Diodorus Siculus has not enjoyed a positive reputation among historians of antiquity. Since the nineteenth century his Bibliothēkē has been dismissed as a derivative work produced by an incompetent compiler, useful often only in so far as one can mine his text for lost and, evidently, far superior works of history.Footnote 1 Diodorus’ own input into the Bibliothēkē has been dismissed as the clumsy intervention of ‘a small man with pretensions’.Footnote 2 In one of the sharpest expressions of the traditional view, Diodorus is not a historian but ‘a mere epitomizer and an incompetent one at that’.Footnote 3 In recent years voices of dissent have spoken up, determined to investigate Diodorus’ own contribution to ancient historiography. Their contributions have been notable for their desire to study and understand Diodorus on his own terms or to problematize his derivative use of his sources.Footnote 4 Sacks, in particular, has argued that Diodorus’ voice can be heard in nearly every proem, a feature that occurs regularly in the text, and that Diodorus’ own views structure his analysis of historical events copied from other authors.Footnote 5
In this article I wish to argue that Diodorus’ role as author and his historical thought had a clear and significant effect on the structure, content and meaning of the Bibliothēkē. This will be demonstrated through investigation of two self-contained narratives: those of the two Sicilian ‘Slave Wars’. The crafted story of servile resistance in the face of inhumane treatment and administrative corruption has resulted in these narratives being regarded as some of the best surviving evidence of ancient slavery. The importance of these narratives as evidence for ancient slavery is such that they have regularly been mined for information about particular aspects of slave exploitation, and in particular for what they can tell us about the effects of mistreatment and overpopulation of slaves. When they are considered in a historiographical light, the focus is on what they can tell us about Diodorus’ attitude toward Rome or how his putative source, Posidonius, conceptualized the decline and fall of certain societies.Footnote 6 Diodorus’ input into his own text has generally been sidelined. This is the case in part because of a fragment of Posidonius preserved in Athenaeus that appears to confirm the derivative nature of Diodorus’ text.Footnote 7 Very few scholars have sought to understand the ‘Slave War’ narratives intratextually within the Bibliothēkē itself.Footnote 8
In this article, therefore, I will approach the question of Diodoran authorship of these narratives in three ways. In the first part, I will look at the terminology Diodorus uses to construct the narrative framework for the two Sicilian ‘Slave Wars’, with a particular focus on the first war. This investigation will show that the terminology that drives the text's analysis fits Diodoran usage and thought throughout the Bibliothēkē, particularly with regard to social interactions as well as to Diodorus’ social commentary. In the second part, I will argue that Diodorus’ own historical context can help us better understand why he frames his narratives in this way: his social commentary is entirely explicable in his context, and in fact is best understood within Diodorus’ lifespan rather than within the time-frame of the events that he describes. In the third part, I will show that the framework for the two Sicilian ‘Slave Wars’ allows these two narratives to fit the Bibliothēkē’s overall aim and structure: that is, that the ‘Slave Wars’ are meant to be read in relation to the rest of the Bibliothēkē and that our reading and understanding of them benefits from this approach. I will argue that the framework for these two narratives should be read as Diodorus’ own work and not that of his source, which is likely to be Posidonius. The intention of this article is not to suggest that Diodorus is responsible for considerable portions of the ‘Slave War’ texts in terms of their narrative details. Instead, I argue that, if we look at one narrative that is usually considered to be Posidonian, but study it in relation to the Bibliothēkē as a whole, we can gain a greater appreciation of Diodorus’ own voice and handling of his source material—in short, his authorship. Moreover, we will see that his input had a consistent and marked effect on the shape of the Bibliothēkē. In sum, this article suggests that we must emphasize Diodorus Siculus’ authorial input into the ‘Slave War’ narratives, and move beyond a narrow focus on his ‘sources’. But before we look at authorial input, let us get down to basics: how the ‘Slave War’ narratives are framed in Diodorus’ text.
PART ONE
Narrative framework—The first ‘Slave War’
Let us consider how the narrative material for the wars is framed in the Bibliothēkē, taking each war in turn.Footnote 9 Books 21–40 of Diodorus’ Bibliothēkē do not survive complete, but come to us in the form of later excerpts and summaries: in the case of the two Sicilian ‘Slave Wars’ these later sources are Photius’ ninth-century a.d. epitome of the Bibliothēkē and the tenth-century a.d. Excerpta Historica commissioned by the Byzantine emperor Constantine Porphyrogenitus. The task of understanding the narratives under discussion here, therefore, is one of piecing together fragments to form a bare patchwork. This task is simpler for the first war because there are several disconnected Constantinian excerpts that have survived. The parallel Photian epitome preserves a more coherent narrative of the events than do the Constantinian excerpts; but this text owes its unity to Photius’ editing, which resulted in a smoother, more connected story. As Pfuntner notes, we have doubtless lost as much, if not more, of the text than what is preserved; what remains is so fragmentary that it is uncertain if these snippets are best placed in Book 34 alone or across Books 34 and 35 of the Bibliothēkē.Footnote 10 Despite these challenges, we can perceive with some clarity the interpretative framework that structures the Bibliothēkē’s first ‘Slave War’ narrative in what remains.
