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Kingship and Memory
in Ancient Judah
 Kingship
and Memory
in Ancient Judah
z
IAN D. WILSON

1
 1
Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford. It furthers
the University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education
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Press in the UK and certain other countries.

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© Oxford University Press 2017

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above should be sent to the Rights Department, Oxford University Press, at the
address above.

You must not circulate this work in any other form

and you must impose this same condition on any acquirer.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Wilson, Ian Douglas, 1981– author.
Title: Kingship and memory in ancient Judah / Ian Douglas Wilson.
Description: New York, NY: Oxford University Press [2016] | “This book had
its formal origins in [Wilson’s] doctoral dissertation, defended at the University
of Alberta in March 2015”—Acknowledgments. | Includes bibliographical
references and index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016020057 | ISBN 978–0–19–049990–7 (hardcover: alk. paper)
Subjects: LCSH: Kings and rulers—Biblical teaching. | Bible.
Samuel—Criticism, interpretation, etc. | Bible. Kings—Criticism,
interpretation, etc. | Jews—Kings and rulers. | Jews—History—To 586
B.C. | Memory—Biblical teaching.
Classification: LCC BS1199.K5 W55 2016 | DDC 222/.06—dc23 LC record available at
https://lccn.loc.gov/2016020057

1 3 5 7 9 8 6 4 2
Printed by Sheridan Books, Inc., United States of America
For Sally, Ruth, and Elise
 Contents

Acknowledgments ix
List of Abbreviations xi

1. A ncient Judah and Its Literature: Remembering and

Imagining Kingship 1
Judean Literature and Its Sociocultural Setting 5
Judean Literati of the Early Second Temple Era 10
Kingship Discourse among the Literati 18
Memory, Remembering, Imagining: Past, Present, and Future
in Society and Culture 22
Social Memory and Narrativity: A Good Working Relationship 33
Moving Forward 40
2. Torah and Its Guardians 43
The Law of the King’s Deuteronomic Setting 45
The Law of the King and Its Interlocutors 49
Moses and Joshua, Kings and Conquerors: Revising Monarchy
in a Postmonarchic Milieu 68
The Law of the King as a Mnemonic Frame 74
3. Cruxes of Leadership: The Transition(s) to Monarchy 77
Setting Up Samuel 78
The Trouble with Transitions 83
Gideon and Abimelech: Serious Family Issues 89
The Aporia of Samuel, Dynasty, and Divine Promises 93
Yahweh, Samuel, Saul: Rivalries of Political Identification
in 1 Sam 8–12 99
viii Contents

Outcomes of Rivalry and Aporia: Kingship’s Beginnings in Israel 122

To the Heart of the Issue 128
4. Remembering/Forgetting David and Davidic Kingship 131
David as Character, Plot, Narrative in Samuel-Kings
and Judah’s Social Memory 135
Chronicles and Samuel-Kings: Both among the Literati 148
And the Rest of the Story? The Potentials and Outcomes
of Davidic Kingship in Solomon’s Narrative 155
On Book Endings, Davidic Kingship,
and Judean Metanarratives 172
5. The Remembered Future in Prophetic Literature 182
From Prophets and Prophecy to the Prophetic Book 185
King Yahweh 188
The Hedging of David 198
King Israel 217
Historical Consciousness, Metahistory, and the Prophetic Book 220
6. To Conclude: The Emplotments of Kingship
and “Metahistoriography” in Ancient Judah 223
The Rhyming of Kingship: An Outline 223
Future Prospects 229

References 235
Index of Ancient Sources 277
Index of Modern Authors 293
Index of Subjects 301
 Acknowledgments

although i am the author of this book, many individuals have had a hand
in its creation. Here I offer my humble thanks to a select few, knowing that many
more deserve recognition for their assistance. In scholarly monographs like this
one, it is customary—if not generically conventional—to recognize family last.
But here, first and foremost, I give thanks to my wife Sally, and to my daughters
Ruth and Elise, who have been with me through the ups and downs of it all.
There is no question that, without them, I would not have brought this book
to completion. This work is dedicated to them for their love and support. They
deserve as much credit as anyone, so they get top billing.
This book had its formal origins in my doctoral dissertation, defended at
the University of Alberta in March 2015. My examiners were stellar, a collec-
tion of scholars with diverse interests and expertise in biblical, classical, and
religious studies, who pushed me forward with just the right balance of sup-
portive praise and constructive critique: Ehud Ben Zvi (supervisor), Willi
Braun, Adam Kemezis, Francis Landy, Carol Newsom, Christophe Nihan, and
Frances Pownall. Each made important contributions to the work. In addition
to my doctoral supervisor and examiners, a number of colleagues near and far
offered feedback and encouragement as I wrote and revised, and revised some
more: in particular Mark Boda, Keith Bodner, Michael Chan, Carly Crouch,
Diana Edelman, Dan Fleming, Gary Knoppers, Mark Leuchter, Maria Metzler,
Madhavi Nevader, Dan Pioske, Peter Sabo, Jason Silverman, and Frauke
Uhlenbruch each read or heard portions of the work at various stages and pro-
vided detailed and thoughtful responses. Frauke and Peter have been especially
helpful, hearing me out on any number of issues, biblical and otherwise. Tegan
Zimmerman and Amir Khadem, too, whose academic fields are far from my
own, have nevertheless lent me their ears, inspiration, and wit. There were and
are points of disagreement between each of these scholars and me, to be sure, but
it was and is the disagreements that have refined this work and will continue to
generate fresh thinking on the subject and related areas of research. I would also
like to offer special thanks to Steve Wiggins at Oxford University Press, who
showed keen interest in the work in its early stages, and who provided invaluable
x Acknowledgments

input during the process of turning the work into a book. And Ellen Sabo, too,
deserves special recognition for compiling the book’s indices. A hearty thank
you to all.
Some of the research that appears here appeared first in other publications.
In each case, however, the material has been revised and significantly recontex-
tualized. Portions of Chapter 2 are based upon Ian Douglas Wilson, “Yahweh’s
Anointed: Cyrus, Deuteronomy’s Law of the King, and Yehudite Identity,”
in Political Memory in and after the Persian Period, ed. Jason M. Silverman
and Caroline Waerzeggers (ANEM 13; Atlanta: SBL Press, 2015), 325–61.
Portions of Chapter 4 are based upon Ian Douglas Wilson, “Chronicles and
Utopia: Likely Bedfellows?” in History, Memory, Hebrew Scriptures: A Festschrift
for Ehud Ben Zvi, ed. Ian Douglas Wilson and Diana V. Edelman (Winona
Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2015), 151–65; and also Ian Douglas Wilson, “Joseph,
Jehoiachin, and Cyrus: On Book Endings, Exoduses and Exiles, and Yehudite/
Judean Social Remembering,” Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft
126 (2014): 521–34. And finally, portions of Chapter 5 are based upon Ian Douglas
Wilson, “Faster than a Speeding Bullet, More Powerful than a Locomotive, Able
to Rule by Sense of Smell! Superhuman Kingship in the Prophetic Books,” pages
30–44 in “ ‘Not in the Spaces We Know’: An Exploration of Science Fiction and
the Bible,” ed. Frauke Uhlenbruch, Journal of Hebrew Scriptures 16 (2016), avail-
able at http://www.jhsonline.org. I thank SBL Press, Eisenbrauns, De Gruyter,
and the Journal of Hebrew Scriptures for giving me permission to republish this
research in revised form.
Finally, my Hebrew Bible teachers at the University of Alberta, Francis Landy
and Ehud Ben Zvi, deserve special mention. Francis taught me that the wonder
and beauty of biblical literature is to be found within its paradoxes and complexi-
ties. This is now central to my thinking and scholarship. And of course Ehud, my
doctoral supervisor, had a profound impact on my scholarly training and on this
book. His intellectual guidance helped me take a seemingly impossible topic and
turn it into something fruitful. His criticism was always constructive, his mood
always jovial, and his door (and email) always open. He was a fantastic schol-
arly mentor. I hope that both Francis and Ehud find this book as stimulating as
I found their teaching to be.
I. D. W.
July 7, 2016
 Abbreviations

Akk. Akkadian
ANET Ancient Near Eastern Texts Relating to the Old Testament, ed.
James B. Pritchard. 3d edition, with Supplement. Princeton,
NJ: Princeton University Press, 1969.
BQS The Biblical Qumran Scrolls: Transcriptions and Textual
Variants, ed. Eugene Ulrich. 3 volumes. Leiden: Brill, 2013.
CAD The Assyrian Dictionary of the Oriental Institute of the University
of Chicago, ed. Martha T. Roth et al. Chicago: Oriental Institute
of the University of Chicago, 1956–2010.
CAT The Cuneiform Alphabetic Texts from Ugarit, Ras Ibn Hani,
and Other Places, ed. Manfried Dietrich, Oswald Loretz, and
Joaquín Sanmartin. 2d edition. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 1995.
COS The Context of Scripture, ed. William W. Hallo and K. Lawson
Younger Jr. 3 volumes. Leiden: Brill, 2003.
DDD Dictionary of Deities and Demons in the Bible, ed. Karel van
der Toorn, Bob Becking, and Pieter W. van der Horst. 2d
(extensively revised) edition. Leiden: Brill; Grand Rapids,
MI: Eerdmans, 1999.
Eng. English
GKC Gesenius’ Hebrew Grammar, trans. and ed. E. Kautzsch and
A. E. Cowley. 2d edition. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1922.
HALOT Hebrew and Aramaic Lexicon of the Old Testament, ed. Ludwig
Koehler and Walter Baumgartner. Translated by M. E.
J. Richardson. Leiden: Brill, 1994.
Heb. Hebrew
KAI Kanaanäische und aramäische Inschriften, ed. H. Donner and
W. Röllig. 3 volumes. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1971.

