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  at 1.5 provides the origin of European–Asian hostilities, justifies the broadly inclusive subject matter of cities large and small, which represent all human cultures, and summarizes the typical human condition of an

  insecure fortune for both states and individuals.

  In his efforts to forge a new form of narrative, and one that was also

  the longest prose text of its time, Herodotus has been compared to a

  Menelaus‐like hero who wrestles with a Protean mass of inchoate material in order to display the complexity and ambiguity of events, without bringing neat unity to the material and in the absence of the authorial mastery seen in Thucydides (Dewald 1987: 147). Carolyn Dewald detects in the

  historian – or histo ̄ r in the original Greek term – four complementary

  “voices” or perspectives, namely those of the onlooker, the eyewitness

  investigator, the critic, and the writer, all working together to preserve the authentic views of the different sorts of stories he tells. Each identity does a different job, seeing the material as a “man‐in‐the‐street” would, or again as an interviewer emphasizing the complexity of events, or as a critic sifting the quality of data, or, finally, as a self‐conscious commentator on the narrative structure or the material’s suitability for his text.

  Some have also observed that the Histories undergo a kind of shift in narrative organization, whereby Books 1–6 are less tight in focus than Books 7–9. The earlier books evidence more ethnographic and genealogic

  digressions and set the stage for the great conflict, while the latter ones focus on the eventual collision of the Greeks and Persians (Szegedy-Maszak 1987).

  In his style and structure, the author famously employs stories ( logoi) that seem to be strung together like beads on a necklace, sometimes with tenuous connections. All are apparently united by the goal of explaining the diverse motivations for the ultimate conflict – the central story. One of Herodotus’ main achievements, argues Egbert Bakker (2006), is in

  linking the component stories at their junctures in such a way that they flow from one to another and preserve some continuity with the main

  narrative. The fact that the text is voluminously inclusive of ethnographic descriptions, legends, local tales, and political and military intrigue belies

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  the fact that it is to a degree a “raw” and yet unhomogenized genre that becomes much more narrowly defined by Thucydides. Among the

  “stringing” techniques are digressions (sometimes called excursus) – sections that appear as diversions or “sidebar” points of focus and ultimately return to the main narrative. The digression has the effect of both giving relief to and illuminating the principal story, adding interesting but less relevant factual oddities, and affording important background stories,

  such as the summary of recent events at Athens and Sparta (Hdt. 1.59–

  68). Another technique is that of ring composition, which is typically

  Homeric and has been seen as an archaic aspect of Herodotus’ style. This technique is well suited to the digressive material found in the historian, assigning as it does clear verbal signposts of sentences or phrases at the beginning of a section and a summary at the end (Immerwahr 1966:

  11–16, 54–8). The “ring” may have multiple levels of frame; it may be in in the classic format – inverted (chiastic) order, abc–cba – but it has many variants. H. R. Immerwahr (1966) carefully and reasonably mapped out

  the “units of the work,” including the major ring stories – for example the Croesus story (Hdt. 1.6–94), within which are embedded individual ring

  stories on the prior and current political strength of Athens and Sparta (1.59–65 and 1.65–8). The lengthy excursus on Egypt is implanted in the campaign of Cambyses.

  One of Herodotus’ major innovations was the successful incorpora-

  tion of speeches: extensive direct quotations in the manner of those of drama and epic. There is little evidence for dialogue or direct speech in the fragments of the logographers, but after Herodotus every Greek

  historian uses it. So the technique novel to this author borrows from

  poetry, and of course takes shape from contemporary oratory. He makes

  no self‐conscious defense for the inclusion of speeches, as Thucydides

  does (Th. 1.22), but he seems to expect that his readers will understand and accept the convention from the other genres as a means of enlivening the narrative and of making it a virtual reenactment of the original expressions. A speech or, at times, a letter in his text is not to be understood as a verbatim record, we may infer, but as a performance of the

  past introduced in order to illuminate character and action. Speeches

  may be short or lengthy set pieces, alone or in debate format, or they

  may be dialogues among main characters. They do not just serve to

  explain the thinking and strategies of the historical agents, though this they often do. They also serve as part of the action of the narrative,

  revealing the decision‐making process, the manner in which mistakes

  were made, human emotion, the wisdom or lack of it in individuals, and

  the overt lies or dissimulation seen in contrast with a person’s actions

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  HErodotus and tHE Limits of HappinEss: BEyond Epic, Lyric, and LogograpHy or words elsewhere. Speeches therefore demand the full attention and

  engagement of the reader, begging us to detect ironies and the truth in its complex and indirect presentation (Pelling 2006: 116–17; Lateiner

  1989: 19–26).

