The Septuagint and Homeric Scholarship in Alexandria: A Study in the Narrative of the Letter of Aristeas

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THE SEPTUAGINT AND HOMERIC SCHOLARSHIP IN ALEXANDRIA

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T HE SE P TU AGINT AND HO MERIC SCHO L ARSHIP IN AL E X A N DRIA A study in the narrative of the Letter of Aristeas

Sylvie Honigman

First published 2003 by Routledge 11 New Fetter Lane, London EC4P 4EE Simultaneously published in the USA and Canada by Routledge 29 West 35th Street, New York, NY 10001 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2004. © 2003 Sylvie Honigman All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilized in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Honigman, Sylvie, 1965– The Septuagint and Homeric scholarship in Alexandria: a study in the narrative of the Letter of Aristeas/Sylvie Honigman. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. 1. Letter of Aristeas. 2. Bible. O.T. Greek – Versions – Septuagint. I. Title. BS744.A7H66 2003 221.4′8′09–dc21 2003046663 ISBN 0-203-49877-1 Master e-book ISBN

ISBN 0-203-57087-1 (Adobe eReader Format) ISBN 0–415–28072–9 (Print Edition)

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TO THE MEMORY OF CHARLOTTE ERMAN TO MY PARENTS

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CONTENTS

Preface and acknowledgements List of abbreviations

ix xi

1

Introduction

1

2

Genre and composition in the Book of Aristeas

13

3

The central narrative: the transfiguration of history into charter myth

37

Enforcing the narrative veracity: the rhetoric of historiography in the Book of Aristeas

65

The origins and early history of the LXX: guidelines for a reconstruction of the past

93

4 5 6 7

The Homeric paradigm: a hypothesis on the genesis of the LXX and the Book of Aristeas

119

Conclusion: the Book of Aristeas between two worlds

145

Appendix: outline of the composition of the Book of Aristeas Notes Selected bibliography Index of sources General index

149 151 191 199 203

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PREFACE AND ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I first began to work closely on the Book (Letter) of Aristeas in 1995, when Laurence Vianès asked me to write the explanatory notes which were to accompany her new French translation (forthcoming in A. Caquot and M. Philonenko (eds), Écrits intertestamentaires, vol. 2, Paris: Gallimard). This gave me the opportunity to get acquainted with the current state of research. The survey of the relevant bibliography that I was led to make in the preparation of my notes convinced me that the study of the Book of Aristeas was suffering from the lack of a comprehensive monograph. The existing running commentaries were getting outdated in their bibliography and approach. Indeed, the very arrangement of running notes, with its necessary stress on synthesizing existing bibliography, seriously hampers a thorough revision of accepted views. After some time I decided to fill this gap. This was the genesis of the present book. First of all, I would like to thank Laurence Vianès, who led me to take a close interest in the Book of Aristeas. In the genesis and actual redaction of this book I have benefited from discussions and comments from many people. I am grateful to Martin Goodman, Christopher Pelling, Jonathan Price, Alison Salvesen and David Wasserstein, who read large sections of the book and provided both detailed and general comments which were valuable for their sharp insight and deep erudition. John Collins and Tessa Rajak read a preliminary outline of the book, and made important comments at this early stage of my work. Margalit Finkelberg read a chapter and provided detailed comments that helped improve it. I also wish to thank Susan Weingarten who, more than an English editor, was a thorough reader, and contributed numerous remarks and comments about both form and content, which were of considerable help. I have also benefited from long discussions with Sebastian Brock, Alison Salvesen, Tessa Rajak and Benjamin G. Wright III in the field of Septuagint studies. Their help was invaluable in many ways, and was provided most generously. Martin Goodman and Christopher Pelling also contributed many valuable remarks in oral discussions at various stages of my work. I have also profited immensely from reading unpublished ix

PREFACE AND ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

manuscripts that Alison Salvesen, Benjamin G. Wright III and Christopher Pelling kindly made available to me. Christopher Beall, Jean Duhaime, Noach Hacham, Sabrina Inowlocki, Avshalom Laniado, Anne Logeay, Andrea Rotstein, Aviram Tropper, David Wasserstein and Uri Yiftach discussed specific points with me, each in his own field. To them I owe many improvements of detail. I also wish to thank Oswyn Murray for the attention he paid to my work in progress. I was offered the opportunity to present my views on the Book of Aristeas in various lectures: by the Oxford Centre for Hebrew and Jewish Studies; by Martin Goodman, in his Seminar on Judaism in the Graeco-Roman era at Wolfson College, Oxford; by Robert Hayward and Loren Stuckenbruck, in their ‘Seminar for the Study of Judaism in Antiquity’ at the University of Durham, Faculty of Theology; and by Rabbi Jonathan Magonet in the Leo Baeck Institute, London. I would like to thank the participants at these venues and seminars who attended my lectures and contributed useful remarks in the discussions. Professors Hannah Cotton, Irad Malkin, Joseph Mélèze Modrzejewski, Zeev Rubin and Daniel R. Schwartz offered me their support in technical aspects that would eventually lead to the redaction and publication of this book. I would like to thank them for this. Last but not least, I would like to thank my family and friends, without whose constant and warm support this book would have been so much more difficult to write. The Israeli Academy of Sciences provided a generous research grant (grant no. 784/00) which allowed me, among other things, to hire three research assistants, Faia Babaiev, Giora Frenkel and Michal Molcho, whose help in all the technical tasks involved in my research was invaluable. The Oxford Centre for Hebrew and Jewish Studies granted me a Skirball Fellowship and offered me wonderful conditions of work during my five-month sojourn in Yarnton, Oxford. Finally, I am grateful to the Library of the Vatican for the authorization to reproduce the Byzantine illumination for the front cover.

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ABBREVIATIONS

References to journals follow the abbreviations recommended by the Année Philologique. References to papyri follow J. Oates, E. Bagnall, W. Willis and K. Worp, Checklist of Editions of Greek Papyri and Ostraca, 3rd edn (BASP, Suppl. 4), Atlanta, 1985, available on the website: http://scriptorium.lib.duke.edu/ papyrus/texts/clist.html References to inscriptions follow the abbreviations of the Guide de l’épigraphiste: Bibliographie choisie des épigraphies antiques et médiévales, edited by F. Bérard et al., 3rd edn, Paris: Presses de l’École Normale Supérieure, 2000.

Note further: Austin: B.Ar.: Bible grecque des Septante, La: CMG: CIJ: C.Ord.Ptol.2: FGrH: Fraser:

M.M. Austin, The Hellenistic World from Alexander to the Roman Conquest. A Selection of Ancient Sources in Translation, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983. Book [Letter] of Aristeas. G. Dorival, M. Harl and O. Munnich, La Bible grecque des Septante. Du judaïsme hellénistique au christianisme ancien, Paris: Le Cerf/CNRS, 1988. Corpus Medicorum Graecorum. J.-B. Frey, Corpus Inscriptionum Judaicarum, 2 vols (Sussidi allo studio delle antichità cristiane, 1 and 3), Rome, 1936–1952. M.-T. Lenger, Corpus des Ordonnances des Ptolémées, 2nd edn, Brussels: Académie royale de Belgique, 1980. F. Jacoby, Die Fragmente der griechischen Historiker, Leiden: Brill, 1923–56. P.M. Fraser, Ptolemaic Alexandria, Oxford: OUP, 1972, 3 vols. xi

ABBREVIATIONS

GCS:

Die griechische christliche Schriftsteller der ersten Jahrhunderte. Hadas: M. Hadas, Aristeas to Philocrates, New York: Harper & Brothers, 1951; repr. New York: Ktav, 1973. Holladay: C.R. Holladay, Fragments from Hellenistic Jewish Authors, III, Aristobulus, Atlanta, Ga: Scholars Press, 1995. Lies and Fiction: C. Gill and T.P. Wiseman (eds), Lies and Fiction in the Ancient World, Exeter, Devon: Exeter University Press, 1993. Mras: K. Mras, GCS, Eusebius, Praep. Ev. 8, Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1982, 2 vols. MT: Massoretic text. Parente: F. Parente, ‘La Lettera di Aristea come fonte per la storia del giudaismo alessandrino durante la prima metà del I secolo a.C.’, ANSP, serie iii, 21, 1972, 177–237, and 2/2, 517–67. Pelletier: A. Pelletier, Lettre d’Aristée à Philocrate (Sources chrétiennes 89), Paris: Le Cerf, 1962. RE: Pauly-Wissowa, Real-Encyclopädie der Altertumswissenschaft, Stuttgart, 1892– . Schürer: E. Schürer, The History of the Jewish People in the Age of Jesus Christ (175 B.C.–A.D. 135), vol. 3.1, revised edn by G. Vermes and F. Millar, Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1987. Shutt: R.J.H. Shutt, ‘Letter of Aristeas, Third Century B.C.–First Century A.D. A New Translation and Introduction’, in J.H. Charlesworth (ed.), The Old Testament Pseudepigrapha, vol. 2, Garden City, NY: Doubleday & Co., 1985, pp. 7–34. Stern, GLAJJ: Greek and Latin Authors on Jews and Judaism, edited with Introductions, Translations and Commentary by M. Stern, vol. 1, From Herodotus to Plutarch, Jerusalem: The Israeli Academy of Sciences and Humanities, 1974. Studi ellenistici: B. Virgilio (ed.), Studi ellenistici II, Biblioteca di studi antichi, 54, Pisa: Giardini editori, 1987. Studies in the S. Jellicoe (ed.), Studies in the Septuagint. Origins, Recensions, Septuagint: and Interpretations. Selected Essays, New York: Ktav, 1974. Tcherikover, V.A. Tcherikover, ‘The Ideology of the Letter of Aristeas’, ‘Ideology’: HThR 51 (1958, 59–85 = Studies in the Septuagint), pp. 181–207 (first published in Hebrew in 1949).

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1 INTRODUCTION

The work traditionally known as the Letter of Aristeas is not a letter at all. Its identification as a letter can be traced back to a fourteenth-century manuscript and no earlier.1 The mediaeval monk who was responsible for this denomination was no doubt led astray by the fact that the story is told in the first person. To make confusion even greater, the work opens with a personal address: the narrator is addressing a certain Philocrates, whom he calls his ‘brother’. However, the custom of dedicating a literary work to a nominal addressee was common in Graeco-Roman literature.2 This practice has nothing to do with epistolary formulae and, in fact, the work that concerns us here has none of the usual salutation formulae conventional in letters, both in their introduction and conclusion. Its length is also unusual for a letter – one of the few parallels that could be proposed of similar length, Alexander’s Letter to Aristotle about India is, in fact, a historical diegesis written in epistolary form.3 None of the ancient sources which mention our book refers to it as a letter. The author himself introduces his text as a diegesis (ch. 1), a term that simply indicates a prose account. Flavius Josephus4 calls it the Book of Aristaios. Epiphanius speaks of a syntagma, or ‘composition’, a term as vague as a diegesis. Eusebius refers to the book as On the Interpretation of the Law of the Jews.5 If our text is not a letter, then the traditional name by which it has been known in modern times is unsuitable. Of the ancient titles which are known to us, Josephus’ and Epiphanius’ are the most neutral. Josephus’ title will be the one adopted in the present study, with the proviso that the name of the (author)/narrator will conform to the spelling given by the document itself in its extant form. Werner Schmidt has argued on the basis of the extant testimonia that the original name was ‘Aristaios’, not ‘Aristeas’. The latter distortion was due to the influence of the name ‘Andreas’ which appears together with it in chs 19, 40 and 43.6 This conclusion would be plausible if our author were unknown. However, Oswyn Murray’s hypothesis that our author is identical with the Aristeas who was author of a work ‘On the Jews’, referred to by Alexander Polyhistor, is no less seductive.7 Thus, keeping to the now traditional name, ‘Aristeas’ will be a way of not choosing between 1

INTRODUCTION

the two spelling possibilities, ‘Aristeas’ and ‘Aristaios’. We shall speak of the Book of Aristeas and use the abbreviation B.Ar. throughout the forthcoming pages. A further problem concerns the name by which we should refer to the author of B.Ar. The label ‘Pseudo-Aristeas’ often used to refer to him is inappropriate, especially if we accept the opinion shared by most scholars that our author is otherwise unknown.8 If this is indeed the case, there is no Aristeas (or Aristaios) to whom to refer a Pseudo-Aristeas (or Aristaios). But even if we do accept the link with the historical Aristeas, Oswyn Murray has noted that the author ‘was inventing himself, not impersonating another.’9 The pseudo form is therefore not suitable in this case either. There is no reason, either, to confuse the author with the narrator by calling him ‘Aristeas’/‘Aristaios’. It will be best to resort to admittedly clumsy but at least neutral denominations such as ‘the author of B.Ar.’. Three things only are certain about our author, all derived from internal analysis of the text. To begin with, the content makes it clear that the author was Jewish. The verbal reminiscences of the Septuagint found in B.Ar. are unthinkable for a non-Jewish author in Ptolemaic times.10 Second, there can be no doubt that the author lived after the period of Ptolemy II, the time in which his story is set. How long after, however, is still debated. The only two safe landmarks we have are, on the one hand, clues in the text that the author was not an eyewitness, but wrote at least one or two generations later. In chs 28 and 182, the narrator speaks of ‘these kings’ (tois basileusi toutois). This locates our author under Ptolemy III (246–222) or IV (222/1–205) at the earliest, but does not preclude a later date. At the other end of the spectrum, a terminus ante quem is provided by Josephus’ paraphrase of B.Ar. in AJ 12.12–118, a work written about 90 CE. All possible solutions in between have been argued for in modern studies. Third, the place of composition must be Alexandria. The text is pervaded with royal Ptolemaic ideology related to the Alexandrian library, as will be made clear below (especially in Chapters 3 and 6). Furthermore, as will be argued in more detail in Chapter 4, the author makes fairly accurate use of technical vocabulary relating to institutions peculiar to Ptolemaic Egypt, while the description of Jerusalem is idealized and broadly fictional. Our author was clearly more familiar with Alexandria than with Jerusalem. The narrator in B.Ar., as distinct from the author, is a court official of Ptolemy II Philadelphus (285/2–246 BCE). In his account he tells of his embassy to the High Priest Eleazar in Judaea. He was allegedly sent there by Ptolemy, together with another ambassador, Andreas, in order to bring back an authoritative scroll of the Law of the Jews from Jerusalem to Alexandria. The King wished to have a translation into Greek based on a reliable version. B.Ar. is thus one of the oldest – in fact probably the oldest – source that tells us about the origins of the LXX. 2

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Understandably, the work was very popular in Antiquity, first among Hellenized Jews (Philo probably and Josephus certainly knew it and made use of it in their own writings) and later among the Fathers of the Church. We have no means of reconstructing the early oral tradition about the translation of the LXX that must have circulated among Alexandrian Jews from shortly after its completion, and therefore cannot know to what extent B.Ar. followed or modified it. At any rate, the story of the translation is told in B.Ar. in a manner which is both relatively sober and strictly rationalized. Only in subsequent versions does the story appear embellished with miraculous elements designed to confirm the divine character of the translation, and hence the divine nature of the LXX. This process is already discernible in Philo. In its literary form at least, the story thus seems to have taken on an increasingly legendary guise, and it may already have been like this at an early stage in the version that was circulated orally. Even though B.Ar. itself no longer met the need for the marvellous felt in popular circles, the importance of this text did not diminish with time. Although it was not included in the Christian canon, it was inserted into the Byzantine Bible, and in 1471 into the first printed Latin Bible, as an introduction recording the history of the sacred text. In more modern times B.Ar. underwent a dramatic reversal of fortune. Luis Vives in 1522 and Humphrey Hody in 1684 demonstrated that the author of B.Ar. was not the non-Jewish Greek eyewitness he purported to be, but must have been a Jew who, moreover, must have lived after the events he related.11 Once the ‘forger’ had been ‘unmasked’, B.Ar. was regarded with general suspicion and its value as historical evidence for the origins of the Septuagint was severely undermined. The intellectual context of the time certainly played against B.Ar. The Bible itself was by then coming under sharp re-examination. Doubts were being raised as to whether Moses really was the author of the whole Pentateuch. As is well known, the questions raised in this period of intellectual inquiry were the beginning of modern critical study of the Bible, with devastating consequences in the realm of religious belief in Western Europe. Being caught out as a ‘liar’, as B.Ar.’s author was now called, was no small matter in sixteenth- and seventeenth-century Western Europe, especially since B.Ar. had close connections with the Greek Bible.12 The credit enjoyed by B.Ar. was now, therefore, at its lowest ebb. The fate of B.Ar. in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries shows a curious blend of interest and suspicion. This work continued to be at the centre of scholarly interest, especially but not exclusively among LXX exegetes and theologians. The bibliography on it is very large – even if we discount the one or two much vexed issues that elicited huge discussions, such as the date of composition. At the same time, the low esteem in which the work had been held ever since Vives and Hody persisted. Unavoidably, suspicions of B.Ar. had practical consequences for the way scholars reconstructed the 3

INTRODUCTION

early history of the LXX. No longer bound by the version given in B.Ar., they felt free to take as their sole guide ‘common sense’ and personal credo. This was all the easier since virtually no other sources were available on the matter besides B.Ar. A new consensus crystallized on the origins of the LXX, stating that the translation ‘must’ have been initiated by the Jews themselves, not by a Ptolemaic king, ‘since’ ‘only’ Jews would be concerned to have their Law translated into the vernacular. The involvement of the king in B.Ar.’s version was deemed an unhistorical detail inserted in the story for apologetic reasons.13 B.Ar. was accordingly classified as apologetic literature – an opinion consistent with the definition of its author as a ‘liar’, or at best as non-serious.14 However, at the same time as the question of the historical reliability of B.Ar. was considered as settled – in the negative – as far as the origins of the LXX were concerned, the debate over the historical reliability of the text still raged around the realia that appear in it, either in the context of Ptolemaic Egypt or of Palestine.15 To this day, B.Ar. is regularly quoted in academic studies as evidence for the arrival of Jews in Egypt as slaves, on the basis of chs 12–14, and as evidence for Jerusalem in archaeological studies (chs 83–106). These are only the sections most often quoted in modern scholarship – there are many others.16 This dichotomy in the treatment of B.Ar. – dismissal of the central narrative on the one hand, and the use of specific details arbitrarily fished out of their context as raw material for historical reconstruction on the other – stems from a confusion between the notions of plausibility – modern plausibility – and historical reliability. In the case of the description of Jerusalem, reference to B.Ar. as a reliable source is clearly based on a confusion between eyewitness experience and reliable report. Not so long ago, scholars still debated as to whether the author of B.Ar. had made a journey or pilgrimage to Jerusalem, as if this could solve the issue of the value of his account from an archaeological point of view.17 It is, however, doubtful whether this dichotomy of treatment is justifiable. The use of specific sections of B.Ar. as historical evidence ignores the intention of the author in presenting the facts as he does. In other words, it ignores the literary dimension of the text. In recent years there has been a shift in approach. More scholars are ready to accept the version of B.Ar. regarding the origins of the LXX, with a few adjustments. This new attitude is, of course, consistent with the wider trend towards thorough reappraisal of previous readings of ancient texts which is currently affecting the field of Classical studies as a whole. The prevailing trend is to accept that the initiative for the translation came from the Ptolemaic court, as it says in B.Ar., and not from the Jewish community itself. That is, the first part of B.Ar.’s version is being rehabilitated.18 However, scholars, especially LXX students, are still reluctant to accept the second part, namely, that the translation was ordered for the royal library of Alexandria. They still infer that B.Ar. was written to benefit the Jews, 4

INTRODUCTION

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undeterred by the fact that the text is absolutely silent on this motive. All it says is that Ptolemy wished to show favour to the Jews by ordering a translation of their Law (ch. 38), but this is presented as a side-effect of the main purpose, which is to provide his Library with the book.19 For a work usually deemed apologetic, this omission of the motive would be rather puzzling. However, scholars generally do not appear to feel the need to address this problem. Thus Dominique Barthélemy spoke of a ‘twofold result’:20 the King got a book for his library and a Law for the Jews. Only very recently have scholars begun to accept B.Ar.’s version in its entirety. Thus, after Dorival’s hesitant discussion, Wolfgang Orth and Tessa Rajak have argued assertively that the LXX made its way into the library.21 Orth typically argues with previous opinions on the basis of long-familiar sources only, making it clear that the interpretation of the sources is subjective and influenced by the status quaestionis of broader issues. These last studies thus take the psychological leap that most LXX exegetes, brought up on the view that the translation of the Bible into Greek was an exceptional event, are still reluctant to take: they ‘normalize’ the event by inscribing it in the broader context of Ptolemaic society. Unfortunately, the general reappraisal of B.Ar. that is currently under way is not always based on a reading of the sources which is as critical as one would like. Dorival, for instance, sketched a historical reconstruction of the circumstances of the translation based on an acceptance not only of B.Ar.’s version, but also on later patristic sources which ascribe the initiative to Ptolemy I, not II. Thus, according to Dorival, Ptolemy I initiated the translation at Demetrius’ instigation, and Ptolemy II integrated it in his judicial reform as a law for the Jews.22 This attempt to reconcile ancient Jewish and Christian viewpoints may be praiseworthy on other grounds, but it overlooks the basic principles of source criticism. Orth’s argument basically reflects a change in attitude. The various methodological flaws just emphasized are largely the outcome of the fact that studies dealing with B.Ar. address one question at a time, neglecting other aspects liable to affect the conclusions reached. The only way to tackle the issue of the historical reliability of B.Ar. for any given topic, whether it be the early history of the LXX or the location of the citadel in Jerusalem, is to deal with the text as a whole. This is also the only way to cast new light on pending issues whose resolution has been traditionally held as a prerequisite for a correct understanding of the work – like its dating, or the author’s original purpose. More importantly, however, the methodological approach needs to be revised. Modern research on B.Ar. has suffered from various problems. First and foremost, like all other works written by Jews in Greek, it has suffered from the setting up of a special category, the so-called ‘Judaeo-Hellenistic literature’. As a consequence of the invention of this category, the study of works 5

INTRODUCTION

written by Jews was divorced from the new work that was being done in the broader field of contemporaneous Graeco-Roman literature. With a few notable exceptions, classicists saw no reason to pay any attention either to B.Ar. or to any other ‘Judaeo-Hellenistic works’, while LXX exegetes and theologians, the two groups of scholars who felt primarily concerned with the study of B.Ar. until recently, have been very slow in realizing that the work of classicists and ancient historians could be of direct interest to them.23 New Testament scholars, however, have been prompter to realize the importance of the field of Classical studies for their own field of research. The kind of reappraisal that the present study intends to implement on B.Ar. has actually been under way for about two decades in New Testament studies. Scholarly understanding of the Gospels and Acts (Luke-Acts) has been considerably increased by the use of methods of literary criticism whose relevance for the analysis of ancient texts, especially ancient historiography, is now widely acknowledged. Thus, this general trend is increasingly pervading the various fields connected with the study of the literary output of the Hellenistic world, in the broadest sense of this word.24 It is high time to bring B.Ar. in tune with it. Perhaps it is not superfluous to dwell a little longer on the assertion just made about New Testament studies. Since the beginning of the twentieth century, this field of research has oscillated between claiming absolute originality for the Gospels and Acts, and the opposite endeavour of identifying literary parallels. However, the prevailing trend in the last two decades has been the abolition of any claim to uniqueness and the consequent reintegration of the various units of the New Testament in both their literary environment and their socio-cultural background.25 Compared to this new sweeping trend in New Testament studies, the field of the so-called ‘JudaeoHellenistic literature’ is still often conservative. This is all the more strange, since as far as the study of Jewish history in Hellenistic and Roman times is concerned, the growing trend is to get the Jews out of the imaginary cultural and religious ghetto in which scholars of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries tended to enclose them, and to underline their integration into their Hellenistic environment.26 The study of the literary output of these Jews is only slowly taking into account the implications that this new trend entails. The working hypothesis on which the present study will be based is that of the complete cultural integration of the Jews into their surrounding world. When we come to literary output, this means that there are no grounds to decide a priori that a text written by a Jew is basically different in essence from one produced by any other Hellenistic writer living in the same time and place. This applies not only to the literary forms adopted by a Jewish author, but also, it will be argued here, to the content. We must go beyond the traditional debate as to whether the Jewish author had polemical intentions against Greek culture, or, conversely, advocated ‘Hellenization’. As far 6

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as the literary modes of expression and, likewise, the way of thinking are concerned, Hellenization is there.27 The dialogue with the environment took place at a level more subtle than that. To be sure, differences in content may emerge between a text written by a Jew and one written by a Greek. It will, indeed, be argued in the following pages that the author of B.Ar. displays some originality in his writing. Innovations or, more modestly, peculiarities of form directly related to content will be pointed out. It is unsound method, however, to take for granted that these differences are the result of religious uniqueness. They must be explained through an ad hoc, matter-of-fact analysis. The basis for assessing B.Ar.’s conformity or originality in the field of Graeco-Roman – or, more accurately, Hellenistic – literature, and, more generally, the basis for assessing the nature of this work and the intention of its author, will be the correct identification of the literary genre to which it belongs. It will be argued in this study (especially in Chapters 2 and 4) that B.Ar. has close links with Hellenistic historiography.28 Reading B.Ar. in this light is essential for the reassessment of its inner literary logic and, needless to say, for a correct assessment of the issues of reliability versus untrustworthiness, and ‘truth’ versus ‘lies’. Some of the studies cited above make it clear that attempts at evaluating the reliability of B.Ar. as historical evidence are often based on a simple positivist reading of the text. Assessments of B.Ar.’s author as a ‘liar’ or as non-serious stem from the ignorance of the operation of the concepts of ‘truth’ and ‘lie’ within the culture in which the work was produced. Only an approach based on an analysis of these aspects can provide a new and more appropriate formulation of the issue of the historical reliability of B.Ar. The level of ‘reliability’ our author looked for suited the content and connotations that this concept was given in his own days, and his work must be appreciated against the standards accepted in Hellenistic historiography. Fortunately, studies on Classical historiography in the last few decades have considerably increased our understanding of this genre and its conventions. They have led, in particular, to a complete reappraisal of the standards of ‘truth’ which guided it. Current studies pay considerable attention to the literary dimension of historical writing, and to the relationship of the latter to ancient rhetoric.29 In light of these studies, it is clear that the author of B.Ar. resorted to all the rhetorical means which were commonly used by contemporary historians in order to enforce the reliability of their accounts. Pace Hadas, B.Ar. is a serious text. It does not tell any ‘lies’ either, if we know how to read it properly, that is, not from the standpoint of our own culturally determined prejudices. For all its importance, the comparison with Hellenistic historiography, in fact, falls short of accounting for all the features characterizing B.Ar. in both its rhetorical dimension and content – and we are touching here on the main feature of B.Ar.’s originality. While Hellenistic historiography could be 7

INTRODUCTION

sensationalist – it has even been compared to modern yellow journalism30 – B.Ar. is, in a sense, too ‘serious’ to be mere historiography. My contention here (to be developed in Chapter 3) is that the author of B.Ar. did not intend to write an account of past events merely for the sake of keeping them alive in the memory of generations to come. He aimed at endowing the LXX with a charter myth about its origins, with the purpose of giving the LXX the status of a sacred text. The identification of B.Ar. as a ‘charter myth’ is inspired by a seminal study on this text published in 1987 by Oswyn Murray.31 The notion of ‘charter myth’ will be discussed in more detail in Chapter 3. Let it suffice for now to recall that a charter myth is usually a myth aimed at legitimizing a social practice. In our case, the charter myth comes to confirm, or rather, using its own logic, to found, the status of the LXX as a sacred text, in fact the sacred text of Alexandrian Jews. B.Ar. builds up a story that aims at persuading its readers that the LXX or, rather, as we shall see, a specific manuscript of it (Chapters 3 and 6), is authoritative. ‘Myth’ is of course not to be understood in the sense usual in the realm of Classical studies. The myth we are concerned with in B.Ar. better meets the definition of ‘political myth’ familiar in the field of sociological studies. The latter identify this category of myths in every human society, usually beginning with the Roman Republic. There is no reason a priori to set the Hellenistic period, and even Classical Greece, outside this definition, as will be argued in Chapter 3. As already intimated, a correct reassessment of the historical reliability of B.Ar., both its main issue (the origins of the LXX) and more limited topics (like the history of the Jews in early Hellenistic Egypt, or the topography of Jerusalem), implies tackling B.Ar. as a whole. In other words, specific issues must be subordinated to a comprehensive and coherent (re-)reading of the work. This is not to deny that important reappraisals of B.Ar. have been formulated in papers that focused on limited points. But the multiplicity of limited reappraisals bearing on specific aspects in B.Ar. intensifies the need for a study that will build up an inclusive picture of the text through the harmonization and updating of the scattered new readings. Generally speaking, there is at present no comprehensive study of this sort which uses the methodological tools now commonly accepted in historical research. The purpose of the present book is to provide such a study. Of the existing editions, Moses Hadas’ translation with commentary published in 1951, and reprinted ever since without revision, remains by far the most valuable. In many matters, Hadas stressed the necessity of reading B.Ar. against the general background of Hellenistic literature. In this sense, the present study is heavily indebted to Hadas’ approach. Unfortunately, however, all the valuable remarks articulated in Hadas’ introduction remained curiously subordinated to checking the issue of the date, a stance which limited the scope of his study. Moreover, it is now possible, half a 8

INTRODUCTION

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century later, to go further than Hadas did on most of the topics he dealt with. Although the 1962 edition by the French scholar André Pelletier offered an improved text and translation, his commentary unfortunately represents a regression to rather conservative views, bringing the text back to the realm of Jewish literature conceived of in isolation. Of the recent monographs of any length, that of Werner Schmidt is limited in scope and adopts a rather conservative approach.32 Norbert Meisner advocates the need for investigating B.Ar. from a wider perspective than that of LXX or theological studies, and for examining the work in its Greek context. However, he concentrates on the symposium, since his working hypothesis is that this section, the longest in B.Ar., provides the key to understanding the purpose of the work as a whole.33 A seminal study in the process of the reappraisal of B.Ar. was the fifteen-page overview published in 1987 by Oswyn Murray.34 Needless to say, the limited length of the paper makes it a preliminary study only. Moreover, although I owe to Murray some basic concepts central to my approach, especially the notion of ‘charter myth’, some of the conclusions of his paper are now more arguable. Although it is older, Victor Tcherikover’s ‘The Ideology of the Letter of Aristeas’, a paper first published in Hebrew in 1949 and in English in 1958, should be mentioned here, since it anticipated many of the conclusions that this book will seek to defend.35 As will be clear from the foregoing remarks, it is necessary to start our study of B.Ar. with an analysis of its genre and literary composition. Chapter 2 addresses these issues. In the absence of any surviving Alexandrian prose, comparison with Alexandrian narrative poetry will further lead to a reappraisal of the literary function of the so-called digressions and their raison d’être in the overall structure of the text. Chapter 3 focuses on the main narrative, as opposed to the digressions. It will be shown that the central story of B.Ar. is built up of two intertwined narrative paradigms – typically, one Alexandrian (linked to royal propaganda about the Library), and the other biblical (linked to the book of Exodus). The delineation of these narrative paradigms has important bearings on issues that go beyond genre and literary composition: both convey an implicit message and it is their combination that gives its real meaning to B.Ar. as a whole. In this sense, these narrative paradigms function very much like those of myths: the message is conveyed not through straightforward exposition appealing to the rational intelligence of the reader, but through a narrative illustration appealing more to the emotional register. It will be contended that these two combined narrative paradigms which both focus on the story of the LXX are responsible for turning B.Ar.’s account into a charter myth. Chapter 4 tackles the issue of ‘truth’ as this would have been understood by B.Ar.’s author and his readers. This chapter examines the rhetorical tools that our author resorted to in order to enforce the status of his text as a 9

INTRODUCTION

‘truth-telling’ story. B.Ar.’s affinities with Hellenistic historiography are emphasized. At this point, the discussion should have reached a clear view of B.Ar.’s intrinsic logic. This is, indeed, the indispensable prerequisite to the investigation of the value of B.Ar. as a potential source of information for reconstructing the early history of the LXX in a way that meets modern standards of historical research. The issue of the relation between ‘text’ and ‘historical past’ are addressed in the last two chapters of this book. Since any reconstruction of the early history of the LXX is bound to remain hypothetical, Chapter 5 has been conceived as a kind of preliminary step. This chapter reviews the various hypotheses about the origins and early history of the LXX currently debated among modern scholars. The aim will be to sort out those hypotheses, or aspects of them, which are definitely plausible and should be taken into consideration for further investigation, and those that would be better eliminated. The purpose of this review is to build up a kind of working framework, with the hope that it may serve as a basis for further investigation into the origins of the LXX. It will provide for the necessary flexibility of approach that a single, coherent and, inevitably, partly speculative reconstruction of a single scenario is, by its nature, unable to retain. The method of reappraisal proposed in this chapter will be the comparison of the various extant hypotheses with external data. By this I mean philological studies on the LXX, studies on various aspects of the society of Ptolemaic Egypt – directly or indirectly related to the Jews – all deriving from recent research in these fields. Chapter 6 spells out a new reconstruction of the circumstances surrounding the translation of the LXX and its early history, as well as a reconstruction of the circumstances surrounding the redaction of B.Ar. in the mid-second century BCE. It proposes that the many parallels drawn in B.Ar. between the translation of the LXX and the edition of Homer are meaningful. It will be argued that this pervasive comparison between the LXX and Homer reflects, above all, the perception that the Alexandrian Jews themselves had of the undertaking of the translation of the LXX. I further contend, admittedly in a more speculative way, that this perception, in fact, either influenced or reflected the way things were actually carried out. Any reconstruction of the early history of the LXX is bound to remain hypothetical, the one that will be proposed here no less than any other. Even though its historical value cannot be argued beyond plausibility, it is hoped that the reconstruction that will be proposed in this book will at least demonstrate that B.Ar.’s version of the early origins of the LXX may, indeed, serve as a basis for a historical reconstruction meeting modern requirements. At the very least, the present study hopes to demonstrate that a reconstruction that takes B.Ar. seriously is, on the whole, no less plausible and, therefore, perhaps more legitimate, than those which do not. 10

INTRODUCTION

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Before proceeding further, it is indispensable for the clarity of the discussion to state beforehand the position that will be adopted in this book with regard to some basic issues. The conclusions stated here will be defended at greater length in the course of the study. •

•

•

•

The date of B.Ar.: The present study will adopt the dating which has been gaining wider acceptance in recent years: a date ranging from the middle to the later part of the second century BCE. This dating will be examined in more detail in Chapter 6. The date of the translation of the LXX Pentateuch: The reign of Ptolemy II will be accepted as a basis for the present study, and discussed in more detail in Chapter 6. ‘LXX’ will refer to the Pentateuch only in this book, unless otherwise stated. The subject matter and purpose of B.Ar.: The ancient sources (Philo, Josephus, Eusebius) see this as an apology for the translation. But what was this for, if the work, as scholars now agree, was written several generations post eventum? To this some answer that B.Ar. was aimed at defending the translation against new ones (some add: from Leontopolis), or at forestalling revisions of the text.36 An alternative answer, which has become generally accepted in recent years, is that B.Ar. was actually intended as a comprehensive presentation of Judaism.37 The discussion about the generic composition of B.Ar. in Chapter 2 will show that it is necessary to revert to the conservative understanding of our text: the subject matter of B.Ar. is the translation of the LXX. More precisely, B.Ar. is concerned with the quality of the translation of the LXX, a key element in the building of a charter myth for the LXX. As far as the subject of B.Ar. is concerned, the present study will thus revert to the older positions defended by Victor Tcherikover in 1949 and Harry Orlinsky in 1975, with the slight difference that these authors put the stress on the sanctity of the translation, not its quality.38 As it will be argued in this study, however, both these concepts are closely related. The audience of B.Ar.: The definition of B.Ar.’s account as a charter myth is inseparable from the view that the intended readership was Jewish – more precisely the Jewish Alexandrian elite. Some details in the text do indeed point to a Jewish readership in a completely unambiguous way, as will be seen in Chapter 2.

Inasmuch as the present study will propose a comprehensive and coherent re-reading of B.Ar., it will not include an exhaustive discussion of the previous bibliography, nor even come close to this. As already noted, the modern bibliography on B.Ar. is huge, even if we leave aside those studies which are unanimously considered outdated today. Addressing all proposed possible readings of this text in order to buttress the one advocated here would take us very far astray, and readers might become exhausted long 11

INTRODUCTION

before the bibliography is. The discussion below will, therefore, address the studies that seem to this writer to be more important or influential, or those that seem to her to be representative of an important historiographical trend in relation either to B.Ar. or to the issue of the origins of the LXX. The selection will be unavoidably subjective, but it is hoped that the historiographical discussion as it stands will provide enough contextualization for the positions advocated in this book. This is the place to acknowledge the debt owed by this study to the contribution of Elias Bickerman to the early history of the LXX in various papers, besides the studies on B.Ar. by Hadas, Murray, Orlinsky and Tcherikover already mentioned. The form of the names used in this book is as follows: the characters found in B.Ar. are treated as literary characters, and are distinguished from their historical counterparts by a capital letter. Thus, ‘King’ refers either to the character in B.Ar.’s story or, occasionally, in other literary stories, while ‘king’ refers to a historical figure from the Ptolemaic dynasty. Likewise, ‘Ptolemy’ refer to the literary character, while ‘Ptolemy I’ and ‘Ptolemy II’ refer to the historical figures. Beside the King, Demetrius the Librarian, Eleazar the High Priest and the Library are treated like literary characters or entities fulfilling a literary function, in Vladimir Propp’s sense of the word.39 For the sake of consistency, lower case letters will be used when referring to the historical museum and library in Alexandria, although they are usually written with a capitalized initial. In the case of ambiguity between fictional and historical characters or entities, the stress will be put on the literary dimension and the use of the capital letter will prevail. The citations from B.Ar. reproduced in this book are borrowed from R.J.H. Shutt’s translation, unless otherwise stated. Modifications bearing on the form of names will not be specified (e.g. ‘King’ for ‘king’).

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2 GENRE AND COMPOSITION IN THE BOOK OF ARISTEAS

Moses Hadas in his introduction to B.Ar. noted that this work ‘is a Greek book.’1 Indeed, B.Ar. occupies an exceptional place in Alexandrian literature, for it is one of the rare samples of Alexandrian prose writing to have survived complete. Almost all other Hellenistic prose works were swept away by the revolution in literary taste that took place in the late first century BCE.2 Literary critics and readers of the Roman imperial era continued to admire the Classical literature of the fifth and fourth centuries BCE, both prose and poetry, and to consider the poetry of the Archaic age as a major source for moral education. But Alexandrian and other Hellenistic prose was now deemed unworthy of imitation as a literary model. While some at least of the works of the major poets survived, Hellenistic prose was no longer copied. The fate of Hellenistic works written by Jews, however, was different. The Christian tradition took care to transmit them, not because of their style but because of their content. It is because of this peculiar situation that we now possess in B.Ar. a precious sample of Alexandrian prose writing, reflecting the typical sort of composition otherwise known to us only through poetical works, in particular narrative pieces like those of Callimachus or Theocritus. When trying to define B.Ar.’s genre and literary quality it is, therefore, important to set this work in its original Alexandrian context. A comparison with other Alexandrian works or, in their absence, with further Hellenistic works, may well provide us with satisfying answers to some issues that have been seen as problematic up to now, such as the purpose of B.Ar., and the status and role of the long digressions found in its text – as well as, incidentally, the intended readership. The composition structure of B.Ar. has been a major source of unease for modern scholarship. The translation motif occupies barely 50 sections of the text out of 322 (chs 9–11, 28–50, 121, 172–3, 301–16), and the actual deed of translation takes up only one (ch. 302). Thus, more than five-sixths of B.Ar. is taken up by mere digressions, a baffling proportion by modern standards. A tempting way to solve this problem, of course, was to try to prove that at least some of these ‘digressions’ were late interpolations. J.-G. Février, therefore, proposed in 1925 that there had been several stages of 13

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redaction, with final completion only in imperial times.3 After this obsession with alleged ‘later interpolations’ became unfashionable among scholars, the clue to the explanation of the structure of B.Ar. was sought in a new comprehensive understanding of the text. In the last few decades, the argument that the real purpose of B.Ar. is not merely an apology for the translation but, more widely, a multi-faceted presentation of Judaism, has thus begun to crystallize.4 This new interpretation was also useful in that it solved a further major problem raised by the traditional interpretation of B.Ar.’s subject matter. Earlier modern studies took the subject of B.Ar. to be the translation of the LXX. More precisely, B.Ar. was understood to have been written in order to defend the LXX either against competing translations or from potential textual revisions. Whatever the case, B.Ar. was seen as apologetic. However, this definition of B.Ar.’s topic and purpose was an embarrassment from several points of view. First of all, identifying B.Ar.’s purpose as apologetic hardly accounts for the timespan of several generations which elapsed between the presumed time of the translation of the LXX and the date of redaction of B.Ar. Why write an apology for a translation from some two or three generations earlier? This point was, in fact, used by Paul Kahle to support his claim that B.Ar. was written to defend a translation that was made close to its own time, not in the days of Ptolemy II.5 The question was asked again recently from a different perspective by Gilles Dorival.6 The circumstances of the redaction of B.Ar. will be discussed in Chapters 5 and 6. Given its implications, the composition structure of B.Ar. needs to concern us first. As far as the so-called digressions are concerned, these must be appreciated in the context of the literary tastes of Alexandrian and Hellenistic literature: the principle of ring composition, the concept of poikilia – thematic and stylistic variation – and generic eclecticism. Conclusions about the aim of B.Ar. are also dependent on a correct assessment of the genre to which B.Ar. belongs. Thus, our analysis of B.Ar. must begin with the questions of genre and structural composition, beginning with the latter.

Poikilia and eclecticism With the beginning of Greek literary criticism in the generation of Plato and Aristotle, the first classifications were made of different genres, precise definitions were given for each one, and the boundaries and differences between the genres were made explicit. Even though this classificatory undertaking was, in fact, neither completely perfect nor absolutely systematic, literary criticism had by then become a matter of self-conscious and reflexive discourse. From now on literary genres were defined by written rules. The activity of a new generation of literary critics who were also practitioners in third-century BCE Alexandria, opened a new chapter in the history of Greek literature. Alexandria became the centre for major developments 14

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in the tradition of literary criticism and creation. As L.E. Rossi has put it, while the Classical period was a time of ‘written and abiding rules’, the Hellenistic period was a time of ‘written, and non-respected rules.’7 The rules were evaded and broken in every way possible, with a high degree of consciousness and intentionality. Taking an anti-Aristotelian stance, the critic and poet Callimachus, a contemporary of Ptolemy II, advocated the exploration of ‘untrodden paths’ for the poet. By this he meant breaking the generic boundaries defined in the fourth century by Aristotle. The straining of already existing genres to their limits and beyond, the creation of new forms and the blending of genres characterize the new literary taste. Concomitantly, since the fourth century BCE, rhetoric had become a fundamental part of the curriculum of Greek advanced education. This remained true in the Hellenistic period and beyond.8 It is probable that already at an early stage handbooks of rhetoric had begun gathering and describing the various kinds of preparatory exercises, the progymnasmata, by which rhetoricians trained their pupils. The whole system remained more or less static throughout the subsequent centuries of Classical culture – as Francis Cairns has noted, Classical literature was a ‘time-free zone’.9 Thus, although the handbooks which have come down to us are relatively late, ranging from the late Republic to the fourth century CE, they can safely be taken to reflect earlier practices.10 These two different aspects, changes in literary taste and practice on the one hand, and the place of rhetoric as the common lore of educated people in Hellenistic society on the other, form the background against which B.Ar. must be appreciated as a literary work. Placed back in this context, B.Ar. is certainly a reasonably representative example of contemporary Alexandrian literature. It may be described both as an heir to the thirdcentury explorations, and as a product of an age of widespread rhetorical education. Two key notions may serve to define B.Ar. from a generic point of view: ring composition, and the blending of genres. In other words, the influence of Callimachus left its distinctive mark on B.Ar. Ring composition is responsible for the compositional feature that has most puzzled modern commentators of B.Ar.: the presence of the so-called ‘digressions’. There are four of them: the Description of the gifts sent by the King to the Temple in Jerusalem (chs 51b–83a); the Journey to Jerusalem (chs 83b–120); the Apology for the Law by the High Priest Eleazar (chs 128–71) and the Symposium (chs 187–300). Allowing for some short transitional sections, these four digressions form a cluster at the centre of the work, ranging from ch. 51b to ch. 300, while what may be called the main narrative is divided into two sections, chs 9–51a and 301–21. The expected introduction (chs 1–8) and a short conclusion (ch. 322) frame the work. (An outline of B.Ar. is available in the Appendix to this book.) The blending of genres is recognizable first and foremost in the four digressions, but the central narrative also adds its own contribution. Various kinds 15

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of progymnasmata are embedded in B.Ar., and each of the four digressions belongs to a different literary genre, whether or not it is a progymnasma. The overall effect achieved by this compositional structure is poikilia, diversity. In poetry the principle of poikilia is well known from Callimachus’ book of Iambi, where both dialects and metres are mixed.11 Parallels for the sort of composition found in B.Ar. are not hard to find in poetry either. In his survey of Alexandrian poetry, Peter Fraser analyses several pieces of narrative poetry that give the modern reader the same sort of impression of patchwork composition: Callimachus’ Hecale, Theocritus’ Dioscuri (Idyll 22) and Moschus’ Europa.12 When it comes to prose writing, however, we need to turn to much later works to find examples of this kind of generic composition: one of the best known examples is Himerius’ Oration 48, in the fourth century CE.13 In other words, B.Ar. can be said to provide us with a very early example in prose of literary features familiar to us from works of later date, ranging from Augustan literature to the fourth-century CE revival of the Second Sophistic. Following this logic, and relocating B.Ar. in the relevant broader literary context between post-Callimachaean Alexandria and the Greek prose of Roman times also enables us to appreciate its originality – and B.Ar. does, indeed, offer some originality.14 In order to gauge the extent of this it is necessary to start from a correct definition of originality in Greek literature of the time. While recent studies emphasize that the normative definition of genre was much more flexible and open to innovation in the major prose genres than was hitherto believed,15 the notion of genre was still important in poetry. Once the major innovations were achieved by the scholar-poets of third-century Alexandria, the new genres became patterns to be imitated in their turn. It goes without saying that progymnasmata by their very nature were characterized by conservatism and reflected the importance given to set forms. We may, therefore, apply to progymnasmata Cairns’ remarks about Hellenistic and Roman poetry. Cairns insisted that the originality of a writer lay not in his invention of new forms, but in his ability to introduce variations in the re-use of the traditional material available to him. Conservatism not only ruled the genres, but also imposed the choice of topics, to a large extent. Theocritus’ originality consisted in blending together genres and topics not normally associated with each other.16 The degree of innovation displayed by B.Ar. is easy to pin down: the form is Greek, but the thematic material is Jewish. This is true especially of the digressions. Incidentally, how much of this material is due to the author of B.Ar. himself, and how much to Jewish predecessors from whom he borrowed or at least took inspiration, is hard for us to judge. However, the fact remains that B.Ar. provides evidence for the existence of a Jewish literary tradition in Alexandria which was eager to blend Greek forms and Jewish topics and, thus, to demonstrate that Jewish culture was an integral part of Greek culture. One chapter in B.Ar. can be taken as symptomatic of this Jewish 16

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aspiration to be recognized as part of Greek culture. Upon their arrival in Alexandria, the 72 Elders brought from Jerusalem together with the scroll of the Jewish Law are entrusted by the chief steward Nicanor to the care of Dorotheus. The latter was the official in charge of these visitors’ accommodation. Thereupon, the narrator adds (ch. 182): For such was the arrangement instituted by the King, which you may observe in use even now. For as many cities as there are which have special usages in drink and food and mode of reclining, so many officials were assigned, and then whenever guests visited the reigning King preparations were made according to their usages, so that there should be nothing to discomfort them and they could pass the time in good cheer.17 In other words, for all their peculiarities, the Jews are no more peculiar than any other Greek people. Their specificity is part of the multifarious diversity of the Greek world, and the Jews form just one polis among the others. This statement epitomizes the trend that runs through the four digressions in B.Ar. Taken together, the digressions build up a comprehensive presentation of Judaism in B.Ar., appropriately embedded in a work whose main topic is the translation of the Jewish Law. Obviously, then, the digressions were not included only for the sake of improving the literary quality of the work. They also contribute an important, though ancillary, aspect of the work.

The digressions Building up a comprehensive image of Judaism through literary poikilia The digressions make the main contribution to the compositional poikilia of B.Ar. As already noted, each one corresponds to a different literary genre. The description of the gifts sent by the King to the Temple in Jerusalem (chs 51b–83a) corresponds to the genre of ecphrasis, or ‘description (of an object)’ which is listed in handbooks of rhetoric as one of the progymnasmata.18 Callixenus of Rhodes wrote a book with a description of Alexandria which seems to have belonged to the genre of ecphrasis. Unfortunately, most of this work has been lost, but the description of the Great Procession which took place in Alexandria under Ptolemy II still survives in a summary by Athenaeus which contains many descriptions similar to the description of the gifts sent to the Temple in B.Ar.19 Similarly, versified descriptions of Alexandrian monuments were included in the advanced school curriculum of Hellenistic Egypt, as some papyri show.20 Another such ‘preparatory exercise’ in B.Ar., of more complex elaboration, is the so-called Apology for the Law by the High Priest Eleazar (chs 128–71). 17

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The section is presented as a long answer to a question by Aristeas. Moses Hadas has compared it to the chreia genre, like the homilies of the Cynics and the Stoics.21 More accurately, it is an elaboration (ergasia) of a chreia, since the chreia itself was characterized as ‘a concise and praiseworthy reminiscence about some character’.22 The two remaining digressions in B.Ar. do not fit the genre of progymnasmata, but reflect other literary genres – what Cairns calls ‘non-rhetorical genres’ – which were common in the Hellenistic period. The Journey to Jerusalem (chs 83b–120) corresponds to the Hellenistic travelogue and the genre of utopian geography. The closest parallel to it is Euhemerus’ journey to the island of Panchaea, known to us through various excerpts.23 The Symposium (chs 187–300) also has close affinities with the genre of the philosophic symposium, among which the Deipnosophistae, by the later Athenaeus of Naucratis, is one of the best preserved.24 From a literary point of view, the Symposium, which amounts to one-third of the whole composition, is, as we might expect, the section of the book most carefully worked out. Although changes in literary taste make it close to unreadable for modern readers (like much of the Deipnosophistae), we must recognize its virtuosity as a literary exercise. The basic concept is that of variation on a set pattern, repeated 72 times: the King first poses a question to one of the Elders invited to the seven-night-long banquet. After the answer is given, the King displays his approval, and immediately turns to the Elder’s neighbour for the next question. Each of these 72 units represents a short chreia. Variation plays its part in the choice of the vocabulary used to refer to the King’s approval of each answer, as well as his hailing of his next interlocutor. As to the composition of the whole piece, it can be seen again as a blend of genres, merging the description of the banquet as an occasion for philosophical exchange (apparently in an anachronistic way), a treatise about kingship, and a Jewish element, the reference to the Jewish God.25 Apart from these four long sections, several smaller pieces corresponding to more limited progymnasmata are embedded in B.Ar., either in the central narrative or, more frequently, within the digressions. The description of the High Priest’s garments (chs 96–9) is a paraphrase of a text, in this case the LXX (LXX Ex. 28–9). The comparison between Jerusalem and Alexandria (chs 107–11) corresponds to the synkrisis exercise, the ‘comparison’. The King bowing before the scroll brought from Jerusalem, and later again before the scroll of the translation, may be seen as two instances of an ‘action chreia’.26 Last, the insertion of official documents – a royal edict (chs 22–5), an administrative report (chs 28–34a), an exchange of correspondence (34b–40 and 41–51a) and the list of the 72 translators (chs 47–50) – appears to be a technique borrowed from the ancient historians, and further contributes to the generic poikilia of the composition. The royal edict of chs 22–5 may perhaps also be seen as a kind of paraphrase. The moralizing tone which burdens the decree of liberation of the Jewish slaves (chs 22–5) and is out 18

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of place in a genuine administrative decree, may further recall the genre of Egyptian instruction literature, of which at least one example is known in Greek: P.Tebt. 703 (= Austin, no. 256), a memorandum of a dioiketes to a subordinate official written in the late third century BCE, which ends with a general exhortation (ll. 261–80). The document was long taken to be a strictly matter-of-fact piece of administrative correspondence. However, it is now recognized that ‘the mixture of general exhortation with practical application, of both maxims and precepts is . . . a feature of Egyptian instruction literature’: the tradition goes back to the Pharaonic period.27 So much for the literary importance of these digressions. Needless to say, the assumption sometimes articulated by scholars at the beginning of the twentieth century,28 that these digressions were later interpolations, completely misses the compositional quality of B.Ar., which may well have been the aspect its author was most proud of. However, literary enjoyment is not incompatible with utility, quite the contrary. While the main narrative in B.Ar. focuses on a narrow, albeit central, topic – the translation of the Jewish Law into Greek – the digressions allowed the author to broaden the scope of his work to include a comprehensive presentation of this Law, as well as of the people abiding by it. The blend of Greek form and Jewish content may be seen, in itself, as a kind of manifesto of ‘Jewish Greekness’. B.Ar. offers a systematic and highly self-conscious articulation of this aspiration to make the best of both worlds. The Elders sent by Eleazar the High Priest conform to an ideal type of individuals combining Greek education and Jewish training (chs 121–2). The High Priest himself is implicitly endowed with similar qualities (ch. 3). Jerusalem is consistently presented as a Greek polis in B.Ar., endowed with the proper civic institutions (chs 42, 46). As we shall see in Chapter 3, the equation of Jerusalem with a Greek polis is precisely what gives credible support to the revival of the twelve biblical tribes in the Hellenistic period. Elsewhere, the Jews, in Jerusalem and throughout the inhabited world, are described as politai (ch. 3).29 In chs 15–16 the reader is assured that Greeks and Jews revere the same God under different names. A detailed review of the various sections that build up the picture of Judaism in B.Ar. shows that the blending of Greek forms with Jewish topics, or, more subtly, of Greek and Jewish topics, is pervasive. An example of a Greek form combined with a Jewish content is found in the Ecphrasis of the gifts sent by the King to the Temple in Jerusalem. The main piece of the section is the description of the table.30 Beyond the substitution of a Jewish object for a Greek one as the subject of the ecphrasis – a rather simple and inconspicuous effect of variation – a more interesting effect of variation with regard to genre requirements is achieved by the author. The description of the Great Procession of Ptolemy II by Callixenus emphasized the gigantic dimensions of the objects displayed in the procession. Praise for impressive measurements and lavishness are common clichés in the genre of 19

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ecphrasis. In B.Ar., however, an unusual element is introduced that qualifies the motif of size. After a preliminary statement that the King’s initial plan was to make the table ‘outstanding in its measurements’ (ch. 52), the leitmotif in the description is the King’s refraining from his original plan out of concern to abide by the more modest measurements prescribed by the Jewish Law (chs 54–8). The variation is justified by the King’s wish for his table to actually be used in the ritual service of the Jerusalem Temple. The description is thus dominated by a hint of piety which prevails here over the conventional motives belonging to the genre of ecphrasis. The usual motif of lavishness is, however, also present, while the rich technical vocabulary seems to balance the modest measurements of the object described. The other digressions display features which are more interesting than simply Jewish content in a Greek form. In all three, the blending of Jewish and Greek aspects is related to the content. The compositional principle underlying the Symposium has already been described above. As has long been recognized, each of the 72 answers given by the Elders to the King’s questions is composed of two parts, one giving general advice in keeping with ordinary Greek philosophy, the second introducing a reference to the Jewish God. This sort of blend of Greek and Jewish philosophy may well have been innovative. As compared to the Symposium, the Apology (chs 128–71)31 appears less innovative, even if its inner organization deviates somewhat from the usual arrangement of the elaboration of the chreia advocated by the rhetorical handbooks.32 Hermogenes, for instance, lists eight sections for the ergasia, in the following order: [1] praise; [2] paraphrase; [3] rationale; [4] statement from the opposite; [5] statement from analogy; [6] statement from example; [7] statement from authority; [8] exhortation. Aphthonius is more detailed, and provides a concrete illustration of the theory. He follows the same order.33 Analysing B.Ar. in the light of these recommendations, the following picture emerges. Eleazar’s answer to Aristeas, which constitutes the elaboration of the chreia, begins with a long introduction (chs 130–3), explicitly described as such in the text (134). The initial praise [1] is logically omitted, since the chreia is not concerned with the statement of an individual, but with an explanation of the Law. Then the reference to the Lawgiver (130–1) may be seen as the paraphrase [2] of Aristeas’ question, which in this case includes a sort of displacement of the initial question to a broader perspective. The statement about the unity of God that follows probably stands for the rationale [3]. Further sentences in the passage may also be seen as rationales (139, 141–2). In conformity with the order given by the handbooks, the detailed treatment of the answer starts with a statement from the opposite [4] in chs 134–8. In fact, two successive statements are given, one concerning the Greeks (134–7), and the other concerning the Egyptians (138). Thus, what has sometimes been taken as an attack on Greeks and Egyptians at variance with the rest of the work34 turns out to be a conven20

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tional requirement, when re-situated in the context of the generic rules of the progymnasma. We shall return to these so-called attacks below. The mention of the Egyptian priests in ch. 140 clearly stands for the statement from authority [7]. Then a long section (144–64), marked off by a ring composition around the mention of ‘mice and weasels’ (144 and 163–4), provides a series of statements from examples [6]. The inner composition of this passage is complex, amounting to a sort of elaboration in the elaboration. It includes a statement from the opposite, referring to incest and homosexuality (152), and a rationale, or perhaps a paraphrase, in ch. 155, with biblical quotations. Chapters 166–7 are a statement from analogy [5] complimentary to the king. Chapters 168–71 provide the final exhortation [8], again complicated by inner variations: a new rationale in 169, and further examples in 170–1. There is no real originality in the content of the chreia, either. It is clear that the vitality and diversity of the religious and philosophical quest in the Hellenistic period must have allowed for the most variegated religious and philosophical affiliations to compete over the homiletic genre as a vehicle for presenting their tenets and practices. The Apology for the Law is so inconspicuous in its religious boldness that it is misleading to assume, as has been done on occasion,35 that it contains some violent polemics against Greeks stemming from a Jewish monotheistic point of view.36 First of all, this section polemicizes with philosophical viewpoints, not with actual social practices, as we shall see in a moment. Next, it is dubious whether the arguments stated in B.Ar. are at all unusual within the realm of Greek thought. It has often been noted that the allegorical interpretation applied by B.Ar.’s author to the Jewish dietary laws has affinities with the technique of interpretation applied to other Jewish customs at about the same time by another Alexandrian Jewish writer, Aristobulus.37 However, in a recent discussion of the symbolic interpretation of the dietary laws in the Apology of the High Priest, Katell Berthelot cogently evinced that the arguments of the High Priest in explaining the Jewish dietary laws is best compared to the Pythagorian tradition of akousmata, or symbolic interpretations, of which a large part consists in interpreting dietary taboos.38 There are grounds for believing that the author of B.Ar. was making use of pre-existing material in this Apology for the Law. The borrowing from earlier sources is particularly recognizable in the attacks against the Cynics and in the polemics with Euhemerist ideas found in the Apology. The stance of B.Ar.’s author in this case should certainly not be seen as that of a Jewish philosopher targeting ‘pagan’ views en bloc. His shafts come from within the realm of Greek philosophical polemic. In fact, the arguments found in B.Ar. do not go far beyond conventional clichés, and in this sense the Apology for the Law does not display any more philosophical originality than the 72 sayings of the Symposium (chs 187–300). Thus, the reference to Egyptian zoolatry in ch. 138 is a cliché.39 21

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The attack against incestuous intercourse in ch. 152 does not target a social practice allegedly common in contemporary Egypt, as is sometimes assumed,40 let alone the royal house of the Ptolemies.41 The offenders targeted are Stoics and Cynics, as is demonstrated by a direct allusion to a statement made by Chrysippus and known to us through a critical comment by Plutarch: In one of his books of Exhortations, he [Chrysippus] says that sexual intercourse with mothers or daughters or sisters, eating certain food, and proceeding straight from childbed or deathbed to a temple have been discredited without reason.42 This is worded slightly differently in B.Ar. (152): The majority of other men defile themselves in their relationships . . . : they not only procure the males, they also defile mothers and daughters. The omission of the ‘sisters’ in B.Ar., as compared with Plutarch’s reference to Chrysippus, may indeed seek to avoid offending the Ptolemaic dynasty. It may also simply result from the fact that the reference in B.Ar. is inaccurate. It is, in fact, difficult to decide whether our author knew Chrysippus’ text directly and was responsible for this modification, or whether he was quoting from another Hellenistic author who was himself less careful in his quotations than the author of B.Ar. usually is. It is, likewise, not quite certain whether he amalgamated early Stoic permissiveness in regard to incestuous intercourse with permissiveness in regard to homosexuality. This second element does not necessarily need to be specifically Jewish either. Although homosexuality was a widely accepted practice, we know that laws against it existed in the Roman Republican legislation and were occasionally invoked in the Late Republic, more as a weapon in political manoeuvres than for genuine moralistic reasons. It would not be impossible to imagine condemnations of pederasty in the Alexandrian Hellenistic literature, although they have (not surprisingly) left no traces in the extant sources, and were (even less surprisingly) absolutely ineffective in daily life.43 One point is certain: B.Ar.’s attack on the provocative prescriptions of the Stoics and Cynics is neither different in essence nor more violent in tone than those launched by other Greek philosophers of anti-Stoic affiliation – as the essay by Plutarch cited above makes quite clear.44 The same applies to the critique of Euhemerism in B.Ar. 134–7. Apart from these attacks on Greek schools, the description of the Jewish faith in chs 139–41 and elsewhere in this digression equates it with the religion of the (Greek) philosophers. In other words, it is necessary to assess the philosophical and religious content of the Apology and, indeed, of B.Ar. in 22

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general, in more subtle terms than simply the opposition of Judaism and ‘paganism’. The attacks contained in the Apology are aimed at specific aspects of Greek (and Egyptian) philosophy and religion that were widely criticized by Greeks themselves. Moreover, these attacks are combined with an endeavour to present Judaism as a religion of philosophers, in a way popular in the Hellenistic age.45 The most interesting digression, as far as the blending together of Jewish and Greek topics is concerned, is the Travelogue, the Journey to Jerusalem (chs 83–120). In fact, this passage breaks down into five consecutive sections, each one modelled on a different literary form: the description of Jerusalem, which is an elaborate paraphrase of Aristotle, Politics, 7.11 (chs 83–106); the comparison between Alexandria and Jerusalem (chs 107–9); paraphrases of a royal Ptolemaic decree (ch. 110),46 and then of Aristotle, Constitution of the Athenians, 16 (ch. 111) which will be analysed elsewhere47 and, last, the description of Judaea (chs 112–20), which is reminiscent of the genre (or sub-genre) of utopian geography. The first and last sections of the Travelogue digression are closely related, both topically and generically, so that the digression keeps its unity as a whole. The section dealing with the description of the city of Jerusalem, chs 83–106, is directly inspired by Aristotle’s depiction of the ideal polis in Book vii of his Politics, with biblical allusions sewn into the text.48 The use of Aristotle in this passage is an excellent illustration of the skill of B.Ar.’s author in creative re-writing.49 The description of Jerusalem in B.Ar. introduces a systematic shift in emphasis as compared to the source used: prescriptions which, in Aristotle’s text, apply to the polis as a whole, are shifted in B.Ar. on to the Temple. For example, the detailed description of the combined sources supplying water to the Temple (chs 88–91) finds its raison d’être in Aristotle’s insistence on the need for the polis to enjoy a good water supply, both in quality and quantity (Politics, 7.11.3–4, 1330b 1–12). Even more striking is the case of the citadel (chs 100–4). B.Ar. is conspicuously vague about its precise location. Topographical accuracy was obviously not a point that mattered much for our author. We may suspect that he was interested above all in the very mention of a citadel adjacent to the Temple. The key for a correct understanding of this passage is again to be found in Aristotle, who establishes a direct link between the politeia or political regime prevailing in a particular polis and the corresponding arrangement of the defensive system: As to fortified positions, what is expedient is not the same for all forms of constitutions (politeiai) alike; for example, a citadel-hill (acropolis) is suitable for oligarchy and monarchy, and a level site for democracy; neither is favourable to an aristocracy, but rather several strong positions.50 23

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Aristotle’s discussion is predicated on the basic scheme of three constitutions that is usual in Greek political theory – monarchy, aristocracy and democracy. The three basic regimes further branch out into straight and deviating forms, hence the distinction between oligarchy and aristocracy found in this citation. The depiction, in B.Ar., of a citadel linked to the Temple, implicitly fits a fourth kind of politeia, a theocracy, in which the polis is ruled not by a king, but by a high priest. This is, indeed, the political structure described by Hecataeus of Abdera in his excursus on the Jews, in a passage quoted by Diodorus. According to Hecataeus, the Jews had never had a king, but had always been ruled by a high priest (Diodorus, 40.3.5). In our extant sources, Josephus was the first to give a name to this politeia peculiar to the Jews alone: the neologism theokratia appears in his Against Apion, 2.165.51 The description of Jerusalem found in B.Ar. suggests, however, that although Josephus is our first extant reference for this Neubildung he probably did not invent the term himself.52 Speculation about the peculiar form of politeia to be found in Judaea, if not the word ‘theokratia’ itself, was already current in Alexandria by the generation of B.Ar.’s author at the latest. Thus, Jerusalem in B.Ar. is the encapsulation of the ideal Greek state. The description of Judaea in chs 112–20 summarizes in a remarkably synthetic way standard motifs recurrent in contemporary works belonging to the genre of utopian geography, such as natural bounty, dense population (polyanthropia), an outstanding river ensuring fertility, etc. The genre of utopian geography conflated the Greek tradition of ethnographical geography going back to Herodotus and beyond with the genre of philosophical speculation about the ideal politeia that flourished in the late fifth and the fourth centuries BCE. The new genre that resulted from this merging quickly developed its own rules and set topics. The latter are routinely spelled out in the works that have come down to us, such as the description of Egypt by Hecataeus of Abdera, summarized by Diodorus in the first book of his Historical Library, or that of India by Megasthenes (Diodorus, 2.35–42).53 In terms of variation on a set form, the effect of surprise created by B.Ar. was probably highest in the progymnasma found in chs 107–9, the comparison between Alexandria and Jerusalem. Jerusalem is defined as an ‘average’ city, built with symmetria, while Alexandria is the city of ‘great size’. This passage is usually understood in modern scholarship as an acknowledgement of Alexandria’s superiority over Jerusalem – a superiority that ‘even a Jew of Alexandria, however pious’, was ‘compelled’ to admit.54 But the case is quite the contrary: the terms of the comparison are derogatory to Alexandria, not to Jerusalem. They echo the Aristotelian prescription of a moderate size for the ideal city (Politics, 7.4.4, 1326a 5–b 25). The Travelogue digression actually refers to a ‘town’ rather than a ‘polis’, but this transposition was typical of the Hellenistic period. Beyond Aristotle, however, the idea that Jerusalem is closer to the ideal city than Alexandria consciously elaborates 24

