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 OXFORD WORLD’S CLASSICS

THE LIBRARY, BOOKS 16–20

Diodorus Siculus (Diodorus of Sicily) lived and worked in the first century bce,
spending much of his life in Rome. He entitled his historical work The Library
because he intended it to be a ‘one-stop shop’ for historical information, from
mythological times until 60 bce, stopping just short of the Gallic campaigns of
Julius Caesar. The Library was divided into forty books, of which fifteen survive: 1–
5, and 11–20. All that remains of the rest are fragments and summaries. Books
11–20 contain the only continuous narrative from a Greek historian that covers all
of the Classical and Early Hellenistic periods, from 480 until 302. The work is
divided by years, and for each year that he covered, Diodorus tried to include
information from every part of the known world; in fact, however, his focus is
particularly on the Greeks.
Robin Waterfield is a writer, living in Greece. His previous translations for Oxford
World’s Classics include Plato’s Republic and five other editions of Plato’s
dialogues, Aristotle’s Physics and The Art of Rhetoric, Demosthenes’ Selected
Speeches, Herodotus’ Histories, three volumes of Plutarch’s Lives, two editions of
Euripides’ plays, Xenophon’s The Expedition of Cyrus, and The First Philosophers:
The Presocratics and the Sophists.
 OXFORD WORLD’S CLASSICS

For over 100 years Oxford World’s Classics have brought

readers closer to the world’s great literature. Now with over
700 titles—from the 4,000-year-old myths of Mesopotamia to the
twentieth century’s greatest novels—the series makes available
lesser-known as well as celebrated writing.
The pocket-sized hardbacks of the early years contained
introductions by Virginia Woolf, T. S. Eliot, Graham Greene,
and other literary figures which enriched the experience of reading.
Today the series is recognized for its fine scholarship and
reliability in texts that span world literature, drama and poetry,
religion, philosophy and politics. Each edition includes perceptive
commentary and essential background information to meet the
changing needs of readers.
 OXFORD WORLD’S CLASSICS

DIODORUS OF SICILY

The Library, Books 16–20

Philip II, Alexander the Great, and the
Successors

Translated, with Introduction and Notes by

ROBIN WATERFIELD
 Great Clarendon Street, Oxford, ox2 6dp, United Kingdom
Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford. It furthers the
University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education by publishing
worldwide. Oxford is a registered trade mark of Oxford University Press in the UK and in
certain other countries
© Robin Waterfield 2019
The moral rights of the author have been asserted
First published as an Oxford World’s Classics paperback 2019
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You must not circulate this work in any other form and you must impose this same
condition on any acquirer
Published in the United States of America by Oxford University Press
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British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Data available
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018968362
ISBN 978–0–19–875988–1
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Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, Elcograf S.p.A.
To the memory of Peter Bruce Waterfield (1924–2018) and Janice
Hope Boyles (1939–2018)
 CONTENTS

Preface
Introduction
Select Bibliography
Maps
Synopsis of Books 16–20
THE LIBRARY

Book 16
Book 17
Book 18
Book 19
Book 20

Explanatory Notes
Textual Notes
Glossary
Appendix 1: Diodorus’ Sources for Books 16–20
Appendix 2: Roman Consuls of Books 16–20
Index of Proper Names
 PREFACE

The Greek text taken as the basis for this translation is the Teubner
edition: Diodorus: Bibliotheca Historica, vols 4 and 5 (both published
in 1906), edited by C. Fischer on the basis of original recensions by
I. Bekker and L. Dindorf. The relevant volumes of the Loeb Diodorus
are also useful: Diodorus Siculus, Library of History, Books 15.20–
16.65 (ed. and trans. C. Sherman, 1952); Diodorus Siculus, Library
of History, Books 16.66–17 (ed. and trans. C. Welles, 1963);
Diodorus Siculus, Library of History, Books 18–19.65 (ed. and trans.
R. Geer, 1947); and Diodorus Siculus, Library of History, Books
19.66–20 (ed. and trans. R. Geer, 1954). Books 16–19, but
unfortunately not yet Book 20, have also been published in the Budé
series, with facing French translation and excellent introductions and
notes: Diodore de Sicile, Bibliothèque Historique, Livre XVI (ed. and
trans. D. Gaillard-Goukowsky and P. Goukowsky, 2016); Diodore de
Sicile, Bibliothèque Historique, Livre XVII (ed. and trans. P.
Goukowsky, 1976); Diodore de Sicile, Bibliothèque Historique, Livre
XVIII (ed. and trans. P. Goukowsky, 1978); Diodore de Sicile,
Bibliothèque Historique, Livre XIX (ed. and trans. F. Bizière, 1975).
All deviations from the Teubner text have been marked in the
translation with an obelus, which refers the interested reader to a
note in the Textual Notes section at the back of the book (pp. 529–
33). An asterisk in the text means that there is a note on that
passage in the Explanatory Notes (pp. 425–528).
I would like to thank Richard Berthold, Dexter Hoyos, and Bill
Murray for answering questions of detail, and especially Lisa Hau for
improving the Introduction. Diodorus is a critical source for much
ancient Greek history, and I am very grateful to Oxford University
Press, in the person of Luciana O’Flaherty, for allowing a degree of
annotation that will help to make this translation more useful to
readers both lay and professional. Nevertheless, the notes fall well
short of a complete historical commentary. I have restricted them to
points that required immediate elucidation, and have listed in the
bibliography enough works for an interested reader to gain a sense
of the complete history of the period.
 INTRODUCTION