The key elements of this framework are found in several excerpts of the text that punctuate the narrative, offering consistent reinforcement of certain themes. The first fragment is found at the very beginning of the modern arrangement of the Constantinian excerpts, and presents what appears to be some introductory observations about the narrative ahead. A short opening sets the scene of an island ravaged by the greatest στάσις … δούλων (‘discord of slaves’: Diod. Sic. 34/35.2.25). This is directly followed by a brief statement on the underlying causes of the revolt. Here the narrator asserts that the event arose from τὴν ὑπερβολὴν τῆς εὐπορίας (‘the excessive wealth’) of the rich on the island, which in turn led to τὸ μὲν πρῶτον τρυφήν͵ εἶθ΄ὑπερηφανίαν καὶ ὕβριν (‘first luxury, then arrogance and insolence’: Diod. Sic. 34/35.2.26). Τρυφή (‘luxury’), ὑπερηφανία (‘arrogance’) and ὕβρις (‘insolence’) are given as the main explanations for the subsequent events, while servile mistreatment is added only in the following line as an afterthought.Footnote 11 This emphasis is consistent throughout, as we will see. Dowden has argued that τρυφή in particular is typical of Posidonian historical thinking, and that this topos can be traced back to Posidonius. However, τρυφή only features three times in the text. Two of these instances occur in the same short passage that describes Damophilus’ character.Footnote 12 In each case, τρυφή is part of a shift towards arrogant and violent behaviour. As we will see below, of the three terms it is ὑπερηφανία that is the essential component of Diodorus’ efforts to explain the reasons for the war. It is this failing (ὑπερηφανία) that, when combined with others, drives the analysis forward. With the tone set at the very start, later narratorial interjections employ the same vocabulary to explore the underlying causes of the war and to draw conclusions about the maintenance of social order.
This is first evident in a fragment that is generally thought to precede the extended tale of Damophilus, the arrogant rich landowner whose actions in Diodorus’ version directly caused the revolt. Wozniczka has recently argued that this passage may, in fact, derive from the proem to Book 34 of the Bibliothēkē.Footnote 13 The implications of this will be explored further in Section 3. For now, we focus on the vocabulary. The text notes that the same behaviour that arouses civil conflicts among citizens can also play a part in servile insurrections (Diod. Sic. 34/35.2.33). The passage comments that ὑπερηφανία καὶ βαρύτης (‘arrogance and a heavy hand’) directly contribute to slave plots within homes and unrest among the free, and asserts that prominent men ought to act ἐπιεικῶς (‘moderately’). As Diodorus continues the analogy between free societies and private homes, he then emphasizes the importance of showing φιλανθρωπία (‘kindness’) to those in humbler stations, lest they are made savage. The point made is evident: those in power who behave arrogantly and lawlessly (παρανομίαν) can blame only themselves when servile insurrection and civic discord occurs.Footnote 14
The same vocabulary features prominently throughout the text, with the same lesson implied. Damophilus is described in terms of his ὑπερηφανία five times in the text, the most of any figure in the extant narrative. He is castigated for his ὕβρις and penchant for unjust punishments, alongside his wife's ὑπερήφανος (‘arrogant’) treatment of her slaves.Footnote 15 Damophilus and his wife are contrasted directly with their own daughter, whose φιλανθρωπία and ἐπιείκεια (‘fairness’) towards those mistreated by her parents are rewarded by the insurgents.Footnote 16 On one occasion the ὑπερηφανία of former masters is artfully included as a direct cause of the rebels’ anger towards the masters (34/35.2.24b), and on another occasion the same arrogance is evinced as the catalyst for the extreme violence towards the free by the rebels (34/35.2.40). In one striking passage (34/35.2.46) the rebels themselves mimed their own individual revolts while besieging a city. Their play drew a direct connection between their masters’ misfortune and their masters’ prior ὑπερηφανία and ὑπερβολὴν … τῆς ὕβρεως (‘excessive insolence’). Even the rebels themselves, it seems, understood the lesson their actions were intended to teach. The causes and repercussions of the war are entirely understandable within this framework, in which arrogance, insolence and injustice beget discord and violence.
