mosollamos, who is praised for his bravery and freedom from Greek superstition – Josephus probably quoted it as a counter-attack against those who accused the Jews of being superstitious.19 It is the story, told in the first person by a fellow soldier, of an episode in the expedition of Alexander to the Red Sea, where Mosollamos, a distinguished archer in the Jewish contingent that served the Macedonians as an advance force, makes fun of the Greeks’ belief in divination. At a certain point in the march, the soldiers were halted by a seer who was waiting for a bird to move (if the bird moved forward, they could advance, if backwards, they had to withdraw); Mosollamos did not hesitate to draw his bow and kill the bird. When the seer and others cursed him, Mosollamos said: ‘Why are you raving, wretches?’ Then, taking the bird in his hands he said: ‘How, then, could this, which did not provide for its own safety, say anything sound about our march? For had it been able to know the future, it would not have come to this place, fearing that Mosollamos the Jew would draw his bow and kill it’.20 For Bar-Kochva, the story was not written by Hekataios of Abdera, but by ‘a knowledgeable Greek’ who was an eyewitness of the expedition and thus spoke in the first person; for him the episode is ‘just a joke, thus the author was not concerned with accuracy and even deliberately distorted all technical details.’21 However, in my view, the fact that Josephus claims twice at this point that he was going to quote Hekataios, and directs to further reading in Hekataios’ book, ‘easily available’, supports the identification of the author of the anecdote with Hekataios.22 Even if the episode were a joke, its protagonist, the Jew Mosollamos, may have been a historical figure, and needs to be looked at. The name Mosollamos, itself hellenised from the Hebrew name Meshullam, is found in a slightly different form in Jewish Antiquities 13.75–8.23 Here a Jew called Andronikos, son of Messalamos delivers a speech before Ptolemy VI Philometor in defence of the leadership of the temple of Jerusalem against the Samaritan leaders Sabbaios and Theodosios, who

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Deserving the court’s trust: Jews in Ptolemaic Egypt defended the primacy of their temple on Mount Garizim. According to Josephus, Andronikos spoke first and gave ‘proofs from the Law and the succession of the high priests, showing how each had become head of the temple by receiving that office from his father’ and by this and other arguments persuaded the king that the temple of Jerusalem was to be preferred to that on Mount Garizim. The king then put to death the Samaritans. It is likely, in my view, that the Mosollamos who is praised in the Contra Apionem was the father of Andronikos. Since in the Josephan narrative Mosallamos’ story comes next to that of Ezekias, a story that in turn is said to come from Hekataios’s history of the migration of Jews to Egypt under Ptolemy Soter, it seems reasonable to postulate that both Ezekias and Mosollamos were leading figures of the Jews of Egypt, or founders of prominent Jewish families of Alexandria, under Ptolemy Soter. Besides, it makes much more sense to think that the decision about the primacy of the Jerusalem temple between Judaeans and Samaritans took place at the time of the first settlement of Jewish communities in 300 BC, not under Ptolemy Philometor in 180–145 BC. Hekataios of Abdera was probably present at the audience, and, given his knowledge of Judaea and Judaism, may have interceded in favour of the Jews against the Samaritans. This may be a reason why the Jews of Egypt often quoted Hekataios in a sympathetic way as an authority and one who defended the sanctity of the Jewish Law.24 According to Motzo, behind the story of the discussion between Judaeans and Samaritans in the aforementioned passage, as well as behind a large part of Books 12 and 13 of Josephus’ Antiquities, dealing with Egyptian Jews, there was a priest with anti-Samaritan views; later, Garbini identified this source with the Jewish priest and writer Eupolemos, author of a work On the Kings of Judaea up to the death of Judas Maccabee around 158 BC (Eupolemos could have taken the data about Egyptian Judaism from the book by Hekataios of Abdera, as well as from other Alexandrian- Jewish sources).25 It is thus likely that Josephus misplaced the story of the Judaeo-Samaritan debate and pushed it forward to the reign of Philometor, because Eupolemos had talked about the episode in the section of his work concerning Philometor.26

4. Dositheos, son of Drimylos, secretary of Ptolemy III and saviour of Ptolemy IV The entourage of the Hellenistic king was formed by a hierarchy of courtiers with speciﬁc titles and functions. At the Ptolemaic court there were ‘friends of the king’ (φίλοι), ‘bodyguards’ (σωµατοφύλακες), ‘chiefs of the bodyguards’ (ἀρχισωµατοφύλακες), and also courtiers with purely honoriﬁc titles, such as ‘kinsmen of the king’ (συγγενεῖς), ‘peers of the

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Livia Capponi kinsmen of the king’ (ὁµότιµοι τοῖς συγγενέσιν), ‘first friends’ (πρῶτοι φίλοι), ‘peers of the first friends’ (ἰσότιµοι τοῖς πρώτοις φίλοις), and even ‘foster 27 brothers’ (σύντροφοι), to name only a few. The third book of Maccabees (3 Macc.) informs us that Dositheos son of Drimylos, ‘a Jew by birth’, who had subsequently ‘forsaken the teachings of his ancestral religion’, saved the life of king Ptolemy IV Philopator (221–205 BC) from a plot before the battle of Raphia (217 BC) by placing another man in the royal tent who was murdered in the king’s stead.28 Both 3 Macc. and Polybius state that the attempt was carried out by a certain Theodotos from the Seleucid camp, formerly an officer of Ptolemy, Polybius adding the information that he was an Aetolian.29 Polybius does not mention Dositheos and states that Theodotos failed because he did not know that the king used to rest outside the principal and official royal tent, so that he ended up killing Andreas, the king’s physician, while in 3 Macc. it is left vague whether Dositheos knew of the conspiracy in advance. The historicity of Dositheos son of Drimylos is largely confirmed by numerous papyri which show him as a chief secretary (ὑποµνηµατογράφος) of Ptolemy III Euergetes I in 240 BC (CPJ 1.127a), on the staff of the travelling king in 225/4 BC (127c) and as eponymous priest of the cult of Alexander and of the deified Ptolemies under Ptolemy III in 222 BC (127d–e). It is likely that he is one and the same Dositheos who is mentioned as a ship-owner and a guard of the transport on the Nile in PRyl 4.576 of Ptolemy III Euergetes’ time.30 After 222 BC, Dositheos enters the staff of Ptolemy IV Philopator, and before the battle of Raphia he saves the king according to the passage mentioned above.31 It is clear that 3 Macc. wants to praise the Jew Dositheos son of Drimylos for being ultra-loyal to the king. However, one might find it odd that 3 Macc., profoundly hostile to Jewish hellenizers, would praise an apostate. A possible explanation is that the story was taken from an Alexandrian- Jewish chronicle that exalted Dositheos, one of its most illustrious members, for his brave deed.32 The story was perhaps circulated or revived at the time of Ptolemy VI Philometor, when a general called Dositheos, who was very likely a member of the same family, played an important role in the wars and dynastic quarrels of the time.33 Interestingly, Josephus tells us that the persecution of Jews described in 3 Macc. belongs not to the times of Ptolemy IV Philopator, but to the dynastic war between Kleopatra II, widow of Ptolemy VI Philometor, and Ptolemy VII Euergetes II (nicknamed Physcon, ‘pot-belly’) in 145 BC. In my view he does so because he associates Dositheos son of Drimylos with the Dositheos (perhaps coming from the same Alexandrian-Jewish family) who was an important general of Ptolemy VI Philometor.34

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5. Onias and Dositheos, generals of Ptolemy VI In Contra Apionem 2.49 Josephus states, as we have seen, that ‘Ptolemy Philometor and his consort Kleopatra entrusted their whole kingdom to Judaeans, and the commanders of the whole army were Onias and Dositheos’.35 Josephus goes on to say that ‘Apion mocks their names, but one should admire their achievements and not insult them, rather thank them for saving Alexandria, of which he claims to be a citizen’.36 According to Josephus, Onias and Dositheos negotiated terms between queen Kleopatra II and the Alexandrians, saving the population from the horrors of a civil war. He naturally refers to the dynastic war of 145 BC, when, on the death of Philometor, his brother Ptolemy Physkon attempted to usurp the throne against Kleopatra II, his sister and the widow of Philometor. The Jewish commanders Onias and Dositheos supported the queen, but eventually lost the war, which ended up with the marriage between Physkon and Kleopatra II and a general amnesty. Apion, speaking at Rome on behalf of the Alexandrians and against the Jews, may have ridiculed the names of Onias and Dositheos because they were on the losers’ side. As the Roman legate Lucius Thermus was probably present in Alexandria in 145 BC, at the accession of Ptolemy Physkon, the loyalty of Onias and Dositheos to Kleopatra II could have been construed as a form of resistance to Rome.37 The mockery of Onias’ name is likely to have been a play on its resemblance to the Greek word ὄνος, ‘donkey’, and this may explain why Josephus returns the favour by twice calling Apion ‘pack-ass’.38 These Alexandrian attacks against the generals Onias and Dositheos may have prompted the revival in Jewish Alexandrian circles of the hagiographic story of the loyalty of Dositheos son of Drimylos to Ptolemy IV Philopator. On the general Dositheos we have no clear information, but we can hypothesise that he came from an important Alexandrian-Jewish family, and descended from the famous Dositheos son of Drymilos. As regards Onias, we can say with reasonable conﬁdence that he was the high priest Onias IV, son of the deceased Jerusalem high priest Onias III, and that he escaped to Egypt to save his life after the death of his father during the Maccabean revolt. Onias IV was probably employed as a general of the Ptolemaic army in the 170s BC, if we should trust him when he says, in a letter to king Ptolemy VI Philometor reported by Josephus, that he offered ‘many services’ (πολλὰς χρείας) to Philometor in Koile-Syria and Phoenicia (that is, during the sixth Syrian war, in 170–168 BC); thereafter, Onias founded a Jewish temple at Leontopolis in the Heliopolite nome, a foundation that probably took place after Jonathan Maccabee became high

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Livia Capponi priest and Onias lost all hopes of returning to Jerusalem as the legitimate descendant of the Oniads.39 Philometor’s policy was probably influenced by the increasing intervention of Rome in the Jewish, Syrian and Egyptian affairs. As 2 Maccabees indicates, in 164 BC, Rome supported the Jewish struggle against Syria, and in 161 BC Judas Maccabee sent a formal Jewish delegation composed of his friends Eupolemos son of John and Jason son of Eleazar to Rome, which was followed by an alliance between the Roman Senate and the Jewish ethnos.40 The Senate promised to intervene to defend the Jews against all attacks, thus it is likely that Philometor chose to use the Jews, now Rome’s friends, as a shield against Syria. In 168 BC the Senate had sent Popilius Laenas to defend Egypt from Antiochos IV’s attack, and Polybius records the movements of Roman legates who supported Physkon in 155/4 BC, headed by Cn. Cornelius Merula and L. Minucius Thermus, who went to Alexandria to solve various dynastic quarrels.41 One may conclude that, after the Roman interventions in favour of the Jewish ethnos in 164 and 161, Philometor chose to emphasize his friendship with Onias IV, by appointing him and Dositheos as generals. The interesting point of this passage, however, is the statement that Philometor and Kleopatra ‘entrusted’ (in Greek ἐπίστευσεν) their entire realm to Jews, which is followed by the statement that they also made Onias and Dositheos generals of their army. Some scholars have taken the verb ‘to entrust’ to mean that Jews were appointed as top administrators of Egypt, e.g. as ministers of finance, or even as substitutes of the king.42 This seems a blatant exaggeration, although prominent courtiers, usually the tutors of Ptolemaic kings, could take up the regency of the kingdom while their royal pupils were too young: on the death of Kleopatra I in 176 BC, for instance, two tutors were nominated guardians of the state on behalf of the young king Philometor, namely the Syrian slave Lenaios and the eunuch Eulaios, who even dared to put his name on copper and silver coins.43 Another possible vacuum of power might have taken place in 164/3 BC, when Philometor went to Rome to talk to the Senate, in the attempt to secure his throne against his brother.44 The official teacher of the king at this time, as far as we know, was Aristoboulos, Jewish priest and philosopher, whom in a letter of 164 BC Judas Maccabee reverently addresses as ‘of the stock of the anointed priests’ and as διδάσκαλος (teacher) of the king.45 One might thus speculate that in 164/3 BC Philometor briefly entrusted his kingdom to his wife Kleopatra II, aided by Aristoboulos, and by the armed forces under the command of the Jewish generals Onias and Dositheos. However, no source can positively prove this.

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One may try to explain Josephus’ statement that the kings entrusted their entire realm to Jews by looking at the verb used by Josephus, that is, πιστεύω, ‘to entrust’. As a matter of fact, several passages in the literary sources employ this verb to describe the creation of Jewish military garrisons in Ptolemaic Egypt and the term πίστις, ‘trust’, is often used to describe the loyalty of the Jewish troops or administrators to the crown. The aforementioned passage in the Letter of Aristeas 37 reports that among the conquered Jews ‘the young were placed in the army, while those who were apt to stay with the king, and deserved the trust of the court, were assigned specific tasks and services’. The Letter of Aristeas (13 and 36) describes the Jews as πιστούς, ‘loyal’. The πίστις of the Jews is a leitmotif in Hekataios, quoted by Josephus in Contra Apionem 2.44: ‘Ptolemy, son of Lagos, had opinions about the Judaean residents in Alexandria similar to those of Alexander. For he entrusted to them the fortresses throughout Egypt, reckoning that they would guard them loyally and nobly’.46 Josephus also informs us that the sons of Onias IV, Chelkias and Ananias, were in charge of all the Ptolemaic army under Kleopatra III, and enjoyed the queen’s trust to the point that Ananias managed to convince her not to attack the Hasmonean state of Alexander Jannaeus in 105 BC, by warning her that if she waged war against him, she would have all the Jews against her.47 These passages suggest that Josephus consciously used the term πίστις in the accepted technical sense, to mean that the Ptolemies, from Soter to Philometor, had entrusted to the Jews the command of military garrisons throughout Egypt. The concept of ‘trust’, in sum, is a legal and a political concept that describes the bond between the monarch and his military generals. A few chapters later in Contra Apionem Josephus states that in the Ptolemaic period the Jews had the command of the ‘custody of the river’, and even of the ‘custody’ of the entire country. The text of this section has not come down to us in the original Greek, so we have to rely on a Latin version: maximam vero eis fidem olim a regibus datam conservaverunt, id est fluminis custodiam totiusque custodiae nequaquam his rebus indignos esse iudicantes, ‘but they [sc. The Roman emperors] have preserved the greatest token of trust, granted them long ago by the kings, namely the custody of the river, judging them to be in no respect unworthy in these matters of the entire custody’.48 Most scholars have regarded this passage as corrupt, however, the kernel of it may become intelligible.49 As concerns the phrase fluminis custodia, this is a clear Latin translation of the Ptolemaic bureaucratic term ποταµοφυλακία, the ‘river-police’ that controlled the transport of corn to Alexandria, an institution often documented in Ptolemaic papyri, as shown

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Livia Capponi in the recent study by Thomas Kruse.50 Jews policing the Nile are also amply documented, for instance in P.Phrur.Diosk., the archive of the phrourarchos Dioskourides, chief of the garrison of Herakleopolis in the years between 154 and 146 BC, perhaps the Dioskourides dioike¯te¯s to whom the kings address two edicts of 156/5, C.Ord.Ptol. 39–40, ordering the creation of a garrison and the settlement of Jewish soldiers at Herakleopolis.51 The life of the Jewish military community of Herakleopolis is documented by another papyrological archive, published recently as P.Polit.Iud.52 This, naturally, does not mean that Josephus did not exaggerate a little, by entrusting the Nile police to Jews alone. As concerns the phrase totiusque custodiae, it could also be correct, if, as is likely, the Latin term custodia translated the Greek bureaucratic term φυλακία, ‘police’. The term totius could refer to the fact that the Jews were, at a certain point in their history, at the head of ‘all’ the police system, at least in Josephus’ embellished narrative.53 The statement that the Jews enjoyed the greatest ﬁdes of the Ptolemies, ﬁnally, is a clear translation of the Greek term πίστις, whose military connotation has been discussed above. To sum up, in this passage Josephus probably wants to reinforce what he had just said earlier in the same work, that in the Ptolemaic period Jews were in command of military garrisons throughout the country, so that one could say that the kings had entrusted the entire kingdom, and all the army, to Jews.

6. Conclusion This paper has tried to investigate the role of the Jews at the court of the Ptolemies, by examining the best known figures of prominent Jews who were members of the court, and has looked at some passages in Josephus’ Contra Apionem that insist on the concept of the great ‘trust’ enjoyed by the Jews under the Ptolemies, to the point that the kings placed their entire kingdom in the Jews’ hands. The first part of the paper has shown that prominent Jews collaborated with the Ptolemies since the time of Ptolemy I Soter when the first Jewish colony was settled in Alexandria and in Egypt. The figures of Ezekias and Mosollamos do not need to be relegated to the realm of fables, and the Josephan narrative taken from Hekataios of Abdera may be more credible than was earlier assumed. The analysis of the ancient sources suggests that the concept of the ‘trust of the Jews’ was a legal and military one, and that it acquired a new importance during the reign of Ptolemy VI Philometor, who entrusted many military garrisons in Egypt to Jewish communities, and appointed the Jews Onias and Dositheos as generals of his army. Josephus’ repeated statements about the trust that the Jews deserved at the court of the Ptolemies, although obviously aiming to embellish Jewish history for apologetic purposes, may

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Deserving the court’s trust: Jews in Ptolemaic Egypt be not entirely unreliable. The questions whether the Jews should enjoy the court’s trust and whether they were loyal to the Ptolemaic kings were weapons in the polemics between Jews and Alexandrians, both in Hellenistic and above all in Roman times, and especially in the world of Josephus, who tried to demonstrate, for his audience in Rome and in the diaspora, that the Jews had always been loyal to the Ptolemies, and, most importantly, that the Ptolemies had always deemed the Jews worthy of the highest respect and maximum tolerance.

Acknowledgements I wish to thank the editors for their invitation and advice.

Notes 1 Joseph. AJ 14.117–18 (Strabo BNJ 91 F7). Translation by H. L. Jones. 2 Joseph. Ap. 2.49. See below for the translation and discussion by Barclay 2007. 3 Hölbl 2001, 190 defines it a ‘biased exaggeration on the part of Josephus’. 4 Joseph. Ap. 2.64 (I follow the translation and interpretation by Barclay 2007, 204); on this text and the problems associated with it see the end of section 5 below. 5 Barclay 1996, esp. 19–34; Gambetti 2007 and 2009. 6 Capponi 2011. 7 The main sources of this information are the Letter of Aristeas, 13, 36–7, an anonymous work probably written by a Jew in Alexandria in the 2nd century BC (a summary of the scholarship on this work may be found in Capponi 2016), Diodorus Siculus 19.33.7, 19.35.4, and Josephus, Contra Apionem 1.186–9, quoting Hekataios of Abdera. Cf. Hölbl 2001, 189. 8 On Hekataios of Abdera see Bar-Kochva 1996. 9 Translation adapted from Barclay 2007. The MS reads διαφοράν but this is perhaps a scribal error for διασποράν, hence the translation ‘dispersal’ here, see Capponi 2011, especially 260–1. 10 According to Joseph. AJ 11.297, 302–3, 347, the high priests in the late Persian age and in the times of Alexander were Johanan, Iaddous (Jadduas) and Onias, and in Contra Apionem 1.31–6 Josephus states that the pedigree of priestly families was registered in public archives and was used in matters such as marriage – he himself used it, as stated in Vita 6. AJ 20.227 ff. offers a list of high priests up to AD 70. According to Bar-Kochva 1996, 84 there is no way to include Ezekias in the list of the high priests of Jerusalem, and it is very unlikely that Josephus got this list wrong. On the high priesthood, cf. VanderKam 2004, Brutti 2005. 11 Stern 1974, 40–1; contra: Bar-Kochva 1996, 84 and VanderKam 2004, 118, who argue that the generic usage of archiereus is definitely post-Hellenistic. We find the title archiereus with no article in the Letter of Aristeas (§§35, 41), which surely dates from the Hellenistic period, see n. 6 above. 12 Sellers 1933, 73–4. Mildenberg 1979, 183–96 with pls. 21 f. believed that the Ezekias featuring on the coin was a governor of Yehud who ruled in the Persian period.

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13 VanderKam 2004, 117, Stern 1974, 40, cf. Schürer 1997, 2.342 f., 347 ff. Bar- Kochva 1996, 79–91. 14 Gauger 1982, 45, cf. VanderKam 2004, 117. 15 Cf. the description of the high priest in Leviticus 21:10 ‘the priest who is exalted above his fellows’ or Hekataios’ phrase ‘whichever priest is regarded as superior to his colleagues’ in Diod. 40.3, 5 f.; see also VanderKam 2004, 119 f. 16 On the usage of this term in Ptolemaic letters of recommendation, see for instance PMichZen 1.82r.3 = PCairZen 4.59590, where Harmodius writes to Zenon to recommend Antilochos ‘[who is handing you this letter is a relative of ours], and he has sailed up the river to your place [- - -]. You will do me a favour by receiving [him...’ On documentary letters of recommendation in Latin, cf. Cotton 1981. 17 Letter of Aristeas 37: εἴς τε τὸ στράτευµα τοὺς ἀκµαιοτάτους ταῖς ἡλικίαις τετάχαµεν, τοὺς δὲ δυναµένους καὶ περὶ ἡµᾶς εἶναι, τῆς περὶ τὴν αὐλὴν πίστεως ἀξίους, ἐπὶ χρειῶν καθεστάκαµεν. 18 On the creation of the first Jewish community at Alexandria under Ptolemy I Soter, see Gambetti 2007. See also Gambetti 2009. A résumé of the scholarly debate whether Hekataios should be called ‘Pseudo-Hekataios’ may be found in Capponi 2011. 19 Joseph. Ap. 1.200–4. Bar-Kochva 1996, 57–71 believes that it is a Jewish fabrication; cf. Barclay 2007, 339 for a survey of the earlier scholarship. On the ancient commonplace about the Jews being superstitious, but not really religious, see for instance Tac. Hist. 5.13. 20 Translation by Bar-Kochva 1996, 53. 21 Bar-Kochva 1996, 61. 22 Joseph. Ap. 1.200 f. and 205. 23 On these variations of the Hebrew name Meshullam, see Barclay 2007, 116. 24 Hekataios is quoted by the Letter of Aristeas 31 as a connoisseur, and a defender, of the Jews in Egypt. 25 Motzo 1924, 183–8, Garbini 1998 and 2000. Garbini 2000 focuses on the source of Joseph. AJ 12.257–64 on the Samaritans, on the story of Onias in Egypt (12.383–8) and on Alkimos (12.398–401) and argues that it was a priestly source, interested in the problem of the succession of the high priests and on the popular election of Judas to the high priesthood after Alkimos (12.414). For a complete discussion of Eupolemos with earlier literature see Troiani 1997. 26 Garbini 2000, 378 first suggested that the story was misplaced. On the interpretation of this episode, see also Capponi 2016. 27 Cf. Mooren 1977. 28 3 Macc. 1.3 ∆οσίθεος ὁ ∆ριµύλου...τὸ γένος Ιουδαῖος, ὕστερον δὲ µεταβαλὼν τὰ νόµιµα καὶ τῶν πατρίων δογµάτων ἀπηλλοτριωµένος. 29 Polyb. 5.81. 30 The document contains two certificates given by persons responsible for the cargo of various Nile boats that they had discharged in Alexandria: ‘Klearchos, supercargo and guard, which we discharged at the Serapeum in Rhakotis. Berenike’s barge, carrying capacity 200, Herakleides master on board; lighter of Dositheos and Dionysios, carrying capacity 200, Achilleus pilot on board. Discharge at the garden of Simaristos [unidentified location in Alexandria]’. 31 On Dositheos cf. also PHib 1 p. 376; PHib 1.90.2; PDemBerl 3096 Tusitus son of

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Tripirus; PPetrie 3.21.1–3. PP I 8; III 5100; VIII 8; IX 5100; X E 890; Hauben 1979, 167–70. 32 Mélèze-Modrzejewski 2008. 33 Willrich 1895, 131 ff. argued that the whole story was a Jewish fabrication, and this line has reappeared in Johnson 2004, 195–6. However, whether or not he had saved the king, it is now clear from numerous documentary sources that Dositheos son of Drimylos was a historical figure, and a prominent Jew at the court of both Ptolemy III and Ptolemy IV. 34 Joseph. Ap. 2.49–56. 35 Translation by Barclay 2007, 196. 36 Joseph. Ap. 2.49. Translation by Barclay 2007, 196. 37 As was suggested by Barclay 2007, 198. 38 Joseph. Ap. 2.85 and 115. According to Barclay 2007, 196 n. 169 a link could be made ‘to the purposed worship of the head of an ass in the Jerusalem temple’ mentioned at Ap. 2.80. On the polemic and apologetic methods of writing in the Contra Apionem, see Kasher 1996. 39 I am summarizing the main argument of Capponi 2007. For the letter of Onias to Philometor, Joseph. AJ 13.65–73 and Capponi 2007, 51. The sixth Syrian War took place around 170/69 BC: see Hölbl 2001, 144–8. 40 On the embassy of 161 BC, cf. 1 Macc. 8.1–32 and independent evidence in Joseph. Ant. 14.233. Cf. also 2 Macc. 11.34–8 on the humiliation that Rome inflicted on the regime of Antiochos: the Roman emissaries Q. Memmius and Titus Manius sent a letter to the people of the Jews negotiating the abrogation of the Syrian decrees against Judaism after Judas’ victory over the Seleucid army at Beth Zur in spring 164 according to Schwartz 2008, 392 ff. Cf. also Polyb. 21.42, Livy 38.38. On various Roman delegations in the East in this period, see Broughton 1951, 438–41, Gruen 1984, 2.745–57 on the Roman response in 164–161 BC. 41 On Lucius Thermus’ interventions in favour of Ptolemy Physcon, cf. Joseph. C.Ap. 2.49–56; Polyb. 33.11. On the diplomatic relationships between Philometor’s Egypt and Rome in the years after the peace of Apamaea, see Hölbl 2001, 143–8. 42 Hölbl 2001, 190. 43 Porph. FGrH 260 F49, Polyb. 28.20.5–21.1. Pros. Ptol. VI.14602, 14612. 44 Diod. Sic. 31.18.2 ‘Ptolemy, the king of Egypt, having been driven from the kingdom by his own brother, repaired to Rome in the miserable garb of a commoner, accompanied by but one eunuch and three slaves. Discovering while still on the way the address of Demetrios the topographer, he sought him out and lodged with him, a man whom he had often entertained when he was resident in Alexandria; now, because rents at Rome were so high, he was living in a small and altogether shabby garret’ (transl. F. R. Walton). Cf. also Val. Max. 5.1.1 f., Livy Per. 46 summarizes the happy ending of the story: Ptolemaeus Aegypti rex, pulsus regno a minore fratre missis ad eum legatis restitutus est. 45 2 Macc. 1.1–9. Although the letter is often regarded as a fake, it should be truthful when referring to Aristoboulos as the royal teacher in 164, because these notions could be easily verified by the Jewish diaspora audience of 2 Maccabees. See Schwartz 2008, 3–15 for a summary of the subject, purpose and date of the introductory letters in 2 Macc. On Aristoboulos, see Capponi 2010. 46 Transl. Barclay 2007, 193.

