Comparing Roman Hellenisms in Italy 9780472133406, 9780472221127, 0472133403

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Comparing Roman Hellenisms in Italy

Comparing Roman Hellenisms in Italy Edited by Basil Dufallo and Riemer A. Faber

University of Michigan Press Ann Arbor

Copyright © 2023 by Basil Dufallo and Riemer A. Faber All rights reserved For questions or permissions, please contact [email protected] Published in the United States of America by the University of Michigan Press Manufactured in the United States of America Printed on acid-­free paper First published April 2023 A CIP catalog record for this book is available from the British Library. Library of Congress Cataloging-­in-­Publication data has been applied for. ISBN 978-­0-­472-­13340-­6 (hardcover : alk. paper) ISBN 978-­0-­472-­22112-­7 (e-­book) Cover illustration: The Canopus, Hadrian’s Villa, Tivoli, Italy. Photograph © Samuel Magal, Sites & Photos Ltd. / Bridgeman Images.

Contents

List of Illustrations

vii

Abbreviations

xi

Acknowledgments Introduction Basil Dufallo and Riemer A. Faber

xiii 1

Part 1: Greek Philosophers in and around Rome



1. Pythagoras and Alcibiades in the Comitium, or: The Sculptural Representation of Greek Subjects in the Forum, ca. 320–­220 BCE Roman Roth 2. Roman Epicureanism Alison Keith

21 43

Part 2: Assimilating Hellenistic Rulers

3. Augustus’ Hellenistic Divinization in Ovid’s Fasti and Suetonius’ Lives of the Caesars Darja Šterbenc Erker



4. Hellenic Horses: Domitianic vs. Augustan Hellenism in Statius, Silvae 1.1 Basil Dufallo

79

110

vi  •  Contents

Part 3: Hellenic Art in Performance

5. Space and Time, from Greek Myth to Roman Art Nathaniel B. Jones



6. The Statues of Nike from Oplontis: Decor et Duplicatio Revisited Elaine K. Gazda

145

173

Part 4: Revising Literary Hellenisms

7. Revisionist Representations of Early Latin Poetry: Horace and the “Hellenistic” Aesthetics of Ennius Riemer A. Faber

207

8. Apuleius’ Metamorphoses, Vergil’s Eclogues, and the Varying Challenges of Greek Genres Luca Graverini

224

Part 5: (Dis)connections between Italian and Greek Material Cultures

9. Roman Hellenism and Republican Architecture: The Genesis of the Corinthian Order Marcello Mogetta

249

10. Portraiture in the Greek East in the Roman Period: The View from the Athenian Agora Sheila Dillon

278

Epilogue: Cultural Dynamics and Influences Martin Hose

303

Bibliography

323

List of Contributors

369

Index

373

Digital materials related to this title can be found on the Fulcrum platform via the following citable URL: https://doi.org/10.3998/mpub.12527809

Illustrations

3.1. Statue of Augustus from Prima Porta 4.1. Sestertius of Domitian, 95–­96 CE. Reverse: equestrian statue of Domitian 4.2. Sestertius of Vespasian, 71 CE. Reverse: Victory advancing right holding palm in left hand, offering Palladium to Vespasian 4.3. Denarius of Domitian, 79 CE. Reverse: Vesta holding the Palladium 4.4. Sestertius of Domitian, 81 CE. Reverse: Domitian holding the Palladium 5.1. Tablinum, House of Livia, Palatine Hill, Rome 5.2. Tablinum, House of Livia, Palatine Hill. Drawing of Io and Argus panel 5.3. Tablinum, House of Livia, Palatine Hill. Drawing of Polyphemus and Galatea panel 5.4. Painting from the Sâqiya Tomb (Wardian Tomb II), Alexandria 5.5. Section of the Odyssey Landscapes, showing the attack of the Laestrygonians 5.6. Villa of Agrippa Postumus at Boscotrecase. Detail of Mythological panel with Polyphemus and Galatea 5.7. House of the Priest Amandus, Pompeii. Polyphemus panel 6.1. Statue of Nike. From Villa A (“of Poppaea”) Oplontis, East Garden 6.2. Headless statue of Nike. From Villa A (“of Poppaea”) Oplontis, East Garden 6.3. Varvakeion Athena Parthenos 6.4. Silver stater from Aphrodisias of Cilicia. Reverse: Athena Parthenos

99 116 121 122 122 159 160 161 164 167 169 171 174 175 181 182

viii  •  Illustrations

6.5. Youth (“Orestes”) by Stephanus (left) with male figure “Pylades” (right)184 6.6. Head of Nike. From Villa A (“of Poppaea”) Oplontis, East Garden 185 186 6.7. Head of “Pylades” 188 6.8. Plan of Villa A Oplontis, showing findspots of the sculptures 6.9. Sight lines from Room 69 of Villa A Oplontis to the center of the sculptural display 191 195 6.10. Villa A (“of Poppaea”) Oplontis, Atrium 5, west wall 6.11. Detail of one of the faux doors of Villa A Oplontis with images of Nike/Victoria 196 6.12. Denarius of Octavian, 31–­29 BCE. Reverse: Victoria standing on a globe holding a palm and wreath 197 6.13. Archival photo: crater and Hermaphrodite group in foreground with statues of headless Nike, ephebe, and herm of Hercules arranged along east side of the pool, Villa A Oplontis 199 6.14. Aureus of Nero. Reverse: togate Nero holding in his left hand a statuette of Victoria standing on a globe and in his 200 right hand a branch 6.15. Statuette of Berlin Nike type standing on a globe 201 6.16. Aureus of Galba. Reverse: Victoria standing on a globe and holding a wreath and a palm 203 9.1. Distribution map of normal Corinthian architectural members in peninsular Italy in the late second and early 252 first centuries BCE 9.2. Map showing the location of peripteral Corinthian temples 255 dating to the third and second centuries BCE 9.3. Normal Corinthian capital from the exterior order of the Hellenistic phase of the Temple of Olympian Zeus in Athens 256 9.4. View of the exterior order of the Temple of Zeus at Olba (Uzuncaburç)259 9.5. Detail of the capital of Column 7 of the Round Temple by the Tiber 265 9.6. Cora, Temple of Castor and Pollux. Detail of the surviving exterior Corinthian order of the pronaos 270 9.7. Cora, Temple of Castor and Pollux. Fragments of soffit featuring coffers 271

Illustrations  • ix

9.8. Scale drawing and profile of the modillion cornice of the Temple of Castor and Pollux at Cora 10.1. Restored plan of the Athenian Agora, ca. 100 BCE 10.2. Restored plan of the Agora, second century CE 10.3. Head of Trajan from the Athenian Agora 10.4. Head of a female portrait statue, frontal view, from the Athenian Agora 10.5. Head of a female portrait statue, profile view, from the Athenian Agora 10.6. Portrait bust of a youth from the Athenian Agora 10.7. Portrait bust of a youth, frontal view, from the Athenian Agora

272 285 286 291 295 296 297 299

Abbreviations

For abbreviations of classical authors and their works we have used the list in The Oxford Classical Dictionary, 4th ed., edited by Simon Hornblower, Antony Spawforth, and Esther Eidinow (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), online at http://classics.oxfordre.com/staticfiles/images/ORECLA/ OCD.ABBREVIATIONS.pdf AE = 1888–­. L’Année Épigraphique. Paris: Presses universitaires de France. BMCRE = Mattingly, H., and R. A. G. Carson. 1923–­1962. Coins of the Roman Empire in the British Museum. 6 vols. London: British Museum. CIL = 1863–­. Corpus inscriptionum Latinarum. Multiple vols. Berlin: Berlin-­Brandenburgischen Akademie der Wissenschaften. DNO = Kansteiner, S., K. Hallof, L. Lehmann, B. Seidensticker, and K. Stemmer, eds. 2014. Der neue Overbeck: Die antiken Schriftquellen zu den bildenden Künsten der Griechen. 5 vols. Berlin: De Gruyter. EAA = 1958–­1966. Enciclopedia dell’arte antica, Classica e Orientale. 7 vols. Rome: Istituto della Enciclopedia Italiana. FGrH = Jacoby, F. et al., eds. 1923–­. Die Fragmente der griechischen Historiker. Multiple vols. Berlin: Weidmann/Leiden: Brill. FPL = Blänsdorf, J., ed. 1995. Fragmenta Poetarum Latinorum epicorum et lyricorum praeter Ennium et Lucilium. 3rd ed. Suttgart: Teubner. FRHist = Cornell, T. J., ed. 2013. The Fragments of the Roman Historians. Vol. 1, Introduction. Oxford: Oxford University Press. GCA 2004 = Zimmerman, M., S. Panayotakis, V. C. Hunink, W. H. Keulen, S. J. Harrison, Th. D. McCreight, B. Wesseling, and D. van Mal-­Maeder. 2004. Apuleius Madaurensis, “Metamorphoses,” Books IV 28–­35, V and VI 1–­24. The Tale of Cupid and Psyche. Text, Introduction and Commentary. Groningen: Egbert Forsten.

xii  •  Abbreviations

GCA 2007 = Keulen, W. 2007. Apuleius Madaurensis. “Metamorphoses.” Book I. Text, Introduction and Commentary. Groningen: Egbert Forsten. GCA 2015 = Keulen, W. H., S. Tilg, L. Nicolini, L. Graverini, S. J. Harrison, S. Panayotakis, and D. van Mal-­Maeder, eds. 2015. Apuleius Madaurensis, “Metamorphoses,” Book XI. The Isis Book. Text, Introduction and Commentary. Leiden: Brill. ID = Dürrbach, F. et al., eds. 1923–­2008. Inscriptions de Délos. 7 vols. Paris: Librairie Ancienne Honoré Champion. IG = 1873–­. Inscriptiones Graecae. Multiple vols. Berlin: De Gruyter. LIMC = 1981–­2009. Lexicon Iconographicum Mythologiae Classicae. 8 vols. Zürich. LTUR = Steinby, E. M. 1993–­2000. Lexicon Topographicum Urbis Romae. 6 vols. Rome: Edizioni Quasar. Marx = Marx, F., ed. 1905. C. Lucilii “Carminum” Reliquiae. Stuttgart: Teubner. OLD = Glare, P. G. W. 1968–­1982. Oxford Latin Dictionary. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Olivieri = Olivieri, A., ed. 1897. Pseudo-­Eratosthenis “Catasterismi.” Leipzig: Teubner. P.Herc., Paris 2 = Indelli, G. 1988. Filodemo, “L’ira.” Traduzione e commento. La Scuola di Epicurio. Collezione di testi ercolanesi diretta da Marcello Gigante. Vol. 5. Naples: Bibliopolis. PPM = Caratelli, G. P., ed. 1990–­2003. Pompei: Pitture e mosaici. 10 vols. and suppl. Rome: Istituto della Enciclopedia Italiana. RIC = Mattingly, H., E. A. Sydenham et al. 1923–­1994. The Roman Imperial Coinage. 10 vols. London: Spink. SEG = 1923–­. Supplementum Epigraphicum Graecum. Multiple vols. Leiden: Brill. SRPF = Ribbeck, O., ed. 1871–­1873. Scaenicae Romanorum poesis fragmenta. 2 vols. Leipzig: Teubner. TLL = 1900–­. Thesaurus linguae Latinae. Multiple vols. Leipzig: Teubner/Berlin: De Gruyter. Usener = Usener, H. K., ed. 1887. Epicurea. Leipzig: Teubner. Vetter = Vetter, E. 1953. Handbuch der italischen Dialekte. Heidelberg: Winter.

Acknowledgments

This collection arose out of a conference held at the University of Michigan on September 28–­29, 2018. We owe thanks to a number of departments and other entities at the University of Michigan for their support of that event, above all to the Department of Classical Studies and the Contexts for Classics research consortium. In addition, thanks are due to the Departments of Comparative Literature, History, and History of Art, the UMOR Small Grants to Support a Major Conference Fund, the Rackham Dean’s Strategic Initiative Fund, and the Institute for the Humanities. We extend our thanks also to the University of Waterloo for providing financial support via its Humanities and Social Sciences Research Endowment Fund; further assistance was granted by the Waterloo Institute for Hellenistic Studies, and by the Faculty of Arts of the University of Waterloo. We are grateful to the audience at the conference for their many helpful comments and suggestions, which have often influenced the essays that follow. Thanks as well to Ellen Bauerle, Flannery Wise, and Kevin Rennells of the University of Michigan Press, and to the anonymous readers of the manuscript, to whom we owe much. Finally, thanks to Ryan Johnson and Joseph Frankl for editorial assistance.

Introduction Basil Dufallo and Riemer A. Faber

When the poet Horace declared, around 14 BCE, that “captured Greece captured its uncivilized conqueror” at the moment many years earlier when Latin authors first started emulating Greek literature (Epist. 2.1.156), it was in the service of a comparison between the early Latin poets and Horace’s own Greek-­inspired verse. Rather than the efforts of “rustic Latium” (157) to discover “what profit Sophocles and Thespis and Aeschylus might bring” (163), Epistle 2.1 encourages its audience to prize Horace’s own aesthetic, a supposedly superior adaptation of Greek literary values in the context of the Augustan Principate. Here, then, an ancient text anticipates the main subject matter of this volume—­comparing Roman Hellenisms—­and, indeed, supplies a case study. In chapter 7 of this collection, Riemer Faber examines a hidden agenda of Horace’s literary history, the way in which suppressing early Latin poetry’s Hellenistic qualities allows Horace to elevate his own use of them, and thereby promote a narrative of archaic literary origins leading to a Classical culmination under Augustus. We may observe, by way of introducing our main argument, that Latin authors and texts, at least from Cicero’s Brutus onward, were so successful in promulgating this narrative of gradual self-­improvement vis-­à-­vis Greece that today it has come to seem like part of what “everybody knows” about Roman culture: while cultivating a taste for arena spectacle, lavish dinner parties, and the celebration of an ever-­expanding empire, Rome adapted Greek literature in a steadily more “sophisticated” way as its prosperity and might increased. This volume, however, argues that the assumption of smooth continuity, let alone steady “improvement,” in any aspect of Roman Hellenism—­an assumption that presupposes similarity between its various manifestations,

2  •  com pa r in g rom a n h ellen isms in italy

consistency within them, and their persistence or durability over time—­can blind us to important aspects of what Roman Hellenism really is and how it functions in a given context. We are not, of course, positing a phenomenon so variable and discontinuous as to lose all meaning. The plural, “Hellenisms,” of our title will function rather as a shorthand way of referring to these different manifestations, which we assume to have enough in common that comparison of them is possible under the singular rubric, “Hellenism.” But as the first book to focus on the comparison of Roman Hellenisms per se, this collection seeks to show that such comparison is especially valuable in revealing the extent to which any singular instance of the phenomenon is situated and specific, and has its own life, trajectory, circumstances, and afterlife. Roman Hellenism is always a work in progress, is often strategic, often falls prey to being forgotten, decontextualized, or reread in later periods, and thus is in important senses contingent. Further, what we may in a broad sense identify as a Roman Hellenism, namely, an imitation or adoption of something Greek by those subject to or operating under Roman power, need not imply Rome as the only center of influence. Roman Hellenism is often decentralized, and depends strongly on local agents, aesthetics, interests, and materials. The story of Roman Hellenism begins not with Roman incursions into the Greek mainland, but in Italy, where our most plentiful and spectacular surviving evidence is concentrated—­from the architecture of the Roman capital to the Campanian towns buried by Vesuvius to the Hellenic cultures of Roman Etruria and Magna Graecia. With this in mind, and because, again, comparison of too-­disparate phenomena risks becoming vague or meaningless, our volume deploys a geographical concentration on Italy to lend both focus and breadth to our topic, as well as to emphasize the complex interrelation of Hellenism at Rome to that of Rome’s surroundings, where, as Nicola Terrenato, for one, has recently argued, there has been an assumption that Rome mediated culture across the whole peninsula.1 But because Hellenism, whether as practiced by Romans or Rome’s subjects, is in fact widely diffused across far-­flung geographical regions, part 5 of our collection gestures to this broader context, in part as a way of opening up possibilities for further study. Indeed, we intend our title both in the sense of “comparing the different Roman Hellenisms within Italy to each other” and (to a more limited extent) “comparing Roman Hellenisms in Italy to Roman Hellenisms outside Italy.” Chapters 9 and 10, by Marcello Mogetta 1.  Terrenato 2019.

Introduction  • 3

and Sheila Dillon, respectively, each address this second sense more directly than other essays in the collection, though in substantially different ways. What, then, is a Roman Hellenism? And what assumptions and problems must scholars wrestle with in an effort to compare and thereby illuminate different examples? While no single answer to these questions could come close to being comprehensive, the ten essays in this collection offer a number of new and compelling answers across a broad scope of disciplines (history, archaeology, literature, philosophy, and art history) and a wide temporal span (the middle Republic to the high Empire). We freely admit that the essays’ specific contents are themselves contingent and context-­bound, largely reflecting the responses of a series of experts to a conference at the University of Michigan in September 2018. But we as conference organizers and now editors were struck by the emergence of a number of recurring subtopics within even this relatively limited sample. Since these subtopics relate to major areas of Roman society—­namely, the Roman engagement with Greek philosophers, forms of government, performance, literature, and art and architecture—­they seemed appropriate as the basis of this volume’s five parts. Within the chronologically arranged pairs of essays in each part, moreover, readers will find still other important aspects of Rome’s contact with the Hellenic world discussed, among them religion, coinage, trade, and diplomacy. The essays deploy diverse methodological approaches and forge connections between these various topics, disciplines, and eras both within and across the individual chapters. The epilogue pulls together some of the conceptual and theoretical issues which the volume raises. A part-­by-­part and chapter-­by-­chapter overview has a particular usefulness in this case because of the need to illustrate what we mean by “new answers” to the deceptively simple question, “What is a Roman Hellenism?” We therefore offer such an overview early in this introduction, before situating our study within related scholarship and drawing further connections of our own between the various parts and chapters.

Part 1: Greek Philosophers in and around Rome In part 1, Roman Roth and Alison Keith both note the early, purposeful adoption within Roman culture of Greek philosophers and philosophy in Italy. Rome’s attitude toward Greek philosophy is famously ambivalent, while also being central to any attempt to grasp Roman culture in full: the Senate’s repeated expulsion of philosophers from Rome suggests

4  •  com pa r in g rom a n h ellen isms in italy

distrust, disdain, and perhaps even the Philistinism with which Rome is regularly stigmatized vis-­à-­vis Greece, while the popular image of the impassive Roman Stoic or hedonistic Epicurean reminds us of the avid Roman embrace of Greek philosophy, if only in a superficial form. While anyone who has taught a survey course on Roman civilization has likely reverted to stereotypes of Rome as fundamentally pragmatic rather than “intellectual” in its societal DNA, philosophy is nevertheless an important component of the familiar cultural narrative of increasing sophistication. For Roth, however, the curious description by the Elder Pliny of statues of Pythagoras and Alcibiades erected in the Roman Forum in the fourth century BCE provides a useful corrective to any understanding of Roman Hellenism as a smooth process of intellectual or aesthetic development reflecting a uniform Roman habit of appropriating Greek culture. While conventional narratives of Roman literary history may have helped make such a view seem inevitable, by comparison, Roth shows, Roman Hellenism as expressed in public sculpture falls into far less predictable patterns and reflects the Romans’ place as one among a number of competing peoples in the Italian peninsula at this time, rather than the forerunners of the Hellenophile Romans who behaved in different ways following the conquest of the Greek East. Complicating the situation still further, Roth argues, is the fact that “philosophical influence” on Rome is a cultural phenomenon that, in a varied fashion, exceeds the cultural domain usually assigned to it by scholars, namely, texts. Comparison of the sculptures of Pythagoras and Alcibiades with different, later images of, for example, Greek ambassadors also reveals a shift in the use of public sculpture itself between the early third and middle of the second century, a shift away from the expression of reverence for a cultural figure such as Pythagoras toward an assertion of Roman political and military authority. Roth explains this shift with reference to Rome’s position between Magna Graecia and Etruria, regions with their own well-­ established, local Hellenic aesthetics and traditions. Picking up a number of Roth’s argumentative threads, Keith argues in chapter 2 that scholars tend to permit modern disciplinary distinctions to prevent them from examining the influence of Hellenism in one medium on the same terms as another, as in the distinction between philosophy in prose and in poetry. This has prevented us, Keith shows, from recognizing the full importance of the latter in the perpetuation of Epicureanism in Rome and its environs. Here, the papyrological finds at Herculaneum are especially valuable in shedding light on the connection between Epicureanism and a wider field of poetic activity in Roman Italy than has generally been recog-

Introduction  • 5

nized. The role of both prose and poetry within Roman Epicureanism lends it more internal variety than previously acknowledged, as does the diversity and temporal scope of the poets in question, from the Republic into the imperial period. In particular, Keith makes the case for the ongoing significance of the Greek Philodemus’ poetic and prose exposition of Epicurean philosophy for Horace’s and Vergil’s articulation of ethical standards, and suggests new ways in which these Latin poets’ literary choices reflect issues in contemporary Epicurean debates.

Part 2: Assimilating Hellenistic Rulers The central pivot-­point in the conventional narrative of Roman history is the “transition” from Republic to Principate. Of course this was hardly a simple shift from one administration to another, and some of the most lasting questions about the period concern how Rome created a government run by a sole ruler after eschewing this idea for some five hundred years. The Greek world had a formative influence on this process, both before and after Octavian declared himself Augustus in 27 BCE. Part 2 deals with Rome’s varying responses to the practices and attitudes surrounding Hellenistic rulers, whose divine aspect in particular made them both problematic and useful for Roman leaders. The essays by Darja Šterbenc Erker and Basil Dufallo in this part concentrate, respectively, on the Augustan and Domitianic periods. Both show the benefits and risks involved in the use of Hellenistic ruler models; both address interpretive challenges for modern scholars in the Roman representation of Greek-­like rulers (to what extent should we posit “subversion” of such ideas in the sources?); and both locate an important feature of this type of Roman Hellenism in the manipulation of earlier literary models, a topic that part 4 takes up in a more concentrated fashion. In Šterbenc Erker’s case, comparison of Ovid’s Fasti and Suetonius’ Vita Divi Augusti reveals that the notion of Augustus’ divine status, far from settling into a fixed or unquestioned aspect of Roman culture, was subject to changing modes of scrutiny by writers influenced, in different ways, by Hellenic ideas about of the divinity of a mortal. First looking back to Ennius, Cicero, and the adaptations of Hellenistic models by Pompey the Great and Julius Caesar, Šterbenc Erker goes on to observe the ways in which Augustus adapted traditions of the divine ruler in the generally unreceptive setting of Rome in order to represent himself publicly as approximating the realm of the divine. Ovid and Suetonius, Šterbenc Erker then shows, distanced them-

6  •  com pa r in g rom a n h el l en isms in italy

selves from Augustus’ Hellenistic self-­divinization, but each writer reacted in his own manner, according to how each interpreted the Hellenistic models. In the Fasti, Ovid questions Augustus’ Hellenistic divinization by presenting his own criteria for divinization. Evidently sharing Callimachus’ distaste for the divinization of all mortals except poets, Ovid rejects Ennius’ Euhemerism and adapts Vergil’s Callimacheanism, which he applies to the ruler-­ poet Germanicus rather than Augustus. By contrast, Suetonius in Vita Divi Augusti focuses upon the physical aspects of the emperor’s supposedly divine body, so as to stress that body’s polyvalence. Responding to a new visual reality of omnipresent statues of Augustus and other emperors, Suetonius offers a mixture of Roman and Hellenistic reflections on the nature of gods that, like Ovid’s approach, undercuts the divinity of Augustus. For Dufallo, Domitian’s assimilation of Hellenistic divine kingship, as a type of Roman Hellenism, is a broad set of discourses, objects, and practices divided from within in a different fashion: the ways in which Domitian sought to build a strong public image based on that of a Hellenistic king were in fact a feature of his attempts to imitate and surpass Augustus. In Dufallo’s view, Statius’ Silvae 1.1, on the emperor’s equestrian statue, makes the comparison of Augustan and Domitianic Hellenism part of its literary agenda, and so both reveals and contributes to this duality within Domitian’s public persona. Whether we interpret the poem as straightforward flattery or subtle subversion, Dufallo proposes, we can understand Statius to be calling attention to the appropriateness of the poem’s Hellenism—­as opposed to Vergil’s—­in this context. The poem thus shows how, as a ruler who enlisted poets into his wider Hellenism, Domitian became, paradoxically, an “Augustan-­non-­Augustan.” In framing his essay, furthermore, Dufallo mobilizes this comparison within Statius’ poem to compare two Statiuses—­ superficial imitator and bold innovator—­presented by the ongoing scholarly reassessment of Statius in recent decades. Dufallo offers his reading as a means of grasping an underappreciated aspect of Statius’ achievement in Silvae 1.1 without returning us to the same problems of literary decline that recent critics, Dufallo suggests, have been unable fully to dismiss.

Part 3: Hellenic Art in Performance The essays in part 2 remind us—­if we needed reminding—­that art and literature are among the most familiar areas of Roman culture in which we confront Greek influence. Virtually as soon as we become curious about ancient Rome, we may notice the words “Roman copy of a Greek original” on the

Introduction  • 7

descriptive label of a statue in the antiquities section of a museum or realize that the work of Roman literature we are reading derives its genre, form, and many details of its content from Greek predecessors. Accordingly, like part 2, parts 3 and 4 treat these two cultural domains as both distinct and interrelated. But part 3, which deals with art, also emphasizes the way in which Hellenic art in the Roman world, far from being a disconnected realm of lofty images suggestive of a museum exhibition, was a deeply embedded part of lived experience. Nathaniel Jones and Elaine Gazda thereby call particular attention to the ways in which a Roman Hellenism may be grounded both in situ and in the kinetic actions and imaginations of those who encounter it in specific spaces and places: thus, in performance. This part exploits various kinds of comparison to show how the Greek “models” of Roman art, rather than just standing in the background, actually make viewers conscious of the processes that were involved in appropriation, including traditional styles of dramatic performance as well as less formal behaviors. Finally, this part encourages us, as scholars, to turn back to the question of what it means to compare these appropriations. Originality with respect to the Greek artistic tradition has been one of the main criteria used to judge Roman art, but as Jones suggests in chapter 5, this originality has been defined very differently in different contexts, from antiquity to the present. Jones seeks to move the discussion away from familiar issues of copying, stylistic influence, and so on, to the relationship between space and time, both in Roman descriptions of art and in the art itself. He argues that Hellenic Roman images “performed” the Greek mythological past, in the sense of making that past present to the Roman viewer: insofar as artworks were perceived and interpreted, they became performances that were “active, forceful experiences.” Jones addresses this issue first through Aeneas’ ecphrasis of art in the Temple of Juno in book 1 of Vergil’s Aeneid, before turning to a pair of mythological paintings from the House of Livia in Rome. In Jones’ view, the Aeneid ecphrasis takes place, as it were, in at least three locations and temporal registers: on the plains of Troy, on the Temple of Juno, and within Aeneas. Likewise, the paintings need to be understood as multifaceted narratives, both in spatial and temporal terms. They refuse to resolve into linear causal chains in defined space or place, and in this refusal call into question the very idea of a clear distinction between model and copy that has been so central to the aesthetic judgment of Roman art. Rather, the paintings signal their belated place in a tradition while insisting on the contingent uniqueness of each and every encounter with Greek myth. The lived experience of Hellenistic representations of divinity struc-

8  •  com pa r in g rom a n h el l en isms in italy

tures Elaine Gazda’s study of a pair of sculptures of Victory from Villa A at Oplontis (the so-­called Villa of Poppaea). Foregrounding their immediate surroundings in the villa’s Greek-­style gymnasium, Gazda argues that the Roman Hellenism to which the sculptures attest involved enacting a varied set of cultural roles: on the one hand enjoyment of Greek intellectual and leisure activities and on the other hand the expression of traditional Roman values and goals. To this end, Gazda reveals how the sculptures can be seen as two subtly different goddesses: they are both Greek Nikai and Roman Victoriae. As the former, they are images of ludic victory in a Greek gymnasium; but as the latter, they become signs of Roman imperial conquest. They are thus a vivid emblem both of Rome’s debt to the Greek world and its power over it; this two-­sidedness would have enriched the statues’ meaning as viewers compared them with each other and with a repertoire of victory imagery both elsewhere in the villa and in the public sphere. In turn, the images encourage comparison of a Hellenic life of otium and a Roman life of military activity, an association further enhanced by the fact that the villa likely owed its very existence to spoils from battle during the late Republic. Gazda points out that a stroll around the villa grounds might foster such comparisons because it typically involved dialogue with an interlocutor. In particular, Pasitiles, a Greek sculptor active at Rome, might have been a focal point for those discussing the statues’ style, execution, and iconography.

Part 4: Revising Literary Hellenisms As Luca Graverini remarks in his essay in part 4, Latin literature’s adaptation of Greek literature is so familiar and pervasive that it can be hard to imagine that the simple fact of a Latin author’s choosing to adapt a Greek genre might have presented difficulties and challenges in itself. These difficulties might be highly context-­specific, varying over time, and argue against the notion of Latin literary history as a single, continuous type of experimentation with various Greek genres. Both Graverini’s essay and that of Riemer Faber in this part reveal different ways in which “unthinking” this notion can shed new light on much-­discussed questions about major authors in the Roman canon. Comparison, they show, between an earlier form of Roman literary Hellenism and a later one—­taking into account the possible appropriation or rejection of the former by the latter—­is a valuable means of attaining this vantage point. As referenced above, in chapter 7 Riemer Faber exposes the Hellenism

Introduction  • 9

of Horace as a literary strategy used to represent the poetry of an early Latin poet, Ennius, as obsolete, while appropriating a form of Ennius’ Hellenistic literary qualities for Horace himself. When seen in the context of advancing Horace’s own Callimachean poetics (as expressed in Odes 4.2.27–­32 and similar programmatic passages), his claims of Ennius’ inferior quality can be given their proper value, and so open the way for a reading of Ennius’ poetry not through the lens of the Augustans but from the perspective of Ennius’ own cultural and literary circumstances at the end of the third century BCE. Having freed Ennius from this prejudiced perspective of Horace, Faber reviews the internal and external evidence for the Italian social and cultural milieus in which Ennius lived and wrote, a markedly cosmopolitan, Hellenistic setting in which the exposure to Hellenistic aesthetics seems unavoidable. Faber argues for a comparable literary aesthetic in the Annales and in Lycophron’s Alexandra (which may have been composed contemporaneously in southern Italy). The two poems share an interest in etymology, etiology, word-­play, religion, and ritual. The extant fragments of the Annales, when read not from the perspective of Vergilian epic or Horace’s literary-­ critical poetry but in the context of the late third century BCE, demonstrate an engagement with Hellenistic literary programs that would be harder to detect and analyze without this shift of comparative frames. Graverini juxtaposes the literary Hellenisms of two unlikely comparanda—­Apuleius’ Metamorphoses and Vergil’s Eclogues—­so as to show that each represents a different, context-­specific attempt to handle similar problems posed by Greek literature, namely its associations with suspect pleasure and escapism as opposed to, for example, Roman ideas of what is “useful” (utile) in literature, as made famous by Horace. The widely disparate reception of these two works, Graverini argues, cannot simply be explained by notions of “high” and “low” genres, or by attributing more Romanness to one and more Greekness to the other. The Hellenisms of the two texts share much, and Apuleius even seems to evoke what is “sweet” (dulce) in the bucolic world in order to signal the Vergilian precedent of confronting Greek pleasure with Roman utility. Rather, the comparison shows how much the success of a Roman literary Hellenism may depend on other factors such as proximity to circles of power, the uniformity of the literary product, the mixture of the ideal and the real in the text’s representation of geographical locales, and the extent to which the text veils or lays bare its political affiliations or philosophical and religious ambitions. In these respects, the two texts differ considerably: even as modern criticism has found much to admire and identify with in Apuleius’ curiously “modern”

10  •  com pa r in g rom a n h el l enisms in italy

novel, comparison calls attention to the numerous aspects of this work that could have disturbed an ancient reader partial to Horatian Classicism.

Part 5: (Dis)connections between Italian and Greek Material Cultures Part 5 gestures beyond Italy to suggest some implications of the volume’s main focus for the study of other regions. In doing so, this part pursues the point that Rome is not the only center of influence upon Roman Hellenism broadly conceived. Further, both Marcello Mogetta’s and Sheila Dillon’s essays adopt a particularly revisionist posture toward preconceptions of Roman Hellenism, which, they argue, need to be reevaluated in light of not only Roman Hellenism’s expansiveness but also its limitations (cf. “(Dis)connections” in the part’s title). Certainly “material cultures” figure in earlier parts, too, but this part more than others addresses the special considerations raised by culture’s materiality: the provenance of materials, their purchase and transport, the role of brokers or middlemen in these processes, culture’s connection to the physical appearance of local populations including their outward gender differences, and the influence of locally accreted material cultural products—­existing portraits, monuments, buildings, and so forth—­on current cultural production. As Mogetta shows, the Hellenism expressed by the development of the Roman Corinthian order was a process that depended on networks of local craftsmen, contractors, patrons, builders, and sources of materials rather than merely a centralized Greek influence coming through the conquests of Roman elites. Through his richly detailed comparison of Corinthian capitals from different places in Rome, Italy, and elsewhere, Mogetta offers a valuable point of entry into how the personal ties that lay behind the economy of monumental construction, and thus the creation and dissemination of architectural styles, operated in practice. A picture emerges of competing, far-­reaching architectural “firms” such as that of the Cossutii, as well as specific local elites and their attached craftsmen: Mogetta argues that changes in Roman architecture at the turn of the second century BCE were to a great extent determined by the interests of patrons and private entrepreneurs who operated independently of the growing political power of Rome. Contrary to received accounts of Rome as turning from a passive recipient of Greek architectural prototypes into the main agent of change from the center outward, Mogetta reveals the predominant role of more diverse, local, and practical factors.

Introduction  • 11

Dillon argues that Athenian portraiture in the Roman period is an artistic style displaying inspiration from a long tradition of native Greek exemplars in Athens itself, rather than the predominantly Roman-­influenced style it is widely supposed to be. Roman and Italian portraits of the imperial court thus provide the substance here for a negative comparison illuminating the importance of this local context. The adoption, Dillon shows, of Roman styles of portraiture in the representation of local Athenian subjects was infrequent until the second century CE, and even then female more than male portraits attest to the trend. Dillon begins with a review of the Athenian statue landscape as it appeared in the early Hellenistic, pre-­Roman period. Besides the well-­known monument of the Tyrannicides, and the statues of Philip II and Alexander and their successors, the Athenian agora was populated by numerous other images. Monument bases and foundations from the second century BCE, as well as accommodations of Roman-­ era building to preexisting constructions, attest to an agora well stocked with pre-­Roman portrait monuments. Dillon draws additional evidence from the City Eleusinion, which displayed a rich history of local subjects, and traditional dedicatory inscriptions, too, suggesting a relative paucity of external influences on Athenian portraiture at this time.

Epilogue In the epilogue Martin Hose draws attention to crucial conceptual assumptions and problems implicit in the volume as a whole. Roman Hellenism, as expressed across all the areas of culture represented here, involves a great variability in certain essential elements, what Hose calls a “changing set of agents, materials, causations, and consequences.” For example, any “adoption” or “imitation” of something Greek implies one form or another of transportability (whether material, textual, or in a fashion interior to the human subject). There need to be actors who carry out this process—­“senders,” “carriers,” and “recipients”—­and the exchange needs to be understood in terms of their experience: mainly, Hose proposes, according to the three large categories of gift, trade, and theft. These in turn imply varying power dynamics, whether explicit or implicit, and lead Hose back to the salient comparison between Roman imperialism and the imperialism of modern empires examined by postcolonial theory, a topic he has treated influentially before.2 Hose concludes his remarks and the volume by expanding upon his 2.  Hose 1999b.

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searching critique of theoretical terms such as center and periphery, colonized and colonizer, and “writing back,” through a survey of key episodes in the Roman encounter with Hellas. Coming full circle to our opening concerns, Hose treats the association of Greek culture with luxury and sophistication in terms of a Bourdieuesque “distinction” on the part of the Roman elite. And true to the emphases of the volume’s final chapter, Hose considers the bidirectional nature of the dynamics in question: “‘Roman Hellenism,’” he observes, “‘Hellenized’ the Greeks” themselves. To expand upon Hose’s theoretical perspective and connect it still more closely to conceptual issues raised by the individual chapters, we observe the way in which both Hose and our other contributors problematize the periodization of Hellenism as linked to the geographical mapping of Roman ascendency. The modern imposition of ages based on military conquest does not produce parallel ages of cultural production and influence in art, literature, philosophy, architecture, and so on. Consequently, when we speak of the Hellenistic East or the Roman West we create arbitrary divisions of time and space that perpetuate assumptions about Greek and Roman culture—­assumptions which the comparison of Hellenisms calls into question. Closely related to this is, once again, the issue of “sophistication” as a measure of cultural value and achievement. We are strongly invested, for pedagogical and other reasons, in ancient narratives of increasingly sophisticated Roman Hellenism. The Romans, however, could be keenly aware of the need to assert the Hellenism of the present over and against that of the past in order to assess, for example, literary, artistic, or intellectual achievement, and this may complicate the prevailing narrative. The varying scale of the geographical contexts of Hellenism relates to both of these points as it pertains to the broader issue of “cosmopolitanism” vs. “parochialism.” As remarked above, a number of the papers describe how local factors affect and effect specific Hellenisms, as they remind us that what we regard as cultural movements in antiquity were often fragmented, multidirectional, and not necessarily concomitant across different cities and regions. Conversely, the effects of human mobility and social networks that span such geographical divisions receive much-­needed attention here. There is always a temptation, reinforced by the Romans’ own opinions and prejudices, to isolate Hellenism geographically, especially when it comes to Rome itself as a locus of cultural development. Here a counteremphasis on the continuity of certain kinds of Roman Hellenism emerges within our volume, but of different types of Roman Hellenism than are usually character-

Introduction  • 13

ized in this way, because doing so might cloud an otherwise clearer picture of Roman “progress.” For example, various essays, especially Keith’s, Dillon’s, and Hose’s, presuppose a continuous and to some degree autonomous Greek culture in the Roman world. The ongoing force of an independent Greek culture and world view reminds us that we should be careful to avoid thinking of Roman Hellenism as simply the adoption of past Greek culture by later Romans in specific moments of time: Hellenism is not an artifact incorporated into Roman life but a continuing source within Roman culture. Thus the intercultural “conversations” that did in a certain sense continue throughout Roman history can also inform Roman social discourses on self-­identity. These discourses, moreover, are hardly circumscribed by a simple notion of the Romans’ belated status vis-­à-­vis the Greeks. Just as Greek culture is a living, breathing, vibrant phenomenon in Rome, so, too, Roman Hellenism is a vital part of lived experience rather than an archive of texts, images, or abstract ideas. Yet, like any form of reception, Hellenism may be active or passive, or some combination of the two: as conscious as the choice of how to adorn a garden or as implicit and unarticulated as Bourdieu’s habitus. The ways in which Hellenic paradigms can function as a flexible and polyvalent model for behavior and thought in the Roman world links them, rather startingly, perhaps, to Rome’s cherished exempla from their own history, especially as discussed by Rebecca Langlands in her groundbreaking book, Exemplary Ethics in Ancient Rome.3 Arguing against a view of exempla as static and durably fixed in their meaning across time, Langlands locates their effectiveness in facilitating a process of understanding in which those who encounter them feel that they have an active role to play. As a form of “situational ethics,” the use of exempla assists audiences in “finding their own place within a culture that allows for some diversity and for expanding the repertoire,”4 as individuals fit newly retold stories into ever-­changing and sometimes radically dissimilar circumstances so as to benefit from moral narratives that are themselves always changing, however subtly, in meaning, and are riven by internal contradictions that no deployment of them ever fully resolves. Some aspects of an exemplary Greek culture (such as ethical philosophy) are especially easy to understand in such terms; however, 3.  Langlands 2018. See further her discussion of Roman exemplary ethics specifically on Plutarch in Langlands 2020. 4.  Langlands 2018, 80.

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even when the ethical aspects of a given Roman Hellenism are less obvious, Langlands’ broader perspective on the ways in which Roman culture treats its “models,” whether Roman or Greek, ties our study into an important development in current scholarship on Rome. Our approach also has roots in scholarship specifically on Roman Hellenism, although we stress that there is no earlier book that treats our topic per se. The essays collected in Rome the Cosmopolis, edited by Catharine Edwards and Greg Woolf, remind us that Rome was a magnet for cultural diversities that attracted people not just from Greece but from the entire known world.5 Roman thinkers, writers, and artists were exposed to a wide range of cultural influences, and these influences also affected how they viewed the Greeks. As the focal point of administration, travel, and commerce especially during the Empire, Rome enjoyed a reputation for its size, splendor, and raw power. How Rome exercised that economic, military, and social power throughout the empire, and how the provincials responded to it while also absorbing this power, is well demonstrated by Clifford Ando in his Imperial Ideology and Provincial Loyalty in the Roman Empire.6 From the time of the early Republic onward, a complexity of interrelationships had developed that cannot be described only in terms of simple acculturation. Regarding Rome’s special relationship to Greece, Andrew Wallace-­Hadrill’s Rome’s Cultural Revolution is foundational to current discussions of the nuanced ways in which Greek culture may or may not be felt as threatening, empowering, or even “Greek” by Romans of the late Republic and early Principate.7 Wallace-­Hadrill’s temporal span, however, as opposed to ours, is limited essentially to Augustan Rome, while his conceptual scope centers on ancient views of culture and only secondarily on modern attempts at cultural comparison. Comparison of various aspects of Hellenistic civilization from the pre-­Roman period to Late Antiquity does organize the essays in Peter Van Nuffelen, ed., Faces of Hellenism: Studies in the History of the Eastern Mediterranean, 4th century B.C.–­5th century A.D.8 A disciplinary breadth (historiography, papyrology, history, and material culture) and concern with both local and global phenomena likewise link Van Nuffelen’s approach to ours, but his does not include reflection upon the benefits and limitations of comparison and the ways it can illuminate discontinuity, instability, and contextual specificity, or, indeed, any concerted attention to literature and philosophy. 5.  Edwards and Woolf 2003. 6.  Ando 2000. 7.  Wallace-­Hadrill 2008. 8.  Van Nuffelen 2009.

Introduction  • 15

Still more recently, A. J. Spawforth, Greece and the Augustan Cultural Revolution examines the role of philhellenism in the late Republic and its function in the moral and political revisions of Augustus (and Hadrian).9 An important feature of this book is a demonstration of how Roman mores were communicated to the Greeks of the early Empire (cf. Hose’s remarks on Roman Hellenization of the Greeks), but the focus here is on transmission rather than comparison per se. The key impulse of the papers edited by Jonathan Prag and Josephine Quinn in The Hellenistic West: Rethinking the Ancient Mediterranean is to correct the artificial distinction that is often made between the Roman West and the Hellenistic East, and to demonstrate the dynamic quality of economic and political interrelations throughout the Mediterranean.10 While mutual east-­west, Greek-­Roman influences are treated in our volume, too, the special emphasis here is on the “internal” discourses which occurred within Roman society, and throughout Rome’s history. An interdisciplinary approach somewhat akin to ours structures the study of Augustan Rome offered in Ralf von den Hoff, Wilfried Stroh, and Martin Zimmermann, Divus Augustus: Der erste römische Kaiser und seine Welt:11 within each of this book’s six sections, each of the authors, respectively an art historian, a philologist, and a historian, contributes a chapter in his area of specialization. In this case, however, the reader is left entirely to their own devices where drawing comparisons is concerned, and Hellenism, though treated, is given no special emphasis. Conversely, comparison between Greek, Roman, and other literary traditions occupies a prominent place in Dennis Feeney’s Beyond Greek: The Beginnings of Latin Literature,12 but here the literary specialization indicated by its title also makes it different in scope from our volume. Similarly, Zahra Newby, in Greek Myths in Roman Art and Culture: Imagery, Values and Identity in Italy, 50 BC–­AD 250,13 offers compelling comparisons of Roman Hellenisms in order to argue for a change in the Roman use of Greek myth over time, but focuses her study squarely in the visual sphere. By contrast, M. P. Loar, C. MacDonald, and D. Padilla Peralta’s volume, Rome, Empire of Plunder: The Dynamics of Cultural Appropriation,14 moves across a wide range of material to consider the interaction, distortion, and circulation of cultures involved in Roman  9. Spawforth 2012. 10.  Prag and Quinn 2013. 11.  Von den Hoff, Stroh, and Zimmermann 2014. 12.  Feeney 2016. 13.  Newby 2016. 14.  Loar, MacDonald, and Padilla Peralta 2018.

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expansion, but again focuses more on case studies of these phenomena than on comparisons between them. Finally, Martin Vöhler, Stella Alekou, and Miltos Pechlivanos’ Concepts and Functions of Philhellenism: Aspects of a Transcultural Movement15 is concerned with revealing the ancient roots of modern philhellenism. Especially useful for us is this volume’s discussion of the differences between philhellenism and Hellenism in modern parlance: in the nineteenth century “philhellenism” came to mean a special enthusiasm for things Greek (ancient and modern) and functioned as such within the political discourse of the time. For British thinkers, philhellenism acquired features of Romanticism, while Hellenism conveyed a more critical disposition toward ancient Greece. By comparison, ancient Roman “love of Greece” as it figures in our study can perhaps be seen as a subtype of Roman Hellenism according to the general definition offered above: an imitation or adoption (not necessarily implying “love”) of something Greek by those subject to or operating under Roman power. The themes that join multiple essays in our volume to this context of recent scholarship stand beside still other themes and concerns as additional bridges between the chapters. At the same time, the scholarship calls attention to another point implicit in the volume as whole: the relative compartmentalization of our present perspective and the very different challenges faced by, for example, scholars working on texts, images, and architecture, as well as those working between and across them. A focus on the material culture of the city center (Rome and Athens, respectively) joins the first and last chapters of the volume, and ties them to chapters 3, 4, and 9. Greek myth is prominent in chapters 4 and 5, and religion comes to the fore in 3 and 6. Historiography links chapters 1 and 3. The poetry of Vergil connects chapters 2, 4, 5, and 8, that of Horace chapters 2 and 7, and Statius’ 2, 3, and 4. Sculpture of emperors creates continuity between chapters 3, 4, and 10. Two of the contributors, Jones and Dufallo, make the text-­image dyad of ekphrasis central to their arguments, while Roth also treats verbal descriptions of art objects, though to different ends. Still others share a focus on pairings, whether of Latin authors (Faber, Šterbenc Erker, Dufallo, Graverini), genres of verbal discourse (Keith), or sculptural types (Gazda). Prominent among the contrasts between scholarly challenges on display here are those between the fine-­grained textual analysis of literary scholars, the more distanced reading of cultural historians, the focus on visual detail and viewing context of art historians, and archaeologists’ concern with material circumstances of 15.  Vöhler, Alekou, and Pechlivanos 2021.

Introduction  • 17

production. But again, a number of essays deploy more than one of these methodologies, and so sharpen such contrast still further. Some areas, of course, could have received more attention than they do. With respect to philosophy, for example, a still richer perspective could have been obtained by including other major philosophical schools such as Stoicism, or by detailed examination of the similarities and differences between articulations of particular doctrines. The volume’s treatment of historiography could have been expanded to embrace, for example, more extensive discussion of Sallust, Livy, and Tacitus, or the main surviving Greek-­language historian of Rome’s expansion into Hellas, Polybius. Further treatment of bilingualism, as well as the extension of our topic into Late Antiquity, would be additional desiderata, as would any number of other areas of material culture, such as tableware, relief sculpture, and architectural features beyond columnar orders. We hope, however, that the essays as they are provide sufficiently illustrative examples to facilitate further work, whether in these or in still other areas.

Part 1

Greek Philosophers in and around Rome

One

Pythagoras and Alcibiades in the Comitium, or: The Sculptural Representation of Greek Subjects in the Forum, ca. 320–­220 BCE Roman Roth

I. Introduction As part of a lengthy section on the origins and history of honorific sculpture in Republican Rome, the Elder Pliny remarks upon two statues that were set up to commemorate Pythagoras and Alcibiades in the comitium in the penultimate decade of the fourth century BCE:1 inuenio et Pythagorae et Alcibiadi in cornibus comitii positas, cum bello Samniti Apollo Pythius iussisset fortissimo Graiae gentis et alteri sapientissimo simulacra celebri loco dicari. eae stetere, donec Sulla dictator ibi curiam faceret. Mirumque est, illos patres Socrati cunctis ab eodem deo sapientia praelato Pythagoran praetulisse aut tot aliis uirtute Alcibiaden et quemquam utroque Themistocli. (Pliny, HN 34.26) I also discover that statues of both Pythagoras and Alcibiades were set up in the horns of the comitium when during the Samnite War Pythian Apollo ordered that images be dedicated in a prominent place to the bravest and the wisest of the Greeks. These stood until Sulla as dictator built the Senate house there. It is extraordinary that those senators 1.  For the date see my discussion below.

21

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should have given preference to Pythagoras over Socrates whom the same god preferred in respect of wisdom to all men; or have chosen Alcibiades in respect of valor from so many others—­or, indeed, preferred anyone to Themistocles in respect of both categories. This famous and, at the same time, puzzling passage forms the starting point of my discussion before turning to the other sculptures representing foreigners, or set up by foreigners, which Pliny mentions in the same section of his work. My argument falls into two parts. First, I demonstrate the cogency of the Senate’s choice that so irked Pliny within the context of the late fourth century BCE and, specifically, in relation to the political configurations both at Rome and within the central part of the Mediterranean in which the city was emerging as a significant player following the subjection of its Central Italian neighbors. Second, I expand my argument by placing the sculptural group of Pythagoras and Alcibiades within the context of other public sculptures that were erected at the center of public life in the city of Rome until the 220s BCE, and which have in common that their subject matter and the occasions for their erection both pertained to Rome’s relations with the Greek world. The final section of my discussion turns to the sculptures of slain Roman ambassadors in the Forum, which signal a marked shift in Rome’s self-­ definition vis-­à-­vis the Greek world. My principal aim in this chapter is to draw attention to the fact that, rather than as a continuous process of aesthetic development, Roman Hellenism as expressed in public sculpture is a discontinuous phenomenon characterized by a complex periodization and the effects of changing strategic interests surrounding the Romans’ place in the Italian peninsula as their military expansion progressed. Scholars who work on the emergence of Roman literature or who adopt literary models to other cultural spheres have tended to look for definitive moments at which Greek and specifically Athenian examples were deliberately absorbed into Roman culture.2 Yet the very fact that the selection of Alcibiades and Pythagoras for representation in the Forum provided a source of considerable confusion to later Romans clearly points in another direction. By the late Republic and early Empire, Roman conceptions of Greek culture and why it mattered to Rome had significantly changed from what they had been in the late fourth and early third centuries BCE. One result of this was that the significance of historical figures had 2.  Recently, Curti 2000; Feeney 2016, 210–­11.

Pythagoras and Alcibiades in the Comitium  • 23

shifted. As I argue below, the general trend of this shift was a departure from representing Greeks with historical significance in the context of fourth-­and third-­century Italy toward an Athenian-­dominated cast of characters that dominated the literary reception of Greek culture during the late Republic, and that remains canonical to this day. It is precisely for this reason that modern readers of Pliny are usually sympathetic to his bewilderment at the mid-­Republican Senate’s choice. On a closely related point, it is furthermore important to insist that the examination of different types of Roman Hellenism—­defined here as the ways in which Romans of different periods positioned themselves vis-­à-­vis Greek culture—­is an essentially historical task. This statement might come across as banal; however, it serves as a necessary reminder that it would be wrong simply to assume that early examples of Roman Hellenism were linear forerunners of the large-­scale adoption of Greek culture that took place during and after Rome’s conquest of the Greek East. It would also be wrong to assume that a seemingly discrete category of cultural interaction such as “philosophical influence” is easy to confine within the scholarly categories and practices that might seem proper to it: in this case, the tracing of particular Greek philosophers and philosophical views as they appear in Latin texts. By the same token, it is not advisable to attribute such early forms of Hellenism as precocious expressions of a quasi-­timeless desire on the Romans’ part to appropriate Greek culture, which eventually finds its fully fledged expression over the course of the second century BCE. On the contrary, just as the Roman conquest of Greece consisted of a series of specific historical moments, the Romans’ prior engagement with Greek culture in different media needs to be addressed on its own terms. Thus, this chapter examines a significant change in the way in which the Romans represented their own community in relation to Greek individuals and communities at the center of their public life. This development needs to be understood not only as a backdrop to Rome’s changing relationship with Greek powers, but also as part and parcel of it, to the extent that an apparently lofty, cultural gesture like the honors bestowed on Pythagoras and Alcibiades in some ways turns out to be a measure of fourth-­century realpolitik. The particular challenge in this case is the elusiveness of the historical context. This is, in turn, owed both to the dearth of contemporary sources and, as already noted, to the incomprehension which later writers express in respect to Rome’s position vis-­à-­vis its Greek neighbors before rising to its later hegemony which these authors mistook for a historical constant.

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II.  Pythagoras and Alcibiades Revisited The group of Pythagoras and Alcibiades is also mentioned by Plutarch (Plut., Num. 8.20–­21) and has received considerable attention among historians of the Roman Republic since Hölscher established their status as two of the earliest examples of historical Repräsentationskunst in Republican Rome more than forty years ago.3 As a consequence, any explanation for the Roman Senate’s decision to have those two specific individuals represented at the core of the city’s public—­and thus political—­spaces must take into account the place which the emerging Republican state was claiming for itself within the competitive environment of Central Italy and its neighboring regions. At least from the time when the rostra had been decorated with the Antiate ship-­beaks captured in the Latin War in 338 BCE (Livy 8.14.11), the comitium where the people assembled for public meetings had become the center of the Republic’s representation of itself in relation to other Italian states. The erection of commemorative sculpture increasingly turned this prime location of political performance into an important lieu de memoire in the city, and thus into a focal point of Roman Republican cultural identity.4 Therefore, the Senate’s choice of the subjects honored by public commemoration in the comitium merits careful historical scrutiny.5 Yet in the case of Pythagoras and Alcibiades, this immediately presents the historian with the particular challenge of explaining a representational choice that was far beyond Pliny’s comprehension.6 3.  Hölscher 1978; for references to the subsequent debate, cf. Sehlmeyer 1999, 88–­90, to which the subsequent discussions by Curti 2000, Purcell 2003, Musti 2005, 139–­87, and, most importantly, Humm 2005, 541–­64, should now also be added. 4.  Hölkeskamp 2004a; Hölscher 2006, 112–­13. For the symbiosis of performance and the public spaces in which it takes place, see contributors to Boschung, Hölkeskamp, and Sode 2015. 5.  According to Pliny, the sculptures were placed “in the horns of the comitium” (in cornibus comitia, Plin., HN 34.12). Coarelli (1995a, 311) suggests that these are “le estremità recurve del Comizio, ormai di forma circolare, adossate ai lati della Curia.” According to Coarelli, this would explain their removal when this section of the comitium was extended under Sulla in the 80s BCE. However, Coarelli’s interpretation depends on the assumption that the early comitium was circular in shape, on which cf. my note 29. 6.  This has even led one scholar to read the passage as a proof that early Roman Hellenism was nothing more than a bumbling engagement with cultural messages that had accidentally come Rome’s way. Thus, Wallace (1990, 289) provocatively views the sculptures as pieces of booty from a Greek city in the South Italy. He argues that both their

Pythagoras and Alcibiades in the Comitium  • 25

Yet, in this instance, Pliny’s frank expression of incomprehension serves as an indication that the episode is in fact historical. Varro (116–­27 BCE), his most likely source, would have seen the sculptures as a young man before they were removed to make way for Sulla’s new curia.7 His antiquarian research about the origin of the story furthermore deserves credence, even though it is most likely that Varro himself did not fully understand its historical background.8 The information he obtained through his research—­ and which Pliny adopted—­probably included the seemingly vague chronological statement (bello Samniti) as well as the fact that the Delphic oracle was consulted.9 There is no reason why the fourth-­century Roman Senate should have been aware of or concerned with the oracle’s earlier pronouncement in respect to Socrates, especially since he simply may not have enjoyed the same status which he held among Romans of the late Republic and early Empire (see below). For Pliny to assume this again underlines his lack of comprehension of a historical context that preceded his own time by almost four hundred years. As for the chronology, a good guess may be the aftermath of the Samnite victory at the Caudine Forks (221 BCE) when Rome found itself in a veritable crisis, which may have necessitated the consultation of an especially authoritative source of divine advice, and which gave rise to the annalistic invention that the Tarentines had deigned to put themselves forward as mediators between Romans and Samnites.10 Therefore, the identification with Pythagoras and Alcibiades, and the story about the Delphic oracle, were the inventions of later generations in order retrospectively to explain the origin of the statues; cf. Sehlmeyer 1999, 90.   7.  Varro appears to have been the source of both Pliny’s and Plutarch’s accounts: Sehlmeyer 1990, 89; Humm 2005, 541.   8.  For a similar argument, cf. Humm 2005, 542.   9.  But cf. Fontenrose (1978, 342–­43), who questions the historicity of the oracle’s consultation and suggests that Pliny might have added it to a tradition originally about a consultation of the Sibylline Books. It is more probable that the entire anecdote stems from Varro—­of whose identity as Pliny’s possible source Fontenrose makes no mention—­and that Pliny was genuinely perplexed by what he had read. Eckstein 2008, 31, 42, follows Fontenrose and suggests that the dedication of a golden bowl at Delphi following the victory over the Gauls in 225 BCE (Plut., Marc. 8.6) constitutes the first historical instance of Roman contact with the oracle. This is aligned with his overly skeptical assessment of Rome’s cultural contacts with the Greek East before the Illyrian Wars; cf. also my note 51 below. 10.  Livy 9.14.1, with Oakley’s skeptical assessment (2005, 156–­57). I am convinced by Ager (2009, 35–­36) who identifies this incident as a later fiction that was introduced in order to provide a precedent justifying Rome’s allergic reaction to the Rhodian embassy

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erection of the statues can tentatively be dated to the period of 321 to 315 BCE, or shortly thereafter. Most recent approaches to the Plinian passage have drawn attention to the figure of Pythagoras: this forms the starting point of my discussion here. Pythagoras’ teachings—­or, rather, their fourth-­century perceptions—­ enjoyed immense popularity among the aristocracies of Greek-­dominated South Italy during the fourth and early third centuries BCE. To this extent, we could expect Rome’s attention to him to be driven, at least to some degree, by an interest in his actual philosophical views. His commemoration in the Forum, thus, would be evidence of a steadily growing Roman familiarity with Greek philosophy, issuing ultimately in the detailed, broad-­based knowledge that characterizes the late Republic. This Pythagoras, however, was a construct of the fourth century BCE and propagated by the Greek elites of South Italy where the Greek philosopher was said to have spent the final decades of his life (ca. 530–­500 BCE).11 Arguably, the very concept of Magna Graecia as a region—­defined primarily against Syracuse and the Italic populations—­was a product of this Pythagoreanism,12 with the successful Tarentine politician and philosopher Archytas as its most prominent proponent and, in a sense, founder.13 Archytas’ followers in fact assigned of 169/8 BCE. I return to this point in my concluding discussion. Another possibility would be the defeat at Lautulae (315 BCE) which brought the Samnite threat even closer to Rome, but it does not rival the Caudine disaster in its unprecedented magnitude and scale of humiliation. 11.  Huffman 2005; but cf. Burkert (1961), who stresses the significant role of Plato in the construction of Pythagorean philosophy. 12.  It is important to stress that the movement had much more to do with the cultural climate of fourth-­century BCE Magna Graecia than with the historical figure of Pythagoras (died ca. 500 BCE) and his followers. It is debatable how much the fourth-­century construct of Pythagoras had in common with the historical philosopher and his teachings. Huffman (2005, 6–­8) cautions against overstating the extent to which Archytas followed the teachings of Pythagoras, and raises the possibility that the Crotonian’s influence on him might have been limited to certain life-­style choices. Aristotle does not refer to Archytas as a Pythagorean in his extant works. 13.  Musti 2005, 34–­48. Note, in particular, his convincing argument that Val. Max. 8.7ext.2 presents a case of retrospective anachronism, when he claims that South Italy was known as Magna Graecia at the time of Pythagoras’ migration there (in Italiae etiam partem, quae tunc magna Graecia appellabatur, emphasis mine). Conversely, Laelius’ statement that Magna Graecia no longer existed by the second half of the second century BCE (Magnamque Graeciam, quae nunc quidem deleta est, Cic., Amic. 4.13–­14) lends support to Musti’s theory that Magna Graecia was a culturally (and therefore temporally) defined concept and not merely a geographical region.

Pythagoras and Alcibiades in the Comitium  • 27

him not only greater significance than Plato but even claimed that he had been the Athenian’s teacher following the death of Socrates.14 This makes it possible to comprehend how this cultural climate could have given rise to the notion that Pythagoras, as the inspiration if not the teacher of Archytas and his followers, had in fact been the wisest of the Greeks. Therefore, the Senate’s choice to interpret the Delphic oracle in the way it did makes sense if one sees it as closely connected to the historical context of Magna Graecia and, as it were, as a move by the Roman elite actively to associate itself with its Greek peers. The Roman elite’s actual knowledge of philosophy probably varied widely, but we cannot rule out its existence altogether even at this early date, in spite of the later tradition that sets the traditional “arrival” of Greek philosophy in Rome in 155 BCE (see Keith, chapter 2, this volume). Similar trends are evident among the elites of other parts of Central and South Italy. Thus, Etruscan tomb paintings sometimes feature references to Pythagoreanism and Orphism,15 and there was even a tradition according to which Pythagoras had counted several Etruscans among his disciples.16 In south Central Italy, the Samnite Herennius Pontius was a pupil of Archytas and stands out as the most prominent historical example of an Italic aristocrat (that is, outside Rome) who actively immersed himself in Pythagoreanism while, at the same time, adapting it to the Italic context.17 Therefore, the Roman Senate’s step was not in itself unusual although in this case it is also possible to identify strategic and political aspects which are not evident in other parts of Italy.18 For Rome was increasingly interested in fostering friendships and alliances with the Greeks of the south, which was of especial concern during the wars with the 14.  Huffman 2005, 32–­43. 15.  Haumesser 2017, 660; Naso 2017, 330. 16.  Mele 1981, 64; Tagliamonte 2017, 1560. 17.  Horky 2011; cf. Mele (1981), who argues for a closer attachment of Herennius Pontius to the Tarentine mainstream of Pythagoreanism. 18.  But the evidence for these areas is admittedly much weaker. In Etruria, what we know about Pythagoreanism all relates to an eschatological element in burial ritual that had been absent during the preceding Archaic period. However, it could be argued that Herennius Pontius’ imparting of advice to his son Gavius, the Samnite general at Caudium (Livy 9.3.4–­13; Val. Max. 7.2.ext.17) constitutes a (failed) instance of a form of Pythagoreanism wielding political influence; cf. Horky (2011), who makes an interesting case for the existence of strong links between Roman and Samnite types of public philosophy, which were further removed from the Tarentine prototype than is usually acknowledged. This qualifies Humm’s (2005) view according to which the political effects of Pythagoreanism at Rome can be directly traced to Archytas and his circles. See also notes 19 and 20.

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Samnites who could be portrayed as common enemies of both the Republic and many South Italian cities.19 In addition, Humm has made a strong case for the sociopolitical importance which the new Pythagoreanism held in store for the Roman elite and for which the Tarentine Archytas may have provided important inspiration as a model for overcoming the structural divisions in the Republic and thus cementing its own claim to leadership. As part of his argument, Humm makes a largely convincing case for placing the construction of Numa as a disciple of Pythagoras and unifier of the Roman people within the cultural milieu that was influenced by Archytas and his followers.20 This pseudohistorical association had of course been debunked by the late Republic;21 yet this does not detract from the likelihood that the tradition had originally been created with a sociopolitical—­ for lack of a better term—­purpose by members of the Roman elite. Therefore, far from being purely intellectual indulgence, or an attempt to ascribe narrowly philosophical underpinnings to Numa’s reign, this approach to Hellenism represented a far more substantive aspect of Roman elite discourse and even political strategy during the late fourth and the early third centuries BCE, even if mere remnants of this connection were still left in the memory of the second and first centuries BCE.22 Finally, Pythagoras’ sharing of the spotlight with Alcibiades in this 19.  Without wishing to push this point too far, it is possible that the choice of Pythagoras was directly related to the recent defeat at Caudium and meant as a claim by the Senate that the Romans—­as opposed to the Samnites—­were legitimately aligned to the Greek philosopher’s sapientia. This would make sense if, as Horky (2011) argues, close relations existed between Roman and Samnite thinkers and, especially, if the younger Pontius’ refusal to adopt his father’s advice after Caudium was known among the Roman elite. 20.  Humm 2005, 541–­64; but cf. Horky 2011, with my note 15. The Pythagorean song which Appius Claudius (one of the principal Roman nobiles of the period) supposedly composed (Cic., Tusc. 4.4) makes for a particularly interesting illustration of the elite’s attachment to this philosopher. 21. Cic., Rep. 2.28–­29; Livy 1.18.2–­3; cf. Plut., Num. 8.20–­21 (mention of Alcibiades’ and Pythagoras’ statues in the comitium) who refers to Numa’s association with Pythagoras as ἀμφισβητήσεις ἔχοντα πολλὰς. The situation had been different during the second century BCE when the discovery of Numa’s Pythagorean writings (181 BCE) resulted in their being burned as forgeries, not because the link between Numa and Pythagoras was regarded as controversial (Livy 40.29.3–­14). Even the first-­century historian Valerius Antias, Livy’s source for the episode, appears to have considered their association as historical. 22.  The two most significant passages in this respect are Cic., Amic. 4.13–­14 (Laelius), and Cic., Sen. 12.39.41 (Cato the Elder) which may provide evidence that Cato had either himself read or was acquainted with the content of Aristoxenus’ biography of Archytas; cf. Huffman 2005, 324–­31.

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instance further underscores the way in which any narrow conception of philosophical influence or activity is inadequate to describe the probable motivation behind the Senate’s choice of Pythagoras. That is, a strategic dimension to Rome’s early Hellenism may also be at the root of the Senate’s choice to honor Alcibiades as the bravest of the Greeks. As in the case of Pythagoras, Pliny’s expression of disbelief is fully understandable given his historical date, and it is again quite possible that Varro was able to gather the antiquarian information, albeit without understanding the context in which the Senate had come to its decision, which must have been truly alien to any Roman in the late Republic and early Empire.23 Despite being a power on the rise during the late fourth century BCE, Rome was still but one of several regional powers that were attempting to expand their areas of hegemony. Other ambitious powers on the mainland included Tarentum—­favorably disposed toward Syracuse—­as well as, arguably, some of the Samnite polities, while Syracuse was still a major force to be reckoned with and continued to be so until the death of Agathocles in 289 BCE. In this context, Alcibiades became a historical point of reference both for Syracuse’s competitors and for those smaller states that were the target of its hegemonic ambitions. Chief among these targets were the Greek poleis of the Ionian seaboard, though it is also important to note that Rome suffered from Syracusan attacks on its territory, as did the Etruscan cities farther north.24 To defend itself against these attacks, Rome largely depended on the naval power of its Greek allies, at least until the coast of Latium began to be shored up by colonies during the 310s BCE, of which the island settlement of Pontiae (313 BCE) arguably stood out as the most significant milestone in Rome’s coastal defense and growing naval ambitions.25 Even then, Rome’s alliance—­as a junior partner—­with Carthage, the main opponent 23.  One reason for this relates to the fact that Roman historical accounts were prone to exaggerate Rome’s power vis-­à-­vis other regional polities even during this early period, while it is hardly probable that a work like the Sicilian historian Timaeus’ Roman history was widely consulted. Diodorus Siculus gives a good idea of what Timaeus wrote about Sicilian history but is less concerned with Rome as far as the fourth century is concerned. 24. E.g., Livy 7.25.4, 26.14–­15 (Sicilian raid on Latium in 349 BCE), Diod. Sic. 15.14.3–­4 (Syracusan raid on Pyrgi, 384 BCE), with Roth 2020, 90–­91. Three Etruscan penteconters had of course contributed to the Athenian expedition against Syracuse in 415–­413 BCE, a sign of their long-­standing enmity with the Sicilian city: Thuc. 6.88.6; 7.53.2, 54, 57.11; cf. Maggiani 2017, 553; Torelli (2017, 705–­6), whose identification of Velthur Spurinna as the commander of the Etruscan ships is overly optimistic; cf. also Torelli 1975, 60–­61; with Cornell 1978. 25.  Roth 2020, with detailed references.

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of Syracuse in the western Mediterranean, continued to be a significant factor in checking the Sicilian city’s expansion.26 As the last power seriously to have challenged Syracuse’s supremacy, therefore, Athens (and especially the Athenian Alcibiades as the proponent of the Sicilian expedition) held positive connotations for those who were opposed to Syracuse. It is significant, but too often overlooked in this context that a little-­noted testimonial about the contemporary Sicilian historian Timaeus of Tauromenium (ca. 350–­260 BCE) attests to the fact that his writings were encomiastic about Alcibiades.27 Although himself a Sicilian, Timaeus was hostile to the Syracusan tyrants and to Agathocles in particular, who had sent him into exile in ca. 315 BCE, at least some of which he spent in Athens.28 Thus, by electing to display Alcibiades as the bravest of the Greeks, the Roman Senate made a statement that was most meaningful in the current configuration of regional power politics. In light of this configuration, choosing Themistocles would have been irrelevant, just as choosing Socrates would have been irrelevant in the climate of political thought which I discussed earlier. The point was not to emphasize Rome’s affiliation—­intellectual or otherwise—­to Athens, but to honor the memory of an individual who had been an enemy of Syracuse.29 If the statue was in fact set up after the battle at the Caudine Forks, this statement should in the first instance be understood as one of strategic alignment and partnership with Syracuse’s other enemies, 26.  Scullard 1989, 517–­37; Serrati 2006, with extensive references; cf. also Roth 2020, 90–­91. 27.  FGrH 566 F 99 = Nep., Alc. 11.1. 28.  Sicilian raids on Magna Graecia again intensified during the reign of Agathocles. 29.  This is also the view of Purcell 2000. But cf. Curti (2000) who sees this as a public expression not only of the Roman elite’s cultural and political attachment to Athens but also of its wish actively to distance itself from the South Italian Greek cities. Even if this were to be the case—­which is unlikely—­it could not explain the choice of Pythagoras. In addition, Curti’s argument is based on the assumption that the circular comitium was a deliberate imitation of the Athenian bouleuterion. But round council-­houses also existed in the Greek cities of South Italy. In addition, the archaeological evidence for the early phases of the comitium is notoriously poor and ambiguous to the extent that Carafa (1998) has made a possible case for a triangular layout, though his view has not been widely accepted; for the standard account, see Coarelli 1995a, with extensive references. Cf. also Feeney (2016, esp. 114–­19), who follows Curti 2000 in postulating Rome’s early cultural attachment to Athens on the evidence of literature. Yet Athenian plays were commonly performed in Magna Graecia, too, and may have reached Rome from there. Although Athenian influences may have been a factor, any interpretation that minimizes the role of the Italian Greeks in shaping Rome’s early Hellenism fails to take into account the cultural context of late fourth-­and early third-­century BCE Italy.

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and it is even possible that a sculptural group of Pythagoras and Alcibiades that existed in a South Italian polis served as a model for the Roman statues.30 It was only a generation later that sculptural representations of Rome’s relations with the Greek world became claims to regional leadership, and it is these developments which I discuss in the remainder of this chapter.

III.  The Statue of Hermodorus and Thurii’s Honors for Roman Politicians In this section, I discuss three other examples of honorific sculptures that were also standing in the Roman Forum when Pliny’s sources saw the statues of Pythagoras and Alcibiades. If one assumes that Pliny followed Varro’s description for much, if not all, of this section of his work, this might have been at the very end of the second or the beginning of the first century BCE, and it is again possible that these statues were removed at the time of Sulla. Again, I shall begin with a statue of a philosophical figure, Hermodorus, the interpres of the Twelve Tables (Plin., HN 34.21), before turning to statues of statesmen, the Roman tribune C. Aelius and the consul Fabricius (Plin., HN 34.32).31 While the first sculpture represents a Greek subject, the other two were set up by the South Italian Greek city of Thurii in honor of Romans who had acted in the Thurians’ defense against the Lucanians on two occasions during the 280s BCE. Here, my argument is that the statue of Hermodorus fits a pattern which I discussed in the previous section, namely that of a conscious effort on the Roman Senate’s part to align the city with the poleis of the south, which was especially topical at the time of the Samnite Wars. In the cases of Aelius and Fabricius, I suggest that it is possible to identify a distinct change in how Romano-­Greek relations were represented in the Forum. In effect, Rome now claimed seniority, specifically placing itself as 30.  Cf. Sehlmeyer 1999, 88–­90; Humm 2005, 642, with additional references. Should this have been the case, it does not in any way remove the need to explain why the Senate regarded these two subjects as an appropriate choice for public display in late fourth-­or early third-­century BCE Rome. 31.  Cf. Sehlmeyer 1999, 116. As he points out, the fact that C. Aelius was presented with a golden wreath in addition to the statue might suggest that he was honoured as a proxenos of Thurii, which might be what lies behind Pliny’s otherwise anachronistic remark that the Thurians were gentes in clientelas ita receptas during the early third century BCE. The Twelve Tables were Rome’s first law code, created between 451 and 449 BCE by a board of Ten (Decemviri).

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the champion of the Italian Greeks against the Oscan-­speaking populations of the south. Although Pliny’s text does not offer any information about the date at which a statue was set up in honor of Hermodorus, the period between the late fourth and the beginning of the third century is plausible. Pliny follows a tradition according to which Hermodorus had, in one way or another, assisted the Romans with setting up the Twelve Tables (451–­449 BCE).32 This offers an alternative to the version given in Livy’s account. According to Livy (3.31.8), three Roman ambassadors were sent to Athens, “where they were ordered to write down the famous laws of Solon and to acquaint themselves with the institutions, customs and laws of other Greek states.”33 By contrast, Hermodorus was said by others to have been an Ephesian whom, according to Cicero (Tusc. 5.105), his fellow citizens had sent into exile which he spent in Italy. It was from Italy that the Decemvirs had summoned Hermodorus to assist them with setting up the Twelve Tables (Dig. 1.2.2.4). It is probable that this last source’s Italia stands for a city of Magna Graecia. As in the case of Pythagoras and, to some extent, Alcibiades, the task here is to assess the possible origins of each tradition and to establish a plausible historical context in which it arose.34 Both the version preserved by Livy and the story of Hermodorus attest to the fact that, at some point during the Middle Republic, a Greek connection was introduced into the tradition of the Twelve Tables.35 To Romans of the late Republic and early Empire like Livy himself, a Solonic origin would have been both plausible and attractive, just as we saw in the case of Socrates whom Pliny thought preferable to Pythagoras. Yet the figure of the Ephesian exile in South Italy made eminent sense during the fourth and early third centuries, when people with such biographies not only existed but furthermore served as a link to the Greek cities on what was then Rome’s cultural and political horizon. To emphasize this connection did not merely serve as an expression of cultural affinity. 32.  This is also the version given by Strabo 14.1.25; Dig. 1.2.4; cf. Cic., Tusc. 5.105. 33.  Iussique inclitas leges Solonis describere et aliarum Graeciae ciuitatium instituta mores iuraque noscere. 34.  Cf. Cornell (1995, 275, 453n14), who also questions the historicity of the embassy to Athens and regards a South Italian influence on the codification “most likely” (275). 35. This is not to deny that Greek influences were almost certainly a factor in the Romans decision to codify and publicly display their laws. However, the focus on specific lawgivers—­Solon and Hermodorus—­points to a deliberately invented tradition through which an important event in early Roman history was anchored within a Greek frame of reference.

Pythagoras and Alcibiades in the Comitium  • 33

Rather, it came as a consideration of realpolitik in a situation in which the Romans were in need of Greek allies against Tarentines and Syracusans while also, most importantly, facing Samnite aggression. As a barbarian city from a Greek point of view, the Romans had to go to great lengths in order to make themselves clubbable, even if this effort did not always meet with success, as shown by the case of L. Postumius Megellus at Tarentum 282 BCE when he was mocked and insulted on account of his faulty Greek.36 By the early third century BCE, however, Rome had already begun to lay claim to a position of hegemony in the south, setting itself up as a champion of those Greek cities which were under threat from Lucanian and Tarentine attacks.37 In this context, the erection of two statues in honor of Roman individuals in the Forum by a Greek city acquires a significant dimension. By honoring Aelius and Fabricius in this way, the Thurians accepted the patronage of individual Romans and the protection of Roman arms, which, moreover, signaled their approval of Roman Hellenism in the sense used here: a self-­conscious insertion into the cultural and political networks of the Greek-­speaking south. While the Romans had initially expressed this Hellenism by setting up honorific statues of Greeks at the core of their city’s public life, the Thurians’ action served as a powerful acknowledgment of Rome’s hegemony which they preferred to the domination of its Greek neighbor Tarentum. This also turned early Hellenism on its head by making Rome a central point of reference for the Italian Greeks who, moreover, chose to view Roman individuals as worthy of being honored by Greeks and in a traditionally Greek fashion—­yet at the center of the Romans’ own city. In contrast to the Greek individuals who had been honored thus far, both Aelius and Fabricius were contemporary Romans. The erection of their statues lent a historical dimension to the acts they had undertaken in favor of the South Italian Greeks and, thus, to Rome’s resultant claim to hegemony over them. The historical significance of these statues thus goes beyond Rome’s relations with the city of Thurii. On the contrary, the symbolism of the Thurian-­ sponsored statues is echoed by other evidence which suggests that the Romans were concerned to present themselves to the Greeks as a benevolent and trustworthy hegemon, and as a power that played by the rules of Greek interstate relations.38 The beginning of Rome’s self-­fashioning as a champion 36.  Dion. Hal., Ant. Rom. 19.5.1–­5; Appian, Sam. 7.2; Dio Cass. Fr. 39, 6–­9; cf. Barnes 2005. 37.  Strabo 6.1.13; cf. Musti 2005, 337–­42; Eckstein 2006, 155–­56. 38.  Rightly emphasized by Eckstein 2006, 155–­56.

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against piracy occurs in this period too, as is shown by a famous passage in Strabo (5.3.5) that relates how Demetrius Poliorcetes asked the Romans to curb the pirates of Antium.39 Only a little later, the invasion of Pyrrhus of Epirus caused the first conflict between Rome and an extra-­Italian Greek power, which marked the city’s immersion in the wider Hellenistic world.40 It cannot be a coincidence that the origins of the personified virtue of Fides go back to the same period during which it began to be honored by the temple on the Capitol.41 Although related to the Greek idea of pistis, the extent to which the Romans stressed the importance of fides as a guiding principle both among themselves and in their relations with other powers was unparalleled.42 As much as honoring Aelius and Fabricius, the statues also represented a celebration of fides as the guiding principle of Rome’s relations with the Greek world and as an entirely positive quality. Less than two decades later, in 266 BCE, perhaps the most emphatic instance of this Roman self-­fashioning occurred when the magistrates Q. Fabius and Cn. Apronius were surrendered to the city of Apollonia in acknowledgment that they had neglected their obligation to fides by striking the Apollonian ambassadors.43 Thus, Rome ostentatiously committed itself to being a trustworthy partner to Greek cities and to abiding by Greek practices of diplomacy. Rome effectively admitted that its own position could be wrong. Notably, Apollonia was in a part of the Greek world that had historically been dominated by Syracuse—­whose hegemony had notoriously been ruthless and reliant on raiding and piracy—­and that increasingly became an object of Macedonian interests. As in its relations with Thurii, in respect to which it had emphatically represented itself as the preferable hegemon in place of Greek Tarentum, Rome was making a similar point to the Apollonians on this occasion. It should be added that the Greek part of South Italy had of course been within Rome’s reach, albeit not fully under its control, even during the 280s BCE, while it could not in any way credibly lay claim to suzerainty over the eastern Adriatic (and thus Apollonia) in 266 BCE. 39.  For further discussion of and bibliography on this passage, cf. Roth 2020, 89–­90. 40.  See now Kent 2020. 41.  Reusser 1993; 1995. 42.  Eilers 2002; Hölkeskamp 2004b. 43. Livy, Per. 15, Dio Cass. fr. 42; Val. Max. 6.6.5. The reason for the Apollonian embassy is unknown; cf. Eckstein (2008, 30–­31), who expresses his characteristic skepticism as to the extent of Rome’s diplomatic relations with the Greek East during this period.

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IV.  Sculptural Honors for Slain Ambassadors The chronologically latest group of statues in Pliny’s discussion (Plin., HN 34.24) appears to mark a certain shift in Rome’s self-­representation vis-­à-­vis the Greek world. In this section, I argue that the attitude expressed by the erection of sculptures of two Roman ambassadors in the early 220s BCE foreshadowed the Romans’ view of their diplomatic relations with the Greek world during the second century BCE. This does not mean, however, that this specific instance of commemoration also rang in the beginning of a deliberate strategy designed to represent Rome’s unquestioned superiority in this area. By contrast, such a degree of control was symbolized by the much later sculpture of Octavius that was set up near the ambassadors of 230 BCE and which Pliny discusses at the end of our passage: hoc a re publica tribui solebat iniuria caesis, sicut aliis et P. Iunio, Ti. Coruncanio, qui ab Teuta Illyriorum regina interfecti erant. Non omittendum uidetur, quod annales adnotauere, tripedanas iis statuas in foro statutas; haec uidelicet mensura honorata tunc erat. Non praeteribo et Cn. Octauium ob unum SC uerbum, hic regem Antiochum daturum se responsum dicentem uirga, quam tenebat forte, circumscripsit priusque, quam egrederetur circulo ille, responsum dare coegit. In qua legatione interfecto senatus statuam poni iussit ‘quam oculatissimo loco,’ eaque est in rostris. (Pliny, HN 34.24) This honor used to be paid to those who had been unjustly slain, as—­among others—­to P. Iunius and Ti. Coruncanius who had been killed by Teuta, queen of the Illyrians. It seems important not to omit what the Annals record, namely that these statues in the Forum were three feet high; from this it would appear that this was the size of such monuments in those days. And I shall not pass over Cn. Octavius on account of the words of a senatorial decree. As king Antiochus said that he would give his reply later, he drew around him a circle, using a rod he happened to be holding, and forced him to give his response before he would exit this circle. After he had been killed on that embassy the Senate ordered that a statue be erected to him “in as conspicuous a place as possible,” and this is on the speaker’s platform.

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As others have pointed out, Pliny’s discussion of the background to the Coruncanii group betrays serious deficits in his historical understanding of the episode.44 Following Polybius (2.8.2–­12), the brothers praenomina should probably be corrected to Lucius and Gaius. Yet Pliny’s far more serious error appears to be his claim that both Roman ambassadors were killed since, according to Polybius, Teuta’s Illyrians killed C. Coruncanius. Appian, whose account (Ill. 7.17) is the other main source for the episode, fails to provide a praenomen but adds the interesting piece of information that a second ambassador came to grief, whom he names as the Greek Cleemporus.45 While these errors in themselves provide an interesting reflection of later takes on Rome’s early Hellenisms (see below), I take Pliny’s text as sufficient evidence that such sculptures existed, and, furthermore, assume that they may have been set up soon after the events in question had occurred, and probably not much later than the end of the First Illyrian War (229 BCE). The diminutive statues of the Coruncanii may provide the first historical instance of the Roman practice of commemorating slain ambassadors in public soon after the offence had occurred. The custom is also attested by Cicero (Phil. 9.4) who does not mention the Coruncanii, which may or may not mean that the statues had been removed before Cicero’s lifetime. Instead, he points out to his audience the statue of Octavius on the rostra that is also mentioned by Pliny, and, furthermore, mentions statues of four Roman ambassadors who had been slain by the Veientines at Fidenae,46 which he claims to have seen in the Forum before they were taken down.47 In contrast to the sculptures of the Coruncanii and of Octavius, however, it is likely that the latter group had been set up many generations after the—­ almost certainly—­pseudohistorical event they represented had occurred, possibly to lend strength to the idea that Rome had been a champion of ambassadorial inviolability since the early days of its history. 44.  Derow 2015, 155. Similarly, he wrongly ascribes to Octavius the humiliation which C. Popillius Laenas brought upon Antiochus IV in Egypt in 168 BCE. 45.  Derow 2015 (originally published in 1973) puts forward the convincing case that Appian’s mention of this very rare name adds credence to his account over that which is given by Polybius; see also Errington 1989, 87, in agreement with Derow, and cf. Eckstein 2006, 266, for a decidedly pro-­Polybian account. 46.  For the episode, Livy 4.17.1–­2 (438 BCE), with Ogilvy (1965, 558–­59), who does not offer an opinion in respect of its historicity. 47.  Lars Tolumnius, rex Veientium, quattuor legatos populi Romani Fidenis interemit, quorum statuae steterunt usque ad meam memoriam in rostris (Cic., Phil. 9.4). The statues—­ which are also mentioned by Pliny (Plin., HN 34.23)—­may have been taken down at the same time as those of Alcibiades and Pythagoras; cf. Ogilvy 1965, 558–­59.

