Acting Gods, Playing Heroes, and the Interaction between Judaism, Christianity, and Greek Drama in the Early Common Era [1 ed.] 1032491027, 9781032491028

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ACTING GODS, PLAYING HEROES, AND THE INTERACTION BETWEEN JUDAISM, CHRISTIANITY, AND GREEK DRAMA IN THE EARLY COMMON ERA Courtney J. P. Friesen

Acting Gods, Playing Heroes, and the Interaction between Judaism, Christianity, and Greek Drama in the Early Common Era

While many ancient Jewish and Christian leaders voiced opposition to Greek and Roman theater, this volume demonstrates that by the time the public performance of classical drama ceased at the end of antiquity the ideals of Jews and Christians had already been shaped by it in profound and lasting ways. Readers are invited to explore how gods and heroes famous from Greek drama animated the imaginations of ancient individuals and communities as they articulated and reinvented their religious visions for a new era. In this study, Friesen demonstrates that Greek theater’s influence is evident within Jewish and Christian intellectual formulations, narrative constructions, and practices of ritual and liturgy. Through a series of interrelated case studies, the book examines how particular plays, through texts and performances, scenes, images, and heroic personae, retained appeal for Jewish and Christian communities across antiquity. The volume takes an interdisciplinary approach involving classical, Jewish, and Christian studies, and brings together these separate avenues of scholarship to produce fresh insights and a reevaluation of theatrical drama in relation to ancient Judaism and Christianity. Acting Gods, Playing Heroes, and the Interaction between Judaism, Christianity, and Greek Drama in the Early Common Era allows students and scholars of the diverse and evolving religious landscapes of antiquity to gain fresh perspectives on the interplay between the gods and heroes—both human and divine—of Greeks and Romans, Jews and Christians as they were staged in drama and depicted in literature. Courtney J. P. Friesen is Associate Professor of Religious Studies and Classics at the University of Arizona where he teaches classical Greek and courses on the New Testament, early Christianity, and Greek and Roman culture. His first book, Reading Dionysus (2015), explored ancient receptions of Euripides’ Bacchae.

Acting Gods, Playing Heroes, and the Interaction between Judaism, Christianity, and Greek Drama in the Early Common Era Courtney J. P. Friesen

First published 2024 by Routledge 4 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 605 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10158 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2024 Courtney J. P. Friesen The right of Courtney J. P. Friesen to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Friesen, Courtney J. P., 1979- author. Title: Acting gods, playing heroes, and the interaction between Judaism, Christianity, and Greek drama in the early common era / Courtney J. P. Friesen. Description: Abingdon, Oxon ; New York, NY : Routledge, 2023. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2023002784 (print) | LCCN 2023002785 (ebook) | ISBN 9781032491028 (hardback) | ISBN 9781032491035 (paperback) | ISBN 9781003392132 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Greek drama--Influence. | Greek drama--Appreciation. | Judaism and literature. | Christianity and literature. | Judaism--History-Talmudic period, 10-425. | Church history--Primitive and early church, ca. 30-600. Classification: LCC PA3136 .F76 2023 (print) | LCC PA3136 (ebook) | DDC 261.2/2--dc23/eng/20230419 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023002784 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023002785 ISBN: 978-1-032-49102-8 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-032-49103-5 (pbk) ISBN: 978-1-003-39213-2 (ebk) DOI: 10.4324/9781003392132 Typeset in Times New Roman by KnowledgeWorks Global Ltd.

For Abe and Lillian

Contents

List of Figures Preface Note on Abbreviations and Translations 1 Theater and/as Ritual: Introduction to the State of the Question(s) and Scope of the Study

ix x xiii

1

Theater, Religion, and the Bible: A Brief Survey of Intersections 3 Classical Reception and Comparative Religion: On Scope and Method 8

2 A Tale of Two Cities’ Theaters: From Athens to Jerusalem

19

The Theater of Dionysus and Changing Views of Divine Liturgy 19 Roman Theaters in Jerusalem between Temple, Synagogue, and Latrine 24

3 The Drama of Debating Gods (and Their Existence): Lucian of Samosata and Philo of Alexandria on Creation and Providence

32

Lucian’s Juppiter tragoedus: Philosophical Schools between Comedy and Tragedy 34 Reducing Divine Personae to Natural Elements: Philo and the Chrysippus of Euripides 41

4 Gods on Stage and Gods in Heaven: Fragments of Atheism in Sextus Empiricus and Pseudo-Justin The Fabrication of Gods from Sisyphus to Sextus Empiricus 50 Religious Apologetics and the Drama of Providence: Ps.-Justin’s De monarchia and the Bellerophon 58

50

viii Contents

5 Laughing at/with Heracles: Philo of Alexandria on Freedom and Virtue

67

Heracles: Cultural Icon and Comic Buffoon 68 Philo, Heracles, and the Syleus of Euripides: Performing Freedom 73

6 Atonement and Resurrection as the Denouement of Euripides’ Alcestis85 The Alcestis of Euripides between Tragedy and Satyr-Play 87 Alcestis, Gender, and Vicarious Death: From Paul to the Barcelona Alcestis 92 Raising the Dead with Alcestis: From the Gospel of John to the Via Latina 95

7 From Tragic Heroines to Religious Martyrs: The Afterlife of Polyxena between Philo and Clement of Alexandria

103

Polyxena on (and off) the Athenian Stage 104 A Measure of Masculine Virtue in Philo’s Quod omnis probus liber sit 106 A Model of the Chaste Wife in Clement’s Stromateis 109

8 Deus ex Machina: Concluding Thoughts on Dramatic Closure

116

References122 Index161

Figures

1.1 Theater-like structure beneath Wilson’s Arch, Jerusalem (after Uziel, Lieberman, and Solomon [2019, 247, figure 1.6], used with permission) 2 2.1 Theater of Dionysus, Athens (photograph by author) 20 2.2 Prohedria seats at the Theater of Dionysus, Athens (photograph by author) 22 2.3 Synthronon in the Hagia Eirene, Istanbul (dragoncello/Alamy Stock photo) 23 2.4 Roman Theater, Caesarea (imageBROKER/Alamy Stock photo) 25 4.1 Punishment of Sisyphus on a metope from the Temple of Hera at Paestum, Paestum Archaeological Museum (Azoor Photo/ Alamy Stock Photo) 56 4.2 Fresco of Bellerophon, Pegasus, and Athena, Pompeii (The Print Collector/Alamy Stock Photo) 61 5.1 Mosaic from Antioch with a drinking contest between Heracles and Dionysus, Worcester Art Museum (Bridgeman Images) 71 6.1 Painting of Heracles, Alcestis, and Cerberus from the Catacomb at the Via Latina, Rome (Pontifical Commission for Sacred Archaeology) 86 7.1 Attic black-figure Tyrrhenian amphora with the sacrifice of Polyxena by Neoptolemus, © The Trustees of the British Museum (used with permission) 105 7.2 Sarcophagus from Gümüşçay Turkey with the sacrifice of Polyxena, Troy Museum (used with permission) 105

Preface

This volume would not exist without the intellectual generosity and material support of many individuals and institutions. While it is impossible to repay my profound debts of gratitude to each of them in a few words, I would nevertheless offer this brief acknowledgment of thanks for some of the ways I have benefited from their contributions. Numerous teachers, mentors, colleagues, and students have shaped my methodologies, interests, and research questions through collaborative conversations and constructive feedback on my evolving ideas. The conceptual tools underlying this book were initially forged during my graduate studies at the University of Minnesota, from a first-year course with Bernard Levinson (“Scripture and Interpretation”) through my dissertation directed by Melissa Sellew, culminating in 2015 with the publication of Reading Dionysus. For the present project, an initial impetus came with the Manfred Lautenschläger Award from Forschungszentrum Internationale und Interdisziplinäre Theologie at the University of Heidelberg. This was a welcome affirmation of my early work, and at a formative stage it brought together several young scholars for a colloquium at Heidelberg, where Michael Welker, director of the Forschungszentrum, graciously hosted us and facilitated a productive and ongoing collaboration. This occasioned a subsequent symposium in 2017, also funded by the Lautenschläger Award, “Reading Other Peoples’ Texts: Identity-Formation and the Reception of Authoritative Traditions,” hosted by Ryan Coyne at the University of Chicago’s Martin Marty Center for the Advanced Study of Religion. The interdisciplinary studies presented in Chicago, culminating in a 2020 volume edited by Ken Brown, Alison Joseph, and Brennan Breed, provided me with fresh perspectives on how reception functions in cultural revision and constructions of religious identity. In the meantime, Michael Schramm convened a conference at the University of Göttingen on the reception of Euripides in the Roman imperial period through late antiquity and invited me to contribute a paper on Philo of Alexandria. This occasion afforded a unique opportunity to share research among an international assembly of leading specialists in classics and furthered my resolve to pursue this project with the integration of classical, religious, and biblical studies. The resulting conference volume edited by Schramm and published in 2020 is now a definitive and indispensable resource and will remain so for years to come.

Preface xi During the same year, my paper on Christ and the comic Heracles received the 2017 Achtemeier Award for New Testament Scholarship from the Society of Biblical Literature. I am most grateful to the award committee (Clare Rothschild, Larry Welborn, and Kimberly Stratton) for the care with which they attended to my research and their warm encouragement to expand it in new directions. The panel respondents to the paper at the annual meeting—Jennifer Knust and Albert Harrill—offered pointed critiques which pushed me further to clarify and refine my arguments. Larry Welborn, in particular, whose 2005 Paul, the Fool of Christ—in my view one of the most important monographs on theater and the New Testament—was instrumental in prompting me to complete this project. More recently, David Lincicum and Kylie Crabbe organized an event in 2022, “Divine and Human Love in Antiquity,” at St. George’s House, Windsor Castle in honor of Markus Bockmuehl. This was a timely venue, as I was finalizing this volume, to explore and refine my theorizations of self-sacrifice and resurrection at the intersection of theatrical genres and Christian theology. Markus— as always—provided penetrating insights that challenged and strengthened my work. In addition to these symposiast occasions, preliminary results of the research leading up to this book’s publication were presented at several academic conferences, especially of the Society of Biblical Literature and the Canadian Society of Biblical Studies, where participants offered indispensable suggestions and encouragements. It would not be possible to mention every individual scholar—from around the world and at my home institution—who has sharpened this project, but they include Jackson Abhau, Julia Annas, Harold Attridge, Jo-Ann Brant, Jan Bremmer, Virginia Burrus, Robert Cousland, Katharine Dell, Ben Edsall, Rob Groves, Gehardus van den Heever, Miguel Herrero de Jáuregui, George van Kooten, Michael Kochenash, Judith Lieu, Dennis MacDonald, John Martens, Sarah McCallum, Margaret Mitchell, Maren Niehoff, Douglas Olson, Arum Park, Simon Perris, David Romano, David Runia, John Screnock, Max Strassfeld, Kevin Taylor, Joe Uziel, Philip Waddell, and Brittany Wilson. I am ever thankful for the intellectual friendship of Michael Cover whose scholarly interests and outlook frequently converge with my own and provide a steady source of inspiration. Finally, Mark Schultz—priest and playwright—opened up for me fresh and compelling visions of the interplay between religion and theater. At the University of Arizona, the Department of Religious Studies and Classics in the College of Humanities has been a most supportive atmosphere, conducive to scholarly and intellectual productivity, in no small part due to the outstanding leadership of our department head, Karen Seat. The completion of this book benefited significantly from two separate semesters of research leave. At Routledge, I am grateful to Amy Davis-Poynter for her enthusiastic reception of this project and to Marcia Adams for her skillful handling of its production. My most important conversation partner throughout has been Rebecca: as a brilliant scholar in her own field, she is a steady source of insight and enlightenment. Nathaniel, Colin, and Evan (and their godfather Ethan Screnock) consistently complement academic rigor with joy, energy, and humor. Finally, I dedicate this book

xii Preface to my father and mother, Abe and Lillian, as a modest gesture of thanks for the countless ways they have supported every one of my life’s ambitions. Chapter 7 originally appeared as “Dying Like a Woman: Euripides’ Polyxena as Exemplum between Philo and Clement of Alexandria,” Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies 56 (2016): 623–45. It is reproduced here with permission and with minor updates and revisions. C. J. P. F. Tucson Feast of the Epiphany 2023

Note on Abbreviations and Translations

Standard abbreviations of ancient sources are employed following The SBL Handbook of Style, 2nd ed. (Atlanta: SBL Press, 2014), supplemented by The Oxford Classical Dictionary, 4th ed. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012). Translations have been produced by the author unless otherwise indicated, with relevant editions and abbreviations listed in the bibliography.

1

Theater and/as Ritual Introduction to the State of the Question(s) and Scope of the Study

Ancient drama continues to replay in the modern imagination. Its best-known heroes from Oedipus to Medea endure as iconic figures, while the remains of the monumental theaters of the Greeks and Romans are visible throughout the Mediterranean landscape and beyond, from Syria to England. Plays have been adapted, revised, and re-performed in changing contexts, finding fresh expressions in new media from Shakespeare to Spike Lee. Yet, some of the most profound and lasting influences of ancient theater may also be the most elusive. The majority of plays are now lost and, like the theaters in which they were performed, survive only in fragments—decayed, dismantled, destroyed. Consequently, the task of recovering and accounting for the full scope and effect of dramatic productions throughout antiquity requires digging beneath the surface, compiling, synthesizing, and reconstructing these disparate remains. In 2017, the Israel Antiquities Authority announced a discovery that supplies crucial new insight into the interplay between dramatic performances and religious ritual and ideology. Archaeologists working in Jerusalem adjacent to the Temple Mount uncovered a small Roman theater-like structure situated beneath Wilson’s Arch (see Figure 1.1).1 Its construction had commenced sometime after the destruction of the temple in 70 ce, probably in the early second century, and for reasons yet unknown it was never fully completed. This architectural undertaking is consistent with wider Roman strategies of cultural hegemony and imperial expansion. While they were not the first military power to construct theaters within their conquered territories—similar efforts had been taken by Hellenistic rulers before them—it was only after the Roman capture of Judea during the reign of Herod that theaters began to appear there in the late first century bce, including in Jerusalem itself.2 In keeping with long-standing practice in both Greece and Rome, theater complexes and their associated spectacles were closely connected to religious rituals; they were often constructed within sacred precincts, displayed statues of gods and emperors, and had sacrificial altars in the orchestra, the central focal point of performances.3 In view of this, their presence in Judea met with sharp disapproval among many.4 And the location of the newly discovered theater structure directly next to the temple in Jerusalem, Judaism’s geographical, spiritual, and ritual center, points to a contentious and contested relationship, as the cessation of DOI: 10.4324/9781003392132-1

2  Theater and/as Ritual

Figure 1.1 Theater-like structure beneath Wilson’s Arch, Jerusalem (after Uziel, Lieberman, and Solomon [2019, 247, figure 1.6], used with permission)

ancient Israelite cult was marked emblematically with an effort to install GrecoRoman spectacle entertainments.5 This juxtaposition of an unfinished Roman theater-like structure and the recently demolished temple in Jerusalem calls for renewed attention to the relationship between drama and religion, particularly in moments of political conflict and cultural transformation. This study explores these dynamics in the early centuries of the Common Era, the period of Roman imperial hegemony across the Mediterranean world pivotal for the development of Judaism and the origin of Christianity. The apparent mutual inextricability of the performance of drama and public cult had significant implications. From the perspective of many Jews and Christians, at least, theater was inseparable from its “pagan” institutional context, and as such they rejected and denounced it as antithetical to genuine biblical piety.6 At the same time, however, conversely, in an important sense all religion exists as dramatic performance insofar as communal rituals involve scripts, costumes, role-playing, choreographed actions and gestures, and suspension of “real” time and space. Thus, notwithstanding the well-known rhetorical postures of Jewish and Christian authorities, this book contends that classical Greek drama—both in text and on stage—exerted definitive influence upon their ideals and identity, indeed, upon the very production and performance of religion.

Theater and/as Ritual 3 Theater, Religion, and the Bible: A Brief Survey of Intersections The interplay between theater and ritual has long been a prominent interest among anthropologists and ethnographers studying a range of cultures, and the origin of drama in ancient Greece often provides a principal datum for scholarly theories. In antiquity, Aristotle had already asserted that tragedy developed directly out of Dionysiac rites—(“from the leaders of the dithyramb,” ἀπὸ τῶν ἐξαρχόντων τὸν διθύραμβον)—that is, the ritual hymns performed in honor of this god—but that when it reached “its own natural form” (τὴν αὑτῆς φύσιν), it came to be dissociated fully from its cultic beginnings (Poet. 1449a).7 The ritual origin of theater was given new life in the early twentieth century by the Cambridge Ritualists. Gilbert Murray, for instance, argued that traces of the primordial ritual of “the Death and Rebirth of the Year Spirit” could be detected in classical tragedy, even if on the surface Dionysus was largely absent from the dramatic plots.8 As an historical account, the diachronic development of theater from ritual has been largely abandoned.9 Even so, religion remains a vital interpretive perspective on classical Greek drama.10 This is so not only for fifth- and fourth-century Athens where the extant plays were first produced; as will become evident over the course of this study, religious ideology was also a central factor shaping the reception of drama across antiquity. My aim is to provide a fresh analysis of the mutual interconnectivity of religion and theater by focusing on periods of cross-cultural interaction and exploring the extent to which Greek drama was compatible, or not, with the distinctive visions advanced by Jews and Christians. Whereas the Cambridge Ritualists maintained that ritual gave rise to theater, I will argue that, at key moments in the development of Judaism and Christianity, religious texts, ideologies, and practices were formulated under the influence of drama. That pagan theater played a role in shaping Judaism and Christianity may initially appear an improbable proposition. Rabbis and church fathers asserted most vigorously that all spectacle entertainments of the Greeks and Romans were fundamentally incompatible with the piety demanded by God, and as such expressly forbade members of their communities from attending.11 Opposition to the theater was not unique to them. Indeed, already in the fourth century bce, Plato articulated a sweeping rejection of drama, most famously in the Republic where he bans most mimetic art and poetry.12 His reasons were ethical and theological: poets portray gods and heroes acting badly, which would inevitably promote similar behavior among the youth (3.386a–392d). Drama in particular, because of its distinctive mode of mimesis, poses a problem—rather than merely narrating the behaviors of wicked characters, actors must “imitate such people” (μιμεῖσθαι τοὺς τοιούτους, 396d). Plato’s views of theater are complex and varied across his corpus. For instance, he leaves open the possibility for comedy (Resp. 3.396d–e; Laws 7.816d–e), but tragedy is unacceptable because it provokes undue passions and emotions (Resp. 10.603c–606b; cf. Laws 7.817a–d). Above all, tragedy conflicts with one of Plato’s primary ethical tenets that true happiness is not subject to external forces but rather “is located nowhere other than in the individual soul’s choice between good and evil.”13

4  Theater and/as Ritual Plato’s criticisms left a powerful mark upon the subsequent reception of classical drama and, while few philosophers would embrace such stark and adamant opposition, disapproval of spectacle entertainments remained a common trope among ancient moralists.14 Jewish and Christian religious leaders largely adopted this stance, many vehemently so. But in their case, objections were much more acute due to their hostility toward the associated pagan cults. The Jerusalem Talmud reports that the sages forbade “going to the theater”: “when they present offerings it is forbidden because of pagan worship, otherwise it only is forbidden because of ‘seat of scoffers’” (y. ʿAbod. Zar. 1:7, 40a, quoting Ps 1:1).15 Similar attitudes were prevalent among Christians. Tertullian, for instance, who wrote one of the earliest and most virulent denunciations of pagan entertainments, sharply criticized its immorality (as Plato had), but also viewed the entire institution as idolatrous, as it was sacred to Venus and Liber Pater (Spect. 10.1–13; see also Tatian, Or. Graec. 24; Firmicus Maternus, Err. prof. rel. 12.9).16 Augustine likewise criticizes the pagan religious entailments of the stage (Civ. 1.32; 2.8; 4.26), and also follows Plato in his insistence that representational art is antithetical to truth (Solil. 2.18) and that tragedy in particular stirs up inordinate pleasures and passions (Conf. 3.2.2–3).17 The fervent insistence by rabbis and church fathers on the avoidance of spectacles, however, potentially belies the profound extent to which drama shaped the imaginations of their own religious traditions through mythology and ritual. Indeed, the vigor of their attacks against the theater is itself evidence that it held a powerful appeal for some Jews and Christians and that, consequently, the perception of religious incompatibility was not as unambiguous as suggested by the rhetoric of rabbinical and ecclesiastical authorities. In fact, theater attendance is attested among Jews living in the Hellenistic world as early as the second century bce. At Alexandria, in the Letter of Aristeas a representative of the Jewish envoy to Ptolemy advocates attending plays as a fitting pastime for the pious and philosophical man (284–285).18 And in the early first century ce, Philo of Alexandria recounts his personal experience in the audience at dramatic productions (Prob. 141; Ebr. 177).19 This was not limited to Alexandria: at the theater in Miletus, an inscription from the second or third century ce reserves a row of seats as the “place of the Jews who were also pious” (τόπoς Ειουδέων τῶν καὶ Θεοσεβίον, CIJ 748).20 In Christian communities, likewise, theater remained popular. Tertullian reports his argument with certain Christians who noted that nowhere does scripture expressly forbid attending public shows (Spect. 3.1–8). And nearly two centuries later, decades after the ascendency of Constantine and even following Emperor Theodosius’ legislation against pagan cults in 392 ce, performances persisted due to high public demand so much so that, at the turn of the fifth century, John Chrysostom threatened to ban anyone who attended from his church in Constantinople (Theatr. 268).21 Not only did Jews and Christians attend the theater, among the highly educated some also read plays, at least in excerpted collections, and quoted from them. This was often done in the service of apologetics or to bolster some theological or philosophical argument. Several such examples will be explored throughout this study. Philo, for instance, deployed drama on numerous occasions, including tragedy,

Theater and/as Ritual 5 comedy, and satyr play.22 A Jewish anthology of dramatic verses—a source for the third-century ce Christian work, De monarchia, attributed to Justin Martyr— compiles several fragments in support of arguments for monotheism and divine judgment, and against pagan sacrifices.23 Among early Christian texts, lines from drama appear already in the New Testament, but come up more frequently and extensively in later authors.24 Clement of Alexandria is particularly prolific in this regard and on several occasions took classical plays as programmatic for Christian virtues and piety.25 Within Jewish and Christian communities where scripture was an authoritative source for narratives of interaction between God and humans, of providence, suffering, and redemption, the Bible could function as a comparative lens through which to understand and evaluate Greek drama. There are, in fact, numerous shared themes that contributed to the dynamics of mutual interpretive influence.26 For instance, God’s demand that Abraham sacrifice his child reflects an experience in common with Agamemnon, while the tortured and self-destructive life of Samson resembles that of Greek tragedy’s most famous strongman, Heracles.27 The sufferings of Job, likewise, resemble those in a tragedy as, in fact, the text’s literary form exhibits features of a stage play.28 In the New Testament, where direct influence from the Greek theater is more probable, several characters resemble wellknown dramatis personae: Paul was a Pentheus-like “god-fighter,” while Rhoda (Acts 12:12–16) and the dishonest manager of Jesus’ parable (Luke 16:1–8) follow stock character types of slaves in Greek and Roman comedy.29 Indeed, the Gospels themselves have been analyzed along the lines of drama, both tragedy and comedy.30 Such thematic correlations between the Bible and Greek drama are not the invention of modern scholars and critics, but were already recognized and activated in antiquity. In the second century bce, for instance, the biblical story of the Exodus with its conflict between Moses and the pharaoh was taken to be suitable material for a tragedy, the Exagoge by the Alexandrian poet Ezekiel.31 Artapanus, a near contemporary, rewrote the same narrative in a prose treatise Concerning the Jews, with the addition of episodes that appear to be inspired by Euripides’ Bacchae, such as a miraculous prison escape through spontaneously opening doors and an earthquake that destroyed Egyptian houses (in Eusebius, Praep. ev. 9.27.23–25, 33).32 In the second century ce, the New Testament Gospels were also compared with Greek plays. Celsus, the critic of Christianity, for instance, deployed the conflict between Dionysus and Pentheus in the Bacchae to argue that in his trial Jesus failed to live up to the expectations of a true deity in avenging himself upon his enemy Pilate (Origen, Cels. 2.33–35).33 Later, Celsus asks how Christians can view “the things of others as myths” (τὰ μὲν τῶν ἄλλων μύθους), whereas in their case “the denouement of the drama is found as noble or plausible” (τὴν καταστροφὴν τοῦ δράματος εὐσχημόνως ἢ πιθανῶς ἐφευρῆσθαι), citing Jesus’ final cry from the cross followed by earthquakes and darkness (Cels. 2.55).34 Others found the trial of Jesus akin to a comic performance: in a homily on a text from Matthew describing the public mockery of Jesus, John Chrysostom asks “what was the need of this comedy?” (τίς χρεία τῆς κωμῳδίας ταύτης ἦν; PG 58.757).35

6  Theater and/as Ritual Among modern interpreters, debates continue concerning the relationship of classical drama with the Bible, Judaism, and Christianity. Tragedy, or “the tragic” is usually privileged, and literary critics commonly emphasize incongruity. David Robertson, for instance, in an influential comparison of Exodus and Euripides’ Bacchae, argues that, despite numerous similarities in plot, the biblical narrative differs fundamentally from this tragedy: whereas the latter concludes with ambivalence and irony, the former is marked by moral clarity.36 George Steiner, albeit for different reasons, reaches similar conclusions. In his estimation, tragedy is incompatible with Judaism and Christianity; the latter, in particular, “offers to man an assurance of final certitude and repose in God. It leads the soul toward justice and resurrection.”37 These are ultimately matters for theologians as much as literary critics, and several have disputed Steiner’s insistence upon the “anti-tragic” nature of Christianity. Donald MacKinnon maintains that “there is a sense in which Christianity demands to be presented as the tragedy of Jesus.”38 Hans Urs von Balthasar similarly takes the Passion as the chief evidence that Christianity can embrace the tragic, both because “[t]he Christian is not automatically an optimist” and because most Greek (and subsequent) tragedy permits some form of reconciliation.39 In more recent years, there has been renewed theological interest in tragedy, evident, for instance, in the 2011 collection of essays edited by Kevin Taylor and Giles Waller entitled Christian Theology and Tragedy. This was followed in 2016 with The Tragic Imagination by Rowan Williams, the former Archbishop of Canterbury, which became the subject of a 2018 special issue of Modern Theology with respondents including prominent figures in the fields of both theology and literature (e.g., David Bentley Hart and Terry Eagleton).40 Their lively interactions reveal that the relationship between religion and tragedy is as contested now as ever.41 Comedy, by contrast, has received significantly less attention among twentieth- and twenty-first-century literary critics and theologians; when it does, the focus tends to be more broadly concerned with humor and laughter than the theatrical genre proper (but see below on Purim plays).42 Debates among twentieth- and twenty-first-century literary critics and theologians were in some sense already anticipated by ancient readers and audiences. Yet, whereas such modern analyses tend to view these dynamics in abstract terms, for ancient Jews and Christians, theatrical productions were inseparable from religious ritual and often bound up with violent public spectacles in which they themselves were occasionally victims. In view of this, theater could function emblematically for sufferings at the hands of Greek or Roman authorities: Philo writes of the need for “tragic terms” (τραγικῶν ὀνομάτων) to describe “the tragic misfortunes” (τὰς τραγικάς) experienced by Jews under the administration of Emperor Gaius (Legat. 234; cf. 359, 368; Flacc. 38, 72), while Paul characterizes the plight of the apostles as “a theater for the cosmos, for both angels and humans” (θέατρον […] τῷ κόσμῳ καὶ ἀγγέλοις καὶ ἀνθρώποις, 1 Cor 4:9; cf. Origen, Mart. 18).43 The interconnections between theatrical performance and the rituals of a religious community are enacted in Ezekiel’s Exagoge, the only surviving Greek tragedy by a Jewish poet.44 As noted above, the biblical narrative of the Exodus could be readily transformed in light of tragedy. Pharaoh’s violent and ultimately

Theater and/as Ritual 7 self-destructive resistance to a divine man and his all-powerful deity is analogous to various tragic figures, such as Pentheus, the Theban tyrant who arrested and imprisoned the disguised god Dionysus in an effort to preserve his own power over against the threat of the foreign cult.45 Even so, Ezekiel’s dramatic adaptation poses several logistical challenges to staging such as the burning bush, and the presence of God as a character which would have conflicted with conventional Jewish piety. Consequently, some have suggested it was intended for reading rather than as a theatrical production.46 While its performative context may be ultimately inconclusive, the Exagoge’s connection to the Passover is of particular importance, as it features the narrative most central to Judaism’s ritual experience and ethnic identity.47 As Rachel Bryant Davies argues, Ezekiel adapted the literary form of tragedy as a “liturgical replacement” for his diaspora community. This genre, with its etiological narratives, was ideal for “a dramatic performance of the archetypal Passover which, for a Jew in the Diaspora, might have substituted for the sacrificial ritual traditionally only possible in the Temple of Jerusalem […] he adopts dramatic structure as a way of negotiating the problem of sacrifice in exile.”48 This distinctly Jewish drama, therefore, represents the recognition that the Bible need not be incompatible with Greek theater, but that it could in fact be an effective venue for liturgical expression, especially in the Hellenistic world where Jewish identity was being actively reevaluated. Likewise, the earliest extant Greek drama on Christian material—the Christus patiens attributed to Gregory Nazianzus, but most likely composed in the eleventh or twelfth century—concerns the community’s foremost liturgical narrative: the passion and resurrection.49 Its format is a Euripidean cento composed of lines taken over from several plays and reworked into a new narrative. While it was certainly not meant for public performance—although perhaps as a “closet drama”50—it clearly indicates that literary interest in classical drama persisted well into the Byzantine period, if only among a small minority of the highly educated.51 And the genre’s religious potentialities and ritual connections remained at the forefront. Stage productions, however, would not ultimately survive the rise of Christianity, although they continued possibly as late as the sixth century. While the Exagoge and the Christus patiens represent efforts to create Greek drama on the respective biblical foundation legends of Judaism and Christianity, these were largely isolated, and neither religion developed its own tradition of theatrical performance in continuity with those of Greece and Rome. In fact, only several centuries later is there documented evidence for the reemergence of public theatrical performances in the Middle Ages. This later phase of theatrical history lies beyond the scope of the present study, but it is worth observing that it originated within a distinctly Christian ritual and liturgical context.52 It occurred in conjunction with the Mass, a mode of performance in itself,53 and in the Western Church is first attested in the tenth century at the Benedictine monasteries of England with the so-called Quem quaeritis, which developed into an Easter play, the Visitatio sepulchri.54 Jewish theater took much longer to develop, as the anti-theatrical position of the rabbis remained dominant. As indicative of this, the Exagoge—the single extant ancient Jewish tragedy—appears to have left no lasting impression on subsequent

8  Theater and/as Ritual Judaism aside from the Hellenistic community in Alexandria, and its preservation is owing to the efforts of Christian scholars (Clement, Eusebius via Alexander Polyhistor, and Ps.-Eustathius).55 It was not until the fifteenth or sixteenth century that a distinctly Jewish mode of drama emerged in eastern Europe, the so-called Purim plays, which originated as biblical parodies, especially on the Book of Esther. They were put on during the Purim festival, an occasion of carnivalesque atmosphere when many traditional taboos were temporarily lifted and thus especially conducive for the rise of folk theater.56 Even so, professional theater of a distinctly Jewish character did not emerge until the nineteenth century, and thereafter classical Greek plays were occasionally performed in Jewish theaters.57 A particularly poignant moment of cultural convergence came in February 1947, when on the cusp of the creation of the modern State of Israel, the first Hebrew adaptation of a Greek play— Sophocles’ Oedipus—was produced at the Habima Theatre in Tel Aviv.58 The foregoing sketch highlights the complex and contested relationships between drama, performance, religion, and the Bible. From ancient rabbis and church fathers to modern literary critics and theologians, the religious entailments of classical theater have remained a prevalent preoccupation in assessing their respective literary and ideological visions. Perceptions of incompatibility became solidified in the rhetoric of those who railed against Greco-Roman entertainments for their immorality, violence, and idolatry. Moreover, the intervening gap between the cessation of classical drama at the end of antiquity and the subsequent reemergence of theater in Jewish and Christian cultures seems to reaffirm this sharp dichotomy. This study will challenge such an absolute separation. Even as public theatrical productions eventually died out, they were already assimilated and adapted for new ritual and spiritual realities, evident in philosophical and apologetic writings, in sacred narratives, and central theological formulations. Classical Reception and Comparative Religion: On Scope and Method The aim of this study, therefore, is to shed fresh light on the interplay between religion and theatrical production, deploying as the site for investigation the reception of Attic drama in the Roman Empire of the early Common Era, with occasional glances beyond. This period provides an especially rich array of dynamic cultural and religious interactions. Within Jewish communities around the Mediterranean, there continued to be active involvement in Greek paideia—literature, philosophy, rhetoric—with a much greater degree of explicit engagement than in later centuries.59 Following the destruction of the second temple and the Bar Kokhba revolt in the first and second centuries and the subsequent rise of rabbinic Judaism as the dominant form in late antiquity and into the Middle Ages, the relevance of classical drama eventually receded, along with Greek culture more generally.60 This period also encompasses the life of Jesus of Nazareth, his execution by the Roman authorities, and the origin of the religious movement that evolved in the wake of his death from an obscure Jewish sect into the faith of the Roman Empire itself. Increasingly during these early centuries, leaders of churches were emersed

Theater and/as Ritual 9 and highly educated in Hellenistic culture, including its dramatic literature, and the staging of plays continued to hold appeal for many in Christian communities. During this time, also, traditional Greco-Roman cults were transforming with new influences from Rome’s conquered territories, even as many of their aspects were assimilated within Christian piety.61 Religious thinkers and philosophers critically reevaluated conventional ideas, some developing radical new alternatives, ranging from Neoplatonism to skepticism and even atheism.62 Amidst these developments, the early Common Era saw a renaissance of Greek culture exemplified in the socalled Second Sophistic (see below). The central argument, then, that runs throughout this book is that Greek theater and its reception played an active role at defining moments of religious transformation. It is not an exhaustive treatment; rather, material is selected as illustrative of the breadth and range of religious responses to classical drama across the period under investigation (see below for a précis of individual chapters). Greek-speaking authors are privileged, as this is where much of the evidence lies. While Jews and Christians are the central focus, they are placed throughout in conversation with their Greek and Roman counterparts, who often approached the same materials in similar ways. Topics are organized thematically rather than chronologically with a view to juxtaposing diverse religious perspectives. “Drama” includes tragedy, comedy, and satyr plays; that is, what would be performed in a theatron rather than public spectacles more broadly, such as occurred in amphitheaters, hippodromes, and stadia, although under the Roman Empire these distinctions came to be blurred.63 While public performances continued throughout antiquity, there was also an increasing shift toward private readings, and the educated elite would have had access to texts of plays, collections of excerpts, or anthologies, as well as hypotheses.64 Thus, much of the reception of Greek drama analyzed throughout this study is textual and literary, but there are other relevant cultural factors, such as the architecture of performance spaces and artistic representations of scenes and dramatis personae.65 The analysis in the subsequent chapters is, therefore, necessarily interdisciplinary in nature. On the one hand, as an exercise in the study of reception, it takes its methodological cues from recent work in classics, wherein the reception of drama has developed into a flourishing sub-field.66 On the other hand, the impetus to analyze the formation of Judaism and Christianity in conjunction with pagan drama arises from theoretical perspectives of comparative religion. As Jonathan Z. Smith emphasizes in his lectures, Drudgery Divine (published in 1990), no religious tradition should be viewed as “unique.” In the case of Christianity, for instance, claims of uniqueness reflect latent Protestant biases and apologetic impulses that involve “a double claim”: ontologically, respecting “the absolutely alien nature of the divine protagonist,” and historically regarding “the radical incomparability of the Christian ‘proclamation’ with respect to the ‘environment’.”67 Over against this, Smith maintains that the task of religious studies should not merely concern itself with “genealogies” and “influences,” but “analogous processes, responding to parallel kinds of religious situations.”68 The corpus of Greek drama provides a productive venue with which to pursue this task, as its cast of divine and human

10  Theater and/as Ritual protagonists together with its animating religious questions and conflicts furnish numerous analogies with both Judaism and Christianity. The field of biblical studies has also long benefited from such methodologies with Greek mythological literature providing a productive comparative lens.69 Its persistent appeal is evident in the ongoing publication of books on the topic by both classicists and biblical scholars. Among the former, recent treatments include Bruce Louden’s The Bible and Greek Myth and John Heath’s The Bible, Homer, and the Search for Meaning in Ancient Myths, which illuminate a range of similarities between ancient epic, drama, and the Bible in both Jewish and Christian scriptures.70 Among New Testament scholars, Dennis MacDonald’s Luke and the Politics of Homeric Imitation and David Litwa’s How the Gospels Became History: Jesus and Mediterranean Myths endeavor to understand how the Christian Gospels were fashioned over against Greek and Roman mythology.71 The present work builds on insights from these and other studies but moves in new directions by focusing on how the distinguishing generic qualities of drama shape its religious effect. While Judaism and Christianity re-envisioned their scriptural legacies with a view to the political realities of the Roman world, there was, simultaneously, a broader revival of classical Greek cultural ideals. This movement often falls under the designation of the Second Sophistic (δευτέρα σοφιστική), a term was first coined by Philostratus with reference to professional orators and teachers of rhetoric, beginning with Nicetes of Smyrna during the reign of Nero (Vit. soph. 511). The pathbreaking study by Glen Bowersock, Greek Sophists in the Roman Empire, focused especially on individuals in Philostratus’ account and was limited largely to the second century and the sophist as “a virtuoso rhetor with a big public reputation.”72 More recent work, however, has taken a wider perspective on this cultural movement to include Jews and Christians. Graham Anderson’s 1993 The Second Sophistic, for example, has a chapter entitled “The Sophist and His Gods” wherein he observes that Philo, in his position leading a Jewish delegation to Rome, “was already playing the traditional sophistic role of ambassador to the Emperor Gaius before Philostratus proclaimed the second beginning of the Second Sophistic with Nicetes.”73 Expanding on this work, scholars have productively examined Jewish and Christian authors as participants in these broader cultural phenomena.74 The reception of Attic drama with which this study is concerned exemplifies a central preoccupation of the Second Sophistic: “nostalgia for an idealized (Athenian) classical past; archaism and purity of language; sophistic performance and contest and display; paideia and erudition; anxieties over (Hellenic) self-definition and identity.”75 Greek elites in the Roman Empire would have been immersed in classical drama from childhood when it held a prominent place in their education, for poetry second only to Homer.76 Plutarch offers a valuable perspective on this in his treatise Quomodo adolescens poetas audire debeat, which outlines a pedagogical program that takes seriously Plato’s warnings about moral pitfalls, while also maintaining that, if tempered by philosophy, “[poetry’s] mythological and theatrical element” (τὸ μυθῶδες αὐτῆς καὶ θεατρικόν) could be beneficial (Adol. poet. aud. 15e).77 For orators trained in such a milieu, drama provided

Theater and/as Ritual 11 a storehouse of illustrative material and gnomic wisdom to adorn their speeches (see, e.g., Dio Chrysostom, Or. 18.7 on Euripides), and philosophers likewise turned to it as a resource for moral reflection and even metaphysical insight so that Euripides earned the title “philosopher of the stage” (Vitruvius 8 praef. 1; Clement, Strom. 5.11.70.2; Origen, Cels. 4.77).78 Similar interests in classical drama continued throughout antiquity even with the rise of Christianity. In the fourth century (probably in the 370s), Basil of Caesarea composed his Address to Young Men on the Right Use of Greek Literature, which functions as a Christian counterpart to Plutarch’s earlier treatise on the topic, arguing that all genres of non-Christian literature can be deployed for lessons in virtue.79 In short, this study’s attention to the convergence of these two dynamics—the reception of Attic drama and evolving practices of religion—necessitates crossdisciplinary lines of inquiry, and thus takes its direction from a growing body of scholarship on such intersections.80 For instance, Simon Goldhill, in a programmatic essay for a volume on the “reperformance” of Greek dramatic and lyric poetry, advocates for moving beyond the conventional spheres of classical scholarship to include Judaism and Christianity as offering “some of the richest and most vivid evidence of how reperformance was discussed and enacted.”81 For Judaism, this involved “the incremental insistence of rabbinical authority on the necessity of the ritualization of everyday life”; and for Christians it is embodied in the ideal of imitatio Christi, that the life of the saint should in some sense reperform Christ’s sufferings.82 In this context, Goldhill suggests, “[t]he increasing dominance of Christian authority in the ancient world provides a different and illuminating lens through which to trace the history of reperformance as an idea and practice,” which can be seen both in the formulation of its own cultic liturgies and in the manner in which it appropriated classical modes of performing mythological narratives.83 Taking up this challenge, the following chapters pursue several distinct but interrelated case studies. As noted above, the coverage of material cannot be exhaustive. Its arrangement is thematic rather than chronological; each chapter contributes to a cumulative demonstration that classical drama, despite vigorous objections by Jewish and Christian leaders, continued to be a crucial part of the cultural repertoire that was activated in the envisioning and re-envisioning of religious ideals. First, Chapter 2 (“A Tale of Two Cities’ Theaters”) considers the significance of theatrical architecture as ritually contested and conflicted spaces. It focuses on two cities—Athens and Jerusalem—as emblematic of the central concerns of this study, the former as the putative site of the origin of drama and the latter as the spiritual and geographical seat of both Judaism and Christianity. In Athens, the Theater of Dionysus has a fascinating history across antiquity: well known for its association with the zenith of Athenian cultural production, it continued to house performances well past the rise of Christianity, possibly as late as the sixth century, at which time a basilica was built at the location. In Jerusalem, by contrast, theaters were introduced relatively late under the Romans, with the first constructed by Herod and another under Hadrian. These were viewed, by some at least, with opposition and even hostility as the imposition of a foreign occupying force. This accounts, perhaps in part, for their disappearance without any clear archaeological trace and

12  Theater and/as Ritual makes the newly discovered, unfinished Roman theater next to the Temple Mount poignantly suggestive of conflicting ritual performances. Chapters 3 and 4 examine evocations of the stage in the formulation of theories of religion, and in particular the ways in which both philosophical schools and Jewish and Christian authors activated dramatic texts and scenes in contesting points of theological dogma. Chapter 3, “The Drama of Debating Gods (and Their Existence),” opens with Lucian’s Juppiter tragoedus, a dialogue which is itself presented as a play and features a public debate between a Stoic and an Epicurean on the existence and providence of the gods. The former evokes the actions of deities on stage as evidence in their favor, whereas the latter takes theatrical performance itself as proof that the gods are nothing more than cultural productions. He asserts, moreover, that Euripides, when articulating his own views, depicts the Olympian deities as manifestations of natural phenomena within the physical cosmos. A closely related excerpt—from Euripides’ Chrysippus—is deployed by Philo of Alexandria in De aeternitate mundi in support of his view of the permanence of matter. Fragments such as these were widely popular, and both Philo and Lucian appear to have encountered them already embedded within existing philosophical sources. The fourth chapter, “Gods on Stage and Gods in Heaven,” examines two “atheistic” dramatic fragments deployed within the theological discourse of two different authors. First, Sextus Empricus, in cataloguing arguments against the existence of gods, includes prominently the Sisyphus fragment in which a speaker articulates the theory that gods were human inventions introduced to frighten citizens and compel obedience to the law. Second, the protagonist in Euripides’ Bellerophon is even more emphatic in his denial of the gods’ existence, and 16 lines of this play are preserved in De monarchia, a work attributed to the apologist Justin Martyr composed almost entirely of dramatic excerpts. For the Christian author, this speech contributes to his cumulative argument that the most celebrated and ancient Greek poets themselves provide a basis for the rejection of polytheism. In addition to questions regarding the existence and nature of the gods and their metaphysical relationship to the cosmos, celebrated heroes of the stage (both divine and human) provided audiences with exempla of true piety and virtue. The subsequent three chapters focus on the reception of three plays and the cultural status of their respective heroic protagonists. The first, Chapter 5 (“Laughing at/ with Heracles”), surveys the place of this son of Zeus across antiquity, focusing particularly on his comic persona—stereotypical for buffoonery and excessive appetites—which was especially prevalent in classical Athens and subsequently in the Hellenistic world. In his Quod omnis probus liber sit, Philo dwells at length on one such satyr play—the Syleus of Euripides—as evidence for the nature of genuine virtue and freedom. Heracles is, in part, also the focus of Chapter 6, “Atonement and Resurrection as the Denouement of Euripides’ Alcestis.” This popular play, in which the titular heroine offers her own life in place of her beloved and is subsequently restored to life by the son of Zeus, can be productively analyzed in conjunction with two important formulations of early Christians: the conception of Christ’s substitutionary death as

Theater and/as Ritual 13 articulated in the epistles of the Apostle Paul and the narrative of the resurrection of Lazarus in the Gospel of John. Striking resemblances with the Alcestis account in part for the later (fourth-century) painting of this myth in the Christian catacomb of the Via Latina, where it is placed adjacent to the Gospel’s scene of Lazarus. Alongside the celebrated and heroic death of Alcestis, Chapter 7 (“From Tragic Heroines to Religious Martyrs”) takes up another: Polyxena in the Hecuba of Euripides. In her case, two authors—Philo and Clement of Alexandria—explicitly evoke her sacrificial execution in the tragedy as a model of distinctly feminine virtue, thus signaling the valorization of martyrdom which often proceeded in gendered categories and as theatrical display. Finally, the concluding chapter (“Deus ex Machina”) will draw together the cumulative results of these case studies: although many authorities among Jews and Christians resisted and rejected Greek and Roman entertainments, at several crucial moments classical Greek drama contributed decisively to the construction of their religious ideals, including apologetic arguments and theological visions, ethical reflections, and ritual narratives and performances. Notes 1 Its discovery was widely reported; e.g., Nir Hasson, “Jerusalem’s Long-lost Ancient Roman Theater Revealed in Old City Excavations: Archeological Dig under Wilson’s Arch Also Uncovers Eight Previously Unknown Layers of Western Wall Stones,” Haaretz, 16 October 2017. The initial archaeological report was published in Hebrew, Uziel et al. (2017) and is now also available in English: Uziel et al. (2019). For further discussion, see Chapter 2. 2 For theaters constructed in Hellenistic Empires, see Bieber (1961, 108–28); Potts (2011); on for the diffusion of dramatic performances and their cultural and political significance, see Fraser (1972, 1.618–20); Le Guen (1995); Chaniotis (1997); von Hesberg (1999); Csapo (2010, 170–78); Vahtikari (2014, 99–115); Ristvet (2014). On Roman theaters in Judea, see Segal (1995); Weiss (2014b, 81–100); Skotheim (2022, 123–25); and other regions of the Near East, Retzleff (2003). For Roman theaters more broadly, see Bieber (1961, 167–226); Sear (2006). 3 On the ritual function of Roman theaters, see Hanson (1959); MacMullen (1981, 18–34); Gebhard (1996); Retzleff (2003, 120–21). 4 On ancient Jewish attitudes toward theater, see Jacobs (1998); Bloch (2009), now adapted in Bloch (2017); Spielman (2012); Spielman (2020); Jay (2013); Weiss (2014b); Friesen (2015c, 32–39). 5 The intended function of this structure remains uncertain. It may have been a multipurpose meeting venue; see further in Chapter 2 and esp. n. 31. 6 On occasion, I retain use of the term “pagan” to indicate non-Jewish and non-Christian. While it potentially has pejorative overtones both in its modern applications and in its ancient etymology (paganus = rural), these are not necessary, and the alternatives (e.g., Gentile, Hellene, polytheist) are also problematic; see Cameron (2011, 14–32). 7 For Aristotle’s view on drama, see further in Chapter 3. On the Poetics, see Jones (1962); Belfiore (1985); (1992); Halliwell (1984, 58–67); (2005, 401–5); Heath (1991); Nussbaum (1992, 128–47). 8 Murray (1927, at 342). 9 Note, however, René Girard, whose work is widely influential outside of classics, theorized that the plots of tragedy commemorate some form of primitive sacrifice: Girard (1977, 68–88, 119–42); but cf. Henrichs (1984, 229–34). On the etymology of τραγῳδία

14  Theater and/as Ritual

10

11

1 2 13

14

1 5 16 1 7 18 19 20

2 1 22 23 24

as a “goat-song,” see the seminal studies of Else (1957); Burkert (1966). For criticism of theories of ritual and drama, see Friedrich (1996); (2000); Scullion (2002). In a very different manner, a relationship between theater and ritual has been explored and even recreated in the twentieth century by theater practitioners, such as Richard Schechner’s so-called “environmental theater” which endeavored to conduct dramatic performances as ritual experiences; see Schechner (1985). His approach was shaped among other things by Victor Turner’s anthropological analyses of pre-industrial societies; e.g., Turner (1982). Importantly, one of Schechner’s first and most controversial productions was an adaptation of Euripides’ Bacchae—Dionysus in 69, which ran in New York from 1968 to 1969; on this see Zeitlin (2004); Csapo and Miller (2007, 26–28); FischerLichte (2014, 27–47). As a representative, see Seaford (1981, 1994, 1996, 2000); Foley (1985); Goldhill (1987); Vernant (1988); Mikalson (1991); Wiles (1997, 63–86); Easterling (1998); Wildberg (2002); Sourvinou-Inwood (2003); Steinhart (2007); Green (2007); Depew (2007); Lekfowitz (2016). On Judaism, see works cited above (n. 4); for Christianity, see also Barish (1981, 38– 65); Schnusenberg (1988, 1–53); Barnes (1996); Goldhill (2001); Miles (2003); Dox (2004, 12–29); Webb (2008, 197–216); Revermann (2017, 117–19); Potter (2021); Friesen (forthcoming). On Plato and mimesis, see Halliwell (2002, 72–117). Halliwell (1996 at 347). For Plato’s specific critique of tragedy, see also Halliwell (1984, 50–58); Halliwell (2005, 399–401); Nussbaum (1992, 123–28); Nussbaum (2001, 122– 35); Murray (2003); Revermann (2017, 108–11); Woodruff (2019). And on comedy and satyr drama, see Halliwell (2002, 82–84); Shaw (2014, 14–21). The Stoic Epictetus, for instance, shared Plato’s concern that tragedy promoted misplaced obsession with external circumstances (e.g., Diatr. 1.4.26; 1.24.15–18); see Chapter 3 for Stoic responses to tragedy. Some Romans viewed the theater as a foreign (i.e., Greek) corruption of Roman virtues (Livy 7.2.1–7; Tacitus, Ann. 14.20), and the profession of acting as inherently licentious, dishonest, and deceptive (Seneca, Ep. 76.31; 80.7–8); see Edwards (1993, 98–136). For a historical survey of opposition to theater, see Barish (1981). Translation is from Guggenheimer (2011). See further in Chapter 2. On Tertullian, see Waszink (1948); Power (1971); Barnes (1996, esp. 172–74); Goldhill (2001, esp. 181–84). For Tertullian, there was the additional offense that public spectacles occasionally involved his fellow Christians being thrown to lions (Spect. 27). On Augustine and theater, see Weismann (1972, 186–95); Dox (2004, 12–29). On which, see Spielman (2020, 39–42). Philo, in fact, recites lines from a specific play of Euripides (Auge) that he claims to have attended; on which, see Friesen (2020a) 269–71 and Chapter 5 in this volume. On this, see Rajak (1985, esp. 258–59). It is unclear whether the latter term, “pious,” designates a different group or characterizes the former; see Marek (2018, 133–34). For comparable inscriptions in other cities, Spielman (2020, 117–20). There were also Jewish stage performers (Josephus, Vita 16; y. Taʿan. 1:4, 64b); see Jacobs (1998, 341–44). For additional evidence of Christian theater-attendance, see further in Chapter 2. Among classical playwrights, Philo quotes Euripides 21 times; Aeschylus 6 times; Menander 3 times; and Sophocles once; see Lincicum (2013b). His use of drama is discussed below in chs. 3, 5, and 7. De monarchia includes 29 excerpts attributed to Attic playwrights, although a few are forgeries: Euripides (11); Menander (8); Philemon (3); Sophocles (2); Aeschylus (1). For a list, see Pouderon (2009, 361–64); and further analysis in Chapter 4 in this volume. The New Testament instances are largely proverbial: Menander (Thais, PCG 6.2.165 = Koerte 187) in 1 Cor 15:33; and Euripides, Bacch. 794–795 in Acts 26:14. On the former, see Cover (2018); on the latter Friesen (2015c, 207–21), esp. 207 n. 3 for extensive bibliography. On Paul’s evocation of popular theatrical performance in 1 Corinthians, see esp. Welborn (2005); Friesen (2015b); Cover (2018).

