The Philosophizing Muse: The Influence of Greek Philosophy on Roman Poetry (Pierides) 1443859753, 9781443859752

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The Philosophizing Muse

Pierides Studies in Greek and Latin Literature

Series Editors:

Philip Hardie and Stratis Kyriakidis

Volume 1: S. Kyriakidis, Catalogues of Proper Names in Latin Epic Poetry: Lucretius – Virgil – Ovid Volume II: Antonis Petrides and Sophia Papaioannou (eds), New Perspectives on Postclassical Comedy

Pierides Studies in Greek and Latin Literature

Volume III:

The Philosophizing Muse: The Influence of Greek Philosophy on Roman Poetry Edited by

Myrto Garani and David Konstan

The Philosophizing Muse: The Influence of Greek Philosophy on Roman Poetry Edited by Myrto Garani and David Konstan This book first published 2014 Cambridge Scholars Publishing 12 Back Chapman Street, Newcastle upon Tyne, NE6 2XX, UK British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Copyright © 2014 by Myrto Garani, David Konstan and contributors All rights for this book reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner. ISBN (10): 1-4438-5975-3, ISBN (13): 978-1-4438-5975-2

TABLE OF CONTENTS Preface ....................................................................................................... vii Contributors.............................................................................................. viii Introduction ................................................................................................ xi Myrto Garani and David Konstan Chapter One................................................................................................. 1 The Beginnings: Philosophy in Roman Literature before 155 B.C. Dorota Dutsch Chapter Two .............................................................................................. 26 Lucretius, Empedocles and Cleanthes Gordon Campbell Chapter Three ............................................................................................ 61 Philosophy in Vergil Joseph Farrell Chapter Four.............................................................................................. 91 Horace’s Epicurean Voice in the Satires David Armstrong Chapter Five ............................................................................................ 128 The Figure of Numa in Ovid’s Fasti Myrto Garani Chapter Six .............................................................................................. 161 Manilius and Stoicism Ilaria Ramelli Chapter Seven.......................................................................................... 187 ‘Stoic Tragedy’: A Contradiction in Terms? Claudia Wiener

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Chapter Eight........................................................................................... 218 Consolation, Rebellion and Philosophy in Lucan’s Bellum Civile Book 8 Francesca D’Alessandro Behr Chapter Nine............................................................................................ 245 Persius’ Fourth Satire: Socrates and the Failure of Pedagogy Shadi Bartsch Chapter Ten.............................................................................................. 269 Stoic Thought and Homeric Reminiscence in Valerius Flaccus’ Argonautica A. Zissos Bibliography ............................................................................................ 298 Index Locorum ........................................................................................ 331 General Index .......................................................................................... 351

PREFACE The collaboration that led to this project originated from a fortuitous, but fortunate meeting of the co-editors in the surroundings of the American School of Classical Studies in Athens almost five years ago. The idea for the book, however, had been suggested many years ago by Professor Stratis Kyriakidis, one of the editors of CSP’s Pierides series. His unfailing support and belief in the value and the originality of the project, his authentic scholarly enthusiasm which was always coupled with objective—albeit exacting—criticism, made the completion of this book possible. Professor Philip Hardie has also embraced the project from the very beginning with equal interest and zeal and supported it all the way through. Special thanks are also due to the anonymous readers of CSP and the Pierides series, who offered valuable suggestions and comments. The person who deserves our deepest gratitude is Eleni PerakiKyriakidis: she laboriously proof-read the many drafts of the book in various stages and formats and painstakingly but discreetly saved us from numerous slips and inconsistencies. She was always available, ready to remind Myrto of priorities and values and to stand by her whenever things seemed to reach an impasse; she was a constant inspiration to begin again. Sophia Foskolou, Efthymia Toumpanou, Louloudenia Velentza and Anna Vythoulka, diligent MA students from the National and Kapodistrian University of Athens, have greatly assisted us in compiling the index locorum and going through the bibliographical references. This kind of work, despite its great value for such a complicated collaborative project, might have been tedious, had it not been for their excitement and their conscientiousness. Their work has been funded by E.L.K.E. (Special Account for Research Funds, Ȁ.ǹ. 70/11/118), which we are pleased to thank. Marianna Thoma, also a postgraduate student at the University of Athens, was ready to share with us her papyrological expertise as she undertook much of the typing of Philodemus’ and Empedocles’ thorny texts. From the other side of the Atlantic, Scott DiGiulio from Brown University has assisted us with the initial proof reading of the book. Myrto Garani David Konstan

CONTRIBUTORS David Armstrong is Professor Emeritus of Classics at The University of Texas, Austin. He is the author of Horace (Yale 1989) and recent articles on Horace, Juvenal, and the Philodemus texts in the Herculaneum papyri, as well as a range of other topics. Shadi Bartsch is the Helen A. Regenstein Distinguished Service Professor of Classics at the University of Chicago. Her research interests include Roman literature of the first century AD; the Stoic philosopher Seneca; and, more recently, the way that the Western Classics are being received in contemporary China. She has published, inter alia, Actors in the Audience: Theatricality and Doublespeak from Nero to Hadrian; Ideology in Cold Blood: A Reading of Lucan’s Civil War; The Mirror of the Self: Sexuality, Self-Knowledge and the Gaze in the Early Roman Empire; and several edited volumes on Roman poetry, rhetoric, and eros. Among Bartsch’s honors and grants, she has held a Guggenheim Fellowship, an ACLS Fellowship, and a Franke Fellowship at the University of Chicago. Her new book Persius: A Study in Food, Philosophy, and the Figural is forthcoming next spring. Gordon Campbell is lecturer in Ancient Classics at National University of Ireland, Maynooth. Gordon was born in Bembridge, Isle of Wight, England. He worked as a casino croupier, and a picture framer and art dealer before going to university as a mature student. He was educated at the University of Wales, Lampeter, and Jesus College, Oxford. He works on philosophical poetry (especially Lucretius and Empedocles), ancient didactic poetry, Hellenistic and Presocratic philosophy, and ancient cosmology. He has published two books, Lucretius on Creation and Evolution (OUP, 2003), and Strange Creatures: Anthropology in Antiquity (Duckworth, 2006), and has just finished editing the Oxford Handbook of Animals in Ancient Thought and Life (in press, 2014). Francesca D’Alessandro Behr is Associate Professor of Classics and Italian Studies at the University of Houston. Besides having written articles on Virgil, Persius, and the reception of classical literature, she has published the monograph Feeling History: Lucan, Stoicism, and the

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Poetics of Passion (2007). She is currently working on a book on the interactions between Italian Renaissance epic composed by women and classical authors. Dorota Dutsch is Associate Professor of Classics at the University of California, Santa Barbara. She is the author of Feminine Discourse in Roman Comedy: On Echoes and Voices (Oxford University Press, 2008), and co-editor, with David Konstan and Sharon James, of Women in Roman Republican Drama (University of Wisconsin Press, 2014) and, with Ann Suter, of Ancient Obscenities (University of Michigan Press, forthcoming). Joseph Farrell is Professor of Classical Studies at the University of Pennsylvania. His most recent book is Augustan Poetry and the Roman Republic (OUP 2013), which he co-edited with Damien P. Nelis. Myrto Garani is Lecturer in Latin Literature at the National and Kapodistrian University of Athens, Greece. She is the author of Empedocles Redivivus: Poetry and Analogy in Lucretius (London and New York, 2007). She has also published a series of articles on Empedocles’ reception in Latin literature. Her other publications include articles on Propertius and the PseudoVergilian Aetna. She is currently working on a commentary on Seneca’s Naturales Quaestiones Book 3, a Modern Greek translation of Aristotle’s Meteorology, and the reception of Pre-Socratic philosophers in Rome. David Konstan is Professor of Classics at New York University and Professor Emeritus of Classics and Comparative Literature at Brown University. He has published books on friendship, pity, forgiveness, and the emotions of the ancient Greeks, as well as studies of ancient comedy and the novel, and translations of the Greek commentators on Aristotle. His book on the classical conception of beauty will appear this year. Ilaria Ramelli has been Professor of Roman Near Eastern History, Senior Fellow in Ancient and Patristic Philosophy at Durham University, and Assistant in Ancient Philosophy at the Catholic University Milan. She is Professor of Theology and K. Britt Chair at the Graduate School of Theology, SHMS (Angelicum), Senior Visiting Professor of Greek Thought, Senior Fellow in Religion at Erfurt University, and director of international research projects. She serves on scientific boards of various scholarly series, journals, and societies. She has received many scholarly awards, and has authored numerous books and essays on ancient

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philosophy, patristics, classics, and the relation between Christianity and classical culture. Claudia Wiener is Professor of Classical and Neolatin Studies at the Ludwig-Maximilians-University of Munich. Her research interests include the influence of Stoic philosophy on Roman literature, textual transmission and medieval scholarly commentaries on Latin Classics (esp. Persius, Juvenal, Horatius), and Neolatin Literature in Germany (esp. Hartmann Schedel’s Nuremberg Chronicle, Conrad Celtis, Jacobus Balde). She has published inter alia Stoische Doktrin in römischer Belletristik:Das Problem von Entscheidungsfreiheit und Determinismus in Senecas Tragödien und Lucans Pharsalia. Andrew Zissos is Associate Professor of Classics at the University of California, Irvine. He is the author of numerous articles on imperial Latin epic, as well as a commentary on Book 1 of Valerius Flaccus’ Argonautica (Oxford 2008); he is also co-editor, with Ingo Gildenhard, of Transformative Change in Western Thought: a History of Metamorphosis from Homer to Hollywood (Oxford 2013), and sole editor of a forthcoming Blackwell Companion to the Flavian Age of Imperial Rome.

INTRODUCTION MYRTO GARANI AND DAVID KONSTAN Philosophy and poetry seem to us to be different enterprises, but to the ancient Greeks poetry was sometimes a vehicle for philosophy, as in the didactic poems of Parmenides and Empedocles, and drama, epic, and iambic poetry often exploited philosophical arguments—comedy might even take on philosophers and their schools directly, as in the case of Aristophanes’ Clouds and numerous lost plays. But despite the Romans’ reputation for being practical folk and disdainful of abstract speculation, Latin poetry was, if anything, more deeply permeated by philosophy than the Greek. Roman writers were schooled in the Greek language and in Greek thought, and philosophy came to them along with the models for their literary genres and sense of style. From its very beginnings, Latin literature was philosophical. To be sure, philosophical elements and commonplaces in writers such as Vergil, Horace, and Persius have been identified and appreciated, but the extent of the Greek philosophical influence on Latin verse has never been fully delineated. In this volume, an international group of eminent scholars deeply versed in Roman literature and the Greek philosophical tradition have come together to analyze the debt of Latin poetry to Greek philosophy across a range of authors from Plautus to Statius. They have addressed their poets from a variety of points of view, each according to the nature of the work under consideration and its mode of receiving and adapting Greek philosophy. We have not sought to produce a laundry list of passages that betray the influence of some doctrine or other, for this would be as unenlightening as it was dull. Nor is this book a handbook or companion to Greek philosophy and Roman poetry. Rather, each contributor has presented an original essay, illustrating subtle and unexpected ways in which the Roman poets absorbed and transformed their sources. It was perhaps not a foregone conclusion that Latin poetry would be so hospitable to Greek philosophical ideas. The year 155 B.C. might be considered a crucial juncture regarding the reception of Greek philosophy into Rome. It was then that the Romans banished the Athenian representatives of the Peripatos, the Academy and the Stoa who visited Rome as an embassy on a diplomatic mission. This remarkable political gesture, which was already preceded by the Senate’s instructions not to allow rhetoricians

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or philosophers to live in Rome (in 161 B.C.; cf. Suet. Rhet. 1.1; Gellius NA 15.11), reflects an initial Roman resistance to the reception of Greek philosophy. Still, the question remains open whether this preliminary encounter inaugurated a sustained rejection of Greek philosophical tendencies or rather, on the contrary, was something of a catalyst for Roman intellectual history.

1. Ennius, Plautus, Cato and Lucilius In the first chapter of this volume entitled “The Beginnings: Philosophy in Roman Literature before 155 B.C.”, Dorota Dutsch undertakes the challenging task of exploring anew the earliest influx of Greek philosophical ideas into Latin poetry. Dutsch argues that Ennius’ allusions to Pythagorean thought and Plautus’ witty take-offs on philosophizing are signs of an active debate within Roman literature over the status of Greek philosophy. As she explains, “The works of Ennius and Plautus, along with those views of Cato that can be recovered from his writings, offer us a glimpse of philosophy as it was discussed in Rome before Lucretius and Cicero,” which can be reconstructed despite the fragmentary state of the evidence. Dutsch concludes with an examination of the satires of Lucilius, as the author in whose texts the tension between Roman praxis and Greek philosophy is most fully played out. In the process, Dutsch illustrates how ancient readers such as Cicero and Plutarch may have distorted our perception of the influence of philosophy in this early period. Dutsch takes into account the social identity of the poets whose verses were imbued with philosophical ideas (especially Ennius, who was a foreign captive) and that of the Roman elite to whom these verses were addressed, discussing their horizon of expectations and their reactions, whether hostile or receptive. She also considers the ultimate purpose of such philosophizing—not strictly philosophical— writings, which, she maintains, was principally that of entertainment. At this preliminary stage of the philosophical presence in Latin verse, it is hard to separate out specific ideas reflecting the one or another of the several Greek philosophical schools. The only exception is Pythagoreanism, or, more precisely, Pythagorean cosmology, the influence of which can be detected in Naevius, Plautus, and Ennius. These poets look back to various literary genres, such as the pseudo-Pythagorean texts that circulated under Epicharmus’ name and Pythagorizing Greek Middle Comedy. Otherwise, allusions to philosophy take the form of more general comments about philosophical thinking as such, or the relationship, whether of opposition or of interaction, between the Roman modus vivendi

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bene and the style of life limned by the Greek philosophers; eminent Romans such as Cato and Lucilius juxtaposed Roman moral practice with Greek (commonly Stoic) theoretical approaches, and this ultimately gave rise, among their contemporaries, to something like an eclectic assimilation of the two.

2. Lucretius Our knowledge about the reception of Greek philosophy in the Roman world from the period around the end of the Republic onwards has been greatly deepened and modified by recent advances in the deciphering of papyri discovered at Herculaneum as well as by the publication of the Strasbourg papyrus of Empedocles in 1998, both of which have caused a revival of studies in this area. Taking these documents into account, in his chapter “Lucretius, Empedocles, and Cleanthes” Gordon Campbell examines Lucretius’ De Rerum Natura, a work that belongs to the literary genre of didactic poetry and is thus readily recognizable as deserving inclusion in the present volume. Although the poem presents itself as a faithful exposition of Epicureanism, scholars have noted many non-Epicurean influences; hence Lucretius is often treated as an eclectic poet. Campbell focuses anew on Empedocles, the major poetic influence on Lucretius and his literary forerunner, and reconsiders the nature of their intertextual relationship. He first discusses Lucretius’ programmatic statements regarding the value of poetry for philosophical initiation, with particular emphasis on Lucretius’ explicit comments about Empedocles; in this vein, he remarks that Lucretius merges his poetic and philosophical sources and concludes that “Lucretius takes on Empedocles’ mantle as prophet and Giant.” Campbell then narrows the focus of his investigation to the proem to Book 1 of the DRN, and discusses the well-known riddle of Lucretius’ invocation to Venus, whose presence is particularly alien in an Epicurean poem which in principle denies that the gods intervene in any way in human affairs. As Campbell puts it, such an opening is an “un-Epicurean or even antiEpicurean motif”. To underscore the extent to which this is an alarming inconsistency, Campbell takes note of Philodemus’ treatise, De Pietate, and in particular Philodemus’ critique of poets and philosophers precisely for the allegorical use of myths about gods; special emphasis is placed upon the Stoics’ allegorization of Venus, whom they treated as a personification of the harmonizing function of universal reason, that is, Zeus. Campbell takes up Elizabeth Asmis’ argument (1982), according to which the Stoic Cleanthes’ Hymn to Zeus was Lucretius’ model, and builds

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further upon David Sedley’s claim (1998) that there is a palpable Empedoclean influence on Lucretius’ proem. Indeed, he classifies both Cleanthes’ and Lucretius’ texts as philosophical hymns and studies the way their structures mirror one another, as well as their common goal. Along these lines, he affirms that Lucretius is resorting, in the proem, precisely to the Stoic technique of allegorization; by appropriating his enemies’ language, the Epicurean poet can the better dismiss their approach and substitute his orthodox philosophical truth for Stoic imagery. Finally, Campbell discusses Empedocles’ own poem; taking into consideration lines from the Strasbourg papyrus, Campbell explains that Cleanthes corrects Empedocles’ ‘Manichaean’ account of two separate and alternating forces, Love and Strife, and proposes instead “one single force, Zeus, that blends both good and bad into a single cosmic order.” As he concludes, “Cleanthes had indeed substituted the Stoic masculine force Zeus for Empedocles’ feminine cosmic force Aphrodite, and Lucretius restores her to her former throne.”

3. Vergil While Vergil’s interest in philosophical questions is generally agreed upon by scholars, in his chapter “Philosophy in Vergil” Joseph Farrell undertakes to investigate anew the nature of Vergil’s adherence to specific philosophical schools, with particular reference to Epicureanism. His ultimate aim is to show that Vergil did not go through some kind of philosophical development over the course of his life; rather, his eclectic engagement with philosophical ideas was conditioned by varying poetical objectives and generic requirements. Farrell studies in chronological order all three of Vergil’s major works, taking as his point of departure Servius’ and Servius auctus’ commentary as a corpus. Regarding the Eclogues, Farrell shows how Servius’ allegorical and biographical interpretation of these poems has clouded modern approaches. Although Servius indeed recognized Vergil’s eclecticism, he mistakenly attempted to reconcile Epicurean atomic theory with Empedocles’ four-element theory. What is important is that even at this early stage of his poetic career, Vergil already alludes to wide-ranging philosophical ideas, which have their origin in the domains of metaphysics, physics and natural science. Farrell next examines Vergil’s Georgics, in which natural philosophy dominates. Specific philosophical themes and tropes, such as Empedocles’ fourelement theory, as well as Lucretius’ principle of multiple explanations, point again to Vergil’s eclectic treatment of philosophy and his aspiration to achieve a prominent place in the tradition of philosophical poetry. In

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this case, Servius’ commentary in the Georgics is not as misleading as in the Eclogues, since he does not engage in biographical exegesis and hence is prepared to acknowledge Vergil’s eclecticism. Farrell considers too the question of philosophical allegoresis in the Georgics, a discussion which he takes up again in connection with the Aeneid. As he argues, our approach to Vergil’s works should take into account allegorical readings of Homer, and more generally Homer’s image as a philosophical poet in Vergil’s own time. Along these same lines, Vergil exhibits a Pythagorean conception of Platonic eschatology (as reflected in the myth of Er), for which he is intertextually indebted to Cicero’s interpretative gloss in his Somnium Scipionis. It is noteworthy that in all these poetic works, “high-profile episodes, each infused with celebrated philosophical topoi,” are placed at the center, so as to make philosophy the central theme. As Farrell remarks, “all three works allude to natural philosophy as if by synecdoche for philosophy as a whole.” Countering a view found in the Life of Vergil ascribed to Donatus, according to which Vergil was a Platonist, Farrell concludes: “It is a mistake to read Vergil’s major works as tracing his philosophical development from a materialist to a spiritual orientation and from detachment to engagement…. The poems describe a philosophical rota parallel to the literary one that traces Vergil’s ‘ascent’ from humbler to more sublime genres.” As an appendix to his essay, Farrell considers Vergil’s relationship to Philodemus, which might be thought to support the view that Vergil had been an adherent of Epicureanism. Farrell looks at various treatises of Philodemus, such as On Flattery, On Freedom of Speech, and On Death, and concludes that his influence on Vergil reveals an acquaintance with these works, not philosophical dependence on them.

4. Horace Horace’s intertextual relationship with Epicurus, Lucretius and Philodemus has for the most part been viewed primarily through the prism of Horace’s close affiliation with Philodemus’ addressees, that is, members of Maecenas’ circle who are regarded as Horace’s ideal Epicurean friends. On the basis of new information drawn mainly from the papyrus rolls of Herculaneum, in his chapter “Horace’s Epicurean voice in the Satires” David Armstrong sheds new light on the relationship between Horace’s Satires and Philodemus’ treatises. Taking his own new edition of Philodemus’ On Anger as a springboard, Armstrong notes that Horace launches the first book of his Satires with three diatribes which fuse Callimachean brevity with Epicurean wit. Armstrong re-evaluates the

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literary quality of Philodemus’ On Anger (hitherto largely disparaged), and shows that in this treatise Philodemus both develops his conception of the ‘diatribe’ as an appropriate vehicle for Epicurean philosophy (this against the objections of his fellow Epicureans) and then proceeds to offer a sample ‘diatribe’ of his own, one that Armstrong describes as a “sparkling showpiece combining diatribic rhetorical style and formal argument (scholai).” Even as Philodemus keeps his distance from the rhetorical style of Bion’s On Anger and Chrysippus’ Therapeutikos Logos, he assembles “a diatribic rant against anger which is in a new and far different style, emotional, incantatory and implying the loud voice and gestures of the professional recite.” Armstrong aptly summarizes Philodemus’ approach: “The diatribic style could be first analyzed and evaluated explicitly for a student audience, then turned on and run through various levels of ‘sincerity’ from gentle parody to deep apparent sincerity, then turned off with a brilliant flash of humor against the teacher himself.” Philodemus takes on board Epicurus’ own eclecticism in regard to ethical philosophy, citing freely from other sources provided that they do not contradict the school’s fundamental philosophical tenets in tone or content. In his turn, Horace follows both Philodemus and Lucretius in his own diatribes, reshaping the genre of satire and adjusting it to the style and ethical perspective of Epicureanism. Armstrong argues that “a great deal in Horace in particular that seems ‘Stoic’ on a first look is straight from Epicurus’ and Philodemus’ playbooks.” What is more, he demonstrates in detail that the first three Satires have a strong thematic coherence among themselves, reflecting the Epicurean ideal of “safety from men”. Finally, Horace’s style of argumentation is shown to hark back to Lucretius’ poem and to Cicero’s philosophical prose. As Armstrong concludes, “Horace’s poetic voice in the Sermones takes Epicureanism seriously enough.”

5. Ovid Myrto Garani challenges the generally accepted idea that Ovid’s philosophical echoes, which are commonly thought to be at their most dense at the beginning and the end of his Metamorphoses and Fasti, are no more than an eclectic amalgam of Pythagorean, Empedoclean, Epicurean and Stoic elements. Her chapter “The figure of Numa in Ovid’s Fasti” is inspired by recent studies relating to Empedocles’ influence on Latin literature, neatly encapsulated in Philip Hardie’s claim that the Roman epic tradition should be read as ‘Empedoclean epos.’ Garani argues that the unusual way in which Ovid depicts the figure of Numa Pompilius in his

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Fasti is indeed conditioned by Empedocles’ philosophy, and thus constitutes further evidence of the Roman reception of his poem. In arguing her case, Garani first turns to the episode of Numa’s encounter with Pythagoras in Ovid’s Metamorphoses 15, and explores the intertextual relationship between these two figures and Lucretius’s own connection with Empedocles. Garani shows that Ovid follows in Lucretius’ footsteps in taking Empedocles as the archetypal vates, a figure who combines both poetical and philosophical wisdom. When it comes to the Fasti, in turn, Ovid again presents two closely interrelated vatic figures, namely the god Janus and the king Numa; Numa plays the pivotal role in a cluster of stories in Fasti 3 which are narrated by his wife, the nymph Egeria (3.259-392). Ovid presents us here with his own Empedoclean version of the vatic ideal, contextualizing and remythologizing Lucretius’ Empedoclean imagery. Garani then considers the fact that, contrary to Numa’s traditional opposition to sacrifice, which goes hand in hand with his commitment to peace and thereby assimilates him to Augustus, the Ovidian king here performs several sacrifices. In this respect, Numa rather takes after Romulus, and Ovid’s stance towards the emperor thus turns out to be ambivalent. Garani affirms that “Numa’s atypical behavior reflects and is conditioned by his Empedoclean affiliation: only by a violent act, i.e. a sacrifice, may peace be achieved.” By way of corroborating her view, she calls attention to a number of passages in Ovid’s Fasti, in which a similar pattern of Strife followed by Love can be identified, thus forming a kind of Empedoclean hemi-cycle; for example, in Ovid’s Empedoclean bougonia (F. 1.363-380), a sacrifice (that is, a death) is shown to be a necessary precondition for the creation of life. Along the same lines, the restoration of the elementary equilibrium between fire and water in the aetiologies of the Lautolae (F. 1.267-272), the Fordicidia (F. 4.629-72), and the Parilia (F. 4.783-806) reflect the dominance of Venus. Garani concludes that “The Ovidian Numa, as the embodiment of the philosophical aspect of Empedocles’ vatic ideal, is presented as an agent of peace in an innovative sense, a compromise between the stereotypic images of Romulus and Numa. In this way, Ovid reflects and justifies Augustus’ behavior in regard to the civil war.” Last but not least, Garani discusses the intertextual relationship between Egeria’s narration in Fasti 3 and texts which have cosmological connotations (Vergil’s Eclogue 6 and Georgics 4) and more specifically Empedoclean echoes (the shield in Vergil’s Aeneid 8.630-728, discussed also in relation to the Ovidian figure of Vesta in F. 6.265-282).

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In sum, although Ovid explicitly rejects Empedocles’ ideas on transmigration, he nevertheless treats Empedocles as Numa’s principal poetic and philosophical mentor.

6. Manilius As we proceed into the imperial period, Stoicism becomes increasingly dominant. But if Lucretius’ philosophical poem seems not to have advanced Epicureanism sufficiently to make it competitive with Stoicism at Rome, it nonetheless was something of a model for later philosophical poetry in Latin, whatever the sectarian allegiance—playing the role in this respect that Empedocles had played for Lucretius himself. Ilaria Ramelli examines the presence of Stoicism within Manilius’ didactic poem, Astronomica. In her chapter “Manilius and Stoicism” she first offers a survey of conflicting views concerning the nature and significance of the philosophical undertones. Scholars do not agree as to whether the poet intended his work primarily as a technical exposition of astronomy or rather meant the astronomy to serve as a vehicle for a philosophical, that is, Stoic view of the world, according to which the universe is governed by god (as the Stoics understood the idea). Ramelli favors the second interpretation and emphasizes the interdependence of physics, ethics, and theology within the poem. At the same time, she considers Manilius’ verses in relation to a wide range of other writers of the same period, in whose works the presence of Stoicism is generally taken for granted, for example, Seneca and Lucan, as well as Manilius’ presumed astronomical and philosophical sources, such as Aratus and Eratosthenes’ Katasterismoi. She demonstrates cogently, and despite the tradition of scholarly skepticism, that Manilius is thoroughly grounded in the Stoic tradition, and this not just here and there but at the very heart of his poem. One fundamental but still controversial question that Ramelli tackles is that of the definition of ‘orthodox Stoicism(s)’, against which she evaluates Manilius’ philosophical positions. At the same time, she casts doubt upon the common view that certain specific works, such as the fragments of Posidonius and Hermetic texts, were Manilius’ direct sources. In both cases, Ramelli shows how popular misconceptions can be corrected by turning directly to the original Stoic fragments, as Manilius himself plausibly did. In order to demonstrate that Stoic influence is pervasive in Manilius’ poem, Ramelli examines a variety of philosophical themes. First, she investigates the Stoic idea of cosmic sympathy and the world soul, which

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is considered to be a divine principle and the intellect of the cosmos. As she puts it: “God pervades all the world and governs it with a harmonious law. The cosmos lives in harmony and is moved by the Logos, in that one and the same spirit is immanent in all of its parts.” In this same vein, Manilius introduces the Stoic image of the human being as a microcosm. Ramelli then explores Manilius’ take on the much debated Stoic relationship between Fate and human free will and responsibility, and affirms that the poet in fact believes in the inexorable necessity of Fate, as illustrated by astrological determinism, without thereby excluding the possibility of moral evaluation; this stance agrees with the Stoic conception according to which “Human beings can either follow their Fate spontaneously or be dragged by it, but in both cases they do what Fate dictates.” Ramelli also considers Manilius’ purpose in investigating the stars, which she associates with the discovery of the divine, and she stresses the ethical value of the principle that human behavior is governed by the stars; for “Human souls come from heaven and return to heaven.” Another Stoic image that the poet appropriates is that of the cosmos and stars as living beings. Manilius’ idea of progress can also be labeled as Stoic, though it requires more argument, since it is different from that of Posidonius, the Stoic allegorists, and Seneca; the poet seems to propose an eclectic view that appropriates elements also from the corresponding Epicurean theory. Ramelli explores Manilius’ use of myths within the Stoic context of allegoresis, with its ethical interpretations of physical phenomena. Last but not least, she examines Manilius’ allusions to political ideas, and after comparing them with Seneca’s and Lucan’s attitudes she suggests the possibility that Manilius entertained republican sympathies.

7. Seneca In her chapter “‘Stoic tragedy’—a contradiction in terms? Claudia Wiener attempts to reconcile the two sides of Seneca’s double identity, that is, as a Stoic philosopher and as a tragedian. Her point of departure is the near total denial, among scholars, of the very possibility of Stoic tragedy, some of whom go so far as to regard it as a ‘contradiction in terms’. By way of challenging this view, Wiener treats Seneca’s moral treatises and tragedies in parallel, revealing in the process that their different approaches to philosophical questions are conditioned by generic constraints and literary objectives. At the same time, Wiener questions whether philosophy itself should be expected to serve only a therapeutic

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function and to provide satisfying solutions to all the problems of the world—that is, whether philosophy is essentially optimistic. She draws attention as well to the fact that Seneca seems clearly to separate the two literary domains, as evidenced by his practice of excluding his own tragic stories and characters from the lists of moral examples he adduces in his philosophical writings. Despite the difference in style of argument and intention between Seneca’s philosophical treatises and his tragedies, there is no doubt that both corpora share a variety of Stoic themes (e.g. political morality, the psychology of the passions, the role of fortuna and fatum, the virtrues of constantia and sympatheia). As regards Seneca’s philosophical works, their aims and methodology are easily spelled out. His Dialogi are protreptic essays in which dialectical strategies are employed in order to shake up false—even if commonly accepted—opinions, encourage readers to alter their perception of their situation, and finally adjust their everyday lives in accord with Stoic values through intensive self-discipline. The implied position of readers of Seneca’s tragedies is more complex. Wiener takes it for granted that Stoic psychology is at the root of tragic characterization, and she rejects the view that the message of the plays is that Stoic principles are helpless to solve real-life problems. With an eye to Seneca’s De ira and De clementia, Wiener evaluates the Stoic theory of passions, which play a fundamental role in Seneca’s behavioural therapy even as they are instrumental in the transformation of the tragic hero into a monstrous criminal. Wiener analyzes in detail the arguments in Seneca’s Medea and Agamemnon by which subordinate figures attempt, unsuccessfully, to deter the protagonist from the fatal act. Seneca clearly acknowledges the difficulty of the task, but the tragedies can nevertheless be read as motivating readers to “make a profound change in their mindset and undertake long-term training.” A related issue is the nature of the dialectical arguments that the Stoics held to be “the most efficient resource for establishing the truth.” Wiener examines the method in Seneca’s De clementia and Thyestes and observes that “Seneca and Atreus both use syllogisms, the former to demonstrate the validity of the Stoics’ moral principles, and the latter to contradict them and justify his own perverted precepts.” She concludes that the moraldidactic strategy of Seneca’s tragedies is to “encourage us to analyze received ideas and to acquire a different perspective from which we can assess the consequences of our actions in a more complex network of relationships.” Wiener takes up Seneca’s Stoic claim that “the telos of selfdetermination and self-discipline should be the attainment of a state of

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magnanimitas, by means of which we are able to raise ourselves above external influences,” and tests it against his representation of the two tragic heroes, Atreus and Medea. She neatly demonstrates that the protagonists’ apparent self-sufficiency and near godlike status (as though they approximated the autarky of the Stoic sage) are illusory; on the contrary, their false perceptions and beliefs result in their social isolation. Last but not least, Wiener considers the Stoic concept of determinism and explores the frontier between determinism and fatalism, along with questions of human free will and individual responsibility, since just this indissoluble tension in Senecan drama has often been considered to be a sign of non-Stoic pessimism. As she notes, the tragic genre had long since incorporated fate as a motive of action (but this is not to deny that “the subject of fate remains a problem never entirely resolved in Stoic philosophy”). Wiener argues that, contrary to the more optimistic moral treatises, in which the emphasis is placed upon individual responsibility, Seneca’s tragedies relocate the issue of determinism from the domain of logic to that of ethics, and thereby reveal “the complexity and multidimensionality of the sphere in which humans perform actions.”

8. Lucan Although the presence of Stoic ideas in Lucan’s Bellum Civile is unanimously recognized, the poet’s stance towards Stoicism is widely debated. Whereas some scholars believe that Lucan has written an optimistic poem, others point to “sporadic lack of faith in divine providence” within the poem. This latter view is taken to an extreme by those who regard Lucan as a political and philosophical nihilist, whose ultimate goal is not just to challenge but to ridicule and finally reject Stoicism. In her chapter entitled “Consolation, Rebellion, and Philosophy in Lucan’s Bellum Civile Book 8” Francesca D’Alessandro Behr, following the approach of scholars such as Narducci and Bartsch, rejects a radical deconstructionist or nihilistic approach to the poem. In order to evaluate the nature of and reasons for Lucan’s apparent dissatisfaction with Stoicism, which is manifested in the way he unveils the tragic paradoxes of human existence, D’Alessandro Behr turns to Stoic poetics and the Stoic notion of apatheia, which “does allow the sage to maintain practical involvement in the world and also highlights the sage’s controlled employment of passions.” As she affirms, Lucan has created a “pedagogically useful mimesis,” in line with Aristotelian as well as Stoic aesthetic principles: he looks to the nature of the reader’s emotional

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reaction and promotes a cognitive progress that is associated with reasoned judgment. Lucan’s narrator “enacts a kind of Stoic poetics that brings to the fore his ethical concerns and promotes a detached spectatorship rather than total immersion in the narrative.” To illustrate her claims concerning the relationship between philosophy and poetics, D’ Alessandro Behr examines a specific episode in Bellum Civile 8, Pompey’s final encounter with Cornelia, his wife, in the course of which the general plays the role of consoler for both his wife and himself. Scholars have identified intertextual allusions to various texts, for example poems by Catullus and Ovid, but D’Alessandro Behr shows how this episode encapsulates a mixture of philosophical ideas, both Stoic and Epicurean, which calls into question Lucan’s adherence to traditional Stoic doctrine, above all the role of Providence, and places the emphasis on the individual’s struggle against fate. Lucan is deeply influenced here by the consolatio, which had acquired the status of a genre already in the Hellenistic age as philosophers crafted a response to grief; by Cicero’s time, the consolatio had developed clear thematic and structural conventions, which were conditioned by both philosophy and rhetoric. Lucan thus engages with a tradition that includes both Ovid and Seneca, and more specifically fashions a response to Lucretius’ consolatio in Book 3 of De rerum natura. Lucan presents Pompey in the last hours of his life as adopting a Stoic stance, even as he is at odds with the gods. The poet constructs a Cato-like image of Pompey, taking Cato as “the only character in the Bellum Civile who, being free from excessive and personal concerns, can judge matters properly and be moved in the right way.” D’Alessandro Behr points to Lucan’s ostensible historical source, namely Livy, whose version of Pompey’s encounter with Cornelia is thought to be reflected in Plutarch’s Life of Pompey. According to this reconstruction of Livy’s narrative, rather than Pompey consoling his own wife, the general himself sought consolation from the Peripatetic philosopher Cratippus. Lucan’s Pompey, however, enacts the Catonian theme of ‘rebellion in acceptance’. As D’Alessandro Behr remarks, “the struggle of pietas against fatum is juxtaposed to the exhortation to accept adversities,” and “passive pietas is reshaped as active Stoic virtus, ready to fight fate; patient toleration of hardship—not necessarily followed by triumph—assumes a rebellious note.” Pompey’s stance is equally remarkable when he approaches closer to his death, which is again described in Stoic colours: “Pompey is portrayed as a Stoic individual resolute in his desire to excel in his trial and to become a worthy example for future generations”. Yet, quite unexpectedly, as D’Alessandro Behr shows by looking more closely at

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Lucan’s wording, although Pompey seems to accept his fate and his condition as victim of the gods, he nevertheless cannot conceal his disdain for and, by implication, his disobedience toward the gods, who might be expected to guarantee a providential order in human affairs; in precisely this respect Lucan differentiates himself from Seneca. In this way, Lucan redefines the sage’s relationship with god; contrary to the Stoic belief in the similarity and indeed equality between sage and god, in Lucan’s poem “the wise man can be represented as happier, more just than the gods and opposed to them.” Indeed, D’Alessandro Behr suggests that Lucan’s Pompey looks back to none other than Vergil’s Mezentius in the Aeneid, and that this intertextual dialogue concerning Roman virtus is staged on philosophical premises. Mezentius, who is represented by Vergil as a contemptor divum and thus embodies, no doubt in a perverse way, an Epicurean posture, shares significant traits with Pompey, such as calmness when facing death and a deep understanding of his situation as a result of both personal suffering and pride. D’Alessandro Behr concludes that “Stoic philosophy provides a fundamental ‘anti-model’ to Lucan’s epic discourse.”

9. Persius Against the current trends of scholarship to detect elements of Stoicism or of any other philosophical school in the poetic texts, Shadi Bartsch in her research on the Satires of Persius (“Persius’ Fourth Satire: Socrates and the Failure of Pedagogy”) probes into the issue of ‘how and why’ the poet concerns himself with Roman Stoicism “in the context of his satirical framework.” To this end she discusses the intertextual relationship between Persius’ fourth satire and several Platonic dialogues, among which Plato’s Alcibiades I is identified as the main intertext. This dialogue, although its authenticity has been suspected by modern scholars, was considered in antiquity to be most representative of Plato’s fundamental philosophical tenets as well as his great protreptic to philosophical study. Socrates engages in a conversation with Alcibiades about the latter’s misguided decision to enter Athenian politics and assume a role of leadership, relying on his own natural abilities although he lacks philosophical training and adequate self-knowledge. Socrates succeeds in persuading Alcibiades of the need for self-knowledge; in the process, Plato presents us with an idealized image of Alcibiades which clashes with the persona sketched in the Symposium and in historical sources. Bartsch examines the way in which Persius rewrites Alcibiades I by adapting the philosophical dialogue to satiric verse and informing his

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poem with contemporary Stoic concepts. As she suggests, Persius’ ultimate goal is “to enact for us effective dialectic, or at least, effective philosophical pedagogy in action.” Persius’ Socrates responds to Plato’s critique of Alcibiades’ ignorance of philosophy and the errors that follow upon wrong principles by way of metaphors and images that have both Platonic and Stoic undertones. However, Persius distances himself from Plato in respect to the outcome of Socrates’ protreptic; in Persius’ version, it proves to be a vain endeavor and Alcibiades fails to learn, among other things because of his sexual appetites and tendency to self-display. More particularly, Persius exposes Alcibiades’ erotic relationship with the popellus (that is, the masses: a contemptuous diminutive of populus) along with his luxurious tastes. Bartsch concludes that “Persius’ Alcibiades’ apparent failure to show himself responsive to Socrates’ teachings … suggests that this Alcibiades represents the worst-case scenario worried about by Socrates at the end of the Platonic dialogue.” Persius himself undertakes to answer the question, “how to teach philosophy effectively in the face of Socrates’ failure to do so.” In the process, he evaluates anew the stance of Plato’s Socrates in Alcibiades I and his fear that Alcibiades will be seduced by popular influence and “emerge as an erastes of the demos rather than as a good student of Socratic philosophy.” By reproving Alcibiades’ sexual exhibitionism, Persius implicitly reveals as the reason for Socrates’ failure his approach to his student in the guise of lover, since “as an eromenos, a love object, the demos has the potential to corrupt its lover (the erastes) rather than producing in him the sublimated sort of love that leads to selfimprovement and self-knowledge.” Unlike Plato, Persius shifts the blame for Socrates’ failure from Alcibiades to Socrates himself, without any attempt to exculpate him; on the contrary the philosopher, who is presented as naked and depilated, is being dragged “into a negativelycharged sexual context.” Socrates himself thus emerges as an eromenos who courts the attention of the popellus. Persius’ Socrates thus evokes— with a view to making us reject it—the sexual aspect of Socrates’ relationship with Alcibiades in Plato’s Symposium, a Socrates who “has turned from being Alcibiades’ erastes to his eromenos, that is, to Alcibiades’ object of desire.” As Bartsch observes, “Not only is the politician a prostitute—Socrates’ worst-case scenario in the Alcibiades I— but in this satire, the philosopher too emerges as one.” Persius turns next to the topos of philosophical and critical reciprocity. Whereas in Alcibiades I the philosophical reciprocity between erastes and eromenos led to self-knowledge, in Persius’ fourth satire the philosophers’ eagerness to criticize one another mutually is a sign of their own lack of

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self-knowledge and is responsible for their failure in the pedagogic procedure. As Bartsch states, “successful dialectic has been replaced by mutual recrimination, while the philosophical relationship based on the mutual idealization of lover and beloved becomes a diatribe in which both the love object and the lover are unmasked as narcissistic and given over to the wrong kind of eros. Socrates-as-pedagogue has given way to Socrates-as-pervert.” Persius’ satire reflects a shift from Hellenistic to early imperial Roman attitudes on the part of Stoics towards the tendency of the Greek philosophy to idealize pederastic relationships, a move which coincides with Roman homophobia. Persius is in line with his contemporary Stoics in rejecting the erotic component of Socratic philosophy. What he proposes is rather a “shift to self-inspection and self-criticism,” as advocated by Roman Stoicism, as the means for achieving self-knowledge and self-improvement. Persius’ recommended practice echoes the Roman Stoic idea that “one is both subject and object of philosophical amelioration.” Finally, Bartsch turns to Persius’ Satire 5, in which the poet stages a scene of successful pedagogy involving himself and his Stoic teacher Cornutus, a scene which answers to the failed educational program of Satire 4 as well as to Alcibiades’ praise of Socrates in Plato’s Symposium. As Bartsch concludes, “Persius eliminates all forms of eros from his idealized philosophical relationship and replaces erotic reciprocity with a purified metaphor of the exchange of hearts and minds. Mutual criticism is acknowledged as an inefficient way to proceed and given up in favor of introspection—or in favor of a Stoic, rather than Platonic, form of dialogue.”