These ideas are not unique to Diodorus’ narrative of the first war but rather they reappear throughout the Bibliothēkē. Moralizing vocabulary—especially ὑπερηφανία, ἐπιείκεια and φιλανθρωπία—occurs regularly across the whole work to compliment or criticize a wide range of empires, rulers and people(s), as Sacks has shown.Footnote 17 All three terms occur together seven times across the Bibliothēkē. These usages help to structure a range of passages. In a speech to the Syracusans concerning their Athenian prisoners, Nicolaus urges the Syracusans to act with ἐπιείκεια, since the Athenians had received the punishments usually allotted by the gods to the arrogant (τοὺς ὑπερηφανοῦντας), and had surrendered on the expectation of good treatment. They therefore deserved to be shown φιλανθρωπία, and if the Syracusans conducted themselves in such a manner, they would enjoy the success of other men who had acted with ἐπιείκεια, like Cyrus and Gelon (13.21.4–13.22.4).Footnote 18 The other six passages echo similar sentiments. In one the terms are used to explain the collapse of Sparta's empire (15.1.3). The terms ἐπιείκεια and φιλανθρωπία are used to praise Alexander's treatment of the women of defeated enemies, in contrast to the actions of ὑπερήφανοι (‘arrogant’) men (17.38.3–6). The same terms explain the reasons for the falls of both Philip V and Antiochus III and their subsequent gratitude to Rome (28.3.1). They feature again in a programmatic statement about the praise afforded in the work to those who act ἐπιεικῶς, in contrast to those who are quick to punish, deny φιλανθρωπία to others and act ὑπερηφάνως (‘arrogantly’) after victories (31.3.1–2). The words lend weight to the counsel of Marcus Aemilius, who urges the Senate to act in accordance with Roman ἐπιεικές (‘fairness’) towards the defeated Perseus and so avoid the retribution that comes to those who act ὑπερηφάνως while in power (31.9.3–5). Finally, Attalus II gave a display of φιλανθρωπία and ἐπιείκεια to his Thracian captives in order to contrast himself positively with the Thracian king Diegylus, who committed ὕβρεις (‘outrages’) and acted with the ὑπερηφανία of barbarians (33.15.1). Similar contrasts of behaviour and its results are found in other passages that combine the terms in pairs and comment on the actions of empires and rulers.Footnote 19 In other passages, the good effects of combining ἐπιείκεια and φιλανθρωπία are emphasized.Footnote 20 In the extant portions of Diodorus these terms can be found combined in some form thirty-three times across the whole Bibliothēkē, excluding those instances found in the first ‘Slave War’ narrative.Footnote 21 These instances include portions of the Bibliothēkē for which Posidonius could not have been the source. When viewed alongside Diodorus’ continued interest in the effects of arrogant behaviour on kingdoms and empires, we can see that the general framing of the first war fits the themes and ideas that pervade the work as a whole, and can best be understood to reflect Diodorus’ historical concerns. The narrative of the first war itself can be read productively as an extended analogy for these ideas, in which the ‘Slave War’ is explicitly connected to concerns much broader than slave management.
Narrative framework—The second ‘Slave War’
The developed and (comparatively) well-preserved narrative for the first war is not mirrored by the second war. The surviving text for this war is found in a compressed summary from Photius and three Constantinian excerpts.Footnote 22 The passages that do survive are largely narrative with very little authorial intervention or commentary. The predominance of the Photian version also means that the passages have a conspicuous lack of the vocabulary highlighted for the first war. In the first war the principal focus is on ensuring that those of divergent statuses—whether master and slave, or ruling elite and subordinate citizens—conduct themselves properly when interacting. Without the explicit narratorial comments that characterized Diodorus’ treatment of the first war, and in the absence of strong characters, such as Damophilus, whose actions tie together key themes of the text, it is much harder to appreciate the framework of the second war's narrative. None the less, the fragments broadly fit into the same model as the first war, albeit without the same explicit commentary. The consequences faced by those in power who conduct themselves poorly is a key concern of the narrative. This can now be shown in detail.