All other abbreviations are according to the SBL Handbook of Style: For Biblical
Studies and Related Disciplines, 2d edition, ed. B. J. Collins et al. Atlanta: SBL
Press, 2014.
 1

Ancient Judah and Its Literature

Remembering and Imagining Kingship

Unlike the animals, who knew only the present, Man had
acquired a past; and he was beginning to grope toward
a future.
A rthur C. Cla r k e, 2001: A Space Odyssey

[T]‌he present must first have become the past before it will
furnish clues for assessing what is to come.
Sigmu nd Fr eud, The Future of an Illusion

Memory believes before knowing remembers. Believes longer

than recollects, longer than knowing even wonders.
W illi a m Faulk ner, Light in August

In the book of Samuel, couched within the infamous story of David,

Bathsheba, and Uriah the Hittite is a telling passage:

Then Joab sent and told David all the news about the fighting; and he
instructed the messenger, “When you have finished telling the king all
the news about the fighting, then, if the king’s anger rises, and if he says
to you, ‘Why did you go so near the city to fight? Did you not know that
they would shoot from the wall? Who killed Abimelech son of Jerubbaal?
Did not a woman throw an upper millstone on him from the wall, so that
he died at Thebez? Why did you go so near the wall?’ then you shall say,
‘Your servant Uriah the Hittite is dead too.’ ” (2 Sam 11:18–21, NRSV)

The narrative import of the passage is clear enough: the revelation of Uriah’s
death should assuage David’s anger over the ill-advised battle tactic—the
apparently foolish maneuver was enacted intentionally, in order to extermi-
nate Bathsheba’s husband, as per David’s command (2 Sam 11:15). The passage,
however, also contains an important statement of historical consciousness.
2 k i ngsh i p a n d m e mor y i n a nc i e n t j u da h

Joab has a pronounced and clear expectation that David would know the story
of Abimelech (Judg 9), a figure from a distant past, and that David would
have learned something from this story. At least in Joab’s mind, the lesson
of Abimelech’s story is: don’t stand too close to an enemy’s wall—you might
get crushed by a big rock. At first glance, Joab’s interpretation of Abimelech’s
demise is rather glib (though not without its merits in the immediate context
of 2 Sam 11). However, the acknowledgement of and expectation for historical
consciousness and thought in ancient Israel is deeply important, and provides
an appropriate launching point for this study.
This anecdotal beginning is not meant to make any claims about what a his-
torical Joab or David might (or might not) have thought about the Abimelech
narrative in the book of Judges. Nor is it meant to comment on any historical era
of Israelite or Judahite kingship. As will become clear in the discussion below,
this study does not offer historical reconstructions of Israel’s or Judah’s monar-
chic (or premonarchic) history. It does, however, make a contribution to our
knowledge of Judah’s postmonarchic history. Following Mario Liverani’s sage
advice concerning historiographical literature,1 in this study, I take the book of
Samuel and other books of the Hebrew Bible as revealing something about how
the books’ primary community of composition and readership—whom I will
refer to as the Judean literati—remembered and thought about the past, as it
was represented in an emergent body of literature in Judah’s postmonarchic era.2
In broad terms, my work addresses this very issue: namely, how the post-
monarchic Judeans3 remembered and imagined their past—that is, how

1. That is, a historiographical document is not necessarily a source for knowledge of the events
depicted in the document; rather, it is “a source for the knowledge of itself ” (Liverani 1973, 179;
italics in the original), i.e., a source for understanding the author(s) of the document, whose
sociocultural and historical contexts might be quite different from those of the events nar-
rated in the document.
2. As I will restate below, my focus is on the community in which certain Judean books, as we
more or less know them from the Hebrew Bible, came together and were initially read and
received. I want to be clear on this point: some of these books—like the book of Samuel for
example—contain significant portions of material that originated in the earlier monarchic
era (cf. Polak 2015), but it was during the postmonarchic period of Judah’s history that the
book of Samuel and the corpora of books we know as “the Prophets” emerged (on Samuel in
particular in this period see, e.g., Bolin 2014 and Adam 2014; for recent and detailed discus-
sions of the Bible’s literary history see D. M. Carr 2011 and Schmid 2012). With the emergence
of these corpora and others in the postmonarchic era, I will argue below, a distinct discursive
horizon also emerged—a discourse that is readily accessible for historical analysis.
3. Throughout this study, “Judean” refers to the people of postmonarchic Judah. The term
“Judahite” refers to the people of Judah during its monarchic era. “Israelite” refers either to the
people of Israel during its monarchic era (i.e., people of the so-called Northern Kingdom), or
to the people of “Israel” as an ideological construct that emerged sometime after the fall of the
Northern Kingdom and solidified during the postmonarchic era. Within the Hebrew Bible,
 Ancient Judah and Its Literature 3

discourse4 about the past (re)shaped the community’s understandings of its pres-
ent and future sociopolitical identities. My research here is thus both historical and
historiographical.5
Specifically, I have chosen the concept and issue of kingship as the primary vehicle
for exploring these larger historical and historiographical issues; hence the relevance

“Israel” and, to a lesser extent, “Judah” are not stable terms, and carry a number of potential
meanings. See, e.g., surveys of the problem by Davies (2008, 1–35) and by Fleming (2012, 3–35).
I employ these terms carefully, with due attention to context and ideological implications.
4. I use the term “discourse” frequently in this study. My understanding of “discourse” here
is fundamentally Foucauldian. That is to say, by “discourse” I mean the utterances of diverse
statements within a system of knowledge(s) during a particular era and in a particular socio-
cultural milieu (or, as Foucault [2010, 3–63, 79–117] might put it, within a particular locality).
In other words, the books of the Hebrew Bible represent multiple views of kingship, which
offer different perspectives on how one is to understand monarchical rule, its history, and its
relevance for the society’s present and future, all of which interacted, informing and balanc-
ing one another, within the literate community of Persian-period Jerusalem and its temple, in
the written texts that circulated among that community throughout that era. Carol Newsom,
who utilizes a similar conceptual understanding of discourse in her study of Qumran, puts
it this way: “To analyze discourse is to investigate culture through the metaphor of conversa-
tion… . Each participant [in the conversation] tries out ideas on others. But the conversa-
tion itself, what passes between persons, belongs neither to the one nor to the other but is a
product of their interaction… . There is always some difference of opinion or perspective that
moves things along. Conversations are not like Euclidian proofs; there is no theoretical point
at which there is nothing more to say… . Someone leaves, someone else comes up, and the
conversation lurches off in an entirely new direction… . Culture consists of particular utter-
ances; yet the whole of the thing is never finished but continuously in motion and divided
among an indefinite number of participants” (2004, 3–4).
Discourse is, thus, dynamic and open-ended, creative and even playful. That said, Newsom
emphasizes that “[d]‌iscourse is about the formation of human communities through sym-
bolic interchange, but it is also about the excercise of power within those communities. The
image of conversation may obscure the element of struggle that is present in discursive prac-
tices” (2004, 4). In addition, then, there is the question of the location of discourse within
society. By speaking of a literate and temple-centered group—the only group to which the
written texts give us some level of direct access—I speak of what one might call an “elite” seg-
ment of society, but this does not mean that the discourse was confined to this segment, nor
does it mean that the discourse emerged solely from and exclusively for this social subgroup.
Within any society there are subgroups, but discourses generally reach across these internal
social boundaries, forging shared sentiments and ideological preferences for the society as a
whole (Lincoln 1989, 8–11). These internal cohesions across sub-boundaries are what enable
us to identify a society like “Judah” in the first place. In an ancient Near Eastern setting,
discourses of an elite subgroup (like the Judean literati) would spread throughout “lower”
levels of society (i.e., nonliterate Judeans) via public ritual and teaching, iconography, word
of mouth, etc. (Liverani 1979, 300–303; Ben Zvi 2000a, 18–24; van der Toorn 2007, 10–14).
5. As such, my work is keenly interested in the integration of historical and literary concerns.
It is a work of historical criticism of the Hebrew Bible, but probably not in the classical sense.
A better descriptor is “critical historicism,” i.e., a “literary study that is thoroughly historicist
in orientation” (Dobbs-Allsopp 1999, 236; see also Nissinen 2009). In the words of Robert
P. Carroll (1997, 302), “[T]‌he Bible is a complex collection of historically embedded texts and
textually embedded histories which cries out for a theoretically sophisticated scrutiny.”
4 k i ngsh i p a n d m e mor y i n a nc i e n t j u da h

of the above passage from Samuel. The small but important detail pointed out
above—that David (according to Joab) would have known the story of Abimelech,
and thus even used it rhetorically in his response to the messenger—would not have
been lost on the Judean composers and readers of this literature. Moreover, the
meaning of this detail thickens when one realizes (as the ancient literati no doubt
would have) that Joab is citing the story of Israel’s disastrous first attempt at kingly
rule (Judg 8–9)—a deeply complex narrative about kingship in its own right. The
web of potential literary links and implications is elaborate, and this is only one
example. In Judean literature, there existed a myriad of texts that evince complex
thinking about kingship as part of the people’s ongoing story.
The primary question of this study is, therefore: how did postmonarchic
society in Judah remember and imagine its monarchy, and kingship in general,
as part of its past, present, and future? How did Judean literati conceive of the
monarchy? What I will illustrate is that the ancient Judeans had no single way
of remembering and imagining kingship. In fact, their memory and imaginary
were thoroughly multivocal, and necessarily so. Various views of the past and of
the future shaped and balanced one another, maintaining a polyvalent remem-
bering of kingship in postmonarchic Judah. This thesis, I argue, will push us to
reconsider the generic function of the prophetic books in particular, as well as
the interrelationship between historiographical and prophetic books in general,
within Judean discourse.

