Dionysus and Politics: Constructing Authority in the Graeco-Roman World 2020054568, 2020054569, 9780367480363, 9780367507282, 9781003050995

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Dionysus and Politics

This volume presents an essential but underestimated role that Dionysus played in Greek and Roman political thought. Written by an interdisciplinary team of scholars, the volume covers the period from archaic Greece to the late Roman Empire. The reader can observe how ideas and political themes rooted in Greek classical thought were continued, adapted and developed over the course of history. The authors (including four leading experts in the field: Cornelia Isler-Kerényi, Jean-Marie Pailler, Richard Seaford and Richard Stoneman) reconstruct the political significance of Dionysus by examining different types of evidence: historiography, poetry, coins, epigraphy, art and philosophy. They discuss the place of the god in Greek city-state politics, explore the long tradition of imitating Dionysus that ancient leaders, from Alexander the Great to the Roman emperors, manifested in various ways and show how the political role of Dionysus was reflected in Orphism and Neoplatonist philosophy. Dionysus and Politics provides an excellent introduction to a fundamental feature of ancient political thought which until now has been largely neglected by mainstream academia. The book will be an invaluable resource to students and scholars interested in ancient politics and religion. Filip Doroszewski is Assistant Professor at Cardinal Stefan Wyszynski University in Warsaw, Poland. His recent publications include a co-edited volume Nonnus of Panopolis in Context III (2021) and a monograph Orgies of Words. Mystery Terminology in the Paraphrase of St. John’s Gospel by Nonnus of Panopolis (forthcoming). Dariusz Karłowicz is a Polish philosopher and a lecturer at Warsaw University, Poland. He is also Editor-in-Chief of the philosophical magazine ‘Political Theology’. His books in English include The Archparadox of Death: Martyrdom as a Philosophical Category (2016) and Socrates and Other Saints (2017).

Routledge Monographs in Classical Studies

Recent titles include: Illiterate Geography in Classical Athens and Rome Daniela Dueck Religious Discourse in Attic Oratory and Politics Andreas Serafim Roman Masculinity and Politics from Republic to Empire Charles Goldberg Latin Poetry and Its Reception Essays for Susanna Braund Edited by C.W. Marshall Exploring the Mid-Republican Origins of Roman Military Administration With Stylus and Spear Elizabeth H. Pearson Xenophon’s Socratic Works David M. Johnson Dionysus and Politics Constructing Authority in the Graeco-Roman World Edited by Filip Doroszewski and Dariusz Karłowicz Monsters in Greek Literature Aberrant Bodies in Ancient Greek Cosmogony, Ethnography, and Biology Fiona Mitchell Antonio Gramsci and the Ancient World Edited by Emilio Zucchetti and Anna Maria Cimino For more information on this series, visit: https://www.routledge.com/RoutledgeMonographs-in-Classical-Studies/book-series/RMCS

Dionysus and Politics Constructing Authority in the Graeco-Roman World

Edited by Filip Doroszewski and Dariusz Karłowicz

First published 2021 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 52 Vanderbilt Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2021 selection and editorial matter, Filip Doroszewski and Dariusz Karłowicz; individual chapters, the contributors The right of Filip Doroszewski and Dariusz Karłowicz to be identified as the authors of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, 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: Doroszewski, Filip, 1980- editor. | Karłowicz, Dariusz, 1964- editor. Title: Dionysus and politics : constructing authority in the GraecoRoman world / edited by Filip Doroszewski and Dariusz Karłowicz. Description: Abingdon, Oxon ; New York, NY : Routledge, 2021. | Series: Routledge monographs in classical studies | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2020054568 (print) | LCCN 2020054569 (ebook) | ISBN 9780367480363 (hardback) | ISBN 9780367507282 (paperback) | ISBN 9781003050995 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Greece‐‐Politics and government‐‐To 146 B.C. | Rome‐‐Politics and government‐‐30 B.C.-476 A.D. | Religion and politics‐‐Greece‐‐History‐‐To 1500. | Religion and politics‐‐Rome‐‐History. | Political science‐‐Greece‐‐Philosophy. | Political science‐‐Rome‐‐Philosophy. | Dionysus (Greek deity) Classification: LCC JC73 .D56 2021 (print) | LCC JC73 (ebook) | DDC 320.0938‐‐dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020054568 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020054569 ISBN: 978-0-367-48036-3 (hbk) ISBN: 978-0-367-50728-2 (pbk) ISBN: 978-1-003-05099-5 (ebk) Typeset in Sabon by MPS Limited, Dehradun

The Editors wish to dedicate the volume to Professor Juliusz Domański, whose guidance and inspiration were essential in enabling them to work together on this and other projects. *** This volume was supported by the Polish Ministry of Science and Higher Education within the National Programme for the Development of Humanities (2bH 15 0163 83) in the years 2016‒2019.

Contents

Figures List of contributors List of abbreviations Introduction

ix xi xiv 1

FILIP DOROSZ E WS K I, DA RI U S Z K A RŁ O W IC Z

Part I

Dionysus and the polis 1 Dionysos, the polis and power

7 9

CORNE L IA I SLE R - KE R É N Y I

2 The politics of Euripides’ Bacchae and the preconception of irresolvable contradiction

18

RICHARD SE AF O R D

3 On the necessity of Dionysus: the return of Hephaestus as a tale of the god that alone can solve unresolvable conflicts and restore an inconsistent whole

32

DARIUS Z KA RŁ O WI C Z

4 Alexander and Dionysus RICHARD ST O N EM AN

46

viii

Contents

Part II

Dionysus in Rome 5 Dionysos against Rome? The Bacchanalian affair: a matter of power(s)

61

63

JE AN-M ARI E P A IL L E R

6 Augustus and the Neoi Dionysoi

89

FIACHRA M A C G Ó R Á IN

7 The state as crater: Dionysus and politics in Plutarch’s Lives of Crassus, Antony and Caesar

103

FILIP DORO S Z E WS K I

8 Dionysus and legitimisation of Imperial Authority by myth in first and second century Rome: Caligula, Domitian and Hadrian

124

S ŁAW OM I R PO LO C Z E K

9 The role of Bacchus/Liber Pater in the Severan religious policy: the numismatic and epigraphic evidence

142

M AŁG ORZAT A K R AW CZ Y K

Part III

Late-antique reflection on Dionysus

159

10 The rule of Dionysus in the light of the Orphic theogony (Hieroi Logoi in 24 Rhapsodies)

161

M AREK JOB

11 Dionysus in the mirror of Late Antiquity: religion, philosophy and politics

177

DAV ID HE RN Á N DE Z D E L A F U EN TE

Index

210

Figures

1.1 Dionysos Gigantomachos and Themis. Detail of the gigantomachy frieze, Siphnian Treasury, Delphi (after LIMC IV.2, 374 Dionysos 651) 1.2 Detail of the gigantomachy by Lydos. Fragments of a black-figure dinos, Athens, Acropolis inv. 607 (after Moore 1979, 99) 1.3 Gigantomachy of Dionysos. Red-figure attic Stamnos, London, British Museum inv. E 443 (after Carpenter 1997, pl. 2A) 1.4a Dionysos Gigantomachos. Eastern metope 2, Athens, Parthenon (after Berger 1986, pl. 40) 1.4b Dionysos Gigantomachos. Eastern metope 2, reconstruction (after Praschniker 1928, 192, Fig. 119) 1.5 Dionysos Gigantomachos. Pergamon Altar, Berlin, Pergamonmuseum (after LIMC IV.2, 375 Dionysos 657) 1.6 Dionysos provokes the wounding of Telephus. Pergamon Altar, Berlin, Pergamonmuseum (PRISMA ARCHIVO/ Alamy Stock Photo) 5.1 Map of the ‘Dionysiac countries’ in Italy at the beginning of the second century BCE. © Michał Strachowski 5.2 Senatus consultum de Bacchanalibus on a bronze tablet from Tiriolo di Calabria. Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna (after Pailler 1988) 5.3 Pompeii, Villa dei Misteri, Bacchic Frescoe: the domina contemplating her images (The Picture Art Collection/ Alamy Stock Photo) 5.4 Cumaean bebakcheumenoi on a funerary inscription (Ca 500 BCE): ‘It is not permitted to be buried here one who has not been made bakchos’. Metropolitan Museum, New York (after Cumont 1927) 5.5 Female bacchant on the lid of a Tarquinian sarcophagus. British Museum, London (after Pfiffig 1975)

11

11

12 13 14 15

16 64

69

75

76 77

x Figures 5.6 5.7 5.8a

5.8b 5.8c

5.8d 5.8e 5.8f

11.1

11.2

11.3

Sarcophagus of Laris Pulenas, Tarquinia (after Pailler 1988) Fufluns with Semla (Semele) on an Etruscan mirror (Les Archives Digitales/Alamy Stock Photo) Fragments of terra cotta sculptures under the stylobate of a peristyle; the Bacchic fragments are mainly in the northeast corner, at the beginning of the former dromos leading to the antron (after Massa-Pairault and Pailler 1979) Panther, front view (after Massa-Pairault and Pailler 1979) Reconstitution of the throne: left side, with the Bacchic putto on the panther (after Massa-Pairault and Pailler 1979) Design of left side (after Massa-Pairault and Pailler 1979) Antron bakchikon from inside, with the top oculus, above the place of the throne. © J.-M. Pailler Section drawing, north-south, of the dromos and the underground square room (antron). Throne T placed in the centre of the antron, under the oculus; facing the entry, with a wingless bakchos mounted on a panther on each side; behind the throne, a winged bakchos mounting a peafowl on a garland, ready to take flight towards the oculus and the sky. 2: red circular moulding at the impost of the antron; 3: cone-shaped vault of the antron; 4: oculus of the antron; 6: much narrower oculus of the later cistern; 9: dromos leading to the antron; 10: later staircase leading to the cistern, with the highest step, left, at the level of the peristyle (Ca 140‒130 BCE). 11‒14: remains of the tufa wall (a ‘scacchiera’) bordering the left (south-east) side of the dromos (after Pailler 1988) Indian triumph of Dionysus with mural crown (fourth–sixth centuries). Textile in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York; acc. no. 90.5.873. Public Domain Mosaic showing Ariadne and a Dionysiac scene from Thessaloniki. Thessaloniki, Archaeological Museum, Inv. 6733 Γ. Reprinted with permission Hague Cameo (fourth century). Dutch National Museum of Antiquities in Leiden (Holland). Wikimedia Commons

78 78

79 80

81 82 83

84

190

193 194

Contributors

David Hernández de la Fuente is Ph.D. in Classical Studies and Social History. His main research lines are Greek Religion and Mythology (especially Oracles, Dionysus and Pythagoreanism), Literature and Society in Late Antiquity (esp. Nonnus and Late Antique Religious Change) and History of Platonism (esp. Laws and Neoplatonism). Currently, he is Professor of Greek Philology at the Department of Classics of Complutense University of Madrid, Spain. He has taught at Carlos III University of Madrid (Spain), Universität Potsdam (Germany) and UNED (Spain), and he has been visiting scholar or lecturer at Columbia University (USA), Università di Firenze (Italy), CNRS (Paris, France), Akademie der Wissenschaften (Berlin, Germany), Université Paris-X Nanterre (France) and Freie Universität Berlin (Germany), among other institutions. Filip Doroszewski is Assistant Professor of Classical Philology at the Institute of Literary Studies, Cardinal Stefan Wyszynski University in Warsaw, Poland. He received his Ph.D. in Classical Philology from the University of Warsaw. His recent publications include a co-edited volume Nonnus of Panopolis in Context III: Old Questions and New Perspectives (2021) and a monograph Orgies of Words. Mystery Terminology in the Paraphrase of St. John’s Gospel by Nonnus of Panopolis (De Gruyter, forthcoming). Cornelia Isler-Kerényi was born in Budapest, Hungary, and brought up in Italian Switzerland. She completed her studies in classical archaeology in Zürich and Munich, obtaining her Ph.D. in 1967. She has participated in excavations in Sicily and Greece and has been a guest professor at several universities in Switzerland, Italy and Paris (EHESS). She is Doctor honoris causa of the University of Pécs (Hungary) and a member of the Archaeological Institute of Germany (DAI). From 1993 until 2007, she was a member of the UNESCO Commission for Switzerland. She has published widely on Greek art, history of research, Roman Switzerland and Dionysos. Her books include Civilizing Violence. Satyrs on 6th Century Greek Vases (2004), Dionysos in Archaic Greece. An Understanding

xii Contributors through Images (2007) and Dionysos in Classical Athens. An Understanding through Images (2015). Marek Job is a Ph.D. candidate in literary studies at the Faculty of Philology at the University of Silesia, Poland. He has co-edited a volume on Greek and Roman patterns of behaviour (2018). He is currently carrying out a research project on the importance of solar theology in Late Antiquity funded by the Polish National Science Centre. Dariusz Karłowicz is a Polish philosopher, columnist and book publisher. He is Editor-in-Chief of the philosophical magazine Teologia Polityczna (Political Theology), which analyses the relationships between philosophy, religion and politics. He is President of the St. Nicolas Foundation (an NGO involved in charitable, educational and scientific activity). He is a lecturer of political philosophy at Warsaw University. He is also an author of The Archparadox of Death. Martyrdom as a Philosophical Category (English edition 2016) and Socrates and Other Saints (English edition 2017). Małgorzata Krawczyk is a doctoral student in Archaeology at the University of Warsaw, Poland. Her research interests include Latin and Greek epigraphy, ancient numismatics and Roman social history. Her doctoral research investigates the legal and social status of illegitimate children in the Roman Empire. In the years 2016–2019, she also worked within the broader project ‘The legal and social status of extramarital children in the Roman Empire up to the reign of Constantine the Great’, funded by National Science Centre in Poland. She was also involved in the ‘Dionysus in the religious policy of the Roman emperors from Augustus to the end of the Severan dynasty’ project, in which she was responsible for epigraphic and numismatic evidence. Fiachra Mac Góráin is Associate Professor of Classics at University College London, UK. He is editor of Dionysus and Rome: Religion and Literature (2020); co-editor (with Charles Martindale) of The Cambridge Companion to Virgil (second edition, 2019) and co-editor (with Valentina Arena) of Varronian Moments (BICS Suppl. 60.2). He is currently finishing a book entitled Virgil’s Dionysus. Jean-Marie Pailler is Emeritus Professor of Ancient History and Archaeology at the University of Toulouse, France. He is a research member of TRACES CNRS 5608, a former Member of the French School at Rome and an Honorary Member of the Institut Universitaire de France. His publications include three books (Bacchanalia: La répression de 186 av. J.C. à Rome et en Italie 1988; Bacchus: figures et pouvoirs 1995 and Les mots de Bacchus 2009) and numerous papers on Dionysos-Bacchus, as well as three edited volumes on ancient Tolosa (Toulouse). He has carried out excavations in Italy, Tunisia and Southern France.

Contributors xiii Sławomir Poloczek, Ph.D., is Assistant Professor of Ancient History at the University of Warsaw (Institute of History), Poland. His research focus is on the religiosity of the Hellenistic and early Imperial Period, especially on the relations between Second Temple Judaism, Christianity and Graeco-Roman Culture and Literature. Richard Seaford is Emeritus Professor of Ancient Greek at the University of Exeter, UK. In 2009, he was Honorary President of the Classical Association (UK): the title of his Presidential address was Ancient Greece and Global Warming. In 2018, a volume of his selected papers was published entitled Tragedy, Ritual, and Money in Ancient Greece. His books include Commentaries on Euripides’ Cyclops (1994) and on Euripides’ Bacchae (Aris and Phillips, 1996), as well as Reciprocity and Ritual (1994), Dionysos (Routledge, 2006), Money and the Early Greek Mind (2004), Cosmology and the Polis (2012) and The Origins of Philosophy in Ancient Greece and Ancient India: A Historical Comparison (2020). Richard Stoneman is Honorary Visiting Professor in the Department of Classics and Ancient History, University of Exeter, UK. For 30 years, his research has revolved around Alexander, his legends and his expedition to India. His books include Alexander the Great: A Life in Legend (2008), Xerxes: A Persian Life (2015) and The Greek Experience of India, from Alexander to the Indo-Greeks (2019). His edition of the Greek and Latin Alexander Romance is being published by the Fondazione Lorenzo Valla (vol. I 2007, vol. II 2011, vol. III forthcoming). He also works on the connections and parallels between Indian and Hellenistic philosophy. He is preparing a new translation (with notes) of the fragments of Megasthenes.

Abbreviations

Wherever possible, abbreviations of ancient authors and texts are in accordance with the LSJ, Lampe and OLD dictionaries. Titles of journals are abbreviated according to L’Année Philologique. ANRW BEFAR BICS Suppl. BMC CIG CIL DELL

DK FGrH GE I.Ephesos IG IGBulg IGRR ILS Lampe LCL

H. Temporini, W. Haase (eds.), Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt. Berlin/New York, 1972‒. Bibliothèque des É coles françaises d’Athènes et de Rome Bulletin of the Institute of Classical Studies Supplements British Museum Catalogues of Coins A. Boeckh (ed.), Corpus Inscriptionum Graecarum, 4 vols. Berlin, 1828–1843. Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum. Berlin, 1863–. A. Ernout, A. Meillet, Dictionnaire Etymologique de la Langue Latin, 4. édition., 4. tirage augmenté d’additions et de corrections nouvelles. Paris, 1985. H. Diels, W. Kranz, Die Fragmente der Vorsokratiker, 3 vols. Berlin, 1952. F. Jacoby, Fragmente der griechischen Historiker. Berlin, 1923‒. F. Montanari, The Brill Dictionary of Ancient Greek. Leiden, 2015. H. Wankel et al. (eds.), Die Inschriften von Ephesos. Bonn, 1979–1984. Inscriptiones Graecae. Berlin, 1903–. G. Mihailov (ed.), Inscriptiones Graecae in Bulgaria repertae. Sofia, 1958–1997. Inscriptiones graecae ad res romanas pertinentes, Paris, 1906–1927. H. Dessau (ed.), Inscriptiones Latinae Selectae. Berlin, 1892–1916. G.W.H. Lampe, A Patristic Greek Lexicon. Oxford, 1969. Loeb Classical Library

Abbreviations LIMC

LSJ

OF

OLD PG RIC SEG SH SIG 3

xv

H.C. Ackermann, J.-R. Gisler et al. (eds.), Lexicon Iconographicum Mythologiae Classicae, 18 vols. Zürich/ Munich, 1981‒1999; Suppl. 2009. H.G. Liddell, R. Scott, H.S. Jones, A Greek-English Lexicon, with a Revised Supplement edited by P.G.W. Glare, with the assistance of A.A. Thompson. Oxford, 1996. A. Bernabé, Poetae epici graeci. Testimonia et Fragmenta, Pars II. Orphicorum et Orphicis similium testimonia et fragmenta. München/Leipzig, 2004‒2005. P.G.W. Glare, Oxford Latin Dictionary, Second edition. Oxford, 2012. J J.-P. Migne (ed.), Patrologiae cursus completus. Series graeca, 162 vols. Paris, 1857‒1912. The Roman Imperial Coinage. London, 1926–2019. Supplementum Epigraphicum Graecum. Leiden, 1923‒. H. Lloyd-Jones, P.J. Parsons (eds.), Supplementum Hellenisticum. Berlin/New York, 1983. W. Dittenberger, Sylloge Inscriptionum Graecarum, Third edition. Leipzig, 1915‒1924.

Introduction Filip Doroszewski and Dariusz Karłowicz

Dionysus and politics? Dionysus as a god who brings order and stability into the state? To the modern mind, taught as it has been by Nietzsche that Dionysus stands for chaos and madness, such an idea may seem strange, if not absurd. And yet, if we allow the voice of antiquity to speak for itself, we hear a strikingly different story. Here is a good example: ‘Have you imitated Dionysus in any respect? Have you been an inventor of any new blessings to mankind? Have you filled the whole of the habitable world with joy as he did?’1 These ironic words, addressed to the emperor Caligula by a Hellenised Jew, Philo of Alexandria (Leg. 88), are nevertheless deeply revealing, as they explicitly hint at a fundamental relationship between the Dionysiac imagery and the constructing of the political authority that existed throughout antiquity. This relationship can be traced back to as early as the world of archaic poleis. As shown by Cornelia Isler-Kerényi, in the myths central to early Greek cosmological reflection, Dionysus – the son of Zeus and protector of his rule – plays a key role in maintaining and restoring the order of the cosmos and, in consequence, that of the polis. Each time that the reign of Zeus is in danger, Dionysus helps to avert the threat and to preserve stability: this can be seen in (1) the role given to Dionysus at the marriage of Peleus and Thetis, which was arranged to prevent the sea nymph from giving birth to a son able to overthrow Zeus; (2) Hephaestus being made drunk with wine and brought back to Olympus, an event that brought a seemingly irresolvable cosmic conflict to a favourable end; and (3) the battle against the Giants, the forces of chaos hostile to the Olympian order, in which Dionysus was one of the protagonists.2 The implications that these myths have for the place of Dionysus in the polis are quite clear: the son of Zeus civilises and settles conflicts, thus allowing the polis to exist in peace. In a similar vein, Richard Seaford demonstrates the importance that the mythical arrival of Dionysus and his conflict with the royal household has in the Greek concept of democratic authority. Inclusive in character, Dionysiac festivals were an opportunity to celebrate social integration.3 Dionysus, the founder of viticulture and a giant-slayer, was also an archetype of the triumphant leader who civilised the remotest parts of the earth

2 Filip Doroszewski and Dariusz Karłowicz and brought people together under one rule despite their differences.4 The tradition of imitating and emulating the deeds of Dionysus starts with Alexander the Great, whose eastern conquests were soon linked in ancient historiography to the Indian expedition of Dionysus.5 From then on, imitatio Dionysi becomes a common feature in the portrayal of Hellenistic rulers as well as Roman leaders and emperors, in some cases taking the form of them assuming the very name of νέος Διόνυσος the ‘New Dionysus’, to mention just Ptolemy XII Auletes, Mithridates VI Eupator and Mark Antony.6 Actually, this may have also been the idea of Caligula: Philo, soon after the ironic words quoted above, denies the emperor the right to call himself the ‘New Dionysus’ (Leg. 90), and Athenaeus confirms that Caligula indeed used this title (Deip. 4.29). However, one did not need to actually pose as a new Dionysus in order to demonstrate one’s abilities as a ruler: less explicit allusions to the god usually sufficed to make one’s Dionysiac features conspicuous enough, with imitating Alexander the Great in the first place. The political significance of Dionysus is well attested both under the Republic as well as during Imperial times and can be illustrated with many more examples than that of Mark Antony and Caligula alone. In Vergil’s Aeneid, a manifesto of Augustan ideology, the ‘Dionysiac’ mission of conquering and civilising the world is a significant marker of Roman identity: in 6.801‒805, Augustus is depicted as a victor even more successful than Dionysus himself, and the Bacchae serves as an important intertext for a significant part of Aeneas’ wanderings.7 As can be understood from literary and archaeological evidence, many of Augustus’ successors intentionally used Dionysiac imagery in their propaganda in order to present their rule as legitimate and beneficial, to mention just Domitian, Hadrian and Septimius Severus.8 Finally, Imperial times saw the rise of Neoplatonist political philosophy in which Dionysus Zagreus, heir to Zeus’ throne torn apart by the Titans yet reborn, occupied an essential place.9 Roman political thought was informed also by the Greek myths of conflict between Dionysus and legal authorities. The stories of the mad god whose politically subversive cult posed a threat to kings and the rules of the polis shaped the minds of both those afraid of the cult’s negative influence upon morality and the safety of the state and of those who saw the cult as a way to confront political oppression. Even if only hinted at, the myth of Lycurgus and also that of Pentheus, especially in Euripides’ version, provided broader context for Livy’s narrative of the Bacchanalia.10 In contrast, there are many indications that the cult of Dionysus played an important ideological role for those who fought against the Romans in the Spartacus War.11 Given the prominence of the Pentheus myth in Plutarch’s Crassus, it is obvious that the Life deals not with a learned metaphor but rather with a sort of theology that interprets political events by means of the Dionysian myth.12 As can clearly be seen even from the brief overview offered here, the inseparable relationship between the cult of Dionysus and politics in antiquity emerged as early as in archaic poleis and continued to evolve until

Introduction 3 late-antique times. Surprisingly enough, most monographs dealing with Greek and Roman political thought pay little, if any, attention to the essential role played by Dionysiac imagery. The only exception in which the name of Dionysus comes to the fore is the Bacchanalian affair, which has been widely discussed both in relation to Roman religion as well as in relation to Roman politics. Apart from that affair, however, Dionysus/ Bacchus is seldom mentioned in mainstream research on Greek and Roman political practice.13 To date, no monograph systematically addressing the role of Dionysus in Greek and Roman political thought has seen the light of day. In existing studies, interesting and valuable as they are, the issue has been discussed only partially or in passing. The present volume fills this important gap by introducing the political importance of Dionysus into the academic mainstream. It brings together 11 contributions from an international team of scholars, starting with four top specialists in the field, Cornelia Isler-Kerényi, Jean-Marie Pailler, Richard Seaford and Richard Stoneman. The contributors develop an interdisciplinary approach to the subject by combining sub-disciplines and types of evidence: historiography, poetry, coins, epigraphy, art and philosophy, while the chapters also follow a chronological order. Thus, the reader can follow how the political ideas and motifs rooted in Greek classical thought were continued, adapted and developed in successive periods, from Hellenistic to Imperial to late-antique times. The book therefore casts a decisive light on a still underrated aspect of Greek and Roman theological reflection on politics, and greatly helps to better understand the ancient thinking on the nature of ruling. The volume is organised into three parts. The first, ‘Dionysus and the polis’, discusses the place of the god in the politics of Greek city states. Chapter 1 by Cornelia Isler-Kerényi surveys the representations of the gigantomachy, a myth of central importance for understanding the political role of Dionysus, from the sixth century BCE to Pergamene art. In her richly illustrated text, Isler-Kerényi shows how Dionysus Gigantomachos, seen in the archaic and classical poleis as the keeper of Zeus’ order, became a patron deity of the Pergamene kings and, in consequence, of other rulers and emperors. Chapter 2 by Richard Seaford gives a completely new interpretation of the political significance of Dionysus in Euripides’ Bacchae, a play that made the god-fighting Pentheus an archetype of a bad ruler for the rest of antiquity. Contrary to widespread opinion, Seaford argues that there is no contradiction between Dionysus and the polis in the Bacchae: the only contradiction is the one that exists between the polis and Pentheus, who embodies the exact opposite of the city-state’s values. In Chapter 3, Dariusz Karłowicz examines the myth in which Dionysus peacefully resolves a bitter conflict between Hera and Hephaestus, and shows its profound implications for the political theology of the Dionysian cult. As Karłowicz demonstrates, the myth clearly reflects a strong belief that the Greeks held in Dionysus’ stabilising influence on the worlds of gods and men. The section’s concluding essay (Chapter 4) discusses the use made

4 Filip Doroszewski and Dariusz Karłowicz by Alexander the Great of Dionysus. Richard Stoneman surveys the Dionysiac motifs that occur in the history and the legend of Alexander to show how the famous conqueror was tightly linked with the god and thus provided a model for Hellenistic rulers and all neoi Dionysoi. Part 2, ‘Dionysus in Rome’, explores how Greek beliefs about Dionysus influenced Roman politics. In Chapter 5, Jean-Marie Pailler examines Livy’s account of the Bacchanalian affair. Pailler first uncovers the reasons for the suppression of the Bacchic cult in Rome in 186 BCE and then casts light on how Dionysus was worshipped under the Republic after the affair. Chapter 6, authored by Fiachra Mac Góráin, addresses Augustus’ attitude towards Dionysus and places it in a long tradition of imitatio Dionysi that dates back to Alexander the Great. Mac Góráin argues that, as presented in Virgil’s Aeneid, Augustan propaganda cultivates the two most Dionysian aspects of the princeps’ rule: the economic growth and spatial expansion of Rome. In Chapter 7, Filip Doroszewski examines Plutarch’s Lives of Crassus, Antony and Caesar to reconstruct the Greek writer’s political theology of the turbulent events that led to the end of the Republic and the establishing of the Principate. Doroszewski demonstrates that Dionysiac motifs constitute an essential part of this theology, as they serve Plutarch to portray three different types of leadership and the consequences they have for the state. Chapter 8 by Sławomir Poloczek considers three poorly investigated cases in which the figure of Dionysus was used to legitimise the imperial authority: those of Caligula, Domitian and Hadrian. The chapter clearly shows that cultivating various aspects of Dionysus, such as theatricality, military triumphs and mysteries, was an essential part of a ruler’s image, even under the early empire. Further arguments in favour of a firm link between Dionysus and imperial authority are provided by Małgorzata Krawczyk in Chapter 9, which discusses the religious policy of Severus and his sons in the light of numismatic and epigraphic evidence. Krawczyk’s analysis unambiguously shows that these sources present Dionysus as a tutelary deity of the Severan dynasty. Part 3, ‘Late-antique reflection on Dionysus’, looks at the theological and philosophical interpretations put on Dionysus’ political role under the later empire. Chapter 10 by Marek Job tackles the motif of Dionysus’ reign as presented in the Hieroi Logoi in 24 Rhapsodies, an Orphic cosmological poem written in late antiquity. Job attempts to answer the question of whether the cosmic role played by Dionysus in the late-antique Orphic poem complies with that alluded to in earlier sources, and concludes that it is essentially the same as it was in archaic political thought. The final chapter of the volume, authored by David Hernández de la Fuente, explores the Neoplatonic interpretations of Dionysus and the Dionysiac in late antiquity, and especially their implications for both the political and the cosmic order. The chapter makes evident that on the philosophical level, Dionysus-Zagreus, heir to the throne of Zeus, was a patron deity of the late-antique rulers.

Introduction 5 What is characteristic of every mythical story is that it belongs to a distant past and yet it is perpetually re-enacted in the present. In the lives of the Editors specifically, the myth of political Dionysus began to be reenacted when they met in the winter of 2013, only for it to gradually gain even more actuality through an almost ritualised series of meetings in the Kawka café of the Powiśle area of Warsaw. The long-awaited epiphany, however, took place over several occasions in the years 2016‒2019 during a research project on Dionysus and the religious policy of the Roman emperors that was generously financed by the Polish Ministry of Science and Higher Education within the National Programme for the Development of Humanities. As one of the results of the project, the Editors are happy to offer the reader this compact volume, which constitutes an excellent introduction to a subject that has largely been marginalised in the mainstream research on ancient politics. It is hoped that the volume will give a new impetus to further explore the politics of Dionysus in antiquity, and that other publications will soon follow to cast even more light on the subject. The Editors would like to thank other members of the research team ‒ Marek Job, Małgorzata Krawczyk and Sławomir Poloczek ‒ for a fruitful collaboration. Heartfelt thanks go to Jan Kozłowski and Robert Pawlik for their inspiration and support during the research project. Thanks go also to Tim Brombley and Damian Jasiński for diligently proofreading and correcting the entire manuscript, to Fiachra Mac Góráin, who offered invaluable help with English language revisions in some sections of the volume, as well as to Michał Strachowski, who prepared the map of Italy (Fig. 5.1). Finally, the Editors would also like to express their gratitude to the scholars who not only agreed to gather in the Natolin Palace on a cold day of January 2019 to discuss Dionysus but also undertook the challenging task of contributing to the volume. Warsaw, October 2020

Notes 1 Ph. Leg. 88 ἐμιμήσω Διόνυσον; εὑρετὴς καινῶν γέγονας χαρίτων ὡς ἐκεῖνος; εὐφροσύνης κατέπλησας τὴν οἰκουμένην;. Tr. C.D. Yonge. 2 Isler-Kerényi, C. (2007) Dionysos in Archaic Greece. An Understanding through Images. Leiden, Brill, 65‒105. 3 Seaford, R. (2012) Cosmology and the Polis: Social Construction of Space and Time in the Tragedies of Aeschylus. Cambridge University Press, 75‒95. 4 See Isler-Kerényi in this volume. 5 See Stoneman in this volume. 6 See Mac Góráin in this volume. 7 See Mac Góráin in this volume. 8 See chapters by Poloczek and Krawczyk in this volume. 9 See Hernández de la Fuente in this volume. 10 See Pailler in this volume.

6 Filip Doroszewski and Dariusz Karłowicz 11 See e.g. Piccinin, P. (2001) ‘Le Dionysisme Dans le Bellum Spartacium’, Parola del Passato 56, 272‒296; Piccinin, P. (2002) ‘Le Vésuve: un site bachique dans le Bellum Spartacium?’, Parola del Passato 57, 351‒356. 12 See Doroszewski in this volume. 13 To give just a few examples: on some 800 pages of The Cambridge History of Greek and Roman Political Thought edited by Ch. Rowe and M. Schofield (CUP, 2000), the name of Dionysus/Bacchus occurs one time (excluding two mentions about the Athenian Theatre of Dionysus); S. Salkever’s The Cambridge Companion to Ancient Greek Political Thought (CUP, 2009) has it twice; in R. Brock’s Greek Political Imagery from Homer to Aristotle (Bloomsbury Academic, 2013) claiming to be ‘the first systematic study of political imagery in ancient Greek literature, history and thought’, again Dionysus can be found only twice. Against this poor background, A Companion to Greek and Roman Political Thought, edited by R.K. Balot (Blackwell, 2009) may seem an exception since throughout 700 pages, it mentions Dionysus/Bacchus eight times (bibliography excluded), four of them, however, occurring in relation to the Bacchanalian affair.

Part I

Dionysus and the polis

1

Dionysos, the polis and power Cornelia Isler-Kerényi

Before beginning my presentation, two preliminary ideas need setting forth: (1) the perception of Dionysos I have developed from studying his icono­ graphy, and (2) the appreciation of art as an indispensable source for approaching the ancient world. 1. Since Friedrich Nietzsche, Dionysos has been considered an expression of the irrational and wild element of the individual and society, in contrast to Apollonian measure and beauty. He was believed to stand outside the Olympic order and therefore outside the regulated world of the polis – a divine ‘Other’. However, as early as 1985, Jean-Pierre Vernant, in his interpretation of Euripides’ Bacchae, demonstrated that although Dionysos is a kind of ‘Other’ vis-à-vis the other gods and may personify evasion and rupture, he nonetheless does so within the system, and with the aim not of destroying it, but of consolidating its internal order and guaranteeing peace in the polis.1 2. There are at least two serious reasons to take ancient figurative art into account when reflecting on more general cultural topics such as religion or politics in Antiquity. The first is that it is a direct witness of its time. The second is that it expresses a culture that was, in stark contrast to ours, very sparse in images. For its original recipients, each image – whether sculpted or painted on a vase – held enormous communicative power. However, when interpreting an image, it is always necessary to take into account its image-bearer and thus the type of message that its creator wanted to transmit.

Dionysos Gigantomachos in the archaic and classical periods Dionysos appears in Greek ceramic imagery as early as the seventh century BCE, but it is in Athens that we are able to follow the development of his iconography from generation to generation starting in 580 BCE. Until the age of Pericles, Dionysos is normally portrayed as a bearded man, dressed in a long chiton and himation. His movements are measured and dignified. This is his countenance in the numerous images in which he is accompanied

10 Cornelia Isler-Kerényi by a thiasos of satyrs and dancing women, but also in the mythological representations in which he always appears as an intermediary and defender of the cosmic order, that is to say, of the authority of Zeus. After 430 BCE, this image changes radically: Dionysos is now most commonly portrayed as a handsome youth, almost completely naked, lying down, sitting or in motion; we do not have time here to explain the meaning of this meta­ morphosis.2 In addition to these two types of representation, another image of Dionysos emerged in 560 BCE and continued to be current until the Hellenistic period: that of the gigantomachos, the god who combats the Giants.3 The Gigantes were children of the Earth, so they belonged to a generation before the Olympian gods, who were children of Kronos and Rhea. The Giants had revolted against the Olympians with the aim of ousting them from power. There was a cruel struggle between the gods (including Dionysos) and the Giants supported by their mother Gea. The victory of the gods would not have been possible without the help of Heracles. The literary tradition, therefore, sees Dionysos fighting not on the side of those opposed to the gods, but alongside those who are committed to the cosmic order and the authority of Zeus. For the Greeks, the gigan­ tomachy was a prefiguration and model of any conflict against barbarian enemies, while the victory of the Olympians foreshadowed the victory of civilisation over those who would try to undermine it. The gigantomachy was therefore a frequent subject of official art, as seen for example in the sculptural decoration of Greek temples.4 A revealing example is the decoration of the Siphnian Treasury at the Sanctuary of Apollo in Delphi erected just before 525 BCE. It had two decorated pediments and a frieze running around the outer walls. The frieze at the top of the north face, the first to come into a visitor’s view, is the best preserved. It shows the gigantomachy with a host of figures. Dionysos, whose name is written on the plinth at the bottom of the figuration, is attacking an enemy. He is wearing a short chiton, leaving his legs free, while a panther skin on his shoulders indicates that he is a hunter (Fig. 1.1). It is important to note here that his team of lions is led by Themis (who is also labelled), the deity personifying cosmic order.5 The first figurations of the gigantomachy on vases precede the Delphic relief by more than a generation. The most remarkable can be found on the fragments of a large globular vase offered to the Acropolis in Athens, signed – and perhaps also dedicated – by Lydos, the most important painter of the period from 560 to 540 BCE.6 The vessel is of exceptional value for its shape, size and quality of ornamentation. Here too, Dionysos wears the short chiton that leaves his legs free during the fight.7 The enemy giant, attacked by animals allied with Dionysos – three lions, a panther and a snake – has already fallen to one knee (Fig. 1.2). The more striking elements of Dionysos Gigantomachos iconography on black-figure vases – violent movement, short clothing, the wild animals that help the god in the struggle – are found in most of the red-figure images of the fifth century (Fig. 1.3).8

Dionysos, the polis and power 11

Figure 1.1 Dionysos Gigantomachos and Themis. Detail of the gigantomachy frieze, Siphnian Treasury, Delphi (after LIMC IV.2, 374 Dionysos 651).

Figure 1.2 Detail of the gigantomachy by Lydos. Fragments of a black-figure dinos, Athens, Acropolis inv. 607 (after Moore 1979, 99).

12 Cornelia Isler-Kerényi

Figure 1.3 Gigantomachy of Dionysos. Red-figure attic stamnos, London, British Museum inv. E 443 (after Carpenter 1997, pl. 2A).

It is probably not a coincidence that these images become particularly fre­ quent in the decades after 490 BCE, when the Greek poleis feel threatened by the expansion of the Medes. It should be noted that Dionysos is the most popular gigantomachos for vase painters, more popular even than Athena or Poseidon.9 The most famous fifth-century gigantomachy is most certainly the one from the metopes that adorned the eastern façade of the Parthenon on the Acropolis in Athens, erected between 447 and 438 BCE to celebrate the polis and its victory over the Medes in the Persian Wars. Although badly damaged, they give a fairly accurate idea of Dionysos’ gigantomachy. Here, too, he wears a short chiton and is helped by a panther (Fig. 1.4a‒b). Among the iconographic elements characterising the archaic and classical Dionysos Gigantomachos, the most interesting is surely the panther that is almost always helping the god. It is represented under two guises: as the animal skin that the god wears over his shoulders, and as the living animal that supports him in the fight. The image expresses the fact that, although he is an ally of Zeus and of the polis, Dionysos is a hunter and therefore also belongs to the outside world. His action manifests itself in the regulated, civilised life as well as in the wild and dangerous nature that surrounds it.

Dionysos, the polis and power 13

Figure 1.4a Dionysos Gigantomachos. Eastern metope 2, Athens, Parthenon (after Berger 1986, pl. 40).

Dionysos Gigantomachos in Pergamon The Parthenon image of Dionysos Gigantomachos clearly served as the model for the one found on the monumental altar from the Hellenistic city of Pergamon, erected in tribute to Zeus in the first half of the second cen­ tury BCE by King Eumenes II, son of Attalos I. Two large relief friezes adorn the monument: a gigantomachy extending over the base, reflecting, among other things, the permanent threat to Pergamon from the Galatians of Anatolia, and, in the colonnade that surrounded the upper courtyard of the building housing the altar, the life of Telephus, the founding hero of the Attalid dynasty. Dionysos is actively involved in both events. In the gigantomachy, he is placed at the corner of the southern risalite, to the right of the visitor climbing the large staircase leading to the courtyard with the altar. Facing the northern risalite, whose sea deities evoke the Aegean, this risalite evokes the Pergamon region through Dionysos, Semele and Rhea-Cybele.10 The figure of the god is well preserved with the ex­ ception of the face, which, like those of the other gods, was destroyed during Christian times. Curls of hair frame what was once Dionysos’ young face.

14 Cornelia Isler-Kerényi

Figure 1.4b Dionysos Gigantomachos. Eastern metope 2, reconstruction (after Praschniker 1928, 192, Fig. 119).

Like his predecessors, but in the baroque style typical of Pergamenian art, he wears the short chiton with an animal skin draped over it and boots (Fig. 1.5). With his right arm, he is throwing his thyrsus, just as his lefthand grabs the enemy giant (of whom nothing survives) by the hair. Between Dionysos’ legs, we can make out the outline of the panther that accompanies him. To his right are two young satyrs. A careful reading of Dionysos in this iconographic and historical context shows that he is not only a gigantomachos but also Dionysos Kathegemon, the god of the Dionysian mysteries for which Pergamon was famed. This interpretation also explains the exceptional participation of Semele, Dionysos’ mother, in this particular gigantomachy.11 In the story of the life of Telephus, the presence of Dionysos is implicit in several scenes, but he only actively intervenes in the crucial episode depicted at the centre of the frieze: when he provokes the wounding of Telephus during the defence of Pergamon against Achilles (Fig. 1.6). Through this episode, the true identity of Telephus, son of the Greek hero Heracles and therefore the grandson of Zeus, is revealed, which makes possible his de­ cisive contribution to the Trojan War (just as the assistance of his father Heracles had allowed the Olympian gods to prevail over the Giants). It was Telephus, the founder of the Attalid dynasty and grandson of Zeus, who legitimised the power of the kings of Pergamon.12

Dionysos, the polis and power 15

Figure 1.5 Dionysos Gigantomachos. Pergamon Altar, Berlin, Pergamonmuseum (after LIMC IV.2, 375 Dionysos 657).

Pergamon was a kingdom. But it was in the unique situation of being a polis at the same time, with all of the institutions that characterise one.13 Its am­ bition, through its role in Greek arts and culture, was to be recognised as the Athens of Asia. Through his dual role in Pergamon, as patron of the polis and guarantor of the authority of its kings, Dionysos would be embraced as a protector by many other kings and emperors throughout Antiquity.14 Translated from French by Dominika Gajewska

16 Cornelia Isler-Kerényi

Figure 1.6 Dionysos provokes the wounding of Telephus. Pergamon Altar, Berlin, Pergamonmuseum (PRISMA ARCHIVO/Alamy Stock Photo).

Notes 1 2 3 4 5

Vernant 1985. Isler-Kerényi 2015, 239‒240; Özen-Kleine 2016, 129‒141, 160‒162. Carpenter 1986, 55‒75; Vian and Moore 1988, 191‒196. Carpenter 1997, 16. A well-documented reading by Brinkmann 1985, 101‒102, Figs. 65‒66, but questioned by Vian and Moore 1988, 261. Themis following Dionysos is also found in the image of Peleus and Thetis’ wedding on Sophilos’ famous dinos in London: Isler-Kerényi 2007, 70‒74. 6 Athens, National Museum, Acropolis Coll. inv. 607; Moore 1979, 99.

Dionysos, the polis and power 17 7 8 9 10 11

Moore 1979, 85‒87. Vian and Moore 1988, 161; Carpenter 1997, 18. Carpenter 1997, 17. For a complete iconological reading of the two friezes, see Isler-Kerényi 2010. Her name is partially preserved: Kossatz-Deissmann 1994, Semele 38a. Semele and the Dionysian mysteries: Isler-Kerényi 2010, 68. 12 Isler-Kerényi 2010, 70. 13 Isler-Kerényi 2010, 72. 14 Two pretty little marble altars found near a place of worship of Dionysos in Pergamon – one with a dedication to Emperor Augustus, its counterpart with a dedication to Dionysos Kathegemon – illustrate concretely the transition from one era to another: Radt 1999, 198‒199, Fig. 140.

Bibliography Berger, E. (1986) Der Parthenon in Basel. Dokumentation zu den Metopen. Mainz am Rhein, Von Zabern. Brinkmann, V. (1985) ‘Die aufgemalten Namensbeischriften an Nord- und Ostfries des Siphnierschatzhauses’, BCH 109, 77–130. Carpenter, T.H. (1986) Dionysian Imagery in Archaic Greek Art. Oxford University Press. Carpenter, T.H. (1997) Dionysian Imagery in Fifth-Century Athens. Oxford University Press. Isler-Kerényi, C. (2007) Dionysos in Archaic Greece. An Understanding through Images. Leiden, Brill. Isler-Kerényi, C. (2010) ‘Dionysos am Pergamonaltar’, AK 53, 62–73. Isler-Kerényi, C. (2015) Dionysos in Classical Athens. An Understanding through Images. Leiden, Brill. Kossatz-Deissmann, A. (1994) ‘Semele’, LIMC VII.1, 718–726. Moore, M.B. (1979) ‘Lydos and the Gigantomachy’, AJA 83, 79–99. Özen-Kleine, B. (2016) Das Phänomen der ‘Verjüngung’ im klassischen Athen. Zur Bedeutung der Altersstufen in der Bilderwelt des 6. und 5. Jhs. v. Chr. Wiesbaden, Harrassowitz. Praschniker, C. (1928) Parthenonstudien. Wien, Filser. Radt, W. (1999) Pergamon. Geschichte und Bauten einer antiken Metropole. Darmstadt, Primus. Vernant, J.-P. (1985) ‘Le Dionysos masqué des Bacchantes d’Euripide’, L’Homme 93, 31‒58. Vian, F. and Moore, M.B. (1988) ‘Gigantes’, LIMC IV.1, 191–270.

2

The politics of Euripides’ Bacchae and the preconception of irresolvable contradiction Richard Seaford

In order to understand the politics of Bacchae, we must first free ourselves from a widespread misconception that consists of viewing the play through the lens of unresolved contradiction, which is generally assumed to be also irresolvable. I call this the preconception of irresolvable contradiction (PIC). Here is a typical example: The relation of civilized humanity to Dionysus and to all that Dionysus symbolizes is necessarily ambiguous. The Bacchae explores that ambiguity in its tragic dimension and in its relation to tragedy; it is an oversimplification to view the play as a statement either for or against Dionysus and his cult.1 Another example: for Mastronarde, the ‘tragic dilemma’ that Bacchae presents, is that ‘one must both acknowledge Dionysus’ divinity and recognize the god’s potential for cruel violence and amoral excess’.2 But why is this a ‘dilemma’? If you reject or try to suppress Dionysos, he may cruelly destroy you, and so you should acknowledge him. It is only a dilemma if acknowledging him also has very bad consequences. But it does not. My point is not merely that the idea of a ‘dilemma’ here is absurd, but that the absurdity has emerged in the mind of Mastronarde under the power of our preconception that tragedy embodies irresolvable contradiction (PIC). I will be giving further examples of this approach in due course. It rests on a profound misunderstanding of Bacchae, of ancient Greek religion and of the relationship of religion to the polis. I will maintain that, contrary to a widespread view of Bacchae, (§1) Pentheus does not embody the values of the polis: quite the reverse; (§2) there is no contradiction between Dionysos and the polis: quite the reverse; (§3) there are reasons why the punishment inflicted by Dionysos would have seemed to the Athenian audience justified, especially given (§4) the very dangerous political circumstances in which the play was written, which have been ignored by its interpreters; (§5) there is no unresolved or irresolvable contradiction, whether within the Dionysiac or between the Dionysiac and Pentheus; (§6) liberating ourselves from the PIC can be advanced by understanding its historical origin.

Politics of Euripides’ Bacchae 19 §1. Pentheus is not a ‘hero’. Indeed, no living person is called ‘hero’ in Athenian tragedy: the tragic ‘hero’ was invented in the renaissance. Instead, the tragic individual is regularly called turannos (‘tyrant, autocrat’). Also, as the admirable Theseus puts it in Euripides’ Suppliant Women (430), ‘there is nothing more hostile to a polis than a turannos’. The chorus in speaking to Pentheus is ‘afraid to speak free words to the turannos’ (Ba. 775‒776). Kadmos’ funerary praise for his grandson Pentheus is ‒ significantly ‒ not for any civic role but for defending the ruling household and thereby being a ‘terror to the polis’ (1310). I will return to the Athenian hostility to tyranny in §3 and §4. Pentheus is a ‘bad citizen’ (271), with ‘excessive kingliness’ (671). The only way in which he is said to benefit the polis is by being killed (963). He has the characteristics of the typical tragedy turannos: suspiciousness, lack of self-control, hubris, lawlessness and brutal violence. These tyrannical characteristics are recognised by Dodds, who nevertheless oddly regards them as a merely psychological rather than also a political problem.3 There is no justification for the frequent assumption that Pentheus somehow embodies the interests of the polis. However, one attempt to provide such justification deserves attention. Versnel examines Athenian evidence for new deities in the classical period: Adonis, Kybele, Bendis, Kotys and Sabazios, and Isodaites.4 In the cases of Isodaites, Sabazios and Kybele, there is evidence for measures taken against the new cult at Athens. The courtesan Phryne was in the fourth century BCE prosecuted for introducing a new or foreign god (Isodaites) and convening unlawful thiasoi of men and women (p. 118). To Sabazios, there is hostility in texts of the late fifth and fourth centuries and at some point in the fourth century, Ninos, a priestess of Sabazios, was executed for her religious activity (pp. 114‒116). Versnel argues (pp. 123‒130) that Phryne and Ninos were prosecuted under the same law ‒ against the introduction of new gods ‒ as Socrates. The only case of active rejection before the date of Bacchae is of Kybele. A man came to Attica, we are told, initiated the women into the mysteries of Kybele and was killed by the Athenians by being thrown into a pit (pp. 105‒107): this occurred at some time in the fifth century BCE. What interests Versnel is that the accusations of Pentheus against the new foreign cult of Dionysos resemble those made at Athens against new foreign cults: novelty, sorcery, financial motives, inebriation and immorality5; hence, Pentheus’ ‘justifiable civic resistance’ to the new cult. Of course, Versnel realises that Pentheus’ accusations are untrue, that they ‘turn out to be products of an excited imagination’ (p. 160). ‘The Bacchae pictures Dionysos as a new daimon who, being outlawed by the city officials, turns out to be a real, great god and thus proves resistance to be hamartia’ (p. 173). Apart from the fact that Dionysos is outlawed by a turannos (not ‘city officials’), this statement is correct. It comes as a surprise therefore to read on the very next page that ‘the tragic paradox lies in the fact that both parties are right’ (p. 174). No, Pentheus is not ‘right’; he is

20 Richard Seaford completely wrong. Only those in the grip of the PIC could say that ‘both parties are right’. If the new cult of Dionysos was not only ‘for a real, great god’ but also immoral, fraudulent and corrupt, then that would indeed be an irresolvable paradox. But it is not immoral, fraudulent and corrupt. According to Versnel, Dionysos and Pentheus are not only both right, they are also both wise. Euripides ‘intended… to leave us with a sense of uncertainty’ (pp. 100‒101). The ‘paradox’ is the opposition between two kinds of wisdom, between the wisdom of accepting Dionysos and ‘another wisdom, the sophrosune of Pentheus who represents the equally credible and justifiable civic resistance to a new religion that shakes the pillars of society’ (p. 181). The PIC requires the belief that Pentheus not only represents and defends the values of the polis but also has sophrosune (‘moderation, self-control’). But what is the sophrosune of Pentheus? The word sophrosune does not occur in Bacchae (it is metrically inconvenient), but its cognates ‒ the adjective sophron and the verb sophronein ‒ occur ten times. The cult of Dionysos is in three passages (329, 686 and 940) sophron, in the latter two explicitly against the expectation of Pentheus; this means that accusations compared by Versnel to the accusations made by the Athenians against new gods are explicitly stated to be false. It is best to be sophron and revere the gods (1150), that is, Dionysos, who contrasts himself as sophron with his enemies as ‘not sophron’ (504), urges Pentheus to be sophron, and contrasts a sophron disposition with the excited behaviour of Pentheus (641), who, had he been sophron, would have had Dionysos as an ally (1341‒1343).6 Pentheus is never described as sophron and never utters the words sophron and sophronein. And it is abundantly clear that from his very first appearance, when he is described as agitated, in a flutter (214), his words and behaviour are throughout the drama, the opposite of sophron. To call Pentheus sophron is as manifestly absurd as to call him ‘right’. They are both ways to maintain the unresolved contradiction. The weakness of Versnel’s case does not end there. Of the new foreign cults he adduces, the ‘most instructive instance of all’ (p. 114) is Sabazios, an orgiastic god whose cult involved several Dionysiac features such as initiation, inebriation, thiasoi, makarismos, snakes and fawn-skins (pp. 114‒115). However, it was not these features that were objectionable. A scholiast on Demosthenes’ De falsa legatione 19.281, quoted by Versnel, gives as the reason for executing Ninos that ‘her initiations were a mockery and hubris against the true mysteries’, and adds that ‘subsequently the god ordered that these mysteries should be tolerated’.7 There was in Athens much unhindered cult of Sabazios, and it was perhaps from this fact that the scholiast or his source inferred there to have been an order from the god that the mysteries be tolerated. However that may be, the result is a narrative with a basic resemblance to the typical aetiological myth of cult, in which an alien cult is first rejected and then on the orders of a deity accepted.

Politics of Euripides’ Bacchae 21 Much closer to the aetiological type is the narrative of the arrival of the cult of the Asian goddess Kybele (called by the Greeks ‘Mother of the Gods’): a metragurtes (priest of Kybele) came to Attica, initiated women into the mysteries of the cult and was killed by the Athenians; there followed a plague, an oracle requiring his appeasement and the establishment of an official cult (jointly of the metragurtes and the Mother of the Gods) in the agora. This is so typical of aetiological myth that its historicity has been doubted. However, that may be; my point here is that the myth dramatised by Bacchae is also typically aetiological. Rejection of new alien deities was in general likely to occur, but not without tension between dislike of the cult and a vague fear of divine anger. Aetiological myth and the narratives of the Mother of the Gods and of Sabazios help to resolve the tension by indicating that any adverse consequences of rejection can eventually be limited or reversed by acceptance of the cult in its authentic form by the polis. The action taken against the metragurtes, Phryne and Ninos was motivated not by the nature of the deity but rather ‒ Versnel 1990 emphasises (pp. 109, 115, 119) ‒ by the (illegal) privacy and immoral behaviour of the thiasoi and their initiations, which contrasted with the authenticity of the publicly acknowledged cult. But in Bacchae, not only are rituals of the thiasoi blameless, but it is throughout emphasised that the cult is authentic and public: Dionysos has come to initiate the polis (39‒40), he wants participation from everybody (208‒209), ‘the whole polis was put in a Bacchic frenzy’ (1295) and so on. Bacchae dramatises the aetiological myth of the kind of universal polis festival in which tragedy was performed, the City Dionysia. An aetiological myth of the City Dionysia itself has survived that is much simpler: when a man brought the image of Dionysos to Athens, the Athenians ‘did not receive him with honour’, whereupon they were afflicted by a disease of the genitals from which, on the advice of an oracle, they were cured by making phalloi for the god.8 That would not make a tragedy. In Euripides’ elaborate version of the aetiological myth of the Theban cult of Dionysos, the resistance to the god is political and so draws on the kind of resistance which ‒ Versnel rightly suggests ‒ Euripides may have known in Athens (and perhaps elsewhere). But the aetiological logic is that the resistance, whether to Kybele at Athens or Dionysos at Thebes, is definitively, officially and permanently overcome. To replace this logic, alien as it is to us, with our logic of unresolved contradiction is to fail to see the necessity of the aetiological logic for the Athenian audience9: this necessity will become clearer as we proceed. §2. Dionysiac cult, including maenadism, was an official cult of the polis at Athens and elsewhere. The advantage to the polis of general participation in Dionysiac cult (described by Teiresias at Bacchae 206‒209) is too well documented to need reiteration here.10 Why then has it been so often maintained that maenadism, or even the ‘Dionysiac’ as a whole, is

22 Richard Seaford inherently antithetical to the civilised order of the polis? Once again, because of the failure to understand aetiological myth. Bacchae dramatises the aetiological crisis, which occurs between the rejection of the new cult and its eventual permanent establishment. The function of aetiological myth is not just to help resolve tension in the way just described, and to explain why the cult is performed, but also, most importantly, to ensure that the cult is performed, by imparting the dire consequences of not performing it. It may be that elements of the crisis continue to be enacted in the ritual, but only so as to be controlled or overcome. Of this failure to understand aetiology I could give numerous examples, but confine myself again to a single one. Winnington-Ingram states that the maenads of the chorus ‘are attempting to introduce their worship into a civilised community, to which the Dionysiac in its pure form is inimical’.11 This is symbolised, he says, by the maenads’ attack on the villages (Ba. 748‒759), where he says of the maenads (described by the messenger as ‘like enemies’) that ‘in truth they are enemies of organised society’.12 But the maenads’ attack is a response to being themselves attacked by male shepherds trying to curry favour with Pentheus (721). The messenger ends by urging Pentheus to accept Dionysos. Bacchae is from beginning to end about the attempted violent suppression ‒ in the end by a single individual ‒ of the Dionysiac cult. Suppression of cult is dangerous. Battos merely intruded on the Thesmophoria,13 but his consequent castration by the female celebrants is not evidence that the worship of Demeter is ‘in its pure form’ inimical to society. §3. Mastronarde, we saw, refers Dionysos’ ‘potential for cruel violence and amoral excess’.14 Even if we agree with this description of Dionysos’ response to the violence against himself and his cult, there is here yet again a failure to notice the role of aetiological myth and its importance in ensuring the performance of cult. From our perspective, we can see that cult, in particular a cult in which there is general participation, is vital for the wellbeing of the polis and even ‒ in certain circumstances ‒ for its survival. This sociological truth was not expressed thus in antiquity, but it was approached by Plato (e.g. Laws 738d‒e), hinted at by Herodotus in the story of the ghostly Iakchos procession during the abandonment of Athens and its occupation by the Persians (8.65) and expressed in the belief that a deity who demands such cult will, if denied, damage the polis, and will, if acceded to, benefit the polis. This is the logic of aetiological myth. The aetiological crisis often takes the form of disease, which may be a mythical expression of civil conflict: for instance, in the aetiological myth of the cult of the Furies at Athens, dramatised in Aeschylus’ Eumenides, their threat to inflict disease on the polis is met by Athena asking them not to create civil conflict,15 and her offer to them of cult turns them into promoters of both health and concord. The contradictory nature of the Furies does not present a dilemma; it is precisely what ensures their cult.

Politics of Euripides’ Bacchae 23 To reject the divine desire for cult threatens the polis, and so must incur ferocious punishment. Moreover, rejection by a turannos (such as Pentheus) justifies even greater ferocity. Throughout the fifth century, the Athenians regarded the turannos as the enemy of the polis. From the mass of evidence for this,16 I select here merely the context of the tragic performances itself, the City Dionysia, in which there was proclaimed annually, probably throughout most of the fifth century, a decree proclaiming a reward for killing any of the tyrants.17 Moreover, in the period in which Euripides wrote Bacchae, the Athenian polis was especially fearful of tyranny and threatened with disintegration, as we shall see in the next section. §4. The immediate historical circumstances of Bacchae have been ‒ oddly ‒ almost universally ignored by its interpreters. Euripides died in the winter of 407‒406 BCE, in Macedonia (if we believe the ancient tradition), and Bacchae was subsequently performed at Athens. We do not know where or exactly when the play was written, but almost certainly it was in the last five years of his life,18 a period of severe civil conflict at Athens arising from the catastrophic defeat of the Sicilian expedition in 412 BCE. This period was lived through also by Thucydides, whose generalisation about civil conflict throughout Greece during the Peloponnesian war, that ‘revenge was held of more account than self-preservation’ (3.82.7),19 is ‒ along with violence, intrigue, factions, demagoguery and despair ‒ embodied in Euripides’ Orestes of 408 BCE.20 The Athenian fear of ‘tyranny’ in this period is well documented in Aristophanes21 and Thucydides.22 And indeed when the socalled ‘thirty’ took power in 404 BCE, they soon assumed that they were ‘free to act like tyrants’ (turannein), according to Xenophon,23 who goes on to narrate their battle with the democrats in Mounychia. This battle ends in a manner relevant to Bacchae: the enemies approach each other and converse, and Kleokritos, ‘the herald of the initiates’ (i.e. those initiated into the Eleusinian mysteries), appeals to the followers of the thirty with considerations that include ‘shared participation in the most solemn rituals’, by which he must mean the Eleusinian mysteries. As in Bacchae, the shared experience of mystic initiation is set against tyrannical violence. In Aristophanes’ Frogs, produced in 405 BCE, it is a tragedian, Aeschylus, who is urged by the chorus of Eleusinian initiates to return from Hades to earth and ‘save our polis’ with his good opinions and educate the foolish (1500‒1503). Dionysiac mystic initiation, which for the Athenians was very closely associated with Eleusinian initiation, was in Bacchae established as a cult of the whole polis,24 and pervades the drama, as I show in my Commentary25 on numerous passages. The ethics of the initiated Dionysiac chorus are of community, lawfulness, peace, order and moderation, whereas the ethics of the turannos Pentheus are of lawless excess and violent individualism. This polarity is manifest in so many passages26 that it is almost too obvious to point out. Why then is it not universally recognised? Partly because the revenge taken by Dionysos and celebrated by the chorus has seemed excessive.

24 Richard Seaford In response, I emphasise again the social necessity of ferocious revenge on behalf of the polis, taken by a god of the whole polis. Moreover, the violent revenge is taken by a deity (Dionysos, in Ba. 991 Justice), not by mortals. It cannot, therefore, create a cycle of reciprocal violence (often a feared consequence of revenge between mortals). True, there is a passage of the play that may seem to describe the fundamental and sinister vengefulness of the mortal adherents of Dionysos who form the chorus. This is 877‒881 (repeated as 897‒901), which Dodds translates thus: ‘What is wisdom? Or what god-given right is more honourable in the sight of men than to keep the hand of mastery over the head of a foe? “Honour is precious”: that is always true’.27 But I translate it thus: ‘What is the wise (gift), or what the finer gift from the gods among mortals? Is it to hold the hand powerful over the head of your enemies? (No, for) what is fine is dear always’. The two translations give opposite meanings. I prefer mine because of technical considerations of language and metre that I discuss in my Commentary.28 But it also fits the context far better than Dodds’. ‘What is fine is dear always [whereas revenge is transient]’ at 901 is followed immediately by a makarismos, a formal statement ‒ uttered in mystic initiation ‒ of the permanent happiness (eudaimonia) obtained by initiation. This makarismos contrasts competitiveness in wealth and power, which produces failure as well as success, with a life that is eudaimon (permanently happy) from day to day (Ba. 902‒911). As elsewhere in Bacchae, mystic wisdom contrasts with the transience of individual power represented by the turannos. Another consideration advanced by those who argue that the revenge of Dionysos is excessive is that it falls not only on Pentheus but also on Kadmos and Agaue and her sisters, who not only suffer from the horrific death of Pentheus but also are at the end of the play all (1381‒1382) exiled. In response, we may note that the Greeks still adhered to some extent (whereas we do not) to familial responsibility for crime,29 that revenge may be taken on the kinship group of the killer,30 that the idea of inherited guilt persisted throughout antiquity31 and that the phenomenon of tyranny was dynastic. The City Dionysia proclamation for a reward for killing ‘the tyrants’ meant the tyrannical family. It was not the polis but members of the tyrannical dynasty (Pentheus, his mother and her sisters) who rejected the divinity of Dionysos. Also, Kadmos’ eulogy for the dead Pentheus is a perfect representation of the hostility of a tyrannical dynasty to the polis (1308‒1322). It is this narrow dynastic self-interest that explains Kadmos’ earlier advice to Pentheus that even if Dionysos is not a god, he should nevertheless accept him, for this means telling a lie in a good cause and creating honour ‘for the whole clan’ (332‒336). Historically, tyrants and monarchs have used the cult of Dionysos as a means of control. Ignoring such considerations encourages such statements as that by Oudemans and Lardinois:

Politics of Euripides’ Bacchae 25 Dionysos represents power that has to be both abhorred and worshipped. This tragic situation is made clear in Euripides’ Bacchae. Agaue completely surrenders herself to the god and is punished by unwittingly slaying her son and being banished, while the opposite attitude of Pentheus, who resists the god, leads to his violent death.32 But in fact Agaue and her sisters, the females of the tyrannical dynasty, denied the divinity of Dionysos (like Pentheus), and ‘therefore’ were (somewhat like Pentheus) involuntarily sent by Dionysos in a frenzy to the mountainside and ‘forced’ to wear Dionysiac costume (Ba. 26‒33). How can we explain such manifest, blatant misreading of the text by such intelligent readers? At least partly, I suggest here again, by the PIC. This does not mean that the audience felt no pity for Pentheus, Agaue and Kadmos. At the end of many Athenian tragedies (including Bacchae), the polis may benefit in ways that are not necessarily consistent with each other: from the self-destruction of the ruling family, from the establishment of cult and from the solidarity of shared lamentation (perhaps perpetuated in the cult) for the suffering of the ruling family; similarly, Pentheus as scapegoat will ‒ it is implied ‒ bring a positive benefit to the polis.33 There are moreover various ways in which the audience might identify with Pentheus. Firstly, the advantage of the self-destruction of the family is not only that it facilitates closure by precluding the revenge normally due from the victim’s family, but also that it creates the pathos that can ‒ given the universality of intrafamilial conflict ‒ move everyone. Secondly, in the isolated immoderation of Pentheus, the audience member might recognise not only the turannos but also an aspect of himself, which might diminish loyalty to the polis. Thirdly, the experiences of Pentheus reflect in numerous details ‒ I have shown in my Commentary34 ‒ the experiences of mystic initiation (whether Eleusinian or Dionysiac), and so it was through their own initiatory experiences that the numerous audience members who had been initiated would react to the sufferings of Pentheus. In the actual practice of the ritual (as opposed to its aetiological myth), the initiands’ isolated anxiety and resistance would be reversed into the kind of joyful communality that would benefit the polis. The result of all this is that I do not see the outcome of Bacchae as simply a victory for the polis over the turannos, but rather a complex resolution of the conflict between individual and the polis. §5. Those who believe that Bacchae represents irresolvable contradiction ‒ whether within the Dionysiac (e.g. Mastronarde) or between Pentheus and the Dionysiac (e.g. Versnel) ‒ are also among those (the vast majority of interpreters) who ignore the nature and function of aetiological myth as well as the historical circumstances in which the play was written. It never occurs to them to approach the subjectivity behind aetiological myth, or the fears that afflicted the Athenians at this time: of the abolition of democracy by tyrannical excess, the disintegration of the polis, total defeat by Sparta.