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However, there may have been more than this to the Romans’ decision publicly to represent an embassy, one of whose members had been killed by the other side. This was the key event which had led to the First Illyrian War (230–­229 BCE), a conflict that was still fresh in the memories of contemporary Romans who frequented the Forum. Of course, there can be no question that the representation of ambassadors symbolized Rome’s adherence to diplomatic core values such as fides. In this sense, their message followed that of the Thurian statues, although this time it was the Romans themselves—­presumably the Senate—­who had taken the initiative in honoring their own champions of fides. Yet, in addition, the Coruncanii group constituted a strong reference to the transgression of those values by Rome’s enemies. Arguably, this reference to a transgression, and thus to the antithesis of ideal behavior, helped to strengthen the Romans’ claim to holding the moral high ground over their eastern enemies.48 As Rome had been victorious over the Illyrians—­in alliance with some of the Greek cities of the eastern Adriatic—­the ambassadors group, furthermore, drove home the message that the transgression of diplomatic rules would justly and successfully be met with Roman sanctions. In this way, the public commemoration of the Coruncanii brothers also contained a claim to Rome’s just cause being supported by the gods who had granted its victory, and possibly a threat with divinely sanctioned retribution to those who failed to see this. Yet it would be imprudent to claim that this symbolism was intended and, indeed, interpreted as such in its full complexity from the moment the statues were displayed during the early 220s BCE. That the ambassadors of 230 BCE ended up being the prototype for a class of public monuments in the Roman comitium is most unlikely to have resulted from a carefully laid strategy of official representation. Although the Senate’s choice to have the sculptures erected unmistakably signaled Rome’s claim to having the moral high ground on this occasion, there is little reason to assume that this already represented the fully developed idea according to which Rome’s wars in the Greek East were, as a rule, both iusta and pia, a norm which was certainly present by the time of Octavius’ commemoration in the late 160s.49 Even if the attitude expressed by the Coruncanii group arguably pointed in the same direction, it was only in the company of Octavius’ statue and other monuments of the slain ambassador type that the Coruncanii could fully adopt that symbolism. This development, in turn, touches upon the wider 48.  For the political symbolism of transgression in Republican Rome, cf. Hölscher 2004. 49.  Ager 2009.

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question of how the monuments of Rome’s early Hellenism were perceived by later generations of Roman viewers, which I address in my conclusion. As far as the significance of the Coruncanii group as a statement of Rome’s relation vis-­à-­vis the Greek world in the early 220s BCE is concerned, several concluding remarks remain. First, the commemoration of the ambassadors and, specifically of the fact that one of them had been murdered, indirectly contained a warning message to potential transgressors in the future. Second, it is undeniable that Rome’s claim to a moral high ground was implied in this message. It is important to view this symbolic statement in the specific context of the events of 230 BCE and not necessarily as the universalizing claim that had come about by the time of Rome’s full-­scale engagement in the Greek East.50 In relation to this, it should be borne in mind that the Romans had punished two of their own for committing transgression against Greek ambassadors only thirty-­six years earlier. The sculptural honors for the Coruncanii brothers cannot be seen in isolation from that episode; these honors, at least partly, echo the message of the Thurian statues too, which was one of steadfast fides toward and friendly support of those Greeks who chose to be in the Romans’ fold. Rome’s diplomatic intervention in Illyria had, in part, been for the benefit of Greek communities. It is only with the—­in this case, doubtful—­benefit of hindsight that it also formed the starting point of a deliberate expansion into the Greek East.51

V. Conclusion From the late fourth until the mid-­ third centuries BCE, Rome’s self-­ positioning vis-­à-­vis Greek culture through the display of commemorative sculpture had been overtly friendly, to the extent that during the earlier part of this phase of Roman Hellenism the community made a considerable effort symbolically to insert itself into the political and cultural ambience of Magna Graecia. As I pointed out above, the placing of the statues of Pythagoras and Alcibiades in the comitium in the late fourth century is best understood as an overture to those cities in Magna Graecia which shared 50.  Ager 2009; cf. also Eckstein 2008, 342–­81, on the “unipolarity” of Rome’s later position in the Greek East. 51.  See also Eckstein 2008, 29–­42. However, I disagree with his minimalist perspective on the cultural contacts between Rome and the east of the Adriatic during the third century. The archaeological evidence for such links between Italy and the Balkans is significant: for an accessible publication of relevant material, see Miše 2015.

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with the Romans an enmity with the Samnites and opposition to Syracusan and Tarentine expansion. Similarly, the commemoration of Hermodorus did not in any way make a claim—­at that time, unrealistic—­about Roman hegemony over South Italian Greeks; quite the opposite may have been the case. By placing these three sculptures at the core of Rome’s public life—­ which notably constituted a focal point of concord between plebs and senatorial aristocracy—­the Senate emphatically subscribed the community of Romans to the very framework of values and historical references that were contemporaneously en vogue in Magna Graecia. As discussed above, this is further confirmed by other evidence, most notably the construction of the Roman king Numa as a close associate of Pythagoras. Although the principal focus of this chapter is early Roman Hellenisms, it has also become clear that this discussion needs to be contextualized not just in relation to Sicily and Magna Graecia, but also in relation to other parts of Central Italy. Etruscan and Oscan-­speaking elites intensively engaged with Greek culture, and while the sources for these other Central Italian Hellenisms are poorer than for their Roman counterpart, future research on the latter will have to take them into account. The fourth and third centuries BCE in Central Italy constitute a period of state formation and it appears that, as at Rome, specific interpretations of Greek culture formed a significant part of these processes. As the case of the Samnite philosopher Herennius Pontius reveals, these interpretations could provide not only alternative models of Hellenism but also play a role in shaping the rivalries among Central Italian states. The commonly used term koinē—­coined by Santo Mazzarino in the 1940s—­no longer does justice to this complex set of dynamics, which is thoroughly deserving of novel investigation.52 During a second phase of the early Roman Hellenism under discussion, Rome’s self-­representation vis-­à-­vis the South Italian Greeks became more self-­assured. Moreover, the internalization of pistis, its transformation into fides and, in particular, the claim which the populus Romanus laid to the personification of this virtue as one of its principal deities all reflect a sense in which the Romans now began to view their own community as a dominant point of reference within the Greek-­dominated framework of the central and western Mediterranean. The people who were now commemorated in the Forum were no longer historical Greek personages honored by the Senate, but contemporary Roman aristocrats honored by a Greek community 52. Mazzarino 1945; cf. Cornell 1995, 163–­72, albeit with a focus on the Archaic period. For a firm rejection of Mazzarino’s model, cf. Carlà-­Uhink 2017, 109–­11.

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that had been a beneficiary of Rome’s execution of the precepts of fides. Thus, Roman subjects and virtues had by now acquired the kind of symbolic capital which meant that the Senate no longer had to resort to defining the Roman community’s values with reference to external figures. As the Tarentines’ poking fun at Postumius’ faulty Greek shows, by no means did this process go unopposed. Yet, by the time of the honors for Aelius and Fabricius the Romans had become a creditable enough part of the western Greek world to provide at least some cities of South Italy with an alternative to the traditional hegemons of the region and, what is more, to be publicly honored by these cities through the erection of public monuments in the city of Rome. Although Roman Hellenism thus became associated with the potential hegemony over Greek communities, its symbolism was emphatically beneficial and lacking the threat of sanction against noncompliance that eventually began to creep into Rome’s public representation of its relations with the Greek world. At the same time, the historical interpretation of the sculptural group representing the Coruncanii brothers in the early 220s needs to proceed with caution. In respect to Roman Hellenism, most approaches have usually worked their way back from and in pursuit of the origin of the supposedly canonical situation of the late second century BCE. As this discussion has shown, it may be more appropriate to recognize different periods of Roman engagement with the Greek world, which were not necessarily connected in a linear fashion. These Roman Hellenisms came about as a result of engagement with different Greek communities, which took place within shifting cultural and political configurations, both at Rome and within those cities. Thus, the allusion to the Illyrians’ transgression, and the just punishment meted out by Rome, indeed bears certain resemblances with Rome’s later, unqualified claim to the moral and religious high road in its relations with the Greeks.53 Yet, at the same time, the commemoration of the Corucanii brothers was anchored in the mode of Rome’s earlier relationships with those Greek states who sought its assistance, which—­if Appian is to be believed—­had in fact been granted when the Issaians complained about Illyrian aggression. The significance of fides in these relations has already been mentioned here, and its worship as a personified virtue from the mid-­third century can hardly be coincidental to how Rome’s relations with its Greek neighbors were shaping up during those decades. Again, it would be wrong to constrain this emergent guise of fides in the straitjacket 53.  Ager 2009.

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of its second-­century appearance and thus to overestimate Rome’s earlier power and ambitions. It is by no means a foregone conclusion that a Greek community that placed itself in Rome’s fides did so necessarily on the understanding that it was about to enter into the type of permanent subjection which this act had become by the second century BCE.54 In relation to these conclusions, it is worth commenting on some other ways in which later generations of Romans misunderstood the nature of earlier Roman Hellenisms by interpreting what they knew about them in terms of their own cultural precepts. While Pliny’s irritation at the choice of Pythagoras and Alcibiades may be the most striking case in point, other writers too—­Varro, Cicero, and Livy among them—­found it to be beyond their grasp to explain why obscure Greeks like Hermodorus had been regarded (and constructed) as eminently significant during an earlier period. It is at this juncture that an anachronistic Athenocentrism entered their accounts, which is still found in modern interpretations. The contextualized approach I have adopted here goes some way to offering an alternative explanation. For while the choice of Pythagoras and Alcibiades might seem puzzling when it is confronted in historical isolation, this picture shifts significantly once other pieces are added to the puzzle, pieces that, in this case, consist of scattered but significant bits of information about the cultural and political connections between the western Greeks and other populations of Central and South Italy. In a comparable fashion, Greek and Roman historians preceded their modern successors in seeking to accommodate Rome’s early relations with the Greeks within the paradigms of their own time. Thus, Livy found it perfectly plausible that after Rome’s Caudine defeat the Tarentines should have made the same type of offer of mediation to the warring parties which the Rhodians offered in 168 BCE, and which the Romans found to be insulting and unjust.55 Polybius on the other hand presented Rome’s position in the First Illyrian War as a clear precursor to the mighty power which had overwhelmed himself and his Greek contemporaries.56 Closer to the central theme of this chapter, second-­and first-­century BCE Roman viewers of the Coruncanii group may be forgiven for interpreting it as a proof of the ancient origins of Rome’s rightful avenging of slain ambassadors and thus of a principal cause of bellum iustum et pium. They were after all placed 54.  Cf. also Eckstein 2006, 265–­66; 2008, 342–­81. 55.  Ager 2009, 34–­36. 56.  Errington 1989, 87–­88; Eckstein 2006, 265–­66; Derow 2015, 164–­65.

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in the company of statues that commemorated other, historical and pseudohistorical slayings of Roman ambassadors, which had been the cause of successful—­and therefore just—­wars. In this way, the ambassadors of 230 BCE contributed to the construction of cultural memory in the comitium and, thus, within the monumental lieu de memoire that was the Roman Forum.57 Finally, the sculptural group of ambassadors also provides us with an instance in which the visual representation of Roman Hellenisms may have deliberately confronted Greek viewers. The ensemble of slain ambassadors was located in the comitium where foreign ambassadors to the city were also received or, rather, subjected to interrogation by Roman magistrates. Many, if not most, of these visitors were Greeks, which is even reflected in the name of the platform on which they had to present themselves: the Graecostasis.58 Perhaps the suggestion that the Romans presented themselves as the champions of ambassadors gave comfort to some of them. Much more likely, however, the bronze images of Roman diplomats slain by their ancestors must have made for a daunting sight and a stern warning. By then, the early Roman Hellenism that had made Numa a disciple of Pythagoras and set up Alcibiades as an example to Rome’s ambitions in South Italy was all but a faded memory.59

57.  Hölkeskamp 2004a; Hölscher 2006. 58.  For the topography and structure of this monument, see Coarelli 1995b. 59.  I warmly thank Basil Dufallo and Riemer Faber for kindly inviting me to the Ann Arbor conference and for giving me an opportunity to contribute to this volume. I received helpful comments from the audiences at the University of Michigan and at the 2019 conference of the Classical Association of South Africa (held at the University of Stellenbosch) where I presented another version of the original paper. Two anonymous referees provided me with useful input. I am entirely responsible for any errors or infelicities that might remain.

Two

Roman Epicureanism Alison Keith

As Roman Roth has outlined in the previous chapter, Rome’s engagement with Greek philosophy and philosophers in Magna Graecia likely dates to an early period of Roman expansion in the Italian peninsula. This early engagement is in various ways discontinuous with what comes later, and later authors, such as the elder Pliny, reflect this in their apparent misunderstanding of the evidence. Indeed, as Roth points out, the traditional date of the arrival of Greek philosophy in Rome falls considerably later: 155 BCE, when Athens sent an embassy to treat with the Senate about repealing a fine levied for their sack of Oropus.1 The three Greek ambassadors were the heads of three of the four leading philosophical schools in Athens: Carneades, scholarch of the “new” Academy; Diogenes, head of the Stoa; and Critolaus, head of the Lyceum.2 Conspicuous by his absence from the Athenian embassy of 155 BCE was the scholarch of the Epicurean school, perhaps Apollodorus “known as the tyrant of the garden” (Diog. Laert. 10.25), which was infamous for its disengagement from affairs of state. Yet we know that Epicurean philosophy was already in circulation in Rome in this period; for a year after the famous embassy, two Epicurean philosophers, Alcaeus and Philiscus, were banished from Rome by decree of the Senate (154 BCE).3 We know nothing of their teaching, except what has survived 1.  This is also the traditional opening gambit of scholarly discussions of Greek philosophy at Rome: cf., e.g., Long 2003, 186; Sedley 2009, 29–­30; Dutsch 2014, 1. 2. Cic., De or. 2.155, Att. 12.23.2; Plin., HN 7.112; Plut., Cat. Mai. 22.1; Gell. 6.14.8–­ 9, 17.21.48; Ael., VH 3.17; Paus. 7.11.4–­8; Macrob., Sat. 1.5.14–­15. On the embassy, see Gruen 1990, 175–­79; Benferhat 2005, 60. 3.  Gruen 1990, 177; Benferhat 2005, 59–­60.

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of the founder’s principles in the tenth book of Diogenes Laertius’ Lives of the Philosophers, and the earliest extant evidence for Roman Epicureanism in Latin literature itself appears toward the end of the second century BCE, when the satirist Lucilius (ca. 180–­102/101 BCE) transliterates into Latin two of Epicurus’ Greek technical terms (fr. 753 Marx): eidola atque atomus uincere Epicuri volam (“I wish that Epicurus’ images and atom prevail”).4 Lucilius also records Mucius Scaevola’s abuse of a certain T. Albucius (fr. 88–­94 Marx apud Cic., Fin. 1.9), whom Cicero later calls a “complete Epicurean” (Brut. 13, perfectus Epicurius) because of his preference for a Greek lifestyle over Roman when he held the praetorship in Athens in 107–­106 BCE.5 This chapter explores another discontinuity within Roman Hellenism’s embrace of Greek philosophy: the fact that the evidence for the diffusion of Epicurean philosophy in Roman society and culture, from the mid-­ Republic to the high Empire, is spread across both prose and poetry, and that the latter—­with the significant exception of Lucretius—­has fallen prey to neglect and oversight among later writers, this time modern scholars. Indeed, the history of Epicurean philosophy in Italy, as diffused through the prose exposition of Greek teachers like Philodemus and Roman philosophical authors like Cicero, is ground relatively well traversed in the scholarship.6 The central role, however, played by generations of Roman poets in the dissemination of Epicurean philosophy throughout the Latin-­speaking world has been almost completely overlooked—­whether because scholars have accepted Plato’s division between poetry and philosophy (a “quarrel” entirely of his own making) or because they have vastly overestimated the eclecticism of Roman literary exponents of ancient philosophy.7 A comparison of the shifting currents of Roman Epicureanism in Italy brings a relatively unexplored field of evidence back into view, and reveals Roman Epicureanism, as a type of Roman Hellenism, to be a practice and attitude far more pervasively tied to poetic activity than has generally been recognized. This is 4. On eidola, “the Epicurean term for thin atomic films emitted by an external object which allow us to see” (Gilbert 2015, 55), see Sedley 1998, 39n12; on sense perception in Epicureanism, see Striker 1977; Everson 1990; Sedley 1998, 39–­42; Asmis 2009; O’Keefe 2010, 33–­40. On Epicurus’ atomos, see Betegh 2006. 5.  On Albucius, see Castner 1988, 3–­6; Brennan 2000, 2:706; Benferhat 2005, 66–­69. 6.  See the chapters of Sedley and Erler in Warren 2009, with copious bibliography. 7.  Sedley (1997, 42–­44) offers a trenchant rebuttal of the charge of eclecticism among Roman politicians, and his remarks are equally applicable, mutatis mutandis, for refuting the accusation among Latin poets, not least because their verse so often expresses contemporary political allegiances. See also Fish 2011.

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to understand Roman Epicureanism as more multiform and internally various than previously acknowledged, not only because of the importance of both prose and poetry within it, but also because of its inseparability from literary developments promoted by a range of very different sorts of poets across a wide expanse of time: Lucilius, Egnatius, and Lucretius at the end of the Republic; Horace, Vergil, and Varius during the triumviral period; and Martial and Statius in the Flavian era.

I. Italiam totam occupauerunt: Cicero and Lucretius On Cicero’s telling, Epicurean philosophy was the dominant school in the spread of Greek philosophy across Italy in the Republican period. At the end of the preface to his fourth book of the Tusculan Disputations, he sketches a prehistory of Latin philosophical exposition in Italy, awarding Epicureanism the palm both for earliest Latin literary expression, in the writings of a certain Amafinius, and for greatest popularity among Republican Roman readers: [6] itaque illius uerae elegantisque philosophiae, quae ducta a Socrate in Peripateticis adhuc permansit et idem alio modo dicentibus Stoicis, cum Academici eorum controuersias disceptarent, nulla fere sunt aut pauca admodum Latina monumenta, siue propter magnitudinem rerum occupationemque hominum, siue etiam quod imperitis ea probari posse non arbitrabantur, cum interim illis silentibus C. Amafinius extitit dicens, cuius libris editis commota multitudo contulit se ad eam potissimum disciplinam, siue quod erat cognitu perfacilis, siue quod inuitabantur inlecebris blandis uoluptatis, siue etiam, quia nihil erat prolatum melius, illud quod erat tenebant. [7] post Amafinium autem multi eiusdem aemuli rationis multa cum scripsissent, Italiam totam occupauerunt, quodque maximum argumentum est non dici illa subtiliter, quod et tam facile ediscantur et ab indoctis probentur, id illi firmamentum esse disciplinae putant. (Cicero, Tusc. 4.6–­7) [6] And so there are almost no or very few Latin works of that true and elegant philosophy, which was derived from Socrates and endured among the Peripatetics and Stoics, who taught the same thing but in a different way while the Academics arbitrated their disputes. This is

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either because of the magnitude of the subject or because the occupations of [prominent Roman] men, or even because they thought that this philosophy could not be understood by the unlearned. Meanwhile, while they were silent, Gaius Amafinius stepped forth and spoke. After his books had been circulated the masses moved to adopt his sect more than any other, either because it was easy to learn, or because they were enticed by the coaxing charms of pleasure, or even because nothing better had been offered to them, and they held to what was available. [7] After Amafinius, however, came many rivals of the same sect; they wrote much and have occupied all of Italy. Although the chief evidence that their teachings are not stated with precision is the fact that their doctrines are easily mastered and accepted by the unlearned, they take this as support for their sect. (Gilbert 2015) While sounding his own allegiance to Plato’s Academy front and center in this overview of Greek philosophy in Italy (Tusc. 4.6.1), Cicero grudgingly acknowledges the popularity of Epicureanism, promulgated in the books of a certain C. Amafinius. Although we cannot date him with any certainty, Amafinius is the first attested Latin author of any kind of Greek philosophical treatise in Italy.8 Amafinius’ writings seem not to have lasted beyond Cicero’s day, however, as he is unknown to Quintilian, who counts only five Roman authors of philosophy: supersunt qui de philosophia scripserint: quo in genere paucissimos adhuc eloquentes litterae Romanae tulerunt. Idem igitur M. Tullius, qui ubique, etiam in hoc opere Platonis aemulus extitit. Egregius uero multoque quam in orationibus praestantior Brutus suffecit ponderi rerum: scias eum sentire quae dicit.9 Scripsit non parum multa Cornelius Celsus, Sextios secutus, non sine cultu ac nitore. Plautus in Stoicis rerum cognitioni utilis; in Epicuriis leuis quidem sed non iniucundus tamen auctor est Catius. (Quintilian, Inst. 10.1.123)

8.  Sedley 2009, 39; Gilbert 2015, 34. 9.  Tacitus confirms Quintilian’s assessment of Brutus here at Dial. 21.5.

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There remain the writers on philosophy. Roman literature has so far produced very few eloquent authors of this kind. Cicero, as in everything else, stands out here too as a rival to Plato. Brutus—­excellent in this, and much better than in his speeches—­had the strength to support the weight of the subject; you can tell he feels what he says. Cornelius Celsus, a follower of the Sextii, wrote a good deal, and with elegance and polish. Among the Stoics, Plautus is a useful source of information. Of the Epicureans, Catius is a lightweight author, but not unpleasant. It is especially instructive that Lucretius, the author of a six-­book hexameter poem “on the nature of the universe” (De rerum natura, see infra), does not figure in this roster: Quintilian’s omission of Latin poets from his enumeration of Roman philosophical authors is echoed in the scholarly literature, with the significant exception of Lucretius. In Quintilian’s estimation, Cicero took pride of place among Roman philosophical authors, and his thorough knowledge of the different schools of Greek philosophy has been well studied.10 Cicero himself tells us that he had studied with the Epicurean scholarch Zeno of Sidon in Athens (Acad. post. 146; Nat. D. 1.59), and he knew Zeno’s successors, the scholarchs Phaedrus and Patro, as well as Philodemus and Siro, two Greek teachers of Epicurean philosophy based on the Bay of Naples (Fin. 2.119). Nonetheless, his hostility to the materialist philosophy of Epicurus remained steadfast and lifelong,11 and his treatment of Epicurean ethics (Fin. 1–­2), politics (Leg. 1.39, 42, 50; Off.) and theology (Nat. D. 1) must therefore be treated with caution.12 In addition to the shadowy figure of Amafinius, Cicero mentions three other Republican authors of Epicurean treatises at Rome: Rabirius, Lucretius, and Catius. Rabirius he mentions in close association with Amafinius: uides autem (eadem enim ipse didicisti) non posse nos Amafinii aut Rabirii similes esse, qui nulla arte adhibita de rebus ante oculos positis uulgari sermone disputant, nihil definiunt, nihil partiuntur, nihil apta interrogatione concludunt, nullam denique artem esse nec dicendi nec disserendi putant. . . . iam uero physica, si Epicurum id 10.  Baraz 2012; Gilbert 2015 with extensive bibliography. 11.  See the essays in Auvray-­Assayas and Delattre 2001. 12.  On Cicero’s anti-­Epicureanism, see Maslowski 1974, 55–­78; Inwood 1990; Stokes 1995; Striker 1996, 196–­208; Griffin 1997; Niegorski 2002; Hanchey 2013.

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est si Democritum probarem, possem scribere ita plane ut Amafinius. quid est enim magnum, cum causas rerum efficientium sustuleris, de corpusculorum (ita enim appellat atomos) concursione fortuita loqui? .  .  .  haec ipsa de uita et moribus et de expetendis fugiendisque rebus illi simpliciter, pecudis enim et hominis idem bonum esse consent. (Cicero, Acad. post. 1.5–­6) You see, of course, since you’ve studied the same philosophical doctrines yourself, that we can’t be like Amafinius and Rabirius. They argue unsystematically about what’s under their noses in ordinary language; they have no recourse to definition, division, or dialectic; and, in fact, they consider the systematic study of speech and argument worthless. . . . As for physics, if I approved of Epicurus’ views—­ that is, the views of Democritus—­I could of course write about it as plainly as Amafinius. Once you’ve done away with active causes, what’s impressive about writing about the chance interactions of ‘little bodies’ (his term for ‘atoms’)? . . . As for writing about our lives, ethical dispositions, and what we should seek or avoid, that’s easy for them, because they think the good is the same for man and beast. (Gilbert 2015) The passage confirms that Amafinius’ work addressed Epicurean principles of physics, as we can see in Cicero’s explicit reference to his use of the noun corpusculum to translate Epicurus’ technical term atomos; and we can infer both authors’ adherence to Epicurean principles of argumentation from the way Cicero phrases his objections to their exposition of Epicurus’ doctrines. He disdains their employment of “ordinary language” (uulgari sermoni), “without recourse to definition, division, or dialectic,” all of which were specialized forms of philosophical argumentation practiced by the other philosophical schools but, notoriously, eschewed by the Epicureans. A central precept of Epicurus’ teaching was that philosophy required neither specialized terminology nor special forms of argumentation, and could be practiced even by those who lacked the standard Greek cultural education (paideia), by using ordinary language to address the central questions of physics (“what is the physical structure of the material world?”) and ethics (“what is the good life?”).13 In this passage, however, Cicero also reveals the naturalization 13.  Diog. Laert. 10.31: Τὴν διαλεκτικὴν ὡς παρέλκουσαν ἀποδοκιμάζουσιν· ἀρκεῖν

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in Latin of several core Epicurean principles: in physics, the key concept of the atom; and in ethics, the primary goal or “end” (τέλος) of “pleasure” (the same “good” for man and beast) and the central principles of “choice” and “avoidance” (Diog. Laert. 10.131–­32). Whatever their ethical disquisitions, it is clear that Amafinius and Rabirius toed the Epicurean party line not only in their identification of “pleasure” as the telos of the happy life (Diog. Laert. 10.132), implied in the convergence of human and animal views of the “good,” but also in their consideration of “what we should seek or avoid.”14 We are on firmer ground with the dating of both Lucretius and Catius Insuber—­Lucretius, not only because his great work De rerum natura survives, but also because Cicero mentions reading the poem in a letter of February 54 BCE to his brother Quintus, who was on Caesar’s staff in Gaul at the time (QFr. 2.9): Lucretii poemata, ut scribes, ita sunt multis luminibus ingenii, multae tamen artis (“Lucretius’ poem, as you write, shows flashes of genius but nevertheless much artistry”). This casual reference documents the circulation of Lucretius’ De rerum natura beyond Rome to Gaul; and since the poem is unfinished, its circulation early in 54 BCE has suggested to many that Lucretius was already dead, and his poem composed in the early to mid-­50s.15 Lucretius’ focus in De rerum natura is on Epicurean physics, which he distills in six books based on the first fifteen books of Epicurus’ treatise On nature (Περὶ Φύσεως).16 Although Lucretius died before putting the final touches to his great work, its structure emerges clearly in the course of the poem, which sets out Epicurus’ physics in three successive pairs of books. The first two books explain atomism; the third and fourth address the nature of the soul and its mortality, and sense perception; and the final two review Epicurean cosmology and cosmic phenomena. It is a historical irony that, with the loss of almost all of Epicurus’ many writings (catalogued γὰρ τοὺς φυσικοὺς χωρεῖν κατὰ τοὺς τῶν πραγμάτων φθόγγους (“Dialectic they reject as superfluous, holding that in their inquiries the physicists should be content to employ the ordinary terms for things,” tr. Hicks 1931). 14.  On pleasure as the highest good in Epicurean thought, see Long 1986; Rosenbaum 1990; Preuss 1994; Striker 1996, 196–­208; Cooper 1999, 485–­514; Warren 2001; Woolf 2009; O’Keefe 2010, 111–­15; Gordon 2012, 109–­38. Cicero offers a concise statement of the Epicurean position at De finibus 1.29–­42. Diogenes Laertius (10.27) cites treatises by Epicurus, On the End (Περὶ τέλους) and On Choice and Avoidance (Περὶ αἱρέσεων καὶ φυγῶν). 15.  On the traditional date, which I accept, see Volk 2010, who demonstrates that it is unnecessary to redate Lucretius’ composition of De rerum natura to the eve of civil war in 49 BCE (contra Hutchinson 2001). 16.  Sedley 1998, chapters 4–­5.

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by Diogenes Laertius, 10.24–­29), Lucretius’ exposition of the school’s physics remains our best source for Epicurus’ physical doctrines. He sets out the didactic focus of his poem in a plain but flexible Latin lexicon at the beginning of De rerum natura: nam tibi de summa caeli ratione deumque disserere incipiam, et rerum primordia pandam unde omnis natura creet res, auctet, alatque; quoque eadem rursum natura perempta resoluat quae nos materiem, et genitalia corpora rebus reddunda in ratione uocare, et semina rerum appellare suëmus, et haec eadem usurpare corpora prima, quod ex illis sunt omnia primis.

50

55 (Lucr. 1.49–­56)

For I shall undertake to discourse to you about the sublime system of heaven and gods, and I shall disclose the first principles of things, whence nature creates, increases and nourishes all things, and where the same nature again resolves them at death, everything which we are accustomed to call matter and the generative bodies of the universe in explaining the system, and to name the seeds of things and to refer to these same things as the first bodies, because from these first all things exist. Lucretius’ decision to render Epicurus’ doctrines in the ordinary language of Latin idiom coheres with the founder’s insistence on verbal clarity and rejection of terminological obscurity, and David Sedley has extensively documented the philosophical “fundamentalism” at issue in Lucretius’ strict adherence to Epicurus’ exposition of his materialist physics in De rerum natura.17 In the case of Catius Insuber, we are likewise better informed as several later authors mention both his Latin writings and his Epicurean profile. Cicero refers to Catius’ recent death in a letter to Cassius composed in January 45 BCE, which offers comparative security in dating this author, who is generally agreed to be a contemporary of Lucretius and Cicero: fit enim nescio qui ut quasi coram adesse uideare cum scribo aliquid ad te, neque id κατ᾿ εἰδων φαντασίας, ut dicunt tui amici noui, 17.  Sedley 1998; cf. Sedley 1989.

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qui putant etiam διανοητικὰς φαντασίας spectris Catianis excitari—­ nam, ne te fugiat, Catius Insuber ᾿Επικούρειος, qui nuper est mortuus, quae ille Gargettius et iam ante Democritus εἴδωλα, hic spectra nominat. his autem spectris etiam si oculi possunt feriri, quod ulis ipsa occurrunt, animus qui possit ego non uideo: doceas tu me oportebit cum saluus ueneris. in meane potestate sit spectrum tuum, ut, simul ac mihi collibitum sit de te cogitare, illud occurrat? neque solum de te, qui mihi haeres in medullis, sed si insulam Britanniam coepero cogitare, eius εἴδωλον mihi aduolabit ad pectus? (Cicero, Fam. 15.16.1–­2) I don’t know how it happens, but when I write something to you, you seem to be right here in front of me—­and this isn’t because of the appearances of εἴδωλα, as your new friends assert, who think that mental impressions are also put into motion by Catian ‘spectra’. For, lest you miss this point, Catius Insuber the Epicurean, who died recently, called ‘spectra’ what the Gargettian and already before him Democritus called εἴδωλα. However, even if it were possible for the eyes to be struck by these spectra (because they themselves run into the pupils), I do not see how the mind is able [to be struck by these εἴδωλα]. You will have to teach me when you arrive safely. Is it the case that your spectrum is in my power, so that it meets up with me as soon as it pleases me to think of you? And not only of you, who cling to my very marrow, but if I start to think of the island of Britain, will its εἴδωλον fly into my heart? (Gilbert 2015) Catius is also mentioned by Horace’s commentator Porphyrio, for he is the interlocutor of Horace’s Sermones 2.4, introduced by the satirist as a keen student of philosophy (2.4.1–­3): “‘Vnde et quo Catius?’ ‘non est mihi tempus, auenti / ponere signa nouis praeceptis, qualia uincent / Pythagoran Anytique reum doctumque Platona.’ ” (“‘Where do you come from and where are you off to, Catius?’ ‘I don’t have time to stop, as I want to place the seals on some new precepts: such as surpass Pythagoras, the man Anytus accused [Socrates], and the learned Plato.’”) Porphyrio identifies him as “an Epicurean who wrote On the Nature of Things and On the Highest Good in four books,” that is, a treatise or treatises, in four books, De rerum natura and De summo bono. Quintilian’s reference to the philosopher (Inst. 10.1.124, quoted above) is less precise, but of interest for confirming that Catius’ writings, unlike Amafinius’, were still in circulation in the late first century CE.

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Although the identification of Horace’s interlocutor with the Epicurean author has been called into question, Classen offers a compelling interpretation of the satire as opening by building expectations of hearing a serious ethical discourse, only to deflate them by having Catius offer a crude, debased Epicureanism, in his “parody of gastronomic science and fine dining.”18 Indeed, Horace’s report of Catius’ discourse on the subject of good living in Sermones 2.4 consists of a recital of the pleasures of the table (2.4.12–­87) that constitutes nothing more (nor less) than the perversion of Epicurus’ doctrine of the pleasures of the belly (fr. 67 Usener): οὐ γὰρ ἔγωγε ἔχω τί νοήσω τἀγαθόν, ἀφαιρῶν μὲν τὰς διὰ χυλῶν ἡδονάς (“For I cannot conceive of the Good if we are to eliminate the pleasures of the belly”). Horace’s satire is thus informed from the outset by an ironic self-­awareness of the dissolute reputation of the sect, directed from one Epicurean initiate to another.19 A final Republican author of Epicurean philosophy is the shadowy figure Egnatius, whom Macrobius identifies as a model for Vergil on two occasions, citing the Republican poet’s De rerum natura and mentioning a “Book 1,” which implies an account of Epicurean physics in more than one book: multa quoque epitheta apud Vergilium sunt quae ab ipso ficta creduntur, sed et haec a ueteribus tracta monstrabo. Sunt autem ex his alia simplicia, ut Gradiuus, Mulciber, alia composita ut Arquitenens, Vitisator. Sed prius de simplicibus dicam. 2. et discinctos Mulciber Afros [Aen. 8.724]: Mulciber est Vulcanus, quod ignis sit et omnia mulceat ac domet. Accius in Philoctete: heu Mulciber! / arma ignauo inuicta es fabricatus manu; et Egnatius de rerum natura libro primo: denique Mulciber ipse ferens altissima caeli / †contingunt . . . 12. . . . Egnatius de rerum natura libro primo: roscida noctiuagis astris labentibus Phoebe / pulsa loco cessit concedens lucibus altis. (Macrobius, Sat. 6.5.1–­2, 12) Vergil uses many epithets that he is believed to have made up, but I shall show that these too were drawn from the ancients. Some of these are simple forms, like Gradivus or Mulciber, others are compounds, 18.  Classen 1978; Gilbert 2015, 62; cf. Yona 2018, 256–­57n22; Keith 2018. 19.  For Epicurean play on the sect’s reputation for hedonism and dissolute living, see Gordon 2012, esp. 38–­71; cf. Horace’s self-­representation as a sleek fat pig from Epicurus’ herd (Epist. 1.4.15–­16), discussed below.

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like Arquitenens or Vitisator. But I’ll talk about the simple forms first. 2. And Mulciber [had fashioned] the Africans with their flowing robes (A. 8.724): Mulciber is Vulcan, because as fire he softens [mulcere] and masters all things. Accius in Philoctetes (558–­59 SRPF3 1:240): “alas Mulciber! You have crafted invincible arms with a futile hand,” and Egnatius in Book 1 of On Nature (fr. 1 FPL3): “And then Mulciber himself, bearing (?) . . . the highest point in heaven . . .” 12 . . . Egnatius in Book 1 of his On Nature (fr. 2 FPL3), “As the noctivaga stars glided on, dewy Phoebe withdrew, driven from her place, yielding to the lights high in heaven.” (Kaster 2011) From Macrobius’ citations it is impossible to tell whether Egnatius predated Lucretius or vice versa, but it is clear that he too wrote in the dactylic hexameter tradition.20 Macrobius’ evidence thus confirms not only a widespread interest in Epicurean philosophy among the literate classes in Italy during the late Republic, but also a keen interest in Epicurean physics. Indeed, it is striking that the citations and titles preserved by Cicero and the late antique commentators should yield so many Epicurean expositions “De rerum natura” along with so many references specifically to Epicurus’ atomic physics in Lucilius, Amafinius, Lucretius, Catius, and Egnatius. The early Roman reception of Epicurean philosophy is extraordinarily well informed about Epicurus’ views concerning the fundamental importance of physics (cf. Κύριαι Δόξαι 10–­12), and this suggests a high level of critical sophistication in the reception of Epicureanism among contemporary philosophically inclined Romans. It is particularly striking that Republican Latin treatments of Epicurean doctrine should include so many verse expositions (Lucilius, Lucretius, Egnatius, Horace on Catius) as well as prose (Amafinius, Rabirius, Catius). In the Principate, as we shall see, verse prevails over prose as the preferred textual medium for the Latin expression of Epicurean philosophy.

II. Familiares uestros: Philodemus and Siro, Horace and Vergil The critical significance of Lucretius’ De rerum natura for the poetry of the early Augustan authors Vergil and Horace has long been recognized,21 but 20.  Contradictory views at Courtney 1993, 148, and Hollis 2007, 87–­88. 21.  Merrill’s series of studies are crucial here: e.g., Merrill 1918. Farrington 1963 must

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the wide array of contemporary Epicurean intertexts on which they draw, in addition to Lucretius’ great poem of the previous generation, has not received the same attention.22 Vergil specialists are familiar with the Latin comparanda preserved in Macrobius’ Saturnalia, which includes not only Egnatius and Lucretius but also material from his friend Varius’ De morte,23 while Horace specialists have perforce had to recognize the latter poet’s debt to Philodemus, the contemporary Greek exponent of Epicureanism, since he explicitly cites him in his first published collection:24 . . . tument tibi cum inguina, num si ancilla aut uerna est praesto puer, impetus in quem continuo fiat, malis tentigine rumpi? non ego: namque parabilem amo Venerem facilemque illam “post paulo,” “sed pluris,” “si exierit uir” 120 Gallis, hanc Philodemus ait sibi quae neque magno stet pretio neque cunctetur cum est iussa uenire. candida rectaque sit, munda hactenus ut neque longa nec magis alba uelit quam dat natura uideri. (Horace, Sat. 1.2.116–­24) . . . When your loins swell, if a maid or a house-­born slave-­boy is present for an immediate assault, would you rather burst with lust? Not me: for I like love ready and easy. That girl who says “a little later,” “but for more money,” “if my husband’s gone out”—­Philodemus says she’s for the Galli; he be treated with caution. For Vergil’s debts to Lucretius, see Stewart 1959 and Davis 2012 on Ecl. 1.6; Schäfer 1996, Gale 2000, and Freer 2014 and 2019 on the Georgics; Hardie 1986 and 2009 on the Aeneid; cf. Armstrong et al. 2004. For Horace’s debts to Philodemus and Lucretius in his two collections of Sermones, see Armstrong 2014 and Yona 2018. 22.  This is not to overlook the important study of Tait 1941, which contains valuable insights into Philodemus’ influence on the Latin poets from Catullus to Martial via Vergil, Horace, Tibullus, Propertius, and Ovid. On Lucretius and Philodemus, see Beer 2008. 23. Macrob., Sat. 2.4.2, 6.1.39–­40, 6.2.19–­20. On Varius, see Hollis 1996 and 2007, 253–­81. Death was a quintessentially Epicurean topic, treated not only by Varius in his hexameter poem De morte, but also by Epicurus in On theories of disease and death (Diog. Laert. 10.28; cf. P.Herc. 1012 col. 38); Lucretius in De rerum natura 3; and Philodemus in his treatise On death, on which see Henry 2009. On Vergil’s debts to Lucretius and Varius in his pastoral poetry, see Davis 2012. 24.  On Horace’s Epicurean ethics in Sermones 1.2, see Gigante 1993; on Sermones 1 as a whole, see Armstrong 2014; and on Epicurean ethics in both collections of Sermones, see Yona 2018, with copious bibliography.

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says his type is the kind who doesn’t cost a great price, nor delay when she’s bidden to come. Let her have a good complexion and good posture, and be well turned out, but without wanting to seem taller or paler than nature granted her. The utilitarian view of sex, which Horace here attributes to Philodemus, derives directly from Epicurean precepts (Ep. Men. 132, Sent. Vat. 18, 21) and finds popular poetic expression not only in Lucretius’ “diatribe against love” at the end of De rerum natura 4 (1038–­1285), but also in the vogue that Philodemus’ epigrams enjoyed at Rome in the late 60s and early 50s BCE (Cic., Pis. 70–­71; cf. Asc. ad loc.). Philodemus was the leader of an Epicurean community at Herculaneum, near Naples, where he seems to have lived in the patronage of Caesar’s father-­in-­law, L. Calpurnius Piso Caesoninus (Cic., Pis. 70–­71), from approximately the late 70s to the late 40s or early 30s BCE when he is thought to have died.25 Although we know relatively little about his early life, we know considerably more about his philosophical activity in Italy, in part because he makes cameo appearances in several of Cicero’s writings, including his treatise De finibus bonorum malorumque (On the Ends of Good and Ill): Quae cum dixissem, “Habeo,” inquit Torquatus, “ad quos ista referam, et, quamquam aliquid ipse poteram, tamen inuenire malo paratiores.” “Familiares uestros, credo, Sironem dicis et Philodemum, cum optimos uiros tum homines doctissimos.” “Recte,” inquit, “intelligis.” (Cicero, Fin. 2.119) When I had finished, Torquatus said “Although I would be able to respond myself, I prefer to refer these matters [sc. your arguments] to those who are more able than I am.” “You are, I believe, speaking of your colleagues, Siro and Philodemus, the best and most learned of men.” “You understand me perfectly.” (Sider 1997, adapted) Evidence of his teaching has also come to light over the three centuries, as a result of ongoing excavations at the Villa of the Papyri in Herculaneum, 25. Cic., Pis. 68–­72, 74; Red. sen. 14–­15; cf. Fam. 6.11.2. Sider 1997, 227–­34, collects the testimonia; in general on Philodemus, see Sider 1997. On Siro, see Kroll 1927, and Gigante 1990.

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which have yielded about 1,100 charred papyrus rolls, of which Philodemus is the author of the greatest number.26 Even before Horace names Philodemus in Sermones 1.2, he had already alluded to one of his amatory epigrams: . . . ne corporis optima Lyncei 90 contemplere oculis, Hypsaea caecior illa, quae mala sunt, spectes. “o crus, o bracchia” uerum depugis, nasuta, breui latere ac pede longo est. (Horace, Sat. 1.2.90–­94) Do not contemplate the perfections of the body with the eyes of Lynceus, while turning a blinder eye on the blemishes than Hypsaea. “O what a leg! O what arms!” But she is thin in the buttocks, has a large nose, a short waist and huge foot. The breathless praise of a woman’s physical features which Horace here parodies in line 92 (o crus, o bracchia) also derives from Philodemus, in his Epigram 12 on the physical attributes of his Oscan mistress Flora:27 ὢ ποδός, ὢ κνήμης, ὢ τῶν (ἀπόλωλα δικαίως) μηρῶν, ὢ γλουτῶν, ὢ κτενός, ὢ λαγόνων, ὢ ὤμοιν, ὢ μαστῶν, ὢ τοῦ ῥαδινοῖο τραχήλου, ὢ χειρῶν, ὢ τῶν (μαίνομαι) ὀμματίων, ὢ κακοτεχνοτάτου κινήματος, ὢ περιάλλων γλωττισμῶν, ὢ τῶν (θῦέ με) φωναρίων· εἰ δ᾽Ὀπικὴ καὶ Φλῶρα καὶ οὐκ ᾄδουσα τὰ Σαπφοῦς, καὶ Περσεὺς Ἰνδῆς ἠράσατ᾽Ἀνδρομέδης. (Philodemus, 12 Sider = Anth. Pal. 5.132 = 12 GP) O foot, O leg, O (I’m done for) those thighs, O buttocks, O bush, O flanks, O shoulders, O breasts, O delicate neck, O hands, O (madness!) those eyes, O wickedly skillful walk, O fabulous kisses, O (slay me!) her speech. 26.  On Philodemus’ library at Herculaneum, see Gigante 1987 [= Gigante 1995]. 27.  On the epigram, see Sider 1997, 103–­10; Newlands 2016.

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But if Flora is Oscan and does not sing Sappho’s verses, Perseus too fell in love with Indian Andromeda.

(Sider 1997)

Scholars have noted the contradiction between the erotic obsession enunciated in Philodemus’ amatory epigram and the Epicurean view of love that Horace ascribes to him in the second satire (quoted above, Sat. 1.2.121–­22).28 Indeed Sider (1997, 104) draws attention to “the dynamic point of the poem” precisely in its enactment of “the great difficulty if not impossibility of a man’s maintaining his sangfroid—­perhaps more specifically his Epicurean ataraxia—­in the contemplation of a beautiful woman.” It has also been suggested that in the lines where Horace names Philodemus and describes the prevarications of the expensive meretrix and the adulterous matrona (quoted above, Sat. 1.2.120–­21), he quotes from a third epigram by Philodemus, no longer extant.29 Still other scholars have drawn attention to the similarity of the sentiment expressed in these lines to that of yet another epigram by Philodemus: πέντε δίδωσιν ἑνὸς τῇ δείνᾳ ὁ δεῖνα τάλαντα καὶ βινεῖ φρίσσων καί, μὰ τόν, οὐδὲ καλήν· πέντε δ᾽ἐγῶ δραχμὰς τῶν δώδεκα Λυσιανάσσῃ, καὶ βινῶ πρὸς τῷ κρείσσονα καὶ φανερῶς. πάντως ἤτοι ἐγὼ φρένας οὐκ ἔχω ἢ τό γε λοιπὸν τοὺς κείνου πελέκει δεῖ διδύμους ἀφελεῖν. (Philodemus, 22 Sider = Anth. Pal. 5.126 = 25 GP) Mr. X gives Mrs. Y five talents for one favor, and he screws, shivering with fear, one who is, what’s more, God knows, no beauty. I give five—­drachmas—­to Lysianassa for the twelve favors, and what’s more, I screw a finer woman, and openly. Assuredly, either I’m crazy or, after all this, he should have his balls cut off with a knife. (Sider 1997) The suggestion that this epigram is also a model for Horace, at this point in the satire, is especially appealing because the Latin poet continues with the 28.  Sider 1997, 104. 29.  Cautadella 1950; Gigante 1993; Hunter 2006, 113–­14.

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reflection that such a woman (i.e., the prostitute implied by Horace’s verb stet in line 122)30 will not occasion the risk of surprise by an angry husband: 125 haec ubi supposuit dextro corpus mihi laeuom Ilia et Egeria est; do nomen quodlibet illi. nec uereor, ne, dum futuo, uir rure recurrat. (Horace, Sat. 1.2.125–­27) When this woman has placed her left side beneath my right, she is Ilia and Egeria to me; I give her any name I want. Nor do I fear lest, while I’m fucking, her husband return from the countryside. In addition to the thematic overlap between Horace’s lines and Philodemus’ epigram, we may note lexical overlap in the language of giving (δίδωσιν, Phld. 22.1; do, Hor., Sat. 1.2.125) and the low register of both poets’ description of sex (βινεῖ, Phld. 22.2; βινῶ, 22.4; futuo, Hor., Sat. 1.2.127), which coheres with Epicurus’ doctrinal commitment to “plain speaking,” as well as to the speakers’ avoidance of the fear engendered by an adulterous relationship (φρίσσων, Phld. 22.2; uereor, Hor., Sat. 1.2.127) in the Epicurean choice of sex with a prostitute. Richard Hunter has also observed that by naming Philodemus in this context, Horace activates the etymology of his model’s name—­“lover of the people”—­in order “to reinforce the message” of his satire.31 Philodemus himself does the same, in one of his own epigrams: ἠράσθην Δημοῦς Παφίης γένος· οὐ μέγα θαῦμα· καὶ Σαμίης Δημοῦς δεύτερον· οὐχὶ μέγα· καὶ πάλιν ῾Υσιακῆς Δημοῦς τρίτον· οὐκέτι ταῦτα παίγνια· καὶ Δημοῦς τέτρατον Ἀργολίδος. αὐταί που Μοῖραί με κατωνόμασαν Φιλόδημον, ὡς αἰεὶ Δημοῦς θερμὸς ἔχοι με πόθος. (Philodemus, 10 Sider = Anth. Pal. 5.115 = 6 GP) I fell in love with Demo from Paphos; no great surprise. And, second, with Demo from Samos; no big deal. And again, and third, with Demo from Hysiai—­this is no longer a joke—­and 30.  On the etymology of “prostitute,” from prostare, “stand in public,” see OED, s.v. 31.  Hunter 2006, 113–­14.

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fourth with Demo from Argos. It must have been the Moirai themselves who named me Philo-­demos, so that burning passion for a Demo would always take hold of me. (Sider 1997) Sider comments on the expectation engendered by the name Demo that a woman so named will sleep with many men.32 Philodemus’ joke that he sleeps with many Demos ups the ante, however, not only by turning the etymological tables from the prostitute’s name to his own, but also by scoring an Epicurean philosophical point.33 Such a concentrated nexus of allusions to Philodemus’ amatory epigrams in Sermones 1.2 underlines the impact not only of his literary achievement but also of his philosophical teaching on Horace, already in his earliest poetry. Horace invokes Philodemus’ erotic epigrams from the outset of his poetic career and, in so doing, he sketches his own amatory persona within the Epicurean ethical framework that David Sider and others have seen as a structural feature of Philodemus’ amatory epigrams. It is highly likely that Horace knew Philodemus personally, for he moved in literary and philosophical circles that overlapped with Philodemus’ own; and linguistic, thematic, and ethical debts to Philodemus’ philosophical writings, as well as to the full range of his epigrams, have been traced throughout his literary corpus.34 Horace’s relationship with Philodemus has always been evident, and in the last fifty years Marcello Gigante and David Armstrong—­among many others—­have ably documented the extent of the satirist’s debt to Epicurean ethics in general and Philodemus’ exposition of them in particular. Horace’s engagement with Epicurean ethics runs through all of his verse, from his first collection of Sermones to his late epistle to the Pisones, Ars Poetica. Epistle 1.4 constitutes an especially appealing example of his philosophically informed Epicurean wit:

32.  Sider (1997, 99) cites Meleager (AP 5.197, 172, 173) and Antipater (AP 6.175), as well as Philodemus himself (AP 12.173), for the same joke on the meaning of Demo; he also (1997, 100) cites Archilochus 207 W2, for the play on δῆμος as “prostitute.” The Latin elegists use the name Lais to similar effect: cf., e.g., Ov., Am. 1.5.12 (multis Lais amata uiris), with Hinds 1988, 5; cf. Prop. 2.6.1–­2. 33.  Sider 1997, 99. 34.  See, e.g., Armstrong 1993 and 2014; Freudenberg 1993, 139–­50; Gigante 1993; Yona 2018; Keith 2021.

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inter spem curamque, timores inter et iras omnem crede diem tibi diluxisse supremum: grata superueniet quae non sperabitur hora. me pinguem et nitidum bene curata cute uises, 15 cum ridere uoles Epicuri de grege porcum. (Horace, Epist. 1.4.12–­16) Amid hopes and cares, amid fears and passions, believe that every day that has dawned is your last. Welcome will come to you another hour unhoped-­for. As for me, when you want a laugh, you will find me in fine fettle, fat and sleek, a hog from Epicurus’ herd. (Fairclough 1926) Addressed to the elegist Albius Tibullus (Albi, 1.4.1),35 Horace obliquely exhorts him to make the most of his blessings, counseling him to remember the Epicurean principle that every day might be his last (1.4.12–­14). Epicurus explains in the Epistle to Menoeceus that “the wise man neither rejects life, nor fears death” (Ep. Men. 126, ὁ δὲ σοφὸς οὔτε παραιτεῖται τὸ ζῆν οὔτε φοβεῖται τὸ μὴ ζῆν), and Philodemus argues, more fully, in his treatise On death (38.14–­24) that: the sensible man, having received that which can secure the whole of what is sufficient for a happy life, immediately then for the rest (of his life) goes about laid out for burial, and he profits by one day as (he would) by eternity, and when (the day) is taken away, he neither surprising nor goes along (with them) as one falling somewhat short of the best life, but going forward and receiving in a remarkable manner the addition provided by time, as one who has met with a paradoxical piece of good luck, he is grateful to circumstances even for this.36 Horace condenses the familiar Epicurean precept into two resonant lines of Latin verse (1.4.13–­14), preceded by a line summarizing the painful pas35. On Epist. 1.4, and the identification of the Albius addressed in it as Albius Tibullus, see Kiessling—­Heinze 1908 ad loc.; for skepticism about the identification, see Mankin 1994, 133. 36.  Henry 2009, 89.

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sions, Epicurus designed his philosophy cure (1.4.12). The epistle concludes with a standing invitation to Albius to visit Horace (1.4.15–­16), presented as a model Epicurean, right down to his self-­characterization as a sleek, fat pig. For the Epicureans were branded as swinish because of their supposed hedonism. Thus, Cicero speaks of Philodemus’ patron Piso as “our Epicurus, product of a pigsty, not a philosophy school” (Pis. 37), and recalling the statue of a pig found at the Villa dei Papiri in Herculaneum.37 Horace’s closing phrase, Epicuri de grege porcum, similarly puns on this association, as grex means both “herd” and “philosophical school” (cf. Sat. 2.3.44, Chrysippi . . . grex). Far less well-­studied than Horace’s Epicureanism is Vergil’s schooling in the philosophy. The biographical tradition associates him with the Epicurean master Siro, based in Naples,38 and although the critical fashion thirty years ago was to dismiss this testimony, more recent scholarship has accepted Vergil’s close ties to Siro and Philodemus. Indeed, Vergil’s relationship with the latter has been clarified with the discovery of a number of Herculaneum papyri, which document the poet as one of the four addressees of at least three of the ten books in Philodemus’ On Vices (PHerc. 253 fr. 12.4, title unknown; PHerc. 1082.11.3, “On Flattery”; P.Herc., Paris 2, “On Calumny”).39 Particularly important is a still extant papyrus fragment naming Philodemus’ four Roman addressees as Plotius, Varius, Vergil, and Quintilius: ὦ Πλώτιε και Οὐα-­ ρ[ι]ε καὶ Οὐεργ[ί]λιε καὶ Κοιντ[ί-­ λιε.

(P.Herc., Paris. 2)

O Plotius and Va-­ rius and Vergil and Quinti-­ lius. Dated to the middle of the first century BCE, the books consistently address the four friends in the same order (P.Herc., Paris 2): ὦ Πλώτιε και Οὐά|ρ[ι]ε καὶ Οὐεργ[ί]λιε καὶ Κοιντ[ί|λιε. (“O Plotius and Varius, Vergil 37.  Nisbet 1961, 98 ad loc. 38.  The ancient lives are conveniently collected and translated in Ziolkowski and Putnam 2008, 179–­403. 39.  Gigante and Capasso 1989; Gigante 2004, 92–­95; Blank 2019.

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and Quintilius.”)40 Here, Vergil is addressed in the company of the very Epicurean comrades with whom his biographer Probus reports that “he lived for many years  .  .  . in wealthy leisure, as a follower of the sect of Epicurus, enjoying outstanding harmony and friendship with Quintilius, Tucca, and Varius” (uixit pluribus annis . . . liberali in otio secutus Epicuri sectam, insigni concordia et familiaritate usus Quintili, Tuccae et Vari).41 The evidence of Horace’s first book of Sermones, published in 35 BCE just as Vergil was embarking on the composition of the Georgics, supplements the documentary evidence and confirms Vergil’s standing as an integral member of this community of Epicurean students.42 Recent Anglo-­American scholarship has supported the insights of European scholars, who have traced Vergil’s extensive engagement with Epicurean ethics and poetics in his early verse.43 We may therefore confine our discussion here to the ethical import of labor, “work,” in the Georgics, which has long attracted critical attention. Vergil introduces the overarching theme of his poem on farming as labor improbus (G. 1.145–­46): labor omnia uicit / improbus et duris urgens in rebus egestas (“unrelenting toil has overwhelmed everything, and pressing need in harsh circumstances”).44 Yet, in his famous praise of farmers and the farming life at the end of the second Georgic, he distances these subjects from the Hesiodic picture of unremitting toil that he articulates in the first book, and instead celebrates the farmer’s life as one of idyllic ease: O fortunatos nimium, sua si bona norint, agricolas! quibus ipsa procul discordibus armis fundit humo facilem uictum iustissima tellus 460 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .   at secura quies et nescia fallere uita diues opum uariarum, at latis otia fundis, speluncae uiuique lacus, at frigida tempe mugitusque boum mollesque sub arbore somni 470 non absunt . . . (Vergil, G. 2.458–­60, 467–­70) 40.  Armstrong 2014, 98–­100. 41. Probus, Vita Verg., p. 43 Diehl; Cf. Tac., Dial. 13.1. 42. Hor., Sat. 1.5.40 (Plotius et Varius Sinuessae Vergiliusque), 1.10.81 (Plotius et Varius, Maecenas Vergiliusque); see Sider 1997, 19–­23. 43.  Davis 2012 (cf. Davis 2004); Freer 2014, 2019; both updating, e.g., Paratore 1939; Alfonsi 1959; Traina 1965; Lipka 2001. 44.  I use the text of Mynors 1969 for Vergil’s Georgics; translations are my own, though I have sometimes consulted Fairclough rev. Goold 1999.

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O farmers, happy beyond measure, could they but know their blessings! For them, far from the clash of arms, most righteous Earth pours forth from her soil an easy living . . . And they enjoy leisure free from anxiety, a life free of deceit and they are rich in a variety of resources. Nor do they lack the peace of broad holdings, caverns, and natural lakes, cool valleys, and the lowing of oxen, and soft slumbers beneath the trees . . . Scholars have long debated how to reconcile the divergent pictures of the farming life that emerge in these two passages, and some have even proposed that Vergil espouses a Stoic line in the Georgics, in part because of the poem’s emphasis on labor.45 But Vergil’s shifting presentation of labor in the poem finds a suggestive parallel in Philodemus’ sustained recalibration of the costs and benefits of toil and trouble in the administration of property in his treatise “On Property Management,” De Oeconomia. Philodemus accepts the Epicurean premise that the acquisition and management of wealth entail continuous mental attention and often physical labor, namely, the care and toil Epicurus advises us to avoid:46 . . . τὸ μέντοι τὰς ἐργασίας οὕτω νενεμῆ-­ σθαι προσήκειν, ὅπως μὴ ἅ-­ μα [κ]ινδυνεύῃ πᾶσιν, ἰδιώ-­ τηι [μ]ὲν παραινούμενον λό-­ γον ἔχει, φιλόσοφος δ᾽ οὔτ᾽ ἐρ-­ γάζεται, κυρίως εἰπεῖν, οὔτ’, ἂν ἐρ[γά]σηταί ποτε, πᾶσι [φ]αίνε-­ τα[ι κιν]δυνεύειν, ὥστε πα-­ ρα [κελε]ύσεως τοῦ μὴ ποεῖν δ]εῖσθ[α]ι·

(Philodemus, De oec. col. 11)

. . . That it is appropriate to have to distribute the tasks so as not to endanger all the possessions at once is, of course, 45.  E.g., Miles 1980; Morgan 1999. 46.  Cf. Epicurus, Ep. Men. 128; Lucr. 3.59–­64, 5.1430–­33; and see further Erler and Schofield 1999; Gale 2000, 147–­52; Tsouna 2007, 13–­51; Tsouna 2012.

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good advice for an ordinary person. But the philosopher, properly speaking, does not work, nor, if he ever works, does he seem to put everything at risk so as [to need exhortation] not to do it. Nonetheless, he goes on to advance the Epicurean argument that “a peaceful and happy life is obtained not by avoiding all toils and efforts but by opting for things that may involve a certain amount of trouble at present but relieve us of much greater concerns in the future,”47 such as health, wealth, and friendship (col. 13). Thus, he argues that rational calculation according to the Epicurean hedonistic calculus suggests that the possession and administration of wealth enable one to live more pleasantly than does the absence of wealth (col. 13–­15). Indeed, Philodemus credits Epicurus’ friend Metrodoros, another of the founding fathers of the Garden, with establishing (through “continuous effort”) “that the occasional disturbances, cares, and labors are far more useful in the long run for the best way of life than the opposite choice” (col. 22.9–­16: Ἡ συνέχουσα μέν-­ / τοι γ᾽ἀνάτασις αὐτῶι γέγο-­ / νεν πρὸς τὸ μακρῶι μᾶλλον / λυσιτελεῖν τάς ποτε γινο-­ / μένας ὀχλήσεις καὶ φροντί-­ / δας καὶ πραγματείας τῆς / ἐναντίας αἱρέ[σ]εως εἰς / διαγωγὴν τὴν ἀρίστην).48 In assessing different sources of income according to Epicurean ethical principles, moreover, Philodemus is highly laudatory of the landowner’s way of life, as long as the master of the estate does not work the land with his own hands, deeming this way of life “appropriate for the good man. For it brings the least possible involvement with men from whom many disagreeable things follow, and a pleasant life, a leisurely retreat with one’s friends, and a most dignified income” (col. 23.9–­18: τὸ δ᾽῾ἄλλων,/ ἔχοντα γῆν᾽ κατὰ σπουδαῖ-­ / ον· ἥκιστα γὰρ ἐπιπλοκὰς ἔ-­ / χει πρὸς ἀνθρώπους, ἐξ ὧν / ἀηδίαι πολλαὶ παρακολου-­ / θοῦσι, καὶ διαγωγὴν ἐπιτερ-­ / πῆ καὶ μετὰ φίλων ἀναχώρη-­ / σιν εὔσχολον καὶ παρὰ τοῖς / σώφροσι]ν εὐσχημονεστά-­ / την πρόσοδον). Vergil’s characterization of labor throughout the Georgics as troublesome is consistent with the Epicurean principle that work is unpleasant and there47.  Tsouna 2012, xxvi. 48.  This view can be paralleled in Epicurus’ writings: cf. Ep. Men. 129–­30; Sent. Vat. 71, 73.

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fore to be avoided. Yet in the praise of the farming life that concludes the second Georgic he suggests that due attention to agricultural labor can result in the farmer’s enjoyment of the very felicity that Philodemus accepts as the goal of property management: agricola incuruo terram dimouit aratro: hic anni labor, hinc patriam paruosque nepotes sustinet, hinc armenta boum meritosque iuuencos. 515 nec requies, quin aut pomis exuberet annus aut fetu pecorum aut Cerealis mergite culmi, prouentuque oneret sulcos atque horrea uincat. uenit hiems: teritur Sicyonia baca trapetis, 520 glande sues laeti redeunt, dant arbuta siluae; et uarios ponit fetus autumnus, et alte mitis in apricis coquitur uindemia saxis. interea dulces pendent circum oscula nati, casta pudicitiam seruat domus ubera uaccae 525 lactea demittunt, pinguesque in gramine laeto inter se aduersis luctantur cornibus haedi. ipse dies agitat festos fususque per herbam, ignis ubi in medio et socii cratera coronant, te libans, Lenaee, uocat pecorisque magistris. 530 uelocis iaculi certamina ponit in ulmo, corporaque agresti nudant praedura palaestrae. (Vergil, G. 2.513–­31) The farmer has parted the earth with his curved plough; here is his year’s work, hence he sustains his country and small grandsons, hence his herds of cattle and deserving bullocks. Nor is there respite, but the year abounds with fruits, or the offspring of the herds, or with the sheaves of Ceres’ corn, loads the furrows with produce and overwhelms the storehouses. Winter has come; Sicyon’s olive is crushed in the press, the swine return fattened on acorns, the forests give arbutus; autumn serves up varied produce, and high on the sunny rocks the mellow grape clusters mature. Meanwhile his sweet children hang on his kisses; his pure home preserves its modesty; the cows droop milky udders, and on the fertile grass,

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butting horns, the fat kids struggle with one another. The farmer himself celebrates the holidays stretched out on the grass, with a fire in the middle and his comrades wreathing the bowl, and offering you a libation he calls on you, Bacchus, and for the herders he sets contests of the flying javelin on an elm, or they bare their hardy bodies for country wrestling. Despite the toil and lack of respite that the estate owner endures—­cares which are, on the face of it, antithetical to Epicurean pleasure—­the landowner enjoys an idyllic life in his possession of the bounty of the seasons that support a flourishing household and festal board for the friends deemed so important in Epicurean philosophy.49 The passage resumes a slightly earlier description (2.458–­74, partially quoted above) of the “easy living” (2.460) the earth supplies to farmers, their carefree tranquility (2.467), leisure on broad holdings (2.468), and peaceful sleep (2.470), characteristic of the ideal Epicurean life.50 These unqualified goods are there set into strong contrast with the urban cares provoked by political ambition and avaricious luxury (2.461–­66),51 so deleterious to mortal happiness in the Epicurean world view. Even in these idyllic portraits of the farmer’s life, however, Vergil recognizes the labor that subtends the landowner’s felicity, with a glancing reference to the youths’ experience of work (2.472) and the farmer’s year-­round toil (2.514). Both Horace and Vergil can thus be seen to draw on, and deploy in their verse, the Epicurean ethics articulated in Philodemus’ epigrams and treatises.

III. Vitam beatiorem: Martial and Statius After the political turmoil of the late Republic and triumviral period, Epicurean philosophy is conventionally viewed, on the basis of prose evidence,

49.  Cf., e.g., Κύριαι Δόξαι 27; Sent. Vat. 23, 52; cf. Phld., De oec. col. 15, 18. 50.  Space precludes discussion of Epicurean themes across Vergil’s oeuvre, but it is striking to note that Vergil replays some of this terminology, such as secura quies and requies, in the Aeneid, especially as placida pax and placida quies, at key moments (e.g., 1.49, 4.5, 7.46, 8.325, 9.445), to draw on their Epicurean coloring and to signal the contrast with epic values. I am grateful to one of the volume’s referees for this observation. 51.  The lines are a pastiche of citations from Lucretius and Varius’ De morte: see Thomas 1988 and Mynors 1991 ad loc.

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as ceding ground to the Stoics in the early Empire.52 The evidence of poetry attests, however, to the ongoing dynamism of Epicurean philosophy in the imperial period. As before, however, this evidence presents challenges, again because the continuities that one can trace between Republican and imperial poets go hand-­in-­hand with the historical specificity of literary developments leading to the newly prominent—­but supposedly less “serious”—­ verse genres that form the core of the evidence itself: Martial’s epigrams and Statius’ occasional verse. In general, the disparagement of “Silver Age” poetry as less substantive and more superficial than its “Golden Age” predecessor can only have told against its apparent value as a philosophical “source.” But once these prejudices are put aside, imperial poetry comes into its own as a part of the broader discussion that this chapter undertakes. Martial’s most celebrated epigram offers a useful starting point: Vitam quae faciant beatiorem iucundissime Martialis, haec sunt: res non parta labore sed relicta; non ingratus ager, focus perennis; lis numquam, toga rara, mens quieta; uires ingenuae, salubre corpus; prudens simplicitas, pares amici; conuictus facilis, sine arte mensa; nox non ebria sed soluta curis; non tristis torus et tamen pudicus; somnus qui faciat breues tenebras: quod sis esse uelis nihilque malis; summum nec metuas diem nec optes.

5

10

(Martial 10.47)

Most delightful Martial, these are the things that make for a happier life: wealth not acquired from work but inherited; land not unproductive; a fire all the year round; lawsuits never, a gown rarely worn, a mind at peace; a gentleman’s strength, a healthy body; guilelessness not naive, friends 52.  Erler 2009 discusses this widespread view and assesses the prose textual and material documentary evidence for the continuing vitality of Epicurean philosophy under the principate. He does not consider the evidence of Latin poetry.

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of like station; the ease of intimate association; a table without frills; a night not drunken but free of cares; a marriage bed not austere and yet modest; sleep to make the dark hours short; wish to be what you are and wish nothing better; don’t fear your final day, nor yet pray for it. (Shackleton Bailey 1993, adapted) From the outset Martial signals the philosophical program of his epigram, for he announces his theme as the good life (uitam . . . beatiorem), the goal of all ancient ethics.53 Martial’s phrasing takes up the closing formulation of Horace’s Sermones 2.4 (95: uitae praeceptae beatae), on the same theme of the happy life, addressed to the Epicurean author Catius (discussed above).54 Like Horace’s satire, Martial’s epigram takes the form of a list of precepts, but instead of lingering over the pleasures of the table as Horace reports Catius doing in Sermones 2.4, the epigrammatist enumerates the physical and mental requirements for the life free from care that Epicurus commends of the philosophical sage in Κύριαι Δόξαι 17 (ὁ δίκαιος ἀταρακτότατος, “the just man is most free from disturbance”). Martial shapes every line not only to signal his Horatian poetics but also to impart Epicurean ethics, drawing throughout on Epicurus’ maxims, from his opening statement of what makes for the good life (1, uita beatior); through the renunciation of negotium (5, toga rara) and embrace of tranquility (5, mens quieta; 9, nox non ebria sed soluta curis; 11, somnus qui faciat breues tenebras)55 in a country retreat (4, non ingratus ager);56 to the joys of friendship (7, pares amici), congenial company (8, conuictus facilis),57 and plain fare at table (9, sine arte mensa). Martial’s epigram distils Epicurean ethics into thirteen short lines. These principles are instantiated in the epigram that follows, a dinner 53.  The epigram is discussed in Keith 2018, 319–­28. For the central problematic of the “good life” in classical philosophy, see Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics 1.1, with Annas 1993, 27–­46. For pleasure as the highest good in Epicurean thought, see Nikolsky 2001; Woolf 2009; O’Keefe 2010, 111–­15; Gordon 2012, 109–­38. Cicero offers a concise statement of the Epicurean position at De finibus 1.29–­42. 54.  On Martial’s debt to Horatian satire in Epigrams 10, see Merli 2006; Keith 2018. On Epicurean themes in Martial, see Innocenti 1972; Heilmann 1984; Keith 2018 and 2020. 55.  Woolf 2009; O’Keefe 2010, 117–­27. 56.  Clay 2009. 57.  Glad 1996; Konstan 1997, 108–­13, 141–­44; O’Keefe 2010, 147–­54; Armstrong 2011.

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invitation addressed to six of the poet’s boon companions (10.48).58 As a genre, the invitation poem has been identified as an Epicurean literary form and associated especially with Philodemus (27 Sider) and his young Roman literary friend Horace (cf., e.g., Carm. 1.20, 4.12; Epist. 1.5).59 To this select company of friends, Martial proposes a simple repast of vegetarian appetizers (7–­13), for the most part provender from his garden (7–­8, . . . mihi uilica maluas / adtulit et uarias quas habet hortus opes); a single main course (13, una ponetur cenula mensa) consisting mostly of scraps (15, offellae), more greens (16, et faba fabrorum prototomique rudes), and leftovers (17–­18, cenisque tribus iam perna superstes / additur); fruit for dessert (18); and a modest local vintage for the drinking party after dinner (19–­20). The simplicity of Martial’s menu aligns with his espousal of a plain table in the preceding epigram (10.47.8, quoted above), and the abundant vegetarian offerings are consistent with the evidence for Epicurean conuiuia in antiquity.60 Over the wine, moreover, Martial promises the jokes and frank speech approved by the sect (10.48.21–­24; cf. Phld. 27 Sider).61 The two epigrams are among the most philosophically explicit in Martial’s oeuvre and imply that an Epicurean ethical stance underwrites the tenth book.62 The programmatic salience of Epicurus’ precepts to the book is hinted at already in 10.33, an elegant compliment to Munatius Gallus, in which Martial reprises the literary agenda set out in the opening movement of the book.63 Martial praises Gallus not only as “more guileless than the ancient Sabines,” but also as one who “outdoes the old Cecropian in goodwill” (10.33.1–­2, simplicior priscis, Munati Galle, Sabinis, / Cecropium superas qui bonitate senem). Shackleton Bailey has identified this Athenian ancient as Epicurus, rather 58. Cf. Kropp apud Damschen and Heil 2004, 190: “Das Epigramm [10.48]  .  .  . schließt sich an das wohl bekannteste Gedicht Martials (X 47) an und führt dessen Thema, die vita beata an einem konkreten Beispiel vor Augen.” On cycles in Martial, see Barwick 1958; Sullivan 1991, 218–­19; Merli 1998; Spisak 2002, all with further bibliography. On the Epicurean contours of 10.48, see Vallat 2008, 65; Buongiovanni 2012, 237; Keith 2018, 328–­34. 59.  See Tait 1941, 68–­70; Sider 1997, 153; cf. Buongiovanni 2012, 237–­41. 60.  On Epicurus’ vegetarianism, see Nisbet and Hubbard 1970, 356, citing Cic., Tusc. 5.89: ipse [sc. Epicurus] quam paruo est contentus! nemo de tenui uictu plura dixit (“with how little was he himself content! No one has spoken at more length about a restricted diet”). 61.  See Philodemus, On Frank Criticism, in the edition of Konstan et al. 1998. 62.  Martial’s tenth book of Epigrams is conventionally treated from a political perspective: see, e.g., Fearnley 2003; on the book’s Epicurean program, see Keith 2020. 63.  On the literary program of Epigrams 10, see also Spisak 2002. On Munatius Gallus, see Vallat 2008, 83.

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than Socrates, on the basis of Diogenes Laertius’ description of the former as exhibiting “unsurpassed good will to all men” and “unsurpassed qualities of goodness” (Diog. Laert. 10.9).64 Martial strategically couples his addressee’s good nature with the benign nature of his own verse: ut tu, si uiridi tinctos aerugine uersus forte malus liuor dixerit esse meos, ut facis, a nobis abigas, nec scribere quemquam talia contendas carmina qui legitur. Hunc seruare modum nostri nouere libelli, parcere personis, dicere de uitiis.

5

(Martial 10.33.5–­10)

If perchance evil envy has said that verses dipped in green verdigris are mine, please drive ill will away from me, as you do, and maintain that neither does anyone who is read write such poems. My little books know how to observe this limit: to spare persons, to tell of vices. The epigram looks back to the programmatic opening sequence, especially 10.3, which disavows vituperative verse, and 10.4, which celebrates the practical human lessons on offer in his epigrams by contrast with the mythological fabulae on display in epic (10.4.9–­10): non hic Centauros, non Gorgonas Harpyiasque / inuenies: hominem pagina nostra sapit (“you won’t find Centaurs, Gorgons, and Harpies here: my page smacks of humanity”).65 But in 10.33, Martial is newly transparent about the Epicurean profile of his tenth book, and not only in his coded allusion to Epicurus in the phrase Cecropium senem (10.33.2). For his reference to the limit (hunc modum, 10.33.9) that the literary program of his tenth book observes recalls the fundamental principle of limit (Latin finis, modus) that underpins the systematization of both physics and ethics in Epicurus’ thought.66 Lucretius’ famous phrase “the deep-­set boundary-­stone” (Lucr. 1.77, alte terminus haerens) testifies to 64.  Shackleton Bailey 1993, 2.347n58. 65.  Martial’s mockery of the fantastical creatures of mythological epic in this couplet derives from the opening of Horace’s Ars Poetica (1–­5), which derides such confusion of categories in markedly Epicurean terms: see Armstrong 1993. 66.  On limit in Epicurus’ thought, see Ep. Men. 133; Κύριαι Δόξαι 3, 10, 11, 15, 18–­ 21; Sent. Vat. 25, 59, 63.

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the limits of the physical universe and finds a parallel in the Epicurean ethical precept that empty (unnecessary and futile) desires are insatiable (i.e., fail to recognize the limits of true pleasure)67 while natural desires are readily fulfilled (i.e., have a fixed term or limit; cf. Cic., Fin. 1.19, finitas habet cupiditates). Statius’ Silvae offer further evidence of informed Epicurean adherents among the Roman elite in the Flavian period. In Silvae 1.3, for example, Statius describes the goddesses Voluptas and Venus decorating the villa of a certain Manilius Vopiscus with their attributes: ipsa manu tenera tecum scripsisse Voluptas . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  . . . tunc Venus Idaliis unxit fastigia sucis permulsitque comis blandumque reliquit honorem sedibus et uolucres uetuit discedere natos. (Statius, Silv. 1.3.9–­12) Pleasure herself with her own delicate hand to have traced with you . . . Then Venus poured Idalian perfumes upon the rooftops and caressed them with her hair, and left a winsome charm upon the house and forbade her winged sons to leave. (Mozley 1982, adapted) Voluptas is Greek Hedone, “Pleasure,” the highest goal of Epicurean philosophy,68 while Venus is the Roman goddess of love and procreation, the tutelary divinity of Lucretius’ De Rerum Natura and addressee of the hymn with which his poem opens (1.1–­42). In his elegant retreat, Vopiscus enjoys Epicurean serenity and a healthy elegance that eschews luxurious indolence: scilicet hic illi meditantur pondera mores, hic premitur fecunda quies uirtusque serena fronte grauis sanusque nitor luxuque carentes deliciae, quas ipse suis digressus Athenis

90

67.  E.g., Epicurus, Sent. Vat. 59; cf. Cic., Fin. 1.13, inanium autem cupiditatum nec modus ullus nec finis inueniri potest (“but for empty desires neither is any limit nor end able to be discovered”). 68.  On the Epicurean goal of pleasure, see above nn. 14 and 49.

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mallet deserto senior Gargettius horto.

(Statius, Silv. 1.3.90–­94)

Indeed, here that serious mind broods on weighty themes; here silence shrouds a fruitful quiet and grave virtue tranquil-­ browed, sane elegance and comfort that is not luxury, such as the Gargettian sage had himself preferred and left his own Athens and his garden behind him. (Mozley 1982) Vopiscus takes “the Gargettian sage,” Epicurus, as his model for a life of philosophical tranquility. Michael Dewar has therefore suggested that “it is possible to read this poem . . . as subtly communicating political quietism, albeit with a stronger and clearer emphasis on the idea that contentment with one’s private wealth and a devotion to philosophy and literature are to be seen as a specifically Epicurean way of life.”69 Statius may offer an even more pointed political program of withdrawal from the imperial rat race in his description of the villa of Pollius Felix in Silvae 2.2: viue, Midae gazis et Lydo ditior auro, Troica et Euphratae supra diademata felix, quem non ambigui fasces, non mobile vulgus, non leges, non castra terent; qui pectore magno spemque metumque domas uoto sublimior omni, exemptus fatis indignantemque refellens Fortunam; dubio quem non in turbine rerum deprendet suprema dies, sed abire paratum ac plenum uita. nos, uilis turba, caducis deseruire bonis semperque optare parati, spargimur in casus: celsa tu mentis ab arce despicis errantes humanaque gaudia rides. tempus erat cum te geminae suffragia terrae diriperent, celsusque duas ueherere per urbes, inde Dicarcheis multum uenerande colonis hinc adscite meis, pariterque his largus et illis ac iuuenile calens plectrique errore superbus. 69.  Dewar 2016, 41.

125

130

135

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at nunc discussa rerum caligine uerum aspicis. illo alii rursus iactantur in alto, et tua securos portus placidamque quietem intrauit non quassa ratis.

140 (Statius, Silv. 2.2, 121–­41)

Live, enriched beyond Midas’ wealth and Lydian gold, blest above the diadems of Euphrates and of Troy; whom neither fickle power nor the shifting mob, nor laws nor camps can vex, whose great heart, raised sublime over all desire, quells hope and fear, who are beyond the will of Fate and baffles the enmity of Fortune; the last day shall find you not bewildered in the maze of things, but sated with life and ready to depart. But we, a worthless folk, slaves at the beck of transient blessings and wishes ever new, are tossed from chance to chance: from your mind’s citadel you look down upon our wanderings and laugh at human joys. There was a time when the loyalty of two lands tore you apart, and you were borne in triumph through two cities, there worshipped, as is meet, by Dicarchus’ folk, here made their own by mine, and bountiful alike to these and those, in the full fire of youth and proud of your wandering Muse. But now the mists are dispersed, and you behold the truth —­others in their turn are tossed upon that sea—­ and your unshaken bark has entered a peaceful haven and a quiet resting place. (Mozley 1982) In his youth, Pollius had entertained political ambitions (2.2.137), standing for election in both Puteoli (his city by birth) and Naples (his city by adoption). With age, however, has come Epicurean wisdom: Statius celebrates the literal refuge from stormy seas that Pollius has attained, a metaphorical “carefree harbor and peaceful quiet” for the “unshattered ship” of his life (2.2.137–­41). The image of the harbor and safe haven is closely associated with Epicurus’ teaching:70

70.  Clay 2004.

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οὐ νέος μακαριστός, ἀλλὰ γέρων βεβιωκὼς καλῶς· ὁ γὰρ νέος ἀκμῇ πολὺς ὑπὸ τῆς τύχης ἑτεροφρονῶν πλάζεται· ὁ δὲ γέρων καθάπερ ἐν λιμένι τῷ γήρᾳ καθώρμικεν τὰ πρότερον δυσελπιστούμενα τῶν ἀγαθῶν ἀσφαλεῖ κατακλείσας χάριτι. (Epicurus, Sent. Vat. 17) It is not the young man who is to be congratulated for his blessedness, but the old man who has lived well. For the young man at the full peak of his powers wanders senselessly, owing to chance. But the old man has let down anchor in old age as though in a harbor, since he has secured the goods about which he was previously not confident by means of his secure sense of gratitude. It is therefore highly appropriate that in this Epicurean setting, Pollius should devote his time to philosophy and literature, “meditating on the philosophical precepts of the Gargettian teacher” (2.112–­13, hic seu sidereas exercet Pollius artes, / seu uoluit monitus, quos dat Gargettius auctor). Statius also draws on Lucretius in his characterization of Pollius “as an uncomplaining sage at the banquet of life who, when his last day has come, is ‘ready to depart and sated with life’” (2.2.128–­29).71 In this image, as Michael Dewar notes, Statius reworks “Lucretius’ personified Nature rebuking the unenlightened malingerer with his reluctance to leave the party even though he has eaten his fill at life’s table”72 (Lucr. 3.938–­39): cur non ut plenus uitae conuiua recedes / aequo animoque capis securam, stulte, quietem? (“Why, you fool, do you not retire from the feast of life like a satisfied guest and with equanimity resign yourself to undisturbed rest?”). Statius emphasizes Pollius’ Epicurean detachment still more in his commemoration of the villa owner “as one who  .  .  . can look down from ‘the lofty citadel of the mind’ and laugh at the folly of men who are ‘enslaved to the fleeting goods’ of fortune and worldly ambition” (2.2.129–­32). As Dewar observes, these lines suggest not only “the detachment of Lucretius’ gods in their ‘quiet seat’ but more specifically the ataraxia of the Epicurean sage evoked in the opening lines of his second book”:73

71.  Dewar 2016, 43. 72.  Dewar 2016, 43. 73.  Dewar 2016, 43.

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suaue, mari magno turbantibus aequora uentis, e terra magnum alterius spectare laborem; non quia uexari quemquamst iucunda uoluptas, sed quibus ipse malis careas quia cernere suaue est.

(Lucretius 2.1–­4)

It is comforting, when winds are whipping up the waters of the vast sea, to watch from land the severe trials of another person: not that anyone’s distress is a cause of agreeable pleasure; but it is com-­ forting to see from what troubles you yourself are exempt. (Smith 2001) In this regard, as Carole Newlands has suggested, Pollius’ Epicurean villa “provides a provocative counterpart to imperial splendor and autocratic rule.”74 Statius’ poem hints at the possibility of real political danger, of the kind that can be linked to Domitian’s suspicions about intellectuals (for more on Statius’ relations with Domitian, see Basil Dufallo’s essay, chapter 4). As Newlands observes, “in the year of the publication of this poem, 93 CE, Domitian expelled all philosophers from Rome and Italy as part of a political purge.”75

IV. Conclusion As the expulsion of philosophers from Rome in the mid-­Republic opens this survey of Roman Epicureanism, so it concludes with Domitian’s expulsion of philosophers toward the end of his reign. Conventional histories of Roman Epicureanism emphasize the diffusion of evidence for the sect in the Principate to the margins of Empire: Diogenes of Oenoanda is the poster boy for this narrative, but Diogenianus, Celsus, and even Lucian of Samosata have been adduced as witnesses of the continuing vitality of Epicureanism in the high Empire.76 By contrast, this study has argued for the ongoing significance of Epicurean philosophy in the imperial metropolis from the mid-­ second century BCE (in the verse of Lucilius), through the late Republic and 74.  Newlands 2011, 121, citing Suet., Dom. 10.3; cf. Coleman 1990, 347. 75.  Newlands 2011, 186. 76.  On the wide diffusion of Epicureanism in prose authors, both Greek and Latin, of the imperial period, see Ferguson and Hershbell 1990; Hershbell 1992; Timpe 2000; and Erler 2009. On Diogenes of Oenoanda, see Smith 1993, 2000, 2003.

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early Principate (in that of Lucretius, Horace, and Vergil), to the end of the first century CE (in that of Statius and Martial). No Greek or Latin prose statements of Epicurean philosophy are extant from the Italian peninsula beyond Philodemus’ valuable if fragmentary treatises and Cicero’s relentlessly hostile treatments. The quarrel between poetry and philosophy is of ancient origin, and disciplinary silos today keep students of Latin literature and scholars of ancient philosophy well apart in our ivory towers of specialized research. But I hope to have been able to adduce enough evidence of the Roman poets’ interest in, and familiarity with, all aspects of Epicureanism to document the urgent need to break down these self-­imposed disciplinary boundaries and pool our resources to advance our understanding of the broad and enduring welcome Epicurean philosophy found in ancient Rome.

Part 2

Assimilating Hellenistic Rulers

Three

Augustus’ Hellenistic Divinization in Ovid’s Fasti and Suetonius’ Lives of the Caesars Darja Šterbenc Erker

In this chapter, I discuss Augustus’ appropriation of Hellenism in the religious sphere by tracing literary reflections on it in the works of Ovid and Suetonius. I focus on the emperor’s use of various Hellenistic models for his religious self-­fashioning as a divine person and the son of a god. In the ancient Near East, kings represented themselves as approaching the sphere of the gods and seeking immortality by accomplishing heroic deeds and military victories.1 The divinization of a mortal was a well-­known narrative in the Hellenistic world, which served as a legitimizing mechanism for a Hellenistic king’s self-­representation as a god. In Egypt, Ptolemy II followed the model of previous kings by divinizing and worshipping his parents as “savior gods.” Ptolemy also let himself and his sister-­wife Arsinoë II be worshiped as “sibling gods” to validate their right to rule by their god-­given charisma. There was a temple in Alexandria to the siblings, but Ptolemy linked their cult to the cult of Alexander the Great, which he moved from Memphis to Alexandria. For Ptolemy, Alexander the Great represented a divine warrior-­ leader and empire builder. Roman leaders from Scipio Africanus, who defeated Hannibal in the second century BCE, to Pompey, Crassus, Caesar, Mark Antony, and Octavian all harkened back to Alexander the Great in presenting their proximity to the gods. 1.  Pollini 2012, 162. I want to thank Celia E. Schultz (University of Michigan), Andreas Heil (University of Vienna), and the coeditor of the volume, Riemer Faber, for reading this paper. The research that led to the writing of this chapter forms part of a project funded by the German Research Foundation: “Religion in Suetonius’ Lives of the Caesars.”