This first chapter aims to unpack my understandings of these issues,

to orient the reader to my methodological and theoretical approach to the
questions and texts, and to give the reader a full sense of where I am head-
ing before embarking on my analyses of memories and images of kingship in
ancient Judah.
I begin with a discussion of the evidence and its milieu. The books that now
reside in the Hebrew Bible are literary artifacts from ancient Judah, and a great
many of these books emerged as such in the early Second Temple period in
Judah’s history, at a time when Jerusalem regained its status as a provincial cen-
ter and when the population and economy were very slowly recovering from the
Babylonian campaigns of the early sixth century b.c.e. As books, so to speak, of
the early Second Temple era, they are primary sources for our knowledge of this
era. In what follows, I discuss this literary evidence as well as the sociocultural
setting for which the literature serves as evidence. What do we have to work with,
and to what sociocultural context does the evidence point? I then provide a brief
introduction to kingship discourse in this context, emphasizing its multivocality
and polyvalence, and proceed to outline an approach to the discourse that uti-
lizes studies of social memory and narrative. Finally, the chapter concludes with
some brief comments on subsequent chapters.
 Ancient Judah and Its Literature 5

Judean Literature and Its Sociocultural Setting

Over the course of Judah’s early Second Temple period,6 the books of the
Pentateuch, the deuteronomistic7 and prophetic books, and the book of
Chronicles took shape as works of Judean literature, as corpora with some
amount of authority for their Judean readers.8
The above assertion, though, requires an important caveat: there is no doubt
that many of these works have their roots in much earlier periods, and that many
underwent a long, complex process of scribal reception, editing, and expansion
that took place over centuries. Biblical scholarship has long demonstrated these
points. I do not deny that these corpora contain some material from the Iron
Age, the period of Israel’s and Judah’s monarchies, nor do I suggest that they

6. That is, roughly the fifth to early third centuries b.c.e. Another common moniker for this
era is the “late Persian/early Hellenistic” period. The advent of the Hellenistic period in the
ancient Near East is usually marked by the arrival of Alexander and his army in the 330s
b.c.e. However, in the southern Levant, archaeological evidence reveals a general continu-
ity in settlement patterns and governmental administrative systems from the Achaemenids
to Alexander to the Ptolemies, and widespread Hellenistic sociocultural influence was not
manifest until well into the third century b.c.e. and later (Lipschits and Tal 2007). In this
study, I utilize the designation “early Second Temple period,” which is contemporaneous
with the late Persian/early Hellenistic, in order to emphasize the temple-centeredness of the
Judean literati.
7. Throughout this study, the adjective “deuteronomistic” refers to material from the books
of Joshua, Judges, Samuel, and Kings, whereas “Deuteronomic” refers to material from the
book of Deuteronomy itself. I understand the deuteronomistic books as part of a collection
of literature that is generically historiographical, that draws on the language of the book of
Deuteronomy, and that ultimately centers upon the leitmotif of Israel’s and Judah’s failure
to adhere to the divine teachings of Moses—a failure which eventually results in Babylon’s
conquering the promised land and exiling the people of Judah from that land. It is clear that
these books are interconnected. But in my mind it is doubtful that they constitute a unified
“history,” as Martin Noth and others have understood them. On the cohesion of separate
books, see the recent survey and discussion by Levin (2011).
8. One could perhaps add Proverbs, Song of Songs, Qohelet, and Ezra-Nehemiah to the list.
Concerning Ezra-Nehemiah, however, evidence suggests that it did not attain an authorita-
tive status, or perhaps did not even exist, until a later date (J. W. Watts 2013, 8–15; Fried 2014,
28). The book of Daniel, which also has much to say about kingship (see Newsom 2009), is
excluded because it almost definitely emerged in a later context. On the concept of authority,
see Borchardt 2015, who shows how different ancient readers received texts as authoritative
for different reasons—not all authority is the same, nor are all supposedly authoritative texts
authoritative for all readers. Judean readers likely saw the Pentateuch, for example, as carry-
ing a different kind of authority than, say, the book of Kings. Moreover, some who saw the
Pentateuch as authoritative might not have seen the book of Kings as authoritative at all, to
use those same examples. However, later texts like Ben Sira and the Dead Sea Scrolls, inter
alia, clearly indicate that the above mentioned books are representative of a corpus that gener-
ally garnered authority for the early Second Temple Judean readership.
6 k i ngsh i p a n d m e mor y i n a nc i e n t j u da h

were composed from scratch in the Second Temple. I duly recognize that por-
tions of these books have their origins in monarchic Judah.
Instead of focusing on reconstructing monarchic-era literature and then
using that reconstruction to investigate aspects of monarchic-era Judahite soci-
ety, however, I focus on the corpora mentioned above as representative of dis-
tinctly postmonarchic discursive formations. These books—which were likely
read as such and not as patchwork compositions—emerged in the early Second
Temple context and thus provide a significant and highly plausible body of evi-
dence for the Judean literate community in this crucial era (cf. Edelman 2013b,
xii). Adele Berlin, discussing the versions of Gilgamesh and their literary histo-
ries, makes an important point that is relevant here:

The editor(s) of the Old Babylonian version and of the late version made
creative and purposeful contributions, and, more important, produced
a unified structure and discourse. So even though they drew on earlier
sources, their products deserve our serious consideration in their own
right. (1983, 132; italics in the original)

The same may be said of the Judean books found in the Hebrew Bible, which,
like Gilgamesh, had a long and complex history, and which, also like Gilgamesh,
eventually settled into “final forms,” as it were.9 As works of early Second
Temple-period Judah, the corpora mentioned above are literary artifacts from
that period, windows into the community that put finishing touches on the
books, read and studied them, maintained them, and made them a vital aspect of
the Judean intellectual world. Moreover, working with sources that are approxi-
mately intact (i.e., avoiding the tricky task of reconstructing older versions of the
literature) sets us on relatively stable and sufficient ground for historical study of
Judah’s literary culture. The further one attempts to go back in time, the shakier
and more insufficient that ground becomes.

The evidence for reading the Pentateuch, deuteronomistic and prophetic

books, and Chronicles as literary artifacts from the early Second Temple period
is strong. First, it is clear that these books are, on the whole, Judah-centric in
focus (Fleming 2012, 4–7). Plus, as Ehud Ben Zvi has shown in a number of stud-
ies (e.g., 2009b; 2010), although the books display diversity in content and style,

9. Compare, e.g., Robert Alter’s now classic discussion of “Composite Artistry” (1981, 131–54),
as well as the approach of Yairah Amit (2001, 22–32). See, too, the essay by Tchavdar Hadjiev
(2015), who emphasizes that source material may be “dimly perceived under the surface” of
texts, but who also nonetheless recognizes the importance of the “synthesizing imagination”
at work in redactional activity (449).
 Ancient Judah and Its Literature 7

they have in common a number of broad but essential ideological or theological

talking points, including: (1) the creation, downfall, and re-creation of Yahweh’s
chosen people, “Israel,” in the promised land of Canaan, and the concomitant
theme of exile from and restoration in that land; (2) the centrality of Jerusalem as
Yahweh’s chosen city and the (re)construction of Yahweh’s temple there; (3) the
importance of authoritative writing as divine instruction (‫“ תורה‬Torah”); and
(4) the reading, remembrance, and memorialization of this writing (i.e., a literary
culture). These overarching motifs, taken together, strongly suggest that these
corpora emerged as compositions in postmonarchic Judah.10
Second, one should seriously consider, within many of the books, the numer-
ous polemics against the Assyrian and Babylonian imperial programs (e.g., Isa
10, 14) in conjunction with the noted lack of criticism toward (and even marked
preference for) Persian imperial rule (e.g., Isa 45), which indicates the early
Second Temple period as a likely milieu for these corpora’s emergence. Criticisms
of past overlords were embraced and maintained within the literature, while the
current regime received praise. The Persian Achaemenids were shrewd rulers
who learned from the mistakes of their predecessors. The policies and ideology
of the Persian imperial system promoted a sense of close connection between
center and periphery. There was a strong sense that ruler and subject shared a
“common destiny”—the periphery directly supported the economic needs of the
center, while the center facilitated sociocultural continuity and political stability
on the periphery, ostensibly for everyone’s equal benefit (though of course the
ruling elites of the center benefited most, especially economically). As a result,
under the Achaemenids, “provincial elites often oriented themselves towards the
standards set by the great kings” (Wiesehöfer 2011, 172). This was certainly true
in Judah, as texts such as Isa 45 evince.

10. Compare Reinhard Achenbach (2007), who highlights a number of important connec-
tions between the corpora of books, and so states, “[W]‌e may consider the redaction history
of the Pentateuch and the Prophets [i.e., Former and Latter] to be complementary, to a cer-
tain extent” (253; cf. also Römer 2015). The scholarship on this issue is immense. Recent note-
worthy works on the history of these books include, for example, the extensive volumes by
D. M. Carr (2011) and Schmid (2012). Carr (2011, 221–24) argues that the “Torah of Moses”
(i.e., the Pentateuch) and the “prophetic” books (i.e., both the Former and Latter Prophets),
along with a number of psalms, emerged in the Persian period as authoritative collections for
the literate elite. Schmid sees things similarly, especially concerning the Pentateuch. Both,
however, argue for expansion and restructuring of some books in the third century, dur-
ing the reigns of the Ptolemies (e.g., parts of Isaiah and Zechariah; see Carr 2011, 180–203;
Schmid 2012, 183–209). I agree that scribes might have made minor post-compositional
changes to some books in the third century and even later, but—given the complementar-
ity of the Pentateuchal, deuteronomistic, and prophetic corpora noted by many scholars—it
seems likely that these corpora emerged within the same overarching discursive context, prior
to the full advent of Hellenism in the southern Levant. Compare Carr’s own comments con-
cerning the difficulty of spotting later Hellenistic-era expansions in the books (2011, 188).
8 k i ngsh i p a n d m e mor y i n a nc i e n t j u da h