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47 Strabo quoted by Joseph. AJ 13.286 f. Cf. also 13.349 and 351, where Josephus states that he took this information from Strabo and Timagenes of Alexandria. On Ananias, AJ 13.354f. Cf. also AJ 12.8, 45 and 3 Macc. 6.25 on the loyalty of the Jews. 48 C.Ap. 2.64. I have reported the translation by Barclay 2007, 204. 49 Barclay 2007, 204 n. 226 with reference to earlier scholars. 50 On the river police, see Kruse 2013. 51 PPhrurDiosk 1–7–8 mentioning Iason son of Iason, Ioudaios, at Herakleopolis on 16.10.154 BC. On the military function of the Jewish settlement in Egypt under Philometor, cf. also Barclay 1996, 36 ff., Capponi 2007, 91–5. 52 PPolitIud Einleitung. Cf. also CPJ 1.53 n.14 and Horbury and Noy 1992, no. 22 on Judaean presence at Schedia, an important port near Alexandria, and Joseph. BJ 1.175 on Jews policing the Nile in 55 BC. 53 Boysen 1898. On the importance of φυλακία and φύλακες in Ptolemaic Egypt, cf. Thompson 1997 and see the second volume of the Prosopographia Ptolemaica (Pros. Ptol. II).

Bibliography Barclay, J. M. G. 1996 Jews in the Mediterranean Diaspora: From Alexander to Trajan (323 BCE–117 CE), Edinburgh. 2007 Flavius Josephus. Translation and Commentary, vol. 10: Against Apion, Leiden. Bar-Kochva, B. 1996 Pseudo-Hecataeus, ‘On the Jews’: Legitimizing the Jewish Diaspora, Berkeley. Boysen, C. 1898 Corpus Scriptorum Ecclesiasticum Latinorum, vol. 37. Broughton, T. R. S. 1951 The Magistrates of the Roman Republic, New York. Brutti, M. 2005 L’evoluzione del sommo sacerdozio in età pre-asmonaica (301–152 a.C.), Leiden. Capponi, L. 2005 ‘Ecateo di Abdera e la prima katoikia di Giudei in Egitto (Giuseppe, Contra Apionem, I 186–9)’, Materia Giudaica 10, 233–40. 2007 Il tempio di Leontopoli in Egitto. Identità politica e religiosa dei Giudei di Onia (ca. 150 a.C.–73 d.C.), Pisa. 2010 ‘Aristoboulos and the Hieros Logos of the Egyptian Jews’, Proceedings of the Twenty-Fifth International Congress of Papyrology, Ann Arbor 2007, American Studies in Papyrology, Ann Arbor, 109–120. 2011 ‘Hecataeus of Abdera and a new conjecture in Josephus, Contra Apionem 1.189’, Histos 5 , 247–65. 2016 ‘The king in the symposium scene of the Letter of Aristeas’, Athenaeum 104, 31– 49. Cotton, H. M. 1981 Documentary Letters of Recommendation from the Roman Empire, Königstein. Gambetti, S. 2007 ‘The Jewish community of Alexandria: the origins’, in L. Troiani and

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S. Gambetti (eds), Jews in the Greco-Roman World: Historical and literary aspects, Henoch 29/2, 213–40. 2009 The Alexandrian Riots of 38–41 CE and the Persecution of the Jews. A Historical Reconstruction, Leiden. Garbini, G. 1998 ‘Eupolemo storico giudeo’, Rend. Mor. Acc. Linc. 9, 613–34. 2000 ‘Eupolemo e Flavio Giuseppe’, Rend. Mor. Acc. Linc. 11, 367–82. Gauger, J.-D. 1982 ‘Zitate in der jüdischen Apologetik und die Autentizität der Hekataios- Passagen bei Flavius Josephus und in Ps.-Aristeas Brief’, Journal for the Study of Judaism 13, 6–46. Gruen, E. S. 1984 The Hellenistic World and the Coming of Rome, Berkeley. Hauben, H. 1979 ‘A Jewish shipowner in third-century Ptolemaic Egypt’, Ancient Society 10, 167–70. Horbury, W. and Noy, D. 1992 Jewish Inscriptions from Graeco-Roman Egypt. With an index of the Jewish inscriptions of Egypt and Cyrenaica, Cambridge. Hölbl, G. 2001 A History of the Ptolemaic Empire, London. Johnson, S. R. 2004 Historical Fictions and Hellenistic Jewish Identity: Third Maccabees in its cultural context, Berkeley. Kasher, A. 1996 ‘Polemic and apologetic methods of writing in Contra Apionem’, in L. H. Feldman and J. R. Levison (eds), Josephus’ Contra Apionem: Studies in its character and context with a Latin concordance to the portion missing in Greek, Leiden, 143–86. Kruse, T. 2013 ‘The Nile police in the Ptolemaic period’, in K. Buraselis, M. Stefanou, D. J. Thompson (eds), The Ptolemies, the Sea, and the Nile. Studies in Waterborne Power, Cambridge, 172–84. Mélèze-Modrzejewski, J. 2008 La Bible d’Alexandrie, LXX, 15.3. Troisième livre des Maccabées, Paris. Mildenberg, L. 1979 ‘Yehud: a preliminary study of the provincial coinage of Judaea’, in O. Mørkholm and N. M. Waggoner (eds), Greek Numismatics and Archaeology: Essays in honor of Margaret Thompson, Wetteren, 183–96. Mooren, L. 1977 La hiérarchie de cour ptolémaique: contribution à l’étude des institutions, Leuven. Motzo, B. R. 1924 Saggi di Storia e Letteratura giudeo-ellenistica, Florence. Schürer, E. 1997 Storia del Popolo Giudaico al tempo di Gesù Cristo (175 a.C.–135 d.C.), edited by G. Vermes, F. Millar, M. Black, Italian edition by O. Soffritti, Brescia.

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Schwartz, D. R. 2008 2 Maccabees, Berlin-New York. Sellers, O. R. 1933 The Citadel of Beth Zur, Philadelphia. Stern, M. 1974 Greek and Latin Authors on Jews and Judaism, vol. 1, Jerusalem. Thompson, D.J. 1997 ‘Policing the Ptolemaic countryside’, Akten des 21. Internationalen Papyrologen- kongresses, Berlin 1995, 961–6. Troiani, L. 1997 ‘Letteratura giudaica di lingua greca’, in P. Sacchi (ed.), Apocriﬁ dell’Antico Testamento, vol. 5, Brescia, 85–95. VanderKam, J. C. 2004 From Joshua to Caiaphas: High Priests after the Exile, Minneapolis. Willrich, H. 1895 Juden und Griechen vor der makkabäischen Erhebung, Göttingen.

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PARTVI

DISLOYALTYANDDEATH

MISCONDUCTANDDISLOYALTYINTHE SELEUCIDCOURT

Peter Franz Mittag

In 223 BC after a short reign of about two and a half years Seleukos III was murdered by members of his own court. That was the worst-case scenario every Hellenistic king feared. Appian mentions the event with revealing words: ‘As Seleukos was sickly and poor and unable to command the obedience of the army, he was poisoned by a court conspiracy after reigning only two years’.1 Seleukos III apparently did not fulfil what was expected of a king as formulated in the well-known lemma ‘basileia’ in the Suda: ‘Neither nature nor just behaviour gives kingdoms to men but the ability to lead an army and to handle political affairs in a sound way’.2 The king depended on a reliable relationship between himself and his court,3 but different expectations and changing degrees of dependence easily led to potential conflicts. In some cases negotiations started when the philoi’s expectations were not fulfilled.4 But if these negotiations did not solve the problem or never took place at all, then the relationship could collapse. In this chapter I will be focusing on this negative side of the relationship, because it can offer some insight into the workings of the Seleucid court. Many positive aspects such as the court-titles, the origin of the courtiers, the role of the basilikoi paides (royal pages) and others have been treated extensively over the last few years but – as far as I can see – the negative side has been largely neglected.5 The chapter is divided into two main parts; the first collects the known examples of what we might call ‘incorrect behaviour’, the second aims to draw some conclusions from these examples.

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1. Misconduct at court Some of the following examples will deal with members of the royal administration who might not be classified as court members in a very strict sense. But as the same personnel sometimes formed the inner circle around the king and at other times took over important military, administrative or diplomatic duties, it might be excusable to include here those high ranking philoi who happened to be part of the court only for a short time. Gregor Weber distinguishes between the inner court-circle (king, his family, Hofaristokratie and personal) and outer court-circle (guests, foreign envoys, officials with temporary presence at the court), but as he himself remarks the two groups are not totally separated (‘nicht hermetisch gegeneinander abgeschlossen’).6 Well-documented examples are satraps who sometimes did not stay in their satrapy but at the court.7 The above-mentioned assassination of Seleukos III was one of the first recorded cases of disobedience at the Seleucid court – and it was the worst case. Not every conflict escalated in this way and the degrees of disobedience varied. Our patchy sources often hide the real reasons, the single steps that led to the king’s murder or other forms of open disobedience. To gain a better understanding of the underlying mechanisms, it seems helpful to start with modest forms of incorrect behaviour and proceed to situations that put the king at increasing risk. Presumably the most common and least problematic form of incorrect behaviour was the result of the structural disadvantages of the very thin (and economical) Seleucid administration. The courtiers (and other philoi ) who controlled the access to the king or were able to make decisions in the name of the king could use this ability for private advantages – especially financial advantages. These are the modest forms of incorrect behaviour that our sources reveal, and I would like to start with them. a) Bribery There are at least three cases of bribery recorded at the Seleucid court. (i) The first courtier known to have been bribed was Andronikos who was left in charge at Antiocheia when Antiochos IV subdued Tarsos and Mallos in 171/0 BC. Andronikos was bribed by Menelaos, the high priest at Jerusalem, with golden vessels.8 Menelaos had been called to Antiocheia by the king because he was behind with the annual payments. While there he also used the visit as an opportunity to get rid of Onias, one of his predecessors, who had taken sanctuary at Daphne, where he is said to have been killed by the same Andronikos. (ii) Later on, Menelaos was charged before the king but Menelaos bribed Ptolemaios, the governor of Koile- Syria, who joined the moving court at that time. Menelaos was acquitted

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Misconduct and disloyalty in the Seleucid court and his accusers sentenced to death.9 (iii) A few years later Ammonios, the ‘chief minister’ of Alexander I Balas received a gift of 300 talents from the Aradians to surrender the city of Marathos on the Phoenician mainland.10 The reasons for these cases of bribery obviously differ, but the consequences are not easy to determine from the available evidence. While there is no clear evidence of punishment, it cannot be ruled out in some cases and may have depended on the purpose of the bribe. Andronikos was, according to Diodorus, murdered because he killed the king’s nephew, although it is possible that his bribery and murder of Onias were reasons as well.11 Ptolemaios was left in his position without any penalty. In the case of Ammonios his fate is unknown. The practice of bribery may have been more acceptable in some cases than others and consequently philoi could for the most part look to it as a safe income with little or no effect on their standing with the king. b) Desertion As far as I can see, there is only one recorded case of a courtier deserting the king on the battlefield. In 129 BC Antiochos VII had led a successful campaign against the Parthians but during the next winter session Phraates II was able to organize a counter strike. During the battle that followed one of Antiochos’ strate¯goi named Athenaios left the battlefield and fled. According to Diodorus Athenaios, the general of Antiochos, who in billeting his soldiers had done many wrongs, was the first to take flight. But although he abandoned Antiochos, he met the end he deserved, for when in his flight he reached certain villages that he had mistreated in connection with quartering his men, no one would admit him to his home or share food with him, and he roamed the countryside until he perished of starvation.12 It is very probable that Athenaios was one of the king’s friends who during the meeting before the battle pleaded with the king not to fight because the Parthian troops outnumbered the Seleucid army and the enemy was familiar with the rough countryside.13 The desertion therefore took place in a militarily difficult or – as it turned out – hopeless situation. There seems to be no other known case of desertion of court members. c) Defection Among the best-documented cases in Hellenistic times is the defection of Theodotos, the Ptolemaic governor of Syria and Phoenicia, who in 219 BC changed to the side of Antiochos III.14 But there are defections of Seleucid philoi as well. We have to distinguish between three situations: (i) defection

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Peter Franz Mittag to a foreign king, (ii) defection to a rival king within the Seleucid house and (iii) defection to independence. There seem to be only two cases of defection to a foreign king. The first example is Sophron, the commander at Ephesos who handed over the city to Ptolemy III in 246 at the beginning of the Laodicean War (also called the Third Syrian War). The circumstances are not all clear. There is only a love- story told by Phylarchos about Sophron and one of Laodike’s attendants, Danaë.15 When Laodike wanted to kill Sophron Danaë disclosed the plot and warned him. But there might have been more to this than love between Danaë and Sophron. Phylarchos does not explain why Laodike wanted to kill Sophron. While Danaë was a member of Laodike’s court, Sophron might have been a courtier of Antiochos II or Laodike for some time as well. If he belonged to Antiochos’ court he might have felt ties to Berenike, Antiochos’ second wife – and that might explain his conflict with Laodike, his flight to Ephesos and the handing over of the city to Ptolemy III. The second example is Themistokles, Achaios’ strate¯gos of Mysia, who surrendered the garrison of the ‘Two Walls’ to Attalos I during his war against Achaios.16 A few years later he changed sides again and supported Antiochos III.17 Whether he was ever a member of the court of Achaios, Attalos or Antiochos in a strict sense is not clear. In both cases we have a war situation and local commanders who changed sides without fighting. Since we do not know what kind of negotiations might have taken place beforehand, detailed interpretation is difficult. Despite the fact that during the last decades of the Seleucid kingdom usually more than one king was struggling for power, there are few recorded cases of defection by courtiers to a rival Seleucid king. In fact, there are only two examples which fit more or less into this category. To start with the first case: Melankomas, Achaios’ commander at Ephesos, betrayed his master and joined the plot that led to the capture of Achaios by Antiochos III.18 During the last phase of the war Achaios was besieged at Sardis and the fall of this stronghold seemed to be a question of time. The reason for Melankomas’ defection therefore might have been his hope of gaining a better position at the victor’s court. But the most important question here is: was Melankomas really a philos? As commander of Ephesos he might have been so, but there is no direct evidence. The second case concerns the important family of Apollonios, son of Menestheus. His three sons (Apollonios, Meleagros and Menestheus) left the court of Antiochos IV at an unknown date. Later on they went to Rome to help Demetrios I during his escape from Italy.19 The younger Apollonios seems 20 to have been a foster-brother (σύντροφος) of Demetrios and that might explain the strong ties between them. But these strong ties did not hinder

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Misconduct and disloyalty in the Seleucid court the family from playing an important role during the early years of the reign of Antiochos IV, who had gained the Seleucid throne after the death of Demetrios’ father. Despite the fact that Polybius relates that the older Apollonios left Syria and went to Miletos after the accession of Antiochos IV, he is known to have undertaken two diplomatic missions for that king in the late 170s.21 Furthermore, his son Meleagros went to Rome as an ambassador of Antiochos IV after the beginning of the sixth Syrian war and again to Rome and Greece after the first campaign of the same war.22 Why and when Meleagros and his brothers went to Rome to support Demetrios is not clear.23 All other recorded cases of defection to a rival king do not affect court members. The earlier Seleucid kings were engaged in an almost constant struggle to keep the distant regions of their empire together. Phases of weakness favoured the breaking away of single satrapies. I just want to mention Pergamon in the west of the Seleucid realm (Philetairos and his successors), Bactria in the east (Diodotos I), Armenia and Kommagene in the north (Xerxes of Armosata, Artaxias and Ptolemaios) and Messene as well as Persis in the south (Hyspaosines and Vabarz). All attempts to regain these areas sooner or later failed. These negative developments at the fringes of the empire did not concern members of the court, because the local satraps involved seem never to have been part of the court at any time. It is different with defections of central areas. The philoi involved here were high-ranking members of the court who were trusted with important administrative or military duties. Just as with the movements to independence at the fringes of the kingdom, the normal inducement for defections at the centre of the empire was the weakness of the king. But in addition we find personal reasons as well. That was the case with the defection of Molon in Media (accompanied by his brother Alexandros in the Persis) in 222 BC against the young Antiochos III. According to Polybius both despised the king on account of his youth and feared Antiochos’ ‘chancellor’ Hermeias.24 Sixty years later (162 BC) Timarchos tried to create his own kingdom after the violent accession of Demetrios I because he did not accept his rule25 and Diodotos/Tryphon did exactly the same after Demetrios II had killed Alexandros I Balas and dismissed the katoikoi (military colonists) (145 BC).26 Tryphon was a high ranking general with excellent contacts to these katoikoi that formed the core of his usurpation.27 He not only used their hatred against Demetrios II but might have felt close ties to the house of Alexander I Balas as well. At first he ruled in the name of Alexander’s son but after his death he established a new kingdom. In all three cases the usurpers were important philoi of recently deceased or overthrown kings

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Peter Franz Mittag who especially in the two later cases felt closer ties and loyalty with the direct family of the dead king. d) Conspiracy Conspiracies at the court are another worst-case scenario. They must have quite often been a problem at accessions – such as the defections mentioned in the previous section. The new king could prefer his personal friends instead of the predecessor’s philoi and for that reason the friends of the former king had to face new constellations. Philoi of the old king would especially have to fear social and political depreciation if the new king had been a rival of the old. As long as the new king was ambitious and capable he could be master of the situation. But what happened when the new king was perceived to be weak? The best-documented and best-known example is the situation at the accession of Antiochos III. The court at that moment was dominated by the ‘chancellor’ Hermeias. He laid down the political guidelines – and Antiochos III at the beginning of his reign followed them. Most philoi had closer ties to Hermeias than to the king who had ascended the throne unexpectedly. The situation worsened when Hermeias paid the Seleucid soldiers after a failed campaign against the Ptolemies. The loyalty of the philoi as well as of the army seemed to belong to Hermeias – or as 28 Polybius put it: Antiochos ‘was not his own master’ (οὐκ ἦν αὑτοῦ κύριος). Hermeias even was successful in getting rid of one of his rivals, the general Epigenes who was probably the most important general at Antiochos’ court.29 The king himself saw no chance to check Hermeias openly and had him killed secretly with the help of his doctor Apollophanes, who ‘began to be anxious for the king’s safety (ἠγωνία µὲν καὶ περὶ τοῦ βασιλέως)’, and a select group of friends.30 Antiochos acted just in time – but sometimes the philoi were quicker, as the next section demonstrates. e) Assassination Five Seleucid kings died by their philoi’s hands. That is quite a large number and it is astonishing how little information the ancient sources have on these incidents. The ﬁrst victim was Antiochos, the son of Antiochos II and Berenike, who was intended to be the new king after his father’s death. He was assassinated by Gennaios and Ikadion in 246 BC. The position of the assassins is not clear but they seem to have had access to the royal family and therefore might have belonged to the court.31 They obviously supported the rival king Seleukos II during the Laodicean War. The second victim was the latter’s son Seleukos III who – as I mentioned at the beginning of this chapter – was murdered by Apatourios and Nikanor because he proved himself to be incapable (223 BC).32 In 175 BC

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Seleukos IV was killed by his syntrophos and ‘chancellor’ Heliodoros.33 The circumstances and reasons are not too clear. How far Heliodoros’ failure to collect money at Jerusalem was a reason must remain a guess.34 After the assassination Heliodoros took over the regency for the dead king’s young son and successor. Thirty years later Alexander I Balas lost his decisive battle against Demetrios II and was killed by two of his philoi (Heliades and Kasios) after they had changed sides (145 BC). They saw no future on the losing side and tried to switch just in time. Diodorus relates: ‘Alexander, worsted in battle, fled with five hundred of his men to Abae in Arabia, to take refuge with Diokles, the local sheikh, in whose care he had earlier placed his infant son Antiochos. Thereupon Heliades and Kasios, two officers who were with Alexander, entered into secret negotiations for their own safety and voluntarily offered to assassinate Alexander. When Demetrios consented to their terms, they became, not merely traitors to their king, but his murderers. Thus was Alexander put to death by his friends.’35 A short while earlier Ptolemy VI had ended his alliance with Alexander I in favour of Demetrios. According to Josephus this change was due to a plot against him by Alexander’s philos Ammonios, the same who was bribed by the Aradians.36 While we can thus guess some reasons for the assassination of Alexander, who had lost his most important ally and a decisive battle, our sources for the final example only give the name of the murderer. A certain Herakleon is said to have been raised to a high position by Antiochos VIII and not only revolted against him but – according to Josephus – killed the king.37 The date of this event (96 BC?) as well as the reason is a matter of dispute.38 Herakleon may have established his own dominion focused on his native city Beroia,39 but it is not certain if this was the reason for or a consequence of the assassination.

2. Making sense of misconduct There are different levels of incorrect behaviour at the Seleucid court with different reasons and different occasions (see Table 1). In most cases we have information only for the reason or for the occasion – not for both. The main reason for disobedience was very often the king’s weakness, which sometimes led to difﬁcult situations with outstanding philoi such as Hermeias dominating the court. Occasions were often military disasters or in the case of bribery simply the offer being made by others. Only in the case of defection to independence do our sources mention other personal reasons, such as fear or hatred of the ruling king or of members of the court. We might compare the reasons Polybius gives for the defection of Theodotos, the Ptolemaic governor of Syria and Phoenicia, mentioned above:

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Peter Franz Mittag consequence other reasons ? ? nothing ? death death ? nothing dismissed by death end of Achaios son of Seleukos IV? Antiochos III katoikoi Demetrios II and Berenike’s son date reason/occasion 170 Menelaos asked him129 nothing hopeless battle 216/3 war ca. 170 death of Antiochos, nothing 145 145 lost battle of of Media 222 weakness of of Media 162 accession of Demetrios I death (?) supporting 246 rivalry between Seleukos II ? philoi philos position ‘chief in charge’ 171/0 Menelaos asked him killed for strate¯gos Koile-Syria ‘chief minister’strate¯gos 153–145 Aradians asked him ? commander atEphesos strate¯gos 246 war commanderat Ephesos 213 war, nearing strate¯gos strate¯gos ‘chancellor’philoi Laodike ‘chancellor’ 220philoi weakness of Antiochos III death 175 ? high ofﬁcer 96 ? name Andronikos Ptolemaios Makron Ammonios Athenaios Themistokles sons of Apollonios high Timarchos Diodotos/Tryphon high Apatourios and Nikanor membersHeliodoros of the courtHeliades and Kasios 223 weakness of Seleukos III death Hermeias Gennaios and Ikadion Herakleon Philoi to a rival kingof the Seleucid house Melankomas into independence Molon bribery desertion defection to foreign king Sophron conspiracy assassination Table 1: Misconduct of

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Holding the king [Ptolemy IV] in contempt, owing to his debauched life and general conduct and mistrusting the court circles, because after recently rendering important service to Ptolemy in various ways and especially in connection with the first attempt of Antiochos on Koile-Syria, he had not only received no thanks for this but on the contrary had been recalled to Alexandria and had barely escaped with his life.40 Similar events could be imagined taking place at the Seleucid court. Desertion and defection to other kings lead to the question how these former Seleucid philoi were treated by their new kings – or to put it the other way: how Seleucid kings dealt with foreign philoi who changed to the Seleucid side. Deserters often had a bad reputation; Ptolemaios Makron, for example, committed suicide by poison because other members of the court repeatedly reminded the king of Ptolemaios’ treachery in defecting from the Ptolemies to the king’s predecessor Antiochos IV.41 Nonetheless a king had to treat well deserters who came to his court in order to encourage other foreign philoi to join him. So Antiochos III received the Akarnanian Alexander with open arms when he left the Macedonian court. Alexander immediately played an important role in the king’s council because his familiarity with the situation in Greece was of great value to Antiochos. Similarly Demetrios I sought to win over Archias the Ptolemaic governor of Cyprus with 500 talents with unfortunate consequences for Archias.42 If we look at the events in chronological order we can observe clearly distinguishable phases. Apart from the exceptional situation of the Laodicean War, the first real instance of disobedience is the assassination of Seleukos III in 223 and we find a peak between 175 and 145 BC – even though the decrease that follows this could be explained by our patchy sources. An explanation for these developments might be found in changed rules and situations at the court. While earlier there had been a more or less informal situation of pretended parity overseen by a strong king as Gregor Weber has emphasized, around the end of the third century this situation began to change. Individual philoi now became more prominent and a system of court-titles was introduced that reduced the king’s freedom of action.43 I think it is no coincidence that the position of ἐπὶ τῶν πραγµάτων, a phrase that might best be translated as ‘prime minister’ or ‘chancellor’, is found in our sources for the first time at exactly this moment. Although the position itself might be older, it is revealing that those who held it now played a more important role at the court.44 The king initially avoided defining fixed hierarchies or fixed rewards45 and promoted philoi as he thought fit, but changes made since the end of the third century and probably increasing after the death of Antiochos III

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Peter Franz Mittag altered the rules of the game. The Seleucid king lost parts of his monopoly over the distribution of power, wealth and status. Furthermore, if the king was not willing to distribute them in the expected way, then the obedience of his courtiers as well as his own safety was in danger. Then very quickly a situation could arise of die or let die. It is a noteworthy fact that there was only one kind of punishment: the death penalty. Minor offences such as bribery seem not to have been prosecuted at all. But other offences such as desertion, defection and conspiracy were an irreversible breaking-up with the king. There was no way back, and in case of detection the king had to be severe to deter other members of his court from following the same path. That meant, on the other hand, that courtiers who were said to plan a conspiracy or desertion were in the greatest danger. Choosing to alienate oneself irreversibly from the king was thus not lightly done – and taking that path meant you had to be prepared to take the consequences. Archias, the Ptolemaic governor of Cyprus mentioned above, did just that: he ‘purposed to betray Cyprus to Demetrios, but when detected and prosecuted he hanged himself by a rope taken from the curtain on the entrance door’.46 The only way to avoid such an end was to defect or to kill the king – and that takes us full circle to the beginning of this chapter.47

Notes 1 App. Syr. 66 (349); on the use of poison at court see Winder, this volume (for Seleukos III, see section 3). All translations are taken from the Loeb Classical Library. 2 On this see further the opening section of Wallace, this volume. 3 Or as Mooren 1998, 125 formulated: ‘Each needed the other’. 4 As in the case of Aristodikides of Assos who received exactly the land he had asked for from Antiochos I (OGIS 221 = I.Ilion 33 = RC 11) or Nikanor who got rid of all other duties before he took over the arch-priesthood in the Cistauric regions (SEG 37, 1010) or the high priest at Daphne who negotiated with the king before accepting his nomination (OGIS 244). 5 Since the mid 1990s the court has been treated from different points of view: Weber 1997 (stressing the equality between philoi and king); Carsana 1996 (arranged according to areas of responsibility: 1) administration of territories, 2) diplomacy, 3) local administration, 4) army, 5) court); Mooren 1998 (on the role of the synhedrion); Savalli-Lestrade 1998 (esp. on the philoi’s origin); Meißner 2000 (stressing the concurrence between philoi and king); Muccioli 2001 (on the philoi’s role regarding epitheta); Virgilio 2003; Weber 2007 (distinguishing between four phases); Capdetrey 2007, 383–94 (esp. on the origin of the Seleucid philoi); Strootman 2011, 2013 and 2014. 6 Weber 1997, 37 f., see also Carsana 1996, 71–6. 7 Cf. the Gurob Papyrus Col. III, which relates the reception of Ptolemy III at Antioch by the people, local administration and satraps. There is a good discussion of this papyrus by S. Gambetti in Brill’s New Jacoby, FGrH 160.

