The Language of Ruins: Greek and Latin Inscriptions on the Memnon Colossus [online ed.] 0190626321, 9780190626327

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Title Pages

The Language of Ruins: Greek and Latin Inscriptions on the Memnon Colossus Patricia A. Rosenmeyer

Print publication date: 2018 Print ISBN-13: 9780190626310 Published to Oxford Scholarship Online: May 2018 DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780190626310.001.0001

Title Pages Patricia A. Rosenmeyer

(p.i) The Language of Ruins (p.ii) (p.iii) The Language of Ruins

(p.iv) Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford. It furthers the University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education by publishing worldwide. Oxford is a registered trade mark of Oxford University Press in the UK and certain other countries. Published in the United States of America by Oxford University Press 198 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016, United States of America. © Oxford University Press 2018 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the

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Title Pages prior permission in writing of Oxford University Press, or as expressly permitted by law, by license, or under terms agreed with the appropriate reproduction rights organization. Inquiries concerning reproduction outside the scope of the above should be sent to the Rights Department, Oxford University Press, at the address above. You must not circulate this work in any other form and you must impose this same condition on any acquirer. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Rosenmeyer, Patricia A., author. Title: The language of ruins: Greek and Latin inscriptions on the Memnon colossus / Patricia A. Rosenmeyer. Description: New York: Oxford University Press, 2018. | Includes bibliographical references and indexes. Identifiers: LCCN 2017049334 (print) | LCCN 2018001036 (ebook) | ISBN 9780190626327 (updf) | ISBN 9780190626334 (online component) | ISBN 9780190875282 (epub) | ISBN 9780190626310 (alk. paper) Subjects: LCSH: Memnon (Mythological character)—Statues—Egypt —Thebes (Extinct city) | Memnon (Mythological character)—Cult—Egypt—Thebes (Extinct city) | Inscriptions, Greek—Egypt—Thebes (Extinct city) | Inscriptions, Latin—Egypt—Thebes (Extinct city) | Pilgrims and pilgrimages—Egypt—Thebes (Extinct city) | Egypt— Civilization—332 B.C.-638 A.D. Classification: LCC DT73.T3 (ebook) | LCC DT73.T3 R67 2017 (print) | DDC 932/.3—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017049334 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Printed by Sheridan Books, Inc., United States of America

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Dedication

The Language of Ruins: Greek and Latin Inscriptions on the Memnon Colossus Patricia A. Rosenmeyer

Print publication date: 2018 Print ISBN-13: 9780190626310 Published to Oxford Scholarship Online: May 2018 DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780190626310.001.0001

Dedication Patricia A. Rosenmeyer

(p.v) To Sarah (p.vi)

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Epigraph

The Language of Ruins: Greek and Latin Inscriptions on the Memnon Colossus Patricia A. Rosenmeyer

Print publication date: 2018 Print ISBN-13: 9780190626310 Published to Oxford Scholarship Online: May 2018 DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780190626310.001.0001

Epigraph Patricia A. Rosenmeyer

(p.vii) . . . Everything around me speaks of former days. A wandering stranger in unknown lands, I am surrounded by the past everywhere I walk. I question the dust of the decrepit universe: The cities, the fields, and this silent row Of massive objects, scattered by the hand of time. Silent witness to the events of former years, Their eloquent dust converses with me. But can it be that the language of ruins is mute to us? No, no—just learn to understand their silence, And remembrance will create for you a new world . . .

E.A. Baratynsky (Russian, 1800–1844), from “Remembrance” (tr. D. Houston) Wir kannten nicht sein unerhörtes Haupt, darin die Augenäpfel reiften. Aber sein Torso glüht noch wie ein Kandelaber, in dem sein Schauen, nur zurückgeschraubt, sich hält und glänzt . . .

Rainer Maria Rilke (German, 1875–1926), from “Archaïscher Torso Apollos” (p.viii)

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CONTENTS

List of Plates and Tables xi Preface xiii Acknowledgments xix CHAPTER 1

Reading the Colossus: The M em non Inscriptions The Egyptian Colossi i The Ancient Sources 9 Graffiti, Inscriptions, Proskynemata 21 Prosopographia 2rj The Mnema Function 33

CHAPTER 2

W orshipping the Colossus: Sacred Tourism at Thebes 3 9 Itineraries and Investigations 3 9 Sacred Tourism: Theoria 4 9 Holy Memnon: Thauma 53 Intellectual Enlightenment 6 6 A Discourse of Monumentality 7 4

CHAPTER 3

Talking with the Colossus: The Rhetoric of Address 7 7 How to Converse with a Statue 7 7 Apostrophe 8 0 Prosopopeia 8 8 Epiphany 1 0 2 Reanimating the Past 1 0 9

CHAPTER 4

H om eric M em non 111 Colossal Homer 111 Crumbs from Homer

119

Standing on Homer’s Shoulders Becoming Homer 13 4 CHAPTER

chapter

5

6

Sapphic M em non 1 4 1 Julia Balbilla 141 Balbilla s Inscriptions 14 5 Archaizing and Aeolicizing 135 A Sapphic Voice 13 9 Imperial Receptions of Sappho Claudia Damo 1 6 4 Claims to Fame 1 6 6

12 4

162

M odern M em non 1 6 9 The Silencing of Memnon 1 7 0 Callistratus’s “On the Statue of Memnon” Memnon "Rediscovered” 1 7 7 Monumental Memnon 183 Romantic Memnon 1 8 6 The Ozymandias Factor 1 9 8 Conclusion 2 0 3

172

Appendix 1 . Map of the Inscriptions 2 0 5 Appendix 2 . Texts and Translations of the Inscriptions 211 Appendix 3 . Index of Personal Names: Inscribers, Family Members, Consuls, Emperors 2 4 1 Bibliography 2 4 5 Index 2 6 1

Plates and Tables

The Language of Ruins: Greek and Latin Inscriptions on the Memnon Colossus Patricia A. Rosenmeyer

Print publication date: 2018 Print ISBN-13: 9780190626310 Published to Oxford Scholarship Online: May 2018 DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780190626310.001.0001

(p.xi) Plates and Tables Patricia A. Rosenmeyer

Plates (between pp. 140 and 141) 1 The two colossi in Egyptian Thebes 2 The Memnon colossus, side view 3 The Memnon colossus, front view 4 The Memnon colossus, view from knees to base 5 The Memnon colossus, view of legs and feet 6 Pococke’s 1743 drawing of the Memnon colossus, front view 7 Pococke’s 1743 transcription of the inscriptions, right leg 8 Roberts & Haghe, “Statues of Memnon at Thebes, during the Inundation” 9 Aeolic inscriptions, left foot of the Memnon colossus 10 Nineteenth-century tourists’ graffiti on the Memnon colossus

Tables 5.1 Notable Aeolicisms in Julia Balbilla, poem 28 156 5.2 Notable Archaisms in Julia Balbilla, poem 28 157 5.3 Notable Aeolicisms in Julia Balbilla, poem 30 161 (p.xii)

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Preface

The Language of Ruins: Greek and Latin Inscriptions on the Memnon Colossus Patricia A. Rosenmeyer

Print publication date: 2018 Print ISBN-13: 9780190626310 Published to Oxford Scholarship Online: May 2018 DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780190626310.001.0001

(p.xiii) Preface Patricia A. Rosenmeyer

In November 130 CE, the Roman emperor Hadrian and his wife, Sabina, sailed up the Nile as part of their grand tour of the eastern provinces; their destination that month was Egyptian Thebes, where two massive monolithic statues had been carved in 1400 BCE to honor Amenhotep III. About a century before the royal visit, one of the statues—the northern colossus—was badly damaged by a strong earthquake; its head fell off entirely, and the base began to emit a curious high-pitched noise at dawn. Scholars now think that the sound originated from the stone base expanding in the warmth of the rising sun.1 But by the late first century BCE, the statue had been re-identified as Memnon, the Ethiopian king killed at Troy, and the sound was interpreted as Memnon’s complaint to his mother, the goddess Eos. Hearing Memnon’s voice was understood to be a sign of divine favor, and visitors flocked to witness the miracle, leaving behind inscriptions on the colossus, which are still visible today (Plates 1–5). These inscriptions are the focus of my book. While scholars have worked on repositories of graffiti elsewhere (e.g., in the tombs of the Valley of the Kings), the Memnon inscriptions have been somewhat neglected by both classicists and epigraphers. As I argue, however, these inscriptions are valuable documents for our understanding of the interaction between Greek and Roman culture in the imperial period, as well as important evidence for Greco-Roman sacred tourism in Egypt. In addition, the Memnon colossus had a rich afterlife among poets and intellectuals of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. The colossus, whether actually viewed or only imagined, offered a powerful connection to the distant past.

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Preface By the time of Hadrian (second century CE), the Memnon colossus had become a hugely popular cultural attraction. Those who left behind inscriptions wished to immortalize themselves, pay homage to a divinity, assert their (p.xiv) command of elite culture, or flatter their emperor Hadrian. On the broken statue’s base, we can recognize many different commemorative impulses: official notifications of royal visits, lists of positions held and honors received by Roman officers, minimalist references to a name and a date, the “postcard” sentimentality of one Caecilia Trebulla, a Greek-speaking tourist with a Roman name who wishes her mother could share her experience. The colossus itself is the site of many juxtapositions: the sacred and the touristic; elite and non-elite; Egyptian, Greek, and Roman; literary and monumental discourse. Many of the inscribers enter into dialogue with archaic Greek models such as Homer and Sappho, while simultaneously negotiating their place within the cultural and political spheres of Hadrian’s empire. A total of 107 inscriptions survive, edited by the brothers André and Étienne Bernand in Les inscriptions grecques et latines du colosse de Memnon (Paris, 1960).2 Sixty-one of the inscriptions are written in Greek, forty-five are written in Latin, and one is bilingual; thirty-nine are in verse, of which thirty-five are Greek and four are Latin; and eleven of the inscriptions are written by women. The evidence spans almost two centuries. According to the editors, the earliest inscription is dated to 20 CE, the latest to 205 CE. Taken together, they provide a fascinating glimpse into the life of a statue that functioned as a canvas for the crowds of visitors who passed by and left their mark. And the inscriptions themselves are distinctive for several reasons: the materials are unfamiliar to most scholars, yet of clear documentary and literary value; they offer insights into Greco-Roman antiquity that no other single unified corpus of texts does; and their socio-historical context is easily as interesting as their literary content. While discussing the poems on the Memnon colossus, I also address issues of Roman imperialism, sacred tourism, the role of Egypt in the Greco-Roman imagination, and the reception of archaic texts by imperial authors. These inscriptions poeticize Greece by recalling classical literature at the same time as they reflect their own historical horizon. Their importation of the past into their own contemporary reality imparts depth to their self-presentation, and it is this depth that I strive to reveal in my book. The book consists of six chapters. Each contributes to the overarching argument that the colossus functions as a powerful site for engagement with the Greek past by a broad segment of society. Chapter 1 (“Reading the Colossus: The Memnon Inscriptions”) presents the colossus itself: an overview of the inscriptions and the ancient testimonials to the miracle of Memnon’s voice. While the transformation into a Trojan hero was mostly complete by the time Pliny visited in the latter part of the first century CE, the statue continued to be defined by a set of oppositions: Memnon was both dead and alive, mortal and divine, Egyptian and Greco-Roman, silent and speaking. Similarly, his colossality Page 2 of 5

Preface was both compromised and intensified by his fragmentary state; the marvelous voice emerged from a headless torso. In the first chapter I argue (p.xv) that it was precisely this combination of massiveness and fragmentariness that encouraged tourists and worshippers to engage with the statue by inscribing its surfaces and inhabiting its sacred space. Chapter 2 (“Worshipping the Colossus: Sacred Tourism at Thebes”) begins with a discussion of Egypt as a destination for sacred tourism and as an important repository of ancient culture, epitomized by the Memnon colossus, which functioned as a lieu de mémoire, a key place of cultural memory. Imperial authors viewed Egypt as a place where Greek myth came to life. Visitors such as Nearchus (first century CE), who recorded his experience in a letter (P. Lond. III 854), were inspired either by a kind of spiritual touristic impulse—the desire to witness the sacred (theoria)—or by an intellectual tourism and yearning to experience for themselves what they had already read or heard about back home. The inscriptions document these expressions of religious and intellectual wonder, crystallized at the moment of hearing Memnon’s voice. Whether visitors come as worshippers or tourists—and the terms themselves will be scrutinized— in their minds the monument functioned as a material link to the past, a past that miraculously came alive every morning at dawn. Chapter 2 thus argues that the colossus could elicit two distinct reactions from its visitors—spiritual or intellectual—yet both reactions fit within the framework of a fascination with the mythical past. In Chapter 3 (“Talking with the Colossus: The Rhetoric of Address”) I explore the personal relationship visitors thought that they had with Memnon. In response to Memnon’s morning cry, visitors turned to inscription as a way to communicate with the articulate yet inanimate statue. Following two main impulses of animation, the inscribers either address the god as a listener through the rhetorical figure of apostrophe or imagine the god as a speaker, calling out to his mother or to them, through prosopopeia. The latter impulse overlaps with the concept of epiphany, where the god makes himself manifest by some sign— usually visual, but in the case of Memnon, aural. This chapter discusses these three categories—apostrophe, prosopopeia, and epiphany—as evidence for the visitors’ yearning to commemorate their interactions with Memnon. Inserting themselves into the collective practice of sacred tourism, they nevertheless seek to make the verbal exchange meaningful on a personal level. Chapter 3 shows how the inscriptions bear witness to this tension between the communality and the uniqueness of each instance of communication with Memnon. In Chapter 4 (“Homeric Memnon”) I use Homer to triangulate the relationship between inscriber and statue. Memnon is a ghost from the epic past anchored in the Egyptian present; what better way to honor him than to borrow the words of Homer and inscribe them on his body? This evocation of Homer is not restricted to a narrow class of visitors. Imperial authors such as Lucian and Philostratus, Page 3 of 5

Preface who refer to the Memnon colossus in their prose fictions, engage in dialogue with Homer but write specifically for an elite audience. The Memnon inscriptions that echo Homer, however, are created by and for a much more diverse public, including not just professional poets but also, (p.xvi) for example, a centurion visiting with his family; anonymous pilgrims; and one Marius Gemellus, a Roman centurion and the author of three elaborate Homeric pastiches. All the Memnon inscriptions participate at some level in the reactivation of the mythical past, as if the trip to Thebes paralleled an epic trip to the underworld. In this chapter I argue that the visitors who sought out the statue were hoping precisely for such a “close encounter,” a visionary (and aural) experience that would connect them with the Homeric past, and that this experience transcended differences in social status and educational background. Chapter 5 (“Sapphic Memnon”) concentrates on four epigrams by the otherwise unknown Julia Balbilla, comprising fifty-four lines of Greek elegiac verse—the largest corpus on the colossus by any single author. While most visitors chose to model their language on that of Homer, Balbilla’s style and Aeolic dialect are unmistakably Sapphic (although her elegiac meter is borrowed from epigram rather than lyric). In this chapter I assess what it means for Julia Balbilla to imitate the archaic poet Sappho while at the same time honoring her royal patrons in the public context of dedicatory inscriptions. Julia Balbilla herself was well educated and elite; Hadrian and Sabina commissioned her to compose these inscriptions during their visit. Previous scholars have derided the quality of her poetry, but my chapter recuperates her as a talented poet, a skilled diplomat, and a model for two other women who wrote on the colossus: Caecilia Trebulla and Claudia Damo. Thus in Chapter 5, I argue that Balbilla’s poems are a further testament to the power of the colossus to engage different segments of society, as it seemed to appeal equally to male and female visitors, of high and middle rank, and with varying degrees of literacy. Chapter 6 (“Modern Memnon”) starts with the accidental silencing of the statue in the early third century CE, an act that Jerome interpreted as the (belated) triumph of Christianity over paganism, and jumps ahead to its rediscovery in Europe. In the mid-eighteenth century, travelers began to send back reports of a huge statue with poems etched on its surface. Later, Napoleon’s surveyors brought back tantalizing drawings they had scribbled down in their free time, often at great personal risk in the face of hostile local inhabitants who assumed they were stealing antiquities. The nineteenth century saw a veritable craze for all things Egyptian: Hegel used the colossus as an example of nascent enlightenment in his Vorlesungen über die Ästhetik; Schubert composed a Lied entitled “Memnon”; and Keats and Wordsworth turned Memnon into a full-blown Romantic hero, complete with Aeolian harp. Memnon functioned now as an alter ego for the poet himself, broken in body yet still striving to sing in the harsh environment of the real world. At the same time, just as he had in the imperial period, Memnon represented something strange and inexplicable, vacillating Page 4 of 5

Preface between the human, the sublime, and the monstrous. Chapter 6 concludes with a reading of Shelley’s “Ozymandias,” whose striking voice is also heard and understood only in the context of fragmentation and decay. For these statues, it is precisely their status as fragments, as colossal wrecks, that allows for the magic of the voice. (p.xvii) The French publication of the inscriptions by the Bernand brothers in 1960 elicited little scholarly reaction, perhaps because the material falls between various specialized disciplines (classics, religion, epigraphy, Egyptology). While recent studies of imperial literature nod in the general direction of the colossus, or highlight individual authors and themes, none addresses the full array of inscriptions. This book is the first critical assessment of all the inscriptions viewed together in their cultural context. (p.xviii) Notes:

(1) For a discussion of the science behind the phenomenon, see Duffey (2007): 51–54, who claims that Hero of Alexandria may have been the first to suggest the idea of steam expansion inside the broken base. (2) According to the editors Bernand and Bernand (1960): 213, there is evidence for one additional inscription (108), but it is wholly illegible.

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Acknowledgments

The Language of Ruins: Greek and Latin Inscriptions on the Memnon Colossus Patricia A. Rosenmeyer

Print publication date: 2018 Print ISBN-13: 9780190626310 Published to Oxford Scholarship Online: May 2018 DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780190626310.001.0001

(p.xix) Acknowledgments Patricia A. Rosenmeyer

I first conceived of this book well over a decade ago as a monograph on the Memnon inscriptions written by Julia Balbilla, for which I received warm encouragement from the editors of Oxford University Press’s Women in Antiquity series. I gradually came to realize, however, that focusing on Balbilla’s four elegiac poems without taking into account the many other inscriptions on the statue’s surface would do justice to neither. I therefore apologized to the editors, and expanded the scope of my study to the entire corpus of inscriptions on the Memnon colossus. As the project developed, I found myself wandering into unfamiliar territory. I am trained as a philologist and literary scholar, not as an epigrapher, historian, or Egyptologist. I was thus quite fortunate to receive excellent advice from colleagues in a variety of relevant fields. Both anonymous readers for the Press were extremely helpful in complementary ways: one pushed me toward greater accuracy in epigraphic and historical matters, while the other urged me to follow through on some of my more creative and theoretical ideas. I am immensely grateful to both readers for their substantive and thoughtful comments, (almost) all of which I incorporated into the final product. For the various stages of revision, I am deeply indebted to Roger Bagnall, who set me right on issues ranging from Roman military terminology to papyrology, and just about everything else in between. My dear friends Alex Dressler and S. Marie Flaherty Jones have, as always, been generous with their time and acumen, offering constructive criticism and a sympathetic ear at critical junctures. Janet Downie, Alex Dressler, Simon Goldhill, Melissa Haynes, Richard Hunter, and Vered Lev Kenaan all very kindly read and commented on individual chapter drafts. Emily Baragwanath, William Brockliss, Emily Cole, Christelle Page 1 of 2

Acknowledgments Fischer Bovet, and Esther Eidinow helpfully answered last-minute questions in their specific areas of expertise. A far-flung intellectual community of friends (or are they a far-flung friendly community of intellectuals?), both new and old, buoyed me up during the years of researching, writing, and editing: Alex Dressler, Kris Ehrhardt, Emma Greensmith, S. Marie (p.xx) Flaherty Jones, Vered Lev Kenaan, Giuliana Ragusa, Joy Reeber, and Henry Spelman. William Bruce and Alex Hall kindly allowed me to reprint their own photographs of the colossus, sparing me much time and effort in the process. I am also grateful for editorial help from Amanda Ball, Miles Berson, Adrienne Hagen, and Margaret McLoughlin, as well as timely assistance from the skilled librarians at the University of Cambridge Library. I began writing this book at the University of Wisconsin-Madison, finished the final draft while on leave at the University of Cambridge, and will hold the published volume in my hands as George L. Paddison Professor of Classics at the University of North Carolina-Chapel Hill. Along the way, I rehearsed various bits for audiences in Berkeley, Cambridge (both MA and UK), Chapel Hill, Chicago, Edinburgh, Leeds, London, Madison, Manchester, Philadelphia, Reading, Texas, Toronto, and Uppsala; I thank all those who listened and asked questions. Financial support was provided by the Loeb Classical Library Foundation, the National Endowment for the Humanities, the Office of the Vice Chancellor for Research and Graduate Education (with funding from the Wisconsin Alumni Research Foundation) at the University of Wisconsin-Madison, and Clare Hall, University of Cambridge. These funds were critical for the successful completion of the project. I am grateful to the team at Oxford University Press in New York City: Stefan Vranka was a wise and patient acquisitions editor, Felshiya Bach expertly supervised the production process, and Wendy Walker made sure to banish any stylistic infelicities. This book is dedicated to my daughter Sarah, who tolerated with great forbearance the constant presence of Memnon during her formative childhood years. While Caecilia Trebulla (92) wished her mother could have accompanied her to Egyptian Thebes, so that mother and daughter together could have heard the miraculous speaking statue, I have been very fortunate to have Sarah’s constant good company during the book’s entire journey from thought to page. I send this volume out into the world with the same mixture of joy and sadness that I will soon feel when she spreads her wings and leaves home. But it is probably too much to ask that she follow Memnon’s custom of “talking” to his mother every day.

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Reading the Colossus

The Language of Ruins: Greek and Latin Inscriptions on the Memnon Colossus Patricia A. Rosenmeyer

Print publication date: 2018 Print ISBN-13: 9780190626310 Published to Oxford Scholarship Online: May 2018 DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780190626310.001.0001

Reading the Colossus The Memnon Inscriptions Patricia A. Rosenmeyer

DOI:10.1093/oso/9780190626310.003.0001

Abstract and Keywords Chapter 1 presents the colossus itself: an overview of the inscriptions and the ancient testimonials to the miracle of Memnon’s voice. While the transformation into a Trojan hero was mostly complete by the time Pliny visited in the latter part of the first century CE, the statue continued to be defined by a set of oppositions: Memnon was both dead and alive, mortal and divine, Egyptian and Greco-Roman, silent and speaking. Similarly, his colossality was both compromised and intensified by his fragmentary state; the marvelous voice emerged from a headless torso. The author argues in this chapter that it was precisely this combination of massiveness and fragmentariness that encouraged tourists and worshippers to engage with the statue. They did so by inscribing its surfaces and inhabiting its sacred space. Keywords:   Memnon, colossus, fragmentary, headless, inscription, statue

The Egyptian Colossi In 1743, an English clergyman and amateur archaeologist by the name of Richard Pococke (1704–1765) published A Description of the East and Some Other Countries (London, 1743), the first volume of which was dedicated to “Observations on Egypt.” Pococke had been educated in law at Oxford but spent much of his time after his studies traveling in Europe, the Near East, and Ireland. In the last decade of his life, he served in Ireland as Bishop of Ossory, Elphin, and Meath. But he is best known for his travel writing; his descriptions of Egypt in particular were very well received by the public and included Page 1 of 43

Reading the Colossus drawings of architectural sites, maps, temples, statuary, inscriptions, pyramids, and other details of the Egyptian topography. During these trips, he also sent numerous letters back home to his mother and his uncle, Thomas Milles, Regius Professor of Greek at Oxford (1705–1707) and Bishop of Waterford and Lismore (1708–1740); the curious reader can find them stored in the British Library.1 As he wandered through Egypt, Pococke recorded a series of careful sketches of the Greek and Latin inscriptions on one of two colossal statues he had visited in Egyptian Thebes, as well as a detailed description of the monuments themselves. He spent several pages painstakingly documenting the measurements and angles of the huge seated statues, focusing on the one to the north, which he noted had been broken off at the waist and later repaired with additional stonework. With scientific accuracy, he recorded statistics for each part of its body: the distance from foot to knee (19 feet), foot to ankle (2 feet, 4 inches), bottom of foot to top of instep (4 feet), the foot itself (5 feet wide), and the depth of the leg (4 feet). He described the hieroglyphic figures (p.2) carved on the sides and between the legs, and the large crack in the pedestal itself. He also commented on the dangers he faced while attempting this task, trying to cooperate with his host, “The Sheik,” and being chased away from his scholarly investigation by local Arabs, who thought he was calling forth ancient magic or possibly stealing antiquities from the site. Here are his own words: From the temple I went to the statues which I shall call the colossal statues of Memnon. . . . The Sheik hurried me from this place, saying he was near his enemy; so I set out early the next morning. . . . I spent half a day there, and took down in my notes an account of every stone, of which the upper part of the other is built. On the pedestal of the imperfect statue is a Greek epigram . . . ; and on the instep and legs, for about eight feet high, are several inscriptions in Greek and Latin, some being epigrams in honour of Memnon, others, the greater part, testimonies of those who heard his sound, and some also in unknown characters; all the inscriptions are ill cut, and in bad language, both on account of the hardness of the stone and the ignorance of the people, who probably made money by cutting these inscriptions for those that came to hear the sound. I copied them with all the exactness I possibly could, tho’ many of them were very difficult to be understood . . . ; for I was not entirely undisturbed whilst I was doing it; but after I had been at this work some time, the Arabs came about me, and said, they would not permit me to copy every thing in that manner, and some of them attempted to pull me away; but I continued on copying them out, till I had finished them all. The common people have the weakness to imagine that inscriptions discover treasures.2 This is one of the first modern descriptions of the Theban colossi, and quite remarkable in its detail, as well as typically—for this period and social class— condescending in its attitude toward “the common people.”3 Pococke offers us Page 2 of 43

Reading the Colossus evidence not just of the astounding feat of engineering that the colossi represent, but also of the inscriptions themselves. In spite of his complaints about the bad quality of the writing, both in terms of carving technique and linguistic skill, his transcriptions and drawings (see Plates 6 and 7) are precise and elegant, and remained the most accurate source for the material for the next hundred years. (p.3) Pococke anticipated by half a century the expeditions by French soldiers and engineers into Upper Egypt in 1798–1799, when Napoleon allowed the artist and diplomat Dominique-Vivant Denon to accompany his generals on their campaign against the Ottoman leader Murad Bey. Denon was the first artist to discover and draw the temples and ruins of Thebes, as well as Esna, Edfu, and Philae; up to that point, only the Egyptian pyramids and a few pieces of sculpture were known to the general public. As an artist, Denon was astounded by the sheer size and workmanship of the ancient sites; but unlike Pococke, he was not particularly interested in the graffiti covering the surfaces of some of the monuments. Denon apparently faced dangers of his own, as he could sketch only when the French troops paused to rest; fortunately, in their pursuit of the enemy, the soldiers circled around the same territory so often that Denon managed to pass through Thebes numerous times. While he did not copy down any inscriptions, he published his sketches of the colossal statues in 1802, in Voyage dans la basse et la haute Égypte (Paris, 1802). We will return to Denon in greater detail in the final chapter. Other travelers followed in the footsteps of Pococke and Denon. Prosper Jollois and Edouard Devilliers, sent on the same campaign by Napoleon to study the irrigation techniques in Upper Egypt, chanced upon Denon in the field, and he showed them his drawings of the colossi; the engineers were amazed by the magnitude and complexity of the monuments, and, in spite of their supervisor’s objections, spent every free moment exploring the ground plans and elevations.4 In 1828–1830, Nestor l’Hôte, a French Egyptologist and explorer, made a squeeze of one of the Memnon inscriptions on his voyage up the Nile with Champollion, Napoleon’s land surveyor.5 By 1850, German philologists had begun to publish selected inscriptions, working from earlier transcriptions or visiting the site themselves: Johannes Franz based his publication of the Memnon inscriptions in his Corpus Inscriptionum Graecarum III (Berlin, 1853) on Pococke’s original drawings, while the Egyptologist Karl Richard Lepsius, who published his findings in Denkmäler aus Aegypten und Aethiopien (13 vols., Berlin 1849–1859), went to see the site for himself, on a scholarly expedition to Egypt sponsored by Friedrich Wilhelm, king of Prussia.6 After Lepsius, only one editor in the nineteenth century managed to see the (p.4) statue himself; the rest worked from squeezes or previous facsimiles.7 From the 1870s onward, French and German epigraphers dominated the study of the Memnon

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Reading the Colossus inscriptions, including such great scholars as Theodor Mommsen, Friedrich Buecheler, and J.A. Letronne.8 What these European visitors in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries could not have fully realized at the time, as the discipline of Egyptology was still in its infancy, is that the so-called Memnon colossi, two massive stone statues made of quartzite sandstone and each about sixty feet high, actually depicted the deified Pharaoh Amenhotep (Amenophis) III, who reigned from 1417 to 1379 BCE.9 Amenhotep was represented in a seated position, his hands resting on his knees, and his face turned east toward the sun; smaller carvings on the front and side of the throne represent his wife, Tiy; his mother, Mutemwiya; and the Nile god Hapy, identified by hieroglyphics that Pococke had noted but had not been able to translate.10 The twin statues formerly guarded the entrance to the pharaoh’s mortuary temple, which lies on the plain across the Nile River from the modern city of Luxor; it was a massive complex built during the pharaoh’s lifetime when he was already an object of divine worship. The temple structure itself, however, was badly damaged over time by repeated river flooding and ancient looting, and both statues have lost their original tall royal crowns.11 The statue on the north side lost much of its torso from the waist up during a powerful earthquake in the region in 27 or 26 BCE, and soon became famous for the eerie high-pitched sound it produced early in the morning, a phenomenon now understood, as mentioned already in the preface, to have been caused by the heat of the rising sun warming the stone base, and intensified, perhaps, by the presence of the large crack in the pedestal noted by Pococke. In antiquity, it gradually came to be understood as the voice of Memnon, who, as the son of Eos, was closely connected with the dawn.12 Hearing Memnon’s voice was supposedly a sign of great favor from the gods, and ancient tourists came (p.5) to the site, carving commemorative inscriptions on the stone statue, which still stands today, with its twin, on the outskirts of Luxor. The twin statue to the south, which remained relatively undamaged by the earthquake, is rarely mentioned by our sources. As we will see below, Strabo claims to have visited both colossi in the late first century BCE, but he immediately focuses all his attention on the northern colossus. After Strabo, we find no acknowledgment at all of the second statue’s existence in ancient travel literature, personal letters, or inscriptions. Even in contemporary scholarship, Memnon’s fully preserved twin has vanished from the records, almost as if it had never existed. The northern colossus, because of the earthquake and resulting odd acoustic phenomenon, is imbued with agency, and its stone body is “perceived to have power that breaches the rules of everyday existence.”13 The southern statue, in contrast, is merely mute stone. Formerly an integral member of the funerary pair guarding the Egyptian sanctuary, it seemed completely invisible to Greco-Roman visitors, who were lured only by the miraculous voice, not by the full experience of the massive matched monoliths. At one level, we Page 4 of 43

Reading the Colossus could interpret this as a rejection of the Egyptian past—the silent southern statue seated as a pendant14 to its vocal partner—and the celebration instead of a specifically Greco-Roman heritage, namely the statue that speaks in the voice of a Homeric hero, and that is, in turn, inscribed not with hieroglyphics or demotic script, but with Greek and Latin letters.15 J.N. Adams points out that the Memnon colossus was one of the very few places in Egypt where Latin was employed as an official language among the Roman administrators and military; but even the Latin inscriptions show a blinkered vision of reality, as the occupying forces turned away from alternative local narratives of the Egyptian dynastic past in favor of the patina of a specifically Greek antiquity:16 The Colossus and other landmarks represented an Egypt people thought they knew, and, in a very real sense, brought with them from home . . . indeed the identification of the statue with Memnon persisted despite local traditions told by guides or other interpreters . . . visitors to these sites imposed a narrative of their own devising onto the landscape around them. (p.6) This selective vision tells us much about the attitudes of those who viewed the site in antiquity, as they overlooked the reality of the present—the paired Egyptian colossi including the silent twin—and sought instead an encounter with an idealized yet still “speaking” Homeric past. And what about the local Egyptians who had always understood the place to be a commemorative sanctuary for the pharaoh whose name in hieroglyphics still adorned the base? Some may have decided to keep their local history in the background, “forgetting” the original function of the colossi, and to build new memories under the pressure of Roman governance and the economic benefits of the tourist trade. But other voices resonate through the questions of the handful of visitors who accept a multiple, layered identity: simultaneously Amenhotep and Memnon, Egyptian and Greek.17 By the time of Hadrian, the site had become an extremely popular tourist attraction.18 The colossus was an object of fascination to all who visited: Roman soldiers on holiday, emperors, high-ranking administrators, and in some cases religious pilgrims who viewed the statue as an object of worship. The visitors commemorated their passing in the form of inscriptions carved into the broken statue’s base, feet, and legs. These inscriptions range from simple one-line statements (“I heard Memnon”), along with names or official titles, to more sophisticated literary epigrams, sometimes as long as eighteen lines, written by professional poets hired for the occasion, often focusing on the miraculous aspects of the speaking stones. Sixty-one of the inscriptions are written in Greek, forty-five in Latin, and one is bilingual, adding up to a total of 107, with traces of an additional inscription (108) remaining illegible; thirty-nine of them are in verse, of which by far the majority are written in Greek. We also find eleven inscriptions signed by women. After a number of publications of individual inscriptions, mentioned above, sometimes based on autopsy but more Page 5 of 43

Reading the Colossus usually on squeezes, copies, or previous lacunose editions, the complete Greek and Latin inscriptions of the Memnon colossus were collected and published by André and Étienne Bernand in Les inscriptions grecques et latines du colosse de Memnon (Paris, 1960).19 Many of the Memnon inscriptions record at the minimum a name and a date, which allows us to reconstruct fairly confidently an overall chronology of visits. The earliest identifiable inscription, by Servius Clemens, is (p.7) dated securely to ca. 20 CE, based on the reference to the consulate of Marcus Aurelius Cotta Messalinus (1):20 Ser(vius) . . . P . . . Clemen[s] M(arco) [Aur]el[io] Cott(a) Messalino co(n)s(ule) [vocem] Memnonis audi et egi gratias. I, Servius . . . Clemens in the consulate of Marcus Aurelius Cotta Messalinus, heard the voice of Memnon and gave thanks.

The next datable inscription (2) was not carved until 65 CE: two centurions and a decurion of the Twenty-Second Legion claim to have heard Memnon in the eleventh year of Nero’s reign (16 March 65 CE).21 Inscriptional activity continued on the statue’s legs and feet for nearly two hundred years. The two latest texts on the statue (60 and 61) are dated by the editors to ca. 205 CE, and reveal in a nutshell the great variety of inscriptional styles found on the colossus. The first of these is a Roman consul listing his rank and offices (60): M(arcus) Herennius M(arci) f(ilius), [Q]ui[r](ina), Faustus Ti(berius) Iulius Clemens Tadius Flaccus co(n)s(ul), (septem) [vir epul(onum)], Sodalis Augustalis (decem)[vir stliti-] bus i[udicand]is, [se]v[ir] tu[rmarum equestr(ium), trib(unus)] mil(itum) leg(ionis) III [A]u[g](ustae), q(uaestor) [provinc(iae)] . . . [trib(unus) pl]eb(is), pr(aetor), leg(atus) Aug(usti) leg(ionis) XII [Fulminat(ae)], . …. …. …. …. …. …. …. …. …. …. …. …. …. ……Memnonem audivi . …. …. …. …. …. …. …. …. …. …. …. …. …. …. …. …. …. …. …. …. …. …… . …. …. …. …. …. …. …. …. …. ….Geta co(n)s(ule). (p.8) I, Marcus Herennius, son of Marcus, of the Quirina tribe, Faustus Tiberius Iulius Clemens Tadius Flaccus, consul, one of the seven priests of the public banquets, member of the Sodales Augustales,22 one of the ten judges involved with private lawsuits, one of the six commanders of the cavalry, military tribune of the Third Legion Augusta, quaestor of the province, tribune of the plebs, praetor, legate of Augustus of the Twelfth Legion Page 6 of 43

Reading the Colossus Fulminata, . . . I heard Memnon ... . . . in the consulship of Geta.

The camp of the Legio III Augusta was established during Hadrian’s reign, and located in Lambaesis (northern Algeria). The Legio XII Fulminata (“Thunderbolt”), originally commanded by Julius Caesar in 58 BCE, was later used to defend the empire’s eastern frontier; by the time of this inscription, it was based in Melitene in eastern Anatolia.23 Thus Herennius’s inscription gives us tantalizing glimpses into the geographical diversity of Memnon’s visitors. Just underneath this cursus honorum of senatorial rank,24 we find inscribed what may be the last lines bearing witness to the vocal Memnon, written by Falernus, a poet and sophist, expressing himself in elegant Greek elegiacs (61):25 Ἐγὼ σοφιστὴ[ς] ὤν. [Μέμν]ων οἶδε λαλεῖν ὅσον ῥήτωρ, οἶδέ τε σιγᾶν, εἰδὼς καὶ φωνῆς νεῦρα καὶ ἡσυχίας. [Κα]ὶ γὰρ ἰδὼν Ἠῶ τὴν μητέρα τὴν κροκόπεπλον [ἤχη]σεν λιγυρῆς ἡδύτερον λαλίης. [Τ]αῦτα Φάλερνος ἔγραψε ποητὴς ἠδὲ σοφισ[τὴς] [ἀξ]ία καὶ Μουσῶν, ἀξία26καὶ Χαρίτων. (p.9) I, who am a sophist. Memnon knows how to talk as well as a rhetor, and he knows to be silent, understanding the force of speech and silence. For seeing Eos, his mother with her saffron-colored cloak, he uttered a sound sweeter than clear speech. Falernus wrote these verses, the poet and sophist, verses worthy of the Muses, and worthy of the Graces.

The mysterious vocalizations of the Memnon colossus, which lasted almost two centuries according to the witnesses who left their testimony on his body, must have come to an end shortly after 205 CE, the year Marcus Herennius and Falernus visited Egyptian Thebes, and squeezed their lines onto the crowded surface of Memnon’s right leg. Based on the presence of huge blocks of stone mounted above Memnon’s broken midsection, scholars assume that an attempt to repair the broken statue succeeded all too well, sadly silencing the miraculous voice forever.27

The Ancient Sources Long before the silencing of Memnon’s voice, when the site was just beginning to attract the attention of travelers in the late first century BCE, hints of an odd phenomenon occurring in the Theban desert began filtering back to Rome. The earliest literary document we have from Greco-Roman antiquity describing the Page 7 of 43

Reading the Colossus speaking statue is a passage in the Greek historian and geographer Strabo. When he arrived in Thebes for the first time in 24 BCE, in the company of Aelius Gallus, the Roman prefect of Egypt (26–24 BCE), Strabo found himself searching for words to describe the former grandeur of the metropolis. Faced with traces of a heroic Theban past and the reality of its present decline (“now it is only a collection of villages . . .” [17.1.46]), Strabo turned to Homer (Iliad 9.381–84) for the proper note of homage (17.1.46):28 (p.10) Μετὰ δὲ τὴν Ἀπόλλωνος πόλιν οἱ Θῆβαι (καλεῖται δὲ νῦν Διὸς πόλις), αἵθ’ ἑκατόμπυλοί εἰσι, διηκόσιοι δ’ ἀν’ ἑκάστην ἀνέρες ἐξοιχνεῦσι σὺν ἵπποισιν καὶ ὄχεσφιν. Ὅμηρος μὲν οὕτω· λέγει δὲ καὶ τὸν πλοῦτον· οὐδ’ ὅσα Θήβας Αἰγυπτίας, ὅθι πλεῖστα δόμοις ἐνὶ κτήματα κεῖται. καὶ ἄλλοι δὲ τοιαῦτα λέγουσι, μητρόπολιν τιθέντες τῆς Αἰγύπτου ταύτην· After Apollonopolis one comes to Thebes (now called Diopolis), “Thebes of the hundred gates, and through each gate, two hundred men set out with horses and chariots.” So says Homer, and he also speaks of the city’s wealth: “even if it were all the wealth of Egyptian Thebes, where abundant treasure lies in storehouses.” And others also say similar things, calling this city the capital of Egypt.

While Strabo chronicled the massive Theban temple compound and the famous pharaonic tombs, he was most intrigued by two huge statues standing at the edge of the temple sanctuary (17.1.46): ἐνταῦθα δὲ δυεῖν κολοσσῶν ὄντων μονολίθων ἀλλήλων πλησίον, ὁ μὲν σώζεται, τοῦ δ’ ἑτέρου τὰ ἄνω μέρη τὰ ἀπὸ τῆς καθέδρας πέπτωκε σεισμοῦ γενηθέντος, ὥς φασι. πεπίστευται δ’, ὅτι ἅπαξ καθ’ ἡμέραν ἑκάστην ψόφος, ὡς ἂν πληγῆς οὐ μεγάλης, ἀποτελεῖται ἀπὸ τοῦ μένοντος ἐν τῷ θρόνῳ καὶ τῇ βάσει μέρους· κἀγὼ δὲ παρὼν ἐπὶ τῶν τόπων μετὰ Γάλλου Αἰλίου καὶ τοῦ πλήθους τῶν συνόντων αὐτῷ φίλων τε καὶ στρατιωτῶν περὶ ὥραν πρώτην ἤκουσα τοῦ ψόφου, εἴτε δὲ ἀπὸ τῆς βάσεως εἴτε ἀπὸ τοῦ κολοσσοῦ εἴτ’ ἐπίτηδες τῶν κύκλῳ καὶ περὶ τὴν βάσιν ἱδρυμένων τινὸς ποιήσαντος τὸν ψόφον, οὐκ ἔχω διισχυρίσασθαι. διὰ γὰρ τὸ ἄδηλον τῆς αἰτίας πᾶν μᾶλλον ἐπέρχεται πιστεύειν ἢ τὸ ἐκ τῶν λίθων οὕτω τεταγμένων ἐκπέμπεσθαι τὸν ἦχον.

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Reading the Colossus Here are two colossi, which stand near one another and are each constructed of a single stone; one of them is fully preserved, but the upper parts of the other, from the waist up, fell during an earthquake, so it is said. It is believed that once a day a noise, as of a slight blow, emanates from the part of the statue that remains on the seat and its base; and I too, when I was present at the spot with Aelius Gallus and his crowd of acquaintances, both friends and soldiers, heard the noise at about the first hour. But I am unable to determine whether the noise came from the base or from the colossus itself, or whether it was made intentionally by one of the men who were standing around near the base; because of my uncertainty about the origin, I am inclined to believe anything rather than that the sound issued from solid stones themselves. This passage, our earliest reference to the vocal ability of the Memnon colossus, is remarkable both for what it includes and what it omits. The colossus, apparently (“so it is said”) damaged by an earthquake several years prior to this visit, is already famous for emitting a strange noise early in the day (“at (p.11) about the first hour”), but it is yet to be connected with any named individual, much less to the divine Eos.29 Strabo acknowledges that he, along with a crowd of acquaintances, including Roman military men, heard the noise, but even as he witnesses the phenomenon, he seeks rational explanations for it: something hidden inside the base, or someone standing nearby secretly making the sound; he refuses to believe, as others do (“it is believed . . .”), that the noise issues from the solid stone itself.30 He also informs us that groups of men stood around the statue; these may be priests or local guides mentioned also by other visitors.31 Strabo comments later in the same passage on inscriptions (ἀναγραφαί) found on obelisks at the nearby Tombs of the Kings, although they were presumably hieroglyphics (17.1.46): θῆκαι βασιλέων ἐν σπηλαίοις λατομηταὶ περὶ τετταράκοντα, θαυμαστῶς κατεσκευασμέναι καὶ θέας ἄξιαι. ἐν δὲ ταῖς θήκαις ἐπί τινων ὀβελίσκων ἀναγραφαὶ δηλοῦσαι τὸν πλοῦτον τῶν τότε βασιλέων . . . [the] tombs of the kings, which are carved into the rock, are about forty in number, marvelously constructed and a sight worth seeing. And among the tombs, on some of the obelisks, are inscriptions that show the wealth of the kings at that time . . . But he makes no mention of any Greek or Latin inscriptions on the base of the damaged Memnon colossus. While it may indeed be true that no inscriptions existed at this relatively early date, as we proceed through our survey of early (p.12) references to the colossus, we will observe that the presence of inscriptions is never noted by the ancient sources; instead, they focus exclusively on the mysterious noise. For us, the textual remains seem the most important documentary sources for contemporary voices; for ancient visitors, Page 9 of 43

Reading the Colossus the only voice worth acknowledging seems to have been that of Memnon himself. Pliny, writing in the last quarter of the first century CE, is the first to identify the statue explicitly as Memnon; like Strabo, he carefully distances himself (“narratur . . . ut putant”) from any commitment to a belief in the miracle of singing stones, and again ignores the inscriptions that, at this point, had already begun to fill the lower sections of the base.32 As we can see from examples in his Natural History, Pliny was quite interested in portents, but mostly as scientific rather than religious phenomena.33 His reference to the Memnon colossus is primarily concerned with its materiality. The relevant passage is from an essay on the nature of stones, and more specifically the varied types of marble used by sculptors. Memnon appears as just one item in the list, which includes miniatures, pyramids, obelisks, marble columns, the Cnidian Aphrodite, and stones of different qualities and colors from specific quarries in Greece and Italy. Pliny turns to Memnon as an example of what the Egyptians call “basanite,” a stone that resembles iron in color and hardness (NH 36.11): non absimilis illi narratur in Thebis delubro Serapis, ut putant, Memnonis statuae dicatus, quem cotidiano solis ortu contactum radiis crepare tradunt. It is said that in the temple of Serapis at Thebes, there is [a stone] not unlike it [i.e., basanite], which forms the statue of Memnon; remarkable, as they claim, for emitting a sound each morning when touched by the rays of the rising sun. The identification of the statue as Homeric Memnon is not an obvious one, although it probably surfaced well before Pliny made the connection. According to Homer (Od. 4.188; 11.522) and Hesiod (Theog. 984), Memnon was an Ethiopian king, son of the dawn goddess Eos, who was killed in battle at Troy by Achilles. Instead of heroic burial at Troy, later authors imagined that he was transported back to Ethiopia/Egypt, where a monument was dedicated in his honor.34 This is very much the story we get from Philostratus, working in the first half of the third century CE, in a move that parallels one of the actual inscriptions I will discuss in a later chapter. He first describes a picture in his “gallery” of Memnon’s corpse stretched out on the ground at Troy, and then (p. 13) imagines him “stolen away,” “at the edge of the painting,” and finally “transformed into a statue.” While not all the details are accurate (black marble vs. light-colored quartzite sandstone; lips vs. no head at all), the passage is wonderfully evocative of the mystery of Memnon’s postmortem passage to Egypt (Imagines 1.7):35 . . . θρηνεῖται δὲ Μέμνων ὁ τῆς Ἠοῦς. τοῦτον ἀφικόμενον ἀμῦναι τῇ Τροίᾳ κτείνει, φασίν, ὁ τοῦ Πηλέως μέγαν ἥκοντα καὶ οὐδὲν ἂν αὐτοῦ μείω. Page 10 of 43

Reading the Colossus σκόπει γάρ, ὅσος μὲν κεῖται κατὰ τῆς γῆς, ὅσος δὲ ὁ τῶν βοστρύχων ἄσταχυς, οὓς οἶμαι Νείλῳ ἔτρεφε· Νείλου γὰρ Αἰγύπτιοι μὲν ἔχουσι τὰς ἐκβολάς, Αἰθίοπες δὲ τὰς πηγάς. ὅρα τὸ εἶδος, ὡς ἔρρωται καὶ τῶν ὀφθαλμῶν ἀπολωλότων, ὅρα τὸν ἴουλον ὡς καθ’ ἡλικίαν τῷ κτείναντι. . . . Ἠὼς ἐπὶ τῷ παιδὶ πενθοῦσα κατηφῆ ποιεῖ τὸν Ἥλιον καὶ δεῖται τῆς Νυκτὸς ἀφικέσθαι πρὸ καιροῦ καὶ τὸ στρατόπεδον ἐπισχεῖν, ἵνα ἐγγένηταί οἱ κλέψαι τὸν υἱόν, Διός που ταῦτα νεύσαντος. καὶ ἰδοὺ ἐκκέκλεπται καὶ ἔστιν ἐπὶ τέρμασι τῆς γραφῆς. ποῦ δὴ καὶ κατὰ τί τῆς γῆς; τάφος οὐδαμοῦ Μέμνονος, ὁ δὲ Μέμνων ἐν Αἰθιοπίᾳ μεταβεβληκὼς εἰς λίθον μέλανα. καὶ τὸ σχῆμα καθημένου, τὸ δὲ εἶδος ἐκείνου, οἶμαι, καὶ προσβάλλει τῷ ἀγάλματι ἡ ἀκτὶς τοῦ Ἡλίου. δοκεῖ γὰρ ὁ Ἥλιος οἱονεὶ πλῆκτρον κατὰ στόμα ἐμπίπτων τῷ Μέμνονι ἐκκαλεῖσθαι φωνὴν ἐκεῖθεν καὶ λαλοῦντι σοφίσματι παραμυθεῖσθαι τὴν Ἡμέραν. . . . it is Memnon, the son of Eos, who is being mourned. When he came to defend Troy, the son of Peleus, they say, killed him, even though he was strong and equal in might to his opponent. Notice how huge he is lying on the ground, and how long his curly hair is, which he grew, no doubt, so he could dedicate it to the Nile; for while the mouth of the Nile belongs to Egypt, its source belongs to Ethiopia. See how strong his body looks, even though the light has left his eyes; see his downy beard, how it matches his age with that of his young killer. . . . Eos mourning her son makes the Sun sad, and begs Night to come early to stop the enemy army, so she can steal her son away, with Zeus’s consent. And look! Memnon has been stolen away and is at the edge of the painting. Now where is he? In what part of the earth? No tomb of Memnon is anywhere to be seen; but Memnon himself has been transformed into a black marble statue in Ethiopia. His position is that of a seated person, but the figure is Memnon’s, if I’m not wrong, and the Sun’s rays fall on the statue. For the Sun, striking the lips of Memnon as a plectrum strikes the lyre, seems to call out a voice from them, and by this artifice that produces speech, the Sun comforts Eos. Philostratus here sets up many of the themes that will recur in the inscriptions: the rivalry between Memnon and Achilles, Eos’ act of mourning, Memnon’s connection to Egypt, and the source of his voice. The painting offers a visual narrative of Memnon’s transformation from hero (and then corpse) at Troy, to marble statue in Thebes. Already at Troy, there are hints of (p.14) his Theban destiny: we are invited to notice “how huge he is on the ground,” even before he becomes “colossal;” we admire his long curly hair, which boasts its own etiology: he grew it long in order to dedicate it to the Nile, which unites Egypt and Ethiopia geographically, and which will mark also his new “home” on the plains of Thebes. Everything at Troy anticipates his eventual transformation into the colossal statue in Egypt. Philostratus also emphasizes the lack of a tomb, suggesting that Memnon is not really dead but has been saved by his mother, “with Zeus’s consent,” and given a new lease on life. This passage offers one Page 11 of 43

Reading the Colossus unusual variation: the Sun, rather than Eos, is given credit for striking the lips of Memnon every morning and calling out a voice from the statue; this in turn comforts Eos.36 Philostratus sums up his description with a judgment: it is by means of an “artifice” (σοφίσμα) that speech is produced in the statue. Philostratus’s story is convincing: it must be Memnon, even if the specific vocal “artifice” remains unexplained. In addition to Philostratus’s eloquent explanation of Memnon’s appearance in Thebes, there are several theories as to why this particular statue should have been associated with the Trojan hero, although we may never know for certain when the identification was first established.37 Indeed, almost two-thirds of the inscriptions carved on the statue’s legs address it directly as Memnon, and the rest imply as much.38 It may have been identified as Memnon because of the time of day when it spoke: to an educated Greek-speaking tourist raised from an early age on Homer’s stories, this was Memnon the Ethiopian warrior greeting his mother, Eos, and lamenting his fate at the hands of Achilles. Even before the mysterious noise began, the statue could have been understood to be greeting the dawn because of its eastward orientation.39 Another theory holds that Amenhotep’s name seemed to resemble that of Memnon, and the resemblance possibly led to the confusion. Pharaonic names were double: a praenomen and a nomen, both conventionally inscribed in a cartouche. The hieroglyphics on the back of the singing statue give both names for Amenhotep: “Amun is pleased,” transliterated as Amenophis or (p.15) Amenoth, and “Ra is the lord of truth,” roughly approximated as Nimmuria or Mimmuria.40 To a Greek or Roman visitor, hearing local guides utter the praenomen of the pharaoh might have been suggestive enough of Memnon’s name for them to jump to the conclusion that this was their own Homeric hero, honored in his native country. All these theories remain speculative, as does the chronology of the identification of the northern statue as Memnon. But the fact remains that large numbers of Greek and Roman visitors came to the site to admire the marvels of Thebes, enjoying the exotic Egyptian locale as well as its Homeric familiarity, all huddled together under the umbrella of imperial Roman conquest. The colossus may have stood in Egypt, but through the strength of communal interpretatio graeca, it was Greek to the core.41 A few decades after Pliny, we have evidence from Tacitus’s description of Germanicus’s visit to Egypt in 19 CE, as the emperor admired the tourist sites of Thebes, the pyramids, and Lake Moeris, among other marvels of the landscape now ruled by Rome (Ann. 2.61.1):42 Ceterum Germanicus aliis quoque miraculis intendit animum, quorum praecipua fuere Memnonis saxea effigies, ubi radiis solis icta est, vocalem sonum reddens, disiectasque inter et vix pervias arenas instar montium eductae pyramides certamine et opibus regum, lacusque effossa humo, superfluentis Nili receptacula; atque alibi angustiae et profunda altitudo, Page 12 of 43

Reading the Colossus nullis inquirentium spatiis penetrabilis. exim ventum Elephantinen ac Syenen, claustra olim Romani imperii, quod nunc rubrum ad mare patescit. But other marvels, too, caught the attention of Germanicus: in particular the stone colossus of Memnon, which emits a vocal sound when touched by the sun’s rays; the pyramids piled high as mountains by the wealth and striving of kings among windswept and almost impassable sands; the lake dug out of the ground, which receives the overflow of Nile; and, elsewhere, narrow gorges and steep heights, places impenetrable by inquisitive explorers. Then he proceeded to Elephantine and Syene, once the limits of the Roman Empire, which now stretches as far as the Persian Gulf. Again, Tacitus is not impervious to the appeal of inscriptions; in the passage just preceding this one, he lists various places that Germanicus visited as he sailed up the Nile, including sites directly connected to Homeric epic as well as piles of stone rubble in Thebes where Egyptian hieroglyphics could still be seen and read, at least by those who understood the language (Ann. 2.60.1): (p.16) Sed Germanicus . . . orsus oppido a Canopo. condidere id Spartani ob sepultum illic rectorem navis Canopum, qua tempestate Menelaus Graeciam repetens diversum ad mare terramque Libyam deiectus est. inde proximum amnis os dicatum Herculi, quem indigenae ortum apud se et antiquissimum perhibent eosque, qui postea pari virtute fuerint, in cognomentum eius adscitos; mox visit veterum Thebarum magna vestigia. et manebant structis molibus litterae Aegyptiae, priorem opulentiam complexae: iussusque e senioribus sacerdotum patrium sermonem interpretari, referebat habitasse quondam septingenta milia aetate militari . . . legebantur et indicta gentibus tributa, pondus argenti et auri, numerus armorum equorumque et dona templis ebur atque odores, quasque copias frumenti et omnium utensilium quaeque natio penderet, haud minus magnifica quam nunc vi Parthorum aut potentia Romana iubentur. Germanicus [sailed up the Nile] . . . starting from the town of Canopus— founded by the Spartans in memory of the helmsman by that name, who was buried there in the days when Menelaus, heading home to Greece, was blown off course to a distant sea and the Libyan coast. From Canopus he visited the neighboring river source, which is sacred to Hercules (an Egyptian born, according to the local account, and the first to use the name; the others, equally brave, who came later then adopted the name for themselves); then, the vast remains of ancient Thebes. On piles of stone rubble, Egyptian letters still remained, embracing the stories of former opulence, and one of the senior priests, ordered to translate his native Page 13 of 43

Reading the Colossus tongue, related that “once the city contained seven hundred thousand men of military age . . .” The tribute-lists of the conquered nations were still legible: the weight of silver and gold, the number of weapons and horses, the gifts to the temple of ivory and incense, together with the amounts of grain and other necessities of life to be paid by the separate countries; revenues no less imposing than those which are now demanded by the might of Parthia or by Roman power. Germanicus, according to Tacitus, asks for translations of fragments of local Egyptian texts scattered on the ground, but makes no reference to similar texts that might have existed at that time on the Memnon statue itself. We can, however, entertain the possibility, suggested by the previously quoted passage describing the vocal colossus (Ann. 2.61.1), that the damaged statue had already been identified as Memnon at the time of Germanicus’s visit in 19 CE.43 By the second century CE, the singing statue had become, as Tacitus suggests above, just one of the many marvels on the ancient tourist route in Egypt: in all the sources, the focus remains on the magical sound emitted from its damaged body, or on the body itself, but not on its inscribed surfaces. Dio Chrysostom, speaking of the habit of the Rhodians of attaching new honorific (p.17) inscriptions to preexisting statues, specifically mentions having heard that the Memnon colossus initially lacked any identifying inscription (Or. 31.92): . . . καὶ παρ’ ἑτέροις οἶδα πολλοὺς τοὺς μὲν ἡμιθέων, τοὺς δὲ ἡρώων ἀδριάντας, οἷον Ἀχιλλέως, Σαρπηδόνος, Θησέως, διὰ τοῦτο ἀρχῆθεν οὐκ ἐπιεγραφέντας· καὶ Μέμνονος ἐν Αἰγύπτῳ κολοσσὸν εἶναι τοιοῦτον λέγουσιν. . . . and in other places I know of many statues, some of demigods and others of heroes such as Achilles, Sarpedon, and Theseus, which for this reason had not been initially inscribed; they say that [this is the case with] the colossal statue of Memnon in Egypt also. While Dio refers not to inscriptions on the statue itself, but rather to the lack of a name on the base attached to the statue, by this time we know the statue’s surface was already marked in multiple places with Memnon’s name. Juvenal tosses in the miracle of Memnon as evidence for the bizarre religious habits of the Egyptians: they worship snakes, crocodiles, ibises, and apes, and believe that “magic chords resonate from the truncated body of stone Memnon, where ancient Thebes of the hundred gates lies in ruins” (Sat. 15.5–6: “dimidio magicae resonant ubi Memnone chordae / atque vetus Thebe centum iacet obruta portis”).44 Lucian (whose evidence, of course, is to be taken with several grains of salt) tells a tale of two friends who sail to Egypt to pursue their studies, but take a holiday up the river to see the Pyramids and the Memnon colossus. One of the friends had “heard that the Pyramids, in spite of their great height, did not Page 14 of 43

Reading the Colossus cast a shadow, and that the Memnon statue uttered a sound at sunrise; eager [to experience] all this, to catch sight of the pyramids and hear Memnon, Demetrios had sailed off up the Nile . . .” (Toxaris 27: ἤκουε γὰρ ταύτας ὑψηλὰς οὔσας μὴ παρέχεσθαι σκιάν, τὸν δὲ Μέμνονα βοᾶν πρὸς ἀνατέλλοντα τὸν ἥλιον. τούτων ἐπιθυμήσας Δημήτριος, θέας μὲν τῶν πυραμίδων, ἀκροάσεως δὲ τοῦ Μέμνονος, ἀναπεπλεύκει κατὰ τὸν Νεῖλον). Even Alciphron mentions Memnon as an important tourist attraction: in one of his Letters of the Courtesans (4.19), he imagines Glycera encouraging Menander to accept an invitation to visit Egypt and see the famous sights of the pyramids, the labyrinth, and the singing statue(s) (4.19.7: τῶν ἠχούντων ἀγαλμάτων).45 (p.18) While the lack of any contemporary references to the inscriptions on the statue’s body is odd,46 it is clear from the ancient evidence that what really mattered was not text but sound: the auditory experience at dawn, when Memnon made his famous noise. Strabo had likened it to a “slight blow” emanating from the base or the middle of the statue itself; Pausanias, like Strabo before him, claims to have seen and heard the statue with his own eyes, but compares the sound rather to the twang of a string breaking on a musical instrument (1.42.3): ἐμοὶ δὲ παρέσχε μὲν καὶ τοῦτο θαυμάσαι, παρέσχε δὲ πολλῶι μάλιστα Αἰγυπτίων ὁ κολοσσός. ἐν Θήβαις ταῖς Αἰγυπτίαις, διαβᾶσι τὸν Νεῖλον πρὸς τὰς Σύριγγας καλουμένας, εἶδον ἔτι καθήμενον ἄγαλμα ἤχοῦν -Μέμνονα ὀνομάζουσιν οἱ πολλοί, τοῦτον γάρ φασιν ἐξ Αἰθιοπίας ὁρμηθῆναι ἐς Αἴγυπτον καὶ τὴν ἄχρι Σούσων· ἀλλὰ γὰρ οὐ Μέμνονα οἱ Θηβαῖοι λέγουσι, Φαμένωφα δὲ εἶναι τῶν ἐγχωρίων οὗ τοῦτο ἄγαλμα ἦν· ἤκουσα δὲ ἤδη καὶ Σέσωστριν φαμένων εἶναι {τοῦτο ἄγαλμα} -- ὃ Καμβύσης διέκοψε· καὶ νῦν ὁπόσον ἐκ κεφαλῆς ἐς μέσον σῶμά ἐστιν ἀπερριμμένον, τὸ δὲ λοιπὸν κάθηταί τε καὶ ἀνὰ πᾶσαν ἡμέραν ἀνίσχοντος ἡλίου βοᾶι, καὶ τὸν ἦχον μάλιστα εἰκάσει τις κιθάρας ἢ λύρας ῥαγείσης χορδῆς. The colossus in Egypt made me marvel far more than anything else. In Egyptian Thebes, upon crossing the Nile to the so-called Syringes [Tombs of the Kings], I saw a statue, still sitting, which gave out a sound. Most people call it Memnon, who they say came from Ethiopia and conquered Egypt, going as far as Susa. The local Thebans, however, say that it is a statue not of Memnon, but of a native man named Phamenoph, and I have heard others say that it is Sesostris. This statue was broken in two by Cambyses, and these days its head is broken off from its middle and lies on the ground; but the rest is seated, and every day at sunrise it makes a noise, and the sound resembles that of a harp or lyre when a string has been broken.

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Reading the Colossus This passage from ca. 160 CE works well as a bookend with the earlier Strabo passage; both authors mention the myth of Cambyses mutilating local statues;47 both admit to being uncertain of its identity—Strabo by omitting any reference, and Pausanias by offering up multiple identities (Memnon, Phamenoph, Sesostris);48 both turn to local tour guides or interpreters for information, while remaining skeptical of what they hear; and both try to describe exactly what they are hearing in rational, inanimate terms more familiar to their audience: a blow, a broken string. (p.19) The visitors who left inscriptions on the statue itself also struggled with how best to describe what they had heard: a noise from a headless statue, a cry without words that was still somehow “vocal.”49 Some, like Strabo and Pausanias, imagined an insentient source, a kind of metallic or resonant “ping.” Thus Julia Balbilla speaks of Memnon’s voice (28.7: αὐδή) resembling the highpitched sound of beaten bronze (28.7–8: ὠς χάλκοιο τύπεντ[ο]ς50 ἴη Μέμνων πάλιν αὔδαν / ὀξύτονον), and Gallus imagines Memnon’s voice resonating like the clang of bronze armor hit by weapons in war (36.4: θεινομένων χαλκῷ ἰκέλης). One visitor, in contrast, identifies the source of the voice (101.5: αὐδή) as sentient and evincing deep maternal grief; he attributes to Homer the idea that the sound comes not from Memnon’s headless form, but from his mother, Eos, who is then bizarrely characterized as “bellowing in a manner worthy of a god” as she laments her son (101.3: μύκημα θεοπρεπὲς ἐκπέμπουσα). The terminology for Memnon’s utterance may vary in the inscriptions themselves: φθέγγμα, φωνή, βοή, and αὐδή are all used at various points by different authors.51 But almost all the visitors who left inscriptions agreed that what they were hearing was best described as a voice—inarticulate perhaps, but still clearly meaningful, and a sign of favor from the hero himself. The specifically sonic aspect of the Memnon experience is a topic to which we will return in subsequent chapters. Statues, whatever their material composition, are more conventionally objects of visual admiration, and Memnon presents himself to the eye as a particularly large and solid object. But the Memnon statue as we know it from ancient evidence seems to function primarily as a medium for sound. At one level, the oral exchange between Memnon and his audience could be seen to reinforce a connection with orally composed and performed Homeric epic: the statue, a Homeric hero, cries out to a listener, who utters an oral response (“I heard Memnon”) that is also (subsequently?) made permanent through inscription on stone. This approach may be particularly relevant for those epigrams composed in dactylic hexameters. However, as we have noted above, the voice of the statue is not itself understandable in the typical sense of “speech.” The words of the fourth-century CE grammarian Donatus may be of help here (Ars Major):52

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Reading the Colossus Vox est aer ictus, sensibilis auditu, quantum in ipso est. Omnis vox aut articulata est aut confusa. Articulata est quae litteris comprehendi potest; confusa, quae scribi non potest. (p.20) A vox is air that has been struck and which, as much as it is not affected by other factors, can be heard. Every vox is either articulata or confusa. A vox articulata is one that can be represented by letters of the alphabet; a vox confusa is one that cannot be written down. What did visitors hear when they heard Memnon’s vox confusa? Certainly the mixed reports from witnesses (and even that word at its root assumes an ocular rather than auditory event) suggest that the sound emitted was fluid enough to allow for multiple interpretations; and the noise may indeed have sounded different, hinging on factors such as time of day, level of humidity or wind, and other seasonal or environmental variables. Why did some witnesses compare the sound to a mechanical acoustic event—a broken string, a metallic clang—while others claimed to hear a distinct voice and to understand exactly what the statue was saying (or trying to say)? We will return to the comparison of Memnon’s voice to a musical instrument in the final chapter on reception, as nineteenthcentury European poets imagined the statue operating in the manner of an Aeolian harp, dependent on interaction with outside forces (sun, wind) rather than possessing its own agency or power.53 But the comparison with the performance of non-vocal music is not unhelpful: Memnon’s cry occurs at a specific moment in time, disappears as the last note sounds, and can be understood on a number of levels, both intellectual and emotional. This aspect of the sound performance (i.e., the event’s essential impermanence) is particularly challenging for scholarly interpretation: Memnon’s utterance is repetitive yet ephemeral, just like dawn itself; it is a catalyst for inscribed texts, yet itself irrecoverable. The inscriptions themselves, reacting to Memnon’s utterances, may add a layer of permanence to the audience’s responses, but they also mislead us into thinking we can recreate the actual moment(s) of the statue’s utterance, the missing part of the dialogue. Written text cannot compensate for the ephemerality of Memnon’s voice. The desire to be in Memnon’s presence, to be able to experience in person an occasion of his sounding, drew visitors from near and far. The same desire to capture this sound has led critics and scholars over the years to attempt to find a logical natural cause for the voice, or to condemn it as fraudulent, stemming from a hidden human agent rather than a divine source. But the sound itself is the language of ruins—that is, absent and irretrievable other than in the imagination. The irony, as we will discuss in greater detail later, is that it was precisely the ruination, the rupture of the statue that allowed it to sound in the first place.

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Reading the Colossus (p.21) Graffiti, Inscriptions, Proskynemata Let us return to that which we can still witness: the inscriptions on the statue’s body. As suggested above, the experience for Memnon’s visitors of hearing the miraculous voice was closely coupled with the response of carving inscriptions onto the statue itself as a way to memorialize the event. I have been using the term “inscription” rather than “graffito” for all the carvings, whether simple proskynemata (“X was here”) or longer and more elaborate texts. Some would argue that there are crucial differences between these terms: a graffito is scratched or incised on a surface or object, can be textual or figural, and is often informal in content; an inscription is text incised with greater technical skill and formality.54 Others suggest that “a text carved on official orders in a public setting is an ‘inscription’ and one personally written by a private individual in a setting constrained by fewer rules of public behavior is a ‘graffito.’ ”55 Yet another approach views graffiti as texts or images that appear in unexpected places: thus Angelos Chaniotis speaks of “images or texts of unofficial character scratched on physical objects, whose primary function was not to serve as bearers of such images and inscriptions.”56 As we explore individual texts on the Memnon colossus in the chapters to follow, it will become clear that such distinctions, particularly those between official and unofficial, expected and unexpected, or public and private, are not always productive; we would like to recognize these sets as separate categories, but their boundaries remain stubbornly blurred. We cannot always be sure of the identity or class status of those who composed the lines—local or foreign, elite or middling, amateur or professional—or of those who did the actual work of inscribing—craftsmen or slaves who accompanied their sponsors, or local men who hired out their services; in some cases, the lines might have been optimistically commissioned or composed before the visitor even arrived at Thebes. As for turning the stone surface into a writing tablet or blank slate, we may think of texts scratched onto the pharaonic statue as a kind of secondary usage, or even vandalism, but the ancient visitors clearly did not.57 Some of the texts on the Memnon colossus seem to engage in a kind of dialogue with one another, responding or modifying earlier lines; most use the same phrase to describe hearing Memnon’s voice in the early hours of the morning, and reflect a similar wonder and amazement at the miraculous sound. Spatially, too, the lines react to one another, crowding into the places considered most favorable (i.e., low on the leg, with an eastern exposure so as to be touched (p.22) first by the morning sun58), as their inscribers were forced to adapt their lines’ shapes to fit around a preexisting text. As Rachel Mairs suggests for a comparable site, a shrine to Pan in the Egyptian desert at El Kanais popular with travelers in the Hellenistic and Roman periods, “the impetus to make a graffito in the first place probably came from reading and observing the large number of other texts on the rockface.”59

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Reading the Colossus One way to understand the impulse of both graffitist and inscriber is to consider the act of writing as praxis or event; “one might then see the material remains as an object which has been created by this event, and therefore view graffitiwriting as a particular relationship between a surface, text, image, author, and audience.”60 This fits well with what we can deduce from the context of the Memnon colossus. Visitors made their marks to celebrate the event of hearing Memnon, and at the same time contributed to the creation and ongoing development of a site of communal or cultural memory.61 The object created by this event is a manifestation of the event itself: the collection of incised testimonies, the record of auditory encounters that are carved on the stone of the colossus, as the texts gradually covered the surface of the image with the repeated name, Memnon. I will discuss below what evidence we can extract from the texts about author and audience, but it is clear that the colossus, simply by its location in the Theban plain, was open and accessible to a wide range of writing and reading communities: soldiers and emperors, men and women, Latin and Greek speakers, whoever could make the journey to the banks of the Nile. Many who left behind texts on the statue, and who occasionally were quite selfconscious about describing their acts of writing, identified their marks neither as graffiti nor as inscribed verses, but rather as proskynemata, a writing practice that approximates religious worship.62 Inscribed Greek proskynemata at both tourist and pilgrimage sites are abundant all over Roman Egypt, with wording that can range from simply a name or an exhortation of the god to lengthy metrical compositions that honor the god’s power or even the writer’s own social status.63 The custom of inscribing such proskynemata, or hiring someone else to do so (a poet to compose, a local professional to carve), may be (p.23) understood as a replacement for earlier expressions of supplicatory presence such as leaving figurines, offerings, or drawings (in the case of healing sanctuaries, drawings or figures of the diseased body part).64 The word proskynema itself seems originally to have meant a very specific act of religious adoration: “kissing the ground before the feet of the god or ruler.”65 Much debate exists on both the origins and precise meaning of the word and its derivatives (proskuneo, proskynesis), and scholars argue whether the word itself must be present in the inscription for it to be called a proskynema.66 At its most basic, we have a proskynema on the Memnon colossus dated to approximately 122 CE, by a woman named Julia Saturnina (65): Προσκύνημα Ἰουλίας Σατουρνίνης [This is the] proskynema of Julia Saturnina.

The Italian scholar Giovanni Geraci insists that by definition, only those inscriptions that include the term proskynema, like that of Julia Saturnina above, Page 19 of 43

Reading the Colossus can be so called. The Bernand brothers, however, expand the definition, and consider all inscriptions to be proskynemata if they include the name of the god, whether or not they also include the actual term proskynema. What most discussions agree on, however, is the overtly religious nature of the word. Geraci neatly defines proskynemata as “the epigraphical substitute for [the writer’s] worshipful presence before the god.”67 This definition of proskynema as a religious act is further supported by Stanley Burstein (“epigraphical substitutes for a worshipper that would enable him or her to perpetually benefit from the holiness of a particular place”),68 and Gaelle Tallet in her work on proskynema formulas.69 Some tourists do seem to exhibit a high degree of religious motivation, and their proskynemata reflect primarily the religious aspects of their visit. Thus at the temple of Hatshepsut, visitors were apparently encouraged to write graffiti as testimonials to the success of their visit to the oracle, the power of the god, and the accuracy of the priests’ dream analyses;70 similarly, at the shrine (p.24) to Sarapis in Canopus, Strabo (17.1.17) reports seeing testimonials written by those seeking cures through incubation.71 Scholars note that it was extremely rare to find complaints about the god’s failure amid the “litanies of cures and consolations;” rather, “inscriptions, votive statues and commemorative plaques marked a history of the active presence of the god, breaking through the barriers of the natural world with his or her miraculous activity.”72 One of the most detailed ancient descriptions of such a litany of miracles is by Pliny, commenting on the shrine of the river god Clitumnus in Umbria; he writes (Ep. 8.8.5–8),73 Adiacet templum priscum et religiosum . . . praesens numen atque etiam fatidicum indicant sortes . . . Nam studebis quoque: leges multa multorum omnibus columnis omnibus parietibus inscripta, quibus fons ille deusque celebratur. Plura laudabis, non nulla ridebis; quamquam tu vero, quae tua humanitas, nulla ridebis. An ancient and holy temple stands nearby . . . the written oracles lying there attest to the presence and prophetic powers of his divinity . . . You can study the numerous inscriptions written by many hands on all the columns and walls, in honor of the spring and the god. Most of them you will admire, but some will make you smile—although I know you are really too good-natured to smile at any of them.74 Although Pliny refers to a site in Italy rather than Egypt, his sly comments bring out the variety of experience of visitors to shrines: some will honor the god sincerely, others will mock the gullibility of their peers. But those who mock do not usually leave evidence of their disbelief at the site; they reserve their

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Reading the Colossus mockery for letters back home, or sophisticated discussions with like-minded elites. Not all visitors to the Memnon colossus, however, responded to the statue first and foremost as an object of religious worship; the same could be said of the nearby pharaonic tombs, the next stop for many tourists in the region. In her survey of the graffiti writers in Egyptian Thebes, Victoria Foertmeyer argues that the word proskynema is employed by many of them in a less overtly religious way than previous scholars claim. According to her tabulations of the graffiti at the tombs in the Valley of the Kings near Thebes, for example, there are ninety-six instances of the words proskynema and proskyneo, but (p.25) without any indication at all of a particular god (or pharaoh) to be honored.75 She proposes that76 the graffiti writers, by using the proskynema-formula (usually consisting of proskynema and the name(s) of relative(s) and/or friend(s) in the genitive) . . . without reference to a god or goddess, are formalizing and sanctifying their names at sites, even those which are not attested cult places, such as the Tombs in the Valley of the Kings, or the colossus of Memnon. If visitors are sanctifying their own names, or, in other words, associating themselves with the divine in the hope of gaining some advantage, whether spiritual, political, or material, they are treading a fine line between acknowledging the power of the god and hoping to increase their own well-being or prestige in some way. Piety (unsurprisingly) overlaps with self-interest. Thus David Frankfurter considers proskynemata from the Hellenistic and Roman periods as doubly motivated:77 It shows a mode of piety that is both individualized and public, where temple walls offer not only the physical proximity to a god or a source of healing . . . but also a slate for self-memorialization . . . a mode of representing oneself before others and before gods. There are many reasons for writing on monumental statues, buildings, or tombs: a desire to see one’s name “in print”; a sense that the words will confer some sort of immortality on the writer; a basic instinct to mark one’s presence; or even a sense of community with visitors who have come before. What is quite clear, however, is that writing on a monument did not indicate any kind of disrespect or defacement, but showed that the site was well visited and perhaps even at the height of its popularity.78 We have the enthusiastic encouragement from one pilgrim to posterity at the temple to Mandoulis on the southern frontiers of Egypt:79

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Reading the Colossus (p.26) Σέβου τὸ θεῖον. Θύε πᾶσι τοῖς θεοῖς. Ἐφ’ ἕκαστον ἱερὸν ἐπιπορεύου προσκυνῶν. Revere the divine; sacrifice to all the gods; travel in homage to each temple . . .

Part of revering the divine, for many of these travelers, was the act of leaving behind one’s mark; and leaving one’s mark, as we have already observed, also offered an opportunity for self-expression. Rather than take back with them an item to remember their visit with, a “souvenir,” these visitors left something behind at the site for others to witness: their names carved in the statue, temple, or tomb. The great philologist and decipherer of hieroglyphics Jean-Francois Champollion first used the term “carte de visite” of the sixth-century BCE Greek mercenaries’ graffiti at Abu Simbel, and the term is wonderfully apt for many ancient graffiti.80 A poet by the name of Maximus, visiting Egyptian Thebes sometime around 156 CE,81 expresses overtly what many visitors to the Memnon colossus must have hoped for when leaving behind their names, namely that future readers would remember not just Memnon, but also the name of the inscriber (55): Meas quoque auris Memnonis vox accidit; Nomen cieto quisque vatem Maximum. The voice of Memnon reached my ears, too; let each man utter the name of the poet Maximus.

While Maximus, in a rather self-congratulatory way as befits a vates, hopes that posterity will read his name aloud and obligingly honor him along with Memnon, not all inscriptions or graffiti were well received by their contemporary audiences. Plutarch says his readers, fellow elites, should not look at too much writing on tombs and walls as they walk along, as they mostly consist of overly familiar formulas (“So and so is the best of friends,” “Good luck to so and so”); he claims that reading such inanities will turn a person into a busybody (Mor. 520d–e).82 Many centuries later, Gustave Flaubert traveled the same tourist path and reinforced Plutarch’s view, commenting grumpily, “on est irrité par la quantité de noms d’imbéciles écrits partout: en haut de la Grande Pyramide, il y a un Buffard 79 rue St. Martin fabricant de papers peints, en lettres noires.”83 We can point to many examples of this kind on (p.27) the colossus: highranking Roman officials like Marcus Herennius above, who came sometimes in the company of their wives and children, and who used up so much space listing their rank, administrative duties, and other political affiliations that there was barely any room left over for “I heard Memnon.”84 But pace the intellectual snobbery of Flaubert, these examples actually give us great insight into the different kinds of people who visited during the two hundred years the statue was active.

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Reading the Colossus Prosopographia So what sort of personal data can we collect from the surface of the statue? There is information on class status, identity, names of friends and family members, occupation, place of origin, date of visit, number of repeat visits, time of day the voice was heard, most popular season for visits, arrival by river or land route, and much more.85 People came singly, with wives or children, and with multiples of friends, whether civilian or military.86 High-ranking civil administrators and military officers signed at every location on the tourist route in Roman Egypt; at the colossus, however, proportionately more soldiers and administrative officers signed than self-professed “intellectuals” (i.e., artists or poets, doctors, lawyers, philosophers): of the fifty-three inscriptions on the colossus that give information about the signer’s occupation, forty-five declare an affiliation with the military or government, while five fit the category of artists.87 Victoria Foertmeyer speculates that members of the military tended to visit Memnon because the site may have been guarded by fellow soldiers;88 but the site had no strategic significance, so this is an unlikely explanation.89 It may simply have been convenient to various groups’ itineraries, and many soldiers and administrators had professional reasons to be living or traveling (p.28) in Egypt. Within the category of administrators signing on the colossus, we find eight prefects of Egypt, one prefect’s wife, and a slew of other officials: an idiologos, epistrategoi, strategoi, archidicasts, imperial secretaries (grammateis basilikoi), and procurators.90 While some of these visitors might have been stationed temporarily in the area— for example, Lucius Funisulanus Charisius, strategos of the local Hermonthite and Latopolite nome, who came with his wife, Fulvia, in 122 CE and signed the statue twice—others, such as Hadrian, Sabina, and their entourage, traveled longer distances during their extended Eastern tour.91 Some visitors even tell us exactly how they arrived at the statue, as is the case with the undated inscription by Claudius Geminus, who seems to have been conducting business on the Nile as he repeatedly sailed by the site of the colossus (67):92 Κλαύδιος Γέμινος ἀραβάρχης καὶ ἐπιστράτηγος Θηβαΐδος, ἤκουσα ἀναπλέων ὥρας γ´, (p.29) καταπλέων ὥρας β´, καὶ ἀναπλέων π[άλιν] ἤκουσα Τῦβι κε´ὥρα[ς γ´?]. I, Claudius Geminus, arabarches and epistrategos of the Thebaid, sailing up the river, heard [Memnon] at the third hour; sailing down the river, at the second hour, and sailing back up again, I heard [him], on the 25th of Tubi, at the third hour. Page 23 of 43

Reading the Colossus We will meet other visitors in the next chapter who never intended to stop at Memnon at all, but found themselves passing by on the way to another destination: Celer (23), for example, who was on his way to worship at the temple of Hatshepsut at Deir el-Bahari, and happened to pass by the site both going and returning; he heard Memnon’s voice on his way back, arriving just at the propitious first hour. Since many of the inscriptions give not just the year but also the precise hour, day, and month, we can recreate a seasonal pattern for touristic travel to Thebes. After collecting and analyzing the dated inscriptions on the Memnon colossus, as well as those in the tombs, the French scholar Jean Baillet concluded that the most popular time to travel to Egypt was between the more temperate winter months of Hathyr (late October through late November) and Pharmouthi (late March through late April).93 Of the forty-five inscriptions at the Memnon colossus that specify a month, thirty-five refer to this winter season. Other locations, such as the temple of Isis at Philae, had well-established dates for festivals on their cult calendars that did not necessarily coincide with good conditions for sailing up the Nile (e.g., during the summer flood season, during winter storms); but since Memnon was not a cult center, visitors could choose to travel when it was most convenient for them. In addition to providing us with a date, most of the visitors specified the exact hour when they heard Memnon’s cry; it was a sign of great honor to hear the cry at the break of dawn, and those lucky enough to experience it made sure to record that detail. The majority of visitors did indeed hear Memnon “at the first hour” (fifteen total references);94 other times the voice was heard include the first hour and a half (six references), the second hour (eight references), the second hour and a half (one reference), the third hour (seven references), the fourth hour (one reference), and various other less specific times: at night, (p. 30) just before dawn, or at the moment of daybreak (six references).95 The luckiest visitors were greeted not just once, but multiple times during the same visit. Thus Sabinius Fuscus, leader of a cavalry regiment—“praef(ectus) coh(ortis) I Hisp(anorum) equitatae”—reports that he heard Memnon twice in the second hour: “audi . . . h(ora) II bis” (9), while Gaius Vibius Maximus, prefect of Egypt, had to wait a bit longer to hear the repetition of the sound, hearing Memnon once in the second hour and a half, and once in the third hour: “audit Memnonem . . ./hora (secunda et dimidia) semel et (tertia) sem[el]” (15).96 Others claimed to have heard Memnon three or even four times: Aquila, the epistrategos of the Thebaid, who came with his wife Asidonia Galla in 134 CE, insists that he not only heard Memnon three times in the space of the first and second hour, but that he heard him distinctly, bene, without a doubt (41):97 Horam cum primum cumque horam sole secundam Prolata Oceano luminat alma dies Vox audita mihi est ter bene Memnonia. Page 24 of 43

Reading the Colossus [Aq]uila [epistr]ategus Thebaidos fecit, cum audit Memnonem XI K(alendas) Iun(ias) Serviano III co(n)s(ule) cum Asidonia Galla uxore. When the nurturing day, carried out from beyond the Ocean, illuminated the first hour and the second hour with the sun’s rays, I heard three times, clearly, the voice of Memnon. Aquila the epistrategos of the Thebaid made [these verses], when he heard Memnon, on the eleventh day before the Kalends of June, in the third consulship of Servianus, accompanied by his wife, Asidonia Galla.