Third, the books also contain strong polemics against Egypt, the enemy
of the exodus (e.g., Exod 15:1–21, the Song of the Sea). Egypt revolted against
Persia several times and, while the Achaemenids dealt with succession issues, it
finally escaped Persian rule around 400 b.c.e. (Briant 2002, 615–37; Ruzicka
2012, 35–40). In response to Egypt, which was a serious threat to imperial sta-
bility, Persia turned its attention toward the southern Levant and actively sup-
ported the shoring up of administrative resources in Judah and the surrounding
areas.11 The southern Levant thus became a frontier of the empire, and Egypt a
de facto imperial enemy, effecting significant sociocultural and political changes
in the Levantine region. To be sure, Egypt had a long history of involvement in
the Levant, stretching back millennia, and Israelite/Judahite/Judean polemics
against it probably had a long history too (cf. B. Schipper 1999). But the sustained
anti-Egyptian bent in these books, combined with other evidence pointing to the
early Second Temple era, further indicates this period as a likely timeframe for
the emergence of these books.
Fourth, the book of Chronicles, a composition few would place outside the
confines of the early Second Temple period, makes clear references to texts from
the Pentateuch, the deuteronomistic and prophetic books, and various psalms,
suggesting that the community responsible for it was keenly familiar with these
literary texts and considered them authoritative on some level (Knoppers 2004,
66–71, 101–17). “[T]‌he Chronicler,” writes Christine Mitchell (2011, 1–2), “did
not just work with traditions, but worked with a specific body of literature or
literary production… . [He] both had read widely and had reflected on what he
had read.” Chronicles, thus, plays a double role. It serves as a source for knowl-
edge of the early Second Temple literati in Judah, and reinforces our supposition
that the aforementioned corpora functioned as authoritative books for that same
community.
Unfortunately, evidence for situating these corpora in the early Second
Temple era (or any era for that matter) comes from the Bible itself, which inevi-
tably forces one into circular argumentation—an almost unavoidable trap for
historical-critical studies of this literature (Barton 1996, 52–55). However, there

11. On (re)formulations of Egyptian and Judean (i.e., Israelite) identities during this era, see,
e.g., the contributions of Redford (2011, 315–24) and Greifenhagen (2002, 225–55). On pos-
sible administrative and sociopolitical changes in Judah during the late Persian period, see,
e.g., Edelman (2005, 281–331), who argues that Persia increased its interest in Judah during
the reign of Artaxerxes I in the mid-fifth century (when there was a major Egyptian revolt).
See also Lipschits and Vanderhooft (2007) and Fantalkin and Tal (2012, 5–9), who point to
the end of the fifth century b.c.e. as the likely moment for increased Persian involvement in
the area. In either case, it is clear that during the latter half of the Persian era, Egypt became
a recurring problem and the empire turned its attention toward the Western frontier, which
included Judah. This, of course, would have affected Judean perceptions of both Egypt and
Persia, and shaped the compositions of Judah’s literature.
 Ancient Judah and Its Literature 9

is also very good non-biblical evidence for placing the formation of these books
within this time frame. Hecataeus of Abdera (in Diodorus Siculus’s Bibliotheca
Historica 40.3.1–8), the scrolls found near Qumran (i.e., the “Dead Sea Scrolls”),
the translations of the Hebrew literature into Greek (the Septuagint), and espe-
cially the praises of “famous men” in Ben Sira 44–50, all suggest that, by the late
third and second centuries b.c.e., the aforementioned books were essentially
similar to the books that now reside in the Hebrew Bible (Grabbe 2006). The
corpora’s overarching discursive themes, discussed above, imply a likely termi-
nus post quem—the Persian period—and these Hellenistic references provide a
terminus ad quem. There are some notable exceptions that one must acknowl-
edge and deal with when necessary: for example, the book of Jeremiah, which
existed and circulated in multiple versions, well into the Hellenistic period
(Carroll 2004, 21–30).12 Nevertheless, it is highly likely that Judah’s early Second
Temple period was the sociocultural and historical milieu in which these books
emerged and were initially read in forms similar to what we have now.13
To be sure, the corpora mentioned above do not necessarily represent the
entire body of literature in Judah at this time. There were probably other impor-
tant works that have long since disappeared. However, those books that we can
confidently situate in the early Second Temple surely represent a large sample
of literature from this period; thus they provide an abundance of evidence for
discussing the literate community responsible for them. Our knowledge of this
community’s literary repertoire will never be exhaustive, but we have more than
enough information to confidently discuss its major concerns and their func-
tions within its milieu.

Having situated these books and my study of them in the early Second
Temple period, I want to be very clear on the following point: I do not mean
to collapse the emergence of these corpora into a singular historical moment.
I am arguing, instead, that these books are representative of a particular discur-
sive horizon, located across the fifth to early third centuries b.c.e. Again, the
point here is not to suggest that the Judean literature was not composite, and that
those responsible for the literature, in their acts of composition, did not draw on
older sources and redact material. The point, rather, is to argue that such activity

12. On the difference between a “book” and various instantations of it, see Hendel 2015.
13. Here it is important to note that, as Eva Mroczek (2015b) has recently argued, seeing
“the Bible” as somehow central to Second Temple literature can distort our views of ancient
Judaism and its culture. In this study, I am using these corpora from the Hebrew Bible as my
primary sources, because they contain a significant body of evidence for this era, but I recog-
nize that “the Bible” as we know it was not the telos of Second Temple Judaism (cf. Mroczek
2015b, 13).
10 k i ngsh i p a n d m e mor y i n a nc i e n t j u da h

constituted new discourse, and that it was, for the most part, received as such.14
By examining this discourse, I am attempting to tap into an extensive discus-
sion, a collegial debate of sorts (cf. Davies 2015), which was carried out over a
number of generations within the small literate community of ancient Judah’s
early Second Temple period. That said, following the sage comments of Carol
Newsom (2003, 16–17), I recognize and embrace the “heuristic fiction” of my
scholarly reconstruction of this community and its concerns. Our reconstruc-
tions of compositional and receptional communities are “invitations to read [the
literature] ‘as if ’ it had come into being in this or that fashion, with the intents
and purposes characteristic of such an origin” (Newsom 2003, 16; cf. Doak 2014,
31–32). In arguing for this particular heuristic—which, it should be emphasized,
is a strongly defensible intellectual approach—my aim is to discover something
of how postmonarchic Judeans thought both about and with their past. Of
course, there will be some who sharply disagree with my approach in this study.
For those unsympathetic to the approach, my hope is that they will still find my
discussion of the texts useful, by framing it with their own preferred reconstruc-
tions of sociocultural settings and developments.

Judean Literati of the Early Second Temple Era

The literature of ancient Judah points to a literary culture, one in which authori-
tative writing was taken to be divine instruction (‫“ תורה‬Torah”).15 This is
self-evident, even tautological: literate people produce works of literature. What
is remarkable is that this literary culture was centered in (or at least intently
focused upon) Jerusalem and its temple, in the Persian imperial province of
Judah (Yehud)—a remarkable point because, to put it bluntly, Judah was an
imperial backwater.
Since we are dealing with a literary culture in a backwater of an ancient
empire, we lack extensive external evidence for this group. The contemporary
Persians and Greeks, for instance, had nothing to say about the Judean literati.
In order to investigate the social makeup of this group, we are forced to work
inductively with the literary works they composed and read (Davies 1996, 59).

14. This discursive horizon falls in between what Seth Sanders (2015) sees as the the second
and third stages of Hebrew literature’s development—stages which, he argues, are character-
ized by the values of “comprehensiveness” and “harmony,” respectively.
15. E.g., Deuteronomy 17:18; 28:58; Josh 1:8; 8:31; 2 Kgs 14:6//2 Chr 25:4; 2 Kgs 22:8//2 Chr
34:15; Ezra 7:6; Neh 8:1–18; and 2 Chr 17:9. See D. M. Carr 2005, 112–13, for additional verse
references and discussion. Also, despite the strong emphasis upon authoritative writing and
divine instruction, one should note that the literati in ancient Israel/Judah were not consid-
ered infallible (cf. Jer 8:8).
 Ancient Judah and Its Literature 11

At the very least, we can say that the community consisted of “wise” (‫)חכם‬
individuals—highly educated sages, as it were. The literature hints at this in sev-
eral places (e.g., Hos 14:10a [Eng. 14:9a]),16 as do later texts (e.g., Sir 38:34–39:5).
In general, this is perhaps indicative of a scribal group. Scribal communities
trained in and devoted to the practices of writing were widespread in the ancient
Near Eastern and Mediterranean world, and were a necessary component of any
bureaucracy, be it governmental or cultic—or a combination of the two, as was
often the case (see Davies 1998; 2013a; 2015; D. M. Carr 2005; van der Toorn
2007). Since the dawn of writing, there were scribes and groups of scribes. But
the “wise” probably indicates something different, something more than typical
scribes, who merely produced and copied simple records, and so on; “wise” would
have to indicate advanced scribes, highly regarded teachers and sages, who not
only simply wrote but also composed and created. It could, in addition, refer to
persons who were not “scribes” at all, that is, not professional writers of texts per
se, but rather persons who were especially adroit at reading and contemplating
texts. In a society like Persian-period Judah, these “wise” folk were no doubt a
small portion of the literate community, and were probably the ones responsible
for maintaining, via writing and speech, the Judean intellectual traditions (Ben
Zvi 2000a, 5–6).
Hence my use of the term “literati,” which refers specifically to a small group
of intellectual elites, who could write and compose, and who could also read and
think and speak well, who valued learning, devoting time and energy to compli-
cated literature, its meanings, and its preservation as part of Judean society and
culture.17
This rightly invites questions about “reading” in this ancient context, ques-
tions of literary genre, implied authors and audiences, hermeneutics, and so
forth. These sorts of questions will continue to crop up throughout this study,
but a few words of context and explanation are in order here. Taking the pro-
phetic book of Isaiah or Jeremiah, for example, most modern readers are under-
standably perplexed by its disjointedness, its seemingly haphazard structure, and
its multivocal and sometimes esoteric treatments of many issues and themes.
These are not books to be read with a single meaning or purpose in mind; they
are certainly not novels or even collections of interrelated short stories (Davies