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on contemporary Alexandrian concerns. The urban plan of Alexandria has been defined by modern scholars as a combination of the rigid geometrical conceptions of the Miletan school of urbanism and the taste for grandiose and imposing scale inherited from the Egyptian and Near-Eastern traditions. The excess size of the Ptolemaic capital jeopardized the principle of symmetria, harmony in moderation, inherited from the Classical tradition.55 Thus, we may read in B.Ar. a discreet reference to Alexander’s debate with his architect Deinocrates about the foundation of Alexandria. This debate is known to us in two versions, one in Vitruvius, 2, praef. 1–4, the other in Pseudo-Callisthenes’ Romance of Alexander, 1.31.6–7, with a different emphasis.56 The story in Vitruvius amusingly stresses Alexander’s megalomaniac ambitions for his city, and the gigantic size of Alexandria. Thus, the reference in B.Ar. to the notion of symmetria and, through it, to Aristotle’s urbanistic tenets, creates a reversal of values to the benefit of Jerusalem. At the same time, the large city as the place of all pleasures had become a common topic of Alexandrian poetry in the third century BCE. One of the finest examples of the positive version of this topic is Theocritus’ Idyll 15, the Adoniazusae. However, this topic of the large city also had a negative component, as we see from the longing for an idealized nature which pervades bucolic poetry like Theocritus’ Idylls and other works related to the genre Peter Green has described as ‘urbanised pastoralism’. Similarly, the popularity in Alexandria of sculptures and terracotta statuettes of old peasants may reflect the same trend, at least to some extent. Even more striking is the idealized primitivism praising the ‘noble savage’, embodied in such figures as Agatharcides’ Trogodytes in his work On the Red Sea.57 The author of B.Ar. is simply presenting a variation on a topic that was apparently common in contemporary Alexandria. Thus, the digressions inserted in B.Ar. fulfil the literary function normally associated with digressions: they add variety, and hence increase the pleasure of reading the work. However, the digressions in B.Ar. are not designed for mere entertainment. They clearly play a role in the economy of the central narrative, to which they are closely subordinated. The homogeneity of the Book of Aristeas The identification in B.Ar. of a principle of ring composition typical of Hellenistic Alexandrian literature definitely negates the view that the ‘digressions’ found in this work were later interpolations. B.Ar. must now be seen as a homogeneous work. At the same time, however, the identification of passages of progymnasmata in B.Ar. may raise another problem. There can be no doubt that B.Ar.’s author used literary sources, and perhaps also official documents – although the traditional view on this matter has recently been challenged by Werner Schmidt.58 The documents presented in B.Ar. 25

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stand in striking contrast to those found in the Romance of Alexander. In the case of the latter, Reinhold Merkelbach has shown that the letters inserted in the Romance originally belonged to a distinctly different setting, most probably an epistolary novel.59 Pseudo-Callisthenes inserted them in his own text without modifying them to harmonize with his own narrative. Merkelbach thus inferred that Pseudo-Callisthenes treated these letters he had found as if they were genuine documents. In contrast, Oswyn Murray has emphasized that the author of B.Ar. treated both the official documents that he had found in the royal archives, and the Greek or Jewish literary works that he was re-using, in a similar, even-handed way. None of these sources was simply copied out in a servile manner. On the contrary, the models were systematically re-written before they were carefully crafted into the narrative. B.Ar.’s description of Jerusalem provides a good illustration of this process of re-writing a literary source. The heavily idealized description of Jerusalem by Pseudo-Hecataeus, preserved in Josephus, Against Apion, 1.194–9 (= FGH, 264, F 21), was one of the several literary sources used by B.Ar.’s author for his description.60 ‘Hecataeus’ (in fact both Hecataeus of Abdera and the Jewish Pseudo-Hecataeus) is referred to by name in ch. 31, so that there can be no doubt that our author was acquainted with Pseudo-Hecataeus’ work. However, he arbitrarily modifies the figures given by his source regarding the number of priests, the city’s circumference, and the area of arable land, as if to demonstrate his independence from it.61 This handling of the sources by B.Ar.’s author resulted in the high literary quality of the work as well as its stylistic homogeneity. Murray has suitably called this way of processing the sources ‘creative adaptation’, or ‘creative plagiarism’.62 However, it is this very skill in redaction which makes it difficult for modern critics to delineate the boundary between source and original text in B.Ar., and to pin down borrowings in the absence of the original model. At least at a theoretical level, we might imagine that large sections of B.Ar. were in fact taken over from earlier sources. However, this is improbable for two sets of reasons. First of all, the principle of ring composition would have led our author, like any other Alexandrian writer, to compose long digressions of his own, in order to display his literary virtuosity. It is unthinkable that B.Ar.’s author was only responsible for chapters 1–51 and 301–22. The second set of arguments relates to the thorough consistency displayed throughout the work in the depiction of Judaism. The isolated touches supporting the picture of an Hellenized Judaism noted above (chs 3, 15–16, 42, 46, 121–2, 182) are decisive from this point of view. These details appear outside the digressions, in the introduction, the transitional sections, and the main narrative. They demonstrate a level of conceptual harmonization between the main narrative and the various sections of B.Ar. that would be very surprising if our author were only responsible for the superficial matching of a patchwork of composite sources. A particularly complex case of harmonization is the status 26

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of the ruler in Jerusalem. The title of ‘high priest’ was far from self-evident for the Jews themselves, as is made clear by Philo’s obvious discomfort with it (Life of Moses, 2.31). Philo refers to it twice in the same passage, and on the first occasion he links it to the title of ‘king’.63 The status of Jerusalem’s ruler as a high priest has ideological significance in B.Ar. It is to be understood in terms of a political utopia. Its precise significance derives from the implicit claim in the description of Jerusalem and Judaea in the Travelogue digression: Jerusalem’s politeia is a theocracy. This last case demonstrates that B.Ar.’s author was not simply complying with his readership’s expectations in depicting Jerusalem in ideal terms. Far from being content with some trivial rehearsal of well-known clichés, one suspects that he was pushing forward his own vision of things. Above all, however, this example shows what a high degree of internal consistency has been achieved by the author of B.Ar. in the various parts of his work. This is, indeed, a remarkably homogeneous work. This can only mean that, whatever the size and number of sources he used, B.Ar.’s author made them his own by thorough adaptation. The identification of these sources, therefore, has only a limited interest. The intended readership The digressions present a further interest for modern readers: from some of the features seen above in relation to the digressions it is possible to infer that the original readership for which B.Ar. was intended was Jewish and not Greek; more precisely, the target readership was Alexandrian Jews. Inasmuch as our author is in full control of his text, as has just been claimed, any clue we find to an intended readership must reflect his genuine intention. In practical terms, identification of such clues consists in discerning, as best we can, which segment(s) of the population (Greeks or Jews, learned or otherwise) would have been positively receptive in some way or another to the allusions or the ideas articulated in the text. Attempts at identifying B.Ar.’s targeted readership must rely on intertextual references. As in the case of the learned Alexandrian poetry of the third century BCE, which abounded in intertextual references,64 we must also admit that our author built on the ability of his readers to recognize literary allusions. Pleasure comes from the identification of references arousing a familiar resonance in one’s memory – not from the feeling that one is more ignorant than he should be. Some literary references may be ambiguous, since they refer to common Greek literary training. Some of them are not too demanding, intellectually speaking. Thus, B.Ar.’s author expected his readers to be familiar with ‘Hecataeus’, and, as we just saw, both Hecataeus of Abdera and PseudoHecataeus are referred to under this name. Hecataeus of Abdera was popular among all learned Alexandrians, whatever their ethnic identity, thanks to his lost book on Egypt, on which the first book of Diodorus’ Historical Library 27

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is based. There was an excursus on Judaea in this work, which might explain how his name came to be appropriated by a Jewish author.65 In terms of the level of Greek education, crediting an Alexandrian readership with familiarity with ‘Hecataeus’ was not too bold a bet. Likewise, the narrator’s statement, in the introductory section (ch. 6), that he owed his information on Jews to Egyptian priests may also have found a positive resonance with readers familiar only with Hecataeus. It is true that this topos belongs to a well-established tradition in Greek literature, going back to Book II of Herodotus’ Histories. It was used by numerous fourth-century writers with oligarchic sympathies: Plato’s Atlantis account is only the bestknown example of this literature.66 However, reference to knowledge received from Egyptian priests was also to be found in Hecataeus’ monograph on Egypt. B.Ar.’s author is more demanding of his reader (and hence more flattering) with his references to further intellectual and literary figures, like the philosopher Menedemus of Eretria (ch. 201); the historian Theopompus and the tragic poet Theodectus (chs 314, 316). He further ascribes to his readers a varnish of Greek philosophy, which was the indispensable prerequisite for them to enjoy reading the longest section of his book, the Symposium. Thus, the author of B.Ar. reckoned with a highly educated Alexandrian readership. Further points, however, allow us to specify that the intended readers were Jewish. As is well known, the first scholar to challenge the prevailing view that B.Ar. was intended for a Greek readership and argue for a Jewish one was Victor Tcherikover.67 In his wake, Harry Orlinsky adduced the numerous linguistic allusions to the LXX in support of the claim that the original readership was Jewish.68 Orlinsky rightly identified such allusions in the scene of new Revelation that closes B.Ar., in chs 308–11, referring in particular to LXX Exodus 24. Another well-known example of such allusions is the description of the High Priest’s garments in chs 96–9, where many commentators have pointed out the direct textual dependence on LXX Exodus 28–9. Nobody other than Jews would have been receptive to these allusions, or able to understand the implicit meaning of the text in the cases pointed out by Orlinsky. Further arguments may be added to those adduced by Tcherikover and Orlinsky. Some minor features in the book are better understood as aiming at a Jewish readership: for instance, the fact that all names of the Greek officers at Ptolemy’s court (Sosibios, Andreas, Aristeas, Nicanor and his subordinate Dorotheos, chs 12, 43, 182–3) are religiously neutral. Distinctively theophoric Greek names (such as Athenodoros or Diodorus) are avoided.69 The implicit message is the same as in ch. 16: Greeks and Jews revere the same God under different names. It may be argued that Jews, rather than Greeks, would have been interested by the religious statements of chs 15–16. However, it may be conceded that the audience targeted by these religious messages is still ambiguous. 28

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In contrast, the comparison between Alexandria and Jerusalem found in chs 107–11, is clearly aimed at Jews, if we admit that the comparison is derogatory to Alexandria. Inverse ethnocentrism (or self-derogatory discourse idealizing the culture embodying the opposite of one’s own) is by essence polemical, and Greek writers of the Hellenistic period were definitely able to produce such a discourse themselves. However, our text can by no means be identified with the Alexandrian trend of inverse ethnocentrism, since the latter usually translated into a longing for primitivism.70 Jerusalem and its country are not described as primitive, quite the contrary. In such conditions, it is hard to imagine that Greek Alexandrians would have readily accepted B.Ar.’s comparison between Alexandria and Jerusalem. Imagining a Greek readership for B.Ar. therefore implies a level of polemic going far beyond that displayed elsewhere in the work. (The polemic against the early Stoic and Cynic concept of nature in B.Ar., as we saw, is strictly conventional.) In contrast, if a Jewish readership were the target, the comparison is merely self-indulgent – and incidentally, this would imply a Jewish readership that was also expected to be sensitive to Aristotelian concepts of urbanism. The intended readership of B.Ar., therefore, was Jewish. However, these were not Jews secluded from Greek culture. On the contrary, B.Ar.’s readers were Jews who could no doubt identify with the description of the 72 Jewish Elders who were brought from Jerusalem together with the Law: they were trained in the finest Greek paideia (chs 121–7), but were also well learned in their own tradition. In short, B.Ar.’s readers were highly educated Alexandrian Jews.

The central narrative: the Book of Aristeas as a historical monograph The consistent use of digressions to build up a comprehensive picture of Judaism in B.Ar., together with the importance of the digressions as compared to the main narrative, explains why there has been a tendency in recent scholarship to claim that the real purpose of this work was to give an interpretative presentation of Judaism, and not merely the limited topic of the translation. However, this contention is based on the failure to identify the compositional structure of B.Ar. Logically, the definition of the subject must refer to the central narrative of the work, not the digressions – whatever their importance in the overall economy of B.Ar. Furthermore, the principle of ring composition used in B.Ar. that was identified above still leaves open the question of the genre to which B.Ar. belongs. Both issues, genre and subject of the work, are related. The keys to both issues are to be sought first and foremost in the author’s own statements about his work. Logically, both the introduction and the conclusion (chs 1–8 and 322) may be expected to provide key information on this matter. 29

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Both in the introduction and the conclusion B.Ar. is defined as a die¯ge¯sis. This word is synonymous with the term found in Aphthonius’ handbook, die¯ge¯ma.71 Both are technical terms of Classical rhetoric referring to a kind of progymnasma, a narrative in prose. Ancient grammarians distinguished between three types of diegema or diegesis: mythological, historical and political. Inasmuch as B.Ar. is presented by the author/narrator as an account of events which took place in his own days, the work was clearly conceived as a historical diegesis. In other words, B.Ar. is related to the genre of Hellenistic historiography. As we shall see below and in the forthcoming chapters, the author certainly made abundant use of the rhetorical and technical means identified in his days with historical writing. The introduction itself (ch. 2) describes Philocrates, the addressee of the book, who is presented as the narrator’s brother, as a ‘man who has tried continually to increase his learning and understanding’, both ‘through research’ (kata tas historias) into things and events where he was not present himself, or ‘by actual experience of affairs’ (kat’ auto to pragma pepeirameno¯ ).72 These are two ways of acquiring knowledge which would have been immediately recognizable to a historian like Polybius (cf. Histories, 12.25e, 25h and 27) or Diodorus (Historical Library, 1.1.1–2). According to the conventions of Greek historiography, the introduction is expected to state precisely what the subject matter of the account that will follow will be. B.Ar.’s author kept to this rule. Formally, B.Ar. is a diegesis ‘of the meeting which we had with Eleazar, High Priest of the Jews’ (ch. 1). The author/narrator will relate the content (peri ho¯n) and purpose (dia ti) of his mission. The topic is further defined in ch. 3: [I] offered [myself] as a deputation (to Eleazar . . .) with a view to the translation of the divine Law, because it was written by them on parchments in Hebrew characters.73 Thus, B.Ar. is a kind of historical monograph.74 What about its topic? In a recent study John Marincola has questioned the rigid classification of ancient works of historiography inherited from Felix Jacoby.75 He argued that the generic boundaries were much more open than Jacoby thought. However, the treatment of military and political events still seems to have enjoyed a particular prestige. This would explain why, as Guido Schepens has stressed, works concerned with these topics are over-represented in the extant sources, even though many ancient historians were interested in dealing with a much wider array of subject matters in the Herodotean tradition.76 Ancient historians themselves refer to the subjects of monographs as the ‘deeds of countries or cities or dynasts’ (Polybius 9.1), or the ‘deeds of kings or cities self-contained from beginning to end’ (Diodorus, 16.1.1).77 The author of B.Ar. chose to present his topic in conformity with the most prestigious models. Among ‘political deeds’, embassies qualified as perfectly 30

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respectable and traditional topics. It looks as if the opening sentences of B.Ar. sought to give the work a guise of perfect normality. However, further elements in the introduction show that the principle of blending, so characteristic of B.Ar.’s composition as a whole, is also to be found at the very core of the central narrative. Chapter 4 appears to introduce a blend of topics. This sentence refers, in an incidental mode, to the episode of the liberation of the Jewish slaves: We undertook this task [i.e. the deputation] with enthusiasm, seizing an opportunity with the King in connection with those who were transported to Egypt from Judaea by the King his father . . . It is worthwhile telling you this as well. The episode of the liberation of the Jewish slaves is usually held by modern scholarship to be an inopportune digression. This judgement is belied by this last quotation. The author of B.Ar. obviously considered this episode to be an important matter – central enough to be recorded in his introduction. It follows, then, that the liberation of the slaves must be seen as a component of the central narrative. The incidental mode used to introduce it, however, suggests that it is subordinated to the topic of the deputation. In other words, the evidence of the introduction presents the central narrative in B.Ar. as composed of a main topic, the deputation, and a secondary one, the liberation of the slaves. Thus, the structural composition of the central narrative, with its two-storeyed arrangement, appears somewhat complex for a historical monograph – although, it should be insisted, the use of the incidental mode in order to introduce the secondary theme preserves the formal topical unity of the diegesis. However, under the blanket format of a conventional subject matter (the deputation), the specifically Jewish topic is innovative. The purpose of the diplomatic mission is neither conventional political ties nor political entanglements, nor does it involve a matter of peace and war. The matter at stake is cultural – obtaining a scroll of the Jewish Law, together with translators. Marincola has insisted on the importance of innovation in ancient historical writing, as indeed in other genres, as one ‘of the most important elements of ancient literary creation’. ‘One of the primary goals of composition was to be both traditional and innovative, to follow the models of established excellence . . . while making something slightly different, something that was one’s own.’ As a result, the definition of a genre is to be seen as dynamic, not static.78 According to this approach, the degree of innovation of B.Ar.’s author is in no way exceptional. However, restricting ourselves to this observation may miss the point. We should probably take seriously the fact that our author chose ‘political deeds’ as his model. By introducing the topic of his work as the account of an embassy, he could play on the ‘horizon of expectations’ of his readers.79 In this way, he was probably seeking 31

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to transform the translation of the Law into a ‘major event’. Incidentally, we may identify here an interesting precedent for those parts of the New Testament that modern scholarship sometimes compares to the genre of historiography, the Acts of the Apostles and, likewise, the Gospels, which transformed the birth and gospel of Jesus into a ‘major event’.80 Ever since Herodotus, the proemium of a historical work was not only expected to introduce the subject matter of the book, but also to provide the author’s justification for committing this particular topic to writing. While Herodotus wrote to prevent great deeds from falling into oblivion, the justification put forward in the Hellenistic period was frequently the ‘bestowal of (moral) benefit’.81 We find something similar indeed in B.Ar.: the incentive for writing referred to is the ‘love of learning’82 (prosmanthanein) ascribed by the author/narrator to his fictional addressee, Philocrates, who obviously stands for the real readers he is aiming at (ch. 1).83 Diodorus’ proemium to his universal history, his Historical Library, presents topics that are conventional in the introduction of a historical work together with topics borrowed from Stoic philosophy. However, Diodorus does not really blend both semantic fields in one section, but rather stitches together, somewhat clumsily, two successive introductions, one more conventional in Greek historiography (1.1–2), and the second one bringing in the Stoic elements (1.3–6). This second section of Diodorus’ introduction is usually thought to be borrowed from Poseidonius.84 This means, then, that the introduction of philosophical insights into the proemium of a historical work was not something unknown by our author’s time. As compared to Diodorus’ proemium, B.Ar.’s merges both topics more closely – although the comparison is a little unfair, given the difference in length between the two proemia. The comparison with Diodorus is still interesting, however, since it makes an important difference apparent: the topic intertwined with historiography in the narrow sense of the word in B.Ar.’s proemium is not exactly moral benefit or philosophical insights, but religion. Thus, besides being an account of a past event to which the author/narrator claims to be an eyewitness, B.Ar. is introduced as an exposition on religious matters. Again, the mixing of registers, history and religion, should not surprise us if we accept that the boundaries of prose genres were not rigid ones. In the study already referred to, Marincola discussed a series of works that have been seen by modern scholars to eschew classification as historical works, in order to show that generic boundaries were, indeed, subject to constant re-definition and innovation. The juxtaposition of topics conventional in historiography and in religious matters in B.Ar. is no bolder than the innovations presented by works such as Xenophon’s Anabasis, Caesar’s Gallic Wars, or Tacitus’ Agricola.85 Various elements contribute to the topic of religious matters in B.Ar. In ch. 6, the present diegesis is stated to be the second work (anagraphe¯) of a diptych – or rather a triptych, since the conclusion will announce a further 32

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work to come. Whether real or imaginary,86 this earlier work alluded to in the introduction was about the Jews. The context suggests that the contents dealt with the Jewish religion (or ‘philosophy’), and that it was not a politeia, that is, a systematic exposition of their customs and history. The narrator claims to have ‘received this account of the people of the Jews from the most renowned high priests in renowned Egypt’. The pastiche of a long tradition of Greek historians and philosophers claiming to have received their knowledge from Egyptian priests is unmistakable, as we saw above. Still, the precedent of Herodotus’ second book on the Egyptians demonstrates that the reference to a previous book need not take the reader too far from historiography. The key word of the second topic, however, is that of ‘piety’ (eusebeia). The word appears explicitly in ch. 2. André Pelletier has rightly pointed out that this piety is Greek and not Jewish: it derives from knowledge – and not knowledge from piety.87 However, even in this Greek, and not Jewish form, the semantic field of piety, of knowledge for the sake of enhancing the soul, oversteps the narrow realm of historiography. The narrator, further, explicitly states that he offered himself as a deputation to Eleazar because he has ‘a set purpose devoted to the special study of the things of God’ (ch. 3). The semantic field of piety, then, which runs throughout B.Ar.’s introduction, infuses historiography with a topic borrowed from a quite different literary genre which became very common from the fourth century BCE on: the philosophical epistle – even though B.Ar. is not formally a letter. However, we must remain cautious before we credit the author of B.Ar. with too much originality or oddity in his blending of historiography and religious matters, and perhaps the philosophical epistle is not the most appropriate genre for comparison. It is unfortunate that the original text of Euhemerus’ account of his journey to Panchaea is lost. It is impossible to get a clear idea about the content and mood of the original proemium from the extant excerpts, in Diodorus and elsewhere.88 We can only surmise that this work, and possibly others of the kind, may have provided a good basis for comparison. More generally speaking, B.Ar. blends historiography with philosophy or religion in the same way that the social utopias of the Hellenistic period like Euhemerus’ work resulted from a blend of the travelogue with the philosophical essays on the ideal city of fourthcentury Greece. Since the travelogue derived from the genre of ethnogeography which had been closely related to historiography ever since Herodotus, B.Ar. was perhaps not quite as unusual as it now looks in its blending of topics. Defining the prevailing tone in B.Ar. as that of historiography has important implications for our understanding of the author’s intention. Greek historiography was defined as an account, a diegesis, of events which had really happened. The claim that the account in B.Ar. is true is, indeed, 33

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explicitly articulated in the conclusion of the work, in the farewell address to Philocrates (ch. 322): There you have, Philocrates, as I promised, my narrative (die¯ge¯sis). These matters I think delight you more (terpein) than the books of the mythographers, (ta to¯n mythologo¯n biblia). Two topics common in Hellenistic literature are found here. Concern for pleasure (he¯done¯, or, as here, the verb terpein) is a predominant claim of Hellenistic literature. Pleasure was derived above all from the stylistic quality of the work, but the concept also involved matters of content. First of all, the arrangement of the subject matter so as to provide poikilia, diversity, in the narrative, reflected the author’s concern for vividness. Dwelling too long on the same topic held the risk of deterring the readers with boredom. Hence, the importance of ‘digressions’ in monographs, or the custom, in universal histories, of alternating between one Mediterranean scene and another, as in Polybius.89 The notion of ‘pleasure’ in relation to the content of the work per se, particularly preoccupied the historians of the so-called school of ‘tragic historiography’. This was a style that was first theorized and practised by Duris of Samos in the fourth century BCE.90 Even though the terminology used to refer to the concept of ‘pleasure’ may vary, its definition was quite constant. Duris himself appears to have been concerned with theorizing the most effective way of providing a ‘dramatic re-enactment of events’ (in J.R. Morgan’s words) through the notions of ‘pleasure’ and ‘imitation’ (mime¯sis), but his followers took ‘pleasure’ in a much lighter way. In their view, the historian had to strive for vividness (enargeia) and sensational rendering through detailed descriptions of town sieges or other potentially ‘dramatic’ events, as a means to reach out to the readers’ emotions.91 Such a conception of history was not universally endorsed. Polybius is particularly hostile to it. However, Polybius’ own relationship to the notion of ‘pleasure’ is not unambiguous. At times, he rejected it altogether from historiography, relegating it to the realm of tragedy; historiography, in contrast, was to remain the realm of ‘truth’, in order to ‘benefit’ the reader.92 Thus, ‘pleasure’ was opposed to ‘utility’. Elsewhere, however, Polybius felt that he could not simply dispose of the notion of ‘pleasure’, probably because by his time the latter was too thoroughly rooted in both the practice of contemporary historians and their readers’ expectations. He thus strove to endow this concept with a new definition. ‘Pleasure’ in historiography derived, in Polybius’ sense, from its utility.93 On the face of it, the reference by the author of B.Ar. to ‘benefiting the mind’ may be compared to Polybius’ appeal to utility. These two writers, however, do not refer to the same kind of ‘utility’. Polybius’ utility is historical, implying political benefit, whereas our author has philosophical benefit in mind. For all this, there is a considerable degree of similarity in their 34

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blurring of the distinction between ‘pleasure’ and ‘utility’, amounting to an assimilation of the former into the latter. It is, further, clear from the combined references to ‘getting delight from’ and ‘benefiting the mind’ in B.Ar. that, in our author’s view, the philosophical ‘utility’ of his work was predicated on the truth of its content – B.Ar. is not a philosophical allegory, but a ‘true’ diegesis. Indeed, this is the second topic found in B.Ar.’s concluding sentence: the implicit claim that the account just given is true and is about a serious matter. To be sure, explicit reference to ale¯theia, ‘truth’, or akribeia, ‘exactness’, is lacking here. Our author was primarily interested in putting the stress on moral utility, not on truth. However, moral benefit can be derived only from a reliable account, and the claim to be a true narrative is made, although in an implicit manner. As we saw above, Classical rhetoric distinguished between three types of diegeseis. Mythos was one of them, corresponding to myth or tragedy.94 Mythologia, ‘myth-telling’, the field of ‘false’ narrative, is explicitly contrasted by our author with his own work in his conclusion. If we follow the tri-partite classification of diegesis by the grammarians, there can be no doubt that by doing so our author was categorizing his own work as the opposite of myth, that is ‘true history’. The claim that the narrative is true is a fundamental organizing principle in B.Ar. The author used all the possible means at his disposal to enforce it, as we shall see in Chapter 4. Before this, however, we need to look more closely at the main narrative of B.Ar.

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3 THE CENTRAL NARRATIVE The transfiguration of history into charter myth

Delineating the topic The identification of a two-fold topic in the proemium of B.Ar., as seen in Chapter 2, allows us a different appreciation of the overall balance of the composition of this text than was hitherto the case. Four sections of the text are genuine digressions: the Ecphrasis (the description of the gifts), the Travelogue (the journey to Jerusalem), the Apology for the Law, and the Symposium. The rest, including sections which have sometimes been seen as digressions, belong either to the main, or to the secondary, theme of the central narrative. Seen in this way, the place occupied by the digressions is no greater than usual in Hellenistic prose accounts. As to the two-fold diegesis, there can be no doubt that both components complement each other. The central theme, which is defined in the proemium as the account of the embassy, is mainly concerned with the nature of the scroll on which the translation of the LXX was based. The central point of the argument is that the scroll was a genuine manuscript of the Law of the Jews and the best possible text, with the implication that the translation of the scroll that is based on it is the best possible – indeed, it is perfect. The secondary theme is composed of several episodes. It is introduced in the proemium not by an abstract and comprehensive definition, but by its incipit, that is, the first of the episodes which compose it: the liberation of the Jewish slaves. Referring to a work by its incipit was a regular practice in Classical Antiquity.1 The catalogues drawn up by Callimachus referred thus to the many books deposited in the Alexandrian library. The proemium of B.Ar. applies this practice, quite naturally, to a sub-topic of the narrative, leaving us with the delicate task of linking together the various episodes and reconstructing the meaning of the theme as a whole. It will be argued in this chapter that this secondary theme is aimed at equating B.Ar.’s account of the translation with the account of the Hebrew Law as seen in the Book of Exodus. The aim of drawing a parallel between these respective stories is to give them an equal status. 37

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The skilful intertwining of both components of the central diegesis is best exemplified by the fact that the bringing of the scroll from Jerusalem belongs to the main theme, while the proclamation of the translation, which is more or less the closing scene of B.Ar., is part of the secondary one. Such elaborate merging leaves little doubt that the resulting blurring of the two parts was intentional. As a result, the compositional structure is elusive even for modern readers, even though the arrangement of the B.Ar.’s proemium leaves little doubt as to the presence of two interwoven narrative topics in the text. What makes their delineation possible is the fact that each of them is modelled on a distinct literary paradigm. It will be argued in this chapter that the narrative paradigms in which the author cast his account are crucial in conveying meaning to the story told in B.Ar. Such a resort to a literary pattern rather than to explicit exposition in order to convey meaning is somewhat reminiscent of the characteristics of traditional mythtelling. The use of this methodology by the author of B.Ar. strongly suggests that in informing his account with narrative paradigms, his purpose in writing B.Ar. was more than the immortalization of a past event by relating its story. The intent was to transfigure it. It will be contended here, in the wake of a hypothesis first formulated by Oswyn Murray,2 that the writer meant to give his account the status of a charter myth and, specifically, a charter myth for the origins of the LXX. The resort to the form of historiography, with all its rhetorical appurtenances, was simply the natural way in the Hellenistic period for an author to give his account the status of true narrative which was required for the myth to really function. But the real strength of the narrative derives from its quasi-mythic dimension. As we saw in Chapter 2, B.Ar. is too serious a work to be only history. The Book of Aristeas as a charter myth The concept of ‘charter myth’ was coined by the anthropologist Bronislaw Malinowski in 1926. More recently Geoffrey Kirk has clarified its meaning: it refers to myths which ‘provide a record and validation of titles, lands, families, privileges, customs, and of course rituals’.3 The term ‘myth’ is ambiguous, since it may refer to several things. First of all, it may serve to define one realm against another one, that of ‘real’ or ‘true’ events. However, the distinction between ‘myth’ and ‘history’ plays a role both in ancient and modern inquiry about the past, but in both cases the basic categories involved are, in fact, quite different. A late but particularly clear articulation of the distinction as it was perceived in the ancient world is Plutarch’s prologue to his Life of Theseus, in which to mytho¯des is opposed to historia.4 However, even though Plutarch queries many aspects of the tradition about Theseus he does not query the basic fact that Theseus had existed. In the same way, even though Thucydides may rationalize 38

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Homer’s account in the ‘Archaeology’ of his first book, this does not mean that he had any qualms about the ‘reality’ of the Trojan war. This ambiguity about the concept of myth concerns the category of traditional myths (in the modern sense of the word) with which ancient Greek culture is usually associated. Yet another, different connotation is involved in the category of ‘historical myths’, the category that concerns us in the case of B.Ar. As Irad Malkin has defined it, ‘a myth may become historical either through the transformation of a real event into a myth or through the transformation of a myth into history’.5 The latter process is by far the most common in the Greek world in the Archaic and Classical periods, as Malkin rightly stresses, although the case of the battle of Marathon in fifthand fourth-century Athens demonstrates that the former process was not altogether alien to Classical society. In the case of B.Ar., we are concerned with the former process, the transformation of a real event into a myth. Clearly, what this transformation implies has nothing to do with the intrinsic ‘historical’ value of the account. That the ‘event’ lying at the core of it, the conditions surrounding the origins of the LXX, may not be ‘historical’ in the proper, modern sense of the word is immaterial. The original readers did regard the event told in B.Ar. as ‘real’. The real difference between ‘history’ and ‘myth’ is one of intention and reception, not of content. For past events to be turned into a myth, an emotional load must be added to their account. Historiography, especially in the Hellenistic period, appeals either to the intellect or to the emotions in order to entertain – or to the intellect, not to the emotions, in the case of a didactic moral purpose. Myth appeals to the emotions in order to create adherence, and in order to shape an attitude, engender pride and a correct stance. In fact, the definitions of ‘myth’ that prove most useful for the analysis of the narrative of B.Ar. are the definitions of ‘political myth’ found in sociological studies.6 The concept of ‘political myth’ is usually used in connection with modern societies. In his monograph dedicated to the conceptual and historical study of this notion, however, Henry Tudor starts his historical survey with the late Roman Republic: he rightly emphasizes that the Roman foundation myth fits the definition of ‘political myth’ as he works it out in this study.7 Later, in the Augustan period, the battle of Actium, turned into the victory of civilization and order against Eastern decadence and barbarism, was celebrated in Rome in a way that endeavoured to transfigure the event into a myth.8 There can be little doubt that the process of formation and political use of myths in the Hellenistic period shows up Hellenistic society as closer to late Republican and imperial Rome than to the society of Classical Greece. The figure of Alexander, in particular, was subject to hijacking on behalf of the various Hellenistic dynasties. Besides simple political manipulation, the formation of genuine political myths may be recognized:9 the Hellenistic kernel of the Alexander Romance may be seen as 39

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a popular reflection of the powerful impact of the figure of Alexander.10 It is, therefore, legitimate to use the modern sociological definitions of ‘political myth’ for a text which is a product of Hellenistic society. Henry Tudor’s definition may serve as an appropriate starting point for the discussion of the nature of B.Ar.’s narrative: A myth, I suggest, is an interpretation of what the myth-maker (rightly or wrongly) takes to be hard fact. It is a device men adopt in order to come to grips with reality; and we can tell that a given account is a myth, not by the amount of truth it contains, but by the fact that it is believed to be true and, above all, by the dramatic form into which it is cast.11 The key concepts in this definition are the ‘dramatic form’, in other words, the narrative, and the notion of collective adherence to the perceived truth of the story in the form in which it is circulated. We may supplement this basic definition with additional elements found in other definitions provided by modern authors. Altogether these definitions bring the concept of political myth very close to the definition of ‘charter myth’ with which Classicists are more familiar. One such definition is given by C. Friedrich and Z. Brzezinski: A myth is typically a tale concerned with past events, giving them a special meaning and significance for the present and thereby reinforcing the authority of those who are wielding power in a particular community.12 Stalin’s retrospective reconstruction of the October Revolution is a myth in this sense, as Nachman Ben Yehuda notes in his own elaboration of Friedrich and Brzezinski’s definition.13 In his comment on this definition, Tudor notes that Friedrich and Brzezinski emphasize two points: the first has just been noted: ‘a myth is, by definition, a story, that is, a narrative of events in dramatic form’. The second stresses a new and important addition: ‘a myth is told not for the sake of amusement, but in order to promote some practical purpose.’14 In our assessment of the nature of B.Ar.’s narrative, both in its ‘historical’ and ‘mythical’ dimensions, we must keep in mind that the concept of history and history telling was different in Classical Antiquity from what it is now. In Classical Antiquity, the intrusion of literary conventions into historiography implies that the relation between ‘narrative’ and ‘hard facts’ was much looser than is required by modern standards. Furthermore, the part played by the historian’s ‘reconstruction’ of the past was much wider. For all this, the real difference between ‘history’ and ‘myth’ remains one of 40

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reception, not of content. This does not imply, to be sure, any difference in the attitude of the audience as far as their belief in the reliability of the account is concerned. In order to be operative, a myth must be taken to be true by its original audience.15 The difference in the reception of history or myth lies elsewhere, but is nonetheless important: it involves intellectual or moral interest in the former case, emotional adherence in the latter. The contention of the present book is that the role and purpose of B.Ar. was to turn the story of the origins of the LXX into a myth.16 This was achieved basically through configuring the story on specific literary patterns. The present discussion will be concerned with the process of the formation of the myth on its literary level. This implies not only delineating the two intertwined motifs, but also bringing out their underlying meaning. Further questions bearing on the genesis of the narrative, whether it is a pure scholarly construct deriving from the author’s mind only, or a literary reshaping of a pre-existing popular tradition, will be addressed briefly at the end of the discussion. However, it is doubtful whether we have the means to provide a definite answer. The issue of the precise function and purpose of the charter myth embedded in B.Ar must be postponed to Chapter 6, since it is closely related to the Sitz im Leben of B.Ar. itself, and not to the historical origins of the LXX. Further questions, such as the intention of the author, the mental attitude which lies behind his literary intervention and, finally, the conditions of the reception of the narrative in its present form by the population originally targeted, will be dealt with in the next chapter. Inasmuch as the forthcoming discussion is concerned with the literary level, the characters found in B.Ar. will be treated as literary characters, and will be distinguished from their historical correspondents by a capital letter, following the rule stated at the end of Chapter 1 above.

The main theme: the embassy to Eleazar the High Priest The story of Aristeas’ embassy to Eleazar, the High Priest of the Jews in Jerusalem is, in fact, the story of the scroll. The whole account is clothed in Alexandrian ideology. It is therefore not surprising that the narrative pattern which informs this story is essentially Alexandrian. The delineation of this literary pattern can be further ascertained by adducing comparative material. Several stories formed along the same lines have been preserved, all of them linked in some way or another to Alexandria, and more precisely, to the Ptolemaic dynasty. Taken together, this small corpus of texts demonstrates that beyond the literary composition it is possible to speak of a narrative paradigm. For the sake of convenience this will be called the Alexandrian paradigm here. Let us first point out its basic components in B.Ar.’s narrative (see the outline of B.Ar. in the Appendix): 41

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1

2

3 4

Demetrius the Librarian informs the King that the Law of the Jews is lacking in his Library, and must first be translated; thereupon the King takes the necessary steps in order to have the Law of the Jews translated and put into the Library. The King sends an embassy to the High Priest of the Jews in Jerusalem, together with wonderful gifts for the Temple, so that the High Priest will agree to send an authoritative scroll of the Law on which to base the translation to be made for the Library, and to send translators together with it. The translators are selected and the requested scroll is willingly sent to Alexandria to the King. The enterprise is carried out and the will of the King is fulfilled.

The skeleton sketch of the plot appears to be: 1 2 3 4

A preliminary step, which may not have been systematically included: the King wants something which is lacking in Alexandria and which would add to his prestige. The means to achieve the goal: he sends an embassy with a letter and financial means to a destination abroad, in order to have the item requested sent to him in Alexandria. First stage of fulfilment, namely, an importation: the requested item is sent. Final stage of fulfilment of the King’s wishes: the item is settled in its assigned location in Alexandria.

The particulars of the story which flesh out the basic outline in B.Ar. all emphasize the mutual good-will. The story is thoroughly idealized. Typically, the financial means resorted to are splendid gifts. The High Priest is most eager to comply with Ptolemy’s request. The Alexandrian paradigm is recognizable in at least two or three more anecdotes, which are also interesting for the variants in their particulars. All the extant stories are connected with deeds of the Ptolemies, more specifically the first three kings of the dynasty. The scroll of the Law of the Jews and the books of the Athenian tragic poets The closest parallel to B.Ar.’s version of this Alexandrian pattern of storytelling is known from Galen, in his Commentary on the Epidemics of Hippocrates:17 That Ptolemy was so eager about the possession of all ancient books, he says that what he plotted against the Athenians bears no little 42

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evidence: he gave them a security of 15 talents (= 90,000 drachmas) of silver and took the books of Sophocles, Euripides, and Aeschylus, on the pretext that he only wished to copy them, and would immediately give them back safe. After preparing a costly copy on the very finest quality of papyrus, he kept the books that he received from Athens and sent back the copies he himself had prepared, inviting them to keep the 15 talents and take the new books for the old ones they gave him. As for the Athenians, even if Ptolemy had not sent new books, but retained the old ones, there would have been nothing else left for them to do, and they would have kept the money, according to the agreement that they would keep it if he kept the books. For this reason they took the new books and kept the money.18 The official copy of the works of the three great Athenian fifth-century tragic poets was established in Athens at Lycurgus’ instigation (338–326 BCE) and deposited in the public archives. According to Galen, this copy was obtained by the Alexandrian library under Eratosthenes’ librarianship, in the reign of Ptolemy III Euergetes (247–221 BCE).19 The specific colour given by these particulars is divertingly cynical. The stress is on the tricky behaviour of the King, who is depicted as more greedy for books than for money and ready to resort to any expedient in order to achieve his means.20 This is reminiscent of the tone of chapter 2 of Pseudo-Aristotle’s Economics, a collection of anecdotes relating cunning tricks used by various rulers and cities in order to get money. The first stage of our narrative paradigm is missing in Galen’s account, but is partly provided by his introductory comment. In stages 2 and 3, the financial means involved are represented by the deposit of 15 silver talents, which is aimed at luring the Athenians into handing over the coveted scrolls. The 15 talents are eventually turned by the King into a gesture of mocking generosity towards the stunned Athenians. In the last step, the King’s desire is fulfilled: the best and most authentic edition of the Athenian tragic poets is deposited in his Library.21 The idea underpinning this story is obvious: since copying involved the risk of introducing errors, the only manuscript worthy of the King’s Library was the official Athenian edition. It is, indeed, true that the Ptolemies aimed at endowing their library not only with as many texts as possible, but with the best editions of these texts. The background to this is to be found in the ideology which had infused the work of Alexandrian scholars since Zenodotus, the first head of the library, and which reached its peak with Aristarchus, who was active under Ptolemy VI in the first half of the second century BCE: their deep conviction that the original text of the Greek Classical authors could be retrieved by proper emendation of corrupted manuscripts. This could be achieved simply by careful editorial work on the manuscripts which were at their disposal.22 This ideology was, in fact, 43

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actively promoted by the Ptolemaic dynasty, and may be said to have been part of the Alexandrian royal propaganda. Since the foundation of the library, either at the instigation of Demetrius of Phalerum under Ptolemy I, or later under Ptolemy II, Alexandrian scholars had been active in gathering authoritative editions of texts from all over the Greek world. As far as the Homeric epics are concerned, official copies from every possible city (the so-called civic editions) were collected in Alexandria. These were considered as the most reliable copies which could serve as a basis for the reconstruction of the ‘original’ text of Homer. Zenodotus, who was probably the first chief librarian, was also the first to establish a critical edition of Homer. He is believed to have selected one copy of Homer, perhaps the Athenian one, as a basis for his work, and to have based his emendations either on other civic editions, or on his own personal assessment. Zenodotus’ method, hampered as it was with arbitrariness, was improved by his successors, down to the edition of Aristarchus which was to supersede all its predecessors around 150 BCE.23 The story of the ‘acquisition’ by Ptolemy III of the official edition of Aeschylus’, Sophocles’ and Euripides’ tragedies established in Athens under Lycurgus shows that as far as other Classical authors besides Homer were concerned, the Alexandrian ideology of the library meant possessing the canonical texts. Explicit statements in the text of B.Ar. make it unambiguously clear that this ideology emanating from the circles of Alexandrian grammarians pervades the story of the embassy to the scroll. The clearest occurrence is found in the written report which Demetrius the Librarian presents to the King at the beginning of B.Ar., in the phase corresponding to stage 1 in the Alexandrian paradigm: 30. Scrolls of the Law of the Jews, together with a few others, are missing [from the Library], for these [works] are written in Hebrew characters and language. But they have been transcribed (sese¯mantai) somewhat carelessly and not as they should be, according to the report of the experts, because they have not received royal patronage. 31. These [books] also must be in your Library in an emended form (die¯kribo¯mena), because this legislation, as could be expected from its divine nature, is very philosophical and genuine.24 The terminology and ideas found in Demetrius’ report sound familiar to anyone acquainted with Alexandrian scholarship. The message encapsulated in the story of the scroll as it is presented in B.Ar. was thus made quite explicit to the original readership right at the beginning of this work: the scroll on which the translation of the LXX had been based in Ptolemy II’s time was the most reliable text, since the King was eager to obtain the official edition of the Law of the Jews kept in Jerusalem. It is implicitly stated in ch. 31 that the copy imported from Jerusalem had undergone thorough 44

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textual emendation. The Greek verb used, diakriboun, is one of the verbs regularly used to refer to the textual emendations made on the manuscripts of Homer in the grammarians’ undertaking to retrieve the original text.25 It is clear that the motif of the importation is pivotal in our pattern of story-telling in conveying the notion of authenticity and quality, as exemplified both in B.Ar. and in Galen. This impression is strengthened by the association of both the scroll and the translators as objects of the embassy to Eleazar. Since the case of the Law of the Jews involves not only securing the original copy but also translating it, the topic of authenticity and quality is split, in B.Ar., between the scroll and the translators. Not only must the scroll be perfect, but the translators must be too: they are imported together with the scroll. The warranty for good quality is given not to the scroll, but to the translators. This shift deliberately blurs the distinction between official edition and translation. The following chapter in Demetrius’ report reads as follows (ch. 32): If you approve, O King, a letter shall be written to the High Priest at Jerusalem, asking him to dispatch elders of the most exemplary lives and mature experience, skilled in matters pertaining to their Law, six in number from each tribe, so that after the examination of the text agreed by the majority, and the achievement of accuracy in the translation, we may produce an outstanding version in a manner worthy both of the contents and of your purpose. The blurring between the notions of textual emendation and translation is further achieved by the choice of terminology used: the process of translation is described in the same terms as the process of textual criticism implemented by Alexandrian scholars linked to the library, as was first pointed out by Günther Zuntz in a 1959 paper.26 The assimilation was facilitated by the ambiguous meaning of the verb metagraphein, which can express both the ideas of ‘translating’ and ‘transcribing’. The confusion between the processes of translation and transcription in B.Ar. has elicited various comments in modern studies. It has been argued that the author of B.Ar did not have a clear idea of what the process of translation is.27 The hypothesis of a blunder on the part of B.Ar.’s author, however, is not credible. A comparison with the prologue to Ben Sirach (prol. 15–26) as well as the colophon of Esther in its LXX version (LXX Esther 10.3 l) demonstrates that by the time B.Ar. was written the difference between translation and transcription could be made quite clear in the Greek language.28 Various clues in the text suggest that our author was perfectly capable of distinguishing between both processes, had he so wished. At a factual level, the comparison between the script (characte¯res) of the Jews and the arrangement of their letters (he¯ to¯n grammato¯n thesis) by the Egyptians in ch. 11, together with the following clarification in the same chapter that 45

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the Jews had their own language, demonstrates the necessity of a translation beyond any possible confusion even to the most distracted readers. Our author was capable of distinguishing between the notions of ‘translating’ and ‘transcribing’, or ‘copying’ even at the semantic level, as is proved by his use of two distinct terms in chs 9–11 and in ch. 15: in chs 9, 10 and 15, metagraphe¯ means ‘transcription’, while in ch. 11 hermeneia means ‘translation’ rather than ‘transcription’ or ‘transliteration’. As to the compound verb, diermeneuein, used in ch. 15, Zuntz has underlined the fact that by the Hellenistic period it had come to be used with the specialized meaning of ‘translation’.29 Elsewhere in B.Ar., our writer exploits the potential semantic ambiguity vested in these Greek terms, especially metagraphein. It is hard to escape the conclusion that his ‘confusion’ between both terms and processes was deliberate. The description of the translators at work in chs 301–7 further strengthens the claim that the confusion between translation and transcription was deliberate. First of all, the description of their work in B.Ar. chs 302–3 portrays a close collaboration between the Elders: 302. They set to completing their several tasks, reaching agreement among themselves on each by comparing versions. 303. The result of their agreement thus was made into a fair copy by Demetrius. This picture of the translators at work was already introduced in Demetrius’ initial report to the King. Demetrius referred in it to the future text to be achieved by the translators as the result of an agreement by the majority (ch. 32). In order to understand this passage properly we need to refer to the new standards of textual editions introduced by Aristotle in his school in fourth-century Athens. As one modern scholar has described it, the novelty of Aristotle’s method of work was characterized as: A wide and likewise systematic amassing of information and material for certain purposes, generally in order to make possible a survey of a whole field of knowledge. Close cooperation between the head of the school and his fellow-scholars. And finally, most important of all, the scientific outlook and the strictly scientific method.30 It is believed by many scholars that the Peripatetic school had a decisive and overwhelming influence on the organization of the museum and the library in Alexandria. It would be only logical to infer that Aristotelian influence was also noticeable in the method of work used by the Alexandrian grammarians.31 From this to the claim that the depiction of a team of Elders collectively working on the translation of the LXX, unprecedented in Jewish tradition, echoes the working methods of the grammarians of the library, is only a small step. No wonder that B.Ar. is often considered to be our most 46

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detailed source of evidence about the working method of the grammarians in Alexandria.32 With hindsight it seems that, apart from the biblical connotations of the precise number of 72 translators, the mere fact of a collective translation would have reminded B.Ar.’s original readers of the work of the Alexandrian grammarians. The translation and interpretation of ch. 305b proposed by Arie van der Kooij points in the same direction:33 They turned to the reading aloud (anagno¯sis) and the interpretation (diasaphe¯sis) of every passage.34 Again, this passage is supposed to describe the translators of the LXX at work. However, van der Kooij compared the two-step technique depicted here with the technique of commenting on Homer implemented by Alexandrian grammarians. Dionysius Thrax, a disciple of Aristarchus, similarly describes two steps: first, the ‘reading aloud’ (anagno¯sis) of a text, which consists in ‘reading “with correct dramatic expression” . . . rendering “correctly the musical side of the words employed” . . . and marking “correctly the intervals” . . .’. This first step is followed by the interpretation (exe¯ge¯sis) of the text, the latter being ‘determined by the poetical tropes’ – Dionysius Thrax is thinking primarily of poetical texts, like Homer.35 The equation of diasaphe¯sis, whose exact meaning has puzzled modern scholars, with the more familiar exe¯ge¯sis makes sense. Thus, the author of B.Ar. is once again equating the practice of the translators with that of the grammarians. In fact, van der Kooij went further and argued for genuine similarities between the technique of the grammarians commenting on Homer and the technique of the translators of the LXX. Arguing that the latter must have been scribes well acquainted with the text they were setting themselves to translate, he reminded us that oriental scribes were primarily trained in ‘reading aloud’ ancestral books. This practice implied two aspects: ‘a clear pronunciation of each word, and a clear intonation related to a division of words into clauses and sentences’. Pronunciation, for a Hebrew text, involves vocalization. However, if we disregard the necessary linguistic differences, the technique used by oriental scribes is comparable with the ‘reading aloud’ applied to Homer by Greek grammarians. As van der Kooij sees it, the translation of the Torah into Greek would thus have involved three steps: the ‘reading’ of the Hebrew at clause or sentence level; the ‘interpretation’ of the Hebrew text, which could relate to ‘words, idioms or clauses’; and the rendering into Greek. In this model, the first two steps may be compared with the work of the Greek grammarians. If we accept this conclusion it may help us understand how the author could so easily make a bridge between translation and editing in his text and in his readers’ minds. Even if we do not follow van der Kooij to his ultimate conclusion, one important point remains clear: the translation of the LXX is equated throughout B.Ar. 47

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with the process of textual editing and, more specifically, with the kind of work carried out on Homer by the Alexandrian grammarians. This presentation is not the result of a blunder: it is deliberate. In fact, the modern suggestion that B.Ar.’s author did not have a clear view of the difference between the process of translation and that of textual editing was intended to meet a further difficulty raised by ch. 30. Scholars have been puzzled by the argument given by B.Ar.’s author, through Demetrius’ report to the King, justifying the need for a translation of the Law of the Jews. Demetrius refers to manuscripts of the Law carelessly transcribed. An earlier reaction was to try to find a different meaning for the verb ‘sese¯mantai’. The primary meaning of the verb se¯mainein is ‘to signify’. Some scholars sought to support the existence of a derived sense meaning ‘to interpret’ and hence ‘to translate’. This translation was then used to support the interpretation, advocated mainly by Paul Kahle, that the author of B.Ar. was referring to the existence of texts translated into Greek carelessly. Chapter 30 was correspondingly adduced as evidence for the existence of translations of the Torah into Greek before the LXX.36 In an important study, Zuntz showed, both by linguistic analysis and a study of the context in which the Greek word appears, that this ‘derived’ sense is unwarranted.37 The only derived sense supported by the evidence is ‘to write’ or ‘copy’ or ‘transcribe’.38 Zuntz’s conclusions have subsequently been universally accepted. Using this translation, the verb sesemantai in B.Ar., ch. 30, can refer only to Hebrew manuscripts carelessly copied, not to a Greek translation.39 However, Zuntz’s interpretation did not settle the matter entirely. It was still necessary to explain the reference to careless Hebrew manuscripts in ch. 30. Hence, David Gooding’s attempt to find further connotations in the verb semainein,40 or Oswyn Murray’s hypothesis of a blunder on the part of B.Ar.’s author. The problems about the meaning of ch. 30 disappear if we agree to read it in the light of the Alexandrian paradigm. Referring this section of B.Ar. to this narrative paradigm allows a shift in focus in the meaning it conveys. By informing his account with this paradigm, B.Ar.’s author was, first and foremost, interested in convincing his readers that the translation of the LXX was the best possible one, primarily because it was based on the most authentic original. Establishing the quality of the translation was an indispensable prerequisite before he could establish the claim which really mattered for him and which was to be conveyed by the secondary theme of the central narrative: that the LXX is a sacred text. Sacredness implies first of all flawless quality. He presented this quality in the form that was most natural both for him and his well-educated Alexandrian readers, namely, the Alexandrian ideology related to the recovering of original texts by textual emendation as practised by the grammarians subsidized by the Ptolemaic dynasty. The reference to careless Hebrew manuscripts in ch. 30 may be understood not as a realistic description but a symbolic one. (We shall discuss the alternative of understanding it as a retro-projection of 48

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circumstances in the time of B.Ar.’s author onto the origins of the LXX in Chapter 6.) Whatever the case, this reference to careless manuscripts makes no sense unless we remember the situation current in the field of Homeric studies in Alexandria by the time our author wrote B.Ar. There may be a further implicit message in the deliberate blurring of the distinction between textual editing and translation. In an edited text, the only text which is worth retaining is the one resulting from scholarly efforts. In our present case, the LXX would represent this text, while the Hebrew original is equivalent to poor quality manuscripts. The message may be that the Hebrew original can be forgotten now that the LXX has been achieved. If this reading is correct, this message would parallel the one conveyed by the secondary literary paradigm, as we will see in a moment. The passage from Demetrius’ report quoted above (ch. 30) brings forward a further fundamental element: it illuminates the functional role played by the King and the Library in the story of the translation of the LXX. Concern for retrieving the genuine text is not a simple matter: this involves appropriate financial means to meet the costs of the provision of the requested scroll, as well as, perhaps, the technical means provided by the library and highly trained scholars. In other words, it takes a king to carry out this task properly and adequately. Pinpointing such a functional role for the King and the Library in B.Ar.’s version of the origins of the LXX does not militate a priori in favour of the historical genuineness of these details. On the contrary, it could well foster the view that these details are unhistorical. Any attempt at supporting the historical genuineness of a royal involvement, as will be proposed in the last chapter of this book, must thus remain cautious. The Alexandrian paradigm and the origins of Sarapis A completely different example of the pattern we have called the Alexandrian paradigm is offered by the version of the origins of the god Sarapis which Tacitus chooses to tell in detail in his Histories 4.83–4. Here, one of the first Ptolemies (Tacitus knows of variants involving the first, the second and the third king of that name) has the statue of the god brought from Sinope¯, a city on the shores of the Black Sea. It is worth quoting the text: 83. Where the god Sarapis came from is a problem which has not yet been brought before the attention of the public by Roman writers. The Egyptian priests give the following account. It concerns Ptolemy, the first Macedonian king of Egypt . . . While he was engaged in providing the newly-founded city of Alexandria with walls, temples and religious cults, he dreamed that he met a young man of remarkable beauty and more than human stature, who instructed him to send his most trusty courtiers to Pontus to fetch a statue of himself. This, he said, would cause the kingdom to 49

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prosper . . . Thereupon, . . . this same youth appeared to ascend into heaven in a blaze of fire. [Ptolemy consults the Egyptian priests about this nocturnal vision. The latter fail to interpret the dream. Ptolemy then consults a priest from Athens, Timotheus.] Timotheus . . . found out that the country [of Pontus] contained a city called Sinope, near which was a temple long famous in the neighbourhood and dedicated to Jupiter Dis. [But Ptolemy forgot about the whole matter]. In the end the same vision appeared before him, now in a more terrifying and urgent aspect and threatening both king and kingdom with ruin unless its orders were obeyed. Then Ptolemy had ambassadors and gifts assembled for an approach to King Scydrothemis, the then ruler of Sinope. [The ambassadors first travel to Delphi]. 84. On reaching Sinope, they addressed the offerings, requests and instructions of their King to Scydrothemis. The latter found it hard to make up his mind. [Three years elapse]. Then a dreadful apparition confronted Scydrothemis in a dream, forbidding him to delay further the purposes of the god. When he still hesitated, he was vexed by all manner of disasters, by plague and by the manifestation of a divine wrath which became daily more grievous. [But the common folk still oppose the move.] At this point, the story became even more impressive, telling how the god embarked of his own accord upon the fleet, which was moored by the coast. Then comes the remarkable account of their sailing into Alexandria after completing the long voyage in only three days. A temple worthy of a great metropolis was built in the quarter called Rhacotis.41 The existence of alternative traditions about the origins of Sarapis bolsters the view that the specific story recorded by Tacitus follows a narrative paradigm.42 In fact, Tacitus’ version of the story is polysemic, in the sense that it combines the basic structure of the Alexandrian paradigm with the structure of the evocatio of a god from one city to another, and likewise the religious elements normally found in stories of the foundation of cults.43 The bestknown example of an evocatio is the introduction of Cybele, the Magna Mater, from Pessinus in Phrygia to Rome (Livy, 29.11.3–8). Other attested cases are the introduction of Asclepius (Livy, 29.11.1), or Camillus’ evocatio of Juno from Veies to Rome (Plutarch, Camillus, 5–6). The most striking parallel to the motif of the evocatio found in the Sarapis story is Ovid’s poetic elaboration of the transfer of Cybele to Rome in Fasti 4.247–349, as was already noted by Isidore Lévy.44 We find the constituent elements of an oracle, which parallels the dream in Tacitus’ account, ordering the fetching of the goddess (that is, her statue), the puzzlement of the senators, the reception of the oracle, the consultation of the priest who elucidates the oracle, the initial refusal by the local King, Attalus, to let the goddess go (while Attalus is 50

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compliant in Livy’s version), portents and miracles manifesting the goddess’s will to go (in this case, she speaks, as does Juno’s statue in the hands of Camillus). In this variant, in contrast to Tacitus’ story of King Scydrothemis, King Attalus quickly changes his mind and lets the statue go, and the statue is put in the ship by human hands, instead of boarding the ship on her own. However, she had almost boarded on her own on a previous occasion, when Aeneas took the sacred objects from Troy to Italy (Fasti 4.248–52). As in stories of cult foundations, we find in Tacitus’ version of the origins of Sarapis the leitmotif of the reluctance of all to fulfil the will of the god (a motif which is not inherent to stories of evocatio), and the god’s forcing them into eventually obeying him. The Alexandrian pattern is modified accordingly: in stage 1, the initiative comes from the god himself, who sends a dream to the King. The King is first reluctant, but is then compelled by the god to fulfil his will. This first stage is even doubled, as the King forgets about his dream. In stage 2, the embassy is ill-received by the addressee. The latter, both ruler and people, are again reluctant. In the first two stages, time is stretched beyond reasonable measure. In stage 2 again, the initiative is the god’s.45 Then the indispensable miracle takes place, in order to make stage 3 happen. Further elements belonging to the religious setting may be noted: the consultation of priests in stage 1, the journey to Delphi in stage 2.46 Is there a way to assess the presence of a ‘historical kernel’ underlying the various stories shaped on the Alexandrian paradigm? There can be little doubt that it was the feverish gathering of books from overseas under the first Ptolemies, supported by the active royal propaganda around this undertaking that provided the historical basis from which the pattern of story-telling that we have called the Alexandrian paradigm developed. The recurrence of the same literary pattern in various anecdotes revolving round the Alexandrian intellectual institutions is therefore not surprising. Were there only these, we might perhaps believe that this recurrent pattern of story-telling was banally prompted by some recurring behaviourpattern of the Ptolemies. The case of Tacitus, however, shows that the lowest common denominator of the stories reflecting this paradigm was an importation from abroad by one of the (first?) Ptolemies, not specifically the involvement of the library. Tacitus’ text is even more important in that it may provide a concrete example of how the story pattern operated as a narrative paradigm re-shaping the reality in a more or less thoroughly fictional way. Modern scholarship has almost unanimously accepted Ulrich Wilcken’s argument that the origin of the god Sarapis is the Memphite Osor-Hapi. It was pointed out that a slope in the Memphis area bore a name phonetically close to the Greek Sinope, or rather, that Sinopion was the Greek transcription of the name of the temple of Apis in Memphis (Se-n-H . p) which suggests that this may be the source of the confusion at the core of Tacitus’ 51

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story.47 Rather than a confusion, however, the version given by the Roman historian appears to have evolved out of a false etymology aimed at explaining the god’s epithet of Sino¯pite¯s, which was the kind that the Greek mythographers were so fond of, especially in Hellenistic and Roman times. Etymological word-plays were one of their favourite tools for rationalizing traditional myths: they could be used as springboards for introducing thorough modifications in the original story, in order to make it more palatable to their readers’ taste. For all that, the final literary product would not have offended contemporary standards of intellectual probity. In the case of the origins of Sarapis, all the details converge to foster the view that the narrative pattern is a scholarly construct remote from reality, which is added to the religious elements already pointed out, which may perhaps be the outcome of a folkloristic re-shaping. However, even in this case, the manipulation of facts may be less blatant than would appear a priori. Tacitus’ story is about the statue of the god. There can be little doubt that the iconographic type of the Alexandrian Sarapis was Greek in inspiration, not Egyptian. In Greek religion, as indeed in most religions of the time around the Mediterranean basin and in the Near East, the introduction of a god or a goddess meant in concrete terms the reception into the community of a material symbol of the deity, e.g. a snake in the case of Asclepius or a large stone in the case of the Mother of the Gods from Pessinus in Phrygia.48 Thus, Tacitus’ narrative may have conflated two episodes or two stages in the creation of the Alexandrian god rather than built a narrative out of nothing. Moreover, before dismissing Tacitus’ account as fictional, we should remember that the standards for accepting a discrepancy between the way something ‘really’ happened and its transcription in an acceptable literary form were much looser in Classical Antiquity than they are nowadays. The historian of the Hellenistic period, whether Greek or Roman, was expected to embroider almost as much as he wanted over the thinnest of historical cores. Clichés, conventional images and narrative patterns were the common stock from which he drew freely in order to improve his work rhetorically. In spite of all these adornments, the account would be deemed faithful to the ‘truth’, provided the core of the account reflected actual events. These aspects will be dealt with in more detail in Chapter 4 in connection with B.Ar.’s account. Pinpointing the elements which show similarities with the Alexandrian paradigm is a more rewarding exercise than asking whether the account of the origins of Sarapis preserved by Tacitus is ‘real’ or ‘fictional’. The status of the motif of importation in the origins of the Sarapis cult is particularly important for a comparison with B.Ar.’s account about the origins of the LXX. If we accept Wilcken’s conclusions that the cult of Sarapis originated in Memphis, we may have a case for considering the importation as a fictional element, belonging to the layer of the narrative or literary elaboration. 52

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However, more recent studies by Ana Swiderek make the matter less clear. This scholar has argued for a pre-Ptolemaic origin for the god, and an early currency in the Mediterranean basin.49 What could be the relationship between the story of Sarapis and the Alexandrian paradigm, which seems to be more specifically centred on the library? It would seem that the basic pattern of the Alexandrian paradigm was a secularized derivation from the pattern of the evocatio stories.