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However, not all responses of the Roman literary elite to divinization of mortals were enthusiastic. The aim of this chapter is to compare the ways in which Ovid and Suetonius reflect on Augustus’ Hellenistic divinization by responding both to contemporary literature and to innovative media of imperial self-­display that were in vogue during the time of Augustus and Hadrian. First, I shall show how Ovid ironizes and humorously undermines Augustus’ use of Hellenistic modes of religious self-­fashioning as a quasi-­divine person. In the dense allusions to the Augustan poets Vergil and Horace, who present Augustus as a new deity in Rome, Ovid distinguishes himself by articulating his own criteria for the deification of mortals and immortality. Second, I shall highlight Suetonius’ ambivalent depiction of Augustus’ self-­proclaimed divinity that reflects medial strategies of imperial self-­display, namely, setting up colossal statues of members of the imperial house. Similarly to Statius, who can be understood to undermine poetically Domitian’s colossal statue in the Forum, Suetonius offers his own view on Augustus in the ecphrasis of the first emperor’s body.2 I shall argue that Suetonius presents Augustus’ divinity in an ambivalent way, and undercuts it by suggesting that he was only a human. Ovid and Suetonius distance themselves from Augustus’ religious self-­fashioning as a divine ruler by responding to the appropriations of Hellenistic concepts of divinity in imperial self-­display and in literature of their time periods, Augustan and Antonine respectively. This comparison of various creative receptions of Hellenism in Rome thus reveals that, while it might be supposed that the first emperor’s divine status came to be regarded at Rome as a relatively stable and coherent fait accompli, it is better seen as an unstable and internally incoherent type of Roman Hellenism. This Roman Hellenism was subject to ongoing negotiation, in part by writers who in turn were influenced by different Hellenic and Roman models of mortal divinity.

I.  The Transmission of Hellenistic Divinization from Alexandria to Rome In the multiethnic city of Alexandria there was a mixture of Egyptian, Greek, and local Alexandrian religious traditions. Ptolemy II Philadelphus, 2.  For a different interpretation of Statius’ treatment of Domitian’s statue see the discussion by Basil Dufallo, chapter 4, this volume.

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an Egyptian-­Greek pharaoh, addressed these various traditions by establishing the cults of his divinized parents and of himself and his wife from 280 BCE onward. In his Sacred Inscription, Euhemerus of Messene discusses gods as divinized mortals and he distinguishes between the Olympic and the earthly gods. While the gods of the heavens were eternal and immortal, the earthly gods were mortals who had acquired immortal honors and glory due to their benefactions to humanity. Euhemerus gives a short history regarding the origin of the Greek gods: Uranus, the first king, was a gentle and benevolent man who was the first to honor the heavenly gods with sacrifices. After Uranus’ death, his son Zeus erected an altar honoring his ancestor. Zeus himself visited many nations “all of which paid honor to him and publicly proclaimed him a god” (Diod. Sic. 6.1.10).3 This narrative, in which the mortals Uranus and Zeus receive divine honors, echoes the Ptolemaic practice of giving divine honors to the deceased members of the royal dynasty and living kings.4 However, Euhemerus’ narrative of the origin of the gods does not serve as a justification for deification.5 Rather, it illustrates philosophical concepts of the gods in a refined intellectual game in which the author diminishes the power of the gods.6 Furthermore, in his Hymn to Zeus, the Alexandrian poet Callimachus denies Euhemerus’ theory of gods as divinized mortals by rejecting the legend of a grave of Zeus on Crete.7 Callimachus describes Ptolemy as an ideal king who is similar to Zeus and who is richly rewarded for his “just judgments.”8 Ptolemy, Euhemerus, and Callimachus appropriate different, even contradictory, religious traditions: the result of their cultural, religious, and intellectual hybridization were different concepts of the divinization of mortals as mirrored in the cult of the Ptolemies, in Euhemerus’ ideas of gods as divinized mortal kings, and in 3.  Müller 1993, 276; Roubekas 2012, 325. 4.  By the fifth century BCE, Herodotus (2.145–­46) was explaining the Egyptian gods as deified mortal kings, Müller 1993, 284; Roubekas 2012, 326. 5.  Müller 1993, 278–­81, interprets the Sacred Inscription as a rationalistic analysis of Hellenistic power strategies, in which demonstration of a ruler’s power precedes benefactions by him. Müller argues convincingly that Euhemerus brings Zeus and Uranus from the sky to earth, thus diminishing their power; cf. Cole 2013, 21. Roubekas, on the contrary, counts Euhemerus among those who refuted the divinization of a mortal and thinks that Euhemerus promoted a more serious theory of religion, which was “less embarrassing and more rational” (Roubekas 2012, 335). Garstad 2015 highlights deliberate efforts of the gods to establish their own cults in later excerpts of Euhemerus’ Sacred Inscription. 6.  Müller 1993, 300. 7.  8–­9: καὶ γὰρ τάφον, ὦ ἄνα, σεῖο / Κρῆτες ἐτεκτήναντο; cf. Callim., Ia. 1.9–­11. 8.  Ibid. 82–­84, cf. Hes., Op. 281–­92.

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Callimachus’ distancing from the idea of divinization of mortals after their death. Ennius transmitted the Hellenistic conception of the gods as formulated by Euhemerus to the Romans both in his Latin work entitled Euhemerus and in his presentation of the apotheosis of Romulus in the Annales (on Ennius and Euhemerus see also Riemer Faber, chapter 7, this volume).9 According to Ennius, the founder of Rome and guardian of his country was a godly person.10 Romulus had divine origins as son of the god Mars.11 In his writing and speeches, Cicero similarly presents Greek and Hellenistic ideas concerning the possibility of crossing the boundary between mortal and immortal. In his formulation, however, it is not divine origin that permits mortals to reach the stars, but distinction within the political community.12 Cicero’s emphasis on merit and his downplaying of divine origins mirror his own self-­fashioning as a consul of merit, as savior of the res publica from Catiline’s conspiracy, and as one acclaimed by the Senate as a pater patriae.13 His own approach to the divine sphere is suggested especially in his panegyric Consu­ la­tus suus, a kind of self-­fashioning that was in vogue at the time.14 Since the Senate had proclaimed Julius Caesar as parens patriae at the end of the civil wars, this title became part of his nomenclature and reinterpreted his broad political power as patria potestas.15 Thus, Caesar’s relation to the citizens of   9.  Bömer treats Romulus’ divinization as a kind of “Roman” apotheosis, Bömer 1957, 117. On divinization of mortals in the Roman Republic see Classen 1963. 10. Enn., Ann. 2.106–­8. For Julius Caesar as Augustus’ model as parens patriae, see Weinstock 1971, 200–­205. A good leader was represented and perceived as a father, not as a master (dominus); see Robinson 2011, 136–­37, 145–­46, 155–­56. 11.  Cf. Enn., Ann. 54–­55. Winiarczyk 2002, 124–­25, thinks that by means of his translation Ennius highlights the ability of extraordinary men to become divine already during their lifetime, and that he applies this concept to Scipio Africanus. Cf. Ennius’ Scipio fr. 4 V. On Scipio’s approximation to the gods, see Classen 1963, 317–­22. 12. Spencer Cole argues that Cicero’s philosophical and theological explorations of concepts of deification of a mortal “shaped the core architecture of related religious innovations,” including the introduction of Greek and Hellenistic concepts of deification to Rome: Cole 2013, 5, 198 and passim. Following Euhemerus’ idea that achievements such as conquests or benefactions that a person provided to the community facilitated divinization, Augustus in the Res Gestae presented his merits for the political community of Rome in order to legitimate his own divinization; thus Bosworth 1999. 13.  Acclamation of Cicero as parens patriae: Cic., Pis. 6; Sest. 121; Plut., Cic. 23.6. Cf. Rep. 1.64; Xen., Cyr. 8.1.1; Weinstock 1971, 201–­2. 14. Cic., Div. 17–­22. For the name of Cicero’s poem see Non. 298L, 300L; Schultz 2014, 80. 15.  This is confirmed by the idea that citizens who broke this bond were excluded from

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Rome was not defined as that of a tyrant but as that of a fatherly, benign ruler, so that the citizens were bound to him by pietas like a son to his father. Romans started to pray for Caesar’s welfare, to swear by it, and to worship his Genius.16 This relationship between a ruler and his subjects—­typical for the Greek and Hellenistic world—­was slowly introduced to Rome.17 Asserting special connections with the divine, such as claiming divine origins, was a Hellenistic tradition used by Alexander the Great and his successors who received divine honors.18 Various statesmen in Rome presented themselves as approaching the divine in different media.19 In the Republic, the great generals claimed special connections to the divine: Sulla, Pompey, and Julius Caesar approximated themselves to the gods by presenting divine support of their undertakings, tracing their own mythic genealogies in speeches, or by minting coins showing alleged ancestral divinities.20 Receiving divine honors granted by the Senate contributed to the acceptance of these statesmen as political leaders and furthered their self-­fashioning as divine. Religious charisma seems to have been a persuasive argument in gaining acceptance for special political powers and rule.21 In his travels from 79 to 77 BCE in Greece, Rhodes, and Asia Minor, Cicero became well acquainted with ἰσόθεοι τιμαί (“honors equal to the gods”), and he writes that Greeks awarded such honors to humans for their merit to the city. Here, Cicero (Verr. 2.2.158) presents Greek divinizing practices by setting up and consecrating statues to honor their leaders as “a custhe community, and therefore were not allowed to show themselves in the presence of the princeps (Dig. 48.22.18). Similarly, a banished son was not allowed to return to the house of his father, Livy 7.4.4; Weinstock 1971, 204. 16.  After Caesar’s death, his followers set up a statue in the Forum with the inscription Parenti Patriae (Suet., Iul. 85; ILS 72; Degrassi 1963, 410 [from Aesernia]): Genio Deivi Iuli parentis patriae, quem senatus populusque Romanus in deorum numerum rettulit. See also Weinstock 1971, 203–­4, 214. 17.  Weinstock 1971, 205. 18.  Rives 2007, 149. 19.  Varro probably alludes to these practices when he presents ancient rulers such as Aeneas and Romulus deified for their benefits for the society, in his De gente populi Romani; see Cole 2013, 194. 20.  Sulla presented himself as felix (“lucky”) and enjoying divine favor of the goddesses Fortuna and Venus, Plut., Sull. 34; Pompey set up a temple to his protecting goddess Venus Victrix and a statue of Alexander the Great, whom he imitated, in his portico, Plin., HN 35.132; cf. Cic., Marcell. 33.36; Cole 2013, 34–­54. For Julius Caesar’s claim that his family’s ancestor was the goddess Venus, see Suet., Iul. 6; cf. Pollini 2012, 164. 21. For extraordinary powers and divine favor of a charismatic leader, see Wallace-­ Hadrill 1981, 298–­99.

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tom among all the Greeks” (apud omnis Graecos . . . mos).22 Tacitus, writing much later, refers to divine honors for mortals as Greek flattery (Graeca adulatio).23 Cicero’s friend Varro also addresses the deification of civic benefactors as a universal tradition in his Antiquitates rerum divinarum (Antiquities of things divine). However, the issue of the deification of mortals was debated by the end of the Republic by Cicero and Varro.24 Cicero at first assimilated Julius Caesar to a god; however, after his death, Cicero questioned whether Caesar approached the sphere of the divine.25 Varro stresses the utility of allowing brave men to believe that their ancestors were divine. He writes that political leaders may believe in divine origins of their gens, and even if this is false, it motivates these leaders to undertake great challenges more readily.26 This statement probably refers to Julius Caesar, the dedicatee of Varro’s Antiquitates, who received honors reserved for divinities and presented himself as the new Romulus because of this mythical king’s association with deification.27 As impartial scholar, Varro highlights the utility of the belief in divine ancestors for the political community; however, he presents it as something foreign: Hellenistic and Egyptian, not traditionally Roman.28 Although the deification of political leaders was strongly debated in Rome, there was also a Roman tradition of imparting divine aspects to dead mortals. All the dead of the Roman community were honored as di Manes (“good gods”) at the festival of the Parentalia in February.29 Also, the myth of the founder of Rome, Romulus, who was deified after his death and worshipped as Quirinus, is a genuine Roman tradition.30 The Roman myth of the death of Romulus, his ascension to the sky, and his epiphany as Quirinus 22.  For “honors equal to the gods,” see Habicht 1973. 23. Tac., Ann. 6.18.10; cf. Curt. 8.5.5–­7; Weinstock 1971, 287–­89. 24.  For Varro’s sceptical and rationalistic view of divinity of mortal leaders, see Baier 1999, 366–­67. The author argues that Cicero’s philosophical works contain arguments against Julius Caesar’s rule. 25.  Assimilation of Caesar with a god through his divine virtue: Cic., Marcell. 8.10: sed simillimum deo iudico. 26. After Caesar’s death Cicero used the Epicurean argument that a dead man cannot be a god, Cic., Phil. 1.13; Weinstock 1971, 290–­91. 26. Varro, Ant. rer. div. 1 fr. 20 (Cardauns). Cf. Cic., Nat. D. 3.50. 27.  Cf. Cardauns 1976a, 149; Cole 2013, 194; Šterbenc Erker 2020, 140–­41. 28. Varro, De gente populi Romani, Fraccaro 14 (=August., De civ. D. 18, 5), presents the Egyptian tradition about the deification of king Apis who was worshipped as Sarapis; Baier 1999, 353–­54, 367; Rolle 2017, 204–­5. 29. Ov., Fast. 2.533–­70. 30.  Weinstock 1971, 177 and 292.

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was a narrative that paved the way for the introduction of the Hellenistic practice of ruler deification in Rome. A unique mixture of Hellenistic concepts and Roman religious tradition served as a basis for the invention of a Roman ritual of deification for emperors who earned it through their civic benefits.31

II.  Augustus’ Hellenism Many of Augustus’ religious choices were a creative reception of various religious traditions of the Hellenistic world. By basing his extraordinary status on his posthumous adoption by Julius Caesar, Augustus established his identity as divi filius (the son of a god) and presented himself as a charismatic and divinely chosen political leader.32 He also fashioned himself in the style of Alexander the Great, the charismatic general and object of cult, who created one of the largest empires of the ancient world and founded many cities.33 Augustus adopted Alexander’s famous anastole, that is, wavelike hairdo, which had become a model for Hellenistic kings.34 Other Roman political leaders had done this before. Pompey the Great also imitated Alexander’s hairstyle. Julius Caesar set up an equestrian bronze statue of Alexander the Great made by Lysippus in the Forum Julium, but Caesar replaced Alexander’s head with his own in order to associate himself with this important military leader and present himself as the new Alexander.35 After Julius Caesar’s 31.  On the influence of the myth of Romulus’ deification on the apotheosis of Augustus, see Šterbenc Erker 2020, 154–­55. On divinization as a language of political negotiation in Republican and Augustan literature, see Xinyue 2022, 8–­17, especially 17: “The discussion of divinization began to function as a figurative language of political negotiation during a time of constitutional uncertainty. Moreover, it encapsulated and communicated both the hope and the anxiety, tension as well as complicity, within the social elite at the point of political transition.” 32.  Koortbojian 2013, 144–­45. On the problematic posthumous adoption, Suet., Iul. 83; Malitz 2003, 242. For an expanded version of the lines of argumentation in this chapter, see Šterbenc Erker 2023a. 33.  For the charisma of ancient leaders and ruler cult, see Taeger 1957; 1960; Boschung and J. Hammerstaed 2015; for Augustus’ self-­fashioning as the new Alexander the Great see Pollini 2012, 162–­78. 34.  Pollini 2012, 163. 35.  Pollini 2012, 162–­64; see below comments on Ov., Fast., n. 78 and on Stat., Silv. 1.1, n. 97. For Caesar’s emulation of Alexander see Thomas 2017, 180, note 121. On the bronze statue of Alexander by Lysippus, see pp. 93, 97, and 102, below, and also Basil Dufallo, chapter 4, pp. 116 and 137–38.

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death, Cicero praised Augustus, who began his political career at the age of nineteen, by evoking comparison with Alexander, who succeeded his assassinated father at the early age of twenty years.36 Augustus himself wanted to be seen as the new Alexander, so he visited Alexander’s tomb in Alexandria.37 As victor over Cleopatra and Mark Antony, Augustus demanded to be shown Alexander’s embalmed body to stage himself as a worshipper of the famous leader. When signing his letters, Augustus first used an image of a sphinx, Alexander’s sign, as his signet. Later, Augustus adopted Alexander’s portrait, before finally using his own portrait to seal letters. The images on his seal are indicative of Augustus’ aspirations: initially, he associated his person discreetly with Alexander the Great. After the association became obvious, he then presented himself as the new Alexander.38 Unofficially, Augustus spread rumors concerning his own divine birth in a manner similar to Alexander’s and Scipio Africanus’ religious self-­ fashioning.39 Plutarch writes that Alexander’s mother, Olympias, had been impregnated by Zeus in the form of a snake.40 Augustus disseminated similar narratives about his divine conception before the Battle of Actium.41 Suetonius transmits the legend that Apollo was Augustus’ father in a story about his mother, Atia. She slept in Apollo’s temple, where a snake crept into her litter and, shortly thereafter, exited. This was the same narrative by which Scipio Africanus referred to his own divine conception.42 According to the story, the snake left a snake-­like mark on Atia’s body, which she could not wash away; sex with a divine being had made a physical impression on her body. This legend, based on a Hellenistic tradition concerning 36. Cic., Phil. 5.42–­51. 37. Suet., Aug. 18. This staging of Augustus’ interest in Alexander the Great took place after Cleopatra’s death in 30 BCE, Wardle 2014, 156. 38. Suet., Aug. 50. Augustus recalled Alexander throughout the Second triumviral era, Pollini 2012, 170. 39.  See n. 41; Claasen 1963, 319–­20. 40. Plut., Alex. 3.1–­4; Augustus’ mausoleum possibly recalled the tomb of Alexander: Pollini 2012, 172. 41.  Suetonius presents these narratives, which were also a part of Augustus’ own Memoirs (Suet., Aug. 94.4). 42.  For Augustus’ divine conception, see Suet., Aug. 94.4, for Scipio’s see Livy 26.19.5–­ 9; cf. Gell. 6.1.1–­6; Beard, North, Price 1998a, 84–­85; 1998b, 216–­17. Ovid humorously undermines the narrative devices Augustus uses to proclaim his own divinity. When speaking of divine agency at the birth of the Roman mythic king Servius Tullius, Ovid alludes to the rumors about Augustus’ divine birth, Ov., Fast. 6.633–­36, see Šterbenc Erker 2023b (forthcoming).

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the sons of gods, highlights Augustus’ divine charisma as inherited from his father Apollo.43 After Actium, Augustus was very careful not to overemphasize his Hellenistic self-­divinization in Rome because Julius Caesar’s assassination was linked to his divine honors, experimentation with regal symbols, appropriation of divine attributes, and his approximation to the divine sphere by means of self-­deification.44 Augustus’ second reason for caution was the skepticism toward mortal divinization held by members of the Roman elite.45 Among the divine honors that individuals and the Senate wanted to confer on Augustus, he carefully chose only those reminiscent of Hellenistic kings: an honorific name, “Augustus,” the Latin equivalent of the Greek σεβαστός (“elevated”); the inclusion of his name in the Carmen Saliare;46 and a dedicatory libation to him during all public and private meals.47 In contrast to practices in Hellenistic cities, where he was already worshipped as a god, Augustus did not allow cultic worship of his person in Rome.48 He permitted only libations to himself or his Genius, in a manner similar to that in which members of a Roman family offered libations to the Genius of the paterfamilias.49 Ovid mentions performance of libations to Augustus at a family meal on the festival Caristia: dis generis date tura boni: Concordia fertur illa praecipue mitis adesse die; 43.  On Augustus’ charisma see Taeger 1957, 89–­210. 44.  For Caesar’ kingship, divinity, divine honors and attributes, see Weinstock 1971, 270–­ 317; Koortbojian 2013, 15–­ 154. Augustus avoided following Caesar’s example: Flower 2017, 300. 45.  Cole 2006. 46. Aug., RG 10.1; Dio 51.20.1. 47.  Dio. 51.19.7; Galinsky 2007, 80; for criticism see Gradel 2002, 207–­12; Flower 2017, 300. 48. Suet., Aug. 52; Cass. Dio 51.20.8; Fishwick 1987, 43, 48, 56, 72, 221; Galinsky 2007, 80. On refusal of divine honors in Rome by Augustus, Tiberius, and Claudius see Charlesworth 1939; for Augustus’ refusal to allow his own statue to be added to the statues in the Pantheon, see Thomas 2017, 152. 49.  Dio 51.19.7; cf. Hor., Carm. 4.5.35–­36; Miller 1989; Miller 2009, 234; Šterbenc Erker 2013, 129–­30. Before Augustus, Marius received such divine honors when his fellow citizens poured spontaneous libations for him at dinners after his victory over the Cimbri in northern Italy in 101 BCE to hail him as savior of Rome (Val. Max. 8.15.7). Flower 2017, 301, thinks that the libations were destined to Marius but not to his Genius; however, Censorinus writes that pouring libations was a way to honor the Genius of a person, Censorinus, De die natali 2.

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et libate dapes, ut, grati pignus honoris, nutriat incinctos missa patella Lares. iamque, ubi suadebit placidos nox umida somnos, larga precaturi sumite vina manu, et “bene vos, bene te, patriae pater, optime Caesar” dicite; suffuso sint bona verba mero. (Ovid, Fast. 2.631–­38) Offer incense to the family gods, good people, for Concordia is said to be especially kind on this day; and as a pledge of welcome duty, offer food to the Lares in their high-­girt robes so they might eat from the plate offered to them. And now as dewy night will urge on pleasant dreams, lift wine generously to hand as you pray, saying: “Bless you all, and you, great Caesar, father of the country!” Let good words flow with the wine. (Christopher M. McDonough 2004) This passage refers to the libation at the Roman banquet offered to the Lares and the emperor: the servant carries around the sacrificial bowl so each guest can pour some wine to honor the emperor and the Lares.50 The honorific title pater patriae was conferred on Augustus in 2 BCE by the Roman people, the Senate, and the equestrians. Like Julius Caesar before him, Augustus was thus presented in the Hellenistic tradition as a fatherly, benign ruler bound to his citizens by pietas like a father to his son.51 Since the Caristia was a family festival, the prayer to Augustus, the pater patriae, that preceded the actual libation may have been interpreted in two different ways: Augustus was an intruder into the family festival or a welcomed father of the country honored by the libation.52 Harriet Flower has recently tried to refute the existence of libations to Augustus at meals in Rome.53 However, her criticism of the existence of liba50.  Cf. a Neronian parody of a libation to emperor and the family Lares, see Petron., Sat. 60.7; Miller 1989; Šterbenc Erker 2013, 129–­30. 51. Ov., Fast. 2.127–­30; Weinstock 1971, 204–­5. For Julius Caesar as parens patriae, see above. The bestowal of the title pater patriae to Augustus underlined his attempts to integrate his family into the res publica and the res publica into his family. See Severy 2003, 158–­86; Robinson 2011, 136–­37. 52.  For other ambivalent interpretations of the role of Augustus based on intratextual connections of the description of the festival, see Robinson 2011, 398 and 404–­5. 53.  Flower 2017, 299–­310; cf. Gradel 2002, 212.

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tions to Augustus is based on Gradel’s too sharp, and strongly debated, distinction between Genius, as the protective deity of the emperor, and Numen, the emperor’s divinity and the real object of emperor worship.54 Ovid counts Augustus’ Genius among the Numina, divine forces or deities: when Ovid is looking for statues of Lares in the city of Rome in Fasti, book 5, he sees a thousand Lares on the Compita, the neighborhood (vici) altars, and also the emperor’s Genius: mille Lares Geniumque ducis, qui tradidit illos, Urbs habet, et vici numina terna colunt.55 (Ovid, Fast. 5.145–­46) The city has a thousand Lares, and the Genius of the leader who presented them; the neighborhoods worship three divinities each. These verses refer to the fact that Augustus, in the course of his spatial reorganization of the city of Rome, offered new statues of Lares together with statues of his own Genius to be honored on the altars at principal crossroads, since the ancient statues of the Lares were decayed.56 Ovid, a contemporary witness of the emerging “imperial” cult, is particularly critical of Augustus’ attempts to approach the divine sphere; therefore his reference to Augustus’ Genius as one of three divinities (Numina), together with two Lares, acknowledges Augustus’ transgression of the line between the human and the divine.57 On weak grounds, Flower dismisses the passage on Caristia as evidence for the existence of libations in honor of Augustus after 27 BCE: 54.  Gradel 2002, 234–­50. Scheid 2004, 241, praises Gradel’s work; however, he suggests that there was no such strict distinction between the Genius and Numen of emperors as Gradel contends. Cf. Fishwick 1987, 247: “What I point out, after clearly distinguishing between genius and numen, is that the ancient authors occasionally refer to the genius as numen in the developed sense of the word it had acquired by metonymy: that is, they call genius a god (numen).” 55.  Flower 2017, 309, rejects the identification of Genius of Augustus with numina terna in Ovid’s couplet, since she thinks that Ovid is playing literary games here. 56.  On 1 August 7 BCE, Augustus divided the city of Rome into 14 regions and 265 neighborhoods (vici); Wallace-­Hadrill 2008, 275–­83. 57.  Tiberius dedicated an altar in Rome to Numen Augusti, Degrassi 1963, 115. The worship of the Genius Augusti alone or together with the Lares were two different facets of the emerging “imperial cult.” Ritual worship of the emperor and members of his family consisted of a mix of Hellenistic and Roman elements. For diverse forms and different contexts of the so-­called imperial cult, see Beard, North, Price 1998a, 348; McIntyre 2019.

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Ovid does not mention the Genius, the protective divinity of Augustus, but Augustus himself.58 However, this distinction cannot deny the existence of libations in Augustus’ honor at all. Ovid merely refers to the libations to Augustus without separating his Genius from the ruler himself. Furthermore, Horace also refers to historical libations to Augustus’ Numen of his own time when he depicts a farmer on returning home: hinc ad vina redit laetus et alteris te mensis adhibet deum. te multa prece, te prosequitur mero defuso pateris, et Laribus tuum miscet Numen, uti Graecia Castoris et magni memor Herculis.59

(Horace, Carm. 4.5.31–­36)

From there he gladly returns to his wine, calls on you, as god, at the second course: he worships you with many a prayer, with wine poured out, joins your divinity to those of his Lares, as the Greeks were accustomed to remembering Castor and mighty Hercules. As in Ovid’s description of the family meal at the Caristia, so too here the farmer pours libations to his family Lares and to tuum Numen, the Genius of Augustus. Horace gives a precise time and setting for the libation, during the second course, and he mentions that the farmer calls Augustus a god (te . . . deum). Horace emphasizes explicitly the foreign provenience of this gesture of the worship of Augustus’ Numen by stressing that, in Rome, citizens perform ritual gestures typical of Greeks who also honored mortal men, but only after their apotheosis, like Castor and Hercules.60 Ovid’s allusion to glasses full of wine and a prayer to the family Lares and Augustus by saying “bless you all (the Lares) and you, great Caesar, father of the country!” clearly expresses that the Lares and Augustus were the recipients of honorific libations at private meals. These libations assimilated Augustus to divine beings such as the Hellenistic kings. 58.  Flower 2017, 302–­10. 59.  Cf. 4.5.1–­5 for formulas recalling Ennius’ deified Romulus; Robinson 2011, 404–­5. Horace predicts the apotheosis of Augustus in Carm. 3.3.11–­12. 60.  Castor’s brother Pollux was divine by birth.

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After Octavian assumed the honorific name Augustus (the “Elevated”), his new name was incorporated into the Carmen Saliare; the Salian priests cried out in their archaic and incomprehensible hymn a name that their audience could have understood, “Auguste!,” among names of several gods of the city of Rome.61 The inclusion of the name of the princeps in the Carmen Saliare was one of several ways of pointing to Augustus’ sacral aura after 27 BCE and singled him out from the citizens of Rome as the one who is mentioned in the song along with other gods responsible for Rome’s sovereignty. Augustus’ divinizing was never explicitly expressed in the imperial self-­display in public places throughout his life. Yet, Vergil, Propertius, Horace, and Ovid, as well-­informed interpreters of the imperial messages in rituals, refer to Augustus as a god.62 Any further use of Hellenistic idioms in Augustus’ worship might have damaged the emperor’s self-­fashioning as the first citizen of Rome and his auctoritas as the first among equals.63 Many citizens hailed Augustus’ religious self-­fashioning as man and god; on precious gems, a medium of the Roman elite, Augustus and members of his family were represented as divine in the style of Hellenistic kingship: see for instance the well-­known Gemma Augustea (9–­12 CE).64 However, as attested by depictions of the Roman elite in contemporary literature, for example, Ovid’s Fasti, Augustus’ assimilation to the divine in the style of Hellenistic kings was not well accepted in all elite circles. 61. Aug., RG 10.1: Nom[en me]um [sena]tus c[onsulto inc]lusum est in saliare carmen; Cass. Dio 51.20.1. 62. Verg., G. 1.24–­25, 3.12–­16 (announcement of forthcoming epic poem as a “temple” to the new ruler of Rome). Vergil subtly refers to the future divinity of Augustus. In the parade of heroes in Aeneid 6.792–­805 Anchises points to Augustus who he says will traverse more territory than Hercules and Bacchus. See also below, n. 81. Mac Góráin 2021, 93 argues convincingly that the comparison of Augustus with Dionysus and Hercules implies that the princeps supposedly had a civilizing influence, and that all three were mortals destined to become gods. Also, the comparison of Augustus with both divine sons is merely intimated, and does not impose on Augustus any negative features that might be attributed to both civilizing heroes. Thus Mac Góráin 2021, 96: “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.” See also Hor., Carm. 1.2.41–­52, 3.3.9–­12, 3.5.1–­4; 4.5.29–­40.32: te  .  .  . deum (see above); Prop. 3.4.1, 4.11.60; Ov., Fast. 1.529–­30. On Vergil’s, Horace’s and Propertius’ divinization of Augustus, see Xinyue 2022, 5 and chapters 1–­3. Pfaff-­Reydellet 2009, 168 emphasizes that Ovid understands very well Augustus’ transformation of Roman religion and analyses it correctly. 63.  Cf. Flower 2017, 302, with reference to Rowe. 64.  Kunsthistorisches Museum Wien, Antikensammlung, IXa 79; Pollini 2012, 183.

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III.  Germanicus as Divine Protector and Other Divinizations in Ovid’s Fasti Now I turn to concepts of divinity in Ovid’s Fasti, which reveal elite skepticism regarding the divinization of a mortal. The Romans had never accepted any divine communication at face value. They had debated, in the Senate and beyond, the meaning of signs sent by the gods (omina, prodigia), and the meanings of epiphanies and various manifestations of gods.65 In his calendar poem, Fasti, Ovid refers to this Roman tradition of debate by offering his own views on divinization of kings and statesmen in Hellenistic style. At the same time, Ovid appropriates many features of Callimachus’ Aitia, a Hellenistic etiological poem.66 Callimachus’ Aitia is a highly innovative, experimental kind of poetry. The poet walks away from well-­trodden paths, as he refers to old religious traditions in a creative way.67 A prominent feature in the Aitia is its subtly humorous and playful character, which Ovid adopts in his Fasti. Humor and playfulness, moreover, did not disappear from his revisions of the poem while in exile in Tomi on the Black Sea.68 The first deification takes place right at the beginning of the Fasti, in the proem to the first book, where Ovid addresses Germanicus as his patron and divine protector.69 Initially, Ovid dedicated the poem to Augustus. But, in his exile, Ovid modified the proem and rededicated it to Germanicus, Tiberius’ nephew, adopted son, and potential successor.70 Ovid anticipates that the learned princeps Germanicus is going to replace Tiberius71 by addressing Germanicus as a god in a hymnic style and requesting his epiphany (dexter ades, an informal form of address). Germanicus should be present with his divine force (Numine), and favor the poet’s endeavor by guiding the 65.  For debates on prodigies, see Beard 2012. 66.  Cf. Fantham 2006, 376. 67.  Aet. fr. 1 Pffeifer. Cf. Harder 2012a, 37; Harder 2012b, 63–­64. 68.  For playfulness in the Aitia, see Harder 2012a, 34 (play with literary genres other than elegy), 38: “subtly humorous and playful character of the Aetia”. Ovid cryptically mentions a carmen and an error as reasons for his exile in 8 CE, Tr. 2.207. For Ovid’s Ars Amatoria as insulting the lex Iulia de adulteriis modified in 8–­9 CE and as a convincing reason for Ovid’s exile in 8 CE, see recently Hutchinson 2017; Heyworth 2019, 4–­5. 69.  Fantham 2006, 378–­79. Fantham argues convincingly on the basis of similarity of literary techniques in the prooemium of the Fasti and Pont. 4.8, one of Ovid’s last poems, that they were composed in the same period of time (2006, 374). 70. Ov., Fast. 1.1–­26. Green 2004, 16–­17; Fantham 2006, 384–­85. 71.  However, Germanicus died suddenly in Antiochia and did not succeed Tiberius.

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course of his timid ship.72 With officium, a term used to describe the patron-­ client relationship,73 Ovid highlights that the Fasti are a slight honorific gift (levem honorem), in this case a votive offering (votum), to the divine Germanicus, who, he entreats, should act as a poetic patron.74 That Germanicus will rediscover many rituals (sacra recognosces) characterizes him as a learned prince who himself studies festivals.75 In prayer-­like language, Ovid asks Germanicus to guide him while writing the Fasti, as a horse is guided by reins, because Germanicus himself is a poet (1.25, vates rege vatis habenas).76 Germanicus, as an inspiring divinity, should guide Ovid’s poetic creativity. Under Germanicus’ auspices as a poet (vates), he should be a patron for good favor for the entire calendar year that will be discussed in the Fasti.77 Since the rest of the poem addresses Augustus and his family, its rededication to the potential new princeps is akin to the replacement of the head of a statue of a king with a new one while the rest of the statue’s body stays the same. Ovid’s post-­exilic revision of the proem is a poetic counterpart to a widely attested way of treating royal statues, as in the case of Lysippus’ statue of Alexander the Great, whose head Julius Caesar replaced with his own.78 In the proem to the Fasti, Ovid converts, as it were, this common fate of a king’s statue into a poetic form.79 Furthermore, Ovid suggests that Germanicus is a rising star, though not for his military achievements. For Ovid, military strength is far less important than poetic creations. The second verse of the proem (1.2, lapsaque sub terras ortaque signa canam, “and constellations sunk beneath the earth and risen, I shall sing”) can be interpreted as an allusion to the rising of stars, 72. Ov., Fast. 1.3–­6. The metaphor of sailing had been used for the creation of a poetic work since Pindar; Ovid’s immediate model here is Verg., G. 1.40–­43; Fantham 2006, 380. 73.  Cf. Cic., Off. 1.59; Fantham 2006, 378. 74.  Germanicus is addressed instead of Muses or Apollo; see Green 2004, 33, cf. Prop. 4.1.71–­73. cf. Ov., Pont. 4.8.43–­67. By slight honor, generic reference to slight elegiac poetry in Callimachus’ style is meant; Green 2004, 34. 75.  Fantham 2006, 379. 76. By habenas, reins of a horse, Ovid changes his vehicle from ship to a chariot, so he introduces another Pindaric metaphor for the process of a poetic creation, a chariot race. According to Green 2006, 34, Germanicus’ favor would be to call Ovid back to Rome; however, this biographic interpretation cannot be drawn from the proem. 77.  Green 2004, 43–­44: Germanicus was augur in 7–­8 CE; Tac., Ann. 1.62.10; ILS 107. 78.  Such reuse of statues was typical for imperial self-­representation of a new emperor, see n. 35; Gladhill 2012, 342. 79.  See below, n. 97. Further mentions of Germanicus in the Fasti are at 1.63.285–­86; 4.81.

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meaning poets like Germanicus who will attain immortality. In Hellenistic poetry, divinized mortals were represented as stars; Roman poets creatively used this Hellenistic mode of representing divine mortals.80 Ovid’s prominent model here is Vergil’s address to Augustus as a god who will become a new star in his first Georgic.81 In contrast to Vergil, Ovid focuses only on poetic achievements that lead the mortals to the stars. That poetic immortality is as important in the Fasti as at the end of the Metamorphoses82 is revealed by the first, longer passage on the stars and constellations in the Fasti: sic petitur caelum, non ut ferat Ossan Olympus summaque Peliacus sidera tangat apex. nos quoque sub ducibus caelum metabimur illis, ponemusque suos ad vaga signa dies. (Ovid, Fast. 1.307–­10) That is how one reaches for the sky, not making Olympus carry Ossa and Pelion’s summit touch the highest stars. With them83 to guide me, I too will measure the sky and assign their own days to the wandering constellations. (Anne Wiseman and Peter Wiseman 2013) Ovid discusses the paths that lead mortals to the sky—­“that is how one reaches for the sky”: sic petitur caelum. Then he concludes that the only way to ascend to the heavens is through intellectual achievements; only intellectual endeavors and literary works can lead a mortal to the stars and immortality. Ovid rededicated the poem in his exile to emphasize the divine power and capacity to become immortal for poets like himself and Germanicus.84 80. Callim., Aet. fr. 110 Pfeiffer. Harder speaks of Berenice’s lock, which was turned into a constellation, in this way Callimachus exalted the divinization of Ptolemy’s mother Berenice; Harder 2012a, 38-­40. Cf. also Catull. 66 and Harder 2012a, 18: “The Egyptian element in this aition is enhanced because the lock of Berenice evokes the lock dedicated by Isis to Osiris, so that the story fits in with Ptolemaic attempts to integrate elements of the Greek and Egyptian traditions.” 81.  For Augustus as a god, see Verg., G. 1.24.32: novum . . . sidus. Vergil refers to a god who created peace for Tityrus, Verg., Ecl. 1.6–­8; for whom “altars will smoke twelve days each year,” Ecl. 1.42–­43; Fantham 2006, 386; Xinyue 2022, 41–­43. 82. Ov., Met. 15.868–­79, where the poet stresses that he will live (vivam) forever in his poetical work. 83.  Here Ovid refers to poets who wrote about the stars, like Hesiod, Vergil, and Propertius; see Newlands 1995, 42; Šterbenc Erker 2017, 357. 84.  However, the interpretation by some modern scholars, who see the rededication as

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In Fasti book 6, Ovid mentions that some people do not believe that gods manifest themselves to human beings.85 He stresses, however, that every human being has a god in him and that he himself is fortunate because he has experienced epiphanies of gods: est deus in nobis, agitante calescimus illo; impetus hic sacrae semina mentis habet: fas mihi praecipue voltus vidisse deorum, vel quia sum vates, vel quia sacra cano.

(Ovid, Fast. 6.5–­8)

There is a god in us, and when he stirs us we glow; this urge has the seeds of a sacred mind. It is permitted for me in particular to have seen the faces of the gods, whether because I am a bard or because I sing sacred themes. (Anne Wiseman and Peter Wiseman 2013) As a poet-­seer (vates), Ovid is more privileged to view the epiphanies of the gods than anybody else, including Augustus who claimed to have divine support in his actions.86 By emphasizing that only literary achievements and a writer’s experience of the epiphanies of gods bring poets closer to the sphere of the divine, Ovid contests the divinity of military leaders. Ovid asserts his own closeness to the gods as a poet and fashions himself as a divine poet. Thus, he completes the important idea from the Metamorphoses about gaining immortality through his poetic work.87 Furthermore, Euhemerus’ view of the gods as divinized mortals is also prominent in the Fasti. Ovid’s creative reception of the Hellenistic concept of Euhemerism is clearly influenced by Ennius’ divinization of Romulus.88 In contrast to Ennius, Ovid presents further narratives of the divine origins of mortals and the divinizations of mortals in a playful elegiac way. For instance, he applies Augustus’ religious strategy of legitimization by divinization to many figures in the Fasti. The puzzling fact that the nymphs Egeria and Anna Perenna are goddesses only in the Fasti could be explained by a sign of Ovid’s hope that he would be called from exile back to Rome by Germanicus, underplays this emphasis: Herbert-­Brown 1994, 173–­85, and Green 2004, 15, 37 and passim, for Ovid’s hopes that his new patron would help him to return to Rome from his exile. 85.  Fast. 6.3–­4. Cf. Cic., Har. resp. 62.1–­63.5. 86.  Cf. Prop. 4.6.27–­57; Šterbenc Erker 2017, 345–­47. 87. Cf. Met. 15.878–­79. 88.  See above, nn. 9 and 10; Robinson 2011, 302–­3.

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the poet’s eagerness to imitate Augustus’ Hellenistic self-­divinizing strategies mentioned above and to divinize as many figures as possible in his elegy.89 Significantly for my purposes, Ovid presents not only the divinization of persons, but also of objects, such as that of an oven mentioned in a humorous passage that also alludes to the deification of Romulus.90 In his etiology of the Fornacalia, the festival of the goddess of ovens, Ovid presents naive peasants who burn both grain and their huts when trying to bake bread. Afterward, when they invent an oven and the oven is made into a goddess named Fornax, the farmers are pleased. The divinization of an oven serves as an explanation for the Feast of Fools, thus ridiculing the naivete of the ancient farmers. The literary device of framing etiologies in the Fasti, namely, of connecting one naive action with another, makes such etiologies even more humorous. In this case, the etiology of the divinization of an oven follows the etiology of the Quirinalia, in which Ovid depicts a mortal (Julius Proculus) who was duped by somebody to believe that he saw an epiphany of divinized Romulus as Quirinus and that the god even spoke to him.91 The deification of Romulus was a model for the deifications of Julius Caesar and Augustus; from this narrative, a central feature of emerging emperor cult was developed: the oath of a witness of Himmelfahrt.92 The humorous and playful character of Ovid’s treatment is typical of the etiologies of divinization of mortals in the Fasti. Ovid creatively adopts Hellenistic poetic models in his innovative poetic response to Augustus’ Hellenistic self-­fashioning as a divine person. In contrast to Ennius, however, Ovid humorously undermines the very mechanism of the Hellenistic concept of divinization of mortals when he emphasizes that only poets will be immortalized.93 Ovid’s response to Augustus’ Hellenistic divinization is a creative one: a hybrid of Hellenistic (from Euhemerus and Callimachus) and Roman concepts of divinization, with humorous hints. An important shift in imperial self-­display, namely, setting up colossal statues of emperors and members of imperial family in accord with the

89. Ov., Fast. 3.677: Nuper erat dea facta: venit Gradivus ad Annam; 3, 460 (Ariadne’s Crown): Theseo crimine facta dea est; 3.275: Egeria . . . dea grata Camenis. 90. Ov., Fast. 2.520–­26. 91.  Barchiesi 1997, 118–­19; Robinson 2011, 321–­22. 92.  Cf. Sen., Apocol. 1.2; Suet., Aug. 100.4; Gradel 2002, 273; Šterbenc Erker 2020,140. 93.  When speaking of divine agency at the birth of the Roman mythic king Servius Tullius, Ovid ironically alludes to the rumors about Augustus’ divine birth, Fast. 6.569–­636; Šterbenc Erker 2023b (forthcoming).

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customs of Greek and Hellenistic cities,94 was also reflected upon in literary works. Statius hyperbolically praises a colossal equestrian statue of the emperor Domitian, which was set up in the Forum.95 This statue faces the Temple of the Divus Iulius in the Forum, so Statius, while still hoping for the emperor’s long life, imagines that Domitian will be divinized like his imperial predecessors, beginning with Julius Caesar.96 However, Statius hints at the exchange of Alexander’s head for Julius Caesar’s head in a humorous style that reminds one of Ovid’s: the neck of Lysippus’ Alexander statue, Statius says, “bore soon the face of Caesar upon its wonder-­struck neck” (Stat. Silv. 1.1.86–­87; for a discussion of Statius’ description of the statue, see Basil Dufallo, chapter 4, this volume).97 In his literary reflection on this new image of imperial splendor, an equestrian statue that exalted the new Flavian dynasty, Statius introduces the puzzling idea that ruler change implies the change of a statue’s head with the image of his successor.98 Ironically, due to the damnatio memoriae of the emperor, the head of Domitian’s equestrian statue in the sacellum of the Augustales in Miseno was replaced by the head of his successor Nerva.99 Similarly, as Domitian remodeled his self-­display by presenting a new mix of Hellenistic, Etruscan, and Roman, especially Augustan forms of imperial self-­fashioning, Statius introduced a new language of imperial praise that answered to new medial practices, including setting up colossal statues of emperors and members of imperial family. Sta94.  Cf. Cic., Verr. 2.2.158; see above, pp. 84–85. 95. The Flavian poet invented new literary strategies of response to such gigantic embodiment of the imperial authority, Newlands 2012, 30. The statue had been dedicated by the People and the Senate probably early in 90 CE, Dewar 2008, 72. 96.  Silv. 1.1.105–­7; for a wish for a long life before Augustus’ deification, see Ov., Met. 15.868–­70. 97.  Silv. 1.1.86–­87: mox Caesaris ora/ mirata cervice tulit. Newland’s idea 2012, 31, that Statius menaces Domitian with decapitation by mentioning Lysippus’ Alexander statue with the head of Julius Caesar, is in my opinion too strong, since Statius suggests only subtly what may happen to rulers and their statues. Before, the emperor Claudius replaced the head of Alexander with that of Augustus in one of Apelles’ canvases in the Forum Augustum (Plin., HN 35.94). 98.  This issue was a provocative one; Tacitus mentions that the quaestor Caepio Crispinus was accused by his praetor of crimen laesae maiestatis. One of the points of the accusation was that he had a head of Augustus’ statue changed by an image of Tiberius’ head. Tiberius, who did not want to have accusations of mistreatment of his predecessor’s divinity punished, had not found him guilty of crimen laesae maiestatis, Tac., Ann. 1.74.15. 99.  The shrine was dedicated to the cult of the deified Vespasian and Titus at Misenum; Tuck 2015, 198. I wish to thank Marcello Mogetta for drawing my attention to the replacement of the head of Domitian’s statue in the shrine.

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tius alludes here to Ovid’s central theme in his proem of the Fasti—­playful responses to the divinization of mortal rulers and ruler change—­by making them more explicit as Ovid did.

IV.  Augustus’ Divine Body as Seen by Suetonius Suetonius’ representation of Augustus’ Hellenistic style of religious self-­ fashioning is very different from that of Ovid. In his Life of the Deified Augustus, the biographer emphasizes many elements of the self-­ representation of the emperor as a divine person. In contrast to Ovid, who does not focus on the corporeality of Augustus, Suetonius stresses the aspects of the emperor’s divine body because the emperor’s body was increasingly perceived as a metaphor for the res publica.100 Additionally, by the time of Hadrian, when Suetonius was writing his Lives of the Caesars, huge statues of emperors were omnipresent, which led writers to engage in a dialogue with these medial strategies of the imperial house.101 A large marble statue of Augustus was excavated in Livia’s house at Prima Porta (fig. 3.1), which presents the emperor in a cuirass with an outstretched index finger of his right hand showing the Roman citizens the direction in which to proceed.102 Michael Squire argues for dense and ambivalent symbolism on the cuirass of the Augustus statue. According to Squire, the Prima Porta Augustus embodies a very sophisticated and self-­referential politics of visual ambiguity: “the ‘power’ of Augustan images lay in the gesture not of excising ambiguity, but rather of embracing ambivalence and harnessing it to the new political cause.”103 In my view, Suetonius offers a perspective on the divinity of Augustus and the political system he embodied that differs profoundly from the ico100.  Cf. Sen., Clem. 2.2.1; Suet., Ner. 51; Gladhill 2012, 316; cf. Meister 2012; Squire 2013b, 265–­67; 2015, 309–­10. So also Cook 2018, 60: “The body of Augustus became an icon of that relationship between people and princeps upon which his political legitimacy rested.” 101.  On a dialogue of poetry with sculpture see Hor., Ars P. 361. 102.  Squire 2013b, 247. For an overview of literature on the Prima Porta Augustus see Squire 2013b, 272. The Prima Porta Augustus statue itself is larger than lifesize: 2.04 meters; ibid. 246. 103.  Squire 2013b, 245–­46. The right finger was restored in the nineteenth century; probably also the middle fingers were originally extended as a sign of adlocutio or rhetorical address; thus Squire highlights that “the gesture seems to have amalgamated the image of military general with that of orator” (Squire 2013b, 247).

Fig. 3.1. Statue of Augustus from Prima Porta. First century CE. Vatican Museums, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

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nography of the Prima Porta statue. The biographer’s presentation of Augustus’ divine body is also highly ambivalent; at first glance, the author refers in a panegyric way to the emperor’s embodiment of the divine. Upon closer reading, however, Suetonius undercuts the emperor’s divinity. Plutarch, the biographer and predecessor of Suetonius, sees similarity in two different media, biography and sculpture. Both articulate the true essence of their respective subject. Sculpture aims to recollect likeness from the visage and the features of the appearance through which the subject’s character (τὸ ἦθος) is made manifest. Similarly, biographers reveal signs of the person’s psyche (τὰ τῆς ψυχῆς σημεῖα)104 that will allow the reader or viewer to interpret accurately the subject’s personality. On account of the similarity in the approach between sculpture and biography, Plutarch does not describe his subjects, since his readers were familiar with their statues.105 Suetonius provides his own readings of emperors, with literary aims.106 As a young man, the biographer witnessed events that happened under Domitian. Thus, he may have seen them and Galba, Otho, Vitellius, and Titus with his own eyes.107 For previous emperors, Suetonius draws on the evidence of statuary, coins, paintings, gems, and descriptions of physiognomy in contemporary sources. However, he distorts the information he gained by inventing many details about the emperors’ corporeality.108 For instance, after viewing Julius Caesar wearing a laurel crown on his head on coins, the biographer insinuates that this honor had been very dear to Caesar, because calvitii vero deformitatem iniquissime ferret, “he regretted most bitterly the loss of his looks through baldness” (Suet., Iul 45.2).109 When depicting the emperors, Suetonius ingeniously creates illusions about their visual appearance and how they might have felt about their looks.110 104. Plut., Alex. 1.3.5; cf. Gladhill 2012, 319. 105.  Plutarch describes Anthony according to the features of his statues, Plut., Ant. 4; Gladhill 2012, 321–­22. 106.  Gladhill argues convincingly that Suetonius’ descriptions of emperors function differently than physiognomic works that assert that physical form is a window into personality, as in Ps. Arist. Physiognomica or Polemon’s physiognomic work; see Gladhill 2012, 324, 329. 107. Suet., Ner. 57; Dom. 12. 108.  For Suetonius’ sources for physical descriptions, see Wardle 2014, 470. For the importance of invention of details, which the biographer draws from political invective in his Life of Nero, see Barton 1994. 109.  Caesar with laurel crown is depicted on RRC 480. 110.  Barton 1995, 58, comes to a similar conclusion on the mixture of fact and fiction in the Life of Nero: “Literature and real life, after all, are not opposites . . . I see the world of invective as a world of ‘virtual reality,’ where illusion creates substance.”

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The descriptions of the bodies of the Roman emperors in Suetonius’ Lives of the Caesars are designed to be read as a group: they achieve their proper meaning through their interactions.111 This dynamic is strong in these vivid descriptions, and Augustus is represented in a different light from subsequent emperors. David Wardle discusses much evidence given by Suetonius for Augustus’ divinity and concludes that Augustus’ divinity is qualitatively different from those of the other divi.112 Whereas Suetonius ascribes to Augustus’ body cosmological and divine qualities, he increases the animal imagery in his descriptions of the bodies of the subsequent emperors to mark their tyrannical features.113 Both Wardle and Gladhill understand Suetonius’ depiction of Augustus as a literary construction of a “good” emperor.114 However, scholars focusing on literary aspects of the Lives demonstrate that Suetonius depicts the emperors in both a positive and a negative way. Whereas Bohumila Mouchová has interpreted ambiguity in the portrayals of the emperors as Suetonius’ failure to present them in a unified and harmonized way, other scholars emphasize that the biographer deliberately undercuts many positive remarks about the emperors.115 Thus, Tamsyn Barton convincingly argues that Suetonius’ favorite literary technique is that of invective, mingled with irony and sardonic humor.116 Verena Schulz also demonstrates that the biographer characterizes Nero and Domitian in a negative way by stressing their hubris, a trait typical of tyrants, in order to deconstruct imperial self-­representation of both emperors.117 Patrick Cook focuses on more subtle literary devices in Suetonius’ depiction of the bodies of emperors, and argues that the biographer presents their corporeality in an ironic way and with amusing irrever111.  Gladhill 2012, 342; Wardle 2014, 470–­71, presents different scholarly approaches to the physical description of the emperors; presentation of trivial details to satisfy the reader’s curiosity; illustration of the moral character of the emperor from his appearance; a kind of folk physiognomy or medical physiognomy for a diagnosis of the emperor and an innovative deconstruction of the imperial image. For this last interpretation see Gladhill 2012. 112.  Wardle 2012, 326. 113.  Gladhill 2012, 333–­35, 342. For the astronomical significance of Suetonius’ depiction of Augustus’ body, see Cook 2018, 66–­67. See also Curry 2014, who argues that Suetonius presents Nero as a wild animal. 114.  On dynamics of “good” and “bad” emperors, see Nauta 2014. Gladhill 2012 sees some ambiguities in Suetonius’ portrayal of Augustus, whereas Wardle 2012 recognizes only positive characterization of Augustus. 115.  Mouchová 1968, 102. 116.  Barton 1994, 52–­53. 117.  Schulz 2019, 269–­355.

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ence.118 In my view, Suetonius depicts Augustus in an ambivalent and rather ironic way. Since the biographer presents the emperor ambiguously, namely, by emphasizing his divine traits but also his many physical deformities and illnesses, he undermines the divine aspects of Augustus with calculation. The biographer depicts Augustus’ body in a highly ambivalent manner, with some positive and many negative characteristics.119 Suetonius mentions, for instance, Augustus’ shining, bright eyes: Oculos habuit claros ac nitidos—­quibus etiam existimari volebat inesse quiddam divini vigoris, gaudebatque, si qui sibi acrius contuenti quasi ad fulgorem solis vultum summitteret, sed in senecta sinistro minus vidit—­dentes raros et exiguos et scabros. (Suetonius, Aug. 79) Augustus had bright shining eyes, and he wanted it thought that they possessed a measure of divine strength. He was pleased when someone lowered his glance before him as before the radiance of the sun when he was staring at him intently. But when he was old, he saw less well with his left eye. His teeth were widely spaced, small, and decayed. (Hurley 2011) The bright and shining eyes of Augustus remind one of the eyes of charismatic leaders.120 This could be an intertextual reference to Plutarch, who writes that Lysippus created a statue of Alexander with a melting gaze in his limpid eyes.121 Intramedial allusion to Augustus’ shining eyes in his portraits could also have been Suetonius’ inspiration.122 According to the biographer, Augustus wanted others to think that his eyes possessed divine power (quiddam divini vigoris). Thus, Suetonius highlights that Augustus presented himself as divine and hoped that his entourage would recognize his divinity. However, the added comment concerning Augustus’ diminishing sight in 118.  Cook 2018, 73. 119.  Rohrbacher 2010, 102–­3. 120.  Cf. Cook 2018, 65. 121. Plut., Mor. 335A–­B. 122.  For instance, on Augustus’ denarius of 31 BCE, BMCRE 1, 98n599, Augustus’ large eyes recall those of Alexander on a tetradrachm issued by Lysimachus, Pollini 2012, 168–­69. Suetonius depicts Tiberius in bright colors too, Suet., Tib. 68.2; Gladhill 2012, 331.

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his old age throws a shadow on the brightness of his eyes and their charismatic effect. The description of Augustus’ teeth may be “realistic,” yet David Rohrbacher insists, “they cannot be simply a realistic detail in a passage where interpretative approaches abound.”123 Suetonius depicts the emperor’s decayed teeth, which do not figure as godlike, in order to remind the reader of Augustus’ dental disease that suggests the perishable nature of his body.124 Suetonius begins his ecphrasis of Augustus’ body with a similar decrescendo: Corpore traditur maculoso dispersis per pectus atque alvum genetivis notis in modum et ordinem ac numerum stellarum caelestis ursae, sed et callis quibusdam ex prurigine corporis adsiduoque et vehementi strigilis usu plurifariam concretis ad impetiginis formam. Coxendice et femore et crure sinistro non perinde valebat, ut saepe etiam inclaudicaret, sed remedio harenarum atque harundinum confirmabatur. Dextrae quoque manus digitum salutarem tam imbecillum interdum sentiebat ut torpentem contractumque frigore vix cornei circuli supplemento scripturae admoueret. Questus est et de vesica, cuius dolore calculis demum per urinam eiectis levabatur. (Suetonius, Aug. 80) It is said that his body was mottled with birthmarks spread out over his chest and stomach which in their shape, number, and arrangement resembled the constellation of the Bear, but that he also had numerous callouses, resembling ringworm, which were caused by itching on his body and harsh and frequent use of the strigil. He was rather weak in his left hip, thigh, and leg so that sometimes he even limped, but he got his strength back through treatment with sand and reeds. In the index finger of his right hand, too, he sometimes felt such a weakness that when it was bent up and contracted in the cold he was hardly able to write even with a fingerstall made of horn. He also complained about his bladder, though the pain was relieved when he finally passed some stones in his urine. (Edwards 2009) 123. Rohrbacher 2010, 103. Rohrbacher thinks that Suetonius lays out material “impressionistically,” and does not suggest any explicit interpretations of it. 124. Cook 2018, 67: “Yet not every aspect of Suetonius’ description serves to link Augustus to divinity or to the stars.” Therefore, the author interprets Suetonius’ presentation of Augustus’ body as “a strange amalgamation of the human and the divine.”

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Suetonius mentions that birthmarks on Augustus’ body resembled the constellation of the Bear, thus fashioning the emperor’s corporeality as akin to the stars. Similarly, the Prima Porta Augustus wears the cuirass with stellar signs imprinted on it, where Sol (sun), Luna (moon) and Caelus (personification of the sky) look on approvingly on the return of the Parthian standards to the Romans.125 By the association of the birthmarks with stellar signs that symbolize eternity and rule over the whole world, Suetonius asserts the divine and cosmic aspects of Augustus’ body as ruler over the whole Roman Empire.126 However, the harsh and frequent use of the strigil, which caused callouses, reveals Augustus’ harshness and uncontrolled movements when scraping off oil (Aug. 80), which are to be read as unbefitting to a god. According to Suetonius, Augustus protected his fragile health with great care (tantam infirmitatem magna cura tuebatur), above all by bathing rarely; often he preferred to have his skin anointed (unguebatur enim saepius) and the oil scraped off with a strigil (82.2).127 This is among the many passages in which Suetonius mentions Augustus’ physical weaknesses, deformities, and illnesses. Due to the weakness of his left hip, thigh, and leg, Augustus often limped; however, he gained strength from a remedy of sand and reeds.128 As for Augustus’ index finger, the biographer’s description does not match the representation of the Prima Porta Augustus.129 Suetonius writes that Augustus’ index finger was 125.  Since Augustus organized this (diplomatic) settlement, it became an important theme in his self-­display. Suetonius describes Augustus’ eyes with terms that are often used to refer to cosmology, stars and the sun. Thus, Gladhill argues that Suetonius suggests that Augustus’ face and body contain “his divine spirit being restrained from its catasterism,” Gladhill 2012, 335; Cook 2018, 66. 126.  Gladhill 2012, 335–­37, 342; cf. Cook 2018, 66. At the same time, Gladhill stresses that the biographer describes Augustus’ body as ambivalent: celestial monster, animal-­like, and human. However, I do not think that Suetonius suggests any animal imagery by writing that the birthmarks on Augustus’ body remind of the constellation of Ursa Major. Wardle (2014, 475) draws attention to the fact that Augustus declared that the sidus Iulium appeared in Ursa Major (Great Bear) for seven days. Augustus presented the sidus Iulium as a sign that his adoptive father Julius Caesar became a god and a new star, Plin., HN 2.94. Rohrbacher (2010, 102) thinks that Augustus’ constellation birthmarks may “be understood in light of the divinatory aspects of physiognomy.” 127.  Augustus transgressed the norm of daily bathing for the elite; thus Wardle 2014, 478. Celsus recommended the physically weak being rubbed with oil rather than washing, Med. 1.4.2–­3; see Wardle 2014, 478. 128. Suet., Aug. 80. Rohrbacher 2010, 102 interprets the notice of Augustus’ weak left side as an example of medical physiognomy. 129.  This type of statue was not uncommon; the Prima Porta type of Augustus’ hair

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sometimes bent up and contracted because of arthritis; this illness and deformity stand in strong contrast to the outstretched index finger of the Prima Porta Augustus.130 By presenting the condition of Augustus’ index finger as weak and occasionally contracted, Suetonius questions the divine aspects of Augustus and reveals them as suspect. Moreover, the description of Augustus’ sufferings demonstrates the emperor’s human aspects. In the passage quoted above, the emperor is depicted as suffering from kidney stones. Furthermore, Suetonius mentions Augustus’ severe and dangerous illnesses, such as abscesses in the liver and their controversial treatments.131 Also, the biographer enumerates several seasonal illnesses and sufferings, such as feelings of fatigue around his birthday, September 23. At the beginning of spring Augustus suffered from praecordiorum inflatione, which may mean distension of the stomach; at the same time of the year, when the wind was from the south, he suffered from a catarrh.132 The biographer’s presentation of Augustus’ pains and weaknesses differs from the literary and epigraphic sources, in which, according to Wardle, reports of illness diminish as the emperor grew older.133 The following passage reveals other weaknesses of the body: Quare quassato corpore neque frigora neque aestus facile tolerabat. Hieme quaternis cum pingui toga tunicis et subucula et thorace laneo et feminalibus et tibialibus muniebatur, aestate apertis cubiculi foribus ac saepe in peristylo saliente aqua atque etiam ventilante aliquo cubabat. Solis vero ne hiberni quidem patiens domi quoque non nisi petasatus sub divo spatiabatur. (Suetonius, Aug. 81.2–­82.1) His constitution was disturbed as a result, so that he could not easily tolerate either cold or heat. In winter he wrapped himself up in four tunics and a thick toga, as well as an undershirt, a woolen vest, and coverings for his thighs and shins. In the summer he would have styling is known in about 150 instances, thus Beard and Henderson 2001, 222. Also, there were many cuirassed images of Augustus; see Squire 2013b, 269. 130. Suet., Aug. 80. 131. Suet., Aug. 81.1. It seems that Augustus’ liver problem, destillatio, has not yet been identified (Wardle 2014, 476). 132.  Wardle 2014, 477, notes that distension of the stomach is too general a symptom to be linked to any specific condition. 133.  Wardle 2014, 476.

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the doors of his bedroom open and he would sleep in an open court beside a fountain, with someone fanning him, too. He could not bear the sun even in winter and he would wear a broad-­brimmed hat when he went for a walk in the open at home also. (Edwards 2009) Here, Suetonius depicts a tormented and weakened body and implicitly contrasts Augusts to Julius Caesar. While Augustus cannot endure cold or heat, Caesar possessed military skills and an unbelievable tolerance for physical exertion when, for example, leading his forces on horseback or on foot, his head uncovered in sun or rain.134 By noting the many tunics and leg-­coverings that Augustus wore, the biographer suggests, in an exaggerated way, that Augustus suffered severely from cold in winter. Yet, at the same time, this hyperbole presents the emperor in an amusing way. Also, the use of woolen wraps for thighs and shins suggests that the person who wore them was ill.135 Suetonius’ presentation of the emperor’s intolerance of sun even in winter and the fact that he protected himself from it by wearing a hat, usually worn by travelers, when he walked outdoors suggests subtly that he may not be, after all, son of Apollo, the sun, and even less of Divus Julius who had astonishing powers of endurance while on campaign.136 By carefully constructing an impression of many types of illnesses, deformities, sufferings and malfunctions that affect humans at various stages of life, Suetonius maliciously highlights the fragility of Augustus’ body. The biographer also presents a fragile emperor slowly traveling from Rome to Praeneste and Tibur in a litter at night over the course of two days (82, biduo) to reach these famous places of relaxation “in the style and at the pace of an invalid.”137 Suetonius closes his rubric on the emperor’s corporeality with a description of Augustus’ way of taking care of his muscles: 134. Suet., Iul. 57. 135. Hor., Sat. 2.3.254; Quint., Inst. 11.3.114; Wardle 2014, 478. 136.  On the narrative about Augustus’ self-­fashioning as Apollo’s son see above, nn. 41–­42. For petasus, the hat worn by travelers and people in the country, see Cic., Fam. 15.17.1; Wardle 2014, 478. Suetonius here may be distorting Nicolaus of Damascus’ reference (Dam. 19) to Augustus’ sunstroke while he organized the games to commemorate the dedication of the Temple of Venus Genetrix in July 46 BCE; cf. Wardle 2014, 478. Nicolaus of Damascus depicts Julius Caesar’s care for Augustus’ suffering from the severe overexposure to the sun. 137.  Wardle 2014, 478–­79. Praeneste is 37 km and Tibur 31 km away from the center of Rome.

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at quotiens nervorum causa marinis Albulisque calidis utendum esset, contentus hoc erat ut insidens ligneo solio, quod ipse Hispanico verbo duretam vocabat, manus ac pedes alternis iactaret. (Suetonius, Aug. 82.2) But whenever he took the seawater cure or the warm water cure at the Albula springs to restore his muscles he was content to sit in a wooden chair that he called by the Spanish word dureta and thrust in his hands and feet alternately. (Hurley 2011) The depiction of Augustus’ use of seawater or warm water for the sake of his muscles (nervorum causa) is amusing because the emperor does not swim in the sea to strengthen his muscles, but merely immerses his hands and feet in it.138 There could not be a more striking contrast to Julius Caesar, his father by adoption, who traveled a hundred miles a day in a carriage and si flumina morarentur, nando traiciens “if there were rivers on the way, he swam across them.”139 Without explicitly saying that Augustus was a weak and ill man who overreacted in his immense care for his fragile health, Suetonius only intimates the emperor’s weakness by describing his scrupulous care for his body that differed completely from his adoptive father, Divus Julius. From this characterization it is clear that Suetonius depicts Augustus in a negative way as a person weak, ill, and ridiculously concerned with his frail condition. In the biographer’s portrayal, Augustus has no self-­control over his body and mind, and he is subject to many illnesses. By emphasizing the weakness and decay of the emperor’s body, Suetonius questions Augustus’ divinity. Thus, it is significant that Suetonius implicitly interrogates the nature of the political form that the emperor embodied.140 By detailed descriptions of physical malaise, Suetonius not only undermines the idea of Augustus’ divine body, but also undercuts the entire concept of the divinity of the emperor that it supports and, thereby, the political form of rule by one single man: the principate.141 138.  Here I follow Wardle 2014, 479, who rejects the translation of nervorum as “rheumatism” and who notes that almost any muscular ailment could be meant. Edwards 2009 and Hurley 2011 also translate nervorum as muscles. 139. Suet., Iul. 57.1. 140.  Lambrecht 1984; Gladhill 2012, 342. 141.  For Suetonius’ undermining of imperial propaganda by his corporeal ecphrases, see

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V.  Comparing Augustus’ Hellenistic Divinization in Ovid’s Fasti and Suetonius’ Lives of the Caesars Cicero and Tacitus present the divinization of mortals as a foreign, notably Hellenic, religious tradition; Horace emphasizes that paying divine honors to divinized mortals was a Greek tradition.142 In this chapter, I have argued that Augustus’ divinization was perceived as a Hellenistic tradition adopted in Rome from Hellenistic cities, notably Alexandria. Augustus regarded the Hellenistic religious tradition as a toolbox for his religious self-­fashioning in Rome by staging himself as a new Alexander, son of the deified Caesar (divi filius) and son of Apollo.143 Augustus was also represented as approximating the sphere of the gods in rituals in the city of Rome, as when the Salian priests sang the Carmen Saliare, calling out his name along with those of other gods, or when, at banquets, citizens of Rome performed libations to him or to his Genius. Ovid and Suetonius, however, distanced themselves from Augustus’ carefully chosen means of divinization by responding to different Roman recreations of the Hellenistic models of divinization that were current in their respective eras. In the Fasti, Ovid questions Augustus’ Hellenistic apotheosis by presenting his own criteria for immortality and the divinization of a mortal. By changing the dedicatee of the Fasti from Augustus to Germanicus, by asking Germanicus’ divine force (Numen) to lead him in the process of writing his Fasti, and by stressing that only poets like himself and Germanicus have the divine power and capacity to become immortal, Ovid contests Augustus’ divinization. Ovid’s response to the divinity of Augustus is a hybrid of Hellenistic literary models, notably of Euhemerus and Callimachus, and their Roman appropriations by Ennius and Vergil.144 Ovid humorously undermines Euhemerus’ view on the divinization of meritorious mortals as transmitted by Ennius, thus seeming to adhere to Callimachus’ self-­distancing from the possibility of divinization of mortals—­at least for those who do not excel as poets. Ovid transposes Vergil’s image of divinized mortals as stars—­based on Callimachus’ Aitia—­to the image of Gladhill 2012, 342. On deconstructing imperial representation see also Schulz 2019. On Augustus as a perfect embodiment of the principate see Cook 2018, 67. 142. Cic., Verr. 2.2.158; Tac., Ann. 6.18.10; Hor., Carm. 4. 5.35–­ 36 see above, nn. 21–­22 and page 90. 143.  See the above section, “Augustus’ Hellenism.” 144.  For Euhemerus, Callimachus, and Ennius see the above section, “The Transmission of Hellenistic Divinization from Alexandria to Rome”; for Vergil see above, n. 81.

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the poet Germanicus as a new rising star in his proem to the Fasti.145 Ovid employs literary devices well-­known from Hellenistic poetry that humorously undermine Euhemeristic divinization of mortals and present alternative views about divinity and immortality of mortals. Whereas Augustan writers were deeply influenced by Hellenistic models such as Callimachus and Euhemerus, the Antonine author Suetonius relied on Flavian, Antonine, and many further Greek and Hellenistic literary models. Suetonius’ representation of Augustus’ Hellenistic style of divinization is very different from that of Ovid, who does not engage with Augustus’ body at all. Suetonius’ contestation of Augustus’ divinity responds to a shift in medial strategies of imperial self-­display, namely, the erection of colossal statues of emperors with Hellenistic elements other than those incorporated into Augustan-­period sculpture. Furthermore, Suetonius appropriated Greek writings on physiognomy, such as Plutarch’s biographical insights into a person’s character, and panegyrics that contested imperial grandeur. In his ambivalent portrayal of Augustus’ body, Suetonius undermines its divine aspects. The biographer’s literary devices in contesting Augustus’ divine corporeality include ambiguity and descriptions of the emperor’s body that emphasize its perishable nature as well as the divide between imperial self-­ representation and real human bodies subject to illnesses. Both authors transformed the existing Roman tradition of debate about religious phenomena and adopted different Hellenistic and Greek literary models to ironize, diminish, and undercut Augustus’ divinity in subtle ways. By means of irony, humorous undermining and innuendos, narrative devices that functioned as creative receptions of the Hellenistic and Greek literary models, Ovid and Suetonius contest the contemporary media of imperial self-­display and cast doubt on the authority of Augustus’ supposed divinity. While the Hellenism of Ovid differs from that of Suetonius, both authors engage the Hellenistic divinization practices of emperors in highly ambivalent and suggestive ways, and they offer lucid mixtures of Roman and Hellenistic thoughts on the nature of gods that undercut the divinity of Augustus. As a type of Hellenism, Augustus’ assimilation into his own persona of Hellenistic models of divine kingship emerges as unstable and contested throughout this period, a practice whose meaning—­and very nature—­was constantly reevaluated.

145.  See the above section, “Germanicus as Divine Protector and Other Divinizations in Ovid’s Fasti.”

Four

Hellenic Horses Domitianic vs. Augustan Hellenism in Statius, Silvae 1.1 Basil Dufallo

Augustus’ adaptation of Hellenistic divine kingship, as described by Darja Šterbenc Erker in the previous chapter, created a precedent that subsequent emperors would adapt in turn. And attempts to respond to these later rulers’ versions of themselves would likewise inform—­as well as sometimes disadvantage—­the work of post-­Augustan literary authors. The poet Statius’ adulation of the Hellenistic-­style autocrat Domitian, for example, did much to damage his reputation as an author, once it became possible to see him as little more than a flattering, superficial versifier in a flattering, superficial age.1 Yet the positive reassessment of Statius now in course for some forty years or more has rehabilitated him as a poet deserving of our attention for his literary achievements in Domitianic Rome. For such reclaiming of a consummate literary artist, one whose verse rewards an array of critical approaches and takes on new dimensions of interest and beauty as our perspective on it changes and develops, we can all be glad. This paper, however, begins from a supposition that aspects of the revisionist case as it currently stands risk returning scholars to some of the same questions of literary decline that the case itself was meant to silence. In place of a flattering poet superficially imi1.  Dominik, Newlands, and Gervais 2015, 3–­14, provide a helpful overview of changing assessments of Statius from antiquity through 2015, in which negative as well as positive views are represented. See further nn. 4 and 7, this chapter.

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tating his great predecessors, today’s Statius can be said to possess “boldness in rewriting the heroic code . . . originality in charting new poetic themes and genres, and . . . virtuosic reshaping of multiple literary sources.”2 The same work in which this assessment appears—­the first chapter of Dominik, Newlands, and Gervais’ 2015 Brill companion—­also suggests Statius’ value “as a source for the remote, authoritarian rule of Domitian and for the new elite culture of luxury and leisure in a key period of Roman history.”3 These remarks distill a wider view of Statius both expressed in the earlier scholarship that the editors survey and reflected in more recent studies.4 One problem with such rhetoric is that the overall emphasis it perpetuates on Statius’ literary boldness, originality, virtuosity, and so on, remains at odds with the implication of a retreat from boldness and constraint of talent in the almost total lack of explicit references to contemporary politics in Statius’ work. Efforts to explain this lack as a necessary adaptation to the risky political circumstances of his day or as actually incompatible with Statius’ literary aims fail to resolve this tension, while the emphasis of a still more recent study on Statius’ literary skill in offering a “celebration of a community of the subservient” in “‘psychic complicity’ with the governing power structures” would seem to exacerbate it.5 The problem grows more insistent when we compare Statius with earlier authors, particularly the Augustan poets. The ambivalence, for example, that Vergil was able to evince while treating political themes directly gave rise to the massive debate over 2.  Dominik, Newlands, and Gervais 2015, 14. 3.  Dominik, Newlands, and Gervais 2015, 14. 4.  See, for example, the debate over Statius’ use of the heroic code in relation to Domitian as enacted by, on the one hand, the pessimistic readings of Benker 1987, Dominik 1994, and McGuire 1997, and, on the other hand, the optimistic readings of Ripoll 1998, Franchet d’Espèrey 1999, and Delarue 2000. On generic innovation in the Silvae, see Rosati 1999, Newlands 2002, Merli 2013. On reflections of the elite culture of wealth, luxury, and leisured friendship in Domitianic Rome, see Newlands 2002, Zeiner 2005, and Augoustakis and Newlands 2007. For various more recent approaches to these critical emphases and themes, see Kreuz 2016, Rebeggiani 2018, Baumann 2019. 5. See, for example, Newlands 2012, 3: “Contemporary politics are however barely mentioned in [Statius’] poetry; after the exile of Ovid under Augustus and the enforced suicide of Lucan under Nero, imperial poets generally turned away from the political present as too dangerous a theme, or else they adopted various strategies of indirection and deferral”; Rebeggiani 2018, 2: “Statius’ primary goal in writing the Thebaid is not to produce a political pamphlet. First and foremost, the Thebaid aims to be a literary masterpiece, engaging the audience through powerful narrative, impressive command of language and meter, and complex character construction. The poem’s political dimension is developed in such a way as not to spoil its literary aims”; Gunderson 2021, 202, 219.

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the Aeneid’s “pessimistic” or “optimistic” outlook on the Augustan regime. This debate, although now passé, has in turn substantially underwritten the Aeneid’s continued status as great literature, and it consequently casts a shadow over Statius that can be hard to dispel.6 Witness the continued effort to read Statius as making available a pessimistic view of Domitian even as he ostensibly praises him, a staging of ambivalence which, if we were to assess it on the basis of the Vergilian model, could well make Statius seem less effective in an area where Vergil has often been seen as masterful, and so the problem of “decline” would raise its hoary head once more.7 Too great an emphasis, furthermore, on Statius’ value as simply a source for Domitian’s rule could also raise the issue of decline, since most would agree that Domitian was a less accomplished and successful emperor than Augustus. With this problem in mind, the present chapter proposes a way to avoid returning to familiar issues of decline by offering a different approach to Statius’ poetic achievement via the lens of this volume, and by rereading a poem that has been a focal point of the revisionist case: Silvae 1.1, on an equestrian statue of Domitian dedicated to the emperor by the Roman Senate and people in or about 90 CE in the Forum Romanum.8 My case is, at basis and in its details, comparative: I argue for Statius’ skillful and self-­conscious expression of a Domitianic form of Hellenism different from the Hellenism of the Augustan Age. Statius, I claim, prompts this comparison himself by alluding continuously to Augustan Hellenism by means of the Vergilian models that he chooses here, above all the entry of the Trojan Horse into Troy in Aeneid 2 and the fashioning of the arms of Aeneas in Aeneid 8. Whether we read Statius’ poem as straightforwardly flattering, complicit, or somehow subver6.  For a recent, concise overview of the topic of “pessimistic” vs. “optimistic” readings of the Aeneid, see Giusti 2018, 10–­11. 7.  For an account, with bibliography, of the debate over whether or not the Silvae can be read as critical of Domitian, see Kreuz 2016, 51–­72. This view found its most forceful proponent in Ahl 1984, 91–­102; on the opposing side, see Geyssen 1996; Nauta 2002, 424–­26; Leberl 2004, 143–­67; Zeiner 2005, 6–­9; Dewar 2008, 79n20. Newlands proposes that the poem is riven by “faultlines,” resulting in “a poem of anxiety as well as celebration” about a monument that “is itself ambiguous” (2002, 24–­25, 48–­49); contra, Zeiner 2005, 9. Kreuz (2016, 51–­72) dismisses what he calls the “two-­voices-­Theorie.” Yet Šterbenc Erker, chapter 3, p. 80, this volume, suggests a different context for the subversive reading of Statius, Silvae 1.1. 8.  On the dating of the statue and the poem, see Geyssen 1996, 21. Major discussions of Silvae 1.1 include Cancik 1965, 89–­100; Ahl 1984, 91–­102; Geyssen 1996; Nauta 2002, 422–­26; Newlands 2002, 46–­73; 2012, 29–­33; Leberl 2004, 143–­67; Dewar 2008; Kreuz 2016, 72–­178.

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sive, and even if we view Domitian as a lesser ruler than Augustus, we can nevertheless understand Statius to be signaling the appropriateness of his poem’s Hellenism as opposed to Vergil’s in this context. This is an engaging way to read Silvae 1.1, I suggest, because it deepens our sense of the poem’s distinctiveness as a response to what are in turn distinctive aspects of Domitian’s regime: the specific way in which it used Greek culture to produce visual images, spectacle, and performances that must have been impressive and enjoyable to many who witnessed them, even if they also had the potential to be alarming in various ways.9 Most importantly for my purposes, Domitian embraced a style of rule and public-­self presentation strongly informed by a notion of Hellenistic kingship, including its divine aspect. But this is only one element of Domitian’s much-­remarked Hellenism or philhellenism as it is often described.10 Cultural patronage according to a Greek model—­and extending beyond the city of Rome itself to other locales in Italy—­was another facet of his reign, as in his Greek-­style games with literary competitions, the quadrennial Capitolia in Rome and the Alban Games at Alba Longa in honor of Minerva.11 Wearing Greek dress, Domitian presided over the Capitolia in newly built Hellenic structures, the Odeon and Stadium.12 Statius himself won a victory at the Alban games and hoped (in vain) for first place at the Capitolia, both of which results signal his keen interest in writing a type of poetry appropriate specifically to Domitian’s cultural moment.13 Certainly, the Hellenism of, for example, the Silvae’s epideictic literary form, learned mythological references, and inspired lyric persona has been remarked before.14 Familiar as well are the Greek credentials that the   9.  Cordes (2017, 76–­85) calls attention to the poem’s emphasis on the reactions of the statue’s viewers, which she sees as part of Statius’ positive coding of the statue’s colossal size, a potential cause of negative reactions. Nocera (2021, 71) suggests that with the Trojan horse comparison “Statius was trying to contain a strong criticism that had already been vividly expressed by the Roman citizens during and after the construction of the statue because of its unprecedented features.” 10.  On Domitian’s philhellenism see Jones 1992, 110, 112; Darwall-­Smith 1996, 221–­ 26, 249; Newlands 2002, 11–­13; Leberl 2004, 74–­79. 11.  The evidence for Domitian’s games is collected by Leberl 2004, 75–­77. 12.  Leberl 2004, 75–­76. Darwall-­Smith (1996, 249) calls these buildings “the final act in Rome’s hellenisation,” as “the only major types of Greek building which had yet to achieve permanent incarnation there.” Cf. Darwall-­Smith 1996, 221–­23. 13.  On Statius’ competition in Domitian’s games, see Newlands 2012, 23. 14.  As in, for example, Hardie 1983, a groundbreaking work that situated the Silvae in the context of Greek epideictic poetry. Cf. the many Greek precedents for aspects of Silvae

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bilingual Statius gained in particular from his father, and the “cultural capital” offered by that association.15 But what a comparative approach adds in this case is an increased appreciation of how Statius responds to, perpetuates, and refracts still another feature of Domitianic culture, its tendency to define itself both with and against Augustan culture, a technique that Domitian inherited from his father, Vespasian, and his brother, Titus.16 Our understanding of the wide-­ranging and ambivalent response in Domitian’s Rome to diverse aspects of the Augustan legacy has recently been set on a new footing by Raymond Marks and Marcello Mogetta’s fine collection of essays on this topic.17 A few examples will have to suffice here as illustrations of this much broader phenomenon. Domitian, for instance, located the Temple of the Flavian Gens at his own birthplace, apparently in rivalrous imitation of the Altar of the Julian Gens at Rome, as well as of the shrine that the Senate had built at Nola at the site of Augustus’ birth.18 Domitian also saw to the rebuilding of some of Augustus’ monuments, including the massive Horologium, and, while Augustus had the seventh month renamed after his gens (Iulius) and the eighth after himself (Augustus), Domitian had the following two months both named after himself: September became Germanicus to commemorate his German victories and October became Domitianus.19 Further, a precedent for Domitian’s Greek-­style games existed at Naples in the Sebasta established in honor 1.1 identified in Geyssen 1996; Rosati 2013 on the pose of the Greek aoidos that Statius adopts in the Silvae; Bessone 2015, 216, on the way in which Statius “sponsors an image of himself as a Hellenizing epideictic poet”; etc. On the Hellenism of Flavian poetry more broadly see esp. Augoustakis 2014. 15.  McNelis 2002, for example, argues that Statius’ father could have provided “cultural capital” to young Roman orators through the teaching of a sophisticated curriculum of Greek poets (cf. Silv. 5.3.185–­90). Cf. Holford-­Strevens 2000, 52: “Statius . . . implicitly presents himself as a perfect bilingual . . . that is to say, as we read his poem, a Roman who is perfect in Greek; but when we contemplate his origin, we should look rather for the Hellene who is perfect in Latin.” 16.  Cf. Dominik, Newlands, and Gervais 2015, 11, on the increasing currency of comparative approaches to Statius. 17.  Marks and Mogetta 2021. 18.  See Goldman-­Petri 2021 for this and other examples of Domitianic templa that “emulate Augustus’ use of architectural form to define the place of imperial cult within the Roman religious landscape” (33). 19.  On the rebuilding of the Horologium, see Conlin 2021, 17–­18 and Elkins 2021, 255; and for these and other examples of Domitian’s use of Augustan architectural precedent, see further Longfellow 2011, 58. For the month names, see Mart. 9.1.1–­4; Suet., Dom. 13.3.

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of Augustus as well as in the games of another Augustus-­emulator, Nero’s short-­lived Neronia at Rome.20 An emphasis on comparing Roman Hellenisms also brings out the way in which Silvae 1.1 takes not only Domitian as its audience but also a wider cross-­section of readers and listeners, insofar as aspects of the poem contribute to its etiological status as a kind of explanation for the presence of such a large statue in virtually the center of the Roman Forum. Although the statue itself has vanished, and the only visual record of it appears on a single Domitianic coin-­issue (fig. 4.1), part of its base is now generally agreed to survive, and confirms the way in which it ineluctably reorganized the space of the Forum and the physical experience of viewing and passing through it.21 Individual viewers, of course, may have had any number of reactions to this massive artwork, from wonder to appreciation to fear. But the statue makes sense, Statius’ poem implies, as a feature of Domitian’s Hellenism—­and Silvae 1.1 itself does, too, as it articulates the statue’s meaning and significance in powerful, even poignant terms. Statius makes available, that is, an understanding of Domitian’s statue as a cultural achievement attesting to Rome’s capacity for self-­renewal and growth in the wake of damage inflicted by the civil war of 69 CE and the devastating fire of 80 CE, as well as the ongoing threat posed by external enemies. My reading of the poem reconsiders some of the very details that others have found so surprising and compelling, such as Statius’ comparison of Domitian’s statue with the Trojan Horse, and examines parallels in the Hellenism of the other Silvae centered on Domitian (especially 3.4, 4.2, and 4.3). This chapter builds to reinterpreting another of the poem’s comparisons, that of Domitian’s image with the equestrian statue of Julius Caesar in the Forum Julium, a smaller work supposedly made by Lysippus for Alexander the Great and then altered by replacing Alexander’s head with Caesar’s. (On the altered statue of Alexander by Lysippus see also Darja Šterbenc Erker’s essay in this volume, chapter 3, p. 85.) As the existence of this statue suggests, the Hellenic roots of equestrian honorific sculpture were known to Romans of Domitian’s day and were even on evidence in the public spaces of Rome itself.22 By this time, moreover, other equestrian monuments for Roman leaders attested to the ongoing Roman adaptation of this Greek tradition. 20.  See Newlands 2012, 22–­23. 21.  On the placement of the statue in the Forum and its complex interaction with other monuments and buildings in its vicinity, see Darwall-­Smith 1996, 229–­30; Thomas 2004; Dewar 2008, 75–­77; Coarelli 2009, 82–­83; Kreuz 2016, 72–­178; Conlin 2021, 23. 22.  For more on the Greek sources of Roman equestrian statuary, see Bergemann 1990, 35–­36.