A man named Rufus, possibly a Roman soldier stationed in Egypt, is one of the luckiest listeners: he heard Memnon’s voice a grand total of four times, presumably during a single visit on 26 February 121 CE (17):98 (p.31) [An]no V Imp(eratoris) n(ostri) [Ha]driani IV K(alendas) Mar(tias) . . . ius Rufus . . . ius [M]emnonem [audivi]t quater. In the fifth year of our emperor Hadrian, on the fourth day before the Kalends of March, . . . ius Rufus . . . ius heard Memnon four times.

Along with frequency of hearing, we can also document how many visitors left behind more than one inscription.99 One of the most prolific signers was Julia Balbilla, who left four separate inscriptions in her name, over a period of three days, on behalf of her patrons, Hadrian and Sabina (28–31). Another educated woman, Caecilia Trebulla, who may also have been part of Hadrian’s entourage, left three inscriptions adjacent to one another, alternating between her own first-person voice and the voice of Memnon addressing his visitors (92–94). We will consider both these women’s poetry in detail in a later chapter. Two repeat visitors, Quintus Marcius Hermogenes (38 and 39) and Fidus Aquila with his wife Asidonia Galla (41 and 42), in a consummate turn toward variatio, and presumably to show off their paideia, wrote one inscription in Latin and the other in Greek.100 Aquila, whose Latin inscription we read above, included a small joke in his Greek inscription, writing that Memnon had no (p.32) hesitation speaking to them the second time, since he had already addressed them previously (42.1–2):101 Φείδῳ καὶ | [Γ]άλλῃ πρό|φ[ρω]ν ἐφθέγξα | το [Μέ]μνων|, Θηβαΐ[δος] προμα|θὼν το[ὺς δύο κη]δε|μόνας. Page 25 of 43

Reading the Colossus Memnon eagerly spoke out to Fidus and Galla, since he already knew the two protectors of the Thebaid.

Other repeat inscribers, whose lines will be discussed in detail in later chapters, include Paion of Side, a professional poet who wrote Greek elegiacs both for his patron Mettius Rufus, prefect of Egypt in 89–91 CE (11), and on his own behalf (12); Lucius Funisulanus and his wife, Fulvia, who visited in 122 CE and left one very businesslike (18: name, rank, hour, date, frequency) “carte de visite” along with another (19) long flowery example in Greek, including the insertion of a four-line poetic hymn in honor of Memnon; and the centurion Marius Gemellus, who witnessed the miracle of Memnon with his wife, Rufilla, in 150 CE, and left behind three elaborate literary showpieces on the statue (51, 52, 53). Another group of three (48, 54, 55) may belong to relatives: the editors, observing stylistic overlap as well as the similarity of the names, postulate that Titus Statilius Maximus Severus, who heard Memnon at the first hour in February 136 CE (48), may be the father of the self-professed “vates” Maximus Statilius, who wrote two inscriptions (54 and 55) in ca. 156 CE. The father was an idiologos,102 the son most likely an epistrategos.103 Thus two imperial functionaries left their names twenty years apart on the colossus. One could even read “quoque” in the first line of the son’s second inscription (55.1: “Meas quoque auris Memnonis vox accidit”; “the voice of Memnon reached my ears, too”) as a direct response to his father’s earlier successful visit to the statue.104 We also have examples of visitors who sign more than once, but without a clear motivation. For example, Claudius Maximus, a centurion of the Twenty-Second Legion, the “Deiotariana,” left behind two short inscriptions quite close to one another, both undated, catalogued by the editors as 44: Claudius Maximus (centurio) leg(ionis) XXII audivi hora prima. (p.33) I, Claudius Maximus, (centurion) of the Twenty-Second Legion, heard (Memnon) in the first hour.

And 45: Claudius Maximus (centurio) leg(ionis) XXII audi Memnonem hora (prima). I, Claudius Maximus, (centurion) of the Twenty-Second Legion, heard Memnon in the (first) hour.

These two inscriptions were written by the same man, and were carved by the same hand; the form of the letters is identical. We cannot tell from the information provided whether Claudius Maximus is responding to one event of Page 26 of 43

Reading the Colossus hearing Memnon at dawn, or two successive events. The only obvious difference between the two passages, other than the omission of Memnon’s name in 44 and the alteration between perfect-tense forms “audi” (45) and “audivi” (44), is their placement on the statue. The editors suggest that this centurion may have been displeased with the position of his first inscription, and requested that the carver recarve the lines, with a slight difference in content, in a place better exposed to the rays of the morning sun. Inscription 45 does occupy a more propitious spot on the statue than the adjacent lines of 44.105 But the prize for the highest frequency of visits goes to the centurion Lucius Tanicius, originally from Vienne on the Rhone River, who visited thirteen times between November 80 and June 81 CE, each time recording the hour and date that he heard Memnon (7); we will return to this extraordinary list in the next chapter. Tanicius’s tactic worked only because he visited at an early enough date that the statue’s surface was still relatively empty. Later visitors would be forced to squeeze their lines in higher up, or at odd angles on the statue’s legs.

The Mnema Function Now that we have surveyed some of the different types of inscriptions on the colossus, we can turn to the implications of the practice in general. What were the motivations of these visitors? By inscribing their lines on the Memnon (p. 34) colossus, visitors inserted themselves into a series of repeatable communal events: Memnon uttered a cry at dawn every day, witnessed by a crowd of fellow tourists, as well as most likely local priests and entrepreneurs, as we have learned from the evidence presented in this chapter. But the same cry could evoke a number of different responses, and each visitor both participated as a member of the group visiting on that particular day, and experienced the event as unique to himself or herself. The choice visitors made in terms of inscriptional narration, from a simple three-word proskynema to more extended, often versified elaboration, speaks volumes about their own sense of self in the context of the group. One can argue that, in addition to commemorating something that happened at a specific place and time, these inscriptions also fulfill what has been called the “mnema function,” or the function of social memory aimed at a human audience, in which the inscription extends the memory of the dedicator’s name in connection with the monument beyond the time it would be remembered without the aid of writing.106 Many of the inscribers supplement their public, socially sanctioned narrative act of commemoration (mnema function) with a personal, particularized narrative act of self-fashioning.107 Some of the lines chiseled on the Memnon colossus show a wonderful variety of additional detail, a richness of texture that can be attributed to authorial or poetic play, or even a kind of internal dialogue with the statue itself, as Memnon, crying out at dawn, invites a response. We will find that the elaborations, while often appearing to be focused on Memnon’s identity, are just as often rhetorical performances of identity on the part of the inscribers,

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Reading the Colossus whether to document their high social status, or to display their erudition and deep knowledge of Homer. The concept of commemoration and the implications of social performance and cultural memory inform much of the discussion in the chapters to follow. The Egyptologist Jan Assmann, drawing on Maurice Halbwachs’ earlier work on collective memory,108 writes of “das kulturelle Gedächtnis,” a system combining cultural codes that imbue objects with meaning with a (p.35) kind of institutionalized mnemonic system that allows memory to last over a long period of time.109 The idea of objects imbued with cultural memory resonates with my approach to the Memnon colossus.110 But as in the case of the Hellenistic tomb inscription that begs a passerby to stop and read its lines, the memories imbued in the colossus need human “excavators.” As Ahuvia Kahane puts it, “Ruins, no matter how clear, do not really ‘speak for themselves’, but they prompt us to make them speak.”111 Visitors’ memories are activated or cued112 by their interactions with the colossus—that is, hearing it speak first thing in the morning—and strengthened by their engagement with other inscriptions on its surfaces. Seeking to confirm their preconceptions of the statue’s behavior and its connection to a remote Greek past, and ultimately convinced that it embodies the epic hero Memnon, they take away fresh memories from their encounter, reaffirming their preconceptions and adding a new layer to their store of memories. Their new memories, in turn, are added to the storehouse of cultural memory connected with the colossus. Cultural memory, thus, is emphatically not static, but is constantly shifting and being renegotiated. Elizabeth Minchin, writing about “the stratigraphy of cultural memory” with regard to Troy itself, describes it as “the slow-growing product of an accumulation of cultural memory, which has been sustained and fostered by an epic tradition that has itself responded to the Troy story.”113 Memory is an always changing, renewable mental process, and the Memnon visitors are not simply remembering cultural history, but rather actively remaking memories as they engage with the monumental statue.114 The historian Edward Chaney coined the term “cultural memorials” to describe both generic types of monuments, such as obelisks or sphinxes, and specific objects, such as the Obelisk of Domitian, that have meanings attributed to them that evolve over time.115 The colossus is a perfect example of a memorial object with a specific cultural meaning—a funerary monument to an Egyptian pharaoh— whose original context was forgotten or suppressed, and reconfigured as a new memorial object—Memnon—celebrating a specifically Greco-Roman cultural (p. 36) context.116 This evolution was encouraged by the fragmented state of the colossus, which invited a kind of supplementation or completion. Memnon may no longer be able to perform the function of honoring the dead, since the very “face” he has lost, with its Egyptian royal headgear, was what marked him out as pharaoh. But at another level, he could never “be” Memnon without the fragmentation; the ruin that marks the loss also marks the emergence of the Page 28 of 43

Reading the Colossus voice. Memnon’s visitors, having forgotten or never having known the Egyptian context, bring to the site a combination of preconceived ideas and memories about epic Memnon and the reputation of the colossus’s miraculous voice; all this intensifies the particular visual and aural experience of each visitor at that particular place. Another scholar of cultural memory, the French historian Pierre Nora, proposed a tripartite division of the elements that constitute what he terms “places of memory”: the symbolic or collective dimension, the will of memory, and the passage of time.117 This last category is key for the Memnon colossus as a place of memory: “les lieux de mémoire sont (ou sont construits pour etre) un vestige du passé, qui engage à s’interroger sur le rapport du groupe à son passé.” As Anne Gangloff points out in her work on lieux de mémoire in the imperial Greek East, the idea of the evocative power of place to spur memory is quite familiar from antiquity: Simonides’ memory techniques, for example, are based on visual recall, and Cicero, reporting the words of Pison, discusses the importance of space for recollection and memory in de Finibus 5.12 (“tanta vis admonitionis inest in locis”/ “there is so much power of suggestion in places”).118 Both cultural and collective memory are thus closely tied to places, and Nora offers a helpful list of the kinds of places he has in mind: topographical (archives, libraries, museums); monumental (cemeteries, architecture); symbolic (commemorations, pilgrimages, anniversaries, emblems); and functional (manuals, autobiographies, associations).119 If we accept these terms, the Memnon colossus may be defined as a lieu de mémoire on multiple levels: topographical, in that it functions as an archive of inscriptions; monumental, in the most basic sense of its being a monument itself; and symbolic, in that it is a tourist destination that commemorates a hero from the epic past. Memnon is not by any means unique as a gateway to the past located in a specific place; many writers in the imperial period were fascinated by the potential of such lieux de mémoire. Thus Francesca Mestre shows how Philostratus in his Heroicus, for example, collapses the geographical space of the Greek world and the mythological or historical space of the past; hence we find living Homeric heroes wandering around contemporary landscapes.120 Imperial writers such (p.37) as Pausanias and the novelists also focus on the evocative power of place, and use the past to speak of the present.121 Elizabeth Minchin claims it is a universal desire “to incorporate some part of a collectively remembered past into our very own experience,” and this may well be one explanation for the instinct on the part of the Memnon visitors to commemorate their visits with inscriptions.122 I argue that many of the visitors to Memnon also exhibit multiple motivations: a desire to engage individually with Memnon in his function as a link to a remote heroic past; a desire for self-promotion, as seen in many of the elaborate biographical details and cursus honorum provided in the inscriptions; and an eagerness to participate in the communal event of gathering Page 29 of 43

Reading the Colossus at the base of the colossus to listen for the miraculous voice at dawn. The Memnon visitors were drawn to the site because of earlier literary traditions (e.g., Homer, the epic cycle, historians) as well as more contemporary cultural memory (previous visitors’ reports, hearsay). Their interest in the vocal Memnon may have been further piqued when various emperors made the journey to Egypt, or added Egyptian Thebes as a destination on their tours of the empire. While most ancient witnesses spoke with awe and wonder of the inscribed statue’s mysterious voice, and happily followed in the footsteps of previous visitors on pilgrimage, there were always some, such as Strabo, who reacted with skepticism. Similarly, although the European Romantics would later take up Memnon as a kind of culture hero (and we will discuss this “Nachleben” in Chapter 6), there were always those who remained unmoved and unimpressed by the phenomenon. Gustave Flaubert, whose reaction to graffiti on the Pyramids we have already noted, was quite dismissive of the Memnon colossus:123 Les colosses de Memnon sont très gros—quant à faire de l’effet, non. . . Les inscriptions grecques se lisent très bien—il n’y a pas été difficile de les relever—Des pierres qui ont occupé tant de monde, que tant d’hommes sont venus voir, font plaisir à contempler—combien de regards de bourgeois se sont levés là-dessus! Chacun a dit son petit mot et s’en est allé. One gets the impression that Flaubert faults the statue for being too “easily read”; it might be a joy to look at, but not impressive, because the inscriptions are by the “bourgeois,” the ancient cousins of Monsieur Buffard, the pushy wallpaper manufacturer from Paris whom we met earlier in the chapter. The wondrous gives way to the trivial. But to my mind, the juxtaposition of the sublime and the mundane is precisely what is most engaging about the Memnon inscriptions. On the same surface we read official notifications of royal visits, (p. 38) lengthy curricula vitae by Roman soldiers, minimalist references to a name and a date, and the “postcard” sentimentality of an elite Greek-speaking female tourist who wishes her mother could share her experience (Caecilia Trebulla, 92). The colossus itself is the site of many juxtapositions: the sacred and the touristic, elite and non-elite, Greek and Roman, past and present, literary and monumental discourse. As such, it offers us a valuable glimpse into a fascinating two centuries in the life of a statue that functioned as a canvas for the crowds who passed by and left their mark. In the next chapter, I will discuss in greater detail how “Memnon tourism” functioned, and what we can reconstruct from the inscriptions themselves of the role of sacred tourism at Egyptian Thebes. Notes:

(1) Pococke’s letters are now easily accessible in three volumes edited by Rachel Finnegan for Pococke Press; the relevant volume from Egypt is Finnegan (2013). Page 30 of 43

Reading the Colossus (2) Pococke (1743): 101–102. For another perspective on friction over antiquities between European travelers and locals, and the corresponding vilification of local resistance as superstition or avarice, see Anderson (2015): 450–460. (3) There is some competition for this claim. The French Jesuit Claude Sicard (1677–1726), commissioned by Philippe d’Orléans to explore ancient monuments in Egypt, may have identified the colossi of Memnon; see Bagnall and Rathbone (2004): 47–50. We should also acknowledge the publication, quickly superseded by Pococke’s superior treatment, by the Danish antiquarian and scholar Frederik Norden (1708–1742), who visited the Memnon colossus a few years earlier than Pococke. Norden, however, included only one Greek and ten Latin inscriptions in his publication; see Norden (1741). (4) They published their findings in Jollois and Devilliers (1809), discussing the colossus and some of the inscriptions on pp. 77–120; a second edition followed in 1821. Jollois and Devilliers reported only seventy-two of the inscriptions on the statue. (5) A squeeze is formed by pressing layers of wet paper, latex, or plaster onto an inscription. When the material dries and is peeled away, it offers a threedimensional negative image of the original inscription. For more information, see the Smithsonian Institution’s Squeeze Imaging Project: www.asia.si.edu/ research/squeezeproject. (6) Lepsius’s (1849–1859) thirteen-volume set, with its maps and drawings (including nearly nine hundred plates of ancient inscriptions), remained a valuable source for Egyptologists well into the twentieth century; it was reprinted in Geneva by Éditions de Belles-Lettres in 1972. (7) Wescher (1871) worked from autopsy of the stone surface itself; the next editor actually to work directly from the Memnon colossus was Peek (1934). See Bernand and Bernand (1960): 6–7. (8) Letronne (1833) and Letronne (1848); Mommsen (1873); and Buecheler (1895) and Buecheler (1897). (9) For Amenhotep’s dates, see Griffith (1998): 212–234, esp. 222. For the source of the stone itself in a quarry near Cairo, see Heizer et al. (1973): 1219–1225. (10) General information on the statues is taken from Siliotti (1997). (11) Excavations of the site, however, are ongoing, and the archaeologist Hourig Sourouzian has unearthed pieces of other colossal statues of Amenhotep III in the same area. With reference to past flooding, a drawing by the Victorian Scottish artist David Roberts (1848), working with the lithographer Louis Haghe, printed as Plate 8, documents how high up the base of the statues the floodwaters could reach; a drawing by Frederick Catherwood (1830, London: Page 31 of 43

Reading the Colossus British Museum) clearly shows the cracked base and the blocks of stone used to repair the upper segment above the waist. See Boardman (2003): 121. (12) For the debate on Memnon’s ethnographic origins, and the possibility of Amenhotep III as an Egyptian model for Memnon, see Griffith (1998): 212–234. (13) For the phrase, see Swetnam-Burland (2015): 10. (14) For the term “pendant” (i.e., a pairing of monumental statues in a public, imperial context, in which the two pieces are meant to be understood together), Swetnam-Burland (2015): 155 points to the Vatican Nile and the Louvre Tiber: “in Roman art, pendants encouraged active modes of viewing, inviting reflection on theme and scrutiny of form.” (15) The inscriptions on Memnon’s body curiously invert the frequent association of inscription on the body with death. Holmes (2008): 98 argues that in several episodes in Aelius Aristides’ narratives, “it is precisely the body’s conversion into a textual surface that appears to preclude its regeneration.” But for Memnon, the inscriptions are a testament to the statue’s agency and miraculously regenerated voice. (16) See Adams (2003): 546–555; but also Adams (1999): 128, pointing out that writing in Latin was a deliberate choice: “Almost all the military inscriptions at the Colossus, whether by centurions or others, are in Latin, but that does not necessarily reflect monolingualism on the part of the writers.” (17) For the idea of “building memory” and forgetting, and an argument for multiple memory types, see Nixon (2012): 188–214. (18) Foertmeyer (1989): 150, note 109, counts thirty-five inscriptions dated to Hadrian’s reign, including six (28–33) written by members of the emperor’s retinue, and points out that Hadrian’s visit to the statue had an impact on subsequent tourist traffic: “fewer inscriptions were written on it during his reign prior to 130 A.D. than after the imperial visit that year” (121). (19) The most important earlier publications are the editions of Letronne (1833 and 1848), who never saw the stone itself but rather worked from facsimiles; and the monograph by Bataille (1952). For an assessment of previous editions and scholarship, see Bernand and Bernand (1960): 2–8. (20) The critical signs used here and in the rest of the Memnon corpus discussed in this book are taken directly from the text of the Bernands (1960), whose spellings and accents are on occasion somewhat suspect. In addition, they do not follow the epigraphical Leiden Conventions proposed in van Groningen (1932): 262–269, but rather the idiosyncratic model of Louis and Jeanne Robert (1954) 2: 9–11. Their signs thus have the following meanings (Bernand and Bernand [1960]: xi): [square brackets] represent letters that have disappeared but can be Page 32 of 43

Reading the Colossus reconstructed with some probability; represent letters carved by mistake that should be suppressed; and (regular parentheses) can mean (1) the resolution of an abbreviation; (2) the addition of a letter or letters that have been omitted by the carver or copyist; and (3) corrections by the editors of text provided either by the stone or a copy. I follow the Bernand brothers’ (1960) published text, but all translations of Greek and Latin, unless otherwise noted, are my own. (21) On the activity of centurions at the Memnon colossus, see Adams (1999): 109–134, esp. 128–129. Ten of the Memnon inscriptions are written by (or for) centurions: 2, 7, 10, 25, 44, 47, 51, 53, and 101; inscriptions by other military personnel include 6, 9, 14, 20, 38, 39, 46, 56, 60, and 74. (22) The Sodales Augustales was an order of Roman priests founded by Tiberius in 14 CE to maintain the cult of Augustus and the Iulii; see Tacitus Ann. 1.54. (23) For this information on military camps and sites, see R. Stillwell et al. (1976). (24) On Roman senatorial and military careers, see Goldsworthy (2011). (25) The surname Falernus appears twice in Greek graffiti at the Tombs of the Kings; see Bernand and Bernand (1960): 151; and Baillet (1926) nos. 1782 and 1899. Bernand and Bernand (1960): 149 claim that the inscription by Falernus must have been written after inscription 60 (dated by Geta’s consulship) because of its overlapping placement: “L’inscr. gr. est gravée par-dessus l’inscr. lat. 60, dont la première ligne (M. Herennius, etc . . . ) est lisible au-dessus de la première ligne de l’inscr. gr.” (26) The accent on ἀξία is incorrect, given that it is a neuter plural modifying [Τ]αῦτα; it should be corrected to ἄζια. (27) As I will discuss in greater depth in the last chapter, Bowersock (1984): 21– 32 convincingly argues against Letronne’s (1833) thesis of an earlier repair by Septimius Severus, and for the identification of Queen Zenobia of Palmyra as the person ultimately responsible for the inadvertent silencing of Memnon. Given the dating of the last inscription to ca. 205 CE, the attribution by Lukaszewicz (2010): 256 of the repair to Antoninus Caracalla, who visited the colossus in 214 CE, seems unlikely. (28) Jones (1932) 8:120–122. In the Iliad, Homer distinguishes Greek Thebes (Il. 4.406: “seven-gated Thebes”) from Egyptian Thebes (Il. 9.383: “hundred-gated Thebes”). See also Kim (2010), especially Chapter 3 (pp. 47–84) on Strabo’s Geography; and Kim (2007): 363–388.

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Reading the Colossus (29) Strabo (19.1.46), while calling the area in Thebes on the “far side of the river” (i.e., the west bank of the Nile) the “Memnonium,” does not identify either of the two colossi as Memnon; in addition, unlike later sources, although he refers to Cambyses as the person responsible for damaging other monuments in the region, he does not connect Cambyses with damage specifically to the colossi. Cf. Gardiner (1961): 91–99, who argues that Strabo’s identification of the area as a Memnonium “must obviously be explained as referring to a building where the hero called Memnon was in some way commemorated” (92), and therefore Strabo implicitly identifies the statue(s) as Memnon. But the term is also used by Strabo for impressive temple buildings in other regions, and may suggest that they were constructed by someone named Memnon rather than built in his honor; see Gardiner (1961): 93. The word “Memnonia” combined with the word “palace” had previously been used by Herodotus (5.53: τὰ βασιλήια τὰ Μεμνόνια καλεόμενα) to refer to a king’s palace complex in Susa, and Diodorus also spoke of ancient royal homes as “Memnonia.” For more on the term, see Haeny (1966): 203–212; Bravi (2007): 82–84; and Lukaszewicz (2010): 255–264. (30) Eustathius (1710): 44 states in his commentary on Dionysius the Periegete’s Orbis Descriptio lines 249–250 (ἔνθα γεγωνὼς/Μέμνων ἀντέλλουσαν ἑὴν ἀσπάζεται Ἠω/“ubi resonans/Memnon exorientem suam salutat Auroram”) that the voice was achieved by some sort of trick (διά τινος δὲ μηχανῆς), and that Memnon was actually nothing but “the babbling of an automaton” (καὶ οὕτω πως ἐξ αὐτομάτου προσλαλῶν); see also Foertmeyer (1989): 52 note 99. I will return to this idea of a deceptive or mechanical voice in my final chapter. (31) Strabo tells us that guides also led him through Heliopolis (Strabo 17.1.29); Julia Balbilla (29, 31) refers to local priests at the Memnon colossus, who tell her stories about the statue’s multiple identities, and possibly were on hand to translate hieroglyphics for curious visitors; see Foertmeyer (1989): 82 and 166– 170 for a more general discussion of the tourist industry in Egypt; and Tallet (2016): 304 for the idea that priests at another sanctuary (Talmis-Kalabsha) might have “protected the holy spaces from haphazard inscriptions, either by inscribing the proskynemata themselves or by restricting the spaces devoted to the inscriptions.” (32) Pliny was not indifferent to inscriptions, as we see in 36.14, where he mentions Egyptian obelisks in the Circus Maximus and Campus Martius at Rome that are inscribed with what he calls the teachings of the Egyptian sages, as well as an obelisk in Heliopolis carved with Egyptian letters; in contrast, he records two obelisks at Heliopolis and one at Alexandria that are uninscribed. (33) See Rasmussen (2003): 23.

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Reading the Colossus (34) As suggested to me by the anonymous reader, one can compare Memnon’s removal to Egypt with the transportation of Sarpedon from Troy to Lycia; in both cases, divine parentage protects the warriors after death. (35) Fairbanks (1931): 28–32. (36) Philostratus’s separation of sun (Helios) from dawn (Eos) is paralleled by one of the inscriptions on the colossus itself (13, by the prefect Titus Petronius Secundus, of Memnon being hit by the rays of Apollo), but most versions of the story connect the dawn’s light with Memnon’s cry. Philostratus also discusses Memnon in the Heroicus (3.4), separating a Trojan Memnon who killed Antilochus and was in turn killed by Achilles, from an Ethiopian king by the same name, who never went to Troy, but rather “a sandy burial mound was raised up for him on the banks of the Nile, and Egyptians and Ethiopians worship him at Meroe and Memphis; whenever the sun shows its first rays, the statue utters a cry with which it acknowledges the cult attendants.” (37) The district itself is already referred to as “ta Memnoneia” in the third century BCE, even if the statue itself is not. Some scholars think the statue was first called Memnon after the mysterious noise began ca. 27/26 BCE, while others argue that the noise only confirmed established legend; see the discussion in Griffith (1998): 224. Griffith (1998): 225–228 argues that the Greeks actually modeled Memnon on Amenhotep. On the connection between Memnon and Memnoneia, see Haeny (1966): 203–212 and Lukaszewicz (2008): 255–263. (38) Foertmeyer (1989): 24. (39) Griffith (1998): 224. (40) See Gardiner (1961): 95 and Griffith (1998): 224. (41) The re-interpretation of an unfamiliar object as a variation on a more familiar Greek object (interpretatio graeca) is a phenomenon familiar from other imperial texts; see, e.g., Lucian, De Dea Syria, and the commentary by Lightfoot (2003), as well as Tallet (2016): 303–306. (42) Text from Fisher (1906). Baldwin (1985): 497 notes that Tacitus shows no skepticism about the vocal statue: “Since it is his Prince Charming who is in question, Tacitus manages to report the phenomenon (Ann. 2.61) without any sneers at credulity or Egyptians.” (43) The issue is complicated, however, by the possibility that Tacitus may have been reflecting knowledge from his own period rather than that of Germanicus.

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Reading the Colossus (44) I will return to the Juvenal passage in the final chapter; see also the scholia on Juvenal 15.5, p. 226 Wessner: “mechanicum aliquod esse, quod intra statuam lateret; nihilo minus tamen aperta statua, [ . . . ] horis statutis sonum reddidit; ideo ‘dimidio’ dixit, id est ‘aperto et diviso’: Memnonis ex aere statua citharam tenens certis horis canebat; hanc Cambyses rex iussit aperiri” (“that there is some mechanism, that is hidden inside the statue; nonetheless, when the statue was opened, it gave back a sound at the appointed hour; therefore he [Juvenal] said ‘truncated,’ that is ‘open and split apart’: the bronze statue of Memnon, holding a lyre, used to sing at particular hours; King Cambyses ordered this [statue] to be opened up.” (45) For the passage, see Granholm (2012): 136–137. This reference has been used as a terminus ante quem for Alciphron by Baldwin (1985): 500, who argues that if Memnon was not attested before Strabo, and silenced by the time of Septimius Severus, then “Alciphron will have written not later than the first decade of the third century.” (46) Cf. Bing (2002): 39–66, who thinks that some inscriptions in antiquity could have functioned like commercial billboards today: a passerby notices them without necessarily reading them. (47) Two inscriptions also mention Cambyses as mutilator: 29 (Julia Balbilla) and 94 (Caecilia Trebulla). (48) Three inscriptions also offer multiple Egyptian identifications: 29, Amenoth (Julia Balbilla); 31, Phamenoth (Julia Balbilla); 99, Ammonian son of the city of No (Achilles). (49) For a convenient list of the terminology used, see Cirio (2011): 42. For a fascinating approach to the nuances of voice, speech, and sound, see Butler (2015): 36–39, 112–115; and Gurd (2016). (50) Here the reading τύπεντ[ο]ς reveals another incorrect accent choice on the part of the editors. (51) φθέγγμα or φθέγγομαι: 13.7; 42.1; 70.1; 83.1; 93.7; 94.7; 98.3; 99.3. φωνή or φωνέω: 28.2; 31.2; 37.3; 39.1; 51.3, 8; 52.5; 61.2; 62.2; 92.2; 94.5; 99.5. βοή 19.11. αὐδή or αὐδάω: 11.2; 12.1; 28.7; 29.5; 30.8; 31.1; 39.2; 51.5; 72.2, 7; 93.4; 101.5. (52) This reference appears in Butler (2015): 112–113. (53) Note the object-oriented comments on Aeolian harps, Shelley, and poetry in Morton (2012): 205–224, esp. 205: “perhaps all sentient beings are like wind harps.”

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Reading the Colossus (54) My discussion of terminology is heavily influenced by Mairs (2011): 153– 164, esp. 156–158. (55) Mairs (2011): 157. (56) Chaniotis (2011): 191–207, esp. 196. (57) In a slightly different context, Lane Fox (1987): 133 points out that writing on or attaching petitions to the legs of statues, for example, was apparently standard practice for Apuleius and his contemporaries. (58) Tallet (2016): 302 notes that solar rays were significant at sanctuaries at this time; she quotes an oracular inscription from Oinoanda that was hit by the sun’s rays at dawn every day, as well as an oracle of Apollo that required the sun’s rays for its revelation, and suggests that this solar component represents “a real and deliberate bridging between Greco-Roman and Egyptian beliefs and practices.” My argument for the Memnon colossus, however, which was not part of an organized cult, is that the Egyptian context is basically ignored in order to highlight the Greek connections. (59) Mairs (2011): 158. (60) Baird and Taylor (2011): 6–7; see also in general Milnor (2009): 293 and Day (2010). (61) Baird and Taylor (2011): 8–9, with reference to graffiti in general. (62) Others do emphasize the act of writing over worship, writing, e.g., ταῦτα ἔγραψε or “fecit.” (63) See Frankfurter (2010): 526–546, esp. 534. On the use of Greek, see Fewster (2002) 224: “There were various languages in use in Roman Egypt. That with the highest status was Greek.” (64) Frankfurter (2010): 534–535. On healing cults in this period, see also Petsalis-Diomidis (2010). (65) See Foertmeyer (1989): 11–12. (66) See, e.g., Geraci (1971): 3–211; Bernand (1994): 43–60; and Tallet (2013): 5586–5588. Foertmeyer (1989): 12 points out that the forms proskyneo and proskynesis appear throughout the Hellenistic world, while proskynema is found only in Egypt from ca. 200 BCE on; she suggests that it originates in an Egyptian practice from the Sarapeum in Alexandria (43 note 16). (67) Geraci (1971): 18: “Il proskynema non era l’atto di adorazione, ne il ricordo di presenti o di assenti, ma il sostituto epigrafico della presenza adorante devanti al dio.” On specifically women writing proskynemata and other graffiti in Page 37 of 43

Reading the Colossus the Greco-Roman world, including references to the Memnon colossus, see Buonopane (2009): 231–245. (68) Burstein (1998): 47. (69) Tallet (2013): 5586–5588. (70) Foertmeyer (1989): 13; Bataille (1951): xxi. (71) Foertmeyer (1989): 13 explains that it is unclear whether these testimonials were written on the temple walls or on papyrus. (72) Coleman and Elsner (1995): 10–29, esp. 21. (73) Radice (1975) 2:24–26. Sherwin-White (1966): 38–39 and 456–458 suggests a tentative date of 107 CE for this letter. (74) Latin text from Perseus. (75) Foertmeyer (1989): 12 acknowledges only one exception to this statement: a reference to Memnon in one of the graffiti in tomb 9. However, none of the six graffiti that mention Memnon in tomb 9 contains the proskynema formula; see Foertmeyer (1989): 28 and her note 135: Baillet (1926) nos. 562 and 777 (referring to the colossus), and 1277, 1283, 1394, and 1732 (referring to tomb 9 as that “of Memnon”). (76) Foertmeyer (1989): 12. (77) Frankfurter (2010): 534–535. This kind of double motivation, however, is not necessarily limited to later periods, as one can see from, e.g., the evidence from fourth-century BCE healing cults of Asclepius in Epidauros. Epidaurian iamata (“stories of healing”) were compiled from individual dedications made at the shrine, and they tended to include references to names and home towns. See LiDonnici (1992): 25–41, esp. 35: “Tales which lack suppliants’ names and home towns occur in the corpus infrequently.” These stories were thus both acknowledgments of the god’s power and personal stories of encouragement to future visitors. (78) See the discussion in Foertmeyer (1989): 13–14. (79) Wilcken (1912) no. 116; see Coleman and Elsner (1995): 24. For Homeric topoi in the inscriptions of the Mandoulis temple, see Foertmeyer (1989): 73–74. (80) See Letronne (1848): 513, quoted in Foertmeyer (1989): 44 note 19. For information on the Abu Simbel graffiti, see Dillon (1997): 128–130. (81) Bernand and Bernand (1960): 139 date this text according to its placement and letter shapes, which resemble the more accurately datable inscription 54. Page 38 of 43

Reading the Colossus (82) See the nuanced discussion of this passage in Zadorojnyi (2011): 110–133, esp. 114–118. (83) Quotation from Flaubert (1991): 213. (84) Greek- and Latin-speaking visitors mention wives (4: Minicia Rustica; 8: Funisulana Vettulla; 18: Fulvia; 19: Fulvia; 34: Arsinoe; 41: Galla; 51: Rufilla; 56: Maecenatia Pia; 79: Tusidia), children (34, 51, 56, 96), and siblings (43, 74). (85) For concrete data retrievable from the inscriptions themselves, the unpublished tabulations of Victoria Foertmeyer are invaluable. She collected information not only on the Memnon colossus inscriptions, but also on other tourist sites in the area, including the pharaonic tombs and the temple of Isis at Philae. Her list also includes evidence from Amarna, Abydos, Pan “du désert,” Koptos, Hatshepsout, Kanais, Gebel Silsile, Debod, Dakke, and Kalabchah (Kalabsha); see Foertmeyer (1989): 313–322. (86) See Baldwin (1985): 497 on trios of “army buddies.” (87) Cf., for example, the data from the tombs: forty-six members of the military or administrative ranks; ninety-four “educated,” six artists, two workmen, and twelve “religious” signatures; see Foertmeyer (1989): 317. While one might expect artists and poets to be intrigued by the connection of Memnon to Homeric mythology, and therefore to seek out the statue, we do not have inscriptions backing this up; however, many of the artists or educated persons who signed at the tombs focused on the ninth tomb, the so-called Tomb of Memnon. (88) Foertmeyer (1989): 68. (89) I am grateful to Roger Bagnall for this point. (90) Prefects of Egypt: Ti. Iulius Lupus in 71/72 CE (3); Mettius Rufus between 89 and 91 CE (11); T. Petronius Secundus in 92 CE (13); C. Vibius Maximus in 104 CE (15); T. Haterius Nepos in 121 CE (16); T. Flavius Titianus in 126 CE (24); M. Petronius Mamertinus in 134 CE (40); M. Ulpius Primianus in 196 (57); and a prefect’s wife: Funisulana Vettula, wife of C. Tettius Africanus in 82 (8). Idiologos: T. Statilius Maximus in 136 CE (48); epistrategoi posted to the Thebaid: Catulus in 122–123 CE (21); Iulius Fidus Aquila, along with his wife, Asidonia Galla, in 134 CE (41 and 42); Claudius Geminus, undated (67); and two undated fragmentary references (78 and 79, although the latter includes the name of the official’s wife: Tusidia Ionis). Strategoi: Lucius Funisulanus Charisius of the local Hermonthite and Latopolite nome, with his wife Fulvia in 122 CE (18 and 19); Chaeremon in 134 (43), also assigned to the Hermonthite and Latopolite nome; Celer in 123 CE (23), who also signed at the temple of Hatshepsut in Thebes. Archidicasts: Gaius Iulius Dionysius in 130 CE (27); Page 39 of 43

Reading the Colossus Balbinianus, undated (73). Secretaries: Artemidorus (ca. 130 CE), who also visited the tombs with his family (34); Sarapion, dated to the Hadrianic period (49). Procurators: Gallus (36); Felix, ca. 200 CE (59); Asclepiodotus (62). (91) In terms of place of origin or ethnicity of these visitors, Foertmeyer points out that “very few signers indicated their nationalities because the statue achieved notoriety in the Roman period and was signed primarily by Romans, whose nomenclature did not normally include ethnics”; see Foertmeyer (1989): 71. Two other signers give information that they were stationed in the vicinity of Memnon: Hermogenes (38 and 39) and Claudius Geminus (67). We also find very rare names such as Achilleus, Balbinianus, Gamelius, Haniochus, Instuleius, Mithridaticus, and Tanicius; see Baldwin (1985): 500. (92) The day and the month are specified in this inscription (25th Tubi = Dec./ Jan.), but not the year. But I interpret this scenario as occurring over several days, with Claudius Geminus sailing back and forth (or up and down, as he puts it), and dating only his last visit specifically to the 25th of Tubi; he could not have heard Memnon twice on the same day at the same hour (the third hour) without adding that specific detail. Similar information can be gleaned from inscription 36, dated to the Hadrianic period, in which Gallus, a procurator of the Thebaid, tells us that he heard Memnon after sailing up the Nile to reach the site. People also sailed on the Nile to reach the temple at Philae and Abu Simbel; see Foertmeyer (1989): 101 note 112. Casson (1974): 258 writes that it was fairly easy to sail on the Nile because the winds tended to blow sailboats upstream, and they could then drift back downstream on the strength of the current. (93) Baillet (1926): xxiv–xxvii for the Syringes, and xxvii for the colossus; see also Foertmeyer (1989): 67. (94) First hour: 3.4, 5.4, 6.5, 7.8, 13.4, 18.4–5, 24.7, 27.5, 31.4, 44.3, 45.3, 46.3, 48.2, 87.3, 98.1; see Cirio (2011): 138. (95) The first hour and a half (8.4, 16.5, 25.5, 38.2, 59.4, 76.2), the second hour (4.5, 7.7, 9.5, 33.7, 47.3, 57.4–5, 63.11, 95.2), the second hour and a half (15.5), the third hour (15.5, 63.12, 67.4, 78.10, 79.5, 87.4, 102), the fourth hour (7.9), and various other less specific times at night (21.1), just before dawn or the first hour (18.4–5, 28.3), or at the very moment of daybreak (61.3, 100.2); see Cirio (2011): 138. (96) Others who heard the voice twice in one visit include Charisius and his wife, Fulvia (18: once before the first hour and once at the first hour); Lucius Flavianus Philippus, in the company of Hadrian, who heard it twice in the span of the second hour (33); Marcus Ulpius Primianus, twice in the second hour (57); and possibly the same Fuscus of inscription 9, twice in the second hour (63).

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Reading the Colossus (97) Others who heard it three times include Apion (71) and Marcus Valerius Germanus (75). (98) Bernand and Bernand (1960): 59 state that the name Rufus was common among Roman soldiers in Egypt, although they acknowledge that the lack of information in the inscription restricts what we can know with certainty about the man. (99) In a separate category are those who also signed at other sites in the area: Celer (23) appears as Hatshepsut 124; Heliodorus (69) appears as Philae II 170; M. Petronius Mamertinus (40) also signed at Talmis; and T. Statilius Maximus (48) also left his mark at the Pyramids: see Letronne Recueil II, no. 355, and Foertmeyer (1989): 95 note 78. Six of the Memnon inscribers also wrote their names at the tombs: Artemidorus (34), Pardalas of Sardis (22), Maximus the prefect of Egypt (15), T. Statilius Maximus (48), and Pison and Severus, the sons of Severus (74). Foertmeyer (1989): 94 note 77 lists the comparable numbers of graffiti at the tombs based on Baillet’s (1926) numberings: Artemidorus Syringes 1535; Pardalas Syringes 1747; Maximus the prefect Syringes 1356; T. Statilius Maximus Syringes 76; and Pison and Severus Syringes 875. (100) Hermogenes’ two inscriptions are also dated to 134 CE, although he came in March and Aquila in May; one is tempted to suggest that Aquila imitated his predecessor, as in both cases the first (Latin) inscription bears a precise date, and the second (Greek) includes no reference to hour, day, or month, as if its proximity to the former could speak for both texts. Hermogenes uses dactylic hexameter for his Greek lines (39) and prose for the Latin (38); Aquila chooses elegiac for his Greek couplet (42), and a mixture of prose and poetry for his Latin verses (41). For more on bilingualism at the colossus, see Adams (2003): 546–555, esp. 551, and my Chapter 3. (101) I am assuming here that the Latin verse marks the first visit to Memnon, and the Greek couplet refers to a separate event, possibly later the same day. While 41 gives specific times and dates, 42 simply says that Memnon spoke to them without hesitation (πρόφρων). (102) We know this because he also signed at the tombs, and stated his occupation there; see Bernand and Bernand (1960): 127 and note 2. (103) Bernand and Bernand (1960): 137. (104) Bernand and Bernand (1960): 138 also connects the two men because of their use of the present-tense verb for hearing (48.2: “audio”; 54.2: “audit”), a rare usage, as visitors usually use the past tense (“audi” or “audivi”). (105) We can draw the same conclusions about fragments 88 and 100. The first three lines of 88 are identical to those of 100; the editors suspect that the stone Page 41 of 43

Reading the Colossus carver ran out of room for the first set of lines on the left leg, and moved down to a more spacious spot on the left leg for 100; see Bernand and Bernand (1960): 184–185, 199–201. Similarly, Marius Gemellus’s first inscription (51) was carved in a place untouched by the rising sun; it may be that 52 was his attempt at a better placement; see Bernand and Bernand (1960): 132. (106) For a narrative testifying that someone did something or had something happen to him or her in a particular place and time, see Bowie (2010): 313–317; for the mnema function, see Keesling (2003): 91, 199–200. (107) This is true, of course, for dedicatory (as well as funerary) inscriptions also in the archaic and classical periods: in that context, William Furley calls it “walking a tight-rope between the private and the public”; see Furley (2010): 155–56: “. . . dedicatory inscriptions walk a tight-rope between the private and the public. On the one hand, the monuments they adorn are public—assuming access to the sanctuary concerned is not restricted—whilst on the other they record personal religious history. This twofold aspect sets them apart from almost all other forms of Greek literature. And the donors of gifts to the gods were, presumably, aware of the aspect of self-exposure through their donation; on the one hand, they wished to reach the god’s heart through prayer from the heart; on the other, their words were to be on permanent public view from then on . . .” (108) Halbwachs defined collective memory as a community’s store of stories, memories, and shared social experiences over a period of time; see Halbwachs (1952): 146–177, discussed in Minchin (2012): 77. (109) Assmann (2000/1992) drew upon Halbwachs’ (1997/1950) theory of collective memory but further divided Halbwachs’ concept into two different kinds of memory: “communicative,” focusing on the more recent past and not surviving beyond the third generation; and “cultural,” a community’s long-term memory found on traditions and institutions dating back to a more distant past. See the discussion in Gangloff (2013): 1–22, and Minchin (2012): 77. (110) Zerubavel (1997): 94 also claims that ruins, relics, and old buildings “retain” memories. (111) Kahane (2011): 634; see also Porter (2011): 688: “Text is inert, congelated voice (engrammatos phone); spoken, it becomes alive, audible, sensible and manifest.” Cf., however, the idea of “speaking stones” in Assmann (2006): 47. (112) Minchin (2012): 79: “features of the landscape, since they offer us a tangible contact with the past, have the capacity to cue memory.” (113) Minchin (2012): 76.

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Reading the Colossus (114) See Schade (2011): 119: “Es gibt keinen ‘festen Eindruck,’ der unbedingt so bleiben muss, sondern die Errinerung modifiziert permanent bereits vorhandene Modelle und schafft zugleich etwas Neues.” (115) Chaney (2006): 39–69. (116) On such “malfunctions” of memory, see Schachter (2001) Chapters 4 and 5. (117) See, e.g., Nora (1989): 7–25. (118) Gangloff (2013): 5–10. (119) Nora (1978): 401. On “Erinnerungsorte” with specific application to Greek antiquity, see also the essays in Haake and Jung (2011), and Stein-Hölkeskamp and Hölkeskamp (2010). (120) Mestre (2013): 63–75. (121) See Mestre (2013): 73 and Martin (2002): 143–160. (122) Minchin (2012): 84 interprets Alexander’s visit to the temple of Athena in Troy as part homage, complete with the dedication of his armor in the sanctuary, and part self-promotion. (123) Flaubert (Paris, 1991): 380.

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Worshipping the Colossus

The Language of Ruins: Greek and Latin Inscriptions on the Memnon Colossus Patricia A. Rosenmeyer

Print publication date: 2018 Print ISBN-13: 9780190626310 Published to Oxford Scholarship Online: May 2018 DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780190626310.001.0001

Worshipping the Colossus Sacred Tourism at Thebes Patricia A. Rosenmeyer

DOI:10.1093/oso/9780190626310.003.0002

Abstract and Keywords Chapter 2 begins with a discussion of Egypt as a destination for sacred tourism and as a repository of ancient culture, epitomized by the colossus, which functioned as a place of cultural memory. Imperial authors viewed Egypt as a place where Greek myth came to life. Visitors were inspired either by a kind of spiritual touristic impulse—the desire to witness the sacred (theoria)—or by an intellectual tourism and yearning to experience what they had already read or heard about. The inscriptions document these expressions of religious and intellectual wonder, crystallized at the moment of hearing Memnon’s voice. Whether visitors came as worshippers or tourists, in their minds the monument functioned as a material link to the past that miraculously came alive every morning at dawn. The colossus could elicit two distinct reactions—spiritual or intellectual—yet both fit within the framework of a fascination with the mythical past. Keywords:   Egypt, colossus, theoria, Memnon, tourism

Itineraries and Investigations Sometime in the late first or early second century CE, a man named Nearchus wrote to his acquaintance Heliodorus, describing sightseeing along the Nile River. Nearchus remains otherwise unknown to us, but Heliodorus has been identified as the eldest son of Sarapion and his wife Selene, prosperous landowners in the Hermopolite nome. Sarapion lived ca. 50–123 CE, and we know a good deal about his business interests because of a cache of papyrus Page 1 of 41

Worshipping the Colossus letters that has been preserved, including over a dozen from Heliodorus himself —although, unfortunately, none addressed to Nearchus. In this letter, Nearchus describes some of the most famous sacred sites in Roman Egypt:1 Νέαρχος α[ πολλῶν τοῦ κα[ (p.40) καὶ μέχρι τοῦ πλεῖν ε.[ μένων, ἵνα τὰς χε[ι]ρ̣ο̣π̣[οι]ή-[τους τέ-] χνας ἱστορήσωσι, ἐγὼ παρεπ[λευσ]άμην καὶ ἀρά̣μενος ἀνάπλο[υν καὶ π]αρ[α-] γενόμενος τε εἴς τε Σοήνας καὶ ὅθεν τ[υγ]χάνει Νεῖλος ῥέων καὶ εἰς Λιβύην, ὅπου Ἄμμων πᾶσιν ἀνθρώποις χρησμῳδεῖ [ . . . ] εὔτομα ἱστόρ[η]σα̣ καὶ τῶν φίλων [ἐ]μ[ῶν τ]ὰ ὀνόματ̣α̣ ἐνεχάραξα τοῖς ἱ[ε-] ροῖς ἀειμνή̣σ̣τω̣ς̣τὸ προσκύνημα ... ... ῾Ηλιοδώρῳ Nearchus . . . of many . . . and . . . until sailing to . . . . . . in order that they might investigate the manmade/artificial . . . the crafts/works, (but) I sailed by and lifting anchor, sailed up to and spent time at Syene, and the place from which the Nile begins to flow, and Libya where Ammon delivers his oracles to all men, and I investigated the rock cuttings, and inscribed the names of my dear ones on the temples/sacred monuments as a sign of worship (proskynema) always to be remembered . . . (2 lines missing at end) To Heliodorus.

This friendly letter probably opened with a conventional epistolary address of “X to Y, greetings” (Νέαρχος . . . ῾Ηλιοδώρῳ χαίρειν). We are missing two lines at the end, which might have included some sort of closing formula, but the addressee is also listed on the reverse of the papyrus: ῾Ηλιοδώρῳ (“to Heliodorus”). In the body of the letter, Nearchus claims that he sailed up river to Syene (Aswan), to the purported source of the Nile,2 and then traveled on to the Siwa Oasis in Libya, best known as the home of an oracle of Ammon.3 He writes that he went to investigate something well cut (εὔτομα) (p.41) or eloquent (εὔστομα), and carved (ἐνεχάραξα)4 the names of his φίλοι—family or friends— onto temples or sacred monuments, as a proskynema to be remembered forever. I read the verb ἀράμενος in line 6 as a technical term for weighing anchor, and the repetition of the verb for sailing, with alternating prefixes of “up” and “down,” documents the standard mode of transportation up and down the Nile. Page 2 of 41

Worshipping the Colossus We can compare the nautical vocabulary of this papyrus to that in one of the inscriptions mentioned in the previous chapter, where Claudius Geminus uses similar language (67): ἀναπλέων ὥρας γ´,/καταπλέων ὥρας β´,/καὶ ἀναπλέων π[άλιν] . . . (“sailing up the river [I heard Memnon] at the first hour/sailing down the river, at the second hour,/and sailing back up again . . .”). Both Nearchus and Claudius Geminus emphasize their method of travel and their complicated itineraries through the repetition of the verb for sailing, varying only the adverbial prefixes (ἀνά-, παρά-, and κατά-). In the papyrus letter, if we translate the verb ἱστορέω as “to visit” or “to investigate,” and note that Nearchus in the same passage speaks of carved rocks, temples, or sacred monuments as the surfaces on which he inscribes names, we find ourselves squarely in the context of what scholars term “sacred tourism,” a phrase I will investigate more closely below. While we are unable to identify Nearchus with greater specificity, in his letter he shows himself to be familiar with the most popular tourist routes along the Nile, as well as with contemporary inscriptional habits. This letter, like the graffiti left as primary evidence of tourists at various sites in Egypt, gives us insight into the travel patterns of not just imperial figures such as Hadrian and Sabina, but also of private citizens, businessmen, and tourists. Most ancient tourists began in Alexandria and made their way upriver past Heliopolis, the Pyramids, and Memphis, as well as the Fayum with its labyrinths and crocodiles. Strabo, in Book 17 of his Geographica, gives us a vivid description of just such an itinerary, emphasizing local variations in Egyptian animal worship. He traveled with Aelius Gallus, the governor of Egypt, in ca. 29– 26 BCE, sailing south up the Nile from Alexandria to Philae.5 But Upper Egypt was particularly rich in attractions. Nearchus’s letter describes sightseeing in this area, and further evidence from graffiti tells us that three specific sites in Upper Egypt were very popular among Greek and Roman tourists in the first and second centuries CE.6 The first was the temple of Abydos, dedicated to Osiris but also containing the oracle of the god Bes.7 The second-favorite site was the colossus of Memnon, and while visiting the statue at (p.42) Thebes, some tourists also took a side trip to the nearby Valley of the Kings to admire the tombs.8 The third-most-popular destination was the temple of Isis on the island of Philae.9 Two other sanctuaries are also well documented: the sanctuary of Imhotep-Asclepius at Deir el-Bahari, and that of Mandoulis Aion at Kalabsha.10 Most relevant for our purposes, the colossus of Memnon, the Valley of the Kings, and the sanctuary at Deir el-Bahari are all located fairly near one another on the plains and mountains situated on the left bank of the Nile in the Thebaid.11 Because the Thebaid was so rich in monuments, we sometimes find, as noted above, the same names appearing at more than one site, confirming our assumption that certain popular destinations could be connected as part of a tour, comparable, perhaps, to the custom of modern tourists in Rome visiting Page 3 of 41

Worshipping the Colossus both the Colosseum and the Trevi Fountain. We can identify six people, for example, who left a total of five inscriptions at both the Memnon colossus and the Tombs or Syringes (so called because their narrow corridors resembled panpipes): Artemidorus, Pardalas, Maximus (prefect of Egypt 103–107 CE), Titus Statilius Maximus, Pison and Severus.12 Artemidorus left a very brief proskynema at the Syringes (1535 Baillet): τὸ προσκύνημα τῶν τέκνων Ἀρτεμιδώρου καὶ τῆς συμβίου (“[This is/I am] the proskynema of/for the children of Artemidorus and his wife”).13 We learn much more about Artemidorus’ status and family from his more detailed inscription on the colossus (34): (p.43) ᾿Αρτεμίδωρος Πτολεμαίου, Βασιλικὸς γραμματεὺς ῾Ερμωνθείτου καὶΛατοπολείτου, ἤκουσα Μέμνονος τοῦ θειοτάτου, μετὰ καὶ τῆς συνβίου ᾿Αρσινόης καὶ τῶν τέκνων Αἰλουρίωνος τοῦ καὶ Κοδράτου καὶ Πτολεμαίου, ἔτει ιε ῾Αδριανοῦ Καίσαρος τοῦ κυρίου, ια Χοίακ. I, Artemidorus, son of Ptolemy, basilikos grammateus of the Hermonthite and Latopolite nomes, heard Memnon the most divine, along with my wife Arsinoe and my sons, Aelurion, also called Quadratus, and Ptolemy, in the fifteenth year of Hadrian Caesar, our lord, and on the eleventh day of [the month of] Choiak.

There are many reasons why Artemidorus might have chosen to write in greater detail on the colossus than at the Tombs: he might have inscribed his lines on the colossus first, and then thought there was no need to repeat himself at his second stop of the tour; he might have found more room on the surface of the colossus than on the narrow walls of the Tombs; or he might have been inspired by other detailed inscriptions on the colossus that included references to family members as well as to specific dates in both Greek and Egyptian format. Whatever the reason(s), the colossus inscription is much more biographically informative than the one at the Tombs. In the case of the visitor Pardalas,14 the opposite holds true: we obtain more biographical information from the inscription in the Syringes than that on the colossus. In the Syringes, he writes as follows (1747 Baillet): Παρδάλας Σαρδιανὸς ἦλθον· ἐμνημόνευσ[α] τοῦ υἱοῦ Κέλσου καὶ τῶν ἀδελφῶν. I, Pardalas of Sardis, came [here]. I remembered my son Celsus and my siblings.

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Worshipping the Colossus On the colossus, however, we are told nothing about a son or siblings, but learn only of his own joy at twice hearing Memnon, something to be recorded later in his books (22.1–2):15 (p.44) ῾Ο Σαρδιηνὸς16Παρδαλᾶς δὶς ἤκουσα. μεμνήσομαι σεῦ κἀν ἐμῆισι βύβλοι[σι] . . . I, Pardalas of Sardis, heard (you, Memnon,) twice. I will mention you also in my books . . .

One final example of an inscription by someone who visited both Memnon and the Syringes as part of their Egyptian tour may suffice.17 In the Syringes, we read (1356 Baillet): Μάξιμος ἔπαρχος (“Maximus the eparchos”). A Maximus had already been named at the Syringes (901 Baillet) by his subordinate Miccalos, and since the script is similar, it may well be that we are dealing with the same man. This Maximus was most likely C. Vibius Maximus, prefect of Egypt (103– 107 CE), and a friend of Pliny the Younger, Statius, and Martial.18 He visited the Memnon colossus, as he tells us in his inscription there, in 104 CE, in the seventh year of Trajan’s rule, and, like Pardalas, heard Memnon twice (15): Anno VII Imp(eratoris) Caesaris Nervae Traiani Aug(usti) Ger(manici) Dacici C(aius) Vibius Maximus praef(ectus) Aeg(ypti) Audit Memnonem XIIII K(alendas) Mar(tias) Hora (secunda et dimidia) semel et (tertia) sem[el]. In the seventh year of Emperor Caesar Nerva Trajan Augustus Germanicus Dacicus, Caius Vibius Maximus, prefect of Egypt, heard Memnon on the fourteenth day before the Kalends of March, once at the second hour and a half, and once at the third hour.

These visitors who left inscriptions at the Memnon colossus as well as the Syringes give us insight into the variety, both social and geographical, of tourists in the imperial period. Of the three men we considered above, Maximus and Artemidorus held positions in the local Roman administration of Egypt, and presumably settled in the region with their wives and children; Pardalas, in contrast, was originally from Sardis in Asia Minor, seemed to be a writer of some sort, and could only “remember” his relatives rather than stand together with them in front of the monument. We know of at least two other long-distance travelers to the colossus, able to make the journey since long-distance (p.45) routes for tourism in Egypt expanded substantially during the Roman period:19 Heliodorus (69) came from Caesarea Panias, a city in Syria near Mount Hermon, and the poet Paion (11, 12) was originally from Side, on the southern coast of Asia Minor.

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Worshipping the Colossus In general, the first and second centuries CE offered increased opportunities for travel, at least for those whose social status and wealth allowed it. Aelius Aristides, who spent much of his life traveling to healing shrines, rejoiced that the wider Roman Empire had created an environment in which travel had become easier and safer, both for government administrators and for elite intellectuals like himself. He addresses Rome in this encomium:20 νῦν γοῦν ἔξεστι καὶ Ἕλληνι καὶ βαρβάρῳ καὶ τὰ αὑτοῦ κομίζοντι καὶ χωρὶς τῶν αὑτοῦ [αὐτοῦ] βαδίζειν ὅποι βούλεται ῥᾳδίως, ἀτεχνῶς ὡς ἐκ πατρίδος εἰς πατρίδα ἰόντι· καὶ οὔτε Πύλαι Κιλίκιοι φόβον παρέχουσιν οὔτε στεναὶ καὶ ψαμμώδεις δι’ Ἀράβων ἐπ’ Αἴγυπτον πάροδοι, οὐκ ὄρη δύσβατα, οὐ ποταμῶν ἄπειρα μεγέθη, οὐ γένη βαρβάρων ἄμικτα, ἀλλ’ εἰς ἀσφάλειαν ἐξαρκεῖ Ῥωμαῖον εἶναι, μᾶλλον δὲ ἕνα τῶν ὑφ’ ὑμῖν. καὶ τὸ Ὁμήρῳ λεχθὲν ‘γαῖα δέ τοι ξυνὴ πάντων’ ὑμεῖς ἔργῳ ἐποιήσατε… Now indeed it is possible for Greek or foreigner, with or without his property, to travel easily wherever he wishes, without complications, just as if crossing from one fatherland to another. Neither the Cilician Gates nor narrow sandy approaches to Egypt through Arabian lands, nor inaccessible mountains, nor huge expanses of rivers, nor inhospitable tribes of foreigners are cause for fear, but to ensure safe passage it is enough to be a Roman citizen, or rather to be one of those united under your [Roman] rule. Homer said, “Earth is common to all,” and you [Rome] have made it come true . . . Of course Egypt had always been a popular travel destination, and it was a source of particular fascination for earlier Greek writers. Herodotus, Solon, Plato, Pythagoras, and Eudoxus are all said to have traveled there to gain insight into its ancient wisdom.21 Whether or not Herodotus himself actually visited Egypt, where he supposedly interviewed Egyptian priests, toured famous buildings, and reported local customs, remains a topic of debate.22 But what is clear is that Herodotus’s and other early accounts of Egyptian history and society (p.46) provided a starting point for most subsequent narratives, whether historical or fictional, even as late as the reign of Hadrian. In particular, Herodotus’s account of noteworthy wonders and monuments (2.35: θωμάσια . . . καὶ ἔργα) found in Egypt set the pattern for future investigations: thus in the imperial period, we find Diodorus, Strabo, Aristides, Aelian, and Lucian, among others, exploring Egyptian questions in their writings, as they investigated monuments, religious rituals, and the vexing issue of the source of the Nile.23 Those who wrote about Egypt viewed it through thick layers of accumulated knowledge, accepting it both as a source of culture and learning, and yet also as a place of barbarian and exotic customs. As Molly Swetnam-Burland articulates it, after Herodotus, writers moved “fluidly between describing a ‘real’ place of the present and an ‘idealized’ place of the past, drawn from hearsay and a fount of common knowledge.”24 This statement could be taken as an accurate Page 6 of 41

Worshipping the Colossus description of precisely what Memnon’s visitors anticipated experiencing when face to face with the colossus: the reality of the Roman presence in Egypt combined with the distant past of Greece, in sum, a Homeric Memnon in Egyptian Thebes. Although Herodotus never mentioned the Memnon colossus specifically, many intellectuals in the imperial period perceived the attractions identified by Herodotus—wonders and monuments—as offering a link specifically to the Greek heroic age. Men and women traveled to Egypt to view for themselves the strange customs and religious practices they had read about either in Herodotus or in popular fiction, but also more specifically to track down traces of their cultural heritage; in their imagination, Egypt was where Greek mythology and episodes from the Trojan War came back to life.25 Helen and Menelaus had passed through the region (Hdt. 2.112; Diodorus 1.97.7); Zeus had feasted among the Ethiopians just across the Egyptian border (Diodorus 1.97.9; 3.2.2–4; Homer Iliad 1.423–24); and Perseus had supposedly visited the great oracle of Zeus-Ammon (Hdt. 2.91; Arrian Anabasis 3.3.1). Seeking traces of their foundational culture myths, tourists flocked to priests and local guides to learn the “true stories” about Memnon, the Sphinx, and the Pyramids.26 Roman Egypt inspired a kind of spiritual and intellectual tourism as travelers visited old Egyptian cult centers where the priests were apparently quite willing (p.47) to support and promote the tourist trade, just as they had been in Herodotus’s generation.27 This double motivation for travel to Egypt—an eagerness both to worship and to see famous sites—may seem problematic for the modern reader, who is used to separating the sacred from the profane, but this seems not to have been an issue for many ancient travelers, as we will discuss below. Much of the literature of the imperial period, whether fictional, historical (periegetic), or biographical, offers anecdotal evidence of a rise in tourism during this period connected to an interest in the acquisition of knowledge of Greek myths and stories. Froma Zeitlin speaks of tourists28 . . . who journeyed long distances around the Mediterranean, in quest of viewing famous cities, temples, tombs, monuments, works of art, and other relics of the past—from geographers to emperors, from merchants to wandering sophists and far more ordinary folk. Like Plutarch’s Cleombrotus, who is described as philotheamon and philomathes (De Def. Orac. 410a–b), these . . . travelers, motivated by the desire to see and learn, could satisfy their passion for both sights and information by direct observation, and armed with guidebooks or in the company of local exegetes, they could follow the mythological and historical vestiges of antiquity which were everywhere.

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Worshipping the Colossus Plutarch’s Cleombrotus, originally from Sparta, is described as having made many trips to Egypt. His trips were not specifically for the purpose of worship, personal business, or government administration, but rather he was “fond of seeing things” (philotheamos) and “fond of acquiring knowledge” (philomathes). Plutarch, like Nearchus discussed previously, uses the Herodotean word ἱστορία, quest for knowledge, to describe his motivations. Zahra Newby puts it well when she writes, “an intelligent man’s response to wonder should be an act of inquiry and explanation, not mute amazement.”29 On one trip, Cleombrotus visited the temple of Ammon to learn about the gods, and talked with the local priests there about a peculiar oil lamp that mysteriously consumed less oil each passing year, leading the priests to conclude that the years themselves were becoming shorter.30 In the same Plutarch passage, we are introduced to another traveler, a learned grammatikos named Demetrius, originally from Tarsus, who had been visiting Britain “for the purposes of investigation and sightseeing”(ἱστορίας καὶ (p.48) θέας ἕνεκα) (Plutarch De Def. Orac. 419e). Demetrius and Cleombrotus actually met one another when they crossed paths in Delphi in 83–84 CE; the oracle itself was no longer active at that point (although Hadrian would later orchestrate a brief revival), but visitors were still eager to view Delphi as a famous relic of the past.31 The paths of the two men also exemplify how difficult it is to separate motivations for travel: the categories of tourism and worship were so blurred in this period that scholars tend to adopt the catchall phrase “sacred tourism.” Demetrius and Cleombrotus were typical long-distance travelers in the Roman imperial period, motivated by the Herodotean tradition of learned tourism and investigation, as well as by their interest in temples, cults, and sacred mysteries.32 We can see this type of travel, with its focus on both human and divine affairs, being undertaken also by members of the imperial family.33 According to Tacitus’s Annals (2.54.1, 59–61), Germanicus traveled to Alexandria to learn about the antiquities there (“cognoscendae antiquitatis”); sailed up the Nile to Thebes, where he quizzed a local priest about hieroglyphics; heard Memnon utter his famous noise at dawn; and like Nearchus, toured both Philae and Syene. Evidence of his visit can be found on an ostracon dated to 26 January 19 CE, which documents the collection of grain supplies in preparation for his arrival at Thebes.34 Hadrian, as we have already noted, followed in his footsteps several generations later; after him Septimius Severus, touring the highlights of Egypt, including the Memnon colossus, also “inquired into everything, even things that were very carefully hidden; for he was the kind of person to leave nothing, either human or divine, uninvestigated” (καὶ ἐπολυπραγμόνησε πάντα καὶ τὰ πάνυ κεκρυμμένα· ἦν γὰρ οἷος μηδὲν μήτε ἀνθρώπινον μήτε θεῖον ἀδιερεύνητον καταλιπεῖν, Cassius Dio 76.13.2).

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Worshipping the Colossus Thus far, we have emphasized a kind of antiquarian curiosity that was a critical characteristic of imperial travelers, whether they were the educated elite, government officials, authors, or even the rulers themselves. But if we return to Cleombrotus for a moment, Plutarch does point out that his travels are in part motivated by his research on a work of learning about the gods (De Def. Orac. 410a–b); in other words, research and religion—not necessarily belief but at least religious curiosity—coexist on the same plane in his (or Plutarch’s) stated goals. Fascination with the Greek past can be understood as an intellectual endeavor of discovery, but emotional aspects of piety or religious devotion are not therefore automatically excluded. Perhaps the (p.49) most famous example is that of Julius Caesar, who, after defeating Pompey, was reported to have been led around Troy by a guide, and dedicated an altar there in honor of his Trojan ancestors (Lucan 9.950–999; Strabo 13.594–595).35 Closer to the period we are discussing, Germanicus also visited Troy and worshipped at the tomb of Hector (Tac. Ann. 2.54.2; Suet. Calig. 3.2), while slightly more than a century later, probably in 132 CE, Hadrian restored the tomb of Ajax to honor the dead hero (Philostr. Her. 8.1). Both emperors were faithfully reenacting parts of Alexander’s visit to Troy; to follow in the footsteps of Alexander may be considered a kind of pilgrimage rather than purely “historical tourism.”36

Sacred Tourism: Theoria The relationship between tourism and the sacred, or sightseeing and pilgrimage, is a problematic one, in part because the word “pilgrimage” brings with it a number of assumptions based on what we know of early Christian pilgrimage, which may or may not be useful for the period under discussion. A minimalist definition of pilgrimage includes a journey, and a quest for a place that is believed to embody a spiritual ideal.37 Applying the term to pagan contexts, Youri Volokhine focuses specifically on pharaonic Egypt in his definition of pilgrimage (“les déplacements pieux”):38 . . . l’existence d’un lieu sacré, ou considéré comme tel; une démarche spécial pour s’y rendre, . . . un certain nombre d’actes religieux, individuels ou collectifs à accomplir avant, pendant, à l’arrivée et au retour de cette marche. Volokhine explores the kinds of pilgrimage undertaken by the (non-Egyptian) intellectual elite to famous monuments that represented Egypt’s cultural acme, such as the Sphinx, or the ancient necropolises in the Valley of the Kings.39 As in the imperial period we are discussing, these pilgrimages focused on sites slightly off the beaten track, often in ruins, and no longer integral parts of state cult; their appeal lay more in their “backstory,” a connection to a past that had become mythologized, but still offered a chance of experiencing some connection to the divine. Many of these sites were places sustained by communal memory, lieux de mémoire, that continued to gain in prestige in their ruined states as long as visitors continued to seek them out for spiritual or Page 9 of 41

Worshipping the Colossus intellectual (p.50) reasons. And we can certainly see the evidence of a desire to experience the divine in the Memnon inscriptions, where pilgrims carved their formulas of religious homage: “I have come” or “I heard Memnon.” Looking more specifically at literary and epigraphical sources, but coming to many of the same conclusions as Volokhine, Ian Rutherford and Jaś Elsner have attempted to create a typology of ancient pilgrimage from the fifth century BCE to the fourth century CE. Their segment on pilgrimage in Egypt during the Roman period includes subcategories, among others, of intellectual pilgrimage, pilgrimage to healing cults, and pilgrimage based on a kind of “cultural nostalgia.”40 According to Rutherford,41 if we tried to separate tourism from pilgrimage conceptually, we could define tourism in antiquity as the act of visiting a sanctuary (or monument or landscape) purely for sake of the visit, whereas the motives for pilgrimage to a sanctuary (or monument or landscape) would be based on personal piety and religious celebration. In antiquity, however, as he goes on to argue convincingly, these two types of travel cannot and should not be separated; in particular, since one of the key ideas in Greek pilgrimage is to travel for the sake of theoria, a combination of visual and intellectual exploration, it is preferable to consider tourism and the sacred as fully overlapping categories:42 Because of the visual emphasis of ancient Greek pilgrimage, making a distinction between pilgrimage and recreational sightseeing is usually difficult and may even be methodologically inappropriate. Rutherford sees evidence of sacred tourism based on the concept of theoria present in Egypt already in the fifth century BCE, when three Greek visitors, approximately contemporary with Herodotus himself, left graffiti in the temple of Seti I of Abydos claiming that they “watched” (ἐθέσατο, Ionic form of θεάομαι), implying a degree of religious feeling combined with sightseeing.43 About three centuries later, one of the earliest Roman visitors to Egypt was the previously mentioned senator L. Memmius, who arrived in Alexandria in 112 BCE, planning to tour the Fayum. We have a documentary papyrus requesting that the site be made ready for him, including the preparation of a guest room, landing spots for his ship, gifts, and even snacks for the sacred crocodiles; the papyrus clearly states that the senator was en route for the sake of seeing (ἐπὶ θεωρίαν).44 Verity Platt agrees with this emphasis on theoria both for (p.51) state-sponsored and private pilgrimage, and emphasizes the important place of the pursuit of knowledge (sophia) in this mix:45 Travel, pilgrimage, the viewing of sacred images and the attainment of sophia all come together in the Greek notion of theoria. As well as a term used to describe state pilgrimages to religious festivals in Greece, the concept of theoria can also apply to the individual pilgrim who visits foreign lands in search of knowledge and wisdom, often of a religious Page 10 of 41

Worshipping the Colossus nature. It involves the notion of autopsy—“seeing for oneself”—and the idea of coming into contact with a foreign “Other,” often a deity in the form of his or her image. This combination of elements—wisdom quest, religious awe, autopsy, and the fascination with a foreign “Other”—resonates with our approach to Memnon, where the act of theoria is multilayered. Visitors gazed at the ruined pharaonic temple complex, the colossal statue of the divinized Memnon (formerly known as Amenhotep), and the entire inscribed surface of the statue, with its crowded palette of individual inscriptions. But this multifocal viewing has already been compromised by the visitors’ “blindness” to the silent twin, discussed in Chapter 1. We now need to qualify it further with regard to the Egyptian history of the Memnon colossus itself. Given that syncretism is so common elsewhere in Greco-Roman Egypt, it is odd that most visitors to Memnon showed so little interest in the Egyptian valences of the statue. Authors of the Roman period believed that hieroglyphic characters, which they could not read, functioned as a symbolic system that demonstrated a tangible link to the Egyptian past.46 Yet only a handful of GrecoRoman visitors attempted to connect the statue’s original cultural context with its more recently developed Homeric identity; most were content to accept the interpretatio graeca that was reflected and reiterated in the inscriptions. The statue in honor of Amenhotep III had by this time been completely reimagined in honor of Memnon. Yet unlike artwork that could be repurposed through physical modification or re-inscription, the Memnon colossus was repurposed through an act of nature:47 an earthquake destroyed its head, which was, in its first life, presumably identifiable through its pharaonic headgear, and only after this point did visitors begin to inscribe their names, and Memnon’s name, on the statue’s body. So its partial destruction, and the (p.52) resulting birth of its early morning voice, opened the door for re-identification as Memnon, while an act of repair, usually a step on the road to appropriation, paradoxically removed Memnon’s main identifying feature and “killed” his early morning voice. We, and presumably also ancient visitors, are left with several ways to engage with the colossus: either there is no connection at all between Amenhotep III and Homeric Memnon, and between hieroglyphs and Greek or Latin; or there is a connection of some sort, but the earlier identity is ignored, erased, or figuratively “overwritten.” And in Memnon’s case, the (over)writing is also quite literal, as the feet and legs of the statue are completely covered over with inscriptions. So returning to the multiple layers of theoria posited above for Roman tourists in Egypt, it may be more accurate to say, in the case of Memnon, that a visitor’s theoria encompassed pharaonic Egypt only in terms of the larger landscape and the voyage; what the visitor experienced in the direct presence of Memnon was an intersection of Homeric myth, Herodotean storytelling, and the realities of Page 11 of 41

Worshipping the Colossus Roman imperial rule (in the form of soldiers’ and government administrators’ inscriptions). And to add one more layer, in addition to following in Herodotus’s footsteps in terms of general exploration and discovery, visitors to Egyptian Thebes would also remember that Homeric epic itself provided the earliest reference to Thebes in Greek poetry, when Achilles rejects Odysseus and his embassy, insisting that nothing—“not all the wealth that goes into Orchomenos, nor into Egyptian Thebes, where the greatest treasures lie in abodes, and there are a hundred gates, and through each two hundred warriors ride forth with horses and chariots” (Il. 9.374–84)—will ever convince him to return to battle against the Trojans.48 As we have stated before and will explore more fully in Chapter 4, a great deal of Memnon’s appeal is precisely his Homeric lineage. Being in Memnon’s presence was as close as a contemporary visitor could get to experiencing a “living” Homer, and Memnon’s daily utterance satisfied a deeply felt desire for a connection to the distant Greek heroic past.49 We may fully agree with Ian Rutherford’s conclusion that no strict separation can be posited between religious and intellectual engagement at pilgrimage sites, but we can still gain something from exploring the spectrum of stated motivations recorded in the Memnon inscriptions themselves. Some visitors explicitly declare allegiance to a divinity or sense of sacredness, while others underscore a more objective inquiry into the status or condition of the colossus. Every visitor may have had slightly different motivations for his or her visit, and those motivations might even have changed en route, or been recorded later in a form of revisionist history. At the end of the chapter, we may decide that every visitor was both tourist and worshipper, and that it is (p.53) merely a matter of degree. Or we may have to acknowledge that we are still far from understanding motivations, as each visitor chose a particular kind of self-expression or selfpositioning while inscribing, which might correspond more or less closely to a lived reality. But some inscriptions are clearer than others in their expressions of intent, and we will begin with one of the clearest examples of a pilgrim, but a pilgrim who never really intended to hear Memnon in the first place.

Holy Memnon: Thauma So what in particular do we find among the Memnon inscriptions that might indicate that some of its visitors defined themselves specifically as pilgrims or religious worshippers who were motivated to travel to what they understood to be a place of religious or sacred significance? If we use the concept of theoria as a defining feature of pilgrim behavior at religious sites and sanctuaries, an inscription by an official named Celer fits the bill perfectly (Bernand 23): Κέλερ στρατηγὸς ἐνθαδεὶ παρῆν Μέμνονος οὐχ ὅπως ἀκούσεται. Ἐν κονεῖ γὰρ αὐτῇ τῇ τῶν χωμάτων παρῆν θεωρὸς καὶ προσκυνήσων ἅμα. Μέμνων ἐπιγνοὺς οὐδὲν ἐξεφθέγξατο. Κέλερ δὲ ἀπῄει ἐφ’ ἃ πάλιν π[α]ρῆν Page 12 of 41

Worshipping the Colossus μέσας διαστήσας ἡμέρας δύο. Ἤκουσεν ἐλθὼν τοῦ θεοῦ τὸν ἦχον, (ἔτους) ζ Ἁδριανοῦ Καίσαρος τοῦ κυρίου, Ἐπεὶφ ς, ὥραν α. The strategos Celer was here but not in order to hear Memnon. For he was present in the dust itself of the dirt mounds50 in order to see and to mark his devotion. Memnon understood and did not speak out at all. But Celer then came back again to the place he had been, after having spent two days elsewhere. Arriving, he heard the voice of the god, (p.54) in the seventh year of our ruler Hadrian Caesar, on the sixth of Epiph, at the first hour.

Celer dates his Memnon proskynema to our equivalent of 30 June 123 CE (the sixth of Epiph in the seventh year of Hadrian’s rule), but mentions spending the two previous days at another religious site where he engaged in theoria and left his mark (proskynema). Another proskynema by Celer has indeed been preserved in the nearby temple of Hatshepsut at Deir el-Bahari, on the left bank of the Theban plain.51 So when Celer writes above that he did not come originally to visit Memnon, but rather passed by Thebes on his way to see another shrine, one where he also inscribed his name, it is possible that he refers precisely to this other inscription on the temple walls. A. and E. Bernand reconstruct the series of events as follows: Celer was on his way to the healing sanctuary at Deir el-Bahari, where Imhotep-Asclepius was an object of worship;52 he may have passed by the sanctuary of Memnon too late in the day to experience Memnon’s cry; at any rate, he takes care to inform us that Memnon’s sanctuary was not his original destination; after inscribing his name on the temple of Hatshepsut, however, passing two days at the healing sanctuary, and presumably engaging in other ritual behavior, Celer set out on his return journey, arriving at the Memnon colossus at the correct hour (“at the first hour”),53 and “heard the voice of the god.” On this reading, Celer makes it clear that he did not initially set out to visit Memnon, but decided to include it on his itinerary after passing the sanctuary on his way to another shrine.54 Other visitors imply that they, too, visited and left their mark only because they happened to be in the vicinity on other business. (p.55) Many of the soldiers who left behind their names presumably were either marching through or stationed near the area. One such figure is Quintus Marcius Hermogenes, who carved two inscriptions, one in Greek (39) on the left foot, and one in Latin (38) on the right ankle of the colossus. In the Greek hexameter lines, we get just his name, and the fact that he heard Memnon at sunrise (39): Μάρκιος Ἑρμογένης ἔκλυον μέγα φωνή|σαντος Page 13 of 41

Worshipping the Colossus Μέμνονος, ΑΝΤΕΛΛΟΥ . . . |ΔΑΟ βαλόντος. I, Marcius Hermogenes, heard Memnon, speaking loudly, at the rising . . .

The Latin version, however, gives us not just a name, but also an occupation and date (38):55 Q(uintus) Marcius Hermogenes praef(ectus) classis Aug(ustae) Alex(andrinae) audit Memnonem Hora (prima et dimidia) Nonis Martis Serviano III et Varo co(n)s(ulibus). Quintus Marcius Hermogenes, prefect of Augustus’s Alexandrian fleet, heard Memnon at the first hour and a half, on the Nones of March, in the third consulship of Servianus and the consulship of Varus.

Here Hermogenes informs us that he was part of the Roman imperial fleet (“praefectus classis Augustae Alexandrinae”); we can assume that on the equivalent of our seventh of March, during the consulship of Servianus and Varus (i.e., 134 CE), he took some time off from his job to see and hear Memnon.56 Similarly, Claudius Geminus, whose inscription we read in Chapter 1, may have taken advantage of his posting as arabarches (internal revenue officer) and epistrategos (governor) in the Thebaid to visit Memnon, hearing him speak three distinct times.57 Another visitor, writing on the Ides of February in the early reign of Domitian (12 February 82 CE), Funisulana Vettulla, identifies herself as married to Gaius Tettius Africanus, prefect of Egypt (8): Funisulana Vettulla C(aii) Tetti(i) Africani praef(ecti) Aeg(ypti) (p.56) uxor audi Memnonem pr(idei) Id(us) Febr(uarias) hora (prima et dimidia) anno I Imp(eratoris) Domitiani Aug(usti) cum iam tertio venissem. I, Funisulana Vettulla, wife of Gaius Tettius Africanus, prefect of Egypt, heard Memnon, on the eve of the Ides of February, at the first hour and a half, in the first year of the emperor Domitian Augustus having come now for the third time.

While prefects lived in Alexandria, they went on tour on an annual basis, and often made repeated visits to towns up the Nile. Funisulana was less fortunate than Geminus, presumably not having heard Memnon the first two times she

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Worshipping the Colossus visited (8.6: “cum iam tertio venissem”), but she may have visited Memnon both with her husband earlier, and now more successfully on her own.58 Finally, one of the longer examples on the colossus belongs to a repeat visitor extraordinaire, one who managed to hear Memnon a grand total of thirteen times, and left nine lines of Latin behind on the colossus to commemorate his trips. He was a centurion by the name of Lucius Tanicius, and his lines bristle with official titles and dates, but with no clear indication of motivation, whether religious or touristic in nature (7):59 L(ucius) Tanicius L(ucii) f(ilius) Vol(tinia) Verus Viennae (centurio) leg(ionis) III Cyr(enaicae) audi Mem(m)none(m) VII Idus Novembr(es) ann(o) III T(iti) Imp(eratoris) n(ostri) et VII K(alendas) Ianuar(ias) et XVIII K(alendas) Febr(uarias) et IV Non(as) easdem et V Idus eas(dem) et XIII K(alendas) Mart(ias) et VIII K(alendas) Mart(ias) et VII Id(us) Mar(tias) et VII Idus Ian(uarias) bis anno III T(iti) Imp(eratoris) Aug(usti) (p. 57) et XV K(alendas) Mart(ias) et VII Idus easdem h(ora) II et VIII Idus Apriles ann(i) eiusdem h(ora) I item IV Non(as) Iunias anni eiusdem h(ora) IV. I, Lucius Tanicius, son of Lucius, from the Voltinia clan, Verus, from Vienne, centurion of the third Cyrenaic legion, heard Memnon on the seventh day before the Ides of November in the third year of Titus our emperor (7 Nov. 80 CE) and on the seventh day before the Kalends of January (26 Dec.) and on the eighteenth day before the Kalends of February (15 Jan. 81 CE) and on the fourth day before the Nones of the same month (2 Feb.) and on the fifth day before the Ides of the same month (9 Feb.) and on the thirteenth day before the Kalends of March (17 Feb.) and on the eighth day before the Kalends of March (22 Feb.) and on the seventh day before the Ides of March (9 Mar.) and twice on the seventh day before the Ides of January (7 Jan.), in the third year of Emperor Titus Augustus and on the fifteenth day before the Kalends of March (15 Feb.) and on the seventh day before the Ides of the same month (9 Mar.) at the second hour, and on the eighth day before the Ides of April (6 Apr.) of the same year, at the first hour, and again on the ninth day before the Nones of June (2 Jun.) of the same year, at the fourth hour.