  Theme 1: Human Nature and Happiness

  We turn now to consider two motifs of this study, power and human

  nature, as constant concerns among Greek historians, starting here with the Herodotean portrayal of what defines a good life. The first great set of speeches takes place between the Athenian sage Solon and the Lydian

  king Croesus, representatives, respectively, of wisdom and the West,

  power or wealth and the East (Hdt. 1.30–2; Pelling 2006: 104–6). Solon

  illustrates, to the king’s dissatisfaction, a virtual Herodotean credo of what constitutes the best life. The happiest lives are not those lived with the greatest wealth or power, but those of people of moderate means who have good health, a good family, fair fame among fellow citizens, and a good death:

  but wait till he is dead to call him [blessed], and till then call him not blessed but lucky. Of course it is impossible for one who is human to have all good things together, just as there is no country that is sufficient of itself to provide all good things for itself; but it has one thing and not another, and the country that has the most is best. So no single person is self-sufficient; he has one thing and lacks another. But he whoso possesses most of them, continuously, and then ends his life in good favor, he, my lord, may justly win this name you seek – at least in my judgment. (Hdt. 1.32, Grene, adapted)

  Croesus famously ignores this wisdom, then misinterprets a Delphic

  oracle predicting his defeat by Persia: “After Solon was gone, a great visitation of evil [ nemesis] from the god laid hold of Croesus, and one may guess that it was because he thought he was of all mankind the most

  blessed” (Hdt. 1.34, Grene). In the end, the Lydian realizes his folly and is spared by Cyrus, who sympathizes with his reversal of fortune. The

  Solonian speech and the subsequent story of Croesus delineate a great

  human truth regarding the higher value of nonmaterial aspects of life and the mutability of fortune, for the wealthy and the nonwealthy alike. They also illustrate a major failure of communication, in which the main speaker presents tenets of absolute truth that the listener completely, foolishly, and rudely rejects.

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  The letter of Amasis, king of
Egypt, to Polycrates, tyrant of Samos, for instance, again offers its recipient a tragic warning and a central Herodotean theme:

  your great pieces of good fortune do not please me. For I know that divinity is a jealous power … I have never yet heard in story of anyone whose

  fortune was complete and who did not end up in complete ruin … Think

  what it is that you find to be of utmost worth to you … and cast it away to where it will never again come to the world of men. (Hdt. 3.40, Grene)

  Creating one’s own misfortune will presumably avert divine disfavor. In the event, Polycrates throws away his favorite ring, which is then returned to him fortuitously in the belly of a fish. The Greek misreads the sign as a divine favor, while Amasis knows it means the dire fate to which Polycrates eventually succumbs (Hdt. 3.125–6). Examples of the dynamic and

  dramatic force of speeches abound, and more will be examined below,

  but the point here is that speeches can convey important thematic truths, they can trigger actions, reactions, or non‐action in response to advice that allows readers to evaluate the sagacity or folly of the historical agents.

  These key passages in the first chapters of Book 1, in the Solon and

  Croesus story, and in the tale of Polycrates and Amasis delineate a

  Herodotean “anthropology” that sees individual life as an event partly

  self‐controlled, partly at the hands of an obscure fate, happiness being unpredictable; the task of the historian is to lay out a past cycle of human affairs, or even a “circle game.” One scholar argues that Herodotus presents a “monistic principle encompassing the past and the whole range of human experience” that is in tension with “the wonderful,” a joy in the discovery of pragmatic, particular knowledge (Wecowski 2004: 143–64).

  According to this view, the “wisdom literature” of the storytelling author exists in an original and productive tension with the polymathy of the

  writer who reflects the Ionian sciences, a point echoed by Murray’s

  (2001) thesis noted earlier.

  Theme 2: Power

  Next to the Herodotean theme of the cycles of life we find that of the

  cycles of power, alluded to in the programmatic chapter 5 of Book 1,

  quoted above. Since the theme of power is crucial not only to Herodotus but also to most of the historians discussed here, we offer some generic considerations on power and the ancient historian. Power is typically

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  HErodotus and tHE Limits of HappinEss: BEyond Epic, Lyric, and LogograpHy accepted as a relational and reciprocal phenomenon, one in which those

  empowered and those subject to power need to be identified and in which the relationship between the parties usually involves a common need,

  owing to which the parties cooperate or come into conflict. Of course the sources of power are many, including delegated authority (as in democratic or republican structures), class, popularity, skills, knowledge, wealth, force or might, and the moral suasion of a group (religious, cultural, etc.).

  In a simplified form, the essential model of political power relationship usually includes (1) the social or political affiliation of a greater power and of a lesser power party; (2) an instruction to the less powerful to accomplish something; and (3) the response of the subject, who either (a)

  accomplishes the request or (b) refuses or resists it. In the relationship, the degree of power of each party often corresponds to the degree of

  voluntary cooperation or resistance. The tone or the rhetoric used in the request may vary depending on the inclination of the person empowered

  or on the subordinate’s degree of acquiescence. The measure of consent

  or acquiescence is determined by the understanding of the lesser power

  regarding either the right of the demanding party (as in the Melos episode in Thucydides’ Book 5) or the appropriateness of the action (a model

  being Antigone in Sophocles’ eponymous play). Finally, political power is not entirely coercive but is usually somewhat so; the few rule through the consent of the many, who feel that power is justly exercised or fear that it represents a threat to their well‐being (Benn 1967; see also the classic study of French and Raven 1959).