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Fig. 4.1. Sestertius of Domitian, 95–­96 CE (RIC 2.1 797, p. 324). Reverse: equestrian statue of Domitian. © The Trustees of the British Museum.

Four equestrian monuments, honoring Sulla, Pompey, Julius Caesar, and Octavian, stood in or around the Rostra in the Roman Forum, with additional examples located elsewhere in the city.23 But while Julius Caesar, Statius implies, thought it necessary to use Lysippus’ own statue of Alexander as a way of asserting his status as a type of Hellenistic ruler, and depended on his adopted son, Augustus, to bring his divine aspect posthumously into public view, Domitian’s statue does something analogous entirely on its own during Domitian’s lifetime. As an image, moreover, in line with the self-­ promotion of both Alexander himself and his successors, Domitian’s statue seems to outdo Caesar’s and Augustus’ attempts to adapt the practices and iconography—­and so claim the political and cultural authority—­of a Hellenistic ruler. All of this is evidence for my main point, that Statius fits his poem skillfully, wittily, and affectingly into this context, and signals his efforts to do so. In the terms of this volume, this chapter thus highlights important aspects of the contingency and open-­endedness at the heart of Domitian’s Hellenism. Domitian, that is, sought to build a strong and stable public image based 23.  On the building (and dismantling) of other equestrian monuments in the city of Rome from the middle Republic to the third century CE, see Bergemann 1990, 32–­44.

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in large part on that of a Hellenistic king. Statius’ poem, however, reveals at least one way in which this effort introduced a kind of vacillation or splitting into the emperor’s public persona. Particularly as a ruler who enlisted poets, inevitably working in the shadow of the Augustan master-­poet Vergil, into his wider Hellenism, Domitian opened himself to becoming, as it were, an Augustan-­non-­Augustan.24 His assimilation of Hellenistic kingship, as a type of Roman Hellenism, is a broad set of discourses, images, and practices divided from within, an attitude poised—­or unsettled, depending on one’s perspective—­between two historical moments of Roman civic and cultural renewal as well as vulnerability and threat. Naturally, a full-­scale account of Augustan vs. Domitianic Hellenism is far beyond the scope of a single chapter, so I will frame my reading of Silvae 1.1 with a series of limited observations on this topic as well, centered on a pair of contrasts. The first is that a tremendous contrast (too little emphasized, I think, in current Statian scholarship) characterizes the reigns of Augustus and Domitian with regard to divine self-­presentation. While Augustus was striving, throughout his rule, to avoid the public perception at Rome of regal and divine ambitions thought to have done in Julius Caesar, Domitian, as already mentioned, was very intentionally and self-­consciously modeling his public image on that of a Hellenistic king with a divine aspect. Although scholars no longer subscribe to once-­prevalent views of Domitian as a brutal, autocratic tyrant throughout his reign, it is clear that he used his building projects, games, and iconography in a manner recalling Hellenistic kings, insofar as he thereby sought to project an image of a majestic political leader and cultural patron with absolute power backed by and even rivaling that of the gods.25 Or, as Karl Strobel put it over thirty years ago, Domitian shifted “central elements of the Hellenistic model of autocratic monarchy and its ideological tradition plainly to the foreground.”26 My second contrast inheres in the fact that Augustus’ claim to political and cultural authority involved an invented mythological ancestry of a kind that the Flavians did not claim to possess, and one from which they were in 24.  A similar vacillation in fact characterizes scholarship on Domitian’s equestrian monument itself. For, e.g., Daira Nocera, the statue was “extravagant and non-­Augustan” (Nocera 2021, 66; cf. Coarelli 2009). She argues against Susanne Muth, for whom the statue was indeed an echo of Augustan political self-­presentation, specifically of the equestrian statue of Augustus near the Rostra (Muth 2010, 491–­92). The ambivalent, multifaceted nature of Domitian’s attitude toward Augustus is a prominent theme of Marks and Mogetta 2021. 25.  For the revision of views on Domitian’s despotism, see Jones 1992; Southern 1997. 26.  Strobel 1994, 371; cf., e.g., Leberl 2004, 74–­79, esp. 78.

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fact excluded by their own lack of familial connection to the Julio-­Claudian line. I refer, of course, to Augustus’ supposed descent, through Julius Caesar, from Venus, Aeneas, Mars, and Romulus. To simplify somewhat, the political and cultural prowess of Aeneas and Romulus—­Rome’s two greatest founder figures and regal leaders—­could to some degree take the place, for Augustus, of expressing kingship in his own person. Further, a myth of laborious self-­distinction from Greece—­personified by Aeneas—­came to exist in the Augustan public realm alongside competitive emulation of Greece in public art, architecture, and other cultural media. One of Vergil’s achievements was to rearticulate Greco-­Roman myth, legend, and history within this framework. But the Flavians, as they strove to align themselves with, and even surpass, the best aspects of the Augustan regime, promoted nevertheless a very different set of divine and mythological associations, with which, as we shall see, Statius dexterously engages. Let us turn, then, to the opening of Statius’ text: Quae superimposito moles geminata colosso stat Latium complexa forum? caelone peractum fluxit opus? Siculis an conformata caminis effigies lassum Steropen Brontenque reliquit?

(Statius, Silv. 1.1.1–­4)

What mass, twinned by the colossus placed on top of it, stands, having embraced the Latian forum? Has the work slipped, fully formed, from heaven? Or, fashioned in Sicilian forges, did the statue leave Steropes and Brontes weary? I will pass over the first option presented here about the statue’s origins—­ that it slipped from heaven fully formed—­except to note the way it imagines a direct link between Domitian and the divine, a theme that will become important to my argument in what follows. Statius’ second guess is that the statue was forged by the Cyclopes Steropes and Brontes, who labored over it to the point of exhaustion. The allusion here to Aeneid 8.424–­25, on the creation of the arms of Aeneas, has been recognized since Vollmer and commented upon more recently by Geyssen and Newlands among others.27 Vergil says, “The Cyclopes worked the iron in their vast cave, Brontes and Steropes and Pyragmon with naked limbs” (Aen. 8.424–­25, ferrum exercebant 27.  Vollmer 1898, 216; Geyssen 1996, 44–­45; Newlands 2002, 53.

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vasto Cyclopes in antro, / Brontesque Steropesque et nudus membra Pyragmon). Thus Statius here sets his short poem against Vergil’s full-­length epic and his ecphrastic object, Domitian’s statue, against nothing less than Vergil’s shield of Aeneas. This passage is a good example of what critics have called Statius’ skill and boldness in manipulating literary tradition, both Roman and Greek. Those inclined to savor the play of allusion here can appreciate the way in which Statius seems to express a certain aesthetic and formal rivalry between his short poem and the Vergilian shield, as well as its Greek model, Homer’s shield of Achilles, via recollections of Callimachus. Domitian’s statue might have wearied Vergil’s Cyclopes. Statius’ own poem, however, will not be a drawn-­out epic to “weary” his audience, but rather a work of Callimachean dimensions (pace McNelis, who sees Statius’ Cyclopes as similar to the Telchines and so anti-­Callimachean).28 Vergil himself in fact alludes later in the Cyclopes passage to Callimachus’ account of the Cyclopes’ labor in the Hymn to Artemis, making the shield of Aeneas a paradoxically Callimachean object, so that Statius can be seen to emulate and perhaps outdo Vergil in this type of literary game. I have pursued these formal and aesthetic associations further elsewhere.29 What I would like to bring out here, however, is that Statius, who only offers the Vergilian shield of Aeneas as a potential comparandum before moving on, implies that Domitian’s monument should not be regarded from an Augustan perspective while at the same time signaling an awareness of Domitian’s Hellenism as different from Augustus’. That is, Statius invites his audience to recall that Vergil deployed the Cyclopes of Greek myth as artisans who made a prophetic object, a shield, depicting at its center Augustus victorious at Actium. The Vergilian shield links the Augustan present to a Greek and Trojan past by having the figure of Aeneas, as drawn from Homer, prefigure Augustus as he remodels Homer’s Achilles. But Domitian, Statius’ allusion suggests, has no need for the idea of a Trojan heroic ancestor and, since the mythical Cyclopes can be imagined to labor on Domitian’s behalf, Domitian himself embodies in the present the type of heroic leader on whom the characters of Greco-­Roman myth bestow gifts. Statius, in other words, takes what might be a weakness for Domitian, the fact that he did not claim an ancestral link to the Trojan and Greek past of Vergil and Homer, and makes it a strength by imagining that Domitian cuts out the mediation of an Aeneas figure and, more directly though his monu28.  McNelis 2007, 73. 29.  See Dufallo 2013, 211–­19.

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ment, joins present day Rome to the world of Greek myth. Right at the outset of Silvae 1.1, then, Statius encourages the comparison of Hellenisms—­his own vs. Vergil’s and Domitian’s vs. Augustus’—­in a gesture to which the poem will continually return. Indeed, the encouragement of such comparison continues immediately with the next option about the statue’s origins, the option that receives the greatest rhetorical weight as the final and longest in its series. Statius now asks whether Minerva herself crafted the image of Domitian, here addressed by his honorific title Germanicus (5), as victorious over the Rhine and the Dacians:30 an te Palladiae talem, Germanice, nobis effinxere manus, qualem modo frena tenentem Rhenus at attoniti vidit domus ardua Daci?

(Statius, Silv. 1.1.5–­7)

Or did Palladian hands fashion you for us, Germanicus, in such a form as the Rhine and the steep home of the astonished Dacian recently saw you as you handled the reins? Domitian’s equestrian statue itself alluded to his German campaigns: the head of a personification of the Rhine, we learn later in the poem (50–­51), was placed under Domitian’s horse’s foot (and this object is also visible on the coin image). But Statius’ question is still more apt given the special bond that Domitian claimed with Minerva, and, moreover, Minerva’s presence, too, in the statue as an image standing on Domitian’s hand (cf. lines 37–­38 and the faint trace of this feature on the coin). Further, the reference to Minerva’s handiwork, coupled with the description of her hands as Palladiae, could not help but recall one of her two most famous creations, the Palladium. In spite of the story of its theft from Troy by Odysseus and Diomedes, a tale recounted by Sinon in the Aeneid (2.163–­70), the Palladium was nevertheless said to have been brought to Italy from Troy by Aeneas. This story was already part of Julius Caesar’s propaganda, as shown by a silver denarius of 47–­46 BCE with Aeneas carrying the Palladium in his right 30.  In 89 CE Domitian celebrated a double triumph over the Dacians and the Germans. This followed upon two earlier triumphs over northern peoples, in 83 over the Chatti (for which he claimed the title Germanicus) and in 86, also over the Dacians. The actual outcomes of Domitian’s campaigns were often far less decisive than his record of triumphs suggests. See Jones 1992, 129, 139.

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Fig. 4.2. Sestertius of Vespasian, 71 CE (BMCRE 2 586, p. 126). Reverse: Victory advancing right holding palm in left hand, offering Palladium to Vespasian. © The Trustees of the British Museum.

hand and his father, Anchises, on his left shoulder (RRC 458/1). The Flavians, because they restored the Temple of Vesta after its burning in the Neronian fire, could, in a sense, claim to have restored the Palladium to Rome, and this is behind the Palladium’s appearance on Flavian coinage, for example on a sestertius with Vespasian receiving the Palladium from Victory (fig. 4.2), a denarius of Domitian showing Vesta holding the Palladium (fig. 4.3), and a sestertius with Domitian himself holding it (fig. 4.4). Thus the idea in Silvae 1.1 that Minerva may have constructed Domitian’s statue reminds Statius’ audience that Domitian, following in the steps of his father and brother, had by such means styled himself as an Aeneas-­figure connecting Rome to the Greek world through the Palladium. He had done this, furthermore, quite without the aid of an epic poem such as the Aeneid asserting a genealogical bond with Aeneas. The other of Minerva’s two most famous creations was the Trojan Horse, to which Statius now turns:31 nunc age fama prior notum per saecula nomen Dardanii miretur equi cui vertice sacro 31.  For Minerva as the Trojan Horse’s creator, see Hom., Od. 8.439; Verg., Aen. 2.15; cf. Ahl 1984, 92.

Fig. 4.3. Denarius of Domitian, 79 CE (BMCRE 2 262, p. 46). Reverse: Vesta holding the Palladium. © The Trustees of the British Museum.

Fig. 4.4. Sestertius of Domitian, 81 CE (BMCRE 2 265, p. 355). Reverse: Domitian holding the Palladium. © The Trustees of the British Museum.

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Dindymon et caesis decrevit frondibus Ide: hunc neque discissis cepissent Pergama muris nec grege permixto pueri innuptaeque puellae ipse nec Aeneas nec magnus duceret Hector.

(Statius, Silv. 1.1.8–­16)

Come now, let earlier tradition wonder at the name of the Dardanian horse known through the ages, for whom Dindymon declared its favor with its sacred head, and Ida with cut boughs: this horse neither would Pergamon have received with its walls divided nor in a mingled company would the boys and unwedded girls nor Aeneas himself nor great Hector draw it. The comparison between Domitian’s statue and this infamous object, prototype of Greek artisanal treachery and the downfall of Troy, was part of the basis of Frederick Ahl’s recuperative reading of Statius’ poem as a subversive instance of doublespeak aimed at Domitian.32 More recently, Newlands, while rejecting, like others, the excesses of Ahl, nevertheless describes the reference to the Trojan Horse here as an “implied protreptic to the emperor to be benevolent and also an invitation to the reader to assess the true nature of the power that Domitian yields.”33 In my view, we need not focus on, e.g., exculpating Statius from the charge of flattery, and may note instead the skill with which he again, via contrast with the Aeneid, taps into an attitude toward the Troy story already expressed in the literature of this period. Consider the entry of the Trojan Horse into Troy: dividimus muros et moenia pandimus urbis. accingunt omnes operi pedibusque rotarum subiciunt lapsus, et stuppea vincula collo intendunt; scandit fatalis machina muros feta armis. pueri circum innuptaeque puellae sacra canunt funemque manu contingere gaudent; illa subit mediaeque minans inlabitur urbi. (Vergil, Aen. 2.234–­40) 32.  Ahl 1984. 33.  Newlands 2002, 57. Still more recently, Nocera’s reading of the poem (2021, 65–­74) suggests that what appears as mere flattery should be interpreted as a response to already existing criticism of the monument. Gunderson (2021, 222), on the other hand, sees the “recognition of one’s own defeat and inadequacy” as “necessarily folded into the gaze” of the poem’s narrator.

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We part the walls and lay open the barriers of the city. All gird themselves for work and cast turning wheels under its feet and stretch bonds of tow from its neck; the fatal mechanism, pregnant with arms, scales the walls. Around it boys and unwedded girls sing sacred songs and rejoice to touch the rope with their hands; it approaches and, threatening, glides into the middle of the city. Statius’ allusion to this passage is patent, as for example in the phrase pueri innuptaeque puellae, words perhaps formulaic in festal contexts, but repeated directly from Vergil’s text, like the detail of the division of Troy’s walls. Troy’s doom may seem like an ill-­omened reference in a Roman panegyric poem, and yet, commenting on the mythical Laomedon’s knowledge of a prophecy predicting Troy’s fall, Valerius Flaccus, for one, had by this point already voiced the idea that the fall of Troy to the Greeks was a benefit because it gave rise to Rome: “There awaits,” he says, “in unmoved time the Dorian night and the race of the descendants of Aeneas and the honors of a better Troy” (Arg. 2.572–­73, manet immotis nox Dorica lustris / et genus Aeneadum et Troiae melioris honores). Statius’ passage expands on such an idea by suggesting that, whereas Minerva had at one time harmed the Trojans by helping Epeius create the Trojan Horse, the Rome that Troy had become now enjoys Minerva’s favor through Domitian. Thus, Rome can now enjoy this new horse, imagined as possibly Minerva’s handiwork, a creation that is still more impressive and actually bigger than its Greek predecessor. Again, note how Statius calls attention to the fact that appreciating Domitian’s authority and benefits to Rome specifically does not require the mediating presence of the Aeneas story in the Aeneid. Indeed, Statius even purports to display insouciance about the Trojan Horse’s negative implications by addressing them almost as an afterthought: “Consider, too,” he remarks, “that that harmful horse embraced fierce Achaeans, while this one a gentle rider recommends” (Silv. 1.1.14–­15, adde quod ille nocens saevosque amplexus Achivos, / hunc mitis commendat eques). The formula adde quod introducing a substantive clause is used in Latin poetry and prose to insert something for an audience to “consider additionally.”34 Following it, the very simplicity of Statius’ poetic inversions seems to express a lack of concern: a verb of embracing reminds us of the statue’s embrace of the Forum in the poem’s opening lines (14, amplexus; cf. 2, complexa), 34. Cf. OLD addo 12b citing, e.g., Lucr. 4.1121; Hor., Carm. 2.8.16; Livy 9.19.6; Juv. 15.47.

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but the “gentle rider” on the monument is presumed easily to undo the threat embraced by the Trojan Horse in the form of Greek soldiers. Statius’ compliment makes comparative sense directed at a philhellene emperor who could thereby claim to have outdone Greek precedent in an unprecedented way. That is, while the Augustan Hellenism of Vergil had to treat the Trojan Horse as an overwhelmingly threatening object because it led to the suffering of Augustus’ ancestor, Aeneas, by comparison the Domitianic Hellenism of Statius can treat the Trojan Horse merely as a Greek contrivance that Domitian’s statue surpasses. Note that Statius immediately magnifies this effect of outdoing Greek mythological precedents with the shorter comparison between Domitian’s statue and Mars’ Bistonian (i.e., Thracian) horse that concludes this section of the poem (18–­21): Mars’ steed, Statius asserts, did not bear him “higher” after the completion of a battle (18, exhaustis armis), a further allusion to Domitian’s Dacian triumphs.35 In what follows, Domitian’s image continues to improve specifically upon the Vergilian Aeneas together with a series of Greek mythological exemplars. After a comparison between Domitian and Julius Caesar, prompted by the statue’s proximity to the Temple of Divus Iulius and other monuments (22–­ 31; I will return to this passage below), Statius directs attention to the image of Domitian, which he addresses as “surrounded by pure air about [your] lofty head” (32, puro celsum caput aere saeptus). The words recall the Vergilian Venus’ disguise of Aeneas and Achates in a cloud as they approach Carthage: “she enclosed them in dark air,” that is, “made them invisible” (Aen. 1.411, obscuro . . . aere saepsit).36 The Aeneid passage recasts in turn the Homeric Athena’s disguise of Odysseus in a mist as he approaches Scheria (Od. 7. 14–­ 15).37 So, with the change from obscuro in the Aeneid passage to puro in Silvae 1.1.32, Statius creates a further contrast between the Augustan literary figure of Aeneas and the statue of Domitian, which seems to have avoided the associations of Odyssean disguise and trickery implicit in the resemblance of Vergil’s Aeneas to the Homeric Odysseus. Rather, in Gianpiero Rosati’s words, Statius’ lines place “the head of the emperor on horseback . . . in the firmament like a bright star” (with reference to 33, superfulges [“you shine above”]) as they enhance “the heaven-­earth relationship as a sign of the super-­human dimension of the sovereign.”38 Further, since Athena/Minerva 35.  Due to the proximity of Dacia and Thrace, which was supposed to have been the land of Ares’/Mars’ birth. 36.  Vollmer 1898, 222; Ahl 1984, 93–­94; Geyssen 1996, 88. 37.  See Dufallo 2013, 143; cf. Geyssen 1996, 111n3. 38.  Rosati 2006, 42.

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was the deity who disguised Odysseus, the fact that Domitian’s statue seems to need no such help from her makes Domitian’s embrace of Minerva as his patron deity signify a new and different type of relationship with her from what the Greek Odysseus experienced. The juxtaposition, moreover, is especially fitting if Domitian hoped to establish Minerva’s protection of the Flavians as a counterpart to Venus’ protection of the Julio-­Claudians.39 Following the words puro . . . aere saeptus, Statius imitates another Vergilian passage, this time the initial description of Dido’s rising Carthage as viewed by the invisible Aeneas from its citadel (Aen. 1.421–­22), another revision of Homeric precedent in Odysseus’ first encounter with the Phaeacians’ magical city (Od. 7.43–­45).40 Odysseus marvels at the Phaeacians’ harbors and ships, and Scheria’s gathering-­places and its splendid walls (“a wonder to behold” [Od. 7.45]), before arriving at Alcinous’ “glorious” (46) palace, which later receives its own extended ecphrasis (81–­132). The wondering Aeneas becomes absorbed by Carthage’s impressive buildings, called a molem (Aen. 1.421, “mass”; cf. Silv. 1.1.1, moles), as well as its gates, lively hum, and paved streets (Aen. 1.421–­22), before ascending to the Temple of Juno decorated with images of the Trojan War. Homer and Vergil come together in Statius’ address to Domitian’s image. Statius lingers over the statue’s surveillance of the Palatine. “But you yourself ” (ipse autem), he observes, templa superfulges et prospectare videris an nova contemptis surgant Palatia flammis pulchrius . . .

(Statius, Silv. 1.1.33–­35)

seem to shine down upon the temples and to look out to see whether the new Palace, scorning the flames, rises more beautifully . . . The words contemptis surgant Palatia flammis in this passage introduce an unavoidable note of pride in cultural self-­renewal, by recalling the vast 39. Geyssen 1996, 45–­47. The whole context of course foregrounds again literary rivalry—­Vergil’s with Homer and Statius’ with both—­and witty irony emerges in the allusion’s details. The Aeneid passage is part of the prelude to an ecphrasis, while Statius positions his echo of Vergil within one. Vergil, moreover, compares Aeneas with a Parian marble statue as he emerges from the cloud (1.593, Pariusve lapis). My thanks to Mira Seo for pointing this out to me. 40.  Geyssen (1996, 88–­89) treats the Aeneid reference. See also the discussion of the temple ecphrasis by Nathaniel Jones, chapter 5, this volume, pp. 154–57.

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building program through which Domitian restored not only the Palatine Hill, where he located his palace, but also other areas of Rome damaged in the fire of 80 CE.41 We should not underestimate the impact of this three-­ day fire on Statius and his contemporaries, and the strong emotions that efforts to repair the damage to Rome might conjure up in them. Cassius Dio (66.24.2) provides an extensive list of destroyed temples and other buildings, including the Temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus on the Capitoline, the central temple of the god identified with the protection of the Roman state. In 80 CE, some of these structures were in fact still damaged from the fire precipitated by the civil war of 69 CE. Domitian’s building project can thus be viewed as part of a still longer-­term process of Roman self-­renewal following a still greater trauma: civil bloodshed in the capital itself.42 Statius goes on to imagine the statue observing the Temple of Vesta, where “the Trojan fire keeps watch” (35, vigilet . . . Troicus ignis). The renewal of Rome is thus made to recall both the Vergilian Carthage (a rising city with a prominent Temple to Juno) and the Homeric Scheria (with its marvelous palace).43 In other words, Statius refashions the Hellenism that Vergil displayed in imitating Homer and skillfully makes this refashioning fit the rebuilding of Rome out of the ashes of destruction. This was a potentially moving literary gesture, especially given the “Flavian urban narratives” created by building projects that highlighted restoration and renewal. As Diane Conlin emphasizes, Domitian, his father, and his brother all developed visual stories, as it were, that their buildings told as a means of both calling attention to the dynasty’s beneficence toward Rome and “enveloping the original Augustan narrative of succession and divine providence within Flavian brackets, preserving and referencing the Augustan past while exceeding and controlling it.”44 In Silvae 1.1, Domitian’s beneficence in reversing the Roman fire’s destructiveness reactivates these associations, while also recalling the beneficence of Homer’s Phaeacians toward Odysseus (and the memory of a ravaging fire also hints at the blaze from Dido’s funeral pyre at the close of Aeneid 4). Statius underscores Domitian’s undoing of the fire’s effects—­as well as the firm control that he exercises in his own person over the Trojan legacy—­by suggesting his present concern for the Trojan fire itself. The very next line of Silvae 1.1 refers obliquely to the recent punishment of a number 41.  See Geyssen 1996, 90. 42.  See Geyssen 1996, 90. 43.  On the status of Domitian’s building program at the time of the poem’s likely composition, see Geyssen 1996, 90; Dewar 2008. 44.  Conlin 2021, 16, 24.

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of Vestal Virgins, including the chief priestess, on the charge of unchastity, by having the statue seem to examine whether “Vesta now praises her tested ministrants” (36, exploratas iam laudet Vesta ministras).45 As Statius turns to other details of the statue’s appearance, references to Greek mythology follow each other in rapid succession (37–­60) and create a still stronger impression that Statius’ poem both testifies to and participates in Domitian’s distinctive Hellenism. As earlier in the poem, Minerva’s appearance introduces and sets the tone for the whole passage. Resting lightly in the statue’s left hand, she displays Medusa’s severed head on her aegis, a sight which fires the horse as with a goad, while she herself, we are told, finds no place sweeter, even the hand of her own father, Jupiter (37–­ 40). This detail alludes to the colossal chryselephantine statue of Zeus by the Greek master Phidias. In this artwork, Zeus held a smaller image of Athena in his hand (and thereby alluded to Athena’s birth from his head), while Athena held in turn an image of Victory.46 (A direct reference to this same Greek statue, likewise implying the resemblance but superiority of Domitian’s monument, will come near the end of Statius’ poem). In Statius’ poem, the Gorgon recalls the myth of Perseus, whose exploits saved a princess, Andromeda; but Domitian exerts himself, Statius suggests, for the good of the whole Roman Empire: the statue’s breast, encased in copper from the Italian city of Temese, has the power “to discover the cares of the world” (41, mundi . . . evolvere curas). Additional Greek myths follow. The statue’s sword is equal in size to that of the constellation Orion, who “terrifies the stars” (45, sidera terret). Orion represents another startling comparandum because of his association with outrageous transgression (in the version Statius himself cites at Theb. 7.255–­58, he was killed by Diana after attempting to violate her), but allusion to his catasterization, the work of Zeus according to Pseudo-­Eratosthenes (Cat. fr. 32.19 Olivieri), recalls this ultimate honor bestowed upon him by the gods.47 Adrastus’ horse, Arion, Statius goes on, would have feared the sculpted image of Domitian’s horse, which tramples “the hair of the captive Rhine” (51). This Theban parallel, a clear allusion to Statius’ own Thebaid, 45.  On the Vestal scandal, see Geyssen 1996, 90–­91. 46.  Prioux 2008, 288, noting the “effect of mise en abyme” that Statius thus reproduces from Phidias’ statue. 47.  In another version (attested at Ov., Fast. 5.537–­43) Orion’s boastfulness incurred divine disfavor and led to his death. Vergil compares Mezentius to Orion at Aen. 10.763–­ 68. Cf. Geyssen 1996, 93–­94; and Newlands 2002, 59, for the possibility of further literary allusions here.

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is complimentary insofar as Arion, offspring of Neptune, was a “wild and untamed” creature (Theb. 6.313, ferus indocilisque) mastered only by Adrastus. Notably, Statius is careful to rule out any suggestion of future civil war introduced through his Theban narrative.48 He does so by asserting that Domitian’s horse “will never change the reins of his master; continuously will he serve his bridle and his one star” (54–­55, domini numquam mutabit habenas: / perpetuus frenis atque uni serviet astro); that is, Domitian’s horse will serve the emperor alone, at whose divine nature Statius here hints through astral imagery again suggestive of Hellenistic rulers.49 Arion is doubled by Cyllarus (53–­54), the horse of Castor, whose temple also stood close to the statue, before Statius concludes the string of Greek parallels by likening the weight with which Domitian’s genius impends upon the ground to that of “heaven-­bearing Atlas” (60, caeliferique . . . Atlantis). Domitian commands the universe, and with it, Greek myth. Statius uses the legendary Roman figure, Manlius Curtius, to set a Roman seal of approval, as it were, on the impressive display of Hellenism that Statius’ audience has, so to speak, just witnessed. Curtius was one of the persons believed to have given his name to the Lacus Curtius, the pool of water next to which Domitian’s monument stood.50 Curtius’ speech in Statius’ poem reiterates the basic themes of the preceding Greek mythological section, but uses them to make the case that Domitian’s achievement surpasses that of Curtius himself. Called “the guardian of the place” (66, loci custos), Curtius is remembered (82–­83) for his legendary leap, on horseback, into a chasm suddenly appearing in the Forum, an act of self-­sacrifice that saved the city. Statius imagines the noisy construction of Domitian’s monument (61–­65) rousing the ancient Curtius, who lifts his head adorned with the civic crown of oak leaves that was awarded to Romans who preserved a fellow citizen’s life (68–­70). Like the mythological horses of the previous section, he, too, is at first frightened by the sight of a horse “greater” than his own (72, maioris equi), but his fear soon turns to joy (73, laetus mox) when he sees its rider. This joy centers on Domitian’s power over both civil and external war. Curtius declares, “you through long fighting subdue the wars of Jove, the battles of the Rhine, the sacrilege of civil conflict, the mountainous region slow to a treaty (79–­81, tu bella Iovis, tu proelia Rheni, / tu civile nefas, 48.  Cf. Geyssen 1996, 95–­96. 49.  On astral imagery in the representation of both previous emperors and Alexandrian rulers, see Geyssen 1996, 100. 50.  Three persons named Curtius were associated with the site by the Romans; see Geyssen 1996, 104, for details and sources.

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tu tardum in foedera montem / longo Marte domas), lines that move from an allusion to the burning of the Capitol in the fighting between the Flavians and the Vitellians in 69 CE (bella Iovis), to references to Domitian’s German campaigns (proelia Rheni and tardum in foedera montem, Dacia being known as a mountainous region). In between comes an indefinite reference to “the sacrilege of civil war.”51 These last words, as commentators note, could well recall the uprising in Upper Germany by two legions under the control of L. Antonius Saturninus, but there is no reason why one could not also hear an echo in them of the earlier civil war evoked just before. In any case, the double reference here to the dissolution of the civil bonds that hold the state together, coupled with the emphasis on the statue’s construction (61–­65, complete with a glimpse of a “crane” [64, machina]), puts the focus squarely on the statue as a cultural endeavor central to the rebuilding of Rome. But Curtius’ praise, as it were, echoes Statius’. As they recall the questions about the statue’s construction at the opening of the poem, Curtius’ lines underscore Domitian’s resemblance to Hellenistic rulers, and Domitian’s role as a savior (cf. Greek Σωτήρ, the title famously ascribed to Ptolemy I) comes to the fore. Indeed, Curtius’ four-­fold reference to Domitian’s suppression of civil and external war comes as a contrast with Curtius’ having saved the state only once: “I was once,” Curtius says, “the author and creator of the safety of Rome” (78–­79, semel auctor ego inventorque salutis / Romuleae). Curtius also includes an explicit reference to Domitian’s divinity, when he hails him as a “sire of gods” (74, genitor deorum) and reports that he has learned from afar of Domitian’s “godhead” (75, numen). Earlier, Statius has referred to the “present form of the god” (62, forma dei praesens); as Galinsky notes in the case of Augustus, praesens corresponds to the Greek Ἐπιφανής, a title given to Hellenistic kings.52 In the phrase genitor deorum, furthermore, we can hear a reference to the fact that Domitian fathered a son who seems to have died before he became emperor and who was subsequently deified; he also deified his brother, Titus, and his niece, Julia, and Silvae 1.1 will end with an emphatic assertion of dynasty.53 The fact that the Templum Gentis Flaviae would soon stand on the Quirinal on the site of Domitian’s birthplace perhaps lends the phrase genitor deorum additional 51.  On these events, see Geyssen 1996, 69–­72. Curtius’ emphasis on the suppression of civil violence harmonizes with Statius’ emphasis elsewhere in the poem on how Domitian has surpassed Julius Caesar; cf. Dewar 2008, 73–­74. 52.  Galinsky 1996, 314–­17. 53.  For the deification of Domitian’s family members, see Jones 1992, 39, 162; Henriksén 1998–­1999, 2:120, 185. Cf. below on Silv. 1.1.105–­7.

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import.54 Curtius concludes by suggesting that Domitian, given the opportunity, would have leapt into the chasm himself if Curtius had not—­but Rome would have held him back (81–­83). The Roman past thus echoes in suggestively Hellenic terms Statius’ own judgment based upon the Greek past, and divine favor magnifies both so as to suggest a “consensus omnium; the whole world, human, divine and mythological, approves and joins in the praise of Domitian.”55 Parallels for the comparative aspects of Silvae 1.1 treated thus far emerge readily from the other Silvae focused on Domitian: in them, we likewise find the emperor’s Hellenism fashioned in contradistinction to Augustan culture, specifically the Aeneas myth as deployed by Vergil, and we observe as well Statius making a point of fitting his poetry into this context. In Silvae 3.4, for example, on the offering of hair from the head of Domitian’s eunuch boy-­favorite Earinus, an atmosphere of competition with the Troy story as known from Vergil becomes almost immediately apparent when Statius says that Pergamum, the city in the Troad to which the locks are being sent, is “more fortunate by far than pine-­bearing Ida” (12, pinifera multum felicior Ida), the mountain from which the mythical Trojan prince Ganymede was abducted by the eagle of Zeus.56 Vergil had called attention to the centrality of the Ganymede story to Trojan—­and Roman—­identity both by mentioning him at nearly the very beginning of the Aeneid, as a cause for Juno’s anger (1.28), and by including an ecphrasis of his image on a cloak awarded by Aeneas to Cloanthus, victorious in the boat race at Anchises’ funeral games 54.  On the Templum Gentis Flaviae, see Henriksén 1998, 1:55–­57. The Temple of the Deified Vespasian (perhaps dedicated also to Titus) already stood at western end of the Forum Romanum; cf. Silv. 1.1.31 and Dewar 2008, 70. Genitor deorum here may also develop the Vergilian resonance by recalling Apollo’s address of Ascanius as “born from gods and sire of gods to come” (Aen. 9.642, dis genite et geniture deos), words that can be taken straightforwardly to refer to the deified Romulus and as hinting that Augustus will eventually be deified. 55.  Geyssen 1996, 109. 56.  Ganymede had been a focal point of iconographic self-­promotion for the Flavians before this. Stefano Rebeggiani, commenting on a statue of Ganymede placed by Vespasian in the Templum Pacis, notes that “with its emphasis on Trojan ancestry, the statue was perhaps meant as a sign of continuity with the Augustan regime. Yet it was also very apposite for Flavian propaganda. The Flavians had come from the East to rescue Rome and Ganymede was an eastern hero. The statue portrayed an instance of deification, an apt reward for an emperor who rescued the Empire from destruction” (Rebeggiani 2018, 213). Schneider 2021 describes the Augustan legacy of the Ganymede story as a way for Rome to assert simultaneously its eastern origins and its rightful dominance over the East.

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in book 5 (250–­57). Pergamus is a Latin name for the citadel of mythical Troy (cf. Stat. Silv. 3.4.12, Pergame), and the Romans routinely identified the contemporary city of Pergamum with Troy itself. But the whole emphasis of Statius’ poem is on Domitian’s link with present-­day Pergamum rather than with the mythical city.57 The role of Venus, ancestress of Aeneas and therefore Augustus, is key here: she is imagined as overcome by Earinus’ beauty while he is still a boy in Pergamum (that is, before he arrives in Rome) and as taking it upon herself to find “the master for that beauty whom it has deserved” (34–­35, isti / quem meruit formae dominum). She even conveys him in her chariot to Rome (46–­49). The associations between the practices of the Hellenistic royal courts and the portrayal of Domitian as a Zeus/Jupiter figure enjoying his “Ganymede,” as well as the resemblances of Statius’ poem to a Greek dedicatory epigram, have not been lost on earlier interpreters.58 Newlands, for example, who argues for a tension in the poem between the Hellenistic traits that Domitian exhibits here and traditional Roman values, nevertheless notes that “this poem lies fully within a distinguished literary tradition of court poetry,” traceable to Callimachus’ Coma Berenices, “that uses fantasy to play upon the ruler’s sexuality and divinity.”59 Silvae, book 4 opens with a poem on Domitian’s seventeenth consulship in which Statius makes a direct comparison between Augustus and Domitian to the benefit of the latter: Domitian’s consulships, he observes, outnumber Augustus’, who held only thirteen and “began only lately to deserve them” (32, coepit sero mereri), an allusion to the fact that military force could account in part for his early tenure of that office.60 A significant detail of this poem for my purposes is its forthright description of Domitian as a rex (46, “king”), a startling gesture in the context of the traditional Roman distaste for the term, but bolstered in part, as Newlands points out, by the discourse on Hellenistic kingship that had already become popular in the late Repub57.  Kreuz 2016, 331, for example, notes the threefold connection between Pergamum and Rome set up by the movements that the poem describes: Earinus travels from Pergamum to Rome, his lock travels from Rome to Pergamum, and both arrive at their destinations through the direct participation of Venus. 58.  See Hardie 1983, 121–­24; Laguna 1992, 308–­10; Newlands 2002, 105–­18. 59.  Newlands 2002, 106. Cf., e.g., 108: “Silv. 3.4. makes clear that Rome is not yet a Hellenistic city—­although its ‘monarch’ may be moving in that direction.” Fully subversive notes are heard by Garthwaite 1984, who interprets the poem as a jab at Domitian for sexual perversity (a view rejected by Verstraete 1989). 60.  For a more extensive analysis of Augustan echoes in Silvae 4 than is possible here, see Hulls 2021.

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lic.61 But the substantive constructions of Domitian’s Hellenism in book 4 begin with the following poem, Silvae 4.2, a poem in which Statius offers thanks to the emperor for having been invited to a banquet in Domitian’s lavish new palace on the Palatine. This poem opens with a direct comparison of Statius’ efforts to those of none other than Vergil and Homer. While “He who brought great Aeneas to the Laurentine fields praises the regal feast of Sidonian Elissa” (1–­2, Regia Sidoniae convivia laudat Elissae / qui magnum Aenean Laurentibus intulit arvis) and “he who told to its end the story of Ulysses’ return from much time on the sea shows forth in enduring song the feast of Alcinous” (3–­4, Alcinoique dapes mansuro carmine monstrat / aequore qui multo reducem consumpsit Ulixem), Statius wonders whether he will even be able to sing of the fulfilment of his prayers in having been invited to one of Domitian’s feasts for the first time (5–­8). The comparison prepares Statius’ audience to view the coming description as rivaling Vergil’s own adaptation of Homer, but also as focused on the distinct cultural aspects of Domitian’s feast. Domitian’s cena, in some marvelous way, recalls and surpasses not only the Phaeacian banquet in Homer but also Dido’s banquet in the Aeneid, the setting for Aeneas’ exposition of the sack of Troy and his own subsequent wanderings, episodes loaded with Augustan ideological import. Thus, like his equestrian monument, Domitian’s banquet obviates the need for Statius to use the Aeneas myth as Vergil did for Augustus: Domitian accesses the Homeric/Vergilian past on his own and Statius happily occupies the place of a bard at one of these epic feasts (Demodocus in Homer, Iopas in Vergil), as he plays a vatic role for Domitian corresponding to Vergil’s role for Augustus.62 Newlands has emphasized the novel features of Domitian’s palace that linked its vast interior spaces “to a new idea of the imperial banquet as sacred performance and hence to a new idea of the emperor, not as princeps but as Hellenistic-­style monarch.”63 Indeed, many details of Domitian’s feast and palace, in Statius’ telling, call attention to them as an expression of Hellenism. So, for example, Statius says that he seems “to recline in the midst 61.  Newlands 2002, 265, citing Fears 1977, 94–­95. On the Romans’ negative attitudes toward the word rex, see Dunkle 1967, 156–­59. 62.  Noting Statius’ recollection (63–­67) of the long period that has elapsed since Domitian’s awarding Statius victory in the Alban games of 90 CE, Newlands 2002, 283, goes further in regarding the poem as conveying a warning to Domitian: “If Domitian wishes to construct himself as a second Augustus, then, the poem implies, he needs a second Virgil, and he must treat him appropriately.” 63.  Newlands 2002, 267.

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of the stars with Jupiter and to take up immortal wine offered by an Ilian hand” (10–­12, mediis . . . discumbere in astris / cum Iove et Iliaca porrectum sumere dextra / immortale merum), that is, from the hand of Ganymede. Equating Domitian with Jupiter in this fashion (although it may strike modern readers as an example of the excessive panegyric for which Statius has been denigrated) is a gesture very much in keeping with the remodeling of Hellenistic kingship that characterized Domitian’s reign.64 There is an obvious parallel, for example, at the opening of Theocritus’ encomium of Ptolemy Philadelphus, Idyll 17, where Theocritus says that he will begin and end with Zeus because he is the best of the immortals, but that of men Ptolemy should be mentioned “first, last, and in the middle” (3–­4, ἐνὶ πρώτοισι . . . / καὶ πύματος καὶ μέσσος) because he is the “most excellent” (4, προφερέστατος).65 Theocritus goes on to say that he will “hymn” (8, ὑμνήσαιμ’) Ptolemy and that hymns are the “honor even of the immortals themselves” (8, καὶ ἀθανάτων γέρας αὐτῶν). He then goes on to assert that Zeus himself “made” Ptolemy’s father, Ptolemy Soter, “equal in honor even to the blessed gods” (16–­17, καὶ μακάρεσσι  .  .  . ὁμότιμον ἔθηκεν / ἀθανάτοις). Further, Soter has a golden throne “in the house of Zeus” (17, ἐν Διὸς οἴκῳ). Theocritus continues by imagining the divine company that surrounds Soter in this magnificent setting, including the deified Alexander the Great, Hercules, and the other immortal gods (18–­33). Statius’ likening of Domitian to Jupiter seems almost tame by comparison with such a passage of Greek encomium. Like Theocritus, Statius imagines Domitian and his guests observed and attended upon by deities, so that the new palace comes to appear even more like the “house of Zeus” in an encomium such as Idyll 17. Indeed, Statius asserts that the “neighboring palace of the Thunderer is struck dumb” (20–­ 21, stupet . . . vicina Tonantis / regia) at the sight of Domitian’s palace, and “the divine powers delight that you have been settled in a like dwelling-­ place” (21–­22, teque pari laetantur sede locatum / numina).66 Statius thus puts 64.  For a survey of sources on Domitian’s identification with Jupiter, see Fears 1977, 135–­36. 65.  The parallel between Silv. 1.1 and Theocritus 17 has been noted by, among others, Newlands (2002, 54), who argues for this as evidence of the influence of Hellenistic panegyric poetry on Statius’ poem (cf. Ahl 1984, 91; Geyssen 1996, 145n1; Gibson 2006, 168–­69). 66.  The “neighboring palace of the Thunderer” may be the Temple of Jupiter on the Capitoline, or, given Statius’ previous reference to “the heavens” in the previous line (19), this phrase may actually refer to the heavens themselves as Jupiter’s dwelling place.

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Domitian’s palace on a par with the nearby Temple of Jupiter Tonans, and in this way once again recalls Augustus, who was its builder.67 In this regard it seems especially significant that Statius personifies the temple, which he calls a regia (“palace”), so that it is the Augustan architectural edifice itself, rather than its inhabitant, Jupiter Tonans, who is overcome with wonder. In Domitian’s palace, a space decorated with stone from Greece and other opulent materials, “Ceres herself with her clothes girded up and Bacchus labor to provide” for the guests (34–­35, ipsa sinus accincta Ceres Bacchusque laborat / sufficere). Domitian, meanwhile, resembles variously Mars, Pollux, Bacchus, and Hercules as he dines, and finally Statius admits that these other examples are “small” (52, parva) and Domitian is really like Jupiter when he dines with the Ethiopians (38–­56). Here again, echoing and outdoing the mythological imagery surrounding Augustus seems to be at issue, since Horace famously compares Augustus to Pollux, Hercules, and Bacchus at Carm. 3.3.9–­14. Distancing ourselves from the negative associations that have in modern readings adhered to praise of this kind, we see not only that the overall impression of Silvae 4.2 is very much like that of a Hellenistic court panegyric but also that Statius is self-­conscious about the aptness of the particular style of poetry that he brings to the occasion. Notably, Statius can and does refer to another occasion on which his style of poetry won the day: his earlier victory in one of Domitian’s Greek-­style competitions, the Alban games (63–­67).68 The conclusion of the following poem in the collection, Silvae 4.3, on the road that Domitian built between Sinuessa and Puteoli (the Via Domitiana), similarly imagines Domitian as like Hercules and Bacchus for the journeys of conquest that he will make in the north and the east (155). The most significant parallel, however, between this poem and those already examined lies in the fact that the concluding prophecy of which this detail forms a part is spoken by the Cumaean Sibyl, who both imitates and recalls her role in the story of Aeneas in language drawn from Vergil’s account of this episode in Aeneid 6. The passage forms a culmination to the whole poem, as others have discussed.69 And again like Vergil, Statius calls attention to the Sibyl’s Greek connections through various details. So, for example, the Sibyl, when she emerges from her grotto at Cumae near the far end of the road, brings forth “Chalcidian laurel” (118, Chalcidiacas . . . laurus), an allusion to 67. Suet., Aug. 29.3. 68.  Cf. above, n. 62. 69.  See Cancik 1965, 113–­25; Newlands 2002, 309; Cordes 2021, 130–­40.

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the founding of Cumae by Greeks from Chalcis in Euboea. Earlier in the poem, Domitian is in fact described as delighting to bring “the home of the Euboean Sibyl” (24, Euboicae domum Sibyllae) closer to Rome by means of his road. Vergil, similarly, describes Cumae as “Euboean” (Aen. 6.42, Euboicae). The Sibyl of Statius’ poem, a “more sacred prophet” (Silv. 4.3.120, vates sanctior) than the poet himself, “roams in a frenzy widely over the space new to her and fills the road” (121–­22, novisque late / bacchatur spatiis viamque replet), lines which recall Vergil’s stating that the Sibyl “roams in a frenzy as a prophet” (Aen. 6.78, bacchatur vates) and becomes “bigger to look at” (49, maiorque videri) because of her possession by Apollo upon Aeneas’ arrival.70 Just as the Sibyl prophesies Aeneas’ future deeds in Vergil, so, in Statius, she prophesies Domitian’s, and makes the link between the two of them still closer when she says that “no one more worthy” (Silv. 4.3.130, non dignior) has taken up the reins of power “from the time when, with me as his leader, Aeneas, avidly seeking the future, both penetrated and left behind the prescient groves of Avernus” (131–­33, ex quo me duce praescios Averni / Aeneas avide futura quaerens / lucos et penetravit et reliquit). But let us turn back to Silvae 1.1 to examine aspects of its conclusion that set it apart from the other Silvae just discussed. In the poem’s final section, Greek artists and art objects come more prominently to the fore than they do in the other Silvae on Domitian, and recapitulate the main panegyric devices of 1.1 in such a way as to shine a spotlight, once again, on Augustus’ vs. Domitian’s Hellenism. This begins with a description of Julius Caesar’s equestrian statue and Temple to Venus in the Forum Julium: cedat equus Latiae qui contra templa Diones Caesarei stat sede fori, quem traderis ausus Pellaeo, Lysippe, duci (mox Caesaris ora mirata cervice tulit); vix lumine fesso explores quam longus in hunc despectus ab illo. quis rudis usque adeo qui non, ut viderit ambos, tantum dicat equos quantum distare regentes? (Statius, Silv. 1.1.84–­90) Let the horse that stands across from the Temple of Latin Dione [i.e., Venus] in Caesar’s forum yield, the horse which you, Lysippus, having dared it, gave to the Pellaean leader [i.e, Alexander]. (Soon it 70.  For this and other such Vergilian details in Statius’ poem, see Coleman 1988, 129–­ 35 on Silv. 4.3.114–­63.

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bore the face of Caesar upon its wondering neck). Scarcely will you measure with a weary eye how long is the downward view from that horse to this one. Who is so unsophisticated as not to say, when he has seen both, that there is as great a difference between the horses as there is between the rulers. Earlier in the poem, Statius had justified his claim that the “location is equal to the work” (22, par operi sedes) by referring to a series of buildings in the Forum Romanum (22–­31), including the Temple of Divus Iulius, dedicated by Octavian in 29 BCE. This had allowed him to emphasize Domitian’s clemency in comparison with Caesar’s: Statius says that Caesar learns from Domitian’s sculpted face how much milder Domitian is, as evidenced by his treaties with the Chatti and Dacians (25–­27). Further, Statius implicitly deprecates Caesar for instigating civil violence of a kind that the Flavians, emulating Augustus, had been proud to have suppressed when he says that Cato and Pompey would have surrendered to Domitian if he had fought against them (27–­28).71 Later, in lines 84–­90 (quoted above), Statius continues to suggest that Domitian is superior to Caesar by comparing the two rulers’ uses of Greek precedent. Caesar’s statue, he remarks, should “yield” (84, cedat) to Domitian’s, in verses that gesture to the Greek background of Caesar’s self-­styling by referring to Caesar’s temple to Venus as that of “Latian Dione” (84, Latiae . . . Diones).72 Statius goes on to recall that Caesar’s statue was thought to be a sculpture of Alexander the Great crafted by Lysippus, but with Caesar’s head attached in place of Alexander’s. Statius describes the statue as that “which you, Lysippus, having dared it, gave to the Pellaean leader” and which “soon bore the face of Caesar upon its wondering neck” (85–­87). In this way Caesar’s horse becomes, in a sense, a Hellenistic Greek precedent for Domitian’s, since Caesar seems to be a successor to Alexander. But Domitian’s horse is, quite simply, bigger and therefore more impressive. Statius wraps up this passage by insisting that an observer would scarcely be able to measure the “downward view” (88, despectus) from Domitian’s statue to Caesar’s. No one, he suggests, would be so “unsophisticated” (89, rudis) as not to equate the difference in scale between the two horses with the difference in stature between the two rulers (89–­90). In spite of its focus on Julius Caesar, the passage is nevertheless further 71.  Dewar 2008, 72–­74. 72.  Words that likewise recall that she was the mother of Aeneas and, through him, supposed ancestor of both Caesar and Augustus. On the statue and its location, see Geyssen 1996, 86n45.

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confirmation of my main argument because of the tight connection between Caesar and Augustus.73 Indeed, earlier in Silvae 1.1, Statius himself links Caesar and Augustus directly by referring to Caesar as he “who first showed to our divinities the way to heaven by the gift of his adopted son [namely the Temple of Divus Julius],” (23–­24, qui  .  .  . adscitae munere prolis / primus iter nostris ostendit in aethera divis). Augustus, in other words, established his forebearer Caesar as an object of ruler cult, an act deeply implicated in the ideology that the Roman principate drew from the Hellenistic monarchies, and that stemmed ultimately from Alexander’s own self-­divinizing propaganda. But while Caesar, Statius implies, thought it necessary to use Lysippus’ own statue of Alexander as a way of asserting his status as a kind of Hellenistic ruler, and depended on his son, Augustus, to bring his divine aspect posthumously into public view, Domitian’s statue does something analogous entirely on its own during Domitian’s lifetime. The lines immediately following the mention of Caesar’s equestrian statue predict Domitian’s statue’s permanence and envision it as a meeting place for the deified spirits of Domitian’s family (91–­98). These lines again recall the type of dynastic encomium found in a poem such as Theocritus 17, which, as discussed above, commingles praise for Ptolemy Philadelphus with praise for his father, Ptolemy Soter. But then Statius returns to the topic of Greek artists, whom he imagines creating Domitian’s image themselves. “Apelles’ wax,” he asserts, “would desire to represent you” (100, Apelleae cuperent te scribere cerae). The personification of the encaustic wax that Apelles used to paint is especially striking for my purposes, because it helps an audience visualize Domitian as a subject of Greek art even more directly than the more prosaic conceit it implies, namely that Apelles, if he were alive today, would desire to paint Domitian.74 But again, a contrast with Augustan Hellenism is at issue here as well, since two major paintings of Alexander by Apelles hung in the Forum Augustum and the Emperor Claudius had even ordered their heads to be excised and replaced with heads of Augustus.75 Further, the mention of 73.  Cf. Newlands 2012, 31, on the “symbolically sudden . . . ‘decapitation’ of Alexander” here as suggesting “that not even the greatest rulers or their works of art are immune to neglect and desecration” and the anatomical site of the neck in Statius’ poem as “the symbol of ruler change, the physical point of vulnerability.” 74.  For the lines as referring to painting with encaustic wax, see OLD scribere 1b; cera 3e. 75. Plin., HN 35.94. Cf. Šterbenc Erker, chapter 3, this volume, n. 97; cf. Pollitt 1986, 22–­23. For a different view of Alexander’s role in Silvae 1.1 and 4.6, see Spencer 2002, 147–­48, 151–­54, 185–­87.

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Apelles provides additional Greek precedent for Domitian’s self-­association with Jupiter, since Apelles also painted a famous image of Alexander in the guise of Zeus Keraunophoros (“Lightning-­Bearer”), a portrait located in the Temple of Artemis at Ephesus.76 Given the rivalry with Augustan Hellenism that, as we have seen, Silvae 1.1 expresses at many points, it is likewise significant that the last Greek statues mentioned in the poem include famous portrayals of first Zeus and then Phoebus, that is, the Greek god recalling Domitian’s claimed affinity with Jupiter followed by the sun-­god as identified with Apollo, Augustus’ patron deity. “The old Athenian” (i.e., Phidias), Statius says, “would have wished to place a likeness of you in a new Temple of Elean Jove” (101–­2, optassetque novo similem te ponere templo / Atticus Elei senior Iovis), that is, in a new version of the temple at Olympia that was home to the massive chryselephantine statue of Zeus to which Statius has already alluded earlier in the poem (39–­40). Tarentum, Statius adds, would prefer Domitian’s image (103)—­presumably a reference to that city’s colossal bronze statue of Zeus, another work of Lysippus—­and “fierce Rhodes, having scorned its Phoebus, would prefer your visage imitating gleaming fire” (103–­4, tua sidereas imitantia flammas / lumina contempto mallet Rhodos aspera Phoebo), an allusion to the famous Colossus of Rhodes.77 Domitian’s statue, in other words, is preferable to no fewer than two of the largest Greek statues of Zeus and, in addition, the largest of Helios, identified here by the name Phoebus, properly a name of Apollo (see OLD, Phoebus). No doubt there is some recollection here of the fact that Nero, who in his way also emulated Augustus’ bond with Apollo, had had a gargantuan statue of himself installed in the Domus Aurea. After Nero’s death, its head was replaced with that of the sun-­god and it had been nicknamed “the Colossus.” This image was still standing next to the Flavian amphitheater in Statius’ day.78 In its integrity alone, Domitian’s monument easily sur76.  On this painting see Pollitt 1986, 22. 77.  Tarentum was also home to a colossal bronze of Hercules, also by Lysippus. On both sculptures see Pollitt 1986, 49. 78. See Geyssen 1996, 24–­26, 142. Thus the reference to the Colossus of Rhodes reminds us that Augustan Hellenism is not the only deployment of Hellenism by an earlier Roman emperor to which Silvae 1.1 meaningfully alludes. This statue, too, had been evoked at the beginning of the poem, where the word colosso is given prominence at the end of the poem’s very first line. So, the words “fierce Rhodes, having scorned its Phoebus, would prefer your [i.e., Domitian’s] visage imitating gleaming fire” (103–­4) seem to contain a veiled reference to the replacement of Nero’s visage with Sol’s on the Roman “colossus.”

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passes the original Colossus and its latter-­day Roman counterpart. Not only had the Roman “Colossus” been altered by having its head removed (like Lysippus’ statue of Alexander), but the actual Colossus of Rhodes had long disappeared, destroyed by an earthquake in 226 BCE. Another highly visible statue of Phoebus Apollo, however, still towered over Rome in its original form: Augustus’ Temple of Apollo perched upon the Palatine sported on its roof a gleaming statue of Apollo as the sun-­god in his solar chariot (Prop. 2.31.11; Plin., HN 36.13). Thus, with his reference to the Colossus of Rhodes, Statius could be seen to advance a claim that Domitian need not even identify with Apollo himself in order to outdo Augustus’ affinity with that god, a feature of Augustus’ self-­presentation that, again, connected him “with the Hellenistic tradition of solar kingship.”79 This is a significant claim. If Augustus’ professed bond with Apollo was a powerful precedent for Domitian’s self-­styling in the guise of a Hellenistic king, it was also a model that threatened to outshine its copies: there was even a popular belief that Augustus was actually the son of Apollo (Suet., Aug. 94.4; Cass. Dio 45.1.2). In this light, anything that Statius could do to suggest that Domitian’s expressed bond with Jupiter was a more impressive form of self-­representation had considerable potential to meet with favor from the emperor. Indeed, the very fact that Domitian’s statue portrayed him holding a miniature Minerva could have recalled Athena’s miraculous birth in miniature from the head of Zeus, so that the statue could be seen to make a claim of multiple divine affinities that Statius’ poem amplifies: Domitian’s version of Hellenistic self-­styling, Statius suggests, is simply more impressive than any previous emperor’s, Augustus included. The very last lines of Silvae 1.1, which imagine Domitian’s descendants treating his statue as a cult image to which they bring offerings of incense (106–­7) further underscore the reverential aura of Hellenistic divine kingship, as well as the sense of dynastic rule, that many of the poem’s previous details have put in place. In conclusion, let us consider once more Statius’ poem about Domitian’s statue as, in part, an etiological composition in the spirit of the court-­ poet and encomiast of Hellenistic rulers, Callimachus. Silvae 1.1 explains the appropriateness of Domitian’s monument within the larger culture that he fostered, and of which the poem itself is a meaningful part. Domitian’s statue, Statius indicates, as an image in line with the self-­promotion of both Alexander the Great and his successors, outdoes both Julius Caesar’s and Augustus’ efforts in this vein. Statius fits his poem skillfully and impressively 79.  Rehak 2006, 93.

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into this context and signals his attempt to do so. He distinguishes what he is doing from Vergil’s response to Augustan Hellenism, while revealing a certain division within Domitian’s Hellenism by calling attention to the centrality of a potentially negative trait, non-­Augustanness, within it. But this need not lead us into old literary-­historical paradigms disadvantageous to Statius. With respect to the Greek cultural allusions of the Aeneid and Silvae 1.1, we are dealing with very different cultural phenomena, and a notion of “decline” simply isn’t very helpful in this perspective. Whatever any individual spectator might have actually thought of the massive new arrival in the Forum Romanum, Statius gives that person a way to comprehend Domitian’s statue in terms of the emotionally charged issue of social and cultural renewal in the wake of recent civil war and degradation of the urban fabric, as well as the defense of Rome from formidable external enemies. These, too, are Augustan concerns that position Domitian’s Hellenic monument ambiguously in two historical moments. Statius, however, suggests that Domitian has no need for a poem like the Aeneid with its genealogical claims specific to the Julian gens. The ecus maximus Domitiani of Silvae 1.1 creates its own bond with the Greco-­Roman mythological past and embodies the rebuilding and protection from violence for which many Romans no doubt longed. Silvae 1.1 presents itself as a guide to these features of the statue, and in doing so writes itself into Domitian’s style of Hellenism while also adapting, refracting, and ultimately changing it for Statius’ particular purposes. Comparing Roman Hellenisms brings this new angle on Statius’ poetic achievement to light.

Part 3

Hellenic Art in Performance

Five

Space and Time, from Greek Myth to Roman Art Nathaniel B. Jones

Roman art, everyone knows, was a latecomer on the scene of ancient Mediterranean visual culture which looked to its predecessors—­above all the Greeks—­for inspiration in both form and content. But as is so often the case, what everyone knows can be difficult to pin down with precision. On the one hand the challenges are empirical, and questions of how Roman artistic traditions depended upon or departed from their Greek precursors have preoccupied scholars since the formation of art history as a modern scholarly discipline. But on the other hand, in taking up such a problem, we are also forced to confront fundamental assumptions that underly the kinds of questions scholars ask, as well as the methods they employ to produce answers. In thinking through the Hellenism of Roman art, perhaps the most fundamental of such assumptions is the privileging of originality. The problem of originality revolves, in its most basic form, around what is valuable in a work of art. Is it the material from which that work has been made, the skill with which it has been executed, or the central idea(s) behind the work’s conception? And if we believe the work of art to be primarily the instantiation of an idea conceived in the mind of an artist, is it important that the idea be a “new” one, however we might choose to define that novelty? Such questions are not merely academic nor purely historical in nature; they are of ongoing and pressing concern in the contemporary art market. A high-­profile example is Damien Hirst’s 2007 For the Love of God, a platinum cast of a human skull encrusted with thousands of diamonds, whose design 145

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and production Hirst outsourced to others, which likely cost millions of pounds to create, and which was marketed for sale at 50 million pounds.1 At stake, at least economically, was the degree to which the value of Hirst’s ideation outweighed that of the time, skill, and materials involved in actually making the object. Matters were complicated by doubts surrounding the originality of that idea. An old friend of Hirst’s, John Lekay, asserted that he had already produced similar objects some fifteen years prior.2 Hirst himself claimed to have been inspired by an ancient Meso-­American jade mosaic skull in the British Museum. It seems to have gone largely unremarked in the contemporary art world that the basic move performed by For the Love of God—­to preserve the impermanence of the human body through a transformation of its material properties—­is already a feature of the world’s oldest known “portraits”: ninth-­millennium skulls from the Neolithic settlement at Jericho which were stripped of their flesh and then refigured through the addition of plaster, paint, and shell.3 Where, precisely, the origin of For the Love of God lay within this complex network of histories, ideas, and actors is far from clear, a point emphasized by the fact that the details of the eventual sale of the sculpture, including its owner and price, were shrouded in mystery. More than just the stuff of art world snobbery or the vicarious conspicuous consumption characteristic of twenty-­first-­century late capitalist decadence, Hirst’s sculpture represents one in a long line of episodes in the history of art in which the relation between the originality and the value of the work of art were in dynamic tension. Michael Baxandall has shown how, over the course of the fifteenth century in Italy, contracts for paintings gradually became less specific about the materials from which a painting should be made, and more specific about the amount of time the master of a painting workshop, rather than one of his assistants, would spend directly applying his hand to the work.4 Late Antique and Medieval juridical writings discuss the so-­called tabula picta problem, in which a jurist was tasked with deciding whether a panel painting whose ownership was in dispute more properly belonged to a patron, who had paid for the materials from which that painting was created, or the artist, who had gone to the trouble of actually creating it.5 1.  See, e.g., Dormant 2007; Shaw 2007; Fuchs, Obrist, and Self 2008; Jones 2011; Menkes 2011. 2.  Alberge 2007. 3.  See, e.g., Belting 2011, 90–­99. 4.  Baxandall 1988. 5.  Inst. Iust. 2.1.34; Gai., Inst. 2.78; Dig. 10.4.3.14; 41.1.9.2. For discussion see Lucrezi 1984; Madero 2010; Plisecka 2011; Squire 2015c, 307–­8.

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For the Elder Pliny, writing toward the end of the first century CE, value and originality were linked, but only insecurely.6 Pliny seems to have viewed conceptualization as a lesser source of artistic value than skill of execution and truth to nature; he even explicitly identifies the painter Timanthes as the sole artist of significance whose inner creativity (ingenium) outstripped his technical virtuosity (ars) (HN 35.73–­74).7 But Pliny did highly value those artists who were the first to develop some new technique, make advances in naturalism, or, even better, both. In the history of painting we might think of Apollodorus of Athens’ mastery of a mode of realistic depiction (HN 35.60, hic primus species exprimere instituit), or Apelles’ highly individualized varnish, atramentum, which seems to have both protected his paintings and given them a unique luster and depth of color (HN 35.97); in sculpture Lysistratus, Lysippus’ brother, was able to produce highly lifelike portraits in no small part because he was the first to take casts directly from the faces of living people (HN 35.44). There is a logic to Pliny’s emphasis on the value of invention, as it provides him with a principle of change over time and therefore allows him to set art within the course of history.8 It is only a partial logic, however, as in Pliny’s account the height of naturalism was reached already in the late fourth century BCE, almost four hundred years before his own time and before the careers of many of the artists whom he discusses. Even after the logical end of art history, so to speak, art continued to be produced, and Pliny finds ways to be enthusiastic about artists well into the first century CE.9 This is to say, the dynamic tension of value and originality is never fully resolved. In the Roman era, this dynamic assumed a unique form, which was closely tied to the Romans’ sense of their own belated position relative to the achievements of Archaic, Classical, and Hellenistic Greece.10 Pliny’s art-­ historical comments in books 34 to 36 of the Natural History focus primarily, although not exclusively, on the work of Greek art and artists. In their brief summations of art-­historical development both Cicero (Brut. 70) and Quintilian (Inst. 12.10.3–­6) mention only Greek artists, and neither ventures later   6.  The bibliography is vast, but see, very selectively Pollitt 1974, esp. 73–­84; Isager 1991; Settis 1995a; Naas 1996; Carey 2003; Childs 2005; de Angelis 2008; Squire 2013a, 2015c; Platt 2016, 2018a, 2018b.  7. Platt 2014.   8.  Childs 2005; Platt 2016; see also Naas 2008.   9.  For discussion of the tension between art writing and ways of thinking about the historical culmination of modern art see, e.g., Belting 1987; Danto 1996. 10.  This sense of belatedness permeates the Roman literary tradition as well as the art-­ historical one, as Riemer Faber points out below (pp. 286–­88).

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than the fourth century BCE.11 Cicero proclaimed that a lack of excellence in comparison with the great masters of the past did not prevent sculptors and painters of his own day from continuing to produce works of art, and, while his writings do on occasion mention contemporary artists,12 there is no comparable Rome-­centered discussion to rival his exposition of the artistic riches of Sicily in the second book of the Verrine orations (Verr. 2.1–­4).13 Yet despite these facts we should not simply assume a blanket Roman deference to Hellenism. The Roman imitation of Greek cultural superiority is a well-­worn trope; the essays in this volume each expose the complexity of Rome’s many and many-­faceted Hellenisms. Our ability to compare the Hellenisms of the Roman visual arts is complicated, however, not just by the uncertain relation between originality and value, but by the unequal preservation of textual and material sources. To put it bluntly, very few of the Greek works of sculpture and painting discussed in ancient writing have survived to the present day, and very few written sources survive which directly discuss the copious Roman material remains we do have. From J. J. Winckelmann onward, this basic disjunction between written and material archive, especially in conjunction with the sense of belatedness evident in extant Latin literary sources, and a concomitant modern scholarly anxiety about the originality of Roman art, has been a structuring principle in the discipline of ancient art history.14 This is especially true of mythological imagery. Much of the investigation of the Hellenism of Roman mythological artworks, especially those executed in historicizing styles, has focused on the relationship of such objects to earlier works of Greek art.15 At the extreme end of this spectrum has been a method of systematically comparing the formal qualities of various versions of a given Roman statue or painting type in an effort to reconstruct an original Greek masterpiece lying behind that Roman series (typically known as Meisterforschung).16 As has been argued at length in recent years, this prac11.  This is a trend that applies much more widely. In a review of Der Neue Overbeck, a reference work meant to provide a comprehensive source-­book of the lives, careers, and works of Greek artists, Michael Squire 2015b notes that the majority of the collected evidence dates to the time of the Roman Empire. 12.  Such as, for example, Antiochus Galbinus, a painter who was deported from Rome through the Lex Papia (Cic., Att. 4.18.4). 13.  Weis 2003; Bounia 2004, 269–­306; Miles 2008. 14.  Settis 1995b; Carey 2003, 13–­14; Platt 2016; Jones 2019, 9–­46. 15.  For discussion of this phenomenon see esp. Marvin 2008; cf. esp. Newby 2016 for the importance of Greek myth in Roman artistic culture more generally. 16.  See esp. Furtwängler 1893; Lippold 1923 and 1951.

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tice is not only beset by substantial evidentiary and epistemological problems, it also tends to elide the specifically Roman aspects of such works.17 This chapter further contends that such a narrow view of Hellenism—­one focusing above all on style—­obscures significant aspects of how works of art engage with the Greek past. It thus suggests that part of the task of evaluating Roman Hellenisms depends on comparing not only historical sources but modern scholarly approaches as well. Rather than thinking in a solely linear sense about issues of copying, stylistic influence, or the appropriation of certain kinds of stories, this chapter asks instead how Roman images performed the Greek mythological past.18 It focuses on the interrelationship of space and time, a relationship which is particularly significant to the study of the visual arts because in these media temporal change, the prerequisite for narrative development, can only be indicated by spatial manipulation.19 And it examines how Roman mythological images demonstrate creative approaches to the reception of the Greek tradition whose significance has not always been fully appreciated. To take up this task, the chapter first considers the variety of spatiotemporal relationships staged by ecphrastic descriptions of works of art, concentrating on Aeneas’ encounter with images of the Trojan War on the Temple of Juno at Carthage in the first book of the Aeneid. It then turns to extant mythological imagery, focusing in particular on paintings in the so-­called tablinum of the structure known as the House of Livia on the Palatine Hill in Rome, one of which shows a scene of Io, Argus, and Hermes, and the other of which depicts the Cyclops Polyphemus chasing after Galatea. The bulk of scholarly attention has been devoted to the Io panel, in no small part because it has been believed to copy a work by the late fourth-­century Greek painter Nicias. The painting of Polyphemus and Galatea, the earliest surviving such image in the ancient tradition, has not tended to receive the same 17.  See recently on the phenomenon of copying Gazda 2002; Perry 2005; Marvin 2008; Junker, Stähli, and Kunze 2008; Barbanera 2011; Anguissola 2012; Settis, Anguissola, and Gasparotto 2015. 18.  In this sense, the chapter is participating in a tradition of art history, especially prominent in the study of the Renaissance, which seeks to approach the anachronic nature of works of art, their ability to forge connections across spans of time, in ways that evade strictly linear or causal models of historical development. See, e.g., Warburg 1999; Nagel and Wood 2010; Didi-­Huberman 2017. 19.  A longstanding issue in the study of visual arts, prominently formulated in Gotthold Lessing’s 1766 essay Laocoön: An Essay on the Limits of Painting and Poetry. See Lessing 1984, 19–­25, 76–­84; cf., e.g., Mitchell 1987; Giuliani 1996; 2011, 1–­18; Squire 2009, 90–­111; Grethlein 2017; Squire and Lifschitz 2017; Jones 2018b.

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artistic genealogy. Yet the traditions of copy-­criticism offer a limited view of these images’ engagement with the Greek past, and by putting the House of Livia paintings, their precursors, and their successors into a broader discussion of the production and interpretation of space and time in the visual arts, we can better investigate how the paintings might have made that past present to the Roman viewer.

I. Performing the Archive I would like to begin this inquiry into the Hellenism of Roman images of Greek myths with a deceptively simple question: when and where do myths occur? This is a question that has at least two kinds of answers. One is what we might call a direct answer: in the forests of Arcadia, for example, or at the palace of Minos at Knossos, or the island of Calypso, a long time ago. This kind of answer locates mythological activity in a distant past and, at least in the case of the Roman reception of Greek myth, a typically far-­away elsewhere. But there is another way to address this question, one which is in some sense truer to lived experience and closer to the reality of ancient life, and which also engages the main concerns of this volume by revealing the contingency and instability inherent in this form of Roman Hellenism. Myths occurred wherever and whenever they were performed. Performance, understood as “twice-­behaved behavior” and a disciplined and ritualized way of being in the world which connected present to past through the rubric of repetition, was a key aspect of Roman life.20 The concept of exemplarity, which runs as a structuring principle throughout a wide array of Roman culture, essentially revolves around performance. Augustus is forthright about this in the Res Gestae (8.5): “By new laws carried under my authorship I brought back many exempla of our ancestors that were already dying out from our century and I myself handed down exempla of many things to be imitated by later generations.”21 What else would such acts of imitation be if not the performance of models of behavior established in the 20.  On the idea of performance as always embedded in a chain of practiced and repeated behavior see Schechner 1985, esp. 36. For a reading of Classical Latin literature as an instance of Schechner’s “twice-­behaved” or “restored” behavior, see Dufallo 2007. 21.  Legibus noui[s] m[e auctore l]atis m[ulta e]xempla maiorum exolescentia iam ex nostro [saecu]lo red[uxi et ipse] multarum rer[um exe]mpla imitanda pos[teris tradidi]. Translation Lowrie 2007, 105; for the text see Cooley 2009, 66; cf. Scheid 2007, 9.

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past?22 In more general terms, simply being a public figure in Rome involved putting on a persona and playing a role. Augustus again offers a glimpse behind the mask when, as Suetonius reports, on the emperor’s deathbed he quoted a tagline employed by actors (Aug. 99): “Since well I’ve played my part, all clap your hands / And from the stage dismiss me with applause.”23 Performance was also one of the primary ways in which Greek myth was disseminated and consumed in the Roman world. These performances occupied a vast spectrum, from the recitation of epic or lyric poetry to the horrifically violent fatal charades of the arena.24 In many of these instances, of course, whatever myth was performed was likely to have been a familiar one, and so it also may be helpful to think of the reperformance of Greek myth. Such reperformances, as a recent volume of essays has shown, are embodied attempts to enliven a static archive.25 They could be both pointed in their directedness toward specific moments in the past, or much more generally evocative, and could range from the literal restaging of older dramas, to Pausanias’ evocation of tragic Thebes in his description of the city, to the simple act of embedded speech. Of course, in its attempt to reiterate the apparently singular and ephemeral, reperformance also perforce entails transformation. A particularly intriguing arena for this transformative reiteration, and one which has many parallels to the visual arts, was the pantomime.26 The pantomime was both a verbal and visual art form, which involved the recitation of the plots of Greek myths, but was valued especially for the pantomime dancer, who, alone, acted out by purely physical means each of the most important roles of a given story. Though largely ignored by scholars until recently, the pantomime, as Edith Hall has argued, was not only one of the most popular forms of entertainment in the Roman Empire, it may have been the primary venue in which normal people learned the stories of Greek 22. Hölkeskamp 1996; Chaplin 2000; Roller 2004; 2009; 2018; Haimson Lushkov 2015; Langlands 2018. For the significance of exemplarity in the visual arts see Newby 2016; Jones 2018a. 23.  ᾽Επεὶ δὲ πάνυ καλῶς πέπαισται, δότε κρότον / Καὶ πáντες ἡμᾶς μετὰ χαρᾶς προπέμψατε. Text and translation Rolfe 1914, 302–­3. See, e.g., Beachem 1999, 92–­154; Sumi 2005; cf. Gunderson 2000. 24.  On the former see narrowly, e.g., Dalzell 1955; Markus 2000; and broadly Habinek 2005; Lowrie 2009; Peirano Garrison 2019; on the latter Coleman 1990. 25.  Hunter and Uhlig 2017; Simon Goldhill’s 2017 essay suggests not only that such acts of reperformance are capable of crossing media but that reperformative tendencies lay at the heart of key aspects of Roman culture. 26.  Hall and Wyles 2008; Webb 2009a.

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myth.27 And, in its focus on the pantomime dancer, it also gives us a model for how a largely visual representation of myth could bring that myth to life. The pantomime dancer interpreted the characters of a mythological narrative through motion, and his dance was in turn interpreted by the audience, the members of which were obviously capable not only of reading the appropriate visual cues for narrative cohesion, but also of extracting significant emotional content and of deriving great pleasure from them. I would suggest that the performance, or reperformance, of Greek myth extended to the production and experience of works of visual art.28 We may not often think of the work of ancient art, a static, silent object, as a performance, but I would contend that, insofar as artworks were perceived and interpreted, this is precisely what they became—­active, forceful experiences.29 Valerius Maximus points precisely to this force of mythological paintings when discussing an image of Pero and Myco (5.4.ext.1): “Men’s eyes are riveted in amazement when they see the painting of this act and renew the features of the long bygone incident in astonishment at the spectacle now before them, believing that in those silent outlines of limbs they see living and breathing bodies.”30 Valerius, as so many other Latin writers do, is employing the visual arts in large part as a foil to think about verbal rhetoric. This is an important point; painting provides a goal to which rhetoric aspires, not because it shows us already living images, but because its images so easily seem to come to life. In this sense we might further suggest that mythological images are not just performances, but performatives. In the mid-­twentieth century, the philosopher J. L. Austin identified a performative utterance as an utterance with an illocutionary force, that is, as a saying which did not just have semantic meaning, but which performed an action in the world.31 In the case of a performative utterance, “saying makes it so.” Pronouncing marriage, proclaiming guilt or innocence, even announcing an intention; these are all 27.  Hall 2008; 2013. 28.  See, e.g., Newby 2012 and 2016. 29.  On the agency of the work of art see, for example, Gell 1992 and 1998; Osborne and Tanner 2007. Cf. Nagel and Wood 2010, who characterize the authorial agency of the artist as a kind of performance, the traces of which are left behind in the artwork. 30.  haerent ac stupent hominum oculi, cum huius facti pictam imaginem vident, casusque antiqui condicionem praesentis spectaculi admiratione renovant, in illis mutis membrorum liniamentis viva ac spirantia corpora intueri credentes. Text and translation Shackleton-­Bailey 2000, 500–­502. Cf. Beacham 2013. 31.  Austin 1962, developed further in Searle 1969. For alternate, at times competing accounts of the concept of the performative see esp. Derrida 1988; Butler 1990.

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statements which have a real and often immediate effect that exceeds specific linguistic meaning. A performative crosses the boundary between communication and action.32 In the visual arts, Zainab Bahrani has identified a class of ancient Near Eastern objects as performative images.33 For Bahrani such an image constantly instantiates and reinscribes itself through a peculiar kind of self-­reflexivity which is not merely fictional. The Uruk Vase, for example not only displays the ritual context in which the vase was used—­an annual sacred marriage between priest-­king and priestess who assume the role of goddess and human lover—­it also figures itself within that ritual and thus creates the conditions of possibility for its use. It performs itself as a ritual object. The performative aspects of the ecphrastic encounters and images I discuss here are not quite so literal, but they share the self-­reflexive iterability Bahrani identifies. And, as these poetic episodes and images actively reflect on themselves and their positions within artistic and mythological traditions, they clear out space for their myths to take place. Thinking of Roman images of Greek myth as performatives permits us to go beyond the question of meaning; for the purposes of this volume, it shifts us away from the question of how “Greek” any given mythological image might have been in terms of its stylistic or compositional genealogy. Instead, it begins to answer the question of what a Greek mythological image might have been doing in the Roman world—­what this type of Roman Hellenism really is—­and it offers renewed insight into the dynamic of value and originality which has so vexed thinking on art from antiquity to the present day.

II. From History to Myth The tradition of ecphrastic writing about art objects, with its simultaneous encomiastic deference to realism and insistence on the quasi-­magical qualities of works of art, attests to precisely the complexity of art’s relation to myth (for another perspective on art and myth in ecphrastic writing, including Vergil’s Aeneid, see Basil Dufallo, chapter 4, this volume). Such writing, as numerous scholars have demonstrated, is fundamentally engaged in the question of interpretation; regardless of the existential status of the 32.  Note that Lowell Edmunds (2001, 19–­38), writing specifically of Roman poetry, is sceptical that a performative speech act can take place within the basic constraints imposed by poetry’s essential framework of fiction and the indirect, long-­distance communication of a literary culture of writing. Cf. Derrida 1988. 33.  Bahrani 2002, 2014, 166–­69, 200–­210.

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objects it purports to describe, ecphrasis attests to ancient ways of coming to terms with the material world via staged encounters between the visual and the verbal.34 Much more than telling us what ancient artworks might have looked like, ecphrastic descriptions help us to understand ancient ways of thinking about, and thinking with, the visual arts as such. Aeneas’ encounter with the pictures of the Temple of Juno at Carthage presented in book 1 of the Aeneid provides a prime example of how a work of art might act upon its audience by mediating multiple instantiations of a mythological narrative.35 While waiting for an audience with Dido, ruler of the city of Carthage, the Trojan hero finds himself inspecting images on the Temple to Juno which purport to depict the events of the Trojan War, in some of which he himself had been a participant: namque sub ingenti lustrat dum singula templo, reginam opperiens, dum, quae fortuna sit urbi, artificumque manus inter se operumque laborem miratur, videt Iliacas ex ordine pugnas bellaque iam fama totum vulgata per orbem, Atridas Priamumque et saevum ambobus Achillem. Constitit et lacrimans, “quis iam locus,” inquit, “Achate, quae regio in terris nostri non plena laboris?” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  . . . Sic ait, atque animum pictura pascit inani multa gemens, largoque umectat flumine vultum. (Vergil, Aen. 1.453–­66) For while beneath the mighty temple, awaiting the queen, he scans each object, while he marvels at the city’s fortune, the handicraft of the several artists and the work of their toil, he sees in due order the battles of Ilium, the warfare now known by fame throughout the world, the sons of Atreus, and Priam, and Achilles, fierce in his wrath against both. He stopped and weeping cried: “Is there any place, Achates, any land on earth not full of our sorrow?” . . . So he speaks, and 34.  The bibliography on ecphrasis is ever expanding. See, selectively: Goldhill 1994; Graf 1995; Webb 1999; 2009b; Elsner 1995; 2002; 2007; Bartsch and Elsner 2007; Dufallo 2012; and Squire 2015d, with substantial bibliography. 35.  Williams 1960; Leach 1988, 311–­18; Fowler 1991, 31–­33; Putnam 1998, 23–­54; Dufallo 2012, 142–­47; Squire 2014, 387–­94, 2016; Heslin 2015, 261–­78; Faber 2018.

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feasts his soul on the empty picture, sighing much and his face wet with a flood of tears. (Fairclough and Goold 1916/1999) Before any description has occurred, the audience has the immediate impression that this story, already perched between history and myth, will take place in at least three locations—­on the plains of Troy, on the Temple of Juno itself, and as an internal event within Aeneas’ own psyche. The movement between Vergil’s description of Aeneas’ reactions to the pictures and the character’s own utterances, all lamentations for the fate of the Trojans, highlights that what we read includes not only the Trojan hero’s reaction to these pictures, but his performance of them. Admittedly, the passage does include moments of straightforward descriptions of external objects, which treat the images on the temple as simple pictures depicting discrete scenes. Troilus, for example, is depicted hanging from his chariot after his death, with hair trailing in the dust: parte alia fugiens amissis Troilus armis, infelix puer atque impar congressus Achilli, fertur equis curruque haeret resupinus inani, lora tenens tamen; huic cervixque comaeque trahuntur per terram et versa pulvis inscribitur hasta. (Vergil, Aen. 1.474–­78) Elsewhere Troilus, his armor flung away in flight—­unhappy boy, and ill-­matched in conflict with Achilles—­is carried along by his horses and, fallen backward, clings to the empty car, still clasping the reins; his neck and hair are dragged over the ground, and the dust is scored by his reversed spear. (Fairclough and Goold 1916/1999) But the temporal and spatial relations among the three performances of the story are difficult to disentangle. The poem seems to assert that Aeneas sees the battle in order, ex ordine pugnas, but what order that might be remains obscure.36 If it is the chronological order in which the events them36.  See, e.g., Squire 2016; Heslin 2015. Riemer Faber has suggested to me that ex ordine may simply mean out of order.

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selves occurred, what narratologists call the “story-­time” of the events, that is not the order in which they are related to the reader within the “discourse-­ time” structuring the poem’s narrative sequence.37 So there is either a disconnect between what Aeneas sees and what Vergil tells his reader, or the order in which Aeneas sees the pictures is not a strictly chronological one. One way to read the images is through the lens of Aeneas’ own response, as a kind of highly personalized performance of their content. But even then, interpretive difficulties remain. Aeneas sees himself in “close combat with the Achaean chiefs,” se quoque principibus permixtum agnovit Achivis. The reader is not informed who those chiefs are, which might indicate that, unlike with Achilles, Agamemnon, or Menelaus, the artists have not sufficiently specified their identities. Yet, should not Aeneas himself remember, especially given that the battle was important enough to be commemorated? Elsewhere it seems clearer that the reader’s view of the pictures is being filtered through Aeneas’ own unique point of view. At one point, Achilles is described as selling Hector’s body to Priam: ter circum Iliacos raptaverat Hectora muros exanimumque auro corpus vendebat Achilles. tum vero ingentem gemitum dat pectore ab imo, ut spolia, ut currus, utque ipsum corpus amici tendentemque manus Priamum conspexit inermis (Vergil, Aen. 1.483–­87) Thrice had Achilles dragged Hector round the walls of Troy and was selling the lifeless body for gold. Then indeed from the bottom of his heart he heaves a deep groan, as the spoils, as the chariot, as the very corpse of his friend met his gaze, and Priam outstretching weaponless hands. (Fairclough and Goold 1916/1999) As this event is recounted in book 24 of the Iliad, it is true that Priam offered a ransom to Achilles for his son’s body. But Homer characterizes the scene much more as a moment of shared grief between Priam and Achilles than as a purely economic exchange. A number of scholars have noted that Aeneas 37.  Chatman 1978; cf. Genette 1980; Steiner 1988. For discussion of these issues in ancient art see: Petrain 2014, 32–­37; Squire 2016.

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was not present during this encounter, and insofar as Vergil gives us his privileged but limited point of view, we may be witnessing the performance of his misinterpretation of the picture.38 Further examples could be adduced; the significant point is that the reader of this passage understands that, even within the overall fictive framework of the Aeneid, there are multiple performances of the Trojan battles: the events themselves, which are closely related to although perhaps not entirely coterminous with the Homeric poems and other works of the Trojan Cycle, the representations of those events on the Temple of Juno, and Aeneas’ interpretation of them. Moreover, despite Vergil’s apparent promise to present these battles in order, the reader is in fact unable to disentangle the spatiotemporal relationships among those performances to know precisely which is happening where and when, much less which is more trustworthy. The Aeneas episode dramatically demonstrates the difficulty of pinning down the relationship between story and discourse (the relative chronology of the narrated events against the order of the narration itself ), and thus the complexity of the chronotope of the artwork, to use Mikhail Bakhtin’s terminology.39 For Bakhtin, the term chronotope indicated the intrinsic connectedness of temporal and spatial relationships that are artistically expressed in literature. In Bakhtin’s account, the literary chronotope was especially connected to questions of genre; medial differences, such as those between text and image, or for that matter, between the static work of art and the living body of the audience, do not seem to have figured heavily. As the case of Aeneas and the Temple of Juno makes clear, however, the relation between medium and body is key.40 Works of art are both internal and external phenomena; they exist in the present day, and their performance of myth overlays the reality of everyday life.