16. “He who is wise [‫ ]חכם‬will consider these words; he who is prudent will take note of them”
(NJPS).
17. Compare Joseph Blenkinsopp’s discussion of “The Sage” (1995, 9–65), though I am not
convinced by his dichotomizing of sages and priests prior to the Hellenistic period. On the
social roles of highly literate individuals in Judah, see Schams 1998, 309–12; and Davies 2013a,
43–44. It appears that an administrative official in Persian Judah could play various and over-
lapping roles, including “scribe,” “priest,” and even tax collector or governor.
12 k i ngsh i p a n d m e mor y i n a nc i e n t j u da h

1996, 60). These are books that invite and encourage rereading, exploring poten-
tial meanings in ambiguities and intertextuality, and that evince a community
that preferred this type of text (Ben Zvi 1996; 2000b; 2005). In contrast, a mod-
ern reader working through the deuteronomistic books will find more coherent
literary forms: narratives with structured stories, overarching themes, and so on.
But a close and careful reading of these books also reveals extensive multivocal-
ity and polyvalence, sometimes to the point of undermining and disintegrating
their own apparent purposes (Polzin 1980; Newsom 1996). In this sense, deuter-
onomistic literature is also unlike a novel, in the classical understanding of the
genre, but is perhaps, for a reader in the present day, something like the (post)
modernist works of the twentieth century, consistently challenging itself and its
own narrative aims.18 I return to these issues below and in subsequent chapters.19

18. E.g., William Faulkner’s Absalom, Absalom! which weaves together various narra-
tive voices, exploring the porous boundaries between past and present in the postbellum
American South. Clifford Geertz, with his usual panache, writes that Faulkner’s whole work
was in some sense “about how particular imaginations are shadowed by others standing off
in the cultural and temporal distance; how what happens, recountings of what happens, and
metaphoric transfigurations of recountings of what happens into general visions, pile, one on
top of the next, to produce a state of mind at once more knowing, more uncertain, and more
disequilibrated” (1983, 48–49). We will see that Judean kingship discourse reveals a similar
state of mind.
19. Some scholars will protest that ancient readers did not actually understand texts—especially
texts like the deuteronomistic books, for example—as multivocal. Anticipating such argu-
ments, I point first to Josephus. Although the Josephan corpus is much later in time, from
the Roman era, it provides substantial evidence for my reconstruction of the literati, their
reading habits, and mnemonic processes in this ancient context. Ancient composers of his-
toriography (and thus readers of it as well) indeed brought together multivocal choruses of
statements that interacted with and counteracted against each other, in attempts to bring
various voices into conversation. As Steve Mason (2009) argues in extensive detail, the per-
ceived “contradictions” in Josephus’s writings are better understood as discursive counter-
points that contribute to a “balanced account that considers all sides of the picture” (136).
The famed first-century historian acknowledges this himself (see War 1.2, 7–9). Josephus,
writes Mason, “gives variety and depth to his compositions through management of plot and
sub-plot, dominant and subordinate theme, exempla of vice as well as virtue, earnest pleading
offset by rhetorical or novelistic tropes, recurring thesis and antithesis … and scenes set in
Judea, Galilee, Babylonia, and Rome. Josephus uses melody, harmony, and also counterpoint
to craft compelling stories of human behavior… . [P]‌roposed contradictions are part of the
story, varying theme while also strengthening it” (2009, 136). For discussions of how Josephus
read the book of Samuel, for example, see Avioz 2006; 2015. Perhaps also helpful here is the
book of Chronicles and the concept of “Rewritten Bible” (see Knoppers 2003, 129–34; also
Brooke 2013, 51–53), which supply some examples of the readings I highlight in this study.
Ancient readers clearly noticed “obscurities, contradictions, and other perceived problems”
in their literature (Knoppers 2003, 130) and sought to bring these literary features into con-
versation with one another. “[M]any textual variants, both major and minor, are the result of
intentional intervention with the text, of a mind at work” (Brooke 2013, 53; emphasis mine).
Minds were at work in the writing of texts, and of course in the reading of them. The two
actions went (and go) hand in hand. Take, as one prominent example in the Judean literature,
 Ancient Judah and Its Literature 13

In any case, the literati may have been professional scribes, but that was per-
haps not their only function. Indeed, Ben Sira—the Judean intellectual figure
par excellence of the Hellenistic era—presents himself (or the implied author
presents himself) as a learned scribe, but also as a teacher (51:23) devoted to
divine law, prophetic writings, proverbial wisdom, and even to the service of gov-
ernment (38:34–39:5; Blenkinsopp 1995, 15–20).20
Moreover, throughout the corpora of Judean literature, one should note the
ubiquitous emphases upon: (1) divine instruction; (2) proper devotion to the
divine as outlined in such instruction; and (3) the central importance of Jerusalem
and its temple—emphases which indicate some sort of cultic setting for the lite-
rati, or at least intimate knowledge of and a deep concern for the cultic milieu
there. The apparent cultic focus of the literature has led to a general consensus
in biblical scholarship that intellectual “scribal” culture in early Second Temple
Judah was at least partly the product of “priestly,” temple-based society, and/or
vice versa.21 That said, we should be careful not to fall into the trap of conflating
literati with the “priesthood” (Aaronid or not), or to create sharp distinctions
between “scribes,” “priests,” and other “elite” administrative roles in Judah and
Jerusalem in this period (Schams 1998, 310–11).22 There were clearly such roles
in Judean society, which a single individual or group of individuals might have
played at any given time, and which contributed to the (re)shaping of individual
and group identities, but exclusively “scribal” or “priestly” social groups per se
probably did not exist in this milieu.

the issue of the Passover lamb in 2 Chr 35:13 (see Knoppers 2003, 130–31; Ben Zvi 2006b).
Indeed, the very fact of the book of Chronicles itself—that it came about and was read and
maintained along with the (older) books of Samuel and Kings—points to this kind of read-
ing and textual understanding (on the issue of how the “Chronicler” read the literature of his
time, see Ben Zvi 2011; also Chapter 4). Another relevant example is the pairing of Pss 105
and 106, which, as Carol Newsom (2006, 223–24) demonstrates, show that “history some-
times can only be rendered adequately by juxtaposing multiple narratives, each with its own
coherency, each with its own truth… . [H]istorical cognition is always partial and therefore
requires multiple tellings from a variety of perspectives.” The ancient Judeans were, without
question, comfortable with this sort of thinking.
20. Note that, according to Ben Sira, such a life requires a lot of free time, and is not for the
common working person (38:24–25).
21. Indeed, one of the few claims that almost all critical biblical scholars agree upon is that
there is a “priestly” strand of thought running throughout the literature of the Hebrew Bible,
which is especially evident in the Pentateuch, and that this strand was integral to the histori-
cal development of the literature (D. M. Carr 2011, 108–10). For a recent and detailed treat-
ment, see Nihan 2007.
22. See also John W. Wright (2007, 361–66), who problematizes the Weberian notion of
“priesthood” as it relates to Judah and the ancient Near East in general; and Louis Jonker
(2010), who brings additional nuance to our understandings of these social roles.
14 k i ngsh i p a n d m e mor y i n a nci e n t j u da h

Thus, when attempting to articulate our understandings of Judean literati, we

might speak of scribal priests or priestly scribes or some other designator within
the spectrum of intellectual and cultic society in (or at least intently focused
upon) Jerusalem and its temple.23 Such social contexts appear to have been ripe
for the development of literature throughout the ancient Near East. In other
words, an intellectual-cultic milieu seems to have facilitated the “ritualization”
or “scripturalization” of written texts, the solidification of fluid written tradi-
tions into relatively stable and even sacred literature (Hobson 2012; J. W. Watts
2013). But beyond these general (and somewhat vague) descriptors, it is difficult
to say much more about the literati and their actual social roles in Judah and
Jerusalem (cf. Floyd 2015, 336).

Archaeological r esearch, however, offers some insight into the

demographics of Judean and Jerusalemite society in the early Second Temple era,

23. There is still the question of the Judahite/Judean diaspora, and of nearby Samaria and its
cultic milieu, in this time period. There were certainly other Yahwistic cultic centers outside
Jerusalem (Elephantine on the Nile being perhaps the most well-known example), and recent
excavations at Mt. Gerizim (near Shechem) have uncovered remains of a Persian-period
Yahwistic cultic installation, which grew into a well-established temple complex by the
Hellenistic period (famously discussed by Josephus: e.g., Ant. 11.342–46 and 13.74). The ques-
tion is, what might have been the interrelationship between these Yahwistic, temple-centered
communities and the literati, and how might the interrelationship have shaped the composi-
tions and readings of the literature? Our evidence is slim, so any approach to this and related
questions is necessarily speculative to a large degree. Regarding diaspora, it seems doubtful
that such communities would have had any impact on the literati associated with the Judean
corpora in their early Second Temple-era formations. Literati in the Babylonian diaspora may
have had some impact on earlier forms of the literature, as many scholars have posited, but
it seems that late Persian-era literary activity was centered in Judah itself. The community at
Elephantine—our best example of diaspora in the period, and one for which we actually have
some concrete evidence—seems to know little if anything of the Judean literature. Moreover,
it turned to Judah and Samaria in a time of need, further suggesting the importance of Judah/
Israel as ideological “center.” On Elephantine, see Kratz (2006) and Becking (2011c), each
with numerous additional references. The diaspora obviously existed and was on the minds
of the Judean literati (cf. Jeremiah), but this does not detract from the centrality of Jerusalem
in Judean discourse. With Samaria the issue is more complicated. Obviously, there was some-
thing of a rivalry between the South and North, which had its roots in the monarchic era
and was in full bloom by Roman times (cf. John 4). And of course the Samaritans developed
their own Pentateuchal literature, which favors Mt. Gerizim over Jerusalem, and the history
of which the Dead Sea Scrolls have helped to illuminate. Nevertheless, the latest archaeologi-
cal evidence suggests that, during the Persian era at least, the relationship was not nearly as
contentious as scholarship has often supposed. And certain texts in the Judean literature are
ambiguous enough that they could have easily referred to Judah and/or Samaria, depending
upon context (e.g., Deut 12). On these issues, see Knoppers 2013. Nonetheless, the literature at
hand has an explicit and extensive discursive preference for Jerusalem as the central location
for Judean cultic life and practice, which suggests that our primary locality for situating the
literati and its discourse should be Judah and its main cultic center.
 Ancient Judah and Its Literature 15

