Intervisuality: New Approaches to Greek Literature 9783110795448, 9783110795240

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Intervisuality

MythosEikonPoiesis

Herausgegeben von Anton Bierl Wissenschaftlicher Beirat: Gregory Nagy, Richard Martin

Band 16

Intervisuality

New Approaches to Greek Literature Edited by Andrea Capra and Lucia Floridi

ISBN 978-3-11-079524-0 e-ISBN (PDF) 978-3-11-079544-8 e-ISBN (EPUB) 978-3-11-079552-3 ISSN 1868-5080 Library of Congress Control Number: 2022948719 Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data are available on the internet at http://dnb.dnb.de. © 2023 Walter de Gruyter GmbH, Berlin/Boston Typesetting: Integra Software Services Pvt. Ltd. Printing and binding: CPI books GmbH, Leck www.degruyter.com

Contents Andrea Capra and Lucia Floridi Introduction 1

Part I: In limine Aglae Pizzone 1 À rebours: intervisuality from the Middle Ages to classical antiquity 15 Anton Bierl 2 From image to theatrical play in Aeschylus’ Oresteia Iconicity, intervisuality, the image act, and the dramatic performance act 33

Part II: Archaic and classical age George Alexander Gazis 3 Homer and the art of cinematic warfare

81

Riccardo Palmisciano 4 Intervisuality in the Greek symposium

103

Carmine Catenacci 5 The protohistory of portraits in words and images (sixth–fifth century BCE): tyrants, poets, and artists Cecilia Nobili 6 Looking at Athens through the lyric lens

121

149

Lucia Athanassaki 7 The politics of intervisuality Euripides’ Erechtheus, the West Pediment of the Parthenon, the Erechtheion, and the temple of Athena Nike 171

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Contents

Part III: Hellenistic and imperial age Benjamin Acosta-Hughes 8 The goddess playing with gold On the cult of Arsinoe-Aphrodite in image and text

197

Ewen L. Bowie 9 Intervisuality in declamation and sung poetry in imperial Greek cities 213 Lucia Floridi 10 Intervisual allusions in Lucian, Dialogues of the Sea Gods 15 Évelyne Prioux 11 Was Philostratus the Elder an admirer of Ovidian enargeia?

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Regina Höschele 12 ἐκ τῶν πινάκων. Aristaenetus’ intervisual allusions to Philostratus’ art gallery 283

Part IV: Pointing to Rome Matteo Cadario 13 Ordering the res gestae: observations on the relationship between texts and images in Roman ‘historical’ representations 305

Appendix List of contributors

335

Index nominum et rerum notabilium Index locorum

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Introduction Intertextuality is a well-known tool in literary criticism and has been widely applied to ancient literature, with classical scholarship being unusually at the frontline in developing new theoretical approaches.1 By contrast, the twin notion of intervisuality has only recently begun to appear in classical studies, and then only to describe the interaction between word and image in genres, such as comedy and epigram, which are most obviously related to the visual arts.2 While still lacking a consistent definition, intervisuality has proved extremely productive in fields such as visual culture studies, where it is used to describe ‘the simultaneous display and interaction of a variety of modes of visuality’,3 and art history, where it is adopted as a ‘visual counterpart’ to intertextuality, in order to describe the web of allusions, quotes, and reworkings that might link one artwork to another, based on the idea that ‘all art [. . .] takes prior work into account’.4 Through contributions from a diverse team of scholars, this book aims to bring intervisuality into sharper focus and show its potential as a tool to explore the research field traditionally referred to as ‘Greek literature’.

 The bibliography on intertextuality is large. Suffice it here to mention seminal works such as Conte (1986) and Hinds (1998).  For its application to comedy, see Petrides (2014) – perhaps the first classical scholar to have seriously engaged with intervisuality; for epigram, Floridi (2018) and Nobili (2018).  Mirzoeff (20022) 3. The word first appeared in Mirzoeff (1999) 30. According to Parks (20022) 285, intervisuality is ‘the practice of thinking and analysing across and between media rather than focusing upon the unique properties of each medium’.  Nelson (1999) 85. Notes: Some of the essays included in this volume were originally delivered as papers at the conference ‘Intervisuality and Literature in Greece and Rome’ (Milan University, February 7–8, 2017). Many thanks to the speakers as well as to those who joined the project at a later stage. Thanks are also due to the University of Milan for funding the conference back in 2017 and to Durham University for covering the additional expenses associated with the editorial process (pictures and proofreading). Finally, our warm thanks go to the anonymous readers for their encouragement and useful feedback. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110795448-001

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1 Why intervisuality is relevant to ‘Greek literature’ If one were to mention two distinctive phenomena that define Greek civilisation, the choice would easily fall on the symposium and on theatre. While originally imported from the east, in the archaic age the symposium rapidly turned into a hallmark of ‘Greekness’, perceived as such by contemporary civilisations. The symposium is a quintessentially synaesthetic phenomenon, involving all senses and providing a natural setting for most archaic poetry. As is well known, the interaction between poetry and images, especially as depicted on pottery, is integral to the symposium and to most of what we moderns refer to as lyric poetry, delivered as song accompanied by music. Accordingly, such poetry is intrinsically ‘intervisual’ and connected with the specific occasions in which the songs were performed. Archaic poetry could also be performed outdoors, in which case it often referred to – and was informed by – the topography of the relevant settings, such as monuments and performance spaces, thus providing further opportunity for intervisual interplay. This book explores both strands, which ultimately rest on what many scholars, in the wake of Bruno Gentili’s seminal work, refer to as the ‘pragmatic’ nature of archaic Greek poetry.5 Both strands were of course influenced by the exceptionally vivid quality of Homeric poetry, which is why a chapter on Homer precedes our discussion of lyric poetry. A quintessential example of Homeric vividness, the heroic duels found in the Iliad intriguingly resonate with images known from Bronze Age seals while at the same time activating an equally vivid form of ‘flashbulb’ memory in the minds of the audience, as argued in George Gazis’ chapter. Whereas the relationship between the images painted on sympotic vases and the poetry sung at symposia is the specific focus of Riccardo Palmisciano’s essay, Cecilia Nobili investigates the intervisual allusions to Athenian public spaces in the works of lyric poets. Carmine Catenacci instead examines how the visual experience of the first individual portraits, which filled public spaces in the Ionian and Athenian area between the sixth and the fifth century BCE, affected the word of the poets (and vice versa). As one would expect, this book also includes Attic theatre and its subsequent ramifications. Even more than the symposium, theatre implies a ‘spectatorship’ no less than an audience; at the same time, with the spread of literacy, both sympotic and theatrical poetry end up acquiring a readership and inform later forms of

 See e.g. Gentili (1984).

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literature.6 One of the most influential legacies of ‘Greek literature’, theatre somehow superseded the symposium as it rapidly turned from a one-city institution into a hallmark of Graeco-Roman civilisation. In the process, theatre, a visual no less than a verbal art form, triggered a series of related images in all sorts of media throughout the ancient world, and this extraordinary dissemination has been gaining traction in scholarship over the last few decades. Well beyond the narrow boundaries of text-focused approaches, new interpretative paradigms are trying to pin down such complex and heterogeneous material. This shift, as well as the pragmatic nature of Greek poetry, cannot but affect our understanding of intertextuality, which can hardly be grasped in full without its (inter)visual counterpart. As noted by Antonis Petrides, ancient theatre is ‘a form of performance in which allusion was not necessarily achieved by virtue of verbal markers, but also by the ability of the visual element, too, to make references to various semiotic systems collaborating in the creation of theatrical meaning. Intertextuality, in the case of Menander, encompassed intervisuality as well’.7 However, this volume shows – we hope – that the relevance of intervisuality for Greek theatre is not limited to Menander, nor solely to be understood in the relatively narrow meaning adopted by Petrides. The intervisual entanglements of theatrical performance are at the core of both Anton Bierl’s and Lucia Athanassaki’s chapters: while Bierl focuses on the complex and multifaceted visual aspects of the text of Aeschylus’ Oresteia and on their dramatic application, Athanassaki explores the political significance of Euripides’ dialogue in Erechtheus with three important Athenian temples – the West Pediment of the Parthenon, the temple of Athena Nike, and the Erechtheion. Intervisuality is relevant to ‘Greek literature’ both before and after the golden age of Attic theatre (fifth–fourth century BCE). Not only is theatre less an invention ex nihilo than the development of (highly spectacular) epic and lyric performances addressing both local and pan-Hellenic audiences; even more importantly, what we call Greek ‘literature’, a word that has no equivalent in classical Greek, is by and large a form of verbal art inextricably linked with performative contexts, whether imaginary or real. These contexts, in turn, work as a repository of mental images shared by both authors and audiences. As a consequence, the importance of visual components is integral to the very process of producing and consuming ‘Greek literature’.8  On spectatorship, see Peponi (2016).  Petrides (2014) 90–91.  Indeed, ‘ancient Greek culture, which had been deeply rooted in a traditional society based on orality, was more deeply grounded in iconicity than modern languages and literatures’ (Bierl, this volume, 34).

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When it comes to the relationship between ‘images’ and ‘texts’, archaeologists rightly emphasise that the former should never be viewed as a mere illustration of the latter. However, the very conventionality of classical iconography makes it closer to verbal language proper: much closer, say, than modern or contemporary visual arts, which are intrinsically polysemous. Ancient Greek iconography is based on meaningful patterns (schemata)9 surfacing in theatre productions, statuary, paintings, etc. These patterns form a visual code, whereby fairly stable meanings are encoded into images: as an extreme and late example, it is worth mentioning pantomimes, which were expected to ‘translate’ into images every single word of a given myth. Accordingly, intervisuality can help us grasp the somewhat parallel codes of images and texts, because a highly codified use of iconography means that the interchangeability of words and images is especially strong.10 This close and complex interaction between words and images persisted even when the ‘pragmatic’ nature of Greek literature gradually declined and gave way to a more bookish production. After the classical age, virtually all genres continued to refer to the quintessentially visual poetry of Homer – a point that is of course integral to George Gazis’ essay – as well as to the intervisual poems and plays connected with the symposium and with theatre. At the same time, the ubiquitous dissemination of ekphrasis meant that such references to the (inter)visual past of Greek poetry were in constant dialogue with a vast repository of contemporary images. This is why intervisuality remains a powerful tool to make sense of such a complex phenomenon well into the Hellenistic age. In this volume, Benjamin Acosta-Hughes provides an ‘intervisual reading’ of the surviving poetic passages on Arsinoe-Aphrodite in conjunction with images of Arsinoe. If anything, the relevance of intervisuality becomes even stronger in the imperial age when, as already mentioned, verbal and figurative codes come to be conceived of as strictly parallel forms of expression. Such a pervasive complementarity takes different forms, which this book explores in depth, if selectively. Ewen Bowie focuses on modes of intervisuality in display speeches, in sung poetry performances, and in the singing of ceremonial hymns in Greek cities of the second century CE, suggesting that the impact of all such performances on the audience was modulated by visual features of the performance

 Catoni (20082).  The idea that there are many interconnections between art and literature, or texts and images, in Graeco-Roman antiquity, which to a significant extent shape the character of Greek and Roman culture, is hardly a revolutionary thought today: it has served as the basis for several seminal discussions over the last few decades. The bibliography is large. Suffice it here to mention Onians (1979) and Squire (2009).

Introduction

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environments. Lucia Floridi’s and Évelyne Prioux’s chapters, respectively devoted to Lucian’s Dialogues of the Sea Gods and Philostratus’ Imagines, deal with the exploitation of the visual as well as literary memory of imperial audiences, while Regina Höschele explores the multifaceted way in which Aristaenetus absorbed the ekphrastic discourse of Philostratus’ Imagines into the epistolary framework of his own collection. Inevitably, the wide application of intervisuality in Greek literature during the imperial age mingled with specifically Roman ways of combining words and images intervisually. This is why the book includes Évelyne Prioux’s essay on Philostratus’ much discussed Ovidian background and closes with Matteo Cadario’s more markedly ‘Roman’ contribution, which explores the visual dimension of res gestae with reference to the Roman reception of the Iliad in such artefacts as the Tabulae Iliacae. Needless to say, ‘intervisuality’ takes different forms across the ages and places discussed in this book. In an attempt to map its possible applications, we will now sketch four possible ways of understanding intervisuality, associating each with the relevant chapters in this book.

2 Four tentative takes on intervisuality ‘Literature’ in the modern sense is by and large a post-classical innovation and it is no coincidence that Latinists, rather than Hellenists, should be credited with the most influential contributions to the interdisciplinary debate on intertextuality. In the light of the specific features of ‘Greek literature’ as outlined above, however, Hellenists are well placed to be just as bold and original in shaping the notion of intervisuality. Building on the ways in which scholars from other fields have used intervisuality, the introductory chapter of this volume (by Aglae Pizzone) suggests four main research avenues that can briefly be summarised as follows:

2.1 Intervisuality as interfigurativity In its strictest sense, intervisuality is the visual counterpart to intertextuality: if intertextuality is the allusion made by a work of literature to another work of literature, intervisuality is the allusion made by a work of art to another work of art. In a more general sense, the concept of intervisuality, when applied to literature, can be understood as the allusion made by a literary work to an

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image, be that a specific iconographic referent or, more generally, a schema (this aspect of intervisuality runs across all the contributions to this volume, but is brought into particular focus in the chapters by Gazis, Nobili, Athanassaki, Acosta-Hughes, Floridi, Prioux, Bowie, and Höschele).

2.2 Intervisual patterns Intertextuality should not be conceived of as a univocal process: a text will spark different associations, and thus different meanings, depending on the values, competences, disposition (and so forth) of different audiences or readers. Likewise, its twin term intervisuality can be described as ‘a process in which images are not the stable referents in some ideal iconographic dictionary, but are perceived by their audiences to work across and within different and even competing value-systems’.11 Depending on the audience, an image – or, at a more general level, an archetypal image, i.e. the notion the Greeks referred to as schema – will generate a multifaceted and ever-shifting meaning (this aspect is brought into focus, for instance, by Bierl, Floridi, and Cadario).

2.3 Intervisuality as interperformativity Intertextuality can work at different levels: the readers of a given text may recognise – and trace back to another text – a single term, a string of words, a turn of phrase, and so on: from the smallest to the most general, and perhaps impalpable, analogy. Likewise, intervisuality is not limited to individual images or even schemata, but can work at a broader level, and more specifically with reference to a succession of images, as found in theatrical, or otherwise visual, performances. A dramatic performance may evoke recollections of another not by means of verbal reminiscence, but through similarities in their visual dimensions (the notion of intervisuality as interperformativity is particularly relevant to Palmisciano’s, Nobili’s, Athanassaki’s, Bierl’s, and Bowie’s chapters).

 Camille (1991) 151.

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2.4 Intervisual reading The concept of intervisuality also encompasses the notion of intervisual reading. In medieval manuscripts image and decoration formed a single whole that allowed the viewer to access the materiality of written language. In like manner, an image can function as a visual comment on a written text, be it the interaction between images and captions on Greek painted pottery or between a monument and the relevant epigram. In such cases, intervisuality is closely related to ‘intermediality’: a message is expressed through the combination of two different media, which are both under the eyes of the reader/viewer.12 A competent audience can also visually supplement images that are merely evoked through a description, as is typical of ekphraseis13 (the notion of ‘intervisual reading’ is especially relevant to Palmisciano’s chapter). Needless to say, these four areas are by no means exhaustive.14 We envisage intervisuality, more broadly, as the complexity and bidirectionality of the interactions between verbal and visual codes, with an eye to the specificity of Greek visual culture. This is discussed in the introductory pages of Anton Bierl’s chapter, which complements the theoretical framework sketched by Aglae Pizzone and, therefore, comes second, right after Pizzone’s contribution – the book being otherwise arranged in a chronological order. In what follows, more modestly, we provide an example designed to show just how complex and ramified the relation between the visual and the verbal can be in Greek culture.

 On the notion of intermediality, see e.g. Wolf (1998) and (2002), Rajewsky (2002), and Schröter (2011). In relation to epigram, see Petrovic (2005), Dinter (2011) and (2013), and Muth and Petrovic (2012).  For a first attempt to draw a distinction between intermediality and intervisuality, see Floridi (2018), where ‘intermediality’ is taken as any expression of a message through the simultaneous use of two different media (visual and textual), and thus the combination of two different semiotic systems (Medienkombination), one of which (the text) explicitly mentions the other (the monument). The concept of intervisuality, on the contrary, is applied to any implicit allusion to an image on the part of the text, working as an equivalent of intertextual allusion, but specifically involving the interaction between image and text. While intermediality thus describes a relationship based on the actual interaction between a textual and a visual medium (e.g. the epigraph-monument relationship), intervisuality defines a kind of interaction that appeals to the visual memory of the audience, without explicitly mentioning any actual object.  Nor do they do full justice to intertextuality either, which in its most capacious formulation might encompass intervisuality as well, insofar as human-made images and even the world of nature, as perceived through human experience, can ultimately be construed as ‘text’. We thank one of the reviewers for alerting us to this important point.

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3 Socrates’ ‘mask’ as an example of multifaceted intervisuality The iconic image of Socrates inspired Paul Zanker’s famous 1995 book The Mask of Socrates. Zanker discussed at length Roman copies of two statues representing the philosopher, known as ‘type A’ and ‘type B’. With its markedly silenic traits, type A can be plausibly dated to the first half of the fourth century BCE and Zanker construes it as a privately sponsored portrait designed to question the values of the city and the notion of kalokagathia. Zanker further suggests that this provocative portrait corresponds to the description of Socrates as Silenus in Plato’s Symposium and works as ‘a kind of extension of Socratic discourse into another medium’.15 Such a portrait must have originated ‘in the circle of Socrates’ friends’ and was possibly ‘intended to stand in the mouseion of Plato’s Academy’,16 where later a portrait of Plato himself was placed. By contrast, type B, in all probability, is to be connected with the statue crafted by Lysippus (D.L. 2.43) as part of the ‘Lycurgan program for the patriotic renewal of Athens’17 around the fourth century BCE. The statue was meant as a revised portrait, designed to turn Socrates into a respectable and unchallenging citizen: ‘the philosopher who was once likened to a Silen now stands in the Classical contrapposto pose, his body well proportioned, essentially no different from the Athenian citizens on grave stelai’.18 Although Zanker does not use the term, his reconstruction resonates with intervisuality in at least two ways. To begin with, and rather obviously, Lysippus’ statue, insofar as it refers to, and partly derives its meaning from, type A, is a very straightforward example of intervisuality as interfigurativity. Moreover, Zanker thinks that the image of Socrates-Silenus as found in Plato’s Symposium and in type A ‘probably originated with his enemies and detractors’, as a way to stress Socrates’ ugliness. This means that a negative comparison is turned into a positive image, thus providing a neat example of an intervisual pattern based on a reversal. At the same time, the reversal resurrects the positive image of Silenus as a pedagogue, as found on Attic vases from the mid-fifth century, something that results in a further intervisual connection. Zanker’s interpretation is fascinating and convincing. More importantly, the idea that Plato’s friends placed a statue of Socrates in the Academy’s

   

Zanker (1995) 39. Zanker (1995) 38. Zanker (1995) 57. Zanker (1995) 60.

Introduction

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mouseion is now confirmed by a new reading of P.Herc. 1021, which preserves a section of Philodemus’ Index Academicorum. Philodemus quotes from the fifth book of Philochorus the Attidographer. In 2001, Augustin Speyer managed to convincingly decipher the relevant lines: Plato and his fellow philosophers – we learn – placed an ‘image’ (eikon) of Socrates by the Academy’s mouseion.19 It is especially fortunate that we know which book Philochorus’ quotation is taken from, because this narrows down the chronology to the first quarter of the fourth century BCE. Plato’s school was established around 387, so it is most likely that the statue of Socrates was placed there as a foundational act. While this provides remarkable confirmation of Zanker’s overall interpretation, it also partly contradicts it, because Plato composed the Symposium well after 387, so the statue can hardly be viewed as an ‘extension of Socratic discourse’.20 The primacy firmly belongs to the statue rather than to the literary portrayal found in the dialogues. Another aspect of Zanker’s interpretation that needs revising is the very notion of ‘mask’. Despite the title of his book, Zanker rules out any influence of theatre on Socratic iconography. Yet it can be demonstrated that the silenic characterisation of Socrates is clearly discernible in Aristophanes’ Clouds: Socrates’ very first words in the play (ὦ ’φήμερε, ‘O ephemeral’, l. 233), which he utters ex machina as he impiously stares at the sun when he first makes himself visible to the audience, are in fact the memorable opening of Silenus’ revelation, as is clear from a Pindaric fragment quoted in the relevant scholion and from a fragment of Aristotle’s Eudemus.21 The audience would have immediately recognised the catchphrase and identified Socrates with Silenus, something that was probably enhanced by a silenic mask – such masks were of course easily available because they were routinely used in satyr drama. Such a comic background, whose visual quality Socrates explicitly mentions in the Apology by referring to the Clouds as a play that Athenians watched, sheds new light on Plato’s portrait of Socrates, both literary and visual. Plato could not possibly erase Aristophanes’ abusive image of Socrates, so he opted for a different strategy: he appropriated and reversed Aristophanes’ image of Socrates-Silenus by giving it a positive meaning. Something similar must have happened, a few years earlier, with the statue he placed by the mouseion of the Academy: Socrates’ silenic features point back to Aristophanes’ play and were possibly modelled on the actual mask. The same is true for the literary portrait

 Speyer (2001).  Zanker (1995) 39.  Pind. fr. 157 Snell; Ar. fr. 6 Ross.

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in the Symposium: the comparison between Socrates and Silenus is presented as something funny yet conducive to truth. Further on in the dialogue, there is a direct quotation from the Clouds that turns an abusive description of Socrates’ gait into a praise of his courage. The review of Socrates’ virtues culminates in a description of how Socrates, most piously, stares at the sun, something that would have called to mind the schema adopted by Socrates in the Clouds as he entered the stage while staring (impiously) at the sun. In other words, a strong case can be made for intervisuality as interperformativity, our third category: in many ways, Plato’s dialogues conjure up the succession of images connected with Socrates’ spectacular entrance in the Clouds, which in turn is a parody of tragic gods descending ex machina. We know next to nothing about the way in which Plato’s dialogues were ‘published’, but the Academy was open to the public, as is clear from the references found in Middle Comedy.22 Given its natural connection with literary production, the mouseion itself is likely to have served as a venue in which the dialogues were delivered, quite possibly for their ‘premiere’. Most obviously, one thinks of the Symposium itself. Its readers could take part in a fascinating game of mirrors: on the one hand, the description of Socrates-Silenus could not fail to conjure up Socrates’ statue, something they could direct their gaze to if – or whenever – the dialogue was delivered in the Academy; on the other, they would have thought of Aristophanes’ Socrates, in both his visual and verbal dimension. But such an enhanced reading surely extends to other dialogues. In the Phaedo, for example, Socrates launches into what he refers to as a second apology, which is rounded off by an explicit reference to the comic stage. A reference to Socrates’ silenic look is then conveyed through the adverb ταυρηδόν (117b), ‘in a taurine way’, a word that in the classical age is found only here and in Aristophanes’ Frogs (804): in Plato’s text it is used to describe Socrates’ bulging eyes and all-encircling gaze. Silenus’ best-known revelation was of course his pessimistic precept according to which it is best never to be born and second best to die as soon as possible. Socrates’ studium mortis pervades the whole dialogue, and such a message is all the more powerful if readers envisage him in his silenic guise. Thus, Socrates’ silenic features promote what is referred to as intervisual reading, the fourth and last form of intervisuality discussed in this volume.

 For example, Epicrates 10 K.-A.

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4 Looking forward More could be said about the intervisual ramifications of Socratic iconography,23 but even this brief survey shows that all four types of intervisuality are involved. Indeed, it quite possibly shows that we would need even more categories to fully describe such a complex phenomenon which, we believe, is typical of what – for want of a better phrase – we call ‘Greek literature’. Moreover, Socratic iconography encompasses most aspects that inform intervisual interactions, including theatre, the symposium, and references to public monuments. As such, we hope, it clearly exemplifies the potential of an intervisual approach to Greek literature. Speaking of Socrates, we are certainly not oblivious to his disavowal of knowledge, which urges us to know ourselves and our limits. This brief introduction is anything but a comprehensive theoretical discussion of intervisuality. More theoretical food for thought awaits the reader in the introductory chapter by Aglae Pizzone and in that by Anton Bierl, which at the same time explores a specific subject at length, namely the Oresteia, and thus points to the following chapters, whose arrangement is roughly chronological. We conceive of this book as little more than a first step. We hope that the theoretical suggestions and case studies presented here, besides promoting a better understanding of individual Greek texts, will also trigger further debate and help refine the notion of intervisuality, with a view to making a theoretical contribution to its definition from a classical perspective by promoting fresh dialogue between (the study of) verbal and visual arts.

Bibliography Camille, M. 1991. Gothic Signs and the Surplus: The Kiss on the Cathedral. Yale French Studies. Special Issue. Contexts: Style and Values in Medieval Art and Literature: 151–170. Capra, A. 2021. Imitatio Socratis from the Theatre of Dionysus to Plato’s Academy. In Platonic Mimesis Revisited, ed. J. Pfefferkorn and A. Spinelli, 63–80. Sankt Augustin. Catoni, M.L. 20082. La comunicazione non verbale nella Grecia antica. Gli schemata nella danza, nell’arte, nella vita. Introduzione di S. Settis. Torino (1st ed. 2005). Conte, G.B. 1986. The Rhetoric of Imitation: Genre and Poetic Memory in Virgil and Other Latin Poets. Edited and with a Foreword by Charles Segal. Ithaka NY. Dinter, M. 2011. Inscriptional Intermediality in Latin Elegy. In Hellenistic Epigram and Latin Elegy, ed. A. Keith, 7–18. Newcastle.

 A more detailed discussion of Socrates’ iconography is provided by Capra (2021), with further bibliography.

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Dinter, M. 2013. Inscriptional Intermediality in Latin Literature. In Inscriptions and their Uses in Greek and Latin Literature, ed. P. Liddel and P. Low, 303–316. Oxford. Floridi, L. 2018. Αὐδὴ τεχνήεσσα λίθου. Intermedialità e intervisualità nell’epigramma greco. S&T 16: 25–54. Gentili, B. 1984. Poesia e pubblico nella Grecia antica da Omero al V secolo. Bari. Hinds, S. 1998. Allusion and Intertext. Dynamics of Appropriation in Roman Poetry. Cambridge. Mirzoeff, N. 1999. An Introduction to Visual Culture. London, New York. Mirzoeff, N. 20022. The Subject of Visual Culture and Introduction to Plug-in theory. In The Visual Culture Reader, ed. N. Mirzoeff, 3–23, 111–115. London, New York (1st ed. 1998). Muth, S. and I. Petrovic. 2012. Medientheorie als Chance. Überlegungen zur historischen Interpretation von Texten und Bildern. In Ansehenssache. Formen von Prestige in Kulturen des Altertums, ed. B. Christiansen and U. Thaler, 281–318. München. Nelson, R.S. 1999. The Chora and the Great Church: Intervisuality in Fourteenth Century Constantinople. BMGS 23: 67–101. Nobili, C. 2018. Εἰκὼν λαλοῦσα. Testo, immagine e memoria intervisuale nell’epigramma greco arcaico. S&T 16: 1–24. Onians, J. 1979. Art and Thought in the Hellenistic Age. The Greek World View 350–50 b.C. London. Parks, L. 20022. Satellite and Cyber Visualities. Analyzing the ‘digital earth’. In Mirzoeff (20022) 279–292. Peponi, A.E. 2016. Lyric Vision: An Introduction. In The Look of Lyric: Lyric Song and the Visual, ed. V. Cazzato and E. Prodi, 1–15. Leiden, Boston. Petrides, A.K. 2014. Menander, New Comedy and the Visual. Cambridge. Petrovic, A. 2005. ‘Kunstvolle Stimme der Steine, sprich!’ Zur Intermedialität der griechischen epideiktischen Epigramme. Antike und Abendland 51: 30–42. Rajewsky, I.O. 2002. Intermedialität. Tübingen. Schröter, J. 2011. Discourses and Models of Intermediality. Comparative Literature and Culture 13.3. Speyer, A. 2001. The earliest Bust of Socrates? New Observations to Philochorus in PHerc. 1021 col. 2. Cronache Ercolanesi 31: 81–95. Squire, M.J. 2009. Image and Text in Graeco-Roman Antiquity. Cambridge, New York. Wolf, W. 1998. Intermedialität. In Metzler Lexikon Literatur- und Kulturtheorie. Ansätze, Personen, Grundbegriffe, ed. A. Nünning, 238. Stuttgart. Wolf, W. 2002. Intermedialität – ein weites Feld und eine Herausforderung für die Literaturwissenschaft. In Literaturwissenschaft: intermedial, interdisziplinär, ed. H. Foltinek and C. Leitgeb, 163–192. Wien. Zanker, P. 1995. The Mask of Socrates: The Image of the Intellectual in Antiquity. Berkeley (or. ed. München 1995).

Part I: In limine

Aglae Pizzone

1 À rebours: intervisuality from the Middle Ages to classical antiquity Abstract: This contribution aims to reflect on the potential that the insights and methodologies developed by medievalists in relation to intervisuality might have for classical studies. In so doing, it will show that the performative and bodily aspects highlighted by those who first described the power of intervisuality in pre-modern media find a theoretical counterpart in recent enactive approaches to the readerly imagination. It first considers the different approaches to intervisuality developed by medievalists and classicists in recent years, dividing them up into four main clusters. Second, it provides two case studies to show how these approaches can further our understanding of ancient texts. When the protagonist of J.K. Huysmans’ novel À rebours arranges his own buen retiro in the French countryside, he is not stingy on intervisual delights. Literature finds an important place in his temporary escape from urban society. The senses and the body are integral to the pleasure of reading and so is the coexistence of multiple and conflicting semiotic signs, twisted and recontextualised. The end of Chapter 3, detailing the grand display of three poems by Baudelaire, perfectly encapsulates des Esseintes’ aesthetics: Enfin, sur la cheminée dont la robe fut, elle aussi, découpée dans la somptueuse étoffe d’une dalmatique florentine, entre deux ostensoirs, en cuivre doré, de style byzantin, provenant de l’ancienne Abbaye-au-Bois de Bièvre, un merveilleux canon d’église, aux trois compartiments séparés, ouvragés comme une dentelle, contint, sous le verre de son cadre, copiées sur un authentique vélin, avec d’admirables lettres de missel et de splendides enluminures, trois pièces de Baudelaire: à droite et à gauche, les sonnets portant ces titres: «la Mort des Amants», – «l’Ennemi»; – au milieu, le poème en prose intitulé: «Any where out of the world. – N’importe où, hors du monde».

The materials, iconographic references, objects, display, and everything else contribute to turning textual consumption into a performative and highly intervisual act. While it is considered a hallmark of late nineteenth- and early twentiethcentury Western European culture, such an aesthetic is, in fact, in many respects pre-modern. À rebours means backwards, after all.

https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110795448-002

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1.1 Theory À rebours, evoking a non-linear movement as well as a non-conventional Sitz im Leben, is a fitting title for my contribution on intervisuality. First, and more straightforwardly, a backward trajectory characterises my reflections. I will offer a survey of how the notion of intervisuality has benefited the study of premedieval cultures so far. However, since medieval studies have been particularly keen and prompt to adopt this analytical tool, my historiographical outline will necessarily proceed in reverse chronological order from the Middle Ages to ancient times. Second, when it was first introduced, intervisuality brought about a break in traditional academic thinking. The concept substantially contributed to challenging and redefining traditional historiographical, hermeneutic, and philological practices in medieval studies across fields ranging from art history to book history, from iconology to textual analysis.1 It disrupted vertical, stemmatic notions of tradition by emphasising instead the power of horizontal contamination.2 It questioned established interpretative hierarchies, unravelling the existence of bottom-up hermeneutics, beyond the limits of learned practices. Intervisuality also opened up, just like intertextuality had done before, a more fluid idea of temporality, one in which the past affects the present as much as the other way around. In so doing, it tied in beautifully with reflections on the inherent queerness of medieval times.3 This contribution aims to reflect on the potential that the insights and methodologies developed by medievalists in relation to intervisuality might have for classical studies. In so doing, it will show that the performative and bodily aspects highlighted by those who first described the power of intervisuality in pre-modern media find a theoretical counterpart in recent enactive approaches to the readerly imagination.4 Intervisuality is a term that was first coined by art historians by drawing upon concepts developed by semiologists and linguists to study the mutual relationships between textual documents. It is quite clearly an offshoot of intertextuality, which itself has gone through many incarnations since the notion was first proposed by Kristeva, along the lines of Bakhtin’s dialogism.5 At first sight we are confronted with a glaring paradox. We are exploring an analytical

 See Reeve (2016).  See the conclusions recently reached by Rodríguez Porto (2013), esp. 74.  On this notion see Dinshaw (2012).  Huitnik (2017) and further in this contribution for more details.  Concerning the various ways of understanding (and misunderstanding) the concept, see the overview by Martin (2011).

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category that art historians have borrowed from literary studies. Admittedly, medieval studies are better placed for this cross-contamination, given the role played by book illumination in textual production and consumption.6 Classics does not have this advantage. And yet, my aim is to show that intervisuality can be reappropriated to study (non-illuminated) texts by moving from the visual back to the textual. Furthermore, as I hope to demonstrate, reflecting on ancient practices of intervisuality can also help make sense of some traits of early book illumination. I will begin by considering the different approaches to intervisuality developed by medievalists and classicists in recent years. I will group these approaches into four main clusters: 1. intervisual patterns; 2. intervisuality as interperformativity; 3. intervisuality as interfigurativity; 4. intervisual reading. The order is far from random. Although there might be – and indeed are – overlaps between the four clusters, the media supporting the intervisual process become more and more important (and more specific) as one progresses from 1 to 4. In the second part of my contribution, I will provide two examples of how clusters 1–2 and 4 can help provide new insights in the understanding of ancient texts.

1.1.1 Intervisual patterns The first student of medieval art to tap into the potential of intervisuality was Michael Camille in the early 1990s. In his – by now foundational – article in Yale French Studies titled ‘Gothic Sign and the Surplus: The Kiss on the Cathedral’,7 Camille explores the multivalence of the kiss as a social sign. Camille takes the term ‘image’ in its broader sense, dealing with both monumentalised or pictorial images and social and mental representations. The latter, however, take the lion’s share. By favouring broader practices of memory, involving viewers regardless of their social extraction, Camille goes beyond traditional iconology. He is interested in the way in which image-signs lend themselves to different purposes and generate an array of meanings potentially reflecting conflicting moral and social values. The crucial point is that meanings and image-signs are never in a one-to-one correspondence nor do signs point just to polarised meanings. The relationship is much more fluid. Camille’s theoretical tenets are explained in the first paragraph of his paper:

 See Desmond (2009).  Camille (1991).

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Just as meaning in literary texts is often generated by intertextuality, this paper deals with what we might term intervisuality – a process in which images are not the stable referents in some ideal iconographic dictionary but are perceived by their audiences to work across and within different and even competing value-systems. One such image that was manipulated by various verbal and visual discourses in medieval society was the kiss. Li baisiers autre chose atrait Et quant il a la fome plait Qu’ele le veut et le desirre, Du sorplus n’i a nul que dire [LI. 129–341] [. . .] During the Middle Ages the kiss was paradigmatic of the rich potentiality of the sign since it always led directly to something else. This sorplus, described here by Robert de Blois in his manual on the behaviour of women, Le Chastiement des dames, was most often seen as sexual intercourse.8

What is crucial here is the notion of surplus. The surplus creates a space in which meaning can move, thus generating multiple connections. The viewer or the reader infers what the surplus contains, and their inference can be reinforced or denied. Nonetheless, the viewer and/or reader becomes part of the performance. Thanks to this movement, dialogue with other image-signs becomes possible. We will come back to this notion of free space in which meanings overlap, coexist, and create a mutual tension. Camille’s approach to intervisuality has a great potential also for classical studies, not least because classical antiquity had a stable repertoire of schemata which were conceptualised both as mental images and as an iconographic repertoire. They structured established practices of memories and such practices in turn worked across society, from the learned iconographic schemata appreciated by the pepaideumenoi to the popular bodily schemata of the pantomime.9 Overlaps were far from rare and provided further room for textual and visual creativity. Schemata work precisely like Camille’s image-signs and are endowed with a potential allowing for a free space of interpretative movement – in other words, with a sorplus.

 Camille (1991) 151. Cf. Karkov (2001) 17–18 and Alexander (1996) 156.  The socially inclusive nature of mental images has been beautifully described for medieval art by Merback (1998) 45–46, based on the game-changing insights of Baxandall (1988).

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1.1.2 Intervisuality as interperformativity Interperformativity is commonly regarded as a ubiquitous presence in medieval art, rhetoric, and poetry.10 Cross-modal references to liturgy and sacred or secular plays were common currency. Not surprisingly, this is the entry point through which the notion of intervisuality has landed in classical studies. Theatre is naturally suspended between the aural and the visual, between text and image. Intervisuality thus becomes particularly close to interperformativity. The notion has been explored independently by Robert Cowan in relation to Roman theatre and its indebtedness to Greek drama11 and, above all, by Antonis Petrides,12 who identifies intervisuality as one of the keys to a fuller understanding of Menander. Their definitions of intervisuality are respectively: The ways in which one dramatic performance can evoke recollections of another, not by means of verbal reminiscence, but through similarities in their visual dimension.13 A form of performance in which allusion was not necessarily achieved by virtue of verbal markers, but also by the ability of the visual element, too, to make references to various semiotic systems collaborating in the creation of theatrical meaning. Intertextuality, in the case of Menander, encompassed intervisuality as well.14

As we shall see, this facet of intervisuality works particularly well in connection with intervisual patterns. In other words, while interperformativity – that is, the visual reference to other performances – is the most natural form of theatrical intervisuality, it is not the only one. The inherent visuality of dramatic performances also lends itself to further intervisual references, beyond the stage. Conversely, non-dramatic texts can intervisually refer to staging also in cases where no actual performance in the stronger sense is involved.

1.1.3 Intervisuality as interfigurativity Eight years after Camille’s paper, a Byzantine art historian, Robert Nelson, attempted to transfer the theoretical tools of intertextuality to art historical analysis. Although he does not mention Camille’s study, unsurprisingly both Bakhtin and Kristeva surface in his work. Nelson belonged to a new generation of Byzantinists

    

See, for instance, Gertsman (2008). Cowan (2013). Petrides (2014). Cowan (2013) 314. Petrides (2014) 90–91.

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who, in the 1990s, enthusiastically embraced theory and post-structuralism, revolutionising the study of the Greek Middle Ages. His paper ‘The Chora and the Great Church: Intervisuality in Fourteenth Century Constantinople’15 explores the dialogue between the two most impressive acts of patronage in the Late Byzantine Empire: the restoration of the Chora church by Metochites and the projects related to Hagia Sophia undertaken by the emperor Andronikos II Palaiologos (1282–1328). Nelson’s analysis builds on Bakhtin’s interest in the social grounding of language. Utterances do not occur in a vacuum, they occur in the space between addresser and addressee; therefore, they are always, essentially, a dialogue. Nelson shows how Kristeva adopted Bakhtin’s dialogical imagination, turning it into a ‘mosaic of quotations’ and coining the term intertextuality. ‘Shifted [. . .] to visual imagery, the concept becomes intervisuality and can be generally applied, for all art is a communication between an addresser and an addressee and takes prior work into account.’16 This approach is in a way more traditional than the one advocated by Camille. While it opens up iconographic programmes to dialogue with contemporary and past monuments, at first sight, it seems to offer very little in the way of possible ‘backward’ interactions, so to say, with the semiotic sphere of written language. And yet, in discussing the quintessentially dialogical character of the icons on the walls of the Chora church, Nelson reminds us that: Icons are a special form of visual communication, because in practice they are regarded as a person. Icons are fundamentally dialogic and replete with semantic markers that characterise and facilitate speech, or what linguists call discourse. Figures stare outward and gesture to their beholders. Inscriptions, presented in or by icons, often contain deictic language, words that indicate time and space only for the participants in a conversation. In everyday use, icons are surrounded by speech [. . .] and that communication is not thought to be unidirectional, one type of Christ icon even being called the Antiphonetes, the one who responds.17

Admittedly, classical antiquity did not have icons. What it did have, however, was statues, complete with epigrams, inscribed and talking objects, often endowed with very strong affordances:18 a whole sector of literary production in which the methodological tool of intervisuality, as outlined by Nelson, can help us gain new insights (and perhaps has already done so, albeit under different labels). Studies on the intervisuality of epigrams seem to confirm this point.19

    

Nelson (1999). Nelson (1999) 86. Nelson (1999) 85–86. Cairns (2017), esp. 33. Floridi (2018) and Nobili (2018).

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1.1.4 Intervisual reading The fourth area in which intervisuality has emerged in medieval studies pertains to the dynamics of reading. In ‘The Visuality of Reading in Pre-Modern Cultures’,20 Marilynn Desmond focuses on the reader as an embodied and desiring viewer whose task is to decode both the textual and the visual elements of the book. Desmond approaches intervisuality through Zumthor’s definition of mouvance.21 Zumthor saw medieval texts as objects always on the move. On the one hand, obviously, they travel across time and space; on the other hand, they are appropriated and reshaped according to the receiver’s needs. The vertical dimension (i.e. models) and the horizontal one (i.e. the variations) are in constant tension. Interestingly, Zumthor’s mouvance is a response to the a-historical approach advocated by Kristeva, a post-structuralist avant la lettre. Intertextuality, as conceived by Zumthor, implies appropriation and therefore requires a written text. Retenons du moins, provisoirement, que le ‘texte oral’ est foncièrement moins appropriable que le texte écrit; qu’il constitue, plus ou moins, tend au moins à constituer, un bien assez largement commun dans le groupe sociologique où il fonction.22

In other words, it belongs to everyone. When literature is produced orally, the tension between models and variations works differently: the models are more stable and more easily recognisable, while variations occur in the form of the recombination of textual chunks rather than via reshaping or rewriting. Rewriting implies appropriation, while variation presupposes a form of commentary and deeper adaptation, akin to a translation. Taking her cues from these theoretical tenets, Desmond successfully shows that the medieval reader is constantly moving around the text, by engaging not only with the written sign but also, and at times exclusively, with the visual: Since written language was itself a script for a rhetorical or oral performance, the corporeality of the medieval book presupposed an embodied viewer whose literacy allowed for decoding the complex visuality of each page. In such a dynamic context, the medieval manuscript’s visual apparatus was in no way secondary to the textual: image and decoration did not merely supplement the words on the page but functioned as a central component in a textuality that allowed the viewer access to the materiality of written language.23

   

Desmond (2009). Zumthor (1972) 65–75, and (1981). Zumthor (1981) 15. Desmond (2009) 220.

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Images become a visual commentary that reshapes the story they gloss. Taking as an example the flourishing of illuminated manuscripts of the Roman de la Rose between the thirteenth and the fifteenth century, Desmond shows how the ultimate meaning of the narrative can be changed by decorative programmes voicing contrasting normative values. Ancient books did not work this way, primarily for material, technological reasons. As we shall see in a moment, papyri and scrolls did not lend themselves to extensive decorative programmes. However, and this is my contention, the Graeco-Roman reader is not so distant from the medieval one. Since the late 1990s scholars have been particularly interested in the scopic regimes of the ancient world at large, and more specifically in the ocularcentrism of Graeco-Roman imperial culture, captured by notions such as enargeia, ‘vividness’, and phantasia, ‘visual imagination’.24 Thus, as Helen Morales has shown, the quintessentially Graeco-Roman genre, the novel, routinely conceptualises its consumers as viewers and moves driven by a strong desire, at that.25 The more recent application of findings in cognitive studies to the reading of ancient sources has helped better define how sight and view impact readers’ mental tasks. Expanding on the notion of enargeia, Huitnik has recently demonstrated that enargeia must be understood as a multimodal quality, one that does not only affect view, but embodies cognition at large. Likewise, an exclusively pictorialist account is limiting for the readerly imagination. Phantasia is better accounted for through a ‘non-representationalist enactivist theory of vision and imagination’26 conceptualised as an ‘ongoing, attentive interaction between an embodied observer and the environment’.27 Movement – both the observer’s own movement and that of others – is key. Imaginings are ‘undergone’ rather than ‘seen’, with the sensorimotor feedback coming from memory rather than from the environment. The relevance of such an enactivist perspective for intervisuality is obvious. The centrality of the body and experience explains how Camille’s surplus works from a cognitive point of view. It provides the theoretical ground to overcome a purely visual and bidimensional iconography. It shows the importance of personal

 The bibliography is vast. Suffice it here to mention Goldhill (1996) on different scopic regimes in the democratic polis, Hellenistic Alexandria, and the Second Sophistic period, when the concerns about the desiring eyes trickled down to Christian intellectuals; Elsner (2007) on the Roman viewer; Webb (2009) on rhetorical visualisation techniques, especially in lateantique sources; Squire (2016) on sight and the senses; Platt and Squire (2017) for a more historicist approach.  Morales (2004).  Huitnik (2017) 175.  Huitnik (2017) 176. On enargeia see also Hutnik (2019).

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experience in apprehending signs and visual patterns but also in apprehending space, as demonstrated by current embodied-enactivist approaches to the experiencing of architectural spaces.28 It makes sense, from a cognitive point of view, of the anthropological approach to images notably developed in the 2010s by Hans Belting. Belting looked at the human body as a ‘living medium’ constantly processing images from the inhabited world and conflating them with man-made images of visual arts.29 It also better clarifies how interperformativity practically works on spectators’ mind. Finally, it sheds light on the inner workings of intervisual readings, accounting for why such a reading was implicitly present in Graeco-Roman times, well before the rise of the codex. Images might not be physically present on the scroll, at least not pervasively. However, if they are inscribed in the narrative, they give rise to the same exegetical interplay with the text, mobilising alternative meanings and values, just as we see in medieval manuscripts. I will expand on this point in a little while. Here I will confine myself to saying that the Graeco-Roman readers may not have had the luxury of painted narratives like the Western medieval or the Byzantine ones. However, once the first illuminated codices were produced, they already possessed the visual literacy and the cognitive practices of memory required to deal with the subtle interaction between the text and its representations. Technology was just catching up with readers’ minds, providing new ways to engage with the environment’s affordances.30

1.2 Practice I will now move on to the second part of my contribution, looking at practical applications of the modes of intervisuality highlighted above. More specifically, I will expand on points 1–2, treated together, and 4 in order to show how these theoretical approaches can help us gain new insights into ancient texts.

1.2.1 Agnoia or the revelation of intervisuality In Chapter 2 of his book on Menander, Antonis Petrides dwells on the opening scene of the Perikeiromene. He recalls a wall painting from Ephesus (second

 Jelic and Stanicic (2020).  See especially Belting (2011).  See Rietveld and Kieverstein (2014).

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century CE) and a mosaic from Antioch (third century CE) representing the comedy’s opening scene and he endorses the view that they reproduce the actual mise en scène of the play.31 Petrides also suggests that such a staging included an intervisual reference to the opening scene of the lost Niobe by Aeschylus, alluded to in Aristophanes’ Frogs 911–926 and also preserved through vase paintings.32 We thus have a case here of interperformative allusion. Petrides talks about an ‘intertextual soundtrack of mourning’,33 but there are perhaps even more facets to it than those he acknowledges. Niobe’s story narrates the destruction of an entire oikos, including the extended family, at least in the Homeric version.34 Glycera’s mourning and her Niobe-like silence, on the contrary, anticipate the creation of a new oikos, complete with an extended family. The intervisual–intertextual play turns out to be even more powerful if we add to this picture the well-known couplet from Aeschylus’ Niobe that Plato criticises as impious in the Republic: ‘A god implants the guilty cause in men / when he would utterly destroy a house.’35 The reference is not preposterous since the line is quoted in a paratragic passage of Menander’s Aspis (ll. 412–413), with explicit mention of Aeschylus. In the Perikeiromene, furthermore, Glycera takes the guilt upon herself, adopting a behaviour that breaches shared social values in that she accepts her brother’s embrace. Her heart is guilty to the world’s eyes. Her apparent misdemeanour, however, does not cause the destruction of her oikos, which already occurred in the past by sheer chance; on the contrary, it triggers a development that will help rebuild and enlarge her family.36 It is precisely on this triggering event that I would like to focus. Glycera’s encounter with Moschion is loaded with multiple intervisual potential, as I will try to demonstrate. The scene described above does not happen on stage. Agnoia narrates it to the audience in the prologue. The gaze plays a central role, as events are related through different kinds of focalisation, including the point of view of an

 Petrides (2014) 84–85, with bibliography on the paintings.  Petrides (2014) 87–88 and n. 11.  Petrides (2014) 88.  Il. 24.599–620. The Homeric text presents the unique version according to which, after Apollo and Artemis were done with Niobe’s offspring, Zeus turned into stone both their mother and her relatives, to prevent her children from being buried. The myth of Niobe is used by Achilles when he addresses Priamus announcing that Hector’s body will be returned to him. See Brügger (2017) 222–230 for a detailed commentary on the passage.  Plat. Resp. 2.380a θεὸς μὲν αἰτίαν φύει βροτοῖς, / ὅταν κακῶσαι δῶμα παμπήδην θέλῃ. See Aesch. fr. 154a.15–16 R. (= PSI 1208). On Aeschylus quotes in the Republic, see Bakewell (2017), esp. 264–266 for Niobe. See also Kalamara (2019) for the notion of guilt – human and divine.  On family and gender roles in the play see Konstan (1987).

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eyewitness (probably the slave Sosias) watching the scene and misreading it. The text runs as follows (153–162):37 . . . ἔτυχ’ ἑσπέρας πέμπουσά ποι θεράπαιναν, ὡς δ’ ἐπὶ ταῖς θύραις αὐτὴν γενομένην εἶδεν, εὐθὺ προσδραμὼν ἐφίλει, περιέβαλλ’, ἡ δὲ τῷ προειδέναι ἀδελφὸν ὄντ’ οὐκ ἔφυγε· προσιὼν δ’ –[ ἅτερος ὁρᾷ. τὰ λοιπὰ δ’ αὐτὸς –[ εἴρηχ]–’, ὃν τ̣ρ̣ –[ όπον ὁ μὲν ᾤχετ’, εἰπὼν ὅτι κατὰ σχολὴν ἰδεῖν αὐτήν τι βούλεθ’, ἡ δ’ ἐδάκρυ’ ἑστῶσα καὶ ὠδύρεθ’ ὅτι ταῦτ’ οὐκ ἐλευθέρως ποεῖν ἔξεστιν αὐτῇ.

155

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At dusk he chanced to spot her sending off her maid upon some errand, and when he saw her by the door, he ran. Straight up, he kissed and hugged her. She didn’t try escaping, for she knew he was her brother. [That slave] appeared and saw it. He himself [’s] [described] the outcome – how the youth went off saying he’d like to see her when convenient, while she stood there in tears and sobbed. ‘She wasn’t at liberty to act like that’. (transl. W.G. Arnott)

The scene is built like a Chinese box of gazes: the audience watches and listens to a tale where another character acts in turn as a spectator. The mention of the door enhances the effect, as it immediately calls theatrical doors to mind and almost works as a staging direction, just like the specifications about Moschion’s sudden appearance and subsequent running away. What interests me here, however, is the fact that the pivotal role in the scene depends on the force of the embrace as an intersubjective social sign endowed with a surplus, one that elicits different bodily reactions.38 The most obvious surplus points to sexual intercourse and the violation of family ethics. The same visual pattern, however, might imply a totally different set of values, those of the oikos epitomised by the love between siblings. It is often said that Moschion falls in love with Glycera by chance. In fact, his feelings could equally be caused by a natural disposition, if we are to believe Aristotle’s  For the most recent edition of the text see Furley (2015).  On the psychology of the embrace and the non-verbal negotiation underlying it, with an eye to both embodied aspects and gender as well as social influences, see Koch and Rautner (2017).

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claim that affection between siblings is among the strongest forms of philia.39 Love between siblings, however, is the glue keeping together the wrecked families populating the tragic stage:40 Orestes and Electra, obviously, but also Helen and the Dioscuri as well as Antigone. Indeed, Glycera’s need to express her feelings is reminiscent of Euripides’ Phoenissae and of Antigone’s urge to be flown down from the walls of Thebes to Polynices in order that she may throw her arms around his neck.41 The wish, expressed during a scene of teichoscopia strongly resonating with the Iliad, is conveyed in a very visual manner to the spectator, who is invited to picture the battlefield with the mind’s eye, in a vision from above.42 As has been acknowledged, the embrace envisioned by Antigone is, once again, endowed with a visual surplus, which makes it open to multiple readings: wrapping one’s arms around a person’s neck evokes the act of greeting and recognising someone, but also grief and unfulfilled desire, in scenes where family bonds are severed forever due to loss.43 Tragic relationships between siblings, however tender they may be, never manage to prevent family ties from imploding. Antigone’s wish in the Phoenissae will be fulfilled, but, as Lamari points out, not at the time or in the context she was hoping for.44 On the contrary, Glycera’s ‘tragic’ behavioural patterns and wishes will result in a positive ending, albeit one at odds with Moschion’s reading of the surplus.45 To sum up, at the beginning of the play, Menander’s audience is faced with an array of conflicting visual patterns, which, in turn, carry further bodily, intersubjective, intertextual, and intertheatrical references. It is the coexistence of such conflicting patterns that builds the plot and leads to the construction of a whole new set of values, reflecting Menander’s ethical stance. It also leads to a reduction of the signs – from the multiple possible meanings of the beginning – and therefore, as convincingly argued by Petrides, to their standardisation.46

 EN 1161b3–33.  Here there might be some echo of actual practices dictated by Athenian inheritance and property laws, which indirectly encouraged cooperation between brothers and sisters, while fostering rivalry between brothers: see Cox (1988).  Eur. Ph. 163–168. On the bond between siblings in tragedy, see Alaux (1997).  De Jong and Nünlist (2004).  Lamari (2017) 38; see also Lamari (2007).  Lamari (2017) 38.  Cf. ll. 301–303, with Segal (2001) 163–164.  Cf. ll. 985–986.

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1.2.2 Sketched reading As mentioned above, recent research has challenged widespread assumptions about reading and visualising in ancient times, as well as about the inner workings of enargeia, or vividness.47 Huitink has convincingly shown that enargeia, when conceptualised as a stylistic and cognitive device, in fact does not imply an abundance of details and visual minutiae, but rather the evoking of stock pictures later integrated through the reader’s enlivened and embodied experience: ‘For the vividness of the imagination does not depend on the amount of detail “seen”, but on a distinct, bodily-perceptual “feel” that is akin to that of actual visual perception.’48 Such an insight, if transferred from imaginings to images, might help explain a seemingly odd characteristic of ancient book production. As is well known, illuminated papyri are extremely rare – especially if we consider ‘narrative’ illuminations, that is, if we disregard diagrammatic and symbolic illustrations in scientific or magical texts.49 One answer to the scarcity of this kind of material might be that most of the papyri salvaged from the ravages of time come from provincial areas like Oxyrhynchus, where it was less likely to find luxury goods such as fully illustrated books. However, what we have shows very different features compared to medieval illustration techniques. The pictures from P.Oxy. XXII 2331 (Fig. 1.1) and the very famous ‘romance papyrus’ Supplément Grec 1294 (Fig. 1.2) shown here are telling.50 The drawings are sketchy and secondary compared to the written text. The mise en page is not affected by them and the writing does not follow the images, which have simply been inserted in the first space available between lines of writing. They are not framed in any way: architectural or monumental elements are completely absent, as is any kind of background. Judging from the scant surviving remains, illustrated papyri did not seem to allow for the kind of complex exercising of visual literacy stimulated by codices. Graeco-Roman viewers however, as any human viewer, were well versed in that exercise, precisely thanks to the functioning of phantasia and energeia, to put it with the ancient critics. Thanks to the bodily experience of looking at art and at the world, so aptly described by Belting among others, readers could

 See Huitink (2017) with Grethlein and Huitink (2017).  Huitink (2017) 178.  On illuminated papyri, see Horak (1992), Stramaglia (2007), Whitehouse (2007), and Broderson and Elsner (2009).  On P.Oxy. XXII 2331, see Hammerstaedt (2000) and Russo 2014 (with previous bibliography). On Supplément Grec 1294, see Gerstringer (1926) 10, Weitzmann (1947) 51, and Weitman (2010) 1: the website Gallica (https://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/btv1b10538868t.image) points to an edition in progress by J.L. Fournet.

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Fig. 1.1: P.Oxy. XXII 2331, third century CE. © Wikimedia Commons.

Fig. 1.2: Supplément Grec 1294, detail. © Gallica, Bibliothèque Nationale de France, Département des Manuscripts Grecs.

integrate other intervisual practices into such a mental exercise. The kind of schematic rendering we find in papyri can also be detected in many figurative displays of literary works in private and public spaces. A case in point is again represented by the popular Menander, as shown by Nervegna,51 apart from the occasional addition of the scenae frons as an architectural detail, as in the mosaics by Zosimos depicting the Synaristosai at Zeugma.

 Nervegna (2013) 136–200.

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Not surprisingly, the act of reading is often equated with the act of decoding works of art, while references to figurative arts help the audience frame the narrative in the correct way.52 To better illustrate this interplay between different applications of looking at, visualising, reading, and interpreting, I will provide an example from the ancient novel, which shows how ‘flipped’ iconographic models are used to reinforce the ethical values conveyed by the novel. My example comes from Chariton’s novel Chaereas and Callirhoe. We are in the third book. Callirhoe has decided to marry Dionysius, to grant herself and her unborn child safety. After she gives birth, Dionysius organises a magnificent sacrificial feast at the shrine of Aphrodite on his estate. At 3.8.6 Chariton describes how Callirhoe, who wishes to pay homage to Aphrodite alone, holds her son as she ‘confers’ with the goddess: πρῶτον μὲν οὖν τὸν υἱὸν εἰς τὰς αὑτῆς ἀγκάλας ἐνέθηκε, καὶ ὤφθη θέαμα κάλλιστον, οἷον οὔτε ζωγράφος ἔγραψεν οὔτε πλάστης ἔπλασεν οὔτε ποιητὴς ἱστόρησε μέχρι νῦν· οὐδεὶς γὰρ αὐτῶν ἐποίησεν Ἄρτεμιν ἢ Ἀθηνᾶν βρέφος ἐν ἀγκάλαις κομίζουσαν. So first she took the child in her arms, and thus afforded a beautiful sight, the like of which no painter has ever yet portrayed, nor sculptor fashioned, nor poet described before; for none of them has represented Artemis or Athena holding a baby in her arms. (transl. G.P. Good)

By this point Callirhoe is far from being a virgin like Athena or Artemis: she has already married twice – although her first husband is still alive, unbeknownst to her – and she is holding in her arms Chaereas’ baby, whom her second husband Dionysius believes to be his own. Douglas Edwards has suggested that the bizarre simile conjured up by Charito may point to Aphrodite’s superiority over Artemis and Athena53 since the goddess was the patroness of both Callirhoe and Aphrodisia. However, the short passage could also suggest a potentially new iconography, one in which the idea of virginity is not associated with the absence of intercourse/negation of motherhood, but with psychological faithfulness.54 The idea of novelty stressed through the implicit equivalence between novelist and painter also seems to point in this direction. Granted, Callirhoe has remarried, but only for the sake of her unborn child, the result of her ‘chaste’ relationship with Chaereas. Readers here need to merge bodily, cultic, and visual languages and experiences into a new image, which in turn captures

 See Pizzone (forthcoming).  Edwards (1991) and (1996).  On the framing of Callirhoe as a new goddess, see Schmeling (2005).

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the paradox of the novel’s narrative. The short paragraph above requires the same complex exercise and ability to move between conflicting signs as medieval illuminations, except that the images are here inscribed in the text. I would like to conclude by stating once more that ‘inscribed’ is really the key word. Visuality is inscribed both in the text and in the reader’s lived experiences, just as the reader is ‘inscribed’ in the world he inhabits. Intervisuality was inherent in the consumption of texts in ancient times. They were designed to elicit references to a shared repertoire of images, monuments, gestures, and visual patterns carrying specific sets of values and concepts and evoking a range of experiences. The resulting dialogue added a further layer of meaning, one that we cannot ignore if we wish to gain a full understanding of the texts we are working with.

Bibliography Alaux, J. 1997. Fratricide et lien fraternal: quelques repères grecs. Quaderni di Storia 23: 107–132. Alexander, J.J.G. 1996. Dancing in the Streets. The Journal of the Walters Art Gallery, Essays in Honor of Lilian M.C. Randall, 54: 147–162. Bakewell, G. 2017. The Voice of Aeschylus in Plato’s Republic. In Voice and Voices in Antiquity: Orality and Literacy in the Ancient World, ed. N. Slater, 260–276. Leiden, Boston. Baxandall, M. 19882. Painting and Experience in Fifteenth-Century Italy. Oxford (1st ed. 1972). Belting, H. 2011. An Anthropology of Images: Pictures, Medium, Body. Princeton. Brodersen, K. and J. Elsner. 2009. Images and Texts on the ‘Artemidorus Papyrus’. Stuttgart. Brügger, C. 2017. Homer’s Iliad. Book XXIV. Translated by B. Mills and S. Strack. Edited by S.D. Olson. Boston, Berlin. Camille, M. 1991. Gothic Sign and the Surplus: The Kiss on the Cathedral. Yale French Studies. Special Issue. Contexts: Style and Values in Medieval Art and Literature: 151–170. Cowan, R. 2013. Haven’t I seen you before somewhere? Optical allusions in Republican tragedy. In Performance in Greek and Roman Theatre, ed. G. Harrison and V. Liapis, 311–342. Leiden, Boston. Cox, C.A. 1988. Sibling Relationships in Classical Athens: Brother-Sisters Ties. Journal of Family History 13.4: 377–395. Desmond, M. 2009. The Visuality of Reading in Pre-Modern Cultures. Australian Journal of French Studies 46: 219–234. de Jong, I.J.F. and R. Nünlist. 2004. From bird’s eye view to close-up: the standpoint of the narrator in the Homeric epics. In Antike Literatur in neuer Deutung, ed. A. Bierl, A. Schmidt, and A. Willi, 63–83. Leipzig. Dinshaw, C. 2012. How Soon is Now? Durham, NC. Edwards, D.R. 1991. Surviving the Web of Roman Power: Religion and Politics in the Acts of the Apostles, Josephus, and Chariton’s Chaereas and Callirhoe. In Images of Empire, ed. L. Alexander, 179–201. Sheffield.

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Edwards, D.R. 1996. Religion & Power: Pagans, Jews, and Christians in the Greek East. New York. Elsner, I. 2007. Roman Eyes: Visuality & Subjectivity in Art & Text. Princeton. Floridi, L. 2018. Αὐδὴ τεχνήεσσα λίθου. Intermedialità e intervisualità nell’epigramma greco. S&T 16: 25–54. Furley, W.D. 2015. Menander ‘Perikeiromene’ or ‘The Shorn Head’. London. Gertsman, E. 2008. Visualizing Medieval Performance Perspectives, Histories, Contexts. London. Gerstinger, H. 1926. Die griechische Buchmalerei. Vienna. Goldhill, S. 1996. Refracting classical vision: Changing cultures of viewing. In Vision in Context: Historical and Contemporary Perspectives on Sight, ed. T. Brennan and M. Jay, 15–28. New York. Hammerstaedt, J. 2000. Gryllos. Die antike Bedeutung eines modernen archäologischen Begriffs. ZPE 129: 29–46. Horak, U. 1992. Illuminierte Papyri, Pergamente und Papiere. Wien. Huitink, L. 2017. Enargeia, Enactivism and the Ancient Readerly Imagination. In Distributed Cognition in Classical Antiquity, ed. M. Anderson and D. Cairns, 173–193. Edinburgh. Huitink, L. 2019. Enargeia and Bodily Mimesis. In Experience, Narrative, and Criticism in Ancient Greece: Under the Spell of Stories, ed. J. Grethlein, L. Huitink, and A. Tagliabue, 190–210. Oxford. Jelic, A. and Stanicic, A. 2020. The Memory in Bodily and Architectural Making: Reflections from Embodied Cognitive Science. In Affective Architectures: More-Than-Representational Geographies of Heritage, ed. J. Micieli-Voutsinas and A. Person, 187–203. London. Kalamara, Z. 2019. Human and Divine Guilt in Aeschylus’ Niobe. Frammenti sulla Scena 0: 4–16. Karkov, E. 2001. Text and Picture in Anglo-Saxon England: Narrative Strategies in the Junius 11 Manuscript. Cambridge. Koch, S. and H. Rautner. 2017. Psychology of the Embrace: How Body Rhythms Communicate the Need to Indulge or Separate. Behavioral Sciences 7.4: 80. https://pdfs.semanticscho lar.org/e3f4/804046bd9830d347731e70efecca70429a44.pdf?_ga=2.130989062. 887421254.1646055039-1877387626.1617123942 Koenig, A. 2017. The Fragrance of the Rose: An Image of the Voice in Achilles Tatius. In Voice and Voices in Antiquity: Orality and Literacy in the Ancient World, ed. N. Slater, 416–432. Leiden, Boston. Konstan, D. 1987. Between Courtesan and Wife: Menander’s Perikeiromene. Phoenix 41: 122–139. Lamari, A. 2007. Aeschylus’ Seven Against Thebes vs. Euripides’ Phoenissae: Male vs. Female Power. Wiener Studien 120: 5–24. Lamari, A. 2017. Narrative, Intertext and Space in Euripides’ ‘Phoenissae’. Berlin, Boston. Martin, E. 2011. Intertextuality: An Introduction. The Comparatist 35: 148–151. Merback, M.B. 1998. The Thief, the Cross and the Wheel. Pain and the Spectacle of Punishment in Medieval and Renaissance Europe. Chicago. Morales, H. 2004. Vision and Narrative in Achilles Tatius’ Leucippe and Clitophon. Cambridge. Nelson, R. 1999. The Chora and the Great Church: Intervisuality in Fourteenth Century Constantinople. Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies 23: 67–101. Nervegna, S. 2013. Menander in Antiquity. Cambridge.

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Nobili, C. 2018. Εἰκὼν λαλοῦσα. Testo, immagine e memoria intervisuale nell’epigramma greco arcaico. S&T 16: 1–24. Petrides, A.K. 2014. Menander, New Comedy and the Visual, Cambridge. Pizzone, A. forthcoming. The Maidens and the Bull: Dangers and Pleasures of ‘Immersion’. In Ancient Narrative and Reader Response, ed. L. Graverini, C. Caruso, and J. Ulrich, Ancient Narrative. Platt, V.J. and M.J. Squire. 2017. Getting to Grips with Classical Art: Rethinking the Haptics of Graeco-Roman Visual Culture. In Touch and the Ancient Senses, ed. A. Purves. 75–104. London. Reeve, M.M. 2016. Michael Camille’s Queer Middle Ages. In The Routledge Companion to Medieval Iconography, ed. C. Hourihane, 154–172. London. Rietveld E. and J. Kiverstein. 2014. A Rich Landscape of Affordances. Ecological Psychology 26: 325–352. Rodríguez Porto, R.M. 2013. Beyond the Two Doors of Memory. Intertextualities and Intervisualities in Thirteenth-Century Illuminated Manuscripts of the Roman de Troie and the Histoire Ancienne. In Memory and Commemoration in Medieval Culture, ed. L. Brenner, M. Cohen, and M. Franklin-Brown, 55–76. Burlington. Russo, G. 2014. Papiri ‘a fumetti’: P.Oxy. XXII 2331 e P.Köln IV 179. APF 60.2: 339–358. Schmeling, G. 2005. Callirhoe: God-line Beauty and the Making of a Celebrity. Ancient Narrative 4: 36–49. Segal, E. 2001. The Death of Comedy. Cambridge, MA. Squire, M.J. 2016. Sight and the Ancient Senses. The Senses in Antiquity. London, New York. Stramaglia, A. 2007. Il fumetto e le sue potenzialità mediatiche nel mondo greco-latino. In Escuela y Literatura en Grecia Antigua. Actas del Simposio Internacional, ed. J.A. Fernández Delgado, F. Pordomingo, and A. Stramaglia, 577–643, tavv. 1–24. Cassino. Webb, R. 2009. Ekphrasis, Imagination and Persuasion in Ancient Rhetorical Theory and Practice. Farnham, UK, Burlington, VT. Weitmann, P. 2010. Bilder als Vergegenwärtigung des Textes. Von der Illustration zur Argumentation in der spätantiken Buchmalerei. Codices Manuscripti 75: 1–8. Weitzmann, K. 1947. Illustrations in Roll and Codex. Princeton. Whitehouse, H. 2007. Drawing a Fine Line in Oxyrhynchus. In Oxyrhynchus: A City and Its Texts, ed. A.K. Bowman, R.A. Coles, N. Gonis, D. Obbink, and P.J. Parsons, 296–307. London. Zumthor, P. 1972. Essai de poétique médiévale. Paris. Zumthor, P. 1981. Intertextualité et mouvance. Littérature 41: 8–16.

Anton Bierl

2 From image to theatrical play in Aeschylus’ Oresteia Iconicity, intervisuality, the image act, and the dramatic performance act Abstract: Applying modern image theory, this contribution shows how Aeschylus uses the visual, in the figurative metaphor, in the simile of a picture, and in the surprising display of key motifs and even abstract concepts (e.g. dike and erinys), as complex theatrical scenes in the Oresteia. The visual and its dramatic application thus stand in close interaction with the evolutionary process and development of the trilogy. The focus is on the movement from the visual as riddling signifiers, to the inner fantasy, to the image, to the tableau, and finally to the performative scene beginning to get in motion. All over we can detect a process from the frozen picture to the motion scene, from the metaphorical to the concrete, from the oracular sign to the actual visibility, from enigmatic ambivalence in sign configuration to clear vision. Furthermore, quintessential metaphors can shift into evident theatrical props that can even serve as a mise en abyme, reflecting the larger frame in a smaller scene. In the end of the Eumenides, the iconic and performative act generates the actual result, the political ideal of the reality in the here and now. The archaic poet Simonides (557/56–468/67 BCE) was already aware of the interdependence of two aesthetic forms of expression. Therefore he ‘called painting silent poetry and poetry painting that speaks’ ([Πλὴν ὁ Σιμωνίδης] τὴν μὲν ζωγραφίαν ποίησιν σιωπῶσαν προσαγορεύει, τὴν δὲ ποίησιν ζωγραφίαν λαλοῦσαν, Plut. Mor. 346f). Both arts revert to visual images. The poet creates a poem and gets the picture in his mind’s eye to speak, whereas the painter draws a picture which possesses an agency beyond speech. The famous philosopher Aristotle (de An. 431a–432a) realised about two centuries later that human beings generated mental images (phantasmata) in their minds, or in other words, that cognitive processes require iconic support. Therefore he concludes (432a7–10): καὶ διὰ τοῦτο οὔτε μὴ αἰσθανόμενος μηθὲν οὐθὲν ἂν μάθοι οὐδὲ ξυνείη, ὅταν τε θεωρῇ, ἀνάγκη ἅμα φάντασμά τι θεωρεῖν· τὰ γὰρ φαντάσματα ὥσπερ αἰσθήματά ἐστι, πλὴν ἄνευ ὕλης.

https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110795448-003

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And for this reason as no one could ever learn or understand anything without the exercise of perception, so even when we think speculatively, we must have some mental picture of which to think; for mental images are similar to objects perceived except that they are without matter.

While Classical Archaeology has been dealing with the question whether it is possible to understand pictures without literature for a long time, philologists have only recently begun to focus on the visual dimension of metaphorical expressions. Owing to protestant and Calvinistic trends of iconoclasm, Classical Philology has neglected image as well as the visual dimension of language. With the focus on ‘holy scripture’, Classical scholars have regarded the logos of the text as privileged and only valid object of research. Another reason is the emphasis on analytical terms in modern Western philosophy since René Descartes and Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel, whereas earlier (esp. Neo-Platonism) or marginalised strands of philosophy, as for example Giambattista Vico or Ernst Cassirer, were well aware of the philosophical potential of an analogical and symbolic thinking full of metaphors. With the iconic turn, Classics has only started to examine the link between image and text.1 Ancient Greek culture, which had been deeply rooted in a traditional society based on orality, was more deeply grounded in iconicity than modern languages and literatures.2 However, the Greeks should not be taken as a model and forerunner of the actual trends in humanities. Such attempts to assimilate the past with the present prove to be wrong on a historical level. In order to understand the specific otherness, we must understand the iconic substratum of Greek patterns of thought. Yet not only image, but also myth, ritual, and performance shape a traditional culture. Thus, the imagery must be regarded in correlation with myth and performance, the iconic with the mythical and performative turn.3

2.1 Imagery and metaphor Image and text are not completely different systems that occasionally meet, but the extra-linguistic is partly connected with the linguistic. This can even be demonstrated on the onomastic level: in Greek language graphein stands for  On the pictorial or iconic turn, see e.g. the introduction by Bachmann-Medick (2016) 245–278 (with further literature).  See e.g. Foley (1995) and (1999), and Ferrari (1997) and (2002).  See my oral presentation, Berlin, Free University, 35th Große Mommsen-Tagung, ‘Die Altertumswissenschaften und die Cultural Turns. Forschungen zur Klassischen Antike im (inter)disziplinären Dialog’ (3–5 May 2019): Die cultural turns in der aktuellen Gräzistik: Performance, Raum, Ritual, choreia, Bildlichkeit (4 May 2019).

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writing as well as drawing and painting. Both techniques of collective representation are visual traces of the collective memory. One part of the collusion is metaphor and metonymy, and figurative speech in general. In recent decades we have learnt that metaphor is not only a rhetorical means to substitute one term for another, but that it also operates using the principle of interaction: the image-laden vehicle provides a grid and makes us understand an abstract tenor by means of visualisation.4 Metaphors, metonymies, and tropes in general are the realm where language and image intersect and overlap.5 Certain images determine the culture and its modes of thinking, especially in traditional societies. In a dense sequence they can organise entire texts as webs that extend to the syntagmatic and paradigmatic level. A few key images can generate and structure literary texts such as the Oresteia.6 The stranger a culture, the more difficult it is to decipher its iconology. Visual sceneries and poetic texts as mental structures can elucidate each other. A traditional society such as archaic Greece, which was characterised by an orality of reception, defined itself through the megatext of ritual and myth to a large extent,7 which in turn drew from a specific iconicity. Norms and values, social and gender behaviour, as well as critical passages of life were accompanied by rites. The same themes are reflected in the myths. Corporeity, images, and objects acted out on the body, clothes, food, as well as performative sequences of action are central. Seasonal incisions, harvest and vegetation, critical life passages such as birth, maturation, marriage, and death constitute the contents.8 The cognitive theory of metaphor shows how certain images initiate processes of thought.9 Visual concepts closely linked with the body often serve as the substance of reference. Metaphors, therefore, are very often the core of myths and rites; rites sometimes can be understood as tropes taken literally.10 Ritual-mythic scenarios can generate and organise narrations and performative sequences such as entire

 See Richards (1936) and Black (1962) and (1979).  Ferrari (2002) and Nagy (2015).  See e.g. Lebeck (1971) and Ferrari (1997).  See Segal (1983), esp. 176, and (1986) 52–53; according to Nagy (1990) 31, myth and ritual in interaction and correlation constitute the marked discourse in ‘small-scale’ and traditional ‘societies’, such as we find in the later Bronze Age and early formative phase in Asia Minor.  Alexiou (2002).  For example, Lakoff and Johnson (1980).  Boas (1911) 73 and Alexiou (2002) 318 says: ‘Metaphor shapes ritual (conventional action), just as ritual gives body to metaphor.’

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dramas.11 Thus, image, performance, physical life, and mental concepts interact in Greek texts. Without insight into this interplay, large parts of Greek literature and philosophy cannot be fully understood. As said, metaphors, the quintessential source of visualising in language, often represent the vessel for myths and rituals.12 Ancient songs and performances are frequently embedded in ritual and mythic scenarios and performed on the occasion of festivals. Image, performance, environment, mental concepts, and notions all enter into the texture of a poem in a dialogic manner.13 Furthermore, in its quality as mover and shifter, a metaphor can generate a ritual by setting further metaphors in motion that are activated through similarity and/or contiguity.14 Myth often transforms ritual in performance and accompanies it with stories. It is multidimensional, dynamic, and in constant movement or transfer,15 and it draws on the visual to a large extent.16 The interface between poetic performance culture and the visual is most effective and operative in Greek theatre. This is already evident by its name: theatre shares the root with the verb θεᾶσθαι, ‘to look on, observe with one’s eyes’. Theatre is a multimodal performance particularly based on the visual and the acoustic as media. In another contribution I argued that, in the Oresteia, ‘[t]hrough continual metatragic referencing at the vocal and musical level, Aeschylus layers meaning with other discursive elements and, in doing so, directs the audience’s reception regarding the foreshadowing, the dramatic art, and plot developments in scenarios of increased pathos as well as the subsequent solution’.17 In the same marked and sometimes self-referential manner, I will contend that the focus on the visual also plays a central role in creating the charter, i.e. the foundational sense of the evolutionary process of the trilogy, that

 See e.g. Aristophanes’ Plutos; see Bierl (2021); on Aristophanes’ Thesmophoriazusae, see Bierl (2009), esp. 83–265; see also Bierl (2019).  See Alexiou (2002), esp. 317–319.  See Ferrari (2002), esp. 61–86.  Fernandez (1986) 23 defines ritual as ‘the acting out of metaphoric predications upon inchoate pronouns which are in need of movement’. See also Fernandez (1991).  See Alexiou (2002) 166.  Bierl (2007) 14–15.  Bierl (2017) 167. On metatragedy and musical self-references, see Bierl (1991). On choral self-referentiality, see Henrichs (1994–1995) and Bierl (2001), esp. 37–51, Eng. Bierl (2009) 24–36. For the relationship to metatheatricality, see Bierl (2001) 43–45, Eng. Bierl (2009) 29–31. On the acoustic level and musicality in the Oresteia, see e.g. Moutsopoulos (1959), Haldane (1965), Fleming (1977), Wilson and Taplin (1993), and Bierl (2017); on voice and soundscape, see Nooter (2017) 123–289.

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represents the ‘aetiology of tragedy’.18 It has been observed for a long time that many visually highlighted key themes, motifs, and images like fire, sacrifice, clothing, nets, storm, marriage, and animals, folded into the texture of the entire trilogy.19 Metaphors are indeed the visual potential of dramatic poetry in general. As said, a trope does not simply mean exchanging or substituting one term with another. In the theory of interaction, the image or vehicle provides the shape of the abstract tenor in a dialogic process. We all know that we think in metaphors. It is the visual vehicle that triggers our understanding of abstract and cognitive ideas in constant chains of ‘metaphors we live by’.20 However, this visual element does not just remain on the level of language to broaden our cognitive spectrum, as it happens in literature in general, but, rather, theatre possesses its own way of using this aspect of the image in language. It can confer a symbolic meaning and can transmute into an actual visual sign that assumes a performative aspect. Thus, the image can become a theatrical scene of action, played out in a multimodal manner.

2.2 Image and performative acts in the Oresteia Moreover, in the evolutionary process staged in the course of the Oresteia, I argue that we can detect a special tendency to put the visual metaphor into a fixed tableau that finally takes on a performative nature. Inner images, mental pictures, and dream-like fantasies can become real and assume a performative quality on stage. Even the key concepts of dike and erinys become vivid and transform into theatrical and performative concreteness as well real agents in the last part of the trilogy. All over we can detect a process from the frozen picture to the motion scene, from the metaphorical to the concrete, from the

 See Wilson and Taplin (1993); see also Belfiore (1992) 26–30. On visual and visuality, see e.g. Kraus et al. (2007), Belloni et al. (2010), Cazzato and Lardinois (2016), and Kampakoglou and Novokhatko (2018); in tragedy, e.g. Zeitlin (20092) and (1994), Belloni et al. (2010) 101–265; in the Oresteia, Ferrari (1997), Elmer (2017), and Bakola (2018); on painting, Ieranò (2010) and (2011).  See Ferrari (1997); for a similar technique in the Persians and Suppliants, see Gödde (2000a) and (2000b); for the Oresteia the following discourses, motifs, images, and metaphors represented are decisive: light-dark (Goldhill [1984]), sacrifice (e.g. Zeitlin [1965 and 1966]), libation, animals in general (e.g. Heath [1999]) (esp. birds, snakes, lions, dogs), agriculture, hunting (Vidal-Naquet [1988]), sickness and health, fire, beating, wind; for their interplay, see esp. Lebeck (1971); for all see Raeburn and Thomas (2011) Ixv–Ixix.  Lakoff and Johnson (1980).

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oracular sign to actual visibility, from enigmatic ambivalence in sign configuration to clear vision. Furthermore, quintessential metaphors can shift into very concrete objects, theatrical props,21 that can even serve as a mise en abyme, reflecting the larger frame in a smaller scene. I recall the figurative use of the net and garments. It solidifies the metaphorical paradox and the signifying ambiguity into a theatrical sign that reframes the fundamental situation. Thus, the metaphorical net used for hunting forms into a concrete net that was thrown over Agamemnon and Cassandra to stab them in a most brutal manner. The net is envisaged by narration that reports the violence taking place behind the scene (Ag. 1372–1398). Moreover, the result is shown to the audience in its concreteness by the ekkyklema, rolling out the dead victims entangled in the net. The fine drapery, the precious clothes to wrap the female body in expressing aidos, becomes the concrete sign of the immense wealth of the house.22 Clytemnestra, the monstrous woman without aidos, lays the fabric out on the floor. As a sort of red carpet for the returning king it becomes the theatrically visible pathway. The red colour of crimson symbolises the imminent murder, the blood of the slaughterhouse. Clytemnestra lures Agamemnon into stepping on it. This fact makes him visually guilty of hybris, the transgression of human behaviour (Ag. 895–974).23 The act of trespassing in a visual and performative scene symbolically entangles him in the logic of deed and deed returned. At the end of the pathway, entering the palace, Clytemnestra throws the fishing net over him in the bathtub, the most intimate area of the house, and stabs him to avenge his murder of their common daughter Iphigenia. Drapery and net thus also become the theatrical expression, the visually loaded mise en abyme of the entire dramatic constellation of entanglement into a web, the net and textile fabric of a text that deals with multiple chains of counterfactual causality.24 In the following, I will comment on important moments of this theatrical use of the visual in the Oresteia. On the theoretical level I will focus on performativity and the recently developed and useful concept of the image act, deriving from John Austin’s speech act.25 However, tragedy is only rarely related to real paintings or images, and if so, as we will see in the Oresteia, this occurs in the

 On the agency of theatrical objects, see also Mueller (2016) and Telò and Mueller (2018); in regard of Agamemnon, see Mueller (2016) 42–49 and Weiss (2018), esp. 176–184.  Ferrari (1997) 5–19.  See e.g. Bakola (2016).  See Käppel (1998) 157, on counterfactual causality and conditionality, see Käppel (1998) 32–38. On textualisation as weaving and text as web, see e.g. Nagy (1996) 7–38 and esp. 64–65, and (2002) 70–98.  Austin (1975); see Bredekamp (2018) and also Mitchell (2005).

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form of similes. As a nightmarish journey, the trilogy also occasionally draws on mental pictures created in the phantasia of the figures. We can only speculate how Aeschylus possibly used skenographia, painting applied on the scene or scene painting, to reinforce and enhance the theatrical effect.26 As we will see, it is striking that the Oresteia displays a movement from image to performative scene. By doing so it tends to underline its aetiological mode. In a metamedial and metatheatrical manner it puts, so to speak, the genealogy of theatre on stage. Thus, Aeschylus often proceeds from picture as a frozen tableau to a theatrical scene in motion. The image act then, raised to the second power, shifts to a theatrical performance act. The new theory of the image act helps understand the process of reception that evolves between image and observer. I believe that this approach is also useful to elaborate the status and working of evoked pictures in antiquity. According to the recent image theory, pictures thus have their own agency or one can interact with them in a communicative way. Images or theatrical scenes have the potential to create the thing they represent.27 A picture comes into being in a context that renders the symbolisation as semiotic process its own object of communication.28 Accordingly, the actors use them, play scenes loaded with iconicity, and enact what these images represent. Thus, the images perform, so to speak, the intrinsic dynamics that is inherent in them. The image act creates the status of the image as it works on the interface between the recipient and the picture, i.e. between subject and object, production and reception. To conclude, images possess the potential of even acting themselves, creating the reality they represent or enact. For example, the affective aspect of the image triggers pathos, eleos, or phobos, constitutive effects of tragedy. After all the images are able to create relations between the self of the object, the external world, and the observer in a dynamic process and through performative negotiations.29 On this theoretical basis, I argue that in image acts the Oresteia creates what is played. The trilogy culminates in the charter myths of the institution of the Areopagus, the treaty of Athens with Argos and the Semnai Theai. Its focalisation gradually widens, shifting from archaic Argos and the mythic past

 According to Arist. Poet. 1449a18, invented by Sophocles together with the third actor; other sources (Vitruvius 7, praef. 11) assign it to Aeschylus himself; for the earliest use in the Oresteia, see Pickard-Cambridge (1973) 1, 5, 8, 15, 34, and Melchinger (1974) 83–111.  Bredekamp (2018); on phenomenological approaches, see Mersman and Spies (2008), Boehm (2008), and Waldenfelds (2008). Mitchell (1994) and (2005) argues that the observers are captured by a magical attitude towards the picture.  Stähli (2002) and Assmann (1990).  Schürmann (2011).

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towards Athens of 458 BCE and the here and now. Through exemplary images shifting into theatrical scene and the respective iconic-performative acts, especially the choral play of the Erinyes and their transformation to Semnai as well as the judges’ casting their votes, the trilogy impressively produces the very content that the play enacts before the spectators’ eyes: overcoming archaic revenge within a mythic ruling family through the transference to the legal, political, and ritual institutions of the polis of Athens in the perspective of the audience. The image act enacts and engenders the message. As communicative act it becomes a pedagogical tool. Through mimesis on stage as re-enactment the spectators see what they do in the everyday democratic practice: decisionmaking as well as political and ritual participation. In the perspective of a powerful empire, the polis shifts the relations of friend and foe from internal strife to unity inside the city and deterrence against the outside (see Eum. 858–866, 913–915, 976–987).30 The monstrous Furies help to instil terror outside and respect inside. Therefore, they are changed into Eumenides and Semnai, still doing the task of dike, but now under the auspices and protection of the polis and not as the principles of private feud and revenge. The image and performance acts thus generate the actual result, the political ideal of the reality in the here and now. As the image and scene acts are empathetically internalised by the onlookers, they create the meaning on stage and affirm the reality by putting it in crisis and question. In the aetiological model play, the iconic and performative acts function both as an emotional and cognitive means to understand the interrelation of violence, suffering, and learning. Transgression, ate, and hybris lead to personal revenge and punishment, dike, that is overcome by a new civic dike. Through the flexible means of the chorus which serves as polyphonic mediator to the audience, the spectators in the theatre live through the aetiological evolution, embodying and internalising it. The evolutionary process is highlighted through a development in the inner theatrical fabric from the visual as metaphor and symbol within an enigmatic chaos to inner images, partly still frozen, to the performative enactment.

 Meier (1990) 122.

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2.3 The parodos of the Agamemnon: metaphor, riddle, and the visual Since numerous scholars have published excellent work on the parodos of the Agamemnon,31 I can briefly touch upon its narrative, visual, and enigmatic quality. The chorus recapitulates the past and sets the basis of the plot, grounding it in a multi-causal and counterfactual chain of events.32 In the first song it only recalls the earlier past, Paris’ transgression of hospitality, Helen’s elopement to Troy with him, the origin of the Trojan war, and the complications of the departure at Aulis resulting in Iphigenia’s sacrifice. In the course of Agamemnon, the chorus will then even shift the origin of the chain of revenge back to the horrible events in the house of Atreus. The narration in the parodos is mostly dark, ambiguous, and hard to understand, using similes and visual metaphors in an enigmatic manner. The enigmatic is overlaid with an oracular attitude of dark foreboding that reaches from the past up to the actual point of Troy’s fall. The levels of time jump constantly backwards and forwards. In addition, cause and effect as well as the omen as sign and the real event, the signified, are even exchanged.33 Moreover, the voice of the seer Calchas with his own interpretation of the signs takes over the narration of the chorus in direct speech to a large extent. It is embedded in the discourse of the chorus that merges into a polyphonic fabric.34 To cite Calchas’ own words, Artemis ‘begs (αἰτεῖ) that the symbols of these signs (τούτων . . . ξύμβολα) be made valid (κρᾶναι)’ (Aesch. Ag. 144). Later on in Choephori the semata on the grave are a fact euxymbolon (εὐξύμβολον, Ch. 170), ‘symbols easy to decipher’. It again marks the progress from dark to light, from the uncertain in foreboding to clear understanding. As Gloria Ferrari argued, much remains on the level of the oracular and the ainigma.35 The riddle, as griphos, has a paradoxical quality. Whereas in the case of metaphors, which are convenient to think in, vehicle and tenor interact

 For example, Lebeck (1971) 7–24, Schein (2009), Grethlein (2013) 79–83, Bierl (2017) 172–179, and Medda (2017) II, 35–181.  Käppel (1998) 60–137.  Grethlein (2013) 79–83.  For the feature of embedded direct speeches of Calchas in the parodos that ‘suits the distinctive prophetic and epicizing style of choral lyric in Agamemnon’, see Schein (2009: 393–395 [citation 395]). See also Fletcher (1999), esp. 30–32: ‘. . . the prediction of Calchas is a device by which the poet insinuates his voice into the discourse of the chorus in order to remind us of where the drama is headed’ (31).  Ferrari (1997) 24–38.

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with each other and convey mutual illumination, in highly poetic metaphors or in riddles the two spheres stand in an allegedly unbridgeable distance, though in some form of hidden union or partial intersection. The uncontrollable mass of signifiers, especially loaded with visual elements, overshadow any possible emergence of a signified. All signs seem to be in a state of chaotic confusion that prevents any insight in meaning since the possible relations are ambiguous, polyvalent, and multiform. In the very paradox the recipients thus remain in total darkness, in frustration, and utter incomprehension. The answers to the riddling symbols full of visual language cannot be grasped since they object any evidence of possible overlap. One ‘throws’ the contrasts and dichotomies ‘together’ (sym-ballein), but no meaning shines forth. It is a matter of semainein,36 of a speech in signs (semata) and symbola. The audience will understand some fragments of the signified only occasionally, much later, in a backward process of understanding and syn-ienai (‘bring or set together’). At the same time the ominous, dark, and visual logos hints at the truth. When the riddle is solved all of a sudden and in a moment of total surprise, everything becomes crystal clear, it is like a spark of light that flashes up.37 The riddling in images can partially be connected with mysteries. It is well known that Aeschylus was born in Eleusis and had a special relation to the Eleusinian mysteries. In mysteries confusion, suffering, and darkness are overcome by effects of light, happiness, and insight through meaning. It is my contention that the entire development from visual paradox to evidence in an image and performance act constitutes, highlights, and showcases the quintessential sentence of the trilogy, i.e. πάθει μάθος (‘learning through suffering’) (Ag. 177). After the frustration or standstill of ambiguity evidence and sense emerge that generate understanding, overall mathesis acted out on all levels of body and mind. Aeschylus’ predilection for highly poetic visual metaphors makes him part of a group of men called skoteinoi, like Heraclitus and Pindar.38 Yet at the end of the trilogy he brings light and insight, mathesis. The Vita of the Mediceus (5) reports that Aeschylus liked visual and metaphorical diction, the interweaving of

 See Heraclitus B 93 DK.  Köngäs Maranda (1971a), (1971b), and (1976); see also Ferrari (1997) 43.  On Heraclitus, see Kahn (1979) 7, comparing with the Oresteia. Comparison with Aeschylean choral songs, 87–95; on ὁ σκοτεινός, see e.g. [Arist.] Mund. 5, 396b20 = B 10, DK 1, 153, l. 9; Timon of Phlius fr. 43 D = Diog. Laert. 9.6 = A 1, DK 1, 141, l. 4 calls Heraclitus the ‘riddler’ (αἰνικτής).

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plot (plokai) and the exaggerated weightiness of his figures.39 The opsis of images to create horrific astonishment about the miraculous (Vita 7) is a feature of his style.40 His legendary death seems to draw on the parodos of Agamemnon. An eagle grabbed a turtle. Since the eagle was not able to overwhelm it, the king of the birds let the tortoise fall on rocks in order to crack its shell, but hit the poet’s head, killing him (Vita 10).41 The tortoise stands for music, song, and poetry. Agamemnon, the royal figure in his tragedy, so to speak, tried to gain control over the tragedian. His own poetic product is about to reach its centre, the solution of the riddle, the poetry’s inner flesh. The eagle intends to crack the petrified and firm level of the signifier to gain insight into the sense and to find an answer to the riddle. Thus, Aeschylus’ own riddling, his own poetic product full of signifiers concealing the signified, finally turns on the author himself. As an inscription (Vita 17) in the first person says he ‘dies hit’ by his own paradox language, ‘by the cast from the claws of the eagle’.42 Moreover, the griphos, the riddle, will soon be transferred to a visible, self-reflexive prop. The visual set of meanings of griphos (γρῖφος) is ‘fishing basket’ or ‘creel’ used by the gripeus (γριπεύς), the ‘fisher’ or ‘maker of fishing-nets’ (Hsch. γ 921 Latte-Cunningham). In a mise en

 Vita 5.13–22 κατὰ δὲ τὴν σύνθεσιν τῆς ποιήσεως ζηλοῖ τὸ ἁδρὸν ἀεὶ πλάσμα ὀνοματοποιίαις τε καὶ ἐπιθέτοις, ἔτι δὲ μεταφοραῖς καὶ πᾶσι τοῖς δυναμένοις ὄγκον τῇ φράσει περιθεῖναι χρώμενος· αἵ τε διαθέσεις τῶν δραμάτων οὐ πολλὰς αὐτῷ περιπετείας καὶ πλοκὰς ἔχουσιν ὡς παρὰ τοῖς νεωτέροις· μόνον γὰρ ζηλοῖ τὸ βάρος περιτιθέναι τοῖς προσώποις, ἀρχαῖον εἶναι κρίνων τοῦτο τὸ μέρος, < τὸ > μεγαλοπρεπές τε καὶ ἡρωϊκόν, τὸ δὲ πανοῦργον κομψοπρεπές τε καὶ γνωμολογικὸν ἀλλότριον τῆς τραγῳδίας ἡγούμενος· ὥστε διὰ τὸ πλεονάζειν τῷ βάρει τῶν προσώπων κωμῳδεῖται παρὰ Ἀριστοφάνει, ‘In the composition of poetry, he strove for a consistently grand style by using coinages and epithets. He employed, in addition, metaphors and all other devices capable of conferring weight on diction. The plots of his dramas do not have many reversals and contortions, as is the case with more recent poets. He strove only to give his characters gravity, for he judged magnificence and the heroic to be archaic, and considered sententious and ingenious knavishness to be alien to tragedy. Hence, he is parodied by Aristophanes because of the excessive gravity of his characters.’ Translation by S. Burges Watson, Living Poets (Durham, 2014), https://livingpoets.dur.ac.uk/w/Life_of_Aeschylus?oldid=2529.  Vita 7.29–30 ταῖς τε γὰρ ὄψεσι καὶ τοῖς μύθοις πρὸς ἔκπληξιν τερατώδη μᾶλλον ἢ πρὸς ἀπάτην κέχρηται, ‘For he uses visual effects and plots for the sake of portentous shock rather than for the sake of beguiling the audience.’  Vita 10.42–46 ἐτελεύτα τοῦτον τὸν τρόπον· ἀετὸς γὰρ χελώνην ἁρπάσας, ὡς ἐγκρατὴς γενέσθαι τῆς ἄγρας οὐκ ἴσχυεν, ἀφίησι κατὰ πετρῶν αὐτὴν συνθλάσσων τὸ δέρμα, ἡ δὲ ἐνεχθεῖσα κατὰ τοῦ ποιητοῦ φονεύει αὐτόν. χρηστηριασθεὶς δὲ ἦν, ‘οὐράνιόν σε βέλος κατακτενεῖ’, ‘[he] died in the following way: an eagle had seized a tortoise, but was not strong enough to break open its prey, so dropped it on the rocks to crush its shell. But the tortoise fell on the poet’s head and killed him. In fact, it had been prophesied to him: a heavenly missile will kill you’.  Vita 17.77 αἰετοῦ ἐξ ὀνύχων βρέγμα τυπεὶς ἔθανον, ‘I died, struck on the forehead by a missile from an eagle’s claws.’