The secondary theme: equating the status of the LXX with that of the Hebrew Law As already noted, the main and secondary themes of the central narrative in B.Ar. are not only closely intertwined in the overall narrative structure of the work, they are also intimately connected as far as their narrative function goes. Both of them contribute to building up the dimension of charter myth, each supplying a different angle of meaning. The main theme is concerned with the quality of the translation, in two important respects: the quality of the manuscript on which the translation was based, and its fidelity to the Hebrew original. This latter concern is articulated through the praise given to the eminent qualities of the translators. The secondary theme is made up of three episodes. Together they form the outline of a rewriting of the story of the Exodus; we will call this the Exodus paradigm. The function of the Exodus paradigm in B.Ar. is easier to pin down than was the case with the main theme. This paradigm equates the story of the translated Law, the LXX, with the story of the original Hebrew Law, the Torah. Equating their stories is, implicitly, a way of equating the status of both texts. By the end of B.Ar., the LXX has been turned into the sacred text of the Alexandrian Jews who, in turn, stand for the whole people of Israel. The first episode of the triptych composing the Exodus paradigm is set at the beginning of B.Ar.’s account, while the last one is the last important scene of the text, the proclamation of the translation in Alexandria. The middle episode, the selection of the translators in Jerusalem, is located more or less midway through the work. Thus, the Exodus paradigm provides the text with its fundamental narrative framework. This is an additional clue to its importance. The first episode: the liberation of the Jewish slaves The first episode corresponds to the account of the origins of the Jews in Egypt. It deals with two chronological stages together: first, the arrival of the Jews in Egypt as prisoners of war turned into slaves under Ptolemy I, and then their subsequent liberation by Ptolemy II at Aristeas’ request (chs 12–27 and 33–7). Interestingly, the main section (chs 12–27) is bracketed 53

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between Demetrius’ initial oral report to the King that he does not have the Law of the Jews in his Library (chs 9–11) and the Librarian’s formal written report re-stating the matter (chs 28–32). Chapters 33–7, in turn, contain a re-statement of the episode included in Ptolemy’s letter to Eleazar, with the introduction of some new elements. This arrangement, narrowly intertwining the beginning of the two themes that compose the central narrative in an a-b-a-b sequence, is hardly accidental. It shows once more the care taken in the composition of the work. The text of the first section is found in chs 12–14, as follows: 12. I considered that it was an opportunity in connection with matters on which I had often asked [Sosibius and Andreas], concerning the release of those deported from Judaea by the father of the King. He invaded the whole of Coele-Syria and Phoenicia, and . . . deported some and took others prisoners, bringing everything into subjection by fear. In the course of this he removed from the land of the Jews into Egypt up to one hundred thousand people, 13. from whom he armed about thirty thousand chosen men and settled them throughout the land in forts. [Aristeas mentions earlier immigration under the Persians and even earlier under Psammetichus] 14. . . . [Ptolemy son of Lagus] selected the best, outstanding in youth and strength, and armed them. The remaining number, old men, children, and women also, he let go into slavery . . . There can be little doubt that there is a core of historical reality in the circumstances of the arrival of the Jews in Egypt in the early Hellenistic period as depicted in this section. Documentary papyri bear witness to the presence in Egypt of slaves from the Near East. These are usually referred to as Syrians, but among these ‘Syrians’, some bear distinctively Jewish names, and are therefore certainly ethnic Jews.50 One papyrus mentions prisoners of war settled in the countryside, following a war with Syria,51 although we do not have any concrete evidence that Jews arrived in Egypt in this way. Papyri document the presence of Jews among the military settlers in the chora, the Egyptian countryside, as early as the third century BCE, but we do not know their origin.52 As for the pre-Hellenistic period, we know for certain that there were Jewish mercenaries in the service of Persian rulers. The literary evidence from the Bible has been corroborated beyond any doubt by the discovery of the Aramaic papyri from Elephantine.53 The author of B.Ar. was elaborating on the collective memory and real experience of his Alexandrian Jewish readership. Likewise, the statement that Ptolemy I conquered Judaea and the surrounding areas using harsh measures reflects some sort of historical situation. A recent study by Bezalel Bar-Kochva relying on the quite considerable amount of external literary evidence corroborates this conclusion.54 54

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However, this historical core hardly warrants treating this passage of B.Ar. as a factual reference worthy of being featured in the footnotes of serious modern scholarly works alongside other literary or papyrological evidence – and there are, indeed, plenty of modern works which take B.Ar. seriously.55 The problem can be summed up in one simple observation. That there is some historical truth in the fact that some Jews were brought to Egypt as slaves is one thing – although B.Ar.’s account claims that most of the Jewish presence in Egypt originated in slavery, which is questionable on historical grounds. That the author of B.Ar. opted to present the early history of the Jews in Egypt in this light, perhaps the most ignominious one possible, is quite another matter. This choice is all the more suspicious since B.Ar. is not the only extant text in the Alexandrian Jewish literature to give an account of the way the Jews arrived in Egypt in early Hellenistic times. Comparison with the version given by Pseudo-Hecataeus is instructive: Hecataeus goes on to say that after the battle of Gaza [in 312 BCE] Ptolemy became master of Syria, and that many of the inhabitants, hearing of his kindliness and humanity, desired to accompany him to Egypt and to associate themselves with his realm. ‘Among these (Hecataeus says) was Ezechias, a High Priest of the Jews, a man of about sixty-six years of age, highly esteemed by his countrymen, well-learned in his soul, and moreover an able speaker and experienced as no one else as a statesman. [. . .] This man, after obtaining an honour [from Ptolemy?] assembled some of his friends and read them [a statement showing] all the advantages [of their settlement in Egypt]; for he had in writing the conditions attaching to their settlement and their status.’56 The contrast with B.Ar.’s version could not be more blatant. Submission by terror in one text, ‘kindliness and humanity’ in the other, both describe Ptolemy I Soter’s conquest of Judaea. The important point that arises from comparing these accounts shows that there were various accounts circulating among Alexandrian Jews about the origins of the Jews in Egypt. Had the author of B.Ar. wanted to give a more self-gratifying one, he could have done so.57 The fact is that he did not. That his story seems ‘plausible’ to us is irrelevant for the correct appreciation of this passage and the author’s intention in writing it this way. The fact that he himself did not feel quite comfortable with his own version may be seen in the form in which the topic detailed in chs 12–14 is introduced in the proemium of B.Ar.: in ch. 4 no explicit reference to slavery is to be found, the nomenclature describing the abduction of the Jews to Egypt is that of colonization.58 These remarks lead us to conclude that the author of B.Ar. was primarily interested in drawing a parallel between the contemporary history of the 55

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Jews in Egypt and their history in ancient times – the history of the biblical period. In the Book of Exodus Jews were made slaves in Egypt. The real purpose of the parallel with the account of Exodus can be best understood, however, if we shift the focus from the account of the arrival of the Jews in Egypt as slaves to the later part of the story, their liberation by Ptolemy II. The account of the liberation of the slaves is told at some length (chs 12–27), including a copy of the royal decree stipulating this measure in chs 22–5. Here, Ptolemy is acting in the role of Pharaoh. Contrary to his biblical counterpart, however, the Ptolemaic King is staged as a benevolent Pharaoh, willingly liberating the Jews at Aristeas’ request. Nor is Ptolemy short of lavish gestures: he is ready to incur huge expenses to carry out this good deed (chs 19–20). If we accept this reading, then one specific element, which appears in the re-statement of the episode in Ptolemy’s letter to Eleazar in ch. 37, gets a new connotation: 37. We have freed more than a hundred thousand prisoners . . . Those at the peak of their youth we have appointed to the army, and those who are able to be at our court, being worthy of confidence in our household, we have put in charge of (some) ministries. Heirs of the biblical Joseph have thus been raised to provide wise advisers to the new Pharaoh.59 Ptolemy’s willingness to set the Jews free has an important consequence. In the Bible, the Jews escape from Egypt not only to material freedom, but also to be given the Law on Mount Sinai, before they are finally led into the Promised Land. Ptolemy’s benevolence means that there is now no need to flee. The Law can and will be received in Alexandria. B.Ar. is the story of a non-Exodus. The second episode: the selection of the Elders in Jerusalem The second episode which builds up the equation between the story of the LXX and that of the Hebrew Law is the selection of the Elders in Jerusalem (chs 46–50). Functionally speaking, this is a preparatory step to the third and last episode in which the analogy culminates: the proclamation of the translation in Alexandria. The close link between both passages has already been underlined by Harry Orlinsky.60 In the letter he sends in reply to King Ptolemy, Eleazar the High Priest informs the King that ‘in the presence of all, we selected Elders, honourable men and true, six from each tribe, with whom we have sent the book of the Law’ (ch. 46).61 Appended to the end of Eleazar’s letter is a list of the names of the Elders, arranged by tribe. The tribes are numbered, but not named (chs 47–50). 56

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Two elements in this passage are significant: the revival of the twelve tribes of Israel, as well as the number of Elders selected – six Elders per tribe, multiplied by twelve tribes, which makes 72 Elders. The selection of the Elders is said to be done ‘in the presence of all’ (paronto¯n panto¯n). Who is meant by this? The author obviously plays on the ambiguity: two levels of reading are involved in this episode as a whole. On the face of it we are in a Greek polis, witnessing a process of appointment of representatives of the civic body of whatever kind – officials, judges or ambassadors. The selection of the Elders took place right after the High Priest read Ptolemy’s letter to the people who had been called up for a gathering (‘synagagontes to pan ple¯thos’ (ch. 42)). The ‘plethos’ is the civic body of Jerusalem. Here, as in any Greek city, the civic body, the demos or plethos, is divided into civic tribes. The number of officials appointed is proportional to the number of tribes. According to the circumstances they may be selected at a rate of one per tribe, or ten, forty or fifty per tribe. Lists of any grouping of citizens, such as officials, ephebes, or soldiers fallen in the battlefield, would be arranged by tribe, as shown in so many public inscriptions. In Athens the tribes could be listed by numerical order. A civic paradigm is thus easily recognizable in the process of selection of the Elders in B.Ar. The number twelve is even plausible in the context of a polis. From the end of the sixth century BCE on, Athens had ten, and, even more interestingly, Plato’s ideal city in the Republic had twelve tribes. Thus, the civic reference lends perfect verisimilitude to the revival of the biblical tribes of Israel far into the Hellenistic period. Moreover, the assimilation of the biblical tribes to civic ones was already familiar to B.Ar.’s author and probably also to its readers: Hecataeus of Abdera’s description of Judaea preserved in a quotation by Diodorus already conceived of it in terms of a polis (Diodorus, 40.3).62 We may perhaps surmise that the author of B.Ar. was directly influenced by Hecataeus in the present case, as in many others. But this need not necessarily be the case. After all, Jerusalem is described as the ideal Greek polis in the Travelogue (chs 83–120), so that the division of its plethos into tribes is only a matter of coherence.63 The level of reading that conveys the real meaning of our section, however, is the biblical one. The designation of the Elders ‘in the presence of all’, together with their selection by tribe, turns them into delegates of the whole people of Israel. In the scene of the proclamation of the Torah discussed below they stand symbolically for the whole people of Israel: the newly translated Law is read to the Jews ‘in their presence’ (ch. 308), just as they were selected ‘in the presence of the whole people’ in Jerusalem. As Orlinsky has pointed out, following Meecham, the word plethos, which appears both in ch. 42, and in this same ch. 308, in the phrase ple¯thos to¯n Ioudaio¯n, the ‘plethos of the Jews’, ‘is used [in both these instances] (as elsewhere, e.g. in I and II Macc. and in Acts) “in an official sense” ’. Orlinsky, therefore, translates ‘the Jewish people’, rather than ‘the community of the Jews’ (ch. 308).64 This 57

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rendering fits the occurrence in ch. 42 too – all the more so as official Greek nomenclature used the same term, ‘demos’ or ‘plethos’, to speak either of the whole body of citizens or of the civic assembly. The real purpose of the biblical paradigm is revealed in the number of Elders selected: 72 was as close as the author of B.Ar. could get to 70 if he wished to keep to a civic model, which implied selecting a strictly even number of representatives from each tribe. This explains the number of Elders selected per tribe, six, which is somewhat unparalleled in Greek civic practice. Seventy, as many commentators have already pointed out, was the number of Elders who accompanied Moses, together with Aaron, Nadab and Abihu, to Mount Sinai for the gift of the Law (Exodus 24.1 and 9).65 That 70 was the ‘true’ number of Elders behind the civic fiction of 72, was plainly understood by the later tradition about the Greek translation of the Pentateuch: its name, Septuaginta (70), was formally derived from the legend of the translators, while emphasizing at the same time the reference to Exodus 24. Whether the name of the translation, Septuaginta, is an alteration of the legend as related in B.Ar., or is genuine, while B.Ar.’s 72 is a secondary elaboration, cannot be decided. The answer depends on whether B.Ar. was the point of departure of the legend, or a scholarly re-writing of an oral tradition already in circulation by the author’s days. The new Revelation: the proclamation of the translation in Alexandria (chs 308–11) The scene of the proclamation of the newly achieved translation to the Jews gathered in Alexandria has been the subject of two important studies by Harry Orlinsky and André Paul. In the main the following will be a summary of their papers.66 As soon as the translation is completed, the Jews of Alexandria are called to a gathering and the new text read out to them (ch. 308). The reading is followed by the acclamation of the Jews – either the Jewish community of Alexandria, or the Jewish people: the dual layer of meaning is to be read into this section too. Then the leaders of the Jews stand up and make the following statement: ‘Since this was translated rightly and reverently, and in every respect accurately, it is good that it should remain as it is, and that there should be no revision’ (ch. 310).67 There follows a malediction uttered by the whole people against anyone who might make any addition or change to the text (ch. 311). As Orlinsky has convincingly shown, the successive elements in this scene correspond in an accurate manner to the ‘biblical procedure in designating a document as official and binding, in other words, as divinely inspired, as Sacred Scripture’. The most important biblical parallel to the reading aloud of a text followed by an acclamation by the whole people is Ex. 24.3–7, which is part of the Revelation at Mount Sinai. The pledge or oath not to 58

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change the text in any manner, followed by a curse against trespassers, amounts to a deed of canonization, as in Deut. 4.1–2.68 Orlinsky’s analysis is convincing; it is also supported by philological reminiscences of LXX Deut. in B.Ar. But this is not the whole story. Here, as in so many other instances in his work, the author of B.Ar. seems to be combining two models: a Jewish, and in this case, a biblical model, and a Greek one. The process described in chs 308–11 is not unlike the process of the promulgation of official editions of texts of the classical authors in Greek cities. There was presumably something similar in Alexandria from the moment the library was organized. This may be inferred from the text of Pseudo-Plutarch describing the establishment and enforcement of the State edition of the tragedies of Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripides in Athens under Lycurgus’ leadership, which reads as follows: Lycurgus passed three laws, [the second was] . . . to transcribe and keep in the public archives their tragedies [i.e. of Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripides], and the public secretary was to read them aloud (paranagino¯skein) for collation to the actors; for it was not permitted to make a performance in discrepancy with them.69 The same verb, paranagi(g)no¯sko¯, is used both by Pseudo-Plutarch and in B.Ar., 308. According to H.G. Liddell and R. Scott’s Greek-English Lexicon, this word has two meanings. The first – ‘read beside, compare, collate one document with another’ – is regularly used in judicial contexts to point to the reading aloud of laws.70 Pseudo-Plutarch’s text evidently uses it in this sense. However, the occurrence in B.Ar. fits the second definition better: ‘to read publicly’. This sense echoes the biblical scene, as Orlinsky has pointed out. But we may suspect that the author of B.Ar. was perfectly well aware of the further connotations of the word he was using when he described the scene of the proclamation of the translation. Once again, the translated work is equated to an edition of a text. It is not clear whether Demetrius is reading a translation, or an official edition of the Jewish Law. A mark of compositional coherence in B.Ar. is the fact that both components of the central narrative complement each other, both in their content and at a structural level. Both contribute to build up the status of the LXX as a sacred text. Together they testify that the translation was made out of a perfect scroll, was perfect itself, and was acclaimed as such by official recognition, following the regular procedure of ratification and canonization. This was not enough, however. The author of B.Ar. apparently felt that one further crucial question needed to be addressed in order to buttress the claim conveyed by the main threads of his narrative: did the new text enjoy divine consent, beyond the human recognition? The answer to this question is carefully built in the text, through what may be recognized as a further, though more diluted, secondary theme: the motif of piety. 59

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Divine consent: the motif of piety Right after the translation is read out to the Jews and then to the King, a crucial question is raised: ‘How is it that after such great works were (originally) completed, none of the historians or poets took it on himself to refer to them?’, the King asks Demetrius (ch. 312). Demetrius replies that attempts to refer to this text were made, but failed, because the reckless writers ‘were smitten by God’ and had to ‘refrain from their design’ (ch. 313). Demetrius then illustrates his assertion with two examples, one from a historian, Theopompus (chs 314–15), the other from a tragic poet, Theodectus (ch. 316). There are, in fact, two different questions at once in this section. The first, as we have just seen, is articulated explicitly. Such questions as ‘Why did the Greek writers not speak about us or quote our Law?’, and the like, were an object of concern among Alexandrian Jews. The whole of the first book of Josephus’ Against Apion deals with exactly this kind of issue. In the competition for cultural prestige in the Hellenistic East, being mentioned by ancient writers was crucial. For the Greeks, only Greek writers were of any import. The answer provided by B.Ar.’s author to this anxious question differs from that of Josephus. Josephus (or his Alexandrian source) emphasizes that the Jews were mentioned by other ancient and respected people, if not by the Greeks. Our author tells us that such quotation was impossible, due to the sacred nature of the Law of the Jews. Theopompus and Theodectus tried and failed. The reader might be tempted to ask a further question here, wondering what text Theopompus and Theodectus could have used in their unfortunate attempts, since they are not supposed to have had access to the original Hebrew. However, this question is simply evaded in our text, since it is irrelevant. The King completely ignores the language barrier in his question to Demetrius. The newly proclaimed text as presented in B.Ar. is definitely more of an edition, supported by an act of transcription, than a translation. As a consequence, the new translation is not equated with the Law, it is the Law, both from now on and retroactively.71 This is not the only place where the author of B.Ar. incidentally tackles an issue which was very much in the air amid Alexandrian Jewry. His insistence that Hebrew is distinct from Syrian, in ch. 11, probably reflects the same kind of concern. This remark is superfluous to the context of the section to which it belongs. Its incidental insertion, then, is better understood as meeting an external concern. The thrust of the incidents involving Theopompus and Theodectus, however, lies elsewhere. Their example demonstrates that not just anyone is entitled to manipulate the sacred text, either to use it, or to translate or transcribe it. Literary skills and learning are not enough. A further quality is needed in order to avoid bringing divine wrath upon the reckless: since Demetrius explicitly names the sacred nature of the Law as the reason why Greek writers failed to make use of it in their 60

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writings (ch. 313), this quality must be piety. Even Greeks as acceptable as Theopompus and Theodectus do not qualify for the task. It does not matter who Theopompus and Theodectus were in historical terms: there can be little doubt that the author of B.Ar. picked them out as emblematic examples because of their names. Both bear theophoric names which point to the right God, not to Zeus or Athena. Needless to say, their names are programmatic: they stand as symbols for their personalities. In other words, one does not need to be a sworn pagan to be smitten by God for having dealings with the sacred text. Only the most pious men are entitled to do so. The author has carefully prepared the ground for this culminating scene. The mere fact that not one of the many persons involved in the process of translation of the Law was smitten by God, unlike Theopompus and Theodectus, means that their enterprise enjoyed divine approval. This was given because all the persons involved were demonstrably pious individuals. Indeed, the motif of piety and religious reverence is central in B.Ar., as is clear from the fact that it is explicitly mentioned in two key sections of the work: the word ‘piety’ (eusebeia) itself appears in the proem (ch. 2). The related idea of reverence of the Divine is found in the statement about the quality of the translation issued by the leaders of the Jewish community in Alexandria after the Law was read out to the gathering of the Jews (ch. 310): Since this was translated rightly and reverently (hosio¯s), and in every respect accurately . . .72 The motif of piety further underpins the attitude of each individual who is involved in any way in the process of the translation/edition. A short review will easily demonstrate this point. We may leave aside the High Priest of the Jews: he may be considered pious, as it were, ex officio. The piety of the 72 Elders is demonstrated by their daily ritual: they wash their hands in the sea to pray to God before engaging in the translation (ch. 305). While Greeks would care for their body, the Elders care for their souls: hand washing is a token of innocence, as they explain to the inquiring Aristeas (ch. 306). They had previously displayed their concern for God in the Symposium. While a Greek would have been content simply with a philosophical comment in his reply to the King’s questions, each one of the Elders ends his reply with a reference to God (chs 187–300). As for the King, his piety can be adduced from various actions. The most obvious is his bowing before the scroll of the Law when the Elders arrive from Jerusalem, an action which he repeats before the scroll of the translation (chs 177 and 317). Needless to say, the similarity of the King’s attitude towards both scrolls emphasizes still further the similarity between both Laws, the old, brought from Jerusalem, and the new, now revealed in Alexandria. Likewise, the lavish gifts that Ptolemy sends to Jerusalem 61

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together with his request for an authoritative scroll are intended for the Temple. In his description of the table, the author/narrator repeatedly insists that the King restrained his desire for lavishness out of respect for divine prescriptions. The dimensions of the table are kept modest, in order to fit both the written prescriptions of the Law and ritual needs. Only where the Law was silent did the King allow splendour to prevail (chs 52–6). Even more important in the present context is his liberation of the Jewish slaves. This deed is suggested to the King by Aristeas, but the King is only too ready to comply with the request. In some way, this episode may be credited both to the King’s and to Aristeas’ merits. Aristeas, in fact, presents this matter as a logical side-effect of the King’s decision to have the Law of the Jews translated. This link is not to be understood in the practical, but in the ethical sense. The translation needs a justification (logos), and it would be impossible to give any if so many Jews had remained slaves in Ptolemy’s kingdom, argues Aristeas (ch. 15). Their freedom is a necessary prerequisite, all the more so, he adds, because ‘the (same) God who has given them their Law guides your kingdom also, as I have learned in my researches’ (ibid.).73 Thus, for Ptolemy, liberating the Jews is tantamount to acknowledging that the Law of the Jews binds him too. Incidentally, the word ‘piety’ itself (eusebeia) appears in the edict of liberation issued by the King (ch. 24). One last item is to be put to the King’s credit: at Ptolemy’s court, live Greek officers who, on the evidence of their names, are no mere pagans. The King’s servants are named Sosibius, Andreas, Aristeas, Nicanor, and his subordinate Dorotheus (chs 12, 43, 182–3) and, even, the philosopher Menedemus of Eretria (ch. 201). One conspicuous exception to this rule is, of course, Demetrius the Librarian. As the case of Theopompus, Theodectus and Menedemus shows, the fact that Demetrius was a well-known figure is not a sufficient explanation of why the author of B.Ar. should have included a person with such a pagan name in his narrative. The assumption that he was bound by a pre-existing oral tradition about Demetrius seems to be the best explanation – we shall come back to this point in Chapter 4. Aristeas’ piety hardly needs elaboration. Piety is an important topic of the introduction of his letter to Philocrates (ch. 2). There, Aristeas emphasizes his own concern for religious matters and later claims that this is why he was chosen as an ambassador to Eleazar the High Priest (ch. 3). Aristeas does not miss any opportunity either to inquire about the Law of the Jews before competent authorities: the so-called ‘Apology for the Law’ by the High Priest is prompted by a question from him (chs 128–9). Aristeas displays the same curiosity and concern for understanding with the Elders (ch. 306). He has inquired enough about the God of the Jews to feel confident to tell the King about His nature and His powers (chs 15–16); these statements come as a preliminary to his request to set the Jewish slaves free, a matter which had been of concern to him for some while (ch. 12). 62

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Demetrius has a discrete and, in fact, crucial place in this series. Demetrius initiated the translation by alerting the King to the need to have the Law of the Jews included in his Library. However, he does this out of professional concern: it was his task to collect all the books in the world for the Library and to be vigilant about possible gaps (ch. 9). Again, his role in the translation as well as in the scene of proclamation of the Law is purely technical: he writes the translation down, but under the Elders’ dictation (ch. 302). He gathers the Jews together for the reading, and is asked to hand a copy of the translation over to their leaders (chs 308–9). Indeed, he is acclaimed by the Jewish plethos together with the translators (ibid.). Beside these discrete actions, Demetrius’ piety is eventually disclosed in the final scene: he is the one who acknowledges the Law as divine, by giving the correct answer to the King’s puzzled query as to why the Law had thus far never been mentioned by either a historian or a poet: ‘because the Law was holy and had come from God’ (ch. 313).74 With such a cluster of figures involved in the translation and transcription, the new Law was duly entitled to receive divine consent. The omnipresence of the piety motif throughout the work adds a religious tint to the otherwise highly ‘scientific’ tone of the narrative: innumerable details are included in the text to build up the status of the narrative as a true account. Thus, the same blending of myth and history that is recognizable in the central narrative of B.Ar. also appears throughout the work in its secondary motifs. The working out of the piety motif, however, is quite straightforward in the text. The elaboration on the credibility, indeed the veracity of the narrative is, on the contrary, a far more complex matter. All the rhetorical and technical means standing at the disposal of an ancient historian are implemented. In order to understand this properly, however, one has to realize what ‘history’ was in the Hellenistic period. This topic will be examined in more detail in the next chapter.

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4 ENFORCING THE NARRATIVE VERACITY The rhetoric of historiography in the Book of Aristeas

Back in the 1950s, Moses Hadas did not take B.Ar. seriously. Nor did he believe that its author himself did, or his original readers. After discussing the tri-partite division of narrative (narratio) commonly accepted by ancient grammarians, namely, ‘true history’, ‘false history’ and ‘quasi-true history’ or plasma, he concludes: Aristeas [i.e. B.Ar.] is a plasma, and its chief purpose, in the intention of the author and the understanding of the reader, is to produce a general ethical effect rather than to communicate trustworthy historical data. The author is neither the impostor nor plagiarist we should have to label him if we thought that he expected his implications as to his own person and date to be believed.1 Plasma, in Hadas’ definition, is ‘an imaginative treatment of history which should, however, preserve historical verisimilitude and present a higher “poetical” truth’.2 Hadas’ assessment of B.Ar. sounded fairly reasonable in the 1950s. Half a century later, it needs serious emendation. Numerous studies have been dedicated since then to the concept of fiction as defined in the theoretical works of Graeco-Roman grammarians and rhetoricians. These studies all stress that the criteria for distinguishing between the ‘true narrative’ usually identified by ancient theoreticians with history, and ‘quasi-true history’ in Classical rhetoric are thoroughly at odds with modern ones.3 Concomitant studies on Graeco-Roman historiography have shown that the articulation of a ‘true report’ in prose writing was ruled by norms quite different from our own. We may add that Hellenistic historiography shares many of the features that have been described as characterizing Roman Republican works of history. The conclusions reached by recent works on Roman historiography may, therefore, be profitably adduced as evidence for our own study of B.Ar.4 65

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The first conclusion to be derived from these converging re-assessments of the notion of ‘true narrative’ in Classical culture is that the author of B.Ar. meant his readers to take him seriously. In fact, this is exactly what he says in the concluding sentence of his work, which was discussed in Chapter 2. Two distinct, though related, aspects are implied in the definition of B.Ar. as a true narrative. One has to do with the author’s bona fides and intentions. Lest we maintain the old view that the author of B.Ar. was a ‘liar’, we need to accept two basic assumptions. First, insofar as B.Ar.’s author was re-using previous material as sources for his own work, we must assume that he was confident about its historical reliability. More importantly, we must admit that the literary means he resorted to in writing his account do not infringe the conventions about ‘truth-telling’ which were normative in his own days. These literary devices would include the use of first-person narrative combined with a fictitious persona for the narrator, the composition of documents and the modelling of B.Ar.’s account on narrative paradigms. The second aspect concerns the readers’ reception of the work. The claim that B.Ar. functioned as a true narrative implies a positive response to it on the part of the targeted readers. It can, in fact, be shown that none of the aspects of B.Ar. that bother modern critics would have had the same effect on the original readership. Chronological and factual inaccuracies, the blending of fact and fiction – none of these would have undermined the reliability of the narrative in the eyes of the author’s contemporary readers. Even the fictitious persona of the narrator may have created more confusion in modern readers than in ancient ones. The tacit convention between author and readers about the fictitious persona of the narrator was certainly much less instrumentalist than some modern commentators would have it, since it probably did not occur to anyone among the readers, and certainly not to the author, that B.Ar. could be intended for outsiders. The present chapter will address itself to these issues, focusing first on the author’s side and on the rhetorical means he used to enforce the status of his account as a true story, and then on aspects related to readers’ reception.

Enforcing reliability with the tools of a historian Hadas’ contention that the author of B.Ar. was writing a fictitious story for the sake of entertainment was his way to absolve our author from the charge of cheating his readers. Hadas’ solution, however, completely misses the author’s real purpose, because he was reading him with modern eyes. A correct assessment of the author’s intention in B.Ar. means we must re-site the rhetorical means he uses to compose his story in their original intellectual context. This involves dealing, first of all, with the literary conventions of writing a true account that were current at the time. 66

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Features such as ego-narrative and the insertion of documents of dubious genuineness have been pounced on by modern critics as proofs for the poor historical value of the work. They supposedly disclose the author’s lack of bona fides. In fact, these various elements are demonstrably accepted devices used by Greek historians and, by extension, all writers who wished to lend their work a guise of historicity in Antiquity. Generally speaking, comparison with the common practices of Hellenistic historiography shows that B.Ar.’s author implemented all the technical and rhetorical means at the disposal of contemporary historians to lend his narrative the indispensable note of trustworthiness that he aimed at. Most of the aspects in B.Ar. that have most puzzled modern scholars can be read back into this perspective. First-person narrative: the author of the Book of Aristeas and ‘lying historians’ Ego-narrative, the channel for eyewitness testimony, expressed the ideal stance of ancient historians. In prose writing the authorial ‘I’ is first and foremost that of Herodotus, as well as of a long tradition of historians in his wake.5 The distinction between autopsy (first-hand eyewitness testimony) and akoe¯ (report of a story either heard from a witness, or read in a written record or an earlier historical work) dates back to Herodotus, and was later refined by Polybius.6 All ancient historians insisted on the precedence of the former over the latter, beginning with Herodotus.7 Personal involvement in the events they wished to report was still occasionally invoked by historians of the Hellenistic period both as their main incentive and as a justification for writing.8 The use of ego-narrative in B.Ar. fulfils the same function as the authorial ‘I’ in Greek historiography. It strengthens the claim to truth-telling in the narrative. This equation, however, requires some further qualification. In the Hellenistic period, factual report deriving from historical ‘inquiry’ diversified into a whole range of genres, from reliable historiography to novelistic works. The resort to first-person narrative followed this trend. Because of its positive connotations, this narrative mode was frequently adopted by authors wishing to lend a guise of veracity to their account. Egonarrative was used in works of the most varied kinds that are today recognized as fictional, but whose status their authors deliberately sought to blur. Greek novels – although not the earliest – belong here. Apuleius’ Metamorphoses (or Golden Ass) and Achilles Tatius’ Leucippe and Clitophon are told in the first person.9 Among earlier works, travelogues such as those of Iambulus and Euhemerus, which are known mainly through Diodorus’ summaries, seem to have been ego-narratives.10 The ‘we-passages’ in the somewhat later Acts of the Apostles may also be noted here, since this work has sometimes been compared with the genre (or sub-genre) of travelogues.11 67

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Closely related to travelogues are some paradoxographical writings, such as the Letter of Alexander to Aristotle about India – also an ego-narrative, as its name implies.12 There is indirect evidence that this means was indeed efficient in blurring the boundaries between factual and fictional report. As we saw in Chapter 2, Reinhold Merkelbach argued that the author of the Alexander Romance treated the letters he inserted in his narrative as factual documents.13 A further clue is provided by the important discussion about Euhemerus and Pytheas’ accounts that will be examined below. However, the case of the Letter about India makes it clear that even authors writing in genres which were easily identifiable as fanciful – or more accurately, as ‘lying stories’ – by ancient criteria, resorted to the stance of the ego-narrative and explicitly claimed to be writing true narratives. Even in these cases, the stance of autopsy conveyed by the first-person narrative was seen as a means of demonstrating the truth-value of the account, which was all the more necessary the more incredible the contents. Indeed, works of this kind were the target of fierce parody by Seneca and Lucian, showing up the fact that historiography had become a blanket-genre for paradoxography, romances and all sorts of fanciful accounts carelessly jostling verisimilitude.14 In short, all kinds of literary genres whose common denominator was a desire to blur the boundary between factual report and fiction, novels as well as what Niklas Holzberg has labelled ‘fringe genres’ of the novel (such as travelogues),15 were potential bidders to take over the characteristics of historical narrative. Ancient ‘serious’ historians had no means of differentiating their works from romancing counterfeits. A priori, this leaves open the possibility that the author of B.Ar., like the romancers, was deliberately cheating his readership. However, B.Ar. is not a work of mere entertainment. Our author’s stance is better compared to that of Euhemerus and other authors of social utopias and religious pamphlets of this kind. In their case, the guise of truth-telling techniques was aimed at bolstering the impact of the message conveyed. From this point of view, Euhemerus and B.Ar. come close to the pseudepigraphical letters ascribed to leading philosophical figures of the Classical period or to other prominent characters such as Alexander the Great, which proliferated in Hellenistic and Roman times.16 As already noted in passing, one particular detail precludes the possibility that B.Ar.’s author conceived of his work as a kind of novel aimed at pure entertainment: the thorough rationalization of the narrative. The complete absence of paradoxography in the Travelogue (the Journey to Jerusalem) is particularly conspicuous. It is well known that in the wake of authors like Ctesias in the late fifth century BCE, many writers of history indulged in inserting descriptions of wonders, portents and miracles in their work. Accounts of journeys to remote countries such as India were the pretext for 68

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long catalogues mixing up strange human beings and monsters of the most scaring appearance and amazing customs, to their readers’ great delight. Contemporary taste was so fond of this kind of literature that paradoxography soon evolved into a distinct genre. Nothing of this kind is found in B.Ar. The Journey to Jerusalem may be contrasted with Iambulus’ account of his own journey, as epitomized in Diodorus 2.55–60. Although Iambulus was depicting a social utopia, like the author of B.Ar., he could not resist indulging in paradoxographical touches.17 Broadly speaking then, it is quite striking that B.Ar. displays only the most respectable features of contemporary prose writing. It would seem that the interwoven dimension of charter myth prompted the author to refrain from inserting purely entertaining features in his narrative, in order to establish his work as an account of undisputable veracity. Thus, B.Ar. may well provide us with a rare case of dissociation between true narrative and entertainment – if we leave aside the feature of variation examined in Chapter 2. It will, therefore, be interesting to look at the wide array of conventional topics normally expected in Hellenistic works of history and see what the author of B.Ar. retains and what he leaves out. The items he drops, like paradoxographical clichés and long set speeches are, indeed, precisely those which elicited the most violent attacks from ancient critics of historians and their like.18 Conversely, the insertion of fabricated official letters or decrees modelled after real ones was deemed legitimate by B.Ar.’s author. This may teach us that there was indeed a boundary between ‘lies’ and ‘truth’, but that the latter operated at a level distinct from our own.19 As for first-person narrative, this was one of the most salient devices available to an ancient writer for bolstering his readers’ confidence. Ego-narrative and fictional identity: the narrator in the Book of Aristeas Analysis of the use of ego-narrative in B.Ar. is complicated by the fact that it combines two distinct aspects: a stance of autopsy and a disguise of identity. In the Hellenistic period, autopsy becomes above all a basic device of ‘serious’ historiography. Disguising identity, on the other hand, is to be found (at least in prose writing) only in fictional works: either pseudepigraphical letters, or ancient novels or genres on the fringe of the novel. In the pseudepigraphical letters we may posit an intellectual affiliation between the real authors and the philosophers whose name they usurped. In contrast, the fictional identity of B.Ar.’s narrator introduces an important shift as compared to the real author.20 The real author was most probably a learned Alexandrian Jew, but the fictional identity he takes on is that of a Greek courtier of Ptolemy II. The choice of a Greek official as the assumed identity of the narrator has prompted some modern commentators to surmise that B.Ar. was aimed 69

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at a Greek audience. In fact, there are more than enough hints pointing to a Jewish audience, as was shown in Chapter 2. Why, then, this fictional identity? Victor Tcherikover, among others, interpreted this device as apologetic,21 aimed at flattering the Jews with the wishful thinking that the Greeks themselves acknowledged their God. Other Jewish works such as Aristobulus show that learned Jewish circles in Alexandria were actually engaged in cultural competition of this sort throughout the Hellenistic period from quite an early date.22 However, in the case of B.Ar. apologetics is only a secondary aspect. In the first place, the fictive identity of the narrator gives coherence, and hence likelihood, to the narrative. As such, it plays a paramount role in demonstrating its status as a true narrative. As we have already seen, one salient feature in B.Ar. is the author’s care to provide his narrative with an air of total plausibility. Beyond the most obvious consequences of this deliberate endeavour, namely, rationalization of the narrative and refraining from paradoxography, our author carefully avoids inner contradictions in which a malevolent reader could catch him out. As a matter of fact, all the ‘inconsistencies’ and blatant ‘blunders’ which modern readers have accused him of were not perceived as such by his contemporaries, as we shall see below. Since B.Ar. shows the initiative for the translation coming from the Alexandrian court, a court official was the only viable option for the narrator to impersonate.23 Only thus could the author provide his narrator with a comprehensive account of the story without overstepping the boundaries of likelihood. In fact, the eyewitness stance imposed a restricted viewpoint, entailing heavy restrictions on the scope of the account. The device used by our author to supply an alternative source of information whenever the eyewitness standpoint proved deficient was the consultation of royal archives (chs 297–300) – in obvious imitation of the means available for a historian to pursue his inquiry.24 Our author is even careful enough to insert a comment reassuring sceptics about the plausibility of the means: the narrator stresses that ‘these kings’ had much more activity recorded in writing than was the case ‘nowadays’, i.e. more than could be known by his readers through their contemporary experience (ch. 28). Needless to say, only a courtier close to the king could have had access to court documents. Once our author had opted for this setting, one is impressed by the remarkable consistency with which he kept to it – in contrast, for instance, with Achilles Tatius.25 Thus, the narrator gives a detailed description of the outside aspect of the Jerusalem Temple, but remains silent about the Holy of Holies (chs 84–8), or specifies that he owes to Eleazar the High Priest the details he does give (ch. 112). In order to be able to give a description of the activity carried out in the inner precinct of the sacred compound, to which non-Jews had no access, the author has his narrator observe the scene from the citadel above it (ch. 100).26 As to the character’s personal reactions, 70

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it goes without saying that they are congruent with his social status and, of course, with his being a Greek – B.Ar.’s author cannot be expected to display interest in personal psychology, since only social psychology was dealt with in his time.27 If we try to imagine a Jew in the role of the narrator, daunting disadvantages immediately crop up. The clearest obstacle to having the story told by a Jewish narrator is the section of the Apology for the Law. The pattern of question and answer was the most obvious for our author to choose for this section, for it was very common in Hellenistic literature for the exposition of philosophical or religious ideas. It would have been very clumsy to have a Jewish ambassador ask the High Priest Eleazar to enlighten him about peculiarities relating to the Law of the Jews. It may even be contended that this would have infringed the rules of social psychology and thus jeopardized the credibility of the whole account. Having a Jew request from the King the freeing of the Jewish slaves does not contradict factual likelihood in itself, but this would have diminished the benevolence of Ptolemy and thereby weakened the contrast with Pharaoh’s hardheartedness. (Perhaps the author also considered it sacrilegious to equate his narrator with Moses.) In short, inasmuch as B.Ar.’s author was interested in securing for his account the benefits of ego-narrative, the best, if not the sole possible option was to choose not only a Greek, but very precisely a court official in order to impersonate the narrator. The alternative option would have been to renounce whole sections of the book, which were vital either to the plot itself (the liberation of the Jewish slaves) or to the literary quality of the work (the digressions). If the primary purpose of ego-narrative in B.Ar. was to give the narrative the air of historiography, the last aspects mentioned show just how much potential lay in giving the narrator a Greek identity. This is especially true for the dimension of charter myth which our author aimed at for his account. Given that B.Ar. was written in a Greek cultural and literary environment, the choice of a Greek narrator was, in a sense, imperative. Only a Greek voice could give the account the necessary tone of objectivity and, paradoxically, only such a voice could remove all polemical undertones from the narrative. A charter myth was not to be parochial, but universal – and ‘universal’, in the Greek cultural context, meant Greek. Only this Greek voice could give the text a universal dimension. As to apologetics, although they are discernible in B.Ar., it is dubious whether their import reaches much beyond what can be expected from any positive, nonpolemical presentation. The insertion of ‘official’ documents The insertion of documents in a narrative is, first and foremost, the practice of historians. To be effective, however, a comparison between the documents 71

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inserted in B.Ar. and general historiographical practice needs to start from a correct assessment of the concept of ‘document’ in the Graeco-Roman tradition. It is now fully recognized that the handling of documents in the Classical period was at odds with modern standards of practice. Free quotation was the rule, and ancient historians freely re-worked the wording of archive documents they consulted for the sake of rhetorical embellishment. Occasionally we also find alleged documents which modern scholarship has identified as downright forgeries. Recent studies have brought a thorough re-assessment, however, of the issue of the author’s intentionality in this practice. Forging or inventing documents was, at that time, a much more legitimate proceeding than in our modern ‘over-literate’ society, to use Rosalind Thomas’ definition.28 If we leave aside straightforward forgeries fabricated in order to gain concrete benefits, it may be said that, in a sense, the same array of intentions was at play in the insertion of documents as in that of speeches. Set speeches were the conventional device used by historians in order to insert their own analysis of the situation into their narrative, and they had, therefore, a very serious function. They could also be inserted for mere entertainment.29 The five documents recorded in B.Ar., the royal decree (chs 22–5), Demetrius’ report (chs 29–32), the two letters between Ptolemy and Eleazar (chs 34b–40 and 41–51a), and the list of names included in the appendix to the second letter (chs 47–50), are fictional.30 It is probable that the author of B.Ar. was, himself, the fabricator, although this issue cannot be finally decided. However, realizing this does not advance us very far towards understanding their function in the text. In keeping with the conventions of the time, it must be admitted that the function of these inserted documents was to bolster the plausibility of the narrative. The epistolary exchange between King Ptolemy and Eleazar the High Priest (chs 34b–40 and 41–51a) recalls the huge correspondence that was ascribed to Alexander the Great in Hellenistic times, especially Alexander’s exchange of letters with Darius III, which is recorded by the historical tradition. The letters attributed to Alexander are known both in an independent form and as insertions in historical and novelistic works. In fact, the insertion of letters in Greek literature was a common device. No contemporary reader would have questioned the legitimacy of our author’s inserting letters into his text, even though the latter were the output of his own calamus.31 Incidentally, we may note that the genuine nature of the extant versions of these letters has been a matter of debate among modern scholars.32 If modern readers could get lost over the matter of their authenticity, all the more so ancient ones. The list of names of the 72 translators from Judaea appended to Eleazar’s answer to Ptolemy (chs 47–50) may be associated with the ‘antiquarian’ taste of the Greeks. More precisely, the redaction of lists of all kinds became a literary genre very popular in Hellenistic times, concomitantly with a higher 72

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level of education. Lists of personal, ethnic, geographical and other sorts of names were aimed at facilitating the study of Homer, be it for educational or scholarly purposes.33 Also relevant here, perhaps, are Callimachus’ Pinakes, the catalogue lists set in the library of Alexandria. Callimachus drew heavily on this kind of literature to write his erudite poetry. These are genuine lists, including names actually found in Homer, real rivers or gods, or librarians and real books included in the Alexandrian library. Spurious lists, however, are also a widespread phenomenon in the Greek world. They usually come to fill in gaps, and are but one manifestation of what Peter Wiseman has called ‘the horror of the void’ characteristic of Roman historians of the Republic but not only of them.34 Filling up the gaps between generations was a common device in the field of genealogy. The purpose was primarily to link an individual, an aristocratic family, a royal dynasty, or a people’s history with a mythical event or character. Lists blending together historical and legendary data are found alongside entirely spurious or fictitious ones.35 However, this tendency of filling up the gaps was not confined to history and genealogy. Rafaella Cribiore has pointed to a similar phenomenon in a context certainly unexpected for the modern mind, the making up of words to fill a gap in a syllabary used by a school-teacher.36 Where the original tradition left secondary protagonists anonymous, oral tradition or scholars would supply public curiosity with the desired information. This latter phenomenon is directly relevant for our case. Long before B.Ar.’s days, Ctesias presented his Greek readers with a largely spurious list of Assyrian kings.37 One good parallel to the document found in B.Ar. is the list of twenty of Lycurgus’ thirty friends who helped him seize power in Sparta. This list was supplied by Hermippus (a pupil of Callimachus), and quoted by Plutarch in his Life of Lycurgus, 5.7. The discrepancy between the number of names recorded in Hermippus’ list and the total number of Lycurgus’ friends given by Plutarch is interesting. Plutarch, or his source, probably merged two traditions about Lycurgus’ followers, but did not feel entitled to supplement Hermippus’ list in order to harmonize the data. The chronological gap between the days of B.Ar.’s author and Plutarch’s time may be responsible for this diverging attitude towards the source used. The (final?) redactor of the list in B.Ar. was also responsible for the number of Elders being 72 and not 70. If the oral tradition that circulated before the redaction of B.Ar. knew of 70, and not 72, Elders, the author of B.Ar. either made up the whole list, or at least added two names, and was responsible for its final division into tribes.38 In general, the assumption that he was re-using a pre-existing document would entail complications that may be seen as unnecessary. However, the possibility cannot be entirely dismissed. Fortunately, the assumption that the list of names may not come from B.Ar.’s author himself does not require further speculation about the 73

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possibility of its being genuine. Several studies have, indeed, tried to clarify whether this list stemmed from Judaea or Egypt, on the basis of a philological study of the names recorded.39 The motivation was to check whether the list was genuine or spurious, the underlying assumption being that a Palestinian list must be genuine, and thus demonstrate the reliability of B.Ar.’s story. This issue has now become pointless. Internal analysis of the LXX leaves no doubt that the translation was made by people acquainted with the Greek vernacular in Egypt, not Judaea. In other words, the translators were Jews living in Egypt. On the face of it, we could modify the premise and say that if the names can be shown to be Palestinian, then the author of B.Ar. cannot be held responsible for this list. A Palestinian origin for this list is, however, made improbable by two decisive arguments. Beside the fact that the LXX was translated by Egyptian Jews, and not by translators imported from Judaea, the tradition about the origins of the LXX and especially the theme of the importation from abroad is clearly Alexandrian, as shown by its configuration on an Alexandrian narrative paradigm. In these circumstances, therefore, the interest of a detailed investigation of this list is strictly philological and cannot have historical implications.40

Literary elaboration and historical reliability according to Classical standards ‘Hard-core facts’, Ciceronian literary ‘elaboration’, and the Exodus paradigm A further and, in some ways, more fundamental problem in the relationship between the rhetorical techniques used in B.Ar. and the status of this text as a ‘truth-telling account’ is the presence of narrative patterns in the story told. Here again, the norms regulating the presentation of a ‘true report’ in the prose writing of the Classical world were very different from our own, as has now been fully recognized by numerous studies on Classical historiography. A historical account had to start from a core of ‘hard facts’, but these were regularly wrapped up in an imaginative setting to a much greater extent than modern standards would tolerate. Texts that were clearly (at least for modern readers) the product of sheer imagination had no difficulty in imitating the literary conventions that set the norms for historiography. An important study in pointing out the differences between ancient and modern standards for factually reliable reporting was Anthony Woodman’s commentary on two texts of Cicero’s in which the Roman philosopher sets out his conception of the work of the historian. These texts are a letter to Lucceius (Ad Fam. 5.12) and, more importantly, De Oratore 2.51–4 and 62–4.41 Through a revised translation of Cicero’s terminology, Woodman demonstrated that the Roman philosopher held literary elaboration around 74

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the ‘hard-core facts’ as not only legitimate, but indispensable. For Cicero, it was literary elaboration which turned annalistic records into history. Woodman further argued that by literary elaboration (exornatio), Cicero meant plain invention. In order to turn the bare bones of the facts in the annals which constituted his starting point into an acceptable literary work, the historian was expected to process them using elaborated literary embroidery. The finished product had to present a comprehensive account, fully endowed with detailed descriptions of all the successive stages of the action which accepted conventions made the reader entitled to expect. Wherever the concrete data for reconstructing a specific stage was missing, as Peter Wiseman argued, the historian was expected to fill the gap with a development of his own.42 The legitimacy of supplementing missing factual data with literary clichés was predicated on the certitude shared by contemporary philosophy that human nature and material conditions are ruled by immutable laws and are, therefore, predictable. This is the same certitude which led Thucydides to feel entitled to reconstruct speeches that he did not personally hear.43 However, Woodman may have pushed his argument too far. Other scholars have been keen to maintain that ancient historians were not as lightminded with ‘truth’ as implied by Woodman’s interpretation of Cicero. In a recent study, Christopher Pelling argued that an author like Plutarch could, indeed, be quite concerned about getting the reconstruction of the past right, even or especially when dealing with biographies that he himself acknowledged to be constantly bordering on myth (in the ancient sense of the word).44 Thus, echoes found in B.Ar. of recommendations given by Cicero or later manuals of rhetoric need not necessarily be taken as straightforward proof that B.Ar. is a mere fanciful account. Such echoes are indeed found. If we leave aside for now the specific issue of the two interwoven narrative paradigms in B.Ar., the compositional structure of this work meets the conventions about the division of the account into set chronological stages which Cicero and later manuals of rhetoric recommend. The manuals of the grammarians and some historians themselves invariably advocate a tri-partite exposition of the historical event the historian sets out to relate, adding to the event itself what preceded and what followed it.45 If we take the motif of the translation in B.Ar. to be the central ‘event’ lying at the core of the work, then the report by Demetrius the Librarian to the King that there is no authorized copy of the Jewish Law in his Library (chs 9–11 and 18–34a) (see the outline of the literary composition of B.Ar. in the Appendix at the end of this book), as well as the subsequent correspondence between King Ptolemy and Eleazar the High Priest about the sending of the scroll and the translators to Alexandria (34b–51a) constitute the preliminaries. These episodes adequately replace in B.Ar. ‘the generals’ speeches, the outlay on both sides, and their fears’ which ancient readers would have expected in a 75

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war description. The description of the translation in chs 301–7 (admittedly short by Hellenistic literary standards) comes in place of ‘the attacks, the slaughter, and the dead’. Then follows the solemn proclaiming of the translation (chs 308–17), appropriately substituted for the ‘victory trophy, the triumphal songs of the victors, the tears and enslavement of the victims’ as required on the battlefield.46 The presence of a secondary topic in B.Ar., however, necessarily results in a compositional structure more complex than would be expected in a historical monograph keeping strictly to the theoretical model. The motif of the liberation of the Jewish slaves is, itself, presented in two distinct stages, not three: a ‘reminder’ of the circumstances in which the Jews were deported (a kind of preliminary) and the account of their liberation (the core of the story). As to the expected concluding section, it merges, as it were, into the structure of the main topic: the letter sent by Ptolemy to Eleazar the High Priest recording the freeing of the Jews is both a conclusion of this ‘event’ and a kind of preliminary to his request of carrying out the translation – chronologically second, but in fact a more encompassing ‘event’. For all the complications entailed, the identification of a double topic in B.Ar. is not a hindrance to the claim that the work’s structure met Hellenistic standards of historical writing. If we turn now to the two narrative paradigms that make up B.Ar.’s story, the theoretical problems raised appear to be more complex. Cicero’s theory of literary elaboration in historiography falls short of explaining the technique of literary composition followed by our author in this case. In fact, it would seem that the latter remained off the scope of Classical literary theory – like so many other features related to the new prose genres which were rapidly steering historiography towards fiction. In terms of compositional technique, the Exodus paradigm is the easier to tackle, since we can be certain in this case that the imitation of the literary model was conscious and deliberate. The textual allusions to the LXX found in B.Ar. could not be explained otherwise. Basically, the compositional principle involved amounts to duplicating the narrative structure of a reference text in the new account. This mechanism of literary imitation that underlies the Exodus paradigm in B.Ar. is far from isolated in the Hellenistic period. A good example of the use of a similar compositional process is to be found in the social utopias, by then a flourishing genre. Plato’s Republic provided the basic model, usually blended with the genre of the travelogue deriving from the Herodotean tradition of ethnographical writing. Euhemerus’ travel to the island of Panchaea is, perhaps, the best instance of a social utopia taking its inspiration from Plato, typically blended with topics borrowed from travel literature.47 In all cases of imitation the starting point for the interest in the reference text is not compositional, but topical, while the prestige of the reference text – Plato in one case, the LXX in the other – is also important. The reference text provides, first and foremost, a source 76

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of inspiration for the content of the new work. Since content and form are linked, it then naturally provides the necessary literary and compositional model as well.48 Seen in these terms, the Exodus paradigm in B.Ar. may thus be approached with the conceptual theory proposed by Hayden White. White’s main contention is that the ‘traces of the past’, what he calls the ‘primitive’ elements of the historical account – roughly corresponding to Anthony Woodman’s ‘kernel of historical facts’ – are necessarily ‘emplotted’ by the historian into a narrative form. The ‘emplotment’, or ‘encodation of the facts contained in the chronicle as components of specific kinds of plot structures’, necessarily takes on literary forms culturally familiar to the audience targeted. In modern Western society the four basic types of story in which a historical account may be emplotted are ‘tragic, comic, romantic, or ironic’.49 Although the Exodus paradigm is designed in reference to a text, not to a literary form, we may speak of the same kind of ‘emplotment’ in this case as in those envisaged by White. As for the literary form of B.Ar., it was familiar to its Alexandrian Jewish readers. Although our author was writing a charter myth, an ‘epic’ emplotment would not do. The changing taste of the Hellenistic readers precluded such a choice, and the epic genre had, moreover, undergone a thorough delegitimization after Callimachus. The Exodus paradigm should perhaps be described as a kind of ‘dulled and embourgeoisé epic’ emplotment.50 Whatever the definition we choose, the choice of the reference text is what furnishes B.Ar. with meaning, more than its up-dated emplotment. B.Ar.’s claim to originality thus lies in the choice of the text imitated. In other cases, this kind of writing based on the imitation of either specific works or genres, or more accurately, on a combination of both (Plato and ethnography in the social utopias) is what led to the development of new literary genres in the Hellenistic period.51 Once the genre was crystallized, not merely in theory, but in actual practice, any explicit reference to the text(s) which had inspired it could fade away, as happened in the genre of utopian geography. At this point the affinities with the technique of writing conforming to the rules set down by the grammarians are obvious, especially since the manuals of rhetoric reflected common practice as much as they tried to influence it. Inasmuch as Graeco-Roman literary criticism was conservative in the extreme, however, this technique of imitation lacked a proper theoretical framework. Intellectual tools for distinguishing ‘truth’ from ‘lies’ in an account Ever since Herodotus, the use of historia, scientific investigation, in the account of past events had involved the development of conceptual tools enabling the Greek ‘historian’ in his inquiry to distinguish between truth 77

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and lies in factual reports. As has been noted repeatedly in recent studies, this dichotomic categorization of ‘truth’ and ‘lies’ left out the concept of fiction, that is, false report which plays on a tacit convention between writer and reader (or more generally sender and recipient) to act as though it were true, although both are aware that it is not.52 The intellectual tools that were actually available for the critical reader to assess the truth of a factual report may be illustrated by the following well-known discussion in Strabo: 1. . . . Pytheas, by whom many have been misled; for after asserting that he travelled over the whole of Britain that was accessible, Pytheas of Massilia . . . added his story about Thule¯ and about those regions in which there was no longer either land properly so-called, or sea, or air, but a kind of substance concreted from all these elements, resembling a sea-lungs . . . Now, as for this thing that resembles a sea-lungs, he says that he saw it himself, but that all the rest he tells from hearsay. Then, Pytheas adds that on his return from those regions he visited the whole coast-line of Europe from Gades to Tanaïs. 2. Now, Polybius says that, in the first place, it is incredible that a private individual, and a poor man too, could have travelled such distances by sea and by land; and that, though Eratosthenes was wholly at a loss whether he should believe these stories, nevertheless he has believed Pytheas’ account of Britain, and of the regions about Gades, and of Iberia; but he says it is far better to believe Euhemerus, the Messenian, than Pytheas. Euhemerus, at all events, asserts that he sailed only to one country, Panchaea, whereas Pytheas asserts that he explored in person the whole northern region of Europe as far as the ends of the world – an assertion which no man would believe, not even if Hermes made it. And as for Eratosthenes – adds Poseidonius – though he calls Euhemerus a Bergaean [i.e. a fabulist], he believes Pytheas, and that, too, though not even Dicaearchus believed him. . . . While we may pardon Eratosthenes and Dicaearchus, because they had not seen those regions with their own eyes, yet who could pardon Polybius and Poseidonius? Nay, it is precisely Polybius who characterises as ‘popular notions’ the statements made by Eratosthenes and Dicaearchus in regard to the distances in those regions and many other regions, though he does not keep himself free from the error even where he criticises them.53 This text presents a group of the prominent intellectual figures of their time, Eratosthenes, Poseidonius, Dicaearchus, Polybius and Strabo, in heated argument as to the comparative reliability of two travelogues by Pytheas of Massilia and Euhemerus of Messenia.54 The reaction of these five 78

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commentators towards Euhemerus’ and Pytheas’ writings illustrates how the notion of fiction was alien to Greek thought or at the least, that it had not been conceptualized. As with his predecessors, Strabo’s only conceptual tools were those of the ‘true’ or the ‘lying’ account. Polybius’ readiness to accept Euhemerus’ account while condemning Pytheas’ as fake is predicated on a typical method: the assessment of objective, material data. Polybius evaluates whether the material conditions of the journey are plausible or not, using common sense as his yardstick for this matter. Strabo, Josephus and Plutarch proceed in a similar manner. Strabo’s best reason for believing that Alexander did not meet Thalestria, queen of the Amazons, is to point out that his best sources do not mention their encounter, and then to say that Thalestria lived too far away from Thermodon to pay Alexander a visit there (Geography 11.5.4). Material impossibilities and chronological inconsistency are some of the arguments Josephus resorts to in the first book of his Against Apion in order to refute the collection of slanderous narratives about the Jews he has gathered from Alexandrian literature.55 Outright contradiction of either the Biblical narrative (281–5) or of two anti-Jewish slanders (293–7) is another of his methods of argument, but this latter technique is hardly more commendable as methodology if we judge it by modern standards. But the Greek writer of later times could safely conclude that the story reported was true when all his ancient sources coincided. Thus, Plutarch was able to conclude that the story of Hippolytus and Phaedra was historically true because the historians and the tragic poets agreed on the subject (Life of Theseus, 1.3 and 28.2).56 In general terms, the criterion for distinguishing between ‘true’ and ‘false’ accounts, according to Graeco-Roman literary critics, was whether they conformed to the laws of nature. Any factual report which did not offend these laws was ‘true’, whether Heracles, Achilles, or Pericles was the hero of the story. Miracles and monsters, on the other hand, belonged to the realm of ‘lies’. Gauged against these criteria, B.Ar. is a perfectly trustworthy account. Nothing in this work can be charged with trespassing natural laws. Neither portents, nor monsters, or anything of the kind are to be found in B.Ar., not even in the Travelogue – a genre which was traditionally particularly prone to such ‘wonders’, paradoxa. The scroll of the Law is brought from Alexandria to Jerusalem in the most mundane way. On this point, B.Ar.’s account may be contrasted to the miraculous bringing of the statue of Sarapis from Sinope to Alexandria (Tacitus, Histories, 4.83–4), an account which follows the same pattern of story-telling, as we saw in Chapter 3. The transcription and translation of the LXX is also carried out by strictly human scientific means – in sharp contrast with later descriptions of the same event, for example in Philo’s Life of Moses, 2.37–40. Strabo’s text quoted above presents an interesting point of comparison with B.Ar. on another matter. Polybius does not address a number of aspects 79

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in Euhemerus’ account that modern readers immediately pick up as fictional. Thus, some details in Euhemerus’ description of life on the island of Panchaea, like the community of wealth, are directly borrowed from Plato’s depiction of the ideal city in his Republic, while the division into three castes in Diodorus 5.45.3 may echo Aristotle’s depiction of Peisistratus’ time in the Athenian Constitution, 13.2 rather than Plato’s own contemporary social organization.57 These and further details build up Panchaea as a social utopia. Modern critics immediately identify such details as a literary construct which can easily be traced back to a long literary tradition in Greek culture. Polybius’ and Strabo’s reactions were obviously different, and the difference between modern and ancient Greek perception and reception of the intertextual allusions embedded in Euhemerus’ work is clearly culturally determined. In a recent discussion of the influence of both ‘extra-textual experience’ and intertextuality on readers and other sections of a population, both ancient and modern, Christopher Pelling has argued that ‘readers [. . . are] more inclined to find a story plausible when it maps on to a pattern which is already familiar’.58 Thus, he argues, an American jury in a real-life trial is liable to find plausible a story whose pattern sounds familiar because it is reminiscent of a story heard in the television program LA Law. He goes on to show that Graeco-Roman historians frequently borrowed story-patterns from their predecessors. Thus, ‘Tacitus borrow[ed] patterns from Livy, Herodotus from Homer, or Thucydides from Herodotus’.59 Such borrowings create a recurrent pattern. In this way, intertextuality generates not only plausibility but, as Pelling puts it, ‘intelligibility’ ‘by locating [events] against a more general pattern of human experience: such things happen, life is like that’.60 The fact that Panchaea resembled Plato’s Republic brought confirmation that such social structures do exist. Reactions to the patterning of B.Ar. on the Alexandrian paradigm should be seen in the same light. What gives the narrative away as ‘unhistorical’ to modern readers is precisely what strengthened its reliability for the original Alexandrian audience, to whom the Alexandrian paradigm was familiar. These various points bring us to a specific detail in B.Ar. In ch. 307 it is stated that the 72 Elders completed their work of transcription and translation in 72 days, ‘as if such a result was achieved by some deliberate design’. Nothing in this goes against the laws of nature. The statement is legitimate according to ancient standards. However, we may wonder what this statement is aimed at. Should it be understood as the rationalization of an earlier popular stage of the legend which included marvellous details cut out by the author of B.Ar.? In scholarly circles, the traditional myths recorded by the poets were seen as historical events embedded in an accretion of lies due to poetic licence or deformation through misunderstanding. All the scholar had to do in order to retrieve the ‘historical’ core of the story was to implement his own rational faculties and rid the account of these parasitic accretions. This rationalization of myths mainly consisted in expurgating all 80

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the ‘unlikely’ elements contradicting the laws of nature.61 Our author could well have done the same with a popular legend circulating among Alexandrian Jews, and the notation found in ch. 307 might possibly result from a process of expurgation.62 However, this would be the only instance of this technique in B.Ar. Moreover, the process of rationalization applied by ancient historians to traditional stories that appeared to them ‘mythical’ (in the ancient sense of the word) was often characterized by an artificial twisting of the received version. Thus, Heracles’ journey through Italy with Geryon’s cows is explained as the story of an invading army headed by Heracles.63 In contrast, B.Ar.’s account is rational without involving any contortions of the material. Another and better way of understanding the recurrence of the number 72 is to identify it as patterning. A pattern of the same kind is found in Thucydides.64 He notes that the Peloponnesian wars lasted 27 years (three times nine years, Thuc. 5.26.1 and 4) altogether. A lunar eclipse delayed the decisive battle between Athenians and Syracusans which put such a lamentable end to the Sicilian expedition, for 27 days (three times nine days, Thuc. 7.50.4).65 Now, it is unlikely that Thucydides would have seen in this ‘coincidence’ the sign of divine intervention – especially not in a passage in which he is criticizing Nicias’ superstition. In the same way, it would probably be misguided to see the patterning around the number of 72 in B.Ar. as a divine sign. B.Ar. is certainly as rationalized as Thucydides’ work. A hypothesis about the genesis of the Alexandrian paradigm The creation of recurrent patterns in historical works may be the product of a conscious borrowing by one author from another. As in the case of Tacitus borrowing patterns from Livy, and Thucydides from Herodotus, conscious borrowing can be posited in the Exodus paradigm, or again in the modelling of the description of Jerusalem upon Aristotle’s Politics in B.Ar., chs 83–106, which was seen in Chapter 2. The mechanism at play in these examples is that of deliberate choice: the author consciously seeks to inform the narrative with a reference to a pattern that is fully recognized and endorsed, even if the author is usually not willing to acknowledge his debt. The degree of self-awareness is more difficult to assess when it comes to more elusive patterns. The genre of utopian geography, for instance, resulted from a blend between ethnography in the Herodotean tradition, and the philosophical works of the late fifth and the fourth centuries BCE which were concerned with conceptualizing the ideal city. Out of this blend, the new genre developed its own rules and designed its own set topics. The latter are routinely spelled out in the works preserved – the description of Egypt by Hecataeus of Abdera, for example, or that of India by Megasthenes.66 81

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In fact, the author of B.Ar., himself, seems to have consciously modelled his description of Judaea (chs 112–20) on the topics of utopian geography – in contrast with his description of Jerusalem. On the contrary, the modelling of B.Ar.’s account on the Alexandrian paradigm probably resulted from an unconscious process, similar to that referred to by Pelling when he compares real-life trials and LA Law – the kind of unconscious patterning that recalls the mechanism of ‘emplotment’ described by Hayden White.67 Vladimir Propp’s approach in The Morphology of the Folktale may also contribute to our theoretical understanding of the genesis of the Alexandrian paradigm, since it seems to be a narrative paradigm deriving from a popular oral tradition, and not a (strictly) literary paradigm.68 Propp’s concept of ‘functions’ embodied by folktale characters, in particular, seems useful for a literary analysis of the Alexandrian paradigm – especially the importing of an item from abroad, which may correspond to a narrative syntagma, to use modern terminology.69 Likewise, Propp’s concept of the characters’ ‘roles’ may clarify the part played by someone like the King in B.Ar. Indeed, we might well ask whether Propp’s ‘functions’ would not also be useful for the analysis of the set topics recurring in the genre of utopian geography, such as natural bounty, dense population (polyanthropia), an outstanding river ensuring fertility, etc.70 Propp’s model may help us to explain the function of the characters and situations in our story. However, in order to understand its genesis, we need to refer to the process of collective memory.71 The process of re-shaping the past into a set narrative pattern is now well known for Archaic Greece, which was an oral society. One may think of the legend about the birth and infancy of a ruler, which is common to no less than 122 characters in the ancient Near East and related cultures, including Cyrus the Great (Herodotus, Histories, 1.107–8), Cypselus, tyrant of Corinth in the later half of the seventh century BC (Herodotus, 5.92), Romulus and Remus, Moses and Jesus, besides many Mesopotamian kings. This legend re-shaped the biography of rulers who lacked a dynastic legitimacy. These outsiders, founders of a new royal line, or their like, had to draw their legitimacy from divine election: hence, the recurring motifs of miraculous salvation, feeding by a sacred beast embodying a manifestation of the divinity, prophecy received on the verge of adulthood, etc.72 In the same way, Christiane Sourvinou-Inwood has analysed a series of myths which illustrate what she calls the ‘“father-son hostility” schema’, and to which she also links stories of patricide and matricide. The term ‘schema’ corresponds to our ‘paradigm’, and Sourvinou-Inwood points out that it breaks down into a four-stage composition, with variations from one version to another. She identifies this mythical schema in a historicized version, Herodotus’ account of the tyranny of Corinth and the failed succession between Periander and his son Lykophron (3.48 and 50–3).73 82

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These stories from Archaic Greece illustrate the process of mythopoetic creation typical of an oral society. In her study of the ‘father-son hostility’ schema found in Herodotus’ account about the Kypselids, Sourvinou-Inwood has argued that the ‘historical kernel’ was minimal. It consisted at best of a historical situation of failed succession, since Lykophron did not succeed Periander. The whole mythical structuring of the story could even more simply have been triggered off by the fact that the dynasty of the Kypselids did not last beyond the third generation.74 Criticizing the attempts of modern historians at extracting ‘historical facts’ for modern historical reconstruction, she states the following: [A]ny historical ‘raw material’ that may have gone into the making [of the narrative] has been radically recast; for the mythological mentality, operating through a process of bricolage, structures narratives by means of the schemata through which it operates, and articulates ‘new’ stories using any available historical material as building blocks, to be recast and reshaped to fit the ‘spacings’ required by the schema.75 The concept of bricolage is borrowed from Claude Lévi-Strauss. ‘The bricoleur’, as summarized by Mary Douglas, ‘is a craftsman who works with material that has not been produced for the task he has in hand’.76 If we were to accept it, an analogy between our Alexandrian paradigm and the process of mythopoetic creation and the concept of bricolage would cast heavy doubt on the historicity of the mention of the King and the Library in the Alexandrian paradigm, not to mention the importation motif. However, it is questionable whether the gap between what a modern mind sees as ‘reality’ and its translation into a narrative pattern could be as important in the Hellenistic world as in Archaic Greece. Legends informed by a set pattern certainly existed in the Hellenistic period. The pattern of the religious evocatio was briefly reviewed in Chapter 3, in the discussion of the legend of the origins of Sarapis recorded by Tacitus (Hist. 4.83–4). We find it again, for instance, in a private letter in a papyrus, P.Cairo Zen. 59034, which will be quoted extensively in Chapter 5. Another example of a narrative pattern used to recast historical events involves military deeds, from Caesar’s crossing of the Rubicon to Constantine’s battle of the Milvian Bridge in 312.77 In these cases, the part played by political manipulation by the figure involved, either Caesar or Constantine, as opposed to the part of the spontaneous growth of the legend, is hard to unravel – like in the story of Sarapis’ origins. In order to assess the relation of such stories to ‘reality’, it may be wiser to adduce comparison from material gathered by sociologists in relation to modern societies – those deemed ‘over-literate’ – not to oral societies, or to turn to more theoretical works concerned with the process of memory and 83

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recollection, both individual and collective. In literate societies, the process of elaboration from ‘historical reality’ to recollection, the reconstructed narrative of the past, operates differently than in a society characterized by ‘the mythological mentality’. The gap between reality and narrative is both narrower and of a different nature. In the wake of Henri Bergson’s works on the subject, memory is now understood to be, in Peter Berger’s words, a ‘reiterated act of interpretation. As we remember the past, we reconstruct it in accordance with our present ideas of what is important and what is not.’78 Both the spheres of social and individual memories provide countless illustrations of this mechanism: both in the individual and the collective realm the selection of significative past events is guided by the need to build an ‘effective’ past for the present.79 Likewise, the building of a charter myth, as we posit in B.Ar., implies some instrumentalism of this kind in the finality of the reconstruction. Let us take one example from the individual sphere, which is relevant to our concerns inasmuch as the social pressure it involves is not political, as is usually the case in the modelling of collective memory: this example concerns what we may call the ‘conversion narrative’, specific to groups among what are now known as the New Religious Movements. Sociologists have called attention to the fact that inside a given religious movement, members tend to relate their conversion to the group in similar terms. Beyond their particulars, the accounts of all the individual experiences appear to follow the same pattern. Sociologists tend to explain this phenomenon as the result of mutual influences inside the group. In their first acquaintance with the group, would-be converts attend meetings during which individuals who have just gone through the whole process (the category of members of the religious movement with whom the newcomers would identify more easily) would share their own experience with them. Repeatedly hearing about the conversion process experienced by fellow-members, the new adherent is progressively impregnated with these redundant stories. When the new convert reflects on his own process of conversion, his previous familiarization with stories heard from other fellowmembers will trigger in him an unconscious process of selection in his recollection: he will tend to give more importance to details that fit the pattern with which he was impregnated, while dropping as negligible details which happen to be at odds with it.80 To sum up: the genesis of the Alexandrian paradigm may be explained through a combined reference to several elements: first, sociological studies on social and individual memory provide the fundamental notion that the past is reconstructed through a selection of elements bearing significance for the present. Second, Hayden White provides us with the notion of ‘emplotment’, which can be refined through two additional models in order to fit the specific conditions of the Hellenistic period. Thus, the notion of narrative elaboration derived from Cicero may explain the possible addition of 84

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fanciful elements (the import of the translators from abroad?, the involvement of the King?). Finally, Propp’s emphasis on the functional role of both characters and situations in the folktale casts light on the fact that the raison d’être of these possible additions is not necessarily related to external concerns, such as apologetic propaganda, but may derive from an inner need of the story.