26 Richard Seaford If we regard Bacchae as ‒ like texts in general ‒ a polysemous text in which we should be free to find unresolved contradiction, my response is that we are indeed free to do so, in which case our only error (unimportant to some) would be to imagine that we are thereby approaching the mentality of Euripides or his audience. Even Zeno’s paradoxes were designed to prove an unambiguous truth. Of course, Bacchae is full of ambivalence and contradiction, which however can be fully understood only by understanding its contexts and functions, which may include being positively resolved in a ritual or a political process. Our error, natural to our era, is to reify contradiction as abstract (and so irresolvable), and then to imagine that it is what the play is about. But the Athenians, threatened with the disintegration of their polis, did not have our luxury of detachment. Our error has a historical origin, which is briefly indicated in the next section. §6. It would be relevant to the argument of this chapter to identify the historical origins of the PIC. But this would require a whole monograph. Here, I can do no more than provide ‒ by snapshots of two theorists of tragedy, Hegel and Nietzsche ‒ the briefest indication of an investigation that I hope to pursue in future publications. Here is a typical statement by Hegel on tragedy, in my literal translation, from his Aesthetics: However justified the tragic aim and character, however necessary the tragic collision, there is therefore also thirdly the tragic resolution (Lösung) of this conflict. Thereby eternal justice (Gerechtigkeit) applies itself to the aims and individuals in the sense that it restores ethical substance and unity (Einheit) with the destruction (Untergang) of the individuality that has disturbed its peace. For although the characters have a purpose that is in itself valid, they can in tragedy carry it out only in one-sidedness that involves infringement and contradiction (nur in verletzender Einseitigkeit widersprechend ausführen). The truly substantial, that has to reach reality (zur Wirklichkeit zu gelangen hat), is however not the battle of particulars (Besonderheiten) … but rather the reconciliaton (Versöhnung), in which the specific aims and individuals act harmoniously without infringement and opposition. Therefore what is superseded in the tragic outcome is only the onesided particularity (einseitige Besonderheit), which had not been able to adapt itself to this harmony, and now, in the tragic of its action (in der Tragik ihres Handelns), cannot release itself from itself and its intention, given over in its totality to destruction (Untergang) or at least sees itself forced to give up, if it can, the accomplishment of its aim.35 We note that the idea of a collision between one-sided particularities is not entirely inapplicable to the conflict that Versnel imagines in the Bacchae

Politics of Euripides’ Bacchae 27 between the wisdom of Dionysos and the wisdom of Pentheus. Moreover, Hegel’s famous account of this collision in Sophocles’ Antigone, in which ‘the public law of the state is set in conflict over against inner family love and duty to a brother’,36 does at least share with Versnel’s account of Bacchae the detail that one of the colliding parties embodies the interests of the state. However, Hegel and Versnel differ markedly in that Versnel sees no resolution or reconciliation but merely unresolved contradiction. Of course, Pentheus and Dionysos are not reconciled, nor are Antigone and Kreon, and to this limited extent, tragedy is, as Goethe stated, based on irreconcilable conflict.37 But what concerns Hegel is not the reconciliation of individuals but the restoration of ‘ethical substance and unity’. My own view of Bacchae, and of Athenian tragedy in general, has some resemblance to Hegel’s ‒ insofar as I do see resolution, and indeed a resolution that benefits the state (the polis) without being a simple victory over the tragic individual, a resolution in which even the trajectory of Pentheus engages the individual citizen and implies a positive benefit for the polis (see §4 in this chapter). But I cannot pursue this theme here. For Nietzsche in The Birth of Tragedy (1872) in Dionysiac tragedy, ‘excess (Uebermass) was revealed as truth, contradiction (Widerspruch); the joy (Wonne) born from pain (Schmerz) spoke from the heart of nature’ (4.41). ‘Eternal Widerspruch’ is ‘the father of things’ (4.39), ‘the primordial contradiction and primordial pain (Urwiderspruch and Urschmerz)’ is ‘in the heart of the primordial unity (Ur-Eins)’ (6.51) and the individual ‘experiences in himself the Urwiderspruch concealed in things’ (9.70). The Dionysiac artist becomes one with ‘the Ur-Eins, its pain (Schmerz) and contradiction (Widerspruch)’; his ‘oneness with the heart of the world is a dream-scene, which embodies the Urwiderspruch and Urschmerz, together with the primordial joy (Urlust), of appearance’ (5.43‒44). In experiencing musical tragedy, one ‘feels the actions of the hero to be justified, and is nevertheless still more elated when these actions annihilate their originator. He shudders at the sufferings which will befall the hero, and yet anticipates therein a higher and much more overpowering joy (Lust)’ (22.40). The individual undergoes shattering (Zerbrechen) and fusion (Einswerden) with primordial being (Ursein) (8.62).38 In this Nietzschean vision of tragedy, as in the Hegelian, contradiction has a central place, and the destruction of the hero by his actions, justified though they are, leads to a higher unity. Both theories are in my view limited by their traditional focus on the suffering individual as ‘hero’ (rather than turannos). But my concern here is with the manner in which the Hegelian concepts are in Nietzsche radically reconfigured. For Nietzsche, tragic contradiction is not between historical principles such as the family and the state (as in Hegel). There is rather contradiction of feelings (pain and joy). And alongside this subjective contradiction, there is a reified contradiction that is eternal, primordial and at the heart of

28 Richard Seaford primordial unity. As reified, it is detached from specific contradictions (even from the contradiction between pain and joy), so as to be primordial–eternal contradiction, abstract and irresolvable. The higher state of being is unity, which is however achieved not (as in Hegel) by the resolution of contradiction (that for Hegel may require the destruction of the individual) but simply by the destruction of the individual: this Nietzschean unity does not supersede contradiction, but is primordial and (paradoxically) identified with contradiction.39 Contradiction is in Nietzsche depoliticised, dehistoricised and installed as something primordial and irresolvable, which we may access through the contradictory feelings inspired by tragedy. Accordingly, Nietzsche reacts against Hegel and others by stating (absurdly) that the ‘whole politico-social sphere is excluded from the purely religious beginnings of tragedy’ (7.52). Indeed, the most immediate effect of Dionysiac tragedy is that ‘the state and society, the gaps between man and man, give way to an overwhelming feeling of oneness, which leads back to the heart of nature’ (7.56). In this brief juxtaposition of Hegel and Nietzsche, we can see how the Nietzschean irresolvability of tragic contradiction accompanied its reification and depoliticisation. This fundamental distinction between the tragic theories of Hegel and Nietzsche can be related to the differences in their lived experience. Hegel, born in 1770, was inspired by the French revolution, continued throughout his life to support its ideals, wrote political pamphlets and was constantly engaged both practically and theoretically in the major political contradiction of his time ‒ between the particularities of the old Germanic order and the universality required for a modern state. In his Philosophy of Right, published in 1820 when he was Professor of Philosophy in Berlin, Hegel wrote that ‘since the state is mind objectified, it is only as one of its members that the individual has objectivity, genuine individuality, and an ethical life’40 (258). Nevertheless, he had at this time, according to his biographer, long been convinced that the purely ‘universalising’ demands of his enlightenment education in hometown Württemberg were somehow too one-sided, too arrogantly dismissive of the necessity for the more particular, individual elements of human life and thought. In addition, he was accordingly attacked from both sides of the political divide.41 As for Nietzsche, on the other hand, society and the State represent to his mind not the consummation of rationality and justice, of ethics and philosophy, but only the embodiment of mediocrity and the temptation that has to be overcome before the individual can come into his own; and this point is characteristic of Nietzsche’s writings from beginning to end.42

Politics of Euripides’ Bacchae 29 After he left Basel in 1879, aged 34, Nietzsche’s life was nomadic and solitary,43 as he moved between Italy, France, Switzerland and Germany. The choice of whether to regard tragic contradiction as resolved or irresolvable is unconsciously determined largely by preconception derived from life experience. Political engagement is often premised precisely on the possibility of resolving contradiction, and the political engagement of Hegel embraced awareness that such resolution may depend on overcoming the one-sidedness of opposed positions. But any political views held by Nietzsche derived from a position of politically unengaged individualism. Such unengagement may, unconsciously, preserve and justify itself by privileging the irresolvability of contradiction. Scholars in the humanities of our era are, at least in the Anglophone universities known to me, closer to Nietzsche than to Hegel both in their political unengagement and in their privileging of irresolvable contradiction.

Notes 1 2 3 4 5 6

7 8 9 10 11

12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20

Segal 1982, 345. Mastronarde 2010, 189. Dodds 1960, xliii. Versnel 1990 cites the ancient sources and often quotes them in full. Versnel 1990, 159‒160. Versnel also mentions effeminacy in Bacchae and (merely) ‘transvestism as it was practised in the Kotys cult’ (p. 159), although Kotys was worshipped at Corinth and ‘probably never admitted into Athens’ (p. 113). In the three remaining instances, two are in the claim that being sophron depends on nature rather than being forced on the maenads by the gods (Ba. 314‒316), and one is in a hopelessly corrupt passage that may perhaps imply that death taught Pentheus to be sophron (1002‒1004). Schol. Dem. 19.495b. Schol. Ar. Ach. 243a. For the political importance of aetiology in tragedy generally, see Seaford 2012. See, for example, my commentary on Bacchae, Seaford 1996, 37‒39, 44‒52, 152, 170. Winnington-Ingram 1948, 158. Winnington-Ingram grew up in a milieu that could not be more disapproving of ecstatic religion (his father was an admiral and his uncle an Anglican bishop) and wrote on Bacchae shortly after the defeat of Nazism: ‘we have lived through events which have demonstrated, tragically, the dangers of group emotion’ (p. viii). Winnington-Ingram 1948, 97. Ael. fr. 44. Mastronarde 2010, 189. On disease and civil conflict as interchangeable, see further Seaford 1994, 102‒103. Seaford 2000, 33‒35. Aristophanes Av. 1074‒1075 parodies the anachronism of this practice with the words ‘anyone who kills any of the dead tyrants’. This is confirmed by the frequency of resolutions in its iambic trimeters: Cropp and Frick 1985, 23. Tr. R. Crawley. E.g. Eur. Or. 1105, 1150, 1586‒1596.

30 Richard Seaford 21 Ar. V. 488‒99; see also Seaford 2000, 33‒34. 22 Th. 6.15.4; 53.3; 60.1. 23 HG 2.4.1. This passage was brought to my attention by my PhD student Luigi Barzini. 24 See verses 39‒40. It is inconceivable that the god in his lost final speech announced that he has for some reason changed his mind on the matter! 25 Seaford 1996. 26 Chorus: 74‒77, 370‒371, 389‒392, 415, 419, 421‒431, 693 (‘a marvel of good order’), 748, 863‒868, 890‒892, 895, 1019; Pentheus: 214, 271‒272, 326‒327, 331‒332, 346‒351, 358‒359, 361, 375, 386‒387, 396‒401, 516, 542‒544, 616‒641, 1001. 27 Dodds 1960, 186. 28 Seaford 1996, 218‒219. 29 Glotz 1904, passim. 30 E.g. Il. 24.734‒8. 31 E.g. Sol. 13.25‒32; Th. 1.126; Pl. R. 364c1, 366a7. See also Parker 1983, 198‒206; Glotz 1904, 560‒583. 32 Oudemans and Lardinois 1987, 96. 33 See Seaford 1996, 226 on v. 963. 34 Seaford 1996, 39‒44. 35 My translation of Hegel, Werke. Bd. 13–15: Vorlesungen ü ber die Ä sthetik. Frankfurt am Main, Suhrkamp 1970, vol. XV, 524. 36 Hegel 1975, 464. 37 Goethe, letter of 6 June 1824, to Chancellor Müller. 38 All translations of Nietzsche are mine. 39 For Oudemans and Lardinois 1987, 226 ‘In Nietzsche’s conception Dionysus is a self-contradictory force. What does unity mean then? The unity Nietzsche professes is one of joyful forbearance of ambiguity’. 40 Tr. T.M. Knox. 41 Pinkard 2000, 469, 495; cf. 198 on his ‘refusal to give up either his Enlightenment-inspired universalism or his deeply felt particularism’. 42 Kaufmann 1974, 162. 43 On the relationship of this solitariness to his writing style, see Hollingdale 1999, 116‒117.

Bibliography Cropp, M. and Frick, G. (1985) Resolutions and Chronology in Euripides. The Fragmentary Tragedies. University of London. Dodds, E. (1960) Euripides Bacchae. Second edition. Oxford University Press. Glotz, G. (1904) La solidarité de la famille dans le droit criminelle en Grèce. Paris, Fontemoing. Hegel, G.W.F. (1975) Aesthetics: Lectures on Fine Art. Tr. T.M. Knox. Oxford University Press. Hollingdale, R.J. (1999) Nietzsche. The Man and his Philosophy. Revised edition. Cambridge University Press. Kaufmann, W. (1974) Nietzsche. Philosopher, Psychologist, Antichrist. Fourth edition. Princeton University Press. Mastronarde, D. (2010) The Art of Euripides. Dramatic Technique and Social Context. Cambridge University Press. Oudemans, T. and Lardinois, A. (1987) Tragic Ambiguity. Anthropology, Philosophy and Sophocles’ Antigone. Leiden, Brill.

Politics of Euripides’ Bacchae 31 Parker, R. (1983) Miasma. Pollution and Purification in Early Greek Religion. Oxford University Press. Pinkard, T. (2000) Hegel. A Biography. Cambridge University Press. Seaford, R. (1994) Reciprocity and Ritual. Oxford University Press. Seaford, R. (1996) Euripides Bacchae. Warminster, Aris and Phillips. Seaford, R. (2000) ‘The Social Function of Attic Drama: A Reply to Jasper Griffin’, CQ 50.1, 30‒44. Seaford, R. (2012) Cosmology and the Polis. Cambridge University Press. Segal, C. (1982) Dionysiac Poetics and Euripides’ Bacchae. Princeton University Press. Versnel, H. (1990) Inconsistencies in Greek and Roman Religion. Vol. I: Ter Unus: Isis, Dionysos, Hermes: Three Studies in Henotheism. Leiden, Brill. Winnington-Ingram, R. (1948) Euripides and Dionysos. Cambridge University Press.

3

On the necessity of Dionysus: the return of Hephaestus as a tale of the god that alone can solve unresolvable conflicts and restore an inconsistent whole Dariusz Karłowicz

It appears that the overcoming of the Nietzschean conception of Dionysus (Cornelia Isler-Kerényi once called it a ‘modern mythology’1) has now become fact ‒ if not entirely in philosophy and the social sciences, then certainly in the history of religion.2 The image of a mad, barbaric, antipolitical god of myth that has fascinated several generations of scholars is being replaced by a picture (much closer to historical reality) of a protector of the polis, a god whose cult unites and strengthens the order of the political community. The change in paradigm is so drastic that we might worry whether the new view will not lose sight of the indubitable ‘foreignness’ of the god. A god whose paradoxical wisdom earned him the mantle of a god of madness, of a god whose action may consolidate order and give peace, but might also destroy those who (like the daughters of Minyas or Proetus) reject the call to abandon their roles and question the absolute character of the principles that bind the polis. It seems that the royal road to answering the question of the political role of Dionysus is not through minimalising the cult of ‘alterity’, foreignness and madness clearly visible in the myth, but in the attempt to understand why the paradoxical god of wine, and his seemingly anarchic calling, can favour the preserving, consolidation and even strengthening of the polis. In this chapter, I will concentrate upon an episode that, it seems to me, can be acknowledged as a type of mythological solution to this puzzle – that is, the history of the god’s intervention that staved off the conflict between Hephaestus and Hera, and, as a consequence, saved an Olympus torn apart by a feud. It is a success of great measure. Dionysus overcomes one of the most serious crises of the world of the gods. It is a fact that in Attic painting from the first half of the sixth century BCE, this is the only theme in which Dionysus plays a central role,3 a fact that allows us to suppose that the story played an important role in the forming of the theology of Semele’s son. But did it play the same role in the forming of Dionysian political theology? There is no doubt that it would be difficult to point to a different

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mythical source of hope for righting the relations between the order of the polis and the strange demands of the mad god.

Conflict between Hera and Hephaestus The status of the myth is confirmed by the fact that it was the subject of the first of the six paintings that Pausanias saw in the holy circle of Dionysus (near the theatre on the southern slope of the Athenian Acropolis). The traveller wrote (1.20.3): Within the precincts are two temples and two statues of Dionysus, the Eleuthereus (Deliverer) and the one Alcamenes made of ivory and gold. There are paintings here – Dionysus bringing Hephaestus up to heaven. One of the Greek legends is that Hephaestus, when he was born, was thrown down by Hera. In revenge, he sent as a gift a golden chair with invisible fetters. When Hera sat down she was held fast, and Hephaestus refused to listen to any other of the gods save Dionysus – in him, he reposed the fullest trust – and after making him drunk, Dionysus brought him to heaven.4 The Dionysian retinue with drunken Hephaestus carried upon the back of an ithyphallic mule, a popular topic of vase painting, reminds us of a completely different side of Dionysus than the one we know from the myths of conflict featuring rebellious kings and believers who have rejected the call. The place of the patron of an anarchic rebellion, or a merciless avenger, is instead occupied by a god ‘in the role of keeper of the order of Zeus and pacifier’, as Cornelia Isler-Kerényi puts it in one of her fascinating studies.5 The effect of the god ‒ if one submits to him ‒ brings peace and returns disturbed order. About the oldest known implementation of the theme of Hephaestus' return depicted on the famous black figure crater, the so‐called Francois Vase (570–560 BC), the scholar writes as follows6: To understand the image we need to avoid modern simplifications: considering Hera’s rank in the cosmic order, her liberation cannot have been a purely comic episode, but a crucial event for the stability of that order. In this context, the role of Dionysos, who Kleitias placed intentionally at the center of the scene, is implied. His task is to reunite the disowned son with his mother and reclaim Hera’s dignity as queen. Dionysos was responsible not only for returning peace to the family but also for the re-establishment of divine order.7 The accounts of the mythographers confirm the accuracy of these observations. The theme of chaos and division creeping into the world of the gods plays a substantial role from the very beginning of the Hephaestus history. The fact that his birth was accompanied by dispute and rage is said bluntly by Hesiod in his Theogony (927‒929). The violation of the divine order is signalled, it seems, by both the problematic question of Zeus’ fatherhood (in one variation of the myth Hera conceived Hephaestus by herself8) and the deformity of the god ‒ which can be guessed from Hera’s

34 Dariusz Karłowicz emotional outburst in the Homeric hymn to Apollo (‘my son Hephaestus whom I bare was weakly among all the blessed gods and shrivelled of foot, a shame and disgrace to me in heaven’),9 or from the bitter words of Hephaestus, betrayed by Aphrodite with the beautiful and strong-limbed Ares (Od. 8.310).10 It is also worth recalling that the version of the story in which Hera gets rid of her son because she is disappointed by his disability is in competition with a story where the Father of the Gods throws the boy down from Olympus. This is how this event is recalled ‒ used as a warning against entering into conflict with the Thunderer ‒ by Homer’s Hephaestus (Il. 1.586‒594). The reason for the small god being thrown out in this redaction of the myth is the attempt made by the youngster to free his mother from the bonds that were put upon her by Zeus for her persecution of Hercules, which in addition colours the genesis of the crisis with the offense of a double disobedience.11 Judging by Plato’s reaction, the scandalous momentum of this conflict places it in the category of some of the most disturbing pictures in ancient mythology. In the Republic, the philosopher recalls it as one of the standard-bearing examples of stories harmful to the polis, public morality and the right formation of youth (Pl. Resp. 378d) ‒ in other words, it is one of the reasons why myths, and their creators, should be expelled from the state worthy of recognition by philosophers.12 The continuation of the crisis is confirmed by news of the suffering of the child abandoned at Lemnos and the loving care of the daughters of Oceanus, Eurynome and Thetis,13 who are attempting to replace his birth mother Hera. It is easy to understand that Hephaestus’ revenge by way of sending a gift in the form of a special throne-trap, as a desire to even the accounts, can be grasped as an attempt to measure out and restore justice. This attempt, as we know, has the opposite effect to that intended and only increases the scale of the existing chaos. Justice can be carried out, but it cannot be restored. The scale of the stasis ‒ the depth of the split dividing him and the house of the gods ‒ is illustrated by the scene in which Hephaestus not only refuses the release of Hera, thereby going against her royal dignity, but also rejects the ‒ sacred in the eyes of the Greeks ‒ obligations of a son towards his parents. Pseudo-Hyginus writes that when Vulcan receives the request to refrain from revenge, he answers in anger that he has no mother (Fab. 166). There follow a series of unsuccessful attempts at resolving the conflict. This stage ‒ let us call it pre-Dionysian ‒ moves towards restoring order through the restoration of the Olympian arche (understood as power and principle), thus, essentially towards the one-sided capitulation of Hephaestus. The failure of this approach seems very eloquent because it demonstrates an erroneous definition of the goal and the inadequacy of the methods for solving such a conflict as this. It is a conflict whose parties represent incommensurable reasons (or think they do) and is therefore irreducible to any common scale. This is a situation that is tragic

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par excellence ‒ where on the one side we have the pain of a harmed child and on the other the drama of anarchy, on the one the scandal of injustice and the other of disobedience to parental, royal and divine authority. Although the attempt at a solution is served by a whole arsenal of political means (emissary, council and war), it does not facilitate the taking into account of Hephaestus’ claim. Pausanias simply writes that Hephaestus did not want to show obedience to any of the gods.14 The goal of these interventions is clear. They are concerned with the full submission of Hephaestus to the will of the gods. A similar assumption is confirmed by the account of Libanius, who informs us that the god of war Ares became engaged in the resolution of the conflict (Narr. 7.2). The council of the gods, convinced that only Hephaestus is capable of freeing his mother, gathers to discuss the question of his return to heaven. Ares takes the initiative since nobody else has any ideas for resolving the conflict. War seems to be the only way of returning order. However, Ares’ intervention ends with spectacular failure, which will always haunt him with an air of infamy (thereby precisely outlining the limits of the effective powers of this god). The companions of Ares ‒ Deimos, Phobos (two personifications of Fear) and Credomus (Din of Battle) ‒ confirm that Hephaestus was not afraid of the god of war.15 Instead, Ares was frightened, as Libanius relates, and fled terrified by the torches (πυρσοῖς, Narr. 7.2) of Vulcan. The efforts of the gods come to naught. In the work of restoring order, both peaceful means (council and diplomacy) and the arcana of war turn out to be useless. The triumph of Dionysus becomes unintelligible if we forget about all this. On the Francois Vase, the painter Kleitias represents Ares humiliated by defeat on the peripheries of the monumental scene of Hephaestus’ return. The god of war kneeling in full armour shamefully hides behind the thrones of Olympus’ rulers. Athena standing next to him sneers at him, pointing towards the triumphal procession of the god of wine, who assisted by sileni brings drunken Hephaestus to face Zeus and Hera. The figure of crouched Ares reminds us that the intervention of Dionysus took place after all available means had been exhausted. In the frame of previous actions, the matter proved to be impossible to resolve. Only Dionysus, who gets the grief-stricken god drunk, succeeds in averting the crisis – that is, by bringing Hephaestus from Lemnos to Olympus and leading him to reconcile with his mother.16 How does Dionysus achieve what other gods could not? We do not know. The accounts of mythographers known to us are extremely restrained. They limit themselves to the lapidary information that ‘after making him drunk Dionysus brought him to heaven’.17 Despite this restraint, it would be difficult to see the matter as insignificant. It would be good to remember that it is after this adventure that Dionysus is admitted to the circle of the Olympian gods (Lib. Narr. 7.3). And he is admitted not as one of the divine servants but as one of the 12. This is very important information. The fact

36 Dariusz Karłowicz that it is then that a second-order god, the only one in this group who is the son of a mortal mother, closes the list of the greatest gods can also be understood to mean that only after accepting Dionysus does Olympus ‒ as a picture of divine harmony ‒ gain its final form. Without Dionysus, the order of the gods would be incomplete, or even ‒ as the myth suggests ‒ impossible. In what way then does the laconic ‘made him drunk with wine’ shed light upon the role of Bacchus in the divine order of the world?

‘Made him drunk with wine’ To explain what lack Dionysus fills out, we should ponder why other gods did not succeed in doing what the son of Semele was able to do; why does being drunk with wine make it possible to restore the unity torn apart by discord? Did Dionysus offer a previously unknown type of order (in the manner of Aeschylus’ new ‘order of Zeus’), some new perspective that permits the harmonisation of contradictions? We know nothing about any of that. Upon what then does the power of salvific intoxication depend? Why, and in what sense, can drunkenness restore agreement, end the tragic discord, and bond? If we accept that the coarse and comic robe of the myth expresses significant meanings, then it is worthwhile to treat this seemingly frivolous history seriously. However, this does not mean recasting the story into a bloodless allegory, but to see where it will take us if we take it seriously ‒ without dismissing beforehand that it says something important about the world of the gods and men not despite of its coarseness, but precisely through it. Since the episode is concerned with the god of wine, then submersion in everyday life should not be surprising. It is true that the mythographers are restrained. But does that mean they are hiding some mystery? But may be the thing simply does not require additional explanations because the story is so obvious and universally known? If so, we should look for it in the genre-specific potential of the scene ‒ in the dialogue of the voices warmed with wine, in the circulating imaginings of the soft power of the wine-filled cup, which tempers anger-filled disputes and resolves otherwise irresolvable conflicts. If we agree that Dionysus is Oinos (wine), then without great risk we can also accept that the action of wine is in some sense analogical to the effects of the god’s presence. This is a backbreaking task (that goes far beyond a historian’s workshop), but it is worth the risk. Without getting stuck in the coarse details, but without escaping into bodiless abstractions, let us attempt to see what theological, ontological, epistemological and, finally, political meaning is carried by the image of Dionysus who unites the world. When we seek answers to the question as to what happened during the council of the gods, everything that was said about the salvific effects of the god and his gift comes to mind, that is, everything that the picture of Oinos ties to the healing of cares, bringing people together, liberation, agreement,

The necessity of Dionysus 37 peace, friendship and love. There is plenty of this. The flipside of the horror accompanying the god in conflictual myths is, after all, countless ‒ coming from Homer and Hesiod ‒ witnesses tying the god and wine with the bright side of human life.18 As Homer’s Zeus confesses, his son begotten of Semele is ‘a source of joy for mortals’ (χάρμα βροτοῖσιν, Il. 14.325). With all the reservations, Homer has no doubts that wine is a ‘divine drink’ (θεῖον ποτόν, Od. 9.205) and the vine is ‘the gift of the earth’ (καρπὸν ἀρούρης, Il. 3.246) which makes the heart glad. Hesiod calls him ‘joyous’ (πολυγηθέα) in his Theogony (941) and in his Works and Days repeats this description in the context of observation about the grape harvest (611‒622). Very early in Greek literature, there appears the obvious observation that the gift of Dionysus is a kind of medicine (pharmakon), which soothes worries, gives comfort, frees from suffering and lets you forget about misfortunes. The best of all medicines is to get drunk on wine we are reminded by Alcaeus (fr. 335), the poet who lived in the seventh and sixth centuries BCE, the first to so fully unequivocally tie Dionysus with wine.19 Thanks to Dionysus, there disappear pain, woes, sadness and worries ‒ and their place is taken by the desire to dance and love.20 Similar thoughts, which by then are already a kind of well-preserved trope, can be found in Pindar, who was born a hundred years after Alcaeus. This poet prone to singing praises to Dionysus who brings gladness21 is convinced that wine chases human worries away and takes that point to be something so obvious that, without any unnecessary explanation, one can build universally understood metaphors upon the fact.22 When towards the end of the fifth century BCE, the Tiresias of Euripides speaks of a drink from the vines ‒ that the son of Semele invented and gave to men, and about the god who through ‘the liquid drink of the grape […] releases wretched mortals from grief’ ‒ he already has a long literary tradition behind him (Ba. 279‒281).23

The wisdom of Dionysus and the tragedy of the world Is it possible to doubt that the god’s gift brings together and unites people, lowers tensions and melts the ice? Wine, says Plutarch, ‘softens and soothes characters, so that it rise to mutual unity and friendship’.24 This is obvious. However, in the connection of Oinos to peace, we can find deeper levels than the banal (and not always true) statement that wine soothes customs and judgements, which Dionysus accomplishes as the patron of joy and serene social gatherings. The god whose calling, like his gift, ignores social differences, puts in brackets hierarchies and dependencies, the god who questions the apparent indisputability of the reasons justifying conflicts and wars gets into a fundamental dispute ‒ a dispute about what is reasonable and what wisdom is. Dionysus, says Euripides, is a god who loves Peace (Eirene) and equally ‒ without regard for wealth ‒ distributes the joy of ‘drinking wine without worries’ (Ba. 423) and shows himself to be an

38 Dariusz Karłowicz ardent enemy of false wisdom: ‘He hates the one who does not care about this: to lead a happy life by day and friendly night and to keep his wise mind and intellect away from over-curious men’ (Ba. 424‒429).25 In the sarcasm directed at the ‘over-curious’ (περισσοί), there lies, it seems to me, the key to the question of ‘wisdom’ that Dionysus recommended to the Thebans in the Bacchae, the same, it seems, wisdom that allowed Dionysus to end the conflict between Hephaestus and Hera. Searching for a label best suited for the main theme of Euripides’ Bacchae, Włodzimierz Lengauer writes that it is a drama about wisdom.26 Can this thought be extended to acknowledge the reflection on wisdom as one of the main messages of Dionysian piety in general? Taking into consideration the meaning that the paradoxicality of Dionysian ‘madness’ has for the myth and cult, we can answer this question in the affirmative. The mad god arriving in Thebes reminds everyone that wisdom is not always the same as what appears to be wisdom. The strange, funny and stupid cult is supposed to remind Pentheus that ‘cleverness is not wisdom’ (τὸ σοφὸν δ᾿ οὐ σοφία, Ba. 395). To the unrepentant king who refused to be reasonable, who rejected happiness and the help of Zeus’ son (Ba. 1340‒1343) the drunk Hephaestus represents a figure of Dionysian wisdom, he is the one who returns from the path that leads to hollowness, decay and death (of home, state and world). Hephaestus, crowned with ivy, with a full cup in hand is a Pentheus who has returned, the one who agreed, even if for a moment, to doubt the necessity of ‘over-curious’ arguments. Then is this about praising madness and irrationality? One would like to say ‘no’, but the matter is not so simple. If we acknowledge as reasonable the principles by which Pentheus, Lycurgus, Hephaestus and Hera direct themselves, then the Dionysian wisdom is mad; to be precise, it is irrational. The proper answer must be sought within a different perspective and a different definition of wisdom. However long we are imprisoned in the antinomy built by political reason, then for just so long Dionysian wisdom must be understood, through negation, as madness or irrationality. Then what would be the wisdom to which the god appeals ‒ the wisdom of being drunk? The history of Hephaestus lets us accept that what is reasonable in the Dionysian sense is what leads to the bonding of the world. The antinomy of rational–irrational, in the Dionysian sense of this word, corresponds to the tension between the whole and the part, between what integrates and what divides. The sides of the dispute ‒ faithful to their definitions of wisdom and justice ‒ are right: wine weakens reason. It is true, but the reason the sides of the conflict are proud of is incapable of defending the whole. It basically only expresses a particular perspective. This is why it divides, qualifies and kills; that is why it is barren and fruitless, gives birth to suffering and leads to death. In certain situations, in the name of salvation and in the name of the whole, reason, as we conceive it, must be weakened and even questioned. Yes, the condition for discovering the truth of Dionysian madness is the questioning of the certainties

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of reason’s judgement. This truth concerns not only mortals but also the gods living in the ether. If, as is the case in the dispute between Hephaestus and Hera, the reasons presupposed by the parties lead to stasis, the reason must be suspended. What is not included in the story also seems important in the story about Hephaestus. There is no final judgement, deciding who was right or who was at fault, and there is no sentencing that restores the disturbed order, there is no punishment and there is not even an attempt to explain the reasons of each of the sides. They are absent in this order, in which particular reasons move (as do the means available to them), because the conflict between Hera and Hephaestus is irresolvable. What Dionysus leads to is a de-escalation, not a resolution. I borrow from the language of international relations to stress that the matter at hand is not about resolution, which reinstitutes the whole as a consistent order, but as a state that makes coexistence possible for differing reasons and perspectives. De-escalation ‒ a state that engulfs a man whose members are warmed by wine ‒ makes it possible to brake the impetus towards decomposition, maintain order, and the wholeness of the world without coming to a verdict as to who won or who is right (in the orders of power, logic and the law). If Hephaestus can return to Olympus, if the divine and human order lasts, and if between periods of wars and tension periods of peace appear and the whole does not fall apart, then it is because coexistence based upon de-escalation is possible, because it is possible to moderate conflict, independently of the logical, or legal, or political settling of a disputed matter, the evaluation of the whether mutual accusations are founded, independently of the grievances and the scale of the injustice committed. Dionysus does not bring about a new order and does not grant that one side is right ‒ as Athena does in the Oresteia ‒ but proposes a practical solution. However, this solution requires the previous acceptance of a fundamental assumption: the thesis of the tragic nature of the world (or at least the thesis that the world may seem to us tragic, i.e. in other words contradictory ‒ in ontological, logical, moral or simply psychological or political sense). This is the philosophical core of the myth of Hephaestus’ return. Admittedly, history does not speak of this directly, but, without the assumption that the dispute finally put an end to hope for a perfect ordering of the whole world, the metaphor of getting drunk as a remedy for stasis does not make sense. The whole can only be reborn thanks to the assumption that disorder belongs to the nature of reality, that the whole can only be brought back under the condition of abandoning the hope for full unification. The helplessness of the gods apparent in the first, preDionysian, phase of Hephaestus’ history illustrates and confirms this thesis. The impossibility of bringing the whole world together under one arche (the rule of one principle and one power) ‒ fundamental, so to say, incoherence of the world (its tragic nature) means, that efforts to recreate a whole free from disagreement, disobedience, and conflicting reasons must come to

40 Dariusz Karłowicz nothing. This is not exclusively about the obstinacy of the sides, bad will or impetuosity, but about a fundamental undecidability ‒ about a conflict of incommensurate perspectives, about a situation where, as scandalised Plato recounts it in the Euthyphro, the same thing may be ‘dear to Hephaestus but hated by Hera’ (τῷ μὲν Ἡφαίστῳ φίλον, τῇ δὲ Ἥρᾳ ἐχθρόν, 8b). This is why Dionysian wisdom of the whole cannot be the wisdom obedient to a reason faithful to coherence and consistency. The acceptance of Dionysus to Olympus seems to be an acceptance of this diagnosis: the truth about the tragic nature of the world. Even in periods of relative harmony, there always smoulders the possibility of conflict that is irreducible to a common measure for opinions about beauty or the good (see Pl. Euthphr. 7b‒8b). There is always the possibility of situations in which all choices made in the logic of justice and reason will be bad from the point of view of the integrity of the world. The acceptance of the god into company of the 12 seems to be an admission that the Dionysian epoche, the ability to put into brackets conflicting reasons, is the condition sine qua non of all politics that take responsibility for the whole. Acknowledging that it is impossible to eliminate the tragic, those in power ‒ both human and Olympian ‒ must be able to mitigate conflict and to reduce its consequences. The tragic nature of the world is indelible. This is why the solution to it is so well-expressed by ‘got him drunk on wine’. Drunkenness does not resolve the conflict, but it can mitigate it. In some circumstance, Oinos lets you ‒ if only for a moment ‒ forget about it. This is important. A momentary leaving behind of tension gives a chance for the restoration of the whole, but it obviously does not end the tragedy ‒ it does not invalidate its sources. After the return of Hephaestus to Olympus, the world does not change into a perfectly orchestrated choir ‒ this is impossible. In the frames of a continually incoherent world, Dionysus gives the chance of a new form of coexistence for competing reasons, mutually exclusive aims and interests that create the whole of the divine and human world. The picture of a drunken Hephaestus riding a mule reminds us that the condition for returning peace might show itself to be the momentary suspension of judgements whispered by reason and justice. But be careful! If the analogy of drinking holds, then Dionysus does not change the rules but instead suspends them. Much like wine, which soothes the harshness of character (it soothes, but neither breaks nor changes), the wisdom of the mad god does not so much resolve the dispute as tone down the sharpness of ‘over-curious’ judgements. It is aimed at apodicticity, not reason. The key to answering the question of Dionysus’ participation in the continuation of order depends precisely on the ability to suspend principles, here expressed in loosening the tight logic of fault and punishment. It is not about their annulment, but only their momentary suspension. Olympus does not become Dionysian. Being Dionysian permanently would be ridiculous. It is a kind of safety valve, but not a new order. In some situations, the principles organising the worlds of gods and humans might show

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themselves to be destructive to the whole. The usual defence system against this chaos is capable of directing its blade against itself, the reasonable logic of justice might become a form of self-aggression, into some kind of autoimmune disease of order. The distant echo of this way of thinking can be heard in the saying that reminds us that even justice can transform itself into its opposite (summum ius summa iniuria). This obviously does not mean that reason and justice should abandon Olympus and the state. What is at stake is the chance to start from the beginning, or maybe even to forget about the conflict of reasons that cannot be resolved. Even though becoming drunk ‒ to return to our original metaphor ‒ does not get rid of the problem, by removing tension, it nevertheless eliminates the critical flare-up. This is not enough for all those who trust that it is possible to ultimately eliminate conflicts. It is a lot for those who do not believe in the perspective of a non-contradictory whole. The de-escalation creates the possibility of a reset. The conflict, even though it has not been resolved, can quieten down and move into the past. There appears the possibility of building ties that bypass the logic of the conflict. The space for Aphrodite appears.

The possibility of new bonds On the Francois Vase, the figure of Dionysus was placed between Hephaestus and Aphrodite waiting for her future husband. Cypris and Dionysus looking at each other from up close ‒ recalling the obvious tie between wine and love27 ‒ in the politico-theological context of the myth point towards powers capable of bringing back the whole ‒ strengthening the frayed bond and creating new bonds from within a fractured world. Dionysus precedes Aphrodite in the world of both the gods and the mortals. ‘Without wine there is no longer Aphrodite or any other pleasant thing for men’ (Eur. Ba. 773‒774).28 As R.P. Winnington-Ingram puts it, ‘The close associations of Aphrodite and Dionysus in Greek art and literature need no demonstration’.29 And again, what the truth is in everyday life and what, as the myth shows, touches upon Olympus can also be read in the order of the polis. The announcement of the imminent marriage of Hephaestus to the goddess of love reveals a new, post-crisis constellation of order, in which the place of Hephaestus becomes officially confirmed. The marriage of these two, which can be understood as a reward for the return and making amends for the sufferings undergone, can also be understood as a symbolic image of the whole, which is not only restored but also unified by a new hitherto unknown thread. Thanks to the betrothal possible after Dionysus’ intervention, order integrates a previously rejected element that ended the stasis.

42 Dariusz Karłowicz The son of Semele enters the circle of the Olympians as the one without whom the continuation of the wholeness of Zeus’ order of the world is not possible. The god becomes the keystone of elements that do not come together into an assembled structure. The later contribution of Dionysus in the war of the Olympians with the giants, according to R. Seaford, seals the role of the god as a co-creator of the ‘present order of the world’,30 a role that Athenians were reminded about not only by works used in the home made by craftsmen from Keramikos but also the monumental decoration of the eastern façade of the Parthenon that pointed to the sources of order. Cosmic order, political order and the order of the home cannot be in any way divided up.31 The road from theology to politics is direct and natural. The serene in form and optimistic in utterance history of Hephaestus, which opens the sequence of temple paintings described by Pausanias (1.20.3), precede the bloody scenes with Lycurgus and Pentheus in the main roles (‘Besides this picture (i.e. with Hephaestus) there are also represented Pentheus and Lycurgus paying the penalty for their insolence towards Dionysus’).32 Viewed in this context, the picture reminding us of the god’s role in overcoming the great schism takes on a very concrete religio-political meaning. The promise of maintaining wholeness precedes the threat of disintegration. Also from the political point of view, the author of the iconographic programme of the temple seems to be saying, consent to what is Dionysian becomes the condition for maintaining the whole and peace. Dionysus is indispensable to the Olympians, and is also indispensable for the city. Order can last not because of the final victory of the project of undermining particular perspectives, but thanks to the weakening of tension, which becomes the condition of a different political project ‒ namely politics conceived as managing conflicts. The attempt to establish a coherent structure of a reasonable order would be ‒ as so excellently expressed by the archDionysian in its politico-theological message Antigone of Sophocles ‒ the road to permanent war and destruction, a road that multiplies victims, sharpens tensions and never approaches the promised resolution.33 The only way to resolve an unsolvable and devastating political conflict ‒ as Aristophanes argues in the Acharnians ‒ is the paradoxical, strange and mad wisdom of radical fidelity to Dionysus (in this case, we are talking about a prescription for resolving a bloody conflict ‒ which should be borne in mind when reading Acharnians ‒ which was neither a comedy nor a myth for the Athenian audience). The paradoxical mad god who cannot be rejected should somehow fit in the world of the polis. The city must find a space and form for the cult that turns principles, roles and customs on their heads, especially when the conversation is about a city with the imperial ambitions of Athens, especially a democratic city in which political dispute between conflicting reasons and irreconcilable interests is political everyday life.

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Notes 1 Isler-Kerényi 2007, 235‒254; McGinty, 1978; Musiał 2009, 7‒13; Seaford 2006, 6‒12. 2 This paper is part of a research project on Dionysus and the religious policy of the Roman emperors (2bH 15 0163 83) that was generously financed by the Polish Ministry of Science and Higher Education in the years 2016‒2019 within the National Programme for the Development of Humanities. 3 Carpenter 1986, 13. 4 Paus. 1.20.3. δύο δέ εἰσιν ἐντὸς τοῦ περιβόλου ναοὶ καὶ Διόνυσοι, ὅ τε Ἐλευθερεὺς καὶ ὃν Ἀλκαμένης ἐποίησεν ἐλέφαντος καὶ χρυσοῦ. γραφαὶ δὲ αὐτόθι Διόνυσός ἐστιν ἀνάγων Ἥφαιστον ἐς οὐρανόν· λέγεται δὲ καὶ τάδε ὑπὸ Ἑλλήνων, ὡς Ἥρα ῥίψαι γενόμενον Ἥφαιστον, ὁ δέ οἱ μνησικακῶν πέμψαι δῶρον χρυσοῦν θρόνον ἀφανεῖς δεσμοὺς ἔχοντα, καὶ τὴν μὲν ἐπεί τε ἐκαθέζετο δεδέσθαι, θεῶν δὲ τῶν μὲν ἄλλων οὐδενὶ τὸν Ἥφαιστον ἐθέλειν πείθεσθαι, Διόνυσος δὲ—μάλιστα γὰρ ἐς τοῦτον πιστὰ ἦν Ἡφαίστῳ—μεθύσας αὐτὸν ἐς οὐρανὸν ἤγαγε. Tr. W.H.S. Jones. 5 Isler-Kerényi 2004, 20. 6 Carpenter 1997, 41‒42. The second chapter of the following book by the same author is devoted to the return of Hephaestus: Carpenter, Carpenter 1986,13‒29. On the Francois Vase, see also Isler-Kerényi 2007, 75‒92. 7 Isler-Kerényi 2004, 20. 8 According to Hesiod, Hera conceived Hephaestus without Zeus participating (Th. 927‒29). In the introduction to the Fabulea (Hyg. Fab. 22), PseudoHyginus repeats this version writing that Hephaestus is the son of Juno without a father. Similarly, Pseudo-Apollodorus (Bibl. 1.3.5), who points out that even though he was conceived without the participation of Zeus, Homer called him his son (probably on the basis of Il. 1.579 – inasmuch as one does not interpret it as dealing with the paternity of the gods in general). In turn, Pausanias (8.53.5) attests to a completely different version, saying that Hephaestus was the son of Talos. The persistence of the Homeric tradition is confirmed by Cicero (N.D. 3.22.55) who sees in the Vulcan the son of the royal Olympian pair of Jove and Juno. 9 H.Hom.Ap. 314‒317. Tr. H.G. Evelyn-White. 10 Burkert 1985, 168, calls him ‘an outsider among the perfect Olympians’. 11 See Il. 1.590‒594, Pl. Rep. 378d, Apollod. Bibl. 1.3.5, Paus. 3.17.3. 12 See also Pl. Euthphr. 8b. 13 ‘She was my savior, after the long fall and fractures | that I had to bear, when Mother, | bitch that she is, wanted to hide her cripple. | That would have been a dangerous time, had not | Thetis and Eurynome taken me in’ (Il. 18.392‒395). Tr. R. Fitzgerald. Hephaestus will return the favour to Tethys by forging a shield for Achilles. 14 Paus. 1.20.3. The author does not give the names of the gods, nor the number of missions. The plural lets us judge that there was a series of unsuccessful missions, or, at the very least, a collective mission. 15 We know about this from a brief mention in the Suda, a Byzantine encyclopaedia from the tenth century, s.v. Δεῖμος – unless, of course, the fragment is concerned with Ares’ intervention, rather than, and we cannot rule this out, being an allusion to Hephaestus’ revenge for the betrayal of Aphrodite described in the eighth book of the Iliad. 16 As Pseudo-Hyginus puts it (Hyg. Fab. 166), the drunken Hephaestus brought before the council of the gods could no longer deny his filial duties. 17 Paus. 1.20.3. Tr. W.H.S. Jones.

44 Dariusz Karłowicz 18 On the controversy over when Dionysus became the god of wine, and whether he was such for Homer and Hesiod, see Rybowska 2014, 17‒21 whose choice of fragments I follow faithfully in making this argument. 19 When facing doubts about when Dionysus first appears in the role of a god of wine, we ought to note that he appears in the role of a god who brings wine as a gift upon two masterpieces of black-figure painting from the sixth century. The first of them is dated to 580 BCE and can be found in the British Museum. It is called the Sophilos Dinos (see Carpenter 1986, 23). The second is the already mentioned Francois Vase from Florence, which is believed to have been created around 560 BCE. In both instances, Dionysus appears as a guest at the wedding of Peleus and Thetis. In the Sophilos vase, he carries a fruiting vine; in the Kleitias, he holds an amphora with wine. It is worth adding that the Dionysus represented upon the longest frieze of the Francois Vase (the only one that circles the vase) is distinguished by both the size of the figure and the central place that he occupies in the composition of the frieze. 20 Plut. Sept. sap. conv. 156c-d. See Rybowska 2014, 128‒129. 21 Pind. fr. 29.5. 22 It expresses the hope that his poetry will have a similar effect (Pind. fr. 124a‒b,1‒5). 23 Eur. Ba. 279‒281 βότρυος ὑγρὸν πῶμα… | παύει τοὺς ταλαιπώρους βροτοὺς | λύπης. Throughout the text, I use the translation of Bacchae by T.A. Buckley. 24 Rybowska 2014, 132. 25 Eur. Ba. 423‒429 οἴνου τέρψιν ἄλυπον· | μισεῖ δ᾿ ᾧ μὴ ταῦτα μέλει, | κατὰ φάος νύκτας τε φίλας | εὐαίωνα διαζῆν, | σοφὰν δ᾿ ἀπέχειν πραπίδα φρένα τε | περισσῶν παρὰ φωτῶν. 26 W. Lengauer, Eurypides w Rozmaitościach, http://encyklopediateatru.pl/ artykuly/142310/eurypides-w-rozmaitosciach, accessed on 15 February 2018. 27 Carpenter 1986, 124‒125. See B. fr. 20B.5‒9. 28 Eur. Ba. 773‒774 οἴνου δὲ μηκέτ᾿ ὄντος οὐκ ἔστιν Κύπρις | οὐδ᾿ ἄλλο τερπνὸν οὐδὲν ἀνθρώποις ἔτι. 29 Winnington-Ingram 1980, 104. 30 Seaford 2006, 32. 31 On Dionysus Gigantomachos, see Isler-Kerényi in this volume. 32 Paus. 1.20.3 ταῦτά τε δὴ γεγραμμένα εἰσὶ καὶ Πενθεὺς καὶ Λυκοῦργος ὧν ἐς Διόνυσον ὕβρισαν διδόντες δίκας. 33 The integrative energy indispensable for conflict resolution also expresses the city’s capabilities for inclusion, which are crucial for the city. The myth, seen through the lenses of a sociologist of religion, can show the place of the growing power of craftsmanship and craftsmen of the new political order of the polis, sanctified by cosmic events. See Seaford 2006, 31.

Bibliography Burkert, W. (1985) Greek Religion. Harvard University Press. Carpenter, T.H. (1986) Dionysian Imagery in Archaic Greek Art: Its Development in Black-Figure Vase Painting. Oxford, Clarendon Press. Isler-Kerényi, C. (2004) Civilizing Violence. Satyrs on 6th-Century Greek Vases. Tr. E. Ch. de Sena. Fribourg/Göttingen, Academic Press/Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Isler-Kerényi, C. (2007) Dionysos in Archaic Greece. Tr. Wilfred G.E. Watson. Leiden, Brill. Lengauer, W. (2001) Eurypides w Rozmaitościach, www.encyklopediateatru.pl/ artykuly/142310/eurypides-w-rozmaitosciach.

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McGinty, P. (1978) Interpretation and Dionysos: Method in the Study of a God. The Hague, Mouton. Musiał, D. (2009) Dionizos w Rzymie. Kraków, Historia Iagellonica. Rybowska, J. (2014) Dionizos – Agathos Daimon. Łódz, Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Łódzkiego. Seaford, R. (2006) Dionysos. London, Routledge. Winnington-Ingram, R.P. (1980) Sophocles. An Interpretation. Cambridge University Press.

4

Alexander and Dionysus Richard Stoneman

The Macedonian background: Dionysus before Alexander Alexander the Great’s relationship with the god Dionysus is complex and many-faceted. His importance becomes marked after the arrival of the expedition in Nysa in the Hindu Kush, where the incidence of ivy and, apparently, some kind of wine festival led Alexander to believe they had arrived at the legendary Nysa where the god had been born.1 In order to understand the god’s repeated interventions in Alexander’s career of conquest and his impact on Alexander’s afterlife, it is necessary to start with the Macedonian background. Dionysus was not an ancestor of the Macedonian royal house, although by the end of Alexander’s reign, somebody had managed to insert him there: ‘the stemma was fully fledged in the Ptolemaic period, and there was every reason for its evolution at Alexander’s court’.2 Traditionally, the Argead house saw itself as descended from Heracles, also a key god for Alexander. Dionysus was, however, already an important god in Macedon.3 The region around Drama is one of the earliest sites of viticulture in Europe; Dionysus as god of wine and the liquid bounty of the earth is well at home here. In addition, the ‘Orphic’ Dionysus who dies and is re-embodied is important as a god of the dead in Macedonian funerary ritual with its overtones of mystery religion.4 Dionysiac motifs appear on many objects placed in burials, not least on the furniture of the tombs at Vergina (fourth century BCE), whereas the god is prominent on, for example, the Derveni crater (also fourth century BCE) and on coins of Thasos and Mende. One of the earliest sites of worship of a wine deity probably called Dionysus is at Aphytis on the Chalcidice, which was also home of the only sanctuary of Libyan Ammon in northern Greece. According to the Alexander Romance,5 the birth of Alexander was directed by the Pharaoh-magician Nectanebo in accordance with the predictions of a horoscope-tablet that he employed. The text is highly corrupt, but one of the clearer parts runs: Zeus, the lover of virgins, is now in the middle of the clear heaven, displaying the reveller Dionysus whom he nurtured in his thigh, turning

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into Ammon the ram between Aquarius and Pisces, thus designating an Egyptian man as a world-ruler. Give birth now!6 The passage associates Alexander with the king of the gods, with the Egyptian ram-god Ammon whom he (perhaps) later regarded as his father and with the reveller Dionysus. This novella-like episode of the Romance is surely Ptolemaic and neatly brings together three of the most important gods in Alexander’s life. As he grew up, what could Alexander have known about Dionysus? He will have been familiar with the History of Herodotus. In this author, Dionysus is mentioned several times, almost always as a marker of the exotic or the margins of the world. In Egypt, for example, he and Zeus alone are worshipped at Elephantine (2.29, meaning Amun and Osiris), whereas he and Demeter are rulers of the Egyptian underworld (2.123), and the same couple (with Isis standing in for Demeter) are the parents of Apollo and Horus (2.156). The Arabs worship Dionysus and Urania under the names of Orotalt and Alilat (3.8), and at Nysa in Ethiopia, there is a festival of Dionysus (3.97). At the other extreme of the world, the Thracians worship Dionysus (5.7) and have an oracle of the god (7.111). Alexander surely also had read Euripides’ Bacchae, in the prologue to which (13‒19) the god himself describes his progress from Lydia via (in order) Phrygia, Persia, Bactria, the Medes, Arabia, Asia and the sea, to Greece. This rather indirect itinerary takes him no further east than Bactria, and although Nysa is mentioned, it is not the place of his birth. There seems to be no association of Dionysus with India before Alexander. In later writers, it was a commonplace that Dionysus had set the boundaries of the human world. Quintus Curtius repeatedly refers to Alexander’s desire to transcend those boundaries. In his speech at Issus, Alexander inspires his troops to think of themselves as ‘the liberators of the world: they would one day traverse the bounds set by Hercules and Father Liber to subdue not only the Persians but all the races of the earth. Bactria and India would be Macedonian provinces’7 (3.10.5, cf. 9.4.21, his speech after the battle with the Malli). Similarly, in pursuit of the Scythians near Maracanda, ‘the pursuers crossed the bound of Father Liber, marked by stones set out at frequent intervals and by tall trees with ivy-covered trunks… it was this expedition, with news of the timely victory, that brought Asia into subjection’ (7.9.15 and 17).8

Nysa: Alexander finds Dionysus in India Although Curtius places the rhetoric about Dionysus at Issus, long before arrival at Nysa, it was there that Alexander seems to have developed the idea that he was following in the god’s footsteps. Nysa was located on a mountain called Meros, a name that recalled Dionysus’ enclosure in Zeus’ thigh (meros) until his birth. Presumably, the Macedonians heard

48 Richard Stoneman somewhere here the name of the Hindu mythical Mt Meru, and attributed it to this particular mountain, saying that Dionysus came from there.9 Arrian sums up the position as he understood it (Ind. 5.8‒9): There is a prevalent report that before Alexander Dionysus too invaded India and subdued the Indians; about Heracles the report is not strong. As for Dionysus, the city of Nysa is a fine memorial of his expedition together with Mount Meros and the ivy growing on this mountain, and the habit of the Indians themselves in setting out to battle to the sound of drums and cymbals, and their dappled costume, like that worn by the Bacchants of Dionysus.10 Signs of the presence of Dionysus began to multiply from this moment on. As soon as he entered the ‘boundaries of India’, Alexander was met by the petty kings of the area, who ‘welcomed him as the third son of Zeus to come that way’, according to Curtius.11 When the army reached the Oxydracae (Kṣudrakas), near the junction of the Hydaspes (Jhelum) and Acesines (Chenab), the people announced that they wished to retain ‘the freedom which they had preserved from all time since Dionysus’ arrival in India to that of Alexander’.12 Strabo even said that they claimed descent from Dionysus, which he must have got from one or other of the Alexander historians.13 Further south, the people they called the Sabarcae (in the region of Multan) were ‘so terrified at the sight of the Macedonian army that they believed an army of gods was approaching with a second Father Liber (a name famous among those peoples)’.14 Furthermore, there were signs of the wine-god everywhere. The Macedonians seem to have encountered a ‘Dionysiac’ wine-cult in northwest India.15 This may well have been the Indrakun festival, which takes place in the Kafir lands in November or January, which involved a dancer dressed as a horned goat, behaving lewdly, while wine was pressed and drunk. To Greeks and Macedonians, this could only seem to be a local version of a festival of Dionysus, complete with satyrs or similar beings. But even a festival of Kama (god of love) could take on Dionysiac overtones, and the Hindu festival of Holi may also become a merry riot such as the god would have loved. Not all these instances need have been referring to the same Indian god. Alexander and his men were not setting out to analyse Indian religion, but to recognise their own gods in an alien land.16 They probably did not know any of the scholarly lore that Megasthenes assembled in the next generation, either. Arrian explains: The Indians, he [Megasthenes] says, were originally nomads, like the non-agricultural Scythians, who wander in their wagons and move from one part of Scythia to another, not dwelling in cities and not reverencing shrines of the gods. Just so the Indians had no cities and

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built no temples, but were clothed with the skins of wild animals they killed, and ate the bark of trees … . They also fed on what game they had captured, eating it raw, at least until Dionysus reached India. But when he arrived and became master of India, he founded cities, gave them laws, bestowed wine on the Indians as on the Greeks, and taught them to sow their land, giving them seed. (Either Triptolemus did not come this way when he was sent out by Demeter to sow the entire earth, or it was earlier than Triptolemus that this Dionysus, whoever he was, traversed India and gave the Indians seeds of domesticated plants). Dionysus first yoked oxen to the plough and made most of the Indians agriculturists instead of nomads, and equipped them also with the arms of warfare. He also taught them to reverence various gods, but especially of course himself, with clashings of cymbals and beatings of drums; he instructed them to dance in the satyric fashion, the dance called among Greeks the ‘cordax’, and showed them how to wear long hair in honour of the god with the conical cap, and instructed them in the use of perfumed ointments, so that even against Alexander the Indians came to battle to the sound of cymbals and drums.17 If this remarkably full picture of Dionysus as a bringer of civilisation is all drawn from Megasthenes, the latter must have been one of the chief sources for Diodorus Siculus’ presentation of the god. Like Arrian, or his source, Diodorus suggests that there were several gods known as Dionysus, of whom the most ancient was the Indian one.18 What they all have in common is that they bring the gifts of civilisation to the whole world. It is perhaps more likely that this picture of Dionysus’ impact on India was formed on the basis of the perceived effect of Alexander on the peoples he conquered, than that the anthropological theory was fully formed when Alexander encountered Dionysus in India.

Alexander’s use of Dionysus It is not very likely that Alexander was aware of all the data that Megasthenes assembled in his research a generation later. It may be that Cleitarchus came up with the idea that Dionysus had conquered India in war, as A.D. Nock supposed.19 Nearchus made the comparison between Alexander and his semi-legendary predecessors Cyrus and Semiramis, in connection with the return march through Gedrosia, which may have been Alexander’s own idea. But for most of the expedition, Dionysus seems to function for Alexander rather as a way of enlivening the troops. Though the dedications of the altars he erected on the Hyphasis are variously reported, Dionysus is only once said to be among them.20 Though Ephippus tells us that Alexander came to enjoy dressing up as various gods, Dionysus was not among them.21 The first occasion on which Dionysus plays a significant role in the expedition is in the production of a satyr-play, Agen, on the

50 Richard Stoneman banks of the Hydaspes before the retreat from India began.22 It has sometimes been supposed that Alexander had a hand in the composition of this satire about his renegade treasurer, Harpalus. Any satyr play has to have a chorus of satyrs and an appearance by the god Dionysus, and it may be that Dionysus was personified in the figure of Agen, ‘the Leader’, and maybe was even played by Alexander himself. Alexander also held dramatic festivals at Dion in 335, at Tyre in 332 and at Susa and Ecbatana.23 His enthusiasm for drama is detailed by Chares (FGrH 125 F 4) and Nicoboule (FGrH 127 F 2). In all these events, Dionysus’ main role seems to be to keep the expedition in good cheer. The same is broadly true of the revels in Carmania, following the rigours of the return march through Gedrosia. Plutarch’s description is vivid. He himself was pulled along at an easy pace by eight horses, on a dais … feasting continuously with his Companions, day and night … . The whole place resounded with the frequent strains of wind-pipes and reed-pipes, of song and lyre, and with shrieks of Bacchic women. They accompanied their disorderly and meandering progress with games of Bacchic licence, as if the god himself were present and were taking part in the revel.24 Curtius (9.10.20‒29) made it explicit that Alexander was imitating the god’s triumphal procession, and also made explicit his disapproval of the king’s conduct: ‘It is fortune that allots fame and a price to things, and she turned even this piece of disgraceful soldiering into a glorious achievement’.25 Arrian reports the story too but says that he does not believe any of it.26 Another encounter with Dionysus that has festive overtones is the fictional episode in the Alexander Romance concerning Alexander’s visit to the harbour of Lysos,27 where, in a jewelled palace on top of a high mountain, ‘within and without were carved images of almost divine artistry: bacchants, satyrs, maenads playing pipes and raving in trances, and the old man Maron sitting on his mule’.28 Here Alexander encounters a bird that speaks to him in Greek and admonishes him ‘not to strive to climb the paths of heaven’ (3.28 μὴ προπετεύου ἀναβαίνειν εἰς οὐρανίους ὁδούς). This mysterious adventure seems to symbolise both the Dionysiac aspect of Alexander’s triumphant progress to the east, and the human limitations that prevent the king from becoming a god himself. It cannot be easily related to any real episode in the expedition, and must, in any case, have been composed after the expedition had ended, but perhaps it echoes some of the ideas that began to circulate as Alexander’s pothos led him into unfamiliar lands and lonelier seas of thought. Dionysus has, further, been brought into the discussion regarding Alexander’s request for divine honours in the Greek cities in 324/3.29 Diogenes Laertius (6.63) records a quip of Diogenes the Cynic: ‘when the

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Athenians voted to make Alexander Dionysus, he said, “you can make me Sarapis, too”’.30 The story is unlikely to be true. Diogenes may still have been alive in 324/323, but the god Sarapis seems to be a creation of the Ptolemy I as Pharaoh, after Alexander’s death.31 No other source states that Demades’ proposal to make Alexander a god in Athens brought Dionysus into the equation. Probably, the proposal was simply that he should be recognised as a son of Zeus. A.D. Nock assembled all the evidence and suggested that the idea may be founded on the case of his father Philip making himself synthronos with the 12 gods.32 There is no indication that Alexander was, like some later Ptolemies, ‘a new Dionysus’. When the subject of deification is raised by Alexander himself on the eve of his departure for India, it is the model of Dionysus and Heracles, who were raised to Olympus because of their earthly achievements, that he has in mind. Curtius calls this a ‘depraved idea’. Alexander manages to get a poet called Cleon to support him, but Callisthenes tells him off roundly, to general approval, and it is not long before the latter meets his death.33 In this episode, Alexander wishes to be a god, but not to be called Dionysus; Dionysus is his evidence that such an elevation is possible. A final connection between Alexander and Dionysus is the statement in the Alexander Romance (3.31.6) that among the embassies to Alexander at Babylon were representatives of the guild of the Artists of Dionysus. This cannot have been the case since these guilds are not evidenced before about 280.34 Most probably this passage reflects the growing association of Alexander with the god in early Ptolemaic Egypt – on which see further below.

After Alexander So far it seems that Dionysus was a god whom Alexander perceived as supporting his cause, but that he did not regard himself as being a Dionysus on earth. Even Clitarchus, composing probably the earliest and most hagiographical account of the king, presented him as an imitator of the god rather than an incarnation. This began to change soon after Alexander’s death; not only did the memory of Alexander invest him with some aspects of the god, but the legendary achievements of the god were extended to reflect what Hellenistic writers believed to have been the impact of Alexander’s conquests. Let us first consider the latter. It is notable that the god the Macedonians encountered at Nysa was not the chthonic god of Macedonia, but the god in his other aspect, of festal joy and drunkenness.35 Encountered at the moment of advance into the unknown wonderland of India, Dionysus and drunken merriment became a metonym of Alexander’s conquest. So it may not be so surprising that Dionysus came to acquire a reputation as a great military leader. The passage of Megasthenes quoted above does not speak in terms of conquest, but of becoming ‘master’ of India (κάρτερος ἐγένετο Ἰνδῶν), but Clitarchus

52 Richard Stoneman (FGrH 137 F 17) says that he ‘fought and defeated’ (κατεπολέμησεν) Indians, and the same was asserted by the poet Dionysius (probably first century CE) in his Bassarica. The idea of a military conquest of India by Dionysus was familiar to Arrian, who remained sceptical of the legend.36 Polyaenus begins his book with an account of Dionysus as a general, and his cunning in forming an alliance with the Amazons (1.1). He continues with an account of the generalship of one of his leading commanders, the god Pan, in the same expedition (1.2). Clitarchus probably modelled his account of Dionysus’ conquest on the exploits of Alexander,37 and the Alexander Romance also (3.28) states that Alexander had excelled the god. So the idea of Dionysus’ generalship emerged as a result of Alexander’s expedition.38 This is the character of the Dionysus who dominates Nonnus’ Dionysiaca, who is compelled by Zeus to win his place on Olympus by conquering India (D. 13. 19‒24: cf. 14.274 where the petrified Niobe briefly finds a voice to warn the ‘foolish Indians’ against making war on a god). A poet named Dinarchus, according to two testimonia, wrote a poem about Dionysus’ military conquest of India. Cyril of Alexandria wrote: Dinarchus, a not undistinguished poet, narrating the achievements of Dionysus and everything that he accomplished in relation to the Indians, and indeed having told very well how he killed both Actaeon and Lycurgus, maintains that he was himself killed by Perseus and was buried at Delphi beside the so-called Golden Apollo.39 It has been argued that this Dinarchus is the poet of the fourth century BCE mentioned by Dionysius of Halicarnassus.40 It would then follow that the story of Dionysus’ conquest of India was current before Alexander’s expedition. But the argument is very uncertain, and in a detailed discussion, A. Benaissa has dismissed the idea that a poet at this date could have written on the subject: either Cyril’s information is incorrect, or Dinarchus lived long enough to write such a poem later than Alexander, or the poem was by a later Dinarchus. Benaissa prefers the first possibility and concludes ‘at the very least, we are facing a non liquet’.41 Dionysus is also represented in the passage of Megasthenes quoted above as a founder of cities and a bringer of civilisation in India. This account must form the basis, in part, of Diodorus Siculus’ presentation of both Dionysus and Heracles as civilising gods, exponents of the ‘pagan mission’ as Iris Sulimani has called it.42 The Dionysus of Diodorus is modelled in part on the Egyptian Osiris but also explicitly shows many traits that echo Alexander. Many of the benefits that Dionysus and Osiris introduce are suggested by the discoveries of Alexander in the east, from wheat and ivy (Sulimani 233) to canals (260), bitumen and bricks (261‒263); some are also associated with Semiramis, whom Alexander took as another of his models. Dionysus rebuilt the city of his father Ammon in Libya (268) as

Alexander and Dionysus 43

53

well as several cities in India, including Nysa. Alexander’s city foundations, such as Alexandria by Egypt and Alexandria Eschate, provided the model for similar acts by Dionysus. Alexander sometimes created notable cities by synoecism of villages, as Arrian states, and this is just what Dionysus does too.44 This beginning also facilitated the attribution to Dionysus of typical activities of later Hellenistic kings, such as cult foundations and the introduction of political institutions.45 Plutarch adopted this view of Alexander’s civilising mission with enthusiasm, both in his Life of the conqueror and in his essays on the Fortune of Alexander. He does not bring Dionysus into the equation; by his time, histories like that of Diodorus had made it possible to take for granted that the spread of Greek culture was a civilising influence, and thus for Plutarch that Alexander had actively adopted the mission. Turning to the other aspect of Alexander’s association with Dionysus in later memory, let us look at the association of his image with that of the god in Ptolemaic Alexandria. It is notable that Dionysus does not figure in the art or coinage depicting Alexander in the early Hellenistic period: the god on Alexander’s and later coins is regularly Zeus. But the god and the conqueror are loosely associated, and even merged in the famous Grand Procession of Ptolemy Philadelphus, which took place probably in winter 275/274 BCE,46 and is described by Kallixeinos in a long account reproduced by Athenaeus (197d‒203b). ‘Dionysus and his retinue dominate Kallixeinos’s description of the Grand Procession’,47 and symbols evoking Alexander’s exploits in India appear repeatedly. These include the Procession of Dionysus (197e‒202a) with the Guild of the Artists of Dionysus, a statue of Dionysus and another of his nurse, Nysa; a float with satyrs and Silenoi pressing and consuming wine, another with Dionysus in his triumphant return from India on an elephant, and another with Alexander and his companions accompanied by women representing the Greek cities liberated from Persia. There follows a procession of Zeus and the other gods. Then comes the procession of Alexander (202a‒f), notable in which is the king’s portrait carried in a chariot drawn by elephants, and accompanied by a gilded thunderbolt, eagles and masses of gold, silver and bronze objects. Although the images of the god and the king are kept separate, the association could hardly be closer. Stewart insists that the claim sometimes made that both Alexander and Ptolemy appeared in this tableau as demigods is nowhere stated in the text.48 However, the honours paid to their representations come close to divine honours. The expedition to India is the dominant symbolic theme of the procession, with those elephants and the rest, and everything celebrates the gifts of Dionysus, of wine and social communality.49 Dionysus was a favourite god with the Ptolemies from Philadelphus onwards,50 and it is hardly surprising that the god became closely associated with the founder of their city, Alexander, who also received divine cult in the city.51 Both Ptolemy IV Philopator and Ptolemy XI bore the title

54 Richard Stoneman Neos Dionysos, and the god Dionysus, so closely associated with the founder, remained an intimate of the city of Alexandria until the time of Mark Antony, when, as Constantine Cavafy (following Plutarch) unforgettably described it in his poem, the god abandoned Antony. A pair of frescoes at Pompeii depicts, respectively, Alexander and (?) Roxane or Stateira, and Dionysus and Ariadne.52 Probably based on a Hellenistic original, it exhibits in Stewart’s opinion some unease in the relationships between each couple, perhaps hinting at a less than happy end to both relationships. But the composition again brings king and god into close alignment.

The anger of Dionysus The god’s abandonment of his protégé brings us to a final aspect of the role of Dionysus in the life and self-presentation of Alexander. Both Plutarch and Curtius refer on more than one occasion to the anger of the god. Despite the intimacy that Alexander cultivated with Dionysus, the god, like Fortune, was not always on his side.53 It all began with Thebes. According to the Alexander Romance (1.46), the musician Ismenias delivered a long plea to the king not to destroy his city: ‘Do not in your ignorance commit such impiety against your compatriots. Dionysus and Heracles were Thebans… As the son of a god, do not allow Thebes, the nurse of Dionysus and Heracles, to be destroyed. Do you not know, Alexander, that Thebes, not Pella, is your home?’54 The speech continues in verse with a resumé of most of the major myths of the two gods relating to Thebes. The story as it stands, of course, is fiction, but it is not impossible that such thoughts might have occurred to Alexander and prompted his interest in these two gods in later years. Plutarch (a Boeotian and therefore a countryman of Thebes) states this explicitly, on what grounds we do not know. On more than one occasion later the Theban disaster is said to have caused him remorse and to have made him treat quite a few people with greater leniency. At any rate, he used to say that both the business with Cleitus [sc. his murder], which happened when he was drunk, and the cowardice of the Macedonians when they were up against the Indians, which robbed his expedition and his glory of their crowning achievement, were due to the vengeful anger of Dionysus.55 So too Curtius: following the murder of Cleitus, the king perceived the enormity of his crime as he reflected upon it, but all too late … He wondered whether it was divine anger that had driven him to this heinous crime, and it occurred to him that he had failed to offer the annual sacrifice to Father Liber [sc. Dionysus] at the appointed time. So it was that the god’s anger had displayed itself against him – for the crime was committed amid drinking and feasting.56

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Alexander’s hybris in supposing that he could outdo these two gods, and indeed could become a god himself as both of them had done, brought adulation from the poet Cleon but remonstration from the philosopher Callisthenes (Curt. 8.5.8, 11 and 17), and may also have contributed to a sense that the god could not be wholly relied on. The model of Alexander was not forgotten three centuries later, when Mark Antony, that Dionysiac would-be ruler of the east, presented Ptolemy Caesarion to the people of Alexandria dressed in Macedonian costume.57 But Antony’s relationship with Dionysus was also fraught; on the night before his final battle with Caesar, when the city was quiet and depressed through fear and expectation of what was coming, suddenly certain harmonious sounds from all sorts of instruments were heard, and the shouting of a throng, accompanied by cries of Bacchic revelry and satyric leapings, as if a troop of revellers, making a great tumult, were going forth from the city; and their course seemed to lie about through the middle of the city toward the outer gate which faced the enemy, at which point the tumult became loudest and then dashed out. Those who sought the meaning of the sign were of the opinion that the god to whom Antony always most likened and attached himself was now deserting him.58 Antony’s abandonment by the god marks the end of the long association of Dionysus with Alexandria which had begun with Alexander and had been promulgated by the rulers of Egypt through three centuries. The god, leaving the city in the direction of Octavian’s camp, was about to transfer his favours to the new Roman rulers of Egypt. This was perhaps the last outburst of the anger that the god had conceived against Alexander: he remained with the city, but the Macedonian ascendancy was at an end.