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abyme the plaited basket or net (δίκτυον, diktyon, etc.) becomes the visible prop which Clytemnestra, the manipulator of language and creator of intricate diction, throws over her husband (Ag. 1382–1383). Agamemnon is caught in the trap of the bathtub like a fish. Entangled in the net, Agamemnon is brutally stabbed in the centre of the palace. Later on, in ostentatious triumph and through the ekkyklema, Clytemnestra displays his bloody body still covered by the net. The entanglements and knots of the net also reflect the intricacies of her plotting and Aeschylus’ plot in a self-referential manner. The net, especially the fishing net and the hunting net, thus becomes a key motif in the metaphorical diction of the trilogy’s textualisation.43 Agamemnon’s dead body is envisaged like a fish in the net (ὥσπερ ἰχθύων, Ag. 1382). Dike qua Clytemnestra, in her role as Erinys, casts her net over him, now sitting in the net of the plotting spider (Ag. 1491, 1515). Moreover, the chorus is entangled in its own riddling language and later in Cassandra’s enigmatic prophecies. Soon the chorus becomes pessimistic that the intricacies of a plot full of chaotic signs and multifold motivations can be undone and unravelled (see ἐκτολυπεύσειν, Ag. 1032).44 However, the presentation in the form of griphos or ainigma involves the attention of the audience and serves to trigger sudden insight.

2.4 The picture of Iphigenia The parodos culminates in Iphigenia’s perverted sacrifice, the origin and central reason for Clytemnestra’s revenge, narrated as a highly visual scene, even incorporating the simile of an image (Ag. 224–247):45

 See Ag. 1382–1383 ἄπειρον ἀμφίβληστρον . . . περιστιχίζω, ‘place around a casting-net in a row, like in a poetical verse (stichos)’; thus Aeschylus makes Clytemnestra weave a huge tragic text without exit in verses around Agamemnon. On the net, see also Ag. 357, 868, 981–982, 998–1000, 1047, 1115–1116, 1375, 1491, 1515; Eum. 111, 1611.  Ag. 1030–1033 νῦν δ’ ὑπὸ σκότῳ βρέμει / θυμαλγής τε καὶ οὐδὲν ἐπελπομέ- / να ποτὲ καίριον ἐκτολυπεύσειν / ζωπυρουμένας φρενός, ‘but, as it is, it mutters only in the dark, distressed and hopeless ever to unravel anything in time when my soul’s aflame’.  See Fraenkel II (1950) 119–141, Raeburn and Thomas (2011) 92–95, and Medda (2017) II, 154–175; see also Lebeck (1971) 81–84, Holoka (1985), Armstrong and Ratchford (1985), Scodel (1996) 114–117, Ferrari (1997) 2–4, Käppel (1998) 93–137 and esp. 130–132, Degener (2001) 89–90, O’Sullivan (2008) 175–187, Schein (2009) 396, Ieranò (2010) 250–253, Nooter (2017) 158–161, and Elmer (2017) 57–58.

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ἔτλα δ’ οὖν θυτὴρ γενέσθαι θυγατρός, γυναικοποίνων πολέμων ἀρωγὰν καὶ προτέλεια ναῶν. λιτὰς δὲ καὶ κληδόνας πατρῴους παρ’ οὐδὲν αἰῶνα παρθένειόν τ’ ἔθεντο φιλόμαχοι βραβῆς· φράσεν δ’ ἀόζοις πατὴρ μετ’ εὐχὰν δίκαν χιμαίρας ὕπερθε βωμοῦ πέπλοισι περιπετῆ παντὶ θυμῷ προνωπῆ λαβεῖν ἀέρδην στόματός τε καλλιπρῴρου φυλακᾷ κατασχεῖν φθόγγον ἀραῖον οἴκοις, βίᾳ χαλινῶν τ’ ἀναύδῳ μένει· κρόκου βαφὰς δ’ ἐς πέδον χέουσα ἔβαλλ’ ἕκαστον θυτήρων ἀπ’ ὄμματος βέλει φιλοίκτῳ, πρέπουσά θ’ ὡς ἐν γραφαῖς, προσεννέπειν θέλουσ’, ἐπεὶ πολλάκις πατρὸς κατ’ ἀνδρῶνας εὐτραπέζους ἔμελψεν, ἁγνᾷ δ’ ἀταύρωτος αὐδᾷ πατρὸς φίλου τριτόσπονδον εὔποτμον παιῶνα φίλως ἐτίμα.

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225

230

235

στρ. ζ 240

245

So then he hardened his heart to sacrifice his daughter [225] so that he might further a war waged to avenge a woman, and as an offering for the voyage of a fleet! For her supplications, her cries of ‘Father,’ and her virgin life, [230] the commanders in their eagerness for war cared nothing. Her father, after a prayer, bade his ministers lay hold of her as, enwrapped in her robes, she lay fallen forward, [235] and with stout heart to raise her, as if she were a young goat, high above the altar; and with a gag upon her lovely mouth to hold back the shouted curse against her house – by the bit’s strong and stifling might. Then, as she shed to earth her saffron robe, she [240] struck each of her sacrificers a glance from her eyes beseeching pity, looking as if in a picture, wishing she could speak; for she had often sung where men met at her father’s hospitable table, [245] and with her virgin voice would lovingly honour her dear father’s prayer for blessing at the third libation. (transl. H.W. Smyth)

Although the misdeed is before his eyes, Agamemnon enters upon the virgin sacrifice before her wedding (προτέλεια, Ag. 227) to ensure the departure of the fleet in Aulis, an expression of his madness. The final tableau about Iphigenia’s death becomes a subtly nuanced metatheatrical mise en abyme of the political

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struggle over the voices between the people in power and the oppressed in Agamemnon. Even if one silences the voice of pathos, it will always break through and find expression through other channels, in particular via the visual. Against the vocal appeals and magically charming pleas of the girl (λιτὰς δὲ καὶ κληδόνας πατρῴους, Ag. 228), Agamemnon performs a prayer (εὐχάν, Ag. 231) and gives the order (φράσεν, Ag. 231) to sacrifice his daughter like a goat on the altar (δίκαν χιμαίρας ὕπερθε βωμοῦ, Ag. 232).46 Above all her ‘pretty-beaked mouth’ (στόματός τε καλλιπρῴρου, Ag. 235) should be kept from uttering ‘a curse against the house’ (φθόγγον ἀραῖον οἴκοις, Ag. 237), that is any curse that might stand against the positively coloured discourse of power. The mouth assumes the signs of the effect, the prow of ship to sail to Troy. Now gagged, Iphigenia can no longer speak; however, even mute, the visual signals of supplication emerge from her gaze, piercing like shafts or arrows. Desiring to voice her dirge and appeal for help, she resembles a stark, muted picture (Ag. 242) full of eroticism,47 its gestures still being intelligible to us. She lets her saffron-robe stream downwards (Ag. 239) and stands, perhaps even naked,48 in front of him. This symbolic gesture not only indicates that Iphigenia, as model of the girls in Brauron during the Arkteia, leaves maidenhood by shedding her saffron dress,49 but also that she is about to speak the unvarnished truth before her imminent death as a victim to be killed on the altar.50 Through her silent body language and piercing gaze Iphigenia’s communicative intention, her desire to address each of her sacrificers with a supplicating and cursing voice becomes clear.51 In the omen the two rapacious birds devoured a pregnant hare (Ag. 109–120).52 The resulting goos of the hare stands, according to Calchas (Ag. 126–138 and

 See Henrichs (2006) 67–74.  See Scodel (1996) 116–117; on the aesthetics of violence of this perverted scene of sacrifice, see Henrichs (2006) 67–74 and esp. Bohrer (2006) 179; as tragedy does in its entirety, the horrific is expressed in beautiful, thus also musical and sexualised tones.  On the diverse readings, see Ferrari (1997) 3–4 and Medda (2017) II, 167, 169; on nakedness, Fraenkel II (1950) 138 and Sourvinou-Inwood (1971) 339–342, esp. 340–341; SourvinouInwood (1988) 127–134, esp. 132; on Iphigenia grabbing the robes of Agamemnon in a supplication, ‘with her arms flung about his robes’, see Lloyd-Jones (1952) 133; on the bridal veil (kredemnon) cast off, see Armstrong and Ratchford (1985).  On the parallel of Iphigenia in this scene with Cassandra, see Mitchell-Boyask (2006), esp. 283–284. On Cassandra, see Bierl (2017) 184–197.  Medda (2017) II, 169–171; he emphasises that the dress also falls because of the intervention of the ministers holding her.  Both last paragraphs are partially taken from Bierl (2017) 178.  The passage picks up the vulture simile Ag. 49–59; see Lebeck (1971) 8.

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140–155), for the lament of Troy that would fall and was just defeated, thus functioning as an anticipation. But he also pleads for a direct revenge on the literal level, on the timeline of presence. The sign remains as such and does not stand for something else, a signified, e.g. Troy. Artemis, the goddess of hunt and female initiation, has lost a pregnant hare. She demands justice with the murder of a girl on the brink of puberty before marriage. Whereas an animal often stands for a girl, the girl’s life must be taken for an animal in this instance. At least this is the interpretation of Calchas, who does his best to decipher the enigmatic signs.53 Furthermore, in the usual variant of the myth, the girl’s sacrifice, a metaphor for death in initiation, will be changed into an animal sacrifice since the goddess actively intervenes to substitute a deer for the human being. The muted girl is likened to a picture (τὼς ἐν γραφαῖς, Ag. 242),54 in Simonides’ words she resembles ζωγραφία as ποίησις σιωπῶσα, as the girl is forced to be silent.55 Yet Aeschylus as poet makes the painting speak so that the chorus draws a picture of the mute girl that is able to speak, thus a ποίησις as ζωγραφία λαλοῦσα (see Plut. Mor. 346f). It is a frozen scene full of dynamics – the girl intends to plead for her life and mercy. The medium of an image is always mute, but pictures possess dynamic potential within themselves. It lies in the energy gap between the frozen visual sign and the surplus that the observer supplements in an open readability.56 This is the reason why Iphigenia seems to be speaking to the persons watching her and to the audience that sees her utter a linguistic message in their mental image. The highly dramatic and pathetic scene is put before the mind’s eye in poetic visuality. This is showcased by the explicit comparison with a picture. The poetic image act possesses an intervisual and intermedial dimension. The visual replaces the aural. The image act creates what the silent picture shows. Therefore, the visual frozen stasis not only represents the scene but has its own agency. In its enargeia the picture releases energeia. Through its aesthetic potency it thus affects the spectator. It lays bare its polysemantic potential and thus becomes productive and dynamic itself. By showing it does something, it generates a reality and deed. It lays open exactly what Iphigenia’s pathos  See Grethlein (2013) 81–83.  The chorus sings in the parodos that Agamemnon has already compared her with a statue (agalma, Ag. 208).  On the comparison, see Medda (2017) II, 172–173. Schol. M ad 242 identifies two reasons for the simile: διὰ τὸ κάλλος ἢ διὰ τὸ ἀφωνητεῖν, ‘because of the beauty or the silence’; Fraenkel II (1950) 139 argues that the comparison is due to the visual conspicacy (πρέπουσα, Ag. 242) of the naked girl; Citti (2009) 266 argues for the magic of the presence; Steiner (2001) 52–53 thinks that the picture intensifies the compassion in the double that helps objectify the suffering.  See Boehm (2008) 37–38.

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formula (Aby Warburg) aimed at. Thus, despite being muted Iphigenia speaks and, so to say, both sings the paean and curses the bystanders.57 Moreover, the observer is invited to react to this communication. Despite her desperate appeal in greatest danger, she still presents the image of a modest, chaste, and beautiful virgin. Therefore, Agamemnon’s fear that she could curse him and the Greeks in general seems unmotivated, but the piercing frontal gaze does somehow freeze and bewitch the male bystanders nonetheless. On the imagined picture she gives the impression as if she would like to speak in a chaste and pious way as she had often intonated the paean. It is a festive and happy song of festivity, as it accompanies the cultic libations of the ‘dear father’ during the male symposium.58 In a way, it is thus also the almost cynical showcasing of the perversion of her sacred activity as she piously intones the melody to her own sacrifice, the ‘corrupted’ sacrifice.59 Moreover, the paean also fittingly evokes the extreme crisis, the acute danger to life.60 It is also the song addressed to the healer-god Apollo,61 who plays a big role in the Oresteia, to implore protection against disease, hazards, and the imminent death. The intrinsic energy of the image act lies in the chiasm of gazes between the girl casting out her rays like ‘arrows of the eye’ and each one of the sacrificers, Agamemnon and his ministers, who are seized by the energetic force of her vivid appeal for pity, expressed by means of kinetic body language and gestures.62 Horst Bredekamp references Maurice Merleau-Ponty’s essay L’entrelacs – Le chiasme (left unfinished in 1961), in which the phenomenologist speaks about seeing as form of touching.63 The effect of the viewing bystanders is suffering. They meet Iphigenia’s gaze, which she does

 On the temporal fusion, see Grethlein (2013) 80–81.  On the unusual participation of the girl in the male political and cultural assembly, see Scodel (1996) 116–117.  See Zeitlin (1965) 466.  See Käppel (1992), esp. 44–49 (on disease, war, danger).  Käppel (1992) 32–33.  Degener (2001) 90, on the one hand, thinks they were blinded by the active and burning glance that he associates with Empedocles optical theory B 84 DK, ‘in a Gorgonic epiphany of the graphè’; see ibid. 88–91. On the other hand, Lacan (1966) 808, 817, Eng. Lacan (2006) 684, 692), in his graphs of desire, defined the voice, alongside the gaze, as embodiment of his objet petit a. On this Lacanian basis one could argue that, when voice is violently silenced, Iphigenia uses the other of these dangerously suggestive, hypnotic, ruinous, threatening media that produce emissions like darts and arrows (ἀπ’ ὄμματος βέλει, Ag. 240). See Dolar (2006), esp. 39–42. For the gaze (just like the voice) as a drive reaching ‘its aim without attaining its goal’ – ‘its arrow comes back from the target’ – in the typically Lacanian gliding signification process (glissement incessant du signifié sous le signifiant, ‘incessant sliding of the signified under the signifier’, Lacan [1966] 502, Eng. Lacan [2006] 419); see Dolar (2006) 74.  See Bredekamp (2018) 193–283, esp. 202, citing Merleau-Ponty (1964) 172–204.

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not break,64 as if hit by arrows or missiles. The picture exerts pressure on them to feel pity. Thus, the scene as tableau does exactly what the figure intends to do and to achieve: to trigger pity in her supplication, prevent the male personnel from doing their job, and magically bewitch them. The ensuing deed is thus a sacrilegious crime and transgression which the chorus prefers not to address explicitly – despite the perceptive description of the events, it did not see it – but to omit in euphemistic silence (Ag. 248). As observers the sacrificers are observed and affected by the scene, such as the chorus and the audience suffer the same effect while viewing the scene before their minds’ eyes. Both the girl and the chorus cannot speak (προσεννέπειν/ἐννέπω, 242, 248). However, despite the emotional pressure the sacrificers are forced by the situation and the commander’s order to kill the chaste maiden. The chorus as internal audience and the spectators in Athens, on the other hand, feel even more disgust over the deed, as they are caught up and involved in the imagery of the chiastic force field. Through the comparison with the picture the scene is thus even more touching than if the girl were able to speak. The gaze and the picture assume a potency that hits like missiles. In the theatron, the showroom, where theatre is played on the acoustic and visual level, the conjured picture conveys the power of the image applied as imagined freeze frame at the beginning of trilogic drama,65 which is still in the epic-choral standstill, to raise the emotional effect.66 In addition to the image act and the intermedial dimension of the passage, it can obviously bear an intervisual aspect as well.67 The scene of the sacrifice of Iphigenia, frozen to a picture and capturing the decisive moment, was obviously a popular motif in painting, especially in vase painting. As Antonis Petrides has shown in the case of Menander, intervisuality in drama is ‘a form of

 See Holoka (1985), esp. 229.  The freeze frame is a technical device applied in movie to freeze a scene to a single picture. By applying it the movie creates the effect as if the action of the film stopped to be focused in one emblematic photograph. It concentrates the attention on the transition from the motion picture, the film, to a single picture or painting in order to emphasise emotions. See e.g. Diekmann and Gerling (2010).  On the freezing and concealing technique in Aeschylus’ Niobe and Hector’s Ransom, where the protagonists Niobe and Achilleus are sitting mute on stage and do neither speak a single word nor engage in acting for a long time; see Vita 6 ἐν μὲν γὰρ τῇ Νιόβῃ ἕως τρίτου μέρους ἐπικαθημένη τῷ τάφῳ τῶν παίδων οὐδὲν φθέγγεται ἐγκεκαλυμμένη· ἐν δὲ τοῖς Ἕκτορος λύτροις Ἀχιλλεὺς ὁμοίως ἐγκεκαλυμμένος οὐ φθέγγεται, πλὴν ἐν ἀρχαῖς ὀλίγα πρὸς Ἑρμῆν ἀμοιβαῖα, ‘For, in the Niobe, the heroine, who is veiled, sits on the tomb of her children saying nothing for three scenes. And in the Ransoming of Hector, Achilles, similarly covered up, again says nothing, except in the beginning, when he says a few verses to Hermes in dialogue.’  A term coined by Mirzoeff (1999) 30: see Capra and Floridi’s introduction to this volume.

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performance in which allusion was not necessarily achieved by virtue of verbal markers, but also by the ability of the visual element, too, to make references to various semiotic systems collaborating in the creation of theatrical meaning’.68 The audience of 458 BCE could certainly enrich the meaning and potential of this highly dramatic scene by comparing it to current visual representations.69 Moreover, to this visual pattern of mythic representation Aeschylus also apparently alluded when he explicitly compares Iphigenia to a picture in the moment of her imminent death. To summarise, the picture becomes an image act since the recipients of the picture in words let a vivid dramatic scene emerge in their minds. The image now does what it shows, and the narrator uses its power to support the narration. As we said, image acts of fixed pictures will later be transformed to performative scenes and acts. Moreover, in the Agamemnon many images are inner or mental pictures or phantasies. In Eumenides they tend to become real, acted out as theatrical scenes on stage.

2.5 Images as illusions and memory imprints In the first stasimon the chorus sings – again, just as Calchas’ words in the parodos, in the direct speech of other seers of the place, interpreters of holy things (δόμων προφῆται, Ag. 409) incorporated into their own prophetic speech (however, it is not clear how far the citation continues)70 – about the phantasm of love (Ag. 410–426): ‘ἰὼ ἰὼ δῶμα δῶμα καὶ πρόμοι, ἰὼ λέχος καὶ στίβοι φιλάνορες· πάρεστι †σιγᾶς ἄτιμος ἀλοίδορος ἅδιστος ἀφεμένων† ἰδεῖν· πόθῳ δ’ ὑπερποντίας φάσμα δόξει δόμων ἀνάσσειν· εὐμόρφων δὲ κολοσσῶν ἔχθεται χάρις ἀνδρί,

410

415

 Petrides (2014) 90–91.  On the presence of a real picture, see Medda (2017) II, 173; Prag (1985) 65–66 assumes a painting of Polyxena’s sacrifice on the Propylaea; see also Henrichs (2006) 70–73, esp. the new Polyxena sarcophagus found in the Troas; paintings of Iphigenia are rare: see LIMC, s.v. Iphigeneia, no. 2 = Boston MFA 6.67.  The embedded speech helps to make everything enigmatic through polyphony and hybridisation. See Fletcher (1999) and Medda (2017) II, 258–259.

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ὀμμάτων δ’ ἐν ἀχηνίαις ἔρρει πᾶσ’ Ἀφροδίτα. ὀνειρόφαντοι δὲ πενθήμονες πάρεισι δόξαι φέρουσαι χάριν ματαίαν· μάταν γάρ, εὖτ’ ἂν ἐσθλά τις δοκοῦνθ’ ὁρᾷ, παραλλάξασα διὰ χερῶν βέβακεν ὄψις, οὐ μεθύστερον πτεροῖς ὀπαδοῦσ’ ὕπνου κελεύθοις’.

420

425

Alas, alas, for the home, the home, and for the princes! Alas for the husband’s bed the impress of her form so dear! He sits apart in the anguish of his grief, silent, dishonoured but making no reproach. In his yearning for her who sped beyond the sea, [415] a phantom will seem to be lord of the house. The grace of fair-formed statues is hateful to him; and in the hunger of his eyes all loveliness is departed. [420] Mournful apparitions come to him in dreams, bringing only vain joy; for vainly, whenever in his imagination a man sees delights, [425] straightaway the vision, slipping through his arms, is gone, winging its flight along the paths of sleep. (transl. H.W. Smyth)

Helen, the most beautiful woman and beloved spouse gone with Paris is to be understood in the form of traces, as an imprint left on the empty marriage bed (Ag. 411). Pothos, desire, with its gap of absence, creates a phasma, a phantasma that dominates the palace (415). Helen, the cause of the Trojan war and one possible origin in the chain of revenge, is envisaged as a beautiful statue. In her absence she is not real anymore, only a dream-fantasy, a double, an unreachable goal living in Troy. The shadow picture, imagined in the mind of the loving husband who has lost her to Paris, became a symbol of lost honour for all Greek men who began to wage a long and brutal war to win her back. It is thus compared to an artefact, a copy of the original, that deceives men. Statues of her are most likely only a vision, like a dream, but not real. She was abducted by Paris, and she went with him of her own free will and out of love. What remains is a trace, an imprint, dear to the man. As betrayed husband Menelaus is left alone in Argos. He is caught in the typical triangulation that intensifies his desire. Love as ‘the discourse of absence’ unfolds as space and finds expression in spatial separation.71 The intrinsic and constitutive lack materialises as the gap that opens up between him and his beloved wife. Menelaus grieves about his loss and is envisaged in his suffering. Without reproaching or cursing Helen, he is caught up in pothos, in his desire for her. He loves someone who is not present. In his yearning for her who now lives far

 Barthes (1979) 13–17.

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away in Troy this phantom takes possession of him and the royal house. It dominates politics and decisions. In his mind she turns into a dream-like existence, a simulacrum. She seems to be present in her absence. At the same time the grace and idealised beauty of such fair-formed and greater-than-life-sized statues – perhaps he had even installed real statues of Helen, or she herself left them in the palace – becomes more and more the object of hate; in his desire to see her, in the hunger of his eyes, the loveliness has vanished. Love turns into grief and finally into hatred. In his mind she becomes a huge statue, a substitute for her person as if she were dead. He envisions her like an eidolon, a psyche, a shadow figure of skia, that is culturally modelled into an effigies in massive and cold stone, the kolossos.72 In death cult the statue becomes the substitute, the materialised counter-image of the soul, the immaterial double of Helen who, in her absence, is seen as dead.73 The huge and colossal figure substitutes the presence of the person envisioned as deceased and dead in an empty grave, a cenotaph. It is a monumentalised double that attracts terror and hate, and not a representation or image of the living person.74 Yet, as she has not really died, the symbolic reintegration into the social body as mnema, the expanded image reception as memory of the lack of the social persona, cannot be achieved in death cult.75 At the same time, she still appears to him in mournful dreams, idealised and sublimated, but a vain hope for the satisfaction of his immense desire. It remains a phasma (Ag. 415, 420–425), a vision, a seeming pleasure which, without real presence, vanishes when he wakes up. The frustration reinforces his ambiguous feelings of love, mourning, and hatred that led to the departure of the fleet to win her back.76 The Trojan war about her leads to the death of many citizens. From the point of view of the old men of the chorus left back at home, the fallen warriors have not achieved a ‘beautiful death’ in the idealisation of their status as heroes, but they come back as ashes in urns (Ag. 426–436). They lack a sema that evokes their social rank, but they

 See Vernant (2006) 325–326 and Bollack (1981) I, 429–437. See also Karamitrou (1999). For κολοσσός as double and substitute, see Vernant (2006) and Bollack (1981) I, 432–435. On the passage, see Medda (2017) II, 263–266.  On the association of Helen’s flight with death, see Vernant (2006) 321–326, esp. 326.  See Benveniste (1932) and Vernant (2006), esp. 325; against their claim, they are not figurines for magical and exorcist practices, substitutes to expel bad spirits, as Dickie (1996) has shown.  The practice here is not to nail down a double, but to symbolically represent the missed person and to recall its social role in the community. There is no evidence that, as Steiner (1995) believes, kolossoi are archaic statues with legs together like a pillar. Its features of being immobile and without eyes would be opposed to the real Helen.  See Weigel (2015) 216–221.

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rather vanish into nothing and fall into oblivion, bringing lament, misery, and social suffering. According to the chorus and the embedded prophetic voices, the visions, the visual representations as imagined or real colossal statues or mental images, dreams, or phantasms possess the status of fragility and illusory nature of a picture. The image only seems to have an ontological status as elusive doxa; it is an illusion, anticipating the Platonic view. In this reflection the illusory status as phasma result from eros and absence. The special danger of this mind’s image lies in the particular agency of this illusion that leads to deception, total blindness, disaster, and social disintegration.

2.6 Another image as memory imprint Helen, as new bride of Paris, becomes an erotic Erinys herself, ‘a bride bringing woe as vengeance’ (Ag. 749), since her image of absence caused the insane war that burnt down Troy. When Agamemnon finally returns home, who launched his expedition for her sake ten years ago, the chorus leader addresses him with the words that he has kept and painted an inner picture of the king in an ‘unmusical manner’ (Ag. 801), that does not match choral harmony, gaiety, and playfulness (Ag. 799–804):77 σὺ δέ μοι τότε μὲν στέλλων στρατιὰν Ἑλένης ἕνεκ’, οὐκ ἐπικεύσω, κάρτ’ ἀπομούσως ἦσθα γεγραμμένος οὐδ’ εὖ πραπίδων οἴακα νέμων, θράσος ἐκ θυσιῶν ἀνδράσι θνῄσκουσι κομίζων·

800

803 Ahrens : θράσος ἑκούσιον F Now in the past, when you marshalled the army in Helen’s cause, [800] you were depicted in my eyes –for I will not hide it from you – most ungracefully and as not rightly guiding the helm of your mind in seeking through your sacrifices to bring courage to dying men. (transl. H.W. Smyth)

The chorus is frank about what it has felt, in its mind it has made an imprint of its king that was inscribed or painted. As seen above, graphein designates both

 Medda (2017) III, 10–13.

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painting and writing. The saved sign or mnema in the mind is not an idealised picture full of pleasure that one usually makes of a king in long absence. The chorus self-referentially and synaesthetically projects the unfavourable, unflattering, and disadvantageous impression that Agamemnon made on it when he pursued his trace of mad vengeance onto its own medium, the music as song, melody, and dance. The image that the chorus saved in its mind is an imprint, a vestige, or trace that has a musical nature contrary to the sound of a ritual chorus singing in honour of the gods. It bears signs not of euphemia, but of dysphemia – a common theme in the trilogy.78 The sound is without harmony and pleasure but rather matches the unpleasant melodies of war, vengeance, and erinys. The king is stuck in their minds as unfavourable and bad image since he initiated a morally wrong undertaking. Guiding the helm of his ship overlaps with his intelligence and ethic principle that guided him to command a fleet on a questionable mission. This is owing to his sacrifices (ἐκ θυσιῶν, as conjectured by Ahrens, i.e. of Iphigenia), daring attitude (θράσος) for men to die, or even much better: he brought the willing and mischievous Helen (θράσος ἑκούσιον, as in the manuscripts) to men who died. The war was launched for personal matters, for a woman who went away with another man of her own free will. Such a woman is the emblem of impudence and insolence. The ruler sacrificed his people for his brother’s affairs and illusions.

2.7 Another example of the illusionary quality of images In his first speech Agamemnon recurs to the deceiving status of the image as appearance in contrast to the true ontological status of ethical standards. He talks about the abysses of war, where the value of companionship disappears and turns into illusory forms. Good friendship degenerates in εἴδωλον σκιᾶς (Ag. 839), ‘the dead double image of shadow’ (Ag. 838–840):79 εἰδὼς λέγοιμ’ ἄν, εὖ γὰρ ἐξεπίσταμαι ὁμιλίας κάτοπτρον, εἴδωλον σκιᾶς, δοκοῦντας εἶναι κάρτα πρευμενεῖς ἐμοί·

 See Gödde (2011) 95–148 and Bierl (2017).  Medda (2017) III, 30–32.

840

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From knowledge – for well I know the mirror of companionship – I may call a shadow of a shade [840] those who feigned exceeding loyalty to me. (transl. H.W. Smyth)

In view of the envy (phthonos, 833) felt about the relative well-being and happiness of others, people only feign loyalty to their commander in the misery of war. Agamemnon knows about the psychology and anthropology of an army in extreme circumstances as he calls the human intercourse a mere mirror image of its true form, ὁμιλίας κάτοπτρον and εἴδωλον σκιᾶς, a second-order derivative. Thus, Aeschylus recurs to the image in the sense of elusive appearance, of a seeming, fake quality that will be so important for Plato’s criticism of the image. According to him, the image lacks the ontological status, as it is two steps away from the true form, idea, that is again modelled on the visual level.

2.8 Imaginations, mental images, and fantasies In the third stasimon, fearing for the king, the chorus foresees the catastrophe in spontaneous visions of inner dream pictures or phantoms, conjuring up fear and terror as a threatening vision (975–987):80 τίπτε μοι τόδ’ ἐμπέδως δεῖμα προστατήριον καρδίας τερασκόπου ποτᾶται; μαντιπολεῖ δ’ ἀκέλευστος ἄμισθος ἀοιδᾳ, οὐδ’ ἀποπτύσαι δίκαν δυσκρίτων ὀνειράτων θάρσος εὐπειθὲς ἵζει φρενὸς φίλον θρόνον. †χρόνος δ’ ἐπεὶ πρυμνησίων ξυνεμβόλοις ψαμμίας ἀκάτα† παρήβησεν εὖθ’ ὑπ’ Ἴλιον ὦρτο ναυβάτας στρατός.

975 978 980

985

Why does this terror so persistently hover standing before my prophetic soul? Why does my song, unbidden and unfed, chant strains of augury? Why does assuring confidence not sit on my heart’s throne [980] and spurn the terror like an uninterpretable dream? But Time has collected the sands of the shore upon the cables cast thereon [985] when the shipborn army sped forth for Ilium. (transl. H.W. Smyth)

 Medda (2017) III, 99–109.

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The inner emotional feeling of terror materialises in a rather concrete vision that hovers and flies like eidola before the heart and inner psychic realm where signs, marvels, and wondrous monsters are observed to be deciphered.81 The visions are still located in the region of the soul where the emotions sit. These images of terror will later solidify to concrete monsters on stage. Moreover, besides the emergence of still rather vague fantasies of fear supplemented on the acoustic level, they apparently are a metaphor for an anxious mood and atmosphere of fright and foreboding rather than a concrete vision of Erinyes to come. The chorus imagines ‘a threnody of the Erinys without a lyre’ (τὸν δ’ ἄνευ λύρας . . . θρῆνον Ἐρινύ⟨ο⟩ς, Ag. 990–992)82 spontaneously arising in its mind.83 The visual and the acoustic fuse to a multimodal theatrical expression that self-referentially recurs to the chorus’ own activity of singing and dancing with musical accompaniment. Thus, the poetic metaphor is very concrete, but it is based on an acoustic impression that stands in contrast to what a chorus normally does and what one would expect when the king has finally returned. Choral dance is intrinsically associated with joy and frolic playfulness. Yet in tragedy where everything is distorted to horror, pathos, and violence the music easily changes into this tonality as well. And the chorus again shifts to the visual dimension complaining that confidence and courage do not dominate the mind, the seat of the intellectual capacities, chasing away the dream images that are hard to discern and interpret. Aeschylus structures the soul into three regions and regards the mind as the instance of control. Courage and thymos should sit on the throne of the mind to block the dream visions from arising from the bottom of the soul understood as a jar. In the later terms of Plato’s tripartition of the soul (Politeia 353d) the logistikon and the thymoeides control the epithymetikon. Cassandra, the priestess of Apollo punished for her erotic resistance, then functions as the prophetic instance foreseeing the future in mental images and scenes where the acoustic and olfactory sense also plays a considerable role (Ag. 1183–1192, 1214–1241). She thus complements the chorus in its foreboding of the previous songs. But whereas the choreuts, themselves as prophetai, mostly reflect the past (so to speak as meta-phetai, ‘seers after facts’) up to the present moment in vague signs, Cassandra also anticipates the imminent murder and projects the future in total lucidity, though still enwrapping the future in oracular and poetic tones. In the eyes of the chorus, itself engaged in  See καρδίας τερασκόπου, Ag. 978, from τέρας, ‘mark or object on which one fixes the eye, sign, wonder’, and σκοπός, ‘one who watches’ (LSJ, s.v.).  Cf. Eum. 331–333 = 344–346 and Ag. 1186–1187.  See Bierl (2017) 183–184.

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enigmatic and oracular language before, Cassandra’s visions now appear as ainigmata (Ag. 1112). Later on, she explicitly denies this: φρενώσω δ’ οὐκέτ’ ἐξ αἰνιγμάτων (‘No more by riddles will I instruct you’, Ag. 1183). But she also produces a pronounced mental image of the choros and komos of the Erinyes (Ag. 1178–1193, esp. 1186–1192).84 καὶ μὴν ὁ χρησμὸς οὐκέτ’ ἐκ καλυμμάτων ἔσται δεδορκὼς νεογάμου νύμφης δίκην, λαμπρὸς δ’ ἔοικεν ἡλίου πρὸς ἀντολὰς πνέων ἐφήξειν, ὥστε κύματος δίκην κλύζειν πρὸς αὐγὰς τοῦδε πήματος πολὺ μεῖζον. φρενώσω δ’ οὐκέτ’ ἐξ αἰνιγμάτων· καὶ μαρτυρεῖτε συνδρόμως ἴχνος κακῶν ῥινηλατούσῃ τῶν πάλαι πεπραγμένων. τὴν γὰρ στέγην τήνδ’ οὔποτ’ ἐκλείπει χορὸς ξύμφθογγος οὐκ εὔφωνος· οὐ γὰρ εὖ λέγει. καὶ μὴν πεπωκώς γ’, ὡς θρασύνεσθαι πλέον, βρότειον αἷμα κῶμος ἐν δόμοις μένει, δύσπεμπτος ἔξω, συγγόνων Ἐρινύων· ὑμνοῦσι δ’ ὕμνον δώμασιν προσήμεναι πρώταρχον ἄτην, ἐν μέρει δ’ ἀπέπτυσαν εὐνὰς ἀδελφοῦ τῷ πατοῦντι δυσμενεῖς.

1180

1185

1190

And now, no more shall my prophecy peer forth from behind a veil like a new-wedded bride; but [1180] it will rush upon me clear as a fresh wind blowing against the sun’s uprising so as to dash against its rays, like a wave, a woe far mightier than mine. No more by riddles will I instruct you. And bear me witness, as, running close behind, [1185] I scent the track of crimes done long ago. For from this roof never departs a choir chanting in unison, but singing no harmonious tune; for it tells not of good. And so, gorged on human blood, so as to be the more emboldened, a revel-rout of kindred Furies haunts the house, [1190] hard to be drive away. Lodged within its halls they chant their chant, the primal sin; and, each in turn, they spurn with loathing a brother’s bed, for they bitterly spurn the one who defiled it. (transl. H.W. Smyth)

In her prophetic language, the abstract principle of vengeance increasingly assumes a concrete mental existence. The coup de théâtre of Eumenides will consist in the fact that the choros of a mental image and vision will turn into the actual and acting chorus of the last play. However, up to this point only Cassandra can envision the imminent potency of the Erinyes in her capacity as a prophetic seer of the future. This conjured chorus again performs on the visual and acoustic modes, thus referencing its musical quality as well. Its harmony is inharmonious and sounds evil; words and sound, content and form overlap.  Medda (2017) III, 205–213 and Bierl (2017) 191–193.

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Cassandra brings to mind the mental image of a second, internal chorus of Erinyes that possesses a Dionysian dimension as well. However, this nightmarish chorus has tasted the blood of men, not wine, and rages as a mad, perverted komos, the paradoxical distortion of hymnic and euphemic chorality. The revelling procession of uncivilised monsters does not come from the outside, but sits on the roof of the house and controls it. It refuses to release the house from its fangs and cannot be chased away as it continuously sings about the starting point of the chain whence vengeance and revenge originated, i.e. the adultery of Atreus’ wife with Thyestes (1189–1192). Slowly the chorus seems to understand but cannot comprehend why she goes to the altar fearlessly like a cow driven by a god. The expression sounds like a self-referential remark about the cultic background of the dithyramb, the origin of tragedy. Cassandra leaves the stage with a sententious statement about mankind: a fortunate man can be turned just by a shadow, but when a man is unfortunate, a wet sponge with one dash can erase his picture (Ag. 1327–1329):85 ἰὼ βρότεια πράγματ’· εὐτυχοῦντα μὲν σκιᾷ τις ἂν πρέψειεν, εἰ δὲ δυστυχῇ, βολαῖς ὑγρώσσων σπόγγος ὤλεσεν γραφήν.

1327

Alas for human fortune! When prosperous, a mere shadow can overturn it; if misfortune strikes, the dash of a wet sponge blots out the drawing.

In archaic wisdom man himself is often likened to a shadow (cf. Ag. 839) because of his volatile nature and the unknown destiny. Cassandra now adds that this derivative picture or inscription (graphe), script and image, can easily be wiped out. Again, man is associated with a picture, a sketch or drawing, a sign on a dashboard. Human beings are seen as fragile, without a fixed and stable existence. The intermedial character of graphein can entail either the script of the play or a drawing that can be erased;86 the metaphorical expression implies the medial status rather than the picture or the writing itself. Men’s existence is not something stable, eternally fixed like a sign inscribed in stone, but only scribbled on a dashboard so that it can easily be erased with a wet sponge. Cassandra’s fate will be the proof of the gnomic wisdom.

 Medda (2017) III, 285–289.  On the allusion to skiagraphia, see Ieranò (2010) 255–259 and (2011) 114–116. On the skenographia derived from skiagraphia, see Rouveret (1989) 65–100. On the overlap between tragedy and painting via skenographia, see O’Sullivan (2008) 193.

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After all, image and vision remain central elements of the Oresteia. However, the mainly acoustic theatre yields to the visual spectacle only in the last part of the trilogy. What Cassandra foresaw in her mind will turn in very concrete results, the two bodies of Agamemnon and Cassandra, rolled out in an ekkyklema and thus directly exposed to the eyes of the observer. In this quality, it is not just a picture, but a scene frozen to a picture or a freeze frame, a schema.87 What is inside is turned outside to be shown to the audience. The king is caught and killed in the net, like the one used for catching fish (cf. Ag. 1375, 1382). The griphos, as ainigma, self-referentially turns into the visual and theatrical sign so that the fishing net (griphos) as akrystaton is publicly exposed.88 The net is cast over Agamemnon’s body enwrapping him just as the griphos covers the clear-cut message.89 His gashing blood, according to Clytemnestra, was like an ejaculation, as if she were impregnated (Ag. 1388–1392). Again, the locheuma (Ag. 1392) serves as a riddling metaphor for the new terrible events, still concealed but impending. Agamemnon lies in the spider’s web (ἀράχνης ἐν ὑφάσματι, Ag. 1492, 1516), and of the Erinyes (cf. Ag. 1579), the helpers of dike, and thus in the net of dike (Ag. 1611). The weaving and the net again symbolise the intricate plot as text and play.

2.9 The shifting play with visual signs that anticipate the highly visual scene on stage In Choephori the references to mental images continue playing a big role. Orestes interprets the bad dream full of visual clarity (Ch. 527–550), which causes Clytemnestra to send Electra for libations to appease Agamemnon (Ch. 515, 525, 538, cf. also 22–42). Again, the sign anticipates the murder, i.e. the actual scene on stage. Clytemnestra dreamt of giving birth to a snake and breastfeeding it. But it did not suck milk but a curd of blood. This fact refers to the vampire nature of the Erinyes,90 whose punishing function is filled in by Orestes – in Agamemnon it was Clytemnestra who did so. She reacts with terror and illuminates

 See Diekmann and Gerling (2010). The scene mirrors the ekkyklema of Clytemnestra and Aegisthus in Choephori, the murder of the two victims is avenged by the murder of the perpetrators.  On griphos as a hermeneutical method, see Köngäs Maranda (1971a) and (1971b); on its application in Aeschylean theatre, see Ferrari (1997) 24–28, 43.  On the metaphor, see Lebeck (1971) 63–67 and Medda (2017) I, 163–165.  See also Eum. 184.

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the dark house with torches (Ch. 514–539). Light is not yet the symbol of solution but of revenge. Orestes takes over the role of the chorus and Cassandra, deciphering the dream signs as signifiers: they are not riddling – a frustrating paradox even for the audience – but clearly correlate with the tenor, the signified: the snake represents him, Orestes, the blood stands for the fact that he will murder Clytemnestra (Ch. 542–550).91 He thus reads the dream as a good omen. Moreover, the breast as sign in the dream again turns into the theatrical gesture of Clytemnestra’s exposure of her breast to plead for her life (Ch. 896–898).92 With this vision the motif of the mother comes to the fore, while Orestes still does not really seem to understand the bearing of the matricide. In his precipitant plan to find access to the palace in the disguise of a Phocian stranger so that he can kill Aegisthus (Ch. 554–578), Clytemnestra stands in front of him unexpectedly (Ch. 668–673). In a spontaneous idea Orestes decides to perform a play-in-the-play, to act as if he had come to announce his own death in Phocia (Ch. 674–690).93 Clytemnestra’s reaction is highly ambivalent, an expression of both sorrow and happiness (Ch. 691–699).94 The nurse, shocked about the notice, laments the apparent death of her foster child. The lament focuses on her efforts to satisfy the most basic needs of the baby in the past, thus again recalling the key motif of motherhood (Ch. 734–765). Clytemnestra never really was a mother to Orestes, not even when he was a baby. But when Orestes is about to kill her, Clytemnestra appeals to her son to spare her life with a great theatrical gesture of supplication. She exposes her breast (Ch. 896–898), and Orestes loses control over his decision for a moment (τί δράσῳ; μητέρ’ αἰδεσθῶ κτανεῖν; Ch. 899), but he is called back to Apollo’s order by his friend Pylades (Ch. 900–902). Again, the associative shifting of motifs from narrated sign to the actual display on the scene, from the breastfeeding in the dream to the actual exposure of the maternal breast, emphasises the emotional efficacy and the overall noticeable tendency of enacting the visual.

 Garvie (1986) 192–194.  Garvie (1986) 292–293.  See Käppel (1998) 215–232, esp. 216–221.  See Bierl (1991), 121–124 on Ch. 698–699; Garvie (1986) 233–235, however, argues that Clytemnestra’s behaviour is not hypocritical.

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2.10 The visualisation and the performance act of dike Another visualisation of an abstract key concept as a theatrical performance act in a mise en scène concerns dike, a very central and notoriously instable term in the trilogy. Just the word comprises a whole gimmick of meanings: justice, lawsuit, revenge, cosmic balance, etc. As Simon Goldhill has shown, all figures in the Oresteia try to appropriate this concept.95 However, this does not point towards a postmodern fluidity and cynic openness in regard to a closely defined understanding of a rule of law, but rather reflects the agonistic nature of law in fifth-century Athens.96 The metaphor of a lawsuit with the votes cast in urns to install dike through the bloody and violent defeat of Troy sounds rather artificial in Agamemnon’s arrival speech (Ag. 813–817):97 δίκας γὰρ οὐκ ἀπὸ γλώσσης θεοὶ κλύοντες ἀνδροθνῆτας Ἰλιοφθόρους ἐς αἱματηρὸν τεῦχος οὐ διχορρόπως ψήφους ἔθεντο, τῷ δ’ ἐναντίῳ κύτει ἐλπὶς προσῄει χειρὸς οὐ πληρουμένῳ.

815

For by no spoken word of the gods heard the parties’ pleas, and in no uncertain fashion their votes for the death of men and ruin of Ilium they put into the urn of blood; and to the opposite vessel hope of a hand approached, but the vessel was not filled. (transl. H. Lloyd-Jones)

Trojan war becomes a metaphorical scene of votes cast for one of both parties to win or lose, comparable with the scales of Zeus weighing the keres of the Greeks and Trojans (Il. 8.69–74). The concrete tenor of war, blood, violence, and sacrifice is strangely fused with the vehicle of the judicial concept, the agonistic dispute and judgment in front of court of the Olympian gods. It is the image that bears the language of the comparison. The image is mentally made present in the spectators’ minds as well as it is a feature of their actual democratic polis life. Thus, it is vividly generated on the basis of the audience’s daily political experiences and resonates with their existence as active polis citizens.

 Goldhill (1986) 33–56, esp. 46–47.  See Grethlein (2003) 201–253, esp. 232–247.  Medda (2017) III, 16–19.

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The spectators ascribe energy and agency to this mental image, it affects them in its immediacy so that it remains decisive over the entire trilogy. Therefore, it inscribes itself into the violent events around erinys that creates dike by reciprocating deed with deed. Moreover, it already anticipates the decisive scene in Eumenides, when the metaphor turns into a highly iconic performance act again and the citizens cast their vote to decide the case of Orestes. Clytemnestra regards the harsh criticism of the chorus against her cruel murder as the reaction of a harsh judge (Ag. 1421). Blood for blood means war between enemies, stasis and eris, a severe divide of society. Thyestes considers Agamemnon, after being murdered, lying in the nets of dike (Ag. 1611), while the chorus threatens him that ‘in court his head will not escape the curses that bring stoning at the people’s hands’ (Ag. 1615–1616). Violent speech act, archaic punishment, and casting of votes overlap. In the net of multiple causations shifted backwards into the past each agent, such as Atreus, Agamemnon, Clytemnestra, Thyestes, Orestes, acts as Erinys, terrible judge, and instance of an archaic dike. In the beginning of Eumenides, Apollo sends Orestes, whom he had forced to act under the threat of ‘attacks by the Erinyes’ (Ch. 283), to Athens with a rather surprising announcement (Eum. 81–83): κἀκεῖ δικαστὰς τῶνδε καὶ θελκτηρίους μύθους ἔχοντες μηχανὰς εὑρήσομεν ὥστ’ ἐς τὸ πᾶν σε τῶνδ’ ἀπαλλάξαι πόνων. And there shall we have judges of your cause, and words to charm them, and shall discover means to release you forever from this distress. (transl. H. Lloyd-Jones)

After the figurative use it is still unclear whether this is yet another poetic and metaphorical promise of conflict solution. Apollo cannot defend and absolve Orestes entirely since he is now pursued by the wild Furies. Athena will help him in her city of Athens. It becomes evident that the verdict is not founded on the rule of law but based on thelxis, charm, and the magic of the word. Athena applies peitho and rhetoric. Agonistic dispute and rhetoric are the basis of the Athenian law practice. The judges could take over the position of erinys and sentence him to death by stoning or release him as not guilty of premeditated murder. Normally a person of the family takes over the party of revenge in a bitter strife. In Athens the decision will be put on a higher level; so to speak it will be outsourced to a higher instance. But Athena does not decide on her own. She institutionalises the Areopagus in an aetiological foundation act

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(Eum. 482–488, 681–710), where the fighting parties will be substituted by a committee of citizens. The communal and neutral court should decide the cause without actually being involved in the fight. Usually both in battle and in court, one party wins and implements the punishment. The total divide and agonistic strife thus culminate in the mise en scène of the casting vote metaphor of Agamemnon, but it is sublimated in the civic institution of a court of judges who must find a decision. The case is so difficult to decide that it ends in a tie, but only with Athena’s vote (Eum. 734–743). Only after the cast of the votes Athena (Eum. 674–675 and after 710) announces the legal proceedings: acquittal also with an equality of votes (Eum. 741), and she casts her decisive vote in favour of Orestes with a most biased argumentation (Eum. 734–740). The following counting of ballots indeed results in a tie (Eum. 752–753). That means the human judges did in fact vote for the death penalty of the defendant. Only Athena’s very biased vote produces Orestes’ acquittal on the tightest margin possible. Athena as president of the court has something else in mind from the very beginning, i.e. to change the poles of fiercely opposing forces into a community of unified citizens. This means to dissociate the conflict on the external axis of the friend-enemy constellation, ‘[t]he shifting of the friend-foe dichotomy from within the city to outside it’.98 For this political agenda, the aetiology of actual Athens, the goddess needs thelxis and peitho (Eum. 885–886, 900, 971–972, 988; cf. 81–82) to persuade the furious Erinyes, who were defeated by a small margin and deprived of their old privilege (time), to give up their feelings of being duped and of revenge on the city. Under the new auspices of the polis ideology, they somehow keep their function to pursue murderers and establish fear for potential trespassers and perpetrators. The deterrence of crime results in unity and cohesion among the citizens against wrong-doers and enemies from outside. As said, the mise en scène of the new dike acted out in a model democratic process, first introduced as an abstract image, is a performance act, the charter of the Athenian circumstances in the here and now. The icon-laden mimetic act, in which the speech act and image act participate, helps interiorise the political self-conception. It does something with the Athenian audience in a communicative process and it creates what it enacts. It works not only on a cognitive but also on an affective, kinetic, and synaesthetic level.

 Meier (1990) 122.

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2.11 The coup de théâtre in Eumenides and the visualisation of Erinys The theatrical concretisation of the abstract concept of erinys works in a similar way. The great coup de théâtre to put the Furies as the up until now unseen on stage as the actual chorus in the last play of the trilogy is partly based on the archaic model of personification. However, in drama this does not suffice. Aeschylus as brilliant theatre director puts this process on stage, displaying it in a self-referential manner and showcasing the entire evolutionary and aetiological process of the Oresteia with it.99 As we have seen, it is a development from dark to light, from the oracular paradox, the magma-like fluidity and indeterminacy to meaning, from the massive accumulation of signs and signifiers to a gradual clarification of the respective signified, from the mythic past to the present, from the there and then to the here and now, from mental vision to theatrical display in public viewing, from a more auditory to an all-encompassing visual theatre. In numerous places the Erinys is first used more as an abstract idea, but in the archaic conception it is already mostly poetically personified as a group in the plural.100 In her vision Cassandra also already imagined the Erinyes as a choral group (Ag. 1184–1192). Moreover, they were associated with frightful, unmusical sound and song creating an atmosphere of horror and anxious foreboding.101 In Choephori the process is then focused on the person of Orestes. After the matricide he is all of a sudden seized by a terrible vision of fear: ‘and close to my heart fear is ready to sing, and my heart to dance in anger to its tune’ (Ch. 1024–1025). He sees phantasms of women in dark garments, snakes in their hair (1048–1050). They seem like awful hunting dogs (1054), female vampires, blood dripping from their eyes (1058). The chorus leader thinks these are only psychic fancies caused by the trauma from the deed (1051–1052). But Orestes replies that these women are clearly visible, in the here and now. Apollo forced him to commit the matricide; otherwise, he threatened him with the Furies themselves (278–290, esp. 283). In the chain of punishment and revenge each murdered person (the children of Thyestes, Iphigenia, Agamemnon, Clytemnestra) and  See Frontisi-Ducroux (2007) and also Frontisi-Ducroux (2006a); see also Easterling (2008), esp. 222–225; about pictorial representations of the Erinyes on vases, see Frontisi-Ducroux (2006b).  Singular: Ag. 59, 749, 990–993, 1119, 1433; Ch. 402, 577, 651; plural: Ag. 461–469, 645, 990–993, 1579; Ch. 283.  Ag. 645, 990–993, 1184–1192, esp. 1187, 1191; see Nooter (2017) 123–289, esp. 125–126, Bierl (2017), and Silverblank (forthcoming).

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punishing perpetrator (Agamemnon, Clytemnestra, Atreus, Orestes) or assistant (Apollo, Electra, Pylades) somehow functions as Erinys and stand-in for the concept of vengeance. At that point, when nobody in the family is left to hunt Orestes down anymore, the Erinyes as embodiments of revenge have to act on their own. Apollo helps his protégé and offers him purification from the miasma of murder in Delphi. The ghastly women pursue him to the holy sanctuary. Delphi is thus the first venue in the Eumenides. Pytho prays to several deities in front of the closed door of the scenic building that represents the temple; she reports how in this place the chthonic deities of prehistory were successfully integrated. Apollo is the first male seer in a series of female predecessors in the shrine. Moreover, Pytho prays to Athena and Dionysus who killed Pentheus like a hare (Eum. 26) – a reference to the killing of the hare in the parodos of Agamemnon and a link to the Dionysian embeddedness. Finally, Pytho enters the door, opening it only a bit, but creeps out again in total terror and reports what she has seen: ἦ δεινὰ λέξαι, δεινὰ δ’ ὀφθαλμοῖς δρακεῖν, πάλιν μ’ ἔπεμψεν ἐκ δόμων τῶν Λοξίου, ὡς μήτε σωκεῖν μήτε μ’ ἀκταίνειν στάσιν· τρέχω δὲ χερσίν, οὐ ποδωκείαι σκελῶν· δείσασα γὰρ γραῦς οὐδέν, ἀντίπαις μὲν οὖν. ἐγὼ μὲν ἕρπω πρὸς πολυστεφῆ μυχόν, ὁρῶ δ’ ἐπ’ ὀμφαλῷ μὲν ἄνδρα θεομυσῆ ἕδραν ἔχοντα προστρόπαιον, αἵματι στάζοντα χεῖρας, καὶ νεοσπαδὲς ξίφος ἔχοντ’, ἐλαίας θ’ ὑψιγέννητον κλάδον λήνει μεγίστῳ σωφρόνως ἐστεμμένον, ἀργῆτι μαλλῷ· τῇδε γὰρ τρανῶς ἐρῶ. πρόσθεν δὲ τἀνδρὸς τοῦδε θαυμαστὸς λόχος εὕδει γυναικῶν ἐν θρόνοισιν ἥμενος. οὔτοι γυναῖκας ἀλλὰ Γοργόνας λέγω οὐδ’ αὖτε Γοργείοισιν εἰκάσω τύποις ... εἶδόν ποτ’ ἤδη Φινέως γεγραμμένας δεῖπνον φερούσας· ἄπτεροί γε μὴν ἰδεῖν αὗται μέλαιναί τ’, ἐς τὸ πᾶν βδελύκτροποι, ῥέγκουσι δ’ οὐ πλατοῖσι φυσιάμασιν, ἐκ δ’ ὀμμάτων λείβουσι δυσφιλῆ λίβα καὶ κόσμος οὔτε πρὸς θεῶν ἀγάλματα φέρειν δίκαιος οὔτ’ ἐς ἀνθρώπων στέγας. τὸ φῦλον οὐκ ὄπωπα τῆσδ’ ὁμιλίας οὐδ’ ἥτις αἶα τοῦτ’ ἐπεύχεται γένος τρέφουσ’ ἀνατεὶ μὴ μεταστένειν πόνον.

35

40

45

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Horrors to tell, horrors for my eyes to see, have sent me back from the house of Loxias, [35] so that I have no strength and I cannot walk upright. I am running on hands and knees, with no quickness in my limbs; for an old woman, overcome with fright, is nothing, or rather she is like a child. I was on my way to the inner shrine, decked with wreaths; I saw on the centre-stone a man defiled in the eyes of the gods, [40] occupying the seat of suppliants. His hands were dripping blood; he held a sword just drawn and an olive-branch, from the top of the tree, decorously crowned with a large tuft of wool, a shining fleece; for as to this I can speak clearly. [45] Before this man an extraordinary band of women slept, seated on thrones. No! Not women, but rather Gorgons I call them; and yet I cannot compare them to forms of Gorgons either. Once before I saw some creatures in a painting, [50] carrying off the feast of Phineus; but these are wingless in appearance, black, altogether disgusting; they snore with repulsive breaths, they drip from their eyes hateful drops; their attire is not fit to bring either before the statues of the gods or into the homes of men. [55] I have never seen the tribe that produced this company, nor the land that boasts of rearing this brood with impunity and does not grieve for its labour afterwards. (transl. H.W. Smyth)

Pytho has surprisingly seen the following horrible scene in the temple: the supplicant Orestes surrounded by sleeping women in a horrific outfit, who resemble Gorgons, blood dripping from their eyes an unseen species (Eum. 34–59).102 We remember that Clytemnestra as stand-in Erinys was continuously compared to Gorgo. But Pythia withdraws the simile immediately since these women are also different from Gorgons (48–49). She can explain the scene of horror that still remains not visible to the audience, comparing it now with a painting of the Harpies attacking Phineus, that she has seen before (50–52).103 The birdwomen flew down and seized his food before he could consume it. He suffered this punishment because his second wife deceived him into blinding his sons. In the logic of revenge, he himself is blinded. The audience must generate this picture in their minds. From the frozen picture emanates emotional energy. In the image act the picture generates what it represents: horror, disgust. It is striking that Pytho obviously recurs to a famous painting to fill the gap of the women’s unseen nature. Since the scene is still empty, she makes use of another visual medium to visualise the still unseen. This, in a way, is a phe-

 See Sommerstein (1989) 90 with reference on representations vases, Prag (1985) pl. 30–32, and Nooter (2017) 252–259.  On the Gorgons and Harpies, see Frontisi-Ducroux (2007) 171–172, Ieranò (2010) 246–250, and Sommerstein (1989) 90, citing the pictorial images in fifth-century art of the Harpies; Trendall and Webster (1971) 58–61 nos. III.1.24–26.

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nomenon of intervisuality and an intermedial dialogue.104 Unfortunately we do not know the exact painting to which Aeschylus alludes, but it must have been well known in the 450s BCE. At the same time, the reference is interperformative and intertextual since Aeschylus’ Phineus, the first play of a trilogy with Persae (472 BCE), was certainly in the collective theatrical memory and some spectators might even have had access to its text. On the other side, the author references his own prior work. Pythia soon withdraws her own comparison again by pointing out a difference between the painting recalled, which represents the Harpies, and the unknown female beings anew. These monstrous women that one can hardly describe are wingless,105 not birds but rather dogs. The common ground between the Gorgons, the Harpies, and the unknown women lies in the composition, in the formation as a choral group. The schematic image act captures the horrible impression of the moment. The painting serves again like a frozen picture or a freeze frame. It captures the decisive moment when the Harpies seize or defile Phineus’ food so that the audience witnesses a plague, suffering, and disgust. The conjured picture arouses repulsion and reinforces the affect. The tertium comparationis consists in horrific women brutally attacking one man, in insane female monsters threatening the victim with omophagia and sparagmos, Dionysian practices just alluded to when Pentheus was mentioned (Eum. 26). It is not by chance that the Furies designate themselves Maenads at one point (Eum. 500). And just the iconic potential of the myth speaks for itself and establishes communication. Intrinsic energy emanates from the images that are conjured. The sense is polyvalent and all but one-dimensional. Therefore, via the picture the onlookers negotiate the dynamic and open sense of the scene. The picture indicates a life in defilement and plague, even if the hero lives on. Plague and defilement are also what the Erinyes are threatening Athens with. And from both the Harpies and the Erinyes’ eyes blood is dripping and both wear black robes. Their attire is neither appropriate to approach the statues of the gods nor to enter into the homes of men (Eum. 55–56). Rather it suits extraterritorial beings, a species (φῦλον, Eum. 57) never seen before. She recommends the scene to Apollo, the iatromantis and katharsios (Eum. 62–63), the doctor-seer and purifier, to deal with this miasma and achieve katharsis.

 On intervisuality, see the definition by Cowan (2013) 314: ‘The ways in which one dramatic performance can evoke recollections of another, not by means of verbal reminiscence, but through similarities in their visual dimension [. . .].’  Harrison (1903) 213–217 actually identifies the Erinyes with winged Keres, vengeful souls and returning ghosts of the dead.

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2.12 The gradual process from image, tableau to performance, from standstill to kinetic play Up to this moment the horror was transported through words only, enriched with iconic and intervisual as well as intermedial material to make up for the fact that the scene could not be seen yet. Pytho departs, the door opens, and the group personifying the principle of revenge which was present only as a mental image coined from cultural personifications becomes visible now. The mainly auditory and verbal theatre finally becomes full visual theatre. The transition happens through a visual technique again. The frozen image, the freeze frame, gradually becomes a vivid performance.106 The formation will probably be rolled out again as an ekkyklema and displayed as a tableau vivant of sleeping monsters surrounding their victim Orestes. The sight was so horrific that, according to an ancient anecdote, women, observing the drama from the upper grades of the theatre, suffered a miscarriage.107 In view of the scene Apollo promises unconditional support to Orestes (Eum. 64–84) against these monsters that are beyond any categories: ‘mad women, sleeping loathsome maidens, old women, ancient children, with whom no god or man or beast ever mingles’ (Eum. 68–70). The oxymoron of old women as maidens and children (Eum. 68–69) somehow anticipates the resolution of the dichotomous division between old and new at the end of the trilogy.108 Apollo foresees that the women will pursue the victim all over Greece (Eum. 75–77). The safe haven will be Athens, the city of Pallas, where Orestes and his lawyer will have judges and speeches of persuasive charm to find the means to absolve the defendant from his labours (Eum. 79). We remember the situation: the sleeping monsters are still snoring since they are partially deactivated through Apollo’s purification. Clytemnestra’s eidolon, her double as psyche coming from Hades or better still flying around without having found peace, appears – Agamemnon’s psyche, on the contrary did not rise to the earth despite the long kommos in Choephori, but acted clandestinely from beneath – and incites them to continue hunting down their victim (Eum. 94–116). She feels dishonoured since they are not doing their job – a rather paradoxical situation as the Erinys is the embodied principle of

 See Frontisi-Ducroux (2007) 173–176.  Vita 9.35–38 τινὲς δέ φασιν ἐν τῇ ἐπιδείξει τῶν Εὐμενίδων σποράδην εἰσαγαγόντα τὸν χορὸν τοσοῦτον ἐκπλῆξαι τὸν δῆμον ὡς τὰ μὲν νήπια ἐκψῦξαι, τὰ δὲ ἔμβρυα ἐξαμβλωθῆναι. See also Pollux 4.110.  On the oxymoron, see Sommerstein (1989) 95 (as expression of the virginity) and Revermann (2008) 243–244 (as expression of their energetic potential and their liminality).

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revenge. Clytemnestra is outraged that even among the dead she is constantly reproached and accused by them so that her psyche has to wander around and no daimon is angry on her behalf despite having suffered a matricide (Eum. 101–102). She complains that they remain inactive, and indeed none of the gods, who have been in agreement with the principle of erinys, have taken her side until now. Clytemnestra objects that she has offered so many wineless libations to them (Eum. 106–107) – as a matter of fact, the ritual activity had aimed at appeasing Agamemnon’s soul (νηφάλια μειλίγματα, Eum. 107; see Ch. 15).109 The chthonic soul of Clytemnestra, who has executed the revenge upon Agamemnon for them and now functions as substitute Erinys, so to speak, calls them to their duty to wake up and return to consciousness and action. However, the monsters still live in their false dream pictures while the oneiric ghost of a dead person is awake. They pursue their victim only in their fantasy and, so to speak, in semblance. The parodos (Eum. 117–177) begins with the Erinyes, acting now as the real, not an imaginary chorus, as projected by Cassandra before. The song again reflects the gradual process from fixed image or freeze frame to real theatrical and kinetic performance as it plays it out again in the orchestra. The picture becomes a real tableau of ghosts still not moving but noticeable to everyone. It is as if the tableau becomes an image act after the applied similes with pictures of other female monsters. The context of the orchestra situates the fixed tableau and constitutes the immobile Erinyes as an image. In the image act it becomes a picture. It emanates energy so that the audience ascribes an agency to it. In a way, Aeschylus gradually enacts the image act on stage. From the tableau as schema and from its intrinsic nature it assumes agency. The scene is thus a mise en scène of energeia in enargeia. The spectators witness the transition from picture to performance, from fixity, artefact, and stasis to motion, agency, and dynamic fluidity. Therefore, the sleeping and static monsters slowly start acting when Clytemnestra tells them that the murderer is about to flee. But the chorus pursues him as mental phantasm only in their dreams. The Furies whine and start shouting still in their sleep. It is like the birth of theatre, when the chorus acts, singing and dancing, for the first time. In a theatrical process the Erinyes leave their abstract and vain, illusory status as dreamlike shadows and ghosts behind and gradually assume the real, thus audibly and even visibly manifest nature as a theatrical chorus. As Frontisi-Ducroux puts it: ‘Aeschylus realises his mise en scène by giving body to the void – the extreme case of scenic  See Sommerstein (1989) 103; on wineless libations for the Erinyes as an exceptional case, see Henrichs (1983); see Eum. 860: Athena warns them not to incite the youth to rage in wineless wrath – the characteristic state of the Erinyes themselves – and start a civil war (Eum. 858–863).

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epiphany.’110 Indeed, the abstract concept gradually materialises as a chorus and the goddesses/daimones become visible, thus epiphanic, in midst of the showroom of the Athenian theatre. First, they utter only unarticulated sounds of moaning. Then they pronounce the first words, redoubled and intensified, to describe their hunt in dream: ‘Catch him! Catch him! Catch him! Catch him! Look sharp’ (λαβὲ λαβὲ λαβὲ λαβέ, φράζου, Eum. 130). Gradually the single chorus members wake up, become active and arouse each other;111 they summon themselves to see if any part of this beginning in their dream, a prelude to the real wrath, had been in vain and an oneiric delusion (Eum. 140–142). As they have awakened, they realise that Orestes has escaped. In the parodos proper, they lament that they were duped by Apollo as he stole away their prey, while Apollo allowed the defilement of his own temple (Eum. 143–177). Apollo badmouths them: ‘your place is where the punishments are beheading, gouging out of eyes, cutting of throats, and where young men’s virility is ruined by destruction of seed; where there is mutilation and stoning, and where those who are impaled beneath their spine moan long and piteously’ (Eum. 186–190); and he chases them away from his shrine since they are detested by the gods. By their hunting movements and moans they evoke goats as well as satyrs, but without a herdsman (Eum. 196). Most of all the semblance of a satyr chorus is not beloved by gods (Eum. 191, 197), contrary to the real satyrs who are dear to Dionysus, the god of theatre. By chasing them away (Eum. 179–180, 196–197), Apollo makes the hounds take up the tracks of their prey again (Eum. 230–231) until they reach Orestes in Athens. From the abstract concept erinys, the guilt, punishment invoked upon the guilty, the curse and frenzy of the soul seeking revenge, a real chorus of Erinyes is born, actively moving, singing, dancing, and playing a major role in the plot. This highly visible and active chorus now utters the speech act of curse – the Erinyes are personified Curses, Arai (Eum. 417) –112 and in the binding song they magically bind their victim, acting it out in multimodality (Eum. 306–397).113 At this point the stasimon is the mise en scène of what the chorus mimetically intends to do. By saying and singing contents of illocutionary force the chorus does something.114 The perlocutionary act becomes the performative act on stage. The chorus does what the other figures, such as Clytemnestra and Orestes as representatives of the erinys, have already done: The choreuts bind,

 Frontisi-Ducroux (2007) 174.  See Nooter (2017) 261–265.  On the Erinyes’ quintessential association with arai, see Dorati (2018) 107 n. 4 with further secondary literature.  See Nooter (2017) 268–271.  See Prins (1991), Henrichs (1994–1995) 60–65, Bierl (2001) 81–83, Eng. Bierl (2009) 62–64.

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wrap, and envelop their enemy with nets, garments, and threatening words. Athena succeeds in convincing the monsters to leave the decision to her (Eum. 434–435). After Orestes’ acquittal on equal vote (Eum. 752–753) it is Athena’s peitho that can appease the Erinyes’ wrath. She takes over their motto that ‘there is land where terrible is good’ (Eum. 516) – therefore, fear should not be banned from the city (Eum. 698–700) – and convinces them to revere the altar of dike, as they said (Eum. 539). She promises them ‘a seat and hidden place in this righteous place, sitting on gleaming thrones close to the altars’ (Eum. 805–806), firstfruit sacrifices (Eum. 834–835), honours (Eum. 891), processions (Eum. 856), and cultic veneration in Athens. They feel the appeasing thelxis of peitho (Eum. 885–886, 900) turning their anger into benevolence. Instead of total destruction they promise blessing. They will even change their tune (Eum. 954) for righteous Athens, dysphemic cursing and goos make way for euphemic hymns conducive to welfare, happiness, and civic cohesion (Eum. 902–915).115 Stasis and civil war belong to the past (Eum. 976–987). The Furies’ inclusion and incorporation is made visible in the final scene, when they are enwrapped in robes of purple and accompanied with torches in a procession that reminds of the Panathenaia (Eum. 996–1047).116 The ritual closes Athens’ theological elevation and self-presentation. The visual signs come full circle with the beginning where Clytemnestra celebrates the victory with torches (Ag. 26–39, 83–96) which is communicated via a pseudoLampadephoria (Ag. 281–316),117 a procession to the centre of the city, and lures her husband into the house on the robes of crimson dye (Ag. 906–974). We recall: the fire and torch are the first signs. At the beginning the Watchman is eagerly expecting a light of fire beaming up until it actually appears in the sky (Ag. 1–25). In reaction to it Clytemnestra lights real fires on the scene to sacrifice, celebrate, and appease the daimon (Ag. 69–71, 83–96, 587–597). Moreover, the queen evokes fire as manifest signs in her long speech when she explains her technical installation of fire signals in relay (Ag. 281–316). It announces the victory of the Greeks burning down Troy to install dike. Fire and light symbolise victory over the dark. The unlimited flame that flares up and consumes itself and others thus symbolises Clytemnestra as the active and destructive force of dike, the Erinys (Δίκα δὲ λάμπει . . ., Eum. 774). Only at the very end of the trilogy fire, light (Eum. 1029) and torches (Eum. 1022, 1041–1042) actually become manifest as a real hymnic procession recalling the city festival of the Panathenaia.118 It resumes the motif of crimson robes again (Eum. 1028) that wrap the black garments    

For goos as ‘agent of the action’, see Nooter (2017) 210. See Bowie (1993). On the virtuality of the beacon speech, see Ferrari (1997) 21–22 and Weiss (2018) 178–184. On the changed soundscape, see Nooter (2017) 282–288.

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(Ch. 1049; Eum. 352, 370) of the daughters of Night (Eum. 322, 416, 821–822). They visually symbolise the incorporation of the old forces into the new political and theological order. The ritual procession is the last performative act. What is shown on the stage engenders emotional involvement and cognitive mathesis. The scenic and image-laden act does something. It enacts the content so that it becomes real and influences history.119

2.13 Conclusions Aeschylus makes use of the whole gamut of the visual, from evoking mental pictures, giving judgments about the illusory nature of the image, to adding the medium of concrete painting as a simile for certain key moments. This technique possesses an intervisual potential. Moreover, it often serves to elaborate on a scene that is not actually shown but only narrated. This visual enrichment with iconicity has already been a feature of the epic to reinforce and raise efficacy of the narration. The tragic recourse to painting has been widely debated. Some have argued that in doing so the poet can create a higher degree of compassion and pity and thus also of emotional involvement in general.120 Other critics contend that by generating a sort of double through a different medium of art the status of self-reflective fictionality is highlighted.121 The latter approach has more legitimacy in the case of an author like Euripides, although Aeschylus, too, can already be associated with traces of such a self-conscious dimension. Yet metatheatrical awareness does not necessarily lead to the etiolation of theatre. Each instance must be evaluated in the context of the play. Thus, in the specific analysis of the Oresteia we could contribute to overcoming the dichotomy of diametrically opposing approaches. Aeschylus is an author highly self-conscious of his technical devices and at the same time he is a master of putting his plays on stage in the most efficient manner. On the basis of new refinements of an image science that is highly aware of the power of images we thus focused on what a picture actively does, it is, on the image act and how this active and dynamic potency of the picture contributes to enhance the theatrical impact and efficacy, ‘arous[ing]’ the necessary ‘affective responses’ in the audience.122 This active and dynamic potency of the evoked image gives

   

See Easterling (2008) 230–235. E.g. Zeitlin (1994) 141 and O’Sullivan (2008), esp. 195. Steiner (2001), esp. 52 and Ieranò (2010) 262–265. Zeitlin (1994) 141.

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body to the dramatic medium of the speech as text, especially to narration, particularly in choral songs, in a dialogic way, especially in theatre which is constituted by the visual. To summarise, applying modern image theory, we have learnt how Aeschylus uses the visual in the figurative metaphor, in the simile of a picture and in the surprising display of key motifs and even abstract concepts as complex theatrical scenes. The visual and its dramatic application stand in close interaction with the basic process and plot development of the Oresteia. The detected movement from the visual as signifiers, to the inner fantasy, to the frozen image, to the tableau, and finally to the performative scene supports this evolutionary journey ending with the specific zooming out to the here and now. In a way, the development from image to vivid performance is like a genealogy of the theatre. It highlights the specifically aetiological mode of the Oresteia on the theatrical medium itself. Moreover, it helps enact and convey the central idea of the immensely political trilogy.

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Telò, M. and M. Mueller. 2018. The Materialities of Greek Tragedy: Objects and Affect in Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides. London. Trendall, A.D. and T.B.L. Webster. 1971. Illustrations of Greek Drama. London. Vernant, J.-P. 2006. The Figuration of the Invisible and the Psychological Category of the Double: The Kolossos. In Myth and Thought among the Greeks. Translated by J. Lloyd with J. Fort, 321–332. London, New York (or. ed. Paris 1966), 325–388. Vidal-Naquet, P. 1988. Hunting and Sacrifice in Aeschylus’ Oresteia. In Myth and Tragedy in Ancient Greece, ed. J.-P. Vernant and P. Vidal-Naquet. Translated by J. Lloyd, 141–159, 439–452. New York. Waldenfels, B. 2008. Von der Wirkmacht und Wirkkraft der Bilder. In Mersman and Spies (2008) 45–63. Weigel, S. 2015. Grammatologie der Bilder. Berlin. Weiss, N. 2018. Speaking Sights and Seen Sounds in Aeschylean Tragedy. In Telò and Mueller (2018) 169–184. Wilson, P. and O. Taplin. 1993. The Aetiology of Tragedy in the Oresteia. PCPhS 39: 169–180. Zeitlin, F.I. 1965. The Motif of the Corrupted Sacrifice in Aeschylus’ Oresteia. TAPhA 96: 463–505. Zeitlin, F.I. 1966. Postscript to Sacrificial Imaginary in the Oresteia (Ag. 1235–37). TAPhA 97: 645–653. Zeitlin, F.I. 1994. The Artful Eye: Vision, Ekphrasis, and Spectacle in Euripidean Drama. In Art and Text in Ancient Greek Culture, ed. S. Goldhill and R. Osborne, 138–196. Cambridge. Zeitlin, F.I. 20092. Under the Sign of the Shield. Semiotics and Aeschylus’ Seven Against Thebes, Rome (1st ed. 1982).

Part II: Archaic and classical age

George Alexander Gazis

3 Homer and the art of cinematic warfare Abstract: In this chapter it is argued that Homer’s descriptions of heroic duelling can be traced back to the early Mycenaean Palatial period. Mycenaean artists were keen to depict individual duels as opposed to large-scale skirmishes, something that likely reflects the human tendency of prioritising individual or subjective memory. Rather than focusing on the actual content of Homer’s descriptions or on the social and cultural reasons behind their selection, the paper asks what the visualisation of these events in the bard’s (and the audience’s) mind’s eye can tell us about Homeric poetry with respect to the audience’s expectations, and in light of what is arguably an intervisual continuity with the Mycenaean era that Homer claims to depict. Σωκράτης. τί δέ; ἡ ῥαψῳδικὴ τέχνη στρατηγική ἐστιν; Ἴων. Γνοίην γοῦν ἂν ἔγωγε οἷα στρατηγὸν πρέπει εἰπεῖν. Σωκράτης. ἴσως γὰρ εἶ καὶ στρατηγικός, ὦ Ἴων. Socrates. Well, but is the art of the rhapsode the art of the general? Ion. I, at any rate, should know what a general ought to say. Socrates. Yes, since I daresay you are good at generalship also, Ion. (Plato, Ion 540d; transl. W.R.M. Lamb)

In this chapter, I argue that Homer’s often unrealistic descriptions of heroic duelling follow a long line of artistic representation that can be traced back to the early Mycenaean Palatial period. Mycenaean artists, and their noble audiences who commissioned the artworks, had a particular preference for depicting individual duels when it came to battle-related themes rather than large-scale skirmishes.1 This preference cannot have been accidental; rather it appears to reflect the basic human tendency of prioritising individual or subjective memory, over a more objective recollection of the events in which one has participated. My analysis moves away from the question of what Homer does recall and replay in our minds and towards how and why does the recollection of events that comprise the epic material happen. In other words, I am not interested in the actual content of the

 This is not the result of inability or artistic limitations, rather a conscious preference – large scale warfare is indeed portrayed in Mycenaean art, the most famous example being the Silver Siege Rhyton from Mycenae (Hood [1978] 168), however it is quite rare compared to the one-toone combat which in most periods dominates artistic production. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110795448-004

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narration or the social and cultural reasons behind its selection, but rather in what can the visualisation of these events in the bard’s (and the audience’s) mind’s eye tell us about Homeric poetry on a first level in relation to its audience and its expectations, and on a second, in terms of its artistic continuity with the Mycenaean era which it claims to depict.

3.1 Impossible narratives In the quoted passage above, we find the rhapsode Ion, from the homonymous dialogue of Plato, claiming that his knowledge of Homer, his so-called ῥαψῳδικὴ τέχνη, qualifies him as a full-fledged general. According to Ion, a deep study of the Iliad would allow the skilled rhapsode to pick up all the essentials of any trade, including among many others the art of warfare. This simplistic belief is, almost too easily, demolished by Socrates who proceeds to prove that Ion and his like-minded company are nothing more than a sort of poetic parrots, and harmful for the general public in fact since the ideas they perpetuate are far removed from any applicable knowledge in one’s life. This is of course a rational argument against which, I think, no-one today would argue. However, put into context, it raises an important issue: what practical value was thought to be in the Homeric epics regarding the art of warfare and how applicable any knowledge on the matter derived from the Iliad and the Odyssey could be? When looking at the battle descriptions of the Iliad, it takes little imagination to visualise the destructive results of adopting the heroic tactics depicted therein for any Greek general, officer, or common soldier. Save for a few grand scale descriptions that offer a bird-eye view of the battlefield,2 Homeric battle narratives more often than not break into chaotic skirmishes in which the hero jumps into the battle and slaughters a host of enemies until they meet a heroically relevant opponent, in which case the narrative veers towards the surreal. Every reader of Homer is familiar with the longwinded speeches that precede such duels, breaking the action and inserting long narratives while the interlocutors stand literally in the eye of the storm. To mention one example, in book 5 Diomedes in the middle of his aristeia comes across Glaucus, the second in command of the Lycians after Sarpedon and an important ally of the Trojans, who has caused a significant number of casualties to the Greeks until this point and will cause even more later. Instead of engaging in battle, as one would expect, Diomedes, noticing his

 Including some basic and often anachronistic tactics like the phalanx in Il. 16.212–217, or a criticism of the chaotic arrangement of the Trojan contingents in Il. 3.1–7.

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opponent’s solid gold armour,3 pauses and delivers a speech of 21 hexameters to which Glaucus replies with a speech of 67 lines.4 It is hard to imagine that during the time it would take for these speeches to be delivered, Diomedes and Glaucus would be left undisturbed and with a free-hand to reminisce about the past and boast about the present, while in the heat of the battle. In fact, neither Homer nor his audience would expect us to do so – these scenes are supposed to be understood in their own right, as if they were little bubbles in the narrative where time does not flow in the natural way we are used to. In other words, these scenes represent the equivalent of the cinematic technique of slow-motion zooming, with which we are all too familiar in our everyday life. None of this is of course new to the seasoned Homeric scholar or reader; the bard’s ability to slow or speed up his narrative has long been recognised as one of their most brilliant strokes, leading to a visualisation of the narrated events with a clarity that leaves the audience wondering whether they are listening to, or in fact witnessing, the action related by the poet.5 It is precisely this zooming-in technique that brings the narrative into life and helps differentiate between significant events, such as an important duel, and the elimination of cannon fodder, as happens with the countless – often named – adversaries that find their doom in the hands of a hero during his aristeia. And yet, the question still remains: when it comes to actual practice, how are we expected to understand these narratives and what benefit would a member of the ancient audience be expected to gain in terms of their battle prowess or military training in general? A further question is how did these narratives arise in the first place? In other words, how were the poet and the audience, including Ion above, able to ignore the impracticalities behind these heroic descriptions of battle and not only accept them, but further venerate them as exempla of heroic behaviour? The answer, I argue, can be found if we examine more closely the way in which recollection of significant events happens within the human mind and its implications for the content of narration. By looking at the function of memory regarding the narration of important past events we can begin to unwind, with the help of memory studies and recent finds in neuroscience, the mental process that leads to the impossible battle narratives we encounter in Homeric duelling

 The impracticality and essentially uselessness of a golden armour is a matter in its own right: see Graziosi and Haubold (2010) 142–143.  Il. 6.123–143 and 145–211.  Starting with Lessing (1962, 1st ed. 1766), Zielinsky (1899–1901), and of course Auerbach (1946), the concept of Homeric vividness, or enargeia, has been and still is in the focus of many studies; for the most recent, see Allan, de Jong, and de Jonge (2017) 34–51, Grethlein and Huitink (2017) 67–91, and Gazis (2018) 1–13.

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scenes, and furthermore understand their appeal to ancient and modern audiences alike, who are willing to visualise the narrative without any significant objections as to its validity.

3.2 Homer and the study of memory The use of memory studies is by no means new to Homeric scholarship. Already in the early decades of the twentieth century with Parry’s research on the role of memory in contemporary oral/bardic performances in former Yugoslavia, scholars became increasingly aware of the significance of memory for our understanding of Greek epic poetry as a whole and Homeric poetry in particular.6 However, the main questions asked focus around the subject of performance per se (how is the bard able to memorise and recite very large poems without any visual or other aid?) or around the concept of collective memory, that is what does the bard choose to commemorate and why? Bakker argues that in order to comprehend the Homeric epics we need to always be mindful that their primary function is an act of recollection that operates on several levels: on the one hand, the poet evokes memorable events of the past; on the other hand, through the semantic and cognitive nature of this recollection, he/she literally points towards the past not simply through an act of recollection, but rather by manifesting the narrated events in the mind’s eye of the audience at the moment of performance. This enactive recollection essentially transforms the experience of the audience from passive to immersive, leading to a performance that make us effectively live the past as if it was our current present. The other great proponent of memory studies in the field of Classics, Elisabeth Minchin, has shown that the concept of memory plays an important role in the way the Homeric poems are not only performed and received but also shaped internally. In her discussion of the Homeric simile, for instance, Minchin demonstrates that what we consider as a literary device with ornamental function has a quite important cognitive role to play as well. By using a simile, Minchin argues, Homer succeeds in capturing ‘the audience’s attention and enhanc[ing] understanding and memory’.7 This is due to the fact that our memory is cognitively geared, as it were, towards imagery rather than language – in other words we visualise or recall an event better through the use of images than words. When,

 Parry (1928) and Lord (1960). For a recent analysis of orality in Homeric studies, see Ready (2019).  Minchin (2001) 33–34.

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therefore, Homer compares a warrior to an eagle, the audience’s mind interprets that image as a pleasant comparison, but at the same time it uses it to enhance its visualisation of the warrior described through the association of the feelings and separate memories that the image of the eagle recalls to one’s mind. These observations have advanced considerably the way we understand concepts such as the vividness of the Homeric text and its universal and diachronic appeal but also provide us with a significant glimpse of the internal mechanics of oral in general and Homeric poetry in particular. When we move, however, to the concept of memory as recollection of the past, that is as a representation to an extent of an actual period in Greek prehistory, things become rather problematic, not least due to the damage done by earlier attempts to conflate Homer’s poetry with the Mycenaean past of the Greeks. To begin with, despite the excitement they caused, Schliemann’s confident assertations upon his discovery of Mycenaean Greece in the end of the nineteenth century, about the Homeric epics coming to life through his impressive finds in Hissarlik and Mycenae,8 have caused a deep trauma in Homeric studies which has yet to heal. The justified reaction by scholars to half a century of attempts to see in the prehistoric ruins the illustrious Homeric heroes, led to a sort of trench warfare between Aegean Bronze Age Archaeology and Homeric studies, which escalated beyond any expectation.9 And yet, most scholars today would agree that within the Iliad and the Odyssey one can find many elements that recall that distant past with various degrees of accuracy. One of these elements is the mode of fighting, which is far removed from anything known to the Greeks of the archaic and classical eras. The use of the chariot, already demoted to a ‘taxi service’ in the Iliad, along with the individual, duel-like confrontations that we encounter in almost all battle narratives in Homer,10 seem to recall, however blurry, a battle practice that focused more on

 See for instance the famous telegram Schliemann sent to King George, identifying the funerary mask from Shaft Grave V in Grave Circle A at Mycenae with the face of Agamemnon; available in English translation at:,http://www.hellenicaworld.com/Greece/Museum/NationalMuseumAth ens/en/NAMAMLSchliemann.html. For an indicative discussion of the scholarly problems caused by that statement, even leading Calder (1999) to claim that the mask was a forgery, see Dickinson (2005).  See Haubold (2002) on the debate regarding the historicity of Korfmann’s Troy, which almost escalated to a brawl among scholars.  Exceptions can be found for instance in Il. 3.8–9 and 16.212–217, where the formation of the phalanx appears to have infiltrated the narrative, see schol. b ad 3.9 and contra Kirk (1985) 265. For the chariot, see, among others, Lorimer (1950) 307–327, Martin (1989), ch. 2, and Albracht (2005) 34–49. The bizarre nature of Homeric battle tactics has been consistently highlighted in scholarship, starting with Jähns (1878). For some of the most important analyses of the subject,

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an individual’s performance and less on the elaborate tactics and formations we find in the sixth, fifth, and fourth century BCE. And yet, it is precisely the epic remembering of such an unconventional way of fighting that interests me here since it raises two important questions regarding the way epic memory works: first, what is it exactly that the bard recalls when it comes to duels and duel boasting/narrative? And second, how can this, admittedly unrealistic, representation be appealing to a diachronic audience? Regarding the second question, a first-hand explanation would be that our minds are trained to suspend reality to an extent, when engaging with a narrative. Such a solution, however, does not explain the degree of identification with real battle inspiration and strategy we find the Homeric text having in the fifth and fourth centuries. In other words, there must be in these descriptions at least something that the audience finds realistic enough and can identify it with their own experience of battle, regardless of how different the tactics have been over the centuries. Modern day research on cognition and memory can offer us a helping hand here. To begin with, the division between collective and individual memory has long been established by scholarship – groups have shared memories which break down to, often quite diverse, narratives, when examined individually.11 These narratives would naturally offer a more personalised perspective on the recollected event but will nevertheless agree with the overarching elements of said event. In those cases, however, in which the recollected memory is associated with strong emotional involvement, neuroscientists have convincingly shown that the memory recalled by an individual has a clear tendency to be stronger and more descriptive than regular, non-emotional recollections. These recollections are commonly known as ‘flashbulb’ memories and researchers have concluded that the emotional involvement which produces them leads to an enhanced recollection of certain details: for instance, it has been proven through repeated experiments that emotional photos demonstrate a more consistent form of recollection than neutral ones.12 In technical terms, what is actually different between the two types of recollection is that the one which involves emotion is

see Fenik (1968), who overviews the battle narratives of Il. 11 but also expands on other books, and, more recently, Albracht (2005), who summarises the previous bibliography and offers a new approach to Homeric battle narratives from a purely tactical point of view.  This distinction has created two strands in History studies, namely collective/community vs individual memory of events: see Thompson (2009).  For the experiments and the assessment of the results see Sharot and Yonelinas (2008).

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superior in vividness and, most importantly, in the belief that the recollected event is accurate.13 In other words, when we recall an emotionally significant event, we are convinced that our recollection is factually correct since we relive it in our mind’s eye like a motion-picture, and what is more, we are also in a position to convince our audience that what we remember is what actually happened. The force and implications of this conviction are evinced in the fact that flashbulb memories have been historically considered accurate enough to stand as reliable testimonies in court.14 And yet, recent research has cast serious doubt on the validity and accuracy of those memories and, most importantly, on the view that such recollections should be trusted due to our belief in their vividness. In fact, Phelps and Sharot argued recently that emotional recollections, while indeed represented with much more detail than neutral memories, do suffer from a serious deficiency when it comes to contextual details. Put simply, ‘a strong subjective sense of recollection may not be a reliable indicator of the accurate recollection of contextual details, in spite of the common intuition that a vivid and detailed memory is more likely to be correct’.15 This would mean that in the act of recollecting an emotional memory, our mind replays the event with a higher level of detail which however depends on the emotions we were feeling during the event rather than on the actual circumstances in which said event occurred. In this sense, when we remember the one time we heroically stepped in to resolve an argument between two friends, by recalling the dialogue that ensued, in particular from our part, as well as the exact movements that we made, we run a high risk of actually inventing these details rather than recollecting them. Further to that, our memory tends to re-play the event in our mind in slow motion rather than normal time, stopping and focusing on the details that were emotionally significant for us. All this of course describes a normal, subjective recollection that each of us has witnessed possibly more than once; however, the question I want to ask here is how would we expect this subjective recollection to behave if we blew it up to an epic/poetic level. In other words, if recalling a relatively insignificant event, which has however emotional significance for us, can alter our memory of it, what would happen when one recalls their role in battle, and in particular in a society which values the concept of the warriorhero more than anything else, such as we perceive the Mycenaean society to have been. If we were to combine the bias of a warrior’s recollection with the

 Talarico and Rubin (2003).  See Phelps and Sharot (2008) 147 and Deffenbacher (1980).  Phelps and Sharot (2008) 148.

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tendency of heroisation which defines epic poetry, we can already see a picture emerging that can explain the presence of the ‘unrealistic’ battle narrative we observe in Homer: we are not witnessing the event as it happened on the battlefield, but rather we follow the re-play of memory in the participant’s mind’s eye. Despite the effort the epic bard expends to convince us that the story we hear is the result of the Muses’ objective recording, we can be sure that the need of praising the heroes is not restricted only in their superhuman feats or aristeiai but also in the way those feats are recollected. The use of such a technique would have had positive implications for the early audiences of epic poetry, many of the members of which would have found themselves quite often in a battle context and would be more than content to visualise their own achievements through the narrated events of the poem. Further to that, despite the change of battle tactics in archaic and classical Greece, the effect would have remained the same for later audiences, leading to a conception of Homer as the archetypical strategist, not due to any useful practical advice offered in the text, but rather through the shaping of the internal ‘movie’ that plays in one’s mind when participating in an important or emotionally significant event. In fact, the effects of this phenomenon can be seen in general in Greek literature when heroic narratives are concerned. Plato, for instance, despite his vehement critique of poetry as an act of unnecessary exaggeration, appears to fall in the same cognitive trap we find in Homeric battle narratives: a characteristic example of such an emotionally infused recollection can be seen in the Symposium, where Alcibiades’ story about Socrates’ courageous retreat after the Athenian defeat at Delium, appears to come very close to the, not so realistic, heroic Homeric narration. In particular, in 221b–c we read: ἠρέμα παρασκοπῶν καὶ τοὺς φιλίους καὶ τοὺς πολεμίους, δῆλος ὢν παντὶ καὶ πάνυ πόρρωθεν ὅτι εἴ τις ἅψεται τούτου τοῦ ἀνδρός, μάλα ἐρρωμένως ἀμυνεῖται. διὸ καὶ ἀσφαλῶς ἀπῄει καὶ οὗτος καὶ ὁ ἑταῖρος: σχεδὸν γάρ τι τῶν οὕτω διακειμένων ἐν τῷ πολέμῳ οὐδὲ ἅπτονται, ἀλλὰ τοὺς προτροπάδην φεύγοντας διώκουσιν. Turning a calm sidelong look on friend and foe alike, and convincing anyone even from afar that whoever cares to touch this person will find he can put up a stout enough defence. The result was that both he and his comrade got away unscathed: for, as a rule, people will not lay a finger on those who show this disposition in war; it is men flying in headlong rout that they pursue. (Plato, Symp. 221b–c; transl. H.N. Fowler)

According to Alcibiades, Socrates managed to maintain his composure during the retreat and successfully saved himself and his companion. The aim of the story is precisely to highlight Socrates ἐγκράτεια but what is striking about it is, I argue, the slow speed of the narrative and the calmness it emanates: we can see Socrates looking at opponents and friends calmly (ἠρέμα) while retreating and in

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the end succeeding in leaving (ἀπῄει), not fleeing (προτροπάδην φεύγοντας) like the rest of the army which was chased by the enemy. The serenity of the description, however, along with its slow-motion effect, becomes somewhat problematic when read next to Thucydides’ take on the events that followed the Athenian defeat at Delium. Indeed, what the historian describes is a frantic escape towards all possible directions that has no resemblance with the calm and orderly retreat of Socrates and his companion in Alcibiades’ narrative: τὸ νικῶν τῶν Ἀθηναίων κέρας, νομίσαν ἄλλο στράτευμα ἐπιέναι, ἐς φόβον καταστῆναι: καὶ ἀμφοτέρωθεν ἤδη, ὑπό τε τοῦ τοιούτου καὶ ὑπὸ τῶν Θηβαίων ἐφεπομένων καὶ παραρρηγνύντων, φυγὴ καθειστήκει παντὸς τοῦ στρατοῦ τῶν Ἀθηναίων. καὶ οἱ μὲν πρὸς τὸ Δήλιόν τε καὶ τὴν θάλασσαν ὥρμησαν, οἱ δὲ ἐπὶ τοῦ Ὠρωποῦ, ἄλλοι δὲ πρὸς Πάρνηθα τὸ ὄρος, οἱ δὲ ὡς ἕκαστοί τινα εἶχον ἐλπίδα σωτηρίας. Βοιωτοὶ δὲ ἐφεπόμενοι ἔκτεινον, καὶ μάλιστα οἱ ἱππῆς οἵ τε αὐτῶν καὶ οἱ Λοκροὶ βεβοηθηκότες ἄρτι τῆς τροπῆς γιγνομένης. The victorious wing of the Athenians, who thought that it (their fleeing allies) was another army coming against them was struck with panic. At length in both parts of the field, disturbed by this panic, and with their line broken by the advancing Thebans, the whole Athenian army took to flight. Some made for Delium and the sea, some for Oropus, others for Mount Parnes, or wherever they had hopes of safety, pursued and cut down by the Boeotians, and in particular by the cavalry, composed partly of Boeotians and partly of Locrians, who had come up just as the rout began. (Thucydides 4.96.5–8; transl. R. Crawley)

Thucydides makes clear that the Athenian retreat was chaotic enough to lead some of the parts of their army into perceiving their own fleeing forces as the enemy, thus fleeing themselves (ἐς φόβον καταστῆναι; φυγὴ καθειστήκει; ὥρμησαν) towards every direction (ὡς ἕκαστοί τινα εἶχον ἐλπίδα σωτηρίας). The frantic reaction of the Athenian army is reasonable, as Thucydides informs us, since it was the Boeotian cavalry that was giving chase along with their freshly arrived Locrian allies. It is indeed hard to imagine any Athenian soldier holding their ground or even retreating orderly under these circumstances. And yet, this is exactly what Alcibiades would want us to believe about Socrates, and in fact no members of his audience have any particular objections to his narration. We can see, therefore, that the memory of the event is compelling enough for the listeners to accept it despite its obvious discrepancies: once again we are faced with the effect of an emotional recollection of an event with which the audience members can, or feel they can, identify. We can therefore see how the effect of subjective recollection, in conjunction with an artistic aim of heroic portrayal, can lead to narratives that are not only exaggerated, but most importantly convincing and inspiring for their audiences. Plato’s narration above is only one of many examples of this phenomenon spilling out of the Homeric heroic context into Greek literature in general.