10. Valerius Flaccus Although a Stoic influence on the major Flavian epics is widely acknowledged, scholarly discussion has so far been limited to Statius’ Thebaid and Silius Italicus’ Punica. In his chapter “Stoic thought and Homeric reminiscence in Valerius Flaccus’ Argonautica” Andrew Zissos shifts the focus to Valerius Flaccus’ Argonautica and examines Valerius’ Stoicism against the Stoicizing elements in Vergil’s Aeneid as well as the philosophical background to Apollonius Rhodius’ epic. As opposed to Vergil’s relatively coherent ethical and cosmological system, Valerius makes manifest in his narrative contradictions in the philosophical system he has inherited. Apollonius Rhodius’ poem is of course Valerius’ main intertext, but he was also influenced, Zissos shows, by later Stoicizing writers such as Aratus (along with his Roman translators), Vergil, Manilius, Lucan and Seneca. At the same time, Valerius purges non-Stoic

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material in both his literary predecessors, for example Apollonius’ Empedoclean cosmology and Vergil’s nods to Epicureanism. Nevertheless, Zissos questions the degree of Valerius’ commitment to Stoic ideas. He begins his discussion with the first book of the epic, which presents a coherent and condensed reflection of Stoic ideals. In this connection, Zissos highlights the attributes of the Stoic hero as represented in two specific exemplars. First, he explores Hercules’ “Stoicizing ‘makeover’ vis-à-vis the Hellenistic epic,” and his relation to the mythological hero. Zissos then turns to Valerius’ innovative and heroic version of Aeson’s suicide, which is associated with contemporary “‘political’ suicides.” As Zissos remarks, “Aeson is in important respects cast as the quintessential Stoic martyr with the murderous tyrant Pelias a stock Stoic villain,” and he concludes that “in the figure of Aeson the Flavian Argonautica offers an emergent paradigm of Stoic heroism; in that of Hercules it presents a well-established Stoic ‘saint.’” And yet, despite this unambiguously positive gesture toward Stoicism in the opening book of the poem, Zissos maintains that “the initial Stoic ‘energy’ provided by these two heroic types seems to dissipate in the subsequent books.” A crucial aspect of Valerius’ departure from his major epic predecessors, that is, Apollonius and Vergil, is predicated on what Zissos calls a “return to the origins for the genre as a whole.” In this regard, Valerius reintroduces the Homeric concept of Jupiter’s anthropomorphic role and his ‘loose’ association with Fate, which Vergil had suppressed in deference to Stoic views to the point of representing both Jupiter and Fate as entirely coinciding. As Zissos puts it, “The poet has rather chosen to set two conceptions—the impassive Stoic deity of the Aeneid and the selfinterested Homeric king of Olympus—against one another, to generate interference patterns arising from alternating Vergilian and Homeric intertextual appropriations.” Zissos goes on to demonstrate that this juxtaposition of Stoic concepts with ideas originating from other systems of thought operates on various levels, for example when Valerius suggests multiple and contradictory explanations for a meteorological event or for cosmological eschatology as a whole; with regard to the latter, Valerius combines incompatible Stoic and Homeric elements in such a way as to produce what Zissos calls “a jarring metaphysical clash.” Finally, Zissos questions the traditional interpretation of Medea’s passion in terms of Stoic psychological theory, according to which passions are viewed as “a diseased state of the intellect brought about by false perception.” Medea’s struggle between ratio and furor is instead set against the mechanisms of divine persuasion. Valerius subverts the positive interpretation of Aphrodite’s girdle, as described in Homer’s Iliad,

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which the Stoics had traditionally allegorized in such a way as to convey disapproval of the passions. Once her girdle fails to have the desired effect on the Colchian princess, Aphrodite—in the guise of Circe—has recourse both to her supernatural powers and to clever argument, among other things by appealing to the Stoic notion of the world citizen! Zissos reads this episode as “a singularly degrading ‘Homeric’ framing of Stoic content” and concludes that “Valerius abuses a philosophical principle through a violently ironic framing that reduces Stoic ideas to a meaningless situational rhetoric.” In sum, Zissos argues that Valerius Flaccus’ systematic engagement with Stoic ideas succeeds more in destablizing than in affirming the possibility of a Stoicizing epic.

CHAPTER ONE THE BEGINNINGS: PHILOSOPHY IN ROMAN LITERATURE BEFORE 155 B.C. DOROTA DUTSCH The topic of the present chapter may seem a contradiction in terms.1 We have it on Cicero’s authority that no one before his time had ever “shed the light of Latin literature” on the subject of philosophy (Tusc. disp. 1.5). Furthermore, narratives about Roman reception of Greek philosophy commonly begin with the crucial visit of the Athenian embassy, in 155 B.C., which included representatives of the Peripatos, the Academy, and the Stoa.2 And yet, historical evidence from early second century B.C. points to a vivid interest in philosophy that manifested itself in a series of senatorial decrees.3 In the decades that witnessed both the burning of the alleged Pythagorean books by King Numa (181 B.C.) and the banishment of Greek philosophers from Rome (173 B.C. and 161 B.C.), Romans must have been engaged in a debate on the role Greek philosophy should play in their lives.4 I will argue here that Ennius’ allusions to Pythagorean concepts and Plautus’ witty definitions of philosophizing are an integral part of this 1

I am very grateful to Myrto Garani and David Konstan for their comments on the earlier version of this paper and to Donna Williams for her editorial help. All translations, unless otherwise specified, are mine. 2 See for example, e.g. Griffin and Barnes (1989); more recently; Morford [(2002) 2] conceded that the Romans may have encountered philosophy before 155 B.C. while stressing Cato’s unqualified hostility towards Greek philosophy [(2002), 1622]. See contra Horky (2011) and his interpretation of the fragmentary Sententiae of Appius Claudius Caecus as related to the Samnite stateman’s Herennius Pontius’ modified Peripatetic views on friendship and enmity. 3 See Gruen (1990) 172-177 and his arguments. 4 These were Epicureans, Alcaeus and Philiscus in 173 B.C., and unnamed philosophers in 161 B.C.; cf. Gruen (1990) 177 and his references.

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early debate. 5 The works of Ennius and Plautus, along with Cato’s views on virtue, offer us a glimpse of philosophy as it was discussed in Rome before Lucretius and Cicero. In this chapter I reconstruct the major themes of these discussions, and further ask whether these themes resonated with later Roman attitudes towards philosophy. My argument falls into five sections. First, I establish the importance of Ennius’ philosophical work and point to the reasons behind the lessening of his importance in the dominant Ciceronian narrative of early Latin philosophy. Second, I trace Plautine perceptions of philosophers and their practice. Third, I discuss Cato’s anxieties about Athenian philosophy in the light of his teachings about moral praxis. Fourth, I outline the tensions between moral praxis (advocated by Cato and Ennius) and practice of philosophy (as portrayed in Plautus). In a fifth and final section, I show how these tensions played out in the wake of the famous Athenian embassy of 155 B.C. The satirist Lucilius serves as my test case. 6

1. Philosophy’s Beginnings 1.1 Cicero on Ennius In his Tusculan Disputations Cicero describes the beginnings of Roman philosophical literature: Philosophia iacuit usque ad hanc aetatem nec ullum habuit lumen litterarum Latinarum; quae inlustranda et excitanda nobis est, ut, si occupati profuimus aliquid civibus nostris, prosimus etiam, si possumus, otiosi. in quo eo magis nobis est elaborandum, quod multi iam esse libri Latini dicuntur scripti inconsiderate ab optimis illis quidem viris, sed non satis eruditis. (Tusc. disp. 1.5.12-16—2.6.1-4) (Philosophy lay neglected until our time and has not been illuminated by the light of Latin literature. I have to shed light on it and rouse it, so that if 5

On philosophical motifs in early Latin literature, see Skutsch (1985), Garani (2007a) 17, 25-28; on Ennius see Leitao (1997) and Dutsch (2008); see Dutsch (2009) on Plautus; and Gehrke (1994) on Cato. 6 I choose Lucilius rather than Terence because of satire’s more immediate relationship with contemporary issues. Terence’s comedies engage with complex ethical considerations that certainly reflect Hellenistic philosophical thought. For example, Grant (1975) identifies Aristotelian motifs in the Adelphoe; cf. also Lord (1977) on the same play and Saylor (1975) on Gnatho’s posturing as philosopher in the Eunuchus. Lucilius’ satires however, even in their fragmentary state, spell out Roman attitudes towards Greek culture more clearly than Terence’s palliatae, which deliberately blend and play with cultural distinctions.

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I was useful at all to my fellow citizens when in office, I might also, if possible, be useful in my leisure. And I have to toil all the harder at this task because apparently there are already many books in Latin written carelessly, by men who, albeit noble, were not learned enough.)

Cicero’s claim that Latin philosophical literature before his time did not exist—even though books on philosophy had been written—makes sense if we take his litterae to be referring to prose. 7 Such a restriction might explain a number of omissions necessary for this statement to hold. Of these, the most striking is Cicero’s omission of his contemporary, Lucretius. However, the omission of Ennius appears equally surprising when we recall that philosophically trained poets such as Lucretius and Horace take Ennius’ philosophy seriously enough to critique it. Lucretius praises the power of the archaic poet’s aeterni versus (DRN 1.121), but refutes his views on eschatology. 8 Horace, in his epistle to Augustus (Epist. 2.1), conveys general admiration for Ennius’ talent, but cautions his reader that Ennius’ Pythagorizing schemes were not always executed with the utmost of care. 9 Cicero’s exclusion of Ennius (along with Lucretius) is a clever gesture that allows him not only to augment the prestige of his own literary undertaking but also to portray philosophy as a pursuit of the optimi placed outside of the purview of lighter literary activity. The implication is that philosophy is intimately bound up with the kind of moral and intellectual competence that qualifies one to serve as a Roman magistrate. 10 This effort to provide philosophy with lettres de noblesse 7

On the rivalry between playful poetry (carmen) and quintessentially earnest philosophy, see Habinek (2005) 94-7, 103, 112. 8 Lucr. DRN 1.115-126; Prinzen (1998) 135-136. 9 Hor. Epist. 2.1.50-52: Ennius, et sapiens et fortis et alter Homerus, / ut critici dicunt, leviter curare videtur / quo promissa cadant et somnia Pythagorea (Ennius: a sage, a powerful poet, and a second Homer, as the critics say, seems to care little how his promises and Pythagorean dreams will turn out). This allusion is thought to evoke the beginning of Ennius’ Annales 1 frs IV-V Skutsch) that described a dream in which Ennius saw Homer, who explained to him the mechanics of reincarnation, revealing a memory of having become a peacock (Annales 1 fr. IX. 11 Skutsch): memini me fiere pavom. Rudd (1989) ad loc., considers the adjective leviter inexplicably dissonant and assumes that the text is incorrect. Prinzen’s argument that Horace distances himself from the unqualified worship of Ennius fits much better with Horace’s other comments on Ennius [(1998) 254-256]. 10 Jaeger [(2002) 59-60] argues that Cicero in this passage casts himself as the heir of Archimedes and posits that his own method of inquiry, based as it is on authority rather than argument, is the heir and replacement of Greek theoretical inquiry.

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also informs Cicero’s account of Roman philosophy at the beginning of book four. Here he insists that the Athenian embassy would not have included philosophers, had philosophy not been known to the senate’s leaders, including Laelius (consul 190 B.C.) and Scipio (235–183 B.C.). 11 Such philosopher-leaders deliberately left no writings because they preferred to teach moral praxis by their example. 12 As it is, however, the Roman predecessor with whose shadow Cicero most often converses in the Tusculanes is Ennius—who was not an aristocrat but a former captive and professional writer. Allusions to Ennius are placed at crucial knots of Cicero’s argument. For example, the introduction to the Tusculans that is cited above concludes with the promise that Cicero will open up the sources of philosophy, alluding to Ennius’ proem to the seventh book of Annales. 13 It is also vis-à-vis Ennius’ program that Cicero defines his own literary agenda for philosophical writings: Neoptolemus quidem apud Ennium philosophari sibi ait necesse esse sed paucis; nam omnino haud placere: 14 ego autem, Brute, necesse mihi quidem esse arbitror philosophari—nam quid possum, praesertim nihil agens, agere melius?—sed non paucis ut ille. (Tusc. disp. 2.1.1-6) (Neoptolemus in Ennius’ tragedy says that he has to play the philosopher but in few words, for overall he is not fond of philosophy. I, myself, Brutus, deem that I too must play the philosopher—for what better thing could I do, now that I am not doing anything at all? But just not in so few words as he.)

Cicero’s use of Neoptolemus’ announcement as a foil for his own program of explaining philosophical concepts in detail suggests that he thought of Ennius’ use of philosophical themes as programmatic. Cicero not only thinks of Ennius as a poet with a program for disseminating philosophy, but also frequently calls upon Ennius’ writings to illustrate his own views on philosophical questions. In Cicero’s discussion of the afterlife of the soul in the Tusculans, 15 for example, Ennius is first casually 11

Tusc. disp. 4.5.15: principibus. Tusc. disp. 4.5.18-19: bene vivendi disciplinam; on the bonds of true friendship between the likes of Laelius, see Konstan (2005). 13 philosophiae fontis aperiemus (Tusc. disp. 1.6.13) echoes nos ausi reserare (scil. fontes) (I have dared to open the sources, Annales 7 fr. Ia 210 Skutsch); see Colaclides (1971) 111-113. 14 Cf. Ex tragoediis incertis fr. 400 W. 15 Of course, the Ennius we know has been affected by Cicero’s choices; cf. Zetzel (2007). 12

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associated with things ancient (Tusc. disp. 1.27), then named as a source of old Roman lore about a heaven inhabited by gods, which include the deified Roman ruler, Romulus. 16 Finally, when Cicero claims to have eradicated legendary Greek material from ancient testimonies and isolated the essential truth that the path towards divinity begins on earth (1.29), this truth—proves in fact to be identical to the premise of Ennius’ Euhemerus. Cicero, then, just like the other two philosophically-trained Roman literati, Lucretius and Horace, had considerable respect for Ennius as a writer about philosophy. It was the poet’s profile as a foreigner and author of carmina that did not fit Cicero’s glorified version of the history of Roman philosophy as something taught by example, not in writing, and practiced exclusively by the principes and the optimi.

1.2 Ennius and the Greek Sophia As an author working in multiple literary genres, Ennius engaged with different intertexts and touched upon diverse philosophical themes. 17 It seems, therefore, reasonable to think of his effort as an attempt to introduce his Roman audiences to the Greek sophia in general and to establish its position vis-à-vis the Roman sapientia. 18 However, critics, both ancient and modern, have often identified Ennius’ philosophical 16

Annales 1 fr. LXII Skutsch: Romulus in caelo cum diis agit aevom (Romulus in heaven spends his time among the gods); cf. Tusc. disp. 1.28. 17 The fragments of Ennius’ Saturae deal with norms of behavior. One fragment features for example a guest who does not care about how his host feels: Quippe sine cura laetus, lautus cum advenis, / interfectis malis… is tristest dum cibum servat, tu ridens voras (when you come happy, fresh, free of sorrows (…) he is upset while offering you food; you laugh devouring it.) (Varia [ex saturis?] fr. 1419 W). Another fragment criticizes a slanderer: Nam is non bene vult tibi qui falso criminat / aput te. (For he who in your own house falsely accuses you, does not wish you well.) (Sat. Book 3, 8-9 W). Yet another fragment contains the tantalizing confession that gout is the precondition for poetizing: numquam poetor nisi si podager (I never suffer from poetics—except when I suffer from rheumatics) (Sat. Inc. 21 W). Given that the moralizing discourse of satire lends itself easily to philosophizing and that satire developed strong philosophical overtones in later centuries, it is probable that Ennius’ moralizing had some philosophical underpinning. 18 Consider, for example, his alliterative line on virtus from the Phoenix, “sed virum vera virtute vivere” (that a man lives in true virtue, Phoenix fr. CXXVI 2547 Jocelyn = Lact. De falsa relig. 1.9); on Roman ethical notions in Ennius’ tragedy, see Jocelyn (1967) 365 on Medea fr. CVII 225. Although derived from Greek tragedy, this also seems to echo the phraseology of Roman public moralizing. On hybridity as a typical of Hellenistic cultures, see Whitmarsh (2009) 125.

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inclinations as Pythagorean and have seen Pythagoreanism as particularly prominent in the Annales, even though no extant line of the Annales mentions Pythagoras. 19 Such interpretations rest mostly on the prologue to Book One, in which Ennius recounts a dream in which Homer reveals to him the nature of things, namely, that souls come back to earth after death and become reincarnated again; Homer himself recalls being reincarnated as a peacock and seems to indicate that Ennius is meant to be his new reincarnation. 20 Pierre Vesperini has recently mounted a vigorous critique of the Pythagorean interpretation of the Annales, pointing out that many of the features of Ennius’ dream, so often labeled as Pythagorean—such as the invocation to the Muses and dream interpretation—are in fact not “specifically Pythagorean;” even the concept of metempsychosis, he argues, has parallels elsewhere; the dream, he concludes, features a mixed, ‘combinatory aesthetics’ in which Pythagoreanism functions as a mere literary ornament. 21 Vesperini is right to point out the eclectic nature of Ennius’ dream, but the fact that the dream features many elements that are not “specifically Pythagorean” does not mean that it should be dismissed as a mere literary ornament rather than an account of Pythagorean teachings. There was little (if anything) “specifically Pythagorean” about the pseudo-Pythagorean texts on which Ennius might have drawn. Ennius prided himself on the hybrid nature of his cultural background and is reported to have described himself as a man of three hearts: Oscan, Latin, and Greek. 22 His Greek heart was assuredly steeped in the Greek philosophical and literary idiom that thrived in southern Italy, for the two works that Ennius devoted to expounding rational and systematic views of the world, the Epicharmus and the Euhemerus, draw on this tradition. 23 Epicharmus, the comic playwright active in Sicily in the fifth century B.C., was still a popular figure in the fourth century, and numerous pseudepigrapha circulated under his name. 24 Since we have it on good authority that the Pythagorizing philosopher Aristoxenus of Tarentum edited these pseudonymous writings, it is fair to say that they belonged to

19 See Horace Ep. 2.1 50-52, Persius 7.11; cf. e.g. Skutsch (1985) 146-8 and Pailler (1988) 682. 20 Annales 1 fr. VI Skutsch; cf. above note 8. 21 Vesperini (2012) 55-60. 22 So Probus Vita Catonis 1; Gellius 17.17; on the metaphor, see Gowers (2007). 23 Plautus (Men. 11-12) plays with these subtle distinctions between atticissare and sicilicissitare. 24 On Alcimus’ evidence for the reception of Epicharmus in Italy and the role played by Aristoxenus, see Cassio (1985) 43-45 and his references.

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the larger literary corpus of the pseudo-pythagorica. 25 Written mostly, but not exclusively, in prose, these texts construe a Pythagoreanism that draws ideas of Plato, Aristotle and the Stoa. 26 While their dating is notoriously problematic, we have evidence that some such writings were circulating in early second century Rome. 27 A Pythagorizing work written in Greek was ‘discovered’ in 181 B.C. in an empty sarcophagus, which was inscribed with the name of King Numa. 28 The Epicharmus is very poorly preserved, but its outline, as it can be pieced together from Varro’s citations, suggests that it almost certainly belonged to this eclectic tradition. Like the Annales, the Epicharmus began with a reference to a prophetic dream. 29 The narrator of this dream repeats an account of cosmology, according to which the forces of life constantly oscillate between extremes, a view that seems reminiscent of the Stoic theory of elemental change: 30 [natura] Frigori miscet calorem atque humori aritudinem (Epicharmus fr. 2 W) nature mingles heat with cold and dryness with humidity

The macrocosm consists of four principal elements: water, earth, air, and fire. 31 The microcosm of the human being is said to consist of a fiery intellect and earthen body, thus echoing the macrocosm, a conceit often found in the Pythagorean pseudoepigrapha: 25

Thesleff (1961) and (1965) divides these texts into Class I and II; texts of ‘Class I’ are in the Attic dialect and concern religion, mysticism, and Pythagorean akousmata; texts of Class II are written in Doric koine (mostly prose) and touch upon economy, housekeeping, ethics, and politics, as well as the nature of the universe. These writings lack the doctrinal precision of texts addressed to a specialized audience. 26 For a detailed account of the pseudo-Pythaogrean texts and their dependences on Aristotle, see Moraux (1984) vol. 2, 605-666. 27 Most texts were produced between the first century B.C. and A.D., but some are certainly earlier; see Thesleff (1961) 226-246; Riedweg (2005) 122; Macris (2002) 79-85; Kahn (2001) 72-85, and Centrone (1996) 148-163. 28 Cf. Pliny NH 13.84 (= Cassius Hemina fr. 30 Peter); Festus 183, p. 178, lines 1922 Lindsay; Val. Max. 1.1.12; Pseudo-Aurelius Victor De viris illustribus 3; Plut. Num. 22; Lact. Inst. 1.22.5-8; Aug. De Civ. 7. 34-35; cf. Gruen (1990) 167-168. 29 Epicharmus fr. 1 W: Nam videbar somniare med ego esse mortuum (For it seemed to me that I dreamt that I was dead…) 30 On the Stoic notions in the Epicharmus, see Kahn (2001) 87-89. 31 Fr. 3 W.: aqua terra anima [et] sol (water, earth, air, [and] sun).

8

Chapter One Terra corpus est, at mentis ignis est. (Epicharmus fr. 7 W) The earth is body but the mind is fire. 32

The same poem also links gods to natural phenomena: Jupiter, described as the sum of the visible celestial phenomena of wind, clouds, rain and cold, was presented as the equivalent of Greek Aër, rather than Zeus. 33 While we cannot reconstruct the details of this doctrine, the impact of Ennius’ decision to translate Epicharmus into Latin is quite clear: by doing so, he is introducing to Latin letters the genre of exoteric philosophical literature. This genre is perhaps another manifestation of the program of modest philosophizing—paucis philosophari—that Cicero ascribed to Ennius. 34 The second philosophical work by Ennius, the Euhemerus, was concerned with the question of the origin of divinities and is a translation of the Hiera Anagraphe by Euhemerus of Messene. 35 Active around 300 B.C., Euhemerus proposed that gods were, in fact, heroic human beings. Extensive excerpts of Ennius’ Euhemerus preserved by Lactantius tell, in very simple prose, the story of King Jupiter (Zeus), son of King Saturn (Kronos) and grandson of King Coelus (Uranus). Jupiter rises to power through war and violence provoked by his father’s jealousy, but later becomes a peaceful ruler, travels widely, makes many friends, and in the process prepares the ground for his own cult. 36 The Euhemerus thus represents a political utopia led by an ideal human ruler, whose moral 32 Just like cosmic fire, mental fire is derived from the sun: itaque Epicharmus dicit de mente humana: ait:“istic est de sole sumptus ignis”; idem sole[m]: “isque totus mentis est.” (Varro LL 5.59.7-9 = Epicharmus fr. 6 W.); Epicharmus says about the human mind: “this is a fire taken from the sun” and he also says about the sun: “it is all made of soul.” 33 On Jupiter, see Epicharmus 10-14 W.: Istic est is Iupiter quem dico, quem Graeci vocant / Aerem, qui ventus est et nubes, imber postea, / Atque ex imbre frigus, ventus post fit, aer denuo. / Haec propter Iupiter sunt ista quae dico tibi, / Qua mortalis atque urbes beluasque omnis iuvat. (Such is that Jupiter of whom I speak, whom the Greeks call Aër, who is the wind and the clouds, and then rain; and from rain he turns into coldness and then into wind and air again. And for these reasons all these things that I name for you are Jupiter. For he sustains all human beings, cities, and beasts.) On Ceres, cf. Epicharmus 4-6 W. 34 Cic. Tusc. disp. 2.1.1-2. 35 Most likely Sicilian Messene, see De Angelis and Garstad (2006) 213-214; on Euhemerus, see also Henrichs (1975). 36 Lact. Div. inst. 1.11, 13, 14, 17, and 22.

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knowledge grew out of his own experience and years of work. It is important to note that Jupiter’s glory rests on a list of actions: reliquitque hominibus leges mores frumentaque paravit multaque alia bona fecit inmortali gloria memoriaque adfectus sempiterna monumenta suis reliquit. (Euhemerus 121-125 W.) (He left laws and customs to people, furnished crops, and did many other good things. He thus achieved immortal glory and memory and left for his people reasons to remember him forever.)

The work advocated a rational view of Greek mythology and proposed that moral excellence was the true source of immortality. Thanks to Ennius’ translation, the name Euhemerus became the byword for ancient atheism. It is worth noting, however, that the poem in fact admits of the existence of gods. After a long life Jupiter ascends to heaven to live among gods, just like Romulus—and perhaps just like King Numa whose empty sarcophagus was found filled with philosophical writings. While the apotheosis of the ruler seems to be a serious theme, the Euhemerus has several touches of humor. Ennius’ language featured potentially amusing neologisms—for example, Coelus was buried in Aulacia (Urnville)—and some of its aetiological tales, such as the one about a Cypriot woman named Venus who became the founder of prostitution, are openly irreverent. 37 Both the Epicharmus and the Euhemerus tackled philosophical questions, such as—cosmogony and the nature of gods—but both works were addressed to readers who were amateurs rather than professional philosophers. Here it is useful to recall that, like many early Republican writers, Ennius was linked to a number of aristocrats by complex relationships of friendship and patronage. 38 He was first brought to Rome by Cato, and soon acquired other patrons or “friends,” including Scipio Aemilianus and Marcus Fulvius Nobilior, whom Cato later criticized for taking Ennius with him to Aetolia. Fulvius Nobilior also founded the temple of Hercules and the Muses, a sort of literary club, apparently as a special favor to Ennius. 39 The Scipiones, for their part, are reported to have buried the poet in their family tomb. These traditional accounts of the poet’s relationships with the political elite suggest it is reasonable to 37

Euhemerus 134-8 W.; cf. Lact. 1.17. For a perceptive discussion of this kind of relationship between poets (including Ennius) and their aristocratic friends/patrons, see Konstan (2005). On Ennius’ Roman identity, see Goldberg (1989) 256-257. 39 Cic. Pro Archia 27; cf. Suet. De gramm. 1; Gellius NA 12.4. 38

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assume that they lent their support to Ennius’s choice of philosophizing (rather than strictly philosophical) writings as the most suitable genre through which philosophy might be introduced into Latin literature. The Euhemerus, being better preserved, allows us to grasp better the role that Ennius imagined for a philosopher-poet in the service of such an elite audience. The poet amuses instead of lecturing, and touches on topics— such as the apotheosis of the ideal leader—that would flatter and intrigue the likes of Scipio and Fulvius. Philosophy thus enters Roman literature as a form of sophisticated entertainment that a poet-client offers to his elite patrons, rather than being, as Cicero would have it, as an exclusive pursuit of the optimi themselves. If it had merely been yet another form of intellectual game, philosophy, like literature, would have posed little threat to the system of Roman mores. The problem with philosophy, however, is that it purports to have a monopoly on knowledge about how the world functions, how one should think, and how best to live one’s life. Philosophical ideologies are therefore bound to compete with other systems of belief and established vehicles of ideology, such as religion, law, and public speeches delivered by members of the elite. The plays of Plautus reflect an awareness of the tension between philosophy and other forms of ethical inquiry, while confirming the perception of philosophy as an art in which slaves are expert.

2. Plautus’ Graeci palliati The figure of the Greek intellectual in Rome, of formidable intelligence yet contemptible social standing, makes one of its first appearances in a crowd, being pushed aside in Plautus’ entrance monologue for Curculio. 40 tum isti Graeci palliati, capite operto qui ambulant, qui incedunt suffarcinati cum libris, cum sportulis, constant conferunt sermones inter sese drapetae, opstant opsistunt, incedunt cum suis sententiis… (Curculio 288-291) (Then those Greeks in their cloaks, who walk around with their heads covered, who stroll around stuffed with books, with their little baskets. They stop, debate among themselves, run-away slaves though they be. They stand there and block the way; they proceed with their opinions…)

40 See Juv. 3.77-78: omnia novit / Graeculus esuriens (he knows everything, the starved Greekling); cf. Cic. Ver. 2.4.127.

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This passage is thought to represent Greek philosophers, recognizable by their libri and sententiae; it has attracted the attention of both proponents and opponents of the thesis that Roman comedy reflects Roman culture. Leo and Fraenkel have argued that only a Roman playwright could have produced such a hostile description of philosophers. 41 More recently, however, Eric Csapo has pointed out that contempt for intellectuals would not have been out of place in one of the Greek comedies mocking mendicant philosophers. 42 He also has cited Greek contexts in which drapetes is used as a term of insult for people who waste their time—especially those abandoning more profitable pursuits for philosophy. Still, modeled on a Greek play as this speech very likely is, the emphasis on the strolling slaves’ Greek identity is unmistakably Roman. The humor of the passage depends on the contrast between the Greek intellectuals’ slave status and their usurpation of the dignity of Roman citizens. 43 The idioms describing the actions of the slaves, especially their speech, suggest that they appear to engage in the affairs of negotium. But would the Plautine audience have recognized philosophers in those self-important slaves? I think they would. Several scenes from Plautus, in which philosophizing (philosophari) is described, suggest that the Plautine audience was sufficiently familiar with philosophy and philosophers to laugh at them. In many of these scenes, philosophical discourse comes across as the modus operandi of dangerously clever slaves. The Captivi, a play in which allusions to philosophical discourse are particularly illuminating, destabilizes the distinction between slave and citizen status, thus playing out the anxiety about boundaries that the excerpt in the Curculio suggests. The two young captives, freeborn Philocrates and his slave Tyndarus, swap identities. Philocrates, posing as a slave, approaches their new master Hegio, pretending to be the slave of Tyndarus (who now calls himself Philocrates) and proposing to go back to his master’s father in order to negotiate a ransom. Tyndarus offers a running commentary on his master’s performance as slave and trickster. Twice when he is particularly impressed with how well his master pretends to be a slave, he announces that Philocrates speaks like a philosopher.

41

Leo (1913) 142, 146; and Fraenkel (2007) 89-91. Csapo (1989). 43 The assumption that a slow gait implies importance accords with Aristotle’s description of the proud man’s gait in Eth. Nic. 1125a 12-13: ǔNjʐ ǔljǗǑǝǓǜ ǎʌ njǛNjǎǏ˪NjǞǙ˹ ǖǏǍNjǕǙǢǧǡǙǟǎǙǔǏ˪ ǏɔǗNjǓ (It is thought that slow movement befits the proud man). 42

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When Hegio asks Philocrates (playing Tyndarus) whether his old master is still alive, Philocrates answers that the man was alive when they left, but now only Orcus knows whether he is alive or not. Tyndarus comments: TY. salva res est, philosophatur quoque iam, non mendax modo est. (That’s good. Now he’s even philosophizing, not just lying, Captivi 284). The audience/reader is thus given to understand that philosophy is a perfected form of trickery that consists in avoiding direct answers to simple questions and in hiding behind grandiose references to life and death. Tyndarus’ other comment on philosophy further suggests that a philosophical lie has an uncanny capacity to convey hidden truths. 44 When the freeborn Philocrates says that he was “like a son” to his owner, ostensibly referring to his master but in fact speaking of his own father, Tyndarus is truly impressed with this double-speak. He exclaims: Thalem talento non emam Milesium. nam ad sapientiam huius nimius nugator fuit. (Captivi 274-275) (I would not pay a single talent for Thales of Miletus. For, next to the sagacity of this man here, he was a huge fraud.)

The suggestion that members of the audience could shop for philosophers in the slave market is not a proof of the Latin origin of this joke, but it corresponds well to the image from the Curculio of slavephilosophers becoming fashionable and crowding the streets of Rome. 45 While one Plautine passage associating slavery and philosophy might be a coincidence, two are less likely to be a mere accident of adaptation. It is therefore unsurprising that the eponymous trickster slave in the Pseudolus should describe himself as a philosopher, and that the manner in which he does so suggests that his speech should be understood in connection with the other allusions to philosophical practice. After delivering a monologue on human ignorance and the power of chance (Fortuna), which ends with a reflection on the fragility of human life, Pseudolus rebukes himself for engaging in philosophy: stulti hau scimus frustra ut simus, quom quod cupienter dari petimus nobis, quasi quid in rem sit possimus noscere. certa mittimus dum incerta petimus; atque hoc evenit in labore atque in dolore, ut mors obrepat interim. 44

On slaves as plot masters see Sharrock (2009) 114-140. Lucian’s sources for Philosophers for Sale may have been early Hellenistic. (I am grateful to David Armstrong for drawing my attention to this possibility.)

45

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sed iam satis est philosophatum. nimi’ diu et longum loquor. (Pseudolus 683-687) (Fools, we don’t know that we accomplish nothing when we eagerly desire to obtain something for ourselves, as though we could know what is to our advantage; we squander what is certain while we seek what is uncertain, and so it happens, amid toil and pain, that meanwhile death creeps up. But enough of philosophizing. My speech has been too long and too wordy.)

Pseudolus’ allusion to death is reminiscent of the speech of Philocrates in the Captivi, while his self-correction brings to mind Ennius’ Neoptolemus. 46 Philosophy, Pseudolus suggests, is a flowery discourse that tackles questions of life and death. An unusual exchange at the beginning of the Mercator further specifies the ways in which philosophizing was expected to differ from other ways of thinking and speaking. The scene in question features an irascible slave (Acanthio) and his calm young master (Charinus). Although in comedy irascibility is usually the prerogative of the senex, 47 in this exchange it is the slave Acanthio, who delivers an angry rant about bad news and hard work. The adulescens has trouble interpreting the slave’s confused speech and offers a truism: all good things come with some discomfort or disadvantage: CH. dic mihi an boni quid usquamst quod quisquam uti possiet sine malo omni, aut ne laborem capias quom illo uti voles? (Mercator 145-146) (CH. Tell me if there is any good thing whatsoever that everyone could use without any ill effect, or that you would not have to make an effort for when you want to enjoy it?)

Acanthio, however, still acting against his stock-type, refuses to philosophize: AC. Nescio ego istaec: philosophari numquam didici neque scio. Ego bonum, malum quo accedit, mihi dari hau desidero. (Mercator 147-148) 46

Pseudolus criticizes the habit of judging people according to how lucky they are and asks how one can live without knowing which choices and desires are right; see Lefèvre (1997b) 102-103. 47 On representation of anger in comedy, see Dutsch and Konstan (2011).

14

Chapter One (AC. I don’t know about these things. I have never learned and am not able to philosophize. But I have no desire to receive a good that comes with ill consequences.)

Note the contrast between the over-abundance of generalizing expressions: boni quid (any good thing whatsoever, 145), quisquam (anyone, 145), sine malo omni (without any discomfort whatsoever, 146) in Charinus’ lines and Acanthio’s simple concern with himself and his own fate: “I … to be given to me.” The language of the exchange seems to foreground the contrast between the impersonal nature of philosophical inquiry and the concreteness of Acanthio’s common sense. 48 These excerpts may well be adaptations of earlier Greek texts, but as they stand they reveal a representation of philosophy that would have made sense to Plautus’ audience. Philosophers are purchased on the market and are quite pricey (Captivi); they are skilled at discussing at length questions of life and death, fate, good and evil. Most important, their goal is to produce universal rules that apply to everyone everywhere, and under all circumstances, which is in stark contrast to the individualistic and case-specific thinking of Acanthio in the Mercator. 49 The Plautine references to philosophy that we have seen so far are too vague for us to be able to identify them as belonging to a particular school of thought, and Plautus is not forthcoming with any names, except for that of the venerable Thales. As I have argued elsewhere, however, it is nevertheless possible to identify pseudo-pythagorean intertexts for some of Plautus’ philosophizing. 50 The best case can be made for Adelphasium’s discourse on pudor meretricius in the Poenulus, a play that draws on the ƵNjǛǡǑǎǦǗǓǙǜ by Alexis, who is known for mocking Pythagorean philosophers in his ƾNjǛNjǗǞ˪ǗǙǓ and ƻǟǒNjǍǙǛljǐǙǟǝNj. 51 While Alexis would be the obvious model for it, Adelphasium’s speech (e.g. Poenulus 22848

The noun philosophus occurs only once in Plautus as an insult addressed to a slave. In the Rudens, Trachalio is trying to recover from Gripus the jar that Palaestra has lost in shipwreck, thus revealing an uncanny knowledge of the whereabouts of the object. The fisherman, furious and unwilling to part with his find, calls him a philosopher (philosophe, 986), to which Trachalio responds, calling Gripus a poison-maker (venefice, 987). 49 This trend to make fun of philosophy as an intellectual pursuit, rather than of particular philosophical trends, might have persisted in later drama; we have on record a farce entitled Philosophia and attributed to someone called Pomponius, probably the Atellane playwright. I am most grateful to Costas Panayotakis for the latter reference. 50 Dutsch (2009). 51 Cf. Arnott (1996) ad loc.

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232) even features a translation of the Pythagorean gnomon ǖLJǞǛǙǗǎ̧Ȳǚʐ ǚˍǝǓǗȦǛǓǝǞǙǗ (due measure is in everything the best, Golden Verses 38b; cf. Poenulus 238). 52 Moreover, not only Plautus but apparently also Naevius imitated Alexis’ anti-pythagorean humor, as Naevius is known to have adopted Alexis’ ƾNjǛNjǗǞ˪ǗǙǓ. 53 Both Ennius and the comic playwrights are alluding to the similar, eclectic—but nominally Pythagorean—doctrines. The intertexts appear to be different for both genres; while Ennius draws on Epicharmus, Plautus and Naevius turn to Middle Comedy, but the predilection for pseudopythagoreanism is likely to reflect the importance of this form of popular philosophical discourse in the ongoing dialogue about the role of philosophy in Roman intellectual life. 54 Greek philosophy is, then, a pursuit present within the intellectual horizons of the Plautine audience. The passage in Curculio suggests that philosophers were visible on the streets and seemed to be encroaching on the affairs of negotium. This encroachment was bound to provoke objections. Cato the Elder has often been cast in the role of the conservative Roman opposing Greek culture. 55 Cato’s views complement those of Ennius and of Lucilius, and help to reveal the ways in which Romans of the period engaged in practice with Greek philosophy. I would therefore next like to revisit the question of Cato’s attitude to Greeks, focusing on his appreciation for concrete rather than universal virtue.

3. Cato Sapiens According to Plutarch’s biography (Cato Maior 21-23), when the Athenian philosophers arrived in Rome in 155 B.C., Cato famously insisted that it was important to take a vote on the request of the Athenian embassy as soon as possible. He wanted the philosophers to return promptly to their schools and teach Greek youths, leaving the young men

52

See Dutsch (2008) 159-160 and Dutsch (2009) passim. Cf. Ribbeck (1962) 2, 19. 54 On the presence of pseudo-Pythagoreanism in Rome in the third and second centuries B.C., see the references in Dutsch (2009) 510-513. 55 Astin [(1978) 178] in his carefully drawn conclusion about Cato’s attitude towards the Greeks admits that even “[w]hen all allowance is made for exaggeration, generalization, or over-simplification (…) the evidence points to something more than scorn for the uncritical and undignified adulation of the philhellenes.” 53

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of Rome to listen to their laws and leaders as they did in the past. 56 Plutarch further insists that Cato did not object to the doctrine of any particular school represented by the embassy, but rather was opposed to philosophy in general, 57 explaining that philosophy, specifically Socratic philosophy, had already had destructive effects on Athenian morals and would therefore put Roman mores in jeopardy. 58 Whether or not Plutarch’s late testimony is reliable, it is reasonable to assume that 1) Cato, who authored a work addressed to his son, would have considered himself qualified to transmit knowledge to young Romans and 2) that he would have claimed to offer them advice that was, in some respects at least, different from those offered by Hellenistic philosophers. Ancient accounts of Cato’s intellectual merits concur in stressing the breadth of his interests as well as his sapientia. 59 We know that Cato’s wisdom would have encompassed some knowledge of Greek culture, since he recommended it to others—albeit in homeopathic doses. 60 Cato expressed this view poignantly in a work addressed to his son, a famous fragment of which has come down to us via Pliny (NH 29.14): Dicam de istis Graecis suo loco, M. fili, quid Athenis exquisitum habeam et quod bonum sit illorum litteras inspicere, non perdiscere. vincam nequissimum et indocile genus illorum… 61 (My dear son Marcus, I will write about those Greeks when the time comes; what I have learned in Athens is that it is a good thing to take a glance at their literature but not to learn it by heart; and I will persuade you that that kind is most vile and unteachable…) 56 Plut. Cat. 22.5 Ǚɏ ǎʌ ̎ƼǣǖNjʑǣǗ ǗʍǙǓ Ǟ̆Ǘ ǗǦǖǣǗ ǔNjʐ Ǟ̆Ǘ ȢǛǡǦǗǞǣǗ ɻǜ ǚǛǦǞǏǛǙǗ ȢǔǙǧǣǝǓ (while the youth of Rome give ear to their laws and magistrates as heretofore). 57 Plut. Cat. 23.1 ɣǕǣǜ ǠǓǕǙǝǙǠljˋ ǚǛǙǝǔǏǔǛǙǟǔǨǜ (because he was wholly averse to philosophy.) 58 Again, it may be worth noting that (if we are to believe Plutarch) Cato objected specifically to the morals of Athenians nequissimum et indocile genus (Pliny NH 29.14.4); and these morals should be distinguished from the Western Greek sapientia advocated by Cato’s protégé Ennius. 59 Livy’s description is an excellent example (39.40.4): nulla ars neque privatae neque publicae rei gerendae ei defuit; urbanas rusticasque res pariter callebat (He was skilled in every art pertaining to private or public business: he was equally passionate about sophisticated and simple matters); cf. Cic. Brut. 65; Nepos Cato 3.1; Pliny NH 7.100; Quintilian Inst. 12.11.23. 60 On Cato’s ostentatious anti-Hellenism see Gruen (1990) 176-179; and Henrichs (1995) 245. 61 Cf. Plut. Cato Maior 23.2-3.