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8 2 Macc. 4.32–4. 9 2 Macc. 4.43–7. There is another case of bribery within the circle of the court. According to Joseph. AJ 13.280 Epikrates, who was left in command in Judaea together with a certain Kallimandros after Antiochos IX Kyzikenos had left the area, surrendered the city of Skythopolis to Hyrkanos. The story is not entirely clear, because according to Joseph. BJ 1.66 the city of Skythopolis fell much later – and without any bribery. 10 Diod. Sic. 33.5.1 (date uncertain: during his time as chief minister or earlier). 11 Diod. Sic. 30.7.2, John. Ant. fr. 58. 12 Diod. Sic. 34/5.17.2. 13 Diod. Sic. 34/5.16.1. 14 Theodotos: Polyb. 5.40.1–3; see also Ptolemaios Makron who handed over Cyprus to Antiochos IV in 168 BC: 2 Macc. 10.12–13; compare Mooren 1982, 94 f. and Meißner 2000, 15 f. 15 Athen. 13.593c (= Phylarchos FGrH 81 F 24); see also Grainger 2010, 158 and 160 and Cos¸kun 2016, 122–3, 129, and 132. 16 Polyb. 5.77.3: ‘Continuing his march without interruption, he [=Attalos] crossed the Lykos and arrived at the hamlets of Mysia, and thence came to Karseai. Overawing the inhabitants of this town, as well as the garrison of the Two Walls, he got them surrendered to him by Themistokles, who had been, as it happened, left by Achaios in command of this district. Starting thence, and wasting the plain of Apia, he crossed Mount Pelekas and encamped near the river Megistos.’ 17 RC 41, 9, if the reconstruction is correct and it is the same person. 18 Polyb. 8.15.10, 16.1–19.4. 19 Polyb. 31.13.1–3: ‘When the shipmaster had everything ready, and nothing remained except for Demetrios to do his part, he sent Diodoros to Syria to gather information, and to watch the disposition of the people there. His foster-brother Apollonios took part in this expedition; and Demetrios also conﬁded his secret to the two brothers of Apollonios, Meleagros and Menestheus, but to no one else of all his suite, though that was numerous. These three brothers were the sons of the Apollonios who occupied so important a position at the court of Seleukos, but who had removed to Miletos at the accession of Antiochos Epiphanes’. 20 For the term see e.g. Savalli-Lestrade 1998, 383 and her chapter in this volume, section 2. 21 Embassy at the Ptolemaic court: 2 Macc. 4.21; embassy to Rome in 173 BC: Livy 42.6.6. 22 Polyb. 27.19 and 28.1. 23 Compare Herrmann 1987, 175–82 (esp. 176 f.) and Gera 1998, 261–5. 24 Polyb. 5.41.1: ‘These brothers (= Molon and Alexandros), despising the king on account of his youth, and hoping that Achaios would associate himself with them in their design, dreading at the same time the cruelty and malice of Hermeias, who was now at the head of the government, entered on a revolt, attempting to engage the upper satrapies in it’. 25 Diod. Sic. 31.27a: ‘When it became known that the Romans were ill disposed towards Demetrios, not only the other kings but even some of the satraps subject to him regarded his kingship with scant respect. Of these satraps the most outstanding was a certain Timarchos’.

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26 Diod. Sic. 33.4a: ‘A certain Diodotos, also called Tryphon, who stood high in esteem among the king’s “friends”, perceiving the excitement of the masses and their hatred for the prince, revolted from Demetrios, and soon ﬁnding large numbers ready to join him...’ 27 Mittag 2008, 51–3. 28 Polyb. 5.50.5. 29 Polyb. 5.41.4–42.4, 5.50.10–13. 30 Polyb. 5.56.1. On Apollophanes see also Ehling 2002, 51. 31 Hier. in Dan. 11.6; see also Just. Epit. 27.2.1, Val. Max. 9.10 ext. 1 and App. Syr. 65 (345); compare Huß 2001, 340. 32 Cf. Grainger 2014, 212f. 33 App. Syr. 45 (233): ‘Seleukos was assassinated as the result of a conspiracy of a certain Heliodoros, one of the court ofﬁcers.’ 34 2 Macc. 3.4–40. 35 Diod. Sic. 32.9/10. 36 Joseph. AJ 13.110; for Ammonios, see ‘Misconduct’, section 1 above. 37 Athen. 4.153b: ‘And in his account of Herakleon of Beroia, who after King Antiochos (nicknamed Grypos) put him in a prominent position, nearly expelled his benefactor from his kingship, he writes the following...’; Joseph. AJ 13.365: ‘About this same time Antiochos, surnamed Grypos, met death as the victim of a plot formed by Herakleon...’; cf. Ehling 2008, 231. 38 See Hoover 2007, 284–8 and Ehling 2008, 231–3. 39 Strabo 16.2.7 (751) mentions a certain Dionysios, son of Herakleon, who ruled that area in that time. 40 Polyb. 5.40.2–3; for the defection of Theodotos and its relation to the weakness of the Ptolemaic king, Erskine 2013. 41 2 Macc. 10.13. 42 Livy 35.18.1 (in consilio erat); Archias: Polyb. 33.5. 43 Weber 1997, 42: king and philoi ‘stehen in einem...egalitären Verhältnis, das auf reziproker Abhängigkeit und wechselseitigem Nutzen gegründet ist’. This is valid only for the early Hellenistic period. Compare as well Weber 1995, 290. At least when the court titles were introduced egalitarianism no longer existed; compare e.g. Ehling 2002, 43. Meißner 2000 doubts any form of egalitarianism and stresses the contentiousness. 44 On age of post Ehling 1998, 98 and Schmitt 1964, 109 note 4. 45 For the do¯reai see Weber 1997, 67; Wörrle 1978, 207–25; Massar 2004; Capdetrey 2007, 386–8; Mileta 2008, 53–7; Diog. Laert. 2.82, 4.8; Plut. Alex. 15; RC 10–13. 46 Polyb. 33.5.2. 47 Chrubasik 2016’s study of usurpers in the Seleucid empire appeared too late to be taken into account in this chapter.

Bibliography Capdetrey, L. 2007 Le pouvoir séleucide. Territoire, administration, ﬁnances d’un royaume hellénistique (312–129 avant J.-C.), Rennes. Carsana, C. 1996 Le dirigenze cittadine nello stato seleucido, Como.

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Chrubasik, B. 2016 Kings and Usurpers in the Seleukid Empire: The men who would be king, Oxford. Cos¸kun, A. 2016 ‘Laodike I, Berenike Phernophoros, dynastic murders, and the outbreak of the Third Syrian War (253–246 BC)’, in A. Cos¸kun and A. McAuley (eds), Seleukid Royal Women. Creation, Representation and Distortion of Hellenistic Queenship in the Seleukid Empire, Stuttgart, 107–34. Ehling, K. 1998 ‘Der “Reichskanzler” im Seleukidenreich’, Epigraphica Anatolica 30, 97–105. 2002 ‘Gelehrte Freunde der Seleukidenkönige’, in A. Goltz, A. Luther and H. Schlange-Schöningen (eds), Gelehrte in der Antike. Alexander Demandt zum 65.Geburtstag, Cologne, 41–58. 2008 Untersuchungen zur Geschichte der späten Seleukiden (164–63 v. Chr.). Vom Tode des Antiochos IV. bis zur Einrichtung der Provinz Syria unter Pompeius, Stuttgart. Erskine, A. 2013 ‘Polybius and Ptolemaic seapower’, in K. Buraselis, M. Stefanou and D. Thompson (eds), The Ptolemies, the Sea and the Nile: Studies in waterborne power, Cambridge, 82–96. Gera, D. 1998 Judaea and Mediterranean Politics 219 to 161 BCE, Leiden. Grainger, J. D. 2010 The Syrian Wars, Leiden. 2014 The Rise of the Seleucid Empire (323–223 BC). Seleukos I to Seleukos III, Barnsley. Herrmann, P. 1987 ‘Milesier am Seleukidenhof. Prosopographische Beiträge zur Geschichte Milets im 2.Jhdt. v. Chr.’, Chiron 17, 171–92. Hoover, O. 2007 ‘A revised chronology for the late Seleucids at Antioch (121/0–64 BC)’, Historia 56, 280–301. Huß, W. 2001 Ägypten in hellenistischer Zeit. 332–30 v. Chr., Munich. Massar, N. 2004 ‘Le rôle des richesses dans les relations entre le souverain, la “maison du roi” et les savants de cour: un état des lieux’, in V. Chankowski and F. Duyrat (eds), Topoi, Suppl. 6, 189–211. Meißner, B. 2000 ‘Hofmann und Herrscher. Was es für Griechen hieß, Freund eines Königs zu sein’, Archiv für Kulturgeschichte 82, 1–36. Mileta, C. 2008 Der König und sein Land. Untersuchungen zur Herrschaft der hellenistischen Monarchen über das königliche Gebiet Kleinasiens und seine Bevölkerung, Berlin. Mittag, P. F. 2008 ‘Blood and money. On the loyalty of the Seleucid army’, Electrum 14, 47–56. Mooren, L. 1982 ‘Korruption in der hellenistischen Führungsschicht’, in W. Schuller (ed.), Korruption im Altertum. Konstanzer Symposium Oktober 1979, Munich, 93–101.

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1998 ‘Kings and courtiers. Political decision-making in the Hellenistic states’, in W. Schuller (ed.), Politische Theorie und Praxis im Altertum, Darmstadt, 122– 34. Muccioli, F. 2001 ‘La scelta delle titolature dei Seleucidi: Il ruolo dei philoi e delle classi dirigenti cittadine’, Simblos. Scritti di storia antica 3, 295–318. Savalli-Lestrade, I. 1998 Les philoi royaux dans l’Asie hellénistique, Geneva. Schmitt, H. H. 1964 Untersuchungen zur Geschichte Antiochos’ des Großen und seiner Zeit, Wiesbaden. Strootman, R. 2011 ‘Hellenistic court society: the Seleukid imperial court under Antiochos the Great, 223–187 BCE’, in J. Duindam, T. Artan, M. Kunt (eds.), Royal Courts in Dynastic States and Empires: A global perspective, Leiden, 63–89. 2013 ‘Dynastic courts of the Hellenistic empires’, in H. Beck (ed.), A Companion to Ancient Greek Government, Chichester, 38–53. 2014 Courts and Elites in the Hellenistic Empires: The Near East after the Achaemenids, c. 330–30 BCE, Edinburgh. Virgilio, B. 2003 Lancia, Diadema e Porpora. Il re e la regalità ellenistica, 2nd ed., Pisa. Weber, G. 1995 ‘Herrscher, Hof und Dichter. Aspekte der Legitimierung und Repräsentation hellenistischer Könige am Beispiel der ersten drei Antigoniden’, Historia 44, 283–316 1997 ‘Interaktion, Repräsentation und Herrschaft. Der Königshof im Hellenismus’, in A. Winterling (ed.), Zwischen ‘Haus’ und ‘Staat’. Antike Höfe im Vergleich, Munich, 27–71. 2007 ‘Die neuen Zentralen. Hauptstädte, Residenzen, Paläste und Höfe’, in G. Weber (ed.), Kulturgeschichte des Hellenismus. Von Alexander dem Großen bis Kleopatra, Stuttgart, 99–117. Wörrle, M. 1988 ‘Epigraphische Forschungen zur Geschichte Lykiens II’, Chiron 8, 202–46.

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‘THEHANDSOFGODS’:POISONINTHE HELLENISTICCOURT

Stephanie J. Winder

The famous Alexandrian medical researcher, Herophilos, called pharmaka (φάρµακα) ‘the hands of gods’ and thereby points to an association of poison (as pharmakon) with absolute power, divine prestige but also with fatal force.1 Tales of its death-dealing capabilities in the royal court constitute the dramatic opening and closing acts of the Hellenistic period. The ancient sources invite us to scrutinise the corpses of Alexander the Great and Kleopatra VII for clues to their secret histories and signs of the unseen poison at work in the closest courtly circles. The Hellenistic courts are so infamous for their many intrigues, conspiracies, and murderous machinations that it has become a common view that poison was a popular weapon for the court assassin. Poison does indeed have a long history of association with monarchy2 and I shall show that the Hellenistic dynasties demonstrated an intense interest in acquiring toxicological knowledge. Obviously, poison has much to recommend its implementation in this context, such as its invisibility, the difficulty in attaching it to a particular agent, and the fact that the agent does not need to be present when it is put into effect. The lack of need for physical strength in administering poison and its secretive, devious nature have also helped to characterize it, in both ancient and modern sources, as typically a woman’s weapon.3 Given this and the prominence of women in every aspect of Hellenistic court life, it is not surprising that there is a popularly held view that particularly female poisoners must have been very active in the numerous court intrigues. In this respect, the Hellenistic courts are seen as behaving rather like the Roman Imperial ones. It is this Roman context which has been the focus of most scholarship on ancient poisoning,4 particularly for the period of the first century BC to first century AD when murder by poison (and the fear of it) is said to have been rife among the Republican power brokers and even more so the Imperial court. However, when we turn to the primary sources for the Hellenistic courts, quite a different picture emerges. They do not often identify poison as the

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Stephanie J. Winder lethal weapon but reserve it for particular purposes and it is more often administered by a male hand than a female one. I shall not attempt to solve the Hellenistic poisoning mysteries; the ‘truth’ in such cases is as inaccessible to us as it was to our ancient sources. Rather, I will set out the association between poison knowledge and royal power and explore the alleged cases of court poisoning to show why and how poison could have functioned as an important tool in Hellenistic court politics.

1. The royal court and poison knowledge Poison is not considered a discrete category of substance but rather, as a pharmakon, it inhabits a murky domain which includes also magical potions, spells, ritual substances, dyes, and drugs as well as medicinal preparations. A pharmakon is something that can act on both the emotional and physical body in positive and negative ways; its nature as poison, charm, drug or medicine can only be determined from the resulting change detected. Indeed, the same substance could act in different ways depending on the dosage and method of delivery; and a substance classed as a pharmakon could also function as, for example, spice, food, and perfume. The term’s fluidity matches the flexibility of the substance and the multivalency of its use.5 The Hellenistic period displays a dramatically increased interest in and knowledge of pharmaka in all senses of the term. Herophilos’ aphorism that ‘drugs are the hands of gods’ attests to their importance in the leading Alexandrian medical school. Poison in particular becomes a focus of scientific research,6 and the new toxicological expertise is very closely associated with the royal courts, beginning with the travelling court of scientists accompanying Alexander’s campaigns that provided a sudden deluge of material for toxicological study.7 The most influential outcome was Theophrastus’ systematic discussion of over 500 plants, a third of which are unattested previously, noting their therapeutic and poisonous potential.8 With the new Hellenistic kingdoms came also a substantial increase in the availability of trade routes and in access to the rich toxic resources and expertise of Egypt, Africa, and the East.9 Nutton notes that there was a 300% increase in known medicinal plants in the period between 400 BC and AD 250,10 and it is likely that most of this took place during the Hellenistic period. Of special importance among the newly increased resources and closer contacts are those of the former Persian territories and India. The Persian court was infamous for its proficiency in poisoning11 and had probably itself learned much from the Indian court, the master of poison use in this period.12 Ancient Indian medical texts give detailed consideration to methods of deliberate poisoning (through food, water, air/gas and objects

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‘The hands of gods’: poison in the Hellenistic court such as clothes and toothpicks).13 The courtly focus is clear from their wide-ranging advice on how to protect the king from poisonous attacks (including how to spot a poisoner). Kautilya’s Arthashastra, written for King Chandragupta (321–297 BC), is a Machiavellian handbook with strict guidelines for court procedure to protect the King from poison (paying particular attention to the dangerous women of the harem),14 and detailed poisoning strategies by which the King may remove seditious courtiers and rivals.15 There is also evidence that the native Indian plants were not only imported by the Hellenistic courts but also cultivated by them. The Edicts of Ashoka (269–232/1 BC) record the King’s decision to disseminate Indian plants across the known world, including ‘where the Greek king Antiochos rules, and among the kings who are neighbours of Antiochos.’16 Although we know that the Hellenistic period was an intensively active period in medical research, including pharmacology and toxicology, little writing has survived. Most of what we know comes from later digests, doxographies and collections of material such as is found in Dioskorides, Pliny the Elder, and Galen.17 These authors cite a plethora of names attached to toxicological activities across the Hellenistic world and throughout the period. Among the most prominent is the Alexandrian Herophilos, who placed great value on his pharmacological work. In fact, it is this subject, rather than anatomy, that became a focus for both his followers and the emerging Empiricist school.18 All the Herophileans are mentioned as having contributed to this branch of knowledge, but especially notable and widely cited are Andreas of Karystos (mid 3rd century BC) on poisons and poisonous animals, Mantias (2nd century BC) on polypharmacy, and Kallimachos (3rd century BC) on toxic wreaths and drugs.19 Among non-Herophileans, there is an even larger range of physicians and scientists involved in the study of poisons and drugs in various ways. Most frequently cited are Apollodoros (3rd century BC) as the first to write specifically on poisons as well as antidotes for poisonous animals,20 Apollophanes of Seleukeia (3rd century BC) on antidotes for animal and plant poisons,21 Zopyros of Alexandria (late 2nd/ early 1st century BC) on antidotes, and Krateuas (1st century BC) in Pontos as the first to write a herbal with illustrations22 and developer of his own version of the universal antidote Mithridatium.23 Two exceptional Hellenistic toxicological works have survived: the poems Theriaka and Alexipharmaka by Nikandros of Kolophon.24 These are typically dated to the late second century/ early first century BC and describe venomous animals and poisonous plants respectively together with antidotes. Scarborough calls them ‘the best cohesive sources for classical toxicology’25 and their impact is clear from the fact that they were extensively cited by later writers on the topic.

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Most of this work is (directly or indirectly) the product of court patronage.26 The systematization and development of all forms of medical knowledge is rightly viewed as a function of royal cultural imperialism,27 and the association of the court with toxicology is particularly close. In addition to patronized institutions, such as the Museum in Alexandria, the courts themselves counted the more prominent pharmacologists and toxicologists among their high status members. Indeed, Strootman has argued that scientists attached to royal centres are more fittingly viewed as philoi, respected courtiers, involved in a reciprocally beneficial relationship.28 To mention just a few: Andreas of Karystos, personal physician to Ptolemy IV Philopator, Dioskorides Phakas at the court of Ptolemy XIII,29 Apollophanes of Seleukeia with Antiochos III,30 Krateuas with Mithridates VI,31 Nikandros with Attalos III and Zopyros, associated both with Mithridates VI and Ptolemy XII.32 Moreover, several rulers themselves engaged in toxicology. Galen quotes poetry on poisons attributed to Antiochos VIII Grypos, and Pliny records an antidote developed by the same king.33 Attalos III was an avid cultivator of poisonous plants and tested his poisons on condemned criminals.34 Scarborough claims that he was a serious research scientist and suggests that Nikandros’ poems draw significantly on his patron’s discoveries.35 Kleopatra VII is represented as having carried out experiments with poisons to find the gentlest form of suicide.36 Similarly, Mithridates VI is said to have tested poisons on criminals and Pliny claims that Mithridates’ own writings on his toxicological experiments were found by Pompey.37 He is credited with inventing various antidotes including a universal one, eponymously called Mithridatium, which quickly became the most sought after antidote.38 There is no doubt that the Hellenistic courts fostered and could draw upon an unprecedentedly high degree of toxicological expertise and a rich pool of increasingly complex poisons and antidotes. We may view this as part of the Hellenistic pursuit of universal knowledge, but the obvious inference, especially given the increasing obsession with antidotes and royal foodtasters,39 is that poison must have emerged as an important device in court politics, and we would justifiably expect its workings to permeate court intrigues. However, here we face two problems in discovering how it functioned. First, the nature of poison is such that (prior to modern forensic techniques) its success usually means that no-one knows or even suspects it has been used, although at times it may have been suspected whether used or not. Second, our sources consequently can only reflect court rumours or a writer’s own supposition. Nonetheless, it is possible to trace some aspects of the political value attached to poison and its role in court dynamics.

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2. Poison knowledge and the performance of royal power ‘The serpent may, without being poisonous, raise high its hood, but the show of terror is enough to frighten people — whether he be venomous or not.’ 40 The ways in which the Hellenistic courts used the acquisition of knowledge in every field as a means to control their domains, to demonstrate that control and to support imperialist aims, are well known.41 Display is a crucial aspect of this project, but what of their knowledge of poisons, whose power lies precisely in the secrecy, the unknown and unseen aspect? Kautilya’s advice to the Indian King included strategies for using poison to deter attacks by inspiring fear in both foreign and palace enemies. Our sources also preserve accounts of what may be a similar use by Hellenistic rulers of the display of poison knowledge as a performance of royal power, and form of court control. Pliny reports just such a story about Kleopatra VII. In the period leading up to the battle of Actium, Antony is said to have become so distrustful of Kleopatra that he refused to consume anything before a foodtaster tested it. Kleopatra’s response was to dip the petals of her head garland secretly in poison and at a late stage of a banquet to drop the flowers into Antony’s wine. As Antony was just about to drink the poisoned wine, she stopped him saying ‘Look, I am the woman, Marcus Antonius, against whom, with your new craze for foodtasters, you are carefully on your guard. Such my lack of opportunity or means to act if I could live without you!’ She gave the wine to a prisoner who died immediately after drinking it.42 In Pliny, Kleopatra’s demonstration of expertise in poison use clearly enacts to Antony her absolute control over his life and death, and the banquet setting (as well as being a topos in such stories) suggests it is viewed as a lesson to the court in general. Mithridates VI’s personal papers, discovered by Pompey, are cited as the source of a slightly different form of performance of power through poison. The king reportedly often put on public demonstrations of his immunity by drinking the most virulent poisons and yet remaining unaffected.43 Mithridates is represented as feeling under constant threat of poison plots and as drinking a personally devised antidote every day in order to build up immunity to every possible poison. Developing immunity is a defensive measure but in this story we see the display of immunity as a proactive measure to contain seditious poison plots within the court. Pliny considers even the nature of the antidote itself to be part of this performance: ‘the Mithridatic antidote is composed of fifty-four ingredients... It is plainly a showy parade of the art, and a colossal boast of science.’44 Both stories depend on the idea that the monarch alone has access to knowledge that provides divine-like power over life and death,

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Stephanie J. Winder and both reflect an understanding of the public demonstration of poison knowledge as a valuable tool in controlling potentially dangerous courtiers and rivals. Performing royal power by dramatising exclusive access to privileged poison knowledge can also be seen in the accounts of royal suicides in the face of inevitable defeat by an enemy. Although suicide by poison is not directly germane to my focus on court dynamics, I discuss it briefly here to support my argument for the multivalency of royal poison use and for its connection with the positive potential in symbolizing royal power. That the use of poison is crucial to the meaning of these suicides is indicated by the common motif of mentioning that the poison used has been kept ready for this very purpose. It represents the superior knowledge that can turn defeat into victory and demonstrates complete control over one’s own destiny as the essence of royal power.45 Aelian preserves a story that the Indian court sent to Persia a prized poison that could provide a pain-free suicide, a poison to which only the Great King and his mother had access.46 As Mithridates VI faced defeat by Pompey, he used such a poison that he always carried with him.47 Kleopatra VII experimented to find the poison that induced death in the most peaceful way, and one account suggests that she carried it in a hair pin for this very purpose.48 Queen Sophonisba’s suicide by means of ‘the poison reserved, in the manner of kings, for the uncertainties of Fortune’49 suggests it is viewed as a characteristically royal practice. The two most famous cases of royal suicide by poison involve the two last great Hellenistic enemies of Rome, Mithridates VI and Kleopatra VII.50 The ancient sources lavish attention on these two iconic moments that mark the end of the Hellenistic kingdoms.51 Mithridates VI, facing inevitable defeat by the Romans, tried to kill himself by poison. He failed because he had so successfully made himself immune and his end came by sword.52 All sources agree that the poison element has emblematic significance. For Dio, Mithridates’ unique death represents his exceptional reign, and the king’s dual status as glorious ruler and yet deadly enemy of Rome is expressed in his double death: ‘in part by poison and in part by the sword he was at the same time murdered by himself and by his enemies.’53 Appian sees both acts as suicide and has the king explicitly claim that they constitute a way to preserve his status as ‘absolute ruler and king for such a long time of so great an empire.’54 But Appian derives another lesson; he compares the poison to which the king had made himself immune with the domestic poison of the treacherous court that caused his death. In so doing, the king’s poison knowledge becomes a symbol both of monarchical power and at the same time of its fatal weakness, the deadly corruption at the heart of its courts.