A disagreement between Rome and Nicomedes of Bithynia over a request for soldiers to fight the Cimbri in 104 b.c. is the narrative's first scene of poor conduct (36.3.1). Despite Rome's request, Nicomedes demurred on the grounds that the majority of his subjects had been enslaved by tax farmers. The Senate responded by declaring that all allies enslaved in the provinces would be freed.Footnote 23 In accordance with the Senate's decree, P. Licinius Nerva, Sicily's governor, began freeing slaves on the island; but he soon desisted either because he was bribed or out of a slavish desire (… χάριτι δουλεύσας …) to honour the slaves’ masters. The governor's initial actions, we are told, had encouraged a longing for freedom. Dashing these hopes directly brought about the subsequent unrest (36.3.2–4). The second ‘Slave War’ is therefore immediately associated with Rome's precarious situation in the Mediterranean at the end of the second century b.c. The tipping point was the rapacious behaviour of Roman publicans in Asia Minor, but the situation was worsened by the Sicilian governor's inability to handle the situation correctly, because he was either incompetent or corrupt.Footnote 24
The effects of corruption and poor leadership are leitmotifs of the second war's narrative, and they punctuate key moments in the uprising. In the early stages of the revolt, Licinius Nerva mishandled the situation his earlier indecision had created when he chose not to engage the rebels in combat immediately. He instead elected to march past them to the relative safety of a nearby town. His apparent cowardice enabled the rebels to increase their numbers rapidly, and the praetor's forces became even more outmatched (Diod. Sic. 36.4.2–3). His successors were no better. The praetor for 103 b.c., L. Licinius Lucullus, was similarly unable to contain the revolt. After he had defeated a rebel army twice the size of his own in a pitched battle at Scirthaea, Lucullus decided not to press his advantage. This decision allowed the rebels to regroup and they subsequently repulsed Lucullus’ efforts to besiege them. Diodorus again suggests that Lucullus’ actions were inspired either by bribery or by carelessness (ῥᾳστώνη).Footnote 25 Lucullus then disbanded his army and destroyed his camp in order to ensure that his own successor, C. Servilius, would be unable to end the conflict (36.9.1–2). The rebels profited from this state of affairs brought about by bribery and corruption amongst the Roman commanders and successfully extended their sphere of control within the island. They captured the camps of both Lucullus and Servilius, even though they were unable to match the Romans in a pitched battle.Footnote 26 It is evident that the Senate considered Lucullus’ forces sufficient for the task as they assigned Servilius to the war without additional forces. The war ended once the consul M’. Aquilius was appointed in 101 b.c. He is praised in the text for employing any means to subdue the rebels after his initial victory over them (36.10.1). With the arrival of an energetic commander the rebellion quickly collapsed. It is apparent throughout the conflict that direct engagement with the rebels was not the issue. The overall effect of the narrative is to create the impression that had competent and, most importantly, incorruptible governors been assigned to the province the revolt would never have happened, and that once it had started it would have ended quickly.Footnote 27 Thus, despite the compressed narrative, similar concerns with proper conduct are evident in the second war as well. The connection between this event and the first war, both in terms of subject matter and in terms of geographical overlap, strongly suggests that the framework from the earlier war would influence the reading of the later war.
PART TWO
Diodorus’ Mediterranean
Diodorus’ interest in the connection between an empire's treatment of its subjects and its stability and cohesion has been understood as a desire to comment on Rome's hegemony over the Mediterranean and its treatment of provincial subjects.Footnote 28 The subordinate provincials, including Diodorus himself as a Sicilian subject of Rome's power, are exonerated for their hatred of and reactions to Roman treatment, as the burden of responsibility rests on the superior imperial power.Footnote 29 Muntz has persuasively argued that even the publication of Diodorus’ work may have been affected directly by the events within Rome during the tumultuous civil wars of the 40s and 30s b.c.Footnote 30 Yet, the explicit statement about the connection between rulers acting without moderation and kindness and the disorder that arises from this behaviour also makes it clear that these actions created discord within cities, not just empires or specific capitals.Footnote 31 The lesson appears to be going beyond the macro-level imperial commentary and is addressing society at a greater variety of levels. This interest in society at a variety of levels in turn reflects the complex reality of the Mediterranean in which Diodorus lived and composed the Bibliothēkē.Footnote 32 To appreciate this more clearly, it is necessary, first, to survey the political situation of this period.
