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  themselves with one side or the other, some immediately and others at

  least intending to. This was certainly the greatest disturbance to affect the Hellenes and a considerable number of barbarians – one might say the majority of mankind. (Th. 1.1.1–2)

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  The author puts himself first and as the agent in the first verb, unlike Herodotus. The verb “recorded” ( xunegrapse), literally “wrote together,”

  might more accurately be translated “collected information on and wrote an account of.” The toil of gathering and assessing evidence, orally,

  visually, and in writing, was essential to his method. As it was for his predecessor, the clear subject is a war, and Thucydides also uses Herodotus’

  exact verb “they waged war” ( epoleme ̄ san). But the Athenian does not mention the “wonders” accomplished by men and applies a strict economy

  to the war proper. He then displays his position as contemporary to events and his prescient observation of its beginning. Preparation, in terms of amassing navies and armies, was evident, as was the movement of allies.

  Thucydides’ noun for disturbance (upheaval, movement), kine ̄ sis, shares the root of the verb describing the action of an earthquake ( ekine ̄ the ̄: Th.

  2.8.3, of Delos). So the massive realignment to each side implicitly resembles the enormous and destructive expenditure of natural force, and also parallels the shifting of land on either side of a fault.

  There is no reason to doubt the author’s assertion that he saw the

  conflict coming and began recording it from the start; and, as noted earlier, he lived beyond its end in 404 bc. What we cannot know is exactly how the work was composed over the nearly three decades of fighting

  and whether his own views of its crucial causes shifted in this time – and, if so, how. F. W. Ulrich originally argued in 1846 that Books 1–4.51 and 5.84–8.1 were complete, but that the rest is a rough draft in which inconsequential documents are cited verbatim and direct speeches are lacking (Ullrich 1968). This was followed by others taking sides in the argument:

  “separatists,” notably A. Andrewes (1981) and J. de Romilly (2005; see

  also Dover in Andrewes 1981), assume that Books 5 and 8 are not

  complete, while “unitarians” – who command overwhelming consensus

  today – see the work essentially in final form, apart from the abrupt

  breaking off of the narrative of 411 bc at the end of Book 8 (Finley 1967: 118–70; Hornblower 2008: 1–4).

  In terms of literary reception, the debt to Homer is as evident in

  Thucydides as it was in Herodotus, though the divine dimension is sparse and the Athenian’s work is enriched greatly by intertextuality (that is, by a productive interaction with other texts and genres), notably with lyric poetry, drama, medical writing, epigraphy, and early, Presocratic philosophy, for example sophists (Hornblower 1987: 110–35; Rood 1998a;

  Finley 1967: 1–54). He calls the Athenian defeat in Sicily “total destruction,” using the term pano ̄ lethria, also used by Herodotus to describe the destruction of Troy (Th. 7.87; cf. Hdt. 2.120), and echoing the epic

  magnitude of the defeat. He quotes the Homeric Hymn to Apollo 3.104

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  as evidence of history, and his reasoning about the Trojan War at 1.3–1

  certainly relies on the evidence of epic legend. From tragedy, the historian certainly followed the natural story sequence of hubris and blind folly ( ate ̄), of a peripeteia, pathos, and falling action, as applied to the larger story of the expedition to Sicily (Cornford 1907; Connor 1984; Parry

  1972; Macleod 1982). The famous sentence on the great plague runs

  close to the description of prognostic method used in Hippocratic writ-

  ings: “I shall say what it was like in its course and describe here … the symptoms by which anyone who studies it cannot possibly fail to recognize it with foreknowledge, if it ever strikes again” (Th. 2.48; Hornblower 1987: 131–3). Inscriptional evidence is cited fairly frequency as verifica-tion of events or facts – for example at 1.132 on the Spartan Pausanias; at 5.18–19 on the Peace of Nicias; at 5.47 on the “quadruple alliance” verified by an extant inscription; at 6.55 on Hippias; or at 6.54 on Pisistratus (Hornblower 1996: 113–19; 1987: 88–91). Thucydides reflects more

  closely than Herodotus the philosophical trends of his time, notably the views of some “Presocratics,” particularly the sophists – a group of itinerant teachers in fifth‐century Greece, most prominent among them

  being Democritus and Antiphon, especially regarding their views of

  human nature and power.