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Cato thus admits that Greek (more exactly, Athenian) letters are worth the exposure of a short glance, just enough to be incorporated as a small part within the broad scope of one’s sapientia. His writings, evincing a superficial familiarity with Greek literature and science, suggest that Cato practiced what he preached. 62 References to things Greek, such as to cabbage being a staple of the Pythagorean diet in De Agri Cultura (fr. 156 S-C), are infrequent but explicit. No explicit references to philosophers and their lives, however, can be found in the fragmentary corpus of Cato’s writings, even though these writings, as Hans-Joachim Gehrke has persuasively argued, appear to reflect an influence of Greek ideas. 63 Gehrke points out, for example, that Greek paideia was the likely model for notions, such as self-improvement and the importance of writing, reading, and literature, put forth in Cato’s advice to his son. Gehrke also traces reflections of Greek philosophical theorems in Cato’s speech defending the Rhodians, in which Cato proposed that Roman domination came with moral obligations and that Romans needed to avoid the ferocitas and superbia easily associated with military and political success. 64 Cato was thus familiar with some philosophical concepts but never credited their (putative) Greek sources. Gehrke assumes that this silent awareness testifies to the assimilation of Greek ideas, which by Cato’s time would have become an integral element of Roman intellectual life in connection with both otium and negotium. 65 It is significant, however, that Cato’s refusal to name Greek authorities is selective: Cato is willing to refer to Greek (more precisely, Pythagorean) views on the virtues of vegetables, but not on the virtues of men. This distinction seems to corroborate Plutarch’s testimony, according to which Cato (at least in public) construed the Romans’ self-conscious mores as distinct from and superior to Greek, or more precisely, Athenian, achievements in the domain of morality. Let us turn to the views on virtue of which Cato approved. The (fragmentary) speech On His Own Merits (De suis virtutibus), which presents Cato’s own moral credentials, is an excellent place to start: 62

Evidence has been conveniently collected by Astin (1978) 162-172; see also Boscherini (1970) 9-22, on De Agricultura. 63 Gehrke (1994) 594. 64 Gehrke (1994) 594. We might add to this analysis other concepts scattered throughout the fragments of Cato’s speeches that find parallels in Hellenistic ethics, including the questions of pleasure and duty (fr. 1 S-C) and sexual mores (fr. 54; 81-88 S-C). 65 Gehrke (1994) 597.

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Chapter One ego iam a principio in parsimonia atque duritia atque industria omnem adulescentiam meam abstinui, agro colendo saxis Sabinis silicibusque repastinandis atque conserendis. (fr. 93 S-C) (I spent my entire youth in self-restraint from the very first, with frugality, hardship, and diligent work; tilling the field, breaking the Sabine rocks and boulders and sowing seeds in this soil.)

This image foregrounds the physical strength and persistence needed to farm the harsh Sabine soil. Virtues acquired in tilling the soil are transferable to other tasks: the speech suggests that Cato’s later military and political accomplishments were made possible by the endurance, good judgment, and patient persistence that he acquired as a young farmer. 66 Just as a strong man’s virtue is transferable, so is the weak man’s vice; it affects everything from his appetite to his taste in architecture (fr. 97 SC). 67 Virtue, then, is an embodied characteristic that is manifest in a person’s actions. The result of such a virtuous life is a list of things well done: Cato conducted a successful lustratio, and the granaries were filled with crops, the vintage was good and the olive oil abundant. It is worth noting at this point that Cato’s final list of achievements is reminiscent of the list of Jupiter’s achievements in the Euhemerus (119-25 W.). Both lists refer to moral rectitude (lustratio, mores) and both feature the allimportant provisions of grain (frumenta). Both the Euhemerus and Cato’s speech (frs 93-97 S-C) suggest that morality begins with hard work and ends with measurable accomplishments. Fragments of a speech that Cato delivered in Numantia explain the role that toil played in this system; good deeds often require toil (labor) but the effort is transient while the good deeds ‘stay with’ their authors as long as they live (fr. 1 S-C). Such people, boni atque strenui, later obtain traditional honors and titles that then give them further authority. 68 (Recall that the growth of Jupiter’s authority and influence in the Euhemerus was 66

Fr. 94 S-C refers to military service, fr. 95 S-C to peace negotiations in Aetolia, fr. 96 S-C to ability to act in time. 67 Fr. 97 S-C: qui ventrem suum non pro hoste habet, qui pro re publica non pro sua obsonat, qui stulte spondet, qui cupide aedificat (he who does not consider his belly an enemy, who buys groceries as though for public use rather than private, who takes foolish oaths, and builds greedily). 68 The honors Cato lists are military ones that give the bearer military authority, but given the intimate link between the virtues of a farmer and the virtues of a military leader and statesman suggested in De suis virtutibus, it is reasonable to assume that Cato would have extended to other aspects of life the principle that any kind of authority needs to rely on virtue and can be only proved by achievement.

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also directly proportional to the scale of his good deeds.) Fragments of the speech against Minucius Thermus (fr. 42 S-C) further suggest that the power of the deeds of the boni et strenui can also benefit their descendants, just as Jupiter’s good deeds benefited his descendants. 69 To borrow the example from Plautus’ Mercator, one might describe Cato’s thinking as concerned with ego … mihi and not quid usquamst quod quisquam (Mercator 145). Virtue is a matter of hard work and good deeds rather than generalizing speculation. When Cicero, much later, argued that the first Roman philosophers, Laelius and Scipio, disseminated their morality by living it instead of writing it down, he was possibly reinforcing similar perceptions of Roman morality as embodied and concrete. Furthermore, it seems fair to say that Cato’s morality, as reflected in fragments of his speeches, concurs with the ideas that Ennius outlined in the Euhemerus: both systems stress the importance of moral praxis. We do not have enough evidence to decide whether or not the Euhemerus included elements of parody of Cato’s opinions, but it seems almost certain that while Ennius might be playful where Cato seems earnest, both represent similar perceptions of excellence.

4. Philosophy in Rome before 155 B.C.: Preliminary Conclusions From its earliest beginnings, then, Latin literature was the forum in which Romans engaged in the debate on the place of Greek philosophy in Rome. These first discussions concerned the nature of philosophy as a cultural practice, rather than the merits and demerits of particular schools, even though several intertexts that we can detect point to the eclectic pseudo-pythagorean writings and teachings as the sample of philosophizing possibly familiar to Roman audiences. One of the earliest accusations raised against philosophy was that it perverted Roman ideas about the nature of moral authority. Practiced by Greeks, often slaves or ex-slaves, philosophy was based on abstract reasoning about the good and the right. In contrast, Roman moral practice as presented by Cato was embodied in the persons of the boni et strenui. This means that Greek philosophy, when offering guidelines for a good life, encroached on a domain that was hitherto the preserve of the Roman elite. 69

Cato (fr. 42 S-C) proposed that men of good birth (boni or bono genere gnati) deserve to receive special treatment from their fellow citizens (societas), because society owes loyalty to the ancestors of good men: fides maiorum.

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References to philosophy in Plautus and Ennius indicate that even before the arrival en masse of Athenian intellectuals in Rome, educated Romans were exposed to Hellenistic ideas (including Stoicism) that trickled through pseudo-pythagorean literature (in Greek) popular in other parts of Italy. Some such apocryphal text was allegedly uncovered in the empty sarcophagus allegedly belonging to King Numa. Another text, falsely attributed to the playwright Epicharmus, was (as far as we know) the first philosophical text ever translated into Latin. Even those Romans who did not read Greek would have encountered philosophical concepts in political oratory and would have used some rhetorical theorems themselves, as Cato did. At any rate, by the beginning of the second century B.C. there had been enough exposure to philosophical discourse in Rome to trigger (at least) two kinds of literary response: comic mockery and efforts to formulate a competing system of guidelines. I see the former in the Plautine jokes about philosophy and the latter in the Catonian comments on moral praxis as well as in Ennius’ Euhemerus. The relationship between Cato and Ennius must remain a matter of speculation, but it is worth noting that the Ennian program, of philosophy in small doses, is in perfect harmony with Cato’s tenet that Greek letters deserve a glance but not a gaze. It is therefore distinctly possible that Ennius’ ‘light philosophizing’ and Cato’s moral program both represent efforts to create a hybrid ItaloRoman discourse of the ars vivendi bene, which would rival the Athenian imports. Significantly, Cato’s criticisms specifically target Athenians and Athenian philosophy, not the native Italian Pythagoreanism. 70 I would like to dwell a moment longer on Plutarch’s narrative of Cato’s protests against the prolonged stay of the Athenian embassy in Rome, with which we began the previous section. Concluding his discussion of Cato’s objections to philosophy, Plutarch serenely observes that Cato protested in vain, as the city soon grew strong and became hospitable towards Greek learning (Cato Maior 23). Plutarch’s claim that Cato’s intolerant world came to an end soon after 155 B.C. is not to be taken at face value. Cicero (see above) still had to explain that he was willing to occupy himself with philosophy only because he had nothing better to do; in the first century A.D. Seneca could not teach philosophy to the future princeps. 71 Here, however, I want to challenge the validity of Plutarch’s verdict concerning 70

Iamblichus’ list of Pythagoreans (VP 267), which might go back to Aristoxenus, includes names of Lucanians and Etruscans and well as Greeks. See also Horky (2011) on the largely positive portrayal of the Samnite sage Hernnius Pontius in Roman historiography. 71 See Morford (2002) 20 and his references to a persistent mistrust toward philosophy in later Roman culture.

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Cato’s defeat for the period immediately following the arrival of the famous embassy.

5. Lucilius: An Epilogue Although we are not sure exactly when Lucilius was born (180 or 1687 B.C.), it is reasonably certain that he composed his satires between 125106 B.C. 72 The Lucilian corpus is fragmentary, but references to philosophy and philosophers within it allow us to reconstruct certain coherent patterns. 73 The entire collection of twenty-one books begins with a grandiose allusion to natural philosophy (1 K). In his oeuvre, Lucilius alludes to the teachings of Socrates (836-838 K), Plato (834-835 K) Epicurus (774 K), Aristippus (800 K), and several Skeptics from the Academy. 74 Significantly, all the philosophers come under criticism. The third satire from Book 28, for example, expresses a desire to refute the Epicurean theory of eidola (771-773 K) and offers a piece of gossip from the history of the Academy in the fourth century B.C.: Xenocrates was gloomy and harsh, but Polemon fell in love with him and named him as his successor. The theme of the philosophers’ propensity for falling indiscriminately in love with young men recurs in the first satire of Book 29, which makes fun of Socrates. Lucilius begins with the proverb that one should not trust people without first putting them to the test (832 K); this presumably implies that one should put Socrates to the test before accepting his teachings. Another fragment alludes to Plato’s Charmides and the confession made by the title character that he loved everyone who was young, without distinction (Charm. 154b). In this context, Lucilius makes the following comments about Socrates: sic Socrates in amore et in adulescentulis meliore paulo facie: signat nihil quem amaret. (836-838 K) (Likewise [i.e. like Charmides] was Socrates in love and among young men who were even a bit good-looking: he cared little to distinguish whom he loved.)

72

Fragments 23-26 and 27 K. Haß [(2007) 76-89] collects references to philosophy in the fragments of Lucilius and discusses them as an expression of his independence of thought. See also Baier [(2001a) 43] on Lucilius’ use of the term philosophia and Gärtner [(2001) 96] on Lucilius’ and the philosophical theory of friendship. 74 See Görler (1984); Classen (1996); and Haß (2007). 73

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What follows is clearly meant to show the discrepancy between Socrates’ dogma and his actions: quid? quas partiret ipse [pro] doctrinas bonis (839 K) (what? and the teachings he transmitted to good people?)

Lucilius exposes the contrast between the philosophical teachings and moral standards of Socrates (who, according to Plutarch, was also the target of Cato’s criticism). Lucilius asks whether good men (boni, 839 K) should follow the teachings of someone who does not practice what he preaches (discrimen, 834 K). Among the fragments, one of Lucilius’ speakers refuses to do so and instead fantasizes about initiating legal proceedings (nomen deferre, 841 K) to punish such malpractice. It is not clear whether the target of this imaginary lawsuit was Socrates himself or a follower, but the contrast between the Socratic doctrinae, which contradict his actions, and the Roman expectation that morality should be taught by example and supervised by the courts, is unmistakable. A similar attitude informs Lucilius’ famous exposé on virtus (13421354 K), which has been interpreted both as proof of the poet’s Stoic allegiances and an example of traditional Roman morality. 75 I see the fragment as consisting of two parts, the first representing Stoic ideas, the second incorporating elements of traditional Roman virtus into the Stoic schema. The resulting diptych represents an effort to assert the primacy of Roman thought on praxis and virtue as lived experience over abstract ethical thought. The excerpt begins with an address to a Roman man (Albinus) and a definition that states that virtue is coextensive with the knowledge of value. The concept of intrinsic value (pretium verum) can be associated with the Stoic term axia, which can be traced back to the thought of Antipater of Tarsos: 76 virtus, Albine, est pretium persolvere verum quis in versamur, quis vivimus rebus, potesse (1342-1343 K) (Virtue, Albinus, is the ability to pay the fair price for the things that surround us, among which we live.) 75

For example, Raschke [(1987) passim] interprets the virtus fragment as an expression of Roman morality, while McDonnel [(2006) 123-126] reads the same fragment as a Stoic manifesto. 76 Antipater died ca. 130 B.C.; cf. Görler (1984) 451-461.

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Three definitions of virtue as a form of knowledge follow. A person’s virtue lies in the knowledge of three things: 1) what befits the circumstances (quod quaeque habeat res, 1344 K); 2) how to differentiate between what is useful (i.e., an indifferent good) and truly good, and what is not; 77 3) what is the purpose and appropriate measure (finis and modus, 1347 K) in all things we seek. While 1) and 2) point to specifically Stoic distinctions, 3) belongs to popular morality. The motif of pretium returns in the middle of the passage (1348 K) where it takes an even more concrete form: virtus, divitiis pretium persolvere posse (Virtue, Albinus, is the ability to pay the fair price by means of wealth.)

The emphasis on wealth here is clear and does not seem Stoic. 78 The definitions of virtue that follow this second reference to intrinsic value pertain to the active life. Virtue means: 1) to deliver what the situation requires; 79 2) to act on one’s knowledge of good and evil: to be the friend of the former and the enemy of the latter; 3) to carry out one’s actions so as to benefit first one’s country, then one’s parents, and last, oneself. The first definition might have some Stoic basis in Antipater’s definition of axia as “giving what is appropriate.” 80 But the second one, especially the call to be an active enemy of evil, would have been anathema to the Stoic sage. 81 The final thought, that “one should consider the good of the fatherland first, second, that of one’s parents, and third and last, one’s own” (commoda praeterea patriai prima putare / deinde parentum, tertia iam postremaque nostra, unassigned frs 1207-8 Warmington) is strongly reminiscent of Roman pietas. 82 77

See contra Görler (1984) 462-463 on the early Stoic concept of “elective value.” So Raschke (1990) 359-360; and Haß (2007) 82. 79 1349 K: dare. 80 See Görler (1984) 463-464 and 448, citing Antipater’s definition of ‘elective value’ (ȲǔǕǏǔǞǓǔʎ ȢǘljNj) in Stobaeus (83.13-84.1) “according to which we choose, when the circumstances allow, some things over other; e.g., health over disease, life over death, wealth over poverty.” 81 See Haß (2007) 82 and her references to earlier scholarship. 82 So Krenkel (1970) 136. Notably, the order of obligations stated in the virtus fragment is opposite to that of the Stoic RLNHLǀVLV as described by Cicero (Off. 3.627). In Cic. Off. 1.58, however, Cicero proposes the same order of duties as Lucilius: “that fatherland and parents come first” (principes sint patria et parentes). Since, as Cicero himself notes (ad Att. 16.11.4), De officiis draws on Panaetius, Görler has suggested that Lucilius’ hierarchy has second-century Stoic antecedents; cf. Görler (1984) 466. But this is not necessarily so: like Lucilius 78

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Lucilius was no doubt familiar with Stoicism as well as other Greek doctrines; his mockery of the Stoic sage relies on knowledge of the doctrine of the sage’s omniscience (1249-1250 K). It is therefore unsurprising that his discussion of virtue reveals an awareness of several Stoic concepts. For our purpose it is important to note, however, the contrast between the abstract Stoic concepts in the first part of the poem and the active life in the second half. The structure of the poem, in which the second part seems to offer an enhanced version of the first, suggests that applied virtue trumps the purely intellectual kind. If this reading is correct, Lucilius expertly enlists Stoic ethics in an effort to argue for the pre-eminence of a system of lived morality. 83 The passage on virtue therefore can be read as a diptych juxtaposing the Greek doctrina to what Cicero later termed ars vivendi bene. 84 It would seem, then, that although Lucilius juggles with names and ideas of Greek philosophers, his goal is not to publicize these ideas as they are, but to use them as the background against which to construe a Roman system of morality. He is at once philhellene and fiercely Roman. 85 This implies that the embassy of 155 B.C. certainly made an impact in respect to disseminating knowledge about Hellenistic philosophy as practiced in Athens, but that it did not bring about a radical change in attitudes. Lucilius makes fun of Greek philosophy (just as Plautus did). He uses his considerable erudition in order to demonstrate that, although philosophy may be an interesting intellectual game, theoretical ethics cannot replace practical morality, and no philosopher can equal the moral authority of an upright Roman citizen. The question of the right to impart moral teachings, as it was raised in the earliest literary reactions to philosophy, was, then, still being debated in writings composed decades after the

before him, Cicero discusses Roman uses of Stoicism; moreover, Off. 1. 50-58 represents an effort to systematize the obligations as presented by different systems of values, including Roman morality (cf. the citation from Ennius in Off. 1.51). If the primacy of patria et parentes is a Stoic idea, it represents a blend of Stoic and Roman values—in Cicero as well as in Lucilius. 83 On Lucilius as advocating a mixture of Stoic ideals and mos maiorum, see Raschke (1987) 303. 84 The other fragments of the original Satire suggest a Roman context; we have references to active life: a battle is fought, in which the Romans and their allies have been victorious (1339 K), someone tells the story of the birth of Servius Tullius (1340-1341 K), a boar is killed and eviscerated at a hunt (1357 K). 85 On Roman culture’s selective and discriminate use of Greek material, see Barchiesi (2009) 101-109; on the co-existence of Romanitas and Hellenism see Whitmarsh (2009) 123-125.

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famous embassy. And this, Plutarch ought to have conceded, would have been a triumph for the elder Cato.

CHAPTER TWO LUCRETIUS, EMPEDOCLES AND CLEANTHES 1 GORDON CAMPBELL Lucretius is so well known to be an Epicurean poet that it may seem pointless to investigate his philosophical influences. The situation should be straightforward, but many un-Epicurean influences have been noticed in De rerum natura, and there has been considerable argument over whether, or to what degree, these are philosophical or simply poetic influences. The fact that Lucretius uses the medium of verse for his philosophical exposition complicates the picture. He has a marked tendency to appropriate the language and imagery of his “opponents” and use them to argue against their world view. So we can say, for example, that he is an Ennian poet, because of his use of Ennius as a poetic source, while he disagrees fundamentally with Ennius’ Pythagoreanism, and that he is a Homeric poet despite, or because of, his mission to combat the Homeric world view of gods intervening in human affairs. He also makes little distinction between poetic and philosophical sources, and this makes the question of his philosophical influences even more complicated. Further, his most important poetic influence is Empedocles, and Empedocles is a philosopher poet; because of this aspects of the Empedoclean world view tend to be imported into DRN along with poetic influence. 2 As well as this, Lucretius actively embraces parts of Empedocles’ vision, in particular the figure of Aphrodite as a governing principle of the universe. I argue that Stoic sources are also appropriated and ‘turned’ by Lucretius, especially Cleanthes’ Hymn to Zeus. Cleanthes, as I see it, had already used Empedocles as a source for his hymn, replacing Aphrodite, the Empedoclean ‘feminine principal’, with the Stoic masculine controlling principle Zeus. Lucretius topples the usurper Zeus 1

I am very grateful to Myrto Garani and David Konstan for their perceptive suggestions and criticisms of this paper. The mistakes that remain are my own. 2 On the ways in which Lucretius’ intertextual borrowings carry over something of their former connotations into DRN see Fowler (2000) 138-155.

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from his throne and puts Aphrodite/Venus back in her rightful place. In the first section I look at the ways in which Lucretius himself speaks of his poetic and philosophical sources.

1. Lucretius on his Poetic and Philosophical Sources It is well known that Epicurus was suspicious of poetry on the grounds that it told false stories about the gods, and that he also rejected verse as a medium of philosophical instruction on the grounds that poets used words in wrong ways for effect when, according to him, words have real meanings and so should be used very carefully in order to avoid words simply being ‘empty’ or an endless regression of argument over what words mean. 3 Put briefly, Epicurus thought that poets such as Homer had been guilty of spreading a false religion in which the gods involved themselves in human affairs, rewarded and punished them, and thus caused people to fear the gods, removing their ataraxia or ‘mental calm’. 4 Lucretius clearly had quite different ideas about the use and value of poetry for philosophical persuasion. Accordingly, Lucretius seems to feel the need to defend his choice of verse as a medium and tells us why he is writing in verse: Nunc age quod superest cognosce et clarius audi. nec me animi fallit quam sint obscura; sed acri percussit thyrso laudis spes magna meum cor, et simul incussit suavem mi in pectus amorem Musarum, quo nunc instinctus mente vigenti avia Pieridum peragro loca nullius ante trita solo. iuvat integros accedere fontis atque haurire, iuvatque novos decerpere flores insignemque meo capiti petere inde coronam unde prius nulli velarint tempora Musae. (DRN 1.921-930) (Come now, mark and learn what remains and hear a clearer strain. Nor am I unaware how obscure these matters are; but high hope of renown has struck my mind sharply with holy wand, and at the same time has struck into my heart sweet love of the Muses, thrilled by which now in lively thought I traverse the pathless tracts of the Pierides never yet trodden by any foot. I love to approach 3 4

See Asmis (1995) 15-34. See Obbink (1995) 189-209.

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Chapter Two virgin springs and there to drink; I love to pluck new flowers, and to seek an illustrious chaplet for my head from the fields whence before this the Muses have crowned the brows of none.) 5

Lucretius wanders territory familiar to us from Hesiod onwards, the valley beneath holy Helicon where the Muses appeared to him while he was herding his goats and gave him a sceptre of laurel and a divine voice, instructed him to sing the truth about the holy gods, and granted him the three-fold oracular knowledge that had once been given to Calchas in the Iliad. 6 Lucretius here also claims quasi-divine Bacchic inspiration which has instilled in him a sweet love of the Muses. 7 He will be first to wander the Epicurean sector of the valley of the Muses, “the pathless tracts of the Pierides never yet trodden by any foot”. 8 Not the road less travelled, but never travelled. These are the virgin springs of Epicurean philosophical poetry. Not for him the well-sampled waters of the Aganippe and the Hippocrene. The flowers that he finds there will be woven into a victory crown just like the one already awarded earlier in the poem to his epic predecessor, Ennius (DRN 1.102-126). Ennius he says, although he spread false stories of the fate of the soul, “first brought down from pleasant Helicon a chaplet of green foliage to win a glorious name through the nations of Italian men” (... qui primus amoeno | detulit ex Helicone perenni fronde coronam | per gentis Italas hominum quae clara clueret, DRN 1.117-119). But, Ennius was so confused about the nature of the soul that while, as a Pythagorean, he believed in the transmigration of souls, and indeed claimed to be Homer himself reborn, he also said that the ghost of Homer had risen from the underworld, appeared to him, and unfolded for him the nature of the universe (rerum naturam, DRN 1.126). As M. R. Gale well explores, in this passage Lucretius places himself in a line of poetic inheritance from Homer to Ennius, but also presents these two as poets of De rerum natura, and thus as rivals in natural philosophy. Embedded in the praise of Ennius Gale also discovered a pun, 5

Texts and translations of Lucretius are by Rouse/Smith, with some alterations. On oracles and Epicurean philosophy see further below 36-38. 7 Kyriakidis (2006) argues that the exclusion of lines 1.921-5 from the repetition of this passage in the proem to book four (DRN 4.1-25) is a Lucretian illustration of what Armstrong (1995a) defines as the Epicurean principle of “the impossibility of metathesis”: the transposition of words or letters must make a fundamental change to the meaning of a word or passage. In this instance Kyriakidis sees the dropping of the claim of divine inspiration as significant (608): “Lucretius now has a free hand to form his own poetry by not being instinctus any more.” 8 Cf. Gale (1994) 146-7; Volk (2002) 87-88. 6

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unmistakable once seen, on the name of Empedocles, adding in a true poet of natural philosophy to his line of inheritance. 9 My point here is that Lucretius appears to see no great problem in inviting the reader to view Homer and Ennius as rivals in philosophical poetry, and even works hard to establish a line of succession that we, as modern readers, might find rather surprisingly eclectic in its mix of philosophy and epic poetry. 10 In the Epicurean context the presence of Homer as forerunner is particularly surprising given Epicurus’ attitude to him as purveyor of falsehoods. So, Lucretius presents his main poetic influences as if they were natural philosophers, and conversely he presents Epicurus in terms highly suggestive of a poetic source: in the proem to book three we see Lucretius following in his master’s footsteps across a landscape reminiscent of the valley of the Muses: O tenebris tantis tam clarum extollere lumen qui primus potuisti inlustrans commoda vitae, te sequor, o Graiae gentis decus, inque tuis nunc ficta pedum pono pressis vestigia signis, non ita certandi cupidus quam propter amorem quod te imitari aveo: quid enim contendat hirundo cycnis, aut quidnam tremulis facere artubus haedi consimile in cursu possint et fortis equi vis? tu pater es, rerum inventor, tu patria nobis suppeditas praecepta, tuisque ex, inclute, chartis, floriferis ut apes in saltibus omnia libant, omnia nos itidem depascimur aurea dicta, aurea, perpetua semper dignissima vita. (DRN 3.1-13) (O you who amid so great a darkness were able to raise aloft a light so clear, illuminating the blessings of life, you I follow, O glory of the Grecian race, and now in the marks you have left I plant my own footsteps firm, not so much desiring to be your rival, as for love, because I yearn to copy you: for why should a swallow vie with swans, or what could a kid with its shaking limbs do in running to match himself with the strong horse’s vigour? You are our 9

Gale (2001) 168, and n. 2: “Ennius’ corona—the mark of his poetic distinction— is both ‘everlasting’ (perenni fronde, 1.118) and destined to bring him ‘bright fame’ (quae clara clueret, 1.119). The two phrases taken together suggest the name of Empedocles, literally ‘eternally renowned’”, i.e. ~ ȶǖǚǏǎǙ- (‘steadfast,’ ‘lasting’) +~ ǔǕLJǙǜ (‘fame,’ ‘glory’). 10 See further Volk (2002) 105-118.

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Chapter Two father, the discoverer of truths, you supply us with a father’s precepts, from your pages, illustrious man, as bees in the flowery glades sip all the sweets, so we likewise feed on all your golden words, your words of gold, ever most worthy of life eternal.)

Epicurus is characterised as bringer of light in darkness, using his torch to illuminate the blessings of life. 11 He is clearly labelled as a Greek source, and quite unambiguously Lucretius presents himself, in contrast to his eclectic wanderings through the pathless tracts of the Pierides in search of sources, as following a trodden path of philosophy, treading indeed in his master’s footsteps. 12 This metaphor places Lucretius as simply a follower in philosophy, carefully tracing the signs made by his precursor, and a Roman follower as well, unable to compete with the Greeks. 13 This might invite us to see Lucretius as eclectic in his use of poetic sources, while being a ‘fundamentalist’ in that Epicurus is his only philosophical source. 14 However, the metaphors he uses to illustrate his inability to compete in philosophy with Epicurus complicate the matter since they are poetic contest metaphors. Katharina Volk argues that this strongly suggests that Lucretius is thinking here of Epicurus in a similar way to Ennius, Homer and Empedocles in book 1. 15 Then Lucretius presents Epicurus in very Roman terms as a father instructing Lucretius as his son with, “a father’s precepts” (patria praecepta). As Alessandro Schiesaro says this puts Lucretius in the same relation to Epicurus as a Roman son of the middle Republican period to his father who instructs by his absolute personal auctoritas. Cato’s didactic writings to his son Marcus provide the model, with Cato’s precepts to be followed without question. To complete 11

On the light-bringer theme see further below 52-53. On the Greekness of this passage see Sedley [(1998) 57-59] who argues that Lucretius is drawing attention to the alien nature of Greek culture while stressing the universality of Epicureanism. 13 See Sedley (1998) 58. Konstan [(1988) 65-66] reads ficta (DRN 3.4) as the past participle of fingo (‘form’, ‘fashion’) as well as the usual interpretation from figo (‘plant’, ‘fix’), and interprets signis as referring to Epicurus’ words rather than to the content of his doctrine: “In the signs, then, that the master had set down, Lucretius leaves traces (vestigia) that he has fashioned. On this reading, ficta would not necessarily mean ‘fashioned to’, that is, adapted to the teachings of Epicurus, but would point to the way in which Lucretius’ own words have been shaped and composed. In the metaphor of superimposing footprints on the signs planted firmly by the founder, both terms refer to language. The ficta vestigia are precisely Lucretius’ poetry fashioned according to his art.” 14 See Sedley (1998) 62-93. 15 Cf. Volk (2002) 108-111. 12

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the parallel, Cato’s work was called a carmen or an oraculum by later writers and he referred to himself as a vates. 16 So Lucretius places himself very much in the territory of early Roman didacticism and parental instruction. The authority of Epicurus’ words is underlined in the next lines, aurea dicta, aurea, perpetua semper dignissima vita, (your golden words, your words of gold, ever most worthy of life eternal, DRN 3.13): these are words to last forever, imperishable, unquestionable, inscribed in gold. Parallels have often been drawn with the golden sayings of Pythagoras, whose words had unquestionable authority within his school. But then again, between the patria praecepta and the aurea dicta the analogy of Epicurus’ followers feeding on his words as bees in flowery glades brings us back into the territory of the Muses and poetry, and the image of bees, eclectic as they are in their browsing on flowers, subtly subverts the monolithic authority of Epicurus, and at the same time assimilates him once again to Lucretius’ poetic sources. 17 In all this I wish to establish that, just as Volk argues, in important programmatic passages like these Lucretius does not make a clear distinction between his poetic and philosophical sources, but tends to try to blend them, and while he presents himself as a pius Roman son absorbing the patria praecepta of Epicurus he also treats Epicurus as if he were a didactic poet, one of a range of poets he cites as influences. As Lucretius’ justification for his use of verse continues in book one 18 the un-Epicurean seeming impression of Lucretius’ poetics grows: primum quod magnis doceo de rebus et artis religionum animum nodis exsolvere pergo, deinde quod obscura de re tam lucida pango carmina, musaeo contingens cuncta lepore. (DRN 1.931-934) (First because my teaching is of high matters, and I proceed to unloose the mind from the close knots of superstition; 16

See Schiesaro (2007) 65-69. Cato’s title is lost, but as Schiesaro says, Praecepta ad filium is one of the suggestions. 17 On the bees as poets here see Konstan (1988) 68, who also discusses the nectar they gather as the precursor of the “honey of the Muses”, the symbol of Lucretius’ verse. The parallel between the bees and Epicurus’ followers is strengthened by the repetition of omnia: the bees feed on all of the flowers, the followers feed on all Epicurus’ words. Lucretius perhaps attempts to play down the eclecticism of the bees’ wanderings by insisting they feed on all (rather than just sampling some) of the flowers. 18 Cf. DRN 4.1-25.

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Chapter Two next because the subject is so dark and the lines I write so clear, as I touch all with the Muses’ grace.)

High matters demand exposition in the highest mode and so Lucretius assimilates Epicurus to the epic mode. Epicurus’ doctrines will be granted the authority of Homer and Ennius by being rendered in their metre. Next his stated purpose is to loosen the knots of superstition; the best tool to untie these knots would be the same one that tied them—epic verse, according to Epicurus. 19 Then, a surprising claim that verse can illuminate difficult subjects, rather than, as Epicurus would have it, make them more obscure. Verse here serves a similar light-bringing function to Epicurus lifting his torch in DRN 3.1-2. 20 Next comes the famous passage in which Lucretius uses the analogy of doctors smearing honey on the rim of a cup of bitter wormwood in order to entice children to drink their medicine and so be cured. Just so he uses poetry as honey to entice us as readers to drink down the sometimes bitter medicine of Epicurean philosophy. Like the children we are to be cured by being deceived, he tells us, but not betrayed. If poetry was originally the carrier of the virus that infected people’s minds with false religion, then it can be used as a carrier of the vera ratio that will cure them. Lucretius’ doctrines have a therapeutic function. That this is not simply part of the vehicle of Lucretius’ medical analogy is shown by Epicurus (fr. 221 Us. = Porphyrius ad Marcellam 31 p. 209, 23 Nauck): ǔǏǗʒǜ ȲǔǏljǗǙǟ ǠǓǕǙǝǦǠǙǟ ǕǦǍǙǜ, ɫǠš Ǚɱ ǖǑǎʌǗ ǚdžǒǙǜ ȢǗǒǛǨǚǙǟ ǒǏǛNjǚǏǧǏǞNjǓ· ɿǝǚǏǛ ǍʊǛ ɎNjǞǛǓǔ˜ǜ ǙɪǎʌǗ ɢǠǏǕǙǜ ǖʎ Ǟʊǜ ǗǦǝǙǟǜ Ǟ̆Ǘ ǝǣǖdžǞǣǗ ȲǔnjNjǕǕǙǧǝǑǜ, ǙɯǞǣǜ Ǚɪǎʌ ǠǓǕǙǝǙǠljNjǜ, ǏɎ ǖʎ Ǟʒ Ǟ˜ǜ Ǣǟǡ˜ǜ ȲǔnjdžǕǕǏǓ ǚdžǒǙǜ. (Empty are the words of that philosopher who offers therapy for no human suffering. For just as there is no use in medical expertise if it does not give therapy for bodily diseases, so too there is no use in philosophy if it does not expel the suffering of the soul, trnsl. Long & Sedley).

19

Lucretius plays on a traditional etymology of religio as from religare, ‘to bind down/back’, cf. Maltby (1991) s.v. religio, Servius ad Verg. Aen. 8.349. Lactantius quotes line 932 approvingly (Div. Inst. 4.28) in support of this derivation and against the alternative Stoic derivation from relegere, “to read over and over again” (cf. Cic. ND 2.72). 20 See further Volk (2002) 92-93.

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The Epicureans saw the purpose of their philosophy as to heal sick souls. 21 The patient is to be vaccinated by Epicurean vera ratio disguised in the attractive form of mythological poetry. We are more likely to swallow the medicine if presented in attractive verse than if presented in dry, difficult prose. It may seem surprising that Lucretius tells us he is trying to trick us into swallowing his message, but even though he addresses us as “you”, we feel he must really be talking to someone else, someone in need of this surreptitious treatment. We, we pride ourselves, are not so easily fooled by such snake-oil salesmen’s tricks. In this way, by explaining his subterfuge and giving us privileged esoteric information, we feel we are being addressed as if already initiated into the cult. So Lucretius tricks us into siding with him as the instructor, and separating us from the ‘children’ to be tricked by the honeyed cup. 22 Lucretius’ therapeutic technique is to appropriate language and imagery from epic poetry, the sort of things that are normally associated with spreading false ideas about the gods, and turn them against themselves. For example, he translates Homer’s description of Olympus almost word for word when claiming that Epicurus’ philosophy enables him to visualise the entire universe: nam simul ac ratio tua coepit vociferari naturam rerum, divina mente coortam, diffugiunt animi terrores, moenia mundi discedunt, totum video per inane geri res. apparet divum numen sedesque quietae quas neque concutiunt venti nec nubila nimbis aspergunt neque nix acri concreta pruina cana cadens violat semperque innubilus aether 21 Cf. Epicurus Ȁǻ 11: ưɎ ǖǑǒʌǗ ȿǖˍǜ Njɏ Ǟ̆Ǘ ǖǏǞǏʗǛǣǗ ɫǚǙǢʑNjǓ ȾǗʗǡǕǙǟǗ ǔNjʐ Njɏ ǚǏǛʐ ǒNjǗʋǞǙǟ, […] Ǚɪǔ ȤǗ ǚǛǙǝǏǎǏʓǖǏǒNj ǠǟǝǓǙǕǙǍʑNjǜ (if we were not disturbed by celestial phenomena and the fear of death, […] we would have no need of natural philosophy); Ep. Men. 122: the purpose of studying philosophy is the health of the soul. The medical analogy was a favourite with Epicurus (e.g. Sent. Vat. 54, Ep. Men. 122), and also with his followers, e.g. Philodemus’ famous ‘fourfold remedy’ (ǞǏǞǛNjǠdžǛǖNjǔǙǜ, Philod. ƻǛʒǜ ǞǙʔǜ [-], P.Herc. 1005, col. IV, 9-14), and Diogenes of Oinoanda fr. 3.VI.2-4 Smith: ʁǗ ǎʎ ǠNjǛǖ[džǔǣǗ] | ǚǏ˪ǛNjǗ ȿǖǏ[˪]ǜſ ǚſ[džǗǞǣǜ] | ǏɎǕLjǠNjǖǏǗ (these medicines [ijȐȡȝĮțĮ] we have put [fully] to the test). See further Nussbaum (1994) 13-47. 22 Mitsis (1993) sees the relationship between Lucretius and his reader as coercive, but see Gale [(2005) 178-181] on the ways that Lucretius shifts the relationship between himself as authoritative teacher, the pupil, and the unenlightened, sometimes aligning himself with the pupil against the unenlightened, as he implicitly does here, and sometimes aligning the pupil with the unenlightened.

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integit, et large diffuso lumine ridet. (DRN 3.14-22) (For as soon as your reasoning begins to proclaim the nature of things revealed by your divine mind, away flee the mind’s terrors, the walls of the world open out, I see action going on throughout the whole void: before me appear the gods in their majesty, and their peaceful abodes, which no winds ever shake nor clouds besprinkle with rain, which no snow congealed by the bitter frost mars with its white fall, but the air ever cloudless encompasses them, and laughs with its light spread wide abroad.)

Epicurus’ doctrines grant Lucretius the ability to ‘see’ through the walls of the world, and behold, the abodes of the gods are exactly the way Homer describes them in Odyssey 6.42-5. 23 The important difference is that they are beyond our world rather than within it. By recontextualising Homer’s description of Olympus Lucretius seeks to invert the Homeric world view; the gods live beyond the walls of the world and not on a mountain within it, from which they can visit the earth below and hurl thunderbolts down onto it. Homer is thus used against himself. He was partly correct, though; the gods do live in perfect peace in a perfect setting beyond the vicissitudes of our world. Philip Hardie speaks of: Lucretius’ peculiar tactic of getting inside his opponents’ positions and then evacuating them of their prior content to refill them with Epicurean doctrine; the emotional and aesthetic appeal of a Cleanthes is parasitically diverted to the ends of an areligious materialism. 24

Thus, as I have said elsewhere, he presents the reader as if with a brightly coloured sugared pill, the outer coating of the myth intact and attractive, but with Epicurean medicine inside. 25 It looks like Homer and tastes like Homer, so we are happy to swallow it, but it contains the antiHomer vaccine. When we re-read Homer’s description of Olympus after reading Lucretius we can enjoy the poetry while being protected from superstition by vera ratio.

23

Cf. Gale (1994) 56. Hardie (1986) 11. 25 Cf. Campbell (2003) 182. 24

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2.1 DRN 1.716-741: Praise of Empedocles In his critical catalogue of early physicists in book one, Lucretius lavishes particular praise upon Empedocles, in terms otherwise reserved only for Epicurus himself. Empedocles is the ‘foremost’ of the fourelement theorists: quorum Acragantinus cum primis Empedocles est, insula quem triquetris terrarum gessit in oris, quam fluitans circum magnis anfractibus aequor Ionium glaucis aspargit virus ab undis, angustoque fretu rapidum mare dividit undis Aeoliae terrarum oras a finibus eius. Hic est vasta Charybdis et hic Aetnaea minantur murmura flammarum rursum se colligere iras, faucibus eruptos iterum vis ut vomat ignis ad caelumque ferat flammai fulgura rursum. quae cum magna modis multis miranda videtur gentibus humanis regio visendaque fertur rebus opima bonis, multa munita virum vi, nil tamen hoc habuisse viro praeclarius in se nec sanctum magis et mirum carumque videtur. carmina quin etiam divini pectoris eius vociferantur et exponunt praeclara reperta, ut vix humana videatur stirpe creatus. (DRN 1.716-733) (Foremost among whom is Empedocles of Acragas, whom the island bore within the three-cornered coasts of its lands around which the Ionian deep, flowing with its vast windings, sprinkles the salt brine from its green waves, and the swift-moving sea in its narrow strait divides with its waves the shores of the Aeolian land from the boundaries of that island. Here is destructive Charybdis, and here Etna’s rumblings threaten that the angry flames are gathering again, that once more its violence may belch fires bursting forth from its throat, and once more shoot to the sky the lightnings of its flame. This mighty region while it seems wonderful in many ways to the nations of mankind and is famed as a place to see, fat with good things, fortified with mighty store of men, yet seems to have contained in it nothing more illustrious than this man, nor more sacred and wonderful and dear. Moreover, the poems of his divine mind utter a loud voice and declare illustrious discoveries, so that he seems hardly to be born of mortal stock.)