Theater and/as Ritual 15 25 See Chapter 7 on Euripides’ Hecuba. In Protrepticus 12.118.5–119.3, he deploys Euripides’ Bacchae in an extended treatment of Dionysiac mysteries as a foil for idealized Christian spirituality; on this, see Riedweg (1987, 148–58); Jourdan (2006, esp. 172–73); Massa (2014, 167–82); Heath (2020, 302–4). According to the index of Stählin (1905–1936), Clement quotes from Euripides 111 times; Menander 29; Sophocles 24; Aeschylus some 9 times; and Aristophanes 7 times. Cf. Niehoff (2020); she explores Origen’s homiletical references to the theatrical masks, which he deployed, among other things, as a conceptual model for assimilation to Christ—such allusions presume his audience’s familiarity with dramatic productions. 26 As Blowers (2020, 34–101) has recently discussed, recognition of such affinities influenced the ways in which the Bible was interpreted by early Christians. This study focuses, conversely, on how drama was interpreted among communities of biblical faith. 27 On Abraham/Agamemnon, see Wallace (2011). The comparison between the extraordinary strength of Samson and Heracles was already made by Eusebius (Praep. ev. 10.9.7) and Augustine (Civ. 18.19); see Margalith (1987); Bloch (2011, 215); Gnuse (2018). In 1670, Milton composed a tragic drama with Samson as the hero (Samson Agonistes); on which, see Quash (2011, 27–29); Achinstein (2016). That Milton took the tragic Heracles as a model for Samson has been widely recognized; see, e.g., Maxwell (1954); Kessner (1974). 28 The literary dependence of Job upon a Greek model has long been suggested; see Kallen (1918); Rozik (2013, 39–54); also Hadas (1959, 130). It may be, however, that Job was composed too early for direct Greek cultural influences; for a comparative approach that does not posit literary dependence, see Dell (2007, 11–18). 29 For Paul/Pentheus, see Seaford (1997); Dormeyer (2005, 163–67); Moles (2006, 78– 79); Ziegler (2008, 177–83); MacDonald (2015, 52–57); Friesen (2015c, 213–21). For comic slaves and the New Testament, see Harrill (2000); (2006, 59–83). 30 In general, tragedy is privileged; see, e.g., Burch (1931); Bilezikian (1977); Smith (1995); Brant (2004); Cousland (2005); Jay (2014); MacDonald (2017). For comedy, see Via (1975, 71–163); Friesen (2018). 31 On the Exagoge, see further below. 32 Direct dependence on the Bacchae is not certain. The seminal study of Weinreich (1929, 302–3) argued that the similarities belong to a common trope from Hellenistic aretalogy. See also Jacobson (2006, 212, n. 6); Friesen (2015c, 141–48). 33 See Friesen (2015c, 149–73); also Gamble (1979); Fédou (1988, 55–72). 34 On this, see esp. Mitchell (2007). 35 On Jesus’ execution as drama, see also Halliwell (2008, 472–74); Pollmann (2017, 147). Gregory Nazianzus speaks of the sufferings of Christ, “which are dramatized and marvelously woven together for our sake” (ἃ δραματουργεῖται καὶ πλέκεται θαυμασίως ὑπὲρ ἡμῶν, Or. 30.6). For a wider survey of resemblances between biblical narratives and tragedy as observed by ancient biblical exegetes, see Blowers (2020, 34–101). 36 Robertson (1977, 16–32); for the influence of this view, see Davies (2003). This contrast between the Bible and Greek literature recalls the well-known formulation by Erich Auerbach (2003) (org. 1953) who maintained that, in comparison with Homer, the “Bible’s claim to truth is not only far more urgent than Homer’s, it is tyrannical—it excludes all other claims. The world of the Scripture stories is not satisfied with claiming to be a historically true reality—it insists that it is the only real world, is destined for autocracy” (at 14–15). For a different perspective on the Hebrew Bible, see Exum (1992). 37 Steiner (1961, 332). Rozik (2013) suggests an even more absolute dichotomy between religious Judaism and theater (in general, not merely tragedy): “only a secular and liberal society can bring about the full realization of theatre’s potentialities” (1–38, at 2). 38 MacKinnon (1967) at 168. He adds “[i]t is in the figure of Judas Iscariot that the failure of Jesus is focused, and the tragic quality of his mission becomes plain, ‘Good were it for this man if he had not been born.’ Yet through his agency the Son of Man goes his appointed way, and of his own choice […] There is no solution here of the problem of the moral evil; there is nothing which the Easter faith somehow obliterates” (at 168–69). See also Roberts (1951).

16  Theater and/as Ritual 39 Von Balthasar (1988, esp. 70–87, 424–43), at 428. For a cogent survey and assessment of von Balthasar’s theological engagements with tragedy, see Taylor (2011). 40 Modern Theology 34 (2018, 220–88). 41 For additional recent work from various disciplinary perspectives, see Eagleton (2018, 18–29); Taylor (2019); Blowers (2020); Dixon and Garrison (2021). 42 But among the theologians noted above, see von Balthasar (1988, 424–51); Williams (2016, 151–59). For comedy and the Jewish tradition, Abicht (2011); Dauber (2017); and on Christianity, Screech (1997); Halliwell (2008, 471–519); Gilhus (2011). 43 On Philo, see Calabi (2003); Bloch (2009, 73–74); Jay (2017); Friesen (2017, 246–49); on Paul, Friesen (2015b). 44 On the Exagoge, see Jacobson (1983); Kohn (2002–2003); Lanfranchi (2006); Bryant Davies (2008); Bloch (2009, 79–82); Whitmarsh (2013, 211–27); Stewart (2018); Lanfranchi (2019). 45 For comparisons between Moses and dramatic protagonists, see Stewart (2018, 229–32). 46 So Snell (1967, 153–54); and more recently Rozik (2013, 55–66). Others have proposed a public performance, possibly for a mixed audience of Jews and Gentiles: Jacobson (1981, 167–75); Free (1999); for analysis in relation to the staging conventions of fifthcentury and Hellenistic tragedy, see now Stewart (2018, 232–51). 47 For these connections, see esp. Lanfranchi (2006, 57–68); Bryant Davies (2008); Lanfranchi (2019, 142–46). 48 Bryant Davies (2008) at 395, 398, 399. 49 On the Christus patiens, see Tuilier (1950); (1969, 19–26); Sticca (1974); Pollmann (1997); (2017, 140–57); Friesen (2015c, 251–60); Bryant Davies (2017). In the fourth century, apparently Apollinaris of Syria composed tragedies and comedies on biblical topics, modeled on Euripides and Menander, respectively (Sozomen, Hist. eccl. 5.18). 50 See Puchner (2002, 317–19). 51 Some date the composition to late antiquity Tuilier (1950, 403–9) (1969, 27–74); Sticca (1974, 26–29). On classical drama in Byzantium, see Wilson (1996, 177–79); Garland (2004, 82–85); White (2010). While the situation differed in the Medieval West, interest in classical drama is also attested; see Symes (2010). 52 Scholars of Medieval liturgical drama often make explicit comparisons with drama in classical Greece; e.g., Goldstein (2004, 70–95); cf. Turner (1982, 103–4). Rozik (2013, 1–38), by contrast, insists that Jewish theater arose in spite of ritual not out of it, and it could only be fully realized within secular cultures. 53 On this, see Hardison (1965, 35–79); Kott (1970, 186–230); McCall (2007, 9–40); Pietropaolo (2010, 401–9); White (2015, 47–85). In his seminal study, Karl Young (1933) emphasized that, while the Mass has several “dramatic” elements, “genuine drama” would only arise when they became detached because drama must involve impersonation, whereas in the Medieval Mass the “consecrated elements are Christ” (1.79–85, at 85). 54 Young (1933, 1.201–22, 239–306). For more recent treatments of the Quem quaeritis, see Hardison (1965, 178–219); Goldstein (2004, 15–69); Petersen (2007, 336–48). Theater developed differently in the Greek east; as Puchner (2002) argues, Byzantium did not produce “any theatrical forms in the proper sense” (at 322). See also La Paina (1936). 55 See Free (1999, 156). 56 See Belkin (1999); Rozik (2013, 148–55). 57 On this, see esp. Lev-Ari (1998); Caplan (2010); Rozik (2013, 169–77). 58 On this, see Yaari (2018, 45–59). As Caplan (2010, 416–19) notes, however, there had been earlier adaptations in Yiddish. 59 Among the literature on Hellenistic Judaism, see, e.g., Hadas (1959); Hengel (1974); Gruen (1998); (2001); (2002); Bloch (2011). 60 This is, to be sure, not to say that interactions with Greek and Roman culture ceased entirely; see, e.g., Friedheim (2006); Cohen (2014, 211–29).

Theater and/as Ritual 17 61 The relevant scholarly literature is vast: e.g., Bloch (1963); Brown (1978); MacMullen (1981); (1984); (1997); Benko (1984); Gregory (1986); Lane Fox (1987); Fédou (1988); Chuvin (1990); Trombley (1993–1994); Cameron (2011); Cameron (2012, 58–83); Jones (2014). 62 See further in Chapter 3; and Chadwick (1966); Veyne (1988); van Kooten (2010); Fürst (2010); Van Nuffelen (2011); Eshleman (2012); Roubekas (2017). 63 In the Roman East, some theaters were adapted to accommodate violent spectacles, such as gladiatorial combat, animal hunts, and execution of criminals; see Bieber (1961, 213–20); Welch (1999). An especially notorious case of blending violent spectacles with mythological drama is the so-called fatal charades; on which, see Coleman (1990). For a helpful overview of the types of buildings for entertainment in the Roman world, see Dodge (1999). Mime and pantomime also lie beyond the scope of the present study; on which, see Webb (2008, 58–167). 64 See Nervegna (2007). On the processes whereby classical plays were collected, edited, and standardized, see Garland (2004, 25–28, 39–48); Hanink (2014, 60–74) (2019, 333–41); Sistakou (2016, 25–29). For the production of poetic anthologies, or florilegia, see Chadwick (1969); Konstan (2011); and on hypotheses—collections of brief narrative summaries—see Rossum-Steenbeek (1998); Bing (2011, 8–12); Wöckener-Gade (2020). 65 See Dunbabin (2016, 51–84). 66 An important impetus for such research has been the Archives of Performances of Greek and Roman Drama, established in 1996 at the University of Oxford by Edith Hall and Oliver Taplin. This has yielded numerous path-breaking publications, e.g., edited volumes: Macintosh, Michelakis, Hall, and Taplin (2005); Hall, Macintosh, and Wrigley (2004). See also Gildenhard and Revermann (2010); Hunter and Uhlig (2017); Liapis and Petrides (2019); Schramm (2020b); Csapo et al. (2022). Numerous studies are now available on individual plays and playwrights; on Euripides’ Bacchae, for instance, see Friesen (2015c) and Perris and Mac Góráin (2020). For an introduction to the field of classical reception more broadly, see Hardwick (2003). 67 Smith (1990, at 39). While Drudgery Divine concerned primarily Christianity and the Greco-Roman religions of late antiquity, elsewhere he applies similar comparative methodologies to ancient Judaism; see Smith (1982); also Neusner (1982, 7–22); Satlow (2006); and important criticisms by Schwartz (2011). 68 Smith (1990, 112–13). 69 In modern scholarship, this approach emerged in the late nineteenth century, in the landmark work of the so-called Religionsgeschichtliche Schule and was further developed in the project Corpus Hellenisticum Novi Testamenti. For an historical overview, see White and Fitzgerald (2003). On the whole, however, biblical exegesis has been less invested in this than religious studies. Smith advocated for breaking down this division—see, e.g., Smith (2009)—and his approach has been applied, for instance, by Stowers (2011) to Pauline Christianity and mythology. There are, of course, clear points for comparison with Greek mythology in the New Testament, as for instance in Acts 14:1–18 when Paul and Barnabas are mistaken for Zeus and Hermes by the people of Lystra; for a comparison with the similar myth in Ovid, Metam. 8.618–724, see Bechard (2000, 279–337). 70 Louden (2018) ranges across both the Hebrew Bible and New Testament, with several case studies (especially, although not exclusively) in Genesis and Revelation with comparative readings including Homer, Hesiod, Euripides, Vergil, and Ovid. See further in Chapter 6 on Euripides’ Alcestis and the resurrection of Lazarus in John 11. Heath (2019), by contrast, takes a more a more narrowly circumscribed scope limited to the Hebrew Bible and Homeric epics (and, to a lesser extent, Hesiod) and adopts a decidedly polemical posture, situating his work in relationship to contemporary debates between so-called New Atheists and conservative Christians. 71 Litwa (2019). MacDonald (2019) applies his well-known method of mimesis-criticism to one author in the New Testament canon, arguing that Luke-Acts reworks several

18  Theater and/as Ritual

72

73 74

75

7 6 77 78

79

80

8 1 82 83

episodes from Homer as a strategy of cultural self-positioning within the Roman Empire. This is the culmination of numerous publications concerning Homer and the New Testament: see, e.g., MacDonald (2003); (2015, 125–99). Elsewhere, he has a argued for the Gospel of John’s imitation of Euripides’ Bacchae; see MacDonald (2017). On John and Greek drama, see further in Chapter 6. Bowersock (1969, at 13). He does, nevertheless, include broader intellectual developments, such as Galen the physician (59–75), and “Other Literary Men,” (e.g., Dio of Prusa, Appian, Dio Cassius, Plutarch, and Lucian; 110–17). He also recognizes that this periodization is somewhat arbitrary: “The Second (or New) Sophistic is a culmination, not a sudden burst or fad. This is true of the sophists’ style as much as it is of their role in Roman history”; Bowersock (1969, 9). Anderson (1993, 200–215, at 203). Additional studies of the Second Sophistic and related cultural phenomena include Reardon (1971); Swain (1996); Schmitz (1997); Whitmarsh (2001); (2013). On Philo, Winter (2002, 19–108); Niehoff (2018, 18–22); for Hellenistic Jewish poets, Whitmarsh (2013, 215–47); Josephus, Gleason (2001); the rabbis, Schwartz (2001); on Paul, Winter (2002, 141–239); and Clement of Alexandria and Tertullian, Goldhill (2001). This enlarged perspective is now reflected in The Oxford Handbook to the Second Sophistic—Richter and Johnson (2017)—which has one chapter on Judaism and three on Christianity. Johnson and Richter (2017, at 4). For specific treatment of the reception of drama in the Second Sophistic, see Webb (2019). Also important, for comedy, see Marshall and Hawkins (2016); Peterson (2019). On “theatricality” and the Second Sophistic, see Connolly (2001). See Cribiore (2001, 185–219); also Garland (2004, 60–62, 69–70). On this treatise, see Whitmarsh (2001, 47–57); Zadorojnyi (2002); Konstan (2004); Blank (2011). The Medea, for instance, was a common ethical trope among philosophers; on which, see Dillon (1997). For Euripides’ reputation in metaphysics and his alleged relationship with Anaxagoras, see Dillon (2004, 49–61); and on his place in the philosophical schools of the imperial period (esp. Stoicism, Skepticism, and Neoplatonism), see Schramm (2020a). Despite the similarity between the two treatises, however, Wilson (1975, 12) notes that there is no evidence of direct dependence. For further discussion, see Brown (1992, 121–23); Webb (2008, 205–8); (2019, 310–11); and for Christians and Greek paideia in late antiquity, Cameron (2011, 399–420); Elm (2012); Pollmann (2017, 28–31). Note, e.g., the interdisciplinary scope of the recent volume edited by Michael Schramm (2020b) on the reception of Euripides in the Roman Empire and late antiquity, which includes contributions on Philo, Clement of Alexandria, Christian apologists, Gregory Nazianzus, and the Christus patiens. See similarly Whitmarsh (2013, 1–7). Goldhill (2017, at 297). Goldhill (2017, 298). Goldhill (2017, 298–99). Here he cites Nonnus’ Dionysiaca as an example.

2

A Tale of Two Cities’ Theaters From Athens to Jerusalem

The convergence of dramatic performance and religious ritual is evident in the remains of theatrical spaces and sites of worship. Throughout antiquity, theaters were situated within sacred precincts, signaling that productions were offered as acts of devotion to the patron deity. The canonical form of the theater, at least by the time of the fourth century bce, involved a semi-circular cavea (seating) surrounding a circular orchestra, focalizing the audience’s attention around a centralized feature, often an altar or tomb.1 This configuration, as David Wiles observes, correlates to the broader organization of cultic activities in the Greek polis, oriented around a central hearth or altar, while also reflecting prevailing geocentric cosmologies, sometimes depicted in cartography with a circular Oceanus as the world’s boundary and with Delphi as the central axis.2 For ancient Jews and Christians, the religious contexts of performance spaces were an inescapable factor in their response to classical drama. At the same time, as this chapter will argue, Greek and Roman theaters also influenced the formation of sites for Jewish and Christian rituals, as synagogues and basilicas became the primary venues of liturgical performance. Rather than furnishing an exhaustive archaeological survey, the following discussion is organized around the theatrical remains of two cities—Athens and Jerusalem—as illustrative of the religious and cultural dynamics with which this study is concerned. Taking its cue from Tertullian’s famous dictum, “What has Athens to do with Jerusalem?” (Praescr. 7), these two cities represent, for our purposes, the invention of drama, on the one hand, and the geographical origin of Judaism and Christianity, on the other. This chapter, then, juxtaposes the iconic Theater of Dionysus at Athens and its fate through late antiquity with Jerusalem’s theaters, which, by contrast, have been almost entirely erased from the archaeological record. Their respective artifactual remains, including the very stone seats from which performances were viewed, are emblematic of the interplay between ritual and performance and between audience and actor in divergent religious traditions. The Theater of Dionysus and Changing Views of Divine Liturgy On the south slope of the Athenian acropolis beneath the Parthenon, the Theater of Dionysus remains a fixed monument attesting to the era of some of history’s most celebrated playwrights who contributed definitively to the origination of drama DOI: 10.4324/9781003392132-2

20  A Tale of Two Cities’ Theaters

Figure 2.1  Theater of Dionysus, Athens (photograph by author)

(Figure 2.1). Even today, visitors to the site can find themselves transported to the height of Athens’ political power and cultural production. Sitting in the surviving rows, one can imagine attending the first production of Sophocles’ Oedipus alongside Socrates, Pericles, or Alcibiades.3 Less evident to the contemporary visitor, however, is the religious legacy of this theater. It is, for instance, now no longer apparent that it was originally constructed in the sacred precinct of Dionysus Eleuthereus or that its plays were staged in honor of the god amidst festivals, ritual processions, and sacrifices.4 Such cultic functions of the theater are easily overlooked: the once-religiously-freighted context of the performances is now perceptible primarily only through the plots of extant plays which commonly feature divine characters and occasionally depict or allude to specific rites conducted in their honor. In contrast to the thoroughly secular experience of most modern theater-goers, throughout antiquity, dramatic production continued to be a sacred and ritualized cultural institution.5 The fortunes of the Theater of Dionysus at the end of antiquity and its afterlife under Christianity provide a further perspective on its religious entailments. It remained active well after the conversion of Constantine and through the “Christianization” of the Empire. This is apparent from its renovations: as late as 400 ce, a new stage front (bema) was constructed and dedicated by the Archon Phaedrus to Dionysus “lover of rites” (philorgios) that still stands in situ.6 Broader evidence from the Greek East establishes the ongoing appeal of public entertainments throughout the Empire. During the reign of Theodosius, laws were passed forbidding pagan worship (especially in 392 ce); yet, productions of drama were not shut down.7 In fact, legislation in the Codex Theodosianus makes positive provision to maintain

A Tale of Two Cities’ Theaters 21 them (e.g., 15.7.13), while also introducing several new regulations concerning when they can occur (15.5.5: not on the Lord’s Day), who can attend (15.5.2: not judges), and the religious status of performers (15.7.1., 4, 8: an active “woman of the stage” was to be excluded from the sacrament).8 Moreover, on the base of the Obelisk of Theodosius, erected in the Hippodrome at Constantinople between 390 and 392 ce to celebrate a military victory, reliefs display Theodosius himself in his imperial box above dancers and musicians indicating his continuing patronage.9 The polemic and invective of church fathers reveals profound frustration with this popularity. In 399 ce, for instance, in the church in Constantinople near the Hippodrome (the first Hagia Sophia), the bishop John Chrysostom delivered his sermon Contra ludos et theatra denouncing spectacles and dramas and threatening that not only actors but all who attend would be forbidden from entering the sacred precinct (Theatr. 268).10 Cyril of Jerusalem had instructed initiates that the “pomp of the Devil” (Πομπὴ δὲ διαβόλου) which they denounced at baptism included “theatrical madnesses, chariot races, animal hunting, and all such vanity” (θεατρομανίαι, καὶ ἱπποδρομίαι, καὶ κυνηγεσία, καὶ πᾶσα τοιαύτη ματαιότης, Mystagogiae 1.6). In the West, Ambrose similarly exhorted Christians to cease attending “circus games” (circensium ludorum) and “the spectacles of theaters” (theatralium spectacula, Exp. Ps. 118 [PL 15.1327]). Other prominent bishops, by contrast—Victor at Ephesus and Porphyrius at Antioch, according Palladius of Galatia’s Dialogue on the Life of St. John Chrysostom (15–16)—supported such entertainments and fraternized with stage actors and performers.11 Indeed, decrees concerning female actors issued under the emperor Justinian indicate that this remained a common profession into the sixth century (Nov. 51), as in fact Justinian himself was famously married to a former mime actor, Theodora.12 Moreover, as Kimberly Bowes observes regarding the archaeological remains of theaters in Aphrodisias and Side (Pamphylia), their active use continued as late as the sixth century, and surviving paintings, inscriptions, and chapel installations establish that participants included Christians.13 In keeping with these trends elsewhere, at the Theater of Dionysus in Athens, the definitive cessation of its use came only in the sixth century, marked by the construction of a basilica at the eastern parodos of the Theater with the orchestra functioning as the courtyard and a phiale built into its floor.14 This architectural move is consistent with contemporary developments in Athens, as several pagan temples and cult sites around the city were converted for Christian use.15 In 529 ce, under a decree of the emperor Justinian the Academy was closed, and around the same time the Parthenon itself was transformed from a temple of Athena into a church dedicated to Mary Theotokos.16 But the effort to erase the institution of dramatic performance from the cultural landscape of Athens potentially elides the ways in which it had fundamentally shaped Christianity itself. In fact, the coexistence and interconnectivity of Christian ritual and Greek theater is illustrated in the architectural alterations made to the Parthenon. At the east side, an apse was added housing a synthronon—a raised semi-circular dais with seating for bishops and priests. At this location, in 1836 ce, archaeologists discovered three or four marble thrones identical in form to the

22  A Tale of Two Cities’ Theaters

Figure 2.2  Prohedria seats at the Theater of Dionysus, Athens (photograph by author)

prohedria-seats in the Theater of Dionysus (as in Figure 2.2).17 While their date and origin cannot be established with certainty (estimates range from the fourth century bc to the second century ce), they are of precisely the type reserved for priests and dignitaries to view spectacles and were apparently transferred from the theater for reuse.18 In their Christian reappropriation they came to be deployed by the clergy overseeing and conducting the Eucharist, with the altar positioned immediately in front of the synthronon. As it happens, a similar architectural reuse of theatrical materials occurred on the island of Paros in a nearly contemporary basilica, the Panagia Katapoliani, where 11 seats from the Hellenistic theater were redeployed in the synthronon and remain in situ.19 The significance of these architectural adaptations and material reuses can be seen through a comparison with the churches of Constantinople, where more substantial evidence survives.20 The synthronon, which had earlier been common in the audience halls of imperial palaces for the enthronement of the emperor, became a standard feature of church architecture.21 At Constantinople, it is attested both in pre-existing buildings transformed into churches (e.g., the Hagia Euphemia), as well as newly constructed basilicas, such as the Hagios Ioannes Studios (463 ce), which became a prototype for the two most celebrated Justinian basilicas of the sixth century.22 In the Hagia Eirene (530s ce), the synthronon still stands, although the present form of the church was restored after an earthquake in 740 ce (Figure 2.3).23 The Hagia Sophia likewise had a synthronon in the apse, and, although it no longer remains, literary accounts provide a vivid perspective on its form and function.24 In the Description of the Hagia Sophia, a poem composed for the basilica’s re-dedication in 562 ce, Paul the Silentiary offers an extensive discussion of the interior, with several lines devoted to the details of the synthronon

A Tale of Two Cities’ Theaters 23

Figure 2.3  Synthronon in the Hagia Eirene, Istanbul (dragoncello/Alamy Stock photo)

in the central apse (354–416).25 He observes that “the middle [dome] adorns itself with mystical seats and curved steps” (Μέση δ’ἐζώσατο θώκους μυστιπόλους καὶ βάθρα περίδρομα, 362–363), ascending upward to the highest row of seats which are of silver (366–367). Later, after describing the magnificent columns, domes, and arches surrounding the semi-circular priestly seating, he makes a striking contrast with a theater: Εἰ μὲν πρὸς ἄλλο θέατρον ὑμᾶς συγκαλεῖν συχνῶς ἐπεχείρουν, ὄχλον ἄν τις εἰκότως ἡγήσατο τοῦτο· νῦν γε μὴν εὖ οἶδ’ ὅτι πρὸς τὸν νεὼν δραμόντες αὖθις τὸν μέγαν ἐρᾶτε πάντες τῆς ἀκοῆς ὡς τῆς θέας. If I often attempted to summon you to another theater, someone would reasonably have regarded it as a nuisance; now, though, I know well that, running back again to the great shrine, you all desire hearing as much as seeing. (Description of the Hagia Sophia 411–415) Thus, for at least this one early observer, the impression produced by an experience of procession through the Hagia Sophia was comparable to “another theater” (ἄλλο θέατρον). What differentiated “the great shrine,” however, was its emphasis not merely on sight and spectacle (θέα) but on “hearing” (ἀκοή), that is, presumably, the reading and preaching from sacred scripture, rather than visual seduction.26

24  A Tale of Two Cities’ Theaters The function of the synthronon in the liturgical performance of scripture and preaching is also described in the eighth century by Germanos of Constantinople, whose treatise On Divine Liturgy details the symbolic significance of the architectural elements and furnishings in the church through several stages of the liturgy.27 When he comes to the synthronon, a transition occurs.28 As the priest ascends, Germanos reports the first instance of dramatic role playing in the liturgy, as the Gospel is re-enacted: Τὸ ἀνελθεῖν ἐν τῷ συνθρόνῳ τὸν ἀρχιερέα καὶ σφραγίσαι τὸν λαόν, ἐστὶν ὁ Υἱὸς τοῦ Θεοῦ ὅτε ἐπλήρωσε τὴν οἰκονομίαν, ἐπάρας τὰς χεῖρας αὑτοῦ εὐλόγησε τοὺς ἁγίους αὑτοῦ μαθητὰς λέγων αὐτοῖς· ‘εἰρήνην ἀφίημι ὑμῖν.’ The priest ascending in the synthronon and sealing the people is the Son of God when he filled the office of ministry, after raising up his own hand, he blessed his holy disciples, saying to them, “peace I leave with you.” (Germanos, Hist. myst. 26, quoting John 14:27) From his place in the synthronon, the priest is or becomes the Son of God, performing the scene of the farewell discourse from John’s Gospel wherein Jesus spoke in private with the disciples. In the liturgy, the role of the disciples is played by the congregation who respond in turn “and with your spirit” (καὶ τῷ πνεύματί σου, 26). As Andrew White has observed more broadly regarding Byzantine liturgy, “[t]he public reading of scripture in itself constitutes a performance and one of inherently ‘theatrical’ or ‘dramatic’ value—especially when it is a matter of narrative passages from the Gospels.”29 For visitors to the Parthenon, the dramatic qualities inherent in the liturgical performance may well have been reinforced by the furnishings of the synthronon. Even as the nearby precinct of Dionysus Eleuthereus became a site for Christian worship, the very prohedria-seats from which drama was once viewed were reappropriated for a new mode of ritual production. While the formal similarities— semi-circular stepped seating—and functional correspondences—a site for seeing and hearing religious performance—between the synthronon and the cavea may appear coincidental, they are nevertheless suggestive that classical theater does not merely disappear with the rise of Christianity. Rather, in the place of traditional Greek mythological themes, the sacred performances redramatized Christianity’s founding mythos, while the synthronon inverted the relationship between audience and actor, as its elevated seats served to put the clergy on display before the laity.30 Roman Theaters in Jerusalem between Temple, Synagogue, and Latrine Jerusalem, 16 October 2017: the Israel Antiquities Authority reported the discovery of a small Roman theater-like structure situated adjacent to the Temple Mount, at the Western Wall beneath Wilson’s Arch. The edifice, constructed after the temple’s destruction in 70 ce and apparently never completed, provides fresh evidence for the place of theater in the Roman Imperial administration, in this instance the

A Tale of Two Cities’ Theaters 25

Figure 2.4  Roman Theater, Caesarea (imageBROKER/Alamy Stock photo)

attempt to enact performances at the geographic and religious heart of Judaism (see Figure 1.1).31 This new find is especially valuable because it is the first and only ancient theatrical building discovered in Jerusalem and thus fills a major gap in the archaeological record. Several other Roman theaters survive throughout Palestine and surrounding regions, as for instance at Caesarea where Herod’s theater can still be seen today (Figure 2.4; and Josephus, A.J. 15.341; B.J. 1.415).32 Anecdotal evidence in the Jerusalem Talmud (compiled in the fourth century) indicates Jewish involvement at the theater in Caesarea, as a certain “Pentekaka” was employed in decorating it (and possibly also as a performer) as one among his “five sins” (y. Taʿan. 1:4, 64b).33 In fact, buildings for public entertainment remained active in Caesarea through late antiquity and in one case alterations were made for reuse as a Christian martyrium.34 This stands in sharp contrast to Jerusalem, where two theaters are known from literary sources—the first built by Herod (Josephus, A.J. 15.267–291) and the second under Hadrian (Chronicon paschale p. 474 Dindorf)—but their material remains have disappeared without a trace. Or, almost. A curious and suggestive discovery made between 1994 and 1996 also near the Temple Mount reveals something about the afterlife of an unidentified theater at Jerusalem, possibly that of Herod or Hadrian. Eleven stones deployed in the wall of an Umayyad Palace (IV) have been demonstrated by Ronnie Reich and Yaʿakov Billig to have originally been used as theater seats.35 Between their function in a Roman theater and later inclusion in the palace wall of the Islamic caliphate at the end of the seventh century, however, they had an intermediate use in a latrine, indicated by narrow channels chiseled into nine of the stones. These grooves, together with circular depressions at periodic distances, would have been

26  A Tale of Two Cities’ Theaters assembled into a continuous line. The fate of these architectural elements is potentially emblematic of wider cultural attitudes: the theater did not merely fall into disuse, it appears to have been disassembled and then repurposed as a vessel for human waste. It thus also points to a possible explanation as to why these two Roman theaters in Jerusalem have left no other archaeological record.36 While the ultimate reasons for their disappearance remain speculative, it is clear that some Jews, at least, were hostile to the presence of a theater in Jerusalem as a direct affront to their ancestral religion. Josephus articulates this perspective pointedly, detailing how Herod’s introduction of spectacle entertainments to Jerusalem was an external force of corruption, “foreign to the custom of the Jews” (τοῦ δὲ κατὰ τοὺς Ἰουδαίους ἔθους ἀλλότρια, A.J. 15.267–291, at 268).37 He instituted a quadrennial festival in honor of Caesar that included athletic competitions and horse racing, as well as prizes “for musicians” (τοῖς ἐν τῇ μουσικῇ) and “for stage performers” (θυμελικοῖς καλουμένοις, A.J. 15.270). The main cause for offense, according to Josephus, was the trophies that decorated the theater (15.276), and especially the practice of throwing men to wild beasts for entertainment (15.275).38 Josephus posits that these impieties resulted in great harm upon the nation, by which he seems to mean Jerusalem’s eventual destruction in 70 ce (15.267), and adds that they even provoked an attempted conspiracy against Herod that, coincidentally, occurred in the theater (15.284–291).39 The rabbis adopted a similarly rigorous stance against public spectacles.40 The Jerusalem Talmud attributes to Rabbi Meir (second century) the dictum, “Going to the theater is forbidden as pagan worship” (‫העולה לתיאטרון אסור מׁשום עבודה זרה‬, y. ʿAbod. Zar. 1:7, 40a).41 The primary reasons for the prohibition were religious—due to pagan sacrifices—and moral—the bloodshed of innocent victims. Even if these elements were not present, however, a fundamental objection remains: “All this leads to neglect of the Torah,” and, citing Psalm 1:1–2, “this is forbidden because of ‘seat of the scoffers,’ as it is said, in the seat of scoffers he did not sit” (ibid.).42 Of course, not all Jews in the Greco-Roman world were absolutely opposed to theatrical performance. As observed above (Chapter 1), some wrote approvingly of attending plays (Let. Aris. 284–285; Philo, Ebr. 177; Prob. 141), and there was even dedicated seating in Miletus (CIJ 748) and elsewhere.43 Moreover, some Jews read Greek plays, compiled and organized excerpts, and at least one composed a tragedy on biblical material (Ezekiel, Exagoge). While it is impossible to be certain how widespread such Jewish involvements with theater were, clearly it was prevalent enough to merit the attention and disapproval of rabbinical authorities.44 The perception of religious struggle between Judaism and Greco-Roman performance is further suggested in a peculiar comment in the Chronicon paschale, the single historical source for Hadrian’s theater in Jerusalem. Writing well after the events, the seventh-century Byzantine author conflates two transformative moments in the history of Jerusalem—the destruction of the temple and the foundation of Aelia Capitolina: Hadrian, “after destroying the temple of the Judeans in Jerusalem, constructed two demosia and a theater” (καθελὼν τὸν ναὸν τῶν Ἰουδαίων τὸν ἐν Ἱεροσολύμοις ἔκτισε τὰ δύο δημόσια καὶ τὸ θέατρον, p. 474 Dindorf).45 Of course, it was not Hadrian, but Titus some six decades earlier, who had destroyed

A Tale of Two Cities’ Theaters 27 the temple. This would have been common knowledge, widely attested in literary sources (Josephus, B.J. 6.8.2, 6.83; Eusebius, Eccl. hist. 3.5.4; Ammianus Marcellinus, History 23.1.2) and monumentalized on the Arch of Titus in Rome.46 It is difficult to imagine, therefore, that the chronicler would have been unaware of this distinction, even if the reason for his confusion remains obscure.47 Nevertheless, the result of the conflation is a heightened sense of conflict, with the destruction of the temple and construction of a theater in its place depicted conceptually as simultaneous events.48 A comparable juxtaposition is recorded in the Jerusalem Talmud in a saying attributed to the prophet Elijah. Asked why there are earthquakes in the land and whether it was due to a failure to pay tithes, he asserts, instead, “the main thing is that if the Holy One, praise to Him, sees theatres and circuses (‫ )בבתי תיטריות ובבתי קרקסאות‬existing in safety and quiet, but His temple (‫ )בית מקדשׁו‬is destroyed, He is menacing His world to destroy it” (y. Ber. 9:3).49 The destruction of the temple in Jerusalem was a pivotal event in the formation of Judaism and Christianity as they emerged in their dominant forms. Among other things, it corresponded with the disappearance of the diverse Jewish sects that thrived throughout the Second Temple Period. Two that survived—those of the rabbis and of the Christ-followers—had evolved practices of piety detached from the temple allowing them to adapt to a new religious landscape. Even so, for Jews especially, the imposition of a theatrical structure directly alongside the recently-destroyed temple would have been objectionable and contributed to the harsh denunciations of the rabbis. Despite their condemnations, however, as Zeev Weiss observes, in their sermons many rabbis “used parables and terminology taken from the world of public spectacles to drive home a point or to explain a difficult word, verse, or particular lesson to be learned from the Bible.”50 Moreover, they “became performers in their own communal theater”; in fact, he observes, the synagogue itself somewhat resembles the layout of a theater. The benches resemble the auditorium (cavea); the floor between them, the orchestra; the bema, the stage (pulpitum); and the Holy Ark with its decorated façade, the wall of the scaenae frons, the richest component in the Roman theater that faced the audience.51 In other words, while the ritual spaces of the synagogue took the place of the Jerusalem temple, they were, at the same time, also akin to theaters both in form and in function. Conclusions In the Jewish and Christian cultures of antiquity, theaters were contested and controversial architectural spaces. They were constructed by the Romans throughout their conquered territories as an expression of imperial hegemony, as evident in the recently discovered remains of a small theater-like structure adjacent the temple in Jerusalem, commenced soon after its destruction. Public performances were met with widespread condemnation by rabbis and church fathers. Expressions of disapproval were not limited to sermons and treatises; in Jerusalem, one theater

28  A Tale of Two Cities’ Theaters was apparently dismantled, and its materials repurposed for a latrine. Indeed, the near total absence of theaters from the city’s archaeological remains quite probably reflects the religious opposition of the local population. As for the Christian world, most theaters eventually fell into disuse, although occasionally basilicas were built directly upon existing structures. This occurred, notably, at the Theater of Dionysus, antiquity’s most celebrated venue for dramatic productions, where a church was constructed in its sacred precinct. Amidst these architectural alterations, new performative modalities assimilated the old. Occasionally, this occurred quite literally, as when theater seats were transferred into the synthronon of a basilica. Such material appropriations are suggestive of correspondences in form and function. For instance, the semi-circular stepped seating of the synthronon resembles, at least superficially, the shape of a theater, as also did, but in different ways, the configuration of synagogues, now with priests and rabbis, respectively, cast as the leading actors. In short, as classical drama came increasingly to be limited to private readings, public productions of stage plays would finally cease in the sixth century, but only after performative spaces had been thoroughly absorbed, repurposed, and adapted for new religious communities. While this chapter has focused on monumental architecture, subsequent chapters will attend to intellectual and literary contexts where, it will be argued, there are similarly paradoxical relationships between the repudiation and appropriation of drama. Notes 1 Archaeological evidence suggests that at least some of the earliest Greek theaters in the fifth century were rectilinear and non-symmetrical; see Gebhard (1974); Bosher (2008–2009). 2 Wiles (1997, 63–86). 3 The theater as visible today, however, was initially constructed in the fourth century under Lycurgus. On its history through antiquity, see Pickard-Cambridge (1946). 4 For a standard overview, see Pickard-Cambridge (1968, 57–101). 5 While scholars of Attic drama broadly agree on these points, most everything else remains contested; for instance, the precise nature of the ritual origin of theater and its significance for meaning and interpretation. See Chapter 1, esp. nn. 9–10. 6 At this time, the theater would have also been used for public assemblies. On the bema, see Pickard-Cambridge (1946, 259–60); for the inscription also Sironen (1994, 43–45). The precise date of its construction is uncertain, with estimates ranging from the reign of Constantine to 400 ce; see Travlos (1971, 538); Frantz (1982); Saradi and Eliopoulos (2011, 265–66). Earlier, in the first century CE, the Theater was renovated to accommodate gladiatorial games; see Welch (1999, 127–33). For other the adaptations to the Theater in the Roman period, see Pickard-Cambridge (1946, 247–64); Bieber (1961, 213–16). 7 On the legislation against pagan worship in the Codex Theodosianus, see Chuvin (1990, 36–72); Trombley (1993–1994, 1.1–97); MacMullen (1997, 20–25); Cameron (2011, 59–74). As Ramsay MacMullen (1986, 330–33) demonstrates, Christianity made no difference to the production of spectacle entertainments in the Roman world. There was an edict by Constantine in 325 ce (Cod. theod. 15.12.1) against gladiatorial combat; but their termination was already underway in the third century for economic reasons, and they nevertheless continued until roughly 430 ce. See now also Papakyriakou (2021).

A Tale of Two Cities’ Theaters 29 8 A translation of these laws is available in Pharr (1952). For discussion, see Webb (2002); Lim (2003) 87–91. 9 On this, see Dunbabin (2016, 262–67). For other material evidence for theatrical performances in late antiquity, see Green (1994, 161–71). 10 For discussion of theaters and spectacles throughout the works of Chrysostom, see Easterling and Miles (1999, esp. 156–58); Leyerle (2001); Miles (2003); Webb (2008, 201–2); Cox Miller (2009, 82–84); Potter (2021, 189). For the basilica in Constantinople, constructed by Constantius II and dedicated in 360 CE, and its proximity to the Hippodrome, see Mathews (1971, 11–19, 49–53). 11 See Leyerle (2001, 17–19). 12 On this, see Lim (2003, 104–9). 13 Bowes (2014, 107–8). 14 This church no longer survives; but for a sketch of the site plan in relation to the Theater, see Travlos (1971, 537–52, esp. 549 plate 686). A nearly identical construction occurred at Priene, where in the fifth or sixth century a similar single aisled basilica was also built in the eastern parodos of the theater with the orchestra functioning as an entrance; see Bowes (2014, 103–4). Much later, in the tenth century at Tegea in the Peloponnese, the church of the Dormitian of the Virgin was built directly upon the cavea of the Hellenistic theater. On the history of this church, see Siountri (2019). And for an overview of the ways in which other spectacle buildings—amphitheaters, hippodromes, and stadia—were adapted for Christian use in late antiquity and beyond, see Bowes (2014). Surveying some 20 examples, she concludes that Christian interventions in these buildings were relatively rare. In at least three locations, martyria were constructed on amphitheaters where their respective martyrs were thought to have died: Tarragona (Spain); Salona (Croatia); and Caesarea Maritima; see Bowes (2014, 95–98). 15 On this, see Frantz (1965); Trombley (1993–1994, 1.108–47); Foschia (2000, 429–30); Saradi and Eliopoulos (2011); Kiilerich (2013); Vionis (2017, 146–50). And for the broader religious context, see also Chapter 1, esp. n. 61. 16 On the Christian Parthenon, see Korres (1994); Ousterhout (2005); Kaldellis (2009); Kiilerich (2013, 192–96). The liturgy of the Christian Parthenon has been reconstructed in part by Alexopoulos (2015) on the basis especially of inscriptions on the columns. For the date of the closure of the Parthenon and its conversion into a basilica, see Trombley (1993–1994, 1.342–44). 17 One of which is now in the Acropolis Museum; see Casson (1921, 278–80, no. 1366). On the surviving prohedriai in the Theater, see Maass (1972). 18 Saradi and Eliopoulos (2011, 270) state decisively, “[f]or the synthronon of the apse, seats from the theatre of Dionysus were used.” It is not clear to me, however, that the evidence is definitive. Richter (1954) suggests one may have been originally crafted for the visit of a Roman emperor such as Hadrian who is known to have patronized performances at Athens. 19 The original location of the theater on Paros is now uncertain, although it can be dated to 206 bce. On the basis of the surviving elements that were reused in the church, archaeologists have reconstructed the theater’s cavea and calculated its dimensions; see Gruben (1982, 683–85) (with plates 33–35). To this, Müller (2003, 52–68) adds a reconstruction of the proskenion. See also, Touchais (1983, 810–12) (with fig. 124); Touchais (1984, 819–20) (with fig. 153). The most complete description and analysis of the Panagia Katapoliani is Jewell and Hasluck (1920); see also Mango (1976, 159–61) (with fig. 170); Roussos (2017, 69–78). Such instances of spolia—the reuse of stone building materials—in Byzantine architecture is broadly attested; see Saradi (1997); Kiilerich (2021). 20 In fact, Alexopoulos (2015, 171) argues that the liturgical traditions at the Christian Parthenon appear to have derived from Constantinople. 21 “Secular basilicas” are widely attested from earlier periods, and one at Trier can be dated securely to the reign of Constantine. The Christian adaptation of this basilica form

30  A Tale of Two Cities’ Theaters represents a clear break from pre-Constantinian house churches, as represented at Dura Europa; on this contrast, see esp. White (1990). For the pre-Christian origin of the Constantinian basilica form, see Ward Perkins (1954); Krautheimer (1967); Magno (1976, 58–96). For the wider function of the synthronon in Byzantine liturgy, see Ousterhout (1999, 13–15); White (2015, 55–58); Betancourt (2021, 197–202). 22 For the synthronon of the Hagia Euphemia, see Mathews (1971, 64–66), with figs. 32–33. On the Studios basilica, see Mathews (1971, 19–27); Mango (1976, 61). 23 On this, see Mathews (1971, 85–87) (with figs. 45–47); Krautheimer (1986, 249–52) (with fig. 209). 24 On the Hagia Sophia generally: Mathews (1971, 88–99), esp. 99 and 171 on the synthronon; Mango (1976, 107–23); Krautheimer (1986, 205–28); Mainstone (1988). 25 For the occasion and the religious and historical context of this poem, see Whitby (1985); Macrides and Magdalino (1988); see also Fobelli (2005), esp. figs. 51 and 59 for reconstructed drawings of the synthronon. 26 To be sure, the appearance of formal similarity is not unique to the sythronon and the cavea of a theater. In a twelfth century description of the Hagia Sophia by Michael of Thessalonica, the ascending steps in the apse are described as “the sacred sphendone” (ἡ ἱερὰ σφενδόνη), that is, the curved seating at the end of a stadium or hippodrome; for this text, see Mango and Parker (1960). 27 See also Schnusenberg (1988, 88–92). 28 On Germanos’ description of the apse and synthronon, see Betancourt (2021, 258–61). 29 White (2015, 57). 30 For this point, see White (2015, 33–34). 31 Based on its small size, the excavators have suggested it may have been an odeon with a seating capacity of between 150 and 200 people; see Uziel, Lieberman, and Solomon (2019, 245–48). Odea were, initially at least, designed for small-scale concerts and recitals; but this distinction blurred over time and varied depending upon the size and resources of individual cities. For discussion of comparable types, see Sear (2006, 38–42); Weiss (2014b, 81–84). 32 On these, see Segal (1995); Belayche (2001, 74–76); Bloch (2009, 70–72); Weiss (2014a); Weiss (2014b, 58–60, 81–100). For Jerusalem, in particular, see Patrich (2002a). 33 The account involves a (fictional) dialogue with Rabbi Abbahu (late third/early fourth century); see Jacobs (1998, 341–44). 34 On which, see Porath (1996, 116); and further Chapter 8. 35 Reich and Billig (2000). 36 Based upon the absence of Herod’s theater both from the archaeological record and from literary sources (beyond Josephus) attesting to its ongoing existence into the Common Era, some have suggested that it was in fact a temporary wooden structure; see Patrich (2002a); Lichtenberger (2006). 37 On Josephus and Herod’s introduction of Roman spectacles, see Spielman (2012); (2020, 17–52); Skotheim (2022, 123–25); and for wider Jewish responses to GrecoRoman entertainments see also Chapter 1 (esp. n. 4). 38 The latter would have been more fitting for an amphitheater; see Schwartz (2010, 99–101). As for Josephus’ attitude toward dramatic literature, several scholars have argued that his historical writings exhibit influence from Greek tragedy; e.g., Feldman (1998); Bloch (2011, 219–23); Swoboda (2017). 39 According to Josephus, the assassination of Caligula also happened at the theater (A.J. 19.90–113); cf. Cassius Dio 59.29; Suetonius, Cal. 57–58. Philo connects Caligula’s violent injustices against the Jews to his obsession with the theater, both with acting himself (Legat. 79; cf. Suetonius, Cal. 54.2; Dio 59.5.5) and for his intimate associations with actors (Legat. 204; cf. Suetonius, Cal. 33.1; Dio 59.5.2). For discussion, see Barrett (1989, 162–66); Friesen (2017, 242–49).