  Intellectually, his focus on “the human” in the narrative begs the

  question of whether this element was based on a fixed human “nature”

  rooted in our material makeup or was based on adaptable custom. The

  earliest ancient discussions of phusis and nomos, nature and culture (literally “custom,” formal or informal), are often attached to the individuals collectively known as “the sophists” and thought to have brought the

  nature–culture dichotomy to the fore (Kerferd 1981; Guthrie 1971).

  Sophistic thought and style was certainly present in Thucydides’ work

  (Finley 1967: 55–117), but he was also generally alive to the intellectual milieu of philosophical and poetic discussions of his time, and here is where we might trace his intellectual foundations. Thucydides has close affinities in particular with the early atomist philosopher Democritus, who described a delicate balance between reason and emotion (Hussey

  1985: 34–56; Barnes 1979; Sprague 2001). Terence Irwin explains how,

  for Democritus, everything is a consequence of general laws of the

  movement of atoms; there is no “cosmic justice.” The first human beings lived a “disorderly and bestial life”; fear, not intelligence, teaches them to collect in groups. Only experience and gradual development taught them

  what to do; “and in general need itself was the teacher for human beings.”

  Neither free choice nor design (human or divine), but inevitable reaction to circumstances caused human beings to characterize their way of life

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  (Irwin 1989: 47–52). Or, as it was rephrased in the seventeenth century by Thomas Hobbes, an admirer and translator of Thucydides: “The life of man [in his natural state is] solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short’ which would lead to a ‘war of all against all” (Hobbes, Leviathan, Ch. 13; cf.

  especially Th. 3.82–3 and 5.105).

  Stylistically, Thucydides is remarkable for his innovative use of

  vocabulary and strives for almost anti‐Herodotean sentence structures in the Greek that seek deliberately to slow the reader down (to encourage

  reflection?), a style greatly fashioned after sophists like Gorgias and Antiphon. Thucydides’ style deliberately mimics the difficulty of concepts in a challenging, allusive prose. The difficult style is prominent in speeches and a few crucial digressions, notoriously in Pericles’ funeral oration at 2.35–46 and in the excursus on civil strife at 3.82–3. Difficulty is most evident at the sentence level in the prolific use of abstract nouns and in the unsettling ambiguity of referents. This is acutely the case in some orations where the influence of the sophists is clear, for example Cleon’s rant against the assembly:

  You are the ones responsible … you have the habit of approaching words

  as a spectacle and actions as a recitation … perfect at being tricked by nov-elty in speech and not wishing to make sense of what has been scrutinized.

  (Th. 3.38)

  In the Herodotean narrative the interactions and emotions of individuals certainly figure largely, but, in contrast to Thucydides, human motivations are rarely distilled into abstract laws, and throughout the grand narrative of
the Persian Wars the reader is constantly reminded of divine agency. Thucydides’ characters in effect speak a much more conceptual

  language than Herodotus’, as does Thucydides himself in his narration,

  for example in my literal renderings: “For to speak moderately is difficult in [a situation] in which even the appearance of the truth is not secure”

  (instead of the simpler expression “one must speak up when the truth is not secure”) (Th. 2.35); or: “The division from one another in opinion

  in a distrustful manner was carried on to a great degree” (Th. 3.83).

  Phrases like “the being angry of their attitude” are preferred to “their angry attitude” (Th. 2.59); also “the invisible [aspect] of future succeed-ing” instead of “uncertain future success” (Th. 2.42) (Rusten 1989:

  21–32; Allison 1997b: 19–34; Loraux 2009). Sentences and meanings

  are further complicated by variation from standard expressions, for

  example the shift from a noun to an infinitive in parallel phrases and the use of interlocking word order. A deliberately abstract and abstruse style

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  forces slower reading and closer examination of the thought, perhaps

  even irritation, to challenge assumptions.