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As has often been noticed this description of Sicily is full of references to the four elements in their macroscopic form, 26 thus illustrating that Sicily was the birthplace of the four-element theory, and also providing an aetiology for the theory itself. Pointedly the island is “three-cornered” (triquetris, 1.717) containing three of the four elements within itself or surrounding it: earth (terrarum, 1.717), water (aequor, 1.718) that intrudes its presence upon the observer by splashing him with salt brine from its green waves, and is clearly separate from earth as can be seen from its function in separating Sicily from Italy. Fire is provided by the eruptions of mount Etna, and the fourth element, i.e. air is contained within sky (caelum, 1.725). It is hardly surprising if a philosopher from such an island realised these were the elemental masses of nature. Although Sicily is full of wonders, it contains nothing more illustrious, holy, wonderful and dear (carum, 1.730). It has often been noticed that carum may well be a pun upon Lucretius’ own cognomen Titus Lucretius Carus: Sicily holds nothing more Lucretian than Empedocles. This has been taken as an acknowledgement of his poetic debt to Empedocles. 27 His poems come from his ‘divine mind’ (divini pectoris, 1.731), his discoveries are ‘illustrious’ (praeclara reperta, 1.732), and he seems, “hardly to be born of mortal stock”. Only Epicurus is more highly praised in 5.8: deus ille fuit, deus, inclute Memmi (he was a god, a god, noble Memmius). The motif of Etna shooting lightning at the sky has been recognised as a reference to the myth of the Giants and their assault upon the Olympians. In myth the Giant Enceladus is trapped under Aetna as punishment for the Gigantomachy and causes the eruptions by his struggles; the heaven-borne lightnings symbolize his assault upon the heavens. 28 The story of Empedocles’ leap into Aetna must also be implicitly present here, and so assimilates the philosopher to the Giant. The Gigantomachy was a frequent target of allegorical interpretation, with the assault of the Giants viewed as an assault of chaos upon harmony, of barbarism upon civilization, and of the passions upon reason. Lucretius makes use of the myth in 5.110-25: he will offer words of consolation in case we think that the earth and heavenly bodies are divine and immortal and that by arguing they are mortal bodies we are “shaking the walls of the world”, like the Giants, and should suffer the same penalty for our crime. As Gale puts it: “Lucretius’ use of the myth is deliberately aimed to shock, by reversing its traditional moral implications.” 29 The Epicureans are 26

See Mackay (1955); Snyder (1972); Sedley (1998) 13-15; Piazzi (2005) ad loc. Cf. Sedley (1998) 14 n. 61. 28 Cf. Hardie (1986) 211-213. 29 Gale (1994) 43. 27

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indeed engaged in a “Gigantic assault upon the heavens”, but this time it is the assault of reason and piety upon the superstitious and impious interpretation of the heavens as divine. Epicurus himself had made such an assault upon the heavens, but one that rescued humanity from religion rather than destroying the world, in his “flight of the mind” in 1.62-79. 30 Hardie also notes that unlike the mythical Gigantomachy, Epicurus’ assault actually succeeds: “It was the previous dominance of the gods that was closer to a state of chaos. In fact it turns out that the true monsters are the old gods, who must be recognized for what they are (tollere contra | est oculos ausus, DRN 1.66-67) prior to their rightful destruction.” 31 Empedocles and the other early physicists had already made Gigantomachic assaults but, unsuccessful, they fell back to earth. Their discoveries were excellent and divinely inspired (divinitus, DRN 1.736), and were “holier and with much more certain reason than those which the Pythia declares from the tripod and laurel of Phoebus” (sanctius et multo certa ratione magis quam | Pythia quae tripodi a Phoebi lauroque profatur, DRN 1.738-739). But their ideas about the elements of matter let them down: “they came to a crash about the beginnings of things: great they were, and herein great was their fall.” (principiis tamen in rerum fecere ruinas | et graviter magni magno cecidere ibi casu, DRN 1.740741). Lucretius sees physics as a long-term project aimed at destroying the monster Religio (cf. DRN 1.62-65). Earlier physicists were ultimately unsuccessful but they were forerunners of the atomists and, as part of the anti-religious project of physics (as Lucretius sees it), are deserving of praise. Sedley would prefer to read this passage as Lucretius’ praise of Empedocles as only a poetic source since Empedocles, according to Lucretius, “did, after all, radically misconceive the underlying nature of the world”, 32 but on my reading, the fact that Empedocles’ physical theories are “wrong” does not condemn his whole philosophy in Lucretius’ eyes. He ultimately failed and fell, but he was a philosophical, as well as a poetic, Giant.

2.2 Oracular Philosophy Lucretius’ comparison in DRN 1.737-739 of the discoveries of the early physicists to the utterances of the Delphic oracle is also open to different readings. Sedley reads an ironic contrast between religious oracles and ‘the philosopher’s rational alternative’: “On this reading, 30

See M. J. Edwards (1990) 465-466; Gale (1994) 43-45; Clay (1998) 174-186. Hardie (1986) 210-211. 32 Sedley (1998) 13. 31

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Lucretius’ words distance him from approval of (literal) oracles as effectively as the way in which, for example, those who praise the ‘university of life’ distance themselves from approval of (literal) universities”. 33 But again, Lucretius seeks to replace just such religious ‘truths’ as those uttered by the oracles with Epicurean truth, and so Epicurus’ doctrines become more directly, and unironically, the new ‘oracles’. He says that he himself will utter oracles, repeating his words from the praise of the early physicists in book one: “utter my oracles holier and with much more certain reason than those which the Pythia declares from the tripod and laurel of Phoebus” (fundere fata | sanctius et multo certa ratione magis quam | Pythia quae tripode a Phoebi lauroque profatur, DRN 5.110-112). Further, as Lucretius tells us, Epicurus was a god (DRN 5.8), his words are sacred teachings (DRN 3.14-15), and so may reasonably be regarded as oracular. In this way Lucretius really is the ʌȡȠijȒIJȘȢRI(SLFXUXVMXVWDVWKH3\WKLDLVRI$SROOR 34 Lucretius also has direct Epicurean authority for the comparison to the Delphic oracle: in Sent. Vat. 29 Epicurus himself says that he would rather employ the openness of a ǠǟǝǓǙǕǦǍǙǜ and “give oracles” (ǡǛǑǝǖ̄ǎǏ˪Ǘ), even if he is not understood, than pander to popular opinion and so win the praise of the mob. 35 Philodemus (De piet. 71.2044-45 Obbink) also says that he and other Epicureans ȲǡǛǑǝǖǣ>Ǔ@ǎLjǝNjǖǏǗ (“uttered oracles”) about the gods, and Cicero, picking up ironically on this Epicurean topos, criticizes Epicurus’ Kyriai Doxai as the work “in which he utters condensed weighty opinions as if they were oracles” (in quo breuiter comprehensis grauissimis sententiis quasi oracula edidisse, Fin. 2.20.1214). Further, as James Warren says, the title of Epicurus’ supposed master Nausiphanes’ work, the Tripod, that Epicurus was charged with plagiarizing for his epistemological work the Canon, invokes the triplicity of the tripod upon which the Pythia sat to utter her oracles, and this triplicity can reasonably be seen as a reference to “ancestors of the three criteria of truth which are used in Epicureanism: SUROƝSVHLV, perceptions, and SDWKƝ.” 36 The triplicity of the Pythian tripod was certainly associated “with knowledge of the trinity of past, present, and future” (Suda s.v. IJȡȓʌȠȣȢ) and Epicurus also refers to the gaining of this threefold knowledge in Sent. Vat. 10 [=Metrodorus fr. 37 Körte], implicitly associating his doctrine with the Delphic oracle: ǖLJǖǗǑǝǙ ɢǞǓ ǒǗǑǞʒǜ ɾǗ Ǟ˝ ǠǧǝǏǓ ǔNjʐ ǕNjnjʖǗ ǡǛǦǗǙǗ ɻǛǓǝǖLJǗǙǗ ȢǗLJnjǑǜ ǞǙ˪ǜ ǚǏǛʐ ǠǧǝǏǣǜ ǎǓNjǕǙǍǓǝǖǙ˪ǜ 33

Sedley (1998) 13, and n. 59. Both ‘interpreter’ and ‘prophet’, LSJ s.v. I a3 & I a4. 35 Cf. Obbink (1996) 568-569; Warren (2002) 186. 36 Warren (2002) 183-184. 34

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ȱǚʏ ǞʍǗ ȡǚǏǓǛljNjǗ ǔNjʏ ǞʑǗ NjɍǨǗNj ǔNjʏ ǔNjǞǏ˩ǎǏǜ “Ǟdž Ǟ’ ȱʒǗǞNj Ǟʊ Ǟ’ ȱǝǝʒǖǏǗNj ǚǛʒ Ǟ’ ȱʒǗǞNj [Hom. Il. 1.70] (Remember that as a mortal by nature and receiving a finite time you have ascended through natural philosophy to the infinite and have looked down upon “what is, will be, and was before”, trnsl. Warren). Warren comments: “Epicureanism thought it was able to claim this Pythian knowledge because its natural philosophy offered a method of comprehensive knowledge, of the infinity of atoms and void, of the infinite variety of combinations. Any Epicurean knows all of what was, is, and will be, just like the Homeric seer Calchas.”37 The oracular utterances of Empedocles and the early physicists, then, are, along with the Epicureans, part of a tradition of oracular philosophy that seeks to replace divinely inspired knowledge with knowledge gained from observation and reason. Lucretius enlists Empedocles as a fellow opponent of religio, particularly because of his discoveries in physics; he was “wrong” in his four element theory, but he and the other Presocratic physicists were Giants engaged in an assault on superstition, and their discoveries were the new oracles, truer and more holy than the utterances of the Delphic oracle. Lucretius takes on Empedocles’ mantle as prophet and Giant.

3. The Hymn to Venus 3.1 Aeneadum genetrix De rerum natura begins with two words which are perhaps the most difficult to explain in the whole poem: Aeneadum genetrix (Mother of the race of Aeneas, DRN 1.1). Lucretius invokes a goddess, Venus, and this is unexceptional for the beginning of a didactic or epic poem,38 but he invokes her in a role that, as an Epicurean, he cannot possibly believe in; the gods cannot involve themselves in this world and so the myth of Venus’ seduction of Anchises and their offspring Aeneas as the founder of the future Roman race cannot be true. There are, on the other hand, great advantages for Lucretius in invoking her in the role of Venus Genetrix and evoking the dominant Roman foundation myth: this is to be a patriotic Roman poem even though it espouses Greek philosophy and the least Roman of all philosophies, Epicureanism, a philosophy that denies fate and destiny, and discourages people from involvement in public affairs. It is open to us to interpret Venus allegorically as Stephen Harrison has “Rome does indeed go back to Venus, but in the sense of the Venus of 37 38

Warren (2002) 185. Cf. Homer Il. 1.68-71. See Wheeler (2002).

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DRN 1.40, Venus as the generative principle which runs through the universe”, 39 but Lucretius offers us no explanation to help us achieve this reading. It would indeed seem to be just the sort of allegorization that he rejects in the palinode to the description of the Magna Mater in book two. 40 Further, in the context of composing a hymn, it is important to specify the particular attributes of the god being invoked. Gods have many different names, functions, attributes, spheres of influence and geographical locations and so care in naming and listing attributes is important in a hymn. As Furley and Bremer say, “the precise naming of the god addressed was important both from the point of view of politeness and courtesy, so as not to offend a sensitive power, and from the point of view of establishing the precise channel along which one wished divine succour to flow.” 41 Just so, the importance of addressing the goddess in her role as Venus Genetrix becomes clear later in the hymn when Lucretius prays to the goddess to grant peace specifically to the Roman people (DRN 1.40). Her status as the founder of the Roman race is thus crucial; she is able to grant peace to the Romans not only because she is the embodiment of peace but also because she has a direct link to them as their ancestress. The title Aeneadum genetrix is thus not simply a decorative adding of a gloss of Romanitas to Lucretius poem, but is functional within the hymn as it establishes the attributes of the goddess that the prayer will pick up on. A non-Epicurean reader would of course have no problem with Lucretius’ use of myth in his hymn, a reader who knew something about Epicureanism would be perhaps rather puzzled by it, but an Epicurean would be quite taken aback, especially because of the nature of the myth invoked. In De pietate Philodemus has a long critical catalogue of poets who relate impossible, unsuitable and inconsistent myths about the gods; among these are stories of the deaths of gods, gods having occupations, imprisonment and punishment of gods, conflicts, labours, and gods having affairs with humans. Aphrodite’s affair with Anchises is one that he singles out: 42

39

Harrison (2002) 4. Cf. Lucr. DRN 2.600-660 on the rites of the Magna Mater, and 5.392-415 on the myths of Phaethon and the flood. See Gale (1994) 26-38. I agree with her that Lucretius only grudgingly accepts that the names of the gods can be used as labels for corn, wine etc., and does not really approve of this sort of allegorization. 41 Furley and Bremer (2001) 52. 42 Cf. Schober (1988). 40

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ȌǟǗǙǟȌ>ljNjȌNjǓǠǑȌʐ ǞʎǗǖ>ǑǞLJǛNjɤǛǒ̆ǓǞ>̆Ǔǟɏ̆ǓǏɔǞdžǞǏ>ȪǠǛǙǎljǞǑǗ ȢǗ@NjǓȌ>ǡǧǗǞǣȌ ȲǛˍǗ ȢǗǒǛǨ>ǚǣǗǙɕǙǗȪǎǨǗǓǎǙ>Ȍ, ɻȌ ǖʌǗȪǗǞljǖNjǡǙȌ ǔNjʐ ƻſ>NjǗǧNjȌȌǓȌ ǔNjʐ ȸǚǓǖ>ǏǗljǎǑȌ ǔNjʐ ǚǕǏljǙǟȌ ȦǕ>ǕǙǓǞǙ˹ ǎʌ ȪǍǡǏ>ljȌǙ@ǟ>ɻȌ ɩǖǑǛǙȌ ǔNjʐ ɇȌljǙ>ǎǦȌ ǠNjȌǓǗ (Philodemus De Pietate Part 2 Obbink, 60 P.Herc. 243.4) 43 (... [Hesiod?] says that she, although she was his mother, had sex with her son Orthus; and furthermore that Aphrodite engaged in shameless love with mortal men, with Adonis according to Antimachus, Panyassis, Epimenides and many others, with Anchises according to Homer and Hesiod ..., trnsl. Obbink)

So Philodemus would certainly not approve of Lucretius’ use of the myth of Venus and Anchises. 44 But it is just the sort of thing other philosophers, such as the Stoics, who make heavy use of the allegorization of myth, would be quite happy with. 45 In De pietate the catalogue of poets is followed by a critical catalogue of philosophers who accommodate the mythological ideas of the poets into their doctrines and allegorize them, saying, for example, that air is a god, or that Zeus is fire. Compare Philodemus De Pietate Part 2 Obbink, 113 P.Herc. 1428 fr.17: 46 Ǟʒ [ȲǗNjǗǞlj]ǙſǗ ȲǗ ǙɕȌ ǠǑȌǓǗſ [NjɪǞʒ]Ȍſ «ƵǏǛNjǟǗʒȌ ǚ[džǗǞ̧ǙɎNj]ǔljǐǏǓ ǔNjʐ Ʊ[ǏʕȌ». ȢǚǙǠ]NjljǗǏǓ ǎʌ ǔNj[ʐ Ǟʒ ǞȢ]ǗNjǗǞljNj ǒǏǙſʔ[ſ Ȍ Ǐ]ɔǗNjǓ, ǗǧǔǞNj ||

43 Philodemus’ De pietate 2 is printed from Obbink’s forthcoming edition with his permission. 44 I do not have space here for a discussion of whether Lucretius knew Philodemus and his school at Herculaneum, although I think it is likely he did. See Obbink (2007). 45 See Gale (1994) 19-26; Cic. ND 2.63-72. 46 Cf. Henrichs (1974).

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(... and the opposite in the things in which he says: ‘The thunderbolt itself and Zeus steer all things.’ And he [Heraclitus] claims that opposites are gods, like night ... (trnsl. Obbink).

Cf. also Philodemus De Pietate Part 2 Obbink, 114 P.Herc. 1428 fr. 18: 47 . . . . . . . . . . ] ƯǓǙǍſLJſ -ſ ǗǑȌ ȲǚNjſǓ>ſ ǗǏ˪@ǞʒǗɩǖǑǛǙǗɻȌ Ǚ>ɪ@ǖǟǒǓǔ>̆Ȍ ȢǕǕ̧ȢǕǑǒ̆Ȍ ɫſǚʌǛǞǙſ[˹ ǒǏljǙǟǎǓǏǓǕǏǍſǖLJǗǙǗƤ ǞʒǗȢLJǛNjǍʊǛNjɪǞʒǗ ƯljNjǗǙǖljǐǏǓǗǠǑȌljǗ ȲǚǏǓǎʎ ǚˍǗǏɎǎLJǗNjǓǞʒǗƯljNjǕLJǍǏǓǔNjʐ ̤

5/26

10/31

(... Diogenes praises Homer for having spoken not fantastically about the divine: for he asserts that he considers the air to be Zeus himself, since he says that Zeus knows everything and that ..., trnsl. Obbink).

As Dirk Obbink has said, the poets and the other philosophers may be Philodemus’ target in De pietate but the Stoics are his goal, and especially their allegorization of myths of the gods. 48 In the following passage he attacks the Stoic Chrysippus for allegorizing the nature of Zeus: 49 ȢǕǕʊ ǖʎǗ] ǔNjʐ ǁǛǧȌ[Ǔ]ǚǚǙȌ Ǟʒ ǚ]ˍſǗ Ȳǚſ[ʐ] ƯſſǓſ̧ȢſǗdžǍǣǗ Ȳ]Ǘſ Ǟ̆Ǔ ǚǛǨ{Ǔ}ǞǣǓ ƻǏǛʐ ǒǏ̆]Ǘſ ƯljNj ǠǑȌʐǗ ǏɔǗNjǓ Ǟʒ]Ǘſ ȧǚNjǗǞNjǎǓǙǓǔǙ˹ǗǞNjǕǦǍǙǗ ǔNjʐ ǞʎǗ@ǞǙ˹ ɣǕǙǟǢǟǡLjǗǔNjʐ@Ǟ˜ǓſǞǙǧǞǙǟ ǖǏǞǙǡ@˜>Ǔ@ǚdžǗǞNj [. . . . . .] Ǚſ[. . . . . . . . ] [. . . . . .] ǔſNjſʐſ ǞſǙſ[ʔȌ ǕljǒǙǟȌǎǓ@ʒſ ǔſNj[ʐ@Ʊ>˜@ǗNj ǔNjǕǏ˪Ȍǒ]NjſǓſ, Ưſſ>ljNj@ǎ̧ɣǞ>Ǔ ΎǚdžǗǞǣǗNjɒǞǓǙǗǔNjʐ ǔǧΏ ǛǓǙǗ.] Ǟſ[Ǧ]Ǘſ[ǞǏ] ǔſǦ[ſ Ȍ]ǖſ>ǙǗ@ 47

Cf. Henrichs (1974). Obbink (1995) 206-209. 49 Cf. Obbink (2002) 183-221. 48

15

20

25

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ȶǖǢǟ]ǡſſǙſǗſǏ[ɔǗNjǓǔ]Njſʐſ ǒǏʒǗǔ]Njſʐſ >Ǟ@ʒ ȿſǍ>ǏǖǙǗǓ@ǔʒǗǔ]Njſʐſ ǞſʎǗΎǞǙ˹Ώ ɣ>ǕǙǟ Ǣ]ǟ[ǡLj]Ǘ, ǔſNjſʐſ Ǚſ[ɯ]Ǟſǣ[Ȍ 30 ȢǗ@ʊſ ǕΎǦΏǍǙǗſȌ[ǟ]Ǘdžſ>ǍǏ@ϵſǒſNjſǓǞʒǗƯljNjǔNjʐ ǞʎǗſ ǔǙǓǗʎ>Ǘ@ǚdžǗǞǣǗͶ 33 ǠǧȌǓǗǔNjǓǏɏǖNjǛǖLJǗǑǗǔNjʐ ȢǗdžǍſǔǑǗ· ǔNjʐ ǞʎǗNjɪǞʎǗǏɔǗNjǓ ǔNjſʐſ ưɪǗǙǖljNjǗǔNjʐ ƯljǔǑǗǔNjʐ ɥǖǦǗǙǓNjǗ>ǔNjʐ ɖǛLjſǗǑǗǔNjʐ ȪǠǛǙǎ>ǏljǞǑſǗſǔNjʐ Ǟʒ ǚNjǛ[Nj]ǚǕLjſȌǓǙǗǚˍǗy (De pietate Part 2 Obbink 126-7 P.Herc. 1428 col. 4-5 [part]) (But indeed Chrysippus too referring everything to Zeus in the first book of his On the Gods says that Zeus is the principle of reason that rules over everything and is the soul of the universe and that through sharing its life all things live (several words missing) even the stones, on account of which he is call Zen, and Dia because he is the cause and the ruler of all things. And that the universe is a living thing and a god, and also the steering element of the cosmos and the soul of the whole and thus quite reasonably encompass Zeus and the common nature of things and Fate and Necessity. And that the same is also Eunomia and Dike and Homonoia and Eirene and Aphrodite and everything of this sort, trnsl. Obbink).

In De pietate Philodemus defends Epicureanism against charges of atheism levelled by the Stoics: it is not the Epicureans who are atheists, but the Stoics, since by saying that Zeus is fire or reason they deny his existence as a god. Similarly, the other gods, including Aphrodite, are treated simply as personified aspects of Zeus. For the Epicureans, in contrast, the gods exist in human form and have distinctive appearances. 50 Epicurus entirely rejected myth and so Lucretius’ usage cannot be properly Epicurean, but for the Stoics the allegorization of Venus as the generative principle of the universe would be quite acceptable and familiar. So Lucretius seems to have deliberately begun his poem with an unEpicurean or even anti-Epicurean motif. 51 50

Cf. Cicero ND 1.43-49. Cf. Sedley (1998) 16: “To respond that the proem’s treatment of Venus is allegorical is not in itself a solution to the puzzle. As Lucretius himself warns at DRN 2.655-60, allegorical use of divinities’ names, e.g. ‘Neptune’ for the sea and ‘Ceres’ for corn is permissable only if one avoids any false religious implications.

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Lucretius would also be criticized by Philodemus in another way. As his own poetry shows, he considers that there is nothing wrong with writing hymns to the gods, as long as what is said about them is fitting to their natures. He defends the notorious atheist Diagoras for writing hymns to the gods on the grounds that he says nothing unbecoming of the gods in his verse. 52 Lucretius’ reference to the affair between Venus and Anchises can hardly be regarded in the same light. As Ovid writes to Augustus defending his work against charges of indecency, you can find insalubrious material even in the most respectable poets: nil igitur matrona legat, quia carmine ab omni ad delinquendum doctior esse potest. quodcumque attigerit, siqua est studiosa sinistri, ad vitium mores instruet inde suos. sumpserit Annales—nihil est hirsutius illis— facta sit unde parens Ilia, nempe leget. sumpserit ‘Aeneadum genetrix’ ubi prima, requiret, Aeneadum genetrix unde sit alma Venus. (Tristia 2.255-62) (Let a wife read nothing then, since she can learn about how to do wrong from any poem. If she’s keen on vice, then she’ll equip her character for sin, whatever she touches. Let her take the Annals—nothing’s more old-fashioned than them— she’ll surely read how Ilia was made a mother. Let her take the ‘Aeneadum genetrix’, she’ll ask first how nurturing Venus became “mother of the race of Aeneas”, my translation)

Lucretius then, is not simply skating on thin philosophical ice by addressing Venus as Aeneadum genetrix, he is going directly against the Epicurean doctrines on myth, and embracing Stoic allegorization.

3.2 Lucretius and Cleanthes’ Hymn to Zeus As I say above, it is quite normal for a didactic poem to begin with a hymn to a god, and the question of what model Lucretius used for his hymn to Venus has produced some widely differing answers. David Sedley in his book Lucretius and the Transformation of Greek Wisdom (1998) has Although Venus might, on this principle, get away with symbolising nature, or even perhaps Epicurean pleasure, the opening address to her as ancestress of the Romans can hardly be judged equally innocent...” 52 Philodemus P.Herc. 1428 cols xi.5-xii.10 Henrichs. See Obbink (1995) 206-209.

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argued cogently that Lucretius follows the pattern of a lost hymn to Aphrodite that opened Empedocles’ Physics, and Elizabeth Asmis had, in an earlier article (1982), suggested the Stoic Cleanthes’ Hymn to Zeus as a model, pointing out some striking similarities between the two hymns. She argues that Lucretius has systematically replaced the Stoic Zeus, the masculine controlling force of the universe with Venus, the personification of Epicurean pleasure and freedom: Venus, I suggest, was conceived in part as an allegorical rival to Stoic Zeus: she stands for pleasure and a world ordered by its own spontaneous impulses, as opposed to Stoic Zeus who stands for divine might and a world bound by an inexorable divine will. As a rival to Stoic Zeus, moreover, Venus offers a challenge to all religious and philosophical systems that would impose divine tyranny upon the world. 53

In what follows I shall follow Asmis’ arguments, adding in some new points that I hope will put Lucretius’ debt to Cleanthes beyond reasonable doubt, but I shall also complicate the matter by partly agreeing with Sedley on Empedoclean influence in Lucretius’ hymn, and by showing that Cleanthes in turn used Empedocles as a source for his Hymn to Zeus. Cleanthes had indeed substituted the Stoic masculine cosmic force Zeus for Empedocles’ feminine cosmic force Aphrodite, and Lucretius restores her to her former throne. This complex intertextual relationship should not surprise us, since, as M. R. Gale has said: “Virtually every didactic poet in the sequence which has come down to us seems to look back to his predecessors and seek to take on their mantle, creating a kind of ‘apostolic succession’.” Further: “the most obvious place to look for such echoes is the proem, the usual location for reflexion on poetics and the writer’s relationship with his predecessors ...”. 54

4.1 Philosophical Hymns Lucretius’ Hymn to Venus and Cleanthes’ Hymn to Zeus may be classed as philosophical hymns in that they are both written by philosophers and are part of their exposition of their respective philosophies. Furley and Bremer, unfortunately, exclude philosophical hymns from their collection of Greek hymns, saying, “Since most of these texts are not cult texts in the true sense we omit them ...”. 55 This may be reasonable for Lucretius’ Hymn to Venus, but less so for Cleanthes since his Hymn to Zeus may well 53

Asmis (1982) 458. Gale (2005) 185-186. 55 Furley and Bremer (2001) 47. 54

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have had an important cult function in the Stoic school. 56 In other ways as well both hymns are more than simply philosophical hymns since they are not addressed to personified abstractions such as Health, Fortune, Virtue etc., as are most philosophical hymns, but to real gods that the two philosophers believe in and worship, and they both include specific prayers for aid; Menander Rhetor says that prayers are not necessary in philosophical hymns, presumably because they are not addressed to gods who could respond to prayers but to abstractions. 57 Indeed there are similar problems to be faced by both Lucretius and Cleanthes in this matter of prayer. They have both been criticized over the efficacy of prayer according to their own doctrines. A traditional charge levelled at Lucretius is of the apparent pointlessness, and even hypocrisy, of addressing and praying to a god who is quite deaf to human prayers and is unable to intervene in human affairs. This may be addressed by appealing to the fact that, as I say above, Philodemus also was happy to write hymns to gods and defends even the atheist Diagoras on the grounds that he says nothing unfitting to the nature of the gods in his poems. Clearly concerns over the deafness of the gods to human prayers were not felt so keenly by the Epicureans themselves as by their critics. 58 Lucretius also, if we except the reference to Venus as Aeneadum genetrix, is careful to say only things fitting to Venus’ nature, and is careful to ask in his prayer things that may well be in Venus’ gift, to lend “eternal charm” (aeternum ... leporem, DRN 1.28) to his verses, which she certainly does by her very presence, and as a personification of voluptas she may well bring lepos, a fundamental principle of poetry for Lucretius, 59 and to grant peace to the Roman people. She cannot grant peace directly, of course, but as the embodiment of peace, calm contemplation and correct worship of her will lead to the calming of the storms in the soul that lead to the storms of warfare, and so war will come to an end. 60 56

See Thom (2005) 7-13. Menander Rhetor 1.337.25-6. Cf. Thom (2005) 10-11. 58 For Epicurean cults and worship see Clay (1998) 75-102, “The Cults of Epicurus”. 59 Cf. Gale (1994) 149-151. 60 Cf. Lucr. DRN 5.43-44: At nisi purgatumst pectus, quae proelia nobis | atque pericula tunc ingratis insinuandum! (‘But unless the mind is purged what battles and dangers must then find their way into us against our will!’, or, ‘what battles and dangers must we get involved in against our will!’). Nussbaum [(1994) 26970] explains: “In fact, it is impossible to tell, here, whether the ‘battles’ and ‘dangers’ are external or internal [...] but since we are well aware, too, that here lies the source of external war and slaughter, we are encouraged to give the words a double reference.” Fr. 56 I 10-12 of Diogenes of Oinoanda looks forward to a 57

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Cleanthes has also been criticized on similar grounds of the possibility or efficacy of prayer. Seneca (Quaest. Nat. 2.35) argues that prayer is pointless since it is to ask Zeus to alter what is already fated. Zeus cannot change fate with his thunderbolt since the thunderbolt is part of fate itself, he says. It has also been argued by some critics that praying to Zeus as a traditional deity is pointless since, as Johan Thom says, “He is in fact often identified with the aspects of the physical world, such as nature, reason, providence, fate, or the law of nature, or even with the world itself. Because human beings participate in this universal reason which permeates the world, it is not meaningful for them to petition Zeus as if were a separate transcendent deity.” 61 As Thom also says, Seneca and Cleanthes are often seen as representatives, respectively, of ‘strict’ and ‘liberal’ Stoic attitudes towards prayer, but Seneca is elsewhere much more positive about prayer. He quotes Marcel Simon, “Stoic prayer is a paradox but a reality”. 62 So, just as with the Epicureans, the Stoics do engage in prayer and are not necessarily unorthodox if they do. And further, just like Lucretius, Cleanthes is careful to ask Zeus only for what may be reasonably considered to be within his gift; he asks for him to grant insight to humanity so that we may understand Zeus’ rule of the world and make correct moral choices. Thom explains how he thinks this is a reasonable request: There is a sense that the god immanent in, and identical with the cosmos, in a way transcends the rational element within human beings, and he is thus able to come to their assistance. We therefore find a “dissociation of the human and the divine”; something or someone other than the sage himself is needed to help him become good. God has created a rational world-order in which humans should participate in order to be happy, but their ignorance blinds them to it. Cleanthes therefore requests that Zeus save people from their ignorance and replace it with insight into the way he administers the world. 63

time when all have achieved wisdom and there will be universal peace, ǔNjʐ Ǚɪ ǍǏǗLjǝǏǞNjǓ ǞǏǓǡ̆Ǘ | ɀ ǗǦǖǣǗ ǡǛǏljNj ǔNjʐ ǚdžǗ-| ǞǣǗ ɣǝNj ǎǓ ȢǕǕLjǕǙǟǜ | ǝǔǏǟǣǛǙǧǖǏǒNj (there will come to be no need of fortifications or laws and all the things which we contrive on account of one another, trnsl. M. F. Smith). 61 Thom (2005) 10. 62 Thom (2005) 24-27. Simon (1980) 212. 63 Thom (2005) 27. Cf. Asmis’ [(2007) 426] explanation: “... humans exercise a capacity that has been given by god. By bestowing the capacity for virtue, god guides humans to virtue, even though humans fail to heed this guidance. Cleanthes chooses to contrast human failure, for which he holds humans responsible, with the perfection that Zeus can bestow. One might equally appeal to humans to realize

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Cleanthes’ prayer is possible because of the gap between us and God, and at the same time his request is that Zeus closes that gap by granting us insight. Cleanthes therefore has been careful to limit his prayer to what is achievable, just like Lucretius’ requests to Venus for “charm” and “peace”.

4.2 First address the god One feature of Lucretius’ hymn that may so far have gone unnoticed by commentators is that, unusually, Venus is not addressed by name until the beginning of the second line. Normally the name of the god is one of the first words of a hymn. 64 As Furley and Bremer say (54): The name(s) should normally come as one of the first elements of the hymnic text; and sometimes the worshippers show themselves aware of this ‘duty’, cf. Soph. OT 158-159: “First I call on you, daughter of Zeus, almighty Athena . . .

The god is named first in all of the Homeric Hymns which retain their first lines except for in two cases where the name is near the end of the first line: Hymn 3 to Apollo (ǖǗLjǝǙǖNjǓǙɪǎʌ ǕdžǒǣǖNjǓȪǚǦǕǕǣǗǙǜȳǔdžǞǙǓǙ, I will remember and not be unmindful of Apollo who shoots afar), and in Hymn 5 to Aphrodite (ǖǙ˹ǝdž ǖǙǓ ȶǗǗǏǚǏ ȶǛǍNj ǚǙǕǟǡǛǧǝǙǟ ȪǠǛǙǎljǞǑǜ, Muse, tell me the deeds of golden Aphrodite). 65 Hesiod in Works and Days delays Zeus’ name to the second line but really the hymn is orthodox in the matter of address since it is the Muses who are addressed first, and they are granted an epithet while he is not: ƷǙ˹ǝNjǓƻǓǏǛljǑǒǏǗȢǙǓǎ˝ǝǓǗǔǕǏljǙǟǝNjǓ ǎǏ˹ǞǏ, ƯǓ̧ȲǗǗLJǚǏǞǏ, ǝǠLJǞǏǛǙǗ ǚNjǞLJǛ̧ ɫǖǗǏljǙǟǝNjǓ (Op. 1-2) (Muses from Pieria who glorify by songs, come to me, tell of Zeus your father in your singing, trnsl. West).

their full capacity. In doing so, however, one appeals to a divine force that extends beyond humans to the entire world. By invoking this cosmic force, Cleanthes both shows humans the full measure of their separation from god and encourages them by the prospect of help.” 64 One exception is the extreme delaying of the address to Aphrodite until line 13 in Sappho fr. 2 Voigt, but there is some conjecture that the opening line or lines may be lost. 65 See Faulkner (2008) ad loc.; Janko (1981) 10.

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Similarly Aratus in his Hymn to Zeus, in the proem to the Phaenomena, begins by immediately naming the god: 66 ȲǔƯǓʒǜȢǛǡǨǖǏǝǒNjǞʒǗǙɪǎLJǚǙǞ̧ȦǗǎǛǏǜȲ̆ǖǏǗ ȦǛǛǑǞǙǗ (Phaen. 1.1-2) (From Zeus let us begin; him do we mortals never leave unnamed…, my translation)

Cicero also follows the proper convention: A Iove Musarum primordia. (Aratea 1.1) (From Jove are the beginnings of the Muses, my translation)

Cleanthes’ Hymn to Zeus is a nearly exact parallel to Lucretius, with the god addressed at the beginning of the second line and with an epithet: ƵǧǎǓǝǞ̧ȢǒNjǗdžǞǣǗǚǙǕǟǨǗǟǖǏǚNjǍǔǛNjǞʌǜNjɎǏlj ƱǏ˹ǠǧǝǏǣǜȢǛǡǑǍLJǗǦǖǙǟǖLJǞNjǚdžǗǞNjǔǟnjǏǛǗ̆Ǘ ǡNj˪ǛǏǝʌ ǍʊǛǚdžǗǞǏǝǝǓǒLJǖǓǜǒǗǑǞǙ˪ǝǓǚǛǙǝNjǟǎˍǗ (Hymn to Zeus 1-3) (Noblest of immortals, many-named, always all-powerful Zeus, first cause and ruler of nature, governing everything with your law, greetings! For it is right for all mortals to address you, trnsl. Thom).

I suggest Lucretius’ choice to address Venus at the beginning of the second line was influenced by Cleanthes, the better to point the substitution of one god by the other, of ƱǏ˹ ǠǧǝǏǣǜ ȢǛǡǑǍLJ (Zeus, first cause and ruler of nature) by alma Venus (nurturing Venus, DRN 1.2). 67 As Elizabeth Asmis has argued, Lucretius replaces the Stoic controlling Zeus with the Epicurean nurturing Venus in his hymn. 68 This reading, she argues, provides the only sufficient explanation for why Lucretius departs from Epicurean orthodoxy by using an all-powerful ruling goddess to introduce a poem designed to remove the gods from this world. This substitution of a feminine nurturing goddess for a masculine controlling god is in one way strikingly radical but, as Asmis shows, is 66 For the dating of the two hymns and discussion of which came first and which may have influenced the other see Thom (2005) 2-7. 67 Sedley (1998) 24 argues that Lucretius’ alma Venus could be a translation of an DGGUHVVWRȀȪʌȡȚijȣIJȐȜȝȚİDWWKHEHJLQQLQJRIDORVWHymn to Aphrodite. 68 Asmis (1982) 458.

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actually invited by Stoic theology: according to Philodemus’ criticism of Chrysippus’ On the Gods in De Pietate quoted above, 69 Aphrodite is a personified aspect of Zeus’ creative function, just one of the traditional gods that the Stoics tended to subsume under the name of Zeus. This is referenced by Cleanthes in the first line: Zeus is ǚǙǕǟǨǗǟǖǏ (manynamed). 70 This is characteristic of Lucretius’ technique of the appropriation of his opponents’ language and imagery, turning them against their original meaning and usage. This technique mirrors his poetics as a whole: just as he goes beyond Epicurus’ rejection of poetry on the grounds that it conveys false stories of the gods and turns poetry and myth against itself, so he seizes upon Cleanthes, one of the most egregious examples of the sort of thing Philodemus complains of in De pietate—the Stoics who allegorize myths of the gods in their philosophy in order to retail false religion—and turns the tables on him. Apart from their differing views on the gods, Lucretius and Cleanthes would seem to agree closely on the value of poetry as a medium of philosophy. Certainly Lucretius’ ideas seem much closer to Cleanthes than to Philodemus: ǏɎ ǖ[ʎ Ǟ̆Ǔ ǚ]NjǛʊ ƵǕǏʋǗ[ǒ]ǏǓ Ǖʍ|ǍǏǓǗ [ɒǝ]Njſ ǒǏǕʏǝǙǟǝǓǗ, ɣǜ ǠǑǝǓǗ | [Ȣ]|ǖǏʑǗǙ[Ǘʋ] ǞǏ ǏɔǗNjǓ Ǟʊ ǚǙǓǑǞǓǔʊ | ǔNjʐ ǖſ[Ǚǟǝ]Ǔǔʊ ǚNjǛNjǎǏʑǍǖNjǞNj | ǔNjʑ ǞǙ˹ [ǕʓǍ]Ǚǟ ǞǙ˹ Ǟ˜ǜ ǠǓǕǙǝǙ|ǠʑNjǜ ɏǔNjǗ̆ǜſ ǖʌǗ ȲǘNjǍ[Ǎ]ʍǕ|ǕǏǓǗ ǎǟǗNjǖʍǗǙǟ Ǟʊ ǒǏ˪Nj ǔNjʐ | Ȣ[Ǘſ]ǒ[Ǜ]ʗ[ǚǓǗNj], ǖʎ ȶǡǙǗǞſǙǜ ǎʌ | ǢǏǓǕǙ˹ Ǟ̆Ǘ ǒǏʑǣǗ ǖǏǍǏǒ̆Ǘ | ǕʍǘǏǓǜ ǙɎǔǏʑNjǜ, Ǟʊ ǖʍǞǛNj ǔNjʐ | Ǟʊ ǖʍǕǑ ǔNjʐ ǞǙʔǜ ˸ǟǒǖǙʔǜ | ɻǜ ǖʋǕǓǝǞNj ǚǛǙǝǓǔǗǏ˪ǝǒNjǓ | ǚǛʒǜ ǞʎǗ ȢǕʏǒǏǓNjǗ Ǟ˜ǜ Ǟ̆Ǘ | ǒǏʑǣǗ ǒ[Ǐ]ǣǛʑNjǜ, Ǚɱ ǔNjǞſNjǍǏǕNj|ǝǞǦǞǏǛǙǗ Ǚɪ ˸džǓǎǓǙǗ ǏɫǛǏ˪Ǘ. | «ǙɮǞǏ ǍʊǛ Njſɏ ǎǓdžǗǙǓNjǓ ǖʌǗ Ǚɪ|ǔ ɺǠǏǕǙſ[˹]ǝſǓǗ, ɣǞNjǗſ ǎʌ ǖǏǕǣ|ǎǑǒ̆ǝǓ[Ǘ], Ȳǘ Ȣǖ[Ǡ]ǙǞLJ[Ǜ]ǣǗ ȿ | ǚNjǛǦǛ[ǖǑ]ǝǓǜ [ǍljǗ]ǏǞNjǓƤ ǔNjʐ ǍʊǛ ɫǚʒ ǎǓNjǗǙ[Ǒ]ǖdžǞǣǗ NjɪǞ̆Ǘ | ǍljǗǏǞ̧Ǚɪǎ[ʌ] ǖǏǞǛljNj, ǖǏǞʊ ǎʌ | Ǟ̆Ǘ ǖǏǕ̆Ǘ ǖ[Ǐ]ljǐǣǗ». (De musica 4.28.1-22 Neubecker = SVF 1.486 part) (.. if they do not wish to make statements similar to that of Cleanthes, who says that poetic and musical examples are better, and that even though philosophical discourse is able to express divine and human matters adequately, it does not as prose have expressions proper to sublime divine objects, while meters and melodies and rhythms come closest to the truth of the contemplation of the divine—a more ridiculous statement than which is not easy to find. [Cleanthes says]: ‘It is not that ideas [alone] are not helpful, but when they are set to music, the stimulus comes from both 69

Asmis (1982) 460. De Pietate Part II Obbink cols 126-7 P.Herc. 1428 col. 4-5. See Thom (2005) ad loc. for various different interpretations including this one. He quotes S. Price [(1999) 138] who refers to: “the Stoic interpretation of the traditional Olympian gods as aspects of the Stoic immanent deity.” 70

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sides; for while there comes a more than just moderate stimulus from the thoughts themselves, accompanied by melodies it is even greater.’) 71

For Cleanthes, verse is most suitable for divine subjects and gives stimulus to the thoughts. Another report of Cleanthes’ ideas would seem to bring him even closer to Lucretius: “nam,” ut dicebat Cleanthes, “quemadmodum spiritus noster clariorem sonum reddit, cum illum tuba per longi canalis angustias tractum patentiore novissime exitu effudit, sic sensus nostros clariores carminis arta necessitas efficit.” (Seneca Epist. 108.10 = SVF 1.487) (for, as Cleanthes used to say, just as our breath gives a louder [clariorem] sound when it passes through the long and narrow opening of a trumpet and pours out by a wider exit, thus the narrow necessity of poetry renders our sense clearer [clariores], my translation)

So, both Cleanthes and Lucretius agree that verse clarifies meaning rather than obscuring it as Epicurus argued, and this brings Lucretius closer to the Stoics in his poetics than to his own school. Lucretius’ Venus is thus a Stoic influenced creation and at the same time an anti-Stoic figure. As Asmis says, Cleanthes’ stress throughout his hymn is on the power of Zeus and the absoluteness of his cosmic rule, beginning with ǚNjǍǔǛNjǞʌǜ NjɎǏlj (always all-powerful) in line 1. Lucretius, in contrast, stresses the nurturing and creative powers of Venus, replacing Zeus’ all powerfulness with hominum divomque voluptas (pleasure of men and gods, DRN 1.1). Venus too is omnipotent but she achieves her universal rule by enticing pleasure rather than dominant force. Pointedly pleasure, the Epicurean ethical ideal, is presented as the ruling force of nature. The universality of Zeus’ and Venus’ rule is stressed in both hymns by the use of universalizing formulae: Ǚɪǎʍ ǞǓ ǍʑǍǗǏǞNjǓ ȶǛǍǙǗ Ȳǚʐ ǡǒǙǗʐ ǝǙ˹ ǎʑǡNj, ǎNj˪ǖǙǗ, Ƞ੡IJİ țĮIJ’ Įੁș੼ȡȚȠȞ șİ૙ȠȞ ʌંȜȠȞ Ƞ੡IJ’ ਥȞ੿ ʌંȞIJ૳, ʌȜ੽Ȟ ੒ʌંıĮ ૧੼ȗȠȣıȚ țĮțȠ੿ ıijİIJ੼ȡĮȚıȚȞ ਕȞȠ઀ĮȚȢ· (Hymn to Zeus 15-17) (not a single deed takes place on earth without you, God, nor in the divine celestial sphere nor in the sea, except what bad people do in their folly, trnsl. Thom).

