The present state of research into ‘Q’ varies from the chaotic to the bureaucratic. At the chaotic end of the spectrum, there is no agreement as to whether Q existed, nor as to what it was, if it did. At the bureaucratic end of the spectrum, an amorphous group of scholars have agreed that it was a Greek document. It was produced by a Q community, whose concerns can be worked out from it. Some of these scholars suppose that we can work out what this Q community did not believe from what was not in Q, to the point that the Q community did not have an atonement theology because Q has no passion narrative. Most scholars who believe this also believe that Q was the first Gospel, and that its picture of Jesus was that of some kind of Cynic philosopher. As we narrow down the group of scholars to more detailed agreements, so we see an increase in the number of common judgements made in the interests of a consensus of the group, with quite inadequate attention to evidence or argument. We also see the large-scale omission of Aramaic, the language in which Jesus taught.

The purpose of this book is to suggest that the use of Aramaic has something to contribute to the study of Q. In a previous book, I suggested that the Gospel of Mark consists partly of Aramaic sources which have been literally translated into Greek. Consequently, they can be partly reconstructed.

This book was written in 1994–99. In 1994–96, I held a British Academy Research Readership awarded for me to write Aramaic Sources of Mark's Gospel (SNTS.MS 102. Cambridge, 1998), as well as this book. The publication of the rest of the Aramaic Dead Sea scrolls in 1994 enabled more fruitful work to be done than I had planned, but at the same time it ruined the proposed timetable for completing the two books. I am extremely grateful to the Academy for this award, which enabled me to complete a major piece of research, including all the Aramaic for this book as well as the previous one. Other duties and engagements have contributed to the subsequent delay.

I am also grateful to all those who have discussed with me the problems of method and of detail which this work has entailed. I effectively began this research while reading for a doctorate at Durham University under Professor C. K. Barrett, whose extraordinary combination of learning and helpfulness with lack of bureaucracy or interference remains a model to which one can only aspire. I would particularly like to thank also the late Professor M. Black, Professor G. J. Brooke, Professor B. D. Chilton, Professor J. A. Fitzmyer, Professor M. D. Goulder, Professor R. Kearns, the late Professor B. Lindars, Professor M. Müller, Professor C. M. Tuckett and Professor M. Wilcox.

Luke's writing leads its reader on a geographical axis from Jerusalem, where the Infancy narratives unfold (Luke 1–2), to Rome, where Paul arrives as a prisoner (Acts 28). Narratively, Luke's plot links together Jerusalem and Rome. No one denies the theological dimension of this geography, yet questions remain. How does Luke theologically link these two great cultural and religious centres? How does he situate Christianity between Jerusalem and Rome – or, alternatively, between Israel and the Roman Empire?

Without exaggeration, one could say that the whole history of the interpretation of Luke–Acts unfolds from this problematic. Anyone who wants to establish the theological aim of Luke's writing must first determine how the author positions Christianity in relation to Judaism and in relation to the pagan world.

In my opinion, research has constantly held the relationship between Jerusalem and Rome in a positive/negative polarity. Adopting Rome would require Luke to break with Jerusalem. Alternatively, those who think he maintains an openness to Judaism assume that this position requires him to distance himself from Empire. A few examples are in order. Alfred Loisy, in his monumental commentary of 1920, defended the idea of a redaction of Acts in several stages. In the end, Israel, victim of a textual revision aimed at valorizing the image of Rome, is depicted as the quintessence of evil. Ernst Haenchen also correlates the rejection of Jerusalem and an opening toward the pagans.

Despite a growing number of ostraca and papyri much of the history of Ptolemaic Egypt still rests largely on the text of Polybius. I hope therefore that my friend and colleague, Herbert Fairman, will accept as a suitable tribute to his achievements in the field of Ptolemaic language and culture, and to the generosity with which he invariably makes his scholarship available to all who approach him, some observations on the merits of what Polybius has to say about Ptolemaic Egypt and on the rôle which he assigned to that kingdom in his account of the rise of Rome to world power. Polybius is especially concerned with the reigns of four Ptolemies – Philopator, Epiphanes, Philometor and Euergetes II. Since he was born towards the end of the third century he had to depend for his account of Philopator mainly on previous writers, whereas to some extent for Epiphanes and even more for the other two he was a contemporary and could command direct sources of information. Unfortunately our text of Polybius is incomplete. From the books covering events after Raphia, 217 bc, we possess only fragments; consequently we are at the mercy of Polybius' excerptors and can be brought to a halt in mid-stream whenever their interest flags. Also, a more grievous loss, only six out of the fifty-three titles of excerpts assembled on the orders of Constantine Porphyrogenitus have survived.

During the years following the end of the Second World War there was a remarkable surge of interest in Polybius, which it is hard to dissociate entirely from the contemporary clash of powers and the rise of the United States to preeminence, which were to dominate the next fifty years. For Polybius' central theme was of course the century-long struggle between Rome and Carthage and the rise of Rome to domination in her own world of cities and kingdoms, the oecumene. Be that as it may, the publication of a succession of books and articles on Polybius during the sixties – a trend already foreshadowed in the forties and fifties in Ziegler's important Real-Encyclopädie article, von Fritz's long study of Polybius' discussion of the mixed constitution and the first volume of my own Commentary – has led more than one scholar to speak of a ‘Polybian renaissance’.