A Tale of Two Cities’ Theaters 31 40 On rabbinic statements concerning public performances, see Jacobs (1998); Friedheim (2006, 347–52); Bloch (2009, 59–66); Weiss (2014b, 200–208), 2017); Spielman (2020, 127–219). 41 The Hebrew text and translation are from Guggenheimer (2011). On this passage, see esp. Jacobs (1998, 332–45); Bloch (2009, 59–62). 42 This is, of course, not unique to Jews: disapproval of public entertainments is also attested among some Greeks and Romans (e.g., Dio Chrysostom, Or. 32.1–7; Livy 7.2.1–7; Tacitus, Ann. 14.20) and Christians (e.g., Tertullian, Spect.; Chrysostom, Theatr.; Augustine, Civ. 1.32). It is striking that Tertullian deploys precisely the same verse (Ps 1:1) to argue against theater attendance (Spect. 3.7); although mutual influence with the rabbis is possible, Spielman (2020, 160–62) suggests they may have arrived at this independently. See further Chapter 1, esp. nn. 11–17. 43 See now Spielman (2020, 117–20). 44 To characterize attendance by Hellenistic Jews at public entertainments as involving “compromises with orthodoxy,” as does Feldman (1960, 225), is to adopt the dominant position articulated by the rabbis. As Weiss (2017) notes, the strength of the rabbis’ denunciations of spectacles indicates that they “faced similar difficulties [to the church fathers] in dissuading their own communities from attending such performances” (at 275). 45 For a general introduction to the Chronicon paschale, see Whitby and Whitby (1989, ix–xxix); and with respect to Byzantine historiography on Judaism, Fishman-Duker (1977). 46 For an overview of these historical events, see Schäfer (2003, 123–33). 47 In fact, there is little archaeological corroboration for the Chronicon’s account of Hadrian’s building projects, and thus it is difficult to assess its accuracy; see Belayche (2001, 134–36); Patrich (2002c, 175–79). On archaeological and literary evidence concerning Aelia Capitolina, see Magness (2011); Weksler-Bdolah (2019); (2020, 110–30). 48 For an analogous historical discrepancy in Hadrian’s architectural projects in Jerusalem with respect to the temple, see Eliav (1997). He argues that Xiphilinus, the eleventhcentury epitomizer of Cassius Dio, shifts Hadrian’s temple of Jupiter onto the Temple Mount, thereby heightening the religious confrontation between Hadrian and the Jewish God. In fact, the site of the temple in Jerusalem remained a contested space in antiquity, so that in the 360s the Emperor Julian planned to rebuild it, apparently in an effort to reinstate polytheism and thwart Christian ascendency (Ammianus Marcellinus, History 23.1.2). 49 The Hebrew text and translation are from Guggenheimer (2000). For analysis, see Spielman (2020, 228–30). 50 Weiss (2017, 273); see also Niehoff (2020, 130–31). 51 Weiss (2017, 276). He adds, “When preaching inside the synagogue, the rabbi or whoever delivered the sermon probably stood near the bema or in some other prominent place within the prayer hall, commanding the attention of the audience sitting on the benches around him, as was the case with the actor performing on the theater stage” (276–77). See similarly Spielman (2020, 234–37). For a detailed overview of architectural layout and furnishings of ancient synagogues, see Levine (2005, 313–80).

3

The Drama of Debating Gods (and Their Existence) Lucian of Samosata and Philo of Alexandria on Creation and Providence

The productions of Greek theater provided especially vivid occasions for audiences and readers to reflect upon and debate the role of the gods in the affairs of mortals and to evaluate their own religious and theological commitments. For many, plays were seen as instructive, offering insights into the nature of divinity and the cosmos as well as human obligations of piety and justice. There was, of course, little agreement on precisely what audiences were meant to learn and, consequently, ambiguities of meaning and interpretation opened up spaces for vigorous philosophical and theological debate. This chapter and the next explore what made drama a compelling medium through which to conduct religious inquiry and the ways in which it was distinct from other poetic genres such as epic. On the one hand, playwrights shared much in common with all mythological poets in so far as they were concerned with gods and heroes and drew from traditional material for their plots and characters. Moreover, both drama and epic often problematize relationships between the anthropomorphic gods of the action, the divine recipients of civic cult worship, and corresponding metaphysical realities. In this context, occasionally both Homer and Hesiod self-reflexively signal the fictionality of their narratives, foregrounding the tension between truth and illusion. For instance, Hesiod famously reports that his Muses declare that they can “speak many lies alike to the truth” (ψεύδεα πολλὰ λέγειν ἐτύμοισιν ὁμοῖα, Theog. 27); and, Odysseus, Homer’s narrator for part of the Odyssey (books 9–12), turns out to be notoriously untrustworthy. On the other hand, however, the stage presents audiences with heightened moments of metafiction displayed with more direct immediacy, not least as it relates to the actions of gods. When divinities appear as characters, they are necessarily played by human actors decked out in hand-made masks and costumes; and when they arrive deus ex machina their providential actions were seen, by some at least, as artificial intrusions into the plot (esp. Aristotle, Poet. 1454a–b). While an audience could be expected to suspend their disbelief and submit to illusion of the sake of the performance, at times the self-referential words and actions of a drama expose its own theatricality.1 Among extant tragedy, this is done perhaps nowhere more forcefully than in the Bacchae of Euripides, which opens in the prologue with a speaker identifying himself as Dionysus arriving in human disguise (Bacch. 1–5).2 Thereafter, the action DOI: 10.4324/9781003392132-3

The Drama of Debating Gods (and Their Existence) 33 hinges upon the ambiguity and confusion over this stranger’s identity; and even after the god’s final epiphanic revelation Cadmus opines “you have come upon us excessively […] it is not fitting for gods to resemble mortals in their tempers” (ἐπεξέρχῃ λίαν […] ὀργὰς πρέπει θεοὺς οὐχ ὁμοιοῦσθαι βροτοῖς, 1346, 1348). While the Bacchae may be the most explicit in its insinuation that a character’s divine status was a theatrical and thus human construct, it participates in a wider phenomenon fundamental to the very nature of the genre. As Gregory Dobrov argues, “the emergence of drama in classical Athens marks the invention of sophisticated, self-aware genres”; indeed, “the self-conscious aspects of tragedy and comedy, far from being marked or peripheral, foreground the originary features of the dramatic process: duplicity, paradox (conveying truth through illusion), and mythopoeic power.”3 That the ideas advanced in the theater had profound religious import is evident in the urgency with which contemporary Athenians reacted. It is reported, for instance, regarding Aeschylus that “he was brought to trial for impiety concerning a certain drama” (ἐκρίνετο ἀσεβείας ἐπί τινι δράματι, TrGF 3 T94 = Aelian, Var. hist. 5.19; cf. Clement, Strom. 2.14.60).4 Euripides, likewise, according to the Vita by Satyrus, “was prosecuted for impiety” (τὴν τῆς ἀσεβείας δίκην ἔφυγεν, TrGF 5.1 T99 = P.Oxy. 9.1176). The latter’s religiously subversive reputation was solidified especially by Aristophanes, who has a character complain that “in his tragedies […] [Euripides] persuaded men that gods do not exist” (ἐν ταῖσιν τραγῳδίαις […] τοὺς ἄνδρας ἀναπέπεικεν οὐκ εἶναι θεούς, Thesm. 450–451).5 Plato also was anxious about the theological ideas communicated on stage, insisting upon far-reaching censorship of all poets who portray the gods as inflicting harm or changing form (Resp. 2.363a–3.398b).6 It was primarily with Aristotle that tragedy came to be viewed in less religious terms, although his subsequent influence was more limited than Plato.7 He imagined that, while tragedy had cultic origins in the dithyramb (Poet. 1449a9–11), in its mature form it could be analyzed primarily with respect to its literary qualities.8 In the evolving intellectual contexts of the Hellenistic and Roman world, the religious implications of theater continued to be probed within new philosophical schools.9 The leading schools came to be well defined in popular perception, so that their debates could be represented with stereotyped arguments. In the field of theology, this is illustrated in Cicero’s De natura deorum, an extended contest between an Epicurean (Velleius), a Stoic (Balbus), and a (Platonist-)Academic Skeptic (Cotta).10 For the Epicurean and Stoic, a central dispute concerned whether the gods exercise providence in the world. The former maintained that gods were free from the burdensome tasks of creating and governing the world and he faults the Stoics for their constant insistence upon divine intelligence in explaining natural phenomena and the course of human affairs. He likens this theological move to a common theatrical device deployed in tragedy: Quod quia quem ad modum natura efficere sine aliqua mente possit non videtis, ut tragici poetae cum explicare argumenti exitum non potestis confugitis ad deum.

34  The Drama of Debating Gods (and Their Existence) Which thing [creating innumerable worlds] since you do not see by what manner nature would be able to accomplish apart from some intelligence, as tragic poets, when you are not able to settle the conclusion of the plot, you take recourse to a god. (Cicero, Nat. d. 1.20.53) For the Epicurean, deus ex machina, a clumsy mode of plot closure, provided an apt metaphor for the entire Stoic doctrine of providence. Theater, therefore, could function as a conceptual framework with which to articulate and debate theological differences. And this was not limited to technical disputes among philosophers. A third century CE papyrus (TrGF 5.1 T100 = P.Oxy. 24.2400) reports a school exercise for declamation on the topic of whether Euripides could be tried or convicted of impiety for his production of Hercules furens, a tragedy with some of the strongest criticisms of the traditional gods (e.g., 1307–1310, 1341–1344).11 We might imagine a diligent student analyzing a scroll of this play in order to establish effective arguments one way or the other. This chapter explores works by two writers—Philo of Alexandria and Lucian of Samosata—for whom classical drama contributed to their wider literary and intellectual repertoire, but who approached it from strikingly divergent religious postures. Although chronologically later, my discussion begins with Lucian’s Juppiter tragoedus as it explicitly situates the genres of dramatic production within theological disputes between competing philosophical schools. Featuring a mock debate between a Stoic and Epicurean deploying well-known tropes such as those popularized in Cicero’s De natura deorum, Lucian presents the entire work as a drama with both human and divine dramatis personae, excerpting lines from tragedy and comedy and imitating their generic features. The result is an extended juxtaposition of philosophical arguments concerning the existence and providence of the gods and a faux stage play in which the very gods in question are protagonists. Philo’s De aeternitate mundi is also concerned with the schools of Hellenistic philosophy and has the objective of articulating a scriptural account of the cosmos in relation to Plato, Aristotle, the Stoics, and Epicureans. In the process, Philo draws on a popular passage from the Chrysippus of Euripides (TrGF 5.2.839.8–14) and, as the Epicurean speaker in Lucian’s philosophical dialogue, he uses the Euripidean excerpt to express a naturalistic account of primordial divinities and, in his case, also to corroborate biblical cosmology. Taken together, these evocations of drama by Philo and Lucian are illustrative of its persistent salience in disputations among philosophical schools. Lucian’s Juppiter tragoedus: Philosophical Schools between Comedy and Tragedy Among Greek writers of the Roman Imperial period, Lucian of Samosata (ca. 125–180 ce) stands out as one of the most penetrating, if illusive, critics of cultural values.12 Common targets of his sardonic wit include popular philosophical

The Drama of Debating Gods (and Their Existence) 35 schools and their heroes, as well as prevailing religious beliefs and practices. His writings reveal a thinker immersed in classical literary texts and embodying the intellectual postures of the Second Sophistic, while he often flouts the profound depth of his learning with a self-conscious zeal through which it is difficult to distinguish the serious from the satirical.13 Among the breadth of Lucian’s literary sources, Attic drama figures prominently, and he had access to the texts of numerous plays, above all Euripides.14 In addition, he displays an intimate acquaintance with the technical aspects of production, discussing matters such as the voices of actors, their costumes, masks, and footwear.15 Of special interest to this study, therefore, are the ways in which the theater is thematized in Lucian’s writings; sometimes, for example, he deploys the stage as a conceptual metaphor for life, and other times he evokes specific plays in his characteristically parodic mode. Moreover, the literary form of drama functioned as a model for Lucian, as several of his works innovatively combine elements of tragedy, comedy, and philosophical dialogue.16 Lucian’s treatise Juppiter tragoedus exemplifies these aspects of his writing.17 It includes numerous dramatic quotations; its plot recalls one or more comedies of Aristophanes; and within the dialogue speakers comment on the nature of theatrical genres as well as features of their public performance. Lucian combines these in a dialogue with a plot centering on a debate between human representatives of competing philosophical schools.18 The work’s opening prologue (1–4) is set in a council of the gods and resembles a comedy, both in poetic meter and content. As is common in comedy, the protagonist, in this case Zeus, bemoans his miserable circumstances.19 Hermes addresses him: Ὦ Ζεῦ, τί σύννους κατὰ μόνας σαυτῷ λαλεῖς, ὠχρὸς περιπατῶν, φιλοσόφου τὸ χρῶμ᾿ ἔχων; ἐμοὶ προσανάθου, λαβέ με σύμβουλον πόνων, μὴ καταφρονήσῃς οἰκέτου φλυαρίας. Zeus, why are you speaking to yourself, alone, deep in thought, walking about pale, with the complexion of a philosopher? Confide in me, take me as an adviser for your trials, and do not disdain the foolishness of your slave. (Lucian, Jupp. trag. 1) Hermes presents himself as a comic slave (οἰκέτης), prepared to aid his master in distress.20 After five lines by Athena delivered as a Homeric cento, Zeus’ response shifts the focus from comedy explicitly toward tragedy: Οὐκ ἔστιν οὐδὲν δεινὸν ὧδ᾿ εἰπεῖν ἔπος, οὐδὲ πάθος οὐδὲ συμφορὰ τραγῳδική, ἣν οὐκ ἰαμβείοις ὑπερπαίω δέκα. There is nothing dreadful, so to speak, nor is there suffering or tragic misfortune that I might not surpass with ten iambic verses. (1)

36  The Drama of Debating Gods (and Their Existence) The first two of these lines are taken from Euripides’ Orestes 1–2, but with the final phrase συμφορὰ τραγῳδική replacing the original συμφορὰ θεήλατος, “misfortune sent by god.” This, together with the self-reflexive mention of iambic meter, clearly sets up the dramatic pretense, and Athena responds in turn by quoting Euripides’ Hercules furens 538: “By Apollo, do you begin your speech with such prologues?” (Ἄπολλον, οἵοις φροιμίοις ἄρχῃ λόγου;). When Hera arrives to inquire into the nature of Zeus’ misfortune, supposing that it is owing to some new-found erotic desire, she comments on the theatrical mode of his speech, in contrast to her own prose, and concedes her poetic deficiencies: Κοίμισον ὀργάν, εἰ μὴ κωμῳδίαν, ὦ Ζεῦ, δυνάμεθα ὑποκρίνεσθαι μηδὲ ῥαψῳδεῖν ὥσπερ οὗτοι μηδὲ τὸν Εὐριπίδην ὅλον καταπεπώκαμεν, ὥστε σοι ὑποτραγῳδεῖν. Put your temper to rest, O Zeus, if I am able neither to perform a comedy nor to recite epic, as they [Hermes and Athena] are, nor have gulped down the entirety of Euripides so as to be your supporting tragic actor. (1) Later, when she finally learns the true source of his anxiety, she grants the appropriateness of his tragic diction: “How truly dreadful these things are, Zeus, and not in vain do you embellish them with tragedy” (Δεινὰ ταῦτα ὡς ἀληθῶς, καὶ οὐ μάτην, ὦ Ζεῦ, ἐπετραγῴδεις αὐτοῖς, 5). Amidst these overwrought evocations of tragic drama, it is in fact a comedy that the plot most closely resembles. In Aristophanes’ Aves, the Olympian deities were suffering from an embargo imposed by the newly founded avian colony, which was preventing sacrificial offerings from reaching heaven. Lucian’s Zeus similarly expresses profound alarm over the risk of losing sacrifices from mortals and the resulting famine (Jupp. trag. 18). Now, there is a different cause: in place of avian adversaries, the present threat derives from a certain Epicurean philosopher, Damis, who on the previous day had publicly debated the Stoic Timocles concerning the existence and providence of the gods (4). For the moment, the contest had been suspended, but was set to resume soon, and Zeus feared, for good reason it seems, that Damis would prevail, and the people would be persuaded and cease their sacrifices.21 While Zeus endeavors throughout the narrative to support Timocles and enable his victory, Lucian as author simultaneously undermines those efforts through a range of literary tactics in which theatrical drama provides an underlying context. The most immediate strategy toward this effect is the metapoetic framework initiated in the prologue: as noted above, the gods speak to each other using several poetic lines taken over in whole or in part from Homer, Euripides, and Menander, in contrast to Hera, who had not sufficiently consumed Euripides as the others had. It becomes clear, gradually, that the ability of the gods to communicate effectively was itself dependent on human constructions of poetic speech. This point is reiterated decisively when Hermes attempts to summon the other gods to a council. After his first unsuccessful effort, Zeus asks, “do you make a proclamation so unadorned, plain, and prosaic?” (οὕτω ψιλά, ὦ Ἑρμῆ, καὶ ἁπλοϊκὰ καὶ πεζὰ κηρύττεις). He

The Drama of Debating Gods (and Their Existence) 37 then instructs Hermes rather to deliver his message “with some meter and a poetic grandiloquence” (μέτροις τισὶ καὶ μεγαλοφωνίᾳ ποιητικῇ), specifically, by incorporating many “epic verses of Homer” (τῶν Ὁμήρου ἐπῶν) the very ones whereby Homer “was accustomed to summoning us” (ἐκεῖνος ἡμᾶς συνεκάλει, 6). Hermes complies by issuing six lines ladened with Homeric borrowings.22 And the effect is immediate. If the religiously subversive implication—that divine speech is ultimately a human construction—is merely implicit, the subsequent scene is much more emphatic. As the gods assemble, they appear in the form of their individual cult statues and are seated in order of their material value (gold, silver, ivory, bronze, stone) and according to the artistic merits of their sculptors, with the works of Phidias and his peers placed ahead of their inferior counterparts (Jupp. trag. 7).23 Thus, in both their diction and in their physical manifestations the gods are reduced to the artistic productions of human culture. As R. Bracht Branham observes, the work’s “comic hypothesis” depends upon imagining that “the gods actually conformed so closely to the traditional modes of representation as to consist of marble or ivory, speak verse in several metrical patterns, and act, in general, like Greeks.”24 He dubs this “comic literalization,” a tactic that was apparently “completely original to Lucian,” namely, this “particular mode of mockery that parodies the gods of myth by reducing them to aesthetic conceptions, to statues and actors.”25 After Zeus explains their precarious position to the gods, and several of them propose and debate the most effective course of action, his impotence is put on display, again with reference to the theater. Poseidon advises Zeus that before the Epicurean Damis could return to the contest, he should be prevented “by a thunderbolt or some other device” (ἤτοι κεραυνῷ ἤ τινι ἄλλῃ μηχανῇ, 24). In the context of a drama, the term μηχανή calls to mind the crane set up behind the stage used especially to elevate gods in order to bring closure to the plot and pronounce judgments upon the human actors (see also Jupp. trag. 41 below).26 Zeus responds to Poseideon’s suggestion, however, that the power ultimately to determine the death of individuals belongs not to him but to the Fates (Μοῖραι). Indeed, as he points out, he was not even able to defend himself recently when temple-robbers stole “two of my locks” (δύο μου τῶν πλοκάμων) from Olympia and absconded untouched by any bolt (25). This, then, was an inevitable result of the comic literalization running throughout the dialogue. Among the other divine voices represented at the council is Momus, the personification of “blame.” He provides a litany of reasons that some mortals question the existence of gods. Foremost, humans can observe that τοὺς μὲν χρηστοὺς αὐτῶν ἀμελουμένους, ἐν πενίᾳ καὶ νόσοις καὶ δουλείᾳ καταφθειρομένους, παμπονήρους δὲ καὶ μιαροὺς ἀνθρώπους προτιμωμένους καὶ ὑπερπλουτοῦντας καὶ ἐπιτάττοντας τοῖς κρείττοσι. their good people are uncared for, destroyed by poverty, diseases, and slavery, whereas wicked and defiled people are preferred in honor, super-rich, and rule over their betters. (19)

38  The Drama of Debating Gods (and Their Existence) This assessment by Momus goes unheeded, however, and, after an extended deliberation fails to produce an adequate plan, the resumption of the human debate approaches. The gods become onlookers of the ensuing contest between Damis and Timocles, and the remaining narrative proceeds at two levels, the human debate interspersed with occasional commentary by Zeus and Momus. Many of the arguments are familiar from more serious philosophical dialogues between Stoics and Epicureans (e.g., Cicero, Nat. d.), but Lucian presents these in caricatured form, especially those of the Stoic Timocles, who proves to be devoid of intelligence.27 Poetry holds an important place in the dispute. Regarding Homer, Timocles asserts, “I was persuaded by him representing the providence of the gods” (ἐκεινῳ ἐπείσθην τὴν πρόνοιαν τῶν θεῶν ἐμφανίζοντι, 39). Damis replies that truth is not the aim of the poet, but rather beguilement and pleasure, and he follows on with a string of relevant examples (39–40). Bested with respect to Homer, Timocles tries a playwright: Εὐριπίδης ἄρα σοι δοκεῖ λέγειν τι ὑγιές, ὁπόταν αὐτοὺς ἀναβιβασάμενος τοὺς θεοὺς ἐπὶ τὴν σκηνὴν δεικνύῃ σώζοντας μὲν τοὺς χρηστοὺς τῶν ἡρώων, τοὺς πονηροὺς δὲ καὶ κατὰ σὲ τὴν ἀσέβειαν ἐπιτρίβοντας; Does Euripides not seem to you to say something beneficial whenever, having sent gods up onto the stage, he shows them saving the good among the heroes, but destroying the wicked and their impiety as in your case? (41) This observation regarding Euripidean plays recalls the assertion of Momus (quoted above), who was likewise concerned with the fortunes of the “good” (χρηστούς) and the “wicked” ([παμ]πονηρούς), but made precisely the opposite claim based on common human experience. In fact, any careful reader of Euripides will have immediately recognized that Timocles’ generalization of the gods’ involvement on stage fails.28 While it may hold true for some plays, as for instance in the Bacchae where Pentheus is hunted and brutally slaughtered as a consequence of his hubristic rejection of Dionysus, others clearly display the opposite. The Medea features a mother murdering her children in retaliation against her husband but being rescued by Helios despite her heinous crime (1378–1383). In the Hippolytus, the gods do not merely fail to rescue the virtuous, they disagree intractably among themselves concerning who qualifies as “good” and thus merits their salvation, and who is “wicked” and thus deserving of punishment. At the conclusion of the play, Artemis affirms the righteousness of Hippolytus (1298–1299) and laments that she had been unable to protect him from the wrath of Aphrodite, adding that “gods do not rejoice when the pious die” (τοὺς γὰρ εὐσεβεῖς θεοὶ θνῄσκοντας οὐ χαίρουσι, 1339–1340).29 Rather than enumerating such counterexamples to rebut the claim of Timocles, Damis offers two other arguments against the notion that Euripides corroborates the existence and providence of the gods. First, if the tragedians persuaded Timocles with their displays of gods on stage, then “it is necessary (ἀνάγκη) that you regard either [the actors] to be gods at the time (ἡγεῖσθαί σε θεοὺς εἶναι τότε)” or their masks and other parts of their costumes (Jupp. trag. 41). This self-evidently ridiculous proposition is another instance of comic literalization; now in addition to

The Drama of Debating Gods (and Their Existence) 39 poetic verses and sculptures of the classical past Damis suggests that in the theater the gods themselves are nothing more than the performers who play their roles together with their masks and props that disguise them as such. In a second argument regarding Euripides, Damis uses two popular excerpts to introduce a subtle distinction between the playwright’s own voice and the constraints of the dramatic genre: ἐπεὶ καθ’ ἑαυτὸν ὁπόταν ὁ Εὐριπίδης, μηδὲν ἐπειγούσης τῆς χρείας τῶν δραμάτων, τὰ δοκοῦντά οἱ λέγῃ, ἀκούσῃ αὐτοῦ τότε παρρησιαζομένου, ὁρᾷς τὸν ὑψοῦ τόνδ’ ἄπειρον αἰθέρα καὶ γῆν πέριξ ἔχονθ’ ὑγραῖς ἐν ἀγκάλαις; τοῦτον νόμιζε Ζῆνα, τόνδ’ ἡγοῦ θεόν. (TrGF 5.2.941) καὶ πάλιν, Ζεύς, ὅστις ὁ Ζεύς, οὐ γὰρ οἶδα, πλὴν λόγῳ κλύων. (TrGF 5.1.480) For whenever Euripides speaks on his own accord, as things appear to himself with no constraint necessitated by the dramas, then you will hear him speaking freely, Do you see this boundless aether on high, as it also holds the earth round about in its moist arms? Consider this to be Zeus, regard this as God. And again, Zeus, whoever Zeus is, I do not know, except in a report I hear. (Lucian, Jupp. trag. 41) Here, Lucian’s Epicurean speaker articulates an interpretive stance that many other philosophical readers of Euripides simply assume without argument: that is, the statements in these two excerpts and others like them represent Euripides’ genuine opinion (καθ’ ἑαυτόν […] τὰ δοκοῦντα).30 By implication, the numerous passages where the gods are depicted in more conventional modes reflect the constraints of the plots he inherited (ἐπειγούσης τῆς χρείας τῶν δραμάτων). While this may appear to be an arbitrary decision and is by no means self-evident, it is consistent with the widely held view that Euripides was a radical critic of traditional religion. While fifth-century Athenians may not have understood such Euripidean verses as religiously subversive, by the time of Lucian, this was a broadly accepted perspective.31 Indeed, this is precisely what made Euripides popular among those wishing to challenge traditional theological beliefs or articulate philosophical doctrines, not least Jews and Christians.

40  The Drama of Debating Gods (and Their Existence) These two excerpts (TrGF 5.941 and 480) were in wide circulation, quoted together in the same sequence by a contemporary of Lucian, the Christian apologist Athenagoras (Leg. 5.1) and separately by several others.32 The first (941) identifies Zeus with aether, an idea expressed similarly by Euripides elsewhere (see below on the Chrysippus [TrGF 5.2.839] also TrGF 5.487; 877; 919; 944).33 Such theological innovations challenging conventional anthropomorphic notions of Zeus were, in the fifth century, commonly associated with Anaxagoras, and by the time of Lucian these fragments of Euripides belonged to a common stock of similar excerpts used by philosophers, especially Stoics.34 Cicero, for instance, has Balbus quote frag. 941 approvingly (in Latin translation) in connection with two lines of Ennius to support his view that the sky (caelum) is divine (Nat. d. 2.65; cf. Heraclitus, All. 23.7).35 Lucian inverts the argument, however, with his Epicurean deploying frag. 941 to undermine the reality of the gods who appear as characters on stage. In this regard, Athenagoras, aware of the association of frags. 941 and 480 with atheism, defends Euripides and argues on the contrary that “poets and philosophers did not seem to be atheists, because they pay attention to matters concerning God” (καὶ ποιηταὶ μὲν καὶ φιλόσοφοι οὐκ ἔδοξαν ἄθεοι, ἐπιστήσαντες περὶ θεοῦ, Leg. 5.1). With frag. 941 as a foremost example, he asserts that “whereas Euripides doubts those ignorantly called gods as in common preconception, he nevertheless declares his opinion on intelligence with knowledge that God exists” (Ὁ μὲν Εὐριπίδης ἐπὶ μὲν τῶν κατὰ κοινὴν πρόληψιν ἀνεπιστημόνως ὀνομαζομένων θεῶν διαπορῶν […] ἐπὶ δὲ τοῦ κατ᾿ ἐπιστήμην νοητοῦ ὡς ἔστιν θεὸς δογματίζων, 5.1). Thus, Athenagoras endeavors to align Christians with Euripides, both of whom were unjustly accused of atheism.36 As for frag. 480, Lucian’s Epicurean Damis was not alone in taking it as a direct challenge to traditional religion. In Plutarch’s Dialogue on Love, a speaker, Pemptides, questions the basis upon which Eros had first been declared a god. Plutarch replies that “the ancestral and ancient faith is sufficient” (ἀρκεῖ γὰρ ἡ πάτριος καὶ παλαιὰ πίστις) and warns that undermining a single point within its antique foundation threatens the entire religious edifice. To illustrate, he claims that when Euripides first produced the Melanippe, frag. 480 was its opening line, but it caused such a great public disturbance that in a subsequent staging he prudently made a revision: “he changed the line as it is now written: ‘Zeus, as he is called in truth’” (ἤλλαξε τὸν στίχον ὡς νῦν γέγραπται, ‘Ζεύς, ὡς λέλεκται τῆς ἀληθείας ὕπο,’ Amat. 756c, frag. 481.1).37 While Plutarch’s version of events is unlikely, it nevertheless reveals his assessment that frag. 480 posed a definite affront to popular religion. At the same time, Plutarch sought to rescue Euripides’ own reputation by attributing it to a temporary lapse. This brief survey delineates the nature of the circulation of these dramatic fragments. While not unambiguously affirming “atheism”—frag. 941 was in fact cited in some Stoic arguments for the existence of the gods—in the context of Lucian’s dialogue, they effectively foreclosed Timocles’ effort to enlist playwrights in his support. Faced with these two Euripidean excepts, he abandons this line of argumentation for another—the universal consensus of people and nations (Jupp. trag. 42)—and, consequently, his initial proposition that in the plays of Euripides the gods save the good and punish the wicked remains unexplored. At the level of Lucian’s narrative, however, this question is ultimately resolved in the

The Drama of Debating Gods (and Their Existence) 41 negative. Whereas Timocles had hinted that Damis’ fate might be similar to that of Euripidean villains, suggesting that his was an equivalent impiety (κατὰ σὲ τὴν ἀσέβειαν), by the culmination of the dialogue, it is apparent to everyone that Damis would be the decisive victor, and Timocles thus resorts to idle threats and personal insults (52). And for their part, the gods fail to reward their champion or punish their foe. On the contrary, the possibility of such a tragic denouement swiftly recedes, as Lucian returns to the comic frame with which the work had opened. Hermes consoles a frustrated Zeus with: ὀρθῶς ἐκεῖνό μοι ὁ κωμικὸς εἰρηκέναι δοκεῖ, οὐδὲν πέπονθας δεινόν, ἂν μὴ προσποιῇ. (Menander, Epitr. frag. 179 Kock) The comic poet appears to have spoken this correctly: You suffer nothing dreadful if you pretend otherwise. (Lucian, Jupp. trag. 53) As further solace, Hermes adds that the majority of people, both Greeks and barbarians, will be unpersuaded by Damis and continue to acknowledge the gods’ existence anyway. In the final expression of comic hilarity and irony, Zeus concedes: αὐτὸς ἐβουλόμην ἂν ἕνα τοῦτον ἔχειν τὸν Δᾶμιν σύμμαχον ἢ μυρίας μοι Βαβυλῶνας ὑπάρχειν. I myself would rather have this one man Damis as an ally than to possess 10,000 Babylonians. (53) Thus, far from punishing Damis, Zeus prefers now to enlist on his own side the very individual arguing against his existence! Juppiter tragoedus, in sum, is a sophisticated dialogue that plays at several levels. Faced with the threat of a mortal denying their existence, the gods prove impotent as they find themselves reduced to the productions of human sculptors and poets. Moreover, even those poets, such as Euripides, who display the gods acting with providence, only do so, according to Lucian’s Epicurean, due to the constraints of the received mythological plots. When giving their opinions directly, they undermine such beliefs. The presumption that a reader could discern a playwright’s genuine personal beliefs was not uncommon, especially—as shall be seen below in Chapter 4—with philosophers and apologists who looked beyond the dramatic context for an authoritative voice in support of their own ideological stance. Reducing Divine Personae to Natural Elements: Philo and the Chrysippus of Euripides Challenges to traditional conceptions of the gods in dramatic poetry occur in various ways. In extreme cases, characters deny their existence, or as Lucian’s Epicurean

42  The Drama of Debating Gods (and Their Existence) speaker argued, gods are suggested to be merely human fabrications.38 More often, however, playwrights express subtler theological innovations informed by contemporary philosophers and sophists. In a famous passage of the Bacchae (275–285), for instance, Euripides has Tiresias equate Demeter with grain and Dionysus with wine, a concept generally attributed to Prodicus. Elsewhere, as noted by Lucian, dramatic characters incorporate ideas of Anaxagoras, such as the identification of Zeus with aether. This is found in a fragment of Aeschylus (TrGF 3.70), but came to be closely associated with Euripides (as in TrGF 5.2.941 discussed above), so that he developed a reputation for being a “mouthpiece of philosophical doctrines.”39 Naturally, then, subsequent philosophers and apologists alike turned to him as an ally for their own ideologies. This section concerns Philo of Alexandria’s treatise De aeternitate mundi and his use of a similar excerpt taken from Euripides’ Chrysippus (TrGF 5.2.839). Like frag. 941, these lines express Anaxagorean doctrines and were similarly popular among philosophical and Christian writers.40 They describe the eternal cycle of matter, both animate and inanimate, arising from and returning to their earthly and heavenly sources. For Philo, this text was apparently a particular favorite, as he used it three times in De aeternitate mundi and once in Legum allegoriae (lines 8–14 at Aet. 30; lines 12–14 at Aet. 5, 144; Leg. 1.7).41 That a Jewish intellectual best known for his biblical exegesis appropriated this fragment in a discussion of the nature of the cosmos illustrates how broadly excerpts of dramatic texts circulated and how extensive their influence remained.42 With advanced education in classical literature, Philo regularly quotes from Greek poets, above all Homer (25 times), with Euripides as a close second (21 times).43 In some cases, his engagement with drama includes analysis of plots and characters (see Chapters 5 and 7 below), and apparently even attendance at performances (Prob. 141; cf. Ebr. 177). His access to the Chrysippus, however, seems to have been indirect, and he shows no awareness of the play’s wider context. De aeternitate mundi is a philosophical doxography, reporting the doctrines of the leading schools in relation to his principal question of whether the world is generated (γενητός) and whether it is destructible (ἄφθαρτος).44 Early in the introduction, he quotes from the Chrysippus in support of his claim that nothing, having once come to be, can cease to exist: καὶ ὁ τραγικός· θνῄσκει δ’ οὐδὲν τῶν γιγνομένων, διακρινόμενον δ’ ἄλλο πρὸς ἄλλο μορφὴν ἑτέραν ἀπέδειξεν. (TrGF 5.2.839.12–14) The tragedian also says: None of the things coming to be dies, but as one thing dissolves into another, it displays another form.45 (Philo, Aet. 5)

The Drama of Debating Gods (and Their Existence) 43 He then outlines three broad positions on the world’s generation and destructibility: first, the Stoics, Democritus, and Epicurus held that it is generated and destructible (8–9); second, Aristotle, that it is ungenerated and indestructible (10–11); third, Plato, that it is generated and indestructible, which corresponds to his own view (13). By contrast to some of his other treatises, Philo’s intended audience appears to have extended beyond the Jewish community, and accordingly his sources are taken from a range of Greek authors. He cites Plato’s Timaeus (41a) as a primary authority (Aet. 13–14), but argues that Plato’s position can be traced back even further to Hesiod’s Theogony, from which he quotes two well-known verses: πατέρα δὲ τοῦ Πλατωνείου δόγματος ἔνιοι νομίζουσι τὸν ποιητὴν Ἡσίοδον, γενητὸν καὶ ἄφθαρτον. οἰόμενοι τὸν κόσμον ὑπ’ ἐκείνου λέγεσθαι, γενητὸν μέν, ὅτι φησὶν ἤτοι μὲν πρώτιστα χάος γένετ’, αὐτὰρ ἔπειτα γαῖ’ εὐρύστερνος, πάντων ἕδος ἀσφαλὲς αἰεί. (Hesiod, Theog. 116–117) Some think that the poet Hesiod is the father of the Platonic doctrine— generated and indestructible—supposing that the cosmos described by him was generated, because he said, In truth, first of all Chaos came to be, and thereafter broad-breasted Gaia, always-sure foundation of all. (Philo, Aet. 17) To this, Philo adds his single explicit biblical reference in the treatise, claiming that even prior to Hesiod, “Moses, lawgiver of the Jews,” said the same things “in sacred scriptures” (ἐν ἱεραῖς βίβλοις, Aet. 19, quoting Gen 1:1–2). Having thus staked his own position, the remainder of the treatise (20–149) presents arguments in relation to the Aristotelian view and closes with his intention to provide answers to each of them (150). But this promised work was either lost or not completed. The doxographical nature of this treatise is a crucial consideration in assessing Philo’s use of the Chrysippus. His most extensive excerpt of the fragment, lines 8–14 (of which he earlier quoted lines 12–14), is given in support of the Aristotelean position he is reporting rather than his own: κατὰ γὰρ τὸν τραγικὸν χωρεῖ δ’ ὀπίσω τὰ μὲν ἐκ γαίας φύντ’ εἰς γαῖαν τὰ δ’ ἀπ’ αἰθερίου βλαστόντα γονῆς εἰς οὐράνιον πόλον ἦλθε πάλιν […] (TrGF 5.2.839.8–11)

44  The Drama of Debating Gods (and Their Existence) For according to the tragedian, The things which by nature come from earth return back into the earth, and the things which are born from ethereal stock go back into the heavenly sphere. (Philo, Aet. 30)46 This fragment fits naturally within this context, as it clearly articulates the eternality of all matter.47 It is almost certain that Philo took this over from a preexisting philosophical source: the larger passage in which it occurs (Aet. 28–34) has been identified as a fragment of Aristotle (frag. 20 Rose), and similarly, later in the treatise when Philo again quotes lines 12–14 (Aet. 144), he explicitly names Theophrastus as the source (Aet. 117–149 = Theophrastus frag. 184 Sharples). Of course, none of this is decisive, and David Runia’s caution is apt: “There is no way of determining whether Philo used this or any other source directly. The various arguments in De aeternitate most likely have a disparate origin. Philo’s doxography makes use of existing source material, but its innovative structure is his own contribution.”48 While it remains uncertain precisely where Philo acquired this fragment of the Chrysippus, the frequency of its appearance elsewhere indicates its wide circulation. The latter half, as known to Philo, was especially common: lines 8–11 are used by Heraclitus (All. 22.11), lines 9–11 by Marcus Aurelius (7.50), and lines 12–14 by Clement (Strom. 6.2.23.4).49 The first half (lines 1–7) is attested in Sextus Empiricus (Math. 6.17), and is even more explicit in its reference to theogonic mythology. It opens with an address to “greatest Gaia and aether of Zeus” (γαῖα μεγίστη καὶ Διὸς αἰθήρ, 839.1), and proceeds to describe the couple’s sexual procreation; the latter is “the father of humans and gods” (ὁ μὲν ἀνθρώπων καὶ θεῶν γενέτωρ, 2), and the former receives his moisture (presumably in the form of rain), thus giving birth to all life (3–5). As such, “not unjustly she is regarded as the mother of all” (οὐκ ἀδίκως μήτηρ πάντων νενόμισται, 6–7). Popular at Rome also, the entire 14 lines are given in Latin translation by Lucretius and adapted to express an Epicurean theory of matter (2.991–1006).50 Vitruvius provides an especially important philosophical context for the transmission of the fragment. In his preface to a book devoted to the topic of water, he lists several thinkers who focused on its significance, above all Thales, who took water as “the first principle of all things” (omnium rerum principium), and others, such as Pythagoras, Empedocles, and Epicharmus who included it among the four elements necessary for life. It is the words of Euripides, however, that receive the fullest attention. He paraphrases the 14-line excerpt as establishing that Sky (aera) and Earth (terra) give birth to all life, but that this requires water as rain for the former to impregnate the latter (8 praef. 1). For Vitruvius, the fragment demonstrates that the playwright was a “student of Anaxagoras” (auditor Anaxagorae) and thus a “philosopher of the stage” (philosophus scaenicus, 8 praef. 1). What each of these cases has in common with Philo is an absence of interest in or knowledge of the dramatic context of the excerpt. Among all the authors who

The Drama of Debating Gods (and Their Existence) 45 quote from it, only Clement names the Chrysippus as its source; for his part, Philo is aware the lines come from tragedy, but does not identify the author.51 Indeed, there is nothing within the fragment to establish the speaker or its relationship to the larger plot, which centered upon Laius’ rape of Pelops’ son Chrysippus, who subsequently committed suicide out of shame.52 According to Aelian and in keeping with mythological tradition, Laius was in fact the very first pederast (Nat. an. 6.15), and it is possible that his violation of Chrysippus was connected to the generational curse upon his household.53 As is often the case with such philosophical fragments, however, it is unclear how these lines functioned in the drama. In view of the lyric meter, it is generally attributed to the chorus; as such, it may be addressed to Pelops as consolation for the loss of his son.54 Perhaps, also, the emphasis in lines 1–7 on the sexual fertility of the divine mother (Gaia) and father (Zeus) was an argument for heterosexuality over against Laius’ passion for Chrysippus. An alternate possibility suggested by John Dillon is that, rather than the chorus, the lyric may have been sung by Laius as an opening monody.55 In this case, the purpose of these lines would have been “to excuse his being overmastered by lust, by saluting the two partners in the primordial love-match, Earth and Aether.”56 If this is the case, then the rationalization of anthropomorphized Olympian deities as natural phenomena is the work of the play’s villain, whose moral standing would finally be undercut as he suffered an irreversible divine curse. This is, to be sure, a matter of speculation; but it would nevertheless accord with the experience of other dramatis personae, as shall be seen below in the case of Bellerophon and Sisyphus (Chapter 4), who declared their subversive theological theories only to find themselves punished by the very Olympian gods whom they challenged. From Philo’s perspective, of course, none of this matters. He includes the passage for the philosophical ideas it expresses without attention to the dramatic context from which it was pulled. This was common among philosophers, especially where florilegia and doxographies were in use, although, as shall be seen below, it was not Philo’s exclusive practice, as elsewhere he expands upon a dramatic excerpt by summarizing the plot and adding a string of additional fragments.57 Conclusions In a manner distinct from other genres of mythological poetry, drama foregrounds its own fictionality, with its mimetic performance involving role playing and actors shifting between characters with masks and costumes. Its very production depends upon illusion, even deception. In this context, theatrical representations of gods and their involvements in human affairs potentially problematized conventional religious ideas. During the Hellenistic and Roman periods, when various philosophical schools subjected traditional theologies to reevaluation, occasionally Greek drama, as an inheritance of shared culture, was evoked to support the arguments of one side or another. This chapter pursued two such case studies. First, Lucian’s Juppiter tragoedus presents a humorous dialogue between a Stoic and an Epicurean, with the former claiming that tragedies establish gods as intervening to reward the righteous and

46  The Drama of Debating Gods (and Their Existence) punish the wicked, and the latter citing passages in Euripides that reduce Olympian deities to natural phenomena of the physical world. At a more fundamental level, Lucian’s presentation of the council of gods displays them as impotent manifestations of human culture: their language is composed by poets and their bodies fabricated by sculptors. Philo of Alexandria, in his treatise De aeternitate mundi, is likewise concerned to navigate between competing schools of Hellenistic philosophy and does so with respect to a popular fragment of Euripides’ Chrysippus. These lines are noteworthy for expressing the theories of Anaxagoras—the playwright’s older contemporary—that subsumed anthropomorphic deities within a material account of primordial procreation. For his part, Philo apparently encountered them already embedded within the Aristotelean sources that occupy the bulk of De aeternitate mundi; nevertheless, he creatively and constructively redeploys them as corroborating his own biblical cosmology affirming the permanence of matter. Notes 1 This phenomenon of self-referentiality is often associated with “metatheater,” first coined by Abel (1953), largely with respect to contemporary drama. It has also been applied to antiquity; see Bierl (1991, esp. 23, 111–76); Dobrov (2001); Erasmo (2004, 81–139); and pointed criticisms by Rosenmeyer (2002). For an up-to-date assessment of the state of metatheater in the study of classical drama—tragedy, comedy, and satyr plays—see now Bierl (2021). Dixon and Garrison (2021) have recently analyzed metatheatricality in ancient and early modern drama with a view to its theological implications. 2 On the Bacchae, see Foley (1985, 205–58); Vernant and Vidal-Naquet (1988, 381–412); Bierl (1991, 177–218); Segal (1997, 215–71, 369–78); Dobrov (2001, 70–85); Friesen (2015c, 40–46). Even a leading skeptic of ancient metatheater can concede that among ancient tragedy in the Bacchae “the plays-within engulf the play proper” (Rosenmeyer [2002, at 101]). 3 Dobrov (2001,) at vii and 11) (italics original). 4 Playwrights could, apparently, also be prosecuted for other offensive content: Herodotus reports that Phrynichus was fined for staging a play featuring the Persian sack of Miletus (6.31.2). 5 Elsewhere, Aristophanes frequently depicts Euripides as a purveyor of ideas which threatened conventional religion. On Aristophanes’ lasting influence on the reputation of Euripides, see Lefkowitz (1989); (2016, 24–48); Sourvinou-Inwood (2003, 294–97); Sassi (2018, 173–74). 6 Plato has Socrates specifically name Euripides along with the other “poets of tragedy” (οἱ τῆς τραγῳδίας ποιηταί) to be excluded from his state (Resp. 8.568a–b). On Plato and theater, see further above (Chapter 1 and esp. n. 13). 7 As Heath (1991, esp. 395–97) argues, however, Aristotle’s objection to gods in tragedy was not on religious grounds per se, but rather against their use to provide artificial plot resolutions. See also Hanink (2019, 329–33). 8 On the Poetics, see also Chapter 1, n. 7 in this volume; and for criticism of Aristotle’s theory of the origin of tragedy, see Scullion (2002, 102–10). 9 For discussions of Stoicism, in particular, and its relation to tragedy, see De Lacy (1948, 264–65); Nussbaum (1993, 128–30); Dillon (1997); Edwards (2007, 144–60). Diogenes of Sinope, a founder of Cynicism, apparently composed seven tragedies and is reported as having compared himself to a wandering tragic vagabond (Diogenes Laertius 6.38, 80; TrGF 2.284 adespota); see Branham (1996).