71

Quoted from Thom (2005) 5.

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Cleanthes is content with three terms, earth, the heavens, and the sea, beginning with earth as it is the site of the human action that Cleanthes is concerned with. 72 As often air, the fourth of the Empedoclean elements used commonly in such formulae is absent, subsumed within the heavens. Similarly Lucretius uses three terms: alma Venus, caeli subter labentia signa quae mare navigerum, quae terras frugiferentis concelebras ... (DRN 1.2-4) (nurturing Venus, who beneath the smooth-moving heavenly signs fill with your presence the ship-bearing sea, the crop-bearing lands)

Venus’ sphere of influence is beneath the heavens, just as in Cleanthes air is omitted and the land and sea specified. The four elements are again specified as Venus’ sphere of influence in lines 6-9, and here air is added: line 6 venti; 7 tellus, 8 aequora ponti, 9 caelum. Lucretius is more specific than Cleanthes about the effects of his goddess, she fills the world with her presence, causing the lands to be productive of crops and the sea to be filled with ships bearing plenty. Venus is bringer of light and calmer of storms, and her role as bringer of calm and light is assumed by Epicurus elsewhere in the poem (cf. DRN 2.15, 3.1-2, 5.11-12). This assimilation of Epicurus to Venus begins early in the proem with the pun on Epicurus’ name during the invocation of the goddess at 1.24, te sociam studeo scribendis versibus esse (socia = ȲǚljǔǙǟǛǙǜ). 73 Venus calms storms and scatters clouds, bringing the brightness of spring, flowery meadows, the “laughing” ocean, and the fruitful warm west wind. She arrives on the day of her festival, the first of April, calming the storms of March, whose god she will seduce and defeat later in the hymn. Although the storms are of Mars’ month, it is not difficult to see a pointed reference to Zeus’ original role as a storm god, with Venus’ arrival removing the attributes of the ‘Thunderer’ and replacing them with her own. This impression may be strengthened by a motif from Cleanthes’ hymn. He prays to Zeus to grant humans insight in order to remove our ignorance): ȢǕǕʊ ƱǏ˹ ǚʋǗǎǣǛǏ, ǔǏǕNjǓǗǏǠʍǜ, ȢǛǍǓǔʍǛNjǟǗǏ, ਕȞșȡઆʌȠȣȢ ૧઄Ƞȣ ਕʌİȚȡȠı઄ȞȘȢ ਕʌઁ ȜȣȖȡોȢ, ਴Ȟ ı઄, ʌ੺IJİȡ, ıț੼įĮıȠȞ ȥȣȤોȢ ਙʌȠ, įઁȢ į੻ țȣȡોıĮȚ ȖȞઆȝȘȢ, ઞ ʌ઀ıȣȞȠȢ ıઃ į઀țȘȢ ȝ੼IJĮ ʌ੺ȞIJĮ țȣȕİȡȞ઼Ȣ (Hymn to Zeus 32-35) 72 73

Cf. Thom (2005) ad loc. See Gale (1994) 137.

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(But all-bountiful Zeus, cloud-ZUDSSHG țİȜĮȚȞİijȑȢ  UXOHU RI WKH thunderbolt, deliver human beings from their destructive ignorance; disperse it from the souls; grant that they obtain the insight on which you rely when governing everything with justice, trnsl. Thom).

As Thom says ad loc. ǔǏǕNjǓǗǏǠLJǜ (“shrouded in dark cloud”, “cloudwrapped”) Zeus is an epithet familiar from Homer (cf. Il. 2.412; 22.178) and derives from his role as weather god. The image has created a certain confusion about its function here in the hymn, however. According to Neustadt ǔǏǕNjǓǗǏǠLJǜand ȢǛǡǓǔLJǛNjǟǗǏ suggest Zeus’ power to shed light on the darkness of human ignorance, but, as Thom says, the Hymn does not refer to understanding and ignorance in terms of light and dark: the thunderbolt in the Hymn is an instrument of power which Zeus uses to steer the universe, and not to illuminate anything. 74 This traditional epic usage stresses Zeus’ power as ruler of the universe. Zeus is somewhat hampered in his role as giver of insight by the dark clouds that traditionally hang around him. We want the image to be of him granting insight illuminating the darkness of ignorance, but his dark clouds get in the way. In fact the image of Zeus swathed in cloud while granting insight is awkward, and even paradoxical, since darkness and clouds are commonly images of ignorance and error, at least as far back as Parmenides and Empedocles: 75 ɢǕnjǓǙǜ ɡǜ ǒǏʑǣǗ ǚǛNjǚʑǎǣǗ ȲǔǞʏǝNjǞǙ ǚǕǙ˹ǞǙǗ, įİȚȜઁȢ į’ મ ıțȠIJંİııĮ șİ૵Ȟ ʌ੼ȡȚ įંȟĮ ȝ੼ȝȘȜİȞ. (DK31 B132) (Blessed is he who obtained wealth in his divine thinking organs, DQGZUHWFKHGLVKHWRZKRPEHORQJVDGDUNOLQJıțȠIJȩİııĮ RSLQLRQDERXW the gods, text and translation by Inwood). 76

Darkness, clouds, and blindness are also commonly the metaphors Lucretius uses to describe the state of those not yet saved by Epicurus’ healing doctrine (darkness: cf. DRN 2.15, 2.55-56, 3.1-2, 3.87-88, 6.35-36; blindness: cf. 2.14, 3.59, 6.67) and are closely associated with storm imagery. Although the darkness of philosophical ignorance is a common 74

Neustadt (1931) 390; Thom (2005) 145. See Fowler (2002) 70. 76 See Wright (1995) ad loc. Cf. Democritus DK68 B11: ǍǗǨǖǑǜǎʌ ǎǧǙǏɎǝʐǗɎǎLJNjǓ ȿ ǖʌǗǍǗǑǝljǑȿ ǎʌ ǝǔǙǞljǑ (There are two kinds of judgement: the well-informed, and the darkling.) 75

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trope, it has particular point in Epicureanism; as Lucretius argues, just as children fear everything in the darkness, so we fear things in the light of day (DRN 2.55-61, 3.87-93, 6.35-41). Hence, fears must be dispelled not by the light of day, but by the ‘light’ provided by the application of Epicurean ratio to nature (naturae species ratioque, DRN 2.61). 77 Venus, on the other hand, is the ideal shedder of light on darkness; she is Lucifer indeed, the morning star, and bringer of the light of Epicurean reason. 78 As Asmis says: “The symbol of light ... acquires the same importance in Lucretius’ invocation as the symbol of the thunderbolt and clouds in Cleanthes Hymn.” 79 Because of the awkwardness of the image it is tempting to suggest that Cleanthes has substituted Zeus as giver of insight for a light-bringing god(dess) in one or more of his sources, and spotting this, Lucretius replaces him with Venus as light-bringer.

4.3 DRN 1.21: Quae quoniam rerum naturam sola gubernas However, paradoxically, in line 21 Venus alone, she is told, governs the nature of the universe: rerum naturam sola gubernas, (“you alone govern the nature of the universe”). Just as with Aeneadum genetrix in line one, this is particularly unexpected in an Epicurean work, especially since Lucretius’ crucial ethical task in DRN is to convince the reader that the gods do not rule the universe! In this case, however, he does give an explanation in the lines following. She governs the universe since without her nothing comes forth into the shores of light and nothing joyous and lovely is made. 80 We are instructed, then, to interpret Venus allegorically. As Asmis argues, the motif of Venus governing the universe closely parallels Cleanthes’ image in lines 10-11 of Zeus guiding the works of nature with his thunderbolt: “ȢǖǠʏǔǑ, ǚǟǛʓǏǗǞNj, ȢǏǓǐʗǙǗǞNj ǔǏǛNjǟǗʓǗ·/ ǞǙ˹ ǍʊǛ ɫǚʒ ǚǕǑǍ˝ǜ ǠʕǝǏǣǜ ǚʋǗǞ̧ȶǛǍNj ” (the two-edged, fiery, ever-living thunderbolt | For by its stroke all works of nature , trnsl. Thom). Heraclitus is unmistakably Cleanthes’ source for this image: cf. fr. 79 Marcovich (B64 DK): Ǟʊ ǎʌ ǚʋǗǞNj ǙɎNjǔʑǐǏǓ ƵǏǛNjǟǗʓǜ (Thunderbolt steers all things). Lucretius has appropriated the image of a 77

See Clay (1998) 132-137. Cf. Verg. Aen. 8.589. 79 Asmis (1982) 464. 80 Cf. Cleanthes’ Hymn to Zeus 15: Ǚɪǎʍ ǞǓ ǍʑǍǗǏǞNjǓ ȶǛǍǙǗ Ȳǚʐ ǡǒǙǗʐ ǝǙ˹ ǎʑǡNj, ǎNj˪ǖǙǗ (Not a single deed takes place on earth without you, God). As Thom notes ad loc. this is a traditional hymnic formula. Cf. Pindar Ol. 14.4-9; Nem. 7.1-6; Ariphron Paean to Hygieia fr. 6.3 Furley-Bremer. Thom also notes Lucretius’ use here. 78

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governing god from Cleanthes, but this is one of the philosophical accommodations of myth that the Epicureans were so keen to combat. 81 Again, Lucretius can be seen to be turning the tables on the Stoics but at the same time using a Stoic technique of allegorizing, one that was a specific target of other Epicureans. As such, often Lucretius’ technique of appropriating his enemies’ language and imagery leads him into conflict with the Epicurean doctrines of his contemporaries.

4.4 Empedocles and Cleanthes Asmis interprets the prayer to Venus to grant peace and the ecphrasis of Venus’ seduction of Mars as a direct response to Stoic allegorizations of Zeus as source of cosmic order; just like Zeus, Venus grants peace by defeating disorder and discord: “In his second prayer, then, Lucretius completes the process of exalting Venus to a position which is fully equivalent to that of Stoic Zeus. Venus is now viewed as the cosmic law who adjusts all things into perfect order.” 82 In his Hymn Cleanthes has a particular take on the cosmic order: Zeus is the principle of universal reason that brings the universe into order, but he is not responsible for the deeds of bad people. They commit bad deeds because they, “flee and avoid”, the rational order of Zeus (15-22). They, ǙɮǞ̧ȲǝǙǛ̆ǝǓ ǒǏǙ˹ ǔǙǓǗʒǗ ǗʓǖǙǗ, ǙɮǞǏ ǔǕʕǙǟǝǓǗ, | ʿ ǔǏǗ ǚǏǓǒʓǖǏǗǙǓ ǝʔǗ Ǘ̇ njʑǙǗ ȲǝǒǕʒǗ ȶǡǙǓǏǗ, (neither see nor hear God’s universal law, | obeying which they could have a good life with understanding, 24-25, trnsl. Thom). Hence Cleanthes prays to Zeus to grant insight into his rule. Zeus’ order comprises both good and bad: ʁǎǏǍʊǛǏɎǜȵǗǚdžǗǞNjǝǟǗLjǛǖǙǔNjǜȲǝǒǕʊ ǔNjǔǙ˪ǝǓǗ ੮ıș’ ਪȞĮȖȓȖȞİıșĮȚʌȐȞIJȦȞȜȩȖȠȞĮੁ੻ȞਥȩȞIJĮ (Hymn to Zeus 20-21) (For you [Zeus] have thus joined everything into one, the good with the bad, so that there comes to be one ever-existing rational order for everything, trnsl. Thom).

As Thom notes ad loc. Heraclitus is often cited as the source of this concept of the logos as a unity of opposites, but he argues that, “Cleanthes does not focus on the unity of good and evil, but rather on Zeus’ ability to 81

Cf. Philodemus De Pietate part 2 Obbink 113 P.Herc. 1428 fr. 17 cited above. Cf. Henrichs (1974). 82 Asmis (1982) 467.

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change disorder into order.’” In particular it is Zeus’ method of joining the good along with the bad that is productive of the single rational order. As Thom says (108): “This harmony is made up of both good and bad, but this does not mean that good and bad are evenly balanced ... the good and the bad are not equal partners, but they are blended in such a way (ʁǎǏ) that the end product is a rational order.” Thom cites Hesiod Op. 179 and Theognis 1.192 as possible influences on these lines, but one intertext seems to have been missed. Empedocles’ universe is governed by two cosmic forces, Love (or Aphrodite) and Strife (or Ares). They both have creative and destructive powers and rule alternately: Love draws all things together to create a world, and then destroys it as all the elements are completely joined in the Sphere. Then Strife draws the elements apart, another world is created, and again destroyed in the Whirl of elements. Although they are both creative and destructive, in ethical terms Strife is always described negatively as, ‘raving Strife’ (ǗǏljǔǏǤ ǖNjǓǗǙǖLJǗ̄, B115.14), ‘baneful Strife’ (ǗǏljǔǏǤ ǕǟǍǛ̇, B109.3), and ‘pernicious Strife’ (ǗǏ˪ǔǙǜǙɪǕǦǖǏǗǙǗ, B17.19), and Love in contrast is always presented in positive terms. Disorder and evil in human life are attributed to an increase in the power of cosmic Strife. 83 Love draws the elements into a harmonious whole, while Strife causes separation and discord. Empedocles elides the distinction between the elements and humans under the effects of Love and Strife. In fr. 17 the effects on the elements are described: ȦǕǕǙǞǏ ǖʌǗ ǠǓǕǦǞǑǞǓ ǝǟǗǏǛǡǦǖǏǗ̧ǏɎǜ ȵǗ ȧǚNjǗǞNj, ȦǕǕǙǞǏǎ̧Njɰ ǎljǡ̧ȷǔNjǝǞNjǠǙǛǏǧǖǏǗNjǗǏljǔǏǙǜȶǡǒǏǓ (DK31 B17.7-8) (at one time everything all coming by Love together into one, at another time again being borne apart separately by the hostility of Strife, text and translation by Inwood)

While in Strasbourg fr. a(i) 6 ‘we’ come together: 84 ǝǟǗǏǛǡǦǖǏǒ̧ǏɎǜȷǗNjǔǦſǝǖǙǗ (We come together into one cosmos.)

The similarity of Cleanthes’ and Empedocles’ phrasing is striking. For Cleanthes Zeus has joined all things into one (ǏɎǜ ȵǗ ǚdžǗǞNj ǝǟǗLjǛǖǙǔNjǜ, 83 84

Cf. Strasbourg ensemble d 2-10. See Trépanier (2003).

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20), while in Empedocles this is the task of Love (Aphrodite), “everything coming by Love together into one” (ǠǓǕǦǞǑǞǓǝǟǗǏǛǡǦǖǏǗ̧ǏɎǜȵǗȧǚNjǗǞNj, B17.7). Further, Zeus’ and Love’s joining is described by the same verb ıȣȞĮȡȝȩȗȦ ǞǦǝǝ̧ɣǝNj Ǘ˹Ǘ ǍǏǍdžNjǝǓ ǝǟǗNjǛǖǙǝǒLJǗǞ̧ȪǠǛǙǎljǞ˚ (DK31 B71.4) ([the forms and colours of mortals] that have now come to be, fitted together by Aphrodite.) 85

I suggest that Cleanthes implicitly corrects Empedocles in these lines: there are not two separate forces that alternate, one, Aphrodite, combining into harmony and creating the good, the other, Ares, separating into disorder and creating the bad, but a single force, Zeus, that blends both good and bad into a single cosmic order. It seems that this technique of correcting Empedocles by imitating him (oppositio in imitando) was not confined to Cleanthes alone. As M. R. Gale argues, the Stoicizing Aratus does the very same thing to Empedocles in his hymn to Zeus in the proem of the Phaenomena. As she says: “Aratus’ all-pervasive, Stoicized Zeus replaces the Empedoclean Love and Strife as the supreme force in control of the universe.” 86 Another example from Philodemus’ criticism of the Stoics may help us to see what Cleanthes is doing here. Compare De Pietate part 2 Obbink 123 P.Herc. 1428 col. 1: “... that Aphrodite is really a force which fittingly joins the parts with one another and out of ...”. (trnsl. Obbink, see text above). For the Stoics, Aphrodite is a personification of the harmonizing function of the universal reason, which is of course Zeus, as in 126-7 P.Herc. 1428 col. 4-5, quoted above, where Aphrodite is listed as an aspect of Zeus. So for Cleanthes it is only a small step to replace Aphrodite with Zeus as the power that creates universal harmony, as in this function they are interchangeable, and it is very likely that Empedocles was the original source for the Stoics’ allegorization of Aphrodite as a force that fittingly joins the parts with one another.

85 On Aphrodite joining things together in Empedocles see Garani (2007a), 156161. As she says, Aphrodite is represented as a carpenter riveting the elements together with dowels, and Plato has taken up this image in the Timaeus where we see his demiurge riveting souls and bodies together (Timaeus 43a). 86 Gale (2005) 186-7.

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4.5 Empedocles, Hesiod, and Cleanthes So, Lucretius, in replacing Cleanthes’ Zeus with Venus, was simply putting her back in her place of honour where Empedocles had placed her before Cleanthes had in turn replaced her with Zeus. But this is only part of the history of the substitutions of gods by philosophical poets in their hymns, since Empedocles had already deposed Zeus from his throne and replaced him with Aphrodite. This process may be seen B128: Ǚɪǎʍ ǞǓǜ ɄǗ ǔǏʑǗǙǓǝǓǗ ˤƬǛǑǜ ǒǏʒǜ Ǚɪǎʌ ƵǟǎǙǓǖʓǜ Ǚɪǎʌ ƱǏʔǜ njNjǝǓǕǏʔǜ Ǚɪǎʌ ƵǛʓǗǙǜ Ǚɪǎʌ ƻǙǝǏǓǎ̆Ǘ, ȢǕǕʊ ƵʕǚǛǓǜ njNjǝʑǕǏǓNj. ǞʎǗ Ǚɓ Ǎ̧ǏɪǝǏnjʍǏǝǝǓǗ ȢǍʋǕǖNjǝǓǗ ɏǕʋǝǔǙǗǞǙ ǍǛNjǚǞǙ˪ǜ ǞǏ ǐ̅ǙǓǝǓ ǖʕǛǙǓǝʑ ǞǏ ǎNjǓǎNjǕǏʓǎǖǙǓǜ ǝǖʕǛǗǑǜ Ǟ̧ȢǔǛʏǞǙǟ ǒǟǝʑNjǓǜ ǕǓnjʋǗǙǟ ǞǏ ǒǟʗǎǙǟǜ, ǘNjǗǒ̆Ǘ ǞǏ ǝǚǙǗǎʊǜ ǖǏǕʑǞǣǗ ˸ʑǚǞǙǗǞǏǜ Ȳǜ ǙɰǎNjǜ, ǞNjʕǛǣǗ ǎ̧ȢǔǛʏǞǙǓǝǓ ǠʓǗǙǓǜ Ǚɪ ǎǏʕǏǞǙ njǣǖʓǜ, ȢǕǕʊ ǖʕǝǙǜ ǞǙ˹Ǟ̧ȶǝǔǏǗ ȲǗ ȢǗǒǛʗǚǙǓǝǓ ǖʍǍǓǝǞǙǗ, ǒǟǖʒǗ ȢǚǙǛǛNjʑǝNjǗǞNjǜ ȲʍǎǖǏǗNjǓ ȾʍNj Ǎǟ˪Nj. (They had no god Ares or Battle-Din, nor Zeus the king nor Kronos nor Poseidon; but Kupris the queen [Aphrodite]… her they worshipped with pious images, painted pictures and perfumes of varied odours, and sacrifices of unmixed myrrh and fragrant frankincense, dashing onto the ground libations of yellow honey … [her] altar was not wetted with the unmixed blood of bulls, but this was the greatest abomination among men, to tear out their life-breath and eat their goodly limbs.) (text and translation by Inwood]

This is a radical piece of theology, quoted by Porphyry (De abstinentia 2.20-22, p. 150.9-151.13 Nauck) as coming from Empedocles’ “discursive account of the birth of the gods” (ǚǏǛʐ Ǟ˜ǜ ǒǏǙǍǙǗʑNjǜ ǎǓǏǘǓʗǗ). 87 Porphyry says that the first libations were of water, then honey, and then of wine, quoting these lines of Empedocles as authority. Then he goes on to speak of a subsequent decline into slaughter and meat-eating: when Love was in control no-one killed any animal, but then when Ares and Kydoimos took control, people killed not only animals but humans as well, including their relatives. B128 describes prehistory, a sort of golden age of peace under 87

Quoted from Inwood (2001) 145.

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Love, in which the people worshipped only Kypris. They did not have Ares or Kydoimos, as Porphyry says, but remarkably they did not have Zeus, Kronos (usually king of the gods during the golden age), or Poseidon. Zeus, Kronos and Poseidon are thus associated by Empedocles with Ares and Kydoimos as agents of the decline into slaughter and murder. The decline from a golden age of peace and harmony into an age of strife and violence, even against relatives, is highly reminiscent of Hesiod’s account of the five ages in Works and Days. Indeed, Empedocles’ denial of Kronos may well be pointed, as Hesiod is specific that the Golden Race lived under Kronos. 88 So, Empedocles corrects Hesiod: there was indeed a golden age from which we have declined into an age of strife and violence, but it was not a decline from the rule of Kronos but from that of Aphrodite. Empedocles’ theodicy is also more coherent than that of Hesiod. Hesiod in his opening hymn to Zeus addresses Zeus as the embodiment of cosmic justice but struggles in the rest of the poem to explain or understand why Zeus is so grudging and even hostile to mortals. Empedocles, on the contrary, attributes evil in the world to the growing power of Strife as he takes over in turn from Love. 89 All the good in the world is caused by the influence of Aphrodite; all the bad by Strife. A neat ‘Manichaean’ explanation. For Empedocles Zeus is not the god of justice and harmony, Aphrodite is. Thus Empedocles rewinds the history of religion and deposes the masculine usurper Zeus, re-establishing Aphrodite as what Don Fowler, speaking of Lucretius, has called a, ‘feminine principal’. Cleanthes, in turn, restores the Hesiodic order, only for Lucretius, in his turn, to grant control of the universe to his new 88

Hesiod Op. 111. Cf. Strasbourg ensemble d 3-10: GǀǓǕljǑǗǎʌ >ǔNjʐ ư@ɪſǗſ[ǙljǑ]ǗſǗǟǗȶǡǙǟǝǓǗ d4 [ȯǛ]ǚſǟǓNjǓǒNjǗdžǞǙǓǙǚdžǕǙǓǜſ[ȿǖ˪ǗǚNjǛLJǝ@ǙǗǞNjǓ d5 ΅ƺɒΆǖſǙǓůɣǞǓ ơǙɪ ǚǛǦǝǒǏǗǖǏǎǓſ΅ǨǕǏǝǏǗǑΆǕǏʌǜɄǖNjǛ d6 ΅ǚǛʐǗΆ ǡǑǕNj˪ǜſ΅ǝǡLJΆǞſǕǓ̧ȶǛǍNjnjǙǛſ΅ˍǜǚLJǛǓǖǑǞΆljſǝſNjſ΅ǝǒNjǓyΆ d7 >Ǘ˹Ǘǎ@ʌ ǖdžǞǑ>ǗȲǗ@Ǟ̆ǓǎǏǗǦǞſ[ǣǓǔNjǞLJǎ]ǏſǟǝNjǚNjǛǏǓdžǜ· d8 [ȲǘǓǔ]ǗſǙǧǖǏ>ǒNjǍʊ]ǛſǚǙǕǟnjǏǗǒſ>LJNjƯ˪ǗǙǗ?], ɞſ˩ǣ d9 >ǖǧǛǓNj? ǞǏ Ǚɪǔ@ȲǒLJǕǙǟǝǓǚNjǛLJǝǝǏ>ǞNjǓȦǕǍǏſNjǒǟǖ̆Ǔ d10 [ȢǗǒǛǨǚǙǓǜ? 89

(And whereas we now have Love and Goodwill, the Harpies with the lots of death will be with us (hereafter). Alas that the merciless day did not destroy me sooner before I devised with my claws terrible deeds for the sake of food. But now in this storm I have in vain drenched my cheeks: for we are approaching the very deep Whirl, I perceive, and, though they do not wish it, countless griefs will be present to men in their minds ..., text and trnsl. Martin & Primavesi).

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Epicurean goddess, or indeed goddesses: the trio Venus, Natura, and the Earth Mother. This is just as the nature of things demands; as Don Fowler has said, these figures are too powerful to fit into schemes of masculineenforced passivity. 90

90

See Fowler (2002) 449.

CHAPTER THREE PHILOSOPHY IN VERGIL JOSEPH FARRELL Pythagorae sectam versat, quam et stoici sequuntur. Et quidam accusant quod, cum sit Epicureus, alienam sectam usurpare videtur. Sed ego puto simpliciter referri sententias philosophorum: neque enim statim Epicureus debet videri, si libertate poetica ait [Geo. 4.563–64] “illo Vergilium me tempore dulcis alebat / Parthenope, studiis florentem ignobilis oti.” (DServ. ad Geo. 4.219) (He is dealing here with the sect of Pythagoras, which the Stoics follow, as well. And some blame him because they think that, although he is an Epicurean, he is adopting the position of a different sect. But I think that the opinions of the philosophers are alluded to for their own sake; and that accordingly he should not automatically be thought an Epicurean if he says, with poetic license, “at that time, sweet Parthenope sustained me, Vergil, flourishing in the pursuits of undistinguished leisure.) 1

Vergil has always enjoyed a reputation as a poet interested in philosophical questions, and any reader of his poetry will understand why this is so. He has also frequently been regarded as an adherent of some particular philosophical school, and opinion about this matter depends largely on a substantial body of ancient testimony about Vergil’s philosophical beliefs.

1

For Vergil I use the text of Mynors (1969). For Servius I follow the Harvard edition where available [i.e., Rand et al. (1946) for Aen. 1–2, Stocker and Travis (1965) for Aen. 4–5], otherwise that of Thilo and Hagen (1878–1902). Although I occasionally refer in a general way to ‘Servius,’ I do of course recognize important differences in the ways that different versions of this commentary tradition approach the text of Vergil, and in quoting specific passages I distinguish between (1) the commentary compiled by Servius himself, which I print in regular Roman type, and (2) the additions of DServ, which I print in italics; in addition, I print the Vergilian lemmata in bold and occasionally use underlining as well for emphasis. All translations are my own.

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We may speak, very broadly, of three main ideas, all of them attested in antiquity and adopted in one form or other by modern scholars: 1. Vergil was an Epicurean throughout his life. 2. Vergil began with an orientation towards Epicureanism which he eventually abandoned in favor of a more spiritual outlook deriving from some other school. 3. Vergil was not a strict adherent of this or that school but an eclectic interested more in philosophical questions than in systems of orthodoxy. The balance of scholarly opinion favoring one or another of these perspectives has varied over time. Certainly it would be impossible to claim that there exists at the present moment any real consensus. My own view is that we do not have the evidence that one would need to draw firm conclusions about Vergil’s actual beliefs at any point in his life. 2 Moreover, efforts to describe a specific trajectory of philosophical development must be treated with particular skepticism, for two reasons. First, such trajectories as are described in the ancient commentary and vita tradition are characteristic components of fictive biographical criticism. That is to say, those passages that appear to contain independent evidence about Vergil’s philosophical beliefs are likely to be nothing more than inferences drawn from his poetry, like most of the other biographical ‘evidence’ found in these sources. 3 Once this much is understood, it follows that modern scholarship is in more or less the same position of 2 The idea that Vergil started out as an adherent of Epicureanism but eventually embraced different philosophical beliefs derives from the ancient biographical tradition [Brugnoli and Stok (1997) 284 s.v. Vergilii studia apud Sironem philosophum; Stok (2010) 116]. This testimony receives equivocal support from a couple of poems (5 and 8) included among the Catalepton of the Appendix Vergiliana; but since several components of the Appendix were clearly not written by Vergil himself, the authenticity of everything within it has to be questioned. The autobiographical poems with which we are concerned are among the few that some scholars have been inclined to accept as genuinely Vergilian. Many years ago, in the heyday of biographical criticism, these poems seemed to offer valuable testimony corroborating the testimony of the ancient vita tradition. 3 The landmark study in this field remains Lefkowitz (1981) on the vitae of the Greek poets, which revealed the essential fictiveness of the entire genre, emphasizing that most of the ‘facts’ that they contain are really inferences based on passages within the poets’ own works. Subsequently the entire genre of poet’s biographies, in Greek and Latin, has justly come to be treated with great skepticism.

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drawing biographical inferences from the poetry, and then interpreting the poetry in perfectly circular fashion on the basis of such inferences. Second, there is no question that the philosophical motifs embedded in Vergil’s poetry involve many different philosophers and schools; so that, whether or not Vergil was philosophically eclectic in terms of his personal beliefs, his poetry obviously is. It may be that it becomes more eclectic over time and includes ever more philosophical topics, ideas, and schools within its purview; but to the extent that one can trace an apparent trajectory of philosophical development from the Eclogues through the Georgics to the Aeneid, I would argue that Vergil’s criteria for selecting and deploying philosophical ideas change in accordance with the generic and thematic requirements of his three major works, and not in accordance with the poet’s personal beliefs. Accordingly, the philosophical development that has been seen over the course of Vergil’s career should be interpreted not so much in terms of adherence and apostasy, but in those of shifting emphasis, not only over time but across the different poetic genres and traditions in which Vergil worked. A chronological survey of Vergil’s three major works is both a convenient way to proceed and an effective way of bringing out certain aspects in his treatment of philosophy that remain constant over his career, as well as some points of difference. Not all of these are commonly acknowledged or appreciated. In the course of this survey I shall be referring frequently to passages of the ancient commentaries and vitae in order to illustrate the different ways in which they can enhance or, if read uncritically, confuse our understanding of philosophy in Vergil.

Philosophy in the Eclogues The Eclogues are not Vergil’s most overtly philosophical work, and yet a number of passages invoke philosophical ideas and motifs. The most explicit of these is found in Eclogue 6 at the beginning of Silenus’ song: Namque canebat uti magnum per inane coacta semina terrarumque animaeque marisque fuissent et liquidi simul ignis; ut his exordia primis, omnia—et ipse tener mundi concreverit orbis; tum durare solum et discludere Nerea ponto coeperit—et rerum paulatim sumere formas; iamque novum terrae stupeant lucescere solem, altius atque cadant summotis nubibus imbres, incipiant silvae cum primum surgere, cumque rara per ignaros errent animalia montis. (Ecl. 6.31-40)

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Chapter Three (For he sang how seeds of earths and breath and sea, and also of bright fire, had been set in motion throughout the great void; how from these first elements [came] all beginnings, and even the delicate globe assumed its form, and then the soil began to harden, to confine Nereus in the sea, and gradually to assume the shapes of things; and how now the lands look in amazement at the shining sun, and how rains fall on high after clouds move in, when woods first start to rise and when animals wander here and there through unknowing mountains.)

Servius’ comments on this passage are instructive. He notes that at line 41 Silenus leaves behind philosophy (“relictis prudentibus rebus de mundi origine”) and changes over to mythology (“subito ad fabulas transitum fecit”), flagging the transition as an interpretive problem (“quaestio est hoc loco”), which must mean that its abruptness (n.b. “subito”) attracted attention and discussion in antiquity. And this is understandable, because Vergil’s approach here is eclectic almost to the point of self-contradiction. Right through the first word of the second line (namque canebat uti magnum per inane coacta / semina, Ecl. 6. 31-32) Silenus’ song sounds as if it were a quotation of Lucretius, and its meaning is perfectly Epicurean: it suggests that the physical universe consists only of atoms (semina) and void (inane). But, as we discover directly, the word semina is qualified by a series of genitives (terrarumque animaeque marisque fuissent / et liquidi simul ignis, Ecl. 6.32-33) that name the four elements (or ‘roots’) of a different physical system, that of Empedocles. The sentence, then, is strange; for if one considers it from a strictly Epicurean or Empedoclean perspective, semina terrarum etc. is a contradiction in terms. Epicurean atoms are not identified with the various compounds, such as earth, air, fire, and water, that are made from them, nor are the four elements of the Empedoclean universe made of atoms. So Vergil has combined two different physical theories into an odd hybrid. Servius however thinks otherwise. Here is his comment on the passage: Namque canebat uti magnum per inane coacta semina variae sunt philosophorum opiniones de rerum origine: nam alii dicunt omnia ex igne procreari, ut Anaxagoras; alii ex umore, ut Thales Milesius, unde est “Oceanumque patrem” [Geo. 4.382]; alii ex quattuor elementis, ut Empedocles, secundum quem ait Lucretius “ex imbri terra atque anima nascuntur et igni” [1.715]. (Serv. ad Ecl. 6.31) (For he sang how seeds set in motion throughout the great void Philosophers hold different opinions about the origin of the universe: for some, like Anaxagoras, say that everything was generated from fire; others, like Thales of Miletus, from water, which lies behind “and father Ocean” [Geo. 4.382]; others from four elements, such as Empedocles, according to

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whom, Lucretius says, “they are born from rain, earth and wind and fire) [1.715].

So far, so good: Servius merely contrasts Empedocles with the monists Thales and Anaxagoras and reports on his theory of the four elements as it is summarized by Lucretius, with no implication that Lucretius holds similar views. In fact, Servius goes on to say that Epicureans do not agree with Empedocles on this point, because they posit just two first causes of the universe, and different ones, body and void. But, he continues, de his itaque duobus principiis volunt quattuor ista procreari, ignem, aerem, aquam, terram, et ex his cetera, ut illa duo elementa, atomi et inane, sint haec vero quattuor syntheta, id est composita ex illis duobus, praestent originem aliis omnibus rebus. (Serv. ad Ecl. 6.31) (And so it is from these two first causes that they would have it that those four, fire, air, water, earth, are generated, and from these all the rest, so that the former two are elements, atoms and void, while the latter four ‘syntheses,’ that is, composites of the former two [elements], account for the origin of all other things.)

This account then is reasonably well-informed; certainly in describing the basic tenets of different philosophical theories, Servius is on target. But in reconciling the atomic theory of the Epicureans with the fourelement theory of Empedocles he goes too far, writing as if earth, air, fire, and water had some special place in Epicurean accounts of the universe— as of course they do not. 4 In particular, they do not enjoy a privileged ontological status as secondary elements, less fundamental than atoms and void, but sufficiently fundamental that all other substances can be regarded as being made out of some combination of them. That however is what Servius suggests, as if the Epicureans had made a point of incorporating Empedocles’ ideas into their own. In explicating this passage, one of Servius’ motives is to save Vergil from appearing to confuse different theories. That is of course just what Vergil is doing—deliberately, no doubt, and not out of ignorance (as Servius perhaps feared his readers might suppose). But it is very much in keeping with Servius’ general principles as a grammarian to save Vergil 4

We possess no ancient testimony apart from this that anyone ever attempted to assign the four elements a special place in Epicurean physics. The point needs emphasis, because some experts [e.g. Furley (1989) 174] have written as though such evidence did exist. Sedley [(1998) 16–21] shows decisively that Epicureans did not regard Empedocles as an important philosophical (as opposed to poetic) forerunner.

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from appearing to be in error, philosophically no less than in terms of Latinity. 5 Such principles are often at odds with Vergil’s provocatively eclectic approach, and this passage is a case in point. But we can and should say a bit more. For Servius does recognize Vergil’s eclecticism, at least within limits: note how he specifies that Vergil is following the Epicureans ‘now’ (“Epicurei vero, quos nunc sequitur”, Serv. ad Ecl. 6.31), even as he goes on to quote a passage of the Georgics that he sees as alluding to yet another physical philosopher, Thales of Miletus, who considered the primal element to be water. 6 Thus Servius apparently accepts with ease the idea that Vergil might allude to different and even incompatible philosophical schools in different poems. 7 Within Eclogue 6, though, Servius evidently wants to find consistency, finding potential for embarrassment in Vergil’s combination of Epicurean atomism with Empedocles’ four-element theory. In this way the grammarian recognizes Vergil’s eclectic tendencies, attempting to reconcile them with his own sense of decorum only at the local level. But there is still more: for, finally and very importantly, Servius’ exegesis of Eclogue 6 depends very heavily upon what he thinks he knows about Vergil’s biography, and this factor without a doubt complicates his reaction to the poem’s eclecticism. In his introduction to the poem Servius informs the reader that Silenus is an allegorical representation of the Epicurean philosopher Siro (note the similarity between the names), while Chromis and Mnasyllus are Vergil and Varius, respectively. Servius further believes that Siro was Vergil’s teacher; thus his conviction that Vergil would write as an Epicurean at this early point in his career. The intrusion 5

For a good example that involves the meaning of the word saevus (Aen. 1.4, 12.107) see Knox (1997). 6 Arist. Metaph. A 3, 983b. 7 Another version of this note in the commentary wrongly attributed to the grammarian Probus canvasses numerous ancient theories of matter in order to help the reader gain some purchase on this puzzling passage. Like Servius, this commentator is concerned with consistency, but in a precisely converse way; for he cares much less about the coherence of the passage than he does about the fact that the physics propounded here by Silenus does not appear to agree with what Anchises has to say in Aeneid 6. Both Silenus and Anchises, he assumes, present Vergil’s actual views, which he further assumes ought to remain consistent from one end of his career to the other. He therefore resorts to some special pleading to argue that they are. But in fact, the apparent difference is real. Silenus’ physics, though it combines two quite different views (Epicurean and Empedoclean) of elemental matter, does at least present a kind of materialist cosmogony; Anchises’ discourse, however, draws on Platonic, Pythagorean, and other ideas to give an eschatological account of metempsychosis. See further below, n. 50.

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of Empedocles thus creates a problem that Servius ‘solves’ by giving earth, air, fire, and water a status in Epicureanism that they did not really have. But the problem would not exist if Servius did not regard the poem as an allegorical episode in Vergil’s philosophical biography—i.e. if Servius did not think it incumbent upon him to explain how the poem illustrates Vergil’s adherence to the teachings of Siro at this point in his career. 8 Biographical allegory is a very prominent feature of Servius’ Eclogues commentary. The principle is applied flexibly in a way that is convenient for the exegete but rather at variance with most forms of reliable interpretive technique. Servius announces his policy in poem 1 when he notes that Tityrus is to be understood as Vergil, not everywhere in the Eclogues, “but only where the sense demands it.” 9 In spite of the glaring circularity involved, this principle has been cited with approval by some modern scholars. In a superficial way, it might seem to agree with Vergil’s usual method of creating characters: there are indeed frequent points of similarity between his dramatis personae and actual people outside his poetry, and these correspondences are indeed shifting and inconsistent. 10 But to say that Tityrus ever ‘is’ Vergil or that Aeneas ‘is’ Augustus runs a serious risk of greatly overstating the nature and especially the extent of the relationship. For that matter, in the Eclogues it is not clear even that ‘Tityrus’ (or any other bucolic character named in the poems) is ‘the same person’ in any two passages. 11 Finally, when Servius’ commentary on these poems is so devoted to biographical allegory as to state that practically every character in the collection stands for one of Vergil’s 8 Servius’ conception of Epicureanism partakes of quite serious aspects, such as the elemental theory that I have just been discussing, and also of vulgar misconceptions: in his note on the identity of the beautiful Naiad Aegle, who joins Chromis and Mnasyllus in their prank (Ecl. 6.20–22), he observes that “quibus [i.e. Chromi et Mnasyllo] ideo coniungit puellam, ut ostendat plenam sectam Epicuream, quae nihil sine voluptate vult esse perfectum” (and to them he adds the girl in order to show in full the character of the Epicurean sect, which has it that nothing is complete without pleasure) (ad Ecl. 6.13). 9 Servius ad Ecl. 1.1: “et hoc loco Tityri sub persona Vergilium debemus accipere; non tamen ubique, sed tantum ubi exigit ratio” (also, in this passage we ought to understand Vergil behind the mask of Tityrus; not everywhere, though, but only where the sense demands it). 10 J. Griffin (1982) 118–134. 11 Coleman [(1977) 25] has some good remarks on this point, but his conclusion that “there is nothing much to be gained (or for that matter lost) from a general assumption that the recurrence of the same name is significant” suggests that there is more to say.