Factual and chronological inaccuracies: the building up of a ‘story world’ As Peter Wiseman has put it, if modern ‘historical thinking’, as defined by R.G. Collingwood, is for the historian to put his ‘authorities’ to the question, then ancient Greek and Roman historians are characterized by ‘unhistorical thinking’.81 Caught as they were between laxity and the practical difficulties of cross-checking their sources beyond conformity to the ‘laws of nature’, ancient historians are often found by modern ones to be guilty of inaccuracy in their chronology or the personal ascription of a specific deed. One example may be given, which is of particular relevance for us: Strabo (13.1.54, C608) explicitly says that ‘[Aristotle] [was] the first man . . . to have taught the kings of Egypt how to arrange their library’.82 Clearly this cannot be literally true. Aristotle was dead by the time Ptolemy gained control of Egypt. It is most likely that Strabo means that the organization of the material in the library was modelled on Aristotle’s own private library.83 In his comment on Strabo’s quotation, Andrew Erskine has suggested that the tradition reported by the geographer may originate in Ptolemaic propaganda seeking to create a parallel between Aristotle’s role at the Alexandrian court, and his role at the court of Philip II. This would only be one more item in the Ptolemaic endeavours to bolster Ptolemy’s spiritual affiliation with Alexander through the mediation of Aristotle.84 Apparently, then, Strabo was misled by Ptolemaic propaganda. For all his careless chronological shortcomings, however, the geographer undoubtedly reported a tradition he deemed plausible, to the best of his personal critical capability. Moderns can doubt the reliability of his report, not his good faith. Let us approach the issue from the other end of the spectrum. The most ancient Greek novels, especially those from the Hellenistic period (such as the Ninus and Sesonchosis Romances), framed their story with references to wellknown historical characters or events.85 Their allusive, or intertextual, value contributed to build up what Niklas Holzberg has called a ‘guise of historicity’ – or what Andrew Laird has labelled, in reference to later and more openly fictional works, a ‘story world’.86 In practice, the difference between both the cases illustrated by Strabo and the novels is slight. It rests mainly on authorial intentionality. If we turn now to B.Ar., how are we to assess the author’s intention behind the chronological inaccuracies and dubious or spurious ascriptions which have 85

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long since been identified in the text? It seems that both attitudes in turn are illustrated in our work: bona fide inaccuracies, and the deliberate building of a ‘story world’. As might be expected, it is not always easy for us to decide – and even if it were, there is still a gap between an author’s bona fides and his reliability according to modern standards of factual accuracy.87 The deficiencies of the critical tools that stood at the disposal of ancient historians are particularly problematical if we assume the presence of an oral tradition at the core of B.Ar.’s story. Modern readers may have problems discerning inaccuracies. As for B.Ar.’s original readers, they just did not care, as was rightly emphasized by Oswyn Murray.88 The most obvious hint of this indifference is the anachronism twice encountered in the text (chs 28 and 182): the narrator refers to the Ptolemies as ‘those kings’, a phrase blatantly incompatible with his alleged position as an eyewitness. This chronological inconsistency is precisely what betrayed B.Ar.’s author to modern critics, and has prompted so many scholars ever since the sixteenth century to hail him a ‘liar’. But modern reactions are no warrant for ancient ones. The use of realia (i.e. the institutions or the items of everyday life) to build up a ‘story world’ is relatively easy to analyse. Andrew Laird has argued that setting their narrative in a world familiar to the reader is an important device used by modern novelists to build their fiction, hence the importance of realistic descriptions. Laird further convincingly shows that a very similar mechanism was demonstrably at work in ancient novels. It plays a role in B.Ar. also. Laird’s analysis may help to solve the highly vexed issue of the historical reliability of the realia mentioned in our text. The concept of ‘story world’ helps us to posit different treatments for Hellenistic Egypt and for Judaea in B.Ar. Inasmuch as B.Ar. is a work written in Alexandria for an Alexandrian readership, we may assume that the details pertaining to Ptolemaic realities are realistic up to a point, given the chronological gap between the author’s days and the precise setting of the story. As a matter of fact, the technical vocabulary related to Egypt is rooted in reality. However, even the realistic use of this technical vocabulary cannot be pushed too far. To begin with, its specific use in the text is, for the most part, inaccurate or anachronistic. Moreover, the references to Ptolemaic realia are undermined by too many intertextual allusions for them to be historically reliable. The fate of the word ‘politeuma’, which occurs in ch. 310, will be discussed below in Chapter 5. Technical vocabulary also appears in ch. 40. Here too, a close examination of the data shows inaccurate use of the nomenclature. The title to¯n archiso¯matophylako¯n is both anachronistic and inaccurate. In the form of a partitive genitive, as B.Ar. has it, this title is known for the first time under Ptolemy VI Philometor (180–145 BCE), and cannot be earlier than 163 BCE, the date of Ptolemy VI’s temporary expulsion from power by his brother, later to become Ptolemy VIII Euergetes II. (Its earlier recorded 86

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occurrence dates to 155 BCE.) It was a later addition to a reform set up by Ptolemy V Epiphanes in the years 197/94. This reform introduced a system of honorific titles derived from the original aulic titulatures. However, the titles promoted by this reform no longer pointed to actual members of the court, but to high officials in charge of various administrative and military positions across the country. Among the titles referring to the six ranks of this new system are archiso¯matophylax and to¯n so¯matophylako¯n but not to¯n archiso¯matophylako¯n. The title of to¯n archiso¯matophylako¯n was added some thirty years later. Like the earlier titles, it no longer had anything to do with aulic titulature, and was born by high-ranking administrative officials across the country, not by courtiers.89 To sum up: the author of B.Ar. confused the administrative rank-title, to¯n archiso¯matophylako¯n, a late addition to a hierarchy first inaugurated in 197/4, and the aulic title archiso¯matophylax, which was actually in use in the third century BCE. Thus, the concept of a story world warns us against taking even the factual details relating to Ptolemaic Egypt at face value. The technical vocabulary is correct but its use is fanciful. As for Jerusalem and Judaea, this geographical area formed an altogether abstract and faraway reality. As such, this space tended to function as a recipient for idealizing aspirations. Indisputable instances of this idealization can, indeed, be pointed out in the digression formed by the Travelogue, as was seen in Chapter 2. The most conspicuous clue to its non-realistic content is the comparison between the Jordan river and the Nile, ch. 116. This instance casts doubt on the reliability of the whole description. We must not expect any of the realia relating to Judaea to be reliable from a ‘factual’ point of view. The contrast just established between the realia relating to Ptolemaic Egypt and those relating to Judaea does not imply, however, that all the sections in B.Ar. referring to Egypt should be taken for realia, anachronistic or not. The allusions may also target an intellectual debate, and not a concrete reality. This is clearly the case with the digression of the Apology for the Law, chs 128–71. As was emphasized in Chapter 2, it would be a mistake to look for direct hints of the social reality of contemporary Egypt in this section of B.Ar., throughout which the author is clearly polemicizing against philosophical views. The references to the Alexandrian Library that are found in B.Ar. are more difficult to tackle, as we shall see in Chapter 6. Intertextuality further interferes with the use of technical vocabulary. Moses Hadas has already pointed out that the comparison between Jerusalem and Alexandria, in chs 107–11, includes a free quotation from Aristotle’s Athenian Constitution, 16, referring to Peisistratus’ rule in sixth-century Athens.90 Aristotle’s text is carefully re-written, in the sense that the technical vocabulary found in the original text is systematically modified to fit the corresponding realia of Hellenistic Egypt. For example, the judges, dikastai in the Athenian Constitution, 16.5, become chre¯matistai in B.Ar., 111. This last term, which refers to circuit judges, is indeed attested in documentary 87

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papyri stemming from Ptolemaic Egypt.91 Likewise, the ‘demes’, the local administrative divisions in Athens, are turned into ‘nomes’, the administrative districts of Egypt. As to the phrase prostatai te¯s poleo¯s, ‘the chief men of the city’ in Shutt’s translation, its meaning is not clear at all – although it is true that the institutions of Hellenistic Alexandria are poorly known. However, we cannot exclude an attempted adaptation of the phrase prostate¯s tou de¯mou, ‘leader of the people’, or perhaps even ‘protector of the people’. This phrase recurs several times in Aristotle to refer to various figures, like Solon, Cleisthenes, or Ephialtes, and indeed Peisistratus himself.92 In Ptolemaic Egypt the word prostate¯s refers to ‘local magistrates whose authority encompasses, but is not limited to, matters of security comparable to those of a police force’.93 It is also attested in the sense of ‘protector’, ‘defender’, in papyrological evidence as early as the mid-second century BCE.94 Thus, the comparison between Jerusalem and Alexandria provides the clearest example of realia inserted into the narrative in order to build in a ‘story world’. This leaves us with one major issue to solve: the conditions attending the association of Ptolemy II and Demetrius of Phalerum in B.Ar.’s account. Ptolemy II Philadelphus and Demetrius of Phalerum The uncertain status of B.Ar.’s narrative, oscillating between possibly reliable data, inaccuracies resulting from various causes, and the setting of a story world, is especially devastating when it comes to the historical characters associated in B.Ar. with the translation of the LXX, Ptolemy Philadelphus and Demetrius of Phalerum. What is at stake here is B.Ar.’s value as evidence for the origins of the LXX. Unfortunately, historical reality is hard to retrieve, for the reliability of the sources at our disposal is dubious. Most modern scholars, however, doubt that Demetrius of Phalerum remained active at the Alexandrian court under Ptolemy II. On the basis of information provided by Diogenes Laertius, who uses Hermippus, Callimachus’ pupil, it seems that Demetrius was exiled from the Alexandrian court by Philadelphus very shortly after the latter’s accession to power. Demetrius had committed the fatal error of supporting another heir to the throne.95 However, either this information was not available to B.Ar.’s author, or he disregarded or discarded it altogether, knew better, or had good reasons to involve Demetrius in his account. If we posit a factual error, our modern understanding of the working method of Graeco-Roman historians warns us to beware of reading voluntary distortion into it. The association between the two figures may simply be a matter of involuntary inaccuracy. After all, Graeco-Roman historians are often proved wrong by modern ones on these very grounds – even those who consulted archives. We just met this sort of chronological blunder in Strabo. Interestingly, the mechanism responsible for the association between 88

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Ptolemy II and Demetrius of Phalerum repeated itself later, with the substitution of Ptolemy I for Ptolemy II in Christian sources. Let us try now to see how the mechanism of collective memory may have played a part in this matter. Ascribing significant facts to well-known characters is an ordinary mechanism of collective memory. A further rule worth noting here is that the first character of a series enjoys a special status. Ptolemy I is the founder of the dynasty. Demetrius, who arrived in Egypt in 297 BCE according to ancient sources, was probably never formally appointed as chief librarian. Nevertheless, there are good grounds to believe that he played a crucial role in the setting up of the library in Alexandria. He may have given the initial trigger for gathering the books in the royal capital, inspired by the model of Aristotle’s library in Athens.96 If he had played such an important role, collective memory might easily associate his name with the beginnings of the library. Hence, Jewish collective memory could well have associated him with the undertaking of the translation. Similarly, it would have been quite natural for later Christian tradition to substitute Ptolemy I for Ptolemy II.97 But how can we explain that the earliest Alexandrian Jewish sources mention Ptolemy II Philadelphus? Is this apparent exception to the rule just recorded a warrant of authenticity? Hardly. Philo tells us in his Life of Moses, 2.29 that by his time any deed of noticeable scope was proverbially hailed ‘Philadelphean’. As a matter of fact, Cleopatra VII called her third child by Antony, Ptolemy Philadelphus, an epithet that aimed at linking the kingdom of her time with the glorious days of Ptolemy II (Cassius Dio, Roman History, 49.32.4).98 Inadvertent inaccuracy, however, is probably not the best interpretation for the association of Demetrius and Ptolemy II in B.Ar.’s story. It looks as if our author had very good reason to include the figure of Demetrius in his story, since this character plays such a crucial role in the translation and editing of the LXX. We have already noted that Demetrius is both the real initiator of the translation (chs 10–11) and the one who transcribes it under the dictation of the translators, reads it aloud to the gathering of the Jews, and acknowledges its sacredness (chs 302, 308, 313). If we consider the list of names of the Greek officials who appear in B.Ar., there is a blatant contrast or even contradiction between the role ascribed to Demetrius and his proper name: of all the Greek names chosen by B.Ar.’s author for his fictive Greek characters, ‘Demetrius’ stands out as the only theophoric name referring to a pagan deity, the goddess Demeter. All other Greeks bear neutral names, including the tragic poet (Theodectus) and the historian (Theopompus) mentioned in the fictional story told in chs 314–16 which has been discussed in more detail in Chapter 3. Judging by his name, the choice of the figure of Demetrius is exceptional. In other words, it is not arbitrary, like the mentions of Theodectus and Theopompus and, probably, the mention of Menedemus in ch. 201 also.99 B.Ar.’s author was either dependent 89

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on an oral tradition that he felt was binding, or something specific in the connotations linked to the figure of Demetrius prompted him to select him for the role he plays in his story – or both. There can be no doubt that the prominent role played by Demetrius in gathering texts from all over the Greek world for the setting up of a new library in Alexandria provides the right connotation. More precisely, we are certainly entitled to infer from Demetrius’ role in B.Ar. that Demetrius’ name was firmly tied up in Alexandrian memory with the ideology of possessing the canonical texts of Classical authors, which was already referred to in Chapter 3 above.100 On the other hand, one clue may, perhaps, foster the assumption that the association between Ptolemy II and Demetrius in the story of the translation of the LXX was inherited from an oral tradition. They are also associated in Aristobulus fgt 3 (Eusebius, Praep. Ev. 13.12.1–2).101 Our interpretation of this depends on how we see the relation between B.Ar. and Aristobulus. Most scholars still argue for the dependency of the one on the other. However, Norbert Meisner has argued that B.Ar. and Aristobulus were independent of each other and drew on a common tradition.102 In fact, both assumptions, the existence of an oral tradition on which our author was dependent, and the rationale just given for Demetrius’ involvement in the translation, are not incompatible. The latter may precisely explain the formation of the oral tradition. This would only mean that the author of B.Ar. inherited from ‘common lore’ among Alexandrian Jews the connection between the translation of the LXX and the Alexandrian library, as well as the underlying ideology associating the library with canonical editions. Consequently, our author would not have created his charter myth for the LXX, but would only have given it a literary form. This would be all the better for the thesis advocated in the present book. It can be concluded from the foregoing discussion that the involvement of the figures of both Ptolemy II and Demetrius of Phalerum in B.Ar.’s story may qualify as fictional, but that literary analysis of the text does not provide the means to decide finally about either of them. The involvement of Ptolemy II may derive from the fame enjoyed by this king, and the clearly ‘Philadelphean’ nature of the translation of the LXX in the Jewish view; Demetrius of Phalerum is the best possible warrant for the quality of the manuscript on which the translation and edition of the LXX was based. External criteria must, therefore, be adduced in order to distinguish between them. Chapters 5 and 6 will show that there are grounds to associate the translation of the LXX with the reign of Ptolemy II, not his father. This would confirm that the involvement of Demetrius of Phalerum in the story of the origins of the LXX derives from ideological grounds. Thus, this detailed discussion of the reliability of B.Ar.’s account in contemporary minds shows that B.Ar. meets every basic criteria of plausibility 90

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accepted at the time the author was writing. It goes without saying that the assumption that an oral tradition stood at the core of B.Ar. makes a further criterion necessary for B.Ar.’s account to be received as reliable by its contemporary readership: it needed to coincide with what readers ‘knew’ to be true. B.Ar. may thus combine two dimensions. On the one hand, it has close connections with Hellenistic historiography. On the other, it is possible that echoes of a pre-existing oral tradition are embedded in it. Arguably, this combination of history and oral tradition forms the basis for its operation as a charter myth. However, it also undermines the reliability of B.Ar.’s account in the eyes of the modern reader. The two last chapters will be dedicated to the relationship between B.Ar.’s text and the historical origins of the LXX in the light of modern standards of historical reconstruction.

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5 THE ORIGINS AND EARLY HISTORY OF THE LXX Guidelines for a reconstruction of the past*

So far we have been dealing with B.Ar. as an autonomous literary output. The foregoing chapters have been concerned with aspects of literary composition and the nature of the narrative. Clarifying the nature and meaning of B.Ar. and its own intrinsic logic was an indispensable prerequisite to tackling the issue that most interests scholars: the relation of this text to historical reality. What can B.Ar. teach us about the origins of the LXX? Is it reliable evidence at all, and if so, to what extent? This issue of the origins of the LXX will occupy us in these last two chapters before the Conclusion. It will be approached in two stages, hence the division into two chapters. This requires some explanation. The traditional debate around the origins of the LXX and the relevance of B.Ar. for its reconstruction as it has long been conducted in modern scholarship is reaching its limits because of the limited range of external evidence available. The time is past when a historian was expected to propose a coherent and exhaustive reconstruction of the past by filling up the gaps in the evidence with assumptions usually based on his own culturally determined common sense and in a way self-sufficient enough to dismiss all other solutions. When it comes to issues as muddled as those of the origins of the LXX, in which so many areas of shade get in the way of safely grounded conclusions, it is necessary to allow for more flexibility. This is why the first stage of the present inquiry which will concern us here in Chapter 5 has been conceived not as the exposition of one coherent, exclusive hypothesis, but as an exploration of the possible. The purpose of this approach is to work out a conceptual framework, in the hope that this will provide a working basis for further inquiry. As the various points involved in the issue of the genesis of the LXX are successively reviewed, an attempt will be made to address the related hypotheses or arguments that are still currently a matter of debate among scholars. The aim will be primarily to assess the level of plausibility of each one, as well as adducing, when necessary, further arguments in the discussion. It will be argued that 93

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certain lines should be abandoned altogether. Simultaneously, the discussion in this chapter and the following one will suggest alternative readings of material that is usually adduced in support of one particular hypothesis. Readings and interpretations currently enjoying wide popularity among scholars are sometimes rooted in premises that are no longer acceptable nowadays. These interpretations, themselves, have resisted revision, for no better reason than legitimacy derived from familiarity. Returning to these premises and showing that they are no longer well founded and then suggesting alternative readings will, it is to be hoped, trigger a process of defamiliarization that will, in turn, liberate space for new interpretations more consistent with the current state of research. The most obvious example of such outdated premises which are still too often taken as a starting point for modern discussions is the view that the Jewish community of Alexandria was a cultural and political entity secluded from the surrounding society. More and more studies on the Jews in the Hellenistic and Roman world are converging to prove how misguided this representation is. To achieve our goal it will be necessary to widen the scope of our inquiry beyond B.Ar. itself. There is little concrete external evidence on the origins of the LXX. However, intensive philological study of the LXX Pentateuch by various scholars in recent years has substantially improved our knowledge about the early history of this text. Likewise, considerable progress has been made in our understanding of Ptolemaic society in general, and of the situation of the Jews in particular. The results of these investigations provide important data for assessing anew the relationship between ‘literary elaboration’ and the ‘historical kernel’ in B.Ar. They must be considered in any discussion of the early history of the LXX. It would not be very useful, however, to keep the discussion at an abstract level. Thus, the following discussion will be illustrated by outlining concrete historical scenarios. These will both derive from, and provide a concrete exploration of, the hypotheses deemed worthy of particular interest. These scenarios are provided as illustrative examples, rather than as final answers to the issue examined. Limiting the discussion to the exploration of ravelled threads, however, would be deeply unsatisfying. This is why the discussion of the ‘working framework’ which constitutes the subject matter of the present chapter will be followed by an exposition of a comprehensive historical reconstruction in the following final chapter. The starting point on which this will be based derives, not surprisingly, from the conclusions reached from the analysis of B.Ar. in its literary dimension in the preceding chapters. Its working hypothesis is that the similarities between Homeric scholarship and the translation of the LXX that were noted at the literary and narrative level are to be taken seriously and may echo some diffuse historical reality, to be defined. While the allusions to Homeric scholarship have long been noted in modern studies, this line has never been fully explored. 94

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We must first make explicit the premises on which the discussion of the ‘working framework’ will be based. First and foremost, we must stop confining the examination of the origins of the LXX to a narrow religious context. Many studies on the religious mentality, conceptions, attitude and behaviour of the Graeco-Roman world have shown that the religious sphere was by no means secluded from other aspects of society. Religious and nonreligious motivations are always intertwined in religious practice. Thus, scholars working on the Christianization of the Roman empire have stressed the role of ‘non-religious motivations behind conversions’.1 As for the religious motivations involved, they are articulated in a way very different from what might be expected in a modern Christian society. Therefore, our premise will be that the primary impetus behind the translation of the LXX was not – or at least not exclusively – religious. This is true for everyone involved: not only the Jews, but also the king – if we are to see the involvement of a royal figure as historical. In this connection it is relevant to recall the view, advocated in Chapter 3 above, that the purpose of B.Ar. was to promote the LXX to the status of a sacred text. The obvious implication of this claim is that the LXX was not sacred in the third century BCE. In fact, it is doubtful whether anyone in Ptolemaic Egypt, or indeed the Graeco-Roman world at large, would have ever considered a freshly made translation of any sacred text as sacred itself, let alone integrated it in a ritual or liturgical framework. The second premise is partly consequent on the first. It holds that B.Ar.’s statement that Ptolemy II and the library were involved in some way or another in the early history of the LXX is no less plausible than the opposing view which considers that the translation was a strictly Jewish matter. (For the sake of consistency references to the historical library of Alexandria will be spelled with a lower case. The capital letter will be reserved for references related to the fictional setting of B.Ar. On the use of capitalized and lower case initials in the present book see Chapter 1, p. 12.) The reluctance of many modern scholars to accept B.Ar.’s version on this point is, in the main, based on the assumption that the LXX originated in a religious setting. Since scholars find it hard to believe that Ptolemy II or any other Ptolemaic king was ever interested in Judaism, they find it equally hard to accept that he could have been interested in having the Jewish Law translated.2 This is taking at face value ancient Jewish propaganda, seen in works such as B.Ar., that wished to create a causal link between royal favour towards the Jews and the king’s adherence to their God.3 Once again, studies in Greek and Roman religions have shown that the social interactions revolving around religious practices are far more complex. It is now generally accepted that members of the local Graeco-Roman elites who provided financial support to synagogues throughout the Roman empire were not necessarily either converts or theosebeis, ‘God-fearers’.4 This point will be discussed in more detail below. 95

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Another premise is that we should not restrict ourselves by seeking too close an association between the technique and the circumstances of the translation on the one hand, and the original purpose of the translation on the other. There may or may not be a relation between circumstances and purpose. Some recent papers dissociate these aspects in a very rational manner.5 This point will become clearer when we come to examine the issue of the original purpose of the translation. Last but not least, a further premise will be that we should seek to ‘normalize’ as far as possible the circumstances surrounding the early history of the LXX. The translation of the LXX is often held as either a unique or an unprecedented phenomenon.6 A certain degree of innovation and uniqueness is, indeed, to be conceded. However, our working hypothesis should aim to restrict the scope of this uniqueness as narrowly as possible, not the contrary. In this way we are likely to call attention to parallels which have been neglected up to now. As already noted, looking at the field of Homeric studies in third- and second-century Alexandrian scholarship is liable to be rewarding from this perspective.

Insights around objective data Internal analysis of the LXX and the early history of the text For quite some time the linguistic study of the LXX remained neglected. In recent years, however, this field has been flourishing again. This revival was triggered by a renewed interest in the early history of the LXX, together with the recognition that linguistic studies can provide a means of reconstructing the LXX Urtext. Recent studies on both lexicographical and syntactical aspects of the LXX have, indeed, yielded important results in dating and characterizing the Urtext.7 These studies confirm, first of all, that the Pentateuch was the earliest part of the Hebrew Bible to be translated. It has long been recognized that external evidence, such as papyri containing portions of the Greek Pentateuch and, to a lesser extent, citations in Judaeo-Hellenistic writers, provide a terminus ante quem for the date of the translation. The oldest papyri discovered so far are P.Rylands III 458, and P.inv. Fouad 266 in Egypt, and 4QLXXLeva in Qumran. P.Rylands III 458 dates from the mid-second century BCE, and contains some twenty verses taken from various passages in Deuteronomy 23–8. 4QLXXLeva is dated to the late second or first century BCE. P.inv. Fouad 266 is a cluster of fragments from three different rolls of Genesis and Deuteronomy, two of which are dated to the mid-first century BCE while the third is slightly later.8 As for literary sources, Demetrius the Chronographer, a Jewish writer probably active in Alexandria in the reign of Ptolemy IV (221–04 BCE), is held to be the earliest writer to use quotations from the LXX. Further citations are found in Alexandrian Jewish 96

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writers thought to be active in the second century BCE.9 Thus, the scanty external evidence indicates that the Pentateuch was translated some time in the third century, at all events before the mid-second century BCE, if we discard the literary sources. Lexicographical studies confirm these results. In an important study on the Pentateuch, John Lee cautiously concluded that the surviving text is ‘probably older than the middle of the second century BCE’.10 In a more recent study based on verbal syntax, T.V. Evans goes as far as concluding that some features of the Pentateuchal verbal system ‘are strongly suggestive of production early (probably very early) in the post-Classical period. They are thus consistent with the consensus view of a date of c.280–250 BC’. Other features, while not allowing such a precise dating, still point to a date not later than the third or second century BCE.11 Second, studies on the Greek syntax of the Pentateuch, primarily by scholars from the Helsinki school, have led to the conclusion that there were several translators at work on the Pentateuch. Thus, in her work on the syntax of coordinate clauses, Anneli Aejmelaeus has pointed out differences in translation technique between Genesis and Leviticus. In his analysis of the pleonastic use of the personal pronoun after a relative pronoun in the Pentateuch, Raija Sollamo opposes the Books of Genesis and Exodus to the three other books of the Pentateuch.12 No less important for our subject, studies of LXX Pentateuch lexicography have established that the Greek of this text reflects the Koine¯, or vernacular Greek, which was in use in Egypt by that time. In other words, the translators did not come from Judaea, but were recruited among local Egyptian Jews. A fourth point is related to the translation technique of the Pentateuch. As the Roman theoreticians first put it, a translation may be free (sensus de sensu, rendering the general sense) or literal (verbum e verbo, word for word).13 A good definition of the difference between both techniques is given by Sebastian Brock: [Free translations] treat the phrase or sentence as the unit to be translated, [literal translations] the individual word. They can aim to convey the general sense at the expense of the individual word, or render the words individually at the expense of the sense.14 According to this division, all the LXX books may be defined as literal translations, even though the degree of literalness varies considerably from one book to another. The Pentateuch has been shown to be less literal than other books, a feature that may be interpreted as a further proof for the early date of its translation. It may also be explained by the fact that the translation was conducted not on the basis of a word-for-word rendering, but on the basis 97

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of syntactical entities, either clauses or sentences, as has been argued by Arie van der Kooij, the latter technique allowing for some exegetical interpretation alongside literal renderings.15 However, these nuances do not alter the basic definition of the LXX Pentateuch as a literal translation. Substantial progress in our understanding of these implications has been achieved in recent years thanks to the work of scholars who have consciously drawn on the theoretical approach to translation developed in the field of ‘translation studies’.16 As Benjamin Wright has summarized it, such theoretical studies contribute to our comprehension of the position of the translator vis-à-vis the source text he is translating. A literal translation (and this also holds true for the modified version proposed by van der Kooij) involves the kind of commitment towards the text being translated that Louis Kelly calls ‘positional authority’, whereas a free translation involves a ‘personal authority’. In a positional authority, the translator will deviate as little as possible from the source text and the translation will endeavour to be as ‘objective’ as possible. It is a ‘text-centered’ translation, while the free translation is defined by Kelly as ‘author or reader-centered and subjective’.17 Thus, the use of literal translation confirms what we could guess anyway, namely, that the translators of the LXX were aware they were dealing with a sacred text. The field of translational studies, however, invites us to put the stress on the source text, in our case the Hebrew Law, not on the resulting text in the target language, the LXX Pentateuch. The sacred text was the Hebrew Law. We cannot infer from the observations carried out on the technical quality of the LXX that the translation itself was held as sacred by its performers. In fact, the traditional view that the translated text was held as sacred from the outset has been increasingly challenged from the second half of the twentieth century. Two other suggestions were put forward: first, that the translation of the LXX was primarily conceived as a nomos. In support of this contention it was pointed out that the translation of the LXX was modelled upon that of legal documents – that is, technique and purpose of translation were closely associated. More recently it has been argued that the LXX originated as a schoolboy crib. The starting point once again is the technique of translation used in the LXX. According to this view, the latter is best paralleled by literal translations used in an educational context in the synagogue. We shall come back to these suggestions in a moment. The Jewish community of Alexandria in the early third century BCE Little is known about the history of the Jewish community in Alexandria in the Hellenistic period. The issues of its organization and legal status, among others, are heavily debated. B.Ar. provides some information about this in passing: in ch. 310, after the newly transcribed/translated18 Law was 98

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read aloud to the Jews gathered for the occasion, the text reads as follows: ‘When the rolls had been read the priests (hiereis) and the elders (presbyteroi) of the translators and some of the politeuma and the leaders (hegoumenoi) of the people (plethos) rose up . . .’.19 The manuscripts are unfortunately corrupt, and this sentence is therefore difficult to reconstruct. It is not clear whether the ‘elders’ referred to are ‘those of the translators’, or the ‘elders (that is, the leading officials) of the politeuma’. However, the crux of the problem does not revolve around restoring the manuscripts, but around the mention of the politeuma. The word politeuma (pl. politeumata) designates a kind of association that is documented in Hellenistic and Roman Egypt and in Cyrenaica, as well as in Phoenicia, in the Hellenistic period. Its nature has been, and is still, heavily debated among scholars. Some have argued that politeumata enjoyed a privileged legal status, endowing their members with internal autonomy. This legal framework allegedly allowed their members, usually a homogeneous ethnic group, to keep their national customs, and prevented them from assimilating into the surrounding society. Others retorted that politeumata are associations linked to a military context, at least in the Ptolemaic period. Only in the Roman period did they lose their military connections and became strictly cultural associations. Since the Ptolemaic army in the second century BCE was made up of ethnically homogeneous military units, so the politeumata must have been associations of homogeneous ethnic groups. In the late second and the first century BCE, however, when the units of the Ptolemaic army became ethnically mixed, the same was true of the politeumata. This question, together with many other aspects relating to the nature, structure and functioning of the politeumata, is still controversial. However, a recently published archive of twenty papyri emanating from a Jewish politeuma located in Heracleopolis in Middle Egypt has yielded important new data, that now allows us to settle part of this protracted debate.20 Thanks to the new publication of P.Polit.Iud. a number of elements may now be considered as fairly certain.21 First of all, politeumata definitely had their roots in a military context and their members were, at least originally, soldiers belonging to ethnically homogeneous units. Second, politeumata do not appear in these new documents before the reign of Ptolemy IV in the late third century BCE, and there are grounds to believe that the chronology of the documents reflects a historical reality. In the early third century BCE, soldiers were settled as cleruchs in the countryside, i.e. reservists endowed with a piece of land. It therefore seems reasonable to infer from the extant evidence that the setting up of groups of soldiers or mercenaries as politeumata began no earlier than the reign of Ptolemy IV. Third, the politeuma did not include the whole of the local ethnic community. In several cases a two-fold organization is recognizable. This is particularly the case for the Idumaeans of Memphis, known from two inscriptions dating from the late second century or the early first century BCE: one of those mentions a 99

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‘gathering of the Idumaeans of the politeuma and those of the city’. A twofold organization is also certain in the case of the Jewish politeuma of Cyrene, documented in the early Roman period.22 The evidence relating to politeumata in the Egyptian countryside in the Ptolemaic period provides an indispensable background for understanding the organization of the Jews in Alexandria. It seems fairly certain that there were already Jews in Alexandria in the early third century BCE and perhaps even earlier. Two Hebrew or Aramaic and four Greek inscriptions relating to Jews were found in the Alexandrian necropolis of El-Ibrahimiya, which was in use in the early Ptolemaic period.23 A number of passages in Josephus appear to imply that the earliest Jewish settlers in Alexandria were not (or not only) scattered individuals, but organized groups of unclear status. It seems that a new group of Jews arrived in the second century BCE. In all likelihood this new settlement was made up of refugees fleeing Judaea in the aftermath of the Maccabean revolt.24 Parallel evidence supports the view that the newcomers were organized as a politeuma, for at least two other politeumata seem to have begun in similar historical circumstances: the Idumaeans at Memphis, and the Jewish followers of Onias IV in Leontopolis.25 We are lucky to have some information about the internal organization of the Jewish politeuma in Alexandria in the first century BCE. Our knowledge derives mainly from a description by Strabo quoted by Josephus. Strabo’s testimony is corroborated by some scanty evidence in papyri from Alexandria, and indirectly by data from the new archive from Heracleopolis. Strabo’s description reads as follows: 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 the head of a sovereign state.26 The powers ascribed by Strabo to the ethnarch, the ‘leader of the nation’ of the Jews may now be compared to the powers enjoyed by the archontes of the politeuma of the Jews in Heracleopolis. The reliability of Strabo’s testimony is therefore confirmed. We also know both from papyri and from Josephus that the ‘Jews’ of Alexandria kept archives. It is possible that this archive was, in fact, supervised by the heads of the politeuma and not the Jewish community at large. Indeed, it looks as if the politeuma of the Jews in Alexandria, as in other places, was not identical with the local Jewish community, but included only part of it. Ch. 310 of B.Ar. quoted above does seem to describe a two-fold structure of this kind, with a politeuma alongside a plethos. In view of these elements, it is highly plausible that the politeuma of the Jews existed by the time B.Ar. was written, but not in Ptolemy II’s day. 100

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The most reasonable assumption by far is that the author of B.Ar. projected the organization prevailing in his own days back onto the past. We have no clues as to what was the organization of the Jews in the early third century BCE. We may be fairly certain, however, that the Jewish community was then rather small. Inferred consequences for the early history of the LXX In a paper published in 1950, and more clearly in 1959, Elias Bickerman pointed out that a translation of the length of the Pentateuch must have involved huge expenses. In the third century BCE only a state-sponsored enterprise could come into question.27 The objections that have been raised against Bickerman’s remarks may not be as convincing as they first appear. An objection commonly heard, if not always written, is that Jerome translated the Vulgate without state support; similarly, the targums were compiled without state support. So why not the LXX? In fact, Jerome is known to have lived an ascetic life. Moreover, he may not have enjoyed state support, but he was, all the same, fully integrated in the system of patronage of Roman society, first in Antioch in his early career, and later in Rome, where his patron was Pope Damasus. More important, once in Rome he benefited from the financial support of a rich widow belonging to the senatorial aristocracy, Paula, who later followed him to Bethlehem, where she financed the building of a monastery for women, another for men that Jerome headed, and a hospice for pilgrims. She provided the financial means needed to run the religious communities set up by herself and Jerome until her death, and charities later took over this role.28 Even if there were learned men, either Jews or Greeks, who enjoyed enough leisure time to dedicate themselves to the task of translating or commenting upon biblical books in the Roman period, in Palestine or elsewhere, it does not follow that we may safely project this kind of situation back onto early third-century Ptolemaic Egypt. At this time the Jews of Alexandria were first or second generation immigrants – third generation at best. It may still be conceded that there may have been some rich individuals among them. Inscriptions show Jews subsidizing the building of proseuchai, Jewish religious buildings, in the countryside as early as the third century BCE.29 However, the translation of the LXX was a complex undertaking. As we saw above, the various philological studies carried out on the LXX Pentateuch in recent years are consistent in supporting the view that a number of translators worked on this text. Now, it is one thing to imagine one rich individual dedicating his time to a long and exacting translation in a monastery like Jerome, or on his estate, with estate-managers supervising his slaves. It is quite another to imagine several people gathering together for a prolonged period, or for several meetings of probably several 101

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weeks each, with no external support, even if their needs were generally modest. A collective work implies a level of organization completely different from that of an individual initiative. It involves meeting the expenses needed for supporting a team of scholars away from home for a long time. Moreover, it involves a political authority to co-ordinate the working schedule. We may recall, in this context, the scholars gathered by Ptolemy II in the museum and the library, who all enjoyed a royal stipend. It may be objected that the philosophical associations of fourth-century Athens, Plato’s Academy, Aristotle’s Lyceum, and the later Hellenistic schools, were gatherings of intellectuals or scholars who did not enjoy external support. However, one had either to be rich or to be prepared to live a very ascetic life in order to attend the lessons of the masters. There is explicit evidence that the sophists and later Isocrates at least received fees for their teaching.30 It is questionable whether the required conditions of wealth existed in the Jewish community of third-century Alexandria. Even if the answer were positive, the issue of a political authority capable of co-ordinating the enterprise would still have to be met. We have no reason to believe that the Jewish community was tightly organized before the setting up of the Jewish politeuma in the second century. To summarize: even though certainty cannot be reached, the involvement of the Ptolemaic king is the simplest solution to the problem – unless we posit a much later date for the translation, a move that has little support from philological studies. The involvement of the king Since the positive data available to us is so scanty, one way of assessing the plausibility of any scenario is to gauge how far it matches the sociohistorical conditions of third-century Ptolemaic society in general, and the situation of the Jews in this society in particular. In the way in which it was long understood by modern historians, the situation of the Jews provided a very satisfactory background for scholars who claimed that B.Ar.’s version has no historical core whatsoever. The Jews in the Graeco-Roman diaspora were described as close-knit communities secluded from their environment in order to preserve their religious peculiarity. Against such a background, the involvement of a Greek king in the translation of the Law of the Jews did not make much sense. In the last two or three decades, however, a growing consensus among historians working on the Jews in the GraecoRoman diaspora bolsters the view that the Jews were far more integrated in their environment than was previously admitted.31 In fact, recent scholarship tends to normalize almost completely the situation of the Jews in their environment.32 Jews were different, this new trend holds, but all in all they were no more so than any other ethnic minority in the Graeco-Roman world. 102

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Recent studies on Ptolemaic Egypt show that some peculiarities which were once ascribed to the religion of the Jews are attested in other ethnically homogeneous groups, including some of Greek stock.33 As was already intimated above, positing the involvement of the king does not necessarily imply that any of the Ptolemies were interested in Judaism. The documentary evidence from Ptolemaic Egypt provides points of comparison. One such example is an inscription from Memphis related to the Idumaean politeuma and community in this city. This is an honorific decree voted on behalf of a certain Dorion, who had built the temple of Apollo in which a gathering took place. Apollo is, in fact, the Greek name for the Idumaean national god, Qos. Many of the Idumaeans in Memphis bore theophoric names referring to Apollo, and these are presumably Hellenizations of traditional names referring to Qos. Furthermore, the cult carried out in this temple obviously conforms to the ancestral tradition of the Idumaeans (SB V 8929, ll. 13–17). The man who built this Idumaean temple, however, was hardly interested in Idumaean religion. Dorion was an Egyptian belonging to the priestly elite of Memphis. We know from his Demotic funerary inscription that he was also a local strategos, that is, a highranking official in the Ptolemaic local administration.34 Since the Idumaean politeuma was composed of machairophoroi, i.e. royal bodyguards, its officials could easily have evolved close links with the local strategos. The reasons for Dorion to finance the building of an Idumaean temple must have been similar to those usually operating in the Greek society – even though Dorion was not of Greek stock. In a society that gave such high value to fame and reputation, euergetism was the main means for rich individuals or families to remain influential and even secure local power. The question of royal involvement in the translation of the LXX may be addressed at a more general level. Private letters found in Graeco-Egyptian papyri have cast light on the interpersonal relations that characterized Ptolemaic society in a way seldom achieved for Antiquity. They provide models that may inspire plausible reconstructions of what happened in the case of the LXX. The kind of social relationship that provides the most interesting track for mapping one possible process is that of personal patronage, well attested in Ptolemaic Egypt. Letters show that individuals or groups of people used to apply to persons enjoying influential positions in society in order to ask them to intercede on their behalf with a higher authority to whom the petitioner(s) needed to present a request. As Marta Piatkowska and Jean Bingen have independently shown, the phenomenon of skepe¯, the ‘protection’ given by local officials to weaker individuals, became generalized in late Ptolemaic society.35 However, it is already attested in the third century BCE. Some examples of letters asking for help are known from the Zenon archives, in the second third of the third century BCE. One such letter was sent to Zenon by three Caunians (i.e. fellow-citizens of his) in order to ask him 103

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to present their letter to Apollonius, a well-known high financial official of Ptolemy II.36 This is clearly a request for informal support in dealing with the royal administration in Alexandria.37 The most striking example for our case is a petition sent in 257 BCE to the same Apollonius by one Zoilus of Aspendus.38 It is worth quoting the text: To Apollonius, greeting from Zoilus of Aspendus, [one of . . .] and who was also introduced to you by the friends of the king. As I was worshipping the god Serapis (and praying for) your good health and the prosperity of king Ptolemy (II), it happened that Serapis [enjoined] to me several times in my dreams to sail to visit you and [tell you about] this injunction: a . . . must be built to him together with a precinct (temenos) in the Greek quarter near the harbour, and [a priest] must be appointed, [and] sacrifices performed at the altar on your behalf. As I [beseeched him . . .] to release me from [this task], he caused me to fall seriously ill . . . When I came to Alexandria and hesitated to approach you about these matters but (only discussed) the business you had agreed about, I had another relapse for four months. That is why I was unable to come and see you immediately. It is therefore right, Apollonius, for you to follow the god’s commands so that Serapis may be merciful to you and may greatly increase your standing with the king and your prestige, and make you enjoy good bodily health. Do not therefore fear that the expense will prove to be great, for it will cost you very little; I shall jointly supervise all these works. Farewell.39 We could easily imagine a similar kind of transaction taking place related to the translation of the LXX. According to this model, the king would eventually have been involved. The initiative of getting him involved, however, would have rested on the Jews. They would have taken the initiative of approaching him, as the Idumaeans in Memphis probably took the initiative of the building of Apollo/Qos’ temple, which was subsidized by an Egyptian priest and Ptolemaic official. At the very least, the Alexandrian Jews may have turned to the king for some financial support in order to carry out the translation of their Law as they wished. The Jews may also have been interested in taking advantage of the facilities provided by the technical infrastructure linked to the royal library. It could even be suggested that the Jews may have had a concrete precedent in mind in approaching the king. On two occasions early Ptolemaic kings (perhaps Ptolemy II himself in both cases) had already brought scholars together. The first occasion was the compilation and translation into Greek of the Demotic Manual of law. The second relates to the work of text editing carried on in the royal library. Each of these potential precedents would 104

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imply different purposes behind the Jewish decision to translate their Law, as well as different circumstances of execution. They should therefore be discussed in this context, which must be our next step.

Hypotheses about the original purpose of the translation of the LXX Since there is no positive evidence about the original context in which the LXX was initiated, scholars are left to speculate about the original purpose of the translation. The numerous hypotheses put forward in modern scholarship may be roughly sorted out under five headings: (1) The translation originated in a religious context, mainly liturgical. This hypothesis, whose main advocate was H. St.John Thackeray in his The Septuagint and Jewish Worship, published in 1921, has been virtually abandoned nowadays. As Albert Pietersma recently put it, ‘since liturgy has to do primarily with performance instead of comprehension, liturgy tends to be more tolerant of text in a foreign medium than is education’.40 We may regard this enunciation as the final coup de grâce, and leave this hypothesis aside.41 (2) The religious hypothesis was rapidly shifted into the educational one, which has subsequently been supported by many scholars. (3) A completely different hypothesis holds that the LXX was originally intended as a nomos, that is, as a legal text. The earliest advocates of the legal hypothesis were Elias Bickerman and B.H. Stricker.42 Bickerman’s starting point was the technical quality of the translation. The legal hypothesis was further developed by Joseph Mélèze Modrzejewski and still has supporters today. (4) The fourth hypothesis has attracted supporters in recent years only. It holds that the LXX was effectively aimed for the royal library in Alexandria, as B.Ar. claims. Needless to say, this hypothesis is predicated on the belief that the king was involved in the translation. A more timid version of this hypothesis combines it with the third one just spelled out. Thus, it is suggested that the king wished to possess a translation in order to use it as a law for the Jews settled in his kingdom, and to satisfy his intellectual curiosity at the same time. This view draws directly on Bickerman’s seminal study of 1959, and was elaborated by scholars like Dominique Barthélemy and Gilles Dorival.43 Recently, Wolfgang Orth made a case for the intellectual motivation of the king, concomitant with, but distinct from, the Jewish motivation to translate their Law, and Tessa Rajak has explored tracks in a similar direction.44 What we may call the cultural hypothesis clearly emerges as a reaction to previous scholarship which held B.Ar.’s account in such low esteem. The cultural hypothesis contends, on the contrary, that the account of B.Ar. about the origins of the LXX should be given more credit than was hitherto admitted. This hypothesis may also be seen as a reaction against the idea that the LXX was translated for a utilitarian purpose. As a matter of fact, insofar as Classical Antiquity was a pre-capitalist society, prestige and 105

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culture played a central role in it. (5) This brings us to the latest hypothesis: the primary motivation behind the translation of the LXX was, first and foremost, prestige. This hypothesis is at the centre of a paradox: while it is seldom expressly articulated in writing, many scholars today are keen to concede it. Variants of this hypothesis may be found in studies advocating the view that the involvement of the king, in some way or another, has a historical basis. Political propaganda (Bickerman) and intellectual curiosity (Orth), are motives related in some way to prestige. However, prestige is usually associated with the king. There is no reason a priori why prestige could not be a motivation for the Jews themselves.45 These various hypotheses, especially the first three, are mutually exclusive if they are taken, as they usually are, as the primary purpose which prompted the translation of the LXX. However, the original motivation behind the translation need not have been as clear-cut as is usually implied. Furthermore, at least some of the contexts seen by modern scholars as providing the original purpose could easily qualify as derivative spheres of activity, especially the educational and legal ones. Once the translation was completed, the text could be used for various purposes at one and the same time. This shift of perspective may pave the way to a more conciliatory approach to the debated views. Let us review these hypotheses and their implications in detail. Translation technique in relation to the original purpose of the LXX: the debate between the legal and educational contexts As already noted, it is usually assumed that there is a connection between the type of translation implemented in the Pentateuch and its original purpose. Dismissing the traditional view that literalness was the result of religious reverence, Elias Bickerman drew attention in his 1959 paper to the similarity between the technique of translation implemented in the LXX and the work of dragomen. Dragomen were professional translators of commercial and legal documents, much needed in a country where population groups using different languages (Demotic/Aramaic, Demotic/Greek) interacted in daily life and legal transactions. Bickerman concluded from this similarity that the LXX was translated as a legal document as the result of a royal initiative. His view that the technique of the translation of the LXX was modelled upon the dragoman technique was recently endorsed by several scholars influenced by the field of translation studies, especially Chaim Rabin and, with some nuances, as we saw above, by Arie van der Kooij.46 Reacting against Bickerman’s (and Stricker’s) studies, Sebastian Brock insisted on the lack of homogeneity displayed by the Pentateuch translation: ‘neither consistently literal, nor consistently free’. In his view, this mixed character results from a ‘compromise’, since the Pentateuch alternates legal 106

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sections with literary ones. Brock makes the interesting remark that ‘specifically legal sections tend to be more literally translated than purely narrative ones’.47 Thus, Brock rejected the relevance of the comparison with the work of dragomen. An even fiercer opposition was recently voiced by Albert Pietersma. In his view, features such as the low level of language in the LXX and the unintelligible over-literal renderings of the Hebrew are better explained if we assume that the LXX originated as a schoolboy ‘crib’ used to help pupils with the Hebrew text of the Bible.48 Pietersma adduces as a parallel cribs of this kind that were used for the teaching of Homer in Greek schools: an interlinear translation into koine¯ Greek was intercalated after each verse of the parent text.49 In other words, in its original version the LXX was not an independent text, but an aid to bring the reader to the source text. Only at a later stage did it become an autonomous text standing on its own. However, it is far from certain that the school environment hypothesis proposed by Pietersma for the origins of the LXX is capable of solving all the questions related to the technical aspects of the translation. It seems very difficult indeed to decide between a dragoman and a school origin on the basis of linguistic criteria. As Sebastian Brock has pointed out, the translation is not consistent. The ‘crib’ hypothesis is unable to account for the freer rendering of the narrative sections. In the final analysis, Pietersma’s criticism of the dragoman hypothesis as discussed by Rabin and van der Kooij fails to convince. The school environment hypothesis raises problems of its own. To the best of our knowledge, a network of Jewish education seems to have been linked to sessions held in the proseuchai on the Sabbath. Such meetings are, indeed, described by Philo and Josephus.50 Now, the question of liturgical readings of the LXX on the basis of complete annual or triennal cycles is vexed, but their existence seems improbable before a much later date. In such conditions, it is questionable whether the Jews studied the Law in its entirety. The Hellenistic age is one of anthologies. For what this comparison is worth, Homeric poems were never studied in their entirety by Greek schoolboys. The numerous school papyri found show that pupils were taught specific sections, mainly taken from the Iliad.51 Thus, the interlinear paradigm may fail to account for the translation of the whole Pentateuch. Furthermore, the school environment hypothesis implies that written Hebrew was taught on a rather wide scale, which is questionable. It is one thing to maintain a language orally. It is quite another to teach it actively, and in writing. (Incidentally, evidence for widespread Greek schooling in the Egyptian countryside starts with Ptolemy II’s reign, not earlier.)52 Third, and this is the most important objection, linguistic studies of the LXX Pentateuch tend to confirm that the whole Pentateuch was translated in one instalment (chronologically homogeneous lexicography), and by various translators (variety of syntactic renderings). These combined features 107

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imply a co-ordinated undertaking, while the school hypothesis would suggest a decentralized process. This is not to deny that the LXX was not already taught in early Hellenistic Egypt. We could not understand the development of an Alexandrian Jewish literature re-writing episodes of the Pentateuch if the elite for which this literature was intended was ignorant of the reference text. Ezekiel, the tragic poet, and B.Ar. itself presuppose the incorporation of the LXX in the Judaeo-Alexandrian educational curriculum. As Sebastian Brock puts it, ‘it would seem only likely that the Pentateuch would have played a very similar role in Jewish education to that of Homer in Greek’.53 But the integration of the LXX into the educational framework is better viewed as a derivative consequence, not as its primary purpose. This is, indeed, the implicit stance of Sebastian Brock in his own view of the link between the LXX and education.54 The legal hypothesis The same may well hold true for the legal hypothesis. That the translation technique of the LXX was modelled upon that of dragomen may, but does not necessarily, imply that the LXX was originally intended as a legal document. Chaim Rabin’s implicit distinction between technique and purpose provides an important way out of this somewhat sterile link. The view that the LXX was effectively intended as a legal document by Jews living in Hellenistic Egypt has had a few supporters. Joseph Mélèze Modrzejewski, in particular, saw a link between the translation of the Jewish Torah into Greek and the translation of the so-called Demotic Manual of law. In turn, he saw a further link between these two translations, presumably both executed under Ptolemy II, and the judicial reform ascribed to this same king by Hans Julius Wolff and himself.55 As a whole, however, the legal hypothesis has generally been disregarded by most LXX scholars. Recently published documents may well lend renewed credibility to the view that the LXX was used as a document of reference in a legal context – if not as its primary goal, then at least as a derivative sphere of use. To begin with, the objections usually raised against the legal hypothesis by its opponents are far from compelling.56 Sebastian Brock sorts out ancient texts into three different basic genres: legal documents, religious texts and literary texts. According to him, ‘the Pentateuch is by no means’ ‘comparable’ to a document such as the Greek translation of the Demotic Manual of laws, ‘since only portions of it are of specifically legal content’.57 However, it is in no way certain that ‘religious texts’ can be maintained as a distinct category. ‘Religiousness’ – the ancients would have used the word ‘sacredness’ – is a matter of content, not of genre. A religious or sacred text was either legal (e.g. sacred laws)58 or literary (e.g. myths, or texts of philosophical content). In fact, any text regulating the relations with the gods, 108

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or, in an Egyptian context, within the priestly class, qualified as ‘sacred’, whatever its content.59 We know, indeed, that legal terminology was used in referring to religious texts. In Egypt, divine orders received in dreams were called prostagmata, a term that otherwise applies to royal and, later, imperial edicts.60 More important, we should take seriously the fact that Jewish authors themselves referred to the Hebrew as well as to the Greek Pentateuch as a nomos or a politeia, both terms which do belong to legal terminology.61 Another objection raised against the legal hypothesis is that papyri show that many Jews did not live by the Mosaic law.62 This is precisely the point on which the new documents oblige us to think anew all previously accepted assumptions. These new documents, published in P.Polit.Iud, are an archive of twenty papyri ranging between 144/3 and 133/2 BCE, that is, under Ptolemy VIII Euergetes II. They reveal the administrative and judicial competence of the politarches and archontes of a ‘politeuma of the Jews in Heracleopolis’, in Middle Egypt.63 Sixteen of the papyri are legal complaints. In several cases petitioners refer to either an ‘ancestral oath’, or a ‘letter of the ancestral oath’, and to the ‘ancestral law’ (patrios nomos), no doubt of the Jews.64 Two cases are particularly interesting: in both complaints in which the petitioners refer to a ‘letter of the ancestral oath’ the case involved is the failure to pay back a debt. In both cases, both plaintiff and defendant are Jews. As the complaints make clear, these debts between Jews are to be paid off with an interest rate of 24 to 25 per cent, that is, the rate commonly used in Ptolemaic Egypt in the second century BCE.65 In one case, the failure to pay off the debt and its interest is considered by the petitioner, Berenike¯, as an infringement of the ancestral law (P.Polit.Iud. 9, ll. 28–9). In other words, in spite of the fact that every detail of these documents points to regular Ptolemaic practice, the Jews of Heracleopolis who wrote them had no doubt whatsoever that they were abiding by Jewish law. In the light of these documents, we can no longer oppose Ptolemaic practice and Jewish law – since Berenike¯ herself and her consorts did not oppose them. There may be one way to account for this puzzling phenomenon. Back in 1956, Elias Bickerman pointed out that the LXX occasionally adapted biblical law to Ptolemaic legal praxis.66 In other words, it seems that we should consider the LXX, as far as its legal dimension is concerned, as a blend of outdated and updated regulations. Such a situation may seem absurd to modern minds. We have positive evidence that it was not so for people in antiquity. A Demotic papyrus datable to the early third century BCE provides evidence for the existence of a Demotic Manual of law, which was most probably compiled by this time.67 This document is further known through a Greek translation that survived in a papyrus from the second century CE, P.Oxy. XLVI 3285. This manual presents a curious mixture of 109

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completely outdated regulations and others that are, indeed, reflected in contemporary legal practice. In a detailed study of the legal content of this manual, Shaffik Allam thus concluded that the document ‘did not provide the image of an ideal justice’, but reflected the law effectively in use by the time it was composed, in the early Ptolemaic period.68 The legal formulae it contains fit, for the most part, the formulae yielded by contemporary Demotic papyri of legal content. Indeed, some of the laws given by the manual cannot have been written before the third century BCE and demonstrate that the compilers of this document either updated it or, more probably, introduced new regulations into their compilation. However, in other cases, we find completely outdated material. The clearest instance is in the chapters relating to the field of marriage. The impression based on the content of the document is further corroborated by some philological features: archaisms are found in the terminology used in the document alongside terminology in use in the third century BCE.69 Thus, there can be no doubt that the document from the third century BCE was a compilation which included old material and added some new regulations. The older material was included as it was found and not adapted. The most striking example of this failure to update the traditional material relates to a date. In several instances the text refers to the 30th of the month of Hathyr as the harvest time. As Pieter Willem Pestman has noted, however, in the third century BCE the month of Hathyr fell in January–February. Only in the time span ranging from the later half of the ninth century to the later half of the eighth century BCE, that is, down to the time of king Bocchoris, did the month of Hathyr coincide with May–June – the time for harvest in Egypt.70 One further point needs to be emphasized: it is fairly certain that the Demotic Manual of law, of which the papyrus from Hermopolis is but one copy, as well as its Greek translation, was used in the legal and judicial practice of the Hellenistic period. As to the Greek translation, this is made certain by the proceedings of a trial held in 117 BCE, known as the ‘Hermias’ trial’. During the trial, Hermias’ lawyer, a Greek, presented the judges with excerpts from a document which is referred to as the ‘law of the country’. There is no reason to doubt that this reference is to the translation of the legal compilation made in the early Hellenistic period.71 Jan Quaegebeur further showed that the document from Hermopolis was one of the texts which qualified as ‘sacred law’. As he notes, this phrase, which appears in documents from Hellenistic as well as Roman times, reflects the ongoing legal activity of the Egyptian temples in the Late Period.72 We may now summarize the relevance of this data in relation to the status of the LXX as a legal document. It is clear that the absurdity of a wrong date referring to the early summer harvest while the month mentioned falls in the winter did not bother either the Egyptian priests who compiled the 110

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Demotic Manual of law in early Ptolemaic times or those who later referred to this document for drawing up contracts or acting as judges. Thus, we cannot be at all certain that the presence of completely outdated laws in the LXX, or the presence of material irrelevant to a legal context, such as the narrative portions of the Pentateuch, were a hindrance to the use of the Greek Pentateuch as a document of reference in a legal context. This was a time when tradition, after all, was stronger than pragmatism, and rational modernization was far from being a central value.73 Oral exegesis would bridge the gap. Now, it is a fact that Berenike¯ and the other petitioners who wrote complaints to the archontes of the politeuma of the Jews in Heracleopolis in the second century BCE refer to an ‘ancestral law’ of the Jews. If we adduce the Demotic Manual of law and its translation into Greek that was invoked in Hermias’ trial as a parallel, it may well be that this phrase referred to a written text, the LXX. To summarize: the new documents from Heracleopolis now oblige us to take the legal hypothesis more seriously than was hitherto accepted by many scholars. It is a track worth exploring further. A further question needs to be examined: when would Egyptian Jews have begun using the LXX as a legal document? It is now clear from the Heracleopolis archive that this could not be later than the second century BCE. The Heracleopolis documents may suggest a link with the setting up of politeumata – since, as we have noted, Jews in this town in Middle Egypt formed a politeuma. If this was indeed the case, the legal use of the LXX was certainly derivative. However, an earlier date cannot be excluded out of hand. A papyrus dating from 218 BCE, CPJ I 128 (P. Ent. 23), unfortunately preserved in a very fragmentary state, provides some scant evidence which, although inconclusive in itself, still needs to be taken into account. The papyrus is a complaint by a woman, Helladote¯, against her husband, the Jew Ionathas. Helladote seems to be asking for a divorce and the return of her dowry. Helladote must have begun by stating her present situation; she appears to say that she is married to Ionathas ‘according to the civic law of the Jews’ ([kata ton nomon p]olitikon to¯n [Iou]daio¯n echein me gun [aika]); unfortunately, this portion of the sentence is heavily restored.74 However, the plausibility of this restoration has been increased by the discovery of the Heracleopolis archive. If this reading is accepted, it would imply that Jews could, indeed, refer to their ancestral law even in the Greek courts at least as early as the first years of Ptolemy IV: their law was assimilated to a ‘civic law’. The phrase ‘civic laws’, in CPJ I 128, could refer to laws, most probably written documents, that Greek settlers brought along to Egypt, as Mélèze Modrzejewski has argued.75 The evidence is too uncertain to be conclusive. It is undeniable, however, that the hypothetical reading in CPJ I 128 received additional weight after the publication of the Heracleopolis archive. If this reading is, indeed, 111

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to be maintained, the assumption that the Septuagint was used as a legal document from the beginning would need to be considered seriously. However, there would still be a step to go through before concluding that legal use was the initial purpose of the translation of the Pentateuch. Derivative uses of the translation could, after all, evolve within a short time after its completion. Notwithstanding these hesitations, it is still worth exploring a scenario bridging the gap between an early use of the LXX as a legal document and the initial purpose of the translation. The circumstances of the compilation and translation of the Demotic Manual of law may provide a suggestive parallel for the circumstances of the translation of the LXX under Ptolemy II, as Mélèze Modrzejewski has already pointed out. The existence of a Greek translation of the Demotic text is known from a papyrus of the second century CE, as we saw above. On the basis of some linguistic archaisms, however, the editor, John Rea, showed that the translation preserved by this second-century CE papyrus dated back to the early Ptolemaic period.76 This means that the compilation of the legal manual and its translation into Greek were roughly contemporary. Several commentators on this manual have proposed the hypothesis that the circumstances of its compilation and translation may have been inspired by, and identical to, those of a former undertaking known to have taken place under Darius I in 519 BCE. Darius’ initiative is described in some detail in the Demotic Chronicle, a text whose nature is still debated. The date is somewhere around the late fourth or early third century BCE. Let us begin by quoting the text: (Darius) sent (a message) to his satraps in the year 3 [519 BCE], saying: ‘Bring the wise men before me.’ Thus there stood before him the warriors, the priests, and the scribes of Egypt, who were gathered from it. He said: ‘Write down the law that ruled in early times, down to year 44 of king Amasis [526 BCE].’ The law about which the king consulted the temples was then the law of the people. It was brought. It was written in a book through the year 19 [of Darius, i.e. during 16 years] [in] Egypt. [It was put?] in a case. The Elders [received it?] (in) the year 27. The (legal) cases . . . of the houses according to the law of Egypt were written down for him. The text was written in a book in the Assyrian [i.e. Aramaic] writing and in the Demotic writing. It was completed for him and written down for him.77 In this account, king Darius is clearly the initiator of the compilation and translation of the Demotic Manual of law. His initiative may have been inspired by previous compilations carried out by Pharaohs as early as 112

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Bocchoris in the eighth century BCE.78 In fact, as we saw, the Ptolemaic compilation still preserves material which dates back to this time. As to the early Ptolemaic new compilation and translation, Ptolemy II would seem a good candidate for sponsoring it. It may be noted, however, that this ascription is at least partly based on the hypothesis that Ptolemy II introduced a large-scale reform in the judicial system of Egypt. The existence of this reform is not formally documented, and is doubted by some.79 Jan Quaegebeur even raised doubts as to whether the state was involved at all in the continuing legal activities of Egyptian priests in the Ptolemaic and Roman period, although without providing concrete arguments for his objection.80 If we are to continue with this line of thinking, we need to address one important difference between the circumstances attending the translations of the Demotic Manual of law and of the LXX: given the inconspicuous status of the Jews in early Ptolemaic Alexandria, it is most improbable that the king would have been interested in translating the Jewish Law on his own initiative. However, as was suggested above, the Jews could have prompted the move. Moreover, it should be repeated that, whatever the motivations lying behind the new legal compilation of Egyptian law and its translation into Greek, they are not necessarily indicative of the motivation that prompted the translation of the LXX. In the same way that we should distinguish carefully between the technical circumstances of the translation and its purpose, comparison with the Demotic Manual as far as the material conditions for the translation are concerned does not imply that the LXX was originally translated as a legal document. The motive could just as well have been prestige. The cultural hypothesis: the LXX was intended for the royal library The hypothesis that the LXX was originally translated as a nomos branches out, in fact, into two main ramifications. The first one, which we have just seen, posits a practical use of the LXX in legal and judicial contexts. The alternative one, already timidly suggested by Barthélemy and Dorival, modifies the basic argument to stress the intellectual and literary side: the king had developed an intellectual curiosity for the Law of the Jews, as part of a larger interest in barbarian laws. In a recent paper, Wolfgang Orth set out to explore this track with more confidence. He underscored the fact that Demetrius of Phalerum, who is closely associated with the translation of the LXX in B.Ar., belonged to the Peripatos, Aristotle’s school. Peripatetic philosophers were deeply interested in matters of law and constitution, both in theory and practice.81 Demetrius himself is known to have written a work ‘Concerning the laws (nomoi)’, as well as another one ‘Concerning the Athenian constitution (nomothesia)’ (Diogenes Laertius 5.44), while his master 113

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Theophrastus is known to have written not only on Greek, but also on barbarian constitutions (Cicero, De Finibus, 5.34). The links between Ptolemy I and the Peripatetic school are well known, as Orth records. Ptolemy I tried to secure Theophrastus himself as a preceptor for his son (the future Ptolemy II), and eventually took Theophrastus’ disciple, Straton of Lampsacus, to fulfil the task (Diogenes Laertius 5.37 and 58). Modern scholars are unanimous in assessing that Demetrius of Phalerum, himself, had an important intellectual influence on the young Ptolemaic court. Therefore, Orth continues, Josephus’ statement that Ptolemy II was interested in knowing the nomos of the Jews and the order of their constitution (diataxis politeias) and therefore ordered to have it translated (AJ 1.1.10) is to be taken seriously. Alternatively, writes Orth, Ptolemy II could simply have been curious about the Jewish tradition, since the early Hellenistic period showed openness to Oriental cultures. One reservation should be made about the cultural hypothesis. It concerns the confusion around the concept of ‘nomos’ or ‘politeia’ as a literary genre that seems to underlie the discussion. The cultural hypothesis, which, at least in the earlier, softer version advocated by Barthélemy and Dorival derives from the legal hypothesis, ignores the starting point and main argument of the latter: that the translation of the LXX was technical in character, clinging as it did to literalness. This means that the LXX does not qualify as a literary text according to Greek standards, and certainly does not fit the Greek literary genre of politeiai or nomoi. Even though we know Aristotle’s Constitution of the Carthaginians only through the summary extant in the second book of the Politics, it is hard to believe that this lost work was a mere compilation of technical documents in translation. It is even doubtful that in this precise case the philosopher had access to legal and judicial documents at first hand. He must have used oral information, and/or written accounts that he found in Greek historians from Sicily. In fact, we may wonder whether a distinction between monographs about Greek and barbarian politeiai is really relevant as far as genre and style are concerned: the Constitution of the Athenians, the only monograph preserved today, is a literary work, not a patchwork of genuine legal documents. The commonly accepted view among modern scholars even points out that the author (it is immaterial here whether or not he was Aristotle) was content with relying on earlier literary accounts rather than going to consult city archives.82 These are the kind of texts that would have been entitled to enter the Alexandrian library under the catalogue heading of Politeiai. We ascribe distinct virtues to literal translations of barbarian texts and to what we may call cultural translations: Manetho’s Aegyptiaca, Berossus’ Babyloniaca, Josephus’ Antiquitates Judaicae. The ancients did not. If any text could qualify as a Jewish Politeia for Callimachus’ catalogues, Josephus’ Antiquities, or perhaps B.Ar. itself, would be far more credible candidates than the LXX. In other words, if Ptolemy II had been interested in having a work on Jewish law included 114

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in his library for mere intellectual curiosity, he would have ordered a Jewish writer from his kingdom to write one, in good Greek and in compliance with the accepted literary rules of the time. As Oswyn Murray, probably rightly, surmised, Manetho wrote his Aegyptiaca, a work based on Egyptian priestly records, under Ptolemaic patronage. He also seems to have dedicated his work to the king.83 However, to state that the LXX does not qualify as a proper literary ‘nomos’ does not necessarily forestall the possibility that this book was still put in the library. As Orth has rightly observed, our knowledge of the library book stock is too scant and uncertain for us to decide what did or did not qualify a book for inclusion in the library.84 Another vexed point is whether the library stock did or did not include translated works. Orth argues that it did, but none of the sources he adduces, all of them long familiar, are really compelling.85 Manetho’s work, as we just saw, was not a literal translation, but a re-writing. The same must hold true for Eratosthenes, who is said to have compiled Memphite lists. A book of magic by Zoroaster was allegedly translated into Greek. However, Pliny the Elder (NH, 30.2.4), on whose evidence this view relies, does not say that original texts of Zoroaster were actually translated. Pliny obviously refers to pseudepigraphic Greek writings ascribed to the Oriental sage.86 On the other hand, there is no reason to believe that translations of legal documents such as the Demotic Manual of law (P.Oxy. XLVI 3285), also adduced by Orth in his discussion, were kept in the library. Royal archives seem a much more suitable place for documents of this sort. As for translations of Egyptian literary texts known from papyri, these are not attested before the second century BCE, as Sebastian Brock has already observed.87 Furthermore, there is no evidence to show that they were ordered for, or carried out in, the royal library. In some ways, the cultural hypothesis takes the legal hypothesis to the very end of its logic: Elias Bickerman and other scholars who supported the view that the LXX was originally translated as a legal document willingly or unwillingly initiated a process of rehabilitation of B.Ar.’s account of the origins of the LXX by positing the involvement of the king. The next step was to accept the mention of the library as historical too. For all the problems it raises, the cultural hypothesis is still important for one point: it explores a possible reason why a Ptolemaic king may have responded favourably to the Jews’ request to help them have their sacred law translated. However, it seems difficult to ascribe the LXX to a set category of books attested in the library, at least in our present state of information. The LXX does not qualify as a literary Politeia, and other cases of translations are dubious. For all this, there may be an alternative way of proposing a historical link between the LXX and the library. This involves two modifications 115

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to the cultural hypothesis. First of all, the motivation of the king would be political, and not cultural – this is, in fact, the track already suggested if not explored by Bickerman. The second modification bears on the timing: the library should not be linked to the initial undertaking of the translation of the Pentateuch, but to a slightly later stage. Once again, this would be a case for a secondary use. Let us try to follow this track. The political hypothesis: the involvement of the library at a later stage of the LXX’s history The clue comes from a major cultural event in Ptolemy II’s reign. Athenaeus preserves the description given by Callixenus of Rhodes of the Grand Procession of the Ptolemaia organized by this king, probably in 271/0.88 The festival of the Ptolemaia was celebrated every four years in Alexandria in honour of Ptolemy I Soter, Philadelphus’ father, who was deified by his son. It was particularly lavish in 271/0, following the first Syrian war against the Seleucid empire, in which both sides claimed victory.89 Through the procession of ceremonial chariots, the reigning king celebrated his links with Alexander and the god Dionysus. Of direct interest for our concern are the chariots carrying living statues representing cities of Asia Minor liberated by Alexander the Great, and women in colourful dress representing barbarian peoples. Modern commentators have interpreted these statues, as well as the exotic animals included in the cavalcade, as visual symbols of Philadelphus’ claim to be the successor of Alexander: through the image of the Conqueror he laid claim to universal dominion. In a recent paper, Andrew Erskine has stressed that the building of the museum and the library by Ptolemy I or Ptolemy II was conceived as a means of political propaganda.90 In his wake, we may add that the universal gathering of books was the cultural counterpart of the claim to universal rule staged in the Procession. Indeed, this is clearly stated by Callixenus himself: his book on Alexandria, written by the end of the third century BCE under Ptolemy IV, seems to have been intended as paradoxographical, i.e. his work emphasized the sensational and conspicuous aspects of the great city. The remarks with which he concludes his description of the Great Procession are all the more interesting from this perspective: he ends with a review of the amazing achievements of the Ptolemaic dynasty as compared to the rival houses of the Hellenistic world, and among these he mentions the books of the library: What monarchy, fellow-banqueters, has ever been so rich in gold? . . . Philadelphus surpassed many kings in wealth, and devoted himself with enthusiastic zeal to all his establishments, so that he surpassed all others in the number of his ships as well . . . And concerning the number of books, the establishing of libraries, and 116

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the collection in the museum, why need I even speak, since they are in all men’s memory?91 The translation of the Pentateuch would fit this context. As can be seen from the Procession, ‘universal’ did not mean merely ‘panhellenic’ for Philadelphus. The library was also to include books of barbarian peoples, in the same way as the Procession of the Ptolemaia included living statues symbolizing barbarian peoples. The inclusion of the Pentateuch in the library could thus reflect Ptolemy II’s claim to universal domination. It is true that Callixenus, in his concluding catalogue, put his stress on the large scale. However, it is well known that there were two elements that created the sensational effect which men of the Hellenistic age were so fond of: quantity and exoticism. The translation of the Law of the Jews would be a perfect candidate for the latter category.92 Furthermore, it is worth recording that Judaea was part of Coele-Syria, the area disputed between the Ptolemies and Seleucids. Thus, the choice of this specific text for the royal library would reconcile both a taste for exotic sensationalism with clever political propaganda. Ptolemy II could hardly have thought of a better opportunity: putting the LXX in his library was another way of claiming Ptolemaic control over the area. There is not even any need to surmise that further barbarian books found their way to the royal library under similar circumstances. We may perhaps even go further: for this kind of purpose it would have been worth investing large expenses in carrying out the translation. Thus, we may perhaps be entitled to surmise a primary purpose rather than a derivative use of the translation in this context. Assessing the relation between literary narrative and historical reality in B.Ar. is complex. Whatever progress has been made recently in related fields such as LXX and Jewish studies, the basic problem remains: the scant corpus of external sources available means that we are obliged to use arguments of plausibility in the analysis of the material. Such arguments are naturally dependent on the state of research and the methodological premises underpinning the definition of ‘common sense’ in each generation of scholars. In spite of the uncertainties involved, however, recent research in the various fields relevant for the study of B.Ar. converges to make the involvement of the king and the library in the origins of the LXX much more likely than previous generations of scholars were ready to assume. All in all, the claim that the library played a genuine role in the early history of the LXX is also easier to reconcile with the view of B.Ar. which was advocated in the previous chapters of this book. Inasmuch as the author of B.Ar. meant his work to be received as a true narrative, it is hard to believe that the LXX was not deposited in the royal library. Since B.Ar. addressed a local audience, it would have been easy for anyone to check out the information 117

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and denounce the ‘lie’. It could be argued, however, that like the politeuma, the inclusion of the LXX in the royal library was a reality in our author’s day, but not related to the original setting of the translation. Albert Pietersma has, indeed, suggested that the royal intervention and the episode of the library could belong to a later stage of the history of the Septuagint. This is consistent with his observation that ‘the central thrust of the Letter of Aristeas, namely, the independence of the Septuagint vis-à-vis the Hebrew, is not a statement about its origins but about its subsequent history’ (p. 340) – a stance which is fully endorsed in the present study, as the next chapter will show. Whatever the case, it is undeniable that the King and the Library have a pivotal function in the building of the various layers of meaning of the two narrative paradigms examined in Chapter 3. It is not merely a question of the historical authenticity of the events that are reported in B.Ar. The King and, even more, the Library, are both to be seen as important components of the mental picture the Jews of Alexandria held of the circumstances surrounding the origins of the LXX. This question will be at the core of a new hypothesis on the origins of the LXX, to be examined in the next chapter.