The Drama of Debating Gods (and Their Existence) 47 10 For analysis especially of the Stoic arguments, see Dragona-Monachou (1976); and more broadly van Nuffelen (2011). 11 “Euripides is judged for impiety for making Heracles mad in a drama in the Dionysia” (Εὐρειπίδης Ἡρακλέα μαινόμενον ἐν Διονυσίοις ποιήσας ἐν δράματι κρίνεται ἀσεβείας, P.Oxy. 24.2400). On this, see Lefkowitz (2016, 49–76). Of all the classical playwrights, Euripides’ views of the gods have attracted the most extensive debate in modern scholarship. A long-standing view originating with Aristophanes and also associated with Nietzsche (esp. The Birth of Tragedy §§ 10–12) takes him to be a rationalist; see Silk and Stern (1981, 258–62); also Verrall (1910, 10–13). This was challenged by Dodds (1929), and since then by many others; now most scholars of Euripides adopt moderating positions; see e.g. Wildberg (2002, 1–6). 12 Scholarly treatments of Lucian include Bompaire (1958); Hall (1981); Jones (1986); Branham (1989); Baumbach and von Möllendorff (2017). 13 For the Second Sophistic, see Chapter 1 above, esp. nn. 72–75. 14 For Lucian’s use of drama, see Householder (1941); Kokolakis (1961); Seeck (1990); Karavas (2005); Karavas (2017); Bowie (2007, 34–39); Schmitz (2010); Rosen (2016); Storey (2016); Peterson (2019, 82–142); Webb (2019); Baumbach (2020). 15 See here esp. Kokolakis (1961, 19–23). 16 See, e.g., Lucian, Bis acc. 33. For discussion, see esp. Bompaire (1958, 549–85); Hall (1981, 64–150); Branham (1989, 127–35); Rosen (2016); Karavas (2017); Baumbach and von Möllendorff (2017, 176–91). 17 On Juppiter tragoedus, see the introduction and commentary of Coenen (1977); in addition, Branham (1989, 163–77); Whitmarsh (2013, 177–82); Schulten (2011, 67–69); Karavas (2005, 142–47); Karavas (2017, 106–10); Baumbach (2020, 187–89). 18 The genre of this work is difficult to classify. Hall (1981) includes it among her list of Menippean Satires (64 n. 1). It is generally characterized as “parody”: Bompaire (1958, 625–27); Seeck (1990, 238); Karavas (2005, 146–47); Baumbach (2020, 182–83, 187–89). But Branham (1989) offers a more precise definition, distinguishing between parody and travesty. Parodies adopt the literary form of their critical object; as with satyr drama, they are “generically homogeneous and exploit anachronism of tone rather than content.” By contrast, “travesties”—his designation for Juppiter tragoedus—“combine elements of alien genres to juxtapose the mythic and the modern style of Old Comedy” (at 135). For “paratragedy,” see Whitmarsh (2013, 176–85); Karavas (2017). 19 E.g., Aristophanes, Nub. 1–79; Ran. 51–70; Menander, Dysk. 50–80; Sam. 1–57; Aspis 1–96. For comparison of Lucian’s opening scene with Menander, see Karavas (2017, 108). 20 As Coenen (1977, 40) notes, Hermes takes on a similarly servile roles in other comedies (e.g., Aristophanes, Pax 180–181; Plut. 1099). Cf. also the role of Hermes in Euripides’ satyr play, the Syleus, discussed in Chapter 5 in this volume. Baumbach (2020, 189) sees the role of Hermes in Juppiter tragoedus as a parody of Menander; see also McCary (1969) on comic slaves in Menander. In Roman comedy, there is a comparable relationship between Zeus and Hermes in Plautus, Amphytruo; on which, see Christenson (forthcoming). 21 Lucian’s debts to Aristophanes in this work are far more extensive than the Aves; see esp. Hall (1981, 141); Branham (1989, 167). Indeed, as Whitmarsh (2013) observes, the manner in which he evokes tragedy closely resembles Aristophanes: “Lucian cannibalizes [it], simultaneously defining his literary production in opposition to it and appropriating it within his radically intertextual mimesis” (at 177). 22 For analysis of his Homeric sources, see Coenen (1977, 52). 23 On Lucian’s wider metaphorical use of sculpture, see Romm (1990). 24 Branham (1989, 169). 25 Branham (1989, at 170 and 173). See similarly the assessment of Whitmarsh (2013, 181): “Lucian’s gods repeatedly slide into representation and figurality, to the extent that

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35 36 37

38 39

they often seem to have no possibility of existence independent of cultural manufacture whether by poets or sculptors. Poetic language is thus the precondition for divinity. Tragedy is very much the language of the gods, its elevated tone bespeaking the loftiness of Olympus, its segregation from the world of mortals.” On the use of this device, see Mastronarde (1990); von Möllendorff (2017, 165–75); and below for the case of the Bellerophon (Chapter 4 in this volume). For a survey of Lucian’s use of the terms μεχάνημα and μηχανή, see Karavas (2005, 215–16). Curiously, Karavas does not mention Jupp. trag. 24, where the phrase τινι ἄλλῃ μηχανῇ occurs, but he cites Jupp. trag. 41 as an instance of Lucian’s use of the expression θεὸς ἐκ μηχανῆς, even though the term is lacking. See Jones (1986, 39–40); Van Nuffelen (2011, 179–99, esp. 194–98). For the broader context of Stoicism, see Dragona-Monachou (1976). See, e.g., Lefkowitz (2016, 13–14); Teisserenc (2018, 41–49); Sassi (2018). Cf. also the assessment of Whitmarsh (2015, 100) regarding tragedy more broadly: “The gods of tragedy rarely embody the kind of benevolent justice that a pious moralist would want to attribute to them.” On the Hippolytus, see similarly Sassi (2018, 179–81). For additional examples from drama in which the gods fail to deliver justice, see Chapter 4 in this volume on Ps.Justin’s De monarchia. As shall be seen later, such are the assumptions underlying the use of dramatic poetry by Sextus Empiricus and Ps.-Justin. Rarely (if ever) do ancient authors consider whether the opinions expressed belong to the playwright or merely the dramatis personae. Lefkowitz (2016, 34–37) has argued forcefully that Euripides’ religious views would not have been seen as radical by most of his contemporaries, but that this reputation developed later, especially under the influence of Aristophanes. See also SourvinouInwood (2003, 291–458). Frag. 941 is in Heraclitus, All. 23.7; Clement, Strom. 5.14.114; Protr. 2.25.3; 7.74.1; Stobaeus 1.1.2; Cicero, Nat. d. 2.65; frag. 480 in Plutarch, Dialogue on Love 756b and Ps.-Justin, De monarchia 5.8. On the nature of the common source for Lucian and Athenagoras, see Zeegers-vander Vorst (1972, 164–68). Aristophanes has Euripides describe aether as the primordial origin of life (Thesm. 13–18). A related conception of Zeus is articulated in Euripides’ Troades as Hecuba wonders whether Zeus may in fact be “either the necessity of nature or the mind of mortals” (εἴτ᾿ ἀνάγκη φύσεος εἴτε νοῦς βροτῶν, Tro. 886; see also Alc. 962–966). Cf. Aeschylus, TrGF 3.70: “Zeus is aether, Zeus is earth, Zeus is sky, Zeus is all things, and he is something of those above” (Ζεύς ἐστιν αἰθήρ, Ζεὺς δὲ γῆ, Ζεὺς δ᾿ οὐρανός, / Ζεύς τοι τά πάντα χὤ τι τῶνδ᾿ ὑπέρτερον). For the connection to Anaxagoras, see Vitruvius, 8 praef. 1. As John Dillon (2004, 50–55) emphasizes, however, in its apparently materialistic view of the god, frag. 941 is more closely akin to Anaxagoras’ followers Archelaus and Diogenes of Apollonia; see also Egli (2003, 79–94); Lefkowitz (2016, 34–37). In view of the common and widespread usage among Stoics, Zeegers-vander Vorst (1972, 164–67) has argued that they derived from an anthologized source. Note also, Clement introduces frag. 941 with a comment that poets “expose the truth on stage” (ἐπὶ τῆς σκηνῆς παραγυμνοῦσι τὴν ἀλήθειαν, Protr. 7.74.1). On this, see further Chapter 5 in this volume. There is considerable confusion in the sources. The newly composed inoffensive line turns out to be from a play by Critias (TrGF 1(43) F1.9); and the “original” opening (frag. 480) was wrongly attributed in Ps.-Justin’s De monarchia (5.8) to the Hecuba; a papyrus of fragment of the Melanippe (P.Oxy. 27.2455) attests to the “revised” opening line; see Lefkowitz (2016, 57); Wright (2019, 185). These considerations will be taken up regarding fragments of the Sisyphus and Bellerophon (see Chapter 4 in this volume). This phrase is taken from Dillon (2004, 48).

The Drama of Debating Gods (and Their Existence) 49 4 0 Quoted by two of the same authors: Heraclitus and Clement. 41 The entire fragment extends to 14 lines; the first half is attested in other sources. 42 For Philo’s intellectual context and literary milieu, see Alexandre (1967, 105–29); Mendelson (1982, 25–46); Collins (1997, 148–53); Winter (2002, 19–108); Alexandre (2009); Niehoff (2011, 133–85); Koskenniemi (2014); Niehoff (2018). 43 A list of quotations and allusions to classical authors is available in Lincicum (2013b); see also now Koskenniemi (2019, 21–151); Royse (2020). On Philo and Greek drama, see Niehoff (2001, 52–58); Koskenniemi (2006); (2019, 47–65); Bloch (2009, 66–67, 70–72); Jay (2013, 221–32); (2017); Friesen (2017); (2020a); Marculescu (2019); and classical poetry more widely, Koskenniemi (2010); Berthelot (2011); Niehoff (2012); Nieto Hernández (2014); Friesen (2015a). 44 On this treatise, see esp. Arnaldez and Pouilloux (1969); Runia (1981); Michel (1998, 496–98); Niehoff (2006); Fuglseth (2006); Runia (2008, 34–39). On doxography in Philo’s works more broadly, see also Lévy (2005); see also Chapter 4 in this volume on Sextus Empiricus. 45 These three lines are preceded by two of Empedocles (frag. B12 D.-K.). 46 For the remaining lines (12–14) see Aet. 5 above. Cf. also Aet. 144 and Leg. 1.7. 47 For the philosophical context of this fragment, see esp. Dillon (2004, 56–58); also Poole (1990, 146–48). 48 Runia (2008, 39). That the final form of the treatise reflects Philo’s own vocabulary and prose style was argued by Wiersma (1940); see also Kidd (1996, 137); Sedley (1998, 333). 49 In analyzing Marcus Aurelius’ use of the Chrysippus and other excerpts, Schramm (2020a, 309–10) suggests that he may have deployed a Stoic collection of Euripidean excerpts. 50 Prior to this, Pacuvius had imitated these lines in his tragedy Chrysae (frags. 107–115 Warmington). 51 Note the introductory formulae in De aeternitate: καὶ ὁ τραγικός (Aet. 5); κατὰ γὰρ τὸν τραγικόν (Aet. 30); κατὰ τὸ φιλοσοφηθὲν ὑπὸ τοῦ τραγικοῦ (Aet. 144). In Legum allegoriae, the formula is merely: ὥστε ἀληθὲς εἶναι τὸ λεγόμενον ὅτι (Leg. 1.7). As Marculescu (2019, 143–44) suggests, in the latter instance, in keeping with his practice elsewhere, in a work concerned with biblical exegesis Philo is less likely to specify his source, perhaps because it was of less interest to a primarily Jewish audience. 52 For a reconstruction, see Poole (1990, 136–49); Hubbard (2006); Wright (2019, 209–10). 53 For this latter point, see Lloyd-Jones (2002). 54 See Poole (1990, 146–48); Hubbard (2006, 224). 55 As such, it would be akin to monodies of Ion (Ion 72–122); Hecuba (Tro. 98–121); the Phaedra and her nurse (Hipp. 176–266). 56 Dillon (2004, 57). 57 A comparable example of Philo’s secondhand use of a poetic excerpt occurs in Ebr. 150 where Hesiod, Op. 287, 289–292 is taken to establish that the road to virtue is more difficult than the one to vice. The same lines were deployed with similar moralizing applications by Plato (Resp. 364d; Leg. 718e), Xenophon (Mem. 2.1.20), and Plutarch (Mor. 24d–f). See Friesen (2015a).

4

Gods on Stage and Gods in Heaven Fragments of Atheism in Sextus Empiricus and Pseudo-Justin

The plays of classical Athens were composed for production in civic cults of Dionysus in honor of the deity. Nevertheless, they occasionally posed direct challenges to traditional piety and conceptions of the gods, provoking vigorous debate already in the fifth century and continuing across antiquity. The previous chapter explored two instances of such philosophical argumentation. Lucian activated the subversive potential of theater, among other things, as exposing the gods as human fabrications or merely personifications of material entities. A fragment of Euripides that expresses this latter point, rooted in the metaphysics of Anaxagoras, was also appropriated by Philo of Alexandria as validating the Bible’s account of creation. The present chapter extends this exploration with two dramatic fragments noteworthy for their expressions of atheism. First, the Sisyphus is quoted by Sextus Empiricus, a younger contemporary of Lucian, as part of an extensive survey of philosophical arguments for and against the gods’ existence, including those of Stoics and Epicureans (Adversus mathematicos 9.13–149). As in Lucian’s dialogue, this excerpt of a fifth-century drama is cited as relevant evidence and functions for Sextus as his foremost example of atheism. A character in the play articulates a theory of the origin of the gods as human inventions, thus repudiating their reality as it appears in conventional myth and cult. Second, in the Bellerophon of Euripides, a protagonist denies that gods exist yet more emphatically in 16 lines preserved in the De monarchia, a work attributed to the Justin Martyr. For the Christian apologist, this text establishes that even the poets of old most venerated among the Greeks had long recognized the folly of polytheism. Rather than bolstering a skeptical suspension of judgment as it did for Sextus, however, Ps.-Justin’s objective is to advance an alternative vision of religious dogma. The Fabrication of Gods from Sisyphus to Sextus Empiricus The skeptic philosopher Sextus Empiricus (ca. 160–210 ce) devotes a substantial portion of Adversus mathematicos to problems concerning the nature and existence of the gods.1 As with Lucian’s Stoic and Epicurean protagonists, the material deployed by Sextus derives from standard topoi well known from other works, such as Cicero’s De natura deorum, and pilloried by Lucian. Among the array of sources compiled by Sextus, a 42-line fragment from a classical drama, the Sisyphus (TrGF DOI: 10.4324/9781003392132-4

Gods on Stage and Gods in Heaven 51 1(43) F19), is given a prominent place for claiming that the gods were human inventions.2 While the manner in which Sextus evokes the Sisyphus fragment is very different from the function theater has in Lucian’s Juppiter tragoedus, it nevertheless provides a complementary perspective on the ongoing role of drama within philosophical and theological discourse. Adversus mathematicos is a philosophical doxography, as Philo’s De aeternitate mundi, drawing extensively on pre-existing source material. Unlike other philosophers, however, who advocate the doctrines of their respective schools, Sextus’ objective is to undermine all “dogmatic” claims. As a skeptic, the chief conviction underlying his method is that inquiry should lead to the suspension of judgment. The skeptic, then, lives free from opinions (adoxastos), which enables a state of imperturbability (ataraxia) (Pyr. 1.12). Methodologically, this involves accumulating opposing arguments on a particular subject and demonstrating that ultimately there is equal strength (isosthenia) on each side. Sextus’ inquiry concerning the gods exemplifies these principles (Math. 9.13– 194).3 In the introduction, he declares his opposition to the “dogmatic philosophers” (τοῖς δογματικῶς φιλοσοφοῦσιν) who see the objective of philosophy as “knowledge of divine and human matters” (ἐπιστήμην θείων τε καὶ ἀνθρωπίνων πραγμάτων). Against them, he would establish that “inquiry concerning the gods fails” (ἠπορημένην τὴν περὶ τῶν θεῶν ζήτησιν, 9.13). The catalogue of opinions which follows, then, does not culminate in favor of one philosophical school or theological stance over others, but rather in “suspension” (ἐποχή, 9.191). Different people hold “differing and discordant notions” (ἄλλας καὶ ἀσυμφώνους […] ὑπολήψεις), which are unreliable, “because of their conflict” (διὰ τὴν μάχην) and “because of their equal strength” (διὰ τὴν ἰσοσθένειαν, 9.192). His inquiry is divided into two sections, the first concerning the origins of the human “notion” (ἔννοια, ὑπόνοια, νόησις) of the gods (9.13–48), the second their existence (ὕπαρξις, 9.49–194). These are, of course, interrelated as is evident in the repetition of arguments from one section to the other. Regarding the source of human perception of the divine, the first theory provided by Sextus is that humans, in an effort to overcome rampant injustice in primitive society, “invented the gods as overseers of all human actions, both wrong and right, so that no one should dare to do injustice in secret” (θεοὺς ἀνέπλασαν ἐπόπτας πάντων τῶν ἀνθρωπίνων ἁμαρτημάτων τε καὶ κατορθωμάτων, ἵνα μηδὲ κρύφα τολμῶσί τινες ἀδικεῖν, 9.16), a view he attributes (inaccurately) to Euhemerus.4 He proceeds with a list of additional explanations for whence the human notion of gods arose, for instance, from heavenly bodies; natural substances beneficial to human life (Prodicus, 9.18); mental impressions (Democritus, 9.19); states of the soul during sleep (Aristotle, 9.20; Epicurus, 9.25); and powerful men regarded as gods after their deaths (9.34). Sextus refutes each of these in turn, arguing that they all fall short for roughly the same reason: while they may successfully explain one stage within the evolution of theology, they fail to account for the ultimate origin of the idea of gods. So, for instance, if certain humans invented the gods in order to deter injustice, it still remains to be explained how they derived this idea in the first place: “as someone might inquire, ‘whence did the lawgivers arrive at the notion of gods, when

52  Gods on Stage and Gods in Heaven no one had earlier passed gods down to them?’” (ζητήσαντος ἄν τινος, πόθεν δὲ οἱ νομοθέται, μηδενὸς πρότερον παραδόντος αὐτοῖς θεούς, ἦλθον εἰς ἐπίνοιαν θεῶν, 9.31). Turning to the existence of the gods proper, Sextus notes that there are three divisions: “those who say god exists, those who say he does not exist, and those who say he exists no more than he does not exist” (οἱ μὲν εἶναί φασι θεόν, οἱ δὲ μὴ εἶναι, οἱ δὲ μὴ μᾶλλον εἶναι ἢ μὴ εἶναι, 9.50). The first group is made of up of “dogmatists,” whose views are widely represented historically, including by Homer, Pythagoras, Empedocles, Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle, as well as in the schools of Stoics and Epicureans (9.63–64).5 Their arguments are taken up later and occupy much of his discussion (9.60–136). Prior to this, however, he first describes the second group, “those called atheists” (οἱ ἐπικληθέντες ἄθεοι), listing their leading figures. As at 9.16, Euheremus is again named first, this time followed by Diagoras, Prodicus, Theodorus, and “a multitude of others” (ἄλλοι παμπληθεῖς, 9.51).6 Critias, the reputed author of the Sisyphus, does not make this initial list, but Sextus argues for his inclusion: “he seems to be from the rank of atheists” (δοκεῖ ἐκ τοῦ τάγματος τῶν ἀθέων ὑπάρχειν, 54).7 Prior to quoting from the drama, Sextus summarizes its central ideas that establish its atheism. Critias φάμενος ὅτι οἱ παλαιοὶ νομοθέται ἐπίσκοπόν τινα τῶν ἀνθρωπίνων κατορθωμάτων καὶ ἁμαρτημάτων ἔπλασαν τὸν θεὸν ὑπὲρ τοῦ μηδένα λάθρᾳ τὸν πλησίον ἀδικεῖν, εὐλαβούμενον τὴν ὑπὸ τῶν θεῶν τιμωρίαν. says that ancient lawgivers formed god as some overseer of human actions, both right and wrong, so that no one would mistreat their neighbor in secret, taking caution of punishment by the gods. (Sextus Empiricus, Math. 54) It is plain enough to see why, based upon this summary, Sextus takes the Sisyphus fragment as evidence of atheism. The opening lines describe primitive society: ἦν χρόνος ὅτ᾿ ἦν ἄτακτος ἀνθρώπων βίος καὶ θηριώδης ἰσχύος θ᾿ ὑπηρέτης. (TrGF 1(43) F19.1–2) There was a time when the life of humans was disorderly and beastly, enslaved to brute force. (Math. 54) The problem was the lack of rewards for the virtuous and punishments for the wicked, so “people set up laws as punishers” (ἅνθρωποι νόμους θέσθαι κολαστάς, 5–6). This prevented violence committed “openly” (τἀμφανῆ), but people “continued doing so in secret” (λάθρᾳ δ᾿ ἔπρασσον, 9–11). Next, therefore, πυκνός τις καὶ σοφὸς γνώμην ἀνὴρ θεῶν δέος θνητοῖσιν ἐξευρεῖν. (12–13)

Gods on Stage and Gods in Heaven 53 some man, shrewd and wise in skill, discovered fear of gods for mortals. (Math. 54) This “fear” (δεῖμα, 14) would now extend to secret actions (πράσσωσιν), words (λέγωσιν), and even thoughts (φρονῶσί, 14–15; cf. 20–24). The speaker adds, ἐντεῦθεν οὖν τὸ θεῖον εἰσηγήσατο, ὡς ἔστι δαίμων ἀφθίτῳ θάλλων βίῳ, νόῳ τ᾿ ἀκούων καὶ βλέπων, φρονῶν τε καὶ προσέχων τε ταῦτα, καὶ φύσιν θείαν φορῶν. (16–19) thence he introduced divinity, that there is some spirit flourishing in incorruptible life, hearing and seeing in its mind, perceiving and attending to these things, and bearing divine nature. (Math. 54) This innovator determined that the phenomena of the heavens were the most effective source of this fear, so he claimed that the gods dwelt there amidst the thunder, lightning, and celestial bodies (27–39); as a result, “he quelled lawlessness with laws” (τὴν ἀνομίαν τε τοῖς νόμοις κατέσβεσεν, 40). “And so,” the speaker concludes, “I suppose that someone first persuaded mortals to believe that there is a generation of gods” (οὕτω δὲ πρῶτον οἴομαι πεῖσαί τινα/θνητοὺς νομίζειν δαιμόνων εἶναι γένος, 41–42). The fragment, therefore, clearly articulates the theory that religion is a human invention devised as a means of social control, and consequently modern interpreters have taken this to be one of the most explicit ancient expressions of atheism.8 Nevertheless, comparison of the language of the fragment itself with Sextus’ summary of it reveals subtle differences and suggests a more complex situation. For instance, whereas Sextus indicates that Critias says certain ancients “formed god” (ἔπλασαν τὸν θεόν), which has the sense of “mold” or “fabricate,” in fact, the speaker merely asserts a wise man “discovered the fear of gods for mortals” (θεῶν δέος θνητοῖσιν ἐξευρεῖν, 13). In contrast to the verb πλάσσω, ἐξευρίσκω means to “find out” more than to “create,” and it certainly lacks the former’s association with sculpture or fiction. Moreover, the wise man of the Sisyphus fragment “introduces” not the gods per se, but rather the idea of “divinity” (τὸ θεῖον εἰσηγήσατο, 16) and proceeds to define theological characteristics as including immortality, omniscience, and justice.9 The fragment’s emphasis on “divinity” (τὸ θεῖον) foregrounds another divergence with Sextus; it does not specify, as the Sextus suggests, that the inventors were “ancient legislators” (οἱ παλαιοὶ νομοθέται, 54). While this may be a reasonable inference given the emphasis on the enforcement of laws in society, the wise man’s innovations are in the field of theology, even mythology, rather than legislation proper.10 It would seem, therefore, that Sextus has imported several ideas into his interpretation of the Sisyphus fragment; this is especially evident in view of the repetition of earlier material from his discussion of Euhemerus.

54  Gods on Stage and Gods in Heaven Table 4.1 Comparison of Sextus’ account of Euhemerus and the Sisyphus fragment Math. 9.15–17 on Euhemerus

Math. 9.54 on the Sisyphus fragment

θηριώδους γὰρ καὶ ἀτάκτου γεγονότος τοῦ πάλαι βίου (9.15) / ὅτ’ ἦν ἄτακτος ἀνθρώπων βίος. (9.17) νόμους ἔθεντο (9.15) θεοὺς ἀνέπλασαν ἐπόπτας πάντων τῶν ἀνθρωπίνων ἁμαρτημάτων τε καὶ κατορθωμάτων, ἵνα μηδὲ κρύφα τολμῶσί τινες ἀδικεῖν. (9.16) For life of old came to be as beastly and disorderly/life of people was once disorderly. they established laws they formed gods as overseers of all human actions, both wrong and right, in order that some people might not dare to mistreat [others] in secret.

ἦν χρόνος ὅτ᾿ ἦν ἄτακτος ἀνθρώπων βίος καὶ θηριώδης ἰσχύος θ᾿ ὑπηρέτης. (9.54 = TrGF 1(43) F19.1–2) νόμους θέσθαι (9.54 = TrGF 1(43) F19.5–6) οἱ παλαιοὶ νομοθέται ἐπίσκοπόν τινα τῶν ἀνθρωπίνων κατορθωμάτων καὶ ἁμαρτημάτων ἔπλασαν τὸν θεὸν ὑπὲρ τοῦ μηδένα λάθρᾳ τὸν πλησίον ἀδικεῖν. (9.54) There was a time when the life of humans was disorderly and beastly, enslaved to brute force. they established laws ancient lawgivers formed god as some overseer of human actions, both right and wrong, so that no one would mistreat their neighbor in secret, taking caution of punishment by the gods.

As Table 4.1 demonstrates, the central concepts which Sextus associates with the Sisyphus fragment had already been attributed to Euhemerus: primitive society was “beastly” and “disorderly”; there was an initial stage of lawgiving that achieved public enforcement; next, gods were invented as a means of private enforcement. In Sextus’ handling, therefore, the two have been blended together, and thus when he comes to introduce Critias as an atheist at 9.54 he apparently imputes the “invention” of gods by “legislators” onto the Sisyphus fragment, an idea he had earlier credited to Euhemerus.11 In fact, however, the identity of the “wise man” of the Sisyphus remains ambiguous. In this regard, a comparison with Lucian’s Juppiter tragoedus is illuminating. For Timocles the Stoic, the playwright Euripides “said something useful” (λέγειν τι ὑγιές) by showing the gods saving the virtuous and punishing the wicked (Jupp. trag. 41); analogously, the Sisyphus fragment’s religious innovator persuaded mortals to fear divine punishment in an effort to curb secret wrongdoing. Thus, both converge on the thesis that human belief in the gods as avengers of evil could affect positive social control. That this “useful” discourse was attributed to a playwright in Lucian’s dialogue offers a clue toward understanding the wise man of the Sisyphus. The speaker claims that this individual τούσδε τοὺς λόγους λέγων διδαγμάτων ἥδιστον εἰσηγήσατο, ψευδεῖ καλύψας τὴν ἀλήθειαν λόγῳ. introduced the most pleasing of doctrines by telling these stories, having concealed the truth in a false report. (24–26)

Gods on Stage and Gods in Heaven 55 These lines, as Tim Whitmarsh has shown, are a striking instance of poetic selfreflexivity. While the λόγοι (24) could refer to almost any mode of discourse or argumentation, lines 25–26 are suggestive of poetic speech in particular, alluding to Hesiod’s Muses, “from whose mouths a sweet voice flows” (ῥέει αὐδὴ ἐκ στομάτων ἡδεῖα, Theog. 39–40; cf. ἥδιστον). Also, they had famously declared: ἴδμεν ψεύδεα πολλὰ λέγειν ἐτύμοισιν ὁμοῖα, ἴδμεν δ’ εὖτ’ ἐθέλωμεν ἀληθέα γηρύσασθαι. (cf. ψευδεῖ […] τὴν ἀλήθειαν) We know how to speak many lies alike to the truth, and we know how to utter the truth whenever we wish to. (Hesiod, Theog. 27–28) Thus, in its emphasis on the ambiguous blending of truth and fabrication together with the sweetness of speech, the Sisyphus fragment evokes Hesiodic inspiration. And, like his bardic counterpart, this wise man is concerned with the same primary subject matter, that is, the “generation of gods” (δαιμόνων γένος, line 42; cf. Theog. 33: μακάρων γένος αἰὲν ἐόντων; Theog. 44: θεῶν γένος).12 This deceptive mode of the Muses’ inspiration made a negative impression on Plato, who blames Hesiod for composing “the greatest lie concerning the greatest matters” (τὸ μέγιστον καὶ περὶ τῶν μεγίστων ψεῦδος, Resp. 377e). Alongside these Hesiodic allusions, Whitmarsh suggests that the fragment is also self-referential of drama itself: “Sisyphus’ speech tells of the power of one man to control the people through the wielding of words, by ‘introducing’ deities into the public realm […] Sisyphus theatricalises Hesiod, drawing out the theme of concealment and disguise that was only explicit in the Theogony.” The capacity to shock and induce fear is a particular feature of tragedy, and thus it is in this sense a “reflection on the creative power of theatre itself.”13 In short, then, in this fragment, as also in Lucian, it belongs to the poet, and especially the dramatist, to construct these human perceptions of the gods and persuade people to fear them. We may return, now, to the position of the Sisyphus fragment within the structure of Sextus’ discussion concerning the gods. If the foregoing analysis is correct, Sisyphus offers a theory concerning the origin of the “notion” of gods. Why, then, does Sextus include it as a primary exemplar for the view that god “does not exist” (μὴ εἶναι) and argue for its author’s inclusion among the “the rank of atheists”? The answer lies, it would seem, in the nature of his source as he received it. In many instances, Sextus transmits his doxographic materials without firsthand access to the underlying sources—such appears to be the case, for instance, in his comments on Euhemerus noted above. Standard catalogues of atheists were in circulation, and comparison with other ancient writers on the topic makes clear that Sextus compiled his names from some common list.14 Of particular importance is the De placita philosophorum by Aëtius (Ps.-Plutarch), the only other ancient source for the Sisyphus fragment.15 Like Sextus, Aëtius discusses it in close conjunction with Euhemerus and also names Diagoras and Theodorus among his fellow atheists.16 Both also share the same division of topics, first discussing the origin of the human

56  Gods on Stage and Gods in Heaven concept of god (Plac. philos. 1.6) then the existence of god (1.7), with the Sisyphus fragment placed in the latter.17 Moreover, as David Runia shows based upon wider allusions to the drama in De placita, Aëtius knew more than the few lines he used and thus would have been “acquainted with the entire poetic quote such as we find it in Sextus.”18 In view of these correlations, it seems certain that Sextus and Aëtius are dependent on a shared source for this material; the latter’s inclusion of the fragment’s author among those who “say there are no gods” (φασὶ μὴ εἶναι θεούς, Ps.-Plutarch, Mor. 880d) makes clear that Sextus will have received the fragment already categorized under the heading of atheism.19 Aëtius raises an additional consideration regarding the fragment not countenanced by Sextus, namely the tension between the ideas expressed by the dramatic character and the personal views of the playwright. The sophistic theory of religion is voiced by the play’s villain who, famously, would soon be punished for hubris by the very gods whose existence he questions (see Figure 4.1). Clearly, therefore, his claims appear humorously ironic, if not utterly self-refuting.20 But Sextus is inattentive to this; he does not identify the speaker and makes a facile equation between the character’s voice and that of the playwright himself. Aëtius, by contrast, proposes an explanation for why the poet attributed these views to Sisyphus: he “did not wish to disclose himself, fearing the Areopagus, but presented this guise: he introduced Sisyphus as the champion of this opinion and advocated for this idea of his” (ἀποκαλύψασθαι μὲν οὐκ ἠθέλησε, δεδοικὼς τὸν Ἄρειον πάγον, ἐνέφηνε δὲ τοῦτον τὸν τρόπον· τὸν γὰρ Σίσυφον εἰσήγαγε προστάτην ταύτης τῆς δόξης καὶ συνηγόρησεν αὐτοῦ ταύτῃ τῇ γνώμῃ, Mor. 880d). Thus, as did Lucian’s Epicurean speaker Damis, Aëtius

Figure 4.1 Punishment of Sisyphus on a metope from the Temple of Hera at Paestum, Paestum Archaeological Museum (Azoor Photo/Alamy Stock Photo)

Gods on Stage and Gods in Heaven 57 presumes to peel away the mythological and dramatic layers to detect the poet’s subversive religious ideology lurking beneath. His proposal that the playwright feared prosecution for atheism is, of course, not without merit, as David Sedley has argued.21 At Athens, numerous trials for denying the city’s gods are reported (most famously Socrates in 399 bce), and according to Plutarch in the 430s Diopeithes established a decree for the prosecution of impiety for this (Per. 32.1–2). Such threats heightened the impulse of genuine atheists toward anonymity, and consequently, “the voices of dramatic characters were indeed the medium through which atheistic ideas were most safely explored in the ancient world.” In this regard, Sisyphus is a test case for “how far it was possible to go in voicing theological skepticism without inviting trouble”; its author “took exceptional measures to protect himself from its repercussions […] he put the offending doctrine into the mouth of the play’s leading villain.”22 The elusiveness of the playwright’s religious ideology is, so it seems, matched by that of Sextus himself. As observed above, he outlined three stances with respect the existence of the gods. The first two—that “god exists” (εἶναι θεόν) and that god “does not exist” (μὴ εἶναι)—occupy the entirety of his inquiry, as he sets the arguments of each side over against the other. The third position, as it turns out, is his own. Unlike the other two, it is not subjected to refutation but is seen to be the necessary conclusion of his summary of arguments: “those who spoke from skeptic philosophy said that gods no more exist than not exist because of the equal strength of arguments laid down on either side” (οὐ μᾶλλον δὲ εἶναι ἢ μὴ εἶναι θεοὺς διὰ τὴν τῶν ἀντικειμένων λόγων ἰσοσθένειαν ἔλεξαν οἱ ἀπὸ τῆς σκέψεως, 9.59). Presumably, many would find this unsatisfactory, if not meaningless. For Sextus, however, it embodies the ideal of the skeptic. From such a position, he will be “probably more secure” (τάχα […] ἀσφαλέστερος), κατὰ μὲν τὰ πάτρια ἔθη καὶ τοὺς νόμους λέγων εἶναι θεοὺς καὶ πᾶν τὸ εἰς τὴν τούτων θρῃσκείαν καὶ εὐσέβειαν συντεῖνον ποιῶν, τὸ δ’ ὅσον ἐπὶ τῇ φιλοσόφῳ ζητήσει μηδὲν προπετευόμενος. on the one hand, saying that the gods exist in accordance with ancestral customs and laws and performing everything contributing to their worship and piety, but on the other rushing upon nothing as far as it concerns philosophical inquiry. (Math. 9.49) What precisely makes the skeptical position “more secure” is not immediately evident, but the suggestion of Julia Annas is compelling: For if the worshipper is antecedently committed to a philosophical claim of this sort about God’s existence, this will produce worry and anxiety about the extent to which his particular cultural religious tradition provides an adequate and worthy representation of it, and hence he will begin to worry about the status of what he is doing.23 In any case, it is clear enough that Sextus intends to circumscribe a space for skeptics in which traditional religious cult is upheld even while simultaneously rejecting dogmatic commitments to corresponding metaphysical realities.

58  Gods on Stage and Gods in Heaven Religious Apologetics and the Drama of Providence: Ps.-Justin’s De monarchia and the Bellerophon In his catalogue and description of prominent advocates of atheism, the skeptic Sextus positioned one dramatist, Critias, exemplified by a fragment of his play the Sisyphus. The speaker falls short of an outright denial of the existence of gods, asserting merely that some ancient wise man had “discovered fear of the gods.” This is asserted, however, in another fragment of fifth-century drama and, as it happens, is declared by a grandson of Sisyphus, Bellerophon: “there are not, there are not” (οὐκ εἰσίν, οὐκ εἴσ’) gods in heaven (TrGF 5.1.286.2). For good reason, this has been seen as “one of the most explicitly atheistic utterances in all of ancient culture.”24 Bellerophon’s attack on the gods reaches a new height: he attempts to fly up to heaven on Pegasus to confront them and even refute their existence. More than a mere theatrical stunt, the hero posits a bold theological claim that the gods’ existence is contingent upon their enactment of justice, a test which, in his estimation, they manifestly fail. The 15-line fragment survives from antiquity in a single source: an apologetic work attributed to Justin Martyr, De monarchia.25 In contrast to Sextus who, based upon the equal force of arguments on both sides insisted upon the suspension of judgment, this author expresses robust confidence, even vehemence, in his rejection of the gods. For the apologist, dramatic poetry was of value only in so far as it confirmed this, and to the extent that it did, he appropriated it as a cultural authority, an intermediary voice positioned between himself and the target of his religious polemic. This fragment of Euripides’ Bellerophon is one among 29 excerpts in a relatively brief work, most of which purport to be derived from Attic drama, eleven attributed to Euripides, eight to Menander, three to Philemon, two to Sophocles, and one to Aeschylus.26 While De monarchia was likely composed in the third century, it deploys poetic anthologies that were compiled much earlier.27 Among these sources, there is a sharp distinction between those used in the first part of the treatise (sections 2–4) and those used in the latter part (section 5).28 In the former, seven of the ten quotations (several of which are clearly forgeries) also occur in the fifth book of Clement’s Stromateis and in a similar order, indicating a shared gnomologium.29 The composition and collection of these verses seems to have occurred in a Jewish milieu, as they have striking affinities with writers such as Aristobulus in the second century bce.30 By contrast, the verses compiled in section 5, in which the Bellerophon appears, differ significantly: the 18 excerpts are exclusively attributed to Euripides and Menander, and all but one appear to be authentic.31 Whereas the texts in section 2–4 originated in a Jewish milieu and appear to have had a more limited circulation, the excerpts occurring in section 5 are more widely attested (also in Plutarch, Lucian, Sextus, Stobaeus, Celsus, Athenagoras, Clement, and Eusebius). Plutarch, in particular, seems to have deployed a related collection that was produced within a Stoic context.32 Among the common stock of quotations, for instance, is TrGF 5.1.480 cited by Lucian’s Epicurean speaker in order to demonstrate Euripides’ disbelief in the gods.33 In short, the author of De monarchia was in possession of collections of excerpts of dramatic poetry that belonged to a similar milieu as those in use by other Greek intellectuals of the Roman period.

Gods on Stage and Gods in Heaven 59 The majority of the De monarchia, then, derives from preexisting poetic material. But the author composes his own introduction (1.1–2) and conclusion (6.1–3), which place the excerpts within his distinct religious ideology. Little in the treatise is exclusively Christian or explicitly biblical; its aim, rather, is to expose the error of “idol-making” (εἰδωλοποιία, 1.1). To this end, Ps.-Justin articulates his own theory of the origin of religion. In contrast to the Sisyphus fragment which posited that the earliest society knew no gods, he imagines an original monotheism: primitive “human nature” (τῆς ἀνθρωπίνης φύσεως) was furnished with full knowledge “of the worship of the one master of all” (θρησκείας τε τῆς εἰς τὸν ἕνα καὶ πάντων δεσπότην, 1.1). Polytheism arose only later, after much moral deterioration with the result that “custom passed error down to the masses as though it was innate and true” (ἔθος ὡς οἰκείαν καὶ ἀληθῆ τὴν πλάνην τοῖς πολλοῖς παραδίδωσι, 1.1). “Forgetfulness” (λήθη) now held sway, and his own task was “to remind those who abandoned God what they ought to have known” (ὑπομνῆσαι τοὺς ἅπερ ὤφελον εἰδέναι παραλελοιπότας, 1.1). To achieve this, “using an intelligence beloved by God, I shall deploy a voice beloved by humans” (φιλοθέῳ τῇ γνώμῃ κεχρημένος φιλανθρώπῳ χρήσομαι τῇ φωνῇ, 1.2). It is not entirely clear what is meant by this distinction between “beloved by God” and “beloved by humans,” but the “voice” appears to indicate the poetic verses that follow. For Ps.-Justin’s part, “I will not declare this by embellishing it with speech” (Τοῦτο δὲ οὐ λόγῳ καλλωπίζων φράσω); rather, his demonstration would be drawn from the most ancient “poetry of the Greek account” (τῆς ἑλληνικῆς ἱστορίας ποιήσει), that is “from literature given to all in common” (ἐκ τῶν πᾶσι κοινῇ δεδομένων γραμμάτων, 1.2). As a result, “after learning from them that they are ignorant of intelligence, they will be refuted by their very own poets and song-writers” (μαθόντες ἐξ αὐτῶν ἀγνῶτες νοῦ ἐλεγχθήσονται ὑπὸ τῶν παρ’ αὐτοῖς ποιητῶν καὶ μελογράφων, 1.2).34 The body of the treatise, thereafter, is organized around four themes, each one supported by a corresponding string of excerpts: first, God is one (2.1–5); second, God will enact judgment upon humans both for their actions and their ignorance of him (3.1–3); third, God is not approached by the sacrifices of the wicked (4.1–3); fourth, the gods of received tradition are immoral and unjust (5.1–8). The heading of this final section is of special relevance for the Bellerophon: Περὶ δὲ τῶν δοκούντων παρά τισι μετέχειν τοῦ ἁγίου καὶ τελείου ὀνόματος, ὅπερ παραδόσει ματαίᾳ τινὲς ἀπηνέγκαντο ὡς θεοί. Concerning those who, in the judgment of certain people, seem to share in the holy and perfect name, which some obtained by vain tradition as gods. (Ps.-Justin, Mon. 5.1) Each of the 18 excerpts from Menander and Euripides that follow questions, in various ways, the righteousness of the gods’ judgments or actions. For instance, a speaker in Menander asks “but where is it possible to find gods so just?” (ἀλλὰ ποῦ θεοὺς οὕτως δικαίους ἔστιν εὑρεῖν, Mis. frag. 4 Koerte; Mon. 5.3), and another protests, “there is unjust judgment, so it seems, even with the gods” (Ἔστι κρίσις ἄδικος, ὡς ἔοικε, κἀν θεοῖς, PCG 6.2.291 = frag. 328 Koerte; Mon. 5.4).

60  Gods on Stage and Gods in Heaven Turning to Euripides, Ps.-Justin quotes 11 lines in which Orestes blames Apollo for commanding the murder of his mother (Orest. 416–418, 591–598; Mon. 5.4), and similarly for 19 lines Ion criticizes the god’s immoral behavior in impregnating his mother (Ion 433–451; Mon. 5.5). A single line from the Archelaus complains, “frequently, O child, the gods overthrow humans” (Πολλ’, ὦ τέκνον, σφάλλουσιν ἀνθρώπους θεοί, TrGF 5.1.254; Mon. 5.6), followed by a first single-verse fragment of the Bellerophon: “if the gods do something bad, they are not gods” (Εἰ θεοί τι δρῶσι φαῦλον, οὐκ εἰσὶν θεοί, TrGF 5.1.286b.7).35 While the texts up to this point fall short of openly denying that gods exist, in the next 15-line fragment of the Bellerephon this is asserted emphatically: Φησίν τις εἶναι δῆτ’ ἐν οὐρανῷ θεούς; Οὐκ εἰσίν, οὐκ εἴσ’· εἴ τις ἀνθρώπων λέγει, Μὴ τῷ παλαιῷ μῶρος ὢν χρήσθω λόγῳ. Does someone truly say there are gods in heaven? There are not, there are not; if someone among humans says this, as a fool, may he not use the ancient story. (TrGF 5.1.286.1–3) The speaker then appeals to his dramatic audience that they consider the evidence for his claim: “examine for yourselves, do not merely concede to my statements” (σκέψασθε δ’ αὐτοί, μὴ ‘πὶ τοῖς ἐμοῖς λόγοις γνώμην ἔχοντες, 4–5). Several examples follow: “tyranny” kills and plunders (5–7), and the culprits enjoy greater happiness than those who peacefully pursue piety (8–9). Moreover, cities that honor the gods are small and subjected to larger ones that do not (10–12). Although the author of De monarchia includes this passage without comment on its wider dramatic context, many of his readers will have been familiar with the mythological background of the protagonist and possibly also something of the play itself, of which several additional fragments survive (TrGF 5.1.285–312).36 The Corinthian hero is best known as the master of the winged horse Pegasus, and numerous of his exploits are recounted by Homer (Iliad 6.160–211; see Figure 4.2). After a career of successful adventures, he found himself “hated by all the gods” (ἀπήχθετο πᾶσι θεοῖσιν, Il. 6.200), wandering the Aleian plains in miserable desolation (201–202). Ps.-Justin’s two excerpts apparently belong to an early scene in the drama when the hero bemoans his misery and blames the gods for failing to benefit those who deserve it. As the play unfolds, he would make an attempt to fly into heaven, as he declares in another fragment, “I hasten to see the air above the cloud” (τὸν ὑπὲρ κεφάλης αἰθέρ’ ἰδέσθαι σπεύδω, frag. 308.2–3). His foolhardy effort is thwarted, however, as he crashes, is crippled, and finally dies (frag. 311). The fragmentary details of this tragic misadventure can be supplemented by Aristophanes’ Pax, which involves a direct parody of the heroic flight.37 As with his tragic counterpart, the comic hero Trygaeus wishes to quarrel with Zeus, whom he holds responsible for the war ravaging the Greeks. His servant observes, “my master is mad […], for, throughout the day he looks into heaven […] and reproaches

Gods on Stage and Gods in Heaven 61

Figure 4.2 Fresco of Bellerophon, Pegasus, and Athena, Pompeii (The Print Collector/ Alamy Stock Photo)

Zeus” (ὁ δεσπότης μου μαίνεται […] δι᾿ ἡμέρας γὰρ εἰς τὸν οὐρανὸν βλέπων […] λοιδορεῖται τῷ Διὶ, 54, 56, 57). Trygaeus appears, then, flying upon a dung-beetle (80–81), which he has named Pegasus, and when asked whither he goes, he replies, “to Zeus, up to heaven” (ὡς τὸν Δί᾿ εἰς τὸν οὐρανόν, 104). His daughter arrives, and her subsequent comments make the Euripidean allusions explicit: οὐκοῦν ἐχρῆν σε Πηγάσου ζεῦξαι πτερόν, ὅπως ἐφαίνου τοῖς θεοῖς τραγικώτερος; […] ἐκεῖνο τήρει, μὴ σφαλεὶς καταρρυῇς ἐντεῦθεν, εἶτα χωλὸς ὢν Εὐριπίδῃ λόγον παράσχῃς καὶ τραγῳδία γένῃ. You didn’t need to yoke the wing of Pegasus, did you, so that you appear more tragic to the gods? […] Watch it, lest, rebuffed, you should fall to ruin from there; then, being lame you would provide a story for Euripides and become a tragedy. (Aristophanes, Pax 135–136, 146–148)

62  Gods on Stage and Gods in Heaven In their performance, the flights of both Bellerophon and Trygaeus would have been enacted by means of a crane, on which the actors stood with their respective props of winged steed and beetle.38 In the comedy, this is treated with an amusing moment of theatrical self-reflexivity: as Trygaeus approaches the end of his journey, he begins to fear the rising winds and calls out “hey, stage mechanic, pay attention” (ὦ μηχανοποιέ, πρόσεχε τὸν νοῦν, 174).39 Unlike Bellerophon, however, the comic hero reaches his goal but, to his disappointment, he finds heaven vacant. Only Hermes remained with the rest of the gods having recently moved out to escape the annoyance of relentless human dissensions and petitions. This result stands in ironic contrast to the journey of Bellerophon, who, despite his insistence that there were no gods in heaven, is blocked by them from reaching it.40 The dramatic denouement, then, undermines the tragic hero’s earlier rhetoric; as Christoph Riedweg points out, “at the end, the traditional order is again established, and Bellerophontes’ ‘atheistic’ declaration is more than outweighed by his pitiable lot.”41 There is, of course, no reason to suppose that by including these two excerpts from the Bellerophon the author of De monarchia activates this full contextual background including its parody by Aristophanes. Even so, the fragment’s opening reference to “gods in heaven” is strongly evocative of the protagonist’s well-known attempt to reach it. The fragment of Bellerophon involves a noteworthy contrast with that of Sisyphus. As discussed above, the speaker had claimed that the fear of gods was invented by some “man wise in knowledge” (σοφὸς γνώμην ἀνήρ, TrGF 1(43) F19.12), and that his persuasive power consisted in poetry (“telling these stories,” τούσδε τοὺς λόγους λέγων, 24) and even theater itself. Bellerophon insists upon precisely the inverse: whoever deploys “the ancient story” (τῷ παλαιῷ λόγῳ) concerning the Olympians is a “fool” (μῶρος, TrGF 5.1.286.3). Unlike Sisyphus, who constructs his own alternative and religiously subversive logos, Bellerophon instructs his audience not to accept his present dramatic discourse (τοῖς ἐμοῖς λόγοις), but rather to examine the evidence for themselves (σκέψασθε δ’ αὐτοί), apparently because the reality of his own and their collective human experience should be sufficient (4–5). Whereas Sisyphus embellished his discovery of the fear of the gods through his speech, Bellerophon sought to prove his declaration that there were no gods by riding into heaven itself. Viewed as metatheater, however, the two offer a common perspective: just as Sisyphus implied that “divinity” (τὸ θεῖον) was a construct of the stage, so also Bellerophon’s attempt to reach them occurred upon a machina. As Tim Whitmarsh observes, “Bellerophon flying up to heaven is a sign not just of a mythical hero overreaching himself, but also of the theater’s disturbing illusionistic power, which can make a god of a human.”42 This final point converges with the premise underlying Lucian’s Juppiter tragoedus, namely, that the gods are nothing more than inventions of human culture and artifice. In Ps.-Justin’s view, these fabrications arose gradually over time, passed on and perpetuated by custom and convention (ethos); therefore, by employing the words of early Greek poets he might demonstrate that the worship of the one God, rather than many, was more original and innate. What the playwrights clearly reveal, he asserts, is that belief in these gods was the result of “vain tradition”

Gods on Stage and Gods in Heaven 63 (παραδόσει ματαίᾳ, Mon. 5.1). Ps.-Justin also shared an important assumption with the Stoic Timocles of Lucian’s dialogue: one should expect gods to behave in accordance with justice, in particular, by rewarding the pious and punishing the wicked. But whereas Timocles presumed that this was what Euripides displayed gods doing on stage, the De monarchia lists numerous examples to establish precisely the opposite. In the Bellerophon, especially, the hero posited, based upon his own experience and observation of the world at large, the gods failed to deliver justice and therefore must not exist. It is striking, however, that Ps.-Justin deploys Bellerophon’s “atheistic” declaration without consideration of the fate of its speaker. The hero’s well-known failure to reach heaven and to prove his subversive theological claim was of no consequence to the author of De monarchia. He takes the speech as it stands without further inquiry or examination, which is, ironically, the very thing that its speaker discouraged (at lines 4–5). Thus, while Ps.-Justin sought to authorize his ideology by using voices from within the Greeks’ own literary tradition, in case of the Bellerophon he evoked one that, if taken in view of its larger dramatic and mythological context, undercuts its own denial of the gods. Conclusions In the early Common Era, writers as diverse as Sextus Empiricus and the author of the De monarchia found in classical drama a rich reservoir of material challenging the gods of mythology and cult. The former includes a 42-line excerpt from the Sisyphus as a leading example of atheism. According to his summary, the dramatist maintains that the gods were invented by lawgivers in order to curb private and secret acts of injustice. In fact, however, the fragment is more ambiguous than suggested by Sextus. The wise man described by the speaker is not identified as a lawgiver; rather, he resembles a poet, even a playwright, with skills in fabricating stories, and “concealing the truth in a false report” (26). In this way, therefore, the Sisyphus fragment activates theatrical self-reflexivity, what Gregory Dobrov describes as the “originary features” of drama—“duplicity, paradox (conveying truth through illusion), and mythopoeic power”43—and brings them to bear on questions concerning the existence and providence of the gods. These were persistent subjects of disputation within the Hellenistic schools of philosophy of the Roman world, and as with Lucian’s Juppiter tragoedus, Sextus addresses them by drawing from a common cultural repertoire. Such considerations took on heightened urgency for the religious communities of Jews and Christians, who in some instances also pursued their own theological agendas with reference to Greek theater. Ps.-Justin’s De monarchia represents one of the most explicit and extensive attempts to deploy classical plays as sources for the criticism of traditional polytheism and the construction of an alternative theology. It argues that, from the beginning, humanity acknowledged one God, but over time the error of polytheism took hold—the Greeks’ own dramatic poets could be shown to undermine their traditional religious ideas as later and inferior developments. Among them, the Bellerophon of Euripides provides a decisive denial of the

64  Gods on Stage and Gods in Heaven existence of the gods with the protagonist declaring that the widespread prevalence of evil and injustice proves that there are in fact no gods in heaven. What Ps.-Justin fails to mention, however, is that when in the play this “atheist” attempts to fly into heaven to prove his claim, he is thwarted by the very gods whom he denied. Nevertheless, as with Sextus’ use of the Sisyphus, the assertions are taken as they stand, detached from their context and without reference to the ironic reversals that potentially undermine them. Taken together, Chapters 3 and 4 have demonstrated the extent to which classical drama remained culturally prominent in the early Common Era. In particular, it provided a productive venue for intellectual explorations of religious controversies and for interrogating received traditions of myth and cult. The diversity of the communities and individuals who appropriated the authority of classical plays— representing popular philosophical schools, Judaism, and Christianity—attests to their malleability, while also reflecting theater’s characteristic features of concealment, illusion, and disguise. Notes 1 Almost nothing is known of Sextus’ life apart from the two works he produced: Pyrrhoniae hypotyposes (Pyr.) and 11 books conventionally entitled Against the Mathematicians (Math.). For introductory discussions of his work and philosophical methods, see Annas and Barnes (1985); Barnes (1997); (2007); Pellegrin (2010). 2 The Sisyphus fragment has been the subject of numerous valuable studies; among them, see esp. Dihle (1977); Sutton (1981); Winiarczyk (1987); Davies (1989); Kahn (1997); Caire (2002); Egli (2003, 149–54); O’Sullivan (2012); Sedley (2013); Whitmarsh (2014). 3 It is placed as the first topic in two books Against the Physicists (= Math. 9–10). For analysis of this and related passages in Sextus, see Long (1990); Knuuttila and Sihvola (2000); Annas (2011); Bett (2015, 52–59); Marchand (2016). 4 For Sextus’ characterization of the view of Euhemerus, see Roubekas (2017, 83–85), who argues that he had only indirect and imprecise knowledge. 5 While Epicureans were not technically atheists, they were often given this label; in fact, Lucian has his fictional Epicurean argue vigorously against the existence of gods. Sextus is aware of this ambiguity. He does not list Epicurus among the atheists, but asserts that he “left god for the masses” (πρὸς τοὺς πολλοὺς ἀπολείπει θεόν), although “in no way for the nature of things” (πρὸς τὴν φύσιν τῶν πραγμάτων οὐδαμῶς, 58). 6 Atheism in antiquity is complex phenomenon, not least because the term itself often has a different valence than its modern usage. For discussion, see Winiarczyk (1984); Sedley (2013); Whitmarsh (2015); Roubekas (2017, 74–77); Gourinat (2018); Teisserenc (2018). 7 Critias’ reputation for atheism is well attested; see Winiarczyk (1984, 162–63); however, the authorship of the fragment remains under question because it is attributed to Euripides by Aëtius (Plac. philos. 1.7.2). Despite vigorous scholarly argumentation, most notably Dihle (1977) in favor of Euripides and Winiarczyk (1987) of Critias, most critics are now resigned to uncertainty. In fact, Sedley (2013, 335–37) suggests the possibility that the text initially circulated anonymously, due to its potentially dangerous ideas, and was only later attributed these playwrights. 8 See, e.g., Whitmarsh (2014, 109): it “is arguably the most important single document in the history of ancient atheism”; also Kahn (1997, 261–62). Note, however, that some have emphasized that the fragment presents the invention of religion as a positive development for human civilization rather than merely the result of a devious scheme: see esp. O’Sullivan (2012).