III. Models and Copies The Temple of Juno at Carthage is just one of many such examples of what we might call chronotopic involution in the ecphrastic tradition, in which multiple possible performances of the content of work of art are played out through a mediated act of interpretation. Beyond literature, I would like 38.  Fowler 1991, 32–­33, with earlier references; Heslin 2015, 272–­76. 39.  Bakhtin 1981b. 40.  See, e.g., Belting 2011.

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to suggest that surviving works of Roman art, especially paintings depicting mythological narratives in landscape settings, encode similarly complex time-­space configurations in the ways in which they stage the performance of Greek myth.41 Space permits me to discuss only a few examples, which come from the so-­called tablinum of a building known as the House of Livia, a late Republican or early imperial structure on the Palatine Hill in Rome, which may have been inhabited by members of Augustus’ family.42 The decoration of half of the rear wall and most of the right-­hand wall of this room survive; each shows an abbreviated version of the stage-­front of a theater building (fig. 5.1). On the right wall, a low dado supports a narrow stage, behind which stands a backing wall decorated with a variety of works of art. Above that wall, a curving colonnade and the branches of a tree stand out against a white ground. At the center of the stage, framed by fluted columns, is a large aedicula containing a representation of the myth of Io, Argus, and Hermes (fig. 5.2). The painting places us in medias res. According to Ovid (Met. 1.587–­746), in order to ward off Juno’s suspicion, Jupiter had transformed the young woman Io into a cow. The goddess nevertheless appointed Argus, gifted with one hundred eyes, which are never all asleep at once, to serve as the cow’s guardian.43 In an iconographic convention which stretches back at least to the fifth century BCE, Io is shown in the mural not as a cow, but rather a young woman seated on a rock, with two horns growing from her forehead.44 Argus, nude but holding a sword, cloak, and spear, stands at the right of the picture, leaning forward with his right foot raised on another rock. On the left, Hermes approaches from the background. The scene is dominated not just by the figure but environment as well: rocks in the foreground, trees in the background, and a statue of a female deity, perhaps Diana, rising through the center of the picture. In the center of the rear wall of the room was a now-­worn painting of Polyphemus and Galatea, in which the Cyclops waded out to the sea, spurred on by a small cupid on his shoulder, chasing after the nymph escaping on a hippocamp (fig. 5.3).45 Environment, again, 41.  On the significance of the encounter between past and present in Roman mythological landscape paintings generally see, for example, Bergmann 1999; Newby 2012. 42.  See, e.g., Rizzo 1936a; Cagiano de Azevedo 1949; Leach 1982, 159–­64; Galinsky 1996, 179–­96; Leach 2004, 134–­35; Valladares 2021, 91–­103; cf. Iacopi in LTUR 2, 130–­ 32, s.v. Domus: Livia. 43.  Cf. Ov., Her. 14.85–­108. 44.  LIMC 5, s.v. Io, I, no. 35; cf. nos. 39; 43. 45.  According to Athenaeus, Deip. 1.6e–­7a, first described in the poetic tradition in a

Fig. 5.1. Tablinum, House of Livia, Palatine Hill, Rome. Mid-­to late first century BCE. Photo: Scala / Art Resource, New York.

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Fig. 5.2. Tablinum, House of Livia, Palatine Hill, Rome. Mid-­to late first century BCE. Drawing of Io and Argus panel by A. Sikkard. Photo: DAIR Archivio A-­VII-­69-­009.

plays a key role in the composition, which is taken up especially by the large stretch of water and rocky island in the background. These two paintings diagram the complexity of comparing types of Roman Hellenism. Both represent scenes of well-­known Greek myths. Each is the earliest representation of that subject extant in Roman wall painting. The Io and Argus painting, however, has often been seen as a copy of a late Classical Greek painting by Nicias.46 This identification has been based in lost poem by Philoxenos of Cythera. In surviving literature see esp. Theoc., Id. 6, 11; Ov., Met. 728–­896; and Philostr., Imag. 2.18. 46.  For the artist see Neutsch 1940, 7–­14. Cf. Becatti in EAA 4, 475–­82, s.v. Nikias; DNO nos. 2805–­27, esp. 2814–­15. For the attribution Helbig 1873, 142; Rodenwaldt 1909, 36–­38, 228–­32, 227–­31; Rizzo 1936a, 25–­30; Neutsch 1940, 52–­60; Wesenberg 1988; for the iconography of Io, Yalouris 1986.

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Fig. 5.3. Tablinum, House of Livia, Palatine Hill, Rome. Mid-­to late first century BCE. Drawing of Polyphemus and Galatea panel by A. Sikkard. Photo: DAIR Archivio A-­VII-­69-­010.

part on stylistic features, but also and especially on the figural composition, variations of which appear throughout Pompeii. The degree to which the painting copies the putative original by Nicias, however, has been subject to debate. In his 1936 publication of the paintings, Giulio Rizzo was able to read now-­illegible inscriptions identifying the actors—­ERMHS for Hermes and IW for Io.47 The use of the omega in Io’s name convinced him that the 47.  Rizzo 1936a, 26.

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painting must represent a relatively accurate copy of a Greek original, as he doubted that an Italian painter would have known to spell her name thus. For Rizzo, at least, the association of the Io panel with a work of Greek art known from the textual tradition was a point of pride, a way to elevate rather than denigrate the House of Livia paintings. But such a judgment is just a reversal, on essentially the same terms, of the one which passes off Roman art as a mere imitation, a pale shadow of the Greek past. Rizzo also asserted that the landscape elements in the picture, such as the rock and tree, were aspects of the particular compositional demands at the House of Livia, and he felt unable to say with any authority whether or not Hermes had formed a part of the original composition. Bernard Neutsch similarly agreed that the landscape and depth in space had been expanded from the original composition, but thought it more likely that Hermes was an original element, as that would have allowed Nicias to depict a moment of heightened tension.48 According to Burkhardt Wesenberg, who traced several versions of the myth across a range of Roman paintings, only the figure of Io herself can more or less be attributed securely to Nicias’ invention; even Argus’ authenticity is in question.49 Although I would question the ultimate utility of this quest for origins, it also seems that a direct dependence on a composition by Nicias is unlikely for a few reasons.50 These include Pliny’s relative silence on what the “original” painting actually looked like—­he only says that Nicias made some large panels depicting Io, Calypso, and Andromeda (HN 35.132), without even specifying whether the painting of Io was of the scene with Argus or her arrival in Egypt, a composition that occurs twice in extant Pompeian painting.51 The particular arrangement of figures we witness in the House of Livia painting, with Io seated on a rock, Argus leaning in front of her, and a statue of a goddess behind them, seems to already be attested in fourth-­century Lucanian vase painting, before the time period Pliny assigns to Nicias.52 Similarly, the motif of the nude youth leaning forward with one foot raised on a rock, can be traced back even further into the fifth century, where it appears in both vase painting and, several times, on the Parthenon frieze.53 48.  Neutsch 1940, 52–­60. 49.  Wesenberg 1988, 344–­50. 50.  Jones 2019, 182–­89. 51.  See, e.g., Swetnam Burland 2015, 125–­37. 52.  LIMC 5 s.v. Io I.III.5, 669, no. 59. 53.  Jenkins 1994, 106–­7; 110–­11.

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IV. Body and Environment On the one hand, accordingly, the degree to which we can associate the House of Livia painting with a composition by Nicias remains uncertain. But on the other hand, and perhaps more importantly, the very act of searching out chains of replication of figural compositions also obscures important aspects of the broader context of the painting. Both the Io painting and its pendant work hard to place the myths they depict within comprehensive, all-­encompassing landscapes. But there are questions of originality, and hence of value, surrounding the depiction of the natural world as well. From the early twentieth century onward, it has been suggested that landscape painting is a genuinely Roman, rather than Greek, phenomenon, and that landscape settings constituted Roman contributions to the Greek figural compositions of mythological scenes.54 There is some textual support for this position.55 Pliny identifies the Roman mural painter Studius as the first to paint landscape motifs such as groves (lucos), woods (nemora), and hills (colles), on walls (HN 35.116–­17). Vitruvius, likewise, wrote that wall painters not long before his time had been accustomed to paint different kinds of landscapes (varietatibus topiorum) like harbors, headlands, shorelines, rivers (portus, promunturia, litora, flumina), and much besides (De arch. 7.5.2). What actually constitutes landscape as an artistic genre, however, is difficult to articulate.56 There is no shortage of rocks, trees, and other natural elements in Greek art from the Archaic period onward, and an apparent increased interest in the depiction of environment in the later fourth century.57 The painting on the facade of Tomb II at Vergina, for example, gives us a setting with trees and rocky outcroppings indicating place and providing a backdrop for the principal subject of depiction, a hunt of dangerous animals. Some Greek images, such as the second-­century BCE painting of the water-­drawing device, or sâqiya, in a tomb at Alexandria, come close to the rustic pastoralism associated with the landscape genre (fig. 5.4).58 The painting shows a water drawing device, yoked to two oxen, set under 54.  For discussion of Roman landscape painting see, e.g., Rodenwalt 1909; Rostovsteff 1911; Dawson 1944; Schefold 1960; Peters 1963; von Blanckenhagen 1957; 1963; 1968; Blanckenhagen and Alexander 1990, 43–­46; Leach 1988; Bergmann 1992; Kotsidou 2008; La Rocca 2008; Croisille 2010; Hinterhöller-­Klein 2015. 55.  See further discussion in Ling 1977. 56.  See, e.g., Wood 1993; cf. Wamberg 2009. 57.  Dietrich 2010; cf. Pollitt 1986, 185–­209. 58.  Venit 2002, 101–­18.

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Fig. 5.4. Painting from the Sâqiya Tomb (Wardian Tomb II), Alexandria. Second century BCE. Photo: Werner Forman / Art Resource, New York.

a pergola heavy with vines. The device, the island, and the pergola are all set on top of a small island-­like mound ringed by two courses of masonry blocks. Below the masonry, in the very foreground of the picture and pressed directly against the picture plane, however, are Nilotic plants and two birds, including, at the far bottom-­left corner, a floating duck. Many of these motifs would crop up again in late Republican and early imperial sacro-­idyllic landscapes, including just a few feet away from the Io and Argus panel in Room IV of the House of Livia. Also, we cannot discount the possibility that there was a wealth of landscape painting in Hellenistic Alexandria which simply has not survived.59 Insofar as surviving evidence permits us to say, however, Roman art, especially painting, of 59. Rostovsteff 1911; Picard 1955; Picard-­Schmitter 1971; Silberberg-­Peirce 1980; Leach 1988, 196–­306; La Rocca 2008, 34–­46; Wamberg 2009, 265–­70; Gury 2010.

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the first centuries BCE and CE provides an unprecedented wealth of scenes which show human, animal, and architectural figures dispersed among natural elements at such a scale so as to indicate that humanity and its products are in fact relatively smaller parts of a larger setting—­actors whose physical presence is defined by their environment. The human body, perhaps the primary subject of Archaic and Classical Greek art, has become just one part of the larger pictorial world. Beyond the question of the origins of landscape, however, we should also note that the setting of figure within environment significantly expands the play of space and time available to the artist, and it entails particular phenomenological effects for the viewer.60 The story of Polyphemus and Odysseus, which appears already in book 9 of the Homeric poem the Odyssey, was one of the earliest mythological narratives to enter the repertoire of visual artists in Archaic Greece. As the work of Luca Giuliani has shown, already in its earliest stages the story demonstrates complex manipulations of space and time, as vase painters were forced to navigate questions of scale, setting, and composition as well as narrative cohesion.61 The myth of Polyphemus and the nymph Galatea, of later origin and popularized particularly in the Hellenistic bucolic poetry of Theocritus (Id. 6, 11), appears first in the visual record here, at the House of Livia. This event, as both nineteenth-­century drawing and surviving mural indicate, is dramatically, decidedly, taking place elsewhere, in another space and time; in a landscape that is both rocky and maritime, at a moment when the affairs of humanity and those of divine and semidivine beings had not yet fully separated. I would also suggest that the very fullness of its landscape description and the heightened drama of its action also foreground the fact that it takes place here, on the Palatine Hill, in an aristocratic house. I have elsewhere argued that this painting imitates and stands in for a pinax embletos or a panel painting embedded within a larger architectural context. This panel, by its format alone, announces both that it participates in a longstanding tradition of painting stretching back to Greece and that what occurs inside the frame of the panel is endowed with a special status.62 The scale, and the position of the painting on the wall, are also key here. The perspectival tricks of the tablinum of the House of Livia are relatively minimal, but they do lead us, unerringly, back in depth as we move toward the center of the actual painted surface. The fiction of this 60.  Bergmann 1999; Newby 2012. 61.  Giuliani 2013, 70–­88; cf. Snodgrass 198, 89–­190. 62.  Jones 2019.

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fictive painting is that it is distinct from the fiction of its surroundings, but it also will not let us set aside the possibility that we simply look through an embrasure on the wall onto a scene that threatens to incorporate us within it.63 The mountain, ocean, sea nymphs, Cupid, and Cyclops are all far from the Palatine Hill, but the power of painting proclaims their immediacy and accessibility, and it turns what is, in some senses, a light-­ hearted genre painting into a distinctly threatening one, as Cupid drives the Cyclops on toward the viewer her-­or himself. The emplacement of the figural scene within a broader conception of landscape, moreover, also stands at the beginning of a Roman tradition. A recent study has identified twenty-­one Pompeian representations of the myth of Polyphemus and Galatea, although many are now only preserved in drawings or watercolors.64 At least seven of these repeat key aspects of the Palatine painting. These aspects relate less to the execution and disposition of figures than to the setting in which the action occurs. In these examples, as Theocritus details in the Idylls (6, 11) and Philostratus would come to describe in the Imagines (2.18), while Galatea cavorts in the ocean, Polyphemus sits or stands on the shore in love-­sick grief, rather than wading into the water, as he does at the House of Livia. But as in Rome, in the Campanian versions Galatea tends to sit sidesaddle on the back of a hippocamp or dolphin, and cliffs rise from the water’s edge. In the House of the Colored Capitals (VII.4.31.51) in Pompeii, a small Eros figure is present, though there he hovers above Galatea, shading her with a small parasol.65 These examples especially share with the panel from the House of Livia an attention to the interaction between sea, land, and atmospheric conditions. The interest in landscape and especially the creation of an environment in which the actions of a mythological narrative can take place, rather than the figural composition, unites this pictorial tradition. The same could be said for a broad range of contemporary Roman mythological paintings. The paintings from the Esquiline Hill in Rome depicting episodes from Odysseus’ journey home from the Trojan War dramatically emphasize the fictive world of the Odyssey over the individual human bodies 63.  A point that was subject to explicit debate in the early twentieth century. For recapitulation of the major points in the debate see Ehlich 1953, 122–­38. 64.  Hodske 2007, 196–­200, 226–­27, 324, 326. For the full range of representations of Polyphemus in Roman literature and art, see Leach 1992; Squire 2009, 300–­356; Valladares 2021, 103–­39. 65.  Hodske (2007, 197, cat. 477); PPM 6.1061.

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Fig. 5.5. Section of the Odyssey Landscapes, showing the attack of the Laestrygonians. From a House in the Via Graziosa, Esquiline Hill, Rome, ca. 46–­30 BCE. Biblioteca Apostolica, Vatican Museums. Photo: Scala / Art Resource, New York.

within it (fig. 5.5).66 This basic structural principle applies to genuine landscapes, such as the rocky hills and harbor where the Laestrygonians attack Odysseus and his men, to more intimate architectural scenes, such as the courtyard of the palace of Circe, and to landscapes whose conditions of visibility are much more limited, such as the depiction of the underworld, the “House of Hades,” the god of death whose very name connotes invisibility.67 Nearer to the House of Livia on the Palatine Hill in Rome, the paintings from the so-­called Aula Isiaca, though now heavily damaged, attest to the importance of environment in a number of ways. Among the largest painted surfaces to have survived from ancient Rome, the Aula Isiaca murals both 66.  See, e.g., Andreae 1962; Blanckenhagen 1963; Biering 1995; O’Sullivan 2007. Note that Vitruvius attests to paintings of Ulixis errationes per topia, or Odysseus’ wanderings through landscapes (De arch. 7.5.2). 67.  See, e.g., Crowley 2019, 83–­132.

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place the real inhabitant of the room within an all-­encompassing, albeit highly fictionalized, illusion including lavish architectural representation, religious symbolism, and cosmic evocation, and feature mythological landscapes. One, apparently depicting Helen disembarking in Egypt, displays a conspicuous lighthouse, perhaps the pharos of Alexandria, in an act of topographically precise, albeit temporally proleptic, scene-­setting.68

V. Mythical Encounters By way of conclusion, let us return to Polyphemus and Galatea. When we follow the variations—­not just of figural composition but of setting and narrative technique—­in subsequent paintings of the myth, we find a broad array of relations of space and time. Perhaps the clearest example of this occurs in a painting of Polyphemus from the Augustan Villa at Boscotrecase (fig. 5.6).69 In the foreground of the painting, Polyphemus sits leaning against a column, facing the viewer. Directly in front of the Cyclops is a stretch of water; sheep and goats, apparently his neglected flock, wander around him. In the left foreground of the painting, we see Galatea sitting on a dolphin. This is familiar enough, given what we have seen at the house of Livia. But the upper right quadrant of the painting contains another scene, one from much later in Polyphemus’ life, in which he appears to be casting a rock at the escaping ship of Odysseus. This device, the repetition of a single figure within one pictorial field, is typically referred to as continuous narration, and the Polyphemus painting and its pendant from the same room, a depiction of the myth of Perseus and Andromeda, are among the earliest extant examples of the technique.70 But what exactly the narrative might be here, and where precisely it is occurring, is far from clear. Polyphemus ranges from forlorn subject of pastoral idyll to enraged epic monster, with little clarity of connection between the two moments other than the contrast between Galatea’s and Odysseus’ escape by sea and the Cyclops’ rootedness on land. As ever in the visual arts, moreover, 68.  Rizzo 1936b, 20–­22, 37; Iacopi 1997, 21, 39; cf. Schefold 1953. For the textual tradition of Helen’s journey to Egypt, rather than Troy, see: Dio Chrys., Or. 11.40–­41; Hdt. 2.112–­20; Eur., Hel.; Allan 2008, 18–­28. 69.  See, e.g., Leach 1988, 309–­60; Blanckenhagen and Alexander 1990, 28–­50; Jones 2018b. 70.  von Blanckenhagen 1957; cf. Schefold 1960; Brilliant 1984, 29–­30; Von Dippe 2007; Jones 2018b.

Fig. 5.6. Villa of Agrippa Postumus at Boscotrecase. Detail of Mythological panel with Polyphemus and Galatea. Ca. 11 BCE. New York MMA 20.192.17. Photo: metmuseum.org.

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space and time are intertwined, and changes in narrative time are accompanied by changes in the perspective from which the scene is represented. The painting initially suggests, by virtue of its evocative color palettes and by the general elevation of the point of view above the depicted action, that it is something like a single landscape in the way that we might now understand that term—­a unified view onto a coherent and cohesive space in the world. But this unity quickly falls apart; we look at practically every part of the picture from a different notional viewing position, and the relation of space to time is particularly tortuous. The painting, in other words, distorts a naturalized view of both the space the painting represents and the times at which these myths take place. In a painting of the same subject from the House of the Priest Amandus in Pompeii (1.7.7), temporal possibilities are expanded while spatial complexities are simplified (fig. 5.7).71 The question of originality intrudes once again, as it seems likely that the overall composition of the Pompeian example was based upon the Boscotrecase panel. But the differences are instructive: the Pompeian painting appears to perpetuate the continuous narration, as a ship appears in the upper right, although the Cyclops is not repeated. Moreover, the position of the ship has changed, and it is not clear whether we see its prow, as it sails from left to right, or its stern, as it sails from right to left. The result is significant for both the temporal horizon and possible causal construction of the painting’s narrative, as it has become undecipherable, whether we witness Odysseus’ arrival, departure, or both. The first possibility evokes Theocritus’ version of the love-­sick Cyclops, who muses that he might finally have access to the sea, and thus to Galatea herself, if a stranger should arrive on a ship (Id. 11.60–­61). In the second instance, we are reminded of the naivety of that hypothetical and, as the story occurs in Homer, we know just how irrevocably Polyphemus will remain landbound. Both possibilities remain open within the painting. Thus, while the composition has been simplified, even reduced, in comparison with the Boscotrecase panel, we are dealing not so much with a question of loss as with a difference in emphasis, a unique performance of these two myths of Polyphemus which stages the potential relationships between them in dramatically different ways. The overwhelming presentness, and the implicit threat, of the example 71.  Maiuri 1938, 3–­13; Blanckenhagen and Alexander 1990, 37–­40; Beard and Henderson 2001, 48–­53; Hodske 2007, 181; cat. no. 30; PPM 1, 597; Knox 2014, 37–­38; Jones 2018b, 23–­24.

Fig. 5.7. House of the Priest Amandus, Pompeii. Polyphemus panel. First century CE. Photo: © Manuel Cohen.

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from the House of Livia seems to have been diluted in the subsequent examples. Rather than a myth about to erupt into the space of everyday life, we have multiple myths whose performance—­whose location in space and time—­seems to constantly elude us. But in their multiple temporalities both paintings also provide unique points of access to the interior of their fictive worlds, and put into dramatic tension the ways in which both mythological characters and Roman audiences might perform the scenes of Greek myth. And as they refuse to resolve into single, unambiguous narratives, into temporally linear causal chains, the paintings also call into question the importance of priority, and thus the association of originality and value. Metapoetic, temporally ambiguous, and spatially fragmented, these Polyphemus paintings embrace their belatedness as a virtue at the same time as they insist on the uniqueness, the novelty, of each performative encounter with the mythological tradition. Whatever the source of any given element within a painting might be, it is in the combination and recombination of those elements, whether on the actual surface of a wall or in the mind of a viewer, that the encounter with Greek myth, and with the mythological tradition, occurs. Viewed in this way, the phenomenology of these works of art supersedes consideration of their compositional originality. Investigating that phenomenology through the interrelationships of space, time, and performance will not answer all of our questions about Roman art’s relationship to the Greek past. But in thinking about such issues, I propose that we might further open up our conception of what constitutes a Roman Hellenism, and of how such Hellenism could be a lived part of ancient life.

Six

The Statues of Nike from Oplontis Decor et Duplicatio Revisited Elaine K. Gazda

I. Introduction Roman Hellenism is evident in works of visual art of a wide variety of form and function, most notably in statues that typically portray gods, heroes, other myth-­related and allegorical figures, and personifications rendered in a distinctly Greek style. In this paper I focus on two such Hellenizing statues of the last sort: nearly identical renderings of Nike from a known archaeological context, the sprawling luxury villa called Villa A (“of Poppaea”) at Oplontis near Pompeii. Both statues repeat a model that strongly recalls the Greek past in form and subject, as does the ancient setting in which they were displayed—­in the east garden of the villa as part of a statuary ensemble that evokes a Greek gymnasium (figs. 6.1, 6.2).1 In looking closely at the 1.  De Caro, 1987, 129–­30. I was fortunate to be able to study these two statues at length in Torre Annunziata (Oplontis) as well as in Ann Arbor, where the better-­preserved of the two Nikai was displayed in 2016 as part of the exhibition, Leisure and Luxury in the Age of Nero: The Villas of Oplontis near Pompeii, at the Kelsey Museum of Archaeology of the University of Michigan, an exhibition that I co-­curated with John R. Clarke. Professor Clarke codirects the University of Texas’ Oplontis Project team, which since 2005 has conducted a thorough study of Villa A including its architecture, sculptures, and wall paintings, among other aspects of the villa. I am grateful to Professor Clarke for inviting me to participate in the work of the Oplontis Project team. My research on the Nike statues has greatly profited from the studies that have recently appeared in eBook form (Clarke and Muntasser 2014 and 2019) and in the Oplontis exhibition catalogue (Gazda and Clarke 2016). For permission to study the statues of Nike in the Deposito of the Oplontis excavations, I am

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Fig. 6.1. Statue of Nike. From Villa A (“of Poppaea”) Oplontis, East Garden. Photo: M. Abbott. Courtesy of The Oplontis Project.

Fig. 6.2. Headless statue of Nike. From Villa A (“of Poppaea”) Oplontis, East Garden. Photo: M. Abbott. Courtesy of The Oplontis Project.

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statues of Nike both singly and in combination, I expand upon the study of duplicate statues, or pendants, by Elizabeth Bartman in her 1988 article, “Decor et Duplicatio: Pendants in Roman Sculptural Display,” in which she demonstrated the importance of taking into account the viewers’ visual acuity and appreciation for the aesthetics of display.2 More recent studies of sculptures and other works of art from Roman luxury villas, including Villa A, suggest additional ways in which to examine the complexity of Roman Hellenism as embodied in the two statues of Nike. In particular, the visual discourse that alluded to victory in Roman contexts—­both domestic and public—­opens a window onto other potential layers of meaning for the Nike statues at Oplontis.3 In what follows, I adopt the perspective of imagined viewers of the two statues of Nike in Villa A. Although multiple ancient audiences engaged with these statues, I focus on the experience of the most educated among the viewers—­the owners of the villa and their guests.4 I posit multiple potential encounters with the Nike statues in relation both to the east wing and to the villa as a whole during the Neronian period, the last period in which the villa was fully functioning before it suffered damage in the earthquake of 62 CE and was buried in the eruption of 79 CE. After describing and attempting to envision the missing parts of the statues that ancient viewers would have seen, I consider a range of stylistic and thematic referents that viewers could have discerned in relation to their setting in Villa A and beyond, which underscore the multivalency of the statues. Further, I contend that viewing the statues in the company of companions while reclining at dinner parties or while strolling along the path alongside the sculptures deeply indebted to former Soprintendente Archeologico di Pompei Elena Teresa Cinquantaquattro and to former Direttore Generale del Parco Archeologico di Pompei, Massimo Osanna. I am also grateful to former Director of Excavations at Oplontis, Lorenzo Fergola and Archaeologist for Mibact, Antonella Bonini, for their kind assistance in studying the sculptures in the Deposito. I thank Roman Roth for suggesting that I explore the possibility that the Roman Victoria was an appropriate identity for the two statues and Elizabeth Bartman for her helpful comments on my manuscript. 2.  Bartman 1988. 3.  As discussed by various authors in Dillon and Welch 2006. 4.  These audiences included the immediate family, their guests, and other visitors, the household members who maintained the villa, as well as the sculptors, painters, and architects who created, and repeatedly refurbished the villa, all of whom could have discerned different meanings. On the slave population of Villa A, see Joshel and Petersen 2019, ch. 9; and Joshel and Petersen 2016, 148–­57. See also Clarke 2003 and Kellum 2018 on freedmen and other lower-­class viewers.

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would have encouraged the companions to look closely at the statues and engage in dialogue about their Hellenic as well as Roman referents. Details that one might notice on one’s own might have become more apparent in conversation with a companion, and one’s memory of them would be vividly reinforced. This kind of dialogic viewing would have been most evident while looking at and discussing two or more statues of the same type, such as the pendant Nikai. In Villa A, one of the most elaborate of the known otium villas of the late Republic and early Empire, the wealthy Roman owners enacted a complex and contingent set of cultural identities—­enjoying intellectual and leisure activities in an imagined Greek mode while displaying traditional Roman values, wealth, and social prestige.5 In this setting, the example of the paired statues of Nike in the east garden shows that such redundancy might have encouraged dialogue about different forms of Roman Hellenism and their larger sociocultural significance.

II.  Looking at the Statues of Nike In her article on pendants in statuary displays, Bartman made a convincing case for attending to the aesthetic subtleties that emerge when making formal comparisons between two different renderings of the same statue type. She argued that in noticing subtle similarities and differences between two nearly identical statues Roman viewers would have gained an aesthetic appreciation of the works they observed, and that this form of appreciation did not depend upon their meaning in the context of an iconographic program.6 Bartman observed that the occurrence of duplicates in collections 5.  Zarmakoupi (2014, 8–­13) for a recent historiography of the cultural life of luxury villas. On the abandonment of Villa A, see Thomas 2016, 78–­84; and Barker 2016, 119–­ 25. On the possibility that Villa A was still in use but undergoing repair up to the time of the eruption, see Barker and Fant 2019, ch.17, 1879–­2001. See Koortbojian (2006, 201) on “the basic spheres of Roman existence—­the military, politics and religion” and how “competence in these spheres was usurped as a special prerogative of the augusti as part of the evolving imperial system.” 6.  Bartman (1988, 211) proposes that Roman patrons appreciated different stylistic interpretations of the same statue type rather than identical versions. See also her remarks on pp. 222–­25. Since 1988, numerous studies of viewing, visuality, aesthetics, and reception from a variety of theoretical and methodological perspectives have further enriched our understanding of Roman art and the experiences of its patrons and viewers. For recent overviews see Squire 2015a, 589–­605; and Trimble 2015, 606–­21. See also Elsner 1995 and 2007.

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of sculpture was particularly prevalent in the second century CE, but that the phenomenon had emerged earlier and that it could include more than two statues of the same kind. The Villa of the Papyri at Herculaneum, for example, contained four nearly identical statues of Eros arranged around the impluvium in the atrium.7 In order to evoke the experience of ancient viewers of the statues of Nike in the east garden of Villa A, I first describe the two statues in their current state of preservation and then consider a range of ancient visual evidence that allows us to imagine them as they were in antiquity—­complete with wings and attributes.8

II.i. Description and Reconstruction of the Nike Statues The more complete of the two Nike statues is almost fully preserved except for her wings and attributes and the color, now lost, that had been applied to the white marble surface (fig. 6.1).9 Standing approximately 1.6 meters tall, this Nike appears to be aloft with her feet pointing downward, her head leaning sharply forward, and her face tilted, eyes seeming to gaze toward the ground. As Nike slowly descends, the moving air causes her long, thin chiton to press against her shins and kneecaps and billow outward gently to either side and in back. The heavy mantle that envelops her lower torso is gathered into a thick roll that crosses her waist and falls over her left arm. Two straps cross between her breasts, anchored at the intersection by a plain circular brooch. The mantle and the part of the chiton that covers her chest and upper arms appear undisturbed by her movement through space. Likewise undisturbed is Nike’s long, thick hair, which is pulled back from her face in soft waves and gathered into a ponytail that rests on her upper back. A cluster of snail shell curls reminiscent of a nodus coiffure crowns the apex of her forehead and draws attention to her wavy coiffure, which is anchored 7.  Bartman (1988, 220) documents this phenomenon well into the high Empire at villas in Italy and as far from Rome as Side in Asia Minor. For a recent, multifaceted exploration of seriality in Greek and Roman art, see the essays in Settis, Anguissola, and Gasparotto 2015. 8.  Moormann (2019a, ch. 16, cat. no. 3, figs. 16.7–­16.14; and cat. no. 4, figs. 16.15–­ 16.23) provides the most recent detailed description and discussion of the two statues along with a bibliography of earlier publications and excellent detailed images of the statues. 9.  The study of color traces on the sculptures from Oplontis by Mark Abbé is not yet published. This statue was on display at the Kelsey Museum of Archaeology from February 19 to May 15 of 2016 as part of the special exhibition, Leisure and Luxury in the Age of Nero. See Gazda and Clarke 2016, 193, cat. 30.

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by a fillet.10 The bold chiseling of the waves of hair and the snail shell curls creates linear patterns and textures that contrast with the smooth surfaces of Nike’s flesh. Her oval face, which narrows at the chin, gives her features a delicate appearance, and her thick eyelids, steady gaze, and soft, bow-­shaped lips impart a serene expression. She displays little if any sign of emotion as she looks downward past the attributes she once grasped in her hands.11 Apart from her outstretched arms and lowered head, which tilts slightly to her right side, her body seems incongruously still and erect, given that she may be in flight. The finished back of the statue implies that it was intended to be appreciated in the round. The second Nike statue, though headless and missing limbs and left foot, is almost identical to, though slightly smaller than, her companion in composition but differs in some details of execution (fig. 6.2). The folds of her garment are more rounded, the brooch on her chest displays a Gorgoneion, the crossed straps are ornamented with raised disks or studs, and her chiton and mantle appear to respond more naturalistically to her movement through the air.12 Nevertheless, her posture is somewhat stilted, like that of her twin. By observing technical and stylistic similarities and differences, we can approximate what an ancient viewer would have seen in making a visual comparison between the two statues, bearing in mind that color applied to the surface of the statues would have affected the viewer’s response. Most obviously, the headless Nike wears a brooch decorated with a head of a Gorgoneion, while the other Nike’s brooch is plain. It is possible, however, that this plain brooch once bore a painted image of a Gorgoneion. Likewise, the crossed straps of the headless Nike are ornamented with circular studs, echoing the shape of the central brooch, while the other Nike’s straps are plain, but perhaps also originally detailed in paint. The circular buttons or clasps that fasten the chiton on the upper arms of both Nikai alternate large and small, but the ones on the left arm of the better-­preserved Nike are more roughly cut—­or perhaps damaged. The chitons of both Nikai flutter outward to either side of the calves and in back in a similar way, but the folds of the garment, where they press against the shins, are slightly more 10. Ov., Ars am. 3.139–­40 recommends the nodus coiffure for round faces. 11.  Moormann (2019a, cat. no. 5) believes that the attributes were a wreath and a palm, both traditional emblems of victory. See my discussion below for another possibility. 12.  Moormann (2019a, cat. no. 4) describes the modeling of this Nike’s garments as more embellished and notes studs on the crossed straps along with the head of Medusa on the medallion. This Nike is also finished in the round.

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complex in the headless figure, and her kneecaps appear more rounded than square. The feet of both Nikai are delicately modeled, differing only in the somewhat greater degree of anatomical detail on the one preserved foot of the headless statue. The modeling of the folds of the chitons and mantles of the two figures is comparable with barely detectible differences between them, though the folds of the headless statue appear a bit more naturalistic, especially those of the mantle that falls over the left arm and swings outward, seemingly animated by the moving air. Wings and attributes would also have conditioned the viewer’s response. The deep attachment sockets in the shoulders of the statues attest that both had wings, but their shape and position can only be surmised by comparing more fully preserved images of Nike. Ideally, examples of the same type of Nike statue—­the so-­called Berlin type to which the Oplontis Nikai conform—­would serve this purpose. Unfortunately, while the replica series presented by Alexandra Gulaki in her 1981 dissertation confirms that eleven other statues of the Berlin type are known, of those eleven, not one preserves original wings.13 Three of the statues do, however, preserve remnants of attachment points for wings that were probably made of bronze.14 In order to imagine the design of those wings, it is necessary to compare other images of Nike that do preserve wings. One potential model, noted by some earlier scholars, is the Nike held in the right hand of Phidias’ colossal chryselephantine cult statue of Athena Parthenos, dedicated in 438 BCE.15 Although the statue itself no longer exists, a small-­scale third-­century CE Roman version, the Varvakeion Athena in the National Archaeological Museum of Athens, is often considered to be a faithful sculptural representation of Phidias’ lost masterpiece—­including the Nike that Athena held in her right hand (fig. 6.3).16 Gulaki considers the Varvakeion Nike to be the only known Roman copy of a Nike statue from the Classical period, but she does not relate this Nike to her Berlin group.17 Although the striding posture and the peplos of the Varvakeion Nike differ from the Berlin type, the windblown garment that billows outward from the sides of the legs, the crossed straps, and the thick roll of the mantle, 13.  Gulaki 1981, 218–­36, figs. 195–­208. 14.  Gulaki, 218–­21, nos. 1–­3. 15.  For a summary of scholarship on the model for the Berlin Nike, see De Caro (1987, 108–­9) for the publications by those authors who favor the Nike of the Athena Parthenos and those who favor a connection to the Nike held in the hand of Phidias’ Olympian Zeus. Gulaki (1981, 230–­32) summarizes some of this scholarship in greater detail. 16.  Kaltsas, 187. Stewart (1990, 1:157) notes that the Parthenos Nike was 1.85 m. in height, some 25 cm. taller than the Nike from Oplontis whose head is preserved. 17.  Gulaki 1981, 134, 150.

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Fig. 6.3. Varvakeion Athena Parthenos. Athens, National Museum 129. Photo: Nimatallah / Art Resource, New York.

which wraps around the torso and across the waist before falling over the left arm, nevertheless create a visual connection to the Berlin Nike type. It is thus tempting to think that the spread wings of the Varvakeion Nike were likewise similar to the lost wings of the Berlin type. A silver stater dating ca. 375 BCE from Aphrodisias in Cilicia that depicts the Athena Parthenos also suggests this configuration of the wings (fig. 6.4).18 18.  On this and similar coin types, see Demargne 1981, LIMC vol. 2, 1, 977; and LIMC 2, 2. pl. 729, figs. 216 and 217 for coins, and fig. 220 for the Varvakeion Athena. See also

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Fig. 6.4. Silver stater from Aphrodisias of Cilicia. Reverse: Athena Parthenos. Courtesy of the American Numismatic Society.

The Nike statues from Oplontis are also missing their attributes, which scholars have assumed were the traditional ones—­a wreath and a palm frond. However, the fingers of the better-­preserved Oplontis statue suggests that this Nike might have held something else. The curled fingers form narrow, cylindrical channels of approximately two centimeters in diameter, a size that suggests a relatively thin object, perhaps a garland such as the one held in both hands by the Nike on the coin from Aphrodisias. On the coin the garland extends from the lowered right to the raised left hand. If the Oplontis statues held such garlands, and they were made of flexible bronze, we might imagine that they swung between the hands in an elegant curve, creating a compositional element compatible with the sweeping folds of the mantle.19 Dinsmoor (1934, 103–­4, fig. 4) for a brief discussion of the coin of Aphrodisias in Cilicia. For excellent photographs of the Varvakeion Nike, see Harrison 1996, figs. 18 a–­c. 19.  An example of a garland held in both hands is a bronze appliqué in the National Museum of Belgrade, inv. 2726/III, in Balty 1981, LIMC vol. 8, 1, 230, and pl. 177, fig. 158. For other possible attributes, see the list in Balty 1981, LIMC vol. 8, 1, 239–­40. For the objects held by the Victory figures in the atrium of Villa A, see Tybout 1989, 358–­59 as discussed below.

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III.  Stylistic Retrospection and the School of Pasiteles Gulaki judges the Berlin type of Nike statue to be classicistic in style.20 This style, in turn, suggests that the Nikai of this type were related to works attributed to neoclassical sculptors of the so-­called School of Pasiteles, a South Italian Greek artist who was active in Rome around 100–­80 BCE.21 Subtle ambiguities of facial expression and the unstable posture—­at once arrested and in motion—­along with the details of hairstyle and carving technique offer compelling visual evidence for this connection. A few comparisons between the better-­preserved Nike from Oplontis and sculptures associated with the followers of Pasiteles can help us envision the formal qualities that the ancient viewer might have appreciated in a statue of the Berlin type. The facial features of the more complete Nike from Oplontis—­with heavy eyelids, prominent chin, tapering cheeks—­and her serene expression, along with the linear patterning of her hair help to place her in relation to Pasitilean sculptures, such as the youth by Stephanus, which itself reflects the style of the period between the Severe, or early Classical, and high Classical periods of Greek art (fig. 6.5, left).22 Nike’s somewhat awkward posture also recalls that of the Stephanus youth, which exhibits a stiffness in the torso and horizontal shoulders that do not respond naturally to the tilt of the hips.23 The youth by Stephanus, often called Orestes by scholars, was a popular figure during the late Republic and early Empire. It occurs as a single figure in at least nine examples and was also combined with other statues to form 20.  See Gulaki 1981, 142–­53, for a succinct historiographic discussion of the development of this stylistic category in scholarship from the late nineteenth century to the early 1980s. Other scholars, such as Pollitt (1986, 164–­84) employ different nomenclature to designate stylistic categories. Pollitt distinguishes several retrospective stylistic trends as Neoclassical, Neo-­Attic, Neoclassical Adapters, and Archaism and discusses their historical and art historical contexts. Still other terminology is adopted by Ridgway 1970, among others. 21.  Pasiteles’ followers continued to produce sculptures well into the first century CE. On the longevity of the school of Pasiteles, see Richter 1970, 244–­45. See also Pollitt 1986, 163 and 175. M. Borda, 1953, first proposed a school associated with Pasiteles. 22.  On the Stephanus youth and its variations, see Zanker 1974, 49–­68. On the recent questioning of modern periodization, especially of the Severe Period, see Adornato 2019, 557–­87. 23.  In this respect the Pasitilean figure emulates late Archaic/early Classical sculptures like the Kritios Boy from the Athenian Acropolis (usually dated ca. 480 BCE), whose posture also appears slightly awkward and stiff. On the disputed date of the Kritios Boy, see Hurwit 1989, 61–­80.

Fig. 6.5. Youth (“Orestes”) by Stephanus (on the left with male figure “Pylades” on the right). © Kulturstiftung des Hauses Hessen, Museum Schloss Fasanerie.

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Fig. 6.6. Head of Nike. From Villa A (“of Poppaea”) Oplontis, East Garden. Photo: M. Abbott. Courtesy of The Oplontis Project.

figural groups with a narrative content, three of which are known.24 While scholars used to dismiss such sculptural compositions as eclectic pastiches, judging them to be of mediocre quality, on close inspection, the figures in some of the groups exhibit careful workmanship that imbue them with subtle facial expressions reminiscent of that of the Oplontis Nike (fig. 6.1). For example, the Orestes and the so-­called Pylades in Schloss Fasanerie (Adolphseck, Germany) have delicate mouths with softly curving lips and serene expressions. Orestes’ hair is composed of snail shell curls similar to those of the Nike (fig. 6.6), while the longer hair of Pylades (fig. 6.7) is rolled back from the face and anchored by a fillet, recalling Nike’s hairstyle, though 24.  For a list of single statues, groups, and replicas of the head, see Zanker 1974, 49–­50 and pls. 42–­50.

Fig. 6.7. Head of “Pylades.” © Kulturstiftung des Hauses Hessen, Museum Schloss Fasanerie.

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the articulation of the strands is more refined. The tapering cheeks are also similar in both faces.25 These and other details of style and technique would no doubt have been appreciated by the visually astute Roman observer. Pasiteles is said to have written a five-­volume work on celebrated works of art, and since these works were undoubtedly from earlier periods, the propensity toward retrospection in the sculptures associated with his followers is significant.26 We know, for example, that the sculpture collections from Roman villas, such as Villa A at Oplontis and the Villa of the Papyri, contained examples of statues that reprised Greek styles ranging from the Archaic period to the late Hellenistic.27 The very fact that such retrospective styles were popular implies that the educated viewer who knew his or her art history would have been able to recognize, and take pleasure in, allusions to earlier styles. Indeed, these viewers’ rhetorical training ensured that they would.28 Thus, it would have been possible to admire both Nike statues from Oplontis not only for their formal qualities but also for their erudite allusions to earlier artistic traditions or iconic statues.

IV.  The Display Context Beyond aesthetic appreciation and stylistic allusion, the two statues of Nike must also be understood as Roman works made for a specific Roman setting in which they would have engaged viewers and encouraged reflection on their Hellenic and Roman qualities. This requires close attention not only to the statues’ physical display context and the viewing conditions, such as spatial access and sightlines, but also to the social circumstances in which viewing took place. It also requires that we consider the wider semantic field within which the statues would have been understood at Villa A. We are fortunate, therefore, to know precisely where the Nike statues were displayed. In the mid-­1970s, in the course of excavating the area of the large swimming pool in the Neronian-­period east wing of Villa A (fig. 6.8, nos. 8 and 9), the Italian excavators not only found numerous architectural and sculptural 25.  See Zanker (1974, pl. 47, figs. 1–­3) for views of Pylades’ head and the intricate carving that simulates sculpture made of bronze. 26.  Pollitt 1986, 163 and 312n12, with earlier bibliography. 27.  For Oplontis, see Moormann 2019a. For the Villa of the Papyri, see Mattusch 2005. See also Bartman 1988, 222. 28.  Anguissola 2015, 78–­79. On art and rhetoric more generally, see the chapters in Elsner and Meyer 2014.

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Fig. 6.8. Plan of Villa A showing findspots of the sculptures. From a plan by Victoria I and Bettina Bergmann, adapted by Steven Driscoll Hixson. Courtesy of The Oplontis Project.

remains of the villa but also root cavities of trees, bushes, and other plantings that had adorned the villa’s grounds.29 Along with the two Nike statues, five other sculptures—­two statues and three busts—­together with their statue bases, came to light. The five sculptures include a headless female figure dressed in a short chiton, a statue of a nude youth, two herm busts of Her29.  The excavations were conducted by the Soprintendenza di Pompei. Soprintendente A. De Franciscis directed the project with the assistance of Stefano De Caro. The gardens were explored by Wilhelmina Jashemski of the University of Maryland between 1972 and 1983. Much of her work as well as that of the Soprintendenza was extensively documented in photographs taken by her husband, Stanley Jashemski. The archive of his photographs and slides is maintained at the University of Maryland and online. See Kathryn Gleason (ch. 6, in Clarke and Muntasser 2014) on Wilhelmina Jashemski’s work and the photographic archive. See Clarke (ch. 4 in Gazda and Clarke 2016, 57–­65) and Clarke (ch. 5 in Clarke and Muntasser 2014) for discussions of the archival records of this period of excavation.

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cules, and a portrait bust of a Julio-­Claudian boy whose original place at the north end of the display remains uncertain.30 Judging from additional statue bases that were discovered, seven more statues completed an ensemble of fourteen. Four of the missing sculptures had filled the space between the two Nikai at the center of the display, while two other sculptures occupied bases located at the south end and one at the north end of the row. Along with the missing sculptures, the heads of the second Nike and of the female figure wearing a chiton had disappeared in antiquity, probably sometime after 62 CE when Villa A was damaged by the severe earthquake that presaged the eruption of Mount Vesuvius in 79. From this period there is much evidence of selective spoliation of marbles throughout the villa, which by then was no longer occupied.31 The fourteen sculptures were aligned in a single row running along, and almost parallel to, the east side of the swimming pool, a distance of some sixty meters. Their symmetrical arrangement is known from the find spots of the statues and statue bases as well as the root cavities of cypress and lemon trees and oleander bushes in front of which the statues stood. The pairing of static, though likely colorfully painted, marble sculptures with living trees and bushes must have created the illusion that the mythical beings and personifications emerged from nature, albeit in the form of a manicured garden setting. At the same time, the statues, as well as the trees and bushes, were spaced to align with the columns of the portico on the west side of the pool, so that they formed an extension of the architecture of the villa. Even the spacing of the two oleander bushes and two lemon trees at the center of the display, interrupting the line of cypress trees, appears to have been calculated to acknowledge the larger size of the central dining room (Room 69 on the plan), whose entrance was marked by two large columns and a pediment (fastigium).32 This carefully curated setting inevitably conditioned the ways in which viewers interacted with and responded to the sculptural ensemble and its individual components.

30.  The eighth base is presumed to be buried under the road to the north of the excavation area. De Caro (1987, 130) notes that continuing excavations discovered the beginning of a second row of statue bases behind the first row and a path running to the east, which indicates a more complex arrangement. Further excavation would be necessary to determine how that more complex arrangement would affect current interpretations of the sculptural program. 31.  Supra, n. 5. In addition, no evidence of people, apart from one skeleton, and no furniture were found. 32.  See Thomas 2016, 81, fig. 7.5; also Bergmann 2002, 115 for this correspondence.

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V.  Viewing the Oplontis Nikai in Display Context—­ a Dialogic Experience At Villa A, the conditions for viewing the statuary ensemble varied throughout the day and according to different social circumstances.33 The main vantage points for taking in the whole ensemble were located along the west side of the pool where the owners and their guests could view the sculptures from a distance from the three large reception rooms. If dining at the villa in the late afternoon, they would have seen the statues sunlit from the west and reflected in the pool. As the sun set, visibility could have been maintained by torchlight, creating dramatic contrasts of light and shadow. During large parties, viewing positions were fixed once the participants had reclined to dine, and only parts of the ensemble would have been visible, depending on the position of one’s couch (fig. 6.9). For smaller gatherings dining could have occurred in one of the two diaetae at the north and south ends of the portico. One would have seen fewer statues from these rooms, since the ensemble would have been partially obscured, but this would not have mattered if memory served to recall the entire display. The Nike statues, which flanked the four now-­missing central statues, would have been visible from most viewing positions, especially if their wings and attributes were of glistening bronze. While observing the display from across the pool when dining in the company of others, viewers would likely have engaged in conversation about the display as a whole. Another kind of dialogic engagement—­close viewing of the individual statues—­required walking along the east side of the pool.34 This routine activity of villa life was usually performed in the company of a companion whose conversation would have increased the pleasure of strolling along the path.35 At Villa A, a stroll along the east side of the pool would have been most comfortable early in the day when the path was shaded by 33.  On viewing at Villa A, see Bergmann 2002, 96–­120. See also Bergmann 2016 and 2019 on viewing gardens and garden paintings at Villa A; and Clarke 2018 on spatial experiences created by the architecture of Villa A; and Thomas 2016 on the visual effects of enfilades and view sheds. See also n. 6 above. 34.  For a recent demonstration of the merits of close looking to imagine an ancient viewer’s experience of a sculpture, see Trimble 2018. 35.  On modes of viewing in the context of Roman villas, see Bergmann 2002, 96–­120. Dillon (2000, 40) demonstrates how viewers’ response to a sculptural display of portraits at the Villa of the Papyri in Herculaneum could generate new, if sometimes unintended, meaning. She aptly characterizes the viewing of such ensembles as a “dynamic and shifting experience, one shaped at least in part by what viewers brought to the activity.”

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Fig. 6.9. Sight lines from Room 69 to the center of the sculptural display. Plan of Villa A by Victoria I and James Stanton Abbott, adapted by Timothy J. Liddell. Courtesy of The Oplontis Project.

the trees that formed the backdrop for the sculptures. Under these circumstances the companions would have encountered each statue individually, and they could have paused and looked carefully at the details of their composition, attributes, technique, and style. While they might have discussed various interpretations of the ensemble, their aesthetic appreciation of each statue or bust would have demanded a refined set of observational skills, including a well-­developed visual memory sharpened in dialog with one’s companion. The likelihood that such displays of visual aptitude and memory were common at Oplontis is underscored by another pendant pair in the east garden display. Two busts of Hercules clearly reprise the same prototype, but the two heads are by no means identical. One turns toward the left and the other to the right, subtly indicating that they were intended as pendants. The facial features of one are richly modeled, as was common in the so-­called baroque manner. The features of the other Hercules statue are more simplified in the Classical manner. Though displayed at a considerable distance from one another, one close to the north end and the other near the south end of the row of sculptures, their formal and technical features would have

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challenged the strolling viewers to exercise their visual memories as they observed, compared, and contrasted the two interpretations of the same sculptural type.36

VI.  Beyond Aesthetic Appreciation: Decor et Duplicatio Revisited In her study of pendants, Bartman not only argues that appreciating the formal similarities and differences between pendant sculptures could be a purely aesthetic experience, she also notes that not all the ensembles containing pendants conformed to a thematic program, as the prevailing scholarly view of sculpture collections held at that time.37 At Villa A at Oplontis, however, owing to the abundant archaeological documentation, we have an opportunity to consider the pendant Nikai not only in aesthetic but also in thematic terms. Although only half of the sculptural display in the east garden of Villa A is known, the seven surviving sculptures are suggestive of a once-­complete iconographic ensemble (fig. 6.8, nos. 5–­11). Several interpretations have been put forward, none of them definitive though all are plausible. In his early studies of the sculptures during the course of the excavations, Stefano De Caro interpreted this area of the villa as a Greek gymnasium, partly based on the presence of the two Hercules busts and the two Nikai—­both subjects appropriate for a gymnasium such as the one in Athens.38 Likewise appropriate to a gymnasium are the Ephebe and the female figure in a short chiton, especially if she is understood to be an Amazon. Other identities could well have been assigned to these two figures by Roman viewers. Scholars have made cogent arguments for the female figure as Artemis or her protégé Atalanta and the Ephebe as Apollo or Hippomenes—­pairing Artemis with Apollo and Atalanta with Hippomenes.39 The variety of plausible interpre36.  Moormann (2019a, ch. 16, cat. no. 21) suggests that the model was a work by Scopas, as represented by the Lansdowne Hercules in the Getty Villa. 37.  Bartman 1988, 218–­19. 38.  De Caro 1987, 129–­30. The plan in fig. 6.8, this chapter, adapted by Steven Driscoll Hixon from one created by Bettina Bergmann and Victoria I, shows the find spots of those sculptures that are well preserved. The assemblage included many more sculptures in antiquity, but judging from fragments found in the villa, many had already been broken. Others had disappeared altogether by the time of the eruption of Vesuvius in 79 CE. 39.  See De Caro 1987, 129; and Bergmann 2002, fig. 2, nos. 7 and 10 for Amazon and an Ephebe; Moormann (2019a, ch. 16, cat. 6 and cat. 8) for Artemis and Apollo; Gazda and Naglak 2016, 145 for Atalanta and Hippomenes. Atalanta is also considered a possibility by De Caro 1987, 112.

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tations in itself suggests that the meaning of the statues of Nike was both mutable and multivalent, depending on who was looking and the visual memory and cultural knowledge they brought to viewing.40

VII.  Nike or Victoria—­Identities in Dialogue In the very Roman context of Villa A the Nikai could have served not only as emblems of victory in the Greek gymnasium but also—­in the guise of Victoria—­as emblems of Roman success in war. Resonances of victory in warfare might arise from the very form of the Nike statues, which, as I have suggested earlier, might have resembled the Nike that alighted on the hand of the Parthenos Athena. Although it has not been my purpose to identify a “lost Greek original” for the Berlin Nike type, it is worth considering the possibility that viewers would have perceived a symbolic association with this famous Greek cult image—­even if retrospectively filtered through works of neoclassical sculptors such as those of the School of Pasiteles. They might also have noticed that the brooch of the headless Nike bears a Gorgoneion similar to the one on Athena’s aegis.41 Given that the Phidian colossus portrayed Athena in armor as the cult image in a temple that celebrated the Athenian victory over the Persian foe, the Nike she held in her right hand personified Athens’ military victory.42 If only by virtue of their formal allusion to the Parthenos Nike, the Nike statues in Villa A could have implied success in war. In pursuing the fluctuating identity of Nike-­Victoria at Oplontis, we should recall that, during the Republic, houses of victorious Roman commanders were sites of display for spoils of war. Katherine Welch, in fact, has argued that a particularly Roman aesthetic of domestic decoration emerged from this very practice, and she cites Second-­Style rooms in Villa A at Oplontis as examples.43 Indeed, in the Republican period and beyond, there 40. On varietas as an essential quality of Roman art key to its appreciation see Bergmann 2002; Barham 2015; and most recently, Sachs 2019. 41.  The medallion brooch on the better-­preserved Nike might also have borne a Gorgoneion but rendered in paint, as noted above. 42. This admittedly narrow reading draws upon only one aspect of the Parthenos Athena and the Parthenon, both of which celebrated much more than the Persian victory. See Stewart 2002, 157–­60, for a richer and more complex picture of the statue and what it signified. 43.  Welch (2006a, 91–­146) offers copious literary and archaeological evidence in sup-

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was no shortage of imagery related to military success displayed on the walls of Villa A, along with depictions of items related to the religious practices associated with victory. In atrium 5, triclinium 14, and oecus 15, for example, the wall paintings depict shield portraits (imagines clipeatae), shields hanging in rows and single shields, some with the Macedonian sunburst at their center (fig. 6.10). In addition, on the west wall of triclinium 14 the base of one of the thymiateria that flank the central gate to a sanctuary bears two figures of Victory, and a statue of Victory in a rustic sanctuary occurs in the gold-­ground landscape painting at the southernmost end of the same wall.44 Even more striking in relation to the pendant Nike statues in the east garden, however, are the four surviving paired images of Victory that adorn the fictive doors depicted in the frescoes on the east and west walls of the atrium (fig. 6.11). In the context of the symbolic space of the atrium, these images of Victory must have alluded to Roman victory in war. Indeed, R. A. Tybout has claimed that the objects held by these figures—­one holds a platter and jug, the other a rudder—­signify victory on land and at sea, and that the torch, thymiateria and cistae displayed below refer to offerings and the rituals performed following victory in battle.45 The theme of Roman victory in war, thus firmly anchored at the heart of the villa by pendant images of Victory, might well have inflected a viewer’s response to the pendant Nikai of the Greek gymnasium in the east garden.46 An intentional correspondence between Nike and Victory seems all the more likely when considered in the context of the villa as a whole. Recent analytical studies of the wall paintings of Villa A by Bettina Bergmann and Regina Gee and of the architecture by Michael Thomas underscore the ways in which architects and artists of the Neronian Fourth-­Style period of the port of her claim that this aesthetic was rooted in aristocratic domus of the late third to second centuries BCE, despite the fact that domus of this period have not survived. Villas of the Bay of Naples, such as Villa A, serve Welch in imagining earlier examples of this aesthetic development (92–­93, and fig. 6). 44.  I am grateful to Jessica Powers for calling my attention to the images of Victory in room 14. Regina Gee (2019a, ch. 21, figs. 21–­129 and 21.190) illustrates the two Victories in her descriptive catalogue of all of the paintings in Villa A. 45.  Tybout (1987, 358–­59) also notes that thymiateria are the traditional attributes of the goddess Victory. See also Moormann 2019b, ch. 2. 46.  The Victory figures in the atrium do not conform to the Berlin type. Their garments are simpler—­a chiton with overfold belted at the waist, similar to other images of Victory many of which are found on coins. Examples of this type of Nike are illustrated in Hölscher 1967, pl. 1.2 for both costume and posture; Balty 1997, and Koortbojian 2006. See also Gulaki 1981, 177–­78, for the Naples Victoria type and related images.

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Fig. 6.10. Villa A (“of Poppaea”) Oplontis, Atrium 5, west wall. Photo: P. Bardagjy. Courtesy of The Oplontis Project.

villa created deliberate spatial and iconographic correspondences between the late Republican domus portion of the villa and the Neronian-­period east wing. Thomas shows that the area to the north of the atrium was restructured as a garden (viridarium 20) with axial views to the north and south that are reminiscent of the enfilades of the east wing.47 Bergmann’s studies of the garden paintings and gardens likewise identify correspondences between the refurbished interior garden of the older part of the villa (the same viridarium 20) and the newly built gardens of the east wing whose interior courtyard gardens (rooms 61, 68, 70, and 87) as well as gardens around the swimming pool depend on carefully calculated views. The redundancy of the courtyard gardens especially plays with the viewer’s perception of space.48 Gee’s study of the frescoed walls of atrium 5 is significant here in demonstrating that the original Second-­Style walls were repainted during the villa’s Neronian Fourth-­Style period. Assuming that the later versions of the Republican wall 47.  Thomas 2016, 78–­84. 48.  Bergmann 2016, 96–­110, and 2019, ch. 5.

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Fig. 6.11. Detail of one of the faux doors with images of Nike/Victoria. Photo: P. Bardagjy. Courtesy of The Oplontis Project.

paintings preserve the earlier Second-­Style decorative scheme, they would confirm that paired figures of Victory had had a long history at Villa A. But even if those Victories were inventions of the later Fourth-­Style painters, an astute Roman of the Neronian period could have appreciated the dialogue between them and the pendant Nike statues in the east garden.49 The repeated pairing of images of Victoria in the atrium and of Nike in the east garden implies that the rhetorical principles, such as decor et duplicatio that were in play while viewing pendants at Villa A, included the principle of conduplicatio in that the theme of victory was amplified through repetition. In contrast to Bartman’s view that conduplicatio, or the repetition of pendant images, would trivialize them, at Villa A this very kind of repetition works to reinforce the complementary messages embodied by the figures of Nike and Victoria. Moreover, all of the pendant images in Villa A could have been understood in relation to an even more expansive semantic field within the villa and beyond. Paired images of flying Victories were common on public monuments, such as triumphal and honorific arches where they often adorned the spandrels of the central passageway, and on relief sculptures in both public and private contexts.50 The ubiquity of images of Victory in Roman society, not least those that appeared on coins from the late Republic throughout the imperial period, ensured that mili49.  It is unlikely that this repainting took place later than the period of Nero owing to the major earthquake of 62 CE and subsequent smaller earthquakes that ultimately caused the villa to be abandoned. On the geological history of the villa and the seismic events that caused severe damage and destruction, see Muntasser and Di Maio 2016, 48–­56; and Di Maio 2014, ch. 4. 50.  For a list of iconographic types of paired Victories, see Balty 1997 1:237–­38.

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Fig. 6.12. Denarius of Octavian, 31–­29 BCE. Reverse: Victoria standing on a globe holding a palm and wreath. Courtesy of the American Numismatic Society.

tary success would have been ever-­present in the minds of Roman audiences (fig. 6.12).51 For viewers who belonged to the senatorial elite, an even more obvious referent was the famous gold statue of Victoria standing on a globe, which Augustus placed in the Curia in 29 BCE to commemorate his victory at the Battle of Actium.52

VIII.  Viewing Victories and Nikai at Villa A During the Neronian period when the east wing of Villa A was built, guests who arrived by sea would have entered the villa at or near the atrium; those who arrived by land would have entered through the north garden and into the atrium via two narrow passageways.53 Visitors who lingered in the vener51.  For representative numismatic types, see Hölscher 1967, pls. 1–­2, 6, 8–­9, 11, 14, and 16. See also Koortbojian, 2006, 184–­217. On the Roman military mindset see Welch 2006b, 1–­12. 52.  On the significance of the image of Victory standing on a globe, see Hölscher 1967, 6–­47, pls. 1–­5; also Koortbojian 2006, 184–­86. 53.  The access from sea would probably have been the same in the late Republican period, but the route from the north entrance of the villa to the atrium had been altered

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able symbolic space of the atrium would undoubtedly have been impressed by the regal murals that contained the paired images of Victoria along with shields, thymiateria and cistae, emblems of offerings to the gods following success in battle. Visitors who dined in triclinium 14, or in oecus 15 would have seen further images related to victory on the frescoed walls, set in relation to enclosed sanctuaries or sacred groves just beyond the fictive gates where victors dedicated their weapons and spoils of war. If the guests were to be entertained in the east garden, their host, the owner of the villa, would have walked with them along porticoes that surrounded manicured gardens to the east end of the villa, where they would have encountered the large swimming pool and its sculptural display. Their first view of the east wing would have been from the south end of the swimming pool and garden (fig. 6.13).54 Here the theme of battle was transposed into another mythical register by the sculptural symplegma of Hermaphrodite and a Satyr. Likewise, the large marble crater decorated with dancing Pyrrhic warriors resonated with the theme of war. Both objects were prominently displayed at the end of the long axis of the pool at its southernmost end.55 Both, too, in their different ways, incorporated themes of victory.56 If the observant guest and owner bore in mind the frescoed and sculpted referents present in the villa and beyond, they could have perceived the twin statues of Nike in the east garden not only embodying the concept of victory in the Greek gymnasium, as appropriate for a life of otium, but also that of the Roman Victoria. A dual association seems all the more plausible considering that the Roman villa’s very existence was likely owing to the wealth gained through victory in battle during the late Republic. By the Neronian period, the allusion to Roman victories of the late Republic would have depended largely on historical memory, but wars continued to be fought throughout the Julio-­Claudian period. During Nero’s reign alone there were three wars, which took place in Britain, in Parthia, and in Palestine. Indeed, an aureus, which commemorated Corbulo’s victories in Parthia, shows Nero holding a statuette of Victory standing on a globe, thus portraying the emperor as the both in the Augustan period and again in subsequent decades. If other access points were available, they are not known today. 54.  Clarke 2018, 79–­81. 55.  Moormann 2019b, cat. 62 (calyx crater); cat. 10 (Hermaphrodite group). For the Hermaphrodite group see also Bartman 2010, 57–­66 and Stähli 1999, 43–­107. 56.  Gazda and Naglak 2016, 144; Habetzeder 2010, 131.

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Fig. 6.13. Archival photo: crater and Hermaphrodite group in foreground and statues of headless Nike and ephebe and herm of Hercules arranged along east side of the pool. Photo: Soprintendenza Archeologica di Pompei (SAP). Courtesy of The Oplontis Project.

bringer of victory (fig. 6.14).57 Even in the context of the early Empire, then, war and victory continued to be fundamental to Roman identity. It is important to account for the fact that we do not know what, or who, was represented by the four sculptures that stood between the two Nikai in the east garden display. However, since portraits of individuals were a common component of such displays, alongside mythical and other ideal subjects, this prominent focal point of the east garden statuary array might well have been occupied by portraits of individuals of the household, or even of members of the imperial family. Indeed, given that the villa has often been associated with Poppaea, it is tempting to imagine statues of Nero and Pop57.  The Arch of Nero, erected between 58 and 62 on the slopes of the Capitoline hill in Rome, also commemorated Corbulo’s Parthian successes. See Kleiner 1985. On the aureus of Nero, see Hölscher 1967, 28n167, and pl. 2.11. Both Hölscher 1967 and Koortbojian 2006 discuss the persistence of images of Victoria and their exclusive association with the emperor as the bringer of victory into the late Empire.

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Fig. 6.14. Aureus of Nero. Reverse: togate Nero holding in his left hand a statuette of Victoria standing on a globe and in his right hand a branch, probably a palm. © The Trustees of the British Museum.

paea among them.58 Such an arrangement would then be similar to the one in the north garden where herms alternate heads of divinities with portraits of Julio-­Claudians who resemble members of the imperial family (fig. 6.8, nos. 1–­4). It might also help to account for the head of a Julio-­Claudian boy that was found in the east garden out of place (fig. 6.8, no. 5). Whichever figures stood at the center of the display in the east garden, they would have been flanked by the two Nike statues, not unlike a triumphal monument in which flying Victories framed those who passed through the archway below. In this context it is intriguing to consider Gulaki’s suggestion that a statuette of the Berlin type of Nike that stands on a globe might have served as a support for a statue of an emperor (fig. 6.15).59 This statuette, formerly in the collection of John Ruskin and now in the Wellcome Museum in London, clearly responds to the type of Roman Victory that was so closely associated with the emperor. The Wellcome Nike, with its mantle characteristically drawn across the body and falling over the left arm, has feet that point downward with the toes touching a large globe. While, as far as we know, the 58.  Although the evidence is inconclusive, scholars have repeatedly proposed that Villa A belonged to Poppaea or to members of her Pompeian family. De Caro 1987, 131–­33, provides a lucid account of the evidence. 59.  Gulaki 1981, Group 5, no. 10, p. 224 fig. 208. See also Vermeule and von Bothmer 1959, 332, pl. 78.2.

Fig. 6.15. Statuette of Berlin Nike type standing on a globe. Wellcome Museum, London. Courtesy of the Wellcome Collection CC BY 4.0, https:// wellcomecollection.org/ works/fxu4rrms

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Oplontis Nikai did not stand on globes, their feet do point downward as if designed to stand on or touch a curved surface—­such as that of a globe, or, as in the case of a fragmentary example of the Berlin Nike type from Cyrene, now in the Louvre, the back of a sleeping lion.60 It is, in fact, worth noting that all of the examples of the Berlin type of Nike that preserve feet show them pointing downward, suggesting that the statue type itself was designed to stand on an object like the ones mentioned here. It is tempting to speculate further that this type of Nike might have been created for imperial use. The association of the Berlin Nike type with the imperial image of Victory standing on a globe is significant for understanding the potential multivalency of the Oplontis figures. If the Nikai from Oplontis originally stood on globes, their meaning would have embraced not only that of the Greek Nike of the gymnasium but also that of the Roman Victory of success in war. An aureus of Galba of 68–­69 CE, which shows a Victoria that seems to be a new creation of this period, may underscore this reading (fig. 6.16).61 The Victoria on the aureus is reminiscent of the Berlin type of Nike in the arrangement of her garments, but she does not conform precisely to the Berlin Nike type—­in part because her mantle is more like the hip mantle that often appears on statues of Roman emperors and her feet point outward rather than downward. Nevertheless, this numismatic image of Victoria suggests that statues of this type were known by this time. If so, they would further enhance our ability to apprehend an imperial valence in relation to the Nike-­Victoria statues from Oplontis.

IX. Conclusion At Villa A, in the Neronian period and after, the aesthetic experience of viewing the pendant statues of Nike would have been informed by the larger semantic field of victory imagery throughout the villa and beyond in the public sphere. At Villa A, artists, architects, and gardeners played with redundancies—­in spatial effects, in multiple artistic media in which 60.  Gulaki 1981, Group 5, no. 5, p. 222, fig. 95. Louvre No. 1776. If the Nike statues at Oplontis did stand on globes or some other object, no evidence for those objects were found in the excavations. One might speculate that they were removed in antiquity in the course of spoliating the villa of its marble accoutrements. 61.  Hölscher (1967, 18, pl. 1.5) regards this type of Victoria as a new creation of this period. It is the only type to my knowledge that shows Victoria standing on a globe wearing a hip mantle.

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Fig. 6.16. Aureus of Galba. Reverse: Victoria standing on a globe and holding a wreath and a palm. © The Trustees of the British Museum.

the same or similar theme was repeated or reprised, and in the framing of the villa, inside and out, with gardens that complemented its architecture as well as its painted and sculptural adornments. This delight in variety and redundancy, and so in the instability and contingency within the Roman Hellenism expressed by the villa as a whole, played out in a more focused way in relation to the two statues of Nike in the east garden. Whether understood by viewers as Nike or as Victoria, or as both held in dynamic tension, the aesthetic pleasure of viewing in dialogue with a companion—­comparing and contrasting details of expression or of style, execution, and iconography and discussing allusions to earlier works, such as those referenced by Pasitilean sculptors—­would have increased as the companions contemplated the larger relevance of the images of Victory in Roman society. In their highly contrived Roman villa setting, the very ambiguity of Nike-­Victoria would have enriched the meaning of this vivid emblem both of Rome’s heritage from the Greek world and of its dominion over it—­revealing a protean dimension within this form of Roman Hellenism.

Part 4

Revising Literary Hellenisms

Seven

Revisionist Representations of Early Latin Poetry Horace and the “Hellenistic” Aesthetics of Ennius Riemer A. Faber

I. Introduction The starting point for this chapter is the rejection of the aesthetic values of early Latin poetry by writers of the Augustan age. As representatives I’ve chosen Ennius, the second-­century BCE writer of epic and tragedy, and the literary critic and poet Horace. Augustan repudiation of early poetry is not a new observation, nor is the observation that Ennius was a far more sophisticated poet than later Roman authors made him out to be, but in this chapter I shall emphasize that in representing the poetry of Ennius as obsolete, Horace purposefully suppresses the Hellenic—­or more accurately, Hellenistic—­literary qualities in Ennius’ works in order to appropriate a form of them for himself.1 This is part of a wider phenomenon whereby the Hellenism of Ennius and other early Roman authors was decontextualized and aspects of it forgotten as a canonical narrative of Latin literary history—­its roots familiar from, for example, Cicero’s Brutus—­came to priv1.  On the reception of the Annales in antiquity see Prinzen 1998; Hutchinson 2013, 35–­42; and Goldberg and Manuwald 2018, xxvii–­xxix. The influence of Hellenistic poetry on Ennius has likewise been treated (though not from the specific comparative perspective that I advance here) by, e.g., Jocelyn 1972, 1015–­17; Brink 1972, 547–­67; Gratwick 1982, 66–­74; Goldschmidt 2013, 14–­15 and 40–­44; and Feeney 2016, 155–­60. For criticism of applying the term “Hellenistic” to Ennius’ aesthetics see Newman 1988.

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ilege so-­called “Golden Age” Latin authors over their “archaic” forebearers. A reevaluation of the Annales in their immediate temporal and geographical settings promotes a more nuanced understanding of Roman concepts of Hellenism and how it functioned in the early Latin literary tradition. The Annales reveal that Ennius engages contemporary and near-­contemporary Greek verse extensively and draws from it several stylistic features. These include techniques of literary polemic, a special interest in onomastics, and anaphoric pleonasms. In order to define Ennius’ literary aesthetic within the context of its own time, I shall briefly compare some salient stylistic features of the Annales with those of Lycophron’s Alexandra, a poem which may have been composed in the second century BCE in South Italy, although the dating continues to be debated.2 Comparison thus functions in my paper in at least two different ways, but in each case for a similar purpose. On the one hand, I compare Horace’s and Ennius’ Hellenism and, on the other hand, Ennius’ and Lycophron’s. But together, these comparisons enhance our understanding of just how much care is needed to avoid reproducing simple, ancient notions of “progress” or “improvement” when we approach the task of writing the history of Latin literature. They perhaps also help explain the persistence of such notions across earlier generations. Horace eschewed acknowledging Hellen(ist)ic aesthetics in Ennius’ poetry because he was negotiating for himself a narrowly defined position between the neotericism of Catullus, Cinna, Cornificius, and others, and the Classicism of the early Latin poets, which to Republican and early Augustan readers was exemplified by Ennius (for a discussion of Callimachean aesthetics see also Luca Graverini’s essay, chapter 8, this volume).3 The Callimachean aesthetics that Horace claims for his poetry are expressed concisely in Odes 4.2, wherein the poet uses the image of bees to allude to the metapoetic bees toward the end of Callimachus’ Hymn to Apollo (lines 110–­12) who carry pure water from a sacred fountain: 2.  There exists a lively debate concerning Lycophron’s identity, dates, and social context. An early third-­century BCE Alexandrian setting has been promoted by some (e.g., Kosmetatou 2000; Hurst 2012, 15–­22) and an early second-­century BCE South Italian setting by others (e.g., Hornblower 2015; McNelis and Sens 2016, 10–­11; Hornblower 2017, 36–­41). See also section IV in this chapter. 3.  Pp. 224–46. The dedicatory first poem of Catullus’ Carmina announces the elegant, innovative, mannered, and accomplished style of the collection: cui dono lepidum novum libellum / arida modo pumice expolitum? (Catull. 1.1–­2, “to whom do I give this charming little book that I’ve just now polished up with the dry pumice-­stone?”). The terms lepidus (elegant), novus (fresh), and expolitus (refined) convey the charm, novelty, and polish which characterise the neoteric style. On this see Batstone 1998; Crowther 1970 and 1978.

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. . . ego apis Matinae more modoque grata carpentis thyma per laborem plurimum, circa nemus uvidique Tiburis ripas operosa parvos carmina fingo.

(Horace, Carm. 4.2.27–­32)

. . . I, using the method and manner of a Matine bee, culling tasty thyme, with abundant effort, around the grove and banks of moist Tibur, in my lowly style I create my hard-­wrought songs. The phrases per laborem / plurimum and operosa parvos / carmina convey the features of care, labor, refinement, and technique in the poet’s craft.4 As we shall observe, Horace elsewhere portrays Ennius’ verse as lacking in these qualities, even though the latter had professed and implemented the same principles of care, refinement, and techne. Horace pursues a two-­fold agenda to displace Ennius from the chief position that had been granted to him by Lucilius, Lucretius, Cicero, and Varro: first, to remove from Ennius the accepted claim to priority, invention, and novelty, and second, to denigrate the literary quality of his poetry. This two-­pronged attack would debilitate Ennius’ reputation and have the effect of relegating him as archaic, from the Augustan era onward. Before we consider the process Horace follows to claim Callimachean aesthetics primarily for himself, however, let us first briefly consider two programmatic statements by Ennius that may lead one to consider his poetry as more nuanced and sophisticated than Horace portrays it, namely the opening lines of Annales 1 and 7.5 In the now-­fragmentary proem to the Annales, Ennius sets out the literary aesthetics of the meter, diction, and style as distinct from contemporary poets, in particular Naevius. The poet addresses the Μοῦσαι, the Greek goddesses of inspiration: “O Muses, who beat mighty 4.  For a recent treatment of these lines see Phillips 2014, 466–­74. 5.  The suggestion that from the Augustan perspective Ennius may be read as a sort of “Hellenistic poet” is based on Newman 1967, 61–­98. Goldschmidt (2013, 15) rightly notes that in comparison with Vergil’s Aeneid, Ennius’ Annales “were not necessarily all that ‘Hellenistic’, or at least not Hellenistic in the same way.” The distinct nature of Ennius’ Hellenism, therefore, deserves further investigation.

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Olympus with your feet” (1 Skutsch, Musae, quae pedibus magnum pulsatis Olympum). In so doing, Ennius replaces the Latin Camenae with whom Naevius and Livius Andronicus were associated.6 At the same time, Ennius’ Muses allude to the cult of the Muses that had been established by M. Fulvius Nobilior in 179 BCE at the Temple of Hercules and the Muses. This temple of song in turn was inspired by the Mouseion, the center of learning and literature in Alexandria. Meanwhile, the phrase pedibus magnum pulsatis effects a pun on the metrical feet with which the Olympian Muses beat their rhythm, and draws attention to the dactylic hexameter, never before attempted in Latin verse.7 Metaliterary reflection continues a few lines further, as the poet makes the bold claim: “my subject and my poetry shall be renowned among the peoples of Italy” (12 Skutsch, Latos per populos res atque poemata nostra / . . . clara cluebunt). The self-­conscious reflection on poetic content and form extends to the third and fourth lines of this fragment, wherein the term vates, “inspired bard,” which Ennius elsewhere links with Naevius explicitly (206–­7 Skutsch), is passed over in favor of the Greek term poeta, and the loan-­word poemata is preferred to carmina.8 Whereas it may be too facile to draw similarities between Ennius’ self-­differentiation from Naevius and the literary polemics of the Hellenistic period, the metapoetic flavor of the proems do suit the literary jockeying of that era. In a striking literary move, Ennius next relates a dream encounter with Homer, who revealed to Ennius that his own soul had passed into him: “wrapped in soft, calm sleep / . . . Homer the poet appeared before me” (2–­3 Skutsch, somno leni placidoque revinctus /  .  .  . visus Homerus adesse poeta). Ennius equates himself with his archaic model by identifying with Homer through a Pythagorean transmigration of the soul.9 For Ennius’ contemporary readers this Pythagorean teaching may not have seemed altogether farfetched: since the early third century, when a statue of the philosopher was erected in Rome (on which see Roman Roth’s essay, chapter 1, this volume), the 6.  On the link between the Camenae and Naevius see Krostenko 2013, 52–­55; on the possible reference to the Camenae in Naevius Bellum Punicum fr. 1B (novem Iovis concordes filiae sorores) see Hardie 2016, 72–­74. For Ennius’ allusion to the Camenae in Livius Andronicus see Goldschmidt 2013, 40–­42. 7.  On the significance of Ennius’ choice of hexameter in the history of Latin verse see Hutchinson 2013, 323–­54. 8.  On Ennius’ derogatory references to Naevius see Fisher 2014, 32–­35. 9.  The ancient testimonia for Ennius as Homer reborn are gathered in Skutsch 1985, 150–­53, and discussed by Hutchinson 2013, 36–­38. A possible parallel of the motif of Homer reborn in an elegiac epigram (Suppl. Hell. 493–­94) is discussed briefly by Newman 1988, 434.

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Pythagoreanism of Magna Graecia was accepted more widely.10 The literary motif of Homerus redivivus also may not have surprised Ennius’ first readers, for a Hellenistic origin for the conceit may have existed, as Brink suggests in his interpretation of an epigram by Antipater about Stesichorus:11 Στασίχορον ζαπληθὲς ἀμέτρητον στόμα Μούσας ἐκτέρισεν Κατάνας αἰθαλόεν δάπεδον οὗ, κατὰ Πυθαγόρεω φυσικὰν φάτιν, ἁ πρὶν Ὁμήρου ψυχὰ ἐνὶ στέρνοις δεύτερον ὠικίσατο. (Antipater, Anth. Pal. 7.75 = GP 74) Stesichorus, the rich, measureless mouthpiece of the Muse, lies buried in the sunburnt land of Catana. In his heart, according to Pythagoras’ saying about our nature, the soul that once lived in Homer now has a second dwelling. Inspired by Homer dwelling in his heart, Ennius portrays himself as an inventor, as the first Latin poet to employ the dactylic hexameter and to adapt Homeric material, language, and style into his purposefully Roman epic.12 In the opening lines of book 7, which may be read as a Hellenistic “proem in the middle,” the poet further defines his place within the Latin literary tradition: . . . scripsere alii rem vorsibus quos olim Faunei vatesque canebant [cum] neque Musarum scopulos . . . nec dicti studiosus [quisquam erat] ante hunc nos ausi reserare . . . (Ennius, Ann. 206–­10 Skutsch) . . . others have written on the topic in verses that in former times the Fauns and the seers used to chant, [for] before this man [there was not anyone] who [ascended up to] 10.  Thus Feeney 2018, 210–­11, citing Plin., HN 34.26. On Pythagoras in Rome and Magna Graecia see Roman Roth, chapter 1, pp. 24–31, in this volume. 11.  Brink 1972. 12.  The main Homeric models include: felling trees (Ann. 175–­79 Skutsch = Il. 23.114–­ 22); Caelius vs. Istrians (391–­98 Skutsch = Il. 16.102–­11); a horse simile (Ann. 535–­39 Skutsch = Il. 6.506–­11).

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the rocks of the Muses and who was a lover of words. We dare to uncover . . . Several features characteristic also of third-­century literary polemics mark these lines: the first is the topos of anonymized reference to one’s literary rivals: alii scripsere.13 The poet criticizes his predecessors on meter: the Saturnian meter, in which Naevius composed his historical epic, Bellum Punicum, is scorned as boorish—­“verses that once the Fauns and seers used to chant.” Moreover, the derogatory use of vates conveys the sense of a divinely enthused bard rather than the erudite poet, as the chanting is contrasted with the poet’s labor in scaling the metaphoric, steep cliffs of the Muses.14 And by means of the phrase dicti studiosus (for the Greek φιλό-­λογος), Ennius underscores his own program of poetic erudition. Ennius’ concern that his poetry be read as the product of techne, and not as the figment of his dreaming imagination, is revealed also in another fragment from the Annales wherein he displays a typically Hellenistic philological interest: “and no one has had dreams of sophia—­sapientia, as we call it—­before he has undertaken to acquire the skill of it” (211–­12 Skutsch, nec quisquam sophiam sapientia quae perhibetur, / in somnis vidit priusquam sam discere coepit). From a post-­Augustan perspective, however, it may have been easy to adopt the distorted view that Ennius’ Annales represent the humble and artless beginnings of a genre destined to climax in the Augustan epic, the Aeneid.15 Nevertheless, it is clear that before the publication of the Aeneid, the Annales were regarded by Roman readers as one of the greatest literary achievements in Latin. Education in Republican Rome focused on historical epics such as those of Naevius and Ennius.16 Indeed, the Annales had canonized the early history of Rome and established history as the subject of Latin epic.17 Suetonius reports that at the end of the second century BCE, a cer13.  Goldberg (2009, 643–­47) signals the interpretative challenge posed by the fragmentary nature of these lines. 14.  On the meanings and usage of vates in Latin verse see Newman 1967. 15.  On the critical assessment of Ennius by Ovid and Propertius see Goldschmidt 2013, 32–­33. The criticism was transmitted to the Neronian period, and became part of western literary history. For a summary of modern evaluations of the Annales see Elliott 2013, 38–­ 51. 16.  Thus Goldschmidt 2013, 18–­24. See now also the corrective comments by Nethercut (2021, 17–­24), who concludes that “Ennius’ influence . . . was not so great that all epic poetry from this period was subsequently written only on historical themes or in Ennian style.” 17.  Moreover, Ennius’ metrical innovation was a decisive step: the new, flexible hexam-

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tain Vargunteius presented public readings of the Annales to great crowds of admiring listeners, in magna frequentia (Gram. et rhet. 2.2). And Lucilius evidently believed that Ennius was Homer reborn, if we are to believe Jerome.18 Cicero calls him poeta egregius, and approvingly echoes Ennius’ profession that he was dictis doctus.19 Lucretius, whose didactic poem on Epicurean natural philosophy did not set out to emulate the Annales in its emphasis on (Roman) history as a poetic subject, does crown Ennius as the founder of Latin epic: “he was the first to bring down / from lovely Helicon a laurel wreath of perennial leaves” (Lucr. 1.112–­13, qui primus amoeno / detulit ex Helicone perenni fronde coronam).20

II.  Augustan Revision of Latin Literary History The status of Ennius’ poetry was demoted in the Augustan era by means of two powerful historical accounts of Latin verse, namely literary teleology, according to which poetry evolved from a crude and base form to a mature one, and the poet as inventor or protos heuretes, a principle whereby a single genius is supposed to have introduced an entirely novel and unprecedented form of literature.21 For the Augustan teleological reconstruction, Sander Goldberg has demonstrated how Latin literary genres were perceived as evolving from artless origins to the telos of perfection.22 On this view, the Augustan poets cast their predecessors as lower life-­forms, so to speak, in the evolutionary process toward the current apex. Whereas earlier poetry eter enhanced the technical and stylistic possibilities of Latin epic, while at the same time removing the sense of ritual associated with the Saturnian cadence. 18. “A second Homer, as Lucilius suspects of Ennius” (Jer., Comm. in Mich. 2:7, Homerus alter ut Lucilius de Ennio suspicatur). 19.  O poetam egregium! Quamquam ab his cantoribus Euphorionis contemnitur (Cic., Tusc. 3.44); “nec doctis dictis studiosus quisquam erat ante hunc,” ait ipse de se; nec mentitur in gloriando: sic enim sese res habet (Brut. 71). 20.  In a recent revisionist reading of Lucretius’ engagement with the Annales, Nethercut (2021, 78) sets out to argue that as part of his Epicurean program of denigrating the value of universal history in general and Roman history in particular, Lucretius alludes to the historical events and personages of Rome in the Annales in order “only to strip them of whatever value these elements may have had in their Ennian context.” See especially chapter 3, “Ennian Historiography in Lucretius,” 77–­113. 21. On the Augustan poets’ advancement of the protos heuretes principle see Farrell 2005, 417–­28. 22.  Goldberg 1995.