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6 THE HOMERIC PARADIGM A hypothesis on the genesis of the LXX and the Book of Aristeas

As Chapter 3 above argued, the depiction of the origins of the LXX in B.Ar. is deeply influenced by both the practice and the ideology of Homeric scholarship in the royal library. As far as practice is concerned, we began to see in Chapter 3 that the translation is consistently depicted as textual editing. As to the ideological side, we also saw how references to the Alexandrian ideology linked to the royal library appear consistently in B.Ar. in every section referring to the fate of the LXX. We found this ideology articulated in Demetrius’ description of the state of the Hebrew manuscripts of the Jewish Law that he invites the King to translate in chs 9–11 and 29–31. More precisely, we may identify in these passages hints at the ideology of retrieving the original text of an author through textual emendation. The present chapter will propose that another aspect of Alexandrian ideology may be embedded in B.Ar. It will be argued that the scene of the promulgation of the edition/translation of the LXX, chs 308–11, may echo a development noticeable in Homeric studies following Aristarchus’ new edition of Homer around 150 BCE. In this development, the revised text established by Aristarchus seems to have achieved a status close to that of an authoritative text. The date of the beginning of this development in the field of Homeric studies around 150 BCE, more or less corresponds to the time generally ascribed in recent scholarship to the redaction of B.Ar., namely, the middle to the later part of the second century BCE. The implicit reference to Alexandrian Homeric scholarship in B.Ar. certainly reflects the intellectual atmosphere in Alexandria at the time of B.Ar.’s author. A priori, the presence of this motif in B.Ar. could be interpreted as both an anachronism and a purely literary construct. The author could have been referring the intellectual concerns of his own days back onto the origins of the LXX. The configuration of B.Ar.’s narrative on the Alexandrian paradigm could also have been the author’s own invention, and not the output of a pre-existing local tradition. After all, the second paradigm identifiable in B.Ar., which we have called the Exodus paradigm, does, indeed, seem to be a conscious literary ‘elaboration’. However, even behind 119

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the Exodus paradigm a tiny kernel of historical reality is traceable: there were slaves and former prisoners of war among Egyptian Jews, even if not to the extent suggested by B.Ar. This last remark suggests an alternative possibility in the case of the Alexandrian paradigm: its superimposition onto the story of the LXX may genuinely reflect the fact that, in the mind of Alexandrian Jews, the fate of the LXX was comparable to that of the Homeric epics edited by the Alexandrian grammarians. This shift in stress, from a strictly literary, i.e. artificial, construct to a genuine echo of a mental reality, would shed new light on the fact that the translation of the LXX is presented in B.Ar. in terms of a textual edition. We may perhaps go even further. It is not impossible – in fact, it would be natural – that the conceptual approach and working methods that characterized the grammarians from the library who carried out the edition of Homer influenced the way the Jews proceeded with the LXX concretely. This surmise is particularly worth exploring for the time B.Ar. was composed. However, the following pages will take as a working hypothesis that it is also relevant for the early genesis of the LXX at the beginning of the third century BCE. In other words, this working hypothesis proposes that the early history of the LXX should be read against the background of the history of the editing of the Homeric epics in Alexandria, across a time span ranging from the early third to the middle or later part of the second century BCE. Needless to say, the assumption implied by such a working premise is that the LXX was primarily translated not for pragmatic needs, but for the sake of prestige. Seen in these terms, the hypothesis of a Homeric paradigm would restore a close connection between the early history of the LXX and the account of these events in B.Ar. However, such a connection is posited in terms very different from those generally assumed in the hypotheses referred to in the preceding chapter. It is based on the assumption that the active propaganda developed by the royal court in Alexandria around the cultural institutions of the capital, which finds so many echoes in B.Ar., influenced the local Jewish community, first in its decision to translate its sacred Law, and then in the whole process of implementation. The Homeric paradigm equally posits three stages in the early genesis of the LXX. One of these is related to the original translation in the reign of Ptolemy II. The second is the subsequent history of the textual tradition of the LXX in the late third and early second centuries BCE. The third stage forms the background to the composition of B.Ar. Since the main outlines of the first stage have already been treated in Chapter 5, the following pages will focus primarily on the second and third stages in the first part of the discussion. The discussion of the hypothesis of the Homeric paradigm will be followed by a sketch of a proposed comprehensive reconstruction of the early history of the LXX in the third and second centuries BCE which integrates all three chronological stages. 120

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The early development of the LXX: interpreting textual variants The phenomenon of textual variants in Greek and Demotic documents The working method developed by Aristotle in his school in Athens opened a new era in the Greek intellectual world. Aristotle based his scientific work in any given field on as systematic as possible study of the relevant material. This meant collecting data. In the field of literature, Aristotle is known to have gathered a personal library, the size of which was impressive for his time.1 This gathering of texts together, perhaps, with the nascent interest in language in Plato’s and Aristotle’s time, form the backdrop to a new cultural phenomenon in the fourth century BCE: the establishment of authorized editions of traditional literary texts. The best-known example is the official copy of the three tragic poets, Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripides, which was established in Athens at the instigation of Lycurgus, by then the leading political figure of the city (338–326 BCE). The copy was deposited in the public archives, and a law was voted which compelled actors to abide by its version (Pseudo-Plutarch, Lives of the Ten Orators, 841F.).2 The existence of an official edition of Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey in Athens is a much more vexed question. Two different editions, in fact, are under debate. The earliest one is ascribed either to Peisistratus or to his sons, the Peisistratids, in connection with their reorganization of the festival of the Panathenaia, which included a Homeric recitation by rhapsodists. The reliability of the sources alluding to the establishment of an authoritative copy of Homer at such an early date is very dubious.3 If we accept Davison’s view, it would appear more likely that a written copy of the Iliad and the Odyssey imported from Ionia reached Athens in the sixth century BCE. Because of its quality, this text soon superseded the alternative versions of the Trojan cycle known in the city up to that time.4 Other modern scholars have attempted to infer the redaction of an official edition of Homer in Athens from the fifth-century BCE reform of the Panathenaic recitation. Once again, this interpretation of the sources is controversial.5 Whatever the case, Davison’s conclusion in this matter is important for our present case: We may agree with [D.L. Page] that the Panathenaic text of Homer must have been acknowledged as authoritative in its own sphere; but the evidence of the fifth- and fourth-century quotations and of the earlier papyri (down to about 150 BC) is clearly to the effect that this recognition had practically no effect upon the many divergent versions of the Homeric poems which were in circulation in the preAristarchean world.6 121

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The quotations by Plato, Aristotle, and a number of orators and historians of the fourth-century BCE do, indeed, show considerable variants.7 Anarchy is the rule again in third-century Ptolemaic Egypt. The first generation or two of the Alexandrian grammarians were active in gathering official editions of Homer and other texts from all over the Greek world, including peripheral cities.8 However, at the same time Homeric fragments in papyri found in the Egyptian countryside dating to the third and earlier part of the second century down to c.150 BCE, show no consistency at all.9 It is obvious that this textual anarchy was partly due to the antiquity and widespread currency of the poems. However, the case of fourth-century Athens just seen shows that considerable variants could be found in the same city, even though an official edition may have been simultaneously available. In other words, in spite of the fact that the grammarians working in the library were painstakingly establishing a new edition of Homer, the rest of the country did not feel compelled to conform with it. Local grammarians kept to alternative traditions, and perhaps even went on with their own emendations of the text. A comparable phenomenon can be seen in another text which originated in early third-century Ptolemaic Egypt, the Demotic Manual of law, which has already been noted in Chapter 5. The Demotic text is extant only in the copy from Hermopolis datable to the early third century BCE, that is, close to the time of the original compilation of this text. We know for certain, however, that this was not the only copy, thanks to a second-century CE papyrus preserving a Greek translation of the text, P.Oxy. XLVI 3285. As we noted in Chapter 5, this late transcription was based on a translation dating from the early Ptolemaic period, roughly the same time that the Demotic text itself was compiled.10 The extant Greek copy differs in places from the Demotic one, suggesting that it was based on a different Demotic prototype.11 As Pieter Willem Pestman has shown, the Hermopolis text uses the Demotic verb smj r to mean ‘to bring a complaint against someone’, while it can be shown that the copy on which the Greek translation was based used the verb
ˇsm-s3. The latter may be used as a synonym of smj r, but may also mean: ‘to call about somebody, or on the subject of somebody’ (‘appeler au sujet de, à propos de, quelqu’un’, in Pestman’s terms). The translator mechanically rendered this verb by the Greek kataboan kata. This Greek verb fits the latter meaning but is never used in vernacular Greek to mean ‘to bring a complaint against someone’, the only meaning that makes sense in the context of the legal document.12 This is a clear case of ‘translationese’ Greek, of which so many examples are found in the Greek of the LXX. Pestman infers from his philological observations that the Demotic Manual of law was not a private compilation confined to the use of one temple alone. On the contrary, the Hermopolis papyrus is just one transcription of an authorized text that was widely accessible all over Egypt over a considerable span of time.13 122

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The Demotic Manual of law and its translation into Greek thus show remarkable similarities with the LXX: they are roughly contemporary; both seem to go back to an official edition and in both cases the use of ‘translationese’ Greek occasionally results in nonsensical renderings. A further similarity may be inferred on a more speculative basis: that in both cases there were already textual variants at a very early stage of the circulation of the texts. More trivial examples point to a similar phenomenon of variants in daily-life situations. Thus, variants may be pinned down in so-called ‘witness-copies’, a practice peculiar to Demotic legal deeds. One example is provided by P.Lond.dem. IV 1, of 265 BCE, a legal deed by which Neskhonsu, daughter of Teos, disposed of her property and assets in favour of her son. Here is the description of the witness-copies given by Dorothy Thompson: ‘Alongside the original text four of the sixteen witnesses have, in their own hands, each copied out for themselves, with only minor variants, the complete text of the contract, ending with the words: “X has written this”.’14 One gets the impression that the notion of accurate copying was much more flexible in third-century BCE Egypt than today. Even in legal documents it did not imply a word-for-word level of accuracy. Textual variants in the LXX papyri The earliest extant papyri of the LXX found in Egypt display variants when compared with the later uncial codices of the fourth and fifth centuries CE which form the basis of the modern Göttingen edition of the LXX. These papyri are P.Ryl. III 458, dated to around the mid-second century BCE,15 which contains portions of Deuteronomy, and fragments of three manuscripts known as P.inv. Fouad 266. Two of the latter rolls, one of Genesis and the other of Deuteronomy, seem to be from the same hand and are dated to the mid-first century BCE, while the third, another scroll of Deuteronomy, seems slightly later, with a date ranging from the later half of the first century BCE to perhaps the early first century CE.16 The opinion commonly held by LXX scholars about these early textual variants sees them as deliberate revisions of the text, aimed at bringing the translation closer to the Hebrew original. These revisions must have been the work of learned Jews who felt dissatisfied with the imperfection of the translation achieved in the third century BCE. The latter was felt to be not literal enough.17 This interpretation takes as its starting point a phenomenon that is very well documented at a much later date, and in a different area, Palestine. As scholars now see it, the LXX was a very literal translation for the time when it was executed, in the early third century BCE. As Benjamin Wright and Albert Pietersma have convincingly shown, it was the best that could reasonably be achieved given the techniques of translation at that date.18 With time, however, techniques of translation improved. This evolution is reflected in the increasing literalness of the biblical books that were translated after 123

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the Pentateuch. It can be shown that the translation of the Pentateuch offers far less slavish renderings of the Hebrew than most of the rest of the Greek Bible. Eventually, at some point, the translation of the LXX Pentateuch was considered utterly inaccurate. This growing dissatisfaction with the quality of the LXX translation eventually elicited new and much more literal translations in Roman Palestine, culminating with that of Aquila in the second century CE.19 One outstanding question is how far back in time the process goes of revising the LXX to make it more literal. The evidence of the early LXX fragments recovered from Qumran and Nahal Hever in Judaea is interpreted in contradictory ways.20 There seems to be a consensus, however, that the fragments of a Greek manuscript of the Twelve Minor Prophets discovered in Qumran provide evidence that a conscious process of revision of the LXX was already at work by the time it was composed.21 These fragments can be dated between 50 BCE and 50 CE, if we take the earliest assessments.22 According to Patrick Skehan, a similar phenomenon can be observed in 4QLXXNum.23 However, Eugene Ulrich defended opposite conclusions in the case of another text, 4QLXXLeva, that he dates from the late second or first century BCE.24 In Ulrich’s view this early text is to be seen as reflecting the Old Greek, and he characterizes it as ‘an acceptable free translation’. Alternatively, 4QLXXleva could be ‘a more literal translation of a slightly variant Vorlage’ (i.e. the Hebrew parent text that was known to, and used by, the translators as a basis for their translation).25 If we follow this view, the process of recension had not yet begun by the late second century, if we take the earliest date for 4QLXXLeva, or at least was not yet systematic. There appears to be greater scholarly agreement about the nature of the Egyptian Ptolemaic papyri. Both P.Ryl. III 458 and P.inv. Fouad 266 are generally understood to reflect a recensional process.26 We will come back to P.Ryl. III 458 later. It is often taken for granted that the recensional activity initiated in second-century BCE Alexandria and for which P.Ryl. III 458 is a witness, forms the background against which B.Ar. is to be read. In fact, three sources are usually adduced on the subject of the early reception of the LXX: Philo, the Wisdom of Ben Sira, and B.Ar. Let us begin by examining this point closer. Philo, Life of Moses, 2.25–44 is understood to illustrate the opposite attitude to that of the revisers. The Alexandrian philosopher emphasizes the divine character of the LXX, insisting that the translators were inspired prophets. This portion is taken to be polemical, and thus to imply the existence of editorial activity which Philo sought to delegitimize. The two further sources, the Prologue to Ben Sira, 15–26, dated to the later half of the second century BCE, together with various sections from B.Ar. are likewise understood to polemicize against revisers or would-be revisers. Their allegedly polemical stance is also adduced as indirect evidence that a movement of 124

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dissatisfaction with the flawed literalness of the LXX already existed in some Egyptian Jewish circles in the second century BCE.27 The polemical intention of the literary sources adduced, however, is questionable. Philo’s testimony may just as well be read as apologetic, not polemical. According to the commonly accepted reading, the Prologue to Ben Sira, 15–26 aims at forestalling criticism that the author’s Greek translation of his grandfather’s book is not faithful enough to the Hebrew. In a recent study, however, Benjamin Wright has convincingly shown that this section is not a statement about faithfulness to the Hebrew, but an apology for the poor quality of his ‘translationese’ Greek as compared with koine¯ Greek.28 The same applies to the passages from B.Ar.: chs 30 (from Demetrius’ report) and 310–11 (from the scene of the public reading of the Law to the Jews), in particular, are taken to be polemical statements against would-be revisers – or against rival translations.29 We saw in Chapter 3 that in neither case is such an interpretation compelling. It was argued that ch. 30 should be read against the background of the contemporary intellectual mood prevailing among the grammarians linked to the library. As to chs 310–11, Harry Orlinsky has shown that the prohibition against modifications of the newly transcribed/translated text amounted to a process of canonization of the text, modelled on the biblical scene of the Revelation of the Law at Mount Sinai.30 It should be further noted that the passage in chs 310–11 is not specifically concerned with prohibiting modifications in the wording of the translation. No less important is the concern voiced in ch. 311, that no portion of the text should be either added or taken away: 310 [The leaders of the Jews said:] ‘Since this version has been made rightly and reverently, and in every respect accurately, it is good that this should remain exactly so, and that there should be no revision.’ 311. There was general approval of what they said, and they commanded that a curse should be laid, as was their custom, on anyone who should alter the version by any addition or change to any part of the written text, or any deletion either. It is hard to see how the warning in ch. 311 could be targeting ‘wouldbe revisers’ seeking to make the translation more literal. Unless we admit that beside the revisers there were also people who sought to modify the text, we must accept Orlinsky’s demonstration that this curse is a ritual formula and not an ad hoc warning. Thus, none of the three Judaeo-Egyptian literary sources just discussed explicitly refer to revisers or would-be revisers, so that the interpretation supported by Sebastian Brock and other scholars is no longer compelling. Let us try out an alternative suggestion for B.Ar., based on a shift of contextualization. The new background tentatively ascribed to B.Ar. will be the (roughly) contemporary developments affecting the field of Homeric 125

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scholarship: the move towards a standardization of the text of the Homeric poems that took place by the time of, and apparently in connection with, Aristarchus’ new edition of the epics. Recensions bringing the text closer to the (MT) Hebrew might not have been the sole motive for concern among learned Alexandrian Jews. Let us try to figure out, tentatively, what the state of the manuscripts of the LXX may have been, some one hundred years after the translation was completed. Let us begin with P.Ryl. III 458. This papyrus fragment does not only display revisions of the text of the LXX. There are also several scribal errors that have been identified in the forty-two lines preserved, e.g. masigo¯sin for masigo¯sousin in Dt 25.1 (P.Ryl. III 458, l. 17).31 The presence of such corruptions suggests that the early history of the transmission of the LXX was very similar to that described above for the Demotic Manual of law. As in the case of the Demotic manual, alterations resulting from carelessness may have played a role. Before c.150 BCE there was little awareness of the importance of accurate wording. Corruptions resulting from carelessness were, in fact, already envisaged by Elias Bickerman, who suggestively compared the transmission of the manuscripts of the LXX to the transmission of classical texts, setting ‘private, commercial and unrevised (or arbitrarily revised) copies’ against official ones.32 It is also worth considering other possible causes, of variation rather than alteration, even if they are more speculative. The lack of awareness of the importance of respecting the accurate wording of a text may have elicited a process of emendation of the Greek itself. As long as the LXX was seen as only a translation with no sacred value attached to it, we can imagine that learned Jews may have wished to make linguistic improvements to the Greek. The only known example of a revision aimed at clearer Greek is Symmachus,33 but there is a priori no reason why similar scribal interventions should not have been made in the Hellenistic period. Could there also have been exegetical corrections? One such correction has been identified by several scholars in P.Ryl. III 458, ll. 3–4 ([ean]/ de epelthe¯s for ean de eiselthe¯s in Dt 23.25). As the editor noted, the verb ‘eperchomai is the terminus technicus in the papyri for trespassing, making an illegal entrance, and as such it occurs frequently in documents of the Ptolemaic period’.34 In the wake of C.H. Roberts, Elias Bickerman suggested that the corrector was seeking to bring the text in harmony with Ptolemaic law.35 However, if we adopt Ulrich’s point of view, the reading in P.Ryl. III 458 should be seen as a genuine reflection of the Old Greek version, while the uncials giving the reading eiselthe¯s are the revision. After all, Bickerman has shown that the standard version of the LXX occasionally modified the wording of the Hebrew Pentateuch in order to make it fit Ptolemaic law.36 Van der Kooij’s picture of the translators as scribes trained in reading aloud ancestral texts, as already seen in Chapter 3, may also suggest a further possible source of early textual corrections.37 The reading aloud of ancestral texts implied an interpretation: words could 126

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be vocalized in different ways, sentences divided into different clauses, and obscure figures interpreted in different ways. No unified interpretation existed in Palestine itself at this time, but scribes would be trained in the reading transmitted in their own particular school. In the same way that Greek grammarians settled in the Egyptian countryside would keep to the manuscripts of Homer they were accustomed to in their city of origins, Jewish scribes settled in Egypt might introduce corrections to the text of the LXX Pentateuch in order to bring it in harmony with the interpretations that they were accustomed to from their original school of training, and wished to transmit to their fellow-Jews in the educational readings in the synagogue which took place on the Sabbath.38 In short, we may ascribe to these early ‘revisers’ more or less the same array of motivations that is usually proposed for the original translators themselves.39 Manipulations of the design of the text to make it fit an updated interpretation are quite familiar in the field of Homeric studies. It was common practice in Pergamum, where Crates of Mallos, a contemporary of Aristarchus, did not hesitate to modify the poems – ‘by deletion, emendation and even interpolation’, as Porter puts it, ‘in order to bring out more fully their underlying sense’. It would appear that this approach was not unknown to Alexandrian scholars. As Porter has argued, Aristarchus was closer in his practice to Crates than is usually assumed.40 Admittedly, the hypotheses just proposed are impossible to demonstrate. However, we can tentatively suggest that there was a state of relative anarchy in the manuscripts of the LXX circulating in the days of B.Ar. This might have given rise to concern and, perhaps, but not necessarily, also, to polemic. To summarize: it is possible to argue that there could have been dissatisfaction with the LXX Pentateuch in the days of B.Ar. However, the cause of this dissatisfaction could be the poor state of the manuscripts, and not the quality of the translation achieved by the original translators. It is not impossible that dissatisfaction with the quality of the translation began somewhat later, if we accept the evidence of this from P.inv. Fouad 266 and the more or less contemporary manuscript of the Twelve Minor Prophets from the Dead Sea. The intellectual atmosphere prevailing in Alexandria in the second century BCE was certainly made up of many different contributory factors, and Alexandrian Jews were exposed to them all. There is no a priori reason why we should restrict the contextualization of the events related in B.Ar. to strictly Jewish matters, even when the early history of the LXX is at stake. Perhaps this statement should be presented the other way round: the events relating to the history of the LXX in second-century Alexandria might, themselves, have been influenced by wider local events which would then form the backdrop for the redaction of B.Ar. Since B.Ar. is the main clue for reconstructing these concerns, it will be appropriate to approach them through the history of this text. 127

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The Sitz im Leben of the Book of Aristeas Basic clues The key section for the reconstruction both of the Sitz im Leben of B.Ar. and the history of the LXX in second-century Alexandria is B.Ar. 308–17, the scene of the promulgation of the newly edited/translated text. Let us recall the sequence: in ch. 308 Demetrius gathers the Jews and reads out the newly achieved work to them, in the presence of the translators. The crowd responds with an ovation, both to Demetrius (ch. 308) and to the translators (ch. 309), and asks the Librarian to make a copy for their leaders (hegoumenoi). After the reading, the leaders of the Jewish community, who are equated with the leaders of the people of Israel (plethos), together with the leaders or the elders of the politeuma issue the official statement that the translation was made ‘rightly and reverently, and in every respect accurately’ (ch. 310). There follows the acclamation of the crowd, which amounts to an official ratification of the text, and then a curse against whoever might intend to modify the text in any manner whatsoever, which corresponds to the canonization of the text (ch. 311). These events are then reported to the King, who rejoices, since the approval of the Jews brings the final confirmation that his goal, i.e. the accurate and pious translation of the Law, has now been fulfilled. The Law is then read out to him and he admires it, wondering why no Greek historian or tragic poet ever mentioned it before (ch. 312). Thereupon, Demetrius explains that this Law is divine and therefore cannot be handled freely by everyone (chs 313–16). As a consequence the King bows before the Law and gives ‘orders for great care to be taken of the books and for their hallowed preservation’ (ch. 317). Three main points are highlighted in this section: (1) the Greek Torah is being canonized, and this process furnishes it with the status of a sacred text. The approval of the Jews is crucial for this stage. (2) The original scroll is entrusted by the King to the care of the Librarian (ch. 317). The royal approval of the whole process and the deposition of the scroll in the Library give the edition/translation the status of an authoritative copy. (3) The leaders of the Jewish community (or of the Jewish politeuma) receive a reliable copy based on the authoritative one. These points must serve as the starting point for our further inquiry into the circumstances attending the redaction of B.Ar. Preliminary remarks: the date of composition of the Book of Aristeas Determining the date of composition of B.Ar. is an indispensable preliminary step. The survey of the relevant bibliography which was provided by Fausto Parente in 1972 will allow us to cut short a highly vexed issue.41 128

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This survey was exhaustive for its time, and studies published after this date have not provided any significant methodological innovation likely to renew the issue in a substantial manner.42 A detailed discussion of their arguments would, therefore, not add much to Parente’s work. One possible exception is Peter Fraser’s Ptolemaic Alexandria, to be considered in a moment. It was argued in Chapter 4 that the realia embedded in B.Ar.’s narrative are of limited use for dating the redaction of this work. We saw that four categories of characters and realia must be distinguished in B.Ar.: the historical figures of Ptolemy and Demetrius the Librarian, whose association seems to be the product of an oral tradition; the secondary characters, such as Aristeas himself, who participate in the building of a ‘story world’, and contribute to the blurring of ‘fact’ and ‘fiction’ in B.Ar. It was argued that everything related to Judaea is idealized and can in no way be adduced as evidence for the dating of the work. On the other hand, the data concerning Alexandria and Hellenistic Egypt, for all its inaccuracy, has a foothold in reality. The numerous references to Ptolemaic institutions rule out the possibility that B.Ar. could have been written much later than the fall of the Ptolemaic dynasty and the imposition of a new order by the Roman administration in the time of Augustus. This assumption provides the lowest possible terminus ante quem. On the other hand, the realia related to Ptolemaic Egypt provide only an approximate terminus post quem. Thus, the aulic title of archisomatophylax points to a rough terminus post quem in the early second century BCE. These two chronological landmarks provide the broadest possible span of time. However, some important clues make it possible to narrow this span substantially. The safest clue remains the linguistic criterion. In a detailed philological study in 1935, based on a comparison with contemporary literary and papyrological material, Henry Meecham concluded that B.Ar. was probably written around 100 BCE.43 A decade and a half later Moses Hadas slightly modified Meecham’s conclusions with the observation that ‘nothing in the linguistic evidence compels a dating below the middle of the second century BCE’.44 Nothing in the text can be shown to positively contradict this conclusion. The intellectual atmosphere pervading the work, such as the philosophical polemic found in the Apology for the Law by the High Priest Eleazar, or the syncretistic religious atmosphere revealed in ch. 16,45 for instance, could fit the second century BCE. Thus, the most convincing dating for B.Ar. is the mid- or late second century BCE. One last point should be taken into consideration, however. In his monograph on Alexandria, Peter Fraser makes an important observation as to the situation prevailing in the Ptolemaic capital in precisely the later half of the second century BCE. He writes as follows: In the two generations or so after the persecutions of [Ptolemy VIII] Euergetes [II] [in 145] we hear little of any intelligentsia, local or 129

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immigrant [in Alexandria], and the period thus represents the nadir of Alexandrian life. In the first century, on the other hand, there are signs, particularly in the reign of Cleopatra VII, that the situation was improving. We must not expect works of literary merit at this late date, and in scholarship the great constructive critics who had survived . . . until the earlier part of the second century, are succeeded by men of greater learning but less originality.46 Following this reasoning, a date shortly before 145 should perhaps be preferred for B.Ar. too, but this sort of restriction should perhaps not be seen as definitely compelling. Whatever the case, the chronological framework thus delineated supports the contention that will be made now, that B.Ar. reflects the intellectual atmosphere prevailing in Alexandria in the wake of Aristarchus’ influential edition of Homer that became authoritative in Egypt around 150 BCE. (A possible alternative dating also to be considered here would link the redaction of B.Ar. to events connected with the setting up of a Jewish politeuma in Alexandria shortly after the revolt of the Maccabees in Judaea, that is, in the 160s.) An authoritative edition of the LXX in the second century BCE? Aristarchus became the fifth head of the Alexandrian library at an unknown date after 180 BCE under Ptolemy VI, and remained in charge until his expulsion from Alexandria by Ptolemy VIII in 145.47 His edition of Homer with its commentary quickly superseded the work of his predecessors. The reason for Aristarchus’ success is not entirely certain. In Rudolf Pfeiffer’s opinion, Aristarchus did not have to work out a completely new edition of the text. He probably based his own work on the common edition (the ‘vulgate’), already established by Aristophanes of Byzantium before him. The importance of Aristarchus’ contribution lies rather in his providing a full commentary to the poems. As a result, Aristarchus’ text with its commentary acquired the status of a ‘more or less authoritative text’, to quote Pfeiffer. According to this scholar, the work of textual criticism carried out by the Alexandrian grammarians before Aristarchus failed to have any impact on the manuscripts of Homer that were in circulation in contemporary Egypt, as papyri show, because they lacked a comprehensive authoritative commentary ‘arranged by the [most learned grammarian]’.48 Aristarchus’ edition with commentary, on the contrary, achieved an almost immediate tangible impact. By 150 BCE Homeric papyri show standardization of the text49 – Gregory Nagy went so far as to describe this phenomenon as ‘Homer as “scripture” ’.50 In the wake of the reform that was affecting the Homeric poems, not only in the library but also in the whole field of Greek education based on them all over Egypt, we may surmise that a parallel step was taken by the Jewish 130

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community. A new awareness of the importance of the accurate wording of a text was developing. Learned Jews (who taught the Law in the synagogue?) realized that the quality of the LXX manuscripts in circulation had deteriorated, and this situation suddenly became intolerable. The need for a reform was felt. Whether the dissatisfaction with the deterioration of the manuscripts was a new phenomenon or not, by the middle of the second century BCE it led to a concrete initiative. How we conceive of this initiative, if we take this line, depends on whether or not we accept that the LXX was deposited in the library in Ptolemy II’s time. Let us tentatively examine the two alternative scenarios, beginning with the supposition that a copy of the LXX was held in the library. Just as the edition of Homer established by the Alexandrian grammarians did not prevent ‘eccentric’51 Homeric manuscripts from circulating in the chora, the countryside outside the capital, the fact that a copy of the LXX was deposited in the library did not make it authoritative in any way. Then, in the wake of Aristarchus’ new edition of Homer which seems to be responsible for the reform in the manuscripts circulated in the chora that can be seen in the extant papyri, it was claimed that the copy of the LXX held in the library was authoritative and, likewise, that the copy possessed by the Jewish community derived from it directly. In fact, Elias Bickerman already surmised in 1950 that the existence of an ‘official exemplar’ with which ‘copies produced for public worship (sic) at Alexandria were controlled and collated’ may explain the fact that ‘on the whole the handing-on of the Greek Pentateuch had long been accurate to a surprising extent’.52 If we substitute ‘public reading on the Sabbath in the proseuchai’ for ‘public worship’, Bickerman’s assumed link between the relatively high standardization of the LXX manuscripts and the existence of a reference copy is, indeed, attractive. Let us pursue our proposed scenario further. Who made the move? It seems hard not to posit the involvement of a political authority. However, this does not necessarily have to be the king. By the mid-second century BCE, the Jewish community was much stronger and better organized than was the case under Ptolemy II. The politeuma had by then been set up, perhaps a decade or so earlier. It is reasonable to suppose that the head of the Jewish politeuma in Alexandria enjoyed from the outset the extended powers that Strabo ascribes to him for the late Ptolemaic period. Here are his words as preserved in Josephus: 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 the head of a sovereign state.53 As to the copy of the Law possessed by the leaders of the Jews, which is shown in B.Ar. 309, we may assume that it was deposited in the Jewish 131

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archive. The existence of a Jewish archive in Alexandria is documented by papyrological and literary evidence.54 The reconstruction just outlined, if accepted, implies that the story as presented in B.Ar. conflates two chronological stages: the royal initiative for the translation under Ptolemy II, and the establishment of a copy in the possession of the leaders of the Jewish community or the Jewish politeuma. Chapter 30, with its stress on the fact that the manuscripts have been transcribed somewhat carelessly, would be a retro-projection on to the period of Ptolemy II of the situation in B.Ar.’s day, tightening the links between the two chronological stages. In fact, one may ask which copy the Jewish leaders were really interested in having recognized as authoritative: the one deposited in the library, or the one in their own hands? Anyhow, in order to be authoritative the copy of the LXX possessed by the Jewish leaders had to be presented as faithful to the copy deposited in the library, according to the principle spelled out in ch. 30, the crucial part of Demetrius’ report to the King: [The scrolls of the Law of the Jews] have been transcribed somewhat carelessly and not as they should be . . . because they have not received royal patronage. The necessity to link an authoritative text with the library, as the presentation of B.Ar. itself suggests, would explain the conflation of the chronological stages in the work. B.Ar. symbolically created a continuity between the two stages, the translation under Ptolemy II, and the deposition of a copy in the Jewish archive by the second century BCE, and bolstered the claim of the identity of both texts. If we follow this line further, it is tempting to look at the step that was taken in the time of B.Ar. – granting the copy of the LXX held in the library the status of an authoritative edition – and link this step with the setting up of the Jewish politeuma in Alexandria. We saw in the previous chapter that the Jewish politeuma of Alexandria was probably set up on the arrival of an organized group of refugees from Judaea as a result of the civil war launched in their homeland by the Maccabean revolt. The evidence from the Jewish politeuma in Heracleopolis mentioned in Chapter 5 shows that politeumata provided a framework for the enforcement of Jewish law. In the discussion of the legal hypothesis it was suggested that the LXX functioned as a text of reference in the legal and judicial context. We cannot dismiss out of hand the possibility that the practical step that triggered either polemic – or at least a renewed interest in the LXX among Alexandrian Jews – was the official reception of this text as an abiding nomos by the court of the politeuma that was being set up. Unlike the situation that prevailed when the Demotic Manual of law was compiled and translated under Ptolemy II, in the second century BCE the promotion of the LXX as an abiding nomos 132

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in the formal framework of the Jewish politeuma must have given rise to questions as to the quality of the copy used by the leaders of the politeuma. Hence, the need to certify the pedigree of the copy in the way it is presented in B.Ar. The line we have just explored seems, however, to lead to an inner contradiction. The Jewish politeuma of Alexandria was probably set up in the sixties of the second century BCE, that is, a decade or so earlier than the reception of Aristarchus’ edition of Homer as authoritative in the Greek schools. However, this problem can be solved by introducing slight modifications in our reconstructed scenario. First of all, the chronological landmarks referred to in this scenario are all uncertain. Even though the standardization of the Homeric manuscripts becomes perceptible around 150 BCE, it is not excluded that the reform had already been in the air for some time. Perhaps, on the contrary, objections about the quality of the copy of the Law held by the leaders of the Jewish politeuma did not arise immediately, but only in the wake of the Aristarchean reform of the Homeric manuscripts. It is possible that the Jewish leaders of the politeuma, who were new immigrants after all, used a Hebrew copy of the Law at the outset of their jurisdiction, and then quickly realized that they needed to adopt the Greek translation familiar to the local Jews in order to fend off internal conflicts. They therefore had a copy of the LXX established following the one deposited in the royal library. And so on. But perhaps it is simpler to abandon the suggestion that there is a link between the redaction of B.Ar. and the setting up of the Jewish politeuma in Alexandria. A last point in our reconstruction needs to be examined. If we accept that B.Ar.’s presentation of the story conflates two chronological stages, the retroprojection of the existence of a Jewish politeuma onto the days of Ptolemy II makes perfect sense. Is it, however, the only case of confusion between present and past? If ch. 30 is relevant to the days of B.Ar., as was just intimated, this passage could well imply a royal involvement in the history of the LXX by the time of B.Ar. too. Why not? If we accept the hypothesis that the redaction of B.Ar. was in some way linked to the setting up of the administrative and legal powers of the leaders of the politeuma, the involvement of the king in the process is obvious. After all, the leaders of the politeuma acted as officials in the framework of the Ptolemaic regime.55 Rather than a retroprojection, however, this would present a case for the literary superimposition of two different occasions of royal intervention, or for a recollection of the past re-shaped by the experience of present events. Let us suppose now that there was no copy of the LXX held in the library, and examine the corresponding scenario. With time, the manuscripts circulating among Jewish communities all over Egypt deteriorated. In B.Ar.’s time the need was felt for a revised edition. This revised edition of the LXX claimed to be no less than the recovery of the original text established 133

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under Ptolemy II. In the same way, it is well known that the Alexandrian grammarians claimed that their edition of Homer was, in fact, the retrieved authentic text of Homer ‘composed’ c.1050 BCE, according to Aristarchus’ reckoning.56 We may also adduce the later example of Origen, whose revised edition of the LXX, either in the Hexapla or in a subsequent separate edition, was conceived by its author as no less than the retrieval of the ‘original’ – is this not, indeed, still the trigger behind the modern Göttingen project?57 Where was the new recension deposited? In the library or in the Jewish archive? And was the king involved in it? Depending on our interpretation of B.Ar., all options are open. If the king was involved, the literary conflation that symbolically creates a continuity between the time of the translation and B.Ar.’s time would have an even more important function than in the previous scenario. Its purpose would clearly be to bolster the claim of the identity of the original text established under Ptolemy II with the copy of the new recension deposited either in the royal library or in the Jewish archive by the second century BCE. All in all, however, the first scenario we have proposed is much easier to reconcile with the early history of the LXX as philological studies now reconstruct it. As we saw in Chapter 5, there can be little doubt that the text of the LXX as we possess it today ultimately derives from a prototype established in the early third century BCE. Proposing that B.Ar. alludes to a recension of the LXX that was established in the second century BCE, while the original translation of Ptolemy II’s time had refracted into many variants, may indeed be simply a mere variant of the interpretation of the origins of the LXX defended by Paul Kahle in 1959,58 just substituting a ‘deterioration of the manuscripts of the original translation’ for Kahle’s ‘early translations’. In Kahle’s view, B.Ar. was defending a translation made in its own day, and speciously ‘antedate[d] it by 150 years’. His reasoning was that B.Ar. is a work of propaganda, and ‘nobody makes propaganda for something a hundred or more years old. Propaganda is made for something contemporary’. Kahle then argued that the translation referred to in B.Ar. was not the first one ever made. It was only a ‘revision of already existing translations’.59 The latter originated, like the later Palestinian targums, in an oral form, and had eventually been written down.60 Kahle remained isolated in his view. The publication of Dominique Barthélemy’s study of the Greek scroll of the Twelve Minor Prophets from Qumran in 1963 definitely established that all later recensions of the LXX eventually derived from one translation only.61 As proof of the existence of former translations, Kahle had adduced first of all chs 30 and 314–16 of B.Ar.62 However, we saw already that the allusion to corrupted manuscripts in ch. 30 is better understood as a retro-projection of the situation obtaining in B.Ar.’s days, rather than in 134

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Ptolemy II’s. Conversely, as we saw in Chapter 3, the passage may be understood as a symbolic, not a realistic observation, injecting the Alexandrian ideology linked to the library into the story of the LXX. Thus, ch. 30 is no proof for the existence of corrupted Hebrew manuscripts or of former translations, but blurs the distinction between textual editing (of Homer) and translation (of the LXX). Similarly, the allusion to attempts at translating the Pentateuch by Theopompus and Theodectus found in chs 314–16 is not to be taken literally, as we saw in Chapter 3. The second scenario sketched above relies on the alternative reading of these passages proposed in this book: that B.Ar. alludes to a textual revision, made necessary by the fact that the manuscripts of the LXX had deteriorated into a poor state. Taken to the extreme, this view could imply that the LXX as we now have it originated in the second century CE and was not the only recension that was circulated. This conclusion, however, would be as unacceptable as Kahle’s was. Therefore, this scenario could only be maintained if we could admit that such a revision was concerned only with minor points, and did not amount to a completely revised translation or edition. However, supposing that the step taken in B.Ar.’s time merely consisted in giving an authoritative status to the original copy of the translation carried out under Ptolemy II (the first scenario sketched above) probably makes things simpler, if anything of the discussion held here is to be retained at all. However we reconstruct them, the events of B.Ar.’s days certainly triggered questions and queries among Jewish circles about the history of the text that was being promulgated as authoritative. The need for a work celebrating the undertaking was certainly felt, in order to meet public curiosity. In other words, the present scenario – whichever variant we eventually opt for – provides an appropriate Sitz im Leben for B.Ar. itself. As Paul Kahle rightly observed, propaganda is made for something contemporary. B.Ar. was written either to support the political step of the proclamation of the copy held in the library as authoritative (or, alternatively, the promulgation of the emended edition), or, more probably, to meet public curiosity aroused by this step. Its dimension of charter myth would suit these circumstances perfectly. It is tempting to date the founding of the annual festival celebrating the translation on the island of Pharos to this period. As is well known, this festival is mentioned by Philo in his Life of Moses (2.41–2), but not in B.Ar. The scenario proposed here remains, of course, hypothetical. Beside the readings of B.Ar. proposed in Chapter 3, it derives from an alternative interpretation of both the presence of textual variants in P.Ryl. III 458 and Philo’s testimony in his Life of Moses. As was suggested in passing, however, our scenario also integrates the view that the need for a reform of the state of the manuscripts, perhaps even the need for a new recension, was being felt. 135

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More decisively, it derives from the claim that B.Ar. does not contain polemical statements.63 It goes without saying that the view that B.Ar. was consensual, and not polemical, is consistent with the central contention of the present book, that B.Ar. was intended to provide the LXX with a charter myth. The reception of the LXX as a sacred text There is, however, one fundamental difference between the mid-secondcentury edition of Homer and the contemporaneous text of the LXX: the former achieved authoritative or quasi-authoritative status through a commentary provided by the most influential intellectual authority of Alexandria, the chief librarian; the latter derived its authority from its reception as a sacred text. It was emphasized in the previous chapter that the translation of the Hebrew Law into Greek cannot have been received as a sacred text from the outset. Once the translation was achieved, however, it was probably only a short time before a dynamic got under way. Jewish interest probably shifted rapidly from the original Hebrew text to the Greek translation. Progressive familiarization of Egyptian Jews with the translated text eventually prepared them to see it as their sacred text instead of the Hebrew Pentateuch.64 However, the poor state into which the manuscripts of the LXX had deteriorated by the mid-second century BCE may have been felt by the most educated section of the Jewish community as a hindrance to acknowledging it as sacred. The step taken in B.Ar.’s time most probably also involved the proclamation of the LXX as sacred. This move made the need for an authoritative copy of the translation even more crucial.

Proposed outline for a recapitulative reconstruction As our detailed discussion of the material, as well as the current hypotheses about the origins of the LXX, comes to its end, it is time to sketch out a reconstruction of the events related to the genesis and early history of the LXX as well as the circumstances of the redaction of B.Ar., using the various elements reviewed in the foregoing pages of this chapter and the preceding one. A preliminary remark is necessary. Such a reconstruction is of its essence trapped in a circular argument, first and foremost because it is based on the literary reading of B.Ar., but not only for this reason. However, it is fair to say that this is the fate of any reconstruction of the early history of the LXX that tries to take B.Ar.’s version into account. Arguably, this may also be the case for reconstructions that do not do this. However, currently accepted standards of methodology demand that we start any historical reconstruction with a comprehensive interpretation of the inner literary logic of B.Ar. 136

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Having made such an analysis, it is difficult to sustain the claim that B.Ar. is not a serious book – and it was this claim that gave legitimacy to earlier reconstructions that simply disposed of the text. In such conditions, the present reconstruction is worth trying, whatever its own merits, at least as an example. It may be modified at two different stages: either by a revised interpretation of B.Ar. itself, or by a reappraisal of the relationship between text and historical reality. On the basis of internal linguistic analysis, it would appear that the original translation of the LXX was made either in the third century BCE, according to John Lee, or more precisely in the earlier part of this century, according to T.V. Evans. The reign of Ptolemy I cannot be excluded altogether, since the literary sources about either the foundation of the library or the translation of the LXX attributed both achievements to him or alternatively, to his son. Although the literary evidence is inconclusive, however, the reign of Ptolemy II seems more plausible on (admittedly loose) historical grounds. First of all, even though we do not know who founded the library, Ptolemy II was undoubtedly responsible for its substantial expansion. More generally, the reign of Ptolemy II is a time of feverish activity in many fields which may have at least an indirect connection with the translation of the LXX: the beginning of widespread Greek schooling, backed by various inducements, in particular tax-exemption for teachers, suggesting a central, perhaps a royal, initiative; a possible judicial reform; active royal propaganda culminating in mass events such as the Great Procession in Alexandria, etc.65 The dynamism of Philadelphus’ time is best epitomized by the fact that his name became proverbial, as we learn from Philo.66 Second, it seems more plausible (again, on loose commonsensical grounds) that it was not the first generations of Jews settled in Alexandria who took the step of having their law translated, but the second or third. However, whether this had anything to do with the fact that Jews had by then forgotten their native tongue is uncertain, for two sets of reasons. First, it is not certain that Jews still had direct access to the Pentateuch in the Persian period. Even if we accept the view that Hebrew, and not Aramaic, was still the vernacular language in Judaea, the reading of the written text necessitated a professional training, since it lacked vocalization and punctuation. Thus, scribes were needed to mediate between the text and the wider population. From this point of view Palestinian Jews were not much better off than their Egyptian fellows. On the other hand, recent studies bearing on Ptolemaic and early Roman society tend to emphasize the fact that close-knit communities did, indeed, maintain specific features over a long span of time, among which, in some cases, was their own distinct language or Greek dialect.67 We would propose that the Jews themselves took the initiative of the translation. Their motivation may have been primarily a matter of prestige: 137

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their move was prompted by the royal propaganda that promoted the ideology linked to the editorial activity that was being carried out in the library. Lacking the necessary financial and, possibly, also technical means, the Jews turned to the king for support. Royal patronage made it possible for them to gather the necessary working team. The idea of gathering a team of translators working together was generated by what had already become normal practice in Alexandrian scholarship, in imitation of the method of collective work initiated by Aristotle in his Athenian Lyceum.68 Internal evidence provided by linguistic analysis of the LXX supports B.Ar.’s claim that several translators were at work on the translation. The team, however, must have been composed of Egyptian Jews. Either B.Ar.’s author or the collective memory of Alexandrian Jews commuted the real number of translators into a symbolic one. Perhaps the scroll on which the translation was based was indeed imported from Jerusalem, if not the translators. However, the importation motif in B.Ar. might be strictly functional (in Propp’s sense) and not based on any ‘historical core’, as was argued in Chapter 4. The translated book would have been deposited in the library, immediately, or within a very short time, in order to back up Ptolemy II in his claim against the Seleucids of his right to Coele-Syria (?). Shortly after the translation was achieved, the Greek text of the Law would have been read and studied in Jewish synagogues in Alexandria and in the Egyptian chora. The importance of the LXX in Jewish education is reflected by the many references to the Bible in Alexandrian Jewish literature, beginning with Demetrius the Chronographer in the late third century BCE. It is not impossible that the LXX was used as a reference text in legal contexts. A papyrus of 218 BCE (CPJ I 128) might provide some support for this assumption, although its fragmentary state makes its evidence uncertain. However, the archive from the Jewish politeuma of Heracleopolis in Middle Egypt, now published in P.Polit.Iud., further bolsters this supposition, at least for the second century BCE. With time, familiarity with the text grew. Alexandrian and Egyptian Jews would slowly come to hold the LXX as sacred – at least as sacred as the Hebrew original. However, the study of the LXX in a synagogal environment clearly led to a multiplication of manuscripts and, with time, the quality of the manuscripts deteriorated. Should we suppose the existence of ‘eccentric’ LXX papyri, alongside the Homeric ones? Sometime in the late 160s a new wave of Jewish settlers arrived in Alexandria. They were organized into a politeuma, headed by an ethnarch. The latter enjoyed some administrative and legal powers. Perhaps it took some time before the newcomers realized they needed to adopt the LXX as their reference document in legal matters, in order to have the old local Jewish community accept the authority of the ethnarch. In consequence, a 138

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copy of the LXX may have been deposited in the Jewish archives, under the ultimate responsibility of the Jewish ethnarch who stood at the head of the politeuma. Alternatively, these archives might have come under the responsibility of the heads of the older Jewish community settled in the city. The setting up of the jurisdiction of the ethnarch, whose existence is later documented by Strabo, could have given rise to queries about the state of the manuscripts then available. Was this move independent of what was going on in the field of Homeric studies? If the questions about the quality of the LXX manuscript arose in connection with the setting up of the ethnarch’s jurisdiction, it might have been earlier than the reform of Homeric manuscripts carried out in the wake of Aristarchus’ new edition and commentary. Unfortunately, the chronology of all events mentioned here is approximate, and the reform that led to the successful imposition of the ‘vulgate’ as the predominant (authoritative?) text of Homer over the ‘eccentric’ ones around 150 BCE might have already been in the air for some time. Whatever the case, the leaders of the Jewish politeuma and the Jewish community would have proclaimed a reform in the LXX manuscripts. Either the copy held in the library was proclaimed sacred and authoritative, or a decision was made to establish a revised edition of the original translation and to grant it this status. In the latter case, the work would have been carried out either by an individual or, more probably, by a team. Thus, the process that could be witnessed by contemporary Alexandrian Jews could have popularized in their minds the idea or, alternatively, reanimated in their memory the recollection that a team had worked on the original translation too. If a team was, indeed, involved in the second century BCE, we may agree that the Jewish community must have been strong enough by this time to support them by itself. A festival would have been established to commemorate the move. The date chosen for the festival was probably connected to the step taken in the mid-second century BCE. However, it was presented as celebrating the promulgation of the original translation that was carried out under Ptolemy II. (If the events of the mid-second century BCE involved a new recension of the LXX, the latter was no doubt presented as a retrieval of the original translation, in the same way that the Alexandrian grammarians claimed that their copy of Homer was nothing but the recovery of the original epics.) The events surrounding the LXX around the mid-second century BCE would have aroused a renewed interest in this text among Alexandrian Jews. The Book of Aristeas would have been written to meet the public curiosity. This work would have provided the LXX with the charter myth that consecrated and, perhaps, officialized its status as sacred text, accompanying the founding of the festival which was, or was soon to be, celebrated in the island of Pharos every year. 139

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The Book of Aristeas: an assessment Oral tradition and authorial intervention in the Book of Aristeas In writing his work, the author of B.Ar. had to reckon with existing oral tradition and legends that circulated among Alexandrian Jews about the origins of the LXX. He supplemented this with inferences of his own, based on observation of the conditions prevailing in his own day. In so doing, our author was adopting the best methodological standards of his contemporary historians. From our modern point of view, this habit of filling up the gaps with inferences based on the firmly-held belief that human nature is universal and material conditions static led to regrettable anachronisms and retroprojections in ancient Greek as well as Roman historiography. However, the author of B.Ar. should not be held any more guilty in this than Herodotus or Plutarch or the Roman historians who supplemented the annalistic data at their disposal with anecdotes reconstructed out of arbitrary inferences.69 On these ‘hard core facts’ – whose status as ‘facts’, as far as modern historiographical conceptions are concerned, is dubious – our author fleshed out an elaborated narrative. Let us try to sort out what might belong to which of these three layers in the genesis of B.Ar.’s redaction: oral tradition, ‘hard core facts’ as they were conceived by ancient historiographers (including inferential elaborations based on contemporary observations), and narrative elaboration. The inherited oral tradition probably provided the names of Ptolemy II and Demetrius. It would seem probable that it knew about a team of translators. If a number was circulated, it was probably 70, and not 72. It is possible that the oral tradition comprehended details of a legendary nature. Marvellous notes and anecdotes may have been added over time to the bare bones of the story’s structure. If so, then the author of B.Ar. cleared away all these marvellous accretions. His version is a thoroughly rationalized one. If we turn now to the retro-projections of the circumstances of the midsecond century BCE onto the time of Ptolemy II which result from the author’s concern to fill in the gaps in his documentation, one undeniable instance is the mention of the politeuma in the scene of the promulgation of the new edition/translation. Others that have been posited in the present study are more speculative. The most important of these is the ideology linked to the editorial work of the Alexandrian grammarians. This ideology achieved wide reception beyond the scholarly circles working in the library – or perhaps took on new inflections – in the second century, as the Homeric ‘vulgate’ was gaining new prestige in the wake of Aristarchus’ work. If we retain the idea of a recension of the LXX around the mid-second century BCE, one uncertainty remains: we have no means of knowing whether the 140

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work of recension was carried out by one scholar or by a team. If a team was involved, we may see the mention of the 72 Elders in B.Ar. as a combination of received tradition and retro-projection. In any case, studies of the translation technique of the LXX tend to support the view that the original work of translation of the LXX was actually carried out by a team. This specific instance warns us against an abusive use of the notion of retroprojection. A retro-projection may be responsible for a pure invention. It may also be responsible only for a slight distortion in the presentation of a genuine fact – or at least a genuine tradition. To the layer of ‘elaboration’ belongs the configuration of the account on narrative and literary paradigms. The informing of the narrative with the Exodus story, as well as the many specific reminiscences to the LXX, undeniably results from a learned and indeed skilful use of allusions by our author. Among biblical reminiscences we find, for example, the description of the garments of the High Priest in chs 96–9, or the references to a process of canonization embroidered onto the scene of promulgation of the LXX in chs 308–11. One remarkable feature noted time and again throughout this study is the ability of our author to merge different patterns, both Greek and biblical, and to play on the ambiguous connotations of specific notes, so that his narrative emerges as both thoroughly Jewish and thoroughly Greek. The most conspicuous example of this is his use of the Greek institution of civic tribes to re-shape the twelve biblical tribes (see Chapter 3). The seventh book of Aristotle’s Politics is also skilfully re-worked in the description of Jerusalem to accommodate for a fourth politeia, theocracy (Chapter 2). It may be noted in passing that this kind of play on two sets of allusions to two different cultural systems which are, however, unified in the same medium, was a familiar experience for Alexandrians. In two important papers Ludwig Koenen has shown that the Ptolemies were careful to associate their name and persons, both in the visual arts and in the dynastic titles they adopted, with symbols that could appeal to both the Greek and the Egyptian sections of the population of their kingdom.70 Thus, the very technique of combining Jewish and Greek references may be seen, in some way, as typically Alexandrian. Two certainties emerge out of this recapitulation: the first is that the good faith of our author is by no means to be doubted. The second is that, for all his good faith, the standard of truth-telling current in his time does not allow modern scholars to reach any safe conclusions either about the early origins of the LXX or about the circumstances of the redaction of B.Ar. itself and, hence, about its purpose. Notwithstanding these problems, the reading that was defended in the foregoing study is that B.Ar. does, indeed, provide clues for reconstructing the history of the LXX as well as its own history. These clues, however, are not to be found in the realia and other 141

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‘hard core facts’ on which ‘modern’ positivistic history likes to rely. The clues are provided on the more elusive level of the ideology and beliefs presented in the work. More precisely, and therefore more arguably, the foregoing study has explored the working hypothesis that the history of the LXX is best understood in the light of the history of the text of Homer in Ptolemaic Alexandria. ‘Fact’ and ‘fiction’ in the Book of Aristeas To put it differently: a recapitulation of the detailed discussion held in the present book shows that there is virtually no ‘factual’ item in B.Ar. that cannot be shown either to be part of a narrative paradigm, or at least to have some symbolic role in the text. In other words, every single factual detail in B.Ar. can be claimed to be fictional: •

• • • • •

The figure of the King belongs to both the narrative paradigms that compose B.Ar.’s central narrative (see Chapter 3): in the biblical paradigm he is needed as the new Pharaoh; the Alexandrian paradigm is of its essence centered on a Ptolemaic king. As to the specific mention of Ptolemy II, this may derive from the connotations implied by the adjective ‘Philadelphean’ in later times (Chapter 4). Demetrius of Phalerum is pivotal in the Homeric paradigm which underlies the story of the LXX presented in B.Ar., as argued in Chapter 4. The Library is even more pivotal in the Alexandrian ideology that underlies the Alexandrian paradigm (Chapter 3). The choice of a High Priest as head of state in Judaea is consistent with the depiction of Judaea as a city ruled by theocracy (Chapter 2). The 72 translators may have been inspired primarily by the practice of collective work in the field of textual edition. If so, the collective translators are part of the Homeric paradigm. As to their number, it combines a multiple of twelve, the number of Israelite tribes, and a reminiscence of the 70 elders who accompanied Moses on Mount Sinai (Chapter 3).

If we turn to the details, the conclusion is similar: •

The citadel watching over the Temple in Jerusalem is decisive in the building up of Judaea as the home of a theocratic politeia (Chapter 2).

On a theoretical level, this list seems to support the extreme conclusion that B.Ar. is nothing but a vast historical hoax, if we take ‘historical’ in a modern, positivistic sense. However, in some cases external evidence can be adduced in favour of the veracity of a specific detail found in B.Ar.: 142

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• • •

Philologists agree that the LXX was translated in the third century BCE by a team. Archaeologists (and Josephus) are adamant that there was, indeed, a citadel in Jerusalem close to the Temple. New papyri from Heracleopolis demonstrate that the mention of the politeuma is not pure invention, but merely a retro-projection. Herodotus has accustomed us to far worse blunders of this kind.

In these circumstances, a more balanced, and certainly more correct conclusion is that the author of B.Ar. was just a good writer: he skilfully integrated the ‘factual’ elements that stood at his disposal throughout his work – factual elements that came to him via an oral tradition, or that he found in archives – into a successful literary composition. This conclusion must be taken one step further: the fact that a specific element can be demonstrated to be part of a narrative paradigm does not automatically warrant the claim that this element was strictly fictional and should therefore be disregarded for the purposes of historical reconstruction. This remark applies especially to the issue of the involvement of a Ptolemaic king and the Alexandrian library in the genesis of the LXX. Some thirty years ago Oswyn Murray observed that the author of B.Ar. made a very creative use of the archive material that he found: he was not content with reproducing royal decrees, but re-worked them carefully before inserting them in his narrative. Murray speaks of ‘creative plagiarism’.71 In this respect, our author shows even more concern for literary polishing than, say, the author of the Romance of Alexander. The latter integrated letters just as he found them (Chapter 4). But we can go further about B.Ar.’s author: we are entitled to broaden Murray’s perspective and conclude that our author made a creative use not only of archive documents, but of reality itself, for the sake of his literary composition.

