This emphasis on difference—and the role of ethnographic writing in crafting difference—is well understood by scholars. What is more interesting for the purposes of this study is the emphasis on “violent”—and this seems to be largely an invention of the Romans, and in particular, of the Romans of the late first and early second centuries.12 While Rome had been in contact, in some capacity or another, with the preceding Greco-Macedonian Ptolemaic monarchy since the third century B.C., it does not seem that it ever took a particular interest in generating detailed knowledge of the peoples of Egypt.13 It is not until the age of Augustus that we have a serious description of Egypt, namely, in the seventeenth and final book of Strabo of Amaseia’s Geography. Strikingly, Strabo is largely neutral on the character of Egyptians, and is in some ways positive (with the exception of a textually problematic passage in which he quotes Polybius).14 If anything, the criticism he levels at Egypt is at the level of the Ptolemaic monarchy, which he presents as degenerate and incapable of governing. Their degeneracy led to Augustus’ intervention to “stop the drunken violence” (ἔπαυσε παροινουμένην) and replace the monarchs with “wise” men (σωφρόνων)—the prefects of Egypt (17.1.12). The Egyptians of the chora or countryside, however, are in Strabo’s account generally peaceful: it takes only three cohorts to maintain order, and even at that these cohorts are understaffed. The warlike nomads surrounding the Nile valley are themselves not a particular threat, either (17.1.53).
It is in the period between Strabo and Tacitus that it seems that the tradition of Egyptian violence comes to play a role in stock descriptions of the inhabitants of the province. The locus classicus is Tacitus’ Histories, describing the state of the provinces during the civil wars which followed the death of Nero:
Aegyptum copiasque, quibus coerceretur, iam inde a divo Augusto equites Romani obtinent loco regum: ita visum expedire, provinciam aditu difficilem, annonae fecundam, superstitione ac lascivia discordem et mobilem, insciam legum, ignaram magistratuum, domi retinere.
Egypt—along with the armies that control it—has since the time of Augustus been ruled by Roman knights who have the role of kings. This seemed a good policy to keep domestic control over a province that is hard to access, full of grain, fickle and hostile because of superstition and wantonness, ignorant of laws, and unacquainted with government.15
The string of complaints about Egyptian character is striking in its pointed delivery. The fact that it comes from a “serious” historian like Tacitus makes it, at first glance, damning to the Egyptians. Naphtali Lewis even elevated these discrete criticisms to chapter headings in his justly famous survey, Life in Egypt Under Roman Rule, a formidable example of the sort of history “against the grain” that I alluded to earlier. But there is a danger in reading Tacitus in a wholly un-ironic manner here. The reference to kings is particularly telling: Tacitus knew well that the Roman equestrians walked a fine line between ruling like kings and being agents of the Emperor. Cornelius Gallus, the famous first prefect of Egypt, came too close to independence, denigrated the Emperor’s reputation, and lost his life. The prince Germanicus, alluded to earlier, riled the Emperor Tiberius when he visited Egypt in A.D. 19. And, as Benjamin Kelly has argued, Tacitus’ narrative of Germanicus’ visit to Egypt in the Annales is pregnant with doubt about the nature of government at Rome, with Egypt (in this case Pharaonic Egypt) again serving as a mirror for the development and trajectory of one-man rule at Rome.16
Outside of the framework of Tacitus’ overarching claims about the politics of kingship and governance, it remains to understand the insults to the Egyptians themselves. These are indeed part of an emerging pattern: the combination of strangeness (expressed here as religious fervor) and violence (inability to be governed) evident from the Histories of Tacitus can similarly be found in the work of his slightly younger contemporary, Juvenal, who combines both in his fifteenth Satire, and who focuses specifically on the inhabitants of the chora (the countryside, or rather, the entirety of Egypt excluding Alexandria). Here, the Egyptians not only worship strange monsters (portenta)—cats, dogs, fish, apes, birds, and crocodiles—they spend their time fighting over whose gods are best. This leads to implacable hatreds between villagers, in the case of this satire, between Ombo and Tentyra:
inter finitimos uetus atque antiqua simultas,
inmortale odium et numquam sanabile uulnus,
ardet adhuc Ombos et Tentura. summus utrimque
inde furor uolgo, quod numina uicinorum
odit uterque locus, cum solos credat habendos
esse deos quos ipse colit.
Between these neighbors, Ombo and Tentyra, there is an old and venerable grudge, an immortal hatred, a wound that cannot be healed, one that still burns. There is the greatest hatred of each people for the other, since each place hates the gods of the other one, since they think that the gods that they worship are the only ones that deserve to be worshiped.17
Accordingly, the members of each village spend their time assaulting their neighbors on feast days: while their neighbors drunkenly revel (since the Egyptians, according to Juvenal, are particularly adept at this), the opposing village sneaks in and attacks. Noses get broken, cheeks scratched to the bone, eyes lacerated. But the fun of inter-village brawling could potentially be dismissed, were it enough to satisfy the malefactors. It was not:
terga fugae celeri praestant instantibus Ombis
qui uicina colunt umbrosae Tentura palmae.
labitur hic quidam nimia formidine cursum
praecipitans capiturque. ast illum in plurima sectum
frusta et particulas, ut multis mortuus unus
sufficeret, totum corrosis ossibus edit
uictrix turba, nec ardenti decoxit aeno
aut ueribus, longum usque adeo tardumque putauit
expectare focos, contenta cadauere crudo.
Those who inhabit neighboring Tentyra with its shady palm trees turn back, fleeing quickly from the charging Ombites; but one of them, running too fast and afraid, slips, falls, and is captured. He is sliced into a multitude of bits and pieces, so that one corpse will serve many. The victorious crowd devoured the whole thing, gnawing down even his bones—they didn’t cook him down in a stew pot, or even make kebabs of him, thinking it too long even to wait for a fire. Instead, they were happy with just his raw corpse.18
Conflict over strange gods that are not even gods leads to the joy of pointless violence, which even then does not satisfy until it ends in an orgy of cannibalism. Devouring enemies raw, of course, involves violating two basic elements of humanity: violation of the taboo on cannibalism, but also the rejection of minimally dignified modes of preparation (cooking).19 In this, the Egyptians are worse than the other uncivilized members of the Empire as a whole, who are at least capable of being taught civilized habits.20
Satire is meant to be funny, and this one undoubtedly is. Going farther than that, however, is perilous. It is unclear, to begin with, whether Juvenal’s poem is a hateful slander or a learned joke (or both): Ombo and Tentyra are not neighbors, which may be a sign that the poet speaks tongue-in-cheek. Divining any sort of truth about Juvenal and his beliefs (or the beliefs of those he satirizes) from his poetic persona is a fraught exercise.21 But bracketing the question of belief, there is nevertheless a commonality between Tacitus’ characterization of the Egyptians and Juvenal’s abuse: the Egyptians are violent and irascible, hard to control. They are crazed about religion. They are hard to assimilate. Moreover, they have no interest