Notes 1 Stoneman 2019, 93. 2 Bosworth 1996, 125‒126, 128, citing Satyrus FGrH 631 F1 and P. Oxy 2465, col. 2, 2‒11. Nock 1928, 25, believed that it was ‘Ptolemaic genealogising’ that first made Dionysus an ancestor of Alexander. 3 A valuable summary is Fulińska 2014, from whom I draw the information in this paragraph. 4 Besides Fulińska 2014, see Seaford 2006, 76‒86. 5 The alpha recension. Subsequent recensions of the Romance largely omit the passage, presumably because the authors could not make sense of it. But, originally, it did make sense: Stoneman 2007, 493‒496. 6 A.R. 1.12.8 (alpha recension). ὁ γὰρ φιλοπάρθενος Ζεὺς μηροτραφῆ τὸν εὔιον Διόνυσον ἀναδείξας, εὔδιος μεσουρανήσας, κριὸς Ἄμμων γενόμενος ἐπὶ τοῦ Ὑδροχόου Ἰχθύων, Αἰγύπτιον ἄνθρωπον κοσμοκράτορα βασιλέα ἀποκαθιστᾷ. ταύτῃ τῇ ὥὥρᾳ γέννησον. Tr. R. Stoneman. 7 Curt. 3.10.5 Terrarum orbis liberatores emensosque olim Herculis et Liberi

56 Richard Stoneman

8

9 10

11 12 13 14

15 16

17

18

patris terminos non Persis modo, sed etiam omnibus gentibus inposituros iugum. Tr. J. Yardley. Curt. 7.9.15 and 17 Transierant iam Liberi Patris terminos, quorum monumenta lapides erant crebris intervallis dispositi arboresque procerae, quarum stipites hedera contexerat … Haec expeditio deficientem magna ex parte Asiam fama tam opportunae victoriae domuit. Tr. J. Yardley. Stoneman 2019, 93, following Lane Fox 1973, 341‒343. Dionysus originates from Mt Meros: Thphr. HP 4.4.1; see also Verg. A. 6.804‒805. Arr. Ind. 5.8‒9 καὶ πρὸ Ἀλεξάνδρου Διονύσου μὲν πέρι πολλὸς λόγος κατέχει ὡς καὶ τούτου στρατεύσαντος ἐς Ἰνδοὺς καὶ καταστρεψαμένου Ἰνδούς, Ἡρακλέος δὲ πέρι οὐ πολλός. Διονύσου μέν γε καὶ Νῦσα πόλις μνῆμα οὐ φαῦλον τῆς στρατηλασίης, καὶ ὁ Μηρὸς τὸ ὄρος, καὶ ὁ κισσὸς ὅτι ἐν τῷ ὄρει τούτῳ φύεται, καὶ αὐτοὶ οἱ Ἰνδοὶ ὑπὸ τυμπάνων τε καὶ κυμβάλων στελλόμενοι ἐς τὰς μάχας, καὶ ἐσθὴς αὐτοῖσι κατάστικτος ἐοῦσα, κατάπερ τοῦ Διονύσου τοῖσι βάκχοισιν. Tr. P.A. Brunt (LCL). Curt. 8.10.1 Illum tertium Iove genitum ad Ipsos pervenisse memorantes. Tr. J. Yardley; Bosworth 1980‒1995, vol. II, 125‒127. Arr. An. 6.14.2 ἥντινα ἐλευθερίαν ἐξ ὅτου Διόνυσος ἐς Ἰνδοὺς ἧκε σώαν σφίσιν εἶναι ἐς Ἀλέξανδρον. Tr. P.A. Brunt (LCL). Str. 15.1.8, cf. 15.1.33. Curt. 9.8.5 Territi nova facie deorum exercitum et alium Liberum Patrem, celebre in illis gentibus nomen, adventare credebant, tr. J. Yardley. Diodorus (17.102.3) calls them the Sambastae, but makes no mention of their familiarity with the god. They may possibly be the Sabara of Varahamihira, Ptolemy’s Sabarai (Geog. 7.1.80, 7.2.4); cf. Stoneman 2019, 278, n. 119. Carter 1992; 2015, 355‒376; also Karttunen 1989, 210‒219. So there is nothing to be gained from trying to identify Dionysus with any particular Indian god; a common candidate has been Shiva, who had not in fact emerged in his present form at this date: O’Flaherty 1973/1981, 83‒110. For discussion, see Stoneman 2019, 94‒96. Arr. Ind. 7.2‒9 πάλαι μὲν δὴ νομάδας εἶναι Ἰνδούς, καθάπερ Σκυθέων τοὺς οὐκ ἀροτῆρας, οἳ ἐπὶ τῇσιν ἁμάξῃσι πλανώμενοι ἄλλοτε ἄλλην τῆς Σκυθίης ἀμείβουσιν, οὔτε πόληας οἰκέοντες οὔτε ἱερὰ θεῶν σέβοντες. οὕτω μηδὲ Ἰνδοῖσι πόληας εἶναι μηδὲ ἱερὰ θεῶν δεδομημένα, ἀλλ’ ἀμπίσχεσθαι μὲν δορὰς θηρίων ὅσων κατακάνοιεν, σιτέεσθαι δὲ τῶν δενδρέων τὸν φλοιόν… σιτέεσθαι δὲ καὶ τῶν θηρίων ὅσα ἕλοιεν ὠμοφαγέοντας, πρίν γε δὴ Διόνυσον ἐλθεῖν ἐς τὴν χώρην τῶν Ἰνδῶν. Διόνυσον δὲ ἐλθόντα, ὡς καρτερὸς ἐγένετο Ἰνδῶν, πόληάς τε οἰκίσαι καὶ νόμους θέσθαι τῇσι πόλεσιν, οἴνου τε δοτῆρα Ἰνδοῖς γενέσθαι κατάπερ Ἕλλησι, καὶ σπείρειν διδάξαι τὴν γῆν διδόντα αὐτὸν σπέρματα, ἢ οὐκ ἐλάσαντος ταύτῃ Τριπτολέμου, ὅτε περ ἐκ Δήμητρος ἐστάλη σπείρειν τὴν γῆν πᾶσαν, ἢ πρὸ Τριπτολέμου τις οὗτος Διόνυσος ἐπελθὼν τὴν Ἰνδῶν γῆν σπέρματά σφισιν ἔδωκε καρποῦ τοῦ ἡμέρου. βόας τε ὑπ’ ἄροτρον ζεῦξαι Διόνυσον πρῶτον καὶ ἀροτῆρας ἀντὶ νομάδων ποιῆσαι Ἰνδῶν τοὺς πολλοὺς καὶ ὁπλίσαι ὅπλοισι τοῖσιν ἀρηίοισι. καὶ θεοὺς σέβειν ὅτι ἐδίδαξε Διόνυσος ἄλλους τε καὶ μάλιστα δὴ ἑωυτὸν κυμβαλίζοντας καὶ τυμπανίζοντας·καὶ ὄρχησιν δὲ ἐκδιδάξαι τὴν σατυρικήν, τὸν κόρδακα παρ’ Ἕλλησι καλούμενον, καὶ κομᾶν [Ἰνδοὺς] τῷ θεῷ μιτρηφορέειν τε ἀναδεῖξαι καὶ μύρων ἀλοιφὰς ἐκδιδάξαι, ὥστε καὶ εἰς Ἀλέξανδρον ἔτι ὑπὸ κυμβάλων τε καὶ τυμπάνων ἐς τὰς μάχας Ἰνδοὶ καθίσταντο. Tr. P.A. Brunt (LCL). D.S. 3.62.2‒5, with parallel versions at 3.63.1‒66.1, 67.1‒74.6 and 4.2.1‒5.4: Sulimani 2011, 167‒169. P.A. Brunt in App. xvi to LCL 269 admits it is unclear whether the idea of two Dionysuses came from Megasthenes or from Arrian (p. 442).

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19 FGrH 137 F 17, Nock 1928, 26‒27 = 1972, 140; discussed by Benaissa 2018, 34‒36. 20 Arrian An. 5.29 names no gods, and neither does Plutarch Alex. 62; Diodorus 17.95.1‒2 states that they are for ‘the twelve gods’; Curtius 9.3.19 says only that there were 12 altars. Only Strabo 3.5.5 says that Alexander set up altars ‘in imitation’ of Heracles and Dionysus’. Philostratus VA 2.43 has a strange collection that includes Heracles but not Dionysus. 21 FGrH 126 F 5 = Athen. 12.537e. He does go on to mention an occasion when Alexander was making a sacrifice to Dionysus. 22 This play is discussed in more detail in Stoneman 2019, 405‒407. 23 Arr. An. 7.14, Plut. Alex. 72. 24 Plut. Alex. 67.2 and 5‒6 αὐτὸν μὲν οὖν ἵπποι σχέδην ἐκόμιζον ὀκτώ, μετὰ τῶν ἑταίρων ὑπὲρ θυμέλης… εὐωχούμενον συνεχῶς ἡμέρας καὶ νυκτός… πολλὴ δὲ μοῦσα συρίγγων καὶ αὐλῶν ᾠδῆς τε καὶ ψαλμοῦ καὶ βακχεία γυναικῶν κατεῖχε πάντα τόπον. τῷ δ’ ἀτάκτῳ καὶ πεπλανημένῳ τῆς πορείας παρείπετο [ταῖς φιάλαις] καὶ παιδιὰ βακχικῆς ὕβρεως, ὡς τοῦ θεοῦ παρόντος αὐτοῦ καὶ συμπαραπέμποντος τὸν κῶμον. Tr. R. Waterfield. 25 Curt. 9.10.28 Sed fortuna, quae rebus famam pretiumque constituit, hoc quoque militiae probrum vertit in gloriam. Tr. J. Yardley. 26 Arr. An. 6.28.1. 27 The name seems to contain a hint of Dionysiac madness, Lyssa. 28 A.R. 3.28 (beta recension) ἔσωθεν δὲ καὶ ἔξωθεν ἀνάγλυφοι ἀνδριάντες ἡμιθέων γεγλυμμένοι, Βάκχαι, Σάτυροι, Μύστιδες αὐλοῦσαι καὶ βακχεύουσαι διφυεῖς. Tr. R. Stoneman. 29 See above all the discussion by Nock 1928, 21‒30. 30 D.L. 6.63 ψηφισαμένων Ἀθηναίων Ἀλέξανδρον Διόνυσον, ‘κἀμέ,’ ἔφη, ‘Σάραπιν ποιήσατε’. Tr. R. Stoneman. 31 Stambaugh 1972; brief discussion in Stoneman 2004, 105‒106. The Oracle of the Potter calls the god an idion plasma, a ‘personal invention’ of Ptolemy. 32 D.S. 16.92. 33 Curt. 8.5.5‒20. 34 Except for a false reference by Chamaeleon, Athen. 9.407b. Only two inscriptions precede 279: SIG 3 no. 460 (Isthmia-Nemea) and SIG 3 no. 704e (Athens). See Le Guen 2001. 35 Cf. Fraser 1972, vol. I, 202. 36 Arr. An. 5.1.1‒2. 37 Nock 1928, 27. 38 Tarn 1948, vol. II, 45‒46; Fraser 1972, vol. I, 202 with n. 100. But note that the use of the thyrsus as a weapon, so prominent in Nonnus, is anticipated in Euripides’ Bacchae 761‒764. 39 Cyr. Juln. 10.20 Brüggemann, pp. 341‒342 Aubert (PG 76.1025D). Cf. Syncellus, Chron. p. 190.16 Mosshammer = SH 379B (a). Both passages are quoted in full by Benaissa 2018, 43‒44, and discussed in detail at 44‒47. The above is his translation of the Cyril passage: ὁ γάρ τοι Δείναρχος ποιητὴς οὐκ ἄσημος ὢν τὰς Διονύσου πράξεις ἀφηγούμενος ὅσα τε αὐτῷ πεπόνηται περὶ τῶν Ἰνδῶν καὶ μὴν καὶ Ἀκταίωνα καὶ Λυκοῦργον ὅπως εἴη πεφονευκώς, εὖ μάλα διειρηκὼς ἀνῃρῆσθαι καὶ αὐτὸν ὑπὸ Περσέως διατείνεται, κεκηδεῦσθαί γε μὴν ἐν Δελφοῖς παρὰ τὸν χρυσοῦν καλούμενον Ἀπόλλωνα. 40 D.H. Din. 1 = FGrH 399 T1 = SH 379A. 41 Benaissa 2018, 46. 42 Sulimani 2011, esp. chapter 5. The index under Alexander simply states ‘passim’. 43 D.S. 1.9.7.

58 Richard Stoneman 44 Arr. An. 6.22.3; D.S. 2.38.5, Sulimani 2011, 275. 45 Sulimani 2011, 280‒306. 46 Stewart 1993, 253, on the basis of the astral symbols described; Rice 1983, 165 had given a broader span of 285‒265 BCE. 47 Stewart 1993, 253; his whole discussion occupies 252‒260. 48 Stewart 1993, 259, referring to Rice 1983, 107. 49 Fraser 1972, vol. I, 202; on communality, Seaford 2006, 26‒38. 50 Fraser 1972, vol. I, 202‒207. A clear statement is Theocritus 17.112, with Gow’s note. Mithradates VI of Pontus, too, saw both Alexander and Dionysus as models: Mayor 2010, 40. 51 Fraser 1972, vol. I, 215. 52 Stewart 1993, 186‒190, with colour plate 6 and plates 59‒60. 53 On the complex role of Fortune in Alexander’s career, see Stoneman 2016. 54 A.R. 1.46 ὥσπερ ἐκ θεῶν γενόμενος μὴ ὑπερίδῃς τὰς Διονύσου καὶ Ἡρακλέους τροφοὺς Θήβας ἀπολλυμένας, μηδὲ τὸ βοόκτιστον ἄστυ κατασκάψῃς· … ἀγνοεῖς, Ἀλέξανδρε, Θηβαῖος καὶ οὐχὶ Πελλαῖος. Tr. R. Stoneman. 55 Plut. Alex. 13.3‒4 ὕστερον μέντοι πολλάκις αὐτὸν ἡ Θηβαίων ἀνιᾶσαι συμφορὰ λέγεται καὶ πρᾳότερον οὐκ ὀλίγοις παρασχεῖν. ὅλως δὲ καὶ τὸ περὶ Κλεῖτον ἔργον ἐν οἴνῳ γενόμενον, καὶ τὴν πρὸς Ἰνδοὺς τῶν Μακεδόνων ἀποδειλίασιν, ὥσπερ ἀτελῆ τὴν στρατείαν καὶ τὴν δόξαν αὐτοῦ προεμένων, εἰς μῆνιν ἀνῆγε Διονύσου καὶ νέμεσιν. Tr. R. Waterfield. 56 Curt. 8.2.1 and 6 Quippe rex, postquam ira mente discesserat, etiam ebrietate discussa magnitudinem facinoris sera aestimatione perspexit … Scrutantemque, num ira deorum ad tantum nefas actus esset, subit anniversarium sacrificium Libero Patri non esse redditum stato tempore. Itaque inter vinum et epulas caede commissa iram dei fuisse manifestam. Tr. J. Yardley. 57 Plut. Ant. 54.8; Stewart 1993, 339. 58 Plut. Ant. 75.3‒4 ἐν ταύτῃ τῇ νυκτὶ λέγεται, μεσούσης σχεδόν, ἐν ἡσυχίᾳ καὶ κατηφείᾳ τῆς πόλεως διὰ φόβον καὶ προσδοκίαν τοῦ μέλλοντος οὔσης, αἰφνίδιον ὀργάνων τε παντοδαπῶν ἐμμελεῖς τινας φωνὰς ἀκουσθῆναι καὶ βοὴν ὄχλου μετὰ εὐασμῶν καὶ πηδήσεων σατυρικῶν, ὥσπερ θιάσου τινὸς οὐκ ἀθορύβως ἐξελαύνοντος· εἶναι δὲ τὴν ὁρμὴν ὁμοῦ τι διὰ τῆς πόλεως μέσης ἐπὶ τὴν πύλην ἔξω τὴν τετραμμένην πρὸς τοὺς πολεμίους, καὶ ταύτῃ τὸν θόρυβον ἐκπεσεῖν πλεῖστον γενόμενον. ἐδόκει δὲ τοῖς ἀναλογιζομένοις τὸ σημεῖον ἀπολείπειν ὁ θεὸς Ἀντώνιον, ᾧ μάλιστα συνεξομοιῶν καὶ συνοικειῶν ἑαυτὸν διετέλεσεν. Tr. R. Waterfield.

Bibliography Benaissa, A. (2018) Dionysius: The Epic Fragments. Cambridge University Press. Bosworth, A.B. (1980‒1995) Commentary on Arrian’s History of Alexander. 2 vols. Oxford, Clarendon Press. Bosworth, A.B. (1996) Alexander the Great: The Tragedy of Triumph. Oxford University Press. Carter, M.L. (1992) ‘Dionysiac Festivals and Gandharan Imagery’, in R. Gyselen (ed.) Banquets d’Orient (Res Orientales). Vol. 4. pp. 51‒59. Bures‐sur‐Yvette, Le Groupe pour l'Étude de la Civilisation du Moyen‐Orient. Carter, M.L. (2015) Arts of the Hellenized East. Precious Metalwork and Gems of the Pre-Islamic Era. London, Thames and Hudson. Fraser, P.M. (1972) Ptolemaic Alexandria. 3 vols. Oxford University Press. Fulińska, A. (2014) ‘Dionysus, Orpheus and Argead Macedonia’, Classica Cracoviensia 17, 43‒67.

Alexander and Dionysus

59

Karttunen, K. (1989) India in Early Greek Literature. Helsinki, Finnish Oriental Society. Lane Fox, R. (1973) Alexander the Great. London, Allen Lane. Le Guen, B. (2001) Les associations de technites dionysiaques à l’époque hellénistique. Paris, Boccard. Mayor, A. (2010) The Poison King: The Life and Legend of Mithradates, Rome’s Deadliest Enemy. Princeton University Press. Nock, A.D. (1928) ‘Notes on Ruler-Cult, I‒IV’, JHS 48, 21‒43 = Essays on Religion and the Ancient World. Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1972. Vol. I, pp. 134–159. O’Flaherty, W.D. (1973/1981) Śiva: The Erotic Ascetic. Oxford University Press. Rice, E.E. (1983) The Grand Procession of Ptolemy Philadelphus. Oxford University Press. Seaford, R. (2006) Dionysus. London, Routledge. Stambaugh, J. (1972) Sarapis under the Early Ptolemies. Leiden, Brill. Stewart, A. (1993) Faces of Power: Alexander’s Image and Hellenistic Politics. Berkeley, University of California Press. Stoneman, R. (2004) Alexander the Great. Second edition. Lancaster Pamphlets. London, Routledge. Stoneman, R. (2007) Il Romanzo di Alessandro. Vol. I. Milano, Mondadori. Stoneman, R. (2016) ‘The Origin of Quintus Curtius’ Concept of Fortuna’, in H. Wulfram (ed.) Der römische Alexanderhistoriker Curtius Rufus, Wien, Verlag der Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften, pp. 301‒322. Stoneman, R. (2019) The Greek Experience of India: From Alexander to the IndoGreeks. Princeton University Press. Sulimani, I. (2011) Diodorus’ Mythistory and the Pagan Mission: Historiography and Culture-Heroes in the First Pentad of the Bibliotheke. Leiden, Brill. Tarn, W.W. (1948) Alexander the Great. 2 vols. Cambridge University Press.

Part II

Dionysus in Rome

5

Dionysos against Rome? The Bacchanalian affair: a matter of power(s) Jean-Marie Pailler

An explanation of the title and purpose of this contribution is needed. Chronologically and thematically, the Bacchanalian affair, dated to 186‒181 BCE, will be at the centre of our interests and investigations. The period under consideration stretches before, during and after the crisis, from ca 270‒260 to ca 70‒60 BCE, in Rome and in what has increasingly become Roman Italy, particularly in Magna Graecia and Etruria. As for ‘power’, this term must be taken implying two different meanings depending on context: on the one hand, the power in the Roman Republic is represented by the senate, the consuls and all the officialdom confronting the Bacchants; on the other, the ‘powers of Bacchus’ are those that the god – himself possessed by the frenzy which is in his nature – exercises over his devotees as well as (according to the myth) over his foes by way of active possession. Given such a dissymmetrical situation,1 the relationship between Bacchus and the (political) power was of a very special kind that we shall try to elucidate.

The affair: a politico-religious question. Prodromes and the structure of a tale Such an objective requires that certain features of the Roman and Italian si­ tuation in the 180s be borne in mind. These are the post-war years, following the final victory over Hannibal (i.e. including all the disturbing consequences and memory of internal conflicts in Italy), and the immediate beginnings of the Roman conquest of the Hellenistic East, with the first correlative and reciprocal cultural successes of the Graecia capta. We, first, shall particularly have to take into account the reticent behaviour towards Rome, and in some cases the complicity with Hannibal, of some Italian peoples and cities during the war, then the material and psychological effects of the same war on the populations in Rome herself. Both aspects – populations and mentalities – apply especially in the two regions involved, according to our sources, in the scandal of 186: Campania and Etruria (Fig. 5.1), to which we may add Tarentum and Apulia. As for the psychological and religious repercussions of the conflict at Rome, a passage of Livy deserves interest. The year 213 was a turning point in the war (25.1.6‒12):

64 Jean-Marie Pailler

Figure 5.1 Map of the ‘Dionysiac countries’ in Italy at the beginning of the second century BCE. © Michał Strachowski.

The longer the war dragged on … the attitude of men, superstitious fears, in large part foreign at that, invaded the state to such a degree that either men or else gods suddenly seemed changed (ut aut homines aut dii repente alii uiderentur facti). And now not only in secret and within the walls of houses were Roman rites abandoned, but in public places also and in the Forum and on the Capitol there was a crowd of women who were following the custom of the fathers neither in their sacrifices nor in prayers to the gods. Petty priests and also prophets had taken hold on men's minds (sacrificuli ac uates ceperant hominum mentes). And the number of these was increased by the mass of rustics forced by want and fear into the city… The senate assigned to Marcus Aemilius, the city praetor (praetor urbanus), the task of freeing the people from such superstitions. He read the decree of the senate in an

Dionysos against Rome? 65 assembly, and also issued an edict that whoever had books of prophecies or prayers or a ritual of sacrifice set down in writing should bring all such books and writings to him.2 This passage sounds like an anticipatory version of the Bacchanalian affair.3 Here, the god(s) and precise rites implied are not named, but they are foreign, strange and publicly venerated by groups of women and men of various origins. The reader of Livy’s book 39 has a strong feeling of a likeness between the two events, a similarity that should, if not minimise, at least contextualise the unheard of character of the Bacchanalian scandal. The structure of the Livian episode, recounted in book 39, by far our most important source,4 can be summarised as follows: 1. Both consuls of 186 are entirely deployed to confronting an ‘internal conspiracy’ (39.8.1). 2. How the evil came from Greece to Etruria, then from Etruria to Rome (39.8.3–9.1). 3. The love story of Hispala and Aebutius, who finally refuses to be initiated by his mother to the Bacchic rites and is expelled from his home (39.9.2–11.2). 4. Due to Aebutia, paternal aunt of Aebutius, and Sulpicia, mother-in-law of the consul, Postumius is informed about that situation (39.11.3–12.5). 5. Confession of Hispala to the consul about the Campanian priestess Paculla Annia and the recent reforms of the Bacchic cult and organisation (39.12.6–14.3). 6. The senate is informed of and frightened by Postumius; long speech by the consul to the people assembled in contio: the growing danger of the sect (39.14.3–16.13). 7. Steps and details of the repression in Rome and in Italy (39.17.1–19.2). 8. Aebutius and Hispala are publicly rewarded (39.19.3–7). So, half the record of a public Roman year is devoted by Livy to the affair.5 The general impression conveyed by this narrative is a mixture of concerns about family, politics and religion, with a special focus on the direct re­ lationship between the private and the public fields, as much in Rome as in Italy. All these features determine an entirely new step in the course of Roman history, under the influence of a (here) unnamed god: Bacchus.

The Bacchanalian affair: an exceptional piece in Livy’s work Analysing Livy’s use of certain words confirms and enlarges the content of the introduction he gives to the whole tale (39.8.1): ‘The following year diverted the consuls Spurius Postumius Albinus and Quintus Marcius Philippus from the army and the administration of wars and provinces to

66 Jean-Marie Pailler the suppression of an internal conspiracy’. Such a situation was exceptional, demanding an equally exceptional response, as the repetition in the following pages of ‘the consul’, ‘the consuls’ and ‘the senate’ plainly demonstrates. Let us begin with the last Latin word in the aforementioned quoted passage6: coniuratio (‘conspiracy’). The term, in plural or singular form, appears 43 times in the Ab Urbe Condita, including 9 times in the Bacchanalian tale in book 39: more than a fifth of the total in a single part of one book. As for the forms in initia-, either the plural of the name initium (‘initiation’) or the inflected forms of the verb initior, -ari, the number amounts to 21 in book 39, for a total of 30 in the whole work: more than two thirds; for the verb itself, sometimes completed by the dative Bacchis, the occurrences are 17 out of 20. If we look now at the words formed on Bacch-, what do we find? Bacchis, dative of Bacchae, as mentioned pre­ viously, 4 times (39.9.4, 10.2, 13.8, 14.8); the inflected forms of Bacchanalia, 10 times, always about the (locals of) the ‘conspiracy’, which corresponds to the occurrences in the Senatus Consultum de Bacchanalibus (henceforth abbreviated as SC). A comparison with other divine names gives the following results: Iuppiter, Iou-: 170 – by far the most common recurrent of all; then, a group of three appearing around 50 times: Mars 55, Apollo 53, Iuno 51; a group of five numbering around 20: Hercules 25, Minerua 21, Diana 21, Ceres 19, Bellona 19, then more ‘sporadic’ gods, but still present: Venus 14, Vesta 12 (25 with the Vestals), Quirinus 8, Mercury 6, Neptune 6, Aesculapius 5, Vulcan 4, Saturnus 4 (and 3 Saturnalia). No mention of the Greek Dionysos nor, of course, of the Etruscan Fufluns; Liber (Pater), the Latin name of Bacchus, occurs three times, each of them in the syntagm Liber et Libera, which means not the god personally. What about that general absence of Bacchus-Liber? For the period of the affair, we may conjecture the caution, as soon as 186, of educated Romans who had at least heard of Lycurgus’ and Pentheus’ destiny. None of them would play the role of the Edonian or of the Theban king; on this point, Livy will have followed his source(s).7 But what seems amazing is his persistent silence over the long term. The other gods are present on a regular basis, so to speak, throughout Livy’s History because of their role in the public sphere (both political and mili­ tary). External politics and war, which are explicitly mentioned together in 39.8.1, are activities from which the consuls are ‘diverted’ for a year (Insequens annus … consules … auertit). This is not the case with BacchusLiber.8 According to Livy, he is a foreigner, definitely alien9 to the public sphere; the historian had no reason to mention him before or after the affair ‒ an affair that meant the intrusion into the narrative of a character who normally had nothing to do with it. So, the exceptional presence in book 39 of the devotees, rites and shrines of Bacchus, if not of the god himself, strengthens the unusual status of the Bacchanalian episode in Livy’s History. This aspect will be clarified by

Dionysos against Rome? 67 considering the situation of a part of the Roman and Italian youth who find themselves between the family ties, the city duties and the Bacchic initiation.

The Roman youth between family, city and Bacchanal The Bacchic movement was reproached mainly for assuming de facto for itself an overall autonomy regarding the res publica, as if it aimed to function like a ‘state within the state’. At the same time, by disturbing the orderly rules of family life, it was seen as threatening to destroy the tradi­ tional and fundamental unity of the family and the city in the res publica: what C. Gallini has called a ‘monism’, or the ‘continuum politicogentilice’.10 Let us, for instance, consider the Livian mentions of matronae, those feminine pillars of ancient Roman society. They are named 64 times in the work, twice in book 39, each of them in Hispala’s confession: sa­ cerdotes in uicem matronas creari solitas (39.13.8), matronas Baccharum habitu crinibus sparsis … (39.13.12). In both passages, the matrons have lost their dignity and even their identity, turned as they are into Bacchants, be it in the guise of initiating priestesses or of frenzied adepts. In the field of family, a few words are of real significance in the story staging Aebutius. Whereas one reads mater (nominative, conveying an ac­ tive role) 11 times in the whole work (which indeed is not many times), we find it 4 times in book 39, more than a third of all occurrences. So, if the matronae were weakened and sullied in 186, some matres did at the same time progress on the way to independence and initiative. As for uitricus, this word occurs seven times out of eight: applied to the second husband of Duronia, the man by whom the Bacchanalia irrupt into the story like a thunderbolt (39.9.3 uia una corruptelae Bacchanalia erant), uitricus sounds like a sad leitmotif. Certainly, according to Livy, family problems, lato sensu, are at the core of those of the city.11 Lato sensu, that is, for instance involving tutelage and tutors on both sides: Aebutius, as an orphan, was a victim of his tutors, mother and stepfather, whereas the role of true tutor is played by his aunt Aebutia, sister of his dead father. As for the freedwoman Hispala, having required and gotten Atilian tutors from the state after the death of her patron, she acquires the means to substitute her benevolence for the defi­ ciencies of Aebutius’ parents. She goes so far as to make a will naming him as her heir. From this point of view, the insistence on false wills and other forgeries committed by the Bacchants (39.8.7) acquires its full significance, opposing falsehood and corruption to real and true kindness. Coming to the account of the repression (39.14‒19), we note that, ac­ cording to Postumius, the patres (members of the senate, who represent the top of both the civic community and their respective families) are afraid that a member of their own gens should be involved in the scandal (39.14.4). So, Postumius urges all citizens to break every family tie they may have with persons involved in Bacchic groups (39.16.5). The most

68 Jean-Marie Pailler scandalous grievance relates to the initiation of filii by matres, from the failed project of Duronia to the double success of the Campanian priestess Paculla Annia (39.13.9), whose first son, Minius Cerrinius, becomes the head of the conspiracy (39.17.6, 19.2). As Postumius says in his speech to the people (39.15.13‒14): Do you think, citizens, that youths initiated by this oath (hoc sacramento initiatos) should be made soldiers? That arms should be entrusted to men mustered from this foul shrine? Will men debased by their own debauchery and that of others fight to the death on behalf of the chastity of your wives and children?12 As for the women finally convicted (damnatas), they were condemned to be chastised (ut ipsi in priuato inaduerterent in eas) by their own relatives (cognati: men, of course) or by those ‒ men, too ‒ in quorum manu essent (39.18.6). Such were the means, in 186, to restore ancestral authority in Republican Rome. Even the happy ending planned for Hispala and Aebutius (39.19.5‒7) is not only, as has been often and rightly observed, like a moment in a novel. It is a lesson intended for Rome, the terms of which are so technically precise as to resist any hypercritical assault whatsoever: due to the measures taken by the senate that Hispala Faecenia should have the rights of bestowing and alienating property, of marriage outside her gens, and choice of a tutor just as if her husband had given it to her by his will; that she should be permitted to marry a man of free birth, nor should any fraud or disgrace on this account attach to a man who should have married her; that the consuls and praetors … should have a care that no injury should be done to this woman and that she should be secure.13 That, in other words, due to all these measures, the ex-courtesan would become a genuine matrona. This final touch is symbolical and, as such, much more important than the real future (in any case unknown to us) of that young lady.

The SC, a test of historic faithfulness Up to this point, we have dealt with information given by Livy, especially through Postumius’ speech. The text of the epigraphical SC can be used to verify and complete that version of the facts (Fig. 5.2). The measures regarding the ‘Bacchanals’ as meeting points and shrines frame the whole text from the beginning, where possession of a Bacchanal is prohibited, (SC 2‒6), up to the end, the punishment for disobedience being death (25) and the destruction of the Bacchanal (30). As for

Dionysos against Rome? 69

Figure 5.2 Senatus consultum de Bacchanalibus on a bronze tablet from Tiriolo di Calabria. Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna (after Pailler 1988).

Bacas uirne quis adiese uelet ceiuis Romanus neue nominus Latini neue socium (7),14 this is undoubtedly one of the strongest sentences of the in­ scription, for three reasons: (1) it declares senatorial authority over all components of the Italian population; (2) it begins with the scandalous association of the apparently antonymic words Bac(ch)as and uir; (3) it offers the syntagm Bacas adire, ‘to get to the Bacchae’, or, synonymously, ‘to the Bacchanal’, whereas Livy’s repeated words are initiari Bacchis, which must have been those preferred in the language of his time. There, the meaning of the verb is reminiscent of its etymology (in-eo, ‘to come in’: see DELL s.v. eo: ineo, initium, initiari). Several allusions to the Bacchae and the Bacchanal in Plautus’ comedies confirm that around 200 BCE such expressions as ad Bacchas ueni in Bacchanal were common, and their meaning similar to Bac(ch)as adire in the SC (Aul. 408, cf. Bac. 53, Aul. 411a, Mil. 857). No man may become a priest, nor may any man or woman

70 Jean-Marie Pailler be a magister (SC 10), which prohibits de facto the initiation of a filius by a mater, of a ‘son’ by a ‘mother’. Managing common funds (pecuniam … comoinem) is forbidden (11) as well as holding the functions of magistratus or promagistratus (12). So every Roman institutional title is prohibited. This decision conforms to the senate’s purpose to avoid any appearance of a ‘second people’ (Liv. 39.13.14 alterum populum) in Rome, a purpose im­ mediately reinforced (post hac SC 13) by the strict prohibition of any oath between the bacchants, with this extraordinary succession of terms simi­ larly and significantly prefixed: neue… inter sed coniourase neue comuouise neue conspondise neue conpromesise uelet neue quisquam fidem inter sed dedise uelet (SC 13‒14).15 One cannot be surprised, in this context, by the final prohibition of any secret cult, public or private (16‒18).

Two objections All that being said, a problem remains. If the authenticity of the alleged documents seems undeniable, are we exempted from answering a more general criticism, regarding the real motivations of the bacchants on the one side, and, on the other, the true intentions of the Roman senate and consuls? First, the bacchants. Should we think, as some parallels16 might seem to support, that the supreme purpose of their leaders was to seize political power at Rome and in Roman Italy? A cursory comparison with the most famous coniuratio of the end of the Republic will help to dismiss that sort of speculation. In his De coniuratione Catilinae (a ‘conspiracy’ that inter­ ested Livy, though in a lost book), Sallust offers the reader a very different complex of events and climate. Let us recall four passages, underlining the most significant words: 5.6 Hunc [Catilinam] post dominationem L. Sullae lubido maxuma inuaserat rei publicae capiundae. 10.3 …primo pecuniae deinde imperi cupido creuit… 11.1 Primo magis ambitio quam auaritia animos hominum exercebat. 30.6 Si quis indicauisset de coniuratione quae contra rem publicam facta erat, praemium …17 To sum it up, the conspiracy ‘against the Republic’ is directed by a chief, a degenerate Roman nobili genere natus (5.1); his almost avowed goal, still more than to amass pecunia, is to upset the ancestral res publica and be­ come the head, if not the rex of it (5.6): neque id quibus modis adsequer­ etur, dum sibi regnum pararet, quicquam pensi habebat.18 Nothing of this sort can be found in Livy’s account, as if that word, coniuratio, ‘based on shared oaths’, were the unique point of similarity

Dionysos against Rome? 71 between the two affairs. In 186, hostility to the res publica can be detected at only one point, in Postumius’ speech where the consul, not without some rhetorical exaggeration19 contrasting with the rest of his talk, informs and warns the people (Liv. 39.16.3‒4): Not yet (necdum) have they revealed all the crimes to which they have conspired (omnia in quae coniurarunt … facinora). Their impious compact still limits itself to private crimes, since as yet it does not have strength enough to crush the state (ad rem publicam opprimendam). Daily the evil grows and creeps abroad. It is already too great to be purely a private matter: its objective is the control of the state (ad summam rem publicam spectat).20 Here, the repetition of res publica, with the final verb spectat ad, empha­ sises the rising level of the menace. In fact, the two allusions made to the threat against the res publica (still a threat, not yet [necdum] a reality, the consul says) remain of a general kind, so that the Loeb translation of the last sentence (see above) seems too narrowly ‘political’. Even at the acme of his peroration, the ultimate goal ascribed by the consul to the Bacchic ‘conspirators’ was not to ‘control the state’, but to destroy it (opprimere: ‘to crush by compression, to overwhelm it’). In other terms, what is at stake in this confrontation is a matter of anthropology, not of politics. All this corresponds to the overall description given by Livy of the Bacchic movement, and of the very nature of the ‘power’ which can be attributed to its leaders. Perhaps we should say powers, and of a very different kind from that of the officialdom of the Roman state. Such a capacity of ‘empowerment’ is that of the god himself and has been received from him by men and women: to be initiated in order to initiate other members, to be frenzied so as to lead other people into noisy and furious dances, songs and cultic acts.21 As regards the ‘power’, the excesses for which the participants were reproached are of at least four kinds, according to the epigraphical, official SC as well as to Livy: (1) the presence and the role of women22 said to be matres, escaping from the family frame and rules, who initiated ritual and/or biological filios; (2) the uncontrolled (to a Roman eye) course of feasts and religious cele­ brations whose members paid for what gave birth to secret funds managed by the magistri and promagistratus of the community; (3) nocturnal meetings in places (bacchanalia) where certain rites took place which seemed odd and may be dangerous; (4) a final aspect seems to have remained unnoticed in most studies: I mean the use of written documents, for prayers and oaths as well as for private wills, and probably for oracles, all of which were felt by the senate and the magistrates to be in competition with those of the Roman state. That accusation echoes those of the year 213 (Liv. 25.1: see above). None of these charges is related to the idea of seizing political power. What of the other, nearly opposite thesis? For E.S. Gruen, the whole affair was an ‘entirely staged political operation’. In a comprehensive book,

72 Jean-Marie Pailler Studies in Greek Culture and Roman Policy,23 this scholar devotes a whole chapter to the Bacchanalian affair (p. 34‒78). His starting point may be summarised with a quotation (p. 47): Did the adherents of Dionysus then utilize the cult to stir political upheaval from below against the Roman leadership? Or, whatever the truth of the matter, did the gatherings at night and secretive behavior frighten the leadership into believing in a coniuratio and then taking steps to crush it? The thesis is hard to maintain. To all that, we agree, as appears clearly from the preceding remarks. But must we follow the extreme consequences Gruen draws from these ob­ servations? For him, the whole affair had no real consistency, neither in the political nor in the religious or cultural spheres. The senate and the consuls created a heady brew of unverified rumours, real but distorted family con­ flicts (‘the entire course of events smacks of a staged operation’, about the story of Aebutius and Hispala connected with Postumius’ purpose, p. 64), deformations of religious traditions wrongly presented as dangerously in­ novative and so on. Behind those pretexts, the true objective of the ruling Roman aristocracy would in fact have been threefold: to give all the power in the state to the senate, to enlarge its authority over Italy and to deliver a hard warning to Roman victorious generals who could be attracted by the her­ oising model of oriental monarchies. According to this view, the Roman and Italic bacchants of 186 were no more and no less than scapegoats. E.S. Gruen points out what seems to him a compound of oddities, ex­ aggerations and contradictions in Livy’s account, itself reflecting an official version. He asks several questions: did the ‘evil’ come from Etruria, from Campania or from inside Rome? When did the reforms alleged by our sources take place? Recently, or many years ago? How can we explain the unanimity of the senate and the magistrates in the face of the Bacchic challenge? Why was the repression decided on precisely in 186? In fact, the answers are not very hard to give. The ‘evil’ may have come to Rome at once, or successively, from Etruria and Campania and from inside Rome as well (cf. supra about Livy 25.1 on the year 213). The diversity and evolving character of Bacchic associations around the Mediterranean24 suffice to explain that many ‘reforms’ could have occurred at different times in dif­ ferent places. The unanimity of the senate is easier to understand in the case of an authentic religious reaction than for a ‘staged’ political operation, given the strong oppositions which divided the ‘parties’. Finally, why 186? Why not then, 15 years after the victory in the Second Punic War and, as mentioned by Hispala, ‘two years’ after the initiation had been made ac­ cessible to young men ‒ the sons of those who had fought and often died during the war? Finally, E.S. Gruen has given the answer to his own set of objections: ‘How does one account for events so unexpected and so exceptional in so

Dionysos against Rome? 73 many ways? A unique, simple explanation will not do’ (p. 46). His, cer­ tainly not. The alternative is to give credit to Livy’s somewhat complex version, with all the due corrections and mitigations.

After the Bacchanals By way of conclusion, or rather of a glance to the future of the Roman worship of Dionysos, we shall study briefly some episodes of Roman his­ tory from 186 to ca 60 BCE, all pertaining to the politico-religious sphere. The chronological order, here, does not mean that they illustrate successive steps of a linear evolution ‒ in fact, they are scattered but partly converging manifestations of the general changing landscape25 where a new ‘political Dionysism’ will take shape. The memory of the episode was to remain on both sides. Between the affair and its evocations by Livy and, much more briefly but in a similar vein, Cicero (Leg. 2.15.37), there is the testimony of Polybius 6.13.4: ‘all crimes committed throughout Italy requiring a public investigation, I mean treason, conspiracy, poisoning, or assassination, concern the senate’.26 On the other side, the voices of Dionysism were not completely smothered from 186 onwards. Even the SC displayed: ‘their words’ (eorum uerba 5) could be heard (audita) by the praetor urbanus (4), who afterwards referred the case to the senate’s decision (cf. 8; 17; 21). Such a limited and conditional open-mindedness allowed them, in some cases at least, to be listened to through a recognised spokesman. In other words, these groups were per­ mitted to survive, and transmit their creeds, provided that it was under the control of the Roman state. We do not know how harshly or how long these measures were policed throughout the second century BCE. What we do know is that Bacchus remained alive in Roman tragedy: Pacuvius (Ca 220‒130 BCE) wrote a Pentheus, Accius (170‒86?) a play entitled Bacchae and another one Stasiastae siue Tropaeum Liberi.27 Meanwhile, various mythological themes connected to Dionysos were conveyed through many types of images. During this period – that is, from the fate of a Bacchic leader in 186 to the paintings ordered for her villa by a distinguished Pompeian lady between ca 70 and 50 – Roman and Italian history has resounded with several echoes of the Bacchanals.28 These echoes are, in chronological order, as follows: 1. The impeachment of Minius Cerrinius, prevented from committing suicide Minius Cerrinius is presented as the supreme leader of the five Italian and Roman chiefs of the ‘conspiracy’, named capita coniurationis (Liv. 39.17.6). His gentilicium incorporates the radical *Cerr- probably connected with a cult of Ceres, that is, at Rome, with the cult of the Aventine triad, Ceres-Liber-Libera.29 His fate, as decided by the Roman authorities, was to be expelled from the city as a ‘prodigy’ and retained

74 Jean-Marie Pailler in prison by the magistrates of Ardea, approximately 35 km south of Rome (39.19.2). During the war, that city, associated with some Etruscan ones, had been more reluctant to help Rome in her fight against Hannibal.30 The local authorities had to look after Minius Cerrinius, in order that he would not commit suicide.31 What was the meaning of this seemingly strange measure? This decisive point will be dealt with in the final stage of this epilogue, when we return to the case of Etruria. 2. 139. The expulsion of the Sabaziasts from Italy Less than half a century later, a group of Sabaziasts were expelled from Rome and the peninsula, according to Valerius Maximus: ‘The praetor compelled the Jews, who attempted to infect Roman custom with the cult of Jupiter Sabazius, to return to their homes’.32 The author manifestly confuses Sabazios and Sabaoth, and the worshippers of the Thracian god with the Jews devoted to Deus Sabaoth, while antedating the period when the Jews were present at Rome. What remains to be explained is the relationship of that Sabazios with the sovereign god Zeus-Jupiter on the one hand, and with DionysosBacchus (and his snake) on the other.33 If that double heritage were to be confirmed, as is the case of some documents dating to the first century AD,34 the event would have taken place, albeit modestly, on the path which leads from the Bacchanals to the future Roman Neoi Dionusoi. 3. 132, 104, 73. The common religious aspects of three slave revolts At intervals of approximately 30 years, between the Gracchi and Pompey, three slave revolts erupted in Sicily and Southern Italy. In spite of their differences, they present a striking common feature: the religious inspiration followed and exhibited by their leaders. In 132, the slaves chose Eunus as their chief. After his first successes as their king, under the Hellenistic royal name of Antiochus, because of his qualities of magos and teratourgos (‘a magician and a maker of miracles’) ‘he pretended to foretell future events, revealed to him (as he said) by the gods in his dreams’.35 The slaves passed a mutual pact with an exchange of oaths, at night, on the corpses of sacrificed victims. In another version, the end of the revolt came from sacrilegious acts committed by the slaves: the Roman senate ordered that their shrines be closed, accessible only to members of a city whose traditional duty involved a sacrifice to be accomplished inside. On this basis, the similarities with important aspects of the Bacchanalian story are obvious. The revolt of 102 in Campania and Sicily is also known through the account by Diodorus,36 who is probably still following Posidonius at this point. The main protagonist of the episode is Salvius, who demonstrates a characteristically polyvalent capacity as a political leader enthroned as a king by his troops under the Oriental name of

Dionysos against Rome? 75

Figure 5.3 Pompeii, Villa dei Misteri, Bacchic Frescoe: the domina contemplating her images (The Picture Art Collection/Alamy Stock Photo).

Tryphon: he was an empeiros (‘expert’) in both fields of divination, hieroskopeia (deducing the future from the entrails of victims) and astromantikes, finally a devotee sacrificing publicly to the twin Sicilian heroes, the Palikoi, themselves a guarantee for the oaths. Salvius is also said to have played flute in feminine orgiastic feasts. Spartacus, the Thracian instigator and head of the slave revolt which began at Capua in 73 and had a wife ‘of the same tribe’. In his Life of Crassus (8.4), Plutarch writes:

76 Jean-Marie Pailler

Figure 5.4 Cumaean bebakcheumenoi on a funerary inscription (Ca 500 BCE): ‘It is not permitted to be buried here one who has not been made bakchos’. Metropolitan Museum, New York (after Cumont 1927).

It is said that when [Spartacus] was first brought to Rome to be sold, a serpent was seen coiled about his face as he slept, and his wife, who was of the same tribe as Spartacus, a prophetess, and subject to visitations of the Dionysiac frenzy, declared it the sign of a great and formidable power which would attend him to a fortunate issue.37 We have no other indications about Spartacus’ behaviour in this field, but what we learn here is sufficient to put the slave leader in the same category as Eunus and Salvius, with an important Dionysiac and feminine accentuation: Spartacus’ wife reminds us more specifically of the Bacchanals, due to her double empeiria in prophecy and in frenzy. To sum up, the slave wars bear witness to the importance of the religious element in the launching of such revolts. Some of their features are reminiscent of those of the Bacchanals: an experience of frenzy, the role of women, the taking of collective oaths and so on. However, all of them present a noticeable difference from the events of 186: their members and leaders are of servile status and of Eastern origin; they apparently practice no initiation, nor any special relationship between mothers and young sons,

Dionysos against Rome? 77

Figure 5.5 Female bacchant on the lid of a Tarquinian sarcophagus. British Museum, London (after Pfiffig 1975).

78 Jean-Marie Pailler

Figure 5.6 Sarcophagus of Laris Pulenas, Tarquinia (after Pailler 1988).

Figure 5.7 Fufluns with Semla (Semele) on an Etruscan mirror (Les Archives Digitales/Alamy Stock Photo).

Dionysos against Rome? 79

Figure 5.8a Fragments of terra cotta sculptures under the stylobate of a peristyle; the Bacchic fragments are mainly in the north-east corner, at the be­ ginning of the former dromos leading to the antron (after MassaPairault and Pailler 1979).

whereas their deference towards a leader who plays the role of a Hellenistic king was alien to the bacchants of 186.38 4. Marius and Martha Against this backdrop, the case of Marius is interesting but not conclusive: interesting because he does not belong to a servile or Eastern background, but to the Roman dominant circle; and yet not really conclusive, because of specific differences, a good deal of historical uncertainty, and the ultimate failure of Marius. According to Plutarch, Marius was very sensitive to predictions regarding his career and destiny. Chapter 17 of that Life, on the war against the Teutons (in 102), gathers several features of this chief’s behaviour. The most striking novelty is the ascendancy over Marius of the Syrian prophetess Martha: He used to carry about ceremoniously in a litter a certain Syrian woman, named Martha, who was said to have the gift of prophecy, and he would make sacrifices at her bidding… She was sent to Marius by his wife,39 and was admired by him. As a general thing she was carried

80 Jean-Marie Pailler

Figure 5.8b Panther, front view (after Massa-Pairault and Pailler 1979).

along with the army in a litter, but she attended the sacrifices clothed in a double purple robe that was fastened with a clasp, and carrying a spear that was wreathed with fillets and chaplets.40 Martha is by no means a mater bacchica nor a typically Dionysian figure, but she gives the example of what an imperator of the end of the Republic might expect from that kind of help: regular companionship, warlike shows, divine promises of success. The failure of Marius followed that of Martha, who was rejected by the senate. The times were not ripe, as would be demonstrated some years later by the conduct of Pompey. Assuming the surname of Magnus, that is, of a new reincarnation of Alexander ‘the Great’, this conqueror par excellence never claimed for himself, as Alexander and his successors had done, any special protection of Dionysos-Bacchus. 5. Painting the dreams of a mystical lady Meanwhile, at Pompeii, the domina of a rich villa, the so-called Villa dei Misteri, was having herself represented on a fresco illustrating the four walls of a room probably dedicated to some kind of religious meetings

Dionysos against Rome? 81

Figure 5.8c Reconstitution of the throne: left side, with the Bacchic putto on the panther (after Massa-Pairault and Pailler 1979).

(Fig. 5.3). According to the convincing analysis of G. Sauron,41 the mistress of the house projected there her Bacchic destiny under the guise of Semele, mother of Dionysos, whom she faces from the opposite front wall, while on the two sides of the room are represented, in a typically Dionysiac gathering, human and divine symbolical figures and scenes. This presence and role of the protomystes42 of Dionysos leads us back to 186 and before, with a final dossier, what we may call the case of Etruria. 6. From Hellenistic Etruria to Roman ‘monarchy’ The community of the Cumaean bebakcheumenoi (who became bac­ chants, as initiates, to enjoy this status in the next life) is known through a funerary inscription found inside a tomb from the end of the fifth century (Fig. 5.4). They claimed to be separated in death from the other citizens ‒ another kind of ‘second people’. From graves in Southern Italy and Greece, too, come the golden lamellae called ‘Orphico-Dionysiac’, where the deceased (mustes kai bakchos) is promised to be reborn like his god, and above all, from Etruria43 a series of funerary documents. In

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Figure 5.8d Design of left side (after Massa-Pairault and Pailler 1979).

chronological order, we can mention the female bacchant on the lid of a Tarquinian sarcophagus (end of the fourth century, at the British Museum) (Fig. 5.5), the sarcophagus of Laris Pulenas, also from Tarquinia, dated to the mid-third century or a little later (Fig. 5.6) and that of Lars Statlane (Tuscany) from the same period. The Tarquinian lady, with her necklace wearing initiatory bullae, thyrsus in hand and a cantharus giving drink to a fawn, may be impersonating Semele or a man transformed into a baccha. Lars Statlane is at once maru paχaθuras caθsc, ‘magistrate of the bacchants and of (the solar god) Catha’. As for Laris Pulenas, the details of his long Etruscan cursus still challenge the interpretation,44 but he too is a member of the civic elite and an im­ portant devotee of Fufluns, and moreover a descendant of Pules Creice, ‘Polles the Greek’, who could have given books of divination to those people: a most respectable kind of sacrificulus et uates.45 No sarcophagus was found at Volsinii, but rather the vestiges of a sanc­ tuary dedicated to Fufluns (Fig. 5.7) (name inscribed on a roof tile found nearby, in the genitive form Fuflunsl), established here at the end of the third century and destroyed in the 180s. The reconstitution of a Bacchic throne in

Dionysos against Rome? 83

Figure 5.8e Antron bakchikon from inside, with the top oculus, above the place of the throne. © J.-M. Pailler.

terra cotta, itself restored at the centre of an underground antron bakchikon, and the general organisation of the access and exit suggest an initiatory route downwards to ‘die’ (katabasis) and then onwards to ‘be reborn’ (anodos):46 the initiate followed there the path taken by the god (Fig. 5.8a‒f). Now, Volsinii and its elite were descended from what had been the last Etruscan capital (Velzna-Orvieto) until 264, a fact that gives its real im­ portance to the shrine as well as to its destruction. If Volsinii-Bolsena is the final step of the Bacchic ‘procession’ throughout southern Etruria, Tarquinia must have been the first and the most glorious one. In Etruriam primum uenit … sacrificulus et uates: this first sentence of the Livian pre­ liminary synthesis (8.3) follows immediately the announcement of that singular Roman year. The tale sounds like a Dionysiac epiphany,47 which reminds those who have seen or read the Euripidean Bacchae of the famous heko, ‘I’m coming’, uttered by the god as the first word of the tragedy. One day, this god came from the sea, came ashore on the Tyrrhenian coast and made for Tarquinia, just as he arrived in Thebes according to Euripides or in Athens on the third day of the Anthesteria,48 not exactly the god himself,

84 Jean-Marie Pailler

Figure 5.8f Section drawing, north-south, of the dromos and the underground square room (antron). Throne T placed in the centre of the antron, under the oculus; facing the entry, with a wingless bakchos mounted on a panther on each side; behind the throne, a winged bakchos mounting a peafowl on a garland, ready to take flight towards the oculus and the sky. 2: red circular moulding at the impost of the antron; 3: coneshaped vault of the antron; 4: oculus of the antron; 6: much narrower oculus of the later cistern; 9: dromos leading to the antron; 10: later staircase leading to the cistern, with the highest step, left, at the level of the peristyle (Ca 140‒130 BCE). 11‒14: remains of the tufa wall (a ‘scacchiera’) bordering the left (south-east) side of the dromos (after Pailler 1988).

in Etruria, but one of his representatives, bearing with him the art of pre­ dicting the future, especially that promised to great men. Of course, such a mystical record is not in Livy’s explicit intentions. Nevertheless, a religious impression had been created, as if Etruria, in the same way as Campania and even more, were the counterpart of the Eastern kingdoms. Against such a background, it becomes easier to understand why Minius Cerrinius could be suspected to present his possible ‒ fictitious or real ‒ death as a similar way to reach the Dionysiac heroisation. It would take a century and a half for the idea to become a reality. In 186, the Roman vic­ torious campaigns in the East were far too recent to provoke a ‘conversion’ of the legions or of their generals to the Neoi Dionusoi monarchical system existing in Egypt, and in the Pergamene kingdom. But the seed was sown in this field, finally making the Bacchic movement ready to proceed from ‘protesta’ to ‘integrazione’ (C. Gallini). Meanwhile, the debate about the repeal of the Oppian law49 paved the way for the evolution of women’s

Dionysos against Rome? 85 status in the Roman world. The time of Crassus, Caesar and soon Antony was that of the Pompeian domina. Mere coincidence? Perhaps.

Notes 1 See Riedl 2012, relying upon E. Voegelin’s political theory. 2 Liv. 25.1.6‒12. Quo diutius trahebatur bellum … tanta religio, et ea magna ex parte externa, ciuitatem incessit ut aut homines aut dei repente alii uiderentur facti. Nec iam in secreto modo atque intra parietes abolebantur Romani ritus, sed in publico etiam ac foro Capitolioque mulierum turba erat nec sacrifi­ cantium nec precantium deos patrio more. Sacrificuli ac uates ceperant ho­ minum mentes quorum numerum auxit rustica plebs, ex incultis diutino bello infestisque agris egestate et metu in urbem compulsa; … M. Aemilio praetori [urb.] negotium ab senatu datum est ut eis religionibus populum liberaret. Is et in contione senatus consultum recitauit et edixit ut quicumque libros uaticinos precationesue aut artem sacrificandi conscriptam haberet eos libros omnes lit­ terasque ad se ante kalendas Apriles deferret neu quis in publico sacroue loco nouo aut externo ritu sacrificaret. All translations of Livy are cited from LCL. If not stated otherwise, every other translation is mine. 3 Note, for instance, the role of sacrificuli ac uates and of the praetor urbanus. 4 Other sources: Cicero Leg. 2.15.37; (indirectly) Polybius 6.13, and of course the Senatus Consultum de Bacchanalibus. 5 This record is completed in book 40.19.10 (the ‘last relics’ of the Bacchanals eradicated in Apulia in 181). 6 A search made possible by Packard 1968. 7 Cf. Liv. 39.16.7 where Postumius, speaking to the contio, alludes vaguely to this sort of fear (subit animum timor): ‘When the authority of the gods is put for­ ward as a defense for crime, there steals upon the mind a fear lest in punishing human misdeeds we may violate something of divine law which became mixed up with them’. 8 On the lucus Stimulae probably ‘annexed’ by the temple of Ceres-Liber-Libera on the Aventine, see Cazanove 1983; Pailler 1988, 115‒119, and more generally 414‒465. 9 An interesting, if sui generis, analysis of this alien character: Riedl 2012, 121‒124; already, from a different point of view, Gallini 1970, 87‒99, on which Pailler 1988, 101‒108. 10 Gallini 1970, passim. 11 Pailler 1988, 523‒596; 1995, 177‒182. 12 Liv. 39.15.13‒14 Hoc sacramento initiatos iuuenes milites faciendos censetis, Quirites? His ex sacrario obsceno eductis arma commitenda? Hi cooperti stupris suis alienisque pro pudicitia coniugum ac liberorum uestrorum ferro decernent? The first words, with the association of sacramento (Roman) with initiatos (Bacchic), summarize the scandal. 13 Liv. 39.19.5‒7 utique Faeceniae Hispalae datio, deminutio, gentis enuptio item esset, quasi ei uir testamento dedisset; utique ei ingenuo nubere liceret, neu quid ei qui eam duxisset ob id fraudi igniminiaeue esset; uitique consules praetor­ esque… curarent ne quid ei mulieri iniuriae fieret, utique tuto esset. 14 SC 7 ‘No man should become a member of the bacchae, neither a Roman ci­ tizen, nor one of the Latin name, nor any of our allies’. 15 SC 13‒14 ‘(They shall not) form common conspiracies, swear reciprocal oaths, make mutual promises or agreements, or interchange pledges’. The formula is still reinforced by the double inter sed.

86 Jean-Marie Pailler 16 See, for instance, about Cicero and Livy, Nousek 2010. 17 Sal. Cat. 5.6 ‘After the tyranny of Lucius Sulla, Catiline had been assailed by the greatest passion for seizing control of the government’; 10.3 ‘… a craving first for money, then for power (imperi), increased …’; 11.1 ‘At first men’s minds were stirred less by avarice than a desire for advancement (ambitio)’; 30.6 ‘If anyone should give information concerning the plot which had been formed against the state, as a reward …’. Tr. J.C. Rolfe. 18 Sal. Cat. 5.6. ‘And he did not consider it at all important by what means he achieved his objective, provided he gained sovereignty (regnum: ‘the reign’) for himself’. Tr. J.C. Rolfe. 19 Another, factual exaggeration ascribable to Livy or to his source concerns the number of the ‘conspirators’ (39.17.6): 7000, in ancient literature, means ‘many’. 20 Liv. 39.16.3‒4 Necdum omnia in quae coniurarunt edita facinora habent. adhuc priuatis noxiis, quia nondum ad rem publicam opprimendam satis uirium est, coniuratio sese impia tenet. Crescit et serpit cotidie malum. iam maius est quam ut capere id priuata fortuna possit: ad summam rem publicam spectat. 21 See a general overview of Dionysiac Hellenistic Teletai in Burkert 1993. 22 Steinhauer 2020 rightly insists on this aspect. 23 Gruen 1990, 34‒78; cf. Pailler 1998, 75‒78. 24 See Jaccottet 2003, passim; Steinhauer 2020. 25 In this new landscape, individual portents compete little by little with traditional prodigies, favouring the personal attachment of the soldiers to their general rather than to the res publica. 26 Plb. 6.13.4 ὁμοίως ὅσα τῶν ἀδικημάτων τῶν κατ᾽ Ἰταλίαν προσδεῖται δημοσίας ἐπισκέψεως, λέγω δ᾽ οἷον προδοσίας, συνωμοσίας, φαρμακείας, δολοφονίας, τῇ συγκλήτῳ μέλει περὶ τούτων. 27 See Pastorino 1956, 114‒116; Pailler 1988, 243‒245 (cautious). 28 Pailler 1988, 705‒721. 29 See Bruhl 1953, 92‒94; Pailler 1988, 435‒442, 458‒465. 30 Pailler 1988, 270‒274, with the references to Livy 27.9.7; 29.15. 31 On the collective suicide at Capua in 211, see Voisin 1984; Pailler 1988, 279‒285, 724‒726. 32 V. Max. 1.3.3 Iudaeos qui Sabazi Iouis cultu Romanos inficere mores conati erant abire ex urbe atque Italia iussit et repetere domos suas coegit (some details of the text, reconstituted from late excerptors, remain dubious). 33 Cf. Pailler 2009a. 34 Pailler 2009a, 285‒288. 35 D.S. 34/35.2.5 Οὗτος προσεποιεῖτο θεῶν ἐπιτάγμασι καθ' ὕπνον προλέγειν τὰ μέλλοντα. 36 D.S. 36.11.7 (cf. 2.1 and 3.3). 37 Τούτῳ δὲ λέγουσιν, ὅτε πρῶτον εἰς Ῥώμην ὤνιος ἤχθη, δράκοντα κοιμωμένῳ περιπεπλεγμένον φανῆναι περὶ τὸ πρόσωπον, ἡ γυνὴ δ᾽ ὁμόφυλος οὖσα τοῦ Σπαρτάκου, μαντικὴ δὲ καὶ κάτοχος τοῖς περὶ τὸν Διόνυσον ὀργιασμοῖς, ἔφραζε τὸ σημεῖον εἶναι μεγάλης καὶ φοβερᾶς περὶ αὐτὸν εἰς εὐτυχὲς τέλος ἐσομένης δυνάμεως. Tr. B. Perrin. 38 But see below, especially as far as Etruria is concerned. 39 Her name was Iulia. She was the aunt of Caesar, who eulogized her at her funeral. 40 Plut. Mar. 17.2‒4 καὶ γάρ τινα Σύραν γυναῖκα, Μάρθαν ὄνομα, μαντεύεσθαι λεγομένην ἐν φορείῳ κατακειμένην σεμνῶς περιήγετο, καὶ θυσίας ἔθυεν ἐκείνης κελευούσης… ἀναπεμφθεῖσα πρὸς Μάριον ὑπ’ ἐκείνης ἐθαυμάζετο. καὶ τὰ πολλὰ μὲν ἐν φορείῳ παρεκομίζετο, πρὸς δὲ τὰς θυσίας κατῄει φοινικίδα διπλῆν

Dionysos against Rome? 87

41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49

ἐμπεπορπημένη καὶ λόγχην ἀναδεδεμένην ταινίαις καὶ στεφανώμασι φέρουσα. Tr. B. Perrin. Sauron 1998, 9, 59‒81, 93‒106; cf. Pailler 2000. Isler-Kerényi 2007, 221. Or the deuteromystes, if we reserve the title of proto­ mystes for Dionysos himself, initiated to his own mysteries. On which Colonna 1991 remains fundamental; previously Bruhl 1953, 70‒81. See Heurgon 1957, a pioneering study; Hadas-Lebel 2016 convincingly argues that the art of predicting was not imported by Pulenas, but by his greatgrandfather Pules Creice, ‘the Greek’. See Pailler 1988, 499‒521. On the anodos, especially Dionysiac, Bérard 1974. One of the main epicleses of Dionysos is Epiphanes, ‘the god who appears’. See Pailler 2021. Pailler 2009b. See Liv. 34.1‒8 about the lex Oppia regulating in 215 the wealth of Roman women, a law abolished in 195, with Bauman 1994, 31‒34. Significantly, the beginning of book 34, which delays the report of external affairs, is similar to that of book 39.

Bibliography Bauman, R.A. (1994) Women and Politics in Ancient Rome. London, Routledge. Bérard, C. (1974) Anodoi. Essai sur l’imagerie des passages chthoniens. Neuchâtel–Rome, Institut Suisse de Rome. Bruhl, A. (1953) Liber Pater. Le culte dionysiaque à Rome et dans le monde romain. BEFAR 175. Paris, De Boccard. Burkert, W. (1993) ‘Bacchic Teletai in the Hellenistic Age’, in T.H. Carpenter and C.A. Faraone (eds.) Masks of Dionysus, Ithaca, Cornell University Press, 259‒275. Colonna, G. (1991) ‘Riflessioni sul dionisismo in Etruria’, in F. Berti (ed.) Dionysos. Mito e mistero, Comacchio, Comune di Comacchio, 117‒155. Cumont, F. (1929). Les religions orientales dans le paganisme romain, 4e édition. Paris, Geuthner. de Cazanove, O. (1983) ‘Lucus Stimulae. Les aiguillons des Bacchanales?’, MEFRA 95, 55‒113. Gallini, C. From Hellenistic Etruria to Roman Monarchy (1970) Protesta e in­ tegrazione nella Roma antica II. Bari, Laterza. Gruen, E.S. (1990) Studies in Greek Culture and Roman Policy. Leiden, Brill. Hadas-Lebel, J. (2016) ‘L’épitaphe de Laris Pulenas et la tradition gentilice étrusque, in B. Mineo and T. Piel (eds.) Les premiers temps de Rome, VIe-IIIe siècles avant J.C. La fabrique de l’histoire, Rennes, Presses Universitaires, 13–28. Heurgon, J. (1957) ‘Influences grecques sur la religion étrusque: l’inscription de Laris Pulenas’, REL 35, 106‒126. Isler-Kerényi, C. (2007) Dionysos in Archaic Greek Art. An Understanding through Images. Leiden, Brill. Jaccottet, A.-F. (2003) Choisir Dionysos. Les associations dionysiaques ou la face cachée du dionysisme. Kilchberg, Akanthus. Massa‐Pairault, F.-H. and Pailler, J. M. (1979) La maison aux salles souterraines (Bolsena V). Les terres cuites sous le péristyle. Rome, École Française de Rome.

88 Jean-Marie Pailler Nousek, D.L. (2010) ‘Echoes of Cicero in Livy’s Bacchanalian narrative’, CQ 60.1, 156‒166. Packard, D.W. (1968) A Concordance to Livy. Cambridge, MA, Harvard University Press. Pailler, J.-M. (1988) Bacchanalia. La répression de 186 av. J.-C. à Rome et en Italie. BEFAR 270. Paris, Boccard. Pailler, J.-M. (1995) Bacchus. Figures et pouvoirs. Paris, Les Belles Lettres. Pailler, J.-M. (1998) ‘Les Bacchanales dix ans après’, Pallas 48, 67‒86. Pailler, J.-M. (2000) ‘Mystères dissipés ou mystères dévoilés? A propos de quelques études récentes sur la fresque de la Villa des Mystères à Pompéi’, Topoi 10.1, 373‒390. Pailler, J.-M. (2009a) ‘Sabazios. La construction d'une figure divine dans le monde gréco-romain, in C. Bonnet, V. Pirenne-Delforge and D. Praet (eds.) Les con­ struction d'une figure divine dans le monde gréco-romain et romain: Cent ans après Cumont (1906-2006), Brussel/Bruxelles/Rome, Institut Historique Belge de Rome, 257‒291. Pailler, J.-M. (2009b) ‘Une mer vraiment dionysiaque', Pallas 81 (Kaina pragmata: Mélanges offerts à Jean-Claude Carrière), 191‒200. Pailler, J.-M. (2021) ‘Le trône bachique de Bolsena. De l’antre à la lumière, au cœur d’un parcours rituel’, in A.-F. Jaccottet (ed.) Images de rituel, rituels en image, EGEA 9, Bern, Peter Lang, p. 189-202. Pastorino, A. (1956) ‘Tropaeum Liberi’, in Saggio sul ‘Lycurgus’ di Nevio e sui motivi dionisiaci nella tragedia latina arcaica, Genova, Istituto di Filologia Classica. Pfiffig, A.J. (1975) Religio etrusca. Graz, Akademische Druck‐ und Verlagsanstalt. Riedl, M. (2012) ‘The Containment of Dionysos: Religion and Politics in the Bacchanalian Affair of 186 BCE’, International Political Anthropology 2, 113‒133. Sauron, G. (1998) La grande fresque de la Villa des Mystères. Paris, Picard. Steinhauer, J. (2020) ‘Dionysian Associations and the Bacchanalian Affair’, in F. Mac Góráin (ed.) Dionysus and Rome. Religion and Literature, Berlin/New York, De Gruyter, 133‒156. Voisin, J.-L. (1984) ‘Tite-Live, Capoue et les Bacchanales’, MEFRA 96, 601‒653.

6

Augustus and the Neoi Dionysoi Fiachra Mac Góráin

Introduction In the so-called Heldenschau or parade of heroes of Aeneid 6, Anchises shows Aeneas their future Roman descendants.1 At length, he points to Augustus, who he says will re-found the Golden Age, extend the empire, put fear into distant peoples and traverse more territory than Hercules and Bacchus. From this example he extracts a rousing protreptic, urging Aeneas to be unafraid to settle in Italy. Here is the passage, in Mynors’ edition, followed by Seamus Heaney’s posthumously published translation. hic uir, hic est, tibi quem promitti saepius audis, Augustus Caesar, diui genus, aurea condet saecula qui rursus Latio regnata per arua Saturno quondam, super et Garamantas et Indos proferet imperium; iacet extra sidera tellus, extra anni solisque uias, ubi caelifer Atlas axem umero torquet stellis ardentibus aptum. huius in aduentum iam nunc et Caspia regna responsis horrent diuum et Maeotia tellus, et septemgemini turbant trepida ostia Nili. nec uero Alcides tantum telluris obiuit, fixerit aeripedem ceruam licet, aut Erymanthi pacarit nemora et Lernam tremefecerit arcu; nec qui pampineis uictor iuga flectit habenis Liber, agens celso Nysae de uertice tigris. et dubitamus adhuc uirtutem extendere factis, aut metus Ausonia prohibit consistere terra?2 This is he whose coming you’ve heard foretold So often: Augustus Caesar, child of the divine one, Who will establish in Latium, in Saturn’s old domain, A second golden age. He will advance his empire Beyond the Garamants and the Indians

795

800

805

1070

90 Fiachra Mac Góráin To lands unseen beneath our constellations Beyond the sun’s path through the zodiac, Away where sky-braced Atlas pivots on his shoulder The firmament, inlaid with glittering stars. Already the Caspian kingdoms and Maeotia Know of his coming and begin to tremble At the oracles of their gods; the waters of the Nile Quail in alarm and roil through their seven mouths. Not even Hercules pursued his labours over So much of earth’s surface, not when he stalked And shot the bronze-toed deer, silenced the boar In the woods of Erymanthus and left the air of Lerna Vibrating to his bowstring; not Bacchus either Careering in triumph, the vine-reins in his grip, Driving his tiger team down the heights of Nysa. So why should we then hesitate to test And prove our worth in action or be afraid To stake and stand our ground in Italia?3

1080

1090

I am interested in probing what work the reference to Dionysus is doing at this point in the Aeneid, how it directs our response to the passage quoted and what broader function an alignment of Augustus and Dionysus could serve. My argument will be that the mention of Dionysus confers charisma on the ruler on the basis of several different but interrelated aspects. Two of these concern the power of increase: as a conqueror of eastern lands, Dionysus has the power to expand the empire; as a god of moisture and vegetation, he has the power to make crops grow and thus to increase the supply of food and wine. These two aspects may be considered in the context of the religious politics of the late Republican and Augustan ages, and against the background of the versions of Dionysus which Virgil will have inherited. As often, analysis of a Virgilian passage will involve wide consideration of background evidence, returning finally to the passage itself.