A huge amount of ancient history can be recovered only with the help
of Diodorus of Sicily, who wrote in the first century bce. He is our
main source not just for less mainstream events that other historians
ignored, but for central aspects of ancient Greek history: the history
of Sicily, the career of Philip II of Macedon, and the struggles of the
Successors following the death of Alexander the Great. And he is
always to be consulted on every other period as well; he is, for
instance, the earliest surviving historian by over a hundred years to
cover the career of Alexander the Great. He importantly supplements
Thucydides on the fifty years preceding the outbreak of the
Peloponnesian War in 431, and often gives different versions of
Roman history from the usual historians, such as Livy. Every page of
The Library contains information that we would not otherwise know,
and the loss of much of it is lamentable.
Almost all we know about Diodorus’ life is what can be gleaned
from The Library itself. He was born in Agyrium in Sicily (1.4.4), a
prosperous town at the time of his birth, and one of the older Greek
settlements in the interior of Sicily, rather than on the coastline. By
coincidence, of only two inscriptions that are known to have survived
from this town, one is a tomb marker for a ‘Diodorus, the son of
Apollonius’.1 Diodorus is not an uncommon name, so we cannot be
certain that this (undated) inscription refers to our Diodorus, but it is
a curious coincidence.2
We cannot be sure of the years of his birth and death, but there
are clues in his work that allow us to home in on them. At 16.7.1 he
says: ‘But eventually, after Caesar had expelled the people of
Tauromenium from their homeland, it was made the site of a Roman
colony. This happened in my own lifetime.’ This colonization probably
took place in 36 bce. Octavian (the ‘Caesar’ referred to here) held a
grudge against Tauromenium, which had refused to surrender to him
earlier that year, in the course of his war against Sextus Pompey,
and the historian Cassius Dio says that Octavian punished a number
of Sicilian cities at the end of this campaign (Roman History
49.12.5). That is the latest event mentioned by Diodorus. At 12.26.1
he refers to the Rostra (public speaker’s platform) which stood ‘in
those days’ in front of the Senate-house in Rome. Since it was
removed by Julius Caesar in 45 bce, that bit of Book 12 was written
after then. Book 37.27 refers to Caesar’s refoundation of Corinth in
44, and at 16.70.6 Diodorus refers to the blanket conferral of Roman
citizenship on the Sicilian Greeks, which also happened in that year.
He several times alludes to Julius Caesar’s deification, an honour
that was first granted in 48 bce (1.4.7; 4.19.2–3; 5.21.2; 5.25.4;
32.27.1).
He cannot have started writing earlier than the mid-40s,3 because
(see below) his original intention was to take the work down to 46
bce, choosing this end-point perhaps because Julius Caesar had by
then conquered his internal enemies and pacified Rome’s external
enemies, so that for the first time for decades the world seemed to
be at peace. Nevertheless, he began his research much earlier. He
was on a research trip to Egypt during the 180th Olympiad, 60/59–
57/6 bce (1.44.1; 1.83.9; 3.11.3; 3.38.1; 17.52.6). He mentions at
1.83.5–9 that in the course of this trip he witnessed an Egyptian
mob force the death penalty on a Roman official for his accidental
killing of a sacred cat, despite their fear of Rome and despite the
fact that ‘King Ptolemy had not yet been officially recognized as a
friend of Rome’. The king at the time was Ptolemy XI, and his reign
was recognized by the Romans in 59 bce. At the time of Diodorus’
visit, Macedonian rule of Egypt had lasted for 276 years (1.44.4).
Since he dated the Macedonian takeover of Egypt to 331 (17.49), he
is talking about 55—a minor, but not untypical, lapse in his
arithmetic (see e.g. 17.17.4, 19.27.1, 20.2.3). Presumably, he spent
at least some of his time working in the famous library of
Alexandria,4 or as much of it as an outsider was allowed into; at any
rate, at 3.38.1 he refers to ‘royal records’ that he consulted in
Alexandria.
 The sentence in 1.44.4 suggests also that at the time of writing,
Diodorus was unaware of the end of the Ptolemaic dynasty of Egypt.
As far as he was concerned, Macedonian rule of Egypt was still
ongoing; if he had known about the fall of the regime in Egypt, he
would have mentioned it. Its end came in 30 bce, when the last
Ptolemy, Cleopatra VII (the famous Cleopatra), committed suicide.
So he was either unaware of this fact, or did not bother to go back
and revise this statement in his first book. Assuming the former
option, and given the reference to the colonization of Tauromenium
in 36, we can say that the work was published some time between
35 and 30 bce.
As was commonly the way in the ancient world, however, a
certain amount of ‘publication’ had already taken place. At the
beginning of the whole work, as part of the general preface that was
written after he had completed the entire work, he mentions the
possibility that some of the books that make it up might be
‘mutilated’ by being pirated or privately copied (1.5.2), and at the
very end (40.8) he complains that, indeed, some of his work had got
into circulation before the work as a whole had been completed and
properly published.5 In fact, at 1.4.6 he says, oddly, that although
the work is complete, it has not yet been published, which raises the
possibility that Diodorus himself never published the work, and never
got around to revising it before his death; otherwise, he would
presumably have removed this statement from the published book.
There are a lot of easily correctible mistakes in The Library, as we
shall see, and the idea that it remained unrevised is an attractive
one.6 Be that as it may, we can say, with some assurance, that
Diodorus was researching and writing from the mid-60s to the mid-
30s bce, and this chimes with his own statement (1.4.1) that the
work took him thirty years.7 As a result of all this we might guess
that he was born c.95 and died c.30 bce.
Despite the impoverishment of Agyrium during his lifetime, as
chronicled by Cicero in his speeches against Verres, Diodorus must
have had sufficient wealth to choose a lengthy career as a writer,
and to have undertaken his research trips. He was upper-class
enough to mingle in Egypt with high society—priests and
ambassadors. It is perhaps not surprising, then, that he not
infrequently displays an anti-democratic bias, typical of the wealthy
elite of the Greek and Roman worlds (see e.g. 1.74.7; 18.18.8;
18.67.6; 19.1.5; 20.79.3).8 Some time after these trips, he settled in
Rome (as did many other intellectuals at the time), where there
were good libraries (1.4.2), and focused on library research.9
At 1.4.1 he claims to have visited much of Europe and Asia, but
this seems to be an exaggeration. He shows familiarity with places in
Sicily, naturally, but seems less certain about even southern Italy,
and the trip to Egypt is the only one he mentions. It makes sense to
think of him working primarily in the libraries of Sicily and Rome,
where he stayed ‘for a long time’ (1.4.3). But if Rome was important
for his research phase, it was less so when he began to put all of his
notes into order and write them up; perhaps he left Rome and
returned to his native Sicily.
We can infer a few other personal characteristics. His religious
morality was conventional, but he believed that the gods were
originally culturally important mortals who later became deified (e.g.
1.17.1–2; 1.22.2; 5.67.1).10 He had a magpie-like attraction for the
exotic and unusual. He was a misogynist, as is most clearly revealed
by the statement at 12.14.2 that it is better to expose oneself to the
perils of sea-travel than to those of a woman, and that therefore for
a man to marry twice is sheer lunacy. His praise of the constitutional
kingship of ancient Egypt in Book 1 suggests that he might have
been a monarchist. And, finally, we can safely say that he was hard-
working and determined, otherwise he would not have begun or
completed his great project.