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In fact, just a quick browse through messenger speeches, for instance, in tragedy will reveal the technique of exaggerating ones’ achievements in narration to be almost standardised practice. Despite its literary universality, however, this narrative technique is ubiquitous in Homer and, as we have seen, it concerns, for the majority of cases, duels between heroes which take place during the narration of events that are related in ‘real time’. The insistence of the bard on that particular type of scene could not have been accidental but rather, I argue, it appears to reflect a longstanding artistic tradition that was prominent during the Mycenaean Palatial era, essentially conveying the importance of an individual in battle through the depiction of one-to-one duels that follow the same artistic formula. Given the fact that these narratives recall a battle practice that is already difficult to incorporate in the Homeric, or even a realistic context in general, we can surmise that an important and persistent artistic convention succeeded in surviving almost verbatim in the Iliad.

3.3 The motif of the duel The duelling motif is quite well-known in Minoan-Mycenaean art, and it is particularly favoured in seals, items, that is, which are meant to be personal and carried by the individual for practical purposes of identification or prestige.16 A specific element of these representations is of particular interest here: the delivery of the coup de grace which appears to be repeated quite often, hinting to a favourite, or necessary, means of finishing one’s enemy. The general schema can be described as follows: two warriors face each other with one clearly on the offensive and the other assuming a defensive stance.17 The degree of military equipment carried by the figures varies as follows: 1. Both warriors are clad in armour (Figs. 3.1 and 3.2, armour represented by shield, helmet, and greaves). 2. Both warriors are unarmoured (Figs. 3.3–3.6). 3. The victor carries no armour, whereas the defeated warrior carries a tower shield, helmet, etc. (Figs. 3.1, 3.7, and 3.8).

 Shelmerdine (2011) for the social significance of seals in the Early Mycenaean period; see further Webb and Weingarten (2012) for the use of seals as social identifiers in prehistoric Crete and Cyprus. Finally, see Davis and Stocker (2016) for the significance of signet rings and seals in the Griffin Warrior burial at Pylos.  See Lewartowski (2019), who discusses several of the scenes in detail.

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Fig. 3.1: (a) and (b) CMS XII – 292. Unknown origin (mainland Greece?); currently at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.

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Fig. 3.2: (a) and (b) CMS I – 12. Mycenae, Argolis – LHI (fifteenth–fourteenth century BCE); National Museum of Athens.

Despite the variation in equipment, in all the scenes the modus operandi of the victorious warrior is the same, namely a swift downwards movement of the sword which aims for the collar bone of the opponent, directing the blade through their neck and into their lungs and thus ensuring the end of their life and the duel. This way of executing the finishing blow takes advantage of the

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Fig. 3.3: (a) and (b) CMS V – 643. Koukounara, Ilia – LHI–III (fifteenth–thirteenth century BCE); Pylos Archaeological Museum.

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Fig. 3.4: (a) and (b) CMS I – 16. Mycenae – Grave Circle A, Argolis LHI (fifteenth–fourteenth century BCE); National Museum of Athens.

opening in the enemy’s armour/shield, which leaves uncovered the inside/frontal part of the neck. In order, however, for the attack to be successful, the motion has to be particularly swift for the opponent not to have time to cover the vulnerable spot with their shield, hence the often-acrobatic stance of the victor which implies rapid movement or a sudden leap towards the enemy who is then caught by surprise. A recent find, from the tomb of the so-called Griffin Warrior at Pylos, exemplifies in extraordinary detail the coup de grace and the effort and speed necessary for the victor to achieve it. The Pylos combat agate (Fig. 3.9a and b) is a marvel of craftmanship. The excavators have commented at length on the great

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Fig. 3.5: (a) and (b) CMS II.6 – 15. Unknown origin (Crete?).

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Fig. 3.6: (a) and (b) CMS II.6 – 17. Unknown origin (Crete?).

number of exquisite details, which is even more impressive if we consider the miniature dimensions of the seal.18 Its recent publication caused waves of enthusiasm and re-ignited the passion of the public for the mysteries of Greek pre-history, returning Mycenaean studies, even for a short while, to the centre of public attention. A quick glance at the agate is enough to reveal the reasons behind this sensation. In it, we see three men in the midst of battle. On the bottom left corner, one of the warriors lies naked but for a loincloth and outstretched, presumably

 Davis and Stocker (2017).

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Fig. 3.7: (a) and (b) CMS I – 11. Mycenae – Grave Circle A, Argolis LHI (fifteenth–fourteenth century BCE); National Museum of Athens.

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Fig. 3.8: (a) and (b) CMS VII – 129. Unknown origin (Crete?); London, British Museum.

killed by the warrior on the far right, his sword and its scabbard lying next to him. In the centre of the scene, we see the familiar motif of the coup de grace, with the warrior on the left rushing towards his opponent and pushing his head backwards by grasping the helmet, in order to create the opening at the collar bone that will allow the killing blow. One thing that does not go unnoticed about the scene is the intense sense of motion that permeates it: the attacking warrior’s hair is caught in mid-flight, indicating rapid motion or perhaps a sudden leap, as

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(b)

Fig. 3.9: (a) and (b) SN 118 – 12. Pylos – Griffin Warrior tomb; LHI (fifteenth–fourteenth century BCE).

does the scabbard of his sword which has risen to almost waist height. The same sense of urgency emanates from the defending warrior’s stance, which indicates that he is about to release his spear by the time he is caught and killed by his opponent, who has nullified the effectiveness of the long-distance weapon by closing the gap with his speed. In many ways, the Pylos combat agate can be thought of as the epitome of the duel/coup de grace artistic motif since all the elements of motion, armed vs unarmed, fallen warrior, equipment, etc. appear to come together. What is more, it takes little imagination to conceive a narrative running behind the scene we are observing. The presence of the fallen warrior on the left indicates that we are witnessing the culmination of a battle scene, rather than its beginning and in this sense we can reconstruct at least two probable narratives: (1) we are either witnessing the aristeia of the victorious warrior who, having dispatched his first enemy, rushes forward to finish off his companion who has been supporting him from further back; (2) the scene depicts the victorious warrior’s revenge for the fall of his companion at the hands of the enemy warrior on the right. Both interpretations are possible, but also both present us with several difficulties. To begin with, it is difficult to determine with certainty in which camp the fallen warrior belongs. In the arrangement of the scene, he is placed closer to the victorious warrior, possibly implying that they are comrades, a hypothesis corroborated further by the fact that the warrior has fallen towards the left side, indicating that the mortal blow was delivered from the right, hence from the side of the armed warrior. At the same time, however, the fallen warrior’s loincloth is identical with the one we can observe on the armed warrior and quite different from the one worn by the victorious warrior. The similarity of clothing could

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indicate that the two warriors belong to the same camp,19 but could equally be assigned simply to artistic convention: comparing the evidence we have from other ‘duel’ seals we can see that the artists almost never depict any variations when it comes to loincloths, which are in the majority of cases identical. Yet, the level of detail of the agate warns against generalisations since the intentions of the artist in creating such an intricate object cannot be speculated upon with safety: every detail could have a unique significance, valid specifically in the narrative context of the piece. Despite these difficulties, I would like to suggest a possible reconstruction which, I argue, can find support in the general artistic formula of the duel and, more importantly, appears to have survived, albeit as a distant echo, in the archetypical duel of the Iliad, that between Achilles and Hector in book 22. Let us begin from the passage in question: ὁρμήθη δ᾽ Ἀχιλεύς, μένεος δ᾽ ἐμπλήσατο θυμὸν ἀγρίου, πρόσθεν δὲ σάκος στέρνοιο κάλυψε καλὸν δαιδάλεον, κόρυθι δ᾽ ἐπένευε φαεινῇ τετραφάλῳ: καλαὶ δὲ περισσείοντο ἔθειραι χρύσεαι, ἃς Ἥφαιστος ἵει λόφον ἀμφὶ θαμειάς. οἷος δ᾽ ἀστὴρ εἶσι μετ᾽ ἀστράσι νυκτὸς ἀμολγῷ ἕσπερος, ὃς κάλλιστος ἐν οὐρανῷ ἵσταται ἀστήρ, ὣς αἰχμῆς ἀπέλαμπ᾽ εὐήκεος, ἣν ἄρ᾽ Ἀχιλλεὺς πάλλεν δεξιτερῇ φρονέων κακὸν Ἕκτορι δίῳ εἰσορόων χρόα καλόν, ὅπῃ εἴξειε μάλιστα. τοῦ δὲ καὶ ἄλλο τόσον μὲν ἔχε χρόα χάλκεα τεύχεα καλά, τὰ Πατρόκλοιο βίην ἐνάριξε κατακτάς· φαίνετο δ᾽ ᾗ κληῗδες ἀπ᾽ ὤμων αὐχέν᾽ ἔχουσι λαυκανίην, ἵνα τε ψυχῆς ὤκιστος ὄλεθρος· τῇ ῥ᾽ ἐπὶ οἷ μεμαῶτ᾽ ἔλασ᾽ ἔγχεϊ δῖος Ἀχιλλεύς, ἀντικρὺ δ᾽ ἁπαλοῖο δι᾽ αὐχένος ἤλυθ᾽ ἀκωκή· οὐδ᾽ ἄρ᾽ ἀπ᾽ ἀσφάραγον μελίη τάμε χαλκοβάρεια, ὄφρά τί μιν προτιείποι ἀμειβόμενος ἐπέεσσιν.

315

320

325

Achilles mad with rage darted towards him, with his wondrous shield before his breast, and his gleaming helmet, made with four layers of metal, nodding fiercely forward. [315] The thick tresses of gold with which Hephaistos had crested the helmet floated round it, and as the evening star that shines brighter than all others through the stillness of night, even such was the gleam of the spear which Achilles poised in his right hand, [320] fraught with the death of noble Hector. He eyed his fair flesh over and over to see where he could best wound it, but all was protected by the goodly armour of which Hector had

 In the ‘river fresco’, for instance, the attire of the defeated warriors appears to be intentionally consistent to indicate their foreign, perhaps even barbaric, nature, see further Davis and Bennet (1999).

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spoiled Patroklos after he had slain him, save only the throat where the collar-bones divide the neck from the shoulders, [325] and this is the quickest place for the life-breath to escape: here then did radiant Achilles strike him as he was coming on towards him, and the point of his spear went right through the fleshy part of the neck, but it did not sever his windpipe so that he could still speak. (Iliad 22.312–329; transl. S. Butler)

The description of the duel’s culmination is a masterpiece of vividness and intensity. Achilles rushes forward full of menos (312), the tip of his spear shining like the ominous evening star,20 foreshadowing Hector’s impending demise, further underlined by the relative brightness of the two heroes’ armaments: Hector’s stolen armour is beautiful (χάλκεα τεύχεα / καλά, ll. 322–323), but nowhere near Achilles’ spear, shield, and helmet, the description of which is given seven hexameters in the text (ll. 313–319). Homer draws our attention to the equipment of the two heroes and in doing so he emphasises the fatal flaw in Hector’s armour, an opening right below the neck, where the collar bone is exposed (l. 324).21 Achilles, while rushing, is able to calculate his blow with terrifying precision: his spear will pass through the opening of the collar bone and go through his opponent, without damaging his windpipe, thus allowing for the final exchange between the two heroes. Homer specifies that the spot Achilles chooses brings the fastest death: ὠκὺς Ἀχιλλεύς knows well, quite appropriately, how to bring ὤκιστον θάνατον to his enemies.22 In fact, piercing through the gap of the collar bone is a mode of killing that features several times in the Iliad: Menelaus kills in this manner Polaemenes, the leader of the shieldwielding Paphlagonians, the reference to the shields drawing attention to the defensive capabilities of his opponent (Il. 5.576–579); Hector kills Iphitus by piercing through the same gap with his spear, the tip of which passes clean through the unguarded flesh (Il. 17.306–310); and finally, Achilles finishes off Lycaon by thrusting his sword through the opening of the collar bone, after the latter’s failed supplication (Il. 21.116–118). The description of the killing of Hector in book 22, therefore, can be seen as the fully developed version of the motif, adorned with further details, including Achilles’ thought process before he delivers the final blow.23

 For the deadly connotations of the evening star in Homer, see Richardson (1993) 136.  Cf. schol. A ad Il. 22.324–5a; schol. T ad Il. 22.324–5b; schol. bt ad Il. 22.324–5c1–2.  The most characteristic formula for Achilles, ὠκὺς Ἀχιλλεύς, is found 36x in the Iliad, usually in reference to his legs, πόδας. For the formula, see Matthews (1975), Dunkle (1997), and Foley (2007).  Wolf-Hartmut Friedrich offers a comprehensive analysis of the wounds and the various ways of death inflicted upon the heroes in the Iliad, however he only makes a passing reference to the death of Lycaon in book 21: Friedrich (2003) 36.

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Turning to the combat agate we can see that several of the motifs discussed above are replicated: 1. The killing blow appears to be the same, albeit in the agate the warrior uses his sword whereas Achilles finishes off Hector with his spear. This is an inconsequential difference, as far as the artistic formula is concerned, since spear and sword appear to be interchangeable in the examples listed above. 2. The reference to the armour and its weakness in Homer corresponds with the effort exercised by the warrior in the agate to locate and strike at the one weak point in his opponent’s defences. 3. Achilles’ speed is a prominent factor in both the Homeric description and the agate, where the artist has gone to great length to depict the rapid motion of the victorious warrior. Putting all the above correspondences together, I argue, allows us to see that a duel artistic motif conjoined with the particular mode of coup de grace was known and embellished in different degrees in both the Mycenaean artistic conventions and in the oral tradition that informs the Homeric Iliad. The similarities observed point towards a common need in both artistic media, namely the glorification of a particularly skilled warrior who is able to overcome obstacles and defeat the enemy due to his battle prowess, skill, and/or speed. Such a commemoration would be particularly important in a heroic society, where martial prominence appears to have been an important part of social life. The same is true of course of the Homeric hero who relies on his aristeia as a means of securing his social status and his post-mortem fame. In terms of realism, however, the visual artist is in a more advantaged position than the Homeric bard since they can limit their representation to the elements necessary for the message to be conveyed. Hence, whereas in Homer the battle narrative needs to break, and the focus has to be narrowed down to an often long exchange of heroic speeches that push the scene to the unrealistic side of the fence, in visual arts, the artist can simply ignore the rest of the battlefield and only depict the moment of the warrior’s finishing strike. Even so, the effect is the same for the audience, who are fully aware that they witness a heroic endeavour in full swing – in the case of the combat agate, the victorious leap of the armour-less warrior, which does not even allow the time to his opponent to release his spear. One could even take things further, by seeing a narrative of vengeance, carried out in the name of the fallen warrior on the left corner of the image. Patroclus’ death and the loss of Achilles’ armour certainly resonate in the scene if one chooses to put their Homeric filters on, and perhaps there is some truth to be found in the existence of such a narrative during the

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Mycenaean period. In fact, the narrative of revenge for a fallen companion appears to have been a central theme of early Greek oral poetry as is evinced in its replication in the cyclic Aethiopis. There we find Achilles avenging the death of Antilochus instead of Patroclus, by killing Memnon, instead of Hector. The frame and setting of the episodes appear to be identical in the two poems and neo-analysis has even suggested that the Antilochus narrative could be much older than the one of Patroclus found in the Iliad.24 What is interesting for my discussion here, however, is the ease with which pivotal personas of one poem are easily supplemented with different ones in the other, while the storyline remains, in fact, unchanged. This indicates that the motif of avenging a fallen companion was not just easily adjustable, but quite prominent and resilient in the earlier oral tradition.25 Hence a glimpse of such a motif in the depiction of the combat agate should not be out of the question. However, to firmly argue for such a correspondence would be perilous to say the least, no less due to the absence of relevant context, which places such an identification within the realm of speculation. Thus, I would like to simply mention it here as a mere hypothesis, to be perhaps further explored when and if more evidence becomes available.

3.4 Conclusions To conclude, in this paper I have argued that Homer’s unrealistic battle narratives appear to reflect the common psychological process that leads an individual to recall emotionally significant events of their past in an exaggerated and detail infused manner, that can differ significantly from the more objective recollection of those same events by an outside observer. This behaviour is well-documented within contemporary studies on memory and cognition and its presence in the mindset of the Homeric bard and their early audiences should come as no surprise. I further ventured to suggest that the inspiration behind those unrealistic narratives, particularly the narratives concerning heroic duels, could be deriving from a long-established artistic tradition that finds its roots already in the Late Helladic I period. Through the similarities observed between the depictions of duels in the Mycenaean corpus of seals and in particular in the Pylos battle

 For a summary of the discussion see Davies (2016). For opposing views, see Willcock (1973) 6 and Kelly (2006) 12. For early Greek conceptions of the Epic Cycle, particularly in Pindar, see Spelman (2018).  For the concept of ‘motif transference’, see Burgess (2009) 72–92.

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agate, and the Homeric descriptions of the coup de grace in the duel of Achilles and Hector and elsewhere, we can, I argue, begin to see the origins of the narrative motifs we find in the Homeric text, already in full swing several centuries before the crystallisation of the epics. The inherently human need of remembering one’s exploit in a particularly individualised manner seems to have been as strong with the Mycenaean warriors as it is with us today, leading to the creation of narratives that would barely stand up to logical scrutiny but which, on the other hand, have given pleasure to audiences from antiquity to today. After all, we all probably have fond memories from the time when we faced our own Hector, either at school, at a social gathering or even at a Work-in-Progress paper.

Bibliography Albracht, F. 2005. Battle and battle description in Homer: a contribution to the history of war. London. Allan, R.J., I.J.F. de Jong, and C.C. de Jonge. 2017. From Enargeia to Immersion. The Ancient Roots of a Modern Concept. Style 51: 34–51. Auerbach, E. 1946. Mimesis. Dargestellte Wirklichkeit in der abendländischen Literatur. Tübingen. Burgess, J. 2009. The Death and Afterlife of Achilles. Baltimore. Calder III, W.M. 1999. Behind the Mask of Agamemnon, in Harrington, S.P.M., W.M. Calder III, D.A. Traill, K. Demakopoulou, and K.D.S. Lapatin. Archaeology: 51–59. Davis, J. and J. Bennet 1999. Making Mycenaeans: Warfare, Territorial Expansion and Representations of the Other in the Pylian Kingdom. In Polemos: Le Contexte Guerrier en Égée à l’Âge du Bronze, ed. R. Laffineur, 105–120. Leuven. Davis, J. and S. Stocker 2016. The Lord of the Gold Rings: The Griffin Warrior of Pylos. Hesperia 85: 627–655. Davis, J. and S. Stocker 2017. The Combat Agate from the Grave of the Griffin Warrior at Pylos. Hesperia 86: 583–605. Deffenbacher, K.A. 1980. Eyewitness Accuracy and Confidence: Can we Infer Anything about Their Relationship? Law and Human Behaviour 4: 243–260. Dickinson, O. 2005. The Face of Agamemnon. Hesperia 74: 299–308. Dunkle, R. 1997. Swift-Footed Achilles. CW 90: 227–234. Fenik, B.C. 1968. Typical Battles Scenes in the Iliad. Studies in the Narrative Techniques of Homeric Battle Description. Wiesbaden. Foley, J.M. 2007. ‘Reading’ Homer through Oral Tradition. College Literature 34: 1–28. Friedrich, W.-H. 2003. Wounding and Death in the Iliad. London. Gazis, G.A. 2018. Homer and the Poetics of Darkness. Oxford. Graziosi, B. and J. Haubold 2010. Iliad Book VI. Cambridge. Grethlein, J. and L. Huitink 2017. Homer’s Vividness: An Enactive Approach. JHS 137: 67–91. Haubold, J. 2002. Wars of Wissenschaft: the New Quest for Troy. IJCT 8: 564–579. Hood, S. 1978. The Arts in Prehistoric Greece. Harmondsworth.

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Jähns, A. 1878. Die Entwickelung des altgriechischen Kriegswesens. Grenzboten. Kelly, A. 2006. Homer and History: Iliad 9.381–4. Mnemosyne 59: 321–333. Kirk, G.S. 1985. The Iliad. Books 1–4. Cambridge. Lessing, G.E. 1962. Laocoön. Baltimore, MD, London. Translated by A. McCormick (or. ed. Stuttgart, Berlin 1766). Lewartowski, K. 2019. Combat, Myths and Seals in the Griffin Warrior Times. Studies in Ancient Art and Civilisation 23: 73–93. Lord, A. 1960. The Singer of Tales. Cambridge, MA. Lorimer, H.L. 1950. Homer and the Monuments. London. Martin, R. 1989. The Language of Heroes. Ithaka, NY. Matthews, V.J. 1975. Swift-Footed Achilles. EMC 19: 37–43. Minchin, E. 2001. Homer and the resources of memory: some applications of cognitive theory to the ‘Iliad’ and the ‘Odyssey’. Oxford. Parry, M. 1928. L’épithète traditionnelle dans Homère. Paris. Phelps, E. and T. Sharot 2008. How (and Why) Emotion Enhances the Subjective Sense of Recollection. Current Directions in Psychological Science 17: 147–152. Ready, J. 2019. Orality, Textuality and the Homeric Epics. Oxford. Richardson, N. 1993. The Iliad. Books 21–24. Cambridge. Sharot, T. and A.P. Yonelinas 2008. Differential Time-Dependent Effects of Emotion on Recollective Experience and Memory for Contextual Information. Cognition 106: 538–547. Shelmerdine, C. 2011. The Individual and the State in Mycenaean Greece. BICS 54: 19–28. Spelman, H. 2018. Pindar and the Epic Cycle. JHS 138: 182–201. Talarico, J.M. and D.C. Rubin 2003. Confidence, not consistency, characterizes flashbulb memories. Psychological Science 14: 455–461. Thompson, P. 2009. Community and Individual Memory: An Introduction. The Oral History Review 36: 1–5. Webb, J. and J. Weingarten 2012. Seals and Seal Use: Markers of Social, Political and Economic Transformations on Two Islands. British School at Athens Studies 20: 85–104. Willcock, M. 1973. The Funeral Games of Patroclus. BICS 20: 1–11. Zielinski, T. 1899–1901. Die Behandlung gleichzeitiger Ereignisse im antiken Epos. Philologus Supplement 8: 405–449.

Riccardo Palmisciano

4 Intervisuality in the Greek symposium Abstract: The aim of this chapter is to extend the research about intervisuality to the relationship between the images painted on sympotic vases and sympotic poetry. Aristocrats had vessels in their hands and under their eyes while performing songs. Could the presence of a certain subject in the paintings on these vessels lead to the choice of a related subject for poetic performances? Could images help express the poetic message? The study of erotic activities during symposia seems particularly rewarding, as images make up for the surprising silence of poetic sources. Scholars have observed that lyric poems never describe sexual intercourse, unless a description of this sort had a iambic function. The large number of vessels which display sexual activities in all their details can help us to understand the silence of poetry. Images can explain the right schemata and the correct way to court and love a boy or girl. Images can also deliver warnings against bad behaviour when it comes not only to sex but also to wine-drinking. The Gorgoneion so frequently painted on the inside of drinking vessels and eye cups are interpreted in this chapter in relation to the social control exerted by the hetairia towards its members. Poetry and images worked together to express the ideal of equilibrium and moderation which true aristocrats must achieve even when under the influence of wine. According to Luigi Enrico Rossi’s well-known definition, the Greek symposium was ‘uno spettacolo a se stesso’, ‘a self-referential spectacle’.1 Interpreting this definition in a wide sense, we might say that everything and everyone in the andron concurred in creating an object for the symposiasts’ own viewing. We are well acquainted with the function of vase paintings and of other objects (furniture, clothes, wall decorations) displayed in the andron;2 at the same time, even the symposiasts themselves, along with the other people present

 Rossi (1983); see also Murray (1983a) and (1983b).  A long scholarly tradition, beginning with the ground-breaking work by François Lissarrague (Lissarrague [1990]), has thoroughly investigated the visual dimension of the sympotic experience: see Catoni (2010) for a detailed overview of the preceding bibliography. Notes: I would like to express my gratitude to Cornelia Isler-Kerényi for her valuable advice and suggestions on some important topics addressed in this chapter. I am also grateful to Carmine Catenacci, who allowed me to read his interesting work about images and iambic poetry before its publication (Catenacci [2023]). https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110795448-005

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(e.g. boys and women), must be regarded as living images insofar as they take part – as speaking, singing, and acting agents – in an event that can be described as a particular kind of drama. In this chapter I hope to contribute to the research in the field of visuality in the symposium by focusing on intervisuality, by which I mean a specific kind of relationship between the images that symposiasts had before their eyes and the poems performed on the same occasion. A time-honoured scholarly tradition has explored the ‘pragmatic’ function of sympotic poetry.3 Thanks to these studies we can now appreciate how poetry contributed to the concrete performance of the sympotic rite and how sympotic poems influenced what symposiasts did even outside the room, especially in the political field. It is very useful to consider the pragmatic function of sympotic images as well. Just as sympotic poetry can be read as ‘poetry in action’,4 sympotic paintings can be described as ‘images in action’. Some recent works have investigated the concrete use of specific kinds of vessels during the symposium: particular attention has been devoted to the dual nature of eye cups as both drinking vessels and masks, capable, once they are lifted and brought to someone’s lips, of transforming the drinker’s features and changing his identity.5 Yet, my goal is quite different. This article is an attempt to provide some examples, taken from archaic symposia, in which painted vessels, poetry, and living images merge into one and the same performance, wherein symposiasts sing, interact with painted images, and watch other symposiasts acting and speaking. The visual and the performative codes cannot be separated, as they implement each other. A surplus of meaning is added to the message conveyed by their complex interaction. Intervisuality in the Greek

 This trend was inaugurated by Reitzenstein (1893). In the second half of the twentieth century, Bruno Gentili contributed the most to this way of reading Greek lyric poetry (see Gentili [1988] for a summary of his ideas). After him we must mention, at least, Rösler (1980), Vetta (1980) and (1983), Rossi (1983), and Pellizer (1991).  I owe this definition to Hobden (2013) 23: ‘Sympotic poetry is very much poetry in action.’  The first to introduce this reading of the eye cups was Boardman (1976). For the developments of Boardman’s idea see Bundrick (2015) 297–298. Bundrick criticises the widespread interpretation of the eye cups as masks. In contrast, Moignard (2015) devotes Chapter 5 of his book to the transformation of the symposiast into a mask while lifting up an eye cup to drink. Kunisch (1990) points out that symposiasts transformed themselves into satyrs or maenads while raising an eye cup. For other interpretations (even opposing ones), see Rivière-Adonon (2011) 247–259, who gives a good summary of the debate. In this chapter I add a further perspective on the social function of the particular kind of watching to which the eye paintings allude (see below, 114–118).

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symposium has a multifaceted meaning. Intervisual patterns, interperformativity, and interfigurativity overlap each other.6 In this chapter I will consider poems and pictures by assuming that they actually met at symposia. This may be judged as an improper manner of using our sources. However, if we bear in mind that the symposium was a rite in which men experienced the power of the god Dionysus, we must admit that a rite cannot exist without the repetition of a sequence of acts. It is the symposium that generates sympotic poems and pictures, which serve the purpose of enhancing the Dionysian rite and averting the dangers associated with wine. This explains why sympotic poetry and paintings frequently propose the same themes and depict the same situations. Therefore, we are in a position to classify our documents according to the different phases of the sympotic experience and to match words and paintings that belong, at least potentially, to one and the same moment of the symposium. The erotic sphere provides a convincing case in point insofar as images can shed light on a surprising silence in poetry: scholars have observed that monodic poems never describe sexual intercourse, with only a few exceptions found in the iambic repertoire.7 This is a noteworthy phenomenon that requires an explanation, as erotic experience is integral to the sympotic rite and many poems revolve around Eros, either in general or with a focus on Aphrodite’s and Eros’ epiphany during the symposium.8 Yet in no way do the poems teach the symposiasts how to satisfy, in flesh and blood, the desire sparked by a beautiful boy or by a fascinating hetaira. This kind of teaching was not committed to poets’ words, despite the important role of the symposium in shaping the sexual behaviour of young men, whose initiation was entrusted to adult males. So, why do these men refrain from discussing sexual intercourse, explaining the right way to have sex, or clarifying and recommending the right schemata that are appropriate for a good man? And why, by contrast, is it so easy to find this kind of information on the vase paintings crafted for the very same sympotic occasions? I have tried to answer the first two questions in a recent work in which I argued that all erotic poetry conceived for the symposium was closely connected

 Concerning these categories, see Capra and Floridi’s introduction, and Pizzone’s contribution to this volume.  See Calame (1992) 25, Danek (1994–1995) 39 and n. 29, and Pavese (1996) 18 n. 48, who limit themselves to noticing the phenomenon.  See the ‘Nestor’s cup’ inscription, CEG 454; Alcm. fr. 59 Davies; Anacr. frr. 358, 398, 411(a), 413, 428 Page = 13, 111, 29, 25, 46 Gentili; Archil. frr. 191, 193 W.2; Ibyc. frr. 286, 287 Davies; Mimn. fr. 1 W.2; Theogn. 1063–1068, 1231–1234, 1341–1344, 1345–1350, 1353–1356, 1357–1360, 1369–1372.

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with the symposiasts’ concrete experience during the rite.9 Sexual intercourse was one of the main goals of the symposium and wine-drinking was believed to bring about the appearance of Eros/Aphrodite. However, in the lyric poems performed in the archaic symposium, very different ideas about the experience of love were expressed, even by the same author. Many poems describe Eros as a terrible god and the erotic experience as a source of pain and sorrow. On the opposite side, other poems affirm that Aphrodite and Eros are the main source of joy for men. If we put each poem in context, it is possible to reconcile the contrasting ideas about Eros/ Aphrodite. In the first phase symposiasts realise that wine has sparked erotic desire. It is exactly at this point that the symposiasts express their painful emotions, even in dramatic form. Later, the symposiasts try to seduce a boy or girl present in the room in order to satisfy their sexual desire. Eventually, if the seduction is successful, it will be possible to describe Eros as a source of joy and to celebrate Aphrodite as a generous goddess. Conversely, if the seduction does not achieve its goal, the symposiasts will express the endurance of pain and sorrow. According to the concrete perspective just described, poems could speak of what precedes and what follows sex, but not of sex itself, since it is impossible to speak about sex and to have sex at the same time. Education in this field was a matter of action and images. Young and adult men would of course learn the proper manner to have sex from experience, that is, either by performing the role of active partners in an erotic relationship or by watching someone else engage in sex during the symposium. However, when available,10 painted vases, with their graphic and no doubt instructive images, also had a pedagogic role in relation to erotic matters.11 As we mentioned at the outset, sexual teaching

 See Palmisciano (2018) 172–173. The starting point of the analysis is the ‘Nestor’s cup’ inscription. Sexual intercourse is described in some iambic poems: Hippon. frr. 84.16–17 W.2 = 86.16–17 Dg.2, 92 W.2 = 95 Dg.2; Archil. frr. 42, 43, 118–119, 196A W.2 It seems very probable (not to say certain) that all these poems use sex to blame the persons (mostly girls) described having sex. As far as monodic poems are concerned, only Anacreon’s fr. 358.8 Page = 13.8 Gentili could be interpreted as the actual description of a sexual scene, according to Giangrande (1968) 112 and Gentili (1973). But this reading is far from universally accepted: see Rozokoki (2006), Leo (2015), and Bernsdorff (2020), comm. ad loc. We do not know the context of Anacr. fr. 439 Page = 124 Gentili, which alludes to sexual intercourse.  I am aware that the presence of painted vessels during the symposium was infrequent and restricted to the aristocratic milieu, but it is exactly by reason of their rareness that vessel paintings represent a most useful key to interpret the ideology of the Greek warrior élite. I also follow Lissarrague (1990) 87–103, who points to the influence of the recollection of images as well as of texts, whereby images could be present to the mind even when they were not present to the eyes.  This function of erotic images has been clearly explained by Calame (1992) 58–63.

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was the exclusive domain of either living images or images in action. Poems and images of erotic subjects, then, are complementary: poems can describe what happens in the mind and the body as a consequence of erotic desire. They can also suggest appropriate words and acts to court a young man or a hetaira. The images take over when words must stop: their specific function is to display what it means to satisfy sexual desire in a manner appropriate to the social status of an aristocratic man. Conversely, painted images can also provide negative examples of sexual behaviour. Yet, images too have their limits: painted images can only hint at the joy of fulfilled desire or at a scorned lover’s sorrow. The extensive expression of these and other emotions is the exclusive domain of spoken or sung words. At first sight, the silence of poetry regarding sexual acts is all the more surprising compared to the vast number of graphic images displayed on Greek vessels.12 However, it would be wrong to believe that it was common for the Greeks to look at erotic images, for two reasons. The first is that, as already noted (see above, n. 10), the owners of painted vessels belonged to a restricted élite. The second reason is that the most graphic paintings were geared towards the tastes and needs of Etruscan clients, as is demonstrated by the findings from many Etruscan sites, particularly the city of Vulci.13 Still, it remains true that Greek painters did not hesitate to depict sexual intercourse on the vessels crafted for Greek symposia as well, their relative rareness possibly making them all the more effective and memorable. However small, this corpus is a valuable source of information about what we might call the Greek ars amatoria. This is of paramount importance because sex was not a matter of instinct and nature for the Greeks, but of culture and education.14 It is thanks to these images that we can take a look at the living images that every symposiast had before his eyes during the celebration of a symposium. We can consider a few images as plain explanations of the recommended schemata. Among these images, the most explicit concern hetairai. It is only when women are involved that genitals are displayed in the act of penetration  See, for example, the illustrations in Dover (20163), Kilmer (1993), Stewart (1997), Dierichs (20082), Sanchez (2013), and Vout (2013).  The percentage of Greek erotic vessel paintings found in Etruria is about 90%, according to the figures provided by de la Genière (2009). For a general introduction to the relationship between Etruscan clients and Greek (mostly Athenian) potters, see Spivey (1991).  This idea of sexual experience is found through all centuries of Greek history. In Longus’ novel Daphnis and Chloe, the main theme is precisely the discovery of sex by a young boy and a girl who have always lived outside civilisation. They are unable to fulfil their mutual desire until a woman initiates Daphnis into sex: see Palmisciano (2007) for an analysis of the whole novel from this point of view.

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(Fig. 4.1).15 Paintings involving two men, or a man and a boy, are less explicit and favour intimacy or even tenderness. In particular, sexual intercourse between a man and a boy is more often alluded to than described.16 This general attitude is a good example of how complex and sophisticated the message conveyed by Greek vase paintings could be. Let us take a look at a black-figure kantharos (or mug) from Boiotia, preserved in the Boston Museum of Fine Arts.17 This cup dates to 520 BCE ca. and displays on both sides an adult titillating a young man, who returns his attentions. Both scenes of courtship are flanked by grape vines with large clusters of grapes. Above the figures the word καλός (in one case only κα . . .) is visible. The presence of grape vines should not be considered a mere ornament. It is an explicit allusion to the Dionysiac sphere and, more specifically, to the symposium. But it is very eloquent that even if the symposium is recalled, the kind of relationship the two partners enjoy is the same as that commonly experienced outside the andron, usually in the gymnasium or in the palaistra. It seems, then, that the painter chose to depict the kind of sexual relationship that was common between an adult male and a boy in everyday life by transposing it into the symposium, where the exciting power of wine (that is, the presence of the god Dionysus) could encourage problematic behaviour. The exterior decoration of an Attic red-figure kylix dated to 525–475 BCE shows some young men donning their war gear (Fig. 4.2).18 Between the figures, we can read the inscription ὁ παῖς καλός. On the inside is a man titillating a naked boy, who is holding a common children’s toy: a circle and a stick. The interior painting bears the inscription καλός/καλέ and the name of the boy to whom the vase is dedicated: Athenodotos (Fig. 4.3). No allusion is made to the symposium, but the kylix is one of the most common sympotic vessels. By observing such

 Attic black-figure phallic cup, A type, Moscow, State Historical Museum, formerly Berlin, Staatliche Museen Preussischer Kulturbesitz F2052, 550–500 BCE; BAPD 14936; Stewart (1997) 160–161, figs. 99–100; Isler-Kerényi (2007) figs. 118–120. The image on the exterior finds a counterpart in the Gorgoneion displayed in the interior. On the meaning of this kind of iconography, see below, 117–118.  See Dover (20163) 91–100, in part. 99, which clearly explains that reality was quite different from pictorial representations. See also Lear in Lear and Cantarella (2008) 38–138 for an accurate description of pederastic courtship and intercourse (‘anal intercourse is portrayed twice in pederastic scenes’, 185), and 237 n. 38 for figures about different scenes of pederastic eros (647 vases are listed in the book).  Attic black-figure kantharos (or mug), Boston, Museum of Fine Arts 08.292, 520 BCE ca.; BAPD 1408; Dover (20163): B598; Lear and Cantarella (2008) 60, fig. 1.17.  Attic red-figure cup, London, market, Bonhams, 525–475 BCE ca.; BAPD 8839; Add2 393; Dierichs (20082) 106, fig. 75.

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Fig. 4.1: Attic black-figure cup, A type, 550–500 BCE. Berlin, now lost, F2052.

images during a symposium, people were reminded of the right manner to court and love a boy. Young men must receive the same kind of attention as they are used to receiving when adults court them outside the andron. The warrior scene on the exterior reminds young men that – even if affected by a strong erotic desire – they must conform to the ethos proper to their aristocratic status. Poems often describe what happens when Eros appears and stimulates sexual desire, but the right Eros (δίκαιος Ἔρως), which poetry alludes to,19 is clearly displayed only in paintings. Poems and images cooperate to give a complete description of the erotic experience, yet it is the duty of images to explain how to court and have sex with a boy (or a man, or a hetaira) in the right manner. The same message can be conveyed in a more sophisticated way. An Attic red-figure kylix, dated to 525–475 BCE,20 creates an intriguing contrast between the different sides of its iconographic programme. On the exterior we find a lively komos scene and, on the opposite side, an imaginative sexual choreography (Fig. 4.4). It is impossible to determine how common such behaviours may have been in Greece. Intriguingly, the outer decoration is at odds with the image depicted on the interior: a naked warrior running with helmet, shield, and spear (Fig. 4.5). Both the exterior and the interior images feature the usual paederotic inscriptions (ὁ παῖς καλός), serving as a unifying element: all three scenes are to  See, for example, Anacr. fr. 402(b) Page = 120 Gentili.  Attic red-figure kylix, Turin, Museo di Antichità, 4117, 525–475 BCE, BAPD 201359; ARV2 150.35, 1628; Add2 179; CVA, Turin, Museo di Antichità 2, III. I. 4–5, pls. 3.1–2, 4. 1–3 (1805– 1806); Dover (20163): R243 (A).

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Fig. 4.2: Attic red-figure cup, 525–475 BCE ca. London, market, Bonhams. Exterior decoration with inscription: ὁ παῖς καλός.

Fig. 4.3: Attic red-figure cup, 525–475 BCE ca. London, market, Bonhams. Interior decoration with inscription: καλὸς/καλὲ Αθηνόδοτος.

be seen as referring to eros for a young man. The interior image stands out in that only the symposiast who has drunk the final drop is able to see it. After drinking all the wine, the symposiast is confronted with the image of a running warrior, who challenges him with an implicit question: once wine has cast its

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spell on your mind, will you be able to love a boy or a young man as your status requires? Or will you imitate the revelling symposiasts depicted on the exterior? The interior image warns the drinker of the danger that under the effects of wine he might behave in a bad manner.

Fig. 4.4: Attic red-figure kylix, 525–475 BCE. Torino, Museo di Antichità, 4117. External scene © MiC – Musei Reali, Museo di Antichità.

Fig. 4.5: Attic red-figure kylix, 525–475 BCE. Torino, Museo di Antichità, 4117. Interior decoration © MiC – Musei Reali, Museo di Antichità.

Indeed, drinking wine was not just a joyful experience. It was also a way of knowing hidden truths. For example, Dionysus’ portentous gift could reveal the drinker to himself. In this respect too, images match and integrate what we know from lyric poetry.

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The psychedelic function of wine-drinking is very neatly expressed by the lyric poets. Perhaps, the most effective is the Lesbian poet Alcaeus, who in a very short fragment (fr. 333 Voigt) states: Οἶνος γὰρ ἀνθρώπω δίοπτρον. For wine is a peep-hole into a man. (transl. D.A. Campbell)

According to these few words, wine is an instrument to investigate the depths of the human mind. The word δίοπτρον does not mean ‘mirror’, as it is sometime translated, but refers to the act of peeping or, in medical language, to an instrument used to dilate and examine cavities.21 In contrast to mirrors, which merely reflect facial features, the δίοπτρον can see through the surface and discover what is underneath. According to Theognis of Megara, it is only after having drunk at a symposium that a man can reveal his true mind. Wine can be compared to fire as a touchstone to test gold and silver. Drinking beyond measure brings to light the true nature of foolish and blameworthy men, no matter how wise they may seem when they are sober (Theognis 499–502): Ἐν πυρὶ μὲν χρυσόν τε καὶ ἄργυρον ἴδριες ἄνδρες γινώσκουσʼ, ἀνδρὸς δʼ οἶνος ἔδειξε νόον καὶ μάλα περ πινυτοῦ, τὸν ὑπὲρ μέτρον ἤρατο πίνων, ὥστε καταισχῦναι καὶ πρὶν ἐόντα σοφόν.22

500

Experts recognize gold and silver by fire, but wine reveals the mind of a man, even though he is very prudent, if he takes and drinks it beyond his limit, so that it puts to shame even one who was formerly wise. (transl. D.E. Gerber)

Once again, Alcaeus powerfully conveys this idea, in what was bound to become a traditional motto well beyond antiquity (fr. 366 Voigt):

 The word, in the singular, only appears in this passage by Alcaeus. The plural form, δίοπτρα, means an optical instrument, or a kind of dilator, with gynaecological applications; see LSJ, s.v. The true meaning of δίοπτρον in Alcaeus has been clearly interpreted by Gentili (19652) 209. For a development of the image in Aeschylus see below, n. 36.  See also Plat. Leg. 649a–650b, who says that having a man drink wine with others is the best way to test his true mind.

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Οἶνος, ὦ φίλε παῖ, καὶ ἀλάθεα.23 Wine, dear boy, and truth. (transl. D.A. Campbell)

The psychedelic function of wine-drinking is also well displayed in vase paintings. An Attic red-figure cup dated to 510–490 BCE24 exhibits no paintings on the exterior, which looks like a uniform glossy black surface. At first sight, one might think that the vessel is undecorated. On grabbing the cup, symposiasts could hardly see what lay under the wine. After drinking, however, the image would suddenly become clearly visible and prove quite surprising. We see a Silenus diving into a big krater, with his head down in the wine and the rear side of his body up in the air (only the legs, tail, penis, and bottom are visible) (Fig. 4.6). This could be an image of the upside-down world typical of Sileni, were it not for a surprising detail, which makes this painting even more interesting. In front of the krater, the painter has carefully depicted the silhouette of the cup itself, suspended in space and isolated.25 The shape of the painted cup is exactly the same as that of the real one. Once again, the image becomes meaningful if we think of the moment in which, having drunk the wine, the depiction would become visible. It was precisely at that moment that the symposiast would be forced to consider what meaning the painting had for him as a wine-drinker: what was he becoming? An excessive and unrestrained drinker? A wild Silenus?26 Or was he capable of enjoying wine while keeping the right measure? And speaking of measure: would he choose the transgressive measure of the huge krater or the appropriate measure of the cup he was holding in his hands? If we recall the habit of passing the cup around anticlockwise (ἐπὶ δεξιά) for each symposiast to drink,27

 Theocr. 29.1 shows that this line became a motto. For the reception of Alcaeus’ words not only in Greek and Latin authors but also in medieval and modern Europe, see Tosi (20173), nos. 898, 899. Sometimes the meaning of the motto is quite different, and it alludes to the fact that when we are under the effect of wine, we are able to say truths that we ordinarily conceal (see, for example, Philocorus, FGrHist 328 F 170).  Attic red-figure cup, 510–490 BCE, Geneva, Musée d’Art et d’Histoire, 16908; BAPD 11019, Add 88, Add2 178; CVA, Genève, Musée d’Art et d’Histoire I, pl. 9.2.6.  According to Mitchell (2009) 89, ‘The presence of a cup in the foreground shows both what the satyr ought to use to drink and identifies the krater as a wine-krater.’  Transformation into a Silenus is alluded to by another cup that presents only a glossy black surface on the exterior. On the interior this Attic red-figure kylix, Milan, Civico Museo Archeologico, 265, BAPD 13125; CVA, Milan, Civico Museo Archeologico 1, III.I.3–4, pl. 3.1–2 (1383), displays a Silenus – with a drinking horn in his left hand and an erect penis – titillating a woman, who seems to be enjoying the act.  This was certainly the Athenian manner of drinking: see Crit. fr. 4.3–4 Gentili-Prato.

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we may conclude that all participants were confronted with the same question, just as all participants were exposed to the lyrics mentioned above. Such images in action had the power of showing and making real what song and poetry could only tell and theorise. After having heard a few lines about the possibility of deepening the knowledge of himself through wine, the symposiast would experience that knowledge by drinking and watching what appeared before his eyes.

Fig. 4.6: Attic red-figure cup, 510–490 BCE. Geneva 16908, interior painting. © MAH, Geneva.

Self-exploration is not a risk-free experience. The symposiast might discover deplorable aspects of his own mind or, as a result of his blameworthy actions, might be exposed to the reproach of his hetairoi, who were also the eyewitnesses of what happened in the secrecy of the andron. The range of such blameworthy behaviours was wide: first of all, the incapacity to drink wine with moderation; then, predilection for sexual behaviours that were not suitable for free men of high status;28 every kind of excess, in either words or actions; and finally, and more generally, any violation of χάρις – that is, the beauty and equilibrium that must dominate the ambience of a sympotic gathering.

 See Dover (20163) 103: ‘There seems little doubt that in Greek eyes the male who breaks the “rules” of legitimate eros detaches himself from the ranks of male citizenry and classifies himself with women and foreigners.’ These ‘rules’ are clearly laid out by Dover on the same page.

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The warning to drink with moderation and to behave wisely even when under the effects of wine is clearly expressed both in poetry and in paintings.29 But, once more, paintings often express the same idea through more powerful and easily intelligible images. It would be hard to find a more eloquent example of the effectiveness of images than an Athenian black-figure oinochoe by the painter Kleisophos.30 The body of the vase features what is commonly interpreted as a komos scene, showing six bearded men, all wearing headdresses (a kind of σακκός), and a young boy pouring wine into a kantharos with a ladle. The παῖς is drawing the wine from a calyx krater decorated with a horse, which occupies the centre of the scene. Inside the krater, a psykter is clearly visible. The quality of the cup in the hand of the komast on the left, the presence of the psykter, and the headdresses reflect the luxury and extreme sophistication of the aristocratic symposium, in a period when new habits were being introduced into Athens.31 The contrast with the scene depicted on the right side of the panel, then, is all the more remarkable: here, a komast is playing the aulos while another is gazing at him, reclining with his elbow on a cushion. To the right of these men, a third komast is carrying away a defecating companion, whose excrement is flowing down to the floor (Fig. 4.7). Whatever the cause of such disgusting behaviour, the result is a complete reversal of the sympotic ethos. In this scene nothing is as it should be – no measure, no balance, no wisdom, no beauty, no grace. The source of this failure – that is, the defecating symposiast – must be removed. Hipponax’s poems evoking excrement possibly refer to experiences of this kind.32 It is highly probable that the defecating man

 Hippon. fr. 67 W.2 = 119 Dg.2; Archil. fr. 124 W.2; Xenophan. fr. 1.17–18 Gentili-Prato; Anacr. fr. 356(b) Page = 33 Gentili; Theogn. 211–212, 477–484, 509–510. Invitations both to drink with moderation and to drink heavily are the focus of Itgenshorst (2015), who also considers this theme in relation to images (esp. 78).  Athens, National Museum 1045, 540–530 BCE ca., BAPD 302454; CVA, Athènes, Musée National 1, III.H.efgh.3, pl. 2.1–3 (10); Beazley, ABV 186, Add2 51; Lissarrague (1990) 96, ill. 77; De Vries (2000) 360, fig. 13.10.  I am referring to the influence exercised by Anacreon during the years he lived in Athens. His stay there left a deep mark on vessel paintings as well, as demonstrated by the corpus of the so-called Anacreontic vases, where headdresses, earrings, parasols, and long garments are usually worn by bearded symposiasts; see Frontisi-Ducroux and Lissarrague (1990).  See Hippon. frr. 73.1 W.2 = 73.1 Dg.2, 79.6 W.2 = 79.6 Dg.2, 86.2 W.2 = 88.2 Dg.2, and fr. 114c W.2 = 171 Dg.2, that witnesses the use of the word μεσσηγυδορποχέστης, ‘he who defecates in the middle of the banquet’, a context quite similar to that of the vase we are examining. According to Catenacci (2023), ‘disgusting scenes may have been merely a projection of the imagination or – why not? – the iconic adaptation of Hipponactean themes within symposia that welcomed his verses’. The corpus of defecating, vomiting, and urinating symposiasts has been collected by

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is meant as an object of censure.33 A horse depicted on the krater at the centre of the scene reminds us that the perpetrator of such abominable actions is an

Fig. 4.7: Attic black-figure oinochoe by the painter Kleisophos, 540 BCE ca. Athens, NM 1045. Detail of the right side of the panel (from E. Pfuhl, Malerei und Zeichnung der Griechen, III, München 1923, fig. 254). Schauenburg (1974). Dover (20163) 152–153 considers such images as the translation in visual terms of ‘the coarse language of the archaic iambic poets and of Attic Old Comedy’.  The scene painted by Kleisophos finds no exact parallels. There is nothing to suggest chorality and participation, or even active interaction: the two people laying down are kept apart by the standing people. The komos – if we still wish to use this word – is static, and no one seems to be amused by the revelry. The komast on the left raises his arms to dance or sing, but his movement is not dynamic, as if he were affected by excessive drinking. Furthermore, he does not interact with the other standing komasts. On the opposite side, separated from him, the defecating komast is singled out and carried away by his companion. Grmek and Gourevitch (1998) 118–119 connect this painting to the depiction of the effects of excessive wine-drinking. Schäfer (1997) 56–57 and Mitchell (2009) 90–91, interpret it as a comic scene, putting together this painting with other scenes of sympotic entertainment, which seem to me quite different. De Vries (2000) 358–363 proposes quite a different reading. He underlines the ethnic, that is Lydian, features of the representation and concludes: ‘The painter . . . may be giving us his scurrilous vision of what a Lydian drinking party was like.’

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adult aristocrat, which makes the whole scene all the more shocking. We must not forget that young men would attend symposia in order to learn the right manner to behave from older members of their class. A more powerful warning against bad behaviours is expressed by vessels that display a Gorgoneion in a prominent position. The corpus of Attic vessel paintings includes roughly 500 Gorgoneia on black-figure pottery and a few dozen on redfigure vases. If we add vases featuring a full-body Gorgon as well as multiple Gorgoneia, we reach a huge number, which makes such imagery, at least in the archaic period, one of the most common iconographic subjects found on sympotic vessels. The pre-eminence of this subject in black-figure paintings points to the importance of the Gorgoneion in archaic symposia.34 Within this corpus, the most numerous – and the most interesting for our discussion – are those cups in which the Gorgoneion is found in the interior decoration. A large number of these vases have no exterior decoration, so the Gorgoneion depicted on the interior of the vase was often the only image available to the symposiasts. The meaning of this image is easier to understand if we bear in mind that the Gorgoneion would only become clearly visible to the drinker after his final draught of wine. It was then that the image would become an image in action, displaying all of its dreadful power to the symposiast who had already learnt from poems that wine is a δίοπτρον for the human mind. Every man accustomed to attending symposia would have been familiar with Alcaeus’ lines or similar poems expressing the common idea that the prodigious effects of wine include the power to ‘see through’ a man’s true nature.35 Without this background of words and thoughts, the image of the Gorgon inside the vase would be less intelligible. Without the help of images, the poet’s words would be far less powerful and effective. For the purposes of the present discussion, it is important to note that the Gorgoneion would only gradually be discovered and that it would eventually materialise, at a close distance, once the symposiast had drunk the wine that concealed the image at the bottom of the cup. It is precisely at this point that the Gorgon’s eyes would meet those of the drinker. And it is precisely towards the latter that the Gorgon’s power was directed.36 No symposiast could escape the eyes

 A significant shift occurred in sympotic culture between the sixth and the fifth century BCE: see Catoni (2010) 238–239, with references to the previous bibliography. This change corresponds to the progressive decrease of Gorgoneia in sympotic paintings and to the disappearance of disgusting subjects on vase paintings.  Direct knowledge of Alcaeus’ poems cannot be excluded. Alcaeus was a well-known poet in Attica.  Perhaps we can read the words of Aeschylus, fr. 393 Radt – κάτοπτρον εἴδους χαλκός ἐστ’, οἶνος δὲ νοῦ, ‘Bronze makes a mirror for the face, wine for the mind’ (transl. A.H. Sommerstein) –

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of the Gorgon, who can be considered an emblem of the social control exerted by the hetairoi.37 In a culture founded on shame, a single mistake was enough to draw blame from one’s own fellows. It was the revelation of something that would never be forgotten, a stain that could never be removed. Accordingly, excessive drinking was a short-term joy bound to turn into lasting sorrow, as Critias says (fr. 4.22–23 Gentili-Prato): αἱ γὰρ ὑπὲρ τὸ μέτρον κυλίκων προπόσεις παραχρῆμα τέρψασαι λυποῦσ᾽ ἐς τὸν ἅπαντα χρόνον. For toasts from cups that go beyond due measure, though they give momentary pleasure, bring grief for all time. (transl. D.E. Gerber)

Critias’ lines fit well with the images we have discussed. The pain to which the poet alludes is the consequence of blame of reproach from other symposiasts. Their glance was a powerful means of control that can be compared to that of the Gorgoneion. In an Attic black-figure cup the interior shows Dionysus and some vines between two pairs of eyes.38 In the middle of the scene (and of the cup) a Gorgoneion is depicted. In this case, after having drained the cup, the symposiast is simultaneously faced with the big eyes and the Gorgoneion. The drinker is strongly reminded that, whatever he says or does, he will not escape the eyes of his own companions, his hetairoi.39 Should he act wrongly somehow, his social reputation will be immediately destroyed. It is to these frightening consequences of one’s own behaviour during the symposium that the Gorgoneion refers. The gaze of Medusa’s head can turn anyone to stone;40 to extend the metaphor, whoever agrees to take part in a symposium faces the risk of being petrified by a social judgment that can forever cast him outside the group of true aristocrats.

as a development of the traditional idea that wine drinking was a δίοπτρον, due to the frequent encounter with the Gorgoneion displayed inside the cup as a dreadful mirror of one’s true self.  The traditional idea that the Gorgoneion had an apotropaic function (see Hildburgh [1946] and [1947]; Howe [1954]; Feldman [1965]) has now been abandoned: see Schlesier (1990) 43–44. For up-to-date, insightful remarks about the Gorgoneion as an image capable of provoking intense fear, see Marconi (2007) 214–222, esp. 215–216.  Oxford, Ashmolean Museum, 1879.164, 550–500 BCE; BAPD 4507; Frontisi-Ducroux (1991) 149, fig. 10.  In the considerable debate about eye cups (see above, n. 5), the idea of the social function of the eyes as a symbolic representation of the control exerted by the members of one’s own group has never been proposed.  See Vout (2013) 53: ‘In these cases, the drinker’s eagerness to drain his wine and see what joy lies within is met by a leering stare that can turn him to stone.’

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Bibliography Bernsdorff, H. 2020. Anacreon of Teos. Testimonia and Fragments. Oxford. Boardman, J. 1976. A Curious Eye Cup. AA: 281–290. Bundrick, S.D. 2015. Athenian Eye Cups in Context. AJA 119.3: 295–341. Calame, C. 1992. I Greci e l’Eros. Simboli, pratiche e luoghi. Roma, Bari (20102). Catenacci, C. 2023. From Ritual to Indecent Symposion. Contextualising Hipponax. In The Limping Muse: Hipponax the Poet, ed. V. Cazzato and E. Prodi. Cambridge (forthcoming). Catoni, M.L. 2010. Bere vino puro. Immagini del simposio. Milano. Danek, G. 1994–1995. Der Nestorbecker von Ischia, epische Zitiertechnik und das Symposion. In ΣΦΑΙΡΟΣ. Festschrift Hans Schwabl. WS 107–108: 29–44. de la Genière, J. 2009. Les amateurs des scènes érotiques de l’archaïsme recent. In Shapes and Uses of Greek Vases (7th–4th centuries B.C.), ed. A. Tsagarida, 337–346. Bruxelles. De Vries, K. 2000. The Nearly Other: The Attic Vision of Phrygians and Lydians. In Not the Classical Ideal. Athens and the Construction of the Other in Greek Art, ed. B. Cohen, 338–363. Leiden, Boston, and Köln. Dierichs, A. 20082. Erotik in der Kunst Griechenlands. Mainz am Rhein. Dover, K.J. 20163. Greek Homosexuality. London, New York. Feldman, T. 1965. Gorgo and the Origins of Fear. Arion 4.3: 484–494. Frontisi-Ducroux, F. 1991. Senza maschera né specchio: l’uomo greco e i suoi doppi. In La maschera, il doppio e il ritratto, ed. M. Bettini, 131–158. Roma, Bari. Frontisi-Ducroux, F. and F. Lissarrague 1990. From Ambiguity to Ambivalence: A Dionysiac Excursion through the ‘Anakreontic’ Vases. In Before Sexuality: The Construction of Erotic Experience in the Ancient Greek World, ed. D.M. Halperin, J.J. Winkler, and F.I. Zeitlin, 211–256. Princeton, NJ. Gentili, B. 19652. Polinnia. Poesia greca arcaica. Messina, Firenze. Gentili, B. 1973. La ragazza di Lesbo. QUCC 16: 124–128. Gentili, B. 1988. Poetry and its Public in Ancient Greece. From Homer to the Fifth Century. Translated by A.Th. Cole. Baltimore, London (orig. ed. Roma, Bari 1984). Giangrande, G. 1968. Sympotic Literature and Epigram. In Entretiens Hardt 14, 93–177. Vandœuvres-Genève. Grmek, M. and D. Gourevitch 1998. Les maladies dans l’art antique. Paris. Hildburgh, W.L. 1946. Apotropaism in Greek Vase-Paintings. Folklore 57.4: 154–178. Hildburgh, W.L. 1947. Apotropaism in Greek Vase-Paintings (Continued). Folklore 58.1: 208–225. Hobden, F. 2013. The Symposion in Ancient Greek Society and Thought. Cambridge. Howe, T.P. 1954. The Origin and Function of the Gorgon-Head. AJA 58.3: 209–221. Isler-Kerényi, C. 2007. Dionysos in Archaic Greece. An Understanding through Images. Leiden. Itgenshorst, T. 2015. ‘Maintenant, que chacun s’enivre et boive par force!’: consommation du vin et transgression comme pratique sociale à l’époque archaïque. Pallas 97: 69–95. Kilmer, M.F. 1993. Greek Erotica on Red-Figure Vases. London. Kunisch, N. 1990. Die Augen der Augenschalen. AK 33: 20–27. Lear, A. and E. Cantarella 2008. Images of Ancient Greek Pederasty. New York. Leo, G.M. 2015. Anacreonte. I frammenti erotici. Testo, commento e traduzione. Roma. Lissarrague, F. 1990. The Aesthetics of the Greek Banquet: Images of Wine and Ritual. Princeton, NJ (or. ed. Paris 1987).

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Marconi, C. 2007. Temple Decoration and Cultural Identity in the Archaic Greek World: the Metops of Selinus. Cambridge, New York. Mitchell, A.G. 2009. Greek Vase-painting and the Origins of Visual Humour. New York. Moignard, E. 2015. Master of Black-Figure Painting. The Art and Legacy of Exechias. London, New York. Murray, O. 1983a. The Greek Symposion in History. In Tria Corda. Studi in onore di Arnaldo Momigliano, ed. E. Gabba, 257–272. Como. Murray, O. 1983b. The Symposion as Social Organization. In The Greek Renaissance of the Eight Century B.C., ed. R. Hägg, 195–199. Stockholm. Palmisciano, R. 2007. Il romanzo di Longo Sofista come prototipo del romanzo filosofico. AION (filol) 29: 77–94. Palmisciano, R. 2018. Eros in azione. Considerazioni pragmatiche sulla poesia erotica simposiale. QUCC 120.3: 153–176. Pavese, C.O. 1996. La iscrizione sulla kotyle di Nestor da Pithekoussai. ZPE 114: 1–23. Pellizer, E. 1991. Lineamenti di una morfologia dell’intrattenimento simposiale. In ΟΙΝΗΡΑ ΤΕΥΧΗ. Studi triestini di poesia conviviale, ed. K. Fabian, E. Pellizer, and G. Tedeschi, 3–13. Alessandria. Reitzenstein, R. 1893. Epigramm und Skolion. Giessen. Rivière-Adonon, A. 2011. Les « grands yeux »: une mise en scène visuelle. Métis 9: 245–277. Rösler, W. 1980. Dichter und Gruppe. München. Rossi, L.E. 1983. Il simposio greco arcaico e classico come spettacolo a se stesso. In Spettacoli conviviali dall’antichità classica alle corti italiane del ’400. Atti del VII Convegno di studio, Viterbo 27–30 maggio 1982, ed. F. Doglio, 41–50. Viterbo. Rozokoki, A. 2006. Anakreon. Athens. Sanchez, C. 2013. Kunst und Erotik in der Antike. Berlin. Schäfer, A. 1997. Unterhaltung beim griechischen Symposion. Mainz am Rhein. Schauenburg, K. 1974. Σειληνὸς οὐρών. MDAI(R) 81: 313–316. Schlesier, R. 1990. Apotropäisch. In Handbuch religionswissenschaftlicher Grundbegriffe, II, ed. H. Cancik, B. Gladigow, and M. Laubscher, 41–45. Stuttgart, Berlin, Köln, and Mainz. Spivey, N. 1991. Greek Vases in Etruria. In Looking at Greek Vases, ed. T. Rasmussen and N. Spivey, 131–150. Cambridge. Stewart, A. 1997. Art, Desire, and the Body in Ancient Greece. Cambridge. Tosi, R. 20173. Dizionario delle sentenze latine e greche. Milano (1st ed. 1991). Vetta, M. 1980. Teognide. Libro secondo. Roma. Vetta, M. 1983. Poesia simposiale nella Grecia arcaica e classica. In Poesia e simposio nella Grecia antica, ed. M. Vetta, XI–LX. Roma, Bari. Villanueva-Puig, M.-Chr. 2004. Des « coupes à yeux » de la céramique grecque. JS: 3–20. Vout, C. 2013. Sex on Show. Seeing the Erotic in Greece and Rome. London.

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5 The protohistory of portraits in words and images (sixth–fifth century BCE): tyrants, poets, and artists Abstract: Ancient Greece marked a crucial turning point in the history of portraiture in Western culture. However, portraiture went through a long, complex, and irregular process of development. The representation of individuals not only reflects specific expressive and artistic conventions, but also implies a social idea of the body and its function. Moreover, it encompasses the construction of personal identity and its public recognition in a shared social context. Both visual art and words contribute to this form of representation, each through its own means of expression. Human images fill the spaces of the polis: the agora, places of worship, burial sites, festive and ritual contexts, and symposia. Visual experience interacts with the spoken word, and vice versa. Traditional poetic patterns correspond to conventional artistic ones, while preserving their specificities. One of the first developments in the history of portraiture took place in the Ionian and Athenian area between the sixth and the fifth century BCE. Our attention will be focused on the figure of the tyrant (particularly Peisistratos) as a catalyst of individuality, as well as on the individualising aspects of the poetry of those years, such as Anacreon’s verses. The first portraits tended to privilege the representation of diversity, deformity, and ugliness which deviated from traditional patterns. These were followed by the portrait masks – or, rather, caricature masks – of ancient comedy.

5.1 A phenomenology of portraits In the public imagination, Homeric heroes are handsome and valiant. Yet, if one were to paint a hero based on the Iliad or Odyssey, one would not get much out of it. The Homeric poems emphasise beauty without describing it. There is a lack of personal physical features: defining facial traits are mostly absent. Menelaus’ epithet is a constant reminder that he is blonde (ξανθός), though we are never given a full description. More or less typical epithets are given to other characters, especially females. Some elements emerge in particular situations, for example in

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relation to vain Paris, when he showcases his inglorious military conduct.1 Many traditional epithets can also function as a kind of repository of simple images, whose cumulative effect is a basic form of intervisual interplay with the text: thus Menelaus’ blonde hair and Hera’s white arms (λευκώλενος) become integral to their perceived identity. As is widely known, the only Homeric character who has received the privilege of a portrayal is Thersites, the ugliest man (αἴσχιστος ἀνήρ) to ever reach Ilion (Iliad 2.216): all in all, this is a heroic record too. The beautiful is a given for Homer: it belongs to heroes regardless of any special qualifications. If anything, the poet’s emphasis on physical beauty seems to be inversely proportional to his stress on military prowess.2 In a brilliant article of 1940, Giorgio Pasquali analysed this phenomenon and wrote that, from Homer to the early classical age, the Greeks ‘see and represent as individual only what rises against the norm, that is, the ugly; the beautiful is typical to them’.3 Pasquali was inspired by the reading of a pivotal work that had been recently published in Germany: archaeologist Bernhard Schweitzer’s study of the development of Greek portraiture.4 Schweitzer claims that the Greeks should be credited with the invention of physiognomic or realistic portraiture, understood as a true reproduction of a person’s physical features, which also highlights the distinctive aspects of his or her character. But the major breakthrough should be traced back to the mid-fourth century. Previously, human figures in Greek art had not been represented as individuals, but rather as types and models (the young man, the mature man, the athlete, the strategist, and so on). Some subjects were pictured with greater attention to personal and atypical features and deviated from the norm: elderly and marginal characters (banausoi, slaves, deformed individuals); non-Greeks (Egyptians, Blacks, Pygmies, Scythians); and half-human, half-animal creatures (Satyrs, Centaurs, etc.). According to Schweitzer, it is in these manifestations of difference and ugliness that we can find early signs of portraiture – the first examples being the Centaurs of the metopes on the south side of the Parthenon – that will only achieve full maturity in the fourth century. Needless to say, the question of the origin of portraiture, which arose among modern critics as early as the mid-eighteenth century, has come down

 Il. 3.39–57, 11.385–390 (with schol. ad loc.).  In addition to Paris, see Il. 5.787, 17.142; for a brief introduction to beauty (and ugliness) in archaic and classical poetry understood as the expression of ‘visual, or even auditory, grandeur and impressiveness’, see Catenacci (2014a) 51.  Pasquali (1940) 25.  Schweitzer (1940).

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to us today in complex forms, following different paths, and giving rise to a considerable bibliography.5 Here, it is sufficient to say that, in general, less rigid time subdivisions and categories are used today. Archaeological discoveries have broadened our knowledge and brought to light works with portrait features dating back to before the fourth century. This process of development is now understood in a less straightforward way and with greater attention to the multiple forms of expression and their historical and cultural functions.6 The very notion of the body changes across time and space,7 and the very idea of realism is questionable and relative. Different eras and contexts, conditioned by widespread technai and mental habitus, have different ways of understanding what it means for a work to be true to life. To simplify this idea through an extreme comparison involving our aesthetic habits in terms of the perception and reproduction of reality, we might say that a few technai like photography today are commonly assigned the ability to faithfully portray and capture reality. But, apart from any possible observation on the subjective and artificial aspects of the photographic eye, it is not difficult to question the claim that something which lasts only for a moment is real and, consequently, that what that instant represents is realistic. As Roland Barthes would say, ‘whether or not the subject is already dead’, every photograph ‘is this catastrophe’: a moment that has existed, but is already gone for good.8 By contrast, for the ancient Greeks, reality and its representation are linked to kleos and mnema. These are aimed precisely at expanding the current dimension, while referring to a particular person or to specific aspects. Mimesis, which is the foundation of every Greek artwork, is never a mere reflection of the world, but an imitation of reality through the selection and combination of meaningful and representative data.9 Let us think – to take an apparently distant example – of representations of a story based on the figurative method, which Anthony

 See, among others, Richter (1984), Bianchi Bandinelli (1968), Torelli (1979), Fittschen (1988), La Rocca (1988), Zanker (1995), Picozzi (1996), Giuliani (1997), Santoro Bianchi (2002), Dillon (2006), and Jaeggi (2008). Ildefonse (2009) is also useful. A new perspective (with further bibliography) was offered by Keesling (2017). She focused her analysis on the genesis of honorific portraiture at the turn of the fourth century BCE. A stimulating rereading of the phenomenon in Eastern art is now provided by Matthiae (2020).  As already explained by some examples of vase painting made by Studniczka (1928–1929) 128–131.  Sharp reflections about the ideology of the Greek body can be found in Barbanera (2018).  Barthes (2003) 95–96.  On the concept of mimesis, see Gentili (2006) 87–90.

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Snodgrass called the ‘synoptic’.10 When depicting a person, the mimetic operation tends to blend individual features into more general, enduring, and socially shared ones (age group, family status, publicly relevant actions, type of death), as they define and identify the subject within the community to which he or she belongs. One may compare the traditional structures of poetic compositions (from Homeric formulas to the diction of lyrical poetry) with artistic patterns in representation of the human figure, which often act as visual epithets. Therefore, these representations are not merely ‘realistic’ reproductions, but nor are they bodies detached from reality; rather, they are a synthesis of living bodies and socially shared markers. Typicality blends with the realistic precision of anatomical details, some of which can obviously prove particularly appealing and relevant as they reflect the social conception of the body that is being represented. Even nudity is not just the – neutral and realistic – absence of clothes, but has a demonstrative character with a changing symbolic value.11 Therefore, if we analyse the phenomenon from a historical-cultural point of view, it seems reductive to limit our enquiry to the so-called physiognomic portrait, which is based solely on the criteria of physical similarity and psychological connotation, and not also on other means of identification that draw on a more complex range of elements for social and personal recognition. The notion of somatic uniqueness, which underpins the modern Western conception of the ego and its representation, has its origins in the Greek and Roman world, but coexists and cooperates – especially in archaic and classical Greece – with different tools for the affirmation of personal identity and its mimetic expression.12 In short, in the ancient world, the principle of social recognition was combined with that of physiognomic recognition, which progressively became more prominent. After this brief but necessary overall introduction, let us concentrate on the specific topic of our enquiry. Images of men – sculpted, painted, but also depicted through poetry and words – pervaded communal spaces in ancient Greece: places of worship, burial sites, the agora, and streets, but also feasts and other public events, ritual occasions, and symposia. As a general rule, these images embodied the ‘norm’ and, as such, mentally and intervisually integrated the hints found in poetic texts, such as the epithets mentioned above. Within this wide field of investigation, we will focus on a rather well-defined historical and geographical context and on some specific figures. The time frame is the turn of the fifth century BCE. The geographical setting, the area between Ionia and Attica. The figures we will  ‘Synoptic method’ means that ‘the artist includes within a single picture two or more successive episodes in a story, but without repeating any individual figure’: Snodgrass (1994) 221.  Again, see Barbanera (2018).  One of the clearest formulations of this idea can be found in Neer (2002) 96–97.

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deal with are tyrants, especially Peisistratos, and poets, particularly Anacreon, but also figurative artists. Without seeking to be exhaustive,13 I will bring together words and images, literary testimonies, and archaeological artefacts, while making the necessary assumption that these are different means of expression, and that each art serves a special purpose. For example, while words tend to provide diachronic and analytical descriptions, images favour synchrony. The various codes of verbal and visual representation are not easy to compare, and yet they are meant to interact with one another. This comparison is often barely touched upon, and it is rarely explored in depth, but I believe it can lead to some interesting results.

5.2 The image of the tyrant Studies on portraiture sometimes focus on tyranny. The link is built around the development of personalistic tendencies, particularly in the Ionian area, which are considered implicit both to the historical phenomenon of tyranny and to the artistic form of expression of the portrait. This relationship is extended to the development of the narrative on tyranny in those years and to the literary genre of biography. Both portraiture and biography are designed to outline the features of individual personalities; both are linked, in the early stages, to tyrants.14 This link is confirmed by some archaeological evidence. Among early representations of individuals, albeit ones still based on types, there is a bearded head wearing a tiara, found in Heraclea Pontica and dated about 540–530 BCE.15 It is likely to be the figure of the lord of the area, where tyrants were ruling under Persian influence in those years. Among the early examples of individual representations in Greece are the sculptures known as the Rampin rider16 and the Sabouroff head.17  Several testimonies about portraiture in this time period cannot be taken into account here: for example, the iconici duces of the battle of Marathon in the Stoa Poikile (Plin. NH 35.57), Polygnotus’ depiction of Cimon’s sister Elpinice as Laodice in the Ilioupersis (Plut. Cim. 4.6), and ‘iconic’ statues of athletes (Plin. NH 34.16).  Torelli (1979) 457 and Santoro Bianchi (2002) 98–99; on tyrannies and biography, see Momigliano (1974) and Musti (1987).  Ankara, Museum of Anatolian Civilizations 19,367; see Akurgal (1986), tables 4–5 and Schefold (1997) 27, 484, Abb. 7.  Paris, Musée du Louvre Ma 3104 (head); Athens, Acropolis Museum 590 (body and horse). Concerning the identification with Hipparchos and Hippias, see Kleine (1973) 36–40 and Kyle (1987) 221.  Berlin, Staatliche Museen, Antikensammlung 308; cf. Kleine (1973) 40–42 and Schefold (1997) 24, 483–484, Abb. 6.

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As for the former, which was found on the Acropolis and dated to about 550 BCE, according to a famous theory it is likely that the figure was originally paired with another rider and that it depicts a son of Peisistratos’ together with his brother. Peisistratos himself is often associated with the other sculpture: the Sabouroff head (about 540 BCE, from Athens or Aegina). Such attributions are as fascinating as they are speculative. The risk is to explain everything in a circular way, based on the little information we have. Nothing can be said for certain, and we must be cautious. However, even if the identifications proposed above do not go beyond pure supposition, it is a fact that the Rampin rider and perhaps the Sabouroff head too have Peisistratos’ Athens as their historical background. And it is a fact that tyrants’ courts were an unparalleled meeting place and a source of patronage for artists, poets, and scientists.18 These environments, marked by the strong personalities of tyrannoi and populated with leading artists and intellectuals, were a crossroads for expressive and technical experiences, experiments, and innovations. Take the case of Theodoros of Samos, who was active at Polycrates’ court: he was a versatile sculptor, artistic metalworker, architect, and inventor.19 He is credited with the invention of bronze casting in sculpture. Also, we should not forget that the use of bronze for statues, based on his idea of using wax or clay moulds, disclosed new possibilities for the realistic representation of human subjects.20 Theodoros is believed to have made a portrait of himself in bronze, ‘famed’ – as Pliny the Elder wrote – ‘as a wondrous likeness, and also celebrated for the extreme delicacy of the workmanship’.21 His personal identity was highlighted through the presence of an iconic instrument associated with his work, and hence with his public role: a file held in his left hand. Moving on to the first decades of the fifth century BCE and getting back to Attica, one of the first representations recognised by many as having physiognomic value is linked to a personalistic political context. I am referring to the Herm of Themistocles, a Roman copy (second century CE) of an original work dated to about 470 BCE.22 By that time, the government of isonomy had been in place in Athens for over 30 years. Themistocles was one of the smartest leaders

 See Catenacci (2012) 185–190.  Hdt. 3.41.1; Paus. 8.14.8.  See also Richter (1970) 48.  Plin. NH 34.83. More information about the multifaceted work of Theodoros in Hdt. 1.51.3; Plin. NH 7.198, 35.152, 36.90; Diod. Sic. 1.98.5; Paus. 3.12.10; Athen. 12.514f; Diog. Laert. 2.103.  Ostia, Museo Ostiense 85. On the debate about the dating and physiognomic character of the statue, see Picozzi (1996); an accurate analysis of the Themistocles statue in Ostia is now in Keesling (2017) 6–10, 172–174.

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of that young democracy. However, it is not by chance that he is the subject of this sculpture. As reported by Plutarch (Themistocles 22.3), a statuette of Themistocles depicting him as having not only the heart but also the looks of a hero was stored in the disputed temple dedicated to Artemis Aristoboule. Whether the statue mentioned by Plutarch is based on the bust in Ostia is a debated question.23 However, it is clear that Themistocles had a special interest in portraiture.24 This interest can be associated with marked political protagonism and a series of behaviours and personal traits which, according to the ancient way of seeing things, could be regarded as tyrannical: cunning, unscrupulousness, and ability in public life; putting personal qualities before family prestige; the structure of his biography; his relations with the Great King of Persia; possible tyrannical ambitions.25 These elements were destined to cast an increasingly long shadow over Themistocles’ career until his ostracism and his final stay at the Persian court, similarly to what had happened to Hippias a few years earlier. It is impossible to tell just to what extent Themistocles’ inclination to be represented was a sign of his autocratic aspirations. But it is certainly part of a political action and role based on personalism. It is revealing that, in Plutarch’s Lives (Themistocles 22.4), the observations about how this politician’s excessive power and prestige led to ostracism come right after the information about his statue. Explicit confirmation of the link between (presumed) tyrannical aims and the display of one’s own artistic image comes from Alcibiades’ brazen use of portraiture at the end of the fifth century. In Alcibiades’ career, everything is exaggerated and shown off provocatively, one might say. The deliberate and brash appropriation of traits which, in the public’s mind, mark the figure of the tyrannos is no exception.26 One particular piece of information bears directly upon this topic. In Athens, two paintings featured Alcibiades. In one, Olympias and Pythia, the personifications of the Olympic and Pythian Games, were represented crowning him. In the other, by the painter Aristophon, Nemea was holding the beautiful Alcibiades in her arms.27 The reaction by Athens’ elders was unmistakable: according to Plutarch (Alcibiades 16.7), they were indignant at these representations that ‘smacked of tyranny and lawlessness’.

 In support of this view, see Metzler (1971) 182–183.  Consider also the episode featuring Simonides in Plut. Them. 5.7 (see below, 131); for other ancient representations of Themistocles, see Richter (1984) 210–211, along with Bonnet (1987)’s discussion of a statue erected in Gades.  Diod. Sic. 11.42.4; see Torelli (1979) 444–445 and n. 179 (with bibliography).  Thuc. 6.15.4; Plut. Alc. 34.7; more information in Catenacci (2012) 18, 45 n. 30, 141, 190 n. 200.  Satyr. ap. Athen. 12.534d; Paus. 1.22.7; Plut. Alc. 16.7.

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Finally, another testimony seems to reaffirm the tyranny-portrait bond through a contrast. As late as the fourth century BCE, Demosthenes claimed that in Athens the privilege of having an honorary portrait was granted to tyrant-killers only (Against Leptines 70). It is almost as if, through a reversal, the right to personal representation was symbolically taken away from tyrants, although it was still inspired by ideal types such as Harmodios and Aristogeiton. The public portrait now belonged not to the tyrant, but rather – in a meaningful and exemplary way – to tyrannicides.

5.3 Peisistratos and the wolf-feet club-bearers But let us get back to indisputable tyrannoi, not wannabe or supposed ones. A black-figure amphora, ascribed to the Swing Painter and dated to about 530 BCE, depicts an old man preceded by three male individuals armed with clubs (Fig. 5.1).28 This image displays some unusual and unconventional aspects both in its general layout and in some specific elements such as the club, which normally belongs to mythical episodes rather than everyday scenes. The theory that the old man on the left is Peisistratos is extremely fascinating.29 We know from Herodotus and other sources that Athens’ tyrant used to be escorted by special bodyguards who were called not doryphoroi but korynephoroi, precisely because they had the peculiarity of always following him armed with a club.30 In addition to its military use, the club that distinguishes Peisistratos’ guards could have a symbolic meaning, if John Boardman’s hypothesis were right. According to him, Peisistratos’ propaganda laid the foundations for the construction of a parallel between Heracles and the tyrant, with the consequent development of artistic themes related to Heracles on ancient Attic pottery from the sixth century onwards.31 But maybe there is another element at play here. Peisistratos’ korynephoroi were also given a nickname: ‘Wolf-feet’. Is it only by chance that the three clubbearers on our vase are wearing what seems to be an animal hide over their left arm, with the animal’s legs popping out at the bottom? The question of why the ‘Wolf-feet’ were called that way was already a matter of debate in ancient times.

 Athens, National Archaeological Museum 15,111; see Kaltsas (2006) 118 n. 42.  See also Böhr (1982) 48.  Hdt. 1.59.5; [Arist.] Ath. Pol. 14.1; Plut. Sol. 30.3; Diog. Laert. 1.66; Polyaenus, Strat. 1.21.3; schol. ad Pl. Resp. 566b; cf. Suid., s.v. κορυνηφόροι (κ 2127 Adler).  Boardman (1972).

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Fig. 5.1: Black-figure amphora by the Swing Painter, 530 BCE ca., Athens, National Archaeological Museum, inv. no. 15,111, Credit line: National Archaeological Museum, Athens, photographer Kostas Xenikakis © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports/Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development (H.O.C.RE.D.).

There are two main hypotheses: they used to wrap their feet in wolf skins, or they had a wolf as an emblem on their shields.32 Neither explanation matches what one sees on the vase. However, it should not be forgotten that the most loyal supporters of Peisistratos came from the most inland and mountainous region of Attica.33 As for the ‘Goat-feet’ people from Scythia,34 the name may refer both to the use of animal hides as clothing and to the mountain and liminal nature of these people. This original use of a wolf skin would therefore have a symbolic and identity value: the typical garment of that group became a sort of

 Schol. ad Aristoph. Lys. 665. On the ‘Wolf-feet’, see Perusino (1998).  Hdt. 1.59.3; Arist. Pol. 1305a; [Arist.] Ath. Pol. 13.4; Plut. Sol. 13.2 and 29.1.  Hdt. 4.25.1 with Corcella (1993) 253.

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‘uniform’ distinguishing the tyrant’s bodyguards, along with the club.35 In any case, whatever the origin of the name, the Amphora of the Swing Painter certainly seems to confirm the ancient accounts about Peisistratos’ bodyguards and their use of clubs – and possibly wolf skins. Finally, just a quick take on another point of contact between tyrants and somatic recognition. Plutarch (Pericles 7.1) tells us that in his youth Pericles would behave prudently with people, because his appearance reminded them of Peisistratos. Elderly people were deeply impressed by the similarity between the two in terms of their tone of voice and ease of speech. This physical ὁμοιότης is part of a broader characterisation of Pericles as a tyrannos, with multiple examples especially in comedy.36 In theory, an 80 year-old at the time of the young Pericles (say around 470 BCE) might actually have known Peisistratos (who died in 528–527).37 However, the interesting point here is the ‘oral’ – so to speak – preservation of the memory of the tyrant’s physical appearance, particularly his voice and speech, in the absence of any sort of ‘written’ – i.e. painted or sculpted – reproduction of his appearance and physiognomic features. This oral anthropology of somatic memory might be worth exploring in further studies.

5.4 Poets vs artists The first portrait about which we have explicit information is that of a poet. The sculptor Bupalos and his brother Athenis sculpted a caricature portrait of Hipponax about 540 BCE.38 Their mimesis focused on the poet’s extraordinary ugliness, which made him the laughingstock for the two sculptors and their friends. The element of ugliness pops up as the core of the portrait, with the Ionian world still in the background. As is widely known, Hipponax defended himself just fine and

 The korynephoroi wear the pelt on their arm and left shoulder as a shield: can we suppose – but this is clearly just speculation – a transition from a garment to a piece of armour and then to a shield emblem? For the analogical overlap between real armour, shield and episema, see Hdt. 9.74. For wolf skins and the pelts or parts of other mountain animals as armour, see also Paus. 4.11.3.  See Catenacci (2012) 18 and n. 34. For the topos of likeness among tyrants, cf. Plut. Arat. 3.5.  Peisistratos’ seductive oratory skills (see, among others, Solon fr. 11 W.2) were probably referred to as a siren’s song by Simonides in fr. 607 Page: Catenacci (2012) 193 n. 210.  Suid., s.v. Ἱππῶναξ (ι 588 Adler); Plin. NH 36.12. The reliability of this information and the very existence of Bupalos and Athenis have been questioned (most recently Hedreen [2016]), but see Catenacci (2023).

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fought back with violence against the sculptor brothers with the deadly weapon of his iambic poetry.39 The poetic personality of Hipponax remains enigmatic. I have recently suggested that one of the rare comparisons with his apparently isolated work can be found in the ‘indecent’ symposia on contemporary pottery. For the purposes of my argument, it is worth noting that some highly realistic physical features stand out both in the case of the poet’s verses and in that of the ‘obscene’ vases.40 Hipponax attacks not only Bupalos and Athenis but also the craftsman Mimnes, a hull painter (fr. 28 W.2 = 39 Dg.2). Art and poetry followed separate paths when it came to defining personal images, and there were conflicts and clashes. The vibrant life of the polis was the background to the competition between artisans of speech and artisans of images, which eventually also inspired the non-iambic yet dialectical forms of Simonides’ and Pindar’s poetry.41 It is precisely the elements that link these two champions of late archaic lyric poetry to portraiture that it is worth briefly exploring. In a passage that is commonly – and surprisingly – neglected in portrait studies,42 Plutarch (Themistocles 5.7) states that Themistocles mocked Simonides because he had had himself portrayed, although he was ugly-looking. This episode contains several elements that we have already encountered: early-fifth-century Athens, Themistocles and his circle, and the trend of portraiture, along with ugliness as one of its almost inevitable components. But here we also find the idea of portraiture’s possible positive value, as in the case of Themistocles’ heroic eikon, mentioned above. With his ethical pragmatism, Simonides may have replied to Themistocles that, as he affirms in his ode to Scopas, ‘all things are fair, with which the base is not mixed’ (fr. 542.39–40 Page), meaning that absolute beauty is an illusion. But while no portraits of the ‘ugly’ Simonides have come down to us, the situation is different in the case of his colleague Pindar. The inscription of an imago clipeata (third century CE), discovered in Aphrodisias (Caria) in 1981,43 proves that a portrait-type which was already known from several examples and  Frr. 120 + 121 W.2 = 121–122 Dg.2.  A revealing comparison can be drawn between Hipponax fr. 118 W.2 = 129 Dg.2 and the Attic black-figure oinochoe by Kleisophos and Xenokles from 520 BCE ca. (Athens, National Archaeological Museum 1045): see Catenacci (2023).  Emblematic examples are Simonides fr. 581 Page – but also his famous definition of poetry and painting (Plut. Mor. 346f) – and Pind. Nem. 5.1–3; for further information, see Gentili (2006) 247–251.  But see Schefold (1997) 34 and 37.  See Smith (1990) 132–135, tables VI–VIII; cf. Richter (1984) 177–178, fig. 139; Schefold (1997) 96–97.

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previously identified as the Spartan Pausanias, actually represents Pindar (Fig. 5.2). The original seems to date back to the mid-fifth century, the poet’s time, since Pindar died in 438 BCE. Within the undoubtedly physiognomic characterisation of the face, the long locks of beard stand out, carefully combed and knotted under the chin, as a sign of old-fashioned elegance.44 As Luca Giuliani has argued, such a refined and almost extravagant element in the image of a living or recently deceased personality would not have made sense to people at the time, unless it was based on objective reality or, at any rate, carried a specific meaning.45 The knotted beard must have been a reference to a distinguishing and maybe personal trait of Pindar’s. Therefore, I cannot help but mention once again Wilamowitz and the final pages of his Pindaros, where he writes that, in the last years of his life, Pindar would have had the same effect on the Athenians as one of Fredrick II’s pigtailed officials on leave among the Jugend of the 1820s.46 But – and this is an example of historical irony – the image of the conservative Pindar, with his knotted beard, is part of one of the most innovative processes in the history of Western culture’s representation of the person.

Fig. 5.2: Roman marble sculpture bust of Pindar, second century CE after an original from the mid-fifth century BCE, Naples, National Archaeological Museum, inv. no. 6144. National Archaeological Museum, Naples © Italian Ministry of Culture.

 As proven by Bergemann (1991); a partially different interpretation is in Hofter (2005).  Giuliani (1997) 993–994.  Von Wilamowitz-Moellendorff (1922) 445–446.

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5.5 Anacreon, ‘Anacreon vases’, and the new subjects of representation If we were to choose one late archaic poet who brings together literary testimonies, iconographic documents, and new trends in portraiture, that would have to be Anacreon. Three Attic red-figure vases dating from between 520 and 500 feature him. The identification is ensured by the presence of an inscription. This is not a one-off example: Solon’s name also appears next to a character in a komos scene on a cup by Oltos from around 515.47 Above all, Sappho (once with Alcaeus) became a recurrent subject in Attic pottery from the late years of the sixth century.48 The difference is clear, though: Solon, Sappho, and Alcaeus had died long before. Also, the latter two had never set foot in Athens. These depictions are the ancestors of so-called reconstructed portraits. By contrast, Anacreon was still alive at the time when portraits of him started circulating. A similar case is that of Cydias, a poet we know very little about,49 but who is featured twice on Athenian pottery from the years just before 500 BCE.50 This element reminds us of the limits of our knowledge – which is based on a very limited number of surviving documents – and hence of the need to tread cautiously in this field. The first vase with Anacreon is a cup painted by Oltos from about 515.51 Anacreon, who is holding a string instrument and wearing a visible wreath made of vine leaves, is singing some verses. Two youths are moving towards him. Next to the first one is the word ΝΥ(Μ)ΦΕΣ. A few traces of writing are also visible next to the second youth (. . . ΟΝ). On side B, there are two Amazons fleeing from Heracles, while in the tondo of the cup a naked girl is lacing up a sandal: might this theme be linked to the ode to the girl from Lesbos wearing colourful sandals (fr. 358 Page = 13 Gentili)? On this cup, Anacreon does not seem to look any different from the ordinary type of komast. A less generic depiction can be found on a slightly damaged lekythos by the Gales Painter from around 490 BCE.52 We see Anacreon advancing again, holding the barbitos during a komos. Here too, he is accompanied by two youths, who embody the core theme of his poetry. The poet has a wreath on his  London, British Museum E19; cf. Schefold (1997) 80–81.  Concerning the depiction of Sappho, in addition to Richter (1984) and Schefold (1997), see Yatromanolakis (2007) and Catenacci (2014b).  Cf. Pl. Chrm. 155d and maybe Aristoph. Nub. 966–967.  München, Staatliche Antikensammlungen 2614; London, British Museum E767.  London, British Museum E18; cf. Schefold (1997) 76–77.  Siracusa, Museo Archeologico P. Orsi 26,967; cf. Schefold (1997) 76–77.

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head and seems to be wearing a sakkos. Long, well-groomed locks of hair fall on his shoulders. He is wearing a flowing tunic under his cloak. The third image consists of the fragments of a crater by the Kleophrades Painter (500 BCE ca.).53 Side A depicts a symposium;54 side B depicts a komos (Fig. 5.3) attended by four characters – we can see the bottom part of the chitons and the boots they are wearing. Another fragment depicts the head of a bearded komast: he is wearing a tunic and a cloak, has an ivy wreath around his neck and a turban on his head, and is holding a parasol. As shown by the head leaning backwards and the marks inscribed near his mouth, he is singing. An additional fragment shows part of a man’s body holding a barbitos and a plectrum. Despite the misfortune of having only vase fragments, we are in luck: these little shards preserve valuable information, as the letters on one of the arms of the barbitos reads Ἀνακρέων. The scene depicts a komos attended by Anacreon and his cheerful friends, the ‘booners’.55

Fig. 5.3: Fragments of a red-figure calyx krater by the Kleophrades Painter, late sixth century BCE, Copenhagen, National Museum, inv. no. 13,365 © CC-BY-SA, Niels Elswing, the National Museum of Denmark.

 Copenhagen, National Museum 13,365.  On the reconstruction of this symposium, see Immerwahr (1965).  These three vases with the name inscribed are often associated with a black-figure plate by Psiax from around 515 BCE: Basel, Antikenmuseum Kä 421; see Schefold (1997) 78–79. Birch (1844) suggested that a barbitos player pictured in some vase paintings with a little dog was Anacreon, based on Tzetz. Chil. 4.129 Kiessling; cf. Ael. NA 7.29.

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John Beazley associated this work with a larger group of vases, mainly with red figures, produced some time between 520 and 460, and featuring characters with the same refined and unusual items of clothing and accessories: a long chiton and cloak, a turban, a sakkos or mitre, soft, high-top boots earrings, and a parasol.56 They are often depicted together with a barbitos player. Many of the painted figures are holding drinking vessels. According to Beazley, these scenes represent Anacreon and his drinking companions. Hence the overall definition of the series as ‘Anacreon vases’. More generally and at a later stage – Beazley concluded – they may have depicted not so much, or not only, Anacreon himself and his friends, as the merry companions of the ‘good old days’. About 50 specimens can be classified under this type.57 Unsurprisingly, this is symposium pottery. After all, the symposium was the reign of Anacreon and his songs. About twenty of these paintings feature a poet-musician. The interpretation of the so-called Anacreon vases has raised a number of controversies, which we cannot analyse in detail here. What matters the most to us is the relationship between these depictions and Anacreon. In recent years, the prevailing tendency has been to separate the so-called Anacreon vases from the poet himself. However, I personally continue to agree with those who, in Beazley’s footsteps, believe that the sudden flowering of iconography reflects the presence of Anacreon in Athens. His arrival in Attica occurred in a sensational way: Hipparchos, who after Peisistratos’ death had become the tyrant of Athens, together with his brother Hippias, sent a penteconter ship to pick Anacreon up from Samos when the tyrant Polycrates was killed in 522.58 Anacreon, who arrived in Attica probably together with some friends from the Samian court, brought to Athens the flower of Eastern lyrical poetry and, with it, specific aspects of its world and life – not limited to clothing items. The barbitos normally painted on our vases, for example, is Ionian.59 The long-lived poet (he died at 85 around 485 BCE) left a deep mark on Attic society. He became close with the most prominent groups in the city and livened up their meetings, including those led by Critias, as we read in the verses composed by Critias the Younger (fr. 8 Gentili-Prato) towards the end of the fifth century. Anacreon’s memory remained alive in Athenian

 Beazley (1954).  For a catalogue, see Kurtz-Boardman (1986), plus Miller (1999) 230 and n. 27 which should be referred to, along with Price (1990), for an accurate overview of the many different interpretations of these vases.  [Pl.] Hipparch. 228c; cf. [Arist.] Ath. Pol. 18.1.  The invention of the barbitos is attributed to Anacreon in Athen. 4.175e.

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symposia for decades.60 And a statue of him was erected on the Acropolis, next to that of Xanthippos, Pericles’ father.61 The arrival of the famous poet would account for the massive and simultaneous diffusion of showy innovations, especially in terms of clothing, that mark late sixth-century vases compared to earlier depictions of Attic costumes and of naked or half-naked komasts. The Ionian chiton, various forms of Eastern-style headgear, soft ankle boots, earrings, and parasols stand out. Research in last years has shown how these eccentric elements belong to Eastern clothing, and, more precisely, to the Lydian fashion taken up by the Greeks of Ionia. Such clothing was not exclusively female, as it was also worn by men.62 However, because of the ἁβρότης they embodied and their refined and exotic nature, over time these Lydian and Ionian-style clothes were reinterpreted by common Athenians as signs of delicateness and effeminacy. This is precisely the meaning that Aristophanes attributes to them in the Thesmophoriazusae (95–266): Agathon’s costume, made of almost exactly the same items as Anacreon’s (turban, headband, elegant footwear, elaborate chiton and cloak, barbitos), has a double value. It reflects the character’s sexual ambiguity and, at the same time, his claim to rank with poets such as Ibycus, Anacreon, and Alcaeus who, as Agathon himself claims, ‘wore mitres and moved softly in the Ionian fashion’.63 And we should not forget that, out of the three poets mentioned, the only one who actually lived in Athens is Anacreon himself. Nor is there any lack of evidence in the surviving verses by Anacreon: fr. 388 Page = 82 Gentili immediately comes to mind. In the description of Artemon’s transformation from a miserable scoundrel into a chic upstart, the focus is on some details of his ‘look:’ the headgear, the earrings, the ivory parasol, but also the patchy beard of the ‘glorious’ days as a criminal, which is spontaneously contrasted with the ever-present pointed beard of the ‘booners’ in pottery depictions.