Gods on Stage and Gods in Heaven 65 9 See also Caire (2002, 40–42), who emphasizes the significance of the fragment’s use of the terms θεῖον and δαίμων rather than θεός. 10 At line 40 (quoted above), it is stated that he deployed “laws,” but it is not clear that these are any other than the ones invented by earlier humans mentioned in lines 5–6. Cf. Caire (2002, 42–44). 11 As Roubekas (2017, 84) notes, Sextus also misrepresents the writings of Euhemerus both in 9.17 and 51; for the relationship between the Sisyphus fragment and Euhemerus, see Winiarczyk (2013, 105). 12 For further discussion of Hesiodic allusions in the Sisyphus fragment, see Whitmarsh (2014, 118–20); also Caire (2002, 42). 13 Whitmarsh (2014, 112, 123). 14 Runia (1996, 550–51). Cf. Henrichs (1975). And for a helpful compilation of ancient testimonia, see Winiarczyk (1984). 15 The most thorough and authoritative treatment of Aëtius in relation to his sources and the doxographic tradition is Mansfeld and Runia (1996–2018). 16 Regarding Euhemerus, both quote from the same fragment of Callimachus (Iambus 1, frag. 191 Pfeiffer), which is disdainful of his impiety, Aëtius has lines 9–11, and Sextus line 11. Runia (1996, 553–54): “Since the line is found nowhere else except in these two texts, this cannot be a coincidence. A common source must be involved.” 17 See Bett (2015, 46–47). 18 Runia (1996, 555). 19 Why Aëtius attributes it to Euripides and Sextus to Critias, however, remains uncertain. 20 See Sutton (1981, 37–38); Caire (2002, 44). It should be noted, in addition, that the Sisyphus was a satyr play, not the elevated literature from which one might expect to derive theology; see Voelke (2001, 358–64). In a subsequent chapter, I discuss Philo’s use of another satyr play, the Syleus, from which he likewise extracts a serious moral lesson. 21 Sedley (2013, 335–37). 22 Sedley (2013, 335, 338, 339). 23 Annas (2011, 82). See similarly Marchand (2016). 24 Whitmarsh (2015, 109). Riedweg (1990a, 46): “Nowhere in the surviving Euripidean texts is the existence of the gods so sharply denied as in this outspoken and provocative passage.” Likewise, Dobrov (2001, 93) characterizes it as “arguably, the strongest denial of the existence of the gods in Greek drama.” 25 The attribution to Justin is from Eusebius (Hist. eccl. 4.18.4), but is now widely rejected; see Pouderon (2009, 105–6). 26 They are conveniently listed at Pouderon (2009, 361–64). 27 On the date, see Marcovich (1988, 99–101); Pouderon (2009, 105–9). They place the work, in its final form between Clement of Alexandria (on whom it appears to depend) and Eusebius (who mentions it). Both of these are tentative, however, because direct dependence on Clement is uncertain, and Eusebius’ description of the work does not correspond precisely to the text as we have it. 28 The most significant analysis of poetic sources in De monarchia remains Zeegersvander Vorst (1972, 87–110). Her analysis is helpfully summarized and updated in Pouderon (2009, 365–80); see also Riedweg (2001, 850–53); Morlet (2020, 358–64). 29 The parallels between De monarchia and Stromateis 5 are set out in Denis (1970, 161–74). See also Riedweg (1990b, 124–28); Pouderon (2009, 368–76). The latter argues that there are too many divergences for De monarchia to be dependent directly on Clement. 30 See Denis (2000, 2.1053–1106); Doering (2005, 15–18); Pouderon (2009, 373–76); Gruen (2016, 181–85). 31 That is, Diphilus (PCG 5.137), attributed by Ps.-Justin to Menander; it is also in Clement, Stromateis 5.133.3, and probably belongs to the same context of the collection of texts deployed in Mon. 2–4. 32 Particularly striking: four Euripidean texts (TrGF 5.1.254; 286b; 480; Tro. 886–887) in Mon. 5 are used by Plutarch on numerous occasions. Of these, two (frags. 254; 286b) are

66  Gods on Stage and Gods in Heaven

33 34 35 36

37

3 8 39 40 41 4 2 43

quoted in immediate succession by both Ps.-Justin (Mon. 5.6) and Plutarch (Adol. poet. aud. 20d, cf. 21e; Stoic. rep. 1049e, cf. 1049f). As for the shared material with Clement, whereas for Mon. 2–4 this occurred especially in Strom. 5, parallels with Mon. 5 are concentrated in Clement, Protr. 7. See Zeegers-vander Vorst (1972, 87–100). Ps.-Justin wrongly attributes this fragment to the Hecuba (Mon. 5.8); see Chapter 3 on Jupp. trag. 41. It is ironic that the first two quotations to follow this introduction showing the unity of God, attributed to Aeschylus and Sophocles respectively (“their very own poets”), are in fact almost certainly forgeries. This line was quoted in several other sources: twice by Plutarch (Mor. 21a; 1049f) and once by Origen (Cels. 5.23); it is also attested within a seven-line excerpt in Stobaeus 4.36.5 and 7. For a reconstruction of the play’s plot and mythological background together with a collection of the surviving fragments and a translation in English and French respectively, see Collard, Cropp, and Lee (1995, 98–120); Jouan and Van Looy (2000, 1–35); and for relevant discussion and analysis, Riedweg (1990a); Dobrov (2001, 89–104); Dixon (2014); Whitmarsh (2015, 109–13); Wright (2019, 163–65). Aristophanes was, apparently, preoccupied by the wretched condition of this Euripidean hero; see Ach. 426–429 for comments on his ragged and crippled appearance. That Bellerophon suffered a fatal fall in his attempt to fly into heaven is attested in other sources: see Pindar, Isthm. 7.44–46; Hyginus, Astron. 2.18.1. On the relationship between Pax and the Bellerophon, see Olson (1998, xxxii–xxxiv); Dobrov (2001, 97–101). See Mastronarde (1990, esp. 270, 286). On the comic effect of the crane in this scene, see von Möllendorff (2017, 171); Dixon and Garrison (2021, 39–40). As Dobrov (2001, 89) observes, “The opening heroic quest of Peace transforms the tragic failure of the protagonist in Euripides’ Bellerophontes into a spectacular comic success.” Riedweg (1990a, 52). See similarly Jouan and Van Looy (2000, 18–19); Egli (2003, 146–48). Whitmarsh (2015, 110–11). Dobrov (2001, 11).

5

Laughing at/with Heracles Philo of Alexandria on Freedom and Virtue

Like many of his contemporary intellectuals, Philo of Alexandria deployed drama as an authoritative source to support a range of moral and metaphysical positions. His use of an excerpt from Euripides’ Chrysippus in De aeternitate mundi discussed above in Chapter 3 is typical: the lines were frequently cited detached from their context, and already established within a tradition of philosophical doxography. By contrast, in another philosophical treatise, the Quod omnis probus liber sit, Philo engages in an extended discussion of the Syleus, a satyr play by Euripides. While he begins with a popular four-line gnomic quotation (TrGF 5.2.687), he goes well beyond this, adding four additional, otherwise unattested excerpts (TrGF 5.2.688–691) for a total of 17 lines, and interspersing summary and details of the plot. According to the myth, Syleus had been oppressing the people of Lydia by compelling passersby to labor in his vineyard, and in response Heracles slew the villain, thus liberating the land from his tyranny (Apollodorus 2.6.3; Diodorus Siculus 4.31.7). In the scenes of the drama recounted by Philo, with help from Hermes he implements a scheme to be disguised and sold as a slave to Syleus in order ultimately to destroy him. Even with this costume, however, the true character of Heracles cannot be fully concealed, which, for Philo, illustrates the thesis of his treatise: the virtuous person is genuinely free, even if temporarily subjected to external slavery.1 Philo’s appropriation of the Syleus, then, is one of the most far-reaching and sustained engagements by an ancient Jewish author with an Attic Greek play, and as such offers a vital perspective on the reception history of classical drama. Several distinct features emerge. The Syleus is a satyr play: the defining characteristic of this genre was its chorus of satyrs and its position in the fourth place of the tetralogies performed at the Dionysia in Athens.2 These dramas often deployed traditional mythological material, but subjected them to burlesque, displaying heroic characters with undignified behavior.3 Relative to their tragic counterparts, the texts of satyr plays are poorly preserved—only the Cyclops of Euripides is extant—and there was significantly less interest in their ongoing performance.4 It is, then, an unexpected genre from which to derive a paradigm of virtue; nevertheless, Philo takes words and deeds of Heracles stereotypical within comedy and satyr drama as a leading poetic exemplum of genuine freedom. It is striking, moreover, that Philo, a Jewish monotheist, would hold forth the son of Zeus in such a prominent DOI: 10.4324/9781003392132-5

68  Laughing at/with Heracles and positive manner, particularly when compared with his Christian counterparts. When the latter began writing explicitly about Heracles in the second century, they were disparaging and disdainful and continued to be so with relative consistency throughout antiquity.5 This chapter starts with a survey of the place of Heracles in the Greek and Roman world including among his Christian critics. Turning next to Philo’s corpus, it is clear that the Alexandrian was attentive to the cultural importance of the demigod, twice evoking him explicitly as a model of virtue: as a foil for the emperor’s unjust administration in the Legatio ad Gaium, and as illustrating the nature of true liberty in the Quod omnis probus liber sit. The latter occupies the central focus in this chapter. My contention is that, in his string of excerpts and summary of the Syleus, Philo constructs a visualization of a performance, the effect of which depends upon the popularity of spectacles of the comic Heracles on stage throughout the Hellenistic world. His apparent approval of this revered hero’s silly and amusing behavior contrasts sharply with later Christian apologists, who seized on such comic examples in their religious polemic. Instead, Philo stands in closer affinity with intellectuals such as Lucian (discussed in Chapter 3), for whom parody of divine figures, as noted by R. Bracht Branham, “assumes [the] authority [of the cultural tradition] and implies the status of its model and target.”6 Heracles: Cultural Icon and Comic Buffoon Heracles was honored in cult sites throughout the Mediterranean, even at the very heart of the Roman Empire on the Ara Maxima.7 Although peripheral in the Homeric epics, he was a celebrated hero in archaic poetry and at Athens became a favorite protagonist among playwrights, especially in comedy and satyr drama. He was best known, perhaps, as a monster-killer and for his numerous super-human feats of strength, eventually taking shape in a canonical list of 12 labors and including the conquest of death itself (see Chapter 6). Yet, the son of Zeus and Alcmene occupied a complex place within the Greek imagination, as he was also infamous for killing his own children, and his intemperate appetites for food, wine, and sex were proverbial. Among philosophers and orators, Heracles was reinvented as a moral hero. This appears to have originated with Prodicus who, according to Xenophon’s Socrates, delivered a speech “On Heracles” that included the parable of Heracles at the crossroads, which is recounted by Socrates from memory (Mem. 2.1.21–34).8 As the hero comes of age he is faced with a choice between “the road through virtue unto life, or the road through vice” (εἴτε τὴν δι᾽ ἀρετῆς ὁδόν […] ἐπὶ τὸν βίον εἴτε τὴν διὰ κακίας, 2.1.21), represented as “two grand women” (δύο γυναῖκας […] μεγάλας, 2.1.22). The one is seductively adorned and offers to lead Heracles upon “the pleasurable and easy road” (τὴν ἡδίστην τε καὶ ῥᾴστην ὁδόν) and a life “without experience of difficulties” (τῶν δὲ χαλεπῶν ἄπειρος, 2.1.23): “my friends call me Happiness, but those who hate me call me by a nickname, Vice” (Οἱ μὲν ἐμοὶ φίλοι […] καλοῦσί με Εὐδαιμονίαν, οἱ δὲ μισοῦντές με ὑποκοριζόμενοι ὀνομάζουσι Κακίαν, 2.1.26). The other woman, “Virtue” (Ἀρετή), pledges that by

Laughing at/with Heracles 69 her road, Heracles would “become a noble doer of good and revered things” (τῶν καλῶν καὶ σεμνῶν ἀγαθὸν ἐργάτην γενέσθαι, 2.1.27), but this required “toil and effort” (πόνου καὶ ἐπιμελείας, 2.1.28). Should he follow her his labors would be sung “with memorial for all time” (μετὰ μνήμης τὸν ἀεὶ χρόνον, 2.1.33). In the context of the Memorabilia, Heracles’ choice functions to reflect Socrates’ own manner of life, which “was the most self-disciplined of all people in sexual desires and appetite” (ἀφροδισίων καὶ γαστρὸς πάντων ἀνθρώπων ἐγκρατέστατος ἦν, 1.2.1). This parable became a commonplace in antiquity, cited and adapted by authors as diverse as Athenaeus (Deipn. 12.510c), Justin Martyr (2 Apol. 11), and Basil (Address to Young Men on the Right Use of Greek Literature 5.55–77; cf. Dio Chrysostom, Or. 1.69–84; Lucian, Somnium; and see below on Philo, Sacr. 21–33).9 Within Hellenistic schools of philosophy, Heracles was often held up as an intellectual and ethical paradigm. For instance, in keeping with the allegorization of myths common especially among Stoics, Dio Chrysostom took the hero’s victory over a mythological beast at Libya as “metaphorical” (μετενεχθείς), representing “the origin of the passions, how they are irrational and beastly because they exhibit pleasure, and lead the ignorant toward deception and sorcery” (τὸ τῶν ἐπιθυμιῶν γένος, ὅτι ἄλογοι οὖσαι καὶ θηριώδεις, ἔπειτα ἡδονήν τινα παραδεικνύουσαι, προσαγόμεναι τοὺς ἀνοήτους ἀπάτῃ καὶ γοητείᾳ, Or. 5.16).10 Whereas lesser people are unable “to purify their own soul” (καθῆραι τὴν αὑτοῦ ψυχήν) and consequently are “destroyed by the remaining desires” (ὑπὸ τῶν λειπομένων ἐπιθυμιῶν ἀπολέσθαι, 5.22), Heracles “showed his own mind to be pure and civilized” (ἀποφῆναι καθαρὰν καὶ ἥμερον τὴν αὑτοῦ διάνοιαν, 5.23).11 Cynics, likewise: Dio Chrysostom reports a speech of Diogenes that recounts the labors of Heracles but maintains that the hero’s true battle was not against beasts or wicked men but false belief (Or. 8.26–36; see also Diogenes Laertius 6.70–71).12 In a similar vein, Lucretius lists the labors of Hercules and concludes that they fall short of his own philosophical hero, Epicurus (5.22–54).13 In addition to a paradigmatic philosophical sage, Heracles became an ideal for statesmen. As early as the fourth century BCE, in an address to Philip of Macedon, the orator Isocrates suggests that “the first ancestor of [Philip’s] family” (τὸν τοῦ γένους ἀρχηγόν) should serve as his “counselor” (σύμβουλος, Or. 5.105).14 Poets and prose writers “continue singing [Heracles’] courage and enumerating his labors” (τὴν ἀνδρίαν ὑμνοῦντες αὐτοῦ καὶ τοὺς ἄθλους ἀπαριθμοῦντες διατελοῦσι); but more important are “the excellencies existing within his soul” (τῶν τῇ ψυχῇ προσόντων ἀγαθῶν, 109), and that he exceeded all others “in his wisdom, ambition, and justice,” more than “in the strength of his body” (τῇ φρονήσει καὶ τῇ φιλοτιμίᾳ καὶ τῇ δικαιοσύνῃ […] τῇ ῥώμῃ τῇ τοῦ σώματος, 110). For Isocrates, this was most clearly demonstrated in the manner of his unification of the warring cities of Hellas: he subjugated barbarians but never Hellenes, and so also now Philip should leave the Greeks free (111–114). Likewise, Heraclean ancestry was later claimed for both Alexander and Ptolemy by Theocritus (Id. 17.26–27), and his attributes are widely represented in the portraiture of Hellenistic rulers.15 Among Romans, the Ptolemaic tradition of this lineage was adopted by Marc Antony

70  Laughing at/with Heracles (Plutarch, Ant. 4.2; Appian, Bell. civ. 3.16); and, although in the first century CE some Heraclean aspirants had reputations as tyrants (Gaius Caligula; Nero; Domitian), in the second century it gained respectability, first with Trajan, and thereafter was pursued by Commodus most vigorously.16 On occasion, orators compared the deeds of celebrated Roman potentates with those of Heracles. In his eulogy of Augustus, according to Cassius Dio, Tiberius suggests the princeps outdid the hero because “he, not among beasts but among men, willingly, by both waging wars and framing laws, saved the state completely and became distinguished himself” (οὗτος δὲ οὐκ ἐν θηρίοις ἀλλ’ ἐν ἀνδράσιν ἐθελοντὴς καὶ πολεμῶν καὶ νομοθετῶν τό τε κοινὸν ἀκριβῶς ἔσωσε καὶ αὐτὸς ἐλαμπρύνθη, 56.36.5).17 Several decades later, Dio Chrysostom took up a similar trope in his first Kingship Oration addressed to the Emperor Trajan. In contrast to the speech of Tiberius, which downplayed the political achievements of Heracles, Dio, like Isocrates, emphasized his skill in good governance. It is not because he conquered beasts that Heracles is “savior of the earth and people” (τῆς γῆς καὶ τῶν ἀνθρώπων σωτῆρα) but because “wherever he sees tyranny and a tyrant, he punishes and destroys them, both among Greeks and barbarians” (τοιγαροῦν ὅπου μὲν ἴδοι τυραννίδα καὶ τύραννον ἐκόλαζε καὶ ἀνῄρει παρά τε Ἕλλησι καὶ βαρβάροις, 84).18 Heracles was also a frequent character in ancient drama. Among extant tragedies, he features in Sophocles’ Trachiniae and Philoctetes and Euripides’ Alcestis, but perhaps the most vivid and memorable portrayal is that of Euripides’ Hercules furens: tortured by Hera, in a fit of incoherent madness he slaughters his own wife and children.19 Although the suffering Heracles was only rarely the subject of Attic tragedy, this Euripidean play came to be especially prominent and influential and was later adapted by Seneca.20 In comedy, by contrast, the figure of Heracles was more popular and remained ubiquitous throughout much of antiquity.21 While his excessive appetites were already common in literature and art, in comedy this stereotype developed into a cliché.22 In one of the earliest surviving fragments (Epicharmus’ Bousiris, ca. 480 BCE), a character warns, “if you see him eating, you might die” (αἲ κ’ἔσθοντ’ ἴδοις νιν, ἀποθάνοις), and follows with details of Heracles’ immoderate display (PCG 1.18 = frag. 21 Kaibel).23 By the time of Aristophanes, his comic persona had become so hackneyed that the playwright has a chorus claim that he “first dishonored and drove off [from the stage] those Heracleses that chew and crave” (τούς θ᾽ Ἡρακλέας τοὺς μάττοντας καὶ τοὺς πεινῶντας ἐκείνους ἐξήλασ᾽ ἀτιμώσας πρῶτος, Pax 741–742).24 Even so, this does not prevent Aristophanes himself from staging this stock character. In the Aves, for instance, Zeus sends him with Poseidon to bring an end to the avian blockade. When the birds offer him a feast, however, he immediately abandons the assignment resulting in Poseidon’s rebuke: “you are vain and a glutton” (ἠλίθιος καὶ γάστρις εἶ, 1604).25 In satyr plays, also, Heracles “was the single most popular character” so that tragedians could develop him in interesting directions.26 A striking occurrence of Heracles’ generic hybridity is in Euripides’ Alcestis. As shall be analyzed in greater detail below (Chapter 6), it is not properly a satyr play—not least because it lacks a chorus of satyrs—but it was produced as the fourth play of

Laughing at/with Heracles 71 a tetralogy and as such combines diverse heroic qualities. On the one hand, the plot centers on one of Heracles’ characteristic feats of strength, the ambush of Thanatos to rescue Alcestis; on the other, this occurred only after, failing to recognize that his host was mourning the loss of his wife, he indulged himself crudely and feasted “intemperately” (οὔτι σωφρόνως, 747–772, at 753). The popularity of the comic Heracles was not uniform across the ancient world. He was, for instance, absent as a character in comedy at Rome, where gravitas was his distinctive quality, and where apparently reverence and piety precluded burlesque and ridicule on stage.27 By contrast, his heroic qualities of buffoonery remained commonplace in the Greek-speaking Hellenistic world, influenced particularly by the reception of classical drama (see Figure 5.1). As illustrative, in the tenth book of the Deipnosophistae, organized around the theme of gluttony, Athenaeus introduces the topic under the heading “indeed Heracles was a glutton” (ἦν καὶ ὁ Ἡρακλῆς ἀδηφάγος), a point made clearly by “nearly all poets and prose writers” (σχεδὸν πάντες ποιηταὶ καὶ συγγραφεῖς, 10.411a). His first quotation is from a satyr play by Astydamas entitled Heracles (TrGF 1[60] F4) followed by the fragment of Epicharmus’ Bousiris quoted above. At Alexandria, apparently, audiences were inordinately fond of this hero, at least according to the oration of Dio Chrysostom addressed to this city (Or. 32). He issues sweeping rebukes of the Alexandrians for their obsessions with spectacle entertainments and their unruly behavior. In his view, their passion for the comic Heracles was emblematic of their frivolity. Although not amused by the stock character of the drunken comic slave, “they think it hilarious when they see such a Heracles carried about and, as customary, dressed in saffron” (τὸν δὲ Ἡρακλέα τοιοῦτον ὁρῶσι γελοῖον δοκεῖ, παραφερόμενον, καὶ καθάπερ εἰώθασιν, ἐν κροκωτῷ, 32.94).28

Figure 5.1 Mosaic from Antioch with a drinking contest between Heracles and Dionysus, Worcester Art Museum (Bridgeman Images)

72  Laughing at/with Heracles Also in Alexandria, the Christian writer Clement fixates upon the excessive behaviors of Heracles portrayed by comic playwrights. For him, they do not merely expose the shallow character of the city’s populace, as Dio suggested; they undermine the entire religious tradition of polytheism. In a section of the Protrepticus devoted to poetry, Clement asserts that, although “occupied entirely concerning falsehood” (περὶ τὸ ψεῦδος τὰ πάντα ἠσχολημένη, 7.73.1), poets nevertheless can “testify to the truth” (ἀλήθειαν μαρτυρήσουσα, 7.74.1), not least dramatists who “already also expose the truth on stage” (Ἤδη δὲ καὶ ἐπὶ τῆς σκηνῆς παραγυμνοῦσι τὴν ἀλήθειαν, 7.74.1).29 His first example of this is the well-known Euripidean excerpt equating Zeus and aether discussed above (TrGF 5.2.941; see Chapters 3 and 4). For the purposes of this chapter, his references to comedy are of special interest: “Let also the refutations of your gods put you to shame for salvation, which the poets made the subject of comedy, compelled by the truth” (δυσωπούντων δέ σε εἰς σωτηρίαν καὶ οἱ περὶ τοὺς θεοὺς ὑμῶν ἔλεγχοι, οὕς διὰ τὴν ἀλήθειαν ἐκβιαζόμενοι κωμῳδοῦσι ποιηταί, Protr. 7.75.1).30 And it is especially in depictions of Heracles by Euripides that Clement found a composite image of both the tragic and the comic: Euripides “introduces Heracles mad and at another time drunk and insatiable” (ἐμμανῆ εἰσάγων Ἡρακλέα καὶ μεθύοντα ἀλλαχόθι καὶ ἄπληστον). While the former alludes to the Hercules furens, he illustrates the latter with a two-line excerpt from a satyr play: τοῖς κρέασι χλωρὰ σῦκ̓ ἐπήσθιεν ἄμουσα ὑλακτῶν ὥστε βαρβάρῳ μαθεῖν. he ate green figs with meats, barking rudely, so that (even) a barbarian could notice. (TrGF 5.2.907 in Protr. 7.76.5)31 Other Christian writers similarly took comic portrayals of Heracles as an occasion for religious polemic.32 Tertullian denounces the practice of men donning women’s clothing, citing Heracles as his chief example: he and his captor, Omphale, exchanged attire, which for Tertullian was emblematic of his sexual debauchery (Pall. 4.3.1–7).33 This scene is attested in a satyr drama by Ion (Omphale = TrGF 1(19) F22, 24–25), and, as noted above, Dio’s mention of Heracles garbed “in saffron” (ἐν κροκωτῷ, Or. 32.94) underscores the ongoing popularity of this heroic cross-dressing in public performances.34 At Rome, where Heracles was absent from comic drama, his clothing exchange with Omphale is nevertheless attested in other genres (e.g., Ovid, Her. 9.53–118; Fast. 2.320–321; Statius, Thebaid 10.646–649).35 A final attribute of Heracles to mention here, especially relevant for the discussion that follows, is his mediating position between foreigner and citizen, and slavery and freedom.36 At Cynosarges, a suburb of Athens, there was a shrine of Heracles with a gymnasium where “illegitimate” children (νόθοι) were registered, that is, those with one foreign parent and thus not fully citizens (Demosthenes 23.213). According to Plutarch, the reason was that the hero “himself was also not legitimate among the gods but was conceived illegitimately because his mother was mortal” (κἀκεῖνος οὐκ ἦν γνήσιος ἐν θεοῖς, ἀλλ᾿ ἐνείχετο νοθείᾳ διὰ τὴν

Laughing at/with Heracles 73 μητέρα θνητὴν οὖσαν, Them. 1.3). Elsewhere, at the mouth of the Nile, Herodotus reports there was a temple of Heracles where a slave could take refuge and, by “consecrating himself to the god” (ἑωυτὸν διδοὺς τῷ θεῷ), receive protection (2.113). In the Hellenistic period, manumission records are widely attested at sanctuaries of Heracles. For instance, a marble slab discovered at Beroea is inscribed with the names of several manumitted slaves who were obliged to dedicate skyphoi of 50 drachma each to Heracles Kynagidas.37 Philo, Heracles, and the Syleus of Euripides: Performing Freedom Several of these dynamic, diverse, and evolving heroic qualities associated with Heracles are activated in Philo’s use of the Syleus in the Quod omnis probus liber sit.38 It presumes the hero’s role as a paradigm of philosophical virtue for the sage; it positions him between slavery and freedom evoking his connections with manumission; and it foregrounds his comic behaviors which were stereotypical in Greek drama and, according to Dio Chrysostom, especially popular in Roman Alexandria. Before turning to a close reading of the Syleus in Philo’s Probus, a brief survey of his engagement with Heracles elsewhere in his corpus will provide relevant context.39 Philo reworks the parable of the Choice of Heracles, the classic philosophical treatment of the hero, in an allegorical interpretation of the inheritance laws for the children of a father with two wives (Deut 21:15–17): the women represent “Pleasure” (ἡδονή) and “Virtue” (ἀρετή, Sacr. 21–33 at 20).40 Although Heracles is not mentioned by name in this treatise, Philo does so in his Legatio ad Gaium, where he criticizes the emperor for likening himself to gods (Hermes, Apollo, Ares) and demigods (Dionysus, Heracles, the Dioscuri, Legat. 78–114).41 As a rhetorical strategy, he does not deny the reality of these divinities, but focuses instead on the ways in which Gaius fell short of emulating them. Gaius was merely an actor: “as in a theater, he took up different apparel at different times, sometimes a lion skin and a club, both gold-plated, adorning himself as Heracles” (ὥσπερ ἐν θεάτρῳ σκευὴν ἄλλοτε ἀλλοίαν ἀνελάμβανε, τοτὲ μὲν λεοντῆν καὶ ῥόπαλον, ἀμφότερα ἐπίχρυσα, διακοσμούμενος εἰς Ἡρακλέα, 79; cf. Cassius Dio 59.26.7). In his subsequent critique of Gaius, Philo draws on the tradition of Heracles as a paradigmatic military general and statesman (as discussed above): Ἡρακλῆς ἐκάθηρε γῆν καὶ θάλατταν ἄθλους ἀναγκαιοτάτους καὶ ὠφελιμωτάτους ἅπασιν ἀνθρώποις ὑποστὰς ἕνεκα τοῦ τὰ βλαβερὰ καὶ κακωτικὰ φύσεως ἑκατέρας ἀνελεῖν […] εὐνομίας καὶ εὐδικίας εὐθηνίας τε καὶ εὐετηρίας καὶ τῆς τῶν ἄλλων ἀγαθῶν ἀφθονίας, ὧν ἡ βαθεῖα εἰρήνη δημιουργός, ἀναπλήσας ἠπείρους τε καὶ νήσους. Heracles purged land and sea, having undertaken labors most necessary and useful for all people for the sake of destroying the harmful and destructive aspects of each nature […] He filled mainlands and islands with good law and justice, plenty and thriving, and the abundance of all other good things. (Philo, Legat. 81, 90)

74  Laughing at/with Heracles Thus, on the surface at least, Philo affirmed the achievements of Heracles as a strategy for undermining Gaius’ self-deification.42 The Quod omnis probus liber sit is a very different sort of treatise, taking up the Stoic paradox that the virtuous person is genuinely free even if enslaved. This was a popular trope, also discussed by Cicero (Parad. 5) and Epictetus (Diatr. 4.1), who approach it in a similar manner.43 The person of genuine virtue is invariably able to act without external constraint.44 True freedom concerns the soul not the body and mastery over the “passions” (πάθη, Prob. 17–18). For such a one, God alone is master, and he “does all things intelligently; therefore, he alone is free” (πάντα φρονίμως ποιεῖ […] μόνος ἄρα ἐστὶν ἐλεύθερος, 59). Much of Philo’s treatise is devoted to a list of exempla in support of his thesis.45 It is striking that only one is taken from Judaism—the community of Essenes in Palestinian Syria (75–91)—although he does place them at the head of his list and devotes his most extensive discussion to their philosophical virtues.46 The rest are from “Greek and barbarian lands” (ἡ Ἑλλὰς καὶ ἡ βάρβαρος) such as the Seven Sages of Greece, the Persian Magi, and the Indian Gymnosophists (73–74, 93–97). He adds: “Poets and prose writers are witnesses of the freedom of good people; on their ideas Greeks and barbarians alike are reared nearly from their swaddling-clothes and as a result become better in their character” (Τῆς δὲ σπουδαίων ἐλευθερίας μάρτυρές εἰσι ποιηταὶ καὶ συγγραφεῖς, ὧν ταῖς γνώμαις Ἕλληνες ὁμοῦ καὶ βάρβαροι σχεδὸν ἐξ αὐτῶν σπαργάνων ἐντρεφόμενοι βελτιοῦνται τὰ ἤθη, 98; cf. 143). Drama was a popular resource for stock heroic figures, and it is by far the most frequent among Philo’s poetic sources, with 14 quotations from classical plays.47 The Syleus is the first after his programmatic introduction, followed soon thereafter by Polyxena in Euripides’ Hecuba (discussed below in Chapter 7). In this treatise, Philo’s encounter with theater goes beyond excerpted texts as expressions of gnomic wisdom; it also involves the experience of public performance. He recounts a production of Euripides’ Auge: πρῴην ὑποκριτῶν τραγῳδίαν ἐπιδεικνυμένων καὶ τὰ παρ᾽ Εὐριπίδῃ τρίμετρα διεξιόντων ἐκεῖνα τοὐλεύθερον γὰρ ὄνομα παντὸς ἄξιον, κἂν σμίκρ᾽ ἔχῃ τις, μεγάλ᾽ ἔχειν νομιζέτω, (TrGF 5.1.275.2–4) τοὺς θεατὰς ἅπαντας εἶδον ἐπ᾽ ἄκρων ποδῶν ὑπ᾽ ἐκπλήξεως ἀναστάντας καὶ φωναῖς μείζοσι καὶ ἐκβοήσεσιν ἐπαλλήλοις ἔπαινον μὲν τῆς γνώμης, ἔπαινον δὲ καὶ τοῦ ποιητοῦ συνείροντας, ὃς οὐ μόνον τὴν ἐλευθερίαν ἔργοις ἀλλὰ καὶ τοὔνομα αὐτῆς ἐσέμνυνεν. Recently when actors were performing a tragedy and they were delivering these trimeters by Euripides, Freedom is a name worthy of everything, even if someone has little, let him understand that he has much,

Laughing at/with Heracles 75 I saw all the audience members standing up on their tip-toes from amazement, and with great voices and responsive shouts jointly declaring their praise of the maxim and praise also of the poet, who revered not only freedom in actions but also its very name. (Philo, Prob. 141) While the Auge’s dramatic content is relevant to Philo’s concern with the nature of freedom, it is striking that his central interest here is the effect of its performance on the audience.48 Crowd-watching was in fact not uncommon; Horace, for instance, notes that Democritus viewed the audience more than the show itself (Ep. 2.197–198).49 In Philo’s case, the reaction of excitement, passion, and approval suggests that the moral lesson concerning genuine liberty was firmly impressed upon the consciousness of the viewers.50 It is clear, therefore, that Philo was attentive to the profound effect a theatrical production could have upon spectators. In his use of the Syleus, also, he evokes an experience of performance that would have been familiar to many of his readers. The play features as its hero a dramatis persona who was especially well loved by Alexandrian theater-goers, and Philo introduces the scene by inviting his audience to “see” (ἴδε) the protagonist, that is, to picture the theatrical spectacle of Heracles declaring his courageous defiance: ἴδε γοῦν οἷα παρ’ Εὐριπίδῃ φησὶν ὁ Ἡρακλῆς· πίμπρα, κάταιθε σάρκας, ἐμπλήσθητί μου πίνων κελαινὸν αἷμα· πρόσθε γὰρ κάτω γῆς εἶσιν ἄστρα γῆ τ’ ἄνεισ’ εἰς αἰθέρα, πρὶν ἐξ ἐμοῦ σοι θῶπ’ ἀπαντῆσαι λόγον. (TrGF 5.2.687) See, then, what kinds of things Heracles says in Euripides: Ignite and burn up my flesh, be filled with drinking my dark blood; for the stars will come down to earth, and the earth ascend to the sky before a flattering word from me meets you. (Philo, Prob. 99) Philo immediately states the moral: “in reality, flattery, fawning, and hypocrisy are most slave-like” (τῷ γὰρ ὄντι θωπεία μὲν καὶ κολακεία καὶ ὑπόκρισις […] δουλοπρεπέστατα, 99), and the hero rejects any expectation that he should do so.51 The term ὑπόκρισις is of special relevance here as it can refer to playing a role on stage (LSJ II), and in this way it precisely anticipates the comic scenario to follow. In collaboration with Hermes, Heracles devises a scheme to disguise himself as a slave to be sold to the tyrant Syelus in a plot to destroy him. But the subsequent dramatic action reveals that the son of Zeus is inept as an actor even if in the end he is successful at destroying his enemy.52

76  Laughing at/with Heracles As Philo proceeds, he continues to emphasize how the play corroborates his thesis concerning the imperturbable freedom of the virtuous person. On stage, this is illustrated in Heracles’ inability to conceal his true nature with a disguise, and Philo once more invites his readers to visualize the comic scene: “again, you see, don’t you, the same man as virtuous, that even while being sold he does not seem to be a slave, striking amazement in the onlookers” (πάλιν τὸν αὐτὸν σπουδαῖον οὐχ ὁρᾷς, ὅτι οὐδὲ πωλούμενος θεράπων εἶναι δοκεῖ, καταπλήττων τοὺς ὁρῶντας, 100). Here, Philo repeats the verb ὁράω (ὁρᾷς […] τοὺς ὁρῶντας), in the first instance as a question addressed to his reader, and in the second with respect to the dramatic audience. Combined with the language of “seeming” (δοκεῖ), he emphasizes the metatheatrical situation, with the comic effect depending upon a badly executed play-within-a-play.53 Philo visualizes this further with another excerpt: ὁ γοῦν Ἑρμῆς πυνθανομένῳ μέν, εἰ φαῦλός ἐστιν, ἀποκρίνεται· ἥκιστα φαῦλος, ἀλλὰ πᾶν τοὐναντίον πρὸς σχῆμα σεμνὸς κοὐ ταπεινὸς οὐδ’ ἄγαν εὔογκος ὡς ἂν δοῦλος, ἀλλὰ καὶ στολὴν ἰδόντι λαμπρὸς καὶ ξύλῳ δραστήριος. (TrGF 5.2.688) Hermes answers the one inquiring whether [Heracles] is base: Is he most base? Rather, quite the opposite, he is honorable and not humble in form, nor overly bulky as a slave would be, but to an observer he is sharply dressed and effective with a club. (Philo, Prob. 101) Whatever was involved in Hermes’ effort to disguise Heracles, apparently he continued to wield his club (ξύλῳ δραστήριος)—his stereotyped theatrical prop— which Hermes implies would have been visible to an audience (ἰδόντι).54 In the next fragment, the speaker (either Hermes or Syleus) continues to focus on Heracles’ appearance and raises doubt as to his ability to play the role of a slave: οὐδεὶς δ’ ἐς οἴκους δεσπότας ἀμείνονας αὑτοῦ πρίασθαι βούλεται· σὲ δ᾿ εἰσορῶν πᾶς τις δέδοικεν. ὄμμα γὰρ πυρὸς γέμεις, ταῦρος λέοντος ὡς βλέπων πρὸς ἐμβολήν. (TrGF 5.2.689) τὸ εἶδος αὐτό σου κατηγορεῖ σιγῶντος, ὡς εἴης ἂν οὐχ ὑπήκοος, τάσσειν δὲ μᾶλλον ἢ ‘πιτάσσεσθαι θέλοις. (TrGF 5.2.690) No one wishes to purchase masters for his house that are stronger than himself, but looking at you everyone fears. For you are full of fire in the eyes, as a bull looking at the charge of a lion.

Laughing at/with Heracles 77 Though you are silent, your form itself indicates that you would not be obedient, but that you would rather give orders than take them. (Philo, Prob. 101).55 Philo describes what happened next: Syleus purchased Heracles, but the latter’s actions thereafter revealed he could never be a slave. This was demonstrated, above all, in the hero’s persistently excessive appetite: “having sacrificed the best of the bulls there to Zeus as a pretense, he was feasting, and having plundered much wine, he consumed it unmixed all at once after reclining very happily” (τὸν μὲν γὰρ ἄριστον τῶν ἐκεῖ ταύρων καταθύσας Διὶ πρόφασιν εὐωχεῖτο, πολὺν δ’ οἶνον ἐκφορήσας ἀθρόον εὖ μάλα κατακλιθεὶς ἠκρατίζετο, 102). When his “master” returns and becomes indignant, Heracles is undaunted. As evidence, Philo again calls to mind his appearance on stage: “he answered most boldly, changing nothing either of his color or of what he was doing” (μηδὲν μήτε τῆς χρόας μήτε ὧν ἔπραττε μεταβαλὼν εὐτολμότατά φησι, 103). The “color” (χρόα) here refers to Heracles’ complexion, which in the context of a stage play draws attention to the actor’s mask. Elsewhere in drama, the fixity of facial color is taken to reveal lack of worry or concern in spite of danger (e.g., Euripides, Orest. 1317–1318; Med. 1168), and occasionally the static features of a mask could be thematized with the effect of theatrical self-reflexivity. In the Bacchae, for instance, the human disguise of Dionysus is described as including “blond curls” (ξανθοῖσι βοστρύχοισιν, 235), “a ruddy complexion” (οἰνωπός, 236), and maintaining a “laughing” (γελῶν) face even while allowing himself to be captured in a ruse to destroy the tyrant Pentheus (338–340; 1017–1021).56 Heracles, in an analogous circumstance, is similarly fearless with an unchanging face, and as a culminating demonstration he challenges Syleus to a drinking contest: κλίθητι καὶ πίωμεν, ἐν τούτῳ δέ μου τὴν πεῖραν εὐθὺς λάμβαν’, εἰ κρείσσων ἔσῃ. (TrGF 5.2.691) Lie down, and let us drink; take the test at once to see whether in this you are stronger than I. (Philo, Prob. 103).57 With this, Heracles expresses his unwavering commitment to his comic persona, one that could not be masked with a temporary costume. For Philo, then, this exemplifies genuine freedom and establishes, moreover, that the very institution of slavery is “a joke” (γέλως) and “much folly” (φλυαρία πολλή, 104).58 This application of the Syleus by Philo raises two important issues concerning his engagement with drama. First, it is striking how far he moves beyond the more typical gnomic use of excerpts.59 Philo’s first fragment (TrGF 5.2.687) is of this popular type: he himself deployed it earlier in the same treatise (Prob. 25) and twice elsewhere (Leg. 3.202; Ios. 78).60 The same excerpt also occurs in other authors, in each case detached from its dramatic context (Artemidorus 4.59; Eusebius, Praep. evang. 6.6.2; and Michael Psellus, Poemata 21.275–276), which suggests that it belonged to some common anthologized source, possibly

78  Laughing at/with Heracles already connected to a moralizing application. The situation is very different, however, in Prob. 99–104, where Philo adds additional otherwise unattested fragments and fills in the intervening gaps with plot summary. Further textual research would have been needed for him to dig up this apparently obscure material, although the means whereby he acquired it cannot be established with certainty. One common proposal is that Philo took these additional lines from a work by the Cynic Bion of Borysthenes, who is said to have written a work “On Slavery,” and to whom is attributed the statement “virtuous slaves are free, but wicked freemen are slaves of many passions” (οἱ ἀγαθοὶ οἰκέται ἐλεύθεροι, οἱ δὲ πονηροὶ ἐλεύθεποι δοῦλοι πολλῶν ἐπιθυμιῶν, Stobaeus 3.2.38; 4.19.42 = frag. 11 Kindstrand).61 While Cynic resonances with Philo’s valorization of Heracles in the Probus are clear enough, extant sources lack textual evidence for fragments of the Syleus. An alternative possibility is that Philo obtained a collection of hypotheses, that is, a list of narrative plot summaries.62 Such compilations were reasonably accessible and provided brief backgrounds and synopses of various classical authors and works. In the case of Attic drama, Monique van Rossum-Steenbeek has catalogued 28 papyri, a few dating to Philo’s lifetime.63 The Syleus appears once in an alphabetical list of plays by Euripides from the second century (P.Stras.Gr. 2676 + P.Oxy. 27.2455 frag. 8 = TrGF 5.2.65.ii), but is too fragmentary to determine its relationship with Philo’s treatment.64 Nevertheless, as van Rossum-Steenbeek’s assessment of the larger corpus shows, the extent of detail in such hypotheses is generally limited and less than that included by Philo.65 Moreover, an hypothesis would not likely have included additional excerpts; for these, Philo may have acquired a more extensive text of the play.66 A second issue concerns the position of the Syleus and its protagonist as Philo’s foremost poetic exemplum of virtue and freedom—it is placed first and receives the most involved discussion (after the Essenes). One reason for this may be the close correlation between Heracles and the institution of slavery. As Colette Jourdain Annequin argues, the Syleus activates several debates and anxieties concerning the institution of slavery, such as whether slavery was a natural human condition (e.g., Ps.-Xenophon, Ath. 1.10–12) and the fear of disobedient and even murderous slaves (e.g., Plato, Resp. 9.578e–579a).67 Heracles was especially well suited to foreground these concerns—his heroic labors were conducted under servitude (especially to Omphale and Eurystheus), and yet he was consistently superior to his owner (as is clear in the case of Syleus).68 Philo may well have been alert to these connections; at the same time, however, his concluding comment declaring slavery a “a joke” (γέλως, Prob. 104) draws attention to the comic context. That Philo takes the popular theatrical spectacle of Heracles’ excessive appetites and even drunkenness as the climactic demonstration of his heroic virtue is a striking irony, not least in view of the prime importance of freedom from the “passions” in this treatise: those who are truly virtuous “neither desires nor fears nor pleasures nor griefs have yoked” (οὔτ’ ἐπιθυμίαι οὔτε φόβοι οὔθ’ ἡδοναὶ οὔτε λῦπαι κατέζευξαν, 18). Indeed, these actions of Heracles are in stark contrast, on the one hand, with the Essenes who stand out for their “dislike of pleasure and their self-constraint” (τὸ ἀφιλήδονον, τὸ ἐγκρατές, 84), and,

Laughing at/with Heracles 79 on the other, with philosophical interpretations of Heracles’ labors as mastery over the passions to the exclusion of his comic excesses (e.g., Xenophon, Mem. 2.1.21–34; Dio Chrysostom, Or. 5.16–23; cf. Athenaeus, Deipn. 12.512d–f). The effect of Philo’s evocation of the hero’s prolific appetites is, therefore, a subversive deflation, however subtle, of this demigod who was widely revered by Greeks and Romans.69 Conclusions This chapter has explored the ways in which drama functioned as an effective source of stock heroic characters for Philo in the Quod omnis probus liber sit, providing exempla in support of his thesis concerning genuine freedom (as also examined in Chapter 7 concerning Polyxena). The case of Heracles in the Syleus stands out in several regards. Philo places it as his first example following his programmatic statement on the value of poetry (Prob. 98) and devotes more extensive and detailed attention to it than any other play (99–104). The inclusion of five fragments (four of which are otherwise unattested) totaling 17 lines together with interspersed plot summary suggests that he undertook additional research to present details from this little-known play. But Philo does more than merely combine excerpts and narrative; he constructs an image for the reader of its production in the theater. Alexandrian audiences were familiar with the popular comic figure of Heracles on stage, and Philo activates this by inviting his readers to “look” (ἴδε, 99) and asks whether they saw (οὐχ ὁρᾷς) the same spectacle that the audience did (τοὺς ὁρῶντας, 100). Furthermore, he points out Heracles’ ineptitude at acting (ὑπόκρισις), that his club remained in plain view to an observer (101), and that his facial color (i.e., of his theatrical mask) remained unchanged amidst danger (103). These assertions presume his reader’s acquaintance with productions of comedy, and it is precisely the metatheatrical effect of Hermes’ faltering attempt to pass Heracles off as a slave that drives the comic action and simultaneously serves the purposes of Philo’s treatise. Insofar as the Syleus exhibits self-consciousness of the illusionary qualities of drama, Philo translated this for his philosophical argument: as in the case of Heracles, whose true heroic character could not be altered by the temporary conditions of slavery, so it is for every virtuous person. External circumstances such as slavery are, like theatrical costumes, unable fully to mask the true nature beneath. But why did Philo deploy the comic Heracles, when moralists more usually turned to the temperate hero popularized by Prodicus’ parable? One explanation may lie in its subtly ironic effect; unlike Philo’s most celebrated “athletes of virtue,” the Essenes, who were rigorous in their moderation and sobriety, Heracles’ heroism in comedy expressed itself most completely in his excessive appetites. Yet, even if this juxtaposition implies a deflation of the son of Zeus, Philo’s treatment of this hero lacks the vitriolic tone found later in Christian apologists such as Clement, Origen, Tertullian, or Lactantius. Indeed, elsewhere (in the Legatio ad Gaium) Philo is also affirmative of Heracles as a potential model for the statesman, and his evocation of the comic hero in the Probus is playful not derisive. In this regard,

80  Laughing at/with Heracles Philo has more in common with Lucian’s treatment of the gods (see Chapter 3) than that of Christians. By way of comparison, Branham’s observation is relevant: “This venerable tradition of laughing gods and laughing at gods lies behind the generic assumptions of [Lucian’s] Dialogues.” He argues, moreover, contrary to the prevalent scholarly view that the Greek gods were finally destroyed by Christian mockery and ridicule, their demise was rather the result of those who ceased to find their antics amusing—such as Lucian’s contemporaries Tatian (of Assyria) and Aristides of Athens. Indeed, the Christian apologists point to many of the very same stories Lucian draws on but in a dismissive, polemical spirit, as proof of the bankruptcy of pagan traditions.70 In this distinction between pagans and Christians, Philo’s imaginative reproduction of the Syleus shares more in common with the former than the latter. Notes 1 For reconstruction and analysis of the Syleus, see van Groningen (1930); Galinsky (1972, 83–84); Sutton (1980, 66–67); Pechstein (1998, 243–83); Voelke (2001, 215–17, 337–38); Jourdain Annequin (2007); Michels (2021, 557–64). 2 On satyr drama, see Sutton (1980); Pechstein (1998); Hall (1998); Voelke (2001); Shaw (2014); Antonopoulos, Christopoulos, and Harrison (2021). 3 In this way, satyr plays shared features with comedy; by 341 bce, satyr drama had become detached from tragedy and thus came increasingly to resemble comedy; see Hawkins and Marshall (2016, 6). On the generic interrelationship between tragedy, comedy, and satyr drama, see Storey (2005); Parker (2007, xix–xxiv); Silk (2013); Shaw (2014, 1–7). 4 Satyr plays continued to hold some appeal in the Hellenistic and Roman contexts, however; see Harrison (2005, 252–53); Beta (2015, 607–11); Graf (2016, 119–20); Touyz (2022). 5 See below on Clement in this chapter; and more broadly on Christian interactions with Heracles, Chapter 6. 6 Branham (1989, 163). 7 For the standard scholarly treatment of the figure of Heracles, see Galinsky (1972); also Anderson (1928); Kirk (1977); Brommer (1986); Loraux (1990); now most comprehensively, Ogden (2021). 8 On Prodicus’ parable, see Alpers (1912, 4–30); Galinsky (1972, 101–3); Stafford (2005); Bosman (2021, 335–37). 9 On the ancient reception of the Choice of Heracles, see Alpers (1912) 31–60; Stafford (2005, 73–76); Anagnostou-Laoutides (2020a, 141–42). 10 On Heracles in the orations of Dio, see Connolly (2003, 307–10). 11 For another Stoic application of Heracles’ exploits as a model for virtue, see Epictetus, Diatr. 2.16.41–46; on Epictetus, see Höistad (1948, 61–63); Anagnostou-Laoutides (2020b, 48–54). 12 On Cynics and Heracles, see Höistad (1948, 33–47); Bosman (2021, 337–40). 13 See Galinsky (1972, 131). And for other philosophical treatments of Heracles, cf. Diodorus Siculus 4.8–39; Seneca, De constantia 2.1–3; Ps.-Lucian, Cynicus 13. For late antiquity, see Anagnostou-Laoutides (2020a). 14 On this, see Galinsky (1972, 103–4).