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friends or acquaintances, it is impossible not to suspect that the entire interpretive process is driven by a belief in the method itself as a hermeneutic device rather than being informed by any independent evidence whatsoever. 12 Discovering that philosophy is a theme in Silenus’ song might be thought to tell us nothing about the collection as a whole, since poem 6 is atypical of the Eclogues in so many ways. But before drawing this conclusion let us consider another sudden irruption of philosophy into the bucolic world. In poem 3 the rustic Menalcas offers to stake a pair of cups in a singing match against Damoetas, and these cups allude to philosophical ideas in two distinct ways. Most obviously, they contain images of the astronomer Conon of Samos and of an unnamed figure who described the entire orbis terrarum together with the progression of the seasons. The areas of knowledge thus indicated had been traditional philosophical topics since the days of the pre-Socratics; and they remained closely identified with philosophy in Vergil’s day (and long thereafter). But the motif of decorated drinking cups is adapted from Theocritus’ first Idyll, where a goatherd offers Thyrsis such a cup as payment for singing him the song of Daphnis. 13 Theocritus’ description of the cup reflects the central concerns of the bucolic world, but does so in a way that is clearly indebted to Homer’s description of Achilles’ shield in Iliad 18; and that passage was regarded by ancient critics as an allegorical image of the cosmos. 14 Thus

12

Note, for instance, that there is no textual motivation for Servius’ identification of Chromis and Mnasyllus as Vergil and Varius. Presumably, once it was decided that Silenus was Siro, the logic of allegorical exegesis dictated that Silenus’ pupils must be those of Siro, as well. 13 In Id. 1 Thyrsis simply barters his cup for the goatherd’s song. The motif of a wager in a contest is imported from Id. 8.11–24. On the relationship between these motifs in the context of bucolic exchange see Farrell (1992); on the question of aesthetic value in Ecl. 3, Farrell (2012) 288–290. 14 This interpretation evidently was first proposed by Crates of Mallos [Porter (1992) 91 n. 66], who visited Rome in about 158 B.C. (Suet. De Gramm. 2.1) and so postdates Theocritus by a century or so. We therefore have no evidence that Theocritus knew of any interpretation of Achilles’ shield that had cosmic implications, and so must assume that Vergil imports the theme of philosophy into his imitation of Theocritus along with an exegetical tradition, later than Theocritus, of the Homeric passage that was Theocritus’ model (for a similar possible move, see n. 20 below). Vergil’s motive in so doing may be to indicate his understanding of Theocritus’ imitative process, and perhaps also to measure the generic gap between the world depicted on Homer’s epic shield and on Theocritus’ bucolic

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Vergil, by depicting natural philosophers within an ecphrasis modeled on that of Theocritus, closes the hermeneutic circle and does so with humor, representing his humble rustics as the kind of people who would own and value such artifacts. 15 The passage implicitly represents a second philosophical topic, that of aesthetics. Menalcas not only possesses these remarkable cups, but is able to speak knowledgeably about their artistic qualities. He mentions their material, beech wood (fagina, 37), which is emblematic of the pastoral world that he inhabits. He praises their workmanship, boasting that they are the creation of a famous artist, the ‘divine’ Alcimedon (caelatum divini opus Alcimedontis, the work of the divine Alcimedon, in bas-relief, 3.37). He specifies that they are not for everyday use, but are collector’s items that he keeps carefully tucked away (necdum illis labra admovi, sed condita servo, I have not yet put my lips to them, but keep them put away, 3.43). Again, these motifs are borrowed from Theocritus, and on one level they are to be read as transmutations of Homeric values: where Homer’s heroes cherish gifts of ancient pedigree handed down from the chivalrous past and glory in exchanging these totemic artifacts among one another, Theocritus’ rude mechanicals participate in a similar gift economy, but on a much reduced scale. Moreover, Theocritus’ goatherd for his part is something of an aesthete, and Vergil’s shepherds, in imitation of him, are able to discuss the aesthetic values in quite specific terms. But Vergil introduces an additional sophistication: Damoetas himself has a pair of cups very similar to those of Menalcas, the work in fact of the same artist (D. et nobis idem Alcimedon duo pocula fecit, The very same Alcimedon made two cups for me, as well, 44). He treasures his own cups just as much as Menalcas does his, a point that Damoetas drives home by repeating Menalcas’ words exactly (line 47 = 43), thus suggesting that the cup, both of which in a sense he includes in his own poem. For more on this relationship see Farrell (1997) 224–228. 15 In the earlier poem, Damoetas mentions a pair of cups on which is depicted the figure of Orpheus; and in Eclogue 6 as well the philosophically eclectic cosmogony with which Silenus begins actually quotes the beginning of the cosmogony sung by Orpheus himself in Apollonius’ Argonautica. Further Orphic motifs are found in his song, particularly Silenus’ enchantment of the landscape in 27–30 and the surprising attribution of similar powers to Hesiod in line 71. These references invite the reader to consider Orpheus in both passages as an emblem of ‘philosophical poetry,’ particularly in the form of natural philosophy. Furthermore, it seems apparent that the Orphic label (whatever else it may be doing) helps to prevent the philosophy involved from being identified with any individual school or sect. On Orpheus and ‘scientific’ poetry see Ross (1975) 23–27, 66, 70, 93–96, 105.

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two pairs of cups are not just equivalent but virtually identical. Having read this, we realize it was already suspicious that the unique cup described by Theocritus’ goatherd had become the pair of cups wagered by Damoetas: the motif of doubling hints that the cups, however much Menalcas and Damoetas may value them, may not in fact be masterpieces but comparatively run-of-the-mill products. This hint is corroborated when Menalcas states that the cups are not worth the heifer that he had himself already staked (48). Here the debate goes beyond pure aesthetics to raise the question of converting aesthetic value into economic value. 16 This motif is present in Theocritus as well, but it is presented (in keeping with the placid tenor of the Theocritean world) unproblematically: Thyrsis’ song is beautiful, well worth the promised cup. But in Vergil, even two of Alcimedon’s cups are not worth a heifer; and it is not made clear, once Menalcas and Damoetas have finished their contest, which of them is the better singer—or even if either of them is any good at all. 17 Questions are thus raised about aesthetic value per se, about the convertibility of aesthetic value into economic value, and so forth. These are questions that readers of the Eclogues—particularly the members of the patron class (such as Pollio, whom Vergil compliments later in this poem as both a discerning reader and a stylish writer 18)—must have found unusually interesting, since they were in a position of acting upon them all the time. But the poem is content merely to raise these questions, without providing any answer to them. In spite of the critical aporia with which the third Eclogue concludes, aesthetic value is a central concern throughout the collection, a special issue being the value of song, not just in the world of bucolic fantasy but in the world of the poet himself, who lived in a time of civil war, wholesale dispossession, and summary execution. “Our songs,” laments Moeris in Eclogue 9, “have as much power compared to the war god’s weapons as do swans compared to an attacking eagle.” 19 The poems allude repeatedly to a Theocritean world in which song is sufficient—a world 16

Farrell (1992). The fact that Palaemon declines to adjudicate the match (Ecl. 3.108) could imply a negative judgment on both efforts [so Servius ad Ecl. 3.111, followed by Perret (1961) 44 and Leach (1974) 181]; although he goes on ironically to pronounce them both worthy of the prize (Ecl. 3.109), he adds that the same is true of anyone who will feel the pangs of love (Ecl. 3.109–110). Note that his criterion is depth of feeling rather than technical accomplishment. 18 Ecl. 3.84–87. 19 Ecl. 9.11–13. 17

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effectively created by and for song—only to expose that world as a pleasant but utopian fiction in comparison to the one in which Vergil’s readers actually lived. This sober elenchus is philosophical in a very general sense, but it can also be connected to a more strictly defined (once again) aesthetic debate. Like Theocritus, Vergil in the Eclogues makes much of the connection between poetry and music. His shepherds are singers and pipers; they make beautiful sounds. A great deal of emphasis is placed on this idea and on the close resemblance of the shepherds’ artful singing to the beautiful sounds of artless nature; and this emphasis could reflect theoretical debates regarding the proper criteria for judging, and presumably composing, poetry. Such debates, which involved the idea that the main, proper, or only criterion for judging a poem was how it sounded, and that such considerations as what it said or whether it was even intelligible were of secondary, little, or absolutely no importance, were characteristic of Hellenistic philosophy. 20 The early history of euphonist theory is difficult to reconstruct; in particular, we cannot say whether Theocritus composed with reference to this debate. But Vergil, writing in the thirties B.C., might have opportunistically treated the considerable emphasis that his model placed on beautiful sound per se as a reason for alluding to these ideas in his reworking of the genre. According to this logic, Theocritus’ ‘green cabinet,’ in virtue of what can be regarded as its hermetically secure selfreferentiality, would align itself more closely (even if tendentiously on Vergil’s part) with the non-referential, content-free aesthetic of the euphonists, while the comparative realism of Vergilian bucolic, in which the pastoral pleasance is invaded by historically identifiable political and military forces, would expose the limitations of any literary or critical approach that did not take content more seriously. 21

20

Most of what we know about this debate comes from Philodemus’ treatise On poetry, which is very largely concerned to rebut the euphonists. On the possibility that Philodemus’ views influenced Vergil and some of his contemporaries, see the Appendix to this paper. 21 To be clear, I am not suggesting that Theocritus was a euphonist or that he himself intended his poetry as an intervention in the euphonist debate. Indeed, it is not clear whether this debate had really even begun to take shape at the time when Theocritus wrote. The point is rather that Vergil may be seen as interpreting a key Theocritean motif in the light of an intervening philosophical debate in which Theocritus can have taken no part; for a similar case cf. n. 15 above. This is of course a standard way of interpreting earlier poetry developed especially by those critics who regarded Homer as anticipating all subsequent philosophical speculation.

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The evidence examined so far establishes a few important points. The Eclogues do allude to philosophical questions. Some of these are fundamental and perennial questions having to do with metaphysics, physics, and natural science, while others are of more limited and even topical import. Some issues are raised overtly and even ostentatiously, others almost covertly or, at least, casually and unobtrusively. Some philosophical topics are unmistakably connected with the names of individual philosophers or schools, while others are not. No general effort to be consistent is in evidence; indeed, where two different philosophical perspectives are overtly combined, the desired effect may be that the reader should notice the incompatibility between the two perspectives. But ancient critics attempted to explain the philosophy of the Eclogues as they did other elements in the poems, by referring them to what they thought they knew about Vergil’s biography; and they attempted to resolve any philosophical inconsistencies by misrepresenting his philosophical sources and by imagining that his own philosophical views and allegiances developed over time in ways that the poetry allowed them to trace. As we shall see, these same principles inform Vergil’s subsequent work and its reception. 22

Philosophy in the Georgics The unexpectedly prominent appearance of natural philosophy in Vergil’s earliest poetry anticipates a dominant theme of his subsequent work. David Ross has shown that the four-element theory of physical philosophy, which was influential in many areas throughout antiquity, is of capital importance in the Georgics. 23 Throughout this poem, the play of opposites—hot and cold, wet and dry, and the manifestations of these principles in earth, air, fire, and water—informs the structure of Vergil’s discourse from the level of diction and imagery to the largest argumentative and organizational structures. But while these motifs are pervasive, they are deployed win ways that are often paradoxical and generally not in keeping with rigorous philosophical exposition. As Ross demonstrates, when the Georgic poet teaches how to increase a field’s fertility, he recommends burning the stubble that is left after harvesting, an effective measure, as the poet says, either because the fire 22 Aesthetics is a very frequent theme in the Eclogues (see e.g., 3, 5, 7, 9.32–36). Other traditional topics of philosophical inquiry in the collection include the nature of the gods (1.6–8, 40–41, 3.60–63, 5.56–80, 9.46–50), divination (1.16–17), geography (3.104–105), and botany (3.106–107); see further n. 25 below. 23 Ross (1987).

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contributes to the soil some fortification that we cannot sense or else because it drives out any excess moisture (Geo. 1.84-93): saepe etiam sterilis incendere profuit agros atque levem stipulam crepitantibus urere flammis: sive inde occultas viris et pabula terrae pinguia concipiunt, sive illis omne per ignem excoquitur vitium atque exsudat inutilis umor, seu pluris calor ille vias et caeca relaxat spiramenta, novas veniat qua sucus in herbas, seu durat magis et venas astringit hiantis, ne tenues pluviae rapidive potentia solis acrior aut Boreae penetrabile frigus adurat.

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(Often has it been useful to set infertile fields ablaze and to burn the light stubble with crackling flames: whether because from this treatment they conceive hidden potencies and rich nourishments, or else because every defect is cooked out of them by the fire and useless moisture sweats away, or because that heat opens up more pathways and invisible channels whereby moisture may find its way into new plants, or else hardens and closes up yawning passsages, so that light rainshowers or the excessive strength of the withering sun or Boreas’ piercing chill might not burn them.)

The play of opposites in this passage—hot and cold, wet and dry— clearly derives from philosophical principles that are familiar from Empedocles, among others. 24 At the same time, we see that the passage employs the common expository technique of multiple explanation, which is exuberantly exploited by Lucretius, among others. If we think back to the combination of Lucretius and Empedocles in Eclogue 6—where, as we have seen, the two philosopher-poets are to be identified through readerly inference, and not by authorial declaration—we will notice that a similar combination of incompatible elements is at work. In the Georgics passage Vergil even seems to call attention to the fact that something unusual is at work; for the quasi-Lucretian multiple explanations that he offers here are not merely different from one another, and so equally likely to be right. Rather, they are as pointedly opposite to one another, in quasi-Empedoclean terms, as can be imagined. Such a passage hardly seems designed to indicate philosophical allegiance, one 24

Ross does not believe that Vergil’s use of these principles points to Empedocles in particular as a major source of inspiration [(1987) 71–72] but one could at least say that here is an area of common ground between Vergil and Empedocles. See further below, n. 33.

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way or another. A more likely inference is that Vergil wished not to pass on to his readers any specific philosophical truth, but simply to combine certain characteristic topics of philosophical speculation with characteristic tropes of philosophical argument as components of an essentially poetic, not philosophical, discourse. It goes without saying that such gestures could only be made by a poet who was familiar with philosophical discourse, and they would be lost on a reader who was not familiar with this discourse, as well. But it does not follow that the poem should be expected to present a coherent philosophical perspective. Offering precisely contradictory explanations for a single phenomenon is one indication to the contrary. And there are many others in the poem. 25 It is obviously tempting to see Vergil’s extensive use of the fourelements motif as evidence for an interest in Empedocles specifically. Ross however regards the four-element theory as residing in, as it were, the public domain, and not as the intellectual property of any particular philosopher or school. This is in keeping with his preference not to regard Vergil as the adherent or the opponent of any particular philosophy or school; and in general he must be right. By the same token, the use of multiple explanations, while frequent in Lucretius, is common to other philosophers. As we have just seen in the Eclogues, Vergil is eclectic in his use of philosophical and other sources. Without question, one of his aims was to couch his agricultural teachings in language that would recall the hard-headed, proverbial wisdom of Hesiod and Cato, the metaphrastic tours de force of Hellenistic masters like (especially) Aratus, the gentlemanly humanism of scholars like Varro, and the more strictly scientific perspective of philosophers such as Aristotle, Theophrastus, and many others. 26 So, on the one hand motifs like the four elements and

25

Contradictions and false statements in the Georgics have been noted since antiquity and often accepted as if true even by those who knew better, such as Columella, in deference to Vergil’s poetic authority (e.g. Res Rustica 1.4.4, 3.10.20, 3.12.5, 6.27.5–7). The elder Pliny was occasionally more independent (e.g. NH 17.19, 27, 120). Seneca recognized that Vergil’s purpose was to delight readers rather than to instruct farmers (Epist. 86.15). On the early imperial reception of the poem see Wilkinson (1969) 270–272. In any case, blatant contradiction of common knowledge is not uncommon in the poem: see, e.g. Ross (1987) 104–128; Farrell (1991) 115–120. 26 For the purposes of this discussion I define ‘philosophy’ a bit narrowly according to modern notions, but in ancient terms the Georgics are in fact quite heavily indebted to fields such as botany and zoology, geography, astronomy, and other subjects now considered sciences but in Vergil’s time branches of philosophy. I exclude these areas from discussion to make the point that even without them the

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multiple explanations can be regarded first as generally philosophical motifs. But on the other hand it is obvious that Empedocles and Lucretius have their specific roles to play, as well. The question is, just what are these roles? At the end of book 2 when the Georgics poet discloses his ambition to comprehend the great philosophical topics of cosmology and celestial mechanics, he hints at his own sense of inadequacy in Empedoclean terms: he fears that the blood circulating within his chest may be cold, and his mind therefore unequal to the intellectual challenges of natural philosophy. 27 This is a specific and pointed reference to a doctrine that Empedocles is not known to share with any other philosopher. Similarly, in the makarismos of philosophers that immediately follows (Geo. 2.490– 502) many have seen a reference to Lucretius in particular, and this, too, is difficult to deny, because it cites Lucretius’ avowed goal of eliminating the fear of death by disclosing the causes of things, and it does so in unmistakably Lucretian language. The poem of course is full of such language; but just as Ross has argued that the ubiquity of the four-element theory throughout the Georgics does not make the poem an Empedoclean tract, neither does the prominence of Lucretian language, imagery, and ideas make it a referendum either on Lucretius or on Epicurus. It is certainly true that Vergil sometimes uses Lucretian language to make a point that goes directly against the teachings of Epicurus; and the makarismos has been adduced as a case in point. 28 In it two types of person are praised. First is the felix who is familiar with the causas rerum and—what points especially to Lucretius’ Epicurean gospel—has overcome any fear of death, particularly the legendary torments of the mythological underworld, and on this basis is exalted as a figure of almost unattainable intellectual achievement (490–492). He is contrasted with the fortunatus, the farmer-poet whose knowledge involves a more traditional piety and acquaintance with the gods of the countryside (493–502). This contrast, in combination with some testimony drawn from the vita tradition, has led some critics to argue that the Georgics contains the record of Vergil’s gradual abandonment of Epicureanism as a way of life. 29 Georgics remains a philosophical poem in the same sense as the Eclogues and the Aeneid. 27 Empedocles DK31 B105; Cic. Tusc. disp. 1.19; Hor. Ars Poet. 464–466. 28 Farrington (1963); Hardie [(1986) 40–46] more judiciously speaks of a ‘remythologization’ of Lucretian motifs in the Georgics, a reversal of a signature Lucretian technique, rather than of philosophical disputation as such. 29 Klingner (1967) 271–272. For a characteristically balanced and persuasive view of the matter see Perkell (1989) 43–44.

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But the extensive and complex Lucretian intertextuality of the Georgics cannot be reduced to such simple terms, nor is this naively biographical interpretation of the passage at all persuasive. 30 In the first place, it is hardly legitimate to regard Lucretius as merely a stand-in for Epicurus. The fact that so many readers have seen both Lucretius and Empedocles as points of reference at the end of book 2 itself argues against this. We have already seen that this pointed combination of Lucretian with Empedoclean motifs is found both in Eclogue 6 and in the contradictory explanations about the benefits of plowing in Georgics 1. And, as many have noted, Lucretius himself, in his generally scornful doxography of representative pre-Socratic philosophers, treats Empedocles with a level of respect and even deference that stands in sharp contrast to his demolishing of Heraclitus and Anaxagoras. In addition, David Sedley has made a convincing case that Lucretius actually begins the De rerum natura as if it were to be an Empedoclean poem and that Cicero, in his famous comment on Lucreti poemata, recognized the gesture. 31 It is still impossible to say that one understands entirely what Lucretius means by aligning himself to this extent with Empedocles, or with any philosopher other than Epicurus. At a minimum, however, his strategy must have something to do with an effort to define his own place in a tradition of philosophical poetry. And if that is the case, it would only make sense to infer that Vergil was both aware of what Lucretius was doing and that in the Georgics he is following suit. To be sure, the poet’s wistful meditation on the unlikelihood of his ever writing a truly philosophical poem in the manner of Lucretius or Empedocles is significant in a variety of complex ways. But among these ways is not, I would suggest, any possibility that he is announcing his abandonment of or opposition to Lucretius or Empedocles in particular, either as poets or as philosophers. Nor, if one considers the substantial presence of philosophy in the Aeneid (as we shall do presently) can we infer that Vergil is renouncing any pretension to the composition of philosophical poetry in the broadest sense. I would venture the suggestion that this passage does draw a distinction between Vergil’s project in the Georgics and those of both Lucretius and Empedocles; or, to put it another way, that it distinguishes the Georgics as a philosophical poem from the kind of philosophical poem that both Lucretius and Empedocles produced. And if one asks what kind that might be, a possible answer is that both of Vergil’s great predecessors used poetry in the service of communicating a single, specific, coherent 30

On Lucretius’ centrality within Vergil’s allusive program in the Georgics see Farrell (1991) 169–206; Gale (2000). 31 Cic. ad Q. fr. 2.9.3; Sedley (1998) 1–34, with further references.

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philosophical system. This insight permits the inference, which comports with what we have already observed, that Vergil’s purpose was to write a poem that could be understood as philosophical without committing himself to any particular philosophical system. Again, the ancient commentaries provide a useful perspective. Despite a general conviction on the scholiasts’ part that the poetry in some sense does or should reflect Vergil’s personal beliefs, there is a considerable awareness that his poetic goals required an eclectic approach. In his comment ad Geo. 1.243, for instance, Servius notes that “just as the views of the philosophers differ, so Vergil as well says different things.”32 Many of the philosophical references that Servius adduces involve the Epicureans (DServ. ad Geo. 1.247, 1.252, 2.478, 4.219; Serv. ad Geo. 3.525, 4.51), but some of the other philosophers and schools that he considers relevant are the ‘physici’ in general (Servius ad Geo. 2.483, 2.484, 2.490, 4.51, 4.399), including Thales (ad Geo. 4.363 with cross reference to 4.381; cf. DServ. ad 4.379 and (discussed above) ad Ecl. 6.31) and Heraclitus (ad Geo. 1.86); the Pythagoreans (ad Geo. 1.107; DServ. ad 4.219); the Stoics (ad Geo. 4.219); Theophrastus (DServ. ad Geo. 3.280); Plato (ad Geo. 4.153); and finally “Cicero and all the other philosophers” (ad Geo. 1.72). A few of these passages may involve wishful thinking on Servius’ part, but the majority stand up as likely references to philosophical motifs and ideas. 33 However, unlike Servius’ reading of Eclogue 6 as a biographical allegory, his Georgics commentary is relatively free of biographical exegesis. 34 This may help to explain why he takes Vergil’s frequent references in the Georgics to different philosophical schools entirely for granted and feels little need to reconcile them with what he or others may think about the poet’s own beliefs. Indeed, even Servius’ awareness that Vergil moves back and forth between agreement and disagreement with the Epicureans in particular occasions 32

“et sicut variae philosophorum opiniones sunt, ita et hic varie loquitur” (ad Geo. 1.243); cf. his comment ad Geo. 1.72. 33 To be sure, we can sometimes identify a more specific or a different source from the one that Servius names, particularly when he uses a general word like physici to identify a distinctive theory. For instance, having correctly identified the various topics of natural philosophy that the Georgic poet says he would like to be able to sing as aspects of “physicae philosophiae” (line 1 ad Geo. 2.483), in his comment on the very next line Servius goes on to identify the distinctively Empedoclean concept of mind (see n. 24 above) as being described “secundum physicos” (lines 1-2 ad Geo. 2.484); cf. ad Geo. 4. 51 34 Traces appear only in a few comments evidently meant to rebut the contentions of the obtrectatores that Vergil, as an Epicurean, should not have incorporated other philosophical perspectives into his poem: see nn. 36–38 below.

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no surprise. 35 For instance, in commenting on the effects of the plague ad Geo. 3.525 he raises the possibility that Vergil writes in accordance with the Epicurean doctrine against conventional religion. 36 But ad Geo. 1.252, where the heavens are said to contain signs of things to come, he observes that the passage is written against the Epicurean doctrine. 37 In both passages the tone is matter-of-fact, and betrays no anxiety about orthodoxy or even consistency. In just one passage (Geo. 4.219), which I have quoted as an epigraph to this paper, does Servius allude to the fact that Vergil adopts contradictory positions regarding Epicureanism, noting that some readers had faulted him for doing so (or, more accurately, for departing occasionally from what they took to be his personal Epicurean beliefs). But here Servius goes on to say, quite sensibly, that Vergil’s practice as a poet is simply to weave the opinions of different philosophers into his exposition, and that one should not automatically assume that he was in fact an Epicurean, even if in the sphragis to the Georgics he emphasizes the otium he enjoyed while living at Naples (DServ. ad Geo. 4.219). And in the note that follows on Geo. 4.221, Servius puts into practice his assumption regarding Vergilian philosophical eclecticism, explaining that Vergil’s account of the bees reflects his understanding of natural philosophy (in the form of the four-element theory) and his conviction that bees partake of divinity in some form—both of these positions that are incompatible with Epicureanism—but that he makes his case by arguing from analogy in the manner of Lucretius. 38

35

Pro: DServ. ad Geo. 1.247, 2.478; Servius ad 3.525; contra: DServ. 1.252, 4.219. Servius ad Geo. 3.525: “Quid labor aut benefacta iuvant si neutrum mortem repellit, nec corporis exercitium nec mentis religio: nam si generalis est sententia, secundum Epicureos contra religionem est; si autem tantum ad bovem refertur, hoc dicit: quid ei prodest labore suo aluisse mortales?” (What good is hard work or good service if neither thing staves off death, neither bodily effort nor spiritual piety: for if the expression is a general one, it accords with the Epicureans’ antireligious stance; but if its reference is only to the ox, he means this: what good does it do him to have sustained by his own labor those who must die?) 37 Servius ad Geo. 1.252: hinc tempestates id est ex hac causa, ex hac ratione astrologiae, ex hac temporum scientia vel siderum observatione. et hoc contra Epicureos, qui dicunt acervum stellarum sine causa esse…. (From this the storms that is from this cause, this regular movement of the heavenly bodies, from this knowledge of the seasons or observation of the stars. And this is against the Epicureans, who say that the mass of stars exists without cause…). 38 Servius continues this line of reasoning in his notes on 4.221, where he cites Aen. 6.724 on the concept of a world soul, and DServ. ad 4.226 (nec morti esse locum), where the idea that “there is no place for death” is compared to Lucretius’ 36

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Philosophical allegoresis is, however, a much more important factor in the Georgics than Servius realizes, and in ways that go beyond references to elements and atoms or to Empedocles and Lucretius in particular. The key figure, in fact, is Homer. The poem’s finale, the Aristaeus epyllion, is composed almost entirely out of episodes from the Iliad and the Odyssey that had been interpreted by critics as allegories of natural philosophy. 39 Recognizing this fact does much to explain why the Georgics, a poem that owes so much of its form and content to “didactic” poets like Hesiod, Aratus, and Lucretius, concludes with miniature epic in the heroic mode. The point is that Homer, too, was widely interpreted in antiquity as a philosophical poet, indeed as the source of all philosophy as well as of all poetry. 40 We have already seen that Vergil may well have had this tradition in mind in Eclogue 3 when he included topics of natural philosophy in his imitation of Theocritus’ cup ecphrasis from Idyll 1. By doing so, Vergil acknowledges that Theocritus’ model, Homer’s ecphrasis of Achilles’ shield, had itself been explained by critics as an allegorical image of the cosmos. In the Georgics as well a sophisticated program of Homeric allusion combines Iliadic and Odyssean references with allusions to other, more frankly philosophical authors in preparation for the stunning, revelatory finale. But in the Eclogues natural philosophy is a motif that appears only occasionally, even if unmistakably and prominently, and in passages where the dominant concern is rather with aesthetics; whereas in the Georgics natural philosophy is a fundamental theme throughout. In this way it simply makes sense to infer that Vergil’s eclectic deployment of philosophical motifs and ideas conform to and support his literary objectives rather than serving any end in themselves.

Philosophy in the Aeneid If the Eclogues acknowledge in passing the idea that Homer was a philosophical poet, and if the Georgics concludes with an ambitious reference to this idea, then Vergil had ample reason, simply in virtue of the still more ambitious Homeric program that he follows in the Aeneid, to make philosophy one of the epic’s central themes. And he begins the Aeneid accordingly. The storm scene of book 1, as Michael Murrin has well shown, casts Juno in the allegorical role assigned to her by Homer’s critics as the element aër—or, as Murrin more gracefully puts it, as Queen statement (DRN 1.671) that the death of anything really involves nothing more than the dissolution and redistribution of its atoms. 39 Farrell (1991) 253–272; Morgan (1999). 40 Buffière (1956); Murrin (1980); Lamberton (1986); Hardie (1986).

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of the Air. It is of course true that Juno’s motivations and her methods in the Aeneid are many, but there is no denying that, especially in books 1–5, her manipulation of the elements, and especially of air as the medium of storm and tempest, describes a vast and thematically central sphere of influence. In a less dramatic but highly symbolic sense, it is now generally appreciated that Iopas’ song at the end of book 1 is modeled not just on Demodocus’ tale of Ares and Aphrodite in Odyssey 8 but on an exegetical tradition that regarded Demodocus’ song as an allegorical cosmogony: in keeping with this line of interpretation, instead of an adulterous love story Iopas sings an astronomical poem. 41 This is a clear signal to the reader that Vergil’s Homeric imitation involves not just the Iliad and the Odyssey but the philosophical ideas imputed to them, signaling the particular importance of exegesis that regarded both poems as symbolic representations of natural philosophy. 42 For this reason, then, readers must be open to finding a philosophical subtext at virtually any point in the Aeneid where Homer is a factor, which is to say, in any given line, word, or syllable. And the breadth of philosophical exegesis that was lavished on the Homer was by no means confined to physics: all areas of philosophy were thus available to Vergil for integration into his Homeric program. Accordingly, it is impossible to attempt anything like a complete or even a reasonably adequate survey of the topic in an essay of this brief compass. Instead, I shall examine a few passages that are of special importance from this point of view. First among them is the end of the epic, where Aeneas’ furor has been correlated with anger as a topic of ethical philosophy. 43 And more broadly, the behavior not only of Aeneas, but also of such characters as Dido, Latinus, and Evander has been evaluated in terms of ancient kingship

41

Empedocles again comes into play, as Demodocus’ song was allegorized as a representation of Love and Strife (Heracl. Quaest. Hom. 69.7–8). See Knauer (1964) 168; Hardie (1986) 83–84; Farrell (1991) 258–261; Nelis (1992); Morgan (1999) 94–96. 42 Not incidentally, the theme of the second song of Demodocus in Odyssey 8, the song that Iopas’ cosmogony ‘replaces’ in Vergil’s scheme of Homeric aemulatio, is the same as the song sung by Clymene among her sister nymphs in Georgics 4 (and so one of the passages involved in the presentation of Homer as a philosophical poet in the Aristaeus epyllion), while some of the actual lines in which the epic narrator summarizes Iopas’ song actually quote verses in which the Georgic poet expresses his desire to encompass the most sublime topics of natural philosophy (Geo. 2.478–482). For discussion of this relationship see especially Nelis (2004). 43 Galinsky (1988), (1994); Putnam (1990); (1995) 201–245; (2011).

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theory, another ethical topic. 44 Frequently in such matters it is up to the reader to draw the connections: in contrast with other intertextual relationships, specific verbal indices (other than words like ira and rex) are generally scarce. And in general, Vergil’s narrative intersects most clearly with particular philosophical topoi rather than with the specific tenets of any particular school. 45 Efforts to identify Vergil’s treatment of such topics as ‘anger’ and ‘kingship’ with the teachings of any single school are, while instructive, ultimately unconvincing. And no wonder. The abundant philosophical commentary on Homer as a teacher of morality and ethics gives these and related themes an amplitude and a range that no single conceptual or sectarian framework can contain. 46 The Aeneid fully reflects this fact. Nor is philosophy itself necessarily the point. There should be no doubt, for instance, but that the hugely over-determined theme of ‘anger’ would loom large even if Achilles’ menis in the Iliad were its single point of reference. But it is nevertheless true that Vergil’s entire Homeric agon is powerfully and inescapably conditioned by a long and varied tradition of philosophical meditation on the emotions, on politics, on the cosmos, and on the fate of the soul that either illustrate or draw examples from the poetry of Homer. In general, it seems most productive to regard any apparently clear-cut references to philosophical principles in the manner of Leitzitate, the word used by Knauer to designate those ringing and unmistakable quotations of Homer that orient Vergil’s reader as to the general narrative context of the Iliad or Odyssey on which a given Vergilian scene is modeled. The point is that the Leitzitate, while indicating a general frame of reference, do not establish a total equivalency between Vergil and his model. So with references to philosophical ideas: Latinus may be a paradigm of the bad king and Mezentius of the tyrant, but in the first place this is true from many philosophical points of view. In the second place even these characters are not entirely one-dimensional; even if bad kings—even if they are Mezentius!—they are not entirely unredeemed as human beings. 44

Cairns (1989) 29–84. In a few cases individual passages or characters may align more or less exactly with a particular philosophical position. For instance, Cairns [(1989) 58–84] has argued that the behavior of Turnus defines him as more or less a type of the ‘bad king’ from the perspective of virtually any philosophical school. But most cases are not so simple. 46 This perspective is reflected in the ancient opinion that Homer was the source of all philosophy and indeed of all knowledge, which is most clearly expressed in the ‘theoretical discourse’ that formed part (chs. 92–160) of the essay De Vita et Poesi Homeri falsely ascribed to Plutarch: see the edition with translation and introduction by Keaney and Lamberton (1996) esp. 19–27. 45

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This being the case, still less can kingship theory be applied mechanically to the far more complex cases of Dido and, especially, Aeneas, whether in terms of sectarian allegiance or those of behavioral paradigms. Where allusions to particular schools are found, we should not be surprised to find that a philosophical point established in one episode is inconsistent with what we find elsewhere. For instance, when Ascanius and his counselors offer Nisus and Euryalus lavish rewards for their willingness to take a message through enemy lines to Aeneas, Lucretian intertextuality permits (or rather demands) the inference that the Trojan leaders are acting in a fundamentally misguided way. Here, as I have suggested elesewhere, Vergil seems to write as if he were an orthodox Epicurean. 47 But of course in other passages he is anything but. This is certainly the case in what must be considered the most ambitiously and explicitly philosophical passage in the poem, Anchises’ discourse on the fate of the soul, a passage in which even internal consistency and orthodoxy are conspicuously, even spectacularly absent. The language of the passage, as has been seen, contains more than a hint of Lucretius. 48 And once again Empedocles appears in the form of the four-element theory of the physical universe. 49 But the content is neither Lucretian nor Empedoclean. Instead it is heterogeneous to the point of incoherence, although the context encourages the reader to understand Anchises’ teachings within a predominantly Platonic and Pythagorean frame of reference. 50 But here, perhaps more than anywhere else, the intertextual relationships involved are more complex than one can account for by appealing to any one source. In the first place, as in the case of Aeneas’ Iliadic anger, so too for his Odyssean catabasis it is Homer who provides the overarching conceptual framework, while contributions from other sources provide philosophical perspective and commentary on the Homeric narrative. Plato’s “Myth of Er” was extremely prominent in this regard; and if we admit this much, 47

Farrell (1997) 234–236. See e.g. Norden (1927) 309 ad Aen. 6.723 ff. or Austin’s introductory note to lines 6.724–51 [(1977) 221]. 49 Air appears in the form of caelum, earth straightforwardly as terras, water in the epic periphrasis camposque liquentis, and fire as the ether that feeds the heavenly bodies, the lucentem(que) globum lunae Titaniaque astra (Aen. 6.724–725). 50 And in fact, Platonism is quite prominent throughout the poem, as the ancient critics noticed: in Servius’ Aeneid commentary Plato is cited more frequently than any other philosopher. The majority of these citations, sixteen in all, come from the Aeneid; and within that poem the citations are not evenly distributed, but tend to cluster in book 6, specifically where Anchises explains to Aeneas the process by which the souls of the dead are purified before being returned to new bodies. 48

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then a very strong reason for the character of Anchises’ discourse, other than an intellectual commitment to Plato per se, immediately suggests itself. Here, as others have seen, the influence of Cicero’s Somnium Scipionis—the conclusion of his dialogue De republica and, as such, the Roman correlative of Plato’s “Myth of Er”—must have been crucially important for its success in adapting Platonic eschatology to a Roman frame of reference. 51 It is therefore an easy inference that allusion to this text involves Vergil not only with ideas and motifs that are original to Cicero, but with Cicero’s interpretation of Plato, as well. 52 Significantly, this interpretation includes the idea that Plato’s philosophy was heavily influenced by Pythagorean ideas—an idea that Cicero articulates through the persona of Scipio Aemilianus not in the Somnium, but much earlier in the dialogue in a position that seems to give it programmatic importance. 53 The idea that Cicero bequeathed to Vergil a Pythagorean conception of Plato is borne out by the fact that in almost every passage where Servius detects Platonic influence it is influence of a sort that is compatible with Pythagorean teachings. This is the case not only in book 6 but in other parts of the poem, as well. For instance, when Venus, disguised as a huntress, encounters her son in book 1, she says: “Whoever you are, I hardly think as you live and breathe that you are not dear to the gods above (caelestibus, Aen. 1.387), having arrived at the city of the Tyrians” (Aen. 1.387–388). According to Servius, “[Vergil] said ‘the gods above’ in accordance with Pythagoras and especially with Plato, who confirm that the living are dear to the gods above and the dead to those below.” 54 And several other comments indicate that Servius was highly disposed to think of Plato in Pythagorean terms. 55 But this is only what one should have expected. Quite apart from any specific lines of influence, Vergil’s predecessors had made philosophical commentary on the project of composing a Homeric poem into almost a 51

Note that the Somnium Scipionis concludes the six-book structure of De republica, just as Aeneas’ catabasis concludes the six-book structure of the first half of the Aeneid. 52 Within the phrase ‘Cicero’s interpretation’ I include elements that Cicero himself learned from others. On this subject I have learned much from Bishop (2011). 53 Cic. Rep. 1.15–16; see Bishop (2011) 84. 54 Servius ad Aen. 1.387: “caelestibus autem secundum Pythagoram et praecipue Platonem dixit, qui confirmant vivos esse superis caros, mortuos vero inferis.” 55 Servius actually names Pythagoras elsewhere only ad Aen. 3.68, once again in connection with the fate of the soul, but this time to distinguish Pythagoras’ conception of palingenesis from Platonic metempsychosis, ad 5.95, where there is no mention of Plato, ad 6.136 (golden bough), 6.295, and 10.564. On this subject in general see Setaioli (1995).

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constitutive element of the epic genre. Ennius had adduced Pythagorean doctrine in support of his claim to be Homerus redivivus; Lucretius had cited Epicurean theory to deny any such possibility. 56 Anchises’ discourse contains traces of both these interventions. 57 It is true that Platonic traditions, particularly those deriving from the “Myth of Er” by way of Cicero’s Somnium Scipionis, give Aeneas’ catabasis a powerfully Platonic color. But Anchises’ discourse is no more coherently Platonic than Silenus’ song in Eclogue 6 is coherently Epicurean. Rather, in both passages Vergil accesses these along with other strands of philosophical inquiry in order to acknowledge the place of philosophy in the Roman epic tradition, not to articulate a coherent philosophy, and still less to assert his own, personal beliefs. Of course, the conception of the soul’s fate that is presented in book 6, while rich in Platonic and Pythagorean ideas, is nevertheless contaminated (in the literary sense) by motifs that are un-Platonic or un-Pythagorean and, in some cases, are even inconsistent with or repugnant to those philosophies, as we have already seen—to say nothing of the fact that Anchises’ entire discourse—magniloquent, inspired, and full of hypsos as it undoubtedly is—is so incoherent in other regards. The point of the passage is to be magniloquent, inspiring, and full of hypsos, not to be intellectually consistent or coherent. In fact, the philosophy that it contains is so spectacularly confused that we more or less have to conclude either that Vergil was shockingly muddle-headed about such matters or else that it was not his purpose to state a coherent philosophical position. And, as should go without saying, the fact that this philosophy is articulated by a character, Anchises, and not in the persona of the author or even of the narrator, obviously argues against ascribing these views to Vergil himself.

56

Ennius Ann. frs II-XIII Skutsch; Lucr. DRN 1.102–135. For instance, Anchises launches into his discourse with the consummately Lucretian word principio (used to begin an argument over thirty times in DRN) and then immediately introduces the motif of the four Empedoclean elements: caelum (air) ac terras (earth) camposque liquentis (water) / lucentemque globum lunae Titaniaque astra (fire), Aen. 6.724–725. He goes on of course to introduce the Stoic concept of a world-soul in which all creatures partake (726–727) and then a number of other concepts that are mainly compatible with Stoicism but are phrased in such a way as to indicate their Platonic or Pythagorean origins: see Austin (1977) 220–221 ad Aen. 724–751. 57

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Philosophy in Vergil’s career Vergil’s consistency in placing at the center of all his works such highprofile episodes, each infused with celebrated philosophical topoi, is perhaps chiefly responsible for his reputation as a particularly philosophical poet. All three works allude to natural philosophy as if by synecdoche for philosophy as a whole, and they connect this theme with the even more sublime one of eschatology. And the differing character of these interventions is probably responsible in no small part for the idea of ancient biographers that it is possible to trace Vergil’s philosophical development from a relatively detached Epicurean perspective through a period of increasing engagement to an inspired stance of vatic apocalypsis. A brief passage in a version of the life ascribed to Donatus (the Vita Donati aucti) describes just this line of intellectual development in the following terms: “he attended Siro’s lectures on Epicurus’ teachings, and had Varius as a fellow devotee of that doctrine. And although he inserted the opinions of diverse philosophers into his works, at heart he would himself seem to be an Academic more than anything else: for he preferred Plato’s ideas to all others.” 58 Like Servius’ comment on Ecl. 6.31, this passage acknowledges Vergil’s philosophical eclecticism, but attempts to circumscribe it within a more coherent set of dominant beliefs that, ex hypothesi, developed over time, framing it with reference to the poet’s interest in two specific doctrines, those of Epicurus and Plato. The vita does not say explicitly that Vergil began as an Epicurean and ended as a Platonist, but it is consistent with this idea and seems to suggest as much. The assertion that he and Varius attended Siro’s lectures agrees with what Servius says about Epicureanism (and about the identities of Siro, Vergil, and Varus lurking behind the personae of Silenus, Chromis, and Mnasyllus) in Eclogue 6. The statement that follows, that Vergil “inserted the ideas of many philosophers into his work,” reflects the flexible attitude that characterizes the Georgics commentary and in particular the summary statement on Vergil’s philosophical eclecticism that Servius makes ad Geo. 4.219. Therefore, although it is possible to read the concluding statement of the vita as attesting the author’s belief that Vergil was fundamentally a Platonist all through his life, it seems at least equally likely that it refers to the prominence of Platonic motifs in key passages of the Aeneid, not least

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Audivit a Silone [Syrone Vulg.] praecepta Epicuri, cuius doctrina socium Varum [Varium Vulg.] habuit. et quamvis diversorum philosophorum opiniones libris suis inseruisset, de animo maxime videatur ispe Academicus: nam Platonis sententias omnibus aliis praetulit (Vita Donati aucti 79), Brugnoli and Stok (1997) 119.

