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WHAT SORT OF A PERSON was Josephus in reality? Nothing written about him by contemporaries has survived, so we have to fall back on what he reveals in his books. Unfortunately, he was the sort of man who says a lot but who gives away very little indeed. Just like an actor playing to his audience, he was always too prone to write what he wanted readers to believe, and this depended on his mood. In The Jewish War he is Josephus the brave general and prophet sent by God, whereas in the Vita he is Josephus the shrewd statesman and benevolent governor of Galilee who never wanted war with Rome. It is all too easy for careful readers to find discrepancies and contradictions, boasting and exaggeration, even lies and untruths, in much of what he put on paper.
The title of this book is Jerusalem’s Traitor, and that, no doubt, was how the Zealots on the city walls saw that accursed Yossef who had gone over to the enemy. Yet from the start of the war, he had questioned the Jews’ ability to win it, and after experiencing firsthand the full, terrifying might of the Roman military machine at Jotapata, he realized that the conflict could only end in disaster for his religion, his country, and his people. If he helped the Romans with intelligence work, at least he never fought at their side. It can be argued that, far from being a quisling, he was a patriot who did his best to save Judea from the inevitable catastrophe.
The historians who know Josephus best—in the sense of having thought about him most—are baffled and arrive at very different conclusions. While William Whiston, the eighteenth-century Cambridge mathematician who is still his best-known translator, considered him to be more truthful than any other ancient writer, he regarded his personal character as “an historical enigma.” (Admittedly, Whiston had some odd ideas about Josephus, being under the delusion that he was an Ebionite Christian.) In the nineteenth century, Emil Schürer passed a harsher verdict. “No one would wish to defend his character,” he comments. “The basic features of his personality were vanity and complacency. And even if he was not the dishonourable traitor that his Life would seem to imply, nevertheless his going over to the Romans and his intimate alliance with the Flavian imperial house was performed with more ingenuity and indifference than was seemly in a person mourning the downfall of his nation.”1 Similarly, a century later, G. A. Williamson thought that Josephus’s behavior at Jotapata was a horrifying story of cowardice and treason.2 More than a few writers have been shocked by the “sinister” episode of the suicide pact in the cave.
Yet for Stewart Perowne, writing at the same time as Williamson, Josephus was sensitive and gregarious, an attractive figure whose main concern was to win the approval of his fellow men.3 Even Schürer accepts that he wrote “with the intention of praising his people.”4 Robert Traill, who produced an English version of The Jewish War during the 1840s, thought that his books were those of a man whose principles were far from sordid—“ready to take in hand whatever might safely be attempted, with the hope of serving and saving his country, and of recommending its institutions to the good opinion of mankind.”5
Perhaps the most eloquent of Josephus’s latter-day critics is Richard Laqueur, writing in 1920. Laqueur believed that Josephus had been paid by Rome to persuade the Jews not to revolt but that, after setting himself up as ruler of Galilee, he was forced into leading a rebellion—and, as one of its instigators, was largely responsible for the ruin of Judea. For Laqueur, The Jewish War is essentially Roman propaganda.6
While conceding that there was an unpleasant side to Josephus, H. St J. Thackeray (the principal author of the Loeb translation of his books) has no time for Laqueur’s “black portrait.” In his view, Josephus realized from the start that it was hopeless to fight Rome but, having failed to make the Jews compromise, did his best to defend Galilee. During the siege of Jerusalem he tried to avert disaster by urging surrender, and after the catastrophe—when he might have been tempted to abandon Judaism—he spent the rest of his life writing in defense of it. “He has surely earned the name of patriot.”7
Probably a majority would opt for Whiston’s verdict, that Josephus is an enigma. As has been said, we only know about the most questionable episode in his career, the suicide pact at Jotapata, because he chose to tell us—he saw nothing sinister in it. If he was an opportunist, he was loyal in his own way to what he considered the best interests of his nation, although it is a simplification to say, as have some historians, that he began his literary career as a Roman apologist and ended as a Jewish nationalist. 8 When writing as a propagandist for his Flavian patrons, Josephus retained his integrity. Above all, he remained faithful to the religion of his ancestors.
One can guess with some certainty that the Zealots on the walls of Jerusalem had no doubt about the perfidy of that accursed Yossef who had gone over to the enemy and was doing his best to kill his former comrades. Yet from the start he had questioned the Jews’ ability to win the war, and after encountering the Roman legions at Jotapata, he realized it could only end in disaster. At the same time, he was horrified by the Zealot takeover and the massacre of his own class. Had he escaped from Jotapata and returned to Jerusalem, he would almost certainly have been murdered. For all his opportunism, he, in his own way, did his best to save Judea.
Most unfairly, he is criticized for trying to stay Jewish while becoming Roman. Yet a need to reconcile two loyalties had been a problem for Jews of the Diaspora ever since the Babylonian captivity. Some think he succeeded brilliantly in showing people of his faith how to adapt to life outside their homeland. This was the view of the early twentieth-century German Jewish novelist Lion Feuchtwanger, for whom Josephus became an inspiration. However, Feuchtwanger’s uneasy attitude toward Zionism led him to the mistaken conclusion that Josephus had despaired of a revival of Judea.9
Whatever conclusion is reached, no one would question the grandeur of The Jewish War as a literary achievement. Although some commentators have derided the opinion expressed in the fourth century by St Jerome (of the Vulgate Bible) that Josephus was the Greek Livy, today there is a growing consensus that the comparison is not so far-fetched after all. In Tessa Rajak’s view, modern scholarship has confirmed his place among Jewish historians, and future research will rank him among the greatest Greek historians of Rome.10 Geza Vermes cites with approval the opinion of another distinguished modern historian of Rome, Fergus Millar, who goes even further in claiming that the Jewish Antiquities of Josephus were “the most significant single work written in the Roman Empire.” Moreover, by developing the fusion of the Greek and Jewish approaches to history begun by the Maccabees, and by bringing God into the picture, he had provided a model not only for the Christian historians of the fourth century but for those of later times.11
Beyond question, Flavius Josephus was vain and unscrupulous. It is hard to forgive his denigration of the Zealots, however much he may have atoned by preserving and immortalizing the story of Masada. Nonetheless, there are moments when it is difficult not to feel a certain admiration for him. Such unwavering belief in the destiny of his faith and nation, a belief unshaken by disaster, deserves our respect. After all, this was a man who could tell the world, “We have lost our land and our dearest possessions, but our Law will live for ever.”12