  Thucydides followed the Herodotean (and Homeric) tradition of

  frequently inserting direct speeches into the narrative for multiple purposes, including characterization, exposition of motivation and strategy, and reenactment of a debate. But Thucydides revolutionized historical

  writing by making explicit, in the famous programmatic chapter 1.22, the generic methods and criteria for the inclusion of speeches versus the narrative of events:

  recalling the exact words was difficult for me regarding speeches I heard myself and for my informants about speeches made elsewhere; in the way I thought each would have said what was especially required in the given

  situation, I have stated accordingly, with the closest possible fidelity on my part to the overall sense of what was actually said. About the actions of the war, however, I considered it was my responsibility to write neither as I learned from the chance informant nor according to my opinion, but after examining what I witnessed myself and what I learned from others, with

  utmost possible accuracy in each case.

  This says little about how speeches serve the major themes of the work.

  Rather it affirms the author’s sincere attempt to adhere to accuracy in reporting words and deeds, given his review of evidence and his aim for his speeches to paraphrase the “overall sense” of what each situation

  required. On closer scrutiny of the whole work, we can see that the

  polarity of words and deeds is not so sharp (indirect speech, inscriptions, and so on falling in between) and that the historian is asking readers to trust his judgment of what actually happened in deeds and “what is

  required (to be said)” in speeches, in other words what he sees as the

  most crucial aspects. Hornblower (1987: 145) notes the tension here

  between the subjective function of the speeches – giving what is required, as the historian sees it – and the objective aspect – what actually happened. Of course every historian, ancient and modern, confronts the

  same tension, using judgment ( gno ̄ me ̄) to filter the “required” elements and present “facts” according to the author’s criteria of importance.

  Ultimately for Thucydides what is “required” depends upon his view of

  human motivation, how individuals respond to stimuli of fear, desire,

  beliefs, and so on. The reporting of “facts” without the author’s subjective sense of human behavior becomes a meaningless string of incidents.

  Thucydides’ concern with speeches and with criteria for establishing

  veracity also suggests a different role for his speeches from the one they have in Herodotus. The speeches in both authors afford “windows” into

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  the strategic thinking of historical agents. But in Thucydides there are many more “paired” speeches, two or more giving different sides of the

  argument at a crucial time; there are of course in Herodotus a few clustered speeches (e.g., the debate on constitutions in Book 3; the discussion of Xerxes, Mardonius, and Artabanus early in Book 7; Themistocles’ discussions in Book 8). But there are some forty‐six paired speeches (direct or indirect, including the Melian dialogue at 5.84–116) in Thucydides, of the 141 direct or indirect speeches in total in his work (Stadter 1973: 3–15). Another observation is that Thucydides uses fewer but usually

  much longer speeches than Herodotus. There are an amazing 861

  speeches in Herodotus (including letters and oracles), including 409

  direct speeches (Lang 1984: 142–9). But Herodotean speeches occupy a

  smaller proportion of the whole text: Thucydides, by one count, uses

  direct speeches more than Herodotus, namely in 20–25 percent of his

  text, versus 18 percent in Herodotus (compare 50 percent in the Iliad) (Scardino 2007: 47 and 117). Though Thucydides uses speeches generally like Herodotus (and Homer), to dramatize events, characterize individuals, and convey themes, he arguably uses speeches with a greater

  focus on his themes, notably with reflections on power and human nature, a focus that one scholar calls “an analytic and implicitly interpretive commentary in place of explicit authorial reflection” (Scardino 2007: 461).