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was crude, rough, and unsophisticated, contemporary Augustan poetry evidences the acme of poetic aspirations. For the protos heuretes perspective, Stephen Hinds has shown that the poet-­as-­inventor approach meant that the Augustan poets, by claiming to be first, revised literary history.23 When in Georgics 3 Vergil announces plans to publish the Aeneid as a temple of song to honor Augustus, he does not claim primacy over Ennius merely but over all his literary predecessors, as he boasts that his reward will be the Muses themselves.24 Nevertheless, when Vergil claims to be the first Latin poet to compose in the epic genre, it is Ennius’ preeminent status, as endorsed by Lucretius, that he overturns:25 primus ego in patriam mecum, modo vita supersit, Aonio rediens deducam vertice Musas; primus Idumaeas referam tibi, Mantua, palmas et viridi in campo templum de marmore ponam (Vergil, G. 3.11–­13) I shall be the first, so long as life is granted me, to lead the Muses homeward from the heights of Aonia; I, Mantua, shall be the first to bring you Idumaean palms, and raise a marble temple Horace’s poetic strategy for the writings of Ennius operates according to both systems of literary history. He repeatedly claims to be the first to import a form of Greek poetry to Rome. At the conclusion to the third book of Odes, Horace boasts that he “was the first to bring Aeolian song to Italian measures” (Carm. 3.30.13–­14, princeps Aeolium carmen ad Italos / deduxisse modos).26 Similar devaluation of Ennius through allusion occurs in Epistle 1.19, this time concerning the meters of satire: “I was the first to leave 23.  Hinds 1998, 52–­58. 24.  Thus Mynors 1990, 180 ad G. 3.10–­11; similarly, Thomas 1988, 40 ad G. 3.11. 25.  This proem in the middle of the Georgics alludes to Ennius’ claim to primacy in epic through the image of the Muses conducted from the Greek mountainside into Italy. The programmatic reference to the “Aonian peak” alludes also to Callimachus Hymn 4.75. On Vergil’s allusions to Ennius in these lines see Hinds 1998, 53–­56. 26. Whereas he restricts his boast to the lyric genre (Aeolium carmen), by means of explicit reference to the Lucretian passage Horace at the same time undermines Ennius’ priority as an epic poet: Italos . . . modos recalls Ennius’ Italas gentes, and deduxisse echoes detulit. Extending this interplay to the element of princeps, Horace weakens Ennius’ claim to be a first discoverer.

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his footprints freely on uncharted land, prints made by my feet and no-­one else’s . . . I was the first to display Parian iambics to the Latin land” (Epist. 1.19.21–­33, libera per vacuum posui vestigia princeps / non aliena meo pressi pede . . . / . . . Parios ego primus iambos / ostendi Latio). In order to solidify his own position within the broader history of Greek verse, Horace also denigrates Ennius’ aesthetic qualities. Horace’s criticism concentrates precisely on those features of care, labor, and technique that Ennius had articulated. Drunken inspiration, rather than studied composition, marks his verse: “old man Ennius never jumped to his tales of arms / unless he was drunk” (Epist. 1.19.6–­7, Ennius ipse pater numquam nisi potus ad arma / prosiluit dicenda). Indeed, “[Ennius] appears to care only lightly about the expectations raised by his Pythagorean dream” (Epist. 2.1.50–­52, leviter curare videtur quo promissa cadant et somnia Pythagorea).27 Also when Horace criticizes Ennius’ dramatic works, he stresses the lack of techne and labor: “even on the verse with which Ennius so heavily weighed down the stage hangs the embarrassing charge of overly rash and careless labor—­or even ignorance of the art” (Ars P. 258–­62, . . . et Enni / in scaenam missos cum magno pondere versus / aut operae celeris nimium curaque carentis / aut ignoratae premit artis crimine turpi).28 The criticism in these lines impugns precisely those qualities which Ennius had championed: while pondere represents the opposite of artistic leptos, or lightness, that Horace chooses as a standard for himself in Odes 4.2.31 (parvos), the phrase ignoratae . . . artis evokes the concepts of learning and techne, while operae celeris nimium suggests that Ennius did not expend the effort, or ponos, required for good composition.

III.  Ennius’ Multicultural Milieu and the Annales Thus far I have argued that exposing Horace’s reconstruction of Ennius’ literary-­critical status in the context of the Augustan poet’s Callimachean agenda liberates Ennius still further from some of the Augustan distor27.  White 1987, 234: “[Horace] . . . cannot afford to make too much of Ennius, who is after all one of the archaic poets who unduly obscure the luster of the modern age.” Similarly, Rossi-­Breed 2006, 415: Horace turns Ennius into “a paradigm of primitivity.” As one of the Readers for the Press has kindly pointed out, Horace’s criticism of Ennius in Epist. 2.1 forms part of a larger argument against the misplaced adulation of deceased poets by the fautor veterum (Epist. 2.1.23). 28.  As is noted by Brink (1971, 301–­2 ad 260), the sequence of four spondees in cum magno pondere, combined with the archaic word order, effects parody of Ennius’ verse.

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tions of his poems’ literary worth, and helps open up the examination of his verse in light of his own social and literary worlds. The biographical information about Ennius (239–­169 BCE) indicates that he lived in a cosmopolitan setting. Labeled by Suetonius as semi-­graecus (Gram et rhet. 1.2), Ennius was a native of Calabrian Rudiae, a city Strabo defines as Greek (6.281). He claimed to possess a multicultural heart: Greek, Oscan, and Latin (tria corda . . . Graece, Osce . . . Latine).29 Ennius’ experience growing up in Magna Graecia, and his work as a teacher at Rome, exposed him to contemporary Greek literature.30 He translated Euhemerus, he shows familiarity with Empedocles, and, as already noted, Pythagoras.31 Ennius took up Hellenistic themes in several smaller poems, such as Hedyphagetica, on delicacies, in particular, fish. Written as an inversion of the high style and subject of epic, this poem is a play upon the Hedypatheia of Archistratus of Gela, a humorous gastronomic poem recommending where to find the best foods. With the Satura, he created a medium of direct personal expression in the Latin language. Apart from hexameter and Sotadean meter, he introduced another verse measure to Rome, namely, epigrams in elegiac distichs. Ennius emerged also as a dramatist: he wrote some twenty tragedies in which the amalgamation (contaminatio) of several models continued an analogous development in Hellenistic theater. Shortly before his death, Ennius staged the tragedy Thyestes. His aesthetic included native Latin literature, broadly defined: inscriptions, sacred writings, oracular language.32 There are also reminiscences of Umbrian, Oscan, and Etruscan ritual culture in the Annales, as Jay Fisher has demonstrated; he rightly concludes that the “Italic contribution to the Annals should serve as a powerful reminder” that the poem reflects “a hybrid of cultural elements.”33 The fragments reveal interests in philosophy, universal history, contemporary architecture, and 29.  The motif of subsuming one’s diverse background under Greek culture occurs also in the self-­epitaphs of Meleager of Gadara, as is shown by Höschele 2013. On the literary associations in Ennius’ use of the heart metaphor see Nethercut 2021, 14, and also 131, where he suggests that tria corda may refer “also to the three embodiments of Ennius’ soul: the peacock (pavone ex Pythagoreo), Homer (Maeonides) and Ennius (Quintus).” 30.  So Hutchinson (2013, 70): “[Ennius] will unquestionably have learned Greek as a child from his South Italian environment.” 31.  Goldberg 1995, 9. 32.  Thus also Goldschmidt (2013, 43): the poem also “drew on home-­grown aspects of cultural memorization, including cults, festivals, and ceremonies (Ann. 114–­18, 240–­41).” It may be noted that poetic treatment of cults, festivals, and ceremonies characterizes also Callimachus’ Aitia. 33.  Fisher 2014, 5.

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society. In short, Fronto’s description of Ennius’ literary oeuvre as multiformis (De Eloquentia 1.2) points to a career of writing in various genres in a manner not unlike Greek poets of the third century.34 Given Ennius’ multicultural milieu and diverse literary output, we also have good grounds for reading the Annales as a product of a cosmopolitan Greco-­Roman world. The Hellenistic aesthetic in the proem of the Annales and the “proem-­in-­the middle” in book 7 (206–­10 Skutsch), having its formal precedent in Callimachus’ Aitia, has been noted already. The opening fragment of Ennius’ dream on the mountain of the Muses is characterized by multiple allusions to Callimachus and Hesiod. Further, the formal arrangement of the Annales reflects a Hellenistic concern for book-­structure. When Ennius asks metapoetically at the beginning of book 6, “who has the power to unroll the mighty borders of the war?” (164 Skutsch, quis potis ingentis oras evolvere belli?) he alludes to unrolling a physical scroll; elsewhere he refers to the act of writing (206–­7 Skutsch, scripsere alii rem / vorsibus), and he clearly divided the poem into book-­lengths.35 The fifteen books spanned almost or exactly one thousand years in the contemporary reckoning (1184/1183–­ 187/184 BCE), which may be relevant to the architecture of the poem and its historical bent. Also, the ending of the Annales is Hellenistic in its conceit. The Annales originally ended with book 15, an account of the triumph of Fulvius Nobilior in 187 BCE following his victory over the Aetolians; it commemorated the founding of the Temple of Hercules and the Muses, erected sometime thereafter. This structurally important episode strikes one as a typically Alexandrian touch of combining political panegyric with public monuments and poetry.36 Thus we approach the nature of Ennius’ Hellenic turn and, in order to define it more sharply, we may consider the immediate geopolitical and cultural context.

IV.  Juxtaposing Ennius’ Annales and Lycophron’s Alexandra In what follows, I shall explore a possible new avenue to understanding Ennius in his immediate literary setting by juxtaposing the Annales to the Alexandra by the Greek poet Lycophron, a dramatic poem on the predic34.  On the Hellenistic nature of Ennius’ literary output see Goldschmidt 2013, 14–­16. 35.  Thus Feeney 2016, 192. 36. Thus, e.g., Rossi-­ Breed 2006, 408: “The celebration of the building complex becomes also a reflection on the poet’s own work.”

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tions of the Trojan Cassandra, the prophetic—­but never believed—­sister of Hector, whom Lycophron calls by her Spartan name. In so doing, my aim is not to argue for mutual influence, but rather to suggest that the cultural and literary milieus in which Ennius and Lycophron wrote are reflected in shared stylistic features, literary devices, and thematic interests. Appreciation for the cultural and literary settings in which Ennius and Lycophron wrote serves to contextualize their writings in a way that obviates the later reconstructions of the Annales. According to tradition, the author of Alexandra was a third-­century tragic poet, Lycophron of Chalcis, who worked at Alexandria in the time of Ptolemy II Philadelphus. Three recent publications not only have cast doubt upon the date and provenance of the poem, but also put forward the reasonable case for the early decades of the second century BCE.37 Simon Hornblower adduces the following internal evidence to posit a date of 190 for the Alexandra: (1) Cassandra makes a prediction of Roman domination by land and sea that was impossible before the First Punic War of 264–­241 BCE (lines 1228–­89; 1446–­50).38 (2) There appears to be a direct reference to T. Quinctius Flamininus, and to the Battle of Cynoscephalae in 197 BCE when the Antigonid ruler, Philip V of Macedon, who reigned from 221 to 179 BCE, was defeated (lines 1446–­50). (3) The geopolitical range of references suggest that the poem is a product not of Chalcis, but of Magna Graecia in South Italy.39 If this reconstruction is correct, Lycophron would be a near-­contemporary of Ennius, who as we noted, lived from 239–­169 BCE. The Alexandra is a dramatic poem of 1474 lines of iambic trimeter; it is a kind of messenger-­speech by a guard whom Priam set over Cassandra’s chamber, and who reports a prophecy Priam’s daughter utters when Paris’ ships depart for Troy. Besides the fall of Troy to the Greeks, Cassandra predicts the unhappy homecomings of several Greek heroes, and the founding of new cities by others. The longest of the nostoi involves the wanderings of Odysseus, while the adventures of Aeneas in Italy and the founding of Rome are included in a lengthy account of the future fortunes of Cassandra’s fellow Trojans. Her vision ends with a grand summary of the east-­west conflict of Asia and Europe, culminating in the rise of Rome. In fact, one of the similarities between the Annales and the Alexandra is that both poems 37.  Hornblower 2015, 2018; McNelis and Sens 2016. 38.  Hornblower 2018, 85, posits as the termini post and ante quem 197 and 168 BCE (“or even 178?”). 39.  Hornblower 2018, 4–­5; 58–­66, making the plausible case that Lycophron came from Epizephyrian Locri, on the eastern side of Italy.

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treat the legend of Rome’s founding and include puns on the key names of the Aventine and Rome.40 In the Annales, the aition for the name of Rome occurs in the episode of the augury that confirms Romulus, not Remus, as the founder. Ennius puns upon the name for the Aventine Hill with the words avem and Aventino, and on Romulus and Romam: in Murco Remus auspicio sedet atque secundam solus avem servat. At Romulus pulcer in alto quaerit Aventino, servat genus altivolantum. Certabant urbem Romam Remoramne vocarent. (Ennius, Ann. 74–­77 Skutsch) Remus sits on the Murcus waiting for a sign and watching alone for a favorable bird; but handsome Romulus on the lofty Aventine searches and waits for the high-­soaring race. They competed whether to call the city Rome or Remora. (Goldberg-Manuwald 2018, adapted) The passage shares some affinity with a fragment of Callimachus (fr. 43) asking which of two men would lend his name to the new colony of Zankle. Like Callimachus and Apollonius, Ennius reveals an interest in social and religious practices, such as augury and ritual.41 According to Skutsch it is probable that in the lines immediately following the fragment the story is told of Romulus hurling his spear to the Palatine Hill, and so securing the site for the future city.42 Lycophron, in turn, conflates the legend of Rome’s founding by refugees from Troy with that of the twin descendants of Aeneas suckled by the she-­wolf, here called lion-­cubs for their military prowess: τοιούσδ’ ἐμός τις σύγγονος λείψει διπλοῦς σκύμνους λέοντας, ἔξοχον ῥώμῃ γένος (Lycophron, Alex. 1232–­34) 40. See Hornblower 2018, 114–­ 18; Goldschmidt 2013, 77, also on the Caelian (“heaven”) Hill. On the centrality of Rome in the Annales see Nethercut 2021, 78–­113. 41.  Indeed, like Callimachus and Apollonius both Ennius and Lycophron display a strong interest in foundation legends, and myths of civic identity, often expressed in cult; thus Hornblower 2015, 53–­62; 2018, 173. 42.  Skutsch 1985, 222.

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My kinsman will leave behind him such twin lion-­whelps—­a race of outstanding strength

(Hornblower 2018)

Given the context in which it appears, the Greek word for strength, ῥώμη, effects a pun on the name of the eternal city. For lines 1236–­80 offer a reflection on Aeneas’ wanderings and his Italian foundations, and Lycophron presents the actions of Cassandra’s kinsmen as a kind of revenge for the fall of Troy and of the mistreatment of Cassandra herself. Thus the shared onomastic interest in Rome points to the poets’ signaling of the rise of Rome as Mediterranean ruler, a rise that was felt in Magna Graecia.43 In addition to the examples noted by Hornblower, an intertextual relationship between Ennius and Lycophron may exist in a pun upon the names of Alexandra and Alexander.44 The more commonly known name “Cassandra” is replaced throughout Lycophron’s poem with the Spartan “Alexandra,” and, as the team of McNelis and Sens points out, this allows the poet not only to entertain the reader with name replacement, but also to play upon the possible meanings of it: . . . ἀπ’ ἀρχῆς ἦρχ’ Ἀλεξάνδρα λόγων (Alex. 30, “. . . then Alexandra began her speech from the beginning”).45 Lycophron plays upon Cassandra’s sobriquet Alex-­andra, “warder-­off of men” (i.e., celibate), and a-­lexandra legon, “speaking words that are non-­words” (insofar as they are not believed as true).46 In his tragedy on Hector’s brother Paris, Ennius calls the Trojan shepherd “Alexander,” and makes a different pun on the name by deriving it from alexein (to defend): quapropter Parim pastores nunc Alexandrum vocant, “that is why the herdsmen now call Paris Alexander” (Alex. F16 Goldberg-­Manuwald). Varro explicates the Greek alexein: “because he was a defender of men” (Varro, Ling. 7.82; Andromache F25 Goldberg-­Manuwald). It is tempting to read the one etymological wordplay as a kind of Hellenistic “correction” of the other. At any rate, in their multi43.  Elliott 2013, 234; Hornblower 2018, 195. 44.  Hornblower 2015, 97: the image of Cronus as a living tomb in Alexandra line 1203, τύμβος γεγὼς Κένταυρος ὠμόφρων σπορᾶς (“the cruel Centaur became the tomb of his own offspring”) occurs also in Annales 126 Skutsch: heu quam crudeli condebat membra sepulcro (“alas how cruel the tomb that held his limbs”). The “bristling spears” in Alexandra 252–­53, πέφρικαν δ’ ὥστε ληίου γύαι / λόγχαις ἀποστίλβοντες . . . (“and the fields bristle and glisten with spears / as if with corn,” tr. Hornblower) may reflect a similar image in Annales 384 Skutsch: horrescit telis exercitus asper utrimque (“the army on each side bristles with spears”). 45.  McNelis and Sens 2016, 7–­8. 46.  See Hornblower 2018, 127; Feeney 2016, 88.

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cultural settings of heightened awareness of proper names, both Ennius and Lycophron play the game of nomen est omen. In support of the argument for a possible shared literary aesthetic of Magna Graecia at the turn of the second century BCE one could observe also that Lycophron and Ennius hold in common a penchant for anaphoric pleonasms.47 In line 30 discussed above (ἀπ’ ἀρχῆς ἦρχ’ Ἀλεξάνδρα λόγων), Lycophron plays upon the word ἀρχη in the reduplication of ἦρχ’: at the beginning of the messenger’s speech Alexandra begins at the start of Troy’s history. Such anaphoric verbal redundancy occurs elsewhere in the poem, too. Witness καὶ ῥεῖθρον Ἀσβύσταο καὶ χαμευνάδας / εὐνάς.  .  .  , “[he shall see] the river Asbystus and the beds bedded on the ground” (Alex. 848–­ 49). The wording χαμευνάδας / εὐνάς (848–­49), with a repetition of the εὐν-­root, occurs in a passage that describes Menelaus’ search in Egypt for his wife Helen. The repeated “bedding” may be a subtle allusion to similar wording earlier in the poem, as Hornblower points out in his commentary on this line, which intimates Helen’s promiscuous behavior, in contrast with the chaste Cassandra. Ennius, too, displays a penchant for anaphoric pleonasms, and for similar rhetorical effect. In a fragmented line that Goldberg-­Manuwald place in the context of Ennius’ account of the Battle of Cannae in Annales 8, we read of a hail-­storm of missiles: hastati spargunt hastas; fit ferreus imber, “the spearmen discharge their spears; an iron rain results” (Ann. 8. 266 Skutsch; tr. Goldberg-­Manuwald). The pleonastic hastati  .  .  . hastas, reinforced by the alliterative fit ferreus and culminating in the metaphor imber, or storm, vividly conveys “the elemental force of a great battle.”48 In another context, while making a local reference to the town of Minturnae near the border of Latium and Campania, Ennius figures the gentle flow of the river Liris using mellifluous consonants: quod per amoenam urbem leni fluit agmine flumen, “the river that flows with gentle column through the pleasant city” (Ann. 5.163 Skutsch).49 To his immediate listeners or readers, Ennius’ description 47.  Feeney 2018, 78. 48.  Thus Skutsch 1985, 446 ad 8.266. 49.  On the derivation of flumen from fluo see De Vaan, 2008, 228, s.v. fluo. Ennius’ line is imitated by Horace, Odes 1.31.7, and Vergil, Aeneid 2.782 (leni fluit agmine Thybris). Other Ennian examples of this device include: nec quom capta capi nec quom combusta cremari, “nor stay captive when captured nor when set on fire burn” (Ann. 10.345 Skutsch); reges per regnum statuasque sepulchraque quaerunt: / aedificant nomen, summa nituntur vi . . . “kings through kingship seek statues and sepulchres: they build their names, they strive with all their force . . .” (Ann. 16.404–­5 Skutsch; tr. Warmington); machina multa minax

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might have come as a poetic portrayal of a familiar river’s flow, as the Appian way crosses the river near this Auruncian town captured by the Romans in 314 BCE. There are additional features of theme and style shared by Ennius and Lycophron that others have noted. Both poets exhibit a liking for cult epithets, or epikleseis, that have been discovered also in extant epigraphic sources throughout southern Italy.50 Both poets have a predilection for reporting oracles, foundation legends, and other events that formed civic identity.51 Then there are the shared deliberate archaisms, including Homericisms, which were old-­fashioned already to their contemporaries.52

V. Conclusion The observations that Horace’s revisionist portrayal of Ennius served his own poetic agenda should not be taken to mean that Ennius’ literary aesthetic was identical to that of the Augustans. The highly allusive quality of Augustan poetry, along with the charged intertextuality and manipulation of sources and genres, are not central to (though not absent from) the concerns of the early Latin writers. Moreover, in Ennius’ day, distinctly Callimachean stylistics did not predominate, and epic poems, perhaps even historical, encomiastic ones, continued to be written.53 Looked at in a different way, the Callimachean poetics of Horace form part of a construct of the first century BCE that may not be mapped neatly onto Ennius.54 The elements of literary Hellenism as exercised by Ennius reveal the slippage that existed between the different languages and cultures at the interstices of southern Italy. His Hellenism was mediated to Latin verse in part for non-­Greek individuals whose cultural identities were situated at the peripheries and borders of the changing oikoumene.55 Thus, on the one minitatur maxima muris, “many a menacing machine menaces much the muniments” (In. Sed. 620 Goldberg-­Manuwald). On the significance of anaphoric alliteration as a marker of Ennian style see now Nethercut 2021, 27–­29, and the discussion on pp. 7–­9 of Lucretius’ imitation, in pedum pono pressis (Lucr. 3.4), of premitur pede pes (Ann. 584 Skutsch). 50.  Hornblower 2015, 62–­66, 79–­88; Fisher 2014, 9–­12, 44–­45. 51.  Thus Hornblower 2017, 31–­32. 52.  On this see Feeney 2018, 78. 53.  For a critical survey of the evidence for Hellenistic epic see Cameron 1995, 263–­89. 54.  Thus Cameron 1995, 454–­75. 55.  So also Feeney 2016, 10.

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hand, Ennius should not be read only as advancing novel Latin verse in contrast with the Saturnian poetry of Naevius; on the other, he should not be seen as importing strictly Hellenistic values into Latin. As we have observed, the language of programmatic statements in the Annales does signal the Greek poetic tradition in which the epic was composed; but Ennius’ Hellenism involves a much broader range of trends in the literature, philosophy, religions, and material cultures of his period and place. The poetry of the Annales, and of the Alexandra, reveals an aesthetic specific to the time of the Republic when Rome’s power was spreading through southern Italy. The stylistic features of Ennius’ Annales reflect a rich multicultural context that may be conveyed also in Lycophron’s Alexandra. As we saw from the shared etymological wordplay, Lycophron and Ennius betray the growing sphere of influence of Rome in South Italy and an interest in the origins of the Roman people. Moreover, the popular etymologizing on the names of Alexandra and Alexander, and the use of anaphoric pleonasms, reveal a common interest in intercultural and interlinguistic forces affecting Greek and Latin names and words. These literary concerns were relevant to the lives of the immediate listeners or readers to a greater degree than would be the case in Augustan poetry composed when a Latin literary tradition had been established. As this chapter has demonstrated, a close examination of the literary features of the Annales in its complex setting of diverse languages, social and cultural practices, and literary influences reveals that the simple literary-­historical, linear narrative initiated in the Augustan age is insufficient for a full appreciation of its aims. Instead, Ennius’ poetry may be read more profitably as arising from the matrix of intercultural processes of the early Republic, with its mélanges of Greek, local, and increasingly Roman factors. In this sense the Annales are a genuine product of Magna Graecia in the second century BCE.

Eight

Apuleius’ Metamorphoses, Vergil’s Eclogues, and the Varying Challenges of Greek Genres Luca Graverini

So much of Latin literary production is so deeply influenced by Greek models that it is often hard to conceptualize the difficulty of adapting a Greek genre into Latin at Rome. Yet, while Latin literature itself could be thought of as derivative, and indeed was born thanks to the translation and adaptation of Greek works and literary genres, it is also well known that some forms of resistance to the pervasiveness of Greek culture emerged very early—­ think, for example, of Cato the Elder and his strong emphasis on specifically Roman core values. Introducing elements of Greek culture in Rome was often a sort of balancing act, whose methods and outcomes were changing and contingent, and could vary widely through time. As this volume argues, both the nature and the effectiveness of a particular kind of Roman Hellenism may depend upon several different factors of which space, time, and cultural milieu are only the most important ones (see Faber and Dufallo’s introduction, this volume). Trying out a new Greek literary genre in Latin could present risks for an author—­and offer potential rewards—­that were context-­specific, and not at all amenable to the idea of a Latin literary history as a single, continuous type of experimentation with different Greek genres. Doing the “usual” thing, namely, turning text(s) from Greek to Latin, meant very different things in different circumstances. To illustrate this point I have chosen two unlikely and very different comparanda, Apuleius’ Metamorphoses and Vergil’s Eclogues. My discussion will include an intertextual analysis but will go well beyond it, shedding light on the possible difficulties and controversies emerging in different contexts by the changing interaction of two competing cultures. 224

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I.  The Ancient Novel: A Greek Genre in Rome The novel, like so many other literary genres cultivated by Latin authors, was born in Greece. We know of several Greek novels, and they come in a variety of forms. The so-­called Big Five—­texts we can read in their entirety, by Chariton, Xenophon of Ephesus, Achilles Tatius, Longus, and Heliodorus—­are all stories of sentimental love and adventure, but papyrus fragments and indirect testimonies shatter the genre’s ostensible thematic unity. Greek prose narrative was a diverse literary space. It encompassed stories that gave more emphasis to travel and adventure than love, or where idealized and noble passion was replaced by sex; it included epistolary novels, historical novels, novelistic biographies, and so on.1 In contrast, the genre was not widely practiced in the western part of the Empire, and we only have three novels in Latin: Petronius’ Satirica, Apuleius’ Metamorphoses, and the late and anonymous Historia Apollonii regis Tyrii. Each of these texts likely had a Greek model, and for Apuleius we have solid proof: Photius (Bibl. 129.96b) informs us that there were two Greek ass-­stories, the Onos by Pseudo-­Lucian and the lost Metamorphoseis by an otherwise unknown Lucius of Patrae, and scholars usually agree that the latter was adapted and reworked independently by both Pseudo-­Lucian (in Greek) and Apuleius (in Latin). Both Petronius’ and Apuleius’ novels can be much more easily associated with “Milesian” narratives, nonidealized stories usually featuring disreputable characters and sordid settings,2 than with the sentimental stories by Chariton and others. This is clearly the result of conscious authorial choices, for reasons about which we can at least speculate. The satiric tradition shaped by Lucilius and Horace, and later by Persius and Juvenal, was important in Rome, and had a strong influence on other genres; it may certainly have inspired Petronius and Apuleius to develop an interest in the description of lowly characters and social milieus, and to apply a thorough and sophisticated literary learning to traditionally marginal fields. The ass-­story allowed Apuleius’ narrator to look at people from a low, even animal perspective, 1.  For an overview on the ancient Greek and Latin novel see Graverini, Keulen, and Barchiesi 2006. 2.  On the Milesian Tales by Aristides see now Bowie 2013 and cf. below, section II.i and nn. 20 and 27. Here I use the term “Milesian” in a general sense, referring to disreputable narratives with the features listed in the text above. See also below on Apuleius’ “Milesian” narrative; Petronius’ novel contains two secondary stories, The Widow of Ephesus and The Boy of Pergamum, normally labeled as “Milesian.”

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and to conceal possible literary and philosophical ambitions under a heavy veil of self-­irony.3 The Greek ass-­story reworked by Apuleius was probably not as shocking as the Phoinikika or the Iolaus, fragmentary Greek narratives often compared to Petronius’ Satirica4 that included scenes of sex, cannibalism, and ambiguous religious practices. Yet Pseudo-­Lucian’s narrative was also very different from the stock idealized stories of love and adventure written by the five Greek novelists we know best. One of the differences, the most relevant for this paper, is an apparently unique feature among Greek novels: the Onos did not pretend that Rome did not exist.5 In fact, its author gives the main character the typically Roman tria nomina: cf. Onos 55, “my name is Lucius, and that of my brother is Gaius, and the other two names we share with our father.”6 Ben Edwin Perry rightly pointed out that “nothing could be more surprising  .  .  . than to find the leading character in a story, he who was the butt of the farce, a Roman of high social standing.”7 There is no reason to think that the lost Metamorphoseis was any different in this respect: it also must have included the asinine transformation of a Roman character named Lucius and living in Greece. Issues of cultural identity were deeply ingrained in the plot that Apuleius decided to render into Latin for a Roman audience.

II. Apuleius’ Metamorphoses The depth and extent of the further Roman elements that Apuleius introduced into the Greek ass-­story are not easy to gauge and define with a simple 3.  On satire and the Roman novel see Graverini 2012, 100–­110; cf. also section II.ii and n. 37. Horace and satiric poetry are more generally important in the context of this chapter also because of the often rather explicit way they deal with the issue of cultural interactions between Greek and Roman. On this see recently Alekou 2021 (esp. p. 53); Tzounakas 2021. 4.  See, e.g., Stephens-­Winkler 1995, 363–­66. 5.  The geographical and chronological settings of most Greek novels tended to obscure the presence of the Roman Empire. This can be mainly explained as a form of self-­defense against the rapid Romanization of the Empire: a problem that Petronius and Apuleius, more secure in their Roman and Latin cultural identity, clearly did not share. See, e.g., Barchiesi in Graverini, Keulen, and Barchiesi 2006, 217. 6.  Translations, with occasional adaptations, are from: MacLeod 1967 (Pseudo-­Lucian’s Onos and Amores); Walsh 1994 (Apuleius’ Metamorphoses); Rushton Fairclough 1938 (Vergil’s Eclogues); Gow 1952 (Theocritus’ Idylls). Other translations are mine. 7.  Perry 1967, 220; his arguments are developed by Hall 1995, 51–­52.

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formula. As often happens, the pendulum of scholarship has swung back and forth on this subject, and both the Greek and the Roman sides of the equation have been emphasized at different times.8

II.i. Between Greece and Rome It is clear that the Metamorphoses was not simply translated from the Greek, but was also adapted for a Latin-­literate audience by a Latin author. Indeed, Apuleius situates the epilogue of the ass-­story in Rome; yet the Roman setting of the final chapters of the novel (Met. 11.26–­30) is only the last, and perhaps not even the most important, element of his appeal to a Roman audience. Lucius moves through central Greece until those final chapters, but this Greek landscape is populated by Roman officers, contains elements of Roman topography, and is complicated by frequent references to Roman customs.9 The main character often addresses Greek crowds as Quirites,10 and speaks as would a Roman aristocrat imbued with legal culture.11 Sometimes information is provided that is only useful to non-­Greeks,12 and when in 3.9.1 Lucius informs the reader that the rota is a typical Greek instrument   8.  Of course the terms “Greek” and “Roman” themselves are, in this historical period as in others, often difficult to keep entirely distinct. For example, the Second Sophistic is a mainly Greek phenomenon that had nonetheless strong Roman (or anti-­Roman) aspects, and heavily influenced the western part of the Empire. As for Apuleius in particular, Norden 1898 firmly placed his style in the context of the Greek Second Sophistic; this led to some exaggerations (e.g., Paratore 1948, 37, for whom Apuleius was “one of the most genuine sons of Greek culture to have written in Latin”) but also useful contributions (e.g., Sandy 1997). Recent studies tend to emphasize the Latin roots of Apuleius’ culture (e.g., Harrison 2000). Contemporary postcolonial approaches have further complicated the situation, taking Apuleius’ African origins into serious consideration: for an overview see the introduction to Lee, Finkelpearl, and Graverini 2014. As the introduction to the present volume states, “Roman Hellenism is often decentralized” (see above, p. 2).   9.  Officers: e.g., 1.24.7 lixas; 1.24.8 aedilem gerimus; 2.16.5 sine fetiali officio; 3.21 lictores. Topography: e.g., 1.21.3 and 2.1.4 pomerium; 1.24.3 forum cupidinis. Customs: e.g., 1.7.5 voluptatem gladiatorii spectaculi (cf. 2.15.6 gladiatoria Venus); Byrrhena’s house in 2.4 has an atrium with four winged Victories; 2.18.2 auspicium petendum. For all these passages, and those mentioned in the following footnotes, see the commentary in Graverini and Nicolini 2019. 10.  2.24.3; cf. also 1.1.4; 2.27.4; 3.3.2; 3.5.6; 8.29.5. 11.  Cf., e.g., 2.6.8, quod bonum felix et faustum itaque, licet salutare non erit, Photis illa temptetur; 2.7.1, pedibus in sententiam meam vado. See Keulen 1997. 12.  In 1.5.4, the speaker specifies that Hypata is the most important city of all Thessaly, a piece of information for which his listeners have no use (they are Greeks, and traveling toward Hypata together with him) and that only a Roman reader would need.

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of torture, it is obvious that both Lucius and the reader are looking at cultural differences from a Roman-­inflected vantage point. The emperor is far away and cannot provide the help Lucius needs but is nevertheless a recurring presence in the Metamorphoses.13 Even more importantly, it is difficult to overstate the importance of Latin authors like Plautus, Vergil, and Ovid in the linguistic and literary texture of the novel.14 Despite this, Greekness in the Metamorphoses is not simply residual, that is, not defined by what little was left after Apuleius did his best to replace Greek traits with Roman ones. He did not strive to conceal the Greek substratum of his narrative, so much so that the prologue itself announces a “Grecian story,” a fabulam Graecanicam (Met. 1.1.6).15 Typical elements of the Greek novels abound: the crucial role of Fortune, apparent deaths, love illnesses, attempted suicides, the youth and beauty of the main character, trial scenes, attacks by bandits, and so on.16 Some sections of the Metamorphoses, such as the tale of Cupid and Psyche, have been considered as a sort of “Greek novel in epitome.”17 Almost all the characters have Greek names, as might be expected in a comedy by Plautus.18 Even the adaptation of the story to the perspective of a Latin-­speaking author and his audience sometimes functions by deploying Greek ideas. In 2.1.4, for example, the dreamlike description of the Greek city of Hypata draws on metamorphic patterns that, however Ovidian, are ultimately taken from Greek myths: indeed, Ovid, here as elsewhere, seems to provide Apuleius with a useful paradigm for the appropriation of Greek culture.19 For the purposes of this volume, however, I wish to focus on a more gen13.  In 3.29.3 the donkey tries to appeal to the emperor; cf. also 7.6.2; 7.7.3; 9.42.1; 11.17.3. 14.  Plautus: Pasetti 2007; Vergil: Harrison 2013; Ovid: Nicolini 2013, Graverini 2019. 15.  Keulen 2007, 90, explains that the adjective “stresses a degree of Latin usurpation of something of Greek origin.” 16.  Fortune: 1.1.2, 1.6.1, 1.6.4, and passim. Apparent death: e.g., Socrates in 1.13.4–­7. Love illness: e.g., 2.7.7, 2.10.5, etc. Attempted suicides: e.g., 1.16.1–­6; youth and beauty: Lucius in 2.2.8–­9, but cf. also Photis (2.8–­9), Psyche (4.28.2–­4), Cupid (5.22.5–­7); trials: e.g., 3.2–­9; 10.7.12; bandits: 1.7.1; 1.15.2; 1.23.2; 2.32.3–­6; etc. 17.  Rocca 1976, 41. 18.  The obvious exception is Lucius; for a few other Latin names see Graverini and Nicolini 2019, 164. Even some names that Apuleius seems to have changed from the lost Greek original—­since they are different from those we find in the Onos (e.g., Palaestra → Photis; Abroia → Byrrhena; Menekles → Thiasus)—­are Greek. 19.  On the Ovidian inspiration of this passage see Nicolini 2013, 164–­66.

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eral aspect of Apuleius’ Hellenism that had always been more problematic within Rome’s overall relation to Greek culture: the connection of Greek spoken or written discourse to “sweetness,” a quality that was treated in different ways in different times and literary genres. The “sweet” Greek roots of the Metamorphoses are most prominently acknowledged in the first words of the prologue: At ego tibi sermone isto Milesio varias fabulas conseram auresque tuas benivolas lepido susurro permulceam. (Apuleius, Met. 1.1.1) What I should like to do is to weave together different tales in this Milesian story and to stroke your approving ears with some sweet whispers. The speaker advertises a Milesian story20 that will be pleasurable and sweet—­qualities that, as we will see in the following pages, had diverse associations with spoken or written Greek.21 The story’s author or narrator,22 we also learn, was imbued with Greek from his first origins: Quis ille? Paucis accipe. Hymettos Attica et Isthmos Ephyrea et Taenaros Spartiatica, glebae felices aeternum libris felicioribus conditae, mea vetus prosapia est; ibi linguam Atthidem primis pueritiae stipendiis merui. (Apuleius, Met. 1.1.3–­4) Who is the narrator? Let me briefly explain: my antique stock is from Attic Hymettus, the Ephyrean Isthmus, and Spartan Taenarus, fertile territories established for ever in yet more fertile works of literature. In those regions, in the initial campaigns of boyhood, I became a veteran in Attic speech. 20.  Or, more probably, a “Milesian dialogue”: see Keulen 2007, 64; and Graverini and Nicolini 2019, 141, with further references on all the complex issues raised by the prologue. On Milesian stories see above, n. 2. 21.  See below, section II.ii on aures permulcere. 22.  A precise identification of the prologue speaker is notoriously difficult, but in the present context we can simply ignore the problem and take it for granted that he is either Lucius or Apuleius. See Kahane and Laird 2001 for a recent discussion.

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Apuleius is thus not ashamed to advocate, in front of his Latin audience, a work that could be deemed disreputable for several reasons. As we will see shortly, in all matters of style and rhetoric an excess of Greekness23 could be considered a threat to the value and strength of Roman literary endeavors, and, in particular, a Milesian story was very likely to be sneered at in highbrow cultural circles. Even the effects the story is expected to have on its readers, pleasure and amazement,24 could arouse suspicion. The prologue draws a picture of the Metamorphoses that ostensibly lacks the typically Roman balance of what is utile (“useful”) and what is dulce (“sweet”) recommended by Horace at Ars Poetica 343; Apuleius does not explicitly promise his readers that he will teach them anything, that his work will in any way improve them, or that it will be somehow beneficial to the state.25 Even in the decidedly philhellenic second-­century Empire, the Greek and Latin languages could still be perceived as radically opposite in their qualities and (dis)advantages, dividing the literary space into conflicting fields as neatly as utile and dulce. Compromising and negotiating an acceptable position in this space was certainly possible, but also a difficult and delicate process. Gellius offers some good examples of the discussions that could arise when literary people dealt with this sensitive issue in Apuleius’ time. At Noctes Atticae 2.26.2–­23, for example, he reports a discussion between Fronto and Favorinus on the names of colors. Favorinus states that the Greek language has a richer vocabulary than Latin, mentioning the vast range of different hues covered by the single adjective rufus (“red”) as an example. Fronto admits that Greek is prolixior fusiorque (“richer and more extensive”) than Latin, but he also demonstrates that Latin has many more words for shades of color than Favorinus is aware of. The orator pays lip service to the richness of the Greek language, but the two adjectives he uses could imply some kind of unnecessary and distasteful excess; he also subtly expresses his regret that Favorinus chose Greek over Latin as his first language. In 19.9.7–­ 14, several Greeks who are also learned in Latin literature attack the rhetor 23.  Note the Greek endings of the names Hymettos, Isthmos, and Taenaros; and their feminine gender according to a usage that Keulen 2007, 75, traces back to Pindar. In this context it is also significant that mount Hymettos was a famous source of honey (and honey-­sweet poetic inspiration). See Graverini and Nicolini 2019, 145–­46, and below, n. 33. 24. 1.1.2 ut mireris; 1.1.6 laetaberis. 25.  As was standard practice, e.g., in historiography, another literary genre featuring extended prose narratives: see, e.g., Sall., Cat. 3.1: pulchrum est bene facere rei publicae, etiam bene dicere haud absurdum est.

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Julian as barbarus and agrestis (“uncivilized” and “rustic”), and state that the Romans do not possess the voluptas and mulcedo (“charm” and “sweetness”) of the Greeks and their poets. Latin poems by Laevius and others are qualified as inplicata . . . invenusta . . . inlepida . . . dura . . . rudia . . . atque absona (“obscure . . . unattractive . . . unrefined . . . harsh . . . unsophisticated . . . and inharmonious”). Julian replies and condemns the Greeks’ asotia and nequitia (“licentiousness” and “depravity”), as well as the cantilenarum mollitia (“weakness of [their] ditties”). He then adds that Rome has also had poetas amasios ac venerios (“poets of love devoted to Venus”), and quotes some lines by Valerius Aedituus, Porcius Licinius, and Quintus Catulus.26 There is thus a constellation of qualities that define Greek literary culture in the eyes of proudly conservative Romans. These include, along with sweetness, pleasantness, softness, musicality, and an excessive inclination toward sentimentality and eroticism, a general lack of moral virtue and an insufficient commitment to serious and useful endeavors. “Excessive” is the key word here, since Julian is not completely immune to the seduction of the traits he criticizes in Greek culture. Nonetheless, he is unable to avoid a certain sense of shame for what he apparently considered a somewhat reprehensible departure from traditional Roman values: Julian, in fact, only starts his praise of Latin love poets after covering his head with a veil out of shame, as Socrates does before his speech on eros in Plato’s Phaedrus (237a). Apuleius’ sermo Milesius could incur a similar sense of shame: Julian would certainly find reasons to reprimand it for its Greekish wantonness and depravity, flaws normally attached to Aristides’ Milesian Tales. In the next section we will see that criticizing an excess of “sweetness” is by no means out of the question either. Toward the end of his introductory address, the prologue speaker begs his audience’s pardon for his poor command of the Latin language: “I beg your indulgence for any mistakes which I make [siquid . . . offendero] as a novice in the foreign language in use at the Roman bar” (Apul., Met. 1.1.5). This sentence should not be dismissed as an empty captatio benevolentiae simply because the novel proves to be the work of a competent Latin speaker. After fully embracing the Greekness of the literary genre he is practicing, as well as of the story he is going to tell and its sweet seductiveness, Apuleius tries to appeal to the indulgence of his readers, some of whom might be disappointed by the overwhelming Greek flavor of the prologue: he asks for patience, stating that his “faults” will only be occasional 26.  For more information on and further references to the cultural issues implied by these two passages see Gamberale 1996, 66; Keulen 2007, 15; Keulen 2009, 24–­27.

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(siquid). In doing so, Apuleius seems to ignore any possible concerns about literary genre, licentiousness, or utilitas, and to reduce all the reasons for disagreement to a matter of language; but this is not surprising. The passages by Gellius quoted above testify that the use of correct and appropriate language was paramount among the Roman cultural elite, who could easily switch from style to ethics and back in their discussions. The phrase sermone  .  .  . Milesio, in fact, has both ethical and literary implications. On the one hand, Milesian tales never received good reviews because of their sordid contents and ostensible lack of educational value.27 On the other, if we switch our focus from ethics to form, other different and much more dignified antecedents could be identified for that phrase. The structure “adjective of place + noun indicating some kind of literary endeavor” has a noble tradition among poets who take pride in introducing a Greek genre into Roman culture, starting with Vergil’s “Syracosian verse” (Ecl. 6.1) and “song of Ascra” (G. 2.175); cf., then, Horace’s “Aeolian song” (Carm. 4.40.13) and “iambs from Paros” (Epist. 1.19.23), Propertius’ “Greek dances” (3.1.2–­3), and so on. Contrasted with this typical usage of Augustan poetry, Apuleius’ sermo (as opposed to verses, songs, iambs, dances) could be understood as referring to prose as opposed to poetry, and “low” versus “high” literary discourse,28 but still a discourse with Greek origins—­Miletus instead of Syracuse, Ascra, Aeolia, or Paros.

II.ii. Sweetness, Callimacheanism, Escapism This implicit reference to a poetic topos is not fortuitous: here Greekness is subtly articulated not only in terms of Milesian discourse, but also in terms of Callimacheanism and sweetness—­a combination central to the poetics of Vergil as well as of many other Latin poets. At the beginning of the prologue, as we have seen, the sermo Milesius immediately becomes a lepidus susurrus, and the adjective—­especially in a prologic and heavily metaliterary context—­cannot help but remind us, for example, of the lepidus libellus in the first line of Catullus’ collection of poems and ultimately of Callimachus’ programmatic λεπταλέος (Aet. 1.24, “slender”), advocating an aesthetic based on a nonheroic program, extreme refinement and sophistication, novelty, charm, and wit.29 27.  See Keulen 2007, 64–­65. 28.  Cf., e.g., Hor., Sat. 1.4.42 sermoni propiora, and 48 sermo merus. 29.  Cf., e.g., Wiseman 1985, 183: “Catullus exploited his readers’ knowledge of the

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This intriguing lepidus susurrus is part of a system of subtle allusions that implies a conscious reference to Callimachean poetics.30 The initial at ego, which has always puzzled scholars, can be interpreted as a clever allusion to countless Greek metapoetic statements and Latin recusationes, all introduced by structures like “but I” and ultimately recalling Callim., Aet. 1.32, ἐγὼ δ᾽ εἴην οὑλαχύς, ὁ πτερόεις (“but let me be the small, winged animal [i.e., the cicada]”). Then, at Met. 1.1.5, Apuleius’ prologue speaker, jokingly calls himself a rudis locutor: ostensibly an “unpolished speaker,” but this attribute can also surreptitiously suggest a “braying speaker,” an omen of Lucius’ asinine future.31 The prologue would therefore contain oblique references both to the “slenderness” embodied in the λιγὺς ἦχος, the musical and sweet voice of the cicadas in Callim., Aet. 1.29, and to the “long-­eared beast” in Aet. 1.31, figures of Callimachean and anti-­Callimachean poetics, respectively. The song of Callimachus’ cicadas is indeed sweet. The adjective λιγὺς that describes it is usually translated as “shrill” or “clear,” but it demonstrably implies also the ideas of “melodious” and “sweet.”32 The prologue fully embraces this programmatic sweetness but presents us with a peculiar interference between poetical and rhetorical codes. As we will see in section III.ii, the poetical aspect of Apuleius’ susurrus is emphasized by other intertextual Aetia . . . In poem 1 he asks of the Muse what Callimachus asked of the Graces in Aetia 1, and describes his book via a bilingual pun, as Apollo describes Callimachus’ work in the Aetia prologue.” See also Morelli 2012, 471–­74. On Callimachus’ λεπταλέος, its use as a standard term in literary criticism, and its connections with Latin tenuis, gracilis, lepidus, see Harder 2012b, 62–­63. In Apuleius, the act of narrating is almost constantly associated with the adjective lepidus: see above all the tale of Cupid and Psyche in 4.27.8: ego te narrationibus lepidis anilibusque fabulis protinus avocabo. Cf. then 1.2.6 lepida iucunditas; 1.20.5 lepidae fabulae festivitate; 2.20.7 lepidi sermonis; 3.19.1 lepido sermone; 9.4.4 lepidam . . . fabulam. See Keulen 2007, 68; Tilg 2014, 41–­52; Graverini and Nicolini 2019, 142–­43. 30.  I have offered a thorough discussion of Callimacheanism in the prologue in Graverini 2012, 2–­25. Here, I only briefly reexamine some major points, and refer to my monograph for further details. For the concept of “collective security” in intertextual matters see Hinds 1998, 28. This is not Callimachus’ only appearance in the novel: see, e.g., Harrison 2013, 138–­40, on a reference to the Hecale; Finkelpearl 1998, 17 on other metapoetic passages; Zimmerman et al., 2004, 3 on the tale of Cupid and Psyche giving the novel an “Alexandrian feel.” 31.  See Winkler 1985, 196–­200. 32.  See, e.g., Hesychius’ lemma λιγυρόν· ἡδύ, γλυκύ. Λιγὺς is also used to describe the Muses at Hom., Od. 24.62, and Pl., Phdr. 237a; cf. Verg., G. 2.475 (quoted also by Tacitus, Dial. 13.5), dulces . . . Musae. Λιγυρός describes the Sirens’ song in Hom., Od. 12.44 and 183; and Ap. Rhod. 4.893–­894, ἡδείῃσι / θέλγουσαι μολπῇσιν clearly corresponds to Homer’s λιγυρῇ θέλγουσιν ἀοιδῇ.

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references (the “sweet/soft whispers” in Vergil’s first Eclogue and Theocritus’ first Idyll), but sweetness is not an exclusive characteristic of poetry. The phrase aures permulcere, which describes the effect that the lepidus susurrus has on its listeners, is indeed often adopted in Latin to define a singsong, Greekish kind of rhetoric that aims more to please than to persuade an audience (something that Quintilian insistently claims to be unworthy of a true Roman).33 The excessive, sweet, and idle voluptas implied by aures permulcere has no place in traditional Roman literary and rhetorical discourse, but again looks to Greek culture, and more specifically to Greek narrative. From the prologue to the pseudo-­Lucianic Amores, for example, we understand that Aristides’ Milesian Stories could exert a “sweet winning seductiveness” on those who listened to them: Theomnestus, my friend, since dawn your sportive talk about love has filled these ears of mine that were weary of unremitting attention to serious topics . . . I have been quite gladdened by the sweet winning seductiveness (αἱμύλη καὶ γλυκεῖα πειθὼ) of your wanton stories, so that I almost thought I was Aristides being enchanted beyond measure (ὑπερκηλούμενος) by those Milesian Tales. ([Lucian], Am. 1) In other words, Milesian tales were a kind of escapist entertainment, capable of carrying the reader away from reality and transporting them, body and soul, into a world of fantasy.34 The seductive power of these stories is expressed through a verb, ὑπερκηλεῖν, which is an excellent analogue for the Latin permulcere. Greek novels are often characterized in a similar way through a variety of words connected to the ideas of sweetness and psychagogy.35 In Apuleius, this Milesian escapism is important also outside the pro33.  Cf. Quint. 2.12.6; 9.4.116; 11.3.60; 12.10.52; see Gleason 1995, xxvii, 112–­13, 117–­18, 124–­30; Keulen 2007, 21–­23; Graverini 2012, 25–­31. Very similar to (per)mulcere is the Greek θέλγειν, on which see S. Goldhill 1991, 60–­61; cf. also below in the text for (ὑπερ)κηλεῖν. For the connection between mulceo and sweetness see, e.g., Apul., Met. 5.15.2, quae cuncta  .  .  . dulcissimis modulis animos audientium remulcebant; Lucr. 5.21, dulcia permulcent animos solacia vitae. 34.  Lycinus imagines being Aristides himself, who apparently featured in his own Milesian Tales as a character listening to stories. 35.  See Graverini 2012, 38–­42.

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logue, most prominently and explicitly in the introduction to the tale of Cupid and Psyche (itself identified as a Milesian narrative in 4.32.6):36 the old woman who narrates the story states that her aim is avocare, to distract a kidnapped young girl from obsessing about her dreadful circumstances (4.27.8). For most readers, it is hard to rule out completely a serious, non-­escapist intent for both Cupid and Psyche and the Metamorphoses as a whole; but the prologue and the old woman’s words obscure and hide any possible commitment, be it intellectual, philosophical, or religious, beneath a self-­ironic denial. Surprisingly, Apuleius seems to discredit both the literary genre that he is practicing and its purposes, and to warn his audience that he is simply about to offer some worthless Milesian entertainment. We will see that this can be interpreted as a satiric stance, similar to that of Horace’s Satires.37 To sum up, Apuleius adapts a Greek story for a Latin audience, but does not hesitate to underscore the sweet, Greekish, Callimachean, and escapist character of his work—­a Callimachean story that is paradoxically narrated by a “braying” speaker. This should not be completely taken at face value: it is a provocative stance, signaling that the Metamorphoses is a sophisticated and quasi-­poetical literary work that belongs to the genre of Greek prose narrative without necessarily indicating that it is only meant to provide an easy and unrefined pastime to readers who are uninterested in any intellectual or moral improvement.38 Apuleius seems to be counting on a competent and benevolent audience who is willing to read through his provocation. This is, however, a risky wager, especially considering how delicate a challenge it is to deal with issues of cultural appropriation and to try to find a proper balance between utile and dulce, commitment (be it moral, civil, religious, or philosophical) and idle escapism, Latin and Greek culture.

III. Vergil’s Eclogues as Comparandum Apuleius’ challenge was by no means a new one, since translating or adapting a Greek text for a Latin audience was a common mode of literary production 36.  Apollo . . . propter Milesiae conditorem sic Latina sorte respondit. On the narratological problems of the passage see Zimmerman et al., 2004, 84–­86. 37. See below, section IV and n. 64. Cf., e.g., Hor. Sat. 1.4.39–­40 ego me illorum, dederim quibus esse poetis, excerpam numero. 38.  There is more to the Metamorphoses than simple Milesian entertainment: see Graverini 2012, 36–­38 and 51–­132.

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in Rome. Among other possible parallels, Vergil’s Eclogues are perhaps hinted at by Apuleius’ text itself and are particularly suited to comparison with the Metamorphoses due to a number of shared themes. The genre of pastoral poetry, initiated by Theocritus and practiced by other Hellenistic poets like Moschus and Bion, was introduced to the Latin literary space by Vergil.39 There are reasons to believe that his project was a sensitive one that potentially involved the risk of alienating a significant part of the poet’s possible audience. The writing of the Eclogues was an attempt at importing a Greek genre to Rome during a civil war in which Greece and Rome, East and West, were on opposing fronts: despite the ceaseless passion for Greek culture among Romans, it is not unthinkable that a new book with too evident a Greek character could have raised some eyebrows in Rome at that time. On the other hand, an ostensible lack of involvement and a total retreat into pastoral bliss could also have been viewed without sympathy during such turbulent times of political and military turmoil. Both Theocritus and Vergil are learned and sophisticated poets, and their work is primarily meant to appeal to an equally learned and sophisticated audience; nonetheless, Vergil’s bucolic poetry relies even more than Theocritus’ Idylls on an affectation of simplicity, its setting is altogether rustic, and its characters are usually humble shepherds. This rustic simplicity may have been a hard sell to the learned and fashionable circles of Neoteric poets in Rome, who despised rus and everything that accompanied it: see for example Catullus’ scathing review of Volusius’ Annals, “full of countryside and gaucheries” (36.19).40 The early success of the Eclogues,41 and the fact that Vergil was very well received in the most exclusive political and cultural circles of Rome, are proof enough that he navigated these treacherous waters skillfully and managed to obtain a good balance between (quasi-­)polar opposites such as Greek and Roman, sophisticated and simple, rural retreat and political involvement. Let us now take a look at some tropes that are also important for Apuleius.

III.i Between Greece and Rome—­and Sicily Tityre, tu patulae recubans sub tegmine fagi siluestrem tenui Musam meditaris auena; 39.  On the bucolic tradition see Reed 2006. 40.  See Clausen 1994, xviii–­xx. Cf. also Apul., Apol. 10 on his accuser Aemilianus, vir ultra Virgilianos opiliones et busequas rusticanus, agrestis quidem semper et barbarus. 41.  See below, section IV in this chapter.

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nos patriae finis et dulcia linquimus arua. nos patriam fugimus; tu, Tityre, lentus in umbra formosam resonare doces Amaryllida siluas

(Vergil, Ecl. 1.1–­5).

You, Tityrus, lie under your spreading beech’s covert, wooing the woodland Muse on slender reed, but we are leaving our country’s bounds and sweet fields. We are outcasts from our country; you, Tityrus, at ease beneath the shade, teach the woods to re-­echo “fair Amaryllis.” At the beginning of the Eclogues, Vergil is less explicit than Apuleius in highlighting the Greek character of his work, but he is not ambiguous either. Tityre, the very first word of the entire collection, is a Greek and Theocritean shepherd’s name; the very sound of Tityre tu patulae recalls that of the first words of Theocritus’ Idyll 1, Ἁδύ τι τὸ ψιθύρισμα (“sweet is the whisper”).42 Like Apuleius’ lepidus, the adjective tenuis that modifies avena in l.2 is an equivalent of the programmatic λεπταλέος in Callimachus’ Aetia (1.24): “his pastoral poetry, Virgil implies, though ostensibly Theocritean, is essentially Callimachean.”43 These prologic and programmatic words contribute to transporting the audience to a generically Greek ideal setting, and urge them to think of poetry in Greek and Hellenistic terms. This Greek ideal landscape, however, is soon complicated by the mention of the land confiscations in northern Italy, of Rome, and of the “young man” who granted Tityrus the carefree possession of his lands. Then, the “bees from Hybla” of l.54 add Sicily to the mix, connecting Tityrus’ and Vergil’s poetic inspiration to their Theocritean roots. A similarly complex geography emerges, for example, in Eclogue 7. The first line introduces Daphnis, the iconic Sicilian shepherd, who is immediately joined by Thyrsis and Corydon, “both from Arcadia” (l.4). After this get-­together of Sicilian and Arcadian shepherds, the adverbs of place that conspicuously open lines 6, 11 (huc), and 12 (hic) may seem more than a little puzzling to a reader inclined to ask practical questions of the text: is the 42.  A “suggestion of piping” according to Coleman 1977, 71 ad loc. 43.  Clausen 1994, 175. Cf. Ecl. 6.8, tenui . . . harundine; 10.71, gracili . . . hibisco. Servius catches the metapoetic undertones and goes on to point out another Grecism: dicendo autem ‘tenui avena,’ stili genus humilis latenter ostendit, quo, ut supra dictum est, in bucolicis utitur. Meditaris quod Graeci μελετῶ dicunt, per antistoechon ‘meditor’ dixerunt Latini: l enim et d interdum sibi invicem cedunt, unde et ‘sella’ pro sedda dicitur a sedendo.

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scene set in Sicily or Greece? The puzzlement inevitably increases when line 13 firmly places the dialogue between shepherds on the banks of river Mincius, near Vergil’s birthplace in northern Italy. Eclogue 7 offers geographical references that are contradictory if taken at face value, and only make sense from an idealized, literary point of view: both Hellenistic poetry and the poet’s personal experience contribute to a mythical landscape “ultimately detached from any specific reality and enjoying an independent existence of its own.”44 It is probably not by chance that the last poem in the collection opens with an invocation to Arethusa, a sort of pastoral Muse.45 An Arcadian nymph who tried to evade the pursuit of the river Alpheus, Arethusa was transformed into a freshwater spring, fleeing from the Peloponnese through the Ionian sea to Syracuse in Sicily, where she reemerged uncontaminated by saltwater. Eclogue 10 transforms that event, situated in a specific moment of the mythical past, into a permanent and apparently never-­ending process (10.4–­5, “when you glide beneath Sicilian waves, may briny Doris not blend her stream with yours”): in this way, Arethusa’s journey can aptly symbolize the continuing cultural connection between Greece and Sicily. The pervasive presence of Cornelius Gallus adds Rome and its officials to the poem’s background. Greece, Sicily, and Italy again contribute to the construction of Vergil’s ideal bucolic landscape. This complex ideal landscape and its inhabitants, as we are about to see now, are not completely free from the risk of generating friction with Roman traditional values.

III.ii. Sweetness, Callimacheanism, Escapism The beginning of the first Eclogue is loaded with metapoetic and programmatic innuendos. Meliboeus’ “fields” are “sweet” (3, dulcia . . . arva), and sweetness has been typical of bucolic poetry since its (very literal) beginning, with the adjective ἁδύ that opens Theocritus’ collection: the sweetness of the wind rustling through the pine-­trees is echoed by that of the goatherd’s music (Id. 1.1–­3). The adjective then occurs very frequently in the Idylls. Here it will suffice to mention a couple of metapoetically charged passages: 7.88–­79, where Comata “made sweet music under the oaks or pines” (a description that is closely reproduced in that of Tityrus in Vergil’s first 44.  Coleman 1977, 209. 45.  Clausen 1994, 290.

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Eclogue); and 9.7–­8, where Daphnis begins his song with a quadruple repetition: “sweet sounds the calf and sweet the cow, and sweet too the panpipe and the oxherd, and sweet sound I.” Vergil is less emphatic, but dulcis repeatedly appears to qualify the country or some of its components: in fact, the dulcia . . . arva of Ecl. 1.3 suggest Theocritus’ programmatic sweetness.46 As already noted at the beginning of section III.i, the tenuis avena of Ecl. 1.2 is a subtle but inescapable suggestion of Callimacheanism. The Alexandrian poet is a constant presence in all studies and commentaries on the Eclogues, and there is no need to emphasize his importance for Vergil here. I will limit myself to mentioning the famous words of Apollo, who in Ecl. 6.3–­5 warns the shepherd to feed fat sheep, but to sing a deductum carmen, “slender song”—­a very clear metapoetic statement: the epiphany of the god is also an epiphany of Callimachus, Aet. 1.22–­24 where the same god gives a similar recommendation to the poet.47 Instead, a complex but programmatically important suggestion of Greek ideals that needs to be examined comes from the portrayal of Tityrus playing his music lentus in umbra, “at ease beneath the shade” of a beech. Shade is an almost constant presence in the Eclogues: it gives a sense of closure at the end of the first and last poems, and here and elsewhere it offers shepherds much-­appreciated shelter from the heat of the day (cf., e.g., 1.52). Being “in the shade,” however, can also have wider metaphorical implications and point at the idea of moving or staying away from civil, political, or military involvement.48 This estrangement from the typical honorable activities of Roman citizens is a frequent sentiment among poets who need social and cultural distance in order to find inspiration.49 The best example is offered by Propertius 3.3.1, visus eram molli recubans Heliconis in umbra (“I dreamed I was lying in the soft shade of the Helicon”): in his reverie, the poet initially thinks he might be able to sing the great heroes of Rome, but his bucolic posture, as well as the appropriation of two key words from the beginning 46.  Cucchiarelli 2012, 140 ad loc. Cf. then Ecl. 3.82 and 110; 5.47; 7.37. On Theocritus’ ἁδύ see Hunter 1999, 70–­71. A part of the semantic field of ἁδύ/dulcis is also covered by the more frequent mollis in Vergil. The connection between the two Latin adjectives is clear from passages like Ov., Ars am. 2.152: dulcibus est verbis mollis alendus amor; see also the subtle wordplay in Ecl. 4.28–­30 molli . . . mella (at the beginning and at the end of a line respectively). For Gowers 2012, Hor. Sat. 1.10.44 molle “indicates feminine charm appropriate to ‘small’ genres like pastoral or elegy . . . with suggestions of Callimachean ‘finish.’” 47.  On the presence of Callimachus in the Eclogues see, e.g., Hunter 2006, 115–­24. 48.  Alison Keith, pp. 43–76, this volume, treats the Epicurean origins for the Vergilian image of the countryside as an idyllic setting. 49.  Cf. Cucchiarelli 2012, 140.

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of Vergil’s first Eclogue, betray the absurdity of that idea even before Castalia explicitly denounces it.50 The link between poetic inspiration and sheltered retreat to the shade is as clear in Propertius as in Vergil’s Eclogue 1, where Tityrus lies under the beech while “teaching the woods to echo beautiful Amaryllis’ name.” Virgil’s celebration of uninvolved poetry has a complex and sophisticated relationship with philosophical thought. As Wendell Clausen points out, “it was Virgil who introduced shade and shadows into the pastoral landscape.”51 Apparently, he did so with a specific model in mind, arguably the prototypical locus amoenus that inspired so many later poets and writers. The grove on the banks of the Ilissus where Socrates and Phaedrus sat discussing Love and Truth soon became a successful ecphrastic model;52 but despite the extremely wide circulation of the topos and the standardization of its elements there are some details in Plato’s description that appear to be specifically and deliberately hinted at by Vergil. The main feature of the locus amoenus in the Phaedrus is a plane tree described as ἀμφιλαφής, “wide-­spreading,” in 230b3: Vergil’s patula is an appropriate direct translation of the Greek adjective, as Cicero confirms in a passage where he adopts the same term in connection with Plato’s tree.53 In the Phaedrus, the shade Socrates enjoys is not provided by the plane tree itself but by a chaste tree.54 In Vergil, Tityrus lies in the shade of a beech, and no other trees are mentioned at the beginning of the Eclogue. However, in l.54 Meliboeus informs us that willows are also part of 50.  Cf. also 3.9.29 in tenuis humilem te colligis umbras (said of Maecenas). More examples could easily be provided: cf., e.g., Ov., Ars am. 3.542, contempto colitur lectus et umbra foro; Ov., Am. 2.18.1–­3, Carmen ad iratum dum tu perducis Achillen . . . nos, Macer, ignava Veneris cessamus in umbra; Stat., Silv. 5.2.104, tacita studiorum occultus in umbra; Mart. 9.84.3, haec ego Pieria ludebam tutus in umbra; Petron., Sat. 129.5 (Circe writing to Polienus) in umbra voluptatis diutius lusi. See also OLD, s.v. umbra, n. 5. 51.  Clausen 1994, xxv. 52.  On the importance of Plato’s Phaedrus for bucolic poetry and for descriptions of loci amoeni, cf., e.g., Gutzwiller 1991, 233 n18; Hunter 1999, 14 and 145–­46; Fantuzzi-­ Hunter 2004, 143–­45. The epilogue of the story of Aristomenes and Socrates in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses famously happens under a plane tree: see Met. 1.18.8. Plato also points out that the whole place is σφόδρα ἡδύ, “very sweet,” and adds that that the song of the cicadas is λιγυρὸς (230c1–­2): two important adjectives in the context of this section. 53. Cic., De or. 1.28, platanus . . . quae non minus ad opacandum hunc locum patulis est diffusa ramis, quam illa, cuius umbram secutus est Socrates. The TLL, s.v. patulus at 795.60–­ 796.1, shows that Cicero and Vergil are the first authors to use the adjective for a tree. 54. Despite Cicero’s opinion to the contrary: cf. the previous footnote. See Phdr. 230b3–­4, ἥ τε γὰρ πλάτανος αὕτη μάλ᾽ ἀμφιλαφής τε καὶ ὑψηλή, τοῦ τε ἄγνου τὸ ὕψος καὶ τὸ σύσκιον πάγκαλον.

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Tityrus’ blissful estate; their shade is not explicitly referred to, but frigus . . . opacum (“cooling shade”) is mentioned in close proximity in l.52. The Elder Pliny points out that willows and chaste trees are very similar to each other,55 and the flowers of both trees are known to attract honeybees. In fact, both Plato’s and Vergil’s loci amoeni are populated by insects: cicadas in Phaedrus 230c2, and bees in Eclogue 1.54. The drone of cicadas and bees is part of the soundscape for both authors and has a specific effect on those who listen to it, enchanting them into drowsiness (Phdr. 259a3, νυστάζοντας καὶ κηλουμένους; Ecl. 1.55, saepe levi somnum suadebit inire susurro). These insects, both closely connected to the Muses and to poetic inspiration,56 suggest a solid link between Vergil and Plato: a subtle dialogue characterized by polemical overtones. Among all the similarities and subtle shifts (plane tree to beech, chaste tree to willow, cicadas to bees), there is indeed a crucial difference between Plato and Vergil. Socrates states that the song of the cicadas is as dangerous as that of the Sirens (258e6–­259b2: considering the connection between cicadas and poetic inspiration, this clearly reflects Plato’s dim view of poetry and fiction), and he warns Phaedrus that they should resist its enchantment, avoid falling asleep, and keep their philosophical discussion alive (259d). Tityrus instead readily gives in to sleep, lulled by the drone of the bees in the willow hedge (1.53–­55). Vergil adopts the main elements of Plato’s iconic locus amoenus, among them the presence of a shady tree and of droning insects, but turns the philosopher’s principles upside down: enchantment and sleep, which are to be avoided by Socrates and Phaedrus, are desirable and conducive to poetic inspiration for Tityrus and Meliboeus. Vergil is not waging a personal and solitary war against Plato: similar groves and a similar fascination with sleep as a figure for poetic inspiration feature in several Hellenistic and Latin texts. Poetry, it seems, has a penchant for defining itself by borrowing words and images from its main detractor.57 Apuleius’ lepidus susurrus, with all its associated ideas of Callimacheanism, sweet escapism, and enchantment, can easily be read against the background of this tradition, and more specifically of the levis susurrus that makes Tityrus fall asleep. Indeed, this is a crucial metapoetic manifesto for 55. Plin., HN 24.59, non multum a salice vitilium usu distat vitex, foliorum quoque adspectu, nisi odore gratior esset. 56.  There is a profound equivalence between these insects: see, e.g., Ael., NA 5.13, “what the divine Plato says of cicadas and their love of song and music one might equally say of the choir of bees”; and while Plato associates cicadas with Muses (Phdr. 258e–­259d), Varro calls bees Musarum volucres (Rust. 3.16.7). See Waszink 1974; Ferrari 1987. 57.  See Graverini 2012, 16–­21.

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Apuleius: the renowned philosophus Platonicus is apparently willing to abandon a strict adherence to his master’s tenets in order to compromise with the requirements of a narrative, fictional, and quasi-­poetic genre. Tityrus lying in the shade and sleeping a peaceful and musical sleep could be read as a model of disengagement from philosophical or civic commitment: a sensitive stance not only for Apuleius, as we have seen, but also for Vergil, since some level of civic or philosophical commitment is among the traits that could justify the otium litterarum in Roman culture and make it worthwhile. An excess of idle escapism could easily translate into an excess of Greekness and attract cutting remarks.58 Nonetheless, Vergil’s readers clearly see that Tityrus’ peaceful sleep is also a retreat from the horrors of the civil war and its aftermaths, something eminently relatable; and that civic engagement, at least in the form of a clear choice of the “right” friends and protectors to celebrate, is not at all absent from the Eclogues. Indeed, the very first poem in the collection starts by focusing on Tityrus and his dreamy musical/poetic inspiration but also pays homage to Rome and to the “young man” who has allowed the shepherd to enjoy his rural bliss.59 Vergil struck a balance that was difficult for Apuleius to imitate.

IV. Conclusion Vergil’s and Apuleius’ literary programs overlap in some important areas, and it is quite possible that Apuleius was looking back at the author of the Eclogues as he worded his prologue and compared the novel to a lepidus susurrus. For the purposes of this volume, however, the key point is that while the idea of sweetness affords us a direct comparison between Vergil’s and Apuleius’ styles of Hellenism, for Apuleius it made “doing the usual thing” in adapting a Greek genre into Latin newly and differently problematic. In spite of similarities, there are some remarkable differences between the two literary agendas or their practical realizations, and these differences could explain at least in part why the Eclogues and the Metamorphoses seem 58.  Cicero is very clear on this subject. Cf. for example Verr. 2.1.63, homines autem ipsi Lampsaceni  .  .  . maxime sedati et quieti, prope praeter ceteros ad summum Graecorum otium . . . adcommodati; Sest. 110, Gellius . . . Graeculum se atque otiosum putari voluit, studio litterarum se subito dedidit; De or. 1.102, ‘Quid? mihi vos nunc’ inquit Crassus ‘tamquam alicui Graeculo otioso et loquaci et fortasse docto atque erudito quaestiunculam, de qua meo arbitratu loquar, ponitis?’ See the classic volume by André (1966), esp. 321–­34 on Cicero after 46 BCE. 59.  On panegyric in Vergil’s Eclogues see Nauta 2006.

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to have been received so differently by their contemporaries. The ancient reception may, to this extent, bear out this essay’s findings. The Eclogues swiftly obtained unequivocal success: Vergil was admitted into the circles of the most powerful literary patrons in Rome, and his work was almost immediately canonized by Horace (Sat. 1.10.44–­45). According to Donatus (Vit. Verg. 26–­27) and Tacitus (Dial. 13.2), public readings and theatrical adaptations of the Eclogues were met with great enthusiasm when Vergil was still alive. Unfortunately, we are much less informed about the early reception of the Metamorphoses. When Apuleius boasts of his literary prowess and his achievements, he never mentions his novel explicitly, with his main claim to glory apparently being his renown as a Platonic philosopher (Apol. 10.6).60 The earliest references we have to the Metamorphoses are much later and not exactly complimentary: in the Historia Augusta (Clod. 12.12) Septimius Severus claims that his rival Clodius Albinus “grows senile amid the Milesian stories from Carthage written by his Apuleius,” and the same idea of an author whose circulation was mostly limited to Africa emerges from a letter by Augustine (138.19), according to whom “Apuleius, an African, is better known to us Africans.” Augustine, moreover, berates Apuleius’ inability to obtain an imperial judiciary office despite his alleged magical powers. His words are clearly influenced by a religious and cultural agenda, but in any case, they are not exactly a glowing endorsement of a fellow African’s career. Overall, Apuleius’ novel does not seem to have experienced widespread and instantaneous success—­certainly not to the degree that Vergil’s Eclogues did. The low status of the novel as a literary genre and its marginality in the Roman literary space certainly must have hindered Apuleius’ ambitions to glory. Vergil took his chances with a literary genre never practiced before in Rome, but he could count on the reliable support of the Hellenistic bucolic tradition; in contrast, the Greek genre of the novel (already introduced to Rome by Petronius) was either not highly regarded or altogether ignored by mainstream culture.61 Horace, further, warns that a literary work must be simplex and unum, “simple and uniform” (Ars P. 23): otherwise it would look ridiculous, like a picture of a human head joined to a horse’s neck. I do not wish to suggest that Horace’s aesthetic was at the roots of a generally accepted canon in Apuleius’ time; however, his words are useful to highlight some potentially 60. On Apuleius’ early renown see Stramaglia 2003, 122–­27; Carver 2007, 11–­17; Gaisser 2008, 1–­39; Gaisser 2014. 61.  See Graverini, Keulen, and Barchiesi 2006, 17–­26.

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disturbing features of the ancient novel, and of the Metamorphoses in particular. Apuleius’ programmatic engagement with both Milesian tales and Callimacheanism in his prologue could indeed remind us of the grotesque human-­animal figure described at the beginning of the Ars Poetica: a freakish union of extremely low and exceptionally high literary forms, an experimental patchwork coming apart at the seams. At least in part, this is the result of Apuleius’ clearly recognizing the dual nature of the novel as a literary genre: an extended narrative in prose, but with a fictional subject—­that is, something usually reserved for poetry, especially epic poetry, in ancient culture. In deciding to expose and emphasize this strange union of prosaic and poetic elements, rather than concealing it, he made a daring choice that could have seemed disconcerting to an ancient audience.62 Vergil’s geography in the Eclogues is solidly anchored to northern Italy, but frequent references to Sicily and Arcadia give it more of an ideal than a real quality, dissolving contradictions and incoherencies into a poetic construct that is illusory but consistent. Apuleius’ prologue, where the reader is offered a broad overview of the cultural and geographical areas that are important signposts for the imaginary world of the Metamorphoses (Miletus, Greece, Egypt, Rome), has the same ideal, abstract qualities. But then most of the novel proper is clearly set in a very concrete Thessaly, which is at odds with the numerous allusions to Roman culture and habits. Again, such a mixed cultural geography is odd and almost unparalleled,63 and it could disturb less indulgent readers. 62.  Vergil’s Callimacheanism could also count on a favorable reception when he composed the Eclogues: the end of the Republic and the Augustan age were teeming with enthusiasm for the Hellenistic poet, and imitators abounded. Apuleius, in the archaizing second century, apparently could not rely on a similarly favorable prejudice. Neither Wimmel 1960 nor Hunter 2006 have anything to say about Callimachus in second-­century Roman literature; and, needless to say, most studies on Roman Callimacheanism focus on poetry and do not consider prose literature. In a more general perspective, Apuleius’ time was permeated with Greek culture and Platonism: see, e.g., Trapp 1990 and Hunter 2012, esp. 226, with further literature. 63. Plautus, an important model for Apuleius’ language, is the only precedent that comes to my mind: for example, in Epid. 25–­28 he speaks of praetors and lictors in Athens (cf. above, n. 9 for Apuleius). However, I wonder if the mix between Greek and Roman elements is as extensive in Plautus as it is in Apuleius. Epic literature usually glosses over cultural differences. For example, in Homer, Greeks and Trojans can talk to and understand each other—­in Virgil, Phoenicians and Latins are added to the mix. Some important differences between Latins and Trojans come to the fore, e.g., in Juno’s speech in Aen. 12.819–­ 28, but overall they are not emphasized. Apuleius’ novel, in contrast, often seems to create a sort of patchwork effect.

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I have also noted that an escapist literary program could have been viewed with some suspicion in Roman culture. Now, “escapist” per se is not an appropriate qualifier for either the Eclogues or the Metamorphoses. The Eclogues are closely tied to contemporary Roman politics: men, ideals, expectations of contemporary Rome all discreetly (or sometimes not so discreetly) appear in Vergil’s bucolic world. The Metamorphoses arguably does not lack some generic ethical, religious, and philosophical commitment, but this commitment is constantly disguised by a satiric self-­irony that allows pure narrative much greater autonomy: while some parts of the novel can indeed be read between the lines and suggest (albeit vaguely and indirectly) deeper religious and philosophical ideas, most of the story resists any kind of meaningful allegorization.64 Such a literary program can certainly appeal to modern and contemporary audiences, but it might disappoint ancient readers less inclined to look for serious instruction in a long novel that advertised itself as an idle Milesian story. My final point is possibly the most important one. Vergil’s Eclogues, and his oeuvre in general, offer a masterful paradigm of the relationship between an author and his powerful protectors. Indeed, in the Roman world, a direct connection with the centers of political power and wealth was, if not a guarantee of success, at least an important first step toward it. Unfortunately, we do not know much about Apuleius’ possible relationship with the imperial court, save that he was elected to the chief priesthood of the African province and therefore was a minister of the imperial cult.65 The emperor is present in the novel, but certainly not as a dedicatee since he is always portrayed as a distant and unnamed, although powerful and usually benevolent, figure (see, e.g., 11.17.3). Asinius Marcellus, a Roman priest of Isis to whom a “great reward” is promised in 11.27.7–­9, could be a better candidate for the position of implicit dedicatee. He bears one of the very few Roman names in the novel,66 and is characterized by a very distinctive feature, a defective left foot, that does not seem to have any clear relevance to Lucius’ story67 and therefore could point at a real-­life individual. The Asinii Marcelli were a consular family of some prominence in Apuleius’ time, and it is conceivable that one of them was his patron. Angelo Vannini has recently offered some 64.  On all this see Graverini 2012, chapter 2, and esp. 95–­132 for satiric self-­irony in the tale of Cupid and Psyche and the Metamorphoses as a whole. 65.  See Harrison 2000, 8; Flor. 16; Augst., Ep. 138.19. 66.  See above, n. 18. 67.  For some hypotheses see GCA 2015, 459–­60; the commentators however observe that “any precise meaning of the motif of lameness in this connection has escaped scholars.”

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good arguments to support this hypothesis,68 which, however, cannot be considered indisputable fact. The relationship between Apuleius and a member of the gens Asinia would offer a tantalizing, although very speculative, connection with Vergil, who celebrated Asinius Pollio in Eclogues 3, 4, and 8. Yet, it would be hard to imagine that the Asinii Marcelli could have had the same kind of power and influence as Asinius Pollio or Maecenas, much less Augustus himself: Apuleius’ connections could not have been nearly as prominent as Vergil’s. In the end, there might be several different reasons why Apuleius’ novel does not seem to have enjoyed the same widespread and early success as Vergil’s Eclogues. This is by no means to say that the Metamorphoses was a failure: perhaps it was widely read, but the few and late sources available to us suggest a rather negative reception of the novel in highbrow circles—­at least until the end of the fourth century CE, when a young Roman aristocrat named Sallust read and corrected the text of the novel under the direction of his teacher Endelechius. Several contorniates with Apuleius’ portrait attest that there was some interest in Apuleius in Rome in those times, and it is likely that his renown as a philosopher, rhetor, and magician eventually reverberated with his narrative production.69 Still, in the second century it would be difficult to imagine someone like Fronto offering his “approving ears” (1.1.1, aures . . . benivolas) to a work that advertises itself as a sweet, sophisticated, and Greekish Milesian story striving to provide its audience with wonder and pleasurable entertainment. Apuleius’ provocative approach to narrative and his enthusiastic choice to embrace a discredited Greek genre were probably well ahead of his time, and his approach to Hellenism—­despite being in some important ways analogous to that of Vergil’s first successful poetic work, written before his urge to sing paulo maiora—­was probably destined to be met with the skepticism of his contemporaries.70

68.  Vannini 2018, with references to previous studies. The “great reward” would be, according to Vannini, the profits from the sales of the novel. 69.  See, e.g., Gaisser 2014, 54, on both Sallust and the contorniates; Stramaglia 2003 and Gaisser 2008 on Apuleius’ early renown. 70.  I am grateful to Andrea Cucchiarelli, the volume editors, and the referees for their comments on this chapter. None of its remaining faults, of course, are their responsibility.

Part 5

(Dis)connections between Italian and Greek Material Cultures

Nine

Roman Hellenism and Republican Architecture The Genesis of the Corinthian Order Marcello Mogetta

I.  Introduction: The Emergence of the Roman Corinthian Order as Cultural Process Salient features of Republican urbanism can be characterized as a fine compromise between Roman tradition and contemporary foreign influence. For many of the signature building types which enabled Rome’s own experiment with urban life, the designs originated from local adaptations of the international canons of Hellenistic town-­planning, art, and architecture.1 The pattern documented by archaeology for civic, religious, and utilitarian architecture in Italy reflects important changes in the political, economic, and cultural fabric of Roman society during the period of expansion.2 Although their personality was usually subsumed under the patron’s name, members of the Roman architectural profession played a crucial role in both the building process and the intellectual debate linking Roman practice with the classical tradition.3 Vitruvius, a military architect educated in the liberal arts who served under Caesar and Octavian, and the author of De architectura, the only trea1. A classic account is Boethius 1978, 136–­215; for more recent reassessments see Davies 2014; Sewell 2010. 2.  As discussed by Davies 2017 for Rome. Terrenato (2021) emphasizes the latency of the phenomenon in the metropolis as opposed to other areas of Central Italy. 3.  Nichols 2017; Yegül and Favro 2019, 113–­21, with further bibliography.

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tise on Roman architecture to survive in its entirety, presented the phenomenon as a case of communis ratiocinatio, a mixed system of Greek theory and Etrusco-­Italic practice (4.8.5). In discussing how designers could modify the arrangement of columns in temples’ plans, he saw the process quite optimistically as the transfer of Tuscan principles into Greek architectural models.4 Vitruvius’ work has been regarded as a difficult balancing act between the need to ground Roman practice within the intellectual legacy of the Hellenistic world and the goal of redefining Roman identity in contrast to the Greek, by emphasizing the Italic element.5 The commonly accepted view, however, is that the cultural exchange went in the opposite direction. At a basic level, the compromise would have been achieved through the integration of the essential component of Greek architecture, the columnar orders governing the modular design of buildings, within specific indigenous forms (e.g., interior colonnades in the basilicas; façade architecture in free-­standing entertainment structures; pseudo-­peripteral plans in podium temples). One of the most emblematic examples of the process through which content, form, and proportions of Greek canonical designs were transformed into quintessentially Roman markers is represented by the development of the Corinthian order into a coherent architectural style with its own formal apparatus. In the age of Caesar and Augustus, a comprehensive set of ground rules was established, as seen especially in imperially sponsored religious buildings. This in turn determined the widespread diffusion of the new canon in the provinces.6 The style was particularly well-­suited to the symbols of Augustan ideology, but at the same time allowed architects to take new directions in how they conceived of both the interior and exterior orders of monumental buildings.7 Traditionally associated with healing and renewal,8 the acanthus motif appeared Greek enough to remind viewers of the Classical archetypes, but was not as ethnically charged as the Doric and Ionic orders to undermine the new concept of Romanitas that the official propaganda ultimately promoted. As pointed out by Wilson Jones, Corinthian capitals provided many structural advantages. Since their design featured 4.  Wesenberg (1983, 169–­78) attempts to retrace the origins and evolution of the ideal Greek models transmitted to and by Vitruvius. On the realities of temple architecture in Hellenistic Italy, see Kosmopoulos 2021. On the Archaic precedents, see Potts 2015. 5.  Wallace-­Hadrill 2008, 144–­210. 6.  E.g., Ramallo Asensio 2004. 7.  Gros 2006a, 470–­503. 8.  On the possible derivation from the double-­volute motifs with spirals and central palmettes common in Archaic Attic stele see Scahill 2009.

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the same face on four sides, Corinthian capitals offered greater flexibility in corner positions and could be applied to more complex column arrangements, including curvilinear designs, effecting a smooth transition to vaults. The geometry of the capitals could also be easily modified to absorb errors before the entablature was put in place, which in turn worked well with the increasing role of monolithic shafts in Roman imperial architecture.9 The stylistic framework of the Roman Corinthian order was elaborated mostly between the late second and early first centuries BCE, spreading widely across the peninsula (fig. 9.1).10 Two main threads lay at the core of the phenomenon. The first is the introduction of the orthodox Corinthian capital, the so-­called Normalkapitell (i.e., the “normal” type as opposed to earlier free forms such as the Italo-­Corinthian, a “provincial version” originating in Sicily).11 The other signature component is a type of cornice enriched by modillions, decorative brackets that supported the topmost projecting section of that architectural member.12 Both features can be compared with models from the Greek East, where, however, they never appear combined together systematically. According to Gros, this may have been one of the reasons why Vitruvius interpreted Corinthian entablatures as a transgression of the well-­established canons of realism governing the Doric and Ionic orders (4.2.5),13 and chose not to discuss celebrated contemporary examples, such as the Temple of the Deified Caesar (although other quintessentially Roman building types, such as amphitheaters and baths, are likewise never treated in De architectura). On the other hand, Vitruvius’ remarks on the proper use of the orders, whereby the genus Corinthium should have been reserved for temples dedicated to goddesses whose dispositions were characterized by the same slenderness, elegance, and richness (1.2.5), demonstrates how late Hellenistic architects could attach symbolic meaning to decorative systems in relation to building function. The implantation of pure Greek archetypes in the age of conquest has been explained as being due to the influx of Greek masters who relocated to   9.  Wilson Jones 2000, 135–­75. 10.  Von Hesberg 1981. 11.  Heilmeyer 1970. For the definition of the Italo-­Corinthian as a specific class see Lauter-­Bufe 1987. 12.  Von Hesberg 1980. 13.  Gros 2006b. Cf. Strong (1963) who stressed the formal dependence of the Corinthian order from the imaginary architectural ornaments characterizing Second-­Style stucco and wall-­painting. Nichols 2017 frames the apparent backward stance of Vitruvius within the rhetoric and aspirations of contemporary moral discourse.