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Worshipping the Colossus Lucius Tanicius, son of Lucius, tells us that he comes from the Voltinia clan (the Latin “tribus” is implied). He is originally from the Gallic city of Vienne, and at the time of his inscription was serving as a centurion in the Third Legion, the “Cyrenaica.” For all but one of his visits, he came in winter or at the beginning of spring, the most propitious travel seasons for excursions in that region.60 With this inscription, we are hard pressed to understand the centurion’s motivation for so many trips to hear Memnon. We know that the Legio III “Cyrenaica” was stationed in Alexandria (Egyptian Nicopolis), which made it relatively convenient for him to visit the site in order to see the colossus and hear Memnon’s cry. He is unusual in his persistence; most visitors were content to hear Memnon once or twice on the same visit; those who did return multiple times did so because they failed to hear the first time(s), as in the case (p.58) of Funisulana Vettulla (8), or because they were “just passing by,” as in the case of Geminus (67), sailing up and down the Nile on administrative business for the Roman government in Upper Egypt. In pointing out the existence of opportunistic tourists, or in the words of the French Egyptologist Jean Yoyotte, the category of “pilgrimage en passant,”61 I do not mean to imply that their religious devotion was any less authentic when they did honor Memnon with a visit and an inscription; yet curiosity about the phenomenon itself surely could have been satisfied by one or two successful “hearings.” If we are unable to determine any specific reason for the frequency of Lucius Tanicius’s visits, we can try to make some sense out of the way he documents his presence. Through his detailed catalogue, he may have wanted to outdo his fellow administrators, none of whom came close in terms of the number of visits. Or, he may have composed his lines at such length and in such detail for ritual or religious reasons, attempting to present himself appropriately in the presence of the divine, miraculous voice. Just as Memnon reveals himself fully in his cry, so this visitor lists all his official roles to mark his own presence in its fullest sense. We could even posit an element of reciprocity here, related to the idea of a full witnessing. But while there is evidence elsewhere of the importance of lists in sacred contexts, when compared to the lines of other inscriptions on the Memnon colossus, Tanicius’s comprehensive list remains something of an outlier.62 Returning to the example with which we began this section, in the inscription of Celer we find the clearest explanation of why a traveler in the general area of the colossus might be inspired to stop and investigate. While the terms “theoria” and “proskynema” refer specifically to Celer’s previous experiences at the healing sanctuary at nearby Deir el-Bahari, it is not too much of a stretch to argue that he perceived his experience at the Memnon colossus, while almost an afterthought, to be much the same kind of thing. Here we have inscriptional evidence of a pilgrim visiting several shrines on one journey, listing theoria and the leaving of a proskynema as critical elements of a pilgrim’s behavior, and acknowledging that he understands the sacred space of Memnon’s sanctuary to Page 16 of 41

Worshipping the Colossus contain a god whose voice is heard as a mark of favor. Celer, by leaving behind an inscription, created his own kind of monument, a physical memory immediately accessible to anyone else visiting the site; as Sarolta Takacs remarks about the proskynema of a contemporary pilgrim honoring Isis, “Through the inscription or graffiti, the pilgrim inhabited (in a sense, timelessly) the sacred space s/he had visited to pay homage to a god who was thought to inhabit the space.”63 (p.59) In addition to categorizing his purpose as that of theoria, Celer also openly acknowledges his religious motives when he reports the voice of Memnon to be that of a god rather than, for example, that of a Homeric hero or even, as Falernus the sophist claims in jest, that of a rhetor (61.1: [Μέμν]ων οἶδε λαλεῖν ὅσον ῥήτωρ/“Memnon knows how to talk as well as a rhetor”). Many of the inscriptions on the colossus do the same: including Celer’s reference (23.8), Memnon is explicitly declared divine in eight inscriptions.64 Julia Balbilla writes of hearing Memnon’s divine voice (31.2: φώνα(ς) τᾶς θείας); Trebulla, visiting at about the same time, writes of the “holy voice of Memnon” (τῆς ἱερᾶς φωνῆς, 92.1). The otherwise unknown Lucius Flavianus Philippus writes of hearing “the very divine Memnon” (33.3–4: ἔκλυον Μέμνονος τοῦ θειοτάτου) in the same month that Hadrian did (November 130 CE), and a few weeks later, in December 130 CE, Artemidorus, son of Ptolemy and basilikos grammateus of the Hermonthite and Latopolite nomes, visiting with his wife and two sons, used the same phrase: (34.3–4: ἤκουσα Μέμνονος τοῦ θειοτάτου).65 One begins to suspect that pilgrims were imitating one another’s phrasing when we read again (43.3–4) [ἤκουσα] τοῦ θειοτά[του Μέμνονος] from one Chaeremon (Nov./Dec. 134 CE).66 As visitors arranged for inscriptions to be written, one can imagine that they were strongly influenced by the lines already scratched on the surface of the monument.67 But repetition could also be understood as a kind of ritualized formula; just as the word “proskynema” appeared frequently in these contexts, so there was a conventional phrase for honoring the speaking god. There is a strong rhetorical force to ritual repetition, and the repetition of phrases of worship echoes the repetition of Memnon’s matinal cry.68 If Memnon is believed to be a god, one might wonder whether his visitors participated in some form of organized worship. At other shrines, pilgrims requested some favor from the god, whether in the form of healing instructions, dream visions, or oracular proclamations, and therefore made offerings either in expectation of future favors, or in exchange for favors given. But pilgrims visited Memnon only to hear his voice; the voice was understood as a mark of favor. So it is slightly surprising when, for example, Lucius (p.60) Funisulanus Charisius records what sounds suspiciously like organized cult activity. After hearing Memnon cry out at dawn, Funisulanus addresses the god directly, stating that he “made an offering, [poured] a libation, and himself sang out this song in your honor (19.7–8: θύσας δὲ καὶ σπείσας τε ΚΑΡΤ----- |τοῦτ’ αὐτὸς ἠΰτησεν εἰς σεῖ[ο κλέος]). It is not wholly unreasonable to imagine that Funisulanus really did Page 17 of 41

Worshipping the Colossus make a libation for Memnon, as a libation would not be a difficult task to perform while traveling. But I am more inclined to think of the offering and libation as symbolic: the act of pouring out a liquid is closely connected to the concept of “pouring out” speech or sound in the Greek poetic tradition, and particularly apt as an acknowledgment of having experienced a sonic or auditory epiphany. Thus, if read figuratively, Funisulanus’s libation “answers” Memnon’s singular cry, while his inscription on stone commemorates the eternal presence of Memnon’s solid body. Further evidence for organized worship beyond this one proskynema is not available, and indeed, more visitors imagine figurative or symbolic offerings, presenting their own poems as gifts to the god.69 Thus in the opening lines of the undated inscription by Petronianus, the pilgrim claims to honor Memnon, the “speaking god,” with an offering of his own elegiac verses (72.1–2):70 Τούτοις τοῖς ἐλέγοις Πετρωνιανός σε γεραίρω, αὐδήεντι θεῶι μουσικὰ δῶρα διδούς . . . In these elegiac verses, I, Petronianus, honor you, giving to the speaking god gifts from the Muses . . .

The self-styled poet Statilius Maximus, unsurprisingly, turns to his own poem as the best gift he could give Memnon in exchange for hearing the miracle of his voice; Memnon is represented as equally harmonious (“canorum”), both of them dear to the Muses (54): Memnonem vates canorum Maximus Statilius audit et donat camenas: Musa nam cordi deis. Statilius Maximus the poet heard singing Memnon and offered poems; for the Muse is dear to the gods.

And in the undated inscription 99, a certain Achilles pulls out all the stops; he acknowledges that Memnon is most divine, that his voice is the voice of (p.61) a god, and that he himself has left behind as a devotional offering his own voice recorded as a poem, a voice appropriately “made solid by the rock.” The phrase vividly draws attention to the materiality of the inscription, which is matched by the stony physical presence of the god himself. Achilles represents the colossus simultaneously as speaking subject (divine) and as the surface or physical object (wholly inanimate thing) on which he carves his own voice (99.1–5):71 Ἀχιλλε[ὺς] προσκυνήσας ἱερώτατον Μέμ(ν)ονα καὶ εὐ[ξάμ]ενος τοὺς ἀδελφοὺς ἐσακοῦσαι θείου φθέγ[γ]ματος, ἀπέρχομε, καταλιπὼν τῶι δίωι υἱῶι [Ἀ]μμωνίῳ τοῦ Νο ἀειμνήστο λίθῳ πεπυ[κ]ασμένην φωνήν. I, Achilles, having left my proskynema for most holy Memnon, and having made a prayer that my brothers might (also) hear the voice of the god, Page 18 of 41

Worshipping the Colossus I depart, leaving behind for the god, the Ammonian son of No, a voice always to be remembered, made solid by the rock.

In spite of the suggestion that the colossus functions also as a solid stone writing surface, Achilles primarily emphasizes the statue’s divine status, and presents it as worthy of receiving worship: Memnon here is called is “most holy,” a “god,” and “the Ammonian son of No,” the last phrase being a nod to the Egyptian nomenclature (“Ammon” = Zeus; “No” = Egyptian Thebes). The frequent attribution of divinity to Memnon’s colossal statue may have been motivated in part by an instinct to recognize and honor its uncanniness. Something supernatural must be at work if an inanimate statue without a head can speak; as in the case with all adynata, there must be a god involved. This is certainly the opinion of Arius, whose Homeric cento, which will be discussed in greater detail in Chapter 4, declares that there must be a god within (37.2: μάλα τις θεὸς ἔνδον)—no other explanation for the great thauma, the acoustic marvel of Memnon’s cry, could possibly exist. Many visitors comment on Memnon’s life after death, his mutilation, and their amazement that he still speaks. Petronianus wonders how “that part of his body that remains” (72.6: τοῦ λοιποῦ γῆρυν σώματος ἔντος ἔχει), without chest or head, can still speak.72 Marius Gemellus sees the hand of Kronos at (p.62) work: “he put a voice inside the stone” (φωνὴν δ’ ἀπὸ πέτρου ἔθηκε: 51.8; 52.5). Caecilia Trebulla is bothered by the confusing status of a voice emerging from stone (“is it that the stone can feel and speak, given this power by nature, the organizer of the universe?” Αἴσθησιν ἆρα τῷ λίθῳ καὶ φθέγγματα / ἡ φύσις ἔδωκε δημιουργὸς τῶν ὅλων; 93.7–8; “I am a stone . . . emitting sounds that are inarticulate and unintelligible,” με τόνδε τὸν λίθον . . . ἄναφθρα δ[ὴ] νῦν καὶ ἀσαφῆ τὰ φθέγγματα/ὀλοφύρομ[α]ι, 94.3–8). An anonymous visitor hears the same sounds and understands them not as complaints but as actual oracles, given to those who come from all over the world to consult him and who, upon hearing, react with amazement (100):73 Οὐκ ἀκάρηνος ἄρ’ ἐστιν ὁ τῆς Ἠ[οῦς --- υἱό]ς, Μέμνων, ἡμερινῇ ----[ἀ]ντολῇ ἠελίοιο θεσπίζων μερό[π]εσσιν, ο[ἳ στείχ]ουσι πρὸς αὐτὸν ἐκ πάσης γαίη[ς ἐ]λθεῖν, ἵ[να] . . . ΟΝΤΕΣ, οἱ μὲν ἐπι[στά]μενο[ι?---, οἱ δὲ---] θα[υ]μάζοντες, οἴχωνται π[ρὸς] πάτρα[ν]-----ΟΙΟ τυχόντες. But he is not without a head, the son of Eos, Memnon, because every day, . . . at the rising of the sun, he utters oracles to mortals, who(ever)74 manage to come to him from all over the earth, in order to . . . some having known? . . . others full of amazement, they return to their fatherland . . .

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Worshipping the Colossus The word “thauma” and its verb form, while certainly applicable to a religious response, oddly enough occur only rarely on the colossus: 68.1–3 (Ἤκουσα --καὶ ἐθαύμασα --- ἐγὼ σὺν CΕ ---; “I heard . . . and I was amazed . . . myself with . . .”); 73 (Βαλβεινιανὸς ἔναρχος ἐθαύμασεν | ἀρχιδικαστής; “Balbinianus, the archidicast in office, was amazed”); and in 100.5 above, where visitors are filled with amazement at the sound of Memnon’s voice. While it is unusual on the colossus, visitors to the Tombs, who often compare the marvel of seeing the Tombs to the fascination of hearing Memnon, use it fairly frequently: Baillet’s index to the inscriptions at the Tombs records 256 out of 1,021 occurrences.75 (p.63) This seems at first glance peculiar. Why would these two sites of pilgrimage, similar in their location and their connection to a distant past, elicit such different reactions, at least as far as they are documented by the inscriptions and graffiti? What might visitors have meant by “thauma,” which we translate usually as “wonder” or “amazement”? It seems to go beyond just the difference between visual and auditory experience: even an acoustic marvel can be understood to be a thauma, in spite of the inherent ocularcentric bias of the term. George Williamson has argued that “a sense of wonder is at the heart of both pilgrimage and tourism,” although the source of the emotion differs in each case: religious wonder for pilgrims is grounded in the operation of divine power in sacred objects or sites, while touristic wonder connects to the availability of an aesthetic response, an operation grounded in the admiration of the power of mankind or the natural world.76 But as with a forced distinction between touristic and religious journeys, sacred and aesthetic modes usually overlap.77 I would argue that in the case of Memnon, the experience must have evoked in the visitors a sense of wonder in both spheres simultaneously—that is, the assumed numinous presence of the god and the marvel of the solid presence of the inscribed statue. Similarly, Philostratus’s Apollonius may be understood to respond to the statue of Memnon both stylistically/aesthetically as a thauma (“daedalic”) and religiously as a sacred object; he and his party actually sacrifice to the divinized Memnon.78 But it is true that the inscriptions on the Memnon statue itself emphasize the sacred over the aesthetic or functional. In fact, none of the inscriptions sustain a purely aesthetic reading. Thus no visitors, for example, comment only on the sheer size of the stone monument,79 or wonder how it came to exist in its particular location. In contrast, it may be that the convoluted and mysterious rock-cut tombs of the pharaohs elicited a greater sense of aesthetic awe from their visitors—clearly men had worked hard to dig and build up the tombs— adding the component of touristic wonder that led them to use (or overuse) the word “thauma” in their responses.80

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Worshipping the Colossus (p.64) There is another way to approach the depth of wonder that visitors must have felt in the presence of Memnon, and that is to categorize the statue as partaking of a kind of sublimity that encapsulates all the numinosity of archaic Greece. This approach neatly blurs the distinction between religious and aesthetic modes of viewing, since the broken statue itself is transformed into a site of memory, the lieu de mémoire discussed at the end of the previous chapter, that connects present fragments with the imagined whole of a past heroic age. In Jim Porter’s words,81 sublimity in its most startling form is to be found in the wondrous and miraculous, the outsized and the venerable, and above all in what lies beyond reach in the present: Mycenae and Tiryns with their cyclopean walls, and colossal images of all kinds, whether Greek or Egyptian, such as the famous resonating statue of Memnon, the huge bones of heroes . . . The very fragmentariness of the colossal statue adds to its luster, as it straddles the present and the past(s). All ruins “signal simultaneously an absence and a presence,” and function as an “intersection of the visible and the invisible.”82 Visitors can perceive the visible—the shape in front of their eyes—whether they see Amenhotep or Memnon; but the mysterious cry at dawn, emitted from what seems to be an invisible (absent) head, needs further interpretation, and it takes the form of an interpretatio graeca that draws the listener across temporal, geographical, and cultural boundaries. If most monuments were produced in order for the Greeks and Romans “to project themselves into their own present and into the future of others,”83 Memnon was not produced, but rather inherited (from pharaonic Egypt) and recycled (by Greek and Roman authors). Instead of celebrating the present or projecting into the future, as Amenhotep’s architects must have intended, this monument now is experienced as a relic from a Greek heroic past, a page from Homer. It has survived over a long passage of time, remaining in the same place yet “outliving” its original cultural context, as it no longer fulfills the function for which it was built. Its literal de-facement, thanks to the earthquake, allows it easily to take on a new identity. As Richard Alston explains in his “radical aesthetic of ruins,”84 . . . in its dilapidated state, [the ruin] does not exist as it was designed, as it was meant to be, with the signifiers that it was intended to deliver, but is invested with new significations as the old are stripped away. In this process of stripping away, traces of the old survive, but only as traces . . . What has been figuratively “stripped away” from the colossus—and I say “figuratively” since the base retains its Egyptian decoration—are the traces of a (p.65) specifically Egyptian past. Each visitor who carves the name “Memnon” on the statue effectively writes over another inch of Amenhotep’s body, appropriating him for their own Greco-Roman heritage. As stated in the previous chapter, no inscription mentions the extant hieroglyphics on the base of the Page 21 of 41

Worshipping the Colossus colossus, or the ruins of Amenhotep’s funerary complex behind the twin colossi, or even Memnon’s silent twin, as it was excluded from the monumental, from the “marvelous,” not possessing the same magic of voice. And voice is key here, as it both reveals a link to the past that must be experienced in person at the site, and also is itself a thauma, something marvelous. As John Ruskin phrased it in his Seven Lamps of Architecture,85 The greatest glory of a building is not in its stones, nor in its gold. Its glory is in its Age, and in that deep sense of voicefullness, of stern watching, of mysterious sympathy, nay even of approval or condemnation, which we feel in walls that that have long been washed by the passing waves of humanity. A “deep sense of voicefullness, of stern watching, of mysterious sympathy,” are all elements we find expressed in the Memnon inscriptions themselves, as the visitors project sentience and sensibility onto the broken colossus. As the surfaces of the colossus are touched by the “passing waves of humanity,” so Memnon gradually comes into focus, becomes humanized in his feelings and actions. This can be called a kind of thauma, too, as mineral becomes animal. However the visitors intended us to understand “thauma,” it is clear that a hugely important part of understanding the wonder of Memnon was to experience it oneself in person. We can speak of “an autoptic experience of wonder,”86 but in this particular situation, the experience of divine presence is far more synaesthetic, including sight and sound, “autoptic” and “autoacoustic.”87 If we return to the anonymous inscription 100, we read in the final lines a reference to two groups of people, “some having known . . . others full of amazement” (οἱ μὲν ἐπι[στά]μενο[ι?---, οἱ δὲ---] θα[υ]μάζοντες), who, after visiting Memnon, “return to their fatherland” (οἴχωνται π[ρὸς] πάτρα[ν]). The contrast between ἐπιστάμενοι and θαυμάζοντες, while syntactically somewhat unclear because of the fragmentary state of the line, may refer to those who had only heard about Memnon’s voice by reputation but did not actually hear it themselves, and those who had actually experienced it.88 Or, it could refer to those who sought out Memnon expecting to find confirmation of the stories of his miraculous voice, and those who found themselves in Thebes (p.66) as accidental tourists, and therefore even more filled with wonder as they had not fully anticipated the event. However we interpret the line, the contrast between autopsy (or autoptic experience of a sound) and hearsay occurs elsewhere on the colossus and is worth further consideration. But here, as the visitors contrast their experiences of Memnon with stories they had heard or read before setting out on their travels, we begin to move along the continuum away from a primarily religious motivation and into the related area of intellectual enlightenment.

Intellectual Enlightenment As Ian Rutherford and Jaś Elsner point out,89 Page 22 of 41

Worshipping the Colossus in the period of the Second Sophistic, we find a common pattern in which members of the cultural and political elite visit traditional religious centres, often for the purpose of intellectual enlightenment. This is a complex form of activity, combining aspects of earlier forms of pilgrimage with a self-conscious and even antiquarian attitude to cultural traditions that is characteristic of the age. For Memnon, as for other sites in antiquity, there was a distinct sense that his reputation had preceded him, whether in the form of hearsay or earlier authors’ own autoptic experiences. For some sites, as Froma Zeitlin argues, one could even posit that books had inspired the travelers’ journeys:90 Above all, the pages of books they had read and the stories they had heard could come alive in the authenticating presence of material realities to revive powerful images and scenes in the viewer’s imagination. In the case of Memnon, the “pages of books” are the verses of Homer. As a visitor named Julius tells us, he had read his “divine Homer” and grants the poet superior knowledge of such stories as Eos weeping for her son; but what matters to him is his own personal experience of the phenomenon (101): Εἴ γε μὲν οὖν Ἠὼς τὸν ἑὸν [φί]λον υἷα δακρύει, ἡνίκ’ ἂν ἀντέλλῃσι φαεσφόρος ἤμασιν αἴγλην ἐ[κ] γαίης μύκημα θεοπρεπὲς [ἐκπ]έμπουσα, ἴστω θεῖος Ὅμηρος, ὃς Ἰλίου ἔ[ννε]πε μῦθον· αὐτὸς δ’ ἐνθάδ’ ἔων τοῦ Μ[έμ]ν[ον]ος [ἔ]κλυον αὐδῆς. Ἰούλιος ἦλ[θο]ν ἐγὼν [ἑκα]τόνταρχος λεγεῶνος. (p.67) If it is true that Eos weeps for her own dear son, Whenever she brings forth light and gives brilliance to the days as they begin, breathing out from the ground a groan worthy of a god, let divine Homer be the one to know, who told the story of Troy. But I, standing right here, heard the voice of Memnon. I, Julius, came here, centurion of a legion.

Julius juxtaposes Homer’s version with his own experience, “standing right here,” hearing the voice of Memnon. Other inscriptions similarly contrast what the inscriber had known about Memnon before with his or her actual experience face to face with the statue in situ. Presence was essential for the full experience of Memnon’s voice, since an utterance was not replicable or transmissible in antiquity. An epiphany could be re-presented as an image, but a miraculous sound had to be heard with one’s own ears. So those who did manage a successful pilgrimage often emphasized the connections between what they thought they knew and what they actually experienced. In his Latin proskynema, Marius Frontinus states, “coram audio” (85), “I hear in your presence,” as if comparing the current acoustic reality with what he had “heard” of Memnon Page 23 of 41

Worshipping the Colossus before traveling to Egyptian Thebes. The poet Paion of Side, whose visit is dated tentatively to 88/89 CE, makes the point concisely, contrasting πυνθάνομαι (“know,” “hear,” “know from hearsay or some other third-party source”) with μανθάνω (“learn by experience oneself”) (12.1–2): [Α]ὐδήεντά σε, Μέμνον, ἐγὼ Παϊὼ|ν ὁ Σιδήτης τὸ πρὶν ἐπυνθα|νόμην, νῦν δὲ παρὼν ἔμαθον. That you were capable of speaking, Memnon, I, Paion of Side, had already learned by inquiry, but now, being present, I myself learned by experience.

Julia Balbilla alludes to knowing from inquiry or hearsay about Memnon with the same verb, just before she narrates Hadrian’s dismay at Memnon’s selective muteness (28.1–2): Μέμνονα πυνθανόμαν Αἰγύπτιον ἀλίω αὔγαι αἰθόμενον φώνην Θηβαΐ(κ)ω ᾿πυ λίθω. I have heard that Memnon the Egyptian, warmed by the sun’s rays, speaks from the Theban stone.

And in yet another spot on the colossus, Funisulanus spells out the contrast between hearsay and autopsy in detail in the short celebratory poem inserted into his longer proskynema, dated to 5 September 122 BCE (19.8–11): (p.68) . . . λάλον μὲν Ἀργὼ παῖς ἐ[ὼν-----] λάλον δὲ φηγὸν τὴν Διὸ[ς -----] σὲ δ’ αὐτὸν ὄσσοις μοῦνον ἐδ[ράκην ἐμοῖς,] ὡς αὐτὸς ἠχεῖς καὶ βοήν τιν’ -----. . . . That the Argo talked I was told as a child, and that the oak of Zeus [at Dodona] talked; but you alone have I seen with my own eyes, how you yourself call out and utter a cry . . .

Funisulanus’s use of the phrase “I have seen with my own eyes” for an auditory event only underscores the standard language of both religious and intellectual theoria: the marvels are usually seen, not heard.91 Memnon’s audience often falls back on ocularcentric diction to describe the sonic event. In some of the inscriptions that boast of autopsy, one can almost sense a kind of barely overcome skepticism, as the witnesses struggle to accept the miracle and wonder about more rational explanations, as befits an intellectual angle of pursuit. This often goes together with an amazement that Memnon sings in spite of being dead, damaged, or petrified.92 Thus, for example, Caesellius Quintus,

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Worshipping the Colossus commander (praefectus) of the Gallic wing, and of the region of Berenice (the area of Egypt between the Nile and the Red Sea), writes (14.1–3): Memnonis . . . clarumque sonor[em] exanimi inanimem mi[ssum] de tegmine bruto auribus ipse meis cepi sumsique canorum . . . Of Memnon . . . and the clear sound lifeless, from Memnon after his last breath, sent out from the voiceless covering I myself received it with my ears and I recognized the singing . . .

The poet Paion, in addition to his own inscription, composes a poetic inscription for his patron Mettius, in which he similarly emphasizes the witness’s personal experience of the miracle that occurs in spite of severe damage to the statue (11.1–3): Εἰ καὶ λωβητῆρες ἐλυμήναντο δέμας σόν, ἀλλὰ σύ γ’ αὐδήεις, ὡς κλύον αὐτὸς ἐγώ, Μέττιος, ὦ Μέμνον· Παϊὼν τάδ’ ἔγραψε Σιδήτης. (p.69) Even if vandals damaged your body, you still speak out, as I myself, Mettius, witnessed by hearing (you) Memnon. Paion of Side wrote these words.

And we have already met Petronianus, originally from Italy, earlier in this chapter; while noting the damage to Memnon’s body, he writes that many of his fellow visitors come to Egyptian Thebes to find out whether Memnon can still perform, sending forth a sound from a body without head or upper torso (72.5– 6):93 Πολλοὶ ἅμα στείχουσι δα(ή)μεναι, ἦ ῥ’ ἔτι Μέμνων τοῦ λοιποῦ γῆρυν σώματος ἔντος ἔχει . . . Many come together here to discover if Memnon still preserves a voice within what remains of his body . . .

But none of the visitors to Memnon actually come out and challenge the existence of the miracle itself in their inscriptions. The closest we come to acknowledgments of failed visits occur when the inscription notes previous unsuccessful visits; one assumes that a visitor who failed to hear the voice would simply not leave a proskynema. We do have one line vaguely stating that the writer, self-identified as Dionysia, “will hear many times” (66): Διονυσίας τὸ προσκύνημα· πολλάκις δ’ ἀκούσεται. (This is the) proskynema of Dionysia; she will hear (it) many times.

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Worshipping the Colossus The use of the future tense is confusing but could imply either (1) that Dionysia wrote her line in anticipation of hearing the voice the next morning, or (2) that she heard and noted that she hoped to hear again many times on future visits. But whether the speaking statue was indeed a miracle, a natural phenomenon of the sun heating the stone, or a complex fabrication by local priests, those who visited came in the spirit of intellectual tourism, eager to experience, not to question or confirm any suspicions of fraud. This did not, of course, stop some literary authors of the period from pointing out the fraudulent element at other cult centers. In his essay Gallus, Lucian’s talkative rooster claims that, rather than housing a divine spirit, (p.70) statues are merely lovely exteriors hiding the “plumbing” inside: beneath the impressive exterior of chryselephantine statues of the gods there exists (Gallus 24.15–22): μοχλούς τινας καὶ γόμφους καὶ ἥλους διαμπὰξ πεπερονημένους καὶ κορμοὺς καὶ σφῆνας καὶ πίτταν καὶ πηλὸν καὶ τοιαύτην τινὰ πολλὴν ἀμορφίαν ὑποικουροῦσαν· ἐῶ λέγειν μυῶν πλῆθος ἢ μυγαλῶν ἐμπολιτευόμενον αὐτοῖς ἐνίοτε . . .94 a tangle of bars and struts and nails driven right through, and beams and wedges and pitch and clay, and a large amount of such ugly stuff housed inside, not to mention the crowds of mice and rats that sometimes hold court there . . . Plutarch is another skeptic (Coriolanus 38.2): δυνατὸν δὲ καὶ μυγμῷ καὶ στεναγμῷ ψόφον ὅμοιον ἐκβάλλειν ἀγάλματα κατὰ ῥῆξιν ἢ διάστασιν μορίων βιαιοτέραν ἐν βάθει γενομένην· ἔναρθρον δὲ φωνὴν καὶ διάλεκτον οὕτω σαφῆ καὶ περιττὴν καὶ ἀρτίστομον ἐν ἀψύχῳ γενέσθαι παντάπασιν ἀμήχανον.95 It is possible also that statues may emit a noise like a moan or a groan because of a crack or a rupture, which is more violent if it takes place in the interior. But that articulate speech and language, so clear and abundant and precise, should emerge from a soulless thing is altogether impossible. This suspicion of the presence of some manmade mechanism reappears in the marvelous description by the fifth-century CE writer Theodoret of Theophilus’s destruction of the pagan temples in Alexandria:96 Θεόφιλος, ἀνὴρ πυκνός τε τὰς φρένας καὶ ἀνδρεῖος τὸ φρόνημα. Οὗτοςτὴν Ἀλεξάνδρου πόλιν τῆς εἰδωλικῆς ἠλευθέρωσε πλάνης. Οὐ γὰρ μόνον ἐκ βάθρων ἀνέσπασε τὰ τῶν εἰδώλων τεμένη, ἀλλὰ καὶ τὰ τῶν ἐξαπατώντων ἱερέων τοῖς ἐξηπατημένοις ὑπέδειξε μηχανήματα. Τά τε γὰρ ἐκ χαλκοῦ καὶ τὰ ἐκ ξύλων κενὰ ἔνδοθεν κατασκευάζοντες ξόανα καὶ τοῖς τοίχοις τὰ Page 26 of 41

Worshipping the Colossus τούτων προσαρμόζοντες νῶτα, πόρους τινὰς ἀφανεῖς ἐν τοῖς τοίχοις ἠφίεσαν. Εἶτα διὰ τῶν ἀδύτων ἀνιόντες καὶ εἴσω τῶν ξοάνων γιγνόμενοι, ἅπερ ἐβούλοντο διὰ τούτων ἐκέλευον· φενακιζόμενοι δὲ οἱ ἐπαΐοντες ἔδρων τὸ κελευόμενον. Theophilus was a man of great intelligence and courage. He delivered the city of Alexandria from the errors of idolatry. He not only tore down the idolatrous temples from their very foundations, but also disclosed the deceptions (p.71) of the priests to those who had been abused by them. These imposters had constructed hollow statues, made of bronze and wood, with the back fitted against the wall, placing inside the wall invisible entrances. Then they climbed up these secret passages, and once inside the statues, they issued whatever commands they pleased. Their audience, completely mystified, obeyed their commands.97 Archaeological evidence does exist for statues in antiquity designed to speak by manmade interventions. According to David Frankfurter, there were98 . . . crypts beneath the stone plinths in temples to hold cult statues, or, at Karanis, crocodile mummies; naoi with holes bored in their lower sides, pipes that stretch from statue plinths out to adjoining rooms. All these contrivances allowed priests to hide and deliver, in the voice of a god, oracular sounds and messages to interpreters and audiences. But while we have previously noted suspicions that local priests were somehow complicit in the fabrication of a voice for Memnon, most of those who visited to investigate whether Memnon did indeed speak seemed to be satisfied by what they experienced. They may have found it challenging to believe that the sound could emerge from such a damaged body, but upon hearing it, they accepted on an intellectual level that it was indeed possible; autopsy, or more accurately hearing the sound in the presence of the statue, created its own kind of proof. Another inscriptional response that fits the idea of intellectual pursuit is speculation as to the statue’s or god’s identity. Ian Rutherford, arguing for the absence of “intellectual tourists” at the mortuary temple of Pharaoh Seti I at Abydos, points out only one graffito there (of a total of approximately eight hundred), by a man named Bagas, presumably visiting sometime in the Roman period, that reflects an intellectual or theological interest (PL 498):99 Ἀσκλήπιόν σε λέγουσιν, ἐγώ δέ τε καὶ Διόνυσον, ἄλλοι δ’ αὖ Φοῖβόν τε καὶ Ἑρμῆν καὶ Ἁρποχράτην. Some say you are Asklepios, but I [say] that you are Dionysos; others [say] that you are Phoibos [Apollo] and Hermes and Harpokrates.

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Worshipping the Colossus (p.72) This inscription discussing the identity of the god being honored resembles the famous proskynema in which a Roman soldier at Kalabsha (Nubia), in the second or third century CE, speculates on the identity of the local god Mandoulis, suggesting an intellectual as well as a theological engagement with the divine statue and its temple.100 The pilgrim wonders if Mandoulis is a local variant of Helios/Aion, or some other divine being (SB I 4127.1–5):101 Ἀκτινοβόλε, δέσποτα, Μανδοῦλι, Τιτάν, Μακαρεῦ, σημ(ε)ῖά σοῦ τινα λαμπρὰ θεάμενος ἐπενόησα καὶ ἐπολυπράγμ(ω)σα ἀσφαλῶς ἰδέναι θέλων εἰ σὺ (ε)ἶ ὁ ἥλιος . . . Lord, you who hurl rays of light, Mandoulis, Titan, Macareus, gazing at your shining signs, I wondered at them and spent much effort in research, desiring to know securely if you are the Sun . . .

After the soldier purifies himself, offers incense at the shrine, and witnesses the god’s epiphany, he records a grateful prayer in response, acknowledging that Mandoulis is indeed (also) the familiar Greco-Roman Helios/Aion (lines 17– 19):102 . . . ἔνθα σε ἔγνων, Μανδοῦλι, Ἥλιον τὸν παντεπόπτην δεσπότην, ἁπάντων βασιλέα, Αἰῶνα παντοκράτορα. Then I recognized you, Mandoulis, as Helios, the lord who sees everything, the king of all, Aion who rules over all.

This kind of uncertainty about the identification of the statue was not uppermost in the minds of most Memnon visitors, or at least not expressed in their inscriptions; they seemed content to trust Homer, earlier traveling historians, or the emperors who had made the pilgrimage before them, not to mention the identifying inscriptions left by previous pilgrims. But doubt is (p.73) foregrounded in the verses of one highly educated visitor, Julia Balbilla, who neatly balances the Greek and earlier Egyptian identifications of the colossal statue. She inquires after the statue’s identity during her visit, quizzing the local priests in a manner reminiscent of Herodotus and Strabo.103 And when she arranges for two of her four elegiac inscriptions to be carved, she includes all the possible options. In 29, she asks the statue directly what to call it: the Homeric epic hero Memnon, son of Eos and Tithonus, or the historical Egyptian king Amenoth (a different Greek vocalization of Imn-htp, our modern Amenhotep), the original dedicatee in the context of the funerary complex (29.1– 4): Αὔως καὶ γεράρω, Μέμνον, πάι Τιθώνοιο, Page 28 of 41

Worshipping the Colossus Θηβάας θάσσων ἄντα Δίος πόλιος, ἢ Ἀμένωθ, βασίλευ Αἰγύπτιε, τὼς ἐνέποισιν ἴρηες μύθων τῶν παλάων ἴδριες, χαῖρε . . . Son of Dawn and reverend Tithonus, Memnon, seated opposite Zeus’ Theban city, or (should I call you) Amenoth, Egyptian king, as the priests claim, learned in the ancient stories, greetings . . .

In 31, Balbilla does not mention her sources, and shifts from questioning a potential conflict to promoting a syncretistic response to the colossal monument —it may be Memnon, Phamenoth, or both, but what matters most is that she heard a divine voice issuing from the speaking stone (31.1–2): Ἔκλυον αὐδήσαντος ἔγω ‘πυ λίθω Βάλβιλλα φώνα(ς) τᾶς θείας Μέμνονος ἢ Φαμένωθ. I, Balbilla, heard, from the speaking stone, the divine voice of Memnon or Phamenoth.

Here Balbilla manages to combine an element of intellectual curiosity—the jury is still out as to whether the speaking stone answers to Memnon or Phamenoth104—with the acknowledgment of a divine presence—whoever is responsible for the voice, it is clearly “divine.” She may question the statue’s identity, but not its divine status.

(p.74) A Discourse of Monumentality This last point about questioning the identity of the statue as part of an intellectual response to the monument may be put into a wider context by engaging with Jaś Elsner’s approach to the “discourse of monumentality.” Elsner argues that a monument is both an existing artifact and a kind of discourse, and that any artifact acquires over time a complex ideological resonance related to its lineage and identity. Thus, talking about a monument means making the past intelligible and meaningful to the present, and “what matters about any particular version of history is that it be meaningful to the collective subjectivities and self-identities of the specific group which it addresses.”105 This is a very useful way of looking at Julia Balbilla’s reaction to the Memnon colossus. Balbilla balances the perspectives of imperial cultural appropriation with those of local knowledge and “microidentity.”106 She inscribes Memnon’s lineage on his very body as a way to bring the past into the present, to speak to her fellow travelers, but without erasing the statue’s Egyptian self, thus historicizing it. Herodotus had also attempted to learn something from local sources, to set the Pyramids in their Egyptian framework and to acknowledge their size and wonder while insisting on the value of autopsy. In one case, he actually preferred the local Egyptian version of events—that the courtesan Rhodopis was the builder of the smallest pyramid—to that of a competing Greek Page 29 of 41

Worshipping the Colossus version (Hdt. 2.134).107 One might expect a Greek or Roman visitor to experience his or her travels as part of a project of defining a specifically Greek intellectual identity. Yet both Herodotus and Balbilla allow for certain Egyptian myths to be brought into the present, as part of the colonization and possession of foreign monuments. Balbilla moves from Amenhotep to Memnon in a smooth and seamless autoptic experience of wonder. What matters is not the truth of the statue’s identity, but the stories that the visitors tell themselves: in Elsner’s terms, “The monumenta function as a material and present link . . . to a past which might have been lost but that can be evoked through them.”108 Elsner also argues that, while Herodotus prioritizes autopsy over other narratives of the Pyramids in order to guarantee an “empirical truth-value” to his history, later historians such as Diodorus, Pliny, and Pausanias are content to base their narratives on other writers’ texts, which in turn provide them with “the shared subjectivity, the shared cultural prejudices and assumptions, which (p.75) will valorize their history, make it authentic to readers in imperial Rome.”109 For Balbilla’s peers, the master narrative is that of Homer, and the trip to Egypt promises a kind of double vision: an affirmation of the extent of the Roman Empire (“the fact that under Rome one could go anywhere and one could see anything and the monumenta of history were all still there as wondrous as in the distant past”),110 and an affirmation that what one has read in earlier texts really does exist. Thus the concept of autopsy changes from the time of Herodotus to that of, for example, Aelius Aristides, who, like Herodotus and Balbilla, visited Egypt and talked to local priests about what he saw (Egypt. Disc. 36.122 K). While the priests continue to fill in the gaps and contextualize monuments for foreign visitors, now the autoptic experience is not primarily to discover or explore the unfamiliar, but rather to see for oneself what one already knows:111 In Herodotus the pyramids were a peg upon which to hang an embodiment of the Other. In Pausanias, monuments are a frame through which to explore and represent in some depth the identity of self. Elsner’s statements on the “discourse of monumentality” can be extended to many famous (or not-so-famous) places or monuments that are “rediscovered” at a later period and put to new use.112 The unusual thing about the appropriation of Amenhotep’s colossal funerary statue in Thebes is that it was not used to articulate a tie of memory with the Egyptian past, but rather a specifically Greek past. But this brings us back to the topic with which I opened the chapter— namely, the early identification of Egypt as a source for all things Greek. We will return in Chapter 5 to the question of Julia Balbilla’s exploitation of the Memnon colossus as a frame through which she explores her complex identity as a female poet in the reign of Hadrian. But for our current purposes, while she is certainly more literate and articulate than many of the other visitors to the site, she is probably typical in that her motivations are mixed: those of both a tourist and a Page 30 of 41

Worshipping the Colossus worshipper, both an intellectual curiosity-seeker and someone eager to hear the voice of the divine. In the next chapter, we will turn to the question of how Memnon’s visitors negotiated their own particular autoptic and auto-acoustic experiences of the statue, creating personal relationships through conversation with the god in their inscriptions, and trying to sustain that relationship longer than just the brief moment of his animation each dawn. (p.76) Notes:

(1) I use the text published by Kenyon and Bell (1907): 205–206 (P. Lond. III 854), with diacritical marks and punctuation adapted from Deissmann (1908): 141– 142. See also Wilcken (1912) 1.2, no. 117; Berichtigungsliste der griechischen Papyrusurkunden aus Ägypten (1922) 1:289; Berichtigungsliste der griechischen Papyrusurkunden aus Ägypten (1933) 2.2: 83–84. I disagree with the more recent version by Schwartz (1961): 268–270, who interprets the papyrus as a literary pastiche of Herodotus by a man who never visited the area he describes, and emends the text accordingly. Thus Schwartz reads the end of line 5 as ἐγὼ παρεπ[οιησ]ά, “moi, j’imagine une fiction,” a reading suggested already by Deissmann (1908): 141 and Wilcken (1912): 148, but understood by them to mean, “so habe ich das nachgemacht,” i.e., “many have taken such a journey, and I have thus imitated it (= also taken this journey).” While Nearchus’s letter certainly includes unusually literary language, and is indebted to Herodotus for certain phrases, I am not convinced that it is fictional. See further discussion in Hunt (1984): 391–417, esp. 406; Milne (1916): 76–80, esp. 79; and Foertmeyer (1989): 10–11. There remain numerous problems with the reconstruction of this papyrus, which I hope to address elsewhere in the future. My understanding of this text has benefitted greatly from the suggestions of R. Bagnall, as well as those of S. Bär, D. Konstan, R. Gagné, D. Iordanoglou, and O. Hodkinson at the epistolary symposium held in Uppsala in November 2016. (2) The source of the Nile, which Herodotus (2.29) believed to be located somewhere near Philae, was a topic of great debate in antiquity. (3) It is not entirely clear whether he traveled overland from Aswan to Siwa, or (as suggested per litteras by R. Bagnall as the more likely possibility) sailed downriver to Alexandria, sailed further west along the coast to Paraetonium, and then traveled overland south for ca. 200 miles to his destination at Siwa. (4) This verb is the same as that used by Funisulanus Charisius (19.2) on the Memnon colossus to describe his act of carving letters in stone. (5) On Strabo in Egypt, see Yoyotte et al. (1997) and Dueck (2000). (6) See Cruz-Uribe (2010): 491–506, esp. 504.

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Worshipping the Colossus (7) The popularity of the temple of Seti at Abydos is evidenced by the presence of graffiti from the fifth century BCE through the Ptolemaic era down to Roman times, as late as the third century CE; see Milne (1916): 78 and Rutherford (2003): 171–190. (8) As stated in the previous chapter, the earliest graffito on the Memnon colossus is dated to ca. 20 CE, the latest to ca. 205 CE. At the tombs of the pharaohs, the earliest graffito is dated to the reign of Ptolemy II (CIG III, 4789a), and the latest six centuries later, in the time of Constantine (CIG III, 4770); see Milne (1916): 78–79. For text and commentary on the graffiti at the tombs, see Baillet (1926). For crossovers by visitors to the Memnon colossus and, e.g., Philae, the Pyramids, the temple of Hatshepsut, and Talmis, see Foertmeyer (1989): 95 note 78. (9) For the inscriptions at the temple in Philae, see A. Bernand (1969) (Ptolemaic era) and E. Bernand (1969) (Roman era). (10) See Nock (1934): 53–104; Rutherford (2001): 49; and Tallet (2012): 343–383. (11) The tombs and monuments on the left bank formed the necropolis at Thebes, and by a series of linguistic coincidences came to be known in antiquity as the “Memnonia,” a confusing appellation when the two colossal funerary statues of Amenhotep III later became associated with the Homeric hero Memnon. For a discussion of the label, see Foertmeyer (1989): 23 with notes, and my Chapter 1. (12) Artemidorus, Memnon 34 and Syringes 1535 (Baillet); Pardalas, Memnon 22 and Syringes 1747 (Baillet); Maximus, Memnon 15 and Syringes 1356 (Baillet); T. Statilius Maximus, Memnon 48 and Syringes 76 (Baillet); Pison and Severus, Memnon 74 and Syringes 875 (Baillet). While one of the Syringes (KV 9 = tomb of Ramses VI) was identified in antiquity as Memnon’s tomb, these inscriptions are not limited to that section. On the Syringes in general as a burial site, see Riggs (2005): 176. (13) In the Syringes, we find other references to Artemidorus (Baillet 136), Arsinoe (100, 112 Baillet), and lots of Ptolemies, but none who claim to be the son of Artemidorus. The name Ailourion appears often (8, 446, 552, 583 Baillet), and Kodratos/Quadratus, although rare, appears also (997, 1411 Baillet). (14) The name Pardalas of Sardis appears also in Plutarch (Praec. ger. reip. 813F, 825D) and Aelius Aristides (Or. 50.27: L. Claudius Pardalas); for the latter reference, see PIR 2nd ed., I.448 and Remus (1996): 146–175, esp. 158–159, where he classifies Pardalas as Aelius Aristides’ close companion (hetairos). (15) I omit the third line, which, while in the same hand, seems to be plagiarized from another set of verses (11). See the discussion in Bernand and Bernand (1960): 70–71. Both Bernand and Bernand (1960): 70–71 and Baillet (1926) ad Page 32 of 41

Worshipping the Colossus loc. suggest that this Pardalas may be the same as an idiologos by that name, datable to 122–123 CE, but they admit the name is common throughout Greece and Asia Minor. (16) The ethnic marker Σαρδιηνός, in the form Σαρδιανός, is found in Egypt in a papyrus dated to 194 CE (P. Lond. vol. 3, p. 214, no. 1178, line 52); see Bernand and Bernand (1960): 70. (17) For the texts of the other two “crossovers” not covered here, see Baillet (1926) on inscriptions 76 and 875. (18) He is to be distinguished from Titus Statilius Maximus Severus (76 Baillet), idiologos, who also left his name on the Memnon colossus (48), in 136 CE, in the twentieth year of Hadrian’s rule. (19) For a useful overview of the practicalities of travel in Roman Egypt, see Adams (2001): 138–166; on the appeal of Egyptian (or Egyptianizing) artifacts in Rome and Pompeii, see Swetnam-Burland (2007): 113–136. (20) Aelius Aristides Or. 26.100–101 Keil. For discussion of this passage, see Hunt (1984): 391–392. It was pointed out to me by the anonymous reader that the accuracy of this passage is challenged by Aristides’ experiences in stormy seas during his return from Egypt (To Sarapis, Or. 45, delivered in Smyrna in 142 CE), and by his difficult journeys to and from Rome (Or. 48.60– 62). For further discussion of Aristides’ travels, see Harris and Holmes (2008). (21) Harrison (2003): 145–155, esp. 145. See also Rutherford (2005): 131–149. (22) See, e.g., Harrison (2003): 146–147 with bibliography. (23) Aelius Aristides (36.57 K) credits Herodotus’s histories for stimulating public interest in Egypt. See Foertmeyer (1989): 259 and 269 note 1. On animal worship as part of Egyptian religious rituals, see Smelik and Hemelrijk (1984): 1852–2000. (24) Swetnam-Burland (2015): 143. (25) This is well argued by Foertmeyer (1989): 257–259. For more on Egypt in the Greco-Roman imagination, see, among others, Versluys (2002): 387–443; Manolaraki (2012); and Swetnam-Burland (2015). For the appearance of Egyptian tourist attractions in Greek imperial fiction, see Foertmeyer (1989): 172–180. (26) Milne (1916): 78: “A few inscriptions written by visitors have been preserved on the paws of the Sphinx at Gizeh; and a more formal record (CIG III, 4699) set

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Worshipping the Colossus up by the local inhabitants tells how the prefect Balbillus, in the reign of Nero, did homage to the Sphinx and was pleased with the Pyramids.” (27) Frankfurter (2010): 526–546, esp. 531: “In the wider Mediterranean world, Roman novels, magical incantation manuals, and exported versions of the cult of Isis all presented Egypt and Egyptian religion as an exotic world of mysterious powers and resident wizards, inspiring spiritual tourists to visit the old Egyptian cult centers in search of both attractions. Numerous inscriptions and literary narratives attest to this rise in spiritual tourism in the Roman era, while the Greek Hermetic Corpus and the various Greek and Demotic magical papyri testify to Egyptian priests’ own creative engagement with this ready market.” (28) Zeitlin (2001): 234. (29) Newby (2002): 126–135, esp. 127–128. (30) Note Herodotus’s questioning of local priests in Book 2 passim. (31) For a discussion of Delphi under Roman rule, see Hunt (1984): 397 and Parke and Wormell (1956) 1:283–291. (32) Hunt (1984): 396. (33) Elsner and Rutherford (2005): 25 call this “symbolic pilgrimage by Roman Emperors” in their useful typology of pilgrimage, and suggest that the Roman imperial habit may have been modeled on Alexander the Great’s pilgrimage to the oracle of Ammon in Siwa (Libya) in 333/332 BCE. (34) Milne (1916): 77; Wilcken (1912), vol. 1 part 2, no. 412. (35) Hunt (1984): 402, although, as pointed out by the anonymous reader, Caesar’s actions may be interpreted as having more to do with ancestor cult than religious piety. (36) Hunt (1984): 403. (37) See Morinis (1992): 4: “Pilgrimage is a journey undertaken by a person in quest of a place or state that he or she believes to embody a sacred ideal.” Still worth consulting are Yoyotte (1960): 18–74, esp. 20–21; Bernand (1988): 49–63; and Bonnet (1952): 861–863. (38) Volokhine (1998): 51–97, quoting Chélini and Branthomme (1988): 21. (39) Volokhine (1998): 78. (40) Rutherford and Elsner (2005): 9–30. (41) Rutherford (2001): 40–52, esp. 41. Page 34 of 41

Worshipping the Colossus (42) Ibid., 43. (43) Ibid., 44. Cf. an even earlier Greek inscription that may also reflect a combination of sightseeing and religious awe: early in the sixth century BCE a party of Greek mercenaries traveled to Elephantine with Psammetichus II and carved their names at Abu Simbel on one of the colossal statues in front of the temple there (CIG III 5126); see J.G. Milne (1916): 76. On the origins of theoria in Greek civic envoys to panhellenic festivals, see Nightingale (2004): 40–71. (44) P. Tebtunis I, 33; see Rutherford (2001): 44; Milne (1916): 78; and Hunt (1984): 404. (45) Platt (2009): 131–154, esp. 133ff. (46) Swetnam-Burland (2015): 11. (47) Opinions were divided in Greco-Roman antiquity about repurposing and reusing statuary. Dio Chrysostom (Or. 31) urges the people of Rhodes, for example, to honor men with their own statues, not to recycle an old one by inscribing a new name over the old. On the other hand, Plutarch (Ant. 60.4, 6) appreciates the prestige of old materials and the positive connection to the Greek cultural heritage when he reports that the Athenians re-inscribed two colossal statues of Eumenes and Attalus in honor of Mark Antony before the battle of Actium; see J. Shear (2007): 221–246, esp. 244–245. (48) On the Homeric passage, see Lloyd (2010): 1067–1085, esp. 1068. (49) On experiencing the “living” world of Homer, see Zeitlin (2001): 195–266. (50) This odd phrase is translated by the brothers Bernand (1960) as “in the very dust of the foothills,” but Roger Bagnall points out (per litteras) that in Egypt the term always refers to artificial dikes. In Herodotus (1.93, 9.85) and the tragedians (e.g., Aesch. Ch. 723; Soph. Ant. 1216; Eur. Suppl. 53), however, the word is used to mean “funerary mound,” so while we know that Celer left a proskynema at the nearby sanctuary of Imhotep-Asclepius, we could also postulate that the reference to “mounds of dirt,” if funerary in nature, could suggest another proskynema by Celer at the pharaonic tombs. On the seventytwo graffiti preserved on the rocky paths leading from the Theban plain through gorges to the royal tombs, see Foertmeyer (1989): 30. On dust and tombs in Egypt, see also Posidippus’s epitaph for Doricha (Athen. 13.696/122 Austin and Bastianini). (51) Bataille (1951): 84–85, no. 124. See also Bernand and Bernand (1960): 73. The temple of Hatshepsut had been built in the eighteenth dynasty by Queen Hatshepsut (ca. 1500 BCE) but later fell into ruins, being reconstructed only in the Hellenistic period, when the site was rededicated to a combination of deities: Imhotep-Asclepius, Hygeia, and Amenothes, son of Hapu. Amenothes, by Page 35 of 41

Worshipping the Colossus coincidence, was the deified architect of Amenhotep III, and had constructed the two colossal statues of the pharaoh for his funeral complex. See Bataille (1951): vii–xxix, and Foertmeyer (1989): 22. (52) Bernand and Bernand (1960): 74 offer a detailed reconstruction: “en route pour Deir-el-Bahari, il passe auprès du Colosse, sans l’entendre, le premier jour. Il gagne ensuite le temple de Hatshepsout, où l’on peut supposer qu’il ne fait ses dévotions que le lendemain, fatigué d’avoir traversé la plaine thébaine dans la chaleur torride du début de l’été. Il passe cette journée du lendemain à Deir-elBahari et se met en route tôt le surlendemain, afin d’être à l’heure pour entendre le Colosse, deux jours après son premier passage près de la statue.” (53) Bernand and Bernand (1960): 74 note that the use of the accusative to indicate the hour occurs nowhere else on the colossus; the ablative (e.g., 79.5, 98.1) and genitive (e.g., 20.8, 27.5, 31.4, 67.4) are much more common. (54) Roger Bagnall suggests (per litteras) that one could also read it as a record of Celer’s initial failure to hear Memnon speak: in this case, Celer first came to Memnon’s sanctuary to see, hear, and make obeisance, but Memnon did not cooperate; he then went away for a few days and returned, leaving a record of his success on the second visit. (55) For a discussion of bilingual administrators and soldiers in Roman Egypt, particularly in the case of centurions, see Adams (1999): 128–129, and (2003): 546–554, in both cases with specific reference to the Memnon inscriptions. (56) See Bernand and Bernand (1960): 113–115. (57) Other epistrategoi, two of whom were accompanied by their wives, also signed the colossus: 36, 41, 79. (58) Bernand and Bernand (1960): 44–45 claim that if she had come this time with her husband, he would have written the proskynema in his own voice: “quand le fonctionnaire impérial vient en compagnie de sa femme, c’est toujours lui, en effet, qui est l’auteur de l’inscription (cf. 4, 41, 79).” There is, of course, a difference between repeat visits (as in the examples we are discussing) and repeat hearings on the same visit, as in the case of, e.g., Rufus (17), who heard Memnon’s voice four times on one day (“Memnonem audivit quater”) or the same situation for Heliodorus (69), again four times on the same day. Cf. Milne (1916): 80, who misunderstands the context, and thinks Heliodorus made four separate trips. (59) One can compare the list of dates in this inscription with a similarly lengthy (ten lines) inscription by one Marcus Herennius, son of Marcus (60), who catalogues all his offices (e.g., consul, priest, commander), reflecting the “étapes normales de la carrière senatoriale” (Bernand and Bernand [1960]: 148), before Page 36 of 41

Worshipping the Colossus concluding with “Memnonem audivi” (60.9–10). If the approximate date of 203/205 CE for Herennius’s inscription is correct, associated with the consulship of Geta, it is one of the last inscriptions recorded before Memnon fell silent. (60) Bernand and Bernand (1960): 43. The one exception was the visit in summer (2 June 81 CE). In spite of his apparent obsession with detail, he has confused the ordering of the dates in lines 6–7 (the seventh day before the Ides of January and the fifteenth day before the Kalends of March); in adding them out of order, he also seems to have repeated the final date from line 5, the seventh day before the Ides of March, toward the end of line 7, but adding the detail of the precise hour of Memnon’s cry. (61) Yoyotte (1960): 18–74. (62) I thank the anonymous reader for suggesting this line of thought. For lists in sacred contexts, see Platt (2011); Higbie (2003) on the list of epiphanies in the Lindian Chronicle, where worshippers visited repeatedly to perform their cultic obligations; and Larson (2001) and Pache (2011) on constant visits to shrines of the Nymphs, documented epigraphically. (63) Takacs (2005): 353–369, esp. 358. (64) 23.8 (Celer in 123 CE), 31.2 (Balbilla in 130 CE), 33.4 (Lucius Flavianus Philippus in 130 CE), 34.3 (Artemidorus in 130 CE), 37.2 (Arius, sometime before 134 CE), 43.4 (Chaeremon in 134 CE), 72.2 (Petronianus, sometime before 134 CE), and 92.2 (Trebulla, possibly before Hadrian’s visit or just at the beginning of his reign). (65) Artemidorus, like so many of the pilgrims in this area, also visited the royal tombs, where he left another proskynema in honor of his family: τὸ προσκύνημα τῶν τέκνων Ἀρτεμιδώρου καὶ τῆς συμβίου; see Baillet (1926) vol. 2: 385, no. 1535, and Bernand and Bernand (1960): 102. (66) This visitor is also from the same nomes as Artemidorus but is the strategos, a higher rank than the baslikos grammateus; we can speculate that he was unmarried, since he visits with his sister rather than his wife. (67) A less charitable interpretation would be that the number of hired workmen was limited, and they reused the same phrasing, simply inserting different names each time. (68) In addition, the repeated phrase “I heard Memnon,” using “audi” or “audivi,” can be compared to the frequency of “ex visu” or “kata opsin” formulas appearing at healing sanctuaries; the focus on different senses (hearing vs. seeing) is marked.

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Worshipping the Colossus (69) I disagree with statements made by Hunt (1984): 406, based on Bernand and Bernand (1960): 19ff., that Memnon “had its organized cult, and the faithful flocked to worship, especially after the impetus provided by the example of Hadrian.” However, I am also hesitant to agree fully with Foertmeyer’s (1989): 71 assessment that “references to a cult and oracle in the graffiti on the colossus of Memnon are just scholarly and not indicative of religious awe.” I think the truth lies somewhere in between. It is worth noting the supplicatory phrase λίτομαί σε in 53. (70) The gesture toward poetic verse as an offering (agalma) appears frequently in Pindar; see, e.g., Nem. 3.13 and Nem. 8.16. (71) The phrase “made solid by the rock,” as an anonymous reader reminds me, reveals a fitting reciprocity: having heard the voice of Memnon issue from the stone, Achilles returns his own voice to the very stone that produced it. (72) Similarly, Titus Attius Musa wonders at the power of Memnon’s speech when only part of him remains seated on the plain (13.7–8: φθέγξαο Λατοΐδα, σὸν γὰρ μέρος ὧδε κάθηται, Μέμνων, ἀκτεῖσιν βαλλόμενος πυρίναις). Note that this specific phrasing (“that part of his body that remains”) resembles that found in Philostratus’s Heroicus 68 in the hymn to Achilles (who is a god and a hero at the same time) on the White Island; see Rutherford (2009): 230–247, esp. 232: “Blue Thetis, Pelian Thetis/who bore Achilles, a great son./His mortal nature fell to the lot of Troy; but Pontus holds/the part of him that he drew from your immortal race . . .” (73) See also 88, whose first three lines appear to be identical to those of 100, to be discussed in Chapter 3. (74) As suggested by an anonymous reader, and reflected in my translation, ὅσοι would mend the dactylic hexameter line that οἵ violates. (75) See Hunt (1984): 404–405, noting the “odd men out” of Baillet (1926) inscriptions nos. 1079 and 1613, who found nothing at all to marvel at (οὐδὲν ἐθαύμασα). On the Tombs, see also Bernand and Bernand (1960): 161; Volokhine (1998): 87–88; and Lukaszewicz (2010): 255–263. (76) Williamson (2005): 219–252, esp. 220–221. (77) See the approach of Petsalis-Diomidis (2010), who discusses how pilgrims view and experience religious miracles, especially in healing shrines; particularly useful for our purposes is her overview (154–167) of the interest in the marvelous in antiquity (i.e., paradoxography), beginning with Homer. (78) See Philostratus VA 6.4, and discussion in Elsner (1996): 515–531, esp. 522– 523.

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Worshipping the Colossus (79) Petsalis-Diomidis (2010): 155 suggests the intriguing theory that Roman “interest in miraculous and indeed monstrous human and animal bodies can be connected to the tradition of the interpretation of the extraordinary or deformed body as a portent.” Gigantic Memnon does not function as a portent in the same way, since his “message” is both directly accessible to all without interpretation (his daily cry) and reinforced by the messages written on his body. (80) One could speculate that the word “manmade” (χε[ι]ροπ[οι]ή . . .) in Nearchus’s papyrus letter might touch on the difference between natural wonders and manmade or constructed wonders. (81) Porter (2001): 63–92, esp. 71. (82) Salvatore Settis, quoted in Kahane (2011): 632–633. (83) Porter (2011): 685–696, esp. 685. (84) Alston (2011): 697–716, esp. 704. (85) Ruskin’s essay was first published in 1849; these lines are quoted in Kahane (2011): 829–850, esp. 842. (86) Williamson (2005): 244. (87) On synaesthesia as a category in the ancient world, see Butler and Purves (2014). (88) Bernand and Bernand (1960): 201: “A l’étonnement que manifestent ceux qui ne connaissent le prodige que par ouï-dire, s’oppose la certitude de ceux qui connaissent le fait d’expérience.” (89) Rutherford and Elsner (2005): 25–26; see also Rutherford (2001): 47, where he argues that ancient pilgrimage can easily accommodate an intellectual motivation. (90) Zeitlin (2001): 234. (91) There is a parallel emphasis on sight in an early first-century CE centurion’s visionary inscription (AE 1928.37) from Aquae Flavianae in Roman Algeria: the final line reads, “optavi nudas videre nymphas: vidi” (“I hoped to see naked nymphs: I saw [them]”). For discussion, see Adams (1999): 127–129 and Platt (2016): 161. (92) Inscriptions that focus on the presence of voice in spite of Memnon’s death and disfigurement include 11.1–2, 19.4, 37.2–3, 62.1, 72.5–6, 93.7–8, 94.5–8, and 100.1–2.

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Worshipping the Colossus (93) Petronianus is one of the very few visitors who requests a favor from Memnon: “but you, grant that I live a long time, lord” (72.4). (94) See also Lucian Philopseud. 18–20 for an attack on the credulity of those who believe statues come to life at night. For a discussion of Lucian’s Gallus passage, see Steiner (2002): 120. (95) Plutarch does go on to say in this passage that, when there are credible witnesses to something considered impossible, such as speaking or weeping divine statues, we must concede that there are experiences arising from the imagination that people in emotional situations may believe to be true. (96) Theodoret of Cyrrhus, History of the Church 5.23.1–2; Greek text from Bouffartigue et al. (2009): 432–434. See also Frankfurter (1998): 150–152. (97) On the fraudulent animation of divine statues, see also Lane Fox (1987): 135–136, who calls it “crossing over the line to magic,” and mentions a practical handbook by Hero of Alexandria that supposedly included advice on making “statues of gods which moved automatically, doors of temples which opened by unseen mechanisms, and optical devices which suggested the approach of a god.” (98) Frankfurter (2010): 538; on manmade “speaking statues,” see also Tallet (2016): 306–310, with Figure 12.7 of Horus in an oracular statue from the Egyptian Museum in Cairo; and Loukianoff (1936): 187–193. (99) Rutherford (2003): 171–189, esp. 181. (100) See Frankfurter (1998): 103–109; Elsner and Rutherford (2005): 24. (101) See Nock (1934): 53–104, and more recently, Tallet (2012) 343–383; I use Tallet’s text (SB I 4127, IM 166) with her emendations. Tallet (2016): 298–306 also discusses Mandoulis as he appears in Kalabsha as a “double deity” with several names and even several ages (young and mature); she notes IM 168, a proskynema referring to two names for the same god: Breith and Mandoulis. (102) Tallet (2012): 368: “Identifié à Hélios et aion, Mandoulis est donc intégré à la vision gréco-romaine des dieux solaires: ses signes épiphaniques sont percus comme bilingues et le dieu peut dès lors faire l’objet d’une traduction, d’une interpretatio Graeca.” (103) This questioning is typical of epiphanic encounters, as we see in, e.g., Apuleius, Met. and Lucian, De Dea Syria. (104) Roger Bagnall points out per litteras that Phamenoth is the name of a month, not used elsewhere for a personal name; the reference remains obscure,

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Worshipping the Colossus unless it was inscribed by mistake, confused for Amenoth, in which case the stone-cutter should have inscribed ῥ’ Ἀμένωθ. (105) Elsner (1994): 224–254, esp. 226. (106) On this term, see Whitmarsh (2010). (107) On Herodotus’s opinions in Book 2 of local Egyptian traditions, and his emphasis on autopsy, see, e.g., Schepens (1980); Marincola (1987): 121–137; and Moyer (2011): 42–83 and (2002): 70–90. Lloyd’s (1975, 1976, 1988) commentaries on Herodotus Book 2 remain authoritative on Herodotus in Egypt. (108) Elsner (1994) 233. (109) Ibid., 240. (110) Ibid., 239. (111) Ibid., 243–246; quotation from 246. (112) See also Price (2012): 15–36, esp. 21.

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Talking with the Colossus

The Language of Ruins: Greek and Latin Inscriptions on the Memnon Colossus Patricia A. Rosenmeyer

Print publication date: 2018 Print ISBN-13: 9780190626310 Published to Oxford Scholarship Online: May 2018 DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780190626310.001.0001

Talking with the Colossus The Rhetoric of Address Patricia A. Rosenmeyer

DOI:10.1093/oso/9780190626310.003.0003

Abstract and Keywords Chapter 3 explores the personal relationship visitors thought they had with Memnon. In response to Memnon’s morning cry, visitors used inscriptions to communicate with the articulate yet inanimate statue. Following two main impulses of animation, inscribers either addressed the god as a listener through the rhetorical figure of apostrophe or imagined him as a speaker, calling out to his mother or to them, through prosopopeia. The latter impulse overlaps with the concept of epiphany, where the god makes himself manifest by some sign— usually visual, but in this case aural. This chapter discusses apostrophe, prosopopeia, and epiphany as evidence for visitors’ yearning to commemorate their interactions with Memnon. Inserting themselves into the collective practice of sacred tourism, they nevertheless seek to make the verbal exchange meaningful on a personal level. The inscriptions bear witness to this tension between the communality and the uniqueness of each instance of communication with Memnon. Keywords:   Memnon, apostrophe, prosopopeia, epiphany, sacred tourism

How to Converse with a Statue In our earlier discussion of the Memnon colossus as a site of contested identities, one of the polarities, overshadowing the debate between Greek and Egyptian origin, was that of thing versus person. How did visitors perceive the colossus: as an inanimate stone monument, or as a living, speaking divinity? From the evidence of the inscriptions left behind, the answer seems to be that Page 1 of 37

Talking with the Colossus the statue reflected back what witnesses wanted to hear on any given occasion. Some of the inscriptions, as we noted previously, sustain a kind of cognitive dissonance, articulating a Memnon who is simultaneously dead and alive. Thus Caesellius, son of Quintus, emphasized the miracle of a distinct sound emerging from deep inside the inanimate rocky exterior: “clarumque sonor[em]/exanimi inanimem mi[ssum] de tegmine bruto,” a “clear sound, lifeless, from Memnon after his last breath, sent out from the voiceless covering” (14.1–2). The sequence “exanimi inanimem” calls our attention to the paradoxical status of Memnon between dead stone and living being. How can a sound be “lifeless”?1 Do we observe here the process of de-animation at the very moment of vocal animation? Or is Memnon truly alive only for the duration of his daily cry? Other inscriptions similarly juxtapose Memnon’s reported death with his (fairly) regular reanimation through sound at the dawn’s early light.2 But what all these inscriptions highlight, above and beyond the miraculous nature of the phenomenon, is the direct vocal connection of speaker and addressee. Presence is essential for the experience of Memnon’s utterance; it cannot be (p.78) recorded or transmitted, but must be experienced first-hand.3 Standing in front of the colossus, the visitors seek to sustain the brief animation of Memnon, and to create a personal relationship through conversation with the god.4 They do this in their inscriptions with all the rhetorical, poetic, and linguistic devices available to them. Two rhetorical devices in particular appear frequently in the inscriptional evidence: apostrophe and prosopopeia. The former is a way of addressing the colossus as a person, while the latter allows the inscribers to imagine the colossus, in turn, addressing them. It is true, of course, that by far the largest group of inscriptions is of the minimalist proskynema type (e.g., 65: Προσκύνημα Ἰουλίας Σατουρνίνης: “[This is the] proskynema of Julia Saturnina”). As is the case in the earliest inscribed epigrams, we could equally align the predicate noun with the first- rather than the third-person voice, allowing the lines to speak for themselves; thus, we could read, “I am the proskynema of Julia Saturnina” with a personification of the voice or the stone implied.5 This ambiguity does not exist in the many short first-person (singular or plural) declarations testifying to having heard Memnon’s voice—“I/we heard the voice of Memnon” (e.g., 86: “v[ocem Memno]nis audivimus”; 90: ἤκουσα Μέμνονος). In yet other cases, inscriptions address the colossus directly by name, apostrophize it, even adding the grammatically superfluous second-person pronoun “you” to emphasize the vocative aspect.6 In terms of grammar, Emile Benveniste informs us that “person belongs only to I/ you and is lacking in he.”7 Barbara Johnson expands on his argument in her book Persons and Things, explaining how grammar affects (and reflects) the status of personhood:

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Talking with the Colossus [T]he notion of “person” has something to do with presence at the scene of speech and seems to inhere in the notion of address. “I” and “you” are persons because they can either address or be addressed, while “he” can only be talked about. A person who neither addresses nor is addressed is functioning as a thing (p.79) in the same way that being an object of discussion rather than a subject of discussion transforms everything into a thing.8 Since the visitors to the colossus came purposefully to experience Memnon’s voice, their main focus was not on the monumentality of the stone statue, the object or thing itself, but rather on the colossal statue as a living person, a divine subject who would reveal his power through vocal expression. And indeed, as we have already noticed, while some inscribers acknowledge in passing the material of the statue or its damaged state, none of them comment on its manufacture or its huge size; rather, they record their interactions with the person of Memnon. Sometimes the inscription is focalized through the visitor: for example, the centurion Marius Gemellus (ca. 150 CE), who speaks first before hearing Memnon (53.3): ᾿Εξ[α]ύδα, λίτομαί σε, καὶ--Speak out, I beg you . . .

At other times, Memnon speaks and the visitor listens, as M. Mettius Rufus, prefect of Egypt from 89 to 91 CE, with the help of the professional poet Paion of Side, tells us in an inscription we encountered in the previous chapter (11):9 Εἰ καὶ λωβητῆρες ἐλυμήναντο δέμας σόν, ἀλλὰ σύ γ᾿ αὐδήεις, ὡς κλύον αὐτὸς ἐγώ, Μέττιος, ὦ Μέμνον· Παϊὼν τάδ’ ἔγραψε Σιδήτης. Even if vandals damaged your body, you still speak out, as I myself, Mettius, witnessed by hearing (you) Memnon. Paion of Side wrote these words.

This and many other inscriptions highlight the alternation of voices between Memnon and visitor, an economy of exchange that is spelled out by the inscription’s validation of the god’s utterance: Memnon speaks out loud, and is honored or thanked by the mortal with a written inscription. In at least one instance, taking it a step further rhetorically, a visitor, whose complete inscription we also discussed in the previous chapter, signals his own response with the word usually associated with Memnon’s voice, φωνή; Achilles describes it as “made solid by the rock,” a phrase that is reminiscent of Memnon’s peculiar fate, encased in solid stone. This echo of Memnon’s own status levels the communicative playing field between the two interlocutors (99.3–5):10

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Talking with the Colossus (p.80) . . . ἀπέρχομε, καταλιπὼν τῶι δίωι . . . ἀειμνήστο λίθῳ πεπυ[κ]ασμένην φωνήν. . . . I depart, leaving behind for the god . . . a voice always to be remembered, made solid by the rock.

But the most common way for the inscribers to communicate effectively with Memnon is to emphasize not their similarity to him, as in the immediately previous example, but his similarity to them, as a living, speaking entity. As Johnson suggests, the most direct way to treat a thing as a person is to “address it, turn it into an interlocutor or at least a listener through the rhetorical power of language.”11 The Memnon inscribers follow two main impulses of animation: apostrophe, in which they address the god (Memnon as listener), and prosopopeia, in which they imagine the god calling out, either to his mother or to them (Memnon as interlocutor). The latter impulse overlaps with the concept of epiphany, where the god makes himself or herself manifest by some sign, usually visual, but in the case of Memnon, aural. In this chapter, I will explore these three related categories—apostrophe, prosopopeia, and epiphany—as evidence for a kind of yearning on the part of the visitors to individualize and commemorate their interactions with Memnon; they seek to insert themselves into a larger narrative of sacred tourism at Thebes, but also to personalize it, make it meaningful on an individual level. And their inscriptions bear witness to their negotiations between the communality and the uniqueness of each instance of hearing Memnon’s voice, as well as their instinct to document.12

Apostrophe Apostrophe is defined in the Princeton Encyclopedia of Poetry and Poetics as a “poetic address, esp. to unhearing entities, whether these be abstractions, inanimate objects, animals, infants, or absent or dead people.”13 Apostrophe foregrounds the act itself of communication, and enables the speaker to create a relationship with the addressee, whether or not speaker and addressee inhabit the same temporal or physical plane. In purely literary terms, “apostrophe situates its fictive entities in the field of direct address, so that the spoken (p. 81) voice is what knits the utterance together.”14 It is no surprise, then, that this rhetorical figure is so prevalent on the colossus, as visitors attempted to create a personal relationship (that is, a relation between persons) with what seemed on the surface, and at all times other than one particular moment at sunrise each day, an inanimate thing. Examples of this type use the secondperson address to Memnon, as if he could hear them, making Memnon into a conversation partner who does not even need to answer, since he has already uttered his famous cry. But the assumption is that he cares about their reaction and appreciates their words.

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Talking with the Colossus We have already seen in Chapter 2 how Paion apostrophized Memnon for his commission by M. Mettius Rufus (11) and again in his own voice in an adjacent spot on the colossus’s left foot (12): [Α]ὐδήεντά σε, Μέμνον, ἐγὼ Παϊὼ|ν ὁ Σιδήτης τὸ πρὶν ἐπυνθα|νόμην, νῦν δὲ παρὼν ἔμαθον. That you were capable of speaking, Memnon, I, Paion of Side, had already learned by inquiry, but now, being present, I myself learned by experience.

Another professional poet we have already met, Pardalas of Sardis, records a similar response, adding that, in addition to leaving this inscription on site, he will write again about Memnon’s utterances in future books of poetry (22.1–2):15 Ὁ Σαρδιηνὸς Παρδαλᾶς δὶς ἤκουσα· μεμνήσομαι σεῦ κἀν ἐμῆισι βύβλοι[σι]. I, Pardalas of Sardis, heard (you) twice. I will remember you also in my books . . .

These three examples are the sum of evidence for self-identified professional poets writing on the colossus who use apostrophe to engage the god. In Paion’s case, we see him speak both in his own voice and on behalf of Mettius, who presumably did not trust his own skills with versified Greek.16 But several other inscriptions address Memnon directly in verse, and one in particular combines prose with verse in a way that foregrounds the power of apostrophe. Here is the full inscription, which happens to be the only bilingual example on the colossus; its author is Titus Petronius Secundus, prefect of Egypt (92–93 CE) (p.82) as well as a member of the Praetorian Guard (94–96 CE), who was involved in both the assassination of Domitian and Nerva’s subsequent accession to power.17 The lines are dated precisely to 92 CE—that is, “in the sixteenth year of the consulate of Domitian” (13):18 Imp(eratore) Domitiano Caesare Aug(usto) German(ico) XVI c(onsule) T(itus) Petronius Secundus pr(aefectus) Aeg(ypti) audit Memnonem hora I pr(idie) Idus Mart(ias) et honoravit eum versibus Graecis infra scriptis: φθέγξαο Λατοΐδα, σὸν γὰρ μέρος ὧδε κάθηται, Μέμνων, ἀκτεῖσιν βαλλόμενος πυρίναις. curante T(ito) Attio Musa prae[f](ecto) coh(ortis) II Thebaeor(um). When the Emperor Domitian Caesar Augustus Germanicus was in the sixteenth year of his consulate, Titus Petronius Secundus, prefect of Egypt,

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Talking with the Colossus heard Memnon in the first hour, on the evening before the Ides of March and honored (him) with Greek verses written below: “You spoke, for a part of you is seated here, Memnon, when you were struck by the fiery rays of the son of Leto.” Arranged for by Titus Attius Musa, prefect of the second cohort of the Thebans.

Like the inscriptions of Julia Balbilla mentioned earlier, this piece is full of linguistic peculiarities, including dialect forms and archaisms.19 In addition, in a unique turn of events, Memnon is imagined being struck by the rays of a sun that is identified not with his mother, Eos, but rather with Apollo, son of his own mother, Leto. But most notable for our purposes is the way the author switches from the third-person narration of the Latin prose section—“Petronius heard (p. 83) Memnon . . . and honored [him]”—to a more emotional and direct secondperson address in the poetic section: “You spoke, Memnon . . . a part of you is seated . . . you were struck.” This observation goes hand in hand with the fact that none of the Latin inscriptions on the colossus use the second-person address; only the Greek inscriptions turn to apostrophe. When this Roman prefect chooses to apostrophize, he does so in metrical Greek, and the bilingual nature of his inscription only serves to underline the oddity of it. There seems to be no clear explanation as to why this is the case, other than the inclination for the visitors of higher educational levels to choose to write in Greek rather than in Latin at most Egyptian pilgrimage sites, and the attendant turn to poetic convention as predictable under those circumstances. J.N. Adams suggests that the use of Latin here specifically by a prefect reflects the power of Roman imperial conquest, as well as indifference in the face of local Greek or Egyptian readers; he divides what he calls the “factual” from the “poetic” in the sequence of Petronius’ inscription:20 The factual part of the text, which names the emperor and gives the date and identifies the prefect along with his title, is in Latin, whereas Greek is used as a poetic language appropriate for honouring (note honoravit) Memnon in high-flown terms. Adams also argues that most of the visitors to the colossus were of a higher social class than those who visited other Egyptian tourist sites (e.g., the Tombs, Kalabsha), and that there is more Latin used on the colossus than anywhere else in the area: forty-five of the 107 inscriptions are in Latin, but at all other pilgrimage sites in Egypt, Greek is the main language of inscription, and Roman visitors “tended to suppress their Latin-speaking identities.”21

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Talking with the Colossus Adams’ observations work well in terms of distinguishing functional distinctions between the use of Latin and Greek. He brings in as further evidence the two inscriptions by Quintus Marcius Hermogenes that we read in Chapter 1: the first is in Latin (38), limited to name, title, and consular date, with a third-person verb (Hermogenes heard . . . ”); the second is in metrical Greek (39), with name, an acknowledgment that Memnon spoke out loudly to him, and with a firstperson verb (“I heard . . .”). But it is unclear whether the ancient visitor would have agreed with Adams that the prose Latin lines represented his “public or official voice,” and the Greek verses were his “literary” voice.22 This division seems unnecessarily rigid, as if Latin (p.84) had no literary pretensions of its own in this period, and as if lists of military or political offices were somehow of less interest to a contemporary visitor than, for example, allusions to Homer. Perhaps we should ask whether there was something about Egypt and Memnon’s sanctuary that called out for a response in Greek?23 Adams would say that it gestured in very practical terms toward the local populace, who were more accustomed to using Greek than Latin in everyday transactions with the imperial administration and army. But it could also be that writing in Greek allowed these visitors to compensate for their cultural belatedness and to engage more effectively with the aesthetics of the ruins in front of them.24 It also makes sense in the context of the Greek epic identity of Memnon—although he was a Trojan ally (and therefore at some level more identifiable with Aeneas and the future Rome), his fame is founded on Greek epic. And finally, if visitors were thinking of Memnon first and foremost as a colossal statue, Greek is the appropriate language in which to address statues in particular, given the longstanding tradition of ekphrastic epigram and the number of Romans writing such verse in, for example, the Garland of Philip. But let us return to the topic at hand, namely the form of address, and to another curious hybrid, the Greek-speaking “Italian man” Petronianus (72), who also switches between person markers in his (undated) response to Memnon. His lines are written entirely in elegiac couplets and divided neatly into two halves: the first two couplets address Memnon in the second person and (unusually for this site) request a favor beyond the miraculous utterance; the choice of apostrophe here seems aligned with the focus on prayer, a direct request to Memnon as god. But the remaining three couplets turn to a thirdperson narration of visitors’ motivations, Memnon’s odd appearance, and the miracle of the voice, reduced to a kind of stand-in for a rooster, as the speaking statue “announces the day to those mortals present” (72): Τούτοις τοῖς ἐλέγοις Πετρωνιανός σε γεραίρω, αὐδήεντι θεῶι μουσικὰ δῶρα διδούς, πατρόθεν οὔνομ’ ἔχων Αὐρήλιος, Ἰταλὸς ἀνήρ. Ἀλλὰ σύ μοι ζώειν δηρόν, ἄναξ, χάρισαι. Πολλοὶ ἅμα στείχουσι δα(ή)μεναι, ἦ ῥ’ ἔτι Μέμνων τοῦ λοιποῦ γῆρυν σώματος ἔντος ἔχει. Page 7 of 37

Talking with the Colossus Αὐτὰρ ὅ γε στέρνων κεφαλῆς τε ἄτερ ἥμενος αὐδᾷ, ὕβριν Καμβύσεω μητέρι μεμφόμενος. Εὖτ’ ἂν δ’ ἠέλιος φαέθων ἀκτεῖνας ἀνίσχῃ ἦμαρ σημαίνει τοῖς παρεοῦσι βροτοῖς. (p.85) In these elegiac verses, I, Petronianus, honor you, giving to the speaking god gifts from the Muses; from my father I have the name Aurelius, and I am an Italian man. But you, lord, grant to me to live a long time. Many come together here to discover if Memnon still preserves a voice within what remains of his body. But he, sitting without chest or head, speaks, complaining to his mother of Cambyses’ outrage. And when the sun, shining, sends forth rays, he announces the day to those mortals present.

One could argue that Petronianus here struggles with the turn toward apostrophe because Memnon challenges the viewer to animate through direct address a broken body. Memnon is described as preserving a voice without a head, a problem we will return to below. It is easier to imagine a “dead or absent person” as they were before their departure: whole and responsive. But Memnon’s damaged physical remains complicate the act of apostrophe, as well as the seamless equation of the statue with the god.25 Another inscription, by the centurion Marius Gemellus (dated to 150 CE), grapples with the same kind of cognitive dissonance (51): Εὐτυχῶς Μαρίῳ Γεμέλλ[ῳ] Θῆκέ σε φωνήεντα θεὰ ῥοδοδάκτυλος Ἠώς, σὴ μήτειρ, κλυτὲ Μέμνον, ἐελδομένῳ μοι ἀκοῦσαι σῆς φωνῆς· λυκάβαντι περικλυτοῦ Ἀντωνείνου [δω]δεκάτῳ, καὶ μηνὶ Παχὼν τρισκαίδεκα ἔχοντι [ἤμα]τα, δὶς, δαῖμον, τεῦ ἐσέκλυον αὐδήσαντος, [ἠελίου] λίμνης περικαλλέα ῥεῖθρα λιπόντος. [Ὄντα ποτ]ὲ ἀντολίης βασιλῆά σε θῆκε Κρονείων [οἰκουρὸ]ν πέτρου, φωνὴν δ’ ἀπὸ πέτρου ἔθη[κε]· [ταῦτ’ ἔγραψα] ἔγωγε Γέμελλος ἀμοιβαδὶς ἔνθ[α], [σὺν κεδν]ῇ ἀλόχῳ Ῥουφίλλῃ καὶ τεκέεσσιν. Εὐτυχῶς [Ῥου]φιλλῃ [τῇ] καὶ Λονγεινίᾳ. Good luck to Marius Gemellus. Eos, goddess of the rosy fingers, your mother, set you up, famous Memnon, and made you articulate for me, desiring to hear your voice. In the twelfth year of very famous Antoninus, (p. 86) and on the thirteenth day of the month of Pachon, I heard you, god, speak twice, Page 8 of 37

Talking with the Colossus when the sun left the beautiful waves of the ocean. You who were once an eastern king, the son of Kronos placed you to dwell in rock, and placed a voice inside the rock. I wrote these things, Gemellus, here in turn, with my faithful wife, Rufilla, and (our) children. Good luck to Rufilla, also called Longinia.