 As witnessed by Aristoph. Thesm. 161, fr. 235 K.-A., but also by Av. 1372–1373.  Paus. 1.25.1. For a broad discussion on the identification of this statue, see Schefold (1997) 102–103 and Richter (1984) 85; a different interpretation is favoured by Sismondo Ridgway (1998) and Shapiro (2012).  Kurtz-Boardman (1986).  Aristoph. Thesm. 163; see McIntosh Snyder (1974) and now Medda (2017) 140–141. We should not even overlook Anacreon’s expressions that are isolated from the context yet quite explanatory, such as σαῦλα βαίνειν (fr. 458 Page = 138 Gentili), Λυδοπαθεῖς (fr. 481 Page = 158 Gentili; cf. ἁβρός in fr. 461 Page = 141 Gentili e κορωνὰ βαίνων in fr. 452 Page = 133 Gentili), but also ἁβροβάτας meaning ‘Lydian’ in Bacchyl. 3.48, ‘Persian’ in Aesch. Pers. 1072, or Διονύσου σαῦλαι Bασσαρίδες (fr. 411b Page = 32 Gentili).

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Certainly, the comparison between the ode to Artemon and iconographic material has led to contrasting hypotheses, and even lively polemical exchanges.64 But, specific interpretations aside, the far from generic coincidence between Anacreon’s verses, Artemon’s new look, and Anacreon vases seems undeniable. In short, it would be excessive and misleading to look for absolute uniformity in all ‘Anacreon vases’ in an effort to detect Anacreon’s direct influence. After all, an iconographic model, once established, can either develop independently, in terms of both its formal aspects and historical meaning, or become a cliché. But the question remains of when, why, and how the so-called Anacreontic model originated. It must be noted that this model presents a considerable degree of uniformity in the use of certain specific, characterising, and recurrent elements (which may be featured together or separately), and that it is associated with a well-defined chronological and geographical context. These various elements – from inscribed names to the ἁβροσύνη, from the original clothing to the worship of Dionysus – merge in the person of Anacreon in late archaic Athens. This is their common feature and, in my opinion, also their origin. In the history of the representation of the individual, not only does Anacreon act as a figurative subject, but he also directly contributes to it through his verses. In Anacreon’s description, the figure of Artemon acquires an individuality of its own. Certainly, the somatic features are not yet dominant, but the description of the man, especially in his period as a scoundrel, is individualised and detailed: patchy beard and hair, a back striped with whip marks, a strange piece of headgear, earrings, and so on. A subject very dear to Anacreon is boys – ‘his gods’, as he himself defines them in an anecdote.65 Some names have survived: Bathyllos, Megistes, Smerdis, and Cleobulos. Scant fragments tell us something about them and their beauty. As in the previous tradition, beauty does not seem to be separate from moral worth.66 Hair and eyes (and thighs) stand out as physical traits, as in earlier poetry; and the surviving descriptions of these body parts are all quite similar, which is to say rather generic. However, despite the very limited number of surviving texts, there seems to be a tendency towards personal description, for example with regard to the virginal gaze of the boy in fr. 360 Page = 15 Gentili. Maximus of Tyre assures us that Anacreon’s odes were full of Cleobulos’ eyes, Bathyllos’ flourishing youth, and Smerdis’ hair.67 It is fair to suppose that some personal details were provided, even though, unfortunately, given the dearth of    

See Slater (1978), Davies (1981), Brown (1983), and Bernsdorff (2020) 582–586. Schol. ad Pind. Isthm. 2.1b; cf. Anacreon fr. 402c Page = 22 Gentili. ‘In love, what is beautiful is what is fair’ (fr. 402b Page = 120 Gentili). Max. Tyr. 18.9, 233 Hobein. Famous are the ‘Thracian curls’ of Smerdis in AP 7.25.

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evidence, we cannot say to what extent the beauty found in Anacreon’s verses was descriptive and individual, and to what extent it was instead – as Pasquali said – traditional. Nor should we overlook the fact that Anacreon’s songs were not intended to describe these young people for a distant audience or to preserve their physiognomic memory, but were rather intended to enliven, light up, and enrich real symposia in the presence of an audience that knew and often interacted with the protagonists in the flesh. These people would intervisually combine images and words into a whole that was evoked by the very first verses of any poem sung. Convivial occasions of the same sort also served as the background for lively descriptions of women, presumably hetairai, centred on specific personal traits often expressed by talking names – for we should not forget that in verbal portraits names have a representational, ‘iconic’ power.68 Attention to realistic aspects seems to emerge from the few surviving fragments of Anacreon’s poetry devoted to women, in which the poet amuses himself by sketching out different human characters: ‘everyday life types individualised in their human weaknesses, in the exercising of their trade or in their social condition’, but also in some characteristic personal aspects, including physical ones.69 The vital background of these paintings is a changing, varied society: merchants, artisans, hetairai, bizarre characters, and parvenus. In Anacreon’s poetry, the realistic description of ‘human comedy’ never leads to sharp and uncompromising class satire, since it is developed using irony and parody, aimed at the new social classes, with fine detachment and disenchantment. What we have is a varied humanity and a highly mimetic poetry, as grasped by Hermogenes, who compared Anacreon to Menander, in whose work we can find ‘talking women, young lovers and butchers, and some others’.70 Most importantly for the purposes of our enquiry, this mimetic art of the poetic word can be compared to the iconography of contemporary Attic vases, especially red-figure ones. From the end of the sixth century, figures began to be represented in a personal way, which made them differ from traditional and  From the girl from Lesbos (fr. 358 Page = 13 Gentili) to the Thracian filly (fr. 417 Page = 78 Gentili) and the noisy Gastrodora (fr. 427.3 Page = 48.3 Gentili), to give just some examples.  Gentili (1958) XVI. Let us think, for instance, of the following cases: the description of the bald Alexis – who is looking for a wife again (fr. 394b Page = 113 Gentili) – where the influence of the hyper-sexual connotation of bald people (especially on vases) is not to be excluded; the farfallone amoroso (fr. 363 Page = 17 Gentili); Targelios, the elegant discus thrower (fr. 364 Page = 119 Gentili); and Strattis, the perfumer in fr. 387 Page = 89 Gentili.  Hermog. Id. 2.3, 323–324 Rabe. Even the realism of Hipponax’s verses was linked to the social ascendency of the artisan and merchant classes, which was made the target of harsh satire by this poet: see Degani (1984) 204.

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paradigmatic types. Everyday life scenes feature characters who display markedly individual physiognomies: bald heads; prominent, flat, snub, aquiline or in any case distinctive noses; frayed or bristly beards; bodies that are not exactly ideal; expressive attitudes (e.g. Fig. 5.4).71 These images are often linked to particular social environments, professional settings, or commercial scenes (e.g. Figs. 5.5 and 5.6).72 The increasing realism is no longer limited to old, barbaric, and semifamous or mythical beings, as had previously been the norm. Athens seemed to offer fertile ground for the development of these lively figurative trends. In the democratic polis, new subjects found a hitherto unknown role and new social visibility. But, during the fifth century, a new figurative order was to emerge in Athens. ‘In late archaic exuberance there were promises of a completely new approach to Greek figurative art, but they were disappointed.’73 The monuments of the fifth century display patterns that reflect little interest in differentiation in an individual sense. This new homogeneity in official representations has been associated with democracy.74 The representation of individuals is seen to conform to prototypes inspired by idealised rather than individual traits with which the polis community can identify: traits that express its unitary values, without any insidious personalistic distinctions. But while this is true, we should not ignore the fact that Attic culture was also pervaded by mimetic tendencies. While, on the one hand, as regards the idealising trend the very first example that comes to mind is the famous statue-portrait (with helmet) of Pericles, which is ‘inconspicuous’ and conforms to a general type devoid of personal details,75 on the other hand we also have the news that Pheidias portrayed himself (bald) and Pericles (‘a beautiful image’) on the shield of the Athena Parthenos: a portrait that, once again, was frowned upon by the public.76 And from the second half of the fifth century BCE, and probably into to the fourth, a personality such as that of the sculptor Demetrius of Alopece emerged. What he was looking for in his representations of individuals was resemblance rather than beauty, so he would also indulge in depicting unpleasant traits.77

 London, British Museum E44.  London, British Museum E86 and Firenze, Museo Archeologico Nazionale 72,732; see De Tommaso (1998) and, most recently, Mitchell (2009) 56–57 with the note by Iozzo (2011) 98 n. 1.  Boardman (1995) 166.  ‘L’eguaglianza figurativa corrisponde all’eguaglianza sociale’: La Rocca (1988) 10.  See Richter (1984) 173–175 and Giuliani (1997) 997.  Plut. Per. 31.3–4: this piece of information cannot be ignored: see Torelli (1979) 447; concerning the public’s reaction, cf. Themistocles and Alcibiades (above, 126–127).  Quint. 12.10.9; Luc. Philopseud. 18; Plin. NH 34.76.

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Fig. 5.4: Red-figure cup, attributed to Onesimos, 500–490 BCE, London, British Museum E44 © The Trustees of the British Museum.

Fig. 5.5: Red-figure kylix, 480–470 BCE, London, British Museum E86 © The Trustees of the British Museum.

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Fig. 5.6: Black-figure pelike, attributed to the circle of Antimenes, 520–500 BCE, Florence, National Archaeological Museum, inv. no. 72732 © National Archaeological Museum of Florence (Direzione regionale Musei della Toscana).

5.6 Theatre masks, caricatures, and portraits The rendering of the body in its most personal and genuine traits, sometimes in disproportionate and irregular ways, is markedly and physiologically developed in caricature.78 In the fifth century BCE, the most popular example of caricature is to be found in Athenian comedy. The main figures of Athenian public life could hardly avoid the dangerous privilege of being cast in a leading role on the comedic stage. Pericles and Cleon, Socrates and Euripides, to name but a few famous names, found themselves in the double and, indeed, intervisual condition of being simultaneously flesh-and-blood members of the audience

 Cf. Keuls (1988).

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and komodoumenoi. The texts show that their voice, clothing, gait, and gestures were an object of mockery and parody. Despite the conventions of ancient drama and its unrealistic nature (at least to modern eyes), the physical and behavioural characteristics of individuals became part of comic mimesis. Within this overall picture, did the face deserve a special place too? Did the actors’ masks reproduce – as the ancient sources claim – the features of the historical characters they played (naturally with deformations and exaggerations)?79 The issue is up for discussion. Here I can only summarise what I believe are the most plausible conclusions. A reasonable and prudent starting point is the recognition of the distinctly conventional nature of ancient theatre and some objective restrictions in the mimetic conformation of the mask. The rigidity of the mask, together with the evident deformation of the eyes and mouth, limited facial expressions and the possibility of defining facial details. The distance of many spectators from the actors would also have made any details of the face difficult to perceive.80 However, while it is right to acknowledge these limitations, it would be too much to infer that it was impossible to characterise a mask in a personal sense. Ancient theatre was a theatre of speech, different from the artistic-mimetic experiences to which we are accustomed and in which the expressive plasticity of the face plays a major role (from modern theatre to the figurative arts, photography, videos, and cinema). But this does not mean that there was no way of identifying individuals on stage. Nor does it mean that, within such a system of recognition, the face did not play any role in such a process. Clearing the analysis from the anachronistic prejudices of our own conventions, i.e. the primacy of facial expression in the representation of a person, also implies doing the opposite, that is doing away with the prejudice according to which, in order to be personal, well-defined in terms of identity, and intelligible, the mask of a historical figure on stage must correspond to a portrait in the modern sense – a portrait true to detail and even with psychological connotations. What I mean is that caricature may have been one of the primary devices in the image personalisation process. Caricature stretches some prominent elements of an individual and makes them even more visible. Unlike the so-called realistic portrait, it is based on the accentuation of one or more characteristics which represent and identify the subject, so as to provide a broad resemblance.

 Schol. ad Aristoph. Eq. 230a; Nub. 146; Ael. VH 2.13; Poll. Onom. 4.143; Platonius de differ. com., ap. Koster (1975) 5.55–65 = Perusino (1989) 36, 69–81 and 61–63; Suid., s.v. ἐξεικασμένος (ε 1693 Adler). The debate on the historical value of these testimonies remains open; for an overview, see Stone (1984) 31–38 and, most recently, Catenacci (2013).  Cf. Sidwell (2009) 68.

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This structure and function are absolutely compatible with those of the comic mask. The caricature mask can amplify distinctive traits which are already known and mocked by citizens; it defines the character and makes him or her clearly recognizable; finally, and most obviously, it is also funny. Hair, beard, exaggerated eyebrows, skin tone, and head shape are the most conspicuous features of the face and, at the same time, the most likely to be recognised by the public in a wide space such as a theatre, while also being easy to reproduce in the form of a mask. Some examples seem to offer solid confirmation of this hypothesis: these range from the thick eyebrows possibly belonging to Cleon81 to the pale and hairless cheeks of effeminate men like Agathon and Cleisthenes in the Thesmophoriazusae, from the yellowish and unhealthy complexion of intellectuals like Chaerephon in the Wasps to the huge head of Pericles which we know for certain was used in various comedies.82 In modern manuals for caricaturists, one of the first lessons is indeed to emphasise the volume and shape of the head. Unsurprisingly, there are few passages from which to get any clear information about this. The mask fulfils its function on stage. It adheres to the body of the actor and his actions: it ‘speaks’ in the theatrical context without the help of any verbal text, except in special situations. Obviously, we must remain cautious. The performance code of comedy and the scarcity of documents make any statement on the subject hypothetical. However, some specific cases and an overall reassessment of the material allow us to infer that ancient comedy also used masks that could refer to the physiognomy of historical people and that, through the exaggerated reproduction of macroscopic features, contributed to recognition and mockery. The ‘portrait’ mask or, better, the caricature mask was one of the tools available to comedic playwrights for their work of mimesis, deformation, and mockery of reality. Like other trends in the individual representation of the person through the fifth century BCE, it contributed to the construction of (stage) identity, as well as to history of the portrait.83

 See Cratinus fr. 228 K.-A. and perhaps Aristoph. Nub. 581–583.  A rich review of comedy passages, in which Pericles’ long, asymmetrical head is mocked, is provided in the third chapter of Plutarch’s The Life of Pericles: Cratinus fr. 258.4 and fr. 118 K.-A.; Teleclides fr. 47 K.-A.; Eupolis fr. 115 K.-A. Again, in Cratinus, a macrocephalous mask probably served as a marker for Pericles in Dionysalexandros: see Revermann (1997) 199 and Imperio (2011) 296–297; above all, see Cratinus fr. 73 K.-A. (ap. Plut. Per. 13.10; cf. 3.4).  As is clear from the case of Socrates: see 8–10 in this volume.

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5.7 Conclusions In the late archaic period, the representation of the individual and the stimuli that would later lead to portraiture would appear to have found fertile ground in the space of interaction between tyrants, poets, and artists. Courts offered a favourable environment marked by the strong personalistic drive of the tyrannos, patronage of the arts, and the search for and experimentation with new modes of artistic expression for propaganda purposes. For decades, the link between politics and portraiture continued to be perceived and acknowledged in an ambiguous way, as is revealed by the cases of Themistocles and Alcibiades (and Pericles and Pheidias) in democratic Athens. A valuable figurative testimony is offered as early as the mid-sixth century BCE by the Amphora of the Swing Painter, which shows the tyrant Peisistratos together with his Lycopodes korynephoroi through a representation that, while not exactly physiognomic, is nonetheless recognisable. Some late archaic evidence leads us to Ionia: let us think of Polycrates’ court and the artist Theodoros of Samos, or of the case of Bupalos, Athenis, and Hipponax. It is between Ionia and Attica, between declining tyranny and rising democracy, that Anacreon’s life unfolded. He seems to have served as a catalyst for such cultural trends. The peculiar traits of Anacreon’s appearance and poetry made him an object of artistic representation (particularly on vases). At the same time, his verses revealed a greater interest – and greater flexibility – in the representation of personal, social, and human reality in all its specific and emerging aspects. Poets and artists contributed, each with his own expressive tools and style, to the development of the representation of the individual and to new forms of representation. In this and other cultural processes they found themselves sharing themes, contexts, and commissions, to the point of becoming the (sometimes polemical and competing) subjects of each other’s representations. Together with political figures, poets seem to be among the earliest objects of representation from a historical and personal perspective; conversely, artists and craftsmen are often mentioned in lyric poets’ verses.84 Interaction occurred between people, but it could also extend to objects. For example, we can only imagine the feedback between songs and vase painting, between Anacreon’s odes and Anacreon vases, which took place in the symposia attended by the poet.

 But, apparently, they are also featured on a famous and talked-about series of red-figure attic vases: see Neer (2002) 87–96.

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In Athens, the representation of the individual further appears to have been influenced by the mimetic genre of theatre, especially through the caricature masks of comedy. This follows upon the impulse that ugliness, understood as an atypical element, gives to the personalisation process of human depiction in ancient Greece. In a way, we might say that while beautiful people all look alike, every ugly person is ugly in his or her own way. If beauty is connected to the proportion and harmony between different components, ugliness lies in those details that break the organic relationship between the various parts and require a unique representation. But, of course, it would be an erroneous simplification to reduce ugliness to the opposite of beauty or to an exception to it: ugliness, in all its various forms (from disharmony and deformity to repugnance and monstrosity), has its own aesthetic autonomy and its own power of attraction and evocation. Besides, an ugly or even disgusting subject, as Aristotle (Poet. 1448b) said, becomes pleasant if it is represented through art. If we look at the history of the visual arts and literature, we realise that the motto of a well-known twentieth-century art collector expresses more than a mere paradox: ‘I only buy what I don’t like.’

Bibliography Akurgal, E. 1986. Neue archaische Skulpturen aus Anatolien. In Archaische und klassische griechische Plastik. Akten des internationalen Kolloquiums vom 22–25 April 1985 in Athen I, ed. H. Kyrieleis, 9–14. Mainz. Barbanera, M. 2018. Figure del corpo nel mondo antico. Perugia. Barthes, R. 2003. La camera chiara. Nota sulla fotografia. Torino (1st ed. Paris 1980). Beazley, J.D. (with L.D. Caskey). 1954. Attic Vase paintings in the Museum of Fine Arts Boston, Part II. Oxford. Bergemann, J. 1991. Pindar. Das Bildnis eines konservativen Dichters. MDAI(A) 106: 157–189. Bernsdorff, H. 2020. Anacreon of Teos. Testimonia and Fragments, Oxford. Bianchi Bandinelli, R. 1968. Portrait. In Enciclopedia dell’Arte Antica VI, 695–738. Roma. Birch, S. 1846. Observations on the Figures of Anacreon and his Dog. Archaeologia 31: 257–264. Boardman, J. 1972. Herakles, Peisistratos and Sons. RA 1: 57–72. Boardman, J. 1995. L’arte greca. Milano (or. ed. London 1964). Böhr, E. 1982. Der Schaukelmaler. Mainz am Rhein. Bonnet, C. 1987. Une statue de Themistocle chez les Pheniciens de Gades. In Stemmata. Mélanges de philologie, d’histoire et d’archéologie grecques offerts à Jules Labarbe, ed. J. Servais, T. Hackens, and B. Servais-Soyez, 259–266. Liège and Louvain-La-Neuve. Brown, C. 1983. From Rags to Riches: Anacreon’s Artemon. Phoenix 37: 1–15. Catenacci, C. 2012. Il tiranno e l’eroe. Storia e mito nella Grecia antica. Roma. Catenacci, C. 2013. Le maschere ‘ritratto’ nella commedia antica. Dioniso 3: 37–59.

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Catenacci, C. 2014a. «Bello» e «valente», «brutto» e «ignobile» nella Grecia arcaica. In L’esilio della bellezza, ed. A. Camerotto and F. Pontani, 45–60. Milano, Udine. Catenacci, C. 2014b. Saffo. Poesia e iconografia. In Donne che contano nella storia greca. Conference Proceedings: Chieti 2–4 maggio 2007, ed. U. Bultrighini and E. Dimauro, 897–935. Lanciano. Catenacci, C. 2023. From Ritual to Indecent Symposion. Contextualising Hipponax. In The Limping Muse: Hipponax the Poet, ed. V. Cazzato and E. Prodi. Cambridge (forthcoming). Corcella, A. 1993. Erodoto. Le Storie: libro IV. Milano. Davies, M. 1981. Artemon Transvestitus? A Query. Mnemosyne 34: 288–299. Degani, E. 1984. Studi su Ipponatte. Bari. De Tommaso, G. 1998. ΜΥΡΟΠΩΛΙΑ. In In memoria di Enrico Paribeni, ed. G. Capecchi, O. Paoletti, C. Cianferoni, A.M. Esposito, and A. Romualdi, vol. 1, 148–152. Roma. Dillon, S. 2006. Ancient Greek Portrait Sculpture. Contexts, Subjects, and Styles. Cambridge. Fittschen, K. 1988. Griechische Porträts. Darmstadt. Gentili, B. 1958. Anacreon. Roma. Gentili, B. 2006. Poesia e pubblico nella Grecia antica. Da Omero al V secolo. Milano. Giuliani, L. 1997. Il ritratto. In I Greci. Storia, Cultura, Arte, Società II.2, ed. S. Settis, 983–1011. Torino. Hedreen, G. 2016. The Image of the Artist in Archaic and Classical Greece. Art, Poetry, and Subjectivity. New York. Hofter, M.R. 2005. Der Intellektuelle der Heroen. Zum Porträt des Pindar. MDAI(A) 120: 211–232. Ildefonse, F. 2009. La personne en Grèce ancienne. Terrain 52: 64–77. (https://journals.open edition.org/terrain/13577) Immerwahr, H.R. 1965. Inscriptions on the Anacreon Krater in Copenhagen. AJA 69: 152–154. Imperio, O. 2011. Satira politica e leggi ad personam nell’archaia: Pericle e il Dionisalessandro di Cratino. In La storia sulla scena. Quello che gli storici antichi non hanno raccontato, ed. A. Beltrametti, 293–316. Roma. Iozzo, M. 2011. Review of Mitchell, A.G. 2009. Greek Vase-painting and the Origins of Visual Humour. New York. RA 1: 97–100. Jaeggi, O. 2008. Die griechischen Porträts. Antike Repräsentation – Moderne Projektion. Berlin. Kaltsas, N. 2006. Athens-Sparta. New York. Keesling, C.M. 2017. Early Greek Portraiture. Monuments and Histories. Cambridge. Keuls, E.C. 1988. The Social Position of Attic Vase Painters and the Birth of Caricature. In Proceedings of the 3rd Symposium on Ancient Greek and Related Pottery: Copenhagen, August 31–September 4, 1987, ed. J. Christiansen and T. Melander, 300–313. Copenhagen. Kleine, J. 1973. Untersuchungen zur Chronologie der attischen Kunst von Peisistratos bis Themistokles. Tübingen. Koster, W.J.W. 1975. Scholia in Aristophanem I, fasc. I A. Göttingen. Kurtz, D.C. and J. Boardman. 1986. Booners. Greek Vases in the J. Paul Getty Museum 3: 35–70. Kyle, D.G. 1987. Athletics in Ancient Athens. Leiden. La Rocca, E. 1988. L’esperimento della perfezione. Arte e società nell’età di Pericle. Milano. Matthiae, P. 2020. I volti del potere. Alle origini del ritratto nell’arte dell’Oriente antico. Torino.

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McIntosh Snyder, J. 1974. Aristophanes’ Agathon as Anacreon. Hermes 102: 244–246. Medda, E. 2017, ‘O saffron robe, to what pass have you brought me!’ Cross-dressing and theatrical illusion in Aristophanes’ Thesmophoriazusae. In TransAntiquity. CrossDressing and Transgender Dynamics in the Ancient World, ed. D. Campanile, F. Carlà-Uhink, and M. Facell, 137–151. London, New York. Metzler, D. 1971. Porträt und Gesellschaft. Über die Entstehung des griechischen Porträts in der Klassik. Münster. Miller, M.C. 1999. Reexamining Transvestism in Archaic and Classical Athens: The Zewadski Stamnos. AJA 103: 223–253. Mitchell, A.G. 2009. Greek Vase-Painting and the Origins of Visual Humour. New York. Momigliano, A. 1974. Lo sviluppo della biografia greca. Torino (or. ed. Cambridge, MA 1971). Musti, D. 1987. Protagonismo e forma politica nella città greca. In Il protagonismo nella storiografia classica, 9–36. Genova. Neer, R.T. 2002. Style and Politics in Athenian Vase-Painting. The craft of Democracy, ca. 530–460 BCE. Cambridge. Pasquali, G. 1940. Omero, il brutto e il ritratto. Critica d’arte 5: 25–35 (= 1994. In Pagine stravaganti di un filologo. Terze pagine stravaganti. Stravaganze quarte e supreme II, ed. C.F. Russo, 99–118. Firenze). Perusino, F. 1989. Platonio. La commedia greca. Urbino. Perusino, F. 1998. I coreuti ‘piedi di lupo’ nella Lisistrata di Aristofane. QUCC 58: 57–67. Picozzi, M.G. 1996. Portrait. In Enciclopedia dell’Arte Antica, 2nd supplement IV, 742–750. Roma. Price, S.D. 1990. Anacreontic Vases Reconsidered. GRBS 31: 133–175. Revermann, M. 1997. Cratinus’ Διονυσαλέξανδρος and the Head of Pericles. JHS 117: 197–200. Richter, G.M.A. 1970. Kouroi. Archaic Greek Youths. A Study of the Development of the Kouros type in Greek Sculpture. London, New York. Richter, G.M.A. 1984. The Portraits of the Greeks (ed. abridged and revised by R.R.R. Smith). Oxford. Santoro Bianchi, S. 2002. Plus est quam quod videatur imago. In Il volto. Ritratti di parole. Conference Proceedings: Università degli Studi di Parma, 27–28 November 2000, ed. R. Rinaldi, 93–101. Milano. Schefold, K. 1997. Bildnisse der antiken Dichter; Redner und Denker. Basel. Schweitzer, B. 1940. Studien zur Entstehung des Porträts bei den Griechen (Berichte über die Verhandlungen der Sächsischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, Philologisch-Historische Klasse 91.4). Leipzig. Shapiro, A. 2012. Re-fashioning Anakreon in Classical Athens. München. Sidwell, K. 2009. Aristophanes the Democrat. The Politics of Satirical Comedy during the Peloponnesian War. New York. Sismondo Ridgway, B. 1998. An Issue of Methodology: Anakreon, Perikles, Xanthippos. AJA 102: 717–738. Slater, W.J. 1978. Artemon and Anacreon. No Text without Context. Phoenix 32: 185–194. Smith, R.R.R. 1990. Late Roman Philosopher Portraits from Aphrodisias. JRS 80: 127–155. Snodgrass, A.M. 1994. Narrazione e allusione nell’arte greca arcaica. In Un’archeologia della Grecia, ed. A.M. Snodgrass, 219–243. Torino (= 2006. Narration and Allusion in Archaic Greek Art. In Archaeology and the Emergence of Greece, ed. A.M. Snodgrass, 381–406. Ithaca, NY). Stone, L.M. 1984. Costume in Aristophanic Poetry. Salem, NH.

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Cecilia Nobili

6 Looking at Athens through the lyric lens Abstract: In the archaic age Athens had a rather different appearance from the one it was gradually to acquire over the course of the fifth century. As some recent studies on Athenian topography have shown, the main civic and religious spaces of the polis were located either on the Acropolis or in the area to the south-east, delimited by the river Ilissos. Located there were the Old Agora (with the city’s most important buildings), the temple of Zeus Olympios, the Delphinion, and the Pythion (the two major shrines of Apollo). Lyric poets, active between the end of the sixth century and the first half of the fifth, provide information on the archaic layout of the city and make implicit references to the monuments located in the Old Agora or on the banks of the Ilissos. Examples will be made particularly concerning the works of Solon and Bacchylides. The aim of this chapter is to detect the intervisual allusions to Athenian public spaces in the works of lyric poets, in order to create a sort of map of late-archaic Athens, highlighting the deep relationship between the poets and the city. Richard Neer and Leslie Kurke open their recent book Pindar, Song, and Space with the following statement: ‘In studying ancient spaces, we hope to carve out a new disciplinary space as well: not an archaeology of lyric – which suggests a search for realia behind literary texts – but a lyric archaeology, that is, a synthesis of archaeological and epigraphic corpora with the reading habits of lyric and art history. [. . .] Our project, then, is to map the dialectical interaction of song, artifacts, and spatiality.’1 Such an approach, which underlines the importance of the relationship between texts, space, material culture, and performance, represents a well-established research topic in the field of Greek lyric studies, as confirmed by the pioneering works of Lucia Athanassaki and the recent contributions by David Fearn, Maria Pavlou, and Vanessa Cazzato and André Lardinois.2 Nonetheless, most of these studies concern Pindar and his visual poetics, owing to the high degree of information his epinician odes contain in this regard.

 Neer and Kurke (2019) 1–3.  Athanassaki (2011), (2012), and (2016), Cazzato and Lardinois (2016), Pavlou (2010a), (2010b), and (2012), and Fearn (2017). https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110795448-007

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My contribution aims to explore the poetics of intervisuality in Solon and Bacchylides, by approaching the topic from a different point of view. I will take the city of Athens as my point of departure, particularly two areas that represented the core of its civic and religious life in the archaic age: the Old Agora and the Ilissos plain. As I will try to demonstrate, Solon and Bacchylides – at a distance of one century from each other – make intervisual allusions to public spaces and buildings located in these areas, revealing their importance for the Athenian audience.

6.1 The layout of Athens in the archaic age The layout of Athens in the archaic age was rather different from the one it was gradually to acquire over the course of the fifth century: the south-eastern area had a major role in the life of the polis. As some recent studies on Athenian topography have shown, in the archaic age the main civic and religious spaces in the polis were located either on the Acropolis or in the area to the south-east delimited by the river Ilissos.3 Before the fortification of the Piraeus at the time of Themistocles and its upgrading to Athens’ main harbour,4 the city’s main port was Phaleros, located south-east of Athens. Therefore, the processional road of the archaic city led from Phaleros to the Acropolis, passing through the Ilissos plain and the Old Agora, which was located to the south-east, at the foot the hill.5 In the sixth century BCE, the wide and fertile Ilissos plain was selected as the new cultic area of the city, besides the Acropolis (which was becoming rather crowded). It witnessed the erection of some major temples connected with new growing cults, such as the temple of Zeus Olympios, the Delphinion, and the

 See Thuc. 2.15.  Thuc. 1.93.3; Paus. 1.1.2; Aristoph. Eq. 815.  The position of the Old Agora was much debated in the past: see Wycherly (1966) and Travlos (19802) 1–2. Its location in the south-eastern area of the polis (between the Olympieion and the Acropolis) was safely established with the publication, in 1980, of a stele concerning the cult of Aglauros, which made it possible to associate this cult with a cave on the south-eastern slopes of the Acropolis (Dontas [1983]). Since Pausanias attests to the fact that the Aglaurion was close to the Old Agora, its most probable location seems to be in the area now surrounding the church of the Ag. Anargiroi and delimited by Hadrian’s Arch. See Robertson (1986) 157–168 and (1998), Lippolis (1995), Papadopoulos (1996), Longo (2011), Martin-McAuliffe and Papadopoulos (2012), Neer and Kurke (2014) 550–561 and (2019) 139–146, and Di Cesare (2015) 87–95.

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Pythion (the last two being Apollo’s most important shrines), in addition to several other cult sites still visible in Pausanias’ time.6 Thucydides (2.15.3–4) himself recalls that the most ancient temples of Athens stood in this area: τὸ δὲ πρὸ τοῦ ἡ ἀκρόπολις ἡ νῦν οὖσα πόλις ἦν, καὶ τὸ ὑπ’ αὐτὴν πρὸς νότον μάλιστα τετραμμένον. τεκμήριον δέ· τὰ γὰρ ἱερὰ ἐν αὐτῇ τῇ ἀκροπόλει καὶ ἄλλων θεῶν ἐστὶ καὶ τὰ ἔξω πρὸς τοῦτο τὸ μέρος τῆς πόλεως μᾶλλον ἵδρυται, τό τε τοῦ Διὸς τοῦ Ὀλυμπίου καὶ τὸ Πύθιον καὶ τὸ τῆς Γῆς καὶ τὸ ἐν Λίμναις Διονύσου, ᾧ τὰ ἀρχαιότατα Διονύσια τῇ δωδεκάτῃ ποιεῖται ἐν μηνὶ Ἀνθεστηριῶνι, ὥσπερ καὶ οἱ ἀπ’ Ἀθηναίων Ἴωνες ἔτι καὶ νῦν νομίζουσιν. Ἵδρυται δὲ καὶ ἄλλα ἱερὰ ταύτῃ ἀρχαῖα. Before this time the city was that which is now the Acropolis, and the part which is to the south of it. And this is the proof: the temples (of Athena) and of the other gods are either set in the citadel itself or, if located outside, are in that quarter, as in the case of the temples of Olympian Zeus, Pythian Apollo, Ge, and Dionysus en Limnai (in honour of whom the old Dionysia were celebrated on the twelfth day of the month Athesterion, as the Ionians – who are derived from Athens – still celebrate them), besides other ancient temples situated in the same part. (transl. T. Hobbes)

The Old Agora – although no remains of it have been detected or excavated – housed buildings connected to the civic institutions, such as the Prytaneion, and some temples devoted to the cults of those gods or heroes who were most closely associated with the civic and democratic spirit of the city, like the Theseion or the Anakeion.7 The Theseion was erected by Cimon in 475 BCE as the resting place for Theseus’ bones, which he himself had carried back to Athens from Skiros. The walls were decorated with frescoes by the famous painter Mikon, depicting episodes from Theseus’ life, such as the Amazonomachy, the battle between the Lapiths and Centaurs, and Theseus’ dive into Poseidon’s halls – all themes that, as we shall see, served an important political function for the Athenian state.8 The Anakeion was a meeting place for the Athenian hippeis and also hosted the assemblies of the armed demos; its main renovation was also due to Cimon, who intended to confirm Athens’ alliance with Sparta by paying homage to the Dioscuri, patrons of the Doric city and leaders of the Spartan army.9

 On this area, see Marchiandi (2011a).  Robertson (1986) 159–168 and Di Cesare (2015) 87–92. The reconstruction of the Old Agora is mainly based on Paus. 1.17.1–1.18.3, but Dickenson (2015) argues that Pausanias’ description refers to the Roman Agora.  Barron (1972), Castriota (1992) 33–63, and Di Cesare (2011) and (2015) 77–105.  Di Cesare (2015) 90, 106–115.

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Over the course of the fifth century, the transformation of the Piraeus into Athens’ main harbour and the erection and embellishment of the classical Agora in the north-western part of the city brought about a massive new development of this area and a radical change of topographical perspective: the Old Agora was gradually abandoned and some of its monuments (such as the Altar of the Twelve Gods10) were transferred to the New Agora. As Papadopoulos notes, ‘it is therefore clear that there was a major shift of focus from the general area to the east or southeast of the citadel, towards the northwest in historical times’.11 The area on the south-eastern slopes of the Acropolis thus lost its primacy. Nonetheless, although the buildings on the Ilissos plain became decentralised and far removed from the beating heart of Athens, they were long preserved as memories of the most ancient history of the city. In the classical age, the Ilissos plain became a posh residential area, where some of the most illustrious Athenians lived (such as Charmides, in whose house Alcibiades mutilated the herms, or the orator Epicrates).12

6.2 Solon: places of worship and civic institutions It comes as no surprise that the lyric poets, active between the end of the sixth century and the first half of the fifth, attest to the archaic layout of the city and make implicit references to the monuments located on the Acropolis, in the Old Agora or on the banks of the Ilissos. The intervisual references that lyric texts include are strictly related to the performance context that can be reconstructed for them and represent a sort of ideal backdrop to which the poet and the performers direct the audience’s attention. So, for example, Neer and Kurke have connected the performance of Pindar’s dithyramb 75a S.-M. to the Dionysia or the Anthesteria, which took place in the archaic Agora; unsurprisingly, the fragment evokes cults that were practiced in the temples located in the southeastern area of the city, thus representing an ideal procession of the chorus from the Old Agora to the Ilissos plain.13

 Neer and Kurke (2014) 539–550 and (2019) 134–139.  Papadopoulos (1996) 109–112.  See And. 1.16; Plat. Phaedr. 227b. The banks of the Ilissos also represent the setting of Plato’s Phaedrus; on the poetics of landscape in this dialogue, see Nelson (2000) and Capra (2014) 16–23, 121–147.  Neer and Kurke (2014), now in Neer and Kurke (2019) 123–158.

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Without forgetting the Acropolis, which represents a constant point of reference for Athenian authors across the ages, I will now begin to draw an intervisual map of Athenian lyric poetry starting from the location that best embodies the civic life of the late archaic polis, namely the Old Agora. It is to this place that Solon is said to have rushed when the Athenians decided to break off the war for the conquest of Salamis; and it is here, according to Plutarch, that the lawgiver performed his Salamis (frr. 1–3 W.2) before the assembled crowd of citizens, in order to persuade them to resume the war.14 ἐλεγεῖα δὲ κρύφα συνθεὶς καὶ μελετήσας ὥστε λέγειν ἀπὸ στόματος, ἐξεπήδησεν εἰς τὴν ἀγορὰν ἄφνω, πιλίδιον περιθέμενος. ὄχλου δὲ πολλοῦ συνδραμόντος, ἀναβὰς ἐπὶ τὸν τοῦ κήρυκος λίθον, ἐν ᾠδῇ διεξῆλθε τὴν ἐλεγείαν, ἧς ἐστιν ἀρχή· αὐτὸς κῆρυξ ἦλθον ἀφ᾿ ἱμερτῆς Σαλαμῖνος, κόσμον ἐπέων †ᾠδὴν ἀντ’ ἀγορῆς θέμενος. (Solon fr. 1 W.2) τοῦτο τὸ ποίημα Σαλαμὶς ἐπιγέγραπται καὶ στίχων ἑκατόν ἐστι χαριέντως πάνυ πεποιημένων. And having composed some elegiacs in secret and having practiced so he could perform them from memory, he bounded into the agora very suddenly, wearing a pilidion on his head, and when a huge crowd had gathered, he leapt up on the herald’s stone, and sang the elegy of which this is the beginning: ‘A herald I come from lovely Salamis composing a song, a marshalling of words, instead of a speech’. This poem is entitled Salamis, and it is composed of 100 very delightfully written lines. (Plut. Sol. 8.2; transl. E. Irwin)

Plutarch, like Diogenes Laertius, affirms that Solon performed his elegy in the Athenian agora.15 Nevertheless, the truthfulness of this statement has been questioned by scholars: although public elegy is a well-attested mode of performance, it was generally meant for festivals, or other religious occasions.16 The busy agora of a town hardly seems like an adequate context for the performance of an elegy such as the Salamis, which urged aristocratic youths to take up arms and re-conquer the island. The Salamis must have been performed at a symposium; however, as Noussia has cleverly argued, ‘Solon may have staged

 See also Demosth. 19.254–255; Diog. Laert. 1.45–46.  Diog. Laert. 1.46 οὗτος μαίνεσθαι προσποιησάμενος καὶ στεφανωσάμενος εἰσέπαισεν εἰς τὴν ἀγοράν.  Bowie (1986) 18–21, Bartol (1993) 54–55, and Noussia-Fantuzzi (2010) 203–207. Plutarch reports that the νέοι had abandoned their arms: Solon’s exhortations were primarily aimed at them. On the relation between the Salamis and martial elegy, see Irwin (2006) 40–44. Tedeschi (1982) and Aloni (2009a) 172–173 instead posit a public occasion for the performance of the Salamis.

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a performance that was indeed sympotic, but which was based upon the pretence of a semi-theatrical recitation, where he enacted the role of a herald as if he were giving a speech before the assembly [. . .]. When put into these terms, all these references to the situations, objects and roles of the ἀγορά, which were understood by the ancients as allusions to a concrete assembly, would have been interpreted as metaphors pointing to a ruse which is itself similar to the “verbal scenography” that the tragic poets provided for their audiences.’17 In other words, before a sympotic audience Solon performed an elegy in which he played the role (or wore the mask) of a herald summoning citizens to war and making intervisual allusions to the public square as the place where heralds climbed on the λίθος18 (pedestal) and addressed the crowd.19 To achieve this effect, Solon may have really worn a pilidion, the most characteristic heraldic garment. Since Solon presents himself as a herald who has arrived in the city square from Salamis (fr. 1.1 W.2), it is reasonable to argue that Plutarch also derived his allusion to the λίθος from the text of the elegy. The expression ἀντ’ ἀγορῆς at l. 2 means ‘instead of a speech’, and is intended to justify the ‘transgressive’20 mode of performance: not the kind of prose speech normally uttered by a herald, but an ἐπέων ᾠδή conveyed in poetic fashion. The expression, however, also evokes the agora where heralds’ speeches were normally delivered and marks a second level of transgression:21 the place for the performance is not the public square but the symposium, which is a more suitable setting for the performance of an ἐπέων ᾠδή. Another point of contrast raised by Plutarch (but possibly drawn from the elegy itself) concerns the πολὺς ὄχλος that constitutes Solon’s audience, as  Noussia (2001) 225–229 and Noussia-Fantuzzi (2010) 205. See also Stehle (1997) 63 and Mülke (2002) 78–79, who underlines the analogies with Archil. fr. 1 W.2 and Theogn. 769, where the poets present themselves as ἄγγελοι.  The λίθος also served as the place where archons swore their oath (Plut. Sol. 25.2) and, due to its importance for Athenian democracy, it was later transported to the classical Agora: it was laid before the Stoa Basileios, where it is still visible nowadays. See Shear (1994). I wish to thank Matteo Cadario for this (and other) bibliographical suggestions.  This is in line with the general tendency of archaic poets to use the device of the persona loquens, thus impersonating characters other than themselves (Archil. fr. 19 W.2). Archaic symposia may have been rather ‘spectacular’ from this point of view, and may have offered mimetic performances that anticipated drama. See Puppini (1991). On the Odyssean character that Solon also plays here, see Noussia-Fantuzzi (2010) 203–213.  I borrow the term from Irwine (2006), who explores how Solon transgresses the norms of martial elegy (esp. 40 for the Salamis).  Noussia-Fantuzzi (2010) 212–213 thinks that the expression may also be a variant of the Homeric καὶ τότ᾿ ἐγὼν ἀγορὴν θέμενος μετὰ πᾶσιν ἔειπον (Od. 9.171, 10.188, 12.319), where ἀγορή means ‘assembly’.

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opposed to the aristocratic élites that normally attended symposia. However, Solon’s symposia may have been rather different from the aristocratic gatherings normally associated with poets such as Alcaeus or Theognis. Owing to the considerable impact of Solon’s elegies, so deeply connected with his activity as a lawgiver and rooted in the dynamics of civic institutions, Vetta has advanced the hypothesis that they were meant for a larger audience and were performed at the semi-public symposia that took place in the Athenian Prytaneion.22 The Prytaneion had stood in the Old Agora since very ancient times (Thucydides 2.15.2 attributed it to Theseus) and housed the communal fireplace of the city, dedicated to the goddess Hestia.23 Around the fireplace, communal banquets took place attended by the magistrates, the Prytaneis, and by outstanding citizens, who were awarded the honour of ἐν δημοσίῳ σίτησις, for special merits.24 Some of the laws established by Solon laid down precise rules for the attribution of the sitesis (which he renamed παρασίτησις) and, in general, for the organising of communal banquets in the Prytaneion.25 If Solon’s Salamis was actually performed during these communal banquets, any allusion to the agora – even a negative one, as in this case – would have been meaningful for the audience, since the whole square, including the herald’s pedestal, was visible from the dining room and thus represented the perfect background for a quasi-dramatic performance in the agora. Some of Solon’s laws were inscribed on the so-called axones, which were wooden tablets (or writing media of a different shape), and on kyrbeis (bronze tablets): according to our sources, the axones were stored in the Prytaneion and the kyrbeis in the Stoa Basileios, but it is unclear whether they originally stood there or were moved from the Acropolis at the time of Ephialtes.26 However, even if in Solon’s day they were kept elsewhere, the Prytaneion was perceived

 Vetta (1996). Aloni (2009b) suggests a more nuanced division between private and public performance, arguing that some forms of semi-public performance may have existed.  On the Athenian Prytaneion, see Camp (1946) 27, Miller (1978) 4–66, Robertson (1998) 298–299, Schmalz (2006), and Di Cesare (2015) 87–90.  Miller (1978) 4–13 and Schmitt-Pantel (1992) 95–99, 145–155.  See Plut. Sol. 24.4; Schmitt-Pantel (1992) 97–99, Ruschenbusch (2010) 154–155, and Leão and Rhodes (2015) 143–144.  See Plut. Sol. 25.1–3. On the axones and kyrbeis, see Stroud (1979), Robertson (1986), Noussia-Fantuzzi (2010) 20 n. 6, Davis (2011), and Leão and Rhodes (2015) 5–9. On the possible moving of these objects at the time of Ephialtes (as testified by Anaxim. Lamp. FGrHist 72 F 13, who nonetheless says that the axones were moved to the Bouleuterion, not the Prytaneion, as most sources report), see Stroud (1979) 42–44 and Leão and Rhodes (2015) 7–8. Robertson (1986) 153–168 correctly notes that tablets inscribed with laws concerning the administration of the polis were better suited to the place where the archons applied such laws, i.e. the Prytaneion, not the temples of the Acropolis.

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as one of the places most closely associated with Solon’s laws and poems. Hence, we may argue that when in his elegies Solon talked about banquets and regulations connected with their organization, he was actually making intervisual references to the Prytaneion, where some of his elegies were performed. One example is Solon’s famous Eunomia (fr. 4 W.2). As several critics have noted, the best setting for the performance of this elegy seems to be the symposium:27 after all, the city itself is compared to a banquet, owing to the order and correct regulation that both require; the banquet becomes a sort of microcosm of the polis.28 This is evident from ll. 9–10, where Solon decries those arrogant citizens who, because of their greed, cannot enjoy the pleasure of a quiet banquet. οὐ γὰρ ἐπίστανται κατέχειν κόρον οὐδὲ παρούσας εὐφροσύνας κοσμεῖν δαιτὸς ἐν ἡσυχίῃ. For they do not know how to restrain their excess, nor how to maintain with order the present festivities of the feast in peace. (transl. E. Irwin)

Kosmos is the keyword employed here and it expresses Solon’s idea of a banquet: a δαίς governed by precise rules, which lead all the attendants to happiness and pleasure. This is the very kosmos that governs Solon’s laws and regulates the cooperation between citizens in a well-governed city, as his Eunomia aims to explain. This suggests that, besides the sympotic setting which the elegy clearly implies, such far-reaching interest in the harmonious organization of the life of the polis seems to be directed to a wider audience than the aristocratic group of hetairoi that constituted Athenian sympotic clubs.29 As for the Salamis, the best context for the performance of this ode may thus have been the communal banquets hosted in the Prytaneion. The term δαίς does not imply a standard symposium, as it normally refers to the public meals that took place after a sacrifice, where each of the members received an equal share of meat, as regulated, again, by a principle of justice.30

 Tedeschi (1982), Schmitt-Pantel (1992) 37–38, Melissano (1994), Vetta (1996) 208, Noussia (2001) 241–243 and Noussia-Fantuzzi (2010) 231–232, and Caciagli (2017) and (2018) 128–130.  On this topos applied to other poets such as Theognis and Aristophanes, see Levine (1985).  See Irwin (2006) 69–72, esp. 70: ‘The poem at once enjoins its audiences to identify with the entire citizenry at their symposia, and directs their attention beyond the present symposium, inscribing in the poem the entire citizen body as the audience for its Eunomia.’  Nagy (1979) 127–128 and (1988), and Lissarrague and Schmitt Pantel (1988).

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In addition, at l. 22 Solon decries the private gatherings, organised by aristocratic parties (ἄστυ τρύχεται ἐν συνόδοις τοῖς ἀδικέουσι φίλαις31), which he envisages as likely hotbeds of civic unrest and dangerous alliances. The dangers deriving from aristocratic clubs – hetaireia – which used symposia to hatch subversive plots, could be faced, in Solon’s view, by adopting a positive model of communal dining, based on an inclusive admission policy, such as that governing the communal banquets held in the Prytaneion. Indeed, as Plutarch (Sol. 24) records, Solon’s reform also touched upon the common meals held in the Prytaneion, where he imposed the same rules of kosmos and harmonious cooperation meant to govern the polis. Ἴδιον δὲ τοῦ Σόλωνος καὶ τὸ περὶ τῆς ἐν δημοσίῳ σιτήσεως, ὅπερ αὐτὸς παρασιτεῖν κέκληκε. τὸν γὰρ αὐτὸν οὐκ ἐᾷ σιτεῖσθαι πολλάκις, ἐὰν δ’ ᾧ καθήκει μὴ βούληται, κολάζει, τὸ μὲν ἡγούμενος πλεονεξίαν, τὸ δ’ ὑπεροψίαν τῶν κοινῶν. Solon also proposed the law about public meals, which he called ‘attendance to the common banquet’. Indeed, he did not allow the same person to attend a banquet frequently, and punished those who did not want to participate, because he regarded the former as a form of arrogance, and the latter as a form of disdain towards the community. (transl. E. Irwin)

Apparently, the unregulated attendance of common meals was a cause of disorder and strife: the most arrogant had unlimited access to them (and were accused of πλεονεξία), whereas others disregarded them and were accused of snobbishness (ὑπεροψία). Solon’s regulations were meant to ensure that all those who had a right to the παρασίτησις could attend the meals with the same regular frequency.32 The same principles characterise Solon’s work as a lawgiver and stand at the basis of his Eunomia, as he declares at ll. 32–39, where he points an accusing finger at those who are arrogant, greedy, and haughty. Some other laws by Solon were specifically intended to regulate sacrifices,33 and can thus be associated with those public banquets that took place in the Prytaneion after the great sacrifices at festivals such as the Panathenaia or the Bouphonia. According to Athenaeos, Solon also prescribed that a μᾶζα (barley cake) should be offered to those eating in the Prytaneion, with the addition of an ἄρτος

 For the meaning of σύνοδος as a sympotic meeting of aristocrats, see Plat. Theaet. 173, Noussia-Fantuzzi (2010) 251, and Caciagli (2017) 299–301 and (2018) 130–133.  See Leão and Rhodes (2015) 144.  Plut. Sol. 23, 25.3. See Ruschenbusch (2010) 152–154 and Leão and Rhodes (2015) 139–144.

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(wheat loaf) during festivals.34 This confirms that Solon’s regulations also concerned the regulation of common meals at the Prytaneion. We may therefore advance the hypothesis that even some of Solon’s elegies containing prescriptions about banquets and foods (frr. 38, 39, 40 W.2) referred to the same occasions, rather than to aristocratic private symposia.35 On this basis, the allusion to the dais in the Eunomia bears such strong political and ideological connotations and connections with Solon’s reform that we may argue that the audience understood it as an intervisual reference to the Prytaneion and to the common meals it hosted. The Eunomia opens with an invocation to Pallas Athena and Zeus for protection, which seems to allude to the two most important cult sites in Solon’s time (ll. 1–4).36 ἡμετέρη δὲ πόλις κατὰ μὲν Διὸς οὔποτ’ ὀλεῖται αἶσαν καὶ μακάρων θεῶν φρένας ἀθανάτων· τοίη γὰρ μεγάθυμος ἐπίσκοπος ὀβριμοπάτρη Παλλὰς Ἀθηναίη χεῖρας ὕπερθεν ἔχει. Our city will never perish by the dispensation of Zeus or the intentions of the blessed gods, who are immortal. For such a stout-hearted guardian, daughter of a mighty father, Pallas Athena, holds her hands over it in protection. (transl. E. Irwin)

The mention of Athena clearly alludes to the cult of Athena Polias (protector of the city) practiced on the Acropolis from a very early age.37 An original archaic temple was probably built in the seventh century BCE and underwent later restorations, until the final one made by the Pesisitratids around 520 BCE, which is to be connected with the reform of the Panathenaia.38 As Herington has noted, Solon was the first to introduce the so-called Solonian Athena, which reflects Athena’s cult

 Athen. 4.137e. See Ruschenbusch (2010) 155, Leão and Rhodes (2015) 144. Aristoph. Eq. 281–284 confirms that meals at the Prytaneion were rather austere until the age of Pericles.  Nevertheless, the reference to the pleasures of love and sex implied by frr. 25 and 26 W.2 better suits the standard aristocratic symposium.  Such an allusion is overlooked by Shapiro (1996) 128: ‘The poetry itself [of Solon] is almost doggedly secular in its topical concerns and cannot be adduced as concrete evidence of a single cult in Athens.’ Nonetheless, Shapiro fails to acknowledge that Solon’s poetry is deeply embedded in the Athenian context, with its socio-economic dynamics and – unavoidably – its religious dimension.  See Il. 2.546–551; Od. 7.80–81; Thuc. 1.126, 2.15.3.  See Herington (1955), Shapiro (1989) 18–21, Robertson (1996) 27–37, Angiolillo (1997) 33–66, and Monaco (2010).

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on the Acropolis and embodies a typical Athenian idea of the goddess, as Zeus’ favourite daughter and the protectress of the city.39 In Athenian mythology, Zeus is strictly connected to Athena. Their juxtaposition at the beginning of the Eunomia reflects the joint cults that these deities received in Athens,40 exemplified in the age of Solon by the two major temples of the city: the temple of Athena Polias on the Acropolis and that of Olympian Zeus on the Ilissos plain. Zeus is invoked in the Eunomia as a guarantor of justice, as in Homer and Hesiod’s Theogony; nonetheless, in Solon’s Elegy to the Muses (fr. 13 W.2) he is more specifically characterised as Olympian Zeus. The poem opens with an invocation to the Muses, the daughters of Mnemosyne and Olympian Zeus, who will grant Solon good fame, prosperity, and justly acquired wealth. Μνημοσύνης καὶ Ζηνὸς Ὀλυμπίου ἀγλαὰ τέκνα, Μοῦσαι Πιερίδες, κλῦτέ μοι εὐχομένῳ. Bright daughters of Mnemosyne and Olympian Zeus, Muses from Pieria, heed my prayers. (transl. E. Irwin)

However, in the following verses Zeus becomes the protagonist of the elegy: his will controls human fate and he punishes those who do not respect his laws. According to Plutarch (Sol. 3.5) Solon’s laws also opened with an invocation to Zeus, as a guarantor of the authoritativeness which these laws were to enjoy in the future (fr. 31 W.2). It is not inappropriate to connect the importance of Olympian Zeus in Solon’s works with the development of his cult in Athens in the same period and, in particular, with the erection of the great temple of Olympian Zeus on the Ilissos plain. The foundations of the first temple, dating back to the archaic age, show that the unit of measurement used to build it was the Attic foot, introduced by Solon’s reforms.41 The age of Solon must thus be considered the terminus post quem for the construction of a monumental temple in Zeus’ honour and, owing to the importance of this god in Solon’s poetry, there are good reasons to argue that the building was commissioned by the lawgiver himself.42 His project was later carried on

 Herington (1963) and Parker (2005) 395–396.  On the Acropolis there was a temple of Zeus Polieus (like Athena Polias), whereas in the classical Agora Zeus Boulaios was worshipped with Athena Boulaia, and Zeus Phratrios with Athena Phratria. The two gods were also juxtaposed in several ceramic depictions. See Shapiro (1989) 112–117.  Tölle-Kastenbein (1994) 133–136. Thuc. 2.15.4 attests that the temple of Olympian Zeus was one of the most ancient in the area.  Santaniello (2011).

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by the Peisistratids, who built the second – unfinished – temple upon Solon’s foundations.43 As for the temple of Athena, the Peisistratids expanded the most important cult sites in Athens, but a few decades earlier Solon had already begun to establish the fundamental cults of archaic and classical Athens from both an ideological and material point of view.44 To sum up, two of the Solonian elegies known to us would appear to be dedicated to the enlarged audience of the communal meals that took place in the Athenian Prytaneion: the Salamis and the Eunomia. Their content is strictly connected with Athenian politics and society and it is no wonder that they seem to make intervisual references to Athenian public spaces: the Οld Agora, with its most important buildings, starting from the Prytaneion; the Acropolis, with the archaic temple of Athena Polias, who protected the city from the top of the hill, by laying her hands upon the city (as Solon recites); and the old cultic area of the Ilissos plain, with the newly built temple of Olympian Zeus.

6.3 Bacchylides: Theseus’ places The Acropolis, the Old Agora, and the Ilissos plain continued to attract the interest of lyric poets in the following years, not least because of the new buildings erected in the late sixth and early fifth centuries: one century after Solon we detect the same attention towards these areas and their public buildings in Bacchylides’ dithyrambs for the Athenians. Bacchylides offers one of the last testimonies on the old layout of the city, still centred on the south-eastern axis represented by the Old Agora: the building of the New Agora – the so-called Kerameikos Agora – over the course of the fifth century was to change the face of Athens forever and shift the interest of authors and poets towards the new areas. Bacchylides’ allusion to monuments and buildings located in the Old Agora and in the Ilissos area is detectable in the pair of dithyrambs dedicated to Theseus. The first, 17 in Maehler’s edition, was meant for a performance by a chorus of Keians in Delos, but presents such a strong Athenian character that most critics have argued that it was commissioned by the Keians as a sort of homage

 On the temple built by Peisistratos or his sons, see Shapiro (1989) 112–113.  Solon is credited as the builder of other temples in Athens: those of Ares (Sol. 9.4) and Aphrodite Pandemos (Athen. 13.569d, Harpokrat. s.v. Pandemos Aphrodite).

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to Athens in the years of the Athenian empire.45 An allied polis, seeking to flatter Athens because of her political and maritime power, entrusted a Panhellenic poet with the composition of a poem dealing with a specifically Athenian myth, namely Theseus’ underwater journey to Poseidon’s palace: the Delian audience was composed either of Athenians or members of allied poleis who were expected to appreciate the ‘Athenian tone’ of the myth. This makes sense within the context of the first years of the Athenian Empire, when Athens’ pressure on allied cities was still moderate and the treasury of the League was still at Delos, which is why Bacchylides’ dithyrambs are usually dated to 470 BCE. Bacchylides narrates how Theseus, on his journey to Athens with the fourteen Athenian youths destined for the Minotaur, was challenged by Minos to prove his descent from Poseidon. Theseus thus dived into the sea and was carried by the dolphins to the palace of his divine father Poseidon, where Amphitrite offered him a purple cloak and a garland. Although the myth of the Cretan journey had been very popular since the early archaic age,46 this particular episode of the dive is not attested in previous literary sources, nor does it seem to have enjoyed any popularity after Bacchylides.47 One exception is represented by the iconography on pottery, where the motif first appears and where it enjoyed some success in the first two decades of the fifth century.48 The first testimony is represented by Euphronios’ cup, painted by Onesimos (and dating from around 500 to 490 BCE),49 where the encounter between Theseus and Amphitrite is depicted in the central tondo; more testimonies are to be found from the following years, especially between

 See Francis (1990) 53–66, Calame (1990) 424–444 and (2009a), Van Oeveren (1999), Fearn (2007) 242–256, (2011) 207–217, and (2013), Kowalzig (2007) 89–94, Wilson (2007), and Athanassaki (2009) 294–298.  See Il. 1.265, 3.144; Od. 11.321–325, 631; Hes. Theog. 947–949; fr. 298 M.-W. For the presence of Theseus in epos, see Neils (1987) 6–8, Walker (1995) 15–20, Ieranò (2000), and Cingano (2007) and (2017). The Cretan journey and the Amazonomachy were also narrated by Simonides in a poem about Theseus (frr. 243, 243, 287 Poltera): see Nobili (2020). Nonetheless, apart from these isolated testimonies, the hypothesis of the existence of a Theseis in the archaic age (supposed by Herter [1973] 1046) has now generally been discarded: see Neils (1987) 11–12 and Walker (1995) 38–39. Cingano (2007) and (2017) offers the most complete discussion of this topic.  The sole exception is represented by the Crater of Bologna (Museo civico 303), dated to around 420 BCE. See Jebb (1905) 226–227, Froning (1971) 44–49, and Zimmermann (1992) 93.  Apart from a few episodes concerning the Cretan voyage and Helen’s abduction, before the fifth century BCE Theseus’ adventures were a more popular subject in painting, as the extensive series of so-called Cyclic vases shows. See Brommer (1982), Neils (1987), and Shapiro (1994) 100–108. For a detailed discussion of these topics, see my previous article Nobili (2018).  Louvre G 104.

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480 and 470.50 This concentration is due to the fact that in 475 BCE Cimon brought Theseus’ bones to Athens from Skiros and ordered the erection of a great new temple to preserve them.51 The new Theseion was built in the Old Agora (and probably replaced an earlier and smaller temple). Its walls were painted with frescoes by Mikon, which, as Pausanias attests (1.17.3), represented episodes from the life of Theseus such as the Amazonomachy, the fight between Lapiths and Centaurs, and – in accordance with an artistic tendency of the same years – Theseus’ dive down to Poseidon’s underwater palace.52 The new Theseion embodied the ideological power that the figure of Theseus was acquiring in Athens in the first decades of the fifth century. Opposed to the Dorian Heracles (who had been adopted as a model and protector by Peisistratos), Theseus in those years became the champion and paradigm of Athenian democracy, while also exemplifying the ambitions of its political leaders.53 In particular, as has now been clarified, Theseus’ dive to the bottom of the sea was intended to present him as the son of Poseidon (in opposition to his mortal father Aegeus), and to confirm Athens’ acquisition of a leading role in the Aegean Sea – a major goal in the years of the Delian League.54 Painters’ interest in this motif and the choice of it for the decoration of Theseus’ main temple in Athens thus reflect a clear political view, also shared by Bacchylides and his Keian patrons in dithyramb 17. While we cannot infer the exact date of the poem, the iconographic tradition concerning the episode of Theseus’ dive seems to predate it, at least in its first known exemplar, the Onesimos cup. There is no need to suppose that the painters depended on the poet: as recent studies have shown, both forms of art had independent sources of inspiration;55 hence, it is illogical to posit – as Maehler does – an unrealistically early date for Bacchylides’ poem, for the sole purpose of explaining Onesimos’ dependence on him.56

 E.g. Syriskos’ Crater (Cab. Med. 418); Harvard Crater (A. Sackler Mus. 1960.339); Copenhagen Pelike (Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek 2695); Briseid Painter’s Cup at the Metropolitan Museum of New York (MMA 53.11.4). For a complete survey, see Servadei (2005) 84–91.  Plut. Thes. 36.1–4. See Walker (1995) 55–61. For possible criticisms to these traditions, see Zecchini (2015).  On the Theseion, see Barron (1972), Castriota (1992) 33–63, and Di Cesare (2011).  See Francis (1990) 53–66, Calame (1990) 424–444 and (2009a), Walker (1995) 35–61, Maehler (1997) 167–184, Mills (1997) 25–42, Aloni (2003), Fearn, (2007) 242–256, Athanassaki (2016), and Nobili (2018).  Calame (1990) 73–77, 94–97, and (2009b), Strawczynski (2003), and Fearn (2007) 242–256.  See Taplin (2007) 22–28.  See Maehler (1997) 167–184, esp. 170. See Athanassaki’s (2009) 300–303 objections to Maehler.

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Bacchylides’ poem can be correctly understood by viewing it within the context of the dynamics of homage connecting Athens to her allies in the first years of the Delio-Attic League. Bacchylides’ himself, while inserting new and original elements into his mythic version, may have drawn inspiration from – and made intervisual allusions to – an iconographic tradition that enjoyed great success in Athens and was represented both by vase decorations and by the Theseion wall painting. As Lucia Athanassaki has argued, public buildings may have played a leading role in the shaping of collective identity; so Bacchylides’ dithyramb 18, focusing on Theseus’ adventures on the road between Troizen and Athens, may be making intervisual allusions to the metopes on the thesauros of the Athenians in Delphi.57 Athanassaki argues that the same relationship may exist between Bacchylides’ dithyramb 17 and the wall painting of the Theseion:58 the poet may have chosen to sing Theseus’ dive to the bottom of the sea, certain that every member of his Delian/Athenian public would know the great new monumental building erected for Theseus in Athens and would feel free to interact with this material antecedent, thereby viewing the two versions of the episode side by side.59 While Bacchylides’ dithyramb 17 must be connected with the Theseion and the area of the Old Agora, his dithyramb 18, dedicated to Theseus’ adventures on the road between Troizen and Athens (the killing of Sinis, the sow, Cercyon, and Procrustes), points to the public buildings on the Ilissos plain. The story is well known: a messenger brings king Aegeus the news that an unknown youth is approaching Athens after having defeated some of the most dangerous robbers and monsters on the road from Troizen. The king reacts with fear and  Athanassaki (2016): ‘[fifth-century poets] could count on the fact that architectural sculpture of the Delphic sanctuary or any other Panhellenic centre was a fixed and common point of reference. [. . .] Poets may have thought their art superior to architectural sculpture, but they engaged in dialogue with it’ (p. 23); ‘Whereas it is virtually certain that Bacchylides, like his audience, was familiar with various versions of the cycle of Theseus’ deeds on drinking cups, amphoras, etc., such household utensils could not form the basis of a shared visual experience that the poet could take for granted. Unlike the metopes, which were a fixed sight anyone would see any time they were on their way to the Treasury or to the Temple, pots had unpredictable ownership and circulation, not to mention of course their fragility’ (p. 34).  Athanassaki (2009) 299–306, and (2016) 39.  Pausanias does not describe the painting but recounts the story that lies behind it, because in his time it was almost unknown (nor does Plutarch mention Theseus’ visit to Poseidon’s palace in his Life of Theseus). Consequently, Pausanias cannot be used as a source for its reconstruction: we may argue that the fresco shared common elements with contemporary pottery painting, thus representing only the encounter between Theseus and Amphitrite/Poseidon; the addition of the quarrel with Minos may be an invention by Bacchylides. See Wüst (1968), Shapiro (1994) 108, and Pavlou (2012) 514–516.

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impatience, thus anticipating the meeting with his unrecognised son, which the Athenian audience already knew from its artistic representations.60 The setting of the scene was also well known: Plutarch (Thes. 12.6) attests that Aegeus’ palace, where Theseus was welcomed by his father and the latter’s wife Medeia, was located behind the Delphinion. This was an important temple of Pythian Apollo erected on the Ilissos plain, a short distance away from the temple of Olympian Zeus, where Apollo was venerated with his sister Artemis.61 While the original foundation was attributed to Aegeus himself62 and testifies to the ancient origin of this Pythian cult in Athens, the remains of a temple now excavated and identified with the Delphinion date back to the mid-fifth century. The Delphinion was an important site in Theseus’ saga. Pausanias (1.19.1) reports an Athenian tradition concerning Theseus’ first arrival in Athens: at that time the Athenians were building the temple of Apollo Delphinios (only the rooftop was missing) and Theseus, apparently on his way to Aegeus’ palace, stopped by the temple; he was wearing a long tunic and had well-groomed hair, so the workers mistook him for a girl, and mocked him. Theseus responded with a show of strength by throwing the oxen attached to the workers’ cart into the air. Furthermore, Plutarch (Thes. 12.6) recounts that during the welcome banquet organised for Theseus by Medeia and Aegeus, the former tried to poison the hero, but Aegeus, realising that Theseus was his son, threw away the cup, which fell in the enclosure (περίφρακτον) of the Delphinion. The Delphinion was the sanctuary where Theseus made offerings before his departure for Crete63 and where he sacrificed the Marathonian bull that he had carried to Athens.64 It was also the place where he was tried and acquitted for the

 The encounter between Theseus and Aegeus was a favourite subject for Athenian pottery (see Servadei [2005], 56–66). Nonetheless, Athanassaki (2016) shows that Bacchylides engages with the iconographic counterpart in his ode by representing the moment before the meeting, and the mixed feelings which the expectation arouses in Aegeus and the audience.  Paus. 1.19.1; Plut. Thes. 12.3–6. The cult of Apollo Delphinios, widespread in the Ionian world (especially in Miletus), was connected with Pythian Apollo’s epiclesis into a dolphin. See Graf (1979). On the Delphinion, see Travlos (19802) 83–90, Di Tonto and Marchiandi (2011), and Marchiandi (2011b).  Pollux 8.119. A nearby gate erected by Themistocles bore Aegeus’ name (Plut. Thes. 12.16).  Plut. Thes. 18.1–3. After his successful return from Crete, Theseus paid homage to Apollo in the Delphinion and instituted the Pyanopsia festival. See Simon (1983) 73–79, Graf (1979), Calame (1990) 291–324, and Parker (2005) 202–206. On the Athenian topography of Theseus’ saga according to Plutarch, see Luce (1998) and Marchiandi (2011a) 373–375.  Plut. Thes. 14.1.

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killings he had made on his way to Athens, because the Delphinion hosted the tribunal that judged blood murders committed for a just cause.65 In staging the dialogue between the king and the chorus, Bacchylides thus felt sure of the fact that the ideal backdrop which his audience would have in mind was Aegeus’ palace by the Delphinios. This impression may have been reinforced by the venue for the performance of the dithyramb: several hypotheses have been advanced in this regard, and some critics think that the dithyramb may have been composed during the Theseia, the Dionysia,66 or the Panathenaia.67 However, the most likely setting for the performance of dithyramb 18, in my opinion, is the Thargelia festival.68 This took place every year in the month of Thargelion in the Pythion, a sanctuary erected in the Ilissos area by Peisistratos (arguably because of his poor relationship with Delphi).69 Located a short distance away from the Delphinion,70 it included the cult of both Pythian and Delian Apollo.71 Next to the temple there was a large altar, whose establishment by Peisistratos the Young is recorded in an epigram composed by Simonides.72 The most important festival celebrated at this shrine was the Thargelia, which featured dithyrambic contests similar to those celebrated at Delos,73 and evoked the ritual of purification imposed on the Athenians after the killing of Minos’ son, Androgeos.74 The Apollinean sanctuaries of the Pythion and the Delphinion

 Paus. 1.28.10; Pollux 8.119; Phot. ε 1521–1522 Theodoridis. See Shapiro (1989) 60–61, Luce (1998), and Pavlou (2012) 521–535.  See Merkelbach (1973), Vox (1984), Ieranò (1987), and García Romero (1989). These scholars all underline Theseus’ role as an ephebe and thus posit festivals which included ephebia rituals.  See Zimmermann (1992) 99: Theseus was credited as the founder of the Panathenaia.  As proposed by Jebb (1905) 234–235, and supported by Pickard-Cambridge (1962) 29 and Wilson (2007) 172–174.  Since Delphi was an Alcmaeonid enclave, Peisistratos aimed to creating in Athens another centre of Pythian worship. See Aloni (1989) 57–61 and Shapiro (1989) 48–52.  See Travlos (19802) 100–103, Shapiro (1989) 59–60, Greco (2009), and Marchiandi (2011a) 430–434.  Matthaiou (2003) and Wilson (2007) 153–155, 175–182. Peisistratos gave an impulse to Athenian territorial ambitions on the Aegean Sea and its islands, as shown by the purification of Delos that he carried out in order to confirm Athenian control over the island.  Sim. FGE 26, quoted by Thuc. 6.54.6–7 (= IG I 3 948).  The tripods dedicated by the winners of the musical contests held for the Thargelia were similar to those discovered in the temple of Apollo in Delos. See Ducat and Amandry (1973) and Amandry (1977). On dithyrambic contests, see Pickard-Cambridge (1962) 37, and Wilson (2000) 32–34 and (2007).  On the Thargelia see Simon (1983) 76–79, Calame (1990) 308–319, Parker (2005) 203–205 and 481–483, and Wilson (2007).

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were thus located a short distance away from each other and may have played a role in the performance of the dithyramb, representing the visual context (or the imaginary setting) of the action described.

6.4 Conclusions In the archaic age, Athens had a rather different appearance from the one it gradually acquired in the classical age, after the monumentalisation of the classical Agora in the Kerameikos area. Apart from the Acropolis and its monuments, which continued to represent an unavoidable point of reference for artists and authors across the ages, the areas that left the most vivid mark on the works of archaic poets were the Old Agora, located south-east of the Acropolis, with its public buildings connected with the civic institutions of the polis, such as the Prytaneion and Theseion, and the Ilissos plain, where some of the most ancient and important cults were established, such as those of Zeus Olympios and Apollo (Pythion and Delphinion). The importance of these two areas finds an echo in the works of two poets who had a different, yet equally close, connection with Athens: Solon and Bacchylides. Both make intervisual references to the monuments and buildings located in the Old Agora and on the Ilissos plain, which serve as the ideal stage set for their poems. In so doing, they draw an ideal map of archaic Athens, centred on these two core areas.

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Lucia Athanassaki

7 The politics of intervisuality Euripides’ Erechtheus, the West Pediment of the Parthenon, the Erechtheion, and the temple of Athena Nike Abstract: This chapter explores the political significance of Euripides’ dialogue in Erechtheus with three major Athenian temples, namely the West Pediment of the Parthenon, the temple of Athena Nike, and the Erechtheion. In Section 7.1, I discuss my take on ‘intervisuality’ (a) by offering an outline of my basic premises in studying Euripides’ dialogue with Athenian monumental architecture and iconography and (b) by drawing illustrative examples from Ion, which features unambiguous visual references, the widest range of viewing patterns, and, unlike Erechtheus, is preserved in its entirety. In Section 7.2, I turn to Erechtheus and focus on its points of contact with the West Pediment of the Parthenon, the Erechtheion and the temple of Athena Nike. In Section 7.3, I explore the politics of intervisuality: taking my lead from Athena’s cultic instructions to Praxithea in Erechtheus, I correlate the goddess’ conciliatory plan with historical events, cultic initiatives, and artistic developments on the Acropolis in the second half of the Archidamian war. I argue that Euripides gives pride of place to the Erechtheion because, unlike the West Pediment of the Parthenon and the temple of Athena Nike that foreground competition and strife, the Erechtheion conveys a different message, the need for reconciliation and peaceful co-existence on the divine and human level, to which Erechtheus gives verbal expression and reinforcement.

7.1 Visual intertexts, intervisuality, and the viewer(s) I use the term ‘intervisuality’, a word coined by analogy with ‘intertextuality’,1 to refer to the dialogue among different art-forms that a viewer creates on the basis of their thematic or stylistic affinities. With reference to iconography, I also use the term visual ‘intertext’.2 The ultimate derivation of its second component from

 For the term ‘intervisuality’, see Floridi (2018) 25–28, with bibliographical references, and Pizzone’s contribution to this volume.  By the term ‘visual intertext’ I render in English the term ‘εικαστικό διακείμενο’ which I have been using in earlier publications in Greek; see Athanassaki (2017) and (2019). https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110795448-008

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the Latin texere, ‘to weave’, makes it an appropriate term when it comes to the dialogue of the verbal with the visual arts. I have argued elsewhere that the dialogue between different art-forms is activated by a viewer who can be an artist (an architect, a sculptor, a painter, and/or a poet) or a layman (a viewer, a listener, or a reader with no particular expertise) regardless of the existence or not of authorial intention.3 While it is possible to study how a contemporary viewer/reader establishes connections between different art-forms, in the study of the ancient world such responses are mediated by our literary sources. For this reason, it is easier for the student of the ancient world to establish authorial intention than audiences’ responses which, being mediated, are by and large conjectural. In my earlier work on Pindar’s and Bacchylides’ dialogue with monumental art and architecture I regarded the poets as viewers who are not interested in describing what they saw, but were inspired to tell a similar story by simultaneously drawing attention to its point of contact with its visual source of inspiration and breaking free from it.4 I consider Euripides a viewer too, who avails himself of the wider range of opportunities offered by dramatic polyphony and its multi-perspectival discourses. These different viewpoints are of course mediated, but as we shall see dramatic characters are assigned perspectives that are compatible with their gender, social background, upbringing, and experience. Ion is the most extensive and illuminating early literary representation of viewers’ responses to the visual arts. The depiction of virtually all dramatic characters as viewers illustrates both Euripides’ own keen interest in the visual and in the range of responses that monumental architecture and iconography elicit from viewers of different social background and gender. The poet’s representation of a wide range of perspectives, attitudes, and responses to the visual arts in this amazing play is part of a wider study in progress. Here I restrict myself to a selective and brief overview of the perspectives of male and the female viewers of high and low social standing – Ion, the messenger, and the Athenian chorus, respectively – and their significance for Euripides himself as a viewer of monumental iconography. Like all other residents in Apollo’s sanctuary, Ion is the god’s servant, but within the Delphic hierarchy his status is unquestionably high: raised by the Pythia, he has been appointed the keeper of gold and the trusty steward of everything (χρυσοφύλαξ and ταμίας πάντων πιστός, ll. 54–55).5 Ion is well versed in art by natural inclination and through exposure to artistic masterpieces that

 See Athanassaki (2009) 43–45 et passim, (2016) 18–23, and (2017).  Athanassaki (2009) 43–45 et passim, (2011a), (2011b), (2012a), and (2016).  For Ion’s status in Delphi, see Athanassaki (2012b) 1§1–1§10.

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Greeks and barbarians keep dedicating to Apollo. In his initial conversation with Creusa, the youth shows his familiarity with a picture of Athena entrusting Erichthonius to the daughters of Cecrops (ὥσπερ ἐν γραφῇ νομίζεται, l. 271).6 It is not of course accidental that the pretext that comes to Xuthus’ mind under which to bring Ion to Athens is that of a viewer (θεατὴν δῆθεν, l. 656). The word θεατής denotes both a sight-seer and a spectator. There is no doubt that this pretext suits both the city’s splendid sights and spectacles and Ion’s predilection for art that becomes clear later in the play by his choice of artifacts for the decoration for his pavilion. The messenger who reports the construction and decoration of the pavilion also casts himself as a viewer. He prefaces his detailed description of the tapestries Ion chose for the pavilion with the statement θαύματ’ ἀνθρώποις ὁρᾶν (l. 1142), which picks up these artifacts’ effect on viewers, namely the wonder they experience upon looking at them. The dramatic and political significance of Ion’s careful choice of tapestry patterns has been well-discussed by a number of scholars.7 In an earlier publication I suggested that the scale and the oriental character of the pavilion points to the Periclean Odeon, which was adjacent to the theatre of Dionysus and within the field of vision of a great part of Euripides’ audience.8 All the messenger had to do was to gesture towards that big building. In terms of artistic range, it is worth noting that Ion did not restrict himself only to choosing tapestries, but chose a sculpture for the entrance of the pavilion, a statue of Cecrops and his daughters (Κέκροπα θυγατέρων πέλας / σπείραισιν εἱλίσσοντ’, ll. 1164–1165) which was the dedication of an Athenian according to the messenger.9 The sculpture, like the painting Ion mentioned earlier to Creusa, drawing its theme from Cecrops’ earthborn family, offers an indication of the range of variations on the same theme in different media that were on view at Apollo’s sanctuary. The tip that the sculpture was the dedication of an Athenian is a reminder of the popularity of such depictions in Athens. We have seen tons of such pictures in Athens, haven’t we? Well, one can see them in Delphi as well . . . we love this theme, don’t we? – Euripides winks at his audience. Before turning to the Athenian chorus’ reactions it is worth noting the different reactions of Ion and the messenger to art. Ion is clearly comfortable talking about and choosing art. This is not of course surprising. He is used to the temple’s artful surroundings because he grew up in the sanctuary and he is in charge of the god’s valuable possessions. The messenger, on the other hand, who is one    

See Athanassaki (2012b) 2§1–2§10. See esp. Zeitlin (1994) and Goff (1988). Athanassaki (2012b) 3§4–3§6, 4§4. For the sculpture, see Lee (1997) 285 ad 1163–1165.

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of the servants that followed Xuthus and Creusa to Delphi, is dazzled by the tapestries, the statue, and the golden vessels that Ion choses for his banquet. Coming from Athens and being in the service of the royal couple, he too is familiar with great art and luxury. But unlike Ion who enjoys and thinks intelligently about art, and can choose the artworks he likes for the decoration of his pavilion, for the messenger art is only a feast for the eyes, a source of wonder. The Athenian chorus’ reaction is one of wonder too, but for different reasons. On what is clearly their first trip to another city Creusa’s servants exclaim upon coming into sight of Apollo’s temple: ‘not only in sacred Athens are there courts of gods with beautiful columns and altars of Agyieus’ (ll. 184–187). Once they overcome their surprise, however, they seize the opportunity to look carefully at the monumental iconography. They first cast their eyes probably at metopes, where they identify Heracles, Lerna, and Iolaus and then Bellerophon, Pegasus, and Chimaera.10 The identification of Iolaus is particularly interesting. Creusa’s servants identify Heracles’ companion on the basis of a story that they heard while weaving on the loom – probably while weaving precisely this story. Their hesitant identification suggests that there must be some differences between what they see now in Delphi and what they remember hearing and possibly weaving.11 Immediately afterwards, they discern their own goddess, Athena, and Dionysus fighting the Giants. The Gigantomachy was the theme of the West Pediment of Apollo’s temple, which the chorus could not see from the east side where they stood.12 Had Euripides forgotten that the Gigantomachy was the sculptural theme of the West Pediment, or was it a conscious choice? Although a lapse of memory cannot be excluded, most scholars attribute the reversal to dramatic considerations.13 I have argued elsewhere that Euripides’ choice is in keeping with his depiction of the propensity for violence that characterises the Athenian contingent: the chorus, the pedagogue and Creusa not only resort to violence, but they see violence everywhere.14 As in the case of the variation on the theme of the earthborn Athenian kings, Euripides winks at his audience once again: just remember . . . what you see when you look at Apollo’s temple is his advent to Delphi. Not Creusa’s servants though, for all they can see is murder and battles: Heracles killing the Hydra, Bellerephon killing the Chimaera, and

 Lee (1997) 180–181.  Lee (1997) 180 ad 191–200 and Athanassaki (2016) 22.  Müller (1975) 29–32 and Zeitlin (1994) 151.  For the possibility of a lapse of memory, see Owen (1939) 83; for a conscious choice see Müller (1975) 28, Zeitlin (1994) 151, and Athanassaki (2010).  Athanassaki (2010).

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Athena, their goddess, killing the Giants. It gives you an idea of the havoc they’ll raise in the serene sanctuary a little later. It is clear from this outline that Euripides chooses several places in the sanctuary to position his dramatic characters – strolling up and down, in front of Apollo’s temple, at the entrance of Ion’s pavilion, etc. – in order to enable his audience to adopt these different perspectives. Some familiarity with the sculptural iconography of Apollo’s temple was of course necessary in order to appreciate the chorus’ fascination with scenes of violence and the discrepancy between what they saw and what was there.15 Unlike Athenian monumental art, however, to which we shall turn shortly, could the poet expect his audience to be familiar with the Pythian sanctuary? Euripides could reasonably count on the familiarity of a great part of his audience with this particular temple. Athens had many old ties with Delphi. Apollo’s temple was the focus of cultic action and had moreover been restored in the late sixth century by an Athenian family, the Alcmaeonids. In addition, the Athenians had secured prime space for their treasury which was next to the temple.16 There is no need to say that Euripides did not expect every single member of his audience to be familiar with the temple. The startled reaction of the chorus at the realization that Athens was not the only city that had splendid temples shows that he thought of first-time visitors as well. The responses of dramatic characters to monumental art in Ion shows beyond doubt that what Euripides did expect was that a great part of his audience would be both interested in and dazzled by art regardless of their social status. It is remarkable that in Ion the elaborate descriptions of an impressive range of artifacts are assigned to servants, male and female. This is perhaps an exaggeration intended to make Euripides’ audience smile at the thought that in Athens masters and slaves were equally keen on art and architecture. On the other hand, Ion’s familiarity with and intelligent talk about art was intended to foreshadow his future role as heir to Erechtheus’ throne.17 No poet could expect uniform reactions on the part of a large and heterogeneous audience such as that in the theatre of Dionysus. Like all Athenian dramatists Euripides knew that there could be ignorant, indifferent, absent-minded,

 As has been pointed out, Euripides’ audience was familiar with the scenes the chorus describe from Athenian monumental iconography; see Immerwahr (1972). For Athens’ presence in the form of the souvenirs in Ion’s basket, see Mueller (2010).  For the Athenian audiences’ familiarity with the temple of Apollo, see Athanassaki (2010) 227–233 and (2011a) 263–268.  For the political significance of Ion’s familiarity with and keen interest in art, see Athanassaki (2012b) 4§4–4§17.

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or even hostile spectators in his audience. At the other end of the spectrum, there were poets, musicians, choreuts, trainers of various sorts who could have a keen eye and ear for every little detail and variation.18 And there were of course architects, sculptors, painters, and potters. Euripides could count on them both to appreciate his references to the visual arts and to keep talking about them in the symposia and other gatherings that would follow. Given the long period that was necessary for training actors and choruses, ordering costumes, masks, props, etc. such talk could also precede the performances. Discussions of this sort before and after the performance would undoubtedly encourage and elicit more connections between dramatic and visual intertexts on the part of the spectators in the know, but such unmediated responses are forever lost to us.

7.2 Euripides’ Erechtheus, the Erechtheion, the Parthenon, and the temple of Athena Nike We may now turn to Erechtheus which features two unambiguous visual references, one to a temple that is represented as a future construction, in all likelihood the Erechtheion, and another to one, or two, that already existed.19 Like Ion, Erechtheus must have featured many more visual cues. Praxithea, for instance, mentions twice the golden Gorgon, probably a reference to Pheidias’ statue of Athena Parthenos,20 but the fragmentary state of the play makes it difficult to explore the significance of that reference. The following discussion therefore focuses only on Athena’s and the chorus’ references to the Erechtheion, the Parthenon and, as I shall argue, the temple of Athena Nike.21 The text has been transmitted partly by papyrus fragments and partly by extensive quotations in Lycurgus’ Against Leocrates (98–101) and John of Stobi.22  For this ‘bottom-up’ approach, see Revermann (2006), who explores the fifth- and fourthcentury audiences’ competence in the light of the participation of élite and non-élite citizens in choruses.  The following discussion is based on the view that the Erechtheion is the sanctuary described by Pausanias (1.26.5–27.1). For this view, see Hurwit 2004 (164–172), with references to other views, and more recently Meyer (2014) and (2017) 48.  See fr. 351 K. and fr. 360.46–49 K.; see Calder (1969) 152–153.  Some of the data and conclusions presented in this and the next section are drawn from Athanassaki (2019).  For the transmission, see Collard, Cropp, and Lee (1995) 148–152, and Connelly (2014) 126–148.

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On the basis of the surviving fragments, Lycurgus’ summary, and later sources, the plot can be reconstructed as follows: Eumolpus, son of Poseidon and Chione, invaded Attica with a Thracian army. The king of Athens Erechtheus consulted the Delphic oracle and was informed that in order to win he must sacrifice one of his daughters. His wife Praxithea, whose hyper-patriotic speech is quoted by Lycurgus, consents to the sacrifice. Before the battle, in a farewell speech Erechtheus offers advice to a young man, possibly his successor. A messenger announces the death of Erechtheus to Praxithea and the chorus. While the messenger reports the outcome of the battle, the chorus describes a strong earthquake that Poseidon caused in his anger at the defeat of his son Eumolpus. At this point Athena appears. The patron goddess of Athens asks Poseidon not to destroy her city and orders Praxithea to bury her daughter, who was sacrificed for Athens, and her sisters, who chose to follow her to Hades, at the place where she died. Athena announces the deification of the three sisters who will be worshipped as Hyacinthids. Erechtheus will also receive cultic honours, Athena continues, as Poseidon-Erechtheus. She appoints Praxithea her priestess and reveals Zeus’ plan to honour the descendants of Eumolpus with a priesthood at Eleusis. The play cannot be securely dated. Some scholars assign it to 422 on Plutarch’s authority, others date it a few years later. Aristophanic allusions and a quotation of one line in Lysistrata (l. 1135) give 411 as terminus ante quem for the production.23 The earlier date, 422, coincides with the decision either to erect the Erechtheion or, more probably, to resume its construction.24 The majority of archaeologists believe that the Erechtheion incorporated ancient venerable cults including the cult of Athena Polias and Poseidon-Erechtheus, but the name Erechtheion is not attested till much later.25 Athena’s cultic instruction to Praxithea at the end of Erechtheus to see to the erection of a new temple has led to its association with the Erechtheion, the foundation of which was earlier, as has already been mentioned:

 Plutarch’s testimony dates the production of Erechtheus before the Peace of Nicias in 421 BCE and specifically during the one-year truce of 423–422. For the date, see Collard, Cropp, and Lee (1995) 155, and Collard and Cropp (2008), who are sceptical about Plutarch’s testimony and date the play a few years after the Peace of Nicias. Sonnino (2010) 27–34, on the other hand, defends Plutarch’s testimony, arguing that Timaeus was his source. For Plutarch’s tendency to change the chronological sequence of events in order to serve his literary purposes, see Pelling (1980).  See Hurwit (2004) 174 and more recently Meyer (2017) 48 (with the bibliographical references in n. 317) citing Korres, whose finds date the foundation of the Erechtheion in 437 BCE.  For the cult of Poseidon-Erechtheus, see Sourvinou-Inwood and Parker (2011) 77–88 and below, 178 and 186.

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πόσει δὲ τῷ σῷ σηκὸν ἐν μέσῃ πόλει τεῦξαι κελεύω περιβόλοισι λαΐνοις· κεκλήσεται δὲ τοῦ κτανόντος οὕνεκα Σεμνὸς Ποσειδῶν ὄνομ᾿ ἐπωνομασμένος ἀστοῖς Ἐρεχθεὺς ἐν φοναῖσι βουθύτοις. For your husband I command that a precinct be built in mid-city, with stone surrounds; and on account of his killer he shall be called August Poseidon surnamed Erechtheus by the citizens in their sacrifices of oxen.26 (Erechtheus fr. 370, P.Sorbonne col. vii, 90–94)

The cultic association of Erechtheus and Poseidon on the Acropolis is epigraphically attested already in the middle of the fifth century27 but, as Christiane Sourvinou-Inwood pointed out, Poseidon-Erechtheus and Erechtheus first share cultic space in the Erechtheion: Poseidon Erechtheus was the god Poseidon with the epithet Erechtheus; Erechtheus had received both a whole polis cult and a cult as a tribal hero, in his own sanctuary, before the Erechtheion was built when he moved to share the space of Poseidon Erechtheus.28

Pausanias, who visited the Erechtheion six centuries after its erection, described it as follows: ἔστι δὲ καὶ οἴκημα Ἐρέχθειον καλούμενον· πρὸ δὲ τῆς ἐσόδου Διός ἐστι βωμὸς Ὑπάτου, ἔνθα ἔμψυχον θύουσιν οὐδέν, πέμματα δὲ θέντες οὐδὲν ἔτι οἴνῳ χρήσασθαι νομίζουσιν. ἐσελθοῦσι δέ εἰσι βωμοί, Ποσειδῶνος, ἐφ᾿ οὗ καὶ Ἐρεχθεῖ θύουσιν ἔκ του μαντεύματος, καὶ ἥρωος Βούτου, τρίτος δὲ Ἡφαίστου· γραφαὶ δὲ ἐπὶ τῶν τοίχων τοῦ γένους εἰσὶ τοῦ Βουταδῶν καὶ – διπλοῦν γάρ ἐστι τὸ οἴκημα – [καὶ] ὕδωρ ἐστὶν ἔνδον θαλάσσιον ἐν φρέατι. τοῦτο μὲν θαῦμα οὐ μέγα· καὶ γὰρ ὅσοι μεσόγαιαν οἰκοῦσιν, ἄλλοις τε ἔστι καὶ Καρσὶν Ἀφροδισιεῦσιν· ἀλλὰ τόδε φρέαρ ἐς συγγραφὴν παρέχεται κυμάτων ἦχον ἐπὶ νότῳ πνεύσαντι. καὶ τριαίνης ἐστὶν ἐν τῇ πέτρᾳ σχῆμα· ταῦτα δὲ λέγεται Ποσειδῶνι μαρτύρια ἐς τὴν ἀμφισβήτησιν τῆς χώρας φανῆναι.

 The Greek quotations and the English translations are taken from Collard and Cropp’s Loeb edition.  IG 1 2 580. For the cultic association of Erechtheus with Poseidon, see Kearns (1989) 113–115 and 160–161, Papachatzis (1989) 175–185, Christopoulos (1994) 123–130, and Collard, Cropp, and Lee (1995) 193 ad 93–94; Sonnino (2010) 398–401 (with further bibliographical references), who argues (ibid. 398–399) against Lacore’s (1983) 233 view that the cult of Poseidon-Erechtheus is Euripides’ attempt to integrate Poseidon in the Athenian ideology of autochthony; and now Meyer (2017) 377–415 and passim, who sees the joined cult of Poseidon-Erechtheus as a post-Cleisthenic development.  Sourvinou-Inwood and Parker (2011) 87. Differently Frame (2009) 393–458, who argues that Erechtheus essentially took over Poseidon’s old cultic site; Frame’s argument is based on the view, advanced by Ferrari (2002) among others, that the Erechtheion and the temple of Athena Polias were two different temples.

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[5] There is also a building called the Erechtheum. Before the entrance is an altar of Zeus the Most High, on which they never sacrifice a living creature but offer cakes, not being wont to use any wine either. Inside the entrance are altars, one to Poseidon, on which in obedience to an oracle they sacrifice also to Erechtheus, the second to the hero Butes, and the third to Hephaestus. On the walls are paintings representing members of the clan Butadae; there is also inside – the building is double – sea-water in a cistern. This is no great marvel, for other inland regions have similar wells, in particular Aphrodisias in Caria. But this cistern is remarkable for the noise of waves it sends forth when a south wind blows. On the rock is the outline of a trident. Legend says that these appeared as evidence in support of Poseidon’s claim to the land.29 (Pausanias 1.26.5)

What is remarkable in Pausanias’ description is that six centuries after the erection of the Erechtheion he chose to single out for mention the sign of the trident on a rock inside the temple, a sign that was evidently still discernible and evoked Poseidon’s and Athena’s dispute over Athens. The Erechtheion therefore preserved the memory of Poseidon’s and Athena’s dispute, the renewal of this dispute in the generation of their descendants, the Erechtheids and the Eumolpids, and its resolution on the cultic level. The Erechtheion had many points of contact and contrast with the Parthenon. In Jeffrey Hurwit’s succinct statement, Indeed, for some, the Erechtheion had seemed in some measure an eccentric, even critical, response to the Periclean building, a reassertion of the primacy of the oldest cult places of Athens that had been neglected during the years of Pericles’ dominion. [. . .] Naturally this view is weakened if the Erechtheion was, in fact, designed as early as the 430s. In any case, the Erechtheion and the Parthenon should not be regarded as architectural antagonists; the buildings do not clash. [. . .] In turn, the Erechtheion gave spectacular shape to the north-side cult places that the Parthenon itself had already alluded to in its sculpture. There in the West Pediment, after all, was Athena’s olive tree and Poseidon’s trident and Kekrops and possibly even Zeus’ thunderbolt, now all incorporated within the confines of the admittedly unorthodox new building across the way.30

In what follows I shall first focus on the sculptural theme of the West Pediment featuring the contest of Athena and Poseidon over the patronage of Athens and then I shall explore the possibility of the play’s dialogue with the temple of Athena Nike. The West Pediment was severely damaged during Francesco Morosini’s bombardment in 1687 and his subsequent attempt to remove the pedimental sculptures. The theme of the lost sculptural complex has been preserved by Jacques

 The Greek quotation and the English translation are taken from Jones’ (1918) Loeb edition, in which the text is that of Spiro (1903).  Hurwit (2004) 179.