Context Clearly, this passage of Virgil is a nodal point for many of the themes of this volume on the political aspects of Dionysus. The god’s status as a guarantor of cosmic and political stability, especially in the myth of the gigantomachy, as documented by Cornelia Isler-Kerényi in relation to Greek sources from the Archaic to the Hellenistic periods, informs the background to his use by Virgil’s Anchises.4 The Dionysus of Euripides’ Bacchae was terrible in his revenge, but beneficent to his worshippers, as examined by Richard Seaford; the play was among Virgil’s models in composing the Aeneid.5 Any alignment of Augustus and Dionysus must be seen in the context of the traditions linking Dionysus and Alexander, discussed in this volume by

Augustus and the Neoi Dionysoi 91 Richard Stoneman, and of the Dionysian posturings of Mark Antony and other military dynasts, whose treatment in Plutarch’s biographies is the subject of Filip Doroszewski’s contribution. Dionysus’ role in facilitating reconciliation and reintegration, analysed by Dariusz Karłowicz with reference to the myth of Hephaestus’ return to Olympus, seems to me of essential relevance to Augustus’ efforts to bring together a nation riven after decades of civil war. Most obviously, the comparison of Augustus to Dionysus aligns with later emperors’ cultivation of Dionysian traits to bolster their authority, a phenomenon explored by Sławomir Poloczek. Finally, our Virgilian passage is among the intertexts for the pairing of Hercules and Bacchus in Severan coinage, discussed by Małgorzata Krawczyk. All of these more or less positive instantiations of the relationship between Dionysus and political power stand in contrast with the more adversative relationship between Dionysian religion and the authority of the senate in the events of 186 BCE, as discussed by Jean-Marie Pailler in this volume.

Dionysian panegyric The point of the comparison, as R. D. Williams pointed out, is threefold: Augustus, like Hercules and Bacchus, exerted influence over a vast territory; like them, he supposedly had a civilising influence; and all three were mortals destined to become gods.6 Indeed, all three had one divine and one human parent, and were represented in the Augustan age as culture heroes.7 The two were often paired in Euhemerising catalogues of mortals who experienced apotheosis, and were used as such in honorific comparisons in the Augustan age and beyond.8 In an influential article, Eduard Norden illuminated these lines against a background tradition of panegyric on Alexander.9 Even though the panegyrics themselves do not survive, there are references to them in the rhetorical manual of Menander Rhetor,10 and they seem to be reflected in other imperial Greek sources. For example, in one of Lucian’s satiric dialogues between the dead, Alexander is made to boast to his father Philip that he is ranked with Hercules and Dionysus; to which Philip responds: ‘Would you look how you say these things like the son of Zeus Ammon, comparing yourself to Hercules and Bacchus! And aren’t you ashamed, Alexander, and won’t you unlearn that vanity and know thyself, and realize that you’re already a corpse!’11 The joke seems to reflect a humorous cynicism about Alexander’s self-view, or ways of describing him. Alongside these reflections of panegyric, the Alexander-Dionysus link is prominent in the surviving Alexander historians, especially Arrian and Curtius. These two wrote centuries after Alexander and depended on Ptolemy, Aristoboulos, Megasthenes and Eratosthenes, whose works survive only in fragments. It is difficult to establish when the DionysusAlexander link arose: it is possible that Alexander himself consciously

92 Fiachra Mac Góráin imitated Dionysus as a conqueror of the east. This was the view of Brian Bosworth, the scholar who worked most extensively on this question. Or it may be that the tradition did not come into being until the generation after Alexander.12 In any case, the reports of Alexander imitating Dionysus in his eastern campaigns evoke and depend on the story that Dionysus conquered eastern lands, sometimes specifically India. Euripides’ Dionysus in the Bacchae refers to his return from the east, mentioning the lands of the Lydians, Phrygians, Persians, Bactria, the Medes, Arabia and all of Asia.13 The tradition may have originated with Euripides. Albrecht Dihle wished to obelise lines 14–19 of the Bacchae on the grounds that they reflect a Hellenistic understanding of geography, but others, including James Diggle, have argued for their retention.14 After Euripides, Megasthenes and Arrian both wrote works entitled Indica, which told of Dionysus’s conquest of India.15 Certainly, Alexander is the first historical figure whom sources record as having identified himself with Dionysus. There are references to Dionysus threaded through the history of his eastern campaigns.16 Several sources ascribe Alexander’s drunken killing of Cleitus to his having neglected to offer libations to Dionysus that morning.17 Later there is the episode of Mount Meros, where the Macedonians find an ivy-covered mountain, and people who claim descent from Dionysus and his fellow colonisers. (Arrian records this episode, but does not lend it credence, since it is not mentioned by Ptolemy or Aristoboulos.18) During the revels at Carmania in 325, Alexander is supposed to have posed as a triumphing Dionysus. Not the least interesting dimension of Alexander’s relationship with Dionysus is its complexity, and especially its dynamic qualities. As Elias Koulakiotis has pointed out, it is not simply a one-way street of the mortal ruler arrogating divine protection, but rather divine favour needs to be maintained and constantly cultivated, and if it is not, it can backfire, as happens with the murder of Cleitus.19 Dionysus is a difficult symbol to control. Some sources credit Dionysus with the invention of the triumph, which gives an added twist to the testimonies that Alexander imitated Dionysus in his Carmanian revels. The tradition goes back to gigantomachic scenes in Greek vase painting, and persists until late antique sarcophagi, to be taken up in the Renaissance.20 During Virgil’s lifetime, Varro etymologised Latin triumphus from thriambos, one of Dionysus’ cult titles.21 Be that as it may, following Alexander, various Hellenistic kings cultivated Dionysus as their ancestor, and some even styled themselves as a New Dionysus.22 Our evidence for Ptolemaic Alexandria is especially rich. Ptolemy II Philadelphus cultivated Dionysus, inter alia at the Grand Procession in honour of his father, Ptolemy I Soter. As Ellen Rice, Dorothy Thompson and others have argued, the Grand Procession was a thrilling piece of political choreography that established the Ptolemies’ power over their Greek and Egyptian subjects. The procession itself emphasised the link between Alexander and Dionysus, but also brought together the fertility

Augustus and the Neoi Dionysoi 93 and the conquest aspects of Dionysus, celebrating both the agricultural plenty and the military resources of Ptolemaic Alexandria, under the joint signs of Dionysus and Alexander. Because of the identification of Dionysus and Osiris, which is attested as early as Herodotus,23 Dionysus was a suitable god for the Ptolemies to cultivate in order to find favour with the native Egyptians.24 The tradition of Alexander-imitation took root in Rome during the late Republic.25 Sometimes this also involved adopting Dionysian characteristics, a development that may have originated as a response to Mithridates VI Eupator, king of Pontus, who supposedly styled himself as Dionysus to express the idea of freedom from Rome.26 Those Roman generals who imitated Dionysus either in their triumphs or otherwise in their behaviour include Marius, Pompey and Mark Antony, and scholars have argued that Lucullus and Julius Caesar also imitated Dionysus.27 It is notable that the sources which record these imitations sometimes do so with disapprobation as if the association with Dionysus could be a mixed blessing. Valerius Maximus tells of Marius only drinking from a cantharus after the defeats of Jugurtha, the Cimbri and the Teutones, since it was said that Dionysus used this kind of vessel when leading his Indian triumph from Asia, so that while drinking wine he might compare his victories to those of the god. The deed is censured as verging on arrogance (paene insolens factum).28 Perhaps part of the problem was that Marius’ imitation of Dionysus was merely superficial, and that he did not espouse the Dionysian values of order, harmony and civilisation on a deeper level. Antony’s self-identification as Dionysus has bequeathed a rich dossier of evidence. We see the beginnings of Antony’s Dionysian persona in implicit terms in Cicero’s vituperative characterisation of Antony’s bibulousness in the Philippics,29 speeches that also suggest the pitfalls for a public figure of a Dionysian lifestyle. In the years that followed, Antony explicitly presented himself as a Neos Dionysos.30 While Dionysian posturing may have garnered Antony mixed favour in the East and at Athens, it was poorly received in Italy. Several pieces of evidence suggest that Octavian and his spin-doctors were able to use Antony’s strategies against him in a battle of counterpropaganda. It would appear that Antony’s pamphlet on his own drunkenness (De sua ebrietate31) may have been a response to criticisms of his Dionysian drunkenness, of the kind found in Cicero’s Philippics.32 Cassius Dio seems to reflect traditions hostile to Antony’s Dionysian persona. Octavian’s men voted in favour of war with Cleopatra partly on the basis of Antony having ‘gone native’, including his subservience to Cleopatra and his posing as Dionysus; and Octavian brought up Antony’s Dionysian persona again in his cohortatio before the battle of Actium.33 Plutarch, too, reflects traces of Octavian’s ‘counterpropaganda’ in the Life of Antony. There are two main passages. The first describes Antony’s entry into Ephesus with a Dionysian entourage: the people

94 Fiachra Mac Góráin hailed him as Dionysus Giver of Joy and Beneficent (Χαριδότην καὶ Μειλίχιον). And so indeed he was to some but to far more the Devourer and the Savage (Ὠμηστὴς καὶ Ἀγριώνιος). For he took their property from well-born men and bestowed it on flatterers and scoundrels.34 The second main passage is in a similar vein: Plutarch reports traditions of Dionysus’ entourage leaving Alexandria after Antony and Cleopatra had lost the Battle of Actium.35 As David Castriota has pointed out, none of our sources for the Battle of Actium suggest that Dionysus was on Antony’s side.36 Broad contemporary context for Octavian’s rehabilitation and reappropriation of Bacchus may be found in poetry and visual art. Increasingly, scholars have been examining the presence of Dionysian motifs in Augustan discourse, and basing the case for an ‘Augustan Bacchus’ on the poetry of Virgil and Horace, the Ara Pacis Augustae, wall painting and coins.37 One complicating piece of evidence that challenges the rehabilitation narrative is the fact that Augustus did not take the trouble to complete during his own lifetime the restoration of the temple of Ceres, Liber and Libera, which had burnt down in the same year as the Battle of Actium, despite his claim in the Res Gestae that he restored 82 temples and left none unrestored which at that time needed restoration; he did, however, begin the restoration.38 We may conclude that Octavian’s rapprochement was cautious, perhaps because of the pitfalls inherent in an overt Dionysian persona, and perhaps especially because Octavian himself appears to have denigrated Antony’s Bacchism. If this is a correct understanding of the situation, then it is appropriate that the comparison of Augustus to Bacchus occurs in the mouth of Anchises, distancing it from the poet’s voice and retrojecting it into the mythic past, safely removed from contemporary religious politics. Moreover, the apophatic formulation of the simile stops short of positing a full alignment between Augustus and Dionysus. Instead, an analogy is suggested with Alexander and the Neoi Dionysoi, which allows Augustus to harness the symbolic power of Dionysus, without incurring the hybris of self-identification. It is implied that Augustus embodies the Dionysian qualities of civilisation and order, unlike Marius and Antony, who merely imitated him with outwards trappings.

Fertility The brief vignette of Dionysus victoriously driving his team of tigers down from Mount Nysa39 evokes narratives of the god as a culture hero, for example on his Indian expedition, during which he founds cities, teaches viticulture and establishes the practice of warfare.40 Nonnus’ Dionysiaca presents the richest compendium of these stories. The yoking of tigers and use of vines as reins suggest control of nature, both animal and vegetal, but point also to Dionysus’ role as a god of fertility in the natural world.

Augustus and the Neoi Dionysoi 95 I suggest that we might see links between Dionysus’ capacity to augment on two different levels, the imperial and the vegetal. The god’s conquistadorial aspect may be easily linked to the overt emphasis on expansion in the passage: in the assertion that Augustus will extend the empire, in the panegyric emphasis on the empire’s far-flung boundaries41 and in the references to the peregrinations of Hercules and Bacchus. Scholars have detected etymological wordplay between the name Augustus (792), derived from augere, ‘to increase’ (as well as having religious connotations from augur), and the expansion of the empire mentioned in proferet imperium (795).42 From here it is a small step to the way in which poets refer to Dionysus’ ability to increase the crops. Plutarch quotes a line of Pindar to describe Dionysus as a vegetation god, who swells the fruit on the trees: ὅτι δ' οὐ μόνον τοῦ οἴνου Διόνυσον, ἀλλὰ καὶ πάσης ὑγρᾶς φύσεως Ἕλληνες ἡγοῦνται κύριον καὶ ἀρχηγόν, ἀρκεῖ Πίνδαρος μάρτυς εἶναι λέγων (fr. 153) ‘δενδρέων δὲ νομὸν Διόνυσος πολυγαθὴς αὐξάνοι, ἁγνὸν φέγγος ὀπώρας·’ To show that the Greeks regard Dionysus as the lord and master not only of wine, but of the nature of every sort of moisture, it is enough that Pindar be our witness, when he says ‘May gladsome Dionysus swell the fruit upon the trees, The hallowed splendour of harvest time.’43 Similarly, Aelian explains how one of Dionysus’ cult titles, Phleón (‘Luxuriant’), derives from the old verb phlyein (‘to luxuriate, flower abundantly’) and mentions several other cult-titles with vegetal resonances,44 to which we might add Dendrites, Endendros, Liknites, Morychus, Oeneus. From Homer’s allusion to Dionysus as a god of wine, χάρμα βροτοῖσιν, ‘a joy to mortals’,45 Dionysus often causes plants to grow, or nourishing liquids to flow in nature. In the Homeric Hymn (7) to Dionysus, the god makes vinetendrils grow over the ship. The motif is prominent in the Bacchae where milk and honey flow in the wilderness amid a Bacchic revel, in a recreation of the Golden Age.46 Though there is but brief mention in our passage of Augustus’ restoration of the Golden Age, presumably it was understood to involve abundant and spontaneous growth in nature. Walter Otto devoted three chapters of his Dionysus monograph to the god’s patronage of natural growth: ‘The Vine’, ‘Dionysus Revealed in Vegetative Nature’ and ‘Dionysus and the Element of Moisture’.47 To be sure, many gods preside over fertility or plenitude in one form or another, but it is particularly emphasised in Dionysian ritual processions.48 The Romans too hailed Dionysus as god of fertility in their civic calendar. There is debate among historians of archaic Italy whether some version of Liber pre-existed the importation of the Greek Dionysus; and sure enough,

96 Fiachra Mac Góráin the early evidence is that Jupiter rather than Liber was god of wine.49 But when in 496, during the war between the Etruscans and the Romans over the sovereignty of Rome, there was a grain shortage, and the Delphic Oracle advised the Romans to found a temple to Ceres, Liber and Libera to alleviate this grain shortage, the agrarian dimension of these three gods, especially when they appear together, seems clear and incontrovertible.50 It is not surprising that we find associations between Dionysus and fertility elsewhere in Virgil’s poetry – particularly in book 2 of the Georgics, which is dedicated to the cultivation of trees and vines.51 Our passage in Aeneid 6 does not mention anything as unglamorous as the food supply, but arguably it hints at it through the suggestions of Dionysus’ control of nature, and by the wordplay mentioned above on Augustus as an increaser. Arguably the passage also re-activates the fertility aspect of Dionysus from the Georgics through references of the Golden Age. The leader, of course, needs to provide for his people, and in the prologue to the Georgics, Octavian is hailed as a future divinity, and described as ‘auctorem frugum tempestatumque potentem’ (1.27), tapping into the same wordplay as informs the later Aeneid passage.

Conclusion In our Aeneid 6 passage, Augustus plays the part of a triumphant Dionysus, and in doing so leans on a venerable Alexandrian, Hellenistic and adopted Roman tradition, one which has lent charisma to generals and politicians, though not always without risk to their image. The passage evokes the Euhemerising tradition of divinising heroes whose labours have benefited humankind and who have done the work of civilisation, but it also suggests the victor’s potential for violence. Like Dionysus, Augustus will be benign to those who acquiesce in his rule, but he may crush those who oppose him. In addition, through references to Dionysus’ control of nature, and to the Golden Age, through suggestions of Augustus’ power of increase and perhaps by channelling Virgil’s Georgics, the passage suggests Augustus’ stewardship of the food supply an essential element of successful leadership. Virgil’s Anchises makes Augustus come across as akin to the Neoi Dionysoi, without committing himself to an identification that might entail its own hazards.

Notes 1 My thanks to the editors and the other contributors for responses to an earlier draft of this paper. 2 Mynors 1972. 3 Heaney 2016. 4 On Virgil’s use of the myth of the Gigantomachy in the Aeneid, see especially Hardie 1986 and the response of O’Hara 1994.

Augustus and the Neoi Dionysoi 97 5 See Weber 2002; Bocciolini Palagi 2007; Mac Góráin 2013; Giusti 2018, 88–147. 6 Williams 1972, 509. I am mostly leaving Hercules to one side in the present contribution. 7 On Hercules in the Aeneid, see Feeney 2007, 161–163. 8 Analogies for Augustus at Hor. Od. 1.12, 3.3, 4.8; Hor. Ep. 2.1; for Maecenas at Eleg. in Maec. 57–86; for Scipio at Sil. Pun. 17.647–650. See Castriota 1995, 98. See also Cic. N.D. 2.62. 9 Norden 1899; see also Norden 1970 ad loc. and Austin 1977, 242. 10 See esp. Men. Rh. Peri Epideiktikôn 387 with Russell and Wilson 1981 ad loc. 11 Luc. DMort. 12.6 Ὁρᾷς ὅτι ταῦτα ὡς Ἄμμωνος υἱὸς λέγεις, ὃς Ἡρακλεῖ καὶ Διονύσῳ παραβάλλεις σεαυτόν; καὶ οὐκ αἰσχύνῃ, ὦ Ἀλέξανδρε, οὐδὲ τὸν τῦφον ἀπομαθήσῃ καὶ γνώσῃ σεαυτὸν καὶ συνήσεις ἤδη νεκρὸς ὤν; 12 Nock 1928; Goukowsky 1981; Bosworth 1980, 1988a, 1988b, 1996. Stoneman 2004, 75–84 also believes in conscious imitation. See further Stoneman in this volume, who distinguishes between the Dionysus-Alexander links during the latter’s lifetime, and those that are traditional accretions. 13 Eur. Ba. 13–17 λιπὼν δὲ Λυδῶν τοὺς πολυχρύσους γύας | Φρυγῶν τε, Περσῶν ἡλιοβλήτους πλάκας | Βάκτριά τε τείχη τήν τε δύσχιμον χθόνα | Μήδων ἐπελθὼν Ἀραβίαν τ' εὐδαίμονα | Ἀσίαν τε πᾶσαν … 14 Dihle 1981; Diggle 1994, 444–451. 15 On Megasthenes’ Indica, see Kosmin 2014, 37–53; on Arrian’s, see Dognini 2000, esp. 74–78. 16 The main references to Dionysus in Arrian’s Anabasis: 4.8–9 (the murder of Cleitus); 5.1‒3 (Alexander travels to Nysa and Mt Meru); 6.3.4 (discussion about how Dionysus went to India), 6.28.1–2 (Alexander’s Bacchic triumph); 7.20.1 (Alexander wanted to be worshipped as the Arabs’ third god after Uranus and Dionysus). On these, see especially Bosworth 1980. 17 See Plut. Alex. 13; Koulakiotis 2017, 237–238. 18 Arr. An. 6.28.2. 19 Koulakiotis 2017. 20 Buccino 2013. Ancient literary sources include: Arr. An. 6.28.2; Macr. Sat. I.19.4; Q. Curt., 3.12.18; Plin. Nat. 7.191; D.S. 3.65.8. On the sarcophagi, see Turcan 1966. See Versnel 1970, 235–251; Otto 1965, 197–198. 21 Var. L. 6.68 Sic triumphare appellatum, quod cum imperatore milites redeuntes clamitant per Urbem in Capitolium eunti “o triumphe”; id a θριάμβῳ ac Graeco Liberi cognomento potest dictum. 22 See Wacht and Rickert 2010, 76–78 for the basic data. 23 Hdt. 2.49. 24 See esp. Goyette 2010. 25 See Michel 1967. 26 McGing 1986, 64. 27 See Turcan 1977 (Caesar) and Scapini 2016, 51–53 (the others). For Pompey, see Kopij 2014. 28 V. Max. 3.6.6 iam C. Marii paene insolens factum: nam post Iugurthinum Cimbricumque et Teutonicum triumphum cantharo semper potauit, quod Liber pater Indicum ex Asia deducens triumphum hoc usus poculi genere ferebatur, inter ipsum haustum uini uictoriae eius suas uictorias conpararet. 29 See 2.30, 42, esp. 63, 81, 104–105. 30 Cerfaux and Tondriau 1957, esp. 295–306; Fuhrer 2011; Scapini 2015; Borgies 2016. 31 Plin. Nat. 14.148. 32 See Scott 1929; Marasco 1992.

98 Fiachra Mac Góráin 33 See D.C. 50.5 and 50.25.2–4. On ‘counterpropaganda’ in Dio, see esp. Freyburger-Galland 2009. 34 Plut. Ant. 24 Διόνυσον αὐτὸν ἀνακαλουμένων Χαριδότην καὶ Μειλίχιον. ἦν γὰρ ἀμέλει τοιοῦτος ἐνίοις, τοῖς δὲ πολλοῖς Ὠμηστὴς καὶ Ἀγριώνιος. ἀφῃρεῖτο γὰρ εὐγενεῖς ἀνθρώπους τὰ ὄντα, μαστιγίαις καὶ κόλαξι χαριζόμενος. 35 Plut. Ant. 75. See also Doroszewski in this volume. 36 Castriota 1995, 94. 37 In general, see Becher 1976. On Virgil, see Smith 2007; Cucchiarelli 2011, 2012a, 2012b; and Mac Góráin 2014. On Horace, see Cucchiarelli 2011; Schiesaro 2009; and Serignolli 2019. On visual art, see Castriota 1995; Wyler 2005, 2006, 2008, 2013. On the numismatic evidence, see Becher 1976, 97–98; Mannsperger 1973. 38 RG 20; Tac. Ann. 2.17; for this argument, see Miller 2002. 39 Mount Nysa is variously located in the ancient world, but sometimes in India; see esp. Austin 1977 and Horsfall 2013 ad loc. 40 For these ‘culture hero’ exploits, see the sources mentioned in n. 14. 41 For Augustus’ visits to these far-flung peoples, see esp. Heyne and Wagner 1832–1833 ad loc. 42 For the wordplay, see Paschalis 1997, 240; Schwindt 2013, 78. On Augustus and augere, see Ov. Fast. 1.607–616; Galinsky 1996, 10–20; Grebe 2004, 44. 43 Plut. Isid. et Osir. 365, tr. F. Babbitt. 44 Ael. NA 3.41 Ὅτι τὸ πολυκαρπεῖν οἱ ἀρχαῖοι ὠνόμαζον φλύειν. ἐντεῦθεν τὸν Διόνυσον Φλεῶνα ἐκάλουν καὶ Προτρύγαιον καὶ Σταφυλίτην καὶ Ὀμφακίτην καὶ ἑτέρως πως διαφόρως. 45 Il. 14.325. 46 Eur. Ba. 704–711; see also 142. Segal 1997 often refers to Bacchic miracles as Golden Age phenomena; see index, s.v. ‘Golden Age’. 47 Otto 1965; see also Kerényi 1976, passim. 48 For the phallophoria at the City Dionysia in Athens, see Csapo 2013; for the Dionysian section of the Grand Procession of Ptolemy II Philadelphus, see Rice 1983; Thompson 2000; Goyette 2010; for Italy, see Augustine, Civ. 7.21, with Mac Góráin 2020, 12–13. 49 Bruhl 1953, 26; Dumézil 1970, 378; Cazanove 1988. 50 The only narrative source is D.H. R. Ant. 6.17. 51 On Bacchus in the Georgics, see Morgan 1999, esp. 230–235; Smith 2007; Mac Góráin 2014; Gowers 2016.

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Augustus and the Neoi Dionysoi 99 Bosworth, A.B. (1988a) From Arrian to Alexander. Studies in Historical Interpretation. Oxford University Press. Bosworth, A.B. (1988b) Conquest and Empire. The Reign of Alexander the Great. Cambridge University Press. Bosworth, A.B. (1996) Alexander and the East. The Tragedy of Triumph. Oxford University Press. Bruhl, A. (1953) Liber Pater. Origine et expansion du culte dionysiaque à Rome et dans le monde romain. Paris, Boccard. Buccino, L. (2013) Dioniso trionfatore. Percorsi e interpretazione del mito del trionfo indiano nelle fonti e nell’iconografia antiche. Rome, Bretschneider. Castriota, D. (1995) The Ara Pacis Augustae and the Imagery of Abundance in Later Greek and Early Roman Imperial Art. Princeton University Press. Cazanove, O. de (1988) ‘Jupiter, Liber, et le vin latin’, Revue de l’histoire des religions 205, 245–265. Cerfaux, L. and Tondriau, J. (1957) Le culte des souverains dans la civilisation gréco-romaine. Un concurrent du christianisme. Tournai, Desclée. Csapo, E. (2013) ‘Comedy and the Pompe: Dionysian Genre-Crossing’, in E. Bakola, L. Prauscello and M. Telò (eds.) Greek Comedy and the Discourse of Genres, Cambridge University Press, 40–80. Cucchiarelli, A. (2011) ‘Virgilio e l’invenzione dell’età augustea (Modelli divini e linguaggio politico dalle ‘Bucoliche’ alle ‘Georgiche’)’, Lexis 29, 229–274. Cucchiarelli, A. (2012a) Publio Virgilio Marone. Le Bucoliche. Introduzione e commento di Andrea Cucchiarelli. Traduzione di Alfonso Traina. Rome, Carocci. Cucchiarelli, A. (2012b) ‘Ivy and Laurel. Divine Models in Virgil’s Eclogues’, HSCP 106, 155–178. Diggle, J. (1994) Euripidea. Collected Essays. Oxford University Press. Dihle, A. (1981) Der Prolog der ‘Bacchen’ und die antike Überlieferungsphase des Euripides-Textes. Heidelberg, Winter. Dognini, C. (2000) L’Indiké di Arriano. Commento storico. Alessandria, Orso. Dumézil, G. (1970) Archaic Roman Religion. University of Chicago Press. Feeney, D. (2007) Caesar’s Calendar. Ancient Time and the Beginnings of History. Berkeley, University of California Press. Freyburger-Galland, M.-L. (2009) ‘Political and Religious Propaganda between 44 and 27 BC’, Vergilius 55, 17–30. Fuhrer, T. (2011) ‘Inszenierungen von Göttlichkeit. Die politische Rolle von Dionysos/Bacchus in der römischen Literatur’, in R. Schlesier (ed.) A Different God? Dionysos and Ancient Polytheism, Berlin, De Gruyter, 373–390. Galinsky, G.K. (1996) Augustan Culture: An Interpretive Introduction. Princeton University Press. Giusti, E. (2018) Carthage in Virgil’s Aeneid. Staging the Enemy under Augustus. Cambridge University Press. Goukowsky, P. (1981) Essai sur les origines du mythe d’Alexandre (336–270 av. J.-C.). Vol. 1: Les origines politiques. Vol. 2: Alexandre et Dionysos. Nancy, France, Université Nancy-II. Gowers, E. (2016) ‘Under the Influence: Maecenas and Bacchus in Georgics 2’, in P. Hardie (ed.) Augustan Poetry and the Irrational, Oxford University Press, 134–152.

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Goyette, M. (2010) ‘Ptolemy II Philadelphus and the Dionysiac Model of Political Authority’, Journal of Ancient Egyptian Interconnections 2, 1–13. Grebe, S. (2004) ‘Divine Authority and Virgil’s Aeneid’, Vergilius 50, 35–62. Hardie, P.R. (1986) Virgil’s Aeneid: Cosmos and Imperium. Oxford University Press. Heaney, S. (2016) Aeneid: Book VI. London, Faber & Faber. Heyne, C.G. and Wagner, P. (1832–1833) P. Virgili Maronis Opera. Leipzig, Teubner. Horsfall, N. (2013) Virgil, Aeneid 6: A Commentary. 2 vols. Berlin, De Gruyter. Kerényi, K. (1976) Dionysos. Archetypal Image of Indestructible Life. Tr. Ralph Manheim. London, Routledge. Kopij, K. (2014) ‘Was Pompey the Great Regarded as Neos Dionysos? Some Evidence from Coins’, in J. Dobrinić (ed.) Proceedings of the 7th International Numismatic Congress in Croatia, Opatija, September 27–28, 2013, Rijeka, Hrvatsko numizmatičko društvo, 119–126. Kosmin, P.J. (2014) The Land of the Elephant Kings. Space, Territory, and Ideology in the Seleucid Empire. Harvard University Press. Koulakiotis, E. (2017) ‘Plutarch’s Alexander, Dionysos and the Metaphysics of Power’, in T. Howe, R. Stoneman and S. Müller (eds.) Ancient Historiography on War and Empire, Oxford University Press, 226–249. Mac Góráin, F. (2013) ‘Virgil’s Bacchus and the Roman Republic’, in J. Farrell and D.P. Nelis (eds.) Augustan Poetry and the Roman Republic. Oxford University Press, 124–145. Mac Góráin, F. (2014) ‘The Mixed Blessings of Bacchus in Virgil’s Georgics’, Dictynna 11. https://journals.openedition.org/dictynna/1069. Mac Góráin, F. (2020) ‘Introduction. Dionysus and Rome: Accommodation and Resistance’, in F. Mac Góráin (ed.) Dionysus and Rome. Religion and Literature, Berlin, De Gruyter, 1–37. Mannsperger, D. (1973) ‘Apollon gegen Dionysos: Numismatische Beiträge zu Octavians Rolle als Vindex Libertatis’, Gymnasium 80, 381–404. Marasco, G. (1992) ‘Marco Antonio “nuovo Dionisos” e il De sua ebrietate’, Latomus 51, 538–548. McGing, B. (1986) The Foreign Policy of Mithridates VI Eupator, King of Pontus. Leiden, Brill. Michel, D. (1967) Alexander als Vorbild für Pompeius, Caesar, und Marcus Antonius: Archaeologische Untersuchungen. Bruxelles, Latomus. Miller, J.F. (2002) ‘Ovid’s Liberalia’, in G. Herbert-Brown (ed.) Ovid’s Fasti: Historical Readings at its Bimillenium, Oxford University Press, 199–224. Morgan, L. (1999) Patterns of Redemption in Virgil's Georgics. Cambridge Classical Studies. Cambridge University Press. Mynors, R.A.B. (1972) P. Vergilii Maronis Opera. Oxford University Press. Nock, A.D. (1928) ‘Notes on Ruler-Cult, I–IV’, JHS 48, 21–43. Norden, E. (1899) ‘Ein Panegyricus auf Augustus in Vergils Aeneis’, RhM 54, 466–482. Kleine Schriften (Berlin, De Gruyter, 1966), 422–436. Norden, E. (1970). P. Vergilius Maro. Aeneis. Buch VI. Fifth edition. Stuttgart, Teubner. O’Hara, J.J. (1994) ‘They Might Be Giants: Inconsistency and Indeterminacy in Vergil’s War in Italy’, Colby Quarterly 30, 206–226.

Augustus and the Neoi Dionysoi 101 Otto, W.F. (1965) Dionysus. Myth and Cult. Tr. Robert Palmer. Indiana University Press. Paschalis, M. (1997) Virgil’s Aeneid: Semantic Relations and Proper Names. Oxford University Press. Rice, E.E. (1983) The Grand Procession of Ptolemy Philadelphus. Oxford University Press. Russell, D.A. and Wilson, N.G. (1981) Menander Rhetor. A Commentary. Oxford University Press. Scapini, M. (2015) ‘Augustus and Dionysus’ Triumph. A Nonexistent Paradox’, Acta Antiqua Academiae Scientiarum Hungaricae 55, 185–209. Scapini, M. (2016) Le stanze di Dioniso. Contenuti rituali e committenti delle scene dionisiache domestiche tra Roma e Pompei. Madrid, Universidad Carlos III de Madrid. Schiesaro, A. (2009) ‘Horace’s Bacchic Poetics’, in L.B.T. Houghton and M. Wyke (eds.) Perceptions of Horace, Cambridge University Press, 61–79. Schwindt, J.P. (2013) ‘Der Sound der Macht. Zur onomatopoetischen Konstruktion des Mythos im Zeitalter des Augustus’, in M. Labate and G. Rosati (eds.) La costruzione del mito augusteo, Heidelberg, Winter, 69–87. Scott, K. (1929) ‘Octavian’s Propaganda and Antony’s De sua ebrietate’, CPh 24, 133–141. Segal, C. (1997) Dionysiac Poetics and Euripides’ Bacchae. Expanded Edition. Princeton University Press. Serignolli, L.V.G. (2019) ‘Bacchus, Augustus, and the Poet in Horace Odes 3.25’, in P. Martins, A.P. Hasegawa and J.A. Oliva Neto (eds.) Augustan Poetry. New Trends and Revaluations, São Paolo, Humanitas & SBEC, 275–306. Smith, R. A. (2007) ‘In vino civitas: The Rehabilitation of Bacchus in Vergil’s Georgics’, Vergilius 53, 52–86. Stoneman, R. (2004) Alexander the Great. Second edition. Lancaster Pamphlets. London, Routledge. Thompson, D.J. (2000) ‘Philadelphus’ Procession: Dynastic Power in a Mediterranean Context’, in L. Mooren (ed.) Politics, Administration and Society in the Hellenistic and Roman Worlds. Proceedings of the International Colloquium, Bertinoro 19–24 July 1997, Leuven, Peeters, 365–388. Turcan, R. (1966) Les sarcophages romains à représentations dionysiaques. Essai de chronologie et d’histoire religieuse. Paris, Boccard. Turcan, R. (1977) ‘César et Dionysos’, in Hommage à la mémoire de Jérôme Carcopino, Paris, Les Belles Lettres, 317–325. Versnel, H.S. (1970) Triumphus. An Inquiry into the Origin, Development and Meaning of the Roman Triumph. Leiden, Brill. Wacht, M. and Rickert, F. (2010) ‘Liber (Dionysos)’, in Reallexikon für Antike und Christentum, Band XXIII, Stuttgart, Hiersemann, 67–99. Weber, C. (2002) ‘The Dionysus in Aeneas’, CPh 97, 322–343. Williams, R.D. (1972) Virgil Aeneid I–VI. London, Bristol Classical Press. Wyler, S. (2005) ‘Le décor dionysiaque de la villa de la Farnésine, ou l’art de faire grec à Rome’, Mètis. Anthropologie des mondes grecs anciens, N.S. 3, 101–129. Wyler, S. (2006) ‘Images dionysiaques à Rome: à propos d’une fresque méconnue de Lanuvium’, in C. Bonnet, P. Scarpi and J. Rüpke (eds.) Religions orientales,

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culti misterici, Mysterien. Nouvelles perspectives, nuove perspettive, neue Perspektiven, Stuttgart, Steiner, 135–145. Wyler, S. (2008) ‘Réhabilitation de Liber: ambiguïtés de la condamnation des images dionysiaques, de “l’affaire” des Bacchanales à Actium’, in S. Benoist and A. Daguet-Gagey (eds.) Un discours en images de la condamnation de mémoire, Metz, Centre régional universitaire lorrain d’histoire, 229–244. Wyler, S. (2013) ‘An Augustan Trend Towards Dionysos: Around the ‘Auditorium of Maecenas’, in A. Bernabé, M. Herrero de Jáuregui, A.I. Jiménez San Cristóbal and R. Martín Hernández (eds.) Redefining Dionysos, Berlin, De Gruyter, 541–553.

7

The state as crater: Dionysus and politics in Plutarch’s Lives of Crassus, Antony and Caesar Filip Doroszewski

This chapter seeks to offer a new interpretation of the Dionysiac motifs in Plutarch’s Lives of three statesmen who played a decisive part in the struggle for power at the end of the Roman Republic: Crassus, Antony and Caesar.1 The chapter will argue that in these Lives, Plutarch exploits the political connotations of Dionysiac imagery in the Graeco-Roman culture2 in order to portray three different types of statesmanship. The first part of the chapter surveys the essential role in preserving both the cosmic and earthly order which is assumed by Dionysus in Plutarch’s writings. The other part falls into three sections, each of which examines selected references to Dionysus that occur in one of the three Lives under discussion. This chapter concludes with some observations on how Plutarch uses the Dionysiac myth to assess the political virtues and vices of his characters, as well as to present his views on the rise of the Roman Empire.

Dionysiac balance Dionysus occupies an important place in Plutarch’s writings.3 As we will see, the Dionysiac represents there a force that can be very dangerous, but – at the same time – most beneficial, if only properly curbed and counterbalanced. In keeping with the Greek tradition, Dionysus plays for Plutarch an essential role in maintaining order and harmony on both the cosmic and the social levels.4 In a philosophical discussion reported in On the E at Delphi, Plutarch asserts that Dionysus and Apollo are in fact two faces of one deity that upholds the cosmos: while Apollo stands for stability, Dionysus symbolises variability.5 The stories of Dionysus’ dismemberment and rebirth, Plutarch says, in fact hint at the changes and divisions the universe needs to go through on a regular basis in order to preserve its existence.6 From other works of Plutarch, we learn that Dionysus brings harmony to social life too, as he establishes and develops friendship (φιλία) between people who drink wine together.7 Still, as has been shown by SvenTage Teodorsson and Philip A. Stadter, Plutarch advises moderation as a norm of convivial drinking, which proves beneficial only when Dionysus is kept under control.8 In fact, moderation in drinking is advised by the god

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himself, as, apart from the vine, he also provides people with ivy, which prevents them from getting drunk, at least according to Table Talk 647a. Needless to say, Plutarch’s discussion on wine and φιλία alludes to that part of Plato’s Laws (esp. 671e‒672a) which discusses the key role of Dionysus’ gift for increasing friendship between citizens. There are, of course, more passages in which Plutarch echoes what Plato says in his Laws about the role played by the Dionysiac in the polis. Another Platonic image that often recurs in Plutarch’s oeuvre is that comparing a well-governed state to a crater in which the wine is properly mixed with water (Lg. 773d): People do not find it easy to perceive that a state should be like a bowl (κρατῆρος) of mixed wine, where the wine (οἶνος) when first poured in foams madly (μαινόμενος), but as soon as it is chastened by another sober deity (κολαζόμενος δὲ ὑπὸ νήφοντος ἑτέρου θεοῦ), it forms a fair alliance, and produces a potion that is good and moderate.9 In his writings, Plutarch directly quotes this passage three times, but he hints at it on other occasions.10 Each time, the quotation or allusion is enriched with strong Dionysiac overtones. The first direct quotation occurs in a work relatively early in the author’s career,11 How to Study Poetry, in which the old philosophical question of teaching poetry to the young generation comes under discussion. The matter is, of course, also a political one, as the teaching aims at educating not only good philosophers but also responsible citizens.12 Plutarch argues for allowing young people to study poetical works, while at the same time emphasising that their studies must be guided by the voice of reason (15d ὀρθῷ τινι λογισμῷ), which will make them both appreciative of poetry and resistant to what may be potentially harmful in it. Mixing poetry with philosophy, Plutarch argues, may be compared to using ‘amethysts’ in order to enjoy alcohol without getting drunk (15b). The total abandonment of poetry in educating the youth would be simply unreasonable. As an apt exemplum illustrating the dire consequences resulting from the lack of such balanced prudence, Plutarch uses the mythical story of king Lycurgus, who tried to ban Dionysus’ plant, the vine, from his state (15e): ‘Not even Lycurgus, the mighty son of Dryas’ (Il. 6.130) had sound sense, because, when many became drunk and violent, he went about uprooting the grapevines instead of bringing the springs of water nearer, and thus chastening the ‘frenzied god’ as Plato says, ‘through correction by another, a sober god’ (μαινόμενον θεόν … ἑτέρῳ θεῷ νήφοντι κολαζόμενον). For the tempering of wine with water removes its harmfulness without depriving it at the same time of its usefulness. So let us not root up or destroy the Muses’ vine of poetry, but where the

The state as crater 105 mythical and dramatic part grows all riotous and luxuriant, through pleasure unalloyed, which gives it boldness and obstinacy in seeking acclaim, let us take it in hand and prune it and pinch it back.13 The passage starts with words that open the Iliad’s short account of Lycurgus and his fight against Dionysus (Il. 6.130‒140). No doubt, this is how Plutarch reminds the reader about the grim fate the king suffers in the poem for his stubborn obstinacy: blinded by Zeus and hated by other gods, Lycurgus died soon thereafter. While only hinting at this version of the myth, Plutarch focuses on another one which, as we know it from other sources, also ends with the king’s doom.14 To prove that Lycurgus could easily have avoided death, Plutarch appeals to the authority of Plato and quotes his words in a slightly, yet significantly, modified way: where Plato has μαινόμενος οἶνος ‘maddened wine’, Plutarch speaks about μαινόμενος θεός ‘maddened god’, thus clearly interpreting Plato’s wine as representing the Dionysiac. In fact, Plutarch has artfully prepared the reader for this interpretation by quoting Homer first: just two lines below the hexameter cited by Plutarch, in Iliad 6.132, Dionysus is actually called μαινόμενος.15 At this point, it may be helpful to remember that in Plutarch’s On Moral Virtue, Lycurgus stands for a radical zeal of reason to get rid of the irrational emotions that, in fact, it should rather try and harmonise within itself (451c). As such, Lycurgus is opposed there to Dionysus, the wise winegrower who restricts excessive vine vigour in order to make the plant useful. It is interesting to see, then, that in How to Study Poetry 15e, poetry is directly compared to a vine that should by no means be cut down, but, rather, properly cultivated to bear good fruit. Thus, Plutarch builds up recurring imagery of equilibrium between uncompromising logic and explosive emotionality, or between rigid self-control and intemperance, in which teaching poetry along with philosophy has an exact parallel in diluting wine with water as well as in pruning vines. Since the Dionysiac character of poetry, wine and the vine is clearly alluded to in How to Study Poetry 15e, it is obvious that this imagery of equilibrium cannot be discussed in isolation from the general role played by Dionysus in maintaining the universe’s order that was mentioned in the beginning of this chapter. Not a single human being, a community of people or the world itself can remain stable without integrating the Dionysiac into their life. To put it briefly, for Plutarch, Dionysus means balance. Further corroboration for this is provided by two other passages in which Plutarch quotes Plato’s Laws 773d. The first comes from the Whether an Old Man Should Engage in Public Affairs, a work written in all probability when Plutarch was himself an old man.16 This time the political context is even more explicit, as the passage concerns the active role old men should play in governing the state (791b‒c): Old men ought to engage in affairs of State, in order that, as Plato said in reference to pure wine mixed with water, that ‘an insane god was made reasonable when chastised by another who was sober’

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Filip Doroszewski (μαινόμενον θεὸν ἑτέρῳ θεῷ νήφοντι σωφρονίζεσθαι κολαζόμενον), so the discretion of old age, when mixed in the people with boiling youth drunk (βακχεύουσαν) with reputation and ambition, may remove that which is insane and too violent (τὸ μανικὸν καὶ λίαν ἄκρατον).17

Just as in How to Study Poetry 15e, the passage is given a strong Dionysiac colouring: Plato’s μαινόμενος οἶνος is replaced, once again, with μαινόμενος θεός, and the youth’s behaviour is compared to the Bacchic frenzy (βακχεύουσαν, τὸ μανικόν) and to unmixed wine (ἄκρατον), both comparisons being an obvious allusion to the Platonic image of the crater. In this way, young people are presented as an indispensable ‘Bacchic’ component of society, the capricious and unpredictable nature of which makes the active political involvement of the old a necessary counterpoise. The same model of balance can also be found in Plutarch’s fragment 210, in which the author advises young people to follow closely the example of their elders. Here too μαινόμενος θεός replaces μαινόμενος οἶνος, and the youth is symbolised by unmixed wine that needs to be tempered by the sobering influence of the old.18 To sum up, according to Plutarch, the Dionysiac, even if dangerous in a pure form (symbolised by unmixed wine), plays a crucial part in bringing stability to every level of existence from individual to communal to the universal, if only a sufficient counterbalance (symbolised by water) is provided. The conviction of the stabilising role of Dionysus is no doubt rooted in traditional Greek political thought in which he was the protector of Zeus’ order both on earth and among the gods. All the passages from Plutarch that have been adduced so far in this chapter explicitly or implicitly point to the fact that without the influence of the ‘maddened god’, every community and every entity simply falls apart. By contrast, if accepted in a moderated form, Dionysus builds up the political community and allows opposites to coexist by making them less sharp.

Three types of statesmanship As we have seen, the Dionysiac is an important category that Plutarch uses to make sense of political life. And Plutarch’s Parallel Lives, needless to add, are the biographies of politicians. The three Lives discussed in this chapter are rich in Dionysiac imagery, which, in turn, raises a legitimate question about its function. As observed by Christopher Pelling, the three texts belong to a group of six late Roman Lives prepared by Plutarch simultaneously as a separate and coherent project.19 This makes it tempting to look at the references to Dionysus occurring in the three Lives as yet another element contributing to the coherency of the group. The other half of the group, the Lives of Pompey, Cato Minor and Brutus are not equally rich in Dionysiac motifs and, therefore, will be left to one side in this chapter. In what follows, we will try to interpret the political meaning behind the Dionysiac motifs that occur in Crassus, Antony and Caesar.

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Crassus: nothing but water David Braund and Alexei Zadorojnyi have convincingly shown that Euripides’ Bacchae is the most important intertext for Plutarch’s Crassus, at least for its longest part, which is Crassus’ campaign against Parthia. They pointed out many narrative parallels between the two works (see below) the most important of which occurs at the end of the Life.20 When the Parthians defeat the Roman army, they kill Crassus and send off his head to their king. When the head reaches the king’s court, he happens to be watching a performance of Euripides’ Bacchae (33.3‒7). Now when the head of Crassus was brought to the king’s door … a tragic actor, Jason by name, of Tralles, was singing that part of the Bacchae of Euripides where Agave is about to appear. While he was receiving his applause, Sillaces stood at the door of the banqueting-hall, and after a low obeisance, cast the head of Crassus into the centre of the company. … Then Jason handed the mask of Pentheus to one of the chorus, seized the head of Crassus, and in a Bacchic frenzy sang these verses through as if inspired (Ba. 1169‒71): ‘We bring from the mountain | a tendril fresh-cut to the palace, | a wonderful prey.’ … With such a catastrophe as this the expedition of Crassus is said to have closed, just like a tragedy.21 Crassus’ head replaces Pentheus’ head in the hands of Agave. Thus, Plutarch provides the reader with an interpretative key to the story of the Parthian campaign. Why exactly is Crassus being compared here to Pentheus? In Euripides’ Bacchae, Pentheus is a king who believes his opposition to the ‘maddened god’ to be rational, and yet he shows political stupidity. He ignores the advice of both the wise prophet Tiresias and Cadmus, an experienced ruler, not to mention the opinions expressed by his ordinary subjects. Despite the miraculous signs worked by Dionysus, Pentheus stubbornly denies his divinity. This is why the king’s behaviour is being constantly opposed to true wisdom throughout the play.22 In his folly, Pentheus commits hybris against Dionysus which is, of course, followed by nemesis: deceived by the god who pretends to be his friend, the king puts on the bacchant garb and goes to the mountains to spy on the maenads, where he meets his fate. Just as Lycurgus in Plutarch’s How to Study Poetry 15e, Euripides’ Pentheus could have easily saved himself by receiving Dionysus into his polis as well as by finding means to make the god’s maddening influence bearable and advantageous. But, like Plutarch’s Lycurgus in On Moral Virtue 451c, Pentheus mistakes the zealotry of political reason for political wisdom. If the state is a crater that needs two opposing elements, wine and water, then Pentheus’ (and Lycurgus’) state, politically rational to the point of self-destruction, is a crater filled with water to the rim ‒ there is no room for even a drop of the sceptical Dionysiac wisdom in it. This is why

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the chorus in Bacchae 395 comments on Pentheus’ behaviour with the words: ‘wisdom is not what is wise’ (τὸ σοφὸν δ' οὐ σοφία). Crassus is not a leader who makes wrong decisions throughout the whole Life. Quite the contrary: at first he is depicted as a talented politician and a successful general, even if he is too money-grubbing.23 But at a certain point there comes a drastic change: just like Pentheus, Crassus does not cultivate political wisdom while at the same time firmly believing himself to be infallible. First, he becomes obsessed with the ‘trophies and triumphs’ (14.5 τροπαίων καὶ θριάμβων) which he envies Caesar. Soon afterwards, when Crassus is elected consul for the second time, things turn even worse (16.1‒2): Among strangers and in public he could scarcely hold his peace, while to his intimates he made many empty and youthful boasts which ill became his years and his disposition, for he had been anything but boastful or bombastic before this. But now, being altogether exalted and out of his senses (ἐπηρμένος κομιδῇ καὶ διεφθαρμένος), he would not consider Syria nor even Parthia as the boundaries of his success, but thought to make the campaigns of Lucullus against Tigranes and those of Pompey against Mithridates seem mere child’s play, and flew on the wings of his hopes as far as Bactria and India and the Outer Sea (ἄχρι Βακτρίων καὶ Ἰνδῶν καὶ τῆς ἔξω θαλάσσης).24 Crassus is now so conceited and hubristic that he loses touch with reality. He makes grandiose plans to conquer India and to reach the Outer Ocean, that is, the ends of the world.25 This is, of course, a reference to Alexander the Great,26 but at the same time also to Dionysus’ Indian campaign: ancient authors, including Plutarch, emphasise that Alexander wished to emulate Dionysus27 and indeed – as has been shown elsewhere in this volume28 – from Hellenistic times onwards, Alexander’s conquests were perceived as following in the footsteps of Dionysus. Seen in this light, Crassus’ obsession with triumphs, too, is significant, as Dionysus was believed to be the inventor of the triumph and the first triumphator.29 This invites us to think that Plutarch, long before Crassus’ head is used in the gruesome staging of the Bacchae, wants the reader to see the Roman politician as challenging Dionysus (like Pentheus did!), which – in the context of what was said about the state as crater in the first part of this chapter – means that in his folly Crassus no longer recognises the basic truth that effective leadership is about seeking due balance – in this particular case between personal and communal interests. And indeed, while making his far-fetched military plans, Crassus stops caring about his community. He sets out on his Parthian campaign against the will of the Roman people, who oppose the war as pointless and unjust (16.4).30 From that moment on, Crassus is ever more similar to Pentheus, a leader convinced of his own infallibility who wants to exercise his will at all cost: he continues to ignore the divine warnings and pays no attention to

The state as crater 109 the good advice of his friends, while himself being deceived by his false friends.31 When Crassus meets the Parthian army, it looks like a thiasos of maenads is playing tympana, and wearing skins and long robes.32 Surena, the Parthian general, looks effeminate, but at the same time is a formidable warrior and a skilful trickster.33 In order to lure Crassus into a trap, Surena sends him a message saying that he and his men are waiting ‘without armour and without iron’ (31.2 ἀνόπλους καὶ ἀσιδήρους) – an obvious lie but also a clear allusion to Bacchae 736, where the bacchants fight with ‘an iron-free hand’ (χειρὸς ἀσιδήρου μέτα, cf. 1104). The allusion is all the more evident as in Table Talk 614a Plutarch refers to the bacchants in exactly the same way, ἄνοπλοι καὶ ἀσίδηροι, evidently with Ba. 736 in mind.34 The sequence of parallels with Euripides does not stop with Crassus’ death. Right after it, the Parthians organise a mocking triumph in which they lead a double of Crassus dressed as a woman (32.1‒3). Apart from hinting at Pentheus’ female dress and his deluded expectations of victory over the bacchants (Ba. 965‒970),35 this scene is the direct opposite of the triumphs Crassus dreamed about: instead of triumphing, he is triumphed over, and ridiculed at that. Thus, hybris against Dionysus is met with retribution in the most Dionysiac form. This is further confirmed when Crassus’ head is brought on stage instead of Pentheus’ mask. Because of his stubbornness and political stupidity, Crassus’ campaign ends ‘in an inglorious death and public calamities’ (14.5 εἰς ὄλεθρον ἀκλεῆ καὶ δημοσίας συμφοράς).36 The leader’s blindness, just like that of Pentheus, makes his community suffer.37 In order to portray this type of statesmanship, Plutarch depicts Crassus as a Roman Pentheus, a seemingly rational enemy of the Dionysiac wisdom, the force which Plutarch understands as necessary to bring stability to the state. If we return to the metaphor of the state as crater so liked by Plutarch, we may say that Crassus’ crater is filled with nothing but water, that is, with liquid that mixes well with wine but that cannot provide a well-balanced mixture on its own.

Antony: nothing but wine Unlike Crassus, Mark Antony cannot be called an enemy of the Dionysiac. Through the whole Life, Antony is strongly associated with symposium and theatre which, needless to say, are both presided over by Dionysus.38 Also, from the very beginning, this association is marked by great immoderation.39 Day and night, Antony surrounds himself with actors (the technitai of Dionysus) and musicians.40 He loves spending time at theatrical shows and allnight drinking parties. He is also a womaniser. Moreover, at some point in his career, Antony starts actually posing as Dionysus himself. His entry to Ephesus is staged as a Dionysiac procession with all its distinctive features (24.4‒5): Women arrayed like bacchants, and men and boys like satyrs and Pans, led the way before him, and the city was full of ivy and thyrsi and harps

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Filip Doroszewski and pipes and flutes, the people hailing him as Dionysus Giver of Joy and Beneficent (Χαριδότην καὶ Μειλίχιον). For he was such, undoubtedly, to some; but to the greater part he was Dionysus Carnivorous and Savage (Ὠμηστὴς καὶ Ἀγριώνιος).41

The credibility of Antony’s Dionysiac persona is immediately called into question by the observation that the leader’s kindness was shown to a few, whereas many suffered at his hands. Dionysus is a god who expects worship from all but also bestows his gifts on all42; he is both Giver of Joy and Beneficent as well as Carnivorous and Savage in equal measure. While mentioning these epithets that point to two completely opposite (yet complementary) aspects of Dionysus, Plutarch surely has in mind Euripides’ words (Ba. 859‒861) about the god being at the same time the most gentle (ἠπιώτατος) but also the most terrible (δεινότατος).43 If Antony embodies here the Dionysiac, Plutarch seems to say, he represents mostly the dark and cruel side of it.44 Thus, in keeping with his general approach to the Dionysiac, so too the way in which Antony tries to impersonate Dionysus is excessive and lacks balance. Antony’s lack of moderation enters the final stage with his relationship with Cleopatra, which is qualified by Plutarch as the ‘ultimate evil’ (25.1 τελευταῖον κακόν). This relationship roused and drove to frenzy (ἀναβακχεύσας) many of the passions that were still hidden and quiescent in him, and dissipated and destroyed whatever good and saving qualities still offered resistance.45 Given the Dionysiac context of Antony, it is not by chance that the only occurrence of ἀναβακχεύω ‘drive into Bacchic frenzy’ in the Life appears when Plutarch describes Cleopatra’s destructive influence on Antony. Antony’s love of excess that Plutarch keeps connecting to the Dionysiac reaches the point of no return on the road to perdition. When the war between Antony and the young Octavian is about to begin, there comes a series of omens. One of them is particularly significant in the context of Antony’s identification with Dionysus (60.5). At Athens the Dionysus in the Battle of the Giants was dislodged by the winds and carried down into the theatre. Now, Antony associated himself … with Dionysus in the mode of life which he adopted, … and he was called the New Dionysus.46 For the Greeks, the gigantomachy, that is, the cosmic battle between gods and Titans, was one of the most important myths narrating how the order of the universe was established. Dionysus, son of Zeus and the protector of his order, played an essential role in the battle.47 According to Pausanias (1.25.1), a sculpture representing the gigantomachy presented by Attalus I,

The state as crater 111 the king of Pergamum, was located on the south wall of the Acropolis. Below stood the Theatre of Dionysus, and this is exactly where the god’s figure was thrown down by the wind.48 Without doubt, this is meant by Plutarch as a presage of things to come: Antony will fall just as the figure of Dionysus did. It nevertheless calls for a deeper analysis. Against the background of the mythical fight against the Titans, the forces of chaos, in which Dionysus was involved, Antony, a poor substitute of the god despite using the grand title of Neos Dionysos, must be seen as a leader unable to establish any durable order. Contrary to the Dionysiac pose he adopted, Antony represents here rather the Titanic element, whereas Octavian is the one who restores harmony to the world. The foretold fall of Antony takes place in Alexandria when his army is besieged by Octavian’s forces. On the last night of the war and hours before Antony’s death, a sudden epiphany of Dionysus occurs. The god manifests himself with his melodious thiasos in the middle of Alexandria and subsequently leaves the city (74.4‒6). During this night, it is said, about the middle of it, while the city was quiet and depressed through fear and expectation of what was coming, suddenly certain harmonious sounds from all sorts of instruments were heard, and the shouting of a throng, accompanied by cries of Bacchic revelry and satyric leapings, as if a troop of revellers, making a great tumult, were going forth from the city; and their course seemed to lie about through the middle of the city toward the outer gate which faced the enemy, at which point the tumult became loudest and then dashed out. Those who sought the meaning of the sign were of the opinion that the god to whom Antony always most likened and attached himself was now deserting him.49 Dionysus, whose true nature was so poorly understood by his ardent follower, this time abandons Antony not in figure – as happened at the Athenian acropolis – but in person. Interestingly, the god does not leave unnoticed: quite the opposite – his parting is set within a specific space. In fact, Dionysus does not go into the unknown, he leaves the city through ‘the outer gate which faced the enemy’ (τὴν πύλην ἔξω τὴν τετραμμένην πρὸς τοὺς πολεμίους); thus, he not only abandons Antony but also goes to join Octavian. This chimes well with the mythical background given by Plutarch to the omen foretelling the outcome of the war between the two leaders: the god takes the side of Octavian, who will soon bring order back to the state. As we have shown, to Plutarch the Dionysiac is a force that can be accepted only in a moderated form; otherwise, it proves destructive. Antony, however, is a leader who wants to replace daily existence with Bacchic revelry. His model of the state is a crater filled with nothing but wine. But this simply cannot work; in the end, Antony the New Dionysus turns out to be just a false Dionysus deluded and abandoned by the true one.

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Caesar: wine mixed with water The Dionysiac imagery in both Crassus and Antony has attracted a lot of attention from scholars.50 By contrast, the Dionysiac motifs in Plutarch’s Caesar have been largely ignored. Unlike in the two previous works, in which the motifs serve the author to tell a story of political vices, the Dionysiac references in Caesar contribute to a positive image of the leader. Given the limited space, we cannot discuss all the references in the Life.51 Instead, we will focus on the allusions to the so-called Orphic myth of Dionysus Zagreus in which the god is enthroned by Zeus as the new ruler of the universe but then is torn apart by the Titans before he can rule.52 The first passage in which the myth is very clearly alluded to tells about the mysteries of the Bona Dea (or Good Goddess) celebrated in Caesar’s house by his wife and mother (9.4‒6). The Romans have a goddess whom they call ‘the Good Goddess’. …The Greeks regard her as one of the mothers of Dionysus, the one it is forbidden to name (τὴν ἄρρητον). That is the origin of the custom of covering the tents with vine branches during the festival, and a sacred snake sits by the goddess, just as the myth (τὸν μῦθον) says. No man is allowed to come to the festival, nor even to be in the same house when the rites are celebrated. Instead the women are left by themselves, and it is said that many of their rites are similar to Orphic ritual.53 The mother of Dionysus whom it is forbidden to name (τὴν ἄρρητον) is, of course, Persephone (Kore), whom Euripides calls ἄρρητος κόρη (‘unspeakable girl’).54 According to the Orphic tradition, Zeus took the form of a snake and raped his mother Rhea/Demeter, who gave birth to Persephone.55 She too was raped by Zeus, also in the form of a snake, and Dionysus Zagreus was conceived through this act of incest.56 This is why Plutarch mentions ‘a sacred snake’ as well as ‘the myth’ (τὸν μῦθον) which obviously is the Orphic myth. This is further confirmed by the similarity between the Bona Dea and Orphic rites that is immediately emphasised. There can be no doubt, then, that Plutarch wants the reader to see the mysteries of the Bona Dea as that of the mother of Zagreus, the son of Zeus destined to rule the world. It is worth noting at this point that in Plutarch’s eyes Caesar was a suitable candidate for governing Rome as a sole ruler. Moreover, in Comparison of Dion and Brutus 2.2, Plutarch admits that in the final years of the republic Caesar was given this particular role by divine providence: ‘it seemed as if the circumstances were calling for monarchy, and Caesar was Heaven’s own gift (ὑπ’ αὐτοῦ τοῦ δαίμονος) to Rome as the gentlest possible doctor’.57 In this light, it is hardly accidental that Plutarch alludes to the myth of Zagreus while narrating the story of the Bona Dea ritual held in Caesar’s house. We should rather assume that in this way Plutarch wants to draw a parallel between the fates of the Orphic Dionysus and Caesar.

The state as crater 113 The Zagreus myth is hinted at again upon crossing the Rubicon, a turning point in Caesar’s political career that led to his assumption of sole power over Rome. On the night before the crossing, greatly distressed, Caesar has a ‘monstrous’ (ἔκθεσμος) dream (32.9): ‘it seemed to him that he was lying with his own mother ‒ the unspeakable union (τῇ ἑαυτοῦ μητρὶ μείγνυσθαι τὴν ἄρρητον μεῖξιν)’.58 The incestuous dream should certainly be linked to Caesar’s plans of attacking and dominating the Mother Republic.59 Still, it is interesting to look closer at the wording of the sentence, as this is not the first time in the Life when the words ἄρρητος ‘unspeakable’ and μήτηρ ‘mother’ occur close together. As we have seen, earlier they related to Persephone, the ‘unspeakable mother’ of Dionysus, in the passage on the Bona Dea mysteries where incest, inherent in the Orphic myth, was again alluded to. Divine incest is one of the central motifs in the Orphic Hymns.60 The adjective ἄρρητος there qualifies Zeus’ incestuous relations with both Rhea/ Demeter and Persephone, the unspeakable nature of which is a secret of the mystery cult.61 As for the term μεῖξις/μίξις employed by Plutarch for Caesar’s intercourse with his mother, in Greek ritual it refers – contrary to γάμος – to relationships the gods have outside legal marriage, and more specifically to divine rape.62 The divine rape is a forced intercourse between gods under a zoomorphic form, always connected with mysteries. The fact that divine incest and rape were sanctioned by Greek religion met fierce criticism from Church Fathers. It is scarcely accidental that one of the two occurrences of ἄρρητος μίξις with sexual connotation outside Plutarch is found in the Christian apologist Theophilus of Antioch (second century AD), who censures the Greek gods for their ‘incestuous unions’ (ἐν ἀρρήτοις μίξεσιν).63 Athenagoras, another second-century apologist, employs a combination of μείγνυμι ‘to have intercourse’ and μίξις ‘intercourse’ that makes one think of Plutarch’s μείγνυσθαι τὴν … μεῖξιν, when he speaks of forced incest between Zeus and both Rhea/Demeter and Persephone (Leg. 20.3): [Pagan writers have written] that Zeus pursued his mother Rhea when she resisted marriage with him; that when she became a serpent, he likewise turned himself into a serpent, entangled her in the so-called knot of Heracles, and had intercourse (ἐμίγη) with her (the rod of Hermes is a symbol of that kind of union [τῆς μίξεως]); then that he had intercourse (ἐμίγη) with his daughter Persephone, violating (βιασάμενος) her also in the form of a serpent, and so having his son Dionysus by her.64 Seen in this light, Plutarch’s phrase μείγνυσθαι τὴν ἄρρητον μεῖξιν can be interpreted at two levels, each of them intended by the author: literally speaking, Ceasar’ μίξις with his mother is ἄρρητος in the sense that incest was seen as an unspeakably immoral act in ancient society.65 But there is

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also an allusive meaning conveyed there: Plutarch – just when Caesar is taking a decisive step towards dictatorship – makes another reference to the Orphic myth, thus hinting at both Caesar’s future power and his fate. The allusions to the Zagreus myth reach a powerful climax with the scene of Caesar’s violent death at the senate meeting on the Ides of March. On that day, the senators meet in the Theatre of Pompey, and a group of them led by Brutus stab Caesar to death (66.5‒13): As Caesar came in, the senate rose as a mark of respect … As for the conspirators, they gathered round, each brandishing a naked blade. Caesar was surrounded … He was run through like some wild beast (θηρίον), rolling to and fro in everyone’s hands, for each person there needed to begin the sacrifice and taste of the slaughter (κατάρξασθαι καὶ γεύσασθαι τοῦ φόνου). … He fell by the pedestal on which Pompey’s statue stood … It was drenched in streams of blood (πολὺς καθῄμαξεν αὐτὴν ὁ φόνος), so that it gave the impression that Pompey himself had presided over the vengeance inflicted on his enemy, lying there beneath his feet, still writhing convulsively from his many wounds (ὑπὸ πλήθους τραυμάτων).66 The passage is rich in sacrificial imagery.67 In the ritual context, κατάρχομαι is a technical term for beginning the sacrificial ceremony, while φόνος may stand for the blood of a sacrifice.68 Thus, Caesar is not only like a hunteddown wild beast (θηρίον), but he also can be seen as a sacrificial animal being offered by the conspirators, who act as if they were priests and – as the word ἔδει ‘there was need to’ suggests – as if they were ‘bonded by this ritual’.69 Moreover, there is even the altar-like pedestal of Pompey’s statue by which wounded Caesar falls on the ground and which is all splashed with the blood of the victim (πολὺς καθῄμαξεν αὐτὴν ὁ φόνος). That Plutarch is alluding to an altar is all the more clear, as in Greek sacrificial ritual, animal’s blood had to gush on the altar or to be sprinkled over it.70 As a matter of fact, the verb καθαιμάσσω ‘to sprinkle with blood’ that Plutarch employs is a synonymous compound of αἱμάσσω, a sacrificial term for making the altar bloody.71 Another detail that further contributes to the ritual setting is the fact that the conspirators hide their daggers until the last moment: the Greek sacrificer did the same while approaching the victim.72 Interestingly, an even closer examination of the wording can reveal what particular ritual Plutarch has in mind when relating Caesar’s death. A strong hint is buried in the expression γεύσασθαι τοῦ φόνου ‘to taste of the slaughter’. A similar combination of γεύομαι ‘to taste’ with φόνος ‘slaughter, blood’ occurs elsewhere in Plutarch only twice. The first instance is On the Intelligence of Animals 959d that blames the practice of hunting for accustoming people to ‘savagery that learned the taste of slaughter’ (τὴν ἀγριότητα γευσαμένην φόνου).73 If we remember that Caesar is likened to a hunted animal in the assassination scene, it is easy to understand what led

The state as crater 115 to the association between the two passages. Still, much more revealing is the other occurrence of the combination, On Meat-Eating 996c, where it refers to sparagmos performed on Zagreus by the Titans. The stories told about the sufferings and dismemberment of Dionysus and the outrageous assaults of the Titans upon him, and their punishment and blasting by thunderbolt after they had tasted his blood (γευσαμένων τοῦ φόνου) ‒ all this is a myth which in its inner meaning has to do with rebirth.74 Given the allusions to the Zagreus myth purposely made earlier in the Life, there is no reason to doubt that this one is also intended by Plutarch. According to the myth, when Zagreus becomes the ruler of the cosmos, he is attacked by the Titans, who dismember him with knives75 in a ritual act of sparagmos and ‘taste his blood’ as Plutarch has it in On Meat-Eating 996c.76 Plutarch depicts the historical event of Caesar’s assassination as a re-enactment of the mythical crime of the Titans. Upon entering the senate meeting on the Ides of March, Caesar is a newly proclaimed dictator for life (see Caes. 57.1‒2) and thus the ruler of Rome. When the conspirators attack with their daggers, Caesar receives many wounds under a hail of blows struck in a ritualistic manner. As a result, his body is utterly disfigured (see 68.1 τὸ σῶμα … διαλελωβημένον). In a perverted ritual similar to that performed by the Titans, the attackers ‘taste blood’ (γεύσασθαι τοῦ φόνου) of Caesar who dies a sudden and violent death, just as Zagreus does. In order to fully grasp the parallel drawn in the Life between Caesar and Zagreus, we need to come back to the opinion of Caesar’s dictatorship expressed by Plutarch in Comparison of Dion and Brutus 2.2. Caesar’s rule caused some considerable trouble for its opponents while it was being established, but once people had accepted it and been defeated it seemed no more than a name and a semblance, with no consequences that were cruel or tyrannical (τυραννικόν). Indeed, it seemed as if the circumstances were calling for monarchy (μοναρχίας), and Caesar was Heaven’s own (ὑπ’ αὐτοῦ τοῦ δαίμονος) gift to Rome as the gentlest possible doctor (ὥσπερ πρᾳότατος ἰατρὸς).77 Despite the ultimate power that Caesar had, he did not become a tyrant. Quite the contrary: he turned out to be ‘the gentlest possible doctor’ (πρᾳότατος ἰατρός) sent by heaven to cure Rome’s ills. By this comparison, Plutarch evokes the idea of a just monarch that is discussed by Plato in the fourth book of his Laws. To illustrate the way of introducing effective legislation, Plato uses a metaphor of curing children (720a): they ask the doctor (ἰατροῦ) to apply the gentlest possible means (τὸν πρᾳότατον … τρόπον). A physician providing coercive treatment only would act as a stubborn tyrant (720c καθάπερ τύραννος αὐθαδῶς). A good doctor,

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however, can mix compulsion with persuasion (720e). This is also how a just monarch and a good lawgiver should act (722b‒c). To Plutarch, Caesar is just such a ruler. He effectively mixes force with benevolence and thus restores stability to the state by putting an end to the political turmoil of the late Republic. As we have seen, according to Plutarch, maintaining balance in political life is purely Dionysiac in nature. Caesar carries out this Dionysiac mission by engaging the Titanic forces represented first and foremost by Pompey – it is not by accident that the victory over him is directly preceded by Caesar’s great Bacchic procession from Gomphi to Pharsalus (Caes. 41.8).78 But, just like in the myth, Caesar–Zagreus must finally yield to the Titans, Brutus and the other assassins, and – quite unsurprisingly – Pompey’s statue provides an altar for their perverted sacrifice. Thus, Caesar dies the death of Zagreus, the paradigmatic just ruler destined to bring harmony to the universe.79 In other words, we may say that Caesar is a leader who fills the crater of Rome with the proper mixture of water and wine.