It is striking that Gemellus opens and closes (if we omit the prose header and footer) with a verb that is actually the technical term for dedicating a statue in a sanctuary (51.1, 7, 8, forms of τίθημι).26 It is as if his first impression of Memnon is not that of a person, but rather of an inanimate thing, a statue made of stone, set up by Eos and Zeus to represent the fallen Trojan hero dear to both of them. But Gemellus’s desire to hear Memnon’s voice leads him to imagine Memnon as a god, who favors him twice with an utterance, and may even be convinced to grant “good luck” to Gemellus and his wife, Rufilla. Gemellus manages to survey the full tradition of Memnon—the Trojan hero (the “famous Memnon”), the Egyptian pharaoh Amenhotep (“once an eastern king”), the divine and immortal son of Eos—before coming down firmly on the side of a god who dwells mysteriously inside a rock yet can doubly satisfy (“I heard you, god, speak twice”) the pilgrim’s desire for a miracle on the spot as well as future good fortune. Further evidence of the alignment of Greek verse with an impulse toward apostrophe comes from another inscription, one we considered briefly already in Chapter 2, that combines prose and verse but sustains the second-person address throughout (19):27 Φουνεισουλανὸς ἐνθαδεὶ [Χα]ρείσιος, στρατηγὸς Ἑρμώνθιός τε [καὶ] Λάτων πάτρης, ἄγων δάμαρτα Φουλβίαν ἀ[κήκ]οεν σοῦ, Μέμνον, ἠχήσαντος, ἡν[ίχ’ ἡ] μήτηρ ἡ σὴ χυθεῖα σὸν δέμας τε ΑΠΩ . . . ΦΕΙ. Θύσας δὲ καὶ σπείσας τε ΚΑΡΤ----τοῦτ’ αὐτὸς ἠΰτησεν εἰς σεῖ[ο κλέος]· λάλον μὲν Ἀργὼ παῖς ἐ[ων-----] λάλον δὲ φηγὸν τὴν Διὸ[ς-----] σὲ δ᾿ αὐτὸν ὄσσοις μοῦνον ἐδ[ράκην ἐμοῖς,] (p.87) ὡς αὐτὸς ἠχεῖς καὶ βοήν τιν’-----. Τοῦτον δὲ σοι χάραξε τὸν στίχο[ν]--ὅς εἴπετ’ αὐτῷ φίλτατος Τ-----Here Funisulanus Charisius, strategos of Hermonthis and the land of Lato, together with his wife, Fulvia, heard you calling, Memnon, when your mother spread herself (over) your body. And after offering sacrifice and libation he uttered this himself to your glory: Page 9 of 37

Talking with the Colossus “That the Argo talked I was told as a child, and that the oak of Zeus (at Dodona) talked; but you alone have I seen with my own eyes, how you yourself called out and uttered a cry.” This verse was inscribed for you by the dearest friend who was in his company, T[----].

In the verse section, Funisulanus connects Memnon with two ancient marvels: Zeus’s oracular oak tree and Jason’s Argo, whose magical timber was cut from those same sacred groves at Dodona, and thus endowed the ship with speech and the art of prophecy. These are apt comparisons for the colossus, highlighting as they do the active speech of normally voiceless objects.28 Granted, the ship and grove are made of wood, not stone, and not anthropomorphized as Memnon is; also, Funisulanus must rely on hearsay, not actual hearing, for proof of their miracles. But all three items listed represent sacred speech emitted from unlikely sources. Adjacent to this wonderfully detailed and highly allusive inscription is another by the same author, but this time purely factual and conventional (18): Λούκιος Φουνεισουλανὸς Χαρείσιος, στρατηγὸς Ἑρμωνθείτου Λατοπολείτου, ἤκουσα Μέμνονος δίς, πρὶν πρώτης ὥρας καὶ πρώτηι, σὺν τῇ γυναικί μου Φουλβιᾳ, Θὼθ η, (ἔτους) ζ Ἁδριανοῦ τοῦ κυρίου. I, Lucius Funisulanus Charisius, strategos of the Hermonthite and Latopolite nomes, (p.88) heard Memnon (speak) twice, before the first hour and at the first hour, together with my wife, Fulvia, on the eighth (day) of Thoth in the seventh year of the reign of Hadrian our lord.

I include both inscriptions to highlight the difference between the syntax of “I heard Memnon” and “I heard you, Memnon.”29 Funisulanus may be trying his hand at “variatio”: the prose inscription 18 limits itself to the facts, while the mixed prose and verse of inscription 19 both show off his erudition with allusions to the myth of Memnon’s mother Eos and memories of childhood stories about other speaking objects (the Argo and Zeus’s oak at Dodona), and allow him to indulge his sense of literary playfulness with syntactic parallelisms and an elegant priamel. The effect of the priamel is to affirm Memnon’s own speaking status: as a child, the author only heard stories of oracular marvels, Page 10 of 37

Talking with the Colossus but now, as an adult, he has seen Memnon and heard the voice himself. The turn to apostrophe goes together with an intensified poetic voice, as well as an intensified realization of Memnon as a person worthy of address. When visitors write, “I heard Memnon,” they are speaking both to themselves in a kind of real time, and to other visitors past, present, and future, setting their lines in the context of previous and yet-to-be inscribers. When they address Memnon with apostrophe, they create a dialogue directly with the statue, granting it the powers of hearing and feeling; they also try to freeze the moment of contact, make it solid in stone, so that the marvelous experience can exist forever in repetition. The infrequent use of second-person address to recipients other than Memnon only underscores the shared convention of apostrophizing the colossus itself.30

Prosopopeia If apostrophe works to draw the addressee (object) into a speech event with the speaker (subject), prosopopeia reverses the function for the same effect: now the inanimate object is endowed with the power of speech, and addresses its public. Admittedly, apostrophe and prosopopeia can be seen as two sides of the same coin in the case of Memnon: many of the examples discussed in (p.89) the section on apostrophe assume speech on the part of their addressees; the main reason visitors apostrophize Memnon is to acknowledge and commemorate his miraculous voice. But fully realized prosopopeia, I suggest, involves two other elements: an imagined face or mouth from which Memnon’s voice emerges; and an imagined content of that voice—that is, actual distinct words rather than simply the noise of a cry.31 Classicists are familiar with prosopopeia as a rhetorical device from archaic and classical grave markers, as well as from Hellenistic literary funerary epigrams, where “monuments” call out to a passing stranger.32 Many of the conventions associated with sepulchral and dedicatory inscriptions are used also in the Memnon inscriptions.33 Thus, we can apply to Memnon the observations made by Richard Hunter and Marco Fantuzzi on the relationship between inscription and surface:34 The epigraphic text acts to complete the message of the tomb, which is transmitted in part symbolically by a statue, an object that the inscription accompanies, or by a figure engraved on the tombstone. These inscriptions, however, do not perform their didactic function descriptively —that is to say, they do not describe what the passerby/reader can “see”; they presuppose the inscribed monument, which either speaks in the first person, or is indicated briefly by means of a deictic pronoun or adjective. They thus transform the act of vision (of the monument) and of reading (of the supplementary verbal message) into an act of verbal dialogue, which,

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Talking with the Colossus even if fixed in writing, creates a typically oral situation of communication between the ignorant passerby/reader and the stele or the dead person. The multiple references to the name of Memnon and his miraculous voice “complete the message” of the colossal statue by bringing it to life for those visitors who still doubt its reputation. If, in the context of funeral inscription, the act of reading is a kind of ritual to commemorate the dead, so with Memnon, the act of reading Memnon’s inscribed body is part of the experience of the “pilgrimage:” visitors recorded their own experiences, and subsequent visitors (p.90) could read their reports as both descriptive of past encounters and prescriptive of future encounters with the god’s statue. But of course underneath this layer of reading the inscribed body lurks the uncanny aspect of Memnon actually having a voice of his own, something the deceased can only pretend to have as she or he depends on the passerby for reanimation and speech.35 But when we turn to the idea of giving Memnon voice, the issue becomes more complicated than simply “speaking in the voice of the monument,” since we have to decide whether Memnon is, in each case, represented as dead (statue representing corpse) or divine (statue representing the god). Thus, for example, Thomas Schmitz divides the “speaking object” of the funeral inscription into several categories, including “deceased and monument are the same”—that is, the monument speaks in the voice of the dead person—or “deceased and monument are distinct,” whereby the first person is used, but we must determine whether it refers to the dead person or the sema/monument itself.36 For Memnon, this is always an issue of degree, as statue (stone), Homeric hero (man), and god (the miraculous voice) all merge to confuse the categories of dead or alive, mortal or divine.37 The authors of the inscriptions clearly view the moment of Memnon’s utterance, emerging out of but distinct from his stony monumental exterior, as testimony to his immortality. Like the funerary epigram, whether on stone or on the page, Memnon’s cry gives voice to the corpse and blurs the boundary between life and death. In the archaic period, as Deborah Steiner has argued,38 the monument takes on the speaker’s part because neither the author of the epitaph nor the deceased can be there to fulfill the role. In asserting its “presentness,” the text participates in the character of the grave structure whose chief merit lies in its stability and unmoving character, and on several occasions the inscription makes the fact of its complementary constancy the matter of a boast . . . Midas’ bronze maiden will everlastingly declare her message to the passerby. (p.91) This impulse toward reanimation and immortality through text or song is a familiar issue in texts as diverse as Theognis (237–239: “To you I have given Page 12 of 37

Talking with the Colossus wings, on which you may fly high/above the boundless ocean and all the earth/ easily . . .”) and Shakespeare (Sonnet 81: “you still shall live—such virtue hath my pen,/where breath most breathes, ev’n in the mouths of men”). Even muchmaligned Doricha, reduced to dusty bones in Posidippus’s epigram (122 A-B), is afforded immortality as the “shining columns of Sappho’s lovely poem” preserve her name.39 It is customary, however, to contrast immortality gained through the reanimation of poetic voice with material remains—palaces, monuments—that decay over time; thus Horace boasts of his poetry books, “exegi monumentum aere perennius” (“I have built a monument more lasting than bronze,” Odes 3.30.1). The added quirk of the Memnon colossus is that the very verses that proclaim his reanimation are challenged by the material integrity, or lack thereof, of the stone surface. Memnon’s own words are doubly threatened: first by the threat of silence in death, and second by the inevitable crumbling of his statue, already made evident by his lack of a head. The paradox here is that the very forces of destruction are also responsible for the production of Memnon’s voice; he would not be speaking if he were still in possession of a head. Paul de Man, referring to Wordsworth’s essays on epitaphs, pushes the force of reanimation further into the (rhetorical?) actualization of a living person behind the speaking voice, arguing that “[v]oice assumes mouth, eye, and finally face, a chain that is manifest in the etymology of the trope’s name, prosopon poein, to confer a mask or a face.”40 De Man’s chain of assumptions is, of course, problematic for Memnon, who definitely has a voice, according to inscriptional witness, but equally definitely does not have a mouth, eyes, or face. But de Man’s actualization highlights how powerfully prosopopeia (even more than apostrophe) evokes a physical presence behind the words. This expectation of a mouth or face as the source of Memnon’s voice finds a marvelous expression both in the inscriptions themselves and in later literary descriptions of Memnon. Most inscriptions simply ignore the issue of the vocal source and concentrate on the thauma of the sound;41 some, in contrast, are quite explicit about Memnon’s lack of a head (13.7: σὸν γὰρ μέρος ὧδε κάθηται; “[only] a part of you sits here”; 72.7: Αὐτὰρ ὅ γε στέρνων κεφαλῆς τε ἄτερ ἥμενος αὐδᾷ; “But he, sitting here without chest or head, speaks . . .”). But one anonymous inscription responds by challenging the full extent of the (p.92) miracle and reverting instead to a kind of ordinary logic—if he speaks, he must have a head (88):42 Οὐκ ἀκάρηνος ἄ[ρ᾿ἐστ]ιν|[ὁ τῆς] Ἀῶς υἱός, Μέμνων, ἡ|[μερινῇ----ἀν]τολῇ ἠελί[οι]ο| μερόπεσσιν θε[σπίζων| πρὸς] αὐτὸν ἐκ πάσης γ[αίης]| [ἐλθοῦσι?]---Ν--But therefore he is not without a head, the son of Eos, Memnon, because every day, at the rising of the sun, he utters oracles to mortals who come to him from all over the land . . . Page 13 of 37

Talking with the Colossus This inscriptional conjuring of Memnon’s head, directly contradicting all the historical sources we have for the monument, is echoed by two passages of imperial Greek prose: Lucian’s Philopseudes and Philostratus’s Life of Apollonius of Tyana.43 In both texts, the colossus of Memnon is described as whole, his torso undamaged, with mouth and eyes in a clearly visible face. Lucian’s depiction of Memnon is overtly satirical; the narrator is the eponymous “lover of lies,” who claims to have experienced marvels while among the holy men of Egypt during the ancient equivalent of a “gap year” (Philopseudes 33.8–14):44 Ὁπότε γὰρ ἐν Αἰγύπτῳ διῆγον ἔτι νέος ὤν, ὑπὸ τοῦ πατρὸς ἐπὶ παιδείας προφάσει ἀποσταλείς, ἐπεθύμησα εἰς Κοπτὸν ἀναπλεύσας ἐκεῖθεν ἐπὶ τὸν Μέμνονα ἐλθὼν ἀκοῦσαι τὸ θαυμαστὸν ἐκεῖνο ἠχοῦντα πρὸς ἀνίσχοντα τὸν ἥλιον. ἐκείνου μὲν οὖν ἤκουσα οὐ κατὰ τὸ κοινὸν τοῖς πολλοῖς ἄσημόν τινα φωνήν, ἀλλά μοι καὶ ἔχρησεν ὁ Μέμνων αὐτὸς ἀνοίξας γε τὸ στόμα ἐν ἔπεσιν ἑπτά, καὶ εἴ γε μὴ περιττὸν ἦν, αὐτὰ ἂν ὑμῖν εἶπον τὰ ἔπη. When I was living in Egypt while still a young man (my father had sent me traveling in order to complete my education), I decided to sail up to Koptos and from there to visit the statue of Memnon in order to hear it utter that marvelous greeting to the rising sun. Well, what I heard from it was not an indistinct voice, as is the general experience of most people; instead, Memnon himself actually opened his mouth and delivered an oracle to me in seven verses, and if it were not irrelevant to my story, I would quote you the exact lines. (p.93) The humor of this passage is multilayered. It mocks the convention of the educational “grand tour” to Egypt as well as the conceit of the narrator, who lies to separate himself from the “common people,” yet would have been ridiculed by those very same educated men he sought to imitate, as they would have known, from autopsy or hearsay, that Memnon had no mouth to open. The narrator follows in the footsteps of those sincerely seeking divine revelation in Egyptian Thebes, but the exaggerated and detailed (an open mouth, precisely seven verses) nature of his boast undermines any real claim to understanding.45 He pretends to know all about Memnon, but completing his story by “completing” the statue effectively silences it just as thoroughly as the physical repairs to Memnon in the third century CE did. As Ian Rutherford and others have pointed out, and as we saw in an earlier chapter, visiting a divine image is usually associated with the acquisition of crucial knowledge; thus travel (often in the form of pilgrimage), the viewing of sacred images, and the attainment of wisdom all come together in the Greek notion of theoria.46 So while Lucian’s satirical text can be easily explained away as a joke on those who overvalue knowledge, a similar misprision in Philostratus is harder to justify.47 In the Life of Apollonius of Tyana, Philostratus stages various scenes of viewing sacred sites in which Apollonius acts as a guide, Page 14 of 37

Talking with the Colossus leading us (internal and external audiences) from ignorance to knowledge. When Apollonius and his traveling companions approach the Memnon colossus, he lets his notoriously unreliable friend Damis describe what they see (Life of Apollonius of Tyana 6.4):48 περὶ δὲ τοῦ Μέμνονος τάδε ἀναγράφει Δάμις . . . τὸ δὲ ἄγαλμα τετράφθαι πρὸς ἀκτῖνα μήπω γενειάσκον, λίθου δὲ εἶναι μέλανος, ξυμβεβηκέναι δὲ τὼ πόδε ἄμφω κατὰ τὴν ἀγαλματοποιίαν τὴν ἐπὶ Δαιδάλου καὶ τὰς χεῖρας ἀπερείδειν ὀρθὰς ἐς τὸν θᾶκον, καθῆσθαι γὰρ ἐν ὁρμῇ τοῦ ὑπανίστασθαι. τὸ δὲ σχῆμα τοῦτο καὶ τὸν τῶν ὀφθαλμῶν νοῦν καὶ ὁπόσα τοῦ στόματος ὡς φθεγξομένου ᾄδουσι, τὸν μὲν ἄλλον χρόνον ἧττον θαυμάσαι φασίν, οὔπω γὰρ ἐνεργὰ φαίνεσθαι, προσβαλούσης δὲ τὸ ἄγαλμα τῆς ἀκτῖνος, τουτὶ δὲ γίγνεσθαι περὶ ἡλίου ἐπιτολάς, μὴ κατασχεῖν τὸ θαῦμα, φθέγξασθαι μὲν γὰρ παραχρῆμα τῆς ἀκτῖνος ἐλθούσης αὐτῷ ἐπὶ στόμα, φαιδροὺς δὲ ἵστάναι τοὺς ὀφθαλμοὺς δόξαι πρὸς τὸ φῶς, οἷα τῶν ἀνθρώπων οἱ εὐήλιοι. τότε ξυνεῖναι λέγουσιν, ὅτι τῷ Ἡλίῳ δοκεῖ ὑπανίστασθαι, καθάπερ οἱ τὸ (p.94) κρεῖττον ὀρθοὶ θεραπεύοντες. θύσαντες οὖν Ἡλίῳ τε Αἰθίοπι καὶ Ἠῴῳ Μέμνονι, τουτὶ γὰρ ἔφραζον οἱ ἱερεῖς, τὸν μὲν ἀπὸ τοῦ αἴθειν τε καὶ θάλπειν, τὸν δὲ ἀπὸ τῆς μητρὸς ἐπονομάζοντες, ἐπορεύοντο ἐπὶ καμήλων ἐς τὰ τῶν Γυμνῶν ἤθη. About Memnon Damis gives this account . . . The statue itself faces the sun, and is still beardless. It is made of black stone, with both its feet together, according to the style of statue carving in Daedalus’s time, and presses its arms straight down on its throne, in the position of a seated figure that is just getting up. The position, the expression of its eyes, and the celebrated look of its mouth, as if it was about to speak, did not seem particularly wonderful to them at first, they say, because the statue did not appear distinctly. But when the sun’s ray struck the statue, as it did at sunrise, they could not hold back their amazement. It immediately spoke as the sun’s ray touched its mouth, and fixed its eyes cheerfully upon the light, as men do who like to bask in the sun. It was then, they say, that they realized that it seemed to be rising to honor the Sun, like those who stand to worship powers above. So they sacrificed to the Ethiopian Sun and Memnon of the Dawn, as the priests instructed them (they give these titles to the sun because he “heats” and “glows,” to Memnon because of his mother).49 Again, as in the case of Lucian’s narrator, some of this report agrees with the inscriptional evidence. The statue “speaks” when struck by the sun’s rays and is understood to be the son of Eos.50 The visitors communicate with local priests, just as Julia Balbilla does,51 and they explain the etiology of the odd occurrence Page 15 of 37

Talking with the Colossus and teach the visitors how to respond appropriately. Philostratus pushes the animation of Memnon even further than Lucian had done. We watch along with Damis as the agalma, which seems at first merely an impressive statue connected to a more ancient world (“Daedalus’s time”), gradually becomes Memnon, a man with a rich mythical history (and a mother), who is both a worshipper ready to “stand to worship powers above,”52 and himself an (p.95) object worthy of worship; on the instruction of the priests, the viewers sacrifice to “Memnon of the Dawn.” But there are serious problems with much of the rest of Damis’s report: the color of the stone (black, not light quartzite), the position of its arms (straight instead of bent), and the existence of eyes and lips are all incorrectly represented. Most important, as noted earlier, and as Verity Platt reminds us, “there was never a time at which the statue both uttered a cry at dawn and had a visible torso and head.”53 Memnon spoke only after being partially destroyed; once the statue was repaired, it ceased speaking altogether. So whether Philostratus imagines the statue in its original undamaged state, in its later repaired format, or in Apollonius’s lifetime, when the cry emerged miraculously from a headless trunk, the narrative is as untrustworthy as Lucian’s earlier version. It is highly likely that Philostratus in this passage echoes Lucian’s references to Memnon, but “appropriates the satiric sketch for his own ends, emphasizing the relationship between viewing and imagination that a dramatic moment of misviewing can spotlight.”54 A big part of the mis-viewing is a kind of off-balance privileging of the sights over the sounds. Platt points out that Philostratus in this passage seems to conflate the sonic phenomenon of Memnon’s voice attendant on the break of dawn with the visual effect produced by other ancient statues that are similarly “epiphanically invigorated” by being touched by the sun’s rays; she asserts that Philostratus actually presents readers here not with a careful transcription of events in front of Memnon, but rather with a kind of synthesized, archetypal experience of an Egyptian statue greeting the dawn in which the critical component of the experience is visual rather than aural.55 The focus on the visual (the statue exchanges glances with the sun, the look of its lips is highlighted rather than any emerging sound) and on movement (the statue is about to rise) encourages readers to imagine a full epiphany. She concludes, “That Damis is required to mis-view Memnon in order to gain his epiphanic experience implies that pious viewers need something else in order to engage correctly with the anthropomorphic images of traditional Greek religion.”56 This reading strategy works well for a new theory of viewing that is more active than passive: as Platt puts (p.96) it, “The cognitive reliability required by sacred images is attained through active mental processes rather than the passive reception of epiphanies sent by the gods.”57

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Talking with the Colossus But while Philostratus describes a theoria achieved through visual interactions among god, statue, and worshipper, for Memnon’s historical visitors, it is the aural component that “proves” the god. There may be added information given by the colossal size of the statue, its damaged state, or the presence of multiple inscriptions on its surface, available for reading and rereading. But the primary epiphany is through Memnon’s voice, whether in the form of an indistinct cry or distinct words (or emotions) attributed to him by visitors. This brings us back to the idea of prosopopeia as a rhetorical device: putting words into his “mouth” allowed Memnon’s visitors to stage an aural epiphany on their own time. And often the words were imagined as telling a very specific message, one layered on top of the standard “Memnon laments to his mother.” At this second degree, prosopopeia as a rhetorical device is meant to convince us that Memnon himself speaks intelligibly, and that the words attributed to him, inscribed on what remains of his body, give access to his living voice. Again, a consideration of epitaphic conventions may help ground our approach; this time, however, it is Barbara Johnson’s observations on British Romanticism that apply remarkably well to our material:58 An epitaph uses the fiction of life to animate a corpse and have it speak . . . What an epitaph accomplishes is what all literature has to accomplish—to make poetry that convinces the reader that the poet speaks, that the poem gives access to his living voice—even though the individual author may have been buried for more than two hundred years. This is the immortality of literature brought about by reading—to bring alive the voice of a dead author. A text “speaks” . . . Prosopopeia is thus the figure for reading. One of the best examples from the inscriptions of “animat[ing] a corpse and hav[ing] it speak” is actually a series of three inscriptions by one Caecilia Trebulla (92, 93, 94). We know very little about this person other than what she tells us about herself and her family in the inscriptions themselves; she is most likely writing in the Hadrianic period, and possibly participated in the same imperial tour as Julia Balbilla.59 She expands from a two-line narration of “hearing the holy voice of Memnon” to a marvelously creative composition, typical of a rhetorical exercise (progymnasma), in which she writes what Memnon would have said if he could have enunciated more clearly. (p.97) The shortest inscription tells us succinctly how experiencing the miracle made her think of those dear to her who were not able to make the journey or hear the “holy voice” (92): Τρεβούλλης. Τῆς ἱερᾶς ἀκούουσα φωνῆς Μέμνονος, ἐπόθουν σε, μῆτηρ, καὶ ἐξακούειν εὐχόμην. By Trebulla Hearing the holy voice of Memnon, Page 17 of 37

Talking with the Colossus I missed you, mother, and prayed that you, too, might hear the sound.

The use of apostrophe for her absent mother seems so “natural” on the part of this visitor that we almost forget that Memnon is conventionally the recipient of the second-person address. Trebulla’s choice of address may be understood on one level as an example of the “postcard mentality”: “wish you were here!” Indeed, many of the inscriptions express fond feelings for absent family members. But this particular distich is a bit more elaborate than, for example, Heliodorus’s brief mention of his absent brothers (69): Ἡλιόδωρος Ζήνωνος Καισαρείας Πανιάδος ἤκουσα δ καὶ ἐμνήσθην Ζήνωνος καὶ Ἀϊανοῦ ἀδελφῶν. I, Heliodorus son of Zenon, from Caesarea Panias, heard (Memnon) four times, and I thought of Zenon and Aianus, my brothers.

Heliodorus simply thinks of his brothers, either back at home or possibly deceased, but Trebulla emotionally pines for and prays for her absent relative, whom we assume to be still alive since she may have the chance in the future to hear Memnon herself. Trebulla’s nostalgia for her mother may also hinge on the maternal connection already present in the personal history of the monument: Memnon cries out for his mother Eos, and reminds Trebulla of her own mother far away. Trebulla’s second inscription includes more elaboration and begins to move in the direction of full prosopopeia (93): Καικιλία Τρεβοῦλλα δεύτερον ἀκούσασα Μέμνονος. (p.98) Αὐδῆς τὸ πρόσθεν μοῦνον ἐξακούσαντας, νῦν ὡς συνήθεις καὶ φίλους ἡσπάζετο Μέμνων ὁ παῖς Ἠοῦς τε καὶ Τειθωνοῖο. Αἴσθησιν ἆρα τῷ λίθῳ καὶ φθέγγματα ἡ φύσις ἔδωκε δημιουργὸς τῶν ὅλων; Caecilia Trebulla hearing Memnon a second time Although before we only heard his voice, now Memnon, the son of Eos and Tithonus, saluted us as friends and family. Can it be that nature, demiurge of the universe, Page 18 of 37

Talking with the Colossus has given perception and speech to the stone?

Now Trebulla, commemorating her second hearing, announces with amazement that this hero from Greek mythology, “the son of Eos and Tithonus,” deigned to greet her and her companions as if they were friends or relatives. She moves from a disembodied “holy voice” to the identification of a person behind the voice, fully embodied in a family context by his genealogy. This is different from the first time when “we only heard his voice.” Everyone has an equal opportunity to hear Memnon’s voice; not everyone is treated to a salutation worthy of a close friend or family member. Although Trebulla does not give specific content yet to Memnon’s utterance, she ascribes friendly feelings to it. Her final two lines comment metatextually on the turn toward prosopopeia she has just effected, asking (rhetorically) whether “nature . . . has given perception and speech to the stone.” Trebulla’s philosophically informed diction (αἴσθησις, φύσις) takes us a step further away from her first, emotional inscription in honor of her mother, and closer to the highly intellectual and sophisticated plane that she shares with, for example, Julia Balbilla. The double personification, first of Nature as a divine being that can animate and bestow powers of speech on the stone, and then of Memnon himself, identified as a person related to others through bloodlines and friendship, adds depth to this scene. But of course it is Trebulla herself who is the master personifier, or rather ventriloquizer, and who “gives speech to the stone,” so that she and Memnon can communicate. Memnon is imagined to interact as if he were standing in front of her, alive, perceiving what goes on around him, reacting to her visit. Trebulla seems to be writing a sequence here: the first inscription acknowledges that she heard his voice, and the second proves to her and her companions that she is more than just another passerby. Trebulla’s third inscription moves to an even deeper level of invented intimacy, as it places an elaborate speech in Memnon’s (metaphorical) mouth (94): Καικιλία Τρεβοῦλλα ἔγραψα ἀκούσασα τοῦδε Μέμνονος. (p.99) Ἔθραυσε Καμβύσης με τόνδε τὸν λίθον βασιλέος ἑῴου εἰκόνα ἐκμεμαγμένον. Φωνὴ δ᾿ ὀδυρμὸς ἦν πάλαι μοι, Μέμνονος τὰ πάθη γοῶσα, ἣν ἀφεῖλε Καμβύσης. Ἄναφθρα δ[ὴ] νῦν καὶ ἀσαφῆ τὰ φθέγγματα ὀλοφύρομ[α]ι, τῆς πρόσθε λείψανον60τύχης. I, Caecilia Trebulla, After hearing Memnon, wrote (this): “Cambyses shattered me, this stone (you see) here, a statue molded in the shape of an eastern king. Long ago I had a lamenting voice, mourning the sufferings of Memnon, but Cambyses took it away. Now indeed the sounds are inarticulate and unintelligible Page 19 of 37

Talking with the Colossus that I cry out, remnants of my former fortune.”

In the first two lines, Trebulla names herself and asserts her authorship. If she had stopped there, we would be perfectly satisfied with her narrative proskynema: she heard Memnon’s voice and wrote her name to commemorate the event. But the narrative is just beginning, as she shifts into a first-person voice and speaks not to, but rather as Memnon. If in the previous epigram she felt like a close relative of Memnon, she now takes over his identity altogether.61 Readers quickly and effortlessly transition from the subject “I” (Trebulla) in the first line, gendered feminine with its accompanying participle, to the object “me” (Memnon) in the third line, gendered masculine yet self-identified as a lifeless stone statue. The shift is further clarified as Trebulla calls attention to what she wrote; it is as if the act of writing separates the two selves, or marks the conversion of the writing author into the speaking role of Memnon. We hear Memnon speak of himself as a person, the object of an enemy’s hatred, but with the deictic phrase that follows, he redefines himself as an inorganic substance: “this stone,” “fashioned” or “molded” as if it were crafted by hand, now a mere remnant of what existed before as a whole.62 He highlights the shattering of his statue, pointing to its fissures, and invites the reader/visitor (p.100) to “see” what is missing. We simultaneously hear Memnon’s current words, and imagine the lamenting voice that used to be. The statue seems to claim that Memnon (statue) used to mourn the suffering of Memnon (slain warrior), but now even that double identity is threatened, as Cambyses has turned them both into an unintelligible, almost barbarian “remnant” of what he used to be. But even as the statue tries to sustain his humanity and keep speaking, resisting the threat of silence while acknowledging the difficulty of being understood, the reader becomes slightly suspicious. Ironically, the very speech that is indicated as “inarticulate and intelligible” is presented in elegant iambic trimeters recording a mythical tale of human cruelty and torture. There is no discernable difference in the inscription between the “long ago . . . lamenting voice” and the current “inarticulate and intelligible” sounds Memnon utters, as much as Trebulla tries to distinguish between them in time and quality. The pre-shattered “I” of long ago merges with the current headless “I” that continues to cry out but is no longer able to be understood. The inscription is closest now to a dedicatory statue: by inscribing her words on the surface of his stone body, Trebulla gives Memnon his own words to speak that can be reanimated by any passerby. Instead of focusing on the address of inscriber to Memnon (“audivi Memnonem”), this inscription allows Memnon to turn around and eloquently (yet simultaneously inarticulately) address his inscribers. Trebulla’s impersonation fulfills all the expectations of prosopopeia and offers us a glimpse into the cult of ruins in antiquity; it is precisely Memnon’s damaged state that both invites and allows Trebulla to engage with him as she does.63

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Talking with the Colossus One final example of the power of prosopopeia is from Julia Balbilla, who also puts words and thoughts into Memnon’s (metaphorical) mouth. But she expands the scene from Trebulla’s dialogue between passerby and statue to an elaborate drama of silence, speech, and suppressed eroticism. Julia Balbilla does not just present Memnon’s voice; she gives him emotions (fear, courage, lust), presents him as a manipulative male figure with the ability to be stirred aesthetically by female beauty, and for all intents and purposes has him acting as a courtier to Emperor Hadrian and his wife, Sabina (30): Ὅτε τῇ πρώτῃ ἡμέρᾳ οὐκ ἀκούσαμεν τοῦ Μέμνονος. Χθίσδον μὲν Μέμνων σίγαις ἀπε[δέξατ’ ἀκ]οίτα[ν], ὠς πάλιν ἀ κάλα τυῖδε Σάβιννα μό[λοι.] Τέρπει γάρ σ’ ἐράτα μόρφα βασιλήϊδος ἄμμας· ἐλθοίσαι δ’ [α]ὔται θήϊον ἄχον ἴη, μὴ καί τοι βασίλευς κοτέσῃ· τό νυ δᾶρον ἀτά[ρβης] τὰν σέμναν κατἐχες κουριδίαν ἄλοχον. Κὠ Μέμνων τρέσσαις μεγάλω μένος Ἀδρι[άνοιο] ἐξαπίνας αὔδασ’, ἀ δ’ ὀΐοισ’ ἐχάρη. (p.101) When on the first day we didn’t hear Memnon. Yesterday Memnon received (Hadrian’s) wife in silence, so that the beautiful Sabina might come back here again. For the lovely form of our queen pleases you. When she arrives, send forth a divine shout, so the king won’t be angry with you. As it is now, you’ve fearlessly detained for too long his noble wedded wife. And Memnon, trembling at the power of great Hadrian, suddenly spoke, and she rejoiced to hear it.

After the prose introduction that sets the stage for the players (the “we” of Sabina and Balbilla, and the object of their hearing, Memnon), the first line of verse simply states a fact in third-person narrative: Memnon did not speak to Sabina yesterday. But the second line attributes motivation to the god: he did not speak because he knew that Sabina would not leave Thebes until she had heard his famous voice, and he wanted another opportunity to see her, beautiful as she is. Line 3 shifts into a second-person address, but includes the connective γάρ both to smooth over the narrative transition and to offer an explanation of the statue’s motivation for his previous behavior in lines 1 and 2. Now Balbilla explicitly attributes to the statue an erotic attraction to the emperor’s wife; we have heard of mortals (usually male) lusting after statues (usually female), but here we have the reverse; and the result is that the statue, not the mortal, stays silent, completely absorbed in gazing at his flesh-and-blood beloved.64 Lines 4 through 6 turn into a request for “a divine shout,” and a subtle threat that the king, Hadrian, might become angry if Memnon does not perform (although what Hadrian could accomplish after Cambyses’ thorough mutilation is unclear). In Page 21 of 37

Talking with the Colossus line 5, we realize that Sabina may have arrived, and has been waiting already too long for Memnon’s voice, perhaps worried that today will be a repeat of “yesterday.” Lines 7 and 8 return to the beginning narrative mode, but we discover that we are no longer focused on “yesterday” and have moved into “suddenly today,” as Memnon is imagined trembling at the power of the emperor, and uttering the hoped-for sound, thus pleasing his audience, Sabina. Balbilla herself disappears from the drama, although she remains in the role of omniscient narrator. This epigram, far from a simple proskynema, resembles a miniature novel or romance. Its personalized elaborations reveal Balbilla’s role behind the scenes as Sabina’s escort in viewing the colossus, as Hadrian and Sabina’s court poet, and as someone whose prayer is (p.102) effective enough to convince the great Memnon to utter his cry on demand. But its public focus is on the power dynamics and triangulation of desire between Memnon and the royal couple.65 While Julia Balbilla’s lines are unusually sophisticated and allusive, she is on the whole well representative of the impulse on the part of visitors to seek some more personal meaning in Memnon’s miraculous voice. Elsewhere on the colossus, visitors may read and reanimate earlier visitors’ voices, noting how they heard Memnon’s mo(u)rning cry, and how they responded emotionally. Most visitors are content to note that the cry sounded out at the first hour, that Memnon continues to come to life for a moment at each sunrise. But at a deeper level, they may hope to understand the actual content of Memnon’s speech, to hear what he has to say from beyond the grave, whether it challenges or confirms what they have read in books or heard from other sources. It is clear that Memnon was thought by some inscribers to be capable of giving oracles, or of connecting his visitors to an ancient heroic past that would allow them access to great knowledge. This aspect of prosopopeia comes closest, in the case of Memnon, to a kind of religious epiphany.

Epiphany Most ancient viewers, as we saw in the case of Lucian and Philostratus earlier, expect a sacred site/sight to be something that entails first and foremost the act of seeing or witnessing (vs. other forms of perception: hearing, touching, tasting, or smelling).66 While the narratives of Lucian and Philostratus fit well into this framework of the interconnectedness of vision and knowledge (theoria) in the context of the sacred, the experience of Memnon’s visitors as evidenced by their inscriptions was more complex. As we have noted before, none of the actual inscriptions on Memnon’s body mentions anything about its substance; one might expect expressions of awe and wonder with reference to the dramatic placement, the monumentality, and the antiquity of the colossus, but these expressions are wholly absent in the inscriptional material.67 This must have something to do with the heavy value placed not on Memnon’s body, but on his voice.

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Talking with the Colossus (p.103) In most instances of epiphany, “images themselves have the potential to be viewed as epiphanic embodiments of the deities they represent. They can simultaneously symbolize and constitute divine presence.”68 But in the case of Memnon, the presence of the colossal statue was not always enough to suggest a straightforward (if that can ever be) embodiment of the god. First, there was the problem of his incompleteness; without further epiphanic proof (e.g., a voice, a movement, a prayer granted), the damaged body seemed to testify to a kind of vulnerability that was at heart non-divine. We observed earlier how Memnon’s body was seen as both a container for and a barrier to the living voice within: 11 and 22 emphasized the damage done to Memnon’s physical body by vandals, a disability that Memnon magically compensated for by speaking without a head or mouth; 51 detailed the manner in which Zeus placed Memnon inside his stone “container,” but then granted him a voice that could cross back over the physical boundary of the stone. These examples stress the obvious: it is not enough just to see the statue; for a truly epiphanic experience, the visitor had to hear the statue speak.69 Memnon lives on not as stone, but as a speaking stone, a vocal statue. This is beautifully expressed in inscriptions that connect Memnon’s speech to his immortality. The poet Asclepiodotus (undated) claims that “Memnon lives and speaks out strongly” (ζώειν, εἰναλίη Θέτι, Μέμνονα καὶ μέγα φωνεῖν/μάνθανε, 62.2–3), placing the two verbs (ζώειν/φωνεῖν) in a neat parallel position that encourages understanding a causality—he speaks, therefore he lives. The foil for Memnon in this poem is the dead Achilles, who speaks not a word, neither in Troy nor on the Thessalian plain. Julia Balbilla similarly connects Memnon’s speech with immortality, claiming that no amount of vandalism can fully silence the statue (29.7–12):70 Γλῶσσαν μέν τοι τμᾶξε [κ]αὶ ὤατα βάρβαρος ἄνηρ, Καμβύσαις ἄθεος· . . . Ἀλλ’ ἔγω οὐ δοκίμωμι σέθεν τόδ’ ὄλεσθ’ ἂν ἄγαλμα, ψύχαν δ’ ἀθανάταν λοῖπον ἔσωσα νόῳ. (p.104) A barbarian man cut off your tongue and ears, the godless Cambyses . . . But I don’t think that this statue of you could ever perish, and I sense in my heart a soul hereafter immortal.

Even while all the inscriptions acknowledge, explicitly or not, that the full experience of the miracle of Memnon involves hearing his voice, the tug toward the visual as the cultural norm still exerts a powerful hold, as it does in the verses of Funisulanus Charisius discussed earlier in this chapter (19.10–11): σὲ δ’ αὐτὸν ὄσσοις μοῦνον ἐδ[ράκην ἐμοῖς,] ὡς αὐτὸς ἠχεῖς καὶ βοήν τιν’-----. but you alone have I seen with my own eyes, how you yourself called out and uttered a cry. Page 23 of 37

Talking with the Colossus When Funisulanus tries to express his experience of Memnon’s calling out, his utterance of a cry, he sets it in the context of having seen something with his own eyes. Julia Balbilla may come closest to nonvisual sense perception when she writes, “I sense in my heart.” It is as if the very act of witnessing is stuck in the visual mode: these pilgrims “see” Memnon’s cry. However they imagine their experience, for Memnon’s visitors, epiphany occurs each dawn, as Memnon comes back to life the moment the sun warms his limbs. When they record their responses to hearing his voice, they emphasize their wonder at this “direct sensory experience of the divine.”71 The variety of responses to this aural epiphany can indeed be varied, from examples of simple gratitude to remarkably intimate and personal reactions, as we saw with Trebulla, Julia Balbilla, and even Heliodorus, who all translated Memnon’s epiphany into something bigger than the moment. But it may be worth considering for a moment how Memnon’s epiphany differs from other kinds of divine epiphany in the Greek literary tradition, as a way to highlight his uniqueness. In many instances of epiphany described in literature, there can be an aspect of arbitrariness or obscurity to the divine response: gods are not always reliable, and their words need further clarification or interpretation. This is not at all the case with Memnon. With regard to the issue of arbitrariness, there is by contrast a kind of predictability to his morning behaviors, and only a few inscriptions reveal any kind of deviation from that pattern.72 In addition, mortals directly approach Memnon, who does not possess the magical freedom of movement of the Homeric gods—as in the case of other epiphanies (p.105) of statues, Memnon is permanently stationed on his statue’s base, unmoving and always accessible. As to the issue of a need for clarification, all the inscriptions agree that Memnon’s cry is pure sound, wordless, a sign of mourning for his own death and an expression of missing his mother. The cry is understood as epiphanic, a sign of divine favor, equally applicable to any pilgrim. Thus there is no need to work hard at reading obscure signs or recognizing which god speaks—the semiotics of Memnon are straightforward: one hears his voice and is in the presence of the living god, if only for the duration of the cry. Another difference between Memnon’s epiphany and that of other gods represented as statues in the ancient Greek anthropomorphic tradition is the issue of verification or affirmation of the divinity’s identity, obviously directly related to his power. A typical request for verification could take the form of a challenge prayer or a request for a sign from the gods expressing favor.73 But the visitors to Memnon, with very few exceptions, do not ask for the miraculous utterance to confirm something else or prove that the god will grant them future favor.74 As stated earlier, the utterance is the favor. The utterance, the aural epiphany, does, however, in turn change the way the pilgrim views the statue: at the moment of his cry, Memnon changes from silent stone to speaking god.75 Of Page 24 of 37

Talking with the Colossus course, part of the cognitive challenge of hearing the god is that, to some of those who describe the experience afterward (but not the actual inscribers), his cry sounds like nothing human or divine; instead, the cry resembles the sound of clanging brass, or the plucking of a broken string on a stringed instrument. Those who hear the noise must take it on faith that it is indeed Memnon. One area where the experience of Memnon’s divinity does overlap with epiphany in other sacred sites is that of the communality of the experience. Each visitor experiences his or her own epiphany, but each visitor also, by inscribing lines on the statue’s body, adds to the communal conversation about epiphany. Verity Platt’s observations on classical votive reliefs apply equally to Memnon’s situation, as76 [inscribers] transform an ephemeral experience of divinity into a permanent, visible memorial of the god’s impact upon the physical world . . . in this way, the [inscription] declares its own contribution to the numinous qualities of the [statue] it adorns and its influence upon subsequent pilgrim-worshippers. (p.106) This concept of the influence of the inscriptional material on subsequent pilgrims is one that is very difficult to address with regard to Memnon. There are few instances where we can be sure that one inscription has directly influenced another; for the most part it is conjecture. But the question is well worth asking, namely how did these visitors, a steady stream over approximately two hundred years, negotiate the crowded and ever-changing surface of the statue? Was there a kind of sensory overload of looking (aesthetically at the statue), reading (intellectually engaging with prior inscriptions), and hearing (the moment of the voice)? Or was the experience of writing and reading inscriptions so common in antiquity that people on occasion simply screened out some aspects and focused on others?77 In the context of archaic and Hellenistic inscribed funeral epigram, Thomas Schmitz imagines that there was actually quite “stiff competition,” so that ancient epigrams on gravestones could be compared to our commercial billboards posted along the road.78 Did ancient visitors to the Memnon colossus practice something similar to our selective vision in that context? We can complicate the question further by adding another layer of reading. In addition to taking into account at least some of the already-carved inscriptions, each visitor arrived at the sanctuary with certain assumptions based on what he or she had heard or read before setting out for Thebes. Funisulanus (19) told us that as a child he had heard of countless marvels: the Argo, the oracles of Zeus at Dodona, and by implication the speaking statue of Memnon; Julia Balbilla (28 and 29) had heard or read about versions of the Memnon myth, including the Homeric identifications and Cambyses’ involvement in the destruction of the statue, well before she discussed alternative versions with the Egyptian priests Page 25 of 37

Talking with the Colossus on site. And we have already encountered Julius, in an undated inscription, who says explicitly that he arrived with prior knowledge about Memnon from Homer’s epics, which affected but did not fully determine his own experience of the colossus on site (101): Εἴ γε μὲν οὖν Ἠὼς τὸν ἑὸν [φί]λον υἷα δακρύει . . . ἴστω θεῖος Ὅμηρος, ὃς Ἰλίου ἔ[ννε]πε μῦθον· αὐτὸς δ’ ἐνθάδ’ ἔων τοῦ Μ[έμ]ν[ον]ος [ἔ]κλυον αὐδῆς. Ἰούλιος ἦλ[θο]ν ἐγὼν [ἑκα]τόνταρχος λεγεῶνος. If it is true that Eos weeps for her own dear son . . . let divine Homer be the one to know, who told the story of Troy. But standing right here, I heard the voice of Memnon. I, Julius, came here, centurion of a legion.

(p.107) I will discuss how Homer in particular influences the visitors’ experience of the Memnon colossus in the next chapter; but for now, suffice it to say that the inscriptions on the colossus fit neatly into the ongoing imperial engagement with its textual past. The visitors see the statue set against a textual background, drawing on their familiarity with Homer, and interpret the colossus with Homer as a kind of commentary or guidebook.79 But there is yet another level to seeing or hearing the statue through the words of Homer; this is a more intense form of engagement that animates the heroic past so vividly that it brings it fully into the present moment, as Verity Platt explains with reference to Philostratus’s Heroicus:80 While Homer is frequently alluded to, the dialogue acts as a form of extended animation in which the reader is drawn into the daemonic world of the heroes through the mediatory strategies of cult arcana, a powerful conjuring of place and a broad spectrum of literary intertexts. We can connect this idea of a more intense form of engagement with the past to the epiphanic experiences of Memnon’s visitors. When Apollonius of Tyana visited Troy, according to Philostratus, he summoned up the ghost of Achilles on the battlefield. Similarly, when Memnon’s visitors arrive, they are already primed to expect to be able to cross the barrier of stone, to hear a reanimated Homeric hero, and to “converse” with the god, whether simply by commemorating their experience in inscriptional form, or by holding an actual conversation with the god. What Platt argues for Philostratus’s Heroicus works well also for the Memnon phenomenon, as both situations “combine intellectual and literary antiquarianism with a particularly contemporary desire for animation and imaginative visualization (or phantasia).”81 Let us conclude this section on epiphany with examples of “animation and imaginative visualization” in front of the colossus, taking the form specifically of seamless conversations between the pilgrims and the god. We already considered a few such examples in the context of the exchange of voices: Page 26 of 37

Talking with the Colossus Gemellus wrote his verses ἀμοιβαδίς, in turn or in exchange for Memnon’s φωνή (51.8–9), and Achilles leaves behind a φωνή that will remain forever on the stone in response to Memnon’s own very holy voice, ensconced forever in stone (99.3– 5). Three other inscriptions intensify the engagement further by using phantasia to turn Memnon’s inarticulate voice into the source for song or poetry, and promising to promote his song/poetry forever through their own power of vatic or poetic capabilities. The first is by the Roman poet Statilius Maximus, dated to ca. 156 CE, already quoted in Chapter 2 (54):82 (p.108) Memnonem vates canorum Maximus Statilius audit et donat camenas: Musa nam cordi deis. The poet Statilius Maximus heard Memnon’s song, and offers poems, for the Muse is dear to gods.

The second example, also seen before, is worth revisiting in terms of its identification of the inscription as a “musical gift,” or a gift “dear to the Muses,” much like Statilius’s suggestion that he offers Memnon a song because the god functions as his muse. Petronianus’s poetry is a gift from the Muses, but Memnon acts as his personal muse by provoking the composition of the poetry with his miraculous utterance (72.1–2):83 Τούτοις τοῖς ἐλέγοις Πετρωνιανός σε γεραίρω, αὐδήεντι θεῶι μουσικὰ δῶρα διδούς, In these elegiac verses, I, Petronianus, honor you, giving to the speaking god gifts from the Muses . . .

The final example is a fully imagined and embodied scene of poetic reciprocity between Memnon and his worshipper, Claudia Damo (83):84 Αὔως ὦ πάϊ χαῖρε· πρόφρων ἐφθέγξαο γάρ μοι, Μέμ[νον], Πειερίδων εἴνεκα, ταῖς μέλομαι ἀ φιλαο[ιδὸς Δ]αμώ· ἐμὰ δ’ ἐπὶ ἦρα φέροισα βάρβιτος [ἀει]σεῖτ’ ἆι [σό]ν, ὦγνε, κρέτος. Greetings, child of Dawn, for you spoke to me eagerly, Memnon, for the sake of the Muses, who care for me, song-loving Damo. Returning the favor, my barbitos will always sing, holy one, your power.

Damo has been identified as Claudia Damo, an Athenian in Hadrian’s entourage, who might have accompanied the emperor, along with Julia Balbilla, on his trip to Egypt in 130 CE.85 Whatever her social status or family connection, she refashions herself here explicitly as a lyric poet, plucking an anachronistic lyre (βάρβιτος), and beloved of the Muses.86 She fashions a fantasy world of a (p. 109) purely oral song culture: Memnon “speaks” and she “sings back.” No mention is made, as is frequently in the other inscriptions on the colossus, of the Page 27 of 37

Talking with the Colossus act of inscribing or the power of writing to bring fame or favor. There is nothing anachronistic (i.e., obviously connected to the imperial era) in Damo’s verses, and we are invited to imagine her as an archaic poet reincarnated. The strongly epiphanic nature of the exchange transplants her from Egypt to a scene that could easily be somewhere on Mount Helicon; Memnon’s cry has the same effect on Damo as the Muses’ benediction did on Hesiod: from that point on, they praise and sing of their divine guides. Memnon’s voice breaks free from the historically and geographically specific details that mark many of the other inscriptions, tying them down to a particular place and time (e.g., references to known legions, emperors, and even the Egyptian name for Thebes, No), and Damo in turn addresses Memnon with the timeless hymnic greeting, χαῖρε.

Reanimating the Past Damo’s emotional response to Memnon’s cry, in which not only does a reanimated Memnon turn into an alternative Muse figure, but also Damo herself becomes a living, breathing archaic poet (although the irony of her “song-loving” voice being preserved on stone could not have escaped contemporary readers, who were the very ones who repeatedly re-performed her dedication by reading it aloud), reminds us how this ancient colossus was in no way viewed as belonging only to its “antique land,” as Shelley phrased it in “Ozymandias,” or as a place of purely antiquarian interest. Once Memnon’s statue in Egyptian Thebes was rediscovered and reborn as a place of miracle, it remained a site of ongoing contestation (e.g., Memnon’s “true” identity) and worship for several hundred years. We will focus in the next chapter on how the elite of the imperial period showcased their intellectualism on the surface of the statue, especially the kind of paideia represented by a deep familiarity with Homer; but we must always keep in mind that, hand in hand with this emphasis on book-learning, there existed a parallel fascination with what Simon Price calls “performative embodied memory”87—that is, ritual and other formalized behavior that, as in the case of Damo above, could work as a kind of power to “tesseract” as it were, connecting in the blink of an eye archaic Greece with second-century CE Egypt, oral with literate culture, Pierian Muses with the Memnon colossus. As Platt puts it,88 The urge to construct an elite Greek identity in the Imperial period saw an increasing emphasis on the acquisition and demonstration of a selfconsciously (p.110) Hellenic paideia and sophia. Yet such intellectualism also existed alongside a thriving culture of ritual activity and religious pilgrimage, accompanied by an intense awareness of and curiosity about the divine. It does seem to be the case, as Platt argues, that the farther away the ancients were from the core building blocks of their (Greek) cultural identity, the more intensely they sought to reengage with them and “re-inhabit” them.89 Damo seeks to re-inhabit a past by using marked dialect forms, an assumption of Page 28 of 37

Talking with the Colossus orality, and a vividly imagined epiphany of Memnon. The inscriptions discussed in this chapter evoke a living past by turning to the imaginative power of rhetorical devices: apostrophe and prosopopeia. In the chapter that follows, we will consider the inscriptions that perceive Memnon as a link to the Greek heroic past specifically through an epic lens, while continuing to balance sophistic posturing with the intense emotions evoked by the context of religious pilgrimage and sacred tourism. Notes:

(1) It is surely not to be imagined as a kind of “death-rattle,” since visitors understood the sound to be proof of life or coming to life, not death or the process of dying. (2) See, e.g., Mettius 11.1–2; Funisulanus 19.4; Arius 37.2–3; Asclepiodotus 62.1; Petronianus 72.5–6; Caecilia Trebulla 93.7–8, 94.5–8; Anon. 100.1–2. (3) On the issue of sound in antiquity, see Butler (2015). (4) See Tallet (2016): 287: “The desire to meet gods ‘face-to-face’ seems to have become of increased importance for individuals in the whole Eastern Roman Empire during the first centuries of our era.” (5) On this issue in general, see Svenbro (1993): 26–43; Steiner (2001): 256; and the discussions of speaker, addressee, and voice in archaic and classical epigram in Baumbach et al. (2010) by Schmitz (25–41), Tueller (42–60), and Vestrheim (61–78). (6) For minimalist narration with Memnon in the third person, see, e.g., 81, 82, and 87 in Latin; 18, 32, 33, 65, and 66 in Greek; for direct address in the second person, see, e.g., 11, 13, and 22. Note that there is no real need to include the name of Memnon, since the inscriptions are placed directly on his body; but the name may be required for the efficacy of specifically divine apostrophe. But unlike Shelley’s “Ozymandias,” in which only the statue is named, the Memnon inscriptions include information on both inscriber and addressee; see Johnson (2008): 11. (7) Benveniste (1971): 217. (8) Johnson (2008): 6. (9) Bernand and Bernand (1960): 49 suggest that Mettius, whose family came from Arles, did not know Greek well, and therefore hired a professional to compose his inscription. (10) de Man (1984): 67–82, esp. 78, commenting on Wordsworth and Milton, imagines a chilling side effect that we could call the “sta viator” threat: “the latent threat that inhabits prosopopeia, namely that by making the death [sic] Page 29 of 37

Talking with the Colossus speak, the symmetrical structure of the trope implies, by the same token, that the living are struck dumb, frozen in their own death.” (11) Johnson (2008): 6. (12) On the “epigraphic habit” in the Roman empire in general, see, among others, MacMullen (1982): 233–246; Meyer (1990): 74–96; Alföldy (1991): 289– 324; Woolf (1996): 22–39; Beard (1997): 83–117; Woolf (1998): 77–105; Alföldy and Panciera (2001). (13) Greene et al. (2012): 61–62. (14) Johnson (2008): 7. See also Culler (2002): 135–154. (15) A third line, identical with 11.1, is usually assigned to the adjacent inscription 21; see the discussion in Bernand and Bernand (1960): 70–71. On Pardalas’s unusual choice of meter—choliambics—the anonymous reader suggested a possible connection with Hipponax as a fellow citizen of Asia Minor. (16) For a general discussion of professional poets writing on the colossus, see Bowie (1990): 53–90 and Rosenmeyer (2004): 620–624. (17) See PIR Saec. I.II.III, 2nd ed., part 6 (1998): 117, no. 308. T. Petronius Secundus succeeded M. Mettius Rufus, another Memnon inscriber, in the position of prefect of Egypt. See also Baldwin (1985): 499–500. (18) See Bernand and Bernand (1960): 51–53. The same man appears to have left his signature on a stele at Alexandria, where he also marked the name of the person who either arranged for or actually inscribed the words on the stone; see Bernand and Bernand (1960): 53. (19) Aeolic φθέγξαο for ἐφθέγξω, Λατοΐδα for Λητοΐδου, the nominative Μέμνων in place of the vocative Μέμνον, the Homeric expression ἀκτεῖσιν βαλλόμενος πυρίναις (cf. Od. 5.459; 19.441); see Bernand and Bernand (1960): 53. The anonymous reader notes a bilingual pun between the names Λατοΐδα and “Attio.” On this inscription as evidence for bilingualism in the Roman east, see also Adams (2003): 549–550. (20) Adams (2003): 550. (21) Ibid., 546; see also 547: “Most of the signatories were either high functionaries of Egypt (including the prefect), or high ranking military officers” and Bernand and Bernand (1960): 19. (22) See Adams (1999): 128, on the language specifically of centurions: “Latin is the language chosen to set out the military man’s position in the army, and to record precisely the date of the visit; it is a public voice, as it were, suited to Page 30 of 37

Talking with the Colossus expressing the formal persona of a high-ranking member of the Roman army. On the other hand centurions who wrote Greek verses . . . were participating in a Greek cultural tradition at the Colossus and thus presenting themselves in a rather different light, not merely as soldiers, but as au fait with a regional form of Greek literary culture.” (23) This statement refers to Greek verse only; as Adams (2003): 546–555 has indicated, many of the prose inscriptions on Memnon were written in Latin. (24) Adams (2003): 553 agrees that the setting can also have an impact on the choice of language. (25) On the complex relationship between a divinity and her/his statue, see Faraone (1992); Steiner (2001); Scheer (2000); Mylonopoulos (2010): 1–19; Platt (2011); Eich (2011), with its copious bibliography; and Gaifman (2012). (26) A separate header or footer is not uncommon in the Memnon colossus inscriptions. Similarly, in the context of Hellenistic sepulchral epigrams, when names did not fit on gravestones metrically, one option was to put the name in prose, along with patronymic and nationality, on the tomb separate from the verse epigram. See Fantuzzi and Hunter (2004): 292–297. (27) I follow the reading in line 13 of Puchstein: εἴπετ’ rather than εἶπε τ’; see Bernand and Bernand (1960): 65 and Rosenmeyer (2004). (28) Callimachus plays with the concept of a speaking wooden statue in Iamb. 7: Epeios, the manufacturer of the Trojan horse, had earlier carved a wooden statue of Hermes; the statue speaks to a group of fisherman who found it off the coast of Thrace, washed away by a flood. (29) In the context of archaic sepulchral epigram, a related point is made by Vestrheim (2010): 61–78, esp. 73, with reference to the famous Phrasikleia inscription: “the same information could have been presented in the third person as well, but the use of the first person is an effective means of adding further force to this rhetoric and thus engaging the reader in the destiny of the dead.” On the “grammar” of statue inscriptions, see Ma (2013): 15–43. (30) Instances of second-person address other than Memnon are, unsurprisingly, infrequent: in 92, Caecilia Trebulla addresses her absent mother (see more below); in 62, Thetis is the direct addressee (see Chapter 4). (31) See also Aristotle Pol. 1.1253a with reference to logos for this distinction. (32) Tueller (2010): 42–60, esp. 51–52 reports that no archaic gravestones use the word “xenos,” but in the Hellenistic period, it became the word of choice; he claims that the custom of using the word spread because of the popularity of the famous epigrams by Simonides on the war dead. Early dedicatory epigrams on Page 31 of 37

Talking with the Colossus objects rarely mention the god’s name, since the object was placed in a shrine; later book epigrams always mention the god’s name, since the situation is no longer unambiguous without the context of an actual shrine. The constant repetition of Memnon’s name on the colossus, while not actually necessary in order for us to recognize that the inscriptions were addressed to him, thus may be attributed to the religious nature of the discourse. Note also the reception of Simonides’ epigram in Callim. Aetia fr. 64 Pf., on which see Morrison (2013): 289–302. (33) The Memnon poems resemble dedicatory inscriptions in that the worshippers attempt to communicate with the divine (Memnon) rather than the dead (Memnon); sepulchral epigrams, in contrast, tend to stage dialogues with the dead person and a “passerby.” (34) Fantuzzi and Hunter (2004): 309–310. (35) Memnon waits every morning for Eos before he utters his cry; whether explained scientifically (the sun heats the statue base) or mythologically (Memnon speaks to Eos), Memnon’s voice is generated by the rising sun. This dependency may be compared to the way speaking funerary objects depend on external viewers/readers for full articulation. (36) Schmitz (2010): 25–41, esp. 31–32. On reading gravestones, see also Steiner (2001) and Svenbro (1993). One could argue, as pointed out by the anonymous reader, that the difficulty between distinguishing between Memnon’s status as dead or divine is a central feature of hero cult, in which the venerated dead occupy an interstitial place between the two. But Memnon is undeniably alive every day at dawn when he cries out, so I prefer to emphasize the lability of his state rather than the interstitial yet static nature of a hero. (37) Steiner (2001): 255, quoting Sourvinou-Inwood, says that in most archaic grave inscriptions, some mention is made of the monument itself—e.g., “I am/ this is the sema of so-and-so”; but Memnon never refers in his own voice to the sema, as his speaking voice precludes his identity as/identification with a statue/ sema. (38) Ibid., 256–257. (39) It does not matter that Sappho speaks negatively of Doricha, her brother’s girlfriend, as long as the name itself is included in the verses; cf. Sappho 55V, where the poet takes care not to mention the name of someone she dislikes, thus ensuring that the woman will be forgotten over time. For further discussion, see Lardinois (2007): 79–96.

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Talking with the Colossus (40) See de Man (1984): 76. Johnson (2008): 13 comments insightfully that “[t]he impulse to epitaph is thus the same as the impulse to write: to mark something that can communicate with any passer-by.” (41) The sound itself does not fit any familiar category (human, animal, or material), further complicating the uncanny situation. (42) This fragment is sadly undated and anonymous; see also the almost identical 100, and the editors’ comments on the relationship between the two inscriptions; Bernand and Bernand (1960): 184–185, 199–201 argue that they appear to be by the same hand, and it may be that after carving 88, the inscriber decided to re-carve the same lines in a more propitious place on the statue’s leg. (43) Cf. the other passages in Lucian and Philostratus where Memnon is discussed: Lucian Toxaris 27.11; Philostratus Heroicus 26.16 and Imagines 1.7.15–25. (44) Macleod (1974) 2: 196. (45) See Platt (2011): 307. The detail of seven verses is meant to be a kind of Beglaubigungsapparat, as is the hint that he could repeat the oracle verbatim for his readers but chooses not to. (46) Rutherford (2001): 40–52, esp. 43: “one of the key ideas in Greek pilgrimage traditions is theoria, which combines vision and intellectual inquiry”; see also Rutherford (2000): 133–146, and Platt (2011): 298: “pilgrimage and the visual experience of theoria are repeatedly presented as identifying features of Hellenic cultural experience.” (47) Bowersock (1984): 29 believes that Philostratus echoes Lucian, and was simply misled; cf. Platt (2011): 293–332, discussed below. Minchin (2012): 88 might call this a “reconstruction of memory:” commenting on Lucan’s depiction of Caesar’s visit to Troy, which most likely never occurred, she suggests that the author “is either deliberately playing on the suggestibility of his audience’s memories or he himself has unwittingly been subject to his own memory’s capacity for misattribution.” (48) Jones (2005) 2: 100–102. (49) Translation adapted from Platt (2011): 302. (50) See, e.g., 13, 19.4–5, 29.1, 36, 41, 51, 61, 62, 72, 83, 88, 93.6, 101.1, and 104. (51) Julia Balbilla 29.1–4: Αὔως καὶ γεράρω, Μέμνον, πάϊ Τιθώνοιο, Θηβάας θάσσων ἄντα Δίος πόλιος, ἢ Ἀμένωθ, βασίλευ Αἰγύπτιε, τὼς ᾿νέποισιν ἴρηες μύθων τῶν παλάων ἴδριες, χαῖρε . . . (Son of Dawn and reverend Tithonus, Page 33 of 37

Talking with the Colossus Memnon, seated opposite Zeus’s Theban city, or [should I call you] Amenoth, Egyptian king, as the priests claim, learned in the ancient stories, greetings . . .) See also Platt (2011): 308–309, who comments that the exegetical conversation with the local priests leads to etiological explanations that reinforce the pilgrim’s observations. (52) A ritual that took place in the Serapeum of Alexandria to celebrate the union of Sarapis/Osiris and Helios/Re similarly imagines a statue rising up in greeting as the sun strikes it, although the actual “rising up” was artificially arranged; as Tallet (2016): 301 describes it, “An iron statue of Helios was attracted by a magnet hidden in the ceiling and was elevated to the level of the lips of Sarapis, imitating a kiss, while at the same time the lips of the same colossal statue of Sarapis were illuminated by a sunbeam entering the room through a narrow opening.” On this ritual, see also Thélamon (1974): 227–250, esp. 230 note 12, for the Latin evidence from Rufinus’s Historia Ecclesiastica 11.23; and Platt (2011): 303. (53) Platt (2011): 304. (54) Ibid., 307. (55) Ibid., 302–303 suggests as comparanda the statues in the Temple of Mandoulis at Talmis, and the Temple of Serapis at Alexandria. Platt’s discussion of Memnon occurs in relation to ways of viewing ancient statuary (306–307): “Damis’ apparently erroneous method of viewing presents the reader with a conundrum: what is the correct way to look at works of art? In the case of statues such as the colossus of Memnon, where issues of vision, cult practice and religious knowledge are foregrounded, what is the correct way to view sacred images?” (56) Ibid., 312. (57) Ibid., 326–327. (58) Johnson (2008): 14. (59) See the speculations on her identity in Brennan (1998): 215–234. (60) Meleager (AP 7.476.2) had used λείψανον in his funerary epigram for Heliodora, but, as Hopkinson (1988): 250 comments, “unusually applied to the survivor rather than the deceased.” (61) See, with reference to Hellenistic literary funeral inscriptions, Schmitz (2010): 35: “Epigrammatic communication dislodged many rules that governed pragmatic, everyday interaction. Both writer and reader were keenly aware that the communicative context of an epigrammatic text was special . . . roles of speaker and addressee could be reversed: the reader would utter sentences Page 34 of 37

Talking with the Colossus addressed to herself or himself in her or his own voice, inverting the usual functions of ‘I’ and ‘you.’ Writers anticipated these reversals and prepared their texts for such a reception. They were capable of creating purely imaginary communication.” (62) As pointed out to me by the anonymous reader, the use of the term “eikon” for something that has been molded may recall the wax ekmageion of the mind in Plato’s Theatetus, thus gesturing toward memory and its material decay. (63) For the cult of ruins, see Porter (2001): 63–92. (64) We can compare this to the situation in Lucian discussed by Newby (2002): 126–135, esp. 132–133: “Throughout the dialogue we have seen the power of visual images to entrance men with their beauty, with the attendant danger that these men will forget how to speak, how to be pepaideumenoi, and will instead allow themselves to be wholly absorbed in the image.” Here it is quite the opposite: Memnon “forgets” how to speak, and is seduced by the beautiful image of the mortal woman in front of him. (65) While I am reading this encounter as primarily personal and eroticized in nature, it also has a political edge, given that one member of the triangle is a Roman emperor. On the connections between spectacle and imperial conquest as elements of divine encounters, see Platt (2016): 161–179. Also very useful as a parallel is Dubois (2007): 45–56, on the behavior of female viewers in front of a visual work of art, and the resulting triangulation of object, viewer, and narrator in the context of Hellenistic ekphrasis. (66) Platt (2011): 10 quotes Aristotle’s belief that truth is accessed primarily through the eyes to give some context as to how the visual sense predominates in ancient Greek epiphanic discourse (Metaph. 980a): “in general, we prefer sight to all the other senses . . . sight best helps us know things, and reveals many distinctions.” (67) Lane Fox (1987): 112–113 discusses the mixture of awe and intimacy evoked by pagan epiphanies, and contrasts it with the typical Christian response. (68) Platt (2011): 47. See also 77–123 on votive reliefs, where she indicates that the failure to distinguish between the statue and the god at the linguistic level occurs in a huge variety of ancient texts (e.g., the Trojan statue of Athena in Iliad 3). For distinctions between god and divine statue, see further, e.g., Gordon (1979): 5–34; Lane Fox (1987): 102–167; Stewart (2003): 19–45; Elsner (2007): 22–26; and Ando (2009): 43–58. (69) Gods are heard rather than seen in, for example, the Iliad (Il. 2.155, 279; 5.439; 10.512; 18.203; 20.380), and as late as the early fourth century CE, Iamblichus still understands “hearing divine voices” as one form of epiphany; Page 35 of 37

Talking with the Colossus see Iambl. De Myst. 3.2 (103.10); and Lane Fox (1987): 112. This is not the case, however, in the Odyssey or in Hesiod’s Theogony, where gods appear directly to mortals. For the implications of epiphanic vision, and the specific responses expected from mortal viewers or their communities, see Platt (2016): 163. (70) On the textual issue in line 12, see West (1977): 120, whose emendation I print. Cf. Achilles’ words to Odysseus in the Underworld, and the myth of his afterlife on the White Island. (71) See Platt (2011): 56–60. (72) Exceptions include the report by Julia Balbilla (29), with the attendant explanation for Memnon’s silence; and one of the three inscriptions of Marius Gemellus (51, 52, 53): 53 implies an unsuccessful visit, but 51 and 52 document Gemellus’s gratitude after hearing Memnon’s cry. (73) E.g., Theseus and Minos in Bacchylides 17, urging their fathers to send a sign of favor; Danae in Simonides 542 PMG, naming Zeus as the father of her child and begging for help; or the frequent use of portents in Homer, understood to be messages from the gods. (74) One exception is Marius Gemellus (51), who seems to ask Memnon for good luck (Εὐτυχῶς) in the future for himself and his wife. (75) For stone, λίθος: 28.2, 31.1, 93.7, 94.3, 99.4; for god, θεός: 23.8, 31.2, 33.4, 34.3, 37.2, 43.4, 72.2. (76) Platt (2011): 45. (77) Schmitz (2010): 25–41, asking how Hellenistic epigrams envisions its audience and establishes the roles of speaker and audience, emphasizes the fictionality of the communication involved (29): “Our epigrams stage a conversation of two disembodied voices which come alive in the act of reading. Readers are thus alerted to the fictional nature of the communication that is taking place in these epigrams.” (78) Schmitz (2010): 35; see also Peter Bing’s (2002): 39–66 assertion that ancient audiences did not always read the numerous epigrams in their line of vision. (79) See Platt (2011): 232 note 70; also Kim (2010). (80) Platt (2011): 241. (81) Ibid., 242. We should note, however, that not all the visitors to the Memnon colossus could be called “intellectuals.”

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Talking with the Colossus (82) The word vates appears also in 55.2, which is by the same author as 54. Alex Dressler suggests (per litteras) a possible allusion to Ennius Ann. 487 Sk.: “Musas quas memorant nosces nos esse Camenas.” After Ennius, the juxtaposition does not occur again until Apuleius (Flor. 20.15 Helm) and Ausonius (Ep. 11.6–9, Ep. 24.12 Evelyn-White). (83) On a singular gift vs. plural gifts in archaic verse, see Aloni (2011): 141–158. (84) We will discuss in Chapter 5 how Damo’s verses relate to those of Balbilla. (85) Brennan (1998): 215–234. (86) West (1978): 101–115, esp. 108–109 concurs that Damo considers herself a genuine lyric poet, but he argues for the direct influence of Sappho on her selfpresentation as an archaic singer reborn. I think that this otherwise unknown poet identifies herself as ἀ φιλαο[ιδὸς Δ]αμώ in direct emulation of Pamphylian Damophyle, supposedly a contemporary of Sappho, mentioned in Philostratus’s Life of Apollonius of Tyana 1.30; but the reverse could also be true, that Philostratus “borrowed” the name from the inscription. (87) Price (2012): 15–36, esp. 17. (88) Platt (2011): 216. (89) Ibid., 217.

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Homeric Memnon

The Language of Ruins: Greek and Latin Inscriptions on the Memnon Colossus Patricia A. Rosenmeyer

Print publication date: 2018 Print ISBN-13: 9780190626310 Published to Oxford Scholarship Online: May 2018 DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780190626310.001.0001

Homeric Memnon Patricia A. Rosenmeyer

DOI:10.1093/oso/9780190626310.003.0004

Abstract and Keywords This chapter uses Homer to triangulate the relationship between inscriber and statue. Memnon is a ghost from the epic past anchored in the Egyptian present; what better way to honor him than to inscribe Homer’s words on his body? This evocation of Homer is not restricted to a narrow class of visitors. Imperial authors such as Lucian and Philostratus engage with Homer but write specifically for an elite audience. The Memnon inscriptions that echo Homer, however, are created by and for a more diverse public. All the inscriptions participate at some level in reactivating the mythical past, as if the trip to Thebes paralleled an epic trip to the Underworld. The chapter argues that visitors who sought out the statue were hoping precisely for such a “close encounter,” an experience that would connect them with the Homeric past, and that this experience transcended differences in social status and educational background. Keywords:   Homer, Memnon, inscription, statue, Egypt

Colossal Homer In the introduction to his book Homer Between History and Fiction in Imperial Greek Literature, Lawrence Kim elegantly summarizes Homer’s status among authors of the imperial period:1 Homer is now firmly established at the heart of Greek paideia, a truly colossal figure, the very personification of Greek culture, and even of Greekness itself. In a culture where elite identity was tied up with the literary authority of the classics, to quote Homer, to appeal to his poetry, Page 1 of 42

Homeric Memnon was part of the continuous process of asserting one’s membership in the “cultured” and therefore “Greek” elite . . . The continued engagement by Imperial writers with the glorified figures, events, and texts of the distant past was one of the primary means by which they negotiated their sense of what it meant to be Greek under the Roman Empire. While the authors Kim surveys—Dio Chrysostom, Lucian, and Philostratus— choose a variety of ways in which to engage with the distant past, they all share the rarified cultural atmosphere of the intellectual elite. The Memnon inscriptions introduced in this chapter, however, contribute evidence of the primacy of Homer among a more diverse group of writers, including not just professional poets and sophists, but also, for example, a Roman centurion who visited with his wife and children, anonymous pilgrims, and one Marius Gemellus, Roman centurion, who inscribed no fewer than three separate sets of Homerically inspired dactylic lines. In a category of his own stands Arius, a selfproclaimed “Homeric poet from the Museion” (37.5: Ὁμηρικοῦ ποιητοῦ ἐκ Μουσείου), whose entire inscription takes the form of a Homeric cento, challenging our understanding of what it means to engage with a literary precedent. (p.112) It is not surprising that Homer’s Iliad would serve as an intertext for many of the inscribers: the colossal statue was, after all, identified as an epic hero who had fallen in battle at the hands of that quintessential Homeric warrior, Achilles. How better to converse with Memnon than in his own language, as it were? But the variety of ways in which the inscribers engaged with Homer is a testament to the strength of Homer’s appeal among multiple social and cultural subsets: moderately or highly educated, male or female, Greek or Latin native speaker, and civilian or military. Even if we cannot firmly identify all the visitors who choose to imitate Homer, we can draw some conclusions concerning their skills and motivations, as they honor Memnon, the Homeric hero in the Egyptian desert. In what follows, I will discuss a group of inscriptions that engage directly with their epic intertexts: primarily the Iliad, but also the Odyssey. A reading of the inscriptions alongside their Homeric models will raise many questions: were the writers alluding to Homer from memory based on a written text, on a performance, or on what they might have learned in school? Were they engaging meaningfully with the wider Homeric textual context, or just borrowing individual words to give their inscriptions a veneer of sophistication? Were they using other poems of the epic cycle, or limiting themselves to the Iliad and the Odyssey? The latter question is of particular interest in that, while Memnon is briefly mentioned in the Odyssey, where he is identified as the son of Eos and the slayer of Antilochus (Od. 4.188), and again later in the epic when Odysseus reassures Achilles in the Underworld that his son Neoptolemus is as beautiful and noble (kalliston) as the great Memnon himself (Od. 11.522), the arrival of Page 2 of 42

Homeric Memnon Memnon in Troy occurs after the end of the Iliad and before the beginning of the Odyssey.2 Memnon’s presence at Troy is neither foreshadowed in the former nor recalled in any detail in the latter epic. Colossal Memnon appears in Egyptian Thebes as if conjured from a textual gap—or perhaps from the lost cyclic poem, the Aithiopis, which did include (p.113) Memnon’s death at Achilles’ hands; but no lines of that scene survive.3 Using the term that Jonathan Burgess, in his work on the traditions of the Trojan War, borrows from the Russian Formalists, the whole mystical experience in Egyptian Thebes is as much about the fabula of the death of Memnon as it is specifically about Homeric Troy.4 Yet, as I will argue, in the absence of textual evidence from the Aethiopis, on the level of diction and syntax, the inscriptions allude nevertheless to specific Homeric words and phrases. A passage in the final book of Pausanias’s Description of Greece (10.25–31) describes at length a well-known series of paintings by Polygnotus (mid-fifth century BCE) on the walls of the clubhouse (lesche) of the Cnidians at Delphi; the paintings depict on one side of the building the fall of Troy, and on the other side Odysseus’s trip to the Underworld.5 It is relevant for our discussion in that it engages with both Homeric and cyclic epic narratives in a way that I suspect the inscriptions do as well. Pausanias explains for his readers which features seem to reflect the painter’s knowledge of Homer, and which seem to reflect information gathered from other poems, such as the Sack of Troy by Lescheos of Pyrrha, the Sack of Troy (Iliou Persis D–F frs. 98–164) and Returns (Nostoi D–F frs. 166–168) by Stesichorus, the anonymous Cypria (West frs. 1–31) and Little Iliad (West frs. 1–32), and a lost poem named the Minyad, among others.6 (p.114) As he surveys the elaborately painted figures from Homer’s epics, identified often by name, Pausanias sprinkles his passage liberally with references to or direct quotations from Homer, beginning (10.25.1) with Melantho’s abuse of Odysseus (Od. 18.328).7 But Pausanias notes at several points that Polygnotus followed different versions of the epic stories for his paintings. Sometimes Polygnotus seems to do so as a way to supplement Homer, as, for example, he does upon viewing a scene with Neoptolemus killing a Trojan, where he claims that (10.26.4)8 τοῦ δὲ Ἀχιλλέως τῷ παιδὶ Ὅμηρος μὲν Νεοπτόλεμον ὄνομα ἐν ἁπάσῃ οἱ τίθεται τῇ ποιήσει· τὰ δὲ Κύπρια ἔπη φησὶν ὑπὸ Λυκομήδους μὲν Πύρρον, Νεοπτόλεμον δὲ ὄνομα ὑπὸ Φοίνικος αὐτῷ τεθῆναι, ὅτι Ἀχιλλεὺς ἡλικίᾳ ἔτι νέος πολεμεῖν ἤρξατο. Homer names the son of Achilles Neoptolemus in all his poetry. The epic poem called Cypria, however, says that Lycomedes named him Pyrrhus, but Phoenix gave him the name Neoptolemus (“young soldier”) because Achilles was still just a young man when he began to fight.

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Homeric Memnon In another passage, he claims that Polygnotus used Archilochus as a source to supplement Homer’s vision of Tantalus in Hades: Homer (Od. 11.582) spoke only of Tantalus’s jar, while Archilochus (91.14 West) added the detail of the stone hanging over his head (10.31.12): ὑπὸ τούτῳ δὲ τῷ πίθῳ Τάνταλος καὶ ἄλλα ἔχων ἐστὶν ἀλγεινὰ ὁπόσα Ὅμηρος ἐπ’ αὐτῷ πεποίηκεν, ἐπὶ δὲ αὐτοῖς πρόσεστίν οἱ καὶ τὸ ἐκ τοῦ ἐπηρημένου λίθου δεῖμα. Πολύγνωτος μὲν δῆλός ἐστιν ἐπακολουθήσας τῷ Ἀρχιλόχου λόγῳ· Under this jar is Tantalus, enduring all the painful things, as many as Homer had created for him, and in addition there is the fear of the stone that hangs over him. It is clear that Polygnotus has followed the version by Archilochus. At other times, Pausanias refers to alternative sources that directly contradict Homer’s transmitted version. In Homer’s account (Il. 13.171–173), he (p.115) argues, Medesicaste would not have been at Troy at the critical moment of the sack, as she had left the city and moved to Pedaion to live with her husband (10.25.9): γέγραπται δὲ Μηδεσικάστη, θυγατέρων μὲν Πριάμου καὶ αὕτη τῶν νόθων, ἐξῳκίσθαι δὲ ἐς Πήδαιον πόλιν φησὶν αὐτὴν Ὅμηρος Ἰμβρίῳ Μέντορος παιδὶ ἀνδρὶ [ἐς πήδαιον] συνοικοῦσαν. Medesicaste, another of Priam’s illegitimate daughters, is also painted there; but according to Homer she left her home and went to the city of Pedaion to live with her husband Imbrius, the son of Mentor. While Pausanias occasionally mentions local rumors or oral traditions (e.g., 10.30.9: “the Phrygians in Celaenae claim that . . .”), he assumes the artist’s sources for most of these stories were specifically textual. For example, with reference to Lescheos’s version of Troy’s fall, he writes (10.25.6), γέγραπται δὲ καὶ Λυκομήδης παρὰ τὸν Μέγητα ὁ Κρέοντος, ἔχων τραῦμα ἐπὶ τῷ καρπῷ· Λέσχεως δ’ οὕτω φησὶν αὐτὸν ὑπὸ Ἀγήνορος τρωθῆναι. δῆλα οὖν ὡς ἄλλως γε οὐκ ἂν ὁ Πολύγνωτος ἔγραψεν οὕτω τὰ ἕλκη σφίσιν, εἰ μὴ ἐπελέξατο τὴν ποίησιν τοῦ Λέσχεω· Beside Meges is also painted Lycomedes, son of Creon, with a wound on his wrist; Lescheos says he was wounded in this way by Agenor. So it is clear that Polygnotus would not have represented them wounded in this way if he had not read the poem of Lescheos. Polygnotus is not the only one to have access to written sources, according to this account, as Pausanias claims that his own skills of art appreciation are informed by familiarity with the myths as transmitted in texts. A bit later in the Page 4 of 42

Homeric Memnon narrative, for example, Pausanias reports details about Palamedes’s death, claiming that he himself had gained his knowledge specifically from reading the Cypria (10.31.2):9 Παλαμήδην δὲ ἀποπνιγῆναι προελθόντα ἐπὶ ἰχθύων θήραν, Διομήδην δὲ τὸν ἀποκτείναντα εἶναι καὶ Ὀδυσσέα ἐπιλεξάμενος ἐν ἔπεσιν οἶδα τοῖς Κυπρίοις. Palamedes, as I know from reading the epic poem Cypria, was drowned when he went out to catch fish, and his murderers were Diomedes and Odysseus. I include these excerpts from Pausanias as a cautionary tale about extant (Homeric) and lost (cyclic) sources. Pausanias tells us explicitly which sources he thinks Polygnotus used for his artistic rendering of the fall of Troy, a (p.116) catastrophe associated with Homer’s two great epics but not actually found in the confines of their storylines, as well as for Odysseus’s trip to Hades, known directly from the Odyssey. The passages by Pausanias quoted above reveal multiple literary actions and motivations: the supplementation of Homeric narrative (i.e., filling in gaps); the contradiction or correction of Homeric narrative; and the combination or justification of mutually exclusive narrative traditions, whether Homeric or cyclic in origin. The passages also seem to assume that Polygnotus’s decisions about what to depict on the walls were based on textual sources: both Polygnotus (10.25.6: Lescheos’s Sack of Troy) and Pausanias (10.31.2: Cypria) are said to have “read” a certain version of the story. Because this was such a famous piece of art in antiquity, in a place open to visitors from all around the Greek-speaking world, we can assume that Pausanias would not be the only viewer identifying the references to Homeric and non-Homeric scenes, or comparing Homer’s versions with the rest of the epic cycle or other anthologies of myths. One could imagine that such explanations of the painting might be part of a visitor’s experience, so that even if that person had not read all of Homer, or did not recall all he or she had learned as a child, and had only a passing familiarity with mythological compendia, he or she, too, might understand the paintings as dependent on both Homeric and cyclic precedents simultaneously. We will observe something very similar in the Memnon inscriptions that present themselves as fully informed by Homeric epic, yet borrow from the cyclic epic tradition to describe Memnon’s death and removal from the battlefield.10 The Homeric Memnon inscriptions, too, will turn to supplementation, contradiction, and correction; they, too, will show knowledge of mutually contradictory stories, and engage intertextually with a variety of sources, both oral and textual. And when visitors to the colossus read the verses that allude to a wider epic tradition, they, too, are “invited to

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Homeric Memnon mobilize their full knowledge of Greek literature and bring it bear on the objects at hand.”11 But before proceeding to a closer look at the inscriptions themselves, we should briefly address the question, raised above, of what a reasonably well-educated person in the early second century CE might have known of Homer. Ironically, the influence Homer had on Greek literature and culture in antiquity was so great that it would be basically impossible to write its history.12 Dio Chrysostom speaks tellingly of Homer as the “beginning, middle, and end” (p.117) of all things (Or. 18.8). Referring specifically to the cultural economy of the empire, Froma Zeitlin puts it well: “Homer circulated as a kind of common coinage, an acknowledged criterion of self-recognition for all those, even non-Greeks, who included themselves in ‘a proclaimed communality of paideia, a shared system of reference and expectation.’ ”13 Heraclitus, writing in the early imperial period (ca. first century CE) on the allegorical interpretation of Homer, gives us insight into the way Homer and his poetry completely permeated the cultural life of the elite (Heraclit. All. 1.5–7):14 Εὐθὺς γὰρ ἐκ πρώτης ἡλικίας τὰ νήπια τῶν ἀρτιμαθῶν παίδων διδασκαλίᾳ παρ’ ἐκείνῳ τιτθεύεται, καὶ μονονοὺκ ἐνεσπαργανωμένοι τοῖς ἔπεσιν αὐτοῦ καθαπερεὶ ποτίμῳ γάλακτι τὰς ψυχὰς ἐπάρδομεν· ἀρχομένῳ δ’ ἑκάστῳ συμπαρέστηκε καὶ κατ’ ὀλίγον ἀπανδρουμένῳ, τελείοις δ’ ἐνακμάζει, καὶ κόρος οὐδὲ εἷς ἄχρι γήρως, ἀλλὰ παυσάμενοι διψῶμεν αὐτοῦ πάλιν· καὶ σχεδὸν ἓν πέρας Ὁμήρῳ παρ’ ἀνθρώποις, ὃ καὶ τοῦ βίου. From the very earliest age, the foolishness of children just beginning to learn is nursed by lessons from him [Homer]. One could say that his poems are our swaddling clothes, and we nourish our minds by gulps of his milk. He stands at our side as each one of us grows up, and he experiences our youth with us as we gradually mature; when we are mature, his presence within us is at its prime; and even in old age, we never weary of him. But when we stop [reading Homer], we thirst for him again. In a word, the only end of Homer for human beings is the end of life. The allegorist’s elaborate claims for Homer’s importance are supported by the great frequency with which imperial authors quote Homer; as Lawrence Kim points out, “Homer is quoted with the frequency and familiarity consonant with his monumental authority: to appeal to an august witness, to prove a point, to spice up one’s discourse with a literary allusion, to provide an appropriate moral example.”15 We will have to consider each “Homeric” inscription on the Memnon colossus on its own terms when it comes to guessing its author’s motivations, as they are varied and distinct. But it is safe to say that these visitors were just as interested in accruing cultural capital as their peers in Rome or Athens, even if they were performing their Greekness in the Egyptian hinterland, with only a

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Homeric Memnon limited number of other visitors present to register and appreciate their cleverness.16 (p.118) The passage from Heraclitus above begins with a nod to the role Homer’s epics played in the educational system of antiquity.17 Homer took his place in the school curriculum quite early on in the Greek-speaking world. By the Hellenistic period, a time when scholar-poets not only determined literary canons but crafted critical editions for archiving, shrines were being built for Homer: Aelian (VH 13.22) documents a temple built to honor the poet, complete with a cult statue, set up by Ptolemy Philopater (221–205 BCE) in Alexandria.18 Homer’s reputation only grew throughout the Roman and imperial periods, as his epics were not just read but recited aloud, heard, and debated; Homer was also a staple of rhetorical education and declamation for Roman citizens on their way to a career in politics.19 Imperial scholars argued over the merits of his philology and philosophy (Dio, Oration 18; Heraclitus Homeric Problems; PsPlutarch On Homer), his ethics (Plutarch, How the Young Man Should Listen to Poetry; Athenaeus Deipn. 1.15–18 = “On the Life of the Heroes in Homer”), and his historical accuracy (Strabo Geography).20 Even though Homer’s non-Attic language and archaic world view did not fit in with the classicizing tendencies of the imperial authors, who famously selected fourth-century BCE Attic prose authors as their prime models for style and content, Homer remained “firmly established at the heart of Greek paideia, a truly colossal figure, the very personification of Greek culture, and even of Greekness itself.”21 This quotation provides us with a very convenient segue from “colossal” Homer to colossal Memnon. While there remain many unknowns—were the travelers limited in their choice of allusions by their ability to recall specific Homeric passages? Did they rely on others for suggestions, either professional poets or locals who worked at the site? Should we read the allusions as if they were familiar quotations from, for example, Benjamin Franklin, or as more of an intellectual effort intended to speak to only an elite few? Clearly visitors who inscribed verses on the statue felt that quoting or adapting Homer was an effective way to honor the miracle of Memnon.22 (p.119) Let us now consider specific instances of being simultaneously in Memnon’s and Homer’s presence as we stand at the base of the statue and witness visitors engaged with Homeric epic in their own compositions. The inscriptions to be discussed include one by a Roman centurion who visited with his family, three sets of dactylic hexameters by a Roman centurion, and four lines by Arius, a self-proclaimed “Homeric poet from the Museion” (37.5: Ὁμηρικοῦ ποιητοῦ ἐκ Μουσείου), whose entire inscription takes the form of a Homeric cento. We will consider the inscriptions according to their level of engagement with Homer, starting from a single borrowed phrase and moving to the full cento format.

