L’État c’est moi (‛I am the state’) declared Louis XIV according to historical legend, and it is tempting to view the ancient Egyptian state too as being identical with its king, given that he was a key figure in myth and speculative thought. However, the Sun King’s statement, if not apocryphal, would have been pointless if it had been true: the early modern French state functioned without much direct input from its king. One can discuss French royalty without referring to the French state, as one can discuss ancient Egyptian kingship – as in the previous chapter – without much reference to the Egyptian state. Kingship was an indigenous institution and the ideological centre of the state, but it was not identical with it.

Fears do not simply reflect the reality of the underlying dangers. Fear is itself created by society’s debates about what count as risks and how these should be managed. Beck has argued that modernity’s uncertainties have arisen from technological developments themselves, in that these have generated self-destructive threats that they are incapable of controlling. This chapter argues that Rome’s social structure generated its own specific set of anxieties. Just as technology has today created anxieties about the downside of that innovation, in Rome, empire generated a set of fears concerning its perceived negative side-effects. These were focused on moral issues, and their anxieties were expressed in areas where they had their own expertise, in particular the law and rhetoric. Their fears were also often constructed in a backward-looking way, seeking to reduce future risk by returning to the traditions of the past.

The Romans had to cope with uncertainty and, in part, did so through a shared set of knowledge and practices, which this chapter calls a risk culture. These ways of coping contained a lower level of individuality, consciousness or reflexivity than Beck’s modern Risk Society. There was also no simple divide between lay and expert knowledge. The Roman world exposed its inhabitants to a variety of risks but the accumulated experience of coping with these represented a mutual way of mitigating the dangers.

Anyone who investigates an artefact from ancient Egypt will soon discover a human dimension; the fingerprint of a potter impressed on a bowl, or a correction made by an accountant on a sheet of papyrus. It is exciting to discover that people who lived millennia ago seem to have been like ‘us’. Yet the funerary beliefs of the ancient Egyptians, the gigantic pyramids of Giza, and the god-like pharaohs remain enigmatic, and it is the recognition that people imagined the world differently in the past that fascinates most people today. This book explores the gulf between pots and pyramids, between shared human experience and what sets Egypt apart from other societies.

In 1946, the Egyptian architect Hassan Fathy (1900–1989) designed a new village for the inhabitants of Qurna, just a few kilometres to the west of their old village on the West Bank at Thebes. New Qurna, later renamed Fathy Village, was a state initiative for the protection of ancient Egyptian rock tombs, upon which the villagers had built their homes. Most of the villagers resisted having to leave, and the project came to an end uncompleted in 1952. Fifty years later, after violent conflicts including about landholding rights, the villagers were eventually resettled. New Qurna was an innovative project insofar as it employed traditional building technology. For instance, Fathy built the houses from sun-dried mud bricks instead of fired bricks or concrete. The bricks were locally available, comparatively cheap, and were proven to maintain a good climate in a house throughout the year. Fathy became known worldwide for his ‛architecture for the poor’.

The Stoic philosopher Posidonius is said to have enumerated three different ways that the divine could communicate with humans in dreams.

Since divination concerns communication between divine and human realms, in order for this communication to take place there must be some way in which the divine and human realms can connect and interact. In the mythical world of epic, gods and humans could more or less straightforwardly appear to each other and talk, but in the systems of the philosophers these interactions needed to be worked out in ways that fitted into their cosmological and anthropological frameworks. The quote from Posidonius outlines three ways in which these connections could be made, which Cicero expands beyond dreams to include other moments of divine inspiration.

In what follows, I will sketch a general picture of various ways in which divi-natory signs and messages were thought to be able to traverse the gap between human and divine in the ancient world, before examining how Paul’s statements about divine knowledge fit within these possibilities. Scholars have long recog-nised that Paul’s letters demonstrate a certain facility in the philosophical terms and concepts of his day.Attention has often focused on the affinities he shares with ancient rhetoric and moral philosophy.More recently however scholars have directed energy towards understanding the philosophical contours of Paul’s physics, which includes his cosmology and anthropology.

Stowers, in particular, has sought to locate Paul with some precision in the intellectual climate of the late Roman Republic and early Empire.Before the first century BCE, Hellenistic philosophy had been characterised by the rival schools of Stoicism, Epicureanism, and the sceptical Academy. But after the closing of the Academy in Athens in 86 BCE, philosophy was no longer centralised in Athens and witnessed a renewed interest in interpreting the texts of Plato and Aristotle, and recovering the doctrines of Pythagoras.