Diodorus and Rome

The chances are that Diodorus’ attitude towards Rome was
ambivalent. His sojourn in Rome coincided with a period of
unprecedented political turmoil and violence, including the first and
second triumvirates, proscriptions, rioting and murder on the streets,
and two civil wars. Rome achieves no prominence in his account
until well into the third century. At 37.3, he describes the Romans of
his time as decadent, corrupted by imperial wealth,11 and at 32.4–5
and 32.26.2 he contrasts the decency of earlier Romans, which had
gained them an empire, with the terror tactics currently employed to
maintain the empire.12 His remarks, therefore, about how empires
are lost by unfair treatment of subjects are certainly meant to
contain a lesson for his contemporaries in Rome.
In his lifetime, much of his native Sicily was plundered by venial
Roman governors and fought over by its warring generals, and
Agyrium suffered in particular. While accepting the fact of Roman
rule, and even (necessarily) making the unification of the
Mediterranean world under Rome a major theme of The Library, he
avoids the customary effusive praise for Roman might and glory, and
his history may well contain a tacit lesson for Rome: that empires fall
as well as rise. Diodorus believed in some version of the theory of
the succession of empires (see note 29), and may have believed that
the Roman empire was not necessarily the last, the final end-point of
history, as many of his contemporaries believed or professed to
believe. In the first three books of The Library, Diodorus focused on
the ‘barbarian’ nations that Rome had not conquered, and there
were a lot of them, suggesting another limitation to Roman power.
He has high praise for certain Romans, especially Pompey the
Great (38–39.9–10, 38–39.20) and Julius Caesar (especially
32.27.3), but criticizes others (e.g. 38–39.8.1–4; 40.4). There is a
similar ambivalence as regards Rome’s enemies, who are often
portrayed as moral villains, as though it were the Romans’ duty to
subjugate them, but sometimes as men of honour (e.g. Arsaces and
Viriathus in Book 33). But Diodorus seems to have thought little of
the Romans collectively. He commends them only for their libraries,
for their military prowess, and for having driven tyrants out of Sicily
(1.4.2–3; 37.1; 19.1.5). Despite his long stay in Rome, he never
acquired citizenship,13 and does not seem to have gained a member
of the Roman elite as a patron (otherwise, his name would have
been Romanized, as a near contemporary, Diodorus of Lilybaeum in
Sicily, became Quintus Lutatius Diodorus). There is no evidence that
he belonged to one of the several literary circles that existed in
Rome at the time, which was the usual route for a provincial
intellectual to gain attention. Diodorus must have interacted with
Romans—not least in order to gain access to private libraries—but he
does not seem to have been taken up, as many other provincial
artists and intellectuals were. He seems to have remained somewhat
of an outsider in Rome.
But too much of Diodorus’ narrative of Roman history is lost for
us to be certain what his attitudes were towards the mistress of the
Mediterranean. We can infer what he thought about certain aspects
of Roman society at the time—that he approved of Julius Caesar’s
deification and thought that the Romans might benefit from a
properly tempered monarchy—but these do not add up to a
comprehensive stance on Rome as a whole. He certainly fell short of
being a direct critic of Rome, just as he seems not to have used his
writing as a platform for any other political stance, because we
would know if he had gone that far. Even without the survival of any
of his work, for instance, we know that Timagenes of Alexandria, a
later contemporary of Diodorus, used his history-writing to criticize
Rome and Augustus. It was expected that historians would use their
work to comment on contemporary affairs, yet Diodorus seems
largely to have avoided doing so. As far as our evidence goes, given
the parlous state of the last twenty books of The Library, Diodorus
comes across as a muted, apolitical historian. His Sicilian background
shows in the proportion of The Library that he devotes to Sicilian
affairs, but he is not otherwise a spokesman for Sicily, let alone
Rome.