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Homeric Memnon Crumbs from Homer On the first level of engagement are those authors who use Homeric terms or individual words and short phrases for literary effect sprinkled throughout their verses, but without a sustained imitation (i.e., longer than a half-line) of Homeric narrative. The prefect Titus Petronius Secundus, for example, whose bilingual inscription (13) we read in the previous chapter, and who honored Memnon “cum versibus Graecis infra scriptis,” includes a number of dialectical peculiarities and archaisms in his Greek elegiac couplet, perhaps to add a general archaic flavor to his commemorative act. But his phrase “hit by the fiery rays of the sun” stands out as specifically Homeric, borrowed from several places in the Odyssey.23 When the prefect alludes to Apollo as the “son of Leto” (Λατοΐδα, 13.7), the phrase upholds a maternal connection: like Memnon, Apollo is identified by his matronymic. It may be the case that allegiance to a familiar Homeric phrase referring to the sun god (e.g., Iliad 1.9: Λητοῦς καὶ Διὸς υἱός, “Apollo, son of Leto and Zeus”) gains an additional punch when juxtaposed with the presentation of Memnon’s mother as the dawn goddess, Eos.24 Reference to Eos, which suggests in turn the story of Memnon’s parentage mentioned in the Odyssey (4.188), is a catalyst for Homeric allusion elsewhere on the colossus.25 Thus in Petronianus’s inscription, also mentioned in the previous chapter, Memnon is connected closely with his mother (72.8–10): (p.120) ὕβριν Καμβύσεω μητέρι μεμφόμενος. Εὖτ’ ἂν δ’ ἠέλιος φαέθων ἀκτεῖνας ἀνίσχῃ ἦμαρ σημαίνει τοῖς παρεοῦσι βροτοῖς. he complains to his mother of Cambyses’ outrage, and when the sun, shining out, makes its rays appear, he [Memnon] announces the day to those humans who are present.

Similarly, the self-proclaimed poet and sophist Falernus, whose verses are “worthy of the Muses and the Charites” ([ἀξ]ία καὶ Μουσῶν, ἀξία καὶ Χαρίτων, 61.6), emphasizes Memnon’s vocal reaction to the appearance of his mother (61.3–4): [Κα]ὶ γὰρ ἰδὼν Ἠῶ τὴν μητέρα τὴν κροκόπεπλον [ἤχη]σεν λιγυρῆς ἡδύτερον λαλίης. For when he sees Eos, his mother, with her saffron-colored cloak, he utters a sound sweeter than melodious speech . . .

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Homeric Memnon Both Falernus and Petronianus seem to allude to two lines in Iliad 19, when another close mother–son pair is featured: Thetis brings new armor to Achilles. A conventional reference to dawn opens the book, and Eos is described as both wearing a saffron-colored cloak and bringing light to immortals and mortal men (Il. 19.1–2):26 Ἠὼς μὲν κροκόπεπλος ἀπ’ Ὠκεανοῖο ῥοάων ὄρνυθ’, ἵν’ ἀθανάτοισι φόως φέροι ἠδὲ βροτοῖσιν. Now Eos with her saffron-colored cloak rose up from the streams of Ocean, bringing light to immortals and to mortal men.

Perhaps the most intriguing example of the inscribers’ tendency to turn to Homer for ways to talk about Eos is an undated inscription by Julius, “centurion of a legion;” we have encountered Julius in earlier chapters, and for other emphases, but here the Homeric influence is foregrounded even in his metrical choice (101): Εἴ γε μὲν οὖν Ἠὼς τὸν ἑὸν [φί]λον υἷα δακρύει, ἡνίκ’ ἂν ἀντέλλῃσι φαεσφόρος ἤμασιν αἴγλην (p.121) ἐ[κ] γαίης μύκημα θεοπρεπὲς [ἐκπ]έμπουσα, ἴστω θεῖος Ὅμηρος, ὃς Ἰλίου ἔ[ννε]πε μῦθον· αὐτὸς δ’ ἐνθάδ’ ἔων τοῦ Μ[έμ]ν[ον]ος [ἔ]κλυον αὐδῆς. Ἰούλιος ἦλ[θο]ν ἐγὼν [ἑκα]τόνταρχος λεγεῶνος. If it is true that Eos weeps for her own dear son, whenever she brings forth light and gives brilliance to the days as they begin, breathing out from the ground a groan worthy of a god, let divine Homer be the one to know, who told the story of Troy. But I, standing right here, heard the voice of Memnon. I, Julius, came here, centurion of a legion.

Julius composes six lines of dactylic hexameter, even managing to include his name and rank (line 6) into this quintessential epic formatting. He opens with strongly Homerizing language in line 2, but adds his own touch, inserting a compound adjective (φαεσφόρος) where Homer used a verb–object phrase (e.g., Od. 5.2 = Il. 11.2: ἵν’ ἀθανάτοισι φόως φέροι ἠδὲ βροτοῖσιν/“bringing forth light to immortals and mortal men”). The “brilliance” (αἴγλη) that Julius’s Eos brings to the day occurs frequently in Homer with reference to the rays of the sun or the moon (e.g., Od. 4.45, 7.84), as well as to shiny armor or the clarity of the sky. But just as we begin to get comfortable with Julius’s Homeric allusions,27 we are confronted with two problems. First, Julius initially suggests that the marvelous sound comes from Eos herself, not Memnon, according to “divine Homer;” the participle is gendered feminine ([ἐκπ]έμπουσα). Second, after invoking Homer as both divine and knowing, Julius refuses to take the epic author at his word.28 What he is willing to vouch for is not Homeric accuracy or truth, but only what he himself has witnessed: standing right in front of Memnon, Julius claims to Page 9 of 42

Homeric Memnon have heard the voice not of Eos, but of Memnon himself. He contrasts what he has read in/of Homer, or what he has heard earlier about the tradition of Eos and Memnon, with his actual personal experience.29 Julius’s engagement with Homeric authority in his inscription recalls that of Strabo, who acknowledged that Homer may have included myths or “historical fiction” in his verses, but that he did so for the pleasure of the reader, (p.122) not out of any ignorance of the truth. Strabo coined the term προσμυθεύεσθαι (1.2.19) for Homer’s habit of, in Lawrence Kim’s words, “adding myths . . . to a basically historical narrative universe—that is, Homer’s method of composing historical fiction.”30 Julius allows that Homer may or may not know the truth about Eos weeping for her son, but Julius feels most confident relying on his own sense perception, which tells him only that Memnon speaks. The Iliad does not, of course, mention Eos crying at the death of her son, as Memnon does not actually die within the frame of the epic, but his death and his mother’s grief are certainly part of the literary tradition, the Memnon fabula. It is highly probable that there was a scene of Eos weeping somewhere in the Aethiopis, for example, and images of Eos weeping over Memnon’s corpse, or removing Memnon’s body from the battlefield at Troy, may be found in both black and red figure vases dating from the late sixth and early fifth century.31 The tradition of a lamenting Eos is sustained across centuries, as Ovid writes of it in his Metamorphoses (13.621: “piasque nunc quoque dat lacrimas, et toto rorat in orbe”), and Servius, commenting on Vergil, seems equally familiar with Eos’s tears (Servius on Vergil Aen. 1.493: “cuius mortem mater Aurora hodieque rore matutino flere videtur”).32 Funisulanus Charisius (122 CE), whose lines we noted earlier, may follow this long tradition of a weeping Eos, if we read the aorist passive participle χυθεῖσα, “poured over,” as a clever combination of Eos’ early dawn light and her maternal tears: she both spreads her morning light and gushes forth tears over the colossal stone body of her son, as if she were reenacting daily the original moment of grief when she clasped his prone body on the battlefield (19.4–5): σοῦ, Μέμνον, ἠχήσαντος, ἡν[ίχ’ ἡ] μήτηρ ἡ σὴ χυθεῖσα σὸν δέμας ΑΠ . . . ΦΕΙ. (we heard) you, Memnon, resounding, when your mother having been poured out over your body . . .

Julius had found a way both to acknowledge Homer and to “correct” him—a nice sophistic touch. But in Funisulanus’s two lines, there is only (p.123) one version: Memnon is clearly defined as the one ἠχήσαντος, “making a noise”— possibly “echoing” his mother’s tears with his own “resounding” cry. Funisulanus here zooms in on the same suggestive gap in the Homeric narrative that had attracted Julius, in which lamenting Eos may be imagined pouring out both tears and rays of light, and the grief of mother and son are almost Page 10 of 42

Homeric Memnon indistinguishable. What is remarkable about both these references to Eos mourning her dead son is that the inscribers allude directly to Homer’s words when they recall the story, yet this version is absent from the Homeric texts themselves. It seems as if the inscribers want us to imagine specific Iliadic precedents that do not actually exist.33 Another word marked as specifically Homeric on the colossus is λωβητήρ, looter or destroyer. Mettius Rufus, prefect of Egypt under Domitian in 89–91 CE, who, as we noted earlier, hired the professional poet Paion of Side to write his inscription, opens with an allusion to Memnon’s body, damaged by “looters” (11.1), borrowing a word that appears multiple times in the Iliad.34 It is ironic but perhaps at this point not surprising that the story alluded to, namely that of Cambyses’s destruction of the statue, is specifically not a Homeric mythos; but the word itself is.35 We mentioned above the connection between dialectical peculiarities or archaisms and Homeric diction. This is sustained in several of the inscriptions that follow this model. Thus the lines of Claudia Damo (83.1–4), also discussed previously, while overwhelmingly Aeolic in dialect,36 also include the Homeric phrase ἐπίηρα φέρειν,”to curry favor,” found frequently in both epics.37 But by far the most frequent references are found in the inscriptions of Julia Balbilla (28–31), whose poems are full of rare and poetic words, often borrowed from Homeric vocabulary. In particular, inscription 28 includes the epic terms κοίρανος (28.9) and ὀψίγονος (28.10), both quite common in (p.124) the Homeric narratives.38 But we will return to the verses of Julia Balbilla in greater detail in the next chapter, as they primarily follow a model other than Homer. On the whole, it is difficult to draw many conclusions about the use of individual Homeric words and short phrases, as the original Homeric contexts tend not to shed light on the repurposing of the material. Were some of the inscribers reaching for epic coloring in their lines, adopting Memnon as a Homeric hero? Were they following what they perceived as an expectation by their fellow inscribers of a high-register vocabulary and style? Were they showing off their intellectualism as a sign of their high social standing at home? Probably many different impulses existed side by side with the same end result, namely inscriptions on the colossus with Homeric coloring.

Standing on Homer’s Shoulders I now turn to four inscriptions that we will read in some detail, as they all engage fully and elaborately with Homeric textual precedent. In the first two examples, the inscribers define their relationship to Homer by setting Memnon’s story firmly in the context of the duel between Achilles and Memnon. While they both allude frequently to Homeric words and phrases, they also sustain the fiction of the larger epic context by giving equal attention to both heroes: Memnon’s genealogy is matched by Achilles’, Thetis stands parallel to Eos, and Page 11 of 42

Homeric Memnon the actions of the Homeric victor are described in as much detail as the slaughter of the victim.39 The first inscription is by Gallus, who identifies himself as procurator of the Thebaid (36.2); the editors identify him further as Gallus Marianus, whose name also appears on a statue base found near the south wall of the temple at Esneh, and who most likely visited the colossus at the same time as Hadrian (i.e., 130 CE).40 His eight hexameter lines divide neatly into two sections, with (p.125) the first section becoming illegible briefly in the fourth foot of the final line, which ends with the tantalizing word μῦθος (36): Θήβης ἐν πεδίοισι [παρα]ὶ βα|[θ]υδινήεντ[α] Νεῖλον ἀναπλώσας | [σῆς ἔ]κλυ[ε], Μέμνον, ἀϋτῆς [Γάλ]λος ἐπι|τροπέων Θηβηΐδος ἠμαθ[οέσσ]ης | [θεινο]μ[έ]νων χαλκῷ ἰκέλη[ς. …..] ΑΔΕ|ΙΛ.. μῦθος. Πηλεΐων ἐδάμασσε τὸν Ἠὼ(ς) τίκτε | ποτ’ υἷα. Ὁπποῖον γὰρ ἐνὶ Τ[ροίῃ Σιμ]όεντος ἐ[π’ ὄχ]θαις ἔβραχε τεύχ[εα κείν]ου, ὅτ’ ἐν |[κονίῃ]σι τάνυστο, τοῖο[ν] νῦν [κ]τυ|[πέ]ει λίθος ἄσπετος ἐγγ[ύθι] Ν[είλο]υ. In the plains of Thebes, beside the Nile with its deep eddies, Gallus, procurator of the sandy Thebaid heard your voice, Memnon, as he sailed up the river, (a voice that sounded) like (clashing) bronze (armor) of men being struck . . . (as) the story (goes). Peleus’s child once subdued the son Eos bore. Just as in Troy, on the banks of the Simois, his armor clanged, when he was stretched out in the dust, so now, near the Nile, the huge stone resounds.

The inscription begins very much in the present, as Gallus informs us of various practical matters: he is an official in the Thebaid who made his way, as so many other officials had before him, up the river by boat to visit the famous sanctuary.41 As he stands on the Theban plain, not far from the Nile River, he hears Memnon’s voice; he selects the Homeric term ἀϋτή (e.g., Il. 2.153, 6.328) for Memnon’s cry, used only here on the colossus, hinting at the theme of war and warriors to be developed in the rest of the inscription. Gallus addresses Memnon directly in his inscription honoring the immediate experience. But already in the first two lines of the poem, more ghostings of Homer appear: the Nile may have deep eddies, but in the Iliad, that particular epithet belongs to the Scamander River (Il. 20.73, 21.15); the Thebaid may be sandy, but no reader, ancient or modern, could forget famously “sandy” Pylos, home of Nestor in the first book of the Odyssey (Od. 1.93).42 When Gallus tries to express what Memnon’s voice sounds like, he compares the sound to the clashing bronze of armor being struck in epic battle. Caught up in the beauty of the Homeric (p. 126) phrasing, we might almost overlook the pointed detail a few lines later that Memnon’s voice in the present is compared to the sound of his own arms Page 12 of 42

Homeric Memnon clanging on his body at the moment of his death (36.6–8)—Homeric, yet tantalizingly absent from Homer. Halfway through the inscription, we are invited to enter fully into the Homeric world with the word “mythos.”43 Gallus does not bring in Homer as an ultimately unprovable source, as Julius did in his inscription (101). Instead, Gallus uses Homer as a resource, a trove of long-ago legend that will help orient him to the here and now of Egyptian Thebes. The second half of the poem is equally saturated with Homeric atmosphere. It opens with a reminder that it was Achilles, Peleus’s son, who once upon a time (ποτ’) killed Memnon, the son of Eos. The verb for killing, ἐδάμασσε, occurs frequently in Iliadic battle scenes (e.g., Il. 5.191 of Diomedes; Il. 16.813 of Patroklos). Both heroes are defined not by their names, but by their parents’ names: Achilles is the son of his father, Memnon his mother’s son. In line 6, we are abruptly transported to Troy in the first part of the simile, and we stand with Achilles and Memnon on the banks of the Simois River. References to the Simois surface throughout the Iliad (e.g., Il. 5.774, 777; 6.4; 20.53; 21.307), as well as the particular wording of the “banks of the Simois” (e.g., Il. 4.475). The Simois is a river by whose banks many shields and helmets roll in the dust (Il. 12.22, in the context of Apollo and Poseidon planning to sweep away the walls of Troy after the city’s destruction), but it is also the river on whose banks Antilochus, later to be Memnon’s most famous victim, slays his first Trojan victim of the day (Il. 4.457). Line 7 continues the image of heroic slaughter, as Achilles gloats over Memnon, who is stretched out in the dust with his armor still in the process of crashing down around him as he falls. The noise of clashing or crashing (36.7: ἔβραχε) is often used by Homer of the clash of arms in battle. It is used in book 4 of Diomedes when he jumps in full armor from his chariot onto the ground, eager to begin the slaughter, and all around him are terrified by the sound (Il. 4.420); but it is also used of dying heroes: Alcmaon falls with his armor ringing around him under Sarpedon’s spear (Il. 12.396), and Sarpedon himself becomes a corpse around which Trojans and Achaeans, with armor loudly clanging, compete for the body and its armor (Il. 16.566). At the end of line 7, when Memnon lies on the dusty ground, we find ourselves still fully in the world of the Iliad: the same massive battle scene in Iliad 4 that was mined for references to the banks of the Simois and the clash of armor above provides Gallus with the phrase “stretched out in the dust”: Homer lists young men laid low on the ground, and the book ends with an acknowledgment of massive casualties on both sides (Il. 4.543–44): πολλοὶ γὰρ Τρώων καὶ Ἀχαιῶν ἤματι κείνῳ πρηνέες ἐν κονίῃσι παρ᾽ ἀλλήλοισι τέταντο. (p.127) for many Trojans and Achaeans alike that day

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Homeric Memnon were stretched out side by side with their faces in the dust.

But the connection to Patroclus is also maintained, as the most memorable passage of lying “stretched out in the dust” comes when Achilles mourns the dead Patroclus, on the ground next to the corpse, ritually defiling himself with dirt and dust in his extreme grief (Il. 18.26–27): αὐτὸς δ᾽ ἐν κονίῃσι μέγας μεγαλωστὶ τανυσθεὶς κεῖτο, φίλῃσι δὲ χερσὶ κόμην ᾔσχυνε δαΐζων. And he himself lay outstretched in the dust, mighty in his strength, and with his own hands he tore and mangled his hair.

The final line of Gallus’s inscription, encompassing the resolution of the simile, takes us back to stand near the Nile, focalizing through Gallus himself, as the cry emitted from the colossus resounds in our ears. The term Gallus uses in line 8 for a loud noise resounding (36.8: κτυπέει) is often used of Zeus thundering out portents,44 but is also used for the loud effects of natural elements moving in unnatural ways: thus in Iliad 13.140, the woods clash or resound underneath the impact of a runaway boulder loosened by a flood that hurtles down the hillside, and in Iliad 23.119, giant trees fall with a crash as men cut them down to build a funeral pyre for Patroclus. Using κτυπέει for Memnon brings out both the physical massiveness of the current seated stone colossus and the shocking physical fall of the mortal hero under Achilles’ hands. Perhaps we are even meant to imagine yet another moment of physical collapse, namely the statue’s head cracking apart from its base and toppling to the ground during the earthquake—the marvelous irony there, as has already been noted, is that no sound could ever have emerged from the statue while it was whole; only its fragmentation allowed it to “speak.” Gallus describes the colossal Memnon with an adjective that takes us into the realm of the marvelous: the stone is ἄσπετος, literally “unspeakable,” impossible to describe. If we read this metapoetically, Gallus may be emphasizing his own power to give voice to the unspeakable as part of his own poetic performance.45 But it also contrasts oddly with the vocal abilities of the colossus itself; this is a speaking stone, after all. Yet what might seem an odd choice in the context of vocal Memnon makes sense in its Homeric context, where it means measureless or unspeakable in a positive sense: awe-ful, amazing, or even infinite.46 In Iliad 18.403, Hephaistos speaks to Thetis, (p.128) who is seeking new armor for Achilles, of the “unspeakable” flood of Ocean; this is the armor, of course, that will allow Achilles eventually to slay Memnon himself. And the same word is also used near the passage mentioned above regarding Patroclus: in Iliad 23.127, “measureless” (ἄσπετος) wood is gathered for Patroclus’s funeral pyre. Gallus seems to go out of his way to draw connections between Achilles, Patroclus, and Memnon, in a network of fatal foreshadowing.

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Homeric Memnon But Gallus does not leave us desolate on the bloody battlefields of Troy. Achilles may have subdued Memnon, but the final verse emphasizes the sound that still echoes, a past that reaches all the way to the present, where visitors can hear it themselves every morning. The Homeric core is neatly encased by the opening and closing topographical references to Thebes and the Nile, which keep us firmly in the Egyptian present. The sand of the Thebaid gestures back to sandy Pylos, but then in an elegant chiasmus, the (epic) dust surrounding Achilles’ mourning body becomes the dust of the dry Egyptian foothills near Memnon’s colossal “body,” whose early morning cry testifies to his endurance. We start out beside the Nile—[παρα]ὶ . . . Νεῖλον—and finish rooted to the same spot, near the Nile: ἐγγ[ύθι] Ν[είλο]υ. And the huge stone keeps on re-sounding, both textually in the inscription and, if we are indeed ourselves by the Nile, in our ears as we read it aloud. The close pairing of Achilles and Memnon occurs also in our second example of sustained Homeric borrowing.47 Here the author Asclepiodotus, who signs himself as both poet and government official, boasts to Thetis (although in elegiac couplets rather than dactylic hexameter) that, while her Achilles is long dead and gone, Memnon lives on and speaks (62): Ἀσκληπιοδότου. Ζώειν, εἰναλίη Θέτι, Μέμνονα καὶ μέγα φωνεῖν μάνθανε, μητρῴηι λαμπάδι θαλπόμενον, Αἰγύπτου Λιβυκῆισιν ὑπ’ ὀφρύσιν, ὧν ἀποτάμνει καλλίπυλον Θήβην Νεῖλος ἐλαυνόμενος· τὸν δὲ μάχης ἀκόρητον Ἀχιλλέα μήτ’ ἐνὶ Τρῴων φθέγγεσθαι πεδίωι, μήτ’ ἐνί Θεσσαλίηι. ποιητοῦ· ἐπιτρόπου. By Asclepiodotus. Know, sea-dwelling48 Thetis, that Memnon lives, and speaks loudly (p.129) when he is warmed by his mother’s light, at the base of the Libyan hills of Egypt, where the flowing Nile cuts off Thebes with its lovely gates.49 But your Achilles, long ago insatiable for battle, speaks neither on the plains of Troy nor in Thessaly. By the poet, the procurator.

Asclepiodotus centers his poem in Egypt, at the base of the Libyan hills, where the flowing Nile cuts through lovely-gated Thebes, and Memnon lives on to speak to his visitors.50 We are reminded that Memnon speaks when his mother’s early rays warm him, and told not just that he speaks, but that he speaks loudly —mega—and is sensitive to his mother’s presence, as if sustained by her love. Memnon is the victor in this particular duel; he may have been conquered at Troy, but he still speaks and feels, while Achilles has long ago been silenced by death. One could argue, then, that Memnon’s voice resonates even more Page 15 of 42

Homeric Memnon strongly in the silence of the Trojan and Thessalian plains, and in the silence of the Iliad on the fate of Memnon. Troy and Thessaly, part of the epic geography of memory, loom in ghostly shadow behind the Libyan hills of Egypt, where the inscriber stands recording his experience of Memnon’s cry. In this context of miraculous voices, Achilles’ weakness is represented as utter silence; the inscription takes care to catalogue both his Thessalian birthplace and the site of his Trojan aristeia, as if he were semi-divine, but only to underline his silence, a sharp contrast to Memnon’s regular and emotion-laden cries that transcend time and space. But the oddest aspect of this inscription is its formation as a direct address in the opening line—but not, as we might have expected, to Memnon. Asclepiodotus makes an unusual move in the context of these commemorative lines: he addresses Thetis, and turns his poem into a kind of cruel reminder of her son’s absence: Achilles is dead, silent, and she can no longer comfort him; Memnon lives on, speaks, and is literally and metaphorically warmed every day by his mother’s presence. If we accept the fiction of the narrative address, we might even imagine Thetis herself visiting the colossus and reading these lines, and we ourselves are put in the position of “being” Thetis as we read. If Thetis arrives at dawn, should we extrapolate a surreal meeting between the two mothers? Ghosts of the epic past seem to haunt the landscape and make any engagement with Homer about more than just textual coincidence. More Homeric expressions cluster at the end, when the poet turns to a description of Achilles: he is “insatiable for battle,” μάχης ἀκόρητον. With this same phrase Menelaus condemns the bloodthirsty Trojans at Iliad 13, while the narrator in the beginning of Iliad 20 addresses Achilles directly as “insatiable for battle.” In the second example, Achilles’ favorite horse, briefly granted a (p. 130) human voice, has just finished warning his master of impending doom, and he has rejected any suggestion of compromise; it is, however, unclear whether we should read the narrator’s editorializing as a positive or negative comment on the warrior’s behavior. Perhaps the presence of miraculously voiced animals and a direct address to Achilles by an entity from outside the narrative combined to inspire Asclepiodotus to select this particular Homeric passage for imitation. Asclepiodotus’s final distich is a pastiche, the likes of which we will see again in Arius’s cento (37). The phrase “neither on the plains of Troy nor in Thessaly” appears in multiple contexts in Homer, but these two lines also keep us focused on the distant epic past, frozen on the plains of Troy. In Gallus’s inscription, the writer took care to frame the Greek mythos in its current Egyptian context by beginning and ending “near the Nile.” In this inscription, however, Asclepiodotus moves unidirectionally backward from Egypt to Troy, from right here and now where we can still count on Memnon’s ability to speak strongly and predictably, to a bleak “long ago” in which Achilles is made forever mute.

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Homeric Memnon The final group of allusively Homeric inscriptions to be discussed in this section are both by the same author: Marius Gemellus, Roman centurion, living in the reign of Antoninus Pius, who heard Memnon speak twice during his visit on the thirteenth day of the Egyptian month of Pachon (i.e., 8 May 150 CE). He honored his experience with three inscriptions: 51, 52, and 53.51 It seems that 53 must have been inscribed first, as it takes the form of a direct request to Memnon to favor the visitor with an utterance (53): Τίς νύ σε τοιάδ’ ἔρεξε, φί[λον τέκος, Οὐρανιώνων] μαψιδίως ὡσεί τινα ἀτε[ίμητον μετανάστην]; Ἐξ[α]ύδα, λίτομαί σε, καὶ --Καὶ γὰρ ἐγώ ΣΕΕΣΑΚΑΙ --Εὐτυχῶς Μαρίῳ Γεμέλλῳ ἑκατοντ[άρχῃ]--Which now of the children of Ouranos did these things to you, dear child, in vain, as if dealing with some dishonored exile? Speak out, I beg you, and . . . For I, too, . . . Good luck to Marius Gemellus, centurion . . .

Here Gemellus calls Memnon φίλον τέκος, a familiar Homeric phrase used for Aphrodite by her mother, Dione, when the goddess is wounded in battle (p.131) by Diomedes (Il. 5.373: φίλον τέκος); it also may call to mind Thetis’s address to Achilles in Iliad 1, when the sympathetic mother asks her angry son to tell her what is troubling him (Il. 1.362: τέκνον). But if the first line is a word-for-word copy, the second line diverges from Homer after the third foot. Gemellus has adapted his opening lines from the passage in Iliad 5, where Dione asks Aphrodite who attacked and wounded her (Il. 5.373–74): τίς νύ σε τοιάδ᾽ ἔρεξε φίλον τέκος Οὐρανιώνων/μαψιδίως, ὡς εἴ τι κακὸν ῥέζουσαν ἐνωπῇ; “Who now of the sons of Ouranos, dear child, has done these things to you, in vain, as if you were plotting some evil out in the open?” Yet another Homeric precedent informs Gemellus’s verse: in Iliad 9, Achilles complains to Ajax during the embassy scene about his unjust treatment at the hands of Agamemnon (Il. 9.647–48): μ᾽ ἀσύφηλον ἐν Ἀργείοισιν ἔρεξεν/Ἀτρεΐδης ὡς εἴ τιν᾽ ἀτίμητον μετανάστην; “The son of Atreus has treated me badly in front of the Argives, as if I were some alien unworthy of honor.” Just as Aphrodite feels unfairly treated, or Achilles complains to Thetis that he has been dishonored by both Agamemnon and Ajax, so Gemellus complains that Memnon has been treated as if he were an exile, not worthy of respect.52 He is referring here to the damage done to Memnon’s upper body, caused by the earthquake, but often attributed to the destructive acts of the Persian king Cambyses II, who

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Homeric Memnon invaded Egypt in ca. 525 BCE and, according to Herodotus, destroyed Egyptian temples and desecrated their statues. Gemellus then asks Memnon to answer him with a sound that could be interpreted as a sign of good luck; here, the “good luck” he wishes on himself may be specifically the good luck of hearing Memnon, or possibly the good fortune that should follow him on his return trip, as well as in future enterprises in life. We assume that Gemellus then writes another inscription (51) in gratitude, after he has succeeded in hearing Memnon’s voice; he makes sure to record the fact of hearing not just once, but twice. This second inscription, quoted in full in Chapter 3 but worth reprinting here, similarly makes use of the formula “good luck”: it opens with a request for good fortune for Gemellus and ends with an expression of good luck directed toward his faithful wife, Rufilla, also called Longinia (51): Εὐτυχῶς Μαρίῳ Γεμέλλ[ῳ] Θῆκέ σε φωνήεντα θεὰ ῥοδοδάκτυλος Ἠώς, σὴ μήτειρ, κλυτὲ Μέμνον, ἐελδομένῳ μοι ἀκοῦσαι σῆς φωνῆς· λυκάβαντι περικλυτοῦ Ἀντωνείνου [δω]δεκάτῳ, καὶ μηνὶ Παχὼν τρισκαίδεκα ἔχοντι [ἤμα]τα, δὶς, δαῖμον, τεῦ ἐσέκλυον αὐδήσαντος, [ἠελίου] λίμνης περικαλλέα ῥεῖθρα λιπόντος. (p.132) [Ὄντα ποτ]ὲ ἀντολίης βασιλῆά σε θῆκε Κρονείων [οἰκουρὸ]ν πέτρου, φωνὴν δ’ ἀπὸ πέτρου ἔθη[κε]· [ταῦτ’ ἔγραψα] ἔγωγε Γέμελλος ἀμοιβαδὶς ἔνθ[α], [σὺν κεδν]ῇ ἀλόχῳ Ῥουφίλλῃ καὶ τεκέεσσιν. Εὐτυχῶς [Ῥου]φιλλῃ [τῇ] καὶ Λονγεινίᾳ. Good luck to Marius Gemellus. Eos, goddess of the rosy fingers, your mother, set you up, famous Memnon, and made you articulate for me, desiring to hear your voice. In the twelfth year of very famous Antoninus, and on the thirteenth day of the month of Pachon, I heard you, god, speak twice, when the sun left the beautiful waves of the ocean. You who were once an eastern king, the son of Kronos placed you to dwell in rock, and placed a voice inside the rock. I wrote these things, Gemellus, here in turn, with my faithful wife, Rufilla, and (our) children. Good luck to Rufilla, also called Longinia.

The body of Gemellus’s inscription—ten lines of dactylic hexameter—is framed by a one-line extrametrical wish for good fortune to himself and his family.53 The self-naming in the frame allows the poet to talk to Memnon as the ego in the body of the poem, as well as about his wife and children at the end. He includes Page 18 of 42

Homeric Memnon practical information (“in the twelfth year of very famous Antoninus,/and on the thirteenth day of the month of Pachon”; “I wrote these things, Gemellus, here in turn,/with my faithful wife, Rufilla, and our children”; “also called Longinia”). The length and formality of the inscription, along with the inclusion of family information and the frequency of Memnon’s cry, leave us with a sense of a man who is very proud of his accomplishments and his “good luck.” But something shifts in the poem when he turns to Memnon with the vocative κλυτὲ Μέμνον (famous Memnon) in line 2. When Gemellus addresses Memnon directly, he shifts linguistically and imaginatively from the world of a Roman centurion into a distant Homeric past. He asserts that Eos, the Homeric dawn goddess “of the rosy fingers,” set up her son, the famous Memnon, to speak specifically for/to him, desirous of hearing his voice. Forms of the verb τίθημι are conventionally used of dedicating or setting up statues, which suits the idea of Eos keeping her dead son “alive” by creating a colossal statue to house his immortal soul.54 When Eos sets him (p.133) up to speak, we may think again of the scene when Achilles’ horse miraculously found its voice (Il. 19.407: αὐδήεντα δ᾽ ἔθηκε θεὰ λευκώλενος Ἥρη; “white-armed Hera the goddess made [Xanthus] a speaking one”). Gemellus acts the Achilles to Memnon’s Xanthus, as each speaker shows how a non-human being can be endowed with speech at a critical moment; the ensuing speech is then that much more poignant and meaningful (if still somewhat paranormal).55 Further Homeric echoes crowd into the inscription: Gemellus imagines that Eos set up Memnon’s speaking statue specifically ἐελδομένῳ μοι, “for me, desiring” to hear your voice; Odysseus is described with the same phrase, as he desperately desires Charybdis to spit out the broken parts of his ship (Od. 12.438: ἐελδομένῳ δέ μοι, “for me, desiring”). When he finally hears Memnon speak, Gemellus borrows the phrase “I heard you speak” (τεῦ ἐσέκλυον αὐδήσαντος) from Iliad 16.76 (ἔκλυον αὐδήσαντος), where Achilles comments that he has not heard lately the voice of the hated Agamemnon in the battle din. Gemellus notes that he heard the god speak when the “sun left the beautiful waves of the river” ([ἠελίου] λίμνης περικαλλέα ῥεῖθρα λιπόντος), a reference to the early dawn occurrence, but also an imitation of the opening of Odyssey 3, when Telemachus and Athena (in disguise) disembark at sandy Pylos to visit Nestor (Od. 3.1–3): Ἠέλιος δ᾽ ἀνόρουσε, λιπὼν περικαλλέα λίμνην, οὐρανὸν ἐς πολύχαλκον, ἵν᾽ ἀθανάτοισι φαείνοι καὶ θνητοῖσι βροτοῖσιν ἐπὶ ζείδωρον ἄρουραν . . .; “and now the sun, leaving the beautiful surface of the water, sprang up into the bronzed heaven to give light to the immortals and to mortal men . . .” Finally, when Gemellus returns to the idea expressed in the initial line of the poem about a voice placed inside the colossal statue, he speaks of Kronos’s son setting up Memnon to dwell inside the rock, and placing in him a voice that can resound beyond the confines of his stony carapace. In its essence, the passage may recall the description of Odysseus, standing to speak in the Greek assembly, emitting a sonorous voice from his chest (Il. 3.221–24). Page 19 of 42

Homeric Memnon Odysseus’s masterful voice is unexpected when compared to his appearance: he stands still, as if he were a fool or a man without understanding, yet when he begins to speak, the words fall as thick and fast as snowflakes on a wintry day. The contrast between the external stillness or temporary muteness and the brilliance of the speech that emerges from inside his chest neatly parallels Memnon’s situation: he is trapped in solid stone, without a mouth or face, separated in time and location from his previous existence as an eastern king and royal Trojan ally.56 Visitors thus are all the more impressed when he begins to speak and utters his famous cry. When Gemellus uses the adverb “in turn” at line 9 (ἀμοιβαδὶς), it can be read on various levels. Gemellus writes his verses in exchange for or in reply to hearing Memnon’s voice: it is payment in kind.57 It could also be read as (p.134) coming after the inscriptions of other visitors; each visitor “in turn” documents his or her experience.58 It could also point more specifically to Gemellus’s own earlier inscription. But coming on the heels of the idea of Zeus granting Memnon a voice, placing words inside the rock that could be heard by others standing outside, one could also read into these lines a sense of Gemellus’s own achievement: in ten neat dactylic hexameters, he has done both Homer and Zeus one better, granting Memnon a voice and a future through his own inscriptions. There is an additional small footnote to add to Gemellus’s phrase “in turn,” since yet another inscription in Gemellus’s name can be found on the colossus: 52, identical with 51 but engraved higher up on Memnon’s body. What remains of inscription 52 are the ends of lines 1 through 6. The editors surmise that Gemellus wrote 51 first, but realized that it was too close to the ground and therefore would not be reached by the rising sun; so Gemellus, or his hired workmen, tried to write the same poem again (52) in a more propitious spot, higher up the leg (six meters from the ground).59 But the editors also readily acknowledge that it could just as easily have been the reverse: the stonecutters tried to write high up the leg (52), but were stymied by technical difficulties and left it incomplete, moving down the body of the colossus to find a place lower on the ankle to inscribe the complete poem (51). The editors add the charming detail that, as they attempted to read and make a squeeze of Gemellus’s inscription 52, the wind picked up and their ladder started shaking violently. Their own experience led them to imagine a similar scenario in antiquity, in which the first site for 52 was abandoned for safer ground: “L’écroulement de notre échafaudage, lors d’un coup de vent, nous a du resté suffisamment démontré que la travail, à cette hauteur, n’est pas aisé.”60

Becoming Homer We come now to the final and fullest example of allusion to Homer on the Memnon colossus. This inscription actually takes us to an entirely different

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Homeric Memnon plane, as all four full lines (excluding the signature line) of this remarkable poem by Arius, “Homeric poet from the Museion,” are lifted directly from Homer (37): Ὧ πόποι, ἦ μέγα θαῦμα τόδ’ ὀφ[θαλμοῖσιν ὀρῶμαι]· ἦ μάλα τις θεὸς ἔνδον, οἳ οὐρανὸν εὐρὺν ἔχουσιν, ἤϋσεν φωνήν· κατὰ δ’ ἔσχεθε λαὸν ἅπαντα. (p.135) Οὐ γάρ πως ἂν θνητὸς ἀνὴρ τάδε μηχανόῳτο. Ἀρείου Ὁμηρικοῦ ποιητοῦ ἐκ Μουσείου ἀκούσαντος. Oh what a great and amazing thing it is that I see in front of my eyes. Surely there must be some god within, (one of the ones) who dwell in the wide heavens, who uttered (such) a cry and held back all the people. For no mortal man could ever produce such marvels. By Arius, Homeric poet from the Museion, (after) hearing (Memnon).

We have another reference to a pensioner of the Museion, one Servius Sulpicius (20), on the right leg of the colossus dated to ca. 122/123 CE, and we know that Hadrian was a great patron of the Museion, so it is tempting to date Arius to the Hadrianic period.61 We can speculate that Arius may have visited the colossus on the same journey as the similarly eloquent Caecilia Trebulla or Julia Balbilla, forming some sort of literary coterie in Hadrian’s entourage.62 But whereas we saw Trebulla humanize “her” Memnon, Arius immortalizes his experience by constructing an inscription entirely out of Homeric phrases, speaking to Memnon as if they were both fictional figures in the epics who have come (back) to life. Arius becomes not just Homer, but a Homeric character, trying on the parts in turn of a Greek hero staring in astonishment at a Trojan in the Iliad, men hearing Athena shouting at the suitors at the end of the Odyssey, and Telemachus commenting on the marvelous and mysterious things that go on when his father is nearby. Arius begins his poem with a line that occurs not just once but four times in the Iliad and once in the Odyssey: “Oh what a great and amazing thing it is that I see in front of my eyes.” There could be no doubt in anyone’s mind that Arius was flagging this verse as Homeric.63 In each instance, a hero is faced with a sight that tests his grasp on reality: in Iliad 13.99, the thauma is the sight of the Trojans fighting around the Greek ships; in Iliad 15.286, Thoas catches sight of Hector returning to battle, although the Trojan hero had been missing and presumed dead; in Iliad 20.344, Achilles is amazed at the sudden disappearance of Aeneas, who had shortly before been pinned under his spearpoint; and in Iliad 21.54, Achilles is astonished to see Lykaon again, after he had previously allowed him to be ransomed. The comparable line in the Odyssey (19.36) refers to Telemachus’s response to his father as they lock up the weapons and (p.136) plot the slaughter of the suitors: a disguised Athena lights their way, leading Telemachus to suspect a divine presence.

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Homeric Memnon The same Odyssey reference is picked up again in the second line of Arius’s poem: “surely there must be some god within, (one of the ones) who dwell in the wide heavens,” is precisely what Telemachus says to his father just after expressing his amazement at the dazzling light mentioned above (Od. 19.40). The divine presence suggested by the light is reminiscent of the earlier situation when Telemachus insisted that his father, transformed from shabby beggar into radiant and handsome hero by Athena in Eumaeus’s hut, must be divine (Od. 16.183): ἦ μάλα τις θεός ἐσσι, τοὶ οὐρανὸν εὐρὺν ἔχουσιν, “surely you are a god, one of the ones who dwell in the wide heavens.” In Memnon’s situation, this idea of a divine spark contained inside a shelter refers not to a surrounding house or a hut such as Eumaeus’s, but rather to the carapace of stone that encloses his living soul in its interior, already imagined in this way by Gemellus (53.8), who separated Memnon (“placed you to dwell in rock”) from his voice (“and placed a voice inside the rock”), and put them both deep inside the statue’s stony exterior. Other inscriptions refer to Memnon’s living soul housed inside the hard stone in similar terms. Line 3, in which Memnon utters a cry and grabs the attention of his visitors, is identical to the line in Odyssey 24 when Athena, rushing to the aid of Odysseus, Telemachus, and Laertes, holds back the suitors’ families with a huge and terrifying shout (Od. 24.530). In the epic context the line makes absolute sense: the mortals are frightened by the divine voice, which holds them back from further violence. It is less clear what it means for Memnon to “hold back all the people,” beyond holding their attention and stopping them in their tracks as they make their journey through the Egyptian desert.64 Arius’s final line, in which he asserts that no mortal could ever produce such a cry as the one put forth by Memnon, who is thus marked as divine, matches the moment of Odysseus’s self-revelation to Telemachus, which is deflected by his son’s reluctance to acknowledge him as his father (Od. 16.196); Telemachus insists that some god must be beguiling him, “for no mortal man could ever produce such marvels,” namely turning Odysseus into a young and handsome hero when just minutes before he had appeared as an old and shabby beggar. Arius is quite clever in his choice of Homeric passages. At one level, these phrases individually evoke moments in the narrative when a character is completely surprised by a sight that greets his eyes; he responds with a combination of astonishment and disbelief. But Arius combines four particularly relevant passages, namely the ones from Odyssey 16 and 19, in his short cento. In Odyssey 16, the context of Telemachus’s surprise and disbelief, insisting twice that the man in front of him could not possibly be mortal and must be divine, and the context of divine light in Odyssey 19, emanating from an (p.137) unseen source, bear directly on Arius’ own experience of Memnon. He sees something equally great and amazing in front of his eyes: a mega thauma. He imagines that it must be somehow divine, and as powerful as the gods who, with a cry— Page 22 of 42

Homeric Memnon nodding to Memnon’s cry—can catch the people’s attention. He concludes that the Memnon colossus cannot possibly be the product of human hands; it must be divine. Arius’s immediate responses to Memnon, immortalized in the inscription, are supported and enriched by the Homeric intertext: both Telemachus and Arius experience initial doubt at something seemingly beyond human comprehension, followed by acceptance of the mega thauma as something brought about by divine intervention—namely Athena’s actions in the epic, and in the case of Memnon, Eos’ request for her son’s immortality. The marvel must be accepted because it is witnessed—as Arius says not tautologically, but emphatically, “I see this thing with my eyes” (τόδ’ ὀφ[θαλμοῖσιν ὀρῶμαι). He also heard its cry, further evidence of the marvelous. This shift from initial disbelief to thrilled acceptance of a miracle is reflected in many of the other inscriptions as well: there is a visceral desire among the visitors to believe that this statue is alive, endowed with an immortal soul, a source for a “close encounter” with a Homeric hero, and therefore also with Homer himself. It is worth pointing out here again how dependent the vocabulary of sacred tourism is on the visual; all the Memnon inscribers focus on hearing rather than seeing, but the language of witnessing is relentlessly visual—one does not normally “hear” a miracle or an epiphany. It is one thing to read allusions to Homeric epic in bits and pieces of the colossus inscriptions, or even to recognize phrases and images borrowed from specific Homeric passages; but it is another thing altogether to read an inscription composed entirely of “pre-owned” Iliadic and Odyssean lines, a cento or literary patchwork.65 How do we respond to these lines? One way to react is to remind ourselves that Homeric centos, in which partial or full verses from epic sources are rearranged to suggest different meanings in the new context of the target texts, are not, of course, unique to the Memnon colossus, but are also found in various other imperial sources: biographies of Homer (e.g., Contest of Homer and Hesiod); Lucian’s parodies of Homeric myths (Dialogues of the Dead; Charon); Plutarch’s Gryllus, which stars Odysseus (p.138) debating the rationality of animals with one of Circe’s victims; and several of Dio Chrysostom’s orations (Or. 32.82–85: Alexandrians misbehave at the horse races; Or. 58: young Achilles argues with his teacher Chiron).66 But most of these centos, as well as the larger context in which they appear, are tinged with humor, sarcasm, or irony; they function as parodies in the basic sense of the term: texts written alongside their originals. They often exhibit, in Kim’s words, “a healthy self-conscious dose of the absurd in the manner of many Second Sophistic texts. Homer in these texts is still canonical, but that centrality is acknowledged through parody, reinvention, and rewriting.”67 In contrast, the Memnon inscriptions are not necessarily motivated by humor, most likely because of the sacred nature of the site, the identification of Memnon as a god, and the monumentality of the statue itself, all contributing to a sublime Page 23 of 42

Homeric Memnon experience on the part of the visitor rather than an occasion for skepticism or satire. If we seek parallels for serious engagements with Homer at the close textual level, we might consider connecting Arius’s inscription with the poetic continuations and rhetorical dramatizations of individual Homeric scenes that were so popular in the imperial period. Pancrates of Alexandria, for example, celebrated in lofty language and dactylic hexameters an epic lion hunt by Hadrian and Antinous in Egypt, including Homeric similes and a ravaging lion compared to Typhoeus attacking Zeus the giant-killer. Pancrates even offered an etiology, urging the emperor to name a flower after his beloved, claiming that it had sprung from the blood of the dying beast.68 Looking ahead, Arius might have been anticipating the Homeric recycling practiced in Triphiodorus’s epyllion The Sack of Troy, Quintus Smyrnaeus’s Posthomerica, or Nonnus’s Dionysiaca.69 Arius’s reuse of Homer’s poetry also may be seen to foreshadow the Late Antique magical papyri (the homeromanteion, “Homeric oracular sources”) that quote disconnected Homeric verses out of context to offer their readers comfort or advice, a kind of oracular consultation popular in the fourth and fifth centuries CE.70 In both cases, Homeric precedent offers a learned authority, the power of tradition, and instant recognition of the source text. (p.139) Whatever Arius, the self-professed “poet of the Museion,” thought he was doing by acknowledging Memnon in a Homeric cento, we still should read it in connection with the other inscriptions around it. If including and spotting allusions to Homer in the rest of the inscriptions make both inscriber and reader feel part of the intellectual elite, and provide a way to show off one’s erudition and enter fully into the Homeric world of Memnon in his role as a character in the epics, then is anything altered in the experience when the inscription takes the form of a cento? Does it show less authorial skill to lift the lines wholesale from a preexisting textual source, rather than adapting them or manipulating them in half-lines, surrounded by “original” material, for example? Would it be less satisfying for the reader, who would be shortchanged in the anticipated intertextual guessing game? Can one even speak of “intertextuality” or allusion in the context of a cento, where source (evoked) and target (alluding) texts are, at the level of diction, one and the same?71 Some scholars claim that the cento actually engages readers more directly than other texts:72 Readers must directly participate, more than in other cases they are actively involved in the process of writing, since they have to know and recognize the original text in order to fully appreciate the product. The cento can be fully successful only when the reader gives his consent to Page 24 of 42

Homeric Memnon acknowledging the ability of the poet in transforming and moving meanings. The cento flatters its readers’ literary competences while it overtly presupposes them in order to accomplish its project. It lets them feel “initiated.” This idea of initiation may be a key to appreciating Arius’s use of the cento form for his inscription. What he initiates his readers into is the world of Homer, as if it were still present and relevant. There is no subversion of the original meaning, no clash between the two texts as, for example, in Ausonius’s infamously obscene Vergilian cento.73 There is no breaking of the textual illusion, as all the words of the poem come directly from Homer. Arius’s cento is a brilliant mechanism for engaging imaginatively with “Homer,” as he brings us back to the kind of “close encounter” discussed earlier in Chapter 3 in the context of apostrophe and prosopopeia, by which “individuals can experience proximity, even intimacy, with figures from the bygone past or with the gods themselves, not infrequently through association with their statues.”74 Arius looks upon a statue of Memnon, and transports himself and his readers back into the world of Homer through the power of his words. (p.140) By choosing the cento form, Arius erases his own presence and simultaneously draws attention to that erasure by identifying himself as “Homeric poet from the Museion.” He re-inscribes Homeric epic onto the body of the statue, inverting the conventional sequence of gaining access to knowledge: instead of reading Homer to imagine the embodiment of a hero, we read the body of a hero to imagine Homer. Both kinds of reading point to the continued existence and vitality of a valued past, but Arius’s approach, unlike the other inscriptions on the body, creates a fiction of a more direct, less mediated communing with the past, as the only voice we hear is that of Homer himself. Other inscribers discussed in this chapter list Homer as a source for Memnon’s past history, while emphasizing that they themselves witnessed his living voice (101: Julius; 36: Gallus; 62: Asclepiodotus). Arius effectively resurrects Homer to tell us directly the same thing, as if Homer himself were affirming the separate, embodied existence of one of his characters. All the inscriptions on the Memnon colossus participate at some level in the reactivation of the dead, whether Memnon or Homer himself, as if the trip to Egyptian Thebes were a variant of an epic trip to the Underworld. I have argued that the visitors who sought out the statue were responding to a kind of deep cultural longing, hoping precisely for such a “close encounter,” a visionary experience (both visual and aural in this case) that would connect them with the Homeric past. Memnon can be seen as “a talking statue that had walked right out of the pages of their grammar school texts.”75 In this way, the whole Memnon phenomenon can be put side by side with such literary undertakings as Philostratus’s Heroicus, in which dead heroes are imagined “to return in material form and hover about the scenes of their former heroic existence, now Page 25 of 42

Homeric Memnon endowed with . . . oracular prescience and power.”76 In the next chapter, we will explore how some of Memnon’s female visitors sought a similar mystical communion with a relic of the past: not Homer, the “Poet,” in their case, but rather the “Poetess,” Sappho of Lesbos.

Plate 1. The two colossi in Egyptian Thebes: Memnon to the north (right) and its silent twin to the south (left). Photo courtesy of Alamy.com.

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Homeric Memnon

Plate 2. The Memnon colossus, side view. Photo courtesy of William Bruce.

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Plate 3. The Memnon colossus, front view. Photo courtesy of William Bruce.

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Plate 4. The Memnon colossus, view from knees to base. Photo courtesy of William Bruce.

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Plate 5. The Memnon colossus, view of legs and feet. Photo courtesy of William Bruce.

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Plate 6. Richard Pococke’s 1743 drawing of the Memnon colossus, front view. Image courtesy of Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Yale University.

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Plate 7. Richard Pococke’s 1743 transcription of the Memnon inscriptions: partial segment of the right leg. Image courtesy of Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Yale University.

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Plate 8. David Roberts and Louis Haghe, “Statues of Memnon at Thebes, during the inundation,” from Egypt and Nubia (London: F.G. Moon edition, 1846–1849), vol. 2, pt. 36. Image courtesy of Alamy.com.

Plate 9. Aeolic inscriptions on the left foot of the Memnon colossus, with the name “Balbilla” visible on the lower left (Bernand and Bernand #31). Image courtesy of Alamy.com.

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Homeric Memnon Notes:

(1) Kim (2010): 9. For this approach in general, see also Whitmarsh (2001): 26–58. (2) On the topic of Memnon’s role in and outside of Homeric epic, see, e.g., Burgess (2009): 27–38; and Rengakos (2015): 306–317. Burgess argues for a pre-Homeric character for Memnon, whose genealogy is alluded to also in Hesiod Plate 10. Nineteenth-century tourists’ (Theog. 984–85: “for Tithonus graffiti on the Memnon colossus, adjacent Eos gave birth to Memnon with to an inscription by Heliodorus. Photo his bronze helmet, king of the courtesy of William Bruce. Aethiopians”) and Pindar (Nem. 6.49–53: Memnon is “son of shining Dawn”). Aristophanes later jokes about Memnon’s military image (Frogs 963): Μέμνονας κωδωνοφαλαροπώλους/“Memnons riding with bells on their horses’ bridle.” Other early references to Memnon are Alcman fr. 68 PMG (bloodthirsty Memnon fights at Troy); Simonides fr. 539 Page (Strabo 15.3.2 records that Simonides wrote a dithyramb Memnon, part of the Deliaca, in which Memnon, son of Tithonus, is said to be buried in Syria by the Badas River); and Pindar Ol. 2.83 (Achilles kills Memnon); Pyth. 6.30–34 (Memnon kills Antilochus); Nem. 3.63 (Achilles kills Memnon); Isth. 5.40–41 (Memnon as commander of the Aethiopians, killed by Achilles) and 8.54–55 (Achilles kills Memnon). There is some debate as to whether Pindar was drawing upon the Aithiopis or the Iliad in terms of individual characters and general plot; see Rengakos (2015): 307 note 5, and 315–317. See also the scene of Memnon, Antilochus, and Eos on the Siphnian Treasury at Delphi; Proclus’s summary of the lost Aithiopis; Apollodorus’s epitome of the same work (Epit. 5.3–5); and Quintus of Smyrna (Books 2–4). (3) The reception of the lost Aethiopis by Memnon’s inscribers is a question I can touch on only briefly here. The Aethiopis was no doubt an important factor in the reception of the Memnon story, whatever its relationship to the Homeric epics (i.e., earlier than or subsequent to the Iliad or Odyssey, or independent responses to a common storehouse of myths); see, e.g., Rengakos (2015): 306– 317; Kullmann (2015): 113–119; and more generally Fantuzzi and Tsagalis (2015) and M.L. West (2013). But it is difficult to assess what Memnon’s visitors in Greco-Roman Egypt knew of the cyclic material. See, e.g., Fewster (2002): 242, who discusses school texts found at Oxyrhynchus from the Ptolemaic period that are intended to help pupils read specifically Homeric (not cyclic) epic and tragedy; and Morgan (1998):120–151, who shows that extracts of Homer were Page 34 of 42

Homeric Memnon available in the Roman period in order to expose (elite) readers to the canonical classics. See also Morgan (1997): 738–743 on reading Homer in Greco-Roman Egypt. (4) See Burgess (2009): 27–38 for the “fabula of the death of Achilles.” (5) I thank Janet Downie for drawing my attention to this example. Text is from Jones (1935). References to Stesichorus follow the numbering in Davies and Finglass (2014); references to the epic cycle are from West (2003). See also Stansbury-O’Donnell (1989): 203–215, and (1990): 213–235, on Polygnotus’s uses of the Ilioupersis and the Nekyia in his paintings at Delphi. For a parallel example of a source that combines image and text to engage with Homer and the epic cycle, see the studies of the Tabulae Iliacae by Petrain (2014) and Squire (2011), esp. 87–126. Squire (2011): 103–104 with fig. 35, explains that the lower central section on Capitoline tablet 1A includes scenes from the Ilioupersis, the Aethiopis, and the Little Iliad, all clustered around an elegiac couplet; this kind of allusion to multiple epic sources may well have been in evidence also in the Memnon inscriptions. (6) References to the passages in Pausanias are as follows: Lescheos’s Sack of Troy: 10.25.5, 6, 8, 9; 10.26.1, 4, 8; 10.27.1, 2; Stesichorus’s Sack of Troy and his Returns: 10.26.1; 10.27.2; 10.28.7; 10.29.6; 10.30.5; the Cypria: 10.26.1, 4; 10.31.2; the Little Iliad: 10.26.2; the Minyad: 10.28.2, 7; 10.31.3. Pausanias also refers to the poem Eueae (10.31.3); the poetry of Euphorion (10.26.8), Panyassis (10.29.9), and Archilochus (10.31.12); and Phrynichus’s tragedies (10.31.4) as further sources for the stories represented by Polygnotus’s paintings. (7) In the same passage (Chapter 25) he alludes to Od. 3.278 (Nestor’s speech to Telemachus); Il. 3.144 (on the names of Helen’s attendants as she stood on the wall); and Il. 13.171 (on the fate of one of Priam’s daughters). In Chapter 26 he alludes to Il. 17.312 (on a Phrygian shield); Il. 3.205 (hospitality given to Menelaus and Odysseus by Antenor); and Il. 3.123 (Laodice as wife to Antenor’s son Helicaon). In Chapter 29 he directly quotes Od. 11.631–32 and Il. 1.262–65, both references to Theseus and Peirithous. In Chapter 30 he alludes to Od. 20.66–78 (Penelope’s speech) and Od. 10.510 (Persephone’s grove). In Chapter 31 he alludes to Il. 1.566 (Althaea’s curse) and Od. 11.582 (Tantalus’s punishment). (8) Pausanias claims that Polygnotus also invented names for the characters he represented in his painting that were not found in Homer. In one scene, for example (10.25.3), “Phrontis is the only one with a beard. His, too, is the only name that Polygnotus took from the Odyssey; the names of the others, I think, he invented himself” (γένεια δὲ μόνῳ τῷ Φρόντιδι. καὶ μόνου τούτου τὸ ὄνομα ἐκ τῆς ἐς Ὀδυσσέα ποιήσεως ἔμαθε, τῶν δὲ ἄλλων ἐμοὶ δοκεῖν τὰ ὀνόματα συνέθηκεν αὐτὸς ὁ Πολύγνωτος). Page 35 of 42

Homeric Memnon (9) As pointed out to me by the anonymous reader, Palamedes, as we see in, for example, Philostratus’s Heroicus, is an archetypal case of a Homeric figure who is creatively “rewritten” in Greek imperial literature. (10) The question of Homeric Memnon vs. Memnon from the epic cycle (and specifically the Aethiopis) also emerges in Delphi: Memnon battles Achilles for the body of Antilochus on the east frieze of the Siphnian Treasury (ca. 525 BCE), with Eos appearing nearby; see Stewart (1990): 128–129 for a general overview. (11) Squire (2011): 111, with reference to the synoptic experience of viewing the Tabulae Iliacae, with their multiple source texts of the canonical as well as the cyclic epics. (12) See the comments of Lamberton in Lamberton and Keaney (1992) vii, note 1: “For the ancient reception of Homer, even general discussion of the influence of the epics is lacking, though admittedly the task would be so enormous that it would require writing a history of Greek and Latin literature from the perspective of Homeric influence.” For scholarship on Homeric quotation among imperial authors, see the useful bibliography in Kim (2010), including Bouquiaux-Simon (1968); Kindstrand (1973); and D’Ippolito (2004): 11–36. (13) Zeitlin (2001): 195–266, quotation from 202–203. (14) The Greek text is from Russell and Konstan (2005): 2. (15) See Kim (2010): 6. (16) Ibid.: “cultural capital that accrued to those among the elite who were able to cleverly sprinkle their discourse with Homeric testimony”; see Ford (2002): 194–197. See also in general Bowie (1970): 3–41; Swain (1996); Whitmarsh (2001): 26–38 on the literary strategies of imperial authors; and Goldhill (2001). (17) For discussion of Homer’s role in the educational system, see Morgan (1997): 738–743 on papyrological evidence, esp. 739–741: “Homer was far more widely read than any other author” in Greco-Roman Egypt, but in fragmentary bits, more as a “symbolic text” than the focus of a “literary education”; see also Morgan (1998): 67–73, 97–119; Too (1998); and Cribiore (2001). (18) See Kim (2010): 8 and note 23: Strabo (14.37) and Cicero (Arch. 9) also mention a Homereion in Smyrna; for further discussion, see Brink (1972): 547– 567. (19) On declamation, see Schmitz (1997); Russell (1984); Connolly (2001): 339– 372; and Webb (2006): 27–46. (20) All these angles are introduced in Kim (2010): 10–15 and discussed throughout his monograph. Page 36 of 42

Homeric Memnon (21) Kim (2010): 9. (22) Lane Fox (1987): 167 offers his own view of why certain inscriptions on the Memnon colossus were written in the style of Homer: “If men wrote like Homer on Memnon’s upper body, they did so because the Homeric language best did justice to the ‘presence’ which they wished to record.” While I agree in general that authors were seeking out a “close encounter” with the divine statue, an epiphany of Memnon himself, and therefore chose to address him as the Homeric heroes addressed their gods, I think there is more variety to the Homeric language used in the inscriptions than Lane Fox allows for. (23) E.g., Od. 19.441, where the Calydonian boar lies in a thicket so dense that the rays of the sun can’t penetrate, and Od. 5.479, of Odysseus hiding in a dense thicket on the Phaeacian shore. Titus Petronius Secundus left evidence of his name also elsewhere in Egypt: on a dedicatory stele in the Museion at Alexandria, dated to April 93 CE, as well as in two papyri; see Bernand and Bernand (1960): 52–53. (24) The same phrase (“Apollo, son of Leto”) occurs also in Il. 1.36, 16.849, and 19.413 and Od. 11.318. (25) Reference specifically to Eos as Memnon’s mother occurs in inscriptions 19.4–5, 29.1, 51, 61.3, 93.6, and 101.1. See also the fragmentary 104, which seems to suggest Eos mourning her son, if indeed she (rather than Memnon) is the subject of χ̣ε̣ῦ̣σ̣εν̣ ἰυ[γὴν . . .Ἕω̣ς̣] (“Eos . . . poured out a shriek”); see the use of “pour” for Eos’ actions in 19.5, discussed below, where the verb, in the passive, alludes to the dawn’s light being “poured” out over Memnon’s body. (26) Note the use of first lines here; one wonders whether the inscribers might be using a catalogue of first lines for some of their reference points. For a similar situation in another sanctuary, see Foertmeyer (1989): 139 note 46 on Abydos no. 528 and commentary: “Harpocras, from Panias in Jordan, incorporates many Homeric forms from the first lines of the Iliad in an epigram commemorating his many visits to Bes’ temple to ‘see dreams.’ ” (27) Again, the allusions spring from the initial lines of books, as in the previous example. (28) For a discussion of Herodotus’s and Thucydides’s challenge to Homer on the basis of the historical accuracy of his version of the Trojan War, see Kim (2010): 29–45. While they both point out that Homer’s version is not accurate, “they nevertheless seem loath to wholly abandon the poet as witness to historical truth” (30). Similarly, Julius may challenge Homer but he does not ignore him. (29) This habit of comparing personal experience with tradition is customary on the colossus; see also, for example, 12.2, 19.8–10. In the Heroicus, Philostratus Page 37 of 42

Homeric Memnon similarly plays with the relationship between the textual, Homeric authority and the autopsy of pilgrimage and epiphanic encounter. (30) See Kim (2010): 67–71. (31) See the LIMC (1986) vol. 3.1 pp. 783–784 and vol. 3.2 plates 318, 322, 324– 325 for Eos removing Memnon from the battlefield; LIMC (1986) vol. 3.1 p. 784 and vol. 3.2 plate 327 for Eos mourning Memnon; and LIMC (1986) vol. 3.1 pp. 784–785 and vol. 3.2 plates 331–332 for Eos hurrying away with Memnon’s corpse. In vase scenes of the duel between Memnon and Achilles, Eos and Thetis are often shown flanking their sons: see LIMC (1986) vol. 3.1 pp. 781–783, and vol. 3.2 plates 301–302, 307, 310–311, 313–314. See also the report by Pausanias (5.19.2) on the chest of Kypselos in Olympia that depicted both mothers present at the duel: “Achilles and Memnon are fighting; their mothers stand at their side.” For a discussion of Kypselos’s chest, see Snodgrass (2006): 422–442. (32) Dido asks Aeneas about Memnon’s fate (Verg. Aen. 1.751), although she seems most interested in his famous armor. (33) If, however, we posit the presence of this story in the Aethiopis (or in another one of the cyclic poems), our argument would need to be more nuanced. (34) Il. 2.275: the Greeks call Thersites a λωβητήρ just after Odysseus strikes him; Il. 11.385: Diomedes uses the same word for Paris, who has just wounded him. Note that the first line of poem 11 reappears as the last line of poem 22, dated to ca.122/123 CE, in which Pardalas of Sardis identifies himself as a poet (22.2: μεμνήσομαι σεῦ κἀν ἐμῆισι βύβλοι[σι]: “I will make mention of you also in my books”), but scholars suspect that the entire line is plagiarized from poem 11. The handwriting is different in shape and size, and Pardalas’s first two lines are iambic trimeter, whereas the last is dactylic hexameter. For more discussion, see Bernand and Bernand (1960): 70–71. (35) For the story of Cambyses’ mutilation of Memnon, see Pausanias 1.42.3. One further example: in the badly damaged inscription 84, where only the ends of the lines survive, we can read the word ἄμβροτος in line 12, a poetic term familiar from Homer; but the fragmented state of the evidence prohibits further conclusions from being drawn. (36) On Damo’s dialect, see Cirio (2011): 119–126; and my discussion in the next chapter. (37) Il. 1.572: Hephaistos “favors” Hera with wine; 1.578: Hephaistos recommends that Hera “favor” Zeus; Il. 14.132: Diomedes blames those who “favor” their thumos by not fighting; Od. 3.164: Nestor describes to Telemachus those who “favored” Agamemnon; Od. 16.375: suitors grumble that they are no Page 38 of 42

Homeric Memnon longer “favored” by the populace, who follow Telemachus instead; Od. 18.56: Odysseus in disguise asks the suitors to swear not to “favor” Irus any longer. (38) κοίρανος: Il. 2.204: Odysseus claims there can be only one “leader” of men; Il. 2.487 catalogue of ships begins with the identification of the “leaders”; Il. 2.760: “leaders” of the Danaans; Il. 7.234, 8.281, 9.644, 11.465: Telamonian Ajax is called the “leader” of the people; Il. 8.281: Teucer, “leader” of men; Il. 9.644 and 11.465: Ajax, “leader” of men and Hector calls Ajax “leader” of the people; Od. 1.247, 15.510, 16.124, 21.346: those who “lord it over” rocky Ithaca; Od. 13.377: those who “lord it” in Odysseus’s halls; Od. 18.106: Odysseus commands Irus to stop “lording” it over strangers; Od. 20.234: suitors “lord it” here; note also κοίρανος in the epigram attributed to Hadrian, written for Trajan in honor of Zeus Kasios (AP 6.332). ὀψίγονος: Il. 3.353: Menelaus wants “posterity” to shudder at the thought of betraying one’s host; Il. 7.87: Hector imagines “posterity” marveling at his tomb; Il. 16.31: Patroclus worries that Ajax’s anger will not benefit even “posterity”; Od. 1.302: Athena in disguise tells Telemachus that “posterity” will praise him for his looks. (39) Note the seventh-century BCE Melian amphora (Athens National Museum 911), mentioned by Burgess (2009): 31–32, that (probably) shows Eos and Thetis, in panels on either side of Memnon and Achilles, watching the duel; and the figures on the Siphnian treasury at Delphi, noted previously. (40) See Bernand and Bernand (1960): 106–111. (41) Another official who mentions travel by boat from the north of Thebes is Claudius Geminus, also epistrategos of the Thebaid (67.4–6). (42) For Homeric instances of the phrase “sandy Pylos,” see Il. 2.77; 9.153, 295; 11.712; and Od. 1.93; 2.214, 326, 359; 4.633; 11.257, 459; 24.152. On “sandy hills” as a descriptor of the African desert in general, see the inscription at Bu Njem by the centurion Quintus Avidius Quintianus, line 11: “in istis semper harenacis collis . . .,” discussed by Adams (1999): 109–134, esp. 110–111. (43) Bernand and Bernand (1960): 110: “Quoi qu’il en soit, mythos sert de transition pour passer de la comparaison à la legende qui la justifie, et le mot est la charnière logique entre la première et la seconde partie de l’épigramme.” (44) Il. 8.75: Zeus thunders aloud from Ida; 7.479: Zeus thunders terribly, devising evil; Od. 21.413: Zeus thunders a portent for Odysseus as he picks up the bow for the contest. (45) I am grateful to the anonymous reader for suggesting this line of argument. (46) For the latter meaning of “infinite,” see its use at Il. 8.558 of the clear night sky. Understood metapoetically, as suggested by the anonymous reader, ἄσπετος could refer to the nature of the sound that Memnon produces: it is an un-human Page 39 of 42

Homeric Memnon sound, defying language yet expressing strong emotion. As part of his own poetic performance, Gallus gives voice in comprehensive language to the “unspeakable.” (47) Bernand and Bernand (1960): 153 do not date this inscription, but Letronne (1848): 323 argued for a later date based on the less prestigious placement on the statue’s ankle, claiming that it, like Marius Gemellus’s verses (51) on the south side of the ankle, was carved there “faute de place ailleurs.” (48) εἰναλίη, while not Iliadic, is used twice by Simonides in connection with Achilles and Thetis in the new Simonides frs. 10 and 11 West; see West (1992) vol. 2: 114–137. (49) καλλίπυλον here is a hapax legomenon; in Homer, Thebes is usually “sevengated.” (50) Herodotus uses compounds of the verb τέμνειν in the same way as 62.4, of a river or mountain “cutting through” the land; see, e.g., Hdt. 1.72, 4.25. (51) Bernand and Bernand (1960): 132–137 discuss the position of these three inscriptions: 51 is on the south side of the base, below the right foot, in a place that would not have been reached by the rising sun; 52 is inscribed in a more propitious place, between the legs, six meters up from the ground; 53 is inscribed on the upper section of the left leg. (52) Note here the attribution of Memnon’s mutilation to the gods rather than to Cambyses (or the earthquake); Gemellus, echoing both Thetis and Eos through the use of the phrase φίλον τέκος, claims ignorance of the identity of Memnon’s attacker, and assumes it is a divine rival. (53) Bernand and Bernand (1960): 132 note that the letters of the dedication at the start are much bigger than the letters of the rest of the poem. (54) Bernand and Bernand (1960): 133 view the repetition of the verb “set up” in lines 1 and 8 as a “gaucherie,” but it fits the context here perfectly: Memnon has been turned into a dedicatory statue, albeit one that honors himself. (55) See Paxson (1994): 42 on taxonomies of prosopopeia relevant here. (56) Reference to Memnon’s former fame is also found in inscriptions 94.4, 29.3, etc. (57) This is the view of Lenormant (“en échange de cette faveur”); see Bernand and Bernand (1960): 133. (58) This is the view of Letronne (“Gemellus . . . a écrit ces vers à son tour, après tant d’autres”); see Bernand and Bernand (1960): 133. Page 40 of 42

Homeric Memnon (59) Bernand and Bernand (1960): 130–133. (60) Ibid., 135. (61) Philostratus, while not, of course, talking about Sulpicius or Arius, explains that the Museion was an Egyptian dining table to which eminent men from all over the world were invited (Phil. VS 1.524). (62) The name “Arius” appears several times in the Tombs, although we cannot be sure it refers to the same man, since the name was common in Egypt at the time; see Bernand and Bernand (1960): 111–112. (63) The same line occurs also in the Homeric Hymn to Hermes 219: ὦ πόποι, ἦ μέγα θαῦμα τόδ᾽ ὀφθαλμοῖσιν ὁρῶμαι. (64) But cf. the line by Julia Balbilla (30.6) where she says Sabine is “detained” or held back by Memnon’s silence. (65) According to Usher (1997): 305–321, “Homeric centos are poems made up entirely of verses lifted verbatim, or with only slight modification, from the Iliad and Odyssey.” In terms of extant verse Homeric centos, Usher lists three in the Greek Anthology (AP 9.361, 381, 382); one quoted by Irenaeus, “Adversus Haereses” 1.9.4, on which see Wilken (1967): 25–33; and Arius’s seven-line cento (Bernand and Bernand 37) under discussion. The Greek Anthology texts are not easily dated: AP 9.361 is attributed to Leo the Philosopher (possibly Leo VI, the Byzantine emperor from 886 to 912 CE, or Leo the Mathematician, ca. 790—after 869 CE), while AP 9.381–382 are anonymous short retellings of the story of Hero and Leander, and Echo, respectively. For further bibliography on centos, see Hinds (2014): 171–198; Prieto Domínguez (2011): 120–179; and Formisano and Sogno (2010): 375–392. (66) See Kim (2010): 16. (67) For discussion of Homeric rewritings and parodies from the Hellenistic period through Late Antiquity, see Acosta-Hughes et al. (2011). (68) Athenaeus (15.677D–F) transmits four lines of the flower poem; for the ca. forty lines remaining of the lion poem, which were preserved on a papyrus from Oxyrhynchus (P. Oxy. 1085 col. II), see Heitsch (1961) vol. 1, 52–54; cf. Page (1941): 516–519, who prints only twenty-five legible lines. (69) On Quintus Smyrnaeus, see James and Lee (2000); on Triphiodorus, see Paschalis (2005). Even Aelius Aristides’ rhetorical dramatization of the Embassy Speech to Achilles (Or. 16 Lenz-Behr [52 Dindorf]), while closer in spirit to prosopopeia, offers a kind of riff on Homer; on Aelius Aristides, see Behr (1976–

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Homeric Memnon 1980) and Behr (1981); Downie (2013); Petsalis-Diomidis (2010); and Israelowich (2012). (70) On this topic, see Karanika (2011): 255–277. (71) Genette would label the two texts (Homeric) hypotext and (centonic) hypertext. (72) Formisano and Sogno (2010): 384. (73) See, e.g., Nugent (1990): 26–50; McGill (2005). (74) See Zeitlin (2001): 215; the term “close encounters” first appeared in the chapter “Seeing the Gods” by Lane Fox (1987): 102–167. (75) Foertmeyer (1989): 110. (76) Zeitlin (2001): 214; on Philostratus’s Heroicus in general, see Hodkinson (2011).

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Sapphic Memnon

The Language of Ruins: Greek and Latin Inscriptions on the Memnon Colossus Patricia A. Rosenmeyer

Print publication date: 2018 Print ISBN-13: 9780190626310 Published to Oxford Scholarship Online: May 2018 DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780190626310.001.0001

Sapphic Memnon Patricia A. Rosenmeyer

DOI:10.1093/oso/9780190626310.003.0005

Abstract and Keywords Chapter 5 concentrates on four epigrams by Julia Balbilla, comprising fifty-four lines of Greek elegiac verse—the largest corpus on the colossus by any single author. While most visitors chose to model their language on Homer’s, Balbilla’s style and Aeolic dialect are unmistakably Sapphic (although her elegiac meter is borrowed from epigram rather than lyric). This chapter assesses what it means for Julia Balbilla to imitate Sappho while at the same time honoring her royal patrons in the public context of dedicatory inscriptions. Previous scholars have derided the quality of Balbilla’s poetry, but this chapter recuperates her as a talented poet, a skilled diplomat, and a model for two other women who wrote on the colossus. This chapter argues that Balbilla’s poems testify to the power of the colossus to engage different segments of society: male and female visitors, of high and middle rank, and with varying degrees of literacy. Keywords:   Sappho, colossus, Julia Balbilla, Aeolic, poetry

Julia Balbilla When Hadrian and his wife, Sabina, traveled up the Nile to Egyptian Thebes in November 130 CE, as part of their tour of the eastern Roman provinces, they were accompanied by a suitably sizable retinue, including a woman by the name of Julia Balbilla, who commemorated the imperial visit by inscribing four poems in Greek on Memnon’s left leg (Bernand 28–31), three of which explicitly identify her as the author. Her style and dialect (Aeolic) have been compared to those of Sappho, although the poems’ meter (elegiac couplets) and content are quite different from those of her archaic predecessor.1 Elegiac meter is a logical choice for inscriptional verse, as most of the other Memnon inscriptions attest; Page 1 of 32

Sapphic Memnon but the Aeolic dialect is not. While previously we explored what it meant for multiple inscriptions to engage with Homeric intertexts, we will now focus on one specific author’s choice of Sappho as a model. I begin this chapter with a summary of what we know about the poet’s identity, and then discuss the inscriptions themselves: their placement on the monument, their narratives of the royal visit, and their use of archaic forms and obscure mythological variants. In the second half of the chapter I analyze how Julia Balbilla appropriates a Sapphic voice for her verses, and conclude with an assessment of what it means for Julia Balbilla to imitate Sappho while functioning as a poet honoring her royal patrons in the public context of dedicatory inscriptions. As stated earlier, a good number of the inscriptions on the Memnon colossus were composed in the Hadrianic period, when the colossus was at the height of its popularity, and tourists from many walks of life inscribed their names or brief verses on the broken statue’s base. Hadrian and Sabina were similarly tempted to leave their mark for posterity when they visited. Sabina (p.142) either composed or commissioned four lines in Greek prose, which were inscribed on the lower part of the left leg of the statue, considered the choicest part because the sun reached it first each morning (32):2 [Σα]βεῖνα Σεβαστὴ [Αὐτ]οκράτορος Καίσαρος [Ἁδρια]νοῦ, ἐντὸς ὥρας [α? Μέμνονο]ς δὶς ἤκουσε ---------------------------------ΗΣ Sabina Augusta, wife of the emperor Caesar Hadrian, heard Memnon twice within the hour . . .

Sabina’s lines give out a minimum of information: her title, her husband’s title, and the fact that she heard the statue speak not just once, but twice. She (or her hired representative) writes formally in the third person, with no evaluative or emotional modifiers: in fact, six of her total of eleven words are personal names or official titles. Her proskynema emphasizes her status, as does the prime position on the lower left leg, easily accessible to the visitor’s gaze. It is on this left leg that we find many of the inscriptions securely dated to Hadrian’s visit.3 But Hadrian, perhaps as befitted his lofty status—after all, the colossus should salute the emperor, not the other way around—inscribed no comparable piece in his own name; rather, he left the work of composition to Julia Balbilla. We are fortunate to have a precise date for Balbilla’s inscriptions and to know something about her family background. T. Corey Brennan neatly summarizes her privileged status: “she was an important member of Hadrian’s inner circle Page 2 of 32

Sapphic Memnon who could boast of blood ties, through her father, with the royalty of all the Near Eastern dynasties which mattered.”4 On her father’s side, Balbilla was the granddaughter of the last king of Syrian Commagene, and on her mother’s side of the astrologer Ti. Claudius Balbillus, who was prefect of Egypt from 55 to 59 CE under Nero, and served for a while as head of the museum in Alexandria. Balbilla may have lived much of her life in either Rome or Athens, where her brother Philopappus, in 109 CE, was one of the first men of eastern descent to reach the rank of Roman consul.5 After Philopappus’s death, a huge mausoleum was erected on the hill of the Muses (p.143) in Athens in his honor (ca. 114– 116 CE).6 Both Philopappus and a cousin of his were friends of Plutarch: to Philopappus, Plutarch dedicated the essay “How to Tell a Flatterer from a Friend,” while the cousin received “How to Praise Yourself without Incurring Blame.” Unfortunately, we have no clear information about Balbilla’s personal connections to the imperial couple, nor do we understand what her precise status was in Hadrian’s entourage on the trip to Egypt.7 But to summarize what we do know of this poet: she was a woman descended from an elite Commagenian family, possibly raised in Athens, well connected through her male relatives to Hadrian’s inner circle; she traveled to Egypt in the company of the Roman emperor, where she inscribed a total of fifty-four lines of Greek elegiac verse in an archaizing Aeolic dialect on the leg of the Memnon colossus. We can add Julia Balbilla to the very short list of known women writers of the Roman imperial elite.8 But apart from the poems themselves and evidence possibly linking her to her brother’s mausoleum, we have no further traces of her existence.9 Balbilla’s verses reflect her educated and multifaceted background: they are politically adept and culturally sophisticated, although some critics have questioned their quality as poetry.10 Her presence in Hadrian’s entourage and her apparent role as royal commemorator reveal the value placed both on the intellectualism evident in much imperial writing and on Julia Balbilla’s talents. While Sabina chose to express herself with a minimalist proskynema, Julia Balbilla waxed eloquent, quoted mythological variants, flattered her patrons, and alluded to archaic precedents. The fact that her verses were inscribed and preserved for posterity implies that Hadrian and Sabina not only sanctioned but also most likely admired her literary talent. Previous scholarship has interpreted Balbilla’s choice of Aeolic dialect as the critical clue to her poetic self-presentation, but has also drawn conclusions that go beyond the available evidence. Thus Martin West, after pointing out accurately that Balbilla’s poems are all composed in what he calls a “pseudolesbian” dialect that has nothing to do with the poet’s place of origin or local dialect, concludes that she imitates the speech of Sappho simply because she (p.144) is a woman.11 Ewen Bowie accepts that Balbilla adopts a “superficially Aeolic dialect,” and posits a romantic connection between Sabina and Balbilla: “her visit to Memnon with Sabina hints that she was chiefly the empress’s Page 3 of 32

Sapphic Memnon companion, perhaps her answer to Hadrian’s Antinous.”12 Bowie’s speculation becomes fact in Anthony Birley’s biography of Hadrian, where the author speaks of “a lesbian relationship between the two women,”13 and then reappears shortly thereafter as speculation again, in Emily Hemelrijk’s book on learned Roman women. Hemelrijk admits that the nature of the connection between Sabina and Balbilla is unclear, but nevertheless terms it “a personal relationship of some intimacy.”14 All these assumptions seem to be based on three facts: Balbilla was female, wrote in an Aeolic dialect, and was traveling with Sabina and Hadrian when they visited the colossus in Egyptian Thebes. The question of why Julia Balbilla wrote in an Aeolic dialect is an important one, especially since, as stated above, most of the poetic inscriptions on the colossus (all but a handful written by men) archaized by using epic dialect and phraseology; as we saw in the previous chapter, many inscribers specifically chose Homer as their primary linguistic model. But to answer this question more effectively, we need to break it down into smaller segments. First, what precisely is Aeolic about Balbilla’s verses? Does Aeolic automatically imply “Sapphic” (as opposed to, for example, Alcaic)? If we do determine that Sappho is most likely Balbilla’s main literary model, then what might have been at stake in Balbilla’s choice to present herself as a latter-day Sappho? To address this part of the question, we need to ground our investigation not in the shifting sands of the modern “Sapphic question,” but rather, as we did in the previous chapter with Homer, in some evidence of what “Sappho” meant to a second-century educated man or woman. Finally, we must take into account the occasion of the inscription and the expectations of Hadrian and Sabina. This is not an instance of a Hellenistic textual allusion to Sappho, or a symptotic reenactment of her song, but rather an inscription on a public monument, an example of a poet honoring a patron in verse. There are many ways Balbilla could have handled the situation: she could have left the poems anonymous and named only Hadrian and/or Sabina; she could have assumed Memnon’s voice, a conventional epigrammatic device used by Caecilia Trebulla (94), as we saw in Chapter 3; or she could have named herself in the prose headings but kept herself out of the body (p.145) of the poems themselves. But she chose to foreground both herself and Sappho, and this choice will be the focus of our discussion.