The exact dates of the Bibliothēkē’s composition are unclear, but passages within the text allow some broad statements to be made. In Book 1 Diodorus claims that he has been engaged upon the Bibliothēkē for thirty years and in the process had visited parts of Asia and Europe (1.4).Footnote 33 Later in the same book Diodorus notes that mortals had been kings in Egypt for a little under five thousand years, and that when he visited Egypt in the 180th Olympiad (60/59–57–56 b.c.) the king was Ptolemy Aulētēs (1.44.1). It was during his time in Egypt that Diodorus witnessed the lynching of a Roman envoy for killing a cat, something that he asserts he saw with his own eyes (1.83.8–9). The latest datable event recorded by Diodorus is the expulsion of Tauromenium's citizens and the imposition of a Roman colonia (16.7.1). The exact date of this colonial foundation is uncertain, but is usually dated either to the immediate aftermath of Sex. Pompeius’ defeat at the hands of Octavian in 36 b.c. or to the colonial foundations of 21 b.c.Footnote 34 Finally, Diodorus records that he saw the rostra outside the curia in Rome (12.26.1). The implication is that he was in Rome before 45 b.c.Footnote 35 If Diodorus’ thirty-year compositional period is accurate, then the bulk of his writing took place in the period from c.60–30 b.c. During his travels across the Mediterranean he wrote in two of the great cities of the period: Rome and Alexandria.Footnote 36
Diodorus’ lifespan made him witness to a period of unprecedented upheaval across the Mediterranean during which there were rapid changes in the networks of rulers and subjects.Footnote 37 These changes were spurred on by the aggressive expansion of Rome's power under Pompeius Magnus and Julius Caesar and the opportunities offered by the collapse of Roman political order in the Late Republic.Footnote 38 The uncertainty of the period is best explored through foreign kings, in the first instance Ptolemy Aulētēs. His reign is indicative of how Rome's influence could create uncertainty and change across the Mediterranean. Rome's attitude to Egypt, and the country's awkward role in Rome's aristocratic competition, left Aulētēs in a precarious position. The country's land and wealth was used throughout the 60s b.c. to influence political debates and contests at Rome, leaving the sovereignty of Egypt and its monarch under threat.Footnote 39 Aulētēs in turn sought to solidify his position by courting first Pompeius Magnus and then Julius Caesar with lavish promises of money and support.Footnote 40 He successfully secured the confirmation of his status as socius et amicus in 59 b.c.Footnote 41
Yet, the need to insure his position in Egypt via approval in Rome led directly to instability within Egypt. The enormous expense incurred forced Aulētēs to raise taxes and he was exiled from Egypt after a period of discontent in Alexandria in 58 b.c., with his daughter Berenice IV and his sister and wife Cleopatra V Tryphaena replacing him.Footnote 42 Aulētēs was forced to turn to Rome again to attempt to convince first Pompeius Magnus and then the Senate to reinstate him. He resorted to murder, intimidation and bribery to achieve his aims, and finally in 55 b.c. he paid Pompeius Magnus and A. Gabinius 10,000 talents for his throne and was restored by a Roman army.Footnote 43 Aulētēs proceeded upon his restoration to put to death his own daughter as well as leading members of the Alexandrian aristocracy and to debase Egypt's currency.Footnote 44 The expansion of Roman influence across the Mediterranean and Ptolemy Aulētēs’ need for Roman approval created a period of political and financial instability in Egypt that resulted in economic and social disorder.
The example of Ptolemy Aulētēs can be multiplied across geography and chronology. Pompeius Magnus’ actions in the east in the mid to late 60s b.c. resulted in several dynastic changes in Armenia, Judaea, Galatia and Comana.Footnote 45 In each case the dynastic disputes and alterations were exacerbated by Rome's interest in the east and the opportunities offered to those seeking advancement by the heightened political competition in Rome. The civil war between Caesar and Pompeius Magnus increased the unexpected and rapid changes to monarchical powers across the Mediterranean. Deiotarus of Galatia barely maintained his throne after siding with Pompeius, but succeeded as a result of support from Cicero and Brutus.Footnote 46 Juba of Numidia lost his throne to Bocchus II of Mauretania, who himself later lost and then regained his throne because of his support for Octavian against Antony.Footnote 47 After Philippi, Antony reorganized the east in a period of rapid transformation. Some rulers were simply removed owing to their earlier alliances.Footnote 48 Between 39 and 37 b.c. Antony reinforced or created monarchies in Cappadocia, Cilicia, Idumea and Samaria, Ituraea, Pisidia, Pontus and Egypt.Footnote 49 Antony's actions reversed in large part those of Pompeius Magnus in the area, weakening the city states of the region to the benefit of the newly created monarchs.Footnote 50
It is important not to focus too intently on monarchies, as the turmoil also affected individual cities and their councils. This survey will focus on a few examples, but these could be easily added to. We turn first to Caesar, whose victories in the civil wars fought across Greece, Africa and Spain resulted in considerable upheaval. In some cases there were positive aspects: after Pharsalus Caesar remitted taxes in Asia Minor, reorganised tax collection to make it local, and gave numerous individual benefits to cities including Ilium and Cnidus.Footnote 51 In Spain Caesar's impact was mixed. Although the evidence is not extensive, Dio records that some cities benefitted from additional lands and exemption from taxation, while from others Caesar confiscated land and imposed tribute (43.39.4–5). No doubt one city's gain was another's loss. This was especially the case with Caesar's imposition of colonies on various sites, notably Carthage and Corinth but also Lampsacus and Sinope.Footnote 52 Rawson notes that these colonies would have been created at the expense of those native to the regions, with the imposition of new, politically privileged settlers into areas that were at times well inhabited.Footnote 53 Similar dispensations and punishments followed the other civil wars, and cities in the Greek east in particular saw marked changes of fortune. Appian records that after Philippi Antony spared some cities from taxation, such as Lycia, and he rewarded Rhodes and Athens with considerable territorial additions; by contrast the cities of Phyrgia, Mysia, Galatia, Cappadocia, Cilicia, Coele-Syria, Palestine and Ituraea all had to pay large contributions.Footnote 54 As we have seen above, many of these regions were soon reorganized under newly created monarchs.