which at least gives us some indication as to the size of the literate community,
and, in turn, helps us better understand the setting of the group’s discourse (e.g.,
Carter 1999; Lipschits 2005, 267–71; 2009; Faust 2007; Finkelstein 2008, 2012).
First, in Judah’s postmonarchic, pre-Hellenistic era (roughly the sixth to
third centuries b.c.e.), there are two marked demographic trends: (1) an overall
decrease in total population throughout the region, as a result of Babylon’s con-
quests;24 and (2) a decrease in urban populations coinciding with an increase in
the number of small rural settlements (Carter 1999, 43). In other words, Judah’s
population decreased dramatically and Iron Age urban society essentially col-
lapsed. Recent interpretations of the available data suggest that, at the most,
Jerusalem contained around 1,500 persons, with the provincial population being
approximately 20–30,000 (Carter 1999, 201–202; Lipschits 2005, 270–71);25 and
at the least, Jerusalem contained around 500 persons, and the entire province
15,000 (Finkelstein 2008, 507; 2012, 49–50).
Second, literacy rates across the ancient Near East were extremely low (1 per-
cent or less by some estimates), and literacy (i.e., a high level of reading com-
prehension) was limited to sociocultural “elites”—royal and cultic functionaries
and the like, those with extensive formal education (Rollston 2010, 132–34).26
It appears, then, that we are dealing with a very small number of literati in early
Second Temple Judah. Jerusalem, being the main provincial center, probably con-
tained a higher concentration of literate individuals than any other locale, but
the number still would have been very small. And what I am calling literati—the
highly literate (“wise”) ones of Judah—were, without doubt, only a minute per-
centage of Judah’s population.
Such a small population thus limits the possibility of having separate “schools”
of thought or large competing sociological factions among the literati. It does not
exclude the possibility, of course, but does make it less likely. The demograph-
ics seem to point, instead, to a single group in which a number of ideas—some
old and some new, some complementary and some contradictory—were floated
and discussed. The data suggests a group that worked together closely, even if
they disagreed on some ideas, thus fostering a discourse that spanned at least
several generations, up to the major sociocultural and demographic shifts of the

24. Population in Judah during the Neo-Babylonian and Persian periods was anywhere from
20–35 percent of its Iron Age peak, but no higher. See summaries in Faust 2007, 36–41.
25. Lipschits (2005, 271) had suggested that Jerusalem’s peak population was around 3,000,
but more recently he has estimated between 1,000 and 1,500 (2009, 19–20).
26. Rollston’s study focuses on the Iron Age, but his observations concerning literacy in gen-
eral are applicable to the Persian period as well, when a high level of reading comprehension
was, without doubt, even less common (cf. Ben Zvi 2000a, 5–6; D. M. Carr 2005, 13–14).
16 k i ngsh i p a n d m e mor y i n a nc i e n t j u da h

Hellenistic period.27 In other words, given the demographics, evidence of com-

peting ideologies or theologies in the discourse does not likely point to multiple
and independent sociological groups or sects.28 Moreover, the discourse itself
points to a preference for multivocality within an individual group. Take the
book of Isaiah, for example. The book presents divergent views on a number of
key themes, including kingship (as I show in detail in Chapter 5). Thus, for the
book’s readership, its implied author (the prophet Isaiah) appears as a figure with
multiple and competing opinions, and as one whose ideas stand (and stood) in
paradoxical tension. Ben Sira, for example, in the early second century b.c.e.,
could read the book of Isaiah in toto as a product of the figure Isaiah, despite the
book’s divergent themes and interests (Sir 48:23–25).29 If the society envisaged
its past heroes, such as Isaiah, as multivocal personalities, then we should expect
the society itself to be multivocal and have a preference for multivocality. This is
an important point to keep in mind as I discuss and analyze kingship discourse
throughout this study.
Before moving on, I should also mention the important finds at Ramat
Raḥel—a large palatial and administrative complex, roughly four kilometers
south of Jerusalem (Lipschits et al. 2011; Lipschits et al. 2012). The site was
initially constructed sometime in the eighth or seventh century b.c.e., under
Assyrian imperial rule. From the start, it apparently functioned as a Judahite
governmental center, where agricultural commodities (mainly wine and olive
oil) were collected and distributed, perhaps under Assyrian oversight.30 The

27. Davies (2015, 309–10), for example, argues that the literati consisted of two major
constituencies—one with Benjaminite interests (i.e., from Mizpah), and another with
Judahite interests (i.e., from among the returnees from Babylon)—but he allows for these
constituencies to coexist collegially.
28. Notably, we may observe a similar phenomenon in late Persian and Hellenistic-era
Babylon, where we find different opinions in different narrative forms within the “active lifes-
pan” of the Babylonian library at Esagil: it seems that, for the literati there, remembering the
transition from Babylonian kingship to Persian rule presented a “hermeneutic problem” that
allowed for multiple and divergent interpretations of the past (Waerzeggers 2015, 209, 222).
On Babylonian literary culture in general, see Jursa 2011.
29. Sirach 48:24 includes references to both Isa 2:1 and 61:2–3, demonstrating that, by the
early second century b.c.e., the book was read as a unit and was attributed to the prophet
Isaiah (Paul 2012, 1).
30. In the 1990s, archaeologist Gabriel Barkay asserted that the site was a Judahite royal resi-
dence (cited in Vaughn 1999, 39–40). Later, Nadav Na’aman (2001) suggested instead that it
functioned as an Assyrian administration center. The most recent excavators of the site, who
conducted six seasons of excavation there (2005–2010), suggest that it was a Judahite admin-
istrative complex, but they do not rule out the possibility of Assyrian officials being present in
order to oversee imperial taxation (Lipschits et al. 2012, 67, 77).
Another random document with
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 Wherefore to stroy vs hee did all hee might.[971]

7.

His cursed sonne ensued his cruell path,

And kept my giltlesse cosin strayt in duraunce:
For whome my father hard entreated hath:
But liuing hopelesse of his line’s assuraunce,
Hee thought it best by pollitike procuraunce,
To priue[972] the king, and so restore his frend:
Which brought him selfe to an infamous end.[973]

8.

For whan king Henry,[974] of that name the fifte,

Had tane my father in his[975] conspiracy,[976]
Hee, from sir Edmund all the blame to shifte,
Was fayne to say the[977] French kinge’s ally[978]
Had hyred him this trayterous act to trye,
For which condemned shortly hee was slaine,
In helping right this was my father’s gaine.[979]

9.

Thus whan the linage of the Mortimers

Was made away by his[980] vsurping line,
Some hang’d, some slaine, some pined prisoners,
Because the crowne by right of lawe was mine,
They gan as fast against mee to repine,
In feare alwayes, least I should stur them to[981] strife,
For guylty hearts haue neuer quiet life.[982]

10.

Yet at the last, in Henrye’s dayes the sixt,

I was restored to my father’s landes,
Made duke of Yorke: where through my minde I fixt
To get the crowne and kingdome in my handes,
For ayde wherein I knit assured handes
With Neuil’s stocke, whose daughter was my make,
Who for no woe would euer mee forsake.[983]

11.

O Lord, what hap had I through mariage,

Fower goodly boyes in youth my wife shee bore
Right valiaunt[984] men and prudent for their age,
Such brethren[985] shee had and nephues [still] in store
As none had erst, nor any shall haue more:[986]
The earle of Salisbury, and his sonne of Warwicke,
Were matchlesse men[987] from Barbary to Barwicke.

12.

Through helpe of whome and fortune’s louely looke,

I vndertooke to claime my lawfull right,
And to abash such as against mee tooke,[988]
I raysed power at all poyntes prest to fight:
Of whome the chiefe, that chiefly bare mee spight,
Was Somerset the duke, whome to annoy
I alway sought, through spite, spite to destroy.[989]

13.

And maugre him, so choyse, lo, was my chaunce,

Yea though the quene, that all rulde, tooke his part,[990]
I twise bare rule[991] in Normandy and Fraunce,
And last lieuetenaunt in Ireland, where my hart
Found remedy for euery kinde of smart:
For through[992] the loue my doinges there did breede,
I had their helpe at all times in my neede.
 14.

This spitefull duke, his seely king[993] and queene,

With armed hoastes I thrise met in the fielde,
The first vnfought through treaty made betweene:
The second ioynde, wherein the king did yeelde,
The duke was slaine, the queene enforst to shyelde
Her selfe by flight: the third the queene did fight,
Where I was slaine being ouer matcht by might.[994]

15.

Before this last were other battayles three,

The first the earle of Salisbury led[995] alone,
And[996] fought on Bloreheath, and got[997] victory:
In the next was I and my kinsfolke[998] euery one:
But seeing our souldiers stale vnto our foen,
Wee warely brake our company on a night,
Dissolued our hoast, and tooke our selues to flight.[999]

16.

This boy and I, in Ireland did vs saue,

Mine eldest sonne, with Warwicke and his father,
To Calais got, whence, by the reade I gaue,
They came agayne to London, and did gather
An other hoast whereof I spake not[1000] rather:
And met our foes, slewe many a lord and knight,
And tooke the king, and draue the queene to flight.