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7 CONCLUSION The Book of Aristeas between two worlds

In his 1951 commentary on B.Ar., Moses Hadas stressed the numerous affinities between B.Ar. and what he called ‘pagan’ literature – meaning by this Hellenistic literature written by non-Jews. He focused mainly on the question of literary genre, but occasionally stressed the intellectual affinities between the author of B.Ar. and ‘pagan’ philosophical circles of his time. With such a division of Hellenistic literature into ‘pagan’ and ‘Jewish’ categories, however, it is no wonder that he did not go further. Even Victor Tcherikover puts the stress on the biblical allusions and overlooks Greek ones in referring to the description of Jerusalem, although his approach certainly goes one step further than Hadas’.1 The detailed analysis of B.Ar. that was conducted in this book has made it clear that the affinities are so pervasive as to involve practically every aspect belonging to the field of culture in its broadest sense – from literary output to mental attitudes and religious sensitivity. What is left that is specifically Jewish in B.Ar. at the end of our study is very limited: it basically boils down to the fact that its topic, in its core, draws upon Jewish, not Greek, folklore and myth. In such conditions, is it still relevant to speak of ‘affinities’? It seems more appropriate simply to erase the boundary implicitly created by the reference to ‘affinities’, and to speak of one and the same world.2 Even today, B.Ar. is usually classified in the special category of ‘JudaeoHellenistic literature’. This special labelling creates a mental conditioning in the readers of this work, as well as others included under the same label, which is prejudicial at a time when students of the history of the Jews in Hellenistic and early Roman Egypt have taken them out of the ghetto where previous generations of scholars imagined they lived. Maintaining the traditional labelling may be justified in specific circumstances, but it is harmful most of the time, inasmuch as it invites the modern student to look primarily for the differences between ‘Jewish’ and ‘pagan’ literature. It takes a special effort on the part of the modern student to fully gauge the similarities. 145

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Looking for similarities does not mean only surveying such obvious and non-committal areas as literary genres. Intellectual and philosophical spheres must also be scrutinized, and beyond these, religion. If we put the stress on similarities, and not on differences, we must be struck by the fact that B.Ar. presents close affinities with the religious syncretistic atmosphere prevailing in Ptolemaic Egypt, especially around the cults of Sarapis and Isis.3 It has been noted long ago that the kind of allegorical interpretation based on a false etymology (Ze¯na, ‘Zeus’/Ze¯ n, ‘to live’), that appears in ch. 16, together with the equation between the Jewish God and Zeus of the Greeks, echoes a conception exposed by Plato in Cratylus 396a–b. An allusion in Hecataeus of Abdera (Diodorus, 1.12.2) shows that this theme was popular in the Hellenistic period. It is found in another Judaeo-Hellenistic author, Aristobulus, fgt 4, who likewise equates Zeus with the God of the Jews.4 As to the idea of a single god revered by all mankind under distinct names, this is well known from the Isis aretalogies, the hymns to the goddess that were composed in Greek after Egyptian models. It is found in the first of four hymns written by one Isidorus and carved on the walls of the temple of Isis in Narmunthis, in the Fayum (I.métr.Ég. 175.1, ll. 14–24). The statement that God gives mankind ‘health and food and all other gifts in their season’ (B.Ar. ch. 190) is, likewise, paralleled by similar ideas in the aretalogies, such as the second hymn of Isidorus (I.métr.Ég. 175.2, ll. 2–20).5 Even the statement, in Eleazar’s mouth, that ‘none of the things on earth which men do secretly are hidden from [God]’ (ch. 132, see also 210) finds an echo in a chreia ascribed to Pittacus of Mitylene: ‘Pittacus of Mitylene, on being asked if anyone escapes the notice of the gods if committing some sinful act, said: “No, not even in contemplating it”’.6 Biblical allusions, as emphasized by John Bartlett who quotes chs 132 and 190 of B.Ar., cannot be denied.7 However, as M. Beavis insists less ambiguously than Bartlett, biblical comparisons cannot completely account for all the connotations encapsulated in these theological statements.8 The Ptolemaic influence on the theology of the LXX is now better and better recognized. It would thus be strange if B.Ar. were free of such influences.9 It is time to fully acknowledge the full weight of Tcherikover’s statement that, in the view of B.Ar.’s author, ‘Judaism is a combination of universal philosophy with the idea of monotheism . . . in no way at variance with the Greek concept of the world’.10 It is true that it is only the cultural atmosphere that pervades contemporary Anglo-Saxon and other Western societies in recent decades that has created the conditions for the modern scholar to overcome the mental obstacles generated by the definition of the category of ‘Judaeo-Hellenistic literature’ and to allow for a more open-minded investigation of the ‘Jewish’ texts. The trend towards cultural relativism (or ‘multiculturalism’) is, in 146

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turn, conditioning the scholar to scrutinize this Jewish text for what it can teach us about the surrounding Greek society, just as scholars working on Demotic papyri have, in recent years, begun adducing these as evidence for the study of Greek society in Egypt.11 It is to be hoped that the foregoing study has demonstrated that B.Ar. preserves indirect echoes of intellectual debates that seem to have been current in contemporary Alexandria, such as moralistic condemnation of the large city. Such debates are otherwise lost. B.Ar. may, arguably, be further adduced as evidence for the study of the mental attitudes towards myth that characterized erudite Alexandrian circles. It has further been shown that the boundaries drawn by the polemics found in B.Ar., such as the shafts targeting Euhemerist philosophers in the Apology of the Law by the High Priest, must be redefined. They do not divide ethnic groups from one another, the Jewish from the Greek, but distinguish between internal sub-groups of the intellectual and philosophical Alexandrian circles. More important, the foregoing study has endeavoured to show that by a shift of perspective, namely, reintegrating B.Ar. in its Alexandrian environment instead of isolating it in a closed Jewish world view, it is possible to suggest alternative lines of interpretation of the text and its implicit allusions. This was the ambition of the ‘Homeric paradigm’ which was explored at length. To conclude: it is hoped that the examples just given vindicate the claim that it is a flawed assumption to treat the so-called Judaeo-Hellenistic works as a separate category. The originality of a work such as B.Ar., as far as Jewish matters are concerned, relates to secondary aspects. In the light of this, is it really necessary to maintain a category of texts labelled ‘JudaeoHellenistic literature’? It seems much more desirable to define a work such as B.Ar. simply as ‘Alexandrian literature’. This shift of category should then prompt Classicists to pay attention to the fact that here lies one sample of Alexandrian prose work of the second century BCE that has survived not as fragments, but as a whole. Admittedly, B.Ar. is not a masterpiece from a literary point of view, any more than any of the other texts produced by Hellenized Jews. There is no question that we would be much better off had we access to the works of the Hellenistic historians that Polybius, Diodorus or Plutarch mention and quote. Unfortunately, we do not. Nevertheless, B.Ar. may be interesting precisely because of its being an average work. As such, it may be a good reflection of Hellenistic, indeed Alexandrian, taste. Admittedly, B.Ar. and other Jewish texts survived the general loss of Alexandrian and Hellenistic literature thanks to their Jewish content. While Hellenistic works suffered a complete disaffection after the late first century BCE as a result of a change in literary taste that disqualified them altogether as rhetorical models, texts with a Jewish content continued to be copied by the Fathers of the Church. Only in their case did concerns for content 147

CONCLUSION

supersede concerns for style.12 The conditions of this survival are, perhaps, the most conspicuous specificity of the ‘Judaeo-Hellenistic literature’. It was the Fathers of the Church who created this special category. It is time to query its continued relevance today.

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APPENDIX Outline of the composition of the Book of Aristeas

In the following outline the following symbols are used: A1 to A4: mark the successive stages composing the main theme of the central narrative; B1, 2, 3: mark the three episodes of the secondary theme of the central narrative; dig. 1 to dig. 4: mark the four digression sections. Introduction chs 1–8: Introduction. In the form of a letter to Aristeas’ brother, Philocrates. A1 chs 9–11: The King’s Librarian, Demetrius of Phalerum, reports to Ptolemy the lack of a copy of the Law of the Jews in the Library and the necessity to have it translated to supply that need. B1 chs 12–27: The narrator raises the question of the liberation of the people deported as prisoners of war from Judaea to Egypt by the King’s father, Ptolemy son of Lagos. The King readily complies with the request and issues an edict setting free the 100,000 slaves. A1 chs 28–34a: Written report from Demetrius to the King restating the matter presented in 9–11, together with his suggestion of writing to the High Priest of Jerusalem requesting him to send translators. B1–A2 chs 34b–40: Copy of Ptolemy’s letter to Eleazar the High Priest informing him about the liberation of the Jews, the wish to have the Law translated, ‘so that these writings should find place in our library’ (ch. 38). The King asks for six translators from each tribe, learned Elders.

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A3–B2 chs 41–51a: Copy of Eleazar’s answer, spelling out the mode of selection of the Elders. dig. 1 chs 51b–83a: Ecphrasis: description of the presents sent by the King. dig. 2 chs 83b–120: Journey to Jerusalem. Description of the Temple, Jerusalem and the country. (A2 chs 121–7: This passage spells out the qualities of the translators on the occasion of their departure from Jerusalem.) dig. 3 chs 128–71: The High Priest Eleazar gives an allegorical interpretation of the Law of the Jews. Presented as questions by the narrator and answers by Eleazar to his questions. (A3 chs 173–81: The Elders’ arrival at Alexandria and immediate audience before the King. First mention of the scroll of the Law that the Elders have brought along with them, which is displayed before the King.) (chs 182–6: The accommodation of the Elders according to their national customs, as customary for every guest at the Alexandrian court.) dig. 4 chs 187–300: A symposium during seven consecutive nights with a series of questions (by the King) and answers (by each of the Elders). A4 chs 301–7: A description of the translators carrying out their task. B3 chs 308–11: The public reading of the translation completed in front of the Jews of Alexandria. The translation is ratified by the crowd, the leaders curse anyone who might intend any modification of any sort to the text. B3 chs 312–17: The reading of the translation before the King and clarification as to why the Law has never been translated before. A4 chs 318–21: The King’s farewell to the Elders. Concluding remarks chs 322: The usual formula of letter closure is lacking.

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NOTES

1 INTRODUCTION 1 See Hadas, p. 56, n. 81; Parente, p. 176. 2 Many of Plutarch’s works collected in the Moralia, for instance, open with a personal address, as do some of his Lives (e.g. Theseus, 1.1). The Gospel of Luke, a work considered close to the historiographical genre, also contains a nominal address (1.3). Closer to our text, Aristobulus’ work seems to have been addressed to Ptolemy VI Philometor. See Aristobulus, fgt 3a apud Eusebius P.E. 9.6.6 = Holladay, pp. 158–9, and Clement, Stromateis, 1.22 = Holladay, pp. 150–1. 3 On letters in the Classical world see S.K. Stowers, Letter Writing in Greco-Roman Antiquity, Philadelphia, PA: Westminster Press, 1986; J.L. White, ‘Ancient Greek Letters’, in D.E. Aune (ed.), Greco-Roman Literature and the New Testament: Selected Forms and Genres, Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press, 1988, pp. 85–106; A.J. Malherbe, Ancient Epistolary Theorists, Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press, 1988; J.T. Reed, ‘The Epistle’, in S.E. Porter (ed.), Handbook of Classical Rhetoric in the Hellenistic Period. 330 B.C.–A.D. 400, Leiden: Brill, 1997, pp. 171–93. On letters in Greek literature see now P.A. Rosenmeyer, Ancient Epistolary Fictions. The Letter in Greek Literature, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001. On Alexander’s Letter to Aristotle about India see L.L. Gunderson, Alexander’s Letter to Aristotle about India, Meisenheim am Glan: Anton Hain, 1980, pp. 140–56, with an English translation. 4 For this name, I follow the form recommended by W. Eck, ‘Flavius Iosephus, nicht Iosephus Flavius’, SCI 19, 2000, 281–3. 5 Flavius Josephus, AJ 12.100; Epiphanius, De mensuris et ponderibus, 9; Eusebius, Praep. Ev. 9.38.1 (Mras, vol. 1, p. 547). See M. Hadas, p. 56, and n. 81 and Parente, p. 178. 6 W. Schmidt, Untersuchungen zur Fälschung historischer Dokumente bei Pseudo-Aristaios, Bonn: R. Habelt, 1986, pp. 21–2. 7 O. Murray, ‘Aristeas and Ptolemaic Kingship’, JThS 18, 1967, 337–71: 340–3. On the historical Aristeas, see Schürer, III/1, pp. 525–6; C.R. Holladay, Fragments from Hellenistic Jewish Authors, vol. 1, Historians, Chico, CA: Scholars Press, 1983, pp. 261–75. 8 See e.g. Schürer, III/1, p. 677. 9 O. Murray, loc. cit. (n. 7), p. 343. 10 Allusions to the LXX appear in the description of the shewbread table in chs 51–72 (Ex. 25: 23–29 and 27: 9–19, and more generally in the description of Ptolemy’s

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11

12

13

14 15 16

17

18

gifts to the Temple, Ex. 31: 1–11), in the description of the High Priest’s garments, chs 96–9 (Ex. 28–9), in ch. 155, and elsewhere. See J.R. Bartlett, Jews in the Hellenistic World. Josephus, Aristeas, the Sibylline Oracles, Eupolemus, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985, pp. 17 and 23–4, and O. Murray, ‘Aristeas and his Sources’, Studia Patristica XII, T.U. 115, Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, 1975, pp. 123–8: 124. Convenient outlines of the reception of the text in modern times are found in S. Jellicoe, The Septuagint and Modern Study, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1968, pp. 30–5; G. Dorival, in La Bible grecque des Septante, p. 41. Also, Parente, pp. 180–2; N.L. Collins, The Library in Alexandria and the Bible in Greek, Leiden: Brill, 2000, p. 115. On the history of biblical criticism see A. de Pury and T. Römer, ‘Le Pentateuque en question: position du problème et brève histoire de la recherche’, in A. de Pury (ed.), Le Pentateuque en Question, 2nd revised edn, Geneva: Labor et Fides, 1989, pp. 9–80: 12–15. On B.Ar. as apologetic, see the studies discussed by Tcherikover, ‘Ideology’, pp. 181–5. P. Kahle, The Cairo Geniza, 2nd edn, Oxford: Blackwell, 1959, pp. 209–10, may be added to these. Non-serious: Hadas, pp. 54 and 58–9. A contradiction already stigmatized by E.L. Abel, ‘The Myth of Jewish Slavery in Ptolemaic Egypt’, REJ 127, 1968, 253–8: 255. On chs 12–14 see below, Chapter 3. Compare Austin, no. 262, who includes abstracts from B.Ar. on the translation of the Septuagint and the freeing of the slaves in his source book on the Hellenistic world. On the archaeology of Jerusalem see L.H. Vincent, ‘Jérusalem d’après la Lettre d’Aristée’, RBi 5, 1908, 520–32 and 6, 1909, 555–75 and M. Harari, ‘Un punto di vista archeologico sulla Lettera di Aristea’, in Studi ellenistici, pp. 91–106. R. Reich, ‘Mishnah Sheqalim 8:2 and the Archaeological Evidence’, in A. Oppenheimer, U. Rappaport and M. Stern (eds), Jerusalem in the Second Temple Period. Abraham Schalit Memorial Volume, Jerusalem: Y. Ben-Zvi, 1980, pp. 225–56 (Hebrew), strangely quotes ch. 106 as evidence for ritual baths in Hellenistic Jerusalem. S. Gibson and D.M. Jacobson, ‘The Oldest Datable Chambers on the Temple Mount in Jerusalem’, Biblical Archaeologist 57/3, 1994, 150–60, quote ch. 89 in a study on the water supply system of the Temple. Chs 108–10 also regularly attract the attention of papyrologists: H. Cadell, ‘La georgia en Égypte: genèse d’un thème économique et politique’, in J. Bingen, G. Cambier and G. Nachtergael (eds), Le Monde grec. Hommages à Claire Préaux, Brussels: Brussels University Press, 1975, p. 644, n. 3, quotes chs 108–9 for cleruchs’ absenteeism in the Egyptian countryside. Chapter 110 is regularly quoted as the only evidence for the expulsion of Egyptian peasants from Alexandria already in the Hellenistic period: see e.g. Cl. Préaux, Le Monde hellénistique, vol. 2, Paris: PUF, 1978, p. 481. Schürer, p. 93, relies on B.Ar. to support the argument that Augustus merely re-introduced the Jewish gerousia in Alexandria. These are only examples chosen at random. As late as the 1980s, M. Harari, loc. cit. (n. 16) argued in favour of an actual journey, in spite of several recent works stating that the author of B.Ar. had no direct knowledge of Jerusalem, such as Parente, pp. 549–50. This trend was initiated by E.J. Bickerman, ‘The Septuagint as a Translation’, Studies in Jewish and Christian History, vol. 1, Leiden: Brill, 1976 (first published 1959), pp. 167–200.

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19 Chapter 38 is part of the letter sent by Ptolemy to the High Priest in Jerusalem. The King records in it all the good things he has done for the Jews, presumably in order to induce Eleazar to respond favourably to his request to send him translators. 20 ‘Coup double’. See D. Barthélemy, ‘Pourquoi la Torah a-t-elle été traduite en grec?’, in On Language, Culture and Religion. In Honor of E.A. Nida, The Hague: Mouton, 1974, pp. 23–41. 21 G. Dorival, in La Bible grecque des Septante, pp. 76–7; W. Orth, ‘Ptolemaios II. und die Septuaginta-Übersetzung’, in H.-J. Fabry and U. Offerhaus (eds), Im Brennpunkt: Die Septuaginta, Studien zur Entstehung und Bedeutung der griechischen Bibel, Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 2001, pp. 97–114; T. Rajak, ‘The Letter of Aristeas and Ptolemy’s Library’, paper presented at the Conference ‘The Jews in the Hellenistic World’, in memory of Prof. David Asheri, held at Ben Gurion University of the Negev, Israel, 9 January 2001, unpublished. 22 G. Dorival, loc. cit., p. 77. He restated his position with more nuance in his ‘À propos de la Septante’, in D. Tollet (ed.), Politique et religion dans le judaïsme ancien et médiéval, Paris: Desclée, 1989, pp. 21–8. Dorival explicitly relies on studies by J. Mélèze-Modrzejewski on Ptolemy II’s judicial reform carried out about 275 BCE. See the latter’s ‘La règle de droit dans l’Égypte ptolémaïque. État des questions et perspective de recherche’, in Essays in Honor of C.B. Welles, New Haven: American Society of Papyrologists, 1966, pp. 125–73 and ‘Droit et justice dans le monde hellénistique au IIIe siècle avant notre ère: expérience lagide’, in A. Biscardi (ed.), Mélanges G.A. Petropoulos, 1, Athens: Ekdoseis Ant. Sakkoyla, 1984, pp. 55–77. In the same vein as Dorival see also N.L. Collins, op. cit. (n. 11), p. 56. Both scholars go so far as to propose a very narrow chronological estimate for the date of the translation of the Pentateuch: the years 285–282, according to Dorival, and 281, according to Collins. 23 The most notable exception is M. Hadas. The recent change is reflected in W. Orth, loc. cit., p. 97. 24 As in a recent volume on ancient rhetoric edited by S.E. Porter, Handbook of Classical Rhetoric in the Hellenistic Period. 330 B.C.–A.D. 400, Leiden: Brill, 1997, which includes a comprehensive study of Hellenistic history (in this broader sense) by S. Rebenich, ‘Historical Prose’, pp. 265–337. Unless otherwise indicated, the present study will use the word ‘Hellenistic’ in its narrower sense, referring to the period from Alexander the Great to the Roman conquest. 25 See the five volumes of The Book of Acts in its First-Century Setting, Grand Rapids, Mi: W.B. Eerdmans, 1993–6. On literary aspects, D.E. Aune, The New Testament in Its Literary Environment, Philadelphia, PA: Westminster Press, 1987; D.E. Aune (ed.), Graeco-Roman literature . . . (n. 3); B.W. Winter and A.D. Clarke (eds), The Book of Acts in its Ancient Literary Setting, Grand Rapids, MI: W.B. Eerdmans, 1993, with further bibliography to more specialized studies, p. 337, n. 1. Although its conclusions are no longer accepted, the pioneering work of Adolf Deissmann in this field Light from the Ancient East, London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1910 (German orig. 1908), should be recalled here. 26 See e.g. the papers collected in two volumes: J. Lieu, J. North and T. Rajak (eds), The Jews among Pagans and Christians in the Roman Empire, London: Routledge, 1992 and M. Goodman (ed.), Jews in a Graeco-Roman World, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1998.

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27 For a similar approach see now M. Niehoff, Philo on Jewish Identity and Culture, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2001. 28 The comparison between B.Ar. and Greek historiography was already proposed (but not explored) by L. Troiani, ‘Il libro di Aristea ed il giudaismo ellenistico. (Premesse per un’interpretazione)’, in Studi ellenistici, pp. 31–61: 31 and 47–50. 29 The basic comprehensive studies are C.W. Fornara, The Nature of History in Ancient Greece and Rome, Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1983, and J. Marincola, Authority and Tradition in Ancient Historiography, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997. Note also the papers collected in two volumes: A. Cameron (ed.), History as Text, London: Duckworth, 1989 (especially Cameron’s introduction, pp. 1–10), and C. Gill and T.P. Wiseman (eds), Lies and Fiction in the Ancient World, Exeter, Devon: Exeter University Press, 1993. 30 T.P. Wiseman, ‘Lying Historians: Seven Types of Mendacity’, in Lies and Fiction, p. 139; A.J. Woodman, ‘From Hannibal to Hitler: the Literature of War’, University of Leeds Review 26, 1983, 107–24; A.J. Woodman, ‘Self-Imitation and the Substance of History: Tacitus, Annals, 1.61–5 and Histories 2.70, 5.14–15’, in D.A. West and A.J. Woodman (eds), Creative Imitation and Latin Literature, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1979, pp. 143–55: 155. 31 O. Murray, ‘The Letter of Aristeas’, in Studi ellenistici, pp. 15–29: 18–19. 32 W. Schmidt, op. cit. (n. 6). 33 N. Meisner, Untersuchungen zum Aristeasbrief, Diss. Berlin, 1973. On his working hypothesis see his introduction, and chapter 8. 34 O. Murray, loc. cit. (n. 31). 35 Tcherikover, ‘Ideology’. 36 For a review of the opinions concerning these issues see Jellicoe, op. cit. (n. 11), pp. 47–52, 59–73; G. Dorival, loc. cit. (n. 11), pp. 43–4; O. Murray, loc. cit., pp. 16–17, all with bibliography. 37 O. Murray, loc. cit., p. 18. 38 Tcherikover, ‘Ideology’, pp. 195–7. Pp. 196–7: ‘The [Septuagint] translation . . . is Aristeas’ main subject in the Letter. He makes every effort to prove the sanctity of the translation.’ H.M. Orlinsky, ‘The Septuagint as Holy Writ and the Philosophy of the Translators’, HebrUCA 46, 1975, 89–114: 93–4: ‘the basic reason for composing the Letter . . . [was] the strong desire to accord the Septuagint version of the Torah the same sanctity and authority long held by the Hebrew original – in a word, to certify to the “divine” origin of the Septuagint.’ 39 V.I. Propp, The Morphology of the Folktale, 2nd edn revised, Austin: University of Texas Press, 1968 (Russian orig. 1928). See below, Chapter 4. 2 GENRE AND COMPOSITION IN THE BOOK OF ARISTEAS 1 Hadas, p. 55. See also Tcherikover, ‘Ideology’. 2 See S. Rebenich, ‘Historical Prose’, in S.E. Porter (ed.), Handbook of Classical Rhetoric in the Hellenistic Period. 330 B.C.–A.D. 400, Leiden: Brill, 1997, pp. 265–337, 288–9. C. Préaux, ‘Sur le naufrage de la littérature grecque de l’âge hellénistique’, Miscellanea in honorem J. Vergote, Orientalia Lovaniensia Periodica 6/7, Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1975/76, pp. 455–62.

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3 J.-G. Février, La Date, la composition et les sources de la lettre d’Aristée à Philocrate, Paris: E. Champion, 1925. 4 See O. Murray, ‘The Letter of Aristeas’, in Studi ellenistici, pp. 15–23: 18; D.W. Gooding, ‘Aristeas and Septuagint Origins: A Review of Recent Studies’, Studies in the Septuagint, pp. 158–80 (first publ. 1963). See G. Dorival, in La Bible grecque des Septante, p. 43. 5 P. Kahle, The Cairo Genizah, 2nd edn, Oxford: Blackwell, 1959, pp. 210–11. 6 G. Dorival, loc. cit. (n. 4), p. 43. 7 L.E. Rossi, ‘I generi letterari e le loro leggi scritti e non scritti nella letterature classiche’, BICS 18, 1971, 69–94, citations pp. 77 and 83. 8 On the importance of rhetoric in Hellenistic education, see G.A. Kennedy, A New History of Classical Rhetoric, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1994, pp. 81–4; T. Morgan, Literate Education in the Hellenistic and Roman Worlds, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998, pp. 190–239. 9 F. Cairns, Generic Composition in Greek and Roman Poetry, Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1972, p. 32. 10 The known handbooks of rhetoric, both extant and lost, are conveniently listed by G.A. Kennedy, ‘Historical Survey of Rhetoric’, in S.E. Porter (ed.), op. cit. (n. 2), pp. 19–41. 11 See L.E. Rossi, loc. cit. (n. 7), p. 83; W. Kroll, ‘Die Kreuzung der Gattungen’, in his Studien zum Verständnis der römischen Literatur, Stuttgart: J.B. Metzlersche, 1924, pp. 202–24. 12 Fraser, I, pp. 641–9. 13 On this see G.A. Kennedy, A New History (n. 8), pp. 246–7. 14 On the need to obtain a correct view of the use of literary genres practised at a given time in order properly to assess the personal contribution of individual writers of that period, see the remarks of F. Cairns, op. cit. (n. 9), pp. 31–3. 15 See, last, C.B.R. Pelling, ‘Epilogue’, in C.S. Kraus (ed.), The Limits of Historiography, Leiden: Brill, 1999, pp. 325–60: 328 and bibliography quoted there. 16 See L.E. Rossi, loc. cit. (n. 7), pp. 84–5; W. Kroll, loc. cit. (n. 11), pp. 203–5. 17 Trans. Hadas, modified. 18 For a brief description of the 14 types of progymnasmata listed by the rhetorician Aphthonius in the fourth century CE, see Kennedy, op. cit. (n. 8), pp. 203–7. On ecphrasis in general, see J. Elsner, Art and the Roman Viewer, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995, pp. 24–8; Georgia Frank, The Memory of the Eyes, Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 2000, pp. 16–29. S. Goldhill, ‘The Naïve and Knowing Eye: Ecphrasis and the Culture of Viewing in the Hellenistic World’, in S. Goldhill and R. Osborne (eds), Art and Text in Ancient Greek Culture, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994, pp. 197–223, focuses on the production of a ‘changing discourse of viewing’ in Alexandrian poetry, and therefore deals with descriptions much more sophisticated than the one found in B.Ar. 19 Athenaeus, Deipnosophistae, 5. 196–203e (= Callixenus of Rhodes, FGrH 627 F2). On this text see E.E. Rice, The Grand Procession of Ptolemy Philadelphus, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1983. 20 See the epigram included in a schoolbook text of the late third century BCE, O. Guéraud and P. Jouguet, Un Livre d’écolier du IIIe siècle avant J.-C., Cairo: IFAO, 1938, p. 20, ll. 140–54 = D.L. Page, Greek Literary Papyri, LCL, vol. 1, 1942, no. 105, pp. 448–53, quoted by D.J. Thompson, ‘Literacy and Power in Ptolemaic

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21

22 23 24

25

26 27

28

29

30

Egypt’, in A.K. Bowman and G. Woolf (eds), Literacy and Power in the Ancient World, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994, pp. 67–83: 76. Two other epigrams by one Poseidippus (who may also be the author of the first one) also record Alexandrian monuments, the Pharos and a shrine to Arsinoe, but in a more elusive way (Page, ibid., no. 104, pp. 444–9). On the original setting of these epigrams, see D.J. Thompson, ‘Ptolemaios and the “Lighthouse”: Greek Culture in the Memphite Serapeum’, PCPhS 213, n.s. 33, 1987, 105–21: 112. Hadas, pp. 50 and 56–7. On the chreia, see R.F. Hock and E.N. O’Neil (eds), The Chreia in Ancient Rhetoric. Vol. 1: The Progymnasmata, Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press, 1986; V.K. Robbins, ‘The Chreia’, in D.E. Aune (ed.), Greco-Roman Literature and the New Testament: Selected Forms and Genres, Atlanta, Ga: Scholars Press, 1988, pp. 1–23. PSI I 85 (= Pack2 2287), quoted in R.F. Hock, E.N. O’Neil (eds), op. cit., p. 9. See also G.A. Kennedy, op. cit. (n. 8), p. 204. The fragments are collected in M. Winiarczyk, Euhemeri Messenii reliquiae, Stuttgart: B.G. Teubner, 1991. The main sources are Diodorus 6.1 and 5.41–6. On the practice of Hellenistic symposia and the related literature see now O. Murray, ‘Hellenistic Royal Symposia’, in P. Bilde, T. Engberg-Pedersen, L. Hannestad and J. Zahle (eds), Aspects of Hellenistic Kingship, Aarhus: Aarhus University Press, 1996, pp. 15–27. On this symposium see the important remarks by O. Murray, ibid., pp. 22–3. The author argues that the description found in B.Ar. ‘suggest[s] ignorance and confusion . . . about the actual practices of early Hellenistic symposia’. Detailed study by N. Meisner, Untersuchungen zum Aristeasbrief, Diss. Berlin, 1973. Still valuable is the older analysis by G. Zuntz, ‘Aristeas Studies 1: the Seven Banquets’, Journal of Semitic Studies 4/1, 1959, 21–36 = Opuscula Selecta, Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1972, pp. 110–25. Further, O. Murray, ‘Aristeas and Ptolemaic Kingship’, JThS 18, 1967, 337–71. A survey of this section is given by Parente, pp. 549–63. For the concept of ‘action chreia’, as opposed to a ‘saying chreia’, see V.K. Robbins, loc. cit. (n. 21) See D.J. Thompson, ‘The Good Official in Ptolemaic Egypt’, in H. von Maehler and V.M. Strocka (eds), Das ptolemäische Ägypten, Deutsches ärchäologisches Institut, Mainz am Rhein: Philipp von Zabern, 1978, pp. 195–202: 196, with nn. 20–4. J.-G. Février, op. cit. (n. 3); G. Zuntz, ‘Aristeas Studies 2: Aristeas and the Translation of the Torah’, in Studies in the Septuagint (first published 1959), pp. 208–25: 224–5. The description of Judaism as a politeia and the Jews as politai is common in Jewish authors writing in Greek. See L. Troiani, ‘The POLITEIA of Israel in the Greco-Roman Age’, in F. Parente and J. Sievers (eds), Josephus and the History of the Greco-Roman Period. Essays in Memory of Morton Smith, Leiden: Brill, 1994, pp. 11–22. Recent documentary evidence confirms that this use in literature reflects actual practice. See Urkunden des Politeuma der Juden von Herakleopolis (144/3–133/2 v. Chr.) (P.Polit.Iud.), edited by J.M.S. Cowey and K. Maresch (P.Polit.Iud.; Wiesbaden, 2001), no. 1, with my remarks: S. Honigman, ‘The Jewish Politeuma at Heracleopolis’, SCI 21, 2002, 251–66. For a detailed analysis of this section in B.Ar. see D. Foraboschi, ‘L’ideologia della richezza in Aristea’, in Studi ellenistici, pp. 63–74.

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31 On the Apology see the survey by Parente, pp. 222–31. 32 R.F. Hock and E.N. O’Neil (eds), op. cit. (n. 21), provide an edition and translation of the relevant passages. 33 On Hermogenes, ibid., pp. 161 and 176–7, ll. 30–64. On Aphthonius, pp. 225–9, ll. 23–78. 34 J.-G. Février, op. cit. (n. 3), p. 29, took what he saw as a ‘violent polemic’ against Greek and Egyptian rites as a proof that the whole section is a later interpolation. 35 See e.g. Hadas, p. 51. 36 M.A.L. Beavis, ‘Anti-Egyptian Polemic in the Letter of Aristeas 130–65, The High Priest’s Discourse’, JSJ 18/2, 1987, 145–51 rightly showed that the section is anti-Egyptian, but seeks to put Jews and educated Greeks on the same side. On this section see also Tcherikover, ‘Ideology’, pp. 194–5. 37 All the preserved fragments of Aristobulus are now collected and translated in Holladay. On the problems raised by the relative chronology of B.Ar.’s author and Aristobulus, see Schürer, III/1, p. 680, n. 281. 38 K. Berthelot, ‘L’interprétation symbolique des lois alimentaires dans la Lettre d’Aristée: une influence pythagoricienne’, JJS 52/2, 2001, 253–68. 39 See further M.A.L. Beavis, loc. cit. (n. 36), pp. 148–9. More generally, K.A.D. Smelik and E.A. Hermelijk, ‘ “Who knows not what Monsters Demented Egypt Worships?” Opinions on Egyptian Animal Worship in Antiquity as Part of the Ancient Conception of Egypt’, ANRW II.17.4, pp. 1852–2000. 40 The practice of brother–sister marriage became common under Roman rule. It cannot be proved to have existed, certainly not on a wide scale, in Ptolemaic times. B.D. Shaw, ‘Explaining Incest: Brother-Sister Marriage in Graeco-Roman Egypt’, Man 27, 1992, 267–99; R.S. Bagnall and B.W. Frier, The Demography of Roman Egypt, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994, ch. 6, especially pp. 127–34. Contra, M.K. Hopkins, ‘Brother-Sister Marriage in Roman Egypt’, Comparative Studies in Society and History 22, 1980, 303–54, tries to find some precedents from the Hellenistic period. See especially pp. 312–13 and 340 (where the assertion about Hellenistic precedents in the Hellenistic period contradicts the admission that no documentary evidence is recorded before the Roman period, p. 327). A possible, but uncertain case of brother–sister marriage is discussed by J. Mélèze Modrzejewski, ‘Die Geschwisterehe in der hellenistischen Praxis und nach römischem Recht’, in J. Mélèze Modrzejewski, Statut personnel et liens de famille dans les droits de l’antiquité, Aldershot: Variorum, 1993, pp. 52–82: 58. There remains the possibility that the couple were half-brother and sister only, and this kind of marriage was traditionally accepted in the Greek world. 41 It is well known that the house of the Ptolemies practised endogamy, in violation of Macedonian custom. The first brother–sister marriage was that of Ptolemy II with Arsinoe, who became his second wife. Ptolemy II later celebrated this marriage by taking over a suitable dynastic title, Philadelphus. The choice of his sister for a wife apparently elicited fierce criticism in Alexandrian circles: the poet Sotades was forced into exile for hailing the occasion with an irreverent epigram, and later paid for his boldness with his life (Athenaeus, 14.621a–b). Theocritus, on the other hand, displayed a greater sense of self-preservation in duly celebrating the union (Idyll 17). On this see G. Hölbl, A History of the Ptolemaic Empire, London: Routledge, 2001, p. 36. By the time of B.Ar.’s author, however, the practice seems to have been accepted.

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42 Plutarch, On Stoic self-contradictions 1044F = SVF 3.753, part 41. Translation from A.A. Long and D.N. Sedley, The Hellenistic Philosophers, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987, vol. 1, p. 430. Greek text ibid., vol. 2, p. 424. 43 For legislation as opposed to practice concerning homosexuality in Rome, see J. Griffin, ‘Augustan Poetry and the Life of Luxury’, in his Latin Poets and Roman Life, London: Duckworth, 1985, pp. 1–31: 22–6. The paper as a whole is interesting for underlining the gap between legislation and social practice. 44 On the early Stoics’ and Cynics’ provocative positions and the reactions that entailed see further A.O. Lovejoy and G. Boas, Primitivism and Related Ideas in Antiquity, Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1935, repr. 1997, especially pp. 117–51. For arguments against Cynic primitivism, see in particular the text Cynicus, ascribed to Lucian, quoted ibid., pp. 136–9 and translated pp. 140–5. 45 Judaism is presented as a religion of philosophers in two famous early Hellenistic sources. One is a passage from Theophrastus’ De Pietate, in Porphyrius, De Abstinentia, 2.26 (= Stern, GLAJJ I, no. 4, p. 10). The other is Clearchus of Soli, De Somno, quoted by Josephus, Against Apion, 1.179 (Stern, no. 15, pp. 49–50 for text and translation). See also Strabo, 16.2.35–6 (= Stern, no. 15, pp. 294–5 and 299–300). Jewish authors themselves did the same, e.g. Philo, Legatio, 156; Vita Mosis 2.216; Hypothetica 2.11–13. See H.A. McKay, Sabbath and Synagogue. The Question of Sabbath Worship in Ancient Judaism, Leiden: Brill, 1994, p. 73, as well as her comments on Philo, Moses 215–16, Special Laws 2.60–2, pp. 66–7, and Dreams 2.123–8, p. 76. The description of Oriental sacerdotal caste members as philosophers is a topos among Hellenistic geographers. See Diodorus, 2.29.2 on the Chaldaeans (and, by implication, the Egyptian priests). The comparison with Greek schools of philosophy is made explicit in 2.29.4–6. 46 UPZ 1.113 (trans. Austin, no. 258), an administrative letter sent in 156 BCE by an official to a subordinate, says that ‘many people are coming down the river (sc. the Nile) to the city (sc. Alexandria) and are lodging complaints against you, your subordinates and especially the tax-farmers for abuses of power’. Thus, the existence of a royal decree (prostagma) regulating the attendance at the Alexandrian courts, which could support B.Ar. ch. 110, is not out of the question. C.Ord.Ptol. records several prostagmata dealing with the operation of legal courts: nos. 23, 26, 27, 30–1, 61. It should be noted, however, that in his study on the documents inserted in B.Ar., W. Schmidt concluded that our author did not model his documents on genuine ones. See his Untersuchungen zur Fälschung historischer Dokumente bei Pseudo-Aristaios, Bonn: R. Habelt, 1986. 47 On B.Ar. ch. 111 see Chapter 4, pp. 87–8 below. 48 Biblical references are gathered by Tcherikover, ‘Ideology’, pp. 199–200. 49 On this skill see O. Murray, ‘Aristeas and his Sources’, Studia Patristica XII, T.U. 115, Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, 1975, pp. 123–8. 50 Aristotle, Pol., 7.11.5, 1330b 17–21, trans. H. Rackham, LCL, vol. 21, pp. 587 and 589. 51 On this Neubildung see P.W. van der Horst, ‘The Distinctive Vocabulary of Josephus’ Contra Apionem’, in L.H. Feldman and J.R. Levison (eds), Josephus’ Contra Apionem. Studies in its Character and Context, Leiden: Brill, 1996, pp. 83–93: 89, with further bibliography in n. 29. Also T. Rajak, ‘The Against Apion and the Continuities in Josephus’s Political Thought’, in S. Mason (ed.), Understanding

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52 53

54 55

56

57

58

59

Josephus. Seven Perspectives, Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998, pp. 222–46: 229–31. Contra P.W. van der Horst, loc. cit. (n. 51), p. 89, n. 29. These recurring topics are pointed out by O. Murray, ‘Hecataeus of Abdera and Pharaonic Kingship’, JEA 56, 1970, 141–71. On the description of Jerusalem and Judaea see further my detailed study, ‘La description de Jérusalem et de la Judée dans la Lettre d’Aristée’, forthcoming in Athenaeum 91/2, 2003 and 92/1, 2004. See, typically, Hadas’ note to ch. 109, p. 144. Quotation ibid. For an analysis of this passage, although from a somewhat different perspective from the one advocated here, see M. Harari, ‘Un punto di vista archeologico sulla Lettera di Aristea’, in Studi ellenistici, pp. 91–106: 103–5. Harari gives relevant references to studies on Alexandrian urbanism and architecture. See G.A. Mansuelli, ‘Contributo a Deinokrates’, in Alessandria e il mondo ellenisticoromano. Studi in onore di Achille Adriani, vol. 1, Rome: L’Erma di Bretscheider, 1983, pp. 78–90. P. Green, From Alexander to Actium: The Historical Evolution of the Hellenistic Age, Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1990, ch. 15, pp. 233–47; Agatharchides (de mari Erythreo) on the Erythraean Sea. Agatharcides of Cnidus, edited and translated by S.M. Burstein, London: Hakluyt Society, 1989. W. Schmidt, op. cit. (n. 46). It was long thought that the royal decree proclaiming the liberation of the Jewish slaves (chs 22–5) was based on real official documents, similar to those preserved in C.Ord.Ptol. 21–2 (= Austin, no. 275). The comparison was made by W.L. Westermann, ‘Enslaved Persons who are Free’, AJPh 59, 1938, 19–30 and widely accepted. B.-J. Müller, Ptolemaeus II. Philadelphus als Gesetzgeber, Diss. Köln, 1968, pp. 77–82, maintained Westermann’s conclusions that the author of B.Ar. based his own decree on genuine documents such as C.Ord.Ptol. 22, pointing out further that C.Ord.Ptol. 25 seems to mention ‘prisoners of war’ in the context of a liberation of Syrian slaves (although the reading is uncertain). I. Biezunska-Małowist, La schiavitù nell’Egitto greco-romano, Rome: Editori Riuniti, 1984, chs 1–2, still basically agrees with this opinion. If this traditional view is to be maintained, a new papyrus may be added for comparison, P. Mich. inv. no. 6947, of January 197 BC, now published in R. Scholl, Corpus der ptolemäischen Sklaventexte, Stuttgart: Franz Steiner, 1990, no. 9. The papyrus documents a further royal decree, promulgated in November 198, taking a census of owners of Egyptians who had been enslaved during the unrest caused by the twenty-year-long secession of the Thebaid and other unrest in the country in the late third and early second centuries BCE. See L. Koenen, ‘Royal Decree of November 12, 198 B.C. (?) on Sale of Egyptians Enslaved in Unrest (P.Mich.Inv. 6947)’, in Atti del XVIIo congr. Int. di Papirologia, Naples: Centro int. per lo studio dei papiri ercolanesi, 1984, pp. 915–16. A further record of a registration of slaves under Ptolemy VI survives, SB VIII 8993 = R. Scholl, no. 8 (176–175 BCE). R. Merkelbach, Die Quellen des griechischen Alexanderromans, 2nd edn rev. with J. Trumpf, Munich: C.H. Beck, 1977. Merkelbach takes as his starting point the fact that some of the letters inserted in the Romance were discovered on papyri as independent texts (PSI XII 1285; P.Hamb. II 129). See also his comments at P.Hamb. II 129, ad loc. On both the genre of the Romance of Alexander and the use

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60

61

62 63

64 65

66 67 68

69 70

71 72 73 74

of letters in this work see now P.A. Rosenmeyer, Ancient Epistolary Fictions. The Letter in Greek Literature, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001, pp. 169–92. As was already noted by P. Wendland, Aristeae ad Philocratem epistula, Leipzig: Teubner, 1900, notes to pp. 25, 27. See O. Murray, ‘The Letter of Aristeas’ (n. 4), p. 21, and ‘Aristeas and his Sources’ (n. 49), pp. 124–5. On the differences between these texts see Tcherikover, ‘Ideology’, pp. 77–8, who further refers to the biblical parallel sections. Also, J.-D. Gauger, ‘Zitate in der jüdischen Apologetik und die Authentizität der Hekataios-Passagen bei Flavius Josephus und im Ps. Aristeas-Brief ’, JSJ 13, 1982, 6–46: 36–8 (on ch. 31). O. Murray, ‘Aristeas and his Sources’, pp. 124 and 126. It should be noted, however, that since there was indeed a period when the Hasmonean rulers assumed both functions of king and high priest together, Philo’s phrasing may perhaps reflect a learned correction due to his own initiative or another source. See e.g. Fraser’s analysis of the poem Europa by Moschus, Fraser, I, pp. 647–9. Hecataeus apud Diodorus, 40.3 = M. Stern, GLAJJ I, pp. 26–7. On Hecataeus see O. Murray, ‘Hecataeus of Abdera and Pharaonic Kingship’ (n. 51), especially pp. 150–69, and 158 for this portion. On Pseudo-Hecataeus see C.R. Holladay, Fragments from Hellenistic Jewish Authors, vol. 1, Historians, Chico, CA: Scholars Press, 1983, pp. 277–335; B. Bar-Kochva, Pseudo-Hecataeus On the Jews. Legitimizing the Jewish Diaspora, Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1996. See Plato, Timaeus, 21e. On this topos, see O. Murray, ‘Aristeas and Ptolemaic Kingship’ (n. 25), pp. 343 and 368–9. Tcherikover, ‘Ideology’. H.M. Orlinsky, ‘The Septuagint as Holy Writ and the Philosophy of the Translators’, HebrUCA 46, 1975, 89–114: 96. More recently, M.A.L. Beavis, loc. cit. (n. 36), p. 151, has insisted that the work must have been directed at Greeks also. More on this aspect in Chapter 3 below, p. 62. On the notion of inverse or negative ethnocentrism in Greek culture see J.S. Romm, The Edges of the Earth in Ancient Thought, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1992, pp. 47–8. The texts are gathered in A.O. Lovejoy and G. Boas, op. cit. (n. 44), pp. 287–367. On diegema and diegesis see G.A. Kennedy, op. cit. (n. 8), p. 204. Translation Shutt and Hadas, ad loc. Trans. Shutt modified. The phrase ‘historical monograph’ is modern, but the Ancients certainly had this sort of concept. Polybius’ criticism of this genre makes it clear that historical monographs were a common genre in Hellenistic times. In his view, universal history is more useful and is, indeed, made necessary by the political situation of his days, when the affairs of the West, i.e. Rome, have come to meet the affairs of the Greek East. See Polybius, 1.4.3 and 6; 3.32.8; 7.7.6; 29.12.1–4, and further Diodorus, 1.3.1–2. On historical monographs, see e.g. D.W. Palmer, ‘Acts and the Ancient Historical Monograph’, in B.W. Winter and A.D. Clarke (eds), The Book of Acts in its Ancient Literary Setting, Grand Rapids, Mi: W.B. Eerdmans, 1993, pp. 1–30 (pp. 5–8 on Polybius, with further references). A new, more balanced appraisal of the concept of ‘historical monographs’ is now to be found in J. Marincola, ‘Genre, Convention, and Innovation in Greco-Roman Historiography’, in C.S. Kraus (ed.), The Limits of Historiography. Genre and Narrative in

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75 76 77 78 79 80

81

82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91

Ancient Historical Texts, Leiden: Brill, 1999, pp. 281–324: 303. Following Marincola’s approach, the term ‘genre’ or even ‘sub-genre’ is better avoided with reference to ‘historical monographs’. J. Marincola, ibid., especially pp. 283–301. G. Schepens, ‘Jacoby’s FGrHist: Problems, Methods, Prospects’, in G.W. Most (ed.), Collecting Fragments/Fragmente Sammeln, Göttingen: Vanderhoeck & Ruprecht, 1997, pp. 144–72: 146. See also J. Marincola, loc. cit., pp. 293–4. Quoted by Marincola, loc. cit., pp. 293–4. Ibid., p. 299. On this concept, noted in the context of a discussion about the elusiveness of generic rules, see C.B.R. Pelling, ‘Epilogue’ (n. 15), pp. 325–35. The literature on the relationship between Luke-Acts and Graeco-Roman historiography is immense. The point is controversial, since some scholars are inclined to identify the Gospels rather with Graeco-Roman biography, a genre whose essence was different. On these issues see D.W. Palmer, loc. cit. (n. 74); D.E. Aune, The New Testament in Its Literary Environment, Philadelphia, PA: Westminster Press, 1987, ch. 3, pp. 77–115 (‘Luke-Acts and Ancient Historiography’) and ch. 4, pp. 116–57 (‘The Generic Features of Luke-Acts’); R.A. Burridge, ‘The Gospels and Acts’ and ‘Biography’, in S.E. Porter (ed.), A Handbook of Classical Rhetoric, especially pp. 507–25 and 371–4; R.A. Burridge, What Are the Gospels? A Comparison with Graeco-Roman Biography, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992; D.E. Aune, ‘Greco-Roman Biography’, in D.E. Aune (ed.), Greco-Roman Literature and the New Testament: Selected Forms and Genres, Atlanta, Ga: Scholars Press, 1988, pp. 107–26. See F.W. Walbank, ‘Profit or Amusement: Some Thoughts on the Motives of Hellenistic Historians’, in H. Verdin, G. Schepens and E. de Keyser (eds), Purposes of History. Studies in Greek Historiography from the 4th to the 2nd century BC, Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1990, pp. 253–66; K. Sacks, Diodorus Siculus and the First Century, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1990, pp. 23–4. Hadas’ translation. Further considerations of the kind pervade the whole introduction: see chs 2, 5, 6, 7, 8. On Diodorus’ introduction see L. Canfora, ‘Le but de l’historiographie selon Diodore’, in H. Verdin, G. Schepens and E. de Keyser (eds), op. cit. (n. 81), pp. 313–22. J. Marincola, loc. cit. (n. 74), pp. 309–20. O. Murray, ‘Aristeas and Ptolemaic Kingship’ (n. 25), pp. 340–3, takes the reference seriously. Pelletier, note ad loc., pp. 4–5. Diodorus, 6.1 (= Winiarczyk, nos. 8 and 3). F.W. Walbank, Polybius, Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1972, p. 103. See F. Jacoby, FGrH 76 F1. English translation and commentary in J.R. Morgan, ‘Make-Believe and Make Believe: The Fictionality of the Greek Novels’, in Lies and Fiction, pp. 184–5. On the so-called ‘tragic history’, see F.W. Walbank, ‘Tragic History: A Reconsideration’, BICS 2, 1955, 4–14; F.W. Walbank, ‘History and Tragedy’, Historia 9, 1960, 216–34 = Selected Papers, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985, pp. 224–41. Further on the characteristics associated with ‘tragic’

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history, E. Plümacher, Lukas als hellenistischer Schriftsteller. Studien zur Apostelgeschichte, Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1972, pp. 80–126. On individual historians of the Hellenistic period, S. Rebenich, loc. cit. (n. 2), pp. 265–337, now provides a very balanced survey. 92 Polybius, 2.56.11–12, quoted and analysed by J.R. Morgan, loc. cit. (n. 90), p. 186. See further e.g. 3.31.12, where the verbs terpein, ‘to be pleasing’ (the verb used in B.Ar. 322), and ophelein, ‘to provide a benefit’, are opposed; 1.4.11, where the words chre¯simon ‘profit’, and terpnon, ‘pleasure, amusement’, are used. 93 On Polybius’ concept of ‘pleasure’, see F.W. Walbank, ‘Profit or Amusement’ (n. 81), pp. 260–6. 94 See [Cicero], Rhetorica ad Herennium, 1.13. Comments on the tri-partite division of narrative in Classical rhetoric abound. See e.g. J.R. Morgan, loc. cit. (n. 87), especially p. 189, with bibliography in n. 19. 3 THE CENTRAL NARRATIVE 1 See Xenophon’s Cyropaedia and Plato’s Republic. 2 O. Murray, ‘The Letter of Aristeas’, in Studi ellenistici, pp. 15–29: 17–18. 3 B. Malinowski, ‘Myth in Primitive Psychology’, reprinted in his Magic, Science, and Religion and Other Essays, Garden City, NY: Anchor, 1948; G.S. Kirk, ‘Aetiology, Ritual, Charter: Three Equivocal Terms in the Study of Myth’, YClS 22, 1972, 83–102. On the socio-functionalist background of Malinowski’s concept of ‘charter myth’ see W.G. Doty, Mythography. The Study of Myths and Rituals, 2nd edn, Tuscaloosa, AL: University of Alabama Press, 2000, pp. 128–35, with further bibliography. 4 On this prologue see C. Pelling, ‘“Making Myth look like History”: Plutarch’s Theseus-Romulus’, in his Plutarch and History. Eighteen Studies, London: Duckworth, 2002, pp. 171–95. 5 I. Malkin, Myth and Territory in the Spartan Mediterranean, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994, p. 5. 6 A convenient starting point is the discussion of this concept by N. Ben Yehuda, The Masada Myth. Collective Memory and Mythmaking in Israel, Madison, WI: University of Wisconsin Press, 1995, pp. 279–84, which provides abundant bibliography. Further: R. Samuel and P. Thompson (eds), The Myths We Live By, London: Routledge, 1990, ‘Introduction’, pp. 1–22. 7 H. Tudor, Political Myth, London: Macmillan, 1972, pp. 65–85. On Roman myths see further M. Fox, Roman Historical Myths. The Regal Period in Augustan Literature, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1996. T. Cornell, The Beginnings of Rome. Italy and Rome from the Bronze Age to the Punic Wars (c.1000–264 B.C.), London: Routledge, 1995, pp. 1–30 and 48–80, discusses the literary sources against archaeological data. 8 See Virgil, Aeneid, 8.671–731. 9 Ptolemy Soter’s Memoirs, which emphasized the link between Alexander and himself as his successor, or Soter’s hijacking of Alexander’s corpse and the eventual building of a Mausoleum for Alexander close to the royal residence in Alexandria, are to be classified as political propaganda. Such acts, however, laid the ground for the development of genuine political myths. An interesting attempt to deal with the mythical dimension of the figure of Alexander is P. Goukowsky’s Essai

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sur les origines du mythe d’Alexandre (336–270 av. J.-C.), 2 vols, Nancy: Nancy University Press, 1978–81. G. Nagy, Poetry as Performance. Homer and Beyond, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996, pp. 202–3, argues for a charter myth related to Alexandria, linking Alexander to the library. An investigation of this kind on the Alexander Romance still needs to be done. See the preliminary remarks by R. Stoneman, ‘The Alexander Romance. From history to fiction’, in J.R. Morgan and R. Stoneman (eds), Greek Fiction. The Greek Novel in Context, London: Routledge, 1994, pp. 117–29. H. Tudor, op. cit. (n. 7), p. 17. C.J. Friedrich and Z.L. Brzezinski, Totalitarian Dictatorship and Autocracy, New York, NY: Frederick A. Praeger, 1961, p. 99. N. Ben Yehuda, op. cit. (n. 6), p. 282. Tudor, op. cit. (n. 7), p. 16. See on this point Christopher Pelling’s rejoinder to Paul Veyne’s Did the Greeks Believe in their Myths? Essays in the Constitutive Imagination, Chicago, IL: Chicago University Press, 1988 (French orig., 1983), op. cit. (n. 4), pp. 171–95. Incidentally, if we need to link myth and ritual, we do in fact have one ritual: Philo (De Vita Mosis, 2.41) says that the Jews used to gather once a year on the island of Pharos in order to commemorate the translation of the LXX. The relevance of this text for B.Ar. was already underlined by O. Murray, loc. cit. (n. 2), p. 23. Galen, 17.1.607–8, Comm. 2.4 in Hippocrates Epidemiai, Book III. CMG V 10.2.1, pp. 79–80. The Greek text is reproduced in Fraser, II, p. 480, n. 147. Translation partly based on E. Csapo and W.J. Slater, The Context of Ancient Drama, Ann Arbor, Mi: University of Michigan Press, 1995, p. 11, no. 15b. R. Pfeiffer, A History of Classical Scholarship from the Beginnings to the End of the Hellenistic Age, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1968, pp. 82 and 192. The source for the Athenian official edition of the tragic poets commissioned by the state is Pseudo-Plutarch, Lives of the Ten Orators, 841F. A.W. Erskine, ‘Culture and Power in Ptolemaic Egypt: The Museum and the Library of Alexandria’, Greece & Rome 42, 1995, 38–48: 47, n. 8, suggests that ‘Galen’s views may have been coloured by the fact that he was a native of Alexandria’s erstwhile rival Pergamum’. The analysis proposed here suggests that the version found in Galen may also be faithful to his ultimate Alexandrian source. More sources are analysed in S. Honigman, ‘The Narrative Function of the King and the Library in the Letter of Aristeas’, forthcoming in J.K. Aitken, S. Pearce and T. Rajak (eds), Representations of Monarchy in Hellenistic Culture. On Alexandrian scholarship, see R. Pfeiffer, op. cit. (n. 19), pp. 87–233 (on Zenodotus, pp. 94, 98, 105–17; on Aristarchus, pp. 210–33); Fraser, I, pp. 447–79 (on Zenodotus, pp. 449–51; on Aristarchus, pp. 462–7). On ‘Aristarchus’ quest for the real Homer’, see further G. Nagy, op. cit. (n. 9), pp. 114–52. On Alexandrian scholarship on Homer see R. Pfeiffer, op. cit., pp. 105–15, 173–7, 212–17. On the Alexandrian ideology linked to the library, Nagy, op. cit., pp. 201–5. Book of Aristeas, 30–1, trans. Shutt, modified. See O. Murray, loc. cit. (n. 2), p. 24. Murray pointed out that diakriboun is used in ch. 31 with the same meaning as the technical term diorthoun, which designates a process of textual emendation practised by Alexandrian scholars. On

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27 28 29 30

31 32 33

34 35

36 37 38 39

40 41 42

43

diorthoun, ‘to revise, emend’ a text, and diorthôsis, ‘[critical] edition’, ‘revised or emended text’, see Pfeiffer, op. cit. (n. 19), pp. 94, 110. G. Zuntz, ‘Aristeas Studies 2: Aristeas and the Translation of the Torah’, Studies in the Septuagint, pp. 208–25 (first publ. 1959). A complementary study of this issue is found in O. Murray, loc. cit. (n. 2), pp. 23–4. G. Zuntz, loc. cit., p. 128; O. Murray, loc. cit., p. 17. Sources adduced by O. Murray, ibid., from a different perspective from the one adopted here. G. Zuntz, loc. cit., p. 128. I. Düring, quoted in J.M. Williams, ‘The Peripatetic School and Demetrius of Phalerum’s Reforms in Athens’, Ancient World 15, 1987, 87–97: 91 and 92, n. 20 (emphasis added). On this matter see J.M. Williams, ibid., pp. 87–97. G. Zuntz, loc. cit., p. 128. A. van der Kooij, ‘Perspectives on the Septuagint: who are the Translators?’, in F. García Martínez and E. Noort (eds), Perspectives in the Study of the Old Testament and Early Judaism, Leiden: Brill, 1998, pp. 214–29. Trans. A.v.d. Kooij, ibid., p. 221. Ibid., p. 222. The last citation reproduced here is from W.G. Rutherford, A Chapter in the History of Annotation, Scholia Aristophanica III, London: Macmillan, 1905, p. 188, quoted by v.d. Kooij, p. 223. P. Kahle, The Cairo Jenizah, 2nd edn, Oxford: Blackwell, 1953, pp. 209–64. On B.Ar. 30, pp. 212–13. G. Zuntz, loc. cit. (n. 26), pp. 133–5. This is the sense found in Aristobulus, fgt. 4 apud Eusebius, Praep. Ev. 13.12.7 (= Mras, p. 195). For a discussion of this mainly historiographical issue see D.W. Gooding, ‘Aristeas and Septuagint Origins: A Review of Recent Studies’, VT 13, 1963, 357–79: 360–2, and Parente, pp. 529–30 (two detailed surveys of former views), and O. Murray, loc. cit. (n. 2), p. 24, n. 29; G. Dorival, in La Bible grecque des Septante, p. 51, and recently K.H. Jobes and M. Silva, Invitation to the Septuagint, Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2000, p. 17. D.W. Gooding, loc. cit., p. 62. Trans. K. Wellesley, Tacitus, The Histories. Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1964, pp. 82–4. Plutarch, De Iside et Osiride 28 (361F) knows of a relatively close variant. Tacitus himself mentions alternative traditions on the origins of Sarapis. These various traditions related to the origins of Sarapis are briefly reviewed by Fraser, I, pp. 246–9, summarizing his ‘Two Studies on the Cult of Sarapis in the Hellenistic World’, Opuscula Atheniensia 1, 1960, pp. 1–54, and ‘Current Problems Concerning the Early History of the Cult of Sarapis’, Opuscula Atheniensia 2, 1967, 23–45. U. Wilcken, Urkunden der Ptolemäerzeit, vol. 1, Berlin: De Gruyter, 1927, pp. 77–88, remains an important study on the origins of the Alexandrian Sarapis. I use the term ‘polysemic’ in the same sense as Christiane Sourvinou-Inwood in her analysis of Greek myths. See especially her ‘Myth and History: On Herodotos 3.48 and 3.50–3’, in her ‘Reading’ Greek Culture, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1991, pp. 244–84: 254. By this it is meant that a specific story or a cluster

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of stories is ‘articulated through the interaction of more than one schema’, a ‘schema’ being comparable to our own ‘paradigms’. I. Lévy, ‘Sarapis. IV. La légende sinopique’, Revue de l’histoire des religions 61, 1910, 162–96: 189–96. Lévy also points out further parallels to the motifs found in Tacitus’ account. The religious elements themselves fit a well-known pattern of story-telling. Its popular dimension is ensured by the fact that it is found in documentary sources, not only in the historians. See for instance an interesting letter, dated 257 BCE, sent by one Zoilus of Aspendus to Apollonius, Ptolemy II’s dioicetes, to urge the latter to provide him with the means to build a sanctuary to Sarapis at the god’s request. The letter is preserved in a papyrus, P.Cairo Zen. 59034. English translation in Austin, no. 239. The bibliography on this text of Tacitus is huge. See H. Heubner, P. Cornelius Tacitus, Die Historien. Kommentar, vol. 4, Heidelberg: Carl Winter, Universitätsverlag, 1976, pp. 184–206. Among the earlier bibliography, I. Lévy, loc. cit. (n. 44). I. Lévy, loc. cit., p. 171, and U. Wilcken, op. cit. (n. 42), pp. 78–9, both with previous bibliography and reference to ancient sources. See R. Garland, Introducing New Gods. The Politics of Athenian Religion, Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992, p. 121. A. Swiderek, ‘Hellénion de Memphis. La rencontre de deux mondes’, Eos 51, 1961, 55–63; ‘Sarapis et les Hellénomemphites’, in J. Bingen, G. Cambier and G. Nachtergael (eds), Le Monde grec. Hommages à Claire Préaux, Brussels: Brussels University Press, 1975, pp. 670–5. On Syrians in Egypt see G. Vaggi, ‘Siria e Sirî nei documenti dell’Egitto grecoromano’, Aegyptus 17, 1937, 29–49, especially p. 29. A testament of 237 BCE mentions a man called ‘Apollonios alias Ionathas in Syrian (hos kai Syristi Ionathas)’: P.Petr. III, 7, l. 14 = R. Scholl, Corpus der ptolemäischen Sklaventexte, Stuttgart: Franz Steiner, 1990, vol. 1, no. 53, p. 215. However, Apollonius was not a slave. P.Petrie III 104 (= Wilcken Chrestomathie, 334). For the literary sources mentioning Syrian prisoners of war brought to Egypt under Ptolemy I Soter, son of Lagos, see B. Bar-Kochva, Pseudo-Hecataeus On the Jews, Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1996, pp. 72–3. The documents are gathered in CPJ I; a list of papyri published since then and up to 1995 is given by I.F. Fikhman, ‘L’état des travaux au “Corpus Papyrorum Judaicarum” IV’, in the 21st Int. Congress of Papyrology, Berlin, Archiv für Papyrologie, Beiheft 3, 1997, 290–6. The biblical sources have been collected by E. Bresciani, ‘I Semiti nell’Egitto di età saitica e persiana’, Egitto e società antica. Atti del convegno, Torino, 1984, Milano: Vita e pensiero, 1985, pp. 93–104: 101–3; on the Aramaean and Judaean military colonies of Syene and Elephantine in the sixth and fifth centuries BCE, see e.g. B. Porten, Archives from Elephantine: The Life of an Ancient Jewish Military Colony, Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1968. B. Bar-Kochva, op. cit. (n. 51), pp. 74–82. An important discussion of the sources of slavery in the Ptolemaic period is I. Biezunska-Małowist, La schiavitù nell’ Egitto greco-romano, Rome: Editori Riuniti, 1984, ch. 2, especially pp. 25–31, despite an erroneous treatment of B.Ar. itself (see below, Chapter 4). E.L. Abel’s sceptical view about the presence of Jewish slaves in Ptolemaic Egypt is not well

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56 57

58 59 60 61 62 63

64

65

66 67 68

founded any longer. See his ‘The Myth of Jewish Slavery in Ptolemaic Egypt’, REJ 127, 1968, 253–8. The most extreme of such works are two studies with direct bearing on B.Ar: A. Gara, ‘Schiavi e soldati nella Lettera di Aristea’, in Studi ellenistici, pp. 75–89 and I. Biezunska-Małowist, op. cit. (n. 54), pp. 26–31. Casual references to B.Ar.’s chs 12–14 in handbooks of history or in scholarly papers are legion. Random examples include: D.J. Crawford, Kerkeosiris, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1971, p.42, n.1, quotes this section as a source for the settlement of Jewish mercenaries in the Fayum; again in her (= D.J. Thompson), Memphis under the Ptolemies, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1988, p. 86, nn.17 and 20; M. Launey, Recherches sur les armées hellénistiques, Paris: de Boccard, 1951, vol. 1, p. 543, nn. 2 and 3. Ps.-Hecataeus, apud Flavius Josephus, Against Apion, 1.186–9, trans. H.St.J. Thackeray, LCL, vol. 1, p. 239. Particularly interesting in this context is the way in which Josephus sorts out what to keep in and what to leave out in his own account of these events in AJ 12.7–9, which is based on B.Ar. and other sources: Josephus relates that Ptolemy took many captives from Judaea and also from Samaria, and goes on to say that he settled them in his garrisons, and in Alexandria, with rights equal to those of the Macedonians there. The detail of the enslavement of the Jews is omitted. Metoikisthentoi, ‘taken along as colony settlers’ (author’s translation). Following Laurence Vianès’ suggestion to me. H.M. Orlinsky, ‘The Septuagint as Holy Writ and the Philosophy of the Translators’, HebrUCA 46, 1975, 89–114: 98–9. Trans. Hadas, modified with Shutt. Reproduced in Stern, GLAJJ, p. 26. It is interesting to note that Epiphanius, De Mensuris et Ponderibus, 3, restored the tribes’ names, whereas B.Ar.’s author only listed them in numerical order. See Pelletier, p. 130, n. 1. As the case of Epiphanius shows, later readers missed the subtle fictitious wrapping of the story in B.Ar. H.M. Orlinsky, loc. cit. (n. 60), p. 96, quoting H.G. Meecham, The Letter of Aristeas: A Linguistic Study with Special Reference to the Greek Bible, Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1935, p. 305. Orlinsky is followed by A. Paul, ‘Traductions grecques de la Bible avant la Septante?’, in M.-M. Mactoux & E. Geny (eds), Mélanges P. Lévêque, IV, Religion, Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 1990, pp. 315–28: 323. See R. Tramontano, La Lettera di Aristea a Filocrate, Naples: Ufficio succursale della civiltà cattolica in Napoli, 1931, p. 73; Hadas, pp. 71–2; O. Murray, ‘Aristeas and Ptolemaic Kingship’, JThS 18, 1967, 337–71: 346–7, end of n. 3 of preceding page; H.M. Orlinsky, loc. cit., p. 98. H.M. Orlinsky, loc. cit. (n. 60), especially pp. 94–103; A. Paul, loc. cit. (n. 64). Translation Shutt, modified. H.M. Orlinsky, loc. cit., pp. 94–5. Quotation from p. 94. Also A. Paul, loc. cit. (n. 64), p. 323. Orlinsky further analyses two more scenes of readings of the Law which were modelled upon a scene of revelation: II Kings 22–3 and Neh. 8, 1–6. Both scenes take place in Jerusalem. Further references and bibliography in A. Paul, p. 323, n. 16. O. Murray, loc. cit. (n. 2), p. 21, compared our present scene in B.Ar. with LXX I Esdras. According to this scholar, the similarity of the two texts is no mere coincidence and implies that the author of B.Ar. knew more of the Bible than just the Pentateuch.