Closer to home for Diodorus, the cities of Sicily also experienced changes of fortune in this period. First, Diodorus may have personally witnessed the harmful repercussions of C. Verres’ praetorship in Sicily and the strain this placed on the elites of the Sicilian poleis.Footnote 55 The island escaped battle in the civil war between Pompeius Magnus and Caesar, but Caesar's victory and subsequent assassination caused much turbulence within Sicily.Footnote 56 Caesar granted the island the ius Latii, which was raised to full Roman citizenship by Antony after Caesar's death in 44 b.c.Footnote 57 This grant was likely preserved by Sex. Pompeius down to his defeat in 36 b.c., after which time the status of Sicilian poleis is often uncertain.Footnote 58 After Sex. Pompeius’ defeat Tyndaris was captured by Agrippa, Messana was plundered by Lepidus’ soldiers, and Octavian punished those towns that resisted him during the campaign and inflicted an indemnity of 1,600 talents on the island.Footnote 59 Sicily was not immune to the difficulties facing the cities of the Mediterranean.
The epigraphic dossier from Aphrodisias is perhaps the most impressive testimony to the effects of the period on a single city. Aphrodisias emerged from the Sullan reorganization of Asia Minor as a free city, and after 85 b.c. the city cultivated the patronage of Q. Oppius, a proconsul in Cilicia in 88 b.c.Footnote 60 The city used its good reputation with Rome to aid the koinon of Asia Minor in seeking support against the publicani from Rome.Footnote 61 We next hear of the city after Philippi, before which the city appears to have lost its free status and then suffered possible capture. It certainly lost public and private property during the war against Labienus in 40 and 39 b.c.Footnote 62 Octavian supported the city firmly in the aftermath and alongside Antony secured the city a remarkable set of privileges, including freedom, exemption from taxation and billeting, and asylia rights for the sanctuary of Aphrodite.Footnote 63 Aphrodisias’ privileged status by the end of the 30s as a favoured city of the now dominant Octavian was not one that could have been predicted during the city's careful negotiation with Rome's fractured political classes. The success of the city should be contrasted with the largely nameless cities that were punished for choosing the wrong side during these conflicts.
What is clear from this overview is that the period from c.60–30 b.c. saw constant changes to the political structures of kingdoms and individual cities across the Mediterranean, especially in the Greek east but notably also in Sicily. While privileges and lands had in the past been granted or taken away—for example in Asia Minor under Sulla—the wholesale nature of these alterations dwarfed the earlier changes. What is more, without the benefit of hindsight, each city or state was forced to rest its future on the vicissitudes of Rome's civil wars. They had no guarantee of what was to come, or who would surface from the wars in positions of authority. It is impossible to deny the importance of Rome to these changes. None the less, the continual changes to those in power created cities and states in which men with little or no experience were rulers of powerful polities and kingdoms, whose subjects owed them little or no loyalty; once Rome left, these rulers were local problems, even if Roman actions created them. For those living through these thirty years and witnessing the collapse of Rome's social and political order, there was no guarantee that one man would end the discord. Most important of all, we must remember the reality of politics and life at this time. Rome was not the only polity that held a position of superiority over other states, and the turmoil that afflicted the Mediterranean affected a range of states that existed in a complex network of social and political interconnections. Diodorus’ own world-view as depicted in his Bibliothēkē should be viewed against this Mediterranean backdrop.
PART THREE
Diodorus’ didacticism
If we view the Bibliothēkē in light of the complex patchwork of rulers and subjects across the Mediterranean, we can see that Diodorus had a great many potential targets for his social commentary within the work. Rome was not alone in assuming positions of authority over others, and indeed we should be clear that Rome was actively involved in creating new and often unexpected social hierarchies across the Mediterranean. Moreover, it would not fit the self-proclaimed purpose of the Bibliothēkē for comments on social interactions and good government to be directed only at those leading one of the greatest empires of the period. This can be most clearly understood if we consider what Diodorus sought to achieve in his Bibliothēkē beyond personal acclaim.Footnote 64 Diodorus aimed for the Bibliothēkē to aid his potential readers’ self-improvement by using historical examples. The clearest statement of this purpose can be found in the first book's proem. In this extended introduction to his whole work, Diodorus comments on history's purpose. He notes in the first instance that history can benefit us by providing the opportunity for an education that presents no danger. Moreover, this opportunity is available by learning from the failures of others and imitating the successes of the past (1.1.1–4).Footnote 65 Immediately after this Diodorus makes the unusual claim that history is able to improve everyone: the young may benefit from the wisdom of the old, while the old increase their own experience; citizens become more suited to leadership and leaders are urged to perform noble deeds; and even wicked men can be dissuaded from bad deeds by the threat of historical condemnation (1.1.5). History, according to Diodorus, drives men to found cities, pass beneficial laws and advance science and the arts (1.2.1). It is a didactic genre, and one that aims to improve all ages, all members of society and most of all future behaviour.Footnote 66
It can be argued that this didactic drive in Diodorus’ perception of history shaped the Bibliothēkē in ways that go beyond the underlying historical ideas of the text. The intention to change the behaviour of as many people as possible—including citizens, leaders, young and old—also drove Diodorus to make his Bibliothēkē all-encompassing in terms of subject matter. He notes in his proem to Book 1 that, although history is most profitable when it covers as much material as possible, earlier historical works had failed either to include mythological material, or to go beyond a single war in their narrative, or to pay due attention to accurate chronology.Footnote 67 By contrast, Diodorus’ Bibliothēkē would cover all history and all peoples and would be, therefore, more useful than all previous histories; the reader could draw what they needed from the text.Footnote 68 In short, the didactic imperative of the Bibliothēkē can be read as one of the reasons that the work is itself a universal history.