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Fig. 9.1. Distribution map of normal Corinthian architectural members in peninsular Italy in the late second and early first centuries BCE. Key: circles = capital; semi-­circles = modillion cornice; triangles = capital and modillion cornice; 1 = Rome; 2 = Bovillae; 3 = Sanctuary of Diana Nemorensis (Lake Nemi); 4 = Praeneste; 5 = Cora; 6 = Anagnia; 7 = Cumae; 8 = Pompeii; 9 = Beneventum; 10 = Aesernia; 11 = Forconium (Civita di Bagno); 12 = Tuder (Todi); 13 = Aquileia; 14 = Tergeste; 15 = Ostia; 16 = Cascia. Note that none of the monuments in Rome preserve both capital and modillion cornice in a single building phase. In the so-­called Nicchioni monument at Todi, the modillion cornice is combined with a Doric Frieze. Data from Hesberg 1980 and 1981; basemap: Antiquity À-­la-­carte, Ancient World Mapping Center. Used under the Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License (CC BY 4.0).

Rome following Roman patrons, and to the increasing taste for and use of white marble (especially Pentelic marble, whose quarries came under Roman exploitation with the incorporation of Greece as a province).14 The conventional association between the earliest examples of normal Corinthian capitals and famous victory monuments made entirely of imported stone 14.  E.g., Gros 1976; Gros 1978; Gros (2011, 127–­36) characterizes the phase as an “intermezzo,” arguing that, in the longer term, the Hellenization of Roman architecture could not take a passive form.

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has in fact suggested that builders introduced this specific form of Hellenism in architectural design to signal the geographical source of their prestige and the idea of building Rome’s cityscape with plundered materials.15 The initial adaptation of the style, therefore, has been linked with the broader politics of cultural appropriation that developed in the context of Rome’s global expansion, more than any other Greek canonical tradition. In response to recent work on the subject, which highlights movement and hybridity and looks at non-­elite classes as cultural agents across the range of linguistic and visual arts,16 I set out to retrace the formative steps of this class of architectural ornament from a different perspective. Taking a cue from current research on the economy of construction in late Republican Rome, broadly construed to include building process and labor, I will concentrate on the mechanisms of technological transmission of masonry practices that brought about the innovation of the Corinthian order. While recognizing that Roman architecture as a whole was experiencing major changes driven by the cultural implications of Rome’s imperialistic agenda, my goal is to show that these manifestations were to a great extent influenced by the activities of patrons and private entrepreneurs well-­versed in the cosmopolitan styles, who operated independently of Roman hegemony. I thus emphasize circulation over appropriation and centralized intervention in cultural production.

II.  Early Corinthian “Capitals”: Athens, Antioch, Alexandria, and Rome The generally accepted developmental scheme of Corinthian capitals in the Greco-­Roman Mediterranean is the product of a century-­old tradition of scholarship focused on the style and carving techniques. Having been originally introduced in the fifth century BCE for interior decoration, Corinthian capitals began to be applied to an exterior order only in the later fourth century BCE. Commonly cited as the earliest example is the small-­scale Athenian Monument of Lysicrates (dated to 335–­334 BCE), where they are associated with the engaged columns decorating the walls of the tholos, thus bearing no structural function. The practice, however, remained quite lim15.  See Davies 2017, 96–­99 (identifying the Round Temple by the Tiber with the Temple of Hercules Victor). On the relationship between material and style in Roman triumphal architecture: Popkin 2015a. 16.  E.g., Loar, MacDonald, and Padilla Peralta 2018.

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ited in scope until the second quarter of the second century BCE, when the canonical design made its simultaneous appearance both in the Greek mainland and in Asia Minor.17 As the examples discussed in this chapter show, the Normalkapitell can be distinguished from earlier versions, including the Italo-­Corinthian, thanks to its carefully constructed design. The upper zone of the bell is occupied by the volutes and helices, springing from a single ribbed stalk (cauliculus) so that the former fall on the diagonal axes, and the latter on the cardinal axes (touching the abacus without projecting outward). The lower zone features an acanthus frieze, whose tall leaf is much shorter than in previous versions. Finally, the flower decoration (fleuron) typically rests on the abacus, and never expands onto the register below. This decorative scheme circulated widely in the Greek world, though it is mostly found in stoa architecture, or as interior embellishments, coexisting with other free forms. Whereas in the Roman context the Corinthian order came to be systematically applied to temple exteriors, only a few isolated examples of the kind are known from the Hellenistic Greek world (fig. 9.2). Two of these temples can be plausibly linked with the activities of Roman specialists. The first, and more secure case, is that of the Temple of Olympian Zeus at Athens, in the version sponsored by Antiochus IV Epiphanes (175–­164 BCE) (fig. 9.3).18 Vitruvius (7.Praef.15) attributes the completion of the colossal dipteral temple to a certain Quossutius, remarking how the creative work of a ciuis Romanus was celebrated by the local experts (in paucis). The corresponding expression makes it almost certain that we are dealing with the same Dekmos Kossoutios Popliou Rhomaios (IG 3.1.561) to whom the Athenians erected an honorific statue in the area of the sanctuary. Scholars have been baffled by the fact that the Seleucid monarch preferred a relatively obscure Roman craftsman over Greek stars of the caliber of Hermogenes to work on what would have represented one of the most prestigious architectural commissions of the period.19 One of the proposed explanations, therefore, has been that Cossutius was hired primarily for his quintessentially Roman ability to find practical solutions to the problems posed by the size and pluri-­stratified nature of the temple, which was built on Archaic foundations.20 Vitru17.  On the stylistic developments from free forms to the normal type see Bauer 1973; Williams 1974. For Asia Minor: Rumscheid 1994. 18.  Tölle-­Kastenbein 1994, 17–­74; 142–­52 (especially 149 and n. 811; for the numbering of the columns see Plan 2). 19.  See discussion in Anderson 1997, 20–­21. 20.  As noted by Torelli 1980, 313–­14.

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Fig. 9.2. Map showing the location of peripteral Corinthian temples dating to the third and second centuries BCE. Key: circle = archaeologically attested; triangle = hypothetical. Basemap: Antiquity À-­la-­carte, Ancient World Mapping Center. Used under the Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License (CC BY 4.0).

vius, however, emphasizes Cossutius’ use of modular proportions for the entablature,21 despite the fact that the temple had been originally planned as Doric. His achievement, then, was appreciated not simply in terms of engineering, but also of architectural theory and aesthetics. Rawson and Torelli have collected the epigraphic dossier related to Cossutius and his descendants, whose interests in the building industry and stone supply in the Greek East (Athens; Erythrae on Teos; Eretria; Delos; Ios; Paros; Cos) can be followed over the course of four hundred years.22 I will return to the implications for our understanding of the marble architecture of late Republican Rome shortly. First, let us concentrate on the 21.  epistyliorumque et ceterorum ornamentorum ad symmetriam distributionem magna sollertia scientiaque summa ciuis Romanus Quossutius nobiliter architectatus est, “Cossutius, a Roman citizen, splendidly designed [the temple] and the symmetrical distribution of the architraves and the other ornaments with great skill and the utmost knowledge” (7.Praef.15). 22.  Rawson 1975, 36–­39; Torelli 1980, 313–­17. On the presence of the family firm in marble-­trading regions see: Bernard 2010, 51–­52, Table 2; Russell 2013, 205 (citing parallels from sixteenth-­to seventeenth-­century CE Italy).

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Fig. 9.3. Normal Corinthian capital from the exterior order of the Hellenistic phase of the Temple of Olympian Zeus in Athens, attributed to Cossutius (Column 2, viewed from SW; from Tölle-­Kastenbeim 1994, Taf. 18d; Photo: S. Mamaloukos; used by permission of the author). Note the two-­part form of the capital, whose break is carefully matched to the curl of the highest acanthus leaves.

historical context. Whether he was of Campanian or Volscian origins (a Kussuties was meddix in Velitrae in the third century BCE: Vetter, no. 222), it is reasonable to assume that the founder of the architectural firm was active in Rome, since his family name is fully Latinized.23 This must have been around the time at which Antiochus was serving as hostage for his father in Rome (189–­178 or 176/175 BCE), and was comfortably hosted in a house erected for him at public expense.24 During that period, and especially in the short span between 181–­179 BCE, several temple dedications (at least six) 23.  Rawson (1975) prefers a Campanian origin. The prenomen Dekmos in IG 3.1.561 would reflect the Latin version of Oscan Dekis, i.e., Decimus. See Poccetti 1984. Note that Greek Rhomaioi in bilingual inscriptions always corresponds to Latin Italicei so the term refers to sociopolitical status not geographical origin. 24. Asc., Pis. 13C. Sources on the hostageship of Antiochus IV are collected in Nabel 2017, 27 Table 2.2. For the date of his departure from Rome: Scolnic 2014.

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occurred in Rome, after a gap in building activities. These new foundations demonstrate the incorporation of Greek designs in plan (e.g., the Temple of Hercules Musarum, the earliest round temple in Rome).25 A fragmentary limestone Italo-­Corinthian capital now in storage at the Portico of Octavia, stylistically dated to the early second century BCE, has been linked with one of the temples located in the area of the Circus Flaminius (either the Temple of Juno Regina or the Temple of Diana, both vowed in 187 and dedicated under the censorship of M. Aemilius Lepidus in 179 BCE; or the Temple of Apollo Medicus, which was refurbished within the first half of the second century BCE, perhaps around 179 BCE, when Lepidus let censorial contracts for other construction projects in front of the temple: Livy 40.51.3).26 This likely represented the context in which Antiochus gained first-­hand experience of contemporary Roman building practices. Close contact with Rome’s ruling elite would have provided access to networks of architectural patronage. At first glance, the decision to hire Cossutius resonates with other stories about Antiochus adopting and displaying Roman customs after his return to Syria (e.g., Polyb. 26.1). Ancient historians have cast doubts on the nature of these reports, suggesting that these rather gossipy descriptions may have been intended to cast Antiochus in a negative light for Greek audiences, and have pointed to his quite independent and aggressive foreign policy.27 Livy (41.21.6) records that Antiochus started plans to build a magnificent temple to Jupiter Capitolinus in the capital city of Antioch-­on-­the-­Orontes, in the context of a broader building program that added a new district (known as Epiphaneia) to the old Seleucid core.28 Reference to the Roman god has been taken to be the result of Livy’s own interpraetatio, and it has been suggested that the temple at Antioch might have been originally dedicated to Olympian Zeus.29 Some architectural historians have speculated that the 25.  Davies 2017, 82–­104 (especially 90–­93). 26.  As suggested by La Rocca 2011, 14–­15; Davies 2017, 92. For the stylistic analysis of the capital see Lauter-­Bufe 1987, 28 no. 43, 74, 81 and plate 20a–­b (attributing it to the work of immigrant artists from Sicily). 27.  Allen 2006, 166–­70. 28.  On the urban growth of Antioch in the second century BCE see De Giorgi 2016, 57–­58 and fig. 2.15. 29.  Rigsby 1980, 234–­38 (on Antiochus’ reference to the cult of Zeus Olympios). But Livy, Periochae 21.6 mentions the Temple of Olympian Zeus at Athens and the Temple of the Capitoline Jupiter at Antioch as such in the same passage. John Malalas, Chronographia 230.10–­11, refers to it as Temple of Zeus Kapetolios (or Kapetolinos), assigning it to Tiberius.

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temple might have been Corinthian, closely imitating the Athenian prototype, but no archaeological evidence for it survives.30 This view is partly based on the possible presence of Cossutius (or, in any case, members of his firm) at the site, as inferred from a graffito in Latin discovered on the lining of a covered section of an aqueduct at Epiphaneia, dated archaeologically to the second century BCE.31 In Asia Minor, Hellenistic temples featuring a Corinthian peristasis are also exceptional. Among these are the Temple of Zeus at Olba (Cilicia), the “Corinthian” Temple at Caunus, and the Temple of Hekate at Lagina (both in Caria). The capitals from Olba have been assigned stylistically to an advanced stage of the formative sequence of the canonical type, within the first half of the second century BCE, due to similarities with the series from the Temple of Olympian Zeus at Athens and the propylon of the bouleuterion at Miletus, a building which can also be securely attributed to Antiochus IV.32 On historical grounds, therefore, it has been argued that the dedication of the Olbian temple was part of the Seleucid monarch’s broader building policies. Moreover, it has been suggested that the appearance of Corinthian elements as distinctive traits on key buildings connected with Antiochus IV’s ideological program would have been Cossutius’ own contribution (his stay in Antioch might offer a plausible explanation for his presence also in the neighboring region).33 The idea of applying Corinthian or Corinthianizing capitals to the exterior order of temples would not have been entirely new to him: the “Corinthian-­Doric” Temple in the forum of the Latin colony at Paestum (a hexastyle peripteros sine postico with Corinthianizing figured capitals built not later than 200 BCE) provided a geographically and culturally closer model (and perhaps betrays a preexisting practice in South Italy).34 The particular variant from the Temple of Zeus at Olba has the four spirals springing from individual caules; those of the helices intersect at approximately two-­thirds of the height of the bell (fig. 9.4), an 30.  E.g., Winter 2006, 26. 31.  Both Rawson (1975, 38–­39) and Gros (1976, 397) take this as evidence that Cossutius brought crews of Latin-­speaking workers to Syria, and therefore that he had an Italian base. This view is accepted by Anderson 1997, 21. 32.  Especially the fleuron rising on a thin stalk and resting entirely on the abacus, and the helices tangential to the abacus. See Williams 1974, 409–­12, for the full discussion. Contra Rumscheid 1994, 86–­91 (second half of the third century BCE). 33.  Williams 1974, 413–­14. 34.  On the chronology of the temple decoration, see Denti 2004 with earlier bibliography. Stratigraphic dating: Albers, Rimböck, and Widow 2017; Albers et al. 2019.

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Fig. 9.4. View of the exterior order of the Temple of Zeus at Olba (Uzuncaburç). Note the two-­piece capital with interlaced caules and helices (top left) and the faceted finishing on the lower third of the column shafts. Image: Turkish Archaeological News—­Izabela Miszczak (https://turkisharchaeonews.net/site/diocaesarea). Used under a CC BY-­NC-­ ND 3.0 License.

unusual composition that has been linked with Syrian influence (though examples are also known from Alexandria). The capitals from Caunus are too badly preserved for a typological study and can only be assigned to the second century BCE on account of the temple’s constructional features.35 Finally, in the case of the pseudo-­dipteral temple at Lagina, the Corinthian capitals are of the normal type, but belong to a later restoration (125–­50 BCE).36 Hence, they are less relevant in terms of chronology and diffusion. An interesting feature shared by the examples above, however, is their two-­piece form. This detail provides a crucial link not only with the evidence from the Athenian Olympieion, but also with a group of capitals from Alexandria, where the normal Corinthian capital tradition was established through contacts with mainland Greece or Asia Minor by the middle of

35.  Held and Wilkening-­Aumann 2017, 216–­17. 36.  Pedersen 2013.

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the second century BCE at the latest.37 Related to that tradition is a lower-­ half piece from Alexandria’s eastern harbor, which Pensabene has dated to the first half of the second century BCE,38 tentatively associating it with the exterior order of a temple (a practice for which there seem to be local precedents, most notably at Hermopolis Magna).39 The same fabrication technique appears also on capitals in the Italo-­Corinthian tradition of the early second century BCE, as demonstrated by two Roman exemplars, one from Rome (the Portico of Octavia capital discussed above) and the other now in Milan (probably from a temple, given its height of 1.1 m).40 Thus, the technique may have been common in Italy, perhaps via Alexandria and Sicily,41 before being employed in Athens, Cilicia, and Caria. The two-­piece aspect of the early Normalkapitell relates directly to the construction process rather than to aesthetic choices, which, in my view, highlights the important role that Roman craftsmen may have played in the formation and dissemination of that global (even if initially short-­lived) style of temple architecture with which the working practice is originally associated.42 As Bernard’s study shows, the break in early examples is carefully matched to the curl of the highest acanthus leaves, corresponding precisely to the plane of the seam between the lower and upper halves of the capital, which suggests that the mechanical division was originally a matter of sawing. Given that there were heavier components, such as the architraves, that needed to be lifted even higher, Bernard rightly concludes that the main reason for introducing the technique must be seen not simply in the desire to decrease the weight of individual structural elements, but especially in the need to facilitate their awkward maneuvering (unlike architraves, capitals had to be positioned with their entire lower surface level on the upper column drum, so any sort of rope or cradle wrapped underneath them had to 37.  Pensabene 1993, 119. 38.  Pensabene 1993, 319, cat. no. 24. 39.  Pensabene (1993, 251–­52) cites indirect evidence for the Serapeum at Alexandria, but makes a more circumstantiated case for the sanctuary at Hermopolis Magna (on which see also 324–­25, cat. no. 43–­49, third quarter of the third century BCE). 40.  Lauter-­Bufe 1987, 30 no. 47 pl. 19 b–­c. The dimensions are on a par with the largest examples of two-­piece normal Corinthian capitals from later second-­century BCE temple architecture in Rome: Bernard 2012, 11 Table 2. 41.  Bernard 2012, 6, discusses other examples of uncertain provenance but generally dated to the Ptolemaic period. 42.  According to Anderson (1997, 22), there is “nothing Italic or Italian influenced in the remains of the Temple of Olympian Zeus.”

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be removed before the final placement).43 The popularity of the fabrication technique in Rome throughout the first century BCE and beyond, even in temples of smaller scale, ultimately reflects a different approach to the sculpting of the capital, which Roman carvers conceived of as a form resulting from the superimposition of two basic geometric shapes (a square containing abacus and volutes above a cone containing the acanthus frieze) rather than emerging from a single shape, as common in the Greek tradition.44

III.  Material and Style: The First Marble Temples of Rome and the Dissemination of the Normal Corinthian Describing the eponymous monument dedicated by Cn. Octavius after his naval triumph over king Perseus of Macedon on the north side of the Circus Flaminius in 166 BCE, Pliny (HN 34.7.1) refers to it as a porticus Corinthia.45 The passage is commonly taken to provide the earliest evidence on the use of Corinthian capitals in monumental architecture at Rome, as opposed to the Italo-­Corinthian.46 In the context of Pliny’s discussion, “Corinthian” probably relates to both the material (bronze) and the provenance of the capitals, so the assumption has been made that these would have been of a Greek order. In light of the links between metalworking and the early development of the Corinthian decorative scheme, the capitals have been envisioned as stone, carved and revetted with bronze acanthus leaves.47 It is impossible, however, to be certain whether the design was of the normal type (considering the composite nature of the ensemble, the possibility seems unlikely).48 Whereas the visual impact of the bronze capitals would have been unprecedented, the influence of the building type (a two-­storied or two-­aisled porti43.  Bernard 2012, 10–­11. 44.  As noted by Lauter-­Bufe 1972 on the basis of her analysis of unfinished Corinthian capitals from Pompeii. Both Pfanner (1989, 161–­76) and Bernard (2012, 11–­12) further elaborate on the argument, linking the conception to the general rationalization of production of architectural components that also influenced the development of opus reticulatum in concrete masonry techniques. 45.  Full sources on the monument: LTUR 4: 139–­41, s.v. Porticus Octavia (A. Viscogliosi). 46.  Gros 2006a, 472 (considering them as spolia from Pydna or Samothrace, of canonical form). 47.  E.g., most recently Popkin 2016, 60–­61. 48.  Contra Hesberg 1981, 10 (stating that reproducing the forms of Italo-­Corinthian capitals in bronze is difficult).

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cus duplex) on the formation of the Roman Corinthian order is questionable, given the specific association with temple exteriors. The root of the process was directly connected with the establishment of large-­scale Pentelic marble trade and its application to sacred buildings, according to a familiar pattern that underscores the crucial relationship with Athens and, as we see, with the activities of the firm established by Cossutius. The only architectural element that can be plausibly linked to the earliest white marble temple built in Rome, the Temple of Jupiter Stator (commissioned in 146 BCE by Q. Caecilius Metellus Macedonicus and built by the Greek architect Hermodorus of Salamis) is an Ionic capital of smaller module. Reportedly made of Parian marble (though the identification is based only on visual inspection), the element should be assigned to the interior order of the portico rather than to the peristasis of the temple,49 so its relevance to our discussion is limited. More positive evidence comes from two sites in the area of the Circus Flaminius: the temple under S. Salvatore in Campo and the structure in the basement of the Casa di Lorenzo Manlio. The former can be identified with some confidence with the Temple of Mars in Circo, another manubial monument attributed to Hermodorus.50 Vowed by D. Iunius Brutus Callaicus in 136–­135 BCE, the temple can be connected with a peripteral form because of the presence of a four-­stepped crepidoma. A noticeable anomaly in the design is represented by the use of an obsolete type of column base, derived from the Archaic tradition in Asia Minor, instead of the then widespread Attic base. La Rocca has perceptively suggested that the design was selected because it would have been understood by Roman viewers as a Hellenized version of the Tuscan base (i.e., one with a rounded torus and a square plinth substituting for a round one).51 The important implication seems to be that the work of Hermodorus did not happen in a vacuum, but was influenced by the local tradition. In other respects, the temple does not conform to what one would expect from a follower of the Hermogenean canon: the rhythm of the columns is picnostyle, not eustyle, reflecting a preference for narrower intercolumniations.52 No 49.  La Rocca 2011, 9, figs. 8–­9. 50.  On the problem see now Cavallero 2017, with earlier bibliography. 51.  La Rocca 2011, 11–­12 and fig. 12. 52.  The trend is first documented in Italic temples of the third century BCE, possibly as a result of the introduction of stone entablatures: thus Davies 2012. Cf. Kuttner (1995, 162) points our attention to the friendship between Brutus Callaicus and the poet Accius, who wrote epigrams for his temple façades, suggesting that the aim of the project was to enact Pergamene court themes in language arts and perhaps also in architectural styles.

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information on the style of the capitals is available, but scientific evidence pinpoints the source of the marble employed for the columns at the Mount Pentelikon quarries.53 At the Casa di Lorenzo Manlio site, pentelic column shafts and part of a two-­piece capital of the normal Corinthian type can be assigned to the Temple of Neptune, built by Cn. Domitius Ahenobarbus (121–­115 BCE?).54 As in the previous case, archaeometry indicates an Attic provenance for the column shafts.55 The Corinthian capital has not been tested, but its macroscopic features have been described as very similar. Despite his involvement in the settlement of Asia Minor in 129 BCE, the patron who sponsored the building project did not select sources local to that province. As Bernard notes, he must have acted through secondary means to obtain Pentelic marble, undermining the expectation of direct hegemonic connections between quarries and magistrates responsible for the construction. In relation to architectural process, a more complete picture can be sketched for the Round Temple by the Tiber. This monument is regarded as a textbook case for the implantation of pure Greek prototypes out of which the mixed style of the Roman Corinthian would eventually emerge. The identification of the monument presents challenges. Some make it the Temple of Hercules Victor commissioned by L. Mummius after 146 BCE, thus arguing that not only the material with which the superstructure is built, but also the specific style of the capitals, the normal Corinthian, were chosen to mean that the temple was built entirely out of spoils from the newly incorporated province.56 Others have proposed a slightly later date, based on the possible identification with the Temple of Hercules Olivarius, a supposedly private dedication of the 120s BCE.57 The first editors of the monument steered clear of the issue, proposing a date around 100 BCE for the remains purely on stylistic grounds.58 What these different theories have in common is the idea that the temple’s architectural members were assembled in situ from prefabricated parts crafted in Athens, partly on the assumption that 53.  Bernard 2010, 37 fig. 1; 40 Table 1. 54.  On the dating and identification of the temple see Tucci 1997. 55.  Bernard 2010, 38 figs. 2–­3; 40 Table 1. 56.  See above n.15. 57.  LTUR 3: 19–­20 (F. Coarelli). Another round temple stood in the area of the Forum Boarium, but was completely destroyed in the late fifteenth century. Conventionally identified with the Aedes Aemiliana Herculis, neither its location nor its architectural order can be pinpointed with precision: Zaccagnino 2019. 58.  Rakob and Heilmeyer 1973; Bernard (2012, 8 Table 1) gives a 125–­75 BCE range.

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skilled labor who could work marble was not available locally. The complex interaction between Greek experts and local craftsmen, however, is evident in the juxtaposition of materials: the temple incorporates tufo giallo foundations beneath a travertine crepidoma that supports a marble cella.59 Maschek has recently offered a comprehensive reassessment of the temple’s fabrication details, in which the Roman contribution is further emphasized.60 Significant measurements and modular proportions in the temple’s design appear based on the use of the Roman rather than Greek phaedonic foot, as previously reconstructed in support of the idea of a foreign origin of the builders: for instance, the height of the capitals has a finer value of 4 and 1/4 Roman feet, which also corresponds well with the common division of the foot in digits, or sixteenth parts, instead of the bulky quantity of 3 and 4/5 phaedonic feet.61 The unfinished termination of the flutes at the lower scape, which is fabricated in a single piece with the Attic base, as well as the unsmoothed surface of the capitals, with traces of the flat chisel carving left visible, betray the hands of craftsmen trained in the limestone tradition of Central Italy.62 Thanks to Maschek’s reanalysis we also learn that the best comparanda for the normal Corinthian capitals of the Round Temple come from Asia Minor, not from mainland Greece: most notably, the motif of the cauliculus with flat leaf in front of the flower stem shows remarkable similarities with a class of capitals from Miletus, Ephesus, and Samos which was introduced perhaps as early as the middle of the second century BCE, becoming more common in the late second and early first centuries BCE.63 Geochemical testing carried out on the original architectural members has shown that all of these possess isotopic values falling within the compositional field of Mount Pentelikon. One of the capitals (Column 7, fig. 9.5), however, exhibits a coarser granulometry, and a provenance from the Proconnesian quarries has been suggested by the authors of the study.64 This has in turn 59.  Rakob and Heilmeyer 1973, 10–­11. The masonry style of the cella—­courses of blocks of alternating heights and with drafted margins—­finds a precise parallel in the Hieron of Samothrace: Popkin 2015b, 332–­35. 60.  Maschek 2014, 186–­89. 61.  As reconstructed by De Zwarte 1994, 128–­31 and Table 5. 62.  Detailed discussion of the column bases and reference to stylistic comparanda are provided in Rakob and Heilmeyer 1973, 6–­7n59, with Taf. 20–­21. On the aesthetic preference for roughly tooled textures by Italian carvers of the Republican period see the discussion in Atnally Conlin 1997, 59–­64. 63.  Maschek 2014, 187n45 with further bibliography. 64.  Gorgoni et al. 2002, 309–­14 fig. 2.7. For the numbering of the columns see Rakob and Heilmeier 1970, Plan 1.14.

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Fig. 9.5. Detail of the capital of Column 7 of the Round Temple by the Tiber. Note the motif of the cauliculus with flat leaf in front of the flower stem, which also occurs in a class of capitals from Miletus, Ephesus, and Samos. (Image: Neg. D-­DAI-­ROM-­63.1561; Photo H. Koppermann; used by permission.)

led Maschek to propose a different model as to the derivation of the architectural style. According to his reconstruction, a single masterpiece would have arrived in Rome from Asia Minor to serve as a template for Pentelic capitals, which would have been carved in situ by local sculptors using bulk material supplied from Athens. Alternatively, this element would have been first exported from Proconnesus to Attica, to be processed there before being shipped from Athens to Rome with the rest of the unfinished capitals.65 The scientific evidence on the sourcing, however, is not conclusive. Since its 65.  Maschek 2014, 188.

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geochemical signature overlaps with that of the material from Mount Pentelikon, the piece could have just as well come from an as-­of-­yet unidentified quarry pit in that catchment area.66 Thus, the simplest explanation is that the Roman builders of the Round Temple acquired a finished capital that had been carved in Athens in the style current in Asia Minor, importing marble from a different deposit to craft the rest of the architectural members. Pergamene marble workshops did operate from Athens,67 which would easily account for the initial transmission of the capital style. The surviving original capitals of the Round Temple, however, are also notable because they are executed and assembled in the two-­piece form, suggesting an additional link with Athens and the technique characterizing the temples attributed to Cossutius. Members of the Cossutii firm appear in various locales in the Mediterranean at around the same time that those regions began to export marble for the Roman market.68 Most relevant to our case are the Maarkos Kossoutios Gaiou Rhomaios known from a funerary inscription from the Keramaikos, of the second half of the second century BCE (IG 2–­32.10154), and a Kossoutios Kossoutiou from Ios in the Cyclades (IG 12.5.11, dating to before the end of the second century BCE), who was most likely based at Delos (where a Leukios Kossoutios Maarkou is attested in the late second century BCE: ID 1738–­39). The firm could have acted as the main supplying agency for commissions like the first marble temples of Rome, procuring not only the building material but also skilled labor. Signatures of Neoattic sculptors like the Maarkos Kossoutios Menelaos active in Rome in the first century BCE clearly suggest that artists could also be attached to the family.69 The taste for normal Corinthian capitals spread rapidly through Central Italy and beyond, although the Italo-­Corinthian tradition continued into the first century BCE.70 The canonical type seen in the Round Temple is found in the portico of the Terrazza della Cortina at Praeneste (last quarter of 66.  Using data points collected from the Stoa of Attalus (159–­138 BCE) in the Athenian Agora, Pike and Bernard 2015 provide evidence of multiple quarry pits being exploited simultaneously for that project, relating it to an expansion of production. 67.  Kuttner 1995, 160–­61. 68.  Bernard 2010, 51–­52 Table 2. On prosopographic grounds, Torelli 1980 suggests that the family fell victim to proscriptions around 40 BCE. He links the continuation of their trade with their liberti and clients. 69.  Rawson 1975, 39–­40. 70.  E.g., in the Temple of Magna Mater in Rome (Phase II, 100 BCE or shortly thereafter): Pensabene 2017, 347–­50.

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the second century BCE), though executed in a different technique (single-­ piece) and material (tuff).71 By the late second century BCE at the latest, it is imitated in the Cisalpine region in multiple variants from eastern models (e.g., at Aquileia, where two sons of a M. Cossutius are also attested).72 The design of the two-­piece travertine capital from Temple B at Largo Argentina (101 BCE), with its characteristic double cauliculus, is documented in a simplified form in the remote locations of Civita di Bagno (ancient Forconium, in the region of the Vestini),73 and Cascia (in the Sabinum),74 testifying to the deep penetration of Roman models in contexts of recent urbanization that had no direct relationship with centralized building projects.

IV.  Creating the Order: The Corinthian Cornice in Local Context Hesberg has traced the early development of the modillion as a formal component of the cornice associated with normal Corinthian capitals, charting different strands that may have influenced the introduction of the architectural ornament in Central Italy.75 The flat, oblong parallelepipedal modillions attested in the suburbium of Rome and Latium by the late second century BCE evolved from the dentil motif popular in the Pergamene and Rhodian molding styles. In Asia Minor, the decorative scheme was normally associated with public multistoried porticoes and served very specific architectural functions. Without multiple stories, the smaller proportions of the upper order would have not allowed the roof to project out sufficiently; furthermore, the dentils would have more clearly signaled the termination of the entablature, making it visible from below. In the west, however, the motif follows an entirely different pattern from the start. First, the early modillion type is found in association with different building categories (i.e., temples and aedicula tombs). Second, the cornice incorporates elements that do not appear in the east (e.g., coffers alternating with the modillions on the lower face). Finally, the system is consistently combined with the normal Corinthian columnar order, as required by the narrower proportions of its entablature. 71.  Maschek 2014, 187n37 with further bibliography. 72.  Cavalieri Manasse 1976; Verzàr Bass 1983 (making a direct connection between the presence of the Cossutii and the diffusion of normal Corinthian capital). 73.  Hesberg 1981, 41 fig. 14. 74.  Kosmopoulos 2021, 188–­89 and cat. no. 12.1/e. 75.  Hesberg 1980; Hesberg 1981, 27–­31.

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The earliest complete example of the embryonic form of the Corinthian order is documented in the Temple of Castor and Pollux at Cora.76 This town, one of the priscae coloniae Latinae, later controlled by the Volsci, occupied a series of artificial terraces along the slopes of the Lepini mountains, in a strategic location overlooking the Pontine region and the course of the Via Appia. Urban development at the site accelerated in the third to second century BCE, when Cora was a Roman municipium; several temple structures, including the Temple of Castor and Pollux, were remodeled between the late second and the early first centuries BCE as a result of local euergetism.77 The architectural evidence relating to these building projects, all of which exploit the local limestone, demonstrates how patrons of public construction at Cora competed with each other through the adoption and adaptation of foreign styles, having gained access to craftsmen of the highest caliber.78 On the acropolis, the so-­called Temple of Hercules is a prostyle fusing elements from Doric (frieze, capitals, and fluting with lower third faceted), Ionic (shallow architrave, slender column proportions, and eustyle intercolumniation), and Tuscan traditions (column bases, cella and pronaos proportions, and slope of the pediment) in a way which is unseen at contemporary Rome.79 At the S. Oliva site, further downslope, an earlier podium temple was updated into an Ionic or Corinthian prostyle tetrastyle, while the presence of another monumental sacred building located on a terrace directly above the forum square (perhaps slightly earlier in date) is documented by a collection of composite Corinthian capitals (of two different modules, but all decorated with human protomes on the four faces).80 76.  Hesberg 1981, 22–­23 and 36–­37 figs. 5–­6 (capitals); 27–­28 and 49 fig. 30 (cornice). Nielsen (1992, 111n18) uses this evidence to tentatively suggest that the Temple of Castor and Pollux in Rome (rebuilt 117 BCE) featured a Corinthian style (this view followed by Davies 2017, 160 and 161n87), implying that the temple at Cora may have been modeled on that precedent. The author mentions that two fragments of travertine Corinthian capitals were found in a trench excavated along the east side of podium, but both their form (whether normal or Italo-­Corinthian) and attribution to the temple remain uncertain (on the stratigraphy of the trench: Cullhed, Grønne, and Petersson 2008; the fragments are not discussed). In any case, given their small module, these elements cannot be assigned to the exterior order. No evidence is available to demonstrate the presence of a modillion cornice. Nielsen (1992, 111n19) concedes that the temple peristasis could just as well have been Ionic. 77.  Full presentation of the data in Palombi 2003; Palombi 2012. 78.  On the regional phenomenon see Valenti 2013. 79.  La Rocca 2011, 16–­17. 80.  Palombi 2012, 400–­401; 402, fig. 17.

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Sitting closer to the forum on an intermediate terrace retained by a polygonal masonry wall, the Temple of Castor and Pollux is the largest of the group. Stretches of ashlar foundations below the existing tall podium point to the presence of an earlier and smaller version of the temple, perhaps a tetrastyle peripteros sine postico with wooden columns and terracotta decorations.81 The building design of the later temple, which can be dated to around 100 BCE, is characterized by mixed features. The square plan with a cella flanked by two narrow alae is a direct quotation of the Tuscan template. The hexastyle pronaos has normal Corinthian capitals, all single-­piece and made of local limestone (fig. 9.6). These are combined with a cornice featuring coffers on the underside, and whose modillions are worked from separate blocks (figs. 9.7, 9.8).82 The interior of the cella, whose walls have been described as built with tuff opus quasi reticulatum, is decorated in fine Second Style; a stone aedicula placed in focal position hosts the cult statue group in Parian marble, whose iconography and technique is consistent with the generally accepted date.83 Two inscriptions, one located on the architrave of the pronaos and another on top of the cella door (CIL 12.1506–­7), assign the letting of the contract to C. Geminius C.f. Mateiclus and M. Calvius P.f. P.n. and the final inspection and dedication to C. Crassicius P.f. C.n. Verris and M. Calvius M.f. P.n., specifying that the funds were drawn from the sanctuary’s treasure. Members of the gens Calvia were evidently able to maintain control of all aspects of the project, even though construction spanned multiple office terms. Conspicuous consumption of public resources for the upgrade of monuments symbolizing traditional forms of charismatic authority is a well-­ known phenomenon in late Republican Central Italy. As has been noted for Latium, Campania, and Samnium, the boom in temple building occurred at a critical juncture in which internal migration, land reforms, and disputes about the extension of Roman rights seriously threatened the power base of ruling elites (the ill fate of Fregellae stood as a reminder).84 The trend can indeed be read as the manifestation of a deliberate social strategy to avert potential crisis or collapse: by investing more resources and efforts in monumental construction, local aristocrats would have promoted an image of internal stability. Thus, the evidence from Cora links the development of 81.  Palombi 2012, 403 and n. 71. 82.  Hesberg 1980, 100–­103 (Taf. 9, figs. 1–­2 for images of the parallelepipedal modillions). 83.  Altenhöfer and Hesberg 2008 (cella); Palombi and Leone 2007 (cult statue). 84.  Maschek 2018, 174–­226.

Fig. 9.6. Cora, Temple of Castor and Pollux. Detail of the surviving exterior Corinthian order of the pronaos. (Image Neg. D-­DAI-­ROM-­31.2444; Photo: H. Kähler; used by permission.)

Fig. 9.7. Cora, Temple of Castor and Pollux. Fragments of soffit featuring coffers. The modillions were worked from separate blocks. (Image Neg. D-­DAI-­ROM-­68.4144. Photo: M. Hutzel.)

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Fig. 9.8. Scale drawing and profile of the modillion cornice of the Temple of Castor and Pollux at Cora (modified after Hesberg 1980, 100 fig. 4; rendered by M. D’Acri).

the Roman Corinthian order with this generalized process, making it all the more significant that the stylistic innovation is not a straight imitation of the international canon, since it is combined in eclectic ways with elements that would have reminded viewers about the old architectural tradition.

V.  Mechanisms of Technological Transmission: Social Networks and Labor Mobility The case-­study presented above serves as a point of entry into how the network of personal ties that lay behind the economy of monumental construction, and thus the creation and dissemination of architectural styles, operated in practice. Cébeillac-­Gervasoni has charted the economic interests of the magistrates who supervised the construction of the Temple of Castor and Pollux at Cora in all their ramifications.85 Unsurprisingly, their presence is attested extensively across Latium, Campania, Sicily, Sardinia, and the Greek East. The same C. Crassicius P(ubli) f(ilius), for instance, appears to have been a magister of the collegium for the cult of Mercury, Apollo, and Neptune at Delos, whose members set up a dedication to Hercules (ID 1753, 113 BCE). This pattern suggests at the very least that he, but presumably his colleagues too, had direct knowledge of and access to sources of Greek styles. Examples such as the sanctuary of the Syrian Gods at Delos, which was remodeled in the late second century BCE, demonstrate how Italians were 85.  Cébeillac-­Gervasoni 1998, 82, 130, 179, 257.

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also working with Syrian traders to finance monumental building projects, thus interacting closely with the Greek building industry.86 The introduction of the Roman Corinthian order at Cora, however, did not result from the implantation of foreign prototypes, as it occurred a generation after the diffusion of the two-­piece Corinthian capital in Rome and Italy (which might have been in any case mediated by Roman agents). Rather, the ability to innovate depended on the quality of the relationships and contacts established by those local elites with peers who were engaging in similar projects. The single-­piece variant employed for the exterior order of the temple at Cora provides a first clue, as it indicates a possible link with nearby Praeneste and the sanctuary of Fortuna Primigenia, where that technique was normally preferred to the Roman practice (it is also worth noting that, whereas modillions were never incorporated into the decorative scheme at Praeneste, a cornice with coffers is associated with the Ionic order in the Terrazza degli Emicicli87). The complex was the largest and most elaborate building project known in the region of Rome for the period in question. Inscriptions at the site document the orchestrated activities of multiple local magistrates over an extended period of time, demonstrating that the monumentalization was the result of a collaborative project.88 As Bernard notes, individual building projects could generate a large aggregate demand for skilled craftsmen depending on scale, and the massive size of the sanctuary of Fortuna Primigenia makes it likely for Praeneste. He also points out, however, that each particular skill was often required for a short time, as part of a schedule that progressed unevenly and sometimes unpredictably.89 Thus, the unstable nature of strictly local work compelled builders to travel frequently from site to site depending on job opportunities, and to rely on their own social networks to find customers.90 The activity, therefore, of “firms” and entrepreneurs who could operate freely across Roman Italy bidding for contracts must be kept in consideration.91 86.  Coarelli 1983, 193–­95. The epigraphic evidence from the site is contextualized by Will 1951. See Popkin 2015b for another example of how Roman interaction at Greek sanctuaries abroad could spark influence on architectural production at home. 87.  Hesberg 1981, 31 and 53 fig. 40. 88.  Degrassi 1969. Caliò 2003 interprets the Rhodian architectural style of the sanctuary as an anti-­Roman statement. 89.  Bernard 2019. 90.  Harris 2015 holds the view that in most cities aggregate demand supported many highly specialized decorators, but this is challenged by Flohr 2019. 91.  On building contracts and the organization of public and private construction in the Republican period see Anderson 1997, 68–­88.

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The movement of expert builders across the region of Cora is best documented by the so-­called nymphaeum of Q. Mutius at Signia.92 Dated to the late second century BCE or early first century BCE, this elaborate artificial grotto can be linked with a distinctive architectural tradition for which Praeneste offers yet again several comparanda dating from the late third century BCE onward (e.g., the ashlar nymphaea on the terraces at the Borgo; the water-­display at the so-­called Propilei site; the Aula Absidata and the Antro delle Sorti in the Basilica complex).93 Embedded in the decoration of the back wall of the Signia nymphaeum is a mosaic inscription naming the architect, who signed his work in Greek: KOINTOC MOYTIOC HPXITHKTONE[YΣE] (SEG 45.1474 = AE 1995, 264).94 The Latin name would indicate that Kointos Moutios was a Greek who had been either granted Roman citizenship or enfranchised by a Roman patron. This view is supported by the fact that all signatures of architects known from Greek inscriptions of the Hellenistic period refer to individuals of Greek origins.95 Interpreting Moutios/Mutius as a variant of Moukios/Mucius adapted to distinguish a lesser branch of the family (rather than the result of transliteration from Latin to Greek),96 Zevi has made this Kointos Moutios a client of the Mucii Scaevolae of Rome, as well as the father or brother of the Mucius whom Vitruvius mentions as the author of the Temple of Honos and Virtus in Rome (first at 3.2.5 by nomen only, then with praenomen C(aius) at 7.Praef.17). In Zevi’s sophisticated reconstruction, Kointos Moutios and C. Mucius would both have belonged to a family of Greek architects that migrated to Rome to work on public and private commissions for the Scaevolae. The suggestion is that the firm became attached to one of the two members of that gens who had been proconsuls in Asia (the Augur in 120/119 92.  Cifarelli 1995; Zevi 1998; for the latest fieldwork at the site see Cifarelli et al. 2014, 352; Cifarelli 2020. 93. See respectively Demma 2010–­2011; Gullini 1989, 77–­78; Gatti 2013, 11–­19; Gatti 2017. On the origins of the building type see Lavagne 1988, 157–­366. 94.  For a similar use of the verb ἀρχιτεκτονέω see Nenci 2000, 810–­11, pl. CLVI (an inscription from the area of the bouleuterion of Segesta, with a date in the early third century BCE). Note here the mistake in the second H. 95. Hellmann 1994. Greek artists normally retained their Greek name as cognomen when they became liberti or new citizens, but Zevi (1998, 160n36) recalls the (Archaic?) precedent of the painter M. Plautius Asia lata oriundus who redecorated the Temple of Juno Regina at Ardea (fifth century BCE? Or early second century BCE?), thus earning Latin citizenship (Plin., NH 35.113). 96.  See however Donati 1965–­1966, 47, no. 53 for a Latin inscription from the Sanctuary of the Cabiri at Samothrace naming a C. MVTIVS C. L(IBERTUS) ERVN[-­].

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BCE, or the Pontifex in 98/97 or 94/93 BCE) while they were still holding their post.97 As Zevi notes, the Scaevolae had established patterns of patronage in the Sacco valley area (Arpinum, and probably Aquinum and Anagnia).98 Thus, it is plausible that they dispatched Kointos Moutios to Signia upon request by the locals. At the broader scale of analysis, this situation seems neatly reflected in the epigraphic record from Hellenistic Central Italy (assuming that it was more practical for artisans to move than for finished products): the signatures of skilled building workers other than coroplasts found on building elements (e.g., on stone blocks, wall paintings, or mosaics), which are mostly datable to the later second century BCE onward, are predominantly of nonlocal origins.99 The presence of names of slaves and ex-­slaves in the dossier suggests that the movements of skilled labor may have been determined to some extent by the social and economic links and interests of their masters. One such case is represented by the Philonicus Praenestinus, slave of L. Octavius, presumably of Greek origin, who built a covered masonry enclosure around a roadside shrine at Cluana on the Adriatic coast (AE 1990, 304).100 The same individual is attested at some later date back in Praeneste as a freedman and member of a collegium (CIL 12.3076), leading us to conclude that his activities in the Picenum were owed to the choices of his master, and ultimately governed by the latter’s relationship to the person who commissioned the work (a Sufrena or Sufrenus).

VI. Conclusion Studying the formation of the Roman Corinthian order offers a rare glimpse into the cultural and social processes through which cosmopolitan styles were adapted and renewed in order to create locally distinctive frameworks that would eventually stand up to the Greek canon. I have approached the 97.  Zevi 1998, 157–­59. Anderson (1997, 24–­26) identifies the Mucius mentioned by Vitruvius with Q. Mucius Scaevola the Pontifex himself, assuming that the author merely mistook the praenomen, and suggesting that not calling him architectus was a way for Vitruvius to avoid referring to ex-­consuls as practitioners of a profession. 98.  Zevi 1998, 162–­66. 99.  Bernard 2019, 503 Table 4. 100.  [P]ilonicus, Octavi L(uci) s(ervus) / Praenestinus hoce / opus novom fecit / Crepidine(m) circum cumpi(tum) / tẹctu pertex(tum) Sufren(a or us) / [P]oḷa stat(uit) de suo pecul(io). See discussion in Bernard 2019, 505.

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problem through the close-­up analysis of fabrication details of the orthodox Corinthian capital and the modillion cornice, as well as of the pattern in which they are first combined. This method can be employed fruitfully to showcase the value of architectural ornament as a historical source for our understanding of cultural developments in the Republican period.101 The results have prompted a recasting of old ideas of cultural diffusion of Greek models, and have shed light on how the interaction between Italian patrons and craftsmen contributed to the spread of the technology which made the innovation and early implementation of that form of communis ratiocinatio possible. The distinction between Greek and Roman proves in this respect somewhat artificial, since second-­century BCE Rome was one of the important capitals where Greek art and architecture was being produced—­and this phenomenon can in fact be traced back to earlier periods for which historical sources also record skilled artisans traveling of their own volition to work on buildings (as in the case of the M. Plautius discussed above).102 More importantly, the cluster of textual evidence on the Cossutii underscores the ability of Roman architects and related attendants to drive or participate in developments on the global scale by taking advantage of the opportunities that Roman expansion opened up to private entrepreneurs. The building industry of the earliest marble temples in Rome represents perhaps the most visible manifestation of how Roman agents could directly influence the supposed implantation of Greek archetypes and facilitate the transfer of both materials and designs. In light of the mixed sculptural techniques used to execute and assemble the architectural members of signature monuments like the Round Temple by the Tiber, the nature of the exchange between foreign carvers trained to work with white marble and local craftsmen who formed in the limestone tradition needs to be thoroughly reevaluated.103 At Rome, as elsewhere in Central Italy, the link between the original establishment of the Corinthian as an order and temple architecture demon101.  At the broader scale of analysis, Maschek (2012) charts the distribution of the class of funerary monuments featuring Doric friezes across Italy, and maps it against the settlement of Roman army veterans. 102.  Cf. Hopkins (2017, 176) reevaluates Rome’s architectural production in the early Republican period, emphasizing its creative mixture of trends from Ionia, Etruria, and Sicily, and thus downplaying the concept of Hellenization as applied to the third and second centuries BCE. 103. Cf. Hesberg 2005, assigning a class of marble Ionic capitals presumably from domestic architecture in Rome to the activities of a local workshop serving primarily the private market.

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strates the crucial relationship of monumental building to issues of identity construction and maintenance in the critical period leading up to the Social War. Far from reflecting a centrally regulated type of Roman Hellenism, the distribution map highlights the decentralized web of family alliances and personal links that affected the mobility of skilled labor and, therefore, cultural production. Thus, comparing current theories about a particular type of Roman Hellenism—­the development of the Roman Corinthian order—­with actual evidence for the network of patrons, builders, and sources of materials responsible for the transformation of Roman architecture at the time affords us a striking example of the shortfalls of familiar, reductive paradigms of cultural exchange. On the one hand, an idea of Rome’s passive reception of Greek culture is clearly inadequate, but so is that of the Romans’ imposition of a uniform style across wide geographical regions. The truth is far more ambiguous and involves considering the agency of architectural “firms” such as that of the Cossutii, as well as of specific local elites and their attached craftsmen both within and outside Rome. As this chapter has demonstrated, the development of Hellenism in Roman architecture was affected by a range of diverse local and pragmatic considerations.

Ten

Portraiture in the Greek East in the Roman Period The View from the Athenian Agora Sheila Dillon

In his recent chapter in A Companion to Roman Art, R. R. R. Smith posed the following question: “In what senses, if any, can art in the eastern Mediterranean during the Roman imperial period be called ‘Roman’—­without qualification, perhaps only in the sense of belonging to the Roman period?”1 My aim in this paper is to explore this question through the lens of Attic portraiture. I consider the broad range of evidence for the subject, including portrait statue bases, freestanding statuary, and portraits on funerary reliefs. The core of my material comes from the excavations in the Athenian Agora. My focus is on the images of the local population, which constituted the vast majority of portrait statues in the city. While scholars have tended to analyze Athenian portraiture of Roman date through comparisons to portraits from Rome, I argue that this comparative approach has tended to focus on how well these portraits conform (or not) to the history of metropolitan Roman portraiture, while downplaying or ignoring the importance of the long local history of portraiture in Athens itself for understanding this genre of representation.2 This local history was visible in the large number 1.  Smith 2015, 656. For a broader historiographical overview of the question “what is Roman about Roman art,” see Brilliant 2007. 2.  For the importance of local history for understanding and interpreting portraiture of the Roman period see Fejfer 2015, 354; Smith 2015, 669–­71; and Smith in Smith et al. 2006, 6–­8.

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of older portrait statues on display in the city by this period, statues that offered a wide range of portrait styles for inspiration and emulation: from idealizing Classical-­period images to the more realistic-­looking figures of the Hellenistic period. Rather than influence from the outside, I contend it is this local visual history that profoundly shaped the appearance and style of Attic portraits of the Roman period. Even when they adopted aspects of Roman portrait styles, rather than being perceived by their local audience as recognizably and distinctly “Roman” in their appearance and style, the Roman-­period portraits of Athenians spoke in a visual language that was locally directed and locally concerned. That the interests and expectations of this local audience profoundly shaped these images may help to explain the real difficulties scholars have had in identifying with certainty a number of the portraits from the Agora excavations as particular emperors, or even as emperors at all.3 Fashioning an image that spoke to this local audience in a visual language they understood would seem to have trumped the careful imitation of imperial portrait models from Rome. The material presented here suggests that the adoption of what we now recognize and interpret as distinctly Roman styles of portraiture in the representation of local subjects was not widespread, at least in Athens, until the second century CE, and even then it is the images of women that appear to have been most affected by these trends. In comparing the Athenian appropriation of its own past under Rome with their contemporaneous adoptions and adaptations of Roman portrait styles and techniques, I show that Greek traditions persisted more strongly than modern scholars have been inclined to allow. As a “Roman Hellenism,” this era of Athenian portraiture was in relatively minimal ways tied to the material culture of Rome and Italy, and in other ways radically discontinuous from it. The current scholarly narrative of the history of Attic portraiture in the later Hellenistic and imperial periods, on the other hand, tells a different story, one in which Rome plays a defining role. Its broad outlines are as follows.4 While in the early Hellenistic period, a whole series of highly 3.  E.g., Agora Excavations inv.no. S 347, originally published by Harrison (1953, 27–­ 28, no. 17) as a priest of the Flavian period, now recognized as a portrait of Trajan; Agora Excavations inv.no. S 356, sometimes identified as a portrait of Augustus (Harrison 1953, 17–­20, no. 7); and Agora Excavations inv.no. S 335, variously identified as a portrait of Septimius Severus, Aelius Verus, and an unnamed male of the Antonine period (Harrison 1953, 38–­41, no. 28). 4.  The following bald summary is based primarily on Harrison 1953, 82–­90; Stewart 1979, 34–­55, 65–­88, 140–­48; Palagia 1997; von Moock 1998, 28–­53; and more recently

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individualized and naturalistic portrait statues were set up in the city (i.e., Menander, Demosthenes, Olympiodorus, and Poseidippus),5 in the second century the neoclassical style emerged as the dominant mode for all manner of sculptural production in Athens, including portraiture.6 The influence of the Roman “veristic” style, so strongly present in the Delian portraits of the second half of the second century, only seems to have made itself felt in Attic portraiture about a century later, in the second half of the first century, after the sculpture industry in Athens had finally recovered from the disaster of 86, and when Roman presence in the city had increased.7 In this period, stylistic eclecticism reigned, and “one finds everything from sub-­baroque to verism to classicism . . . no dominant trend seems able to assert itself in the half-­century till the official endorsement of the last of these styles by Augustus.”8 Augustan Classicism, the artistic style of the Augustan “cultural revolution” in Rome and Italy, had a profound effect on the material culture of early imperial Athens, including its portraiture, which now emulated the portrait styles of the imperial family. Zanker characterizes the change and the broad effects of this “Romanization” thus: “From the time of Augustus, private portraits, even in the East, consistently display the hairstyles favored by the emperor and other women and men of his house. This in itself was a significant step toward the creation of a uniform imperial culture.”9 Harrison had come to a similar conclusion: “From here (i.e., the Augustan period) on until the third century  .  .  . the development of portraiture in Greece apparently followed that of Rome with little deviation except for a slight lag in time.”10 The only departure from the emulation of imperial fashion in Attic portraiture comes in the second century, during the period Di Napoli 2008; and Καλάβρια 2015. For early Hellenistic Attic portraiture see von den Hoff 2007 and Ma 2013, 273–­79. For a different view, which argues against the notion of “a classicizing, retrospective, even nostalgic late Hellenistic Athens,” based primarily on ideal sculpture, see Fullerton 1998.   5.  See von den Hoff 2007 and Ma 2013, 273–­79.   6.  Stewart 1979, 34–­64. For a different view see Dillon 2021b.   7.  Cf., however, Christian Habicht (1997, 15), who concludes that there was very little Romanization of Athens down to the Battle of Actium: “The city was and basically remained Greek.” How much that changed in the Augustan period was for him an open question. In the same conference volume, Susan Rotroff (1997) observed that the Romanization of Athenian ceramic production only came about in the first half of the first century CE.   8.  Stewart 1979, 145.   9.  Zanker 1988, 302. 10.  Harrison 1953, 87.

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of the Second Sophistic, when some (male) portrait subjects begin to model themselves after the images of late Classical and early Hellenistic Athenian intellectuals.11 This historical narrative, and the model of stylistic dating that underpins it, is still widely accepted in most portrait scholarship.12 However, this narrative—­some of the elements of which go back at least to the 1940s13—­is ripe for reassessment, and the question of Roman influence, its extent, and how it may have operated and been perceived needs to be reinvestigated.14 While my research into the Roman-­period portraiture from the Agora is still in its early stages, I start from the following premises, which are derived directly from my experience of collaborating on the study and publication of the Roman portrait statuary from Aphrodisias. First, the connection of the Athenian material to the central history of Roman portraiture should be regarded as a hypothesis that needs to be tested rather than simply taken as an established fact. Preliminary assessment suggests that a range of factors shaped the appearance of a portrait, such as the age and gender of the subject, the role in which they were represented (e.g., priest/priestess or ephebe), and how they may have positioned themselves personally with regard to the Hellenic past and the imperial present. Second, while in many cases we cannot recover the precise display locations of the portraits found in the Agora excavations, we do know that they all come from Athens, and it is within this local context, which had its own history and traditions, that these images need first to be understood. Finally, the chronology of much of this material is still unclear. Some technical details are useful for dating purposes: a rasped surface, even on the flesh, is indicative of Roman-­period (rather than Hellenistic) production;15 drilled eyes are widespread by the mid-­second century CE;16 and portrait busts can be broadly dated by their 11.  Lattanzi 1968, 198–­266; Krumeich 2008; Schröder 2011, 37–­40; Schröder 2012, 503–­5. 12.  The recent statement of Schröder (2012, 502) is typical: “Von der Einrichtung des Prinzipats im ausgehenden 1. Jh. v. chr. bis in die traianische Zeit folgen die attischen Porträts in ihrer Ikonographie den Bildnissen der jeweiligen Kaiser.” 13.  E.g., Becatti 1940; Schweitzer 1948; Buschor 1949; Hafner 1954. 14. As Stephanidou-­Tiveriou has recently suggested (2008, 19–­20), although here mainly in reference to portraits of the late Hellenistic to early imperial periods. See also Parigi 2012 for the persistence and maintenance of Athens’ Greek identity throughout the first century BCE. 15.  Stewart 2012, 269; Schröder 2012, 500–­501. 16.  Fittschen 1999, 18n133; Fittschen 2006; Smith in Smith et al. 2006, 38–­39.

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form.17 The notion, however, that one can easily tell the difference between a portrait (or tombstone) of the later Hellenistic period from one of the early imperial period, or that one can date every portrait more or less closely to a particular emperor’s reign, is an article of faith rather than a demonstrable fact.18 These portrait subjects had a range of representational possibilities available to them from which they might choose; to suggest that they all simply followed the fashions set by the imperial family in Rome is to deprive these subjects of their agency and these portraits of their historical interest. What does the local context tell us about portraiture in Athens in the Roman period? First, it would be helpful to sketch out what we know about the portrait statue landscape of the Athenian Agora in the later Hellenistic period (ca. 100 BCE), as this is the monument landscape into which the Roman-­period statues were placed. For while we typically categorize and study sculpture according to genre and focus on a specific chronological period, we need to remember that this modern method of scholarly analysis does not correspond to the experience in antiquity of the gradual accumulation of images of all kinds within a specific space such as a cemetery, a sanctuary, or an agora. In these spaces old and new stood together, as is quite clear, for example, from a cursory reading of Pausanias, a consideration of inscribed inventories of a sanctuary’s votive dedications, or attention to the archaeological record of a particular site.19 It is vital, therefore, to take into account the preexisting landscape of monuments in the Athenian Agora as we try to understand the contexts, impact, and reception of the Roman-­ period portrait statues. The earliest and arguably most venerable statues of the Athenian Agora were those of the Tyrannicides.20 The location of this monument is still a matter of debate; a new study suggests the statues may have stood on a large stepped base along the Panathenaic Way at the northeast corner of the Odeon (fig. 10.2, A).21 At crucial moments in history, other exceptionally important portrait statues were allowed (for a time) to stand close to this 17.  Smith et al. 2006, 39n145 and 227–­28. 18.  Smith 2002, 74–­78; for a number of specific examples pertinent to the subject here see 76–­77. 19.  See Smith 2007 for the importance of such an approach in understanding the statues of the late antique period in Aphrodisias. 20.  The following summary is based primarily on Pausanias’ description of the Agora; Wycherley 1957, 207–­17; Dillon 2006, 101–­6; Oliver 2007; Krumeich and Witschel 2009; Ma 2013, 104–­5; Dillon 2019b, 169–­74; Dillon 2021a. 21.  Baltes 2020.

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monument: Antigonus and Demetrius at the beginning of the Hellenistic period, Brutus and Cassius at its very end. From Pausanias we also know that there were clusters of statues in various locations. For example, the statues of Conon and Evagoras, the first portrait statues to be set up by the boule and the demos in the Agora after the Tyrannicides, stood in front of the Stoa of Zeus Eleutherius, as did the statue of Conon’s son Timotheus.22 Also on this (western) side of the Agora, farther to the south and between the Sanctuary of Ares and the monument to the Eponymous Heroes and near the statue of Eirene and Plutus, stood the portrait statues of Lycurgus, Callias, and Demosthenes. Around the Temple of Ares were portraits of the poet Pindar and of a certain Calades, who seems to be otherwise unknown. Statues of Hellenistic rulers stood in front of the Odeon of Agrippa: the Egyptian kings, Ptolemy Philometor and Ptolemy Philadelphus, and Queen Arsinoe; statues of Philip and Alexander;23 and Lysimachus24 and Pyrrhus of Epirus,25 both successors of Alexander. The Stoa Poikile also served as a backdrop to honorific portrait statues. Pausanias mentions two: one of the lawgiver Solon, and another of the Diadoch Seleucus I.26 Additional information about the statue monument landscape of the later Hellenistic period can be gleaned from the archaeological remains, mostly in the form of inscribed statue bases and foundations for statue bases. Recent excavations in the Agora have uncovered a number of statue bases in the area in front of the Stoa Poikile, including a Hellenistic-­period base sculpted as a pile of booty, confirming archaeologically the assumption that the area in front of the Stoa Poikile was a desirable site for portrait monuments.27 Then there is a series of foundations for monument bases on the eastern side of the Odeon facing the Panathenaic Way that are likely second century BCE in date based on context pottery (fig. 10.2, B).28 It is also clear that the terrace 22.  Paus. 1.3.2. 23.  Paus. 1.8.2–­9.4. The two bases in the form of battle trophies found in the ruins of the Odeion may have supported the statues of Philip and Alexander. Although Spawforth (2012, 67–­69) argues that the hoplite shields decorating these bases evoke “Classical Greece” and therefore must have supported statues of famous Athenian generals, good parallels for such hoplite shield decoration can be found in Macedonian monuments from about the second quarter of the fourth century BCE and hoplite shields were carried by the Macedonia infantry under Philip II and Alexander: Markle 1999, 240–­42. 24.  Paus. 1.9.4. 25.  Paus. 1.11.1. 26.  Paus. 1.16.1. 27.  Camp 2015, 499–­507; Camp and Martens 2020, 641. 28.  Lawall 2009, 66–­68.

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of the Stoa of Attalus served as a setting or backdrop for statue monuments in the Hellenistic period;29 these include the quadriga of Attalus II,30 set up around the mid-­second century, the portrait of Theophilus of Halae, set up by Attalus himself,31 and the statue of the wildly successful local athlete Menodorus, who was commemorated with a large and elaborate portrait monument of ca. 150–­130, made by the sculptors Charmolas and Menodotus of Tyre.32 Around the same time, an impressive semicircular monument supporting three bronze statues of male members of a prominent Athenian (and Delian) family was set up in the Agora, perhaps near the Stoa of Attalus and facing the Panathenaic Way.33 Fragments of the monument, which was a private family dedication set up by Cleopatra from Myrrhinoutte, the daughter, sister, and husband/niece of the honorands, were found in one of the towers of the post-­Herulian wall, suggesting that this Hellenistic monument was still standing in the Agora in the later third century CE.34 In addition, the locations of a number of Roman-­period buildings appear to have taken into account preexisting statue monuments. For example, the northwest corner of the Odeon was adjusted slightly so that the building would not displace a large stepped monument base.35 According to the excavators, the position of the Temple of Ares, reassembled in its present location in the Agora at the very end of the first century BCE, was partly determined by a series of monument bases that stood in a line along the Great Drain to the west of the building (fig. 10.2, C).36 Finally, we should note that, in addition to the statues mentioned above, there were also the remains of foundations for large monuments found underneath the Odeon of Agrippa that properly belong to the pre-­Roman

29.  Ma 2013, 104. 30.  Geagan 2011, H253 (reused for Tiberius). 31.  Geagan 2011, H328. 32.  Geagan 2011, C196 (IG II2.3150). Menodoros was also honored with a similarly elaborate statue monument on Delos, set up (probably) in the Agora of Theophrastos: Ma 2013, 230–­31. 33.  Geagan 2011, H329. 34.  For a full accounting of the statue bases found in the post-­Herulian wall see Dillon 2021a. 35.  Baltes 2020. This extraordinary accommodation, particularly when earlier statue monuments were typically either moved or removed to make way for new constructions, is one of the reasons that Baltes argues this base supported the statues of the Tyrannicides. 36.  Thompson 1950, 97; for the date of the completion of the temple around 1 BCE see Stewart 2016, 601–­2.

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Fig. 10.1. Restored plan of the Agora, ca. 100 BCE. Courtesy of the American School of Classical Studies at Athens: Agora Excavations.

period plans of the Agora,37 as should a number of bases in front of the Metroon that, according to the excavators, were apparently stripped of their statues after the siege of Sulla in 86 (fig. 10.1).38 The sum of all of this evidence—­literary, epigraphical, and archaeological—­shows clearly that the mostly empty space visualized in the phase plan of the Agora dated ca. 100 BCE (fig. 10.2) does not properly represent what we know about the statue landscape of this period. That the foundations for statue monuments are 37.  Thompson 1950, 36–­37. 38.  Camp 2010, 63 no. 15.

Fig. 10.2. Restored plan of the Agora, second century CE. Courtesy of the American School of Classical Studies at Athens: Agora Excavations.

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only included in the plans of the Roman period clearly misrepresents the history of portrait statues in the Agora.39 The way in which the space has been represented in these phase plans visually overemphasizes its “radical” infilling in the Roman period.40 While the central space of the Agora was certainly transformed architecturally in the early imperial period, it was also not completely devoid of earlier statue monuments, as the plans suggest: statue monuments of the Roman period were added to a portrait statue landscape that had been formed and reformed over centuries. As outlined above, the idea that portraiture in Athens fundamentally changed in the first century BCE due to Roman influence, and that from the very beginning of the imperial period the images of local subjects emulated the portrait styles of the imperial family, is widespread in the scholarship. And the notion of a significant imperial presence in the statue landscape of the Agora is either explicitly stated or at least implied.41 But when we consider the epigraphic evidence from the Agora, a more nuanced picture emerges. Statues of the imperial family are represented by about twenty-­four inscribed portrait statue bases from the Agora excavations; these bases date from the mid-­first century BCE to the early third century CE.42 Around half 39.  Similar argument made by Dickenson 2017, 293, who also pushes back on the notion that the building of the Odeon and the Temple of Ares fundamentally transformed the nature of the Athenian Agora. 40.  The juxtaposition of these plans has been used to support the scholarly narrative of the aggressive “Romanization” of the Agora: for a recent example see Alcock 2002, 51: “it is still a shock to compare a plan of the Agora in the fifth and fourth century, or even in the second century BCE, to one of the second century CE. To put it most simply, what had once been a relatively open urban space was now filled with a diverse assortment of buildings and of monuments.” (Although Alcock does give more agency to the Athenians in this transformation than is typical.) A similar sentiment informs Spawforth’s (2012, 60) interpretation of the Odeon of Agrippa: “Its ‘towering’ height and central position allowed it ‘aggressively’ to dominate what had originated in the sixth century BCE as a place of political and religious assembly and which, up until now, had always remained an open plaza.” 41.  Explicit in Schmalz 1994, 84: “honorific images of the imperial family began to crowd the Agora”; implied in Alcock 1993, 195–­96; Alcock 2002, 62. Spawforth (2012, 26–­28) makes more general claims about the importance of the image of the emperor in communicating imperial Roman values to the Greek world. 42.  Geagan 2011, H249–­271; plus a second statue of Trajan not included in Geagan’s catalogue: Shear 1973, 175–­76, no. 2; Højte 2005, no. Trajan 101. A similar number of statue bases (26) from the same time period for members of the imperial family have been found on the Acropolis, and an additional nineteen come from elsewhere in Athens; this number does not include the nearly forty bases for statues of Hadrian from the Olympieion area: Aneziri 2010, Tabelle A.V, 289–­90, and B.V, 296–­98. Large-­scale monument bases that are not inscribed, such as the one at the northwest corner of the Library of Pantainus or

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of the bases represented members of the Julio-­Claudians, including three statues of Julius Caesar, two of Tiberius, one of Livia, one of Agrippina, one of Drusilla, and one of Claudius;43 the rest are mostly second century in date.44 It is not clear, however, whether all or even most of these statues originally stood in the Agora, as the majority of the bases, some of which are extremely fragmentary, were found in post-­antique or modern contexts and therefore could easily have migrated into the area from elsewhere.45 Based on the archaeological evidence, we can only be sure that the inscribed bases for four imperial portraits are from statues that actually stood in the Agora: the statue of Tiberius that reused the chariot monument to Attalus II in front of that king’s stoa;46 the statue of Livia as Artemis Boulaia, which probably stood either in the Bouleuterion precinct or in the Southwest Temple;47 the the foundation for a monument at the top of the steps of the nymphaeum at the southeast corner of the Agora, are not considered here. While they might have supported images of the emperor, we cannot be sure that they actually did so. 43. Geagan 2011, H249–­251 (Julius Caesar), H252–­53 (Tiberius), H254 (Livia as Artemis Boulaia), H255 (Agrippina), H257 (Drusilla), H258 (Claudius as Apollo Patroos); H256 (statue for a Julio-­Claudian emperor who suffered damnatio memoriae, so likely Gaius). 44.  Ibid., H259 (Vespasian), H 260 (Trajan), H261–­62 (Hadrian), H263 (Antoninus Pius), H264 (Marcus Aurelius), H265 (Geta), H271 (Septimius Severus or later: 200–­225 CE); H266 (unknown emperor of the first century CE). For the second inscribed base for a statue of Trajan, see footnote 36. 45.  The same is the case with the imperial altars from the Agora, the majority of which come from modern house walls: Geagan 2011, H273–­315. Of the forty-­three altars, only one (H281), perhaps for Augustus, was found in a context that predated the Herulian sack, which means that it likely came from the immediate area. Cf. Alcock 1993, 182. In addition, the very small fragment of an inscribed statue base for a Roman subject, which is an important piece of evidence in the argument that one of the rooms of the annex of the Stoa of Zeus Eleutherius was for the imperial cult (Thompson 1966, 181), has been shown not to belong to this building: Geagan 2011, H470; here it is dated to the first century BCE–­ second century CE, with the observation that the “profiles of the chamfered upper edges do not align closely enough to confirm Thompson’s association with capping stones from the Annex to the Stoa of Zeus.” For the argument that only those inscriptions and sculpture likely to have originally stood in the Agora are those found in authentically ancient contexts in the Agora see Stewart 2012, 269; and Dillon 2021a. Leone 2020 takes a more optimistic approach, including many bases not considered here. 46. Geagan 2011, H253 (the extent of the reuse—­simply reinscription or a new statue?—­is not known. Most of the blocks were found reused in Tower W6 of the post-­ Herulian wall). 47.  The base for the bronze statue of Livia as Artemis Boulaia (Geagan 2011, H254) is typically associated with the so-­called Southwest Temple, as it was found in a Byzantine wall not far from this structure. For the location of the temple see Camp 2010, 68, no. 20.

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statue of Claudius as Apollo Patroos, which is thought to have stood in the temple to that god although it was found in the post-­Herulian wall;48 and the statue of Trajan from a room in the so-­called Street Stoa, near the Library of Pantainus.49 These four statues hardly constitute a “crowd” of images of the imperial family in the Agora, as Schmalz suggested was the case already in the early imperial period.50 (By contrast, Darja Šterbenc Erker in chapter 3, this volume, treats the cultural impact of the numerous statues of emperors in Rome’s city center). Even if we widen our perspective and consider the city as a whole, it is clear that throughout Athens’ history the statues of the Roman emperors were in the distinct minority in its sculptural landscape.51 Other than the statues of Hadrian, which are clearly a special case, the number of inscribed bases for imperial statues from Athens is clarifying. Højte catalogues thirty-­ eight portrait statues of Roman emperors from Augustus to Commodus.52 Aneziri lists twenty-­six inscribed bases from the Athenian Acropolis for emperors or members of their family (four of which were for Hadrian), and catalogues 132 statue bases for nonimperial honorands.53 Of the approximately 250 statue bases of the imperial period from Eleusis, Clinton ascribes only twenty-­one to the emperors or their family members.54 48.  The base for the statue of Claudius as Apollo Patroos (Geagan 2011, H258) was found about twenty meters south of the temple in one of the towers of the post-­Herulian Wall. For the location of the temple see Camp 2010, 70–­72, no. 23. 49.  Street Stoa: Camp 2010, 128–­30, no. 47. Inscribed base for the statue of Trajan: Shear 1973, 175–­76, no. 2; Højte 2005, no. Trajan 101 (Agora Excavations inv.no. I 7353: dedicated by Tiberius Claudius Atticus, father of Herodes Atticus, as archiereus). 50.  Schmalz 1994, 84. 51.  In general in the Greek East, the statues of imperial figures were in the minority within a statue landscape dominated by local honorands, and they were usually placed in different locations from them: Smith 2015, 658, 669. See also Smith in Smith et al. 2006, 6 and 77–­97, for the surprising low number of imperial portraits in Aphrodisias: 10 out of 70 marble portrait heads; 34 out of 274 inscribed statue bases. 52.  Højte 2005, Augustus: 5 (cat. Augustus 126–­30); Tiberius: 9 (cat. Tiberius 82–­90); Caligula: 2 (cat. Caligula 13–­14); Claudius: 8 (cat. Claudius 83–­90); Nero: 3 (cat. Nero 23–­25); Vespasian: 0; Titus: 0; Domitian: 1 (cat. Domitian 29); Nerva: 0; Trajan: 4 (100–­ 103); Hadrian: 50 (cat. Hadrian 186–­235); Antoninus Pius: 4 (cat. Antoninus Pius 192–­ 95); Lucius Verus: 0; Marcus Aurelius: 2 (cat. Marcus Aurelius 186–­87); Commodus: 0. 53.  Aneziri 2010, 287–­293. 54. Clinton 2005, nos. 296 (Augustus and Livia), 297 (Augustus), 331 and 334 (Tiberius), 335 (Julia Augusta), 422 and 424 (emperor), 453 (Hadrian), 461 (Annia Faustina and other family members), 471 (emperor), 495–­97 and 505 (Marcus Aurelius), 506 (Lucilla), 507–­8 (deified Faustina), 509 (Sabina, daughter of Marcus Aurelius), 510 (Faus-

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The sculptural evidence from the Agora points in a similar direction: there are only six portraits found in the excavations currently identified as images of emperors, all of which date to the second century CE. These are the many fragments of two armored statues, both perhaps of Trajan, from the Street Stoa;55 an over-­life-­size head of Trajan that likely belongs to one of these statues (fig. 10.3);56 a headless armored statue of Hadrian;57 a well preserved bust of Antoninus Pius, also wearing armor, from a late antique domestic context;58 and a small fragment of a cuirass bust that must also be from the portrait of an emperor, perhaps Marcus Aurelius or Lucius Verus.59 Of this material evidence, we can only be certain that the statues of Hadrian and Trajan originally stood in the area of the Agora; the busts come from late contexts and could easily have been brought in from elsewhere, and their format suggests that they were originally meant for interior display. If we turn to the evidence for the portraits of nonimperial subjects, we have much more material—­both epigraphic and sculptural—­to consider. First, there are about three times as many statue bases for portraits of Athenians found in the Agora excavations than there are for members of the imperial family.60 Many of these statue bases were built into the post-­Herulian tina, daughter of Marcus Aurelius), 519 (Julia Domna), 597 (emperor), 660 (Diocletian and Maximius). 55.  Agora Excavations inv.no. S 2518: Riccardi 2009, 62, fig. 60 (only publishing a small selection of the fragments of this statue; for a more complete publication of these fragments see Dillon 2022). The fragments of the second armored imperial statue are unpublished: Agora Excavations inv.nos. S 2501, 2502, 2504. 56.  Agora Excavations inv.no. S 347: Harrison 1953, 27–­28, cat.no. 17. This head of Trajan does not carefully follow a centrally produced model, but rather is a local adaptation of the image of the emperor. The reformulation in a local idiom was so thorough that the head was originally published by Harrison as the portrait of a priest (?). She later recognized it as a portrait of Trajan (1960a, fig. 11), although there still seems to be some lingering uncertainty, as the identification is given as “portrait head, possibly of Trajan” in the recent Agora museum guide (Gawlinski 2014, 83). The definitive identification of the portrait as Trajan has, however, now been made by Klaus Fittschen 2010, 233n44 (Ostia Cuirass type). Most recently, the head has been recognized as a portrait of Trajan reworked from an earlier imperial portrait, probably of Domitian (Freyer-­Schauenburg and Goette 2020, 173–­75, B1.1, fig. 17a–­f.) On the reception of the imperial image in the provinces see Zanker 1983. 57.  Agora Excavations inv.no. S 166: Harrison 1953, 71–­74, cat.no. 56; Karanastasi 2012/2013, 323–­91. 58.  Agora Excavations inv.no. S 2436: Shear 1973, 170–­77. 59.  Agora Excavations inv.no. S 1855: Dillon 2018a, 383, fig. 3. 60.  Geagan 2011, C145, C202, H340–­393; the following are much more fragmentary, but likely to be statue bases for portraits of Athenians: H459, H465–­66, H473, H480,

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Fig. 10.3. Head of Trajan. Agora Excavations inv.no. S 347. Photo: Ephorate of Antiquities of Athens City, Ancient Agora, ASCSA: Agora Excavations © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports/Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development (HOCRED).

wall, which is a good indication that these monuments originally stood in the Agora.61 The inscriptions on the bases show that these statue dedications generally follow the patterns we see in the Hellenistic period: “private” portrait monuments are set up by family members or other individuals, and “public” honorific statues by the demos and the boule, sometimes now joined by the Areopagus, with corporate groups such as the merchants, ephebes, and tribes also continuing to authorize statue awards.62 The statues themselves continue to be set up for the usual reasons: in honor of religious activity, athletic victory, or for fulfilling such public offices as kosmetes and H482, H494, H499, H509–­11, H515–­16. All are dated from the mid-­first century BCE to the third century CE. 61.  On the importance of the material from the post-­Herulian Wall see now Dillon 2021a. 62.  For the expansion of statue patronage beginning already in the early Hellenistic period see Oliver 2007.

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agonothetes. Continuing a tradition that also began in the Hellenistic period, women and girls are honored with statues for their religious participation, even for such minor roles as arrephoroi and kanephoroi.63 Many of the statues represent members of well-­known elite Athenian families, some of which can be traced back to the Classical period; a few examples will give some sense of the range of subjects and the possible display contexts of the statues. Although outside the Agora proper (but within the limits of the excavation), the City Eleusinion continues in the Roman period to be an important location for both private and public statue dedications, just as it was in the late Classical and Hellenistic periods.64 A double base for the statues of Lamidion and Philocrates, the children of Apolexis of Oeum (a member of the prestigious genos of the Ceryces), was set up by their mother in the early imperial period.65 Around the same time, the demos and the boule honored Syndromus, son of Callicratides of Steiria, as agonothetes of the Eleusinia.66 In the early second century, Tiberius Claudius Oenophilus, son of Callicratides (and so possibly of the same family as Syndromus), was posthumously honored for his service as hierophant with a statue by his (adopted) daughter, Arria Calpurnia.67 One of the first Athenians to become a member of the equestrian order, he had a very distinguished career in the city, holding such offices as eponymous archon, herald of the Areopagus, epimeletes of the city, agonothetes, gymnasiarch, and hoplite general. Later in the second century, Herodes Atticus set up two statues in the City Eleusinion, one possibly for a fellow demesman,68 and another for his wife Regilla as consolation after her death.69 As in the Hellenistic period, the Stoa of Attalus continued to be a prime setting for portrait statue monuments. A portrait of Herodes Atticus him63.  For the Hellenistic period, see Mikalson 1998, 199, 256–­57; von den Hoff 2003 and 2008; Choremi 2004–­2009; Schmidt 2010; for the imperial period, see Aneziri 2010; and Horster 2013. This practice in Athens appears to emerge in the later third century BCE; it is not, therefore, a sign of Roman influence, as Spawforth suggests (2012, 39–­40 and n. 166). 64.  For the history of statue dedications in the City Eleusinion in the late Classical and Hellenistic periods see Dillon 2018b. 65.  Geagan 2011, H341; Schmalz 2009, 236–­37 (stemma and prosopography). 66.  Geagan 2011, H346; Schmalz 2009, 305. 67.  Geagan 2011, H359; see also Clinton 2005, vol. 1A, no. 433, and Schmalz 2009, 294–­96. 68.  Geagan 2011, H375. 69.  Geagan 2011, H379.

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self, set up by the tribe Oeneis, stood in the vicinity.70 Also standing nearby, given its find context, was the statue of the hoplite general Antipatrus of Phlya, set up by the merchants in the late first century BCE following his seventh time in this office.71 The size of the base, still immured in the post-­ Herulian wall, suggests a standing figure. Also on this side of the Agora, but probably farther south on the Panathenaic Way, stood another statue of a hoplite general, Xenocles son of Theopompus of Rhamnous, this time on a high column.72 The monument, the drums of which were built into the post-­Herulian wall, was set up by the boule and the demos at the end of the first century BCE, and honored Xenocles for establishing a public grain fund, and for having served twice as sitones and four times as hoplite general. The use of the high column as a statue support may allude to a density of statues in the area, as the high elevation helped to guarantee the statue’s prominence and visibility.73 The bases themselves—­the layout and organization of the inscription (always in Greek74), and the forms of the monuments—­seem not to change substantially between the Hellenistic and Roman periods, although this topic has yet to be the focus of detailed research and therefore needs more study. Initial observations suggest that in most cases, the Roman-­period texts follow the formula that became standard in the Hellenistic period: name of the dedicator (in the nominative case), the name of the honorand (in the accusative case), and the reasons for the honor, typically in four or five lines. There are, of course, some differences: for example, many fewer of the Roman-­period bases from the Agora are signed by the sculptor who made the statue.75 The sculptural evidence tells a similar story. Although the study of this 70.  Geagan 2011, H371. The base came from the church of Panagia Pyrgiotissa, a chapel converted from one of the towers of the post-­Herulian wall at the southern end of the Stoa of Attalos. The tower was built almost entirely from inscribed monuments from the Agora: Camp 2010, 135–­36. 71.  Geagan 2011, H343; Schmalz 2009, 233–­35, with new stemma. Fragments for the base of a second earlier statue were also found in the same vicinity: Geagan 2011, H342. 72.  Geagan 2011, H345; Schmalz 2009, 315. 73.  Ma 2013, 117, 127; Dillon 2021a, 60–­62. 74.  This was also the case for the monuments for the imperial family. I know of only two statue bases found in the Agora excavations with inscriptions in Latin, both for Roman subjects (Leone 2020, cat.nos. 49 and 50; Geagan 2011, H432–­33). Both bases are exceedingly fragmentary, and the fragments were found in modern house walls. 75.  Only two sculptors’ signatures are securely dated to the Roman imperial period: Geagan 2011, H555–­56.

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material is still in its early stages, it is clear that the overwhelming majority of portraits found in the Agora excavations represent local subjects. Most of these portraits appear to date to the second and third centuries. Two of the better-­preserved portraits found in the Agora excavations that are dated to the first century CE—­one female and one male—­do provide some sense of the portrait styles current in the early imperial period. The female portrait head was worked for insertion into a draped statue body; the head has been associated with the right hand of a woman holding a phiale, which suggests the subject was a priestess (figs. 10.4, 10.5).76 In her description of the portrait, Harrison emphasized its Classicizing elements: the oval-­shaped face tapering to the chin, the strongly idealized facial features, the smooth forehead, large almond-­shaped eyes, the nose nearly straight in profile, the small delicate mouth with gently parted lips. The hair is worn center-­parted, with delicate waves framing the face gathered into a ponytail at the nape of the neck. Because of the hairstyle, Harrison compared the head to images of Antonia Minor and dated the portrait to the Julio-­Claudian period. But this hairstyle can also be found on much earlier local images; it is frequently worn, for example, by young women on Attic gravestones of the Classical period.77 And the face of the Agora portrait, as Harrison remarked, has none of the physiognomic particularities one sees in the portraits of Antonia; perhaps, Harrison suggested, here we see the influence of images of Livia. But rather than comparing the head to these Roman imperial portraits with which I would argue it has very little in common, with its simple hairstyle and idealized beautiful face, this portrait fits much more comfortably within the long local history of female representation.78 There is really nothing particularly Roman about this head, other than the fact that it is dated to the Roman period. The style and appearance of the portrait bust of a youth is also best understood in comparison to earlier Greek portrait traditions (fig. 10.6).79 76.  Agora Excavation inv.no. S 1631: Harrison 1953, 22–­23, cat.no. 11. 77.  E.g., Clairmont 1993, 1.050 (430/390), 1.231 (390/60), 1.254 (390/60), 1.276 (430/390), 1.310 (360/30), 1.311 (360/30), 1.326 (390/60), 1.366 (360/30), 1.367 (360/30), 1.757 (390/60), 1.862 (360/30), 2.343 (360/30), 2.374c (360/30), 2.436 (360/30), 3.860 (360/30). 78.  Dillon 2010, 103–­34. 79.  Agora Excavations inv.no. S 1319: Harrison 1953, 25–­26, cat.no. 14. The Roman-­ period house is to the west of the so-­called State Prison, in the residential-­industrial area to the west and south of the Areopagus: Camp 2010, 176–­77 no. 72 (State Prison?); 180–­81 no. 74.

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Fig. 10.4. Head of a female portrait statue, frontal view. Agora Excavations inv.no. S 1631. Photo: Ephorate of Antiquities of Athens City, Ancient Agora, ASCSA: Agora Excavations © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports/Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development (HOCRED).

The nude portrait bust, which may originally have been set into a herm, was found in a large Roman-­period house on the northeast slope of the Hill of the Nymphs among burnt debris from the Herulian sack. It depicts a youth with short curly hair and fuzzy sideburns on his cheeks, suggesting the beginnings of a beard. The portrait is not particularly individualized, and as Harrison noted in her publication of the portrait, “the face seems influenced by the classical ephebe type of the fourth century BCE.”80 While Harrison dated this portrait to the time of Nero, based on the form of the bust and not on the portrait itself, the head is typical of the portraits of youths in the Greek East, which tend to be disconnected from imperial portrait fashions and are therefore very difficult to date with any precision.81 Rather than influence from Rome, this group followed in the stylistic tradition of the portrait images of youths and ephebes mainly established in the Hellenistic period, such as the portrait statue of a youth from the gymnasium in Eretria 80.  See the previous note. 81.  Smith in Smith et al. 2006, 52–­53.