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Kleopatra VII’s poisoned corpse was found bedecked in full regal attire by her Roman enemies after her carefully orchestrated suicide. In this case, the sources are clear that Kleopatra’s mission was to deprive Octavian of parading her in a triumph, and that she succeeded.55 They are also agreed that the suicide itself enacts her bravery, nobility and specifically royal status.56 However, there is no such modern consensus about the story’s meaning. The range of views spans the entire spectrum from pro-Roman to pro-Greek readings.57 The queen’s poison use is key to how ancient and modern historians understand the significance of this final moment. But the narratives about Kleopatra’s end are unique in their lengthy speculations about what poison was used, how it was administered and what detective processes were carried out.58 The version in which she killed herself by the bite of a poisonous asp is privileged by most ancient sources but, even in this aspect, a proliferation of views about its possible symbolic meaning as an instrument of death (ranging from demonizing to deifying) have been offered since ancient times.59 That the asp version became the dominant one suggests that it was such a slippery and multivalent symbol that it could accommodate the divergent needs of all interested parties. The ancient historians’ dilemma lies primarily in the problem of Kleopatra’s corpse. Dio and Plutarch report that her body was unmarked except for two slight pricks on her arm, yet a widespread ancient (and mistaken) opinion was that a poisoned body would show clear signs. The Queen’s almost immaculate corpse resists the ancient forensic detectives. This inquiry indicates that they were as unsure about the meaning of Kleopatra’s death as we are. Plutarch’s ‘but the truth of the matter no one knows’60 and Dio’s ‘no one knows clearly in what way she died’61 may represent a view that precisely this unknowability may be key. In the secrecy and mystery of her final moments, symbolized by a royal corpse rendered unreadable by means of an unknown and invisible poison, historical narrative cannot capture her any more than Octavian could. There is no more compelling example of the positive way in which poison use in the Hellenistic courts can manifest and symbolize royal power. Though suicide guarantees her autonomy and dignity, it is only this application of ‘the hands of gods’ to the royal body, suicide by untraceable poison, that is capable of encoding her royal, even divine, status and the inalienable freedom it brings. I have been arguing that our sources carry traces of a positive dimension to court poison when in the hands of the monarch, and used for the purposes of performing power to the court or displaying royal status. Of course, poison use more typically carries with it a taint. When a ruler poisons a courtier it is consistently seen as a sign of tyranny (in its negative

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Stephanie J. Winder sense) and, vice versa, when our sources aim to characterize a ruler as a tyrant, poisoned courtiers provide the most eloquent testimony. The last Attalid king, Attalos III, is remembered as one who ran his court as a vicious despot. Diodorus says he was unlike his predecessors in his cruelty and bloodthirstiness,62 and it is poison use that repeatedly appears as the symbol of Attalos’ tyrannical rule. In Lucian’s comic vision of Hellenistic dynastic intrigues, his court is singled out as one that operates by poisoning.63 He is depicted as savagely murderous of suspected court enemies at the beginning of his reign,64 and with a paranoid obsession with poison afterwards.65 Justin describes him as a ruler who had no sign of sanity but was devoted to creating poisons and using them indiscriminately on his court in the form of special presents to his ‘friends’.66 More recent examinations of the Attalids have made persuasive cases to counter this ancient assessment of Attalos III.67 There is no support for Lucian’s claim of parricide by poison and the Attalids were considered exceptional in their harmonious family relationships.68 Pergamon had become a centre of scientiﬁc learning and Attalos’ work on poisons has been considered serious academic research, as indeed Galen himself viewed it.69 Behind this hostile picture may well lie an Attalos who was continuing a long Hellenistic tradition of genuine royal concern with and patronage of serious toxicological study.70 Whether or not he did use poison for court control, it is clear that his reputation has been deliberately blackened and that poison use functions in the narrative as the accusation that can best effect a damnatio memoriae, condemning him as a cruel and degenerate tyrant. What is curious about this condemnation is its source. It is logical to suppose that Roman inﬂuence would dominate the way most narratives were constructed about the succumbing of the last Hellenistic dynasties. But the Attalids in general were the most pro-Roman Hellenistic dynasty, and Attalos III’s will, gifting his kingdom to Rome, could be expected to earn him an esteemed place in the conqueror’s history books. Therefore, it is reasonable to suggest that the image of a depraved tyrant derives from local sources. Rigsby draws attention to an unusual aspect of Attalos’ characterization, that is to Justin’s description of him as a man with no sign of sanity.71 Evidence for his madness is not just his poisoning obsession but his peculiar mixing of toxic substances and harmless ones, a poison Russian roulette. This depiction, Rigsby argues, must derive from an attempt to challenge Attalos’ will on the grounds that it was the act of an insane man, and therefore must stem from a local anti-Roman faction. However, the fact that the sources are unanimous in their depiction of Attalos indicates that the image must have also served the interests of the successful faction

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‘The hands of gods’: poison in the Hellenistic court and their new Roman rulers. From a pro-Roman perspective, it could be used to justify Roman annexation as beneficial and necessary to rescue the kingdom from a degenerate dynasty. As in the case of Kleopatra’s suicide, the multivalency of poison allows it to play the double agent in court propaganda. We may not be able to discover if Attalos used poison or how, but the narratives constructed about it can still reveal an aspect of the dynamics of court factions. From the early part of the Hellenistic period, Philip V of Macedon is the focus of a different form of the tyrant-as-poisoner motif and offers more clues about the workings of court poisoning. Philip has come down to us as the most notorious and prolific poisoner of the period. Pausanias gives what is a widespread view in the sources: ‘At symposia, in the name of courtesy and friendship, he offered for toasts cups filled not with wine but with lethal poisons...to Philip the son of Demetrios poisoning was a most lightly-borne act of daring.’72 This tradition is no doubt influenced by Polybius. Two of the three poison plots in the extant portions of Polybius are assigned to Philip V and six more appear in other sources some of which may rely on Polybius.73 Although conspiracies and assassination plots are numerous and important in Polybius’ account of all Hellenistic court politics, poison is not typically the method chosen or feared. The poison plot motif is deployed as a tool of characterization and is reserved for highlighting Philip’s development into a tyrant in the latter part of his reign.74 The paradigmatic case for Polybius is the murder of the elder Aratos of Sikyon, one of Philip’s most important advisors (214/3 BC).75 Aratos is a Polybian hero, the event is introduced as the damning evidence for Philip’s wanton violence (ἀσέλγεια), and Aratos is given the special honour of a laudatory obituary.76 He is described as belonging to Philip’s closest friends and yet is murdered by a slow-acting poison through the agency of Taurion for disapproving of Philip’s brutal treatment of the Messenians. No other case of poisoning in Polybius is elaborated at such length and it demands that we reflect on the nature, action, and meaning of the poison. In ancient accounts, there are two signs that can point to poisoning: a sudden attack of illness, and marks observed afterwards on the corpse. Neither of these were present in Aratos’ case. He himself was aware he had been poisoned but concealed it from all until a trusted servant asked about a mark on the wall: the blood-filled phlegm that had been coughed up from Aratos’ poisoned body. The blood-filled spit becomes the visible token of a lesson spelled out twice about the type of despotic power Philip wielded. First, Aratos explains that his poisoning represents his wages for friendship with Philip. Then, Polybius repeats Aratos’ evaluation with the added

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Stephanie J. Winder interpretation that Aratos’ silent suffering proclaims his shame and moderation as the opposite to that of Philip in his silent assassination. In Polybius, the poisoning of Aratos is both conclusive evidence of Philip’s development into a tyrant and a contributory factor. It occurs as a result of his brutal treatment of the Messenians, called the first step in his decline: ‘exactly as if from having a taste of human blood, murder and betrayal of allies, he changed not from a man into a wolf, as in the Arcadian tale according to Plato, but from a king into a cruel tyrant.’77 In turn, Polybius is clear that the Messene episode was caused by Philip following the bad advice of Demetrios of Pharos rather than the wise counsel of Aratos.78 This of course is a familiar motif from near-eastern historiography, already represented in Greek by Herodotus, of a ruler’s degeneration after the moderating influence of a good advisor has been removed.On this pattern, the murder of Aratos by itself could denote tyrannical behaviour, but poison enhances this notion in two ways. First, for the Hellenistic period as a whole, poison is not often mentioned as a tool used by courtiers or against courtiers79 but rather by royalty (or their agents) against other royal members. Philip, like Attalos III, uses poison almost exclusively for the removal, not of rivals to the throne, but of dangerous or uncooperative courtiers and politicians. Second, the tradition associates his use of it with banquets and friendship, that is as a violation of the laws of Zeus on hospitality, the cornerstone of Greek ideas about civilized communities. The contemporary poet, Alkaios of Messene, draws parallels between Philip and the barbarous, drunken Centaur, calls him 80 ‘wine-Charon (οἰνοχάρων)’ and speaks of him savouring human flesh like a Kyklops as he poured poison in the wine bowls.81 Plutarch states explicitly the moral condemnation owed to Philip for his poisoning activities: ‘Zeus, guardian of hospitality and friendship, continued to exact grim vengeance on Philip throughout his life.’82 Walbank believes this characterization ‘had a contemporary origin and some basis in fact’ but also that the charge was levelled at him ‘often where we know it to be untrue.’83 The epigrams of Alkaios suggest that it formed the staple ingredient of contemporary anti-Philip propaganda.84 A banquet setting is a common topos for poison stories in all periods but it may also have particular significance for a Macedonian ruler. The Macedonian royal banquet was the main communal arena for the display and negotiation of court status, both for the king with his courtiers and between the courtiers themselves.85 As the site of elite competition it was also the focal point of court anxiety. Further tension for these prestige games came from the need to maintain the fictive equality of the banqueters with its privilege of parrhe¯sia at the same time as ratifying the actual superior authority wielded

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‘The hands of gods’: poison in the Hellenistic court by the king. It is a political tinderbox, and with the addition of the prodigious consumption that was part of the performance, particularly of wine, it is no surprise that banquets reportedly often erupted into violence.86 If the tradition about Philip as ‘wine-Charon’ has any substance to it then it should be viewed in this context. But if performance is crucial to the banquet politicking, why use the most secretive of all weapons? Like the mafia don’s paternal kiss which may be a death sentence, poisoned wine at the banquet allows the king to maintain his beneficent pose and remain distant from the murder itself while at the same time orchestrating a court punishment with a message to all assembled feasters as transparent in meaning as the blood-filled spit on the wall was to Aratos.

3. Poison and succession ‘The more beloved and esteemed he [the prince] was, the more his death excited the suspicion that his father [the king], in the belief that his successor was a threat to his old age, through the agency of certain eunuchs who recommend themselves to kings by their service in such crimes, removed him by poison.’ 87 In the Roman Imperial court, it is in manipulating royal succession and regime change that poison had its highest-profile moments. Livia and Agrippina administering Augustus’ figs and Claudius’ mushrooms are iconic moments in Roman dynastic succession. By contrast, in the Hellenistic courts, there is very little evidence for any actual regime change by poisoning, but far more common are stories involving the removal by poison of co-rulers and rival heirs. In both types, royal women are represented as less involved than their Roman counterparts. Even more rare are cases where the initiative is attributed to seditious courtiers. Several instances of poisoning by courtiers that sometimes appear in modern accounts in fact lack ancient evidence; for example, the alleged poisonings of Seleukos IV by Heliodoros and of Ptolemy IV with his sister-wife Arsinoe III by Agathokleia. Though court ministers act as powerful independent agents in other types of plots, including assassinations, this is not so in poison stories. This suggests again that our sources view it primarily as a royal tool, and as one to be deployed by those already on the throne rather than those seeking to acquire it. The numerous stories about the supposed poisoning of Alexander the Great by a general in his expeditionary court are remarkably exceptional in this respect as in every other way. For example, no other court poisoning is treated with such extensive and elaborate speculation about every detail.88 Whereas the sources are almost always silent about the type of poison used (elsewhere only Kleopatra’s is specified), the substance used to kill Alexander becomes a focus of the Alexander poison narratives. The

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Stephanie J. Winder favourite candidate proposed is suitably arcane and laden with mythological import: the lethal water of the river Styx in Greece that was so corrosive it could only be transported to Asia in a horse’s hoof. That he may have been poisoned by a member of his own court is almost equally unusual in poison narratives. No doubt a unique man was considered to merit a unique end. The popularity of these stories may account for the only two later cases that even slightly suggest courtier-instigated poisoning of a royal figure:89 Ptolemy V90 and Seleukos III Keraunos.91 Both similarly involve the alleged poisoning of a king by mutinous generals who reject the king as military leader. Bevan notes that the cause Appian assigned to Ptolemy’s murder (a rumour that he intended to use up the generals’ wealth in war) was a story also told of Alexander, suggesting that poison may feature here because our sources read mutinies through the filter of Alexander narratives.92 Successful poisoning of a king by a family member is extremely rarely reported, whoever the agent, and in each of the few cases it can be traced back to a highly partisan and hostile source. There is only one possible example of a queen/wife successfully poisoning a king/husband, that of Laodike I, first wife of Antiochos II. Her apparent reinstatement over the king’s second wife, Berenike, sister of Ptolemy III,93 was quickly followed by the deaths of Antiochos I, Berenike and her son, and Berenike’s supporters. Doubtless the sources are correct that the rival royal faction was murdered at the instigation of Laodike, or her son Seleukos II.94 But they are split between the view that Antiochos died naturally95 or was poisoned by a Laodikean agent to ensure Seleukos II’s succession (according to Porphyry).96 Modern historians are doubtful that Laodike engineered the king’s murder97 and see Ptolemaic propaganda (Ptolemy III’s war memoir) at work here in justifying the subsequent third Syrian war, known as ‘Laodike’s war’.98 Even more surprisingly, there is not a single reported case of a king in the main Hellenistic dynasties being poisoned by his son.99 For Sicily, an extremely hostile Diodorus claims (contra e.g. Justin) that Agathokles, tyrant then king, died gruesomely after using a toothpick poisoned on the order of his heir and grandson Archagathos.100 Even then, the final deadly force is fire, not poison. In fact, only the hellenizing Herodian court provides a relevant case, although the source, Josephus, is again a hostile one and the son’s attempt does not succeed.101 At the end of Herod’s reign, the bitter amphimetric disputes between his heirs, their wives and families, and the powerful political factions attached to them, erupted into a bewildering series of poison plots, counter-plots and allegations.102 At the centre was Herod’s son Antipater and his relentless ambition to eliminate his father

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‘The hands of gods’: poison in the Hellenistic court and all potential rivals. The final plot failed when Antipater’s poisoning agent, Herod’s brother Pheroras, died unexpectedly. Allegations that Pheroras had himself been poisoned led to an investigation that exposed Antipater and unearthed no less than three different poisons in play. Josephus’ tale is unlike any other Hellenistic poison narrative; its labyrinthine complexities give prominence to the intrigues of family double-agents, competing wives, love potions, banquets, and mysterious poison experts.103 But it is the exception that proves the general rule that poison is not seen as the weapon of choice for family members to effect regime change. Although our sources are reluctant to imagine poison successfully effecting domestic regime change, they are more willing to see its value on the intra-court level in eliminating foreign rulers in order to facilitate a marriage as a form of annexation. In 247/6 BC, as part of his design to recapture Corinth, Antigonos II Gonatas reportedly engineered the poisoning of its tyrant Alexander.104 Instead of besieging Corinth, he married his heir Demetrios to the tyrant’s widow Nikaia. On the wedding day, he simply entered Acrocorinth and retook control without war. Plutarch is somewhat doubtful that the report is true, but nonetheless it reflects an ancient view of how poison could be understood to function in international court politics. The later history of the Pontic court’s ambitions in Cappadocia is dominated by a series of similar assassinations followed by intra-court marriages. This has been understood as pointing to an underlying Pontic policy of avoiding open hostilities and annexation in favour of a form of indirect control.105 Two assassination stories suggest that this indirect control was to be managed via strategic poisoning and the introduction of Pontic royal brides. Mithridates V married his sister Nysa to Ariarathes V of Cappadocia. Nysa killed five of their six sons by poison, but one was rescued and became king.106 The reason Justin cites for these poisonings is that the queen wanted to keep the ruling power for herself, but it may be that she was paving the way for her brother to take the throne. When the Cappadocians executed the queen, Mithridates VI tried the same strategem as his father. He married his sister Laodike to the sole surviving son, Ariarathes VI, and later had the king assassinated. Justin and Memnon do not mention poison,107 but Plutarch includes this Ariarathes in Mithridates’ written list of his poison victims.108 Justin specifically connects this poison plot with Mithridates’ designs on eventually acquiring the Cappadocian throne for himself. The most common occurrence of poison plots that were related to succession issues concerns not regime change but rather the removal of

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Stephanie J. Winder rival claimants in order to consolidate sole rulership, especially at the beginning of a new reign. This is a tense and perilous period, vulnerable to destabilizing threats from within and without as political alignments are renegotiated. Polygamy, multiple marriages, and intermarriage between Hellenistic courts intensiﬁed the problem by increasing the number of potential rival heirs to the throne. The Hellenistic institutions of joint rulership and regency provided the ideal breeding ground for court factions, elite competition and damning rumours and it is in such situations that the sources are especially willing to see poison plots at work in securing the throne for a single ruler. For example, as regent of Macedon, Kassandros is said to have poisoned Alexander III’s sons to clear the way for declaring himself sole king.109 The Spartan Kleomenes III may have poisoned his new, very young co-ruler Epikleidas in order to make way for his own brother as puppet king, and effectively his own sole rule.110 At the beginning of a reign, the ruler(s)’ siblings are depicted as the key focus of anxiety. In the Epirote court, Pyrrhos claimed that his half- brother and co-ruler Neoptolemos tried to poison him (discussed below). Kleopatra VII may have poisoned her younger brother and co-ruler Ptolemy XIV.111 When there is also a queen mother as regent or co-ruler, our sources typically view her as aligned with the younger or weaker sibling against the older son. A series of murders at the beginning of Ptolemy IV’s reign are assigned to his fear of a faction associated with his co-ruler mother, Berenike II in support of her son, Magas.112 It is sometimes claimed that the murder of Berenike was by poison but the evidence is weak and suggests rather that she committed suicide by poison after being put under house arrest by her son.113 When Mithridates V died, his wife Laodike became regent for the two sons and later joint ruler with Mithridates VI. After repeated plots by Laodike to murder the elder son, Mithridates removed both rivals, his mother and younger brother. Sallust says that his mother was poisoned but refrains from naming Mithridates as the agent.114 A similar scenario characterizes the poisoning of Kleopatra Thea by her elder son Antiochos Grypos (discussed below). Kautilya’s statement that ‘princes like crabs have a notorious tendency of eating up their begetter’ reﬂects the longstanding and widespread notion of the danger that comes from the sons of a dynasty, especially when the ruler is aging.115 As we have seen, poison use in succession rarely characterizes a son’s attempts on the ruler, rather it is most commonly used against a son. In these cases, the poisoned prince is represented as one who was extremely popular and for whom there was perceived to be a dangerous level of support for supplanting the father. Livy provides an instructive example of how and why stories about kings

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‘The hands of gods’: poison in the Hellenistic court poisoning sons function in court politics. Antiochos III was suddenly recalled to court in Ephesos from Apamea when news came that his son and heir, Antiochos, had died, and that there were courtly suspicions that the king had arranged for him to be poisoned.116 Little credence has been given to this story and Livy himself presents it merely as a typical rumour (quoted at the beginning of this section). It is not surprising that the death of a popular prince prompted speculations of foul play, and that its unexpected but non-violent nature indicated poison, but the fact that the king emerged as prime suspect is suggestive. To the question ‘cui bono?’, the prince’s two brothers and their mother (if she favoured one of them) could all beneﬁt more than the king. Thus, of the two alternative motives, fear of losing the throne or desire to gain it, this court understood (or the rumour-mongers could assume they would) an aging king’s fear of a son to be a more likely and compelling motivation than princely rivalry, and a king more likely than rival heirs to risk deploying poison because of a greater need for secrecy to avoid a hostile court reaction to assassination. The king as son-poisoner becomes a viable story only in the context of a court that perceives a popular heir to be its most dangerous member and the locus of competing loyalties. This tale indicates the kinds of circumstances in which a royal poison might be suspected or indeed ones that could be exploited by seditious court factions. The fear and factions generated around a popular heir to an aging king also drive the various accounts of the one political poisoning in the short- lived court of Lysimachos. In 282 BC, Agathokles, the king’s eldest son and favoured heir was killed. All sources agree that this was the result of a court plot; four do not specify the method,117 but two identify poison as involved.118 In explaining this plot, modern historians attribute it primarily to an intense competition between the king’s sons that results in a murderous offensive to secure a claim to the throne, and they favour Arsinoe over her husband Lysimachos as the instigator.119 That Lysimachos should have such a sudden revolution in his attitude to his favoured son is considered improbable by the majority.120 Strabo mentions ‘domestic problems (κακοῖς οἰκείοις)’ as the cause and Ogden has fully explained these as two-generational amphimetric disputes over succession.121 On this view, it is Arsinoe, and her sons, who have most to gain from the murder of Agathokles, Lysimachos’ son from an earlier wife, and it is more likely that the plot arose from her faction.122 In complete contrast, the ancient sources have no doubt that the poisoning of Agathokles was caused by fear of his popularity within the court, and was a defensive act of self-protection. This holds true regardless of whether the instigator is designated as Arsinoe, fearing for what

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Agathokles might do to her sons once he became king, or Lysimachos, represented as fearing for his own life. Again, in contrast to the modern preference to see the plot as Arsinoe’s, only Pausanias’ romanticized story makes Arsinoe solely responsible.123 The remaining sources either assign the plot to Lysimachos alone (Appian, Strabo), or, quite remarkably, see it as a joint enterprise between king and step-mother (Eusebius, Memnon, Justin).124 In fact, it is as a joint scheme that the two poison narratives work: Arsinoe persuaded Lysimachos to poison (Memnon), or vice versa ( Justin). Although the modern view of Arsinoe’s designs on the throne may well be correct, the very different ancient perspectives can illuminate their understanding of court poison use. All the sources consider this event to be one which so critically changes court dynamics that it leads to the end of Lysimachos and prevents a dynasty from being established. Poison use by those in power against the heir marks out the king’s rule as degenerate and debased.125 Even when Arsinoe is seen as the instigator, it is Lysimachos who is the focus of the hostile narrative. Inimical court reaction and the instability it betokens emerge as the prompt for a Seleucid invasion under the pretext of just vengeance for Agathokles.126 Poison is viewed as a high- stakes and high-risk super weapon and as such it marks out the relationship between poisoner and victim as that which is the site of anxiety for the royal court. The fact that, uniquely in poison plots, both king and queen are involved in the poisoning, and that poison is motivated by fear of the heir, highlights the extent to which our sources locate this anxiety in the royal heir’s relationship to the ruling power rather than in the relationship between possible rival heirs. Thus, poison is represented not as a revolutionary force, but as serving the existing hegemonic order. This attitude to poison holds true even in one of the most complex stories of princely rivalry, that between Perseus and Demetrios, the sons of Philip V, which results in another case of son-poisoning by a king.127 Again we have a poisoning originating in an aging king fearing for his position because of the popularity of his son, in this case, his younger son Demetrios.128 Demetrios is universally portrayed as the innocent victim of Perseus’ prolonged machinations to remove him. It should be noted that there are indications that Demetrios may have been involved in counter- manoeuvres,129 and Polybius describes Philip’s anxiety about not knowing which of the two sons he should most fear might murder him.130 There are several factors that parallel Lysimachos’ situation but are addressed more explicitly. The perceived threat from the popular son extends to the king’s other sons, in particular his eldest son, Perseus, who fears losing his own position as heir.131 Here too the danger posed by the popular son is exacerbated by an amphimetric dispute for it is likely that Perseus and

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Demetrios had different mothers.132 Also similar is the fact that Philip’s fear is connected not just with preserving his own status but more wide- rangingly with the survival of his kingdom in the face of external threats. Demetrios represents a pro-Roman faction in the court and it is his popularity and friendship with the Romans that increase Philip’s anxiety.133 Again, a royal poisoning marks the turning point in dynastic fortunes since the poison plot precedes and leads to the collapse of the dynasty when the instability caused by the domestic poisoning leads to war with Rome.134 Unlike Lysimachos’ case, the sons’ rivalry and Perseus’ masterclass in manipulating the king drive the narrative, but nonetheless two further signiﬁcant aspects are consistent in the depiction of court poison use. First, Perseus’ entire strategy is based on exploiting his aging father’s anxieties about Demetrios. The courtiers, quickly realizing that this will be a winning strategy, become involved in exacerbating the king’s fears. Thus, the narrative indicates that, although princely rivalry is the ‘real’ cause of the court’s problems, the motive cause that effects poisoning is the king’s fear of a treasonous son. This poison story thus also highlights an aspect of the rhetoric of court politics in depicting what factors can trigger a king’s most extreme action and use of his ultimate weapon. Second, although Perseus contrives the murder, it is Philip who gives the order and decides upon poison as the method, a means to deceive both Demetrios and the Romans.135 Poison can play a role in ﬁctitious accusations made against a rival heir, as Perseus alleges of Demetrios,136 but again poison is not seen as the tool of the weak in the service of obtaining power but as the super weapon of court management by those in power to maintain their status.137