Conclusion Paying attention to the ‘Dionysiac diagnostics’ – to use a phrase coined by Christopher Pelling80 – proves very effective in understanding what Plutarch has to say about the political virtues and vices of Crassus, Antony and Caesar – three Roman leaders who fought for power in the final years of the Republic. The Dionysiac, understood as the ability to keep the community in balance, becomes a touchstone against which Plutarch measures their leadership skills. Both Crassus and Antony, although exceptionally talented, failed to harmonise their goals with that of their community and fell prey to their own selfish desires. Crassus, blinded by an irresistible ambition to cover himself in military glory, goes against the will of the people and exposes his army to destruction, ending up as a Roman Pentheus. Contrary to (blindly) active Crassus, Antony – as the excessive Dionysiac tendencies are gradually taking control over his personality – is increasingly passive: permanent contact with the undiluted Dionysiac makes him too intoxicated to lead. Compared to the two politicians, Caesar comes somewhere in the middle of the scale. He pursues his goals without losing touch with reality. Determined yet tolerant, he is a ruler but not a tyrant. Finally, he gives Rome stability when it is needed the most. But Plutarch finds Dionysus good to think with not only to make moral judgements. No doubt, the ‘Dionysiac diagnostics’ are also an important part of Plutarch’s theological reflection on the history and identity of the Roman Empire. If we remember that to Plutarch the Empire was established by providence,81 it is easier to see in the Lives the cosmic drama which is reenacted in the turbulent events of the declining Republic. Caesar, the image of Zagreus on earth, is given his Dionysiac mission of struggling against the Titanic forces of chaos by heaven. Importantly, when he dies, the mission

The state as crater 117 does not end with his death. As Plutarch says in On Meat-Eating 996c, the ‘inner meaning’ of the Zagreus myth ‘has to do with rebirth’. And indeed, the gigantomachic battle to restore order in Rome is continued by Octavian. The Titans, both the assassins of Caesar and those who oppose his adopted son, fall one after another – the last of them, Antony, in Alexandria. There Dionysus openly takes Octavian’s side (as it may be inferred from Ant. 74.4‒6) – a clear sign of support for the rising empire.82 Now, after Caesar–Zagreus’ death, the young Caesar is Dionysus reborn, and the aetiology and teleology of his new political project are explicable within the paradigm of the Dionysiac myth. The assassination of Caesar does not sound the death knell for Rome’s salvation: quite the reverse – it lays the foundation of the new Rome. In On the E at Delphi 389a, the passage mentioned at the beginning of this chapter, Plutarch explicitly links the dismemberment of Zagreus with the divisions and transformations that are necessary for the further existence of the universe. With this in mind, it is perhaps not excessively hyperbolic to say that Caesar does not die – he just transforms into the Empire.

Notes 1 This chapter is part of a research project on Dionysus and the religious policy of the Roman emperors (2bH 15 0163 83) that was generously financed by the Polish Ministry of Science and Higher Education in the years 2016‒2019 within the National Programme for the Development of Humanities.I would like to express my gratitude to Katarzyna Jażdżewska, Dariusz Karłowicz, Jan Kozłowski and Fiachra Mac Góráin for their careful reading and suggestions. 2 See other chapters in this volume, and especially those by Isler-Kerényi, Karłowicz, Stoneman, Pailler, Mac Góráin, Poloczek and Hernández de la Fuente. 3 This perhaps has been best documented by the bulky volume Montes Cala, Sánchez Ortiz de Landaluce and Gallé Cejudo 1999. For a more recent study, see Mossman 2016. 4 On Dionysus as the keeper of the order of Zeus, see Isler-Kerényi in this volume and also 2007, 65‒105. 5 De E 388f‒389d. On this passage, see also Chlup 2000, 141‒142. 6 Cf. the Eros/Ares polarity in Plutarch’s Amatorius, see Jażdżewska 2020. 7 E.g. Sept. sap. conv. 156c‒d and 158c, Cons. ad ux. 610a, Quaest. conv. 621c. Φιλία is one of the key terms in Greek political thought, see e.g. Rhodes 2008 (Plato); Salkever 2008 (Aristotle). 8 See Teodorsson 1999; Stadter 1999. 9 Pl. Lg. 773d οὐ γὰρ ῥᾴδιον ἐννοεῖν ὅτι πόλιν εἶναι δεῖ δίκην κρατῆρος κεκραμένην, οὗ μαινόμενος μὲν οἶνος ἐγκεχυμένος ζεῖ, κολαζόμενος δὲ ὑπὸ νήφοντος ἑτέρου θεοῦ καλὴν κοινωνίαν λαβὼν ἀγαθὸν πῶμα καὶ μέτριον ἀπεργάζεται. Tr. R. Bury, slightly changed. 10 Direct quotations: De aud. poet. 15e; An seni 791b; fr. 210. The passage is hinted at e.g. in Cat. Ma. 27.2‒4. 11 Hunter and Russell 2011, 2 think that the work was written in the early 80s of the first century AD. 12 Hunter and Russell 2011, 3. In Plutarch’s An seni 796d, philosophy is naturally bound up with engaging in politics (ὅμοιον δ᾽ ἐστὶ τῷ φιλοσοφεῖν τὸ

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πολιτεύεσθαι), see Xenophontos 2016, 142. Also, Plutarch is here challenging Plato’s views on poetry, and these were strictly political. On the dialogue Plutarch holds with Plato in De aud. poet., see Hunter and Russell 2011, 3‒9. Plut. De aud. poet. 15e οὐδὲ γὰρ οὐδὲ Δρύαντος υἱὸς κρατερὸς Λυκόοργος ὑγιαίνοντα νοῦν εἶχεν, ὅτι πολλῶν μεθυσκομένων καὶ παροινούντων τὰς ἀμπέλους περιιὼν ἐξέκοπτεν ἀντὶ τοῦ τὰς κρήνας ἐγγυτέρω προσαγαγεῖν καὶ ‘μαινόμενον’ θεόν, ὥς φησιν ὁ Πλάτων, ‘ἑτέρῳ θεῷ νήφοντι κολαζόμενον’ σωφρονίζειν. ἀφαιρεῖ γὰρ ἡ κρᾶσις τοῦ οἴνου τὸ βλάπτον, οὐ συναναιροῦσα τὸ χρήσιμον. μηδ’ ἡμεῖς οὖν τὴν ποιητικὴν ἡμερίδα τῶν Μουσῶν ἐκκόπτωμεν μηδ’ ἀφανίζωμεν, ἀλλ’ ὅπου μὲν ὑφ’ ἡδονῆς ἀκράτου πρὸς δόξαν αὐθάδως θρασυνόμενον ἐξυβρίζει καὶ ὑλομανεῖ τὸ μυθῶδες αὐτῆς καὶ θεατρικόν, ἐπιλαμβανόμενοι κολούωμεν καὶ πιέζωμεν. Tr. F. Babbit. See e.g. Apollod. 3.35, Hyg. Fab. 132. See Hunter and Russell 2011, 80‒81. For the discussion on the date, see Swain 1991, 320‒321. Plut. An seni 791b‒c διὸ καὶ τῶν νέων ἕνεκα δεῖ, καθάπερ εἴρηται, πολιτεύεσθαι τὸν πρεσβύτην, ἵνα, ὃν τρόπον φησὶ Πλάτων ἐπὶ τοῦ μιγνυμένου πρὸς ὕδωρ ἀκράτου, μαινόμενον θεὸν ἑτέρῳ θεῷ νήφοντι σωφρονίζεσθαι κολαζόμενον, οὕτως εὐλάβεια γεροντικὴ κεραννυμένη πρὸς ζέουσαν ἐν δήμῳ νεότητα, βακχεύουσαν ὑπὸ δόξης καὶ φιλοτιμίας, ἀφαιρῇ τὸ μανικὸν καὶ λίαν ἄκρατον. Tr. H. Fowler. Plut. fr. 210 Sandbach νέοις δὲ ζηλωτέον τοὺς γέροντας… καθάπερ φησὶν ὁ Πλάτων ἐπὶ τοῦ μιγνυμένου πρὸς ὕδωρ ἀκράτου μαινόμενον θεὸν ἑτέρῳ θεῷ νήφοντι σωφρονίζεσθαι. As Sandbach 1969, 385 note c observes, the fragment may be an abbreviated extract from An seni 790f‒791b. Pelling 1979, 74‒83. For a detailed discussion, see Braund 1993; Zadorojniy 1997. See also Mossman 2014, 444‒446; Chrysanthou 2018, 116‒118. Plut. Crass. 33.3‒7 τῆς δὲ κεφαλῆς τοῦ Κράσσου κομισθείσης ἐπὶ θύρας… τραγῳδιῶν δ’ ὑποκριτὴς Ἰάσων ὄνομα Τραλλιανὸς ᾖδεν Εὐριπίδου Βακχῶν τὰ περὶ τὴν Ἀγαύην. εὐδοκιμοῦντος δ’ αὐτοῦ, Σιλάκης ἐπιστὰς τῷ ἀνδρῶνικαὶ προσκυνήσας, προὔβαλεν εἰς μέσον τοῦ Κράσσου τὴν κεφαλήν. … ὁ δ’ Ἰάσων τὰ μὲν τοῦ Πενθέως σκευοποιήματα παρέδωκέ τινι τῶν χορευτῶν, τῆς δὲ τοῦ Κράσσου κεφαλῆς λαβόμενος καὶ ἀναβακχεύσας ἐπέραινεν ἐκεῖνα τὰ μέλη μετ’ ἐνθουσιασμοῦ καὶ ᾠδῆς ‘φέρομεν ἐξ ὄρεος | ἕλικα νεότομον ἐπὶ μέλαθρα, | μακάριον θήραμα’. … εἰς τοιοῦτόν φασιν ἐξόδιον τὴν Κράσσου στρατηγίαν ὥσπερ τραγῳδίαν τελευτῆσαι. Tr. B. Perrin, adapted. See Seaford in this volume p. xx. Braund 1993, 472. Plut. Crass. 16.1‒2 μόλις ἐν ἀλλοτρίοις καὶ πολλοῖς ἡσυχίαν ἄγειν, πρὸς δὲ τοὺς συνήθεις πολλὰ κενὰ καὶ μειρακιώδη λέγειν παρ’ ἡλικίαν τὴν ἑαυτοῦ καὶ φύσιν, ἥκιστα κομπαστὴς ἢ σοβαρὸς ἐν τῷ βίῳ γεγονώς. τότε δ’ ἐπηρμένος κομιδῇ καὶ διεφθαρμένος, οὐ Συρίαν οὐδὲ Πάρθους ὅρον ἐποιεῖτο τῆς εὐπραξίας, ἀλλ’ ὡς παιδιὰν ἀποφανῶν τὰ Λευκόλλου πρὸς Τιγράνην καὶ Πομπηίου πρὸς Μιθριδάτην, ἄχρι Βακτρίων καὶ Ἰνδῶν καὶ τῆς ἔξω θαλάσσης ἀνῆγεν ἑαυτὸν ταῖς ἐλπίσι. Tr. B. Perrin. See also Nic.-Crass. 4.2, cf. ibid. 2.7. Stoneman 2004, 61 about Alexander’s expedition to India: ‘The geographical conceptions of the time made it possible to believe that India represented the last land before the encircling Ocean, so that an invasion of India would constitute a conquest of the entire world to the east of Greece’. Zadorojniy 1997, 173. See e.g. Curt. 9.10.24, Plin. Nat. 4.18, Plut. De fort. Rom. 326b and De Al. Magn. fort. 322b, Arr. An. 5.2. For a detailed discussion on Alexander and Dionysus, see Stoneman in this volume.

The state as crater 119 28 See chapters by Stoneman, Mac Góráin and Poloczek in this volume. 29 E.g. D.S. 4.5, Plin. Nat. 7.57, Arr. An. 6.28. See Versnel 1970, 235‒254; Beard 2007, 315‒318. See also Braund 1993, 473. 30 Braund 1993, 474; Zadorojniy 1997, 173. 31 Braund 1993, 472; Zadorojniy 1997, 173‒174. 32 Braund 1993, 472; Zadorojniy 1997, 176‒177. 33 Braund 1993, 473, Zadorojniy 1997, 175‒176. 34 See Teodorsson 1989, 50. 35 Braund 1993, 473. On Pentheus’ desire to triumph over the bacchae, see Dodds 1960, 196‒197; Seaford 1996, 226‒227. 36 Tr. B. Perrin. 37 Braund 1993, 474. 38 On theatre in the Life, see Pelling 1988, 21‒22. 39 See e.g. Plut. Ant. 2.4, 2.8 and 9.5‒7. 40 On the technitai, see Pelling 1988, 257‒258. 41 Plut. Ant. 24.4‒5 γυναῖκες μὲν εἰς Βάκχας, ἄνδρες δὲ καὶ παῖδες εἰς Σατύρους καὶ Πᾶνας ἡγοῦντο διεσκευασμένοι, κιττοῦ δὲ καὶ θύρσων καὶ ψαλτηρίων καὶ συρίγγων καὶ αὐλῶν ἡ πόλις ἦν πλέα, Διόνυσον αὐτὸν ἀνακαλουμένων Χαριδότην καὶ Μειλίχιον. ἦν γὰρ ἀμέλει τοιοῦτος ἐνίοις, τοῖς δὲ πολλοῖς Ὠμηστὴς καὶ Ἀγριώνιος. Tr. B. Perrin, slightly adapted. On the passage, see Pelling 1988, 179‒181 and also Mac Góráin in this volume. 42 In Eur. Ba. 208‒209 Tiresias says that Dionysus ἐξ ἁπάντων βούλεται τιμὰς ἔχειν | κοινάς, διαριθμῶν δ’ οὐδέν’ αὔξεσθαι θέλει. Then, in 421‒423, the chorus asserts that the god ἴσαν δ’ ἔς τε τὸν ὄλβιον | τόν τε χείρονα δῶκ’ ἔχειν | οἴνου τέρψιν ἄλυπον. See Dodds 1960, 127‒128; Seaford 1996, 184‒185. 43 Eur. Ba. 859‒861. What makes it is even more plausible that the passage is on Plutarch’s mind here is the fact that it is clearly alluded to in Demetrius, which is paired with Antony, in which Demetrius (2.3) ‘used to make Dionysus his pattern, more than any other deity, since this god was most terrible (δεινότατον) in waging war, and on the other hand most skilful (ἐμμελέστατον), when war was over, in making peace minister to joy and pleasure (εὐφροσύνην καὶ χάριν)’; tr. B. Perrin. 44 Cf. Plut. Ad princ. iner. 781a ‘For God (ὁ θεός) visits his wrath upon those who imitate his thunders, lightnings, and sunbeams, but with those who emulate his virtue and make themselves like unto his goodness and mercy he is well pleased’. Tr. H.N. Fowler. 45 Plut. Ant. 25.1 πολλὰ τῶν ἔτι κρυπτομένων ἐν αὐτῷ καὶ ἀτρεμούντων παθῶν ἐγείρας καὶ ἀναβακχεύσας, εἴ τι χρηστὸν ἢ σωτήριον ὅμως ἀντεῖχεν, ἠφάνισε καὶ προσδιέφθειρεν. Tr. B. Perrin. See Pelling 1988, 184‒185 on the language here. 46 Plut. Ant. 60.5 καὶ τῆς Ἀθήνησι γιγαντομαχίας ὑπὸ πνευμάτων ὁ Διόνυσος ἐκσεισθεὶς εἰς τὸ θέατρον κατηνέχθη· προσῳκείου δ’ ἑαυτὸν Ἀντώνιος… Διονύσῳ κατὰ τὸν τοῦ βίου ζῆλον…, Διόνυσος νέος προσαγορευόμενος. Tr. B. Perrin. 47 See Isler-Kerényi in this volume and also 2010, passim. 48 Pelling 1988, 265. 49 Plut. Ant. 75.4‒6 Ἐν ταύτῃ τῇ νυκτὶ λέγεται, μεσούσης σχεδόν, ἐν ἡσυχίᾳ καὶ κατηφείᾳ τῆς πόλεως διὰ φόβον καὶ προσδοκίαν τοῦ μέλλοντος οὔσης, αἰφνίδιον ὀργάνων τε παντοδαπῶν ἐμμελεῖς τινας φωνὰς ἀκουσθῆναι καὶ βοὴν ὄχλου μετὰ εὐασμῶν καὶ πηδήσεων σατυρικῶν, ὥσπερ θιάσου τινὸς οὐκ ἀθορύβως ἐξελαύνοντος· εἶναι δὲ τὴν ὁρμὴν ὁμοῦ τι διὰ τῆς πόλεως μέσης ἐπὶ τὴν πύλην ἔξω τὴν τετραμμένην πρὸς τοὺς πολεμίους, καὶ ταύτῃ τὸν θόρυβον ἐκπεσεῖν πλεῖστον γενόμενον. ἐδόκει δὲ τοῖς ἀναλογιζομένοις τὸ σημεῖον ἀπολείπειν ὁ θεὸς Ἀντώνιον, ᾧ μάλιστα συνεξομοιῶν καὶ συνοικειῶν ἑαυτὸν διετέλεσεν. Tr. B. Perrin. On the passage, see Pelling 1988, 303‒304 and also Stoneman in this volume

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50 See e.g. Brenk 1992; Braund 1993; Zadorojniy 1997; Pelling 1999. 51 Among the references to Dionysus in the Life that are omitted (or only briefly mentioned) in this chapter, the following two should be mentioned in the first place: 41.8 (Caesar’s Dionysiac procession from Gomphi to Pharsalus, see Pelling 2011, 356) and 56.5 (Caesar’s victory at Munda on the feast of the Dionysia, see Pelling 2011, 418). 52 On the myth, see Job in this volume. 53 Plut. Caes. 9.4‒6 Ἔστι δὲ Ῥωμαίοις θεὸς ἣν Ἀγαθὴν ὀνομάζουσιν, …Ἕλληνες δὲ τῶν Διονύσου μητέρων τὴν ἄρρητον. ὅθεν ἀμπελίνοις τε τὰς σκηνὰς κλήμασιν ἑορτάζουσαι κατερέφουσι, καὶ δράκων ἱερὸς παρακαθίδρυται τῇ θεῷ κατὰ τὸν μῦθον. ἄνδρα δὲ προσελθεῖν οὐ θέμις οὐδ’ ἐπὶ τῆς οἰκίας γενέσθαι τῶν ἱερῶν ὀργιαζομένων, αὐταὶ δὲ καθ’ ἑαυτὰς αἱ γυναῖκες πολλὰ τοῖς Ὀρφικοῖς ὁμολογοῦντα δρᾶν λέγονται περὶ τὴν ἱερουργίαν. Tr. Ch. Pelling. 54 Eur. Hel. 1307 and Alex. fr. 63. Similarly, Carcinus in D.S. 5.5.1, cf. Pl. Cra. 404c‒e. Macrobius 1.12.23 says that the Bona Dea is identified also with Proserpina. See Turcan 1988; Brouwer 1989, 341. 55 See e.g. Meisner 2018, 36‒38. 56 See Job in this volume. 57 Plut. Dio-Brut. 2.2 ἀλλὰ καὶ δεομένοις ἔδοξε τοῖς πράγμασι μοναρχίας ὥσπερ πρᾳότατος ἰατρὸς ὑπ’ αὐτοῦ τοῦ δαίμονος δεδόσθαι. Tr. I. Scott-Kilvert and Ch. Pelling. 58 Tr. Ch. Pelling. 59 See Pelling 2011, 318‒319. 60 Morand 2001, 155‒156. 61 Orph. H. 29.7; 30.7; see Fayant 2014, 258, 267. Morand 2001, 148 ‘Ces unions sont au-delà de ce que les hommes peuvent comprendre, et la traduction qui convient le mieux est ineffable’. 62 See Avagianou 1991, 145‒175, 200 (summary). 63 Thphl. Ant. Autol. 3.3. That ἄρρητος is to be understood here as ‘incestuous’ is clear from the context: in what follows, Theophilus blames Zeus for having married Hera, his own sister, as well as refuting the allegations of incest among Christians, see 3.3‒4. The other, much later, author is Photius Manich. 153 Wolska-Conus. He accuses Baanes, the leader of the Paulician sect, of introducing ‘forbidden carnal relations’ (σωμάτων μίξεσιν ἀρρήτοις) among his followers. This can mean incest, a common allegation against the Paulicians, see Hamilton and Hamilton 1998, 10 with n. 34 64 Athenag. Leg.20.3 ὅτι τὴν μητέρα Ῥέαν ἀπαγορεύουσαν αὐτοῦ τὸν γάμον ἐδίωκε, δρακαίνης δ’ αὐτῆς γενομένης καὶ αὐτὸς εἰς δράκοντα μεταβαλὼν συνδήσας αὐτὴν τῷ καλουμένῳ Ἡρακλειωτικῷ ἅμματι ἐμίγη (τοῦ σχήματος τῆς μίξεως σύμβολον ἡ τοῦ Ἑρμοῦ ῥάβδος), εἶθ’ ὅτι Φερσεφόνῃ τῇ θυγατρὶ ἐμίγη βιασάμενος καὶ ταύτην ἐν δράκοντος σχήματι, ἐξ ἧς παῖς Διόνυσος αὐτῷ. Tr. W.R. Schoedel. Cf. Just. Dial. 69.2 ἐκ μίξεως ἣν μεμῖχθαι about Dionysus born from Semele but also torn to pieces by Titans, which suggests that Justin is thinking here also about Zagreus. 65 Clay 1982, 293: ‘The theme of incest, the true ἄρρητον of the Greek language…’. For more details, see Clay 1982, 281, 288‒293; Bremmer 1987, 49‒53. 66 Plut. Caes. 66.5‒13 εἰσιόντος δὲ Καίσαρος ἡ βουλὴ μὲν ὑπεξανέστη θεραπεύουσα… τῶν δὲ παρεσκευασμένων ἐπὶ τὸν φόνον ἑκάστου γυμνὸν ἀποδείξαντος τὸ ξίφος, ἐν κύκλῳ περιεχόμενος… διελαυνόμενος ὥσπερ θηρίον ἐνειλεῖτο ταῖς πάντων χερσίν· ἅπαντας γὰρ ἔδει κατάρξασθαι καὶ γεύσασθαι τοῦ φόνου. …ἀπωσθεὶς πρὸς τὴν βάσιν ἐφ’ ἧς ὁ Πομπηΐου βέβηκεν ἀνδριάς. καὶ πολὺς καθῄμαξεν αὐτὴν ὁ φόνος… [Καίσαρος] κεκλιμένου καὶ περισπαίροντος ὑπὸ πλήθους τραυμάτων. Tr. Ch. Pelling, slightly adapted.

The state as crater 121 67 Pelling 2011, 65‒6, 482; Moles 2017, 131‒133. 68 GE s.v. κατάρχω 2B. The same verb occurs in Plut. Brut. 10.1 where Brutus, as the leader of the conspiracy, is supposed to ‘begin the sacrifice’, see Moles 2017, 131‒133. Φόνος as the blood of a sacrifice can be found already in Greek tragedy, e.g. A. Th. 44, on the passage, see e.g. Torrance 2007, 50. On φόνος as blood in Euripides’ Orestes, see Rawson 1972, 164‒165 with n. 37 and 38. Cf. Eur. Ba. 1114 πρώτη δὲ μήτηρ ἦρξεν ἱερέα φόνου. 69 Pelling 2011, 482. 70 See e.g. Burkert 1986, 5 with n. 20. 71 See e.g. Ar. Th. 695 and Pax 1020, A. Th. 275, Eur. Andr. 260, Theoc. Ep. 1.5, Poll. 1.27. 72 See e.g. Burkert 1986, 5. 73 Tr. H. Cherniss and W.C. Helmbold. 74 Plut. De esu 996c τὰ γὰρ δὴ περὶ τὸν Διόνυσον μεμυθευμένα πάθη τοῦ διαμελισμοῦ καὶ τὰ Τιτάνων ἐπ’ αὐτὸν τολμήματα γευσαμένων τε τοῦ φόνου κολάσεις [τε τούτων] καὶ κεραυνώσεις, ᾐνιγμένος ἐστὶ μῦθος εἰς τὴν παλιγγενεσίαν. Tr. H. Cherniss and W.C. Helmbold. 75 Thus Alex. Lyc. Man. p. 8.7 Brinkmann; Arnob. 5.19; Firm. Mat. Err. 6.3; Nonn. Dion. 6.172, 174, 205; 31.47. Cf. Procl. H. 7.11. See West 1983, 160. 76 On the (pervertedly) sacrificial character of Zagreus’ death, see Graf and Johnston 2013, 80‒85. 77 Plut. Comp. Dio-Brut. 2.2 ἡ δὲ Καίσαρος ἀρχὴ συνισταμένη μὲν οὐκ ὀλίγα τοῖς ἐναντιουμένοις πράγματα παρέσχε, δεξαμένοις δὲ καὶ κρατηθεῖσιν ὄνομα καὶ δόκησις ἐφάνη μόνον, ἔργον δ’ ἀπ’ αὐτῆς οὐδὲν ὠμὸν οὐδὲ τυραννικὸν ὑπῆρξεν, ἀλλὰ καὶ δεομένοις ἔδοξε τοῖς πράγμασι μοναρχίας ὥσπερ πρᾳότατος ἰατρὸς ὑπ’ αὐτοῦ τοῦ δαίμονος δεδόσθαι. Tr. I. Scott-Kilvert and Ch. Pelling. 78 In Plut. Caes. 41.7 Caesar’s army, ill and tired, captures Gomphi, a city in Thessaly, which helps them to recover (41.8): ‘For they captured large quantities of wine and drank their fill, then continued the march reeling about in drunken revelry (χρώμενοι κώμοις καὶ βακχεύοντες ἀνὰ τὴν ὁδὸν ἐκ μέθης). That drove the illness away and restored them to health, for the drunkenness had changed the whole constitution of their bodies’; tr. Ch. Pelling. Κώμος ‘(Bacchic) revelry’, βακχεύω ‘to celebrate Bacchanals’ and μέθη ‘drunkenness’ put together in one sentence leave no doubt as to the Dionysiac character of the procession. On the Dionysiac connotation of these words, see Doroszewski 2014, esp. 291‒292, 296. 79 This aim is expressed in the famous question posed by Zeus to Night (Procl. In Ti. 1.314 = OF 237): ‘How may I have all things one and each one separate?’ (πῶς δέ μοι ἕν τε τὰ πάντ’ ἔσται καὶ χωρὶς ἕκαστον;), tr. R.G. Edmonds III. See also Job in this volume. 80 See the title of Pelling 1999. 81 See Swain 1989, 286‒298. 82 This squares well with the fact that in Plut. Brut. 47.7 Octavian receives help from heaven (ὁ θεός) as the only one able to rule (τῷ κρατεῖν δυναμένῳ).

Bibliography Avagianou, A. (1991) Sacred Marriage in the Rituals of Greek Religion. Berlin, De Gruyter. Beard, M. (2007) The Roman Triumph. Cambridge, MA, The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press. Braund, D. (1993) ‘Dionysiac Tragedy in Plutarch, Crassus’, CQ 43, 468‒474. Bremmer, J. (1987) ‘Oedipus and the Greek Oedipus complex’, in J. Bremmer (ed.) Interpretations of Greek Mythology, London, Croom Helm, 41‒59.

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Brenk, F.E. (1992) ‘Plutarch’s Life “Markos Antonios”: A Literary and Cultural Study’, ANRW 2.6, 4347‒4469. Brouwer, H.H.J. (1989) Bona Dea. The Sources and a Description of the Cult. Leiden, Brill. Burkert, W. (1986) Homo Necans. The Anthropology of Ancient Greek Sacrificial Ritual and Myth, Tr. P. Bing. Berkeley, University of California Press. Chlup, R. (2000) ‘Plutarch’s Dualism and The Delphic Cult’, Phronesis 45, 138‒158. Chrysanthou, C.S. (2018) Plutarch’s ‘Parallel Lives’: Narrative Technique and Moral Judgement. Berlin, De Gruyter. Clay, D. (1982) ‘Unspeakable Words in Greek Tragedy’, The American Journal of Philology 103, 277‒298. Dodds, E.R. (1960) Euripides Bacchae. Second edition. Oxford, Clarendon Press. Doroszewski, F. (2014) ‘Judaic Orgies and Christ’ Bacchic Deeds: Dionysiac Terminology in Nonnus’ Paraphrase of St. John’s Gospel’, in K. Spanoudakis (ed.), Nonnus of Panopolis in Context: Poetry and Cultural Milieu in Late Antiquity, Berlin, De Gruyter, 287–301. Fayant, M.-C. (2014) Hymnes Orphiques. Paris, Les Belles Lettres. Graf, F. and Johnston, S.I. (2013) Ritual Texts for the Afterlife: Orpheus and the Bacchic gold tablets. Second edition. London, Routledge. Hamilton, J. and Hamilton, B. (1998) Christian Dualist Heresies in the Byzantine World c. 650– c. 1450. Manchester University Press. Hunter, R. and Russell, D. (2011) Plutarch, How to Study Poetry. Cambridge University Press. Isler-Kerényi, C. (2007) Dionysus in Archaic Greece. An Understanding through Images. Leiden, Brill. Isler-Kerényi, C. (2010) ‘Dionysos am Pergamonaltar’, AK 53, 62–73. Jażdżewska, K. (2020) ‘Love in Many Dimensions: Hesiod and Empedocles in Plutarch’s Amatorius’, in T.S. Schmidt, M. Vamvouri and R. Hirsch-Luipold (eds.) The Dynamics of Intertextuality in Plutarch, Leiden, Brill, 459–474. Meisner, D.A. (2018) Orphic Tradition and the Birth of the Gods. Oxford University Press. Moles, J.L. (2017) A Commentary on Plutarch’s Brutus. With Updated Bibliographical Notes by Christopher Pelling, Histos, Supplement 7. Montes Cala, J.G., Sánchez Ortiz de Landaluce, M., Gallé Cejudo, R.J. (1999) Plutarco, Dioniso y el vino: Actas del VI Simposio español sobre Plutarco: Cádiz, 14–16 de mayo de 1998. Madrid, Ediciones Clásicas. Morand, A.-F. (2001) Études sur les Hymnes Orphiques. Leiden, Brill. Mossman, J. (2014) ‘Tragedy and the Hero’, in M. Beck (ed.) A Companion to Plutarch, Oxford, Wiley‒Blackwell, 437‒448. Mossman, J. (2016) ‘Dionysus and the Structure of Plutarch’s Table Talk’, in G. Roskam, F.B. Titchener (eds.) A Versatile Gentleman: Consistency in Plutarch's Writing, Leiden, Brill, 101‒112. Pelling, C. (1979) ‘Plutarch’s Method of Work in the Roman Lives’, JHS 99, 74‒96. Pelling, C. (1988) Plutarch, Life of Antony. Cambridge University Press. Pelling, C. (1999) ‘Dionysiac Diagnostics: Some Hints of Dionysus in Plutarch’s “Lives”’, in J.G. Montes Cala, M. Sánchez Ortiz de Landaluce and R.J. Gallé Cejudo (eds.) Plutarco, Dioniso y el vino: Actas del VI Simposio español sobre Plutarco: Cádiz, 14–16 de mayo de 1998. Madrid, Ediciones Clásicas, 359‒368.

The state as crater 123 Pelling, C. (2011) Plutarch Caesar. Oxford University Press. Rawson, E. (1972) ‘Aspects of Euripides’ Orestes’, Arethusa 5, 155‒167. Rhodes, J.M. (2008) ‘Platonic Philia and Political Order’, in J. von Heyking and R. Avramenko (eds.) Friendship and Politics: Essays in Political Thought, University of Notre Dame Press, 21‒52. Salkever, S. (2008) ‘Taking Friendship Seriously: Aristotle on the Place(s) of Philia in Human Life’, in J. von Heyking and R. Avramenko (eds.) Friendship and Politics: Essays in Political Thought, University of Notre Dame Press, 53‒83. Sandbach, F.H. (1969) Plutarch. Moralia, Volume XV, Fragments. Cambridge, MA, Harvard University Press. Seaford, R. (1996) Euripides, Bacchae. Oxford, Oxbow Books. Stadter, P.A. (1999) ‘Drinking, “Table Talk” and Plutarch’s Contemporaries’, in J.G. Montes Cala, M. Sánchez Ortiz de Landaluce and R.J. Gallé Cejudo (eds.) Plutarco, Dioniso y el vino: Actas del VI Simposio español sobre Plutarco: Cádiz, 14–16 de mayo de 1998. Madrid, Ediciones Clásicas, 481‒490. Stoneman, R. (2004) Alexander the Great. Second edition. London, Routledge. Swain, S. (1989) ‘Plutarch: Chance, Providence, and History’, The American Journal of Philology 110, 272‒302. Swain, S. (1991) ‘Plutarch, Hadrian, and Delphi’, Historia 40, 318‒330. Teodorsson, S.-T. (1989) A Commentary on Plutarch’s Table Talks, Vol. 1. Göteborg, Acta Universitatis Gothoburgensis. Teodorsson, S.-T. (1999) ‘Dionysus Moderated and Calmed: Plutarch on the Convivial Wine’, in J.G. Montes Cala, M. Sánchez Ortiz de Landaluce and R.J. Gallé Cejudo (eds.) Plutarco, Dioniso y el vino: Actas del VI Simposio español sobre Plutarco: Cádiz, 14–16 de mayo de 1998. Madrid, Ediciones Clásicas, 57‒69. Torrance, I. (2007) Aeschylus: Seven Against Thebes. London, Bloomsbury. Turcan, R. (1988) ‘Bona Dea et la “Mère ineffable” de Dionysos (Plut., Caes. 9)’, in D. Porte and J.-P. Neraudau (eds.) Hommages à Henri Le Bonniec, Bruxelles, Res Sacrae, 428‒440. Versnel, H.S. (1970) Triumphus: An Inquiry into the Origin, Development and Meaning of the Roman Triumph. Leiden, Brill. West, M.L. (1983) The Orphic Poems. Oxford, Clarendon Press. Xenophontos, S. (2016) Ethical Education in Plutarch. Moralising Agents and Contexts. Berlin, De Gruyter. Zadorojniy, A. (1997) ‘Tragedy and Epic in Plutarch’s Crassus’, Hermes 125, 169‒182.

8

Dionysus and legitimisation of Imperial Authority by myth in first and second century Rome: Caligula, Domitian and Hadrian Sławomir Poloczek

In the present state of research on the role of the cult of Dionysus in the Roman world, special attention has been drawn to the cult’s expansion in the Empire1 or to the political aspects of selected examples of the legitimisation of the ruler’s power by appeal to the divine patronage of Dionysus.2,3 The question usually focuses on the most explicit examples of the use of the term Neos Dionysos as an element of self-identification (little more than a cult title?; or a genuine attempt to achieve the qualities of the god?),4 often in the context of Hellenistic monarchies or the conflict between Mark Antony and Octavian. The aim of this chapter is to explore far less recognised examples of the Dionysian legitimisation of Imperial Authority, that is, that of Caligula, Domitian and Hadrian, and to draw attention to the particular mythical core of this type of Bacchic pattern.

Conqueror of the East: the background to the tradition At the very heart of Dionysus’ importance in Late Republican and Imperial propaganda of power, there is a myth of the god as a triumphant military leader who conquered India ‒ expanding the ‘boundaries of the world’ ‒ and the god’s generic ‘civilising’ function. As I will try to demonstrate below, in almost every example under discussion (except the case of Antinous), this is the main factor in comparisons between rulers and the deity. But in order to gain the best possible understanding of the question, we need first to address separately the circumstances of the creation of the myth and focus on the beginnings of its political use. This phenomenon is deeply rooted in Hellenistic monarchic propaganda and inseparably connected with the tradition about Alexander the Great and his ‘legendary’ deeds. Regarding the origins of the myth of divine Eastern conquests, our evidence is scant. One can doubt whether the tradition of Dionysus as the conqueror of India existed at all before the time of Alexander’s campaign. With certainty we know that Euripides does not mention it yet, although

Dionysus and Imperial Authority 125 he states that the god introduced the Bacchic cult throughout Asia, reaching as far as Bactria, because he wanted to ‘manifest himself to mankind as a god’ (Ba. 22 ἵν᾽ εἴην ἐμφανὴς δαίμων βροτοῖς).5 Subsequently, it also began to be said, not long after Alexander’s conquest, that Dionysus had conquered Asia not only up to Bactria but as far as India, with the result that Alexander himself started to be described as having emulated the god.6 Most of the Dionysian elements presented by Alexander’s historians can be derived from one contemporary author – Cleitarchus.7 Rapid development of the association of Alexander’s political legacy with the myth of the god as a commander and conqueror can be further observed especially in the Ptolemaic royal ideology.8 The deeds of two conquerors, Alexander and Dionysus, had quickly merged into one single tradition at least by the time of Ptolemy II.9 An important testimony of Callixenius of Rhodes (second century BCE) describes in detail the great pageant held by Ptolemy II with the statue of Dionysus ‘returning from the Indies’ (ἐξ ᾽Ινδῶν κάθοδον Διονύσου) and the statues of Alexander and Ptolemy himself crowned with crowns of Dionysian ivy made of gold.10 The parallel between the Indian victories of Dionysus and Alexander was made explicit in the context of this procession, and the later Ptolemies shared in the splendour of eastern triumph as the heirs of the Macedonian king and the god himself. For example, Ptolemy IV clearly had a close relationship with the god.11 The report of Eratosthenes of Cyrene states that he ‘founded festivals and sacrifices of all kinds, especially in honour of Dionysus’,12 Plutarch adds that the king himself played an active role in Bacchic feasts and dances, and Clement of Alexandria confirms that he even adopted the epithet [Neos] Dionysos (borne also by Ptolemy XII).13 Although the Dionysian features of royal ideology are best attested in the case of the Ptolemaic dynasty, we can occasionally trace them also in other Hellenistic monarchies, for example, in the practice of adopting the nickname Dionysos or Neos Dionysos (Antiochus VI, Antiochus XII, Attalos I, Orodes II, Mithridates VI14). To conclude these remarks, we can say that the image of Dionysus (and ‘Dionysian’ Alexander) as the excellent divine pattern of a victorious ruler developed and gained its popularity in the Hellenistic context, especially in Ptolemaic Egypt, just before the Roman era and as such was partially adapted by the later Roman leaders.

Dionysus: Triumphator The myth of the Indian campaign of Bacchus became thus paradigmatic for later Greco-Roman authors and included in itself a few essential elements. Firstly, there was – as discussed above ‒ a strict and persisting connection with the tradition of Alexander, which resulted in the Dionysiac pattern of imitatio Alexandri. In the context of Roman propaganda of power, this idea had been also associated with the notion of the origins of triumph.

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According to Diodorus, the god himself was the inventor of this ceremony.15 And indeed Valerius Maximus states that as early as the end of the second century BCE, Gaius Marius endeavoured, in his ‘highest arrogance’, to represent his own military actions as equal with the great deeds of Dionysus’ ‘conducting the triumph from Asia’ (ex Asia deducens triumphum).16 Pliny in turn compares the successes of Pompey the Great – especially in the context of his eastern campaigns – with the accomplishments of both Dionysus and Alexander.17 Secondly, the notion of Indian conquest began to mark in mythical topography the farthest regions of the East that man could achieve (the boundaries of the West were marked by the deeds of Heracles18): both Dionysus and the Macedonian king extended their power to the extreme edge of the world.19 Each subsequent military leader had to try to rival these exploits. Thirdly, the eastern campaign began to be understood not only as a military accomplishment, but also as a kind of mission to spreading culture throughout ‘barbarian’ lands. As is again noted by Diodorus, Dionysus achieved this by discovering viticulture and by sharing its benefits with human beings across all the inhabited world.20 According to Plutarch, Alexander only followed in the footsteps of Dionysus with the purpose of traversing and civilising every land and with the desire that ‘victorious Greeks should dance again in India and revive the memory of the Bacchic revels among the savage mountain tribes beyond the Caucasus’.21 The first important Roman example of imitatio Dionysiaca partially based on these elements that we should look at more closely is related to Mark Antony.

Mark Antony: the New Dionysus According to Plutarch, already in 41 BCE, Mark Antony had entered Ephesus in Bacchanal procession and had received divine honours as Dionysus Charidotes (Giver of Grace) and Meilichios (the Beneficent).22 Also during his stay in Athens, Antony was officially celebrated as Neos Dionysos23 and honoured together with his wife Octavia (venerated as Athena Polias) as theoi euergetai.24 Although it was in line with the honorific practice of the Hellenistic poleis, all the extant sources agree that he too felt that he alone should be identified with the qualifications of the god (see Sen. Suas. 1.6 uellet se Liberum patrem dici; D.C. 48.39.2 καὶ Διόνυσον ἑαυτὸν νέον αὐτός τε ἐκάλει).25 Socrates of Rhodes reports that Antony erected a scaffold in imitation of the Bacchic cave on the side of the Athenian Acropolis, outfitted it with Dionysiac paraphernalia and then commanded that he be proclaimed Dionysus (ἔκτοτε ἐκέλευσεν ἑαυτὸν Διόνυσον) ‘in all the cities’.26 Finally, when Antony was in Alexandria and preparing for the clash with the advancing forces of Octavian, he again played the same role, but now together with Cleopatra and in more Egyptian manner (as Osiris–Dionysus; Plut. Ant. 54.3;

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60.5). His divine protector was to abandon him during the night just before the Actium, leaving the city accompanied by a supernatural komos (Plut. Ant. 75). It is customary to interpret Antony’s association with Dionysus as the imitation of a Hellenistic ruler cult, especially Ptolemaic. But there is another possible interpretation of this behaviour – as an attempt to legitimise power through the tradition of Dionysus’ (and later Alexander’s) Indian conquests. It must be admitted that no Roman general before Antony had had such wide domain in the eastern Mediterranean, so this pattern of divine self-identification could have seemed fully appropriate.28 This aspect is particularly evident after the subjugation of Armenia in 34 BCE, when Antony entered Alexandria in spectacular pompe, adorned as Dionysus–triumphator driving his magnificent chariot and presenting the spoils of Asia.29 According to Plutarch, Antony’s Armenian campaign was preceded by the gathering of an army that would have terrified ‘even the Indians beyond the Bactria’ and made ‘all Asia quiver’. Here the association of Antony’s plans with the deeds of Alexander and Dionysus is apparent.30 On the one hand, Mark Antony clearly adapted a peculiar element of Hellenistic monarchic ideology, thus introducing himself as the successor of Ptolemies – the notion of Neos Dionysos – but on the other hand, he also created a quite new model of ‘personal relationship’ to the god based on the political aspirations to be the conqueror, benefactor and true Lord of the East. Let us turn now to consider the next case, that of Caligula, in which the memory of the example given by Antony seems to be crucial.

Caligula: the New Antony According to Athenaeus, Caligula was the first Roman ruler after Antony to officially adopt the title Neos Dionysos and similarly to array himself in Dionysian dress (Ath. Deip. 4.29 148d). So, too, the Emperor Gaius, who had the cognomen Caligula from the circumstance that he was born in camp, was named ‘the new Dionysus’, and not only that, but he also assumed the entire garb of Dionysus, and made royal progresses and sat in judgement thus arrayed.31 Unfortunately, no other author confirms the use of the title even though we know about similar epithets honouring the emperor: Neos Helios and Neos [Theos] Sebastos.32 The possible source of this statement also remains unknown to us, although it seems very unlikely that we are dealing with a pure invention by Athenaeus.33 However, the second part of the notion is indeed confirmed by several writers: Caligula is said to have engaged in some kind of ‘divine imitation’ performances together with his chorus Bacchanalis.34 The most important testimony is that of Philo of Alexandria since he was a contemporary of – and eyewitness

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to – Caligula’s actions, as a member of the Jewish embassy in 39/40. Josephus, Suetonius and Dio tried to explain the emperor’s behaviour as resulting from madness and evaluated it as a symptom of the corruptive influence of power.35 But this claim can be discounted. First, we are informed that since his youth Caligula had been an enthusiastic dancer and artist, so his later similar activity can be understood as a continuation of his personal interest in stage performances.36 This interpretation seems to be confirmed by Philo, who notes that the strange spectacles were presented in theatrical manner (ὥσπερ ἐν θεάτρῳ) and that the costume of Dionysus was just one of several different ‘divine patterns’.37 In addition, such behaviour, regarded not just as a folly play, but primarily as a conscious way of expressing the individual relationship with a particular divine patron, can also be seen earlier still in the case of Octavian’s cena dodekatheos (Suet. Aug. 90), evoking in spectacular form and disguise the idea of the protection of the gods, especially Apollo, over the chosen leader, who had to play the role of his divine protector.38 This aspect of the question has already been raised by L. Cerfaux and J. Tondriau: it is possible that behind the scenic background of Caligula’s performances in fact lies a real religious idea ‒ a deliberate allusion to the manner of divine legitimisation of power created by Mark Antony, who was after all the emperor’s great-grandfather.39 It could therefore acquire meaning as a demonstrative rehabilitation of the memory of Antony’s rule and his Dionysian self-identification, most likely in deliberate opposition to the religious and dynastic politics of Tiberius that relied solely on the heritage of Augustus. It seems very likely that Caligula wanted to create his own new way of legitimising Authority that was entirely alternative to the ‘Augustean’ tradition. Moreover, Philo clearly associates in highly polemical rhetoric style the emperor’s divine imitation with the myth of Dionysus’ ‘civilising mission’ (Leg. 86): Have you imitated Bacchus in any respect? Have you been an inventor of any new blessings to mankind? Have you filled the whole of the habitable world with joy as he did? Are all Asia and Europe inadequate to contain the gifts which have been showered upon mankind by you?40 Most probably, Philo was trying to turn Caligula’s real intention against him: the emperor indeed wished to be perceived as another ‘incarnation’ of Dionysus (which explains the epithet Neos Dionysos), a benefactor to humankind and an expected conqueror in the likeness of Bacchus, Alexander (see Suet. Calig. 52) and Antony. In the light of these premises, we can assume that Caligula’s attempt to introduce himself as the ‘newer’ New Dionysus, despite his seemingly ‘eccentric’ manner, was in fact a very sophisticated method of the legitimisation of power, established in opposition to the Augustan tradition and based on the example created by Octavian’s political rival.

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Domitian: Flavian Bacchus Far more complicated is the question of Dionysian connotations of the later Roman emperors. In the Flavian period, there is a clear Dionysian trail noted already by K. Scott that has an outstanding literary character and is connected with Domitian.41 In the historical poem Punica by Silius Italicus, there is a long passage constituting Jupiter’s prophecy of the military accomplishments of Flavian emperors and including the real (Dacian war) and imagined deeds of Domitian (whose awaited Eastern conquests are yet to come) reaching as far as India and surpassing the achievements of Dionysus himself (Pun. 3.607‒629)! But you, Conqueror of Germania, shall outdo the exploits of your father and brother … The people of the Ganges shall one day lower their unbent bows before him, and Bactra display its empty quivers. He shall drive the triumphal car through Rome after conquering the North; he shall triumph over the East, and Bacchus give place to him.42 Such a comparison of the hero with Dionysus appears once more in Punica in the description of Scipio Africanus triumphing over the Carthaginians (qualis odoratis descendens Liber ab Indis…), which, in fact, is also an allusive laudatory reference to Domitian (Silius’ Scipio metaphorically represents the emperor himself).43 In the same vein, Statius and Martial compared the future conquests of the emperor with those of Heracles and Dionysus. According to Statius, Domitian’s celebrations are even similar to these gods’ in appearance,44 and his power shall broaden to the edges of the inhabited world marked by the deeds of the divine pair.45 According to Martial, the emperor’s actual victory over the Sarmatians exceeds that of Dionysus.46 In all these cases, we can see the same literary manner that we already know from the Augustan period, and which contains a clear intertextual reference to Vergil’s famous panegyric-like passage in the Aeneid (the real manifesto of Augustan ideology!) basing on the Hellenistic encomium form associated with the tradition of Alexander’s campaign, as was demonstrated already by E. Norden47 (Aen. 6.801–805): ‘Not even Hercules traversed so much of earth’s extent, … nor he either, who guides his car with vine-leaf reins, triumphant Bacchus, driving his tigers down from Nysa’s lofty peak’.48 The fact that all three poets had used such a comparison in identical manner is therefore not accidental. They all belonged to the same literary circle associated with the emperor, received a similar rhetorical education and knew each other as well as each other’s works, to which they alluded.49 The common literary object of these poets was to reflect Vergil’s stylistic pattern and the idea of the ruler’s divine power over the whole world, and in this respect, they were akin. But until now we are still standing only on the ground of literature, with no conclusive answer as to the possible

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connection of these laudatory statements with the officially propagated image of the emperor. Although the relationship between the literature and official propaganda is always a fairly complicated question, we have a very important hint indicating such a possible connection between these two areas in the case of Domitian. One inscription from Anazarbus addressed Domitian as ‘Dionysos Kallikarpos’, apparently assimilating the emperor to that god.50 The dedicators are two local priests, L. Valerius Niger and his son L. Valerius Varus, who promised the foundation of the temple to the city, most probably dedicated for the municipal cult of Domitian. On the one hand, this title clearly alludes to the local, traditional Cilician form of the cult of Dionysus Kallikarpos (or Polykarkops), attested together with the cult of Demeter Karpophoros, including in, for example, Aigai and Flaviopolis.51 On the other hand, the association of the emperor with the god of fertility seems to also have a deeper meaning. Kallikarpos is not only a victorious god; he also presides over the forces of nature and ensures prosperity to his people. This idea clearly conflates a local Imperial cult with the tradition reflected also in literature since the time of Augustus: Domitian is represented here as a Bacchic divinity who provides welfare and growth, exactly like Augustus in Aeneid 6.792‒795.52 In this case, both epigraphy and literature seem to evoke the common pattern of the culture hero and Bacchic divinity responsible for the well-being of the inhabited world. It is therefore very likely that the literary laudations of the emperor as a ‘Bacchic’, triumphant and beneficent hero reflect in some way not only the schemes of earlier Latin poetry but also the possible elements of Domitian’s official image.

Hadrian: Neos Dionysos of the τεχνῖται This section turns to a question that is quite different from those discussed so far, that is, that of the possible Dionysian connotations of Imperial activity in the early Antonine era. As we know very well from epigraphy, both Trajan and Hadrian were included jointly with the god in the ceremonies of the associations of artists (technitai) founded for the worship of Dionysus.53 Most of the material comes from the Greek poleis of Asia Minor,54 but there are also similar inscriptions from Nîmes (IG XIV 2496 = IGR I 18; IG XIV 2495 = CIL XII 3232 = ILS 5082 Trajan) and Athens (IG II2 1348, Hadrian55). So these were the territories traditionally associated (from the Hellenistic period) with the ruler cult, and once very committed to supporting Mark Antony and his cult as the ‘New Dionysus’. Nîmes is only an apparent exception here, considering the fact that it was a colony in which Augustus had settled the veterans from the campaign against Mark Antony, including Antony’s former soldiers. The fact that the epithet [Neos] Dionysos returns in epigraphy after Antony only during this period, and in a very limited context, has a very simple explanation. Trajan united the

Dionysus and Imperial Authority 131 previously dispersed associations of technitai into one universal organisation ‒ the synodos. Previously, they had operated solely under the divine patronage of Bacchus, but from now on, they came under the direct patronage of the emperor, who thus ‘naturally’ obtained the function of New Dionysus and became, together with the god, a participant and co-organiser of performances and celebrations.56 Thus, the single question of the patronage over the technitai associations does not necessarily have to be considered as a crucial factor to discuss the Dionysian connotations of the emperor’s ideology per se.

Hadrian in the company of Dionysus The most important factor behind the ideological background of Hadrian’s Philhellenic attitude should, however, be linked with the establishment of the Panhellenion, a religious and cultural league of Greek poleis, with Athens at the centre.57 In Athens, Hadrian was primarily associated with Zeus: he was given there the epithets Olympios, Eleutherios and Panhellenios58 and was worshipped as a member of the divine company of symbomoi theoi: ‘gods sharing the same altar’. The idea at its core resembles the climax of the ‘Orphic’ Rhapsodic narrative of the setting up of Dionysus as the successor to the royal power of Zeus, who accomplishes and authorises the rules of the cosmic order.59 But the real key to understanding the Dionysian component of Hadrian’s religious policy may be found in the emperor’s involvement in the Eleusinian cult. Already by the fourth century BCE, Dionysus played an important role in the Eleusinian Mysteries. Certain episodes from the life of the god were featured in the ritual representations at Eleusis due to the association of the son or masculine counterpart of Demeter – Iakchos – with Bacchus.60 It even became customary to call the man initiated in the mysteries a bakchos.61 In this context, it should be noted that Hadrian (most probably together with Antinous), as the first ruler since the time of Augustus,62 was initiated in the Eleusinian Mysteries during his visit to Greece,63 attaining the highest degree, epopteia, as is suggested by the terminology used by Dio (ἐπώπτευσε). When the emperor visited Athens for the first time (111 AD), he was also elected the archon eponymos: the city honoured him with a statue in the Theatre of Dionysus, and one of his duties was to organise the Great Dionysia (D.C. 69.16.1 τά τε Διονύσια τὴν μεγίστην παρ' αὐτοῖς ἀρχὴν ἄρξας). Hadrian again, just as in the case of the poleis of Asia, stepped into the role of the patron of Bacchic ceremonies. However, limiting this evidence to the cult at Eleusis or to the individual inclination of the emperor alone seems to be inappropriate. Jones pointed out that the links between the Eleusinian sanctuary and Athens as the centres of the Imperial project of Panhellenion, as well as the idea of restoring the tradition of ‘Greek unity’, were maintained long after the death of Hadrian, as suggested by epigraphy. Thanks to its Panhellenic scope, Eleusis was bound to play a major

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role in the religious enterprises of the next Antonine emperors.64 Moreover, a curious item appeared in the Athenian Temple of Olympian Zeus during Hadrian’s second visit (132 AD): a figure of a snake was brought from India and placed in the cella next to the emperor’s own statue (καὶ δράκοντα ἐς αὐτὸ ἀπὸ Ἰνδίας κομισθέντα ἀνέθηκε).65 The symbolism of the snake could easily be associated with the local cult of the snake-hero Erichthonius, but the Indian origin of the serpent can also lead us towards the myth of Dionysus’ conception by Zeus, who manifested himself in the form of that reptile, and towards the mythical version of the conception of Alexander.66 In this context, the snake from India could also symbolise that the Panhellenion would extend to the borders of the world, once set in India by Dionysus. Thus far, the evidence seems to indicate that the idea of Dionysian patronage and divine companionship with the emperor persisted somehow even in the heart of the ideological message of Hadrian’s most important project.

Antinous: the boy of Dionysus While discussing this, it is necessary also to touch upon one more interesting question. In Nonnus’ Dionysiaca (10.175‒216, 11.185ff), we are dealing with the myth of satyr Ampelos (Vitis vinifera), the lover of Bacchus who was gorged to death by a wild bull during the hunt. The mourning Dionysus covers his body with flowers and sprays it with ambrosia. Zeus promises to transform the boy into a drink similar to nectar, and as a consolation to Dionysus, the father of the gods indeed transforms Ampelos into the first grapevine. The origins of this version of the myth are unclear to us.67 The only prior literary version of the story of Ampelos, mentioned by Ovid (Fast. 3.407ff), states differently that the body of the boy, who died by falling from a tree (Fast. 3.413‒414 dum legit in ramo … decidit), was lifted up to heaven where he was transformed into one of the stars of the Vindemitor constellation. Thus, Ampelos belongs to the class of minor deities of immature, feminised identity who die young, are connected to Dionysian vegetation and who are also credited by Nonnus as the first cause of viticulture. Apart from the well-known motif of the culture hero responsible for the invention of grape cultivation and wine drinking (cf. Genesis 9.20‒27), and apart from the pattern of the dying-and-rising (or not) god, associated with the agricultural cycle and having been killed, like Adonis, by a wild animal, there is one historical event that could be considered partially responsible for the present shape of tradition recorded by Nonnus. The tragic character of the accidental death of the lover, his immediate deification and the strong Dionysian symbolism of the cult are clearly visible in the case of Antinous. Although the new cult created by Hadrian has never been uniform, Antinous was honoured in some places as a god (theos) but in others as a hero (heros),68 and there are some common features that can be identified as distinctively Dionysian. According to

Dionysus and Imperial Authority 133 Pausanias, in one of his most important sanctuaries in Mantinea, the statues of Antinous were shaped ‘in the form of Dionysus’ (Διονύσῳ μάλιστα εἰκασμέναι).69 Preserved iconography of Antinous usually portrays him in line with the clear Dionysian pattern, for example, with bunches of grapes or Egyptian elements connecting the deified young man with Osiris–Dionysus.70 Moreover, the numismatic evidence attests that in some places Antinous was honoured directly as Iakchos-Antinoos (Adramyttium, Stauber 171) or Neos Iakchos (Tarsus, BMC 159). According to certain sources (SHA, Cassius Dio, Aurelius Victor71), his death was commonly considered not merely an ordinary accident but as a kind of divine selfsacrifice in the intention of Hadrian (as suggested by the verb ἱερουργέω used by Dio) or even, as R. Lambert supposes, for the sake of saving the world.72 These features could easily associate his person with the salvific character of the Dionysian cult. Both Ampelos and Antinous also share very clear symbolism of revivification: one is supposed to have been resurrected as a vine branch, and the second as Bacchic Osiris. Thus, in comparison with Nonnus’ version of the myth, Antinous became, just like Ampelos, a kind of Dionysian figure, a divine lover and probably also a culture hero. Although it is impossible to classify this as a part of an official legitimisation of Imperial power, the association of Antinous’ cult with the figure of the god and, perhaps, with the formation of the full-grown myth preserved by Nonnus should certainly be noted in the context of the overall Dionysian pattern of the Hadrianic rule.

Conclusion The Dionysian pattern of the legitimisation of a ruler’s Authority was not just a unique episode limited to the policy of Mark Antony alone, but constituted a solid feature of the Imperial ideology of the first and second centuries. The mythical core of this notion was the paradigm of the divine triumphator created by the Ptolemies by a strong association of Dionysus’ myth with the tradition of Alexander’s Indian conquest. Dionysus in the Roman Imperial propaganda was almost always connected with the idea of conquest and welfare. In the case of Caligula, this phenomenon should be explained as the intentional appeal to the figure and style of Mark Antony, his ‘Bacchic’ great-grandfather. In that of Domitian, the image of a great conqueror of the edges of the world, surpassing even the god, was imposed on him in poetry as the result of the imitation and reshaping of the laudatory style of Vergil originally applied to Augustus. But, additionally, we notice that the Dionysian pattern of divine controller of the forces of nature and guarantor of welfare was also prominent in local forms of his Imperial cult and probably remained in an allusive relationship to the picture emerging from the poetry. The organisational reforms of the technitaiassociations and the joining of them into one universal synodos resulted in a natural resurgence of the emperor’s role as the main divine patron of

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Bacchic ceremonies, especially in the poleis of Asia. But in the case of Hadrian, the most important Dionysian features of his reign seem to be connected with the idea of Panhellenion and its Eleusinian connotations ‒ the emperor had to stand in the centre of the project in the company of both Zeus and Dionysus ‒ and with the death of Antinous. The emperor’s lover easily became a deity presented as salvific and Dionysian in his character, and the tragic story of the love perhaps even stimulated the development of the myth of Ampelos.