The Library
The title of Diodorus’ work is odd, and a novelty (later imitated by
others), but he was trying to capture its most important feature—
that he intended it to be in itself an entire library, a one-stop shop
for information about the history of the known world.14 As a library,
it naturally incorporated the work of many writers. It was, in other
words, a compendium of earlier historians’ work.
This is important, because it means we should not expect more
than Diodorus claims. He was not offering an original work of
history, but a compilation. That was what all ‘universal’ historians
offered; given the nature of their task, they had little choice. They
selected from their predecessors and compressed the material. They
could not carry out original research for the entirety of world history
up to their time. In fact, compilation, or reliance on tradition, was
the normal working method for all historians who dealt with the
remote past, inaccessible to autopsy or interviews with
eyewitnesses,15 and so far from discrediting Diodorus we should
commend him for the honesty implicit in his title.
The prefaces Diodorus composed for each book are probably
original or largely so, along with other non-narrative material,16 but
a lot of the rest is paraphrase of others’ work—shaped by Diodorus,
to be sure, but essentially paraphrase. We rarely have extant the
exact wording of the sources on which Diodorus drew, but when we
do it is clear that he rephrases and abbreviates, rather than coming
up with an original, new narrative; facts are taken over from his
sources, and even opinions, if they fit in with Diodorus’ own
opinions.17 At 31.10, for instance, he takes over more or less entirely
from Histories 29.21 Polybius’ reflections (by means of a quotation
from Demetrius of Phalerum) on the passing of the kingdom of
Macedon; Diodorus omits little more than Polybius’ claim to autopsy,
which of course he could not include. Diodorus was not a mere
copyist, as we shall see, but at times he drew heavily on his sources.
The Library occupied forty books, but only fifteen have survived
down to our day. The surviving books are 1–5 and 11–20; of the rest
only tatters remain. The first six books covered prehistory (history
prior to the Trojan War), and the geography and ethnography of the
known world, Greek and non-Greek; these first books were
organized by geography rather than chronology. The lost Books 7–10
would have whisked us from the Trojan War (the start of which was
dated by Diodorus to 1183 bce) to 481/0. Until the start of datable
history with the first Olympiad (776–773), Diodorus structured his
work by means of a web made up of generations, supposed
synchronicities between events in one part of the world and another,
and thalassocracies,18 but also local counting systems, such as the
lists of Spartan, Macedonian, Persian, and Argive kings, and
Athenian Archon lists.
Book 11 opens with the year 480/79, by which date Diodorus was
employing his familiar combination of three counting systems
(Olympiads, Athenian Archons, and Roman consuls), and we then
have continuous narrative—the only continuous history in Greek of
such a long stretch of time—year by year up until 302, the end of
Book 20. Like Books 6–10, Books 21–40 exist only in pitiful
fragments, paraphrases, and excerpts, but, even so, what remains of
The Library constitutes the largest surviving body of work from any
ancient Greek historian.19
The task Diodorus set himself—an ‘immense task’ (1.3.6)20 —was
to compile a universal history, a history of the entirety of the known
world from Creation down to his own day—which turned out to be
59 bce, the year of Julius Caesar’s first consulship and the start of his
Gallic campaign. As far as we can tell from the remains of Book 40,
the final book, he did indeed end at the year 60/59. The waters are
muddied, however, since he says three times that he will cover
Caesar’s Gallic campaigns, and especially his conquest of the British
Isles (3.38.2; 5.21.2; 5.22.1),21 which took place after 59, and he
also says at 1.5.1 that his work will end 730 years after the first
Olympiad, which should be 46 bce.
Probably, especially seeing that all these passages occur in early
books, his original intention was to take his history down to 46,22
thus including the Gallic campaigns, but at some point he changed
his mind and effectively eliminated Caesar from his work (but did not
get around to deleting from the text the statements promising a
later stopping point). He may have thought that Caesar, who is
mentioned a number of times in glowing terms, as we have seen,
deserved a history of his own. In these turbulent times, he may have
considered it dangerous (especially for a wealthy provincial) to write
about contemporary events; in the surviving books, he mentions
Octavian, the future emperor Augustus, who was at the heart of the
violent politics of Rome in the 30s, only once, and that is a negative
reference (16.7.1). His intention to end at 46 may have been
derailed by Caesar’s assassination in 44, which made the world
peace of 46 seem less of an ending than it had seemed before. For
whatever reasons, faced with the choice of either extending or
shortening his work, to find a more suitable end-point, he chose to
shorten it to 60/59, which, with the dominance of the First
Triumvirate, was effectively the last year of the Republic.23
Diodorus wanted his work to be useful, as we shall see. But
useful to whom? To Everyman—because everyone can be influenced
to be a better person (1.1.5) and many people enjoy reading history
(1.3.6)24—but primarily to future leaders, who were the ones whose
actions were writ large on the pages of history for all to see (and
therefore imitate or avoid), and who were the ones who, if improved
by the reading of history, would themselves become paradigms for
yet further generations. Given current geopolitics, however, future
leaders were bound to be Roman; most members of the Roman elite
were able to read Greek, and since Diodorus quite often uses Roman
history as a point of reference or comparison, he was certainly
assuming a Roman readership.25 His very choice of Roman consuls
as one of his year-counting systems points in the same direction. On
the other hand, since at 34–35.33 he explains what it takes for a
Roman general to be acclaimed imperator, something which elite
Romans already knew, and since he wrote in Greek, he was also
assuming a Greek-reading audience. Diodorus was hoping to attract
a very wide readership for The Library.