Didacticism and the ‘Slave Wars’
Where does this leave us with the ‘Slave War’ narratives? We saw in Part 1 that the framework for the two narratives fits a pattern that extends throughout Diodorus’ Bibliothēkē: across the text, Diodorus displays an interest in social commentary, especially directed at correct behaviour between differing social groups. The Diodoran influence on these passages was most clear in the vocabulary used to explain the causes of the fateful interactions between slaves and free. The vocabulary—with its emphasis on ὑπερηφανία, ἐπιείκεια, φιλανθρωπία and to a lesser extent τρυφή—placed the phraseology of the analysis firmly into Diodoran territory, I argued, rather than that of his putative source, Posidonius. While the narrative material itself may very well derive from Posidonius, the manner of its expression should be read as Diodoran. The same could be said for the world-view expressed through these ‘Slave War’ narratives: it would be very hard to recast a narrative using vocabulary consistent with a larger work without also imbuing the narrative with the character and ideas that pervade the whole text.Footnote 69
The framing of the two ‘Slave Wars’ also serves to increase their relevance to the Bibliothēkē’s didactic imperative discussed above. Diodorus expresses this most clearly for the first war, where he connects the disorder and its causes quite openly to discord within cities and empires (34/35.2.33). This passage focusses on ὑπερηφανία καὶ βαρύτης (‘arrogance and a heavy hand’) as the cause of unrest, and contrasts this with ἐπιείκεια and φιλανθρωπία. These terms are the same ones that frame the entire narrative. They occur in the observations about the causes of the war that punctuate the narrative from the very start (34/35.2.26, 40, 46), and underpin Damophilus’ behaviour that created revolt among his slaves (34/35.2.10, 34, 35, 37, 38). The same terms explain why Damophilus’ daughter escaped punishment, unlike her parents (34/35.2.39), and rationalize the anger and violence of the rebels (34/35.2.24b, 40). In the second war we saw that the remains of the narrative were framed by the actions of corrupt and incompetent Roman governors, whose openness to bribery both created and aided the revolt. It is evident that the lesson was to be understood across the whole text, and that the ‘Slave Wars’ part of the Bibliothēkē worked in relation to the whole of the text. Through this framework, therefore, Diodorus converts a narrative concerned with slaves and revolt among the cities of a single island into a lesson about society and social interactions in a much broader sense, and makes it applicable not only to the purpose of the Bibliothēkē but also to his readers as a whole: in essence, Diodorus has universalized the Sicilian ‘Slave War’ narratives.Footnote 70
The ‘Slave Wars’ within the structure of the Bibliothēkē
It can be argued that Diodorus did more than just universalize the lessons of the two ‘Slave War’ narratives: he also appears to have made both the narratives themselves and the moral lesson they taught structurally important to the Bibliothēkē. This can be argued from two connected points. First, Muntz has contended that Diodorus aimed to write his Bibliothēkē in hexads, but perhaps also featuring important triads for certain sections.Footnote 71 As Rubincam argued, a hexadic structure would divide the Bibliothēkē into portions that started with important events in Sicilian history or Roman history;Footnote 72 in addition, Muntz suggests that a triadic structure would have been easier to publish.Footnote 73 The ‘Slave War’ narratives fit this structure. As I noted above, Goukowsky contends that the first war ought to be placed in its entirety into Book 34 of the Bibliothēkē.Footnote 74 If correct, this would make the first and second wars under discussion here fall into the first and last books respectively of a triad: Books 34–36.Footnote 75 The connections between each war both geographically and thematically and their links to the grander didactic aims of the Bibliothēkē itself would make these two wars lend unity to their triad. They could be considered, therefore, an important part of the structure of the later books of the Bibliothēkē.