17.

This done I came[1001] to England all in haste,

To make a[1002] claime vnto the realme and crowne:
And in the house while parliament did last,
I in the kinge’s seat boldly[1003] sate mee downe,
And claymed it, whereat[1004] the lordes did frowne,
But what for that? I did so well proceede,
That all at last confest it mine indeede.[1005]

18.

But sith the king had raigned now so long,[1006]

They would hee should continue till hee dyed,
And to the end, that than none did mee wrong,[1007]
Protector and heyre apparant they mee[1008] cryed:
But sith the queene and others this denyed,
I sped mee towardes the north, where then shee lay,
In minde by force to cause her to obay.[1009]

19.

Whereof shee warnd preparde a mighty powre,

And ere that mine were altogether ready,
Came swift to Sandale[1010] and besieged my bowre:
Where like a beast I was so rash and heady,
That out I would, there could be no remedy,
With scant fiue thousand souldiers, to assayle
Fowre times so many, encampt to most auayle.[1011]

20.

And so was slaine at first: and while my childe

Scarse twelue yeare old, sought secretly to parte,
That cruell Clifford, lord, nay lorell wylde,
While the infant[1012] wept, and prayed him rue his smart,
Knowing what hee was, with dagger cloue his heart:[1013]
This done, he came to th’camp where I lay dead,
Despoylde my corps and cut away my head.

21.
And when he had put a paper crowne thereon,
As a gawring stocke he sent it to the queene:[1014]
And shee for spite commaunded it anon
To be had to Yorke: where that it mought[1015] bee
seene,
They placed it where other traytors beene:
This mischiefe fortune did mee after death:
Such was my life, and such my losse of breath.[1016]

22.

Wherefore see, Baldwine, that thou set it forth,

To th’end the fraude of fortune may bee knowen,
That eke all princes well[1017] may way the worth
Of thinges, for which the seedes[1018] of warre be sowen:
No state so sure but soone is ouerthrowen:[1019]
No worldly good can counterpeyze the prise
Of halfe the paynes that may thereof arise.

23.

Far[1020] better it were to lose a piece of right,

Than lymmes and life in sousing[1021] for the same:
It is not force of friendship, nor of might,
But God that causeth thinges to fro or frame,[1022]
Not wit but lucke[1023] doth wield the winner’s game:
Wherefore if wee our follyes would refrayne,
Time would redresse all wronges, wee voyde of payne.

24.

Wherefore warne princes not to wade[1024] in war

For any cause, except the realme’s defence:[1025]
Theyr troublous titles are vnworthy far
The bloud, the life, the spoyle of innocence:
Of friendes, of foes,[1026] behold my foule[1027] expence,
And neuer the neare: best therefore tary time,
So right shall raigne, and quyet calme ech crime.[1028]
 [With that[1029] maister Ferrers shooke mee by the sleue, saying:
“Why how now man, do you forget your selfe? belike you minde our
matters very much.” “So I doe indeede,” sayd I,[1030] “for I dreame of
them.” And whan I had rehersed my dreame, wee had long talke
concerning the nature of dreames, which to stint, and to bring vs to
our matter agayne, thus sayd one of them: “I am glad it was your
chaunce to dreame of duke Richard, for it had bene pity to haue
ouerpassed him. And as concerning this lord Clyfford which so
cruely killed his sonne, I purpose to gieue you notes: who (as hee
well deserued) came shortly after to a sodayne death, and yet too
good for so cruell a tyrant. [For on Palmesonday next following,
being the xxix day[1031] of March, in the yeare of Christ a thousand
four hundreth threescore and one, this lord Clyfford with Henry Percy
the thirde earle of Northumberland, the earle of Westmerland, the
lord Dacres, the lord Welles, and other were slayn at Towton in
Yorkeshyre.][1032] Wherefore as you thought you saw and hearde
the headles duke speake through his necke, so now[1033] suppose
you see this lord Clyfford, all armed saue his head, with his brest
plate all gore bloud running from his throate wherein an headlesse
arrow sticketh through which wound hee sayth thus.”[1034]]
 How the Lorde Clyfford for his
straunge and abhominable cruelty
came to as straunge and sodayne a
death,[1035] Anno 1461.[1036]
1.

Open confession axeth open pennaunce,

And wisdome would a man his shame to hyde:[1037]
Yet sith forgieuenes commeth through repentaunce,
I thinke it best that men theyr crimes ascride,
For nought so secret but at length is spyed:
For couer fire, and it will neuer lynne
Till it breake forth, in like case shame and sinne.[1038]

2.

As for my selfe my faultes be out so playne,

And published [so] abroade[1039] in euery place,
That though I would I cannot hide a grayne.[1040]
All care is bootelesse in a curelesse case,
To learne by other’s griefe,[1041] some haue the grace:
And therefore, Baldwine, write my[1042] wretched fall,
The briefe whereof I briefly vtter shall.

3.

I am the same that[1043] slue duke Richard’s childe,

The louely babe that begged[1044] life with teares,
Whereby mine honour[1045] fouly I defilde:
Poore sely lambes the lion neuer teares,
The feeble mouse may ly among the beares,
But wrath of man, his rancour to requite,
Forgets all reason, ruth, and vertue[1046] quite.

4.

I meane by rancour the parentall[1047] wreke

Surnamde a vertue, as the vicious[1048] say,
But litle knowe the wicked[1049] what they speake,
In boldening vs[1050] our enmyes kin to slay:
To punish sinne is good, it is no nay:
They wreke not sinne, but merit wreke for sinne,
That wreke the father’s fault vpon[1051] his kinne.

5.

Because my father lord Iohn Clyfford, dyed,

Slayne at S. Albane’s, in his prince’s ayde,
Agaynst the duke my heart for malice fryed,
So that I could from wreck no way bee stayed,
But to auenge my father’s death, assayde
All meanes I might the duke of Yorke t’annoy,[1052]
And all his kin and friendes to kill and stroy.[1053]

6.

This made mee with my bloudy[1054] dagger wound

His guiltlesse sonne, that neuer agaynst mee storde:
His father’s body lying dead on ground
To pearce with speare, eke with my cruell sworde,
To part his necke, and with his head to bourd
Enuested with a royall paper[1055] crowne,
From place to place to beare it vp and downe.[1056]

7.
But cruelty[1057] can neuer scape the scourge
Of shame, of horror, or of sodayne death:[1058]
Repentaunce selfe, that other sinnes may pourge,
Doth fly from this, so sore the soule it slayeth:
Despayre dissolues the tyraunt’s bitter[1059] breath:
For sodayn vengeaunce sodaynly alightes
On cruell deedes,[1060] to quite theyr cruell spights.
[1061]

8.

This finde I true, for as I lay in stale,

To fight with[1062] duke Richard’s eldest son,
I was destroyde not far[1063] from Dintingdale,
For as I would my gorget haue vndon
To euent[1064] the heat that had mee nigh vndone,
An headles arrow strake mee through the throte,
Where through my soule forsooke his fylthy cote.[1065]

9.

Was this a chaunce? no sure, God’s iust awarde,

Wherein due[1066] iustice playnly doth appeare:
An headlesse arrow payde mee my rewarde:[1067]
For heading Richard lying on his[1068] bere,
And as I would his childe in no wise heare,
So sodayne death bereft my tongue the power
To aske for pardon at my dying[1069] hower.

10.

Wherefore, good Baldwine, warne the[1070] bloudy sort,

To leaue theyr wrath, theyr[1071] rigour to refrayne:
Tell cruell judges horror is the port
Through which they sayle to shame[1072] and sodayn
payne:[1073]
Hell haleth[1074] tyrauntes downe to death amayne:
Was neuer yet, nor shal be cruell deede,
Left vnrewarded with as[1075] cruell meede.
 [Whan this tragedy was ended: “O Lord,” sayd[1076] another,
“how horrible a thing is diuision in a realme, to how many mischiefes
is it the mother, what vice is not therby kindled, what vertue left
vnquenched? for what was the cause of the duke of Yorke’s death,
and of the cruelty of this Clyfford, saue[1077] the variaunce betwene
king Henry and the house of Yorke? which at length, besides millions
of the commons, brought to destruction all the[1078] nobility. For
Edward the duke’s eldest son immediately after his[1079] father was
slayn, through help of the Neuills, gaue the king a battayle, whereat,
besides this Clyfford, and xxxvi thousand other souldiers, were slain
theyr captaynes, the earles[1080] of Northumberland and
Westmerland, with the lordes Dacres and Welles: the[1081] winning
of which fielde brought Edward to the crowne, and the losse draue
king Henry and his wife into Scotland. But as few raignes begin
without bloud, so king Edward to keepe order,[1082] caused Thomas
Courtney earle of Deuonshyre, and Iohn Veer earle of Oxeforde, and
Aubrey Veer eldest sonne to the sayd earle, with diuers[1083] other
his enemies,[1084] to bee attaynted and put to death. And shortly
after he[1085] did execution vpon the duke of Somerset, and the
lordes Hungerford and Rosse, whom he toke prisoners at Exham
fielde. For thither they came with[1086] king Henry out of Scotland,
with an army of Scottes, and fought a battayle, which was lost, and
the most[1087] part of them slayn.[1088] And because these are all
noble men, I will leaue them to Baldwine’s discretion. But seyng the
earle of Worcester was the chiefe instrument whom king Edward
vsed as well in these men’s matters as in like bloudy affayres,
because he should not be forgotten, yee shall here what I haue
noted concerning his tragedy.”[1089]]
The infamovs end of the Lord Tiptoft
Earle of Worcester, for cruelly
executing his Prince’s butcherly
commaundementes, An. 1470.[1090]
1.