Laughing at/with Heracles 81 15 According to Athenaeus (Deipn. 12.537f), on occasion Alexander donned the attributes of Heracles. See Fraser (1972, 1.202–3); Palagia (1986, 138–44). Although association with Heracles became more acceptable and prominent beginning in the late fourth century bce, earlier instances include Milo of Croton (sixth century), who went into battle wearing a lion skin and carrying a club (Diodorus Siculus 12.9.6); Pulydamas of Skotoussa (fifth century), who slew a lion in rivalry of Heracles (Pausanias 6.5.5); and the boxer Theogenes of Thasos, who was twice a victor in the Olympics (480 and 476 bce) and later obtained hero cult status with claims of Heraclean ancestry (Pausanias 6.11.2–9). See Palagia (1986, 137–38). 16 On Antony’s kinship with Heracles, see Anderson (1928, 42–44); Palagia (1986, 144); Zanker (1998, 45); for subsequent Roman Emperors, Palagia (1986, 144–51); Hekster (2005); Loar (2021); Moormann and Stocks (2021). 17 Augustus had already been compared to Hercules and other divine figures by Horace (Carm. 1.12.25; 3.3.9–12; 4.4.61–65; Ep. 2.1.5–13). See also Virgil, Aeneid, 6.788–807. 18 This speech also includes a myth, apparently inspired by Prodicus’ Choice of Heracles, in which the hero must decide between two women seated atop two peaks: “Royalty” (Βασιλεία) and “Tyranny” (Τυραννίς) (Or. 1.73–77). On this, see Moles (1990, 318–31). Although explicit claims to Heraclean lineage ceased with the rise of Constantine in the early fourth century, he continued to function as an exemplum in political oratory into the fifth century; on this, see Eppinger (2020). 19 For a survey Heracles in Greek tragedy, see Galinsky (1972, 40–80); Silk (1985); Lloyd (2021). 20 For overview and analysis, see Riley (2008). With focus the theatrical costume, see Wyles (2013). On Seneca’s Hercules furens, see Papadopoulou (2004); Riley (2008, 51–91). 21 On Heracles in comedy, see Hošek (1963); Galinsky (1972, 81–100); Wilkins (2000, 90–97); (2021). 22 Earlier evidence is attested in the proverb attributed to Heracles in Ps.-Hesiod’s Marriage of Ceyx “of their own accord, noble men attend the feasts of noble men” (αὐτόματοι δ’ ἀγαθοὶ ἀγαθῶν ἐπὶ δαῖτας ἵενται, frag. 264 M.-W.); see also Plato, Symp. 174b. The Eurytios Krater (ca. 600 bce, Louvre E 635) depicts him reclining at a feast; on which, see Wolf (1993, 11–12, 51–53). More broadly on visual representations, see Carpenter (1986, 111–18); Lissarrague (1990, 91–93); Wolf (1993, 22–29). 23 The text is conveniently available with commentary in Olson (2007, 33, 40–41). 24 The implied target of this comment is unclear; but see Hošek (1963, 122). 25 See also Ran. 503–548. Apparently, the expression “Heracles tricked out of his dinner” (Ἡρακλῆς τὸ δεῖπνον ἐξαπατώμενος, Vesp. 60) was proverbial. 26 Silk (1985, at 4). See also Galinsky (1972, 82–84); Voelke (2001, 329–39). On Heracles in satyr drama in comparison to comedy, see Hošek (1963, 125–26). 27 For this point, see esp. Galinsky (1972, 127–28). There was one Roman comedy (based on an unknown Greek original), the Amphitruo of Plautus, that concerned Heracles’ birth. 28 For popular visual depictions of inebriated comic slaves, see Green (1985); (1995). 29 For a discussion of Clement’s use of poetry and especially drama, see Chapter 7 on Euripides’ Hecuba. 30 On Clement and comedy, see Grant (1965, 161–63). 31 These lines are, in fact, from an unidentified play and were proverbial for the hero’s obsession for meat (also in Athenaeus 7.276f; Plutarch, Moralia 668a). For Clement’s ridicule of the excessive sexual debauchery of Heracles, see Protr. 2.33.4. 32 Eusebius, e.g., also comments on his drunkenness (Theoph. 3.61). 33 See Hunink (2005, 199–208). The exchange was also ridiculed by Lactantius (Inst. 1.9). Origen refers more vaguely to Heracles’ “womanly enslavement to Omphale” (ἡ πρὸς τὴν Ὀμφάλην γυναικείως δουλεία, Cels. 3.22), which seems to imply the same scenario; for a survey of such Christian polemic, see Eppinger (2017, 205–10); (2021, 534–35).

82  Laughing at/with Heracles 34 On this “feminization” of Heracles, see Loraux (1990, 35–40); Cyrino (1998, 218–19); Friesen (2020b, 153–56); Heineman (2021, 257–60). The exchange of Heracles’ costume was deployed for comic effect differently by Aristophanes (Ran. 45–47, 495–497, 522–528). 35 See also Eppinger (2017, 203–4); Friesen (2020b, 165–67). For a survey of visual representations of this exchange between Omphale and Heracles in Roman art, see Kampen (1996). It was not just Christians who used the comic Heracles in polemic. For instance, Plutarch notes that Pericles’ consort Aspasia was derided publicly in comedy as a “New Omphale” (Pericles 24.5); see Heineman (2021). Regarding Mark Antony, who apparently touted his Heraclean lineage, Plutarch observes that he mimicked the hero’s “vulgar” behaviors: “boasting, jesting, [with] visible drinking vessel, sitting next to the person eating and standing while eating at the soldiers’ table” (μεγαλαυχία καὶ σκῶμμα καὶ κώθων ἐμφανὴς καὶ καθίσαι παρὰ τὸν ἐσθίοντα καὶ φαγεῖν ἐπιστάντα τραπέζῃ στρατιωτικῇ, Ant. 4.2). That Antony was an excessive drinker was widely noted— according to Pliny he even composed a treatise devoted to his own drunkenness (Nat. 14.28.148)—and is connected elsewhere to Dionysus: Cicero, Phil. 2.104; Athenaeus, Deipn. 4.148c. See also Plutarch, Ant. 24.4–5; 60.5; 75.6. 36 For an overview, see Jourdain Annequin (2007, 158–61). 37 This is published in Allamani-Souri and Voutiras (1996). They date these inscriptions from the first century bce possibly into the early first century CE. Of course, Heracles was not the only divinity to receive such dedications; for a survey of Boeotia, see Grenet (2014, esp. 419–23) for manumitted slaves consecrated to Herakles Charops at Coroneia. 38 Philo’s application of the Syleus in Prob. 99–104 has been discussed briefly elsewhere; e.g., Koskenniemi (2006, 139–41); (2019, 53–54); Nieto Hernández (2019, 161–62); Marculescu (2019, 139–41); Friesen (2020b, 156–58). For additional scholarship on Philo’s engagement with classical Greek poetry more broadly, see Chapter 3 n. 43. 39 See also Nieto Hernández (2019, 161–64); Friesen (2019). In a comparable manner, Josephus engages with traditions concerning Heracles at several points in his corpus (A.J. 8.146; 10.227; B.J. 2.375, 382; C. Ap. 1.118–19, 144); see Bloch (2011, 214–19). 40 On this, see Friesen (2019, 177–80). 41 For Philo’s treatment of these demigods and gods in the Legatio, see Gruen (2012); Friesen (2015c, 88–90); Niehoff (2018, 63–65); Roskam (2019, 185–89). 42 For a more subtle analysis of Heracles in the Legatio, see Friesen (2019, 181–88). By way of comparison, see Niehoff (2018, 65) on Ares/Mars. 43 For comparison with Cicero and Epictetus, see Petit (1974, 54–57); Niehoff (2018, 81–84). On the Probus in relation to Philo’s views on slavery, see Garnsey (1996, 155–72). 44 Philo’s term is αὐτοπραγία (Prob. 21). Similarly, Cicero asks, “What is freedom? You are able to live as you wish” (quid est enim libertas? potestas vivendi, ut velis, Parad. 5.34); cf. “the person who lives as he wishes is free” (ἐλεύθερός ἐστιν ὁ ζῶν ὡς βούλεται, Epictetus, Diatr. 4.1.1). All three see fear as the greatest obstacle to freedom (Cicero, Parad. 5.40; Epictetus, Diatr. 4.1.5, 4.1.82–85; Philo, Prob. 22). 45 Petit (1974, 29–34) gives a numbered list. Philo’s is longer than Epictetus’ and Cicero’s, with only one overlap: the abduction of Diogenes the Cynic (Philo, Prob. 121–124; Epictetus, Diatr. 4.1.114–118; see also Diog. Laert. 4.75). Philo shares two exempla with Cicero (although in a different treatise): Zeno of Elea and Anaxarchus (Philo, Prob. 108–109; Cicero, Tusc. 2.52). 46 See also Petit (1974, 38–39, 104–28). In a comparable way, in De vita contemplative, Philo holds up the Therapeutae as ideals of Jewish piety. 47 For this, see the index of Lincicum (2013b). 48 For the Auge’s implications for political freedom and subjugation, see Perris (2022, 209). Philo embeds the two-line excerpt in a genitive absolute (ὑποκριτῶν […] διεξιόντων), whereas the main clause (τοὺς θεατὰς ἅπαντας εἶδον) concerns himself watching the spectators. In the other instance in Philo’s corpus that mentions attending the theater, his focus is also on the audience’s response to performance (Ebr. 177). Elsewhere, however,

Laughing at/with Heracles 83 Philo is critical of Roman spectacle entertainments (Agr. 35, 111–126) and of both Gaius and Flaccus for the theatricality of their mistreatment of the Jews (Legat. 78–79, 349– 367; Flacc. 34–39, 72); for further discussion, see Calabi (2003); Bloch (2009, 66–67, 70–74); Jay (2013, 221–32); Friesen (2015c, 90–92); (2020a, 273–75). 49 See Jay (2013, 226). In a very different way, under the Emperor Nero who took to performing on stage himself, scrutiny of audience reaction became much more sinister; on which, see Bartsch (1994, 3–10). 50 Elsewhere, I have suggested that the authenticity of Philo’s claim to have attended this play should be approached with caution: Friesen (2020a, 273–75). In any case, I do not share Koskenniemi’s (2019) confidence that “this passage proves that he was present when Euripides’ drama was performed, and he witnessed the strong feeling in the audience” (at 64). 51 On flattery, see also Epictetus, Diatr. 4.1.55. 52 For the roles of Hermes in comedy, esp. as a comic slave, see Chapter 3 (esp. n. 20). 53 On the function of metatheater in ancient drama, see Chapter 3 (esp. nn. 1–2). 54 On the standardized theatrical costume for Heracles, see Wyles (2013). 55 Although Philo inserts no break between frags. 688 and 689, it is probable that the speaker in 689–690 is Syleus; see Pechstein (1998, 263–64); Jourdain Annequin (2007, 152). 56 On this, see Foley (1985, 246–54); Vernant (1985); Wiles (2007, 221–31); Friesen (2015c, 41–44). Note, however, that Billings (2017) disputes whether the actor’s mask in the Bacchae would have been smiling. 57 This is not the only occasion on which Heracles is reported to have defeated an opponent by way of a drinking competition; see Athenaeus 10.411c–412b on Lepreus; and Wilkins (2021, 323). See also Figure 5.1 for a drinking contest with Dionysus. 58 Philo does not include the final conclusion of the myth: Heracles diverts a river to flood Syleus’ fields and kills him and his daughter Xenodice; see Apollodorus 2.6.3; Diodorus Siculus 4.31.7; Tzetzes, Chil. 2.435; Prol.Com. 2.59–70. According to a fragmentary hypothesis (P.Oxy. 27.2455 frag. 8), Heracles saved the daughter; see Pechstein (1998, 252–54); Voelke (2001, 215–17). 59 As was the case for Philo’s use of the Chrysippus discussed in Chapter 3, along with the collection in Ps.-Justin’s De monarchia. For other gnomic uses of Euripides by Philo, see, e.g., Prob. 22 (TrGF 5.2.958); Prob. 145 (TrGF 5.2.893.1); Prob. 141 (TrGF 5.1.275.3–4). And for relevant discussion and analysis of poetic anthologies, see Chadwick (1969); Doering (2005, 15–18); Konstan (2011). 60 Nowhere else does Philo identify the author or the speaker; cf. the introductory formulae: “the tragic expression in the face of suffering” (τὸ τραγικὸν πρὸς τὴν ἀλγηδόνα, Leg. 3.202); “as the tragedian says” (ὡς ὁ τραγικός φησιν, Ios. 78); “acting with youthful vigor, [the free person] proclaims in response” (νεανιευσάμενος δὲ ἀντικηρύξει, Prob. 25). For De Iosepho, see Oertelt (2015, 217–18). Marculescu (2019, 141–45) observes a broader pattern across Philo’s corpus that when an excerpt of Euripides occurs in a treatise of biblical interpretation Philo is less likely to identify the playwright than in a philosophical treatise aimed at a wider audience. 61 This view was established by Hense (1882, 224–28); see also Helm (1906, 141–44). It has been adopted more recently by the editors of the Budé edition of Euripides’ fragments: Jouan and Van Looy (1998, xliv). Helm identifies additional correlations between the Syleus and other Cynic appropriations of Heracles: in Lucian’s Philosophies for Sale, when Diogenes the Cynic is put on the market, Hermes comments that he is a “free life” (βίον ἐλεύθερον, 7). The Cynic’s appearance—especially that he “wields a club” (διῆρται τὸ ξύλον, 7)—startles the prospective buyer who asks, “whom do you imitate?” (Ζηλοῖς δὲ δὴ τίνα;). Diogenes replies, “Heracles” (Τὸν Ἡρακλέα, 8), but adds the qualification that his lion skin is figurative not literal. 62 This is suggested in passing by Marculescu (2019, 141), but without further comment. 63 Van Rossum-Steenbeek (1998). For more recent analysis of Euripidean hypotheses, see also Wöckener-Gade (2020).

84  Laughing at/with Heracles 6 4 See Van Rossum-Steenbeek (1998, 20–21, 213–15). 65 She observes that hypotheses roughly corresponded to the information recorded by mythographers, such as Ps.-Apollodorus; see van Rossum-Steenbeek (1998, 25–30). But Philo’s knowledge of this myth is much more substantial than what is included in the Bibliotheca (2.6.3). 66 By way of comparison, a comment by Galen is illuminating: in search of a particular work by a certain Archigenes, “I went running around to all the libraries, all the booksellers, and all the doctors. . . to get hold of this book” (Loc. Aff. 3.5); quoted in Houston (2009 at 18). If Philo did use an hypothesis, it may simply have functioned as a “reference book”; as van Rossum-Steenbeek (1998, 161) theorizes they “do not seem to have been intended as independent reading matter” but merely to assist “the readers to acquire information on or form a picture of the literature they were reading or about to read.” For a discussion of Philo’s potential access to a library, see Sterling (1999, 160–63); Lincicum (2014); Friedheim (2017). For relevant studies of textual and reading practices in Alexandria, see Cribiore (2001, 185–219); Johnson (2010, 179–92). 67 Jourdain Annequin (2007). Philo’s own views of slavery are complex. On the one hand, he denies that a person can be a “slave by nature (physis)” (Spec. 2.69); on the other, he maintains that Esau is a slave as a matter of God’s judgment, interpreting Gen 25:23 (Leg. 3.88–89). In the Probus, he praises the Essenes for not owning slaves (79). See Garnsey (1996, 157–72). 68 Similar issues are raised by Aristophanes’ Ranae which, like the Syleus, juxtaposes the role of slavery with the theatrical disguise of Heracles. In this case, Dionysus undertakes a journey to Hades with his slave Xanthias. The god initially wears a lion skin and carries a club until he learns that Heracles had racked up debts in the underworld; fearing a beating, he insists that Xanthias don the costume (495–497), only to demand it back again when the possibility of a feast and dancing girls is presented (522–528). As Edmonds (2003) argues, with this comic trope, “Aristophanes opens the space to create his own definitions of what is a worthy member of the Athenian polis and what the city needs to rescue her from the perilous seas in which she sails” (at 194). This was particularly relevant following the Battle of Arginousae, roughly one year earlier, in which participating slaves and metics were granted Athenian citizenship; see also Konstan (1995, 61–71). 69 See further Friesen (2019, 188–95); (2020b, 163–67). 70 Branham (1989, 162–63).

6

Atonement and Resurrection as the Denouement of Euripides’ Alcestis

At an appointed moment and in accordance with a pact established by God, one individual, out of self-giving love, accepted death in exchange for the life of their beloved in order to secure the latter’s salvation from the dead. As a reward for this action, the victim, rather than remaining in the grip of the grave, was granted divine favor and resurrected to life. This plot was dramatized by Euripides in the Alcestis at the City Dionysia in Athens in 438 bce where he produced it as the fourth play of a tetralogy. While the basic premise of its plot—a bride’s death offered in exchange for her husband—was attested in folktales from across ancient cultures, Euripides’ play became the single most popular and influential version of the myth in Greek and Roman antiquity. It stages the fate of Admetus, who, in exchange for his hospitality, received a pledge from Apollo that at the time of his death his own life would be restored if someone else could be found to give up theirs in his stead. His wife Alcestis proves willing, and thus a successful exchange is secured. While the house of Admetus mourns her passing, and Thanatos prepares to conduct her below, Heracles arrives. Ignorant of the circumstances, he accepts hospitality from Admetus, eating and drinking with his stereotypically prolific appetite. After finally becoming aware of Alcestis’ death, he ambushes Thanatos, defeats him, and returns her to her husband.1 Striking resonances between the Alcestis and central facets of early Christian belief are immediately evident and were apparently already so to some in antiquity. In two late-antique instances of the play’s reception among Christians, one visual, the other literary, broad thematic correlations with Christian religious ideals are foregrounded. First, in the Christian catacomb on the Via Latina dating to the fourth century, scenes from the drama decorate one room (cubiculum N).2 In the lunette of left-hand arcosolium, Admetus is depicted on his death bed with Alcestis standing by; on the opposite side, Heracles is displayed with a tamed Cerberus returning the heroine alive to her husband (Figure 6.1). In addition, four rectangular panels depict other standard scenes from his heroic biography. The religious entailments of this pagan myth have struck some as incongruent with a Christian burial space. Nevertheless, its juxtaposition with biblical scenes throughout the catacomb is highly suggestive, in particular the resurrection of Lazarus by Jesus in the adjacent room. This positioning of the myth of Alcestis as popularized through its Euripidean dramatization indicates that it was deemed, by some at least, to be fitting for a Christian funerary context, DOI: 10.4324/9781003392132-6

86  Atonement and Resurrection

Figure 6.1 Painting of Heracles, Alcestis, and Cerberus from the Catacomb at the Via Latina, Rome (Pontifical Commission for Sacred Archaeology)

seemingly because it corresponded with their own hopes for afterlife and resurrection. At the same time, the inclusion of Heracles and celebratory treatments of his labors alongside those of biblical heroes such as Jesus and Moses provide a Christian counterpoint to Philo’s use of the Syleus discussed above (Chapter 5). Whereas Christian apologists often ridiculed the son of Zeus for his comic buffoonery (Clement, Protr. 7.76.5; Tertullian, Pall. 4.3.1–7; Origen, Cels. 3.22; Eusebius, Theoph. 3.61; Lactantius, Inst. 1.9) and tragic madness (Justin, 1 Apol. 21; Clement, Protr. 7.76.5), and later Christian hostility to Heracles could even turn violent, these scenes in the catacomb reflect a more genial stance toward the hero.3 A second instance of Christian reception of the Alcestis also dates to the fourth century: a Latin poem known as the Barcelona Alcestis consisting of 122 surviving lines on the myth that deploys Euripides’ play as its chief source.4 Although there are indications of Christian influences on the poem, there is no decisive evidence concerning the poet’s religious identity. More importantly, the poem survives in a Christian codex, followed immediately by a Latin psalm and a Greek liturgical text. As in the case of the Via Latina, therefore, the myth of Alcestis is placed directly alongside biblical and Christian material, thus inviting comparative analysis. In contrast to the catacomb painting, however, the Barcelona Alcestis includes neither Heracles nor the heroine’s return to life. Rather, its primary preoccupation is with her courageous death in place of her husband and the ethical questions concerning familial obligations in a scenario of vicarious suffering. Taken together, then, these two evocations of Euripides’ Alcestis establish an ongoing religious interest in the play throughout antiquity, even within distinctly Christian settings.5 In particular, two shared ideals emerge: the valorization of

Atonement and Resurrection 87 vicarious death as demonstrating genuine love and the conquest over death by God’s son to restore the righteous to life. From these points of departure, this chapter argues that correlations, interactions, and possible influences of the Alcestis are evident much earlier than these fourth-century receptions, indeed already within the New Testament itself. This has been almost entirely overlooked within New Testament scholarship, in which the Alcestis is considered only most rarely and limited to Paul’s formulation of Christ’s atoning death in Romans 5. Broader lines of comparative analysis are possible, however. The first concerns substitutionary death in conjunction with love and gender: self-giving love is a persistent theme throughout the New Testament, and Ephesians 5 stands out especially for connecting, as does the Alcestis, vicarious self-sacrifice and marital devotion. A second similarity, also neglected in biblical scholarship, is with the narrative of the resurrection of Lazarus in the Gospel of John, likewise performed by a son of God on behalf of his host and guest-friend. Before taking these up in turn, I offer a brief summary of the play, its central themes, and the trajectories of its reception. The Alcestis of Euripides between Tragedy and Satyr-Play The kernel of the Alcestis legend is broadly attested from folklore in numerous cultures; nevertheless, in Greek literature prior to 438 bce there are only a few allusions to various aspects of the myth.6 It was apparently not a common subject for drama, featuring in only two other, no-longer-extant plays.7 As such, it is difficult confidently to distinguish Euripidean innovations from traditional material. The standard elements in the Greek version of the myth are that Apollo, in punishment for a certain offense, found himself in servitude to Admetus. In gratitude for the latter’s kindness, he obtained from the Fates a release from death should Admetus find someone to die in his place. Failing to secure a willing volunteer, even among his own parents, his wife (or wife-to-be) Alcestis offers herself. Euripides, working within this basic outline, constructs new aspects of the plot that were hitherto unattested. Most notably, the introduction of Heracles as a surprise visitor who ultimately restores the deceased heroine to life appears extraneous to the “original” folktale, and is not clearly attested before Euripides’ production.8 This apparently-unparalleled Euripidean twist of plot reflects the play’s unusual generic situation. That is, among extant drama, the Alcestis is the only known play to have occupied the fourth place in a tetralogy, although it was clearly not a satyr play (it lacks a chorus of satyrs).9 This seeming transgression of generic boundaries is also evident in the play’s dramatic action: on the one hand, the fated death of an individual in order to secure the fortune and salvation of another is commonplace tragic material; on the other, Heracles’ excessive eating and drinking belong to comedy or satyr drama.10 Without making precise delineations between generic features of tragedy and satyr drama in the Alcestis, it can be observed that Euripides has overlain two disparate subplots: one centered on Alcestis who, like other tragic heroines, willingly accepted self-sacrifice for a noble purpose; and the other on Heracles, who in comic persona combines heroic exploits with the prolific appetites of a buffoon.

88  Atonement and Resurrection The play’s prologue (Alc. 1–76) opens with a speech by Apollo in which he recalls his punishment by Zeus that led to his sentence of servitude to a mortal— Admetus—who turned out to be a most pious host (1–11). In exchange for his hospitality, Apollo “rescued [Admetus] from dying, by tricking the Fates” (ὃν θανεῖν ἐρρυσάμην, Μοίρας δολώσας, 11–12). It was arranged that when his death was imminent, he could “escape [it] by exchanging another corpse with those below” (ἐκφυγεῖν, ἄλλον διαλλάξαντα τοῖς κάτω νεκρόν, 13–14). As Apollo reports, however, his wife was the only one found “who was willing to die for him” (ὅστις ἤθελεν θανὼν πρὸ κείνου, 17–18). Thus, with the language of his opening speech, Apollo introduces a theme that remains important throughout, namely the substitutionary death of the one individual for another. Then, moments later in an exchange of stichomythia with Thanatos, Apollo reiterates this, now deploying ἀμείβω, a close synonym of διαλλάσσω from line 14: Admetus “exchanged his wife” (δάμαρτ᾽ ἀμείψας, 46; cf. 460–464). In addition to these verbs, relevant prepositions (esp. πρό and ὑπέρ) combined with θνήσκω recur throughout the play in order to emphasize the transactional function of Alcestis’ death. Echoing Apollo’s θανὼν πρὸ κείνου from line 18, Thanatos notes that she promised “to deliver her husband, by dying for him” (πόσιν ἐκλύσασ᾽ αὐτὴ προθανεῖν, 36–37; cf. “it is possible for me not to die for you,” παρόν μοι μὴ θανεῖν ὑπὲρ σέθεν, 284; “she died for your life,” ἥτις γε τῆς σῆς προύθανε ψυχῆς, 620; “she herself once died for her husband,” Αὕτα ποτὲ προύθαν᾽ ἀνδρός, 1002).11 Also from the prologue, a second principal theme emerges—the defeat and despoilment of Thanatos. At the end of Apollo’s brief speech, Thanatos appears on stage as “priest of the deceased” (ἱερέα θανόντων, 25) and suspicious that Apollo was scheming to defraud him again, this time by snatching Alcestis from his possession (29–37). Apollo defends his actions, insisting that he acquired Admetus’ life not by force (βία) but through a fair exchange (44, 46). With prophetic prescience, however, he adds that there is a man, whom “Eurystheus sent” (Εὐρυσθέως πέμψαντος, 66) on an errand to Thrace, “who, after being hosted in this house of Admetus, will deliver this woman from you by force” (ὃς δὴ ξενωθεὶς τοῖσδ᾽ ἐν Ἀδμήτου δόμοις βίᾳ γυναῖκα τήνδε σ᾽ ἐξαιρήσεται, 68–69). In this comment, then, the play’s main themes and their eventual development in the dramatic action are clearly disclosed to the audience: Alcestis will die willingly in the stead of Admetus, and Heracles will arrive and wrest her violently from the possession of Thanatos. With the audience thus cognizant of the plot’s denouement, several ironies arise in subsequent scenes. At line 77, when the chorus of men of Pherae enter the stage and lament the imminent death of their queen, they pray to Apollo for help (91–92), noting that only the son of Phoebus (i.e. Asclepius) could save her (121–125), but this comment follows immediately after Apollo had assured Thanatos that the rescue of Alcestis was beyond his own power (38–71). And allusions to her eventual resurrection recur. For instance, in the first episode a maidservant speaking with the chorus leader asserts that “you can call her both living and dead” (καὶ ζῶσαν εἰπεῖν καὶ θανοῦσαν ἔστι σοι, 141). For the speaker’s dramatic audience, these words entail a straightforward observation that Alcestis is not yet deceased; for those privy to the prologue, however, they presage her final return to life.

Atonement and Resurrection 89 Table 6.1  Comparison of Alcestis 10 and 144 Alcestis 10: Alcestis 144:

ὁσίου γὰρ ἀνδ-| ρὸς ὅσιος ὢν | ἐτύγχανον ὦ τλῆμον, οἵ- | ας οἷος ὢν | ἁμαρτάνεις

Alcestis 10: Alcestis 144:

I, being holy, met with a holy man. O wretch, you, being such a man, are losing such a woman.

Irony also marks the moral characterizations throughout the play. The audience must confront the seemingly obvious question of why in the first place it is better for her to die than him, and why Admetus’ actions were not in fact cowardly. But the play remains surprisingly silent on these points.12 In fact, Admetus’ piety is frequently underscored; from the outset, it was his hospitality that earned him the favor of a second life. As Apollo recalls, “I, being holy, met with a holy man” (ὁσίου γὰρ ἀνδρὸς ὅσιος ὢν ἐτύγχανον, 10), repeating the adjective ὅσιος so as to set Ademtus’ religious character on parity with that of a divinity.13 While this appears, on the surface at least, to be high praise, only a few lines earlier Apollo had reminded the audience that his sojourn in Pherae was itself the result of punishment for a crime committed against Zeus. Admetus’ own moral ambiguity is reiterated shortly afterwards in the first episode. With language closely echoing line 10, the chorus leader laments, “O wretch, you, being such a man, are losing such a woman” (ὦ τλῆμον, οἵας οἷος ὢν ἁμαρτάνεις,144). Where in line 10 Apollo had described himself with ὅσιος ὤν, now Admetus is addressed by the phrase οἷος ὤν at precisely the same position at the end of the second trimeter; and in place of Admetus (ὁσίου ἀνδρὸς), Alcestis (οἵας) is the object of the verb ἁμαρτάνεις positioned where ἐτύγχανον had been in the third trimeter (see Table 6.1). The juxtaposition of the verbs τυγχάνω and ἁμαρτάνω is suggestive; while the latter can mean “to lose,” an additional sense is also relevant here—“to err” or “to do wrong,” potentially emphasizing Admetus’ mistreatment of his wife. In fact, his father Pheres later makes precisely such a charge: “you will bury her, being yourself her murderer” (θάψεις δ᾽ αὐτὸς ὢν αὐτῆς φονεύς, 730). Thus, while the virtuous character of Admetus is celebrated throughout the play in a seemingly unproblematic fashion, it is in fact not straightforward. Indeed, in the closing scene of the play, he soon appears ready to forsake the vow of chastity he made to his dying wife (1072–1120). If Admetus’ piety turns out to be problematic, Alcestis, for her part, was positioned to achieve heroic fame for her actions. The chorus leader declares that she “will die with glory, the most excellent wife by far among those under the sun” (εὐκλεής γε κατθανουμένη γυνή τ᾽ ἀρίστη τῶν ὑφ᾽ ἡλίῳ μακρῷ, 150–151). In the world of epic and tragedy, κλέος—“fame” or “glory”—was the purview of the heroic male, especially the warrior. In this play, however, it is the wife who stands to acquire it.14 As Admetus later laments, “I regard the spirit of my wife more fortunate than mine […] well-famed, she has ceased from many toils” (γυναικὸς δαίμον᾽ εὐτυχέστερον τοὐμοῦ νομίζω […] πολλῶν δὲ μόχθων εὐκλεὴς ἐπαύσατο, 935–936, 938). Conversely, in berating his father and sharply questioning his masculinity for failing to offer himself, Admetus asserts, “your resolve is cowardly and does not

90  Atonement and Resurrection belong among men” (κακὸν τὸ λῆμα κοὐκ ἐν ἀνδράσιν τὸ σόν, 723), and by contrast to Alcestis, “you will die, to be sure, in infamy, whenever you die” (θανῇ γε μέντοι δυσκλεής, ὅταν θάνῃς, 725). Whereas Alcestis stands to acquire masculine κλέος, Admetus is reduced to the position of a woman, engaged as he is in excessive weeping and mourning. As Charles Segal notes, in the world of Athens, “[f]or a man to weep for himself is to risk feminization.”15 The feminization of Admetus is also evident in Alcestis’ demand that he remain unmarried so as not to give her children to a stepmother (304–308). After he agrees, she adds, “you, now, become mother to these children in place of me” (σύ νῦν γενοῦ τοῖσδ᾽ ἀντ᾽ ἐμοῦ μήτηρ τέκνοις, 377), further undermining Admetus’ standing as a conventionally masculine and paternal hero. Later, after her death, Admetus declares, “justly, I would regard her alone as both my mother and father” (καὶ μητέρα καὶ πατέρ᾽ ἂν ἐνδίκως ἂν ἡγοίμην μόνην, 646–647). These reversals of gender and parental roles highlight the failure of Admetus’ own parents. As Alcestis asserts, whereas she was not required to die for him—she could readily have married any other man she wished and enjoyed a prosperous life (284–286)—they were ultimately blameworthy: “he who begot you, and she who bore you betrayed you” (σ᾽ ὁ φύσας χἠ τεκοῦσα προύδοσαν, 290). Throughout the play, the attendant obligations of familial relationships are often expressed with terminology of love/philia.16 The philia of Alcestis is singled out for highest praise: Ademtus declares, “we reverence your love” (σὴν γὰρ φιλίαν σεβόμεσθα, 279); and the chorus later concur: “you [Admetus] saved your existence and your life. Your wife died and left behind her love” (ἔσωσας βίοτον καὶ ψυχάν. ἔθανε δάμαρ, ἔλιπε φιλίαν, 928–930). By contrast, Admetus observes regarding his parents: “for they were beloved in word not in deed, whereas you, exchanging what is most beloved for my life, saved me” (λόγῳ γὰρ ἦσαν οὐκ ἔργῳ φίλοι. σὺ δ᾽ ἀντιδοῦσα τῆς ἐμῆς τὰ φίλτατα ψυχῆς ἔσωσας, 339–341). For her part, Alcestis demands parental philia of Admetus: τούσδε γὰρ φιλεῖς οὐχ ἧσσον ἢ ‘γὼ παῖδας, εἴπερ εὖ φρονεῖς· τούτους ἀνάσχου δεσπότας ἐμῶν δόμων. For you love these children no less than I do, if you are wise; now, retain them as masters of my house. (Euripides, Alc. 302–304) Whereas one’s children or husband are proper objects of philia, inferior expressions of philia center on self-preservation. As Pheres notes to Admetus, “consider that, if you love your own life, all people love their own” (νόμιζε δ᾽, εἰ σὺ τὴν σαυτοῦ φιλεῖς ψυχήν, φιλεῖν ἅπαντας, 703–704). In the subsequent exchange, in defense of cursing his parents, Admetus restates Pheres’ assessment, this time with of erōs in place of philia: “I perceived that you love a long life” (μακροῦ βίου γὰρ ᾐσθόμην ἐρῶντά σε, 715).17 The Alcestis myth remained popular throughout antiquity, represented in visual art, inscribed on gravestones, and performed on stage. Although in some

Atonement and Resurrection 91 cases direct dependence on Euripides is uncertain or unlikely, his influence figures prominently among the numerous and varied references to Admetus and Alcestis. Already in the fourth century bce, the Alcestis was being re-performed well outside of Athens. Oliver Taplin has argued based upon a mid-fourthcentury BCE vase in Basel attributed to the Laodamia Painter that this play was staged in Apulia, and Larissa Bonfante has made a similar argument for fourthcentury Etruria on the basis of two red-figure vases and a bronze decorated mirror.18 And performances of the play continued. A papyrus from Roman Egypt (P.Oxy. 67.4546) dating to the first century bce or ce preserves 30 lines between Alc. 344–382, including only those of Admetus and omitting the lines of his interlocutors, thus indicating it was a script for rehearsal.19 The play was known at Rome also. Accius produced a Latin version, of which only one line survives (frag. 20 Warmington), and Juvenal suggests that Roman audiences viewed stage productions of an Alcestis. In Satire 6, devoted to a discussion of the virtues and vices of wives, he concludes with several exempla from drama including Alcestis, joking that, by contrast to her, most wives would allow their husbands to die, although they themselves might die to save a puppy (6.653–654). Importantly, Juvenal suggests that Roman wives viewed the heroine’s actions: “they observe Alcestis taking on the fated death of her husband” (spectant subeuntem fata mariti Alcestim, 652–653).20 Off stage, Alcestis was often featured in funerary contexts. In an inscription in a rock tomb at Sardinia (IG 14.607), a certain Pomptilla is commemorated as a wife who died in place of her husband: “Pomptilla [died] for her husband; he took back his own life in place of death” (ὑπὲρ γαμέτου Πώμπτιλλα τὴν κείνου ζωὴν ἀντέλαβεν θανάτου). For this apparently self-chosen death, she is spoken of as “Alcestis” and her husband, Philippos, as “Admetus.” Similarly, in an epigram from the Palatine Anthology, a speaker describes herself with reference to the heroine: “I am a new Alcestis; I died for my noble husband” (Ἄλκηστις νέη εἰμί· θάνον δ’ ὑπὲρ ἀνέρος ἐσθλοῦ, Anth. graec. 7.691.1). In the second century ce, the myth is well attested on Roman sarcophagi. According to Paul Zanker and Björn Ewald, roughly 13 survive from this period; they argue that “the Alcestis myth’s close link with death naturally made it particularly suitable for the decoration of sarcophagi.”21 These decorations can be suggestive of hopes for the afterlife, as Susan Wood observes regarding a sarcophagus of a certain C. Junius Euhodus and Metilia Acte, now in the Vatican.22 The couple’s faces were placed upon Admetus and Alcestis with an inscription identifying Metilia as a priestess of the Great Mother; in view of this cult’s association with beliefs in the afterlife, the choice of Alcestis seems to be inspired by her deliverance from death.23 That Alcestis functioned as an idealized model of the virtuous wife is also evident among philosophers in their reflections on love and marriage. In the Symposium, Plato has Phaedrus deploy the myth to illustrate the power of erōs: καὶ μὴν ὑπεραποθνῄσκειν γε μόνοι ἐθέλουσιν οἱ ἐρῶντες, οὐ μόνον ὅτι ἄνδρες, ἀλλὰ καὶ αἱ γυναῖκες. τούτου δὲ καὶ ἡ Πελίου θυγάτηρ Ἄλκηστις ἱκανὴν μαρτυρίαν παρέχεται ὑπὲρ τοῦδε τοῦ λόγου.

92  Atonement and Resurrection And truly only those in love are willing to die for another, this is so not only for husbands but also wives. For this argument, Alcestis, daughter of Pelias, provides sufficient testimony. (Plato, Symp. 179b) The emphasis here is on the mutuality of gender in erotic relationships; that is, wives, not merely husbands, can perform such notable deeds of virtue. Phaedrus adds, moreover, that Alcestis outdid Admetus’ parents “in love because of love” (τῇ φιλίᾳ διὰ τὸν ἔρωτα, 179c; see also Plutarch, Amat. 761d–f). In a similar vein, the Roman Stoic Musonius Rufus defends the value of marriage for the philosophical man, arguing that it accords with nature and is the relationship that sets humans apart from animals (frag. 14 Lutz).24 It is, in fact, superior to all kinship relationships, as demonstrated in the case of Alcestis: “the love [philia] of wife for husband surpassed that of parents for children” (προτερεῖ τῆς γονέων πρὸς τέκνα φιλίας ἡ γυναικὸς πρὸς ἄνδρα). Whereas Admetus “found his parents unwilling to die on his behalf, although they were old” (τῶν μὲν γονέων οὐκ ἔτυχεν ἐθελόντων προαποθανεῖν αὐτοῦ καίτοι γεγηρακότων), “she was prepared to accept death for her husband” (ἐδέξατο ἑτοίμως τὸν θάνατον πρὸ τοῦ ἀνδρός). Musonius, like Plato’s Phaedrus, writes from the perspective of a husband and the benefit he might obtain from a wife. As such, it is unsurprising that neither questions the equity of the exchange; in fact, few seem willing to explore the moral ambiguity of the actions of Admetus. In view of this, one example stands out as exceptional: Valerius Maximus declares Admetus “guilty of a cruel and harsh deed by verdict of a great judge” (crudelis et duri facti crimine sub magno iudice damnatum, 4.6.1). In short, Euripides’ play, although not the only ancient version of the myth, became and remained the standard and most popular account, and his apparently innovative inclusion of Heracles in the traditional folktale took hold (see, e.g., Apollodorus 1.9.15). Ancient interest in the play’s heroine focalizes on the extraordinary virtue of her marital devotion and, given the significance of her death, she naturally features in funerary contexts. She also provided an occasion for ethical reflections on the obligations of familial relationships. While her arrangement with Admetus was universally celebrated, at least one writer—Valerius Maximus— calls the latter’s actions into question, recalling in this sense the criticisms leveled against him by his father Pheres. Alcestis, Gender, and Vicarious Death: From Paul to the Barcelona Alcestis The most obvious and commonly observed point of contact between Euripides’ Alcestis and early Christian belief is the performance of vicarious death, and interpretations of the New Testament have long been attentive to this correlation. A persistent historical puzzle is how and why, within a period of less than two decades, Jesus’ execution—by any ordinary measure a calamitous misfortune—came to be viewed as an effective death “for us.” Explanations are sought in relevant “background” material; conventionally, approaches have divided along the lines of those favoring Jewish and biblical sources, and those deploying Greek and Roman

Atonement and Resurrection 93 materials.25 Now, however, dichotomous views of Judaism and Hellenism have been largely rejected; instead, to understand most fully the origins of the atonement in Christianity, the widest array of data must be brought to bear. That Christ’s death was an effective means of salvation is attested in the earliest writings of the New Testament (the letters of Paul), and was possibly articulated even earlier as Paul emphasizes that he took this over from an existing tradition: “for I gave to you among the first things what I also received: Christ died for our sins in accordance with the scriptures” (παρέδωκα γὰρ ὑμῖν ἐν πρώτοις, ὃ καὶ παρέλαβον, ὅτι Χριστὸς ἀπέθανεν ὑπὲρ τῶν ἁμαρτιῶν ἡμῶν κατὰ τὰς γραφάς, 1 Cor 15:3). Nevertheless, it is Paul who provides the first and most explicit articulation of the meaning of Christ’s death, and his language also reflects the strongest similarity with the Alcestis: ἔτι γὰρ Χριστὸς ὄντων ἡμῶν ἀσθενῶν ἔτι κατὰ καιρὸν ὑπὲρ ἀσεβῶν ἀπέθανεν […] συνίστησιν δὲ τὴν ἑαυτοῦ ἀγάπην εἰς ἡμᾶς ὁ θεὸς ὅτι ἔτι ἁμαρτωλῶν ὄντων ἡμῶν Χριστὸς ὑπὲρ ἡμῶν ἀπέθανεν. For even while we were weak, yet at the right moment Christ died for the impious […] God proved his own love for us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us. (Rom 5:6, 8) This combination of (ἀπο)θνῄσκω and ὑπέρ is reminiscent of the language of Euripides noted above (e.g., Alc. 284, 682, 690, 700–701). More than this, however, between verses 6 and 8, Paul frames the conditions of Christ’s death in a manner that potentially evokes Admetus: “scarcely will someone die for a righteous person; although perhaps for a good person someone might even dare to die” (μόλις γὰρ ὑπὲρ δικαίου τις ἀποθανεῖται· ὑπὲρ γὰρ τοῦ ἀγαθοῦ τάχα τις καὶ τολμᾷ ἀποθανεῖν, Rom 5:7). The hypothetical scenario envisioned here is deployed by Paul in order, by way of contrast, to emphasize the moral deficiency of the beneficiaries of Christ’s death. The argument depends, implicitly at least, upon an instance of an especially meritorious individual receiving such an exchange. As Simon Gathercole observes, this is precisely where the character of Admetus is relevant: his actions throughout the play—especially his heroic hospitality and commitment to lifelong chastity—together with Apollo’s explicit declaration (Alc. 10) qualify him as just such a “good” or “righteous” man.26 Most analyses of the Alcestis in relation to the New Testament end here with the early Pauline formulation of atonement. There is, however, an additional point to be considered that opens up a more expansive comparison—that is, the function of self-giving, substitutionary death as the fullest and definitive expression of “love.” As noted above, philia is a prominent theme in the drama, and was exemplified in the manner of the heroine’s death, especially over against the parents whose love was “in word not in deed” (λόγῳ […] οὐκ ἔργῳ, Alc. 339), and was fixated entirely upon their own lives and longevity (703, 715). While the New Testament’s characteristic lexical preference is for agapē, the same emphasis occurs. This is already clear in Romans 5:8 quoted above (τὴν ἑαυτοῦ ἀγάπην εἰς ἡμᾶς; cf. Rom 5:5, ἡ ἀγάπη τοῦ θεοῦ), and it appears, in fact, that the correlation between agapē and

94  Atonement and Resurrection self-giving death was formulaic for Paul. In Galatians 2:20, he writes of his faith in “the son of God who loved me and gave himself for me” (τοῦ υἱοῦ τοῦ θεοῦ τοῦ ἀγαπήσαντός με καὶ παραδόντος ἑαυτὸν ὑπὲρ ἐμοῦ). This is, of course, not limited to Paul. The Gospel of John frames Jesus’ “new commandment” in similar terms: “this is my commandment, that you love one another just as I have loved you; no one has greater love than this, that someone lay down his life for his friends” (αὕτη ἐστὶν ἡ ἐντολὴ ἡ ἐμή, ἵνα ἀγαπᾶτε ἀλλήλους καθὼς ἠγάπησα ὑμᾶς· μείζονα ταύτης ἀγάπην οὐδεὶς ἔχει, ἵνα τις τὴν ψυχὴν αὐτοῦ θῇ ὑπὲρ τῶν φίλων αὐτοῦ, 15:12–13; cf. 13:34). That Jesus opted to die for his disciples establishes that their relationship is not one of slavery but rather one of philia (15:15). The same point is made in 1 John 3:16, where “friends” are replaced by “brothers”: “in this we recognize love, that he laid down his life for us; we also ought to lay down our lives for our brothers” (ἐν τούτῳ ἐγνώκαμεν τὴν ἀγάπην, ὅτι ἐκεῖνος ὑπὲρ ἡμῶν τὴν ψυχὴν αὐτοῦ ἔθηκεν· καὶ ἡμεῖς ὀφείλομεν ὑπὲρ τῶν ἀδελφῶν τὰς ψυχὰς θεῖναι). In practical terms, the epistle explains that this love means sharing one’s provisions (τὸν βίον τοῦ κόσμου) with a brother who lacks (τὸν ἀδελφὸν αὐτοῦ χρείαν ἔχοντα, 3:17). And the summary exhortation of 1 John 3:18—“let us love neither in word nor speech but in deed and truth” (μὴ ἀγαπῶμεν λόγῳ μηδὲ τῇ γλώσσῃ ἀλλὰ ἐν ἔργῳ καὶ ἀληθείᾳ)—closely resembles the language of Alcestis criticizing the parents of Admetus for love “in word not in deed” (λόγῳ […] οὐκ ἔργῳ, 339). While these Johannine texts envisage philia relationships among the community of Christ-followers, the deutero-Pauline author of Ephesians is unique in the New Testament for conceiving of self-giving, vicarious death as a function of marital love. At Eph 5:2, he deploys the Pauline formula known from Gal 2:20—ὁ Χριστὸς ἠγάπησεν ἡμᾶς καὶ παρέδωκεν ἑαυτὸν ὑπὲρ ἡμῶν—then proceeds to apply it in the case of his instructions to husbands and wives. For the latter, “as the church submits to Christ, so also wives [submit] to their husbands in everything” (ὡς ἡ ἐκκλησία ὑποτάσσεται τῷ Χριστῷ, οὕτως καὶ αἱ γυναῖκες τοῖς ἀνδράσιν ἐν παντί, 5:24). Husbands, for their part, are meant to “love your wives, just as Christ also loved the church and gave himself for her” (ἀγαπᾶτε τὰς γυναῖκας, καθὼς καὶ ὁ Χριστὸς ἠγάπησεν τὴν ἐκκλησίαν καὶ ἑαυτὸν παρέδωκεν ὑπὲρ αὐτῆς, 5:25). Here, the idealized spiritual marriage between Christ and the church is a model for human relationships, and consequently self-giving death provides the chief exemplum of marital agapē. In this regard, Ephesians provides the closest corollary in the New Testament to the Alcestis, sharing its central focus on the nature of love between husband and wife. Yet, whereas throughout antiquity evocations of Alcestis are almost exclusively concerned with celebrating the virtue of an ideal wife, the author of Ephesians reverses the gender obligations so that it is the husband rather than the wife who must offer himself up. This reversal diverges from common treatments of Alcestis and Admetus by ancient moralists such as Plato and Musonius Rufus, who both praise Alcestis unreservedly without questioning the responsibility of Admetus as husband. Valerius Maximus, by contrast, charges him with criminality, echoing his father’s insinuation of murder in the drama (Alc. 730; see above). Ephesians, it seems, would side with the latter, emphasizing that within marriage the duty to offer up one’s life falls not to the wife but the husband.27