A Universal History
Diodorus’ intention was not just to write a universal history, one that
covered all the deeds of Greeks and non-Greeks alike from the
beginning of time, but to improve on his predecessors’ attempts to
do so. At 1.3.2–3, he says that, of those who had undertaken to
write universal histories, some had failed from a geographical
perspective and others from a chronological perspective. That is,
some had failed to incorporate the deeds of easterners (he was
perhaps thinking of Polybius, among others), others—such as
Ephorus (4.1.2–3)—had failed to incorporate the earliest myths and
legends, and yet others had started later or stopped earlier than
they might or should have. And it is true that universal historians
earlier than Diodorus had tended to start their histories where some
predecessor had finished (as Posidonius of Apamea carried on where
Polybius left off), without bothering to start all over again at the
beginning, and, for obvious reasons, had avoided the mythological
period. None of them, therefore, was a universal historian, strictly
speaking.26
Moreover, in addition to improving on his predecessors’ scope,
Diodorus planned to bring the whole work to completion in forty
books (papyrus rolls, much shorter than a ‘book’ in our terms).
Diodorus knew he would have to compress events and miss out a
lot, but he thought that the usefulness of his work would be
enhanced by brevity. Since universal histories are the most useful
kind, and since even those who professed to have written universal
histories failed to do so, Diodorus claimed to have written the only
truly useful history book. A competitive spirit, the desire to improve
on one’s peers and to be known for doing so, always prevailed
among writers in all genres of Greek literature.
To be fair to his predecessors, we should note that Diodorus was
in part the right person in the right place at the right time. Many of
his predecessors lived before the campaigns of Alexander had
opened up the non-Greek world and made a global perspective and
the history of non-Greek peoples more feasible; long contact with
the Persians in earlier centuries had gone some way towards
informing the Greeks of eastern peoples and places, but Alexander’s
conquest vastly accelerated the process.
Then again, the unification of Mediterranean history under the
Roman empire also made it easier for Diodorus to attempt a
universal history. He was contemporary with Pompey the Great’s
conquest of Spain, pacification of Asia Minor, and incorporation of
much of the former Seleucid empire under Rome in the 70s and 60s,
and it may well have been Pompey’s (and then Caesar’s) campaigns
that inspired him to write a universal history; at 40.4 he preserves a
boastful inscription of Pompey’s, listing the astonishing geographical
extent of his victories. It could only have been such campaigns that
allowed him to write (1.4.3) that Rome’s power extended to the
limits of the known world.
In short, the concept of universal history dovetailed perfectly with
Roman aspirations at the time. There was even a coin, issued in the
mid-70s, with the Roman people personified on the obverse, and on
the reverse a globe flanked by a sceptre and a rudder, signifying
Roman dominion of the world. Only a few decades later than
Diodorus, the historians Pompeius Trogus and Nicolaus of Damascus
composed universal histories, and Strabo tried to cover the whole
world in his Geography.27 Roman imperialism was arguably a
catalyst of global histories and encyclopedic literature.
This innovative idea of Diodorus’, to attempt a truly
comprehensive world history, including the age of myth, and the
relative brevity and accessibility of his work, guaranteed it a long
after-life. Not only was it immediately popular (otherwise it would
not have been pirated), but it was read and referred to by many
later writers, and at some point, as we can tell from a Byzantine
summary, someone even chose to extend it and take it down to the
death of the emperor Augustus.28
Inevitably, it became more popular as the decades rolled by and
the works on which Diodorus had based his history became harder
to find, or even lost. In fact, the popularity of The Library in
Byzantine times probably contributed to the process of the extinction
of the earlier historians. Diodorus’ single compendium was preferred
to the many originals, and as a result there was no demand for
scribes to reproduce the work of the latter. Then Christian writers
came to dominate the West, and they liked Diodorus’ moral streak,
as well as his linear chronology, which they could adapt for their own
purposes. Eusebius, for instance, the bishop of Caesarea in the early
fourth century, whose lost Chronicle was intended to show that the
march of historical events revealed God’s plan for the salvation of
the world, had nothing but the highest praise for Diodorus, despite
the fact that he was a pagan, calling him ‘a most distinguished
man’.29
However, it has to be said that we are not given the universal
history we were promised (at e.g. 1.3; 19.1.10). As the books
translated in this volume attest (and despite Diodorus’ choice to
make Roman consuls one of his three chronographic indicators),
Roman history was often relegated to a hasty paragraph or two at
the end of a year, containing little or nothing more than the kind of
sketchy information Diodorus found in an annalistic source; and
there is no Roman history at all in Books 17 and 18. He could have
done better, since a basic annalistic framework of the history of the
Early Republic had been laid down by Quintus Fabius Pictor, a Roman
historian writing in Greek, towards the end of the third century, and
Diodorus was aware of his work (7.5.4). His treatment of Rome
became more thorough in later books, as it had to, since Rome came
to dominate the Mediterranean, but otherwise it is inadequate. The
difficulty of researching even more far-flung places such as the
kingdoms of Bosporus or Bithynia may excuse the paucity of
information we receive about them. The Library ends up more a
history of the Greeks than a thoroughly universal history, but, even
so, there are more than a few years when we are given no history of
the Greek mainland.
The basic problem—apart from the fundamental impossibility of
‘giving a full account of all the events which have been handed down
to memory and occurred in the known regions of the inhabited
world’ (1.9.1)—seems to be that Diodorus found it easy to get
distracted. Book 17, for instance, is a good account of the career of
Alexander the Great (though with more thorough coverage of the
earlier stages than the later), but Diodorus has allowed his focus on
Alexander to push out events in the central Mediterranean
altogether, and much Greek history as well, unless it was relevant to
Alexander. Book 17 is a more unified product than any of the other
books—it forms a kind of chronologically organized monograph
about Alexander’s reign—and it is therefore easier to read, but it is
not universal history. The same notion of Diodorus’ distractibility can
also account for a certain patchiness of presentation: whereas Books
18 and 19 are a good blend of material from East and West, by Book
20 the affairs of the western Greeks in Diodorus’ native Sicily have
squeezed out quite a bit of material about the doings of the
Successors in the eastern Mediterranean. Diodorus was forced to
select his material and omit a great deal, but that in itself
undermines his grandiose claim to geographical as well as temporal
universality.