The glorious man is not so loth to lurke,

As the infamous glad to lye vnknowen:
Which makes mee, Baldwine, disalow thy worke,
Where prince’s faultes so openly be blowen:
I speake not this alonly for mine owne,
Which were my prince’s (if that they were any)
But for my peeres, in nombre very many.

2.

Or might report vprightly vse her tong,

It would lesse greue vs to augment the matter,
But suer I am thou shalt be forst among,
To frayne the truth the liuing for to flatter,
And otherwhiles in poyntes vnknowen to smatter:
For time neuer was, nor neuer[1091] I thinke shalbe
That truth vnshent should speake in all thinges free.

3.

This doth appeare (I dare say) by my story,

Which diuers writers diuersly declare:
But story writers ought for neyther glory,
Feare, nor fauour, truth of thinges to spare?
But still it fares as alway it did fare,
Affections, feare, or doubts that dayly brue,
Doe cause that stories neuer can be true.[1092]

4.

Unfruitfull Fabian followed the face

Of tyme and dedes, but let the causes slip:
Which Hall hath added, but with double grace,[1093]
For feare I thinke lest trouble might him trip:
“For this or that,” sayeth he, “he felt the whip:”
Thus[1094] story wryters leaue the causes out,
Or so rehearse them as they were in dout.[1095]

5.

But seing causes are the chiefest thinges

That should be noted of the story wryters,
That men may learne what endes all causes bringes,
They be vnworthy the[1096] name of chroniclers
That leaue them cleane out of theyr registers,
Or doubtfully report them: for the fruite
Of reading storyes standeth in the suite.

6.

And therefore, Baldwine, eyther speake vpright[1097]

Of our affayres, or touch them not at all:
As for my selfe I way all thinges so light,
That nought I passe how men report my fall:
The truth whereof yet playnly shew I shall,
That thou mayst write and others thereby rede,
What thinges I did whereof they should take heede.

7.

Thou hast heard of[1098] Tiptoft’s earles of Worcester,

I am that lord that liu’d in Edwarde’s days
The fourth, and was his friend and counsaylour,
And butcher to, as common rumor sayes:
But people’s voyce is neyther shame nor prayse,
For whom they would aliue deuoure to day,
To morow dead they will[1099] worship what they may.

8.

But though the people’s verdit go by chaunce,

Yet was there cause to call mee as they did:
For I, enforst by meane of gouernaunce,
Did execute what euer[1100] my king did bid,
From blame herein my selfe I cannot rid:
But fye vpon the wretched state, that must
Defame it selfe, to serue the prince’s lust.

9.

The cheifest crime wherewith men doe me charge,

Is death of th’[1101] earle of Desmund’s noble sonnes,
Of which the kinge’s charge doth me clere discharge,
By strayt commaundement and iniunctions:
Th’effect whereof so rigorously runnes,
That eyther I must procure to see them dead,
Or for contempt as a traytour loose my head.[1102]

10.

What would mine enemies[1103] doe in such a case,

Obay the king or proper death procure?
They may well say theyr fancy for a face,
But life is sweete, and loue hard to recure:
They would haue done as I did, I am sure,
For seldom will a welthy man at ease
For other’s cause his prince in ought displease.
 11.

How much lesse I, which was lieuetenaunt than

In th’[1104] Irish isle, preferred by the king:
But who for loue or dread of any man,
Consents t’[1105] accomplish any wicked thing,
Although chiefe fault thereof from other spring,
Shall not escape God’s vengeance for his deede,
Who scuseth none that dare doe ill for drede.

12.

This in my king and mee may well appeare,

Which for our faultes did not escape the scourge:
For whan wee thought our state most sure and clere,
The wynd of Warwicke blew vp such a sourge,
As from the realme and crowne the king did pourge,
And mee both from mine office,[1106] friendes, and
wife,
From good report, from honest death and life.

13.

For the earle of Warwicke, through a cancarde

grudge[1107]
Which to king Edward causelesse hee did beare,
Out of his realme by force did make him trudge,
And set king Henry agayne vpon his chaire:
And then all such as Edwarde’s louers were,
As traytours tane were greuously opprest,
But chiefly I, because I lou’d him best.

14.

And, for[1108] my goods and liuinges were not small,

The gapers for them bare[1109] the world in hand
For ten yeares space, that I was cause of all
The executions done[1110] within the land:
For this did such as did not vnderstand
Mine enmies drift, thinke all reportes were true:
And so did[1111] hate mee worse then any Jewe.

15.

For seldom shall a ruler lose his life,

Before false rumors openly be spred:
Wherby this prouerbe is as true as rife,
That ruler’s rumors hunt about a head,
Frowne fortune once, all good report is fled:
For present shew doth make the mayny blind,
And such as see dare not disclose their minde.

16.

Through this was I king Edward’s butcher named,

And bare the shame of all his cruell deedes:
I cleare me not, I worthely was blamed,
Though force was such I must obay him needes:
With hiest rulers seldome well it speedes,
For they be euer nerest to the nyp,
And fault who shall, for all feele they the whip.

17.

For whan I was by parliament attaynted,

King Edward’s euils all were counted mine:
No truth auayled, so lies were faste and painted,
Which made the people at my life, repine,
Crying, “Crucifige, kill that butcher’s lyne:”
That when I should haue gone to Blockham feast,
I could not passe, so sore they one me preast.

18.

And had not bene the officers so strong,

I thinke they would haue eaten[1112] me aliue,
Howbeit, hardly haled from the throng,
I was in the flete fast shrouded by the shriue:
Thus one daye’s life theyr malice did mee gieue,
Which whan they knew, for spite the next day after
They kept them calme, so suffered I the slaughter.

19.

Now tell mee, Baldwine, what fault dost thou finde

In mee, that iustly should such death deserue?
None sure except desire of honour blinde,
Which made mee seeke in offices to serue:
What minde so good that honours make not swerue?
So mayst thou see it only was my state
That caus’d my death, and brought mee so in hate.

20.

Warne therfore all men wisely to beware,

What offices they enterprise to beare:
The hiest alway most maligned are,
Of people’s grudge, and prince’s hate in feare.
For prince’s faults his faultors all men teare:
Which to auoyde, let none such office take,
Saue he that can for right his prince forsake.
 [This earle’s[1113] tragedy was not so soone finished, but one of
the company had prouided for another of a notable person, lord
Tiptoft’s chiefe enemy: concerning whom hee sayd: “Lord God what
trust is there in worldly chaunces? what stay in any prosperity? for
see the earle of Warwicke which caused the earle of Worcester to be
apprehended, attainted, and put to deth, triumphing with his old
imprisoned and new vnprisoned prince, king Henry, was by and by
after, and his brother with him, slayn at Barnet field by king Edward,
whom hee had before time damaged diuers wayes. As first by his
friendes at Banbury fielde, where to reuenge the death of his cosin
Henry[1114] Neuill, syr Iohn Coniers, and Iohn Clappam, his
seruauntes, slue fiue thousand Welshmen, and beheaded theyr
captaynes, the earle of Pembroke and syr Richard Harbert his
brother, after they were yeelded prisoners: of whom syr Richard
Harbert was the tallest gentilman both of his person and handes that
euer I read or heard of. At which time also, Robin of Ridsdale,[1115] a
rebell of the earle of Warwicke’s raysing, tooke the earle Riuers, king
Edwarde’s wiue’s father, and his sonne Iohn, at his manour of
Grafton, and carried them to Northampton, and there without cause
or proces beheaded them. Which spites to requite, king Edward
caused the lord Stafford of Sowthwike, one of Warwicke’s chiefe
frendes, to be taken at Brent march, and headed at Bridgewater.
This caused the earle shortly to raise his power, to encounter the
king which came against him with an army, beside Warwicke at
Wolney, where hee wan the field, tooke the king prisoner, and kept
him a while in Yorkeshire in Middleham castle: whence (as some
say) hee released him againe, but other thinke hee corrupted hys
keepers and so escaped. Then through the lords the matter was
taken vppe betweene them, and they brought to talke togeather, but
because they could not agree, the earle araised a new army,
whereof he made captayn the lord Welles’ sonne, which broile king
Edward minding to appease by pollicy, fouly distained his honour,
committing periury: for hee sent for the lord Welles and his brother
sir Thomas Dymocke, vnder safe conduite promising them vpon his
fayth to keepe them harmelesse. But after, because the lord Welles’
sonne would not dissolue his army, beheaded them both and went
with his power into Lincolnshire and there fought with sir Robert
Welles, and slewe ten thousand of his souldiers (yet ran they away
so fast, that casting of their clothes for the more speede, caused it to
bee called Lose coate fielde) and tooke sir Robert and other, and put
them to death in the same place. This misfortune forced the earle of
Warwicke to saile into Fraunce where hee was entertained of the
king a while, and at last with such poore helpe as hee procured there
of duke Rainer and other, hee came into England againe, and
encreased such a power in king Henrie’s name, that as the lord
Typtofte sayd in his tragedy, king Edward vnable to abide him, was
faine to flie ouer the washes in Lincolnshire to get a ship to saile out
of his kingdome to his brother in lawe the duke of Burgoine. So was
king Henry restored againe to his[1116] kingdome. All these despites
and troubles the earle wrought against king Edward. But Henry was
so infortunate that ere halfe a yeare was expired, king Edward came
backe againe, and enprisoned him and gaue the earle a fielde,
wherein hee slewe both him and his brother. I haue recounted thus
much before hand for the better opening of the story, which, if it
should haue beene spoken in his tragedy, would rather haue made a
volume then a pamphlete. For I entend onely to say in the tragedy,
what I haue noted in the earle of Warwicke’s person, wishing that
these other noble men, whome I haue by the way touched, should
not bee forgotten. And therefore imagine that you see this earle lying
with his brother in Paule’s church[1117] in his coate armoure, with
such a face and countinaunce as he beareth in portraiture ouer the
dore in Paule’s, at the going down to Iesus chappell from the south
end of the quier stayres, and saying as followeth.”]