4. Poison pretexts ‘A sauce-maker [spy] may request of a seditious minister some sauce and sweetmeat by ﬂattering him... Having mixed those two things and half a cup of water with poison, he may substitute those things in the luncheon (of the king). Having made this event known to the public, the king may put them to death under the plea that they are poisoners.’ 138 The key ingredients of one of the most potent poisons used in the royal courts are mere words, that is, the fabricated story accusing another of attempted poisoning. As the period progresses, the political efﬁcacy of the poison accusation is increasingly demonstrated. This involves cases where failed attempts at poisoning are cited as the pretext for retaliatory action or where an accusation that a poisoning is being planned causes the condemnation of the would-be poisoner. In both types, it is the alleged administrant of poison who is the real target and the story invented to serve

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Stephanie J. Winder as a justification for a type of extreme action that would otherwise have provoked condemnation and a hostile court or public reaction.139 This is precisely the strategy adopted by Perseus in accusing Demetrios of trying to poison him. Apart from Perseus, the most explicit example comes from the court of Herod the Great (37 BC–AD 4) during the vicious family struggles to manipulate the line of succession. Josephus tells how Herod’s mother Kypros and sister Salome relentlessly campaigned to oust his wife Mariamne by exploiting the king’s increasingly volatile anger and jealousy. Success was finally achieved through a poison allegation.140 Salome sent to the king his cupbearer with a drink said to be a love potion from Mariamne and a story carefully crafted to arouse his suspicion about the liquid. This is represented as the coup de grâce of the women’s campaign as the cupbearer had been primed for the task since the outset. Mariamne’s eunuch was tortured for testimony and she was subsequently condemned. The story highlights how effective this strategy can be in the hothouse of courtly suspicion. It also indicates how crucial suborned evidence is to a successful outcome. If the tactic is aimed at containing a potentially hostile court response to what is effectively murder, then it works best when it is managed in such a way that there is both corroborating physical evidence (potion) and supporting eyewitness testimony (cupbearer, tortured eunuch). An excess of testimony characterizes what may be the earliest case; it involves the co-rulers at the Epirote court, Pyrrhos and Neoptolemos in 295 BC.141 One of Pyrrhos’ cupbearers informed him that he had been enlisted into a plot by a courtier of Neoptolemos to poison Pyrrhos. The king encouraged him to play along in order to get certain proof and then arranged for his own chief cupbearer to act as additional double agent and witness. A third witness, Neoptolemos’ sister’s maidservant, provided testimony of Neoptolemos’ gleefully guilty involvement to Pyrrhos’ wife. Protected by such a superfluity of evidence, Pyrrhos killed his brother at a banquet. Although the account of a plot is plausible, given that Neoptolemos had been demoted to co-ruler after the return of Pyrrhos, it has all the markings of a story created as a pretext by the side of the eventual winner to justify the elimination of a rival as a defensive action. Indeed, Plutarch’s account ends with the comment that Pyrrhos already had sufficient motivation to eliminate Neoptolemos because of his own ambition and that of his courtiers. His eagerness to acquire as many witnesses as possible and the fact that no less than three report the poison plot point towards a vigorous attempt to legitimize Pyrrhos’ removal of Neoptolemos. The Epirote story is unusual in its early date as the poison allegation is more characteristic of the later Hellenistic period. It has sometimes been believed that an early poison plot by Arsinoe I against Ptolemy II was used

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‘The hands of gods’: poison in the Hellenistic court by Arsinoe II as a pretext to oust her rival queen. However, the evidence for a poison plot is weak and for Arsinoe II’s involvement non-existent.142 Two probable cases come from the Seleucid court during the turbulent years that led to the collapse of the dynasty and which were replete with conspiracies and assassinations as several rival factions vied for control of Syria. They centre on the figure of Antiochos VIII Grypos (125–96) who became known for an interest in the use of poison.143 The two cases involve rival threats to Grypos’ throne: from his mother and co-ruler Kleopatra Thea (121/20) and from his half-brother Antiochos IX Kyzikenos (probably 116 BC). Kleopatra Thea is reported to have offered a poisoned drink to her son, but was forced to drink it herself by a pre-warned Grypos.144 Justin lingers on the mother-son relationship to draw a hostile picture of Kleopatra Thea as a serial court assassin and this attempt on her son as the climax of her murders to acquire royal power for herself. For Appian, the story condemns both mother and son, an emblem of the equally treacherous and ruthless pursuit of power which was consuming the dynasty.145 For both, the mention of poison helps to highlight the degeneracy of the dynasty amidst what Justin calls ‘parricidal conflicts.’146 It is not unlikely that Kleopatra Thea would at this time be plotting to remove her son. Her royal career does indeed show a remarkable flair for court intrigue and the disposal of threats to her increasingly powerful position. She removed Grypos’ brother, Seleukos V, shortly after the death of her husband Demetrios c.126 BC, as Justin understands it, because he assumed the title without her consent147 and evidence suggests that she intended to wield royal power alone.148 As Bellinger reconstructs the order of events, she will have been induced to accept Grypos as joint ruler only because he came with the support of Ptolemy Physkon (in the form of armies and his daughter Tryphaina as wife), to suppress the rival Zabinas (previously installed by the same Physkon). Once that was achieved, she had no need of him and will have had good reason to fear being eclipsed by the Egyptian-backed royal couple. Although our ancient sources attribute the poison initiative to Kleopatra Thea, modern historians have been less convinced. Whitehorne finds the failure incompatible with her previous skill in strategy,149 and indeed the solicitous mother figure offering a refreshing drink after exercise is not in keeping with her character elsewhere nor with probable court practice.150 Ogden notes that Grypos’ association with poison may suggest that he was the more likely candidate for deploying it against his family.151 He could not have been under any illusion that he would be exempt from his mother’s ambitious plans and may well have thought to forestall them with a

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Stephanie J. Winder preemptive strike. The story does contain the two motifs aimed at persuading a court: eyewitness testimony (Grypos’ informant) and supporting evidence (a potion which is proven to be poison). Concern about court and popular reaction to royal deaths and murders is evident throughout the Hellenistic kingdoms but it becomes critical in the turmoil of the civil wars between the last Seleucids. It is entirely possible that our sources reflect a court-promoted version of events in which Grypos can emerge as justified in matricide by poison because he was merely taking defensive retaliation against the mother’s threat.152 The pattern that emerges in these cases suggests that where our sources report failed attempts at poisoning followed by summary and deadly retaliation, these may be better understood as examples of the fraudulent poison-accusation in operation. If the sources were to be believed, royal women made remarkably incompetent poisoners for there are noticeably more reported cases of royal women failing at poisoning than succeeding. Perhaps it was considered that the traditional association of women with deception gave this strategy particular plausibility for female victims. On this view, Mithridates VI’s wife may be another example. Justin reports that while the king was away, his wife (and sister) Laodike had lain with his friends. On returning to a warning that Laodike had prepared poison for him, he killed her together with her co-conspirators.153 If she was adulterous (and there may have been a child), it is not improbable that she would conspire against the king to save herself, but a poison plot is highly unlikely at this stage given Mithridates’ alleged and much-flaunted development of immunity. These stories demonstrate the potential usefulness of the poison accusation to justify eliminating rivals within the court. Another concerning Grypos shows an extension of this strategem to an intra-court level in order to justify open hostilities connected with rival claims on the throne. According to Justin, Grypos subsequently failed in an attempt at poisoning his next rival, his half-brother, Antiochos IX Kyzikenos.154 Justin comments that the attempt ‘provoked’ Kyzikenos into war, but, as he also acknowledges, this war was always going to happen. Again, it is not unlikely that Grypos might contrive to avoid an inevitable war by plotting to eliminate Kyzikenos secretly. However, the sources’ view that a poisoning attempt initiated open warfare may mask a different causal sequence. Although the dating of events is highly problematic,155 the timing of Kyzikenos’ campaign must be related to the instabilities in Egypt occasioned by the death of Grypos’ supporter Physkon in 117/6 BC, and the arrival in Syria of Kleopatra IV to marry Kyzikenos bringing a dowry of troops from Cyprus.156 It is these troops that Justin identifies as the key

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‘The hands of gods’: poison in the Hellenistic court element prompting Kyzikenos to initiate battle.157 Thus we may see the same mechanism at work behind this poisoning story as with that of Kleopatra Thea, i.e. that it was Kyzikenos who promoted a story of an attempted poisoning by Grypos as a justifying pretext for what was a predetermined and inevitable war. Such a view would be entirely consistent with what Chaniotis has identified as standard practice in Hellenistic warfare: ‘those who fought wars had to be convinced – or had to convince others – that they were fighting for a just cause. This idea persisted until the late Hellenistic period.’158 Both rivals had an equal claim on the Seleucid throne, which makes the need for such a pretext all the more crucial. What is clear is that the accusation of poisoning can be as potent and effective a tool in both intra-court and inter-court politics as the actual use of poison. This holds true even on the widest international level, as can be seen in the Roman justification for war against Perseus on several, probably false, grounds, including a plot to poison the Roman Senate. Chaniotis calls this ‘the best example of the eloquent and successful justification of a clearly unprovoked war.’159 The role of poison is not simply to represent Perseus as the aggressor but also to condemn him morally and make retaliation virtuous, and a justification by appeal to the ethnic superiority of Roman virtue over Greek vice. A similar use of a poison plot story was to become one of the most widely told, loaded with ideological import. While Pyrrhos was supporting the Tarentines against the Romans, his doctor wrote to Fabricius the consul offering to poison his king. Fabricius rejected the offer and reported it to Pyrrhos. The lesson of this tale is made explicit in the words of Plutarch’s Fabricius to Pyrrhos: ‘You will see, after reading the letter I send, that the men with whom you are at war are noble and just, but that those in whom you trust are unjust and base.’160 Poisoning is a high-risk strategy and as such it is deployed for the highest stakes. The poison accusation is a considerably less perilous tactic and though equally fatal it is represented either as one among several justifying tactics, or alone in cases where the stakes are a little lower, such as against royal women. But its easy adaptability makes it capable of the most diverse and far-reaching impact of all forms of court poison use.

5. Conclusion It has long been assumed that poison use at the Hellenistic court will have had a similar proﬁle to that at the Roman Imperial courts: widely used in domestic intrigue and court politicking, a tool characteristic of female agents, and a degenerate device that (with the exception of suicide cases) can only reﬂect negatively on the user. The courts’ increasing attachment to acquiring knowledge of poisons also suggests increasingly frequent

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Stephanie J. Winder usage. In the sources for the Hellenistic period, however, we do not find the profile that the Roman picture and the Hellenistic knowledge-base would lead us to expect. Actual poisoning is reported far less often than we might expect (particularly given the lengthy and frequent reports of court conspiracies) and, although it is used by both men and women, male agents are more frequent than female. Further, while it can be used to demonize a user, there are also indications that toxicological expertise can enhance the image of a ruler’s god-like power and status. Poisoning offers rich narrative possibilities and it has been suggested that Roman writers exploited these in their interest in the uncanny and aesthetic potential of the poisonous woman.161 The Hellenistic sources typically show little to no interest in these fertile descriptive seams. Most commonly, they do not even mention what kind of poison was used or how it was administered but are content with a brief statement that a person was ‘murdered by poison’. Court status (of poisoner and victim) not gender is the relevant factor. Poison use is concentrated in the hands of the royal family, primarily the ruler. There is a notable lack of reported poison plots against royal fathers, wives, and daughters and the most popular targets are the monarch’s mother and sons. Poison functions as a multivalent narrative symbol and is deployed for a variety of purposes centred on characterizing the nature of monarchic power, the stages in its development, and its management of court politics. This is the picture offered by our extant historical sources. But is this image distorted because of how much evidence has not survived, and what of the ‘reality’ of court poison usage? It is unlikely that what has been lost would tell a different story about female poison use; the usual explanations for the association of women and poison, (deceptiveness, close access, lack of need for strength) would not apply to Hellenistic royal women since when they act, they usually do so openly, boldly, and often with physical force. Certainly more evidence would bring more cases to light. The enormous royal investment in acquiring knowledge of poisons, the particular suitability of poison for court intrigue, and the fact that, contrary to popular ancient belief, a successful poisoning leaves no (then detectable) trace, are strong grounds for believing that poison may well have been a much more frequent guest at the court dinner table. But it is important to remember that this powerful tool was not infallible; Josephus’ Antipater takes the precaution of sending a second potion to Pheroras in case the first one fails.162 It is a high-risk strategy and this may have curtailed its utilization. Much less risk, as well as greater ease and flexibility, is attached to the fabricated allegation of poisoning. In the Hellenistic courts, the ‘hands of gods’ may sometimes falter, but the poisonous word rarely fails.

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Notes 1 Von Staden 1989, T248b–c. 2 See now Collard 2007. 3 E.g. Quintilian 5.10: ‘a man is more likely to commit a robbery, a woman to poison.’ 4 See especially Cilliers and Retief 2000; Golden 2005; Horstmanshoff 1999; Kaufman 1932; Nutton 1985. A notable exception to the Roman focus are the numerous works by Scarborough, primarily on the scientific aspects of Greek toxicology. 5 On the range and significance of this much-discussed term, see especially Artelt 1937, 94–6; Harig 1977; Samama 2002; Scarborough 1991. 6 Chamoux 2002, 358: ‘No other period witnessed greater activity in the study of poisons and venoms, of counter-poisons and antidotes.’ 7 For the botanical research, see Bretzl 1903 and Koutsoukos 2005. 8 History of Plants and Causes of Plants. Book 9 of the History of Plants is most important for poisonous plants. The range of sources is discussed by Sharples 1995; Scarborough 1978 and 2006. 9 Of course, these contacts in themselves were not new. As early as Homer, Egyptian skill in pharmacology had impressed the Greeks; Helen’s drug is identified as Egyptian and Egypt as a place with many poisonous plants that can be used to produce both beneficial and baneful drugs (Od. 4.227–32. The Ebers Papyrus (c. 1500 BC) attests to Egyptian use of poisons at an early stage; indeed, the first Pharaoh Menes reportedly studied poisonous plants. For Egyptian pharmacology see Smith 1974 and Nunn 1998, 137–62. 10 Nutton 2008. For the ancient drug trade see Cilliers and Retief 2000; Nutton 1985; Scarborough 1982. Most poisons were plant-based, but animal and mineral sources were also well known. 11 At least according to Greek sources, e.g. Ktesias, Greek physician of Artaxerxes II. On Ktesias and Persian court poisoning see Llewellyn-Jones 2013, especially 214–25. 12 Chinese dynasties may have been even more proficient and may have a role in Hellenistic toxicology; certainly there was trade with China. 13 Most important are the Susruta Samhita and the Charaka Samhita, believed to derive from works dating back at least to the 6th century BC. See Meulenbeld 1999. 14 ‘Mixing fried rice with poison, as though with honey, his own queen poisoned Kasiraja; by means of an anklet painted with poison his own queen killed Vairantya; with a gem of her zone, bedaubed with poison, his own queen killed Sauvira; with a looking-glass painted with poison, his own queen killed Jalutha.’ Transl. Shamasastry 1915, 46. 15 Poisoners are a category of employee on the court payroll. 16 Edicts of Ashoka 2. 17 On these difficulties see Smith 1989, Scarborough 1987. On Hellenistic medicine, including pharmacology, Flemming 2003; Lang 2013; Littman 1994; Nutton 2004, 140–56. 18 For this and all matters Herophilean see Von Staden 1989, especially 445–555. 19 Pliny, HN 21.12. 20 See Jacques 2002. 21 Pliny, HN 22.59. Mastrocinque 1995, 143–51. 22 Pliny, HN 25.8.

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23 Pliny, HN 25.62, and 25.127. 24 See especially Scarborough 1977 and 1979; Touwaide 1991; Jacques 2002. Pliny (HN 20.258 and 22.83) mentions an Ophiaka, a didactic poem on poisons by 2nd-century BC physician Petrichos. 25 Scarborough 2010, 4. 26 Regardless of whether Herophilos and his followers were formally attached to the museum, they doubtless benefited from Ptolemaic patronage. Access to the bodies of condemned criminals suggests court sanction, and their research is clearly of a piece with the rest of the court-promoted scientific work. Some have been cautious about the degree of direct patronage, Lloyd 1975; Von Staden 1989, 26–32. 27 Flemming 2003, 458: ‘Poisons and their antidotes were, of course, a particular preoccupation within ruling circles, and royal patronage undoubtedly played a role in the rise, and shape, of Hellenistic pharmacology.’ 28 Strootman 2007, 216–20. Their status is indicated by the fact that some of them also appear in a political capacity. Apollophanes exposes a plot against Antiochos III (Polyb. 5.56), gives advice on war (Polyb. 5.58.3ff.), and is honoured publicly as one of Antiochos’ philoi, see Mastrocinque 1995, 147–9. Dioskorides Phakas was an ambassador for Ptolemy XIII (Caes. B Civ., 3.109.3ff.). 29 See Scarborough 2012. 30 See Mastrocinque 1995. 31 Pliny, HN 25.62. 32 Gal. De Antid. 2.8, and 2.17; Celsus 5.23.2. 33 Gal. De Antid. 2.14; Pliny, HN 20.100. Both of these are believed to refer to Grypos; Whitehorne 1994, 162 notes that Pliny erroneously attributes the recipe to Antiochos III. 34 Gal. Comp. Med. Gen. 13.416; Just. Epit. 36.4. 35 Scarborough 2008. 36 E.g. Plut. Ant. 71 (convicted criminals), Aelian 9.11 (at banquets); Gal. De Theriac. 8 (two maidservants). P.Herc. 817 shows Kleopatra testing several means of causing death including poison. I agree with Marasco 1995 that the similarity between these accounts and those about Mithridates VI and Attalos III renders them suspect as they stand; nonetheless, they may well be based on knowledge of an active interest taken by Kleopatra. Indeed, less spectacularly, there is also a tradition of Kleopatra writing on pharmacology (Gal. On the Manufacture of Medicaments 12.403–5, 432–4, 492–3 K). For Kleopatra’s toxicologists, see now Scarborough 2012. 37 Pliny, HN 25.5–7. Pliny includes some of Mithridates’ antidotes, and relevant plants discovered by the king HN 23.149, 25.62, 25.63. 38 Many authors give their own version of this recipe. Pliny’s has 54 ingredients (HN 29.24–25); Celsus’ has 37 (5.23). For all ancient citations and discussion see Totelin 2004. 39 Royal foodtasters may have existed since the earliest periods but the importance attached to the role in the Hellenistic courts is suggested by the fact that Ptolemy Lagos was given this office by Alexander and it developed into a role responsible for the entire management of royal banquets. Athenaeus 5.71–2 and Collins 2012. 40 Sri Chanakya Niti-Shastra [The Political Ethics of Chanakya (usually identified with Kautilya)] 9.10. Transl. Davis and Badarayana Murthy 1981.

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41 See e.g. Erskine 1995 on the Library and Museum, and Flemming 2003 on Medicine. 42 Pliny, HN 21.12. Transl. Jones 1951. 43 Gell. NA 17.16. 44 Pliny, HN 29.24–25. Transl. Jones 1963. 45 By contrast, a general who chooses this method is negatively depicted and the act characterizes him as cowardly or weak. Three of the generals from the final year of the Achaean League (147 BC) commit suicide by poison after military defeat: Menalkidas (Paus. 7.13), Kritolaos (Livy 52), and Diaios (Paus. 7.16). Their deaths may be part of a larger narrative pattern explaining the end of the Achaean League and an independent Greece as due to the cowardice of its generals. 46 Ael. NA 4.41. 47 App. Mith. 16. Similarly, Hannibal used the poison he had long kept in readiness, Livy 39.51; Suetonius De viris illustribus 42.6. 48 See n. 36; Plut. Ant. 86.2; Dio Cass. 51.14; Strabo 17.1.10. 49 Livy 30.15.4. 50 Note also the cases of Demetrios Poliorketes’ wife Phila after he lost power in Macedonia (287 BC) (Plut. Demetr. 45); Alexander II Zabinas (123 BC) after defeat by Antiochos VIII (Euseb. Chron. 257d); Ptolemy king of Cyprus (58 BC) in the face of defeat by the Romans (Plut. Cato 36). 51 Several motifs appear in both self-poisonings: poison research and writings, tests on the condemned, loyal court assistants in the act, willingness of other courtiers to die together with the ruler, carrying poison in readiness, isolated location, purpose in depriving the Romans of a live body for the triumph. Either these motifs have been imported from one to the other, or both may be the most elaborate versions of a general story pattern about royal self-poisoning in the face of defeat by enemies. 52 Gell. NA 17.16; App. Mith. 16.111; Livy 102; Dio Cass. 37.13; Florus 1.40. 53 Dio Cass. 37.13.4. 54 App. Mith. 16.111. 55 The fullest ancient accounts are Plut. Ant. 71.6–8, 86.4; Dio Cass. 51.11.2. A complete list of sources is provided in Jones 2006, 180–206 with translation. 56 Most memorably, in Plut. Ant. 85, Charmion comments ‘It is indeed most nobly done...and befitting the descendant of so many sovereigns.’ 57 The symbolic import of each aspect of the death narratives has been explained in Roman, Greek, and Egyptian terms. Most of the modern debate has centred on whether the asp should be taken as a negative symbol in a Roman context or a positive symbol of royalty and indeed divinity in a Greco-Egyptian context. See Ashton 2008, 169–88; Gurval 2011; Kostuch 2009; Griffiths 1961 and 1965; Pelling 1988, 318–22. 58 Accounts of Alexander’s death are the nearest parallel, but in those the debate is primarily about the question of whether he was poisoned or not. 59 See n. 55. 60 Plut. Ant. 86. 61 Dio Cass. 15.14.1. 62 Diod. Sic. 34.3.1. 63 Lucian Icaromenippus 15. 64 Diod. Sic. 34.3.1; Just. Epit. 36.4. 65 See nn. 34 and 35, and Plut. Demetr. 20.2, on cultivating poisons in the royal garden.

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66 Just. Epit. 36.4. 67 See Kosmetatou 2003; Hansen 1971; Hopp 1977; Rigsby 1988. 68 Kosmetatou 2003, 168 ‘All ancient authors agree on this point: the Attalid family was always united, no feuds ever took place and every member of the family wholeheartedly supported the reigning monarch.’ She cites Polyb. 23.11 where Philip V uses Attalid family harmony as a foil for his own disputing sons. 69 Scarborough 2008. 70 Rigsby 1988, 123 n. 5 on the scientiﬁc interests of Attalos I and Eumenes. 71 Rigsby 1988, 126. According to Justin (26.1.4) this was not a life-long state, but a consequence of his crimes against friends and relatives. 72 Paus. 7.7.5. 73 The elder Aratos (see below), Kassandros, his epistate¯s at Maroneia, to prevent him telling the Romans about the massacre at Maroneia (Polyb. 22.18 and Livy 39.34), the younger Aratos (Plut. Arat. 54), the Athenians Eurykleides and Mikon (Paus. 2.9.4), the otherwise unknown Chariteles of Kyparissia at a banquet (Livy 32.21), and the also unknown Epikrates and Kallias (Alkaios, Anth. Pal. 11.12). 74 This of course plays a crucial role in Polybius’ analysis of the causes of Greek collapse and in his overarching political philosophy. 75 Polyb. 8.14. Plut. Arat. 51.4–52 repeats the same story. See also Paus. 2.9.4. Paus. 8.50.4 repeats the poisoning charge in introducing a failed attempt to murder Philopoimen. 76 Pomeroy 1986 on the didactic function of Polybius’ obituaries. 77 Polyb. 7.13.7. Plut. Arat. 51.4 following a Polybian logic, introduces the story explicitly as an illustration of the same transition into a libidinous and cruel tyrant. 78 Polyb. 5.12, 7.13–14. On this Polybian pattern, see also Ager 2003, 47–9. 79 Ptolemy V is reported to have forced his formerly favourite courtier Aristomenes to drink poison as a result of rival courtiers persuading the king that Aristomenes did not treat him with due respect (Diod. Sic. 28.14; Plut. Mor. 1.4.32). It is the king’s volatility and summary dispatch of one he previously treated like a father that indicates his increasing brutality and tyrannical licence. The offer of poison functions rather as a mark of respect for his former friend in its ability to bring a non-violent end at his own hands. A similar notion is found in Justin’s report that the general Philopoimen was offered poison because of respect for his high character ( Just. Epit. 32.1). 80 Anth. Pal. 11.12. ‘Wine slew the Centaur also, Epikrates, not you alone, and Kallias in his lovely prime. Truly the one-eyed one is the wine-Charon. Send him quickly from Hades the same drink.’ 81 Anth. Pal. 9.519.3–6 ‘Yes I drink, if only I could smash the brains of my enemy and drain Philip’s skull dry, he who tasted the blood of friends over the mixing bowl pouring poison into the wine.’ 82 Plut. Arat. 54.2. 83 Walbank 1943, 4 n. 3. 84 Walbank 1943, 4 on Alkaios’ poems Anth. Pal. 9.519 and 11.12. 85 There is a growing bibliography on Hellenistic banquets. See especially Carney 2007; Sawada 2010, 393–9; also Gonzalez 2009; Marin 2009. 86 For the role of wine and violence in the famous banquets of Alexander the Great see also Gomez and Mestre 2009; Borza 1983; Roisman 2003. 87 Livy 35.15.4.