Balbilla’s Inscriptions Let us start by reading the poetry itself, which is probably unfamiliar to most classicists.15 The epigrams are written in elegiac couplets, with the pentameter lines indented, and three of the epigrams are preceded by a short prose preface explaining the occasion.16 The editors numbered Balbilla’s four poems 28 to 31 in their collection, grouping them according to their physical placement on the left foot and leg of the statue.17 Three epigrams (28–30) are inscribed close together, and may have been inscribed on the same day by the same hand. Poem 28 was probably inscribed first, on the outside of the left ankle, ca. 1.54 meters from the base; it is carefully carved, with letters about 15 mm high. Poem 29 Page 4 of 32

Sapphic Memnon begins just underneath poem 28, still on the outside of the left ankle, at ca. 1.42 meters from the base, and separated from 29 by a sign (>); but only the two lines of introductory prose and the first four verses fit in the space available, being hemmed in between poem 28 and the already inscribed poem 27. So the inscriber began a second column for poem 29 off to the right, at approximately the same level as poem 28, ca. 1.59 meters from the base. In both columns, the letters are approximately 15 mm high. Poem 30 is positioned on the same external side of the left ankle, but farther toward the back of the leg; its letters are also 15 mm high, placed ca. 1.36 meters from the base.18 The fourth poem (31) is inscribed by a different hand and located on the left foot just above a break toward the front of the foot; its letters are particularly large (ca. 25–30 mm) and deeply inscribed. The verses are written horizontally across the top of the foot and are fairly easy to view from the ground (see Plate 9). Poem 31 provides us with two dates: the twenty-fourth and twenty-fifth of Hathyr, which translate into 20 and 21 November 130 CE.19 For the reader’s convenience, I present below all four poems in Bernand and Bernand’s (1960) numerical sequence. 28. Ἰουλίας Βαλ(β)ίλλης· ὅτε ἤκουσε τοῦ Μέμνο(νο)ς ὁ Σεβαστὸς Ἁδριανός. (p.146) Μέμνονα πυνθανόμαν Αἰγύπτιον ἀλίω αὔγαι 1 αἰθόμενον φώνην Θηβαΐ(κ)ω ᾿πυ λίθω. Ἀδρίανον δ’ ἐσίδων τὸν παμβασίληα πρὶν αὔγας ἀελίω χαίρην εἶπέ (ϝ)οι ὠς δύνατον. 4 Τίταν δ’ ὄττ’ ἐλάων λεύκοισι δι’ αἴθερος ἴπποις ἐνὶ σκίαι ὠράων δεύτερον ἦχε μέτρον, ὠς χάλκοιο τύπεντ[ο]ς ἴη Μέμνων πάλιν αὔδαν ὀξύτονον· χαίρω[ν κ]αὶ τρίτον ἆχον ἴη. 8 Κοίρανος Ἀδρίανο[ς τότ’ ἄ]λις δ’ ἀσπάσσατο καὖτος Μέμνονα κἀν [στάλ]αι κάλλι[π]εν ὀψ[ι]γόνοις γρόππατα σαμαίν[ον]τά τ’ ὄσ’ εὔϊδε κὤσσ’ ἐσάκουσε, Δῆλον παῖσι δ’ ἔγε[ν]τ’ ὤς (ϝ)ε φίλισι θέοι. 12 [Composed] by Julia Balbilla, when the august Hadrian heard Memnon. I’ve heard tell that Memnon the Egyptian, warmed by the sun’s rays, 1 utters a loud sound from the Theban stone. Seeing Hadrian, the greatest of kings, and before greeting the sun’s rays, he (Memnon) addressed him as well as he could. 4 But when Titan, driving through the heavens on his white horses, held the second division of the day in the shadows, Memnon again sent forth a cry, (a sound) like beaten bronze, high-pitched; he even sent out a third cry in greeting. 8 Then the emperor Hadrian himself greeted Memnon sufficiently, Page 5 of 32

Sapphic Memnon and left behind on the stone for posterity written verses documenting all he had seen and heard. It was clear to all that the gods love him. 12 29. Ὅτε σὺν τῇ Σεβαστῇ Σαβείνηι ἐγενόμην παρὰ τῷ Μέμνονι. Αὔως καὶ γεράρω, Μέμνον, πάι Τιθώνοιο, 1 Θηβάας θάσσων ἄντα Δίος πόλιος, ἢ Ἀμένωθ, βασίλευ Αἰγύπτιε, τὼς ᾿νέποισιν ἴρηες μύθων τῶν παλάων ἴδριες, 4 χαῖρε, καὶ αὐδάσαις πρόφρων ἀσπάσδε[ο κ]αὔτ[αν] τὰν σέμναν ἄλοχον κοιράνω Ἀδριάνω. Γλῶσσαν μέν τοι τμᾶξε [κ]αὶ ὤατα βάρβαρος ἄνηρ, Καμβύσαις ἄθεος· τῶ ῥα λύγρῳ θανάτῳ 8 δῶκέν τοι ποίναν τὤτωι ἅκ[ρῳ] ἄορι πλάγεις τῷ νήλας Ἆπιν κάκτανε τὸν θέϊον. Ἀλλ’ ἔγω οὐ δοκίμωμι σέθεν τόδ’ ὄλεσθ’ ἂν ἄγαλμα, ψύχαν δ’ ἀθανάταν λοῖπον ἔσωσα νόῳ. 12 (p.147) Εὐσέβεες γὰρ ἔμοι γένεται πάπποι τ’ ἐγένοντο, Βάλβιλλός τ’ ὀ σόφος κ’ Ἀντίοχος βασίλευς, Βάλβιλλος γενέταις μᾶτρος βασιλήϊδος ἄμμας, τῶ πάτερος δὲ πάτηρ Ἀντίοχος βασίλευς· 16 χήνων ἐκ γενέας κἄγω λόχον αἶμα τὸ κᾶλον, Βαλβίλλας δ’ ἔμεθεν γρόπτα τάδ’ εὐσέβε[ος]. When in the company of august Sabina I was beside Memnon. Son of Dawn and reverend Tithonus, Memnon, 1 seated opposite Zeus’s Theban city, or (should I call you) Amenoth, Egyptian king, as the priests claim, learned in the ancient stories, 4 greetings! And speaking out, favorably welcome her too, the noble wife of the emperor Hadrian. A barbarian man cut off your tongue and ears, the godless Cambyses. But surely, with his wretched death, 8 he paid the penalty, pierced by the same point of the sword with which he, pitiless man, killed the divine Apis. But I don’t think that this statue of you could ever perish, and I sense in my heart a soul hereafter immortal. 12 For my parents and my grandparents were pious, Balbillus the wise and Antiochus the king: Balbillus was the father of my mother the queen, and King Antiochus was my father’s father. 16 From their race, I, too, have obtained noble blood, and these are my writings, Balbilla the pious.

30. Ὅτε τῇ πρώτῃ ἡμέρᾳ οὐκ ἀκούσαμεν τοῦ Μέμνονος. Page 6 of 32

Sapphic Memnon Χθίσδον μὲν Μέμνων σίγαις ἀπε[δέξατ’ ἀκ]οίτα[ν], 1 ὠς πάλιν ἀ κάλα τυῖδε Σάβιννα μό[λοι.] Τέρπει γάρ σ’ ἐράτα μόρφα βασιλήϊδος ἄμμας· ἐλθοίσαι δ’ [α]ὔται θήϊον ἄχον ἴη, 4 μὴ καί τοι βασίλευς κοτέσῃ· τό νυ δᾶρον ἀτά[ρβης] τὰν σέμναν κατέχεςκουριδίαν ἄλοχον. Κὠ Μέμνων τρέσσαις μεγάλω μένος Ἀδρι[άνοιο] ἐξαπίνας αὔδασ’, ἀ δ’ ὀΐοισ’ ἐχάρη. 8 When on the first day We didn’t hear Memnon. Yesterday Memnon received (Hadrian’s) wife in silence, 1 so that the beautiful Sabina might come back here again. (p.148) For the lovely form of our queen pleases you. When she arrives, send forth a divine shout, 4 so the king won’t be angry with you. As it is now, you’ve fearlessly detained for too long his noble wedded wife. And Memnon, trembling at the power of great Hadrian, suddenly spoke, and she rejoiced to hear it. 8

31. Ἔκλυον αὐδήσαντος ἔγω ‘πυ λίθω Βάλβιλλα | 1 φώνα(ς) τᾶς θείας Μέμνονος ἢ Φαμένωθ. | Ἦλθον ὔμοι δ’ ἐράται βασιλήιδι τυῖδε Σαβίννᾳ, | ὤρας δὲ πρώτας ἄλιος ἦχε δρόμος. | 4 Κοιράνω Ἀδριάνω πέμπτῳ δεκότῳ δ’ ἐνιαύτῳ, (φῶτ)α δ’ ἔχεσκε(ν) Ἄθυρ εἴκοσι | καὶ πέσυρα. Εἰκόστῳ πέμπτῳ | δ’ ἄματι μῆνος Ἄθυρ. I, Balbilla, heard, from the speaking stone, 1 the divine voice of Memnon or Phamenoth. I came here with our lovely queen Sabina, when the sun held its course during the first hour, 4 in the fifteenth year of the emperor Hadrian’s rule, Hathyr was on its twenty-fourth day. On the twenty-fifth day of the month of Hathyr.

There is some debate about the chronological reconstruction of events surrounding Balbilla’s visit to the site, but for the most part, scholars have followed the original editors’ suggestions.20 According to their view, Hadrian presented himself, with Sabina, Julia Balbilla, and the rest of his entourage, in front of the statue early in the morning of November 19, eager to hear the famous statue speak, but surprisingly Memnon stayed silent (29). On the second day (November 20), Balbilla and Sabina approached the monument without Hadrian, begged it to speak, and were rewarded with an immediate greeting at the auspicious first hour (30). Hadrian then returned, possibly still on the same day (November 20), and had the good fortune of hearing Memnon speak to him not once but three times (28). Finally, on November 20 or 21, Julia Balbilla returned alone for one last greeting, and wrote about her own experience of Page 7 of 32

Sapphic Memnon hearing Memnon speak (31). The editors admit that this reconstruction of the events requires us to read the grouped poems out of order: first poem 29, then 30, and then 28.21 While one could argue that Balbilla did not aim to produce an exact record of what happened, and that the sequence of events is unlikely to be accurately (p. 149) reconstructed from poetic reflections such as these,22 I think, to the contrary, that the chronology is crucial. The whole point of visiting the statue was to be the first to hear Memnon’s voice, to be the recipient of the god’s blessing. Thus in Hadrian’s case, in the inscription recorded on the most desirable spot on the colossus, we are told explicitly that Memnon tried to speak to the emperor even before addressing his own mother, Eos, a truly remarkable statement (28.3–4). I also remain unconvinced that Julia Balbilla would be commissioned to record for posterity a scene in which Memnon supposedly ignored her patron, which is what we have if we accept the editors’ reading of 29 as reflecting Hadrian’s presence in front of the silent statue on the first day of his visit (November 19). The chronological reconstruction I propose avoids these problems and directly follows the physical placement of the lines on the leg. On the first day, Hadrian visits the statue with part or all of his retinue, and Memnon speaks three times (28). On the second day, Sabina and Balbilla visit the statue without Hadrian, and Memnon is silent (29). The two women return on the third day, again without Hadrian, and Memnon speaks to Sabina (30). Sabina and Balbilla then both report, in short and plain statements including their name and date, that Memnon spoke to them on that third day (31–32). If we accept this chronology, the first day would be November 19, the second November 20, and the third November 21. We can now return to the texts to see whether this reconstruction is persuasive, and also explore some of the nuances of Balbilla’s poetic style and content. Poem 28 begins with a kind of sphragis in its prose heading: “(composed) by Julia Balbilla, when the august Hadrian heard Memnon.”23 In this preface, Balbilla claims responsibility for composing the verses to follow, and also frames the narrative in her own voice (first person to begin, third person to conclude), and could thus be imagined as an eyewitness to the events. The sphragis includes the names of the main participants in the scene about to unfold— Balbilla, Hadrian, Memnon—and the verses to follow will shift perspectives accordingly. But neither Balbilla nor Sabina is specifically mentioned in the verse section, so we may conclude that the spotlight shone mostly on Hadrian that day. Balbilla begins in her own voice, telling us that before coming to Egypt, she had already heard stories of Memnon’s magical cry; but in identifying the statue, she grounds Memnon fully in the present, in Egyptian Thebes. She then vividly reports the scene as she presumably witnessed it, transitioning into the thirdPage 8 of 32

Sapphic Memnon person narration that will frame the rest of her poem, and stepping back herself to allow the two main characters to interact. First Memnon greets Hadrian a total of three times (28.2–8), and then Hadrian himself greets (p.150) Memnon in return (28.9–11). But the poet reinserts herself into the narrative toward the end, both with a reference to her own written verses (28.11) and with an objective summary in the final line (28.12). Balbilla reports that Memnon saw Hadrian standing in front of him at sunrise and spoke to him, “the greatest of kings,” even before acknowledging his own mother’s presence in the form of the early morning light. Balbilla employs lofty poetic diction to represent sunrise and the passage of time; but rather than the expected Eos, familiar from most of the other evocations of dawn, we are introduced to Titan driving his chariot with white horses through the sky. Memnon then is reported to have repeated the honor twice more in the course of the morning, and Balbilla compares the mysterious high-pitched noise he produces to the presumably more familiar sound of someone hitting beaten bronze. The parallelism of lines 1 and 3, with the names displayed prominently at the beginning of each verse, as well as the use of παμβασίληα, suggests both the high status of the two “men” and the parallel divine standing of the emperor.24 The reference to Titan at the beginning of line 5 continues the pattern of naming high-status males, but one could read Koiranos Hadrianos in the same sedes in line 9 as marking a kind of competition: Hadrian wins the contest of masculine power that has been unfolding in front of the statue by reinhabiting the subject position, shifting from listener to speaker, and “talking back” to the colossal statue. Even the adverbs used by Balbilla to qualify the speech of the two “men” play into the hierarchy of power: Memnon addresses Hadrian first “as well as he could” (28.4),25 and then utters his inarticulate cry twice more; the sound itself vanishes, leaving the statue silent again until the next day. In contrast, Hadrian responds “sufficiently” (28.9) or appropriately, possibly with a spoken greeting, or alternatively with some sort of salute. This last detail, if we assume a vocal response on the part of Hadrian, could suggest that the words were voiced or performed as well as etched permanently into the stone statue itself to provide documentary evidence (σαμαίνοντά). Thus Balbilla concludes with the neat parallel of Hadrian also “greeting” (28.9) Memnon by leaving behind, on the stones, verses that would show (p.151) posterity what he had heard and seen there.26 The “written verses” (28.11) must refer to Balbilla’s own poem; we have already noted that Hadrian himself left no poetry behind on the colossus, although he did, according to Dio, compose poems of all sorts in his spare time (Cass. Dio 69.4.6).27 Acting on Hadrian’s behalf, Balbilla boasts of the honors bestowed on him by Memnon, and by extension all the gods. She ends with a strong, impersonal statement, summarizing in standard epigrammatic fashion what has come before, and closing the circle that originated with her introduction, stating that “it was clear to all that the gods loved him [Hadrian]” (28.12).28 Equally clear to all who Page 9 of 32

Sapphic Memnon might visit that day or in the future would be that, as is the customary case with a poet/patron arrangement, Balbilla shared somehow in this beneficial relationship, and was “loved” and respected by both Hadrian and her own gods, the Muses. The idea of mutual respect shown between statue and visitor(s) is sustained in poem 29, the longest and most learned of Balbilla’s inscriptions. Here the players are Memnon and Balbilla herself, and the poet sustains an Ich-Du narrative with the statue throughout the epigram, adding third-person references to additional players (Sabina, Balbilla’s relatives) as needed. The poet visits the colossus with the empress Sabina, but presumably without Hadrian, since his name is not mentioned. Balbilla starts by declaring that she was in the company of the “august Sabina” when they visited the statue (November 20). She then addresses Memnon directly, using multiple names and genealogies— Memnon of Thebes, immortal son of Eos and Tithonus, Egyptian king Amenoth— and offers her own salutation: χαῖρε (29.5). This greeting is typical of archaic stone inscriptions addressing the passerby,29 which makes for a clever epigraphical continuity, but with a twist: instead of the stone greeting Balbilla, she addresses the stone image itself. In exchange for her homage, she asks that the statue speak not just to her, but also to the venerable wife of Hadrian. After her initial address and request for a favorable welcome, Balbilla spends four lines in the center of the epigram describing the impiety of the Persian king Cambyses, famous for his conquest of Egypt in 525 BCE.30 According to tradition, he tried to destroy the statue of Memnon as well as the divine Apis bull, but was himself in turn destroyed for his evil deeds.31 In contrast to his (p. 152) impiety (ἄθεος 29.8), the poet emphasizes Sabina’s own (σέμναν 29.6) and her family’s piety (εὐσέβεες . . . πάπποι 29.13; Βαλβίλλας . . . εὐσέβε[ος] 29.18), and her respect for Memnon’s reputation. Rather than following in Cambyses’ destructive footsteps, she commemorates him for future generations, and hopes that her honorable behavior will be justly rewarded. Her own voice comes out again in line 11 with an emphatic ἀλλ’ ἔγω, paralleled later by κἄγω (29.17), claiming confidence that the statue will survive, that she senses within the stone figure an immortal soul; damage to his physical body cannot harm the eternal spark hidden inside the colossal stone monument.32 She responds to Memnon as a fellow elite, someone whose noble blood and pious family history put her in a good position to be honored, along with Sabina, by Memnon’s response. But unlike the previous inscription, the poem does not document any response from the statue, neither to Balbilla’s own greetings (29.1–5) nor to her request that he speak out and favorably welcome the “noble wife of the emperor Hadrian” (29.6). We are left in suspense, waiting for evidence of the miraculous cry; instead, the final section of the poem (29.13–18) focuses on Balbilla herself, as she lists her royal and aristocratic connections in a heavily anaphoric and solemn genealogical listing format (Βάλβιλλος . . . Βάλβιλλος 29.14–15; Ἀντίοχος βασίλευς . . . βασιλήϊδος . . . Ἀντίοχος βασίλευς 29.14–16; πάτερος δὲ Page 10 of 32

Sapphic Memnon πάτηρ 29.16; εὐσέβεες . . . εὐσέβε[ος] 29.13–18; many words based on the stem – γεν).33 She finishes with a kind of signature at the end, referring self-consciously as she did in the previous epigram (28.10–11) to the words on the statue: “these are my writings, Balbilla the pious.”34 This time she steps out from Hadrian’s shadow and claims direct responsibility for her own compositions. Poem 30 opens with a reminder that, when Balbilla and Sabina visited the statue for the first time (November 20), hoping for a divine sign, Memnon had remained silent. This is confirmation that Memnon had not just ignored Balbilla’s χαῖρε the previous day, but had also turned a deaf ear to her polite (αὐδάσαις in the optative) request for a response (29.5). The two-line prose preface declares “yesterday . . . we didn’t hear,” but does not specify the referents of the first-person plural pronoun; it seems again highly likely that Hadrian is not present, since Balbilla emphasizes that it is Sabina who is detained and then in turn pleased by the statue’s eventual utterance. In an attempt to explain Memnon’s silence in front of Sabina, Balbilla attributes human feelings and (p.153) motivations to the statue, using a second-person address to explain his own thoughts to him: to paraphrase, “Memnon, you did not speak, because you were charmed by the beauty of the queen and wanted to ensure that she would return to you the following day.” Balbilla borrows vocabulary for this eroticized section (30.2–3) from the lyric poets, and Sappho in particular.35 Now that she has come back again, Balbilla asks Memnon directly to speak, and warns him not to irritate Hadrian further by detaining his wife too long. Balbilla begins with a verb of “receiving” (30.1: ἀπεδέξατ’)— Memnon received Sabina—that seems quite appropriate for the context of a sanctuary dedication: Sabina and the poem are offered up in the hopes of pleasing the god. After the four lines of direct address by Balbilla to Memnon (30.3–6), the verses shift back into third-person narrative in the final two lines: “and Memnon, trembling at the power of great Hadrian, suddenly spoke, and she rejoiced to hear it” (30.7–8). Sabina and Balbilla are relieved that their offering has pleased the god, but Hadrian is reassured that his power is still superior to that of his subject, Memnon, who trembles at the invocation of the imperial name.36 Homeric morphology and vocabulary jostle Aeolic forms in this final section (30.5–7).37 The word the poet uses for “power,” for example, μένος (30.7), is a word often associated in epic with physical strength (e.g., Homer Il. 2.387, 5.506). But now Homeric μένος is removed from the context of the battlefield and becomes instead the mark of Hadrian’s imperial power, effective even when the emperor himself is absent, as in this scenario; like Memnon, his reputation precedes him. It is not easy to follow the chronological sequence in this poem as Balbilla shifts from “yesterday” to “when she arrives,” and then “as it is now;” the temporal frame moves from narrative of a past action to narrative of subsequent action, and a request for immediate action. The narrative field is equally fluid, shifting between modes of discourse: the epigram begins as a factual statement Page 11 of 32

Sapphic Memnon involving praise of the beautiful Sabina, shifts to prayer mode as it begs Memnon to send forth a divine shout, and ends with praise of the power of great Hadrian. It recalls the technique of a hymn in its complex combination of time frames and its rapid shifts in addressee: as readers, we are asked simultaneously to remember a past moment, experience a vivid present, and anticipate an imminent future event.38 Also like a hymn, it climaxes in epiphany and rejoicing, as Memnon’s statue trembles (although supposedly with fear rather than divinity), speaks, and is gratefully heard by his petitioner. The hymnic aspects add to the elevated and religious mood of poem 30. Poem 31, separated from the rest by its placement, is representative of many of the shorter, less elaborately poetic Greek and Roman inscriptions (p.154) on the colossus. It is also the only one of the four poems by Balbilla lacking a prose heading; since the body of the text presents all the necessary information, a heading would be superfluous. Here Balbilla speaks wholly in her own voice, although she mentions that she came with Sabina; whether that reference is separate (“I came with Sabina yesterday and we both heard Memnon, but today I alone heard the statue speak”) or simultaneous (“I came with Sabina today and we both heard Memnon”) is somewhat unclear.39 One could equally imagine that Balbilla was speaking more generally (i.e., that she had accompanied Sabina to Egypt); that interpretation would read the adverb τυῖδε (31.3) as less specific in its denotation, and understand the reference to hearing Memnon in the first hour as relevant to Balbilla’s own experience on the 24th/25th of Hathyr (= November 20/21) rather than referring back to the day in the previous poem (poem 30, undated, but noted as the day after November 20 = November 21) when the two women clearly heard Memnon’s voice together. However we interpret the reference to Sabina as being in Balbilla’s company, the opening “we” of poem 30 is replaced by the assertive “I” of poem 31, and sustained by the first-person verb of line 3. Balbilla speaks of herself, of her own experiences with the colossus; her royal patrons are acknowledged in passing (Sabina [31.3], Hadrian [31.5]) but not given any agency themselves.40 The last four lines of poem 31 state the basic facts, as in so many of the less elaborate inscriptions from other visitors: the voice was heard at the first hour; the year is the fifteenth year of Hadrian’s rule; the specific month and date are given as the 24th or 25th day of the Egyptian month of Hathyr. The double dating has been explained as the difference between the day Balbilla heard the voice (the 24th) and the day the scribe recorded her poem (the 25th); or as a poetic way to say that the 24th had ended and the 25th had now begun.41 The person reporting is Balbilla, probably accompanied that day by the empress Sabina. In most of the other inscriptions, the composer or commissioner of the text is male, and is usually accompanied by his wife or family; this variation could be understood as a mark of the friendship between the two women. This is Balbilla’s briefest and most conventional inscription, and in a way it recapitulates the previous three inscriptions, acting as a kind of summary of the Page 12 of 32

Sapphic Memnon whole experience.42 It is presumed to be the final inscription by Balbilla during her visit to Memnon’s statue with Hadrian and Sabina in November 130 CE.

(p.155) Archaizing and Aeolicizing Reading the four inscriptions presented here, the reader is immediately struck by Balbilla’s efforts to balance her patrons’ expectation of praise and public posturing with her own sense of importance and literary talent. Her poems are distinguished by the presence of Aeolic, archaic, and rare poetic forms (e.g., omitted initial aspirates, long alpha, digamma) and Homeric vocabulary.43 These archaisms both attest to her skill as a poet and would also have appealed to Hadrian’s own intellectual predilections for the ancient and obscure. Hadrian sought to revive many archaic and forgotten authors,44 and himself composed a Greek epigram supposedly for the tombstone of Archilochus.45 Hadrian’s surviving poems, in both Latin and Greek, are composed in a wide variety of meters, including hexameters, elegiacs, anacreontics, iambic dimeters, Aristophaneans, and hendecasyllabics.46 The second century CE in general also saw a renewed interest in older literary dialects: Lucian imitated Herodotus’s Ionic in several of his essays (On the Syrian Goddess, On Astrology), while most of the prose writers turned to an artificial atticizing that became wildly popular.47 There was also a trend for patronizing local archaic cults, well represented in travel literature such as Pausanias’s Periegesis, Philostratus’s Life of Apollonius of Tyana and Heroicus, and Arrian’s Periplus. An attitude of creative archaizing was prevalent in all aspects of elite cultural activities of this period, and Hadrian’s philhellenism only served to foster it further. Balbilla’s use of Aeolic and archaic forms fits right into the trends of imperial literary production. Studies have been made of the dialectal peculiarities of all four inscriptions, and the interested reader is encouraged to explore the topic further by consulting them.48 But in order to proceed more directly to my main discussion of the role of Sappho as literary model for Julia Balbilla, I will limit myself here to the linguistic oddities of poem 28, since it is representative of the other three poems in the number and types of Aeolic and archaic forms it appropriates.49 Notable Aeolicisms in poem 28 include the following, in order of appearance (Table 5.1): πυνθανόμαν (long α) for πυνθανόμην (1); genitive ἀλίω (1); infinitive form φώνην for φωνεῖν (2); preposition ᾿πυ for ἀπό (2); presence of digamma in ϝοι (4) (see also in line 12: ϝε) (see Sappho 5.6 Voigt; Alcaeus (p.156) 358.5 Voigt); uncontracted ἀελίω (4) (typical of Sappho [58.26; 96.7 Voigt] and Alcaeus [38a.3; 112.22 Voigt]); infinitive χαίρην for χαίρειν (4); ὄττ’ (hypercorrect Aeolic form) for ὄτα/ὅτε (5) (see Sappho 63.2, 106, 149 Voigt; Alcaeus 313 Voigt); ἦχε (contraction of εε into long η) for εἷχε (6) (see Sappho 141.5 Voigt); imperfect ἴη for ἵει (7–8); κάλλιπεν for κατέλιπεν (10) (Aeolic with apocope and assimilation); τ’ ὄσ’ and κὤσσ’ without aspiration (psilosis) (11); κὤσσ’ = καὶ ὅσσα, SapphicAeolic for ὅσα (11);50γρόππατα for γράμματα (11) (see Sappho 112.3: ὄππατα Page 13 of 32

Sapphic Memnon for ὄμματα); second thematic aorist εὔϊδε from *εἴδω, with intervocalized digamma (11); παῖσι for πᾶσι (12); φίλισι for φίλεισι (12) (but cf. Cirio [2011]: 88, who reads φίλεισι). Table 5.1. Notable Aeolicisms in Julia Balbilla, Poem 28 Line number 1

πυνθανόμαν (long α) for πυνθανόμην

1

genitive ἀλίω

2

infinitive form φώνην for φωνεῖν

2

preposition ᾿πυ for ἀπό

4

presence of digamma in ϝοι (see also in line 12: ϝε) (see Sappho 5.6 Voigt; Alcaeus 358.5 Voigt)

4

uncontracted ἀελίω (typical of Sappho [58.26; 96.7 Voigt] and Alcaeus [38a.3; 112.22 Voigt])

4

infinitive χαίρην for χαίρειν

5

ὄττ’ (hypercorrect Aeolic form) for ὄτα/ὅτε (see Sappho 63.2; 106; 149 Voigt; Alcaeus 313 Voigt)

6

ἦχε (contraction of εε into long η) for εἷχε (see Sappho 141.5 Voigt)

7–8

imperfect ἴη for ἵει

10

κάλλιπεν for κατέλιπεν (Aeolic with apocope and assimilation)

11

κὤσσ’ = καὶ ὅσσα, Aeolic for ὅσα γρόππατα for γράμματα (see Sappho 112.3: ὄππατα for ὄμματα)

11

12

second thematic aorist εὔϊδε from *εἴδω, with intervocalized digamma παῖσι for πᾶσι φίλισι for φίλεισι (but cf. Cirio [2011] 88, who reads φίλεισι)

Notable archaisms or borrowings from epic poetic language in poem 28 include the following (Table 5.2): ἀλίω αὔγαι (1) (Homeric); παμβασίληα instead of βασιλέα (3); ὅττε for ὅτε (Aeolic ὄτε) for purposes of scansion (5); ἐλάω, poetic (p.157) for ἐλαύνω (5); epic ὠράων (6); χάλκοιο (7) (archaic form present in Homer); τύπεντος from a poetic aorist passive ἐτύπην (7); epic aorist ἀσπάσσατο (9) (e.g., Homer Il. 10.542); κοίρανος (9) (e.g., Homer Il. 2.204, 487, Page 14 of 32

Sapphic Memnon 760; 7.234; 8.281; 9.644; 11.465; Od. 1.247; 13.377; 15.510; 16.124;18.106; 20.234; 21.346); epic aorist κάλλιπε for κατέλιπε (10); ὀψίγονος (10) (e.g., Homer Il. 3.353, 7.87, 16.31; Od. 1.302); epic aorist ἐσάκουσε (11); ἔγεντ’ for ἐγένετο (12). Table 5.2. Notable Archaisms or Borrowings from Epic Poetic Language in Julia Balbilla, Poem 28 Line number 1

ἀλίω αὔγαι (Homeric)

3

παμβασίληα instead of βασιλέα

5

ὅττε for ὅτε (Aeolic ὄτε) for purposes of scansion

5

ἐλάω, poetic for ἐλαύνω

6

epic ὠράων

7

χάλκοιο (archaic form present in Homer)

7

τύπεντος from a poetic aorist passive ἐτύπην

9

epic aorist ἀσπάσσατο (e.g., Homer Il. 10.542)

9

κοίρανος (e.g., Homer Il. 2.204, 487, 760; 7.234; 8.281; 9.644; 11.465; Od. 1.247, 13.377, 15.510, 16.124, 18.106, 20.234, 21.346)

10

epic aorist κάλλιπε for κατέλιπε

10

ὀψίγονος (e.g., Homer Il. 3.353, 7.87, 16.31; Od. 1.302)

11

epic aorist ἐσάκουσε

12

ἔγεντ’ for ἐγένετο

It should be clear from these lists that Balbilla fully adopted Aeolic and archaic forms in her verse inscriptions. As was the case with many other authors of verse inscriptions throughout the Hellenistic and imperial periods, she took care to mark her work as directly descended from earlier Greek models. In addition to adopting the linguistic forms and vocabulary of their predecessors, these writers often turned to ancient myths and legends for subject matter and content. Balbilla’s verses attest to her familiarity with both oral (from local Egyptian priests or previous visitors) and competing literary traditions surrounding the statue of Memnon, whose identity was contested in antiquity. In poem 28, the verb πυνθανόμαν (28.1), while suggestive of oral inquiry, may be another attempt on Balbilla’s part to emphasize her overall erudition, as she acknowledges what she has learned from earlier sources, including writers such as Strabo (17.1.46), Pliny the Elder (NH 36.58), and Tacitus (Ann. 2.61), who Page 15 of 32

Sapphic Memnon identified the statue as the Homeric hero Memnon. But by adding the adjective Αἰγύπτιον (28.1), calling the colossus “Memnon the Egyptian,” Balbilla treads a diplomatic middle road between Greek myth and (p.158) contemporary Roman imperial reality, between her Athenian allegiances and the spirit of her ancestor Ti. Claudius Balbillus, who, during his prefecture in Egypt, championed a religious syncretism of Greek and Egyptian beliefs.51 Insofar as Memnon was a Trojan (i.e., Roman) ally, killed by Greek Achilles, but the child of Greek Eos and Tithonus, and eventually made immortal by Zeus, the history of the Memnon figure encapsulates the intricacies of Rome, its empire, and its relations with Greece in this period. In poems 29 and 31, Balbilla is even more explicit about the complex genealogy of the colossus. Poem 29 opens with a solemn listing of alternative names, allowing readers the option of their own preference in addressing Memnon: “son of Dawn and reverend Tithonus, Memnon, seated opposite Zeus’s Theban city, or Amenoth, Egyptian king, as the priests claim, learned in the ancient stories, greetings!” (29.1–5). Poem 31 offers a similar choice: “I, Balbilla, heard from the speaking stone, the divine voice of Memnon or Phamenoth” (31.1–2). She shifts here from Amenoth, a variant on Amenhotep, to the synonymous name Phamenoth, an Egyptian name that would have been more familiar to Greekspeaking locals, since it was also the name for the month of March.52 Balbilla does not seem to feel any need to resolve the tension between the two different traditions. Her attitude recalls the Egyptian and Greek hymnic habit of listing multiple divine cult names and attributes, hoping that the god will be pleased by the comprehensive nature of the list and respond favorably to the mortal’s request. In this case, it also allows for broader audience appreciation: local Egyptians, and Greek and Roman tourists, could all read (or re-read) her words and share her respect for the miraculous voice without having to make an inevitably politically charged decision about the origins and ethnic affiliations of the god in question. The poet’s documentation of competing versions of the historical and mythical past reflects the prevailing value placed on intellectualism and biculturalism in Hadrian’s philhellenic court, where the two cultures involved were usually Greek and Roman. But there is a distinct possibility that Balbilla’s sensitive handling of the Egyptian situation is peculiarly her own. I would argue that Balbilla was not just repeating an old story, or obsessed with a vision of the distant past, but rather creating a new legend, “constructing the cultural status of the present,”53 by carefully articulating her view of Memnon’s identity. Few of the other inscriptions introduce any doubt about Memnon’s Greek identity: Sabina herself simply refers to the statue as Memnon (32.4), and in poem 30, written in honor of Sabina, Balbilla wholly omits mention of Memnon’s eastern connections. But Balbilla’s own complex genealogy colors her reading and retelling of the myths. She, too, like (p.159) Memnon, balances multiple cultural affiliations: her

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Sapphic Memnon Commagenian royal ancestry, her Athenian and Roman connections, and her grandfather with Egyptian sympathies. In line with the conventions of dedicatory poetry, the poet here bestows honors on both herself and her dedicatee(s). Balbilla boasts of her noble and pious ancestry at the end of poem 29, mentioning her grandfathers on both sides (29.13–18). Her assertion of familial piety and good breeding is meant to explain why the colossus is willing to speak to her: the divine Memnon would surely not address someone unworthy.54 Much as Sappho created a special relationship between herself and the goddess Aphrodite, often depicting herself in her poetry as conversing with the divine,55 so Balbilla sets herself up as a suitable conversation partner for Memnon. The formality of Balbilla’s presentation of her ancestral qualifications may remind us also, as noted earlier, of the carefully scripted biographies of Roman administrators who left their marks on the colossus; both sets of inscribers are proud of their status. But even as her verses can be interpreted as masterful self-advertisement, they must fit within the expectations and limitations that Balbilla must have faced within Hadrian’s entourage. Her lines were presumably commissioned and composed as elaborate praise poetry of the imperial couple, where it would have been all too easy to violate propriety.56 Whatever the subtexts, however, Balbilla asserts her two family lines at the end of the very inscription that opens with her acknowledgment of the colossus’s two family lines, and she boldly claims a special relationship with the statue because of her heritage: “but I don’t think that this statue of you could ever perish, and I sense in my heart a soul hereafter immortal” (Ἀλλ’ ἔγω οὐ δοκίμωμι σέθεν τόδ’ ὄλεσθ’ ἂν ἄγαλμα,/ψύχαν δ’ ἀθανάταν λοῖπον ἔσωσα νόῳ, 29.11–12). She can sense what others cannot; she can somehow commune with his soul. Memnon’s very survival in turn gives her an opportunity for self-promotion, and her writings immortalize both Memnon and herself, in the familiar mutually beneficial pattern of patron and poet. She is so subtle in her poetic maneuvering that we realize only after the fact that she has replaced Hadrian as imperial patron and dedicatee with the immortal Memnon; her faith in the ancient Homeric hero as soulmate trumps her sense of duty as a member of the emperor’s entourage.

A Sapphic Voice I have been arguing that Balbilla’s poetic self-presentation on stone—her use of archaic forms and the careful exposition of the multiple traditions surrounding the Memnon colossus—is closely connected to her personal and (p.160) intellectual affiliations as well as to Hadrian’s hellenophilia and the general cultural milieu of the period. But what can be labeled specifically Sapphic or lyric about her inscriptions? While I argue in this section that Balbilla does allude directly on several occasions to the poetry of Sappho, it is worth pointing out that Sappho’s own verses are themselves heavily indebted to Homeric and epic conventions.57 It can be difficult, for example, when Sappho composes her Page 17 of 32

Sapphic Memnon own versions of the Trojan War stories, to tease out what is uniquely lyric, beyond the regional morphological changes and non-hexameter verse patterns.58 In pointing to Balbilla’s Sapphic intertexts, I am certainly not suggesting that Homer is not also present as a model; his presence is unmistakable in the catalogue of epic and Homeric forms found in poem 28. I am arguing, however, that while Homeric and epic precedents inform many if not most of the verses inscribed by male visitors to the colossus, as discussed in the previous chapter, Balbilla’s verses allude to both Homer and Sappho, epic and lyric.59 And there are interesting consequences to her choice of a lyric poet as her model. Lyric texts encourage role-playing, not just aesthetic pleasure; more than any other genre, lyric implies the imitation of an individual, an ego, not just a set of texts.60 But with the imitation of Sappho, the poet also must confront her distance from the archaic past in a way that the poets who imitate Homer do not. I will argue below that by imitating Sappho in her inscriptions, Julia Balbilla creates something dynamic and new; she claims the personal fame of Sappho as a successful female poet but adapts Sappho’s rhetoric of erotic praise to a contemporary political context. Balbilla’s two poems that focus on the empress Sabina are fertile ground for comparison with Sappho’s verses. Poem 30 is suffused with Aeolic coloring (Table 5.3):61χθίσδον for χθιζόν (1); σίγαις for σιγάς (1); τυῖδε (2) (see Balbilla 31.3; Sappho 1.5, 5.2, 17.7, 96.2 Voigt); ἄμμας for ἐμῆς (3); ἐλθοίσαι for ἐλθούσῃ (4); ἄχον for ἧχον (4); the Aeolic imperative ἴη (4); τοι for σοι (5) (see Sappho 31.2 Voigt); δᾶρον for δηρόν (5) (although also attested in Homer Il. 2.435; 5.120; Od. 1.203); κὠ (with psilosis and crasis) for χὠ (= καὶ ὁ) (7); τρέσσαις for τρέσας (7); ἐξαπίνας for ἐξαπίνης (8); αὔδασ’ for ηὔδησ’ (8) (see Sappho 10.2 Voigt); ὀΐοισ’ for αἴουσ’ (8). Even the orthography of Σάβιννα (30.2; see also Balbilla 31.3), used instead of the more regular Σαβεῖνα (in the prose heading of 29, and in Sabina’s own autograph of 32), reflects Balbilla’s adoption of an Aeolic form (p.161) that calls to mind Sappho’s spelling of Gyrinno (82a Voigt: Γυριννώ), as well as the name of the archaic Greek poet Corinna, whose native Boeotian dialect was a form of the Aeolic.62 Table 5.3. Notable Aeolicisms in Julia Balbilla, Poem 30 Line number 1

χθίσδον for χθιζόν

1

σίγαις for σιγάς

2

τυῖδε (see Balbilla 31.3; Sappho 1.5, 5.2, 17.7, 96.2 Voigt)

2

Σάβιννα (see also Balbilla 31.3) instead of Σαβεῖνα

3

ἄμμας for ἐμῆς

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Sapphic Memnon

Line number 4

ἐλθοίσαι for ἐλθούσῃ

4

ἄχον for ἧχον

4

the Aeolic imperative ἴη

5

τοι for σοι (see Sappho 31.2 Voigt)

5

δᾶρον for δηρόν (although also attested in Homer Il. 2.435; 5.120; Od. 1.203)

7

κὠ (with psilosis and crasis) for χὠ (= καὶ ὁ)

7

τρέσσαις for τρέσας

8

ἐξαπίνας for ἐξαπίνης

8

αὔδασ’ for ηὔδησ’ (see Sappho 10.2 Voigt)

8

ὀΐοισ’ for αἴουσ’

Alongside the dialect forms we also find more direct engagement with Sappho, as Balbilla alludes to Sapphic phrases and situations. Balbilla imagines that Memnon has lured Sabina back for a second visit because he enjoys looking upon her lovely face. Lines 2 and 3 include vocabulary familiar from Sappho’s erotic poetry. The phrases ἀ κάλα τυῖδε Σάβιννα (30.2) and τέρπει γάρ σ’ ἐράτα μόρφα (30.3) can be read as pastiches of Sappho 16.17–18, which refers to her beloved Anactoria’s ἔρατόν τε βᾶμα/κἀμάρυχμα λάμπρον . . . προσώπω; or 17.2, the χαρίεσσα μόρφα of Hera;63 or 96.21–23, where a Lydian woman fondly recalls lovely Atthis and the poem breaks off with the gnomic statement that it isn’t easy to rival the goddesses in beauty: εὔμαρες μὲν οὐ.α.μι θέαισι μόρφαν ἐπήρατον ἐξίσωσθαι. The word μόρφα is not commonly used for female beauty, and Balbilla’s phrase ἐράτα μόρφα (30.3) has a unique precedent in Sappho’s (p.162) μόρφαν ἐπήρατον (96.22);64 in fact, the combination does not appear again until the fifth century CE, when the poet Christodorus, coincidentally (or not?) also from Egyptian Thebes, uses it to refer to the divine beauty of a statue of Apollo (AP 2.285), displayed in the Baths of Zeuxippus, which had been built by Septimius Severus in Byzantium.65 Poem 31 offers its own share of Aeolic forms:66 ᾿πυ for ἀπό (1) (see Balbilla 28.2); φώνα(ς) τᾶς for φωνῆς τῆς (2); ὔμοι for ὁμοῦ (3) (see Sappho 94.13); τυῖδε Σαβίννᾳ (3) (Balbilla 30.2); δεκότῳ for δεκάτῳ (5); πέσυρα for τέτταρα (6).67 It also uses similarly sensual vocabulary to describe Sabina as a “lovely” or “beloved” queen (31.3): ἐράται βασιλήιδι τυῖδε Σαβίννᾳ. This is unusually intimate language for a Roman empress in the context of public praise. We can, however, observe similarities in style and diction between the two poets without accepting the idea that Balbilla sets herself up as Sappho reincarnated, Page 19 of 32

Sapphic Memnon or addresses Sabina as one of her “maidens,” paralleling (yet inverting) the relationship between Hadrian and his beloved Antinous. It is Memnon, not Balbilla, who is charmed by the queen’s beautiful face; Memnon who falls in love with her as she visits with her husband; Memnon who should beware of the king’s jealousy (30.5); and Memnon who conveniently arranges another meeting the next day. The editors Bernand and Bernand exaggerate only a bit with their formulation, “le dieu est devenu courtisan.”68 The love triangle is composed of Hadrian and Memnon in competition for Sabina’s attention. While Balbilla imagines and records these exchanges in order to flatter Sabina, she does not act out of erotic self-interest. She refers twice to Sabina as a “lawfully wedded wife” using Homeric terminology (29.6: σέμναν ἄλοχον; 30.6: σέμναν . . . κουριδίαν ἄλοχον); this phrasing does not easily suggest Sabina as an eroticized object of Balbilla’s desire. Rather, Balbilla functions as a member of the imperial court who praises her patrons in a style reminiscent of the great poets of earlier generations: Homer and Sappho.

Imperial Receptions of Sappho In order to contextualize the comparison of Balbilla’s poetry with Sappho’s on a lexical level, just as we did in the previous chapter with Homer, we should remind ourselves of what Balbilla and her peers might have known of Sappho’s (p.163) poetry in the second century CE.69 Papyrus finds from this period are numerous. Most of what we know of Sappho’s Book 1 comes from an Oxyrhynchus papyrus dated to the second century CE (P. Oxy. 2289),70 and another similarly dated Oxyrhynchus papyrus gives us one of our earliest biographies of Sappho (P. Oxy. 1800). Two other second-century papyri preserve first lines of Sappho’s poems (P. Oxy. 2294; P. Mich. Inv. 3498r), and we have a number of second-century papyri commentaries on Sappho’s verses, explaining obscure words and phrases (P. Oxy. 2293, P. Oxy. 2292, P. Oxy. 2506, P. Oxy. 2637). Sophistic scholars discussed Sappho in both grammatical treatises and other literary genres: references and quotations abound in Hephaestion, Hermogenes, Athenaeus, “Longinus,” Dionysius of Halicarnassus, and Philostratus. It is clear from this evidence that there was a strong interest in recopying and studying Sappho’s literary corpus in the second century CE. On the more popular level, Sappho’s songs were apparently still being performed at symposia. Plutarch mentions songs of Sappho in his treatise on table talk: “when songs of Sappho and Anacreon are sung, I feel I should put my drinking-cup down out of respect.”71 Aulus Gellius also reports songs of Anacreon and Sappho sung at a symposion by both boys and girls.72 Perhaps even more useful for studying Sappho’s reception in the second century CE are the contemporary commentaries on her persona, her appearance in literary fictions, and her status as cultural icon. Her native Mytilene used her image on their coinage in the first few centuries CE, but her fame extended far beyond her own city. In the first century CE, Dio Chrysostom calls her one of the illustrious women of former days; in the mid-second century CE, Galen Page 20 of 32

Sapphic Memnon announces that you have only to say “the Poet” and “the Poetess,” and everyone knows you mean Homer and Sappho.73 Both Greek and Roman authors in this period used the figure of Sappho as a standard of culture and learning, often remarking on her gender but rarely commenting on her sexuality. In the second half of the second century CE, Lucian writes that rich Roman women aspire to being cultured, skilled in philosophy, and in “writing poems not much worse than Sappho’s.”74 Earlier, on the Latin side, Catullus, Propertius, Horace, and Ovid had all drawn attention to Sappho as a “docta puella,” a model of poetic learning and skill.75 Ovid even compares his own (p.164) daughter’s skill as a poet to that of Sappho in Tristia 3.7; this is surely meant to be a straightforward compliment of the girl’s learning.76 I conclude this survey of Sappho’s image with a telling passage in Porphyrion, the third-century CE scholar whose commentary on Horace’s Epistles attempts to explain the word “mascula” as applied to Sappho in Epistle 1.19.28:77 “mascula” autem “Saffo”; vel quia in poetico studio est , in quo saepius viri, vel quia tribas diffamatur fuisse. “Masculine Sappho,” either because she is famous for her poetry, which is more commonly the case for men, or because she is maligned for having been homosexual. This passage encapsulates the problem at hand. If we agree that Balbilla imitates Sappho on various levels, we are still faced with a decision about which Sappho she represents: the female poet famous for her verses, the woman infamous for her sexual choices, or a mixture of the two? Porphyrion prefers the “cleaner” version, as is obvious from his use of the verb “diffamatur.” Similarly, in Balbilla’s situation of dependence on imperial patronage, surely it is more logical to think of her Sapphicisms as a claim to personal fame as a female poet rather than as subtle references to a lesbian relationship with Sabina. Her gender is an issue here—she imitates Sappho more explicitly than Homer, after all—but her sexuality is not.

Claudia Damo Balbilla was not the only female poet visiting Egyptian Thebes who imitated Sappho. Another poet whose verses are preserved on the Memnon colossus also chose to write in Aeolic forms with identifiable Sapphic allusions;78 she, too, wrote on the statue’s left leg, and although we assume she arrived at the same time in Hadrian’s entourage, we have no further information about chronology or her connection with Julia Balbilla. This poet calls herself Damo, and we have already read her poem in a different context in Chapter 3. She writes as follows (83):

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Sapphic Memnon (p.165) Αὔως ὦ πάϊ χαίρε· πρόφρων ἐφθέγξαο γάρ μοι, Μέμ[νον], Πειερίδων εἴνεκα, ταῖς μέλομαι ἀ φιλαο[ιδὸς Δ]αμώ· ἐμὰ δ’ ἐπὶ ἦρα φέροισα βάρβιτος [ἀει]σεῖτ’ ἆι [σό]ν, ὦγνε, κρέτος. Greetings, child of Dawn, for you spoke to me eagerly, Memnon, for the sake of the Muses, who care for me, song-loving Damo. Returning the favor, my barbitos will always sing, holy one, your power.

Editors have noted that Damo’s verses resemble Balbilla’s poem 29 in dialect, structure, vocabulary, and theme.79 Damo’s formal greeting of Memnon (83.1: Αὔως ὦ πάϊ χαίρε· πρόφρων . . .) recalls Balbilla’s similar phrase (29.5: χαῖρε, καὶ αὐδάσαις πρόφρων). While χαῖρε is commonly employed as a salute in the Memnon inscriptions (e.g., 101.1), the identification of Memnon as the child of Dawn, and the use of the adjective πρόφρων, are more marked. In line 3, Damo uses the Aeolic form φέροισα instead of φέρουσα, the poetic adjective φιλαο[ιδὸς, the Homeric expression ἐπὶ ἦρα φέρειν, and the dialect form ἐμὰ for ἐμέ;80 in line 4, the Aeolic disyllabic ἆι, necessary for the meter, replaces ἀεί, and Aeolic κρέτος is chosen over κράτος. Both Damo and Balbilla highlight their special relationship with Memnon, based for Balbilla on her family status, but for Damo on her poetic skill; and both promise to immortalize Memnon in their verses in exchange for his favor.81 Damo’s presentation of her own poem in exchange for the good fortune of having heard Memnon’s voice recalls both Balbilla’s description of Hadrian’s verses on stone as evidence of divine favor (28.10–12), and Petronianus’s idea of inscriptional verse taking the form of a poetic gift to the god in exchange for divine favor (72.2: μουσικὰ δῶρα διδούς). One could, of course, argue that the common ground between Damo and Balbilla arises as both independently imitate Sappho. But on further consideration, the two poets also differ in important ways. As stated earlier in the context of conversing with the colossus, Damo presents herself explicitly as a lyric poet, complete with anachronistic lyre (βάρβιτος) beloved of the Muses;82 there is no trace of sexuality or, for that matter, textuality in her verses. Damo fashions a fantasy world of a purely oral song culture: Memnon “speaks” and she “sings back.” She imagines herself as Sappho’s peer in a distant poetic past that is very different from Balbilla’s political and poetic environment. Balbilla offers instead a fusion of mixed cultural allegiances, as she refers to the present-day imperial couple, to her own family connections, to the local Greek culture in Egypt, and to older traditions represented by native Egyptian (p.166) priests. For Balbilla, Aeolicizing is only one of many elements in her sophistic identity. She asks not to be read as a poet trying to imitate Sappho, but as one clearly influenced by, yet at the same time distinct from, Sappho, and therefore deserving attention for her own merits. But most important, for my argument, Damo’s verses set beside Balbilla’s show us that, while there is more than one way for female poets to Page 22 of 32

Sapphic Memnon invoke Sappho in the second century CE, neither way insists on sexuality as the most important point of correspondence.

Claims to Fame While my assessment of Claudia Damo’s verses has revealed another strategy for demonstrating allegiance to both the sophistic present and the archaic Greek past in inscriptional practice, Balbilla’s Sapphic lines offer her audience simultaneously a more sophisticated enjoyment and a greater interpretive challenge. In conclusion, let us briefly consider how Balbilla adapted Sappho’s voice specifically to the medium of stone. Memnon’s left leg literally grounds her verses in a manner completely different from Sappho’s songs, which were memorized, (re-) performed, and eventually read all over the Greek-speaking world. In contrast, Balbilla’s inscriptions stayed put, dependent at the first level on visual inspection by a reader who might visit the site, see the verses from a vantage point on the ground, and recite or copy down the words. Balbilla’s poems 28 and 29 were easily viewed from the ground, as mentioned earlier, although poem 30 must have been a bit harder to see, as it was placed farther toward the back of the left leg. But we can assume that her poems were considered important enough to deserve prime placement on the monument. For whom does Balbilla compose these verses? Is her self-fashioning directed primarily at her imperial patrons, at fellow tourists, or at posterity? Does the permanent medium of stone affect her composition, demanding a more formal, elevated style and content, and an engagement with the reader appropriate to dedicatory inscription? Her first and most important audience was clearly the emperor Hadrian himself, and secondarily Sabina. One could speculate as to whether Sabina commissioned some poems (29, 30), and Hadrian others (28, 31), but such speculations would be difficult to ground in fact. As Balbilla composed, she must have kept in mind the public nature of the epigraphic act: these poems celebrated Hadrian and Sabina’s visit, but also remained long after the imperial party departed, a public statement of both imperial presence and poetic skill. They perform an event as much as they inform us about it. To put it another way, inscriptional writing is a speech act best interpreted as action or praxis rather than communication.83 As each successive visitor read her verses aloud, the repetition would have affirmed not only the god’s (Memnon) authority, but also the dedicator’s (Julia Balbilla) (p.167) and rulers’ (Hadrian and Sabina) status. It would also have mediated a relationship of reciprocity among god, dedicator, emperor, readers, and the whole community, whether Roman, Greek, or Egyptian. Thus Balbilla’s verses can be understood to have influenced or constructed a particular social reality, and every new reading reactivated and reinforced that first occasion in late November 130 CE. This gave the poet a great deal of power, and what is so interesting in this situation is what Balbilla did with that power.

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Sapphic Memnon Balbilla found a balance in her inscriptional praxis between the expected encomium of her patrons—the conventionally gendered attributes of Hadrian’s power matched by Sabina’s beauty—and her own desire for fame. She did this by turning to Sappho as a model of success. In this public context, where poetic verses on the gigantic statue stood in for the earlier custom of smaller statuary inscribed and dedicated at a temple, Balbilla’s verses must be read first and foremost as political propaganda, both for herself and for the imperial pair. She allies herself with Sappho not as a fellow lover of women, or as a poet who reveals “womanly” emotions, but rather as a “tenth Muse,” a learned and highly acclaimed poet who bestows immortal fame on herself and on those whom she praises.84 A final point of comparison may help support my argument. We see a similar situation in the poetry of the Hellenistic poet Nossis: she, too, utters a plea for poetic immortality by aligning herself with Sappho, while at the same time seeking for herself a distinct place within the tradition of women’s poetry (AP 7.718):85 ὦ ξεῖν᾽, εἰ τύ γε πλεῖς ποτὶ καλλίχορον Μιτυλήναν τᾶν Σαπφοῦς χαρίτων ἄνθος ἐναυσόμενος, εἰπεῖν ὡς Μούσαισι φίλαν τήνᾳ τε Λόκρισσα τίκτεν· ἴσαις δ’ὅτι μοι τοὔνομα Νοσσίς, ἴθι.86 Friend, if you sail for Mytilene with its lovely dancing ground to breathe in the flower of Sappho’s Graces, tell how a Locrian woman bore one loved by the Muses, and by her. Know that my name is Nossis; now go.

(p.168) Nossis explicitly and aggressively claims equality with Sappho as a way to declare her own high status as a poet, although her claim will only be broadcast successfully if the “stranger” obliges her by spreading the word in Mytilene itself. Nossis replaces Sappho’s Mytilene with a reference to her own Locris, and, while her predecessor is called the “flower of all Graces,” Nossis herself boasts of being “loved by the Muses,” asserting a more direct connection to the wellsprings of poetry. Sappho is the yardstick by which the younger poet measures her own success, but she also represents a standard that Nossis hopes to equal, if not surpass outright. The tension of homage and challenge resonates loudly in this short poem. Balbilla also uses Sappho as a yardstick for skill and fame although through less direct allusions: suggestively similar language, idiom, and dialect. Thus Sappho is imagined as an “enabling precedent”87 by generations of female poets well before and after Julia Balbilla. I have focused in this chapter on the ramifications of Julia Balbilla’s choice of a Sapphic voice for her inscriptions on the colossus on Memnon. In a general way, while the female poets Julia Balbilla and Damo turn to Sappho as their primary model for praising Memnon, the rest of the inscribers worship not just Memnon but Homer himself, and the whole cultural nexus he represented in the first and Page 24 of 32

Sapphic Memnon second centuries CE. This monument from a different millennium in a foreign land is made relevant to contemporary Romans through the lens of archaic Greek myth and poetry. Some of the Hadrianic inscriptions imply a consecration of Memnon as a god, and the establishment of a cult in his honor,88 but the real cult here is that of Greek antiquity. Those who inscribed their names on the Memnon colossus had multiple reasons for doing so: to immortalize their names, to pay homage to a divinity who might favor them, to claim their status as educated men and women, and to flatter their emperor, who overtly favored Greek learning.89 The inscribers saw the advantage in honoring Greek culture as a way to define their (Greco-)Romanness; they showed how, even in a land as far away as Egypt, everything still was best seen through a Greek lens. In the next chapter, we will explore how, after many years in which Memnon stood lonely and unvisited on the plain, a new generation of admirers came to pay their respects. European travelers, scholars, and poets rediscovered the colossus and used it to enrich their own cult of Greek and Roman antiquity. But, as we will shortly discover, “modern” Memnon will no longer be able to speak for himself. Notes:

(1) See Adrian (1972); Hodot (1974); Teijeiro (1984): 1: 99–102; Hodot (1990): 12–13; Ippolito (1996): 119–136; Rosenmeyer (2008): 333–357; Tribulato (2008): 145–175, esp. 158–159; and the detailed discussion in Cirio (2011). (2) Bernand and Bernand (1960): 99. For commentary on this text, see Cirio (2011): 137–138. (3) E.g., Balbilla 28–31, Sabina 32, Lucius Flavianus Philippus 33, Artemidorus 34, Quintus Apuleianus 35. (4) Brennan (1998): 215–234, esp. 217. Cirio (2011): 74 prints a convenient family tree for Balbilla. (5) Brennan (1998): 218. Cirio (2011): 58 and Brennan (1998): 221 state that Philopappus also traveled to Egypt at some point, visiting the Valley of the Kings and leaving epigraphical evidence: see IGRR I 1226. (6) See Kleiner (1983). (7) There are other examples of poets and philosophers traveling with highranking Romans, especially in Egypt; the poet Paion of Side, for example, traveled with the prefect Mettius Rufus when he visited Memnon (see inscriptions 11 and 12, discussed in Chapters 2 and 3). For other examples, see Foertmeyer (1989): 184 note 2. (8) Hemelrijk (1999): 146–209; see also Cirio (2003): 95–102.

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Sapphic Memnon (9) Bowie (1990): 53–90, esp. 61–62. One additional reference, if it does refer to the same woman, is CIG III 5904 (p. 778 Franz), a dedication from the city of Taormina to Julia Balbilla in honor of her virtues (ἀρετή, σωφροσύνη, σοφία); σοφία could refer to her skill as a poet, but the text is not entirely clear. See Cirio (2011): 62 for the Greek text of the dedication. (10) De Martino (2006): 404 speaks of her as a “modesta versificatrice, . . . e un po’schizofrenica.” See also Bowie (1990): 61–63: “None of Balbilla’s verse is great poetry, and some of it is atrocious.” Already Peek (1934): 102 had claimed, “Die Gedichte sind dilettantische Versuche einer gelehrten Hofdame, als Zeitdokument interessant, im übrigen herzlich langweilig und gleichgültig.” (11) West (1978): 101–115, esp. 107. This is part of West’s larger thesis that most of the female poets whose works are extant—Erinna, Nossis, the author of the Grenfell papyrus—see Sappho as their direct literary ancestor, and therefore imitate her in dialect, meter, or subject. West also comments that Balbilla’s verses lack any spark of personal warmth, presumably in comparison with what he sees as Sappho’s more emotive and personal lyric voice. (12) Bowie (1990): 62. Antinous was the emperor’s beloved, who died by drowning in the Nile during Hadrian’s Egyptian travels, shortly before the visit to Egyptian Thebes. (13) Birley (1997): 251. (14) Hemelrijk (1999): 170. See also Nisbet (2007): 555–558, who plays up the erotic undertones (“Songs of Balbilitis”) while simultaneously insisting that other scholars have misinterpreted “Balbilla’s soft-focus Sapphistry.” (15) It may be familiar to those who have come across the fictionalized account of Balbilla’s Egyptian voyage in Elizabeth Speller’s 2004 novel, Following Hadrian. (16) Cirio (2011): 67 notes that Balbilla’s prefaces or “titles” do not use dialect forms, but are written in a more standard koine. (17) For a discussion of the transmission and publication history of Balbilla’s verses, see Bernand and Bernand (1960) ad loc., and Cirio (2011): 48–52. (18) Bernand and Bernand (1960): 83–93. (19) Hemelrijk (1999): 165–167. (20) Bernand and Bernand (1960): 83–84; Fein (1994): 112–114; Birley (1997): 250–251; Plant (2004): 151–152. Cf., however, Ippolito (1996); Cirio (2011): 65– 66.

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Sapphic Memnon (21) Bernand and Bernand (1960): 83. (22) Hemelrijk (1999): 168; Cirio (2011): 66: “Una sicura cronologica non mi sembra possa essere delineata.” (23) For the conventional use of the genitive in the prefatory section, see Cirio (2011): 67, who calls it a “genitiva di dedica.” This case is used also in Trebulla (92), as opposed to the nominative used in the opening of 31 (Sabina) and the other two poems by Trebulla (93, 94). However, as suggested by the anonymous reader, “genitive of authorship” is also a perfectly fine way to explain the case. (24) On παμβασίληα, see Ippolito (1996): 122 and Cirio (2011): 81. The word occurs also in Alcaeus fr. 308.3–4 Voigt, with reference to the god Hermes; Aristophanes Clouds 357, 1151; Ap. Rhod. 4.382. (25) For a discussion of what this phrase might mean, see Ippolito (1996): 121– 122; Cirio (2011): 82–83. Peek (1934): 96 thinks it means “soweit eben das Tönen des Steines einen Gruss auszudrücken vermag;” Bernand and Bernand (1960): 85 focus on the fact that this first cry comes just as the sun begins to rise, and that the first response may even be that of silence: “le premier jour le Colosse n’a pas chanté, mais il aurait tout le meme salué l’Empereur, ὠς δύνατον, sans dire mot.” J.M. Edmonds (1925): 108 note 1 had argued the same, but phrased it oddly: “i.e. ‘went on sayin’ nuffin.’ ” I think the interpretation lies somewhere in between: Memnon speaks (εἶπε 4), but perhaps not as loudly as he will in the second hour (6); the marvel of his speaking as best he can even before he addresses his mother indicates the honor in which he holds his visitor. We might compare the phrase to “κατὰ τὸ δυνατόν,” found in a papyrus (SB I 5231) from the Fayum, dated to 11 CE: the record of an Egyptian sale translated into Greek “as well as possible,” since there were apparently no Greek equivalents for some of the Egyptian terms; see Fewster (2002): 232. (26) The parallelism of greeting does not extend to the actual diction: Memnon speaks (εἶπε 28.4) or “sends his voice” (verb ἵημι plus object αὔδαν [28.7] or ἆχον [28.8]); Hadrian is given the elevated verb ἀσπάσσατο (28.9) (see below on epic vocabulary). Ippolito (1996): 123 argues for a difference between αὔδαν (human voice) and ἆχον (musical tone), interpreting the shift as an ascending scale of value. (27) Bowie (2002): 174. (28) See Ippolito (1996): 124. (29) On this topic in general, see Tueller (2010): 42–60. (30) Ippolito (1996): 127–128 notes that in this mythological section, Balbilla chooses vocabulary that is specifically epic or Homeric in tone, while in the

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Sapphic Memnon section on her family, she uses both epic and Aeolic forms, even transposing Homeric vocabulary into Aeolic forms (e.g., γενέας vs. γενεῆς, 29.17). (31) On Cambyses, see Hdt. 3.1–15, 29–30, 64; Paus. 1.42.3. The tradition that Cambyses mutilated Memnon’s body could either supplement or replace the tradition that Memnon’s head fell off after an earthquake (Strabo 17.1.46). Caecilia Trebulla also mentions Cambyses in her epigram on the colossus (94.3– 6). (32) This reading was first suggested by West (1977): 120. See the discussion in Ippolito (1996): 128–129. (33) As suggested by the anonymous reader, it is tempting to relate Julia Balbilla’s detailed statements about her identity to the catalogues of political and military status (“cursus honorum”) in some of the male-authored inscriptions. (34) See Lane Fox (1987): 126 on the comparable Christian idea that “the ‘vision’ of a god was attached explicitly to pious spiritual effort.” (35) For details, see below, as well as Ippolito (1996): 130–131 and Cirio (2011): 104–108. (36) Ippolito (1996): 131–132 suggests convincingly that Hadrian here is represented in the role of a Homeric hero. (37) For specific examples of Aeolic and epic forms in this section, see Bernand and Bernand (1960): 95; Ippolito (1996): 131; Cirio (2011): 106–108. (38) See, for example, the similar technique in Callimachus’s Bath of Pallas. (39) Bernand and Bernand (1960): 97–98 prefer the former, and would like to differentiate the tenses of the two verbs, making the aorist ἦλθον (3) anterior in time to the imperfect ἔκλυον (1), but I am not fully convinced by their argument. See the discussion in Ippolito (1996): 133. (40) While Sabina is at least granted an epithet and imperial status (31.3), and connected to her social context through the possessive pronoun “our,” Hadrian seems here to be reduced to shorthand for the calendar year (31.5). (41) Bernand and Bernand (1960): 98. (42) Ippolito (1996): 132. (43) For a detailed philological analysis of the verses, see Bernand and Bernand (1960) ad loc., and Cirio (2011) ad loc. (44) Brennan (1998): 220. Page 28 of 32

Sapphic Memnon (45) AP 7.674; see Bowie (2002): 172–197, esp. 175. (46) Bowie (2002): 174. (47) Schmitz (1997): 71. (48) See Bernand and Bernand (1960); Adrian (1972); Hodot (1974, 1990); Ippolito (1996); Cirio (2011). (49) The technical discussion here is adapted from Bernand and Bernand (1960): 84 and Cirio (2011): 79–88. (50) While epic has both ὅσα and ὅσσα, unaspirated ὄσσα is well documented in Sappho: see Sappho 1.26V, Sappho 5.5V, and Sappho 5.3V starting with κὤττι. I thank the anonymous reader for these points. (51) Brennan (1998): 218; Foertmeyer (1989): 16. (52) West (1978): 107–108. However, I agree with Roger Bagnall’s interpretation, already presented in my Chapter 2, that Phamenoth was inscribed by mistake, confused for Amenoth: the stone-cutter should have inscribed not Φαμένωθ but ῥ’ Ἀμένωθ. (53) Whitmarsh (2001): 88. (54) West (1977): 120. (55) Stehle (1997): 317. (56) Brennan (1998): 227. (57) On this issue, see, for example, Rissman (1983); Rosenmeyer (1998): 123– 149. (58) Thus Ippolito (1996): 133 argues for only three uncontestable references in Balbilla to Alcaic or Sapphic source texts (28.3 = Alcaeus 308 Voigt; 29.11 = Sappho 52 Voigt; 30.3 = Sappho 96 Voigt), as opposed to a more general Aeolic or lyric tone adopted by the imperial poet. (59) Adding to the complex layered effect of her compositions, Balbilla also nods to the generic conventions of epigram; she composes in elegiac rather than lyric meters, since elegiacs (and dactylic hexameter) were conventionally used for inscriptions. Claudia Damo (83) also alludes to Sappho, although she may also be responding directly to Julia Balbilla’s allusions to Sappho; on Damo, see below. (60) Ancona (2002): 161–186, esp. 169.

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Sapphic Memnon (61) For full discussion of the morphology, see Cirio (2011): 104–108, with commentary. (62) I thank Calvert Watkins for pointing this out to me viva voce; it is also mentioned in Teijeiro (1984): 101 and Ippolito (1996): 131. (63) Voigt’s text is conservative here, but Wilamowitz’s reconstruction of χαρίεσσα μόρφα is noted in her critical apparatus. (64) The only other instance of μόρφα (without an adjective) in Sappho is 132.2 Voigt. (65) Καὶ τρίτος εὐχαίτης τριποδηλάλος ἦεν Ἀπόλλων,/καλὸς ἰδεῖν· πλόκαμος γὰρ ἕλιξ ἐπιδέδρομεν ὤμοις/ἀμφοτέροις· ἐρατὴ δὲ θεοῦ διεφαίνετο μορφή,/χαλκῷ κόσμον ἄγουσα. (And next was a third [statue of] Apollo, the one with lovely hair who speaks from the tripod. His curly locks cascaded over both shoulders; the beautiful body of the god was revealed, showing its shape in the bronze). Greek text from Paton (1920): 1:80. (66) See Cirio (2011): 110–114 with commentary. (67) Although the form πίσυρες, not πέσυρες, would be expected, as pointed out to me by the anonymous reader. (68) Bernand and Bernand (1960): 20. (69) On this topic in general, see Yatromanolakis (2008). (70) On the composition of Sappho Book 1, see Burris, Fish, and Obbink (2014:) 1–28. (71) Plutarch Quaest. conv. 711d; see also 622c. (72) Aulus Gellius Noctes Atticae 19.9.4. (73) Dio Chrysostom, Discourse 64 “On Fortune” (II) 2; Galen, Quod animi mores corporis temperamenta sequantur, in Kühn (1822), vol. 4, 771: “. . . nemo est, qui non Homerum poëtam, Sappho poëtriam accipiat.” For Sappho’s reputation in antiquity, see, e.g., Williamson (1995): 22 and Brooten (1996): 29–32. (74) Lucian De Merc. Cond. 36, usually dated to 169 CE. (75) Catullus 35.16–17: “. . . Sapphica puella/Musa doctior”; Prop. 2.3.19; Horace Odes 2.13.24–25, 4.9.10–12; Ovid Her. 15, Tr. 2.365–366: “Lesbia quid docuit Sappho . . . ,” Tr. 3.7.19–20. (76) Cf., however, Auanger (2002): 211–255, esp. 216–222. I am perhaps overemphasizing the identification of Sappho as learned poet in this period to Page 30 of 32

Sapphic Memnon argue that “being Sappho” for Balbilla need not automatically imply a sexual relationship with the empress. It is true that debates over Sappho’s sexuality had already arisen by this time, and the literary tradition often connected feminine learnedness with potential promiscuity (although not necessarily homoerotic promiscuity). Martial jokes that if the Roman elegist Sulpicia Caleni, known for her frankly erotic poems, had taught Sappho, the latter would have been both more learned and more chaste (Ep. 10.35.15–16); slightly later Apuleius refers to Sappho’s wanton (lascive) yet graceful poetry (Apol. 9, p. 10 Helm). (77) Campbell (1982): 1: 18. (78) Damo’s Aeolicisms include Αὔως (1); ἀ, Δαμώ, ἐμὰ, and φέροισα (3); ἆι and κρέτος (4); she may have borrowed φιλαοιδὸς (3) from Sappho 58.12 Voigt (φιλάοιδον λιγύραν χελύνναν). See Cirio (2011): 122–123. See also Greene and Skinner (2009): 11–14, where both Obbink and West read φιλάοιδον λιγύραν χελύνναν in the second line of the “Tithonus” poem. (79) Bernand and Bernand (1960): 179–180; Cirio (2011): 119–126. (80) The Homeric expression occurs at, e.g., Il. 1.572, 578; 14.132; Od. 3.164, 16.375, 18.56. (81) Brennan (1998): 228–229. See 29.11–12 for Balbilla’s promise of immortality for Memnon; see also Posidippus’s comparable claim for Sappho (Pos. 122 A-B). (82) West (1978): 108–109. (83) Day (2000): 37–57, esp. 38–40. (84) On Sappho as “tenth muse,” see Gossetti-Murrayjohn (2006): 21–45. (85) Gutzwiller (1998): 86; Bowman (1998): 38–59, esp. 39–42. See in particular Bowman (1998): 50: “Nossis’ poems are thus the work of a poet in a subordinate cultural group, working within the conventions and attempting to garner the favourable opinion of the dominant group. Nossis cites Sappho because Sappho was the only female poet to become famous in the mainstream tradition;” and Gutzwiller (1998): 86: “Nossis’ epigram is a plea for poetic immortality, for a place within the tradition of women’s poetry.” See also Bowman (2004): 1–27. (86) The Greek text here is corrupt at various points; I adopt this version from Acosta-Hughes (2010): 85; for the textual problems, see Gutzwiller (1998): 85– 86. (87) Skinner (1991): 20–47, esp. 34. (88) For what resembles a reference to cult activity at the colossus, see Funisulanus 19. Page 31 of 32

Sapphic Memnon (89) Bernand and Bernand (1960): 23.

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Modern Memnon

The Language of Ruins: Greek and Latin Inscriptions on the Memnon Colossus Patricia A. Rosenmeyer

Print publication date: 2018 Print ISBN-13: 9780190626310 Published to Oxford Scholarship Online: May 2018 DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780190626310.001.0001

Modern Memnon Patricia A. Rosenmeyer

DOI:10.1093/oso/9780190626310.003.0006

Abstract and Keywords Chapter 6 starts with the accidental silencing of the statue in the early third century CE, and jumps ahead to its rediscovery in Europe. In the mid-eighteenth century, travelers reported seeing a huge statue with poems etched on its surface. Later, Napoleon’s surveyors brought back drawings scribbled down in their free time. The nineteenth century saw a craze for all things Egyptian: Hegel mentioned the colossus; Keats and Wordsworth turned Memnon into a Romantic hero. Memnon functioned as an alter ego for the poet himself, broken in body yet still striving to sing in the harsh environment of the real world. Just as he had in the imperial period, Memnon also represented something strange and inexplicable. The striking voice of Shelley’s “Ozymandias” is also heard only in the context of fragmentation and decay. The status of these statues as fragments, as colossal wrecks, allows for the magic of the voice. Keywords:   Memnon, Egypt, colossus, Hegel, Keats, Wordsworth, Romantic, Ozymandias, Napoleon

As we approach the last chapter in vocal Memnon’s “life,” the mystery of his voice will be replaced by the mystery of his silence. He stops speaking as suddenly as he began, and we can only speculate about the reasons behind the change. But Memnon’s silence will turn out to be just as intriguing as his utterances; the intrepid European explorers who visited Egypt in the early eighteenth century found the colossal statue just as compelling as their ancient predecessors had almost two millennia earlier. Amateur archaeologists and antiquarians came with guidebooks in hand, having read Herodotus, Strabo, and (as we will see) Juvenal; others, like the French artist Dominique-Vivant Denon, came in the employ of Napoleon’s army, with scientific or artistic goals of Page 1 of 40

Modern Memnon documenting masterpieces of ancient art. Many commented on the presence of the inscriptions, on the monumentality of the statue, and on something mysterious and ghostly in its substance, even in the absence of its voice. As the statue gradually came to be better known in Europe, it elicited a range of reactions from poets, scholars, and artists. Hegel, for example, accepted the idea that Memnon had spoken in the far distant past, but faulted the statue for its current inability to speak of its own accord; he claimed that since it required an external force to animate it (i.e., the sun’s rays), it would always remain somehow less than human in its effect on viewers. Others reacted by humanizing Memnon: they re-created him in their own image as a long-suffering Romantic hero, and sought a way to bring back his powers of speech. Wordsworth, Byron, and Keats imagined that his “song” emanated from a musical instrument, an Aeolian harp that played itself, untouched by human hands. Tennyson dropped the attribute of the lyre and gave us back the fourth-century Memnon familiar to Jerome, complete with expressive lips, eyes, and face, which he directs upward at dawn to receive his mother’s welcoming rays. But Tennyson’s Memnon, while whole in body, sits in eternal silence, a stony reminder of the lost glories of ancient Thebes. This chapter on “modern” Memnon will conclude with a return to the trope of prosopopeia, with examples from German and English Romanticism, as Memnon is granted another (p.170) chance to speak for himself, this time on the pages of musical scores as well as in lines of poetry.

The Silencing of Memnon In his magisterial monograph on the Memnon colossus—La statue vocale de Memnon, considérée dans ses rapports avec l’Égypte et la Grèce (Paris, 1833)— the French archaeologist Jean-Antoine Letronne was the first to suggest that the Roman emperor Septimius Severus (145–211 CE) was responsible for the accidental silencing of the statue; most scholars since then have followed his lead.1 He based his argument on two main pieces of evidence: first, that the latest datable inscription, according to his reckoning, was from 196 CE, and second, that Septimius Severus visited the Memnon colossus when he was in Egypt in 199 CE.2 The emperor’s Egyptian travels are documented in the Historia Augusta: “Nam et Memphim et Memnonen et pyramides et labyrinthum diligenter inspexit” (HA Sept. Sev. 17.4: “For he carefully investigated Memphis, Memnon, the Pyramids, and the labyrinths”).3 Letronne acknowledges, however, that the emperor left no inscription behind to commemorate his visit, nor did he mark his name at the foot of the statue to celebrate the year of its “restoration,” which was customary when repairing a building or a statue.4 Other scholars have inferred from the absence of an inscription that the statue chose not to speak to this particular royal visitor, and that it was precisely the colossus’s silence that spurred Septimius Severus to attempt repairs.5 Ironically, the repairs silenced the colossus forever.