The Character of The Library

Above all, Diodorus wanted his work to be useful. This was a
standard claim of Greek historians, dating back as far as
Thucydides.30 Historiography was always a form of teaching.
Diodorus felt that, if he could encompass all world history within a
reasonable number of books, and if he could write it all down simply
and clearly, he would have written a useful book, because readers
would not have to go to multiple sources, each no more than a
monograph, and because he would provide a clear, connected,
sequential narrative (1.3.6–8; 16.1.1–2). This clarity and ease of
reference would enable readers to profit from the work more easily
than they would by reading other historians. One can even say that
Diodorus’ desire to be clear dictated the form of the work, because
he felt that clarity would be enhanced by a year-by-year account
(1.3.2, 1.3.8), with events expounded ‘topically’ (17.1.2)—that is,
with the account of events in one part of the world completed before
moving on to the next part of the world. He slightly qualifies this at
20.43.7, pointing out that a year-by-year account breaks up what
would otherwise be a sequential narrative of, say, a single war into
as many segments as there were years of warfare; but he still clearly
prefers his system as the one that is most likely to be helpful to
readers. Indeed, it is hard to think of an organizational system which
would more readily have allowed Diodorus to display so much
disparate information in an accessible fashion.
The reason history is a brilliant teacher, to Diodorus’ mind, is that
one can read about the successes and failures of others, and learn
from them, without having to suffer oneself (1.1.1–2; 1.1.4–5).31
The characters who appear on the historical stage are actors within
their particular dramas, but they are also moral examples for future
generations to emulate or avoid:
I shall mention certain men as exemplars, both because they deserve my
praise and for the good it does society, so that bad men may be deterred
from wicked impulses by the denunciations of history, and good men may
be inspired by the praise conferred by history’s everlasting glory to aspire to
high standards of conduct. (37.4; see also 15.1.1)
The mere recording by a historian of good and bad deeds deters
people from wickedness (1.1.5). It follows (1.3) that the more
complete a history is—that is, the more examples it offers of success
and failure and of good and bad deeds—the more its educational
value is enhanced, because among so many examples there will be
those that are useful for every situation in which an individual might
find himself. Hence Diodorus’ desire to be complete.
The particular usefulness imparted by a knowledge of history, and
delivered by those who write history, is moral guidance (1.1.5;
1.2.1–3).32 For Diodorus, as for many of his peers, moralizing was
one of the central roles of history-writing. Perhaps it was even the
central role. He nowhere says that the purpose of history-writing is
to preserve knowledge of past events for their own sake; the point is
to guide future generations into the paths of righteousness and to
alleviate distress. As he says at 18.59.6: ‘In a world of inconstancy
and change history has the power to remedy both the arrogance of
the fortunate and the misery of the unfortunate.’ At 1.2.2 we are told
that history is the ‘prophetess of truth’ and ‘the matrix of education’,
with the power ‘to endow men’s characters with noble integrity’.33
These are hifalutin assertions, but they are almost conventional
clichés in the context of contemporary historiography. They tell us
little about Diodorus himself, because all of his peers felt the same.
 History has these powers by itself, but sometimes the historian
has to bring out the moral lesson; that is, even if sometimes the
moral lesson is merely embedded within the narrative, at other times
the historian pauses for explicit comment in a digression or aside.
Like his predecessors, Diodorus was therefore inclined to select the
episodes he recounted, and to spin his account of them, to bring out
the lessons. He gives his readers the facts as he has been able to
uncover them, but he tends to linger over those which contained
useful moral lessons. In our books, for instance, more space is
allotted to the exploits of Thibron than one might have expected
(18.19–21) because of the great reversal of fortune he encountered,
and the same goes for the adventures of the imprisoned generals
(19.16).
A good example of the embedding of morally evaluative
terminology within the text is 19.11.4–7, where we are left in no
doubt how we are supposed to think of Olympias and Eurydice; at
other times, Diodorus might simply show that good men prosper
(e.g. Philip II at 16.1.4 and 16.64.3; Ptolemy at 18.28.4–6), while
bad men suffer (e.g. Tennes at 16.45.4). But explicit guidance by the
historian is not uncommon. At 11.3.1, for instance, Diodorus chooses
to name the Greeks who fought on the side of the Persians in 480,
‘in the hope that the shame here visited upon them may, by the
sheer force of its obloquy, deter any future traitors to the cause of
common freedom’ (trans. Green). An example from Books 16–20
occurs at 17.38.4–6, where Diodorus tells us in moral terms how to
assess one of Alexander’s acts. These are only a few examples, but
any reader of The Library will be struck by how often Diodorus