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88 Arr. Anab. 7.24–8; Athenaeus 10.434; Curt. 10.10.5–20; Diod. Sic. 17.117–18; Just. Epit. 12.13–16; Liber de Morte Testamentumque Alexandri Magni; Paus. 8.17; Pliny, HN 30.149; Plut. Alex. 73–7. Space does not permit a full discussion here of the possible poisoning of Alexander. It has of course been amply debated by numerous authorities, from the 3rd century BC until the present. See Schep et al. 2014, Bosworth 2010; Atkinson, Truter and Truter 2009. Debate may even have started as early as the 320s, see Heckel 2007. 89 In the Hasmonean court, there was also Malichos’ poisoning of Herod’s father Antipater ( Joseph. BJ 1.11.3–8). 90 Jerome In Dan. 11.20. The text of Daniel says that ‘Seleukos’ was poisoned by his own generals, but it is clear that Ptolemy V is meant since Jerome has just stated that Porphyry believed Dan. 11.20 did not refer to the destruction of Seleukos II but of Ptolemy V. 91 App. Syr. 66; see further Mittag, this volume. 92 Bevan 1927, 280. 93 See Grainger 2010, 156–7; contra Nourse 2002, 262–70. 94 Just. Epit. 27.1 credits Seleukos II. 95 Just. Epit. 27.1; Polyaenus, Strat. 8.50; Euseb. Chron. 249–52. 96 Jerome In Dan. 11.6; Porph. 11.69; App. Syr. 11.65. Even Justin does not suggest Seleukos II poisoned his father. 97 See Grainger 1997, 14–15. 98 Ager 2003, 43; Chaniotis 2005, 171– 2. 99 Lucian Icaromenippus 15 refers to Attalos III poisoning his father Attalos II (in fact, Attalos III was adopted as ‘son’ by his uncle), but none of the historical sources allege patricide as one of his many barbarous acts in their uniformly hostile depiction, and the idea that he was an impatient heir does not ﬁt with their characterization of him as a man utterly uninterested in ruling, e.g. Just. Epit. 36.4. 100 Diod. Sic. 21.16 drawing on the equally hostile Timaios. Agathokles’ rule prompted extreme views; the pathos-laden account of his natural death in Just. Epit. 23.2 could not be more different. 101 Joseph. AJ 17.1–142; BJ 1.29.1–1.32.5. See Bond 2012; Collard 2007, 42–5; Kokkinos 1998, 86–141. 102 Josephus’ narrative is far from clear. The version in AJ presents a notably more hostile picture of Herod than that in BJ and the chronology of events is differently constructed. 103 He may be drawing on Persian narrative motifs to characterize Herod as an Eastern despot. Outside of Herod’s court, poison narrative rarely features in Jewish histories, which universally condemn the use of poisons (e.g. Joseph. AJ 4.12.34 on Mosaic law against poison use). Given the Roman association of poison with the Greeks, it may also be part of Josephus’ condemnation of the Herodian court for its hellenization, see Collard 2007, 42–5. 104 Plut. Arat. 17.2, cf. Ptolemy Soter removing his opponent Ptolemaios, a nephew of Antigonos Monophthalmos, by poison and absorbing his troops in 309, Diod. Sic. 20.27.3. 105 McGing 1986, 37–8 and 82–8. 106 Just. Epit. 37.1. He misnames the queen as Laodike. 107 Just. Epit.38.1; Memnon FGrH 434 F 22.

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108 Plut. Pomp. 37. 109 Paus. 9.7.2. The poisoning detail may be indebted to the rumour that Kassandros poisoned Alexander the Great (Just. Epit. 12.14, Val. Max. 1.7 ext 2); for the death of Alexander IV (Diod. Sic. 19.105.2, Just. Epit. 15.2), but despite Pausanias Herakles, Alexander’s son by Barsine, is generally considered to have been strangled to death at a banquet (Plut. Mor. 530c–d; Lycoph. Alex. 800–804). 110 Paus. 2.9.1. 111 Porph. 1.167. Joseph. AJ 15.4.1 adds the mention of poison. In Ap. 2.5 he says merely that she killed him. Dio Cass. 48.24 credits Antony with this murder, not by poison, by conflation with his later murder of Arsinoe IV. 112 Polyb. 15.25, 5.34–6; Just. Epit. 29.1, 30.1–2; Plut. Cleom. 33. Polybius and Justin assign the decision to Ptolemy IV, but Polybius notes that his minister Sosibios contrived it. 113 Zenobios 3.94 explaining the phrase εὔνους ὁ σφάκτης (kind is the murderer): ‘from Ptolemy Philopator, after confining his mother Berenike in the palace and handing her to Sosibios to guard, when she could not endure prison, she drank a deadly herbal drink and died after drinking the poison.’ 114 Sallust Hist. 2.87. Memnon (FGrH 434 F 22.2) says he ‘imprisoned his mother...and utterly destroyed her by force over time’ (δεσµωτηρίωι κατασχὼν βίαι καὶ χρόνωι ἐξανάλωσε) which could be construed as a reference to poison. There is an explicit example of Mithridates VI using poison to dispose of a rival, though not of his own family... He poisoned Alkaios of Sardis ‘because he had surpassed him in driving race-horses’ (Plut. Pomp. 37). Plutarch emphasizes his murderous nature even for what he presents as a trivial slight. But in the Iranian tradition, which Mithridates cultivated, the king’s preeminence as a horseman is part of his claim on the throne. A challenge to his status as horseman represents a challenge to his right to rule. McGing 1986, 44 on horsemanship in his kingship. 115 Kautilya Arthashastra 1.17; Transl. Shamashastry 1915, 44. 116 Livy 35.15.3–5. On the date and circumstances of the son’s death, see Aymard 1940, 89–95. 117 Euseb. Chron. 233b, Paus. 1.10.3, Strabo 13.4.1, App. Syr. 64. 118 Just. Epit. 17.1; Memnon FGrH 434 F 5.6. 119 A representative selection of modern views are Carney 2013, 43–5; Longega, 1968, 44–54; Lund 1992, 186–98; Ogden 1999, 60–2. 120 However, Lund 1992, 185 argues it is possible that Agathokles’ recent successes had factionalized the court and considers it likely that Lysimachos had to defend himself against a plot by his son. Recently Dmitriev 2007 has suggested that the succession of Arsinoe’s brother Philadelphos in Egypt altered the succession dynamic at Lysimachos’ court, increasing Arsinoe’s importance and decreasing Agathokles’. 121 Strabo 13.4.1; Ogden 1999, 59–60. Agathokles was the eldest son of Lysimachos’ first wife, Nikaia. In marrying Arsinoe II, the king created the problem of rival heirs by her. Agathokles married Lysandra, half-sister to Arsinoe II. Thus we have a double rivalry, between Lysimachos’ sons as half-brothers, and between his wife and daughter-in-law as half-sisters. 122 As Ogden points out, 1999, 61–2, even Pausanias’ Phaedra-like motif of Arsinoe’s initial attempt to seduce her step-son, before resorting to poison (Paus.

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1.10.3), could make sense as a move to remain in power after Lysimachos’ death in order to manipulate the succession of her own sons. See also Lund 1992, 186–98. 123 Paus. 1.10.3; Lund 1992, 187 says Pausanias’ account is in the apologetic tradition derived from Lysimachos’ protégé Duris, in whose work rulers’ wives and mistresses feature prominently. 124 Alone: App. Syr. 64; Strabo 13.4.1; joint: Euseb. Chron. 233b; Memnon FGrH 434 F 5.6; Just. Epit. 17.1 125 Lund 1992, 184–7 notes how the accounts are clouded by ‘literary topoi’. 126 Memnon FGrH 434 F 5.6; Just. Epit. 17.1.5. 127 See Walbank 1938 and Edson 1935 on the fraternal dispute. 128 Livy 40.5–24. The resulting dynastic feud is not extant in Polybius but is reported at length in the (probably Polybian-derived) account of Livy. Both probably drew on a pro-Demetrian source. See also Polyb. 23.10; Diod. Sic. 29.25.1; Just. Epit. 32.2–3; Plut. Arat. 54.3; Aem. 8.7; Livy 42.5; Paus. 2.9.5; Zonaras 9.22. Only Zonaras and Pausanias mention poison speciﬁcally. 129 Zonaras claims Demetrios did aim to supplant his brother as heir. Plut. Aem. 8.7 refers to Perseus’ fear that Demetrios had a stronger claim because he was a legitimate son, which suggests that such a view might have been propagated by the pro-Demetrian faction. 130 Polyb. 23.10. 131 Polyb. 23.7. 132 Ogden 1999, 183–7. 133 Polyb. 23.7. 134 Livy 40.16. 135 Livy 40.24. Demetrios is effectively a stand-in for Rome itself, and the devious moves against him, including poison, prepare the way for Perseus’ continuation of his father’s policy regarding Rome, including his alleged attempt to poison the Roman senate. 136 Livy 40.13. 137 Paus. 1.9.5 alone makes Perseus himself the poisoner of Demetrios. 138 Kautilya Arthashastra 5.1; transl. Shamasastry 1915, 338. 139 We may speculate that the accusation will have been made much more often than our sources report. Kautilya has several examples of how to ‘frame’ a seditious minister for poisoning in order to have grounds for executing him. 140 Joseph. AJ 15.7.3–4. 141 Plut. Pyrrh. 5.4–5. 142 The only evidence for a plot is a scholium on Theocritus 17.128 that Arsinoe I was accused of conspiracy together with two φίλοι, including her physician Chrysippos. That a physician was an accomplice is the only evidential basis for the modern suggestion that poison was involved. Moreover, the virulently defamatory power of the poison accusation is too extreme a tool to have been used on a woman who could offer little real threat and whose reputation and status Ptolemy II was clearly keen to preserve. For a full discussion of the circumstances, see Carney 2013, 68–70. 143 See n. 33. 144 Just. Epit. 39.2. 145 App. Syr. 11.69.

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146 Just. Epit. 39.3.1 ‘Inter has...parricidales discordias’. 147 Justin (Epit. 39.1.9) claims that she made Grypos king in name only. 148 See Kuhn 1891, 15 on the evidence for Kleopatra Thea ruling alone both before as well as after Seleukos V. In 126/5 BC, she was minting her own coins under the title of Basilissa, and even the coins of her joint reign with Grypos 125/4 –121/0 BC bear her portrait in the foreground. Bellinger 1949, 65–6; Newell 1939, 10–23; Dodd 2009, 206–11. 149 Whitehorne 1994, 163 questions the likelihood of this attempt: ‘one would like to think that, had she decided to get rid of Grypos, Kleopatra Thea would have made a better job of it than this.’ 150 Serving post-exercise refreshment is hardly the proud queen’s job. The ‘private’ setting of the story, with the queen playing the role of cupbearer from the more typical banquet setting, also facilitates the notion that this is a constructed story. 151 Ogden 1999, 153. 152 The narrative detail of the would-be poisoner being forced to drink his/her own poison may have become a topos. See e.g. Diod. Sic. 17.9.6 on the similar situation between the king-maker eunuch Bagoas and Darius. 153 Justin 37.3. 154 Justin 39.2.7. See also App. Syr. 11.69 ‘He [Grypos] was worthy of such a mother, for [γάρ] he laid a plot against Kyzikenos.’ Appian does not mention poison explicitly but it may be implied by the nature of the story as exemplifying how he was his mother’s son, the statement that connects the two plots. 155 See Kuhn 1891. Bellinger 1949, 88–92 surveys the numismatic evidence for dating the events in the ‘Wars of the Brothers’, but see now for a revised view Houghton, Lorber and Hoover 2008. 156 Kleopatra IV’s forces must have set sail in 114 BC, since they are present in Syria for the outbreak of open warfare, dated with the help of coins to 113/2 BC. 157 Justin 39.3.3. 158 Chaniotis 2005, 177. 159 Chaniotis 2005, 178. See Bagnall and Derow 2004, no. 44 and Livy 42.17–18. 160 Plut. Pyrr. 21.2 There are many variations e.g. Gell. NA 3.8; Cic. Off. 1.40 and 3.86; Val. Max. 6.5; Frontin. Str. 4.4. 161 Currie 1998. 162 Joseph. AJ 17.4.3.

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D. Obbink (eds), Magika Hiera: Ancient Greek Magic and Religion, Oxford, 138–74. 2006 ‘Drugs and drug lore in the time of Theophrastus: folklore, magic, botany, philosophy and the rootcutters’, Acta Classica 49, 1–29. 2008 ‘Attalus III of Pergamon: research toxicologist’, in L. Cilliers (ed.), Asklepios: Studies on ancient medicine, Bloemfontein, 138–56. 2010 Pharmacy and Drug Lore in Antiquity: Greece, Rome, Byzantium, Farnham. 2012 ‘Pharmacology and toxicology at the court of Cleopatra VII: traces of three physicians’, in A. Van Arsdall and T. Graham (eds), Herbs and Healers from the Ancient Mediterranean through the Medieval West: Essays in Honor of John Riddle, Aldershot, 7–18. Schep, L. J., Slaughter, R. J., Vale, J. A. and Wheatley, P. 2014 ‘Was the death of Alexander the Great due to poisoning? Was it veratrum album?’, Clinical Toxicology 52, 72–7. Shamasastry, R. (transl.) 1915 Chanakya Kautilya’s Arthasastra, Bangalore. Sharples, R. W. 1995 Theophrastus of Eresos: Sources for his life, writings, thought and inﬂuence, Leiden. Smith, G. E. 1974 Papyrus Ebers. English translation, Chicago. Smith, W. D. 1989 ‘Notes on ancient medical historiography’, Bulletin of the History of Medicine 63, 73–109. Strootman, R. 2007 ‘The Hellenistic Royal Courts: Court Culture, Ceremonial and Ideology in Greece, Egypt and the Near East, 336–30 BCE’, PhD dissertation, University of Utrecht. Totelin, L. M. V. 2004 ‘Mithridates’ antidote: a pharmacological ghost’, Early Science and Medicine 9, 1–19. Touwaide, A. 1991 ‘La toxicologie des poisons dans l’Antiquité et à Byzance. Introduction à une étude systématique’, Revue d’histoire de la pharmacie 290, 265–81. Von Staden, H. 1989 Herophilus: The Art of Medicine in early Alexandria: Edition, translation and essays, Cambridge. Walbank, F. W. 1938 ‘ΦΙΛΙΠΠΟΣ ΤΡΑΓΩΙ∆ΟΥΜΕΝΟΣ’, Journal of Hellenic Studies 58, 55–68. 1940 Philip V of Macedon, Cambridge. 1943 ‘Alcaeus of Messene, Philip V, and Rome (Concluded)’, Classical Quarterly 37, 1–13. 1957, 1967, 1979 A Historical Commentary on Polybius, 3 vols, Oxford. Whitehorne, J. 1994 Cleopatras, London.

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THEROYALCOURTINANCIENTMACEDONIA: THEEVIDENCEFORROYALTOMBS

Olga Palagia

The archaeological evidence for royal courts is best obtained from excavations of palaces. Three royal Macedonian palaces are known to date, located at Pella and Vergina (Aigai) in Macedonia and Demetrias in Thessaly. As palaces are addressed elsewhere in this volume, I will confine myself to tombs in Macedonia and what they can teach us about the king of Macedon and his court in the periods of Philip II, Alexander III and the Successors.1 Monumental underground tombs, often decorated with wall-paintings, have been coming to light at Pella, Vergina, Lefkadia, Potidaia, Dion, Pydna, Thessaloniki and Amphipolis, producing a wealth of information about Macedonian attitudes to the hereafter and, to a lesser extent, the practices of the royal court.2 We have four categories of underground house tombs in Macedonia: chamber tombs, rock-cut chamber tombs, cist tombs, which consist of a rectangular chamber built of ashlar blocks and accessible only through the roof (Fig. 18.1), and the so-called Macedonian tombs which have a barrel-vault roof, a front entrance and a façade often decorated in imitation of a propylon (Fig. 18.2). These tombs were costly affairs, often going in tandem with cremation, an expensive burial method that could only be afforded by the Macedonian elite. Though the earliest monumental tomb painted with a narrative scene (Vergina Tomb I: Fig. 18.1) is now generally associated with Philip II and his family (see section 1 below), the majority of painted Macedonian tombs were financed with the spoils of Alexander’s conquest of Asia and date roughly between the last quarter of the fourth century and the first quarter of the third.3 Because of the feudal system in Macedonia, it has been argued that the king was only first among equals,4 something that is reflected in the large number of monumental decorated tombs which served not only royals but also the king’s companions and their families. Making a distinction between royal tombs and tombs of the elite is fraught with difficulties, especially when the tombs have been plundered. Two of the most spectacular painted

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Fig. 18.1: Interior of Vergina Tomb I with painted Rape of Persephone. From Drougou and Saatsoglou-Paliadeli 1999, fig. 71.

Fig. 18.2: Reconstructed façade of Vergina Tomb II with painted hunting frieze. From Drougou and Saatsoglou-Paliadeli 1999, fig. 60.

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The royal court in ancient Macedonia: the evidence for royal tombs

Macedonian tombs, the Tomb of the Palmettes and the Judgement Tomb at Lefkadia, are generally acknowledged to belong to members of the court rather than royalty.5 What constitutes a royal tomb as opposed to a tomb of the nobility? This question will be discussed in connection with some peculiar aspects of tombs at Vergina and at Agios Athanasios near Thessaloniki.

1. Identifying royal tombs: issues raised by the tombs at Vergina Several important tombs of the fourth and third centuries have come to light at Vergina (Aigai), the old capital of the Macedonians: some may be royal, others can be associated with the king’s court.6 Four tombs, excavated by Manolis Andronikos between 1977 and 1987, were not only identified by him as royal, they were even attributed to historical personalities (Figs. 18.1–4). These attempts have generated much controversy which continues unabated to this day. I refer to Tombs I (Fig. 18.1), II (Fig. 18.2) and III, all covered by the Great Tumulus (Fig. 18.3),7 and the so-called Tomb of Eurydike near the palace of Vergina (Fig. 18.4).8 Tombs I, II and III, lined up and numbered in chronological order, are generally associated with the Argead royal family. The fact that they were eventually covered for protection by a single tumulus probably indicates a family burial plot. What makes them royal, however? Because of his historical importance, Philip II seems to be the prime candidate for occupancy of one of the two tombs, I (Fig. 18.1) and II (Fig. 18.2). Tomb I is an underground cist tomb, the contents of which were plundered in antiquity, rendering it practically undatable; the dates proposed so far range from the middle to the third quarter of the fourth century.9 It is named the Tomb of Persephone after its high-quality interior fresco of the rape of Persephone. When excavated, it was reported to contain the skeletons of a man, a woman and a newborn infant.10 Andronikos relegated the man’s remains to a tomb robber without offering any explanation for the fact that his bones were found scattered all over the floor.11 He dated the tomb to the mid fourth century and assigned it to a woman and her child.12 Eugene Borza attributed the tomb to Philip II, his last wife Kleopatra and their infant daughter Europa on the strength of the human remains.13 Angeliki Kottaridi recently attributed this tomb to one of Philip II’s wives, Nikesipolis, who died at childbirth, without offering any arguments for the identification.14 Nikesipolis, however, died shortly after giving birth to Thessaloniki,15 who survived to become Kassandros’ queen, she is therefore ruled out as a candidate for Tomb I which contains the remains of at least one infant. The situation is compounded by the discovery in 2014 of further human and animal remains from this tomb, some belonging to infants, lurking forgotten in

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Olga Palagia storage.16 The total number of human remains from Tomb I now amounts to seven individuals, one adult male, one adult female, four infants and a foetus. Further study is being carried out to determine which of these belong to primary burials. The attribution of Tomb I to historical personalities, at any rate, remains sub judice. The adjacent Tombs II (Fig. 18.2) and III belong to the category of tombs known as Macedonian tombs. They were found with their contents intact, being rich in gold and silver jewellery and vessels, chryselephantine weapons and furniture, as well as iron and bronze arms and armour.17 All burial goods are of exquisite quality. Philip II and one of his last wives were Andronikos’ favourite occupants for Tomb II, which housed the cremated remains of a couple.18 A rival view attributing this tomb to Philip II’s son, Philip III Arrhidaios and his wife Adea Eurydike, seems to have been gaining ground in recent years.19 An alternative view questions the connection of these tombs with royalty, challenging the identification of Vergina with Aigai.20 However, the controversy is far from being resolved. Tomb III, known as the Prince’s Tomb, contained the cremated remains of an approximately 13–14 year old boy, also accompanied by lavish burial goods. He is usually identified with Alexander the Great’s son, Alexander IV.21 To resume the question posed earlier in this chapter: what makes these tombs royal? Tomb I was plundered and there is nothing specifically royal about the iconography of its frescoes. The dazzling array of luxury burial goods found in the unplundered Tombs II and III is not enough evidence of royalty, considering that a similar wealth of offerings came to light, for example, in the distinctly non-royal tombs at Derveni, dating from the closing years of the fourth century.22 Their wealth can be attributed to the spoils of Alexander’s conquest of the Persian Empire. Two objects in particular, found in the main chamber of Tomb II, have been seen as entailing royal connotations: a silver gilt diadem and the hand-guard of a torch.23 The silver gilt diadem has been interpreted as a priest’s headgear, thus appropriate for a Macedonian king who performed priestly duties.24 Painted versions of similar diadems have been found in two non-royal cist graves at Pydna and Aineia.25 The problem is compounded by the fact that the tomb at Aineia belonged to a woman. This raises questions about the function of such diadems. As for the hand-guard of a torch, it is so far unique in Macedonia and can have no particular significance until further information becomes available. That Tomb II may be royal can be more readily supported by the iconography of the lion hunt painted on its façade (Fig. 18.2).26 Despite the strong idealisation of the hunters’ features, this is usually recognised as a historical not a mythological scene.27 The lion hunt episode forms part of

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The royal court in ancient Macedonia: the evidence for royal tombs a multiple quarry hunt involving mounted and pedestrian hunters, dogs, deer, a boar, bears and a lion. The frieze has been interpreted in various ways, but this much is clear: the lion can only be hunted by a king. The iconography of royal lion hunts was established in the ancient Near East by Assyrian palace reliefs;28 in the fourth century the lion hunt appears as a funerary motif on the sarcophagus of one of the kings of Sidon, who was effectively a satrap of the Persian Empire.29 In the visual arts of the Successors lion hunts acquired a symbolic signiﬁcance for these dynasts, as they struggled to establish their claims on Alexander’s empire by demonstrating that they had played an active part in his lion hunts and by implication, his conquests.30 The painted lion hunt on Tomb II seems to introduce on this side of the Aegean the non-mythological mounted lion hunt with royal connotations, inspired by Asian prototypes. In any case, if Tomb II is a royal tomb, then Tombs I and III must belong to members of the same dynasty, since they were all covered by the Great Tumulus after they were damaged in antiquity. A further problem concerns a fourth structure that seems to complement this cluster of tombs under the Great Tumulus: an overground rectangular building adjacent to Tomb I (Fig. 18.3).31 Tomb I lies in fact between this overground structure and Tomb II. The foundations of the rectangular

Fig. 18.3: Model of the tombs under the Great Tumulus, Vergina; from left to right: foundations of overground rectangular structure, roof of Tomb I, Tomb II, Tomb III. From Drougou and Saatsoglou-Paliadeli 1999, fig. 55.

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Olga Palagia structure were built of regular limestone blocks, while its superstructure was of marble, as attested by fragments found scattered among the remains. Its architectural plan is unknown. The structure has not been fully published, but in his preliminary report Andronikos envisaged a temple-like design. The building seems to have been razed to the ground and plundered at the same time as its neighbouring Tomb I. Andronikos attributed the looting and destruction to the Gaulish mercenaries of King Pyrrhos of Epiros who raided the royal cemetery of Aigai in the reign of Antigonos Gonatas in 274/3.32 He suggested that the two plundered structures, Tomb I and the overground naiskos, as well as the intact royal Tombs II and III which lie beyond Tomb I, were eventually covered up by a huge tumulus, probably by Antigonos Gonatas, to preserve them from further damage. Even though the foundations of the overground rectangular structure are adjacent to Tomb I, Andronikos chose to associate it with Tomb II, which lies on the other side of Tomb I. He ventured an interpretation as a nearly contemporary heroon for the worship of the dead buried in Tomb II that he believed to be Philip II. He cited the unreliable Alexander Romance (1.24.11), which states that Alexander buried his father in a splendid tomb and erected a temple over it. But he could cite no parallels. In recent years the overground structure has been interpreted as a heroon serving the occupants of all the tombs within the Great Tumulus.33 We need to consider this overground structure, however, within the general context of Macedonian burial practices. Its close proximity to a cist tomb (Tomb I) is neither unprecedented nor unique. The earliest instance known to me of an underground cist tomb forming a building complex with an overground naiskos is the ﬁfth-century Tomb D of Aiane in Western Macedonia, where a Doric structure was built on top of a cist tomb. The cist tomb functioned as a funerary crypt, and offerings to the dead were made within the naiskos above. A similar arrangement can be observed in the early-fourth-century Tomb A at Aiane.34 Three cist tombs associated with overground naiskoi which probably carried funerary monuments rather than sheltering funerary rites, have also come to light in two late-fourth-century cemeteries at Pella, none of them being royal.35 We have so far no overground structures associated with Macedonian (rather than cist) tombs. The naiskos-like buildings accompanying cist tombs do not of themselves entail royal associations. Further study and a proper publication of the rectangular structure under the Great Tumulus would help illuminate some of the questions raised here. Philip II’s mother, Eurydike, was Andronikos’ candidate for the so- called Tomb of Eurydike (Fig. 18.4).36 This tomb was found plundered and still awaits publication. It consists of an antechamber and a main

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The royal court in ancient Macedonia: the evidence for royal tombs

Fig. 18.4: Main chamber of the so-called Tomb of Eurydike at Vergina with painted marble throne and marble cinerary chest. From Drougou and Saatsoglou-Paliadeli 1999, fig. 83. chamber covered with a barrel-vault. Even though it is a Macedonian tomb, it is encased in ashlar blocks as if it was a cist tomb. The tomb façade has not been excavated. There are marble doors leading from the dromos to the antechamber and thence to the main chamber. A false door is painted in the back wall of the main chamber which is decorated like an Ionic façade pierced with a pair of windows. The main chamber contains a painted marble throne on which rested a marble chest sheltering the cremated remains of a woman. The remains of a gold and ivory couch also came to light in the main chamber. Two male skeletons were excavated in the antechamber.37 Andronikos assigned the male skeletons to the inevitable tomb robbers and attributed the tomb to Eurydike, probably inspired by the view, prevalent at the time, that Macedonian tombs with thrones were appropriate for women.38 Further study of the skeletal remains is needed to determine whether they were primary burials or the result of accidental death. It must be noted, however, that burials in both the chamber and the antechamber are attested in other Macedonian tombs.39 We do not know the year of Eurydike’s death, but she was already dead by 346 when Aeschines visited the court of Philip II.40 Andronikos dated the tomb to shortly after 344/3 on the strength of several sherds of Panathenaic amphoras from the year of the Athenian eponymous archon Lykiskos (344/3), found in the funeral pyre associated with the tomb. The remnants

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Olga Palagia of the pyre were found before the tomb entrance. In addition, an Attic red-figure pelike by the Eleusinian Painter, dating from 340/330, was excavated inside the tomb.41 Panathenaics, however, were kept by their owners for many years after their production date and cannot be used as chronological indicators. The case of five Panathenaics of the 360s maintained on display in the House of Mosaics at Eretria until the first half of the third century is indicative of the prestige of these vessels as heirlooms.42 The pelike by the Eleusinian Painter may well have been an heirloom too. In addition, there is not enough evidence that a woman was the sole occupant of the tomb. Fragments of a helmet were found in the antechamber, indicating male occupancy and the remains of a gold and ivory couch from the main chamber suggest a second burial;43 in addition, it has been pointed out that the Panathenaic amphoras from the pyre are probably more appropriate to a male burial.44 A post-Alexander date seems more likely for the ‘Tomb of Eurydike’.45 A marble throne was also found in the adjacent so-called Tomb of Rhomaios, which is equally located near the royal palace.46 This tomb has been attributed to queen Thessaloniki on very dubious grounds.47 A third marble throne came to light in the Macedonian tomb ‘Bella II’, which is at a considerable distance from the palace and bears no indication of being royal.48 Whereas the date of the so-called Eurydike Tomb is controversial, the Rhomaios and Bella II Tombs both date from the first half of the third century BC.