Atonement and Resurrection 95 In view of these questions of familial duty in connection with vicarious death, we are positioned to return to the Barcelona Alcestis with greater appreciation for its appeal among Christians. Interpreters have, for good reason, been cautious about identifying Christian influences on the poet, which are at most subtle and indirect.28 With the common focus on substitutionary death in the Alcestis and the New Testament, however, it is probable that at least some Christian readers would have noticed biblical resonances. In lines 32–42, where Pheres rejects his son’s appeal, he asserts, “if you should request my eyes, I would yield them” (si lumina poscas, concedam, 32–33), and likewise “a hand from my body” (manum de corpore, 33). The suggestion of removing these two specific body parts readily calls to mind the saying of Jesus in the Gospel of Matthew: εἰ δὲ ὁ ὀφθαλμός σου ὁ δεξιὸς σκανδαλίζει σε, ἔξελε αὐτὸν καὶ βάλε ἀπὸ σοῦ […] καὶ εἰ ἡ δεξιά σου χεὶρ σκανδαλίζει σε, ἔκκοψον αὐτὴν καὶ βάλε ἀπὸ σοῦ. If your right eye makes you stumble, remove it and throw it from yourself […] and if your right hand makes you stumble, cut it off and throw it from yourself. (Matt 5:29–30; cf. 18:8–9)29 Further similarities are evident. Six lines later, Pheres adds, “for there is nothing sweeter to me than life” (ta quia dulcius una nil mihi, 39–40). This idea clearly derives, as Miroslav Marcovich rightly points out, from Euripides, where Admetus accuses Pheres of “loving a long life” (μακροῦ βίου […] ἐρῶντα, Alc. 715).30 Indeed, Pheres himself had asserted that “all people love” (φιλεῖν ἅπαντας) their own “life” (ψυχήν, 703–704). But the lines from the Barcelona Alcestis also potentially correspond to Jesus’ words. Later in the Gospel of Matthew, he delivers one of his characteristic paradoxes: “whoever wishes to save his own life will lose it; and whoever loses his life for my sake will find it” (ὃς γὰρ ἐὰν θέλῃ τὴν ψυχὴν αὐτοῦ σῶσαι ἀπολέσει αὐτήν· ὃς δ’ ἂν ἀπολέσῃ τὴν ψυχὴν αὐτοῦ ἕνεκεν ἐμοῦ εὑρήσει αὐτήν, 16:25; cf. Mark 8:35; Luke 9:24). A similar sentiment is expressed by Jesus in the Gospel of John, with language that is especially reminiscent of the Alcestis (φιλέω + ψυχή): “the one who loves his life loses it, and the one who hates his life in this world will preserve it for eternal life” (ὁ φιλῶν τὴν ψυχὴν αὐτοῦ ἀπολλύει αὐτήν, καὶ ὁ μισῶν τὴν ψυχὴν αὐτοῦ ἐν τῷ κόσμῳ τούτῳ εἰς ζωὴν αἰώνιον φυλάξει αὐτήν, 12:25; cf. especially Alc. 703–704, also 339–341; 928–930). For Christian readers of the Latin poem, therefore, Pheres’ refusal to die for Ademtus would have been a foil not merely for the virtue of Alcestis—as it clearly was in both Euripides and the Barcelona Alcestis—but also for the teachings of Jesus in the Gospels. Raising the Dead with Alcestis: From the Gospel of John to the Via Latina As the foregoing discussion established, the death of Alcestis for her husband (as dramatized by Euripides) was commonly evoked in antiquity as an extraordinary model of love and devotion. Moreover, its distinctive function as a transactional

96  Atonement and Resurrection exchange established by a god is especially analogous to the death of Christ as atonement. This close correlation with Christian ideals made for a natural inclusion of a Latin poem on Alcestis within a Christian codex. Yet, while the Barcelona Alcestis follows Euripides in many ways, including the Latin Mors in place of Thanatos, Heracles is absent, and there is no suggestion that the heroine would return to life (see, however, lines 90–92). By contrast, in the nearly contemporary painting of this myth in the Christian catacomb of the Via Latina, the primary focus is on the role of Heracles in delivering Alcestis from the dead; and his conquest over death is complemented by four additional scenes of Heraclean exploits (Heracles with Athena; vanquishing an enemy; killing the hydra; stealing the golden apples).31 It may seem initially surprising for a son of Zeus to be featured so prominently in a distinctly Christian funerary context, where the other rooms are decorated almost exclusively with biblical scenes and heroes. In fact, however, Heracles did not disappear in the fourth century with the rise of Christianity, and despite virulent denunciations of his excesses by Christian apologists, even after the conversion of Constantine, he continued occasionally to be evoked as a paradigm for emulation by Christian emperors into the fifth century, albeit lacking its former cultic entailments.32 Even so, Christian disdain for Heracles persisted.33 This is evident in portrayals of the Battle of Frigidus between Theodosius and Eugenius in 394 ce, sometimes regarded as the last stand of pagans. In a Christian recounting, it was a war between the cross and Heracles, with the latter leading the army of God’s enemies (Theodoret, Hist. eccl. 5.23).34 The catacomb of the Via Latina is far removed from such political associations with Heracles, situating him, rather, in a funerary setting juxtaposed with familiar biblical material. This apparent incongruity has led interpreters to speculate concerning the religious identities of those involved. Explanations include differentiating between a (pagan) painter and a (Christian) patron (B. Berg) or among family members who held differing religious convictions (D. Wright); or as an instance of syncretism.35 It must be acknowledged, however, that as in the case of the poet of the Barcelona Alcestis, religious identities remain uncertain. It is more productive to explore the effects and implications of the distinctive combinations of images in the catacomb. In fact, there appears to have been some coordination between them. Jaś Elsner compares, for instance, Heracles stealing apples from the Hesperides next to a serpent in the tree with a depiction in cubiculum C of Adam and Eve taking an apple also in the presence of a serpent.36 More immediately proximate to Heracles, the adjacent room, cubiculum O, features Jesus raising Lazarus from the grave; if one stands in the middle of one room it is possible to view, at least partially, the paintings in the other. As Gregory Snyder notes, moreover, both rooms “came into existence during the same phase of construction.”37 And while the ultimate intentionality behind this arrangement remains obscure to us, the correlation between the two scenes will have been immediately obvious to ancient viewers. Both depict the son of God acting with supernatural heroism to rescue his deceased friend from the grip of death and in order to restore him/her to his/her family. It is especially relevant, moreover, that Alcestis and Lazarus were popularly

Atonement and Resurrection 97 represented in funerary art precisely because of their associations with restoration to life.38 Their side-by-side placement in a catacomb, therefore, would seem to be no mere coincidence. Given the similarities and proximity between these scenes in this visual setting, it is surprising that interpreters of the Gospel of John (the single New Testament source for the resurrection of Lazarus) scarcely attend to it.39 In fact, the respective narratives of the Alcestis and John 11 share several close correspondences. In both, the household of the individual who has suffered a misfortunate and premature death happens to enjoy a special bond of friendship with the divine hero. For Lazarus, John emphasizes this by recalling (or rather anticipating) the celebrated occasion of hospitality offered to Jesus by his sisters Mary and Martha: “it was the Mary who anointed the Lord with perfume and wiped his feet dry with her hair” (ἦν δὲ Μαριὰμ ἡ ἀλείψασα τὸν κύριον μύρῳ καὶ ἐκμάξασα τοὺς πόδας αὐτοῦ ταῖς θριξὶν αὐτῆς, 11:2; cf. 12:3). This visit by Jesus to Bethany in which he had been hosted for dinner exemplified the nature of their relationship; and the sisters now evoke it in appealing to Jesus for intervention in their brother’s illness: “behold, he whom you love is sick” (ἴδε ὃν φιλεῖς ἀσθενεῖ, 11:3). That Jesus had connection of philia with Lazarus is supplemented by John’s observation that “Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus” (ἠγάπα δὲ ὁ Ἰησοῦς τὴν Μάρθαν καὶ τὴν ἀδελφὴν αὐτῆς καὶ τὸν Λάζαρον, 11:5). Like Lazarus, Admetus found favor from a divine benefactor, in his case two times, each for his acts of hospitality and each resulting in salvation from an impending or recent death. First, as Apollo recalls in the prologue of the Alcestis, Admetus had received him when “having come to this land, I was tending cattle for my guest-friend” (ἐλθὼν δὲ γαῖαν τήνδ’ ἐβουφόρβουν ξένῳ, Alc. 8). Xenia is closely related to philia, and Apollo adds that Admetus was his “friend” (φίλος, 42).40 It is precisely in response to this generous welcome that Apollo tricked the fates to establish the arrangement for Admetus to regain his life. Having been thus successful once, when Admetus is later visited by a second son of Zeus, his hospitality again yields a deliverance from death, this time for his wife. As between Jesus and Lazarus, Heracles and Admetus had an existing philia relationship: the chorus describe the hero as: “a man arrived as a friend” (φίλου μολόντος ἀνδρός, 562). And the hospitality was mutual: Admetus notes that he customarily receives xenia from Heracles in Argos, where “I myself meet this most excellent guestfriend” (αὐτὸς δ᾽ ἀρίστου τοῦδε τυγχάνω ξένου, 559). In both stories, the actions of the hero and timing of their arrival are questioned by critics. Heracles, realizing that the house was mourning a death, although not yet aware that it was Alcestis, recognizes that “to the grieving, a guest-friend is an annoyance, should one arrive” (λυπουμένοις ὀχληρός, εἰ μόλοι, ξένος, 540). Nevertheless, after offering to remove himself to some other host, he indulges himself in feasting and merriment so that Admetus’ servant complains: “never have I received at this hearth a guest-friend more base than this one” (τοῦδ᾽ οὔπω ξένον κακίον᾽ ἐς τήνδ᾽ ἑστίαν ἐδεξάμην, 749–50). The timing of Jesus’ arrival at the home of Lazarus likewise met with disapproval. Martha and Mary both assert, “if you were here my brother would not have died” (εἰ ἦς ὧδε οὐκ ἂν ἀπέθανεν ὁ ἀδελφός μου,

98  Atonement and Resurrection 11:21, 32), implying blame for his delay (cf. 11:37).41 The heroes ultimately vindicate themselves, however, by delivering the deceased from death; as Heracles declares upon learning the truth concerning Alcestis, he would raise her up “to place her in the hands of my guest-friend” (ὥστε χερσὶν ἐνθεῖναι ξένου, 854). With this final point, a significant difference between the tragedy and the Gospel becomes clear. Throughout the Alcestis, up to line 821, Heracles remained ignorant of the circumstances of Admetus’ misfortune, which results in his boorish behavior stereotypical in comic drama. By contrast, Jesus retained control of the situation from the outset. When he learned of Lazarus’ illness, he chose to stay away for two additional days (John 11:6), with the ultimate purpose of “the glory of God, that the son of God might be glorified through it” (τῆς δόξης τοῦ θεοῦ, ἵνα δοξασθῇ ὁ υἱὸς τοῦ θεοῦ δι᾽ αὐτῆς, 11:4; cf. 11:40). Far from being a misjudgment as it was for Heracles, the actions of John’s Jesus were calculated to frame his self-revelatory proclamation as “the resurrection and the life” (11:25). As with the atonement discussed above, the Alcestis also provides potential “background” for Christian ideas concerning resurrection more broadly. New Testament scholars often emphasize that there is no clear Greek or Roman parallel to Jesus’ resurrection, and to be sure this is correct at one level: among numerous individuals reported to have returned from the grave none exactly correlates with Jesus as reported in the New Testament.42 N. T. Wright, in his tome devoted to the topic, argues at length that no one in the pagan world of the first century took seriously the possibility that a person could rise from the dead and stay alive. He gives Alcestis a prominent place among potential counter-examples, emphasizing, rightly, that in contrast to Jesus she “will presumably die again, like Lazarus in John’s gospel.” Wright goes on to posit that “intelligent pagans contemporary with early Christianity knew about such stories, and dismissed them.”43 Setting aside his tendentious language (“intelligent pagans”), in view of the catacomb of the Via Latina, among some Christians this story may not have been so readily “dismissed.” In fact, it appears to have aligned with their own hopes for the resurrection, and it is precisely the juxtaposition alongside Lazarus in a funerary context that invests the pagan myth with this meaning. Among the occurrences of Alcestis in funerary contexts, there is an occasional reflection of hope for the afterlife, as in the case of Metilia Acte discussed above. More often, however, as Zanker and Ewald note regarding numerous tomb inscriptions, they “never contain any mention of ‘resurrection’ or ‘life after death’”; the concern was rather with the immortalization of the heroine’s virtue.44 For the Christian community of the Via Latina, it may well have been their own scriptural tradition concerning Lazarus that inspired them to take Alcestis’ return to life seriously, potentially even more so than their “intelligent pagan” counterparts. Conclusions Euripides’ dramatization of the vicarious death of Alcestis for her husband and subsequent rescue and restoration to life by Heracles remained fixed in the imagination of many throughout antiquity. As demonstrated by the Barcelona Alcestis and

Atonement and Resurrection 99 the catacomb at the Via Latina, this was also the case for at least some Christians. These receptions do not arise in the fourth century ex nihilo, however. In fact, the drama functions as relevant background and a possible influence for Paul’s formulation of Christ’s death as atonement in Romans 5, both conceptually and in shared vocabulary (especially (ἀπο)θνῄσκω and ὑπέρ). While New Testament scholars have occasionally observed this, comparative analyses with the Alcestis have not been advanced beyond this. This chapter argued for more far-reaching correlations with the recurrent insistence in the New Testament that self-giving death is the definitive mark of genuine “love” (philia and agapē). The author of Ephesians, in particular, frames this in conjunction with marital obligations modeled on the spiritual marriage of Christ and the church. In his case, however, the paradigm is inverted such that it is now the duty of the husband to die for his wife. In addition, philia relationships are vital to divine interventions that restore humans to life. Twice in the Alcestis, Admetus benefited from a guest-friendship with a son of Zeus, receiving his own life back from Apollo and his wife’s from Heracles. In the Christian tradition according to the Gospel of John, the family of Lazarus likewise had an established friendship with Jesus, acting as his host in Bethany. And, as with Admetus, this philia provided the basis for a supernatural act by the son of God to rescue Lazarus from death. In view of this narrative similarity, the juxtaposition of Lazarus and Alcestis in a Christian catacomb takes on fresh significance. Whereas Greeks and Romans often included references to Alcestis in funerary contexts, now there is a heightened resonance: the expectation that Christ would once more act decisively to restore his people to life in the world to come. Notes 1 On the Alcestis, see Smith (1960); Burnett (1971, 22–46); Segal (1992); Lloyd (1985); Gregory (1991, 19–49); Foley (2001, 301–31); Wildberg (2002, 13–36); Parker (2007); Most (2010); Slater (2013). 2 The more precise designation for this catacomb is now Via Dio Compagni, but for simplicity I continue to deploy Via Latina. For a complete presentation of this catacomb, see Ferrua (1991), and esp. 130–41 and figs. 122–130 on cubiculum N. For analysis, Simon (1964); Fink (1980); Wright (1983); Elsner (1995, 271–79); Mucznik (1999, 31–36); Snyder (2005); Nagy (2015); Tatham (2020); Eppinger (2021, 528–30). 3 Augustine recounts an especially violent attack on Heracles by certain Christians within his see around 400 CE; they destroyed his cult statue, and as a result the local magistrate put several to death (Ep. 50); on this see MacMullen (1997, 51–52). By contrast, some Christians could express a positive appreciation for this hero in the parable of the Choice of Heracles (Xenophon, Mem. 2.1.21–34; see, e.g., Justin Martyr, 2 Apol. 11; Basil, Address to Young Men on the Right Use of Greek Literature 5.55–77). There is vast scholarly literature on Heracles in relation to the New Testament and early Christianity; as representative, see Pfister (1937); Rose (1938); Toynbee (1939, 465– 86); Knox (1948); Simon (1955); Malherbe (2014); Aune (1990); van Kooten (2010, 25–29); Friesen (2018); Allan (2020); Anagnostou-Laoutides (2020a); (2020b); Eppinger (2020); (2021). 4 For text of this poem and commentary, see Marcovich (1988); see also Hall (2008); Mantzilas (2011).

100  Atonement and Resurrection 5 For the reception of the Alcestis, see Parker (2003); von Möllendorff (2008); Slater (2013, 67–94); Roisman (2015). 6 For a brief survey, see Parker (2007, xv–xix). 7 These are an Alcestis by Phrynichus (of which a single line survives, TrGF 1[3] F2) and an Admetus by Phormus (PCG 1 T1). 8 There is a possible exception. Hesychius of Alexandria attributes to Phrynichus’ Alcestis the line “he distressed a fearless, bruised body” (σῶμα δ’ ἀθαμβὲς γυιοδόνητον τείρει, TrGF 1.3 F2). This is generally taken as a reference to Heracles, and Parker (2007) xvi suggests that it is “possible that the rescue of Alcestis from the dead was entirely [Phrynichus’] invention.” It must be acknowledged, however, that the referent of this line is highly uncertain. Roisman (2015, 369) mentions a fifth-century red-figure kantharos attributed to Amphitrite Painter representing Heracles’ confrontation with Thanatos as the latter seeks to drag Alcestis away. Although Roisman does not specify which vase she has in view, it is apparently London E155. While this image features Thanatos, his victim is a fallen youth, and the other figure (almost certainly not Heracles) has been identified as Ixion or Laocoön. See Shapiro (1994, 86–87). In short, there is, to my knowledge, no unambiguous evidence of Heracles’ role in the Alcestis myth pre-dating Euripides’ composition. By contrast, after the fifth century, this association became common in both literature and art, though not universal; in Plato, for example, her return from Hades is attributed to the “gods” (θεοί, Symp. 179c); and Apollodorus notes that some credit Persephone (1.9.15). 9 Dramatic genres were institutionally distinct, though they were mutually informing. For relevant discussion, see Chapter 5 and Storey (2005); Gregory (2006); Parker (2007, xix–xxiv); Silk (2013); Shaw (2014, 1–7). 10 It is not necessarily the case that a “happy ending” (in this case, the resurrection of Alcestis) corresponds to comedy rather than tragedy. Aristotle acknowledges that some tragic plots end in good fortune; but this was not his preference, nor was it consistent with Euripides’ reputation as the “most tragic of the poets” (τραγικώτατός γε τῶν ποιητῶν, Poet. 1453a). Heracles’ buffoonery, however, especially in feasting and drinking, is especially associated with comedy and satyr drama as discussed above (Chapter 5); see also Hošek (1963); Galinsky (1972, 81–100). 11 Additional occurrences of θνήσκω combined with ὑπέρ and πρό are at 682: ὑπερθνήισκειν σέθεν; 690: μὴ θνῆισχ’ ὑπὲρ τοῦδ’ ἀνδρός, οὐδ’ ἐγὼ πρὸ σοῦ; and 700–701: κατθανεῖν […] ὑπὲρ σοῦ. 12 For discussion, see Burnett (1965); Dyson (1988). 13 As Parker (2007, 53) notes, it is unusual in classical Greek for ὅσιος to apply to gods. 14 This is, of course, not unique to Alcestis in tragedy. Other such heroines include Antigone (Sophocles) and Medea (Euripides); and see Chapter 7 on Polyxena (Euripides’ Hecuba). 15 Segal (1992, 148). On gender in the Alcestis, see also Foley (2001, 301–30). 16 On philia in the Alcestis, see Most (2010, 103–4). 17 For a contrast between philia and erōs, see also 1080–1081: Admetus: “some love compels me [to groaning]”; Heracles: “your love for the deceased provokes a tear” (ἀλλ᾽ ἔρως τις ἐξάγει./τὸ γὰρ φιλῆσαι τὸν θανόντ᾽ ἄγει δάκρυ). 18 Taplin (2007, 111–12); Bonfante (2010). 19 For discussion and analysis, see Marshall (2004). 20 Other Romans similarly held Alcestis up as an ideal wife (e.g., Ovid, Tr. 5.5.55–56; Pont. 3.1.105–106; Am. 3.19–20; Seneca, Controv. 2.2.11); see Larosa (2014). 21 Zanker and Ewald (2012, 306–10, at 307). 22 Wood (1978). See also Mucznik (1999, 36–38, 75–76). 23 As Elsner (2012) argues more broadly, carvings of Alcestis and other such traditional Greco-Roman figures on the walls of a coffin can be reflective of the permeability of boundaries between death and life.

Atonement and Resurrection 101 24 On Musonius Rufus’ egalitarianism and his view of mutuality in marriage, see Nussbaum (2002, esp. 298–300). 25 Among the former, sources include Isa 53; 2 Macc 7:37–78; 4 Macc 6:27–29; 17:20–22. Among the latter, Greek tragedy is a central consideration; and also the Roman practice of devotio pro principe. The scholarly literature on this topic is vast; see, as representative, Hengel (1981); Bremmer (1992); Versnel (2005); Gathercole (2015). 26 Gathercole (2015, 92–94). As noted above, however, the moral characterization of Admetus in the Alcestis is more ambivalent and ironic than it appears. For analysis of Paul’s conception of the atonement in relation to the Alcestis, see also Hengel (1981, 20–21); Bremmer (1992, 84–85); Versnel (2005, 234–37); Herrero de Jáuregui (2016, esp. 214–16). 27 For a helpful discussion of gender in Ephesians and Musonius Rufus, see Hering (2007, 245–52). 28 Harrison and Obbink (1986, 77), for example, have noted that the poem’s catalogue of dying gods at lines 62–65 seems to be taken over from Christian apologists. 29 Marcovich (1988, 50) dismisses this correspondence as “a sheer coincidence.” He cites Juvenal 13.90–94 which speaks of Isis blasting one’s “eyes” (lumina) with her rattle and leaving her victim with “half a leg” (dimidium crus, 13.95). The comparison is rather imprecise, however; and in both Matthew and the Barcelona Alcestis the imagined amputations are voluntary and self-inflicted. 30 Marcovich (1988, 51). 31 See Ferrua (1991, 130–41): for the scenes of the Alcestis myth, figs. 124 and 128; and for additional feats of Heracles, figs. 125, 126, 129, and 130. 32 In the fourth century, see, e.g., Themistius, Or. 13.169c–d on Gratian; cf. Or. 34.28. As Eppinger (2020) observes, such evocations of Heracles were almost exclusively limited to panegyric and were no longer accompanied by claims for divine lineage; on which, see Chapter 5. 33 Note, e.g., the attack by Christians on a cult statue of Heracles reported by Augustine (Ep. 50; see above n. 3). 34 As Cameron (2011, 93–131) notes, however, the depiction of this battle as an essentially religious conflict has little historical merit, not least because Eugenius appears to have been a Christian himself. 35 Berg (1994); Wright (1983). 36 Elsner (1995, 275); see also Ferrua (1991, 140). 37 Snyder (2005, 357). 38 For an overview and analysis of Alcestis and Lazarus in funerary art, see respectively Mucznik (1999, 31–55); Jensen (1995). Jensen counts more than 50 paintings of Lazarus in Roman catacombs of the fourth and fifth centuries and roughly as many representations on sarcophagi. 39 It is lacking, e.g., in major commentaries on John—Bultmann (1971, 396–409); Brown (1966–1970, 1.420–37); Keener (2003, 2.835–50)—and a book-length study of Lazarus: Marchadour (1988). Curiously, Keener (2003) in noting several ancient “resuscitation stories,” cites the Alcestis, but for its brief mention of Asclepius (124–130), rather than its central plot feature of Heracles raising his friend to life (2.837 n. 18). Now, however, Louden (2018, 163–74) has conducted a detailed analysis, identifying 12 motifs shared between the Alcestis and John 11, several of which are also included in my discussion here. The extent and precision of the similarities, he suggests, indicate a strong likelihood that the Alcestis influenced (directly or indirectly) the Johannine tradition. Minimally, “[t]hey are separate instances of the same genre of myth, which we might designate: The Son of God, in the midst of his own heroic trials, resurrects a mortal, to whom he was tied by hospitality, prefiguring his own coming translation to divine status” (170–71). Other scholars have analyzed the Gospel of John in connection with tragedy in different ways; see esp. Brant (2004); MacDonald (2017, 23–123). Occasionally,

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4 0 41 4 2 43 44

the Alcestis is deployed as a point of comparison—e.g., Brant (2004, 88–89, 142–47, 259–71); Parsenios (2005, 10–12)—but never regarding the resurrection of Lazarus. On this, see Stanton (1990). Jesus is furthermore supposed by his disciples to misconstrue the difference between “sleep” and “death” (John 11:11–13). But see now the helpful discussion of Litwa (2019, 169–78). Wright (2003, 65–68, at 67). For a different analysis of Alcestis in relation to the resurrection of Jesus, see Bryan (2011, 30–34). Zanker and Ewald (2012, at 307).

7

From Tragic Heroines to Religious Martyrs The Afterlife of Polyxena between Philo and Clement of Alexandria

The emperor Marcus Aurelius observed that the rational soul must be prepared for separation from the body, and must face this with self-determination and dignity. This should not be undertaken, however, he insists, “as the Christians.” In contrast to them, the soul must welcome its departure, “not as open defiance” (μὴ κατὰ ψιλὴν παράταξιν), but rather “untragically” (ἀτραγῴδως, 11.3; cf. Lucian, Peregr. 21). The emperor’s insinuation that Christian martyrs die “tragically” is not entirely without justification. Around 50 ce, the apostle Paul had already asserted that God displayed his and his fellow apostles’ condemnation to death as “a theater for the cosmos” (θέατρον τῷ κόσμῳ, 1 Cor 4:9), and in the subsequent decades and centuries numerous Christians would be put to death in public spectacles.1 The fate of the celebrated martyr Perpetua, executed about two decades after the reign of Marcus Aurelius, was depicted in an unmistakably theatrical manner, as the narrator borrowed a gesture from Polyxena in Euripides’ Hecuba. Like her tragic counterpart, while falling under a violent blow, Perpetua carefully arranges her garment in a final (improbable) act of modesty: “she restored her tunic, which had fallen from her side, as a covering for her thigh, more mindful of modesty than of pain” (tunicam a latere discissam ad uelamentum femoris reduxit, pudoris potius memor quam doloris, Passio Perpetuae et Felicitatis 20.4, cf. Eur. Hec. 568–570).2 That the Christian author alludes to this famous dramatic scene is well known and has occasioned frequent comment.3 Insufficient attention, however, has been paid to the wider reception history of the Hecuba as literary background for the Passio’s mimetic gesture toward the tragedy. This chapter traces the fate of the heroine through the reception of the Hecuba as a means of discerning how the tragedy came to function as a model for martyrdom. Polyxena was a popular figure in ancient ethical discourse, cited as an exemplum, on the one hand, of heroic (masculine) courage and, on the other, of feminine purity.4 For the purposes of this study, the applications of her death by Philo and Clement of Alexandria are particularly relevant, as she is deployed by each as a gendered paradigm of virtue but in strikingly different directions. Philo views moral and spiritual advancement as a distinctly masculine achievement, and thus Polyxena’s courage in death serves as a model for his male readers. By contrast, Clement is preoccupied with eroticism, and thus he finds in Polyxena’s modest collapse a prototype for the Christian wife. These paradoxical appropriations DOI: 10.4324/9781003392132-7

104  From Tragic Heroines to Religious Martyrs of the tragedy reflect a broader literary milieu which was variously fixated on the maiden’s gender. Polyxena’s actions, as with those of Heracles in the Syelus discussed in Chapter 5, challenge assumptions concerning virtue in relation to natural slavery and barbarian ethnicity. Moreover, as a female, like Alcestis, discussed in Chapter 6, her willing embrace of death exposes and potentially undercuts masculine assumptions about courageous valor. Similar concerns inform the Christian narrator of Perpetua’s death, and his evocation of the gestures of this tragic heroine reflect a cultural transition wherein martyrology would take the place of tragedy as a performative venue focused on the interplay between misfortune and suffering, providence, and piety. Before investigating Philo and Clement in turn, I briefly comment on the play itself, observing the ways in which it problematizes the relationship of gender with heroic virtue. Polyxena on (and off) the Athenian Stage The Hecuba was first performed in the late 420s during the Peloponnesian War and, like the Troades and Andromache, it is set in the aftermath of the Trojan War, vividly portraying the fate of the captive women.5 In the prologue, the ghost of Hecuba’s son Polydorus informs the audience that Achilles’ ghost had appeared to the Greeks and insisted that Polyxena, the Trojan princess, be sacrificed as a prize on his tomb or he would continue to thwart their travel homeward (Hec. 35–39). The first half of the play, thereafter, concerns the sacrifice of the maiden, followed in the second half by Hecuba’s revenge upon the Polymestor, the treacherous murderer of her son.6 Despite her mother’s desperate pleas, the decision for her sacrifice cannot be overturned. Polyxena, for her part, accepts her fate with courage and gracefulness, desiring death over slavery (346–349, 547–552).7 The willingness with which Polyxena offers herself for sacrifice and the distinctive manner of her death inspired admiration throughout antiquity. These features may well have been Euripidean innovations, although, in the absence of pre-Euripidean literary sources for the death of Polyxena, this is impossible to establish with confidence.8 In the earliest extant visual representation—a famous sixth-century Attic black-figure vase, now in the British Museum (ABV 97.27)— Polyxena is depicted as about to be sacrificed while bound and carried horizontally by three soldiers at the altar (Figure 7.1).9 Similarly, on a sarcophagus discovered in 1994 at Gümüşçay (Turkey) near Troy and dated to the same period, Polyxena is carried in like manner while her throat is cut (Figure 7.2).10 By contrast, Euripides’ heroine declares “let no one touch my body” (μή τις ἅψηται χροὸς τοὐμοῦ, 548–549).11 The exceptionality of this is further evident when compared with the sacrifice of Iphigenia. In Aeschylus’ account of the latter, to which the Hecuba alludes at several points, the maiden is dragged, bound and gagged, to the altar (Ag. 228–238).12 Thus, what emerges from the Euripidean drama is an extraordinary exhibition of the courageous acceptance of death. For good reason, therefore, the meaning and significance of Polyxena’s mode of dying have spawned extensive scholarly comment. At one level, the maiden’s

From Tragic Heroines to Religious Martyrs  105

Figure 7.1 Attic black-figure Tyrrhenian amphora with the sacrifice of Polyxena by Neoptolemus, © The Trustees of the British Museum (used with permission)

willingness can be understood as fulfilling the ritual requirement that sacrificial victims assent to their killing.13 There is more, however. In keeping with a common tragic trope, her embrace of dying is suggestive of a marriage to Hades: whereas she was brought up with the hope of becoming a “bride for kings” (βασιλεῦσι νύμφη, Hec. 352), now she laments, “there I shall lie in Hades apart from you

Figure 7.2  Sarcophagus from Gümüşçay Turkey with the sacrifice of Polyxena, Troy Museum (used with permission)

106  From Tragic Heroines to Religious Martyrs [mother], without bridegroom or wedding which I ought to have had” (ἐκεῖ δ᾽ ἐν Ἅιδου κείσομαι χωρὶς σέθεν […] ἄνυμφος ἀνυμέναιος ὧν μ᾽ ἐχρῆν τυχεῖν, 418, 416).14 Consequently, Hecuba describes her as a “bride that is no bride” (νύμφην τ’ ἄνυμφον, 612). Polyxena would choose such a death over slavery, however, and, in commitment to freedom, offers her killer the choice between cutting her throat or her chest (563–565). This gesture transgresses conventional distinctions in tragic modes of death for women and men: women tend to die by the throat, whereas men do not.15 Indeed, a stab to the chest was an honorable means of slaughter for a warrior, but sacrificial victims were never struck there. In view of this, Polyxena’s alternative functions as a choice between a feminine or a masculine death. Nicole Loraux has argued that in Neoptolemus’ decision to cut her throat (562) Polyxena is denied the latter.16 At the same time, her sacrifice is eroticized: she tore her robe and exposed her breasts which are described as “most beautiful, as those of a statue” (ὡς ἀγάλματος κάλλιστα, 560–561).17 It is significant that in the drama Talthybius narrates the events from the perspective of the Greek army, and thus he fixates on the potential sexuality of the maiden’s gesture rather than its implied masculinity.18 Despite this, however, he is quick to emphasize the nobility of Polyxena in her final collapse. After receiving the fatal wound, ἡ δὲ καὶ θνῄσκουσ’ ὅμως πολλὴν πρόνοιαν εἶχεν εὐσχήμων πεσεῖν, κρύπτουσ’ ἃ κρύπτειν ὄμματ’ ἀρσένων χρεών. even while dying she nevertheless took much forethought to fall honorably, concealing the parts one must conceal from the eyes of men. (Euripides, Hec. 568–570)19 From this brief summary, it is clear that Euripides’ depiction of Polyxena’s willing death problematizes relationships between gender and heroic courage. On the one hand, the maiden is portrayed conventionally as a bride of Hades, and her body is consequently described erotically; on the other, her actions exhibit a degree of autonomy characteristic of heroic men, as particularly evident in her presentation of her chest to the sword. As Loraux has shown regarding tragedy more broadly, female deaths, especially those that are self-chosen or self-inflicted, granted to women a level of independence not typically enjoyed in Athenian society. Indeed, the tragic genre, “as a civic institution, delighted in blurring the formal frontier between masculine and feminine and freed women’s deaths from the banalities to which they were restricted by private mourning.”20 A Measure of Masculine Virtue in Philo’s Quod omnis probus liber sit Among Jewish and Christian writers, the earliest attested reference to the Hecuba comes in Philo of Alexandria’s Quod omnis probus liber sit.21 Philo is best known for his innovative methods of interpreting Jewish scripture in harmony with

From Tragic Heroines to Religious Martyrs 107 contemporary philosophy, in which he was particularly influential among early Christians.22 Less appreciated, however, is the extent to which Philo was acquainted with classical Greek poetry.23 As discussed in Chapter 3, he made use of dramatic texts on numerous occasions; most often, following common literary strategies in philosophy and oratory, he deployed gnomic excerpts as proof texts to lend authority to the argument at hand. In the Probus, however, his engagement with drama moves well beyond this: in addition to numerous gnomic quotations, he describes his own personal experience in the theater at a performance (Prob. 141; cf. Ebr. 177); and he recounts the plot of the satyr play Syleus, constructing a visual image of a production featuring the comic Heracles, who was popular with Alexandrian audiences (Prob. 99–104; see Chapter 5).24 Philo’s evocation of the death of Polyxena in the Probus well illustrates his cultural hybridity as he places the drama alongside Jewish and Greco-Roman ethical ideals. In treating the popular Stoic paradox that the virtuous person is free even if enslaved, he addressed a broader implied audience and accordingly drew from a range of exempla beyond biblical and Jewish sources. Among these, poets, and especially tragedians, are prominent; as he adds later, it is “fitting to heed poets” (ποιηταῖς προσέχειν ἄξιον).25 They are educators (παιδευταί), who “publicly train cities in moderation” (δημοσίᾳ τὰς πόλεις σωφρονίζοντες, 143).26 Among the plays quoted, the Hecuba is second only to the Syleus, and he includes its heroine along with other human exempla because, as Philo concedes, Heracles is a demigod and thus his heroic virtue lies beyond the reach of mere mortals (105).27 And the practice of such virtue is not limited to men—women and children have done likewise (114–117). For this, the Hecuba is especially illustrative:28 Πολυξένην δὲ ὁ τραγικὸς Εὐριπίδης ἀλογοῦσαν μὲν θανάτου φροντίζουσαν δὲ ἐλευθερίας εἰσάγει δι’ ὧν φησιν· ἑκοῦσα θνῄσκω, μή τις ἅψηται χροὸς τοὐμοῦ· παρέξω γὰρ δέρην εὐκαρδίως, ἐλευθέραν δέ μ’, ὡς ἐλευθέρα θάνω, πρὸς θεῶν μεθέντες κτείνατε. (Hec. 548–551) Euripides the tragedian presents Polyxena as paying no heed to death but pondering freedom through what she says: I die willingly, lest someone touch my body; for I shall offer my neck gladly, but, by the gods, allow me to be free when you kill me, so that I might die free. (Philo, Prob. 116) In the wider context of Philo’s argument, it is important not only that Polyxena was a human (in contrast to Heracles), but also that she was a woman. After his quotation from this dramatic scene he advances an a fortiori argument in support of his thesis, asking, “can we suppose that such a love of freedom be absorbed in

108  From Tragic Heroines to Religious Martyrs women and boys, the former possessing little understanding by nature, the latter an unstable age, but that those who draw in unmixed wisdom not be free immediately” (εἶτ’ οἰόμεθα γυναίοις μὲν καὶ μειρακίοις, ὧν τὰ μὲν φύσει ὀλιγόφρονα τὰ δὲ ἡλικίᾳ εὐολίσθῳ χρώμενα, τοσοῦτον ἐλευθερίας ἔρωτα ἐντήκεσθαι [. . .] τοὺς δὲ σοφίας ἀκράτου σπάσαντας οὐκ εὐθὺς ἐλευθέρους εἶναι, 117). This application of Polxyena’s death is consistent with a broader theme in Philo’s writings, his so-called “gender-gradient,” in which spiritual advancement is represented as progress away from the feminine toward the masculine (see e.g. Opif. 165; Leg. 2.38–39; Spec. 1.200–201; Ebr. 33; Post. 177).29 Philo approaches biblical heroines similarly: the matriarch Sarah, for example, had a “virtue-loving mind” (τὴν φιλάρετον διάνοιαν), but this only because she “left behind all the ways of women” (τὰ γυναικεῖα πάντ᾽ ἐκλιποῦσα, Ebr. 59–60, quoting LXX Gen 18:11).30 In keeping with this gendered reading of the Hecuba, like Philo, several other ancient authors employed Polyxena’s fearlessness in death as a measure of masculine virtue. For example, Pseudo-Lucian attributes a speech to Demosthenes in which, before committing suicide so as not to become a captive of Antipater, the orator quotes Hec. 568–569, and then asserts, “even a girl did these things; but will Demosthenes choose a dishonorable life over an honorable death?” (κόρη καὶ ταῦτα. Δημοσθένης δὲ εὐσχήμονος θανάτου βίον προκρινεῖ ἀσχήμονα, Encom. Demosth. 47). Ovid, who closely follows Euripides’ depiction of Polyxena, similarly emphasizes her gender, describing her as “a brave and miserable girl, and more than a female” (fortis et infelix et plus quam femina uirgo, Metam. 13.451).31 In an entirely different evocation of Polyxena’s gender, Lucian humorously compares dilettantes in philosophy to “an actor of tragedy who is himself soft and feminine” (τις ὑποκριτὴς τραγῳδίας μαλθακὸς αὐτὸς ὢν καὶ γυναικεῖος). Such a one not only fails successfully to portray masculine characters, such as Achilles, Theseus, and Heracles, but “not even Helen or Polyxena would ever accept him as entirely fitting to themselves” (οὐδ’ ἂν ἡ Ἑλένη ποτὲ ἢ Πολυξένη ἀνάσχοιντο πέρα τοῦ μετρίου αὐταῖς προσεοικότα, Pisc. 31.16; cf. Nigr. 11.8). In other words, Lucian implies, these women are more masculine than the male actors who attempt to play their role.32 Such evocations of Polyxena’s model of virtue reveal a persistent and widespread interest in her gender closely akin to Philo’s moralizing application in the Probus. That the intellectual and courageous virtues of women should be characterized as specifically masculine is of course not unique to the reception of the Hecuba (e.g. Xenophon, Oec. 10.1). Nevertheless, in discussions of willing deaths this is frequently foregrounded, often explicitly in the martyr tradition.33 In 2 Maccabees, the narrative of the death of the much-celebrated mother along with her seven sons under Antiochus Epiphanes emphasizes the masculinity of her actions. Exhorting them to maintain the ancestral laws even unto death, she “stirred up her feminine reasoning by way of a masculine courage” (τὸν θῆλυν λογισμὸν ἄρσενι θυμῷ διεγείρασα, 7:21). Fourth Maccabees likewise asserts that “pious reason made her heart manly in its emotions” (τὰ σπλάγχνα αὐτῆς ὁ εὐσεβὴς λογισμὸς ἐν αὐτοῖς τοῖς πάθεσιν ἀνδρειώσας, 15:23), and that “in words and deeds you were found more powerful than a man” (ἔργοις δυνατωτέρα καὶ λόγοις εὑρέθης ἀνδρός,

From Tragic Heroines to Religious Martyrs 109 16:14).34 In the Martyrdom of Polycarp, the hero is exhorted by a heavenly voice to “be strong and act like a man” (ἴσχυε [. . .] καὶ ἀνδρίζου, 9.1).35 Perpetua, similarly, while in her prison cell anticipating execution, records in her diary a vision of entering the arena to engage in gladiatorial combat, symbolizing her eventual victorious martyrdom.36 In the process, she reports, “I was stripped and I became a man” (et expoliata sum et facta sum masculus, Passio 10.7).37 In each of these examples, facing martyrdom is characterized as a specifically masculine virtue.38 Returning to the reception of the Hecuba, Philo’s appropriation of Polyxena’s heroic death reflects common perceptions of gender in antiquity and correlates with his own vision of the masculinity of spiritual advancement. Moreover, his a fortiori application of Polyxena as an exemplum for his male readers is consistent with the development of discourses on martyrdom in Judaism and Christianity that increasingly characterized noble death as uniquely manly, even when performed by women. A Model of the Chaste Wife in Clement’s Stromateis In early Christianity, martyrdom is especially lionized, and Clement of Alexandria extols its virtues at length in the fourth book of the Stromateis.39 It is an idealized state of spiritual perfection, because above all the martyr repudiates sensual pleasure in favor of the perfection of life in God’s presence (Strom. 4.5.22–23). In this context, Clement devotes considerable attention to female martyrs. Whereas elsewhere he often belittles the feminine nature as inferior to the masculine, in the case of martyrdom the achievements of women approach those of men: “the entire church is full of people who throughout their life have trained for a life-giving death in Christ, as is the case for men, so also for chaste women” (μεστὴ μὲν οὖν πᾶσα ἡ ἐκκλησία τῶν μελετησάντων τὸν ζωοποιὸν θάνατον εἰς Χριστὸν παρ’ ὅλον τὸν βίον καθάπερ ἀνδρῶν οὕτω δὲ καὶ γυναικῶν σωφρόνων, 4.8.58.2; cf. Tert. Mart. 4.4). For Clement, the heroines of classical tragedy corroborate his view of feminine virtue.40 Earlier in this discussion, he quoted four lines from a play (TrGF 2.114 adespota), in which a female protagonist declared her willingness to die; he adds, “a woman is speaking fearlessly in the tragedy, playing the man” (ἀφόβως ἀνδρεϊζομένη παρὰ τῇ τραγῳδίᾳ λέγει γυνή). This is followed immediately by a citation of Sophocles’ Antigone (450) as an additional tragic exemplum of a woman choosing death rather than transgressing divine law (Strom. 4.7.48.1–3). Thus, as with Philo’s reference to Polyxena, female death in tragedy is deployed by Clement as a model of specifically masculine virtue.41 In contrast to these evocations of dramatic heroines as proto-martyrs in Book 4 of the Stromateis, in Book 2 Clement cites Polyxena’s death in Euripides’ Hecuba in a different setting. As in Book 4, he is concerned with delineating the appropriate attitude toward sensuality and pleasure, whereas here he discusses marriage as illustrative of his wider ethical program (2.23.137–147; see also Paed. 2.10.83– 115).42 For Clement, marriage is above all a legal arrangement which exists for the purposes of procreation (2.23.137.1, citing Menander, PCG 6.2.453 = Koerte 682).43 It must, therefore, be conducted in a philosophical manner, that is, not

110  From Tragic Heroines to Religious Martyrs directed toward pleasures and passions: “whereas the marriage of others unites for pleasure, that of philosophers leads to a unanimity in accordance with the Logos” (ὁ μὲν γὰρ τῶν ἄλλων γάμος ἐφ’ ἡδυπαθείᾳ ὁμονοεῖ, ὁ δὲ τῶν φιλοσοφούντων ἐπὶ τὴν κατὰ λόγον ὁμόνοιαν ἄγει, 2.23.143.1). This Logos “commands women to adorn not their outward appearance but their character,” and, conversely, husbands “not to employ their wives as objects of desire,” but rather “to preserve marriage for the highest self-restraint” (ὁ μὴ τὸ εἶδος, ἀλλὰ τὸ ἦθος ἐπιτρέπων ταῖς γυναιξὶ κοσμεῖσθαι μηδ’ ὡς ἐρωμέναις χρῆσθαι ταῖς γαμεταῖς [. . .] τὴν ἀρίστην σωφροσύνην περιποιεῖσθαι τὸν γάμον, 2.23.143.1). The manner of Polyxena’s death demonstrates this ideal: τοῖς τραγῳδοποιοῖς δὲ ἡ Πολυξένη καίτοι ἀποσφαττομένη ἀναγέγραπται, ἀλλὰ καὶ ‘θνῄσκουσα ὅμως πολλὴν πρόνοιαν’ πεποιῆσθαι τοῦ ‘εὐσχημόνως πεσεῖν, κρύπτουσ’ ἃ κρύπτειν ὄμματα ἀρρένων ἐχρῆν.’ It is recorded by the tragedians that Polyxena, though having her throat cut, yet even “while dying she nevertheless took much forethought” to ensure that she “would fall honorably, concealing the parts one must conceal from the eyes of men.” (Clement, Strom. 2.23.144.2, quoting Hec. 568–570)44 That the maiden’s death, carried out in the tragedy as a human sacrifice for Achilles, should be applied by Clement to the practice of marriage presupposes an interpretation of her death as a wedding to Hades. As noted above, this theme is suggested in the Hecuba (e.g. 416, 418, 612), but it becomes increasingly prominent in the Hellenistic and Roman periods, in both art and literature (see n. 14 below). In Seneca’s Troades, for example, Polyxena’s procession to the sacrifice is said to have occurred “in the manner of a wedding” (thalami more, 1132).45 In a similar vein, Clement explains that “indeed, [Polyxena] had calamity as her wedding” (ἦν δὲ κἀκείνῃ γάμος ἡ συμφορά, 2.23.144.3). As such, this tragic scene could be applied to his ethical program for marriage: Polyxena’s gesture of modesty as she approached her chthonic bridegroom corresponds to the Christian bride who minimizes the sensuality of her physical appearance. Thus, Clement proceeds, “to be subjected to and succumb to the passions is utter servitude, even as to rule them is the only freedom” (τὸ ὑποπεσεῖν οὖν καὶ παραχωρῆσαι τοῖς πάθεσιν ἐσχάτη δουλεία, ὥσπερ ἀμέλει τὸ κρατεῖν τούτων ἐλευθερία μόνη, 2.23.144.3). As with Philo, therefore, Polyxena’s actions illustrate the nature of true freedom practiced even amidst corporeal slavery. Yet, whereas Philo situated this within a gendered framework applied to masculine virtue, for Clement Polyxena is an ideal of feminine chastity, thus a model for the Christian wife. Like martyrdom, celibacy represents the repudiation of the body in favor of consecration to God.46 A similar interest in chastity underlies Pliny the Younger’s application of Polyxena’s death in his discussion of the execution of the Vestal Virgin Cornelia under Domitian. Although she was charged with unchastity, Pliny was convinced of her innocence and describes her final gestures as proof of her true character.47 Like