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Fig. 10.5. Head of a female portrait statue, profile view. Agora Excavations inv.no. S 1631. Photo: Ephorate of Antiquities of Athens City, Ancient Agora, ASCSA: Agora Excavations © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports/Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development (HOCRED).

now in the National Museum in Athens, and the many youths similarly depicted in a gymnasium context on Hellenistic grave reliefs.82 This disconnect from central imperial portrait models continues in the portraits of the second and third centuries CE. I discuss one example here: the beautifully preserved, high-­quality bust of a youth, found in what appears to be a late Roman deposit of sculpture in the vicinity of the City Eleusinion (fig. 10.7).83 This portrait has slightly longer hair than the portrait discussed above: the locks are rendered in longer, thinner strands that lie flat on the skull, do not cover the tops of the ears, and end in a fringe of pointed locks across the forehead. The beard is still very light, and while it extends farther down the cheeks, the chin itself is smooth and hairless. A nascent moustache graces the upper lip. The very large expressive eyes are framed by thick brows that meet in the middle at the root of the nose. The costume of the bust consists of a himation of thick and deeply carved folds, worn high 82.  Athens, National Archaeological Museum inv.no. 244: Ρωμιοπούλου 1997, 17 cat. no. 2; Hallett 2005, 38 and plate 20. 83.  Agora Excavations inv.no. S 2062: Harrison 1960b, 390–­92.

Fig. 10.6. Portrait bust of a youth. Agora Excavations inv.no. S 1319. Head of a female portrait statue, frontal view. Photo: Ephorate of Antiquities of Athens City, Ancient Agora, ASCSA: Agora Excavations © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports/Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development (HOCRED).

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around the back of the neck, with a chiton underneath. The portrait head was dated by Harrison to the mid-­third century CE, as she thought that the portraits of the emperor Gallienus (253–­268 CE) provided the best parallel for the style of the hair, although she did note that the facial features “recall Greek work of the period rather than the art of the capital.”84 More recently, Klaus Fittschen has argued that the form and workmanship of the bust suggest the portrait was made by a local Attic workshop active in the mid-­to later second century.85 While noting that Harrison’s dating of the head seems to him to be correct, Fittschen sees no indication of later reworking,86 which clearly presents a conundrum. As the form of portrait busts seems to be a more reliable indicator of date, particularly when dealing with the images of nonimperial subjects, we should, I would argue, place this portrait bust in the second century CE rather than the third. The configuration of the drapery and the format of the bust are very close to the portraits of Herodes Atticus,87 and the head itself is not really all that similar to the portraits of Gallienus. In fact, the portrait’s short, simple, and seemingly unstyled hairstyle is one that is frequently worn throughout the Roman period by male figures on Attic tombstones, to which I now turn. Attic tombstones of the Roman period are an important body of material to consider in evaluating portrait representation in Athens: the sample size is much larger, and the tombstones also give us good evidence for the range of portrait costumes, as only a handful of portrait statue bodies have been found in the Agora excavations.88 Like the portraits from the Agora, few of the images on these stelai appear to adopt the so-­called period face (Zeitgesicht) of Roman imperial portraiture; many of the portraits—­both male and female—­tend to avoid physiognomic particularity in favor of more blandly Classicizing facial features. Women, particularly young women, do sometimes adopt Roman fashion hairstyles, although even when they do so, there is a tendency not to reproduce imperial models precisely. In fact, the most popular female hairstyle on funerary stelai throughout the Roman period is not a fashion hairstyle at all, but one that is well known from Classical and Hellenistic funerary reliefs: hair parted at the center with a crown of waves 84.  Harrison 1960b, 390. 85.  Fittschen 2001. 86.  Fittschen 2001, 73n26. Having studied the bust in detail myself, I too find no evidence for the reworking of the portrait head. 87.  Goette 2019. 88.  The following observations are based on Dillon 2019a; von Moock 1998; Grossman 2013; and personal autopsy of the reliefs on display in Athenian museums.

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Fig. 10.7. Portrait bust of a youth, frontal view. Agora Excavations inv.no. S 2062. Photo: Ephorate of Antiquities of Athens City, Ancient Agora, ASCSA: Agora Excavations © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports/Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development (HOCRED).

framing the face, and gathered into a small bun or ponytail of hair at the nape of the neck, like the female portrait head from the Agora discussed above.89 Male funerary portraits of all age groups, on the other hand, appear to have been much less likely in general to imitate imperial portrait fashions, which is a trend one also finds in the portrait sculpture from the Agora. The 89.  von Moock 1998, 34–­35, female hairstyles 1, 2, 5, and 6. While von Moock separates these hairstyles into distinct categories, I see little difference between them.

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most common hairstyle worn by both mature and young men from the Augustan to the Antonine period has the hair combed forward from the crown, lying mostly flat against the skull, and arranged in a fringe across the forehead; that is, not all that different from the male bust discussed above.90 While this hairstyle is thought to have its roots in the early imperial period, it also harkens back to an earlier time: the plain hairstyles worn by men and youth on late Classical Attic tombstones. This return to the Classical past is particularly obvious in Attic stelai of the second century CE, when such retrospective male styling is also found in Attic portrait sculpture.91 The funerary stele of Paranomus and his son Alexandrus, dated to the mid-­second century CE, is a clear example of this retrospective tendency.92 The figure of Paranomus in particular, with the plain hairstyle, full moustache and beard, classicizing facial forms, himation suit and arm-­sling posture, would not have been out of place on a stele from late fourth-­century BCE Athens.93 It should also be noted that no Roman period funerary reliefs with men wearing the toga have been recovered from Athens; while many Athenians held Roman citizenship, particularly in the high imperial period, they seem not to have advertised this status visually in their funerary portraiture. The same appears to have been true for public portrait statues: there are no togate statues found among the sculpture recovered in the Agora excavations.94 90.  Ibid., no. 114, pl. 9d (second quarter of first century CE), no. 119, pl. 12a (late second century CE), no. 120, pl. 10d (second half of first century CE), no. 122, pl. 13d (Julio-­Claudian), no. 140, pl. 19d (second half of first century CE), no. 147, pl. 21c (late Trajanic-­Hadrianic), no. 151, pl. 23b (Neronian), no. 194, pl. 24b (second quarter of first century CE), no. 217, pl. 28c (Antonine), no. 221, pl. 29a (second half of first century CE), no. 225, pl. 29d (third quarter of first century CE), no. 231, pl. 32a–­b (Flavian), no. 238, pl. 34c–­d (Antonine), no. 241, pl. 35d (late Hadrianic-­Antonine), no. 249, pl. 37b (Hadrianic), no. 276, pl. 42d (Hadrianic-­Antonine), no. 285, pl. 44c (Julio-­Claudian/mid-­ second century), no. 309, pl. 47b (Augustan), no. 319, pl. 48c–­d (Hadrianic), no. 326, pl. 50a–­b (late Hadrianic-­Antonine), no. 330, pl. 51c (Hadrianic-­Antonine), no. 346, pl. 52b (Antonine), no. 390, pl. 53c–­d (Julio-­Claudian), no. 460, pl. 59b (second quarter of first century CE), no. 467, pl. 60a (late Hadrianic-­Antonine), no. 495, pl. 63c (late Hadrianic-­ Antonine). 91.  The portraits of Herodes Atticus and the kosmetai are the best-­known examples: Smith 1998, 78–­81. 92.  Piraeus, Archaeological Museum inv. no. 222: von Moock 1998, no. 495, pl. 63c (late Hadrianic-­Antonine). 93.  Indeed, Paranomus’ portrait head is strikingly similar to a Greek portrait known in Roman period copies and sometimes thought to represent Theophrastus: Dillon 2006, cat. A26.1, fig. 96. 94.  The seated statue from the Athenian Agora (Havé-­Nikolaus 1998, cat.no. 36) is wearing the himation and chiton, not a toga.

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There are, in fact, only a handful of togate statues from all of Athens, and at least two of these, both from Eleusis, represented members of the imperial family.95 In sum, there clearly were changes in the production of portraiture (and other types of sculpture) in Athens in the imperial period, including an increased use of marble for portrait statues; an increase in the number of portrait herms—­a format that may have gained in popularity due to Attic sculptural production for the Roman villa market; the widespread use of the portrait bust as a display format; and the adoption of Roman fashion hairstyles, particularly in the second century CE and principally, at least on Attic tombstones, when different generations (i.e., a mother and daughter) are represented together.96 But there was also significant stylistic continuity with the portrait sculpture of the past, much of which was still on display: the Classical past was visibly present in the city’s monuments. A direct connection to the Classical past was also proudly proclaimed on some portrait statue bases. A recently published portrait monument from the Agora of the late second or early third century CE, representing three family members—­a husband, wife, and daughter—­of the distinguished Eumolpidae and Ceryces, proudly names the wife as a descendent of Pericles in the twenty-­first generation.97 The statue base, one large fragment of which is still in situ, stood in a prominent position in front of the Street Stoa and along the road that led to the Roman Agora. Other portrait statue monuments of the second and third centuries CE, all from Eleusis, also trace the lineage of the Athenian women represented to illustrious figures of the fifth and fourth centuries BCE: one to Pericles,98 another to Conon and Callimachus,99 and a third to Pericles, Conon, and Alexander the Great.100 While claims to such noble ancestry seem to be more common in high imperial-­period Athens, particularly among Eleusinian families,101 they also occur in the Hellenistic 95.  Ibid., cat.nos. 9 (Claudius or Nero), 10 (Nero), and 31–­32 (both headless), all from Eleusis; cat.no. 33 (headless), from Piraeus; cat.nos. 34–­35 (funerary monument of Philopappus). 96.  Dillon 2019a. 97.  Clinton 2004. 98.  IG II2.3546: Clinton 2005, vol. 1A, no. 433 (beginning of the second century). 99.  IG II2.3688: Clinton 2005, vol. 1A, no. 621 (end of the second–­beginning of the third century). 100.  IG II2.3679: Clinton 2005, vol. 1A, no. 648 (ca. 240 CE). 101.  Chaniotis 1988, 225–­26; Clinton (2004, 56) suggests that it may have been the grant of Roman citizenship in 212 that prompted these families “to emphasize a much more meaningful status, not new acquired by imperial decree but rooted in most noble ancestry.”

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period: the inscription on the base for the statue of Philtera, priestess of Athena Polias in the mid-­second century BCE, celebrates her Eteoboutad blood, and her ties by descent to the great Athenian fourth-­century orator and statesman Lycurgus.102 The famous line of Faulkner comes to mind: “The past is never dead. It’s not even past.” In conclusion, R. R. R. Smith has proposed the following way of seeing a wide swath of artistic production in the Greek East during the Roman period: “much of what was new and different in the visual and monumental culture of the Greek east was due in some way to Rome; at the same time, however, little of it was intended or probably experienced by contemporaries as anything other than, in political-­cultural terms, neutral, local, or Hellenic.”103 Although we still need to untangle and to explicate the various strands of influence affecting and shaping the portraits of local Athenians in the Roman period—­that is, what precisely was due to Rome and what was due to a continuing Hellenism—­I believe the interpretive framework that analyzes these images by default in relation to imperial portraiture is not the most productive way in which to understand them. Local stylistic traditions, the long history of Athenian portrait production, and the images from earlier periods that were still standing in the city are more relevant. Even in the high imperial period, when one might argue that because of Hadrian’s interventions Athens finally became a Roman city, much of Athenian portraiture characterized its citizens in ways that would have been both familiar and intelligible to the citizens of the Classical past.

102.  IG II2.3474: Mikalson 1998, 206; Connelly 2007, 60, 117; Lambert 2012, 72; Keesling 2012, 499–­500. 103.  Smith 2015, 656.

Epilogue Cultural Dynamics and Influences Martin Hose

I.  The Vitality of Hellenism The definition of Hellenism as the “adoption or imitation of (elements of ) ancient Greek language, culture, philosophy, etc.” by the Oxford English Dictionary not only invites explanation, it demands it.1 The definition is silent about important factors like agents, materialities, causalities, and consequences—­in short all those aspects to which this book’s chapters are devoted in the hope of elucidating a process that appears to be one of the “hot spots” in Classics. The popularity of the topic has obvious explanations. Hellenism, as the definition quoted above indicates, is a process full of dynamic and constant change—­something hard to observe in ancient cultures which are oriented toward tradition, like all premodern cultures, and tend to conceptualize (camouflage?) change as a return to the past, as renovation.2 The special dynamic of Hellenism permits the analysis of causalities (or at least inferences about causalities) in a way unparalleled for other periods of Greek culture. This is the case for the relation between book culture, the Hellenistic court, and poetology at Alexandria, between style and tradition, and so on.3 1.  I have to acknowledge gratefully various debts: to the editors for their advice and patience, to Therese Fuhrer for discussion and help with various points, and to Dr. Katharina Epstein for the English translation. 2. This focus on tradition has been elaborated as a cultural concept especially by approaches to what is commonly termed memoria; see Assmann 1999; Assmann 2000. 3.  There is a paradox at work here, however, which I will discuss later. The dynamic is

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Hellenism and processes of Hellenization also seem to invite comparisons and updatings that place this age, which is growing ever more distant as the traditional residue of the old “Western” world, alongside some of the overall tendencies of the late twentieth and early twenty-­first centuries. Angelos Chaniotis, for example, titled his large-­scale synthesis Age of Conquests: The Greek World from Alexander to Hadrian,4 but for its German translation chose the title Die Öffnung der Welt: Eine Globalgeschichte des Hellenismus.5 The attention which the Middle East has been attracting for the past thirty years has also revitalized Hellenistic research, as Richard Stoneman’s new book shows.6 These more recent trends grew from tendencies latent in earlier decades to update Hellenism, for example, by casting Hellenism in the West (i.e., the complex of Roman Hellenism) as a model for the successful adoption7 of a culture (and a model for the successful integration of “non-­ natives”),8 or by implicitly comparing Rome’s rise to power in the Aegean area with the rise of the US to power after 1945.9 In research on Hellenism, it is fair therefore to diagnose a constantly and miraculously changing actuality that takes distinct form in all the disciplines engaged in the field—­ancient history, archaeology, and ancient languages. In that last discipline, for example, it can be noted that Hellenistic Greek poetry has attracted more analyses based on methods and theories that originated in modern literary and social studies. This is surely not just due to its moderate and manageable quantity.10 discernible only post hoc, i.e., through sources (material or textual testimonies) that are in part much later and either display the change or describe it directly. Greek Hellenism itself and its early reception in Roman or Jewish culture are accessible to us only in later descriptions (the Bibliotheke of Diodorus, or in Livy), in fragments stemming from these later descriptions, and in literary fictions (e.g., the letter of Aristeas). This is a consequence of the almost complete loss of contemporary literature such as the so-­called older annalists and the Greek historiography of high Hellenism.  4. Chaniotis 2018.  5. Chaniotis 2019.   6.  Stoneman 2019; cf. also, e.g., Widmer 2015. The area was studied in colonialist perspective in the first decades of the twentieth century; on this, see Meyer 1925; Altheim and Rehork 1969. British Hellenistic research in the Middle East would merit a science-­ historical appraisal of its own, as seen, for example, in the important volume edited by Sherwin-­White and Kuhrt (1993).   7.  We can observe that the terminology used in Classics is updated continuously through recourse to modern sociology and anthropology. The outdated term (and concept) of “syncretism,” for example, had to make room for the term and concept of “hybridization.”   8.  See, e.g., Vogt-­Spira and Rommel 1999; Vogt-­Spira 1996; on integration generally, Schuster 1996.   9.  Cf. Gruen 1984. 10.  Noted emphatically by Zimmermann and Rengakos 2014, v.

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II.  Exporting Hellenic Culture Within this vast spectrum of research on Hellenism and Hellenisms lurks one important question which so far, it seems, has evaded notice, a question that also haunts the chapters of this volume and derives implicitly from the definition provided by the OED. For “adoption” or “imitation” to be carried out, both the object that is to be copied and the product to be created must possess the potential for “imitability” and “transportability” (given the limitations of premodern transport technologies). This twofold requirement is a given in Greek culture thanks to two factors. First, I note with some simplification, that those cultural elements that would later become pivotal were not of intransportable monumentality (like the pyramids) or rooted in a geographical landscape; second, Greek culture itself, shaped by the tradition of colonization, was steeped in transportability. In an exemplary fashion, harnessing the medium of the book to disseminate poetry documents this feature, as remarked upon in the poetry itself. Thus, Theognis is proud to claim of his elegies: σοὶ μὲν ἐγὼ πτέρ᾽ ἔδωκα, σὺν οἷς ἐπ᾽ ἀπείρονα πόντον πωτήσῃ καὶ γῆν πᾶσαν ἀειρόμενος ῥηϊδίως· θοίνῃς δὲ καὶ εἰλαπίνῃσι παρέσσῃ ἐν πάσαις, πολλῶν κείμενος ἐν στόμασιν, 240 καί σε σὺν αὐλίσκοισι λιγυφθόγγοις νέοι ἄνδρες εὐκόσμως ἐρατοὶ καλά τε καὶ λιγέα ᾄσονται. καὶ ὅταν δνοφερῆς ὑπὸ κεύθεσι γαίης βῇς πολυκωκύτους εἰς Ἀΐδαο δόμους, οὐδέποτ᾽ οὐδὲ θανὼν ἀπολεῖς κλέος, ἀλλὰ μελήσεις ἄφθιτον ἀνθρώποις αἰὲν ἔχων ὄνομα, Κύρνε, καθ᾽ Ἐλλάδα γῆν στρωφώμενος ἠδ᾽ ἀνὰ νήσους, ἰχθυόεντα περῶν πόντον ἐπ᾽ ἀτρύγετον, οὐχ ἵππων νώτοισιν ἐφήμενος, ἀλλά σε πέμψει ἀγλαὰ Μουσάων δῶρα ἰοστεφάνων 250 πᾶσιν ὅσοισι μέμηλε . . . (Theognis 1.237–­51) I have given you wings with which you will fly, soaring easily, over the boundless sea and all the land. You will be present at every dinner and feast, lying on the lips of many, and lovely youths accompanied by the clear sounds of pipes will sing of you in orderly fashion with beautiful, clear voices. And whenever you go to Hades’ house of wailing, down in the dark earth’s depths, never even in death will you lose your fame,

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but you will be in men’s thoughts, your name ever immortal, Cyrnus, as you roam throughout the land of Greece and among the islands, crossing over the fish-­filled, undraining(?) sea, not riding on the backs of horses, but it is the splendid gifts of the violet-­wreathed Muses that will escort you. For all who care about their gifts . . . (Gerber 1999) Both poetry and its performance environment were copied and transported: the sympotic location including furniture and tableware, and even the theater, which was a popular Athenian export hit in the rest of the Greek world.11 The visual arts, which could be applied to items of daily use like amphorae and cult objects (such as the Etruscan funerary urns) multiplied the opportunities to copy and share theater in images, and, at the same time, were suitable objects themselves for copying and transporting. Even the technology in a supporting function to culture could be copied and transported in the Greek world. The “invention” of the manual meant that a broad spectrum of Greek skills ranging from rhetoric to culinary arts was available. The availability of literature was increased further through a tendency, discernible from the fifth century onward, to create canons, be it canons of playwrights or intellectuals.12 Alexandrian philologists continued to create new canons and crowned their efforts with editions of the canon. The transportability of culture was first put to large-­scale use during the reign of the diadochi, who transported Greek culture to their capitals and newly founded cities. In the case of book collections,13 we can literally speak of culture having been “transported.” Less spectacularly but no less effectively, Greek culture was also disseminated through Greek (and non-­Greek) trade which carried material, tangible forms of this culture as far as the Baltic Sea, leaving especially far behind Greek areas of settlement in South Italy.14 The issue of transportability carries over into the issue of the agents 11.  For a comprehensive documentation of theater architecture see Isler 2017; on the exportation of theater as a product generally see Bosher 2012. 12.  The doxographies written by Aristotle and members of his school were instrumental to this process. 13.  This emerges clearly from reports (written post-­factum) about the acquisitions of the library of Alexandria, e.g., Galen’s note that the official Athenian “state” edition of the Attic tragic playwrights was acquired by the library (Galen, comment. II.4 in Hippocr. Epidem. III, CMG 5.10., 2.1 (1936), 79). The historicity of the acquisition, and the existence of an official state edition, is controversial. 14.  See, e.g., Zanker 1976.

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involved in transport, schematically speaking: the “sender,” “carrier,” and “recipient.” How transfer was effected must also be asked, because the three basic modes—­gift-­giving, trade, and theft—­imply distinct power dynamics. Gift-­giving, for example, which conceptualizes culture as a gift, can function as an instrument to exert and legitimize power over recipients. The so-­called imperialist idea of Rome15 and the justification concepts of modern colonialism16 demonstrate this. The power dynamic opposite to that of the gift, that is, the demonstration of power by the recipient, is active in theft, which expropriates the (involuntary) sender. Trade, on the other hand, is based on the principle of reciprocity which is determined by the desired profit of trade partners.

III.  “Powerplay”: Rome Receives the “Gift of Civilization” If we direct our gaze from these preliminaries to “Roman Hellenisms in Italy,” we can make out different phases particular to modes of transfer, and, by extension, we can distinguish varying intensities of cultural transfer or transport in which Italy plays a significant role in terms of geography, culture, and politics. At first, Rome as a political entity in Italy enjoyed a proximity to Greek culture in two senses: first through the importance of Greek Magna Graecia,17 and second through non-­Greek cities that imported and consumed Greek cultural goods from South Italy or from across the Aegean. Roman Hellenism consequently has a double nature in that it is a product both of direct reception and of mediated reception18 (just as, vice versa, the familiarity with Rome in Greek culture as it is documented in literature goes back to direct and mediated contact). It is fair to assume that Hellenistic culture and cultural goods were imported mainly via the mode of trade in Rome’s early days, about which we have notoriously few sources. Rome was at Italy’s geographical center, but also at the periphery of the Greek world. This position is documented by the 15.  Fuhrmann 1968; Hose 2013. 16.  Haselstein 2000. 17.  Rome’s conflicts with cities like Cumae or Naples are crucial in the historiographical tradition as it is preserved in Livy; see Lomas 2015. Lomas 1997 deals with how Greek identity in South Italy developed in context with Rome. 18.  Mediated reception also plays a role alongside direct reception in the birth of Roman theater; see Manuwald 2011, 15–­39.

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fact that Greek mainstream historiography completely ignored Rome. It was left to a minor writer like Diocles of Peparethus (whom Demetrius of Scepsis tellingly called a lifelong drinker of water19) to furnish the earliest20 and first attested21 mention of Rome in Greek historiography (FGrH 820 T 2a). In conjunction with this mention, Diocles “gifted” to Rome a founding legend inspired by Sophocles’ tragedy Tyro. His gift was not slighted in Rome, for Fabius Pictor, the first Roman historian, embraced Diocles’ gift of legend in his history (written in Greek).22 This acceptance is one process which may be said to offer grounds to compare Rome’s interaction with Greek culture and the Greek world with patterns and dynamics that postcolonial theory has described in the interaction between colonial powers and colonies in the modern period.23 After all, the acceptance of Diocles’ founding legend is only the tip of the iceberg in terms of cultural acquisition, or at least the acceptance of cultural “gifts”—­take mythology (smacked placatively on vases and funerary urns), transported Greek geography, Greek theology (and, by extension, Greek anthropology), and, tout court, the Greek world view. Yet there is one specific difference from modern colonization, of which the consequences especially for postcolonial theory require further research. Greek influence in Italy was not accompanied by Greek military control and stable political dominance. The Romans were lucky in this respect, that the Greek king Pyrrhus’ serious attempt to conquer Italy failed when it met resistance coming not just from Rome but also from Carthage and some Greek cities in Italy (especially in the Pyrrhic War of 280–­272 BCE). This war happened to leave distinct traces in Roman memory culture. Pyrrhus used a tradition (or construction) that we can find in Greek mythology (and 19.  Ath. 2.44e: in the context of comparing wine and water as sources of inspiration, one can hardly forego seeing a negative characterization when Diocles is apostrophized as a drinker of water. 20. Thus Plut., Rom. 8.9: τοῦ Πεπαρηθίου Διοκλέους, ὃς δοκεῖ πρῶτος ἐκδοῦναι Ῥώμης κτίσιν (“Diocles of Peparethus, who appears to have been the first to produce Rome’s founding”). 21.  Various story traditions surrounded Rome’s early history at an indiscernible point in time (no earlier than the fourth century BCE) which must either have originated in Greek culture or were at least documented in Greek literature. This is apparent not just in the famous and much-­invoked summary offered by Dionysius of Halicarnassus, Ant. Rom. 1.4–­6 and his chapters about Rome’s prehistory in 1.8–­72. Plutarch’s musings about the origins of the name “Rome” in Rom. 1–­4 point in the same direction. 22.  Fabius Pictor FRHist 1 T 16 (= Plut., Rom. 3.1). On this see also Beck 2003. For a broader perspective see Bickerman 1952. 23.  See my attempt in this direction in Hose 1999b.

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literature) from the sixth century on. It said that Aeneas had left the ruins of Troy for Italy, where he had founded a city he named after a Trojan woman called Rhome.24 Pyrrhus, who traced his lineage back to Achilles, instrumentalized this story to deduce his pending victory from it, claiming that he, as the offspring of Troy’s greatest enemy, would prevail over its descendants.25 A (possibly loose) connection can be made from that story to a component of Rome’s founding story, according to which the city grew from criminals, runaway slaves, and other disrespected persons. It appears that the Romans of the fourth or early third century appropriated such stories for themselves, fusing them and giving them a more respectable veneer by modeling them on Greek myths. Whence issued the founding story of Rome that told how Aeneas arrived in Latium and his grandsons Romulus and Remus later founded the city.26 With this story Rome had claimed a spot in the Greek cultural geography of Italy; a spot, however, which at first seemed rather marginal and (socially) inferior.27 There are numerous testimonies that the Romans themselves felt vastly inferior to the Greeks culturally until the end of the third century BCE. One example may suffice.28 In the prologue of the Asinaria, the comic playwright Plautus (ca. 250–­184 BCE) writes: [ . . . ] huic nomen graece Onagost fabulae. Demophilus scripsit, Maccus vortit barbare; Asinariam volt esse, si per vos licet.

(Plautus, Asin. 10–­12)

. . . the name of this play is Onagos in Greek. Demophilus wrote it and Maccus translated it into the barbarian language. He wants it to be “The Comedy of Asses,” if that is all right by you. (De Melo 2011) 24.  Hellanikos, FGrH 4 F 84 (= Dion. Hal., Ant. Rom. 1.72.1). For an overview see Horsfall 1987. 25.  Paus. 1.12.1: (sc. ὁ Πύρρος) στρατεύειν γὰρ ἐπὶ Τρώων ἀποίκους Ἀχιλλέως ὢν ἀπόγονος (“[Pyrrhus], being a descendant of Achilles, warred against a Trojan colony”). 26.  Diocles’ version enhanced this tradition by giving it the shape of Sophocles’ tragedy. 27.  It would be interesting to know if this double inferiority was beneficial to the acceptance of Roman founding narratives among the Greeks—­if they perhaps even made such acceptance possible at all. 28.  Other reflexes of a feeling of inferiority are visible, e.g., in Cato’s letter, quoted by the Elder Pliny, HN 29.14, or in Polybius’ report of his encounter with Scipio (31.23–­24).

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The contrast graece—­barbare is flabbergasting: graece serves as an indicator of quality and barbare as self-­designation.29 It should not be forgotten that the piece was performed in front of a Roman audience at an official Roman festival financed by the state and serving the state’s representation. There is also an “Italic” element at play here:30 the comic playwright Plautus was not a genuine Roman; he hailed from the town Sarsina in Umbria.31 Umbrian could have been his first language, for all we know (and we do not). In any case, there is no doubt that he, a non-­Roman Italic, adapted comedies for the Roman stage. As a matter of fact, I would not be going too far if I said that the reception of Greek New Comedy that Plautus promoted in Rome was so warm and lasting because a fusion had taken place of the Νέα with the Italic (or Oscan) Atellan farce and other elements of Italic culture.32 Plautus is no exception; early Roman literature overall depended on such mediators between Greek texts and the Roman audience. Livius Andronicus probably moved to Rome from Magna Graecia;33 Naevius was from Campania, perhaps Capua;34 Ennius, born in Rudiae in Messapia, even boasted that he represented three cultures: tria corda habere sese dicebat, quod loqui Graece et Osce et Latine sciret (Gell., NA 17.17.1). Roman Hellenism in Italy, as early Roman literature attests to it, depends on Italics Hellenizing Rome.

IV.  The “Accident”: Graecia capta Rome, as we have seen, was engaged in the process of “receiving the gift of (Greek) civilization” at the end of the third century, a process to which Italy contributed substantially. But then an accident shaped history: between 200 and 190 BCE, Roman legions shattered the Greek Hellenistic states. The Greek East was in Roman hands entirely until the middle of the second 29.  As also Plaut., Trin. 18–­19. 30.  Other aspects, such as terminology that evidences the Italic origin of Roman, seemingly Hellenistic, culture can only be outlined here. For example, the Roman term for actor, histrio, is of Etruscan origin. 31.  For an overview of Plautus’ biography, see Manuwald 2011, 225–­31. 32. On the complex process of the “emergence of Roman dramatic literature” see Manuwald 2011, 26–­40. 33.  Suetonius (Gram. et rhet. 1.2) calls him a semigraecus, which furnishes further evidence that he was not simply considered Greek. 34. Gell., NA 1.24.2.

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century. Minor Greek kings like Attalus of Pergamon surrendered. Attalus bequeathed his kingdom to the Romans in 133. This was an act of momentous importance because Pergamon had been the most important center of Hellenistic culture alongside Alexandria. This development marks a difference between the ancient and the modern age in colonialist theory—­at least at first glance. But before I go into this, I must turn to a feature specific to the Roman upper class, the nobility, a feature of serious importance to Roman Hellenisms. The Roman nobility cultivated competition among themselves. This competition affected the vast field of politics and military achievements (where a characteristic memorial culture was active),35 but also went further to affect forms of representation that involved the reception of Hellenistic culture. “Fine differences” (in Bourdieu’s sense of the phrase36) were produced in various areas: literature and its “performance” (e.g., Terence’s comedies, which in turn were inspired by the Greek Νέα), the visual arts, luxury furniture—­objects, in short, which came to Rome en masse in the second century BCE as booty.37 All in all, there is a growing demand in Rome from no later than the second century BCE for Hellenistic art and articles of a refined lifestyle.38 I had noted two signature features so far, Rome’s military and political dominance over the Greek world and Rome’s demand for “art.” Two other factors also enter the equation: (a) How did the Greek world react to the awkward situation of being inferior in the military domain but superior in the cultural domain? (b) How did Romans themselves reflect about this paradoxical situation, and what role did Italy play in the process? Needless to say, it is easier to ask these questions than to answer them; sources are spotty for the second century BCE, to say the least. In the following, I will have to resort also to some indirect testimonies. I begin with the Greek world’s reaction and a Latin text, Livy 31.34. The text tells of an event at the beginning of the Second Macedonian War. A 35.  This is not the place to evaluate more recent findings about the political culture of Republican Rome in detail. See the research overview in Hölkeskamp 2019; my musings are based on Hölkeskamp 2010 and Hölkeskamp 2017. 36.  See Bourdieu 1979. 37.  Cf., e.g., Livy 39.6–­7, on the triumph of Manlius Vulso over the Celts of Asia Minor, on which occasion, ii primum lectos aeratos, vestem stragulam pretiosam, plagulas et alia textilia et, quae tum magnificae supellectilis habebantur, monopodia et abacos Romam advexerunt (“These men were the first to bring to Rome bronze couches, expensive bedcovers, tapestries and other woven materials, and [things then regarded as luxurious furniture] pedestal tables and sideboards.” Tr. Yardley 2018). 38.  See Stein and Hölkeskamp 2019 on this development in general.

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report about an undecided cavalry battle between Macedonians and Romans precedes. King Philip V of Macedonia now wishes to bury the fallen cavalry with military honors. He intends for the funeral to motivate his troops, but it has the opposite effect: Philippus aliquid et ad caritatem suorum et, ut promptius pro eo periculum adirent, ratus profecturum se, si equitum, qui ceciderant, in expeditione sepeliendorum curam habuisset, adferri eos in castra iussit, ut conspiceretur ab omnibus funeris honos. Nihil tam incertum nec tam inaestimabile est quam animi multitudinis. Quod promptiores ad subeundam omnem dimicationem videbatur facturum, id metum et pigritiam incussit; nam qui hastis sagittisque et rara lanceis facta vulnera vidissent cum Graecis Illyriisque pugnare adsueti, postquam gladio Hispaniensi detruncata corpora, bracchiis cum humero abscisis aut tota cervice desecta divisa a corpore capita patentiaque viscera et foeditatem aliam vulnerum viderunt, adversus quae tela quosque viros pugnandum foret, pavidi vulgo cernebant. Ipsum quoque regem terror cepit . . . [8] ac subiecta cernens Romana castra admiratus esse dicitur et universam speciem castrorum et discripta suis quaeque partibus cum tendentium ordine tum itinerum intervallis et negasse barbarorum ea castra ulli videri posse. (Livy 31.34) Philip thought that if he saw to the burial of the cavalrymen who had fallen in this operation, he would have greater success in securing his men’s affection and making them face danger more readily for him; and he therefore ordered the dead to be brought into the camp so that the funeral ceremony could be observed by the whole army. Nothing is so unreliable or unpredictable as the psychology of the crowd. What the king thought would make the men more ready to face any combat instead afflicted them with fear and reluctance. In their frequent clashes with the Greeks and Illyrians they had seen the wounds produced by spears, arrows and, on rare occasions, lances. Now, however, they saw bodies dismembered by the Spanish sword, with arms lopped off complete with the shoulder, heads separated from bodies with the neck sliced right through, intestines laid bare, and other repulsive wounds; and there was widespread consternation as they began to understand the sort of weapons and men they had

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to face. The king was himself panic-­stricken . . . [8] and it is said that, as he looked down on the Roman camp below, he was amazed at its overall appearance as well as the arrangement of its various units, with rows of men in tents separated by streets at regular intervals. Nobody, he is said to have remarked, could consider that to be a camp belonging to barbarians. (Yardley 2017) Livy’s version is probably based on Polybius, whose account is lost.39 Even if Polybius and Livy shared the general tendency, paragraph 8 nonetheless contains an indication of an original Greek version with slightly different accents. After all, Philip’s remark that the Roman camp does not look like a barbarian camp only makes sense if the Romans were described as barbarians previously in the text.40 This can only have occurred in the context of the autopsy of mutilations. This would mean that the Greek interpretation behind Livy’s text that characterized the Roman style of fighting as inhumane and barbaric presented the Romans’ military victory as a triumph of the wildest brutality and “uncivilization.” The Romans were demoted to the status of barbarians. The Greek world, I wish to emphasize, responds to Rome with clear disdain in highlighting its own superiority in civilization. Another way of addressing the problem can be found in the Roman Archaeology of Dionysius of Halicarnassus, which dates to the Augustan Age.41 Dionysius is just as radical as Livy/Polybius in his approach. In the prœm, he justifies his choice of subject with reference to Rome’s greatness. He goes on to make a bold claim: Romans are actually Greeks. To make his thesis look plausible, he has to rewrite Rome’s early genealogy. He begins by accusing his peers of ignorance about early Roman history (1.4.2). He slanders his predecessors as biased partisans. After he has cleared the ground, he lays a new foundation for his alternate genealogical construction, claiming that the natives—­termed “aborigines” by early Roman historiography—­ emigrated as a group from Arcadia in the Peloponnese to Italy (1.11). He dates the emigration with the words πολλαῖς γενεαῖς πρότερον τοῦ πολέμου τοῦ Τρωικοῦ μεταναστάντας (“they set out many generations before the Trojan war”), thereby extricating these migrants from Greek chronology. The inte39.  On Livy’s reception of Polybius, see Tränkle 1977. 40.  The fact that Polybius in the fragmentary book 6 (27.42), reports in detail the structure and routine of the Roman camp indicates that Roman camp-­making looked strange to Greek eyes. 41.  For an overview see Gabba 1991.

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rior structure of Dionysius’ arguments is very interesting. Since the early date he chooses means that he has lost all reference points in Greek history, he bases his account on syllogistic combinations. He writes that since his sources—­Cato (I doubt Dionysius is referencing him accurately) and Gaius Sempronius did not indicate any Greek authors for the Arcadian (=Aboriginal) migration, it is unclear if that version is true: εἰ δ’ ἐστὶν ὁ λόγος ὑγιής, οὐκ ἂν ἑτέρου τινὸς εἴησαν ἄποικοι γένους ἢ τοῦ καλουμένου νῦν Ἀρκαδικοῦ. Πρῶτοι γὰρ Ἑλλήνων οὗτοι περαιωθέντες τὸν Ἰόνιον κόλπον ὤικησαν Ἰταλίαν (Dion. Hal., Ant. Rom. 1.11.1) But if what they say is true, the Aborigines can be a colony of no other people but of those who are now called Arcadians; for these were the first of all the Greeks to cross the Ionian gulf. (Cary 1937) That Dionysius’ notions enjoyed any credibility at all has literary-­ historical causes. He is writing in the last century before the birth of Christ. About ten years earlier, Varius and Plotius Tucca had published the Aeneid (left behind by Vergil upon his death in 19 BCE) at the command of Augustus. In the Aeneid, an Arcadian who has settled in Latium plays a special role: Evander, a nobleman who allegedly fled from Arcadia to Latium and with whom Aeneas forges an alliance in book 8. What Dionysius did was therefore no more than to retroject the Aeneid’s mythic Arcadian presence in Latium further into the distant past. Dionysius adds other groups of Greek immigrants in Italy to the Arcadians: Pelasgians, Evander himself, Heracles and his troops (Heracles in his account turns into the father of Latinus, 1.43); the result is that the Trojans arrive in an Italy that is described as being thoroughly Greek (1.45). Dionysius recapitulates this “fact” after a dense antiquarian report (1.60.3), before achieving his final feat: he declares the Trojans themselves to be a Greek people (1.61.1). He seems to take for granted that this migration entails the transfer of civilization. Evander and the Arcadians introduce writing to Italy along with music, poetry, laws, and all other arts that enable humans to rise from the state of animals to that of civilization: ἐκ τοῦ θηριώδους ἐπὶ πλεῖστον εἰς ἡμερότητα μεταγαγεῖν (1.33.4). Dionysius’ Antiquitates can be integrated into a postcolonial framework. They constitute the attempt made by a formerly central player to claim sovereignty in discourse by “writing back.” It is worth noting that in reaching

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for sovereignty Dionysius remodels the construction of the beginning of colonial culture. Instead of opting for a hegemonic model that stigmatizes Rome socially and politically as the foundation of low-­status individuals, he “privileges” the Romans by turning them into Greeks—­Greeks in Italy! The center, one could say, expands to engulf the (former) periphery. Dionysius’ rewriting is probably the most elaborate attempt by the Greeks to cope with the problems that Rome’s dominion presented. However, success depended on the Romans accepting the offer of a Greek origin, which of course they did not. The Romans had developed a different strategy to deal with the “gift of civilization,” and it prohibited identification with the Greeks. But again, we are severely lacking in sources. As before, I begin from the other side of the mirror, with a Greek text about the Romans, a text from Diodorus’ Bibliotheca Historica, a Greek global history likely composed between 50 and 30 BCE. In this work, Diodorus recounts, among other things, how a Roman embassy visits Ptolemy VIII in 140/139 BCE: ὅτι ἧκον εἰς Ἀλεξάνδρειαν οἱ περὶ τὸν Σκιπίωνα τὸν Ἀφρικανὸν πρεσβευταὶ κατασκεψόμενοι τὴν ὅλην βασιλείαν. ὁ δὲ Πτολεμαῖος μετὰ μεγάλης ἀπαντήσεως καὶ παρασκευῆς προσδεξάμενος τοὺς ἄνδρας τάς τε ἑστιάσεις πολυτελεῖς ἐποιεῖτο καὶ τὰ βασίλεια περιάγων ἐπεδείκνυτο καὶ τὴν ἄλλην τὴν βασιλικὴν γάζαν. (2) οἱ δὲ τῶν Ῥωμαίων πρέσβεις ἀρετῇ διαφέροντες τοῖς μὲν βρωτοῖς ὀλίγοις καὶ πρὸς ὑγείαν διατείνουσι χρώμενοι κατεφρόνουν τῆς πολυτελείας, ὡς διαφθειρούσης καὶ ψυχὴν καὶ σῶμα, τῶν δὲ ὑπὸ τοῦ βασιλέως θαυμαζομένων ἐν παρέργῳ τὴν θέαν ὡς οὐδενὸς ἀξίων ποιησάμενοι τὰ θέας ἄξια πρὸς ἀλήθειαν ἐπολυπραγμόνησαν ἀκριβῶς, τῆς πόλεως τὴν θέσιν καὶ τὸ βάρος καὶ τὰς περὶ τὸν Φάρον ἰδιότητας· (Diod. Sic. 33.28b.1–­2) Scipio Africanus and his fellow ambassadors came to Alexandria to survey the entire kingdom. Ptolemy welcomed the men with a great reception and much pomp, held costly banquets for them, and conducting them about showed them his palace and other royal treasures. Now the Roman envoys were men of superior virtue, and since their normal diet was limited to a few dishes, and only such as were conducive to health, they were scornful of his extravagance as detrimental to both body and mind. The spectacle of all that the king considered

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marvelous they regarded as a side show of no real account, but busied themselves in detail with what was truly worth seeing: the situation and strength of the city, the unique features of the Pharos. (Walton 1957) A Latin source describes Ptolemy’s meeting with the embassy as follows: sed quam cruentus civibus, tam ridiculus Romanis fuit. Erat enim et vultu deformis et statura brevis et sagina ventris non homini, sed beluae similis. Quam foeditatem nimia subtilitas perlucidae vestis augebat, prorsus quasi astu inspicienda praeberentur, quae omni studio occultanda pudibundo viro erant. (Justinus, Epit. 38.8.8–­10) But he appeared as ridiculous to the Romans as he was cruel to his own subjects; for he was disagreeable in countenance, short in stature, and, from his obesity, more like a beast than a man. This deformity the extraordinary thinness of his apparel, which was even transparent, made more remarkable, just as if that was affectedly obtruded on the sight which by a modest man would have been most carefully concealed. (J. S. Watson 1853) What has happened in the Latin version?42 Ptolemy is rendered as a decadent nincompoop glutton, a weakling with body weight issues. This is interpretatio Romana, a malicious view of Ptolemaic monarchic representation. For the Lagid dynasty it was essential to embody panjandrum τρυφή, decadence/opulence, to demonstrate that their reign over the fertile Nile delta was “godgiven.” The Egyptian king was therefore under pressure to present himself as the new Dionysus and to produce celebrations and banquets appropriate to such a grand claim. An ascetic Ptolemy would have been considered unfit to rule. The text with its Roman perspective deliberately ignores the semantics of the royal body. It reads the body as an indicator of decadence misunderstood as frivolous expenditure devoid of any ulterior motive. In the next example, the transportability of Greek culture—­here as 42.  The relation between Justinus’ text and its source, Pompeius Trogus, can be left aside because it is the Roman perspective alone that matters.

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booty—­serves as backdrop. The Elder Pliny devotes the thirty-­third book of his Natural History to metallurgy. It also contains reflections about the abuse of gold and silver: Asia primum devicta luxuriam misit in Italiam, siquidem L. Scipio in triumpho transtulit argenti caelati pondo mille et CCCC et vasorum aureorum pondo MD [anno conditae Urbis DLXV]. At eadem Asia donata multo etiam gravius adflixit mores (Pliny, HN 33.148) It was the conquest of Asia that first introduced luxury into Italy, inasmuch as Lucius Scipio carried in procession at his triumph 1,400 lbs. of chased silverware and vessels of gold weighing 1,500 lbs.: this was in the 565th year [= 189 BCE] from the foundation of the city of Rome. But receiving Asia also as a gift dealt a much more serious blow to our morals. (Rackham 1938) Pliny describes the import of (Greek) gold and silver, that is, of civilizational goods, to Rome as the import of decadence. The beginning of so-­called moral decay is usually dated to the time after this import. The same interpretation is all but topical in Roman historiography.43 The gift of civilization—­here turned into booty—­is reinterpreted as luxuria and thereby devalued. In doing so, the Romans have shaken off their intellectual colonialists; they have even drawn a distinction between Hellenistic Greekdom and Greek education, which prevents a purely cultural hegemony a limine. Cicero, for example, continuously distinguishes between a vetus Graecia, that is, Classical Greece from Homer until Plato, and the Greece of late Hellenism of Cicero’s present. He idealizes old Greece and despises new Greece as decayed. He writes of the contemporary Greek world: Graecus homo ac levis (Prov. cons. 15), sic vero fallaces sunt permulti et leves et diuturna servitute ad nimiam adsentationem eruditi (QFr. 1.16). The frequent key term ineptia (e.g., ineptum sane negotium et Graeculum, Tusc. 1.86) ascribes to the Greeks (nota bene: to educated Greeks!) intellectual 43. Livy, Per. on book 39: Initia luxuriae in urbem introducta ab exercitu Asiatico referuntur (“There is an account of the first stages of extravagant living imported by the army in Asia.” Tr. Yardley 2018). Florus 3.12.7: Syria prima nos victa corrupuit (“we were corrupted first by the conquest of Syria”); see Hose 1994, 104–­6.

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vacuity and futility in their modes of expression, a useless education and culture. Old Greece, on the other hand—­vetus et vera Graecia—­remains exemplary throughout for Cicero. With this rhetoric a part of the former center (its cultural heritage) is excised, removed from contact with the rest (contemporary Greek culture), and made ready for the exclusive enjoyment by the former periphery. This raises the pointed question how the Romans saw themselves ideologically.44 They were able to benefit from Greek education, but unable to base their self-­image on it (because that would mean pergraecari, “to become Greek through and through”). Obviously the Romans’ self-­image had to move away from Roman victories over the center and emphasize what was thoroughly their own (Roman-­ness). In this regard Vergil’s Aeneid is pivotal,45 both in terms of literature and of ideology. The former because it seeks to surpass the two Homeric epics, which were the cornerstones of Greek παιδεία; the latter because it contains an—­anti-­Greek—­version of the foundation of Rome by the Trojan Aeneas (a kind of colonial patricide)46 and defines what is “Roman” in a panorama that moves from the mythical past to the Augustan present. In book 6, Aeneas has descended into the underworld to ask his dead father Anchises for advice. Anchises offers several hints at the future, that is, Roman history, and in the end says abstractly: excudent alii spirantia mollius aera (credo equidem), vivos ducent de marmore vultus, orabunt causas melius, caelique meatus describent radio et surgentia sidera dicent: tu regere imperio populos, Romane, memento (hae tibi erunt artes), pacique imponere morem, parcere subiectis et debellare superbos. (Vergil, Aen. 6.847–­53) Others, I doubt not, shall with softer mould beat out the breathing bronze, coax from the marble features to the life, plead cases with greater eloquence and with a pointer trace heaven’s motions and predict the risings of the stars: you, Roman, be sure to rule the world (be 44.  See on “Roman identity” Wallace-­Hadrill 2008 who analyses the construction (or: “genesis”) of this multilayered identity as “cultural revolution” resulting from a kind of dialogue between overlapping cultural identities (Romans, Italians, Greeks, etc.). 45.  More on this in Hose 1999b. 46.  On this aspect see Stahl 1999.

Epilogue—Cultural Dynamics and Influences  • 319

these your arts), to crown peace with justice, to spare the vanquished and to crush the proud. (Fairclough and Goold 1926/1999) This passage, one of the most frequently interpreted in Latin literature,47 makes a distinction between a Greek bios theoretikos devoted to the arts of masonry, toreutics, rhetoric, astronomy/geometry, and a Roman bios praktikos, that goes beyond waging war with success; the emphasis instead lies on the art of administration: pacique imponere morem, that is, achieving peace first and then filling it with “morality,” Roman customs and laws. Historically speaking, these lines were bold in 19 BCE, to say the least. Rome had systematically and effectively exploited conquered lands through a taxation system in the second and first centuries. The Greek world had more or less financed the Roman civil wars. Pax Romana had not yet revealed itself to be a blessing for the world, and Augustus was not yet the prince of peace he would be at his death thirty-­three years later, but still the “butcher of Perugia,” who had reacted to the city’s surrender with the cynical remark moriendum est (Suet., Aug. 15).48 At that point in history, Vergil’s lines figure as a double vision, a vision of Anchises in the distant past and at the same time as a vision of the text in its own time, as a vision designed to justify Roman rule through the construction of a gift that did not (yet) exist. The Aeneid also stands for something else. It offers a synthesis between Rome and Italy that assigns a new spot to “Roman Hellenism in Italy.”49 Against the background of Greek constructions of Italy’s early history and Rome’s own historiographical and epic traditions (on Ennius see chapter 7 by Riemer Faber, this volume), Vergil does not simply make Aeneas (or his direct descendants) found Rome or marry a daughter of Odysseus’ son Telemachus who went by the name of Rhome and bestowed that name to the city of Rome.50 Instead, the design itself of the Aeneid already demonstrates not only that a direct line will lead from Aeneas to Rome, but that Aeneas will inaugurate an early reconciliation between Rome and Latium/Italy. Italy is thus joined closely with Rome in the Aeneid.51 It is surely not going too far to state that the improvements 47.  For details see Hose 1999a, 275–­76. See Horsfall 2013, 2:518–­19 for a bibliography. 48.  See Sattler 1960. 49.  Graverini (chapter 8, this volume, pp. 236–38) shows that Sicily, too, is assigned a new position between Greece and Rome through Vergil’s Eclogues. 50.  Thus the Greek Historian Cleinias, FGrH 819 F 1. 51.  See Galinsky 1992.

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made in the tense relation between Romans and Italics in the Social War were an important prerequisite. Simultaneously the Aeneid creates a cultural geography against this background that presents Rome and Italy as a unity (and gives presence to Rome in Italy through a culture of villas52), a unity that was to last throughout the following centuries.53

V.  The New Empire Strikes Back Ensconced in Vergil’s lines is another element that would prove to be of decisive importance for the Greek world and culture. The rule of Rome, after all, which in Vergil has an organizing function, at the same time implies a civilizing component with an effect not only on the peoples who were to be Romanized in the west and in the north, but also on the highly civilized Greek culture. “Roman Hellenism” in turn “Hellenized” the Greeks—­at least that is how (once again) Dionysius of Halicarnassus portrays the matter.54 The most momentous change that took place in the Greek world after it was conquered by the Romans was the establishment of a standard linguistic norm in a world that had lost its political centers. This decentralized Greekdom in the first century CE turned with growing intensity to the Attic dialect of the fifth and fourth centuries BCE as its linguistic norm, without there having taken place, as far as we can tell, any sort of debate or decision in the Greek world. Rather, Rome appears to be the author of this turn to Atticism, if we can believe Dionysius in his treatise On the Old Orators: αἰτία δ’ οἶμαι καὶ ἀρχὴ τῆς τοσαύτης μεταβολῆς ἐγένετο ἡ πάντων κρατοῦσα Ῥώμη, “I think that the cause and beginning of this change was Rome’s becoming powerful over all things” (3). Rome is now, to summarize a complex process, so important that it is able to exert cultural influence upon the former center and is successful in importing Atticism into this center, a (didactic) concept that had been developed at Rome by Greek teachers for Roman students to make learning Greek easier.55 At this point the relation 52.  The villas around the Bay of Naples (e.g., Herculaneum: Villa dei Papiri; Oplontis: Villa Poppaea; Boscoreale: Villa of Fannius) stand on their own as a testimonium to the reception of Hellenistic art, painting, and literature. 53.  See the rich materials collected in Döpp 1998. 54.  It is revealing that from the late first century BCE Rome itself figures more and more as a center of Greek culture in which the likes of Diodorus, Dionysius, the author of De sublimitate, and Strabo resided and worked. 55.  On this process see Dihle 1977; Gelzer 1978; Hose 1999a.

Epilogue—Cultural Dynamics and Influences  • 321

between giver and taker of the gift of culture that Horace had so pointedly expressed,56 was inverted. Another inversion begins to show from the first century CE on. Until that time, Rome had exerted real control over the contact between Greek culture and Rome. This contact took place in certain zones (areas like South Italy, at schools, among the aristocracy) or—­when it was channeled through booty, hostages, captives, and slaves—­in clearly defined power relationships.57 This form of control functioned efficiently in the Roman Republic, as the expulsion of the so-­called philosophers’ embassy shows,58 and, in a different way, the prohibition of rhetorical training in Latin.59 This control slipped out of Roman hands or was rendered inefficient. The social and political structures of the early Empire, which led to more and more members of the elite from the Greek East entering imperial service and climbing to the highest ranks,60 the stability of the Empire on the exterior and the interior made Rome the new center that magnetized the Greek world, which was demoted to the new periphery.61 Plutarch suggests as much in a famous remark (Prae. ger. reip. 18.814d) which proves how attractive a career in Rome had become for Greeks. With this change the transportability of culture comes a transportability of people who support this culture. This means a new danger for Rome, as the one-­time gift of civilization spawns a threat to the Roman middle class. Juvenal in Satire 3.69–­78 sketches the image of a Roman citizen who has to leave Rome due to competitive pressure. Greeks are one reason for this pressure: hic alta Sicyone, ast hic Amydone relicta, hic Andro, ille Samo, hic Trallibus aut Alabandis, Esquilias dictumque petunt a vimine collem, viscera magnarum domuum dominique futuri. Ingenium velox, audacia perdita, sermo promptus et Isaeo torrentior. Ede quid illum esse putes. Quemvis hominem secum attulit ad nos: 56.  Horace’s famous statement, Epist. 2.1.156–­57: Graecia capta ferum victorem cepit et artis / intulit agresti Latio (“captured Greece took captive her fierce conquerer, and carried the arts into uncultivated Latium”). 57.  See Feeney 2016, 92–­121; Hutchinson 2013, 45–­134. 58.  See Jehne 1999, 119–­20; Drecoll 2004. 59.  Schmidt 1975. 60.  See Halfmann 1979. 61.  On this complex see Swain 1996, Goldhill 2007.

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grammaticus, rhetor, geometres, pictor, aliptes, augur, schoenobates, medicus, magus, omnia novit Graeculus esuriens: in caelum iusseris ibit.

(Juvenal 3.69–­78)

They come—­this one leaving the heights of Sicyon, this other from Amydon, this one from Andros, that one from Samos, this one from Tralles or Alabanda—­heading for the Esquiline and the hill named from the willow, to become the innards and the masters of our great houses. They have quicksilver wit, shameless presumption, words at the ready, more gushing than Isaeus. Say what you want him to be. In his own person he has brought anyone you like: schoolteacher, rhetorician, geometrician, painter, masseur, prophet, funambulist, physician, magician—­your hungry Greekling has every talent. Tell him to go to heaven and he will. (Morton and Braund 2004) Roman Hellenisms in Italy, to summarize, constitute complex processes of “adoption of (elements) of Greek culture” that can be separated into distinct phases: (a) an early phase in which Rome was the recipient of “transportable” Greek culture directly and indirectly (in the latter case, perhaps also in a more easily digestible form) as the “gift of civilization” with the power to generate “inferiority” in Rome; (b) a phase in which Rome as the military ruler of Italy and the East leaves behind the attitude of inferiority and marks Greek culture (at least contemporary Greek culture) as decadent in the course of a process of simultaneous reception and distancing. In this phase, the Italic element, which had enjoyed a certain prominence before, all but evaporates amid the polarization between Greek and Roman culture; (c) a phase in which Greek culture advances aggressively toward Rome after its own centers of powers have crumbled and strives to incorporate Rome. Rome reacts with its own strategies of control, but ultimately opens (or, has no choice but to open?) to the influx of Greek culture, with the result that by the end of the first century CE, the tracks have been laid for a bilingual world that would shape the literature of the Roman Empire. But that would be another story.

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Contributors

Dr. Sheila Dillon is the Anne Murnick Cogan Distinguished Professor of Art and Art History at Duke University, and teaches in the Department of Art, Art History, and Visual Studies. An expert in Greco-­Roman art and archaeology, Professor Dillon specializes in portraiture, public sculpture, and the statuary landscape of ancient cities and sanctuaries. Her books include Ancient Greek Portrait Sculpture: Contexts, Subjects, and Styles (2006), and The Female Portrait Statue in the Greek World (2010). Dr. Basil Dufallo is Professor of Greek and Latin in the Department of Classical Studies at the University of Michigan, where he teaches courses in Latin literature, Roman civilization, and Great Books. His research interests include Latin literature and Roman culture, postcolonial and queer theory, text and image, and Classical Reception Studies. He is the author of Disorienting Empire: Republican Latin Poetry’s Wanderers (2021) and The Captor’s Image: Greek Culture in Roman Ecphrasis (2013), and editor of Roman Error: Classical Reception and the Problem of Rome’s Flaws (2018). Dr. Riemer A. Faber is Professor of Classical Studies at the University of Waterloo; he teaches courses in Greek and Latin language and literature, and Greco-­Roman civilization. With interests ranging from Greek poetry to neo-­Latin literature, he specializes in the influence of Hellenistic texts on Latin Augustan poets. Publications include several articles on literary ecphrasis, a coedited volume, Belonging and Isolation in the Hellenistic World (2013), and an edited volume, Celebrity, Fame and Infamy in the Hellenistic World (2020).

369

370  •  Contributors

Dr. Elaine K. Gazda is Professor emerita of Classical art and archaeology in the Department of the History of Art at the University of Michigan, and Curator emerita of Hellenistic and Roman Collections at the Kelsey Museum of Archaeology. Her current research focuses on Roman domestic interiors and on the Museum’s collections of Greek and Roman sculpture. Editor of Roman Art in the Private Sphere (1991/2010) and The Ancient Art of Emulation (2002), she also has edited or coedited numerous exhibition catalogues, including The Villa of the Mysteries in Pompeii (2000) and Leisure and Luxury in the Age of Nero (2016). Dr. Luca Graverini is Associate Professor of Latin Language and Literature in the Dipartimento Filologia e critica delle letterature antiche e moderne at the University of Siena. Professor Graverini teaches courses in Latin language and literary criticism. An expert in the Greek and Latin novel, Dr. Graverini researches especially features of genre and cultural identity in Apuleius. He is author of Literature and Identity in “The Golden Ass” of Apuleius (2012), coeditor of the four-­volume series, Apuleio “Metamorfosi,” and coauthor of Vol. 1. Libri I-­III (2019). Dr. Martin Hose is Professor of Greek Philology in the Department of Greek and Latin Philology at Ludwig-­Maximilians-­Universität, Munich. His research ranges from Greek historiography to Hellenistic poetry and Greek literature of the Imperial period. He has written widely on Greek tragedy, literary history, and historiography, and he is the author of Kleine griechische Literaturgeschichte (1999) and coeditor of A Companion to Greek Literature (2017). Dr. Nathaniel B. Jones is Associate Professor of Art History and Archaeology in the Department of Art History and Archaeology at Washington University in St. Louis. There he teaches courses in Greek and Roman art and archaeology. Professor Jones’ primary course of research explores the intersections of artistic production, theories of art, and social practice in the ancient world. One of his current projects is an investigation into the temporal and spatial aspects of Roman art from the Late Republic to Late Antiquity. He is the author of Painting, Ethics, and Aesthetics in Rome (2019). Dr. Alison Keith is Director of the Jackman Humanities Institute and Professor of Classics at the University of Toronto. She has taught courses on women in antiquity, Latin language, and Roman civilization. Her research

Contributors  • 371

focuses on Augustan poetry, including Vergil, Propertius, and Ovid, and on the intersection of gender and genre in Latin poetry. Current projects include a study of Epicureanism in Latin literature. She is the author of Engendering Rome: Women in Latin Epic (2000), Virgil (2020), and coeditor of Maternal Conceptions in Classical Literature and Philosophy (2020). Dr. Marcello Mogetta is Associate Professor of Roman Art and Archaeology in the Department of Classics, Archaeology, and Religion at the University of Missouri. There he teaches courses on Roman architecture, material, and visual culture. Professor Mogetta’s research focuses on Italian urbanism in the first millennium BCE. He conducts archaeological fieldwork at Gabii and Pompeii and is author of The Origins of Concrete Construction in Roman Architecture (2021), editor of Élite Burial Practices and Processes of Urbanization at Gabii, Italy (2020), and coeditor of A Mid-­Republican House from Gabii (2016) and Domitian’s Rome and the Augustan Legacy (2021). Dr. Roman Roth is Associate Professor of Classics at the University of Cape Town. He has been a Research Fellow of Peterhouse (Cambridge) and a Fellow (Experienced Researcher Category) of the Alexander-­von-­Humboldt Foundation. His research and teaching focuses on the history, historiography, and material culture of Italy during the Republican period; publications include the monograph Styling Romanisation (2007), numerous journal articles and book chapters, as well as the coedited volumes Roman by Integration (2007) and Empire, Hegemony or Anarchy (Stuttgart 2019). Dr. Darja Šterbenc Erker is Visiting Professor of Latin Literature at the University of Ljubljana and also currently Research Fellow with a project on Suetonius at the Humboldt University Berlin. She has published numerous articles on ancient Roman religion and literature, and on women and gender in ancient Rome. Her books include a monograph on the roles of Roman women in “Greek” rituals, Religiöse Rollen römischer Frauen in “griechischen” Ritualen (2013), and Ambiguity and Religion in Ovid’s “Fasti”: Religious Innovation and the Imperial Family (2022). She is editor of Gender Studies in den Altertumswissenschaften: Frauenbild im Wandel (2015) and coeditor of a volume on communicating religion, Medien religiöser Kommunikation (2008).

Index

210, 218, 253, 259–­60, 303, 306, 311, 315 Amafinius, C., 45–­49, 51, 53 Anchises, 91n62, 121, 131, 318–­19 Anna Perenna, 95 Antiochus IV, 36, 254, 256, 258 Antipater, poet, 211 Antium, 34 Antoninus Pius, 288–­90 Apelles, 97, 138–­39, 147 Aphrodisias, 181–­82, 281–­82, 289 Apollo, 21, 86–­87, 93n74, 106, 108, 131n54, 136, 139–­40, 192, 208, 233n29, 235n36, 239, 257, 272, 288n43, 289 Apollodorus, Greek artist, 147 Apollodorus, scholarch of Epicurean school, 43 Apollonia, 34 Apollonius Rhodius, 219 Appian, 33, 36, 40, 222 Apronius, Cn., 34 Apuleius, 9, 224–­37, 239–­46 Cupid and Psyche episode, 228, 233n29, 235, 245n65 Met., 9, 225–­31, 233–­36, 240, 242–­46 Arcadia, 150, 237, 244, 313–­14 Archistratus, 216 Archytas, 26–­28 Areopagus, 291–­92, 294 Ares, 125, 283–­84, 287 Argus, 149, 158, 160, 162, 164

Aborigines, 313–­14 Academy, philosophical school, 43, 45, 46 acanthus, 250, 254, 256, 260–­61 Accius, 52–­53, 262n52 Achilles, 119, 154–­56, 309n25 Achilles Tatius, 225 Actium, Battle of, 86–­87, 119, 197, 280n7 Adriatic Sea, 34, 37, 38n51, 275 Aegean Sea, 304, 307 aegis, 128, 193 Aelius, C., statue of, 31, 33–­34, 41 Aeneas, 7, 83n19, 112, 118–­21, 123–­26, 131–­ 33, 135–­37, 149, 154–­57, 218–­20, 309, 314, 318–­19 Aeschylus, 1 aesthetics, 2, 4, 9, 176, 177n6, 207–­9, 255 Callimachean literary, 6, 9, 119, 208–­9, 215, 222, 232–­33, 235, 237–­39 of display, 176 Africa, 42, 227n8, 243, 245 Agathocles, 29–­30 Agora, Athenian, 11, 266, 278–­79, 281–­301 Agrippina, statue of, 288 Alba Longa, 113 Albucius, T., 44 Alcaeus, Epicurean philosopher, 43 Alcibiades, 4, 21–­25, 27–­33, 35–­39, 41–­42 Alcinous, 126, 133 Alexander the Great, 79, 83, 85–­86, 93, 115, 134, 137, 140, 301 Alexandria, 79–­80, 86, 108, 163–­64, 168,

373

374  •  Index Arion, horse of Adrastus, 128–­29 Aristides, 225n2, 231, 234 Aristotle, 26n12, 68n53, 306n12 Arsinoë II, 79, 283 Asia Minor, 83, 178, 254, 258–­59, 262–­67, 311 Asinius Marcellus, 245 Asinius Pollio, 246 Athena, 125, 128, 140, 193, 302 Athena Parthenos, statue of, 180–­82, 193 Atia, 86 Attalus II, 284, 288, 293 Attica, 229, 265 Atticus, 139, 289, 292, 298, 300 Augustus, 1, 5–­6, 15, 79–­83, 85–­120, 125, 130–­33, 135–­40, 150–­51, 158, 197, 214, 246, 250, 279–­80, 288–­89, 314, 319 Prima Porta statue, 98–­100, 104–­5 Res Gestae, 82, 150 Aventine Hill, 219 Bacchus, 66, 91, 135. See also Dionysus Bion, 236 Bostrotrecase, Augustan villa at, 168 Bourdieu, Pierre, 12, 13, 311 Britain, 51, 198 Brutus, Roman orator, 46–­47, 283 Caelian Hill, 219 Caesar, Julius, 5, 49, 55, 79, 82–­85, 87–­88, 90, 93, 96–­97, 100, 104n126, 106–­8, 115–­18, 120, 125, 130n51, 136–­38, 140, 249–­51, 288 Callimachus, 6, 81–­82, 92–­94, 96, 108–­9, 119, 132, 140, 208, 214n25, 216–­17, 219, 232–­33, 237, 239, 244n62, 301 Aet., 92, 94n80, 108, 216–­17, 232–­33, 237, 239 Callimachean literary aesthetics. See aesthetics Campania, 221, 269, 272, 310 Cannae, Battle of, 221 Capitoline Hill, 127, 134, 199, 257 Caria, 258, 260 Caristia, festival of, 87–­90 Carmen Saliare, 87, 91, 108

Carneades, 43 Carthage, 29, 125–­27, 149, 154, 157, 243, 308 Cassandra, 218, 220–­21 Cassius Dio, 127 Castor, 90, 129, 268–­72 Catiline, 82 Catius Insuber, 46–­47, 49–­53, 68 Cato, Elder, 28n22, 224, 309n28, 314 Cato, Younger, 137 Catullus, 54n22, 208, 232, 236 Catulus, Q., 231 Celsus, 46–­47, 75, 104 Chalcis, 136, 218 Chariton, 225 Cicero, 1, 5, 32, 36, 41, 44–­51, 53, 55, 61, 68, 76, 82–­84, 86, 108, 147–­48, 207, 209, 213, 240, 242, 317–­18 Acad. Post., 47–­48 Amic., 26n13, 28n22 Att., 43n2 Brut., 1, 44, 147, 207, 213 De or., 43n2, 240n53 Div., 82n14 Fam., 51, 55n25, 106 Fin., 44, 47, 49n14, 55, 71 Har. resp., 95n85 Marcell., 83n20, 84n25 Nat. D., 84n26 Phil., 36, 84n25, 86n36 Pis., 55, 61, 82n13, 256 Red. Sen., 55n25 Rep., 28n21 Sen., 28n22 Sest., 82n13 Tusc., 28n20, 32, 45–­46, 69, 213, 317 Verr., 83, 97n94, 108n142, 148, 242 Cicero, Quintus, 49 Cilicia, 181–­82, 258, 260 Cinna, poet, 208 Circus Flaminius, 257, 261–­62 City Eleusinion, 11, 292, 296 classicism, 208, 280 Augustan, 280 Horatian, 10 Claudius, Roman emperor, 87n48, 97n97, 138, 288–­89, 301n95

Index  • 375 Cleemporus, Roman ambassador, 36 Cleopatra, 86, 284 Clodius Albinus, 243 Cora, 252, 268–­74 Corinthian order, 10, 249–­64, 266–­70, 272–­73, 275–­77 Cornelius Celsus, 46–­47 Cornificius, 208 Coruncanius, C., 36 cosmopolitanism, 12 Cossutii, 10, 266–­67, 276–­77 Cossutius, 254–­58, 262, 266–­67 Crassus, colleague of Caesar and Pompey, 79 Critolaus, 43 Cumae, 135–­36, 252, 307 Cyllarus, horse of Castor, 129 Dacia, 120, 125, 130 decor, 173, 176, 192, 196 deification, 80–­82, 84–­85, 92, 96–­97, 130–­ 31. See also divinization Delos, 255, 266, 272, 284 Delphi, 25, 27 Demetrius Poliorcetes, 34 Democritus, 48, 51 Derrida, Jacques, 152–­53 Dido, 126–­27, 133, 154 Diocles of Peparethus, 308 Diocletian, 290 Diodorus Siculus, 29, 304n3, 315, 320n54 Diogenes of Oenoanda, 43–­44, 49–­50, 70, 75 Diogenes Laertius, 44, 49–­50, 70 Diogenianus, 75 Diomedes, 120 Dionysius of Halicarnassus, 308, 313–­15, 320 Antiquitates, 314 Dionysus, 91, 316. See also Bacchus divinization, 6, 79–­83, 85, 87, 89, 91–­ 98, 101, 103, 105, 107–­9. See also deification Domitian, 6, 75, 80, 97, 100–­101, 110–­41, 289–­90 Domitius, Cn. Ahenobarbus, 263

Domus Aurea, 139 Donatus, 243 Drusilla, statue of, 288 duplicatio, 173, 176, 192, 196 ecphrasis, 7, 80, 103, 126, 131, 154 Egeria, 58, 95–­96 Egnatius, 45, 52–­54 Ennius, 5–­6, 9, 82, 90, 95–­96, 108, 207–­23, 310, 319 Ann., 9, 82, 207–­9, 212–­13, 215–­21, 223 ephebe, 192, 199, 281, 295 Ephesus, 32, 139, 225, 264–­65 Epicureanism, 4–­5, 43–­47, 49, 51–­55, 57, 59, 61, 63, 65, 67, 69, 71, 73, 75–­76, 84, 213, 239 Epicurus, 44, 47–­50, 52–­54, 58, 60–­64, 68–­74 De rerum natura, 47, 49–­55, 71 Ep. Men., 55, 60, 63, 64, 70 Sent. Vat., 55, 64, 66, 70, 71, 74 Esquiline Hill, 166–­67, 322 Etruria, 2, 4, 27, 276 Etruscan, 27, 29, 39, 97, 216, 306, 310n30 Euboea, 136 Euhemerism, 6, 95 Euhemerus of Messene, 81 Fabius Pictor, 308 Fabius, Q., Roman magistrate, 34 Fabricius, statue of, 31, 33–­34, 40 Favorinus, 230 Flavian era, 45, 71, 97, 109, 114, 117–­18, 121, 126–­27, 130–­31, 137, 139, 279 Fortuna (Fortune), 73–­74, 83, 154, 228, 273 Forum Augustum, 97, 138 Forum Julium, 85, 115, 136 Forum Romanum. See Roman Forum Fronto, 217, 230, 246 Fulvius Nobilior, 210, 217 Galba, 100, 202–­3 Ganymede, 131–­32, 134 Gellius, 230, 232, 242 Noctes Atticae, 230

376  •  Index Germanicus, 6, 92–­95, 108–­9, 114, 120 Gorgoneion, 179, 193 Greek East, 4, 23, 25, 34, 37–­38, 251, 255, 272, 278–­79, 281, 283, 285, 287, 289, 291, 293, 295, 299, 301–­2, 310, 321 Hadrian, 15, 80, 98, 287–­90, 302, 304 Hector, 123, 156, 218, 220 Helen, 168, 221 Helicon, 213, 239 Heliodorus, 225 Hellenism(s) adoption in, 2–­3, 11, 13, 16, 23, 73, 85, 107, 268, 279, 301, 303, 305, 322 agents of, 2, 11, 253, 273, 276, 303, 306 assimilation in, 6, 84, 91, 109, 117 continuity in, 1, 12, 16, 131, 301 decentralized, 2, 227n8, 277, 320 decontextualized, 2, 207 discontinuity in, 14, 22, 43, 44, 279 duplication in, 173–­203 emulation in, 85n35, 118, 279–­80 imitation in, 2, 11, 16, 30n29, 114, 148, 150, 162, 272, 303, 305 strategic, 2, 22, 27, 29, 30 Hellenistic East, 12, 15 Hellenization, 15, 252, 276, 304 Hellenophilia, 4. See also Philhellenism Heracles (Hercules), 90–­91, 134–­35, 139, 191–­92, 199, 210, 217, 253, 257, 263, 268, 272, 314 Herculaneum, 4, 55–­56, 61, 178, 190, 320 Herennius Pontius, 27, 39 hermaphrodite, 198–­99 Hermes, 149, 158, 161–­62 Hermodorus, architect, 31–­32, 39, 41, 262 Hermogenes, architect, 254, 262 Hesiod, 94, 217 Homer, 119, 157, 210, 213, 216n29, 222, 244n63, 317, 318 Il., 119, 156, 211n12 Od., 121n31, 125–­27, 133, 165, 170, 233n32 Horace, 1, 5, 9, 16, 45, 51–­62, 66, 68–­70, 76, 80, 90–­91, 108, 135, 207–­9, 214–­15, 221–­22, 225–­26, 230, 232, 235, 243, 321 Ars P., 59, 70, 80, 230, 244

Carm., 9, 69, 87, 90–­91, 108, 124, 135, 208–­9, 214–­15, 221, 232 Ep., 1, 59–­61, 214 Sat., 43, 51–­52, 54, 56–­59, 61–­62, 68, 88, 106, 232, 235, 239–­40, 243 House of Livia, 7, 149–­50, 158–­68, 172 House of the Priest Amandus, 170–­71 Illyria, 38 Illyrian War, 36–­37, 41 Jerome, 213 Juno, 7, 126–­27, 131, 149, 154–­55, 157–­58, 244, 257, 274 Jupiter (Jove), 127–­29, 132, 134–­35, 139–­40, 158, 257, 262 Juvenal, 225, 321–­22 Laevius, 231 Lares, 88–­90 Latium, 1, 29, 118, 221, 267, 269, 272, 309, 314, 319, 321 Livia, 7, 98, 149–­50, 158–­68, 172, 288–­89, 294 Livius Andronicus, 210, 310 Livy, 17, 24, 25n10, 27n18, 28n21, 29n24, 32, 34n43, 36n46, 41, 83n16, 86n42, 124n34, 257, 304n3, 307n17, 311–­13, 317n43 Longus, 136, 225 Lucian of Samosata, 75 Lucilius, 44–­45, 53, 75, 209, 213, 225 Lucretius, 44–­45, 47, 49–­50, 53–­55, 66, 70–­ 71, 74–­76, 209, 213–­14, 222 De rerum natura, 47, 49–­55, 71 Lyceum, 43 Lycophron, 9, 208, 217–­23 Alexandra, 9, 180, 208, 217–­21, 223 Lysicrates, 253 Lysimachus, 102n122, 283 Lysippus, 85, 93, 97, 102, 115–­16, 136–­40, 147 Lysistratus, brother to Lysippus, 147 Macedonia (Macedonian), 34, 194, 283, 311, 312

Index  • 377 Macrobius, 52–­54 Sat., 43n2, 52 Maecenas, 62, 240, 246 Magna Graecia, 2, 4, 26–­27, 30, 32, 38–­39, 43, 211, 216, 218, 220–­21, 223, 307, 310 Manilius Vopiscus, 71 Manlius Curtius, 129 Marcus Aurelius, 288–­90 Mark Antony, 79, 86 Mars, 82, 118, 125, 135, 262 Martial, 45, 54, 66–­70, 76 Ep., 67–­70 Memphis, 79 Mercury, 272 Miletus, 244, 258, 264–­65 Minerva, 113, 120–­21, 124–­26, 128, 140 Moschus, 236 Mouseion, 210 Mucius, architect, 44, 274–­75 Mucius Scaevola, Q., Augur, 44 Mucius Scaevola, Q., Pontifex, 275n97 Mummius, L., 263 Munatius Gallus, 69 Naevius, 209–­10, 212, 223, 310 Naples, 47, 55, 61, 73, 114, 194, 307, 320 neoclassicism, 183, 193, 280 Neoteric poets, 208, 236 Nero, 100–­101, 111, 115, 139, 173, 178, 196, 198–­200, 289, 295, 301 Neronian period, 88, 121, 176, 187, 194–­98, 202, 212, 300 Nerva, 97, 289 Nicias, 149, 160–­63 Nikai, 8, 173, 177, 179–­80, 183, 189–­90, 192–­94, 197, 199, 202 Nike, statue of, 173–­83, 185, 187–­91, 193–­ 203 Numa, 28, 39, 42 Nymphaeum, 274, 288n42 Octavian, 5, 79, 91, 116, 137, 197, 249. See also Augustus Octavius, Cn., Roman ambassador, 35, 261 Odeon of Agrippa, statues before 283–­84, 287

Odysseus, 120, 125–­27, 165–­68, 170, 218, 319 Olympias, mother to Alexander, 86 Oplontis. See Villa A at Oplontis Orestes and Pylades, statues of, 183–­84 Orion, 128 Oropus, 43 Oscan, 32, 39, 56–­57, 216, 256, 310 Otho, 100 Ovid, 5–­6, 54, 79–­81, 86–­87, 89–­98, 108–­9, 111, 158, 212, 228 Fast., 5–­6, 79, 84–­86, 88–­89, 91–­96, 98, 108–­9, 128 Met., 94–­95, 97, 158, 160 Paestum, 258 Palatine Hill, 126–­27, 133, 140, 149, 158–­61, 165–­67, 219 Palestine, 198 Palladium, 120–­22 Panathenaic Way, statues in, 282–­84, 293 Parthenon, 162, 193 Parthia, 198 Pasiteles, 183, 187, 193 Patro, Epicurean scholarch, 47 Pausanias, 151, 282–­83 Pentelikon, 263–­64, 266 Pergamum, 131–­32, 225 Peripatetics, 45 Pero and Myco, 152 Perseus and Andromeda, 168 Persius, 225 Petronius, 225–­26, 243 Sat., 225–­26 Phaedrus, Epicurean scholarch, 47 Phidias, 128, 139, 180 Philhellenism, 15–­16, 113. See also Hellenophilia Philip II, 11, 283 Philip V, 218 Philiscus, Epicurean philosopher, 43 Philodemus, 5, 44, 47, 53–­61, 63–­66, 69, 76 Ep., 56–­58, 66–­70 Philostratus, 166 Phoebus, 139–­40 Photius, 225

378  •  Index Piso, patron of Philodemus, 61 Plato, 26–­27, 44, 46–­47, 51, 231, 240–­41, 317 Phdr., 231, 233n32, 240–­41 Plautus, 46–­47, 228, 244n63, 309–­10 Asin., 309 Pliny, Elder, 4, 21–­25, 29, 31–­32, 35–­36, 41, 43, 147, 162–­63, 241, 261, 309n28, 317 Plotius Tucca, 61–­62, 314 Plutarch, 13n3, 25n7, 109 Alex., 86 Ant., 100 Cat. Mai., 43n2 Mor., 102 Num., 24 Prae. ger. reip., 321 Rom., 308n21 Pollius Felix, 72 Pollux, 90, 135, 268–­72 Polybius, 17, 36, 41, 309, 313 Polyphemus and Galatea, 149, 158, 161, 166, 168–­69 Pompeii, 161, 166, 170–­71, 173, 252, 261 Pompey, 5, 79, 83, 85, 116, 137 Pontiae, 29 Porcius Licinius, 231 Porphyrio, 51 Portico of Octavia, 257, 260 portraiture, 11, 278–­83, 285, 287, 289, 291, 293, 295, 298–­302 Postumius Magellus, L., Roman ambassador, 33 Praeneste, 106, 252, 266, 273–­75 Principate, 1, 5, 14, 53, 67, 75–­76, 107–­8, 138 Probus, 62 Propertius, 54, 91, 94, 212, 232, 239–­40 Ptolemy I Soter, 130, 134, 138 Ptolemy II Philadelphus, 79–­81, 94, 218, 283 Ptolemy VIII, 315–­16 Puteoli, 73, 135 Pyrrhus, 34, 283, 308–­9 Pyrrhic War, 308 Pythagoras, 4, 21–­33, 35–­39, 41–­42, 51, 211, 216 Pythagoreanism, 26–­28, 210–­11, 215 Quintilian, 46–­47, 51, 147, 234 Inst., 46, 147

Quintilius, 61–­62 Quirinalia, 96 Quossutius, 254–­55 Rabirius, 47–­49, 53 Remus, 219, 309 Republic (Republican), 5, 8, 14–­15, 21–­26, 28–­29, 32, 44–­45, 53, 66, 75, 82–­84, 116, 177, 183, 193, 196, 198, 212, 223, 244, 253, 255–­77, 321 Early Republic, 14, 223 Late Republic, 8, 14–­15, 22–­23, 25–­26, 28–­29, 32, 53, 66, 75, 158, 164, 177, 183, 195–­96, 198 Middle Republic, 3, 32, 44, 75, 116 Rhodes, 83, 139–­40 Roman Forum (Forum Romanum), 4, 31, 42, 112, 115–­16. 131, 137, 141 Roman West, 12, 15 Romanization, 226, 280, 287 Romulus, 82, 84–­85, 90, 95–­96, 118, 131, 219, 309 rostra, 24, 36, 116–­17 Rudiae, 216, 310 Sallust, 17, 246 Samnium, 269 Samnite Wars, 21, 25–­29, 31, 33, 39 Samos, 58, 264–­65, 322 Saturnian, 212–­13, 223 Scheria, 125–­27 Scipio Africanus, 79, 82, 86, 315 Senate, 3, 21–­25, 27–­31, 35, 37, 39–­40, 43, 82–­83, 87–­88, 92, 97, 112, 114 Septimius Severus, 243, 279, 288 Sicily, 39, 148, 236–­38, 244, 251, 257, 260, 272, 276, 319 Siro, Epicurean philosopher, 47, 53, 55, 61 Solon, 32, 283 Sophocles, 1, 308–­9 Statius, 6, 16, 45, 66–­67, 71–­76, 80, 97, 110–­21, 123–­41 Silv., 6, 71–­73, 85, 93, 97, 110–­15, 117–­18, 120–­21, 123–­26, 130–­34, 136, 240 Stephanus, 183–­84 Stoa of Attalus, 266, 284, 292 Stoa Poikile, 283

Index  • 379 Stoicism, 4, 17, 63 Strabo, 32–­34, 216, 320 Suetonius, 5–­6, 79–­81, 83, 85–­87, 89, 91, 93, 95, 97–­98, 100–­109, 151, 212, 216, 310 Aug., 86nn37–­38, 86nn41–­42, 87n46, 87n48, 96n92, 104, 106, 135n67, 140, 219 Dom., 75n74, 114n19 Iul., 83n16, 85n32, 100n107, 106n134, 107n139 Lives of the Caesars, 79, 98, 101, 108 Ner., 98n100, 100n107 Tib., 68, 102n122 Sulla, 21, 24–­25, 31, 83, 116, 285 Syracuse, 26, 29–­30, 34, 39, 232, 238 Syria, 257–­58, 259, 272–­73, 317 Tarentum, 25–­26, 28, 29, 33–­34, 39, 139 Temple of Apollo Medicus, 257 Temple of Apollo Palatinus, 140 Temple of Castor and Pollux at Cora, 268–­72 Temple of Hercules and the Muses, 210, 217, 253, 257, 263 Temple of Hercules at Cora, 268 Temple of Hercules Olivarius, 263 Temple of Hercules Victor, 253n15, 263 Temple of Juno in the Aeneid, 7, 126–­27, 149, 154–­55, 157, 257 Temple of Juno Regina at Ardea, 274 Temple of Juno Regina at Rome, 257 Temple of Jupiter Stator, 262 Temple of Jupiter Tonans, 135 Temple of Mars, 262 Temple of Neptune, 263 Temple of Zeus at Athens, 254, 257–­58 Teuta, 35–­36 Themistocles, 22, 30 Theocritus, 134, 138, 165–­66, 170, 226, 234, 236–­39 Id., 160, 165–­66, 170, 226, 236, 238 Thurii, 31, 33–­34 Tiberius, 87, 89, 92, 97, 102, 257, 284, 288–­89, 292 Tibullus, 60 Tibur, 106, 209 Timaeus of Tauromenium, 30 Titus, 97, 100, 114, 130–­31, 289

Torquatus, 55 Trajan, 279, 287–­91 Trojan horse, 112–­13, 115, 121, 123–­25 Trojan War, 126, 149, 154, 166, 313 Troy, 7, 73, 112, 120, 123–­24, 131–­33, 155–­56, 168, 218–­21, 309 Twelve Tables, 31–­32 Tyrannicides, monument of, 11, 282–­84 Umbria, 216, 310 Valerius Aedituus, 231 Valerius Flaccus, 124 Valerius Maximus, 152 Vargunteius, 213 Varius, 45, 54, 61–­62, 66, 314 De morte, 54, 66 Varro, 25, 29, 31, 41, 83–­84, 209, 220, 241 Antiquitates, 84 Venus, 71, 83, 106, 118, 125–­26, 132, 136–­37, 227, 231 Vergil, 5–­7, 9, 16, 45, 52–­54, 61–­66, 76, 80, 91, 94, 108, 111–­13, 117–­20, 123–­28, 131, 133, 135–­36, 141, 153–­57, 209, 214, 224–­29, 232 Aen., 7, 52, 54, 66, 91, 112, 118, 121n31, 123–­27, 128n47, 131n54, 133, 135–­ 36, 141, 149, 154–­57, 209, 212, 214, 221n49, 244n63, 314, 318–­20 Ecl., 9, 54, 94, 224, 226n6, 232–­46, 319n49 G., 54, 62–­65, 91, 93, 94, 214, 232, 233 Vergina, 163 Vespasian, 97, 114, 121, 131, 288–­89 Vesta, 121–­22, 127–­28 Via Appia, 222, 268 Victoria, statue of, 176, 188, 191–­94, 196–­ 200, 202–­3 Villa A at Oplontis (“of Poppaea”), 8, 173–­ 203, 320n52 Villa of the Papyri, 55, 61, 178, 187, 190, 320 Vitellius, 100 Vitruvius, 163, 167, 249–­51, 254, 274–­75 Xenophon, 225 Zeno, 47