Notes 1 Jeanmaire 1951; Bruhl 1953; Foucher 1981. 2 Fuhrer 2011; Litwa 2013, 26‒41. 3 This chapter is part of a research project on Dionysus and the religious policy of the Roman emperors (2bH 15 0163 83) that was generously financed by the Polish Ministry of Science and Higher Education in the years 2016‒2019 within the National Programme for the Development of Humanities. 4 Walbank 1984, 86; Litwa 2013, 37‒39. 5 Eur. Ba. 13–20 Dodds λιπὼν δὲ Λυδῶν τοὺς πολυχρύσους γύας | Φρυγῶν τε, Περσῶν θ᾽ ἡλιοβλήτους πλάκας | Βάκτριά τε τείχη τήν τε δύσχιμον χθόνα | Μήδων ἐπελθὼν Ἀραβίαν τ᾽ εὐδαίμονα | Ἀσίαν τε πᾶσαν, ἣ παρ᾽ ἁλμυρὰν ἅλα | κεῖται μιγάσιν Ἕλλησι βαρβάροις θ᾽ ὁμοῦ | πλήρεις ἔχουσα καλλιπυργώτου πόλεις, | ἐς τήνδε πρῶτον ἦλθον Ἑλλήνων πόλιν. 6 Seaford 2006, 37. 7 Hammond 1932, 104. See Tarn 1948, 49 ‘Few legends spring absolutely out of the blue; and Cleitarchus, or rather perhaps his source, in attaching Dionysus stories to Alexander, did have two things to go on … The idea of Dionysus as a conquering warrior was merely taken from Alexander himself’. 8 See Stoneman in this volume. 9 Hazzard 2000, 9; Goukowsky 1981, 360. Goukowsky sees no sign of particular Bacchic connection of the tetradrachms emitted by Ptolemy I and depicting Alexander with the horns of Zeus-Ammon and the elephant skin. According to Theoc. Id. 17.26‒27, both Alexander and Ptolemy II were thought to be descended from Heracles: ἄμφω γὰρ πρόγονός σφιν ὁ καρτερὸς Ἡρακλείδας, ἀμφότεροι δ’ ἀριθμεῦνται ἐς ἔσχατον Ἡρακλῆα. (‘the mighty son of Heracles is ancestor of them both, and both trace back their lineage as far as Heracles’, tr. N. Hopkinson). 10 Ath. 5.31 200c–d = FGrH 627 F2 ἐπὶ δὲ ἄλλης τετρακύκλου, ἣ περιεῖχε τὴν ἐξ ᾽Ινδῶν κάθοδον Διονύσου, Διόνυσος ἦν δωδεκάπηχυς ἐπ᾽ ἐλέφαντος κατακείμενος, ἠμφιεσμένος πορφυρίδα, καὶ στέφανον κισσοῦ καὶ ἀμπέλου χρυσοῦν ἔχων· εἶχε δ᾽ ἐν ταῖς χερσὶ θυρσόλογχον χρυσοῦν, ὑπεδέδετο δ᾽ ἐμβάδας χρυσορραφεῖς… ᾽Αλεξάνδρου δὲ καὶ Πτολεμαίου ἀγάλματα, ἐστεφανωμένα στεφάνοις κισσίνοις ἐκ χρυσοῦ. Cf. Franzmeyer 1904, 6‒70; Rice 1983, 85; Litwa 2012, 78–80; Keyser 2014, ad locum. 11 Litwa 2013, 29. Dionysian elements in Ptolemaic ideology: Tondriau 1948, 137–138; Dunand 1986; Koenen 1993, 70‒81. 12 Ath. 7.2 276a‒c = FGrH 241 F 16 τοῦ Πτολεμαίου κτίζοντος ἑορτῶν καὶ θυσιῶν παντοδαπῶν γένη καὶ μάλιστα περὶ τὸν Διόνυσον. 13 Plut. Cleom. 33.2‒3 Ziegler/Gärtner ὁ μὲν γὰρ βασιλεὺς αὐτὸς οὕτω διέφθαρτο τὴν ψυχὴν ὑπὸ γυναικῶν καὶ πότων ὥστε, ὁπότε νήφοι μάλιστα καὶ σπουδαιότατος αὑτοῦ γένοιτο, τελετὰς τελεῖν καὶ τύμπανον ἔχων ἐν τοῖς

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βασιλείοις ἀγείρειν; 34.2 τοῦ μὲν βασιλέως οὐκ εἰσακούοντος, ἀλλ᾽ ἐν γυναιξὶ καὶ θιάσοις καὶ κώμοις συνέχοντος ἑαυτόν; Clem. Al. Protrep. 4.54.2 Πτολεμαῖος δὲ ὁ τέταρτος Διόνυσος ἐκαλεῖτο. Cf Lucian, Cal. 16, Theoph. Ad Autol. 2.7. Note should also be taken of a highly polemical statement of 3 Maccabees about alleged persecution of the Jews and the order of Ptolemy IV to tattoo them with Bacchic ivy leaves, 3 Macc. 2.29 Rahlfs/Hanhart διὰ πυρὸς εἰς τὸ σῶμα παρασήμῳ Διονύσου κισσοφύλλῳ. Nock 1928, 30‒38 = Nock 1972, 134‒159; McGing 1986, 90. D.S. Oldfather 4.3 στρατεύσαντα δ´ εἰς τὴν Ἰνδικὴν τριετεῖ χρόνῳ τὴν ἐπάνοδον εἰς τὴν Βοιωτίαν ποιήσασθαι, κομίζοντα μὲν λαφύρων ἀξιόλογον πλῆθος, καταγαγεῖν δὲ πρῶτον τῶν ἁπάντων θρίαμβον ἐπ´ ἐλέφαντος Ἰνδικοῦ. V. Max. 3.6.6 Briscoe Post Iugurthinum Cimbricumque et Teutonicum triumphum cantharo semper potauit, quod Liber pater Indicum ex Asia deducens triumphum hoc usus poculi genere ferebatur. Plin. Nat. 7.26.95 Mayhoff Verum ad decus imperii Romani, non solum ad viri unius, pertinet victoriarum Pompei Magni titulos omnes triumphosque hoc in loco nuncupari, aequato non modo Alexandri Magni rerum fulgore, sed etiam Herculis prope ac Liberi patris. E.g. Str. Geogr. 3.5.5 Aujac τοὺς δὲ πεμφθέντας κατασκοπῆς χάριν, ἐπειδὴ κατὰ τὸν πορθμὸν ἐγένοντο τὸν κατὰ τὴν Κάλπην, νομίσαντας τέρμονας εἶναι τῆς οἰκουμένης καὶ τῆς Ἡρακλέους στρατείας τὰ ἄκρα ποιοῦντα τὸν πορθμόντοὺς δὲ πεμφθέντας κατασκοπῆς χάριν, ἐπειδὴ κατὰ τὸν πορθμὸν ἐγένοντο τὸν κατὰ τὴν Κάλπην, νομίσαντας τέρμονας εἶναι τῆς οἰκουμένης καὶ τῆς Ἡρακλέους στρατείας τὰ ἄκρα ποιοῦντα τὸν πορθμόν. See Aeschin. Ctes. 165 Adams Ἀλέξανδρος ἔξω τῆς ἄρκτου καὶ τῆς οἰκουμένης ὀλίγου δεῖν πάσης μεθειστήκει. D.S. 4.1 Ὁμοίως δὲ τοὺς Ἰνδοὺς τὸν θεὸν τοῦτον παρ' ἑαυτοῖς ἀποφαίνεσθαι γεγονέναι, καὶ τὰ περὶ τὴν φυτείαν τῆς ἀμπέλου φιλοτεχνήσαντα μεταδοῦναι τῆς τοῦ οἴνου χρήσεως τοῖς κατὰ τὴν οἰκουμένην ἀνθρώποις. Plut. Alex. fort. 1.10 332a Νῦν δὲ σύγγνωθι, Διόγενες, Ἡρακλέα μιμοῦμαι καὶ Περσέα ζηλῶ, καὶ τὰ Διονύσου μετιὼν ἴχνη, θεοῦ γενάρχου καὶ προπάτορος, βούλομαι πάλιν ἐν Ἰνδίᾳ νικῶντας Ἕλληνας ἐγχορεῦσαι καὶ τοὺς ὑπὲρ Καύκασον ὀρείους καὶ ἀγρίους τῶν βακχικῶν κώμων ἀναμνῆσαι. Tr. F.C. Babbit. Plut. Ant. 24.3–4a Ziegler / Gärtner εἰς γοῦν Ἔφεσον εἰσιόντος αὐτοῦ γυναῖκες μὲν εἰς Βάκχας, ἄνδρες δὲ καὶ παῖδες εἰς Σατύρους καὶ Πᾶνας ἡγοῦντο διεσκευασμένοι, κιττοῦ δὲ καὶ θύρσων καὶ ψαλτηρίων καὶ συρίγγων καὶ αὐλῶν ἡ πόλις ἦν πλέα, Διόνυσον αὐτὸν ἀνακαλουμένων χαριδότην καὶ μειλίχιον. ἦν γὰρ ἀμέλει τοιοῦτος ἐνίοις, ἦν γὰρ ἀμέλει τοιοῦτος ἐνίοις, τοῖς δὲ πολλοῖς ὠμηστὴς καὶ ἀγριώνιος. On the passage, see also chapters by Doroszewski and Mac Góráin in this volume. Sen. Suas. 1.6; D.C. 48.39.2; Ath. 4.29 148b–c = FGrH 192 F2 (Socrates of Rhodes). Neos Dionysos: IG II2 1043; theoi euergetoi: Raubitschek 1946. Cf. Fraser 1957. In similar guise, Demetrios Poliorketes entered Athens as divine liberator (theos soter: Plut. Dem. 10.3‒4) from the rule of Cassander and Demetrius of Phaleron in June 307/306. It is, however, disputable whether Demetrius Poliorketes was definitely identified with Dionysus (as proposed by Scott 1928, 217‒239); cf. Ehrenberg 1931. Ath. 4.29 148b–c = FGrH 192 F2 ἱστορεῖ δὲ καὶ αὐτὸν τὸν Ἀντώνιον ἐν Ἀθήναις μετὰ ταῦτα διατρίψαντα περίοπτον ὑπὲρ τὸ θέατρον κατασκευάσαντα σχεδίαν χλωρᾷ πεπυκασμένην ὕλῃ, ὥσπερ ἐπὶ τῶν Βακχικῶν ἄντρων γίνεται … καὶ ἐπὶ τὴν ἀκρόπολιν ἀπὸ τῶν τεγῶν λαμπάσι δᾳδουχουμένης πάσης τῆς Ἀθηναίων

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πόλεως. καὶ ἔκτοτε ἐκέλευσεν ἑαυτὸν Διόνυσον ἀνακηρύττεσθαι κατὰ τὰς πόλεις ἁπάσας. Brenk 1992. Gurval 1995, 93. Vell. 2.82.3b–4 Watt Qui tertia aestate reversus in Armeniam regem eius Artavasden fraude deceptum catenis, sed, ne quid honori deesset, aureis vinxit. Crescente deinde et amoris in Cleopatram incendio et vitiorum, quae semper facultatibus licentiaque et adsentationibus aluntur, magnitudine, bellum patriae inferre constituit, cum ante novum se Liberum Patrem appellari iussisset, cum redimitus hederis crocotaque velatus aurea et thyrsum tenens cothurnisque succinctus curru velut Liber Pater vectus esset Alexandriae. Cf. D.C. 49.40.2‒3. Plut. Ant. 37.5 ἣ καὶ τοὺς πέραν Βάκτρων Ἰνδοὺς ἐφόβησε καὶ πᾶσαν ἐκράδανε τὴν Ἀσίαν. See Pelling 1988, 223: ‘Here Alexander, who conquered Bactria and reached India, is in P.’s mind’. Ath 4.29 148d καὶ Γάιος δὲ ὁ αὐτοκράτωρ ὁ Καλλίκολα προσαγορευθεὶς διὰ τὸ ἐν στρατοπέδῳ γεννηθῆναι οὐ μόνον ὠνομάζετο νέος Διόνυσος, ἀλλὰ καὶ τὴν Διονυσιακὴν πᾶσαν ἐνδύνων στολὴν προῄει καὶ οὕτως ἐσκευασμένος ἐδίκαζεν. Tr. Ch.B. Gulick. Aalders 1981; Neos Sebastos: CIG 1625 (Egypt), IGR IV, 145.3 (Assus and Cyzicus); Neos Theos: IGR 4.75. Cf. Cerfaux and Tondriau 1957, 344–345; Barrett 1989, 143. We should also note that Philo in Leg. 90 uses the expression νέος Διόνυσος refusing to apply it to Caligula because of his ‘unworthy’ actions: διὰ ταῦτα ὁ νέος Διόνυσος ἡμῖν ἀνεφάνης;. The mention is preceded by a quote from Socrates of Rhodes, who, however, could not be a source of information about Caligula, Fuhrer 2011, 387. Suet. Cal. 52, D.C. 59.26.5, Aur. Vict. Caes. 3.13 ex choro autem Bacchanali, Joseph. AJ 19.30. Barret 1989, 214. Philo Leg. 42, Suet. Calig. 11 Kaster Veste longa noctibus obiret ac scaenicas saltandi canendique artes studiosissime appetere. Cf. Wiseman 2008, 151. Philo Leg. 78–79 Colson ἤρχετο γὰρ ἐξομοιοῦν τὸ πρῶτον τοῖς λεγομένοις ἡμιθέοις ἑαυτόν, Διονύσῳ καὶ Ἡρακλεῖ καὶ Διοσκούροις, Τροφώνιον καὶ Ἀμφιάραον καὶ Ἀμφίλοχον καὶ τοὺς ὁμοίους χρηστηρίοις αὐτοῖς καὶ ὀργίοις χλεύην τιθέμενος κατὰ σύγκρισιν τῆς ἰδίας δυνάμεως. εἶθ’ ὥσπερ ἐν θεάτρῳ σκευὴν ἄλλοτε ἀλλοίαν ἀνελάμβανε, τοτὲ μὲν λεοντῆν καὶ ῥόπαλον, ἀμφότερα ἐπίχρυσα, διακοσμούμενος εἰς Ἡρακλέα, τοτὲ δὲ πίλους ἐπὶ τῆς κεφαλῆς, ὁπότε ἀσκοῖτο εἰς Διοσκούρους· ἔστι δὲ ὅτε κιττῷ καὶ θύρσῳ καὶ νεβρίσιν εἰς Διόνυσον ἠσκεῖτο. Miller 2009, 32‒33. Cerfaux and Tondriau 1957, 342 ‘Avec Caligula se manifeste une réaction nettement hellénistique. Le nouvel empereur néglige l’apothéose de Tibère et preténd réhabiliter la politique religieuse d’Antoine’; Barrett 1989, 66 ‘Some scholars have read profound implications into the idea that Caligula decided to promote himself as the grandson of Antony rather than of Augustus, and accordingly punished the consuls for the victory of at Actium’. Cf. Momigliano 1932, 212; Garzetti 1974, 85. Philo Leg. 88 ἐμιμήσω Διόνυσον; εὑρετὴς καινῶν γέγονας χαρίτων ὡς ἐκεῖνος; εὐφροσύνης κατέπλησας τὴν οἰκουμένην; Ἀσία καὶ Εὐρώπη τὰς ἐκ σοῦ γεγενημένας δωρεὰς οὐ χωρεῖ. Tr. C.D. Yonge. Scott 1975, 147. Sil. Pun. 3.607–617 Delz (tr. modified) At tu transcendes, Germanice, facta tuorum | … Huic laxos arcus olim Gangetica pubes | summittet, vacuasque

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ostendent Bactra, pharetras. | Hic et ab Arctoo currus aget axe per urbem, | ducet et Eoos, Baccho cedente, triumphos. Tr. J.D. Duff. Sil. Pun. 17.645–650 Ipse astans curru atque auro decorates et ostro | Martia praebebat spectanda Quiritibus ora, | qualis odoratis descendens Liber ab Indis | egit pampineos frenata tigride currus; | aut cum Phlegraeis, confecta mole Gigantum, | incessit campis tangens Tirynthius astra. Stat. Silv. 4.2.38–52 Phillimore Sed mihi non epulas Indisque innixa columnis | robora Maurorum famulasque ex ordine turmas, | ipsum, ipsum cupido tantum spectare vacavit | …sic iacet ad Gangen Indis ululantibus Euhan, | sic gravis Alcides post horrida iussa reversus | gaudebat strato latus adclinare leoni. | Parva loquor necdum aequo tuos, Germanice, vultus. Stat. Silv. 4.3.153–159 Iuravit tibi iam nivalis Arctus, | nunc magnos Oriens dabit triumphos. | Ibis qua vagus Hercules et Euhan | ultra sidera flammeumque solem | et Nili caput et nives Atlantis, | et laudum cumulo beatus omni | scandes belliger abnuesque currus. Mart. Ep. 8.27 Shackleton Bailey Non tot in Eois timuit Gangeticus aruis | raptor, in Hyrcano qui fugit albus equo, | quot tua Roma nouas uidit, Germanice, tigres; | delicias potuit nec numerare suas. | Vincit Erythraeos tua, Caesar, harena triumphos | et uictoris opes diuitiasque dei: | nam cum captiuos ageret sub curribus Indos, | contentus gemina tigride Bacchus erat. Mart. Ep. 8.78.1–4 Quos cuperet Phlegraea suos uictoria ludos, | Indica quos cuperet pompa, Lyaee, tuos, | fecit Hyperborei celebrator Stella triumphi, | o pudor! o pietas! et putat esse parum. Norden 1899, 468: ‘Bewiesen wird die Übertragung von Motiven aus Alexanderenkomion auf Augustus in den vorliegenden Versen’. Verg. Aen. 6.801–805 Conte nec uero Alcides tantum telluris obiuit, | … nec qui pampineis uictor iuga flectit habenis | Liber, agens celso Nysae de uertice tigris. Tr. H.R. Fairclough. Steele 1930, 328; Ripoll 2015, 425–443; Roman 2015, 444–464. See Sayar 2000, no. 21 = AnnEpigr 1920, 72 = SEG 50, 1360. Cf. Scott 1975, 147; Burell 2004, 221, Bönisch-Meyer and Witschel 2014, 133‒134. Cf. Chiekova 2008, 78. Apart from the epigraphy, also numismatics of Cilician poleis attest the cult of Dionysus Kallikarpos, see Nollé 2008, 80. See Mac Góráin in this volume. Petzl and Schwertheim 2007, passim. E.g. IG II2 1348, IG II2 3323, CIG 3455, Sardis VII.1 n. 13‒14. Geagan 1972. Kritsotakis 2008, 177–178. Spawforth and Walker 1985‒1986; Willers 1990; Jones 1996; Spawforth 1999; Romeo 2002. Karivieri 2002, 42. Meisner 2018, 278. Cf. Pind. I. 7.3–5, Str. Geogr. 10.3.10, S. Ant. 1115–1120 Pearson πολυώνυμε, Καδμείας νύμφας ἄγαλμα καὶ Διὸς βαρυβρεμέτα γένος, κλυτὰν ὃς ἀμφέπεις Ἰταλίαν, μέδεις δὲ παγκοίνοις, Ἐλευσινίας Δῃοῦς ἐν κόλποις, Βακχεῦ Βακχᾶν. See also Seaford 2006, 54. A highly sceptical analysis of the question of Dionysian features of the Eleusinian Mysteries: Mylonas 1961, 309; Graf 1974, 40–78. Papadopoulou 2005, 51. D.C. 51.4.1 Cary/Foster καὶ ὁ μέν, ὡς οὐδενὸς ἔτι δεινοῦ παρὰ τῶν ἐστρατευμένων ἐσομένου, τά τε ἐν τῇ Ἑλλάδι διῴκησε καὶ τῶν τοῖν θεοῖν μυστηρίων μετέλαβεν. Cf. O’Sullivan 2016. D.C. 69.11.1 ἀφικόμενος δὲ ἐς τὴν Ἑλλάδα ἐπώπτευσε τὰ μυστήρια; SHA Hadr. 13.1 Hohl Post haec per Asiam et insulas ad Achaiam navigavit et Eleusinia

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sacra exemplo Herculis Philippique suscepit. Cf. Beaujeu 1955, 165–166; Galimberti 2010, 71. Jones 1996, 36; Riccardi 2007. D.C. 69.16.1 Ἁδριανὸς δὲ τό τε Ὀλύμπιον τὸ ἐν ταῖς Ἀθήναις, ἐν ᾧ καὶ αὐτὸς ἵδρυται, ἐξεποίησε, καὶ δράκοντα ἐς αὐτὸ ἀπὸ Ἰνδίας κομισθέντα ἀνέθηκε: τά τε Διονύσια, τὴν μεγίστην παρ᾽ αὐτοῖς ἀρχὴν ἄρξας, ἐν τῇ ἐσθῆτι τῇ ἐπιχωρίῳ λαμπρῶς ἐπετέλεσε. E.g. Eur. Ba. 101 (serpents fashioned by Zeus into a garland for infant Dionysus). Zeus in the form of a snake and the conception of Bacchus: Athenag. Pro Christ. 20.3 Schoedel εἶθ' ὅτι Φερσεφόνῃ τῇ θυγατρὶ ἐμίγη βιασάμενος καὶ ταύτην ἐν δράκοντος σχήματι, ἐξ ἧς παῖς Διόνυσος αὐτῷ; Clem. Al. Protr. 2.16.2‒3 Mondésert δράκων δέ ἐστιν οὗτος, διελκόμενος τοῦ κόλπου τῶν τελουμένων, ἔλεγχος ἀκρασίας Διός. κυεῖ καὶ ἡ Φερέφαττα παῖδα ταυρόμορφον: ἀμέλει, φησί τις ποιητὴς εἰδωλικός, ταῦρος δράκοντος καὶ πατὴρ ταύρου δράκων, ἐν ὄρει τὸ κρύφιον, βουκόλος, τὸ κεντρίον, βουκολικόν, οἶμαι, κέντρον τὸν νάρθηκα ἐπικαλῶν, ὃν δὴ ἀναστέφουσιν οἱ βάκχοι. Divine conception of Alexander, see Plut. Alex. 2; for a detailed examination, see Hamilton 1968, 4‒5. Cf. also imitatio Alexandri in the case of the story of the divine conception of Augustus: Suet. Aug. 94. Kröll 2016, 39‒64. Smith 2018, 13. Paus. 8.9.7–8. Pedley 1978, 21; Clairmont 1966, 37 (taf. 27), 148. SHA Hadr. 14.5–7 Aliis eum devotum pro Hadriano adserentibus; D.C. 69.11.2–3 καὶ ἐν τῇ Αἰγύπτῳ ἐτελεύτησεν, εἴτ᾽ οὖν ἐς τὸν Νεῖλον ἐκπεσών, ὡς Ἁδριανὸς γράφει, εἴτε καὶ ἱερουργηθείς, comp. Aur. Vict. Caes. 14.7–8. Lambert 1984, 126–142.

Bibliography Aalders, G.J.D. (1981) ‘Helios Gaios’, Mnemosyne 13, 242–243. Barrett, A.A. (1989) Caligula: The Corruption of Power. Yale University Press. Beaujeu, J. (1955) La religion romaine a l’apogée de l’empire. Vol. 1. Paris, Les Belles Lettres. Bönisch-Meyer, S. and Witschel, C. (2014) ‘Die epigraphische Image des Herrschers. Entwicklung, Ausgestaltung und Rezeption der Ansprache des Kaisers in den Inschriften Neros und Domitians’, in S. Bönisch-Meyer et al. (eds.) Nero und Domitian. Mediale Diskurse der Herrscherrepräsentation im Vergleich, Tübingen, Narr, 81‒180. Brenk, F.E. (1992) ‘Antony-Osiris, Cleopatra-Isis: The End of Plutarch’s Antony’, in P.A. Stader (ed.) Plutarch and the Historical Tradition, London, Routledge. Bruhl, A. (1953) Liber Pater. Origine et expansion du culte dionysiaque à Rome et dans le monde romain. Paris, Boccard. Burell B. (2004) Neokoroi: Greek Cities and Roman Emperors. Leiden, Brill. Cerfaux, L. and Tondriau, J. (1957) Le culte des souverains dans la civilisation gréco-romaine. Tournai, Desclée. Chiekova, D. (2008) Cultes et vie religieuse des cités grecques du Pont Gauche (VIIe–Iersiècles avant J.-C.). Bern-Oxford, Peter Lang. Clairmont, C.W. (1966) Die Bildnisse des Antinous: Ein Beitrag zur Porträtplastik unter Kaiser Hadrian. Rome, Schweizerisches Institut.

Dionysus and Imperial Authority 139 Dunand, F. (1986) ‘Les associations dionysiaques au service du pouvoir Lagide (IIIe s. av. J.-C.)’, in O. Cazanove (ed.) L’association dionysiaque dans les sociétés anciennes: actes de la table ronde organisée par l’École française de Rome (Rome 14‒25 mai 1984), 85–104, Rome, É cole française de Rome. Ehrenberg, V. (1931) ‘Athenischer Hymnus auf Demetrios Poliorketes’, Die Antike 7, 279‒297. Foucher, L (1981) ‘Le culte de Bacchus sous l’empire Romain’, ANRW II.17.2, 684–702. Franzmeyer, W. (1904) Kallixenos’ Bericht über das Prachtzelt und den Festzug Ptolemaeus II. (Athenaeus V. Capp. 25–35). Diss. Kaiser-Wilhelms-Universität Strassburg. Fraser, P.M. (1957) ‘Mark Antony in Alexandria. A Note’, JRS 47.1–2, 71–73. Fuhrer, T. (2011) ‘Inszenierungen von Göttlichkeit. Die politische Rolle von Dionysos/Bacchus in der römischen Literatur’, in R. Schlesier (ed.) A Different God? Dionysos and Ancient Polytheism, Berlin, De Gruyter, 373–390. Galimberti, A. (2010) ‘Hadrian, Eleusis and the Beginning of Christian Apologetics’, in M. Rizzi (ed.) Hadrian and the Christians, Berlin, De Gruyter. Garzetti, A. (1974) From Tiberius to the Antonines: History of the Roman Empire from A.D. 14 to 192. London, Methuen. Geagan, D.J. (1972) ‘Hadrian and the Athenian Dionysiac Technitai’, TAPhA 103, 133–160. Goukowsky, P. (1981) Essai sur les origines du mythe d’Alexandre (336‒270 av. J.C.). Vol. 2: Alexandre et Dionysos. Nancy, Université de Nancy II. Graf, F. (1974) Eleusis und die Orphische Dichtung Athens in vorhellenistischer Zeit. Berlin, De Gruyter. Gurval, R.A. (1995) Actium and Augustus: The Politics and Emotions of Civil War. Ann Arbor, University of Michigan Press. Hamilton, J.R. (1968) Plutarch: Alexander. A Commentary. Oxford University Press. Hammond, N.L.G. (1932) Three Historians of Alexander the Great. Cambridge University Press [repr. 1983]. Hazzard, R.A. (2000) Imagination of a Monarchy. Studies in Ptolemaic Propaganda. University of Toronto Press. Jeanmaire, H. (1951) Dionysos. Histoire du culte de Bacchus. Paris, Payot. Jones, C.P. (1996) ‘The Panhellenion’, Chiron 26, 29–56. Karivieri, A. (2002) ‘Just One of the Boys. Hadrian in the Company of Zeus, Dionysus and Theseus’, in E.N. Ostenfeld (ed.) Greek Romans and Roman Greeks: Studies in Cultural Interaction. Aarhus University Press, 40‒54. Keyser, P.T. (2014) ‘Kallixeinos of Rhodes (627)’, in Brill’s New Jacoby, referenceworks.brillonline.com/entries/brill-s-new-jacoby/kallixeinos-of-rhodes627-a627?s.num=3&s.rows=20&s.mode=DEFAULT&s.f.s2_parent=brill-s-newjacoby&s.start=0&s.q=kallixenos. Koenen, L. (1993) ‘The Ptolemaic King as a Religious Figure’, in A. Bulloch et al. (eds.) Images and Ideologies. Self-definition in the Hellenistic World. Berkeley, University of California Press, 25‒115. Kritsotakis, D. (2008) Hadrian and the Greek East: Imperial Policy and Communication. Columbus, Diss. Ohio State University.

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Kröll, N. (2016) Die Ampelos-Episode in den ‘Dionysiaka’ des Nonnos von Panopolis. Berlin, De Gruyter. Lambert, R. (1984) Beloved and God: The Story of Hadrian and Antinous. New York, Carol Publishing Group. Litwa, M.D. (2012) We Are Being Transformed: Deification in Paul’s Soteriology. Berlin, De Gruyter. Litwa, M.D. (2013) Becoming Divine: An Introduction to Deification in Western Culture. Eugene, OR, Wipf and Stock. McGing, B.C. (1986) The Foreign Policy of Mithridates VI Eupator, King of Pontus. Leiden, Brill. Meisner, D.A. (2018) Orphic Tradition and the Birth of the Gods. Oxford University Press. Miller, J.F. (2009) Apollo, Augustus, and the Poets. Cambridge University Press. Momigliano, A. (1932) ‘La personalità di Caligola’, Annali della Scuola Normale Superiore di Pisa. Studi di lettere, storia e filosofia, N.S. 1, 205–228. Mylonas, G. (1961) Eleusis and the Eleusinian Mysteries. Princeton University Press. Nock, A.D. (1928) ‘Notes on Ruler-Cult I–IV’, JHS 48.1, 21‒24. Nock, A.D. (1972) Essays on Religion and the Ancient World. Vol. 1. Oxford, Clarendon Press. Nollé, J. (2008) ‘Seleukeia am Issischen Golf’, Chiron 33, 79‒92. Norden, E. (1899) ‘Ein Panegyricus auf Augustus in Vergils Aeneis’, RhM 54, 466‒482. O’Sullivan, L. (2016) ‘Augustus and Alexander the Great at Athens’, Phoenix 70.3/ 4, 339‒360. Papadopoulou, T. (2005) Heracles and Euripidean Tragedy. Cambridge University Press. Pedley, J.G. (1978) ‘A Dionysos in Ann Arbor’, Bulletin: The University of Michigan Museums of Art and Archaeology 1, 17‒27. Pelling, C.B.R. (1988) Plutarch: Life on Antony. Cambridge University Press. Petzl, G. and Schwertheim, E. (2007) Hadrian und die dionysischen Künstler. Drei in Alexandria Troas neugefundene Briefe des Kaisers an die KünstlerVereinigung. Bonn, Habelt. Raubitschek, E.A. (1946) ‘Octavia’s Deification at Athens’, TAPhA 77, 146–150. Riccardi, A. (2007) ‘The Bust-Crown, the Panhellenion, and Eleusis’, Hesperia 76, 365‒390. Rice, E.E. (1983) The Grand Procession of Ptolemy Philadelphus. Oxford University Press. Ripoll, F. (2015) ‘Statius and Silius Italicus’ in W.J. Dominik, C.E. Newlands and K. Gervais (eds.) Brill’s Companion to Statius, Leiden, Brill, 425‒443. Roman, L. (2015) ‘Statius and Martial: Post-vatic Self-fashioning in Flavian Rome’, in W.J. Dominik, C.E. Newlands and K. Gervais (eds.) Brill’s Companion to Statius, Leiden, Brill, 444–464. Romeo, I. (2002) ‘The Panhellenion and Ethnic Identity in Hadrianic Greece’, CPh 97, 21–40. Sayar, M.H. (2000) Die Inschriften von Anazarbos und Umgebung. Vol. 1: Inschriften aus dem Stadtgebiet und der nächsten Umgebung der Stadt. Bonn, Habelt.

Dionysus and Imperial Authority 141 Scott, K. (1928) ‘The deification of Demetrius Poliorcetes’, Part I‒II, American Journal of Philology 49.2‒3, 137‒166, 217‒239. Scott, K. (1975) The Imperial Cult under the Flavians. New York, Arno. Seaford, R. (2006) Dionysos. London, Routledge. Smith, R.R.R. (2018) Antinous: Boy made god. Oxford, Ashmolean Museum. Spawforth, A.J. (1999) ‘The Panhellenion Again’, Chiron 29, 339–354. Spawforth, A.J. and Walker, S. (1985/1986) ‘The World of Panhellenion’, Part 1, JRS 75, 78–104; Part 2, JRS 76, 88–105. Steele, R.B. (1930) ‘Interrelation of the Latin Poets under Domitian’, CPh 25.4, 328‒342. Tarn, A.W. (1948) Alexander the Great. Vol. 2: Sources and Studies. Cambridge University Press [repr. 2002]. Tondriau, J. (1948) ‘Rois Lagides comparés ou identifiés à divinités’, Chronique d’Égypte 45/46, 126–147. Walbank, F.W. (1984) ‘Monarchies and Monarchic Ideas’, in F.W. Walbank et al. (eds.) The Cambridge Ancient History. Vol. 7.1: The Hellenistic World, Cambridge University Press, 62‒100. Willers, D. (1990) Hadrians panhellenisches Programm: archäologische Beiträge zur Neugestaltung Athens durch Hadrian. Basel, Vereinigung der Freunde antiker Kunst. Wiseman, T.P. (2008) ‘Mime and Pantomime: Some Problematic Texts’, in E. Hall and R. Wyles (eds.) New Directions in Ancient Pantomime, Oxford University Press.

9

The role of Bacchus/Liber Pater in the Severan religious policy: the numismatic and epigraphic evidence Małgorzata Krawczyk

Introduction The tutelary gods of Lepcis Magna, Septimius Severus’ hometown, were Bacchus/Liber Pater and Hercules, both Roman interpretations of Punic deities.1 The purpose of this chapter is to elucidate the role of one of them, Liber, in the religious policy of Severus and his sons in the light of coin and epigraphic evidence. His significance to the emperor is evidenced by his presence, along with Hercules, on several coin issues minted between 194 and 210 AD. It is also indicated by several inscriptions in which he appears as the guardian deity of his reign. The purpose of this chapter is to prove that the emperor was proud of his African origins and showed devotion to his patron deity. He considered him to be both responsible for his military successes and a divine supporter of his dynastic claims. The reader will find a detailed description of the images on coins in the main part of the text. However, the texts of the inscriptions have been added in the Appendix of this chapter (referred to as ‘Append.’ in the text).

Numismatic evidence Liber Pater appears for the first time in the coinage of Septimius Severus, accompanied by Hercules, on gold, silver and bronze coins issued in 194, shortly after his victory over Pescennius Niger. Their reverse sides show Hercules on the left, standing facing to the right, holding a club and a lion’s scalp, and on the right, a Liber in a wreath, standing facing to the left, holding a thyrsus and cantharus, with a panther at his feet.2 The scene is surrounded by the legend DIS AVSPICIB TR P II COS II P P, probably referring to the divine sign (auspicium) they gave, announcing the assumption of imperial power by Septimius Severus.3 Thus, the Liber Pater and Hercules coins minted in the first years of his reign were probably part of a programme of divine legitimisation of power. The same type of representation is also found on two bronze medallions, probably minted in the same year.4 As the remaining coins and medallions from this period depict mainly military themes,5 according to Clare Rowan,

Bacchus in the Severan religious policy 143 the inclusion of Liber Pater and Hercules in this context was intended to emphasise that it was the guardian deities of Lepcis Magna that were responsible for Severus’ military success.6 It was probably also a reference to the emperor’s African homeland, as evidenced by the release in the same year of coins with the personification of Africa dressed in a lion’s scalp with the legend AFRICA S C.7 According to Achim Lichtenberger, in the first years of his reign, it was the North African origins of the emperor that became the main subject of imperial coinage.8 From the year 194 also come three denarii of Septimius Severus, on which Liber was depicted without Hercules. The obverse shows the head of Septimius Severus in a laurel wreath, and the reverse shows Liber holding a thyrsus and cantharus, accompanied by a panther. The legend on the reverse is LIBERO PATRI.9 Similar representations are known from Hadrian’s cystophores intended for circulation in Asia Minor. Since Liber Pater was identified by the Romans with Dionysus/Bacchus, the conqueror of the East,10 according to Clare Rowan, the god was used here to emphasise Severus’ military successes in the East, both in conflict with Pescennius Niger and in the subsequent war against the Parthians.11 Both deities, this time each separately, were again seen on the coins of Septimius Severus in 197. Hercules appeared on four issues, dated by imperial acclamation for the period between 196 and 197. On their obverse, there was the head of Septimius Severus in a laurel wreath; on the reverse, there was Hercules supported by a club, holding a bow and the scalp of a lion with the legend HERCVLI DEFENS.12 The term defensor probably refers to the protection that the god was supposed to give to the emperor who had just won over Clodius Albinus.13 At the same time, the mints in Rome also struck three issues in the denominations of aureus and denarius with the depiction of Liber. The head of Septimius Severus was placed on their obverse sides in a laurel wreath. On the reverse sides, we see Liber standing straight, raising his right hand towards his head and holding a thyrsus, accompanied by a panther and the legend LIBERO PATRI.14 According to Achim Lichtenberger, the fact that the gods introduced into Severus’ coinage as a pair appear separately this time may mean that around 195 Septimius Severus temporarily abandoned references to his North African origins in favour of emphasising his relationship with the gens of his predecessors, as evidenced by consecratio of Commodus and autoadoption to the Antonine family.15 Fifteen issues are dated to the year 204, with images of Septimius Severus, Caracalla or Geta on the obverse, with Liber Pater and Hercules on the reverse sides. The legend LVDOS SAECVL(ARES) indicates that they were struck to commemorate the celebration of the Saecular Games organised by Severus. Achim Lichtenberger distinguished four main types of these issues.16 The first type, with the image of Septimius Severus on the obverse, is represented by three issues of aureii, denarii, sesterces and asses with

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identical reverses, depicting Liber with a cantharus, a thyrsus and a panther and Hercules standing next to him with a club and a lion scalp.17 The second type from 204, minted as sestertius for Septimius Severus and aureus and as for Caracalla, differs from the first in that the reverse legend does not refer to the saecular celebrations, but refers to the two gods as di patrii.18 One of the interpretations of this coin, proposed by Johannes Hasebroek, assumes that they commemorated Septimius Severus’ visit in Lepcis Magna in 203, and the DI PATRII legend referred to the role that both gods played in the emperor’s hometown.19 However, the date of Septimius Sever’s visit to Africa is not certain and the image of Liber Pater and Hercules with the legend of DI PATRII appeared already in the years 200–202 on the bronze coins of Geta.20 According to Timothy D. Barnes, the Geta coins from 200–202 commemorated the commencement of the construction of the temple of Liber Pater and Hercules in Rome, while the later issues of Septimius Severus and Caracalla from 204 marked its dedication.21 According to Clare Rowan, the construction of the colossal temple mentioned by Cassius Dio22 could not have been completed in just two years.23 Hence, the conclusion that the aforementioned issues were minted in connection with its commencement, and the legend of DI PATRII referred to the transformation of Liber Pater and Hercules from the guardian deities of Lepcis Magna into the guardian deities of Rome and the Empire. The presence of Liber Pater and Hercules in the celebrations of the Saecular Games and on the reverses of the coins commemorating them might therefore be seen as a consequence of the emperor’s provincial origin. The third type, minted in the name of Septimius Severus and Caracalla as an as, depicts both gods, Liber Pater and Hercules, between whom is a cippus with an inscription possibly containing the text of saecular acta.24 It is accompanied by the legend COS III LVD SAEC FEC S C. The fourth type, with the image of Septimius Severus or Caracalla on the obverse, probably shows the emperor during the sacrifice on the occasion of the Saecular Games in the company of Liber Pater and Hercules, and a servant approaching the altar with a pig, next to which there is probably the personification of Tellus in a reclining position.25 According to Ilsemarie Mundle, there is no indication that Liber Pater and Hercules were honoured with a sacrifice on the occasion of the Saecular Games.26 At the same time, several other issues were released, depicting scenes from the celebrations of the Games with the legend SACRA SAECVLARIA, on which Liber Pater and Hercules do not appear.27 This led her to the conclusion that no sacrifices were made to them during the celebrations, and Severus himself was careful in modifying the celebrations. Moreover, the presence of a pig suggests that it is an offering of a pregnant black sow to the goddess of Earth.28 If an offering was also made to Hercules and Liber Pater, it would probably be a different kind of sacrifice.29

Bacchus in the Severan religious policy 145 According to Clare Rowan, Mundle does not take into account that the scene may have been cut due to the limited space on the coin.30 According to her, it is therefore likely that Liber Pater and Hercules also received sacrifices on the occasion of the Games. According to Ernst Diehl, the mention of these gods in Carmen Saeculare may also speak for this.31 Regardless of whether both gods were honoured with a sacrifice, their presence on the coins minted for the occasion clearly shows that they played an important role in the celebration of Severus’ Saecular Games. Liber Pater and Hercules reappear together on coins minted between 205 and 209. The reverse of an extremely rare aureus of Septimius Severus, of which only one copy is known, represents a group of three gods.32 In the middle, there is a figure of Jupiter sitting on a high throne, and on the right and left sides, Liber and Hercules are shown with their typical attributes. We are dealing here with a trio unique in Roman art, which combines Jupiter, the traditional guardian deity of emperors, with Liber Pater and Hercules, two gods very closely related to both Septimius Severus and the princes.33 According to Achim Lichtenberger, the image in question assigns the two gods of Lepcis Magna a subordinate position to Jupiter, which is additionally emphasised by the fact that both Liber Pater and Hercules were sons of the father of the gods.34 Therefore, these coins were probably minted after the end of the Saecular Games, when coins with images of the Liber Pater and Hercules couple were mass-issued. Ben Lee Damsky probably rightly links this issue with the dedication in Rome of the large temple of Liber Pater and Hercules, dated 206/207.35 On two issues of Caracalla, dated 206, Liber Pater and Hercules once again appeared individually.36 On the reverse of the first one, Liber is shown in a quadriga drawn by panthers, holding a thyrsus and cantharus.37 On the second, however, we see Hercules sitting at the table in the company of Pinarius and Potitius, two servants and an altar probably used for sacrifices.38 In the latter case, we are dealing with a mythological scene very rare in the Roman imperial coinage, probably inspired by the iconography of the bronze medallion of Antoninus Pius, the subject of which was the early history of Rome.39 According to tradition, representatives of the patrician families of Pinarii and Potitii cared for the cult of Hercules and sacrifices made to him in Rome, for which, according to legend, they were appointed by the god himself. The Geta issue showing Bacchus and Ariadne probably comes from the same year.40 On the reverse, there is again a mythological scene in which we see Bacchus/Liber and Ariadne seated to the right, accompanied by Silenus, a flutist and dancing maenads.41 It is impossible not to notice here that, although all three issues are simultaneous, Liber Pater and Hercules appear on them separately. It seems, therefore, that in the years 205–209 in the Severus coinage, the relationship between Liber Pater and Hercules and Lepcis Magna was clearly less often indicated, and much more often their role in the Graeco-Roman

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tradition,42 which was probably related to the above-mentioned construction of the temple for both gods in Rome.43 Liber Pater and Hercules appeared together for the last time on the sesterces minted on behalf of Caracalla and Geta in AD 210. The reverses of these coins show Caracalla and Geta standing opposite each other, holding spears in their left hands and shaking their right hands in a gesture of reconciliation.44 One of them is crowned with a laurel wreath by the Liber Pater, the other by Hercules. Contrary to what Adrian B. Marsden has suggested, it cannot be clearly stated whether each of them has been assigned to a specific god.45 The legend of the reverse, CONCORDIAE AVGG S C, leaves no doubt, however, that the Liber Pater and Hercules acted here as guarantors of consent within the imperial house, ensuring the continuity of the dynasty, which was of particular importance at the end of Severus’ reign.46 After 210, we no longer encounter the coinage of Septimius Severus with images of the couple Liber Pater and Hercules. Hercules reappeared on the coins of Caracalla minted in 212,47 21348 and 214.49 Liber Pater, on the other hand, returned to the Roman imperial coinage only during the reign of Galien, who placed on his coins, later reproduced by his successor, Claudius II Gothicus, an image of a panther with the legend LIBERO P (ATRI) CONS(ERVATORI) AVG(VSTI).50

Epigraphic evidence In epigraphic sources, Liber Pater appears mainly in the context of the Saecular Games of 204 AD. The most important of these is an inscription found in Rome containing fragments of Carmen Saeculare sung during the celebration.51 The first games during the Empire were organised by Augustus in 17 BCE, and the song composed by Horace on this occasion is considered the best preserved. Septimius Severus was the third emperor to organise the Games, and the inscription describing the programme of his celebrations is only partially preserved. The programme of Severus’ celebrations was more or less the same as in the time of Augustus. On the other hand, the Severan Carmen Saeculare also contained some new elements. A significant innovation on the part of Septimius Severus was the inclusion of Bacchus into the Carmen, whose name appears in the middle, worstpreserved part of the poem, along with a mention of his golden fields.52 Bacchus had never appeared before in Roman literature in the context of the Saecular Games, so his presence in the saecular song should be explained by the special role he played in the religious policy of Severus. It is possible that one of the unpreserved fragments of Carmen also mentioned Hercules, with whom Bacchus/Liber appears on Severus’ coins commemorating the celebration of the Games. According to Anthony Birley, both gods were included in the celebrations of the 204 Saecular Games and possibly in Carmen, as they were the

Bacchus in the Severan religious policy 147 guardian deities of Severus’ home city, Lepcis Magna.53 Jussi Rantala, on the other hand, claims that the purpose of the emperor, who is considered to be conservative towards the state cult and its gods, was not to emphasise his African origin during traditional ludi saeculares rituals, but was related to the fact that, from 196, imperial propaganda attributed to them the role of protectors of princes Caracalla and Geta.54 This is evidenced by the fact that the poem was dedicated to nostroque duces (‘our leaders’), which may refer to other members of the imperial family who played significant roles during the celebration of the Games, that is, Caracalla, Geta and Julia Domna.55 Also, since the song was performed by a choir of noble young boys and girls who constituted the future of Rome, the presence on coins and in the carmen of two gods closely related to the princes would symbolise the golden future of the dynasty and the continuation of the Empire. There are many indications that the direct echoes of the Saecular Games of 204 can also be found in the inscriptions from the Arab Petra, set up by the governor of the province of Arabia, Quintus Aiacius Modestus.56 His governorship is dated to between 205 and 207 AD. The inscriptions set up by him, placed on the votive altars for the health (pro salute) of Septimius Severus and his family, are dedicated to Apollo, Liber (see Append. 1), the deified personifications of Pax and Spes Temperantia, and probably Diana and Hercules. The dedication of inscriptions to Diana and Apollo, Liber and Hercules, who played an important role in the celebrations of the Saecular Games, suggests that a group of deities were honoured here, directly related to the celebrations held in Rome in 204 AD. Modestus itself appears in inscriptions as quindecemvir sacris faciundis, which, according to Michel Christol, proves that before he became governor of Arabia, he was a member of the college of 15 priests responsible for celebrations of the Saecular Games.57 Thus, in 204 he was probably in Rome, where he came into direct contact with the ideology accompanying the celebrations, which he later propagated in the province he managed.58 In addition, the positive reception of the imperial ideological programme in the region could, according to Achim Lichtenberger, also have been influenced by the fact that in the civil war against Pescennius Niger, Arabia supported Septimius Severus.59 The fact that the symbolism of the Saecular Games was adopted in the farthest corners of the Empire is confirmed, apart from numerous coin finds, by the content of the Latin dedication from Cologne60 (see Append. 2). The inscription dedicated to both Liber Pater and Hercules, probably dating back to the period of the Severan reign, was issued by Marcus Vannius Adiutor, a member of the Colonia Claudia Ara Agrippinensium city council (decurio). Apart from the inscription itself, the lower part of the accompanying relief depicting Liber with his sacred animal, the panther, and Hercules, has been preserved. It resembles the aforementioned depictions on the Severan coins issued on the occasion of the celebration of the Saecular Games. Fritz Fremersdorf also noted that dedications to Liber in Germania are extremely

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rare, and the pair Liber Pater–Hercules, apart from the inscription discussed here, does not appear in this area at all.61 It is attested in Italy, from where, as suggested by Herbert Nesselhauf, may also have come the rare nomen gentile of Marcus Vannius Adiutor.62 It is therefore possible that the ideas accompanying the celebration of the Saecular Games may have come to this place together with the executor of the inscription, which, like Quintus Aiacius Modestus, had the opportunity to personally take part in the celebrations in Rome. Direct evidence of the close relationship between Liber and the imperial house of Severus is provided by the inscription from Lepcis Magna, in which Liber Pater, ‘born of Jupiter’, was called the native Lar of ‘Severus born of Jupiter’63 (see Append. 3). The inscription was set up by a man named Pudens – a father who, on behalf of his son, dedicated ex voto two tusks of the Indian elephant to Liber in connection with his candidacy for the tribune (in Rome) and the subsequent praetorship and great kindness shown to them by the two principes.64 The principes mentioned in the eighth line are probably Septimius Severus and Caracalla, which suggests that the inscription should be dated to between 198 and 209.65 Septimius Severus, like Liber Pater, is here referred to as Jupiter’s son, and at the same time Pudens calls him Sol. According to Achim Lichtenberger, however, in this case, we cannot speak of syncretism between Jupiter, Liber, Sol and Septimius Severus.66 It follows from the inscription that Liber Pater was perceived in Lepcis Magna as the protective deity (Lar) of Septimius Severus,67 and their common feature was being ‘born of Jupiter’. Calling the emperor ‘Sol’ also shows that, in spite of their ‘affinity’, it was the Sun god, not Liber Pater, with whom he identified himself.68 It was probably Liber of Lepcis Magna, who became the god of the imperial family, to whom Quintus Ranius Cassianus, the military tribune of legio III Augusta stationed in the North African Lambaesis, dedicated his votive altar. The inscription is dedicated to deo patrio | libero patri | [c]onservatori | dominor(um) nn[n](ostrorum) | augg[g]ustorum (see Append. 4).69 So the officer turns to the guardian deity of three Augusti, that is, Septimius Severus and his two sons, which makes it possible to date it to between 209 and 211. According to René Lugand, there are two possible interpretations of this inscription.70 The first assumes that the term patrius refers to the hometown of Quintus Ranius Cassianus, or Lepcis Magna, and he erected his altar to the same Liber who in the aforementioned inscription is called ‘the native Lar of Severus’. However, according to the second concept, patrius refers to Lambaesis, and Liber should be considered a Roman form of a local deity. According to the aforementioned researcher, Q. Ranius Cassianus, wishing to express his loyalty to the emperor, could have dedicated his inscription to the Liber of Lambaesis, that is, some form of the African Liber, who in Lepcis Magna functioned as the emperor’s deus patrius. The choice of Q. Ranius Cassianus was therefore not accidental.

Bacchus in the Severan religious policy 149 The Severan devotion towards the god Liber could have been the reason for the restoration in Rome of the sanctuary of this god, which is commemorated by the dedication for health and victory (pro salutem [sic] et victorias [sic]) of Septimius Severus, Caracalla and Julia Domna71 (see Append. 5). The inscription, dating from 198 to 211, was set up by spirae, which in this case probably means several conjoined groups of followers of the Bacchic cult.72 They decorated with marble at their own expense, and fitted, a courtyard and a small garden to the sanctuary of the god Liber in a place called ‘Memphis’, located by Robert Everett Allen Palmer in the Sallustian Gardens.73 It was probably a garden sector expanded by Severus after his visit to the Egyptian city, commonly associated with the cult of Osiris-Apis, which the Greeks and Romans identified with Bacchus-Liber.74 According to the aforementioned researcher, it was here that various religious groups with astrological connections built their sanctuaries under the auspices of the Severan dynasty.75 The expression ex concessu in the sixth line suggests most probably that the renovation of Liber’s sacred shrine was carried out in the area given by the emperors to the associations as their property.76 So Adrien Bruhl rightly noted that imperial favour made these reigns a privileged period for the Bacchic religion.77 In turn, the united spirae, perhaps also involved in the wine trade and interest in gaining support in this area, eagerly used the opportunity to please the new dynasty, dedicating their venture to the emperor and his family.78 During the reign of the Severan dynasty, the cult of Dionysus continued to develop intensively in Asia Minor and Thrace, where the religious associations linking the traditions of the god-patron of the city with the imperial cult were particularly active. In this context, two dedicatory inscriptions from the Thracian Philippopolis79 (see Append. 6) and probably from Pergamum,80 in which Caracalla is called the ‘New Dionysus’, deserve special attention. The inscriptions are dated between 197 and 211. The title Neos Dionysos itself derives from the Ptolemaic tradition and was used by Hellenistic monarchs. It was also received by Mark Antony in Athens81 and is attested several times in epigraphic material from the reign of the Antonine dynasty for Hadrian,82 Antoninus Pius,83 Lucius Verus84 and Commodus.85 The aforementioned series of inscriptions dedicated to Caracalla’s predecessors proves that this title had nothing to do either with the propagation by the imperial family of the cult of guardian deities of Lepcis Magna, which we saw in the inscriptions discussed previously,86 or with Caracalla’s imitation of Alexander the Great and Dionysus mentioned by Cassius Dio.87 Achim Lichtenberger and Therese Fuhrer probably rightly suggest that it was instead part of a larger phenomenon derived in the Eastern Hellenistic tradition that defined the emperor as honorary chairman of the Dionysian technitai association.88

Conclusion Liber Pater appears for the first time in the coinage of Septimius Severus, accompanied by Hercules, shortly after his victory over Pescennius Niger. The

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coins minted in the first years of his reign were probably part of the programme of divine legitimisation of power. As the rest of the issues from this period focus on military themes, it is believed that the inclusion of Liber Pater and Hercules in this context was intended to emphasise that it was the guardian deities of Lepcis Magna that were responsible for Severus’ military success in the civil war. It was probably also a reference to the emperor’s African origins. The figure of Liber Pater identified by the Romans with Dionysus/ Bacchus, the conqueror of the East, was also used on the denarii of 194 to highlight Septimius Severus’ military successes in the East, both in the conflict against Pescennius Niger and in the later war against Parthia. Probably around the year 195, Septimius Severus temporarily abandoned references to his African origins in favour of emphasising his relationship with the gens of his predecessors, because on the 197 coins both deities appear individually. They only appear as a couple again in 204 on coins commemorating the celebration of the Saecular Games. It is not known whether they were honoured with a sacrifice, but their presence on the coins minted for the occasion proves that they played an important role in the celebration, which can be seen as a result of the emperor’s African origin. After the end of the Saecular Games, the relationship between Liber Pater and Hercules and Lepcis Magna was indicated in the Severus coinage clearly less frequently, and their role in the Graeco-Roman tradition much more often. In the years 205–209, they appear on coins either in the company of Jupiter, or individually, in mythological scenes, which was probably related to the construction and dedication of a large temple of Liber and Hercules in Rome. For the last time, Liber Pater/Bacchus appears with Hercules on the coins of Caracalla and Geta from 210, where they appeared as dynastic deities and guarantors of consent within the imperial household, which was of particular importance at the end of Severus’ reign. The presence of Liber Pater and possibly Hercules in the inscription with the fragments of Carmen Saeculare should, as in the case of coins commemorating the celebrations, probably be explained by the role they played in the pantheon of Severus’ hometown, Lepcis Magna. It is possible, however, that imperial propaganda assigned both gods the role of protectors of the princes Caracalla and Geta, symbolising the golden future of the dynasty and the continuation of the Empire. The presence of Liber and Hercules in the dedications dated to Severus’ reign set up in Petra and Cologne by Quintus Aiacius Modestus and Marcus Vannius Adiutor, who may have personally attended the aforementioned ceremonies, suggests, moreover, that the symbolism of the Saecular Games was adopted even in the most distant corners of the Empire. Interestingly, only two inscriptions from North Africa link Septimius Severus and his sons to the guardian deities of Lepcis Magna, where one might expect their worship due to their role in the local culture.

Bacchus in the Severan religious policy 151 Evidence of the Severan devotion towards Bacchus/Liber is also provided by a dedication from Rome commemorating the renovation of the sanctuary of this god by the spirae. However, the North African origin of Severus and the close relationship of the imperial house with the guardian deities of Lepcis Magna probably had nothing to do with the title ‘Neos Dionysos’ given to Caracalla by the Dionysian associations in Thrace and Asia Minor. Rather, it was part of a larger phenomenon derived from the Hellenistic tradition, well documented in epigraphic material from the time of the Antonines’ rule.

Notes 1 This chapter is part of a research project on Dionysus and the religious policy of the Roman emperors (2bH 15 0163 83) that was generously financed by the Polish Ministry of Science and Higher Education in the years 2016‒2019 within the National Programme for the Development of Humanities. 2 RIC IV.1 Septimius Severus 25, 31, 661, 666, 669A–D. 3 See Lichtenberger 2011, 44. 4 Gnecchi 1912, 73–74, nos. 4–5. 5 RIC IV.1 Septimius Severus 1–17, 20–23, 24, 24C, 651–652, 656–660A. 6 Rowan 2012, 45. 7 RIC IV.1 Septimius Severus 668A, 668B, 668D, 676A, 676D, 680. See also Lichtenberger 2011, 45. 8 Lichtenberger 2011, 46. 9 RIC IV.1 Septimius Severus 27A, 32, 44. 10 Bruhl 1953, 13–14. 11 Rowan 2012, 42. 12 RIC IV.1 Septimius Severus 79, 97, 111, 488. 13 See Lichtenberger 2011, 47–48. 14 RIC IV.1 Septimius Severus 99, 112A, 112B. 15 Lichtenberger 2011, 48–49. 16 Lichtenberger 2011, 51–53. 17 RIC IV.1 Septimius Severus 257, 763B and 765. 18 RIC IV.1 Septimius Severus 762 (sestertius); RIC IV.1 Caracalla 76 (aureus), 422 (as). 19 Hasebroek 1921, 135. 20 RIC IV.1 Geta 112 (sestertius), 117 (as and dupondius). 21 Barnes 1967, 104. 22 D.C. 77.16.3. 23 Rowan 2012, 75. 24 RIC IV.1 Septimius Severus 764A; RIC IV.1 Caracalla 420. 25 RIC IV.1 Septimius Severus 761; RIC IV.1 Caracalla 418. 26 Mundle 1957, 162–175. 27 RIC IV.1 Septimius Severus 293, 816; RIC IV.1 Caracalla 462; RIC IV.1 Geta 132, 137–138. 28 Zos. 2.6. 29 Mundle 1957, 173. 30 Rowan 2012, 59. 31 Diehl 1932, 762–794. See also Rowan 2012, 60. On the presence of Liber Pater and Hercules in the Carmen Saeculare, see below.

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32 Hill 1982, 159–160. On this coin, see also Damsky 1990, 88; Lichtenberger 2011, 54–55; Rowan 2012, 74. 33 Lichtenberger 2011, 54–55; Rowan 2012, 74. 34 Lichtenberger 2011, 55. 35 Damsky 1990, 89. See also Rowan 2012, 74. 36 On these issues, see Hurter 1980, 39–41; Lichtenberger 2011, 55–57; Rowan 2012, 72–73. 37 RIC IV.1 Caracalla 85. 38 RIC IV.1 Caracalla 430. 39 Gnecchi 1912, 19, no. 81, pl. 54.3. See also Lichtenberger 2011, 56. 40 Hurter 1980, 39–41; Lichtenberger 2011, 57; Rowan 2012, 73. 41 RIC IV.1 Geta 33. 42 Lichtenberger 2011, 58. 43 Rowan 2012, 73. 44 RIC IV.1 Caracalla 459, 508, 537; RIC IV.1 Geta 155, 184. 45 Marsden 1997, 4, 9. 46 Lichtenberger 2011, 59. See also Rowan 2012, 92. A similar scene of unity and harmony, emphasising the concordia within the imperial family, can be found in the relief with dextrarum iunctio located on the south side of the Arch of Septimius Severus in Lepcis Magna. It depicts Septimius Severus and Caracalla shaking their right hands, accompanied by a third faceless figure identified as Geta. Behind Septimius and Caracalla are Tyche of Lepcis Magna, Hercules and Liber Pater. On the left, there is Julia Domna, behind whom Minerva is depicted with a spear and a shield. Although the depiction has been interpreted in many different ways, Prescott W. Townsend is probably right to suggest that it symbolised the concordia within the imperial family (Townsend 1938, 519). Liber Pater and Hercules again appeared here as guarantors of the concordia within the domus divina, ensuring the continuation of the imperial house. On this relief, see also Bober 1943, 39; Rubin 1971, 374; Rubin 1976–1977, 169; Rowan 2012, 91–93. 47 RIC IV.1 Caracalla 192. 48 RIC IV.1 Caracalla 206. 49 RIC IV.1 Caracalla 239. 50 RIC V.1 Gallienus 229–230, 574; RIC V.1 Claudius Gothicus 64. They belonged to the so-called ‘animal series’ issued in the name of Galien by the mints of Rome and Siscia, dedicated to the nine deities (Apollo, Diana, Hercules, Jupiter, Juno, Liber Pater, Mercury, Neptune and Sol) represented by the animals most often associated with them. According to Richard D. Weigel, these coins were probably minted on the occasion of a great religious festival in Rome (see Weigel 1990, 135–143). On these issues, see also Bruhl 1953, 194. 51 CIL VI 32326–32335 and Pighi 1965, 140–175. 52 Pighi 1965, 225, ll. 33–34: [- - -]ras auratis fundere campis | Bacchum. Cf. Mundle 1957, 162. 53 Birley 1999, 159. 54 Rantala, 2017, 118. See also Fears 1981, 114–115; Ghedini 1984, 70–72. 55 Rantala 2017, 118. 56 Parr and Starcky 1962, 13–20 (editio princeps); Starcky and Bennett 1968, 41–66; AnnEpigr 1968, 19; Christol 1971, 124–140; AnnEpigr 1975, 853; Sartre 1993, 35, no. 2. 57 Christol 1971, 124–140. See also Lichtenberger 2011, 69; Rowan 2012, 66. 58 Rowan 2012, 66. 59 Lichtenberger 2011, 69–70. 60 Fremersdorf 1929, 133, no. 3; AnnEpigr 1929, 107; Nesselhauf 1937, 111, no.

Bacchus in the Severan religious policy 153

61 62 63 64

65 66 67

68

69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80

81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89

223; Galsterer and Galsterer 1975, 26, no. 76 and pl. 17, fig. 76; Gregarek 2004, 47–48 and fig. 4; Galsterer and Galsterer 2010, 70–71, no. 50. Cf. Lichtenberger 2011, 72–73. Fremersdorf 1929, 133. Nesselhauf 1937, 111. Reynolds and Ward Perkins 1952, 92, no. 295. See also Clauss 1999, 162; Lichtenberger 2011, 70. The dedication of two elephant tusks to Liber is also commemorated by a dedication from Oea; see Reynolds and Ward Perkins, 1952, 67, no. 231. In both cases, we are dealing with a reference to the Indian triumph of Dionysus; see Lichtenberger 2011, 70–71. Reynolds and Ward Perkins 1952, 92, no. 295. Cf. Lichtenberger 2011, 71. Lichtenberger 2011, 71. This is also confirmed by the inscriptions in which the Liber Pater appears as the genius of Lepcis Magna: Reynolds and Ward Perkins 1952, 92, nos 296–298. The terms genius and lar were probably used interchangeably, cf. Lichtenberger 2011, 71. The image of Sol was also present on his coins. An extremely rare aureus of Septimius Severus (RIC IV.1 Septimius Severus 102), of which only one copy is known, represents the Sun god in a quadriga emerging from the ocean and the earth goddess Tellus. According to Stephan Berrens, Sol has the features of the emperor, who thus portrays himself as the Sun god (Berrens 2004, 41). The rising sun is to symbolise a new beginning and evoke associations with the golden age, cf. Bergmann 1998, 270. Lugand 1927, 120. See also Bruhl 1953, 192. Lugand 1927, 129. CIL VI 461; ILS II.1 3361; Palmer 1978, 1088–1092. See also Lichtenberger 2011, 72–73. Palmer 1978, 1088. See also Jeanmaire 1970, 471; OLD 1805. Palmer 1978, 1086, 1088–1092. On the localisation of ‘Memphis’, see also Bruhl 1953, 200–202. Palmer 1978, 1089–1090. Palmer 1978, 1085–1120. Cf. Lichtenberger 2011, 72. Palmer 1978, 1088–1089, in particular, note 11. Bruhl 1953, 192. Palmer 1978, 1119–1120. IGRR I 702; IGBulg III.1 1074. CIG 6829; IGRR IV 468. See also a commentary in Merkelbach 1985, 136–138 and von Prott 1902, 182. The origin of this monument is not clear. Due to the mention of Dionysus Kathegemon, most researchers assume that it came from Pergamum. Reinhold Merkelbach claimed, however, that the dedication was originally made somewhere in Italy, because the stone is now in Florence. IG II2 1043, ll. 22–23. IGRR IV 209–210. IG III 22. IGRR IV 1374. Keil 1926, 265; SEG IV 522; AnnEpigr 1928, 96; I.Ephesos 293; Jaccottet 2003, 240–241, no. 142; Ascough, Harland and Kloppenborg 2012, 108, no. 173. Lichtenberger 2011, 73–74. D.C. 78.7.4. See also Bruhl 1953, 191–193. Lichtenberger 2011, 74; Fuhrer 2011, 388. If not stated otherwise, all translations are mine.

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Bibliography Ascough, R.S., Harland, P.A. and Kloppenborg, J.S. (2012) Associations in the Greco–Roman World. A Sourcebook. Waco, Baylor University Press. Barnes, T.D. (1967) ‘The Family and Career of Septimius Severus’, Historia 16, 87–107. Bergmann, M. (1998) Die Strahlen der Herrscher. Theomorphes Herrscherbild und politische Symbolik im Hellenismus und in der römischen Kaiserzeit. Mainz, Von Zabern. Berrens, S. (2004) Sonnenkult und Kaisertum von den Severern bis zu Constantin I. Stuttgart, Von Verlag. Birley, A.R. (1999) Septimius Severus, the African Emperor. London, Routledge. Bober, P.P. (1943) The Sculptures of the Arch of Septimius Severus at Lepcis Magna. Master of Arts Thesis, New York University. Bruhl, A. (1953) Liber pater. Origine et expansion du culte Dionysiaque a Rome et dans le monde romain. Paris, De Boccard. Christol, M. (1971) ‘Un écho des jeux séculaires de 204 après Jésus-Christ, en Arabie, sous le gouvernement de Q. Aiacius Modestus’, Revue des Études Anciennes 73, 124–140. Clauss, M. (1999) Kaiser und Gott. Herrscherkult im römischen Reich. Stuttgart–Leipzig, Teubner. Damsky, B.L. (1990) ‘The Stadium Aureus of Septimius Severus’, American Journal of Numismatics 2, 77–105. Diehl, E. (1932) ‘Zu den neuen Acta ludorum saecularium septimorum des Jahres 204 n.Chr.’, Sitzungsberichte der Preussischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, philologisch–historische Klasse 27, 762–794. Fears, J.R. (1981) ‘The Cult of Juppiter and Roman Imperial Ideology’, in J. Vogt, H. Temporini and W. Haase (eds.) Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt: Geschichte und Kultur Roms im Spiegel der neueren Forschung, Vol. II.2.17.1, Berlin, De Gruyter, 3–141. Fremersdorf, F. (1929) ‘Neue Inschriften aus Köln’, Germania 13, 132–138. Fuhrer, T. (2011) ‘Inszenierungen von Göttlichkeit. Die politische Rolle von Dionysos/Bacchus in der römischen Literatur’, in R. Schlesier (ed.) A Different God? Dionysos and Ancient Politheism, Berlin, De Gruyter, 373–390. Galsterer, B. and Galsterer, H. (eds.) (1975) Die römischen Steininschriften aus Köln. Köln, Greven & Bechtold. Galsterer, B. and Galsterer, H. (eds.) (2010) Die römischen Steininschriften aus Köln: IKöln². Mainz am Rhein, Von Zabern. Ghedini, F. (1984) Giulia Domna. Tra Oriente e Occidente. Roma, L’Erma di Bretschneider. Gnecchi, F. (1912) I medaglioni Romani. 3 vols. Milan, Ulrico Hoepli. Gregarek, H. (2004) ‘Monumentale Votive im römischen Köln’, Kölner Jahrbuch für Vor– und Frühgeschichte 37, 957–987. Hasebroek, J. (1921) Untersuchungen zur Geschichte des Kaisers Septimius Severus. Heidelberg, Winter. Hill, P.V. (1982) ‘A New Gold Type of Septimius Severus’, Numismatic Circular 90, 159–160. Hurter, S. (1980) ‘Ein neuer Aureus des Caracalla’, Schweizer Münzblätter 30, 39–41. Jaccottet, A.-F. (2003) Choisir Dionysos. Les associations dionysiaques ou la face cachée du dionysisme, Documents. Vol. II. Zürich, Akanthus Verlag.

Bacchus in the Severan religious policy 155 Jeanmaire, H. (1970) Dionysos. Histoire du culte de Bacchus. Paris, Payot. Keil, O. (1926) ‘Vorläufiger Bericht über die Ausgrabungen in Ephesos’, Jahreshefte des Österreichischen Archäologischen Instituts in Wien 23, 103–152. Lichtenberger, A. (2011) Severus Pius Augustus. Studien zur sakralen Repräsentation und Rezeption der Herrschaft des Septimius Severus und seiner Familie (193–211 n. Chr.). Leiden, Brill. Lugand, R. (1927) ‘Étude de quelques monuments inédits du Musée de Lambèse’, Mélanges de l’école française de Rome 44, 119–153. Marsden, A.B. (1997) ‘Between Principate and Dominate: Imperial Styles Under the Severan Dynasty and the Divine Iconography of the Imperial House on Coins, Medallions and Engraved Gemstones AD 193–235’, Journal of the British Archaeological Association 150, 1–16. Merkelbach, R. (1985) ‘Eine Inschrift des Weltverbandes der dionysischen Technitai (CIG 6829)’, Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 58, 136–138. Mundle, I. (1957) Untersuchungen zur Religionspolitik des Septimius Severus (Herkules, Bacchus, Jupiter, Juno). Diss. Freiburg Universität. Nesselhauf, H. (1937) ‘Neue Inschriften aus dem römischen Germanien und den angrenzenden Gebieten,’ Bericht der Römisch–Germanischen Kommission 27, 51–134. Palmer, R.E.A. (1978) ‘Severan Ruler–Cult and the Moon in the City of Rome’, in J. Vogt, H. Temporini and W. Haase (eds.) Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt: Geschichte und Kultur Roms im Spiegel der neueren Forschung, Vol. II.16.2, Berlin, De Gruyter, 1085–1120. Parr, P.J. and Starcky, J. (1962) ‘Three Altars from Petra’, Annual of the Department of Antiquities of Jordan 6–7, 13–20. Pighi, I. (1965) De ludibus saecularibus populi Romani Quiritum. Amsterdam, P. Schippers. Prott, H. von (1902) ‘Dionysos Kathegemon’, Mitteilungen des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts (Athen. Abt.) 27, 161‒188. Rantala, J. (2017) ‘Promoting Family, Creating Identity. Septimius Severus and Imperial Family in the Rituals of Ludi Saeculares’, in W. Vanacker and A. Zuiderhoek (eds.) Imperial Identities in the Roman World, London, Routledge. Reynolds, M. and Ward Perkins, J.B. (eds.) (1952) The Inscriptions of Roman Tripolitania. Rome/London, British School at Rome. Rowan, C. (2012) Under Divine Auspices. Divine Ideology and the Visualisation of Imperial Power in the Severan Period. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Rubin, Z. (1971) Supernatural and Religious Sanction of the Emperors’ Rule Under the Severi, 193–217. Diss. University of Oxford. Rubin, Z. (1976–1977) ‘The Felicitas and the Concordia of the Severan House’, Scripta Classica Israelica 3, 153–172. Sartre, M. (ed.) (1993) Inscriptions grecques et latines de la Syrie. Inscriptions de la Jordanie. Pétra et la Nabatène méridionale du Wadi al–Hasa au Golfe de’Aqaba. Vol. XXI, pt. 4. Paris, Paul Geuthner. Starcky, J. and Bennett, C.-M. (1968) ‘Les inscriptions du téménos’, Syria 45, 41‒66. Townsend, P.W. (1938) ‘The Significance of the Arch of the Severi at Lepcis’, American Journal of Archaeology 42, 512–524. Weigel, R.D. (1990) ‘Gallienus’ “Animal Series” Coins and Roman Religion’, Numismatic Chronicle 150, 135–143.

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Appendix. Inscriptions 1. Dedication to Liber Pater from Petra Editions: Parr and Starcky 1962, 13‒20 (editio princeps); Starcky and Bennett 1968, 41–66; AnnEpigr 1968, 519; Christol 1971, 124–140; AnnEpigr 1975, 853; Sartre 1993, 35, no. 2. Findspot: Petra Date: AD 205–207 Liber[o P]atri [pro salute Imp(eratoris)] Cae(saris) L(ucii) Se– [ptimi Severi Pii Pertinacis] 4 [– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –]. To Liber Pater, [for the welfare of the Emperor Caesar Lucius Septimius Severus Pius Pertinax – – –].89 2. Votive dedication to Liber Pater and Hercules from Cologne Editions: Fremersdorf 1929, 133, no. 3; AnnEpigr 1929, 107; Nesselhauf 1937, 111, no. 223; Galsterer and Galsterer 1975, 26, no. 76 and pl. 17, fig. 76; Gregarek 2004, 47–48 and fig. 4; Galsterer and Galsterer 2010, 70–71, no. 50. Findspot: Colonia Claudia Ara Agrippinensium (Cologne) Date: AD 101–300 Libero Patri et Herculi M(arcus) Vannius Adiutor dec(urio) v(otum) s(olvit) l(ibens) m(erito). To Liber Pater and Hercules: Marcus Vannius Adiutor, decurion, has fulfilled his vow willingly and deservedly. 3. Votive dedication to Liber Pater from Lepcis Magna Editions: AnnEpigr 1942/1943, 2; Reynolds and Ward Perkins 1952, 92, no. 295. Findspot: Lepcis Magna (Khoms) Date: AD 197–209 Iovigena Liber Pater votum quod destinaveram Lari Severi patrio 4 Iovigenae solis mei Pudens pater pro filio ob tribunatus candidam et ob praeturam proximam

Bacchus in the Severan religious policy 157 8 tantamque in nos principp(um) conlatam indulgentiam conpos votorum omnium dentes duos Lucae bovis 12 Indorum tuorum dico. l. 8. PRINCIPP – Severus and Caracalla, from 196; l. 11. Luca bos – an elephant. (Statue of) Liber Pater, son of Jupiter, the offering which I had destined for the Lar of the home city of Severus, the son of Jupiter, who is my sun, my father Pudens (paid) on behalf of his son, on account of my candidature for the tribunate (at Rome) and my subsequent praetorship and the great indulgence which the two principes have conferred on us; as an offering which comprises all that I have vowed I dedicate two elephant tusks from your own Indian animals (tr. J.M. Reynolds and J.B. Ward–Perkins). 4. Votive dedication to Liber Pater from Lambaesis Editions: Lugand 1927, 119–129 (editio princeps); AnnEpigr 1928, 106. Findspot: Lambaesis (Tazoult–Lambèse) Date: AD 209–211 Deo Patrio Libero Patri [c]onservatori 4 dominor(um) nn[[[n(ostrorum)]]] Augg[[[g(ustorum)]]] Q(uintus) Ranius Cas– sianus trib(unus) mil(itum) 8 leg(ionis) III Aug(ustae) v(otum) s(olvit) l(ibens) a(nimo). To Liber Pater, God of the home city (of Severus), preserver of our lords the three Augusti: Quintus Ranius Cassianus, military tribune of the legio III Augusta, has fulfilled his vow willingly and heartily. 5. Building dedication for a shrine of Liber in Rome Editions: CIL VI 461; ILS II 3361; Palmer 1978, 1088–1092. Findspot: Rome Date: AD 197–211 Pro salute{m} et victoria{s} dd(ominorum) nn(ostrorum) Impp(eratorum) Severi et Antonini Augg(ustorum) 4 et Iuliae Aug(ustae) matri(s) Augg(ustorum) totiusq(ue) domus divinae eorum

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ex concessu in praediis suis sacrarium dei Liberi cum aedicula et colum– 8 nis suis ipendi(i)s marmorarunt et aream et (h)ortulum super Nym– phis qui locus appellatur Memphi donum dederunt spirae. For the welfare and victory of our lords the Emperors Severus and Antoninus the two Augusti, and of Julia Augusta, mother of the two Augusti and of their whole divine house. By (their) grant (Bacchic) sodalities (spirae) on their own property adorned with marble a shrine of the god Liber with chapel and columns at their own expense, and gave as a gift a mall and garden above the Nymphs which is the place called Memphis (tr. R.E.A. Palmer, slightly adapted). 6. Fragmentary dedication for victory and eternal duration of Septimius Severus, Caracalla and Julia Domna from Philippopolis Editions: IGRR I 702; IGBulg III.1 1074. Findspot: Philippopolis (Plovdiv) Date: AD 198–211 Fragment A: [ὑπὲρ τῆς τῶν κ]υρίων Αὐτοκρατ[όρων νίκης καὶ] [αἰωνίου δια]μ̣ ονῆς Λουκ(ίου) Σεπτιμ[ίου Σευήρου] [Εὐσεβοῦς Εὐτ]υ̣χοῦς Σεβ(αστοῦ) τὸ γʹ Ἀ[ραβ(ικοῦ) Ἀδιαβ(ηνικοῦ) Παρθ(ικοῦ) μεγ(ίστου)] 4 [ἀρχιερεῖ μεγ(ίστῳ)] π̣ατρὶ (sic!) πατρίδος ἀν̣[θυπάτῳ καὶ Μ(άρκου)] [Αὐρηλίου Ἀντ]ω̣ νείνου Αὐγο[ύστου Εὐσεβοῦς Εὐτυ]– [χοῦς πατρὸς πατρί]δος Ἀραβικ̣[οῦ Ἀδιαβηνικοῦ Παρ]– [θικοῦ μεγίστο]υ̣ τῆς οἰκο[υμένης δεσπότου καὶ] 8 [σωτῆρος τοῦ νέου Δ]ιονύσο[υ καὶ Ἰουλίας Δόμνης] [Σεβ(αστῆς) μητρὸς κάστ]ρ̣ω̣ν κ[αὶ σύμπαντος αὐτῶν οἴκου] [– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –]. For the victory and eternal duration of lords Emperors Lucius Septimius Severus Pius Felix Augustus, victorious in Arabia three times, victor of Adiabene, greatest victor in Parthia, high priest, father of the fatherland, proconsul and Marcus Aurelius Antoninus Augustus Pius Felix, father of the fatherland, victor in Arabia, victor of Adiabene, ruler of the whole inhabited world and saviour, new Dionysus and of Julia Domna Augusta, mother of the camps and of their whole divine house [– – –].