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69 Pseudo-Plutarch, Lives of the Ten Orators, 841F, trans. H.N. Fowler, Moralia, LCL, vol. 10, pp. 399 and 401. The alternative reading of this sentence proposed by G. Nagy, op. cit. (n. 9), pp. 174–5, with the justification given ibid., n. 77, is not convincing. On this text see also R. Pfeiffer, op. cit. (n. 19), pp. 82 and 192. 70 Isocrates, 12.17; Aeschines, 2.201; Demosthenes, 18.267. On this verb see the remarks by A. Paul, loc. cit. (n. 64), p. 322. 71 In modern scholarship chapters 314–16 have sometimes been understood to mean that B.Ar. was written in order to promote a new, authoritative translation against unofficial ones already in circulation, or, conversely, to forestall revisions of the text. To this Harry Orlinsky retorted that if anything, this section proves, on the contrary, that the LXX was the first translation ever made. The answer, as we see here, is even more simple. 72 Trans. Shutt, modified. 73 Trans. Hadas. 74 Trans. Shutt, modified. 4 ENFORCING THE NARRATIVE VERACITY 1 Hadas, pp. 57–9. Quotation from pp. 58–9. 2 Ibid., pp. 57–8. 3 The classical exposition of the tri-partite division of narrative according to truthcontent is found in [Cicero], Rhetorica ad Herennium, 1.13, and Cicero, De inventione, 1.27. Both may be using the same Greek source. Also, Quintilian, Institutiones, 2.4.2; Asclepiades of Myrlea, apud Sextus Empiricus, Adversus Grammaticos, 1.252–3. See R. Meijering, Literary and Rhetorical Theories in Greek Scholia, Groningen: Egbert Forsten, 1987, pp. 76–87, with further sources. See also the shorter but incisive comments by T.P. Wiseman, ‘Lying Historians: Seven Types of Mendacity’, in Lies and Fiction, pp. 122–46: 129–31; J.R. Morgan, ‘Make-Believe and Make Believe: The Fictionality of the Greek Novels’, ibid., pp. 175–229: 189–93; D.C. Feeney, The Gods in Epic: Poets and Critics of the Classical Tradition, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1991, ch. 1, especially pp. 42–4. 4 A.J. Woodman, Rhetoric in Classical Historiography, London: Croom Helm, 1988 was most influential. His chapter on Cicero, pp. 70–116, is directly relevant to our present purpose. Also: T.P. Wiseman, Clio’s Cosmetics, Leicester: Leicester University Press, 1979. Wiseman’s paper cited in the previous note takes a broad view of Hellenistic historiography as well. 5 On the role of the authorial ‘I’ in Herodotus see C. Dewald, ‘Narrative Surface and Authorial Voice in Herodotus’ Histories’, Arethusa 20, 1987, 147–70. I leave aside the poetic tradition of assumed identity, from Pindar to the Hellenistic epigram or Roman satire. True narrative was specifically associated with prose. 6 The dual meaning of akoe recorded here is Polybius’, as articulated in his Histories, 12.27. Strabo, 2.5.1 may also use akoe to refer to working in a library. 7 Herodotus, 2.99. 8 In Hellenistic times, in fact, things are complex. The methodological remarks by Polybius in 12.27 echo the classical stance on the division between autopsy and akoe. However, Polybius stresses elsewhere the importance of experience (empeiria) in the matters discussed by the historian (12.25h and 25g): political or military experience enables the historian to write political or military history, even if he has not taken a personal share in the events recounted. This shift of emphasis is,

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of course, consistent with Polybius’ call to write universal history. Probably a high proportion of the authors who went on writing historical monographs took as their subject matter events they had personally lived through. Thus, Diodorus felt compelled to stress his personal travelling and experience of the world in his introduction, just before mentioning his consultation of books and archives (1.4.1–2), even though he was setting out to write a universal history. The claim to be an eyewitness was, as Diodorus’ introduction shows, a necessary topos in the definition of the historian’s skills. The literature on autopsy by historians of the classical period is immense. See now J. Marincola, Authority and Tradition in Ancient Historiography, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997, pp. 63–86. On Apuleius see J.J. Winkler, Auctor & Actor: A Narratological Reading of Apuleius, Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1985, especially pp. 135–79. On Achilles Tatius, T. Hägg, Narrative Technique in Ancient Greek Romance, Stockholm: Svenska Institutet i Athens, 1971, pp. 41–54; B.P. Reardon, ‘Achilles Tatius and Ego-Narrative’, in J.R. Morgan and R. Stoneman (eds), Greek Fiction. The Greek Novel in Context, London: Routledge, 1994, pp. 80–96. There is a good analysis of these works by N. Holzberg, The Ancient Novel. An Introduction, London: Routledge, 1995, pp. 12–14. See V.K. Robbins and K. Vernon, ‘By Land and By Sea: The We-Passages and Ancient Sea Voyages’, in C.H. Talbert (ed.), Perspectives on Luke-Acts, Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1978, pp. 215–42. Further, S.E. Porter, ‘The “We” Passages’, in D.W.J. Gill and C. Gempf (eds), The Book of Acts in its Graeco-Roman Setting, Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1994, pp. 545–74. This text is accessible in translation in L.L. Gunderson, Alexander’s Letter to Aristotle about India, Meisenheim am Glan: Anton Hain, 1980. R. Merkelbach, Die Quellen des griechischen Alexanderromans, 2nd edn rev. with J. Trumpf, Munich: C.H. Beck, 1977. See also P.A. Rosenmeyer, Ancient Epistolary Fictions. The Letter in Greek Literature, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001, pp. 169–92. On Seneca’s witty parodies of the topics required in the introductory sections of popular historiographies, see T.P. Wiseman, loc. cit. (n. 3), pp. 122–3. Lucian parodies the historiographical introduction in his True Histories. On Lucian see G. Avenarius, Lukians Schrift zur Geschichtsschreibung, Meisenheim am Glan, 1956; A. Georgiadou and D.H.J. Larmour, ‘Lucian and Historiography: “De Historia Conscribenda” and “Verae Historiae”’, ANRW II.34.2 (1994), pp. 1448–509. N. Holzberg, op. cit. (n. 10), p. 36. Letters ascribed to Anacharsis, Crates, Diogenes, Heraclitus, Socrates and the Socratics are gathered and translated by A.J. Malherbe, The Cynic Epistles. A Study Edition, Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press, 1977. On Socrates and the Socratics see further G. Giannantoni, Socratis et Socraticorum reliquiae, Naples: Bibliopolis, 1990, vols 1, 2, 4, passim (Greek only). On travelogues as vehicles for the most fantastic tales see E. Gabba, ‘True History and False History in Classical Antiquity’, JRS 71, 1981, 50–62; J.S. Romm, The Edges of the Earth in Ancient Thought. Geography, Exploration and Fiction, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1992. Such as Seneca, or Lucian of Samosata. See above, n. 14. There is a difference here between the evidence provided by the Alexander Romance and B.Ar.: we saw above that the author of the Romance inserted letters in his narrative. But he was using documents found elsewhere. Conversely, there is every

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25 26 27

28

reason to think that the author of B.Ar. did compose the documents included in his work himself. See O. Murray, ‘Aristeas and his Sources’, Studia Patristica XII, T.U. 115 (Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, 1975), pp. 123–8. See above, pp. 25–6. Although specific cases such as the letters ascribed to the Scythian sage Anacharsis or epistolary novels may provide a close parallel to B.Ar.’s case. For the latter see N. Holzberg (ed.), Der griechische Briefroman. Gattungstypologie und Textanalyse, Tübingen: Gunter Narr, 1994; P.A. Rosenmeyer, ‘The epistolary novel’, in J.R. Morgan and R. Stoneman (eds), Greek Fiction. The Greek Novel in Context, London: Routledge, 1994, pp. 146–65. On the play between author and narrator in Apuleius see J.J. Winkler, op. cit. (n. 9). Tcherikover, ‘Ideology’. On this matter see now E.S. Gruen, Heritage and Hellenism, Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1998. Note also Murray’s argument that the author of B.Ar., who may also be the author of a work ‘On the Jews’ ascribed by Alexander Polyhistor to a certain Aristeas, ‘present[ed] himself as a Greek of some standing at the court of Ptolemy’ in imitation of pseudo-Hecataeus. O. Murray, ‘Aristeas and Ptolemaic Kingship’, JThS 18, 1967, 337–71: 343. And in the same hierarchical order as had been accepted since Herodotus: indirect report (in Hellenistic times, preferably in the form of written records) is secondary to personal testimony. See also Polybius’ polemic with Timaeus about the value of ‘bookish’ knowledge (bibliake¯ hexis, Histories, 12.25h3; further, 12.25h, 25i2), and Diodorus’ introduction (1.4.1–2), as already recorded. The consultation of official documents kept in the royal archives is mentioned in connection with the Symposium. Since the narrator was not one of the guests participating in the symposium, he purports to have compiled the record of this event (ch. 300). According to B.P. Reardon’s analysis, loc. cit. (n. 9), pp. 81–6, Achilles Tatius’ narrative technique progressively slips from the particular viewpoint of the narrator to the omniscient stance of the author. These various point were noted by M. Harari, ‘Un punto di vista archeologico sulla Lettera di Aristea’, in Studi ellenistici, pp. 91–106: 99, 101. The concept of likelihood in psychology was developed by Theophrastus’ studies on the characters. See W.W. Fortenbaugh, ‘Theophrastus on Fate and Character’, in G.W. Bowersock, W. Burkert and M.C.J. Putnam (eds), Arktouros: Hellenic Studies Presented to B.M.W. Knox, Berlin: W. de Gruyter, 1979, pp. 372–5. On the idea of ‘document’ in the Greek classical world see R. Thomas, Literacy and Orality in Ancient Greece, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992. The examples of archive documents or inscriptions quoted in an inaccurate text for the sake of literary improvement are numerous. The phenomenon is documented in Herodotus: S. West, ‘Herodotus’ Epigraphical Interests’, CQ n.s. 35, 1985, 278–305 (the author altogether doubts Herodotus’ bona fides). The bestdocumented case is Claudius’ speech of 48 CE on the legitimacy of opening the Senate to notables from Gaul, for which Tacitus’ version (Annals 11.23–4) can be checked against an epigraphic record found in Lyons (ILS 212, trans. R.B. Sherk, The Roman Empire: Augustus to Hadrian, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988, no. 55). More recently, the text of a senatus consultum found in one and possibly several inscriptions has thrown a new light on Tacitus’ account of Piso’s trial in 20 CE, in Ann. 3.10–14. See W. Eck, A. Caballos and F. Fernández, Das Senatus Consultum de Cn. Pisone Patre, Munich: C.H. Beck, 1996, especially

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29

30

31 32

33

34

35

pp. 109–21. Other practices of Classical historiography are related to this issue of accurate quotation. Thus, concerns with style overstepped factual reporting in the so-called tragic and rhetorical writing of history which prevailed in the Hellenistic period. See S. Rebenich, ‘Historical Prose’, in S.E. Porter (ed.), Handbook of Classical Rhetoric in the Hellenistic Period, Leiden: Brill, 1997, pp. 265–337, especially 267–71. As for straightforward forgeries not intended as political manipulation, the most celebrated example is the Historia Augusta. Among many others, see R. Syme, Emperors and Biography, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1971, ch. 17, and Historia Augusta Papers, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1983. On the psychology of the forger, A. Grafton, Forgers and Critics, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1990, quoted by T.P. Wiseman, ‘Lying Historians’ (n. 3), p. 125, n. 6. The methodological insights of Thucydides and Polybius on the reconstitution of speeches ‘true to the real ones’ raise problems akin to those of the quotation of documents. See F.W. Walbank, ‘Speeches in Greek Historians’, in Selected Papers, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985, pp. 242–61. Their detailed analysis is the subject of W. Schmidt’s Untersuchungen zur Fälschung historischer Dokumente bei Pseudo-Aristaios, Diss. Bonn, 1986. Through a comparison with genuine Ptolemaic documents extant in documentary sources, Schmidt concluded that, contrary to the opinion usually held, B.Ar.’s author did not model the documents he inserted in his work upon genuine ones that he could have consulted in the royal archives. Important insights on these documents also in O. Murray, ‘Aristeas and his Sources’ (n. 19). P.A. Rosenmeyer, Ancient Epistolary Fictions. The Letter in Greek Literature, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001. See A.B. Bosworth, A Historical Commentary on Arrian’s History of Alexander, vol. 1, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1980, pp. 227–9, and 256 (on Arrian 2.14 and 25), with full references to the sources and bibliography p. 227. The bibliography up to 1972 is gathered by J. Seibert, Alexander der Grosse, Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1972, pp. 102 and 271. The papyrological data (including lists of all kinds) was gathered by M. van Rossum-Steenbeek, Greek Readers’ Digest? Studies on a Selection of Subliterary Papyri, Leiden: Brill, 1998, chs 3–4. See also P.Oxy. XXXVI 2745, an onomasticon of Hebrew names. For the use of such lists in an educational context see R. Cribiore, Writing, Teachers and Students in Graeco-Roman Egypt, Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press, 1996, p. 43. Some of these lists may have been drawn up by students as an aid to memory. See J. Bingen, ‘L’exercice scolaire PUG II 53’, Chronique d’Égypte 113, 1982, 107–10. Longer lists may have been compiled by teachers themselves, as an aid to teaching, e.g. no. 113 in Cribiore’s catalogue, p. 200, a list of mythological names, most of them from the Iliad, in alphabetical order, of the fourth century CE. A catalogue of such wordlists is given also by T. Morgan, Literate Education in the Hellenistic and Roman Worlds, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998, pp. 278–9. ‘Horror vacui’, T.P. Wiseman, Clio’s Cosmetics (n. 4), p. 22. See generally pp. 12–26 on the tendency of Roman annalists to fill in the historical gaps left by their sources. Wiseman notes, p. 23, that ‘the idea of creating history out of next to nothing was well known to the Greeks’ too. The genealogies of the Spartan kings, partly historical, reached back to Herakles (Herodotus, 7.204; 8.131); the genealogy of the kings of Argos who ruled before

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36

37

38

39

40

41 42 43

44

the Trojan war are probably entirely fictitious (Pausanias, 2.18.4–5); Roman tradition filled the gap between the arrival of Aeneas in Italy after the fall of Troy and the foundation of Rome by Romulus with a list of the kings of Alba (Livy 1.3). The genealogy of Jesus linked him to David for obvious theological reasons (Mat. 1.1–17). See now the study of family traditions in Classical Athens by R. Thomas, Oral Tradition and Written Record in Classical Athens, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989. On Argos, J.M. Hall, Ethnic Identity in Greek Antiquity, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997, ch. 4. R. Cribiore, op. cit. (n. 33), p. 43, commenting on a list of names from history, geography and the Bible of the seventh century CE (Pap. Flor. XVIII 6 = no. 124 in her catalogue, p. 202). The list looks like an extension of a syllabary. The words are divided into syllables, and ‘in the columns of words starting with a consonant, the consonant is followed by each of the vowels in turn, in the same order as in the syllabaries’. The strange word that appears col. II, l. 2, seems to have been made up by the teacher in order to secure the complete vowel sequence. Ctesias’ list of Assyrian kings is preserved in Eusebius’ Chronici canones, Migne, PG, 19, 325–8. It displays numerous Persian and even Greek names, which led a scholar to discern its spurious character already in 1690. See B. Hemmerdinger, ‘Assyria: un faux de Ctésias, démasqué par Montfaucon’, Bolletino dei Classici, ser. 3, 16, 1995, 15–16. However, there may be some random fluctuation behind these numbers. The number of kings subdued by Adonibezeq is 70 in MT Judges 1.7, but Josephus, AJ 5.123 has 72 kings. H.St.J. Thackeray’s and R. Marcus’ note ad loc. in the LCL edition, p. 58, note that various manuscripts of the LXX also read 72. However, 72 may occasionally be used as a symbolic number too. See the Greek Life of Adam and Eve 8.2, French translation by D.A. Bertrand in A. Caquot and M. Philonenko (eds), La Bible. Ecrits intertestamentaires, Paris: Gallimard, 1987, p. 1775. N.G. Cohen, ‘The Names of the Translators in the Letter of Aristeas: A Study in the Dynamics of Cultural Transition’, JSJ 15, 1984, 32–64; B.S.J. Isserlin, ‘The Names of the 72 Translators of the Septuagint (Aristeas, 47–50)’, JANES 5, 1973, 191–7. From a philological point of view this list is composite. See the remarks on Jewish onomastics in Egypt in S. Honigman, ‘The Birth of a Diaspora: the Emergence of a Jewish Self-Definition in Ptolemaic Egypt in the Light of Onomastics’, in S.J.D. Cohen and E.S. Frerichs (eds), Diasporas in Antiquity, Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press, 1993, pp. 93–127. On the names Abie¯te¯s (ch. 50) and Abramos (ch. 49), S. Honigman, ‘Noms sémitiques à Edfou et Thèbes’, forthcoming in BASP, 40, 2003. A.J. Woodman, op. cit. (n. 4), ch. 2. T.P. Wiseman, Clio’s Cosmetics (n. 4), especially pp. 12–26. Thucydides, 1.22. See above, n. 29. On the notion of an immutable human nature in Thucydides’ times, J.H. Finley Jr., Thucydides, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1942, pp. 36–73. On later times, T.P. Wiseman, Clio’s Cosmetics, pp. 24–5. More generally, on what Fornara calls the technique of ‘inferential elaboration from the facts’, C.W. Fornara, The Nature of History in Ancient Greece and Rome, Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1983, pp. 134–7. C. Pelling, ‘“Making Myth look like History”: Plutarch’s Theseus-Romulus’, in his Plutarch and History, London: Duckworth, 2002, pp. 171–95.

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45 See Polybius, 3.31.11 who, however, adds ‘what accompanies’ the event. 46 Hermogenes 16.22, quoted and translated by A.J. Woodman, op. cit. (n. 4), p. 89; references to other manuals p. 108, n. 79. See also T.P. Wiseman, ‘Lying Historians’ (n. 3), p. 144. On the manuals of rhetoric, see more generally G.A. Kennedy, A New History of Classical Rhetoric, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1994; G.A. Kennedy, ‘Historical Survey of Rhetoric’, in S.E. Porter (ed.), Handbook of Classical Rhetoric, Leiden: Brill, 1997, pp. 19–50, with updated bibliography on the specialized editions and commentaries. 47 Euhemerus’ description of the island of Panchaea is known mainly from Diodorus 5.42–6 (the complete sources are gathered by M. Winiarczyk, Euhemeri Messenii reliquiae, Stuttgart: Teubner, 1991, nos. 31–48). Relevant studies on the social utopias disguised as travelogues are M.I. Finley, ‘Utopianism Ancient and Modern’, in The Use and Abuse of History, London: Chatto & Windus, 1975, repr. Pimlico, 2000, pp. 178–92; J.S. Romm, op. cit. (n. 17), ch. 5. 48 On the importance of imitation of models in classical literature see the remarks by C.B.R. Pelling, ‘Epilogue’, in C.S. Kraus (ed.), The Limits of Historiography, Leiden: Brill, 1999, pp. 325–60: 329–30, with the studies by Thomas Rosenmeyer and Gian Biagio Conte quoted there, p. 330. 49 H. White, ‘The Historical Text as Literary Artifact’, in his Tropics of Discourse, Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1978, pp. 81–99. Quotations pp. 83 and 84. In referring to four basic types of story White follows the categories defined by Northrop Frye in his Anatomy of Criticism, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1957. 50 I follow here the definition which is sometimes given of the Greek novel as a kind of ‘bourgeois prose epic’. See N. Holzberg, The Ancient Novel (n. 10), pp. 32–3. 51 On the concept of genre and the problems it raises see C.B.R. Pelling, ‘Epilogue’, pp. 325–35. 52 The inability of ancient literary theoreticians to integrate fiction in their classification of narrative is underlined by the various studies collected in Lies and Fiction. I borrow the definition of fiction given in my text from J.R. Morgan, ‘Make-Believe’ (n. 3), especially p. 180. 53 Strabo, Geography, 2.4.1–2, trans. H.L. Jones, LCL, vol. 1, pp. 399–401. 54 On this text see J.S. Romm, op. cit. (n. 17), ch. 4. 55 See e.g. Against Apion 1. 230–2, 252–3, 280, 286, 299. Further, 275–7. See R.G. Hall, ‘Josephus’ Contra Apionem and Historical Inquiry in the Roman Rhetorical Schools’, in L.H. Feldman and J.R. Levison (eds), Josephus’ Contra Apionem: Studies in its Character and Context, Leiden: Brill, 1996, pp. 229–49. 56 Quoted by T.P. Wiseman, ‘Lying Historians’ (n. 3), p. 130. On Plutarch’s methodology as a historian see further C.B.R. Pelling, ‘Truth and Fiction in Plutarch’s Lives’, in D.A. Russell (ed.), Antonine Literature, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1990, pp. 19–52. 57 As suggested by G.J.D. Aalders, Political Thought in Hellenistic Times, Amsterdam: A.M. Hakkert, 1975, p. 67. 58 C.B.R. Pelling, ‘Epilogue’ (n. 48), pp. 343–53. Quotation and following example p. 344. 59 Ibid., p. 344. 60 Ibid., pp. 346 and 347.

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61 In fact, ancient scholars had no means of distinguishing between what modern scholars assess as ‘history’ and as ‘myth’. On the criteria which stood at their disposal and resulted in this peculiar method of reconstructing the past, see F.W. Walbank, ‘History and Tragedy’, Historia 9, 1960 = Selected Papers, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985, pp. 224–41: 233–6; C.W. Fornara, op. cit. (n. 43), pp. 10–11; T.P. Wiseman, ‘Lying Historians’ (n. 3), and J.R. Morgan, loc. cit. (n. 3). 62 The technique of rationalization was used by historians in the best Hecataean and Herodotean tradition. The work of writers of the Hellenistic period whom modern classification would identify as mythographers rather than historians, for what this distinction was worth for contemporaries, such as Dionysius Skytobrachion, was predicated on the same intellectual premises. The bibliography on this topic is immense. On the historians see A.W. Gomme, The Greek Attitude to Poetry and History, Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1954, and J. Marincola, op. cit. (n. 8), pp. 117–27 and 282–3. On Dionysius Skytobrachion’s Argonauts, J.S. Rusten, Dionysius Scytobrachion, Opladen: Westdeutscher Verlag, 1982, pp. 93–101. 63 Dionysius Halicarnassus, Roman Antiquities 1.39–40, 41–42.2. A typical example of the rationalization of traditional myth in Hellenistic literature are Dionysius Skytobrachion’s Lybian stories (apud Diodorus 3.52–5, 56–7, 60–1, 66–74). See J.S. Rusten, ibid., pp. 102–12. 64 As was pointed out to me by Christopher Pelling. 65 The importance of the Sicilian expedition in the overall economy of Thucydides’ project is probably demonstrated by the fact that its account is patterned in imitation of Herodotus’ account of Xerxes’ invasion of Greece. Both accounts have underlying them the paradigm of imperialism, a theme central to Thucydides’ work as a whole. See T. Rood, ‘Thucydides’ Persian Wars’, in C.S. Kraus (ed.), op. cit. (n. 48), pp. 141–68. 66 These recurring topics are pointed out by O. Murray, ‘Hecataeus of Abdera and Pharaonic Kingship’, JEA 56, 1970, 141–71. 67 See the case of the nineteenth-century historians of the French Revolution which were White’s starting point, H. White, Metahistory: The Historical Imagination in Nineteenth-Century Europe, Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1973. 68 V.I. Propp, The Morphology of the Folktale, 2nd edn rev., Austin, Tx: University of Texas Press, 1968 (Russian orig. 1928). 69 See E. Métélinski, ‘L’étude structurale et typologique du conte’, translated in the French edition of V. Propp, Morphologie du Conte, Paris: Seuil, 1970, pp. 201–49: 207. 70 See O. Murray, ‘Hecataeus of Abdera and Pharaonic Kingship’ (n. 66), pp. 150–69. 71 The standard work on collective memory is M. Halbwachs, On Collective Memory, Chicago, IL: Chicago University Press, 1992 (French orig. 1950, 2nd edn 1968). See further bibliography below. 72 O. Murray, Early Greece, 2nd edn, Glasgow: Fontana, 1993, pp. 148–9. More generally, on the process of oral tradition, O. Murray, ‘Herodotus and Oral History’, in H. Sancisi-Weerdenburg and A. Kuhrt (eds), Achaemenid History. II. The Greek Sources, Leiden: Brill, 1987, pp. 93–115. Also worthy of interest is the case of the myths of Roman origins, which were modelled upon Greek versions. See W. Donlan, ‘The Foundation Legends of Rome: An Example of Dynamic Process’, Classical World 64/4, 1970, 109–14; T.P. Wiseman, ‘Roman Legend and

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74 75 76

77

78 79

80

81 82 83

84 85

Oral Tradition’, in his Historiography and Imagination, Exeter: Exeter University Press, 1994, pp. 23–36. On oral tradition more generally see J. Vansina, Oral Tradition as History, London: Currey, 1985. C. Sourvinou-Inwood, ‘“Myth” and History: On Herodotus 3.48 and 3.50–53’, in her ‘Reading’ Greek Culture, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1991, pp. 244–84. Analysis of the composition of the schema p. 252. C. Sourvinou-Inwood, ibid., p. 265. Ibid., p. 245. C. Lévi-Strauss, The Savage Mind, London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1972, pp. 16–33. M. Douglas, ‘The Meaning of Myth’, in her Implicit Meanings, London: Routledge, 1999, pp. 131–45: 143. For a critique of the concept of bricolage, see M. Douglas, ibid., pp. 143–4, and G. Derrida, L’écriture et la différence, Paris: Le Seuil, 1967, pp. 417–21. For a thought-provoking analysis of the narrative pattern underlying the conversion of Constantine see A. Rousselle, ‘Jeux de dérive et de hasard: conversion et métaphore’, in D.S. Milo and A. Boureau (eds), Alter Histoire. Essai d’histoire expérimentale, Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 1991, pp. 85–98: 88–91. The sources quoted are Lucan, Pharsalia, 1, vv. 185–205 and Suetonius, Caesar, 32, for Caesar; Lactantius, On the Death of the Persecutors, 44, and Eusebius of Ceasarea, Life of Constantine, 28, for Constantine. P.L. Berger, Invitation to Sociology. A Humanistic Perspective, Garden City, NY: Doubleday & Co, 1963, p. 56. See more generally on this topic his ch. 3, pp. 54–65. I borrow the concept of ‘reconstruction of an “effective” past event’ from A. Collard, ‘Investigating “Social Memory” in a Greek Context’, in E. Tonkin, M. McDonald and M. Chapman (eds), History and Ethnicity, London: Routledge, 1989, pp. 89–103: 90. Collard’s paper is a good illustration of the functioning of collective, or social, memory. For an example taken from fifth- and fourthcentury Athens see R. Thomas, ‘Ancient Greek Family Tradition and Democracy. From Oral History to Myth’, in R. Samuel and P. Thompson, The Myths We Live By, London: Routledge, 1990, pp. 203–15. See e.g. L.R. Rambo, s.v. ‘Conversion’, in Mircea Eliade (ed.), Encyclopedia of Religions, vol. 4, New York, NY: Macmillan, 1987, pp. 73–9: 76; A. Billette, Récits et réalités d’une conversion, Montreal: Montreal University Press, 1975 (non vidi). I thank Jean Duhaime for drawing my attention to these works. Peter Berger describes the process of reinterpretation of the past at work in a conversion as ‘part of a deliberate, fully conscious and intellectually integrated activity’ (P.L. Berger, op. cit. (n. 78), p. 61). But he refers to a demonization of the pre-Christian life, not to the reconstruction of the positive process which led to the conversion. R.G. Collingwood, The Idea of History, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1946, pp. 237, 269, and T.P. Wiseman, Clio’s Cosmetics (n. 4), p. 41. Translation H.L. Jones, LCL, vol. 8, p. 111. A.W. Erskine, ‘Culture and Power in Ptolemaic Egypt: The Museum and the Library of Alexandria’, G&R 42, 1995, 38–48. The quotation from Strabo, which I borrow from Erskine, is analysed pp. 39–40. Ibid., pp. 41–2. See the remarks by B.E. Perry, The Ancient Romances, Sather Classical Lectures, 37, Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1967, p. 173. On the Ninus Romance’s relation to historical fact, or rather to Greek perception of historical fact, see

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86

87

88 89

90 91

92 93

94

95

B.E. Perry, ibid., pp. 164–6; U. Wilcken, ‘Ein neuer griechischer Roman’, Hermes 28, 1893, 16–93. More examples and general analysis in J.R. Morgan, loc. cit. (n. 3), pp. 199–200. N. Holzberg, op. cit. (n. 10), p. 36. See also J.R. Morgan, loc. cit., and A. Laird, ‘Fiction, Bewitchment and Story Worlds: The Implications of Claims of Truth in Apuleius’, in Lies and Fiction, 147–74: 148–54. Admittedly, the standards of ‘historical accuracy’ sought do not necessarily have to be Collingwood’s, but this is not the place to enter the polemic between ‘positivist’ and ‘post-modernist’ methodology. For a convenient survey of the competing definitions of ‘historical accuracy’ currently prevailing, see K. Jenkins, Re-Thinking History, London: Routledge, 1991. For a balanced view of the work of the historian in the post-modern age, see J. Appleby, L. Hunt and M. Jacob, Telling the Truth about History, New York, NY: Norton, 1994; on a more theoretical level, A. Danto, Narration and Knowledge, New York, NY: Columbia University Press, 1985, ch. 6. O. Murray, ‘The Letter of Aristeas’, in Studi ellenistici, pp. 15–29: 15; O. Murray, ‘Aristeas and Ptolemaic Kingship’ (n. 23), p. 339. L. Mooren, The Aulic Titulature in Ptolemaic Egypt. Introduction and Prosopography, Brussels: Paleis der Academiën, 1975, pp. 1–2, and 8; L. Mooren, La Hiérarchie de cour ptolémaïque, Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1977, pp. 20–3. E. Van’t Dack already used this data to argue for a date for B.Ar. in the second century BCE. See his ‘La date de la lettre d’Aristée’, in Antidorum W. Peremans, Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1968, pp. 263–78, especially 265–9. See Hadas, pp. 144–5, notes to chs 109 and 110. P.Tebt. I 5 (= C.Ord. Ptol., 53 = Select Papyri, II 210), ll. 207–20, a royal edict of 118 BCE about the jurisdiction of the various courts. The chrematistai are the Greek court, in fact circuit judges. See J. Modrzejewski, ‘Chrématistes et laocrites’, in J. Bingen, G. Cambier and G. Nachtergael (eds), Le Monde grec. Hommages à Claire Préaux, Brussels: Brussels University Press, 1975, pp. 699–708; H.J. Wolff, ‘Plurality of Laws in Ptolemaic Egypt’, Revue int. des droits de l’antiquité 7, 1960, 191–223: 199–205. About hyperetai (ch. 111) see S. Strassi, Le funzioni degli hyperetai nell’Egitto greco e romano, Heidelberg: Universitätsverlag C. Winter, 1997. Aristotle, Athenian Constitution, 2.2 (Solon); 20.4 (Cleisthenes); 25.1 (Ephialtes); 28.2 (recapitulative list, including Peisistratus). R. Bagnall, ‘Greeks and Egyptians: Ethnicity, Status, and Culture’, in R.S. Bianchi (ed.), Cleopatra’s Egypt: Age of the Ptolemies, Brooklyn, NY: The Brooklyn Museum, 1988, p. 22. UPZ I 15, 18. See O. Montevecchi, ‘Una donna prostatis del figlio minorenne in un papiro del IIa’, Aegyptus 61, 1981, 103–15 = Scripta Seclecta, Milano: Vita e Pensiero, 1998, pp. 273–85. Diogenes Laertius, 5.78. A different version of the circumstances of his death survived in Cicero, Pro Rabirio Postumo, 9.23 (= Demetrius of Phalerum, no. 42). All the sources concerning Demetrius are gathered by P. Strock, J.M. van Ophuijsen, T. Dorandi, ‘Demetrius of Phalerum: The Sources, Text and Translation’, in W.W. Fortenbaugh and E. Schütrumpf (eds), Demetrius of Phalerum. Text, Translation and Discussion, New Brunswick: Transaction Publishers, 2002, pp. 1–310. This new edition now supersedes F. Wehrli, Die Schule des Aristoteles, vol. 4, 2nd edn, Basel: B. Schwabe, 1968. On Demetrius’ biography see M.G. Sollenberger, ‘Diogenes

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97

98

99

100

Laertius’ Life of Demetrius of Phalerum’, in Fortenbaugh and Schütrumpf, pp. 311–29 (pp. 325–6 on the various accounts of his death), and S.V. Tracy, ibid., pp. 331–45; R. Pfeiffer, A History of Classical Scholarship from the Beginnings to the End of the Hellenistic Age, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1968, pp. 94–104. Further, E. Martini, ‘Demetrios’ (85) in RE IV (1901), cols 2817–41 and F. Wehrli, ‘Demetrios von Phaleron’, RE Suppl. XI, cols 514–22. See J.M. Williams, ‘The Peripatetic School and Demetrius of Phalerum’s Reforms in Athens’, Ancient World 15, 1987, 87–97, especially pp. 90–3, nn. 16–19. On Demetrius’ position in Egypt and his probable connections with the Alexandrian library, E.A. Parsons, The Alexandrian Library, Amsterdam, NY: Elsevier Press, 1952, pp. 87–121, gives the ancient evidence in translation as well as the opinions of modern scholars on Demetrius. The sources are now to be consulted in W.W. Fortenbaugh and E. Schütrumpf (eds), op. cit. (n. 95). E. Bickerman, ‘The Septuagint as a Translation’, Studies in Jewish and Christian History, vol. 1, Leiden: Brill, 1976 (first publ. 1959), pp. 167–200: 168, n. 3, alternatively explains the mention of Ptolemy I in Christian sources as a learned emendation. A case of wrong ascription to Philadelphus of deeds carried out by either his father or his son is the foundation of the minor library of the Serapeum. Johannes Tzetzes ascribes it to Ptolemy II. The foundation tablets of the Serapeum which were found in the excavations of the site in 1945, however, bear the name of Ptolemy III. These inscriptions correspond to the new temple, which took the place of an earlier monument built under Ptolemy I. Although this evidence does not exclude the possibility that Ptolemy II was responsible for the library of the Serapeum and Ptolemy III only restored the temple, it seems more probable that the smaller library was set up together with the new temple. See on this matter R. Pfeiffer, op. cit. (n. 95), pp. 101–2. The assessment of the historical personality of Ptolemy II has undergone a noticeable change in recent historiography. However, the re-assessment bears on the consequences of his policy, now seen in a much darker light than was the case in the generation of M. Rostovtzeff and C. Préaux, not on the scale of his activity, which was indeed impressive. A negative assessment of Ptolemy II’s policy is found in E. Turner, ‘Ptolemaic Egypt’, Cambridge Ancient History VII/1, 2nd edn, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984, pp. 133–59. The earlier, favourable view of Ptolemy II is epitomized by M. Rostovtzeff, Social and Economic History of the Hellenistic World, vol. 1, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1941, pp. 267–407. A reassessment based on an altogether different approach was proposed by A.E. Samuel, The Shifting Sands of History, Lanham, MD: University of America Press, 1989, pp. 51–7 and 67–78, and ‘The Ptolemies and the Ideology of Kingship’, in P. Green (ed.), Hellenistic History and Culture, Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1993, pp. 168–92. The presence of the philosopher Menedemus of Eretrius at Ptolemy II’s banquet is a chronological and factual inaccuracy. Menedemus died in 277 and probably never went to Alexandria. His name is not theophoric. A similar view is expressed by P.M. Fraser, I, p. 690. G. Nagy, Poetry as Performance. Homer and Beyond, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996, p. 196, sought to be even more specific: ‘the Letter of Aristeas credits none other than Demetrius of Phalerum, the historical figure whom Athenaeus (620b–c) credits

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with reforming the Athenian traditions of Homeric performance, as the agent responsible for the actual commissioning of the Septuagint’ (emphasis added). Athenaeus’ text is quoted and discussed by Nagy, ibid., pp. 157–9. Nagy’s reconstruction is, unfortunately, too speculative to be endorsed without caution. 101 Mras, p. 190–1, trans. Holladay, pp. 152–5. 102 N. Meisner, ‘Aristeasbrief ’, in H. Lichtenberger, in collaboration with C. Habicht, O. Kaiser, W.G. Kümmel, O. Plüger and J. Schreiner (eds), Jüdische Schriften aus hellenistisch-römischer Zeit, II/1, Gütersloh: Gerd Mohn, 1973, p. 39. The literature on the relation between B.Ar. and Aristobulus is reviewed by M. Goodman, in Schürer III/1, p. 680, n. 281, who favours Meisner’s opinion, with some reservations. 5 THE ORIGINS AND EARLY HISTORY OF THE LXX *

For this chapter and Chapter 6 I benefited from conversations with Sebastian Brock, Tessa Rajak, Alison Salvesen and Benjamin Wright, who helped me clarify issues related to LXX studies, as well as with Susan Weingarten about Jerome. I refer to these conversations occasionally below.

1 This is the title of a chapter in R. MacMullen’s Christianizing the Roman Empire (A.D. 100–400), New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1984. 2 This view is clearly articulated in S. Brock, ‘The Phenomenon of the Septuagint’, O.T. Studiën 17, 1972, 11–36: 13. Brock’s synthetic paper is a good starting point. 3 On this topic see E.S. Gruen, Heritage and Hellenism. The Reinvention of Jewish Tradition, Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1998, ch. 6. 4 Three explicit instances of non-Jews financing the building of a synagogue are known outside Egypt. One is the Herodian centurion, who built a synagogue for the Jews at Capernaum (Luke 7.5). A second instance is Julia Severa, a member of the local aristocracy of Acmonia in Phrygia, who built a synagogue for the local community, probably in the 50s–60s of the first century CE (CIJ 2.766, reproduced with translation and commentary by P.R. Trebilco, Jewish Communities in Asia Minor, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991, pp. 58–60). The third is Tation, at Phocaea of Ionia (CIJ 1.738, inscription reproduced and translated in Trebilco, p. 110). Important discussion of the two inscriptions from Asia Minor by T. Rajak, ‘The Synagogue within the Greco-Roman City’, in S. Fine (ed.), Jews, Christians, and Polytheists in the Ancient Synagogue, London: Routledge, 1999, pp. 161–73. On the concept of theosebeis see e.g. J. Reynolds and R. Tannenbaum, Jews and Godfearers at Aphrodisias. Greek Inscriptions with Commentary, Cambridge: Cambridge Philological Society, 1987, pp. 48–62. 5 Notably C. Rabin, ‘The Translation Process and the Character of the Septuagint’, Textus 6, 1968, 1–26. 6 See e.g. S.P. Brock, loc. cit. (n. 2), especially p. 12: ‘an undertaking totally without precedent in the Hellenistic world’; C. Rabin, loc. cit., p. 20: ‘an innovation’. 7 An excellent recent introduction to LXX studies is K.H. Jobes and M. Silva, Invitation to the Septuagint, Grand Rapids, Mi: Eerdmans, 2000. Also useful are N. Fernández Marcos, The Septuagint in Context, Leiden: Brill, 2000; G. Dorival, M. Harl and O. Munnich, La Bible grecque des Septante. Du judaïsme hellénistique au christianisme ancien, Paris: Le Cerf/CNRS, 1988.

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8 On these papyri, see K.H. Jobes and M. Silva, op. cit. (n. 7), pp. 58–9, with inaccurate dating. For P.Ryl. III 458 see C.H. Roberts, Two Biblical Papyri of the Early Septuagint in the John Rylands Library Manchester, Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1936, p. 40. For QLXXLeva, E. Ulrich, ‘The Septuagint Manuscripts from Qumran: A Reappraisal of their Value’, in G.J. Brooke and B. Lindars, Septuagint, Scrolls and Cognate Writings, Symposium Manchester 1990, Atlanta, Ga: Scholars Press, 1992, pp. 49–80: 75. For P.inv. Fouad 266, L. Koenen, in Z. Aly and L. Koenen, Three Rolls of the Early Septuagint: Genesis and Deuteronomy. A Photographic Edition, Bonn: R. Habelt, 1980, pp. 3–6. 9 On LXX citations in Jewish Alexandrian writers, see N. Fernández Marcos, op. cit. (n. 7), pp. 260–4; on Demetrius the Chronographer, p. 261; G. Dorival, in La Bible grecque des Septante, p. 57. 10 J.A.L. Lee, A Lexical Study of the Septuagint Version of the Pentateuch, Chico, CA: Scholars Press, 1983, p. 148, quoted by K.H. Jobes and M. Silva, op. cit. (n. 7), p. 263. 11 T.V. Evans, Verbal Syntax in the Greek Pentateuch. Natural Greek Usage and Hebrew Interference, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001, pp. 263–4, quotation p. 263. 12 A. Aejmelaeus, ‘Participium Coniunctum as a Criterion of Translation Technique’, in her On the Trail of the Septuagint Translators. Collected Essays, Kampen, Netherlands: Kok Pharos, 1993, pp. 7–16, especially pp. 15–16; R. Sollamo, ‘The Pleonastic Use of the Pronoun in Connection with the Relative Pronoun in the LXX of Leviticus, Numbers and Deuteronomy’, in L.J. Greenspoon and O. Munnich (eds), 8th Congress of the International Organization for Septuagint and Cognate Studies, Paris 1992, Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press, 1995, pp. 43–62. See the summary of these works in K.H. Jobes and M. Silva, op. cit. (n. 8), pp. 267–9, and more generally on the linguistic studies of the LXX, their ch. 12, pp. 258–72. 13 The earliest and best articulation of the theoretical problems involved in the work of translation is Cicero’s. The most important texts on translation theory in Classical Antiquity are Cicero, De optimo genere oratorum, especially 14 and 18 and De Finibus, 3.15, and Horace, Ars Poetica, 133. On Cicero see the illuminating comments by B.G. Wright III, ‘Access to the Source: Cicero, Ben Sira, The Septuagint and Their Audiences’, JSJ 34, 2003, pp. 1–27. 14 S.P. Brock, loc. cit. (n. 2), p. 16. 15 A. van der Kooij, ‘Perspectives on the Septuagint: who are the Translators?’, F. García Martínez and E. Noort (eds), Perspectives in the Study of the Old Testament and Early Judaism, Leiden: Brill, 1998, pp. 214–29. 16 This is the case for C. Rabin, loc. cit. (n. 5); A. van der Kooij, loc. cit. (n. 15); A. Pietersma, ‘A New Paradigm for Addressing Old Questions: The Relevance of the Interlinear Model for the Study of the Septuagint’, in J. Cook (ed.), Bible and Computer. The Stellenbosch AIBI-6 Conference. Proceedings of the Association Internationale Bible et Informatique ‘From Alpha to Byte’. University of Stellenbosch, 17–21 July, 2000, Leiden: Brill, 2002, pp. 337–64. B.G. Wright, loc. cit. (n. 13). The older papers by S.P. Brock, ‘The Phenomenon of the Septuagint’ (n. 2), and ‘Aspects of Translation Technique in Antiquity’, GRBS 20, 1979, 69–88, are still valuable. 17 L. Kelly, The True Interpreter, New York, NY: St Martin’s, 1979, pp. 206–7, quoted by B.G. Wright. 18 For this ambiguity see Chapter 3. 19 Translation Hadas, modified.

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20 Urkunden des Politeuma der Juden von Herakleopolis (144/3–133/2 v. Chr.) (P.Polit.Iud.), edited by J.M.S. Cowey and K. Maresch (P.Colon. XXIX), Wiesbaden: Westdeutscher Verlag, 2001. On this publication see the review by S. Honigman, SCI 21, 2002, 251–66, with the authors’ rejoinder, SCI 22, 2003, 307–10. 21 For a detailed discussion of the points summarized here, see S. Honigman, ‘Politeumata and Ethnicity in Ptolemaic Egypt’, Ancient Society 33, 2003, 61–102. 22 D.J. Thompson Crawford, ‘The Idumaeans of Memphis and the Ptolemaic Politeumata’, Atti del XVIIo congr. Int. di Papirologia, Naples: Centro int. per lo studio dei papiri ercolanesi, 1984, pp. 1069–75; C. Zuckerman, ‘Hellenistic politeumata and the Jews. A Reconsideration’, SCI 8–9, 1985–88, 171–85. 23 For the Semitic inscriptions, see B. Porten and A. Yardeni, Textbook of Aramaic Documents from Ancient Egypt, vol. 4, Jerusalem: 1999, nos. D21.4 and 6. Note also no. 5, illegible. For the Greek inscriptions, W. Horbury and D. Noy, Jewish Inscriptions of Graeco-Roman Egypt, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992, nos. 3–6. On the Alexandrian necropolis of El-Ibrahimiya, ibid., pp. xiv–xv and 4–5. 24 Fraser, I, pp. 83–4. 25 U. Rapaport, ‘Les Iduméens en Égypte’, Revue Philologique 43, 1969, 73–82; on Leontopolis, S. Honigman, loc. cit. (n. 21). 26 Strabo, FGrH II A91 F7 = AJ XIV, 117, trans. R. Marcus, LCL, vol. 7, p. 509. 27 E.J. Bickerman, ‘Some Notes on the Transmission of the Septuagint’, in Studies in Jewish and Christian History, vol. 1, Leiden: Brill, 1976 (first publ. 1950), pp. 137–66: 143–4, and ‘The Septuagint as a Translation’, ibid. (first publ. 1959), pp. 167–200. 28 See S. Rebenich, Hieronymus und sein Kreis. Prosopographische und sozialgeschichtliche Untersuchungen, Stuttgart: F. Steiner, 1992, pp. 115–27, on the patronage of Epiphanius and Paulinus in Antioch; pp. 141–54, on the patronage of Pope Damasus; pp. 154–80, on Jerome’s Roman connections, especially p. 161 on the phenomenon of financial support provided by rich matronae to clerics, and on Paula’s relation to Jerome in Rome; p. 194, on Paula’s financial support in Bethlehem. An important source on Paula’s liberalitas and caritas is one of Jerome’s letters, Ep. 108.30. 29 Jews as a community: W. Horbury and D. Noy, op. cit. (n. 23), no. 22, p. 35 (Athribis, 246–221 BCE); no. 117, p. 201 (Arsinoe-Crocodilopolis, 246–221 BCE). An example of individual dedication is recorded only for a later period, the second or first century BCE. In no. 28, pp. 47–8, ‘Hermias and his wife Philotera and their children’ dedicate an exedra to the local proseuche. 30 Isocrates, Antidosis, 155–6, quoted by J.P. Lynch, Aristotle’s School. A Study of a Greek Educational Institution, Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1972, pp. 41 and 53; Plato, Apology, 19e–20a. 31 One may quote, among many other studies, the various papers collected in J. Lieu, J. North and T. Rajak (eds), The Jews among Pagans and Christians in the Roman Empire, London: Routledge, 1992; and in M. Goodman (ed.), Jews in a Graeco-Roman World, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1998. 32 See the thought-provoking remarks by M. Goodman, ‘Jews, Greeks and Romans’, in M. Goodman (ed.), op. cit. (n. 31), pp. 3–14. 33 W. Clarysse, ‘Ethnic Diversity and Dialect among the Greeks of Hellenistic Egypt’, in A.M.F.W. Verhoogt and S.P. Vleeming (eds), The Two Faces of GraecoRoman Egypt (P.L.Bat. XXX), Leiden: Brill, 1998, pp. 1–13.

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34 On Dorion’s career see D.J. Thompson Crawford, loc. cit. (n. 22), pp. 1070–1. 35 M. Piatkowska, La Skepe dans l’Egypte ptolémaïque, Wroclaw: Zaklad Narodowy im. Ossolinskich, 1975; J. Bingen, ‘Les tensions structurelles de la société ptolémaïque’, Atti del XVIIo congr. Int. di Papirologia, vol. 3, Naples: Centro int. per lo studio dei papiri ercolanesi, 1984, pp. 921–37. 36 P. Ryl. IV 563 (English translation in Austin, no. 75), of 249 BCE. 37 Another instance is found in P.Mich. Zen. 55, of 240 BCE, and PSI 392, cited by M. Piatkowska (n. 35). We understand from these two letters that Zenon and ‘other people’, including ‘Kaphisophon, son of Philippus the Physician’ helped one Philo to get his brother out of jail. Philo informs Zenon that a written report is already in the hands of ‘Dositheus the memorandum-writer in order that the king may read it before letting him be released, as this is the regular procedure’ (P.Mich.Zen. 55, trans. C.C. Edgar). 38 See also C.Ord.Ptol.2, no. 48, a letter from Ptolemy VIII, Cleopatra II and Cleopatra III with a royal order (prostagma) granting to the gymnasium of Omboi the privileges that its members had asked for. The latter had turned to the king personally through their delegates (135 BCE). Another prostagma of the same kind is known through an allusion, C.Ord.Ptol.2, p. 249, no. 40. 39 P.Cairo Zen. 59034, trans. Austin, no. 239. 40 A. Pietersma, loc. cit. (n. 16), p. 358. There is, indeed, concrete evidence demonstrating the on-going use of foreign languages in ritual frameworks in Ptolemaic Egypt, or in Egyptian cults outside Egypt. P.Giessen 99 provides evidence for what seems to be a Semitic cult in Hermopolis. The papyrus shows that the ritual made use of a text in a ‘foreign language’. This text is discussed by D.J. Thompson Crawford, loc. cit. (n. 22), p. 1071. The Idumaeans settled in Memphis performed sacrifices and chanted psalms according to their ‘patrios nomos’, no doubt in their original language (OGIS II 737 = SB V 8929 = I. Prose, 25, ll. 13–17). A possible, though more elusive, example, is the Phoenician cult of Astarte linked to the Astarteion located in the precinct of the Serapeum in Memphis. The servants of the cult retained a Phoenician nomenclature. See D.J. Thompson, Memphis under the Ptolemies, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1988, p. 221. As to Egyptian cults in the Graeco-Roman world, Apuleius’ Metamorphoses, 11.22 provides evidence for the use of books written in hieroglyphics or in hieratic script in a temple of Isis located in Greece in the second century CE. It is true, as Françoise Dunand noted, that Apuleius’ reference to an unknown script may be the result of his ‘goût du pittoresque’ rather than genuine evidence. However, she does not dismiss it out of hand. See her paper ‘Les mystères égyptiens aux époques hellénistique et romaine’, in F. Dunand, M. Philonenko, A. Benoit, J.E. Ménard and J. Hatt (eds), Mystères et syncrétismes, Paris: Paul Geuthner, 1975, pp. 11–62: 51, n. 152. No special queries about the genuineness of this notation in J.G. Griffiths, Apuleius of Madauros, The Isis-Book (Metamorphoses, Book XI), edited with an Introduction, Translation and Commentary, Leiden: Brill, 1975, p. 285, note to p. 284, 13. Dunand’s discussion of the GraecoRoman cults of Isis and Sarapis emphasizes the presence of Egyptian features in them. Such conservatism, supported by the use of Egyptian priests outside their native country, allows us to think that Egyptian writings probably played a part in other sanctuaries too. See F. Dunand, ibid., and ‘Cultes égyptiens hors d’Égypte. Essai d’analyse des conditions de leur diffusion’, in Religions, pouvoir, rapports sociaux, Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 1980, pp. 69–148: 91–2.

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41 On Thackeray’s approach see also S. Jellicoe, The Septuagint and Modern Study, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1968, pp. 64–70. Recent studies confirm that there is no evidence for complete cycles of Torah reading in a liturgical context until a much later date. The purpose of Torah reading according to first century CE sources (Philo, Josephus, the NT) was educational and instructive. See L.H. Schiffman, ‘The Early History of Public Reading of the Torah’, in S. Fine (ed.), op. cit. (n. 4), pp. 44–56. 42 E.J. Bickerman, loc. cit. (n. 27); B.H. Stricker, De Brief van Aristeas. De hellenistische codificaties der praehelleense godsdiensten, Amsterdam: Noord-Hollandsche Uitg-Mij, 1956 (non vidi). 43 D. Barthélemy, ‘Pourquoi la Torah a-t-elle été traduite en grec?’, in On Language, Culture and Religion. In Honor of E.A. Nida, The Hague: Mouton, 1974, pp. 23–41 = Études d’histoire du texte de l’Ancien Testament, Fribourg: éditions universitaires, and Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Rupprecht, 1978, pp. 322–40; G. Dorival, in La Bible grecque des Septante, pp. 72–7. 44 W. Orth, ‘Ptolemaios II. und die Septuaginta-Übersetzung’, in H.-J. Fabry and U. Offerhaus (eds), Im Brennpunkt: Die Septuaginta, Studien zur Entstehung und Bedeutung der griechischen Bibel, Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 2001, pp. 97–114. T. Rajak, in two different papers: ‘The Letter of Aristeas and Ptolemy’s Library’, paper presented at the conference ‘The Jews in the Hellenistic World’, in Memory of Prof. David Asheri, held at Ben Gurion University of the Negev, Israel, 9 January 2001, and a paper presented at the Tel Aviv University, May 2001 (unpublished). 45 This idea was presented to me by Sebastian Brock in a private conversation. 46 C. Rabin, loc. cit. (n. 5), and A. van der Kooij, loc. cit. (n. 15). Van der Kooij argued that the model of the Oriental scribe is no less important than that of the dragoman for understanding the way the translators worked. See above, Chapter 3, pp. 47. 47 S.P. Brock, ‘The Phenomenon of the Septuagint’ (n. 2), p. 20. 48 Such a description of the language of the LXX as low, however, is not shared by most LXX scholars, as both Sebastian Brock and Alison Salvesen have pointed out to me. 49 A. Pietersma, loc. cit. (n. 16), pp. 348–9. 50 See L.H. Schiffman, loc. cit. (n. 41). 51 This point is made clear by H.-I. Marrou in his A History of Education in Antiquity, New York, NY: A Mentor Book, The New American Library, 1964 (French edn, 1948) to which A. Pietersma refers abundantly. On Greek education, with many references to the school papyri, see now R. Cribiore, Writing, Teachers and Students in Graeco-Roman Egypt, Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press, 1996, and T. Morgan, Literate Education in the Hellenistic and Roman Worlds, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998. 52 On the development of widespread Greek education under Ptolemy II see D.J. Thompson, ‘Language and Literacy in Early Hellenistic Egypt’, in P. Bilde (ed.), Ethnicity in Hellenistic Egypt, Aarhus: Aarhus University Press, 1992, pp. 39–52, especially p. 48. 53 S.P. Brock, ‘The Phenomenon of the Septuagint’ (n. 2), p. 16. 54 As he himself confirmed to me orally. 55 J. Mélèze-Modrzejewski, ‘Livres sacrés et justice lagide’, in Acta Universitatis Lodziensis, Folia Juridica 21 (Symbolae C. Kunderewicz), –L odz: Uniwersytet –L odzki, 1986, pp. 11–44. See also his ‘Law and Justice in Ptolemaic Egypt’, in M.J. Geller

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56

57 58

59 60

61

62 63 64

65 66

67

and H. Maehler (eds), Legal Documents of the Hellenistic World, London: Warburg Institute, University of London, 1995, pp. 1–19 and his The Jews of Egypt from Rameses II to Emperor Hadrian, Philadelphia, PA: Jewish Publication Society, 1995, pp. 99–119. Further references in P.Polit.Iud., p. 27, n. 93. The reform ascribed to Ptolemy II is not formally attested, but its existence was defended by Wolff and Mélèze-Modrzejewski. See H.J. Wolff, Das Justizwesen der Ptolemäer, 2nd edn, Munich: C.H. Beck, 1970; see also his ‘Plurality of Laws in Ptolemaic Egypt’, Revue internationale des droits de l’antiquité, 3rd ser., 7, 1960, 191–223; J. MélèzeModrzejewski, ‘Zum Justizwesen der Ptolemäer’, Zeitschrift der Savigny-Stiftung für Rechtsgeschichte 80, 1963, 42–82 and ‘Nochmals zum Justizwesen der Ptolemäer’, ZSS 105, 1988, 165–79; ‘Droit et justice dans le monde hellénistique au IIIe siècle av. n.è.: expérience lagide’, in A. Biscardi (ed.), Mneme G.A. Petropoulos I, Athens: Ekdoseis Ant. Sakkoyla, 1984, pp. 53–77. A very clear synthetic statement of the main objections is to be found in S. Brock, loc. cit. (n. 2), pp. 13–17, especially p. 13. This is why the present discussion takes Brock’s paper as its starting point. Brock’s position, however, is by no means isolated. S. Brock, ibid., pp. 16 and 13. On the notion of ‘sacred law’ in the Greek context, see F. Sokolowski, Lois sacrées de l’Asie Mineure, Paris: de Boccard, 1955, 2nd edn with supplement, 1969; in the Egyptian one, J. Quaegebeur, ‘Sur la “loi sacrée” dans l’Égypte gréco-romaine’, Ancient Society 11/12, 1980/81, 227–40. J. Quaegebeur, ibid., especially p. 235. For the problems raised by the translation of the term ‘nomos’, ibid., p. 231; of ‘hieros nomos’, pp. 232, 234 and passim. See M.-T. Lenger, ‘Ordonnances divines et prostagmata dans l’empire des Ptolémées’, Proc. of the 12th Int. Cong. of Papyrology, Toronto: A.M. Hakkert, 1970, pp. 255–61. The dual meaning, divine orders and human ones, is also found in non-Egyptian Greek. See e.g. Strabo, 16.2.38. Flavius Josephus, AJ 1.10 and 12–13 refers to the content of the Pentateuch as a nomos, in contrast with the other parts of the ‘sacred books’. Aristobulus, however, describes the Pentateuch as a compound of law (nomothesia) and historical material. See fgt 3, apud Eusebius, P.E. 13.12.1 = Holladay, pp. 152–5. See S. Brock, loc. cit. (n. 2), p. 13, n. 4, with further bibliography. See above, n. 20. Further, S. Honigman, loc. cit. (n. 21). ‘Ancestral oath’: papyrus no. 3, ll. 28–9 (with a reference to the swearing, l. 6); ‘letter of the ancestral oath’: nos. 9, ll. 7–8, and 12, l. 10; ‘ancestral law’: no. 9, ll. 28–9. See P.Polit.Iud., p. 26. On this rate, see P.Polit.Iud., p. 99, note to no. 8, l. 16. E.J. Bickerman, ‘Two Legal Interpretations of the Septuagint’, Revue int. des droits de l’Antiquité, 3rd ser. 3, 1956, 81–104. A possible third instance will be discussed in Chapter 6, p. 126. The original denomination, ‘Demotic Code of Law’, is now deemed inappropriate. The label of ‘manual’ retained here is Allam’s, who identifies the texts as a handbook of legal practice. J. Mélèze-Modrzejewski, in ‘Law and Justice’ (n. 55), describes it as a ‘collection of practical information on the wording of documents such as contracts, receipts and the like, and the wording of judicial decisions’ (p. 5) and prefers the even more vague label of ‘Demotic priestly Case-Book’ (p. 7). The edition by K. Donker van Heel, The Legal Manual of Hermopolis

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68 69 70 71 72 73

74

75 76 77

78

[P.Mattha]. Text and Translation, Leiden: Brill, 1990, now supersedes the editio princeps by G. Mattha, and G.R. Hughes, The Demotic Legal Code of Hermopolis West, Cairo: IFAO, 1975. On this document, see the important commentary by P.W. Pestman, ‘L’origine et l’extension d’un manuel de droit égyptien. Quelques réflexions à propos du soi-disant code de Hermoupolis’, Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient 23, 1983, 14–21; S. Allam, ‘Réflexions sur le “code légal” d’Hermopolis dans l’Égypte ancienne’, Chronique d’Égypte 61, 1986, 50–75; J. Mélèze-Modrzejewski, in ‘Law and Justice’. Further papyri were later published documenting the same phenomenon of early Ptolemaic codification. See E. Bresciani, ‘Frammenti di un “prontuario legale” demotico da Tebtuni nell’Istituto Papirologico G. Vitelli’, Egitto e Vicino Oriente 4, 1981, 201–15; M. Chauveau, ‘P.Carlsberg 302: Le manuel juridique de Tebtynis’, in The Carlsberg Papyri, I. Demotic Texts from the Collection, Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum, 1991, pp. 103–29. S. Allam, loc. cit. (n. 67), p. 55. Ibid., pp. 66–7. P.W. Pestman, ‘L’origine et l’extension . . .’ (n. 67), p. 17, followed by S. Allam, loc. cit. (n. 67), p. 67. See S. Allam, loc. cit., p. 63, with n. 3. Hermias’ trial is known from UPZ 162 (118 BCE). The passage referred to is col. IV, ll. 17–20. J. Quaegebeur, loc. cit. (n. 58), pp. 235–9. On the weight of ‘tradition’ in the Graeco-Roman as well as in much younger societies, see the thoughtful essay by P. Veyne, Did the Greeks Believe in their Myths? Essays in the Constitutive Imagination, Chicago, IL: Chicago University Press, 1988 (French orig., 1983), to be read now with C. Pelling’s rejoinder in his Plutarch and History, London: Duckworth, ch. 7, pp. 171–95. On Greek conservatism in Ptolemaic Egypt, in other fields such as economics and technology, see the suggestive pages by A.E. Samuel, From Athens to Alexandria: Hellenism and Social Goals in Ptolemaic Egypt, Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1983, pp. 39–61. The same discrepancy between legal rules and real-life practices may be shown in the society of Augustan Rome. See J. Griffin, ‘Augustan Poetry and the Life of Luxury’, in his Latin Poets and Roman Life, London: Duckworth, 1985, pp. 1–31, especially 13–14 and 22–6. The restoration is H.J. Wolff ’s, in his Written and Unwritten Marriages in Hellenistic and Postclassical Roman Law, Haveford, Pa: Amer. Phil. Association, 1939, p. 24, n. 86. See further his ‘Plurality of Laws in Ptolemaic Egypt’, p. 215, n. 63. On this issue, see now the discussion by J. Cowey and K. Maresch in P.Polit.Iud., pp. 27–8. J. Rea, The Oxyrhynchus Papyri, XLVI, London, 1978, no. 3285, introduction and notes ad loc. Demotic Chronicle, P.Par.dem. 215 verso, col. C, ll. 8–16; English translation based on E. Seidl’s German, pp. 1–2, after W. Spiegelberg’s Die sogenannte ‘demotische Chronik’ des Pap. 215 der Bibliothèque Nationale zu Paris, Leipzig: J.C. Hinrichs, 1914, pp. 30–1; E. Seidl, Ägyptische Rechtsgeschichte der Saïten- und Perserzeit, 2nd edn, Glückstadt: J.J. Augustin, 1968. Diodorus, 1.94–5, gives a list of Egyptian legislators, which includes Bocchoris, Amasis and Darius among others. The credibility of this list was, indeed, bolstered by the discovery of the Demotic Chronicle. That part of the manual of law dates

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79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86

87 88

89 90 91 92

back to the reign of Bocchoris was proposed by P.W. Pestman, ‘L’origine et l’extension . . .’, p. 21. S. Allam, loc. cit. (n. 67), pp. 68–70, concluded in his turn that some of the legal practices still in use in Ptolemaic times are documented as early as the twelfth century BCE. See the reservations expressed by S. Allam, loc. cit., p. 61, with n. 1. J. Quaegebeur, loc. cit. (n. 58), p. 240. W. Orth, loc. cit. (n. 44), pp. 108–11. On the question of the author’s sources see P.J. Rhodes’s thorough discussion in his A Commentary on the Aristotelian Athenaion Politeia, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1981, pp. 15–28. O. Murray, ‘Herodotus and Hellenistic Culture’, CQ n.s. 22, 1972, 200–13: 209. W. Orth, loc. cit., p. 106. Ibid., p. 107. On these supposed translations from Egyptian and ‘Chaldean’ texts, see, before Orth, e.g. Fraser, I, p. 330, and R. Blum, Kallimachos: The Alexandrian Library and the Origins of Bibliography, Madison, WI: University of Wisconsin Press, 1991, p. 103. The latter already brings together the LXX, Zoroaster and Egyptian texts translated by Manetho. S. Brock, loc. cit. (n. 2), p. 12. Callixenus of Rhodes, in Athenaeus, Deipnosophistae, V, 197c–203e. Callixenus’ text has been edited anew with an introduction and commentary by E.E. Rice, The Grand Procession of Ptolemy Philadelphus, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1983. Rice unfortunately cuts the text before Callixenus’ conclusion which includes the reference to the library which is important for the argument made here. Rice’s comment does not supersede former studies, especially that of F. Caspari, ‘Studien zu dem Kallixeinosfragment Athenaius 5 197c–203b’, Hermes 68, 1933, 400–14, and two papers by F. Dunand, ‘Les associations dionysiaques au service du pouvoir lagide, IIIe s. av. J.-C.’, in L’Association dionysiaque dans les sociétés anciennes, Paris: de Boccard, 1986, pp. 85–103, and ‘Fête et propagande à Alexandrie sous les Lagides’, in La Fête, pratique et discours, Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 1981, pp. 13–40. The dating of 271/0 adopted here follows Dunand’s argument. E.E. Rice’s refusal to decide about a date is a case of overscepticism. A.W. Erskine, ‘Culture and Power in Ptolemaic Egypt: The Museum and the Library of Alexandria’, Greece & Rome 42, 1995, 38–48. Callixenus apud Athenaeus, Deipnosophistae, 5. 203c–e, trans. C.B. Gulick, LCL vol. 2, pp. 419 and 421. For quantity, see e.g. the description of the Grand Procession of Ptolemy II by Callixenus. Callixenus emphasizes the impressive measurements and the costly material of the vessels displayed in the procession. For exoticism, see e.g. Ctesias’ description of India in Photius, codex 72 (English translation N.G. Wilson, Photius I, The Bibliotheca. A Selection translated with notes, London: Duckworth, 1994, pp. 68–75). More generally, E. Gabba, ‘True History and False History in Classical Antiquity’, JRS 71, 1981, 50–62. 6 THE HOMERIC PARADIGM

1 On Aristotle’s scientific method see I. Düring, ‘Notes on the History of the Transmission of Aristotle’s Writings’, Göteborgs Högskolas Årsskrift 56, 1950, pp. 57–8, quoted by J.M. Williams, ‘The Peripatetic School and Demetrius of

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2 3

4 5 6 7 8 9

10 11

12

13 14

15

16 17

18

Phalerum’s Reforms in Athens’, Ancient World 15, 1987, pp. 87–97: 91 and 92, n. 18. The importance of Aristotle’s library as an inspiring factor for the organization of the library in Alexandria is emphasized by most scholars. Besides Williams, see A.W. Erskine, ‘Culture and Power in Ptolemaic Egypt: The Museum and the Library of Alexandria’, G&R 42, 1995, pp. 38–48. See above, Chapter 3, p. 59. See the thorough analysis of this issue by J.A. Davison, ‘Peisistratus and Homer’, TAPhA 86, 1955, pp. 1–21. The existence of a sixth-century official Athenian edition of Homer is accepted by G. Nagy, Poetry as Performance. Homer and beyond, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996, p. 110. R. Pfeiffer, A History of Classical Scholarship from the Beginnings to the End of the Hellenistic Age, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1968, p. 109, accepts as ‘very likely’ that ‘a traditional text of the epic poems existed to which the professional reciters, the rhapsodes, had to keep’, but has more reservations as to whether this text became authoritative everywhere. J.A. Davison, loc. cit., pp. 14–15. See J.A. Davison, loc. cit., pp. 7–8; G. Nagy, op. cit., pp. 110–11. J.A. Davison, pp. 15–16 (emphasis added). R. Pfeiffer, op. cit., p. 109. Ibid., p. 110. Ibid., pp. 109–10. For a date c.150 BCE dividing the currency of these ‘eccentric’ papyri from that of the predominance of the ‘vulgate’ tradition, see the discussion by B.P. Grenfell and A.S. Hunt, P.Hibeh I, pp. 67–75, especially pp. 69–70. The notion of ‘eccentric’ refers to papyri presenting variants as compared with the ‘vulgate’ of Homer. Beside P.Hibeh, see the definition by G. Nagy, op. cit. (n. 3), p. 177. J. Rea, P.Oxy. XLVI, London, 1978, no. 3285, introduction and notes ad loc. See the comparison between the two texts by P.W. Pestman, ‘Le manuel de droit égyptien de Hermoupolis. Les passages transmis en démotique et en grec’, in P.W. Pestman (ed.), Textes et études de papyrologie grecque, démotique et copte (P.L.Bat. XXIII), Leiden: Brill, 1985, pp. 116–43. P.W. Pestman, ‘L’origine et l’extension d’un manuel de droit égyptien. Quelques réflexions à propos du soi-disant code de Hermoupolis’, Journ. of the Econ. and Soc. Hist. of the Orient 23, 1983, pp. 14–21: 19–20. Ibid., p. 20. D.J. Thompson, ‘Literacy and Power in Ptolemaic Egypt’, in A.K. Bowman and G. Woolf (eds), Literacy and Power in the Ancient World, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994, pp. 67–83, quotation p. 80 (emphasis added). C.H. Roberts, Two Biblical Papyri of the Early Septuagint in the John Rylands Library Manchester, Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1936, p. 40, republished under the same title in the Bulletin of the John Rylands Library Manchester 20/2, 1936, pp. 219–44: 234. See now L. Koenen, in Z. Aly and L. Koenen, Three Rolls of the Early Septuagint: Genesis and Deuteronomy. A Photographic Edition, Bonn: R. Habelt, 1980, pp. 3–6. See especially S.P. Brock, ‘To Revise or Not to Revise: Attitudes to Jewish Biblical Translation’, in G.J. Brooke and B. Lindars (eds), Septuagint, Scrolls and Cognate Writings, Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press, 1992, pp. 301–38. B.G. Wright III, ‘Access to the Source: Cicero, Ben Sira, The Septuagint and Their Audiences’, JSJ 34, 2003, 1–27; A. Pietersma, ‘A New Paradigm for

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19 20

21

22 23

24

25 26

27 28

29

Addressing Old Questions: The Relevance of the Interlinear Model for the Study of the Septuagint’, in J. Cook (ed.), Bible and Computer. The Stellenbosch AIBI-6 Conference. Proceedings of the Association Internationale Bible et Informatique ‘From Alpha to Byte’. University of Stellenbosch, 17–21 July, 2000, Leiden: Brill, 2002, pp. 337–64. A good review of earlier conceptions of the nature and quality of the translation in the LXX may be found in D.W. Gooding, ‘Aristeas and Septuagint Origins: A Review of Recent Studies’, VT 13, 1963, pp. 357–79. On Aquila see Schürer, III/1, p. 493; K.H. Jobes and M. Silva, Invitation to the Septuagint, Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2000, pp. 38–40. An updated bibliography on the early revisions is given by A. Salvesen, ‘A Convergence of the Ways? The Judaizing of Christian Scripture by Origen and Jerome’, in A.H. Becker and A.Y. Reed (eds), The Ways that Never Parted. Jews and Christians in Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2003, pp. 233–58: 237, n. 16. The fragments are 8HevXIIgr. (Göttingen Septuaginta Unternehmen’s siglum 943). The importance of these fragments for the history of the LXX was demonstrated by D. Barthélemy, Les Devanciers d’Aquila. Première publication intégrale du texte des fragments du dodécaprophéton, Leiden: Brill, 1963. See the review by G. Vermes, JSJ 11, 1966, pp. 261–4. Barthélemy dates them to the second quarter of the first century CE. For the various datings see G. Vermes, loc. cit., p. 263. P.W. Skehan, ‘4QLXXNum: A Pre-Christian Reworking of the Septuagint’, HThR 70, 1977, pp. 39–50. The papyrus is dated to the end of the first century BCE or the beginning of the first century CE by C.H. Roberts, quoted by Skehan, p. 39, n. 2. E. Ulrich, ‘The Septuagint Manuscripts from Qumran: A Reappraisal of their Value’, in G.J. Brooke and B. Lindars, Septuagint, Scrolls and Cognate Writings, Symposium Manchester 1990, Atlanta, Ga: Scholars Press, 1992, pp. 49–80. The date of 4QLXXLeva is that accepted by Ulrich, p. 75. The same date was already proposed by C.H. Roberts, quoted by P. Kahle, The Cairo Geniza, 2nd edn, Oxford: Blackwell, 1959, p. 223. P.W. Skehan, ‘The Qumran Manuscripts and Textual Criticism’, in the Volume du congrès int. pour l’étude de l’Ancien Testament, Strasbourg 1956, Leiden: Brill, 1957, pp. 157–9, dated the papyrus to the first century CE. As a matter of fact, Ulrich makes a similar argument about 4QLXXNum, in disagreement with Skehan. Ibid., p. 76. H.G. Opitz and H.H. Schaeder, ‘Zum Septuaginta-Papyrus Rylands Greek 458’, ZNTW 3, 1936, pp. 115–17, and J.W. Wevers, ‘The Earliest Witness to the LXX Deuteronomy’, Catholic Biblical Quarterly 39, 1977, pp. 140–4. On P.Fouad 266, L. Koenen, op. cit. (n. 16), pp. 1–2. All the relevant sources (Aquila, the Qumran fragments, Philo, Ben Sira and B.Ar.) are discussed in S. Brock, loc. cit. (n. 17), pp. 301–10. B.G. Wright III, loc. cit. (n. 18). See further his ‘Why a Prologue? Ben Sira’s Grandson and His Greek Translation’, in S. Paul, R.A. Kraft, L.H. Schiffman and W.W. Fields (eds), Emanuel: Studies in Hebrew Bible, Septuagint, and Dead Sea Scrolls in Honor of Emamuel Tov, Leiden: Brill, 2003, pp. 633–44. On this issue see the survey in Parente, pp. 529–37. The theory of the existence of rival translations was advocated mainly by Paul Kahle, op. cit., pp. 209–15.