Fig. 18.5: Attendants carrying torches and banqueting equipment. Detail of the banquet frieze painted on the façade of the Tomb at Agios Athanasios. From Tsimbidou-Avloniti 2005, pl. 32a.

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The royal court in ancient Macedonia: the evidence for royal tombs

The proximity of a tomb to the royal palace probably indicates royal connections but does the presence of a marble throne in a Macedonian tomb indicate a royal burial? It has been argued that marble thrones in Macedonian tombs may entail royal associations.49 The concept of the royal throne as a seat of power was introduced to Macedonia by Alexander the Great after his conquest of the Persian Empire, inspired by the throne of the Great King of Persia. It may well be signiﬁcant that the only funerary thrones found in Macedonia so far are located in the old capital of the Macedonians and may all date after the conquest of Asia, thereby signifying royal burials.50

2. No funerary banquet: dining and death at Agios Athanasios Whereas the context of the Vergina tombs remains ambiguous, more tantalising possibilities are offered by another Macedonian cemetery. The difficulties in identifying royal burials in Hellenistic Macedonia are indeed highlighted by the case of the painted Macedonian tomb at Agios Athanasios. It is not located near a royal palace and was plundered in antiquity, thus eliminating the possibility of finding any royal paraphernalia.51 Nevertheless,the wall-paintings on its façade (Figs.18.5–13) appear to illuminate aspects of the royal court not only reminiscent of what information we have from the literary sources but also perhaps indicative of a royal burial. In a pioneering study of the special significance of royal banquets in the history of Alexander the Great, Eugene Borza has argued that these events

Fig. 18.6: Guest with escort arriving at the banquet. Detail of the banquet frieze painted on the façade of the Tomb at Agios Athanasios. From Tsimbidou-Avloniti 2005, pl. 32b.

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Olga Palagia functioned as a means of reinforcing the intimate relations of the king with his court.52 He pointed out that these banquets were no mere entertainment but provided the opportunity for a display of the king’s wealth and power. They also gave vent to tensions within the king’s entourage and sometimes ended in disaster. Violence at royal Macedonian banquets was not unheard of; we only need cite the banquet at Maracanda in 328, where Alexander killed Kleitos.53 Dramatic developments at symposia continued beyond Alexander’s reign, the obvious example being the banquet at Larissa, where Demetrios Poliorketes murdered Kassandros’ son, Alexander V, in 294.54 In this light, what can we make of the banquet frieze painted on the façade of the Macedonian Tomb III at Agios Athanasios near Thessaloniki (Figs. 18.5–11)? The frieze represents a night-time symposion, with six diners reclining on couches. As in the case of the Vergina hunting frieze, the individual features of the banqueters, albeit idealised, do not entail a mythological scene. The chief banqueter, situated at the centre of the entire frieze, holds a rhyton ending in the forepart of a griffin (Figs. 8–9). The symposiasts are attended by two female musicians (a flute player and a kitharode) and a naked youth serving wine from a sideboard (Figs. 18.7–9). A military escort of three men and five youths, armed to the teeth, stands at right (Figs. 18.10–11), while a guest arrives from the left leading his horse, escorted by a pair of unarmed horsemen and five attendants who carry torches and banquet equipment (Figs. 18.5–6). The tomb belonged to a warrior, a member of the elite, and contained his iron arms and armour.55 Iron armour was particularly precious and Plutarch (Alex. 32.9) records Alexander the Great’s iron helmet, created by the famous Theophilos. The excavator dated the tomb to the early years of the third century and interpreted the banqueting scene as a private party given by one of the king’s companions in his garden, therefore of no special significance to the tomb owner’s life.56 A parallel can be drawn between the painted banquet of Agios Athanasios and the sculptured banquets of fourth-century Lykia, represented on the façades of rock-cut tombs as well as on the Nereid Monument at Xanthos. They all share a common detail: the deceased is shown as a symposiast holding an animal head rhyton of Achaemenid design.57 There are significant features in the iconography of the banquet of the Agios Athanasios Tomb that require explanation and may, in fact, entail that the artist had a specific event in mind. To begin with, the banquet is set in an open-air location as indicated by the tree growing behind the sideboard (Fig. 18.7). This is laden with gold and silver vessels, notably gold phialai for libations. The luxurious equipment demonstrates the elite standing of the host. Macedonian symposia were customarily held either in banqueting rooms called androns (we have several examples of them in

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The royal court in ancient Macedonia: the evidence for royal tombs

Fig. 18.7: Sideboard with naked youth serving wine. Tree in the background. Detail of the banquet frieze painted on the façade of the Tomb at Agios Athanasios. From Tsimbidou-Avloniti 2005, pl. 33a.

Fig. 18.8: Flute player, symposiast and animal head rhyton held by the deceased (who is visible in Fig. 18.9). Detail of the banquet frieze painted on the façade of the Tomb at Agios Athanasios. From Tsimbidou-Avloniti 2005, pl. 33b.

Fig. 18.9: Deceased holding rhyton, courtesan playing the kithara and Macedonian king. Detail of the banquet frieze painted on the façade of the Tomb at Agios Athanasios. From Tsimbidou-Avloniti 2005, pl. 34a.

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Fig. 18.10: Three bodyguards. Detail of the banquet frieze painted on the façade of the Tomb at Agios Athanasios. From Tsimbidou-Avloniti 2005, pl. 35a.

Macedonian palaces such as the one at Vergina),58 or in temporary tents, like Alexander’s famous pavilion of 100 couches which was used on several occasions, including the farewell celebrations at Dion on the eve of his departure for Persia in 33459 and during the mass marriages at Susa in 324.60 Open-air dining only took place as a last resort. On the occasion of the mass marriages, for example, Chares reports that the commanders of Alexander’s army and the ambassadors of the Greek cities had to dine al fresco in the courtyard for lack of sheltered space.61 Open-air dining was also practised when the huge number of guests required it, as during the famous banquet for the army organised by Peukestas at Persepolis in 317.62 The open-air setting of the Agios Athanasios frieze thus probably commemorates a historic event (when sheltered space was not available) rather than serving as the backdrop of a generic scene. Careful study of the rest of the composition of the painted façade of the tomb of Agios Athanasios can be richly rewarding. A pair of guards wearing a kausia, the Macedonian elite hat, a short chiton and Macedonian chlamys, as well as military boots and holding a sarissa, stand guard on either side of the tomb’s entrance, suggesting that the occupant was entitled to special honours (Figs. 18.12–13).63 It could even be suggested that in this case art imitated life, and that real sentries were in fact placed at the tomb’s entrance. The painted guards are in tears, indicating intimacy with the deceased. A painted shield hangs on the wall above each guard, presumably in commemoration of actual shields hanging on walls. The shield devices carry royal connotations: the shield on the left is

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The royal court in ancient Macedonia: the evidence for royal tombs

Fig. 18.11: Five royal pages. Detail of the banquet frieze painted on the façade of the Tomb at Agios Athanasios. From Tsimbidou-Avloniti 2005, pl. 35b. decorated with a gorgoneion, which recalls Agamemnon’s shield in the Iliad (11.36–7); that on the right has a winged thunderbolt, attribute of Zeus, king of the gods. The details of the banquet frieze point to a scene in the royal court on account of the military escort at the right end. It consists of three Macedonian adults holding spears and wearing kausias and full military gear, leather corselets, chlamydes and boots (Fig. 18.10),64 and of ﬁve youths wearing short chitons and equipped with Macedonian shields and spears (Fig. 18.11). Two of these youths wear Phrygian helmets and one wears a kausia. These adolescent boys may well be royal pages who accompanied the king of Macedon at symposia and hunting expeditions and served him in general capacities in the palace.65 Their presence here would indicate a scene in the royal court, entailing that the king is participating in the symposion. Since we have already seen that the deceased is identiﬁed by means of his rhyton, then perhaps the king is the banqueter on his right, attended by the female kithara player (Fig. 18.9). He touches her kithara in a proprietary gesture. Female kitharodes are so rare in banquet scenes that she effectively draws attention to herself and her companion.66 She can hardly be a member of the host’s family:67 female entertainers at symposia were professionals. A courtesan of exceptional skills and high standing is probably meant here. The association of Macedonian kings with hetairai, beginning with Philip II, is well documented.68 Demetrios Poliorketes, for example, was notorious for his liaisons with courtesans, notably the Athenian Lamia.69

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Figs. 18.12–13: The façade of the Tomb at Agios Athanasios, with bodyguards on the left and right of the entrance, each with a painted shield hanging above his head. Note the frieze at the top. From Tsimbidou-Avloniti 2005, plates 36–7.

The banquet frieze on the facade of the tomb of Agios Athanasios would thus commemorate a speciﬁc event in which the deceased dined with the king. There is, however, an added twist to the story. The group of revellers coming from the left comprise a young man in long hair, long chiton and himation (Fig. 18.6), dressed exactly like the symposiasts on the frieze and leading his horse. He is attended by two horsemen with close-cropped hair, wearing short military chitons, three youths and a taller attendant bringing up the rear. All are wreathed for the festivities, none is armed, and they carry torches or vessels for the symposion. What are we to make of this group? Are they crashing the party? How many of them are guests?70 Perhaps the riders in short chitons are a military escort rather than guests in their own right. Are we dealing with a continuous narrative or consecutive scenes? Should we expect to see the young guest with longish hair reclining among the banqueters? In addition, what is the signiﬁcance of the escort? Is the young guest a Macedonian noble or a king, attended by bodyguards and royal pages albeit weaponless?

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The banquet scene, framed by the two military escorts, one armed, the other weaponless, is reminiscent of a historic banquet recorded by Plutarch (Demetr. 36). In 294 Kassandros’ youngest son, Alexander V, king of Macedonia, called on Pyrrhos, king of Epirus and his uncle, Demetrios Poliorketes, to aid him in the civil war against his brother Antipater II.71 By the time Demetrios arrived at Dion and met Alexander, the conflict had been resolved: Pyrrhos had departed and the kingdom had been divided between Alexander and Antipater. Alexander no longer needed the services of Demetrios, he therefore hatched a plot to do away with him during a banquet. Having got wind of this, Demetrios arrived at the banquet at Dion with an armed escort who stayed with him throughout. He then announced his departure. Alexander escorted his uncle as far as Thessaly, still intending to do away with him during dinner. But first he had to accept a dinner invitation from Demetrios at Larissa. He participated in the banquet unarmed, leaving his escort outside in order not to arouse suspicion. Demetrios anticipated him and Alexander was cut down by his uncle’s bodyguards on leaving the symposion. His attendants who came to the rescue were also killed (presumably being weaponless and unprepared). We do not know to what extent Macedonian funerary paintings record historic occasions. The question of their historicity should be considered in connection with the hunting frieze painted on the façade of Vergina Tomb II (Fig. 18.2). I have argued elsewhere that the frieze does indeed reflect historic hunts and that it is not a continued narrative but a compendium of scenes.72 But the interpretation of the hunting frieze is controversial and can only offer a tentative parallel. That the lion hunt is a royal hunt and can therefore be interpreted as a court scene is argued in section 1 above. Would it be legitimate to identify the tomb at Agios Athanasios as the last resting place of Alexander V without any further evidence? The royal pages attending the symposion, the aristocratic bodyguards guarding the tomb’s entrance and the royal devices of the shields hanging above their heads give us food for thought. The fact that the tomb is not located in the royal capital, Pella, where we would expect to find the burials of the Antipatrid dynasty, may be partly explained by the fact that the dynasty was uprooted by Demetrios. Would Demetrios, as Alexander V’s uncle and successor, be expected to take charge of his nephew’s burial? Who was responsible for the choice of the banquet theme which subtly combined the iconography of the funerary banquet with historical banquets at the Macedonian court? All this belongs to the realm of speculation. The tomb’s wall-paintings, at any rate, may serve as an illustration of a court scene in the period of the Successors and the painted

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Olga Palagia tomb at Agios Athanasios is certainly connected to the royal court but cannot be eliminated as a potential royal burial.

3. Conclusion The social position of the king of Macedon as first among equals is reflected in the elite burials of Macedonia, where the tombs of courtiers may be as lavish as that of their sovereign. The evidence at our disposal only allows for conjecture, judging, for example, by the proximity of a tomb to the royal palace, the inclusion of a marble throne (which may well carry royal connotations), the iconography of painted friezes which may suggest a royal hunt or a royal banquet and finally, by the context, e.g. the inclusion of tombs in the same tumulus as a royal burial. Such suggestions, however, may be treated as preliminary, pending further discoveries in Macedonia.

Acknowledgements I am grateful to Andrew Erskine and Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones for the invitation to a very stimulating conference. My thanks are also due to Yannis and Maria Akamatis, Beth Carney and Panos Valavanis for advice and suggestions, to Theodore Antikas for information on the human remains of seven individuals from Vergina Tomb I, and to Panagiotis Faklaris for placing at my disposal his manuscript on the so-called Tomb of Eurydike prior to publication.

Notes 1 For palaces, see the chapters in this volume by Morgan, Engels (section 4) and Hardiman. 2 For a list of painted Macedonian tombs, see Tsimbidou-Avloniti 2005, 172–80. 3 Cf. Touratsoglou 2010, 116–27. 4 Hatzopoulos 1996, 487–96 (based on the epigraphical evidence); Paschidis 2006; Ma 2011, 524. This obviously did not apply to Alexander III’s court: cf. Spawforth 2007. 5 Tomb of the Palmettes: Rhomiopoulou and Schmidt-Dounas 2010; v. Mangoldt 2012, 183–6; Judgement Tomb: Petsas 1966; v. Mangoldt 2012, 177–81. 6 On the tombs of Vergina, see Ginouvès 1994, 128–77; Drougou and Saatsoglou- Paliadeli 1999, 36–71; Drougou 2011, 253; Kottaridi 2011e; v. Mangoldt 2012, 275–84, 291–4. 7 Andronicos 1984. 8 Andronikos 1987; v. Mangoldt 2012, 291–4, pl. 112, 5–6; Faklaris forthcoming with further references. 9 Andronicos 1984, 86–95. 10 Musgrave 1990, 274, 280. 11 Andronicos 1984, 87. For the position of the bones, see Andronikos 1994, 45, ﬁg. 10.

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12 Andronicos 1984, 66. 13 Borza 1987, 118–119; Borza and Palagia 2007, 82–3. According to Diod. Sic. 17.2.3, Philip’s and Kleopatra’s child was only a few days old at his assassination. Kleopatra and her daughter were put to death by Olympias shortly afterwards: Paus. 8.7.7; Plut. Alex. 10.8; Just. Epit. 9.7.12. See also Carney 2000, 74. 14 Kottaridi 2011b, 103, 142. 15 Carney 2000, 60–1. 16 Antikas 2015; Grant 2017, 768. 17 Andronicos 1984, 62–217. 18 Andronicos 1984, 226–33. For a recent summary of the arguments in favour of Philip II, see Lane Fox 2011, 1–34 (with earlier references). 19 See now Borza and Palagia 2007 (with earlier references). A stylistic date for about half the silver vessels from Tomb II in the last quarter of the 4th century is suggested by Zimi 2011, 104. 20 Faklaris 1994 and 2011, 347 n. 10; Themelis and Touratsoglou 1997, 143, 202. The identification of Vergina with Aigai is defended by Drougou 2011, especially p. 255 with fig. 19, showing a stamped tile with goat’s head from Vergina as a symbol of the city. 21 Musgrave 1990, 281. For Tomb III, see Andronicos 1984, 198–217; Kottaridi 2011c, 142, figs. 154, 163–4; Kottaridi 2011e, 106–25. 22 Cf. Themelis and Touratsoglou 1997, 158–60, 202. Quantities of silver vessels were placed in tombs of the elite in the late 4th and early 3rd centuries, cf. Zimi 2011, 21–6. 23 Andronicos 1984, 171, 174–5, figs. 138–9 (diadem); 168, fig. 132 (torch); Kottaridi 2002, 80. 24 Cf. Tsigarida 2002. On the priestly duties of the Macedonian king: Christensen and Murray 2010, 440–1. 25 Pydna (Makrygialos): Besios 2010, 197. Aineia: Vokotopoulou 1990, 74–5, fig. 37. 26 Illustrated in Andronicos 1984, figs. 58–9; Borza and Palagia 2007, col. pl. 7; Franks 2012, figs. 4–12. For a detailed analysis of the hunting frieze, dating it to 316, see Borza and Palagia 2007, 90–103. For a different view, dating it to 336: Saatsoglou- Paliadeli 2004; Lane Fox 2011, 10–13. The debate focuses on the question of the existence of lions in Macedonia in the 4th century: if they existed, then the royal hunter can be Philip II (Saatsoglou-Paliadeli; Lane Fox); if not, then the hunt takes place during Alexander’s expedition to the East and the king can be identified as Philip III Arrhidaios (Borza and Palagia). Franks (2012, 115–26) is undecided about the date of Tomb II. 27 With the exception of Franks 2012, who interprets the hunt as an episode from the life of Karanos, mythological founder of the Argead dynasty. For a critical review, see Palagia 2014. 28 Palagia 2000, 181; Borza and Palagia 2007, 96 with earlier references. 29 Istanbul, Archaeological Museum 369. Palagia 2000, 181–2, figs. 6–7; Borza and Palagia 2007, 97. 30 Palagia 2000; Carney 2002; Borza and Palagia 2007, 97–8; Seyer 2007, 93–171; Sawada, 2010, 400–2. 31 Andronicos 1984, 65–6. Drougou and Saatsoglou-Paliadeli 1999, figs. 52, 55. 32 Plut. Pyrrh. 26.6; Andronikos 1994, 33–4.

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33 Drougou et al. 1996, 47–8. 34 Karamitrou-Mentesidi 2008, 50–1, 56–7 (interpreting both tombs as royal). 35 Chrysostomou 1987; Lilimpaki-Akamati 1989–1991, 143–4, pls. 59–61. 36 Andronikos 1987; Ginouvès 1994, 154–61; Kottaridi 2007, 38–44; Kottaridi 2011a, fig. 16; 2011b, fig. 92; Kottaridi 2011c, figs. 165–6; v. Mangoldt 2012, 291–4, pl. 112, 5–6; Faklaris forthcoming. 37 Andronikos 1987. 38 The attribution of Macedonian tombs with thrones to women was based on a pair of seats that passed as thrones in the Macedonian Tomb of the Erotes at Eretria, inscribed with women’s names. Cf. Sismanides 1997, 197–9. On the Tomb of the Erotes, see Huguenot 2008, 53–201. These seats, however, are more likely stools as they have no backs and no armrests. 39 For example, Vergina Tomb II (Fig. 18.3) and Amphipolis Tomb I. For Amphipolis, Tomb I, see Lazarides 1997, 68–71. 40 Aeschines 2.27–29. Palagia 2010, 38. 41 For the sherds of archon Lykiskos, see Kottaridi 2011c, fig. 168. For the amphoras of Lykiskos, see Eschbach 1986, 88–9; Bentz 1998, 175. The pelike by the Eleusinian Painter is illustrated in Kottaridi 2011b, fig. 83. 42 Bentz 2001. 43 Palagia 2010, 38 n. 23; Faklaris forthcoming. Lane Fox (2011, 8) suggests that the helmet belonged to a tomb robber. Why would a tomb robber wear armour? For the gold and ivory couch, see Kottaridi 2007, 39. 44 Palagia 2002, 4; Huguenot 2008, 118–19; Valavanis forthcoming; Faklaris forthcoming. 45 Palagia 2002. 46 Ginouvès 1994, 176–7; Galanakis 2011, 50, fig. 36; v. Mangoldt 2012, 270–3, pls. 107 and 108, 1–2. 47 Kottaridi 2011b, 142. 48 Ginouvès 1994, 175–6. 49 Huguenot 2008, 115–19. Contra, Paspalas 2005, 88. 50 The argument that the royal throne in Macedonia was introduced by Alexander and that the funerary thrones may indeed be royal, is developed in detail in Palagia forthcoming. 51 On this tomb, see Tsimbidou-Avloniti 2005, 89–171; Palagia 2011, 484–7; v. Mangoldt 2012, 71–74. 52 Borza 1983. Macedonian banquets are further studied by Carney 2007; Sawada 2010, 393–9; Carney 2015, 263–4. 53 Curt. 8.1.43–52; Plut. Alex. 51.8–9; Arr. 4.8.8; Just. Epit. 12.6.3; Carney 2007, 168–70. For violence at royal Macedonian banquets in the 5th century, see Carney 2007, 164. 54 Plut. Demetr. 36.3–6. 55 Tsimbidou-Avloniti 2011. 56 Tsimbidou-Avloniti 2005, 125–6, 134–5, 141–2. She subsequently revised the date of the tomb to the last quarter of the 4th century on no clear evidence (Tsimbidou- Avloniti 2011, 351). 57 The deceased as symposiast holding a rhyton in Lycian funerary iconography: a) banquet frieze of the Nereid Monument from Xanthos in the British Museum:

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Jenkins 2006, 196, ﬁg. 190; b) rock-cut tomb relief of the 4th century at Myra: Bruns- Özgan 1987, 267, F 17, pl. 14,1. See also Tsimbidou-Avloniti 2005, 142. No rhyta in precious metals have been found in excavations in Macedonia so far but their existence is known from literary references and inscriptions: Zimi 2011, 16. 58 Kottaridi 2011d, 323, 327, ﬁgs. 32a–b. 59 Diod. Sic. 17.16.4. Spawforth 2007, 92–3. On royal tents, see Morgan this volume. 60 Plut. Alex. 70.3; Athen. 12.538b–539a; Spawforth 2007, 94, 97–8, 112–13. 61 Chares, FGrH 125 F 4 (Athen. 538b–539a). See also Aelian, VH 8.7; Spawforth 2007, 112–13, 118. 62 Diod. Sic. 19.22. 63 Tsimbidou-Avloniti 2005, 142–7. 64 The three men were interpreted as bodyguards by Tsimbidou-Avloniti 2005, 139. 65 According to Arrian (4.13.1), the institution of the royal pages was introduced by Philip II. Royal pages continued to serve Macedonian kings until Perseus (Livy 45.6.7–9). Their function was to attend the king at symposia and hunting expeditions, stand guard outside his bedroom and bring his horse before battle (Curt. 5.1.42). On royal pages, see Carney 2008; Sawada 2010, 403–6; Carney 2015, 222–3. 66 That the female kithara player is so far unique in Greek and Macedonian representations of symposia was observed by Tsimbidou-Avloniti 2005, 135. 67 So Tsimbidou-Avloniti 2005, 136. 68 See now Ogden 2011. 69 Wheatley 2003; Ogden 1999, 177, 241–2; Ogden 2011, 227–31. See also K. Buraselis in this volume. 70 Tsimbidou-Avloniti (2005, 137) suggests that the two riders and the man leading the horse are all guests and that they arrive in the middle of the dinner party. 71 Hammond and Walbank 1988, 214–17. 72 Borza and Palagia 2007, 90–103, col. pl. 4.