Part III

Late-antique reflection on Dionysus

10 The rule of Dionysus in the light of the Orphic theogony (Hieroi Logoi in 24 Rhapsodies) Marek Job

Introduction There can be no doubt that the myth of Dionysus Zagreus played an important role in the ancient reflection on the nature of ruling.1,2 This is why examining in detail the way in which the myth portrays Dionysus’ part in governing the world may cast light on how the ruler was perceived in the Graeco-Roman world. Judging from the preserved fragments of the so-called Orphic theogonies, there can be little doubt that the classic succession myth that ends, as presented in Hesiod’s Theogony, with the establishment of Zeus’ rule over the cosmos stood at the centre of their narrative structure. However, in the late-antique compilation of Orphic poetry known under the title of Hieroi Logoi in 24 Rhapsodies, an additional theme was introduced to the theogonic myth, namely the one in which Zeus gave power over people and gods to his little son Dionysus, who soon after was murdered by the Titans. This story of the death of Dionysus was, and sometimes still is, regarded by scholars as an independent myth constituting the key to understanding many soteriological and eschatological texts associated with the Orphic religious movement. There is no convincing proof, however, that the story was a part of any Orphic theogony before the Hieroi Logoi in 24 Rhapsodies was compiled. An mportant question then arises: was this addition only an innovation of the late-antique compiler of Rhapsodies or was it a theological idea rooted in the earlier literary and iconographic tradition, in which a unique relationship between Zeus and Dionysus was highlighted? After a brief discussion of contemporary views on the character and content of Hieroi Logoi, I proceed to examine the cosmological role of Zeus in Orphic theogony. Next, I discuss the main themes of the Dionysus myth within the Rhapsodies. In the last section of the chapter, I offer some reflections on the possible meaning of the ambiguous Orphic fragment mentioning the joint rule of Zeus and Dionysus. Hieroi Logoi in 24 Rhapsodies Modern researches in Orphism usually accept the idea that for the authors of Late Antiquity the main source of knowledge on tradition, mythology or

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theology connected to the mythical figure of Thracian bard Orpheus was a theogonic poem known under the title of Hieroi Logoi in 24 Rhapsodies. The work itself did not survive to modern times, but references to it – be they direct quotes or paraphrases – can be found in existing writings of Neoplatonic philosophers and Christian apologists. These references in turn allowed classical philologists to collect a large set of fragments, and from those to reconstruct parts of the poem. However, the structure and the time of composition of the Hieroi Logoi remain uncertain.3 The first mention of ῥαψῳδίαι Ὀρφικαί was made by Damascius, a Neoplatonist from the turn of the sixth century, in his work De principiis. He also mentions the titles of two other, earlier theogonies he was familiar with – a theogony of Eudemus of Rhodes, and the Hieroi Logoi by Hieronymus of Rhodes and Hellanicus – but his work implies that he only had direct access to the Rhapsodies, since he calls them ‘the standard Orphic Theogony’ (συνήθης Ὀρφική θεολογία).4 The question of whether the various theogonies are interrelated, whether they used some single poem with mythological themes as a model that was reworked and restructured by subsequent authors, remains under discussion. Some schools of thought insist that the Orphic tradition continued unchanged and conservative in subsequent theogonic texts. Others – let us call them the constructivist approaches – maintain that the Orphic content was reinterpreted constantly in the telling, and thus enriched and expanded with new ideas, made to fit the intellectual and spiritual needs of a given time period. It is with those two approaches in mind that we will now take a look at the modern ideas on the character of Rhapsodies. According to Martin West, who was the first to propose a detailed and erudite reconstruction of the orphic cosmologies, the Rhapsodies were composed in the Hellenistic period (between the first century BCE and the second century AD) by a single author, who, having formed a cohesive whole out of the contents of earlier theogonies (mainly those by Eudemus, Hieronymus and Hellanicus), created a single, long narrative in 24 songs.5 This poem told the story of how Time (Chronos), the primal origin of all, began organising the space around (or rather within) it, and through the god-king of light, Phanes, who was hatched from a cosmic egg formed in the Aether, created the world. Phanes, an androgynous being, begets the goddess-queen Night (Nyx) by itself. After that, the poem goes on to describe the Orphic variant of the succession myth (Uranus–Cronus–Zeus– Dionysus). The final, climatic part of the theogony, its last song, is supposed to be the tale of the creation of humanity, and of the divine rule of the last hypostasis of the primal Phanes, that is, Dionysus, earlier murdered by the Titans but then resurrected by Zeus. It should be noted that Martin West was not interested in the context (Stoic or Neoplatonic) in which the fragments he used for reconstruction were cited in the literature of Late Antiquity. West decided that this context had no bearing on the mythical narrative of original, or at least ancient, Orphic tradition.6 West’s opinion

Rule of Dionysus in the Orphic theogony 163 on the uniformity of the Rhapsodies is supported by many subsequent scholars,7 although there are critics who questioned the way in which West has reconstructed the structure of the poem. These critics additionally point out – and this is quite important for this chapter – the ways in which some motifs in Orphic poems were either fleshed out or toned down, added to or subtracted from, by the authors who recreated them in subsequent centuries and who hailed from various intellectual milieus. The main point of controversy is Martin West’s claim that there exists a manuscript tradition of Orphic cosmogonic poems. Having reconstructed the content of the theogonies of which fragments exist, starting with the oldest, written on the Derveni papyrus (probably the sixth century BCE), West created a stemma that purportedly illustrates the existing links between the theogonies.8 To explain the absence of some mythological motifs in all the poems, West has also assumed that these motifs were present in the original Orphic theogony, which he named the Protogonos Theogony. However, the existence of this text is not supported by the sources.9 What, then, could the Hieroi Logoi in 24 Rhapsodies be, if it is not a poem that relates a cohesive myth of cosmos creation and resembles Hesiod’s Theogony in form? Radcliffe Edmonds was the one to try and answer that question. Because the surviving fragments contain demonstrable discrepancies, Edmonds claims that the Rhapsodies were ‘a loose collection of Orphic poetry, containing various poems composed and reworked over the centuries by various bricoleurs’, and therefore were more akin to the Sibylline Oracles.10 This theory has some important consequences for our understanding and interpretation of the mythical motifs therein. Firstly, the Rhapsodies as a whole did not necessarily concentrate on theogony; they may simply have contained some poems on the subject and presented variants of the theme. This means these poems could have coexisted with other ones on different subjects (eschatological, soteriological). Secondly, if we assume that the collection was an effect of bricolage, then it must have mixed contents originating in different periods of time (from archaic to imperial). This in turn means that some of the poems did not contain purely Orphic content (whatever such content might be) but were the result of a fusion of Orphism with the theological and philosophical ideas of the period in which they were written.11 Thus, it comes as no surprise that Neoplatonic philosophers claimed that the text of the Rhapsodies, or the work of Orpheus the theologian, expresses through metaphor and allegory a reality which they described discursively. According to another interesting theory on the content of the Rhapsodies, they purportedly resembled Ovid’s Metamorphoses. In this variant, the text divided into 24 books could have begun, as Ovid’s work did, with a long cosmogonic poem, which would then pass on to other mythological songs attributed to Orpheus.12 This chapter is based on the idea that the Rhapsodies gave a single, coherent cosmogonic and theogonic myth, as did the first book of Ovid’s Metamorphoses.

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Zeus, the creator of the world There is no doubt that the myth that was fundamental to Hesiod’s Theogony, the most famous work on the creation of the world and on the origin of gods, describing the succession of gods (Uranus‒Cronus‒Zeus), was also an important part of the Orphic cosmogonic narratives. However, Hesiod’s version ends with establishing the rule of Zeus, while the Rhapsodies tell of Zeus designating young Dionysus as his successor. To describe the character and meaning of the reign of Dionysus as stipulated in Hieroi Logoi, we must therefore start with the cosmogonic role of his father, Zeus. Let us then start with the events of Orphic theogony in medias res. Zeus, the new king of the gods, poses the following question to the primal goddess, Night: μαῖα, θεῶν ὑπάτη, Νὺξ ἄμβροτε, πῶς, τάδε φράζε, πῶς χρή μ’ ἀθανάτων ἀρχὴν κρατερόφρονα θέσθαι; πῶς δέ μοι ἕν τε τὰ πάντ’ ἔσται καὶ χωρὶς ἕκαστον13; Mother, supreme among gods, immortal Night, tell me how, how can I instill vaillant rulership among the Immortals? And how can I make all as one and yet remain individual?14 The goddess advises him: αἰθέρι πάντα πέριξ ἀφάτωι λαβέ, τῶι δ’ ἐνί μέσσωι οὐρανόν, έν δέ τε γαῖαν ἀπείριτον, ἐν δέ θάλασσαν, ἐν δὲ τὰ τείρεα πάντα, τά τ’ οὐρανὸς ἐστεφάνωται. αὐτὰρ ἐπὴν δεσμὸν κρατερὸν περὶ πᾶσι τανύσσηις σειρὴν χρυσείην ἐξ αἰθέρος ἀρτήσαντα.15 Surround all things with indescribable Aether place the Heaven in the centre, endless earth and sea within it, and all the constellations that surround the Heaven and when you hang the golden chain of the Aether you will gird all with a strong bond. Zeus, following the goddess’s advice, swallows Phanes-Ericapaeus and, since it was Phanes’ power that held the initial creation together, the universe cannot continue to exist. Therefore, it ‘follows’ its creator into Zeus’ entrails: ὣς τότε πρωτογόνοιο χαδὼν μένος Ἠρικεπαίου τῶν πάντων δέμας εἶχεν ἑῆι ένί γαστέρι κοίληι, μεῖξε δ’ ἑοῖς μελέεσσι θεοῦ δύναμίν τε και ἀλκήν, τοὔνεκα σὺν τῶι πάντα Διὸς πάλιν ἐντὸς ἐτύχθη.16 As he swallowed the power of the primal Ericapaeus, he had the form of all things inside him mixing the power and might of a god in his members. Thus, everything was united anew inside Zeus.

Rule of Dionysus in the Orphic theogony 165 Why does Zeus decide to recreate the world? Dwayne Meisner17 proposes to interpret the act of swallowing the primal creation in the context of the inner coherence of a succession myth structure. The main question would therefore be: what does Zeus gain by swallowing Phanes and the entire original creation? The answer lies within the question that Zeus poses to Nyx. The king of the gods wants a mandate to reign over the humans and the gods, instead of being simply another successor (after Uranus and Cronus) of the real god-king Phanes. To become the first among gods and consolidate his power, he must therefore take on Phanes’ role and create the world anew. On the other hand, those scholars who lean towards an allegorical interpretation of the Neoplatonic philosophers – who have discussed these cited fragments extensively – state that ‘Zeus’ dilemmas … are … a metaphorical presentation of one of the fundamental questions posed by Greek philosophy, which is … the problem of one and many’.18 This approach finds that the most important consequence of Zeus swallowing Phanes is not his power, but his position as the god-creator of the divided universe. Neoplatonic philosophers, when interpreting the fragments of Rhapsodies cited above, used their own terminology to describe the various levels of metaphysical reality. In this approach, Phanes, according to philosopher Proclus, symbolised the intelligible model (παράδειγμα) situated in the highest level of the Mind sphere and filled with non-material Platonic Ideas. Zeus swallowing Phanes was an image of Demiurge that contemplated Ideas from the intellectual level and reproduced them on lower levels of reality. Therefore, he became for the intellectual world the same thing that Phanes was for the intelligible sphere. However, even though Zeus the Demiurge is similar, on a lower level, to Phanes the Model, he is not able to, or rather not capable of – being too far removed from the source of power that is the perfect One (represented by primal Chronos in the Rhapsodies) – maintaining the level of unity characteristic of the higher Mind sphere. He therefore creates a number of divine beings, which correspond more or less to the Olympian gods.19

Dionysus Zagreus: the myth in the Rhapsodies The myth describing the tragic story of Dionysus, son of Persephone and Zeus, who had already received the royal throne and sceptre from his father as a child, but who was dismembered and devoured by the Titans, is seen as the climactic part of the Rhapsodies and the most original and important part of the Orphic theogony by those who see the Rhapsodies as a single, cohesive poem. Cited fragments, commentaries and paraphrases of the myth found in late antique works and collected by Alberto Barnabé allow us to distinguish the following motifs in the mythical narrative: 1. Zeus, in the form of a serpent, rapes his daughter Persephone. Persephone gives birth to Dionysus.

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Nonn. Dion. 6.155‒160 (=OF 283) Παρθένε Περσεφόνεια, σύ δ’ οὐ γάμον εὗρες ἀλύξαι, ἀλλὰ δρακοντείοισιν ἐνυμφεύθης ὑμεναίος, Ζεύς ὅτε πουλυέλικτος ἀμειβομένοιο προσώπου νυμφίος ἱμερόεντι δράκων κυκλούμενος ὁλκῷ εἰς μυχὸν ὀρφναίοιο διέστιχε παρθενεῶνος σείων δαυλὰ γένεια. O maiden Persephone, you could not know how to avoid your nuptials, but you were united with a bridegroom in a serpentine wedding when Zeus, many-coiled, in a changed shape crawled as a serpentine bridegroom, twisting and turning with flowing grace, into the dark, virginal chamber, shaking the hairy jowls. Schol. Lucian. 52.9 (=OF 280) λέγουσι δὲ αὐτὸν καὶ τερατίαν γενέσθαι καὶ εἰς δράκοντα μεταμορφωθῆναι καὶ τῆι ἰδίαν θυγατρὶ μιγῆναι. He [Zeus] is said to have done an astonishing thing and to have changed into a serpent and united with his daughter in that form. Procl. In Cra. 85.18 (=OF 281) φασὶν τὴν Κόρην ὑπὸ μὲν τοῦ Διὸς βιάζεσθαι. It is said that Kore was raped by Zeus. Schol. Lucian. 52.9 (=OF 283) καἰ ἄλλος ὁ Σαβάζιος λεγόμενος… ἐκ Διὸς καὶ Περσεφόνης. And another Dionysus, called Sabazios … was born of Zeus and Persephone. 2. Dionysus is given to the care of the Curetes. Procl. Theol. Plat. 5.35 (=OF 296) οὗτοι γοῦν οἱ θεοὶ καὶ τήν βασιλίδα Ῥέαν λέγονται φρουρεῖν καὶ τὸν ὅλων δημιουργόν, καὶ μέχρι τῶν αἰτίων τῆς μεριστῆς ζωογονίας τε καὶ δημιουργίας προϊόντες τήν τε Κόρην ἐν ἐκείνοις καὶ τὸν Διόνυσον ἐξηιρημένους τῶν δευτέρων φυλάττειν. And it is said that these deities [the Curetes] protected queen Rhea and the demiurge of all things and, coming close to the very origin of the division of living things and creation [which also means Dionysus] they protected Kore and Dionysus, who are among those origins, devoid of a secondary nature. 3. Zeus proclaims Dionysus the new king of the gods. Procl. In Cra. 55.5 (=OF 299) καὶ ὁ Διόνυσος τελευταῖος θεῶν βασιλεύς παρὰ τοῦ Διός· ὁ γὰρ πατὴρ ἱδρύει τε αὐτὸν ἐν τῷ βασιλείῳ θρόνῳ καὶ ἐγχειρίζει τὸ σκῆπτρον καὶ βασιλέα ποιεῖ τῶν ἐγκοσμίων ἁπάντων θεῶν·εκλῦτε, θεοί· τόνδ’ ὔμμιν ἐγὼ βασιλῆα τίθημι λέγει πρὸς τοὺς θεοὺς ὁ Ζεύς. Dionysus, the last king of the gods [received his power from Zeus] as

Rule of Dionysus in the Orphic theogony 167 well, since his father sat him on the divine throne, put the sceptre into his hand and made him king of all the cosmic gods. Listen, ye gods, I give you this king, said Zeus to the gods. 4. The Titans ambush Dionysus: they paint their faces with plaster and lure Dionysus with toys and a mirror. They then kill him, dismember his body, boil it and eat it. Nonn. Dion. 6.169‒173 οὐδέ Διὸς θρόνον εἶχεν ἐπὶ χρόνον· ἀλλά ἑ γύψῳ κερδαλέῃ χρισθέντες ἐπίκλοπα κύκλα προσώπου δαίμονος ἀστόργοιο χόλῳ βαρυμήνιοις Ἥρης Ταρταρίῃ Τιτῆνες ἐδηλήσαντο μαχαίρῃ άντιτύπῳ νόθον εἶδος ὀπιπεύοντα κατόπτρῳ. He [Dionysus] did not stay on Zeus’ throne for long, because cunningly disguising their deceitful faces with plaster led by their hatred of the implacable goddess Hera the Titans killed him with a knife from Tartarus as he gazed into the misleading reflection in the mirror. 5. Athena saves the heart of the murdered Dionysus and brings it to Zeus. Procl. H. 7.11‒15 ἢ κραδίην ἐσάωσας ἀμιστύλλευτον ἄνακτος αἰθέρος ἐν γυάλοισι μεριζομένου ποτὲ Βάκχου Τιτήνων ὑπὸ χερσί, πόρες δέ ἑ πατρὶ φέρουσα, ὄφρα νέος βουλῇσιν ὑπ’ ἀρρήτοισι τοκῆος ἐκ Σεμέλης περὶ κόσμον ἀνηβήσῃ Διόνυσος. You [Athena] who saved the heart of the king Bacchus from dismemberment in the dome of the sky when he was torn by the hands of the Titans, and took it to father so that, by the unspeakable wish of the father, a new Dionysus grew in Semele in the cosmos. 6. Zeus strikes the Titans with lightning. The third generation of humans is created from the ashes and smoke of the Titans’ bodies. Olymp. In Phd. 1.3 εἶτα τὸν Δία διεδέξατο ὁ Διόνυσος, ὅν φασι κατ’ ἐπιβουλὴν τῆς Ἥρας τοὺς περὶ αὐτὸν Τιτᾶνας σπαράττειν καὶ τῶν σαρκῶν αὐτοῦ ἀπογεύεσθαι. καὶ τούτους ὀργισθεὶς ὁ Ζεὺς ἐκεραύνωσε, καὶ ἐκ τῆς αἰθάλης τῶν ἀτμῶν τῶν ἀναδοθέντων ἐξ αὐτῶν ὕλης γενομένης γενέσθαι τοὺς ἀνθρώπους. After Zeus, the power was inherited by Dionysus, who was said to be torn apart and consumed by the Titans due to Hera’s ruse. The enraged Zeus smote them with lightning, and from the charred smoke that was left, matter was created and humans were born.

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7. Dionysus is reborn by Semele. See 5 mentioned previously. 8. Dionysus rules together with Zeus. Procl. In Ti. 3.316 (= OF 300) κραῖνε μὲν οὖν Ζεὺς πάντα πατήρ, Βάκχος δ’ ἐπέκραινε. Father Zeus ruled all, and Bacchus exercised the rule.

Dionysus Zagreus: the myth outside the Rhapsodies (sources and discussions overview) If the original source for the late-antique quotations given above was really Hieroi Logoi in 24 Rhapsodies, then we can suspect that the myth of Dionysus torn apart by the Titans was present there in that form. However, the contemporary scholars were much more interested in the way the myth functioned outside of the context of theogony. This was because it was seen as a key to understanding the Orphic doctrine, especially its anthropological and soteriological components.20 In this context, the information supplied by Olympiodorus, a Neoplatonist from the sixth century AD, is especially important. In his commentary to Plato’s Phaedo, Olympiodorus tells the story of humanity’s origins from the ashes of the Titans struck down by Zeus after they had tasted Dionysus’ flesh (see 6.) and, while he clearly alludes in it to the Dionysian–Titanic elements of human nature, this remark inspired modern scholars to additional conclusions. It was assumed that the central part of the ancient Orphic movement was the belief in the primal, Titanic guilt of humanity, which had to be erased through participation in secret Orphic mysteries (teletai). This idea was strengthened by the discovery of what is known as the Orphic gold tablets, which are seen as alluding to the Titanic nature of the souls of the deceased (ποινὰν δ’ ἀνταπέτεισ’ ἔργων ἕνεκ’ οὔτι δικαίων: ‘I have been punished for an unjust act’21). They also mention those who were initiated into the Bacchic mysteries (μύσται καὶ βάχχοι22), the salvation granted by Dionysus (σὲ ... Βάκχιος αὐτὸς ἔλυσε23: ‘Bacchus himself liberated you’) and the grace of his mother Persephone (νῦν δ’ ἱκέτις ἥκω παραὶ ἁγνὴν Φερσεφόνειαν | ὥς με πρόφρων πέμψηι ἕδρας ἐς εὐαγείων24: ‘I now come as a supplicant to Persephone, so that in her grace she sends me to the dwellings of the immaculate’). Therefore, the myth of Dionysus torn apart by the Titans, in the form that we know from the Rhapsodies fragments cited in Late Antiquity, should already have existed in earlier periods. The most commonly quoted source that is used to support the idea that the myth was already present in the Archaic period25 (sixth century BCE) is a fragment of a lament by Pindar, cited by Plato in the Meno dialogue when discussing metempsychosis:

Rule of Dionysus in the Orphic theogony 169 οἷσι δὲ Φερσεφόνα ποινὰν παλαιοῦ πένθεος δέξεται, εἰς τὸν ὕπερθεν ἅλιον κείνων ἐνάτῳ ἔτει ἀνδιδοῖ ψυχὰς πάλιν, ἐκ τᾶν βασιλῆες ἀγαυοὶ καὶ σθένει κραπνοὶ σοφίᾳ τε μέγιστοι ἄνδρες αὔξοντ’: ἐς δὲ τὸν λοιπὸν χρόνον ἥρωες ἁγνοὶ πρὸς ἀνθρώπων καλεῦνται.26 Those who pay Persephone for her past suffering will have their souls guided by her back into the sun in the ninth year great kings and strong, swift men they will grow up to be and wondrous in knowledge; forever they will be known as sacred heroes among men. And yet this fragment poses some problems. In the context of the Dionysian myth, the ‘past suffering’ of Persephone is usually interpreted as her grief for her murdered child.27 However, myths concerning Persephone make another interpretation possible: her suffering may be due to her abduction by Hades and forced separation from her mother. It is therefore quite possible that Pindar’s verse cited above refers to the myth known from Homer’s hymn to Demeter.28 Another passage used to prove the ancient origins of the Dionysus Zagreus myth is the fragment of Plato’s Laws, where the Athenian stranger describes immoral behaviour to Mergillos of Sparta: ἐφεξῆς δὴ ταύτῃ τῇ ἐλευθερίᾳ ἡ τοῦ μὴ ἐθέλειν τοῖς ἄρχουσι δουλεύειν γίγνοιτ᾽ ἄν, καὶ ἑπομένη ταύτῃ φεύγειν πατρὸς καὶ μητρὸς καὶ πρεσβυτέρων δουλείαν καὶ νουθέτησιν, καὶ ἐγγὺς τοῦ τέλους οὖσιν νόμων ζητεῖν μὴ ὑπηκόοις εἶναι, πρὸς αὐτῷ δὲ ἤδη τῷ τέλει ὅρκων καὶ πίστεων καὶ τὸ παράπαν θεῶν μὴ φροντίζειν, τὴν λεγομένην παλαιὰν Τιτανικὴν φύσιν ἐπιδεικνῦσι καὶ μιμουμένοις, ἐπὶ τὰ αὐτὰ πάλιν ἐκεῖνα ἀφικομένους, χαλεπὸν αἰῶνα διάγοντας μὴ λῆξαί ποτε κακῶν.29 Next after this form of liberty would come that which refuses to be subject to the rulers; and, following on that, the shirking of submission to one’s parents and elders and their admonitions; then, as the penultimate stage, comes the effort to disregard the laws; while the last stage of all is to lose all respect for oaths or pledges or divinities, wherein men display and reproduce the character of the Titans of story, who are said to have reverted to their original state, dragging out a painful existence with never any rest from woe.30 Bearing in mind the aforementioned words of Olympiodorus, scholars have assumed that when Plato writes about the ‘character of the Titans’, he refers to the Orphic anthropogony and the guilt of the murderers of Dionysus inherited by the humans.31 However, nothing in those words of Plato precludes the interpretation that the ‘character of the Titans’ refers simply

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to Titanomachy, widely known in the Greek world, wherein the Titans dare to attack mount Olympus and threaten the divine order.32 Therefore, the literary sources of the Archaic and Classical periods do not clearly prove the existence, in those periods, of the myth of the dismembered and reborn Dionysus, and thus do not prove its importance for the Orphic mysteries of that time, either. However, the stories of Persephone’s motherhood, and of Dionysus’ sparagmos and rebirth, are noted in the literature as early as the early Hellenistic period. We learn that Dionysus Zagreus is the son of Zeus and Persephone from an existing fragment by Callimachus: Υἷα Διώνυσον Ζαγρέα γειναμένη33 (‘Having born a son Dionysus Zagreus’). Philodemus, an Epicurean, cites the work of a Hellenistic author Euphorion of Chalcis (about 275 BCE) and probably Orphic poets (Ὀρφικοί) in his treatise On Piety, saying: [Διονύσωι δέ φασιν] [εἶναι τρεῖς γενέ-] [σεις, μίαν μὲν τού] των `τὴν ἐκ´ τῆς μ[ητρός] ἑτέραν δὲ τ[ὴν ἐκ] τοῦ μηροῦ [Διός, τρί]την δὲ τὴ[ν ὅτε δι]ασπασθεὶς ὑ[πὸ τῶν] Τιτάνων ῾Ρέα[ς τὰ] μέλη συνθε[ίσης] ἀνεβίω{ι}. κἀν [τῆι] Μοψοπία[ι] δ’ Εὐ[φορί]ων [ὁ]μολογεῖ [τού]τοις. [οἱ] δ᾿ Ὀρ[φικοὶ] καὶ παντά[πασιν] ἐνδιατρε[ίβουσιν] …34 [They say that Dionysos had three births: one] of these is that from his m[other], another [that from] the thigh [of Zeus], and the third the one [when] he was torn apart by [the] Titans and came back to life after Rhea reassembled his limbs. (space) And in [his] Mopsopia Euphorion agrees with this (account); [the] Orph[ics] too dwell on (it) intensively.35 This passage lacks three other motifs that probably appeared in the Rhapsodies: the Titans eating Dionysus’ body, the Titans being struck by Zeus’ lightning and humanity being created out of Titans’ ashes. The first two appear in Plutarch’s On the Eating of the Flesh: τὰ γὰρ δὴ περὶ τὸν Διόνυσον μεμυθευμένα πάθη τοῦ διαμελισμοῦ καὶ τὰ Τιτάνων ἐπ᾽ αὐτὸν τολμήματα, κολάσεις τε τούτων καὶ κεραυνώσεις γευσαμένων τοῦ φόνου.36

Rule of Dionysus in the Orphic theogony 171 For the stories told about the sufferings and dismemberment of Dionysus and the outrageous assaults of the Titans upon him, and their punishment and blasting by thunderbolt after they had tasted his blood. The third motif, however, can only be found in the works of the Neoplatonic philosophers, and no antique source mentions the idea of the primal guilt of the Titans being inherited by humanity. This idea has recently been revised and refuted by Richard Edmonds, a scholar of Orphism. Convincingly arguing that the idea comes from modern scholars who have erroneously interpreted the words of Olympiodorus, Edmonds rekindled the discussion about the meaning of the Dionysus Zagreus myth for the Orphists. Nevertheless, there is no doubt that the myth about the fate of Dionysus, culminating in his dismemberment by the Titans, existed at least as early as Hellenistic times. There is no proof of it being part of any theogony before the Hieroi Logoi in 24 Rhapsodies, however. Introducing the idea of Dionysus’ kingdom seems to be an original idea of the author or the compiler of the Rhapsodies. Perhaps Lech Trzcionkowski is right when he argues that the collection is a late creation (fourth or fifth century AD) and that the myth of Dionysus’ dismemberment, expanded with additional content, was added to the original Orphic theogony as known from the Derveni papyrus under the influence of Christian theology.37

The reign of Dionysus We have already mentioned that the central point of Hesiod’s Theogony was the beginning of the reign of Zeus. The existing fragments of the Derveni papyrus suggest that the oldest known version of the Orphic poem did not deviate from that pattern: [νῦν δ’ ἐστί]ν βασιλεὺ[ς] πάντ[ων, καί τ’ ἔσσετ’ ἔπ]ειτα.38 He is now the king of all, and will be forever. The idea of the Orphic poet, or compiler – the author of the Rhapsodies – that Zeus should pass on the kingly sceptre to Dionysus, could be considered quite radical in the light of the traditional Greek polytheism. As Robert Parker has noted, it meant that ‘the world, in its current state, was under the control of a power other than Zeus’.39 This theological remark leads us to re-examine the question of the internal logic of the poem, and to ask whether the intention of the author really was to say that Dionysus was a more important god than Zeus? The only scholar who proposed an interpretation of the Dionysian story within the narrative of the Rhapsodies is, again, Dwayne Meisner.40 He proposes to see the murder of Dionysus as one of those situations that cemented Zeus’ position as the

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only king of gods and men. In Meisner’s approach, the Titans eating Dionysus are attempting to destabilise the divine order established by Zeus after he had recreated the world – a symbolic reversal of the act of swallowing Phanes. This interesting idea has some similarities to Hesiod’s Theogony, where Zeus also had to contend with the Titans, who attacked Mount Olympus and tried to depose him. When Dionysus is reborn, Meisner argues, his status is changed: he is no longer the king of gods, he shares power with Zeus, as supposedly stated by an extant fragment from the Rhapsodies (see motif 8): κραῖνε μὲν οὖν Ζεύς πάντα πατήρ, Βάκχος δ’ ἐπέκραινε. However, both the meaning and the position of this fragment in the Rhapsodies are uncertain. Alberto Bernabé,41 in his reconstruction of Hieroi Logoi, places it before the scene where the Titans dismember Dionysus, which would mean that the young god shared the power of Zeus before his murder. The verb κραίνω can mean ‘to reign’, but it can also mean ‘to complete’. The verse κραῖνε μὲν οὖν Ζεύς πάντα πατήρ, Βάκχος δ’ ἐπέκραινε could, therefore, point to the special relationship of those two gods, where Dionysus completed Zeus’ creation – he was a crowning touch to it. Unfortunately, the fragmented nature of the surviving text prevents us from stating what the nature of this ‘completion’ would be. Although we cannot fully reconstruct the story given in the Rhapsodies, there is no doubt that the inclusion of the Dionysian content to the well-known ancient succession myth makes Dionysus into one of the most important gods in the cosmic plane. His tragic death and resurrection were the events that led to the final defeat of the Titans – the forces of chaos and dispersion – and to conserving the Olympian/Zeusian order. Making the god of wine into the successor or co-monarch of Zeus in the Rhapsodies is not only a strong deviation from Hesiod’s vision of theogony, but also from the modus operandi of Zeus known from other mythical narratives. Zeus has contended numerous times with someone who could have deposed him (such as, for instance, Achilles).42 However, we should remember that in the existing comments of Neoplatonic philosophers, who knew the entire Orphic theogony and could understand it within the vast context of the spiritual heritage of ancient Greece, the idea of the reign of Dionysus does not seem to spark any theological controversy. Even if we accept that the Neoplatonic works do not aim to present the typical beliefs of an average Graeco-Roman polytheist, such a radical – as noted by Parker ‒ departure of Orphic authors from the established image of Zeus as the one and final ruler of the universe would probably invite some comment. How can we explain the lack of such comment? It would seem that in the Rhapsodies, and in other Orphic theogonies, the idea of Zeus’ supremacy was already underlined by his act of recreating the universe. In the Hymn to Zeus – the most famous and possibly best-conserved fragment of the Hieroi Logoi – Zeus is shown as the god from whom everything originates (Διὸς δ’ ἐκ πάντα τέτυκται43), the reason for all things (ἀρχὸς ἁπάντων44). The frequency with which the myth of Zeus creating the world is discussed not

Rule of Dionysus in the Orphic theogony 173 only by the Neoplatonists but also by the Christian apologists in their polemic texts shows that, at the time, the audience of the work had no doubt about the story of Zeus being the most important part of the narrative. All events happening after that one took place in a world where the most important god was its creator, Zeus. Dionysus receiving the title of king from his father does not, therefore, negate Zeus’ supreme position. In the Commentary on Phaedo by Damascius, we find support for this interpretation of the joint rule of Zeus and Dionysus. When discussing the importance of initiations for the soul, the philosopher states that they allow a soul to return to its creator, Dionysus,45 who in turn, due to sitting on his father’s throne, is ‘strongly placed in Zeus’ whole life’.46 None of the surviving fragments of the Rhapsodies indicate that Dionysus retains the title of king after his murder and rebirth, although the passage already cited (see 8.) shows that his position remains strong in the divine hierarchy. It should not surprise that the combination of the story of the murder of Dionysus, which was important to the Orphic authors at least from the Hellenistic period onwards, with the older succession myth (appearing already on the Derveni papyrus) results in a new image of Persephone’s son. It would seem that exalting Dionysus Zagreus – a god important for Orphic soteriology and eschatology – or at least pinpointing his position in the world of gods and his relationship with Zeus, was the intention of the author (or compiler) of the Rhapsodies. But does the effect of this mythological bricolage ‒ Dionysus’ high position in the hierarchy and his complementary role to Zeus – require the context of the Orphic tradition to be understood? Research on Dionysian iconography made by Cornelia Isler-Kerényi shows that the image of Dionysus as a guarantor of the stability of the cosmic order – the order being identified as that of Zeus – appeared as early as the first half of the sixth century BCE. Isler-Kerényi has interpreted three scenes showing the god of wine on Athenian vases: the marriage of Peleus and Thetis, the return of Hephaestus to Olympus and the Gigantomachy and, according to her, the common component of all these situations is the conflict that threatens the Olympian balance of the world.47 The artists’ vision in these images shows Dionysus as the one who actively solves the crisis. Therefore, the poetic and mythogenic invention of the author of the Rhapsodies does not necessarily aim to dispute the traditional vision of the Greek polytheism. It would seem that the idea that Dionysus plays a special role in keeping Zeus’ order was present in Hellenic culture long before Hieroi Logoi. This, in turn, explains why so often Dionysiac features were in Antiquity an important element of the leaders’ public persona: to them – just as to their subjects ‒ Dionysus was the god who maintained and actively defended the worldly order, the divine son who ruled jointly with his father, the one who implemented Zeus’ policy. What other divinity of the Graeco-Roman pantheon would provide a better legitimation for their rule?

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Notes 1 See chapters by Doroszewski and Hernández de la Fuente in this volume. 2 This chapter is part of a research project on Dionysus and the religious policy of the Roman emperors (2bH 15 0163 83) that was generously financed by the Polish Ministry of Science and Higher Education in the years 2016‒2019 within the National Programme for the Development of Humanities. 3 Herrero de Jáuregui 2010, 32–33. 4 Dam. Pr. 123. 5 West 1983, 246–251. Reconstruction of the myths found in the Rhapsodies: 70‒75. Alberto Bernabé arranged the fragments of the Rhapsodies found in ancient literature following West’s reconstruction in OF, p. 97‒292. 6 West 1983, 224. 7 Such as Bernabé and Casadesús 2008, 310–322. 8 West 1983, 264. 9 Meisner 2018, 14; Trzcionkowski 2013, xxxvi. 10 Edmonds 2013, 149. The discrepancies signalled by Edmonds were studied in more detail by Meisner 2018, 171–182. As for the similarity between the Rhapsodies and the Sibylline Oracles, the same interpretation was proposed by Trzcionkowski 2013, 123. 11 Edmonds 2013, 155: ‘many of the verses in the Orphic Rhapsodies must have been composed by Stoic and Platonic Orphicists, whose theological ideas shaped the Orphic mythic narratives as much as Sibyllists’ did theirs’. Meisner 2018, 163: ‘We can see the operation of bricolage in the way the author(s) of the Rhapsodies reworked old narratives, added new elements, and engaged with new ideas: for example, attaching the story of Phanes before Night, introducing the royal sceptre, and expanding the Orphic Hymn to Zeus in a way that seems to reflect philosophical ideas’. 12 Meisner 2018, 167. 13 OF 237. 14 If not otherwise stated, all translations of ancient sources are mine. 15 OF 237. 16 OF 241. 17 Meisner 2018, 220, 223. 18 Świercz 2008, 62. One of the most famous scholars of Orphism, Alberto Bernabé, has similar ideas, see Bernabé and Casadesús 2008, 316. Betegh 2004, 175–179, discusses the problem of one/many as the main motif of the Orphic theogonies. 19 Procl. In Ti. 1.450.27‒451.7. Discussed in more detail by Brisson 1995, 77–86; Meisner 2018, 219–236. See also the table illustrating the way the Rhapsodies content matches Proclus’ system, created by d’Hoine and Martijn 2017, 323–328, on the basis of material collected by Luc Brisson and Gerd Van Riel. 20 Macchioro 1930, 101. 21 Thurii gold tablet 6 = OF 490. 22 Hipponion gold tablet = OF 474.16 B. 23 Pelinna gold tablet = OF 485.2. 24 Thurii gold tablet 4. 25 See, for example, Johnston 2007, 66–93. 26 Pl. Men. 81b–c. 27 Bernabé 2010, 437–438. 28 See the discussion on this problem in Edmonds 1999, 304–305. 29 Pl. Leg. 3.701c. 30 Tr. R.G. Bury.

Rule of Dionysus in the Orphic theogony 175 31 Such as Guthrie 1952, 156. 32 Linforth 1941, 343–344. 33 Call. fr. 43.117. This passage appears in Etymologicum genuinum (ninth century), prefaced by a comment telling of Zeus’ intercourse with Persephone. A critical discussion of the passage can be found in Trzcionkowski 2013, 292–296. 34 The text, translation and commentary can be found in Henrichs 2011, 61–68. 35 Tr. A. Henrichs. 36 Plut. De esu 996c. 37 Trzcionkowski 2013, 124: ‘Possibly, during the redaction process, the codex gained its most important innovation – the myth about the death of an innocent victim, Dionysus, was combined with the story of the origins of humanity, probably under the influence of Christian theology’. 38 OF 13 F. 39 Parker 1995, 494. 40 Meisner 2018, 273–277. 41 OF, p. 246. 42 Meisner 2018, 275. 43 OF 243.2. 44 OF 234.6. 45 According to the Neoplatonic, allegorical reading of the story of Dionysus in Rhapsodies (known as the metaphysical exegesis), the body of Dionysus is equated with the soul of the universe. See Pépin 1970, 308–310. 46 Damasc. In Phd. 1.168.1–4. 47 See Isler-Kerényi 2007, 216: ‘Whether it is on the occasion of the wedding of Thetis and Peleus, the Return of Hephaestus to Olympus, or of the Gigantomachy, Dionysos always tends to strengthen the cosmic order personified by Zeus. His is essentially the action of a mediator and of a peacemaker in extremely critical situations of conflict in which the equilibrium of the world runs the risk of being upset’.

Bibliography Bernabé, A. (2010) ‘The Gods in Later Orphism’, in J. Bremmer and A. Erskine (eds.) The Gods of Ancient Greece. Identities and Transformations, Edinburgh University Press, 422–441. Bernabé, A. and Casadesús, F. (2008) Orfeo y la tradición órfica. Un reencuentro. Madrid, Akal. Betegh, G. (2004) The Derveni Papyrus. Cosmology, Theogony and Interpretation. Cambridge University Press. Brisson, L. (1995) Orphée et l’Orphisme dans l’Antiquité gréco-romaine. Aldershot, Variorum. d’Hoine P. and Martijn, M. (2017) ‘Appendix I: Proclus’ Metaphysical and Theological System’, in P. d’Hoine and M. Martijn (eds.) All From One. A Guide to Proclus, Oxford University Press, 323–328. Edmonds, R. (1999) ‘Tearing Apart the Zagreus Myth. A Few Disparaging Remarks on Orphism and Original Sin’, Classical Antiquity 18.1, 37–72. Edmonds, R. (2013) Redefining Ancient Orphism. A Study in Greek Religion. Cambridge University Press. Guthrie, W. (1952) Orpheus and Greek Religion: A Study of the Orphic Movement. London, Methuen.

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Henrichs, A. (2011) ‘Dionysos Dismembered and Restored to Life: The Earliest Evidence (OF 59 I-II)’, in M. Herrero de Jáuregui, A.I. Jiménez San Cristóbal, M.A. Santamaria et al. (eds.) Tracing Orpheus. Studies of Orphic Fragments in Honour of Alberto Bernabé, Berlin, De Gruyter, 61–68. Herrero de Jáuregui, M. (2010) Orphism and Christianity in Late Antiquity. Berlin, De Gruyter. Isler-Kerényi, C. (2007) Dionysos in Archaic Greece. An Understanding through Images. Leiden, Brill. Johnston, S.I. (2007) ‘The Myth of Dionysus’, in S.I. Johnston and F. Graf (eds.) Ritual Texts for the Afterlife. Orpheus and the Bacchic Gold Tablets, London, Routledge, 66–93. Linforth, I.M. (1941) The Arts of Orpheus. Berkeley, University of California Press. Macchioro, V. (1930) From Orpheus to Paul. New York, Henry Holt & Co. Meisner, D. (2018) Orphic Tradition and the Birth of the Gods. Oxford University Press. Parker, R. (1995) ‘Early Orphism’, in A. Powell (ed.) The Greek World, London, Routledge. Pépin, J. (1970) ‘Plotin et le miroir de Dionysos (Enn. IV, 3 [27], 12, 1–2)’, Revue Internationale de Philosophie 92, 304–320. Świercz, P. (2008) Jedność wielości. Świat, człowiek, państwo w refleksji nurtu orficko-pitagorejskiego. Katowice, Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Śląskiego. Trzcionkowski, L. (2013) Bios–Thanatos–Bios. Semifory orfickie z Olbii i kultura polis. Warszawa, Sub Lupa. West, M. (1983) Orphic Poems. Oxford University Press.

11 Dionysus in the mirror of Late Antiquity: religion, philosophy and politics David Hernández de la Fuente

Introduction Among all the gods of ancient religion that stood out in the syncretic theology of Late Antiquity, Dionysus became the clearest example of the figure of ‘God the son of God’,1 a saviour figure who mediated between both worlds. This god of many functions and invocations2 will have a final resurgence in Late Antiquity. At this time, Dionysus undergoes a two-fold transformation. On the one hand, Dionysus will be modelled with greater emphasis as a god of salvation in the hereafter, especially due to his con­ nection with the mysteries and the evident comparison with Christ.3 In the first part of this chapter, therefore, we aim to examine the development of Dionysus as a philosophical god, mediator between the intelligible and the material worlds, the divine and the human spheres. The myth of Dionysus Zagreus, as told and interpreted by the Neoplatonists, will provide a frame for the metaphysical, ethical and even aesthetical relevance of this god in Late Antiquity. On the other hand, there is evidence that the god was also used by Neoplatonists as a symbol of power and civilisation for the just politics of a universal rule. Thus, in the second part of this chapter, we will analyse to what extent Dionysus could be also interpreted, in spite of the obvious Christian animosity against this alter Christus, as a political model for the Roman Emperors and, in general, for the political or civic virtues of a community. In the Dionysian myths, the god is often depicted as a civiliser of barbarians and establishes a kind of Pax Dionysiaca, like Rome itself. At the same time, following the ethical implications of his figure in Neoplatonism, Dionysus could also represent a good instance of political mediation and civic behaviour in late antique society, as a patron of a sort of ‘inner Kingdom’ and a ‘mediator between the worlds’, in the Neoplatonic politeia, if we interpret some key passages devoted to the god in Proclus (e.g. In Ti.1.407.21‒408.2), Damascius (In Phd. 1.4) and Olympiodorus (in Phd. 1.5), as we shall see. Evidently, Christ was to be understood, from the fourth century on­ wards, as the only valid model for the citizen, the philosopher and, above

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all, for the Imperator Christianissimus,4 and his Kingdom was to prevail the ‘reign of Dionysus’, as Olympiodorus would put it (In Phd. 1.5). But there is still research to be done to examine the multi-faceted but ill-fated success in the predominant Neoplatonic ideology of the late antique Dionysus as God the Son, model for human life, symbol of learning, politics and justice at the same time.

Dionysus in Late Antiquity Greek literature of the imperial era reflects a new sort of Dionysism, between religion, philosophy and politics, already from the time of the Second Sophistic with the speech that Aelius Aristides5 dedicated to Dionysus, or Lucian’s pages on the conquest of India by this god.6 Many other Greek writers dealt with the theme of Dionysus, which also became fashionable after certain rulers were identified with him (from Mark Antony to Galerius7) in Roman times. Hence, at this time, it was possible for a poet like Nonnus of Panopolis to praise in an epic a god that in earlier times was not so propitious for this genre. Dionysus could be eulogised as a conqueror ‒ an Alexander ‒ who civilises the peoples,8 at the same time that he was commended as a saviour in line with the monarchs named Soter or according to late antique spirituality. This ‘new’ Dionysus was halfway between a religious and a political figure, as we shall see. This vision of the god is connected to his Neoplatonic interpretation, key to the mythical allegories with which this philosophical school, the true ideological ‘engine’ of Late Antiquity, sym­ bolises divine knowledge. As the scholars of the Dionysian cult during the Roman Empire have pointed out,9 the Dionysus of Late Antiquity plays an important role in the henotheistic tendency of paganism that began to be accentuated around the third century, and according to which this ancient god of vegetation and the grapevine came to occupy almost exclusively a conceptual space related to metaphysics. His traditional character as a saviour (already seen in the classical period, as his gift of wine frees people from pain as lysiponos) turned into redemption in Late Antiquity. This will be in clear concurrence with other gods, and after the evolution of paganism, Dionysus will com­ pete directly with Christ. Indeed, the cult of Dionysus is one of the most entrenched and persistent in the system of classical paganism. Nevertheless, from the fourth century onwards, the presence of paganism in the public sphere gradually decreases and yet the literary sources refer to the vigour of Dionysus’s cult during the first years of the Christian empire. We see an example even under Emperor Valens, who died in 378 in the battle of Adrianople against the Goths. At this time, there was a Dionysian cult in Antioch, a bastion city of the new Christian religion and the headquarters of prestigious schools of philosophy and rhetoric. It seems that the emperor himself, who spent a long time in Antioch in 370, was perhaps more con­ cerned about the Nicene-Arian controversy, and he granted relative

Dionysus in the mirror of Late Antiquity 179 immunity to the pagans of the city, allowing them to celebrate the rituals of Dionysus, among other gods.10 As the ecclesiastical historian Theodoret recalls, scandalised, ‘the initiates in the mysteries of Dionysus ran with goat skins, tearing dogs to pieces and, insane, they went into ecstasy’.11 This situation lasted until the edicts of Theodosius against paganism. Beyond that, in the middle of the fourth century, the Christian historian Sozomen also refers to the punishment of two Christian clerics of Laodicea for having recited certain Bacchic verses reserved only for the initiated.12 Also, in the Latin West, Augustine of Hippo recalls in one of his Epistles (17.4) the familiarity of his urban environment with the rites and festivities in honour of Dionysus. All strata of the still-important pagan population of the Late Roman Empire persisted in the veneration of Dionysus focused on his salvific and metaphysical role. Indeed, the presence of Dionysus and his myths in third- and fourthcentury funerary art is also very remarkable,13 as shown by sarcophagi representing with special emphasis the story of the child Dionysus and Ariadne.14 Funerary epigraphy too attests to a proliferation of epitaphs in Greek and Latin devoted to the god’s myths and cultic associations.15 A late antique Macedonian verse epitaph in Latin alludes to a dead puer who will become a Satyr of the god and another one from Thrace (nowadays Cekacenvo) speaks of a girl as an ancilla of the god.16 In the sixth century, Syria and Egypt will become bastions of Dionysus, a god followed by many people of different social and intellectual strata.17 Thus, Dionysus provided salvation and views on metaphysics in quite an interclassist way, for the intellectual elite of the time also followed him closely, considering his im­ portant role in the Neoplatonic system, which we will examine in the next section. We know from the Byzantine Suidas lexicon that another deceased, called Heraiskos, a pagan from an educated family of the fifth century Egypt, was mummified and then ‘became Bacchus’.18 It is especially inter­ esting to see how the pagan ‘intelligentsia’, from different philosophical spheres, turned Dionysus into the essence of divinity or the ‘intellect of Zeus’ (Dios nous). In its Neoplatonic interpretation, Dionysus appears as a symbol of alternation, as the second hypostasis, soul of the world or mediator in the contact between the intellect and the world of the senses. The religious assimilation of the second hypostasis in the Neoplatonic system, that is the logos that evidently in Christianity corresponded to Christ, was a little more discussed in pagan henotheism. For the most part, the theologians of Late Antiquity refer to Phoebus-Apollo or Dionysus: but sometimes they seemed both to be the same god with two faces or at two different times, since the well-known myth of Dionysus’ rule in Delphi during Apollo’s absence (see e.g. Plutarch’s Moralia 388f‒389b). The theological assimilations favoured eclectic systems parallel to the Neoplatonic one and that denoted a programme with the Sun (Helios, or Apollo/Dionysus) at the top. A good example of these currents of solar theology is the Saturnalia of Macrobius, one of the most notable pagans of

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his time, where there is a single god that appears in two phases, celestial or underground, day or night, being called Apollo or Dionysus alternately (again, the old identification with his brother). It is the same god who changes according to whether he is in the world of the living or the dead.19 But he is also considered the same deity as Hades, as in Heraclitus’ wellknown fragment 15 DK: moreover, in one of the most famous theological oracles of Late Antiquity, the sanctuary of Apollo in Claros, held forth that Zeus, Hades, Dionysus and Helios were all one and the same god.20 The emphasis on a philosophical interpretation of Dionysus came from an ancient tradition in the Platonic Academy,21 but with the Middle and New Academy, this will become one of the favourite reasons for talking about the cycle of the soul, as shown by Plutarch’s interest in the Dionysian myths in relation to physics (De Is. et Os. 364d‒365b).22 But the allegories around Dionysus unfolded especially from Plotinus, his disciple Porphyry, and above all, from the later Neoplatonism of Olympiodorus and Damascius. The Neoplatonic exegesis of their myths provides a metaphy­ sical key to the explanation of the connections between the intelligible and the sensible world.23 We must especially mention ‒ for its philosophical but also political relevance ‒ the Orphic myth of Dionysus Zagreus that narrated the murder of the child-god by the Titans, after deceiving him with a mirror, and his subsequent rebirth. This first Dionysus is politically very relevant for being, even while still a child, the one chosen by Zeus as his successor to the throne of the universe. However, this succession, as it happened so many times in the reality of the Roman Empire, will be frustrated by a conspiracy. The child Dionysus is deceived by the Titans, at the behest of the jealous Hera: the Titans dupe him with children’s toys and, among other things, with a mirror in which he remains looking at his reflection enraptured. Taking advantage of his carelessness, the Titans kill him, tear him apart and eat him. The myth has interesting endings. The second Dionysus, that of the Theban myth, will emerge from his salvaged heart; the Titans are killed by an enraged Zeus with his thunderbolt, and from their ashes humanity will emerge, evil from the gods’ perspective, but partially divine for having participated in the horrible banquet of the godchild. The myth was used not only as a symbolic narrative of the fate of the soul, but also as a metaphysical allegory of the transition between unity and multiplicity, the intelligible and the sensible world, the in­ divisible and the divisible, reality and its reflection. The Zagreus myth, probably based on an ancient story of the Orphic ritual known since the Archaic era, provided Dionysus with a deeply eschatological and soter­ iological dimension, within the framework of the mystery religions,24 which would be decisive for its Neoplatonic reworking. Another theory holds that this myth was a result of a Neoplatonic interpretation of the ancient Dionysus under a new mould in a Christian context and the product of a modern construction.25

Dionysus in the mirror of Late Antiquity 181

Dionysus and Neoplatonism: metaphysics and aesthetics In their work, the Neoplatonists were at least as interested in the allego­ rical interpretation of ancient myths as in the exegesis of Plato’s works. Already Plotinus, alleged ‘founder’ of Neoplatonism (a modern label in any case), was keen on using classical myths to express his philosophical views, and he mentions Dionysus in the Enneads. Just as in the myth, the young god, before being torn apart, is deceived by the Titans with some toys, ritual objects and a mirror, allegorically this is explained as the process of the soul at the crossroads of the intelligible and the sensible world and as its transition between the One and the Many.26 Plotinus interprets the mirror in the following way: ‘the souls of men see their images as if they were in the mirror of Dionysus and they happen to be on that level by jumping from above, but they are not torn from their own principle and intellect’.27 The mirror and the myths of the reflection, like that of Narcissus elsewhere (Enn. 1.6.8) and that of Zagreus, were used by Plotinus as a philosophical metaphor. Here Dionysus is used not only to express Neoplatonic cosmology, but also to allude to the circular journey of souls from the upper region of the celestial sphere to the world and vice versa; that is, both the downward movement of the progression towards the multiplicity and the ascending of reversion towards unity. The soul cycle plays an important role in Platonic and Neoplatonic eschatology, and these words of Plotinus about Dionysus at the crossroads between both worlds open the way for the philosophical appreciation of the god in other Neoplatonists.28 The dismemberment of Dionysus Zagreus appears in Neoplatonism as a key element to approach the henotheistic interpretation that makes Dionysus the Son of God par excellence, with a soteriological and escha­ tological function. In his Commentary on the Dream of Scipio, Macrobius also alludes to the mirror that appears in this myth identifying the child-god with the ‘material intellect’, that is, the ‘reflection’ of the intelligible world over matter. He states: The members of the Orphic sect believe that the material intellect is represented by Bacchus himself who, born of a single father, was torn apart into separate parts. In his sacred rites, he is portrayed as being dismembered at the hands of irate Titans and emerging again safe and sound from the Titan’s buried members. The explanation to this was that the nous or mind, by offering its undivided state to the indivisible, fulfils at the same time its earthly functions and does not abandon its secret nature.29 Therefore, the death of Dionysus, who is divided into many pieces after seeing his reflection in the mirror, functions as an allegory for the transition from unity to the multiplicity of the material world.

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In Proclus’s system, this emblematic episode, whose role in the config­ uration of the late antique Dionysus is key, will also have a determining cosmological aspect: the death and dismemberment of the child-god are interpreted here as the symbol par excellence of the creation and differ­ entiation of matter. In this system, Dionysus works as the child-god or the wonderful or primordial child (Wunderkind/Urkind) present in various mythologies,30 who is able to give rise to the cosmos. In the Commentary on Plato’s Timaeus by Proclus, the child Dionysus appears as an allegory of the cosmic intelligence, which undergoes a process of division to create the world. In fact the theologians too say that after the dismemberment of Dionysus, who shows the divisible procession into the All from the indivisible creation, the other Titans were given a different allotment by Zeus, whereas Atlas was stationed in the western regions holding up the heaven.31 Later on, Proclus interprets the rebirth of Dionysus from the thigh of Zeus, and its subsequent care by the nurse Hipta,32 as the reception of the in­ telligible forms by the soul of the world, participating in the ‘intellect of the world’: For Hipta, who is the soul of the universe …, having placed a winnowing basket on her head and wound it round with a snake, takes into her care Dionysus of the Heart; for it is with the most divine [part] of her that she becomes the recipient of intellective being and receives encosmic intellect. And [Dionysus], for his part, proceeds towards her out of the thigh of Zeus – he was united with [Zeus] at that point –and once he has [so] proceeded and has come to be participated by her, he leads her back up to the Intelligible and her own source; for she hastens to Ida, to the mother of the gods, from whom stems the whole series of souls … And this [offspring] was cosmic intellect, the child of Zeus, which has proceeded in the image of the [intellect] which has remained in Zeus.33 Proclus deals extensively with the subject of the mirror used by the Titans to deceive Dionysus Zagreus in various places, following in the wake of Plotinus’ ideas and taking them further. According to the myth, the pieces of Dionysus were gathered by Apollo, who took them to Delphi ‒ the parallel with the myth of Osiris was already obvious to Plutarch and other ancient sources. Other versions relate that Athena saved his heart (the phallus in the case of Osiris) to achieve its reintegration. For Proclus, Dionysus’ heart remained undivided, as a symbol of the intellect, but his body was torn into seven pieces. Proclus sees in this process of reunification of the lost members the symbol of the harmonisation of the seven portions

Dionysus in the mirror of Late Antiquity 183 of the cosmic musical scale of the world soul that appeared in Plato’s Timaeus.34 For Proclus, the mirror of Dionysus represents then ‘a symbol of the ability of the Universe to be filled with the intellect’ (σύμβολον πρὸς τὴν νοερὰν ἀποπλήρωσιν τοῦ παντός).35 Dionysus was, for Proclus, a key god in the creation of matter: he is the leader of the ‘encosmic’ demiurgy and plays an important role in Proclus’ complex system of demiurgies and triads. There is a ‘universal’ demiurgy, presided by Zeus and with a first triad, and a ‘partial’ (or ‘divided’) de­ miurgy, under the patronage of Dionysus, who creates universal beings in a partial way. Finally, a Dionysian triad depending upon him creates partial beings. Elsewhere, in his Platonic Theology and his Commentary to Plato’s Cratylus, Proclus hints again at the role of Dionysus, the last cosmic king for the Orphics, as a Demiurge (In Cra. 181, p.107.18–24).36 Since Proclus presents the mirror as an analogy of the participation of matter in intelligible ideas (In Cra. 178, p.104)37, Dionysus in the mirror, then, could be interpreted as the god that allows human souls in some way to participate in their own mysterious, sacrificial and cosmogonic experi­ ence in desiring to descend to the created universe. But from the ethical perspective, for Proclus, Dionysus also embodies the divine part in the human being because the intellect in us is Dionysian and an agalma of Dionysus. That the intellect in us is Dionysian and a true statue of Dionysus. Therefore, whosoever sins against it and, like the Titans, tears apart the undivided nature of it by means of much-divided falsehood, clearly trespasses against Dionysus himself, even more so than those who sin against the external statues of the gods, just as much as the degree to which our intellect is more akin to the god than other things.38 Note that the reflection of the Dionysian in us is here described no longer as a mere mirroring or mimetic image (eikon), but as a divine image (agalma), perhaps recalling the aesthetic theory about the divine statues of Plotinus (Enn. 1.6.9) or Porphyry (in his lost work Peri agalmaton).39 The place of Dionysus in Proclus, in the frame of the Neoplatonic debate on the meta­ physical value of images, is also very relevant. For Plotinus, a work of art, although it represents matter, participates in its model by virtue of the hypostatic ontology and the principle of universal sympathy (Enn. 4.3.11). For the Neoplatonists, in addition to the general term eikon (‘image, re­ presentation’), the Greek language had other terms associated with cult images and theurgy, especially agalma (‘cult representation, statue’, see Enn. 1.6.9), words that were theorised over in this age.40 For Proclus, Dionysus seems to incarnate the image of the world, as he comments on the Platonic expression of the cosmos as a ‘most beautiful’ (Ti. 29a5) image. This would be a reflection of the intelligible Beauty, in the form of ‘replicas of Dionysus’ fashioned by Orpheus, ‘which preside over

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the process of becoming and have received the entire form of the Paradigm, so the philosopher has also given the cosmos the appellation “image of the intelligible” inasmuch as it resembles its own paradigm’.41 But apart from metaphysics and aesthetics, the Dionysian myth has also deep implications for the Neoplatonic ethics, as Proclus relates the debate on the virtues and emotions to the Orphic myth of Zagreus and, specifi­ cally, to the creation of men rising from the ashes of the Titans. Indeed, the Titans were fulminated by Zeus after eating the child-god, and this is a key aspect of the Orphic anthropogony. The myth of the origin of man from the ashes of the Titans – as studied by Mircea Eliade in his History of Religious Ideas (1976) – was basic for the Neoplatonic views on the soul’s destiny of return to unity. The human soul contains a Dionysian, that is, divine ele­ ment, amidst a massive Titanic nature, which acts as a symbolic explana­ tion of human behaviour. The intervention of the Titans, in that ethical sense similar to irrational passions, caused our divine essence to be torn apart by the falseness of the world of appearances, with which, the reading of the ancient ‘Titanic nature’ of human beings that is already present in the Laws of Plato42 now receives a clear eschatological meaning. Other Neoplatonists such as Olympiodorus and Damascius also refer to the myth of the dismemberment of Dionysus in a philosophical manner. From the ethical point of view, according to Olympiodorus, Dionysus is the patron of genesis, because he is also the patron of life and death; of life, as the patron of genesis; of death, inasmuch as wine brings about ecstasy, while, on the other hand, we also become more susceptible to ecstasy when death is drawing near… Tragedy and comedy, too, are said to be consecrated to Dionysus, comedy because it is a burlesque of life, tragedy because of passion and death.43 For Olympiodorus, following the Orphic myth, Dionysus was intended to be the fourth God in the kingdom of cosmos, after Uranus, Kronos and Zeus, and there is also a hint of a political theory in the case of Dionysus, as patron of genesis and death, with a key role in the mediation between the undivided and divided world, the intelligible and material. In this passage, Olympiodorus interprets the myth of succession to the divine throne both in an ethical and a political way, presenting the four Orphic reigns – those of Uranus, Kronos, Zeus and Dionysus – not in a chronological succession, but rather as constantly present realities in our souls. They symbolise dif­ ferent virtues, attributed to each god-king of heaven: Uranus, the all-seeing heaven, alludes to the contemplative virtue, Kronos the ‘sated in­ telligence’,44 Zeus is the patron of civic virtues and there are also ‘ethical and physical virtues, symbolized by the reign of Dionysus’. Dionysus, then, is a guide of the human soul in the transition from contemplation to politics and ethics, from the metaphysical to the physical reality. But the myth of Zagreus stands again as an example of how politics

Dionysus in the mirror of Late Antiquity 185 and even economy rule the ‘reign of Dionysus’, for in our material world he who leads a virtuous life is often torn to pieces, because these virtues do not imply each other and the Titans chew his flesh, mastication standing for extreme division, because Dionysus is the patron of this world, where extreme division prevails because of ‘mine’ and ‘thine’.45 Olympiodorus also refers to the figure of Dionysus speaking of the gift of prophecy, which is also a prerogative of the true philosopher, in the broad Neoplatonic sense. In Plato’s Phaedo, Socrates claimed that those who are called ‘Bacchus’ by mystical authors – that is, those who have been purified of this life and dwell with the gods – are really the philosophers who have lived in a contemplative and just way, far from civic life.46 In his commentary on this famous quote (‘there are many thyrsus-bearers but few bacchi’, Phd. 69c), Olympiodorus explains what Plato meant: Dionysus is the way to lead us back to metaphysical unity, by virtue of his mediating role, and only someone who leads a philosophical life can become a ‘Bacchus’: meaning by those who carry the thyrsus without becoming Bacchus philosophers still involved in civic life, while the thyrsus-bearers and Bacchants are those on the way of purification. We are chained to matter as Titans by extreme partition, in a world where mine and thine prevail, but we are resuscitated as Bacchus; hence we become more receptive to the gift of prophecy as death draws near, and Dionysus is the patron of death because he is the patron of ecstasy in any form.47 Olympiodorus also interprets the figure of Ariadne in a similar way, sometimes speaking of her crown,48 other times considering Ariadne’s thread as a symbol of the Platonic-Pythagorean monad which, in her cos­ mogonic aspect, was considered to be the ‘first being’, the incarnation of the divinity, or the whole. From it, the dyad was generated and, in turn, from her, the numbers, the geometric figures and from there all the sensible world. In the path of the soul, the monad was the guide to not losing the connection with unity, and in that, it recalls the thread of Ariadne. As Olympiodorus says: ‘it is also necessary that the soul, descending in the genesis, which is a labyrinth, makes use of the monad as the thread for wandering around, just as Theseus used Ariadne’s thread in the Cretan labyrinth’.49 On the ethical level, Ariadne’s thread is also referred to as a guide to get out of the labyrinth and defeat the Minotaur, according to the allegory: ‘because the Minotaur means the bestial passions that exist in us, the thread means the divine power that we have within and the labyrinth signifies the twisted and variegated nature of life’.50 For his part, Damascius interprets the demiurgic function of Dionysus as possessing a double purpose that, again, is reflected on both metaphysical

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and ethical levels. Fulfilling the mediating function attributed to it by tra­ dition, Dionysus helps the sensible world to participate in the intellect, while the Titans represent the bonds that unite the soul to the body. The dismemberment and rebirth of Dionysus, then, represent mythically for the Neoplatonists the realisation of the cycle of the soul, in a process of fragmentation and connection with the corporeal world and of a later liberation. The Dionysian life, then, is an ascesis in this world for the philosopher who prepares, through this ritualisation that imitates the myth, for the other reality. Let us remember the mystical and ascetic side that Neoplatonic thought had already developed in Damascius’ time, following the works of Porphyry and Iamblichus. Already in Plotinus there were various ways to achieve mystical elevation through aesthetics, love and philosophy, which provided to the philosopher superior contemplation and elevation on the material world, but without separating him from it, in order to ascend to the Good and perceive the path from the Many to the One (Enn. 6.9.3). Following in the footsteps of his teacher, Porphyry delved into this trend by also connecting the contrast between the sensible and the intelligible world with the systems of classical polytheism and, above all, of the mysteries. The influences between both worlds and their scales and hierarchies appear intermingled in the notions that allow us to make use of intermediate beings or daemons in mediating functions between our diverse world and the divine and unitary world.51 A development of these tendencies will be the so-called ‘theurgy’, which arises from a deep reading of the Greek mantic tradition52 and is a term that is etymologically derived from words meaning both ‘to exercise an action on the gods’ and ‘to act as a god’. Theourgia becomes an independent path that leads to the divine, in clear contrast to the path of thought and mysticism, the theoretical work (theoria) and religious science (theologia). This track will also be followed by Iamblichus, who opts for a total amalgam of philosophy and religion, harmonising Platonism with the traditional re­ ligious wisdom of the mysteries and oracles.53 From this moment on, Neoplatonism makes explicit a double way to obtain henosis, or union with the divinity, with practices of meditation and prayer on the one hand, and with symbols and mysteries on the other.54 No other thing, in our view, represents the myth of Dionysus in the Neoplatonic context: his experience of dismemberment not only made him as a god closer to men, but also the divinisation of his closest acolytes, such as Ariadne, will symbolise early on the transit of the soul, on the one hand, and a whole programme of ascetic life centred on the reversion of the philosopher’s soul towards the union with the divine on the other. Thus, in Dionysus we see not only the traditional Neoplatonic inter­ pretation of myths in an allegorical way that harmonises the poetic wisdom of old paganism with the Platonic postulates, but also some concrete religious practices of Late Antiquity in a last survival of a renewed Greek religion.