From Tragic Heroines to Religious Martyrs 111 Euripides’ Polyxena, Cornelia maintained her chaste modesty to the end by recovering her body as her garment fell, and rebuffing the touch of her executioner: haesissetque descendenti stola, uertit se ac recollegit, cumque ei manum carnifex daret, auersata est et resiluit foedumque contactum quasi plane a casto puroque corpore nouissima sanctitate reiecit omnibusque numeris pudoris πολλὴν πρόνοιαν ἔσχεν εὐσχήμων πεσεῖν. While she was descending [into the pit], her garment caught up, and she turned and took it up again, and when the executioner offered her his hand, she turned away and recoiled, and she repelled the foul touch entirely as from a chaste and undefiled body, with the highest sanctity and all the measures of modesty, she “took much forethought to fall honorably.” (Ep. 4.11.9, quoting Hec. 569) For both Pliny and Clement, therefore, the final actions of Polyxena model distinctly feminine virtue—that is, they demonstrate commitment to chastity even up to the moment of death.48 Whereas for Pliny Cornelia’s imitation of the tragic maiden reinforced his view that she had in fact maintained her virginity, Clement cites Polyxena as a paradigm of the Christian wife who values modesty over seduction.49 Conclusions For the Emperor Marcus Aurelius, the deaths of Christian martyrs were distasteful because he saw them as excessively “tragic.” And in at least one instance, tragedy clearly provided a model for the most noble of deaths: the narrator of Perpetua’s martyrdom has the heroine, as Polyxena in the Hecuba of Euripides, cover herself out of concern for modesty, even as she fell under violent assault. This Christian appropriation of a dramatic gesture was not an isolated literary occurrence. The distinctively masculine courage and feminine decorum of Polyxena were greatly admired throughout antiquity occasioning frequent comment and imitation, and reflections upon the manner of her death were often framed in these conspicuously gendered categories. This chapter explored applications of the tragedy by Philo and Clement who both foreground Polyxena’s gender, albeit with vastly different emphases. Her independence and self-determination approach that of a man, and significantly the offering of her chest to the blade is suggestive of a warrior’s death, rather than a woman’s. For Philo, her unwavering commitment to freedom is thus a model for his male readers, and he argues that if a woman could choose to act in this way so much more must a man. This interpretive move is in keeping with Philo’s gender ideology, which envisions spiritual ascent as masculinizing. At the same time, it reflects a valorization of manly martyrdom already evident in Jewish literature and later to become prominent in Christianity, where such deaths were often characterized as essentially male, even in narratives of female martyrs. Clement shares this gendered ideology of martyrdom; yet Polyxena functions differently for him than for Philo. Rather than focusing on the masculinity inherent

112  From Tragic Heroines to Religious Martyrs in her self-chosen death, Clement is concerned with the manner of her fall. Her final act of modesty demonstrates the ideal of the Christian bride who eschews sensuality and seduction. Anxious to counteract perceived deleterious influences of prevalent eroticism, Clement aims to regulate Christian sexuality, even within marriage. As such, Polyxena vividly illustrates the importance of purity, which she maintains even as she approaches her chthonic bridegroom. This indecision with respect to gendering Polyxena’s noble death finds an interesting analogue in Perpetua. Whereas in her symbolic vision of a victorious martyrdom she becomes a man and defeats her gladiatorial opponent (Passio 10.7), in the end the narrator reiterates her femininity, describing her body with sensuality even as Perpetua carefully covers herself out of concern for modesty (20.2–4). Likewise, in the Hecuba, as Polyxena acts with masculine self-determination, this gives way to the messenger’s fixation on her beauty as an erotic spectacle to be observed by the Greek army. In these dynamics between spectator and spectacle, the performance of tragedy finds new expressions in the discourses of martyrdom; as on the Attic stage, human calamity and suffering are invested with profound religious meaning, as the fulfillment of some inscrutable divine will, or the expression of unwavering and pious devotion to God. Notes 1 On 1 Cor 4:9, see Friesen (2015b). 2 For analysis of “modesty/shame” (pudor) in relationship to the public performance of Christian martyrdom, see Burrus (2008, 10–35, esp. 28–32) on Perpetua. 3 Braun (1983, 2–4); Habermehl (2004, 226–27); Heffernan (2012, 346–47); Bremmer (2012, 48); Konstan (2012, 299 n.15) (with qualifications). 4 On the play’s ancient reception, see Heath (1987, esp. 40–43); Mossman (1999, 210–19, 247–53); Matthiessen (2010, 52–59); Quiroga Puertas (2014). 5 Among scholarship on the Hecuba, see esp. Daitz (1971); Loraux (1987, 56–60); Segal (1990); Collard (1991); Mossman (1999); Matthiessen (2010). 6 The drama’s unity (or disunity) has occasioned much discussion; but, for the purposes of the present study, the fate of Polyxena in the first half is most relevant. For a defense of thematic unity, see Segal (1990). 7 On the peculiarity of Polyxena’s choice of death in the Hecuba, see Scodel (1998, 144–45). And for philosophical readings of the play, see Nussbaum (2001, 397–421); Lawrence (2010). 8 Polyxena is not mentioned by Homer, and the scarce pre-Euripidean sources are divided on how she died. For example, the Cypria, according to the scholia on Hec. 41, asserted that she died during the siege of Troy from a wound by Odysseus and Diomedes. Simonides is the earliest attested author to have Achilles demand the sacrifice (PMG frag. 557). In the fragments of Sophocles’ Polyxena (TrGF 4.522–528), both the manner of her death and this play’s relationship to the Hecuba remain uncertain. For discussion, see Calder (1966); Mossman (1999, 19–47). 9 Also, on a black figure hydria in Berlin (ABV 363.37) she is portrayed as being led by the wrists to the burial mound of Achilles. For a survey of Polyxena in art, see TouchefeuMeynier (1994); Mangieri (2018, 62–99); and on the Greek archaic and Roman imperial periods, see respectively Schwarz (2001) and Schwarz (1992). 10 Sevinç (1996); Schwarz (2001, 35–36); Neer (2012). 11 Some later visual representations correspond more closely to the Euripidean version, i.e. with Polyxena untouched by the soldiers and nude from the waste up: for example,

From Tragic Heroines to Religious Martyrs 113

12 13

14

1 5 16 17 18

19

20

21 2 2 23 2 4 25

26

a late-fourth-century bce Etruscan sarcophagus in Orvieto (Museo dell’Opera del Duomo); and the Capitoline Tabula Iliaca in Rome (Museo Capitolino). On these, see respectively Herbig (1952, 40–41, with fig. 73); Sadurska (1964, 29, with plate 1). See also Schwarz (1992, 275–76). For this comparison, see Scodel (1998, 121); Mossman (1999, 151–54). For instance, both Iphigenia (Ag. 208) and Polyxena (Hec. 560) are described as an ἄγαλμα (“statue,” or “ornament”). See Loraux (1987, 42–47); Bremmer (2007, 62–64). More broadly on this sacrificial procedure, Burkert (1983, 4). Naiden (2007) has questioned this, however, arguing that sacrificial procedures were aimed at establishing victims’ vitality not their consent. On the wider use of sacrificial themes by Euripides, see Foley (1985); Henrichs (2000). On this see Segal (1990, 115–17); Mossman (1999, 154). That a maiden’s death should be presented as marriage to Hades is well attested in tragedy (perhaps most famously with Antigone [Sophocles, Ant. 814–816]) and other Greek literature, and is reflective of common ritual elements shared in the two rites of passage (weddings and funerals); see Seaford (1987). As Fontinoy (1950, 384–86), demonstrates, however, the depiction of Polyxena’s death as a “nuptial sacrifice” is relatively absent from Euripides compared with its development in later treatments of the myth (esp. Seneca’s Troades; cf. Lycophron, Alex. 323–325; see further below on Clement). An increased interest in a marital relationship between Achilles and Polyxena is also evident in the iconography of the Roman imperial period: Schwarz (1992, 272–74); Mangieri (2018, 93–95). Loraux (1987, 50–53). Loraux (1987, 56–60). This last point is disputed by Mossman (1999, 160). The exposing of breasts need not be erotic, however; it can also be a maternal act of supplicating one’s child (e.g. Homer Il. 22.82–85; Aeschylus, Cho. 896–898). See Scodel (1998, 122–23); Mossman (1999, 157–62). As Loraux (1987, 60) observes, “Polyxena could indeed offer up her bosom like a warrior, but the Greek army saw in the gesture only a virgin unveiling her woman’s breast.” The eroticization of virgin sacrifices in tragedy functions to highlight its moral outrage: see Segal (1990, 111–13); Scodel (1998, 111–12). This reading of Polyxena’s death coheres well with Burkert’s (1983, 58–72) anthropological theorization of a fundamental connection between sexual aggression and sacrifice. In a similar manner, an epigram in the Greek Anthology describes a painting in which Polyxena, “when her garment tore, concealed her naked shame with a chaste hand” (ὡς πέπλοιο ῥαγέντος· τὰν αἰδῶ γυμνὰν σώφρονι κρύπτε χερί, Anth. graec. 16.150); see Mangieri (2018, 70–73). Loraux (1987, 3). “Euripides prefers generally to grant the parthenos the courage and free choice that, in the untragic conditions of real life, were denied to the young Greek girl by society.” These women “use the freedom of choice that characterizes the kyrios, by taking the sacrifice imposed on them and turning it into their death, a death that is fully their own” (at 45–46). On this treatise, see Petit (1974, 17–132), and the introductory comments above in Chapter 5. For Clement, see van den Hoek (1988); Runia (1993, 132–56). For scholarship on Philo and classical Greek poetry, see Chapter 3 n. 43; and for his access to books and libraries, see Chapter 5 n. 66. On the possibility of Philo’s theater attendance, see Chapter 5 (esp. n. 50). Euripides’ plays, in particular, were conducive to Philo’s thesis as they commonly challenge the correlation of physical and natural slavery. As Collard (1991, 27) observes, “those in physical slavery (almost always women) often demonstrate a greater freedom of spirit, and probity, than their ‘free’ masters.” See similarly Daitz (1971); Matthiessen (2010, 40–42); on the Syleus, Chapter 5 in this volume and Jourdain Annequin (2007). Dio Chrysostom would later lament in his Alexandrian Oration that, in contrast to Athens, Alexandria lacked dramatic poets who were able “to reproach not only individual

114  From Tragic Heroines to Religious Martyrs men but also the city collectively” (μὴ μόνον τοὺς κατ’ ἄνδρα ἐλέγχειν, ἀλλὰ καὶ κοινῇ τὴν πόλιν, Or. 32.6). 27 These include Anaxarchus and Zeno the Eleatic who endured torture (106–109), and wresters and pancratiasts who exhibit fearlessness in the face of death (110–113). 28 In addition to the Hecuba, Philo cites a Laconian boy who committed suicide rather than be taken as a slave (Prob. 114); and Dardanian women who, captured by the Macedonians, cast their children into the river to prevent them from becoming slaves (115). 29 On Philo’s view of Polyxena as a heroine, see also the comments of Nieto Hernández (2019, 166–67). The phrase “gender gradient” was apparently first applied to Philo by Mattila (1996). For other discussions of gender in Philo, see Sly (1990); Kraemer (1994, 133–35); Taylor (2003, 227–64); D’Angelo (2007); Friesen (2015c, 198–206). 30 Cf. Clement, Strom. 6.12.100.3. On the larger treatment of Sarah in the works of Philo, see Sly (1990, 147–54). Comparable treatments of gender and spirituality appear in early Christianity; for instance, in the Gospel of Thomas, Jesus declares that he will “make [Mary] male”; on this, see Castelli (1991); Vogt (1993); Patterson (2018); Sellew (2020). More broadly on early Christianity, see Aspegren (1990). 31 As in Euripides, in Ovid’s account Polyxena offers the choice to strike her neck or chest (13.458–459), but it departs from the tragedy in that she dies by the latter (13.475–476). On Ovid’s use of the Hecuba, see Mossman (1999, 248–51). Seneca’s reproduction of Polyxena’s death differs in this regard. While he notes her strength and bravery (Tro. 1146, 1151–1153), he also emphasizes her beauty (1138–1139, 1144) and, as will be noted below in comparison with Clement, he particularly foregrounds her status as a bride. It is often presumed that Seneca’s portrayal of Polyxena’s death is dependent on the Hecuba; however, this has been questioned by Calder (1970, 75–82), who emphasizes the multiplicity of his Greek sources. 32 For additional citations of the Hecuba emphasizing the nobility of Polyxena’s death, see Pliny, Ep. 4.11.9; Hermogenes, Inv. 4.12; Clement, Strom. 2.23.144.2, discussed below. 33 As Castelli (2004, 61) notes, “[i]n the martyrological sources, masculinity is repeatedly figured as a heightened state of being, potentially attainable by both men and women, but one that requires repeated shoring up.” See also Boyarin (1999, 67–77); Cobb (2008); Lieu (2013, 270–79). 34 For discussion see Moore and Anderson (1998). 35 On this verb in relation to the wider martyrological tradition, see Moriarty (1998). In the account of the martyrs of Lyons (177 ce) preserved by Eusebius, the authorities imagined that by torturing Biblis they might compel her to blaspheme, viewing her “as already easy to break and without manhood” (ὡς εὔθραυστον ἤδη καὶ ἄνανδρον, Hist. eccl. 5.1.26). By withstanding, she demonstrates otherwise. 36 Women did occasionally participate as combatants in the arena; see Futrell (2021, 686–91). 37 This has attracted significant scholarly attention, particularly within feminist criticism: see Castelli (1991, 33–43); (2004, 85–92); Edwards (2007, 211–14); Cobb (2008, 105–7); Burrus (2008, 30–31); Streete (2009, 37–42); Gold (2013); (2015). 38 Conversely, a death lacking courage could be labeled as feminine: for instance, in Joseph and Aseneth when Pharaoh’s son attempts to persuade the sons of Jacob to conspire against Joseph he asserts, “you will not die like women; rather, play the man and requite your enemies” (οὐκ ἀποθανεῖσθε ὡς γυναῖκες, ἀλλ’ ἀνδρίζεσθε καὶ ἀμύνεσθε τοὺς ἐχθροὺς ὑμῶν, 24.7). 39 On Clement’s treatment of martyrdom in Strom. 4, see Frend (1965, 351–61); van den Hoek (1993); Bowersock (1995, 65–71); Young (2001, 38–47); Moss (2012, 145–62); Friesen (2015c, 128–33). 40 Like Philo, Clement quoted Greek poetry frequently, including both tragedy and comedy (see Chapter 1 n. 25; Chapter 3 in comparison with Ps.-Justin’s De monarchia; and Chapter 5 on his ridicule of Heracles in Protrepticus 7). For broader analysis, see Grant (1965, 161–63); Méhat (1966, 187–90); Zeegers-vander Vorst (1972, 265–85); Des Places (1986); (1988);

From Tragic Heroines to Religious Martyrs  115 (1990a); (1990b); van den Hoek (1996); Garland (2004, 71–72); Friesen (2015c, 118– 23); Heath (2020, 112–18); Massa (2020). As Chadwick (1969, 1144–45) demonstrates, Clement employed florilegia akin to those of Stobaeus. 41 See also Buell (2008, 48–51). 42 Cf. 2.20.103.1: “Truly, patient perseverance even itself through endurance forces itself toward divine likeness, bearing freedom from passion as fruit” (ἥ γε μὴν καρτερία καὶ αὐτὴ εἰς τὴν θείαν ἐξομοίωσιν βιάζεται δι’ ὑπομονῆς ἀπάθειαν καρπουμένη). On Clement’s view of pleasure within his broader ethical reflections, see Brown (1988, 122–39); Maier (1994); Spanneut (2002, 247–60). 43 For Clement’s view of sexuality and marriage, see Broudéhoux (1970, 99–137); Brown (1988, 131–39); Maier (1994, 734–39); Buell (2008, 46–48). 44 The same Euripidean lines are adapted for Latin in Ovid’s account of Polyxena: “she was careful to cover the parts needing to be concealed while she fell and to preserve the dignity of pure modesty” (cura fuit partes uelare tegendas, cum caderet, castique decus seruare pudoris, Metam. 13.479–480); see Braun (1983, 4–5). 45 See also Seneca, Tro. 202, 289–290, 360–365, 871–885, 942–944; cf. Catullus 64.367–375. 46 Clement viewed celibacy as optional, not a requirement for the Christian: see Broudéhoux (1970, 99–113). On the interplay between virginity and martyrdom in late antique Judaism and Christianity, see also Boyarin (1999, 67–92). 47 See Braun (1983, 6–7). 48 That both make this point with reference to precisely the same line of Euripides suggests a common gnomic tradition. On the place of reading of classical texts for Pliny and other Roman elites, see Johnson (2010, 32–62). 49 Roman heroines, such as Cornelia, became an important influence on Christian discourses on martyrdom: see Musurillo (1954, 240–42). On heroic deaths of Roman women, see Edwards (2007, 179–206).

8

Deus ex Machina Concluding Thoughts on Dramatic Closure

“Would you look with pleasure on what is painful to you?” (ἴδοις ἂν ἡδέως ἅ σοι πικρά; Euripides, Bacch. 815). This question was posed by Dionysus to Pentheus as the latter considered the possibility of seeing the maenads on Mount Citheron whom he imagined to be engaged in illicit rituals and debauchery. In the context of the performance, the god’s query potentially doubles as a metatheatrical comment on the experience of the audience at this (and by extension in some sense every) play where the pleasure of viewing arose from the pain in the spectacle. For some ancient Jews and Christians, also, the production of drama was painful, albeit for very different reasons. It functioned as a vivid demonstration and reminder that they lived in a society dominated by paganism, in which public entertainments celebrated gods and heroes and the cults in which they were worshipped. Even in Jerusalem, the geographical focal point of Judaism, a theater was constructed during the reign of Herod, housing performances and decorated by religious symbols that were deemed by many Jews to be foreign, idolatrous, and immoral. An additional theater was later constructed under Hadrian in his re-founding of the city as Aelia Capitolina. While no definitive trace of either has been identified by archaeologists, the small theater-like structure recently discovered by the Israel Antiquities Authority adjacent to the Temple Mount raises renewed questions about the conflicts between Judaism and Greco-Roman performances. These Roman architectural incursions contributed to the virulent rhetoric of some rabbis who denounced the theater in sweeping and absolute terms. Several church fathers also took a similarly rigorous stance against public performances for their pagan associations. Their harsh disapproval in sermons and treatises, however, does not represent the full religious circumstances. When, during the reign of Constantine, Christianity rose to ascendency, and successive laws were passed against paganism starting in the late fourth century with Theodosius and culminating in the sixth with Justinian, traditional Greek and Roman religions were not simply eliminated. This may be the impression given by “official” Christianity as pronounced by bishops and encoded in creeds; but, as Ramsay MacMullen has emphasized, many of the social and practical functions of paganism carried on and in some cases were adopted and adapted within new Christian contexts: “[t]he triumph of the church was one not of obliteration but of widening embrace and assimilation.”1 The present study of Jewish and Christian responses to classical DOI: 10.4324/9781003392132-8

Deus ex Machina  117 drama corroborates McMullen’s assessment. Even as theaters fell out of use, and in some cases were dismantled or repurposed, their performative aspects had already been appropriated and incorporated. In Chapter 2, this phenomenon was explored in architectural remains: the assimilation of the theater is evident to some extent in Jewish synagogues, as argued by Zeev Weiss, and even more so in Byzantine basilicas, where the synthronon was akin to a cavea both in its form (semi-circular stepped seating) and in its function (although it reversed the position of audience and actor), and in some cases (at Paros, and possibly also at Athens) the very same marble seats were transferred from one into the other.2 Beyond the (re-)configuration of physical spaces, Greek drama was taken over in the Jewish and Christian imagination in numerous ways. Through performances, texts, and artistic representations, theatrical portrayals of gods, heroes, and ritual actions proved to be remarkably adaptable and (re-)applicable within shifting religious landscapes. In the first place, theater was a productive venue for the critique of traditional theology, and Jews and Christians were clearly not the only intellectuals engaged in this process. As discussed in Chapter 3, Lucian of Samosata’s Juppiter tragoedus evokes the genres of tragedy and comedy to address numerous problems with Greek polytheism as featured in debates between the competing philosophical schools of Stoicism and Epicureanism. He exploits the fictionality of drama, its use of illusion and deception, role playing, masks, and costumes, to raise the possibility that the Olympian deities are nothing more than the inventions of human culture. Moreover, numerous fragments express innovative and potentially subversive notions, such as the identification of gods with natural elements, as Anaxagoras had with Zeus and aether. Philo of Alexandria takes up one such popular fragment of Euripides’ Chrysippus in the treatise De aeternitate mundi to bolster his argument for the permanence of matter and ultimately to corroborate his view of the Bible’s cosmology. By contrast to Philo’s constructive application of Euripides, two fragments examined in Chapter 4 express atheistic rejections of the traditional gods. Sextus Empiricus, in cataloging ancient atheists, put forward the Sisyphus fragment as a chief exemplar; as in Lucian’s dialogue, the speaker in this play emphasized that the gods were human fabrications, a tool for social control thought up, as Sextus reads the excerpt, by ancient lawmakers, or more precisely, as I argued, by poets and even playwrights who produced fear of divine retribution for secret wrongdoing. As a matter of coincidence, arguably the only other surviving fragment of Attic drama with a more decisive declaration of atheism was preserved in a nearly contemporaneous text, De monarchia, attributed to the Christian apologist Justin Martyr. In the Bellerophon, the protagonist asserts emphatically that the gods do not exist because of the widespread prevalence of evil and injustice in the world, and he endeavors to fly up to heaven and prove it. What neither Sextus nor Ps.Justin acknowledges, however, is that these atheistic claims were uttered in each case by the play’s respective villains, and that the conclusions of their plots would have, ironically, functioned as self-refutations. Along with philosophical debate and religious apology, several dramatis personae functioned as heroic figures in Jewish and Christian discourse. Chapters 5

118  Deus ex Machina through 7 explored three such case studies. First, Philo evokes the actions of Heracles in Euripides’ satyr play the Syleus as demonstrating that the virtuous person is genuinely free even if enslaved. In the treatise, Quod omnis probus liber sit, he explores this Stoic paradox with a series of exempla, and, although the Essenes are featured most prominently, the rest are taken from Gentile cultures, including the theater. Philo describes his own experience attending a play, wherein the audience celebrated and applauded the wisdom of Euripides expressed in two gnomic lines of his Auge. In a similar manner, his depiction of Heracles in the Syleus activates the familiarity of Philo’s audience with this comic hero, who was especially popular throughout the Hellenistic world. Rather than detracting from his virtues, however, Heracles’ stereotyped buffoonery, including his excessive eating and drinking, is taken by Philo to demonstrate that one’s true nature cannot be concealed even under the conditions of slavery, which turn out in Heracles’ case to be merely a theatrical costume. Christians also engaged with Heracles in diverse ways. By contrast to Philo, however, as a comic hero he was subjected to universal opprobrium and ridicule and was even taken as prime evidence for the moral bankruptcy of polytheism. Nevertheless, the Heracles of Euripides’ Alcestis appears to have been embraced within some Christian contexts, for instance, in the catacomb of the Via Latina where the myth is represented alongside biblical scenes: the hero’s rescue of Alcestis from death is positioned in the room directly adjacent to the resurrection of Lazarus by Jesus. An adaptation of the same Euripidean play also appears in another Christian setting: a Latin poem, the Barcelona Alcestis, survives in a codex together with scripture and liturgical texts. The latter’s focus, however, is on Alcestis’ self-giving death for her husband Admetus rather than Heracles’ intervention to rescue her. The influence of the Alcestis, as argued in Chapter 6, can be detected well before these fourth-century receptions, indeed already within the New Testament itself. Early notions of Christ’s atonement are articulated by Paul with language reminiscent of the willing death of the heroine on behalf of her “righteous” husband (especially Rom 8:6–8), while at the same time genuine love, and especially marital devotion, is idealized as a mode of self-sacrifice by the author of Ephesians, although with the obligation reversed onto the husband (Eph 5:25). Moreover, the resurrection of Lazarus, juxtaposed in the Via Latina catacomb with that of Alcestis, is narrated in the Gospel of John with numerous similarities to the Euripidean drama. Both focus on guest-friendship, where hosting a son of God functions as the motivating factor in his supernatural intervention to restore a beloved member of the household to life. Thus, while Christian apologists starting from the second century ridicule Heracles for his excessively violent and debauched behavior as displayed on stage, several elements of his mythological biography as popularized in the Alcestis had already been assimilated into their sacred narratives and theological formulations. Like Alcestis, the heroic status of Polyxena in Euripides’ Hecuba arises from her willing acceptance of death, but within a different context—in her case, a human sacrifice demanded by the ghost of Achilles, and performed as a perverse ritual and marriage to Hades. At the forefront of ancient responses to this dramatic action was her gender, as she embraced the masculine death of a warrior whilst also

Deus ex Machina  119 maintaining her distinctly feminine modesty, covering herself when she fell. Chapter 7 concerns these two spectra in the play’s reception. Philo focuses on the former, deploying Polyxena as a model for his male readers, insisting that if a woman can achieve such courageous virtue so much the more should they as men. Clement of Alexandria, by contrast, emphasizes the latter, taking the decorum of her final collapse as the ideal for the Christian wife who eschews seductive sensuality. The final achievement of virtue in death enacted by Polyxena in Euripides’ Hecuba was imitated by the author of the Passio Perpetuae et Felicitatis, who has the martyr perform the same culminating gesture of modesty. This instance of reperformance signals a significant development in the religious reception of classical drama, as the sacred narrative of the death of a Christian heroine is modeled upon that of her theatrical counterpart. Both Polyxena and Perpetua were captives of impious men and condemned to unjust executions performed in public rituals. Their deaths, moreover, were not understood to be mere calamities, but as invested with divine significance, even sanctioned by the supernatural will of a ghost or a god, inscrutable though it may have been. Thus, the voluntary acceptance of the appointed execution, approached with unwavering modesty, functioned as an enduring paradigm of virtue. As Polyxena’s noble death on stage, Christian martyrs came to be similarly celebrated with their actions commemorated for the sake of imitation. This process involved more than mere narrative. As Patricia Cox Miller describes, “[t]he martyrs themselves, it seems, became visionary spectacles in order to bolster the belief that their relics were conduits of divine power.”3 The theater, in particular, correlates with the cults of martyrs, a comparison made explicitly by John Chrysostom. Preaching at a martyrium near Antioch, he refers to the present feast as “this brilliant theater” (τὸ λαμπρὸν τοῦτο θέατρον, PG 50.663), and asserts in the same way that those who descend from theatres [οἱ ἀπὸ τῶν θεάτρων κατιόντες] reveal to all that they have been thrown into turmoil, confused, enervated through the images they bear of everything that took place there, the person returning from viewing martyrs [τὸν ἀπὸ θεωρίας μαρτύρων ἐπανιόντα] should be recognizable to all—through their gaze, their appearance, their gait, their compunction, their composed thoughts. (John Chrysostom, Mart. [PG 50.665–666])4 While Chrysostom does not expand upon this to explain precisely what produces the comparable effect upon the spectators in theaters and at martyria, in both cases—especially in the production of tragedy—viewers could encounter a moving spectacle of death, narrated on stage, and visually represented in theatrical props or relics of saints. This is not to suggest that the origin or primary pagan corollary to the cults of martyrs in Christian communities is in drama.5 Nevertheless, Chrysostom’s comments are revealing for how a fourth-century participant in these public Christian festivals might have encountered them as akin to their experience attending the theater. Alongside this homily, a Christian architectural installation in Caesarea provides a different perspective on the interplay between the cult of martyrs and

120  Deus ex Machina Greco-Roman spectacles. When the city was founded by Herod in the first century bce, a stone theater and amphitheater were constructed along with other pagan shrines (Josephus, A.J. 15.341; B.J. 1.415). The amphitheater remained in use through the later Roman era, but during the early Byzantine period (between the late fourth and early seventh centuries) an octagonal chapel was built over the amphitheater’s southern cavea and appears to have functioned as a martyrium.6 Its location is likely to have been the very site where some martyrs were executed, as for instance a certain Apagius who, according to Eusebius, was thrown to the beasts in the “theater” (θέατρον, Mart. Pal. 6.5).7 In this way, then, Christians appropriated the same performative space for a new spectacle of death, placing relics on visual display for the audience.8 These transformations in the performance of spectacles valorize a new type of hero so that what was meant to produce public shame and humiliation was now celebrated as the highest expression of spiritual virtue. As Virginia Burrus observes, martyrdom “is the initial site at which shame is converted into a defiant shamelessness,” that is, “dignity without aspiring to honor.”9 This reconfiguration of values, Burrus argues, is fundamentally performative and theatrical, expressed in martyrological texts through confessions of faith made visibly “in the public eye of the political arena.”10 Within Christian literature, the embrace of theater as a conceptual apparatus for their own subjection to public humiliation is first attested in Paul’s epistle to the Corinthians: “For I suppose that God has displayed us apostles last, as condemned to death, for we have become a theater (θέατρον) for the cosmos, for both angels and for humans” (1 Cor 4:9). What made the theater an especially apt metaphor in Paul’s argument with the Corinthians is that dramatic performances, and especially tragedy, often feature the reversal of perceived wisdom and foolishness, strength and weakness.11 For Paul, this would be achieved in the final apocalyptic intervention of God to destroy those with self-assured wisdom and political power (1 Cor 1:18–30). And thus a climactic deus ex machina would bring decisive dramatic closure to this cosmic theater. Apocalyptic spectacles continued to animate the imagination of ancient some Jews and Christians. For instance, a midrash attributed to Rabbi Aḥa expresses a desire to be among “the viewers” at the judgment rather than “the viewed” (Midrash Ecclesiastes 7:14).12 Likewise, Tertullian, a most vehement critic of GrecoRoman entertainments, was inspired by the allure of their performance. At the conclusion of De spectaculis, he imagines the “return of Lord” (adventus Domini) as a “spectacle” (spectaculum), which, as in Paul’s theater of the cosmos, would have an audience of both angels and humans: “What exultation of angels! What glory of saints rising again!” (Quae illa exultatio angelorum, quae gloria resurgentium sanctorum, 30.1).13 Now, like Pentheus, he would succumb to the possibility of taking pleasure in viewing the pain of others: “At what should I marvel, at what should I laugh? Where should I delight, where exult as I look on?” (Quid admirer, quid rideam? Ubi gaudeam, ubi exultem spectans?, 30.3). Among those who would suffer in the judgment, performers of tragedy are singled out for special mention, apparently because their profession was appropriate to the display: “Now

Deus ex Machina  121 more greatly may tragic actors be heard, more greatly, to be sure, their voices in their own fitting misfortune” (Tunc magis tragoedi audiendi, magis scilicet vocales in sua propria calamitate, 30.5). In fundamental ways, therefore, the religious communities of both Jews and Christians were unable to escape the draw of classical drama. To be sure, in official rhetoric it was often rejected as antithetical of biblical faith and piety. But by the end of antiquity it had left an indelible mark and, at key moments in the development of Judaism and Christianity, it decisively shaped their religious ideals in the articulation of theology, apologetics, and moral values, through the composition of sacred narratives, and with the performance of ritual and liturgy. Notes 1 2 3 4 5

MacMullen (1997, 159). On synagogues, see Weiss (2017, 276–77). Cox Miller (2009, 82–101, at 82). Translation from Mayer and Allen (2000, 97). See also Cox Miller (2009, 82–84). As MacMullen (1997) emphasizes, the conceptual significance of martyrdom relates closely with the cults of the dead practiced throughout the Greco-Roman world: “The cult of the dead became equally widespread and flowed into and was gradually replaced by the cult of the specially honored heroes of the Christian history: the martyrs” (154; see also 115–29). In particular, venerated martyrs offered to Christian converts what would have been previously available through daemones: access to supernatural power for the healing of various illnesses. 6 Porath (1996, 116). Earlier, sometime in the second or third centuries, the amphitheater had been modified so that only the southern side was used, apparently because a new hippodrome was built on the outskirts of the city; see Porath (1996, 114). 7 For a survey of martyr accounts in Caesarea reported by Eusebius, see Patrich (2002b). As he notes, the execution of Apagius will almost certainly have been Herod’s amphitheater because the theater in Caesarea was not equipped for wild beasts (340 n. 78). 8 As Bowes (2014, 95–98) observes, in at least two other sites—Tarragona (Spain) and Salona (Croatia)—martyria were constructed on amphitheaters at the putative site of a saint’s death. 9 Burrus (2008, 8). 10 Burrus (2008, 10–43, at 42). 11 For this argument in the context of 1 Corinthians, see Friesen (2015b). Importantly, however, and in a complementary analysis of Paul’s “theater,” Welborn (2005) emphasizes the relevance of mime performance, and especially the stock character of the mimetic fool, as cultural background. 12 This translation follows Stratton (2009, 58). His comment focuses particularly on beastfighters in the arena. See also Spielman (2020, 251–55) on “eschatological theaters” in rabbinic writings. 13 On this text of Tertullian, see Goldhill (2001, 181–85); Edwards (2007, 207–8); and for wider contexts in Jewish and Christian apocalyptic writings, see Stratton (2010).

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Index

2 Maccabees 108 4 Maccabees 108 Abraham 5 Accius 91 Achilles 104, 108, 110 actor 3, 5, 21, 24, 28, 30n39, 31n51, 32, 35–38, 45, 62, 73, 74, 75, 77, 108, 117, 120–121 Admetus 85–99,118 Aelia Capitolina 26, 31n47, 116 Aeschylus 14n22, 14n23, 15n25, 33, 42, 48n33, 58, 66n34, 104, 113n17 aether 39–40, 42, 44–45, 48n33, 72, 117 Aëtius 55–56, 64n7, 65n15, 65n16, 65n19 Agamemnon 5 agapē see love Alexandria 4–5, 8, 12, 71–73, 75, 79, 107, 113n26 Ambrose 21 amphitheater 9, 29n14, 30n38, 120 Anaxagoras 19n78, 40, 42, 44, 46, 48n34, 50, 117 Anderson, Graham 10 Annas, Julia 57 anthology 5, 9, 48n35, 58, 77, 83n59 Apollo 60, 73, 85, 87–89, 93, 97, 99 Apollodorus 67, 83, 84n65, 92, 100n8 apologist 4, 8, 9, 12, 13, 40–42, 50, 58, 68, 79–80, 86, 96, 101n28, 117–118, 121 Ares 73, 82n42 Aristophanes 15n25, 35, 46n5, 47n11, 47n21, 48n31, 70; Acharnenses 66n37; Aves 36, 70; Nubes 47n19; Pax 47n20, 60–62, 66n37, 70; Plutus 47n20; Ranes 47n19, 81n25, 82n34, 84n68; Thesmophoriazusae 33, 48n33 Aristotle 34, 43–44, 51, 52; Poetics 3, 32–33, 100n10

Artapanus 5 Artemis 38 atheism 9, 12, 17n70, 40, 50–64, 117 Athena 21, 35–36, 61, 96 Athenaeus 69, 71, 79, 81n15, 81n31, 82n35, 83n57 Athenagoras 40, 48n32, 58 Athens 3, 10, 11–12, 19–24, 33, 39, 50, 57, 67, 68, 72, 84n68, 85, 90, 104, 106, 113n26, 117 Atonement, 12, 85, 87, 92–93, 95–96, 98, 99, 101n26, 118 audience 4, 6, 12, 16n46, 19, 24, 27, 32, 60, 62, 71, 75–76, 79, 82n48, 83n49, 83n50, 88–89, 91, 104, 107, 116–120 Augustine 4, 15n27, 31n42, 99n3 Balthasar, Hans Urs von 6 barbarian 41, 69–70, 72, 74, 104, 112n8, 112n9, 113n14, 118 Barcelona Alcestis 86, 95–96, 98–99, 118 Basil of Caesarea 11, 69, 99n3 basilica 11, 19, 21–22, 28, 29n10, 29n14, 29n16, 29n21, 29n22, 117 Bellerophon see Euripides bema 20, 27, 31n51 Berg, Beverly 96 Bible 1, 4–8, 10, 15n26, 15n35, 15n36, 16n49, 17n69, 17n70, 23–24, 26, 27, 34, 42–43, 46, 50, 59, 83n60, 85–87, 92–99, 106–108, 117, 118, 121 Billig, Yaʿakov 25 Bonfante, Larissa 91 Bowersock, Glen 10 Bowes, Kimberly 21, 29n14 Branham, R. Bracht 37, 68, 80 Bryant Davies, Rachel 7

162 Index Burrus, Virginia 120 Byzantine period 7, 16n51, 16n54, 24, 26, 30n21, 31n45, 120; architecture 22–24, 29n19, 117 Caesarea 25, 29n14, 119, 121n7 Cambridge Ritualists 3 Cassius Dio 18n72, 30n39, 31n48, 70, 73 catacomb (Via Latina) 13, 85–86, 96–99, 118 cavea 19, 24, 27, 29n14, 29n19, 30n26, 117, 120 Celsus 5, 58 chorus 45, 67, 70, 87–90, 97 Christus patiens 7, 16n49, 18n80 Chronicon pascale 25–27 Cicero: De natura deorum 33–34, 38, 40, 48n32, 50; Paradoxa Stoicorum 74, 82n43, 82n44, 82n45 Clement of Alexandria 5, 8, 11, 13, 15n25, 18n74, 18n80, 33, 44, 45, 48n32, 48n36, 49n40, 58, 65n27, 65n29, 65n31, 65n32, 72, 79, 81n29, 81n30, 81n31, 86, 103–104, 109–112, 113n22, 114n30, 114n31, 114n32, 119 Codex Theodosianus 20–21 comedy 3, 5–6, 9, 18n75, 33–41, 62, 67–73, 79, 80n3, 87, 114n40, 117, comic slave 5, 35, 47n20, 71, 77–79, 81n28, 84n68 Commodus 70 Constantine 4, 20, 28n7, 81n18, 96, 116 Constantinople 4, 21–22 Cox Miller, Patricia 119 Critias 48n37, 52–54, 58, 64n7, 65n19 Cynic 46n9, 69, 78, 80n12, 83n61 Cyril of Jerusalem 21 De placita philosophorum see Aëtius death 3,12–13, 37, 51, 68, 85–99, 103–104, 106–112, 118–120 Demeter 42 Democritus 43, 51, 75 Demosthenes 72, 108 deus ex machina 32, 34, 120 Dillon, John 45 Dio Chrysostom 11, 31n42, 69–71, 73, 79, 113n26 Dionysus 3, 5, 7, 11, 20, 24, 32, 38, 42, 50, 71, 73, 77, 82n35, 83n57, 84n68, 116 Dobrov, Gregory 33, 63 Domitian 70, 110 doxography 42–45, 51, 55, 67

Eagleton, Terry 6 Elsner, Jaś 96 Empedocles 44, 49n45, 52 Epicharmus 44, 70–71 Epictetus 14n14, 74, 80n11, 82n43, 82n44, 82n45, 83n51 Epicureanism 12, 33–34, 36–41, 43–45, 50–52, 56, 58, 64n5, 69, 117 erōs see love eroticism 36, 92, 103, 106, 112, 113n17, 113n18, 115n48 Eucharist 22 Euhemerus 51, 53–55, 64n4, 65n11, 65n16 Euripides 11–12, 14n19, 14n20, 14n21, 14n22, 14n23, 14n24, 15n25, 16n49, 33, 35, 17n70, 18n80, 33–36, 38–46, 50, 54, 83n50, 83n59, 83n60, 83n61, 100n10, 113n13, 113n20, 113n25; Alcestis 12–13, 48n33, 70, 85–99, 118; Auge 14n19, 74–75, 82n48, 118; Bacchae 5–6, 14n9, 14n24, 17n66, 18n71, 32–33, 116; Bellerophon 12, 45, 48n26, 48n38, 50, 58–64, 117; Chrysippus 12, 34, 40, 41–46, 67, 117; Hecuba 13, 103–112, 118–119; Hercules furens 34, 36, 47n11, 70, 72; Hippolytus, 38, 49n55; Ion 49n55, 60; Medea 18n78, 38, 77, 100n14; Orestes 36, 60, 117; Syleus 12, 67–80, 118; Troades 48n33, 49n55, 65n32 Eurystheus 78 Eusebius 5, 8, 15n27, 27, 77, 81n32, 86, 120 Ewald, Björn 91, 98 exemplum 12, 67, 74, 78–79, 82n45, 87n18, 91, 94, 103, 107, 109, 118 Exodus 5–7 Ezekiel (playwright) 5–7, 26 female see feminine feminine 13, 21, 82n34, 90, 103–104, 106, 106, 108–112, 114n37, 114n38, 119 florilegia 45, 115n40 freedom 12, 67, 72–80, 106–107, 110–111, 113n25 Gaia 43–45 Gaius (emperor) 6, 10, 70, 73–74, 82n48 Gathercole, Simon 93 gender 13, 87, 90, 92, 94, 100n15, 101n27, 103–104, 106, 108–112, 114n29, 114n30, 118

Index  163 Genesis 17n70, 43, 84n67, 108 Germanos of Constantinople 24 Girard, René 13n9 gnomologium see anthology Goldhill, Simon 11 Gospels 5, 10, 24, 95 Hades 84n68, 100n8, 105–106, 110, 113n14, 118 Hadrian 11–12, 25–26, 29n18, 31n47, 31n48, 116 Hagia Sophia 21–24 Hart, David Bentley 6 Heath, John 10 Hecuba see Euripides Hera 36, 56, 70 Heracles 5, 12, 67–80, 85–88, 92, 95–99, 104, 107–108, 118 Heraclitus, Allegoriae 40, 44, 48n32, 49n40 Hermes 17n69, 35–37, 41, 47n20, 62, 67, 73, 75–76, 79, 83n61 hero/heroine 1, 3, 12–13, 15n27, 32, 35, 38, 58, 60, 62–64, 66n37, 66n40, 67–80, 85–87, 89–93, 96–98, 103–104, 106–109, 111–112, 114n28, 115n49, 116–120 Herod 1, 11, 25–26, 116, 120 Hesiod 17n70, 32, 43, 49n57, 55, 65n12 Homer 10, 15n36, 17n70, 17n71, 32, 35–38, 42, 52, 60, 68, 112n8, 113n17 Horace 75, 81n17 husband 38, 85–86, 88, 90–92, 94–95, 98–99, 110, 118 hypothesis 9, 78, 83n58, 83n63, 84n65, 84n66 Iphigenia 104, 113n12 Jerusalem: ancient theaters 1–2, 11–12, 19, 24–28, 118; temple 1–2, 7, 31n48 Jesus Christ 5–6, 8, 12–13, 15n35, 16n53, 24, 85–86, 92–99, 109, 114n30, 118 Jewish theater 7–8, 16n52 John (Gospel) 13, 17n70, 17n71, 24, 87, 94–99, 118 John Chrysostom 4, 5, 21, 31n42, 119 Josephus 14n20, 18n74, 25–27, 30n36, 30n37, 30n38, 30n39, 82n39, 120 Jourdain Annequin, Colette 78 Justin Martyr (Ps.-) 5, 12, 48n29, 48n30, 48n32, 48n37, 50, 58–64, 117 Justin Martyr 69, 86, 99n3 Justinian 21–22, 116

Lactantius 79 81n33, 86 Lazarus 13, 17n70, 85–87, 95–99, 118 Letter of Aristeas 4, 26 liturgy 7, 11, 19, 24, 29n16, 29n20, 29n21, 86, 118, 121 Litwa, David 10 Loraux, Nicole 106 Louden, Bruce 10 love 12, 59, 85–87, 90–95, 97, 99, 100n16, 100n17, 118 Lucian of Samosata 12, 18n72, 34–41, 42, 45–46, 50–51, 54–58, 62–63, 64n5, 68, 69, 80, 83n61, 107, 108, 117 Lucretius 44, 69 MacDonald, Dennis 10 MacKinnon, Donald 6 MacMullen, Ramsey 116–117 male see masculine Marcus Aurelius 44, 103, 111 Mark Antony 82n35 marriage 87, 91–92, 94, 99, 105–106, 109–110, 112, 113n14, 115n43, 118 martyrdom 13, 29n14, 103–104, 108–112, 119–120 Martyrdom of Polycarp 109 martyrium 25, 29n14, 119–120, 121n8 masculine 89–90, 103–104, 106, 108–112, 114n30, 114n33, 118–119 mask 15n25, 32, 35, 38–39, 45, 77, 79, 117 Mass 7 Menander 14n22, 14n23, 14n24, 15n25, 16n49, 36, 41, 47n19, 47n20, 58–59, 65n31, 109 metatheater 46n1, 46n2, 62, 76, 79, 116 Miletus 4, 26 mimesis 3, 17n71, 47n21 Momus 37–38 Moses 5, 16n45, 43, 86 Murray, Gilbert 3 Neoptolemus 105–106 Nero 10, 70, 83n49 New Testament 5, 14n24, 15n29, 17n69, 17n70, 17n71, 87, 92–99, 118 Omphale 72, 78, 81n33, 82n35 Origen 5, 6, 11, 15n25, 66n35, 79, 81n33, 86 Ovid 17n69, 17n70, 72, 100n20, 108, 114n31, 115n44 paideia 8, 10, 18n79 Paros 22, 117

164 Index Parthenon 19, 21–22, 24, 29n10 Paul (Apostle) 5, 6, 13, 14n24, 15n29, 16n43, 17n69, 18n74, 87, 92–95, 99, 103, 118, 120 Paul the Silentiary 22–24 Pentheus 5, 7, 15n29, 38, 77, 116, 120 performance 1–13, 19–21, 24–28, 35, 42, 45, 62, 67–68, 72, 73–80, 82n48, 83n49, 83n50, 90–91, 104, 107, 112, 116–117, 119–121 Perpetua 103–109, 109, 111–112, 119 philia see love Philo of Alexandria 4–6, 10, 12, 14n19, 14n22, 18n74, 18n80, 26, 30n39, 34, 41–46, 50–51, 67–80, 86, 103–104, 106–109, 111–112, 117–119 Philostratus 10 Plato 3–4, 10, 14n12, 14n13, 14n14, 33–34, 52, 94; Republic 3, 33, 43, 49n57, 55, 78; Symposium 81n22, 91–92, 100n8; Timaeus 43 Plautus 47n20, 81n27 Pliny the Younger 82n35, 110–111, 114n32 Plutarch 10–11, 18n72, 40, 48n32, 49n57, 57, 58, 65n32, 66n35, 70, 72, 81n31, 82n35, 92 Polyxena 13, 74, 79, 103–112, 118–119 Poseidson 37, 70 Prodicus 42, 51, 52, 68, 79, 81n18 prohedria-seats 21–22, 24, 117 Psalms (Book of) 4, 31n42, 26, 86 Pythagoras 44, 52

scripture see Bible Second Sophistic 9–11, 35 Segal, Charles 90 Seneca 14n14, 80n13, 100n20; Hercules furens 70; Troades 110, 113n14, 114n31, 115n45 Sextus Empiricus 12, 44, 48n30, 50–57, 58, 63–64, 117 Sisyphus 12, 45, 48n38, 50–57, 58–59, 62–64, 117 Skepticism 9, 18n78, 33, 50–51, 57, 58 slavery 67, 72–79, 84n67, 94, 104–107, 110, 113n25, 118 Smith, Jonathan Z. 9–10, 17n69 Snyder, H. Gregory 96 Socrates 20, 46n6, 52, 57, 68–69 Sophocles 14n22, 14n23, 15n25, 58, 66n34, 70, 112n8, 113n14; Antigone 100n14, 109; Oedipus 8, 20 Steiner, George 6 Stobaeus 48n32, 58, 66n35, 78, 115n40 Stoicism 12, 14n14, 18n78, 33–34, 36, 38, 40, 45–46, 46n9, 46n10, 48n27, 48n35, 49n49, 50, 52, 54, 58, 63, 69, 74, 80n11, 92, 107, 117–118 synagogue 19, 27–28, 31n51, 117 synthronon 21–24, 28, 117

rabbis 3–4, 7–8, 11, 18n74, 26–28, 116, 120 Reich, Ronnie 25 resurrection 6–7, 12–13, 85–87, 97–98, 101n39, 118 Riedweg, Christoph 62 ritual 1–13, 19–21, 24, 27, 105, 113n14, 116–119, 121 Robertson, David 6 Roman Empire 1–2, 8–10, 20–22, 24, 27, 34, 68 Rome 44, 10, 71–72, 86, 91 Rossum-Steenbeek, Monique van 78 Runia, David 44, 56

Talmud 4, 25–27 Taplin, Oliver 17n66, 91 Tatian 4, 80 Taylor, Kevin 6 Tertullian 4, 18n74, 19, 31n42, 72, 79, 86, 120 Thanatos 71, 85, 88, 96, 100n8 Theater of Dionysus 11–12, 19–24, 28 Theocritus 69 Theodora 21 Theodosius 4, 20–21, 96, 116 Theophrastus 44 Tiberius 70 Titus (emperor) 26–27 tragedy 3–8, 32–41, 45–46, 60–62, 70–72, 74–75, 87, 89, 103–112, 117, 119–120 Trajan 70

sacrifice 1, 5, 7, 13, 13n9, 20, 26, 36, 59, 77, 87, 104–106, 110, 112n8, 113n13, 113n14, 113n18, 113n20, 118 Samson 5 satyr drama 5, 9, 12, 14n13, 46n1, 47n18, 65n20, 67–73, 87, 107, 118

Valerius Maxiums 92, 94 viewer see audience virtue 5, 11–13, 38, 49n57, 52, 54, 67–68, 73, 74, 76, 78–79, 89, 91, 92, 94–95, 98, 103–104, 106–111, 118–120 Vitruvius 11, 44, 48n34

Index  165 Waller, Giles 6 Weiss, Zeev 27, 117 White, Andrew 24 Whitmarsh, Tim 55, 62 wife 70–71, 73, 85, 87–94, 97, 99, 100n20, 103, 109–111, 119 Wiles, David 19 Williams, Rowan 6 Wood, Susan 91

Wright, David 96 Wright, N. T. 98 xenia 97 Xenophon 49n57, 68, 79, 99n1, 108 Zanker, Paul 91, 98 Zeus 17n69, 35–41,42, 44–45, 47n20, 48n33, 37, 60–61, 70, 72, 77, 88–89, 117