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Carrey’s drawings, which are the basis of all modern reconstructions. Jacques Carrey, about whom we know very little, seems to have made his drawings in 1674 at the encouragement of Marquis de Nointel who visited Athens with his retinue thirteen years before the destruction of the Parthenon.31 The centre of the pediment featured the contest of Poseidon and Athena. On either side a number of male and female figures look towards the centre, occupied by the two gods and their horses (Figs. 7.1 and 7.2). The identity of these spectators of the contest has been variously explained. Their identification does not affect the present argument but, if the viewers were Cecropids on Athena’s side and Eumolpids on Poseidon’s, as Babette Spaeth suggested, the points of contact between the West Pediment of the Parthenon and the Erechtheion would clearly be more numerous and significant.32 The same is of course true, if the sacrifice of Erechtheus’ daughter was the theme of the central scene of the East Frieze, as Joan Connelly argued.33 In what follows, however, I wish to take a different path and focus on Euripides as a viewer of the three neighbouring cultic sites, the Parthenon, the Erechtheion, and the temple of Athena Nike. Since the date of Euripides’ Erechtheus is not secure, it is not at all certain that the Erechtheion was already well-advanced and looked like the impressive temple we see now.34 But since the plan was meant to unify and upgrade ancient cult-sites through a new temple, I shall explore Euripides’ response to this plan regardless of the state of progress of the building, when he entered the competition in the Dionysia of 422 or later. Looking at Athena’s and Poseidon’s competition on the West Pediment of the Parthenon, Euripides or any other viewer was looking at one of the many self-confident messages of Periclean Athens, namely the intense competition which the two powerful gods were prepared to enter in order to secure the patronage of the brilliant city.35 Although

 See Boardman (2000) 237–238, Döhl (2006), and Connelly (2014) 107.  See Spaeth (1991) with a reconstruction of the pediment.  Connelly 2014. It is impossible to summarise Connelly’s elaborate argument in a note, but in addition to the interpretation of the central scene of the east frieze as the sacrifice of Erechtheus’ daughter, Connelly also adopts the derivation of the name ‘Parthenon’ from the genitive plural (τῶν παρθένων = of the parthenoi) and argues that Erechtheus’ three daughters were buried in the Parthenon, therefore the name. She further suggests that in her speech at the end of Erechtheus Athena explains the origin of two temples, the Erechtheion and the Parthenon (ibid. 139–141).  Inscriptional evidence indicates that the Erechtheion was completed in 406 BCE. See Hurwit (2004) 174, 177–178 and Meyer (2014).  The myth of the competition of the two gods must be earlier, but its first literary attestations are in Herodotus 8.55, its first visual attestation is on the Parthenon. See Patay-Horváth (2015).

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Fig. 7.1: West Pediment of the Parthenon. Athena and Poseidon. From Jacques Carrey ©Wikimedia Commons.

Fig. 7.2: West Pediment of the Parthenon. Athena. From Jacques Carrey © Wikimedia Commons.

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the pediment focused on the competition, the viewer knew that Athena had carried the day. The decision to upgrade Poseidon’s position in a shared temple less than a hundred meters away from the Parthenon, which represented Athena’s victory, was an unmistakable shift of emphasis which was now placed on the peaceful co-existence of the two gods as temple-mates (θεοὶ σύνναοι).36 There is no doubt, of course, that the visual message would be more effective when the Erechtheion was completed, but what was already on the Acropolis gave Euripides every reason to expect yet another splendid building, even if he composed Erechtheus at an early stage of its construction. One such splendid building was completed a couple of years before work on the Erechtheion either started or resumed. It was the Ionic temple of Athena Nike which, like the Parthenon, sent a confident message of victory.37 Like the Erechtheion, the temple of Athena Nike was conceived much earlier, but a decree of 424–423 reconfirming the priestess’ salary indicates that the building must have been completed at that time.38 Unlike the priesthood of Athena Polias, which was hereditary, the priestess of Athena Nike was elected by lot. The sculptural programme of the Nike temple featured a divine assembly, an Amazonomachy, the battle of Marathon, and battles between Greeks. It has been debated whether the battles between Greeks represented battles between Athenians and their enemies in the early years of the Peloponnesian war or the legendary Athenian fights to recover the bodies of the seven who fought against Thebes and the Athenian victory over the forces of Eurystheus.39 Even if these battles were old, it is fair to say that they set a pattern and created expectations for future victories. The completion of the temple was probably decided on Cleon’s initiative after his spectacular success on Sphacteria: The Temple of Athena Nike was completed in direct response to the Athenian victories of 426 B.C.E., Pylos foremost among them. That the temple was finished at this time should not surprise; the Athenians thought they had won the war. The annual Lakonian invasions had ceased, and the legend of Spartan invincibility had been shattered forever. Tribute had been powerfully reassessed, and silver flowed freely into the city.40

I suggest that the chorus’ longing for peace in Erechtheus is a response to the triumphant message of the recently erected temple. According to Plutarch, a song Hurwit (2004) 166–172.  For the similarities between the temple of Athena Nike and the Parthenon, see Stewart (1985). For the various ways in which the Athenians showcased their victories through older and newer buildings, see Martin-McAuliffe and Papadopoulos (2012).  Hurwit (2004) 183.  Hurwit (2004) 186.  Lippman, Scahill, and Schultz (2006) 560.

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dance, of which he quotes only the first line, that enjoyed great popularity in Athens in the years intervening between the one-year truce in 423 BCE and the Peace of Nicias in 421 BCE, ran as follows:41 κείσθω δόρυ μοι μίτον ἀμφιπλέκειν ἀράχναις· μετὰ δ᾿ ἡσυχίας πολιῷ γήρᾳ συνοικῶν ᾄδοιμι κάρα στεφάνοις πολιὸν στεφανώσας, Θρῃκίαν πέλταν πρὸς Ἀθάνας περικίοσιν ἀγκρεμάσας θαλάμοις, δελτῶν τ᾿ ἀναπτύσσοιμι γῆρυν ᾇ σοφοὶ κλέονται. Let my spear lie idle for spiders to entangle in their webs; and may I dwell peacefully with grey old age, singing my songs, my grey head crowned with garlands, after hanging a Thracian shield upon Athena’s columned halls; and may I unfold the voice of the tablets in which the wise are celebrated. (Erechtheus fr. 369 K)

It has been suggested that the chorus think of the Parthenon as the place to hang the shields which they will take from Eumolpus and his Thracian army.42 Such a display would be at home on the Parthenon for a number of reasons, not least on account of the commemoration of the conflict of Athena and Poseidon on the West Pediment.43 Yet literary and archaeological evidence as well as political considerations indicate that the temple of Athena Nike was foremost on Euripides’ mind. In the last years of the Archidamian war mention of enemy shields in Athens would naturally evoke the shields that Cleon took from the Spartan hostages on Sphacteria and put on display in the Stoa Poikile, where Pausanias saw them centuries later (1.15.4). At the Lenaea of 424 Aristophanes had already staged Paphlagon/Cleon in the Knights boasting of a deed that would close the mouths of his enemies as long as there was anything left from the shields from Pylos (εἰργασμένον τοιοῦτον ἔργον ὥστε / . . . τοὺς ἐμοὺς ἐχθρούς ἐπιστομίζειν . . . / ἕως ἂν ᾖ τῶν ἀσπίδων τῶν ἐκ Πύλου τι λοιπόν, ll. 844–846). The mention of the shields reminds the Sausage Seller that they have been dedicated with their handles on and could therefore been used in an uprising (ll. 847–859). Correlating this passage with the 99 cuttings on the bastion of the temple of Athena Nike and some other important finds, Mike Lippman,

 ἡδέως μὲν ᾀδόντων τὰ τοιαῦτα χορῶν ἀκούοντες ‘κείσθω δόρυ μοι μίτον ἀμφιπλέκειν ἀράχναις’ (Nicias 9.5).  Collard and Cropp (2008) 387 n. 1 and Connelly (2014) 213–215, who sees an allusion to the depiction of an old man in the north frieze in the chorus’ self-referential statement (πολιῷ γήρᾳ): ibid. 214.  See also Sonnino (2010) 242 ad 4–5.

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David Scahill, and Peter Schultz plausibly argued that of the 120 captured shields, 99 were fastened on the bastion of the recently finished temple and 21 in the Stoa Poikile.44 If they are right, then Euripides’ primary reference was to the temple of Athena Nike but, as I shall argue in the following section, the purpose of Euripides’ dialogue with the temple was to add a sceptical note to the triumphant visual message that war-mongers had attached to it.

7.3 The politics of intervisuality As in Ion, in Erechtheus too dramatic characters serve as focalisers. Athena’s speech points directly to the Erechtheion and indirectly to the Parthenon. Similarly, the chorus point to the temple of Athena Nike or/and the Parthenon. Thus, in a manner reminiscent of Ion, Euripides distributes several different perspectives on the temples of the Acropolis to his dramatic characters. Do the dramatic viewers add something to the dialogue of the Erechtheion with the Parthenon and the temple of Athena Nike? I suggest that Euripides develops a complex political dialogue with the three temples, which I now explore starting from the dialogue of the Parthenon with the Erechtheion. The most obvious Euripidean contribution to the intervisual dialogue of the two temples is giving voice to the competing gods of the Parthenon by staging Poseidon’s appearance in the prologue and Athena’s appearance in the end. Only one line of Poseidon’s speech survives, but we are much luckier with Athena’s speech ex machina. Speech is of course the advantage of poetry over painting and sculpture.45 Euripides capitalises on this advantage in his dialogue with the visual arts in several plays including Erechtheus. The goddess’ speech consists of a series of conciliatory gestures, the most important of which is her initiative to command the elevation of Poseidon’s cultic honours through the erection of a new temple. This initiative, in all likelihood Euripides’ innovation, is crucial for Athena’s negotiating strategy with the defeated yet extremely dangerous god. The goddess appears on the Acropolis when the members of the chorus feel the earth dancing underneath their feet and urge one another to run for their lives.

 Lippman, Scahill, and Schultz (2006), a view accepted by Hurwit (2004) 188 and 276 n. 17. See also Connelly (2014) 224, who accepts this view but thinks that the chorus of Erechtheus plans to dedicate their shields to the Parthenon. See also above, n. 42.  For Poseidon’s appearance in the prologue, see Sonnino (2010) 373.

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φεῦ φε]ῦ, ἰὼ Γᾶ, φεύγετε . . . . . . .υ. . . . πόνων] εἴ τί μοί ποτ᾿ εἴη τελευτά. ]γετε χώρας χθόνιος μ . . . . . .νοις ]ατας· ὀρχεῖται δὲ π[ό]λεος πέδον σάλῳ· ἔνοσι]ν ἐμβάλλει Ποσειδῶν πόλει ]ηπερ δυστανοτατα. . . . . . .εμοι ]ων πόνοι πάρεισι, συμπίπτει στέγη· ].ασενστρααος οἰχόμεθα. . . .πάσαις [one line largely illegible] . . . .]. ας πόδα δὲ βακχεύων.

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50

(Oh, Oh!) O Earth! Flee . . . if there could ever be any end (of my sufferings) . . . the land’s subterranean . . . The city’s ground dances with the quaking! Poseidon is hurling (an earthquake) on the city . . . most miserabl(y?) . . . for me (?) Here are tribulations . . . the roof is falling in . . . we are lost . . . all . . . [one illegible line] . . . and dancing in frenzy.

Athena’s appeal to Poseidon is firm and decisive, but emotionally loaded. It is worth noting that before she reveals the honours she has in mind for Poseidon and his descendants she admits her emotional vulnerability: αὐδῶ τρίαναν τῆσδ᾿ ἀποτρέφειν χθονός, πόντιε Πόσειδον, μηδὲ γῆν ἀναστατοῦν πόλιν τ᾿ ἐρείπειν τὴν ἐμὴν ἐπήρατον· μὴ δεύτερόν σοι δοῖεν . . . . . . . . . .οι· οὐχ εἷς ἄδην σ᾿ ἔπλησεν; οὐ κατὰ χθονὸς κρύψας Ἐρεχθέα τῆς ἐμῆς ἥψω φρενός; κἄπε]ιτα μέλλεις ταῦτα . . . . . . . . .ρα . . .ν]ερτεροι[. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .].σεν θεά;

54 55

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I call on you to avert your trident from this country, sea god Poseidon; do not uproot my land, nor ruin my desirable46 city. May . . . not give you a second . . . Has one (victim) not satisfied you? Have you not clutched at my heart by confining Erechtheus below the earth? (And) do you (then) intend (or wait) . . . these . . . (for?) the nether powers . . . goddess . . . ?

Athena reminds Poseidon of the sorrow (τῆς ἐμῆς ἥψω φρενός) that the god caused her by the death of Erechtheus.47 The use of the adjective ἐπήρ̣α̣τ̣ο̣ν̣ for  ‘Desirable’ is my translation of ἐπήρατον, Collard and Cropp (2008) translate ‘fair’.  Athena’s emotionally loaded speech is in sharp contrast to Praxithea’s chilling speech, singled out by Lycurgus as an example of true patriotism. What Lycurgus omitted, however, is Praxithea’s devastation when she realised that she had lost not only one daughter but all three and her husband (Erechtheus fr. 370.36–44). Praxithea’s grief at the realization of her heavy toll in combination with the chorus’ longing for peace and Athena’s sorrow at human loss and conciliatory gesture tip the balance in favour of peace and reconciliation.

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Athens and the rhetorical question ‘hasn’t one victim sated you?’ add to the emotional load of Athena’s appeal. Despite her sorrow Athena bestows a series of honours on both victors and defeated. In addition to her instruction to Praxithea to see to the building of a temple for the worship of Poseidon-Erechtheus with oxen sacrifices, she announces the worship of Praxithea’s three dead daughters as Hyacinthids. The immediately following conferment of the priesthood of Athena Polias on Praxithea, a recompense for the huge human toll she has paid, offers a new direction and meaning to the life of the bereaved wife and mother. As Claude Calame observes, ‘Alive and by Athena’s side on the Acropolis, Praxithea becomes the counterpart to Erechtheus, himself dead and heroized alongside Poseidon, now honoured on the same sacred rocks’.48 In the last part of her speech Athena reveals the decision of Zeus concerning the Eumolpids. The text is too fragmentary at this point, but the legible words indicate that Athena is talking about their priesthood at Eleusis and the mysteries. As already mentioned, Athena’s priority is to minimise the damage caused by the earthquake. There can be little doubt that the dramatic earthquake on the Acropolis would remind Euripides’ audience of the earthquake of 426 BCE, reported by Thucydides (3.89.1): he does not mention any damage in the city, but archaeological evidence indicates extensive damage in the Themistoclean wall and the Kerameikos.49 The Parthenon suffered some damage too, but it was quickly repaired.50 What Thucydides does mention, however, is that because of the earthquake king Agis and his Peloponnesians, who were at the Isthmus when the earthquakes started, decided to turn back and not invade Attica. Aristophanes alludes to this earthquake in Acharnians (ll. 509–514), and subsequent dramatic allusions suggest that the earthquake left a lasting mark on Athenian memory.51 Did the earthquake play a role in the Athenians’ decision to elevate Poseidon’s cult on the Acropolis?52 Where does Erechtheus stand in this connection? Concerning the Athenians’ decision to elevate Poseidon’s cult on the Acropolis, the complexity of the Erechtheion points to a nexus of considerations that include, but are not restricted to, the elevation of the cult of Poseidon. The favour of Poseidon to a major nautical power like Athens was undoubtedly important both at times of war and at times of peace. At most, therefore, the earthquake would have offered one more reason for the splendid new architectural project. With

    

Calame (2011) 11. For the damage caused by the earthquake in these areas, see Rotroff and Oakley (1992). See Korres and Bouras (1983) 114–115, 135, 328–330. For other dramatic references to the earthquake, see Athanassaki (2018b) 92–96. For this view, see Sourvinou-Inwood and Parker (2011) 76.

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regard to Erechtheus, on the other hand, the close association of the earthquake with the erection of the temple is quite remarkable. Moreover, the depiction of an Athena who talks about her feelings and takes the initiative to compromise with Poseidon, the killer of Erechtheus, in order to save her city makes clear that the point of contact between the Erechtheion and the play is the resolution of the conflict of the Athenians and the Eleusinians on the cultic level. But unlike the cultic site which privileges the outcome, Erechtheus affirms the benefits of reconciliation both on the divine and human realm after an elaborate exploration on stage of the human cost and suffering the conflict caused. Even more importantly, reconciliation is achieved on Athena’s initiative, which as I already suggested must be Euripides’ own touch. Athena’s initial request to Poseidon to turn away his trident from her land (αὐδῶ τρίαιναν τῆσδ’ ἀ̣π̣ο̣στ̣ ̣ρέ̣ ̣φ̣ειν χθονός) establishes the goddess’ visual dialogue with the West Pediment of the Parthenon, which featured Poseidon striking a rock with his trident. Athena’s command to Praxithea to supervise the construction of the temple in honour of Poseidon-Erechtheus establishes her dialogue with the Erechtheion, still under construction. The goddess’ command offers a different perspective on the confident message of the West Pediment of the Parthenon, which foregrounded the intense interest of Poseidon and Athena in Athens. In contrast, in commanding the erection of the new temple Athena prescribes to her future priestess what mortals must do for Poseidon and herself, thus reminding her audience that divine favour is not a permanent and unconditional gift and must not therefore be taken for granted. To put it differently, Erechtheus gives verbal expression to the conciliatory message of the Erechtheion, thus undermining the West Pediment’s confident depiction of Poseidon’s and Athena’s fierce contest over Athens. In portraying Athena as a peacemaker the poet offers his audience several important reminders. To begin with Euripides’ dialogue with the Parthenon, the poet reminds his audience of the symbolism of the gifts of the two gods to Athens, the sea and the olive tree, which were overshadowed by the towering figures of the competing gods that dominated the West Pediment.53 Specifically, Athena’s conciliatory speech chimes with the symbolism of the olive tree that once upon a time won her the patronage of Athens. The choice of the olive tree, symbolising agriculture, over the sea, symbolising navigation, reflects primarily an economic choice, namely agriculture vs sea-trade.54 In the troubled years of the Peloponnesian war  The olive tree is not discernible in Carrey’s drawings or the pedimental fragments but, as Connelly (2014) 107 observes, fourth-century vase painting, inspired by this scene, features an olive sprouting between Poseidon and Athena.  For the symbolism of the olive-tree and sea-water, see Patay-Horváth (2015) 356.

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agriculture had become closely associated with peace, as Aristophanes’ Acharnians, Farmers, and Peace make abundantly clear. Euripides’ emphasis on the conciliatory skills of Athena is the reminder that she is not only a war goddess, but a lover of peace too, despite the tendency of contemporary monumental art to foreground the goddess’ aristeia as a warrior. The Euripidean portrait of Athena as a conciliator thus stands in sharp contrast to the overwhelming presence of the theme of victory that the temple of Athena Nike commemorated in the form of victorious battles and statues of Nikai on the akroteria and the roof, possibly as many as ten Nikai in all, one for each tribe, as Peter Schultz tentatively suggested.55 Even if ten is too high a figure, what survives leaves no doubt concerning the triumphal character of the monument. It is worth noting, however, that the late fifth-century emphasis on battles and V/victories was also at variance with the symbolism of the archaic, pre-Persian, cult statue of Athena Nike who was holding her pomegranate in her right and a helmet in her left.56 To quote Hurwit once again, the many-seeded fruit was a symbol of fertility and the abundance victory brings, whereas the helmet, because it was not in place on the goddess’ head, symbolized the peace and security won by military success.57

Thus, the old cult-statue acknowledged the reality of war, but privileged peace. In this respect the chorus’ plan to dedicate the Thracian shields to the temple of Athena and live peacefully ever after chimes with the symbolism of the old cult statue of Athena Nike and is at variance with the sculptural programme of the late fifth-century temple. I have argued elsewhere that in the years leading up to the Peace of Nicias Euripides in Cresphontes and Aristophanes in Peace counter monumental statues and temples of Nike at Olympia and Athens respectively by giving centrestage to goddess Eirene, perhaps with an eye to push for a state cult once peace comes back to the embattled city (Fig. 7.3).58 In Cresphontes it is the chorus of Messenians who sing and dance a hymn to the goddess, whereas Aristophanes enhances the presence of Eirene by placing on stage a colossal statue of the goddess that became the butt of mockery by Eupolis and Plato Comicus. These mocking references indicate that the colossal statue of Peace must have made a

   

Schultz (2001) 34 n. 116. Heliodorus the periegete in Harpocrat., s.v. Νίκη Αθηνᾶ. Hurwit (2004) 181. Athanassaki (2018a).

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lasting impression.59 In political terms, the staging of the statue of Peace was Aristophanes’ attempt to co-opt monumental art to the cause of peace. My reading of Cresphontes and now of Erechtheus shows that Euripides’ dialogue with monumental art had the same purpose in both plays, to promote the cause of peace.

Fig. 7.3: Nike of Paionios. Olympia, Archaeological Museum.

Why would Euripides, Aristophanes, and other dramatists enter into dialogue with monumental iconography and architecture in order to promote the advantages of

 The Aristophanic statue of Peace may have not been the only colossal statue on the Athenian stage. Taplin (2013) raised the possibility that the colossal bust of Dionysus on an early fourth-century bell crater by the Choregos Painter (Cleveland 1989.73) may represent a similar scene, the epiphany of Dionysus in an otherwise unknown comedy. In this case, the Aristophanic Peace must have been an influential precursor; for the possible relationship of the two plays, see Taplin, ibid. 66–68.

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reconciliation, when they could convey the same message through purely dramatic means? Euripides’ references and allusions to art and architecture in several plays make it clear that he was fascinated with the visual.60 Natural inclination would be an adequate reason, but politics was a driving force too, as is clear also from Aristophanes’ engagement with monumental art and architecture, which was a dominant vehicle of public discourse in Greek city-states and Panhellenic sanctuaries. By Euripides’ time theatre had long been the rival vehicle of major civic discourse in Athens thanks to its popularity, the expense, and the creative energy that went into it.61 When Xuthus tells Ion that he can go to Athens with him as theates, the reference is not only to sight-seeing, but to theatre-going as well. As is to be expected, the political character of the dialogue of drama with monumental art is more easily discernible in comedy on account of the overt references to political figures and public buildings. Aristophanes and Euripides were well aware of the political significance of monumental art and architecture. In Knights, Paphlagon/Cleon mentions his intention to propose the erection of a monument of the Athenians’ valour, which has been interpreted as a reference to the temple of Athena Nike (ὅτι λέγειν γνώμην ἔμελλον ὡς δίκαιον ἐν πόλει / ἱστάναι μνημεῖον ὑμῶν ἐστιν ἀνδρείας χάριν, ll. 267–268).62 Comparison of Paphlagon’s hawkish policy in Knights with the chorus’ peaceful plan in Erechtheus reveals the contrasting perspectives of war-mongers and peace-lovers. Unlike Paphlagon the chorus of Athenian elders have no interest in capitalising on the display of captured shields. They will hang the Thracian shields upon the columns of Athena’s temple(s) in order to enjoy the pleasures of peace forever afterwards. As already mentioned, Plutarch reports that those who longed for peace in Athens (ἐπόθουν τὸν ἀμίαντον καὶ ἀπόλεμον βίον) listened with pleasure to choruses singing ‘Let my spear lie so that spiders weave their threads around it’ (fr. 369). Aristophanes, who staged his play when Cleon was alive, was interested in revealing Paphlagon/ Cleon’s ulterior motives behind the completion of the temple and the dedication of the shields, for as he has him say his enemies will be silenced, as long as something remains of these shields. In engaging in dialogue with the same temple Euripides follows a different path by having his chorus explain how a victory memorial can serve the cause of peace. We have seen that the answer is to dedicate war spoils and forget about war ever after.

 In addition to descriptions of and allusions to artifacts, Euripidean diction is full of art terms. For the vocabulary of art in his plays, see in particular Stieber (2011).  For the interaction of comedy and tragedy with vase-painting, see Taplin (1993) and (2007), respectively.  Lippman, Scahill, and Schultz (2006) 557–558.

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In conclusion, Euripides’ visual references and fresh perspectives on three major temples, the Parthenon, the temple of Athena Nike and the Erechtheion, shows that the purpose of his dialogue with monumental art was to promote peace and reconciliation at a time when hopes for peace were high. His choice of dramatic viewers was ingenious. The chorus of Athenian citizens, namely people like those who voted in the Athenian assembly for the erection of public buildings, and the patron goddess of Athens, in whose honour these temples were erected, articulate in the Athenian theatre their preference for reconciliation and the pleasures of peaceful life, thus showing the way which monumental art should take in the future. Athena’s focus on the newest of the three temples, the Erechtheion, which countered the themes of competition, strife, and victory by its inbuilt message of reconciliation and peaceful coexistence of former immortal competitors and mortal opponents. Euripides puts in relief Athena’s conciliatory side and skills and gives her the last word not only on cult but also on monumental art in her beloved city.

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Meyer, M. 2017. Athena, Göttin von Athen. Kult und Mythos auf der Akropolis bis in klassische Zeit. Vienna. Μüller, G. 1975. Beschreibung von Kunstwerken im Ion des Euripide. Hermes 103: 25–44. Mueller, M. 2010. Athens in a Basket: Naming, Objects, and Identity in Euripides’ Ion. Arethusa 43: 365–402. Owen, A.S. 1939. Euripides. Ion. Oxford. Papachatzis, N. 1989. The Cult of Erechtheus and Athena on the Acropolis of Athens. Kernos 2: 175–185. Patay-Horváth, A. 2015 [published 2016]. The Contest between Athena and Poseidon. Myth, History and Art. Historika 5: 353–362. Pelling, C. 1980. Plutarch’s Adaptation of His Source Material. JHS 1980: 127–140. Revermann, M. 2006. The Competence of Theatre Audiences in Fifth- and Fourth-Century Athens. JHS 126: 99–124. Rotroff, S.I. and J.H. Oakley. 1992. Debris from a Public Dining Place in the Athenian Agora. Princeton, NJ. Schultz, P. 2001. The Akroteria of the Temple of Athena Nike. Hesperia: The Journal of the American School of Classical Studies at Athens 70. 1: 1–47. Sonnino, M. 2010. Euripidis Erechthei quae exstant. Firenze. Sourvinou-Inwood, C. and R. Parker. 2011. Athenian Myths and Festivals: Aglauros, Erechtheus, Plynteria, Panathenaia, Dionysia. Oxford. Spaeth, B.S. 1991. Athenians and Eleusinians in the West Pediment of the Parthenon. Hesperia 60.3: 331–362. Spiro, F. 1903. Pausaniae Graeciae descriptio, vol. 1. Leipzig. Stewart, A.F. 1985. History, Myth, and Allegory in the Program of the Temple of Athena Nike, Athens. In Studies in the History of Art, vol. 16. Symposium Papers IV: Pictorial Narrative in Antiquity and the Middle Ages. 53–73. Washington, DC. Stieber, M.C. 2011. Euripides and the Language of Craft. Leiden, Boston. Taplin, O. 1993. Comic Angels and other Approaches to Greek Drama through Vase-Painting. Oxford. Taplin, O. 2007. Pots & Plays. Interactions between Greek Tragedy and Vase-Painting of the Fourth century BC. Los Angeles. Taplin, O. 2013. Epiphany of a Serious Dionysus in a Comedy? In Ancient Comedy and Reception: Essays in Honor of Jeffrey Henderson, ed. S.D. Olson, 62–68. Berlin. Zeitlin, F.I. 1994. The Artful Eye: Vision, Ecphrasis and Spectacle in Euripidean Theatre. In Art and Text in Ancient Greek Culture, ed. S. Goldhill and R. Osborne, 138–196. Cambridge.

Part III: Hellenistic and imperial age

Benjamin Acosta-Hughes

8 The goddess playing with gold On the cult of Arsinoe-Aphrodite in image and text Abstract: Upon the several impressive poetic passages associated with the early Ptolemaic cult of the queen Arsinoe Philadelphus as the goddess Aphrodite, among them Theocritus Idyll 15.100–101, Idyll 17.45–50 and 121–134, Callimachus Ep. 5 Pf. = HE 1109–1120, Callimachus Aetia fr. 110–110f Harder, Callimachus fr. 228 Pf. (The Deification of Arsinoe) and several of the new anathematika epigrams of Posidippus (36–41 A.-B.), has been recently cast a tantalising new light – for one of the monumental figures brought back to our vision by Frank Goddio and his team of marine archaeologists from the site of ancient East Canopus in the Bay of Abu-Qir has been identified by Goddio and his researchers as an image of Arsinoe-Aphrodite from her temple at Zephyrium. The image, of black granodiorite and 1.5 m. in height, displays a synthesis of Greek and Egyptian characteristics, and is, unsurprisingly, remarkable for its emphasis on female erotic features, particularly the breasts and the womb. This chapter seeks to provide an intervisual reading of the surviving poetic passages on Arsinoe-Aphrodite in tandem with this image in particular (as well as several other images, including the now vanished Hirsch Arsinoe) and will posit the argument that the audiences of these poems would have been expected to make the association of poetic texts with the image of the queen-goddess, and to have understood the poems in light of these images – a two-way dialogue of image and text that vividly embodies the deified queen, her powers, and her attributes. Intertextuality is the recognition of the many effects of one text upon and within another; the reading of the later text is enhanced by the recognition of the earlier text and its resonances in the subsequent work.1 Intervisuality is an analogous concept: this is the recognition of the many effects of an image, or images,

 Intertextuality in classical studies now includes a very extensive bibliography: seminal works (in English) are Conte (1986) and Hinds (1998); for Virgil, Thomas (1999). Classical scholars generally engage with a somewhat more delimited understanding of intertextuality than the original Kristevan post-structuralist criticism from which the term ‘intertextuality’ is derived. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110795448-009

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in a literary text (whether subsequent or contemporary).2 One obvious example of intervisuality is Callimachus’ sixth Iambus, which provides a detailed description of Pheidias’ statue of Zeus at Olympia in iambic verse; the pointe of the poem lies in the exact nature of the description, the reader need not have seen the statue itself at Olympia by autopsy, but Callimachus’ reconfiguration of the statue in verse is believable, certifiable. The original image of Pheidias’ famous statue, and a knowledge of its measurements and specific features, gives life to Callimachus’ poem.3 Another example may underlie the description of Delian Apollo in Callimachus’ second Hymn: as S.A. Stephens has recently proposed in her 2015 study of the poem,4 Callimachus’ description dovetails with features of a colossal cult statue of Apollo once located in his cult shrine at Cyrene. The statue, now in the British Museum, is believed to be a Roman copy of an earlier Greek work of the second century BCE, a work that, in turn, seems to have preserved features of an even earlier Greek cult statue, one that exhibited many of the characteristics Callimachus highlights of the image in his poem.5 The extent to which Hellenistic poetry evokes visual images is the subject of the 2017 study of Pascale Linant de Bellefonds and Évelyne Prioux Voir les mythes. Poésie hellénistique et arts figurés. This rich and important study aligns passages of extant Hellenistic poetry, whether they explicitly evoke images of figurative art or may be understood to do so implicitly, with surviving art images of the contemporary period; the visual culture of the poetry’s immediate audience becomes key to the reading and appreciation of the poetry itself. Thus, for example, Theseus’ visit to the aged Hecale in Callimachus’ poem devoted to this woman, now old, grieving and in much reduced circumstances, can be illuminatingly read in the light of contemporary art images of old age and the hospitality that poverty can offer.6 Similarly, the image on Jason’s cloak of the goddess Aphrodite staring at her own reflection in the shield of her lover Ares (Arg. 1.742–746) gains an enhanced reading in the light of the many art images that figure the goddess gazing at her own image in a mirror. In the following study, I shall attempt to read a particular image of a Hellenistic queen, Arsinoe II, aligned in cult with the Olympian goddess Aphrodite as Arsinoe-Aphrodite, with a selection of poetic passages that appear to evoke this

 For the term intervisuality and a brief history of its application, see Pizzone’s contribution to this volume.  On Iambus 6, see now Petrovic (2006). On the many statues in Callimachus’ extant poems, see Petrovic (2010) 205–207.  Stephens (2015) 74.  Stephens (2015) 87–88.  Linant de Bellefonds and Prioux (2017) 151–196, esp. 173–174.

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figure: Arsinoe-Aphrodite. Arsinoe II was the older sister of Ptolemy II; she was married first to Lysimachus, one of Alexander’s generals and overlord of Thrace, at some point around 300 BCE, and by him had at least two sons (these were to be her only biological children).7 Lysimachus was killed at the battle of Corupedion in Lydia at the beginning of 281 (so Arsinoe had been his wife for at least 15 years, a point often overlooked in the scholarship on this extraordinary woman). Her half-brother, Ptolemy Ceraunus, son of Ptolemy I and his first wife, Eurydice, now attempted a spectacular seizure of power, during the brief course of which he compelled his half-sister Arsinoe to marry him, and then murdered two of her sons by her previous husband.8 Arsinoe fled first to Samothrace, and thence made her way back to Egypt (around 279).9 Here she intrigued against her brother’s wife, Arsinoe I, who, being the daughter of Lysimachus, was also Arsinoe II’s own stepdaughter. Before 274 Arsinoe II married her full brother Ptolemy Philadelphus, the occasion for several celebratory poems. Callimachus fr. 392 Pf. Ἀρσινόης ὦ ξεῖνε γάμον καταβάλλομ’ ἀείδειν, ‘of Arsinoe’s wedding, stranger, I strike up the song’, is the one line cited by a scholion to Pindar Nemean 11.1 that defines the term καταβολή, ‘beginning’; the poem seems to have been composed for this occasion, the wedding of Ptolemy II and Arsinoe II, and a surviving elegy of Posidippus (SH 960) can likely be attributed to the same occasion. Theocritus Idyll 18, the epithalamium of Menelaus and Helen, is a celebratory allegory of the wedding of Ptolemy and Arsinoe;10 the role of Helen as model for Arsinoe’s divinity is central here. Theocritus Idyll 17, I shall posit, is also a poem intended to celebrate this marriage itself; as Arsinoe in this poem is still alive, the poem can be dated prior to her death in 270. Until very recently, the cult of Arsinoe-Aphrodite was known to us through a handful of texts that celebrate the cult and the goddess: Theocritus Idyll 15.100–101, Idyll 17.45–50 and 121–134, Callimachus Ep. 5 Pf. = HE 1109–1120, Callimachus Aetia fr. 110–110f Harder (The Lock of Berenice), Callimachus fr.

 Carney (2013) argues strongly for three sons. On the figure ‘Ptolemy the Son’ identified in the Mendes Stele, see now Skuse (2017).  Krug (1983) 195–198 is a particularly rich narrative of this period in Arsinoe’s life.  Arsinoe dedicated the rotunda on Samothrace either while married to Lysimachus or to her brother Ptolemy II; if the latter, perhaps in gratitude for her successful flight from Ptolemy Ceraunus.  Griffiths (1979), esp. 53–59 and 86–91 is a seminal study in the role of Helen as model for Ptolemaic ruler cult. The allegory is the more effective in that Helen and Menelaus had a daughter (Hermione), but no son (as Ptolemy II and Arsinoe II have no offspring but are the ‘parents’ in cultural-religious terms of Ptolemy’s son by his first wife). The term πρόσθε νεογράπτω θαλάμω χορὸν ἐστάσαντο, ‘they set up a dance before the newly depicted bridal chamber’, thus has a multiplicity of meanings: see further Acosta-Hughes (2010) 30–32.

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228 Pf. (The Deification of Arsinoe), an epigram of Hedylus that includes a reference to the hydraulic organ of Ctesibius (HE 1843–1852 = 4 Floridi), and several of the new anathematika epigrams of Posidippus (36–41 A.-B.).11 A tantalising new light may now have been cast upon this collection of texts. One of the monumental figures brought back to our vision by Frank Goddio and his team of marine archaeologists from the site of ancient East Canopus in the Bay of Abu-Qir has been identified by Goddio and his researchers as an image of Arsinoe-Aphrodite possibly from her temple at Zephyrium.12 The image, of black granodiorite and 1.5 m. in height, displays a synthesis of Greek and Egyptian characteristics, and is, unsurprisingly, remarkable for its emphasis on female erotic features, particularly the breasts and the womb (Fig. 8.1). This chapter seeks to provide an ‘intervisual reading’ of the surviving poetic passages that treat Arsinoe-Aphrodite in tandem with this image in particular. I include discussion of several other images as well, including the now vanished Hirsch Arsinoe (Fig. 8.2), and shall posit the argument that the audiences of these poems would have been expected to both make the association of poetic texts with the statuary images of the queen-goddess, and to understand the poems in light of these images – a two-way dialogue of image and text that vividly embodies the deified queen, her powers and her attributes. To begin with the image itself: Frank Goddio suggested in his 2003 discussion of this image, which he and his team recovered from East Canopus, where the small temple of Arsinoe-Aphrodite mentioned by Strabo once stood,13 that it is a representation of Arsinoe in her cult role of Arsinoe-Aphrodite;14 Jean Yoyotte in Goddio’s lavish 2006 volume Trésors engloutis d’Égypte15 gives a detailed discussion of the statue, which Yoyotte also identifies as Arsinoe-Aphrodite: the Isis-knot over the right breast is clearly the indication that the figure is a Ptolemaic queen. The statue is made of granodiorite (similar to granite but with a higher volume of quartz); the pose is more typically Greek than Egyptian (particularly with the absence of a back column), and the statue has the veiling characteristic of Hellenistic statuary known as ‘wet drapery’, so that the statue appears

 On the cult see Fraser (1972) 239–240; Marquaille (2003) 58–59; on Hedylus’ poem see Floridi (2020) 97–112.  Goddio (2003) 136 and Goddio (2006) 136. See also Yoyotte (2006). Albersmeier (2010) 197 argues for a later date in the Ptolemaic period.  Strab. 17.1.16 refers to this as a ναΐσκον, ‘small temple’. It is indeed remarkable that the temple figures in his short description: no other Alexandrian cult-site has a comparable presence in extant literature.  Goddio (2003) 156 and Yoyotte (2006) 106–108.  Yoyotte (2006) 106–108.

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Fig. 8.1: Statue of Arsinoe II. third century BCE. Canopus. Black granodiorite. H. 1.5 m | W 0.55 m | D. 0.28 m. Biblioteca Alexandrina Antiquities Museum. © Franck Goddio Team – IEASM.

Fig. 8.2: The ‘Hirsh’ Arsinoe. © SCA 208. HessDivo AG, Zürich.

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partially nude, partially veiled. Unlike similar statues (for example the image of Ptolemaic queen as Isis now in the Greco-Roman Museum, inv. no. 31424, also from the Bay of Abu-Qir, to which this image is in some respects very similar) this newly recovered image is not clothed below the veiling. The stance is one typical of Egyptian statuary (the so-called pas égyptien, one leg slightly forward). One of the Posidippus epigrams known prior to the publication of the new collection, P.Mil.Vogl. VIII 309, describes the foundation of the small temple of Arsinoe-Aphrodite by the Samian nauarch Callicrates. P.Firmin-Didot preserves two of Posidippus’ epigrams on Alexandrian monuments, one on the enormous lighthouse and one on the small shrine of Arsinoe-Aphrodite (HE 3110–3119 = 116 A.-B.): μέσσον ἐγὼ Φαρίης ἀκτῆς στόματός τε Κανώπου ἐν περιφαινομένῳ κύματι χῶρον ἔχω, τήνδε πολυρρήνου Λιβύης ἀνεμώδεα χηλήν, τὴν ἀνατεινομένην εἰς Ἰταλὸν ζέφυρον, ἔνθα με Καλλικράτης ἱδρύσατο καὶ βασιλίσσης ἱερὸν Ἀρσινόης Κύπριδος ὠνόμασεν. ἀλλ’ ἐπὶ τὴν Ζεφυρῖτιν ἀκουσομένην Ἀφροδίτην, Ἑλλήνων ἁγναί, βαίνετε, θυγατέρες, οἵ θ’ ἁλὸς ἐργάται ἄνδρες· ὁ γὰρ ναύαρχος ἔτευξεν τοῦθ’ ἱερὸν παντὸς κύματος εὐλίμενον.

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Between the headland of Pharos and the mouth of Canopus, I have a place amidst the surrounding wave, this windy breakwater of Libya rich in sheep, stretched out against the Italian Zephyr, where Callicrates founded and named me shrine of the queen ArsinoeCypris. But to Aphrodite who will be called Zephyritis, come, chaste daughters of the Greeks, and men who work upon the sea. For the nauarch wrought this temple wellharbored from every wave.16

In his masterful and far-reaching study of the nauarch Callicrates, P. Bing has convincingly figured Callicrates as advocate for an ‘intercultural poetics’ that seeks to ‘mediate between old Hellas and the sometimes strange new world of Ptolemaic Egypt, bridging the gap between the two, whether by bringing Greek tradition to bear on his Egyptian milieu or by spreading abroad his rulers’ cultural poetics’.17 A particularly effective illustration of Callicrates’ mission is represented by the future participle in the seventh line, ἐπὶ τὴν Ζεφυρῖτιν ἀκουσομένην Ἀφροδίτην; Callicrates has both founded the shrine (in the past) and also ensured

 All translations, unless otherwise noted, are my own.  Bing (2009) 234–252. The term ‘intercultural poetics’ is particularly derived from Stephens (2003).

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the cult’s future, combining Greek goddess and Egyptian setting. Bing proposed that several of the new Posidippus epigrams (36, 37, and 39 A.-B.) may relate to this same shrine and the divine queen-goddess revered there.18 So too, as Bing notes, does Hedylus HE 1843–1852 = 4 Floridi, which features the god Bes, Arsinoe’s temple and a wealth of vivid sound imagery.19 Another poem that also centres on this shrine is Callimachus’ nautilus epigram (5 Pf. = HE 1109–1120): Κόγχος ἐγώ, Ζεφυρῖτι, παλαίτερον· ἀλλὰ σὺ νῦν με, Κύπρι, Σεληναίης ἄνθεμα πρῶτον ἔχεις, ναυτίλος ὃς πελάγεσσιν ἐπέπλεον, εἰ μὲν ἀῆται, τείνας οἰκείων λαῖφος ἀπὸ προτόνων, εἰ δὲ γαληναίη, λιπαρὴ θεός, οὖλος ἐρέσσων ποσσὶν †ἱν’ ὡσπ† ἔργῳ τοὔνομα συμφέρεται, ἔστ’ ἔπεσον παρὰ θῖνας Ἰουλίδας, ὄφρα γένωμαι σοὶ τὸ περίσκεπτον παίγνιον, Ἀρσινόη, μηδέ μοι ἐν θαλάμῃσιν ἔθ’ ὡς πάρος (εἰμὶ γὰρ ἄπνους) τίκτηται νοτερῆς ὤεον ἁλκυόνος. Κλεινίου ἀλλὰ θυγατρὶ δίδου χάριν· οἶδε γὰρ ἐσθλά ῥέζειν καὶ Σμύρνης ἐστὶν ἀπ’ Αἰολίδος.

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Long ago, Zephyritis, I was a conch, but now you, Cypris, have me, the first offering of Selenaia, I who used to sail as a nautilus on the sea, if there was a breeze, stretching out my sail from my own forestays, but if it was calm, radiant goddess, rapidly rowing with my feet – and so my name is fitting to the action – until I fell upon the shores of Iulis, that I might be for you, Arsinoe, your much admired plaything, nor in my chambers any longer as before – for I am without breath – may the egg of the sea halcyon be laid. But show favour to the daughter of Cleinias. For she knows to do good works and is from Aeolian Smyrna.

This epigram plays with many of the standard features of the dedicatory poem that might be expected to be associated with a votive object. It plays upon the conceptualization of Arsinoe-Aphrodite as Euploia, guardian of safe sea journeys, a crucial image for the vast Ptolemaic naval empire. The description of the formal material of the votive offering evolves into an extended disquisition on natural history.20 The fiction of the poem inscribed on the object extends through the long winding period that encompasses the first 10 lines. Effectively, the poet creates a nautilus shell in verse.21 As in other statuary poetry of Callimachus, both the detailed description and the journey are foregrounded in a poem that utilises

 Bing (2009) 234–252.  On this poem, see again Floridi (2020) 97–112.  See Gutzwiller (1992) 194–209 and Selden (1998) 309–313.  The epigram shares features with the anonymous hexameter hymn to Arsinoe-Aphrodite (P.Goodspeed 101 col. 1–4 [and possibly 5]), which celebrates Arsinoe-Aphrodite as protector of mariners (col. 2, l. 14 π̣ρ̣όπασα κρατοῦσα σὺ̣ πόντον ὀπάζεις e.g.) and goddess of marriage

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its own generic traditions to create a βίος, a ‘life’, of the votive object. The poem is also a miniature hymn to the goddess Arsinoe-Aphrodite, with the varied cletic nomenclature of the goddess (Zephyritis, Cypris, Galenaia, Arsinoe) in the succeeding verses.22 The poem, like the nautilus shell, becomes a votive offering to the goddess, Arsinoe-Aphrodite, whose temple at East Canopus appears in Strabo’s description of Egypt as a ναΐσκον, ‘small temple’ (17.1.16). It is indeed intriguing that Strabo in his description of Alexandria so specifically singles out this temple, and that he does so in a passage followed by his discussion of the name Canopus with the recollection of Helen and Menelaus in Egypt. It is further also intriguing that this temple is the subject of so many epigrams; if Bing’s brilliant proposal that most, if not all, of the poems of the anathematika (‘dedications’) section of P.Mil.Vogl. VIII 309 are concerned with this cult and its shrine, that would give this shrine unparalleled importance in the new collection of Posidippus’ epigrams, and further suggests a remarkable presence of this cult in early Alexandria. And this leads us to re-consider the cult image that these poems might evoke in the minds of their readers. The nauarch Callicrates was also of course responsible for the erection at Olympia of two enormous monuments of Ptolemy II and his sister wife Arsinoe II that Bing also discusses in his study,23 and that have been recently in the popular news with the partial restoration of one of the columns.24 These images faced the temples of Zeus and Hera; one pair of brother-sister gods gazed across the plaza at another.25 This visual equation finds a remarkable parallel in Theocritus Idyll 17, where the poet concludes his praise of Ptolemy by drawing a parallel between the two marriages (ll. 121–134): Μοῦνος ὅδε προτέρων τε καὶ ὧν ἔτι θερμὰ κονία στειβομένα καθύπερθε ποδῶν ἐκμάσσεται ἴχνη, ματρὶ φίλᾳ καὶ πατρὶ θυώδεας εἵσατο ναούς· ἐν δ’ αὐτοὺς χρυσῷ περικαλλέας ἠδ’ ἐλέφαντι ἵδρυται πάντεσσιν ἐπιχθονίοισιν ἀρωγούς. πολλὰ δὲ πιανθέντα βοῶν ὅγε μηρία καίει μησὶ περιπλομένοισιν ἐρευθομένων ἐπὶ βωμῶν, αὐτός τ’ ἰφθίμα τ’ ἄλοχος, τᾶς οὔτις ἀρείων νυμφίον ἐν μεγάροισι γυνὰ περιβάλλετ’ ἀγοστῷ,

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(col. 3, l. 5 [καλὴ Ἀρρ]ο̣γένεια γαμό̣[σ]στόλε καὶ χαριτέρπνη). On this poem, see esp. Barbantani (2005) and Meliadò (2008).  On the cult of Arsinoe-Aphrodite, see Fraser (1972), esp. 239–240.  Bing (2009) 241–243.  https://www.archaeology.wiki/blog/2017/04/25/inauguration-restored-north-column-ptole maic-votive-monument/.  Hintzen-Bohlen (1992) 77–78.

8 The goddess playing with gold

ἐκ θυμοῦ στέργοισα κασίγνητόν τε πόσιν τε. ὧδε καὶ ἀθανάτων ἱερὸς γάμος ἐξετελέσθη οὓς τέκετο κρείουσα Ῥέα βασιλῆας Ὀλύμπου· ἓν δὲ λέχος στόρνυσιν ἰαύειν Ζηνὶ καὶ Ἥρῃ χεῖρας φοιβήσασα μύροις ἔτι παρθένος Ἶρις.

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He alone of earlier men and of those of whom the tread of their feet still warms the trodden dust has set up fragrant shrines to his dear mother and his father; there he sets them all beautiful in gold and ivory as benefactors for all mortals upon the earth. And he burns many fat thighs of oxen as the months come round upon the reddening altars, himself and his good wife, than whom no better wife casts her arms about a husband in his halls, from her heart loving him as both brother and husband. So was accomplished the holy marriage of the immortals, whom lady Rhea bore to be kings of Olympus. For one bed does Iris, still a virgin, with her hands wet with perfumes strew to Zeus and Hera to sleep upon.

In other words, the apposition of divine couples at Olympia is strikingly paralleled in the concluding section of Theocritus’ poem; is this section of the poem meant to evoke the vision of the two ‘divine’ pairs at Olympia? The chryselephantine statue of Zeus at Olympia was one of the wonders of the ancient world; its fame is what makes the very detailed description of Callimachus’ sixth Iambus so effective (the reader of the poem has no need to go see the statue, or, conversely, the reader’s knowledge of the statue becomes a touchstone against which the value of the poem can be measured). In a very detailed and provocative study of the image from the Goddio exploration Emma Libonati has questioned the ascription of the Goddio image, and in particular has doubted the suitability of such an image associated with a court poetry that lays emphasis on the sophrosyne, ‘the feminine modesty related to the domestic and private sphere, an integral value in depictions of women . . . The court poets embrace the incestuous royal marriage between Ptolemy II and Arsinoe II, equating the union as the hieros gamos of Zeus and Hera, and describe it as chaste and virginal.’26 It might be worthwhile though to reconsider a few of the surviving images on the marriage of Ptolemy II and Arsinoe II here – is this indeed how the marriage is described? I return first to the concluding lines of Theocritus Idyll 17 (ll. 128–134): αὐτός τ’ ἰφθίμα τ’ ἄλοχος, τᾶς οὔτις ἀρείων νυμφίον ἐν μεγάροισι γυνὰ περιβάλλετ’ ἀγοστῷ, ἐκ θυμοῦ στέργοισα κασίγνητόν τε πόσιν τε. ὧδε καὶ ἀθανάτων ἱερὸς γάμος ἐξετελέσθη οὓς τέκετο κρείουσα Ῥέα βασιλῆας Ὀλύμπου·

 Libonati (2018) 105.

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ἓν δὲ λέχος στόρνυσιν ἰαύειν Ζηνὶ καὶ Ἥρῃ χεῖρας φοιβήσασα μύροις ἔτι παρθένος Ἶρις. himself and his good wife, than whom no better wife casts her arms about a husband in his halls, from her heart loving him as both brother and husband. So was accomplished the holy marriage of the immortals, whom lady Rhea bore to be kings of Olympus. For one bed does Iris, still a virgin, with her hands wet with perfumes strew to Zeus and Hera to sleep upon.

The image is a distinctly erotic one: as is the divine comparison, for Zeus and Hera have at least two divine children, one of whom, Hebe, appears earlier in the poem itself as wife of the deified Heracles (ll. 32–33): οἳ δ’ εἰς ἀμβρόσιον θάλαμον λευκοσφύρου Ἥβας / ὅπλα καὶ αὐτὸν ἄγουσι γενειήταν Διὸς υἱόν, ‘they lead him to the ambrosial chamber of slender-ankled Hebe, his weapons and himself, the bearded son of Zeus’. It is rather Iris, the last figure and word of the poem, who is ‘still virgin’. Posidippus’ epigram on the temple of Arsinoe-Aphrodite exhorts the ‘chaste daughters of the Greeks’ to attend the goddess, but this calls attention to another aspect of Arsinoe-Aphrodite:27 Arsinoe-Aphrodite is also known as patron of young brides, hence the metaphor of the ‘sea of love’ that comes to be associated with her (as in Hedylus HE 1843–1852 = 4 Floridi).28 A particularly striking passage for this discussion comes from the opening of the Argive woman’s song in Theocr. Idyll 15 (ll. 106–111): Κύπρι Διωναία, τὺ μὲν ἀθανάταν ἀπὸ θνατᾶς, ἀνθρώπων ὡς μῦθος, ἐποίησας Βερενίκαν, ἀμβροσίαν ἐς στῆθος ἀποστάξασα γυναικός· τὶν δὲ χαριζομένα, πολυώνυμε καὶ πολύναε, ἁ Βερενικεία θυγάτηρ Ἑλένᾳ εἰκυῖα Ἀρσινόα πάντεσσι καλοῖς ἀτιτάλλει Ἄδωνιν.

110

Cypris, daughter of Dione, you, so men’s story goes, made Berenice immortal from mortal when you distilled ambrosia into her woman’s breast. Indulging you, you of many names and many temples, Berenice’s daughter, she who is like Helen, Arsinoe cherishes Adonis with all sorts of lovely things.

I have discussed this text at some length before but would like to highlight a few things here.29 The verses align both Greek and Egyptian funerary imagery: they recall on the one hand the embalming scenes of Homer’s Iliad, the preservation of

 ἀλλ’ ἐπὶ τὴν Ζεφυρῖτιν ἀκουσομένην Ἀφροδίτην / Ἑλλήνων ἁγναί, βαίνετε, θυγατέρες, ‘but to Aphrodite, who will be called Zephyritis, come, chaste daughters of the Greeks’.  For discussion and bibliography, see Floridi (2020) 98.  Acosta-Hughes (2010) 72–73.

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the bodies of Patroclus (Il. 19.38–39) and Hector (Il. 23.186–187),30 and at the same time the practice of mummification, and the Egyptian belief in the afterlife.31 As we observed in the case of the Callimachus nautilus epigram (above), the figure of the divinity Arsinoe-Aphrodite effectively emerges in the course of these lines, with here Helen, the mortal become immortal figure aligned with Aphrodite, as the pivot upon which the transition is effected. The passage is remarkable for its erotic overtones: ἀτιτάλλει, ‘cherishes, fosters’, recalls Aphrodite’s own description of her childhood to Anchises in the Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite (l. 115): Τρῳὰς γὰρ μεγάρῳ με τροφὸς τρέφεν, ἡ δὲ διὰ πρὸ / σμικρὴν παῖδ’ ἀτίταλλε φίλης παρὰ μητρὸς ἑλοῦσα, ‘A Trojan nurse succoured me in the great hall, she who earlier on taking me from my mother fostered me as a small child’.32 The recollection of the passage re-enforces Arsinoe’s association with Aphrodite. Χαριζομένα at l. 109 of Idyll 15 implicates both the relationship of Arsinoe and Aphrodite and at the same time, in Arsinoe’s fostering of Adonis, heightens the queen’s assimilation to Aphrodite (again Arsinoe-Aphrodite). The lines closely associate the female figures of Aphrodite (divine), Helen (semi-divine), recently deceased queen (Berenice I), and living queen (Arsinoe), an adumbration of female figures of present and future immortality. Callimachus’ Lock of Berenice, another poem that figures the image of Arsinoe-Aphrodite (and in this instance her shrine at Zephyrium), is preserved for us in two versions: the complete rendition into Latin by the Roman poet Catullus (c. 66), and considerable papyrus fragments preserved of the Callimachus original (frr. 110–110f Harder). ‘Hyginus’ in Astronomica 2.24 preserves a summary of the circumstances of the lock’s sacrifice and subsequent transition into a constellation: Cuius (scil. Leonis) supra simulacrum proxime Uirginem sunt aliae septem stellae ad caudam Leonis in triangulo collocatae, quas Crinem Berenices esse Conon Samius mathematicus et Callimachus dicit; cum Ptolemaeus Berenicen Ptolemaei et Arsinoes filiam, sororem suam, duxisset uxorem et paucis post diebus Asiam oppugnatum profectus esset, uouisse Berenicen, si uictor Ptolemaeus redisset, se crinem detonsuram; quo uoto damnatum crinem

 Πατρόκλῳ δ’ αὖτ’ ἀμβροσίην καὶ νέκταρ ἐρυθρὸν / στάξε κατὰ ῥινῶν, ἵνα οἱ χρὼς ἔμπεδος εἴη, ‘In Patroclus’ nostrils she [scil. Thetis] dripped ambrosia and red nectar, that his flesh remain firm’; ἤματα καὶ νύκτας, ῥοδόεντι δὲ χρῖεν ἐλαίῳ / ἀμβροσίῳ, ἵνα μή μιν ἀποδρύφοι ἑλκυστάζων, ‘she [scil. Aphrodite] anointed [Hector’s body] with rose-coloured ambrosial oil, that Achilles in dragging him not lacerate him’.  Stephens (2003) 153–154.  Τρῳὰς γὰρ μεγάρῳ με τροφὸς τρέφεν, ἡ δὲ διὰ πρὸ / σμικρὴν παῖδ’ ἀτίταλλε φίλης παρὰ μητρὸς ἑλοῦσα, ‘A Trojan nurse succoured me in the great hall, she who earlier on taking me from my mother fostered me as a small child’. The recollection of the passage re-enforces Arsinoe’s association with Aphrodite.

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in Ueneris Arsinoes Zephyritidis posuisse templo eumque postero die non comparuisse. quod factum cum rex aegre ferret, ut ante diximus, Conon mathematicus cupiens inire gratiam regis dixit crinem inter sidera uideri collocatum et quasdam uacuas a figura septem stellas ostendit quas esse fingeret crinem. And above his (scil. Leo’s) sign, near Virgo, are seven other stars arranged in a triangle at Leo’s tail, which according to the mathematician Conon of Samos and Callimachus are the Lock of Berenice. When Ptolemy had married Berenice, the daughter of Ptolemy and Arsinoe, his sister,33 and had left a few days later to attack Asia, Berenice vowed that, if Ptolemy returned victorious, she would cut off a lock of her hair. She placed the lock, fated by this vow, in the temple of Aphrodite Arsinoe at Zephyrium and the next day it was no longer there. When the king became annoyed at this, as we said before, Conon the mathematician, desiring to ingratiate himself with the king, said that the lock was seen in a position among the stars and showed a group of seven stars without shape, which he pretended were the lock.34

Callimachus’ treatment of the lock’s lament upon its separation from its fellow locks of hair is a plaintive lyric lament (one imbued with overtones of Sappho, as I have discussed elsewhere)35 that forms the final aition of his four-book elegiac Aitia (4.51–58): ἄρτι [ν]εότμητόν με κόμαι ποθέεσκον ἀδε[λφεαί, καὶ πρόκατε γνωτὸς Μέμνονος Αἰθίοπος ἵετο κυκλώσας βαλιὰ πτερὰ θῆλυς ἀήτης, ἵ̣ππ̣ο[ς] ἰοζώνου Λοκρίδος Ἀρσινόης, .[.]ασε̣ δὲ πνοιῇ μ̣ε, δι’ ἠέρα δ’ ὑγρὸν ἐνείκας Κύπρ]ιδος εἰς κόλ⌊πους ἔθηκε· αὐτή⌋ μιν Ζεφυρῖτις ἐπὶ χρέο[ς . . . .Κ]ανωπίτου ναιέτις α[ἰγιαλοῦ.

55

My sister hairs were longing for me, just newly cut, and suddenly Ethiopian Memnon’s twin came rushing, circling his dappled wings, a gentle breeze, the Locrian horse of violet-girdled Arsinoe; with a breath he bore me, and carrying me through the wet ether he set me . . . in Aphrodite’s lap. Him for this purpose Zephyritis . . . who inhabits the Canopian shore.

The breeze Zephyr (twin of Memnon), figured as a horse, bears the lock from its original placement to the lap of Aphrodite-Arsinoe in her cult-site at Zephyrium. This appears to be the lap so prominently highlighted in the granodiorite

 ‘Hyginus’ narrative reflects both biographical (Arsinoe II and Ptolemy II were full siblings) and Greco-Egyptian religious associations (Berenice is the ‘daughter’ of the previous pharaoh and his wife).  Text and translations after Harder (2012).  Acosta-Hughes (2010) 63–75.

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image discussed earlier in this study. Similar to the passage from Theocritus Idyll 15, discussed earlier in this study, that highlights a female triangle of Arsinoe II, Bernice I, and Aphrodite, so here there is a close association of daughter and mother, Berenice II and Arsinoe II, and Aphrodite now aligned with the deceased queen – both poets effectively adumbrate the trio of daughter, mother, and goddess. I would like to close with a brief discussion of another image of Arsinoe II, one that is now lost rather than recovered, and which exists only in the original auction house image from Luzern. The image is a photo of a bust known now only as the Hirsch Arsinoe (cat. no. 53 Smith; Fig. 8.2). Sold by a Jewish businessman forced to leave Alexandria in the exodus of Europeans following the Suez Crisis, the bust came into the hands of the Swiss collector Jacob Hirsch, on whose death in 1957 it was sold at auction in Luzern. The bust thereupon disappeared into private collection.36 All that is known of it now is that it remained in Switzerland for some decades before it came into private ownership in California, where perhaps now it graces the poolside of some well-to-do Malibu resident. The image, one of the finest of this extraordinary woman, exists now in peculiar non-lieu between absence and presence; it is not lost, for it is known to exist, but it can be neither viewed nor cited, as the ownership is unknown. Only the four photos somehow saved from the auction-house catalogue preserve this almost perfect image of Ptolemy II’s sister-queen, her wide eyes reflecting her divine nature, her strong brow and rather prominent (clearly restored) nose comparable to other extant, though more damaged statuary busts in Hellenic style. Arsinoe II Philadelphus was queen of Egypt for less than a decade, yet her imprint on contemporary culture was extraordinary: as Fraser notes,37 it is Arsinoe II’s cult that was to come to be such a powerful image in Ptolemaic Alexandria. Whether represented as a part of the dynastic cult (the Theoi Adelphoi), as Arsinoe-Aphrodite, or in the plethora of street-names that honoured her, hers was a remarkable presence in the Ptolemaic capital, and this included the associations of her images and monuments. To return to the colossal images of Ptolemy and Arsinoe at Olympia, it is her image that faces the temple of Hera – Arsinoe is the prominent, and prevalent, Ptolemaic god. The similarities of the newly recovered image to that of Rome’s Venus Genetrix, as I have observed elsewhere, may be far more than coincidental.

 The most thorough discussion of this now lost image remains Krug (1983) 192–200, with pl. XXXVIII.  Fraser (1972), esp. 237–242.

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Bibliography Acosta-Hughes, B. 2010. Arion’s Lyre. Archaic Lyric into Hellenistic Poetry. Princeton. Albersmeier, S. 2010. Statues of Ptolemaic Queens from Alexandria, Canopus and HeracleionThonis. In Alexandria and the North-Western Delta. Joint Conference Proceedings from Alexandria: City and Harbour (Oxford 2004) and The Trade and Topography of Egypt’s North-West Delta (Berlin 2006), ed. D. Robinson and A. Wilson, 191–201. Oxford. Barbantani, S. 2005. Goddess of Love and Mistress of the Sea: Notes on a Hellenistic Hymn to Arsinoe-Aphrodite (‘P. Lit. Goodsp. 2ʹ, I–IV). Anc. Soc. 35: 135–165. Bing, P. 2009. Posidippus and the Admiral. Kallikrates of Samos in the Epigrams of the Milan Posidippus Papyrus (P. Mil. Vogl. VIII 309). In The Scroll and The Marble. Studies in Reading and Reception in Hellenistic Poetry, ed. P. Bing, 234–252. Ann Arbor. Carney, E.D. 2013. Arsinoe of Egypt and Macedon: A Royal Life. Oxford. Conte, G.B. 1986. The Rhetoric of Imitation: Genre and Poetic Memory in Virgil and Other Latin Poets. Edited and with a Foreword by Charles Segal. Ithaka, NY. Floridi, L. 2020. Edilo, Epigrammi. Introduzione, testo critico, traduzione e commento. Berlin, Boston. Fraser, P.M. 1972. Ptolemaic Alexandria, 3 vols. Oxford. Goddio, F. 2003. (With the collaboration of H. Constanty). Trésors engloutis. Journal de bord d’un archéologue. Tours. Goddio, F. 2006. (With the collaboration of D. Fabre). Trésors engloutis d’Égypte. Paris. Griffiths, F.T. 1979. Theocritus at Court. Leiden. Gutzwiller, K.J. 1992. The Nautilus, the Halcyon, and Selenaia: Callimachus’s Epigram 5 Pf. = 14 G.-P. CA 11: 194–209. Harder, A. 2012. Callimachus. Aetia. 2 vols. Oxford. Hinds, S. 1998. Allusion and Intertext: Dynamics of Appropriation in Roman Poetry. Cambridge. Hintzen-Bohlen, B. 1992. Herrscherrepräsentation im Hellenismus. Cologne. Krug, A. 1983. Ein Bildnis der Arsinoe II Philadelphos. In Alessandria e il mondo ellenisticoromano. Studi in onore di Achille Adriani, ed. N. Bonacasa and A. Di Vita. Rome (repr. 1992). Libonati, E. 2018. An Ambiguous Identification: the Diorite Statue in Diaphanous Drapery from Canopus. In Visual Histories of the Classical World. Studies in Honour of R.R.R. Smith. Turnhout. Linant de Bellefonds, P. and É. Prioux. 2017. Voir les mythes. Poésie hellénistique et arts figurés. Paris. Marquaille, C. 2003. The Ptolemaic ruler as a religious figure in Cyrenaica. Libyan Studies 34: 25–42. Meliadò, C. 2008. ‘E cantando danzerò’ (PLitGoodspeed 2): Introduzione, testo critico, traduzione e commento. Messina. Petrovic, I. 2006. Delusions of Grandeur: Homer, Zeus and the Telchines in Callimachus’ Reply and Iambus 6. Antike und Abendland 52: 16–41. Petrovic, I. 2010. The life story of a cult statue as an allegory: Kallimachos’ Hermes Perpheraios. In Divine Images and Human Imaginations in Ancient Greece and Rome, ed. J. Mylonopoulos, 205–224. Leiden, Boston. Selden, D. 1998. Alibis. CA 17.2: 289–412.

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Skuse, M.L. 2017. Coregency in the reign of Ptolemy II: Findings from the Mendes Stela. JEA 103.1: 89–101. Stephens, S.A. 2003. Seeing Double. Intercultural Poetics in Ptolemaic Alexandria. Berkeley. Stephens, S.A. 2015. Callimachus. The Hymns. Edited with Introduction, Translation, and Commentary. Oxford. Thomas, R. 1999. Reading Virgil in His Texts: Studies in Intertextuality. Ann Arbor. Yoyotte, J. 2006. Statue de Reine. In Goddio (2006), 106–108.

Ewen L. Bowie

9 Intervisuality in declamation and sung poetry in imperial Greek cities Abstract: This chapter explores modes of intervisuality in display speeches, in sung performances of poetry, and in the singing of ceremonial hymns in Greek cities of the second century CE. It suggests that all such performances’ impact on their audiences was modulated by features of the performance environments – portrait-statues of sophists, their classical models, and their rivals; portraits of a poet who was himself performing and (in agonistic contexts) lists of prose and poetic victors in previous competitions; lists of participants in earlier theoriae to the temple of Apollo at Claros where young theoroi sang a hymn in a religious space where these lists were displayed. On the other hand, it is noted that whereas sophists may have been spurred on to greater efforts by seeing nearby portrait-statues of themselves and of their classical models, striking features of their performance space – the sight of the temple of Olympian Zeus in Athens, the imperial temple at Cyzicus, the Athenian Acropolis, or the beach and tomb at Marathon – seem not to have been much exploited in their oratorical displays, perhaps because such speeches were intended to be recycled in different locations. This chapter explores modes of intervisuality in display speeches (ἐπιδείξεις), in performances of poetry, and in the singing of ceremonial hymns in Greek cities of the second century CE. It considers evidence particularly from the Roman province Asia, and its exposition of the declamatory material focuses on one of the province’s greatest orators, Marcus Antonius Polemo of Laodicea and Smyrna.

9.1 Declamation There are several places in his adoptive city Smyrna where a πεπαιδευμένος keen to see and hear the great Marcus Antonius Polemo of Laodicea ad Lycum declaim might have had the opportunity to do so.1 In all or most of these there would be located portrait-statues whose contemplation during a sophist’s declamation

 For Polemo’s family and other members of the Asia Minor élite who were active in more than one city, see Pont (2012). https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110795448-010

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could impinge upon an audience’s appreciation of his performance. A theatre, an odeion, a bouleuterion, or a stoa – all possible locations for epideictic performances – might be adorned with portraits of men honoured by the city.2 It is likely that such statues would include one or more of Smyrna’s great benefactor, Polemo himself,3 though of course they might also include portraits of his political rivals.4 Such public buildings and adjacent spaces would also have busts, statues, and sometimes reliefs portraying members of the imperial family. Among them  For declamation in a theatre, odeion, or bouleuterion, see e.g. Aristid. Or. 51.29–34; for statues in theatres Dio Chrys. Or. 31.116 – an allegedly mediocre poet honoured at Athens next to Menander, presumably in the theatre of Dionysus. For a statue honouring Herodes’ rival Ti. Claudius Demostratus (though as archon and panegyriarch, not as rhetor) in the theatre of Dionysus at Athens, see IG ii2 3609 = Puech (2002) no. 88. For a statue of the rhetor Virdius [. . .] anus in the theatre at Philippopolis, see IGBulg v 5468, Puech (2002) no. 258. In Aphrodisias, most portrait-statues from the first three centuries CE were located in the double portico in front of the bouleuterion, in the forecourt of the Hadrianic baths, and in the theatre; see Fejfer (2008) 51, 55. For discussion of the longue durée of rhetoric in bouleuteria, see Johnstone and Graff (2018). The odeion of Agrippa in Athens (the location of Alexander of Seleucia’s performances at VS 2.5.571–572 and of Philagrus’ debacle at VS 2.8.579–580) had along its entrance from the north, flanking seven sets of marble steps, eight statues, of which three survive: these are of seated figures wearing himatia, either philosophers or sophists, see Thompson (1950) 14–125 with pls. 78 and 79 and the ground plan on p. 100. Other possible locations of sophists’ statues include palaestrae: see A. Plotius Craterus, honoured in the palaestra of Oea on Thera 180 CE ca., IG xii 3.531 = Puech (2002) no. 71; L. Flavius Philostratus (i.e. the biographer of the sophists) in the palaestra at Olympia, IOlymp. 476.  For a skeletal presentation of the distribution of known statues of sophists, see Bowie (2004) 77–81; for republication and full discussion of statue bases and other epigraphic evidence Puech (2002). Some sort of relation between a declaiming sophist and his representation by a statue or painting (but just what is meant is unclear) is offered by AP 11.145, whose authorship is unknown: εἰκὼν ἡ Σέξστου μελετᾷ, Σέξστος δὲ σιωπᾷ. / εἰκὼν ἦν ῥήτωρ, ὁ δὲ ῥήτωρ εἰκόνος εἰκών. For a good analysis of this and other scoptic epigrams on portraits of rhetores (AP 11.149, 11.151, APl 318), see Floridi (2013), and compare also Ausonius Epigrams 46–51 Green.  We hear almost nothing in our sources about such rivals, but their existence can hardly be doubted. Presumably, they were behind the accusations that Polemo had pocketed money he had obtained from Hadrian for Smyrna, VS 1.25.533. No doubt some of the other benefactors registered by ISmyrna 697 were his political opponents, as too magistrates whose names appear on coins, e.g. Pom(peius?) Sextus, stephanephoros, RPC iii 1970, or Claudius Charmus, strategos, RPC iii 1971, both between 117 and 128 CE. On the other hand, the Smyrnaean rhetor Gaianus, whom Phrynichus 394 Fischer regards as sharing his admiration for his addressee Cornelianus, and so perhaps his critical attitude to Polemo, will be a generation later. Contrast our much better evidence for Herodes’ political battles in Athens, Philostr. VS 2.1.559–561, and the letter of Marcus Aurelius, see Oliver (1970). For sophists who were potential rivals in Hadrianic Smyrna, but not noticed by Philostratus, see Claudius Proculus and Sosthenes, Puech (2002) nos. 416 and 455; Münsterberg (1915) 119.

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would be portraits of Hadrian, from whom Polemo had obtained substantial benefactions for Smyrna, though also, after his accession in 138 CE, of the emperor Pius, whom Polemo had unceremoniously ejected from his house on returning late at night to find him, then (in 134 CE) the newly arrived proconsul Asiae, in uninvited residence.5 All these visual representations could enable and encourage listeners to modulate their responses to a declamation being delivered by Polemo on (for example) Marathon through a simultaneous awareness of the eminence that he, and perhaps some of his rivals, had achieved by their virtuosity in this culturally marked mode of performance.6 On the basis of the quality of the declamation itself they could imagine how such state-of-the-art rhetoric might have been adapted to elicit from Hadrian gifts for Polemo himself and benefactions for Smyrna. If the declamation was one in which Polemo was speaking in the persona of the fourth-century BCE orators Demosthenes or Aeschines, it is quite probable that portrait-statues of these classical models of oratory were also within sight of speaker and audience. In Pergamum, where, like Aelius Aristides and many others, Polemo went to seek divine healing and must have declaimed in the Asclepieion, most probably in its theatre,7 he erected a statue of Demosthenes ‘in consequence of a dream’, as the inscription on its base records. The inscription was noted by the lexicographer Phrynichus in the later second century as marred by the non-Attic syntax κατ’ ὄναρ, ‘in a dream’, instead of the adverbial use of the single word ὄναρ, and recovered in the nineteenth century by the German excavations. Its location was in the area of the theatre, in front of the north stoa, perhaps visible to some of an audience in the theatre listening to Polemo.8 By the third century CE, there were also portraits of several imperial sophists in the Asclepieion, three already known from Philostratus’ Lives – Ti.

 VS 1.25.532, 534.  For Polemo’s two surviving Marathon declamations, see below, 218–219; for a sophist, Ptolemy of Naucratis, whose nickname ‘Marathon’ may have been given ‘because in his Attic themes he often recalled those who risked their lives at Marathon’, see Philostr. VS 2.15.595.  For Polemo’s visit to Pergamum and incubation, see Philostr. VS 1.25.535; for Aelius Aristides at the Asclepieion, see Petsalis-Diomidis (2010), Israelowich (2012), and Downie (2013). For the statues lining the colonnaded street leading from the city to the Asclepieion, mostly of classical persons, but including one of ‘Dio the philosopher’ (Δίωνος φιλοσόφου) and one of Hadrian, see Habicht (1969), Fejfer (2008) 56 with no. 214. That of Dio is now judged to be from the Severan period, but may nevertheless commemorate Dio of Prusa, see Puech (2002) no. 227.  Phrynichus, Ecloga 396, IPerg.273 and Habicht (1969) 75–76 no. 33, see Puech (2002) no. 210.

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Claudius Nicomedes of Pergamum (honoured 217 CE ca.),9 L. Flavius Hermocrates of Phocaea (there honoured as a philosophos, but identified by some with Philostratus’ sophist),10 and M. Acilius Diodotus from Caesarea in Cappadocia (honoured 200 CE ca.). The bases of statues honouring these sophists were all found in or near the north stoa, whose western section runs in front of the theatre.11 To return to Smyrna, pupils or friends might have heard Polemo declaim not in a public space but in his own house.12 We know from Philostratus that as well as a statue of Polemo in a small temple – also a possible location for declaiming, just as temple precincts were for teaching13 – there were statues in his house in Smyrna: οἱ μὲν γὰρ ἐν τῷ κήπῳ τοῦ τῆς Ἀρετῆς ἱεροῦ ταφῆναι αὐτόν, οἱ δὲ οὐ πόρρω τούτου ἐπὶ θαλάττῃ, νεὼς δέ τίς ἐστι βραχὺς καὶ ἄγαλμα ἐν αὐτῷ Πολέμωνος, ἐσταλμένον ὡς ἐπὶ τῆς τριήρους ὠργίαζεν, ὑφ’ ᾧ κεῖσθαι τὸν ἄνδρα, οἱ δὲ ἐν τῇ τῆς οἰκίας αὐλῇ ὑπὸ τοῖς χαλκοῖς ἀνδριᾶσιν. For some say that he was buried in the garden of the temple of Virtue; others, not far from there by the sea, and there is a small temple with a statue of Polemo in it, dressed as he was when he celebrated the sacred rites on the trireme, and beneath his statue they say that the man lies; while others say that he was buried in the courtyard of his house under the bronze statues.14 (Philostr. VS 1.25.543)

Among these statues there would probably have been several of classical orators, as there were among the statues in the Athenian house of Atticus, the father of Herodes Atticus – statues which Atticus ordered to be pelted with stones on the ground that these ancient orators had corrupted his son.15 But they will

 VS 2.11.591.  VS 2.25.608–612.  VS 2.27.617. The epigraphic texts are, respectively, IPerg iii (= Habicht [1969]) nos. 31 = Puech (2002) no. 182 (found between the north stoa and the baths), 34 = Puech (2002) no. 138 (found between the sacred fountain and the north stoa), and 35 = Puech (2002) no. 97 (found in the north stoa).  For sophists teaching in their own houses, see Proclus of Naucratis, VS 2.21.604.  VS 2.27.618. For statues of sophists in or close to temples see those of Soterus in Delphi, found near the pronaos of the temple, FdD iii 4.265 and Puech (2002) no. 244, and of Nicias in the early second-century Corinth, Puech (2002) no. 181, found in the south stoa near the northern boundary of the sanctuary of Palaemon but originally, as said in one of its two inscriptions, situated in the pronaos (ἐν προδόμῳ . . . Ποσειδάωνος). See Broneer (1959) 324–326 with pls. 65c and d.  All translations, unless otherwise noted, are my own.  VS 1.21.521 ὁπόσοι γοῦν τῶν πάλαι ῥητόρων ἑρμαῖ ἦσαν ἐν τοῖς τῆς οἰκίας δρόμοις, ἐκέλευε τούτους βάλλεσθαι λίθοις, ὡς διεφθορότας αὐτῷ τὸν υἱόν, ‘Atticus accordingly gave orders

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also very probably have included portrait busts of Polemo himself and of a member or members of the imperial family. The villa suburbana of Herodes in Cephisia displayed busts of Herodes and of his trophimos Polydeucion,16 and we now know that his villa at Eva-Loukou near Astros in the Cynouria had on display portrait busts of Herodes and Hadrian,17 as well as a relief of one of Herodes’ trophimoi whose sculptural representations in his properties are commented upon by Philostratus.18 In either case it will have been a short walk to the area of Smyrna’s Palm court (φοινεικών) and other urban amenities reconstructed or developed after the earthquake of the early 120s. Adjacent to these was erected a stele recording the many benefactions that had financed this reconstruction, including an entry ‘and what we obtained from the lord Caesar Hadrian through Antonius Polemo: a second decree of the Senate whereby we became twice temple-warden, a sacred competitive festival, immunity, theologoi, hymnoidoi, 1,500,000 drachmae, 72 columns from Synnada for the aleipterion, 20 from Numidia and 6 of porphyry’.19 If Polemo’s epideixis had a Homeric theme (as some sophistic declamations did, e.g. Aelius Aristides’ Embassy to Achilles, Oration 16 Lenz-Behr),20 he might have chosen to deliver it in Smyrna’s Homereion, about which we read in Strabo:21 ἔστι δὲ καὶ βιβλιοθήκη, καὶ τὸ Ὁμήρειον, στοὰ τετράγωνος ἔχουσα νεὼν Ὁμήρου καὶ ξόανον· μεταποιοῦνται γὰρ καὶ οὗτοι διαφερόντως τοῦ ποιητοῦ, καὶ δὴ καὶ νόμισμά τι χαλκοῦν παρ’ αὐτοῖς Ὁμήρειον λέγεται. There is also a library, and the Homereion, a quadrangular portico containing a shrine and wooden statue of Homer; for the Smyrnaeans also lay especial claim to the poet; and indeed a bronze coin of theirs is called Homereion. (Strab. 14.1.37)

Polemo would thus be performing in a building where a supposedly archaic statue of Homer could be compared with Polemo himself. Finding their way to this building πεπαιδευμένοι (or their attendants) may have tipped a helpful boy

that all the busts of the ancient orators that were in the porticoes of his house should be pelted with stones, because they had corrupted his son’s talent’. Compare the portraits of Isocrates and Aeschines from the peristyle of the Villa dei papiri at Herculaneum, Pozzi (1989) nos. 171 and 172.  Polydeucion (NM 4811) and Herodes (NM 4810), both found at Odos Rangavi 4.  Fejfer (2008) 103–104 with figs. 65 and 66, Spyropoulos and Spyropoulos (2003) 463–470.  VS 2.1.558–559.  ISmyrna 697 = IGRom. 4.1431, cf. SEG 32.1203, Bowie (2012a).  For others see Ps.-Hermog. Prog. 9, Liban. Decl. 3–6, with Russell (1983) 11, 110.  The Homereion on Delos may simply have housed a statue of Homer. For its existence cf. IDélos 443 B L. b 147 (178 BCE), which mentions repairs to a Ὁμηρεῖον.

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with a coin which also bore Homer’s image,22 or one which bore the name of Polemo.23 Not far away, to judge from Strabo’s phraseology, was a library which not only housed texts of the Iliad and Odyssey, the poems from which Polemo might draw his theme, but quite probably monographs on Homer by Hellenistic scholars, some addressing problems of interpretation raised by the Embassy. Perhaps it also had some texts of Polemo’s own works, whether written versions of declamations or his Physiognomonica.24 Hearers who had already read some of the latter will perhaps have scrutinised Polemo’s own facial features as he performed, either to see whether they reflected what they otherwise believed about his character, or to assess how appropriately they conveyed the emotions expressed by his epideictic words. That library too will have displayed statues or busts of literary figures, very probably including Polemo. When Corinth voted to erect a statue of Favorinus (a statue the city later decided to pull down), it was located in a library where sight of it would encourage the young to emulate Favorinus’ sophistic and philosophical distinction.25 Let us return to Polemo’s delivery of declamations set in 490 BCE. A pair of such declamations attributed to him survives:26 in one he speaks as the father of Cynaegirus, brother of Aeschylus, claiming the right to deliver the funeral oration (ἐπιτάφιος) on the war dead because his son had fought most bravely in the battle, in the other as the father of Callimachus the polemarch, making the same claim on the basis of his son’s bravery: both sons had died in the battle. An audience of these declamations delivered in a theatre may well have had statues or busts of Aeschylus in sight to reinforce the sympathy Polemo

 For Homer on coins of Chios, see RPC ii 958 and iii 1914; on coins of Cyme RPC iv.2 2469.  For the name of Polemo as strategos on the coinage of Smyrna in 134/135 CE, see RPC iii 1972 and 1974–1983; Bowie (2012a) 254–255.  For this, see Swain (2007).  [Dio] 37 (= Favorinus) 8 ἀλλά γε τὴν εἰκὼ τοῦ σώματος ἐποιήσασθε καὶ ταύτην φέροντες ἀνεθήκατε εἰς τὰ βιβλία, εἰς προεδρίαν, οὗ μάλιστ’ ἂν ᾤεσθε τοὺς νέους προκαλέσασθαι τῶν αὐτῶν ἡμῖν ἐπιτηδευμάτων ἔχεσθαι, ‘but you made the image of my body and took it and set it up in the library, in a front row, where you thought it would most encourage the young to pursue the same profession as me’. Fejfer (2008) 57 unfortunately takes the speaker to be Dio of Prusa. For portraits of literary figures in libraries, see Plin. NH 35.9, ascribing the practice’s introduction to Asinius Pollio, but confessing uncertainty as to whether there were precedents in the libraries of Alexandria and Pergamum. For a sophist’s statue found near a library see the herms of Apollonius of Athens (200 CE ca.) found near the library of Hadrian (IG ii2 3764 = Puech [2002] no. 24, with her discussion 109–116), and Dexippus in the later third century, found actually in the library, IG ii2 3670 = Puech (2002) no. 92.  Ed. Stefec (2016).

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seeks to secure for his brother’s heroic death:27 unsurprisingly he concludes with a request to Aeschylus (ὦ Αἰσχύλε παῖ) to assist him.28 When delivering these declamations in Athens, as it is hard to think he did not,29 Polemo must have been tempted to do so in the Stoa Poikile, where the painting of the battle of Marathon commissioned by Cimon was still visible.30 Equally, when visiting Athens and Attica he may have performed for the entertainment of Herodes Atticus in one of the buildings on his estate at Marathon – according to Philostratus, Marathon and Cephisia were Herodes’ favourite demes31 – or within sight of the tomb (τάφος) which (if Pausanias is to be believed) was still marked by 10 stelai recording the names of the 192 Athenian dead, tribe by tribe.32 On his estate were found portraits of Herodes, of Marcus Aurelius, and of Lucius Verus:33 these will have encouraged audiences to compare the declamatory styles of Polemo and Herodes and to ponder their respective successes in extracting favour and benefactions from emperors. Near the tomb, sight of the unusually laid out names on the stelai of the early classical tomb might stimulate reflection on how successfully Polemo was able to recreate the atmosphere and language of the early fifth century BCE. Not all who read these declamations approved: as well as his criticism of the un-Attic expression κατ’ ὄναρ noted earlier, the lexicographer Phrynichus observed that Polemo had used the plural form ναῦς (‘ships’) instead of the correct Attic νῆες.34 Much earlier, a letter written by the young Marcus Aurelius to his tutor Fronto early in the 140s is severely critical of Polemo’s maintenance of fortissimo delivery in the genus grande of a declamation he heard in Italy, and he may not have been alone.35 Less admiring members of the audience may have whispered to each other, or brought a written text of, some of the short

 For the erection of statues of Attic dramatic poets in the Athenian theatre, see Paus. 1.21.1: two statue bases to survive are those of Astydamas (IG ii2 3774) and Menander (IG ii2 3777).  Polemo, Cynaegirus 49 (= 141.21–22 Stefec).  Note the bust of Polemo found in the area of the Olympieion, at whose dedication in 131/ 132 CE he delivered the keynote speech: cf. Philostr. VS 1.25.533.  Paus. 1.15.3. Paus. 1.17.3 notes that Micon’s painting in the Theseion had been affected by the passage of time, but does not say the same about those in the Stoa Poikile. See Athanassaki (2018). Smyrna too will have had paintings exhibited in porticos (Philostr. VA 4.7, cf. Julian of Ascalon 52.1, Pont [2008] 348–349).  VS 2.1.562; cf. the vivid scene of Herodes Atticus coming with his ‘Hellenes’ from Marathon to hear Alexander of Seleucia perform in the Agrippeion in Athens, VS 2.5.571–572.  Paus. 1.32.3. At least two of these stelai, or copies of them, seem to have been taken by Herodes Atticus to his villa in Cynouria: cf. SEG 56.430, 64.186 from the villa at Eva-Loukou.  At Brexiza.  Phrynichus, Ecloga 140 Fischer, cf. Polemo, Cynaegirus 41 (= 146.7 Stefec).  Fronto, ad M. Caesarem 2.5 = 1.116–118 Haines.

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elegiac epigrams satirising Polemo composed by a poet likely to have been a fellow citizen of Smyrna, Ammianus.36 So much for monuments. But, as already noted, audiences also had access to texts. The survival of Polemo’s two Marathon declamations shows they were ‘published’, as was the large corpus of speeches of Aristides, some of them declamations. Quotations and references in Philostratus’ Lives of the Sophists demonstrate that texts of a substantial number of declamations and other works by sophists were available when Philostratus was writing around 240 CE. A discreditable story about Philagrus of Cilicia shows that even a text of a supposedly impromptu oration could be acquired – and could be exploited to embarrass a sophist who was only pretending to speak ex tempore.37 We might expect, then, that when a sophist delivered a declamation for which he was already renowned some fans better-disposed than Philagrus’ Athenian critics would read a text beforehand and perhaps even bring one to the performance. Thus, written texts, like portrait-statues, could have an impact on audiences’ responses.

9.2 Declaimers and deixis It is surprising how little our surviving declamations or fragments of declamation seem to attempt to evoke or exploit the material circumstances in which they were delivered. Will Guast has recently examined some cases where a declamation’s theme and some of its details can be related both to its fictitious classical context and to the real-world situation of the declaimer, and concludes that ‘Greek declamation was probably frequently used to make specific reference to the world outside its own fiction, often to the immediate performance context, and above all to the author himself’.38 But this is a different phenomenon, and there is a striking absence of any deixis ad oculos evoking the location of the declaimer’s performance. In Polemo’s two Marathon declamations one might expect that delivery at Marathon would allow repeated reference to ‘this sea’ or ‘this beach’, or delivery in Athens some reference to ‘this Acropolis’39 or ‘this Athena’ instead of the vaguer expression ‘o nurseling of

 For these epigrams, see Nisbet (2003) 134–164.  VS 2.8.579.  Guast (2017) 84, following, in the case of Lollianus, Pernot (2007) 222–225.  τὴν ἀκρόπολιν without a deictic at Polemo, Cynaegirus 29 = 143.11 Stefec; contrast εἰς ταυτηνὶ τὴν ἀκρόπολιν in Aristides, Or. 11.63 discussed below, 222.

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Athena who is present’ (ὦ τρόφιμε τῆς παρούσης Ἀθηνᾶς).40 But deixis is chiefly focused on either the rival father,41 the dead son,42 or in one case the declaimer’s hands, which in Polemo’s fiction are the severed hands of Cynaegirus.43 The only locational deixis is the phrase ‘on this tomb’ (ἐπὶ τῷδε τῷ τάφῳ).44 The explanation is presumably partly that declamations were composed to be recycled in several different locations, and that accordingly unique specificity is avoided (as it is, for example, in most archaic Greek sympotic elegy). But we should also remember that what we have are texts probably edited for circulation and reading: we cannot be sure that locational references were similarly absent from corresponding oral performances. The same phenomenon characterises Aristides’ two declamations urging the Athenians and Spartans, respectively, to make peace towards the end of the Peloponnesian war (Orations 7 and 8 Lenz-Behr). In that addressed to Athenians ‘In support of peace with Sparta’ (Ὑπὲρ τῆς πρὸς Λακεδαιμονίους εἰρήνης) the deictic ‘all this’ (ταυτὶ πάντα) refers to the current (fictional) opportunity for peace,45 as do the sentences ‘this is the third opportunity that has now again presented itself’ (τρίτος οὑτοσί τις ἥκει πάλιν καιρóς),46 and ‘What of all things could have propelled you into this war?’(τί τῶν ἁπάντων ἂν ὑμᾶς προήγαγεν εἰς τὸν πόλεμον τουτονί;).47 The expression ‘these people here who go to every length . . .’ (τοὺς δ’ ὑπερδιατεινομένους τουτουσί) is used of the speaker’s imaginary opponents who urge continuing the war.48 Less immediate is the reference of ‘you captured Pylos here’ (καὶ Πύλον ταυτηνὶ κατελαμβάνετε)49 – this is simply the Pylos which has been central to Athenian memory of its achievements in the war.50

 Polemo, Cynaegirus 35 = 144.27 Stefec.  Polemo, Cynaegirus τούτου 7 = 138.21 Stefec; οὑτοσί 13 = 139.23 Stefec; ὦ Καλλιμάχου πάτερ 32 = 144.6 Stefec, 45 = 146.5–6 Stefec.  Polemo, Cynaegirus σὺ δέ, ὦ τέκνον 31 = 143.26 Stefec, 40 = 145.23 Stefec; ὦ παῖ 44 = 146.23 and 26 Stefec, 147.2–3 Stefec.  τοῦτο ἦν τὸ δόρυ τῆς Ἀθηνᾶς ἡ Κυναιγείρου δεξιά, τοῦτο δᾷδες τῶν θεῶν χεῖρες ἐλευθέριον σέλας φέρουσαι, ‘This – the right hand of Cynaegirus – was the spear of Athena; this – the hands that brought the light of freedom – was the fire-brands of the god’ (translation of Reader [1996] adapted by Guast [2017] 94 n. 47).  Polemo, Cynaegirus 3 = 138.4 Stefec.  7.10 L.-B.  7.11 L.-B.  7.19 L.-B; cf. ‘now’ (νυνί) at 31 L.-B.  7.20 L.-B.  7.16 L.-B.  For its continued commemoration in the Stoa Poikile, see Paus. 1.15.4.

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There is an opportunity for deixis to real or imaginary ‘shrine and tombs’ (καὶ ἱερὰ καὶ τάφους),51 but Aristides does not take it. Likewise in the pendant declamation Ὑπὲρ τῆς πρὸς Ἀθηναίους εἰρήνης (‘In support of peace with Athens’), a vivid demonstrative refers to recent Athenian losses – ‘three thousand of these Athenians have died in the way that violators of shrines do’ (τρισχίλιοι δὲ οὑτοιὶ τὸν τῶν ἱεροσύλων ἀπολώλασι τρόπον),52 and deictics refer to Athens as ‘so great a city as this’ (πόλει δὲ τοσαύτῃ)53 and to Sparta as ‘this city’ (ταύτῃ τῇ πόλει).54 Only in this last instance might we wonder if delivery of the declamation in Sparta would allow Aristides to refer here both to contemporary and to imaginary Sparta, but there is no evidence that Aristides ever visited Sparta. The nature of deixis in Aristides’ declamations is well brought out by a passage in Oration 11, the first of five orations set after the battle of Leuctra in 371 BCE: in it the speaker urges the Athenians to ally with Sparta, and in doing so asks them to contemplate their history: ἀποβλέψατε δὴ εἰς τὰ τρόπαια τὰ τῶν πατέρων αὐτὰ ταῦτα καὶ τὰς ναυμαχίας, τὴν ἐπ’ Ἀρτεμισίῳ, τὴν ἐν Σαλαμῖνι, τὴν μάχην τὴν Πλαταιᾶσι, τοὐπίγραμμα τοῦ Μαραθῶνι τροπαίου. ὅταν δὲ εἰς ταῦτα ἀποβλέψαι κελεύσω, εἰς ταυτηνὶ τὴν ἀκρόπολιν ἀποβλέψαι κελεύω καὶ τὸν Παρθενῶνα καὶ τὰ λάφυρα, ἃ μεθ’ ὧν ἐκτησάμεθα οὐχ ὅσιον προέσθαι νῦν οὐδὲ συνεξελεῖν τούτοις ἐφ’ οὓς τότε κοινωνοὺς εἴχομεν. Look at these very trophies of your fathers and the sea-battles at Artemisium and Salamis, the battle at Plataea, the epigram on the trophy at Marathon. When I tell you to look at these, I tell you to look at this Acropolis here, and the Parthenon, and the spoils of war – it would be impious to abandon now those men with whom we acquired them and to join in their destruction with those against whom we then had them as allies. (Aelius Aristides, Or. 11.63 L.-B.)

Unlike Polemo, Aristides is not attested as declaiming in Athens, though he may have visited it to deliver his Panathenaic oration. So probably the deixis to the Acropolis (ταυτηνί) is not to a component of the environment in which speaker and audience are located, but to the imaginary location of the supposed speaker in 371 BCE Athens. The contemplation to which they are exhorted is mental, as is the contemplation of the Persian-war battles and the epigram at Marathon. If we turn to speeches that are not declamations with fictitious settings but are firmly anchored in the contemporary world, we find a limited exploitation of

   

7.27 L.-B. 8.15 L.-B. 8.21 L.-B. 8.18 L.-B.

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deixis. It is most prominent in the speech Aristides delivered in 147 CE to celebrate the birthday of his young pupil Apellas, Oration 30 Keil. Pergamum is repeatedly called ἥδε ἡ πόλις (30.3 etc.); Apellas himself is called ‘this product’ (τουτονὶ τὸν καρπόν, 30.7); ‘at this time of life’ (κατὰ ταυτηνὶ τὴν ἡλικίαν, 30.16) is used with reference to Apellas’ age (he is about fourteen); ‘this blessed day’ (ταυτηνὶ τὴν μακαρίαν ἡμέραν of the birthday, 30.24) is used of the day on which the speech is being delivered; ‘of this city (ταυτησὶ τῆς πόλεως, 30.6) of Pergamum. A couple of cases are self-referential: ‘these’ (τουτουσί) (scil. ‘words’, τοὺς λόγους) at 30.4, and ‘in this way’ (οὑτωσί), used of Aristides’ simile, which he takes from Iliad 5.5, at 30.27. The greater use of vivid deictics in this than in any other speech of Aristides may be a function of its one-off character – it is the least likely to be recycled of all his surviving speeches. The short speech on the well at the Asclepieion also makes some use of deixis, but strikingly less than the speech for Apellas.55 Like his declamations, Aristides will surely have wished to deliver it not only at the Asclepieion. Very different is Aristides’ festival speech which includes praise of the great temple of the imperial cult at Cyzicus, delivered in 166 CE. Despite Aristides’ claim that his words were an immediate response to what he saw (ἀλλ’ ὥσπερ τὸν νεὼν ἐπῄνεσα βλέψας εἰς αὐτὸ καὶ οὐδὲν οἴκοθεν εὑρὼν . . .),56 his use of deixis is sparing. The strongest is the phrase ‘these adornments of buildings’ (οἱ τῶν οἰκοδομημάτων οὗτοι κόσμοι),57 though there are also several cases of Cyzicus or its territory being termed ‘this’ – ταύτῃ58 or ταύτην59 or ταύτης60 – or ‘so great as this’ (τηλικαύτῃ).61 One may add references to his audience as ‘this gathering that is present’ (τῇ . . . παρούσῃ συνόδῳ),62 to the empire’s current felicity as ‘in these times’ (ἐν τοῖσδε τοῖς καιροῖς),63 and to ‘the times that are with us’ (τοῖς παροῦσι καιροῖς).64 But there is no sustained effort to exploit the audience’s sight of one of the Roman world’s biggest buildings,

 For example, 7 ἐν τοιούτῳ δὴ φαινόμενον καὶ ἀπὸ τοιούτων ὁρμώμενον; 8 τόδε τὸ ῥεῦμα; 12 and 15 τούτῳ; 16 μετὰ τοῦτο τὸ ὕδωρ; 18 τούτῳ.  Or. 27.46 Keil.  Or. 27.40 Keil.  Or. 27.5 and 7 Keil.  Or. 27.15 Keil.  Or. 27.5, 15 (twice) Keil. But at Or. 27.31 Keil the demonstrative ταύτης refers to the harmony of the two emperors.  Or. 27.18 Keil.  Or. 27.23 Keil.  Or. 27.22 Keil.  Or. 27.43, 45 Keil.