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Modern Memnon There is no doubt that the colossus fell silent sometime in the late second or early third centuries CE, and that it was most likely the victim of an overly zealous restoration of its upper torso. If we are correct in assuming that the warmth of the rising sun caused the exposed cracks in the inner stones of the broken statue’s base to expand and produce the odd sound effect, it follows logically that a change in the shape of the colossus would alter the physical interaction; once new blocks of stone were placed on top of the damaged section, covering the cracks and smoothing the surface, this natural phenomenon could no longer take place. But some doubt remains about the identity of the person who gave the orders for the repairs. (p.171) Glen Bowersock has challenged the identification of Septimius Severus as the culprit.6 He points out that it is risky to assume a correlation between the last datable inscription and the end of Memnon’s vocalization, since there are so many undated texts on the colossus; in addition, even if there were a correlation, it could be easily explained by the fact that almost all of the easily accessible spots were already filled up with writing; perhaps Septimius Severus felt it would be beneath his dignity to leave his mark too high up the leg, or in a spot untouched by the rays of the morning sun. Bowersock also counters Letronne’s claim of the last datable inscription with evidence from the Bernands’ (1960) edition of two inscriptions dated after 196 CE: 60, by Marcus Herennius, and 61, by the sophist Falernus, both of which appeared briefly in my first chapter. The last three lines of 60, while quite difficult to decipher, appear to say “Memnonem audivi . . . Geta co(n)s(ule).” If the textual reconstruction is correct, this inscription must have been written in 205 CE, as Septimius Severus’s younger son, Publius Septimius Geta, was consul with his elder brother Caracalla in that year.7 The text of 61, in turn, appears to have been etched over the previously carved 60, offering further confirmation of inscriptional activity as late as 205 CE. With these two texts to support his argument, Bowersock then champions another ruler who engaged in restoration projects throughout Roman Egypt: Queen Zenobia of Palmyra.8 In 269 CE, Zenobia and her army successfully invaded Egypt, and she was regent on behalf of her son, Vaballathus, for several years before Aurelian finally crushed her forces in 272 CE. Bowersock proposes that Zenobia and her son Vaballathus carried out several projects of restoration in Egypt, among them the reconstruction of the colossus of Memnon. Reconstruction at this time would adequately account for the later instances of the miracle while, at the same time, it would provide a suitably early date for the silencing of Memnon in order to explain the ignorance of the phenomenon in the fourth century.9

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Modern Memnon While we may ultimately have to accept some uncertainty surrounding the precise date of Memnon’s silencing, it is clear that by the early fourth century CE, all was quiet. The contemporary historian Ammianus Marcellinus, for example, says nothing about Memnon’s miraculous sound, although (p.172) elsewhere in his Res Gestae (22.16.12) he praises the Serapeum in Egypt as one of the glories of the Roman Empire, suggesting his familiarity with Egyptian landmarks.10 In contrast, Jerome explicitly highlights Memnon’s silence in his universal history, the Chronicle (ca. 380 CE), a Latin translation and continuation of Eusebius’s earlier Greek Chronicle (ca. 325 CE). Jerome, following Eusebius, surmises that the birth of Christ undermined the authority of many ancient oracular sites, and that Memnon’s silence was solid proof of the triumph of Christianity over paganism (Chronicle 38.20 Helm):11 Hic est Amenophis seu Amenopthes, quem quidam Memnonem putant lapidem loquentem, cuius statua usque ad adventum Christi sole oriente vocem dare dicebatur . . . This is Amenophis or Amenopthes, whom certain people thought to be Memnon, the speaking stone, whose statue, until the arrival of Christ, was said to give forth a voice with the rising [of the] sun . . . As an eloquent (but anonymous) contributor to Fraser’s Magazine, a literary journal published in London in the mid-1800s, puts it, “The oracles of the idols, being the treacherous exhalations of the devil, were struck mute when the Savior of mankind came into the world.”12

Callistratus’s “On the Statue of Memnon” Before leaving Memnon behind in the fourth century, a colossal form that has regained its physical integrity but lost its famous voice, we will make a small detour to consider Callistratus’s Ekphraseis, or Statuarum descriptiones, a collection of fourteen short descriptions of artwork representing mythical or literary characters, including an entry entitled “On the Statue of Memnon.” This text clings resolutely to a version already encountered in Philostratus’s Life of Apollonius of Tyana: both Philostratus and Callistratus, although separated by some two centuries, describe Memnon as simultaneously whole and resonant, (p.173) in spite of the fact that this is clearly a historical impossibility, as discussed previously. Much ink has been spilled in the attempt to pin down dates for this particular Callistratus, as the name was not uncommon in antiquity. The most recent editors of the collection, Balbina Bäbler and Heinz-Günther Nesselrath, place this Callistratus in Constantinople, and argue for a floruit sometime between the founding of that city (330 CE) and the destruction by fire of Lausus’s palace (ca. 475 CE), which housed a famous art collection including several of the pieces discussed.13 Callistratus’s descriptions of some of these pieces seem to follow in the footsteps of Philostratus’s Eikones: both works explore the power of rhetoric Page 4 of 40

Modern Memnon to make material images appear vividly before their readers’ eyes. While Callistratus may indeed have seen in Lausus’s gallery some of the statues he describes (e.g., Praxiteles’ Eros, Lysippus’s Kairos), it is highly unlikely that he traveled to Egyptian Thebes to see the Memnon colossus; instead, like other authors before him, he turned to earlier literary sources for inspiration. The text corroborates this, at least for its final paragraph, by its phrasing “the story (logos) runs that . . .,” a conventional authorial disclaimer.14 Here is the full text of Callistratus’s Memnon description (Ekphr. 9):15 Ἐθέλω δέ σοι καὶ τὸ Μέμνονος ἀφηγήσασθαι θαῦμα · καὶ γὰρ ὄντως παράδοξος ἡ τέχνη καὶ κρείττων ἀνθρωπίνης χειρός. τοῦ Τιθωνοῦ Μέμνονος εἰκὼν ἦν ἐν Αἰθιοπίᾳ ἐκ λίθου πεποιημένη, οὐ μὴν ἐν τοῖς οἰκείοις ὅροις ἔμενε λίθος ὢν οὐδὲ τὸ τῆς φύσεως σιγηλὸν ἠνείχετο, ἀλλὰ καὶ λίθος ὢν εἶχεν ἐξουσίαν φωνῆς· νῦν μὲν γὰρ ἀνίσχουσαν τὴν Ἡμέραν προσεφθέγγετο ἐπισημαίνων τῇ φωνῇ τὴν χαρὰν καὶ ἐπὶ ταῖς τῆς μητρὸς παρουσίαις φαιδρυνόμενος, νῦν δὲ ἀποκλινομένης εἰς νύκτα ἐλεεινόν τι καὶ ἀλγεινὸν ἔστενε πρὸς τὴν ἀπουσίαν ἀνιώμενος. Ἠπόρει δὲ οὐδὲ δακρύων ὁ λίθος, ἀλλ᾿ εἶχεν ὑπηρετούμενα τῇ βουλήσει καὶ ταῦτα. καὶ ἦν Μεμνόνιος ἡ εἰκὼν μόνῳ μὲν τοῦ ἀνθρωπίνου διαλλάττειν μοι δοκεῖ σώματι, ὑπὸ δὲ ψυχῆς τινος καὶ ὁμοίας προαιρέσεως ἀγομένη κατηυθύνετο. εἶχε γοῦν ἐγκεκραμένα καὶ τὰ λυποῦντα καὶ πάλιν ἡδονῆς αἴσθησις αὐτὸν κατελάμβανεν ὑπ᾿ ἀμφοτέρων τῶν παθῶν πληττόμενον. καὶ ἡ μὲν φύσις τὴν λίθων γένεσιν ἄφθογγον παρήγαγε καὶ κωφὴν καὶ μήτε ὑπὸ λύπης ἐθέλουσαν διοικεῖσθαι μήτε εἰδυῖαν ἡσθῆναι, ἀλλὰ καὶ πάσαις τύχαις ἄτρωτον, ἐκείνῳ δὲ τῷ Μέμνονος λίθῳ καὶ ἡδονὴν παρέδωκεν ἡ τέχνη καὶ πέτραν ἀνέμιξεν ἀλγεινῷ, καὶ μόνην ταύτην ἐπιστάμεθα τὴν τέχνην νοήματα τῷ λίθῳ καὶ φωνὴν ἐνθεῖσαν. Ὁ μὲν γὰρ Δαίδαλος μέχρι μὲν κινήσεως ἐνεανιεύετο καὶ δύναμιν εἶχεν ἡ ἐκείνου τέχνη ἐξιστάναι τὰς ὕλας καὶ εἰς χορείαν κινεῖν, ἀμήχανον (p.174) δὲ ἦν καὶ παντελῶς ἄπορον καὶ φωνῆς μέτοχα πραγματεύεσθαι τὰ ποιήματα· αἱ δὲ Αἰθιόπων χεῖρες πόρους τῶν ἀμηχάνων ἐξεῦρον καὶ τὴν ἀφθογγίαν ἐξενίκησαν τοῦ λίθου. ἐκείνῳ τῷ Μέμνονι καὶ τὴν Ἠχὼ λόγος ἀντηχεῖν, ὁπότε φθέγγοιτο, καὶ γοερὸν μὲν στενάζοντι γοερὸν ἀντιπέμπειν μέλος, εὐπαθοῦντι δὲ ἀνταποδιδόναι τὴν ἠχὴν ἀντίμιμον. ἐκεῖνο τὸ δημιούργημα καὶ τῇ Ἡμέρᾳ τὰς ἀνίας ἐκοίμιζε καὶ οὐκ εἴα μαστεύειν τὸν παῖδα, ὡς ἂν ἀντιτιθείσης αὐτῷ1 τῆς Αἰθιόπων τέχνης τὸν ἐκ τῆς εἱμαρμένης ἀφανισθέντα Μέμνονα. I also want to describe to you the miracle of Memnon; for the skill that went into its construction was amazing, and beyond the ability of human hands. In Ethiopia there was a stone statue of Memnon, son of Tithonus; but although it was made of stone, it did not stay within its proper limits, nor did it keep silent as was its nature, but in spite of being stone, it had the power of speech. For at one moment it greeted the rising Dawn, indicating joy by its voice and expressing delight at the arrival of its Page 5 of 40

Modern Memnon mother; and at another moment, as day passed into night, it uttered sad and pitiful groans, grieving at her departure. Nor did the stone lack tears, but it had these, too, to serve at its command. The statue of Memnon seems to me to differ from a human being only in its body, since it was directed and guided by a kind of soul and a human will. At any rate, both grief and then again a feeling of pleasure seized it, as it was filled up in turn by each emotion. Although nature made all stones from the beginning voiceless and mute, and unwilling to be controlled by grief or know anything of joy, but rather immune to all matters of chance, yet to that stone statue of Memnon, art gave pleasure and mixed in pain; and this is the only work of art we know that has perceptions and a voice placed inside the stone. Daedalus did indeed advance boldly as far as motion is concerned, and his skills were powerful enough to set up the materials and make them move as if dancing; but it was impossible and completely out of the question for him to make objects that could speak. Yet the hands of Ethiopians discovered ways to accomplish the impossible, and they overcame the inability of stone to speak. It is said that Echo answered this Memnon whenever he spoke, sending forth a mournful song in response to his mournful song, and returning a joyful sound in imitation of his expression of joy. This statue both put to rest the sorrows of Day and allowed her to give up the search for her son, as if the skill of the Ethiopians were compensating her with the statue for the Memnon who had been snatched away from her. Callistratus’s report differs in a few details from earlier descriptions. First, he claims that the colossus speaks twice every day, not just at dawn but also at dusk; the early morning greeting is one of joy and delight at his mother’s arrival, while the later utterances are interpreted as “piteous and mournful groans in grief at her departure.”16 Second, the stone statue actually weeps real (p.175) tears. Philostratus’s Damis, encountered in Chapter 3, had informed us that the colossus had a marvelous expression in its eyes, and that when the sun’s rays touched its face and lips, the statue fixed its eyes cheerfully on the light. While Callistratus’s version also depicts a face, with eyes that can express emotion and weep, his Memnon, in contrast, moves from cheerfulness at dawn to tears and lament at night. We have seen previously that many of the inscriptions record the same conundrum that engages Callistratus, namely that, against all expectation, the statue is simultaneously inanimate and animate: the colossus “did not abide within its proper limits nor endure the silence imposed on it by nature.” Callistratus initially attributes the stone’s animation through speech and action to something beyond human skill and understanding (“beyond the power of human hand”), and to a kind of human soul or will hidden within the stone itself. Callistratus’s double attribution of both human behavior and superhuman power to the statue, and his conviction that the statue possesses a soul, recall Julia Page 6 of 40

Modern Memnon Balbilla’s words (29.12) that Memnon possessed an “immortal soul,” as well as Caecilia Trebulla’s expression of wonder (93.4–5): “Can it be that nature, demiurge of the universe, has given perception and speech to the stone?” We can see throughout this passage how the author, like Balbilla and Trebulla, struggles to find language that can respond to this unique situation: the statue is definitely made of inanimate stone, yet can feel and express pleasure, grief, and pain just like a human being. But in the last line, the tension between human and lithic nature gives way to a desperate division: the creators of the statue understand it not as Memnon himself, but as a kind of stony compensation for the real Memnon, her son, who had been snatched away from her in the battle for Troy. The speaking statue is effectively classified by Callistratus as a brilliant technical achievement; any other classification would require suspending one’s disbelief (παράδοξος) and accepting the impossible (ἀμήχανον δὲ ἦν καὶ παντελῶς ἄπορον). Callistratus states that nature should have imposed silence on the stone. Caecilia Trebulla had focused on the only possible explanation, that nature herself, in her identity as a “demiurge,” had granted speech to the stone, which then straddled the normative categories of living (divine) creature and constructed artifact. But while struggling to comprehend the miracle (θαῦμα) of Memnon, Callistratus gradually convinces himself that the speaking colossus must be the product of supernaturally talented human manufacture: he emphasizes the marble materiality of the statue (ἡ εἰκὼν) and praises the hands of the human artists (αἱ δὲ Αἰθιόπων χεῖρες) that were so skilled as to put voice inside the stone. Just as Daedalus could transgress the laws of nature by making marvelous automata that could move their limbs in dance,17 so the Ethiopians who (p.176) built the colossus seem to him to have accomplished the impossible: “they overcame the inability of the stone to speak.” Callistratus sums up the uniqueness of Memnon’s situation by stating that “this is the only work of art of which we know that has implanted in the stone perceptions and a voice.” Even though the object is made of stone—note the repetition of λίθος ὢν—this stone has feelings, and expresses them in cries of joy and tears of sorrow, just like a human. And according to Callistratus, the statue’s miraculous humanity allows Memnon’s mother to feel somewhat compensated for the loss of her son. In addition, the statue is so much like a human being that Echo herself is convinced to imitate it: she copies its mournful lament at night, and imitates its expressions of joy at in the morning. Echo’s limitations, in that she can only speak in response to another voice, highlight Memnon’s human emotions and free will, in that he addresses his mother when he sees her approach each dawn and when she departs at dusk; although he, too, is said in most sources to answer his mother, rather than to speak first. But Memnon communicates with his voice, while Echo can only . . . echo. The introduction of Echo into Memnon’s story is a new twist to the tradition, and connects Memnon to yet another mythos about loss, sound production, and communication (or lack Page 7 of 40

Modern Memnon thereof).18 We will return to Memnon’s “humanity” later in the chapter, when Romantic poets adopt the idea, familiar already from the inscriptions, of a suffering, noble hero, trapped in his rocky carapace. If any fourth-century traveler had set out for Egyptian Thebes after having read Callistratus’s description, eager to see tears trickling down the stone face, and to hear the voice of Memnon at dawn and again at dusk, he or she would have been bitterly disappointed. The body was whole, but the voice had fallen silent. It is not surprising that visits (or, rather, documentation of visits) ceased shortly after the colossus stopped speaking sometime in the early third century CE; if the main point of visiting and leaving behind inscriptions was to bear witness to a miracle, when the miracle stopped functioning, pilgrims and tourists would have naturally turned elsewhere. Memnon would have to wait more than a millennium before being rediscovered by a rather different type of visitor. Memnon’s “dark age” is neatly summarized by George Curzon, viceroy of India from 1899 to 1905, in one of his earlier travel articles:19 The later history of Memnon may be dismissed almost in a sentence. From the beginning of the third century A.D. a cloud of impenetrable darkness settles down upon his fame and fortunes, and no suspicion was entertained that the vocal image still existed at Thebes till it was again identified between 1737 and 1739 by Pococke, who copied some of the inscriptions and published in his travels a description and drawing of the statue. Norden, the Danish traveller, had (p.177) visited the spot on December 12, 1737; but from the report which he sent to the Royal Society in London, in 1741, it does not appear even to have crossed his mind that the northern colossus was that of Memnon, though he copied a few of the inscriptions and made a drawing of the lower half of the figure. From that time to this the investigation has proceeded with ever increasing interest . . .

Memnon “Rediscovered” Curzon’s references to Richard Pococke and Frederick Norden bring us full circle, as we already met these men in the first chapter. While they actually visited the Memnon colossus, following in the footsteps of previous travelers,20 many others in the seventeenth, eighteenth, and early nineteenth centuries, equally curious about Memnon, wrote from the comfort of their armchairs.21 One of the oddest of this group was the Jesuit polymath Athanasius Kircher (1602–1680), whom some consider to be the founder of modern Egyptology.22 Kircher’s fascination with ancient Egypt supposedly began when he was in his mid-twenties in Germany, when he read about Roman obelisks and was captivated by their design.23 He fled Germany during the Thirty Years War, and arrived in Rome just after Galileo’s condemnation, where he was given the Chair of Mathematics at the Collegium Romanum. He took advantage of his secure academic position to study and publish on Coptic, Egyptian, Greek, and Hebrew, Page 8 of 40

Modern Memnon and soon developed a reputation for being able to decipher hieroglyphics. He was a serious scholar in many areas—he wrote over thirty volumes, mostly intended for wealthy patrons, on topics as varied as optics, music, magnetism, and a theory of universal language. He was also famous for building automata powered by hydraulic or pneumatic devices, or cleverly designed using mirrors and magnets, which he then displayed to curious visitors in his private museum in the Collegium Romanum.24 His claim that he had deciphered hieroglyphics, however, was a gross exaggeration; that grand achievement would have to wait for the discovery of the Rosetta stone in 1799. (p.178) Kircher’s main publication on hieroglyphics was Oedipus aegyptiacus (Rome, 1652–1654), in which he discusses the Memnon statue under the subtitle “De Machinis Thaumaturgis Aegyptiorum Veterum.”25 The juxtaposition of thauma and “machina” already gives the reader a hint as to Kircher’s approach: he wishes to explain away the marvelous through the laws of physics. Kircher begins with “Statuae Memnonis modus et ratio,” saying, “No one did not know Memnon, sung of so often by the poets . . .” (“Memnona Poëtis cantatissimum nemo non novit . . .”).26 He then lists his ancient sources for information on the statue—Pliny, Philostratus, Lucian, Strabo, and Pausanias—and describes their views. But he clearly comes into his own when he promises an explanation of the “science” behind the miracle: Cum Historiae dicant, statuam Memnonis oriente sole cytharae sono similem edidisse, quomodo id fieri potuerit, hoc loco, ratiocinio PhysicoMathematico ostendendum duxi. As the historians would say, the statue of Memnon, at sunrise, used to give out a sound similar to that of a harp; in what way this was able to occur in this place, I have endeavored to show using reasoning from the fields of Physics and Mathematics. Kircher concludes his treatment of Memnon with a technical drawing revealing all sorts of artificial assistance: pulleys, wheels, and metal pipes that would be heated up by the rising sun, thus causing the mysterious “voice” to sing out.27 Kircher’s (pseudo-)scientific approach to Memnon’s miraculous voice raises questions that have surfaced throughout this study: is Memnon an independent agent or simply a mediator of sound? Is his voice immortal or the product of human craft? While still acknowledging the role of the sun in his analysis, Kircher comes down strongly on the side of human technical skill. In many ways, although he was certainly extraordinary in his range of specific skills, Kircher is typical of this period: a historian working within the Catholic Church, a humanist who was also a scientist, fascinated by stories from antiquity, yet eager to explain them away in rational terms. But he was not above taking on the role of “demiurge” himself: he apparently included in his private museum (p.179) a

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Modern Memnon miniature (!) statue of Memnon that cried out on command, mystifying and delighting all those who saw it.28 As the centuries progressed, European scholars continued to be fascinated with Memnon even if, like Kircher, they did not visit the site itself. In Germany, Paul Ernest Jablonski debated the relationship between Amenhotep and Memnon (De Memnone graecorum et aegyptiorum, Frankfurt, 1754); in France, almost one hundred years later, Jean-Antoine Letronne, whom we met at the beginning of this chapter, investigated evidence for vocal Memnon in multiple publications between 1831 and 1848, working solely from transcriptions and copies of the inscriptions.29 Other scholars asserted that they fully believed that Memnon had spoken in the past, even if he had since fallen silent: the lawyer Christian Kosegarten alluded to the miracle in a collection of letters dedicated to his dead brother (Memnon’s Bildsäule in Briefen an Ida, Berlin, 1799, letters 15 and 16), while the classicist Friedrich Jacobs lectured on the subject at the Akademie der Wissenschaften in Munich in 1810.30 Jacobs’s lectures to his fellow German intellectuals at the Academy may well have been informed by the single most important event in Memnon’s modern life, namely the invasion of Egypt by Napoleon Bonaparte from 1798 to 1801. Napoleon’s army set out from France in May 1798 with three main goals: liberating the native Egyptians from the oppression of their Ottoman rulers; undermining English trade abroad; and consolidating power at home. Along with the army, and actually embedded with the troops, went a large contingent of scientists, artists, and scholars, many of whom would be instrumental later in the foundation of the Institut d’Égypte in Cairo, an interdisciplinary institute dedicated to the tenets of European Enlightenment.31 These engineers, architects, and scientists were tasked with, among other things, improving roads, cataloguing flora and fauna, and even planning a canal between the Mediterranean and the Red Sea. But some of the other work done by this unusual group of men actually had a greater impact on cultural history: it developed the nascent discipline of Egyptology and nourished the intense fascination in early nineteenth-century Europe with all things Egyptian. Thus, to give just two examples, in the second year of the campaign, a young engineer by the name of Pierre-Francois-Xavier Bouchard came across the Rosetta stone, while the artist and archaeologist Dominique-Vivant Denon’s sketches of Egyptian antiquities, undertaken while following the troops (p.180) of General Desaix in Upper Egypt, inspired an Egyptian Revival in French architecture and decorative arts.32 Dominique-Vivant Denon almost inadvertently played a huge role in the rediscovery of the Memnon colossus. As already stated in my first chapter, he was one of the first European artists to document the temple ruins at Philae, Esna, Edfu, and Thebes.33 He published his sketches and descriptions in two volumes shortly after returning to France: Voyage dans la Basse et la Haute Page 10 of 40

Modern Memnon Égypte (Paris, 1802); within a year, the two volumes had been translated into three volumes in English by Arthur Aiken: Travels in Upper and Lower Egypt (London, 1803).34 As his translator writes, The Author, a member of the Institute of Cairo, and an excellent draftsman, was selected to accompany the troops designed for the conquest of Upper Egypt, that under the protection of a military effort, he might have an opportunity of examining those stupendous remains, and eternal documents of the ancient civilization of the country, to which its then unsettled state had denied a peaceable admission.35 Of course, none of the participants in Napoleon’s invasion were satisfied merely with “examining those stupendous remains.” The typically rapacious attitude of the day is reflected in Denon’s comments upon seeing broken pieces of a massive statue near Thebes: One foot of this statue remains, which is broken off and in good preservation; it may be easily carried away, and may give those in Europe a scale of comparison of the monuments of this species, and will serve as a companion to the colossal feet which are in the court of the capitol at Rome.36 Denon himself complained that his job was not an easy one, referring to drawings which I made most frequently on my knee, or standing, or even on horseback. I have never been able to finish any one of them as I could have wished, for this reason, that during the space of a whole year I could never find a table sufficiently straight and even, to be able to lay a ruler on it.37 (p.181) Denon was at heart an architect and draftsman; it is no surprise, then, that unlike Pococke before him, when he finally came to Thebes and recognized the colossal statue of Memnon, he was less interested in the inscriptions etched on the surface than in the size and grandeur of the statue itself. These architectural and structural qualities, rather than the inscribed verses, would profoundly affect the reputation of the colossus for the rest of the century. What did Denon see when he entered the ancient city of Thebes? Here he writes of his first approach:38 . . . this abandoned sanctuary, surrounded with barbarism, and again restored to the desert from which it had been drawn forth, enveloped in the veil of mystery, and the obscurity of ages, whereby even its own colossal monuments are magnified to the imagination, still impressed the mind with such gigantic phantoms, that the whole army, suddenly and with one accord, stood in amazement at the sight of its scattered ruins, and Page 11 of 40

Modern Memnon clapped their hands with delight, as if the end and object of their glorious toils, and the complete conquest of Egypt, were accomplished and secured by taking possession of the splendid remains of this ancient metropolis. Denon’s initial impression of Thebes and its buildings was one of mystery, monumentality, and ruin; the city and its sanctuaries were abandoned, sinking back down into the desert sands, but still powerful enough to represent the whole of Egypt in the imagination of Denon and his French troops. The invading army was constantly on the move, either chasing the enemy or being chased by local Egyptians armed with spears and stones, but it passed near Thebes multiple times. Denon himself counted seven separate trips through the city as he and the army circled around the region. Here is his report of coming face to face with the colossi for the first time:39 Our attention was arrested in the plain by two large statues in a sitting posture . . . The two statues . . . are in the proportion of from fifty to sixtyfive feet in height; they are seated with their two hands on their knees; all that remains of them shews [sic] a severity of style, and a straightness of position. The bas-reliefs and the small figures clustered round the seat of the southernmost of these statues are not without elegance and delicacy in the execution. On the leg of the statue the most to the north, the names of the illustrious and ancient travellers who came to hear the sound of the statue of Memnon are written in Greek. We may here see the great influence which celebrity exercises over the minds of men, since, when the ancient Egyptian government and the jealousy of the priests no longer forbade strangers to touch these monuments, the love (p.182) of the marvelous retained its empire over the minds of those that came hither as visitors. Thus, in the age of Adrian [sic], which was enlightened by philosophy, Sabina, the wife of this emperor, and herself a literary woman, condescended, along with the learned men who accompanied her, to acknowledge that she had heard sounds which no physical cause could have produced. But the vanity of inscribing one’s name on such antiquities might very easily have produced the first on the list, and the natural desire of becoming an associate in this kind of glory might have added the rest, and this is doubtless the reason of the numberless inscriptions of names which we find here, with so many dates, and in so many languages. I had hardly begun to draw these colossal figures, when I found that I was left alone with these stupendous originals, and the ideas which these solitary objects inspired. Being alarmed at my unprotected situation, I hastened to rejoin my comrades . . . Denon begins his description in good scientific fashion, cataloguing size, position, and style of composition. But he quickly shifts into theorizing about the presence of the inscriptions he notices on one of the legs of the northern statue. Oddly, he entirely ignores the presence of Latin texts and speaks only of Greek Page 12 of 40

Modern Memnon writing, although he contradicts himself shortly thereafter, acknowledging “inscriptions of names . . . in so many languages.” He selects for specific commentary only the few lines by Sabina, probably because she and Hadrian were the most familiar historical personages to have visited; in addition, we know that her proskynema was placed in a prominent spot on the colossus. Denon then digresses into speculation as to why these “illustrious and ancient travellers” might have wanted to leave their names behind; he adduces two entirely convincing reasons: first, the vanity of wanting to inscribe one’s name for posterity on a famous monument, what we might call the initial “graffiti” instinct; and second, the herd mentality of adding one’s name to the list, “becoming an associate in this kind of glory.” Denon appears to be a keen interpreter of what he sees as universal human behavior: On his fifth trip to Thebes, Denon managed to arrive at sunrise and . . . hastened to the two colossal statues, and took a view of them with the effect of the sun-rise, at the same hour as strangers used to resort hither to here [sic] the musical sounds from the colossus of Memnon.40 But perhaps the most telling description by Denon is recorded during his sixth visit to Thebes, when he takes the time to consider the full aesthetic effect of the two colossi; he focuses not on their (reconstructed) facial expressions or the position of their limbs, but rather on their perfect proportions, their sheer monumentality:41 (p.183) I then went to the two colossi, supposed to be those of Memnon, and took an accurate drawing of their actual state of preservation. These two pieces of art, which are without grace, expression, or action, have nothing which seduces the judgment; but their proportions are faultless, and this simplicity of attitude, and want of decided expression, has something of majesty and seriousness, which cannot fail to strike the beholder. If the limbs of these figures had been distorted in order to express some violent passion, the harmony of their outline would have been lost, and they would be less conspicuous at the distance at which they begin to strike the eye, and produce their effect on the mind of the spectator, for they may be distinguished as far as four leagues off. To pronounce upon the character of these statues, it is necessary to have seen them at several intervals, and to have long reflected on them; and after this it often happens, that what is first considered as the work of the infancy of art, becomes assigned to its maturer age. If the group of the Laocoon [sic], which speaks to the soul as well as to the eyes, were executed in a proportion of sixty feet, it would lose all its beauty, and would not present so striking a mass of Page 13 of 40

Modern Memnon workmanship as this; in short, if these statues were more agreeable, they would be less beautiful, as they would then cease to be (what they now are) eminently monumental, a character which should belong peculiarly to that out-door sculpture, which is intended to harmonize with architecture, a style of sculpture which the Egyptians have carried to the highest pitch of perfection.

Monumental Memnon Memnon is “eminently monumental,” in Denon’s terms, a massive stone that speaks to the eyes but not the soul. It is a “mass of workmanship.”42 The German literary scholar Bettine Menke points out that this idea of “rohe Masse,” “raw substance,” whether found in nature or manufactured by human hands, was a topic of fascination to many in the nineteenth century. As a massive object, Memnon could be seen simultaneously as something superhuman—sublime—or paradoxically subhuman—monstrous.43 While, as I argue in earlier chapters, ancient visitors to the colossus emphasized Memnon’s humanity and his ability to speak, overlooking or at least not commenting specifically on the statue’s magnitude, nineteenth- and early twentieth-century visitors focused on just the opposite: they described the statue as immeasurably huge, monstrous, and even “still as death.” Here is the reaction of George Curzon, whom we met earlier in the chapter, commenting some eighty years after Denon, as he approaches the statues for the first time:44 (p.184) Then, as the glowing disc sinks behind the hills that enclose the Valley of the Tombs of the Kings and the dwindling radiance of the heavens is repeated in the mirror of the flood, they brood like huge black spectres over the darkening scene. Blacker and huger each moment they become, their monstrous shadows thrown forward upon the lake, till at length even the afterglow has faded, and, still as death themselves, they fitly preside over the deadly stillness of the Southern night. Curzon’s words seem inspired by a kind of Gothic sensibility: brooding specters, monstrous shadows, and deadly stillness. Later in the same article he writes of “grim obliterated faces staring out into vacancy . . . indifferent alike to man and to nature”; he even attributes to the two statues a kind of “Ozymandias factor:” they are “steadfast while empires have crumbled and dynasties decayed . . . There they sit and doubtless will sit till the end of all things—‘sedent aeternumque sedebunt’—a wonder and a witness to men.”45 The fact that Curzon does not distinguish between the (formerly) vocal northern statue of Memnon and its silent partner to the south makes the huge stone monuments appear even less human, without names or backstories.

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Modern Memnon For Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel, the colossi at Egyptian Thebes symbolized the absence of a human soul for entirely different reasons. Like Curzon, Hegel did not distinguish between the speaking and the nonspeaking statue; but his main question was whether the statue possessed subjectivity. In his Lectures on Fine Arts (Vorlesungen über die Ästhetik), collected as notes from lectures given in Heidelberg and Berlin between the years 1818 and 1829, Hegel judged the statues to be not fully human or alive because they lacked any evidence of an interior self:46 Especially remarkable are those colossal statues of Memnon which, resting in themselves, motionless, the arms glued to the body, the feet firmly fixed together, numb, stiff, and lifeless, are set up facing the sun in order to await its ray to touch them and give them soul and sound. Herodotus47 at least relates that statues of (p.185) Memnon gave a sound automatically at sunrise. Of course higher criticism has cast doubt on this, yet the fact of this sound has lately been established again by Frenchmen and Englishmen; and if the sound is not produced by contrivances of some sort, it may still be explained by assuming that, just as there are minerals which rustle in water, the voice of these stone monuments proceeds from the dew and the cool of the morning and then from the falling of the sun’s rays on them, if small rifts arise consequentially and vanish again. But taken as symbols, the meaning to be ascribed to these colossi is that they do not have the spiritual soul freely in themselves and therefore, instead of being able to draw animation from within, from what bears proportion and beauty in itself, they require for it light from without which alone liberates the note of the soul from them. The human voice, on the other hand, resounds out of one’s own feeling and one’s own spirit without any external impulse, just as the height of art in general consists in making the inner give shape to itself out of its own being. But the inner life of the human form is still dumb in Egypt and in its animation it is only a natural factor that is kept in view. Hegel claims that the colossus still has the inner element of subjectivity outside itself; in other words, returning to our focus on the northern statue, Memnon approximates a machine that cannot express itself without an “external impulse,” someone (or something) else flipping a switch, as it were.48 The colossus, he argues, does not have its own soul or spirit that could animate it from within; instead, it needs (sun)light to “liberate the note of the soul from [it]”—that is, elicit the famous voice and effect a brief animation.49 Hegel understands the statue’s dependence on an external force for full animation as a weakness, and more specifically as a mark of its status as an inferior artifact.50 It is “lifeless,” unreactive, in suspended animation until the sun’s rays can touch it and endow it with “soul and sound.”

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Modern Memnon Two generations later, Curzon will repeat this same judgment in somewhat more Romantic terms:51 . . . the power that was in him [Memnon] was communicated from without, and could not be exercised save at the instance of another. Though his lyre was ready strung, the only fingers that could awake its music were the rays of Phoebus Apollo.

(p.186) Romantic Memnon While Curzon’s comments could be understood wholly metaphorically—after all, Memnon held no lyre, and his “music” was in response to his mother Eos, not the more conventional Apollo, sun god and patron of the musical arts52—this reference to Memnon’s lyre reflects a curious misunderstanding that was widespread among poets of the nineteenth century.53 The false assumption that Memnon held an actual musical instrument in his hands, and that this instrument was the source of his magical music, has been traced back to the early second century CE, when Juvenal mentioned the Memnon colossus in the opening of Satire 15:54 Quis nescit, Volusi Bithynice, qualia demens Aegyptos portenta colat? crocodilon adorat pars haec, illa pauet saturam serpentibus ibin. effigies sacri nitet aurea cercopitheci, dimidio magicae resonant ubi Memnone chordae atque uetus Thebe centum iacet obruta portis. Who is ignorant, Volusius of Bithynia, of those monsters the crazy Egyptians worship? One group bows down to a crocodile, another trembles in awe at an ibis, stuffed with snakes. A golden statue of a sacred monkey glitters where magical notes resound from Memnon’s broken statue, and ancient Thebes, with its hundred gates, lies in ruins.

The earliest scholia on line 5 (“Dimidio magicae resonant ubi Memnone chordae”; “Where magical notes resound from Memnon’s broken statue”) date from the sixth century CE but are not well preserved; we are fortunate to have a more reliable ninth-century commentary that picks up on the critical points expressed in the earlier versions:55 Memnonis ex aere statua citharam tenens certis horis canebat. hanc Cambys[es] rex iussit aperiri existimans mec[h]anicum aliquod esse, quod intra statuam lateret. nihilo minus tamen aperta statua, quae erat magic[a]e consecrata, [h]oris statutis sonum reddidit. ideo ‘dimidio’ dixit, id est aperto et diviso. (p.187) The statue of Memnon, made from bronze and [depicted] holding a lyre, used to sing at a particular hour. King Cambyses ordered it to be split open, thinking that there was some mechanism that was hidden inside Page 16 of 40

Modern Memnon the statue. Nevertheless, even though the statue had been opened, because it was under a magic spell, it gave forth a sound at the appointed hour. Therefore Juvenal said “dimidio,” that is, opened and split into two parts. Robin Dix rightly highlights the many errors in this scholiast’s commentary: the statue is actually made of sandstone, not bronze; there is no evidence that it ever held a lyre; and it never produced a sound until after it was broken, not by Cambyses, but by the earthquake documented by Strabo (17.1.46).56 But as with the Philostratus passage discussed earlier, misunderstandings can on occasion be quite revealing. The most interesting error for our purposes is the attribution of a stringed musical instrument to the statue (“citharam tenens”), an attribution that can be traced back to the original sixth-century Juvenal scholia, and even further, to ancient descriptions of Memnon’s cry. As we have already seen, Pausanias, who also accuses Cambyses of having played a role in the statue’s desecration and partial destruction, describes the mysterious sound as something like the twang of a broken string on a lyre (Paus. 1.42.3). Dix suggests that this evidence, combined with Juvenal’s choice in Satire 15.5 of the word “chorda” (Greek χορδή, commonly used for “string”) to denote here instead “note,” may have led commentators to confuse a reference to a musical note with the string of a lyre. What started out as an analogy for sound gradually shifted into a new visualization of the statue as holding a lyre—and not just any lyre, but more specifically what we would call an “Aeolian harp,” a lyre that plays of its own accord when moved by external natural stimuli (such as wind or the heat of the sun). The Aeolian harp was an object of great fascination long before the English Romantic poets immortalized it in verse; it is thought to have been invented in 1650 by none other than Athanasius Kircher, possibly to add to his museum of miracles in Rome. Over time, scholars and poets accepted as fact the idea that the statue of Memnon held a stringed instrument resembling an Aeolian harp that played of its own accord each morning at sunrise. We find corroboration, for example, in a standard reference work from the eighteenth century, Robert Ainsworth’s twovolume Thesaurus Linguae Latinae Compendiarius (London, 1736), whose entry for “Memnon” reads as follows:57 “Memnonis effigies,” A statue of Memnon, made with such art by the Egyptians, of hard marble, that a lute, which it held in its hand, would, at sun rising, strike up of itself. (p.188) We cannot be sure, of course, how frequently contemporary poets consulted Ainsworth’s Thesaurus. But just a few years later, Memnon’s magic harp resurfaced in the youthful work of the English physician and poet Mark Akenside (1721–1770). In his first edition of The Pleasures of Imagination (1744),

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Modern Memnon connected to a discussion of how the human mind reacts to external pleasures, Akenside alluded to musical Memnon in a simile to clarify his argument:58 As Memnon’s marble harp, renown’d of old By fabling Nilus, to the quivering touch Of Titan’s ray, with each repulsive string Consenting, sounded thro’ the warbling air Unbidden strains; ev’n so did nature’s hand To certain species of external things, Attune the finer organs of the mind: So the glad impulse of congenial pow’rs, Or of sweet sound, or fair proportion’d form, The grace of motion, or the bloom of light, Thrills thro’ imagination’s tender frame, From nerve to nerve: all naked and alive They catch the spreading rays: till now the soul At length discloses every tuneful spring, To that harmonious movement from without Responsive . . .

Mark Akenside may not be a household name today, but his poetry deeply affected the way Romantic poets imagined the function of the Aeolian harp. We know, for example, that The Pleasures of Imagination was admired by both Coleridge and Wordsworth; we will consider their representations of Memnon below.59 But shortly after publishing the first edition of his poem in 1744, Akenside experienced a change of heart about the association of a musical instrument with Memnon. After rereading the Juvenal passage (Sat. 15.5) that had led to the original misunderstanding by ancient scholiasts, and after examining carefully the two volumes of Richard Pococke’s A Description of the East, and Some Other Countries (London, 1743–1745), Akenside realized that the posture of the statue as described by eyewitnesses did not allow for the presence of a “marble harp.”60 In his fifth edition of The Pleasures of Imagination, therefore, published in 1754, Akenside emended the offending line (“Memnon’s marble (p.189) harp”) to read “old Memnon’s image,” effectively removing any reference to a musical instrument. As much as Akenside is to be congratulated for his intellectual integrity, his emendation had the effect of closing the barn door after the horse had already escaped. As Dix explains,61 . . . already by 1754 The Pleasures of Imagination was an extremely wellknown poem; it had gone through four London editions in the year of its first publication, and several pirated texts had also appeared. Thus the phrase “Memnon’s marble harp,” or “Memnon’s lyre” as the instrument is called in Akenside’s note, is found fairly frequently in English poetry of the later eighteenth century, including Erasmus Darwin’s The Botanic Garden,

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Modern Memnon Wordsworth’s Descriptive Sketches, and Amelia Opie’s “Stanzas Written under Aeolus’ Harp.” Dix’s references to late eighteenth-century poets are worth examining further. Erasmus Darwin, the grandfather of Charles Darwin, was widely admired in his time for his didactic poem The Botanic Garden (1791), which offered a kind of popular approach to plant taxonomy and biology. He opens with an invitation to the goddess of botany to act as his muse, and then turns to explanations of curious natural phenomena, including phosphorescent light and prismatic rays. Memnon appears in this section as an example of spontaneous natural marvels dependent on the sun for their activation:62 So to the sacred sun in Memnon’s fane, Spontaneous concords quired the matin strain; —Touch’d by his orient beam, responsive rings The living lyre, and vibrates all its strings; Accordant aisles the tender tones prolong, And holy echoes swell the adoring song.

At about the same time, William Wordsworth was working on a poetic description of a walking tour he had taken in the Swiss Alps in the summer of 1790, published three years later as part of Descriptive Sketches (1793). The opening passage extols the virtues of a simple country life, including the traveler’s relation to the natural rhythms of day and night:63 (p.190) But doubly pitying Nature loves to show’r Soft on his wounded heart her healing power, Who plods o’er hills and vales his road forlorn, Wooing her varying charms from eve to morn . . . He views the Sun uprear his golden fire, Or sink, with heart alive like Memnon’s lyre; Blesses the Moon that comes with kindest ray To light him shaken by his viewless way.

Wordsworth connects the rising and setting of the sun, as well as other charms of nature, with a healing effect on the “wounded heart” of his wanderer, who is as dependent on the natural light of the sun (or moon) for his travels as Memnon was for the animation of his voice. Wordsworth’s personified “Nature,” who pities the melancholy mortal and pours over him her healing power, is oddly reminiscent of Memnon’s loving mother Eos, who pours her rays over her grieving son, animating him only briefly every dawn. The early nineteenth-century English novelist and poet Amelia Opie followed Wordsworth in her celebration of the music that poured forth from Memnon’s lyre, untouched by human hands. Her first volume of poetry, published in 1802, Page 19 of 40

Modern Memnon included a piece titled “Stanzas Written Under Aeolus’s Harp,” in which she contrasts the “simple music” of the Aeolian harp, the “breathing instrument” that calls out to one’s inner soul, with “art’s laboured strains” that exhaust and even disgust the poet. Memnon’s “lute” is transformed into an Aeolian harp, invoked in the context of something magical and wonderful, worthy of adoration (lines 21–24):64 So, when the lute on Memnon’s statue hung At day’s first rising strains melodious poured Untouched by mortal hands, the gathering throng In silent wonder listened and adored.

Opie’s contemporary, Lord Byron, was equally inspired by stories of the colossal statue and its mysterious harp when he compared Memnon’s music to the sound of wind at midnight, sweeping through the towers of his country estate at Newstead Abbey. He recalls the wind that “moans a strange unearthly sound, which then/is musical” as it soars and sinks through the arches of the towers at night (Don Juan 13.63). Two explanations are offered for this uncanny sound: one natural and the other ghostly. The narrator himself acknowledges that he cannot solve the mystery (Don Juan 13.63–64):65 (p.191) Some deem it but the distant echo given Back to the night-wind by the waterfall, And harmonized by the old choral wall; Others, that some original shape or form, Shaped by decay perchance, hath given the power (Though less than that of Memnon’s statue, warm In Egypt’s rays, to harp at a fixed hour) To this grey ruin, with a voice to charm. Sad, but serene, it sweeps o’er tree or tower: The cause I know not, nor can solve . . .

But perhaps the most famous allusion to Memnon’s harp in this period is that of John Keats, in his unfinished epic poem on the battle of the Titans against the Olympian gods, Hyperion (1820). In it we read a description of the god Hyperion as he appears to Saturn and the other ancient divinities (2.371–78): Golden his hair of short Numidian curl, Regal his shape majestic, a vast shade In midst of his own brightness, like the bulk Of Memnon’s image at the set of sun To one who travels from the dusking East: Sighs, too, as mournful as that Memnon’s harp He utter’d, while his hands contemplative He press’d together, and in silence stood.

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Modern Memnon It should be clear from this very brief survey of poetic references to Memnon in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries—and there are many more examples that could be adduced from both British and Continental sources—that the idea of Memnon’s harp had fully taken hold of the Romantic imagination.66 At the same time, however, the curious misunderstanding that had influenced so many generations was in the process of being clarified. Evidence was being brought to light about the actual appearance of the Memnon colossus at Thebes, providing incontrovertible proof that a musical instrument had never been part of the original design.67 In addition, as (p.192) Dix suggests, the Aeolian harp, long associated with Memnon, was becoming increasingly popular not just as an image of poetic creation, available for many different applications, but also as an actual musical instrument. An early example of this trend may be found in Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s first edition of “The Eolian Harp” (1796),68 in which he connected the harp, set up in the window of a simple English cottage, not to the distant past of Memnon and ancient Egypt, but rather to the familiar domestic situation of a young woman being courted by her lover: the harp’s “soft floating witchery of sound” is compared to the song of elves at twilight in a very British fairyland (lines 20–22). And near the end of the poem, the Aeolian harps are imagined as “animated nature” that “tremble[s] into thought, as o’er them sweeps/plastic and vast, one intellectual breeze,/at once the Soul of each, and God of all” (lines 44–48). The image of the Aeolian harp symbolizes the human soul, imagined as a passively receptive instrument, much like the Memnon colossus, set into motion only by external forces; but Memnon himself is now conspicuously absent. As the Aeolian harp became more popular in the nineteenth century, and as more information surfaced from Egyptian Thebes, Memnon and the Aeolian harp parted ways more permanently. When poets did include references to the Memnon colossus in their verse, there was a renewed emphasis on Memnon’s humanity, including a focus on his mother’s role in animating his voice, as well as a fascination with lost or distant melodies. Thus Alfred, Lord Tennyson alludes to Memnon on three different occasions, but never mentions a harp.69 Typical of his treatment is this excerpt from “A Fragment [Where Is the Giant of the Sun],” published in 1830, which asks throughout what has happened to the former glories of “mysterious Egypt”: . . . Yet endure unscathed Of changeful cycles the great Pyramids Broad-based amid the fleeting sands, and sloped Into the slumberous summer noon; but where, Mysterious Egypt, are thine obelisks Graven with gorgeous emblems undiscerned? Thy placid Sphinxes brooding o’er the Nile? Thy shadowy Idols in the solitudes . . . Thy Memnon when his peaceful lips are kissed (p.193)

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Modern Memnon With earliest rays, that from his mother’s eyes Flow over the Arabian bay, no more Breathes low into the charmed ears of morn Clear melody flattering the crisped Nile By columned Thebes. Old Memphis hath gone down The Pharaohs are no more: somewhere in death They sleep with staring eyes and gilded lips, Wrapped round with spiced cerements in old grots Rockhewn and sealed for ever.

Tennyson’s Memnon draws together several threads we have explored earlier. We may have moved away from the false attribution of a harp to the statue, but we have returned to the fiction, familiar from Philostratus and Callistratus, of a Memnon with a human face that can express emotion, breathe, and sing. Tennyson’s depiction replaces the mystery of a harp untouched by human hands with the power of a mother’s love to bring her son back to life every morning. Dawn is simultaneously a natural phenomenon, as her morning rays “flow over the Arabian bay,” and a flesh-and-blood mother who kisses her son’s lips and is rewarded with a “clear melody” that charms her ears and flatters the personified Nile River. Memnon sits with “peaceful” patience each night, waiting to be awakened at dawn; in contrast, the pharaohs sleep forever in death, covered in gilded mummy masks, locked away in rock caves, “sealed for ever.” But even Memnon here is part of a past to which we can no longer gain access, since by Tennyson’s time, all his charming melodies have long ceased to resound. For Tennyson and his readers, he is now as “rockhewn,” silent, and sightless as his former Egyptian self, the pharaoh Amenhotep, who sleeps eternally among his peers, immobilized in death “with staring eyes and gilded lips.” Memnon’s lips, formerly granted a voice every morning by his mother’s kiss, have become as powerless and inert as the mummies’ lips, stiff under their death masks. With Tennyson we have come full circle to Jerome’s fourth-century Memnon: the statue has been given back his face, but at the cost of losing his voice. Has Memnon really lost his voice, or have we lost our ability to hear his ancient melodies? Novalis (1772–1801), a philosopher and poet of early German Romanticism, allegorized Memnon in his debate about the source of poetry itself: “The spirit of poetry is the Dawn, that makes Memnon’s statue resound” (“Die Geist der Poesie is das Morgenlicht, was die Statüe des Memnon tönen macht”).70 What happens to poetry when the dawn’s power to awaken Memnon (p.194) fails? One response to the crisis of silence is to turn to prosopopeia, the rhetorical figure of giving voice, turning absence into presence.71 Many ancient visitors turned to inscription as a way of “giving voice” to or interacting with the silent statue, as we saw in earlier chapters; but their turn to prosopopeia was born from the desire to answer, to engage in dialogue with, and to worship the speaking statue. Some Romantic poets, rejecting the Aeolian harp even as a metaphor for Memnon’s voice, returned to the ancient Page 22 of 40

Modern Memnon idea of prosopopeia in their own verses, although their medium was paper instead of the surface of the stones. Two German authors in particular, working in the early nineteenth century, returned to the idea of a speaking statue, emphasizing the delicate balance between Memnon’s silence and his song, synchronized to the natural rhythms of night and day: Ernst August Friedrich Klingemann (1777–1831) and Johann Baptist Mayrhofer (1789–1836). Klingemann published the first (and only) volume of a journal entitled Memnon: Eine Zeitschrift (Leipzig, 1800), a publication dedicated to literature and aesthetics. Also involved as contributors were his friends the poet and novelist Clemens Maria Brentano (1778–1842) and the physician and philosopher Stephan August Winkelmann (1780–1806).72 On the first page of this volume appears an engraving of the intact Memnon colossus in full Egyptian pharaonic headgear and ceremonial beard—so really a picture of Amenhotep in full glory—the name “Memnon” in large Gothic type, and an introductory poem by Klingemann that reads as follows:73 Es sitzet starr in traurig-düsterem Harren Das dunkle Bild, und alles Leben schweigt; Rauh steigt es aus der stillen Nacht hervor, Und blickt, wie die Bedeutung, ernst und schweigend, In’s tiefe Dunkel und zum fernen Morgen. Gefesselt an der rohen Masse Schwere Erstarrt die Bildung, nie ersteht die Form; Denn ach, noch schweigt der schöne inn’re Ton, Der alles Leben weckt und ruhig halt— Die Nacht ist stumm, und nur am goldnen Licht Entzünden sich des Lebens harmonien.— Welch leises Wehen durch den dunklen Himmel! Die Wellen kräuseln sich im hohen Osten, Und sieh, da steigt ein ferner sanfter Schimmer, (p.195) Des schönen Lichtes stiller Geist empor— Und tiefer regt sich’s unten in der Nacht Und streitet ringend mit dem neuen Leben. Der kalte Sohn stützt seine starren Hände Gewaltig auf den rauhen Stein, und strebt Sich aus der dunklen Nacht hervorzuheben. Da rührt sein stummes Flehn die holde Mutter, Sie blickt ihn an, und ihre treue Liebe Erwärmt sein kaltes abgestorb’nes Herz— Auroren’s erster Strahl legt golden sich Um seine Stirn, und froh durchzittert ihn Des neuen schönen Tages süsse Hoffnung; Der träge Schlummer flieht von seinen Augen, Und an dem goldnen Licht entzündet sich Der erste Ton und hallt harmonisch wieder. There it sits, the dark image, stiffly waiting

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Modern Memnon in the mournful dusk, and all living things keep silent; it looms up harshly out of the quiet night, and searching for something, grim and silent, it peers into the deep darkness and toward the distant dawn. Chained to the weight of the rough rock mass the form is paralyzed, its body never rises; alas, the lovely inner tone still stays silent, the one that wakes all living things and keeps them calm. The night is dumb, and only as the golden light arrives, do the harmonies of living things find their spark. What a gentle stirring through the dark heavens! The waves froth up far in the east, and look, such a soft and distant glow arises, the quiet spirit of the lovely light above— and further down it stirs in the night and struggles in conflict with the new sign of life. The cold son reaches out his stiff hands mightily on the rough stone and strives to raise himself up out of the dark night. His dumb pleas reach his dear mother, she looks at him, and her true love warms his cold and deadened heart— Aurora’s first golden ray lands on his forehead, and through him gladly trembles the sweet hope of the lovely new day. The dull slumber flies from his eyes, and at the touch of the golden light, the first tone flares up, and reverberates harmoniously.

(p.196) So Memnon-Amenhotep, sitting still and silent as the engraving on the previous page, is brought to life in the lines of the poem that immediately follows. Klingemann and his contemporaries stand in for Eos; they embody “the sweet hope of a lovely new day” bringing back life and voice to the “cold and deadened” statue. Memnon struggles against the dark forces of night, trying to raise himself to greet his salvation, much as Philostratus’s Damis (Life of Apollonius of Tyana 6.4) had depicted him attempting to rise and greet the dawn. Memnon’s awakening is described as if it were the lighting of a flame: the first sound uttered from his mouth “entzündet sich” on the golden light of morning: it “lights itself on fire,” “shoots out like a spark,” “flares up” at the first glimpse of the sun’s rays piercing the gloom. Klingemann’s Memnon has become a Romantic hero, searching and peering through the darkness to find literal enlightenment: hope, warmth, and the harmony of human communication. We have already explored in an earlier chapter what happens when ancient authors shift perspectives in their inscriptions, and how speaking about Memnon and speaking as Memnon can affect the reader’s response differently. Klingemann chose to narrate his poem in the third person, describing Memnon’s Page 24 of 40

Modern Memnon awakening from the angle of an external observer. When the poet Mayrhofer selected the subject of Memnon for one of Franz Schubert’s Lieder, composed in 1817, he shifted to a first-person perspective, as had Caecilia Trebulla (94) before him; his poem is in iambic pentameter, like Klingemann’s, but with a much stricter chiastic rhyme pattern (ABBA) and a classically stanzaic shape:74 Den Tag hindurch nur einmal mag ich sprechen, Gewohnt zu schweigen immer und zu trauern: Wenn durch die nachtgebor’nen Nebelmauern Aurorens Purpurstrahlen liebend brechen. Für Menschenohren sind es Harmonien. Weil ich die Klage selbst melodisch künde Und durch der Dichtung Glut das Rauhe ründe, Vermuten sie in mir ein selig Blühen. In mir, nach dem des Todes Arme langen, In dessen tiefstem Herzen Schlangen wühlen; Genährt von meinen schmerzlichen Gefühlen Fast wütend durch ein ungestillt Verlangen: Mit dir, des Morgens Göttin, mich zu einen, Und weit von diesem nichtigen Getriebe, (p.197) Aus Sphären edler Freiheit, aus Sphären reiner Liebe, Ein stiller, bleicher Stern herab zu scheinen. The whole long day I may speak only once, accustomed always to stay silent and to mourn: when through the misty walls born from the night dawn’s purple rays lovingly break. To mortal ears these are harmonies. Because I utter my lament so melodically and temper its harshness with the glitter of poetry, they think that a blessed happiness flowers in me. But as for me, for whom the arms of death reach out, and in whose heart deep down serpents burrow, nurtured by my painful feelings, I almost go mad with unsatisfied desire to unite myself with you, goddess of dawn, and far removed from this futile commotion, to shine down from spheres of noble freedom, from spheres of pure love, as a pale and silent star.

Mayrhofer’s Memnon follows ancient convention in speaking once a day at dawn and spending the rest of his time in mournful silence. Ancient visitors had made assumptions in their inscriptions about what Memnon was thinking or feeling; here Memnon corrects their false impressions, insisting that what they claim to hear as melodic harmonies are not indications of blessed happiness, but rather the expressions of painful feelings. He may sing beautifully, but the subject of his song is death, unfulfilled desire, and the futility of his earthly existence. The third stanza is the most disturbing: Memnon imagines the anthropomorphized arms of death reaching out every evening for him; serpents tunneling through Page 25 of 40

Modern Memnon his heart, whether metaphorically in his human body, representing evil, or literally in his stone statue’s innermost cavities, representing decay and corruption; he feels he is losing his mind, knowing that his one wish—to transcend his earthly existence and join his mother forever as a celestial being— will never be granted.75 By the third stanza, we realize that Memnon is not speaking primarily to us (i.e., “they think . . .”) or to himself, but rather directly to his mother, goddess of dawn. He tells her he is entirely willing to trade his ability to speak every day among men for an existence that will be forever silent, but in the realm of pure freedom and (maternal) love. Then, among other divine creatures, he will return to the rhythms of the cosmos, and be understood without words. Mayrhofer opens his song-poem with the power of speech (“mag ich sprechen”) and closes it with reference to the pale (p.198) silence of a distant star; this parallels the actual sound of the music, as it rises to begin and falls to conclude. The audiences who heard a performance of Schubert’s “Memnon” were well aware of the classical myth of Memnon.76 A review that appeared in the Viennese newspapers in 1822 makes the link explicit:77 Memnon, considered as a poem, is a masterly delineation of a noble mind wrapped up in itself and afflicted by profound grief, into whose agitated soul falls a soothing ray of dawning hope from another world . . . The introduction to “Memnon” conjures up the magic sounds of the famous Egyptian statue. For Mayrhofer and his circle, Memnon “stood as a heroic representation of the artist, and his sorrowful wail as a potent symbol of modern poetry.”78 In his solitude, he embodies the role of the alienated individual, separate from society and dependent on his own imagination. To add insult to injury, others around him see only a false image: that of a happy and productive poet. As Marjorie Hirsch writes,79 the misunderstanding that leads others to imagine Memnon as joyful compounds the tragedy of his fate; his sense of isolation intensifies. In a never-ending cycle, the poet’s alienation leads to artistic creation, whose reception results in even greater alienation. The only solution, to wrench himself off his stone pedestal and fly to the realm of the distant stars, symbolizes his desire to escape his present situation and to join himself with the divine and inaudible music of the spheres, the ultimate source of artistic inspiration.

The Ozymandias Factor As we have seen in this chapter, the myth of Memnon’s speaking statue, and its desire for union with Eos that is eternally frustrated, rewarded only with a brief daily respite at dawn, appealed strongly to Romantic writers. They gave Page 26 of 40

Modern Memnon Memnon back his voice, through the fabrication of an Aeolian harp, in the (p. 199) lyrics for Lieder set to music by Schubert, or purely in the poetic imagination. They also elevated him to heroic status; he functioned as an alter ego for the poet himself, striving to sing in the harsh environment of the real world. At the same time, he represented something strange and inexplicable, vacillating among the human, the sublime, and the monstrous. Debates about the source of his voice—a natural cause, fraud of some sort, or mechanical intervention—continued in this period, even as the comparanda shifted to contemporary phenomena such as the famous chess-playing automaton at the Crystal Palace in London.80 But perhaps the most influential cultural trend associated with “modern” Memnon was the renewed interest, in the decades after Napoleon’s invasion of Egypt, in all things Egyptian. While that topic is beyond the scope of this book, it does suggest one last poem for our survey of modern Memnon: Percy Bysshe Shelley’s “Ozymandias.” The actual Ozymandias in question was a large statue cut from a single block of granite, one of a pair that guarded the doorway of another mortuary temple in the Theban plain. While the Memnon statue had lost its head early on, the Ozymandias statue, in contrast, had lost its body and lower legs by the time it was discovered by Napoleon’s men, who tried but failed to remove it during the 1798 expedition. This figure of Ozymandias had long been associated with the Memnon colossus. While the confusion is understandable—both statues were located in Thebes, not far from one another, and at least one earlier visitor had identified the northern Memnon colossus as the statue of Ozymandias81—we now know that the statue of Ozymandias represented a later pharaoh, Ramses II (1279–1213 BCE), whose mortuary temple was called the “Memnonium.” The statue of Ramses II that inspired Shelley’s poem was acquired in 1816 for the British Museum by an Italian entrepreneur, Giovanni Belzoni, acting on the orders of the British consul in Egypt, Henry Salt.82 Also known as the “Young Memnon,” its head and upper torso, separated from the rest of its structure, (p. 200) were lying slightly apart from its legs and base when Belzoni first glimpsed it at Thebes. His response was not so different from that of the Hadrianic visitors to the vocal Memnon colossus, as he immediately attributed to the statue human emotions, in this case feelings of one who welcomed his own removal, happy to leave behind the fallen grandeur of dusty Egypt for a future in the glorious British Empire. It seems as if the bust had expected Belzoni’s arrival, and Belzoni imagines the stony face smiling in delight:83 As I entered these ruins, my first thought was to examine the colossal bust I had to take away. I found it near the remains of its body and chair, with its face upwards, and apparently smiling on me, at the thought of being taken to England.84

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Modern Memnon With the help of local workers, “Young Memnon” was dragged to the banks of the Nile, loaded onto a barge heading for Alexandria, and finally transported by British Navy vessels to England; it arrived safely on British shores in 1818, passed through customs without taxes due (as gifts for the British Museum), and was installed in the Egyptian Sculpture Room in January 1819.85 Shelley never actually saw the statue; but as in the case of his forebears in antiquity, lack of autopsy did not prevent him from describing it in detail in his poetry. Also, the Ozymandias statue’s reputation preceded it, as it had been described by, among others, the English antiquarian and diplomat William Richard Hamilton (1777– 1859), who viewed it in situ in 1809 and judged it to be “certainly the most beautiful and perfect piece of Egyptian sculpture that can be seen throughout the whole country.”86 As was the case with Memnon, the beauty and “perfection” perceived in the Ramses statue were closely linked to its antiquity and, ironically, its fragmentary state. Jim Porter notes that “the sublime is where monuments and ruins (or monuments as ruins, or as ruins in potentia) meet.”87 The broken or ruined state of these two monuments, as well as the fact that they were remnants of an earlier age, made them sublime in the eyes of their English “rescuers.” Richard Alston puts it particularly well in his essay on the aesthetic of ruins:88 (p.201) [The ruin] exists within a particular frame of space and time beyond that in which it was built, but in its dilapidated state, does not exist as it was designed, as it was meant to be, with the signifiers that it was intended to deliver, but is invested with new significations as the old are stripped away. In this process of stripping away, traces of the old survive, but only as traces . . . Memnon, in his “dilapidated state,” had lost his signification as a pharaonic funeral marker and gained new signification as a Homeric hero worthy of worship. The layers of writing covering his headless body (re-)identified him over and over again as Memnon, leaving few traces of his earlier self, and separating him from his twin, who remained whole, uninscribed, silent, and purely Egyptian. Ramses was also found in a state of ruin, separated from his legs and base, but he was never stripped of his identity: his head and torso retained their distinctive Egyptian costume, and the inscription on the ancient base had been preserved in Greek historical writing. But nevertheless, Ramses, too, was given a new signification once he was removed from his original environment: as a prize of empire in the British Museum, and as the inspiration for poetic homage to the sublimity and prestige of ruins. Both Shelley and his friend Horace Smith, a banker who was staying with Shelley for the winter holidays, were inspired to write a poem in Ramses’ honor Page 28 of 40

Modern Memnon in early 1818, just as it landed on English soil, taking their cue from the passage in Diodorus Siculus’s Histories (1.47.4) that reported the original inscription on the huge statue:89 ἐπιγεγράφθαι δ᾽ ἐπ᾽ αὐτοῦ ‘βασιλεὺς βασιλέων Ὀσυμανδύας εἰμί. εἰ δέ τις εἰδέναι βούλεται πηλίκος εἰμὶ καὶ ποῦ κεῖμαι, νικάτω τι τῶν ἐμῶν ἔργων.’ Inscribed upon it is: “King of Kings Ozymandias I am. If anyone wishes to know how great I am and where I lie, let him outdo me in my deeds.”90 Smith’s poem, “On a Stupendous Leg of Granite, Discovered Standing by Itself in the Deserts of Egypt, with the Inscription Inserted Below,” opened with the following forgettable verses:91 In Egypt’s sandy silence, all alone, Stands a gigantic Leg, which far off throws The only shadow that the Desert knows . . .

He goes on to wonder what a solitary wanderer far in the future might think, passing through the wilderness where once the city of London stood, when, (p.202) He meets some fragment huge, and stops to guess What powerful but unrecorded race Once dwelt in that annihilated place.

We ourselves may wonder what single “fragment huge” might remain to embody Smith’s modern urban London: Buckingham Palace, a triumphal arch, Nelson’s column? But even in these amateur lines, we can see the same fascination with silence, solitude, gigantism, and decay that was so compelling in other nineteenth-century descriptions of Egyptian monuments. Shelley’s version, in contrast to his friend Smith’s, became one of the best-loved sonnets in English literature.92 He, too, begins by focusing on the disembodied legs, huge and without a torso, standing alone in the vast desert: I met a traveller from an antique land, Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert . . .”

But his narrator—the “traveller from an antique land”—quickly notices the statue’s head, lying nearby, partially buried in the sand: . . . Near them, on the sand, Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown, And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, Page 29 of 40

Modern Memnon The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed . . .

The statue is shattered, like Memnon’s, but in “Ozymandias,” as in the case of Ramses II, we are fortunate enough still to have the original head. It may be lifeless now, an inert product of the sculptor’s skill, but it retains the marks of its human passions: a frown, a sneer, and a coldness that has nothing to do with stone. The focus on the mouth is unremitting, and leads us gradually away from other voices—the “I,” the “traveller,” the “sculptor”—and directly to the royal voice itself. While the sculptor “mocked” (i.e., “made a representation or model of”) his subject well, what the observer seeks is confirmation of his own “reading” of the visage, so as not to misunderstand his “passions,” as was the case with Mayrhofer’s Memnon above. And we receive confirmation in the statue’s own voice, immortalized in the first-person inscription on the base: . . . And on the pedestal these words appear: “My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!”

(p.203) Ozymandias boasts that he is the supreme ruler of all, mightier than the mighty; his enemies’ response should be one of “despair.” Memnon’s vocality was interpreted by his ancient visitors as a mark both of deep grief and of divinity, yet Memnon never explained himself; he was incapable of distinct speech. In that way his cry could be reinterpreted to suit each occasion and each worshipper. But Ozymandias’s words, clear and boastful, stand forever in stark and ironic contrast to the reality around him: . . . Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away.

“That colossal wreck” is a very apt summation of both statues, Ozymandias or Ramses, and Memnon or Amenhotep. Yet in that phrase lie the seeds of their greatness. Their sheer size puts them in a category of their own, as we have discussed earlier in this chapter, but it is their status as “shattered,” fragmented, broken, that really calls forth the magic. The voice can be heard and understood only in the context of fragmentation. Juvenal understood this well when he emphasized the connection between the mysterious music and the cracked surface (Sat. 15.5): “dimidio magicae resonant ubi Memnone chordae” (“where magical notes resound from Memnon’s broken statue”). Memnon sings when split open, and falls silent when (re-)made whole; Ozymandias’s boasting words take on a whole new meaning when his “shattered visage” lies separated from his body, and his torso has completely deteriorated. And what “remains beside” is not “nothing,” as Shelley writes, but rather the poetry that springs from these cracks in the stone: the inscriptions themselves,

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Modern Memnon preserved forever as poetry, on (to borrow Smith’s words) Ozymandias’s “gigantic leg,” and in poetry, in Shelley’s “poem to outlast empires.”93

Conclusion In this last segment of our study, we have observed a new phase in the long history of Egyptian monuments, one in which visitors are not satisfied just to see and experience the wonders of Egypt, but actually want to appropriate them, rewrite their stories, adopt their voices, or literally bring them “home.” In the case of the “Younger Memnon,” this involved shipping the solid granite block to the British Museum, and constructing a new wing to house the artifact. Fortunately for the “older” Memnon, the seated figure and its pair were far too massive to tempt French or British explorers at the time, and Memnon remains in the funerary complex he was originally built to guard, in situ on the Theban plain. While unable to claim him as their own, however, some (p.204) nineteenth-century explorers could not resist leaving additional graffiti alongside the ancient verses, a familiar attempt at “personalizing” their relationship with the statue. Two names in particular stand out (Plate 10): Cailliaud and Letorzec. PierreConstant Letorzec (1798–1857) was a French explorer who traveled with the Egyptologist Frédéric Cailliaud (1787–1869) on his second expedition to Egypt (1819–1822); in addition to this graffito from 1820, he signed his name at four other sites in Egypt (Aïn Amour, Karnak, Thebes [Ramesseum], Meroe).94 Cailliaud’s own graffito, dated 1816, must stem from his first expedition to Egypt (1815–1818). Both men, separated by four years, managed to find a small clear patch of stone on the statue’s right ankle, with just enough room for a name and date. What were they thinking as they squeezed their letters next to Heliodorus’s poem (63) to his absent brothers? Were they imagining themselves as traveling companions, connecting themselves to something larger and more mysterious than France’s familiar fields could offer? I suspect that the era of worshipping Memnon was long gone, and that their instinct to inscribe had more to do with claiming their rights to archaeological privileges than with any sort of homage to the (formerly) vocal statue. Once Memnon lost his voice, he was no different from any of the other antiquities dotting the landscape. But it is yet another testament to Memnon’s powers of survival that we read these modern graffiti as proof of his ongoing ability to attract notice, rather than as defacement or vandalism. Cailliaud and Letorzec may have thought they were claiming Memnon for themselves with their graffiti, but all the writing on the statue points directly to Memnon’s timeless ability to fascinate. None of the visitors could ever have the last word. His body is a palimpsest, written on and written over, with the layers only adding to his prestige. While Memnon’s own voice may have fallen silent, all the

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Modern Memnon inscriptions themselves continue to speak eloquently in the universal language of ruins. Notes:

(1) Letronne may have been influenced by the historian Heeren’s two-volume work (1793–1796) or the six volumes of his expanded fourth edition of the same work (1824–1826); Heeren’s volumes were also translated into English (1833), where we read (3:223): “As a matter of conjecture, we may suppose this restoration to have taken place at the time of Septimius Severus, who restored and repaired various things in Egypt.” (2) See also Birley (1971): 205–209; and Bravi (2007): 79–91. (3) Magie (1921): 1:410. (4) This is mentioned by the anonymous contributor to Fraser’s Magazine (1850): 267–278. (5) Stanhope (1875): 13: “It may also be inferred, with considerable probability, that the silence of the Statue in the august presence was the cause of its reconstruction.” (6) Bowersock (1984): 21–33. (7) Earlier editors hesitated to reconstruct anything beyond the third line, but Mommsen, aided by a copy from Wescher, produced a text of ten lines; see Bernand and Bernand (1960): 147. It may be that Caracalla’s name, as coconsul, appeared in the lacuna at the beginning of line 10. (8) Bowersock (1984): 32. Bernand and Bernand (1960): 148 had assigned a date of ca. 205 CE to this inscription, but went on to associate this later date with Septimius Severus’s repairs: “Si la date est lue exactement, l’inscription aurait été gravée peu avant la restauration du Colosse par Septime Sévère.” (9) Bowersock (1984): 32. (10) Ibid., 30. The reference to the Serapeum gives us a reliable date ante quem, as the building was destroyed during mob violence in 391 CE. (11) The first part of the text (through “loquentem”) is from Helm (1956) 7:53; the second part (“cuius” through “dicebatur”) is quoted in Menke (2000): 224 from Holland (1894–1897): 2653–2887, esp. 2667. See also Bowersock (1984): 24. Letronne (1833): 46 note 1 discusses the debate surrounding the second part, admitting that Scaliger had rejected it as spurious, since it was not in the Eusebian original, but eventually sides with Vallarsi, the editor of Jerome, in retaining it. He also points out a similar opinion expressed by Jerome elsewhere (Commentary on Isaiah Chapter 42): “Hoc autem significant, quod post Page 32 of 40

Modern Memnon adventum Christi omnia idola conticuerunt” (“This, however, is what they mean, that after the advent of Christ, all the idols fell silent”). (12) See Fraser’s Magazine 42 (1850): 276; similar sentiments are expressed at the end of the article in the Cosmopolitan Art Journal 5 (1861): 1–7. (13) Bäbler and Nesselrath (2006): 4–5. Lausus had collected much of his art during the reign of Theodosius II, in whose court he served as imperial chamberlain; his gallery included, in addition to Praxiteles’ Eros and Lysippus’s Kairos, such famous sculptures as the Hera of Samos, the Athena of Lindos, and Praxiteles’ Aphrodite of Knidos. For other perspectives on Lausus’s gallery, see Mango et al. (1992): 89–98; Bardill (1997): 67–95; and Bassett (2000): 6–25. (14) Bäbler and Nesselrath (2006): 12–15 debate the controversial issue of whether Callistratus actually had seen the works he describes. (15) The Greek text is from Fairbanks (1931): 406–409. (16) While many of the actual inscriptions mention several utterances during the morning hours, only one (21.1–2: Catulus) attests to hearing the voice at nightfall; the latest documented utterance during the day was at the fourth hour (7.9: Lucius Tanicius). (17) For other references to Daedalus’s animated statues in antiquity, see Plato, Euthyphro 11d, Meno 97d; Philostratus Imagines 1.16 (Pasiphae); Callistratus Descriptions 3 and 8. (18) I thank the anonymous reader for pointing out these parallels with Echo. (19) Curzon (1886): 263–283, esp. 272. (20) Even before Norden, the Jesuit Claude Sicard (1677–1726) was commissioned by the French regent Philippe d’Orléans to investigate ancient monuments in Egypt; he visited Upper Egypt four times and was the first in modern times to identify the site of Thebes, as well as the colossi of Memnon and the Valley of the Kings. See Bagnall and Rathbone (2004): 47–50. Another scholar who may have visited the site was Vater (1848): 420–444. (21) Few scholars based their work on autopsy; the first to publish a substantial (but not complete) compilation of fragments after actually visiting the site was Lepsius (1849–1859), section 6, vol. 12, plates 76–80 and 101; he was followed by Wescher (1871): 275–284, and Peek (1934): 95–109 and plates 12–18. (22) For a useful starting place for Kircher studies, see http://web.stanford.edu/ group/kircher/cgi-bin/site/. (23) See Iverson (1993): 89. Page 33 of 40

Modern Memnon (24) See Lo Sardo (2001), a catalogue of a recent exhibit on Kircher’s museum. (25) On Oedipus aegyptiacus, see Stolzenberg (2013). (26) Kircher (1652–1654) vol. 2, book 8, ch. 3, section 1; on Memnon, see pp. 324–327. (27) For a modern discussion of Memnon in the context of other solar and thermal automata, see Duffey (2007): 51–54, who notes that Isaac de Caus, in the English translation of his book on garden waterworks, New and Rare Inventions of Waterworks, plates 22 and 23, provides two technical drawings and descriptions of Memnon-inspired statues. The heading for plate 23, which uses a hydraulic system, is as follows: “To make an admirable engine, which is being placed at the foot of a statue, shall send forth a sound when the sun shines upon it, so as it shall seem that the statue makes the said sound.” This text was retrieved from http://digitalcollections.nypl.org/items/510d47db-bee4-a3d9e040-e00a18064a99. (28) See Godwin (2009): 180, 210, 213. (29) See Bernand and Bernand (1960): 1–4; Menke (2000): 220–221. Letronne, in spite of not having seen the colossus, published five different scholarly editions of the inscriptions between 1831 and 1848 and, in the opinion of Bernand and Bernand (1960): 3–4, rendered all previous editions obsolete. (30) Jacobs (1810). (31) These scholars, 167 in total, included geologist Déodat de Dolomieu, artist Henri-Joseph Redouté, mathematicians Gaspard Monge and Jean-Joseph Fourier, chemist Claude Louis Berthollet, artist and archaeologist Dominique-Vivant Denon, physicist Étienne Malus, naturalists Étienne Saint-Hilaire and Alire Raffeneau-Delile, and engineer Nicolas-Jacques Conté. (32) Many of the ancient Egyptian objects collected by the French were eventually seized by Nelson and the British Navy and ended up on display in the British Museum. On Egyptomania see, for example, David (1993); Curl (1994); Champollion and Harlé (2003); Colla (2007); and Brier (2013). For an overview of Egypt’s place in the European imagination from the seventeenth to the nineteenth century, see Versluys (2002): 397–409 and Mitchell (1988). (33) See my Chapter 1 for information on Norden and Sicard, two other early European visitors to Egyptian Thebes. (34) See Denon, Travels in Upper and Lower Egypt (1803). (35) Ibid.: v (translator’s preface).

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Modern Memnon (36) Ibid., 2: 90. It is likely that Denon refers here to the huge marble fragments of the feet of the statue of Constantine, which measure ca. six feet in length and are still visible in Rome at the Musei Capitolini. (37) Ibid., vi–vii (author’s preface). (38) Ibid., 2: 84. (39) Ibid., 2: 92–96. (40) Ibid., 3: 30. (41) Ibid., 3: 78–81. (42) Granted, French has no neuter pronoun, but he clearly thinks of them as monumental objects: pieces of art, figures, statues, sculptures, etc. (43) Menke (2000): 234 explicitly contrasts “rohe Masse” with “sprechenden Gesichts” in her reading of Klingemann’s opening poem in his Memnon (1900), to be discussed below. (44) Curzon (1886): 264. (45) Ibid., 283. (46) Hegel (1975): 1: 358–359. The original German runs as follows: “Besonders merkwürdig sind jene kolossalen Memnonen, welche in sich beruhend, bewegungslos, die Arme an den Leib geschlossen, die Füsse dicht aneinander, starr, steif und unlebendig, der Sonne entgegengestellt sind, um von ihr den Strahl zu erwarten, der sie berühre, beseele und tönen mache. Herodot wenigstens erzählt, dass die Memnonen beim Sonnenaufgang einen Klang von sich gäben . . . Als Symbol ist [daher] diesen Kolossen die Bedeutung zu geben, dass sie die geistige Seele nicht frei in sich haben und zur Belebung daher statt sie aus dem Innern entnehmen zu können, welches Mass und Schönheit in sich trägt, von aussen des Lichts bedürfen, das erst den Ton der Seele aus ihnen herauslockt. Die menschliche Stimme dagegen tönt aus der eigenen Empfindung und dem eigenen Geist ohne äusseren Anstoss, wie die Höhe der Kunst überhaupt darin besteht, das Innere sich aus sich selbst gestalten zu lassen. Das Innere aber der menschlichen Gestalt ist in Ägypten noch stumm und in seiner Beseelung nur das natürliche Moment berücksichgtigt.” (47) Hegel errs with this reference, as Memnon’s cry is never mentioned in Herodotus’s Histories. (48) We have seen earlier in this chapter that Athanasius Kircher had also imagined the statue as a kind of machine that needed to be turned on by an outside force in order to function properly. Page 35 of 40

Modern Memnon (49) Note that Hegel comments as if both colossi had the ability to “speak.” See also Menke (2000): 239 on the Hegel passage: “es spricht sich in diesen Stimmen kein Innres aus . . . Ihr Innres . . . ist Auswendigkeit von Technik.” (50) According to Hegel, it was not the Egyptians but rather the Greeks who were the first to make the critical transition in sculpture, endowing the unconscious spirit residing in the stone with consciousness; see GethmannSiefert and Collenberg-Plotnikov (2004): 124; and for a general overview, Houlgate (2007): 56–89. For a modern discussion of non-human entities such as gods or their statues as effective actors in the world (or, a more productive way of imagining the mind–body duality), see Finch (2012): 625–631. (51) Curzon (1886): 280. (52) But see the same reference to Apollo as the catalyst for Memnon’s voice in Bernand and Bernand (1960) no. 13, by Titus Petronius Secundus. (53) On this error, see Dix (1988): 288–293; his article has informed much of this section. (54) Clausen (1992): 166. (55) As Dix (1988): 288 points out, the sixth-century commentary could not have had a direct significant impact on English poets before 1860, when it was finally published in Du Rieu (1860): 131–136. But the related ninth-century scholia, reproduced above from Wessner (1931): 226 (with my own translation), were printed already in 1585 by the French scholar Pierre Pithou, in his edition of Juvenal, and then frequently reprinted in seventeenth- and eighteenth-century editions; see Dix (1988): 288 note 5. (56) Dix (1988): 289. (57) This is discussed in Ibid., 290. (58) The text is from Ibid., 290–291; see also Dix (1996). (59) Dix (1988): notes 12 and 13 offers useful bibliography: on Coleridge’s references to Akenside, see A Moral and Political Lecture (1795) in Patton and Mann (1971) 1: 3; and on the importance of this passage to Coleridge’s understanding of the Aeolian harp, see Jacobus (1976): 53–54; for Wordsworth and Akenside, see Potts (1957): 244–278. (60) As Dix (1988): 291 notes, Akenside read the Pococke volumes in his capacity as editor of the journal Museum, for which he wrote a review; see Museum 1 (1746): 66–75, 101–109. (61) Dix (1988): 291–292. Page 36 of 40

Modern Memnon (62) Darwin (1791), part 1, lines 183–188. (63) Wordsworth (1793), lines 13–16, 33–36. This poem was more than just a hymn to nature, as it also responded to the recent political developments of the French Revolution. Wordsworth alluded to Memnon’s activation by the sun and his melancholy harp in a much later work inspired by a walking tour of Scotland: Memorials of a Tour in Scotland (1814): “Effusion in the Pleasure-Ground on the Banks of the Bran, near Dunkeld,” in de Selincourt and Darbishire (Oxford 1940– 1949) 3:105, lines 94–100: “What though the Granite would deny/All fervour to the sightless eye;/And touch from rising suns in vain/Solicit a Memnonian strain;/Yet, in some fit of anger sharp,/The wind might force the deep-grooved harp/To utter melancholy moans . . .” (64) Opie (1802): 133; for the text printed above, from the second edition published in 1803, see Feldman (1997): 531–532. (65) The text is from McGann (1980). See also Byron’s allusion to Memnon, as “the Ethiop king/Whose statue turns a harper once a day,” in his unfinished drama, “The Deformed Transformed,” in Coleridge (1901): 5: 497. (66) The image of Memnon appears also, for example, in Oscar Wilde: in his short story “The Happy Prince,” where he mentions the “granite throne” of the god Memnon, and in the poem “The Sphinx,” where “Still from his chair of porphyry gaunt Memnon strains his lidless eyes/Across the empty land, and cries each yellow morning unto Thee;” and, to adduce an American Romantic example, in Edgar Allen Poe, “The Portrait,” alluding to “Memnon wakening from his marble dream,” and in “The Coliseum,” where “Prophetic sounds and loud, arise forever/From us, and from all Ruin, unto the wise,/As melody from Memnon to the Sun.” (67) Dix (1988): 292 points out that “as early as 1782, Jean Joseph Dusaulx used the drawings in Paul Ernest Jablonski’s book De Memnone Graecorum et Aegyptiorum to expose the error of the ancient scholiasts.” (68) Text from the first edition, Coleridge (1796). Coleridge continued to work on the poem between 1796 and 1828, omitting, reworking, and adding lines; see Stillinger (1994): 27, and in general Mays (2001). (69) The three allusions are to be found in “A Fragment [Where Is the Giant of the Sun],” published in 1830, discussed here; in “ The Palace of Art” (1832), in which the narrator declares that his soul sits in a beautiful palace he has constructed in his mind, and melodies arise “from her lips, as morn from Memnon, drew/Rivers of melodies.” (159–160); and in “The Princess” (1847) 3.100: “A Memnon smitten with the morning sun . . .,” with reference to which

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Modern Memnon Dix (1988): 293 notes that a gloss on this line refers to the “musical note” given out at dawn. For Tennyson’s poems, see Hodder (2008). (70) Novalis (Georg Philipp Friedrich von Hardenberg) is actually translating a French text by the Dutch philosopher Francois Hemsterhuis (1721–1790), from his essay Alexis, published in 1787: “Ainsi, vouz voyez, que la poésie, soit qu’elle naisse de l’effort d’un grand génie, ou qu’un soufflé divin la produise, preside à tous les arts et à toutes les sciences, et qu’elle est non seulement à l’auguste vérité ce que les Graces sont à l’Amour, mais ce que l’Aurore est à la statue de Memnon qu’elle éclaire, et qu’elle fait parler.” From Mähl (1980): 190, also quoted in Menke (2000): 226. (71) Menke (2000): 218. (72) Brentano published two poems (“Phantasie,” 131–134; “Guittarre und Lied,” 135–142) and the mixed prose and verse short story “Die Rose” (143–175), all signed as “Maria.” Winkelmann’s contributions, marked by the letter “A,” were three sonnets (“An Tieck,” 123; “Die Flöte,” 124; “Das Klavier,” 125); one poem (“Quartett, am Grabe eines Knaben,” 126–130); and an essay on art (“Gespräche über die Kunst [erstes Gespr.],” 65–76). (73) For convenient access to the original Memnon: Eine Zeitschrift, vol. 1 (Leipzig, 1800), see the reprint by Kraus Reprint (Nendeln, Germany, 1971), or the digitized copy online through Hathi Trust: http://catalog.hathitrust.org/ Record/000532434. (74) “Memnon,” op. 6 (Drei Lieder) no. 1, D. 541 (1817), published 1821. For an alternative translation, see Schubert, “Memnon” (D. 541), text by Johann Mayrhofer, trans. George Bird and Richard Stokes, in Fischer-Dieskau (1995): 298–299. Schubert set five other neoclassical poems by Mayrhofer to music in the same month, including “Philoktet” (D. 540), “Antigone und Oedip” (D. 542), and “Orest auf Tauris” (D. 548); see Ebright (2011): 33. For a literary interpretation of the song, see Hirsch (2008): 3–23. (75) I disagree here with the interpretation of Ebright (2011): 35 that “the protagonist is a paragon of nobility and quiet acceptance, showing only the briefest glimpse of any emotion near the end of the third strophe, but regaining his stature with the thought of celestial transcendence.” (76) For Mayrhofer’s fascination with antiquity, which many in the audience may have shared, see Youens (1996): 175–183. (77) See the Vienna Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung for January 19, 1822, translated by Deutsch (1947): 206–207; also quoted in Hirsch (2008): 7.

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Modern Memnon (78) Hirsch (2008): 8. See also Hirsch (2008): 14: “Schubert may have recognized the specific relevance of the song’s mythical content—the fallen hero’s longing to reunite with his divine mother, thereby escaping present misery and regaining lost happiness—to what many eighteenth- and nineteenth-century Germans perceived as the alienated condition of modern man.” (79) Hirsch (2008): 11. (80) See “The Automaton Chess Player,” in G. Smith and W.M. Thackeray, eds., The Cornhill Magazine 52 (n.s. vol. 5) (July 1885): 299–306. The machine was on show at the Crystal Palace between 1868 and 1876; later it toured Belgium, France, Germany, and the United States. Curzon (1886): 278–279, arguing against the possibility of mechanical manipulation in the case of Memnon, comments, “Memnon could not, like the chess-playing automaton at the Crystal Palace, be occasionally withdrawn from view while the operator effected his ingress or egress. He sat in staring isolation upon the open plain, whence he could be seen for miles . . . we are justified in declaring that such a design would have been quite incapable of execution.” For more information on automata in early modern Europe, see Bredekamp (1995); for antiquity, see the discussion of Hero of Alexandria in Pollard and Reid (2006): 180–190. (81) Savary (1786) identified the northern Memnon statue as Ozymandias, based on the Diodorus Siculus passage. Waith (1995): 22–28, esp. 22–25 thinks that Shelley may have read both Vivant Denon’s descriptions of Memnon (perhaps in Aiken’s 1803 English translation) and Savary’s, and confused (or imaginatively combined) the two statues. (82) Belzoni, son of a barber in Padua, had previously worked on the London stage as a strongman called “The Great Belzoni,” teaching himself how to use levers and hydraulics for his acts; this knowledge came in handy when he needed to arrange transportation for the colossal head of Ramses II. See Fagan (2004): 65–77. (83) The quotation is from Colla (2007): 35, who speaks of the “prosopopoeic figure—the nonobject that beckons the collector.” (84) Belzoni (1820): 37–41. (85) See Colla (2007): 24–66. (86) Hamilton (1809): 177. In his diplomatic capacity, he traveled in Egypt and was responsible for arranging the transportation of the Rosetta stone to England; he was later, in his capacity as Lord Elgin’s secretary, in charge of acquiring the Parthenon friezes, also for the British Museum. Hamilton praises the entire Theban temple complex and reports that it is impossible to portray accurately in words (121): “But without personally inspecting this extraordinary Page 39 of 40

Modern Memnon edifice, it is impossible to have any adequate notion of its immense size, or of the prodigious masses of which it consists. In both these respects, and, combined with them, in respect to the beauty and magnificence of its several parts, it is, I should imagine, unique in the whole world.” (87) Porter (2011): 686. (88) Alston (2011): 704. (89) Bekker, Dindorf, and Vogel (1888–1890). (90) See Griffiths (1948): 80–84; Janowitz (1984): 477–491; Chaney (2006): 39– 69. (91) Smith published his version in The Examiner (February 1, 1818): 73; Shelley had published his three weeks earlier in the same journal: The Examiner (January 11, 1818): 24. For Smith’s poem, published in his collection Amarynthus, see Smith (1821); a facsimile edition was reissued in New York in 1977. (92) The literature on this poem is huge; see, e.g., Burt and Mikics (2010); Ingpen and Peck (1965). (93) “A poem to outlast empires” stands as the subtitle to Shelley’s “Ozymandias.” (94) On Letorzec and Cailliaud, see Chauvet (1992) and Mainterot (2011).