Some of this work has reflected historians' current interest in such topics as rhetoric and narrative technique, but on the whole older problems have remained uppermost in discussion: on the one hand Polybius' views on his own craft, his methods of composition and the content and purpose of his work and, on the other, his explanation of how and why Rome had been so successful, together with his own attitude towards Rome and her domination since 168 bc.

‘The historian's sole task is to tell the facts just as they have occurred.’ This injunction is from the famous second-century rhetor, Lucian of Samosata, whom I have cited more than once for his valuable theorizing of ancient historiography. In this case, this very simple prescription aims to guarantee the objectivity of the historian in the face of the risks of pressures or flattery toward the addressees, but it reflects well enough the requirement of accuracy which was made of Graeco-Roman historiography.

How would Lucian have reacted to reading the three accounts of Saul's conversion as presented by the book of Acts? Each time there is the ‘same’ episode of Saul blinded on the Damascus road, falling to the ground, then receiving the revelation of God's surprising choice of him. However, between the first narration of the event in chapter 9, and the two autobiographical repetitions in speeches by Paul (Acts 22. 1–21 and 26. 1–23), the variations are considerable. This combination of repetition and variation is a testing ground for the exegesis of the book of Acts. When a scholar responds to the question why there are three accounts of Saul's conversion, one is able to identify the methodological orientation that governs his/her work. The biopsy is infallible. I shall immediately warn the reader that this book will not break the rule.

My intention is to re-examine this classical question by adopting a narratological point of view.

The sweep of overwhelming Roman military power eastwards confronted members of the ruling class in the states threatened (and eventually absorbed) with desperate problems. How they should (and did) respond depended on several factors, among them the nature and imminence of the threat, current relations with Rome and the degree of ‘national’ consciousness – or self-definition – in any particular state. Few, if any, states, moreover, were monolithic, most containing class and factional divisions, so that one man's compromise with Rome was another man's treason. In judging such compromises the modern historian is liable to be swayed by hindsight and the temptation to make immediate success or failure the overriding criterion. On closer investigation, however, the background of most political decisions is more complicated than at first sight appears; nor is it always possible to establish the circumstances in which they were made. In the present paper I propose to examine two cases, those of Polybius and Josephus, not as a pair of Plutarchean parallel lives, but as two examples of very different figures who had to face, each in his own time and manner, the dilemmas inherent in confronting Rome.

As historians, both illustrate from the evidence in their works as well as from their own lives the impact of Rome upon the states in which they lived.

In the year 59 bc Cicero found the shape of Roman politics both distasteful and alarming, and he therefore retired to his villa at Antium and resolved to follow Atticus' advice and write a Geography. For this purpose Atticus furnished him with copies of the best works of the most outstanding Greek authors. But Cicero soon wearied of the task. Гεωγραϕικὰ quae constitueram magnum opus est’ he writes. There is no unanimity among the experts. Eratosthenes, who was to have been his model, is criticised, he finds, by Hipparchus and Serapio; the subject is difficult, monotonous, not adapted to literary embellishment. Presumably Cicero abandoned his project, for we hear no more of it; and four years later, when he was writing the De oratore, geography was still an obscurior scientia.

The phrase has its justification. Alexandrian geography was in fact an obscure science, and a highly specialised one, both abstruse and uncongenial to anyone with Cicero's lively preference for popularisation rather than original thought. But Greek geography had not begun as a science. Between Herodotus and Eratosthenes lies a deep gulf, of method as well as time, and any consideration of Polybius' contribution to geography must take these two traditions into account. It will therefore be appropriate to consider how Greek geographical writing began, and what factors led to its modification. ||

What can be said about the aim of the book of Acts? Why did Luke write a follow-up to his gospel? What was his goal and what pushed him to write this grand historical work? I shall deal with these questions in two ways. First, it is important to know what the book of Acts resembles in the world of ancient literature. To what literary genre does it belong? Second, the relevance of the narrator's point of view, or his narrative intention must be considered. I shall conclude by evaluating Luke's decision to add the Acts of the Apostles to the gospel.

Seeking a literary genre

In today's context, the affiliation of the gospels with the Graeco-Roman literary genre of biography (the affinity of the gospel of Luke with the Lives of the philosophers is evident) provokes no great difficulties. On the contrary, exegetes continue to have a hard time classifying the second part of the work ad Theophilum. Many suggestions have been made in an attempt to identify the literary genre of Acts, but the absence of any satisfying analogy in ancient literature makes the decision arduous.

A continuation of the gospel?

Charles Talbert has proposed that one view of the Luke–Acts succession is the Life of a philosopher followed by the story of his disciples. Hence, the biography of the founder of the religious movement should be followed by the story of his successors.