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classed by an unidentified poet around 500 CE among the seven wonders of the world,65 as they listen to Aristides praising it. This may partly be explained by the fact that he delivered the speech in the Cyzicus bouleuterion as well as in the panegyris associated with the temple and its cult, partly by his account in the Fifth Sacred Tale about how he composed this speech, drawing on ideas developed en route from his estate at Laneion to Cyzicus: ‘so I composed it in this way, always recalling what I had thought up during the journey’ (ὥστε καὶ ἐποιήθη οὕτω, παρὰ τὴν ὁδὸν τὰ εὑρισκόμενα αἰεὶ ἀναλαμβάνοντι).66 We are entitled to infer that Polemo’s speech at the dedication of the Athenian Olympieion kept a similar distance. Philostratus narrates that when Polemo was about to deliver his oration from the base (κρηπίς) of the temple ‘he fixed his gaze, as was his habit, on the thoughts that were at that moment coming to his mind’ (ὁ δέ, ὥσπερ εἰώθει, στήσας τοὺς ὀφθαλμοὺς ἐπὶ τὰς ἤδη παρισταμένας ἐννοίας).67 Like Aristides in Cyzicus, Polemo in Athens has no eyes for the temple itself.

9.3 Poetry A similar constellation of prominently displayed portrait-statues, honorific inscriptions, and written texts enhanced the impact of poets’ oral performances on pepaideumenoi in provincia Asia. This cannot be demonstrated from the relatively scanty epigraphy of Smyrna, but a well-documented case survives from Aphrodisias. In the 120s CE, the poet C. Iulius Longianus from Aphrodisias so impressed the boule and demos of Halicarnassus by his displays of poetry in various genres that they made him a citizen and voted that he be honoured with several bronze statues, including one in the temenos of the Muses and another in the ephebes’ gymnasium, next to that of ancient Herodotus, and that there should be ‘public dedication of his books in the libraries in our city, so that the young men may be educated in these also, in the same way as in the writings of the ancients’. These decisions were recorded in a decree of which Longianus was mandated to take a copy to his native Aphrodisias.68 There that decree was rediscovered in 1850, together with another by the synod of Dionysiac technitae

 AP 9.656.15–16.  Or. 51.16 Keil. Cf. Aristides’ performance in the bouleuterion at Smyrna, Or. 51 (= Sacred Tale 5).31–34 Keil.  VS 1.25.533.  IAphr. 2007, 12.27, previously MAMA viii 418.

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dated precisely to 27 March 127: this identifies Longianus as a tragic poet (τραγῳδίων ποιητής), and specifies that he was to be honoured with a painted portrait (εἰκόνι γραπτῇ) to be erected wherever in his native city he chose. Thus, Longianus’ performances of his poetry in Halicarnassus were rewarded by displays of his works in libraries, of statues in Halicarnassus, of a painted eikon in Aphrodisias, and of decrees erected publicly in both cities. Longianus’ oral performances will have taken at least two different forms. What are foregrounded by the inscription are his apparently one-off performances in many different poetic genres when he visited Halicarnassus. These are analogous to sophistic declamations and other types of prose performance by itinerant eminences, such as are attested for the sophist P. Anteius Antiochus of Aegeae at Argos69 and for numerous visitors, including a woman called Aufria, honoured with citizenship at Delphi.70 As with declaiming sophists, the proximity and sometimes visibility of portraits of the performer will have had some impact on an audience listening to his recital. But, as the intervention of the Dionysiac artists and its description of him as a tragic poet reveals, Longianus also competed in mousikoi agones, major examples of which were to be found in Ephesus, Smyrna, and Pergamum. We know of the 40-day athletic and musical agon at Smyrna named in honour of Hadrian, Hadrianeia, an agon that his restructuring of the cycle of major competitions had decreed should start on the 4th of January; and we know that once the Hadrianeia at Smyrna had finished, competitors were expected to reach Ephesus in time for that city’s Olympia Barbilleia, starting 2 days after the last event in the Hadrianeia at Smyrna and running for all of 52 days.71 We know very little, however, about the actual events in those agones and must turn to competitions attested elsewhere to supplement our understanding. For provincia Asia our best documented agones are those of Aphrodisias, but even better documented are the Mouseia at Thespiae in old Greece, where a long series of victor lists registers events. In Tiberius’ reign the Mouseia had one competition for hexameter poetry, and at least four for prose encomia –

 Bowie (2019) and Puech (2002).  FD iii 4.79, early second century CE = Puech (2002) no. 53. Cf. a Macedonian grammaticus (whose name is not preserved) honoured at Delphi for giving epideixeis 119 CE ca., FD iii 1.465, and Isocrates of Acharnae, a rhetor, honoured with citizenship 90 CE ca., FD iii 2.98 = Puech (2002) no. 145. Compare a statue honouring the rhetor P. Aelius Crispinus Metrotimus at Olympia, IOlymp. 463 = Puech (2002) no. 73 (suggesting that one possible ground for the honour could be public performances).  For Hadrian’s letters of 134 CE reordering the sequence of major agones, see Petzl and Schwertheim (2006), Jones (2007), and Slater (2015).

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speeches praising Livia (Iulia Augusta), Taurus, the Muses, and Messalinus.72 Following these competitive displays the victors’ names were inscribed on stone to perpetuate their achievements. Another victor list from first-century Thespiae retains the encomium to the Muses but now has one to Eros and the Romans, Amor and Roma.73 By the 150s CE, the Mouseia included several dramatic events – competitions for the production of a new comedy and a new tragedy, with prizes for the poet and an actor; for a satyr play, with a prize for its writer; and for performances in an old tragedy and an old comedy.74 Alongside the dramatic events, and apparently earlier in the programme, were the encomia and poems familiar from earlier texts – both a poem and a prose composition honouring the emperor, and likewise a poem and a speech honouring the Muses. A new poetic entry also appears – a competition for composers of a prosodion, presumably a hymn to be sung as the competitors or a choir formally processed. And a very old competition, for a rhapsode. Rhapsodes and comic and tragic performers are still competing in Thespiae in a victor list dated later than 212 CE,75 but the encomiastic speakers and poets have gone. They were still to be heard, however, in a contest at Aphrodisias probably established in the late second century,76 where interestingly the first prizes for tragic and comic performers, 2500 and 1500 denarii, respectively, are way ahead of those for the poet and the encomiographer, who each get a more modest 750 denarii. As said earlier, we lack similar detailed documentation for the agones at Smyrna and even at an epigraphically rich Ephesus. But we do know that in Smyrna at the Olympia or the Hadriana Olympia there were competitions for (inev-

 Roesch (2007–2009) 174, from 14 to 29 CE = BCH 98 (1974) 649 no. 3, cf. Roesch (1982) 181 no. 2, SEG 31.514, 36.478; AE 1973.494. For texts, translations, and a brief discussion of these documents, see Bowie (2019).  Roesch (2007–2009) 175 = Epet. Het. Ster. Mel. 4 (1973) 355–356; cf. SEG 29.452, 36.475.  Roesch (2007–2009) 177, from 150 to 160 CE ca. = BCH 19 (1895) 341, no. 16; 373, no. 24, with Laographia 7 (1923) 177,1.  Roesch (2007–2009) 180, after 212 CE = IG vii 1776 = BCH 19 (1895) 345 no. 18, cf. SEG 46.536 and 52.511.  IAphr. 2007, 11.21 = MAMA viii 420 = Roueché (1993) 53.

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itably) heralds (κήρυκες),77 trumpeters (σαλπικτής),78 solo pipe-players (Πυθικὸς αὐλητής),79 pipe-players with a chorus (χοραύλης),80 and citharodes.81 Probably Smyrna, with its Homereion, also had competitions for poems or orations in praise of Homer, and almost certainly for poems or orations in praise of at least one member of the imperial family. Our sole literary documentation for events involving the spoken or sung word, however, is a chance anecdote in Philostratus: Polemo, presiding over the Hadriana Olympia at Smyrna,82 expelled a competitor for gesturing downwards when uttering ὦ Ζεῦ and upwards when uttering καὶ γᾶ in a line from the lyrics sung by the Phrygian slave in Euripides’ Orestes:83 ἀγωνιστοῦ δὲ τραγῳδίας ἐν τοῖς κατὰ τὴν Σμύρναν Ὀλυμπίοις τὸ ‘ὦ Ζεῦ’ ἐς τὴν γῆν δείξαντος, τὸ δὲ ‘καὶ γᾶ’ ἐς τὸν οὐρανὸν ἀνασχόντος, προκαθήμενος τῶν Ὀλυμπίων ὁ Πολέμων ἐξέωσεν αὐτὸν τῶν ἄθλων εἰπὼν ‘οὗτος τῇ χειρὶ ἐσολοίκισεν’. Again, when a tragic competitor at the Olympic games in Smyrna pointed to the ground as he uttered the words, ‘Ο Zeus!’ then raised his hands to heaven at the words, ‘and Earth!’, Polemo, who was presiding over the Olympic games, expelled him from the contests, saying: ‘This man has committed a solecism with his hand’.84 (Philostr. VS 1.25.541–542)

This anecdote shows that there was a competition for ‘old’ tragedy, whether for productions of whole plays or simply for performances of extracts.85 Again we

 Heralds: IG ii2 3169–3170 Valerius Eclectus of Sinope, honoured at Athens between 253 and 257 CE, Stefanis (1988) no. 825, twice victor at both the Olympia and the Hadriana Olympia at Smyrna; Serapion from Magnesia ad Sipylum and Tralles, honoured at Tralles between 180 and 190 CE for victories at both the Olympia and the Hadriana Olympia, BCH 28 (1904) 82–83 no. 5 + RPh 4 (1930) 33, cf. OGI 501, Stefanis (1988) no. 2255.  Trumpeter BCH 28 (1904) 85 no. 7 = Stefanis (1988) no. 2479, T. Fl. Philagrus from Laodicea and Tralles, late second century CE.  Solo pipe-player at Hadriana Olympia Moretti (1953) 81 = FD iii 1.550 = Stefanis (1988) no. 3021, third century CE; solo pipe-player at Olympia M. Aur. O[-]lon of Ancyra, FD iii 4.476 = Stefanis (1988) no. 480, second or third century CE.  Pipe-player with chorus at Olympia MDAI (A) 76 (1882) 255 no. 26 = Stefanis (1988) no. 501, C. Iulius Achilles from Magnesia ad Sipylum, second century CE.  Citharode IGRom. iv 1432 = Stefanis (1988) no. 2121, C. Ant. Septimius Publius of Pergamum, etc., second–third century CE.  Philostratus’ earlier remark that Smyrna προκαθῆσθαι γὰρ τῶν Ἀδριανῶν Ὀλυμπίων ἔδοσαν τῷ ἀνδρὶ καὶ ἐγγόνοις, ‘bestowed on him and his descendants the right to preside over the Hadrianic Olympic games’ (VS 1.25.531) shows that the Hadriana Olympia, not the Olympia, are meant.  Eur. Or. 1496 ὦ Ζεῦ καὶ Γᾶ καὶ Φῶς καὶ Νύξ, ‘O Zeus, and Earth, and Light, and Night’.  A critique of solecistic gesture is also levelled against a rhetor Flaccus by Lucillius AP 11.148.3 = 53.3 Floridi.  For the debate, see Jones (1993) and Nervegna (2007).

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have no certain indication where such competitions took place, but it is hard to think they were not in Smyrna’s theatre. The actor (whose name Philostratus does not transmit) will have been performing (as did sophists) in a theatre that had portraits of the great Attic tragedians and perhaps one of Polemo himself – audience and actor alike will have been able to contemplate portraits both of the playwright, Euripides, and of the competition’s president and judge, Polemo, as the humiliating scene was played out. The Orestes, whose line the actor had so inappropriately delivered, was one of the two most popular Attic tragedies in the imperial period,86 and many in the audience must have been familiar with this and adjacent lines, while some may even have brought a book-roll of the play to the performance.

9.4 Hymns At some point in the Hadriana Olympia, being an agon dedicated to Hadrian, there was probably singing by the hymnoedoi (ὑμνῳδοί) obtained for the city by Polemo (doubtless as part of the right to have a second temple of the imperial cult). In Claudius’ reign, the proconsul Asiae, Paullus Fabius Persicus, had abolished the hymnoedoi at Ephesus and transferred their duties in the imperial cult there to unremunerated ephebes.87 Since he made an exception for the first site of imperial cult in provincia Asia, Pergamum, it seems likely that any college of hymnoedoi associated with the imperial cult in the province’s other cities was also abolished then, like that in Ephesus. Thus, almost a century later in Hadrianic Ephesus it is the ephebes who hymned the emperor in the theatre when he visited in 124 or 129 CE.88 Hadrian’s decision to grant Smyrna a college of hymnoedoi may thus, like the second neocorate, be one that gave Smyrna a much-prized advantage over its great rival, Ephesus. We have little or no idea what these or other imperial hymnoedoi sang: we do not even know whether the same hymn was repeated from year to year, or whether something new was commissioned – as we do happen to know was the case for the hymnoedoi in the cult of Zeus and Hecate at Panamara administered by the city of Stratonicea, where the hymn sung by 30 pre-ephebic boys of

 For the relative popularity of the three canonical tragedians’ plays in the imperial period, see Bowie (2022b), with earlier bibliography.  IEph. 17–19, McCabe, Ephesos no. 227; see Roueché (1993) 134.  IEph. 1145 = SEG 17.504; see J. and L. Robert, Bull. 1953.178, Bowie (2012b) 267.

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good birth was composed by the secretary of the boule.89 But it seems safe to assume that in Smyrna the hymnoedoi sang in the new temple of the imperial cult once it had been completed. There the singers’ praise of the emperor, of his family, and perhaps of Rome will have echoed in a location rich in portraitstatues or busts of the emperor and his family, and perhaps in reliefs representing the extent of Roman power, like those in the Julio-Claudian Sebasteion at Aphrodisias.90 The subjects of such reliefs would have resonated harmoniously with such laudations of Roman power as we find in the song To Rome of ‘Melinno’, perhaps an example or congener of the hymns that were sung in imperial cult.91 These performances will have been accompanied by the strong odour of frankincense, expensive and reserved for high-profile cults, triggering in singers and audience a sense of relocation in a grander universe. That same temple setting will have framed and enhanced the contribution of the encomia in honour of the emperor delivered by the theologoi whose establishment had also obtained by Polemo.92 We may contrast a different sort of hymnoedic performance by a young chorus from Polemo’s city Laodicea. A substantial sequence of epigraphic texts from Claros, some 50 km south of Smyrna and 200 km west of Laodicea, records theoriai from many cities, mostly in Asia Minor.93 They typically name the city sending a theoria, date its visit by reference to the city’s prytanis and to officials in the temple of Apollo at Claros, and then list the singers who performed a hymn to Apollo. Here one example must suffice. A theoria from Laodicea ad Lycum is dated to the year 136 or 137 CE by the fact that L. Aelius Caesar, the short-lived adoptive son of Hadrian, is named as prytanis, an office he may have been persuaded to hold by some pressure brought on the imperial family by Polemo:

 See Bowie (2022a): the document is CIG 2715 + p. 1108; Le Bas Waddington 519 + 520; Sokolowski (1955) no. 69; SEG 1.655; IStratonikeia 1101; McCabe Stratonikeia, no. 5; SEG 40. 998.  For the Sebasteion, see Smith (1987), (1988), and (2013).  See Bowie (2022a).  For theologoi in imperial cult, see Pleket (1965). It is not clear whether their contributions were in prose or verse: Paion of Side is described in IEph. 22.3–4 as a μελοποιός and ῥαψωδòς θεοῦ Ἀδριανοῦ but also as θεολόγος ναῶν τῶν ἐν Περγάμῳ: see Bowie (1990) 66 and Robert (1980).  Assembled and worked on by Louis Robert; most now published by Ferrary (2014), many discussed by Rutherford (2013).

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Λαοδικέων τῶν πρὸς τῷ Λύκῳ οἱ ὑμνῳδήσαντες κοῦροι καὶ κοῦραι ἐπὶ πρυτάνεως Λ. Αἰλ. Καίσαρος, προφήτου Κλ. Κριτολάου, θεσπιωδοῦντος Κλ. Ἀσκληπίδου· Γλύκων Ἀρτεμᾶ τοῦ Ἀπελλῦ β´ τοῦ Ἀπολλωνίου προφήτης, ἑπομένου τοῦ πατρὸς αὐτῷ Ἀρτεμᾶ Ἀπελλᾶ β´ τοῦ Ἀπολλωνίου καὶ τοῦ ἀδελφοῦ Θεοδώρου τοῦ

4

8

Ἀρτεμᾶ τοῦ Ἀπελλᾶ β´ τοῦ Ἀπολλωνίου τοῦ διὰ τοῦ ἐξιόντος ἔτους προφήτου· Πυθίων Διογένους τοῦ Ἀλεξάνδρου, Ἀλέξανδρος Διογένους τοῦ Ἀλεξάνδρου, Μένανδρος Μενάνδρου Λουκιλλιανός, Μένανδρος Μενάνδρου Ἀντωνιανός, Ἑρμείας Ἑρμείου, Γλύκων Λουκίου τοῦ Ζωσίμου· κόραι δέ· Διογεν̣[ίς], [- - - -]αἱ Διογένους [- - - -]

12

16

20

(The following are) the young men and young women of the Laodiceans on the Lycus who sang the hymn when L. Aelius Caesar was prytanis, Claudius Critolaus was prophetes, Claudius Asclepides was thespioedos: Glycon son of Artemas son of Apellys son of Apollonius son of Apollonius the prophetes, with in his attendance his father Artemas son of Apellas son of Apollonius son of Apollonius and his brother Theodorus son of Artemas son of Apellas son of Apollonius son of Apollonius who was prophetes in the year that was ending: Pythion son of Diogenes son of Alexander, Alexander son of Diogenes son of Alexander, Menander son of Menander Lucillianus, Menander son of Menander Diogenianus, Hermeias son of Hermeias, Glycon son of Lucius son of Zosimus; and the young women were: Diogen[is] . . .94

Here οἱ ὑμνῳδήσαντες are both young men and young women, κοῦροι καὶ κοῦραι. The leader of the theoria, Glycon son of Artemas, also has the designation προφήτης, and was accompanied both by his father and by his brother Theodorus, who is picked out as having been προφήτης in the previous year.95 Six κοῦροι are named, and though the text then becomes fragmentary, the records of other theoriae from Laodicea show that six κοῦραι were also named. The number of the singers, apparently 12, shows that these were smaller scale performances than those at Pergamum and Stratonicea. These 12 singers performed the hymn in a religious space where participants in previous theoriae from Laodicea and other cities were prominently listed. Theodorus presumably took satisfaction from seeing his name displayed in the previous year’s record, and the series of epigraphic texts will have reinforced all participants’ awareness that they were contributing to a long and important tradition linking their city to Claros and to other cities who sent theoriae.

 SEG 37.966; Des Gagniers and Robert (1969) 299; EA 9 (1987) 68 no. 20; Rutherford (2013) 242–243.  From which we have SEG 37.962 (see preceding note).

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9.5 Conclusions From our heterogeneous evidence, sometimes literary but more often epigraphic and archaeological, it can be suggested that many features of the environment in which pepaideumenoi in the Roman province Asia listened to the declamations of sophists and the hymns sung by hymnoedoi and theoroi might have both contributed to and modified that auditory experience. It is much less clear, however, that the sophists among these performers responded to that environment. Polemo and Aristides may have been spurred on to greater efforts by seeing portrait-statues of themselves, or rivals, and of classical orators, but such lieux de mémoire as the temple of Olympian Zeus, the imperial temple at Cyzicus, the Acropolis of Athens, or the beach and tomb at Marathon seem to have played only minor roles in their oratorical displays. This might be partly because their published declamations do not exactly replicate their oral performances, and may be transmitted to us in texts which related to performances in more than one location and which accordingly were sparing with locally specific references.

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Pozzi, E. 1989. Le Collezioni del Museo Nazionale di Napoli. Milano. Power, T.C. 2010. The culture of kitharôidia. Washington, DC. Puech, B. 2002. Orateurs et Sophistes Grecs dans les Inscriptions d’Époque Impériale. Avec préface de L. Pernot. Paris. Reader, W.W. 1996. The severed hand and the upright corpse: the declamations of Marcus Antonius Polemo. SBL Texts and Translations 42 Graeco-Roman religion 12. Atlanta, GA. Robert, L.R. 1980. Deux poètes grecs à l’époque impériale. In Stēlē: tomos eis mnēmēn Nikolaou Kontoleontos, ed. AA.VV., 1–20. Athens. Roesch, P. 1982. Études béotiennes. Paris. Roesch, P. 2007–2009. Les Inscriptions de Thespies (IThesp), Fasc. I–XII, Concordances. Édition électronique mise en forme par Gilbert Argoud, Albert Schachter et Guy Vottéro, et publiée sous l’égide de l’UMR 5189 – HiSoMA (Histoire et Sources des Mondes Antiques), Maison de l’Orient et de la Méditerranée Jean Pouilloux – Lyon. Full edition available in pdf format at http://www.hisoma.mom.fr/production-scientifique/les-inscriptions-dethespies Roueché, C. 1993. Performers and partisans at Aphrodisias in the Roman and Late Roman periods. London. Russell, D.A. 1983. Greek Declamation. Cambridge. Rutherford, I.C. 2013. State Pilgrims and Sacred Observers in Ancient Greece. A Study of Theōriā and Theōroi. Cambridge. Slater, W.J. 2015. Victory and bureaucracy: the process of agonistic rewards. Phoenix 69: 147– 169, 215–216. Smith, R.M. and E.A. Porcher 1864. History of the recent discoveries at Cyrene, made during an expedition to the Cyrenaica in 1860–61, by Lieutenant R. Murdoch Smith, R.E. and Commander E.A. Porcher, R.N., under the auspices of Her Majesty’s government. London. Smith, R.R.R. 1987. The Imperial Reliefs from the Sebasteion at Aphrodisias. JRS 77: 88–138. Smith, R.R.R. 1988. Simulacra gentium: The Ethne from the Sebasteion at Aphrodisias. JRS 78: 50–77. Smith, R.R.R. 2013. The Marble Reliefs from the Julio-Claudian Sebasteion: Aphrodisias VI. Darmstadt. Sokolowski, F. 1955. Lois sacrées de l’Asie Mineure. Paris. Stefanis, I.E. 1988. Διονυσιακοὶ Τεχνῖται. Heraklion. Spyropoulos, G. 2006. Hē Epaulē tou Hērōdē Attikou stēn Eua-Loukou Kynourias. Athens. Spyropoulos, G. and T. Spyropoulos. 1996. La villa d’Hérode Atticus. Archaeologia 323: 46–55. Spyropoulos, G. and T. Spyropoulos. 2003. Prächtige Villa, Refugium und Musenstätte. Antike Welt 5 34: 463–470. Stefec, R.S. 2016. Flavii Philostrati vitas sophistarum: ad quas accedunt Polemonis Laodicensis declamationes quae exstant duae. Oxford. Swain, S.C.R. 2007. Seeing the face, seeing the soul: Polemon’s Physiognomy from Classical Antiquity to Medieval Islam. Oxford. Thompson, H.A. 1950. The Odeion in the Athenian Agora. Hesperia 19: 31–141. Vorster, C. 1998. Die Skulpturen von Fianello Sabino: zum Beginn der Skulpturenausstattung in römischen Villen. Wiesbaden.

Lucia Floridi

10 Intervisual allusions in Lucian, Dialogues of the Sea Gods 15 Abstract: This chapter analyses Lucian’s Dialogues of the Sea Gods 15, Zephyr and Notus, centred on the myth of Europa’s abduction by Zeus disguised as a bull, in order to clarify its relationship to both previous literary treatments of the subject and the visual arts. It is noted that Lucian not only shares several narrative details with Moschus’ Europa – the most complete extant account of the Europa myth – but also adopts the same literary strategy. Both authors narrate the story through a series of pictorial vignettes, drawing upon the visual arts, so that the story is presented as a series of ekphrastic tableaux, although neither Moschus nor Lucian present them as actual descriptions of works of art. However, Moschus’ descriptions are long and detailed, while Lucian’s are shorter and impressionistic. It is argued that this difference is mostly due to an aesthetic choice. Lucian combines enargeia (‘vividness’) with allusiveness, fully exploiting the potential of his audience’s visual memory and leaving them free to visualise the rhetor’s verbal depiction as they prefer. The readers/listeners are thus afforded the pleasure of integrating the author’s words with their own knowledge. The readers are actively involved in shaping their own mental images, drawing upon their personal literary knowledge, visual memory, and expertise in the visual arts. Lucian’s writings have often been defined as ‘literature about literature’, because of their complex engagement with the literary tradition of the past.1 Scholars have also clarified the central role played by the iconographic heritage in the definition of a Hellenic identity on the part of the ‘Syrian’ Lucian. In Lucian’s writings, there are several descriptions of works of art, whose accuracy and historical value have often been stressed. Ekphrastic descriptions are used for different purposes: most often they reflect a rhetorical strategy designed to exemplify a concept in a symbolic way, and express aesthetic ideas. At the time of the Second Sophistic, which tends to reflect on the relationship between art and literature, the conceptual and lexical ambivalence between the two forms is often explored in order to define literary programmes and compositional strategies. Lucian is particularly sensitive to the relationship between the two forms, not least given

 See e.g. Bompaire (1958), Camerotto (1998), Cannatà Fera (1997), Householder (1941). https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110795448-011

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his technical expertise in the field of art, which appears evident, for instance, from the (allegedly) ‘biographical’ account of his initiation into rhetoric in the Somnium.2 The figurative world does not fail to affect Lucian’s Dialogues of the Sea Gods and Dialogues of the Gods. In these texts, Lucian offers a novel interpretation of the mythical heritage of the past, revisiting, with his rationalism and mocking spirit, prominent figures in the Greeks’ cultural memory. In doing so, on the one hand, he establishes a constant intertextual relationship with the literary tradition; on the other hand, the visual component appears important. Some of the Dialogues can actually be considered verbal transpositions of iconographic schemes,3 although they are not, technically speaking, ekphraseis, i.e. they are not ‘literary descriptions of a work of art’ – at least if we take the term in its modern sense.4 Lucian appeals to the visual memory of his audience, just as he stirs their literary memory. In this chapter, we will see how the visual dimension comes into play in Lucian’s Dialogues of the Sea Gods, by focusing on a specific example: Lucian’s DMar. 15, Zephyr and Notus.5

 On Lucian as an ‘art critic’, see e.g. Andò (1975). After the pioneering work by Piot (1914), several studies have focused on the role of ekphrasis in Lucian. A comprehensive evaluation of the phenomenon has been attempted by Maffei (1994). See also Ghedini (2022) 84–100. Other scholars have focused on single texts: e.g. Cannatà Fera (1998) on the Hippias; Newby (2002) and Santucci (2020) on De domo; Cistaro (2009) on Imagines and Pro imaginibus. On these last two works, see also e.g. Floridi (2015), Gabrieli (1934) and (1935), Goldhill (1994), Korus (1981), Maffei (1984), and Webb (2006).  Allusions to the importance of the iconographic component in the construction of the Dialogues are found e.g. in Lami and Maltomini (1986) 14–15, Maffei (1994) XXI n. 35, Bartley (2005) 363–364, 366–367 and (2009) 8–9 (and passim).  Ancient definitions of the term were much broader than the modern focus on art-historical ekphrasis implies. According to Theon, II 118, 6–7 Speyer, for instance, ἔκφρασίς ἐστι λόγος περιηγηματικός, ὥς φασιν, ἐναργὴς καὶ ὑπ’ ὄψιν ἄγων τὸ δηλούμενον, ‘ekphrasis is a descriptive speech, as they say, which is vivid and brings the subject shown before the eyes’, and this definition is almost unanimously shared by rhetorical manuals (e.g. Ps.-Hermog. Prog. 10.1; Aphth. Soph. II 46, 15–16 Speyer; Choerob. III, 251, 24–26 Speyer); see Webb (2009), esp. 1–11 for a comparison between the ancient definition of ekphrasis and the modern one, and Ghedini (2022) 62–63.  On this dialogue, see also Massimo (2018); on its visual dimension, see Andò (1975) 40–42 (with previous bibliography).

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10.1 Narration, ekphrasis, and intertextuality In DMar. 15, Lucian envisages a dialogue between two winds, Zephyr and Notus: Zephyr asks Notus whether he has recently seen a splendid pageant on the waves. Notus replies that he has not – he was busy with the Red Sea. After this negative reply, Zephyr asks further questions: does Notus at least know Agenor the Sidonian? Notus’ reply this time is a positive one: he does know him – Agenor is Europa’s father. Europa – says Zephyr – is exactly the subject he wants to talk about. At this point, Notus clarifies that he is already aware of the (basic) facts: Zeus has been in love with the girl for a long while. These first dialogic exchanges already call for some comments. First, it should be noted that the visual dimension is strongly stressed from the very beginning. In a few lines, there are several occurrences of words related to viewing: εἶδον, εἶδες, θεάματος, ἴδοις. Second, Zephyr programmatically declares that he is going to ‘narrate’ a story (Περὶ αὐτῆς [i.e. Europa] ἐκείνης διηγήσομαί σοι, ‘Europa it is that I am going to tell you about’6). The verb used to express this concept, διηγέομαι, ‘set out in detail, describe’ (LSJ, s.v.), is a ‘technical’ term in rhetoric, related to words such as διήγημα and διήγησις, used to indicate the second of the preliminary exercises in the progymnasmata.7 Third, the narrative is carefully marked out: Zeus’ love for Europa is an ancient story, well known to the internal audience – i.e. Notus (Μῶν ὅτι ὁ Ζεὺς ἐραστὴς τῆς παιδὸς ἐκ πολλοῦ; τοῦτο γὰρ καὶ πάλαι ἠπιστάμην, ‘You need not tell me that Zeus has been in love with her this long while; that is stale news’) – and thus to the external audience – i.e. Lucian’s public. The story, in its general outline, does not need to be retold, because it is an old and famous one.8 Zephyr’s narration will thus concentrate on ‘what happens next’ (Οὐκοῦν τὸν μὲν ἔρωτα οἶσθα, τὰ μετὰ ταῦτα δὲ ἤδη ἄκουσον, ‘We can pass the love, then, and get on to the sequel’). Through the fictive narrative framework provided by the dialogue between the two winds, Lucian thus clarifies: 1. his subject, i.e. the ‘sequel’ (τὰ μετὰ ταῦτα) to Zeus’ love for Europa, what happens after the god has fallen in love with the girl; 2. the rhetorical form chosen to treat it, i.e. ‘narration’ (διηγήσομαι);

 For Lucian, I follow the text established by MacLeod (1987); translations are by Fowler and Fowler (2016), occasionally modified.  Ps.-Hermog. Prog. 2 draws a distinction between διήγημα, ‘narrative’, and διήγησις, ‘narration’, the former being the part, the latter, the whole, that is: a διήγημα is a short narration of an event which is part of a larger διήγησις, or narrative.  On the myth of Europa in antiquity, see Bühler (1968) and, most recently, Heldmann (2016); on the parodic treatments of the story, see Cannavale (2018).

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the importance of the visual component. The audience, invited to listen (ἄκουσον) to the narrative, by means of the various allusions to viewing, is somewhat alerted to the ‘vivid’ quality the words will take. In a sense, Lucian invites his public to be ready to visualise what he is about to narrate. This is not surprising, given the strong connection between ekphrasis and narration, as it is theorised in rhetoric manuals. Ps.-Hermogenes, Prog. 10, for instance, mentions some authorities who recommend teaching ekphrasis as part of the exercise of narration. The elements of a narrative could be expanded by means of ekphrasis, for any element or combination of elements of a story could be narrated ‘ekphrastically’, i.e. with the vividness necessary to appeal to the audience’s imagination.9

After this ‘proem’, Zephyr’s narrative starts: ἡ μὲν Εὐρώπη κατεληλύθει ἐπὶ τὴν ἠϊόνα παίζουσα τὰς ἡλικιώτιδας παραλαβοῦσα, ὁ Ζεὺς δὲ ταύρῳ εἰκάσας ἑαυτὸν συνέπαιζεν αὐταῖς κάλλιστος φαινόμενος· λευκός τε γὰρ ἦν ἀκριβῶς καὶ τὰ κέρατα εὐκαμπὴς καὶ τὸ βλέμμα ἥμερος· ἐσκίρτα οὖν καὶ αὐτὸς ἐπὶ τῆς ἠϊόνος καὶ ἐμυκᾶτο ἥδιστον, ὥστε τὴν Εὐρώπην τολμῆσαι καὶ ἀναβῆναι αὐτόν. Europa had come down for a frolic on the beach with her playfellows. Zeus transformed himself into a bull, and joined the game. A fine sight he was – spotless white skin, crumpled horns, and gentle eyes. He gambolled on the shore with them, bellowing most musically, until Europa took heart of grace and mounted him. (DMar. 15.2)

The wind provides a pictorial vignette where the visual dimension plays a prominent role: Zeus transforms himself into a bull and ‘appears most beautiful’ to Europa and her comrades (κάλλιστος φαινόμενος). He is described with close attention to colour – he is λευκός . . . ἀκριβῶς, the latter being a technical term in rhetoric and art history alike, indicating ‘precision’ or ‘exactness’ obtained through technical skills.10 Pictorial details such as the form of his horns (εὐκαμπής) and the look of his eyes (τὸ βλέμμα ἥμερος) are added. This is particularly relevant: an anonymous rhetoric manual, roughly contemporary with Lucian, distinguishes three different forms of narration – simple, elaborate, and confirmatory – and, as an example, presents the story of Ajax’s madness in three different ways. What distinguishes the elaborate version from the other two is – among other things – the very attention to individuals’ appearance, and the look in Ajax’s eyes is one of the

 Webb (2009) 64–66.  For example, Cistaro (2009) 49, 93–94 (with bibliography); for the category of ἀκρίβεια, ‘precision’ or ‘exactness’, in relation to works of art, see especially Pollitt (1974) 117–125.

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details that are added.11 Not only that, but the sound of the bull’s voice is described, through an onomatopoeic term (ἐμυκᾶτο ἥδιστον). This is, once again, significant: the simultaneous evoking of different sensations (e.g. visual and acoustic, or visual and tactile) is one of the means by which enargeia can be attained, and onomatopoeia is one of the recognised ways to achieve a form of ‘mimetic’ sonority, according to the theoreticians.12 In a few brush strokes, employing the devices and techniques recommended by the manuals, the author vividly paints a vignette of the scene, in line with the way in which this has been represented in the visual arts from the archaic age onwards: Europa with the bull (but not on the bull) is a popular subject in Greek and Roman art. It appears on vases, mosaics, wallpaintings, Cretan coins, etc.13 In most of these representations, the bull is white, as in Lucian; and, as in Lucian, Europa and the animal are often not alone: the girl’s companions are with them; sometimes the sea can be seen in the foreground (e.g. the Apulian pelike, from around 310 BCE, now in Milan, Mus. Arch. A 1868 [ST 6874]; LIMC, s.v. Europa 1, n. 10) – a setting also implied by Lucian’s description. From a literary point of view, it has been pointed out that Lucian’s Dialogue shares several details with Moschus’ Europa,14 the most complete account of the Europa myth we have.15 This first vignette broadly corresponds to Moschus’ ll. 63–107, where Zeus changes himself into a beautiful bull and gains Europa’s confidence. The main details are there in both texts: the bull is beautiful (Luc. DMar. 15.2 κάλλιστος φαινόμενος expresses in a single word a concept that Moschus develops in several verses, 80–88), and its description includes references to its colour (Luc. λευκός τε γὰρ ἦν ἀκριβῶς > Mosch. Eur. 84–85 τοῦ δή τοι τὸ μὲν ἄλλο δέμας ξανθόχροον ἔσκε, / κύκλος δ’ ἀργύφεος μέσσῳ μάρμαιρε μετώπῳ), horns (τὰ κέρατα εὐκαμπής > Mosch. Eur. 87–88 ἶσά τ’ ἐπ’ ἀλλήλοισι κέρα ἀνέτελλε καρήνου / ἄντυγος ἡμιτόμου κεραῆς ἅτε κύκλα σελήνης), to the look in its eyes (τὸ βλέμμα ἥμερος > Mosch. Eur. 86 ὄσσε δ’ ὑπογλαύσσεσκε καὶ ἵμερον ἀστράπτεσκεν),

 Anonymous, περὶ τῶν τεσσάρων μέρων τοῦ τελείου λóγου, Waltz, Rhetores graeci, 3, 576, l. 21–578, l. 5. See Webb (2009) 66 (text and translation are provided on pp. 209–211).  See e.g. [Dem.] On Style 219–220. On the ways to achieve enargeia recommended by ancient rhetoric manuals, see e.g. Webb (2009) 90–93; Linant de Bellefonds and Prioux (2017) 37.  LIMC, s.v. Europa 1, nos. 2–21. On the iconography of Europa in general, see Robertson (1998) and Peeters (2009); on mosaics more specifically, see Wattel-de Croizant (1995).  See e.g. Bompaire (1958) 733; Baldwin (1980) (also for a full list of linguistic parallels); Bartley (2009) 166–176; Hopkinson (2008) 220–221. On Moschus’ Europa, see especially Bühler (1960).  The story was treated, among others, by [Hes.] frr. 140–141 M.-W., Stesich. fr. 195 Page = 96 Finglass (= schol. ad Eur. Phoen. 670), Simon. fr. 562 Page = F 253 Poltera (= Aristoph. Byz. F 124 Slater), and Bacchyl. frr. 10 and 17.31 S.-M., but Moschus does not seem to be indebted to any of them. See Hopkinson (1988) 200–201 and Bartley 2009 (167).

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and to the sound of its voice (ἐμυκᾶτο ἥδιστον > Mosch. Eur. 97–98 αὐτὰρ ὃ μειλίχιον μυκήσατο· φαῖό κεν αὐλοῦ / Μυγδονίου γλυκὺν ἦχον ἀνηπύοντος ἀκούειν). Apart from the use of εὐκαμπής, applied to the bull’s horns in Lucian and to the ἄροτρον in Moschus (l. 81), in an elaborate description of the bull’s appearance, there are no verbal parallels between Moschus’ idyll and Lucian’s Dialogue. This, per se, might be of no great significance – even when he is demonstrably reworking a poetic source, Lucian, in his Dialogues, tends to avoid using the same words as his source text, as though he were attempting to paraphrase or rewrite a poetic passage in prose.16 But other differences can be pointed out: Lucian’s short version does not mention, for instance, that Europa’s abduction takes place while the girl is picking flowers in a meadow – an important narrative detail in Moschus, because the extensive ekphrasis of the basket originates from it (ll. 28–62). Lucian’s setting is much more generic – the girl is just ‘playing’ (παίζουσα) with her companions on the beach (another common context for the snatching away of a girl in myth).17 Nor does Lucian mention Europa’s dream, or the precise moment when Zeus falls in love with the girl, as these events are explicitly presented as the background to the story – see Notus’ claim in DMar. 15.1 – while in Moschus the god is overcome with desire when he sees Europa picking flowers. The words τὸν μὲν ἔρωτα οἶσθα, τὰ μετὰ ταῦτα δὲ ἤδη ἄκουσον can actually be read as an ‘Alexandrian footnote’18 – a device often employed by Lucian in the Sea Dialogues19 and designed to draw attention to the allusive content of an utterance, to the fact that the material belongs to an earlier tradition (or even to a number of traditions). Lucian is alerting his public to the fact that he is going to concentrate on a single episode of a longer story, and the allusion to the ‘past’ of Europa, which Notus already knows (τοῦτο γὰρ καὶ πάλαι ἠπιστάμην), is an allusion to the literary accounts of that story – possibly, an allusion to the first part of Moschus’ idyll, where the circumstances of Zeus’ falling in love are explained. To make things more complicated, one should note that Moschus’ idyll stands in the background of Ovid’s account of the Europa myth in Metamorphoses 2.836–3.2, and that Lucian has in common with Ovid at least as many details as he has with Moschus: Lucian’s κάλλιστος, for instance, is paralleled by Ovid’s formosus (ll. 851

 See, for instance, DMar. 2, based on Od. 9, with Floridi (2017) 255–260.  Persephone, for instance, is ‘playing’ with her attendant Oceanids when she is snatched away by Hades in Hymn. Hom. 2.5 (and the Homeric Hymn to Demeter is an important model for Moschus as well: see Hopkinson [1988] 201), while Aphrodite is with her companions when Hermes comes to lead her to Anchyses (Hymn. Hom. 5.119–120). See also Richardson (1974) 140–142 and Faulkner (2008) 193.  The term was coined by Ross (1975) 78. See also Hinds (1998) 1–5.  Examples are discussed in Floridi (2017) 247 and 254, and (2018) 212 and 223–227.

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and 859); his λευκός τε γὰρ ἦν ἀκριβῶς by Ovid’s color nivis est, ‘his colour is that of snow’ (l. 852) and latus . . . niveum (l. 865). Lucian’s allusion to the mildness of the bull’s appearance finds a counterpart in Ovid’s nullae in fronte minae, nec formidabile lumen, ‘his brow and eyes would inspire no fear, and his whole expression was peaceful’ (l. 857); his ἐσκίρτα in Ovid’s et nunc adludit viridique exsultat in herba, ‘at one moment he frolics and runs riot in the grass’ (l. 864). Are these points of contact explained by the derivation of the two descriptions from a common source, i.e. Moschus, or, more generally, by the inherent pictorial qualities of the myth described, which makes it ‘natural’ to stress, for instance, the bull’s whiteness or beauty? The relationship between Lucian and Ovid (and, more generally, Latin literature) is a widely discussed issue. While some scholars deny that Lucian could read – and imitate – Latin texts, others are more open to that possibility.20 In the Dialogues of the Sea Gods, there is at least one passage that shows very strong resemblances to Ovid’s Metamorphoses – the account of Polyphemus’ love for Galatea in DMar. 1.21 If one admits that, at least in this case, a borrowing is possible and that Lucian may have read, if not the whole poem, at least some passages of it in anthologies or similar works, then the possibility that the Greek author was familiar with the Latin one cannot be ruled out.22

 According to Helm (1906) 218–222, for instance, Lucian might depend directly on Latin sources, while other scholars, such as Hartmann (1907), denied such a possibility. Bompaire (1958) 499–513 argued that Lucian may have known some Latin poetry through anthologies and collections containing paraphrases and excerpta. On this much discussed issue, see at least Anderson (1976) 85–89, Jones (1986) 80–81, Scivoletto (2000), Tomassi (2011) 320–321, Bozia (2015) 16–51, Manzella (2013) and (2016). On Lucian and the Latin language, see in particular Rochette (2010), Mestre and Vintrò (2010), and Manzella (2016) 184–188. On possible references to Latin works in Greek literature of the imperial period, see also Prioux’s contribution to this volume.  See Floridi (2017).  On this point, see also Baldwin (1980) 116, who stresses the similarities between Lucian’s account and Ovid’s with respect to Europa’s myth and then comments: ‘This is not, of course, to postulate a Lucianic dependence upon Ovid. There is little formal evidence that he had the ability or the desire to read Roman literature. A common situation with Greeks. Yet the possibility is not to be ruled out.’

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10.2 A series of pictorial vignettes (and an elusive descriptive technique) The first vignette is followed by a second one, which broadly corresponds to Moschus, Europa 108–152, and to Ovid, Metamorphoses 2.868–875 (Europa climbs onto the bull’s back and is swiftly carried across the sea): ὡς δὲ τοῦτο ἐγένετο, δρομαῖος μὲν ὁ Ζεὺς ὥρμησεν ἐπὶ τὴν θάλασσαν φέρων αὐτὴν καὶ ἐνήχετο ἐμπεσών, ἡ δὲ πάνυ ἐκπλαγὴς τῷ πράγματι τῇ λαιᾷ μὲν εἴχετο τοῦ κέρατος, ὡς μὴ ἀπολισθάνοι, τῇ ἑτέρᾳ δὲ ἠνεμωμένον τὸν πέπλον συνεῖχεν. No sooner had she done it than, with her on his back, Zeus made off at a run for the sea, plunged in, and began swimming; she was dreadfully frightened, but kept her seat by clinging to one of his horns with her left hand, while the right held her peplos down against the puffs of wind. (DMar. 15.2)

Europa now appears seated on the bull, as he gallops across the sea. She holds the animal’s horn with her left hand in order not to fall, while with her right hand she clutches her dress, blown by the wind. The same picture appears in Moschus – see esp. ll. 126–128.23 Scholars have suspected the influence of a painting in Moschus.24 It is reasonable to assume that Lucian too here has the typical schema of Europa and the bull in mind, as this is represented in a variety of iconographic contexts: from the bronze mirror-cover from Eretria, fourth century BCE (Athens, Nat. Mus. St. 742225), to the fourth-century CE mosaics from Rhodes,26 to mention but a couple of examples.27 The schema is attested both in a variant where Europa, her mantle forming an arch over her head, appears dressed, and in a variant where she is naked, or half naked.28

 τῇ μὲν ἔχεν ταύρου δολιχὸν κέρας, ἐν χερὶ δ’ ἄλλῃ / εἴρυε πορφυρέην κόλπου πτύχα ὄφρά κε μή μιν / δεύοι ἐφελκόμενον πολιῆς ἁλὸς ἄσπετον ὕδωρ, ‘with one hand she held a long horn of the bull, and with the other gathered up the purple folds of her robe so that the gray sea’s great waters might not wet it trailing along’. See also Ov. Met. 2.874–875 dextra cornum tenet, altera dorso / inposita est; tremulae sinuantur flamine vestes, ‘the right hand holds the horn, positioned the other on the back; the fluttering garments billow in the wind’.  For example, Hopkinson (1988) 201–202.  LIMC, s.v. Europa 1, no. 100.  LIMC, s.v. Europa 1, no. 155.  On the pictorial quality of Lucian’s descriptions in this Dialogue, see also Baldwin (1980); he rightly stresses that Europa was a very common image for Lucian’s contemporaries, as it was also represented on coins in the first to second century CE (as stated by Lucian himself in DSyr. 4; on the question of authorship, see Lightfoot [2003] 184–208).  LIMC, s.v. Europa 1, 85 (naked in nos. 151–154, dressed in nos. 155–158).

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The inherent pictorial quality of Europa’s myth, as is also shown by other ekphraseis on the theme, makes it difficult to ascertain whether Lucian has precisely Moschus in mind here.29 Given his literary culture, it is certainly possible, and the initial ‘Alexandrian footnote’ seems to confirm that the author is relying on a literary model, probably the most famous literary model for Europa’s story, i.e. Moschus. All narrative details aside, it may be worth noting that Lucian and Moschus also share a common literary technique. As in Moschus, in Lucian we clearly have a merging of description and narration – description is the actual method of narration, realised by juxtaposing a series of ekphraseis. Zephyr’s diegesis proceeds through the verbal evocation of visual representations of the story, in its different moments. It has been noted that, in Moschus, the ekphrastic quality of the scene is also shown by the predominance of the imperfect tense.30 In ekphrastic contexts the imperfect denotes actions that are never completed: the artistic representation captures an action perpetually in the process of being fulfilled. Any ekphrasis has this seemingly paradoxical sense of static motion: figures are described as moving, and yet are static.31 In Lucian too the imperfect plays a prominent role: συνέπαιζεν, ἐμυκᾶτο, ἐνήχετο, συνεῖχεν. The imperfect tense conveys a continuous, ‘frozen’ action, thus capturing the necessarily incomplete nature of any movement depicted within an ekphrastic scene. More importantly, Moschus’ idyll has a pictorial vividness that has led several scholars to stress its strong links with the visual arts.32 In particular, it has been noted that, in order to give the poem the temporal dimension lacking in the visual arts, Moschus verbally depicts four different tableaux – his narrative is based on the juxtaposition of four different scenes. The same is true for Lucian: his account can analogously be described as a series of different scenes, whose combination narrates a whole story, like a continuous narrative format in art. Before the next vignette is described by Zephyr, an intervention by Notus stresses, again, the visual dimension of the description: Ἡδὺ τοῦτο θέαμα εἶδες, ὦ Ζέφυρε, καὶ ἐρωτικόν, νηχόμενον τὸν Δία καὶ φέροντα τὴν ἀγαπωμένην, ‘A lovely sight indeed, Zephyr, in every sense – Zeus swimming with his darling on his back’. Notus’ words do not dramatise a listener’s reaction to the telling of a story, but rather that of a viewer to a work of art, according to the tendency in ekphrastic literature to portray such a response as a way to ‘guide’ the audience’s interpretation of an image. The visual dimension is then stressed

 See Bompaire (1958) 733: ‘Dans l’ensemble Lucien est très proche de ce poète, si bien que le problème d’une ecphrasis indirecte peut se poser’.  Harden (2011).  On narrative suspension in ekphrasis, see Bing (2012) 194–195.  Zanker (1987) 92–94, Paschalis (2003) 153–163, and Hopkinson (1988) 201–202.

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by Zephyr himself, who uses the very word θεαταί, ‘spectators’, with reference to his own role and that of the other winds in the pompe he is describing: Καὶ μὴν τὰ μετὰ ταῦτα ἡδίω παρὰ πολύ, ὦ Νότε· ἥ τε γὰρ θάλασσα εὐθὺς ἀκύμων ἐγένετο καὶ τὴν γαλήνην ἐπισπασαμένη λείαν παρεῖχεν ἑαυτήν, ἡμεῖς δὲ πάντες ἡσυχίαν ἄγοντες οὐδὲν ἄλλο ἢ θεαταὶ μόνον τῶν γιγνομένων παρηκολουθοῦμεν. Ah, but what followed was much lovelier, o Notus. Every wave fell; the sea donned her robe of peace to speed them on their way; we winds made holiday and joined the train, all eyes. (DMar. 15.2)

The representation of Zephyr and the other winds as a group of ‘spectators’ does not merely serve the purpose of enhancing the visual quality of the scene. It is also a way to introduce the next vignette, where the sea is calm and the winds do not play any active role, by contrast to the preceding scene (one should also note the amusing paradox inherent in the fact that Zephyr, a wind, describes Europa’s peplos as ἠνεμωμένον, ‘blown by the wind’). In other words, Zephyr’s observation directs the audience’s attention to the ‘technical’ problem of how to represent something impalpable like the winds in the visual arts. This must have been a much debated issue, given the number of comments on the topic scattered in ekphrastic writings: see, for instance, Achilles Tatius 1.1.12 ὁ δὲ κόλπος τοῦ πέπλου πάντοθεν ἐτέτατο κυρτούμενος· καὶ ἦν οὗτος ἄνεμος τοῦ ζωγράφου, ‘her veil [. . .] floated down about her shoulders, bellying out through its whole length and so giving the impression of a painted breeze’,33 which explicitly draws attention to the technique used by the painter to represent the wind in his picture. At this point, Zephyr describes a rich collective scene, full of marine characters. While some of them are also mentioned by Moschus, others are not, so the general impression is that Lucian here is not relying on Moschus (any longer?): Ἔρωτες δὲ παραπετόμενοι μικρὸν ὑπὲρ τὴν θάλασσαν, ὡς ἐνίοτε ἄκροις τοῖς ποσὶν ἐπιψαύειν τοῦ ὕδατος, ἡμμένας τὰς δᾷδας φέροντες ᾖδον ἅμα τὸν ὑμέναιον, αἱ Νηρεΐδες δὲ ἀναδῦσαι παρίππευον ἐπὶ τῶν δελφίνων ἐπικροτοῦσαι ἡμίγυμνοι τὰ πολλά, τό τε τῶν Τριτώνων γένος καὶ εἴ τι ἄλλο μὴ φοβερὸν ἰδεῖν τῶν θαλασσίων ἅπαντα περιεχόρευον τὴν παῖδα· ὁ μὲν γὰρ Ποσειδῶν ἐπιβεβηκὼς ἅρματος, παροχουμένην τὴν Ἀμφιτρίτην ἔχων, προῆγε γεγηθὼς ὁδοποιῶν νηχομένῳ τῷ ἀδελφῷ· ἐπὶ πᾶσι δὲ τὴν Ἀφροδίτην δύο Τρίτωνες ἔφερον ἐπὶ κόγχης κατακειμένην, ἄνθη παντοῖα ἐπιπάττουσαν τῇ νύμφῃ. Fluttering Loves skimmed the waves, just dipping now and again a heedless toe – in their hands lighted torches, on their lips the nuptial song; up floated Nereids – few but were prodigal of naked charms – and clapped their hands, and kept pace on dolphin steeds; the Triton company, with every sea-creature that frights not the eye, tripped it around the

 The translations of Achilles Tatius are by Gaselee (1917), occasionally modified.

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maid; for Poseidon on his car, with Amphitrite by him, led them in festal mood, ushering his brother through the waves. But, crowning all, a Triton pair bore Aphrodite, reclined on a shell, heaping the bride with all flowers that blow. (DMar. 15.3)

Once again, the visual quality of the description is clear: the scene is dominated by the ‘ekphrastic’ imperfect, which ‘freezes’ the movement in a perpetual and (paradoxically) static motion. Attention is paid to the precise location of characters in space – there is an abundance of prepositions, aimed at describing where each element of the tableau is in relation to the others, and this is another typically ekphrastic feature. Once again, in depicting his rich fresco in words, Lucian is appealing to the visual memory of his audience, clearly based on a set of schemata. A group of Erotes makes their appearance, lightly touching the surface of the sea with their feet, nuptial torches in hands; next to them is a group of halfnaked Nereids, seated on dolphins; Tritons and other unspecified sea creatures, dancing around Europa, complete the scene. The audience is thus led to imagine a collective scene, of the sort portrayed in mosaics, reliefs, and frescos of the imperial age: Europa with a marine thiasus is a widespread theme in the visual arts, both with Eros34 or in a more general procession of deities.35 One of the best preserved of these group scenes is the fifth-century CE mosaic from Djemila,36 where a frontal, nearly naked Europa, with a mantle forming an arch over her head, is sitting on the bull, accompanied by two Erotes holding something in their hands (in this case, flower wreaths), encircled by dolphins and fish. However, Lucian’s pictorial project is much more ambitious than that – he adds other details, drawn from other schemata: 1. Poseidon and Amphitrite, seated in their chariot, lead the pompe. See, for instance, the ‘Triumph of Poseidon and Amphitrite’, showing the couple in procession as part of the vast mosaic from Cirta, Roman Africa, 315–325 CE, now at the Louvre; or Poseidon and Amphitrite in a chariot hauled by Triton in the Roman mosaic from the Casa del Granduca, Pompeii, now at the National Archaeological Museum in Naples (inv. no. 10007; Fig. 15.1); 2. Aphrodite, reclined on a shell supported by two Tritons, offers her flowers to the bride. The shell is usually associated with Aphrodite – according to one tradition, the goddess was born from a shell. Particularly relevant, here, are the representations of Aphrodite on a shell supported by two Tritons – see the medallion at Palazzo dei Conservatori, Rome, second–third century CE, where the goddess is also surrounded by Erotes, to signify a

 LIMC, s.v. Europa 1, nos. 159–164.  LIMC, s.v. Europa 1, nos. 165–168.  LIMC, s.v. Europa 1, no. 164.

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thiasus, or the various sarcophagi portraying the same scene preserved at the Galleria Borghese, the Louvre, etc.37

Fig. 10.1: Poseidon and Amphitrite in a chariot hauled by Triton. Roman mosaic from the Casa del Granduca, Pompeii. Naples, National Archaeological Museum (inv. no. 10007). © Wikimedia Commons.

To sum up the rhetor’s iconographic project: the audience is invited to visualise a sumptuous choral scene (a πομπὴν . . . μεγαλοπρεπεστέραν, in Zephyr’s own words, DMar. 15.1), set in the open sea, a marine thiasus full of nuptial symbols and overtones. Europa and the bull are at the centre, surrounded by groups of Erotes, dancing Nereids, and other sea creatures, and preceded by Poseidon and Amphitrite in their chariot (a schema usually employed in representations of the wedding of the sea god and the Nereid: here the divine couple leads a nuptial procession, whose protagonists are Europa and Zeus). Behind them all is Aphrodite, an elegant figure on a shell.

 Brickhoff (1929–1930).

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Interestingly enough, Lucian’s description is both accurate and vague. It is accurate, because the general picture is clearly described, and the audience is given all the necessary details to visualise the characters in space, their position with respect to each other, their general pose and gestures, and the meanings connected to such poses and gestures. Furthermore, it is accurate because the rhetor somewhat shapes the audience’s response, peppering his picture with words that describe its quality – it is a Ἡδὺ . . . θέαμα . . . καὶ ἐρωτικόν (DMar. 15.3) – and ἡδύς and cognates also appear elsewhere in the description, offering an interpretative key (DMar. 15.1 Ἡδίστου θεάματος; 15.3 τὰ μετὰ ταῦτα ἡδίω παρὰ πολύ). At the same time, the description is vague because if one tries to bring the image into sharper focus, one realises that many details are left to the audience’s imagination: what other kinds of sea creatures, for instance, are to be imagined next to the Nereids and the Tritons? Is Poseidon and Amphitrite’s chariot supported by seahorses, Tritons, or other creatures? How are we to imagine Amphitrite? Is she dressed, as in the mosaic from Pompeii, or halfdressed, as in the one from Cirta? Where are their hands? Is she maybe touching Poseidon? And what about Aphrodite? Is she naked? Is her hair loose or drawn up? What kind of flowers are the ἄνθη παντοῖα she is offering the bride? These and other questions arise when one tries to figure out the details of Lucian’s description, and Lucian’s vagueness is even more evident if one compares it with the ekphrasis of the painting of Europa and the bull that opens Achilles Tatius’ novel (1.1.2–13). Although the general picture is the same – Achilles Tatius describes Europa on the bull as having exactly the same pose – the number of details provided by the novelist is striking. His ekphrasis appears to be as ‘baroque’ and rich as Lucian’s is sober, essential, and allusive. Let us compare Lucian’s description of Europa on the bull with Achilles Tatius’: ἡ δὲ πάνυ ἐκπλαγὴς τῷ πράγματι τῇ λαιᾷ μὲν εἴχετο τοῦ κέρατος, ὡς μὴ ἀπολισθάνοι, τῇ ἑτέρᾳ δὲ ἠνεμωμένον τὸν πέπλον συνεῖχεν. She was dreadfully frightened, but kept her seat by clinging to one of his horns with her left hand, while the right held her skirt down against the puffs of wind. (DMar. 15.2) ἡ παρθένος μέσοις ἐπεκάθητο τοῖς νώτοις τοῦ βοός, οὐ περιβάδην, ἀλλὰ κατὰ πλευράν, ἐπὶ δεξιὰ συμβᾶσα τὼ πόδε, τῇ λαιᾷ τοῦ κέρως ἐχομένη, ὥσπερ ἡνίοχος χαλινοῦ· καὶ γὰρ ὁ βοῦς ἐπέστραπτο ταύτῃ μᾶλλον πρὸς τὸ τῆς χειρὸς ἕλκον ἡνιοχούμενος. χιτὼν ἀμφὶ τὰ στέρνα τῆς παρθένου μέχρις αἰδοῦς· τοὐντεῦθεν ἐπεκάλυπτε χλαῖνα τὰ κάτω τοῦ σώματος. λευκὸς ὁ χιτών· ἡ χλαῖνα πορφυρᾶ· τὸ δὲ σῶμα διὰ τῆς ἐσθῆτος ὑπεφαίνετο. 11 βαθὺς ὀμφαλός· γαστὴρ τεταμένη· λαπάρα στενή· τὸ στενὸν εἰς ἰξὺν καταβαῖνον ηὐρύνετο. μαζοὶ τῶν στέρνων ἠρέμα προκύπτοντες· ἡ συνάγουσα ζώνη τὸν χιτῶνα καὶ τοὺς μαζοὺς ἔκλειε, καὶ ἐγίνετο τοῦ σώματος κάτοπτρον ὁ χιτών. 12 αἱ χεῖρες ἄμφω διετέταντο, ἡ μὲν ἐπὶ κέρας, ἡ δὲ ἐπ’ οὐράν· ἤρτητο δὲ ἀμφοῖν ἑκατέρωθεν ὑπὲρ τὴν κεφαλὴν ἡ καλύπτρα

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κύκλῳ τῶν νώτων ἐμπεπετασμένη· ὁ δὲ κόλπος τοῦ πέπλου πάντοθεν ἐτέτατο κυρτούμενος καὶ ἦν οὗτος ἄνεμος τοῦ ζωγράφου. ἡ δὲ δίκην ἐπεκάθητο τῷ ταύρῳ πλεούσης νηός, ὥσπερ ἱστίῳ τῷ πέπλῳ χρωμένη. The maiden sat on the middle of his back, not astride but sideways, with her feet held together on the right: with her left hand she clung to his horn, like a charioteer holding the reins, and the bull inclined a little in that direction, guided by the pressure of her hand. On the upper part of her body she wore a tunic down to her middle, and then a robe covered the lower part of her body: the tunic was white, the robe purple: and her figure could be traced under the clothes – the deep-set navel, the long slight curve of the belly, the narrow waist, broadening down to the loins, the breasts gently swelling from her bosom and confined, as well as her tunic, by a girdle; and the tunic was a kind of mirror of the shape of her body. Her hands were held widely apart, the one to the bull’s horn, the other to his tail; and with both she held above her head the ends of her veil which floated down about her shoulders, bellying out through its whole length and so giving the impression of a painted breeze. Thus, she was seated on the bull like a vessel under way, using the veil as a sail. (Achilles Tatius 1.1.10–12)

Achilles Tatius meticulously describes Europa’s position on the bull, her dress, and her body; he even uses similes (ὥσπερ ἡνίοχος χαλινοῦ) and metaphors (ἐγίνετο τοῦ σώματος κάτοπτρον ὁ χιτών) in order to express himself more clearly. When compared to Achilles’ description, Lucian’s vagueness and allusiveness are even more evident. While Achilles Tatius is competing with a painter in terms of enargeia, and is trying to evoke a precise image through his words, Lucian is urging his audience to visualise different versions of the same scene, depending on their personal visual encyclopaedia, aesthetic sensitivity, and predilections. The general scheme is clearly set out by the rhetor, but each listener/reader is given the possibility to complete it with the details he/she prefers. The rhetor at the same time shapes his audience’s mental images and leaves open the possibility for everyone to visualise different renditions of the same images (i.e. different renditions of the same schema). The words are stimuli for a mental representation (intervisuality appears, here, as interfigurativity: see the Introduction, 5–6, and Pizzone’s contribution to this volume, 19–20). This is possible because the rhetor and his audience share a similar, if not identical, visual encyclopaedia. Nevertheless, while Achilles Tatius wants to suggest a specific rendition of a schema, i.e. a specific painting – regardless of whether he is actually describing an existing work of art or not,38 in Lucian that representation is bound to take different forms, depending on the predilections, competences, and dispositions of

 Scholars nowadays mostly agree that in their ekphraseis Greek authors are not necessarily alluding to specific, individual works of art, but to general schemata: see Linant de Bellefonds and Prioux (2017) 8 (and n. 6).

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the audience (just as a text, according to an intertextual approach, can trigger different associations – and thus different meanings – according to the reader’s sensitivity, culture, and education). One may also wonder whether this ‘openness’ was a precise strategy adopted by a wandering rhetor in order to make palatable for virtually any audience speeches that were destined to travel around the world, and thus to reach different places and people, with their own local cults and iconographic traditions. At the same time, by guiding his audience’s response to the images described, the rhetorician makes sure that the meaning does not change, despite the different forms the schema can take in the minds of the audience. The erotic meaning of the scene is strongly suggested by the accumulation of details with nuptial resonances – the Erotes with their torches, singing a nuptial song, the flowers offered by Aphrodite to the νύμφη (‘girl’, but also, more specifically, ‘bride’), the Nereids in particular,39 and the marine thiasus in general, are all to be interpreted in this sense. The very presence of the marine couple, PoseidonAmphitrite, usually represented at their own wedding, is here a powerful nuptial symbol. One should also note that, in Moschus, Poseidon leads the marine thiasus, but he is not accompanied by his bride.40 This is Lucian’s innovation, clearly influenced by the visual arts. To go one step further, it is possible to suggest that Lucian is assigning a well-known image a new meaning: Poseidon and Amphitrite, usually represented at their own wedding, here somewhat serve as a prefiguration of the Zeus-Europa couple, as will become clear in the next – and final – vignette. It must be noted that theoretically, in the pompe, Zeus’ identity is still somewhat concealed by the mythological transformation. The audience, familiar with the story, is obviously aware of the bull’s identity,41 but, from an internal perspective, Europa is not. Indeed, in the next scene, Lucian mentions Europa’s realisation of what is about to happen. After a clear geographical statement (ταῦτα ἐκ Φοινίκης ἄχρι τῆς Κρήτης ἐγένετο, ‘so went it from Phoenice even to Crete’), which changes the setting of the scene, the rhetor moves on to verbally depict the sequel of this vignette, where the bull disappears, and the mythical couple becomes visible in its full anthropomorphic form:

 For the Nereids as the protectresses of Europa on her journeys (her literal sea voyage and her journey from maiden to woman), see Barringer (1991).  Nor do Amphitrite and Poseidon appear in Ov. Met. 2.1–18, a marine scene probably modelled on Mosch. Eur. 115–124; see Barchiesi (2005) 236.  This was actually declared at the very beginning, in the dialogic exchange between Zephyr and Notus that precedes Zephyr’s narration.

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ἐπεὶ δὲ ἐπέβη τῇ νήσῳ ὁ μὲν ταῦρος οὐκέτι ἐφαίνετο, ἐπιλαβόμενος δὲ τῆς χειρὸς ὁ Ζεὺς ἀπῆγε τὴν Εὐρώπην εἰς τὸ Δικταῖον ἄντρον ἐρυθριῶσαν καὶ κάτω ὁρῶσαν· ἠπίστατο γὰρ ἤδη ἐφ’ ὅτῳ ἄγοιτο. But, when he set foot on the isle, behold, the bull was no more; it was Zeus that took Europa’s hand and led her to the Dictaean cave – blushing and downward-eyed; for she knew now the end of her bringing. (DMar. 15.4)

Another specific moment in the tale is ‘ekphrastically’ represented, in its frozen movement. Having shed his bull form, Zeus takes the girl’s hand (an erotically charged gesture)42 in order to lead her to the Dictaean cave, where their love is to be consummated (the audience is to imagine the cave in the background). The girl is blushing, her eyes down: another gesture charged with a precise meaning – for it expresses at the same time modesty, decency, and awareness (and were there any doubt about the meaning of the gesture, the author gives a hint as to how it is to be interpreted: ἠπίστατο γὰρ ἤδη ἐφ’ ὅτῳ ἄγοιτο).43 Once again, the sparseness of pictorial details, combined with the ‘pedagogic’ explanation of the meaning of images, is the strategy adopted by Lucian in order to guide his audience towards the correct interpretation of the mental painting, while at the same time leaving them free to complete the schema as they like. A final comment by Notus concludes the Dialogue, stressing the visual quality of the description for the last time through the word θέα, ‘vision’ (DMar. 15.4 Ὦ μακάριε Ζέφυρε τῆς θέας).

10.3 Conclusions To sum up (and conclude): in the first part of his Dialogue, Lucian shares several narrative details with Moschus, which correspond to an equal number of vignettes: 1. Europa and her friends play on the beach; Zeus, disguised as a bull, appears, and plays with them: he is beautiful and bellows gently; 2. Europa mounts the bull; 3. The bull carries Europa off in a marine procession. In describing the procession, Lucian proceeds independently of Moschus. However, the literary strategy adopted throughout the Dialogue in order to describe the story is the same as that adopted in the idyll – both authors narrate it

 See e.g. Il. 3.447; Od. 8.291 and 11.247; Hymn. Hom. Ven. 155.  For lovers casting their eyes downward, see e.g. Hymn. Hom. Ven. 156, with Faulkner (2008) ad loc.; Theocr. 2.112, with Gow (19522) ad loc.; Call. fr. 80.11 Pf.; A.R. 1.790–791, 3.1008–1009, 1022–1024.

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through a series of pictorial vignettes, and both provide single, ‘ekphrastic’ depictions, drawing upon the visual arts. The love story is presented as a series of ekphrastic tableaux. Moschus’ descriptions are long and detailed, whereas Lucian’s are shorter and impressionistic. How can this difference be explained? First, it is reasonable to assume that Lucian was aware that he could count both on the visual and literary memory of his audience, while Moschus was – so to speak44 – the primus inventor of the story, and hence needed to set out several details that Lucian could instead take for granted. But there is probably more to this. As we have seen, Lucian deliberately decides to appeal to the visual memory of his audience, leaving them free to figure out several individual details of his verbal depiction. In this context, it is interesting to note that in How to Write History 57 the author criticises precisely the Alexandrian poets – and Moschus was one of them – for their descriptive prolixity: εἰ δὲ Παρθένιος ἢ Εὐφορίων ἢ Καλλίμαχος ἔλεγεν, πόσοις ἂν οἴει ἔπεσι τὸ ὕδωρ ἄχρι πρὸς τὸ χεῖλος τοῦ Ταντάλου ἤγαγεν· εἶτα πόσοις ἂν Ἰξίονα ἐκύλισε. If Parthenius, Euphorion, or Callimachus were speaking, how many words would it take them to bring the water up to Tantalus’ lips or to set Ixion’s wheel spinning?

These Hellenistic poets, according to Lucian, do not leave anything to the audience’s imagination, whereas it is important for the readers/listeners/viewers to supplement the rhetor’s description with their own experience and sensitivity. Lucian’s judgement might not be very accurate, since – as Graham Zanker has shown – in Hellenistic poetry, as well as in Hellenistic theory, there is an assumption that the describing poet expects his reader to put in some of the work.45 Nevertheless, it certainly tells us something about Lucian’s attitude towards his Hellenistic model, and, more generally, towards his own conception of description and narration. Lucian combines ‘vividness’ – enargeia – with allusiveness, fully exploiting the potential of the visual memory of his audience and leaving them free to visualise the rhetor’ verbal depiction as they prefer. The listeners/readers are thus afforded the pleasure of integrating the author’s words with their own knowledge. However, as all ekphrasis theorists have realised, there is a risk in this ‘policy of freedom’: in invoking the audience’s phantasia, ekphrasis can go beyond the surface of a described object, thus changing

 For earlier treatments of the myth, see above, n. 15.  The second- or first-century BCE rhetorical treatise attributed to Demetrius of Phalerum, for instance, informs us that Theophrastus advised orators not to describe all the details at great length and with minute precision, but rather to leave some for the listeners to supplement on their own. See Zanker (2004) 8.

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the meaning of the description.46 In order to avoid this, Lucian makes sure – through his occasional comments on individual details – that the general interpretation and appreciation of the scenes will not change. He thus not only includes a series of narrative ekphraseis in his Dialogue, but gives instructions on how to read them, in order to channel his audience’s perception in a specific direction and guide their response to the descriptive narrative. This Dialogue – like many others – is profoundly indebted to the visual arts, and the public is actively led to engage in the ‘intervisual’ shaping of their own mental images, by drawing upon their literary knowledge, visual memory, and expertise in the visual arts.

Bibliography Anderson, G. 1976. Lucian. Theme and Variation in the Second Sophistic. Leiden. Andò, V. 1975. Luciano critico d’arte. Palermo. Baldwin, B. 1980. Lucian and Europa: Variations on a Theme. Acta Classica 23: 115–119 (= 1985. Studies on Greek and Roman History and Literature, 353–357. Amsterdam). Barchiesi, A. 2005. Ovidio. Metamorfosi, I (libri I–II), trad. di L. Koch. Milano. Barringer, J.M. 1991. Europa and the Nereids: Wedding or Funeral? AJA 95.4: 657–667. Bartley, A.N. 2005. Techniques of Composition in Lucian’s Minor Dialogues. Hermes 133: 358– 367. Bartley, A.N. 2009. Lucian’s Dialogi marini. Newcastle upon Tyne. Bing, P. 2012. A Proto-Epyllion? The Pseudo-Hesiodic Shield and The Poetics of Deferral. In Brill’s Companion to Greek and Latin Epyllion and Its Reception, ed. M. Baumbach and S. Bär, 177–197. Leiden, Boston. Bompaire, J. 1958. Lucien écrivain. Imitation et création. Paris. Bozia, E. 2015. Lucian and his Roman Voices. Cultural Exchanges and Conflicts in the Late Roman Empire. New York, London. Brickoff, M. 1929–1930. Afrodite nella conchiglia. Bollettino d’Arte 9: 563–569. Bühler, W. 1960. Die Europa des Moschos: Text, Übersetzung und Kommentar. Wiesbaden. Bühler, W. 1968. Europa. Ein Überblick über die Zeugnisse des Mythos in der antiken Literatur und Kunst. München. Camerotto, A. 1998. Le metamorfosi della parola: studi sulla parodia in Luciano di Samosata. Pisa, Roma.

 Elsner (1995) 36–38. According to Camille (1991) 151, intervisuality can be described as a process in which images ‘are not the stable referents in some ideal iconographic dictionary . . . but work across and within different and even competing value-systems’ (on this point, see also the Introduction to this volume). Depending on the audience, an image (or a schema) might generate multifaceted and ever-shifting meanings: Lucian’s instructions on how to read the vignettes are precisely designed to avoid this.

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Camille, M. 1991. Gothic Signs and the Surplus: The Kiss on the Cathedral. Yale French Studies. Special Issue. Contexts: Style and Values in Medieval Art and Literature: 151– 170. Cannatà Fera, M. 1997. Intertestualità in Luciano: a proposito di una recente edizione. RFIC 125: 496–504. Cannatà Fera, M. 1998. Comunicazione e umorismo: l’Ippia di Luciano. In La ‘parola’ delle immagini e delle forme di scrittura. Modi e tecniche della comunicazione nel mondo antico, 229–242. Messina. Cannavale, S. 2018. Elementi comico-parodici nella tradizione del mito di Europa e il toro: dall’epigramma ellenistico all’epica tardo-antica. In Generi senza confini. La rappresentazione della realtà nel mondo antico, ed. G. Matino, F. Ficca, and R. Grisolia, 37–56. Napoli. Cistaro, M. 2009. Sotto il velo di Pantea. Imagines e Pro imaginibus di Luciano. Messina. Elsner, J. 1995. Art and the Roman Viewer. Cambridge. Faulkner, A. 2008. The Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite. Oxford. Floridi, L. 2015. Un saggio di scultura verbale. A proposito di Luc. Im. 9. Hermes 143: 83–100. Floridi, L. 2017. Polifemo tra letteratura e iconografia: Luc. DMar. 1 e 2. Aevum Antiquum 17: 245–274. Floridi, L. 2018. Luc. DMar. 14: Perseo e Andromeda tra iconografia e teatro (con un’appendice su DMar. 12). Aevum Antiquum 18: 215–255. Fowler, H.W. and F.G. Fowler. 2016. Lucian. Complete Works. Hastings, East Sussex. Gabrieli, P. 1934. L’encomio di una favorita imperiale in due opuscoli lucianei. RAL 10: 29–101. Gabrieli, P. 1935. Studi su due opuscoli lucianei: Imagines e Pro imaginibus. RAL 11: 302–340. Gaselee, S. 1917. Achilles Tatius. With an English Translation by. London. Ghedini, F. 2022. Lo sguardo degli antichi. Il racconto nell’arte classica. Roma. Goldhill, S. 1994. The Naive and Knowing Eye: Ecphrasis and the Culture of Viewing in the Hellenistic World. In Art and Text in Ancient Greek Culture, ed. S. Goldhill and R. Osborne, 197–223. Cambridge, New York. Gow, A.S.F. 19522. Theocritus, 2 vols., Cambridge (1st ed. 1950). Harden, S.J. 2011. Eros Through the Looking-Glass? Erotic Ekphrasis and Narrative Structure in Moschus’ Europa. Ramus 40.2: 87–105. Hartmann, A. 1907. Lucian und Juvenal. In Juvenes dum sumus. Aufsätze zur klassischen Altertumswissenschaft der 49. Versammlung deutscher Philologen und Schulmänner zu Basel, 18–26. Basel. Heldmann, K. 2016. Europa und der Stier oder der Brautraub des Zeus: Die Entführung Europas in den Darstellungen der griechischen und römischen Antike. Göttingen. Helm, R. 1906. Lucian und Menipp. Leipzig, Berlin (= Hildesheim 1967). Hinds, S. 1998. Allusion and Intertext: Dynamics of Appropriation in Roman Poetry. Cambridge. Hopkinson, N. 1988. A Hellenistic Anthology. Cambridge. Hopkinson, N. 2008. Lucian. A Selection. Cambridge. Householder, F.W. 1941. Literary Quotation and Allusion in Lucian. New York. Jones, C.P. 1986. Culture and Society in Lucian. Cambridge, London. Korus, K. 1981. The Motif of Panthea in Lucian’s Encomium. EOS 69: 47–56. Lami, A. and F. Maltomini. 1986. Luciano. Dialoghi di dei e cortigiane. Milano. Lightfoot, J.L. 2003. Lucian. On the Syrian Goddess. Oxford.

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Linant de Bellefonds, P. and É. Prioux. 2017. Voir les mythes. Poésie hellénistique et arts figurés. Paris. MacLeod, M.D. 1987. Luciani Opera, IV. Oxford. Maffei, S. 1984. Le Imagines di Luciano: un patchwork di capolavori antichi. Il problema di un metodo combinatorio. SCO 36: 147–164. Maffei, S. 1994. Luciano di Samosata: descrizioni di opere d’arte. Torino. Manzella, S.M. 2013. Giovenale e Luciano di fronte a Roma: volti e voci della satira. Vichiana, s. IV 15: 98–113. Manzella, S.M. 2016. Tradizione satirica e memoria letteraria: Luciano lettore di Giovenale? In Giovenale, tra storia, poesia e ideologia, ed. A. Stramaglia, S. Grazzini, and G. Dimatteo, 181–212. Berlin, Boston. Massimo, D. 2018. Dialogo col vento occidentale: il ratto di Europa in Luciano, Dial. Mar. 15. A&R II.12: 476–485. Mestre, F. and P. Gómez. 2010. Lucian of Samosata. Greek Writer and Roman Citizen. Barcellona. Mestre, F. and E. Vintrò. 2010. Lucien ne sait dire bonjour … In Mestre and Gómez (2010) 203–215. Newby, Z. 2002. Testing the Boundaries of ekphrasis: Lucian On the Hall. Ramus 31: 126–135. Paschalis, M. 2003. Etymology and enargeia: Re-reading Moschus’ Europa (vis-à-vis Hor. C. 3.27). In Etymologia: Studies in Ancient Etymology, ed. C. Nifadopoulos, 153–163. Münster. Peeters, M.C. 2009. L’évolution du mythe d’Europe dans l’iconographie grecque et romaine des VIIe–VIe s. avant aux Ve–VIe s. de notre ère: de la « déesse au taureau » au rapt et du rapt au consentement. Dialogues d’histoire ancienne 35.1: 61–82. Piot, H. 1914. Les procédés littéraires de la Seconde Sophistique chez Lucien: l’ecphrasis. Rennes. Pollitt, J.J. 1974. The Ancient View of Greek Art: Criticism, History, and Terminology. New Haven, London. Richardson, N.J. 1974. The Homeric Hymn to Demeter. Oxford. Robertson, M. 1988. Europe 1. In LIMC IV/1: 76–92. Zürich, München. Rochette, B. 2010. La problématique des langues étrangères dans les opuscules de Lucien et la conscience linguistique des Grecs. In Mestre and Gómez (2010) 217–233. Ross, D.O. 1975. Backgrounds to Augustan Poetry: Gallus, Elegy, and Rome. Cambridge, New York. Santucci, A. 2020. Architettura, pittura, scultura e, soprattutto, giochi di luce: la vera bellezza in ‘La Sala’ di Luciano. Eidola 17: 125–146. Scivoletto, N. 2000. Persio e Luciano. In Filologia e cultura latina, ed. N. Scivoletto, 211–216. Napoli. Tomassi, G. 2011. Luciano di Samosata. «Timone o il Misantropo». Berlin, New York. Wattel-de Croizant, O. 1995. Les mosaïques représentant le mythe d’Europe (Ier–VIe siècles). Évolution et interprétation des modèles grecs en milieu romain. Paris. Webb, R. 2006. The Imagines as a Fictional Text: Ekphrasis, Apatê and Illusion. In Le défi de l’art. Philostrate, Callistrate et l’image sophistique, ed. M. Costantini, F. Graziani, and S. Rolet, 113–136. Rennes. Webb, R. 2009. Ekphrasis, Imagination and Persuasion in Ancient Rhetorical Theory and Practice. Farnham, UK, Burlington, VT. Zanker, G. 1987. Realism in Alexandrian Poetry: A Literature and its Audience. London. Zanker, G. 2004. Modes of Viewing in Hellenistic Literature and Art. Madison.

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11 Was Philostratus the Elder an admirer of Ovidian enargeia? Abstract: This contribution examines the possible sources of Philostratus the Elder’s descriptions of two paintings depicting Narcissus and Phaethon (Im. 1.23 and 11). The analysis focuses on the complex interplay between visual sources and literary sources and examines the possible echoes of Ovid’s Metamorphoses in both ekphraseis. Although it is generally thought that Greek authors of the imperial period ignored (or at least pretended to ignore) Latin poetry, Philostratus the Elder was close to the imperial family and, as such, probably spent a significant amount of time in Rome. The case of Narcissus is revealing, since Ovid considerably modified the pre-existing Greek myth; similarities can be noticed in the phrasing of the Ovidian and Philostratean texts. In Phaethon’s case, it is difficult to assess whether the resemblances between Philostratus’ description and the Ovidian account are due to their sharing a common source, now lost (e.g. Euripides’ Phaethon). Both texts have many details in common and these cannot be explained only as references to a visual culture or visual koine shared by all authors and readers of the imperial period. The details that Philostratus seems to have borrowed from Ovid are especially those that enable him to put the scene before the reader’s eyes, through an enargeia effect. The title of this chapter may seem provocative. All readers of ancient texts are well accustomed to encountering references to Greek texts and artworks in Latin literature. It is far less common to point out possible references to Latin works in Greek literature of the imperial period. The general belief is that Greek-speaking authors either disregarded Latin literature or feigned to ignore it. Close similarities between a Greek text and its possible Latin literary model also tend to be disregarded, because it can always be argued that each independently drew on an earlier model, now lost. Only recently have several attempts been made to identify possible traces of references to Latin works in Greek literature1 and such

 See Hose (1994) and esp. Gärtner (2013), along with Rochette (2020) and Jolowicz (2021). A conference devoted to this topic (Des Romains aux Grecs. Lecture, réception, intertextualité : la Notes: I am grateful to Benjamin Acosta-Hughes and Regina Höschele for reading this contribution through; all errors remain my own. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110795448-012

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attempts generally struggle with methodological issues: what criteria could enable us to ascertain that a Latin model, rather than a lost Hellenistic text, lies behind a given passage of Greek literature from the imperial age? On the whole, the idea that Greek authors in the two first centuries of the common era were familiar with Latin literature remains controversial, but several studies have shown that various third-century Greek authors had at least read Virgil.2 This chapter focuses on Philostratus the Elder (Lucius Flavius Philostratus),3 an author who was admittedly close to the imperial family. Philostratus came from a family of sophists based in Athens and Lemnos. Several members of this family are known to have held local or imperial magistracies and inscriptions testify that Philostratus’ two sons were of senatorial rank. As for Philostratus himself, we know that he was a student of Antipater of Hierapolis (Aelius Antipater), a sophist who became Septimius Severus’ private secretary and was entrusted with the education of Caracalla and Geta.4 Philostratus still attended Antipater’s lectures after this sophist was appointed tutor to the young princes. It is likely that this proximity with a sophist so closely related to the imperial family allowed Philostratus to showcase his talent and to become close to Julia Domna, an empress who wanted to study rhetoric and philosophy. In the preface to the Life of Apollonius of Tyana, Philostratus claims to belong to the empress’ ‘circle’.5 Although the precise meaning of this expression remains unclear,6 it is likely that Philostratus resided in Rome for some time and that he followed the imperial family on some of their travels.7 Even though Julia Domna was born and raised in Syria and probably discussed rhetoric and philosophy in Greek, the strong hints that point to Philostratus’ presence in Rome and to his contacts with the emperor himself suggest that he fully mastered Latin and that he had ample

poésie latine dans la littérature grecque d’époque impériale) was held in Lille on 10 June 2017, but its proceedings have remained unpublished. Translations of Greek and Latin texts are my own, unless otherwise indicated.  For the knowledge of Virgil among Greek authors, see Gärtner (2013) and Jolowicz (2021). The third century CE seems to mark a turn in the knowledge and study of Latin among Greek authors and the cultural élite of the pars Orientis: see Rochette (2020).  I am assuming, like most scholars, that the author of the Imagines is the same as the author of the Lives of the Sophists and The Life of Apollonius of Tyana. On epigraphic testimonies pertaining to Philostratus the Elder and his family, see Puech (2002) 377–383.  Philostr. VS 2.24 (§ 607).  Philostr. VA praef. 1.3.  See Bowersock (1969) 101–109, Hemelrijk (1999) 122–126, and Whitmarsh (2007) 31–34.  For example, Levick (2007) 85 believes that Philostratus followed the emperor in Britain in 208 CE (cf. Philostr. VA 5.8).

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opportunities to study Latin authors. But is it possible to perceive the influence of Latin poetry on his own works?

11.1 Dionysiac myths in Ovid, Longus, and Philostratus The first book of Philostratus’ Imagines presents the reader with a series of (mostly) Dionysiac paintings (1.14–25): Semele; Ariadne; Pasiphae; Hippodameia; Bacchants; Tyrrhenian pirates; Satyrs; Olympus; Midas; Narcissus; Hyacinth; and The Andrians.8 The topics of these paintings are partly the same as those illustrated in the Dionysiac pavilion of Dionysophanes’ park (Longus, Daphnis and Chloe 4.3.2). Longus’ description reads as follows: Εἶχε δὲ καὶ ἔνδοθεν ὁ νεὼς Διονυσιακὰς γραφάς· Σεμέλην τίκτουσαν, Ἀριάδνην καθεύδουσαν, Λυκοῦργον δεδεμένον, Πενθέα διαιρούμενον· ἦσαν καὶ Ἰνδοὶ νικώμενοι καὶ Τυρρηνοὶ μεταμορφούμενοι· πανταχοῦ Σάτυροι πατοῦντες, πανταχοῦ Βάκχαι χορεύουσαι· οὐδὲ ὁ Πὰν ἠμέλητο· ἐκαθέζετο δὲ καὶ αὐτὸς συρίζων ἐπὶ πέτρας, ὅμοιον ἐνδιδόντι κοινὸν μέλος καὶ τοῖς πατοῦσι καὶ ταῖς χορευούσαις. The temple had Dionysiac paintings inside: Semele in labour, Ariadne sleeping, Lykourgos bound, Pentheus torn. There were also the Indians conquered, and the Tyrrhenians metamorphosised. There were Satyrs everywhere , everywhere Bacchants dancing. And Pan had not been forgotten either. He was there, seated on the rocks and playing the syrinx, as if accompanying the treading Satyrs and the dancing Bacchants at the same time. (transl. E. Moormann)

The similarities between both series may indicate intertextuality, but there are, nevertheless, some striking differences. Longus focuses on myths that are clearly related to Dionysus’ power, whereas Philostratus presents us with a more heterogeneous and unexpected series that also includes Pelops and Hippodameia, Narcissus, and Hyacinth. Strikingly, most myths that Philostratus brings together in the ‘Dionysiac’ cycle of Imagines 1.14–25 are narrated in Ovid’s Metamorphoses and particularly in book 3, where the story of Narcissus occurs within a Dionysiac series formed by the stories of Semele, Pentheus, and the Tyrrhenian pirates. It is of course conceivable that Philostratus and Ovid are echoing the same source. A

 On the reliability of the order of the various texts as published by Benndorf and Schenkel, see Braginskaya and Leonov (2006) and below, Section 11.4.

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possible candidate would be one of the lost books of Euphorion, who was known for his taste for Dionysiac myths, and, more generally, for stories set in Boeotia.9 Philostratus’ description of the Bacchanal of the Andrians may point to the same conclusion. It is indeed possible to argue that the scene described by Philostratus was inspired by the myth of the Oinotropoi, the daughters of king Anius and great-granddaughters of Dionysus, who were able to turn water into wine. As Ovid informs us,10 when Agamemnon demanded the girls from Anius, hoping that they would provide for the Greek army during the siege of Troy, the Delian king refused and his daughters fled to Euboea and the isle of Andros, where Dionysus turned them into doves. The presence of the Oinotropoi on Andros is possibly related to a mirabile told by Pliny the Elder: on the isle of Andros, in the temple of Dionysus, there was a fountain whose water would taste like wine once a year, on the nones of January.11 At any rate, this miraculous fountain located in Dionysus’ temple certainly had some aetiological link with the Oinotropoi. These Andrian stories were certainly related and it is probable that they were all mentioned in Euphorion’s work on Anius, one of Ovid’s likely sources for book 13 of the Metamorphoses.12 Euphorion could thus be the common source of Ovid’s and Philostratus’ Dionysiac and Boeotian stories, but one wonders whether Philostratus was aware that he was following in Ovid’s footsteps and whether he ever alludes to the Latin poet in his descriptions.

11.2 Narcissus (Im. 1.23) Philostratus’ series of Dionysiac paintings contains a depiction of Narcissus, whose myth was rewritten and modified by Ovid.13 Are there any hints that Philostratus is alluding to the Ovidian version of the myth, rather than to earlier Greek versions?

 A fragment ascribed by some editors to Euphorion mentions the fate of Eutelidas, a young man who fell in love with his own reflection. See Euph. fr. 189 Lightfoot (quoted by Plut. Mor. 682b–c). The same poet states that the Erinyes are crowned with narcissi (fr. 101 Lightfoot). Zimmermann (1994) believes that the Narcissus myth may have been narrated, earlier, by Corinna of Tanagra.  Ov. Met. 13.623–704.  Plin. NH 2.231.  Massa-Pairault (2013) 48–50.  On Philostratus’ painting 1.23 and its influence on Aristaenetus, see Höschele’s contribution to this volume.

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In Ovid’s poem, the young hunter progressively melts away, but, according to other versions of the myth, he commits suicide.14 Quite tellingly, the fragmentary poems of P.Oxy. LXIX 4711, scraps of an anonymous15 book on Metamorphoseis, seem to establish an implicit parallel between the Narcissus myth and that of Adonis.16 Byblos’ river was named after Adonis and a red flower, the anemone, grew out of the youth’s blood (fr. 1.5–6). It is possible that the author went on to explain that Narcissus’ blood was also shed on the ground and gave birth to a flower, but the corresponding part of his poem is now lost. An early imperial Greek mythographer, Conon, indeed tells us that Narcissus died by his own hand (Narrations 24): Narcissus rejected the love of Ameinias, who committed suicide with a sword and called upon the gods to avenge him; Narcissus then fell victim to the curse and committed suicide with the very sword that had killed Ameinias. It thus seems that, in this earlier version of Narcissus’ story, the young hunter, desperately in love with his own reflection, committed suicide, lost some blood, and gave birth to a flower. Because of the suicide and the blood, the flower in this earlier version of the myth may have been a red one. Our modern narcissi do have the toxic properties that we would expect to find in a plant that the ancients associated with death and numbness;17 and yet some species of narcissi have the delicate scent that would enable one to produce the fragrant oils often mentioned in connection with the narcissus in medical texts. Although our modern narcissus also fits well with Ovid’s depiction of the flower, it does not seem to match all mentions of the νάρκισσος/narcissus in ancient texts. It is far from certain that the same name was consistently given to the same species throughout antiquity.18 It appears, in fact,

 See Con. Narr. 24. According to Plotinus (1.6.8), the boy drowned. Probably Verg. Ecl. 2.48 has him murdered by a rejected lover.  The papyrus fragment itself comes from a papyrus codex of the sixth century CE. Several scholars, including Hutchinson (2006), have ascribed the poems to Parthenius of Nicaea, but no consensus has yet been reached: see Bernsdorff (2007), who believes these Metamorphoseis to be a late work.  See esp. Hutchinson (2006). The two stories were separated by several lines and by other myths (e.g. the story of Asterie), but the reader was obviously expected to connect both myths because of the plant and flower transformations.  Some ancient authors (see Plut. Mor. 647b) believed in the existence of an etymology linking νάρκισσος/narcissus with the word νάρκη, ‘numbness’. Ovid seems to play on the same etymology: see Met. 3.489–490 and 502, on Narcissus’ numbness. See DELG, s.v. νάρκισσος: the word appears to have been borrowed from a foreign language; the similarity with νάρκη is fortuitous.  See Plin. NH 21.25.

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that this name was given to several species and that some of them probably had little in common from a botanical point of view.19 Even though a white flower fits well with the pallor of a dead body or the marble-like beauty that Ovid ascribes to Narcissus,20 a red flower would seem more fitting for the metamorphosis of a youth who committed suicide,21 and there are several passages in which ancient authors speak of a red or purple narcissus, or even of a green one. Theophrastus says nothing of the flower’s colour, but speaks of at least two different narcissi that are both bulbous plants: one blooms at the end of winter (6.6.9)22 and produces an oblong black fruit – a characteristic that has nothing to do with our modern narcissus;23 the other blooms in the first days of autumn (6.7.8).24 In the first passage, Theophrastus says that the νάρκισσος and the λείριον are the same plant, but then seems to distinguish them in the second passage. Virgil describes the narcissus as purpureus (‘purple, dark red’, Ecl. 5.38), the anonymous author of the Ciris as rubens (‘red, reddish’, l. 96). Pliny the Elder (NH 21.25) even states that there are three sorts of narcissi: the name is given to a kind of ‘red lily’ (purpurea lilia) but also to a variety with ‘white flowers and a red calyx’ (flore candido, calice purpureo), and to a third variety apparently with white flowers and a ‘green calyx’ (calix herbaceus).25 According to Pliny, doctors only used the red and green varieties for medical purposes (21.128). The second variety that Pliny

 For a complete survey of the sources available in the nineteenth century, see Wieseler (1856) 99–135.  Met. 3.418–419.  The violent deaths of Ajax and Hyacinthus result in the creation of a purple flower and the blood of Adonis gives birth to a red flower.  Cf. the possibly corrupted Byzantine text Geoponica 11.25.  Amigues (1993), ad loc., believes that this might be Pancratium maritimum, the sea daffodil, a flower that produces a black fruit. This would also be the narcissus or akakallis mentioned by Eurymachus of Corcyra (see Athen. 15.681e). The identification is plausible if one assumes that Theophrastus’ narcissus is a white flower, but there is no way to prove this last point.  If this plant is indeed one of the species we now call narcissi, it could be Narcissus serotinus.  See also Dioscorides 4.158, who mentions two varieties: one with white flowers and a yellow calyx and one with purple flowers. Webb (1980) provides a catalogue of European narcissi and notes (p. 78) that their flowers are yellow, white, or bicolour (rarely green). The identifications of the red/purple and green ‘narcissi’ are puzzling. Narcissus viridiflorus has green flowers, but grows in the Southwest of Spain: see Webb (1980) 81–82. Could it be that ‘narcissus’ was a name given to different flowers with a corona? The combination of purple and green with a bulb and a damp environment might suggest a confusion with other members of the lily family: the fritillaria, or several species of allium.