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of them Anchises’ discourse on the fate of the soul, where the majority of Servius’ references to Plato occur. But we can consider this progression from the perspective of genre rather than that of biography. In all three of Vergil’s major works, the center of the poem (or collection) contains a meditation on questions of the most elevated kind, fashioned in a manner appropriate to the poem’s genre. Regarding first the topic of natural philosophy, we have seen that Eclogue 6 presents this theme in the form of a cosmogony sung by Silenus, father of the satyrs. In Georgics 2 we find a comparison between the felix and the fortunatus, the intellectual masters of physical philosophy of rustic wisdom, respectively. And in Aeneid 6, the structure of the universe is actually explored by the poem’s hero, who undertakes a journey, in the manner of predecessors such as Odysseus, Hercules, and others, to the land of the dead, where he listens to a philosophical discourse that explains that structure even more fully. The specific philosophical conceptions of the physical universe that appear in these three passages do not necessarily agree with one another, nor indeed is any of them rigorously consistent with itself. The point is never to rehearse a specific dogma, but to outline a more generally, and generically appropriate, philosophical frame of reference. In Aeneid 6 we find a fully developed discourse on the fate of the soul involving death and rebirth in various forms including, for some, release from the cycle of metensomatosis to a godlike existence in the Elysian fields. Eclogue 6 and Georgics 2 do not address such eschatological questions, but they do arise in immediately adjacent poems or passages. In Eclogue 5 Vergil commemorates the death and apotheosis of the shepherd Daphnis. 59 In Georgics 3 he looks forward to celebrating the victories of Caesar (the future Augustus), whose divinity as a result of those victories is a theme that runs through the poem from beginning to end. In the Eclogues, then, Daphnis and Silenus, two exceptional figures who nevertheless stand for different aspects of the idealized pastoral landscape, seem to suggest that Vergil’s bucolic poetry might be read allegorically for its philosophical content, an eminently sensible point to make in a pair of poems that look beyond the boundaries of the pastoral genre as traditionally conceived in order to give some sense of larger possibilities. In the Georgics a makarismos of philosophers and farmers followed by a celebration of Caesar’s triumph similarly underlines the poem’s central themes, namely that traditional wisdom about practical farm operations 59

The motif of the death of Daphnis relates Ecl. 5 to Ecl. 3 (and both to Ecl. 10) via their common model, Idyll 1.

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does in fact rest on the same scientific principles as does the structure of the cosmos, and that the poem’s instruction in both modes is in some sense instruction about (and perhaps of) the man who will not merely run the farm, but rule a state of world-wide dimensions and world-historical significance. In the Aeneid, then, it only makes sense that the hero’s journey to the underworld—a traditional epic locus of revelation— becomes the setting for a far-reaching physical and eschatological discourse. And it is hardly surprising if this discourse is tailored to the requirements of a heroic journey undertaken in the service of a nationalist conception of destiny.

Conclusion Philosophy in Vergil is not an end in itself but a device that serves his immediate literary purposes rather than those of systematic, intellectually consistent speculation about metaphysics, physics, ethics, aesthetics, or what have you. It is therefore almost certainly a mistake to read Vergil’s major works as tracing his philosophical development from a materialist to a spiritual orientation and from detachment to engagement. It may be that Vergil himself did undergo some such intellectual evolution, but from an evidentiary point of view we are simply in no position to draw this conclusion; and we should resist the temptation to do so, in view of the strong possibility of confusion and circularity that biographical criticism introduces into the interpretive process. A more secure position would be that the poems describe a philosophical rota parallel to the literary one that traces Vergil’s ‘ascent’ from humbler to more sublime genres. The issue of personal belief is interesting in this regard. The position recommended here would not imply that Vergil actually believed any of the philosophies that he drew into his work, any more than he ‘believed’ in pastoral, but not in epic, when he composed the Eclogues and in epic more than in pastoral when he composed the Aeneid. Whatever other inferences we may be able to draw, references to particular philosophical doctrines or schools should be interpreted broadly as references to philosophy itself, as if the manifestly different opinions about important questions that define the various philosophical schools were in the end less important than a regard for philosophy as the discipline within which such questions could be properly formulated and discussed. To convey this intellectually generous attitude, Vergil cultivated a high degree of philosophical eclecticism informed by and subordinated to specifically literary goals.

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Appendix: Vergil and Philodemus The idea that Vergil was or at least started out as an adherent of Epicureanism derives from the ancient vita tradition. 60 But in 1989 evidence appeared linking Vergil and others in Maecenas’ literary circle to the Epicurean philosopher and teacher Philodemus of Gadara. I refer to a papyrus fragment (P. Herc. Paris. 2) of a treatise On flattery, an essay dealing with the need for poets in particular to resist false or insincere praise, in which Philodemus addresses Vergil, Quintilius, Varius, and Plotius by name in the vocative case, which means that they are quite probably the joint dedicatees of the work. 61 Horace more than once names all four men as his friends, and ancient commentaries on Vergil’s works together with the vita tradition assign L. Varius Rufus and T. Plotius Tucca quite specific roles in Vergil’s literary biography. 62 Further, Horace’s policy in his Sermones of delivering friendly criticism (ridentem dicere verum, 1.1.24) has been linked to a position developed by Philodemus’ teacher Zeno of Sidon as summarized in Philodemus’ own treatise On freedom of speech (in effect, a complement to the treatise On flattery). 63 In addition, another treatise by Philodemus, entitled On death, may have been the inspiration for Varius’ mysterious poem of the same title. 64 These circumstances certainly make it easier to believe that Vergil and his friends once belonged to an Epicurean sodality. Their own friendship was evidently enduring, and we have no definite indication that any of them ever broke with the philosophy of the Garden. It would of course go without saying that each would have put his Epicurean beliefs into practice in his own way; and it can also be said and should be stressed that this would not have precluded devoting one’s best energies to pursuits that were frowned upon or even condemned by Epicurus himself or from developing an interest in and borrowing from other philosophical systems. With regard to Vergil, Nicholas Horsfall and Francis Cairns have summarized the situation very well. As Horsfall notes, “The depth of Vergil’s personal commitment to Epicureanism remains altogether a

60

See n. 1 above. Gigante and Capasso (1989). 62 For a brief but impressive overview of the case for Philodemus’ influence at Rome see Sider (1995) 42–45. The case is argued at greater length and from many perspectives (not all of them persuasive, however) by Armstrong et al. (2004). 63 De Witt (1935); Michels (1944). 64 Rostagni (1959) 386–394. 61

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mystery.” 65 Similarly Cairns: “Although Vergil was a pupil of Philodemus ... and although his work reveals knowledge of Epicureanism, it shows no signs of strong or exclusive commitment to Epicureanism. Rather, Vergil’s keen interest in philosophy went hand in hand with a deliberate withholding of allegiance to any particular school.” 66 One could leave it there, but I would like to gloss Cairns’ formulation in two small but, I think, important ways. First, to say that “Vergil was a pupil of Philodemus” runs the risk of exaggerating Philodemus’ importance to Vergil’s intellectual development. 67 That may not be what Cairns intended; but in any case I think it would be closer to what the evidence allows if one just said that Vergil was probably well acquainted with Philodemus and his teachings, almost certainly from reading his treatises and quite possibly from attending lectures and even participating in more intimate conversations, as well. But it certainly seems unlikely that Vergil’s knowledge of or perspective on philosophy as a whole derived solely or even principally from Philodemus. One could cite many reasons for this, but an important one is that Philodemus is an exceptionally hostile doxographer, while Vergil’s poetry, far from exhibiting a polemical spirit when it comes to philosophical questions, instead presents a broad and sympathetic knowledge of and interest in the characteristic ideas of a large number of philosophical schools. My second friendly amendment to Cairns’ formulation tends in the opposite direction. I do not believe that we can confidently speak of Vergil’s “deliberate withholding of allegiance to any particular school.” I agree that an impartial survey of Vergil’s works from a philosophical point of view suggests as much; but we cannot and should not assume that the purpose of his poetry was to disclose (or, for that matter, to conceal) his personal beliefs. The poetry, read as poetry, gives us no reason to assert or to deny that he considered himself a committed Epicurean (or anything else) at any point in his life. To some these points will seem obvious, and to others trivial; but the tendency to interpret the philosophical content of Vergil’s poetry in light of what we think we know from external sources is inveterate. Reading 65

Horsfall (1995) 82. He continues, “That he studied with Philodemus now [i.e. in the light of P. Herc. Paris. 2] seems clear … but we are as far as ever from understanding his beliefs, and the degree of Epicurean thought reflected in the text….” This is exactly right. 66 Cairns (2004) 314. 67 Horsfall’s way of putting it (see n. 65) seems to me to represent the nature of the student-teacher relationship in a way that avoids going beyond what the evidence warrants.

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Vergil with a preconceived idea about his personal philosophical beliefs is a procedure fraught with adverse consequences in all its aspects. In terms of literary history, for instance, some influential perspectives on Vergil in the late nineteenth century translated his supposed rejection of Epicurus into a rejection of Lucretius as well. This view of the matter became very influential, and for a long time tended to oversimplify a complex and fascinatingly dynamic literary relationship. In terms of political commitment, rejection of Epicureanism has been regarded as one aspect of Vergil’s growing enthusiasm for Augustus, while to some continued allegiance to Epicurus has seemed to betoken a stance of personal independence or even resistance. But we have learned in recent years not to confuse the Romans’ interest in philosophical questions with a desire for ideological consistency. 68 Cicero tells us repeatedly that he had little use for Epicureanism, but this did not prevent him from occasionally citing Philodemus with approval; nor did this approval prevent Cicero from excoriating the man when the occasion demanded, as he does in his speech for the prosecution of the philosopher’s patron, C. Calpurnius Piso. 69 The point is not that Cicero had no core philosophical beliefs, but rather that what he had to say about any given philosopher or philosophical question might be influenced by any number of concerns seemingly extraneous to philosophy per se. One of these was literary genre; and it is my contention that in Vergil, as well, philosophy is generically conditioned in a way that precludes any possibility of determining the poet’s core beliefs by scrutinizing his poetry. In addition—and the point does bear repeating— the elements of Vergil’s intellectual biography that are embedded in the ancient vita tradition are, in effect, a novelistic tissue of inferences drawn solely, or nearly so, from Vergil’s poetry, rather than a body of independent testimony grounded in fact; and the appearance of philosophical development over the course of Vergil’s career is an illusion created by his celebrated ‘ascent’ from the ‘humble’ to the ‘middle’ and, finally, the ‘elevated’ style in epic poetry.

68

Useful remarks in Feeney (1998) 12–46 on compartmentalization. Compare his condescending remarks at Pis. 68–72 with the more flattering reference at Fin. 2.119. 69

CHAPTER FOUR HORACE’S EPICUREAN VOICE IN THE SATIRES 1 DAVID ARMSTRONG 1. Epicurean, Philodemean and Lucretian intertextualities in Horace: An overview ǔ(Njʐ  ǠǣǗ˜Ǔ ǎʌ ǡǛ˜ǝǒNjǓ ǔNjʐ ɟǖǏǓǕljNjǓ Ǟ˜Ǔ ǚǛʒǜ ȢǕǕLjǕǙǟǜ ˸ǑǞLJǙǗ· Ǚɪ ǍʊǛ ǖˍǕǕǙǗ ǏɪǎNjljǖǙǗNjǜ ǔ(Njʐ ȢǎǓNjǕǧǞǙǟǜ ǗǙLjǝǙǖǏǗ, ǠǑǝlj, ǖʎ ǠǣǗǙ˹ǗǞNjǜ ǖǑǎ̧ ȢǕǕLjǕǙǓǜ ǎǓNjǕǏǍǙǖLJǗǙǟǜ, ȢǕǕʊ ǞǙ˪ǜ ȲǗǏǙ˪ǜ |ȢǗǒǛǨǚǙǓǜ ɟǖǙljǙǟǜ· Ǟ̆Ǔ ǍʊǛ ɢǗǞǓ ǠǣǗ˜ ǡǛǣǖLJǗǣǗ ȿǖ̆Ǘ, ɣ[ǝǙǓ] ǖLj ǞǓ ǚǏǚǑǛǨǖǏǒNj, ǞǙʔǜ ǒǏǙʔǜ ɀ ǚǏǚǑǛ̆ǝǒNjǓ ǕLJǍǏǓǗ ɀ ǖʎ ǔNjǞʊ ǞǙſǟſǒ̧ ȿǖ˪Ǘ ɻǖǙǓ̆ǝǒNjǓ, ǖǑǎ̧ ȳǞſ[LJǛ]ǣſǜ ǖǑǎǏǞLJǛǣǗ ȲǔǔǙǚǞǦǗǞǣǗ ȢǗNjǠǒLJǍǖNjǞNj, [ǔ(Njʐ @ ɫǚǏǛǏǧǑǒǏǜ, Ȧ[ǕǕǣǜ ǞǏ] ǔ(Njʐ  Ǟ˜ǜ ǚǛ(ʒǜ  ǞǙʔǜ ɟǖǙljǙǟ[ǜǜ] ǞǙ˪ǜ ǝǚǙǟǎNjljǙ[Ǔǜ] ǔǙǓǗǙǕǙǍljNjǜ ȦǠNjǞǙǗ ȿǎǙǗʎǗ ǔNjǞNjǡǏǙǧǝǑǜ (Philodemus, On the Gods III 13.36-14.6 Diels= =Hermarchus fr. 32 Longo) (...we must claim that (the gods) both use language and converse with each other; for we cannot conceive them as the more happy or the more imperishable, he [Hermarchus] says, by their neither speaking nor conversing with each other, but resembling human beings that cannot speak. For in fact since we use language, at least those of us who aren’t somehow disabled, it is very silly indeed that the gods should be disabled, or unlike us in this respect, or that either (gods or men) are disabled from discourse in any other way. And particularly since, for good human beings, 1 I owe many thanks to David Konstan and Myrto Garani for commissioning this essay and seeing through its various stages and especially to Myrto for her help as editor. All remaining faults are of course my own. Thanks also to the Princeton Center for Hellenic Studies, where I was Research Fellow in spring 2012, for providing a wonderfully helpful setting in which to research and write it. All translations of Greek and Latin in verse and prose are my own. In the quotations from Philodemus’ On Anger the text is that of Indelli (1988) which neither my autopsy of the original nor my reading of the MSI photographs has altered.

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Chapter Four the sharing of discourse with people like themselves showers down on them indescribable pleasure). 2 ƬɮǛǓǙǗǏɎǜǕǓǞLjǗǝǏǔNjǕǓdžǎNjǠljǕǞNjǞǏƻǏljǝǣǗ ȲǘȲǗdžǞǑǜȷǕǔǏǓǖǙǟǝǙǠǓǕʎǜȷǞNjǛǙǜ ǏɎǔdžǎNjǎǏǓǚǗljǐǣǗȲǗǓNjǧǝǓǙǗyǏɎ ǎ̧ȢǚǙǕǏljǢ˚ǜ ǙɮǒNjǞNjǔNjʐ ƭǛǙǖljǙǟǡǓǙǍǏǗ˜ ǚǛǦǚǙǝǓǗ ȢǕǕ̧ȳǞdžǛǙǟǜɢǢǏǓǚNjǗNjǕǑǒLJNjǜȢǕǕ̧ȲǚNjǔǙǧǝ˚  ǀNjǓLjǔǣǗǍNjljǑǜǚǙǟǕʔ ǖǏǕǓǡǛǦǞǏǛNjy ɂǗǎLJǚǙǞǏǝǞǛLJǢ˚ǜǔNjʐ ȲǜȿǖLJNjǜɢǖǖNjǞNjƻǏljǝǣǗ ȦǘǙǖǏǗȲǔǕǓǞ˜ǜǏɎǔdžǎNjǚǓǙǞLJǛǑǗ (Philodemus Epigrams 27 Sider = G-P 23=AP 11.44) (Tomorrow, dearest Piso, to his simple hut, from three p.m. on, your learned companion will draw you, for our annual dinner, the Twentieth; there will be no rich Roman sow’s udders or toasts in expensive Chian, but completely faithful companions and things to hear sweeter than anything in the Phaeacians’ island. Indeed if you turn your propitious eye on us also, our Twentieth will turn from simple to grand style.) o rus, quando ego te adspiciam quandoque licebit nunc veterum libris, nunc somno et inertibus horis ducere sollicitae iucunda oblivia vitae? o quando faba Pythagorae cognata simulque uncta satis pingui ponentur holuscula lardo? o noctes cenaeque deum, quibus ipse meique ante Larem proprium vescor vernasque procacis pasco libatis dapibus. prout cuique libido est, siccat inaequalis calices conviva solutus legibus insanis, seu quis capit acria fortis pocula seu modicis uvescit laetius. ergo sermo oritur, non de villis domibusve alienis, nec male necne Lepos saltet; sed, quod magis ad nos pertinet et nescire malum est, agitamus, utrumne divitiis homines an sint virtute beati, quidve ad amicitias, usus rectumne, trahat nos et quae sit natura boni summumque quid eius. (Horace Sat. 2.6.60-76) (O my country place, when will I see you, when will they let me, now with old books, and now with sleep and idleness,

2

For a fuller discussion of the Epicurean gods’ friendships as described in this and other passages of On the Gods 3, see Armstrong (2011) 126-128.

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breathe happy oblivion of all the City’s worries? When will Pythagoras’ cousin the bean and other plants, suitably garnished with hamfat, appear on my table? O evenings and meals of the gods! at which I and my friends can feed before my own Lares with my pert farm slaves, and when we’ve tasted the meal, just as each one likes, my guests mix their own measures of wine and water, free from the crazy rules of symposiarchs, strong cups for the strong and weaker if that’s their pleasure. Discourse between us is not about houses and villas that other men own, or Lepos’ style in ballet: what concerns ourselves most, what we really must know, we talk about: does riches or wisdom make human beings happy? and what draws us to friendships: profit? good character? and the nature of what is good, in its highest form.)

The relationship between these three passages is obvious enough. Philodemus’ gods in On the Gods III seek each other out, not for whatever analogue for food or drink they live on in outer space, 3 but conversation first and foremost, the greatest pleasure of friendship. Their friendship has no basis in need, only in pure delight. That the gods are friends Philodemus—or rather Epicurus’ immediate disciple Hermarchus, whom Philodemus is paraphrasing and citing for most of the later columns of On the Gods III—has established earlier in the book: “So that, even if association for the supply of external needs to make them live together is not there, the gods share their affections”, and that though “each of them is independently capable of providing himself with the most perfect pleasure.” 4 In epigram 27 Sider, Philodemus’ patron Piso, a senator of consular rank, is asked to grace a dinner of Epicurean philosophers who rank as his comites, ‘companions’, on the 20th, the day of Epicurus’ birthday, and a favorite day for the school’s feasts. (Piso’s daughter Calpurnia, Julius Caesar’s wife, had an Epicurean freedwoman Anthis who named her own son Ikadion, ‘Mr. 20th’. 5) Neither the food nor the wine are fit to take 3

I am happy to take, with Konstan and Essler among others, the ‘realist’ view that Epicurus thought the gods actually existed in the intermundia; cf. Konstan (2011) 57-60; Essler (2011) passim, with my review in BMCR (2013). But for the purposes of this paper, the idealist’ view that they are mental constructs [e.g. Sedley (2011)] would do just as well. 4 Cf. Armstrong (2011) 126-127. 5 See Armstrong [(1993) 200-201 n. 29] on Calpurnia’s and Anthis’ Epicureanism. I should have added that, according to Plutarch, Caesar was amazed at Calpurnia’s prophetic dream on the night before the Ides of March (Caes. 63.7) “because he

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center stage, only conversation between faithful ‘companions’, that is, among Epicureans who zealously keep up the practical side of their friendships: conversation that rivals Demodocus’ and Odysseus’ entertainment of the Phaeacians. 6 That includes, as Sider comments, Epicurean instruction 7—like the topics at Horace’s dinner. If Piso is happy with the occasion, that will be the true luxury of the feast. It is both more philosophical than the Phaeacians’, and though less “rich” in calories and style, more Callimachean, more ǕǏǚǞǦǜ and ǕǓǞǦǜ. Thus Philodemus signalizes himself—as Horace does often (see below)—as an ‘Epicurean/Callimachean’ in his poetic loyalties. Philodemus’ epigrams were extremely popular with contemporaries. Cicero, who attempts to propitiate Philodemus by exempting him from his sweeping condemnation of Piso’s whole life and career in Against Piso (written when Horace was 10 in 55 B.C.), assures the Senate that he considers some of them so amusing and so well known to everyone literate that, were not more serious matters in hand, they would be worth reciting by heart as part of his speech (ex quibus multa a multis lecta et audita recitarem, many of which I could recite, for many of you have read and heard them, In Pis. 71). One of the best-known epigrams was certainly 27 Sider. Sider says in his commentary “[t]hat this poem would give rise to a mini-genre in Latin” (the ‘invitation to a simple supper’) “probably never entered Philodemus’ mind.” But Philodemus probably already knew, to judge from Catullus’ tribute to it (c. 13), that it was considered one of his best. I am one of those who believe that Horace’s present tense in quoting another (lost) epigram, Philodemus ait (Sat. 1.2.121), “Philodemus says”, means that Philodemus was still alive in 35 B.C. (more reasons to think so will appear in this chapter), when the first book of satires was published, and Horace was thirty. Philodemus was born about 110 B.C. He might even have lived until the second book of satires was published in about 30 B.C. At least, a triumph poem in Latin for Octavian’s victory at Actium in 31, de bello Actiaco, was found among or near his books (P.Herc. 817). But far more than Catullus, Horace helped make 27 Sider, the “invitation to a simple supper,” 8 the foundation of a mini-genre that lasted till the had never seen any womanish superstition in her before”—which makes it likely there was a tradition that her father’s (and therefore Philodemus’) Epicureanism had influenced her also. 6 On the Epicureans’ (and Horace’s) habit of comparing themselves complacently to the Phaeacians, and its resonance in Augustan poetry, see Gordon (1998). 7 Sider (1997) 153. 8 Philodemus’ epigrams influenced Catullus and Horace at many a crucial point; some key examples: 1 Sider > Catullus c. 85, 5 Sider > Horace Epist. 1.7.25-28,

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days of Martial and Juvenal. This was clearly a favorite poem of his, because it combines ‘Callimachean’ brevity and simplicity, seen as the splendor of finely wrought poetry of moderate length and unpretentious in style, with the Epicurean topos of simple food and splendid conversation about philosophy, thus killing the two birds of literary theory and philosophical allegiance with one stone. 9 ‘Simple’ (ǕǓǞǦǜ) and ‘rich, highstyle’ (ǚljǣǗ) suit both philosophical and literary style. For Philodemus, I mean, but the point hardly escaped Horace either, and is behind his many imitations and fillings-out of the famous original. These do not stop with the poems Sider lists by any means: Epist. 1.5 to Torquatus, a wealthy jurist, whose family had Epicurean traditions dating back to the Torquatus who is the defender of Epicureanism in Cicero de Finibus 1-2 and to that Torquatus’ father, who was also an Epicurean; Carm. 1.20 to Maecenas; and especially Carm. 4.12, a touching invitation to Vergil to come to an Epicurean supper before death comes for him, the point being that Vergil is now (13 B.C.) several years dead, and his Aeneid a classic echoed— along with Lucretius—in nearly every poem of the fourth book. There is more: Reitzenstein saw long ago (and Hendrickson backed him up in a classic article of 1918) that the last ode of the first book, Carm. 1.38 Persicos odi, is as daring a tribute to Philodemus’ poem as Carm. 4.12: a simple, epigram-length dinner-invitation by Horace to himself, celebrating his own Epicurean philosophy and his Callimachean book of odes in exactly the manner of Philodemus 27 Sider. 10 1.14.36 (as Sider [(1997) 80] notes “in a passage praising simple, Epicurean pleasures”), 2.2.211-216 (another such); 6 Sider > Horace Carm. 1.38; 16 Sider > Horace Carm. 2.5 [Macleod (1983) 245-261]; 22 Sider > Horace Sat. 1.2.119-122; the invitation poems discussed in the text, 27 and 28 Sider. Of course all Philodemus’ epigrams are as unambiguously, and strictly, Epicurean in intent as his prose: Sider (1997) v, et passim. 9 The locus classicus for Horace’s ‘Callimachean-Epicurean’ style is Mette (1961): mensa tenuis, genus tenue. But the ‘Epicurean’ side of Mette’s equation (except so far as it indicates relaxed attitudes to life and love) is neglected in comparison to the ‘Callimachean’ [or just ignored as in Bramble (1974) 162-165]. Now that we can check out Philodemus’ full arguments for literally the middle style in household management in Tsouna’s text and translation [On Property Management, ed. Tsouna (2012) cols 12-28] an unusually well preserved stretch of text in which there is at least a passage per column whose intertextualities with Horace and other Augustan poets of the middle style are now ripe for exploration [Tsouna (2012) text 32-77, commentary 93-102], that situation should change. 10 Hendrickson (1918) 32-43. Reitzenstein (1908) 81-97 at 95-97 (for ‘simple feasts’ among Callimachean-Epicurean friends cf. also AP 11.34 = 6 Sider); for Philodemus’ influence on Carm. 3.28 as a ‘Gegenbild’ ibid. 98.

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Therefore, I think, the simple ‘primitive’ feast at the Sabine farm in Sat. 2.6 can be interpreted as interacting both with Philodemus’ poem, and the ‘friendly’ country feasts of Lucretius DRN 2.29-33 (modern Epicurean friends), and with Lucretius’ pointed literal repetition at DRN 5.1392-96 (the earliest feasts of friendship among the first generations of primitive men to observe the ‘social contract’, which gave birth to the earliest music, metre, poetry and song). Therefore they also interact with Lucretius’ sources for book 5—that is, ultimately, Epicurus himself. The Sabine farm is a locus for primitive simplicity, friendship in its original meaning, and simple but good food. Horace calls these feasts noctes cenaeque deum (Sat. 2.6.65) because, like Philodemus’ gods, the guests are there not out of need of anything served to them—they too could eat as well at home, and libatis dapibus (the food once tasted, Sat. 2.6.67), implies they did not eat all that much—but for intelligent conversation. The passage gains a new dimension if we see it as a profession by the speaker of allegiance to the Epicurean theory of what the gods and their friendships are like. That is the point of Sat. 2.6 as a whole. Horace’s Sabine Farm is already, in this first description of it—though it was mentioned first, strictly speaking, as the setting of Sat. 2.3—not just the home of poetic simplicity and the simple lifestyle, but the ground of his philosophical and ethical being. In Rome, friendships have to be maintained for profit and power: in Epicurus’ theory, human friendships begin in mutual utility, and the search for security, ȢǝǠdžǕǏǓNj by and from the help, goodwill and approval earned from other human beings, Ȳǘ ȢǗǒǛǨǚǣǗ. Horace’s responsibilities as scribe of the quaestors, and iudex selectus, and a channel for petitions and requests to Maecenas, and his uncomfortable position as a possible source of news on high-level politics, make his business-day in Rome tiring and compromising. Even in private conversation with Maecenas the conversation is limited to trivialities like the shows and the weather, not the high matters his acquaintances imagine. But, as Epicurus’ theory would require, he attends the law courts and the committee meetings of scribes, and presents the petitions to Maecenas, but keeps his friend’s secrets intact. 11 In the country things are different. The food is simple and the conversation is high-minded, passing over theatrical and financial gossip for serious questions of philosophical ethics; and the moral is drawn by the fable of the Country Mouse and the City Mouse. The expensive luxuries of the city are accompanied by mortal danger, the reverse of ȢǝǠdžǕǏǓNj Ȳǘ 11

On ‘safety’ (sourced) ‘from human beings’ as an Epicurean ideal see Roskam (2007) 38.

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ȢǗǒǛǨǚǣǗ, security won from friends, which is the Epicurean ideal: instead city life risks damage from enemies: njǕdžnjǑȲǘȢǗǒǛǨǚǣǗ (fr. 536 Usener = Diog. Laertius 10.117). Not even harmlessness and virtue can hope to avoid this risk entirely. Only by retiring to a country lifestyle akin to that Lucretius describes for early civilized man, who had just discovered the virtues of family and friendship at once, can one experience at least a shadow of the life and friendships of Philodemus’ gods, friendship not for use but pure pleasure. Fraenkel and Nisbet-Hubbard (and now Nisbet-Rudd), among others, take it for granted, as did Dryden of old, that Horace was an Epicurean sympathizer and at some points a devoted one, and means to be understood as such throughout his poetry. So did Hermann Diels. 12 These are not light-armed allies. But there is always resistance to exploring the intertextualities between Horace’s poetry and the texts of Epicurus and Philodemus in prose as thoroughly and confidently as we expound those with Archilochus or Alcaeus or Sappho or Callimachus, or with Lucretius as poet, or even Philodemus’ epigrams. So let’s review some evidence. Philodemus addressed at least two of his ethical treatises to his four devoted students, (1) Vergil, (2) Varius Rufus (whose poem De Morte echoed both Philodemus’ greatest prose work On Death and Lucretius, and every verse of which we have survives 12

On Diels see the citation from Diels (1916-1917) below, n. 21. For NisbetHubbard (1970) 1978 (=NH 1, NH 2) and Nisbet-Rudd (2004) (=NR 3) on Horace’s Epicurean stance see e.g. NH 1 xiv-xv, 135-136, and esp. 142 on Carm. 1.11.8 postero; 377 (quoting Dryden’s Preface to Sylvae, (1685) “let his Dutch Commentators say what they will, his Philosophy was Epicurean”); NH 2, 2 (“an Epicurean humanity dominates, though without an Epicurean dogmatism”), 254-55 on Carm. 2.16’s intricate interweaving of Lucretius, NR 3 3-4 on the key Epicurean intertextualities of Carm. 3.1 and 3.29. Eduard Fraenkel speaks of and argues at length twice for Horace’s lifelong ‘Epicurean creed’, Fraenkel (1957) 253-7, 309-311. For Epist. 1, see the further arguments of Fraenkel’s student Colin Macleod [Macleod (1979b)] and the passages of R. Heinze I translate and discuss at Armstrong (2004) 270-272. Excellent as Hardie [(2009) 52-64 and esp. 180-228] is on Horace’s interaction with Lucretius as poet, he follows the majority tradition of scholarship on this topic ever since Weingaertner (1874) a program dissertation with hardly a single mention that Lucretius’ poem has anything to do with Epicurus. Weingaertner [(1874) 45] says of Horace [and Hardie (2009) 180 quotes him approvingly] lucretianum carmen valde amasse penitusque memoria tenuisse (he deeply loved Lucretius’ poem and had it by heart.) But that Horace regarded Epicurus’ ideas, not just Lucretius’ poetry, with approval, or memorized any of Epicurus’ prose (see below on Sat. 2.2 and the Epistle to Menoeceus), never occurs to him.

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because Vergil took it over and reworked it 13), (3) Quintilius of Cremona (whose death Horace marks with a consolatory poem to Vergil, Carm. 1.24, and whom he celebrates as a critic of friends’ verses, Ars Poet. 437451), and (4) Plotius Tucca (who edited the Aeneid with Varius after Vergil’s death). 14 Philodemus’ influence on them was so lasting that the four of them formed an Epicurean circle of friends meeting in secessu ruris to discuss philosophy (and presumably poetry) for many years. 15 As long as he lived Philodemus will have kept up with his quartet of addressees as ‘faithfully’ as with any Romans he knew among the equestrian and senatorial elite. Horace’s Sermones (especially book 1) praise Tucca, Varius and Vergil to the skies and celebrate their successful introduction of Horace into their own circle, which was also Maecenas’. Indeed there may be, in Sat. 1, a running ‘in-joke’ about the quartet. We now can decipher all three surviving Philodemus texts in which they are addressed as mentioning them in the same order: “O Plotius, Varius, Quintilius and Vergil”, as if this was an in-joke of their elegant teacher’s in itself. No accident, then, that Philodemus should be mentioned as a living presence at Sat. 1.2.121, Philodemus ait, just as the ‘simple’ or countrymouse supper and its Lucretian antitype the grandiose city-mouse dinner haunt Horace’s poetry early and late. No accident either that Tucca, Varius

13

Hollis (2007) 254-255 (text), 263-74 (commentary). Körte (1890); Gigante and Capasso (1989). Körte had thought “Horace” (ɤǛdž@ǞǓǏ) was signified by the fragmentary letters—ǞǓǏ in his texts, but Gigante and Capasso found that Plotius (ƻǕǨǞǓǏ) was the right reading: for the whole story Sider 1997, 19-20. 15 Vita Probi (c. 5th-6th century CE): Vixit (Vergilius) pluribus annis … liberali in otio, secutus Epicuri sectam, insigni concordia et familiaritate usus Quintili, Tuccae et Vari. ([Vergil] lived many years in the leisure of a free man, following the Epicurean creed in full agreement and intimacy with Quintilius, Tucca and Varius.) Cf. Hollis (1996) 187, Harrison (2003). This particular detail in the Probus’ Vita must be taken, with Hollis, as independent testimony to the four men’s association in Epicurean study throughout life. It can’t come from a reading of Philodemus’ texts, and Philodemus is not mentioned. Yet the same four names are mentioned independently by Probus as secuti Epicuri sectam. For Varius’s Epicureanism and the relations between his De Morte and Philodemus’ On Death cf. Hollis (1977) 2007, 253-281 at 260 and 263. See also Sider (1997) 19-23, with further literature. But pace Sider and others, we only know that ‘Quintilius’, not ‘Quintilius Varus’ was one of the group: the second name comes from confusion by the scholiasts with the “Varus” of Vergil Ecl. 6.5-12, 9.27-29. Cf. Clausen (1994) 181 (on Ecl. 6.7). 14

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and Vergil play important roles in Sat. 1. The three turn up in Philodemus’ order at two highly significant points in the book, the middle: Plotius ac Varius / Sinuessae / Vergiliusque (Sat. 1.5.40)

and the end Plotius ac Varius / Maecenas / Vergiliusque (Sat. 1.10.81).

The first time, they are the ‘stars’ of the trip to Brundisium, welcomed deliberately as true and devoted Epicurean friends, as they join the trip, in terms that greatly exceed the enthusiasm expressed for Maecenas’ and other grandees’ arrival earlier (Sat. 1.5.27-33). No wonder the poem concludes with what was to be Horace’s most explicit avowal of Epicurean conviction like theirs: namque deos didici securum agere aevum, nec siquid miri faciat natura deos id tristis ex alto caeli demittere tecto. Brundisium longae finis chartaeque viaeque est. (for I know that the gods live a life of non-intervention, nor, if nature performs some wonderful thing, is it sent down by offended gods from heaven’s high roof: that and Brundisium close my trip and my poem.) (Sat. 1.5.101-104: cf. Lucretius DRN 5.82-90=6.56-66)

I would argue that the pervasive Epicurean tone of the whole first book of Satires and its intertextualities throughout with Lucretius, Philodemus and Epicurus himself are intended to be understood as a direct compliment to Vergil, Varius and Tucca, as Horace’s sponsors on entering Maecenas’ circle, and a claim of Epicurean contubernalitas with them. The second time the three appear, in Sat. 1.10, the three, with Maecenas in Quintilius’ metrical place instead of Sinuessa, form part of the ‘cloud of witnesses’ who embody the threat already given in Sat. 1.4 at the end. If you disagree with Horace’s Epicurean-Callimachean poetic theory, and support Lucilius and Crispinus instead, a band of amici will turn up and drive you away (supplying you with ȢǝǠdžǕǏǓNj ȲǘȢǗǒǛǨǚǣǗ, safety “coming from” other men): multa poetarum veniat manus, auxilio quae sit mihi (nam multo plures sumus), ac veluti te Iudaei cogemus in hanc concedere turbam. (Sat. 1.4.141-143)

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Echoing this theme in Sat. 1.4, in Sat. 1.10 Tucca, Varius and Vergil, with Maecenas inserted (in Quintilius’ place?) begin a list of 15 names (and complures alios) of amici who can provide Horace with ȢǝǠdžǕǏǓNjȲǘ ȢǗǒǛǨǚǣǗ in its other meaning, safety ‘from’ his critics. 16 And of course Vergil and Varius are acknowledged elsewhere in book 1 (Sat. 1.6.55), for introducing him to Maecenas; earlier in 1.10.44-45 along with Fundanius and Pollio—bringing the ‘cloud of witnesses’ to 17 named figures); as also throughout Horace’s later poetry (Varius: Sat. 2.8.21 and 63; Carm. 1.6.1, Vergil: Carm. 1.3.6, 1.24.10, 4.12.13; Vergil and Varius together (Vergilius Variusque): Ars Poet. 55, Epist. 2.1.247). To continue with Philodemus’ own influence on Sat. 1: Philodemus’ amused but positive conception of the ‘diatribe,’ as I shall try to show, as we find it practiced in On Anger had a direct influence on Horace’s starting the first book of satires with three ‘diatribes’ achieving the impossible: Callimachean brevity and Epicurean wit, in a form that Horace claims Lucilius and the Stoics practiced with unbearable verbosity and no structure. There are other influences in plenty from Philodemus’ prose in Horace, notably from On Death and On the Good King. 17 But Philodemus’ defense of diatribe form in On Anger, against fellow Epicureans who despised it as being the home ground of Stoics and Cynics, and his brilliant imitation sample ‘diatribe’ on anger to illustrate his point, are at the root of Horace’s ease in handling this inelegant form and (he claims at the opening of Sat. 1.4) making it elegant and Callimachean. Lucretius’ influence on Horace, like Euripides’, is everywhere, and it is all the more pervasive and more impressive almost because Horace directly names neither. Epicurus’ axioms and maxims and those of the other founders of the school like Hermarchus and Metrodorus turn up in new forms in Horace throughout his career, and are featured early and late, in hexameter and lyric poetry alike, as points of reference. In the passage I began with, Sat. 2.6.60-76, we can see all three influences at work. Whatever we should say about Horace’s work later on, 16

For the structure of Sat. 1.4-1.10 as a pair in the ten-poem content of Sat. 1 cf. Armstrong (1995a) and Armstrong and Oberhelman (1995) 237-238, with the introductions to the two poems in Gowers (2012) 147-152 and especially 304-308. 17 It is assumed in Hollis (1977), (1996), (2007) and also Courtney (1993) at 271, 275, 519. Cf. NH 2, 230 (on Carm. 2.14.9). For Philodemus’ On the Good King and Horace Epist. 1.2, see Armstrong (2004).

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I start from a premise which the otherwise profound and searching commentary of Lejay a hundred years ago rejected: Horace was “bien éloigné de se conformer à l’orthodoxie de cette église.” 18 On the contrary, we have to accept that his poetic voice speaks as if he was a professed Epicurean at the time of the Satires and Epodes, because of information, much of it from Herculaneum, which Lejay ignored (or in some cases could not yet have read in 1911). Horace glorifies Philodemus’ quartet of addressees, Plotius, Varius, Quintilius and Vergil, throughout his early and late work, not just as friends but ideal Epicurean friends of his own. He mentions the living Philodemus’ doctrinaire-Epicurean epigrams as a reference point no less respectable than Callimachus himself. His poetry is permeated throughout with references to Lucretius that are most obvious in structurally important points like closures or lengthy paraphrases, not mere allusions to a familiar line or two. It has been objected that a) his intertextualities with ethical philosophy are eclectic, coming from Stoic, Cynic and academic sources as well as Epicurean, which was Lejay’s line of attack; and b) that his practice of the ‘diatribe’ form—the moral sermon—implies a self-awareness of his own moralizing voice as absurdly Epicurean in tone: as an intentionally ridiculous Epicurean preacher, as making Maecenas look absurd for listening to him, even. For persona-theory in Roman satire can go so far as to make out that in Sat. 1.1-3 above all, Horace ridicules both the speaker’s philosophical standpoint and the personal character presupposed by the ‘voice.’ The speaker is an Epicurean but is making philosophy and himself ridiculous, not human vices, by uttering disorganized and absurd ‘diatribes’ against them, a form which Horace thinks has been taken too seriously for too long and wants to deflate by parody. 19 But as my analysis of Philodemus’ manipulation of the form ‘diatribe’ in On Anger will show, it’s the persona-theorists who are being naïve here, not Philodemus and Horace. As far as eclecticism in citing ethical philosophy goes, Philodemus— following the Master’s own example—assents to whole rafts of what he considers well said by all the schools as long as it neither contradicts the

18

Lejay (1911) xxxiv. Turpin (1998). Obviously I agree that the speaker is immediately recognizable as an Epicurean, but don’t agree that “the speaker is, to put it bluntly, a jerk” (123), still less that the speaker portrays Maecenas as an idiot Stoic, idiotically bridling at his friend Horace’s idiotic Epicureanism. But as an account of possible bewildered ancient readers’ first impressions on hearing the first three satires before the rest of the book followed them and set them straight, this is a valuable piece.