Dionysus in the mirror of Late Antiquity 187 This can be demonstrated by practices such as the aforementioned theurgy, where it is likely that statues of Dionysus and toys related with the Zagreus’ myth played an important role. The spinning top, for example, of all the toys with which the Titans deceived the child Dionysus, was one of the attributes of Hekate in the Chaldaean Oracles and had a role in this ‘white magic’ called theurgy.55 Another proof of Dionysus’ relevance was his funerary presence, since the dead of different social strata could ‘become a Dionysus’, as epitaphs, sarcophagi and testimonies show, alluding to the traditional mysteries and the inherited pagan cult. Thirdly, the use of Dionysus as a model for a philosophical way of life was justified in the prestigious writings of the Platonic-Pythagorean tradition that the Neoplatonists rework and comment on. The most striking feature, then, in this ancient late Dionysianism that makes Dionysus the mediator par ex­ cellence between the human soul and the divine is his total transversality: the humble ones that are buried under the sign of Dionysus in rural areas following the deep-rooted agricultural aspect of their cult share the same belief as those who study Neoplatonic philosophy in Alexandria or Athens, with the convoluted intellectualisation of the god. Thus, it is not surprising that, at the beginning of the sixth century and before being banished at the time of Justinian to the Persian court of Ctesiphon, as we shall briefly discuss, Damascius, the last scholar of the Academy before its closure, wrote the following words as an ethical guide for the philosophical way of life: The first Bacchus is Dionysus, whose ecstasy manifests itself in dancing and shouting, that is in every form of movement, of which he is the cause according to the Laws [672a5‒d4]; but one who has dedicated himself to Dionysus, having become his image, shares his name also. And when a man leads a Dionysian life, his troubles are already ended and he is free from his bonds and released from custody, or rather from the confined form of life; such a man is the philosopher in the stage of purification.56 Indeed, at the end of paganism, Dionysus appears as a new religiousphilosophical model of an old ideal of Platonic-Pythagorean roots. This path is transmitted by Porphyry in his Pythagorean Life, which corresponds to the mystical path of reversion to the one divinised, according to the Pythagorean maxim of ‘follow the god’ (akolouthein to theo) together with its Platonic adaptation of ‘assimilation with the god’ (homoiosis theo).57 In Neoplatonism, this way is affirmed, and it seems that a ‘Dionysian life’ is postulated to establish a concrete path ‒ a ritual one also, not only philosophical ‒ that establishes a special relationship with the divine and a capacity to ascend in its knowledge. Damascius, who, like Olympiodorus, also discussed Greek myths in an allegorical sense, wrote a commentary on the famous passage on the ‘Bacchus’ in Plato’s Phaedo by exhorting a unitary philosophy that connects

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religion and thought, metaphysics, ethics and theurgy that he believed Plato himself would have defended. Combining the two currents of earlier Neoplatonism (noted already by Iamblichus Myst. 2.11, 96, 7-10), Damascius writes a fundamental passage for the reception of Dionysus as the epitome of all philosophy, from Plato to his own exegetical school: To some philosophy is primary, as to Porphyry and Plotinus and a great many other philosophers; to others hieratic practice, as to Iamblichus, Syrianus, Proclus, and the hieratic school generally. Plato, however, recognizing that strong arguments can be advanced from both sides, has united the two into one single truth by calling the philosopher a ‘Bacchus’; for by using the notion of a man who has detached himself from genesis as an intermediate term, we can identify the one with the other. Still it remains evident that he intends to honor the philosopher by the title of Bacchus, as we honor the Intelligence by calling it God, or profane light by giving it the same as to mystic light.58

Dionysus in late Roman politics and society Dionysus was into politics from Archaic Greece,59 but after Alexander’s exploits, the analogies between the god’s Indian expedition and the spread of Greek civilisation and culture were often politically exploited. The pre­ cedents of the use of Dionysus in politics are seen above all in the case of Alexander who, as Nock has already studied, evidently used the mythical parallels of the god’s oriental expedition.60 This was probably a Macedonian heritage61 which went far beyond Alexander, since Dionysus became one of the favourite gods for the deification of human rulers, especially taking into consideration the various Neoi Dionysoi of Hellenistic and Roman politics.62 The Ptolemies strengthen their connection with Dionysus, starting from the founder of the dynasty,63 probably at first searching legitimation in an imi­ tatio Alexandri. They made this connection to the point of exploiting the arts that served them as propaganda, with the idea of a kinship of Lagid lineage, in the wake of Alexander and the Argeads, with this god.64 Athenaeus (5.197) mentions a procession in Alexandria in the times of Ptolemy II with a re­ presentation of the return of Dionysus from India and later on Ptolemy IV established an important state cult of Dionysus in Alexandria and became an active devotee of the god.65 He depicted himself in coins in Dionysiac costume with ivy, nebris and thyrsus, and it seems that his body was tattooed with ivy leaves in honour of Dionysus66 and he claimed to be a Neos Dionysos,67 a title used officially by Ptolemy XII, Cleopatra’s father.68 This Lagid tradition will certainly have an important inheritance in Roman Egypt, especially in the first Neos Dionysos of the time, Mark Antony himself.69 As the consort of Cleopatra VII, Mark Antony assumed

Dionysus in the mirror of Late Antiquity 189 the title of Neos Dionysos from Ptolemy XII and celebrated magnificent festivals in honour of Dionysus in Samos or Ephesos.70 Not only Antony, but also Caesar and other later Roman leaders would use Dionysian ima­ gery. The Dionysian triumphal entries of the Hellenistic monarchs, imitated by Antony, became a model for later Roman triumphs, in coins of Augustus, Domitian, Trajan and Hadrian representing the emperor in a quadriga drawn by elephants.71 The shadow of the political Dionysus is found all along Roman history, as a triumphal god for Roman emperors. Many emperors of the second and third centuries were associated with Dionysus, such as Trajan or Commodus. In 123, Hadrian was officially celebrated in Ancyra as Neos Dionysos, and his successor Antoninus Pius, constructor of a temple to Dionysus in Baalbek, exploited the iconography of the Dionysian triumph. Thus, the Roman political use of Bacchus was enriched in the iconographic tradition with the inclusion of diverse elements: not only animals for the triumphs, such as panthers, tigers or elephants, but also women such as the Maenads and, above all, Ariadne, who was especially useful for the imperial ideology. Just some examples: in 145, when Marcus Aurelius married Faustina Minor, he appeared in medallion in a Bacchic procession; in 149, Pius, Marcus and their wives appeared together with Bacchus, and, in 157, the imperial couple of Marcus and Faustina was assimilated to Bacchus and Ariadne.72 Later on, Caracalla and Elagabalus were also celebrated as Bacchus, following the long Roman tradition of Neoi Dionysoi.73 Late Antiquity was no exception, as we will see now, and Dionysus continued as an important reference for Roman emperors. But from Gallienus onwards, we have to add new interpretive nuances of the god, since both the philosophical views on Dionysus and his transversal popu­ larity as a saviour influenced his political use. These new Dionysian features appear progressively in the iconography related to the political implication of the god. For example, there is an emphasis on providing a complete biographical account of Dionysus, and some scenes have remarkable par­ allels with imperial iconography. A first example is the presence of the manuum velatio, a Late Roman court ceremonial practice, in the mosaic of Dionysus in Nea Paphos (Cyprus). In the scene, Hermes is presenting baby Dionysus, as an heir to the cosmic throne, for the adoration of several symbolic figures, and he carefully holds the child-god with veiled hands. Apart from the obvious Christian parallels in a scene similar to that of the Adoration of the Magi – like that almost contemporary in a mosaic of Sant’ Apollinare Nuovo, Ravenna74 ‒ the manuum velatio was historically rooted in Roman imperial iconography, a ritual probably of Persian origin but officially adopted as a part of his court ceremonies by Diocletian in the third century.75 Another example is the so-called ‘mural (or turreted) crown’, an icono­ graphical element normally awarded to the Roman conquerors of a city, which was also incorporated to the Dionysian triumphs in Late Antiquity.

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Figure 11.1 Indian triumph of Dionysus with mural crown (fourth–sixth centuries). Textile in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York; acc. no. 90.5.873. Public Domain.

Some emperors, such as Gallienus, used it in coins celebrating his victories in the East, but there is a Coptic textile of Dionysus at the Metropolitan Museum of New York portraying the god with this military attribute (Fig. 11.1). This has been interpreted as an oriental influence, comparing this Dionysus to the military gods of Palmyra or to some representations of the Persian Great Kings, such as Shapur I in his triumph over the Roman emperor Valerian or Shapur II.76 We might ask ourselves now what the relationship is between the theore­ tical background of Dionysus in Late Antiquity and these practical applica­ tions of his political relevance in late Roman iconography. In the previous section, we have sketched the importance of Dionysus for the predominant philosophy of Late Antiquity in three main areas – metaphysics, ethics and aesthetics – in order to underline the god’s relevance in the intellectual dis­ course of the last pagan thinkers of the Roman Empire. But we can also question ourselves whether this Neoplatonic Dionysus also had political im­ plications in this epoch, by way of conclusion and in order to open new paths of future research. The relation of Neoplatonism and imperial politics is one of the most important but too often neglected issues of late antique studies. Needless to say, many Neoplatonists – especially from Porphyry onwards – were especially concerned with the preservation of pagan tradition, which they in a way updated philosophically,77 in an age when Christianity was increasingly entangled in the socio-political network of the Empire. The Neoplatonic school appears to have had a direct political influence on the emperors of the first late antique period, at least from Gordian (reign 238‒244) to Diocletian’s tetrarchic system, far from the mystical

Dionysus in the mirror of Late Antiquity 191 image that this philosophy has. As O’Meara has shown, these thinkers also had a penchant for political philosophy and their late antique legacy cast a long shadow well into the Middle Ages.78 If Plotinus followed Emperor Gordian in his campaign against Persia and suggested to his successor Gallienus to build a Platonopolis,79 some authors tend to identify Plotinus’ disciple Porphyry as an active agent and an intellectual supporter of the persecutions of the Christians under the rule of emperors Diocletian and Galerius. It is disputed whether he was the pagan ‘priest of the philosophers’ of the Diocletian government referred to by Lactantius in his Divine Institutions (5.2).80 Plotinus still lived in a clearly pagan society, but his disciple Porphyry probably had a slightly different experience. In their lifetimes (c. 244‒305), in any case, Neoplatonists no doubt had political influence. But the fourth century was no doubt a turning point, the age of ‘the final pagan genera­ tion’,81 ranging from the tetrarchs’ defence of polytheism during the first decade of this century to the Christian devotion under the Theodosian dynasty. The beginning of it all is well known, as Constantine, in the battle at Pons Milvius in 312, implored the help of the new Christian god in a difficult situation, received a sign of his triumph and showed his gratitude afterwards.82 But let us not forget that he was just following a late antique Roman tradition: his predecessor Aurelian already did the same, when he had a vision of Helios before the decisive battle of Emesa (272) and, after his victory, he devoted a temple in Rome to his celestial protector.83 And the persecutor Galerius probably did the same with Dionysus, dedicating his palace and burial place at Felix Romuliana to the god, after obtaining important victories against the Persians, as we will see. We must rethink then the role that Neoplatonism, the ideological base of the late Roman Empire, could have played in the preferent adoption, firstly, of Dionysus as a political god and, secondly, in his substitution by Christ, a parallel figure in many aspects.84 On the one hand, it must be emphasised that both the ontological hierarchy of Neoplatonism and its hypostasis as the insistence during late antiquity on ‘theological’ oracles that describe the divine world as an equally descending pyramid with a god at the top, suggest a direct relationship with the political system of the Late Roman Empire, and specifically of the tetrarchy, as a sort of reflection of the pyr­ amid structure of late Roman society.85 Moreover, the Neoplatonic poli­ tical model also appears both in the aforementioned Aurelian and in Diocletian’s tetrarchy. The Sun God, El-Gabal, Sol Invictus, Helios or Phoebus Apollo, was, no doubt, one of the most important political gods to be identified with late Roman Emperors, from Aurelian to Julian, and his closeness to Dionysus as a sort of ‘underground Sun’, following Macrobius’ interpretation, was already commented.86 Porphyry’s support for the tet­ rarchy is also very relevant in this context. This quadruple system of senior and younger emperors was protected by pagan deities, in sharp contrast with the later support of Christian thinkers such as Lactantius for

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Constantine’s monotheistic monarchy. These are two distinctly different political models from the Roman Empire, advocated by paganism and Christianity and are, as a result, like polytheism/henotheism and mono­ theism, mutually exclusive.87 But where is Dionysus in the Roman politics of Late Antiquity? To begin with, in the tetrarchy. In a 1984 paper, Nicholson convincingly showed that Galerius’s divine patronage corresponded to Dionysus, as Diocletian to Zeus and Maximian to Hercules.88 Galerius stood out for his mentioned victory over the Persians in the year 298 and celebrated an overwhelming triumph in front of an enemy who 40 years earlier had humiliated Emperor Valerian by taking him captive and then flaying him after his death. We do not have any information of any Dionysian visions before the Battles of Satala and Theodosiopolis (298), but upon the return of the victorious Galerius to the West, he rejected the tetrarchy title of Caesar. On the contrary, he wanted to emulate Alexander and the Hellenistic monarchs in their patronage of Dionysus, describing his feat in the East as similar to that of the god in India. In the iconographic programme89 commemorating Galerius’ victory after his triumphant return, this comparison is especially strong since next to his conquest is that of Dionysus’ in India and his return to the West. In addition, Dionysus occupied a place of honour in the great palace that Galerius built in Thessaloniki. There was a blossoming of Dionysian art in Macedonia (Fig. 11.2), as the Tetrarch fixed his residence in its capital after his Persian campaign90 and, especially in the palace complex of Felix Romuliana, in Dacia, the current Gamzigrad (Serbia), where a Dionysian mosaic stands out. But, above all, Nicholson’s argument focuses on the veiled references that Galerius’ great enemy, the Christian writer Lactantius ‒ who devotes a central part of De mortibus persecutorum to the emperor as the main instigator of the great persecution ‒ dedicates to him through his criticism of the pagan gods, and to Liber-Dionysus, in his Divine Institutions, written between 305 and 311 (1.10.9), shortly after Galerius’ painful death, probably because of cancer (in the opinion of his detractors, to be sure, a divine punishment). On the philosophical level, it can also be properly justified that Dionysus would be the patron god of a ruler placed in the background after Zeus, since Dionysus Zagreus is heir to the divine throne. In addition, Dionysus will also be seen as the god of philosophical divinisation, as O’Meara has demon­ strated in his texts on political life and divinisation in Neoplatonism.91 The idea of assimilation to the divine of the Platonic tradition,92 in which the philosopher must escape the world and assimilate as much as possible to a god,93 admits, according to this author, an interesting comparison with Enneads 1.2.1, where the virtues, also the civic or political, are described as inspired by divine models in a typically Platonic ascent to the God. This can also be related to Porphyry and Iamblichus in connection to the tradition of the Pythagorean life, in the sense that the contemplative philosophy has as its goal assimilation to the god, but the example of Pythagoras shows what the political implications are for a philosopher within his community.94

Dionysus in the mirror of Late Antiquity 193

Figure 11.2 Mosaic showing Ariadne and a Dionysiac scene from Thessaloniki. Thessaloniki, Archaeological Museum, Inv. 6733 Γ. Reprinted with permission.

In the case of Proclus, the political model of Neoplatonism is more evident. Neoplatonic hypostases, that is, the three levels of descending reality that already appeared in Plotinus, also represent here models for three levels of political reform.95 Proclus identifies them as Zeus, Dionysus and Adonis, in a descending way – in the One, the henads and the intelligible reality ‒ with three types of demiurges that correspond, according to Proclus’ Commentary on the Timaeus (8.15‒20), with three types of government. Without delving into the complex details of Proclus’ system of demiurges, the importance of Dionysus is observed as he places him in second place, after the supreme god, in a way that could interest the Tetrarchy system and the deification of the ruler. In addition, it had at the same time the aforementioned background of Dionysus as a divine part of the soul that ends up returning to the primordial unity. In a sort of ‘divine city’, the order of the gods constitutes a political model, as it appears already outlined in the last works by Plato, especially in the Laws. Dionysus’ political relevance for Proclus is based upon his role in the demiurgy and can be related to Platonic ideal cities. For Proclus, Plato’s Republic provided a first and divine image of the cosmic politeia (In R. 1.10.4–8) and, when at Laws 739e5 the Athenian Stranger alludes to a third politeia (after that of the Republic and of the Laws), the comparison with high and low demiurges – Zeus and Dionysus/Adonis – was a natural step (In R. 2.8.15‒23 and In Ti. 1.446.5).96

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Of course, the main adversary of a political Dionysus was the growing influence of the Christian Church upon imperial politics, from Constantine’s Edict of Tolerance onwards. The concurrence of another model of ‘divine city’, that of Augustine and, in general, of Patristic literature, hindered the practical application of this Dionysian ‘Kallipolis’ of the Neoplatonists. The Emperor needed a clear godly protector and, needless to say, in an increas­ ingly Christian environment as the late Roman Empire, the only choice was Christ. Even after Constantine’s triumph, the progress of Christianity did not proceed linearly, at least in the first years of his reign.97 Constantine tried to reconcile the imperial cult and the worship of himself as a divine being – following the Roman tradition of the emperors as neoi gods– with his own worship of Christ.98 His pre-eminence as an alter Christus in the councils, seated among the bishops as Christ among the Apostles, indicates that he wanted to represent himself as Christ. It is wellknown that, at the same time, Constantine did not renounce his category of ‘divine emperor’ and was portrayed often as the solar God Apollo: most famously in the Column of Constantine, built in 330 between the Hippodrome and the Forum of Constantinople in commemoration of the new capital. But Constantine was also portrayed as Dionysus in a sardonyx cameo, known as the Hague or the Great Cameo, probably made in con­ nexion with the celebrations of the decennalia of 315. This piece (Fig. 11.3), originally at the Geldmuseum of Utrecht and now at the Dutch National Museum of Antiquities in Leiden, shows Constantine and his second wife,

Figure 11.3 Hague Cameo (fourth century). Dutch National Museum of Antiquities in Leiden (Holland). Wikimedia Commons.

Dionysus in the mirror of Late Antiquity 195 Fausta, riding in a chariot pulled by two centaurs in a sort of Dionysiac triumph, as Ariadne and Dionysus. As Bardill, who examined this re­ presentation in the frame of his study of Constantine godly models and assimilations, has put it: While a Victory flies overhead and crowns Constantine, centaurs erect a trophy and trample defeated soldiers. Constantine wields Jupiter’s thunderbolt, and below the chariot an upturned calyx kratēr for mixing wine hints that he is the New Dionysus. … It is striking that it gives no hint that the Christian God played any part in securing the military success of the emperor [scil. at Pons Milvius].99 Constantine was fully aware of the political theology and iconography of the tetrarchy (Jupiter–Hercules) and shrewdly combined tradition with in­ novation by choosing the support of a new God the Son in order to climb to the Olympus of Roman politics.100 The effects of the pro-Christian legislation of the successors of Constantine changed the scenario for the old political gods. That was especially evident when Theodosius on 27 February 380 issued an edict at Thessalonica with a clear commitment to the Nicene Christian creed and a condemnation of all other religious tendencies. Undoubtedly, Christianity gained a lot of weight after 380, but, of course, this did not imply a com­ plete disappearance of the pagan cults. Pagan intellectuals were still active everywhere: around the year 500, Zosimus was able to write a paganoriented Roman History, as a counterpoint to the Christian interpretation of Augustine and Orosius, in which he virulently attacked the Christian inclinations of Constantine and Theodosius,101 declaring them responsible for the decline of the Empire. Another pagan historian, Ammianus Marcellinus, shows a rather philosophical attitude with regard to religion, focusing on a common ethic of Neoplatonic origin – accepted both by Christians and pagans – demanding a peaceful coexistence between the different religious currents with an implicit criticism of Theodosius’ militant Christian position.102 In any case, the contrast between Constantine’s preeminence in the Church almost as an alter Christus and Theodosius’ sub­ mission to bishops such as Ambrose is very significant of the evolution of the Roman emperor in front of the new God the Son.103 However, Dionysus continued to be perceived by Christian writers as a threat to the growing omnipresence of the new monotheistic ‘God the Son of God’ figure, Christ, with particular reference to the episode of Zagreus’ death, consumption by the Titans and resurrection. Already in Apostolic and Apologetic writers, we find testimonies of a careful analysis of the metaphysical, ethical and political implications of the myth of Dionysus, no doubt as an implicit response to its importance in Late Antiquity. The archetype of the child-god or dying god, in the case of Zagreus, and the obvious analogy of blood and wine were well-known to

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Justin Martyr and Clement of Alexandria.104 The metaphor of the ‘true mysteries’ – that of Christianism – in opposition to the false mysteries of Dionysus (‘true vine’, as in John 15, 1‒6, against a purported ‘false vine’) is clear in Clement, who holds a strong position against Dionysus: words related to Dionysian cult are subtly interpreted for the new religious context.105 But in the fourth century, from the Constantinian to the Theodosian age, the Christian intellectuals of the patristic golden age were also aware of the danger of this ideological emphasis on the god Dionysus for his evident parallels with Christ. Christian writers such as Eusebius, John Chrysostom and other Church Fathers will desperately try to distance Dionysus and Christ as two separate spheres, false and true mysteries.106 John Chrysostom wrote some rhetorical works and homilies reporting pagan ecstatic rites in Antioch and other places. Although he does not mention Dionysus, his references to dance and inebriation allow these to be thought of as evidence of a late survival of urban and rural cults to the god, in occasions such as the Saturnalia, Brumalia or the Kalends.107 In the fourth century, the tendency, already attested in Justin and Clement to underline the ‘true Christian mysteries’ in comparison to the false and useless in­ toxication of paganism, continues in the case of several Fathers and is, indeed, an appropriation of the Dionysian metaphors of ecstasy, inebriation and mystery terminology.108 As Massa has studied, the discursive strategy of this process of Christian appropriation of the popular devotion to Dionysus starts with a condemnation of the ritual festivities, as in the cases mentioned before, as a wild and inappropriate behaviour.109 But im­ mediately thereafter there is a contrast with the Christian rites of joy and inebriation, which must be preferred by everyone because they are real and true and not false or superficial. After 380, in any case, pagan Neoplatonists could no longer think that the religious order of the past would last forever. Their relation with political power was now problematic and the anti-pagan legislation was dramatically affecting the practice of Neoplatonism in some schools, at least those devoted to theurgy and divination, which were condemned by the Christian imperial authorities. In Egypt in general – and in Alexandria in particular – violent groups of Christian monks were acting as an armed wing of the Church, with the excuse of imperial decrees, as some of the most conspicuous crises show: the destruction of the Serapeum (probably in 391) and the anti-pagan riot that led to Hypatia’s murder in 415. Those riots against pagan philosophers in the old centre of learning probably caused the exile of the most militant Iamblichean philosophers of the School of Alexandria.110 Some year later, it seems that Neoplatonists and Christian leaders reached an entente cordiale, and the philosophers could continue teaching for a long time, under the new head of the School, Ammonius Hermeiou. The situation in Athens was very different.

Dionysus in the mirror of Late Antiquity 197 The very pagan scholar Proclus probably compared his own role in the Academy with one of his demiurges (Dionysus or, perhaps, Adonis, as ar­ gued by Baltzly111) and kept alive the flame of theurgy, as shown by his biographer Marinus. But, in order to examine the political differences be­ tween Alexandrian and Athenian Neoplatonists, let us focus briefly on the Dionysian philosopher Damascius, one of the Neoplatonists who, as we saw in the previous section, devoted more attention to Dionysus. He stu­ died under Ammonius and Heliodorus in Alexandria and went afterwards to Athens as the last director of the Athenian School. While Ammonius probably agreed with the Christian authorities to mitigate the paganoriented teaching in order to keep his school open in Alexandria, much to Damascius’ disappointment, the members of the School of Athens resisted the pressure of the authorities as practitioners of hieratic rituals.112 From its very re-foundation under Plutarch, the School of Athens was keen on Iamblichean Neoplatonism and practised theurgy and ritual paganism,113 so conflict with Christianity was unavoidable. The closure of the School of Athens by Justinian (529) was a result of his anti-pagan policy, since the Neoplatonists, under Damascius’ guidance, still practised rites of theurgy and led a philosophical life under the sign of Dionysus and the pagan gods.114 The last director of the Academy, Damascius and his disciples traveled to the Persian court of Chosroes,115 but soon returned to the Empire again (532), and founded a new school, probably in Harran.116 Did Dionysian ethics, politics and metaphysics defended by Neoplatonists survive in Persia or in the border with the Sassanid (and soon Arab) world? We simply cannot tell. However, some interesting examples of cross-cultural references between Persian, Roman and Coptic iconography, such as the Dionysus textile at the Metropolitan Museum, among others, deserve careful attention, although this is beyond the scope of this chapter. Let us briefly turn, lastly, to the situation of the School of Alexandria, in order to compare Damascius’ political environment with that of Olympiodorus, the second ‘Dionysian’ philosopher quoted in the previous section. In Alexandria, it is very likely that Ammonius and patriarch Peter Mongus were able to reach an agreement so that Neoplatonic teaching was able to co-exist with the Christian religion for more than a century after the end of the School of Athens in 529, producing important figures such as the very Olympiodorus, a late pupil of Ammonius and a devotee of Dionysus. His aforementioned account of the myth of Zagreus is, no doubt, the most complete of all, and in his commentary on Plato’s Phaedo, he also defends a Dionysian philosophy as a key way for the understanding of the relation between this world’s politics and the divine model. Olympiodorus was a contemporary of Emperor Justinian, and his life is the best piece of evidence for the useful survival of Neoplatonic Schools for a Christianised audience: in contrast with the Athenian School, closed and expropriated by the au­ thorities around 529 to avoid the pagan Neoplatonic way of life, it was

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evident that the Roman elite still needed training in classical philosophy both for a career in the administration and for the subtle theological dis­ cussions around Christ’s nature.117 Why was it, then, still relevant for a 6th century Roman civil servant or politician in his youth to learn Dionysus’ story in the Neoplatonic reworking? It was probably interpreted not only in metaphysical terms but also in the light of the usual curriculum of political Platonic dialogues, especially when we take into account the implicit presence of the god in the Republic and the Laws.118 According to the Orphic myth, Dionysus Zagreus was a failed monarch of the cosmos, for Hera’s conspiracy and the Titans’ crime hindered him from in­ heriting the universal throne, but Olympiodorus allegorised the myth for its ethical and political use, in a very Platonic fashion as a sort of ‘paradigm in heaven’ (Pl. R. 592b). Dionysus, as a forerunner for the human experience from the physical to the metaphysical reality, teaches ethics, politics and eco­ nomic rule, since in the Dionysian experience the virtuous man must suffer and be ‘torn to pieces’ by Titanic forces of this world where extreme division prevails because of ‘mine’ and ‘thine’.119 For Olympiodorus, Dionysus is an archetype for the human experience of this temporary life and shows also some coincidences with Christian ideas such as life and body as temples devoted to God: for example, in a famous passage, the Alexandrian philosopher argues that suicide is immoral and must be forbidden because ‘human bodies belong to Dionysus’ (τοῦ σώματος ἡμῶν Διονυσιακοῦ ὄντος, In Phd. 1.3). On the other side, the political relevance of the model can be seen if we consider a possible implicit reference here to Plato’s Republic 462c4, against a city where words such as ‘mine’ and ‘not mine’ can be uttered at the same time. The other implicit reference of Olympiodorus is ethical and brings us back to the discussion mentioned above on the possible ancient sources of the myth of Zagreus, and specifically Plato’s second ideal city, that of the Laws, and the utopian impulse to flee from that ‘Titanic nature’ (701c) in our soul. Neoplatonic politics play with the visible and invisible realm in such a fashion that ‘Dionysus’ reign’ (Olymp. In Phd. 1.5) shows some interesting resemblances with Christ’s Kingdom: it is interior, ethical and self-realisable when practising the right behaviour. Almost a new politeia. The competition between these two parallel divinities of the inner realms was all too evident.

By way of conclusion Whether as saviour, mediator between the divine and the human world, a symbol for the perfect philosopher or model for the wise prince, Dionysus appears as a powerful hermeneutic key for the understanding of the ideo­ logical conglomerate of Late Antiquity and, especially, of the ‘final pagan generation’, as Edward Watts would put it. His polyvalence as a symbol for transition, adaptation, transformation and mediation permeates, thanks to the henotheist and Neoplatonic interpretations, various interpretive levels in the late antique philosophical and political discourse. In any case, it is

Dionysus in the mirror of Late Antiquity 199 remarkable to notice how long Dionysus resisted as a last bulwark of pagan tradition and in such an inter-class manner, both for the general public and for the intellectuals. The success of his diverse symbolic values in Late Antiquity, from viticulture to imperial politics, from ethics to metaphysics, is hard to underestimate. The Christian sources of the fourth and fifth centuries contain several pieces of evidence – Augustine, Theodoret, Chrysostom, etc.120 – of the importance of Dionysus to the political discourse of this time of change. One of the fronts of the final confrontation is religion in its most popular approach and in the agricultural tradition. Church documents such as canon 69 of the Council of Carthage (419) confirm the popularity of Bacchic dances and rituals in many regions of the empire. Even as late as the late seventh century, at the Council of Constantinople in Trullo, the so-called Quinisext Council (692), the Christian authorities under Justinian II banned certain traditions that were thought to have a pagan origin in agriculture and civic life, such as the Kalends or the Brumalia, which John Chrysostom had already criticised. The council includes an explicit condemnation, with the threat of ex-communication, for those who invoked ‘the name of the ex­ ecrable Dionysus’ (τοῦ βδελυκτοῦ ∆ιόνυσου ὄνομα, canon 62). There were probably similar old pagan habits for wine-making all across the Eastern Empire and devoted to different moments, when squeezing the grapes in the wine presses or when opening the wine jars.121 However, these practices were doomed to extinction or to collections of rustic anecdotes. Most relevantly for our purpose is the survival of Dionysian features in the intellectual discourse of philosophy. A philosophically symbolical deity as Dionysus could, no doubt, represent, for this last pagan generation of Neoplatonists the transition between the world they knew and the new Christianised Empire. But his legacy in Byzantine Platonism was kept alive all across the centuries in what Siniossoglou rightly calls ‘underground Platonism’,122 that is to say, a philosophical current in Byzantium stemming from the Pagan Neoplatonic roots of Late Antiquity, the so-called ‘golden chain’ of Hierocles. Psellos’ short treaty on daemonology, known by its Latin title Graecorum opiniones de daemonibus, mentions some examples of Dionysian rituals with fascination, although pretending to keep his due distance as a Christian.123 The final example of this Byzantine survival of pagan hellenism, Pletho’s Neopaganism in the fifteenth century will in­ corporate Dionysus, as the other children of Zeus, in his ontological hier­ archy.124 However, and regardless of the survival of Dionysian manifestations among the elites, from the sixth century onwards, one must be careful with the use of accusations of paganism in the political discourse, as Watts has rightly pointed out.125 Accusations of paganism will last long during the Byzantine period and are still controversial and ambivalent for modern scholarship, as the same cases of Psellos and Pletho go to show.126 Dionysus, however, survived especially through the rich imperial and Christian iconography, the adoratio, the manuum velatio and the mural

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crown being just a few examples: vine and grapes will be omnipresent also in Christian funerary and sacred iconography. Dionysus also survived in sacred language and literature, as shown by the Eucharistic metaphorical language, which inherited all the Dionysian mystery discourse through the rehabilitation of all that vocabulary by Church Fathers as Clement. As in Zagreus’ mirror, late antique Dionysus enjoyed a multi-faceted success in the predominant Neoplatonic ideology as God the Son, model for human life, a symbol of learning and justice at the same time. He even played a role as a ‘mirror for princes’, in the case of imperial triumph, symbolic for civilisation and fight against the barbarians. Finally, however, it is clear that his position was soon to be occupied more successfully by Christ as the new official religion of the Empire triumphed. But the legacy of this late antique, many-sided, Neoplatonic Dionysus in posterity seems impossible to ignore.

Notes 1 Regarding the syncretism around Dionysus, see Burckhardt 1945, 179‒187. 2 Cic. N.D. 3.58; D.S. 5.75.4. See Bierl 2018 for a complete study and catalogue of the god’s names. 3 For a previous version of the following four paragraphs, see Hernández de la Fuente 2013a. 4 Borrowing the title from Gross-Albenhausen 1999, 113‒119, referred to Theodosius. 5 Aristid. Or. 41; see Cortés Copete 1999, 145‒154. 6 Lucianus Bacch. passim. 7 Bowersock 1990, 160. 8 In general, Bowersock 1990, 157‒166. 9 Bruhl 1953, 249‒267; Bowersock 1990, 41‒53. 10 Thdt. H.E. 4.24; Blázquez Martínez 2010, 372. 11 Thdt. H.E. 5.20‒21 καὶ οἱ τοῦ Διονύσου τὰ ὄργια τετελεσμένοι μετὰ τῶν αἰγίδων ἔτρεχον, τοὺς κύνας διασπῶντες καὶ μεμηνότες καὶ βακχεύοντες καὶ τὰ ἄλλα δρῶντες ἃ τὴν τοῦ διδασκάλου πονηρίαν δηλοῖ. See Blázquez Martínez 2010, 380. Translations are mine unless stated otherwise. 12 Soz. H.E. 6.25. 13 E.g. Thomas 2000, 54 and conclusions on p. 83. 14 Huskinson 1996, 33‒35. 15 As studied by Jaccottet 2003. 16 OF 580 Bernabé and Jiménez San Cristóbal 2011, 86. 17 Bowersock 1990, 41; Massa 2014, 27‒31. ̈ 18 Suda s.v. Ἡραΐσκος: και ̀ ἐγεγόνει ὁ ̔Ηραίσκος Βάκχος, ὡ ς ὄνειρος αὐ τὸν κατεμήνυσεν. 19 Macr. Sat. 1.18.7 Cum in supero, id est in diurno, hemisphaerio est, Apollo vocitetur; cum in infero, id est nocturno, Dionysus, qui est Liber pater, ha­ beatur. See also Mart. Cap. 2.185. For a study of solar syncretism in Late Antiquity, see Fauth 1995, 165‒183. 20 See Merkelbach and Stauber 1996; Busine 2005, 205. In fact, the name is Iao, commonly identified with Dionysus in this age. For the theological oracles of Late Antiquity, see in general Busine 2005, 154‒224. 21 Hernández de la Fuente 2013b.

Dionysus in the mirror of Late Antiquity 201 22 Tarrant 2010, 85. 23 See in general Mariño Sánchez 2007, 373‒383, summarised here. 24 See Bernabé 2002 and 2008, 602‒605 for the evidence dating back to Ancient Greece, especially Plato’s Laws 701b. 25 Edmonds 1999 and 2013. See a summary in Massa 2014, 95‒96. 26 See Plot. Enn. 3.13.25, 4.3.12, Procl. In Tim. 2.78.12, etc. 27 Plot. Enn. 4.3.12 Ἀνθρώπων δὲ ψυχαὶ εἴδωλα αὐτῶν ἰδοῦσαι οἷον Διονύσου ἐν κατόπτρῳ ἐκεῖ ἐγένοντο ἄνωθεν ὁρμηθεῖσαι, οὐκ ἀποτμηθεῖσαι οὐδ’ αὗται τῆς ἑαυτῶν ἀρχῆς τε καὶ νοῦ. 28 To be sure, Dionysus was already an important god in the Platonic dialogues, as shown in Hernández de la Fuente 2013b. More details on the Neoplatonic eschatology of this myth and a comparison between Macrobius and Plotinus in Mariño Sánchez 2007, 378‒80 (reedited in 2014, 336‒338). 29 Macr. Somn. Scip. 1.12.12 Ipsum autem Liberum Patrem Orphaici νοῦν ὑλικόν suspicantur intellegi, qui ab illo indiuiduo natus in singulos ipse diuiditur. Ideo in illorum sacris traditur Titanio furore in membra discerptus et frustis sepultis, rursus unus et integer emersisse, quia νοῦς, quem diximus mentem uocari, ex indiuiduo praebendo se diuidendum, et rursus ex diuiso ad indiuiduum reuertendo et mundi implet officia et naturae suae arcana non deserit. Tr. W.H. Stahl. 30 Kerényi 1940. 31 Procl. In Tim. 1.173.1 καὶ γὰρ οἱ θεολόγοι μετὰ τὸν τοῦ Διονύσου διασπασμόν, ὃς δηλοῖ τὴν ἐκ τῆς ἀμερίστου δημιουργίας μεριστὴν πρόοδον εἰς τὸ πᾶν ὑπὸ τοῦ Διός, τοὺς μὲν ἄλλους Τιτᾶνας ἄλλας λήξεις διακεκληρῶσθαί φασι, τὸν δὲ Ἄτλαντα ἐν τοῖς πρὸς ἑσπέραν τόποις ἱδρῦσθαι ἀνέχοντα τὸν οὐρανόν; tr. H. Tarrant. 32 Hipta, with a past as a goddess of Asia Minor and present in epigraphy, is related to Dionysus-Sabazios. In the Orphic myth, she is cited as a nurse to whom Zeus gives young Dionysus, Orph. H. 48 and 49, cf. OF 329F Bernabé. Cf. Mariño Sánchez 2007, 376, 380. In general, see the second edition of Mariño Sánchez’s analysis (2014), whose commentaries regarding the Neoplatonic Dionysus I have used in this case. 33 Procl. In Ti. 2.407.25‒408.10 ἡ μὲν γὰρ Ἵππα τοῦ παντὸς οὖσα ψυχὴ καὶ οὕτω κεκλημένη παρὰ τῷ θεολόγῳ τάχα μὲν ὅτι καὶ ἐν ἀκμαιοτάταις κινήσεσιν αἱ νοήσεις αὐτῆς οὐσίωνται, τάχα δὲ καὶ διὰ τὴν ὀξυτάτην τοῦ παντὸς φοράν, ἧς ἐστιν αἰτία, λίκνον ἐπὶ τῆς κεφαλῆς θεμένη καὶ δράκοντι αὐτὸ περιστέψασα τὸν κραδιαῖον ὑποδέχεται Διόνυσον·τῷ γὰρ ἑαυτῆς θειοτάτῳ γίγνεται τῆς νοερᾶς οὐσίας ὑποδοχὴ καὶ δέχεται τὸν ἐγκόσμιον νοῦν. ὃ δὲ ἀπὸ τοῦ μηροῦ τοῦ Διὸς πρόεισιν εἰς αὐτήν (ἦν γὰρ ἐκεῖ συνηνωμένος) καὶ προελθὼν καὶ μεθεκτὸς αὐτῆς γεγονὼς ἐπὶ τὸ νοητὸν αὐτὴν ἀνάγει καὶ τὴν ἑαυτοῦ πηγήν·ἐπείγεται γὰρ πρὸς τὴν μητέρα τῶν θεῶν καὶ τὴν Ἴδην, ἀφ’ ἧς πᾶσα τῶν ψυχῶν ἡ σειρά… τοῦτο δὲ ἦν ὁ κοσμικὸς νοῦς Δίιος ὤν, κατὰ τὸν ἐν τῷ Διὶ μείναντα προελθών; tr. D. T. Runia and M. Share. 34 Procl. In Ti. 1.407.21‒408.2; 2.197.15‒30. See Opsomer 2000, 121‒122. 35 Procl. In Ti. 2.80.21. 36 See Van den Berg 2008, 192‒195; Opsomer 2017, 146‒147 with a table of demiurgies on p. 147. 37 Procl. In Cra. 178, p.104 τί οὖν δεῖ Λητὼ καλεῖν τὴν ὕλην, ὡς εὐτράπελον καὶ ἐμμαγεῖον πᾶσι προκειμένην τοῖς εἴδεσιν, οἷον κάτοπτρον πάντων τὰς ἐμφάσεις δεχομένην, ὡς λήθης δὲ αἰτίαν τοῖς εἰς αὐτὴν ὁρῶσι; ‘Can there be any question of calling matter “Leto”, since it is changeable and a matrix present to all the Forms, receives like a mirror the appearances of all things and is cause of forgetfulness (lethe) for those who look to it?’. Tr. B. Duvick.

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38 Procl. In Crat. 133 p. 77.24–78.3 Ὅτι ὁ ἐν ἡμῖν νοῦς Διονυσιακός ἐστιν καὶ ἄγαλμα ὄντως τοῦ Διονύσου. ὅστις οὖν εἰς αὐτὸν πλημμελῇ καὶ τὴν ἀμερῆ αὐτοῦ φύσιν διασπᾷ Τιτανικῶς διὰ τοῦ πολυσχιδοῦς ψεύδους, οὗτος δηλονότι εἰς αὐτὸν τὸν Διόνυσον ἁμαρτάνει, καὶ μᾶλλον τῶν εἰς τὰ ἐκτὸς τοῦ θεοῦ ἀγάλματα πλημμελούντων, ὅσον ὁ νοῦς μᾶλλον τῶν ἄλλων συγγενής ἐστι τῷ θεῷ. Tr. B. Duvick. 39 Plotinus emphasises the continuity between the material and the intelligible world through this word, Enn. 1.6.9: ‘But how are you to see into a vir­ tuous soul and know its loveliness? …Withdraw into yourself and look. And if you do not find yourself beautiful yet, act as does the creator of a statue (οἷα ποιητὴς ἀγάλματος) that is to be made beautiful… and never cease chiselling your statue (καὶ μὴ παύσῃ τεκταίνων τὸ σὸν ἄγαλμα), until there shall shine out on you from it the godlike splendour of virtue’ (see also Enn. 5.8.31); tr. S. MacKenna. Cf. Hernández de la Fuente 2011, 312‒314. 40 See in general Grabar 1945; Alexandrakis and Moutafakis 2002; Mariev 2013. 41 Procl. In Ti. 1.336‒337 τὰ τὴν γένεσιν ἐπιτροπεύοντα καὶ τὸ εἶδος ὅλον ὑποδεξάμενα τοῦ παραδείγματος, οὕτως καὶ ὁ φιλόσοφος εἰκόνα τὸν κόσμον τοῦ νοητοῦ προσεῖπεν, ὡς ἐοικότα τῷ σφετέρῳ παραδείγματι. Tr. D.T. Runia and M. Share. 42 Plat. Lg. 701b‒c. 43 Olymp. In Phd. 1.6 καὶ γενέσεως ἄλλως ἔφορός ἐστιν ὁ Διόνυσος, διότι καὶ ζωῆς καὶ τελευτῆς· ζωῆς μὲν γὰρ ἔφορος, ἐπειδὴ καὶ τῆς γενέσεως, τελευτῆς δέ, διότι ἐνθουσιᾶν ὁ οἶνος ποιεῖ καὶ περὶ τὴν τελευτὴν δὲ ἐνθουσιαστικώτεροι γινόμεθα… καὶ τὴν τραγῳδίαν δὲ καὶ τὴν κωμῳδίαν ἀνεῖσθαί φασι τῷ Διονύσῳ τὴν μὲν κωμῳδίαν παίγνιον οὖσαν τοῦ βίου, τὴν δὲ τραγῳδίαν διὰ τὰ πάθη καὶ τὴν τελευτήν. Tr. L.G. Westerink. 44 The Neoplatonic identification of Kronos with the popular etymology koros nous is also known to Plotinus (Enn. 5.1.4 and 5.1) and Augustine (Cons. Evang. 1.23.25 satur nus) and appears also in Olympiodorus (In Grg. 47.3; cf. Plat. Crat. 396b). 45 Olymp. In Phd. 1.5 διὸ καὶ σπαράττεται, διότι οὐκ ἀντακολουθοῦσιν ἀλλήλαις αἱ ἀρεταί. καὶ τὰς σάρκας μασῶνται οἱ Τιτᾶνες, τῆς μασήσεως δηλούσης τὸν πολὺν μερισμόν, διότι τῶν τῇδε ἔφορός ἐστιν, ἔνθα ὁ πολὺς μερισμὸς διὰ τὸ ἐμὸν καὶ σόν. Tr. L.G. Westerink. 46 Plat. Phd. 69d1. 47 Olymp. In Phd. 8.7 ναρθηκοφόρους οὐ μὴν Βάκχους τοὺς πολιτικοὺς καλῶν, ναρθηκοφόρους δὲ καὶ Βάκχους τοὺς καθαρτικούς. καὶ γὰρ ἐνδούμεθα μὲν τῇ ὕλῃ ὡς Τιτᾶνες διὰ τὸν πολὺν μερισμόν ‒ πολὺ γὰρ τὸ ἐμὸν καὶ σόν ‒ ἀνεγειρόμεθα δὲ ὡς Βάκχοι·διὸ καὶ περὶ τὸν θάνατον μαντικώτεροι γινόμεθα, καὶ ἔφορος δὲ τοῦ θανάτου ὁ Διόνυσος, διότι καὶ πάσης βακχείας. Tr. L.G. Westerink. In the Greek tradition, the closeness of death usually endows the gift of prophecy, as seen in the case of the dying heroes of the Iliad (16.851‒854, 22.358‒360). See also, in the Platonic tradition, Socrates’ final remarks to the jury in Plat. Ap. 39c: ‘And after that I want to give you a prophecy, you who voted against me. For indeed I’m already at that point where people generally do make prophecies: when they’re about to die’; tr. Ch. Emlyn-Jones and W. Preddy. 48 Olymp. In Mete.191.14. 49 Olymp. In Alc. 48.19‒21 δεῖ δὲ τὴν ψυχὴν κατιοῦσαν εἰς γένεσιν λαβύρινθον οὖσαν καθάπερ μίτῳ κεχρῆσθαι τῇ μονάδι πρὸς τὴν ἐνταῦθα πλάνην, καθάπερ καὶ ὁ Θησεὺς τῷ τῆς Ἀριάδνης μίτῳ πρὸς τὸν Κρητικὸν λαβύρινθον. See also Griffin 2014, 116.

Dionysus in the mirror of Late Antiquity 203 50 Olymp. In Grg. 44.5 ὁ μὲν γὰρ Μινώταυρος τὰ ἐν ἡμῖν θηριώδη πάθη σημαίνει, ὁ δὲ μίτος θείαν τινὰ δύναμιν ἐξημμένην, ὁ δὲ λαβύρινθος τὸ σκολιὸν καὶ πολυποίκιλον τοῦ βίου. See also Jackson, Lycos and Tarrant 1998, 282‒283. 51 Porph. Marc. 21. 52 For more information on theurgy in general, see the classical study of Lewy 2011 (1st ed. 1956). For theurgy in context, see Saffrey 1984, 161‒171. See the valuable synthesis of the sources on theurgy in the Theodosian period by García-Gasco 2013, 197‒204 whom we follow here. 53 See in general Shaw 1971. 54 Iamb. Myst. 1.12. 55 Levaniouk 2007, 176 and n. 38. 56 Dam. In Phd. (versio 1) 171 Ὅτι ὁ μὲν πρῶτος Βάκχος ὁ Διόνυσός ἐστιν, ἐνθουσιῶν βάσει τε καὶ ἰαχῇ, ὅ ἐστι πάσῃ κινήσει, ἧς δὴ καὶ αἴτιος, ὡς ἐν Νόμοις [672a5‒d4]·ὁ δὲ τῷ Διονύσῳ καθιερωθεὶς ἅτε ὁμοιωθεὶς αὐτῷ μετέχει καὶ τοῦ ὀνόματος.ὁ δὲ ζῶν Διονυσιακῶς ἤδη πέπαυται πόνων καὶ λέλυται τῶν δεσμῶν, ἀφεθεὶς τῆς φρουρᾶς, μᾶλλον δὲ τῆς ἀπεστενωμένης ζωῆς·ὁ δὲ τοιοῦτος ὁ καθαρτικός ἐστι φιλόσοφος. Tr. L.G. Westerink. 57 For more information of this concept in Plato, see the comprehensive mono­ graph by Lavecchia 2006. 58 Dam. In Phd. (versio 1) 172 Ὅτι οἱ μὲν τὴν φιλοσοφίαν προτιμῶσιν, ὡς Πορφύριος καὶ Πλωτῖνος καὶ ἄλλοι πολλοὶ φιλόσοφοι· οἱ δὲ τὴν ἱερατικήν, ὡς Ἰάμβλιχος καὶ Συριανὸς καὶ Πρόκλος καὶ οἱ ἱερατικοὶ πάντες. ὁ δὲ Πλάτων τὰς ἑκατέρωθεν συνηγορίας ἐννοήσας πολλὰς οὔσας εἰς μίαν αὐτὰς συνήγαγεν ἀλήθειαν, τὸν φιλόσοφον ‘Βάκχον’ ὀνομάζων· καὶ γὰρ ὁ χωρίσας ἑαυτὸν τῆς γενέσεως εἰ τεθείη μέσος εἰς ταὐτὸν ἄξει τῷ ἑτέρῳ τὸν ἕτερον. πλὴν δῆλός ἐστιν ὅμως τῷ Βάκχῳ σεμνύνων τὸν φιλόσοφον, ὡς θεῷ τὸν νοῦν ἢ τῷ ἀπορρήτῳ φωτὶ τὸ ῥητόν. Tr. L.G. Westerink. 59 A panorama in Dabdab Trabulsi 1990. See also Isler-Kerényi, Seaford and Karłowicz in this volume. 60 Nock 1928, 21‒30. See also Stoneman in this volume. 61 On Dionysus’ popularity in the Macedonian monarchy, see Greenwalt 1994; Christesen and Murray 2011, 431‒432. 62 Nock, 1928, 38: ‘Dionysus and Heracles were the typical examples of men honoured as gods after death for their achievements, as the king might hope to be. There is, then, no reason to make “Neos Dionysos” definite and precise; it is vague, like most of the terminology applied to deified rulers’. 63 Tondriau 1952; Hölbl 2001, 94‒95 and Fig. 3.4 of a horned Ptolemy. 64 Le Guen 2016. For Ptolemy I and II, see Hölbl 2001, 39, 94‒97. 65 Plut. Cleom. 33.2, 34.2. See Hölbl 2001, 70‒71. 66 According to the Etymologicum Magnum (s.v. Gallos). 67 Clem. Al. Protr. 4.54.2. 68 It was, indeed, the only Ptolemy to have used it in an official coronation, see Hölbl 2001, 222‒223. 69 Dunand 1979, 88; Hölbl 2001, 289‒293. Regarding Augustus and the Roman Neoi Dionysoi, see the chapter by Mac Góráin in this book. 70 Plut. Ant. 56.6‒10. 71 Lenzen 1960, 5. On Domitian and Hadrian, see Poloczek in this volume. 72 As Antoninus Pius saw, especially from the association of the Augusta to the throne, Ariadne was a good mythical companion for a deified empress, see Levick 2014, 127. 73 D.C. 77.7.4 and Hist. Aug. 17.28.2, see Fuhrer 2011, 388.

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74 For the Christian parallels and the analogy with Nonnus’ Dionysiaca and Paraphrase, see Daszewski 1985, who interprets the mosaic in the henotheistic trends of late antique paganism. 75 Kessler-Dimini 2008, 271, who defends the political and theological inter­ pretation of Dionysus as God the Son in what she calls a ‘monotheizing trend in Dionysian religion’ (p. 266). 76 Lentze 1960, 19‒20. 77 Hernández de la Fuente 2019. 78 O’Meara 2003. 79 Porph. Plot. 12. 80 Wilken 1984, 156‒157. See also Goulet 2004, 61‒109; Wlosok 2005, 1‒28 who shows that this identification is not convincing. See also Chiaradonna 2014, 39, n. 4. 81 Watts 2015, 220. 82 On the theological and political position of Constantine, see Piétri 1996, 193‒244. 83 Hist. Aug. Aurelian 25.4‒6, 24.2‒8. On solar cults in the Empire, see Halsberghe 1984. 84 Hernández de la Fuente 2013a. 85 Busine 2005, 219. 86 On the solar theology of Late Antiquity, its Neoplatonic connections (espe­ cially in Julian and Jamblichus), and the relation between the Sun and Dionysus, see Fauth 1995, 149‒164. 87 Digeser 1998; Nance 2002. 88 Nicholson 1984. 89 Nicholson 1984, 257‒262. 90 Kousser 2011, 538. For the Ariadne Mosaic, probably in an elitist private palace, see Stefanidou-Tiveriou 2011, 579‒583, with an account of other Dionysian art of the Tetrarchic age in Macedonia. 91 O’Meara 1994. 92 Plat. Tht. 176b. 93 Lavecchia 2006, 127. 94 Hernández de la Fuente 2013c. 95 O’Meara 2003, 96. See Procl. Theol. Plat. 6.6‒8, In R. 2.8.17–21. Proclus presents the universe as the well-governed state (cf. O’Meara 2003, 94–8). 96 O’Meara, 2003, 92. On the relation with the Platonic cities, see Baltzly, Finamore and Miles 2018, 58, n. 39. For the political roles of Proclean de­ miurges, and specifically of Dionysus, see Baltzly 2017, 271‒272. 97 Barceló 2013, 39‒51, for an account of Constantine ambivalent appropriation of Christ. 98 Bardill 2013, 338‒341. 99 Bardill 2013, 171. 100 Barceló 2013, 46‒50. 101 Zos. 3.34; 4.59. 102 When judging positively Valentinian’s religious impartiality, see Amianus Marcellinus 30.9.5. 103 For the near relation of Constantine and the model of Christ, see Barceló 2013, 66‒77. For the influential views of Ambrose and Chrysostom on how the Christian emperor should be, see Gross-Albenhausen 1999, 204‒207, with reference to Theodosius. 104 Just. 1 Apol. 21.2, 54.6, Dial. 69.2; Clem. Al. Protr. 2.15. See in general Massa 2014, 189‒190. As he points out, the parallel is very remarkable in

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105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112

113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126

Justin, for he uses the same vocabulary for the death, resurrection and as­ cension for both Dionysus and Christ (ἀποθανόντα ἀναστῆναι, εἰς οὐρανόν τε ἀνεληλυθέναι). See also Clem. Al. Protr. 17.2, cf. Herrero de Jáuregui 2008, 137‒138. Clem. Al. Protr. 12.2, see Herrero de Jáuregui 2008, 130‒131. See Doroszewski 2020, 68‒70 for the use of orgia, normally a pagan term, in 12.119 (τὰ σεμνὰ τοῦ λόγου… ὄργια ‘the solemn ὄργια of the Word’). Eus. P.E. 4.16‒17. See Mariño Sánchez 2014, 326‒327. For the use of the mysteries’ terminology in philosophical and early Christian literature, see Riedweg 1987. Chrys. PG 48.963, PG 49.82, PG 48.954. See Massa 2014, 195. Doroszewski 2020 studies the semantic shift in the use of pagan terminology in this age. Massa 2014, 195‒199. Antoninus (Eun. VS 470‒472) and Olympus (see Suda s.v.) were probably two of them. Baltzly 2017, 272. Sorabji 1990. See Watts 2006 for a scholarly panorama of both cities in the crucial fifth century (Athens pp. 79‒110 and Alexandria 204‒231). For the agreement between Ammonius and the patriarch, Watts 2006, 222‒225. Watts 2006, 259 Malalas Chr. 18.47. See also Watts 2005. Agath. 2.30.3–31.4. Watts 2005. 286. See Tardieu 1990 and, contra, Watts 2005, 291‒292, 314‒315. See Wildberg 2018. Hernández de la Fuente 2013b, 8‒17. Olymp. In Phd. 1.5 E.g. August. Ep. 17.4, Thdt. H.E. 5.21.4. Hamdorf 1986, 39; Massa 2014, 66‒67. Siniossoglou 2011, 49. Psell. Graec. opin. 3.65–68, p. 101 Gautier, see Buzzetta and Napoli 2017, 176. Siniossoglou 2011, 285‒287. Watts 2005, 304. See Siniossoglou 2011, 71‒85 (Psellos), 141‒148 (accusations against Pletho).

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Index

Achilles 14, 172 Acropolis (Athens) 10–12, 33, 111, 126 Actium 93–94, 127 Adonis 19, 132, 193, 197 Adramyttium 133 Aebutius, Publius 65, 67–68, 72 Aegae (Cilicia) 130 Aelian, NA 95 Aelius Aristides 178 Aeneas 2, 89 Aeschylus 22–23, 36 Africa 144, 150 Africa (personification of) 143 agalma 183 Agaue 24–25, 107 Albinus, Clodius 143 Alcaeus 37 Alexander Romance 46–47, 50–52 Alexander the Great 4, 46–55, 90–92, 124–129, 132–133, 178, 188; limitation of 2, 80, 92–94, 108, 125, 128, 149, 192 Alexandria 53–55, 92–94, 111, 117, 126–127, 187–188, 196–197 Alexandria Eschate 53 Ammianus Marcellinus 195 Ammon 46–47, 52, 91 Ammonius Hermiae 196–197 Ampelus 132–134 Anatolia 13 Anazarbus 130 Anchises 89, 90, 94, 96 Ancyra 189 Antinous 124, 131–134 Antiochus VI Dionysus 125 Antiochus XII Dionysus 125 Antoninus Pius 145, 149, 158, 189 Antonine dynasty 130, 132, 143, 149, 151

Antony, Mark 2, 4, 54–55, 84, 91, 93–94, 103, 109–111, 116–117, 124, 126–128, 130, 133, 149, 178, 188–189 antron bakchikon 79, 82–84 Aphrodite 34, 41 Apollo 9, 10, 47, 52, 66, 103,147, 179–180, 182, 191, 194 Arabia 92, 147, 158 Ara Pacis Augustae 94 Ares 34–35 Ariadne 54, 145, 179, 185–186, 189, 195 Aristobulus of Cassandreia 91–92 Armenia 127 Arrian 48–50, 52–53, 91–92 Aristophanes: Acharnians 42; Frogs 23; Wasps 23 Artists of Dionysus 51, 53, 109, 130–131, 133, 149 Asia 15, 47, 92–93, 125–128, 130, 134, 143, 149, 151 Athena 12, 22, 35, 39, 126, 167, 182 Athenaeus 2, 53, 127, 188 Athenagoras of Athens 113 Athens 9, 10, 12, 19–23, 42, 51, 83, 93, 110, 126, 130–131, 149, 187, 196–197 Attalid dynasty 13–14 Attalus I Soter 13, 110, 125 Augustine of Hippo 179, 194–195, 199; Epistles 179 Aurelian 191 Aurelius Victor 133 Bacchanalian affair (186 BC) 2, 3–4, 63–84 bacchants 48, 63, 67, 70, 72, 76, 81–82, 107, 109, 185; see also maenads Bacchanal (place) 67–69 Bacchic frenzy 21, 25, 63, 76, 106–107, 110; see also irrationality, madness Bactra 129

Index 211 Bactria 47, 92, 108, 125, 127 bakchos(title) 81–82, 131, 179, 185, 187–188 balance 103–106, 108–110, 116, 173; see also excess; immoderation; moderation Bona Dea 112–113 bricolage 163, 173 Brutus, Marcus Iunius 114, 116 Cadmus 19, 24–25, 107 Caesar, Julius 4, 55, 84, 93, 103, 108, 112–117, 189 Caesarion 55 Caligula 1–2, 4, 124, 127–128, 133 Callimachus 170 Callisthenes 51, 55 Callixenius of Rhodes 53, 125 Capua 75 Caracalla 147–151, 157–158, 189; coin types 143–146, 150 Carthage 199 Caucasus 126 Chaldaean Oracles 187 Chares of Mitylene 50 Christ, Jesus 177–179, 191, 194–196, 198, 200 Cicero 73; Philippics 93 Cilicia 130 civic virtues 177, 184, 192 civilising; see culture heroism Claudius II Gothicus 146 Cleitarchus 49, 51–52, 125 Cleitus, murder of 54, 92 Clement of Alexandria 200; Protrepticus 125, 196 Cleopatra VII Philopator 93–94, 110, 126, 188 Cologne (Colonia Claudia Ara Agrippinensium) 147, 150, 156 Commodus 143, 149, 189 concordia 146 coniuratio 66, 70, 72–73 Constantine the Great 191, 194–195 contradiction (Bacchae) 3, 18, 20–21, 25–29 Crassus, Marcus Licinius 84, 103, 106–109, 116 Cronus 10, 162, 164–165, 184 culture heroism 1, 2, 49, 52–53, 91, 93, 94, 96, 124, 126, 128, 130, 132–133, 177–178, 188, 200 Cumae 76, 81

Curtius Rufus, Quintus 47–48, 50–51, 54, 91 Cybele 13, 19, 21 Cyrene 125 Dacia 129, 192 Damascius 162, 173, 177, 180, 184–188, 197 Delphi 52, 179, 182 Demeter 22, 47, 49, 112–113, 130–131 demiurgy 183, 193 Derveni papyrus 163, 171, 173 Diana 66, 147 Dinarchus (poet) 52 Dio, Cassius 93, 133, 144, 149 Diocletian 189, 191–192 Diodorus Siculus 49, 52–53, 74, 126 Diogenes the Cynic 50–51 Diogenes Laërtius 50 Dionysia(festival) 21, 23–24, 131 Dionysius, Bassarica 52 dismemberment 2, 103, 112, 115, 117, 165, 167–168, 170–172, 181–182, 184–186, 198 Domitian 2, 4, 124, 129–130, 133, 189 Domna, Julia 147, 149, 158 dying-and-rising god 132, 195 edges of the world 46, 108, 124, 126, 129, 133 eikon 183 Egypt 47, 51, 53, 55, 84, 93, 125–126, 133, 149, 179, 188, 196 Elagabalus 189 Eleusis 23, 25, 131, 134 Ephesus 93, 109, 126 epopteia 131 Eratosthenes of Cyrene 91, 125 Erichthonius 132 Etruria 63, 65, 72, 74, 81, 83 Eumenes II Soter 13 Euphorion of Chalcis 170 Euripides 2–3, 9, 18–29, 37–38, 47, 83, 90, 92, 107, 109–110, 112, 124; Bacchae 2–3, 9, 18–29, 38, 47, 83, 90, 92, 95, 107–109 Eurynome 34 excess 19, 22–25, 27, 71, 105, 110, 116, 118; see also balance; immoderation; moderation Faustina the Younger 189 Felix Romuliana (Gamzigrad) 191–192

212

Index

fertility 92, 94–96, 130 Flavian dynasty 129 Flaviopolis (Kadirli) 130 Francois vase 33, 35, 41 friendship 34, 37, 103–104 Fufluns 66, 78, 82 Gallienus 146, 189–191 Galatians 13 Ganges 129 Gea 10 Genesis (Bible) 132 Germania 129, 147 Geta 147, 150; coin types 143–144, 145, 146, 150 gigantomachy 1, 3, 9–15, 42, 90, 92, 110–111, 117, 173 Golden Age 89, 95–96 Gordian III 190–191 Hadrian 2, 4, 124, 130–134, 143, 149, 189 Hecate 187 Helios 127, 179–180, 191; see also Sol; sun henosis 186 Hephaestus 1, 3, 32–42, 91, 173 Hera 3, 32–35, 38–40, 167, 180 Hercules 10, 14,34, 46–48, 51–52, 54, 66,89–91, 95, 113, 126, 129, 143, 145–147, 192, 195 Herodotus 22, 47, 93 heroisation 84 Hesiod: Theogony 33, 37, 161, 163–164, 172; Works and Days 37 Hipta 182 Hispala Faecenia 65, 67–68, 72 Homer: Iliad 34, 37, 95, 105; Odyssey 34, 37 Homeric Hymns; to Apollo 34; to Demeter 169; to Dionysus (7) 95 Horace 94, 146 hybris 19–20, 55, 94, 107–109 Hyginus, Fabulae 34 Hypatia 196 Hyphasis, altars at 49 Iacchus 22, 131, 133 Iamblichus 186, 188, 192 Ides of March 114–115 incest 112–113 India 47–53, 92, 108, 124–129, 132–133, 178, 188, 192

imitation of Dionysus 1–2, 4, 50–51, 92–94, 108, 125–128, 149, 186, 189 immoderation 25, 109–110; see also balance; excess; moderation initiation(mysteries) 19–21, 23–25, 35, 65–68, 70–72, 76, 81–82, 131, 168, 173, 179 intelligible world 165, 177, 180–184 irrationality 9, 38, 105, 184; see also Bacchic frenzy; madness Issus, speech at 47 ivy 38, 46–48, 52, 92, 104, 109, 125, 188 Jews 1, 74, 128 John Chrysostom 196, 199 Josephus, Titus Flavius 128 Jugurtha 93 Jupiter 74, 96, 145, 148, 150, 157, 195; see also Zeus Justinian the Great 187, 197 Justinian II 199 Justin Martyr 196 Kore, see Persephone Lactantius 191–192 Lambaesis 148, 157 labyrinth 185 Lepcis Magna 142–145, 147–151, 156 Libanius, Narrationes 35 lion 10, 142–144 Livy 2, 4, 63, 65–73, 83 Lucian of Samosata 91, 178; scholiato 166 Lucullus, Lucius Licinius 93, 108 Lycurgus (mythological character) 2, 38, 42, 52, 66, 104–105, 107 Lydos (painter) 10–11 Lysos, harbour of 50 Macedonia 23, 46–47, 51, 55, 188, 192 Macrobius 179, 181, 191; On the Dream of Scipio 181; Saturnalia 179 madness 1, 32, 38, 105–107, 128; see also Bacchic frenzy; irrationality maenads 21–22, 50, 107, 109, 145, 189 Magi, adoration of 189 Mantinea 133 Marcus Aurelius 158, 189 Marius, Gaius 76, 79–80, 93–94, 126 Martial 129 matrona 67–68 Maximian Herculius 192 Medes 12, 47, 92

Index 213 Megasthenes 48–49, 51–52, 91–92 ‘Memphis’(a place in the Sallustian Gardens) 149, 158 Menander Rhetor 91 Meros, Mt. (Meru) 47–48, 92 mirror 78, 167, 180–183, 200 Mithridates VI Eupator 2, 93, 108, 125 Modestus, Quintus Aiacius 147–148, 150 Narcissus 181 Nectanebo 46 Nîmes 130 Nonnus: Dionysiaca 52, 94, 132–133; manuumvelatio 189, 199 moderation 20, 23, 103; see also balance; excess; immoderation monarchy 112, 115, 192 mystery cult 4, 14, 19–21, 23, 46, 112–113, 131, 168, 170, 177, 179–180, 183, 186–187, 196, 200; see also initiation Neos Dionysos (title) 2, 4, 51, 54, 84, 93–94, 96, 111, 124–125, 127–128, 130, 149, 151, 158, 188–189 Neoplatonism 2, 4, 162–163, 165, 168, 171–173, 177–200 Nicene-Arian controversy 178 Ninos (priestess of Sabazius) 19–21 Nysa, Mt. 46–48, 51, 53, 89–90, 94, 129 Oceanus 34 Octavia the Younger 126 Octavian Augustus 55, 89–96, 110–111, 117, 124, 126, 128–131, 133, 146, 158, 189 Olympiodorus 168–169, 171, 177–178, 180, 184–185, 187, 197–198 Olympian gods 10, 14, 35, 42, 132, 165, 172–173 Olympus 1, 32, 34–36, 39–41, 51–52, 91, 170, 172–173, 195 Orodes II 125 Orosius 195 Orpheus 162–163, 183 Orphism 4, 46, 81, 112–114, 131, 161–173, 180–181, 183–184, 198 Orphic Hymns 113 Osiris 47, 52, 93, 126, 133, 149, 182 Ovid 132, 163 Oxydracae (Kṣudrakas) 48

Palmyra 190 Panhellenion (league of poleis) 131–132, 134 panther 10, 12, 14, 80–81, 84, 142–147, 289 Parthenon 12–13, 42 Parthia 107–108, 150, 158 Parthians 107, 109, 143 Pausanias 33, 35, 42, 110, 133 Pax (personification of) 147 Peleus 1, 173 Pentheus 2, 3, 18–20, 22–25, 27, 38, 42, 66, 73, 107–109, 116 Pergamum 13–15, 111, 149 Pericles 9 Persephone 112–113, 165–166, 168–170 Persia 47, 190–192, 197 Persian Wars 12 Pescennius Niger 142, 143, 147, 149, 150 Petra 147, 150, 156 Philippopolis (Thrace) 149, 158 Philodemus of Gadara 170 Philo of Alexandria 1, 2, 127, 128 Phryne 19, 21 Pindar 37, 95, 168–169 Plato 22, 34, 40, 104–106, 115, 168, 168–169, 181–188, 192, 197–198; Eutyphro 40; Laws 22, 104–105, 115, 169, 184, 187, 193, 198; Meno 168; Phaedo 185, 187, 197; Republic 34, 193, 198; Timaeus 183 Pletho 199 Pliny the Elder 126 Plotinus 180–183, 186, 188, 191, 193; Enneads 181, 192 Plutarch 37, 50, 53–54, 79, 91, 93–95, 103–117, 125–127, 170, 179–180, 182, 197; Moralia E at Delphi 93, 117; Fortune of Alexander 53; How to Study Poetry 104–107; Intelligence of Animals 114; On Meat-Eating 115, 117; On Moral Virtue 105, 107; Table Talk 104, 109; Whether an Old Man 105; Vitae: Alexander 50, 53–54; Antony 4, 54–55, 93–94, 103, 106, 109–112, 117; Brutus 106; Caesar 4, 103, 106, 112–116; Cato Minor 106; Crassus 2, 4, 75–76, 103, 106–109, 112; DionBrut 112, 115; Marius 79; Pompey 106 politeia 177, 193, 198 Polyaenus, Strategemata 52

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Pompey the Great 74, 80, 93, 106, 108, 114, 116, 126 Porphyry 180, 183, 186–188, 190–192 Pythagorean Life 187 Poseidon 12 Postumius Albinus, Spurius (consul 186 BC) 65, 67–68, 71–72 Proclus 165, 177, 182–184, 188, 193, 197; On Plato’s Cratylus 183; On Plato’s Timaeus 182, 193; Platonic Theology 183 Psellus, Michael 199 Ptolemy I Soter 51, 91–92 Ptolemy II Philadelphus 53, 92, 125, 188; ‘Grand Procession’ of 53, 92 Ptolemy IV Philopator 53, 125, 188 Ptolemy XI Alexander II 53 Ptolemy XII Auletes 2, 125, 188–189 Pythagoras 192 rape 112–113, 165–166 Ravenna 189 rebirth 2, 39, 81–82, 103, 115, 117, 168, 170, 172–173, 180, 182 resurrection 133, 162, 172, 195 Rhea 10, 13, 112–113, 166, 170 Rubicon, crossing of 113 Sabazius 19–21, 74, 166 sacrificial imagery 114–115 Saecular Games: of Augustus (Octavian) 146; of Severus 143–145, 146–148, 150 Sarapis 51 Satala 192 satyrs 10, 14, 48–50, 53, 55, 109, 111, 132, 179 Scipio Africanus 129 Scriptores Historiae Augustae (SHA) 133 Semele 13–14, 32, 36–37, 42, 78, 80–81, 167–168 Senatusconsultum de Bacchanalibus (SC) 66, 68–71, 73 Septimius Severus 142–144, 146–147, 149–151; coin types 142–146, 149; medallions 142 serpent see snake Shapur I 190 Shapur II 190 Sibylline Oracles 163 SiliusItalicus 129 Siphnian Treasury 10–11

snake 10, 20, 74, 76, 112–113, 132, 165–166, 182 Socrates of Rhodes 126 Sol 148, 191; see also Helios; sun Sophocles: Antigone 27, 42 Sozomen 179 sparagmos 115, 170; see also dismemberment Spes Temperantia (personification of) 147 spirae 149, 151, 158 Statius 129 Suetonius 128 sun 148, 157, 169, 179, 191; see also Helios; Sol Surena (Parthian general) 109 symposium 103, 109 Tarquinia 78, 81, 83 Tarsus 133 technitai see Artists of Dionysus Telephus 13–14, 16 Tellus 144 temple of Ceres, Liber and Libera 94 theatre 4, 109, 114, 128 Theatre of Dionysus 33, 110–111, 131 Theatre of Pompey 114 Thebes 21, 38, 54, 83 Themis 10–11 Theodoret of Cyrus 179, 199 Theodosiopolis 192 Theodosius the Great 179, 195 Theophilus of Antioch 113 Theseus 19, 185 Thetis 1, 34, 173 theurgy 183, 186–188, 196–197 thiasos 10, 19–21, 109, 111 thriambos see triumph throne 2, 4, 34–35, 81–84, 112, 145, 165, 167, 173, 180, 184, 189, 192, 198 thyrsus 14, 81, 109, 142–145, 185, 188 Tiberius 128 tiger 90, 94, 129, 189 Tiresias 21, 37, 107 Titans 2, 110–112, 115–117, 161–162, 165, 167–172, 180–187, 198 Trajan 130, 189 triumph 1, 4, 35, 50, 53, 90, 92–93, 96, 108–109, 124–127, 129–130, 133, 189–192, 194–195, 200 Trojan War 14 tyranny 19, 23–25, 115–116 Uranus 162, 164–165, 184

Index 215 Valerius Maximus 74, 93, 126 Valerius Niger, Lucius 130 Valerius Varus, Lucius 130 Varro, Marcus Terentius, Lat. Lang. 92 Vergil 133; Aeneid 2, 4, 89–90, 96, 129–130 Verus, Lucius Aurelius 149 vine 37, 90, 95, 104–105, 112, 129, 133, 196, 200 viticulture 1, 46, 94, 126, 132, 199 Volsinii 82 wine 1, 32, 35–41, 46, 48–49, 53, 90, 93, 95–96, 103–107, 109, 111–112,

116, 132, 149, 172–173, 178, 184, 195, 199 Zagreus 2, 4, 112–113, 115–117, 161, 165, 168–171, 173, 177, 180–182, 184, 187, 192, 195, 197–198, 200 Zeus 1–4, 10, 12–14, 33–38, 42, 46–48, 51–53, 74, 91, 105–106, 110, 112–113, 131–132, 134, 161–162, 164–168, 170–173, 179–180, 182–184, 192–193, 199; see also Jupiter Zosimus 195