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mentions, the one with a white flower and a reddish calyx, might correspond to one of the species that are now called ‘narcissi’, the calyx then being the flower’s corona. In 66 CE, a marriage contract from Bakchias (Egypt, Arsinoite nome) lists two dresses among the bride’s possessions: ‘a white one, and one that has the colour of the narcissus’ (adj. [ναρ]κ[ί]σσινος).26 If the reading is correct, the distinction could be between two shades of white, but it is more likely to involve two different colours. Later authors seem to concur with Ovid that the narcissus is a white flower27 and Dioscorides’ description could point to species like Narcissus tazetta or Narcissus poeticus, even if certain elements (like the black fruit – a detail that also recalls Theophrastus’ description of the narcissus)28 are difficult to associate with our modern narcissi: τὰ μὲν φύλλα πράσῳ ἔοικε, λεπτὰ δὲ καὶ μικρότερα παρὰ πολύ, καυλὸν κενόν, ἄφυλλον, μείζονα σπιθαμῆς, ἐφ’ οὗ ἄνθος λευκόν, ἔσωθεν δὲ κροκῶδες, ἐπ’ ἐνίων δὲ πορφυροειδές· ῥίζα δὲ λευκή, στρογγύλη, βολβοειδής, καρπὸς ὡς ἐν ὑμένι, μέλας, προμήκης. (The narcissus) has leaves similar to those of a leek, but thinner and much smaller, an empty stem that carries no leaves and is longer than a spithamè (23.5 cm ca.), on which grows a white flower that is yellow on the inside, and, for some of them, reddish; its root is white, has the round shape of a bulb, and bears a black and oblong fruit that is enclosed in a membrane. (Dioscorides 4.158)

Iconography does not provide much help for the identification of the plant called narcissus. We sadly have no information about the possible traces of polychromy that certainly existed on a wreath of flowers worn by an ephebe that could be an early representation of Narcissus on a now lost Tanagrean terracotta.29 In a few Roman paintings, Narcissus wears or holds a (proleptic?)

 P.Ryl. 154, l. 8: σ[τ]ολὰ[ς] δύο, λευκηι μια [ναρ]κ̣[ι]σ̣σινη μια (sic, for λευκὴν μίαν, [ναρ]κ[ι]σσίνην μίαν).  For instance, in the fifth century, Aët. 1.118. Apart from Philostratus, there is a much earlier example, in a second–third-century (?) papyrus (P.Mil.Vogl. 1.20), that contrasts – in col. III.19–21 – the ‘agreeable’ shade of the red lotus (lotus antinoeion) with the cadaveric ὠχρόν (yellowish white?) of the ‘narcissus’ and the ‘hyacinth’. It is puzzling to see that the author of these possibly Hadrianic progymnasmata equates the colour of the traditionally dark ‘hyacinth’ with ὠχρόν.  Dioscorides’ description is also puzzling because of the mention of red flowers, or of partly red flowers – depending on our understanding of πορφυροειδές, either as an alternative to the more common κροκῶδες, ‘yellow’, corona (there would then be many white narcissi with a yellow corona, and a few with a reddish corona), or as an entirely different type of flower with a stem similar to that of the narcissus. The latter hypothesis is less convincing.  Lenormant (1878) 153–155 and pl. 27.

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garland of flowers (Fig. 11.1a and b).30 The flowers are generally barely perceptible: what is seen suggests two kinds of flowers: red ones and white-andyellow ones. All flowers seem to be rather small, except in one painting, in which they are distinctly red (Fig. 11.2a and b).31 A flower that looks like a tulip or, at any rate, a bulbous flower with a long stem certainly belonging to the family of the Liliaceae, appears on a carnelian ring stone that shows Narcissus and possibly Echo about to throw herself into a spring (Fig. 11.3).32 On other monuments, Narcissus is holding out a branch that does not look like a narcissus, but may not be intended to be a representation of this flower.33

(a)

(b)

Fig. 11.1: (a) and (b) Vespasianic fresco depicting Narcissus and Eros (from Pompeii, Casa di Diomede). Naples, MANN, inv. no. 9383. With detail of Narcissus’ head and flower wreath. © Egidio Sani, licence CC-BY-NC-SA.

 See Rafn (1992), cat. no. 28 (fig. 1), 30–31, 36, 48 (fig. 2). See also the image of Narcissus discovered very recently in the so-called atrium of Narcissus in Pompeii: Osanna (2019), fig. 11. All known examples are Vespasianic. With regard to cat. no. 28, Wieseler (1856) 15 states that the young man is crowned with laurel and myrtle; I believe he is right, and that the crown is not actually intended to represent narcissi.  See Rafn (1992), cat. no. 48.  Rafn (1992), cat. no. 54. Wieseler (1856) 23 notes the partial resemblance of the composition to Philostratus’ ekphrasis.  See Wieseler (1856) 22, who notes that the bough seen on a carnelian in Florence (Uffizi) looks like myrtle.

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Fig. 11.2: (a) and (b) Vespasianic fresco depicting Echo, Narcissus, and Eros (from Pompeii). Naples, MANN, inv. no. 9380. With detail of Narcissus’ head and flower wreath. © Egidio Sani, licence CC-BY-NC-SA.

Fig. 11.3: Early imperial carnelian ring stone depicting Narcissus standing in front of a spring; a small female figure, Echo, is about to throw herself into the water. Copenhagen, Thorvaldsens Museum, inv. no. I851. © CC0 Licence – Public domain dedication.

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Some of the species that we now call narcissus seem to aptly correspond to Ovid’s description of the flower as ‘saffron in its middle and surrounded by white petals’ (Met. 3.509–510 croceum . . . florem / . . . foliis medium cingentibus albis). But could it be that Ovid was thinking of another white flower that was yellow at the centre? Ovid possibly decided to stress the whiteness of the flower, when he modified the myth and imagined that the boy slowly faded away instead of committing suicide.34 On the other hand, the versions of the myth that were connected with a violent death and bloodshed were perhaps associated with a red variety or species, rather than the white one. This would explain why Virgil thought of the narcissus as purpureus, a word that definitely seems out of place in a description of the white-petaled narcissi – even though some of them present a somewhat reddish corona. Did Ovid alter the myth and decide to connect Narcissus’ death with a white flower, thus influencing all later poetic representations of the myth? This idea gains force if one considers the many similarities that link the myth of Narcissus to that of Pyramus and Thisbe. Both are suicide myths and in both stories the lover is separated from his beloved by a tenuous, yet impassable barrier: the garden wall for Pyramus and Thisbe, the surface of the water for Narcissus.35 In both myths, the lovers perish in an attempt to be reunited.36 Since Pyramus and Thisbe is the story of a white fruit that becomes red, it is quite possible that Ovid consciously played on the ambiguous colour of the narcissus. In Philostratus’ painting, the hero stands and gazes thoughtfully at his reflection. Philostratus provides no hint as to whether Narcissus is going to commit suicide, as in Conon’s and possibly Parthenius’ narratives, or fade away, as in the Ovidian version. He explicitly mentions, though, the presence of white flowers in the scenery. The white flower is even said to be proleptic of Narcissus’ metamorphosis.37 Though many questions remain, the whiteness of this flower may have been intended as a homage to Ovid and as a deliberate allusion to the Latin poem. And yet, it is also possible that Philostratus’ contemporaries were simply more familiar with the white narcissus than with the other (red) species

 Ovid’s Narcissus thus replicates the fate of Daphnis in Theocritus’ Idyll 1. It has been argued that Theocritus’ Daphnis was modelled on a lost poem on Narcissus, possibly by Corinna: see Zimmermann (1994).  Cf. Met. 3.448–453 and 4.73–80. See Linant de Bellefonds and Prioux (2017) 324–326.  Cf. Met. 3.473 and 4.108.  Philostr. Im. 1.23 ἄνθη λευκὰ τῇ πηγῇ περιπέφυκεν οὔπω ὄντα, ἀλλ’ ἐπὶ τῷ μειρακίῳ φυόμενα, ‘white flowers have grown around the spring, flowers that did not yet exist, but sprang from the body of the young man’.

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that apparently shared the same name: it is quite possible that Philostratus, unlike Virgil or Pliny, simply thought of the narcissus as a generally white flower.38 There are further resemblances between Ovid’s poem and Philostratus’ description, but it is difficult to tell whether they are due to the influence of a common source on both authors, or whether Philostratus was alluding to Ovid. For instance, Ovid’s narrative begins with the words fons erat and Philostratus’ account starts with ἡ μὲν πηγή.39 In both cases, Narcissus’ passion is compared to thirst (sitis altera creuit, διψῶντι τοῦ κάλλους).40 Ovid also repeatedly compares Narcissus’ body to a marble sculpture:41 the poet thus implicitly stresses the visual quality of his poetry and the aesthetic fascination that the illusory ‘vision’ of Narcissus gives rise to both in himself and in the reader. The credulity of Narcissus, who desires a mere simulacrum, echoes the way in which the reader is expected to willingly suspend his disbelief.42 In similar fashion, Philostratus plays on embedded images and on the idea of painting/writing: ‘the spring paints (γράφει) Narcissus, while the painting (γραφή) paints the spring’.43 The repetition γράφει/γραφή and the chiastic structure of the sentence emulate the representation of a scene and of its reflected image in the painting itself. It also stresses the similarity between Narcissus and the sophist’s audience: the sophist uses words to write/paint a

 Philostr. Epist. 1.3 seems to favour this idea: the author here states that ‘crown of hyacinths suits a boy with a white complexion, whereas the narcissus befits the boy with a dark complexion. The rose is fitting for all boys’. This statement apparently implies that there is a nice contrast between the hyacinth (a dark flower) and white skin, or between the narcissus and dark skin.  Cf. Ov. Met. 3.407 and Philostr. Im. 1.23.1.  Cf. Ov. Met. 3.415 and Philostr. Im. 1.23.5.  See Ov. Met. 3.418–419 adstupet ipse sibi uultuque inmotus eodem / haeret ut e Pario formatum marmore signum, ‘he is fascinated by himself and remains there, motionless, with a fixed expression, like a statue carved from Parian marble’.  See Ov. Met. 3.432 credule, quid frustra simulacra fugacia captas?, ‘Credulous one, why do you snatch in vain at fleeing images?’. On credulity as a metaliterary motif in Ovid, see e.g. Rosati (20162) 38–51, Hardie (2002) 147 (‘The surface of the pool is also the interface between reality and illusion for those outside the text. Narcissus is a figure for the desiring reader, caught between the intellectual understanding that texts are just texts, words with no underlying reality, and the desire to believe in the reality of the textual world’), and Sharrock (forthcoming).  For the repeated play of words γραφή/γράφω in Philostratus, see Im. 1.23.1–3 and esp. section 3, with a bee: οὐκ οἶδα εἴτ’ ἐξαπατηθεῖσα ὑπὸ τῆς γραφῆς, εἴτε ἡμᾶς ἐξηπατῆσθαι χρὴ εἶναι αὐτήν, ‘I don’t know if it is the bee that has been deceived by the painting (in believing that the flower exists), or if it is us who are deceived in thinking that she (i.e. the bee) must be real’.

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picture and his audience gazes/listens/reads and is filled with wonder, just like Narcissus himself when contemplating the fascinating reflection that the spring offers to his gaze. As Ovid before him, Philostratus thus uses Narcissus as a metaliterary symbol.44

11.3 Phaethon (Im. 1.11) The virtuosity with which Philostratus varied his sources and the great number of lost Greek works from which he may have drawn makes it all the more difficult to pinpoint a possible allusion to Ovid. Apart from Narcissus, the ekphrasis that presents most similarities with the Metamorphoses is Phaethon (Im. 1.11). As in Narcissus’ case, both authors certainly use Phaethon as a metaliterary symbol. The simile or metaphor that compares writers of sublime lines as well as ambitious literary authors and intellectuals to Phaethon was apparently well known in Antiquity. Eudoxus was aware of a related simile: Plutarch writes that this scientist had the ambition to reach out to the sun45 – a simile that makes perfect sense for an astronomer, but that also effectively sums up the breadth of the author’s ambition. A few decades after Ovid, Ps.-Longinus uses the myth of Phaethon to represent the way in which an author can be carried away when writing in the sublime style: when writing about Phaethon, Euripides became a new Phaethon and reached out to the sky, as if carried by Phaethon’s chariot. According to Ps.-Longinus, Phaethon’s fate also aptly symbolizes the danger of writing in the sublime style.46 Ps.-Longinus’ approach to the Phaethon myth provides an invaluable key to understand the metapoetic significance of Ovid’s and Philostratus’ treatments of the myth. Both texts probably imply a wealth of allusions and references to both the poetic tradition and visual images representing the cosmic order or Phaethon’s fall. The similarities that the Ovidian and the Philostratean version share may be indicative of the strong influence, on both texts, of a lost model or may indicate Philostratus’ awareness of the Ovidian version. The possibility of a shared model is, however, rather strong, since Pliny the Elder provides a list of authors who  For the metaliterary use of Narcissus, see also Höschele’s contribution to this volume, focusing on Aristaenetus 2.10. Interestingly, while commenting on Aristaenetus 2.10, Drago (2007) ad loc. suspects Ovidian imitation, without however reaching a definite conclusion.  Plut. Mor. 1094a–b.  Ps.-Longin. Subl. 15.3–4 ἆρ’ οὐκ ἂν εἴποις, ὅτι ἡ ψυχὴ τοῦ γράφοντος συνεπιβαίνει τοῦ ἅρματος καὶ συγκινδυνεύουσα τοῖς ἵπποις συνεπτέρωται;, ‘Would you not say that the soul of the writer has mounted the chariot as well, shared its dangers, and flown along with the horses?’.

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wrote about Phaethon and the Heliads in plays and poems that are now entirely lost: Aeschylus, Philoxenus, Satyrus, and Nicander.47 Both Ovid and Philostratus also shared a marked interest in the visual arts that may account for some of the similarities. At the beginning of the narrative, Ovid carefully evokes the normal cosmic order that Phaethon is about to destroy: the poet names a series of personifications that are responsible for the celestial movements and the smooth alternation of night and day.48 His readers had the possibility of visualizing the scene, since they most probably knew of famous works of art involving various personifications of the times of day: a remarkable example is the allegorical representation of dawn on the armoured torso of the Augustus of Prima Porta (Fig. 11.4).49 If Ovid here encourages his reader to visualize the divinities that preside over the cosmic order, it is only to underline, later, the chaos in which Phaethon’s loss of control resulted. For instance, Phaethon’s chariot, carried away by frenzied horses, chases Boötes and forces him to flee (Met. 2.171–176): Tum primum radiis gelidi caluere Triones et uetito frustra temptarunt aequore tingi, quaeque polo posita est glaciali proxima Serpens, frigore pigra prius nec formidabilis ulli, incaluit sumpsitque nouas feruoribus iras te quoque turbatum memorant fugisse, Boote [. . .].

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Then for the first time the chill stars of the Bears grew hot, and vainly tried to bathe in forbidden waters. And the Dragon [= Draco] that is nearest to the frozen pole, and that, sluggish with the cold, never caused fear before, began to warm and found new fury in the boiling heat. They say that even you, Boötes, fled in confusion [. . .].

Philostratus focuses on the same moment of cosmic disorder as Ovid and mentions the various personifications of Night and Day that the Latin poet had mentioned at the very beginning of his narrative, before the chariot’s departure.

 Plin. NH 37.31.  Ov. Met. 2.118–119 iungere equos Titan uelocibus imperat Horis. / iussa deae celeres peragunt, ‘Titan ordered the swift Hours to yoke his horses; the goddesses quickly obey his command’. See also 2.142–144 dum loquor, Hesperio positas in litore metas / umida nox tetigit; non est mora libera nobis: / poscimur, et fulget tenebris Aurora fugatis, ‘While I am speaking, dewy Night has reached her goal on Hesperus’ shore. We have no free time to delay: we are needed. The shadows are gone and Dawn already shines’.  See, for instance, Rebuffat (1961). I disagree with the interpretation of the charioteer as the Sun, since this is clearly a female character, and therefore Aurora. The personifications on the right could be Nyx and Anatolē.

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Fig. 11.4: Detail of the armoured torso of the Augustus of Prima Porta (from the Villa of Livia at Prima Porta). In the heavens, one can see Aurora’s chariot, Sky, and maybe Night, along with another female personification. Rome, Musei Vaticani, inv. no. 2290. © Rabax63, Wikimedia Commons, licence CC-BY-SA.

Philostratus mentions these personifications only to show them fleeing from the catastrophe (Im. 1.11.2): σκόπει γάρ· Νὺξ μὲν ἐκ μεσημβρίας ἐλαύνει τὴν Ἡμέραν, ὁ δὲ ἡλίου κύκλος εἰς γῆν ῥέων ἕλκει τοὺς ἀστέρας. αἱ δὲ Ὧραι τὰς πύλας ἐκλιποῦσαι φεύγουσιν εἰς τὴν ἀπαντῶσαν αὐταῖς Ἀχλύν, καὶ οἱ ἵπποι τῆς ζεύγλης ἐκπεσόντες οἴστρῳ φέρονται. Look! Night is driving Day from the noonday sky, and the sun’s orb as it plunges toward the earth draws the stars in its train. The Horae abandon their posts at the gates and flee toward the gloom that rises to meet them, while the horses have thrown off their yoke and rush madly on.50

The reader may wonder how to interpret terms such as Ἀχλύς: is Philostratus mentioning the abstract emotion of sadness and disarray that fills the normally joyful Horae, or are the goddesses being met by another personification called Ἀχλύς, i.e. Sadness personified? Even though the description challenges and questions  Translations of Philostratus are by Fairbanks (1931), occasionally modified.

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the reader’s ability to visualize the scene, the many personifications that Philostratus mentions echo the complex representations of Phaethon’s fall that can be seen on sarcophagi sculpted for his contemporaries. One may think, for instance, of two sarcophagi in the Hermitage Museum51 and in Verona52 that show the gods and goddesses presiding over sunset and Eridanus, the river god, receiving the fallen hero’s body (Figs. 11.5 and 11.6). A similar scene is also illustrated on later sarcophagi, such as the Louvre sarcophagus (Fig. 11.7)53 and the one in Villa Borghese.54

Fig. 11.5: Sarcophagus panel depicting the Fall of Phaethon, from Rome (length 179 cm). Second quarter of the third century CE. Saint Petersburg, The State Hermitage Museum, ГР–11304. © Ilya Shurygin.

A further similarity between Philostratus’ text and Ovid’s pertains to the οἶστρος (‘sting/madness, frenzy’). Philostratus states that the horses of the Sun are now ‘goaded by madness’ (οἴστρῳ φέρονται): it is no longer the charioteer’s goad (κέντρον) that stings and drives the horses, but the animals’ own fury and madness. In Ovid’s version, it is the tail and venomous stinger of the Scorpius constellation that causes the horses’ frenzy. It is possible that the idea of the horses being driven to fury by a sting was already found in Euripides’ Phaethon.

   

Baratte (1994), cat. no. 14. Baratte (1994), cat. no. 13. Louvre, Ma 1017. Baratte (1994), cat. no. 15.

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Fig. 11.6: Sarcophagus panel depicting the Fall of Phaethon, from Rome. Second quarter of the third century CE. Verona, Museo lapidario Maffeiano. © Ilya Shurygin.

Fig. 11.7: Roman sarcophagus with a relief representing the Fall of Phaethon (117 × 238 cm), 275–300 CE ca. Paris, Louvre, MA1017 (MR 829) © Musée du Louvre, Dist. RMN-Grand Palais/ Maurice et Pierre Chuzeville.

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The word οἶστρος is found in many plays by Euripides, where it refers to the madness or frenzy that has led a character to commit a crime:55 the Erinyes are armed with οἶστροι,56 as is Lyssa, Madness personified, who goads her horses to precipitate the fall of the hero and the catastrophe;57 Οἶστρος is even the name of a Fury, and this Fury is seen on a chariot on a fourth-century BCE vase that illustrates the tragic death of Medea’s children.58 One may spot, for instance, a subtle play on the word κέντρον in Euripides’ Hippolytus: while Phaedra falls victim to the goad (κέντροις) of love (ll. 39 and 1303), Hippolytus rushes to his death by goading his horses (l. 1194). Ovid and Philostratus were possibly both echoing another play on the word κέντρον, a word that may also refer to a horse-goad, to the sting of passion, or to the stinger of a scorpion.59 The corresponding parts of Euripides’ Phaethon are lost and it is therefore impossible to know if the play on the idea of horse-goad and sting goes back to his now fragmentary tragedy. Through the Alexandrian footnote memorant, Ovid clearly suggests that his version of the myth of Phaethon must be read against earlier models.60 Ovid’s and Philostratus’ narratives share several other details. Both authors choose to represent the Earth (Gē/Tellus) as a suppliant (Met. 2.272–281 and Im. 1.11.2), desperately trying to protect herself from the fire: Sustulit oppressos collo tenus arida uultus: / opposuitque manum fronti, ‘overwhelmed and thirsty, Earth lifted her face, putting her hand to her brow’, 2.275–276 ~ ἀπαγορεύει δὲ ἡ Γῆ καὶ τὰς χεῖρας αἴρει ἄνω ῥαγδαίου τοῦ πυρὸς ἐς αὐτὴν ἰόντος, ‘despairing, the Earth raises her hands in supplication, as the furious fire draws near her’. The depiction of Earth’s gesture strongly contributes to the enargeia of the scene: it would indeed have been easy for ancient readers to visualize the attitude of Gē/Tellus, as it recalled a scene frequently seen in the visual arts. It is unclear whether Philostratus

 For example, Eur. HF 1144, Hipp. 1300.  Eur. IT 1456, Or. 791.  Eur. HF 882. See also l. 949, where Hercules, in his madness, mimics the act of goading imaginary horses.  The personified Oistros is a central character in a scene that represents the murders committed by Medea: see the Apulian volute krater from Canosa decorated by the Underworld Painter (Munich, Antikensammlungen, no. 3296; Schmidt [1992] cat. no. 29). Oistros is here mounted on Medea’s own chariot.  See especially Arat. Phaen. 505–506, on the stinger (κέντρον) of the Scorpius constellation.  Met. 2.176. Interestingly, Nonnus was possibly also aware of a narration of Phaethon’s fall that played on the word οἶστρος: in book 38, Mercury accepts to recount Phaethon’s story to assuage Dionysus’ ‘frenzy for ancient tales’ (παλαιγενέων ἐπέων . . . οἷστρος, D. 38.106). Of course, this could be a mere coincidence.

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and Ovid are here drawing upon a common literary model,61 and independently recalling certain visual images, or whether Philostratus is consciously echoing both Ovid and a frequent visual scheme, but Gē’s gesture certainly calls to mind her attitude in several visual representations of the Gigantomachy. One may think, for instance, of the red-figure kylix that shows Gaia pleading for mercy as her son, the Giant Polybotes, fights against Poseidon (Fig. 11.8), or, more famously, the pleading and desperate mother that emerges from the ground on the Great Altar of Pergamon (Fig. 11.9). One wonders whether the pleading Earth was ever represented in painted or sculpted depictions of Phaethon’s death. On most sarcophagi from Philostratus’ time,62 a personification of the Earth is lying on the ground, apparently undisturbed by the events:63 she holds the cornucopia and is surrounded by the Karpoi, the children who personify her fertility. In some versions of the scene, there is a pleading female figure that seems to be kneeling or possibly emerging from the ground up to her waist. Usually identified as one of the Heliads, she could also be understood as the pleading Earth: this figure can be seen, for instance, on the Verona sarcophagus64 (Fig. 11.6) and on the sarcophagus from Rome now at the State Hermitage Museum65 (Fig. 11.5). The similarity with the depiction of Gaia in the Gigantomachy scenes might suggest that this figure is none other than Mother Earth, but there is also one strong objection to this theory: on the Verona sarcophagus, there is already a representation of Tellus, lying undisturbed on the ground, which makes it difficult to believe that the pleading female at the centre represents the same figure. Nevertheless, the presence of the motif in Ovid’s and Philostratus’ narratives raises the question of whether lost Hellenistic representations of Phaethon included a pleading Gaia, or whether Ovid (or his lost sources) decided to recall a visual composition that was in fact related to another myth, namely the Giants’ death. I would like to suggest that it is Ovid, an author who was very sensitive to enargeia, who decided to add the detail of a pleading Mother Earth in Phaethon’s story. As for Philostratus, he possibly intended to allude to earlier poetic treatments of the myth, and especially to Ovid.

 Plin. NH 37.31 (= Nicander, Heteroioumena, fr. 63 Schneider) mentions the following sources for the myth of Phaethon: Aeschylus, Philoxenus, Euripides, Satyrus, and Nicander.  See Baratte (1994).  Baratte (1994), cat. no. 6 (180 CE ca.), 10 (180–190 CE ca.), 12 (first half of the third century CE), 13, 15, and 18 (300 CE ca.). According to Salvi (2014) 196, the fact that Tellus is sometimes gazing at the sky would be a mark of her despair.  Baratte (1994), cat. no. 13.  Baratte (1994), cat. no. 14.

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Fig. 11.8: Red-figure kylix signed by Aristophanes (painter) and Erginos (potter), 410 BCE ca. Poseidon attacks Polybotes in the presence of Gaia. Antikensammlung Berlin (Altes Museum), inv. no. F 2531. © Sailko/Wikimedia Commons. Licence CC-BY.

Fig. 11.9: Pergamon Altar (first half of the second century BCE), detail of the Gigantomachy frieze: Athena fights against a Giant while Gē pleads for mercy. Berlin, Pergamonmuseum. © Miguel Hermoso Cuesta/Wikimedia Commons. Licence CC-BY-SA.

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Another detail that contributes to the enargeia of both narratives is Phaethon’s blazing hair.66 The detail of the flaming locks does not seem to have survived in the visual representations of the myth that have come down to us; yet, it may well have been indicated through polychromy on the reliefs, or in paintings that are now entirely lost. A further similarity between the Latin and the Greek text appears at the very end of the narrative, when the Heliads, Phaethon’s sisters, are transformed into trees and shed tears of amber into the Eridanus.67 To describe this scene with enargeia, both authors could certainly rely on earlier literary models, now lost,68 but they could also take advantage of its presence in the visual arts: readers would easily have visualized this scene, because they were likely to know of objects that depicted the Heliads at various stages of their metamorphosis. In Philostratus’ time, the Heliads could sometimes be seen not only mourning but also turning into poplar trees, in the lower left corner of sarcophagi that illustrated the fall of Phaethon (Fig. 11.7),69 and, in Ovid’s time, the myth was depicted on Arretine ware.70 Since both texts carefully describe the metamorphosis of the girls into poplar trees, their readers were strongly encouraged to think of the visual images that they knew. But apart from engaging with earlier Greek sources and with their readers’ visual culture, it is possible that Philostratus sought inspiration from the Latin poem. Indeed, both texts end with very similar sentences: Ovid writes that ‘the clear river receives’ (the drops of amber) ‘and sends them off for Roman brides to wear’ (lucidus amnis / excipit et nuribus mittit gestanda Latinis, Met. 2.365–366); Philostratus’ final sentence has a similar meaning, but is written in the future tense: ‘(the river) will receive the drops falling from the poplars and send them away, in its bright waters, to the barbarians who live near the Ocean’ (πεσόντα ὑποδέξεται καὶ διὰ φαιδροῦ τοῦ ὕδατος ἀπάξει τοῖς ἐν Ὠκεανῷ βαρβάροις τὰ τῶν αἰγείρων ψήγματα). Who are the barbarians living by the Ocean? One might think of the Hyperboreans or Gauls and argue that Philostratus and Ovid were both imitating a lost Greek model. In this case, we would have to assume that Ovid chose to transform the northern or western ‘barbarians’  Cf. Ov. Met. 2.319–323 (esp. 319–321, rutilos flamma populante capillos / . . . praeceps . . . / fertur, ‘flames ravage his glowing hair and the boy is falling headlong’) and Philostr. Im. 1.11.2 (καταφέρεται – τήν τε γὰρ κόμην ἐμπέπρησται καὶ τὰ στέρνα ὑποτύφεται, ‘he is falling headlong – for his hair is on fire and his breast smouldering with the heat’).  Cf. Ov. Met. 2.346–366 and Philostr. Im. 1.11.4–5.  The corresponding passage of the Narrationes, an anonymous third-century CE (?) summary of the Metamorphoses, complete with short commentaries, informs us that the myth was recounted by Hesiod and Euripides. On this text, see Cameron (2004) 3–32.  See also Louvre, Ma 1017.  Boston, MfA, 98.828 and Baratte (1994), cat. no. 24.

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of his lost model into ‘Roman brides’. Alternatively, we could argue that Philostratus was in fact imitating Ovid and that he humorously transformed the ‘Roman brides’ into ‘barbarians living by the Ocean’, thus pointing indirectly to his own uncommon choice of a ‘barbarian’ model, namely a Roman one, for this entire passage. At the same time, the lack of clarity of the Philostratean sentence makes one waver between the two possible identifications of the Eridanos: is the writer referring to the Rhone or to the Po? Philostratus’ choice of an ambiguous phrase was possibly intentional.71 As we have seen, the similarities between Ovid’s and Philostratus’ narratives especially appear in the way in which both authors described the Heliads’ metamorphosis and the formation of amber. They could be explained, possibly, by the influence of a common source, but both texts certainly seem very close to each other. It may be interesting to note that the texts in which Philostratus seems to show some knowledge of Ovid’s poetry concern two highly metapoetic figures, namely Narcissus and Phaethon. As for the Heliads, they were also likely to be interpreted as metapoetic symbols. In Latin poetry, the bark (liber) that covered the transformed bodies of the girls would also call to mind the ‘book’ (liber) itself. In the myth of the Heliads, a new liber sheds tears that are, in fact, as precious as gemstones; these tears fall into a clear stream and are later used for the cultus (adornment) of elegant brides.72 Another instance in which Philostratus and Ovid seem to share metapoetic symbols is their use of isthmuses, straits, and bridges in the description of landscapes. These metapoetic symbols appear to have been rarely employed by ancient authors, which gives weight to the idea according to which Philostratus had read and even carefully studied Ovid’s poetry.

11.4 Isthmuses, bridges, and straits: metaphors for the continuity or discontinuity of the narrative? Isthmuses, bridges, and straits are narrow passageways connecting larger bodies of land or sea. These landmarks do not appear to have been explicitly

 See e.g. A.R. 4.505–506 and 596 ff., where it is unclear whether the Eridanus is the Po or the Rhone.  On trees/bark and amber as metapoetic symbols, see Clément-Tarantino (forthcoming) and Larmour (forthcoming).

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compared to the transitions within a book or poem.73 Nevertheless, a small number of authors used the description of such landscapes to mark an important transition in their narratives. In such cases, the description of these landmarks was probably meant to shed light on the continuity or discontinuity of the narrative and to draw the reader’s attention to the overall composition of the book. The loss of many ancient poetry books makes it impossible to know whether or not this was a common way to highlight a transition. A first example can be found in Lycophron’s Alexandra, a poem that explores, across different mythological and historical times, the conflicted relationship between Europe and Asia.74 The poem is presented as a twofold prophecy delivered by Cassandra-Alexandra. The main transition in the text corresponds to the depiction of the Hellespont in ll. 1281–1290: a small strait thus sets the two continents apart, but also the two main bodies of the text. Lycophron clearly insists on the division between Europe and Asia by stating that the Tanais river, one of the possible boundaries between the two continents, ran across the Hellespont and cut the strait itself into two halves. In the Alexandra, Cassandra delivers two series of very short narratives that illustrate violent scenes from the everlasting conflict between the two continents. The first part of the prophecy runs from the first sack of Troy by Heracles – through the announcement of the Trojan war, the tragic or happy nostoi of the Greek soldiers, and Aeneas’ arrival in Italy – to the announcement of the future glory of Aeneas’ Roman offspring (ll. 31–1280). The second part of the prophecy widens the scope: it recalls the initial source of the conflict (the Rape of Io) and runs once more through myth and history, only to end with the reconciliation of the two continents at the beginning of the Hellenistic period (ll. 1290–1450). Although the second part of the prophecy considers a much broader chronological frame, it is far briefer than the first part and literally runs the whole span of time in the course of only 161 lines. For the poet, it was so important to highlight the transition between the two parts of the prophecy that some events are told twice, with different words and phrasings, and at different lengths: the sack of Troy by Heracles is found at ll. 31–51 and 1346–1350; the Trojan war and the Ilioupersis are narrated in ll. 53–364 and 1362–1371; the rise of the Roman power is described in ll. 1230–1280 and maybe 1446–1450.

 Luc. Hist. conscr. 7 uses the metaphor of isthmuses and walls to speak about generic boundaries between panegyrics and history: ἀγνοοῦντες ὡς οὐ στενῷ τῷ ἰσθμῷ διώρισται καὶ διατετείχισται ἡ ἱστορία πρὸς τὸ ἐγκώμιον, ἀλλά τι μέγα τεῖχος ἐν μέσῳ ἐστὶν αὐτῶν, ‘they (i.e. bad historians) ignore that the difference between history and a speech of praise is not a narrow isthmus, but that these genres are set apart by a massive wall’.  See, for instance, Pouzadoux and Prioux (2010).

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The description of the Hellespont not only marks the main transition in the prophecy but also provides the reader with a key for understanding the global meaning of an otherwise deliberately obscure poem: all events narrated by Cassandra are meant to illustrate the unfolding and evolution of the eternal conflict between the two continents. Interestingly, a metaliterary use of the description of straits and isthmuses can also be found in two other authors – Ovid and Philostratus. The overall structure of the Metamorphoses is not easy to define, but Crump and many other scholars after her have argued that the poem fell into three parts: gods, heroes, human wars and historical times.75 The transitions between the various parts would then correspond to ll. 6.421 and 11.194. As was noted by Barchiesi, both passages are highlighted by the description of a landscape that represents a passageway between two larger bodies of land or sea.76 The first passage corresponds to the description of the Isthmus of Corinth: the idea of symmetry and continuity between the regions that are located on either side of the Isthmus (the Peloponnese and Central Greece) is emphasized through verbal echoes of ll. 6.419–420: quaeque urbes aliae bimari clauduntur ab Isthmo exteriusque sitae bimari spectantur ab Isthmo. and whichever of the other cities are separated (from the rest of Greece) by the Isthmus that faces two seas, or lie on the other side and can be seen from the Isthmus that faces two seas.

The transition from the second to the third part of the poem coincides with the description of the Hellespont, a narrow (angustum) seaway that separates two continents (11.194–196): ultus abit Tmolo liquidumque per aera uectum angustum citra pontum Nepheleidos Helles Laomedonteis Latoius adstitit aruis. After having taken his revenge, Leto’s son left Mount Tmolus and, flying through clear air, stopped in Laomedon’s country, on the other side of the narrow sea that takes its name from Helle, daughter of Nephele.

In Ovid, an isthmus and a strait thus draw the reader’s attention to the problem of the continuity or discontinuity of the narrative. Barchiesi has argued that several

 Crump (1931) 204–214, 274.  Barchiesi (1994) 247–248.

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other descriptions, such as the rainbow in Met. 6.66 and the Echinades islands in Met. 8.573–610, served the same purpose.77 The Echinades were believed to be the result of alluvial deposits brought down by the frenzied Achelous river. The Echinades islands are so connected by alluvium that, when seen from afar, they seem to form a single island. Barchiesi’s metapoetic reading of the passage finds support in the very name of one of the Echinades: Perimela (Περιμήλη), whose name calls to mind, by paronomasia, the word μέλος, ‘song’. Moreover, the description of the Echinades is set in the middle of the Metamorphoses, and is narrated by the frenzied river, Achelous himself, who tells of his other floods and of the alluvia that he brought down in the past. This last element is highly revealing, since flooded rivers are a frequent metapoetic metaphor and are often used as such by Ovid.78 One could object that the order of the texts of the Imagines relies on Benndorf and Schenkel’s edition and that some manuscripts omit certain pictures or rearrange them differently, but the surveys of the manuscript tradition that I have been able to conduct so far tend to confirm the strong reliability of the sequence edited by Benndorf and Schenkel. Strong confirmation is also provided by Braginskaya and Leonov’s observations on the stichometry of the two books of Imagines:79 Philostratus has chosen to set a symbolic landmark in the exact middle of each book. In the middle of book 1, the reader will find a ‘double painting’, The Bosphorus, a vast chorography in two parts (1.12 and 1.13) that depicts one of the two straits that form the boundary between Europe and Asia. In terms of stichometry, the precise middle of book 1 (located between paragraphs 1.12.5 and 1.13.1) coincides with the description of a waterway within the waterway: the limit, marked by a sanctuary and a lighthouse, between the Bosphorus and the Black Sea. A similar statement can be made about book 2. When one considers the general number of paintings described in the second book, the central piece is painting 2.17 (Islands). The stichometric centre of the book also falls in the same description. In the preceding painting (2.16, Palaemon), Philostratus once again draws the reader’s attention to the depiction of an isthmus and speaks of a passageway within the passageway, by telling how Poseidon welcomed Melicertes and opened a breach in the Isthmus of Corinth for him. In 2.17 (Islands), the painting that Philostratus describes represents, among other islands, twin islets, the two of which are only separated by a thin channel that looks like a river (2.17.4).

 Barchiesi (1994) 247.  See, for instance, Barchiesi (2001) 51–54.  See Braginskaya and Leonov (2006).

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A bridge and passageway has been thrown over the river and the result is, as in Ovid’s description of the Echinades, that both islets seem to be one: ζεῦγμα δὲ ὑπὲρ τοῦ πορθμοῦ βέβληται, ὡς μίαν ὑπ’ αὐτοῦ φαίνεσθαι . . . but a bridge has been thrown over the channel, with the result that the two islands look like one.

Philostratus speaks of a ζεῦγμα. This word is not the most straightforward choice to refer to an actual bridge. In other contexts, Philostratus himself prefers the word γέφυρα; he does, though, mention another ζεῦγμα in another painting of the Imagines, the Marsh, where the final motif of the landscape is a bridge formed by two palm trees (1.9.5–6). One of the possible explanations for this strange word choice is certainly that the word ζεῦγμα belongs to the terminology of ancient literary criticism, where it serves to emphasize the idea of a connection between two elements in a given text. For instance, Dionysius of Halicarnassus uses the verb ζεύγνυμι to mention the smooth transitions that one can create through euphony and a clever arrangement of words (synthesis).80 By describing a picture that shows a series of islands varied in nature, and by commenting on the possible connections between some of them, Philostratus provides us with a key to understanding the overall project of his own book: the Imagines are a collection of texts (or paintings) and the reader (or viewer) navigates from one to the next, as if travelling from island to island. The painting described in Islands presents us with some islets that may echo previous paintings seen in the gallery: for instance, the hunters’ island (2.17.10) recalls painting 1.27 (Hunters); the depiction of the twin islets echoes through the comparison that the rhetor draws with the landscape of the valley of Tempe, painting 2.14 (Poseidon opening the valley of Tempe with his trident). Separated from each other by the sea, the islands invite the reader to reflect on the continuity or discontinuity of the entire book.81 It is impossible for us to know if other authors used straits, isthmuses, and bridges as Ovid and Philostratus did. Did both authors find inspiration in a now lost Hellenistic work, or did Philostratus imitate the Latin poet? Once again, even though the ideas expressed by both authors – when depicting the visual

 Dion. Hal. Comp. 22.  Baumann (2011) 76–87 and Prioux (2015).

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illusion provided by a scattering of islands – seem very close,82 it is difficult to reach a definitive conclusion about their intertextual relationship. By examining Ovid’s and Philostratus’ treatments of the myths of Narcissus and Phaethon, and their descriptions of narrow passageways in landscapes, it has been possible to bring together a certain number of hints that seem to indicate that Philostratus had read Ovid’s Metamorphoses and shared his approach to a series of metaliterary symbols. In the myths of Narcissus and Phaethon, Ovid introduces visual elements that enhance the enargeia of his poem. For instance, he apparently makes a choice between the various species that were called narcissus and associates the youth to a white flower; the colour is stressed, in a proleptic manner, through comparisons between the youth and a marble statue, and is also justified by the idea that Narcissus faded away instead of committing suicide and shedding his own blood. Ovid also introduces possible allusions to the visual arts in his treatment of the Phaethon myth, and Philostratus, a keen student of his predecessors’ enargeia, seems to have been influenced by the Roman author’s narrative. If this reconstruction is correct, Ovid introduced some details into the narrative that would recall the visual arts (like the careful presentation of the personifications of the times of day or the figure of the pleading Gaia/Tellus – a character borrowed from visual representations of the Gigantomachy). His very visual poem would then have inspired one of Philostratus’ ‘paintings of words’.

Bibliography Amigues, S. 1993. Théophraste, Recherches sur les plantes, t. III, livres V–VI. Paris. Baratte, F. 1994. Phaethon I. In LIMC VII/1: 350–354. Zürich, München. Barchiesi, A. 1994. Il poeta e il principe. Roma, Bari. Barchiesi, A. 2001. Speaking Volumes. Narrative and Intertext in Ovid and other Latin Poets. London. Baumann, M. 2011. Bilder schreiben: Virtuose Ekphrasis in Philostrats Eikones. Berlin, New York. Bernsdorff, H. 2007. P.Oxy. 4711 and the Poetry of Parthenius. JHS 127: 1–18. Bowersock, G.W. 1969. Greek Sophists in the Roman Empire. Oxford. Braginskaya, N.V. and D.N. Leonov. 2006. La composition des Images de Philostrate l’Ancien. In Le défi de l’art. Philostrate, Callistrate et l’image sophistique, ed. M. Costantini, F. Graziani, and S. Rolet, 9–29. Rennes.

 Cf. Non est . . . unum / . . . spatium discrimina fallit, ‘This is not one island only, [. . .] but the distance conceals their distinctiveness’, Met. 8.573–610, and ὡς μίαν ὑπ’ αὐτοῦ φαίνεσθαι, ‘with the result that the two islands look like one’, Im. 2.17.4.

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Cameron, A. 2004. Greek Mythography in the Roman World. Oxford. Clément-Tarantino, S. forthcoming. Arbre, forêt/Tree, forest. In Dictionnaire des images du poétique, ed. J.-P. Guez, F. Klein, J. Peigney, and É. Prioux. Paris. Crump, M.M. 1931. The Epyllion from Theocritus to Ovid. Oxford. Drago, A.T. 2007. Aristeneto. Lettere d’amore: introduzione, testo, traduzione e commento. Lecce. Fairbanks, A. 1931. Philostratus. Imagines. Cambridge, MA. Gärtner, U. 2013. Πιερίδες τί μοι ἁγνὸν ἐφωπλίσσασθε Μάρωνα; Das griechische Epos der Kaiserzeit und die Bezüge zur lateinischen Literatur. In Les Grecs héritiers des Romains: huit exposés suivis de discussions. Entretiens sur l’Antiquité classique, ed. P. Schubert, P. Ducrey, and P. Derron, 87–139. Vandœuvres-Genève. Hardie, P. 2002. Ovid’s Poetics of Illusion. Cambridge. Hemelrijk, E.A. 1999. Matrona docta. Educated women in the Roman élite from Cornelia to Julia Domna. London, New York. Hose, M. 1994. Die römische Liebeselegie und die griechische Literatur. Überlegungen zu POxy 3732. Philologus 138: 67–82. Hutchinson, G.O. 2006. The Metamorphosis of Metamorphosis: P.Oxy. 4711 and Ovid. ZPE 155: 71–84. Jolowicz, D. 2021. Latin Poetry in the Ancient Greek Novels. Oxford. Larmour, D. forthcoming. Ambre/Amber. In Dictionnaire des images du poétique, ed. J.-P. Guez, F. Klein, J. Peigney, and É. Prioux. Paris. Lenormant, F. 1878. Deux terres-cuites grecques. Gazette archéologique 4: 150–155. Levick, B. 2007. Julia Domna, Syrian Empress. London, New York. Linant de Bellefonds, P. and É. Prioux. 2017. Voir les mythes. Poésie hellénistique et arts figurés. Paris. Massa-Pairault, F.-H. 2013. Orion. In Euphorion et les mythes: Images et fragments, ed. C. Cusset, É. Prioux, and H. Richer, 41–61. Naples. Osanna, M. 2019. Pompei. Il tempo ritrovato. Milan. Pouzadoux, C. and É. Prioux. 2010. Orient et Occident au miroir de l’Alexandra et de la céramique apulienne. In Lycophron: éclats d’obscurité. Actes du colloque international de Lyon et Saint-Étienne 18–20 janvier 2007, ed. C. Cusset and É. Prioux, 451–485. SaintÉtienne. Prioux, É. 2015. Ἰδέαι μὲν οὖν … μυρίαι: les Images de Philostrate comme images du style? In L’Héroïque et le Champêtre, vol. 2. Appropriation et déconstruction des théories stylistiques dans la pratique des artistes et dans les modalités d’exposition des œuvres, ed. M. Cojannot-Le Blanc, Cl. Pouzadoux, and É. Prioux. Nanterre. Puech, B. 2002. Orateurs et sophistes grecs dans les inscriptions d’époque impériale. Paris. Rafn, B. 1992. Narkissos. In LIMC VI/1: 703–711. Zürich, München. Rebuffat, R. 1961. Les divinités du jour naissant sur la cuirasse d’Auguste de Prima Porta. Recherche sur l’illustration symbolique de la victoire orientale. MEFRA 73.1: 161–228. Rochette, B. 2020. Les Grecs ont-ils étudié le latin dans l’Antiquité? Quelques témoignages littéraires et épigraphiques datant du Haut-Empire. In À l’école de l’Antiquité. Hommages à Ghislaine Viré, ed. C. Vanhalme and B. Sans, 49–63. Bruxelles. Rosati, G. 20162. Narciso e Pigmalione. Illusione e spettacolo nelle Metamorfosi di Ovidio. Pisa (1st ed. 1983). Salvi, G. 2014. Miti ovidiani nel repertorio funerario romano: la produzione di sarcofagi. Diss. Padova.

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Sharrock, A. forthcoming. Credulitas. In Dictionnaire des images du poétique, ed. J.-P. Guez, F. Klein, J. Peigney, and É. Prioux. Paris. Schmidt, M. 1992. Medeia. In LIMC VI/1: 386–398. Zürich, München. Webb, D.A. 1980. Narcissus. In Flora Europaea, vol. 5, ed. T.G. Tutin, V.H. Heywood, N.A. Burges, D.M. Moore, D.H. Valentine, S.M. Walters, and D.A. Webb, 78–84. Cambridge. Whitmarsh, T. 2007. Prose literature and the Severan dynasty. In Severan Culture, ed. S. Swain, S. Harrison, and J. Elsner, 29–51. Cambridge. Wieseler, F. 1856. Narkissos. Göttingen. Zimmermann, C. 1994. The Pastoral Narcissus: A Study of the First Idyll of Theocritus. Lanham, MD, London.

Regina Höschele

12 ἐκ τῶν πινάκων. Aristaenetus’ intervisual allusions to Philostratus’ art gallery Abstract: The erotic letters of Aristaenetus are replete with echoes of earlier texts, often in the form of verbatim quotations or slightly modified rewritings of full sentences or entire passages, which has led scholars to dismiss his work as that of an unoriginal plagiarist. Several recent studies have shown, however, that Aristaenetus’ allusive practice is a lot more sophisticated than previously recognised. Building upon these contributions, my paper investigates Aristaenetus’ intertextual engagement with one of his most important models, Philostratus, whose Imagines he repeatedly recalls through what we might term ‘intervisual allusions’. It is my contention that this Late Antique epistolographer, in whose letters descriptions (primarily of human beauty, but also of nature) play a major role, systematically infuses his text with Philostratean echoes to evoke the Imagines’ mimetic discourse, which significantly informs his own aesthetics of imitation. He even casts some of his characters as visitors to Philostratus’ picture gallery and describes a figure emblematic of his own art in terms that might be applied to Philostratus himself. Aristaenetus moreover restages Philostratean ekphrasis in an erotic context by presenting male or female objects of desire as though they were works of art contemplated by a spectator. Through a close analysis of passages modelled upon paintings described by Philostratus, I illustrate how Aristaenetus has absorbed the ekphrastic discourse of the Imagines into the epistolary framework of his own collection and self-consciously highlights his allusions to this Second Sophistic work through a marked emphasis on visuality. One of the first texts in Aristaenetus’ collection of fictional erotic letters1 (1.3) contains the description of a magnificent locus amoenus, which served as the setting for a lovers’ intimate tête-à-tête. The letter writer, Philoplatanus, evokes in great detail the sensuous scenery – its gentle breeze, sweet smells, and lush vegetation –, whose allure became one with the intoxicating beauty of his  Transmitted in a single manuscript (twelfth–thirteenth centuries), the collection contains 50 amatory letters in 2 books. For the author’s identity, see Drago (2007) 16–36. Internal indicators point to a date in the early sixth century CE. See Mazal (1977), Burri (2004), as well as Drago (2007) 25–36, and Bing and Höschele (2014) xiii–xvi. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110795448-013

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beloved. With its stream, plane tree, and chirping cicadas, the landscape is clearly modelled on Plato’s Phaedrus, whose hypothetical speeches of wooing Aristaenetus has replaced with an actual and titillating erotic encounter; the Platonic nature of the setting is underscored by the speaking name of the letter-writer, which can be interpreted both as ‘Lover-of-Plane-Trees’ and ‘Lover-of-Platon’.2 Nonetheless it also contains several elements drawn from other models, among them the following scene (1.3.45–52): ἀλλὰ καὶ τῶν ἄλλων ἡδυφώνων κατηκούομεν ὀρνίθων ὥσπερ ἐμμελῶς ὁμιλούντων ἀνθρώποις. ἔτι κἀκείνους πρὸ τῶν ὀμμάτων ἔχειν δοκῶ· ὁ μὲν ἐπὶ πέτρας ἀναπαύει τὼ πόδε καθ’ ἕνα, ὁ δὲ ψύχει τὸ πτερόν, ὁ δὲ ἐκκαθαίρει, ὁ δὲ ἦρέ τι ἐκ τοῦ ὕδατος, ὁ δὲ εἰς τὴν γῆν κατανένευκεν ἐπισιτίσασθαί τι ἐκεῖθεν. ἡμεῖς δὲ ὑφειμένῃ τῇ φωνῇ διελεγόμεθα περὶ τούτων, ὅπως μὴ ἀποπτήσωνται καὶ διασκεδάσωμεν τῶν ὀρνίθων τὴν θέαν.3 But we also listened to the other sweet-voiced birds, which seemed to converse with us humans through their melodies. They seem to be there right before my eyes even now. Look, this one is resting its feet, first one, then the other, on a stone; that one is cooling its wings, and yet a third is cleaning them; here is one that has plucked something out of the water, and still another has bent its neck down to the earth in order to pick up some food. We talked about them with hushed voices, so they wouldn’t fly away and leave us without this winged spectacle.4

This brief vignette vividly brings before our eyes a group of birds engaged in different activities. What Philoplatanus presents to his addressee as the recollection of a scene witnessed within a garden appears in Philostratus’ Imagines 1.9 as part of a painted marsh landscape: τοὺς δὲ ἐπὶ μακροῖν τοῖν σκελοῖν, τοὺς περιττοὺς τὸ ῥάμφος ξένους οἶμαι αἰσθάνῃ καὶ ἁβροὺς ἄλλον ἄλλου πτεροῦ. καὶ τὰ σχήματα δὲ αὐτῶν ποικίλα· ὁ μὲν γὰρ ἐπὶ πέτρας ἀναπαύει τὼ πόδε κατὰ ἕνα, ὁ δὲ ψύχει τὸ πτερόν, ὁ δὲ ἐκκαθαίρει, ὁ δὲ ᾕρηκέ τι ἐκ τοῦ ὕδατος, ὁ δὲ εἰς τὴν γῆν ἀπονένευκεν ἐπισιτίσασθαί τι ἐκεῖθεν. (Im. 1.9.2) And those long-legged birds, those with gigantic beaks, you recognise them, I think, as foreign, graceful each with different plumage. And their poses too are varied: this one is resting its feet, first one, then the other, on a stone; that one is cooling its wings, and yet a third is cleaning them; here is one that has plucked something out of the water, and still another has bent its neck down to the earth in order to pick up some food.

Through his meticulous descriptions of various sights, including this avian gathering, Philoplatanus wishes to give his addressee a clear impression of the

 Capra (2013) 381–382.  The Greek text follows Mazal (1971).  All translations of Aristaenetus are taken from Bing and Höschele (2014); translations of other ancient texts are my own.

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garden’s beauty, with the aim of inducing him to experience its pleasures on his own (1.3.77–79). Here he highlights the vividness of his memory by claiming that he still feels as though the birds were right in front of his eyes (ἔτι κἀκείνους πρὸ τῶν ὀμμάτων ἔχειν δοκῶ). Read by itself, his observation attests to the enduring power of this visual memory, which lets Philoplatanus virtually ‘see’ the birds in the moment of writing. On an intertextual level – taking into account the passage’s provenance –, we may, however, also read it as a reflection on the effects of Philostratean ekphrasis. By introducing his extensive quotation from the Imagines in this manner, Aristaenetus points, I believe, to the mimetic discourse that lies at the heart of Philostratus’ ekphrastic enterprise: while applauding the deceptive realism of the paintings, which form the subject of his ‘lecture series’, the narrator of the Imagines himself aims to conjure up the contemplated tableaux in front of the reader’s eye.5 Through the mouth of his fictional letter-writer, Aristaenetus may thus comment on the success of this verbal mimesis: so vivid was Philostratus’ description that, after reading his text, our author ‘still sees the birds’ πρὸ τῶν ὀμμάτων – an expression that clearly recalls ancient definitions of ekphrasis (cf. n. 18). Intriguingly these birds have migrated from their habitat within a painting into a ‘real’ (if equally fictitious) landscape, which is likewise evoked by verbal means in the form of Philoplatanus’ letter. And just as Philostratus’ narratorial persona converses with a boy and a group of young men about the paintings exhibited in a Neapolitan villa, so did Philoplatanus and his beloved talk about the birds in the garden, though in hushed voices so as not to scare them away. For unlike their painted counterparts, which are forever captured in the same pose, these birds are imagined as living creatures whose sweet voices clearly distinguish them from silent works of art;6 the ‘winged spectacle’ (τῶν ὀρνίθων τὴν θέαν) can be dissolved at any moment. The idea of speaking in a low voice in fact comes from the beginning of another Philostratean description, 1.22, where the narrator is worried that they might wake up a sleeping satyr;7 but whereas this  For a long time, scholarship was mainly concerned with determining whether or not the descriptions are based on real paintings. Recent studies have shifted the focus onto the intricate ontological games played by Philostratus, whose text mediates the mimetic fictions of the paintings; see Beall (1993), Bryson (1994), Webb (2006), Giuliani (2007), Baumann (2011), Squire (2013), and Bachmann (2015).  Ekphrastic texts often evoke the lack of voice as the one feature compromising the lifelikeness of a work of art (e.g. Erinna AP 6.353); for art’s silence, see also Plat. Phaedr. 275d. I owe this observation to Lucia Floridi.  Καθεύδει ὁ Σάτυρος, καὶ ὑφειμένῃ τῇ φωνῇ περὶ αὐτοῦ λέγωμεν, μὴ ἐξεγείρηται καὶ διαλύσῃ τὰ ὁρώμενα, ‘The Satyr is asleep, and let us talk about him in a hushed voice lest he wake up and break up what can be seen’ (Im. 1.22.1).

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remark is part of the Imagines’ ekphrastic conceit, designed to underline the lifelikeness of the satyr’s representation, which could in effect not be woken up by its spectators, the concern is perfectly realistic within the scene evoked by Philoplatanus. Aristaenetus’ echo of Philostratus’ prose in this passage8 is thus much more than a simple recycling of verbal material. Even as the addressee of Philostratus’ ekphrasis immediately recognises the birds’ foreign origin (ξένους οἶμαι αἰσθάνῃ) – as opposed to the local ducks and geese described before –, so may the reader of Aristaenetus’ epistle easily identify them as coming from ‘elsewhere’, in this case from another text, which is replicated almost verbatim. The Platonic landscape of Ep. 1.3 is, one might say, populated with ‘alien’ creatures imported from another source. Aristaenetus signposts his allusion by highlighting the visual impact of the scene, whose origin lies in Philostratus’ description of a painting; at the same time, he casts the letter-writer and his lover as spectators conversing about the objects of their gaze, in a manner clearly reminiscent of the Imagines’ narrative frame. Particularly fascinating about all this is the way in which Aristaenetus’ reuse of Philostratus’ words in the epistolary ekphrasis of a landscape (supposed to be real, though itself nothing but a literary construct) creates a dizzying back and forth between the visual and the verbal, between art and ‘reality’. Textually Philoplatanus’ description derives from Philostratus’ ekphrasis of a painting, but it is tempting to regard the birds viewed by the letter-writer as the ‘real-life’ model of the artist who painted the marsh landscape in the Imagines. The virtually verbatim repetition of another writer’s words is characteristic of Aristaenetus’ allusive practice: he frequently appropriates phrases, sentences, or even whole passages from earlier texts. Modern scholars tended to show little appreciation for his literary technique and would dismissively call this Late Antique author a plagiarist, ‘jackdaw’, or ‘common burglar’.9 As I have

 This is not the only Philostratean echo in Ep. 1.3: Aristaenetus (1.3.15–17) also appropriates his description of grapes in varying stages of maturity from Im. 2.17.8. Could his transformation of Philostratus’ painted grapes into ‘real’ fruits, growing in an actual landscape, play on the famous anecdote about Zeuxis’ painting of grapes, which looked so authentic that birds flew in to pick at them (Plin. NH 35.65)? As with the birds from Im. 1.9, Aristaenetus takes the exceptional enargeia of the painted image and, as though commenting on the brilliance of its imitation, returns it to life – or to the imitation of life in narrative. I owe this observation to Peter Bing.  Thus, Arnott (1973) 202 and (1974) 359, though he seems to have developed a greater appreciation for Aristaenetus’ technique over time (see Arnott [1982]). Magrini (1981) 146 assigns Aristaenetus to ‘un’epoca stanca e senza originalità’ and speaks of his ‘tecnica di plagio’ (152); the idea of ‘plagiarism’ is also pervasive in Gallé Cejudo (1993).

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tried to show elsewhere, however, his cut-and-paste aesthetic is a lot more sophisticated and self-consciously playful than previously realised;10 other recent contributions have likewise demonstrated Aristaenetus’ creative appropriation of earlier texts belonging to a wide range of authors and genres.11 In this chapter, I would like to add to those observations by considering in greater depth Aristaenetus’ intertextual engagement with Philostratus, one of his most important models beside more mainstream authors such as Homer, Plato, and Menander. Gallé Cejudo counts at least 1 quotation from Philostratus in 15 out of 50 letters, in some cases even 4 or 5, amounting to 35 substantial echoes throughout the collection.12 ‘Quotation’ here signifies a close rewriting of Philostratean prose (without explicit mention of its source), be it verbatim or slightly modified through synonyms, elisions, or additions. Not all of these quotations appear to be semantically relevant. Time and again phrases are simply reused as textual building blocks in the construction of a sentence without (as far as I can see) involving any form of allusive dialogue with the model text – where they come from makes little difference (though they do add to the Philostratean flair of Aristaenetus’ prose). There are, however, several instances in which the Philostratean subtext resonates meaningfully within Aristaenetus’ lettered universe, as in the example contemplated above. Even if his allusive practice is hardly as subtle and complex as that of Hellenistic poets, Aristaenetus, too, knows how to play with literary echoes and invites his readers to look beyond the mere surface of the text; at times, he even draws our attention to his model in a manner reminiscent of the self-consciously annotated allusions typical of Hellenistic and Roman poetry.13 What is more, Aristaenetus places several allusions to Philostratus in passages that programmatically reflect on the phenomenon of mimesis, which not only forms a crucial element of his own literary technique but also stands at the very centre of Philostratus’ Imagines. These self-referential passages constitute the subject of my investigation. It is my contention that Aristaenetus, whose letters are replete with descriptions (primarily of human beauty, but also of nature), systematically infuses his text with Philostratean echoes to evoke the Imagines’ mimetic discourse, which significantly informs his own aesthetics of imitation. In other words, we are not simply dealing with individual allusions meaningful

 See Höschele (2012).  See e.g. Bing and Höschele (2014) xxvii–xxxv on Aristaenetus’ intertextual engagement with Hippocrates in 1.19, Barbiero (2016) on his allusions to Aristophanes’ Clouds in 2.3 and 2.12, and Bing (2019) on his rewriting of Callimachus’ Phrygia and Pieria episode in 1.15.  Gallé Cejudo (1993) 36–37.  On self-annotated allusions in Roman poetry, see Hinds (1998); in Hellenistic epigram, see Höschele (2018).

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only within their immediate context, but with a deeper, more extensive, and formative intertextual dialogue. It only seems appropriate to label such allusions ‘intervisual’, insofar as the textual echo, embedded in a context concerned with viewing, points us to a (textually mediated) image. As we shall see, Aristaenetus even casts some of his characters as visitors to Philostratus’ art gallery and describes a figure emblematic of his own art in terms that might be applied to Philostratus himself. Of particular interest for our discussion is, moreover, the fact that Aristaenetus appropriates numerous passages from Philostratus’ ekphrastic collection, even as Philostratus is one of his main predecessors in the composition of fictional letters.14 Given their generic affiliation and shared interest in erotika, one might have expected close correspondences between Philostratus’ letters and those of Aristaenetus, but structurally and thematically the two epistolary collections considerably differ from one another, and verbal echoes are kept to a minimum.15 Throughout the former corpus, we hear the voice of Philostratus’ literary persona, a lover’s voice giving expression to his desire for unnamed boys and girls and indulging in various fetishistic fantasies, built upon an intricate interplay between epistolarity and eroticism.16 In Aristaenetus, we encounter a series of fictional writers and addressees (the majority bearing sprechende Namen), who are, for the most part, not engaged in a lovers’ intimate correspondence; rather, the texts recount erotic anecdotes – often involving amatory adventures and misdemeanours – in which the sender may not even have been personally involved. However, while Aristaenetus’ letters bear little resemblance to those of Philostratus, they do cast the descriptive discourse of his Imagines into epistolary form. Such a liaison between ekphrasis and epistolarity is, in itself, not surprising: a fundamental function of the letter, stated in theoretical discussions of letterwriting and reflected in various epistolary topoi, consists, after all, in making the absent present, in creating the illusion that the two correspondents see each other face to face despite being physically apart.17 Similarly, ekphraseis aim to  The Suda mentions three authors of the name Philostratus, belonging to three different generations, which has caused considerable confusion as to the authorship of various Philostratean works; the communis opinio now attributes most texts, among them the Letters and Imagines, to the Elder Philostratus; see Bowie (2009).  Drago (2007) 476 notes just one echo of Philostratus Ep. 38 in Aristaenetus’ portrayal of an arrogant boy (2.6.2–4 ἀεροβατεῖς δὲ μετάρσιος ταῖς φαντασίαις καὶ ὑπερορᾷς ἡμῶν τῶν βαδιζόντων χαμαί ~ ὑψηλόν τε ὁρᾷς καὶ μετέωρος βαδίζεις).  On Philostratus’ Letters, see Rosenmeyer (2001) 322–338, Goldhill (2009), Schmitz (2017), Pontoropoulos (2019), and Leonard (2020).  The letter was conceived of as ‘the one part of a conversation’ (Dem. Eloc. 223). On the epistolary motifs of sermo absentium and parousia, see Thraede (1970).

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conjure up before the reader’s (or listener’s) eyes the sight of something – an object, a person, a landscape, etc. – that is located elsewhere (or merely imaginary).18 As a rhetorical trope, ekphrasis is employed in any number of texts belonging to different genres, but its vivid evocation of sights unseen through verbal means makes it a particularly apt trope to use in letters, whose entire raison d’être is predicated upon the separation of sender and addressee.19 It is only to be expected, then, that Aristaenetus’ letters would contain some descriptive elements, but the great importance attributed to ekphrasis in his epistolary universe is remarkable – as is the way in which ekphrastic language culled from or inspired by Philostratus is entangled with the collection’s overall aesthetics. Aristaenetus has, I submit, intriguingly merged two of Philostratus’ works by absorbing the mimetic discourse of the Imagines into the generic framework of the Letters. That he indeed looks to Philostratus as an epistolographic model is evinced by the fact that the Second Sophistic author himself appears as a letter-writer within his corpus: Aristaenetus pays homage to his predecessors in the genre of epistolography by incorporating them as correspondents into his own oeuvre: Ep. 1.5 is sent from Alciphron to Lucian, 1.22 from Lucian to Alciphron; Philostratus appears as the author of Ep. 1.11, while book 2 opens with a letter from Aelian. In each instance, the author’s name is not randomly attached to a letter, but characteristic elements of his work are reflected in its content (Alciphron’s strong ties to New Comedy are, for instance, mirrored in the fact that he appears as a sender/recipient of two letters replete with Menandrian echoes).20 As has long been recognised, Ep. 1.11, penned by Philostratus, replicates two passages from the Imagines;21 what has remained unnoticed so far is its evocation of a thoroughly Philostratean scene of viewing. In the letter, Philostratus tells of a woman in love with a youth. Not trusting her own assessment of his beauty, she asks her maid how other females react to his appearance (1.11.2–7):

 Theon, the author of a handbook of progymnasmata, thus defines ekphrasis: ἔκφρασίς ἐστι λόγoς περιηγηματικὸς ἐναργῶς ὑπ’ ὄψιν ἄγων τὸ δηλoύμενον, ‘ekphrasis is a descriptive speech which brings the thing shown vividly before the eyes’ (Theon, II 118, 6–7 Speyer); on this rhetorical definition, see Webb (2009) 51–55. It is through the vividness of description (enargeia) that absent things are made present; see Webb (2009) 87–106.  For an example of epistolary ekphrasis, see Pliny’s villa descriptions with Chinn (2007).  See Zanetto (1987) 197–199 and Höschele (2014) 748.  See the apparatus in Mazal (1971) and Drago (2007) 226–227.

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ἐγὼ μὲν γὰρ οἶμαι καλόν· ἀλλ’ ἐρῶσα τυχὸν σφάλλομαι περὶ τὴν κρίσιν τοῦ ποθουμένου καὶ ἔρωτι πλανῶμαι τὴν ὄψιν. λέγε δή μοι κακεῖνο, τί φασιν αἱ καθορῶσαι τοῦτον γυναῖκες; πότερον αὐτὸν ἐπαινοῦσι τοῦ κάλλους, ἢ ψέγουσιν ἀποστραφεῖσαι τὴν θέαν; I, for my part, consider him beautiful. But as I’m in love, I may be mistaken in how I judge my heart’s desire, and due to that love I may not see him straight. So tell me, what do the women say when they behold him? Do they praise his good looks, or do they turn away and mock what they see?

Only when she learns of their enthusiastic appraisals is she finally convinced of his good looks. One of the features eliciting their praise is his hair, whose description recalls Philostratus’ ekphrasis of Amphion: ἡ κόμη δὲ ἡδεῖα μὲν καὶ καθ’ ἑαυτὴν ἐναλύουσα μὲν τῷ μετώπῳ, συγκατιοῦσα δὲ τῷ ἰούλῳ παρὰ τὸ οὖς καὶ χρυσοῦ τι ἐπιφαίνουσα, ἡδίων δὲ μετὰ τῆς μίτρας. His hair is lovely also by itself, as it falls loosely over his forehead and joins the down of his cheeks at the ear, showing a glint of gold; but it is lovelier together with his headband. (Philostr. Im. 1.10.3) ἱκανὴ δὲ καὶ ἡ κόμη, καλὴ μὲν καθ’ ἑαυτὴν οὖσα, ἔτι δὲ καλλίων περικειμένη μὲν τῷ μετώπῳ, συγκατιοῦσα δὲ τῷ ἰούλῳ παρὰ τὸ οὖς. . . . his hair would be enough [to make you fall in love with him], beautiful in itself, but lovelier still as it falls about his face joining the down of his cheeks at the ear.22 (Aristaenet. 1.11.15–18)

Immediately after raving about the boy’s hair, the women express their admiration for his cloak with its ever-changing colours. This garment too is taken directly out of Philostratus, who speculates that Amphion’s cloak – along with his lyre and headband – was a gift from his lover Hermes: καὶ ἡ χλαμύς, ἣν φορεῖ, κἀκείνη παρὰ τοῦ Ἑρμοῦ τάχα· οὐ γὰρ ἐφ’ ἑνὸς μένει χρώματος, ἀλλὰ τρέπεται καὶ κατὰ τὴν Ἶριν μετανθεῖ. And the cloak, which he wears, maybe it too comes from Hermes. For its colour never stays the same, but it changes and takes on all the hues of the rainbow. (Philostr. Im. 1.10.3) τὸ δὲ χλανιδίσκιον βαβαὶ τῶν χρωμάτων· οὐ γὰρ ἐφ’ ἑνὸς μένει χρώματος, ἀλλὰ τρέπεται καὶ μετανθεῖ.

 While Philostratus contrasts the hair’s natural loveliness to the enhancement of its beauty through a headband (subsequently characterised as a visual counterpart to Amphion’s lyre), Aristaenetus presents the hair’s beauty as heightened by the way it falls over the forehead and mingles with the youth’s beard; besides this change, his passage closely follows its model, replacing some words with synonyms, but keeping the overall construction.

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And my, the colours of his cloak! They never stay the same but change and take on a different hue. (Aristaenet. 1.11.18–19)

Notably, this change of colour is replicated in the face of the mistress, who ‘was delighted with this testimonial and, overjoyed, changed colour at every word (παντοδαπὰ χρώματα παρ’ ἕκαστον λόγον ἠφίει) her maid spoke’ (1.11.25–26). On an intertextual level, the youth of the letter thus appears like a reincarnation of the mythical hero, who is represented in the act of building Thebes with his lyre in one of the paintings from Philostratus’ gallery. The Philostratean character of the letter goes, however, far beyond these two quotations. For the youth himself appears like a work of art. The words reported by the maid read as though they were spoken in front of an image – offering an intriguing reversal of a widespread ekphrastic topos: while works of art are frequently praised for their lifelikeness,23 the youth, who is very much alive, is described as though he were an objet d’art (in line with the common motif of comparing beautiful persons to works of art).24 This assimilation is highlighted by the women’s exclamation: ἰδοὺ μειράκιον εὐπρεπές, ἰδοὺ κάλλος ἀπηκριβωμένον τῇ φύσει, ‘Look, what a pretty boy. Look, what beauty perfectly wrought by Nature!’ (1.11.9–10). Not only is the imperative ἰδού used again and again by the narrator in Philostratus’ Imagines to guide the viewer’s eye,25 but the participle ἀπηκριβωμένον can also signify the accuracy of a representation.26 Philostratus himself uses a related verb to praise the exact portrayal of the lyre’s tortoise-shell: διηκρίβωται κατὰ τὴν φύσιν (Im. 1.10.2). The participle ἀπηκριβωμένον itself appears, inter alia, in Heliodorus’ Aithiopika, where it refers to the exact likeness (τὸ ἀπηκριβωμένον τῆς ὁμοιότητος, 10.15.1) between Charikleia and a painting of Andromeda, which her mother had gazed upon

 Ekphrastic texts often highlight the lifelikeness of an artwork by presenting its effect on spectators. A case in point are the many variations on Myron’s Cow, which play with the idea that calves, bulls, cowherds, farmers, and even the artist mistake the image for real; see Squire (2010) with further literature.  On such comparisons, see Steiner (2001) 194–198 and Franzoni (2006) 3–6.  Cf. e.g. Im. 1.6.1 + 3, 1.7.3, 1.9.5, 1.18.1, 1.22.2, 2.9.6, 2.22.4, 2.28.3 (also σκόπει at Im. 1.6.3, 1.7.2, 1.11.2, 1.16.3, 2.10.2; βλέπε at Im. 1.6.7, 1.12.9). On the vocabulary of seeing in the Imagines, see Palazzini (1996). On the Philostratean ‘Look!’, see Bryson (1994) 273: ‘The exclamation directs the reader not towards the text, or its image, but past them both into another space where presence is alive to all the senses at once (sight, hearing, touch, taste).’  For akribeia (and its Latin equivalent, diligentia) as an art critical term, see Pollitt (1974) 117–125.

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during her conception (due to a process known as ‘maternal impression’27 the girl is paradoxically modeled on a picture, not vice versa).28 Aristaenetus, I believe, marks the very ambiguity of the youth’s ontological status (is he real, or painted/sculpted?) by the phrase κάλλος ἀπηκριβωμένον τῇ φύσει. Even as the dative τῇ φύσει primarily denotes Nature’s agency (‘beauty perfectly wrought by Nature’), it might also hint at the idea that his (represented) beauty is fashioned according to Nature (cf. διηκρίβωται κατὰ τὴν φύσιν29). The text further flirts with the notion of the youth as an artwork when it has the women observe that ‘they should model images of Hermes (τοὺς Ἑρμᾶς30) after him rather than Alcibiades’ (1.11.11–12). Altogether the women beholding the youth (αἱ καθορῶσαι τοῦτον γυναῖκες) may strike us as female counterparts to the group of young men who move with Philostratus through the gallery of the Imagines, beholding the paintings displayed therein. The mistress wants to hear from her maid what they have to say (τί φασιν) about her beloved, and the way she pictures their potential reactions makes them appear like virtual art critics commenting on a painting: ‘Do they praise (ἐπαινοῦσι) his good looks, or do they turn away and mock what they see (τὴν θέαν)?’ Philostratus himself employs the verb ἐπαινέω on multiple occasions to express his admiration for the paintings’ artfulness;31 he even uses it programmatically to designate his ekphrastic project in the preface to his collection: ‘It had already occurred to me on my own that I should speak in praise of the paintings’ (praef. 5 ἐπαινεῖν τὰς γραφάς). Aristaenetus’ intertextual game is rather intricate: he has Philostratus write a letter to a friend, whose name Euagoras (‘he who speaks well’) may reflect the importance attached to rhetorical virtuosity in his oeuvre, evoking an erotic scenario that reproduces the narrative frame and critical discourse of the Imagines

 For ancient instances of the maternal impression theory, see Beagon (2005) 213–215 on Plin. NH 7.52. On the recognition scene in Heliodorus and its reversal of the protocols of mimesis, see Whitmarsh (1998) 110–111.  Cf. also Alex. Aet. APl 172.1: τὰν Κύπριν ἀπηκριβώσατο Παλλάς; Greg. Nyss. Epist. 19.3 οἷον ἀνδριάντα τινὰ πρὸς τὸ ἀκρότατον ἀπηκριβωμένον (‘something like a sculpture perfected to the highest degree’) and Phil. Thess. AP 9.778.3 ἀπηκριβώσατο.  Though τῇ φύσει is not grammatically equivalent to κατὰ τὴν φύσιν, the participle ἀπηκριβωμένον, in combination with the word φύσις, invites us to think of a naturalistic artwork.  The codex unicus transmits ἐραστάς, which has been emended to Ἑρμᾶς (Mercier) and Ἔρωτας (Salmasius); ancient sources attest to representations of Alcibiades as Eros (Plin. NH 36.28) and to images of Hermes bearing his features (e.g. Clem. Protr. 4.53.6). Hermes’ prominence in Philostratus’ painting possibly suggested this god to Aristaenetus (see Drago [2007] 226). What matters for my argument is not the identity of the god whose statues should be modelled after the youth, but the text’s prompt to visualise him as a sculpted divinity.  Cf. e.g. Im. 1.2.4, 1.9.5, 1.15.2, 1.28.4, 2.1.2, 2.31.1.

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in a female sphere. Instead of paintings, the women assess a man’s beauty, though in a way that assimilates the object of their gaze to a work of art. Significantly, this is not the only instance in which Aristaenetus suggests a blending of image and beloved. Not only does his oeuvre contain several passages in which the beloved is figured as an image, but, as we shall see, it also comprises a letter featuring an image as beloved, whose creator shows himself familiar with Philostratus’ picture gallery. In the very first epistle, Aristaenetus introduces his own girlfriend, Lais, as Nature’s ‘most beautiful and dearest masterpiece’ (φύσεως τὸ κάλλιστον φιλοτέχνημα, 1.1.5), ‘in every way the living image of Aphrodite’ (διὰ πάντων ἔμψυχος τῆς Ἀφροδίτης εἰκών, 1.1.6). Importantly, the idea of Nature as an artist is also evoked in the opening paragraph of the proem to the Imagines, which locates the origin of the visual arts in natural phenomena – the Seasons painting flowers on meadows, the stars in the sky – and calls mimesis ‘a most ancient invention and one most akin to nature’ (ξυγγενέστατον τῇ φύσει, Im. praef. 1). Lais, too, is a fabrication of Nature (ἐδημιούργησεν ἡ φύσις, 1.1.1), surpassing all its other creations in beauty. Following in the footsteps of Philostratus, Aristaenetus offers an extended ekphrasis of his beloved, attempting to ‘paint her intoxicating beauty in words to the best of (his) ability’ (ἵνα κάλλος ἀφροδίσιον εἰς δύναμιν διαγράψω τοῖς λόγοις, 1.1.7–8). The semantic ambiguity of the verb γράφειν, which can mean both ‘to paint’ and ‘to write’, highlights the amalgamation of seeing and reading in the context of ekphrasis, its collapse of the difference between image and text – a pun of which Philostratus himself is particularly fond.32 As I have shown elsewhere, Lais is conceived as an emblem of Aristaenetus’ own work.33 Owing her existence to the author’s verbal power, she is very much a scripta puella, comparable to the mistresses of Roman elegy.34 Her ‘writtenness’ is underlined not least of all by an unusual piece of jewelry. Whereas Philostratus insists, in his description of Critheis (Im. 2.8.5), that the throat of a gorgeous woman is lovelier if unadorned,35 as necklaces merely distract from great beauty, Aristaenetus observes that Lais’ ‘throat is white and becoming to her face even when unadorned (κἂν ἀκόσμητος), confident in its plush delicacy. Nonetheless a necklace set with stones encircles it, on which the name of my beautiful girl is written; the arrangement of the stones spells out the letters’ (1.1.20–24). Through this ‘nonetheless’ (μέντοι in Greek), Aristaenetus marks his deviation from Philostratus’

   

See Squire (2013) 106–107. Höschele (2012) 167–176. On the scripta puella, see Wyke (1987) and (1989). ἡ δέρη ἔτι ἡδίων ὑπὸ τοῦ μὴ κεκοσμῆσθαι.

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aesthetic preferences. The necklace is his addition,36 designed to underscore the analogy between girl and text: Lais is wearing a name tag made of stones (the Greek word λᾶας being virtually homonymous with Lais); the stones themselves have been turned into letters, forming a word that, self-reflexively, points to the very material from which this ‘lapidary’ text was fashioned. A comparable link between woman and writing is suggested when the author concludes his letter with the wish that the charm of Lais (τῆς Λαΐδος τὴν χάριν) may adhere also to his writings (τοῖς γραφεῖσι, 1.1.63). Aristaenetus thus associates the charm of his girl, who had been introduced as a member of the Graces’ chorus (1.1.2–3), with the literary style of his oeuvre. Notably, χάρις is not only a quality to be praised in a beautiful woman, but also a critical term that denotes a specific way of writing. Demetrius’ Peri Hermeneias 128–189, for instance, discusses various forms of χάρις in connection with the so-called γλαφυρὸς λόγος, the ‘elegant style’.37 This programmatic link between subject matter and style, between female and literary grace, suggested by Aristaenetus at the beginning of his collection recalls the way in which Philostratus concludes his Imagines (2.34). Αfter describing an image of the three Horae, the narrator conjectures that the painter himself must have encountered the dancing Horae and was ‘shaken to and fro by them into their artistry’ (σεισθῆναι ὑπ’ αὐτῶν εἰς τὴν τέχνην, 2.34.3): ‘thus perhaps do the goddesses intimate that grace must attend his painting’38 (ἴσως αἰνιττομένων τῶν θεῶν, ὅτι χρὴ σὺν ὥρᾳ γράφειν, 2.34.3). The Horae, who are often represented together with the Graces, fulfill the same symbolic function in Philostratus as graceful Lais does in Aristaenetus. For ὥρα, like χάρις, can refer to ‘beauty, grace, elegance of style’ (LSJ, s.v., IIb): the loveliness of the image (and the text!) is emblematised by the very goddesses it represents.39 Lais’ ontological status oscillates between flesh-and-blood woman, image, and text. Not only is she a masterpiece of Nature, but ‘the greatest masters have painted her for their own purposes as best they could. So when they need to paint  Here, as elsewhere in this letter, Aristaenetus draws on Achilles Tatius (λιθοκόλλητον περιδέραιον ~ περιδέραιον . . . λίθων ποικίλων, Ach. Tat. 2.11.2), whose sensuous descriptions of female beauty serve as an important model; see Tagliabue (2013) 423–426. The necklace assumes a programmatic function through the image of the stones spelling out the girl’s name, which is original to his letter.  On literary χάρις in Meleager, see Gutzwiller (1998) 87–91; for a comparison between Aristaenetus’ letter and Meleager’s epigrams, see Höschele (2012) 169–171.  Translation by Elsner (2000) 253.  See Elsner (2000) 255 on σὺν ὥρᾳ: ‘so brilliant a pun on the ostensible painting’s subject (Horae), on the artist’s necessary gifts and on those of the writer, that I do not see how to translate it!’.

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a Helen, or the Graces, or the Graces’ queen herself, they look to the image of Lais as a superb model of beauty, and from there they copy that lovingly created form in a manner fit for the gods’ (1.1.31–36). Lais then serves as model for artists who wish to depict the most legendary beauty in the history of mankind, the Graces, or Aphrodite. Remarkably, though, they do not resort to Lais herself when they are about to paint a picture, but to a previously fashioned portrait of her, producing, so to speak, copies of a mere copy.40 Unlike Plato, Aristaenetus sees nothing objectionable in this form of second-hand mimesis. Quite the contrary: Lais’ image virtually constitutes an ideal Form; the eikon paradoxically functions as paradeigma. Aristaenetus’ literary technique, I have argued,41 is analogous to the painters’ procedure: what the painting-as-model is to them, texts are to him. By continually taking his inspiration from others, he too is, in a way, replicating replicas, above all when the model texts themselves are full of allusions to previous literature. This is, to my mind, one of the reasons why he is so drawn to Philostratus’ Imagines. Its multilayered games of mimesis naturally appeal to an author whose work is fundamentally centred around imitatio. Aristaenetus’ enthusiastic embrace of mimesis as the underlying principle of his art is also mirrored in a letter towards the end of Book 1. In Ep. 1.26 Speusippus, a public courier, writes to Panarete, a pantomime dancer widely famed for her charis. The moment he saw her dance with his own eyes, he was totally enthralled by her beauty and fell head over heels in love. In his letter, he passionately praises her mimetic skills and describes the audience’s reaction to her spectacular performance (1.26.5–19): You mimic [Polymnia and Aphrodite] for us, as far as it is possible, the very goddesses who have decked you out with all their charms. Shall I call you an orator or label you a painter? (ὀνομάσω σε ῥήτορα, προσείπω ζωγράφον;) You depict actions, express all sorts of stories, are the vivid image of all nature (φύσεως ἁπάσης ἐναργὴς ὑπάρχεις εἰκών); instead of the painter’s brush or speaker’s tongue, you use your versatile hands and diverse poses, and like a kind of Pharian Proteus you seem to morph now into this form, now into that, following the inspired melody of the dance. The spectators spring to their feet in awe, raise their voices in tuneful responsion, wave their hands and set their garments swaying. Then, as they sit together, each recounts to the other point by point how you move in variegated silence, and every spectator in his delight attempts to be a pantomime. Though clearly your art reflects just a single model, the one and only Karamallos, all life is truthfully mirrored in your repertoire.

 According to Athen. 13.588d–e, Lais served as a model for painters, who ‘copied the woman’s breasts and chest’; it is Aristaenetus who adds an additional layer to this mimetic process by having artists turn to an image of Lais.  Höschele (2012) 172–173.

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Panarete seems like the incarnation of Mimesis herself: a female Proteus,42 she can slip into any role and mimic whatever she wishes. She needs no tongue to tell stories, no brush to paint pictures, but relies solely on the expressiveness of her hands and bodily movement to offer a truthful imitation of everything (ἁπάντων ἔχεις τὴν μίμησιν ἀκριβῆ, 1.26.18–19). In doing so, however, Panarete does not copy nature directly, but imitates the art of another mime (1.26.17–18)43 – a doubling of mimetic layers that recalls how the painters in Ep. 1.1 model their images of Helen & co. on a painting of Lais. The Karamallos evoked at the end of this passage is not a fictional character but an actual pantomime, whose mention gives us one of the few clues for dating Aristaenetus’ work: Late Antique and Byzantine sources refer to several celebrated mimes of this name (living in the second half of the fifth or first half of the sixth century), who may have belonged to different generations in a theatrical family.44 Even if we cannot tell which of the Karamalloi Aristaenetus has in mind here, his audience would in all likelihood have understood the reference as pointing to a famous real-life dancer.45 Another layer of mimesis is added by the spectators, who recount (διηγεῖται, 1.26.15) in detail, one to the other, ‘the moves of her variegated silence’ (κινήματα πολυτρόπου σιγῆς, 1.26.16), transforming the language of Panarete’s body into spoken words, a process that parallels Speusippus’ evocation of her dance in the medium of a letter. What is more, each θεατής tries to become a pantomime in his own right, mimicking the art of the dancer on stage, who imitates another dancer’s art of mimesis. Significantly, the audience’s reaction itself is a textual mimesis of another audience’s response to an athletic tour de force: Aristaenetus’ words echo Philostratus’ description of the spectators cheering at Arrichion’s victory in the pankration (Im. 2.6), which he earned at the cost of his own life.46

 While Proteus’ shape-shifting skills serve as a point of comparison for Panarete’s versatility, Lucian euhemeristically interprets Proteus as the archetypical dancer (ὀρχηστήν), ‘a mimetic person able to shape and turn himself into everything’ (μιμητικὸν ἄνθρωπον καὶ πρὸς πάντα σχηματίζεσθαι καὶ μεταβάλλεσθαι δυνάμενον, Luc. Salt. 19); see Schlapbach (2018) 82–92.  Where Aristaenetus claims a concrete historical model for Panarete’s art, Lucian envisions contemporary dancers ‘imitating Proteus himself’ (αὐτὸν μιμουμένους τὸν Πρωτέα, Salt. 19).  See Burri (2004) 86–87. For a summary of the evidence, see also Bing and Höschele (2014) xiii–xiv.  As Lucia Floridi points out to me, it is also possible that ‘Karamallos’ came to stand antonomastically for a pantomime dancer, comparable to Milon serving as the prototype of an athlete or Hegelochos as the embodiment of a bad actor in scoptic epigram (see, respectively, Lucillius AP 11.316 = 120 Floridi and AP 11.185 = 72 Floridi).  Arrichion (or Arrachion, as he is called in Paus. 8.40.1–2) was awarded a posthumous victory at the Olympics of 564 BCE; on his death, see Brophy III (1978).

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Aristaenetus’ letter pictures the audience’s behaviour in a way clearly reminiscent of the crowd at Olympia: βοῶσι γοῦν ἀναπηδήσαντες τῶν θάκων καὶ οἱ μὲν τὼ χεῖρε ἀνασείουσιν, οἱ δὲ τὴν ἐσθῆτα, οἱ δὲ αἴρονται ἀπὸ τῆς γῆς, οἱ δὲ τοῖς πλησίον ἱλαρὸν προσπαλαίουσι· τὰ γὰρ ὄντως ἐκπληκτικὰ οὐ συγχωρεῖ τοῖς θεαταῖς ἐν τῷ καθεκτῷ εἶναι. ἢ τίς οὕτως ἀναίσθητος, ὡς μὴ ἀνακραγεῖν ἐπὶ τῷ ἀθλητῇ; They shout, jumping out of their seats – some wave both hands, others their garments, some leap up from the earth, others cheerfully wrestle with their neighbours. For these truly astonishing deeds do not allow the spectators to contain themselves. Who would be so without feeling as not to cry out for this athlete? (Philostr. Im. 2.6.2) ὁ δὲ δῆμος ἀνέστηκέ τε ὀρθὸς ὑπὸ θαύματος, καὶ φωνὰς ἀμοιβαίας ἀφίησιν ἐμμελῶς, καὶ τὼ χεῖρε κινεῖ καὶ τὴν ἐσθῆτα σοβεῖ· ἔπειτα συγκαθήμενοι διηγεῖται καθ’ ἕκαστον ἄλλος ἄλλῳ κινήματα πολυτρόπου σιγῆς, καὶ πᾶς θεατὴς ὑφ’ ἡδονῆς χειρονόμος εἶναι πειρᾶται. The spectators spring to their feet in awe, raise their voices in tuneful responsion, wave their hands, and set their garments swaying. Then, as they sit together, each recounts to the other point by point how you move in variegated silence, and every spectator in his delight attempts to be a pantomime. (Aristaenet. 1.26.13–17)

In both cases, the spectators are carried away by what they see: they rise from their seats, cry out in amazement, wave both hands, and sway their garments. Even as, in Aristaenetus, each spectator in his delight (ὑφ’ ἡδονῆς) tries to become a pantomime, so do the onlookers in Philostratus themselves turn into wrestlers for sheer joy (ἱλαρόν); both audiences witness spectacles so enthralling that they invite imitation. Once more, Aristaenetus has eroticised (and feminised) a Philostratean scene, turning the male athlete into a female dancer, whose very name – Panarete – recalls the pankration champion of Philostratus’ painting. Arrichion’s agility and dexterous bodily movements, which allow him to overcome his opponent even as the latter holds him in a deadly grip, have been transformed into the graceful motions of a dancer, whose expressiveness rivals that of painters and orators.47 Given the Philostratean subtext, Speusippus’ question ὀνομάσω σε ῥήτορα, προσείπω ζωγράφον might point us to none other than Philostratus, who conjures up paintings by means of his rhetorical virtuosity (does this make him an orator or a painter?). Panarete’s art, however, transcends his kind of mimesis as she needs neither brush nor words to tell stories or offer a vivid image (ἐναργὴς εἰκών) of nature itself. Overall, we are, I

 Philostratus underlines how pankratists must master the art of choking their opponents now this way, now that (τέχνης ἐς τὸ ἄλλοτε ἄλλως ἄγχειν, Im. 2.6.3); similarly, Panarete adopts now this form, now that (ἄλλοτε πρὸς ἄλλα μεταβεβλῆσθαι, 1.26.11–12).

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submit, invited to read her as an embodiment of Aristaenetus’ literary endeavour – the more so, as her most fervent admirer Speusippus is a courier, delivering letters throughout the empire, from Rome to Constantinople. One might say that he represents the form, Panarete the content of Aristaenetus’ epistolographic oeuvre. On a metapoetic level, the epistle suggests an enthusiastic reception of his work, coupled with the implicit wish that its fame equal that of Panarete, whose grace is on everyone’s lips (πάντων ἀνὰ στόμα ταύτην φερόντων, 1.26.2). While Lais is clearly marked as the author’s creation and assimilated to a work of art (whether depicted by words or painted on canvas), Panarete’s dance symbolises the allure of Aristaenetus’ mimetic creativity. An even more tantalising entanglement of art and erotics is evoked in Ep. 2.10, which contains one of Aristaenetus’ most fascinating allusions to the Imagines.48 It is written by a painter with the telling name of Philopinax (‘Image-Lover’), who has become infatuated with one of his own paintings and describes his predicament to Chromation, i.e. ‘Pigment’ personified. After accusing his own talent for having put him into such a state of misery, Philopinax tries to comfort himself by evoking mythical paradigms of unnatural longing worse than his: Phaedra desiring her stepson, Pasiphae in love with a bull, and Narcissus yearning for his own reflection. Philopinax claims to be familiar with all these tales from pictorial representations (ἐκ τῶν πινάκων, 2.10.8–9): his knowledge of and reference to other paintings parallels Aristaenetus’ continuous dialogue with previous texts; once again writer and painter appear analogised. Notably, πίναξ itself can be used to designate either a painting or a writing tablet49 – as in the case of γράφειν and cognates, the semantic ambiguity of the word underlines the parallel between the two sister arts that is so crucial to Aristaenetus’ literary programme. It is no coincidence that the story of Narcissus receives the greatest emphasis among the three exempla. While not falling in love with his own image, Philopinax desires an image of his own creation. As Bettini notes, ‘at least in terms of the story’s plot, there is little difference between a lover who is infatuated with a statue (or with a painted image) and a lover who is infatuated with himself’.50 The tale of Narcissus, with its focus on the youth’s reflection, lends itself to being used for the purpose of artistic self-reflection,51 and the notion of an image-within-the-image conjured up in Aristaenetus’ letter adds yet another layer of reflexivity: ‘for the spring bears the image of Narcissus, even as the  See Höschele (2012) 176–182.  Cf. LSJ, s.v. πίναξ, 1 and 4.  Bettini (1999) 97. On the nexus between Philopinax, Pygmalion, and Narcissus, see also Höschele (2012) 178–179.  See Rosati (20162) on Ovid’s Narcissus.

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painting bears that of both spring and Narcissus: like someone dying of thirst for his own beauty’ (ἡ μὲν γὰρ πηγὴ γράφει τὸν Νάρκισσον, ἡ δὲ γραφὴ καὶ τὴν πηγὴν καὶ τὸν Νάρκισσον οἷον διψῶντα τοῦ κάλλους, 2.10.13–15). On the one hand, we are invited to picture Philopinax in front of a painting, beholding Narcissus beholding himself. The double status of the spring as both bearing the image of the youth and being itself represented on a painting, which mirrors Narcissus’ double status as both beholder and beheld, is, on a linguistic level, reflected in the chiastic phrase πηγή – γράφει – γραφή – πηγήν that encloses Narcissus in its very centre. On the other hand, we see the artist infatuated with an image that represents, if not himself, then the very essence of his aesthetic ideals. The words with which Philopinax describes the picture are taken almost verbatim from the Imagines; in fact, Aristaenetus’ sentence conflates the very beginning and end of an ekphrasis which Philostratus had given of a painting with the same subject matter:52 ἡ μὲν πηγὴ γράφει τὸν Νάρκισσον, ἡ δὲ γραφὴ τὴν πηγὴν καὶ τὰ τοῦ Ναρκίσσου πάντα (Im. 1.23.1) + ἐφέστηκε γὰρ τὸ μειράκιον τῷ ἐν ὕδατι ἑστῶτι, μᾶλλον δὲ ἀτενίζοντι ἐς αὐτὸ καὶ οἷον διψῶντι τοῦ κάλλους (Im. 1.23.5).53 By evoking the two phrases which frame the image in Philostratus, our text wittily suggests that Philopinax ‘saw’ the painting of Narcissus in the art gallery envisioned by the Imagines. Aristaenetus thus presents us with an imaginary painter who implicitly purports to have seen images that only exist in words, while his very name, Philo-pinax, ambiguously characterises him as a lover of paintings and a lover of texts, encapsulating both modes of representation, the visual and the verbal. Philopinax also claims to know the stories of Pasiphae and Phaedra ἐκ τῶν πινάκων, both of which are likewise featured among Philostratus’ Imagines (Im. 1.16 and 2.4). A similar nod to his model is contained in Ep. 2.5, where a girl in love with a cithara player remarks: ‘If Achilles did not resemble him – that hero whom I learned about from the pictures at home – then he was not truly beautiful. If he couldn’t play the lyre like that, then Chiron’s pupil must have been tone-deaf’ (2.5.6–9). Here, too, the phrase ἐκ τῶν πινάκων can be taken as a self-annotated allusion to Philostratus’ ekphrastic work (with its description of Achilles’ education at Im. 2.2). We are clearly dealing here with a sophisticated and self-conscious textual replication. Aristaenetus has absorbed a painting from the Imagines into the

 For a discussion of Philostratus’ Narcissus ekphrasis in relation with Ovid’s version of the tale, see Prioux’s contribution to this volume.  Aristaenetus’ text contains one notable change: he has switched the case of the participle διψῶντι from dative to accusative (διψῶντα), shifting its reference from the reflected image to Narcissus himself; see Höschele (2012) 180–181 for further discussion. On Aristaenetus’ reception of Philostratus here, see also Drago (2020).