The last chapter examined the phenomenon of prophetic speech in Paul’s letters. Prophetic speech was not always spontaneous but sometimes drew on oracles that had been delivered previously and stored up in tradition or in writing. When Paul explicitly quotes speech from a divine being, his largest source by far is the various texts that make up the Jewish sacred writings, which he says preserve the “oracles of God” (Rom 3:2; cf. 11:4). Written oracle collections were a common feature of the ancient world, where they were generally understood to be the written records of oracles previously uttered under inspiration, either by the priest at an official oracle sanctuary, such as Delphi or Dodona, or by independent inspired figures of the legendary past, such as Bacis, Musaeus, or the Sibyl.This chapter further examines Paul’s use of sacred texts both as a part of his own divinatory repertoire, and as part of the divinatory use of texts in the ancient world.

Scholars have generally resisted seeing any analogy between Paul’s use of scripture and such oracle collections of the ancient world, more often viewing “scripture” as a uniquely Jewish category, with Paul as a uniquely Christian interpreter of it.Recently, however, those who have applied the term “divination” to Paul have made “textual divination” a matter of first importance in comparing Paul with his environment. Wendt and Eyl have both recontex-tualised Paul’s textual practices within the divinatory use of texts such as Homer, Orphic literature, or the Chaldean Oracles.Eyl notes that divinatory interpretations of texts exist on a sliding scale, with bibliomancy on one end: “the practice of opening (or unrolling) a text, pointing to a random passage, and imagining that it delivers a prophetic message to or about an inquirer.”On the other end of the scale are interpretations that employ “a greater cognitive investment through intellectual concepts such as metaphor, allegory, theories about the cosmos and gods, complex textual interpretations, and even more complex reinterpretations.”Both Eyl and Wendt draw on the work of Struck to posit allegory, understood in a broad sense, as the basic hermeneutical stance underwriting all such divinatory practice in Paul and his wider context.The basic presupposition is that such texts are repositories of hidden truth, possessing deeper meaning than what is apparent on the surface.

At the conference ‘Urbanization and Cultural Development in the Ancient Near East’, held in 1958, John Wilson provocatively claimed that ‘Egypt through the New Kingdom’ was ‘a civilization without cities’.1 More than six decades later, most archaeologists would reject his statement, given the evidence for Egyptian cities and other larger settlements in the New Kingdom, but is the same true of the Old and Middle Kingdoms? The question would be simple to answer if the task was simply to compare the excavated remains reviewed in Chapter 4 with settlements unequivocally defined as cities. But such an approach risks treating settlements as discrete units of analysis, dissociated from broader social and cultural patterns.

The landscape of north-east Africa is spectacular. Inhospitable deserts abruptly meet the lush, pulsatile floodplain of the Nile River (Figure 3.1). To the west of the Nile Valley and Delta, wide sand dunes extend into the Sahara, interrupted by scattered rock formations. Five large and a series of smaller oases offer opportunities for life in the Western Desert, while the Fayum depression has been connected to the Nile Valley since the early second millennium. To the east of the Nile Valley lie the Eastern Desert and the Sinai Peninsula, which are rocky. Each of these habitats was occupied by a variety of groups, each with their distinctive lifestyles.

In a beautifully written cultural history of mortal remains, Thomas Laqueur enquires into ‘how and why the dead make civilization’. Death for him is the fundamental ‘other’, in the face of which humans constitute their lives and civilise their behaviour. Unlike Philippe Ariès in his outline of a history of death in Europe, Laqueur sees more continuities than ruptures across periods and cultures. For Egyptologists who study such extraordinary expressions as pyramids, mummies, and Coffin Texts, it can be helpful to be reminded that Egyptian funerary culture is but one of humankind’s attempts at coping with death. Yet Laqueur moves blithely from the Upper Palaeolithic to Greek philosophy. His neglect of Egypt is a tacit rebuttal of the commonly held opinion that Egyptian funerary culture, with its wealth of splendid tombs, is unique. In fact, tombs and burials constitute a huge amount of archaeological evidence for the Old and Middle Kingdoms (Figure 7.1). They provide rich information on society and culture, and despite many blind spots and biases in the record they are an extremely dense source of evidence for the study of the pyramid age.