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Appendix 1 Map of the Inscriptions

The Language of Ruins: Greek and Latin Inscriptions on the Memnon Colossus Patricia A. Rosenmeyer

Print publication date: 2018 Print ISBN-13: 9780190626310 Published to Oxford Scholarship Online: May 2018 DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780190626310.001.0001

(p.205) Appendix 1 Map of the Inscriptions Patricia A. Rosenmeyer

The four “maps” that follow are rough sketches of the approximate placement of the inscriptions; they are meant to assist the reader in understanding how the texts appear on the stone’s surfaces rather than to offer a scientifically accurate image. In their drawings, André and Étienne Bernand (1960, Plates 70–73) assigned numbers to the inscriptions based on Letronne’s earlier system (1848, Plates 31–36), which numbered the texts starting from the top and moving down to the base of the statue. The Bernands then included a concordance so that their readers could match Letronne’s numbers to those they assigned to each text based primarily on date of composition. To avoid additional work on the part of the reader, I have changed the numbers in my sketches to match those used in my book—that is, based on the Bernands’ (1960) own numbering system. Some inscriptions do not appear in the sketches because they are not visible given the sight lines. Inscriptions 36 and 105 through 107 are on the left leg and foot; 9, 52, and 63 are located in between the legs; 51 is on the south side of the base; 62 is on the east side of the base; and 79 and 80 are behind the right heel on the right side. (p.206)

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Appendix 1 Map of the Inscriptions

Right Leg (p.207)

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Appendix 1 Map of the Inscriptions

Right Foot (p.208)

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Appendix 1 Map of the Inscriptions

Left Leg (p.209)

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Appendix 1 Map of the Inscriptions

Left Foot (p.210)

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Appendix 2 Texts and Translations of the Inscriptions

The Language of Ruins: Greek and Latin Inscriptions on the Memnon Colossus Patricia A. Rosenmeyer

Print publication date: 2018 Print ISBN-13: 9780190626310 Published to Oxford Scholarship Online: May 2018 DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780190626310.001.0001

(p.211) Appendix 2 Texts and Translations of the Inscriptions Patricia A. Rosenmeyer

1. Ser(vius) . . . P . . . Clemen[s] M(arco) [Aur]el[io] Cott(a) Messalino co(n)s(ule) [vocem] Memnonis audi et egi gratias. I, Servius . . . Clemens in the consulate of Marcus Aurelius Cotta Messalinus, heard the voice of Memnon and gave thanks. 2. A(ulus) Instuleius Tenax primipilaris leg(ionis) XII Fulminatae et C(aius) Valerius Priscus (centurio) leg(ionis) XXII et L(ucius) Quintius Viator decurio audimus Memnon[em] anno XI Neronis Imp(eratoris) n(ostri) XVII K(alendas) April(es) h[ora--] Aulus Instuleius Tenax, former centurion of the Twelfth Legion Fulminata and Caius Valerius Priscus, centurion of the Twenty-second Legion, and Lucius Quintius Viator, decurion—we heard Memnon in the eleventh year of Nero, our emperor, on the seventeenth day before the

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Appendix 2 Texts and Translations of the Inscriptions Kalends of April, at the . . . hour. 3. Ti(berius) Iulius Lupus, pr(aefectus) Aeg(ypti) Audi Memn[onem] Hora p[rima] fe[---] I, Tiberius Julius Lupus, prefect of Egypt, heard Memnon at the first hour ... (p.212) 4. L(ucius) Iunius Calvinus praef(ectus) montis Berenic(idis) audivi Memnonem cu[m] Minicia Rustica uxore XV K(alendas) Apriles hor(a) II anno IV Imp(eratoris) n(ostri) Vespasiani Augusti. I, Lucius Junius Calvinus, prefect of the mountain of Berenice, heard Memnon, along with Minicia Rustica my wife, on the fifteenth day before the Kalends of April, at the second hour, in the fourth year of Vespasian Augustus, our emperor. 5. . . . ΟΣ Κλαύδιος ΗΡ--[ἤκ]ουσα Μέμνον[ος ] Page 2 of 48

Appendix 2 Texts and Translations of the Inscriptions [σὺν] ᾿Αχιλλεῖ καί . . . . . . ὥρας α (ἔτει) η Αὐτο[κράτορο]ς Καίσαρος Οὐεσπασι[ανοῦ Σεβαστοῦ μηνὶ ῾Α(θὺρ) ----μεμνημένος ----καὶ Διονυσί[ου?] ----[α]ὐτῶν. I, Claudius . . . heard Memnon along with Achilles and . . . at the first hour, in the eighth year of Emperor Caesar Vespasian Augustus, in the month of Hathyr, . . . and I remembered . . . and Dionysius (?) . . . , their 6. T(itus) Suedius Clemens praef(ectus) castror(um) audi Mem{m}none(m) III Idus Novembres [hor(a)] I anno II T(iti) Imp(eratoris) n(ostri) I, Titus Suedius Clemens, prefect of the camps, heard Memnon on the third day before the Ides of November, at the first hour, in the second year of our emperor Titus. Page 3 of 48

Appendix 2 Texts and Translations of the Inscriptions 7. L(ucius) Tanicius L(ucii) f(ilius) Vol(tinia) Verus Viennae (centurio) leg(ionis) III Cyr(enaicae) audi Mem(m)none(m) VII Idus (p.213) Novembr(es) ann(o) III T(iti) Imp(eratoris) n(ostri) et VII K(alendas) Ianuar(ias) et XVIII K(alendas) Febr(uarias) et IV Non(as) easdem et V Idus eas(dem) et XIII K(alendas) Mart(ias) et VIII K(alendas) Mart(ias) et VII Id(us) Mar(tias) et VII Idus Ian(uarias) bis anno III T(iti) Imp(eratoris) Aug(usti) et XV K(alendas) Mart(ias) et VII Idus easdem h(ora) II et VIII Idus Apriles ann(i) eiusdem h(ora) I item IV Non(as) Iunias anni eiusdem h(ora) IV. I, Lucius Tanicius, son of Lucius, from the Voltinia clan, Verus, from Vienne, centurion of the third Cyrenaic legion, heard Memnon on the seventh day before the Ides of November in the third year of Titus our emperor (7 Nov. 80 CE) and on the seventh day before the Kalends of January (26 Dec.) and on the eighteenth day before the Kalends of February (15 Jan. 81 CE) and on the fourth day before the Nones of the same month (2 Feb.) and on the fifth day before the Ides of the same month (9 Feb.) and on the thirteenth day before the Kalends of March (17 Feb.) and on the eighth day of the Kalends before March (22 Feb.) and on the seventh day before the Ides of March (9 Mar.) and twice on the seventh day before the Ides of January (7 Jan.), in the third year of Emperor Titus Augustus

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Appendix 2 Texts and Translations of the Inscriptions and on the fifteenth day before the Kalends of March (15 Feb.) and on the seventh day before the Ides of the same month (9 Mar.) at the second hour, and on the eighth day before the Ides of April (6 Apr.) of the same year, at the first hour, and again on the fourth day before the Nones of June (2 Jun.) of the same year, at the fourth hour. 8. Funisulana Vettulla C(aii) Tetti(i) Africani praef(ecti) Aeg(ypti) uxor audi Memnonem pr(idei) Id(us) Febr(uariae) hora (prima et dimidia) anno I Imp(eratoris) Domitiani Aug(usti) cum iam tertio venissem. I, Funisulana Vettulla, wife of Gaius Tettius Africanus, prefect of Egypt, heard Memnon, on the eve of the Ides of February, at the first hour and a half, in the first year of the emperor Domitian Augustus having come now for the third time. 9.  Sabinius Fuscus praef(ectus) coh(ortis) I Hisp(anorum) eq(uitatae) audi VII Idus (p.214) Mart(ias) anno III {III} [D](omitiani) Imp(eratoris) Aug(usti) h(ora) II bis. I, Sabinius Fuscus,

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Appendix 2 Texts and Translations of the Inscriptions prefect of the first Spanish mounted cohort, heard (Memnon) twice on the seventh day before the Ides of March, in the third year of Emperor Domitian Augustus, at the second hour. 10. Sex(tus) Licinius Pudens (centurio) leg(ionis) XXII XI K(alendas) Ianuarias anno IIII Imp(eratoris) Domitiani Caesaris Augusti Germanici audi Memnonem. I, Sextus Licinius Pudens, centurion of the Twenty-second Legion, on the eleventh day before the Kalends of January, in the third year of Emperor Domitian Caesar Augustus Germanicus, heard Memnon. 11. Εἰ καὶ λωβητῆρες ἐλυμήναντο δέμας σόν, ἀλλὰ σύ γ’ αὐδήεις, ὡς κλύον αὐτὸς ἐγώ, Μέττιος, ὦ Μέμνον· Παϊὼν τάδ’ ἔγραψε Σιδήτης. Even if vandals damaged your body, you still speak out, as I myself, Mettius, witnessed by hearing (you) Memnon. Paion of Side wrote these words. 12. [Α]ὐδήεντά σε, Μέμνον, ἐγὼ Παϊὼ|ν ὁ Σιδήτης τὸ πρὶν ἐπυνθα|νόμην, νῦν δὲ παρὼν ἔμαθον. That you were capable of speaking, Memnon, I, Paion of Side, had learned before by inquiry, but now, being present, I myself learned by experience. 13. Imp(eratore) Domitiano Caesare Aug(usto) German(ico) XVI c(onsule) T(itus) Petronius Secundus pr(aefectus) Aeg(ypti)

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Appendix 2 Texts and Translations of the Inscriptions audit Memnonem hora I pr(idie) Idus Mart(ias) et honoravit eum versibus Graecis infra scriptis: φθέγξαο Λατοΐδα, σὸν γὰρ μέρος ὧδε κάθηται, Μέμνων, ἀκτεῖσιν βαλλόμενος πυρίναις. curante T(ito) Attio Musa prae[f](ecto) coh(ortis) II Thebaeor(um). When the Emperor Domitian Caesar Augustus Germanicus was in his sixteenth consulate, Titus Petronius Secundus, prefect of Egypt, heard Memnon at the first hour, on the evening before the Ides of March (p.215) and honored (him) with Greek verses written below: “You spoke, for a part of you is seated here, Memnon, when you were struck by the fiery rays of the son of Leto.” Arranged for by Titus Attius Musa, prefect of the second cohort of the Thebans. 14. Memnonis -- _ _ -- _ | clarumque sonor[em] exanimi inanimem mi[ssum] | de tegmine bruto auribus ipse meis cepi | sumsique canorum praefectus Gallorum al[ae], | praefectus item Ber[enices], Caesellius Quinti f[il(ius)]--A. Bararo (sic). Of Memnon . . . and the clear sound

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Appendix 2 Texts and Translations of the Inscriptions lifeless, from Memnon after his last breath, sent out from the voiceless covering, I myself received it with my ears, and I recognized the singing, prefect of the Gallic wing, and also prefect of the Berenice wing, Caesellius, son of Quintus . . . (??) 15. Anno VII Imp(eratoris) Caesaris Nervae Traiani Aug(usti) Ger(manici) Dacici C(aius) Vibius Maximus praef(ectus) Aeg(ypti) Audit Memnonem XIIII K(alendas) Mar(tias) Hora (secunda et dimidia) semel et (tertia) sem[el]. In the seventh year of Emperor Caesar Nerva Trajan Augustus Germanicus Dacicus, Caius Vibius Maximus, prefect of Egypt, heard Memnon on the fourteenth day before the Kalends of March, once at the second hour and a half, and once at the third hour. 16. Anno V Hadriani Imp(eratoris) n(ostri) T(itus) Haterius Nepos praef(ectus) Aeg(ypti) audit Memnonem XII K(alendas) Mart(ias) hora (prima et dimidia) In the fifth year of Hadrian our emperor, Titus Haterius Nepos, prefect of Egypt, heard Memnon, on the twelfth day before the Kalends of March, at the first

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Appendix 2 Texts and Translations of the Inscriptions hour and a half. 17. [An]no V Imp(eratoris) n(ostri) [Ha]driani IV K(alendas) Mar(tias) . . . ius Rufus (p.216) . . . ius [M]emnonem [audivi]t quater. In the fifth year of our emperor Hadrian, on the fourth day before the Kalends of March, . . . ius Rufus . . . ius heard Memnon four times. 18. Λούκιος Φουνεισουλανὸς Χαρείσιος, στρατηγὸς Ἑρμωνθείτου Λατοπολείτου, ἤκουσα Μέμνονος δίς, πρὶν πρώτης ὥρας καὶ πρώτηι, σὺν τῇ γυναικί μου Φουλβίᾳ, Θὼθ η, (ἔτους) ζ Ἁδριανοῦ τοῦ κυρίου. I, Lucius Funisulanus Charisius, strategos of the Hermonthite and Latopolite nomes, heard Memnon (speak) twice, before the first hour Page 9 of 48

Appendix 2 Texts and Translations of the Inscriptions and at the first hour, together with my wife, Fulvia, on the eighth (day) of Thoth in the seventh year of the reign of Hadrian our lord. 19. Φουνεισουλανὸς ἐνθαδεὶ [Χα]ρείσιος, στρατηγὸς Ἑρμώνθιός τε [κα.] Λάτων πάτρης, ἄγων δάμαρτα Φουλβίαν ἀ[κήκ]οεν σοῦ, Μέμνον, ἠχήσαντος, ἡν[ίχ’ ἡ] μήτηρ ἡ σὴ χυθεῖα σὸν δέμας τε ΑΠΩ. ….ΦΕΙ. Θύσας δὲ καὶ σπείσας τε ΚΑΡΤ----τοῦτ’ αὐτὸς ἠΰτησεν εἰς σεῖ[ο κλέος]· λάλον μὲν Ἀργὼ παῖς ἐ[ων-----] λάλον δὲ φηγὸν τὴν Διὸ[ς-----] σὲ δ᾿ αὐτὸν ὄσσοις μοῦνον ἐδ[ράκην ἐμοῖς,] ὡς αὐτὸς ἠχεῖς καὶ βοήν τιν’-----. Τοῦτον δὲ σοι χάραξε τὸν στίχο[ν]--ὅς εἴπετ’ αὐτῷ φίλτατος Τ-----Here Funisulanus Charisius, strategos of Hermonthis and the land of Lato, together with his wife, Fulvia, heard you calling, Memnon, when your mother spread herself (over) your body. (p.217) And after offering sacrifice and libation he uttered this himself to your glory: “That the Argo talked I was told as a child, Page 10 of 48

Appendix 2 Texts and Translations of the Inscriptions and that the oak of Zeus (at Dodona) talked; but you alone have I seen with my own eyes, how you yourself called out and uttered a cry.” This verse was inscribed for you by the dearest friend who was in his company, T[----]. 20. Σέρουιος Σουλπίκιος [Σερῆνος] ἔπαρχος σπείρης, χει[λίαρχος ] λεγεῶνος κβ [, ἔπαρχος ἄλης Οὐο-] κουντίω[ν]----νεωκόρος τοῦ με[γάλου] Σαράπιδος, τῶν [ὲν Μουσείῳ] σειτουμένων ἀτελῶ[ν, ἤκουσα] Μέμνονος ὥρας ---(ἔτους ) ῾ζ ῾Αδριανοῦ. I, Servius Sulpicius Serenus, prefect of a cohort, military tribune of the Twenty-Second Legion, prefect of the wing of the Vocontii, temple priest of the great Sarapis, a pensioner of the Museion, one of those who eat without charge, heard Memnon, at the . . . hour, in the seventh year of Hadrian’s (rule). 21. Θειοτάτου νύκτωρ | ὀμφὴν ἔπι Μέμνονος | ἦλθον, | ἔκλυον ἦς Κάτουλος ταγὸς | ὁ Θηβαΐδος. I came at night to hear the voice of most divine Memnon, Page 11 of 48

Appendix 2 Texts and Translations of the Inscriptions And I, Catulus, chief of the Thebaid, heard him. 22. ῾Ο Σαρδιηνὸς Παρδαλᾶς δὶς ἤκουσα. μεμνήσομαι σεῦ κἀν ἐμῆισι βύβλοι[σι]. Εἰ καὶ λωβητῆρες ἐλυμήναντ[ο δέυ]ας σόν . . . I, Pardalas of Sardis, heard (you, Memnon,) twice. I will mention you also in my books. Even if vandals damaged your body . . . 23. Κέλερ στρατηγὸς ἐνθαδεὶ παρῆν Μέμνονος οὐχ ὅπως ἀκούσεται. Ἐν κονεῖ γὰρ αὐτῇ τῇ τῶν χωμάτων παρῆν θεωρὸς καὶ προσκυνήσων ἅμα. Μέμνων ἐπιγνοὺς οὐδὲν ἐξεφθέγξατο. (p.218) Κέλερ δὲ ἀπῄει ἐφ’ ἃ πάλιν π[α]ρῆν μέσας διαστήσας ἡμέρας δύο. Ἤκουσεν ἐλθὼν τοῦ θεοῦ τὸν ἦχον, (ἔτους) ζ Ἁδριανοῦ Καίσαρος τοῦ κυρίου, Ἐπεὶφ ς, ὥραν α. The strategos Celer was here but not in order to hear Memnon. For he was present in the dust itself of the dirt mounds in order to see and to mark his devotion. Memnon understood and did not speak out at all. But Celer then came back again to the place he had been, after having spent two days elsewhere. Arriving, he heard the voice of the god, in the seventh year of our ruler Hadrian Caesar, on the sixth of Epiph, Page 12 of 48

Appendix 2 Texts and Translations of the Inscriptions at the first hour. 24. T(itus) Fl(avius) Titianus praef(ectus) Aeg(ypti) audit Memnon XII K(alendas) April(es) Vero III et Ambibulo co(n)s(ulibus) hora (prima). Titus Flavius Titianus prefect of Egypt heard Memnon on the thirteenth day before the Kalends of April in the third year of the consulship of Verus and Ambibulus, at the first hour. 25. C(aius) Maenius Haniochus domo Corinthi (centurio) leg(iones) XI Cl(audiae) p(iae) f(idelis) item I Ital(icae) item II Tr(aianae) f(ortis) audivi Memnonem ante semihoram XIII K(alendas) Mai(es) Gallicano et Titiano co(n)s(ulibus) eodem die hora prima et dimidia I, Caius Maenius Haniochus from Corinth, centurion of the eleventh Claudian Legion, (called) “Piety and Faith,” and also of the first Italian Legion, and the second Trajanic Legion, called “Strong,” heard Memnon before the end of the first half-hour,

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Appendix 2 Texts and Translations of the Inscriptions on the thirteenth day before the Kalends of May, in the consulship of Gallicanus and Titianus, and (also) on the same day, at the first hour and a half. 26.  C(aius) Cornelius VCRPETIANVS (sic) (p.219) pr(aefectus) coh(ortis) VII Itur(aeorum) audi hor(a) --I, Caius Cornelius (?) prefect of the seventh cohort of the Iturae heard at the . . . hour . . . 27. Γάϊος ᾿Ιούλιος Διονύσιος ἀρχιδικαστής, Θέωνος ἀρχιδικαστοῦ ὑὸς καὶ πατήρ, ἤκουσα Μεμνονος ὥρας πρώτης. I, Gaius Julius Dionysius archedikastes, son and father of Theon, archedikastes, heard Memnon at the first hour. 28.   Ἰουλίας Βαλ(β)ίλλης· ὅτε ἤκουσε τοῦ Μέμνο(νο)ς ὁ Σεβαστὸς Ἁδριανός.

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Appendix 2 Texts and Translations of the Inscriptions Μέμνονα πυνθανόμαν Αἰγύπτιον ἀλίω αὔγαι αἰθόμενον φώνην Θηβαΐ(κ)ω ᾿πυ λίθω. Ἀδρίανον δ’ ἐσίδων τὸν παμβασίληα πρὶν αὔγας ἀελίω χαίρην εἶπέ (ϝ)οι ὠς δύνατον. Τίταν δ’ ὄττ’ ἐλάων λεύκοισι δι’ αἴθερος ἴπποις ἐνὶ σκίαι ὠράων δεύτερον ἦχε μέτρον, ὠς χάλκοιο τύπεντ[ο]ς ἴη Μέμνων πάλιν αὔδαν ὀξύτονον· χαίρω[ν κ]αὶ τρίτον ἆχον ἴη. Κοίρανος Ἀδρίανο[ς τότ’ ἄ]λις δ’ ἀσπάσσατο καὖτος Μέμνονα κἀν [στάλ]αι κάλλι[π]εν ὀψ[ι]γόνοις γρόππατα σαμαίν[ον]τά τ’ ὄσ’ εὔϊδε κὤσσ’ ἐσάκουσε, Δῆλον παῖσι δ’ ἔγε[ν]τ’ ὤς (ϝ)ε φίλισι θέοι. (Composed) by Julia Balbilla, when the august Hadrian heard Memnon. I’ve heard tell that Memnon the Egyptian, warmed by the sun’s rays, utters a loud sound from the Theban stone. Seeing Hadrian, the greatest of kings, and before greeting the sun’s rays, he (Memnon) addressed him as well as he could. But when Titan, driving through the heavens on his white horses, held the second division of the day in the shadows, Memnon again sent forth a cry, (a sound) like beaten bronze, high-pitched; he even sent out a third cry in greeting. (p.220) Then the emperor Hadrian himself greeted Memnon appropriately, and left behind on the stone for posterity Page 15 of 48

Appendix 2 Texts and Translations of the Inscriptions written verses documenting all he had seen and heard. It was clear to all that the gods love him. 29.   Ὅτε σὺν τῇ Σεβαστῇ Σαβείνηι ἐγενόμην παρὰ τῷ Μέμνονι. Αὔως καὶ γεράρω, Μέμνον, πάι Τιθώνοιο, Θηβάας θάσσων ἄντα Δίος πόλιος, ἢ Ἀμένωθ, βασίλευ Αἰγύπτιε, τὼς ᾿νέποισιν ἴρηες μύθων τῶν παλάων ἴδριες, χαῖρε, καὶ αὐδάσαις πρόθρων ἀσπάσδε[ο κ]αὔτ[αν] τὰν σέμναν ἄλοχον κοιράνω Ἀδριάνω. Γλῶσσαν μέν τοι τμᾶξε [κ]αὶ ὤατα βάρβαρος ἄνηρ, Καμβύσαις ἄθεος· τῶ ῥα λύγρῳ θανάτῳ δῶκέν τοι ποίναν τὤτωι ἅκ[ρῳ] ἄορι πλάγεις τῷ νήλας Ἆπιν κάκτανε τὸν θέϊον. Ἀλλ’ ἔγω οὐ δοκίμωμι σέθεν τόδ’ ὄλεσθ’ ἂν ἄγαλμα, ψύχαν δ’ ἀθανάταν λοῖπον ἔσωσα νόῳ. Εὐσέβεες γὰρ ἔμοι γένεται πάπποι τ’ ἐγένοντο, Βάλβιλλός τ’ ὀ σόφος κ’ Ἀντίοχος βασίλευς, Βάλβιλλος γενέταις μᾶτρος βασιλήϊδος ἄμμας, τῶ πάτερος δὲ πάτηρ Ἀντίοχος βασίλευς· κήνων ἐκ γενέας κἄγω λόχον αἶμα τὸ κᾶλον, Βαλβίλλας δ’ ἔμεθεν γρόπτα τάδ’ εὐσέβε[ος]. When in the company of august Sabina I was beside Memnon. Son of Dawn and reverend Tithonus, Memnon, seated opposite Zeus’s Theban city, Page 16 of 48

Appendix 2 Texts and Translations of the Inscriptions or (should I call you) Amenoth, Egyptian king, as the priests claim, learned in the ancient stories, greetings! And speaking out, favorably welcome her too, the noble wife of the emperor Hadrian. A barbarian man cut off your tongue and ears, the godless Cambyses. But surely, with his wretched death, he paid the penalty, pierced by the same point of the sword with which he, pitiless man, killed the divine Apis. But I don’t think that this statue of you could ever perish, and I sense in my heart a soul hereafter immortal. For my parents and my grandparents were pious, Balbillus the wise and Antiochus the king: Balbillus was the father of my mother the queen, and King Antiochus was my father’s father. From their race, I, too, have obtained noble blood, and these are my writings, Balbilla the pious. (p.221) 30.  Ὅτε τῇ πρώτῃ ἡμέρᾳ οὐκ ἀκούσαμεν τοῦ Μέμνονος. Χθίσδον μὲν Μέμνων σίγαις ἀπε[δέξατ’ ἀκ]οίτα[ν], ὠς πάλιν ἀ κάλα τυῖδε Σάβιννα μό[λοι.] Τέρπει γάρ σ’ ἐράτα μόρφα βασιλήϊδος ἄμμας· ἐλθοίσαι δ’ [α]ὔται θήϊον ἄχον ἴη, μὴ καί τοι βασίλευς κοτέσῃ· τό νυ δᾶρον ἀτά[ρβης] τὰν σέμναν κατἐχες κουριδίαν ἄλοχον. Κὠ Μέμνων τρέσσαις μεγάλω μένος Ἀδρι[άνοιο] Page 17 of 48

Appendix 2 Texts and Translations of the Inscriptions ἐξαπίνας αὔδασ’, ἀ δ’ ὀΐοισ’ ἐχάρη. When on the first day we didn’t hear Memnon. Yesterday Memnon received (Hadrian’s) wife in silence, so that the beautiful Sabina might come back here again. For the lovely form of our queen pleases you. When she arrives, send forth a divine shout, so the king won’t be angry with you. As it is now, you’ve fearlessly detained for too long his noble wedded wife. And Memnon, trembling at the power of great Hadrian, suddenly spoke, and she rejoiced to hear it. 31. Ἔκλυον αὐδήσαντος ἔγω ‘πυ λίθω Βάλβιλλα | φώνα(ς) τᾶς θείας Μέμνονος ἢ Φαμένωθ. | Ἦλθον ὔμοι δ’ ἐράται βασιλήιδι τυῖδε Σαβίννᾳ, | ὤρας δὲ πρώτας ἄλιος ἦχε δρόμος. | Κοιράνω Ἀδριάνω πέμπτῳ δεκότῳ δ’ ἐνιαύτῳ, (φῶτ)α δ’ ἔχεσκε(ν) Ἄθυρ εἴκοσι | καὶ πέσυρα. Εἰκόστῳ πέμπτῳ | δ’ ἄματι μῆνος Ἄθυρ. I, Balbilla, heard, from the speaking stone, the divine voice of Memnon or Phamenoth. I came here with our lovely queen Sabina, when the sun held its course during the first hour, in the fifteenth year of the emperor Hadrian’s rule, Hathyr was on its twenty-fourth day. On the twenty-fifth day of the month of Hathyr. 32. [Σα]βεῖνα Σεβαστὴ Page 18 of 48

Appendix 2 Texts and Translations of the Inscriptions [Αὐτ]οκράτορος Καίσαρος [Ἁδρια]νοῦ, ἐντὸς ὥρας [α? Μέμνονο]ς δὶς ἤκουσε ----------------------------ΗΣ Sabina Augusta, wife of the emperor Caesar Hadrian, heard Memnon twice within the hour . . . (p.222) 33. Λ(ούκιος ) Φλαυοϊανὸς Φίλιππος ἔκλυον Μέμνονος τοῦ θειοτάτου, Αὐτοκράτορος ῾Αδριανοῦ ἀκούοντος, ἐντὸς ὥρας β δίς. I, Lucius Flavianus Philippus, heard Memnon the most divine, while Emperor Hadrian was listening, twice within the second hour. 34. ᾿Αρτεμίδωρος Πτολεμαίου, Βασιλικὸς γραμματεὺς ῾Ερμωνθείτου χαὶ Λατοπολείτου, ἤκουσα Μέμνονος τοῦ θειοτάPage 19 of 48

Appendix 2 Texts and Translations of the Inscriptions του, μετὰ καὶ τῆς συνβίου ᾿Αρσινόης καί τῶν τέκνων Αἰλουρίωνος τοῦ καὶ Κοδράτου καὶ Πτολεμαίου, ἔτει ιεἉδριανοῦ Καίσαρος τοῦ κυρίου, ια Χοίακ. I, Artemidorus, son of Ptolemy, basilikos grammateus of the Hermonthite and Latopolite nomes, heard Memnon the most divine, along with my wife Arsinoe and my sons, Aelurion, also called Quadratus, and Ptolemy, in the fifteenth year of Hadrian Caesar, our lord, and on the eleventh day of [the month of] Choiak. 35. ΚόϊντοςἈποληϊανὸς βοηθὸς ὁμοίως ἤκουσα μετὰ τῶν προγεγραμμένων, τῷ αὐτῷ ἔτει, μηνὶ τῷ αὐτῷ. I, Quintus Apuleianus, adjunct (of the basilikos grammateus), I heard equally, along with the people whose names are inscribed above, in the same year and in the same month. 36. Θήβης ἐν πεδίοισι [παρα]ὶ βα|[θ]υδινήεντ[α] Νεῖλον ἀναπλώσας | [σῆς ἔ]κλυ[ε], Μέμνον, ἀϋτῆς [Γάλ]λος ἐπι|τροπέων Θηβηΐδος ἠμαθ[οέσσ]ης | [θεινο]μ[έ]νων χαλκῷ ἰκέλη[ς. …..] ΑΔΕ|ΙΛ.. μῦθος. Πηλεΐων ἐδάμασσε τὸν Ἠὼ(ς) τίκτε | ποτ’ υἷα. Ὁπποῖον γὰρ ἐνὶ Τ[ροίῃ Σιμ]όεντος ἐ[π’ ὄχ]θαις (p.223) Page 20 of 48

Appendix 2 Texts and Translations of the Inscriptions ἔβραχε τεύχ[εα κείν]ου, ὅτ’ ἐν |[κονίῃ]σι τάνυστο, τοῖο[ν] νῦν [κ]τυ |[πέ]ει λίθος ἄσπετος ἐγγ[ύθι] Ν[είλο]υ. In the plains of Thebes, beside the Nile with its deep eddies, Gallus, procurator of the sandy Thebaid heard your voice, Memnon, as he sailed up the river, (a voice that sounded) like (clashing) bronze (armor) of men being struck . . . (as) the story (goes). Peleus’s child once subdued the son Eos bore. Just as in Troy, on the banks of the Simois, his armor clanged, when he was stretched out in the dust, so now, near the Nile, the huge stone resounds. 37. Ὧ πόποι, ἦ μέγα θαῦμα τόδ’ ὀφ[θαλμοῖσιν ὀρῶμαι]· ἦ μάλα τις θεὸς ἔνδον, οἳ οὐρανὸν εὐρὺν ἔχουσιν, ἤϋσεν φωνήν· κατὰ δ’ ἔσχεθε λαὸν ἅπαντα. Οὐ γάρ πως ἂν θνητὸς ἀνὴρ τάδε μηχανόῳτο. Ἀρείου Ὁμηρικοῦ ποιητοῦ ἐκ Μουσείου ἀκούσαντος. Oh what a great and amazing thing it is that I see in front of my eyes. Surely there must be some god within, (one of the ones) who dwell in the wide heavens, who uttered (such) a cry and held back all the people. For no mortal man could ever produce such marvels. By Arius, Homeric poet from the Museion, (after) hearing (Memnon). 38. Q(uintus) Marcius Hermogenes praef(ectus) classis Aug(ustae) Alex(andrinae) [audit Memnonem Hora (prima et dimidia) Nonis Martis Serviano III et Varo co(n)s(ulibus).

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Appendix 2 Texts and Translations of the Inscriptions Quintus Marcius Hermogenes, prefect of Augustus’s Alexandrian fleet, heard Memnon at the first hour and a half, on the Nones of March, in the third consulship of Servianus, and in the consulship of Varus. 39. Μάρκιος Ἑρμογένης ἔκλυον μέγα φωνή|σαντος Μέμνονος, ΑΝΤΕΛΛΟΥ. ….|ΔΑΟ βαλόντος. I, Marcius Hermogenes, heard Memnon, speaking loudly, . . . at the rising . . . (?) 40. M(arcus) Petronius Mamertinus praef(ectus) Aeg(ypti) audi Memnon(em) VI Idus Martias Serviano III et Varo co(n)s(ulibus) hora(m) dies (sic) ante primam. I, Marcus Petronius Mamertinus prefect of Egypt, heard Memnon (p.224) on the sixth day before the Ides of March in the third consulship of Servianus, and in the consulship of Varus before the first hour of the day. 41. Horam cum primam cumque horam sole secundam Prolata Oceano luminat alma dies Vox audita mihi est ter bene Memnonia. [Aq]uila [epistr]ategus Thebaidos fecit, cum audit Memnonem XI K(alendas) Iun(ias) Serviano III co(n)s(ule) cum Asidonia Galla uxore. When the nurturing day, carried out from beyond the Ocean, Page 22 of 48

Appendix 2 Texts and Translations of the Inscriptions illuminated the first hour and the second hour with the sun’s rays, I heard three times, clearly, the voice of Memnon. Aquila the epistrategos of the Thebaid made (these verses), when he heard Memnon, on the eleventh day before the Kalends of June, in the third consulship of Servianus, accompanied by his wife, Asidonia Galla. 42. Φείδῳ καὶ | [Γ]άλλῃ πρό|φ[ρω]ν ἐφθέγξα|το [Μέ]μνων|, Θηβαΐ[δος] προμα|θὼν το[ὺς δύο κη]δε|μόνας. Memnon eagerly spoke out to Fidus and Galla, since he already knew the two protectors of the Thebaid. 43. Χαιρήμων ὁ κα[ὶ---] στρατηγὸς ῾Ερ[μωνθείτο] Λατοπολε[ίτου, ἤκουσα] τοῦ θειοτά[του Μέμνονος,] σὺν τῇ ἀδελφ[ῇ---,] (ἔτους ) ιθ ῾Αδριανοῦ [τοῦ κυρίου] μηνὸς ῾Αδριαν[οῦ---] I, Chaeremon, also called . . . strategos of the Hermonthite and Latopolite nomes, heard the most divine Memnon, with my sister . . . in the nineteenth year of our lord Hadrian’s rule, in the month of Hadrian . . . 44. Claudius Maximus (centurio) leg(ionis XXII audivi

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Appendix 2 Texts and Translations of the Inscriptions hora prima. I, Claudius Maximus (centurion) of the Twenty-Second Legion, heard (Memnon) at the first hour. (p.225) 45. Claudius Maximus (centurio) Leg(ionis) XXII audi Memnonem hora (prima). I, Claudius Maximus, centurion of the Twenty-Second Legion, heard Memnon at the (first) hour. 46. [Iu]lius Mithridaticus tribunus [l]eg(ionis) XXII Deiot(arianae) XIII K(alendas) Iul(ias) [Me]mnonem audivi h(ora) (prima) I, Julius Mithridaticus, tribune of the twenty-second Legion Deiotariana, on the thirteenth day before the Kalends of July heard Memnon at the first hour. 47. C(aius) Calpurnius Asper (centurio) leg(ionis) XXII hor[a] II Memnonem audii ter. I, Caius Calpurnius Asper, centurion of the twenty-second Legion, at the second hour heard Memnon three times. Page 24 of 48

Appendix 2 Texts and Translations of the Inscriptions 48.     T(itus) Statilius Maximus Severu[s] Memnonem audio hor(a) (prima) a(nte) d(iem) XII Kal(endas) Mart(ias) anno XX Hadriani Imp(eratoris) n(ostri). I, Titus Statilius Maximus Severus hear Memnon at the first hour on the twelfth day before the Kalends of March, in the twentieth year of our emperor Hadrian. 49. (ἔτει) . . . Ἁδριανοῦ [τοῦ] κυρίου [Σαρα]πίων ---ΩΝ βα[σι]λικὸς γρ[αμματεὺς ] -------. . . in the year . . . of Hadrian our lord Sarapion . . . basilikos (p.226) grammateus . . . ... 50. Imp(eratore) Traian[o] [Had]riano T -----------------------------In the reign of Emperor Trajan Page 25 of 48

Appendix 2 Texts and Translations of the Inscriptions Hadrian . . . ... 51.     Εὐτυχῶς Μαρίῳ Γεμέλλ[ῳ] Θῆκέ σε φωνήεντα θεὰ ῥοδοδάκτυλος Ἠώς, σὴ μήτειρ, κλυτὲ Μέμνον, ἐελδομένῳ μοι ἀκοῦσαι σῆς φωνῆς· λυκάβαντι περικλυτοῦ Ἀντωνείνου [δω]δεκάτῳ, καὶ μηνὶ Παχὼν τρισκαίδεκα ἔχοντι [ἤμα]τα, δὶς, δαῖμον, τεῦ ἐσέκλυον αὐδήσαντος, [ἠελίου] λίμνης περικαλλέα ῥεῖθρα λιπόντος. [Ὄντα ποτ]ὲ ἀντολίης βασιλῆά σε θῆκε Κρονείων [οἰκουρὸ]ν πέτρου, φωνὴν δ’ ἀπὸ πέτρου ἔθη[κε]· [ταῦτ’ ἔγραψα] ἔγωγε Γέμελλος ἀμοιβαδὶς ἔνθ[α], [σὺν κεδν]ῇ ἀλόχῳ Ῥουφίλλῃ καὶ τεκέεσσιν. Εὐτυχῶς [Ῥου]φιλλῃ [τῇ] καὶ Λονγεινίᾳ. Good luck to Marius Gemellus, centurion. You were set up by Eos, goddess of the rosy fingers, your mother, famous Memnon, to speak for me, desiring to hear your voice. In the twelfth year of very famous Antoninus, and on the thirteenth day of the month of Pachon, I heard you, god, speak twice, when the sun left the beautiful waves of the river. You who were once an eastern king, the son of Kronos placed you to dwell in rock, and placed a voice inside the rock. I wrote these things, Gemellus, here in turn, Page 26 of 48

Appendix 2 Texts and Translations of the Inscriptions with my faithful wife, Rufilla, and (our) children. Good luck to Rufilla, also called Longinia. 52. ------τ[ρ]ισκαίδε[κ᾿ἔχοντι] ---τ]εῦ ἐσέκλυον αὐδ[ήσαντο]ς ---περικ]αλλέα ρεῖθρα λιπόν[τ]ος ---βα]σιλ(ῆ)ά σε θῆκε Κρονε(ί)ω[ν] ---φωνὴν δ᾿ἀπὸ πέτρου ἔθ[ηκε] ---Γ(έ)μελλος ἀμοιβαδὶς ἔ[νθα]. . . . and on the thirteenth day . . . I heard you, god, speak (p.227) . . . when . . . left the beautiful waves . . . the son of Kronos placed you, a king . . . placed a voice inside the rock . . . Gemellus here, in turn. 53. Τίς νύ σε τοιάδ’ ἔρεξε, φί[λον τέκος, Οὐρανιώνων] μαψιδίως ὡσεί τινα ἀτε[ίμητον μετανάστην]; Ἐξ[α]ύδα, λίτομαί σε, καὶ --Καὶ γὰρ ἐγώ ΣΕΕΣΑΚΑΙ --Εὐτυχῶς Μαρίῳ Γεμέλλῳ ἑκατοντ[άρχῃ]--Which now of the children of Ouranos did these things to you, dear child, in vain, as if dealing with some dishonored exile? Speak out, I beg you, and . . . For I, too, . . . Good luck Page 27 of 48

Appendix 2 Texts and Translations of the Inscriptions to Marius Gemellus, centurion . . . 54. Memnonem vates canorum Maximus Statilius audit et donat camenas: Musa nam cordi deis. Maximus Statilius the poet hears singing Memnon and offers poems; for the Muse is dear to the gods. 55. Meas quoque auris Memnonis vox accidit; Nomen cieto quisque vatem Maximum. The voice of Memnon reaches my ears, too; let each man utter the name of the poet Maximus. 56. T(itus) Helvius Lucanus praef(ectus) alae Aprianae cum Maecenatia Pia uxore et Maecenate Lucano filio audi Memnonem VII Kal(endas) Mart(i)as Cethego et Claro co(n)s(ulibus) ho[r]a diei prima I, Titus Helvius Lucanus, prefect of the Aprian wing, accompanied by Maecenatia Pia, my wife, and Maecenas Lucanus, my son, heard Memnon on the seventh day before the Kalends of March in the consulship of Cethegus and Clarus, at the first hour of the day. 57. M(arcus) Ulpius Primianus praef(ectus) Aeg(ypti) VI Kal(endas) Martias Dextro (bis) co(n)s(ule) iterum hora Diei secunda audivi Memnonem bis. Page 28 of 48

Appendix 2 Texts and Translations of the Inscriptions (p.228) I, Marcus Ulpius Primianus prefect of Egypt on the sixth day before the Kalends of March, in the second consulship of Dexter for the second time, at the second hour of the day, heard Memnon twice. 58.     Feliciter salvo Primiano. Felix Fl(avius) Origenes b(ene)f(iciarius) eius. I greet Primianus and wish him good luck. Good luck also to Flavius Origenes, his beneficiary. 59. V Nonas Martias Felix Aug(ustorum duorum) libertus procurator usiacus hora prima semis Memnonem {a} audivit. On the fifth day before the Nones of March Felix, made a freedman by the two Augustuses, procurator of imperial goods at the first hour and a half heard Memnon. Page 29 of 48

Appendix 2 Texts and Translations of the Inscriptions 60. M(arcus) Herennius M(arci) f(ilius), [Q]ui[r](ina), Faustus Ti(berius) Iulius Clemens Tadius Flaccus co(n)s(ul), (septem) [vir epul(onum)], Sodalis Augustalis (decem)[vir stliti-] bus i[udicand]is, [se]v[ir] tu[rmarum equestr(ium), trib(unus)] mil(itum) leg(ionis) III [A]u[g](ustae), q(uaestor) [provinc(iae)] . . . [trib(unus) pl]eb(is), pr(aetor), leg(atus) Aug(usti) leg(ionis) XII [Fulminat(ae)], . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Memnonem audivi ..................................................... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Geta co(n)s(ule). I, Marcus Herennius, son of Marcus, of the Quirina tribe, Faustus Tiberius Iulius Clemens Tadius Flaccus, consul, one of the seven priests of the public banquets, member of the Sodales Augustales, one of the ten judges involved with private lawsuits, one of the six commanders of the cavalry, military tribune of the Third Legion Augusta, quaestor of the province, (p.229) tribune of the plebs, praetor, legate of Augustus of the Twelfth Legion Fulminata, . . . I heard Memnon ... . . . in the consulship of Geta. 61. Ἐγὼ σοφιστὴ[ς] ὤν. [Μέμν]ων οἶδε λαλεῖν ὅσον ῥήτωρ, οἶδέ τε σιγᾶν, Page 30 of 48

Appendix 2 Texts and Translations of the Inscriptions εἰδὼς καὶ φωνῆς νεῦρα καὶ ἡσυχίας. [Κα]ὶ γὰρ ἰδὼν Ἠῶ τὴν μητέρα τὴν κροκόπεπλον [ἤχη]σεν λιγυρῆς ἡδύτερον λαλίης. [Τ]αῦτα Φάλερνος ἔγραψε ποητὴς ἠδὲ σοφισ[τὴς] [ἀξ]ία καὶ Μουσῶν, ἀξία καὶ Χαρίτων. I, who am a sophist. Memnon knows how to talk as well as a rhetor, and he knows to be silent, understanding the force of speech and silence. For seeing Eos, his mother with her saffron-colored cloak, he uttered a sound sweeter than melodious chatter. Falernus wrote these verses, the poet and sophist, verses worthy of the Muses, and worthy of the Graces. 62. Ἀσκληπιοδότου. Ζώειν, εἰναλίη Θέτι, Μέμνονα καὶ μέγα φωνεῖν μάνθανε, μητρῴηι λαμπάδι θαλπόμενον, Αἰγύπτου Λιβυκῆισιν ὑπ’ ὀφρύσιν, ὧν ἀποτάμνει καλλίπυλον Θήβην Νεῖλος ἐλαυνόμενος· τὸν δὲ μάχης ἀκόρητον Ἀχιλλέα μήτ’ ἐνὶ Τρῴων φθέγγεσθαι πεδίωι, μήτ’ ἐνί Θεσσαλίηι. ποιητοῦ· ἐπιτρόπου. By Asclepiodotus. Know, sea-dwelling Thetis, that Memnon lives, and speaks loudly when he is warmed by your maternal light, at the base of the Libyan hills of Egypt, where the flowing Nile cuts off Thebes with its lovely gates. Page 31 of 48

Appendix 2 Texts and Translations of the Inscriptions But your Achilles, long ago insatiable for battle, speaks neither on the plains of Troy nor in Thessaly. By the poet, (also a) procurator. 63. ---Fuscu[s]-----EBIVS.I-----[c]oh(ortis) II I[tur(aeorum) eq(uitatae)] ---[M]emnoni[s]-----NACV-----O-----A--(p.230) ---hor(a) II b[is] ----------------------------------[i]tem I ho[ra---] et tertia.. ME et ter. IANO . . . Fuscus . . . ... . . . of the cavalry cohort . . . . . . of Memnon . . . ... ... ... . . . twice at the second hour . . . ... Page 32 of 48

Appendix 2 Texts and Translations of the Inscriptions ... and again at the first hour . . . and third . . . and three times . . . 64. -------------------------Me[m]n[onem] au[divi] et------------------------------------------------... I heard Memnon And . . . ... 65. Προσκύνημα Ἰουλίας Σατουρνίνης [This is the] proskynema of Julia Saturnina. 66. Διονυσίας τὸ προσκύνημα· πολλά-κις δ’ ἀκούσεται. (This is the) proskynema of Dionysia; she will hear (it) many times. 67. Κλαύδιος Γέμινος ἀραβάρχης καὶ ἐπιστράτηγος Θηβαΐδος, ἤκουσα ἀναπλέων ὥρας γ´, (p.231) Page 33 of 48

Appendix 2 Texts and Translations of the Inscriptions καταπλέων ὥρας β´, καὶ ἀναπλέων π[άλιν] ἤκουσα Τῦβι κε´ ὥρα[ς γ´?]. I, Claudius Geminus, arabarches and epistrategos of the Thebaid, sailing up the river, heard (Memnon) at the third hour; sailing down the river, at the second hour, and sailing back up again, I heard (him), on the 25th of Tubi, at the third hour. 68. ᾿´Ηκουσα--καὶ ἐθαύμασα--ἐγὼ σὺν CΕ I heard . . . and I was amazed . . . I (came) with . . . 69. Ἡλιόδωρος Ζήνωνος Καισαρείας Πανιάδος ἤκουσα δ καὶ ἐμνήσθην Ζήνωνος καὶ Ἀϊανοῦ ἀδελφῶν. I, Heliodorus son of Zenon, from Caesarea Panias, heard (Memnon) four times, and I thought of Zenon and Aianus, my brothers. Page 34 of 48

Appendix 2 Texts and Translations of the Inscriptions 70. Εἰ φθένγῃ τι, λάλησ[ον] ---, εἰ δὲ μόνον σειγᾷς Ο --ἀλλὰ θέλων ἐπακοῦσ[αι] --μή μοι τὴν σειγὴν ἥν Ε --Εὖ, Μέμνων, ἐλάλησας Α --πάντοτε καὶ ---- ΛΛΩΝ ἠέλ[ιο?---] [῾Αθὺ]ρ η If you (can) say anything, speak out . . . but if you only remain silent . . . but wishing to hear . . . do not . . . the silence which . . . you spoke out favorably . . . always and . . . the sun . . . on the eighth day [of the month] of Hathyr. (p.232) 71. ᾿Απίων πλειστονίκης ἤκουσα τρίς I, Apion, the one of many victories, Heard (Memnon) three times . . . 72. Τούτοις τοῖς ἐλέγοις Πετρωνιανός σε γεραίρω, αὐδήεντι θεῶι μουσικὰ δῶρα διδούς, πατρόθεν οὔνομ’ ἔχων Αὐρήλιος, Ἰταλὸς ἀνήρ. Ἀλλὰ σύ μοι ζώειν δηρόν, ἄναξ, χάρισαι. Πολλοὶ ἅμα στείχουσι δα(ή)μεναι, ἦ ῥ’ ἔτι Μέμνων τοῦ λοιποῦ γῆρυν σώματος ἔντος ἔχει. Αὐτὰρ ὅ γε στέρνων κεφαλῆς τε ἄτερ ἥμενος αὐδᾷ, Page 35 of 48

Appendix 2 Texts and Translations of the Inscriptions ὕβριν Καμβύσεω μητέρι μεμφόμενος. Εὖτ’ ἂν δ’ ἠέλιος φαέθων ἀκτεῖνας ἀνίσχῃ ἦμαρ σημαίνει τοῖς παρεοῦσι βροτοῖς. In these elegiac verses, I, Petronianus, honor you, giving to the speaking god gifts from the Muses; from my father I have the name Aurelius, and I am an Italian man. But you, lord, grant to me to live a long time. Many come together here to discover if Memnon still preserves a voice within what remains of his body. But he, sitting without chest or head, speaks, complaining to his mother of Cambyses’ outrage. And when the sun, shining, sends forth rays, he announces the day to those mortals present. 73. Βαλβεινιανὸς ἔναρχος ἐθαύμασεν | ἀρχιδικαστής Balbinianus, acting archidikastes, was amazed. 74. ᾿Ηχούσαμεν Πίσων καὶ Σευῆρος Σευήρο[υ]-λεγι(ῶνος ) χ[β] ΕΤΙ--We heard (Memnon), Pison and Severus, son of Severus, of the twenty-second legion Page 36 of 48

Appendix 2 Texts and Translations of the Inscriptions ... 75. M(arcus) Valeris Germanus ARVFO praefecti audivi Memnone(m) III (p.233) I, Marcus Valeris Germanus . . . of the prefect heard Memnon three times. 76.   Gamelius hora prima semis audivi Memnonem. I, Gamelius, at the first hour and a half, heard Memnon. 77. ---ΠΤΗΝΟΥ--ΚΙΦΟΙΗ ὕμνου--... . . . song (?) . . . 78. ΜΕΜΝ.Ν. …..ΗΜ ΟΚC..ΕΝC---ΛΠΙΛ--Page 37 of 48

Appendix 2 Texts and Translations of the Inscriptions ΗΜΑΟCΗCΜΥ--ΛΛ…Α--μνήσθη CΟΜ--τῶν |.Ν…Α--ΤΑΤ..Τ.Α---ΝΟΥ συνβί[ου] ἐ[π]ιστράτηγο[ς ] τῆς Θηβαΐδος, αἰτῶν ὥρας γ Memnon . . . ... ... ... . . . remembered . . . ... ... of his wife, epistrategos of the Thebaid requesting (that Memnon speak?) at the third hour. 79. ---Λ--- τυ[λ]λεῖνος ἐπιστράτηγος Θηβαΐδος σὺν Τουσιδίᾳ ᾿Ιωνίδι τῇ συμβίῳ ἤκουσα Μέμνονος (ἔτους) γ, Παχὼν η, (ὥρ)ᾳ γ. (p.234) I . . . -tullinus epistrategos of the Thebaid, Page 38 of 48

Appendix 2 Texts and Translations of the Inscriptions Accompanied by Tusidia Ionis, my wife, Heard Memnon In the third year, on the eighth of [the month of] Pachon, at the third hour. 80. ---ΟΣΗΣΙ---ΛΑΩΝ.Μ.ΝΙΟ-----Ε--------ΤΟΥ------------------ΙΣ-----Τ---------------------------ΕΟΝ------------ΑΝΝ------------ΤΗΣ----ΜΙΝΤΟ---------------ΜΕ. [indecipherable] 81. ---------------anus audivi------------[M]emn[onem]-VNO..NOV----------AS..V-------. . . -anus I heard . . . Memnon . . . . . . Nones (?) ... 82. Iulius-------[audivi?] [Me]mnon[em------] I, Julius, (heard?) Memnon . . . 83. Αὔως ὦ πάϊ χαίρε· πρόφρων ἐφθέγξαο γάρ μοι, Μέμ[νον], Πειερίδων εἴνεκα, ταῖς μέλομαι Page 39 of 48

Appendix 2 Texts and Translations of the Inscriptions ἀ φιλαο[ιδὸς Δ]αμώ· ἐμὰ δ’ ἐπὶ ἦρα φέροισα βάρβιτος [ἀει]σεῖτ’ ἆι [σό]ν, ὦγνε, κρέτος. Greetings, child of Dawn, for you spoke to me eagerly, Memnon, for the sake of the Muses, who care for me, song-loving Damo. Returning the favor, my barbitos will always sing, holy one, your power. 84. ---ΙΟC ---ΟΧΟC ---ΙΩΝ ---ΜΕΜΝ ---ἰδὼν (p.235) ---ΑCΑ ---ΜΟΤΗΙ ---τῆς ---ΙΩΛΛΗ ---Ι ἐτῶν ---ΚΑΝ ---γ᾿ἄμβροτ-----το[ῦ Κ]αίσαρος ---Φα[ρ]μουθεὶ ια. Indecipherable other than a few words: line 2: a name ending in -ochos; line 4: Memnon; line 10: year; line 12: immortal; lines 13–14, restored by Letronne as “of the emperor,” with reference to the month of Pharmouthi, corresponding to April 7, 127 CE. 85. Marius Frontinus Memnonem coram audio. I, Marius Frontinus, hear Memnon, (standing here) in his presence.

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Appendix 2 Texts and Translations of the Inscriptions 86. Basilides, Faustus, Primitivus v[ocem Memno]nis audivimus. We, Basilides, Faustus, and Primitivus heard the voice of Memnon. 87. .eme--Memn[onem au]di I seme[l hor(a)] et III sem[el]. ... I heard Memnon once at the first hour, and once at the third hour. 88. Οὐκ ἀκάρηνος ἄ[ρ᾿ἐστ]ιν|[ὁ τῆς] Ἀῶς υἱός, Μέμνων, ἡ|[μερινῇ----ἀν]τολῇ ἠελί[οι]ο| μερόπεσσιν θε[σπίζων| πρὸς] αὐτὸν ἐκ πάσης γ[αίης]| [ἐλθοῦσι?]---Ν--But he is not without a head, the son of Eos, Memnon, because every day, at the rising of the sun, he utters oracles to mortals who come to him from all over the land . . . 89. Monimus hora--heri audi. I, Monimus, heard (Memnon) yesterday at the . . . hour. (p.236) 90. Τ(ίτος ) Φλ(αούιος ) ᾿Αττικὸς Page 41 of 48

Appendix 2 Texts and Translations of the Inscriptions [ἤκουσ]α Μέ[μνον]ος ---ΟΝ ---ΟC ---C ---ΟΩ. I, Titus Flavius Atticus, Heard Memnon ... ... ... ... 91. ---ΝΟΙΑ-----ΑΜ-----CΦC-----Χ--Indecipherable. 92.     Τρεβούλλης. Τῆς ἱερᾶς ἀκούσασα φωνῆς Μέμνονος, ἐπόθουν σε, μῆτηρ, καὶ ἐξακούειν εὐχόμην. By Trebulla Hearing the holy voice of Memnon, I missed you, mother, and prayed that you, too, might hear the sound. 93.     Καικιλία Τρεβοῦλλα δεύτερον ἀκούσασα Page 42 of 48

Appendix 2 Texts and Translations of the Inscriptions Μέμνονος. Αὐδῆς τὸ πρόσθεν μοῦνον ἐξακούσαντας, νῦν ὡς συνήθεις καὶ φίλους ἡσπάζετο Μέμνων ὁ παῖς Ἠοῦς τε καὶ Τειθωνοῖο. Αἴσθησιν ἆρα τῷ λίθῳ καὶ φθέγγματα ἡ φύσις ἔδωκε δημιουργὸς τῶν ὅλων; Caecilia Trebulla hearing Memnon a second time Although before we only heard his voice, now Memnon, the son of Eos and Tithonus, saluted us as friends and family. Can it be that nature, demiurge of the universe, has given perception and speech to the stone? (p.237) 94.     Καικιλία Τρεβοῦλλα ἔγραψα ἀκούσασα τοῦδε Μέμνονος. Ἔθραυσε Καμβύσης με τόνδε τὸν λίθον βασιλέος ἑῴου εἰκόνα ἐκμεμαγμένον. Φωνὴ δ᾿ ὀδυρμὸς ἦν πάλαι μοι, Μέμνονος τὰ πάθη γοῶσα, ἣν ἀφεῖλε Καμβύσης. Ἄναφθρα δ[ὴ] νῦν καὶ ἀσαφῆ τὰ φθέγγματα ὀλοφύρομ[α]ι, τῆς πρόσθε λείψανον τύχης. I, Caecilia Trebulla, after hearing Memnon, wrote (this): “Cambyses shattered me, this stone (you see) here, Page 43 of 48

Appendix 2 Texts and Translations of the Inscriptions a statue molded in the shape of an eastern king. Long ago I had a lamenting voice, mourning the sufferings of Memnon, but Cambyses took it away. Now indeed the sounds are inarticulate and unintelligible that I cry out, remnants of my former fortune.” 95. Caius audivi (h)ora II I, Caius, heard (Memnon) at the second hour. 96. Τὸ προσκύνημα Θωδώτ(ου) καὶ Διδύμου υἱοῦ. (This is) the proskynema of Thodotus and Didymus his son. 97. (ρ)παμσοκηνυμ κπκυανθκωηω Προσκύνημα Μ[άκρου] Κ. Πυθώνακτος. Ἥκω. Proskynema of Marcus Quintus Pythonax. I have come. 98. Ἀπώνις ὥρᾳ α | ἤκουσα ᾿Αφροδειταρίου τὸ προσκύνημα γέγραφα{μ} | ἐμῆς δάμαρτος, ἣν ἔχοιμ᾿ ὅσον φθέγγῃ. I, Aponis, heard (Memnon) at the first hour, I wrote this proskynema in honor of my wife Aphroditarion, whom I wish I had at my side every time you speak out. Page 44 of 48

Appendix 2 Texts and Translations of the Inscriptions 99. Ἀχιλλε[ὺς] προσκυνήσας ἱερώτατον Μέμ(ν)ονα καὶ εὐ[ξάμ]ενος τοὺς ἀδελφοὺς ἐσακοῦσαι θείου (p.238) φθέγ[γ]ματος, ἀπέρχομε, καταλιπὼν τῶι δίωι υἱῶι [Ἀ]μμωνίῳ τοῦ Νο ἀειμνήστο λίθῳ πεπυ[κ]ασμένην φωνήν. I, Achilles, having left my proskynema for most holy Memnon, and having made a prayer that my brothers might (also) hear the voice of the god, I depart, leaving behind for the god, the Ammonian son of No, a voice always to be remembered, made solid by the rock. 100. Οὐκ ἀκάρηνος ἄρ’ ἐστιν ὁ τῆς Ἠ[οῦς --- υἱό]ς, Μέμνων, ἡμερινῇ ----[ἀ]ντολῇ ἠελίοιο θεσπίζων μερό[π]εσσιν, ο[ἳ στείχ]ουσι πρὸς αὐτὸν ἐκ πάσης γαίη[ς ἐ]λθεῖν, ἵ[να]. ……ΟΝΤΕΣ, οἱ μὲν ἐπι[στά]μενο[ι?---, οἱ δὲ---] θα[υ]μάζοντες, οἴχωνται π[ρὸς] πάτρα[ν]-----ΟΙΟ τυχόντες. But he is not without a head, the son of Eos, Memnon, because every day, . . . at the rising of the sun, he utters oracles to mortals, who(ever) manage to come to him from all over the earth, in order to . . . some having known? . . . others full of amazement, they return to their fatherland . . . 101. Εἴ γε μὲν οὖν Ἠὼς τὸν ἑὸν [φί]λον υἷα δακρύει, ἡνίκ’ ἂν ἀντέλλῃσι φαεσφόρος ἤμασιν αἴγλην

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Appendix 2 Texts and Translations of the Inscriptions ἐ[κ] γαίης μύκημα θεοπρεπὲς [ἐκπ]έμπουσα, ἴστω θεῖος Ὅμηρος, ὃς Ἰλίου ἔ[ννε]πε μῦθον· αὐτὸς δ’ ἐνθάδ’ ἔων τοῦ Μ[έμ]ν[ον]ος [ἔ]κλυον αὐδῆς. Ἰούλιος ἦλ[θο]ν ἐγὼν [ἑκα]τόνταρχος λεγεῶνος. If it is true that Eos weeps for her own dear son, whenever she brings forth light and gives brilliance to the days as they begin, breathing out from the ground a groan worthy of a god, let divine Homer be the one to know, who told the story of Troy. But I, standing right here, heard the voice of Memnon. I, Julius, came here, centurion of a legion. 102. [Τò προ]σκúνημα θκλοοσνθϡϙλχψβωεξβω νπυλϙθως ἱσ[τορ]ήσ[ας ] ἐμνήσθη, Λούκι[ο]ς, ὥρας γ Παμε[νώτ]. [Τò προ]σκúνημα θκλοοσνθ (= Ἀπολλωνα-) ϡϙλχψβωεξβω (= ρίου τῆς ἐμῆς ); νπυλϙθως ( = νκυοιασγ = γυναικός). (p.239) ἱσ[τορ]ήσ[ας ] ἐμνήσθη, Λούκι[ο]ς, ὥρας γ Παμε[νώτ]. A proskynema for Apollonarion my wife; Page 46 of 48

Appendix 2 Texts and Translations of the Inscriptions (I/he) visited and remembered (her), Lucius, at the third hour, in the month of Phamenoth. 103. Ε.ΕΝ γαῖαν-----ΑΙ---ΣΙ ἀνέ[θ]η[κε]---μάθηι Μέμν[ω]ν-------------ΦΙ. . . . earth . . . . . . he set up . . . (so that) Memnon might learn ... 104. Χεῦσεν ἰυ[γὴν] π[ο]|νευμ[ένη---] | ῾´Εως, Μέμ | νονος --- | ῥέος --- | ἱέντος. Suffering Eos poured out a flood (of lament?) when Memnon . . . 105. T . . VN-----AV . TI--MEMNON---SIVEAMENOT--AV---------N---AN . E--I . . EI--N . M . A-----S---OS--I---MN---PATEIA--MEN-----------E--NON---Indecipherable other than line 2: Memnon . . . or Amenoth . . . 106. ΦARMOVTI H Page 47 of 48

Appendix 2 Texts and Translations of the Inscriptions the month of Pharmouthi (?) 107. ---ΘΕΜΙC-----ΠΟC . . Ε-----ΜΙΝΟΙΚWΝΠΑ-----CΤ . Y . ΟΝΙ---------ΛΕ--[Μέμν]ονος ἤκο[υσα] (p.240) --Indecipherable bilingual inscription; last line: “I heard Memnon.” 108. This inscription appears on the outside of the left foot, with letters ca. 16 cm high, at the level of #94; but no letters are decipherable, and there is some debate about the alphabetic script used.

Page 48 of 48

Appendix 3 Index of Personal NamesInscribers, Family Members, Consuls, Emperors

The Language of Ruins: Greek and Latin Inscriptions on the Memnon Colossus Patricia A. Rosenmeyer

Print publication date: 2018 Print ISBN-13: 9780190626310 Published to Oxford Scholarship Online: May 2018 DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780190626310.001.0001

(p.241) Appendix 3 Index of Personal NamesInscribers, Family Members, Consuls, Emperors Patricia A. Rosenmeyer

Page 1 of 6

Names written in Latin

Inscription & Line Number

Ambibulus

24.6

Asidonia Galla

41.6

Attius Musa, T.

13.9

Basilides

86.1

Caesellius

14.5

Caius

95.1

Calpurnius Asper, C.

47.1-2

Cethegus

56.5

Clarus

56.5

Claudius Balbillus, Ti.

29.14-15

Claudius Maximus

44.1; 45.1

Cornelius, C.

26.1

Cotta Messalinus, Aurelius M.

1.2

Dexter

57.3-4

Domitianus Augustus (Emperor)

8.5; 9.5

Appendix 3 Index of Personal NamesInscribers, Family Members, Consuls, Emperors

Page 2 of 6

Domitianus Caesar Augustus Germanicus (Emperor)

10.3-4; 13.1-2

Faustus

86.1

Felix

59.2

Flavius Origenes

58.3

Flavius Titianus, T.

24.1

Funisulana Vettulla

8.1

Fuscus

63.1

Gallicanus

25.4

Gamelius

76.1

Geta

60.10

Hadrianus (Emperor)

16.1; 17.2; 48.4; 50.2

Haterius Nepos, T.

16.2-3

Helvius Lucanus, T.

56.1

Herennius Faustus Ti. Iulius Clemens Tadius Flaccus, M.

60.1-3

Instuleius Tenax, Aulus

2.1

Iulius

82.1

Iulius Aquila, Fidus

41.4

Iulius Lupus, Ti.

3.1-2

Iulius Mithridaticus

46.1

Iunius Calvinus, L.

4.1

Licinius Pudens, Sextus

10.1

Maecenas Lucanus

56.3

Maecenatia Pia

56.2-3

Maenius Haniochus, C.

25.1

Marcius Hermogenes, Q.

38.1

Marius Frontinus

85.1

Maximus

55.2

Minicia Rustica

4.4

Monimus

89.1

Appendix 3 Index of Personal NamesInscribers, Family Members, Consuls, Emperors Nero (Emperor)

2.4

Nerva Traianus Augustus Germanicus Dacicus (Emperor)

15.2

Petronius Mamertinus, M.

40.1

Petronius Secundus, T.

13.3

Primianus

58.2

Primitivus

86.1

Quintius Viator, L.

2.3

Rufus

17.3

Sabinius Fuscus, M.

9.1

Servianus

38.2; 40.4; 41.5

Servius Clemens

1.1

Statilius Maximus

54.1

Statilius Maximus Severus, T.

48.1

Suedius Clemens, T.

6.1

Tanicius Verus, L.

7.1

Tettius Africanus, C.

8.2

Titianus

25.4

Titus

7.3

Titus Augustus (Emperor)

59.2

Traianus (Emperor)

50.1

Ulpius Primianus, M.

57.1

Valeri(u)s Germanus, M.

75.1-2

Valerius Priscus, C.

2.2

Varus

38.2; 40.4

Verus

24.6

Vespasian Augustus (Emperor)

4.6

Vibius Maximus, C.

15.3 (p.242)

(p.243) Names written in Greek

Page 3 of 6

Latin Spelling

Inscription

Appendix 3 Index of Personal NamesInscribers, Family Members, Consuls, Emperors

Page 4 of 6

Ἁδριανός /Ἀδριανός

Hadrian

18.7; 20.9; 23.9; 28.3, 9; 29.6; 30.7; 31.5; 32.3; 33.5; 34.6; 43.6, 7; 49.1

Ἀϊανός

Aianus

69.5

Αἰλουρίων

Ailourion

34.5

Ἀντίοχος

Antiochus

29.14,16

Ἀντωνεῖνος

Antoninus

51.3

Ἀπίων

Apion

71.1

Ἀπολλωνάριον

Apollonarion

102.1-2

Ἀπώνις

Aponis

98.1

Ἄρειος

Arius

37.5

Ἀρσινόη

Arsinoe

34.4

Ἀρτεμίδωρος

Artemidorus, son

34.1

Πτολεμαίου

of Ptolemy

Ἀσκληπιοδότος

Asclepiodotus

62 header

Αὐρήλιος Πετρωνιανός

Aurelius Petronianus

72.1, 3

Ἀφροδειτάριον

Aphroditarion

98.2

Ἀχιλλέυς

Achilles

5.3; 99.1

Βαλβεινιανός

Balbinianus

73.1

Βάλβιλλος

Balbillus

29.14-15

Γάλλη

Galla

42.1

Γάλλος

Gallus

36.3

Δαμώ

Damo

83.3

Δίδυμος

Didymus

96.2

Διονυσία

Dionysia

66.1

Διονύσιος

Dionysius

5.8

Ζήνων

Zenon

69.1-2, 4

Ἡλιόδωρος Ζήνωνος

Heliodorus, son of 69.1-2 Zenon

Θέων

Theon

27.2

Θώδωτος

Thodotus

96.1

Appendix 3 Index of Personal NamesInscribers, Family Members, Consuls, Emperors

Page 5 of 6

Ἰουλία Βάλβιλλα

Julia Balbilla

28 header; 29.18; 31.1

Ἰουλία Σατουρνίνη

Julia Saturnina

65.1-2

Ἰούλιος

Julius

101.6

᾿Ιούλιος Διονύσιος, Γάϊος

Julius Dionysius, G.

27.1

Καικιλία Τρεβοῦλλα

Caecilia Trebulla

92 header; 93 header; 94 header

Κάτουλος

Catulus

21.2

Κέλερ

Celer

23.1, 6

Κλαύδιος

Claudius

5.1

Κλαύδιος Γέμινος

Claudius Geminus 67.1

Κόδρατος

Quadratus

34.5-6

Κόϊντος Ἀποληϊανός

Quintus Apoleianus

35.1

Κόϊντος Πυθῶναξ, Μάρκος

Quintus Pythonax, 97.2 M.

Λονγείνια (=Ῥουφίλλη)

Longinia (=Rufilla)

51 footer

Λούκιος

Lucius

102.5

Μάριος Γέμελλος

Marius Gemellus

51 header, 9; 52.6; 53 footer

Μάρκιος Ἑρμογένης

Marcius Hermogenes

39.1

Μέττιος

Mettius

11.3

Οὐεσπασιανός

Vespasian

5.5-6

Παϊὼν

Paion

11.3; 12.1

Παρδαλᾶς

Pardalas

22.1

Πίσων

Pison

74.2

Πτολεμαῖος

Ptolemy

34.1, 6

Ῥουφίλλη (=Λονγείνια)

Rufilla (=Longinia)

51.10, footer

Σαβείνη/ Σάβιννα/ Σαβεῖνα

Sabina

29 header; 30.2; 31.2; 32.1

Σευῆρος

Severus

74.3-4

Appendix 3 Index of Personal NamesInscribers, Family Members, Consuls, Emperors

Page 6 of 6

Σουλπίκιος Σερῆνος, Σέρουιος

Sulpicius Serenus, 20.1 S.

Τουσιδία ᾿Ιωνίς

Tusidia Ionis

79.3

Φάλερνος

Falernus

61.5

Φείδος

Fidus

42.1

Φλαυοϊανὸς Φίλιππος, Flavianus Λούκιος Philippus, L.

33.1-2

Φλαούιος Ἀττικός, Τίτος

Flavius Atticus, T.

90.1

Φουλβία

Fulvia

18.6; 19.3

Φουνεισουλανὸς Χαρείσιος, Λούκιος

Funisulanus Charisius, L. 18.1-2; 19.1

Χαιρήμων

Chaeremon

43.1 (p.244)

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The Language of Ruins: Greek and Latin Inscriptions on the Memnon Colossus Patricia A. Rosenmeyer

Print publication date: 2018 Print ISBN-13: 9780190626310 Published to Oxford Scholarship Online: May 2018 DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780190626310.001.0001

(p.245) Bibliography Patricia A. Rosenmeyer

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Index

The Language of Ruins: Greek and Latin Inscriptions on the Memnon Colossus Patricia A. Rosenmeyer

Print publication date: 2018 Print ISBN-13: 9780190626310 Published to Oxford Scholarship Online: May 2018 DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780190626310.001.0001

(p.261) Index Note: The letter t following a page number denotes a table. Adams, J. N., 5, 83–84 Aelius Aristides, 45, 75 Aelius Gallus, 9–10, 41 Ainsworth, R., 187–188 Akenside, M., 188–189 Alciphron, 17 Alston, R., 64, 200–201 Amenhotep, 4, 6, 14, 179, 193–194, 196 Amenoth, 14–15, 73, 147, 151, 158 Ammianus Marcellinus, 171–172 Antinous, 138, 144, 162 Antoninus Pius, 130 Apollonius of Tyana, 92–94, 107, 155, 172 apostrophe, 80–88, 139 archidicast Balbinianus, 28n90, 62 Iulius Dionysius, C., 28n90 Arius, 61, 134–140 Asclepiodotus, 103, 128–130 Assmann, J., 34 Aulus Gellius, 163 Ausonius, 139 Bagas, 71 Baillet, J., 29, 62 Balbilla, Julia, 19, 31, 59, 67, 73–75, 94–98, 100–105, 108, 123–124, 135, 141–168, 175 Balbillus, 142, 158 Belzoni, G., 199–200 Bernand, A., 6–7, 12, 23, 54, 145, 162, 171, 205 Bernand, E., 6–7, 12, 23, 54, 145, 162, 171, 205 Page 1 of 7

Index Birley, A., 144 Bouchard, P. -F. -X., 179 Bowersock, G., 171 Bowie, E., 144 Brennan, T. C., 142 Buecheler, F., 4 Burgess, J., 113 Burstein, S., 23 Byron, A. Lord, 169, 190–191 Cailliaud, F., 204 Callistratus, 172–177, 193 Cambyses, 18, 99–105, 120, 123, 131, 146–147, 151–152, 187 Catullus, 163 centurion, 5n16, 7n21, 83n22 Claudius Maximus, 32–33 Gemellus, M., 32–33, 61–62, 79, 85–86, 107, 111, 130–134, 136 Julius, 66–67, 106, 120–123 Tanicius, L., 33, 56–58 Champollion, J. -F., 3, 26 Chaney, E., 35 Chaniotis, A., 21 (p.262) Christodorus, 162 Cicero, 36 Cleombrotus, 47–48 Coleridge, S. T., 192 consul Herennius, M., 8, 56–57 Corinna, 161 Curzon, G., 176–177, 183–186 Damo, Claudia, 108–110, 123, 164–166, 168 Darwin, E., 189 Deir el-Bahari, 29, 42, 54, 58 Demetrius, 47–48 Denon, D. -V., 3, 169, 179–183 Devilliers, E., 3 Dio Chrysostom, 16–17, 116–117, 138, 163 Dix, R., 187–189, 192 Donatus, 19–20 Egypt 18th–19th-century views on, 1, 3, 169, 179–181, 199–203 Greco-Roman, 5, 9–10, 12–18, 22–29, 39–41, 44–47, 50, 64–65, 75, 92–93, 129–131, 165–166, 170–171 pharaonic, 49, 52, 64–65, 194 See also tourism Egyptology, 4, 177–180 Elsner, J., 50, 66, 74–75 Eos, 4, 9, 11–14, 19, 66, 85–86, 88, 94, 97, 106, 112, 119–123, 132–133, 149–150, 158 epiphany, 67, 80, 95–96, 102–110, 137, 153 epistrategos Page 2 of 7

Index Catulus, 28n92, 174n16 Claudius Geminus, 28–29, 41, 55–58, 125n41 Fidus Aquila, Iulius, 30–32 Maximus Statilius, 32 Ethiopia, 12–14, 18, 93–94, 173–175 Eudoxus, 45 Eusebius, 172 Fantuzzi, M., 89 Flaubert, G., 26–27, 37 Foertmeyer, V., 24–27 Frankfurter, D., 25, 71 Franz, J., 3 Galen, 163 Gangloff, A., 36 Geraci, G., 23 Germanicus, 15–16, 44, 48–49, 82 graffiti, 3, 21–27, 37, 41–42, 50, 58, 63, 204 Hadrian, 28, 31, 41, 43, 46, 48–49, 67, 100–101, 124, 135, 141–155, 159–160, 162, 166– 167 Halbwachs, M., 34 Hegel, G. W. F., 169, 184–185 Heliodorus, 39–40, 45, 97, 104, 204 Hemelrijk, E., 144 Heraclitus, 117–118 Herodotus, 11, 45–48, 52, 73–75, 131, 155 Hesiod, 12, 109 hieroglyphics, 1–2, 6, 11, 14–15, 48, 51, 65, 177–178 Hirsch, M., 198 Homeric epic Achilles in, 12–14, 52, 124–135 allusions to, 111–140 cento of, 61, 134–140 cyclic poems vs., 112–116 Memnon in, 12–15 Odysseus in, 52, 112–116, 133–137 pastiche of, 124–134 Telemachus in, 133–137 Horace, 91, 163–164 L’Hôte, N., 3 Hunter, R., 89 idiologos Statilius Maximus, T., 32, 44n18 inscription(s) Aeolic forms of, 141, 144, 155–162, 156t, 161t, 165–166 archaic forms of, 155–159, 157t bilingual, 81–83 mutual influence of, 105–106 Latin vs. Greek, 83–84 (p.263) Page 3 of 7

Index social status of authors of, 27–29, 34, 45, 108, 111–112 (see also archidicast; consul; epistrategos; idiologos; prefect; proconsul; procurator; strategos; wives; Memnon: female inscriber on) interpretatio graeca, 15, 51, 64 Jablonski, P. E., 179 Jacobs, F., 179 Jerome, 169, 172 Johnson, B., 78, 80, 96 Jollois, P., 3 Julius Caesar, 8, 49 Juvenal, 17, 186–188, 203 Kahane, A., 35 Kalabsha, 42, 72 Keats, J., 169, 191 Kim, L., 111, 117, 122, 138 Kircher, Athanasius, 177–179, 187 Klingemann, E. A. F., 194–196 Kosegarten, C., 179 Lepsius, K. R., 3 Letorzec, P. -C., 204 Letronne, J. -A., 4, 170–171, 179, 205 Lucian, 17, 69–70, 92–95, 102, 137, 155, 163 Luxor, 4–5 Mairs, R., 22 de Man, P., 91 Mandoulis, 25–26, 42, 72 Mayrhofer, J. B., 194–198 Memmius, L., 50 Memnon colossus of (see Memnon: statue of) Homer and, 46, 66–67, 111–140, 160, 162 Homeric hero, 19, 73, 90, 111–112, 116, 124, 157, 201 close encounter with, 137–140 modern, 169–204 Romantic, 186–198 Sappho and, 141–168 statue of Aeolian harp of, 20, 169, 187–194 colossal (see Memnon: statue of: monumentality of) conversation with, 77–110, 159 divinity of, 24, 51, 58–61, 79, 90, 105, 137, 159 female inscriber on Caecilia Trebulla (see Trebulla, Caecilia) Claudia Damo, 108–110, 164–166 Dionysia, 69 Julia Balbilla (see Balbilla, Julia) Julia Saturnina, 23, 78 Sabina, 141–142 (see also Sabina)

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Index fragmentary state of, 6, 18, 36, 64–66, 91–95, 103, 141, 170, 180, 186–187, 200–203 identification of, 12–17, 72–73 monumentality of, 74–75, 102, 181–185 mutilation of, 18, 61–62, 101, 123, 151–152 subjectivity of, 184–185 sublimity of, 37, 64–66, 183–185, 200–203 wife (of inscriber) mentioned on, 27n84 Aphroditarion, 237 Arsinoe, 43, 222 Asidonia Galla, 30–32, 224 Fulvia, 28–29, 32, 86–88, 216 Funisulana Vettulla, 55–56, 58, 213 Longinia (see Memnon: wife mentioned on: Rufilla) Maecenatia Pia, 27n84, 227 Minicia Rustica, 27n84, 212 Rufilla, 32, 85–86, 131–132, 226 Tusidia Ionis, 28n90, 234 voice of, 4–12, 19–34, 90–91, 96–104, 125, 129, 131, 134–137, 149, 169, 178 frequency of hearing, 30–33, 55–58, 132 silencing of, 170–177 (p.264) memory collective, 34–36 cultural, 22, 34–37 lieu(x) de mémoire, 36–37, 49–50, 64 mnema function, 33–38 Memphis, 41, 170 Menke, B., 183 Mestre, F., 36 Milles, T., 1 Minchin, E., 35–37 Napoleon, 3, 169, 179–180 Nearchos, 39–41 Nero, 7, 142 Newby, Z., 47 Nile, 14–15, 28–29, 39–41, 46, 48, 57–58, 125–130, 193 nomes, Hermonthite and Latopolite, 28, 59, 87 Nonnus, 138 Nora, P., 36 Norden, F., 176–177 Nossis, 167–168 Novalis, 193 Opie, A., 189–190 Ovid, 122, 163–164 Ozymandias poem on, 109, 184, 198–203 statue of, 199–201 Paion, 81, 123 Pancrates, 138 Page 5 of 7

Index Pardalas, 43–44, 81 Pausanias, 18–19, 36–37, 113–116, 187 Petronianus, 60–61, 69, 84–85, 108, 119–120, 165 Phamenoth, 73, 158 Philopappus, 142–143 Philostratus, 12–14, 36, 63, 93–96, 102, 107, 140, 155, 172–175, 187 pilgrimage. See tourism: sacred Platt, V., 50–51, 95–96, 105–110 Pliny the Elder, 12, 15, 24, 157 Plutarch, 26, 47–48, 70, 137–138, 143, 163 Pococke, R., 1–4, 177, 188 Polygnotus, 113–116 Porter, J. I., 64, 200 Posidippus, 91 prefect Flavius Titianus, T., 28n90 Haterius Nepos, T., 28n90 Iulius Lupus, T., 28n90 Mettius Rufus, 32, 79, 81–82, 123 Petronius Mamertinus, M., 31n99 Petronius Secundus, T., 81–83, 119 Tettius Africanus, C., 55–56 Ulpius Primianus, M., 30n96 Vibius Maximus, C., 33, 44 priamel, 88 Price, S., 109 procurator Asclepiodotus, 103, 128–130 Felix, 28n90 Gallus Marianus, 19, 124–128, 130, 140 proskynema, 21–27, 34, 40–42, 54, 58–59, 78, 99, 142–143, 182 prosopography, 27–33 prosopopeia, 78, 80, 88–102, 139, 169, 194 Pyramids, 17, 37, 41, 74 Ruskin, J., 65 Rutherford, I., 50, 52, 66, 71, 93 Sabina, 28, 31, 41, 100–102, 141–154, 158, 160–162, 166–167, 182 Sappho, 91, 141–168 Sarapion, 39 Sarapis, 12, 24, 94n52, 95n55 Schmitz, T., 90, 106 Schubert, F., 196–199 secretaries, 28n90 Artemidorus, 42–44, 59 Sarapion, 28n90 Septimius Severus, 48, 162, 170–171 Serapeum, 94n52, 172 Serapis. See Sarapis Sesostris, 18 Page 6 of 7

Index Shelley, P. B., 109, 199–203 Smith, H., 201–202 Sodales Augustales, 8 (p.265) Steiner, D., 90–91 Strabo, 5, 9–12, 18–19, 24, 41, 73, 121–122, 157, 187 strategos Celer, 29, 31n99, 53–54, 58–59 Chaeremon, 59 Funisulanus Charisius, L., 28, 32, 59–60, 67–68, 87–88, 104, 106, 122–123 Swetnam-Burland, M., 46 syncretism, 51, 158 Syringes, 18, 42–44. See also Tombs of the Kings Tacitus, 15–16, 48, 157 Takacs, S., 58 Tallet, G., 23 Tennyson, A. Lord, 169, 192–193 thauma, 53–66, 91, 135–137, 175, 178 Thebes (Egyptian), 1, 3, 9–10, 13–16, 24, 29, 39–75, 112–113, 125–126, 128–129, 141, 169, 176, 180–182, 199 Theodoret, 70–71 Theognis, 91 theoria, 49–54, 58–59, 68, 93, 96, 102 Thetis, 120, 124, 127–131 Tithonus, 73, 98, 158 Tombs of the Kings, 11, 18, 24–25, 184. See also Syringes tourism ancient, 4–6, 14–17, 22–27, 39–49, 141, 158 European, 4, 42, 69, 168–169, 180 intellectual, 46–48, 66–73 sacred, 23, 41, 48–66, 80, 89–90, 137–138 travel patterns of, 29, 41–42 Trajan, 44 Trebulla, Caecilia, 31, 38, 62, 96–100, 135, 144, 175, 196 Troy, 12–14, 35, 49, 112–113, 115, 130. See also Homer Volokhine, D., 49 West, M., 143 Williamson, G., 63 Wordsworth, W., 91, 188–190 Yoyotte, J., 58 Zeitlin, F., 47, 66, 117 Zenobia, 171

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