leaves her in no doubt about how he expects her to judge historical
events and people.
Diodorus was a traditional moralist. The virtues he valued were
courage, piety, justice, lawfulness, kindness, clemency, moderation,
and humility in the face of success (this last virtue is particularly
stressed). He subscribed to the belief that the gods would punish
wrongdoing and reward good people. Again, it was up to the
historian to bring this out where appropriate. The most sustained
case is his account of the fate of the Phocians who had committed
sacrilege by stealing the sacred treasures of Delphi (16.61–4). At
11.46.4, the arrogant behaviour of the Spartan regent Pausanias
after the end of the Persian Wars was responsible, according to
Diodorus, not only for Pausanias’ own downfall, but for damaging
Sparta as a whole, just as at 13.103.1–2 a miscarriage of justice in
Athens is said to be responsible for their later falling under a savage
oligarchy. Divine punishment often fits the crime perfectly, by
mirroring it, and there are good examples of this in our books:
16.64.2–3; 19.103.4–5; 20.65.2; 20.70; 20.101.2–3. Examples from
The Library could easily be multiplied, but the point is clear: thanks
to the gods, individuals get what they deserve.
However, a slight tension arises in this theoretical framework
because of Diodorus’ frequent reference to the power Fortune has
over human lives, and her fickleness. Demonstration of the power of
Fortune was certainly one of the principles according to which
Diodorus selected or spun his material, and as a result the gods
become somewhat downplayed as agents capable of affecting
human lives.
How could anyone with a sense of the inconstancy of human life fail to be
astounded by the way luck ebbs and flows one way and then the other? Or
how could he put such trust in the power he wields at a time of good
fortune that he would give himself airs as though he were not subject to
human frailty? Every person’s life seems to be controlled by some divine
helmsman, who makes it subject to cycles of alternating good and evil for
ever. What is strange, then, is not that unexpected things happen, but that
not everything that happens is unexpected. (18.59.5–6)
At 20.30.1, in one of his generalized statements about Fortune,
Diodorus says: ‘It would not be out of place to note here the
inconstancy of Fortune and the peculiar way in which men’s
achievements turn out contrary to expectations.’ Logically, this
means not just that bad men will be brought low, but even that
good men could be brought low, or that (as happened to the king of
Tyre at 17.47) a man might be raised up, or dashed down, without
having done much to deserve such a fate in moral terms. Fortune is
radically fickle; even ‘hopeless cases’ (20.70.2) can change under
her influence. If so, then, presumably, bad men might prosper. But,
if Fortune is so powerful, what happens to divine justice, which is
supposed to ensure that bad men do not prosper?
It seems to me that Diodorus’ thinking on this is not perfectly
consistent. When he attributes something to Fortune, it is often no
more than a way to say that a person met with bad or good luck—
with factors beyond his or her control. Where Fortune is more
thoroughly anthropomorphized, so that she can be proactive, she
rarely subverts the justice of the divine order, and in fact ‘Fortune’ is
often little more than a way to say ‘the divine’ or ‘the gods’. At
19.11.6–7, for instance, it is Fortune who sees that Olympias is
punished as she deserved. But there are occasional cases where
Fortune seems to act against divine justice. At 17.101.2 she lays low
a good man who was not deserving of such treatment. At 17.35.7
she is responsible for the rape of innocent women. At 17.46.2 it is
suggested that Fortune might be envious of a man’s success and
therefore see to his downfall—perhaps as she did Memnon at
17.29.4. So Diodorus has not fully made up his mind whether
Fortune is a colleague of the gods or such an independent agent
that she can even go against their wishes.
Apart from utility, a second and secondary intention of Diodorus
was to entertain his readers. This is a subsidiary purpose because it
is only meant to make the narrative more palatable and therefore
more easy to understand and profit from. Entertainment comes in
many forms in the pages of The Library—though there are many
who might say that he should have embellished his plain narrative
even more. Typical forms of entertainment are ethnographic asides,
curiosities, and portents (e.g. 16.26; 17.7.5–7; 17.41.7; 17.105.1–5;
17.107; 17.116; 19.33.2–4; 19.98–9; 20.14.6; 20.58.2–5); the
description of awesome structures (17.115; 18.26–7; 20.91.2–8);
and the vivid and even sensational presentation of scenes (e.g.
17.13; 17.35.5–7; 17.58.5; 17.69.2–9; 17.92; 18.31.2–5; 20.51.3–4;
20.72.2–5), for which he sometimes even underlines the vividness
by saying ‘the scene before a spectator’s eyes would have been . . .’
(17.25.4; 17.34.1; 19.7.2–4). Invariably, in these cases, the reader’s
responses are guided by Diodorus, when, for instance, he allows the
pathos of a scene to deliver the moral message. He relishes
surprises, reversals, and unusual events in themselves, but also
because they show the fickleness of Fortune and therefore suggest
the need to be humble in the face of success (e.g. 17.5.6; 17.28;
17.46.6–47; 17.86.3–6; 17.100–1; 17.103.7–8; 20.13.3–4;
20.25.4). 34