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framework of this letter, marking its provenance ἐκ τῶν πινάκων. Given that Philostratus himself refers to the paintings displayed in Naples as πίνακες in his preface,54 one might also construe the name of Aristaenetus’ narrator, Philopinax, as designating a fan of Philostratus’ Eikones –55 a passion he evidently shares with Aristaenetus himself, who gives us fascinating glimpses of the Imagines throughout his oeuvre by infusing his own highly imitative texts with verbal echoes from Philostratus. As I hope to have shown, these intervisual allusions constitute an important part of his engagement with this author, inviting us to reflect on issues of textual and artistic mimesis.

Bibliography Arnott, W.G. 1973. Imitation, Variation, Exploitation: A Study in Aristaenetus. GRBS 14: 197–211. Arnott, W.G. 1974. Review of Mazal (1971). Gnomon 46: 353–361. Arnott, W.G. 1982. Pastiche, pleasantry, prudish eroticism: The letters of ‘Aristaenetus’. YCS 27: 291–320. Bachmann, C. 2015. Wenn man die Welt als Gemälde betrachtet: Studien zu den Eikones Philostrats des Älteren. Heidelberg. Barbiero, E.A. 2016. Two Clouded Marriages: Aristainetos’ Allusions to Aristophanes’ Clouds in Letters 2.3 and 2.12. In Athenian Comedy in the Roman Empire, ed. C.W. Marshall and T. Hawkins, 239–258. London. Baumann, M. 2011. Bilder schreiben: Virtuose Ekphrasis in Philostrats Eikones. Berlin. Beagon, M. 2005. The Elder Pliny on the Human Animal: Natural History, Book 7. Oxford. Beall, S. 1993. Word-Painting in the Imagines of the Elder Philostratus. Hermes 121: 350–363. Bettini, M. 1999. The Portrait of the Lover, transl. by L. Gibbs. Berkeley. Bing, P. 2019. Thanks Again to Aristaenetus: The Tale of Phrygius and Pieria in Callimachus’ Aetia (Frs. 80–83 Harder) through the Eyes of a Late-Antique Epistolographer. In Callimachus Revisited: New Perspectives in Callimachean Scholarship, ed. J.J.H. Klooster, M.A. Harder, R.F. Regtuit, and G.C. Wakker, 27–49. Leuven. Bing, P. and R. Höschele. 2014. Aristaenetus, Erotic Letters. Introduced, translated, and annotated. Atlanta. Bowie, E.L. 2009. Philostratus: the life of a sophist. In Philostratus, ed. E.L. Bowie and J. Elsner, 19–32. Cambridge. Brophy III, R.H. 1978. Deaths in the Pan-Hellenic Games: Arrachion and Creugas. AJPh 99: 363–390.

 Im. praef. 4 μάλιστα δὲ ἤνθει γραφαῖς ἐνηρμοσμένων αὐτῇ πινάκων, οὓς ἐμοὶ δοκεῖν οὐκ ἀμαθῶς τις συνελέξατο, ‘it [i.e. the portico] was particularly splendid due to the panelpaintings set in its walls, which somebody had, it seemed to me, selected not without knowledge’.  For a similar pun, cf. the name Philoplatanus discussed above, 284.

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Bryson, N. 1994. Philostratus and the Imaginary Museum. In Art and Text in Ancient Greek Culture, ed. S. Goldhill and R. Osborne, 255–283. Cambridge. Burri, R. (2004). Zur Datierung und Identität des Aristainetos. MH 61: 83–91. Capra, A. (2013). … Sed magis amica Voluptas: le lettere ‘platoniche’ di Aristeneto (1.3 e 1.18). In Lettere, Mimesi, Retorica: Studi sull’epistolografia letteraria greca di età imperiale e tardo antica, ed. O. Vox, 375–386. Lecce. Chinn, C.M. 2007. Before Your Very Eyes: Pliny Epistulae 5.6 and the Ancient Theory of Ekphrasis. CP 102: 265–280. Drago, A.T. 2007. Aristeneto. Lettere d’amore: introduzione, testo, traduzione e commento. Lecce. Drago, A.T. 2020. Narciso e la mano dell’artista: inganno e illusione di realtà nelle Immagini di Filostrato e nelle Lettere d’amore di Aristeneto. In Gli incanti di Narciso. Archetipi, seduzioni, distopie: la genesi di un mito e le sue visioni contemporanee, ed. R. Girardi and R. Affatato, 12–19. Bari. Elsner, J. 2000. Making Myth Visual: The Horae of Philostratus and the Dance of the Text. MDAI(R) 107: 253–276. Franzoni, C. 2006. Tirannia dello sguardo: Corpo, gesto, espressione nell’arte greca. Torino. Gallé Cejudo, R.J. 1993. Una lectura intertextual de las Imágenes de Filóstrato el Viejo en las Cartas de Aristéneto. ExcPhilol 3: 35–45. Giuliani, L. 2007. Die unmöglichen Bilder des Philostrat: Ein antiker Beitrag zur ParagoneDebatte? In Übersetzung und Transformation, ed. H. Böhme, C. Rapp, and W. Rösler, 401–424. Berlin. Goldhill, S. 2009. Constructing identity in Philostratus’ Love Letters. In Philostratus, ed. E.L. Bowie and J. Elsner, 287–305. Cambridge. Gutzwiller, K. 1998. Meleager: From Menippean to Epigrammatist. In Genre in Hellenistic Poetry, ed. M.A. Harder, R.F. Regtuit, and G.C. Wakker, 81–93. Groningen. Hinds, S. 1998. Allusion and Intertext: Dynamics of appropriation in Roman poetry. Cambridge. Höschele, R. 2012. From Hellas with Love: The Aesthetics of Imitation in Aristaenetus’s Epistles. TAPA 142: 157–186. Höschele, R. 2014. Greek Comedy, the Novel, and Epistolography. In The Oxford Handbook of Greek and Roman Comedy, ed. M. Fontaine and A.C. Scafuro, 735–752. Oxford. Höschele, R. 2018. κραδίᾳ γνωστὸς ἔνεστι τύπος (Meleager, Anth. Pal. 5.212.4): Self-Reflexive Engagement with Lyric Topoi in Erotic Epigram. Aitia 8.1: http://journals.openedition. org/aitia/1979 Leonard, E. 2020. Perversions of the Epistolary Instinct: Desire and Form in the Letters of Philostratus. TAPA 150: 115–141. Magrini, P. 1981. Lessico platonico e motivi comici nelle ‘lettere erotiche’ di Aristeneto. Prometheus 7: 146–158. Mazal, O. 1971. Aristaeneti Epistularum Libri II. Stuttgart. Mazal, O. 1977. Zur Datierung der Lebenszeit des Epistolographen Aristainetos. JöByz 26: 1–5. Palazzini, S. 1996. Il vocabolario della vista nelle Imagines di Filostrato. AFLM 29: 113–128. Pollitt, J.J. 1974. The Ancient View of Greek Art: Criticism, History, and Terminology. Student Edition. New Haven, London. Pontoropoulos, A. 2019. Erotic Language and Representations of Desire in the Philostratean Erotic Letters. Diss. Uppsala. Rosati, G. 20162. Narciso e Pigmalione: Illusione e spettacolo nelle Metamorfosi di Ovidio. Pisa (1st ed. 1983).

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Rosenmeyer, P. 2001. Ancient Epistolary Fictions: The Letter in Greek Literature. Cambridge. Schlapbach, K. 2018. The Anatomy of Dance Discourse: Literary and Philosophical Approaches to Dance in the Later Graeco-Roman World. Oxford. Schmitz, T. 2017. The Rhetoric of Desire in Philostratus’s Letters. Arethusa 50: 257–282. Squire, M.J. 2010. Making Myron’s Cow Moo? Ecphrastic Epigram and the Poetics of Simulation. AJPh 131: 589–634. Squire, M.J. 2013. Apparitions Apparent: Ekphrasis and the Parameters of Vision in the Elder Philostratus’s Imagines. Helios 40: 97–140. Steiner, D. 2001. Images in Mind: Statues in Archaic and Classical Greek Literature and Thought. Princeton. Tagliabue, A. 2013. Il romanzo greco al servizio dell’erotica passionale nelle Lettere d’amore di Aristeneto. In Lettere, Mimesi, Retorica: Studi sull’epistolografia letteraria greca di età imperiale e tardo antica, ed. O. Vox, 411–455. Lecce. Thraede, K. 1970. Grundzüge griechisch-römischer Brieftopik. Munich. Webb, R. 2006. The Imagines as a Fictional Text: Ekphrasis, Apatê and Illusion. In Le défi de l’art: Philostrate, Callistrate et l’image sophistique, ed. M. Costantini, F. Graziani, and S. Rolet, 113–136. Rennes. Webb, R. 2009. Ekphrasis, Imagination and Persuasion in Ancient Rhetorical Theory and Practice. Farnham, UK, Burlington, VT. Whitmarsh, T. 1998. The Birth of a Prodigy: Heliodorus and the Genealogy of Hellenism. In Studies in Heliodorus, ed. R. Hunter, 93–124. Cambridge. Wyke, M. 1987. Written Women: Propertius’ Scripta Puella. JRS 77: 47–61. Wyke, M. 1989. Mistress and Metaphor in Augustan Elegy. Helios 16: 25–47. Zanetto, G. 1987. Un epistolografo al lavoro: le Lettere di Aristeneto. SIFC 5: 193–211.

Part IV: Pointing to Rome

Matteo Cadario

13 Ordering the res gestae: observations on the relationship between texts and images in Roman ‘historical’ representations Abstract: The purpose of this chapter is to examine the relationship between images and texts in the Roman ‘historical’ narrative. A letter that Lucius Verus addressed to Fronto about his Parthian war and the shipping of paintings and epistulae from the battlefield to Rome by Septimius Severus and Maximinus Thrax suggest a fruitful dialogue between the texts written by commanders on the field and the picturae commissioned by them to immediately celebrate their victories. Cicero’s epistulae to the Senate (Fam. 15.1–2) and a letter (Fam. 15.4) to Cato that the orator wrote when he was leading his only military campaign in Cilicia are the only surviving texts that really allow us to compare this type of swift and rhetorically less elaborate form of communication from the battlefield with the ‘historical’ friezes of the imperial age. They show remarkable commonalities with figurative representations of wars such as the reference to suovetaurilia at the beginning of the campaign and the emphasis on challenging the ‘barbarian’ landscape. Indeed, the brevitas of these texts (litterae laureatae and the less sophisticated commentarii) also left much space for a strong figurative redevelopment of the storytelling, especially in the case of a carefully planned monument such as Trajan’s column. Moreover, in front of a monument like this, the observer was also free to follow different reading strategies in reconstructing his own ordo of the res gestae, as suggested by the importance of the vertical axis on the column itself or by Josephus’ description or, more correctly, by his perception of the ‘historical’ pegmata during the Jewish triumph. Tutti elementi che devono creare un effetto d’allarme, d’attesa, di pericolo, come in un western di John Ford. (Italo Calvino, La Colonna Traiana, in Collezione di Sabbia. Milano, 1984)

My paper takes its cue from the small courtyard in Trajan’s forum and the relationship established between the column erected at its centre as a monumentum to Trajan’s res gestae, which were represented on it, and those Greek and Latin libraries that surely also contained the Commentarii de Bello Dacico written by

Notes: Thanks are due to Carsten Hjort Lange for reading a first draft of this paper. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110795448-014

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Trajan himself.1 I am not saying that the spiral pattern of the frieze was strictly based on the shape of a continuous illustrated volumen,2 which would link text and images even more. However, the position of the column between the two libraries actually suggests that the small court may have served as a bridge between the two forms of verbal and visual communication. My goal here is precisely to investigate the relationship between the storytelling of res gestae in historical texts and images and to reflect on the link between written and visual narratives in Roman victory celebrations. To achieve this, I will set out from some texts and compare them with existing ‘historical’ representations, in an effort to reconstruct, as far as possible, the images that they described.

13.1 Announcing victories: the interaction of tabulae pictae and litterae laureatae According to the Auctor de viris illustribus (56.2), L. Aemilius Paullus conducted a successful military campaign against the Ligures Ingauni, triumphed over them in 181 BCE, and publicly dedicated a tabula picta that reported the ordo of his res gestae.3 This is intriguing because it seems to presuppose the translation of a sequence of military episodes into a visual narrative.4 In this case, the tabula did not belong to the mobile and ephemeral category of ‘triumphal paintings’, but was a later dedication in a public space,5 that is a work designed to last over time. L. Aemilius Paullus indeed seems to have always been very attentive to the visual memory of his victories in order to increase their impact.6 I will mention here the famous Delphic frieze depicting Aemilius’ victory over the Macedonians,7 and the request for a painter ad triumphum excolendum that

 On Trajan’s Commentarii or Dacica, see Migliorati (2003) 67–68.  See Strzygowski (1901) 4 and Coarelli (1999) 10–11. On the composition of the frieze see also Settis (1988) 86–100.  Itgenshorst (1996) 208–210, n. 186.  The order of events was a crucial point when organising a triumphal procession too. See Plin. NH 5.5.37 on the list of the nomina ac simulacra of the conquered people and cities displayed by Balbus in 19 BCE.  On the category of ‘triumphal’ and ‘commemorative’ paintings, see Settis (1988) 93–107 and Östenberg (2009) 191–199. See also Tortorella (2008) and (2010).  Östenberg (2009) 195 and Lualdi (2019) 18.  On Aemilius’ pillar and frieze, see Boschung (2001), Holliday (2002) 91–96, and Taylor (2016). The frieze clearly depicts a battle between Romans and Macedonians, identified by their respective customs, as in the case of Greeks and Persians on the Athena Nike temple

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the victor himself made to the Athenians. Therefore, he likely wanted to entrust a Greek artist with the task of realising the visual system for the triumphal procession he planned to hold in Rome in 167 BCE.8 The Athenians designated Metrodorus, who was also a philosopher and orator. His double rhetorical and artistic competence doubtless proved very useful in commemorating Aemilius’ victory, linking words and images more closely. Consequently, also in the case of the earlier dedication of the tabula picta, I am inclined to think that it was intended to represent Aemilius’ military campaign, reproducing a visual ordo of his deeds, i.e. a narrative useful to historicise the depicted events. For the viri triumphales the process of translating a usually written sequence of actions into images must have been a key point in the publicising of their victories. My first move is precisely to understand which written narratives of res gestae interacted with visual ones, a necessary step in order to reconstruct the degree of interaction between the two media. A letter of 165 CE ca. that Lucius Verus wrote to Fronto from Mesopotamia, where he had just ended the Parthian war, suggests an answer.9 He asked his old tutor to write a history of his military campaign and promised him rich and detailed documentation too. Then, Lucius briefly enumerated the reports (litterae) which his generals (duces) had sent him and those he had sent back to them, some paintings (picturae), the commentarii of Avidius Cassius and Martius Verus and his own commentarii (which actually had yet to be written), the orationes to the Senate,10 the adlocutiones addressed to the army and the transcripts of diplomatic talks (sermones) with the Parthians. Firstly, Lucius’ epistula to Fronto provides an authoritative Roman point of view on ancient ‘war-paintings’. On the one hand, we often and rightly attribute to so-called Roman historical representations, a codified and ideological character, as though to suggest that they are only pseudo-chronicles and to dispute

frieze. In the Delphic context, the frieze can only represent Pydna, even if the Roman cavalry did not play an important role there and the phalanx is missing. In this sense, the frieze was not intended to offer a true report from the battlefield, but rather a representation of Aemilius’ victory that was both allegorical (consider the use of many iconographical topoi) and ideological (consider the major role of the equites) and which would not erase its ‘historical’ meaning, since everyone would correctly identify it as Pydna.  Plin. NH 35.40.135; see Holliday (2002) 32–33 and Östenberg (2009) 248.  Fronto Ep. ad Verum Imp. 2.3; see Settis (1988) 104–105 and also van den Hout (1999) 265–267.  On the identification of those orationes with the litterae laureatae essential to granting a triumph, see van den Hout (1999) 267. Fronto imitates (or quotes) the succinct language of one of those dispatches (here called litterae), when he remembers Lucius’ deeds in the Parthian wars in a letter to him composed in 163: Ep. ad Verum Imp. 2.1.3 Dausara et Nicephorum et Artaxata ductu auspicioque tuo armis capta sunt.

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their ‘historicity’ because we can clearly see just how standardised they are. Today, it is quite obvious that these pictures cannot be considered the antecedent of modern war reporting.11 On the other hand, however, Verus offered Fronto some picturae of his Parthian campaign as authoritative and full-fledged sources for a ‘historical’ reconstruction of his res gestae. Therefore, at least from Verus’ perspective, they were ‘historical’ realia. Indeed, he assembled a series of basic documents, among which he mentioned paintings as sources on the same level as written texts such as litterae and commentarii, that is, two genres of historical writing usually marked by a lower degree of rhetorical elaboration compared to the lofty style of historia ornata.12 Actually, that was precisely what Lucius was requesting from his old teacher. Fronto was asked not only to put the events of the Parthian war in the right ordo but also to embellish them by integrating into the plot the speeches kindly and promptly provided to him by the emperor or by making use of the visual account of the war. For example, images, with their topographical context, which captured a particular place at a particular time, could inspire the description of the Roman victory over a hostile landscape. Finally, Verus’ letter reveals that the paintings had been already produced before the end of the war, probably because they had accompanied the litterae laureatae addressed by Lucius to the Senate and the Roman people from the battlefield. Therefore, following a suggestion by Mario Torelli, we can also assume that these picturae representing the res gestae are closely related to those texts produced by the imperatores, such as their official reports to the Senate (litterae) or the ‘authentic’ memoirs of their campaigns.13 After all, the authors of these texts were usually also the patrons commissioning figurative representations of their deeds, and they were surely conscious of the effectiveness of publicly circulating a detailed chronicle of their own military achievements. A passage from Herodian (7.2.8) provides an important piece of evidence concerning the strong cooperation between written and visual media. The historian, who was probably in Rome at that time, relates that Maximinus Thrax addressed a letter to the Senate and people of Rome, in which he reported his  See Zanker (2012) 101. On the dialectic between historical reality and allegory, see Hölscher (2015) 38–42. On the division of ‘historical’ representations into two groups, more authentically historical narrative reliefs and ones depicting a status or a function, see Torelli (1982) 119–135.  Cic. Orat. 66. Cicero’s concept of historia ornata, however, is deeper than mere rhetorical enrichment: see Gaillard (1980) and Cizek (1988). The commentarii were often written primarily as private documents, and their audience perceived them as more authentic: see Riggsby (2007) 271–272.  See Torelli (1982) 122–133 and n. 13 on Festus, s.v. tablinum. Torelli also mentions the similar tradition of acta publica, but the comparison works better with official documents produced by magistrates themselves.

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victory over the Germans in 236, and that along with it he also sent a series of huge canvases depicting the war. Then he ordered that these paintings be displayed outside the Curia so that the Roman people might not only hear of the war but also see what had happened.14 Maximinus’ life in the Historia Augusta15 confirms the joint dispatching of litterae and paintings, adding that the emperor decided to send the tabulae in order that his deeds would be told via the art of painting (ut facta eius pictura loqueretur).16 This episode can be reconstructed as a public report of the news already discussed in the Senate.17 The people, gathered in a contio,18 were probably informed of the victory from the Rostra, and the very close display of the paintings (ante Curiam) was designed to complement or, rather, to reinforce Maximinus’ words.19 Afterwards, the tabulae remained in place until the emperor’s death, as a monumentum to his facta (see below, 321). The same thing had probably already happened during the reign of Septimius Severus: according to Herodian (3.9.12), following the end of the Parthian war in 198 CE, the emperor delivered to the Senate and to the Roman people dispatches from Mesopotamia, along with some graphai depicting his battles (cf. Tac. Ann. 2.41: simulacra proeliorum) and victories so that they might be put on public display.20 In this case, the Senate had both the time and the opportunity to reproduce them in stone: the marble panel reliefs decorating the later Arch of Septimius Severus, each representing a single situs or proelium,21 seem to match

 See Livadiotti (2015) 111–112. According to Herodian, Maximinus sent megistai eikones to Rome but, after the emperor’s death, he reports the destruction of a single painting (eikon). However, the biographer of the Historia Augusta always refers to several tabulae.  SHA, Max. 12.10–11.  Östenberg (2009) 195.  SHA, Max. 12.5–6. On this procedure, see Garcia Riaza (2019) 86–90.  The Roman people were informed of the victories assembled in a contio: see Garcia Riaza (2019) 86.  Herodian (5.5.6) recounts an analogous episode concerning the visual communication of facta to the Roman people: before reaching Rome for the first time, Heliogabalus sent a giant painting (eikon) depicting himself dressed as a priest of his oriental god to Rome, to be exhibited in the middle of the Curia in order to familiarise the Senate with this new ‘imperial’ costume.  Östenberg (2009) 194–196.  Cf. the representation of the simulacra proeliorum/pugnarum in Liv. 41.28.8–10 (in a map of Sardinia); Tac. Ann. 2.41 (during Germanicus’ triumph). See Torelli (1982) 122–123. On the link between maps and continuous narratives, see Holliday (2002) 104–121.

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Herodian’s short description of the graphai very well.22 Therefore, those reliefs can also give us a more concrete idea of the kind of ‘triumphal’ imagery produced during Roman military campaigns (Fig. 13.1).

Fig. 13.1: Figural layout of the multiple depictions of Septimius Severus on the panel probably depicting the conquest of Edessa. Septimius appears five times. In the lower register, Septimius leads the march of his army against the city. In the central register, he receives a submissio on the right and speaks to his army (adlocutio) on the left. In the upper register, he holds a war council (consilium) in the Roman castra on the left and resumes the march (profectio) on the right (revised by the author from Lusnia 1987).

The creation and sending of litterae and paintings to the Senate and the Roman people are parallel phenomena that were intended to increase the impact of warrelated news. However, the public ceremony planned by Maximinus, including

 Brilliant (1967) 101–165, Holliday (2002) 110–112, and Lusnia (2006) 284–285. However, there is no reason to identify these paintings with those later displayed by Caracalla in a portico (SHA, M. Ant. 9.6–7).

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the simultaneous oral reporting and visual display of his exploits, also recalls the earliest known evidence of a close relationship between the exhibiting of a tabula in the forum as a document concerning someone’s res gestae and the public explanation of its content.23 It dates back to L. Hostilius Mancinus’ campaign for the consulate in 145 BCE. According to Pliny the Elder (NH 35.23), the candidate displayed a tabula in the forum depicting the situm et oppugnationes of Carthage in 146 BCE and accompanied this exhibit by standing near the painting and offering a personal narratio of his individual achievements during the siege.24 This short description of the tabula would imply a format similar to the conventions of ancient chorographic maps. It suggests a great topographical bird’s eye view of a buzzing Punic city (situm), highlighting Mancinus’ role in several episodes (singula enarrando). The urge to show his actions in a specific location also implies that the painting probably combined the tradition of Hellenistic cartography with a form of continuous narrative, of the sort illustrated, for example, by the repeated presence of Aeneas in the Trojan cityscape of the Tabula Capitolina (Fig. 13.2; see below, 325).25 Unlike comparable events, in 145 BCE there was no official written dispatch or public dedication of a tabula by an imperator, but only Mancinus’ narratio. He indeed commissioned and used the picture of the siege of Carthage as evidence of his achievements, which Scipio Aemilianus had refused to acknowledge on the field and probably in his litterae too.26 In this case, exceptionally, the oral narration had to fill a void or, better, to challenge the content of the imperator’s dispatches to the Senate and the Roman people. And Mancinus’ visual account was very effective because he won the consulship in the next elections. Therefore, evidence of the use of these paintings reveals their importance as a means to announce victory to the Roman audience or to reinforce its public echo. It should also be noted that such paintings were not usually designed for

 An oral report would usually support the written one in the transmission of victory news to the Senate: see Garcia Riaza (2019) 92.  See Mansuelli (1979) 47–48, Torelli (1982) 120–121, Tortorella (2008) 56, and Östenberg (2009) 193–194.  See Östenberg (2009) 195. On this achromous mode of narration in the Tabula Capitolina, see Petrain (2014) 118–122. On Trajan’s column, see Settis (1988) 93–98 and 231–241. On the use of chorography in ‘historical’ images, see Holliday (2002) 107–112. The well-known ‘historical’ fresco depicting a riot in the amphitheatre at Pompeii used a similar bird’s eye perspective to show a realistic cityscape, but it did not apply a truly continuous mode of narration.  The event, due to its multimedia and manipulative nature, must not have been too different from those trials in which orators presented to the public tabulae related to the crime scene (Quint. 6.1.32) or from the contio in which, in 67 BCE, Aulus Gabinius exhibited and explained a painted image of Lucullus’ villa in order to denigrate its owner (Cic. Sest. 93).

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Fig. 13.2: Figural layout of Aeneas’ flight in the Tabula Iliaca Capitolina. Aeneas appears three times: firstly receiving the Penates, then leaving the city from the gate, and at the end boarding a ship to flee to Italy (from Brilliant 1987).

processional displays, but rather for a deeper and more contemplative kind of viewing in a public context. The same evidence also suggests that these picturae served as a visual counterpart to certain texts: in the first place, the litterae that commanders would send to Rome from the battlefield27 but also the

 The case of Mancinus was exceptional. He was not an imperator, so he needed to explain his deeds personally, because there was no official written document about them. The anecdote does note prove that every ‘triumphal’ picture of this kind needed an explanation: see Östenberg (2009) 249. Usually, they had a written counterpart.

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commentarii they would write once back home.28 Furthermore, this interaction was often envisaged by the commanders themselves as a means to ‘inform’ the Roman people about their deeds during ephemeral ceremonies such as those planned by Mancinus and Maximinus in the forum.

13.2 Comparing written and visual narratives: the evidentia of iconography Having established this correlation between verbal and visual media, my next aim is to compare these two different forms of storytelling. This is the most delicate point in my paper because I need to correlate two largely lost genres, namely so-called triumphal paintings29 and litterae laureatae.30 I am going to do so by drawing upon ‘historical’ reliefs, on the one hand, and, on the other, some texts belonging to literary genres close to the litterae. While taking into account the significant evolution of Roman historical representations from the republican to imperial age, we can turn to the so-called historical reliefs decorating ‘state monuments’ since these provide a fairly good idea of the kind of pictures that were usually exhibited as ‘war chronicles’ to the Roman people, as we have already seen in the case of Septimius Severus’ Arch. Their narrative mostly concerned ‘real’ events and presented them in a sequence (ordo) essentially intended to reproduce the development of a campaign.31 The only surviving fragment of a Roman imperial ‘historical’ fresco, which was discovered in Milan and shows a procession in the context of a military campaign, confirms this impression, while also suggesting a substantial equivalence between painted and sculpted accounts.32 We know much less about the potentially corresponding texts. The litterae laureatae were essentially an exposition of res gestae that had a crucial role in the required process of recognition of the military deeds of a Roman general.33 However, when trying to reconstruct them, there is the risk of looking for a

 See Torelli (1982) 122 and Coarelli (1999) 28.  On ‘triumphal paintings’, see Östenberg (2009) 247–249.  Obviously, for the commentarii there is the strong evidence from Caesar’s works. However, they offer a more elaborate version of this genre.  On the parallels with the itineraria picta, see Settis (1988) 98–99.  On this fragment from Via del Lauro in Milan, see Pagani (2014). A lictor is shown wearing a fringed cloak, as on Trajan’s column.  On the litterae laureatae in general, see Garcia Riaza (2019).

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ghost. Sometimes Livy seems to be reporting the short version of an official nuntiatio almost literally, but there were surely more detailed reports too.34 Thus, some verses of Plautus’ Amphitruo (ll. 188–210)35 and a quote falsely attributed to an emperor’s letter in the Life of Maximinus Thrax,36 in which he acts as a sort of barbarus miles gloriosus,37 have been interpreted as short parodies of litterae laureatae.38 Among the surviving texts, however, one should also mention five epistulae that Cicero wrote in his unusual guise of triumph-hunter and imperator to inform in a plain language the consuls (Fam. 15.1–2), Atticus (Att. 5.20), Caelius Rufus (Fam. 2.10), and Cato (Fam. 15.4) about the only military campaign that he led as proconsul in 51 BCE in Cilicia.39 Bearing in mind that Cicero’s letters display a more refined rhetoric than the above-mentioned fragments,40 from this evidence we can deduce that commanders’ dispatches to Rome were usually ‘weak’ texts that were intended to seem impartial by offering an authoritative narratio of the sequence (ordo) of their res gestae. Therefore, they were mostly paratactic and used a formulaic military lexicon in order to give an impression of reliability. Above all, they were designed to justify the war by reporting official diplomatic contacts – as Cicero often does in his letters to the consuls – and to enumerate and amplify Roman victories, stratagems, and captures, while also giving a list of the spoils and defeated enemies. They were, in short, manipulative texts because the writer mainly needed to convince the Senate to grant him a triumph. Leaving aside the more ambitious works by Caesar, many commentarii, usually written at the end of a campaign, probably followed a similar pattern and were not all that different from ‘field notes’. They were often primarily intended to provide a ‘factual’ basis – clearly favourable to the author – for a more polished history.41 Trajan’s account of the Dacian wars was most likely similar, as has often been suggested, albeit on the basis of the only preserved

 For an example of a very short report, see Liv. 41.17.1–3; for information on a long one, Liv. 28.38.1–3. See also Garcia Riaza (2019) 91–93.  See Halkin (1948).  SHA, Max. 12.6.  See Lippold (1991) 231.  See Torregaray Pagola (2018) 51–52.  See Westall, Brenk (2011) 371. On the events of the campaign, Sherwin-White (1984) 290–297. On Cicero’s letters on his journey to or from Cilicia, see also Correa (2012).  Cicero’s letter to Cato is a more ambitious text that seems similar to an oratio. On the style of this epistula, see Hutchinson (1998) 86–91. The use of the term oratio in Verus’ letter to Fronto suggests a more elaborate text too (see above, 308).  See Cic. Fam. 5.12.10. On the frequent ambiguity between litterae and commentarii, see Candau (2011) 153.

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fragment. This is quoted by the grammarian Priscian and concerns a journey made by the Roman troops, described in a very effective and concise way (inde Berzobim, deinde Aizi processimus).42 Therefore, in conclusion, we can recognise several similarities between these categories of written and visual ‘triumphal’ documents: they were both manipulative and allegedly ‘impartial’ accounts that usually respected the ordo rerum gestarum in order to present themselves as realistic ‘historical’ reports or genuine war chronicles. Only a direct comparison between texts and war images, however, can bring out the similarities and differences. In choosing to investigate Cicero’s above-mentioned letter to Cato in greater depth, I am aware that I might give the impression of creating a strained juxtaposition: for I cannot compare it with contemporary images and the surviving later ‘historical’ representations are the result of a long process that in the orator’s day was still unfolding. As we shall see, these later representations give a more complex and multifaceted meaning to the scenes evoked by Cicero. The latter’s text, nevertheless, is very useful in itself to get at least an overview of a genre such as the litterae laureatae because in his effort to fashion himself as an exemplar imperator, the orator provides many essential details about his military campaign.43 Moreover, he also offers some very helpful parallels with the iconographic tradition. Firstly, the text shared the goal of celebrating the victor showing his ability to overcome any topographical, technical, or military problems. In his epistula, Cicero emphasises the role of the landscape, highlights its impervious nature,44 accurately lists the siege machines used,45 describes the movements of his army as it is led on a forced march (magnis itineribus), refers to the military camps

 Prisc. Inst. 6.13. On the fragment, see Westall, Brenk (2011) 365–367.  Cicero needed Cato’s help in his triumph-hunting; therefore, in writing to him, he was serious and tried to create an engaging text to manipulate events and improve his military image. See Shackleton-Bailey (1977) 446–447 and Hutchinson (1998) 98–99. In letters to good friends like Atticus and Caelius, Cicero could be more ironic, if not playful. Only in writing to them does he also highlight his legitimate salutatio imperatoria, underlining its impressive location: Fam. 2.10.3 Ita victoria iusta imperator appellatus apud Issum. Cf. Att. 5.20.3.  Fam. 15.4.8 et perpetuum hostem ex eo monte tollere; 10 altissimo et munitissimo loco. Cf. Fam. 11.10.2 locorum quibusdam angustiis et natura montium fretus ad Amanum exercitum adduxi.  Fam. 15.4.10 vallo et fossa circumdedi; sex castellis castrisque maximis saepsi; aggere, vineis, turribus oppugnavi ususque tormentis multis, multis sagittariis magno labore meo. Cf. Fam. 2.10.3, Att. 5.20.5.

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(castra), and mentions every conquered or burned enemy fortress.46 Roman ‘historical’ imagery exploits the same leitmotifs and the parallels between the two narratives are often startling. We come across many topoi in account of Roman victories, such as the triumph over a hostile nature or the description of the technological superiority of Roman poliorcetics.47 Moreover, the comparison is even more intriguing when the orator provides what are almost obvious details in relation to military campaigns, as is the case with his references to forced marches. Such details are included to increase the reliability of his war chronicle and corresponding scenes can be found in ‘historical’ reliefs. Indeed, Trajan’s column often shows the Roman army on the road.48 In short, these textual and iconographic accounts tend to exploit the same elements to depict at least the background of a military campaign. Comparing written and visual narratives also reveals an important development of the meaning of the iconographic repertory during the imperial age, when its serial nature was leading to a partial erosion of the historical content in favour of a more eulogistic purpose and a more evident ideological filtering. For instance, Cicero twice gives apparently redundant information about the construction of castra,49 an episode that will become ubiquitous in the frieze on Trajan’s column. However, in the imperial monument the pitching of the camp is no longer merely an expected reference to the Roman advance into enemy territory, to a well-trained army, or to a commander concerned for the safety of his soldiers, as it probably is for Cicero. The frequent scenes taking place in Roman castra have acquired a broader ideological meaning in the Trajanic frieze. Firstly, they are intended to illustrate the strong connection between the optimus princeps and his fellow soldiers, who found an important space for mutual interaction in the camp; secondly, they are designed to show both the disciplina of the Roman army at work and Trajan’s diligentia in watching over it.50 In Cicero’s letter, another passage clearly describes the connections and discrepancies between written and (later) visual narratives. At the beginning of the campaign, a lustratio exercitus

 Fam. 15.4.9 magna multitudine hostium occisa cepimus castellaque vi capta complura incendimus; 10 omnibus partibus urbis disturbatis aut incensis; 2.10.3 castella munita improviso adventu capta et incensa.  On the siege machines depicted in ‘historical’ representations, see Turconi (2020a).  On the image of the marching emperor, see Griebel (2013) 68–80 and Settis (1988) 161–162.  Fam. 15.4.8 et castra apud Epiphaneam fecissem; 9 His rebus ita gestis castra in radicibus Amani habuimus. Cf. Fam. 15.2.3 quo cum in loco castra haberem; 8 ex eo loco castra movi; Att. 5.10.2 ex his castris [scil. apud Iconium], cum graves de Parthis nuntii venirent, perrexi in Ciliciam.  See Settis (1988) 124–125, 251. On the role of the castra, Turconi (2020b).

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immediately preceded the march from Iconium’s castra towards Cilicia,51 a piece of news on which the orator of course did not dwell because it was rather obvious that he had purified his army before starting the war. Anyway, Cicero also informed his addressee that he had performed the preliminary civic rite required for every military campaign in order to be granted a triumph. Cicero’s sentence in this passage could almost serve as a perfect caption for the suovetaurilia represented in the ‘historical’ reliefs depicting the beginning of each new Trajanic military campaign in Dacia. However, looking at the column’s frieze, it seems clear that the three suovetaurilia performed by the emperor were intended to deliver a more complex message: for although distant from each other on the frieze, the three scenes are strongly connected, and their sequence completes the exact ritual action of circumire, i.e. of gradually advancing around a Roman encampment in a procession, as we can see scene after scene.52 In this way, the images expand the information and give it a topographical background. As a result, a Roman observer could really recognise that the emperor had rightly performed the sacrifice capite velato at the beginning of each new phase of the war and properly accomplished the circumambulation, piously purifying his army.53 Consequently, the ‘authenticity’ of the report would be greatly reinforced. In summary, in both pictures of castra and suovetaurilia, the brevitas and the plain style of texts such as litterae and commentarii probably enabled the evolution of the visual narrative towards increasingly complicated and autonomous forms of a selective viewing that offered the possibility of attributing new exemplary and autonomous meanings to consolidated settings such as the Roman camps and sacrifices. This development helps us to understand why Maximinus had more confidence in the effectiveness of the painted images than in the words of his letters.

13.3 Descriptions of ‘triumphal’ images and the viewer’s freedom So far, we have examined the direct relationship between written and visual narratives, also highlighting the further possibilities and increased evidentia offered by the latter. A deeper difference between these two forms of narration  Fam. 15.4.3 Interim, cum exercitu lustrato iter in Ciliciam facere coepissem, Att. 5.10 Inde in castra veni a. d. VII Kalendas Septembris. A. d. III exercitum lustravi apud Iconium.  Settis (1988) 148. On the suovetaurilia on the column, see also Scheid (2016) 145–146.  See Koortbojian (2020) 97–101.

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lies in the greater freedom that images offered the viewer in terms of their reception. To address this issue, we have to change approach and turn to some historical texts in an effort to reconstruct the images on which they depended and their ways of exploiting such visual material and of reproducing the ordo of the res gestae. Flavius Josephus’ Jewish War (BJ 7.139–147) preserves the only passage that surely describes ‘true’ triumphal images in detail, while reporting the composition of the triumphal procession of Vespasian and Titus in 71.54 The Roman soldiers carried some striking multilevel moving stages (pegmata), which depicted the bellum Iudaicum through multiple mimetic scenes (mimemata).55 Pegmata were usually stage devices employed for raising the actors during stage performances.56 During the triumph, each pegma probably illustrated a single battle or siege (proelium) by combining (painted) landscape backgrounds57 with three-dimensional scenes ‘performed’ by actors, prisoners, or (as seems more likely) sculptures58 and arranged on the three or four stories of these scaffolds in order to re-enact the highlights of every fight.59 This narrative surely had a more vivid effect than a simple painting, but this multi-storied composition is nonetheless comparable to the experience of the multi-level ‘historical’ panels represented on the Arch of Septimius Severus in Rome, each of which is dedicated to a single siege (Fig. 13.1).60 According to Josephus, those pegmata showed the desolate landscape of the Roman conquest, generically distinguishing rivers, cities, and conquered oppida and zooming in on dramatic images of the earth in flames, which recall the burning villages mentioned by Cicero or later represented on the two columns of Trajan and Marcus Aurelius. The historian then recalls the diverse fates of the Jews, presenting the various options they faced: slaughter, flight, or submissio and captivity, i.e. the very choices offered to the Dacian people, especially in the last coils of Trajan’s

 Settis (1988) 95. See also Östenberg (2009) 249–255.  See Torelli (1982) 124–125 and Östenberg (2009) 249–250.  See Beacham (1991) 180–181.  Here the Greek word mimema, as in App. Pun. 66, probably translates the Latin simulacrum: see Östenberg (2009) 211, n. 84. Therefore, as usual, the Judaic triumph showed simulacra/mimemata of battles and sieges. For decorated pegmata, cf. Strab. 6.2.6 (the execution of Selouros in Rome); Plin. NH 9.32.16 (ludi circenses).  Cf. the two Parthian prisoners on a ferculum in the triumphal Ludovisi relief: see Papini (2008) 139, n. I.2.16.  Juv. 4.122; Sen. Ep. 88.22; Mart. Spect. 2.2; Phaed. 5.7; Dio Cass. 69.4.9. In fact, every pegma housed the general of a vanquished city, portrayed in the attitude (schema) he had when captured. This description is incompatible with a purely painted narrative, as suggested in Settis (1988) 95.  Settis (1988) 212.

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column – the Dacians share the same varied fates as the Jews, with the addition of suicide.61 While underlining the powerful ‘realism’ of these ‘triumphal’ pegmata, in his description Josephus does not follow any chronological or topographical order nor does he give us a wartime context;62 rather, he highlights only the visual impact of the images, capturing the whole landscape (chora) through a sort of overview, along with the events that unfolded before his eyes. Evidently, he is trying here to compete with the dramatic enargeia of triumphal mimemata. The repetitiveness and standardisation of the schemata used in Roman ‘historical’ representations probably helped Josephus to immediately discern the meaning of each scene by isolating it from the ordo of the narrative plot. Indeed, Josephus does not distinguish or identify each battle or siege but merges all the standard topics together to deliver a more general, unitary, and at the same time intense message through his ekphrasis – that is, an illustration of the sad fate of those Jews who refused to submit to Rome. Josephus’ final comment is probably biased because he was interested in presenting his people’s destiny as the result of an indomitable resistance that he himself considered wrong. In reordering a visual narrative which originally must have followed at least the order of the triumphal procession, if not a chronological one, Josephus had little interest in depicting the course of events: he only sought to paint the bigger picture and to describe the most striking scenes, such as the landscape and the most moving images. Although Josephus surely described the panels in light of the meaning he wanted to give the whole war, his treatment probably reflects a frequent mode of observing ‘historical’ representations, by applying a certain selectivity in terms of reception and looking at the whole picture simultaneously, without paying too much attention to the chronological development of the war, i.e. the rerum gestarum ordo. A letter by Pliny the Younger (Ep. 8.4.2), in which he gives his friend Caninius Rufus some advice concerning his epic poem about the Dacian wars, presents a similar case. According to his friend, Caninius should not only sing Decebalus’ flight from his palace, but also the new streams made to flow across the plains, the rivers crossed for the first time, and the wild mountains occupied by Roman

 On Trajan’s frieze, see Settis (1988), Faust (2012) 35–91, Stefan (2015), and Hölscher (2019) 293–310. On the suicide iconography on the Trajan’s column, see Cadario (2019) 90–96.  In Josephus’ description, for example, Titus is missing, but he must have been present, as Septimius Severus is in the panels from his arch, which provide repeated depictions of the emperor. However, his absence also reflects Josephus’ intention of illustrating only the fate of his people.

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castra (Fig. 13.3).63 All these scenes, except for the river diversions, find direct parallels in the Trajanic frieze, in which the construction of bridges, roads, and camps plays a critical role.64 Above all, the last image so closely recalls certain scenes of Roman castra pitched in the Dacian mountains that one might think that Pliny had seen the column, were it not that he was writing in 107, that is, six years before the inauguration of the monument in 113. However, Pliny had certainly read Trajan’s Commentarii, which probably touched upon the same aspects,65 and it is also likely that he was familiar with the iconographic apparatus which the emperor had exhibited during his triumph in 106.66 Therefore, the emphasis on the landscape in the letter to Caninius suggests that written and visual narratives of the Dacian victory were already circulating and influencing the

Fig. 13.3: Roman soldiers building castra on the mountains of Dacia. Rome, Trajan’s column (from Settis 1988).

 Migliorati (2003) 80. See also Bruun (2004) 157–158, Cadario (2019) 95, and Turconi (2020b).  Kleiner (1991) 186–187.  Coarelli (1999) 28.  Cf. Plin. Pan. 16.4–5. ‘Triumphal’ paintings probably focused more on the fate of the enemies than Trajan’s column, but they also depicted the conquered landscape. See Östenberg (2009) 258.

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contemporary reception of images of this war.67 For Pliny, the motif of the triumph over a hostile nature, i.e. the synoptic view, was predominant with respect to the ordo of Trajan’s deeds, the only exception being the final episode of Decebalus’ fate. There is another text probably inspired by ‘historical’ representations that might testify to how a contemporary and educated, yet non-aristocratic, observer would receive them. According to a convincing hypothesis by Umberto Livadiotti, the images that Maximinus sent the Senate and the Roman people influenced Herodian’s account of his bellum germanicum (7.2.1–8).68 Firstly, the historian was certainly in Rome during Maximinus’ reign and hence may have seen his paintings. Secondly, a literary tradition favourable to the emperor had yet to emerge during the short period of his reign. Therefore, the documents sent by Maximinus to Rome were the best, if not the only, available source for the account of his bellum Germanicum. In fact, Herodian’s text does not give any real topographical or chronological data on the German campaign. Last, his report demonstrates a strong visual sensitivity in describing the kind of situations and events that are often found in ‘historical’ reliefs. For example, the topical scene of the launching of the campaign shows the Roman army crossing a river bridge, as in the two columns69 and on some imperial coins, suggesting that in this case the iconographic tradition may have influenced the historical record. A Roman war must begin with an advance – across a river – into ‘barbarian’ territory.70 The same goes for the description of the burning down of enemy villages or the submission of a landscape characterised by forests and marshes, as a space that the barbarians used to lay ambushes or escape.71 What comes into play here is the concept of asymmetric warfare, as we would call it today: the Romans accused the ‘barbarians’ of preferring an ambush to a battle in acie, as the latter would surely lead to their defeat. It was an ancient topic that Ovid had already evoked as fraus locorum (Tr. 4.2.33), a strategy that – in their perfidia – barbarians tended to use in order to put the Romans in an unfavourable situation.72 In his Epistulae Ex Ponto (2.1.39), by referring to the proelia in altis silvis between the subjects of the triumphal paintings exhibited during the Illyrian triumph of Tiberius in 12 CE,

 See Kleiner (1991) and Coulston (2001).  See Livadiotti (2015). The narrative of the war in SHA, Max. 12.1–6 uses Herodian’s text: Lippold (1991) 433, K236.  On the opening scenes of the two columns, see Beckmann (2011) 89–98.  See Livadiotti (2015) 114. See also Coulston (2001) 129.  See Livadiotti (2015) 114–115.  See Settis (1988) 134–135 and Galinier (2007) 46–47.

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Ovid attests to the swift translation of this concept into images.73 Afterwards, this kind of war-landscape iconography became part of the repertory of Roman artists, who began making explicitly ideological use of it in order to show again the Roman triumph over nature. We also find this in the friezes of Trajan’s and Marcus’ columns, which often represent battles in forests and – in Marcus’ case – in marshlands too (Fig. 13.4).74 However, Herodian’s account of Maximinus’ deeds is also coherent with the evolution of the Roman ‘historical’ representations depicted on Marcus’ column and Severus’ Arch. New trends had become superimposed on the ‘rational’ ideological system applied to Trajan’s column. We encounter the same standard scenes, but not in the same systematic order because the narrative was increasingly losing its link with the ‘historical’ chronological plot, albeit not completely.75 Its goal was now to show a brutal revenge on Rome’s enemies.76 Therefore, their final and ferocious annihilation became the focus of the story,77 as we can see in the last ‘picture’ of Herodian’s report. Roman war was becoming fiercer and more violent and the emperor’s role more impressive, dominant, and distant from his army.78 Maximinus’ final aristeia shows the outcome of this trend.79 Herodian’s text is so rich in visual experiences, and strangely free of precise chronological and topographical references, that the historian must have spontaneously done exactly what Lucius Verus had asked Fronto, that is, used ‘historical’ pictures as a source for his account of a military campaign. Probably these were not his only source because Maximinus had also sent his litterae. However, if Herodian really used the paintings exhibited ante Curiam,80 he did not apply to them the same dramatic ekphrastic mode of representation employed by Josephus; rather, he tried to reproduce the succession of Maximinus’ res gestae. He had to put the images into a rigorous chronological order, as required in a genuine historical text: he adopted a sequence with a standard incipit, the crossing of a river, and a typical ending, the great victory in a true

 See Cadario (2018) 55.  See Coarelli (2008) 201 and 206.  On the historicity in the column, see also Coarelli (2008) 47–66 and Beckmann (2011) 130–155.  Coarelli (2008) 65–70. Cf. SHA, Marc. 13.1, timor belli Marcomannici; Kovács (2009) 158–159.  On Marcus’ frieze, see Coarelli (2008), Faust (2012) 92–120, Griebel (2013) 120–160, and Hölscher (2019) 310–320.  Griebel (2013) 189–208.  On this point, see Livadiotti (2015) 118. See also Settis (1988) 106 on a crucial passage in Gregory of Nazianzus’ Contra Iulianum (4.80).  In this case, Herodian literally held Maximinus to his word: ut pictura facta loqueretur.

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Fig. 13.4: Two barbarians taking refuge in the marshlands. Rome. Marcus’ column, Scene XLV (from Coarelli 2008).

‘barbarian’ landscape, in this case some marshes. In other words, the texts of Josephus (and Pliny) and Herodian reflect the existence of two possible modes of viewing narrative pictures, just as Salvatore Settis had demonstrated for the compositio and dispositio of the frieze on the Trajan’s column, in which both narratives, the linear and the paradigmatic, coexisted. The former tended to suggest to the viewer to follow the chronological order, as Herodian did, while only the latter allowed the observer to read the scenes synoptically and subjectively, deviating from the temporal order of the frieze, as Josephus had done.81 In a famous passage from the Aeneid, the overview of the Iliacae pugnae that Aeneas performed at the temple of Juno in Carthage confirms that a Roman poet could be conscious of the importance of the order of events in the reception of the war-images. Indeed, Aeneas looks at the Trojan scenes ex ordine, i.e.

 Settis (1988) 107–114, 202–219. See also Hölscher (2019) 305. On visual subjectivity, see Squire (2016) 228.

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interrupting the codified narrative sequence (Virgil, Aeneis 1.456).82 According to Michael Squire, Virgil probably intended to deal with the modes of viewing applied to the Homeric themes in the Tabulae Iliacae or in domestic decorations such as the House of Octavius Quartio in Pompeii (II 2.2).83 However, Virgil’s evocation of the fall of Troy divided into singulae (l. 453) pugnae (l. 456) also literally matches the display of the simulacra pugnarum in the tabulae triumphales. Since Aeneas was in effect a veteran of the pugnae Iliacae who recognised himself in the pictures, the individual reactions to the images of contemporary military campaigns could have influenced the episode. The spectators gazing at the ‘triumphal’ images, i.e. ex ordine, would scan them and focus only on some scenes, as Aeneas (or Josephus) had done, and as Ovid too knew was the standard practice.84 Therefore, witnessing a ‘triumphal’ procession in person would provide a better idea of the Trojan hero’s exploits than ‘toying’ with the Miniaturreliefs of a Tabula Iliaca in an aristocratic house. Virgil too obviously knew the linear mode of reading images: for in the ekphrasis of Aeneas’ shield, Vulcan lays out the continuous narrative of the Romans’ future pugnata bella on the shield in ordine (Virgil, Aeneis 8.628–629) – that is, by respecting the spatial and chronological order of the scenes, as if the god were following the annalistic tradition.85 Therefore, these two ekphrastic modes of presenting images, ex ordine and in ordine, seem to correspond very closely to the two modes of viewers’ response to the images that Roman ‘historical’ representations offered to them.

13.4 The intersection between historical and literary ‘representations’ The last point I would like to discuss concerns the above-mentioned Tabulae Iliacae.86 The artificial ‘reorganisation’ of the rerum gestarum ordo into a continuous narrative is a phenomenon also found in the reproduction of the Homeric  Squire (2016). On the ambiguity of ex ordine, see also Petrain (2014) 44–48. On the ekphrasis, see Aen. 1.453–483.  Squire (2011) 156–157 and (2015) 532–542. See Barchiesi (1994) 117.  Cadario (2018). According to Ov. Pont. 4.25–26 the triumph also inspired his verses.  See Petrain (2014) 47, n. 76, Squire (2014) 395–400. However, paradoxically, the circular composition of the images on a shield would have made the linear reading very difficult for the observer.  See Petrain (2014) 120–121. On the Tabulae Iliacae, see Valenzuela Montenegro (2004), Squire (2011), Petrain (2014). On the epigram on Homer’s taxis, see Squire (2011) 195–196 and Petrain (2014) 49–68.

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taxis in the Tabulae. Obviously, the intellectual ambition behind the Theodorean techne is exceptional, but the compositional tools, the interaction between written and visual narration, and the intention to rearrange an existent narrative order – by also making a multidirectional and subjective viewing possible – are similar. These refined miniature objects offer multiple modes of viewing (the Tabula Capitolina provides a sequential picture in the lateral friezes and an overall bird’s eye view in the central scene representing the Ilioupersis). Furthermore, they could be approached quite freely because they were easy to handle.87 The similarities with ‘historical’ representations become particularly evident, when looking at the great central scene depicting the sack of Troy.88 Here the repetition of the figures of the Trojan women and Aeneas (Fig. 13.2) breaks the chronological unity by setting the continuous narration in a pictorial topographical space influenced by the tradition of Hellenistic map-making. The same synthesis of continuous narrative and topographical setting characterises both the Tabula Rondanini (Fig. 13.5), which divides the episode of Circe and Odysseus’ encounter at her palace into three different scenes,89 and Tabula Aspidis I, which reproduces Achilles’ shield by offering a bird’s eye view of the two cities, at peace and at war.90 These images are reminiscent of Roman historical representations, such as the famous fresco representing a riot in the amphitheatre at Pompei,91 or the above-mentioned Severan panels depicting the capture of four different Parthian cities. Indeed, Roman generals and emperors were able to successfully use the conventions of Hellenistic topographical painting to make their ‘historical’ pictures more effective and informative. The Severan reliefs offer a great unitary bird’s view of a siege, arranged into many registers, but the apparent chronological unit is immediately contradicted by the multiple depictions of the emperor, who probably appears five times in the panel – in all likelihood, a depiction of the siege of Edessa (Fig. 13.1).92 This choice partly recalls the impression that a ‘vertical reading’ of the frieze on Trajan’s column would make on its observers (Fig. 13.6).93 In all these cases, the result is a new ordo or taxis that encouraged a new perception of the story. The novelty of this spatial arrangement lies in its setting the continuous narrative in  On the contrary, Trajan’s column forced viewers to change their vantage point, so as to create new connections between the various scenes: see Settis (1988) 211–212.  The upper part represents the city and the nychtomachia, while the lower one depicts the events of the next morning outside the walls. The upper scene is present, with some small differences, in many Tabulae (1A; 2NY; 3C; 6B; 8E; 9D; 20Par): see Petrain (2014).  Valenzuela Montenegro (2004) 257–261 and Squire (2011) 401.  Squire (2011) 305–324, 393–395.  Holliday (2002) 109–110.  Brilliant (1967) 179–180.  See Brilliant (1987) 110–114 and Holliday (2002) 110–112.

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a large coherent landscape that serves as a common background for all the individual scenes, merging the narrative with Hellenistic cartographic conventions. Although concrete evidence is lacking, the description of some lost Roman ‘triumphal paintings’, such as the famous map of Sardinia representing Ti. Sempronius Graccus’ proelia (Livy 41.28.8) or Mancinus’ tabula, suggests that this visual narrative mode was a hallmark of Roman art from the second century BCE.94 Probably, it owes much to Roman generals’ interest in showing the authenticity of the spatial and temporal coordinates of their deeds. In this regard, this Roman reception of the Hellenistic tradition may also have influenced the arrangement of the late Augustan/Tiberian Tabulae Iliacae,95 constituting an important point of contact between ‘historical’ and ‘popular’ imagery, on the one hand, and those erudite ‘literary’ objects circulating in aristocratic contexts, on the other.96 The boundaries between the two genres were more porous than we tend to assume.

Fig. 13.5: The Circe episode on the obverse of the Tabula Rondanini. Odysseus appears three times: in the lower register with Hermes; in the middle with Circe beseeching him; on the top as he watches Circe releasing his companions (Warsaw, Museum Narodwe) (from Squire 2011).

 Blanckehagen (1957) 83 and Holliday (2002) 106–110. See also Petrain (2014) 118–122.  See Valenzuela Montenegro (2004) 23–25. It is no coincidence that the linear visual narratives attested for example in the so-called Homerische Becher did not use the bird’s eye perspective: see Sinn (1979).  On the erudite nature of the tabulae, see Squire (2013) 257–259.

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Fig. 13.6: Figural layout of the multiple depictions of Trajan on the east side of the column: from scene 6 to 35 (from Brilliant 1987).

13.5 Translating a rerum gestarum ordo (or taxis) into a visual account So far, we have identified, in the first place, an equivalence between the different formulas used for the so-called (written or painted) triumphal reports that commanders in the field could produce to communicate their victories to the

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Senate and the Roman people. The need to provide reliable accounts mainly led commanders to reproduce the order of the deeds they had accomplished. However, translating the rerum gestarum ordo into a visual account made it possible to expand the ways of interacting with spectators by better exploiting the topographical context as a coherent scenario and by creating images for different readings, i.e. in ordine and/or ex ordine. Therefore, this process did not only pass through the filter of selecting the right schema or landscape but also had to enable programmatically two different ways of viewing the images. Obviously, we can appreciate the effectiveness of this ‘translation’ only with later public monuments featuring ‘historical’ representations. In the case of Trajan’s column, the project of a spiral frieze offering a selection of episodes obviously respects a continuous linear narrative, certainly inspired by Trajan’s Commentarii.97 So the (already manipulative) imperial war report of the Dacian victories was also subject to a detailed ideological rewriting/reordering, in which each scene or each schema found its significant place within the narrative sequence.98 However, an observer could not follow the spiral path in ordine for more than a few coils. On the other end, an independent viewing of every scene (or of a sequence)99 would allow the viewer to conduct a selective and subjective reading of the Dacian wars, often without a true hierarchy, freely grasping the exemplary, political, and celebratory meaning of the episodes,100 while leaving aside their specific position in the ‘historical plot’ (i.e. ex ordine). In the famous scene in which Trajan appears as the first ‘Great Helmsman’ in history, the emperor gubernator is portrayed while personally helming the ship of the Roman fleet that was transporting along the Danube the reinforcements required to stop a Dacian incursion into Moesia.101 The very heart of the story, i.e. Trajan’s rescue expedition along the river, was almost certainly ‘true’ and ‘historical’.102 However, the illustration of the episode was built on the ‘ship of state’ metaphor, a traditional laudatory political image that Pliny the Younger and Dion Chrysostom applied to Trajan too, and which Fronto would later employ for Antoninus Pius, even though he stayed in his palace at Rome

 On the link between Trajan’s Commentarii and the column, see e.g. Coarelli (1992) 641–647 and Stefan (2015) 49.  Hölscher (2019) 310. See also Stefan (2015) 49–53.  On this ‘wave-like’ reading of the frieze, see Settis (1988) 178–182.  According to Mario Torelli, this was the ‘function’ of the reliefs: see Torelli (1982).  Settis (1988) 149 and 249.  Migliorati (2003) 74–78.

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during the expedition.103 An emperor confidently guides his army as he personally holds the helm of the state: to a Roman observer this message would have been immediately intelligible, regardless of its correct insertion in the sequence of the Dacian res gestae and of its cause-and-effect relationship with the previous and subsequent scenes in the frieze. In this way, the panegyric or encomium broke into the ‘historical’ account, but only as a result of this mode of mixing perspectives by rearranging the account of Roman achievements.104 To conclude, the ‘historical’ representations connected and developed the narratives composed in the first person by the commanders in the field, who often were also the people commissioning the images of their own exploits, both the ephemeral and mobile ‘triumphal’ ones and those later exhibited in public spaces or used to decorate important ‘state monuments’. In this sense, the images were ‘historical’ from the point of view of the commanders and the viewers and had a high degree of interaction: litterae, commentarii, picturae, and last public monuments were sometimes exhibited together to the Roman people and narrated or depicted the same events, always manipulating them, although with different approaches and for different purposes. The passage from the written ordo rerum gestarum (cf. Aemilius Paullus’ tabula) to the visual one was not a simple textual illustration, but – exploiting the relative brevitas (cf. the imperatoria brevitas) of the texts to be compared – led to a much more complex and artificial editing of the scenes and to different storytelling modes. They did not consist only in the use of standard iconographic formulas or in the representation of a conquered landscape as a scenario of the Roman victories but also in the provision of different modes of viewing to take full advantage of the exemplarity and conventionality of the figurative language employed. Only the former mode respected the ‘historical plot’, whereas the latter offered a synoptical and subjective reading of the same actions. In short, Trajan’s column did not ‘illustrate’ – in the modern sense – the text of the commentarii stored in the nearby Latin library, but proposed its own independent, parallel, and often more dramatic narratio, taking full advantage of the exemplary or symbolic meaning of the schemata used to reproduce the ordo of Trajan’s res gestae.

 On Trajan, see Plin. Pan. 6.2; 81, 4 Ep. 10.1.1; Dio Chrys. Or. 3.6.4 (de regalitate), and see Manolaraki (2008) 375–380 on the link of the metaphor with both the narrative of Trajan’s succession and his foreign policy; on Antoninus Pius, see Pan. Lat. 8.14.2–3 (Fronto) and Rees (2011) 177–178, 180–181.  Settis (1988) 190–191. Obviously, the inclusion of these eulogies in the ordo of the res gestae still made the frieze different from the true panegyric, as a literary genre: see Settis (1988) 234.

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Appendix

List of contributors Benjamin Acosta-Hughes is professor of Greek and Latin at the Ohio State University. He is the author of Polyeideia: The Iambi of Callimachus and the Archaic Iambic Tradition (University of California Press, 2002) and Arion’s Lyre: Archaic Lyric into Hellenistic Poetry (Princeton University Press, 2010), and co-author, with Susan A. Stephens, of Callimachus in Context. From Plato to the Augustan Poets (Cambridge University Press, 2012). With Luigi Lehnus and Susan A. Stephens, he is co-editor of Brill’s Companion to Callimachus (2011). With Susan A. Stephens, he is co-editor of Callimachus. The Epigrams (forthcoming 2023). Lucia Athanassaki is professor of classical philology at the University of Crete. She has published extensively on Greek (and occasionally on Latin) lyric and Greek tragedy with emphasis on the dialogue of poetry with material culture. Lately, she has been drawn to imperial Greek literature, Plutarch in particular. She is the author of Mantic Vision and Diction in Pindar’s Victory Odes (PhD Brown University 1990, online) and Ἀείδετο πὰν τέμενος. Οι χορικές παραστάσεις και το κοινό τους στην αρχαϊκή και πρώιμη κλασική περίοδο (Πανεπιστημιακές Εκδóσεις Κρήτης, 2009). She is co-editor of Apolline Politics and Poetics (with R.P. Martin and J.F. Miller, European Cultural Centre of Delphi, 2009), Archaic and Classical Choral Song. Performance, Politics and Dissemination (with E.L. Bowie, De Gruyter, 2011), Ιδιωτικός βίος και δημόσιος λόγος στην ελληνική αρχαιότητα και τον διαφωτισμό (with A. Nikolaidis and D. Spatharas, Πανεπιστημιακές Εκδóσεις Κρήτης, 2014), Gods and Mortals in Greek and Latin Poetry. Studies in Honor of J. Strauss Clay (with C. Nappa and A. Vergados, Ariadne Suppl. 2, School of Philosophy, University of Crete, 2018), and Plutarch’s Cities (with F.B. Titchener, Oxford University Press, 2022). She is presently co-editing the volume Lyric and the Sacred (with A. Lardinois, Brill, forthcoming) and working on a book on Euripides, provisionally titled Euripides’ Athens. Art, Myth, and Politics. Anton Bierl is professor of classics at the University of Basel. He is director and co-editor of Homer’s Iliad: The Basel Commentary (De Gruyter, 2000– [originally in German], 2015– [revised English translation]). He has published extensively on Homeric epic, Attic drama, Greek song and performance culture, the ancient novel including Dionysos und die griechische Tragödie (Gunter Narr Verlag, 1991), Die Orestie des Aischylos auf der modernen Bühne (Metzler, 1996), Ritual and Performativity (Harvard University Press, 2009), Sappho: Griechisch/Deutsch with commentary and detailed afterword (Reclam Verlag, 2021), as well as the co-edited volumes Literatur und Religion I–II (De Gruyter, 2007) and The Newest Sappho (Brill, 2016). Ewen L. Bowie is an emeritus fellow of Corpus Christi College, Oxford, and formerly professor of classical languages and literature in Oxford University. He has published on archaic, classical, and Hellenistic Greek poetry, and many aspects of imperial Greek culture, most recently, a commentary on Longus, Daphnis and Chloe (Cambridge University Press, 2019). Matteo Cadario is professor of classical archaeology at the University of Udine. He has published various studies on Roman sculpture and iconography, including La corazza di Alessandro. Loricati di tipo ellenistico dal IV sec. a.C. al II sec. d.C. (LED, 2004).

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List of contributors

Andrea Capra, a former fellow of the Scuola Normale, the Harvard Center for Hellenic Studies, and the Princeton Seeger Center for Hellenic Studies, is full professor in Greek literature at Durham University and associate professor at Milan University. His publications include Ἀγὼν λόγων. Il Protagora di Platone tra eristica e commedia (LED, 2001), Aristofane. Donne al Parlamento. Introduzione, traduzione e commento (Carocci, 2010), and Plato’s Four Muses. The Phaedrus and the Poetics of Philosophy (Harvard University Press, 2015), and a number of articles on Plato, Aristophanes, Greek lyric poetry, and the Greek novel and their reception. Carmine Catenacci is professor of Greek language and literature at the G. d’Annunzio University of Chieti-Pescara and the editor of the journal Quaderni Urbinati di Cultura Classica. His main fields of interest are archaic Greek poetry and classical theatre. He has edited Pindar’s Olympian Odes 1, 2, 3, and 12, in Pindaro. Le Olimpiche (Fondazione Lorenzo Valla, 2013). He has also studied the interaction between poetic-literary traditions and iconographic traditions (Sappho, Hipponax, Euripides’ Medea) and has published various essays on the reception of classical Greek and Roman antiquity in Western culture. Lucia Floridi is associate professor of classical philology at the University of Bologna. Her publications include Stratone di Sardi. Epigrammi (Edizioni dell’Orso, 2007), Lucillio. Epigrammi (De Gruyter, 2014), Edilo. Epigrammi (De Gruyter, 2020), and a number of articles on authors such as Palladas, Ausonius, Longus, Lucian, and Philostratus the Elder. George Alexander Gazis is assistant professor of Greek Literature at Durham University. He is the author of Homer and the Poetics of Hades (Oxford University Press, 2018) and co-editor of Aspects of Death and Afterlife in Greek Literature (with A. Hooper, Liverpool University Press, 2021). He is also interested in, and currently working on, the study of the Bronze Age in the Aegean and the Near East as the time frame in which what came to be known later as the Greek Epic tradition was first formed. Regina Höschele is associate professor of classics at the University of Toronto. She specialises in post-classical Greek literature of the Hellenistic and imperial period. Her publications include a bilingual edition of Aristaenetus’ Erotic Letters, with introduction and notes (with Peter Bing, Society of Biblical Literature, 2014). Cecilia Nobili is associate professor of Greek language and literature at the University of Bergamo. She has published studies on archaic Greek poetry (epic, lyric, and the Homeric Hymns), including her monograph Corone di gloria. Epigrammi agonistici ed epinici dal VII al IV sec. a.C. (Edizioni dell’Orso, 2016). Riccardo Palmisciano is associate professor of Greek language and literature at the University of Naples L’Orientale. He has published numerous articles about archaic and classical Greek literature (epic, lyric poetry, the origins of drama, and satyr plays) and the monograph Dialoghi per voce sola. La cultura del lamento funebre nella Grecia antica (Quasar, 2017). Aglae Pizzone is associate professor of medieval literature at the University of Southern Denmark. A Byzantinist with training in classics, she works on cultural history and the history of ideas. She has recently discovered new autograph notes by John Tzetzes in manuscript Voss.

List of contributors

337

Gr. Q1. Recent publications include ‘Self-Authorization and Strategies of Autography in John Tzetzes’. Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies 60.4 (2020): 652–690. Évelyne Prioux is senior scientific researcher at the CNRS. She is the head of the LIMC team in Nanterre (Lexicon Iconographicum Mythologiae Classicae) and has published on Hellenistic poetry and ancient art history: Regards alexandrins. Histoire et théorie des arts dans l’épigramme hellénistique (Hellenistica Groningana, 2007), Petits musées en vers. Épigramme et discours sur les collections antiques (CTHS-INHA, 2008), Voir les mythes. Poésie hellénistique et arts figurés (avec Pascale Linant de Bellefonds, Éditions Picard, 2017), and Rubens: des camées antiques à la galerie Médicis (avec Marianne Cojannot-Le Blanc, Le Passage, 2018).

Index nominum et rerum notabilium abstract concepts/ideas 33, 37, 57, 61, 63–64, 69–70, 73, 268 Abu-Qir, Bay of 197, 200, 202 Academy 8–10 Achelous 278 Achilles 24 n. 34, 49 n. 66, 96–100, 207 n. 30, 217, 299, 325 Acropolis (of Athens) 126, 136, 149, 150–153, 155, 158–160, 166, 171, 178, 182, 184, 186, 213, 220, 222, 231 Adonis 206–207, 259, 260 n. 21 Aelius Aristides 214 n. 2, 215, 217, 220–224, 231 Aeneas 276, 311–312, 323–325 Aeschines 215, 216–217 n. 15 Aeschylus 3, 24, 33–73, 112 n. 21, 117–118 n. 36, 136 n. 63, 218–219, 267, 272 n. 61 aetiological mode/process 39–40, 64, 73 Agenor 237 Agora (of Athens) – archaic 152 – classical 152, 154 n. 18, 159 n. 40, 166 – New (or Kerameikos) 152, 160 – Old 149–155, 160, 162–163 – Roman 151 n. 7 Ajax 238, 260 n. 21 akakallis 260 n. 23 akribeia 238–239, 241, 291–292, 296 Alcibiades 88–89, 127, 139 n. 76, 144, 152, 292 Alcmaeonids 165 n. 69, 175 Alexandrian footnote 240, 243, 271 Amazonomachy 151, 161 n. 46, 162, 182 Ameinias 259 Ammianus 220 Amphion 290 Amphitrite 161, 163 n. 59, 245–247, 249 Anacreon 105 n. 8, 106 n. 9, 109 n. 19, 115 n. 29 and n. 31, 121, 125, 133–139, 144 ‘Anacreon vases’ 115 n. 31, 133–139, 144 Anakeion 151 Andromeda 291–292

https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110795448-016

andron 103, 108–109, 114 Andronikos II Palaiologos 20 Andros 258 Antigone 26 Antilochus 99 Antipater of Hierapolis 256 Antoninus Pius 215, 328–329 Apellas 223, 230 Aphrodisias 131, 179, 214 n. 2, 224–226, 229 Aphrodite 29, 105–106, 160 n. 44, 198, 207, 209, 240 n. 17, 245–247, 249, 293, 295 Apollo 24 n. 34, 48, 56, 60, 62, 64–68, 70, 149, 151, 164–166, 172–175, 198, 213, 229 Archidamian war 171, 183 Areopagus 39, 62–63 Ares 160 n. 44, 198 aristeia(i) 82–83, 88, 95, 98, 188, 322 Aristoboule 127 Aristophon 127 Arkteia 46 Arrichion 296–297 Arsinoe II Philadelphus 4, 197–209 Arsinoite 261 Artemis 24 n. 34, 29, 41, 47, 164 Artemon 136–137 Asclepieion 215, 223 Asinius Pollio 218 n. 25 Athena Nike (temple of) 3, 171, 176–184, 188, 190–191, 306–307 n. 7 Athena Parthenos 139, 176 Athena 29, 62–63, 65, 69 n. 109, 71, 151, 158–160, 173–175, 177–188, 191, 220–221, 273 Athenis 130–131, 144 Aufria 225 Augustus of Prima Porta 267–268 Bacchylides 149–150, 160–166, 172 Bakchias 261 barbitos 133–136 beauty 47 n. 55, 52, 114–115, 121–122, 131, 137–139, 145, 241, 260, 283, 285, 287, 289, 290 n. 22, 291–295, 299 Bellerophon 174

340

Index nominum et rerum notabilium

Berenice I 206–207 Berenice II 199, 207–209 Bes 203 bird’s eye perspective 311, 325, 326 n. 95 Black Sea 278 Boeotia 258 Boötes 267 Bosphorus 278 Brauron 46 bridges (as metapoetic symbols) 275–280 Bupalos 130–131, 144 Calchas 41, 46–47, 50 Callicrates (Samian nauarch) 202, 204 Callimachus (polemarch) 218 Caninius Rufus 319–320 Cappadocia 216 Caracalla 256, 310 n. 22 caricature(s) 121, 130, 141–143, 145 Cassandra 38, 44, 46 n. 49, 56–60, 64, 69, 276–277 Cecropids 180 Cecrops 173 Centaurs 122, 151, 162 Cephisia 217, 219 charis 50–51, 114, 294–295 chiasmus 265, 299 Chimaera 174 Chione 177 Chiron 299 Chora church 20 choral dance 56 Chromation 298 Cimon 125 n. 13, 151, 162, 219 Circe 325–326 Claros 213, 229–230 Cleon 141, 143, 182–183, 190 communal banquets (in Athens) 155–158 Conon of Samos 207–208 continuous narrative (in art) 243, 309 n. 21, 311, 324–325, 328 Corupedion 199 coup de grace 90, 92, 94–95, 98, 100 coup de théâtre 57, 64–67 Creusa 173–174 Ctesibius 200 Cynaegirus 218, 221

Cyrene 198 Decebalus 319, 321 deixis 220–224 Delian League 162 Delos 160–161, 165, 217 n. 21 Delphi 65, 163, 165, 172–175, 216 n. 13, 225 Delphinion 149–150, 164–166 Demosthenes 128, 215 Dictaean cave 250 diegema 237 diegesis 237, 243 dike 33, 37, 40, 44, 59, 61–63, 71 Dionysus 65, 70, 105, 108, 111, 118, 137, 151, 173–175, 189 n. 59, 214 n. 2, 257–258, 271 n. 60 Dioscuri 26, 151 dithyramb 58, 152, 160–166 Earth (personified) see Gaia/Tellus East Canopus 197, 200, 204 Echinades 278–279 Echo 262–263 eidolon/eidola 52, 54–56, 68 eikon(es) 9, 131, 214 n. 3, 225, 293, 295, 297, 309 n. 14 and n. 19 ekkyklema 38, 44, 59, 68 ekphras(e)is 4–5, 7, 235–252, 255, 262 n. 32, 266, 283, 285–286, 288–293, 295, 297, 299, 319, 322, 324 Electra 26, 59, 65 Eleusis 42, 177, 186 enargeia 22, 27, 47, 69, 83 n. 5, 235–236, 239, 248, 251, 255–280, 286 n. 8, 289 n. 18, 295, 297, 313–317, 319 energeia 27, 47, 69 epideix(e)is 4, 213–214, 217–218, 225 n. 70, 231 epithalamium 199 Erechtheion 3, 171, 176–184, 186–187, 191 Erichthonius 173 Eridanus 269, 274, 275 n. 71 Erinyes/Furies 40, 56–59, 62–65, 67, 69–71, 258 n. 9, 271 erinys 33, 37, 54, 62, 64, 69–70 Eros 105–106, 109, 226, 245, 262–263, 292 n. 30

Index nominum et rerum notabilium

Erotes 245–246, 249 Euagoras 292 Eudoxus 266 Eumolpids 179–180, 186 Eumolpus 177, 183 euphemia 54 Euphorion 251, 258 Europa 235–252 Eurydice 199 evidentia see enargeia Favorinus 218 ‘flashbulb’ memory 2, 86–87 Fronto 219, 305, 307–308, 314 n. 40, 322, 328, 329 n. 103 Gaia/Tellus 271–273, 280 Galatea 241 Gales Painter 133 Geta 256 Giant(s) 174–175, 272–273 Gigantomachy 174, 272–273, 280 Gorgon 66–67, 117–118, 176 Gorgoneion 103, 108 n. 15, 117–118 Graces 294–295 granodiorite 197, 200–201, 208–209 graphe/graphein 34–35, 45, 47, 53–54, 58, 173, 178, 257, 265, 292–294, 298–299, 300 n. 54 Griffin Warrior (tomb of) 90 n. 16, 92, 95 Hadrian 150 n. 5, 214 n. 4, 215, 217, 218 n. 25, 225, 228–229 Hadriana Olympia 226–228 Hadrianeia 225 Hagia Sophia 20 Halicarnassus 224–225 Hecale 198 Hector 24 n. 34, 49 n. 66, 96–100, 207 Helen 26, 41, 51–54, 161 n. 48, 199, 204, 206–207, 294–295 Heliads 266–267, 272, 274–275 Hera 122, 204–206, 209 Heracles 128, 133, 162, 174, 206, 276 Hermes 49 n. 66, 240 n. 17, 290, 292, 326 Herodes Atticus 214 n. 2, 216–217, 219

341

hieros gamos 205 Hipparchos 125 n. 16, 135 Hippias 125 n. 16, 127, 135 Hipponax 115, 130–131, 138 n. 70, 144 Hirsch Arsinoe 197, 200, 209 Hissarlik 85 Homereion 217, 227 Horae 268, 294 Hyacinthids 177, 186 hymn(s) 4, 58, 71, 188, 198, 203 n. 21, 204, 207, 213, 226, 228–231, 240 n. 17, 250 n. 42 and n. 43 iambus/iambi 103, 105, 106 n. 9, 115–116 n. 32, 131, 198, 205 Ilioupersis 125 n. 13, 276, 325 Ilissos (plain) 149–150, 152, 159–160, 163–166 illuminated manuscripts/papyri 17, 22–23, 27 image act(s) 33, 38–40, 47–50, 63, 66–67, 69, 72 imperator/imperatores 308, 311, 312 n. 27, 314–315 imperfect tense (in ekphraseis) 243, 245 interfigurativity 5–6, 8, 17, 19–20, 104–105, 248 intermediality 7, 47, 49, 58, 66–68 interperformativity 6, 10, 17, 19, 23–24, 67, 105 intertextuality 1, 3, 5–6, 7 n. 14, 16, 18–21, 171, 197, 237–241, 257 intervisual reading 4, 7, 10, 17, 21–23, 197, 200 Iolaus 174 Iphigenia 38, 41, 44–50, 54, 64 Isis-knot 200 isthmuses (as metapoetic symbols) 275–280 Jason’s cloak 198 Julia Domna 256 kalokagathia 8 Karamallos 295–296 Kleisophos 115–116, 131 n. 40 Kleophrades Painter 133–134

342

Index nominum et rerum notabilium

kolossos/kolossoi 50–52 komos 57–58, 109, 115, 116 n. 33, 133–134 korynephoroi 128, 130 n. 35, 144 L. Aemilius Paullus 306, 329 L. Flavius Hermocrates 216 L. Hostilius Mancinus 311, 312 n. 27, 313, 326 Lais 293–296, 298 Laodicea 213, 227 n. 78, 229–230 Lapiths 151, 162 Lemnos 256 Lerna 174 Leuctra 222 Ligures Ingauni 306 litterae laureatae 305–315 locus amoenus 283 Longianus, C. Iulius 224–225 Lucius Verus 219, 305, 307–308, 314 n. 40, 322 Lycaon 97 Lysimachus 199 Lysippus 8 Lyssa 271 M. Acilius Diodotus 216 Marathon 125 n. 13, 182, 213, 215, 219–220, 222, 231 Marcus Aurelius 214 n. 4, 219, 318 marriage contract 261 mask(s) 8–10, 85 n. 8, 104, 121, 141–143, 145, 154, 176 ‘maternal impression’ 292 Maximinus Thrax 305, 308–310, 313–314, 317, 321–322 Medea 271 Medienkombination 7 n. 13 Memnon 99, 208 memory imprint(s) 50–54 Menander 3, 19, 23–26, 28, 49–50, 138, 214 n. 2, 219 n. 27, 287, 289 Menelaus 51, 97, 121–122, 199, 204 Mesopotamia 307, 309 metaphor(s) 33–38, 40–44, 47, 56, 58–59, 61–63, 73, 118, 154, 206, 248, 266, 275–280, 328, 329 n. 103

metapoetic image(s) 266, 275–280, 297–298 Metochites 20 Metrodorus 307 Middle Comedy 10 Mikon 151, 162 mimesis 40, 123, 130, 142–143, 285, 287, 292 n. 27, 293, 295–297, 300 mise en abyme 33, 38, 45–46 mise en scène 24, 61, 63, 69–70 Mouseia 225–226 mouseion 8–10 mousikoi agones 225–226 mouvance 21 Mycenae 81 n. 1, 85, 91–92, 94 Mycenaean Palatial era 81, 90 Myron’s Cow 291 n. 23 Naples 132, 245–246, 262–263, 300 Narcissus 255, 257–266, 275, 280, 298–299 Narcissus (flower) – poeticus/tazetta 261 – serotinus 260 n. 24 – viridiflorus 260 n. 25 neo-analysis 99 Nereids 244–247, 249 Nicander 267, 272 n. 61 Nicias (Peace of) 177 n. 23, 183, 188 Notus 235–240, 243–244, 249 n. 41, 250 ocularcentrism 22 Odysseus 325–326 Oinotropoi 258 Oltos 133 Olympia (agones) 226–227 Olympia (town) 188–189, 198, 204–205, 209, 214 n. 2, 225 n. 70, 297 Olympia Barbilleia 225 Onesimos 140, 161–162 one-to-one duel(s) 90 Orestes 26, 59–60, 62–66, 68, 70–71 Oxyrhynchus 27 P. Anteius Antiochus of Aegeae 225 Panarete 295–298 Pancratium maritimum 260 n. 23

Index nominum et rerum notabilium

pantomime(s) 4, 18, 295–297 paraphrase(s) 240, 241 n. 20 Paris 41, 51, 53, 122 paronomasia 278 Parthenius of Nicaea 251, 259 n. 15, 264 Parthenon 3, 122, 171, 176–184, 186–187, 191, 222 Parthian war(s) 305, 307–309 pas égyptien 202 Pasiphae 257, 298–299 Patroclus 98–99, 207 Pegasus 174 pegmata 305, 318–319 Peisistratids 160 Peisistratos 121, 125–126, 128–130, 135, 144, 160 n. 43, 162, 165 pepaideumenoi 18, 213, 217, 224, 231 performative act(s) 15–16, 33, 37–40, 50, 70, 72 Pergamon 272–273 Periclean Odeon 173 Pericles 130, 136, 139, 141, 143–144, 158 n. 34, 179 Perimela 278 personification(s) 64, 68, 127, 267–269, 272, 280 Phaedra 271, 298–299 Phaethon 255, 266–275, 280 Phaleros 150 phantasia 22, 27, 39, 251 phasma/phantasma 33, 50–53 Pheidias 139, 144, 176, 198 Philagrus of Cilicia 214 n. 2, 220 Philochorus 9 Philopinax 298–300 Philoplatanus 283–286, 300 n. 55 Philoxenus 267, 272 n. 61 Phrynichus (lexicographer) 214 n. 4, 215, 219 pilidion 153–154 pinax/pinakes 298–300 Piraeus 150, 152 Polemo, Marcus Antonius 213–222, 224, 227–229, 231 Polybotes 272–273 polychromy 261, 274 Polycrates 126, 135, 144 Polyphemus 241

343

Poseidon 151, 161–162, 163 n. 59, 177–187, 245–247, 249, 272–273, 278–279 Posidippus 197, 199–200, 202–204, 206 post-structuralism 20–21, 197 n. 1 Praxithea 171, 176–177, 185 n. 47, 186–187 progymnasmata 237, 261 n. 27, 289 n. 18 Proteus 295–296 Prytaneion 151, 155–158, 160, 166 Ptolemy Ceraunus 199 Ptolemy I Soter 199 Ptolemy II Philadelphus 199, 204–205, 208–209 Ptolemy III Euergetes 207–208 Ptolemy of Naucratis 215 n. 6 Ptolemy the Son 199 n. 7 Pylos 90 n. 16, 92, 95, 99, 182–183, 221 Pyramus and Thisbe 264 Pythia 66–67, 127, 172 Pythion 149, 151, 165–166 Rampin rider 125–126 res gestae 5, 305–329 rhapsode(s) 81–82, 226, 229 n. 92 riddling 33, 42–44, 59–60 Sabouroff head 125–126 sakkos 115, 134–135 Samothrace 199 Sappho 133, 208 satyr play(s) 9, 226 satyr(s) 70, 104 n. 5, 113 n. 25, 122, 257, 285–286 Satyrus 267, 272 n. 61 schema/schemata 4, 6, 10, 18, 59, 69, 90, 103, 105, 107, 242, 245–246, 248–250, 252 n. 46, 318 n. 59, 319, 328–329 Scipio Aemilianus 311 scripta puella 293 Second Sophistic 22 n. 24, 235, 283, 289 Senate 217, 305, 307–311, 314, 321, 327–328 Septimius Severus 256, 305, 309–310, 313, 318, 319 n. 62 seven wonders of the world 223–224 ‘ship of state’ metaphor 328 skenographia 39, 58 n. 86 Silenus 8–10, 113

344

Index nominum et rerum notabilium

Simonides 33, 47, 127 n. 24, 130 n. 37, 131, 161 n. 46, 165 Smyrna 203, 213–220, 224–229 Socrates 8–11, 81–82, 88–89, 141, 143 n. 83 Solon 130 n. 37, 133, 149–150, 152–160, 166 Solon’s laws 155–156, 159 sophrosyne 205 Sparta/Spartan(s) 132, 151, 182–183, 221–222 Speusippus 295–298 Sphacteria 182–183 sprechende Namen 138, 288 Stoa Poikile 125 n. 13, 183–184, 219, 221 n. 50 Strabo 200, 204, 217–218 straits (as metapoetic symbols) 275–280 sublime style 266 suovetaurilia 305, 317 surplus 17–18, 22, 25–26, 47, 104 Swing Painter 128–130, 144 symposium/symposia 2–4, 11, 48, 103–118, 121, 124, 131, 134–136, 138, 144, 153–158, 176 tableau(x) 33, 37, 39, 45, 49, 68–73, 235, 243, 245, 251, 285 Tabula Aspidis I 325 Tabula Capitolina 311, 325 Tabula Rondanini 325–326 Tabulae Iliacae 5, 324, 326 talking names see sprechende Namen teichoscopia 26 texere 171–172 Thargelia/Thargelion 165 theates/theatai 173, 190, 244, 296–297 theatre 2–4, 9, 11, 19, 36–37, 39–40, 49, 59, 64, 68–70, 72–73, 141–143, 145, 173, 175, 190–191, 214–216, 218, 219 n. 27, 228 Themistocles 126–127, 131, 139 n. 76, 144, 150, 164 n. 62

Theodoros of Samos 126, 144 Theoi Adelphoi 209 Thersites 122 Theseion 151, 162–163, 166, 219 n. 30 Theseus 151, 155, 160–166, 198 thiasus 245–246, 249 Thrace 199 Thyestes 58, 62, 64 Ti. Claudius Nicomedes 215–216 Titus 318, 319 n. 62 Trajan’s column 305, 311 n. 25, 313 n. 32, 316, 318–320, 322–323, 325, 328–329 Triton(s) 244–247 triumphal paintings 306, 313, 317–324, 326 Troy 41, 46–47, 51–53, 61, 71, 85 n. 9, 258, 276, 324–325 tyrannos/tyrannoi 125–128, 130, 144 ugliness 8, 121–122, 130–131, 145 Venus Genetrix 209 Vespasian 318 viri triumphales 307 visual encyclopaedia 248 wet drapery 200 winds (in the visual arts) 242, 244, 247–248 Xuthus 173–174, 190 Zephyr 202, 208, 235–238, 243–244, 246, 249 n. 41 Zephyrium 197, 200, 207–208 Zeus Olympios (temple of) 149–151, 159–160, 164, 166, 204, 213, 231 Zeus 24 n. 34, 61, 158–159, 177, 179, 186, 198, 205–206, 227–228, 235, 237–240, 242–243, 246, 249–250

Index locorum A.R. Arg. 1.742–746 198 Ach. Tat. 1.1.2–13 244, 247–248 Aesch. Niobe 24, 49 n. 66 Aesch. Oresteia 3, 11, 33–73 Aethiopis 99 Alc. fr. 333 Voigt 112 Alc. fr. 366 Voigt 112–113 Anacr. fr. 358 Page = 13 Gentili 105 n. 8, 106 n. 9, 133, 138 n. 68 Anacr. fr. 360 Page = 15 Gentili 137 Anacr. fr. 363 Page = 17 Gentili 138 n. 69 Anacr. fr. 364 Page = 119 Gentili 138 n. 69 Anacr. fr. 387 Page = 89 Gentili 138 n. 69 Anacr. fr. 388 Page = 82 Gentili 136 Anacr. fr. 394b Page = 113 Gentili 138 n. 69 Anacr. fr. 417 Page = 78 Gentili 138 n. 68 Anacr. fr. 427.3 Page = 48.3 Gentili 138 n. 68 Arist. de An. 431a–432a 33–34 Arist. Poet. 1448b 145 Aristaenet. 1.3 283–286 Aristaenet. 1.11 290–292 Aristaenet. 1.26 295–298 Aristaenet. 2.5 299 Aristaenet. 2.10 266 n. 44, 298–300 Aristid. Or. 7 Lenz-Behr 221 Aristid. Or. 8 Lenz-Behr 221 Aristid. Or. 11.63 Lenz-Behr 220 n. 39, 222 Aristid. Or. 16 Lenz-Behr 217 Aristid. Or. 27 Keil 223–224 Aristid. Or. 30 Keil 222–223 Aristid. Or. 51 Keil (= Sacred Tales 5) 224 Aristoph. Ach. 509–514 186 Aristoph. Eq. 267–268 190 Aristoph. Eq. 844–859 183–184 Aristoph. Lys. 1135 177 Aristoph. Nub. 9–10, 133 n. 49, 142 n. 79, 143 n. 81, 287 n. 11 Aristoph. Ran. 804 10 Aristoph. Ran. 911–926 24 Aristoph. Thesm. 95–266 136 Bacchyl. dith. 17 Maehler 160–163 Bacchyl. dith. 18 Maehler 163–166

https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110795448-017

Call. Aet. fr. 110–110f Harder 197, 199, 207–208 Call. Ep. 5 Pf. = HE 1109–1120 197, 199, 203–204 Call. fr. 228 Pfeiffer 197, 199–200 Call. fr. 392 Pfeiffer 199 Call. Hec. 198 Call. hymn. 2 198 Call. Iambus 6 198, 205 Cat. 66 207 Charit. 3.8.6 29–30 Cic. Att. 5.20 314, 315 n. 43 and n. 45 Cic. Fam. 2.10 314, 315 n. 43 and n. 45 Cic. Fam. 15 305, 314, 315 n. 44 and n. 45, 316 n. 46 and n. 49, 317 n. 51 Con. Narr. 24 259, 264 Crit. fr. 4.22–23 Gentili-Prato 118 Crit. fr. 8 Gentili-Prato 135 Demosth. Adv. Lept. 70 128 Dion. Hal. Comp. 22 279 Diosc. 4.158 260 n. 25, 261 Eur. Erechtheus 171–191 Eur. Ion 171–176, 184, 190 Eur. Or. 1496 227–228 Eur. Phaet. 255, 269, 271 Eur. Phoen. 26 Hedyl. HE 1843–1852 = Ep. 4 Floridi 200, 203, 206 Hermog. Id. 2.3, 323–324 Rabe 138 n. 70 Herodian 3.9.12 309 Herodian 7.2.8 308–309 Hippon. fr. 28 West2 = 39 Degani2 131 Hom. Il. 2.216 122 Hom. Il. 5.576–579 97 Hom. Il. 6.123–143 82–83 Hom. Il. 6.145–211 82–83 Hom. Il. 17.306–310 97 Hom. Il. 19.38–39 206–207 Hom. Il. 21.116–118 97 Hom. Il. 22.312–329 96–97

346

Index locorum

Hom. Il. 23.186–187 207 ‘Hyg.’ Astr. 2.24 207–208 Hymn Hom. Ven. 115 207 Jos. BJ 7.139–147 318–319 Long. Soph. 4.3.2 257 Luc. DMar. 15 235–252 Luc. Hist. conscr. 57 251 Lyc. Leocr. 98–101 176–177 Lycophr. 31–1450 276–277 Max. Tyr. 18.9, 233 Hobein 137 n. 67 ‘Melinno’, Ode to Rome 229 Men. Aspis 412–413 24 Men. Perik. 153–162 24–26 Mosch. Eur. 235, 239–244, 249–251 Ov. Met. 2.1–400 266–275 Ov. Met. 2.836–3.2 240–242 Ov. Met. 3.339–510 258–266 Ov. Met. 6.419–420 277 Ov. Met. 11.194–196 277 Ov. Met. 13.623–704 258 Ov. Pont. 2.1.39 321–322 Ov. Tr. 4.2.33 321 P.Goodspeed 101 203–204, n. 21 P.Herc. 1021 9 P.Mil.Vogl. VIII 309 202, 204 P.Oxy. XXII 2331 27–28 P.Oxy. LXIX 4711 259 Paus. 1.15.4 183, 221 n. 50 Paus. 1.17.3 162, 219 n. 30 Paus. 1.19.1 164 Paus. 1.26.5 178–179 Paus. 1.32.3 219 Philod. Index Acad. 9 Philostr. Im. 1.9 284–286 Philostr. Im. 1.10 290–292 Philostr. Im. 1.11 255, 266–275 Philostr. Im. 1.12 278 Philostr. Im. 1.13 278 Philostr. Im. 1.16 299 Philostr. Im. 1.22 285–286, 291 n. 25 Philostr. Im. 1.23 255, 258–266, 299

Philostr. Im. 2.2 299 Philostr. Im. 2.4 299 Philostr. Im. 2.6.2 297 Philostr. Im. 2.16 278 Philostr. Im. 2.17 278–280, 286 n. 8 Philostr. VS 1.25.541–542 227–228 Philostr. VS 1.25.543 216 Pind. dith. 75a Snell-Maehler 152 Plat. Ion 540d 81–82 Plat. Phaedo 117b 10 Plato Phaedr. 284 Plat. Phaedr. 227b 152 n. 12 Plat. Phaedr. 275d 285 n. 6 Plat. Resp. 2.380a 24 n. 35 Plat. Symp. 8–10 Plat. Symp. 221b-c 88–89 Plin. Ep. 8.4.2 319–320 Plin. NH 21.25 259 n. 18, 260–261 Plin. NH 21.128 260 Plin. NH 34.83 126 n. 21 Plin. NH 35.65 286 n. 8 Plut. Alc. 16.7 127 Plut. Mor. 346f 33, 47, 131 n. 41 Plut. Mor. 1094a–b 266 Plut. Per. 7.1 130 Plut. Sol. 3.5 159 Plut. Sol. 8.2 153 Plut. Sol. 24 155 n. 25, 157 Plut. Them. 5.7 127 n. 24, 131 Plut. Them. 22.3–4 127 Plut. Thes. 12.6 164 Plut. Thes. 14.1 164 n. 64 Plut. Thes. 18.1–3 164 n. 63 Posidipp. Ep. 36–41 A.-B 197, 200 Posidipp. HE 3110–3119 = 116 A.-B. 202–203 Posidipp. SH 960 199 Ps.-Hermog. Prog. 2 237 n. 7 Ps.-Hermog. Prog. 10 236 n. 4, 238 Ps.-Longin. Subl. 15.3–4 266 Roman de la Rose 22 Schol. ad Pind. Nem. 11.1 199 Simon. fr. 542.39–40 Page 131 Sol. fr. 1 West2 153–154 Sol. fr. 4 West2 156–158

Index locorum

Sol. fr. 13 West2 159 Sol. fr. 31 West2 159 Strab. 14.1.37 217 Strab. 17.1.16 200 n. 13, 204 Supplément Grec 1294 27–28 Theocr. 15 197, 199, 206–207, 209 Theocr. 17 197, 199, 204–206

347

Theocr. 18 199 Theogn. 499–502 112 Theon, II 118, 6–7 Speyer 236 n. 4, 289 n. 18 Theophr. 6.6.9 260 Theophr. 6.7.8 260 Thuc. 2.15.2–4 151, 155, 158 n. 37 Thuc. 4.96.5–8 89