  The fact that Thucydides’ speeches are longer and more often in pairs also allows more space for analyzing abstract themes in his speeches. For instance the first pair of speeches, those by the Corinthians and Corcyreans in Athens (Th. 1.31–44), represents their respective arguments for what is just (a favor owed) versus what is pragmatic (more to Athens’ advantage) (Hornblower 1987: 47). Later in the debate in Athens about the punishment of the rebellious Mytileneans, the opposing speakers each argue

  that justice and self‐interest are not mutually exclusive, both speakers invoking principles of human nature and power in their arguments, as will be discussed below (Andrews 2000: 45–62; Manuwald 2009). Speeches

  are closely interconnected with narrative, in a way that invites and challenges readers to become participants both in the project of rational, historical analysis and in the more Herodotean process of emotional

  engagement in speeches as events reperformed (Morrison 2006a).

  Avoiding Herodotus’ liberal use of digressions, Thucydides’ History closely adheres in overall structure to the chronology of the Peloponnesian War (431–404 bc). And, unlike Hellanicus, he keenly seeks to establish a chronology of events meaningful across Greek states, each with its own

  calendric system (Hornblower 1987: 84; 1996: 490–3; Gomme 1945:

  389–94). Book 1 serves as an introduction, with an extended proem in

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  chapters 1–23 and a digression in chapters 89–117 on the period of 479–

  439 bc, linking the narrative of Herodotus with his own. The so‐called

  Archidamian War (431–421 bc) is narrated in 2.1 to 5.24, then the uncertain Peace of Nicias period (421–415) falls in the balance of Book 5,

  chapters 25 to 116; the Sicilian War occupies Books 6 and 7, and Book 8

  presents part of the Decelean War, obviously incomplete, ending abruptly in mid‐narrative of the year 411 bc. The grand narrative, like that of

  Herodotus, follows the causal chain of events leading to the conflict, and it describes the progress of a brilliant, dynamic, tyrant‐like and finally internally divided Athens. A comparison with the expansive Persian rule is implicit.

  The Nature and Culture of Power

  Thucydides’ text is focused on power not merely as a leitmotif among

  other themes. It stands out as a major topic around which m
any other

  points are organized. What constitutes power, how it is acquired, kept, and lost are matters of consistent interest. War, of course, the explicit topic of the work, may be understood as an armed, violent, open, and

  often prolonged conflict among states or large social groups with opposing interests. Success in war depends greatly, though not entirely, on the

  material bases of power, namely manpower (further qualified by numbers, experience and skill or training) and financial resources (Thucydides’ peri-ousia chre ̄ mato ̄ n). The material bases of power are thematic throughout Thucydides’ narrative, beginning with the capsule history of earlier

  resources and might (Th. 1.1–22) and carrying through issues of tribute paid by allies (Th. 1.96), the immense Athenian capital at hand at the

  war’s start (Th. 2.13), the drain on funds from an early campaign (Th.

  3.17), to the re‐tooling following the Sicilian catastrophe (Th. 8.1)

  (Kallet‐Marx 1993; Kallet 2001).

  In the discussion of Herodotus, we noted the general Greek terms for

  power and the importance in historical writing of the narrative of power among groups and individuals. With Thucydides, power is arguably even

  more central to the narrative, where the dynamics of power are also more explicitly linked to what Thucydides and many ancient Greeks thought of as “human nature,” anthro ̄ peia phusis. As a rough index, the most common power term, dunamis, occurs 51 times in Herodotus and 130

  times in Thucydides. Thucydides did not first introduce the theme of

  power to historical writing, but he proposed a more extensive and refined view of its origins and operation.

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  Pericles’ description of the achievements of Athens at its acme of

  empire in 431, as Thucydides reports it in a famous passage, fixes the

  power ( dunamis) of the city as its primary claim to historical fame: In summary I claim that our city as a whole is an education for Hellas, and that it is among us as individuals, in my opinion, that a single man would represent an individual as self‐sufficient for the most varied forms of conduct, and with the most attractive qualities. And that this is not boastful speaking for the occasion but factual truth our city’s very power [ dunamis], which we acquired because of these characteristics, proclaims clearly …