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431

INDEX

Achaemenids Ammon 13, 92 army of 325 Ammonios, Seleucid chief minister 87, court of xx–xxvi, 1–7, 10–14, 18, 32–3, 361, 365–6 69–101, 144, 257, 261, 319, 328 Antigonos I Monophthalmos 192, 239, Grand Vizier 72 295 kinship with Ariarathids 320–30 burial of Kleopatra 16 palaces of 42, 44–5, 51–4, 78–80 city foundations 17 satrapal system of 203 death of 111 transfers of power 326 declaration of kingship 3, 18–19 wives 42, 71 philoi of 109, 311, 322 Adea-Eurydike 3–5, 175, 412 Antigonos II Gonatas Aeschines 34, 415 alleged use of poison 385 Aeschylus 14–15 marriage alliances of 193 Agathokleia 48–9, 109, 130–1, 383 mocks Ptolemaic court 259 Agis III of Sparta 4 Persaios and 112, 135 Ai Khanoum 79–80, 85 philoi of 121, 311 Aigai (Vergina) tombs of Aigai and 414 feasting at 170 Antigonos III Doson 24, 127 royal burials at 3, 5, 16, 409–24 Antiochis of Armenia 199, 201, 205 see also Vergina Antiochis of Cappadocia 75, 196–200, Alexander II Zabines 391, 397 205 Alexander III ‘the Great’ 239 Antiochos I Soter 83, 191 Alexander-imitatio 9–10, 15, 18, 231, marriage to stepmother 172, 192 271 Antiochos II Theos 75, 173, 194, 239 betrothal of Perdikkas and Roxane 6, accession of 198 16 death of 384 court of xxi–xxii, 5–11, 32, 72, 145, marriage to Berenike Syra 167–8, 178, 257–8, 270 173, 362 cult of 146 marriage to Laodike 362 death and burial of 2–4, 16–17, 383–4 Antiochos III ‘the Great’ elimination of Philip’s friends 122 accession 35 imitation of Persian king 6–8, 11–13, alleged murder of son 130–1, 387 144–5, 175–7, 419 Antiochis of Cappadocia 75, 196, military 73–4, 121 200–1 relationship with Thais 216–7 defeat by Romans 324 wives of 2–5, 16, 175, 177 epistolography, 239 Alexander IV 1–6, 16–18, 412 imperial organisation 133–4 Alexander V xxiv, 418, 422–3 marriage policy 167–8, 171, 177 Alexandria 3, 32, 191–2, 257, 296, 349 marriage to Euboia 176, 220 Alkibiades 14, 214, 284 murder of father’s friends 122

433

Index

relationship with Hermeias 82, 122, Arrhidaios, Seleucid official 237, 239, 247 124 Arsinoe I 168, 390 relationship with philoi 104, 106, 108, Arsinoe II 112, 128, 367 alleged poison plot 391–3 revolts and defections from 200–1, depicted on coinage 168, 171 362–4 festival of Adonis and 147 Antiochos IV Epiphanes 109, 111, 362 Lysimachos and 387–8 named Mithridates 88–9 Second Syrian War and 175 treatment of disloyal philoi 367 weddings of 166–71 Antiochos VII Sidetes 72, 103, 108, 129 Arsinoe III Antiochos VIII Grypos depicted on coinage 168 epistolography 236 murder of 105, 109, 383 maker of poisons 376, 386, 391–3 presence at Raphia 175 murder of 365 syntrophoi of 105, 158 Antipater, Macedonian 3–6, 11–12, art 17–18 carved reliefs 36–40, 275–6, 413 Antipater, son of Herod 384–5, 394 friezes 109, 271–2, 411–13, 418, 422 Antipater, son of Kassandros 423 funerary paintings 327, 423–4 Antipatros of Sidon 104 marble, use of 415–17 Apama I 72, 75, 133 mosaics 271–2, 278 Apama II of Cyrene 190–4, 197–200, 205 paintings xxvi, 171, 271, 274–5, 282, Archelaos 24, 215, 270, 284 409, 417 architecture 271 statues 108, 260, 277, 281–4, 307, as authority 7, 40–7, 276 327, 416 expected layout of palaces 36–8, 274 vase paintings 168–9 layout and use of buildings 35–42, 146 Artemis 13, 112, 150–4, 158, 169, 174 Pergamon 269–84 Ashoka Maurya 192, 375, 395 peristyle rooms 48–9, 275, 279 assassination similarity of Seleucid and Achaemenid attempted murder of Ptolemy IV 47, royal residences 79–80 51, 129 use of columns 11, 270, 414 by courtiers 105, 130, 364–5 Vergina 40–1 by monarchs 130, 364, 386 Argead dynasty 1–2 by queens 75, 201, 383, 387 royal burials 3, 5, 16, 409–24 murder of Andronikos 361 see also Alexander III, IV, Archelaos, murder of Arsinoe III 105, 383 Philip II, and Philip III Arrhidaios murder of Seleucids 359–60, 364–6 Ariarathes IV Eusebes of Cappadocia see also poison 75, 322–4, 326, 330 Athena Ariarathes V Eusebes Philopator 322–4 in Callimachus 148, 151–2 marriage to Nysa 385 on Cappadocian coins 196 originally named Mithridates 197–9 in Pergamon 45, 279, 286 Ariarathids 75, 194–9, 207–8, 322–4, Attalids 326, 328, 330, 385 building programme 37, 43–6 Aristeas, Letter of 37, 49, 51, 311, 345, court and domestic display 269–84 351 cult of 276 Armenia 75, 77, 133, 189, 200–2, 209, kingship 43 363 philoi and 107, 114, 116, 122, 376

434

Index

relationship with Ariarathids 198–9 Cappadocia, kingdom of 319–42 relationship with Rome 173, 380 court propaganda 322–4 syntrophoi and 104–5 dynastic murders 324 Attalos I Soter 43–5, 105, 273 dynastic origins 75, 322 Attalos II Philadelphos 103, 122, 279, 362 monarchs 324, 326 Attalos III Philometor Euergetes nobility 323–30 education of 103 Perdikkas campaigns in 3 interest in poison 376, 382 Pontic intervention in 385 negative image of 380–1 Seleucids and, 133, 189, 194–200 philoi of 114, 116, 122, 376 Chandragupta 302, 375 Charlemagne 32 Babylon children, illegitimate xx, 131, 197–8 centre of power 4, 17, 41, 71, 78–80, Cicero 328 84, 216, 271, 305–7 clothing elites of 71, 74, 76–7 headbands 260–2 foundation of 298 military dress 169, 419–20 historiography of 308 as power display 109, 168, 259 Bactria 72, 75, 79–80, 133, 363 Ptolemaic court dress 259–61 Bagapates 33 royal style 6, 10–15 Bagoas 137, 402 wedding veil 174 barge, royal 42, 51, 259, 264–5, 271–2, 285 coinage basilikoi paides 147, 149, 152, 155, 158, Jewish 345 see also pages, royal jugate portraits 171–2, 180 Berenike I 191 political ties 168, 171, 192 Berenike II 168–9, 175, 386 symbols of rule 13, 168, 196, 327 Berenike Syra 175 use by regents 350 dowry of 170, 173 Commagene 77, 133, 209 marriage to Antiochos II 167, 173 court wedding ceremony 168–9 Achaemenid xx–xxvi, 1–7, 10–14, 18, Berossos xxv, 304–12 32–3, 69–85, 144, 257, 261, 319, 328 Bithynia, kingdom of 319–42 admission to 345 Antigonids and 109, 179 continuity of institutions 69–85 civil war 323 definitions xv–xvi, 47, 52, 147 court 327–8 inner-court 69–70 dynastic origins 321 Jewish presence at 77, 84, 343–56 governance of 325–6 king and xvi, 34–5, 48, 231, 269 Seleucids and 133, 322 of ‘Olympus’ 150–4 Brahmanism 303–4 offices of 70–3 bribery 360–1, 365–6, 368–9 outer-court 76–7, 261 Buckingham Palace 47, 171 philia 102 burial, royal 3, 5, 16–17, 48, 300, 328, Ptolemaic 257–63, 301, 347–8 see also tombs rivalry at 122–5 Seleucid 69–101, 189–204 Callimachus courtiers political undertones 146–55, 169–70, court favourites 121–34 175 definitions 102 works, 148, 151 disloyalty and defection 361–4

435

Index

epistolagraphos 233 Demetrios Poliorketes wearing 13, 219 eunuchs 39, 73, 127, 129 in Egypt 260 female courtiers 215 Krateros not wearing, 6, 11 Jewish 343–56 in Macedonian tomb 412 kinsman 261 Ptolemy VI refuses to wear 257 lifestyle 108–10 queens and 131, 137, 154, 174, 181, movement between courts 128 218 royal promotion of ‘favourites’ 106–8, Dion 42, 51, 409, 420, 423 122–4, 364, 367 Dionysios the Mede 74, 77, 129, 132 suspicions of 35 Dionysios I of Syracuse 284 tropheus 103–5, 109, 350 Dionysos 13, 42–3, 271, 278–9, 283, see also, philoi and syntrophoi 303, 311 Cyrene 150, 189, 191–4, 199 Dositheos, general of Ptolemy VI 136, 343, 349–50 Darius I 34, 38, 52–3, 326 Dositheos, son of Drimylos 347–8 Palace of 36, 38–42, 44, 52, 79 dowries, royal 166–70, 173, 176, 180, Darius III xxi 2, 143–4, 271 392 Deioces 31, 33, 39 Drypetis 2 Demetrios I Poliorketes Duindam, Jeroen xix, 123–4 Alexander-imitatio 6 battle of Gaza 344 edeatros 107, 144–5, see also foodtaster coinage of 13 Elias, Norbert xviii–xx, 110, 123–4, 147, courtesans 137, 218–22, 421 258 declaration of kingship 17 Elton, Geoffrey xvi–xviii footwear 14 Eumenes of Kardia 6–11, 15, 17–18, 35, Hieronymos of Kardia and 311 129, 311 letters to 244 Eumenes II of Pergamon military decisions 134 marriages 176, 198 murder of Alexander V xxiv, 418, 423 officials of 107 Demetrios I Soter 100–5, 108, 233, palaces of 273–5 362–3, 367 Pergamene expansion 45–6 Demetrios II Aitolikos 193, 385 relations with Rome 167 Demetrios II Nikator 77, 103, 129, 176, eunuchs 121–34 363, 365, 391 Achaemenid 33, 73, 402 Demetrius III Eukairos 137 Classical Athens 73 Demetrios the Fair 193, 198 Hasmonean 390 Demetrios of Pergamon 107 Menander’s Eunouchos 227 Demetrios of Phaleron 11, 128, 217 Palace of Darius 39 Demetrios of Pharos 382 Pontic 319 Demetrios, son of Ariarathes 332 Ptolemaic 105–6, 114, 129, 257–8, Demetrios, son of Philip V 50, 110, 350, 355 388–90 Seleucid 72–4, 82–3, 103, 105–6, 114, diadem 129–30, 383 and Alexander III 3, 7, 144, 154 see also Bagapates, Bagoas, Philetairos Antiochos IV lends to Romans 48 Eupolemos, Jewish writer 347 in Cappadocia 195–6 Eurydike, see Adea-Eurydike on coin portraits 13, 154, 196, 327 Eurydike, daughter of Antipater 179

436

Index

Eurydike, mother of Philip II 414–15 Kassandros Ezekias 344–7, 352–3 execution of Argeads 386 power of 4–7, 17, 195 foodtaster 376–7, 396, see also edeatros Thessalonike and 16–17, 171, 411 kingship Gaza, battle of 344–5 access to the king 43, 47–8 adoption of other models 7–11, 43–4, Habicht, Christian xxv, 132, 331 51, 319–20 Hannibal Barca 74, 76, 86, 128, 397 associations of divinity 149–54 Harpalos 18, 216–17 banquets and 41–2, 45, 49, 275, 419 Hekataios of Abdera 243, 296–303, 306, buildings and power 33, 37, 43 309, 344–7, 351 cultural mixing 53, 175–6 Heliodoros, Seleucid chief minister 87 definitions of 1 dossier 115, 234, 246 elements of 231, 295, 305–6, 409 honoured by Seleukos IV 106, 242 victory through conquest 43, 295 Jerusalem and 106, 108 weakness of monarchs 367 murders Seleukos IV 106, 365–6, 383 Kleitos the White Henry II of England xv royal style and Alexander-imitatio 6, 8, Hephaistion, Macedonian commander 10–16 2, 125–6 Kleopatra I 168, 176, 263, 350 Hephaistion mosaic 276–7 Kleopatra II 167, 171, 249, 258–9, 343, Herakles 13, 34, 40–1, 153–4, 282, 298, 348–50 303, 305, 310 Kleopatra III 136, 166, 175, 249, 263, 351 Herakles, son of Alexander III xxiv Kleopatra IV 180, 392 Hermes 13, 153 Kleopatra VII 54 Herodotus 31–4, 71, 297, 299, 309–10, and poisons 373, 376–9, 381, 383, 382 386, 396 hetairai 213–22 presence at Actium 175 at the court 216, 220 royal style 174, 181, 259 definition of 71, 213 Kleopatra, daughter of Philip II 3–4, 16, honouring of 216–19 169, 180 in the polis 214 Kleopatra Berenike 180 Macedonian kings and 421 Kleopatra Eurydike, wife of Philip II roles of 213–14 411 see also Lamia, Myrrhine, Pythionike, Kleopatra Selene 168, 180 Thais Kleopatra Thea hetairoi 9, 11, 71, 125 attempted filicide 391–2 Hieronymos of Kardia 311 betrothal to Demetrios II 176 Homer 146, 154, 269, 298, 309 court of 73, 103, 105, 114 Hypsipyle, queen of Lemnos 33 death 386 marriage to Alexander Balas 170, Jerusalem 49, 87, 106, 108, 311, 345–7, 176, 180 360, 365 marriage to Antiochos VII 103, 108, jewellery 109, 168, 261, 412 171 Jews 77, 84, 298, 311, 343–56 political power 171–2, 191, 391, 393 Judaea 344, 347 royal style 168 Kombabos 74, 83

437

Index

Krateros, diadoch death of 378 royal style and Alexander-imitatio 6, Gordius and 330 10–13, 15, 17–18 Laodike and 386, 392 Krateros, physician to Kleopatra Thea military officials 104, 107 73, 103, 105–6, 108, 129 Mithridatium 375–8 Kynoskephalai, battle of 128 reign of 319, 324, 328 Mithridates, general of Antiochos III 77 Lamia 218–19, 224, 421 Mithridates, son of Antiochos III 248 Laodike I 234 Mossalamos (Messalamos) 346–7, 352 attempted murder of Sophron 362 Myrrhine 137, 214, 218, 221 cult of 240 in the Second Syrian War 173, 384 Nikaia of Corinth 385 sale of lands to 234, 237, 239, 241 Nikaia, daughter of Antipater 3, 175, 400 Laodike II 114 Nikaia ( polis) 328–9 Laodike III Nikomedes I of Bithynia 109, 321–5, and Antiochos III 167–8 327–8 cult of 233 Nikomedes III 328, 333 power of 131, 171, 236–7 Nikomedes IV Philopator 326, 328 Laodike IV 168, 180 Nikomedes of Kos 109, 111, 322 Laodike V 167, 173 Laodike, daughter of Mithridates VI 385 Olympias 204 Laodike, wife of Mithridates II 75 hetairai 224 Laodike, wife of Mithridates V 386 residence at Pydna 33, 35 Laodike, wife of Mithridates VI 392 wars of the Successors 4–5, 13, 16, Laodikeia 110 425 Leonnatos 6, 10, 16–18 Onias I, high-priest 345, 353 Louis XIV of France 110, 123, 130, 258 Onias III, high-priest 136, 360–1 Onias IV, high-priest 136, 351 Magas of Cyrene 191–4, 199, 386 Onias, Ptolemaic General 343, 349–50, Manetho xxv, 262, 307–12 352 Map, Walter xv–xvii ouraniskos 5, 7 marriage 165–88 as a political tool 75, 173, 176, pages, royal 70–1, 110, 152, 359, 421, 189–96 423, see also basilikoi paides ceremony 166, 168–70, 175 palaces 31–61, 269–79 mixed 75 definitions 32–8 wedding gifts or dowries 166–70, misappropriated definitions 37–8 173, 176, 392 see also architecture Mausolus 37, 44–5 Parysatis 16, 19 Megasthenes 301–4, 306, 312–3 Pella Memphis 3, 129, 258–62 cemetery of 414 Menander 33, 216, 220–2 court 109–10, 155 Middleton, Kate 165, 179 influence and impact 43–4, 272 Mithridates II of Pontos 75 layout 50 Mithridates V 385, 386 palace 38, 270 Mithridates VI size 47 Alexander-imitatio 10 Perdikkas 2–6, 8–12, 16–18, 72

438

Index

Pergamon disloyalty of 122–3, 126, 359–68 bouleuterion at 37 divine parallels 150–5 Great Altar of Zeus 273–7 duties of 71, 102, 148 palaces and power 43–6, 273–84 hereditary positions 121–34, 149 Persepolis patronage of 124, 132–4 comparisons with Vergina 41–2 relationship with favourites 121–34 destruction 144, 215–16 residences of 272–3 inscriptions at 51–3 royal dining 42 modelled after temples 146–7 as royal physicians 376 Palace layout 33, 35–6, 80 Seleucid and Achaemenid continuity palace of Darius I, 38–42 70–7 reuse 78–80, 420 terminology 107, 148 Persians see Achaemenids poison 75, 87, 328, 359, 367, 373–94 Petosarapis 129, 132 Polyperchon 4–8 Peukestas 6, 8–10, 15, 18, 420 Pontos, kingdom of Philetairos 43, 363 character of 319–20, 324, 331, 336 Philinna of Larissa 215, 223 court offices in 107 Philip II of Macedon intervenes in Bithynia 324 afterlife and imitatio 9, 17, 145, 220, 231 intervenes in Cappadocia 385 burial and tomb 3, 409, 413–14 origins of royal house 75 city foundations 17 philoi in 76 court of 121, 125, 152 Seleucids and 75, 133, 177, 322, 333 family 16 Poseidon hetairai 215, 220, 421 Demetrios Poliorketes as 13, marriages 169–71, 175–6 Kleitos as 12–13, 15 Persianisms 145, 155 relation to Zeus 146, 153, 159 town planner 50–1 Poseidonios of Apamea 82–3 Philip III Arrhidaios Ptolemaios Makron 136, 366–7, 369 parentage 215 Ptolemies 143–64, 257–68, 343–58, tomb of 412 see also Ptolemy I etc. wars of the Successors 1–8, 15–18 Ptolemy I Soter of Egypt Philip V Alexander’s body 3, 16 court favourites 108, 122, 126–8, 132 city foundations 17 marriages 166 Demetrios of Phaleron and 128 military activity 35 as edeatros 145, 396 murder of Demetrios 388–9 Egyptian courtiers of 265, 307–10 poisons 381–3, 388–9 family of 157, 191 request to Larissa 231 Jewish community under 344–7, 351 royal accommodation 110 Kleopatra and 16 Philip, tropheus of Antiochos V 104 in the Lindian Chronicle 178 philoi (courtiers) literary depictions of 153–4, 243, and Alexander-imitatio 5–10 296–7, 299–301, 307–10 Antigonid 109, 311, 322 means of propaganda 300, 309 Antiochos III and 104, 106, 108, 112, poisoning of Ptolemaios 399 128, 367 Thais and 216, 218 assassinations by 105, 130, 364–5 treatment of the Jews 344–7 court life and 101–12 unofficial use of the royal title 18–19

439

Index

Ptolemy II Philadelphos Eudoxos of Knidos and 260 Ashoka Maurya and 192 hetairai and 137 banquets of 42 marriage alliances 166, 171, 391 benefactor 173 purge 122 building work 47 rebellion of 257, 349 co-regency and accession 146, 191–2 Ptolemy IX Soter II 107, 263 court and courtiers 49, 111, 157, 259, Ptolemy X Alexander I 103, 107, 234, 264 236 depictions of 171 Ptolemy XI Alexander II 180 hetairai and 130, 218, 224 Ptolemy XII Neos Dionysos ‘Auletes’ Jewish scholars and 49, 311 260–1, 376 marriage alliances of 167, 170, 175, Ptolemy XIII Theos Philopator 376, 396 176 Ptolemy XIV 386 plots against 390–1 Ptolemy of Cyprus 397 procession of 21, 271 Ptolemy Eupator 104 tent of 14, 42, 51 Ptolemy Keraunos 166, 171 Ptolemy III Euergetes Ptolemy Lysimachou 237 court and courtiers 262, 264 Ptolemy of Megalopolis 104 depictions of 264 Ptolemy ‘the Son’ 237 Jewish ‘favourites’ 347–8 Ptolemy, son of Sosibios 109 Kleomenes of Sparta and 128 Ptolemy of Telmessos 247 marriage of 192–3, 198 purple Third Syrian ‘Laodikean’ War 169, divine associations 13 175, 362, 367, 384 indicator of status 11, 71, 109 Ptolemy IV Philopator kingship 2, 7, 11, 270 accession 243, 386 shoes 14, 16 attempted assassination of 128–9, 348 Pyrrhos court and courtiers 104, 264, 367, 376 Alexander-imitatio 6 death 46–7, 109, 383 control of Macedon 423 hetairai and 130 court intrigue 386, 390, 393 Jewish ‘favourites’ 347–9 looting of Aigai 414 Thalamegos 42, 51, 263–4, 271 military ability 121 Ptolemy V Epiphanes Pythonike 18, 216–18 courtiers 104–5, 109, 134, 398 death 384, 399 queens marriage of 168 divine associations 173–5 regency of 103 military figures 175 Ptolemy VI Philometor Egyptian ‘favourites’ 129 Raphia Egyptian royal crowns 259–60 battle of 47, 51, 77, 129, 175, 348 embassy to Rome and restoration wedding at 168 257–9, 365 Rome Jewish ‘favourites’ 136, 343, 346–52 political interests of 126, 199, 257–8, marriage alliances of 172, 176 324–6, 350, 380–1, 393 regency of 103 Senate 198, 257, 324, 350, 393 Ptolemy VIII Euergetes II ‘Physkon’ Roxane 2, 4–5, 16, 175 court and courtiers 135, 261

440

Index

Saint-Simon, Duc de xix, 123, 258 murder of 359–60, 364, 367, 384 Samos 3, 220–1 ὁ ἐπὶ τῶν πραγµάτων 72 Sandrokottos (Chandragupta) 302, 375 Seleukos IV Philopator Sarapis 307–8 hetairia under 71 Seleucids 69–84, 189–204 marriage alliances 167–8, 176 administration 234–42 murder of 365, 383 adoption of Achaemenid and ὁ ἐπὶ τῶν πραγµάτων 106, 242 Babylonian traditions 69–70, 74, Olympiodoros and 106 77, 80–1, 204 philoi 105, 107, 112, 234, 236, 242 court composition 72–8, 83, Seleukos V Philometor 391 dynastic ties with Cappadocia 194–6, Seleukos, son of Antiochos I Soter 198 322 Sesoosis (Sesostris) 299 Greek and Macedonian names 74–5 Sibyrtios 302, 313 Iranian names 74 Siwah 3 luxury 81 Spencer, Diana 171, 177 marriages 74–5, 189–204 Starkey, David xvii monarchic style 195, 231–4, 307 Stateira, daughter of Darius III 2, 175, ὁ ἐπὶ τῶν πραγµάτων 72, 106, 242, 177 367 Stateira, sister and wife of Darius III 144 queens 72, 189–205 Stratonike I of Syria 83, 172, 175 Seleukeia-Kalykadnos 111 Stratonike of Cappadocia 75, 194–7, Seleukeia-Pieria 112, 234–6 205 Seleukeia-Tigris 79 Susa 14, 80, 170, 270 Seleukeia-Tralleis 248 inscriptions of 52–3 Seleukeia-Zeugma 168, 171 mass wedding at 2, 14, 42, 51, 133, Seleukos I Nikator of Syria 236, 295 144, 170, 178, 270, 420 Apama and 72, 75, 133 royal residence 33–4, 78–80 as hetairos 71 Seleucid use of 78–80 Berossos and 305–6 symbolism cities founded by 79 Argead authority 1–19 Demodamas and 310 authority of personal effects 2–3, epistolography 82, 236 6–10, 144 Megasthenes and India 302–4 brides 2, 172, 174–6, 194–5 military success 121 divinity or quasi-divinity 13, 42, 45, non-Greek philoi 74 146, 148, 154, 168, 177 oriental tales of 83–4 lion as a symbol of kingship 12, 412 overworked 82 poison 379 Philetairos and 43 proskynesis 7–8 satrap of Babylonia 17 wealth 173 Stratonike and 172, 195 weddings 165, 173–4, 178 Seleukos II Kallinikos syngeneis 70–1 marriage alliances 75 syntrophos murderous schemes of 384 definition and overview 104–6, 149 relationship with philoi 72, 74 not in Ptolemaic Egypt 104–5 Third Syrian ‘Laodikean’ War 364 relationship with king 106–8, 152, Seleukos III Soter 359 242, 365 Armeno-Iranian philoi 77 Syrakousia, ship 272

441

Index

Syrian Wars adoption of foreign court practices First Syrian War 191 81–82 Second Syrian War 173, 175, 384 murder at banquet 382 Third Syrian ‘Laodikean’ War 169, ‘oriental’ Seleucids 83 175, 362, 364, 367, 384 Triparadeisos 3 Fourth Syrian War 128 tropheus 77, 103–4, 107 Fifth Syrian War 168 Sixth Syrian War 349, 363 veils 168, 170–1, 174 Vergina tents palace 38, 40–3, 45, 47–8, 51, 272, Alexander III 7–15, 37, 42, 51, 143–4, 281, 286, 409, 420 270–1, 420 tombs 409–24 Darius III 143–4, 271 Eumenes 7–9, 35 wealth Kleitos the White 10–15 Alexander’s successors and 6–15 Philip III Arrhidaios 7 art collections 279 Ptolemy II 14, 51, 271 displays of 82, 143–4, 154, 167–70, Ptolemy IV 47–9, 348 270, 329 Thais 208, 215–16, 218, 220–1, 224 weddings, royal 165–88, see also marriage Thalamegos, Ptolemaic barge 42, 51, 263–4, 271 Xerxes of Armenia 75, 77, 200–1, 363 Theocritus 143–55, 270, 279, 296 Xerxes of Persia 36, 38–9, 52–3, 215, Thessalonike 171 326 alleged tomb of 416 eponymous city foundation 175 Zeus Kassandros and 4–6, 16, 171 Alexander and 13, 154 name 175–6 Ammon 13 Thessaloniki xxiv, 5, 17, 109, 175, 409, of Baitokaike 234, 237 411, 416, 418 Basileus 146 thrones 3, 7–8, 11, 21, 35, 144, 154, Bel identified with 305 415–17 Callimachus on 151–4 tithenos 103 Great Altar of, 273–4, 276 tombs, royal 3, 328, 409–24, see also in Homer 154, 159 burial Labraundeus 45, 248 topoi 377 Ptolemies and 21, 145–6, 154 Achaemenid effeminacy 82 source of royal power, 151–2, 159

442