Many of these passages are examples of good writing. Analysis of

the text has shown that the style in which it is written is pretty
uniform throughout, and that it is the late Greek one would expect,
rather than the earlier Greek used by his sources.35 He was clearly
rewriting as he paraphrased, and this means that we can attribute
the good and bad points of style in the text to Diodorus himself. As
one reads him, one gets the impression that he was not a confident
writer, but he is always clear enough, and frequently very readable.
The ninth-century Ecumenical Patriarch of Constantinople, Photius,
summed up his style well: ‘His style is clear, unadorned, and
particularly suitable for history. He overuses neither Atticisms nor
archaisms, but neither does he descend to the level of everyday
language; he finds a happy medium between the two.’36
It is easy to detect his faults as a writer—a flatness of tone,
repeated formulaic phrases, the relentless emphasis on warfare—but
he is not uniformly dull or even plain. He knows, for instance, how to
use short bursts of direct speech for dramatic effect (16.43.4;
16.87.2; 17.54.4–5; 17.66.5; 18.60.6; 19.97.3–5), although he
largely eschewed the extended speeches beloved by most other
historians (20.1–2.2). He throws in the occasional rhetorical question
(e.g. 16.9.2; 18.59.5). His battle scenes—and battles loom large in
The Library—are often thrilling, if somewhat formulaic: battles are
invariably ‘tough’ or ‘hard-fought’ or ‘fierce’; the outcome often
hangs in the balance for a while, before Fortune, often using a single
individual as her instrument, decides the issue. He was very aware
that a work of literature should have what he calls ‘proportion’, by
which he seems to mean that the length of a piece of narrative
should reflect the importance of the events being narrated, and that
a writer should not indulge in long set pieces (in our books, see the
preface to Book 20, but then e.g. 1.9.4, 1.29.6, 1.41.10, 4.5.2, and
4.5.4). He likes neat, moralizing conclusions, such as ‘Persepolis had
exceeded all other cities in prosperity, and now to the same degree
it exceeded them all in misery’ (17.70.6), or ‘Iniquitous behaviour
may profit rulers because they can get away with it, but for ordinary
people, their subjects, it generally leads to disaster’ (19.48.4), or
‘For the common people never like it when things stay the same,
and every group that is not dominant finds change attractive’
(19.81.3). The Library is not a difficult read, and its plainness is
arguably not a fault in a historian.

Diodorus and His Sources37

It used to be the fashion to say that for long stretches of his work,
even whole books, Diodorus followed only a single source and used
him rather uncritically (so that much of Books 11–15, for instance,
might be considered a lengthy ‘fragment’ of Ephorus of Cyme). This
rather uncharitable view has given way in recent decades to the idea
that, for any stretch of his work, Diodorus relied on a variety of
sources (though often one main source) and created a patchwork
narrative out of them, exercising a degree of originality and
creativity in deciding what to include or exclude, in shaping the
material, and in imposing his moral concerns on it. The early books
are better examples of this than those translated in this volume,
because in the early books Diodorus was faced with a vast mass of
unorganized material from a great many sources, and had to work
harder to impose order on it.
Diodorus’ words at 3.11.2 are very telling: he distinguishes
Agatharchides of Cnidus, Artemidorus of Ephesus, and other
unnamed writers as more accurate than others who, he says, relied
on false reports or even made things up themselves. This shows not
only that he could approach his sources critically, but also that he
relied on more than one source—here Agatharchides, Artemidorus,
and the unnamed others. At 1.56.6 he says that he will record the
different views of historians ‘so that readers may judge the truth
with an open mind’. At 20.79.5 and 20.89.5, it is clear that he has
consulted Timaeus of Tauromenium along with several other sources
for Sicilian history.38 At 2.32 he goes so far as to give us two
different accounts of an episode, each from a different historian he
had consulted. He often refers to what ‘some [unnamed] historians
say’ (e.g. 16.56.7; 17.23.1; 17.65.5; 17.73.4; 17.75.3; 17.117.5;
20.13.1), and it would be sheer lack of charity to think that he took
even such phrases over unthinkingly from his sources.
Sometimes the joins between different sources are visible, thanks
to near contradictions. There are plenty of examples of this in the
books translated in this volume. The portrait of Philip II in Book 16 is
invariably highly positive, for instance, but once in a while, when he
is following another source (perhaps Theopompus of Chios), a
different picture emerges (e.g. 16.87.1). The most telling case is at
16.54.4, where we are lucky enough to have the alternate source on
which Diodorus was drawing—a famous speech by Demosthenes—
and we can see how Diodorus has been influenced by Demosthenes
to give a less than positive account of Philip, as a corrupter of men’s
morals, whereas otherwise one of the threads of the book is how
Philip was rewarded by the gods for his piety. Similarly, in Book 17,
Diodorus’ invariable praise of Alexander yields once in a while (e.g.
17.79–80; 17.84) to a less flattering portrait. Again, we see
indications that Diodorus did not thoroughly revise the work,
otherwise he would presumably have ironed out such contradictions.
At 16.14.3 and 16.30.1, Philomelus is said to have plundered the
sanctuary at Delphi, which is denied at 16.28.2 and 16.56.5. At
18.33.1, Diodorus says that news of Eumenes’ successes in Asia
Minor reached Perdiccas in Egypt, but at 18.37.1 he (correctly) says
that the news did not arrive in time. These are examples of Diodoran
carelessness (on which more below), but they also show that he was
not merely copying from a single source. In Book 18, praise of
Ptolemy occasionally (18.14.1; 18.28.5–6; 18.33.3; 18.34.2–4)
intrudes into a narrative that otherwise avoids such effusion. At
18.59.3 the commanders of the Silver Shields display considerable
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