  Our concern in the context of ancient historians is mainly political and military power (usually tightly connected). Political–military power need not be restricted by moral considerations, as the philosophies of

  Machiavelli and Hobbes demonstrate. In the popular formulation, power

  politics, Machtpolitik, thus endorses the principle “might makes right” – a kind of social Darwinism in which the strongest always rule. Thrasymachus in Plato’s Republic is the most famous ancient proponent of this view:

  “justice is nothing but the interest of the stronger” (Pl. R. Book 1, 338c ff.; Guthrie 1971: 88–97). But often those subject to the empowered call into question the relation of power to morality in political and social contexts. Appeals to justice and fairness are invoked by the ruled when the rulers themselves are thought to exercise inequitable or tyrannical power.

  The most general Greek term for “power,” dunamis, encompasses the meanings of bodily strength, authority, military force, capacity, capability, and so on. Politically Herodotus uses it of authority, for example of Cyrus at 1.90. Another term, kratos, encompasses a somewhat narrower range, has connotations of force or violence, and is predominantly used of might,

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  bodily and military strength, and rule or sovereign power over others.

  The deity Kratos is personified as the agent of Zeus’ punishing authority in the opening lines of Aeschylus’ Prometheus Bound. But to these two terms we could add a host of others that describe the rich nuances of “power” in the Greek lexicon, for example ischus (natural or political “force”), rarer in Herodotus but more frequent in its verbal form ( ischuo ̄, ischuein, “to restrain” or “seize”; see Hdt. 1.62.1; 2.119.2, etc.) and in its adjectival form ( ischuros, “strong” or “mighty” – said of friends, enemies, peoples, etc.).

  All of these terms show a general Greek concern with the anatomy of

  power, framed differently by each author. Plato ties it to justice and

  Aeschylus to an authority wielded by Zeus. Herodotus implies an ulti-

  mate divine justice that balances humans’ overreach. Our following

  discussion of the sequential narrative of Herodotus will therefore examine more closely some of the fundamental stories that illustrate his concern with and representation of power, as well as his views on human nature

  and its relation to the divine.

  Themes, “Top Stories,” and the Logic of logoi

  We turn now to some major sections of the work as it is structured, signposting some key passages that reflect the themes just outlined. Motifs related to human nature include: the historian as performer of human

  events (Gyges and Candaules); expansionism generally motivating states; greed, ambition, and vengeance in personal motivations; notions of fate and divinity as metaphysical forces to be reckoned with; cultural diversity and ethno‐geography as contributing factors to conflict and cooperation in the ancient Mediterranean. Regarding Herodotus on power, many

  (most prominently Fornara) have shown how the Histories can be read as a covert critique of late fifth‐century Athenian imperialism. The present discussion will include that important view, but will emphasize the

  broader utility of the work as a discourse on the tragic fragility of human happiness, the need to realize human limitations in the face of greater metaphysical forces, and the espousal of traditional Greek values.

  Book 1

  The power motif begins, as do many origins in Greek culture, with

  mention of the Trojan War and how Greeks “destroyed the power [ dunamin] of the Trojan king Priam” (Hdt. 1.4), and it ends of course with the defeat of the Persians at Plat
aea and Mycale (Hdt. 9.16–101). Next, the

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  HErodotus and tHE Limits of HappinEss: BEyond Epic, Lyric, and LogograpHy narrative of how Croesus came to be the first “barbarian” man to “subdue some of the Greeks to the payment of tribute” leads to the classic tale of Gyges and Candaules (Hdt. 1.8–12). The latter, despot of Sardis, compelled his reluctant bodyguard, Gyges, to take a glance at the despot’s wife, the most beautiful woman on earth. When Candaules’ wife catches

  Gyges looking at her naked, she forces him either to kill Candaules and inherit the kingdom, or himself to be killed. This episode is arguably

  “programmatic” in illustrating Candaules’ ero ̄ s‐blinded passion (Hdt.

  1.8.1) and the perversity of his request (against laws of nature or culture?):

  “Many are the fine things discovered by men of old, and among them this one, that each one should look upon his own only” (Hdt. 1.8.4). The

  passage is a bookend to the story of Xerxes lusting after the wife of his brother Masistes in Book 9 (Hdt. 9.108–13). Lust and a passion for

  power are intentionally entwined in these introductory tales, to point to the empire‐changing consequences of situations when fundamentally

  good laws are despotically subverted.

  Then, amid the story of Solon and Croesus, Gyges’ successor as regent

  of Sardis, comes that of Adrastus, a man who accidentally kills Croesus’

  son and then kills himself as one “heaviest stricken by calamity” of all men (Hdt. 1.36–45). Despite an admonitory dream and Adrastus’ apprehen-sions, we witness the inexorability of fate in the Herodotean universe.

  The tale of Croesus resumes when the king sees “growth of the power

  of the Persians” and reflects on how to forestall this increase in power (Hdt. 1.46). He decides to attempt to depose Cyrus I, and then tests

  which oracle was most reliable in assuring him that his aim is viable.

  Relying on the Pythia at Delphi, Croesus asks whether he shall make war on the Persians and receives the reply that, if he made war on the Persians, he would “destroy a mighty empire [ arche ̄ n]” (Hdt. 1.53), which the reader knows ironically portends the fall of Croesus’ own great empire.