Second, as I noted above in Part 1, Wozniczka has argued that 34/35.2.33 derives from the proem to Book 34 of the Bibliothēkē.Footnote 76 I contend above that the terminology in 34/35.2.33 frames the entire narrative for the first war, but it would suit, thematically, the contents that remain of Books 34–36 as a whole. Books 34/35 include the periods of social disorder, revolt and infighting within cities and states caused by the arrogant and harsh actions of rulers and politicians. These include the fighting in Rome during the time of the Gracchi that resulted in the death of each of the Gracchi and their followers (34/35.5–7, 24–7, 28a–29, 33); the hatred felt by Pergamenes against Attalus III that led them to hope for revolution (34/35.3); Zibelmius’ death in Thrace after his harsh treatment of the Thracians (34/35.12); the uprising inspired against Ptolemy Physcon after he enraged the Alexandrians by putting to death his own son (34/35.14); and Antiochus VII's general, Athenaeus, who was unable to find shelter after Antiochus’ death owing to his prior poor treatment of towns (34/35.17). What remains of Book 36 is dominated by the second ‘Slave War’ narrative, but this book included the events that surrounded Saturninus (36.12, 15), which resulted in widespread disorder in Rome. Hau has recently shown that Diodorus’ proems normally defined a ‘generalising statement or moral gnome’ that would be demonstrated in the following book, although not necessarily by every detail and story narrated in the book.Footnote 77 On this reading, the two ‘Slave War’ narratives are an important part of the moral lesson to be learnt from Books 34–36 as a triad. These two events, which were—at base—very much local Sicilian problems, were, I suggest, made structurally important to the Bibliothēkē by its Sicilian author. This importance can be found not only in the fact that these two narratives featured in the first and last books of a unit within the Bibliothēkē, providing thematic unity to these three books, but also because their subject matter was a direct and explicit part of the moral lesson to be learnt from these books: treat those beneath you kindly, or be responsible for what follows.Footnote 78
CONCLUSION
The arguments offered here drive at two principal conclusions. First, the two ‘Slave War’ narratives in Diodorus’ Bibliothēkē were worked to advance the overall purpose of the work via the interpretative framework described above. This reading of the text strengthens the argument that the first ‘Slave War’ narrative can be usefully read as Diodoran in how it is framed:Footnote 79 in this context at least we can leave Posidonius in the background, and gain a reading of Diodorus’ Bibliothēkē that emphasizes the text as a whole, made up of discrete but interrelated parts.Footnote 80 How we understand the interrelationship between Diodorus and his sources is a tangled problem, and there is no simple solution to this Gordian knot. Yet, by focussing on moments of narratorial commentary and analysing these comments in the context of Diodorus’ own period and the Bibliothēkē as a whole, we can develop a more nuanced appreciation both of the Diodoran influence on the text and of the text itself. While Diodorus may not have engaged in composing entirely new narrative material, the manner in which he recast his material to fit not just his style and language but also his world-view altered the original source tradition, creating something new in the process.
Second, when we read the ‘Slave War’ narratives in the context of the rest of Diodorus’ Bibliothēkē, it becomes clear that these texts can profitably be read as part of the Bibliothēkē’s didactic drive, in particular with regard to social interactions. This reading shows that the two ‘Slave War’ narratives are not only about slavery: they serve in addition as didactic explorations of good conduct within societies across the whole Mediterranean. This exploration operates at the level of empire—demonstrated by the second ‘Slave War’ narrative—but also at the level of the individual cities. The two narratives should be seen against the backdrop of and as a commentary on Diodorus’ own day. In this period cities and kingdoms rose and fell, and an ever-changing group of elites and kings struggled to stay on top of their newfound states, even at the expense of their subjects. This reading of the two ‘Slave War’ narratives broadens our understanding of them within the Bibliothēkē, and demonstrates a fascinating example of an ancient historian thinking about society and teaching lessons via the paradigm of slavery. Yet, at the same time this reading complicates how we can mine these stories for historical data. As has long been recognized, these are not straightforward historical accounts. Whilst there is no doubt that some major upheavals unsettled Sicily during the latter half of the second century b.c., the argument presented here suggests strongly that Diodorus does not offer in these narratives a guide to understanding these events solely as they happened, which has been the main point of attention for modern scholarship on these two stories. Instead, in these didactic tales slaves stand in for provincials and subordinate citizens. In place of offering evidence—however cryptic—on the historical occurrence of slaves in revolt, these two narratives use slaves to ‘think with’, raising larger questions about what happened in Sicily in the later second century b.c. The lessons about the effects of arrogance, kindness, corruption and gubernatorial incompetence on a diverse range of societies cannot be assumed to reflect the reality of servile treatment, at least not in the detail that the text (and many of its modern readers) claims, whether in Sicily or elsewhere in Diodorus’ universal Mediterranean.