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30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38

39 40

41 42 43 44 45

A.F.J. Klijn, ‘The Letter of Aristeas and the Greek Translation of the Pentateuch in Egypt’, NTS 11, 1964/65, pp. 154–8, hesitates between rival translation and revision. Jellicoe, followed by Meisner, argued that B.Ar. was targeting a rival translation made in Leontopolis. See S. Jellicoe, ‘The Occasion and Purpose of the Letter of Aristeas: A Reexamination’, NTS 13, 1966, pp. 144–50; N. Meisner, ‘Aristeasbrief’, in H. Lichtenberger, in collaboration with C. Habicht, O. Kaiser, W.G. Kümmel, O. Plöger and J. Schreiner (eds), Jüdische Schriften aus hellenistischrömischer Zeit, II/1, Gütersloh: Gerd Mohn, 1973, p. 43. On the Leontopolis hypothesis, see the detailed discussion by Parente, pp. 193–202. Inasmuch as the Jewish community in Leontopolis had a temple run by a priestly family, it is hard to believe that ritual Torah readings, if any, were conducted in any other language than biblical Hebrew. See on this matter the discussion of the ritual hypothesis, Chapter 5, p. 105. H.M. Orlinsky, ‘The Septuagint as Holy Writ and the Philosophy of the Translators’, HebrUCA 46, 1975, pp. 89–114. See above, pp. 44 and 58–9. H.G. Opitz and H.H. Schaeder, loc. cit. (n. 26), p. 116; J.W. Wevers, loc. cit. (n. 26), p. 241. E.J. Bickerman, ‘Some Notes on the Transmission of the Septuagint’, in Studies in Jewish and Christian History, vol. 1, Leiden: Brill, 1976 (first published 1950), pp. 137–66: 145. As noted by E. Ulrich, op. cit. (n. 24), p. 73. C.H. Roberts (n. 15), in Bulletin of the John Rylands Library Manchester 20/2, 1936, p. 234. E.J. Bickerman, ‘Two Legal Interpretations of the Septuagint’, Revue int. des droits de l’antiquité 3/3, 1956, pp. 81–104. See also J.W. Wevers, loc. cit. (n. 26), p. 241. E.J. Bickerman, loc. cit. A. van der Kooij, ‘Perspectives on the Septuagint: who are the Translators?’, F. García Martínez and E. Noort (eds), Perspectives in the Study of the Old Testament and Early Judaism, Leiden: Brill, 1998, pp. 214–29. On these see now L.H. Schiffman, ‘The Early History of Public Reading of the Torah’, in S. Fine (ed.), Jews, Christians and Polytheists in the Ancient Synagogue, London: Routledge, 1999, pp. 44–56. Also, H.A. McKay, Sabbath and Synagogue. The Question of Sabbath Worship in Ancient Judaism, Leiden: Brill, 1994, pp. 61–88. This is not the place to discuss whether proseuchai were really synagogues. Insofar as they were Jewish places of worship, the traditional translation by ‘synagogues’ will be retained here for the sake of convenience. See M. Harl, ‘Les divergences entre la Septante et le texte massorétique’, in La Bible grecque des Septante, especially pp. 201–16. J. Porter, ‘Hermeneutics: Lines and Circles: Aristarchus and Crates on the Exegesis of Homer’, in R. Lamberton and J.J. Keaney (eds), Homer’s Ancient Readers, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1992, pp. 67–114. Quotation from p. 73. Parente, pp. 182–90 and footnotes there. See also the more recent bibliographical survey by B. Bar-Kochva, Pseudo-Hecataeus On the Jews, Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1996, pp. 271–88. H.G. Meecham, The Letter of Aristeas, Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1935, p. 333. Hadas, pp. 17–18. Quotation p. 18. See the Conclusion below.

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46 Fraser, I, p. 87. The expulsion by Ptolemy VIII of ‘grammatikoi, philosophers, geometers, mousikoi, painters, paidotribai and doctors and practitioners of other arts from Alexandria’ (Athenaeus 4.184c) is discussed in R. Pfeiffer, op. cit. (n. 3), pp. 252–3. 47 R. Pfeiffer, op. cit. (n. 3), pp. 210–11. 48 Ibid., p. 215. 49 Grenfell and Hunt’s discussion in The Hibeh Papyri I, 1906, pp. 67–75, in their introduction to the Homeric papyri of c.285–250 BCE collected under nos. 19–23 of their volume, remains fundamental. 50 G. Nagy, op. cit. (n. 3), pp. 110 and 187–206, especially 193–5. Nagy uses the example of the LXX as a point of comparison for his discussion of the fate of the Homeric text. The other way round certainly better fits the relative importance of each of the two texts in Ptolemaic Alexandria. The comparison between the status of Homer’s text and the LXX as ‘scripture’, that is, a ‘standardized’ text, goes back to T.W. Allen, Homer: The Origins and the Transmission, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1924, pp. 315–20. Allen, however, refers to the Septuagint in Origen’s edition of the Hebrew Bible in his Hexapla. 51 For a definition of the notion of ‘eccentric’ papyri in the field of Homeric scholarship see above, n. 9. 52 E.J. Bickerman, ‘Some Notes on the Transmission of the Septuagint’ (n. 32), pp. 143–4. 53 Strabo, FGH II A91 F7 = AJ XIV 117, trans. R. Marcus, LCL, vol. 7, p. 509. 54 A Jewish archive is mentioned in BGU IV 1151 (= CPJ II 143), of 13 BCE. One Theodoros is said to have deposited his will in it. Josephus’ claim that a record of priestly families was held by the Jewish community in Alexandria (Against Apion, 1.30–3) is probably further evidence for this archive. On this Jewish archive and the meaning of archeion in Ptolemaic and Roman Egypt see H.J. Wolff, Das Recht der griechischen Papyri Ägyptens in der Zeit der Ptolemäer und des Principats, 2. Bd., Organisation und Kontrolle des privaten Rechtsverkehrs, Munich: C.H. Beck, 1978, p. 27. 55 As convincingly argued by J.M.S. Cowey and K. Maresch in P.Polit.Iud., pp. 11–17. 56 According to the ancient sources, Aristarchus put Homer 140 years after the Trojan war. On the claim of the Alexandrian grammarians to have reconstructed the original text of Homer, and on the polemic that such a claim elicited from the rival school of Pergamum, see J.A. Davison, loc. cit. (n. 3), p. 21. On Aristarchus’ chronology of Homer’s life, ibid., p. 20. 57 This point about Origen and the Göttingen project is made by A. Salvesen, loc. cit. (n. 20). On Origen see J. Schaper, ‘The Origin and Purpose of the Fifth Column of the Hexapla’, in A. Salvesen (ed.), Origen’s Hexapla and Fragments, Rich Seminar on the Hexapla, Oxford Centre for Hebrew and Jewish Studies, 1994, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1998, pp. 3–15. 58 P. Kahle, op. cit. (n. 24), pp. 209–64. On Kahle’s theory see S. Jellicoe, The Septuagint and Modern Study, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1968, pp. 59–63 and now K.H. Jobes and M. Silva, op. cit. (n. 19), pp. 274–5. 59 Ibid., pp. 211–12 for all quotations. 60 Ibid., pp. 213–14. 61 D. Barthélemy, op. cit. (n. 21), with Vermes’ review. 62 P. Kahle, op. cit., pp. 212–13.

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63 B.Ar. is usually seen as a polemical work. See the opinions surveyed by Parente, sections iv, pp. 193–202, and v, pp. 202–9. 64 For a similar view, see A. Pietersma, loc. cit. (n. 18), p. 340. 65 Greek schooling: D.J. Thompson, ‘Language and Literacy in Early Hellenistic Egypt’, in P. Bilde (ed.), Ethnicity in Hellenistic Egypt, Aarhus: Aarhus University Press, 1992, pp. 39–52: 48; on fiscal exemption for teachers, D.J. Thompson, ‘Literacy and the Administration in Early Ptolemaic Egypt’, in J.H. Johnson (ed.), Life in a multi-cultural society. Egypt from Kambyses to Constantine, Chicago, IL: Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago, 1992, pp. 323–6: 325. Teachers are documented in villages in the countryside in the third century BCE: D.J. Thompson, in Johnson, p. 325; D.J. Thompson, ‘Literacy and Power in Ptolemaic Egypt’, (n. 14), pp. 75–7. On the judicial reform and the Great Procession, see Chapter 5. 66 Life of Moses, 2.29. See above, Chapter 4, p. 89. 67 See e.g. W. Clarysse, ‘Ethnic Diversity and Dialect among the Greeks of Hellenistic Egypt’, in A.M.F.W. Verhoogt and S.P. Vleeming (eds), The two faces of Graeco-Roman Egypt (P. L. Bat. XXX), Leiden: Brill, 1998, pp. 1–13; S. Honigman, ‘Noms sémitiques à Edfou et Thèbes’, forthcoming in Bulletin of the American Society of Papyrologists 40, 2003. 68 See above, Chapter 3, p. 46. 69 T.P. Wiseman, Clio’s Cosmetics, Leicester: Leicester University Press, 1979, pp. 24–5. See also Pelling’s interesting analysis of the operation of what he calls, after Paul Veyne, the ‘doctrine of present things’ in Plutarch’s Lives of Theseus and Romulus. Since the past must have been the same as today, monsters which do not exist today did not exist in ancient times either (although Plutarch, unlike Strabo, is more cautious about the possible existence of Amazons in ancient times, Pelling pp. 176–7), and likewise the society of Theseus’ time and the motivations behind Athenian synoecism can be inferred from the features characterizing the society of fifth-century Athens. See C. Pelling, Plutarch and History. Eighteen Studies, London: Duckworth, 2002, ch. 7, pp. 171–95, especially pp. 181–5. The reference to Paul Veyne, p. 175, is to Did the Greeks believe in their myths? Essays in the constitutive imagination, Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 1988 (French orig., 1983), p. 14 and passim. 70 L. Koenen, ‘Die Adaptation ägyptischer Königsideologie am Ptolemäerhof ’, in E. Van’t Dack, P. van Dessel and W. van Gucht (eds), Egypt and the Hellenistic World. Proceedings of the International Colloquium, Leuven 1982, Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1983, pp. 143–90; ‘The Ptolemaic King as a Religious Figure’, in A. Bulloch, E.S. Gruen, A.A. Long and A. Stewart (eds), Images and Ideologies. Self-definition in the Hellenistic World, Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1993, pp. 25–115. 71 O. Murray, ‘Aristeas and his Sources’, Studia Patristica XII, T.U. 115, Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, 1975, pp. 123–8: 126. 7 CONCLUSION 1 Tcherikover, ‘Ideology’. 2 For a similar approach see M. Niehoff, Philo on Jewish Identity and Culture, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2001.

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NOTES

3 On syncretism in Egypt, but in the Roman period, see F. Dunand, ‘Les syncrétismes dans la religion de l’Égypte romaine’, in F. Dunand and P. Lévêque (eds), Les Syncrétismes dans les religions de l’Antiquité, Leiden: Brill, 1975, pp. 152–85. On Sarapis see J.E. Stambaugh, Sarapis under the Early Ptolemies, Leiden: Brill, 1972. On Isis, F. Dunand, Isis, Mère des Dieux, Paris: Errance, 2000. 4 Aristobulus, fgt 4, in Eusebius, Praep. Ev. 13.12.6–7, Mras, pp. 194–5 and Holladay, pp. 172–3. On the comparison with Plato see Parente, p. 224; O. Murray, ‘The Letter of Aristeas’, in Studi ellenistici, pp. 15–29: 21. Interpretation based on false etymology was a technique favoured by the Stoics. See A.A. Long, ‘Stoic Reading of Homer’, in R. Lamberton and J.J. Keaney (eds), Homer’s Ancient Readers. The Hermeneutics of Greek Epic’s Earliest Exegetes, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1992, pp. 41–66. 5 An edition and English translation of Isidorus’ hymns may be found in V.F. Vanderlip, The Four Greek Hymns of Isidorus and the Cult of Isis, Toronto: A.M. Hakkert, 1972, pp. 17–19 (first hymn) and 34–6 (second hymn). On Isis’ aretalogies see the good summary in G. Fowden, The Egyptian Hermes. A Historical Approach to the Late Pagan Mind, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986, pp. 45–52. The Greek texts are collected in M. Totti, Ausgewählte Texte der Isisund Sarapis-Religion, Hildesheim: Olms, 1985. 6 Chreia no. 49, quoted by R.F. Hock and E.N. O’Neil (eds), The Chreia in Ancient Rhetoric. vol. 1: The Progymnasmata, Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press, 1986, p. 85. 7 J.R. Bartlett, Jews in the Hellenistic World. Josephus, Aristeas, the Sibylline Oracles, Eupolemus, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985, p. 14. 8 M.A.L. Beavis, ‘Anti-Egyptian Polemic in the Letter of Aristeas 130–65, The High Priest’s Discourse’, JSJ 18/2, 1987, pp. 145–51: 147, commenting on chs 16–18 and 134. 9 M. Görg, ‘Ptolemäische Theologie in der Septuaginta’, in H. Maehler and V.M. Strocka (eds), Das ptolemäische Ägypten. Akten des internationalen Symposions, Berlin, September 1976, Mainz am Rhein: Philipp von Zabern, 1978, pp. 177–85; M. Görg, ‘Die Septuaginta im Kontext spätägyptischer Kultur. Beispiele lokaler Inspiration bei der Übersetzungsarbeit am Pentateuch’, in H.-J. Fabry and U. Offerhaus (eds), Im Brennpunkt: Die Septuaginta, Studien zur Entstehung und Bedeutung der griechischen Bibel, Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 2001, pp. 115–29. 10 Tcherikover, ‘Ideology’, p. 193. 11 See on these matters the insights of R.K. Ritner, ‘Implicit Models of CrossCultural Interaction: A Question of Noses, Soap, and Prejudice’, in J.H. Johnson (ed.), Life in a Multicultural Society. Egypt from Kambyses to Constantine, Chicago, IL: Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago, 1992, pp. 283–90. 12 That B.Ar. did not meet the literary taste of the Roman period is made clear enough from Josephus’ re-writing of it in the twelfth book of his Jewish Antiquities. On this matter see the study by A. Pelletier, Flavius Josèphe, adaptateur de la lettre d’Aristée. Une réaction atticisante contre la koinè, Paris: Klincksieck, 1962.

190

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SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY

EDITIONS AND TRANSLATIONS Fernández, Marcos, ‘Carta de Aristeas’, in A. Diez Macho (dir.), Apocrifos del Antiguo Testamento, vol. 2, Madrid: Ed. Cristiandad, 1983, pp. 9–64. Hadas, M., Aristeas to Philocrates, New York, NY: Harper & Brothers, 1951; repr. New York, NY: Ktav, 1973. Kraus-Reggiani, C., La Lettera di Aristea a Filocrate. Introduzione – Esame analitico – Traduzione, Rome: Università di Roma, Istituto di filologia classica, 1979. Meecham, H.G., The Letter of Aristeas. A Linguistic Study with Special Reference to the Greek Bible, Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1935. Meisner, N., ‘Aristeasbrief’, in H. Lichtenberger, in collaboration with C. Habicht, O. Kaiser, W.G. Kümmel, O. Plüger and J. Schreiner (eds), Jüdische Schriften aus hellenistisch-römischer Zeit, Bd. II Unterweisung in erzählender Form, Teil 1, Gütersloh: Gerd Mohn, 1973. Pelletier, A., Lettre d ’Aristée à Philocrate. Introduction, texte critique, traduction et notes, index complet des mots grecs, Paris: Le Cerf, 1962. Shutt, R.J.H., ‘Letter of Aristeas, Third Century B.C.–First Century A.D. A New Translation and Introduction’, in J.H. Charlesworth (ed.), The Old Testament Pseudepigrapha, vol. 2, Garden City, NY: Doubleday & Co., 1985, pp. 7–34. Thackeray, H.St.J., The Letter of Aristeas, London: Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge, 1918. Tramontano, R., La Lettera di Aristea a Filocrate, Naples: Ufficio succursale della civiltà cattolica in Napoli, 1931. Vianès, L., French translation of the Letter of Aristeas, with notes by S. Honigman, in A. Caquot and M. Philonenko, Écrits intertestamentaires, vol. 2, coll. La Pléiade, Paris: Gallimard, forthcoming. Wendland, P., Aristeae ad Philocratem epistula, Leipzig: Teubner, 1900. INTRODUCTIONS AND COMMENTARIES ON THE BOOK (LETTER) OF ARISTEAS Bartlett, J.R., Jews in the Hellenistic World. Josephus, Aristeas, the Sibylline Oracles, Eupolemus, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985, pp. 11–34. Collins, J.J., Between Athens and Jerusalem. Jewish Identity in the Hellenistic Diaspora, New York, NY: Crossroad, 1983, pp. 81–6 and 179–82.

191

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Fraser, P.M., Ptolemaic Alexandria, vol. 1, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1972, pp. 696–703. Meisner, N., Untersuchungen zum Aristeasbrief, Diss. Berlin, 1973. Murray, O., ‘The Letter of Aristeas’, in B. Virgilio (ed.), Studi ellenistici II, Pisa: Giardini editori, 1987, pp. 15–29, updated English version of ‘Aristeasbrief ’, Reallexicon für Antike und Christentum, Supplementband 1, 1986, pp. 573–87. Parente, F., ‘La Lettera di Aristea come fonte per la storia del giudaismo alessandrino durante la prima metà del I secolo a.C.’, ANSP, serie iii, 2, 1972, parts 1, pp. 177–237, and 2, pp. 517–67. Schürer, E., The History of the Jewish People in the Age of Jesus Christ (175 B.C.–A.D. 135), III/1, revised edn by G. Vermes and F. Millar, Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1987, pp. 677–88 and 475–6. GENERAL BIBLIOGRAPHY Several works provide an extant bibliography on B.Ar. In chronological order: Parente, F. (see previous section). Dorival, G., Harl, M. and Munnich, O., La Bible grecque des Septante. Du judaïsme hellénistique au christianisme ancien, Paris: Le Cerf/CNRS, 1988. Dogniez, C., Bibliography of the Septuagint, 1970–1993, Leiden: Brill, 1995, pp. 18–22. Jobes, K.H. and Silva, M., Invitation to the Septuagint, Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2000. See further the yearly publication of the Année Philologique.

Aejmelaeus, A., On the Trail of the Septuagint Translators, Kampen, Netherlands: Kok Pharos, 1993. Allam, S., ‘Réflexions sur le “code légal” d’Hermopolis dans l’Égypte ancienne’, Chronique d’Égypte 61, 1986, 50–75. Bar-Kochva, B., Pseudo-Hecataeus On the Jews. Legitimizing the Jewish Diaspora, Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1996. Beavis, M.A.L., ‘Anti-Egyptian Polemic in the Letter of Aristeas 130–165, The High Priest’s Discourse’, JSJ, 18/2, 1987, 145–51. Ben Yehuda, N., The Masada Myth. Collective Memory and Mythmaking in Israel, Madison, WI: University of Wisconsin Press, 1995. Berger, P.L., Invitation to Sociology. A Humanistic Perspective, Garden City, NY: Doubleday & Co., 1963. Berthelot, K., ‘L’interprétation symbolique des lois alimentaires dans la Lettre d’Aristée: une influence pythagoricienne’, JJS 52/2, 2001, 253–68. Bickerman, E.J., ‘Some Notes on the Transmission of the Septuagint’, in Alexander Marx Jubilee Volume, New York, NY: The Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1950, pp. 149–78 = Studies in Jewish and Christian History, vol. 1, Leiden: Brill, 1976, pp. 137–66. ––––, ‘Two Legal Interpretations of the Septuagint’, Revue internationale des droits de l’Antiquité, 3rd ser., 3, 1956, 81–104. ––––, ‘The Septuagint as a Translation’, Proc. of the Amer. Acad. for Jewish Research 28, 1959 = Studies in Jewish and Christian History, vol. 1, Leiden: Brill, 1976, pp. 167–200.

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Brock, S.P., ‘The Phenomenon of the Septuagint’, O.T. Studiën 17, 1972, 23–77. ––––, ‘To Revise or Not to Revise: Attitudes to Jewish Biblical Translation’, in G.J. Brooke and B. Lindars (eds), Septuagint, Scrolls and Cognate Writings. Papers presented to the International Symposium on the Septuagint and Its Relations to the Dead Sea Scrolls and Other Writings, Manchester, 1990, Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press, 1992, pp. 301–38. Cairns, F., Generic Composition in Greek and Roman Poetry, Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1972. Clarysse, W., ‘Ethnic Diversity and Dialect among the Greeks of Hellenistic Egypt’, in A.M.F.W. Verhoogt and S.P. Vleeming (eds), The Two Faces of Graeco-Roman Egypt. Greek and Demotic and Greek-Demotic Texts and Studies Presented to P. W. Pestman (P.L.Bat. XXX), Leiden: Brill, 1998, pp. 1–13. Davison, J.A., ‘Peisistratus and Homer’, TAPhA 86, 1955, 1–21. Dunand, F., ‘Les syncrétismes dans la religion de l’Égypte romaine’, in F. Dunand and P. Lévêque (eds), Les Syncrétismes dans les religions de l’Antiquité, Leiden: Brill, 1975, pp. 152–85. ––––, ‘Fête et propagande à Alexandrie sous les Lagides’, in La Fête, pratique et discours, Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 1981, pp. 13–40. Elsner, J., Art and the Roman Viewer, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995. Erskine, A.W., ‘Culture and Power in Ptolemaic Egypt: The Museum and the Library of Alexandria’, G&R 42, 1995, 38–48. Evans, T.V., Verbal Syntax in the Greek Pentateuch. Natural Greek Usage and Hebrew Interference, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001. Fornara, C.W., The Nature of History in Ancient Greece and Rome, Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1983. Fortenbaugh, W.W. and Schütrumpf, E. (eds), Demetrius of Phalerum. Text, Translation and Discussion, New Brunswick, NJ, and London: Transaction Publishers, 2002. Friedrich, C.J. and Brzezinski, Z.L., Totalitarian Dictatorship and Autocracy, New York, NY: Frederick A. Praeger, 1961. Gabba, E., ‘True History and False History in Classical Antiquity’, JRS 71, 1981, 50–62. Gooding, D.W., ‘Aristeas and Septuagint Origins: A Review of Recent Studies’, VT 13, 1963, 357–79 = Studies in The Septuagint, pp. 158–80. Goodman, M. (ed.), Jews in a Graeco-Roman World, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1998. Goukowsky, P., Essai sur les origines du mythe d’Alexandre (336–270 av. J.-C.), 2 vols, Nancy: Presses Universitaires de Nancy II, 1978–81. Grenfell, B.P. and Hunt, A.S., The Hibeh Papyri, I, London: Egypt Exploration Fund, 1906. Gruen, E.S., Heritage and Hellenism. The Reinvention of Jewish Tradition, Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1998. Halbwachs, M., The Collective Memory, New York, NY: Harper & Row, 1980 (French orig. 1950, 2nd edn 1968). Hock, R.F. and O’Neil, E.N. (eds), The Chreia in Ancient Rhetoric. Vol. 1: The Progymnasmata, Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press, 1986. Holzberg, N., The Ancient Novel. An Introduction, London: Routledge, 1995 (German orig. 1986). Horbury, W. and Noy, D., Jewish Inscriptions of Graeco-Roman Egypt with an Index of the Jewish Inscriptions of Egypt and Cyrenaica, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992.

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Kahle, P., The Cairo Geniza, 2nd edn, Oxford: Blackwell, 1959. Kennedy, G.A., A New History of Classical Rhetoric, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1994. Kirk, G.S., ‘Aetiology, Ritual, Charter: Three Equivocal Terms in the Study of Myth’, YClS 22, 1972, 83–102. Laird, A., ‘Fiction, Bewitchment and Story Worlds: The Implications of Claims of Truth in Apuleius’, in C. Gill and T.P. Wiseman (eds), Lies and Fiction in the Ancient World, Exeter, Devon: Exeter University Press, 1993, pp. 147–74. Lee, J.A.L., A Lexical Study of the Septuagint Version of the Pentateuch, Chico, CA: Scholars Press, 1983. Lieu, J., North, J. and Rajak, T. (eds), The Jews among Pagans and Christians in the Roman Empire, London: Routledge, 1992. Long, A.A. and Sedley, D.N., The Hellenistic Philosophers, 2 vols, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987. Lovejoy, A.O. and Boas, G., Primitivism and Related Ideas in Antiquity, Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1935, repr. 1997. Malinowski, B., ‘Myth in Primitive Psychology’, reprinted in his Magic, Science, and Religion and Other Essays, Garden City, NY: Anchor, 1948. Malkin, I., Myth and Territory in the Spartan Mediterranean, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994. Marincola, J. Authority and Tradition in Ancient Historiography, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997. ––––, ‘Genre, Convention, and Innovation in Graeco-Roman Historiography’, in C.S. Kraus (ed.), The Limits of Historiography. Genre and Narrative in Ancient Historical Texts, Leiden: Brill, 1999, pp. 281–324. Mélèze-Modrzejewski, J., ‘Livres sacrés et justice lagide’, in Acta Universitatis Lodziensis, Folia Juridica 21 (Symbolae C. Kunderewicz), –L odz: Uniwersytet –L odzki, 1986, pp. 11–44. ––––, ‘Law and Justice in Ptolemaic Egypt’, in M.J. Geller and H. Maehler (eds), Legal Documents of the Hellenistic World, London: Warburg Institute, University of London, 1995, pp. 1–19. Merkelbach, R., Die Quellen des griechischen Alexanderromans, 2nd edn rev. with J. Trumpf, Munich: C.H. Beck, 1977. Morgan, J.R., ‘Make-Believe and Make Believe: The Fictionality of the Greek Novels’, in C. Gill and T.P. Wiseman (eds), Lies and Fiction in the Ancient World, Exeter, Devon: Exeter University Press, 1993, pp. 175–229. Morgan, T., Literate Education in the Hellenistic and Roman Worlds, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998. Müller, J.-B., Ptolemaeus II. Philadelphus als Gesetzgeber, Diss. Köln, 1968. Murray, O., ‘Aristeas and Ptolemaic Kingship’, JThS, 18, 1967, 337–71. ––––, ‘Aristeas and his Sources’, Studia Patristica XII, T.U. 115, Berlin: AkademieVerlag, 1975, pp. 123–8. ––––, ‘Hellenistic Royal Symposia’, in P. Bilde, T. Engberg-Pedersen, L. Hannestad and J. Zahle (eds), Aspects of Hellenistic Kingship, Aarhus: Aarhus University Press, 1996, pp. 15–27. Nagy, G., Poetry as Performance. Homer and Beyond, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996. Niehoff, M., Philo on Jewish Identity and Culture, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2001.

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Orlinsky, H.M., ‘The Septuagint as Holy Writ and the Philosophy of the Translators’, Hebr UCA 46, 1975, 89–114. Orth, W., ‘Ptolemaios II. und die Septuaginta-Übersetzung’, in H.-J. Fabry and U. Offerhaus (eds), Im Brennpunkt: Die Septuaginta, Studien zur Entstehung und Bedeutung der griechischen Bibel, Stuttgart-Berlin-Köln: Kohlhammer, 2001, pp. 97–114. Palmer, D.W., ‘Acts and the Ancient Historical Monograph’, in B.W. Winter and A.D. Clarke (eds), The Book of Acts in its First Century Setting. Vol 1. Ancient Literary Setting, Grand Rapids, MI: William B. Eerdmans, 1993, pp. 1–30. Paul, A. ‘Traductions grecques de la Bible avant la Septante?’, in M.-M. Mactoux and E. Geny (eds), Mélanges P. Lévêque, IV, Religion, Besançon, 1990, pp. 315–28. Pelletier, A., Flavius Josèphe, adaptateur de la lettre d’Aristée. Une réaction atticisante contre la koinè Paris: Klincksieck, 1962. Pelling, C.B.R., ‘Truth and Fiction in Plutarch’s Lives’, in D.A. Russell (ed.), Antonine Literature, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1990, pp. 19–52. ––––, ‘Epilogue’, in C.S. Kraus (ed.), The Limits of Historiography. Genre and Narrative in Ancient Historical Texts, Leiden: Brill, 1999, pp. 325–60. ––––, ‘ “Making Myth look like History”: Plutarch’s Theseus-Romulus’, in his Plutarch and History. Eighteen Studies, Swansea: Classical Press of Wales and London: Duckworth, 2002, pp. 171–95. Pestman, P.W., ‘L’origine et l’extension d’un manuel de droit égyptien. Quelques réflexions à propos du soi-disant code de Hermoupolis’, Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient 23, 1983, 14–21. ––––, ‘Le manuel de droit égyptien de Hermoupolis. Les passages transmis en démotique et en grec’, in P.W. Pestman (ed.), Textes et études de papyrologie grecque, démotique et copte (P.L.Bat. XXIII), Leiden: Brill, 1985, pp. 116–43. Pfeiffer, R., A History of Classical Scholarship from the Beginnings to the End of the Hellenistic Age, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1968. Piatkowska, M. La Skepe dans l’Egypte ptolémaïque, Wroclaw: Zaklad Narodowy im. Ossolinskich, 1975. Pietersma, A., ‘A New Paradigm for Addressing Old Questions: The Relevance of the Interlinear Model for the Study of the Septuagint’, in J. Cook (ed.), Bible and Computer. The Stellenbosch AIBI-6 Conference. Proceedings of the Association Internationale Bible et Informatique ‘From Alpha to Byte’. University of Stellenbosch, 17–21 July, 2000, Leiden: Brill, 2002, pp. 337–64. Prepublication in pdf version available at the URL ‘http://www.chass.utoronto.ca/~pietersm/’ section ‘New Paradigm’. Propp, V.I., The Morphology of the Folktale, 2nd edn rev., Austin, TX: University of Texas Press, 1968 (based on the Russian first edn, 1928). Quaegebeur, J., ‘Sur la “loi sacrée” dans l’Égypte gréco-romaine’, Ancient Society 11/12, 1980/81, 227–40. Rabin, Ch., ‘The Translation Process and the Character of the Septuagint’, Textus 6, 1968, 1–26. Reardon, B.P., ‘Achilles Tatius and Ego-Narrative’, in J.R. Morgan and R. Stoneman (eds), Greek Fiction. The Greek Novel in Context, London: Routledge, 1994, pp. 80–96. Rebenich, S., ‘Historical Prose’, in S.E. Porter (ed.), Handbook of Classical Rhetoric in the Hellenistic Period. 330 B.C.–A.D. 400, Leiden: Brill, 1997, pp. 265–337. Rice, E.E., The Grand Procession of Ptolemy Philadelphus, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1983.

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Roberts, C.H., Two Biblical Papyri of the Early Septuagint in the John Rylands Library Manchester, Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1936 = Bulletin of the John Rylands Library Manchester 20/2, 1936, pp. 219–44. Rosenmeyer, P.A., Ancient Epistolary Fictions. The Letter in Greek Literature, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001. Rossi, L.E., ‘I generi letterari e le loro leggi scritti e non scritti nella letterature classiche’, BICS 18, 1971, 69–94. Rousselle, A., ‘Jeux de dérive et de hasard: conversion et métaphore’, in D.S. Milo and A. Boureau (eds), Alter Histoire. Essai d’histoire expérimentale, Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 1991, pp. 85–98. Schmidt, W., Untersuchungen zur Fälschung historischer Dokumente bei Pseudo-Aristaios, Diss. Bonn: R. Habelt, 1986. Scholl, R., Corpus der ptolemäischen Sklaventexte, Stuttgart: Franz Steiner, 1990. Sollamo, R., ‘The Pleonastic Use of the Pronoun in Connection with the Relative Pronoun in the LXX of Leviticus, Numbers and Deuteronomy’, in L.J. Greenspoon and O. Munnich (eds), 8th Congress of the International Organization for the Septuagint and Cognate Studies, Paris 1992, Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press, 1995, pp. 43–62. Sourvinou-Inwood, C., ‘ “Myth” and History: On Herodotus 3.48 and 3.50–53’, in C. Sourvinou-Inwood, ‘Reading’ Greek Culture, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1991, pp. 244–84. Thomas, R., ‘Ancient Greek Family Tradition and Democracy. From Oral History to Myth’, in R. Samuel and P. Thompson, The Myths We Live By, London: Routledge, 1990, pp. 203–15. Troiani, L., ‘Il libro di Aristea ed il giudaismo ellenistico. Premesse per un’interpretazione’, in B. Virgilio (ed.), Studi ellenistici II, Pisa: Girdini editori, 1987, pp. 31–61. Tudor, H., Political Myth, London: Macmillan, 1972. Urkunden des Politeuma der Juden von Herakleopolis (144/3–133/2 v. Chr.) (P. Polit. Iud.), edited by J.M.S. Cowey and K. Maresch (P. Colon. XXIX), Wiesbaden: Westdeutscher Verlag, 2001. Van der Kooij, A., ‘Perspectives on the Septuagint: who are the Translators?’, in F. García Martínez and E. Noort (eds), Perspectives in the Study of the Old Testament and Early Judaism, Leiden: Brill, 1998, pp. 214–29. Walbank, F.W., ‘Profit or Amusement: Some Thoughts on the Motives of Hellenistic Historians’, in H. Verdin, G. Schepens and E. de Keyser (eds), Purposes of History. Studies in Greek Historiography from the 4th to the 2nd century BC, Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1990, pp. 253–66. ––––, ‘History and Tragedy’, Historia 9, 1960 = Selected Papers, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 1985, pp. 224–41. Wevers, J.W., ‘The Earliest Witness to the LXX Deuteronomy’, Catholic Biblical Quarterly 39, 1977, 140–4. White, H., ‘The Historical Text as Literary Artifact’, in Tropics of Discourse, Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1978, pp. 81–99. Wilcken, U., Urkunden der Ptolemäerzeit, vol. 1, Berlin: De Gruyter, 1927. Williams, J.M., ‘The Peripatetic School and Demetrius of Phalerum’s Reforms in Athens’, Ancient World 15, 1987, 87–97. Winkler, J.J., Auctor & Actor: A Narratological Reading of Apuleius, Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1985.

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Wiseman, T.P., Clio’s Cosmetics. Three Studies in Graeco-Roman Literature, Rowman and Littlefield: Leicester University Press, 1979. ––––, ‘Lying Historians: Seven Types of Mendacity’, in C. Gill and T.P. Wiseman (eds), Lies and Fiction in the Ancient World, Exeter, Devon: Exeter University Press, 1993, pp. 122–46. Woodman, A.J., Rhetoric in Classical Historiography. Four Studies, London: Croom Helm, 1988. Wright, B.G. III, ‘Access to the Source: Cicero, Ben Sira, The Septuagint and Their Audiences’, in JSJ 34, 2003, 1–27. Zuntz, G., ‘Aristeas Studies 1: the ‘“Seven Banquets”’, Journal of Semitic Studies, 4/1, 1959, pp. 21–36 = Opuscula Selecta, Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1972, pp. 110–25. ––––, ‘Aristeas Studies 2: Aristeas and the Translation of the Torah’, Journal of Semitic Studies, 4/2 (1959), pp. 109–26 = Opuscula Selecta, Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1972, pp. 126–43 = S. Jellicoe (ed.), Studies in the Septuagint. Origins, Recensions, and Interpretations. Selected Essays, New York, NY: Ktav, 1974, pp. 208–25.

197

198

1111 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 1011 1 2 3111 4 5 6 7 8 9 20111 1 2 3 4 5111 6 7 8 9 30111 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 40111 1 2 3 44111

INDEX OF SOURCES

B.AR. 1 1–8 1–51 2 3 4 6 9 9–11 9–51

1, 30, 32 15, 29 26 30, 33, 61, 62 26, 30, 33, 62 31, 55 28, 32 46, 63 13, 46, 54, 75, 119 15

10 10–11 11 12 12–14 12–27 15 15–16 16 18–34 19 19–20

46 89 60 28, 62 4, 54, 55 53, 56 46, 62 19, 26, 28, 62 28, 146 75 1 56

22–5 24 28 28–32 28–34 28–50 29–31 29–32

18, 56, 72 62 2, 70, 86 54 18 13 119 72

30 30–1 31

48–9, 125, 132, 133, 134, 135 44 26

32 33–7 34–40 34–51 37 38

45, 46 53, 54 18, 72 75 56 5

40 41–51 42 43 46 46–50 47–50

1, 86 18, 72 19, 26, 57, 58 1, 28, 62 19, 26, 56 56–8 18, 72

51–300 51–83 52 52–6 54–8

15 15, 17 20 62 20

83–106 83–120 84–8 88–91

4, 23, 81 15, 18, 23, 57 70 23

96–9

18, 28, 141

100 100–4 107–9 107–11

70 23 23, 24 18, 29, 87

110 111 112 112–20 116

23 23, 87 70 23, 24, 82 87

199

INDEX OF SOURCES

121 121–2 121–7 128–9 128–71

13 19, 26 29 62 15, 17, 20, 87

130–1 130–3 132 134 134–7 134–8 138 139 139–41

20 20 146 20 20, 22 20 20, 21 20 22

140 141–2 144 144–64

21 20 21 21

152

21, 22

163–4 166–7 168–71 169

21 21 21 21

170–1 172–3 177

21 13 61

182 2, 17, 26, 86 182–3 28, 62 187–300 15, 18, 21, 61

190

146

201 210 281–5 293–7 297–300

28, 62, 89 146 79 79 70

301–7 301–16 301–21 301–22 302 302–3 305 306 307 308 308–9 308–11 308–17

46, 76 13 15 26 13, 63, 89 46 47, 61 61, 62 80–1 57, 58, 59, 89 63 28, 58–9, 119, 141 76, 128

310 310–11 311 312 313 314 314–15 314–16 316 317

58, 61, 86, 98–9, 100 125 58, 125 60 60, 61, 63, 89 28 60 89, 134, 135 28, 60 61

322

15, 29, 34

OTHER LITERARY SOURCES Aristobulus (fgt 3) 90; (fgt 4) 146 Aristotle, Constitution of the Athenians (2.2) 88 with n. 92; (13.2) 80; (16) 23, 87–8; (20.4) 88 with n. 92; (25.1) 88 with n. 92; (28.2) 88 with n. 92; Economics (2) 43; Politics (7.4) 24; (7.11) 23 Athenaeus of Naucratis, Deipnosophistae (Callixenus in, 5.197c–203e) 116–17 with n. 91 Ben Sira (prol. 15–26) 45, 124, 125 Pseudo-Callisthenes, Romance of Alexander (1.31) 25 Cassius Dio, Roman History (49.32.4) 89

Cicero, Ad Familiares (5.12) 74; De Finibus (5.34) 114; De Oratore (2.51–4 and 62–4) 74 Diodorus, Historical Library (Hecataeus in, 1) 24, 27; (1.1.1–2) 30; (1.1–2) 32; (1.3–6) 32; (1.12.2) 146; (Megasthenes in, 2.35–42) 24; (Iambulus in, 2.55–60) 69; (Euhemerus in, 5.45.3) 80; (Euhemerus in, 6.1) 33 with n. 88; (16.1.1) 30; (Hecataeus in, 40.3) 24, 28 with n. 65, 57 Diogenes Laertius, Life of Famous Philosophers (5.37 and 58) 114; (5.44) 113

200

INDEX OF SOURCES

1111 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 1011 1 2 3111 4 5 6 7 8 9 20111 1 2 3 4 5111 6 7 8 9 30111 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 40111 1 2 3 44111

Eusebius, Praeparatio Evangelica (Epiphanius in, 9.38.1) 1 with n. 5; (Aristobulus in, 13.12.1–2) 90 Galen ( 17.1.607–8, Comm. 2.4 in Hippocr. Epidemiai Book III) 42–3 with n. 17 Herodotus, Histories (1.107–8) 82; (2) 28, 33; (3.48 and 50–3) 82; (5.92) 82 Josephus (Flavius), Against Apion (1) 60, 79; (Pseudo-Hecataeus in, 1.186–9) 55 with n. 56; (Pseudo-Hecataeus in, 1.194–9) 26; (2.165) 24; Antiquitates Judaicae (1.1) 114; (12.100) 1 with n. 5; (12.12–118) 2; (Strabo in, 14.117) 100, 131 Livy, Roman History (29.11.1) 50; (29.11.3–8) 50 LXX Deut. (4.1–2) 59 LXX Ex. (24) 28, 58; (28–9) 18, 28 LXX Esther (10.3 l) 45 Ovid, Fasti (4.247–349) 50; (4.248–52) 51 Philo of Alexandria, Life of Moses (2.25–44) 124; (2.29) 89, 137 with n. 66; (2.31) 27; (2.37–40) 79; (2.41–2) 135

Plato, Cratylus (396a-b) 146; Timaeus (21e) 28 with n. 66 Pliny the Elder, Natural History (30.2.4) 115 Plutarch, Lives (Camillus, 5–6) 50; (Lycurgus, 5.7) 73; (Theseus, 1.3 and 28.2) 79; Moralia (Life of the Ten Orators, 841F) 59 with n. 69, 121; (On Stoic self-contradictions 1044F) 22 with n. 42 Polybius, Histories (9.1) 30; (12.25e) 30; (12.25h) 30; (12.27) 30 Pseudo- see under author’s name Romance of Alexander see under PseudoCallisthenes Strabo, Geography (2.4.1–2) 78 with n. 53; (11.5.4) 79; (13.1.54) 85 Tacitus, Histories (4.83–4) 49–50, 79, 83 Theocritus, Idylls (15, Adoniazusae) 25 Thucydides, History of the Peloponnesian War (5.26.1 and 4) 81; (7.50.4) 81 Vitruvius, De Architectura (2, praef. 1–4) 25

PAPYRI AND INSCRIPTIONS Austin (239) 104; (256) 19 CPJ (I 128) 111, 138 Demotic Chronicle see P.Par.dem. I.métr.Ég. (175.1) 146; (175.2) 146 P.Cairo Zen. (59034) 83, 104 with n. 39 P.inv. Fouad (266) 96, 123, 124, 127 P.Lond.dem (IV 1) 123 P.Oxy (XLVI 3285) 109, 115, 122

P.Par.dem. (215 verso, col. C, ll. 8–16) 112 with n. 77 P.Polit.Iud. 99, 109, 138; (9) 109 P.Ryl. (III 458) 96, 123, 124, 126, 135 P.Tebt. (703) 19 SB (V 8929) 103 UPZ (162) 110 with n. 71 4QLXXLeva 96, 124 4QLXXNum. 124

201

202

1111 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 1011 1 2 3111 4 5 6 7 8 9 20111 1 2 3 4 5111 6 7 8 9 30111 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 40111 1 2 3 44111

GENERAL INDEX

Apology, digression 15, 37, 87 a chreia 17–18, 20–3 philosophical polemic in 20–3, 129, 147 question and answer pattern in 62, 71 no realia in 87 see also Egyptians, attack on; incest; homosexuality; philosophy; religion Aristarchus and Alexandrian ideology 43–4 edition of Homer by 44, 119, 126, 130 method of work of 47, 127, 130, 131, 133, 134, 139, 140 see also edition, authoritative, of Homer; ideology Aristeas character in B.Ar. his name 1, 2, 28, 62 his piety 62 see also narrator historical character 1, 2 Aristobulus 21, 70, 90 Aristotle and Alexandrian library 85, 89 ideal polis in 23–5, 29, 81 and literary criticism 14, 15, 121 method of work of 46, 102, 121, 122, 138 and Politeia genre 113, 114 Politics 23, 81, 114, 141 see also Jerusalem; Travelogue audience see readership author Alexandrian 2, 69 his bona fides 7, 65–6, 67, 68, 72, 85–6, 141

Jewish 2, 3, 69 his name 1–2 see also B.Ar., date of redaction of ; B.Ar., reception of, ancient and modern; narrator B.Ar. date of redaction of 2, 5, 8, 11, 14, 119, 128–30 Greek affinities of cultural 141, 145, 147 intellectual 66, 71 literary 7, 8, 9, 13, 15, 16–17, 19, 145 see also B.Ar., subject matter of; philosophy; religion historical reliability of 8, 39, 55, 74, 88, 93, 143 factors undermining 49, 80, 83 negative assessment of 91 positive assessment of 86, 105, 117, 120, 141–2 see also B.Ar., reception of, modern as historiography 7, 30, 33, 38, 71, 91, 140 see also B.Ar., reception of, ancient (non-)apologetic 4, 5, 11, 14, 70 (non-)polemical 6, 21, 71, 125, 136 see also philosophy not a letter 1, 33 purpose of 5, 8, 9, 11, 13–14, 30, 41 see also B.Ar., subject matter of; charter myth reception of, ancient 33–5, 41, 66, 91 see also B.Ar., as historiography; truth reception of, modern 3–9, 13–14, 65–7, 141

203

GENERAL INDEX

of realia in 4, 54–5 of story of the LXX in 137, 141 see also B.Ar., apologetic; B.Ar., historical reliability of; interpolations; translation, purpose of, in history Sitz im Leben of 120, 128–36, 139 subject matter of 11, 14, 30–1 embassy as 30–1, 37 presentation of Judaism as 11, 14, 29 translation of the LXX as 11, 14, 17, 19, 29, 37 see also B.Ar., reception of, modern see also narrative; paradigm, Alexandrian, Exodus, Homeric blending of form and content 19, 20, 23 of genres 15, 16, 18, 33 of topics 16, 23, 31, 33 Callimachus librarian 37, 73, 114 poetic work of 13, 15, 16, 73, 77 charter myth B.Ar. as a 8, 38, 41, 77, 84, 135, 136, 139 and central narrative 53 definition of 8, 38–41 and historiography 69, 71, 91 and narrator 71 and oral tradition 90, 91 and quality of the translation 11, 53 and readership 11 chreia 18, 20–1, 146 citadel 5, 23–4, 70, 142, 143 construct, literary, scholarly in B.Ar. 41, 58, 94, 119, 120, 140 mechanism of 76–7 in other stories 52 see also elaboration, literary, in B.Ar.; tradition, oral core, historical see kernel, historical criticism, textual see emendation, textual date see B.Ar., date of redaction of Demetrius of Phalerum character in B.Ar. associated with Ptolemy II 88–90, 129 his name 62, 89 his piety 63

his role in B.Ar.’s narrative 63, 142 see also names historical character 5, 88–90, 113 Demotic Manual of law and legal hypothesis 108–13 and library 115 and Ptolemy II 104, 108, 112–13, 132 textual variants in 122–3, 126 translationese Greek in 122 diakriboun 44, 45 diasaphe¯sis 47 die¯ge¯sis 30, 31, 33, 35, 37, 38 see also narrative, central, in B.Ar. die¯kribo¯mena see diakriboun dierme¯neuein 46 digressions in B.Ar. 17–25, 37 blending of genres in 15–16, 17 form a presentation of Judaism 17, 19, 25, 29 as (no) interpolations 13, 19 their place in the overall composition 13, 14, 15, 25, 26, 71 and readership 27–9 see also Apology; Ecphrasis; liberation motif; poikilia; ring composition; Symposium; Travelogue in Greek literature 34, 37 documents, official in B.Ar. 18, 25–6, 66, 67, 69, 71–4 in Graeco-Roman historiography 71–2 in Romance of Alexander 26, 68, 143 see also re-writing, creative ecphrasis 19 genre of 17, 19, 20 Ecphrasis, digression 15, 17, 19–20, 37, 62 edition, authoritative/official of Homer 44 Alexandrian 44, 119, 125–6, 130, 131, 133, 136, 139 Athenian 44, 121–2 others 44, 122 see also Aristarchus; ideology of the Jewish Law in Alexandria 59, 75, 128, 135, 139

204

GENERAL INDEX

1111 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 1011 1 2 3111 4 5 6 7 8 9 20111 1 2 3 4 5111 6 7 8 9 30111 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 40111 1 2 3 44111

in Jerusalem 42, 44, 48 see also paranagi(g)no¯sko¯ of the LXX in history 123, 130–6, 136 of the tragedians in Athens 43–4, 59, 121 see also paranagi(g)no¯sko¯ edition/translation see translation in B.Ar. ego-narrative in B.Ar. 1, 66, 67–71 in Graeco-Roman historiography 67–9 in novels 67–9 see also historiography, GraecoRoman, autopsy; truth, ancient standards of Egyptian priests 21, 28, 33 Egyptians, attack on 20, 21 see also philosophy elaboration, literary in B.Ar. 52, 84–5, 140, 141 of a chreia 17–18, 20, 21 and historical kernel 94 see also construct, literary, scholarly, in B.Ar.; paradigm, Exodus in Graeco-Roman literature in historiography 74–6, 84–5 in poetry 50 Elders see translators in B.Ar. embassy see B.Ar., subject matter of; importation motif emendation, textual 43, 48 of Homeric manuscripts 45 of scroll of the Jewish Law 44–5 see also diakriboun; ideology; translation in B.Ar., equalled with an edition/transcription Euhemerism see philosophy Euhemerus of Messenia and ego-narrative 67 his proemium 33 and standards of truth 68, 78–80 and travelogue genre 18, 67, 76, 80 evocatio 50–1, 53, 83 Exodus see paradigm, Exodus first-person narrative see ego-narrative functional role see role, functional

genres, literary 14, 15, 18, 19, 31, 32, 146 see also blending, of genres geography, utopian 18, 23, 24, 77, 81–2 grammarians, Alexandrian 120 their method of work 44, 45, 46–8, 49 pre-Aristarchean editions of Homer by 44, 120, 121, 122, 130 see also Aristarchus; Aristotle; diakriboun; diasaphe¯sis; ideology; library grammarians, ancient see rhetoric, Graeco-Roman Hecataeus of Abdera 24, 26, 27, 28, 57, 81 in B.Ar 26, 27, 28 Pseudo- 26, 27, 55 Hellenization see B.Ar., Greek affinities of; Jews, Alexandrian, sociocultural environment of herme¯neia 46 historians see historiography historical monographs 30–1, 76 historiography, Graeco-Roman 147 autopsy in 67–9, 70 documents in 71–2 inaccuracies in 85, 88, 140, 143 methodology of 30, 34, 39, 79 standards of truth in 7, 38, 40, 52, 63, 65, 67, 77–81 subject matter of 32, 33, 69 see also B.Ar., as historiography; construct; elaboration, literary; myth; paradigms; truth history of the LXX see LXX origins Homer see Aristarchus; edition, authoritative of Homer; translation, purpose of, in history, educational hypothesis; emendation, textual; grammarians, Alexandrian; ideology; lists; paradigm, Homeric; variants, textual homosexuality 21, 22 see also philosophy hypotheses see translation, purpose of, in history

205

GENERAL INDEX

ideology, Alexandrian 43–4, 48, 90, 134, 139, 140 adopted by Alexandrian Jews 90, 131, 137–8, 139, 140, 142 in B.Ar. 2, 41, 44, 48, 119, 133–4, 135, 142 retro-projection of 140 see also edition(s), authoritative imitation, literary see construct, literary importation motif 42, 52, 74, 75 functional role of 45, 83, 85, 138 see also paradigm, Alexandrian, in B.Ar. and in other sources; paradoxography inaccuracies, chronological and factual 2, 66, 70, 85–90 see also realia ; retro-projection; storyworld incest 21, 22 see also philosophy innovation, literary in B.Ar. 16, 31–2, 33 in Graeco-Roman literature 16, 31, 32 see also blending, of genres and of topics; re-writing, creative interpolations 13, 14, 19, 25

Judaea 23, 24, 82, 87, 129 see also geography, utopian; realia ; Travelogue Judaism 17, 19, 23, 26, 29 see also B.Ar., subject matter of kernel, historical in Alexandrian paradigm 51, 83, 120, 138 in B.Ar. 54–5, 94, 142 in Exodus paradigm 120 in Graeco-Roman historiography 75, 77 in oral tradition 83 king, King character in B.Ar., see Ptolemy, character in B.Ar. historical character see Ptolemy I; Ptolemy II; Ptolemy III spelling of 12

Jerusalem compared with Alexandria 18, 23, 24–5, 29, 87–8 Description of 2, 4, 8, 23–4, 26, 70, 81, 82, 145 as a Greek polis 19, 23–5, 27, 57, 141 see also citadel; realia; theocracy; Travelogue Jews, Alexandrian 98–101, 137 legal practice of 109–12 socio-cultural environment of 6–7, 17, 29, 94, 102–4, 127, 145 see also politeuma, Jewish, in Alexandria Josephus, Flavius on Alexandrian Jews 100, 107 Antiquities 114 B.Ar. in 1, 2, 3, 11 on Greek quotations about Jews 60 historiographical methodology in 79 see also Aristeas, his name; citadel; theocracy Journey to Jerusalem see Travelogue

Letter of Aristeas see B.Ar. liberation motif 31, 37, 53–6, 62, 71, 76 (not) a digression 31, 37 see also paradigm, Exodus library, Library historical involvement in the translation of 104, 115, 116, 117–18, 131–3, 138, 143 see also ideology; translation, purpose of, in history, cultural and political hypotheses spelling of 12 likelihood see truth, ancient standards of lists 72–4 see also names literature Alexandrian 13, 14, 16, 25, 26, 27 B.Ar. as 13, 147 see also Callimachus; grammarians, Alexandrian Graeco-Roman 6, 7, 16, 18, 28 see also Aristotle; literature, Hellenistic; Plato Hellenistic 13, 14–15, 29, 33, 37 Judaeo-Hellenistic 5, 6, 9, 145–8 see also genres, literary; historiography; rhetoric LXX in B.Ar. canonization of 58–9, 125, 128, 141

206

GENERAL INDEX

1111 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 1011 1 2 3111 4 5 6 7 8 9 20111 1 2 3 4 5111 6 7 8 9 30111 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 40111 1 2 3 44111

sacred text 8, 11, 48, 53, 59, 89 see also LXX, origins in B.Ar.; translation, in B.Ar. in history nomos 98, 105, 109, 110, 113–15, 132–3 sacred text 108–9, 136, 138, 139 not sacred in third century BCE 95, 98, 126 see also translation, purpose of, in history, cultural and legal hypotheses origins, in B.Ar. 2, 3, 8, 52, 74, 119 see also charter myth; edition, authoritative, of the LXX in history; retro-projection origins, conception of, among Alexandrian Jews 74, 90, 118, 120, 140 see also memory, collective; retroprojection; tradition, oral origins in history, second century BCE 120, 127, 131–5, 136 see also edition, authoritative, of the LXX, in history; origins, third-century BCE; retroprojection origins in history, third-century BCE 3–4, 93, 94, 120 linguistic studies about 94, 96–8, 107, 134, 137, 138, 143 (non-)religious setting of 95 see also retro-projection; translation, purpose of, in history see also translation memory, collective 54, 82, 83–4, 89, 138 see also kernel, historical; tradition, oral metagraphe¯/ein 45, 46 see also se¯mainein; translation in B.Ar., equalled with an edition/ transcription myth 8, 38–9, 40, 41, 80 and history 40–1, 63 political 8, 39–40 see also charter myth; rationalization names of Greeks in B.Ar. 28, 61, 62, 89 of translators 72–4

see also Aristeas; Demetrius of Phalerum; Theodectus narrative central, in B.Ar. 15, 31, 37 made of two intertwined paradigms 38, 53, 54, 59, 75–6, 141 see also B.Ar., historical reliability of; B.Ar., as historiography; die¯ge¯sis main, in B.Ar. see paradigm, Alexandrian secondary in B.Ar. see paradigm, Exodus narrator 2 fictional identity of 66, 69–71 as a Ptolemaic courtier 2, 69–70 see also ego-narrative oral tradition see tradition, oral originality, literary see innovation, literary origins of the LXX see LXX, origins paradigm Alexandrian in B.Ar. 37, 41–53, 74, 80, 119, 141, 142 genesis of 81–5 and oral tradition 119–20 in other sources 42–3, 49–53 see also construct, in B.Ar.; edition, authoritative, of the Jewish Law; ideology; importation motif; tradition, oral Exodus 37, 49, 53–9 as a literary elaboration 76–7, 81, 119–20, 141 see also construct; importation motif; tradition, oral; translation, in B.Ar., proclamation of; translators, selection of Homeric 94, 96, 120, 125–6, 130–9, 142, 147 literary, narrative 38, 41, 50, 52, 66, 74, 76, 82–3 in Graeco-Roman historiography 80, 81 in utopian geography 81 see also evocatio paradoxography absence of, in B.Ar. 68–9, 70, 79 in Graeco-Roman literature 68–9, 116

207

GENERAL INDEX

paranagi(g)no¯sko¯ 59 pattern, literary, narrative see paradigm, literary, narrative Philadelphean 89, 90, 142 Philo of Alexandria 2, 11, 107, 124, 125, 135 philosophy 21–3, 28, 33, 34, 145, 146 Euhemerism 21, 22 polemics with Greek philosophers 21, 22, 23, 87, 129, 147 Pythagorism 21 Stoics and Cynics 21, 22, 29 piety 33, 59, 60, 61–3 Plato and literary criticism 14, 102, 121, 122 and travelogue genre 76, 77, 80 twelve tribes in Plato’s Republic 57 see also Egyptian priests; Jerusalem, as a Greek polis; variants, textual plausibility see truth, ancient standards of poikilia 14, 16, 17, 18, 24 see also variation, literary and stylistic politeuma 86, 99–100, 132 in B.Ar. 99–101, 118, 128, 132, 140, 143 Idumaean, in Memphis 99–100, 103 Jewish, in Alexandria 100, 102, 128, 130, 131–3, 138–9 Jewish, in Heracleopolis 99, 100, 109, 111, 132, 138, 143 and legal hypothesis 132–3, 138–9 Procession, Great as described by Callixenus 17, 19 in history 116–17 progymnasma 15, 16, 17–18, 21, 24, 25, 30 see also rhetoric Pseudo- see under author’s name Ptolemy, character in B.Ar. 12, 142 associated with Demetrius 88–90, 129 bows before the scroll of the Law 18, 128 as Pharaoh 56, 142 his piety 61–2 see also documents, official; Ecphrasis; importation motif; liberation motif; religion

Ptolemy I 12, 44–5, 49–50, 114, 116, 137 in B.Ar. 53–4 conquered Palestine 53–5 and foundation of the library 44, 85, 116, 137 and translation of the LXX 5, 89 Ptolemy II 12, 56, 129 and Demetrius of Phalerum 88–90 and Demotic Manual of law 104, 108, 112–13, 132 involvement in the translation of 4, 5, 49, 95, 115, 117, 133, 134, 143 financial aspects of 101–2, 138 and official edition of the LXX 131 as personal patronage 102–5, 138 no religious motivation for 95, 102 and cultural hypothesis 105 and legal hypothesis 5, 108–13 and political hypothesis 116–7 and prestige hypothesis 106 see also paradigm, Alexandrian and Exodus; role, functional judicial reform by 5, 108, 113, 137 and library 44, 102, 116–17, 137, 138 political propaganda against Seleucids by 116, 117, 138 see also Philadelphean; Procession, Great; Ptolemy, character in B.Ar.; retro-projection Ptolemy III 2, 43–4 rationalization in B.Ar. 3, 68, 70, 80–1, 140 in Greek literature 38 readership 11, 13, 27–9, 54, 69–70 realia 2, 4, 54–5, 86–8, 129, 141, 142–3 see also citadel; inaccuracies; politeuma; story-world reception see B.Ar., reception of religion 32–3, 63 in the Apology 20, 21, 22, 23 and dating B.Ar. 129 and Ptolemy 28, 62, 95 syncretistic 22, 23, 28, 129, 146 see also Apology; names; philosophy; piety; Ptolemy II, involvement in the translation of; Symposium

208

GENERAL INDEX

1111 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 1011 1 2 3111 4 5 6 7 8 9 20111 1 2 3 4 5111 6 7 8 9 30111 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 40111 1 2 3 44111

retro-projection in B.Ar. 134, 140–1 of Alexandrian ideology 119–20, 140 of LXX in the library 118 of origins of the LXX 48, 119, 132, 134–5 of politeuma 101, 118, 133, 140, 143 in Graeco-Roman historiography 140 re-writing, creative 26, 143 of documents 26, 66 of literary sources 23–4, 26, 81, 87–8, 141 see also innovation, literary; Jerusalem rhetoric, Graeco-Roman 7, 15, 30, 35, 65, 67 in B.Ar. 7, 52, 63, 66, 67, 68–9 handbooks of 15, 20, 30, 75, 77 see also poikilia; progymnasma; ring composition ring composition 14, 15, 21, 25, 26, 29 role, functional 12, 82, 85, 142 of Demetrius 142 of importation motif 82, 83, 138 of King 49, 82, 83, 118, 142 of Library 49, 83, 118, 142 scholars, Alexandrian see grammarians, Alexandrian scroll see importation motif se¯mainein 44, 48 see also metagraphe¯/ein translation, in B.Ar., equalled with an edition/transcription sese¯mantai see se¯mainein slaves see liberation motif sources, literary, in B.Ar. 16, 21, 25–7, 66 see also re-writing, creative story-world 85–8, 129 subject matter see B.Ar., subject matter of symposium, Symposium 9, 15, 18, 20, 21, 28, 37, 61 see also philosophy; religion theme main see paradigm, Alexandrian secondary see paradigm, Exodus

theocracy 24, 26–7, 141, 142 Theodectus and Theopompus 28, 60–1, 62, 89, 135 Theopompus see Theodectus topic see B.Ar., subject matter of tradition, oral in B.Ar. 86, 91, 140, 143 in Alexandrian paradigm 82 and Demetrius of Phalerum 62, 89–90 and Demetrius of Phalerum and Ptolemy II 90, 129, 140 and number of translators 58, 73, 140 and translation of the LXX 3 see also construct, literary and scholarly, in B.Ar.; memory, collective in Graeco-Roman culture 73 transcription see translation, in B.Ar., equalled with an edition/ transcription translation in B.Ar. equalled with an edition/ transcription 45, 47–9, 59, 60, 119, 120, 135 motif of 13, 75, 76 process of 45, 46–8, 61, 79 proclamation of 38, 53, 56, 57, 58–9, 63, 76, 119, 128, 141 quality of 11, 37, 44, 48, 53, 59, 128 story of 32, 49, 53, 90 see also diasaphe¯sis; emendation; ideology; LXX, in B.Ar.; translation, purpose of, in history; paradigm, Exodus in history aimed at Jews 4, 94, 95 aimed at the library 4, 5, 105, 113–17 commemorative festival of 135, 139 date of 5, 11, 96–7, 137 quality of 123–4, 125, 127 technique of 97–8, 106–8, 122–3 see also translation, purpose of, in history; variants, textual, in LXX papyri

209

GENERAL INDEX

purpose of, in B.Ar. 5 purpose of, in history 105–18 cultural hypothesis 105, 113–16 educational hypothesis 98, 105, 106–8, 138 legal hypothesis 5, 98, 105, 106, 108–13, 115, 138 liturgical hypothesis, 105 political hypothesis 106, 116–17, 138 prestige hypothesis 106, 120 and technique of translation 96, 106, 108 see also politeuma, Jewish, in Alexandria; translation, in history history of see LXX, origins translators in B.Ar. imported with the scrolls 31, 42, 45 their number 47, 56–8, 73, 80–1, 138, 140, 142 their piety 61 their qualities 29, 45, 53 selection of 56–8 see also names; paradigm, Exodus; piety; translation, in B.Ar., process of in history were Egyptian Jews 74, 97, 138

were a team 97, 101, 138, 140, 141 Travelogue 15, 18, 23–5, 27, 37, 57, 87 see also paradoxography travelogue genre 18, 33, 76 see also Euhemerus of Messenia truth, ancient standards of 7, 52, 63, 65–7, 77–81 and documents 72 and ego-narrative 67–9 and narrative patterns 74 see also historiography, GraecoRoman variation, literary and stylistic 14, 18, 19–20, 25 see also poikilia variants, textual 121–7 in Demotic Manual of law 122–3, 126 in Homeric manuscripts 49, 122, 127, 130, 131 in LXX papyri 123–7, 131 as careless corruptions 126, 135, 138 as deliberate revision 123–5, 126 as exegetical corrections 126–7 see also LXX origins in history, second-century BCE

210