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school’s own basic views in tone or content. 20 Another point to keep in mind is that the Epicureans really did preach the moral virtues in an unambiguously tough way as facultative to peace of mind, friendship and pleasure. They taught that that justified an all but Stoic amount of painstaking for friends, and country, and even all of humanity, as long as that goal was kept in mind. To be a person integer vitae and live puro pectore was the way to gain what they called ȢǝǠdžǕǏǓNj Ȳǘ ȢǗǒǛǨǚǣǗ, security from other men: both positive security, because justice, courage, self-control and prudence win love and support from the good among them, and negative security, because such virtues defy the ill-disposed to find fault, and give them no handle for their malice to exploit. 21 Thus a great deal in Horace in particular that seems ‘Stoic’ on a first look is straight from Epicurus’ and Philodemus’ playbooks: not ‘eclectic’ at all. The wise man will indeed defy the tyrant or the mindless mob in utter tranquility, because the record of his life has nothing to disturb him or make him feel he brought their hostility upon them, and because what the truth is about him, whatever the tyrant or the mob may convict him of, is clear to himself and all those who really know him—his real friends. As Hermann Diels saw, that sort of Epicurean teaching is at the root of Horace’s portraits of the dauntless wise man: iustum et tenacem propositi virum non civium ardor prava iubentium, non vultus instantis tyranni mente quatit solida [...] si fractus illabatur orbis impavidum ferient ruinae (Carm. 3.3.1-4, 7-8) 22

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A groundbreaking recent analysis of how the school from the Founder onward edited and creatively adapted other schools’ views into their system is found in Erler (2011). On how to do this, see now On Property Management: Tsouna (2012). 21 Roskam (2007) 35-38. 22 Diels’ comment on On Death 33.37–35.34 is that “(At the beginning of the Second Triumvirate) we know from Philodemus himself that he was running, with Siro, the Epicurean school in Naples and its environs (Herculaneum also is mentioned), and there he influenced not only Vergil, Quintilius Varus [sic: cf. n. 15 above], and Varius Rufus but perhaps also Horace in their studies. If we find Horace shortly afterward in the army of Brutus the tyrannicide, his attitude sprang from the strikingly antimonarchical tendency that Philodemus, the teacher of this circle, showed at that time. If later, when he had made his peace with the Empire,

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(A just man that holds to his purpose: the ardor of mobs commanding crookedness, the face of a tyrant insisting on evil cannot shake him out of his stable mind [...]: if the earth collapses, falling round him, its fall and ruin will strike him fearless…)

Now, we have Philodemus’ On Death in W. B. Henry’s letter-perfect text of it (Henry 2009), and Adrian Hollis’ proofs (to which E. J. Courtney assents) 23 that, along with the diatribe on fear of death in Lucretius 3, it inspired Varius’ On Death, and through Varius, Vergil. With that help it is easy to see Diels was right: the showy and beautiful passage of On Death (33.37-35.34) on how an Epicurean would defy democracies and tyrants influenced Horace also. The wise man condemned “knows that myriads even of the most distinguished have encountered envy and slander both in democracies and at the hands of tyrants” and yet has “the certain knowledge that he will have kept his life unimpeachable and blessed, in total indifference to human gnats however countless” (34.35-35.2). To be integer vitae, insons and purus, is not just practical protection against damage from others and a help in creating friendships: it’s an inner fortress in itself. 24 Now that W. B. Henry has given us the text, we can see that Horace has combined this with Philodemus’ invocation a little further on in On Death of the mortality of the whole universe round us: if remembrance after death is a crucial good everyone who has been, is and will be must be miserable, for when the world collapses—si fractus illabatur orbis—at last no one will be remembered (On Death 35.3436.26). Thus Diels was doubly justified in connecting the opening of Carm. 3.3 with On Death. he thought otherwise, we still hear that note of manly pride before kingly thrones which he strikes in the third Roman Ode, echoing the teachings of Metrodorus and Philodemus. Non civium ardor prava iubentium | non vultus instantis tyranni and the great lines si fractus illabatur orbis, | impavidum ferient ruinae are closely related to the views of the Epicureans as I have explained them above. The less probable it is that Philodemus’ tiresome school-treatises could have captivated Roman youth, the more probable it becomes that tirades like these and not just (as Körte thinks) his salacious epigrams explain the sympathy which Vergil and his circle showed to their Epicurean teacher.” Diels (1916-1917) 122-23, translation and emphasis mine. Philodemus’ Dutch editor Taco Kuiper also singled this passage out for enthusiastic praise and was surprised an Epicurean could have written it: Kuiper (1925) 124-125. 23 Cf. n. 16 above. 24 Armstrong (2011) 113-116.

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2. Philodemus and the self-awareness of Epicurean ‘diatribe’ It is not such grand areas of influence I want to explore. We need to push over-subtle and self-contradictory views of ‘persona’ aside, and see how Philodemus in On Anger conceives the ‘diatribe’ and argues for its compatibility with Epicurean practice, which had been denied by rival Epicureans; see how he amuses his students by raising his voice, changing his style totally, giving them a ‘diatribe’ against anger, ranging from wild rhetoric to a startling passage applying its message to their own daily life in his school; then returning to the dry style of his normal ‘lecture’ voice (“...and now for the Peripatetics”). We need to see how Horace learns from this self-aware and sophisticated, even ‘Callimachean-Epicurean’, vision of the form ‘diatribe’ to compose three short Epicurean diatribes (Sat. 1.13). Their common theme is that the virtues of contentment with one’s lot, avoidance of adultery and sticking to moderate sexual satisfactions that are legal and safe, and above all treating friends with generosity, secure you the ‘safety from men’ that both guards you against enemies, and comes from a pure heart, and the support of faithful friends. We will look at the appearances put in by Vergil, Varius and Plotius Tucca in 4-6 and 10 as poetic and philosophical comrades. Then we will look a little further into 2.6 and 2.7, which were intended to be read or even performed one after the other (the Sabine Farm’s picture is not complete till Horace’s Stoicinfluenced slave Davus has given Horace a ruthless going-over for being no Country Mouse but a City Mouse after all). Horace’s voice is still that of a committed Epicurean in the second book. But a house slave at his Roman house, Davus, has been having philosophy and gossip sessions with the slave doorkeeper of Horace’s Stoic target Crispinus; and his knowledge of Horace’s private life in Rome has given Davus some uncomfortable thoughts to fill out Horace’s pleasant account of the Sabine Farm. Thus Davus is allowed a pretty sharp ‘diatribe’ from the Stoic point of view on Horace’s sycophantic love of City Mouse dinners with Maecenas, his dubious nocturnal adventures in clothes concealing his rank, and his idleness and depression nothing like a Wise Man’s lifestyle—even an Epicurean wise man’s, let alone a Stoic’s. Sometimes it is held (I think wrongly) that Horace’s own title for the Satires, Sermones (sermones...repentis per humum, conversationpieces...creeping low on the ground, Epist. 2.1.250-51) implies that they were meant to be understood as ǎǓNjǞǛǓnjNjlj, ‘diatribes’, throughout, since that’s a possible translation of sermones. Only Sat. 1.1-3 and 2.2, 2.3 and 2.7 fit the ‘diatribe’ form perfectly. The three diatribes in the second book

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are delivered by a newly impoverished landowner who is an Epicurean, and by a bankrupt businessman and a slave of Horace’s own who argue for Stoicism—all three offering reproaches to qualify Horace’s ‘optimistic’ self-portrait as moralist in the first book. That the ‘diatribe’ existed, as a philosophical form of epideictic or display-rhetoric to be contrasted with scholai, formal teaching for professed students of a school; that Philodemus associated it with the Stoics but defended its practice by Epicureans; and that Horace is following in Philodemus’ and Lucretius’ footsteps in practising the form himself, is the argument of the next section. Just as the news of the papyrus at last proving Vergil’s association with Varius, Quintilius and Plotius Tucca, both as students of Philodemus’ and as lifelong followers of Epicureanism, has taken twenty years to gain traction in scholarship (and could still use more), so also the text of Philodemus’ On Anger and a clear and efficient Italian translation, with notes, by Giovanni Indelli has been available for over twenty years. But it still has a somewhat frightening reputation as material too difficult for all but specialists. The best articles on what it contains (or rather John Procopé’s article, and Voula Tsouna’s excellent chapter 25) still deprecate any literary quality it might have, and try to extract its philosophy instead. I am undertaking to re-edit On Anger with a translation and notes in the same series as W. B. Henry’s On Death, and my preliminary studies of it have raised my consciousness of its purely literary qualities. It consists as we have it (the destruction of the first part of nearly all Philodemus’ treatises leaves his introductory statements entirely a matter of conjecture from the later part that survives) of three clearly identifiable parts. After some unimportant fragments of uncertain place in the text, which perhaps Indelli would have done as well to put at the end instead, 39 columns (approximately the last third of the treatise) of continuous text can be recovered, becoming increasingly less lacunose, as is usually the case, as it goes on. Philodemus (cols I 5-VIII 9) argues, in plain and didactic prose, that the ‘diatribe’ is an appropriate vehicle for Epicurean teaching. He says Timasagoras, an Epicurean of the school of Rhodes, probably contemporary with Philodemus’ teacher in Athens, Zeno of Sidon, denies this. In works like Bion of Borysthenes’ On Anger and Chrysippus’ Therapeutikos Logos, book IV of his On Emotions (both 3rd century B.C. classics), Timasagoras argued, nothing is achieved that would be of use in calming an angry man. They “only blame anger” (Ǟʒ ǢLJǍǏǓǗǖǦǗǙǗ): that is, they write in the rhetorical form of psogos or vituperatio, cataloguing 25

Tsouna (2007) 195-238; Procopé (1993).

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every bad thing that can be said about it. 26 This pointless display of epideictic rhetoric, Timasagoras must have implied, could have no use whatever in calming anyone down from actual anger. On the contrary, Philodemus replies. Such vivid and polemical pictures, bringing real-life consequences “right before the eyes,” are parallel to the strongest drugs doctors have in stock, and to the psychomedical use of parrhêsia, total freedom of speech, by philosophical teachers and friends recommended in his own On Frank Criticism. They can cure insanity. It is a pity that a transition line or two is missing here from the papyrus. For when the text resumes (VIII 20-XXXI 24a) Philodemus has already begun a 24 or 25 column diatribic rant of his own against anger which is in a new and far different prose style: emotional, excited, incantatory and implying the loud voice and gestures of the professional reciter. He is giving the presumably delighted and amused class a performance piece to illustrate his meaning. Now the scholai resume (XXXI 24b-L 8). From here to the end Philodemus argues against the Peripatetics (XXXI 24b-XXXIV 6) and against two rival groups of Epicureans (XXXIV 16-L 8), in the same drier and more scholastic tone in which he had discussed the appropriateness of the diatribe, and defines what he considers the ‘natural’ kind of anger, to which even the sage is and ought to be prone. This is easily reduced to a ‘bullet point’ on which in fact all three groups of Epicureans agree. Aristotle had held that anger is an emotion against some particular person (“for example Cleon, not man in general”) which entails the pain of being unjustly insulted, and the pleasure of getting revenge and making the offender know he misjudged in slighting you. If you understood correctly that the person insulted, wronged or slighted you, you have a right to both feelings. 27 The Stoics, as Seneca explains in a famous passage of his own On Anger (De Ira [4].4), thought that, except as brief natural reactions, or ‘first feelings,’ propatheiai, that must be rejected on further reflection, you should feel neither the pain of insult nor the pleasure of revenge. The 26

If we have doubts—see the OCD3 s. v.—about ‘diatribe’ under that name as a genre, we can always fall back on ǢǦǍǙǜ ǔNjǔljNjǜ, ǢǦǍǙǜ ǞǙ˹ ǚdžǒǙǟǜ or the like and follow Philodemus’ lead. The one appearance of the word ǎǓNjǞǛǓnjNjlj in On Anger (‘public discourses’, XXXV 34) is merely further proof that ‘diatribe’ is a modern term of convenience. But since it has come to mean in English a heated and emotional rather than purely rational discourse, ‘diatribe’ does well enough for Philodemus’ implied definition. 27 Arist. Rhet. 2.2.

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Epicureans, and I am convinced that this point of view goes back to Epicurus and his circle, held 1) that the pain of insult is natural and real, in itself an evil, like the surgeon’s knife or a bitter drug, but to be accepted because a greater good comes of it, the righting of wrong and thus the restoration of tranquil pleasure; 2) that a sage should feel it; and 3) that it’s an acceptable spur to the righting of wrongs, because pain is self-limiting. No one voluntarily exaggerates it. That suits the contract that Epicurus taught is “natural justice”, “neither to harm nor be harmed”, ǖʎ njǕdžǚǞǏǓǗ ɀ njǕdžǚǞǏǝǒNjǓ (ƵƯ 33), which is fundamental to human society. But the pleasure of anger (revenge) is unnatural, obsessive and in the end selfdamaging and even suicidal. Some Epicureans, among them another Rhodian contemporary of Zeno of Sidon’s, Nicasicrates, thought that anger, limited to pain as motivation for setting things right, was natural but not necessary, and that a sage would do well to suppress it. Philodemus replies that even Nicasicrates would have to give in to emotions that human nature cannot and need not escape (XL 1-26). Others thought that the sage would be not just angry (ɞǛǍljǐǏǝǒNjǓ) but enraged (ǒǟǖǙ˹ǝǒNjǓ). Philodemus, who feels little rancor against either group of opponents, argues that—‘enraged’ as the Master and his successors could appear on occasion—the word itself for ‘enraged’ in their writings is misleading, because in their day it was more like a synonym for ‘angry’. This alternative to Aristotle and the Stoics’ view has gained some traction in criticism of the Aeneid, because it seems to help explain Aeneas’ reluctant but real yielding to ira and furor on occasion, as opposed to the fiery and self-destructive rages of his youthful adversary Turnus, and even Aeneas’ own immature wish early on to kill Helen while Troy is falling, for the mere pleasure of revenge. Vergil gives us a concrete example of Philodemus’ teaching rendered as the contrasting emotional reactions of a grown-up, and an immature, epic hero. 28 Philodemus’ diatribe has gained no such traction in secondary literature, in spite of the clear stylistic markers that separate it from the rest of the treatise, and from Philodemus’ introduction to it, stating that he recognized that some Epicureans thought a diatribic rant—a ǢǦǍǙǜɞǛǍ˜ǜ or vituperatio irae directed solely against the dangerous joy of revenge— mere rhetoric, useless for therapy of the soul and best left to the Stoics and Cynics: țਗȞ | ȜȑȖȘ ȉȚȝĮıĮȖȩȡĮȢ ਕȞİ|ʌȚȜȠȖȓıIJȠȣȢ Į੝IJȠઃȢ ȖİȖȠ|ȞȑȞĮȚ IJ૵Ȟ ʌĮș૵Ȟ, țĮȓʌİ[ȡ] | ਩ȤȠȞIJİȢ ਥʌȚįİȚțȞȪİȚȞҕ | țĮ੿ IJ૵Ȟ ਕʌȠȕĮȚȞȩȞIJȦȞ | ਘ ȖȞȦıIJ੹ ıĮȡțઁȢ șȘıȩȝİ|ș’, ੖ȝȦȢ, ਥʌİȚį੽ įȑȠȞ, IJȠ૙[Ȣ] | ʌȡȠıijİȡȠȝȑȞȠȚȢ IJȠઃȢ ʌĮ|ȡĮȜȠȖȚıȝȠઃȢ 28

Galinsky (1988); Erler (1992); Fish (2004) 111-138; contra: Fowler (1997).

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Chapter Four ਫ਼ʌȠįİȓȟĮȞ|IJĮȢ, Ƞ੢IJȦ įİ૙ҕ IJ੽Ȟ İੁȜȚțȡȓ|ȞİȚĮȞ ਥʌȚȜȠȖȓıĮıșĮȚ IJȠ૨ | țĮțȠ૨, țĮșȐʌİȡ țĮ੿ ਥʌ੿ | IJોȢ ਥȡҕ[ȦIJ]Țț[ો]Ȣ İੁȫșĮ|ȝİȞ ʌȠȚİ૙Ȟ ਥʌȚșȣȝȓĮȢ. | IJȩIJİҕ [į੽] ʌ઼[Ȟ IJઁ ȜȣʌȠ૨Ȟ Į੝]|IJȠઃȢ ਥȟĮȡȚș[ȝȠ]૨ȝİȞ [țĮ੿] | IJ੹ ʌĮȡĮțȠȜȠȣșȠ૨ȞIJĮ [įȣı]|ȤİȡȑıIJĮ[IJĮ țȠȚ]Ȟҕો, ਩ıIJ[Ț į’੖IJİ | ț]Į[੿ IJ੹ ੁįȓĮȚ ȜȣʌȒ[ıĮȞ|IJĮ țĮțȐ. (VII 6-26] (Even if Timasagoras may say (angry people) become incapable of reasoning about their emotions, easy as it is for us to demonstrate to them what we can establish are the physical results of anger; nonetheless, since we must, it’s by demonstrating their false reasoning to those who are vulnerable to anger that we must vividly present the passion as pure evil, as is also our custom to do in the case of erotic desire. There, we enumerate everything that causes them pain and the most distressing consequences to communal life, and sometimes the very painful personal sufferings)

Therefore Philodemus, like both Horace Sat. 1.2, and Lucretius DRN 4.1026-1287, recognized the diatribe ǚǏǛʐ ȶǛǣǞǙǜ, against the extravagances of erotic love, as well as the diatribe against anger, as useful Epicurean teaching. And gave such diatribes himself. When secure text resumes at VIII 20 we find Philodemus in full, vivid, ‘before-the-eyes’ rhetorical spate: ɻǝ|ǚǏǛǏʐ ǝǟǗǔǏljǖǏǗǙǗ Ȳǘſ| ȲǔǚǟǛǨǝǏǣǜ ǔNjʐ ǎǓǙǓǎLj|[ǝ]Ǐǣǜ ǔNjʐ ǎǓǏǛǏǒǓǝǖǙ˹ | ǔNjʐ njǛǓǖǨǝǏǣǜ ǔNjʐ ǎǏǓǗ˜ǜ | ȲǚǓǒǟǖljNjǜ ǞǙ˹ ǖǏǞǏǕ|ǒǏ˪Ǘ ǔNjʐ ȢǍǣǗljNjǜ, ǏɎ ǎǟ|ǗLjǝǏǞNjǓ, ǔNjǒdžǚǏǛ ȢǚǙ|ǎǑǕǙ˹[ǝ]ǓſǗſ Njɏ ǠǣǗNjʐ ǞǙǞʌ ǖʌǗ ǏſɪǡǙǖLJǗǣǗ ǚǏǛǓǐǨǝNjǝǒNjǓ ǞǙ˪ǜ ȲǗǞLJǛǙǓǜ ǞǙ˹ Ǖǟ|ǚLjǝNjǗǞǙǜ, ǞǙǞʌ ǎſ̧ mɺſǖʊ ǎdž|ǝNjǝǒNjǓ»· ǏɔǞ̧Ȳǚʐ Ǟʊǜ ǎǓNjǎǓ|ǎǙǖLJǗNjǜ Ǟ̆Ǔ ǝǨǖNjǞǓ ǔǏǓ|ǗLjǝǏǓǜ ȢǝǞNjǒǏ˪ǜ, ǙɕǙǗ ǕLJ|Ǎǣ ǞʎǗ ɫǚʒ Ǟ˜ǜ ǔ[Ǜ]NjǟǍ˜ǜ | ǎǓdžǝǞNjǝǓǗ [Ǟ]Ǚ˹ ǚǕǏǧǖǙ|ǗǙǜ ǝʔǗ NjɪǞNj˪ǜ ǚǕǏǟǛNj˪ǜ, | Ǟʒ ǖǏǞǏǣǛǦǞǏǛǙǗ ȨǝǒǖNj | Ǟ̆Ǘ [ǡljǕ]ǓNj ǎǏǎǛNj|ǖǑǔǦǞǣǗ ǝǞdžǎǓNj ǔNjʐ | ǞʎǗ ǚLjſǎ[ǑǝǓ]Ǘ Ǟ˜ǜ [ǔ]NjǛǎlj||[Njǜ... (VIII 20-41) (...[anger is] as if a thing composed of catastrophic fire and strong swelling and itchy irritation and roaring indignation and fierce longing and anguish to get revenge if only one will be able to, as the curses of those make clear who boast they will gird themselves with the guts of the one who hurt them, or else “chew on him raw.” 29 And then, in the random movements spread about the body, as for example the swelling of their lungs along with the ribs themselves as they shout loudly, the rapid shallow breathing as of men who just ran the thousand-yard dash, the leaping up of their heart...) 29

ȉZR+RPHULFFRQWHxts (Il. 23.21, where Achilles threatens to give Hector’s body to the dogs to eat, and Od. 18.87, Antinoos’ threat to Iros) are both present to Philodemus’ mind, as Indelli (1988) 156-157.

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ǞǛǦǖǙǟǜ ǔNjʐ ǔ[ǓǗLjǝǏǓǜ] | Ǟ̆Ǘ ǖǏ[Ǖ]̆Ǘ ǔ[Njʐ ǚNjǛNjǕǧ]|ǝǏǓǜ, ǙɕNj ǝǟǖnj[NjljǗǏǓ ǔ]Njʐſ ǞǙ˪ǜ ȲǚǓǕǑǚǞſ[Ǔǔ]Ǚ˪ǜ, [ɿ]ǝ|ǞǏ ǝǟǗǏǡ̆ǜ ǚſ[Nj]ǛNjǔǙǕſǙǟ|ǒǙǧǗǞǣǗ ǞʒǗ [ȧ]ǚſNjǗǞNj njlj|ǙǗ ȲǚǓǞǛljnjǏǝ[ǒNj]Ǔ ǔNjʐ ǞʒǗ | ǚǕǏljǣ ǡǛǦǗǙǗſ [ǏɎ]ǜ ȲǔǞǛǙ|ǠʎǗ ǔNjǔǙ[ǎ]NjǓǖſ[Ǚ]ǗljNjǜ ǕNjǖ|njdžǗǏǓǗ. Ǟʒ ǎ̧ɣǞ[Ǔ] ǚſǙǕǕǙ˪ǜ | ȲǍLJǗǗǑǝǏǗ Nj[ɪ]ǞǦ ǞǏ ǔNjʐ | Ǟʊ ǍǓǗǦǖǏǗNj ǎſ[Ǔ̧@NjɪǞǙ˹, ˸Lj|ǘǏǓǜ ǚǕǏǟǖǦ[Ǘ]ǣǗ ǔNjʐ | ǚǕǏǟǛ̆Ǘ ǚǦǗ[Ǚ]ǟſǜ ǔNjʐ ǚǙǕ|Ǖʊ ǞǙǓǙǟǞǦǞǛǙ[ǚ]Nj ǚdžǒǑ | ǒNjǗdžǞǙǟǜ Ȳǚ[ǓǠ]LJǛǙǗǞNj, | ǔNjʐ ǚNjǛʊ Ǟ̆Ǘ ɎNjǞǛ̆Ǘ Ȣ|ǔǙǧǏǓǗ ȶǝǞǓǗ ǔſNjʐ ǚNjǛNj|ǞǑǛǙ˹ǝǓǗ NjɪǞǙ[ʔǜ] ȲǚǓnjǕLJ|ǚǏǓǗƤ ǔNjʐ ǚǛʒǜ ǖſǏǕNjǗǡǙ|ǕljNjǜ ǎʌ ǚNjǛǓǝ[Ǟ]ˍǝǓǗ ȧǖſ[Nj] | ǝǟǗǏǡǏ˪ǜ ɿ[ǝǞǏ] ǚǙǕǕdž|[ǔǓǜ] ǔNj[ʐ Ǟʊǜ] ǖǏǕNjljǗNjǜ ǍǏǗ||[ǗˍǗ ǔNjǛǎljNjǜ... (... the tremblings and shakings of the limbs and paralyses, such as come also upon the epileptic, so that as they relentlessly pursue us, our whole life is afflicted, and one takes up the most of its time in the nourishment of misery. How many it has afflicted, it and its consequences, breakings of lungs and pains in the sides, and many a life threatening evil of that sort (ǞǙǓǙǟǞǦǞǛǙǚNj), you can hear from any physician, and is obvious to those who watch them carefully. And they are always so liable to black bile that often [they turn their hearts] black, 30 IX 18–X 1)

In my view Philodemus could not make it clearer that he is keeping his distance from the rhetorical style of “Bion in his On Anger and Chrysippus’ Therapeutikos Logos” (cited even as he compiles them and imitates them for his students’ benefit): ‘Of that sort’ 31 and phrases like it are used so often as to indicate that Philodemus is giving just a bit of his sources, not all. 32 They also indicate a certain distance from the whole 30

‘Hearts’ is a restoration. A trope which Horace imitates at the start of his own ‘diatribes’: cetera de genere hoc, adeo sunt multa, loquacem /delassare valent Fabium.... (—there’s so much more of this kind of stuff it could wear out even the talkative (Stoic) Fabius, Sat. 1.1.13-14). 32 Conclusions in this careless style to otherwise impressive periodic sentences are frequent throughout the diatribe-section: ɂ ǞǓ ǞǙǓǙ˹ǞǙǗ “or something like that” XIII 16-17, “going mad over a lot of other stuff like that” (ǚǏǛ‫ ܜ‬ȦǕǕNjǚǙǕǕʊ | Ǟ̆Ǘ ǞǙǓǙǧǞǣǗ ȲǔnjNjǔǡǏǧ|ǙǗǞNjǜ) XIV 27-29, “[kicking their children] and ripping up their poor little tunics, and raging out loud against persons not there as if they were there, and doing a lot of stuff just like that” (Ǖſ[NjǔǞljǐǙǗǞNj Ǟʊ | Ǟ]LJǔǗNj ǔNjʐ ǔNjǞNjǝǡlj[ǐǙǗ]|ǞNj ǞǙʔǜ ǡǓǞǣǗljǝǔǙǟſ[ǜ Ɂ] | ǔNjʐ ǖǏǞʊ ǠǣǗ˜ǜ ǕǙǓǎǙǛǙǧ|ǖǏǗǙǗ ǚǛʒǜ ǞǙʔǜ ȢǚǦǗǞNjǜ | ɻǜ ǚǛʒǜ ǚNjǛǦǗǞNjǜ ǔNjʐ ǚdžǗ|ǚǙǕǕNj ǞǙǧǞǙǓǜ ǚNjǛNjǚǕLj|ǝǓNj ǝǟǗǞǏǕǙ˹ǗǞNj  XVII 8-15, “slighted in some such way” ǔNjǞdž ǞǓ ǞǙǓǙ˹ǞǙ ǚNjǛǙǕǓǍǣǛǑǒLJǗǞǏǜ) XVIII 19, “and they would even] shout down their [wife] or servant or something [else] of that sort” (ǔȤǗ ǔǛ]NjǟǍdžǝǣǝǓǗ ɀ [Ǎǟ|ǗNj˪ǔ̧@ɀ ǚNjǓǎdžǛǓǙǗ ɀ ǞǓ| [ȦǕǕǙ@Ǟ̆Ǘ ǞǙǓǙǧǞǣǗ) XXVI 1-3, “[or something] like that” ([ɂ ǞǓ@ǞǙǓǙ˹ǞǙǗ) XXVI 33, “and everything [like that]” (ǔNjʐ ǚˍǗǞſ>ǙǓǙ˹ǞǙ) XXVIII 4-5, “and do a great quantity of other unpleasant things” (ǚdžǗǚǙſǕſ|ǕNjǚǙǓǏ˪Ǘ ȷǞǏǛNjǎǟǝǡǏǛ˜) XXVIII 17-18. 31

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genre he is imitating, an impression which is reinforced by the fact that there are two passages in more serious style, without any et cetera’s and ‘and so on’s, though not without the irony and humor basic to the diatribic genre itself. There is 1) an address to the students themselves, which takes us into the heart of ancient classroom style as we know it from Plutarch and from Arrian’s portrait of Epictetus (XVIII 35-XXXI 40); and 2) a brief peroration, again for the class’s benefit and addressed directly to them personally. In both these cases the style and manner ‘turns on a dime’ from oratory to personal appeal. A sample of the address to the class: Ȳǖ|ǚǙ>ǎljǐ@ǙǗǞNjǓ ǎʌ ǔNjʐ ǚǛʒǜ | ǞʎǗ ȲǗ ǠǓǕǙǝǙǠljNjǓ ǝǟǗ|NjǧǘǑǝǓǗ Ǚɕǜ ǖǏǞNjǎǓǨ|ǔǏǞNjǓ ǞǙ˹ǞǙ ǎǓʊ ǚǙǕǕʊǜ | NjɎǞljNj[ǜ] (XVIII 35-XIX 40) ȢǚǛǙnjdžǞǙǟǜ ǎ̧Njɪ|ǞǙʔǜ ȢǗdžǍǔǑ ǍljǗǏǝǒNjǓ ǔNjʐ | Ǟ̆Ǔ ǖLjǞǏ ǔNjǒǑǍǑǞʊǜ | ȢǗLJǡǏǝǒNjǓ ǖLjǞǏ ǝǟǝǡǙ|ǕdžǐǙǗǞNjǜ, ȤǗ ȲǚǓǞǓǖ̆ǝǓ | ǔNjʐ ǎǓǙǛǒ̆ǝǓǗ, ɻǜ Ǟʊ [ǒ]Ǒ|ǛǓǨǎǑ Ǟ̆Ǘ ȳǕǔ̆Ǘ Ǚɪǎʌ | Ǟʊǜ Ǟ̆Ǘ ȾǚǓǣǞdžǞǣǗ | Ǡ‫ݑ‬NjǛǖdžǔǣǗ ɫǚǙǖLJǗǏǓ | ǚǛǙǝNjǍǣǍdžǜ—ȢǕǕʊ ǔȤǗ ȳ|ǞLJǛǙǓǜ ȲǚǓǚǕLjǞǞǣǝǓǗ, | ȢǕǙǍǨǞNjǞNj ǚǛʒǜ ȳNjǟǞǙʔǜ | ɫǚǙǚǞǏǧǏǓǗ ȢǏʐ Ǟʊ ǚdžǗ|ǞNj ǕLJǍǏǝǒNjǓ—, ǖLjǞǏ [Ǟ]Ǚſ˹ ǎǓʊ ǝǟǐǑǞLjǝǏǣǜſ ǖǏ|ǞLJǡǏǓǗ ȢǍNjǒǙ˹· ǞǙ˹ǞǙ | ǖʌǗ ǙɪǎǏǗʒǜ ɫǚǙǖLJǗǙǗ|ǞǙǜ ǝǟǗǔNjǞNjnjNjljǗǏǓǗ, ǞǙ˹|ǞǙ ǎ̧, ȤǗ ǏɯǛǣǝǓ, Ǟ̆Ǘ ǎǓǏ|ǛſǏſǒǓǝǖ̆Ǘ Ǚɪǡ ǙɕǙǗ ȢǗǏ|ǚ[Ǔ]ǝǞdžǞǙǟǜ ǚNjǛǏǡǙǖLJ|ǗſǣǗ, ȢǕǕʊ ǔNjʐ ǖLJǡǛſ[Ǔ ǞǙ˹] || ȲǔǞǛLJǡ[ǏǓǗ Ȳǔ ǞǙ˹ ǠǓǕ]|ǞdžǞǙǟ(XIX 12-35) (But they are greatly hindered in growth together (in philosophy) with those one pursues it with, and for many reasons... They are incapable of progress in philosophy, both because they can neither put up with their teachers nor their fellow students, if these rebuke them and correct them, just as more serious wounds cannot endure the application even of the mildest medicines. 33 ǺXWHYHQLIWKHWHDFKHUV UHSURYHRWKHUVWXGHQWVWKH\ most unreasonably suspect that everything is always being said against themselves. Nor can they share in the good of common inquiry; for one reason, because no one likes their company, and for another, even if they find (people to study with), their irritations not only make them inattentive, but even to the point of running out and away [from their dearest (friend?)]) ...ɀ Ȳǚʐ ǖ>Ǔǔ@ǛǙ˪ǜ>ȢǗNjǍ@|ǔdžǐǑǓ!ǝǔǟǒǛǣſǚdžǐǏǓ>Ǘ@ | ǔNjʐ ǕǙǓǎǙǛǏ˪Ǘ ȢǚǕǧǞǣǜ | ǔNjʐ ǎǓNjnjdžǕǕǏǓǗ ǔNjʐ ǚǕdžǞ|ǞǏǓǗ Ǟʊ ǖʎ ǍǏ[Ǎ]ǙǗǦǞNj ǔNjʐ | Ǟʊ ǖǑǎǏǗʒǜ ȦǘǓNj ǕǦǍǙǟ | ǖǏǍNjǕǧǗǏǓǗ, ɓǗNj ǞʎǗ Ǐɮ|ǕǙǍǙǗ ɞǛǍʎǗ Ȳ‫ݑ‬ǚǓǎǏljǘǑ|ǞNjǓ, ǔNjʐ ǖǟǝǞǓǔǙʔǜ ǕǦǍǙǟǜ | ǔNjʐ ǚǛdžǘǏǓǜ ȲǔǔNjǕǧǚǞǏǓǗ. | Ǟlj ǍʊǛ ǎǏ˪ ǕLJǍǏǓǗ Ǟʒ ǚǙǕ|ǕǙʔǜ ǏɪǒLJǞǙǟǜ ɢǗǞNjǜ ǏɎǜ 33

The medical metaphors about philosophical ‘therapy’ in On Frank Criticism on ‘harsh’ and ‘mild’ frank speech are echoed here, cf. the explicit reference to that text at On Anger XXXVI 23-28.

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| ǠǓǕljNjǗ, ǖLjǚǣ ǎʌ ǚNjǛǏǓ|ǕǑǖǖLJǗǙǟǜ, Ȧ[ǝ]ǞǛǙǓǜ ǝǑ|ǖNjljǗǏǝǒNjǓ ǞʎǗ ǔNjʐ ǖǦǗǙǗ | ǚǛǦǝǙǎǙǗ ǔNjʐ ǒǏǣǛljNjǗ | Ǟ̆Ǘ ǞǙǓǙǧǞǣǗ; (XX 19-34) (... or (their anger) compels them to contract their brows over trifles, and revile people in filthy language, and slander folks, and make up things that have not happened, and magnify things not worthy of mention, so that they may demonstrate (i.e. to their teachers) that their anger is the ‘reasonable’ kind, 34 and reveal words and acts that are for initiates only. 35 For why need I say, that many well-disposed to friendship but not yet confirmed in it would mark out an astronomical distance from even the approach and sight of such as you?)

And here is Philodemus’ brief and impressive peroration to his students: ...ǚǕʎǗ Ǟſ[Ǚ˹] ǔNjǗ[ǙǗǓǔǙ˹] | ǕǦǍǙǟ. ǞǙɪǗNjǗǞljǙǗ ǎʌ | ǚˍǜ ȢǗǞljǎǓǔǙǜ, ɟ ǖʌǗ ȶ|ǘǣǒǏǗ ǔNjʐ ǎǓǏǛǏǒljǐǣǗ | ǚNjǗǞǙǎNjǚ̆ǜ, ǍǙǗǏ˪ǜ ǎʌ | ǔNjʐ ǚˍǜ ǚǛǙǝLjǔǣǗ Ǟʊ ǚǙǕ|Ǖʊ ǔNjʐ ǝǟǗǡNjljǛǙǗǞǏǜ ɻǜ | ȲǚdžǗǎǛǙǓǜſ, Ǟ̆Ǘ ǎʌ ǠǓǕǙǝǦ|ǠǣǗ Ǚɏ ǖʌǗ ǠǕǟNjǛǙ˹ǗǞǏǜ | ȲǗ ǞNj˪ǜ ǚNjǛſNjǖǟǒljNjǓǜ, Ǚɏ ǎʌ | ǔNjʐ ǖǏǞʊ ǝſǟǗǑǍǙǛljNjǜ Ȳ|ǚǓǛǛǣǗǗǧǗǞǏǜ· ȢǠ[lj]Ǒſǖ[Ǔ] | ǖʌǗ ˸LjǞǙǛNjǜ ǔNjʐ ǚǙǓǑǞʊǜ | ǔNjʐ ǚˍǝNjǗ ǞʎǗ ǞǙǓNjǧǞǑǗ | ǍǛǟǖLJNjǗ. (XXXI 12-24) (... [And nothing can save you from all this?] but the Can[onic] reasoning. 36 And on the opposite side everyone is your opponent, those outside your circle provoking you in every imaginable way, but your parents, and every relative you have, for the most part rejoicing (over you when you show anger) as if you’re being manly, 37 and of the philosophers, some of them talking silly nonsense in their attempts to soothe you, 38 and others strengthening your passions with encouragement—for I dismiss orators and poets and all such bags of trash.)

This last touch is brilliant and challenging: Philodemus has shown that an Epicurean can indeed practice the ‘diatribe’ as well as the Stoics, 34

That even an Epicurean could approve, the ǠǟǝǓǔʎ ɞǛǍLj of XXXVIII 5-9. On mystery and initiation language in Epicureanism see Armstrong (2011) 105107, 128. 36 The final revelation is that not mere diatribe but the knowledge of Canonic and the rest of Epicurean philosophy are necessary to complete the conquest of anger, as Philodemus had already hinted in col. II (“those that only censure anger”). 37 This sentence suggests that Philodemus is speaking mostly throughout to the younger students of his school. 38 By writing nonsensical diatribes on anger. These inept ‘soothers’ are the Stoics, while the ‘encouragers’ are the Aristotelians to whom Philodemus now turns, XXXI 24-XXXIV 6, in a passage as dignified and quiet in argument as if the diatribe had never taken place. 35

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selecting out whatever is beneficial. But he warns his class not to listen to other schools’ version of this genre if they want to make progress. Only his doctrine of “natural” anger, that it should be like the pain of the surgeon’s knife or the bitter wormwood, absinthia taetra, to which Lucretius compares philosophy’s own seemingly tristis ratio (DRN 1.936945), and neither a pleasure nor a mere ‘first feeling’ to be rejected, is consistent with true therapy. There are bad diatribes—non-Epicurean diatribes—out there, as well as bad theories and bad scholai. If one wants to understand Horace’s complex use of the diatribic genre—or in fact Lucretius’—this show-piece of Philodemus’ with its sophisticated self-awareness is helpful in some crucial ways. Not a lot that has been written about Philodemus’ prose comes even close to literary criticism of his style or ventures to call up the possible reactions of an audience. The sheer effort of recovering enough continuous text to judge is exhausting enough, and the deliberate avoidance of formally balanced or antithetical clausulation uniquely characteristic of Epicurean prose offers still further challenges, even for those few who can follow the art of Hellenistic prose, for example Polybius’ or Plutarch’s, with pleasure. But On Anger is no trivial or carelessly composed text, but (like On Death, On the Good King, and On Frank Criticism) a sparkling showpiece combining diatribic rhetorical style and formal argument (scholai) in a way not unworthy of comparison with Lucretius himself, and entirely worthy of a teacher and friend of Vergil and Horace. What we learn from it is that diatribic style could be first analyzed and evaluated explicitly for a student audience, then switched on and run through various levels of “sincerity” from gentle parody to deep apparent sincerity, then switched off with a brilliant flash of humor against the teacher himself (“for I dismiss poets and orators”—Philodemus was both—“and all such bags of trash”). Philodemus the clever Hellenistic epigrammatist and Philodemus the philosopher in prose are not such aliens as is sometimes thought.

3. Horace, the Epicurean diatribe, and Sat. 1.1-6 Now compare Horace’s three opening diatribes—Sat. 1.1-3—in the context of 4-6 and 10, as part of an organized poetry book of ten pieces (line lengths: 1-3: 121, 134, 142; 4-6: 143, 104, 131; 7-9: 35, 50, 78; 10: 92=1020, averaging almost exactly 100 lines each). This is an entirely plausible length for a single continuous reading, so that for example the literary theory of satire in 10 completes the theory left half-finished earlier in 4, and both 4 and 10 rely on and cite the three diatribes 1-3 as examplepieces for the theory. It’s been a popular point of view recently that the

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diatribes are not philosophically “serious”, apparently on the mistaken view that diatribe proprio sensu was itself a “serious” and unsatirical genre. Also, even, that the speaker undermines his own authority as a diatribist by being an “unreliable narrator”: an incompetent and unqualified diatribist. And indeed if Epicurean and Lucretian texts at every level of seriousness and satire weren’t woven into the very fabric of the ten satires of book 1 we might wonder why Horace opens, to cite his own much-quoted phrase, by going in medias res / non secus ac notas (right into the middle of things as if the audience knew where they were, Ars Poet. 148-149), in the unexpected character of a diatribist. However, we’ve seen that there’s an alternative to be found by careful reading of the diatribic parts of Philodemus’ On Anger and On Death. Philodemus explicitly treats the diatribe as a form (the “rant” or psogos) useful to an Epicurean, but slightly alien to the school’s spirit, because it does not, and as rhetoric cannot, tell the whole story. In the case of anger, it can make both terrifyingly and comically vivid the downside of anger, its selfdestructive pleasure. But why one should resignedly accept its knife-like or wormwood-like pain needs a more sober argument in colder prose. And if we look at the other well-preserved diatribe of Philodemus, On Death, we find that it alternates satire of bad excuses for fearing death with deep sympathy for more serious reasons, and ends in an almost mystical portrait of what it would be for a person to take the vision of death into him so continually it cannot disturb him when it comes even if unexpectedly, even if for the moment he had lost sight of it. Lucretius too works up to the great 250-line diatribes on death and sex that conclude DRN 3 and 4 with hundreds of lines of tranquilly argued scholai that underpin the diatribic rhetoric to come with fully philosophical foundations. In Epicurean diatribe we can turn from high to comic-satiric style and back on a dime: Lucretius, Philodemus and Horace are masters of that trick, and so presumably were Bion and Chrysippus. In Philodemus the context is a sober analysis of what diatribe can and can’t do and an equally sober analysis of what anger should and shouldn’t be. In Horace the context for his trio of diatribes is the following three satires, 4-6, which combine literary theory of great delicacy and complexity (4, later completed by 10) with an ‘autobiography’ (part of 4 and all of 5-6), of which Vergil and Varius (and Tucca), as the creators of his by now three years of friendship with Maecenas and the rest of their circle, are the center. There are also the two famous panels of praise of his own father, 1.4.105-137 and 1.6.65-93. All three succeeding satires, 4-6, betray intense awareness in a different key of what the ‘diatribic’ voice was aiming at artistically, personally and philosophically in the first set, 1-

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3, and ground these subjects in a more detailed and three-dimensional picture. Philodemus’ diatribe was meant to rival Bion’s and Chrysippus’ diatribes against anger by offering Epicurean alternative arguments. Only the pleasure of anger, revenge, is attacked, not the necessary pain of ‘natural’ anger. The reasons given against it are that the pleasure is intensely disturbing and disorienting to the self who pursues it obsessively; and that it exposes you to damage from enemies and makes you alienate family and friends, denying you both the positive and negative sides of the principle of ȢǝǠʋǕǏǓNj Ȳǘ ȢǗǒǛǨǚǣǗ. Thus the pleasure of revenge is made out to be a kinetic, violent pleasure that goes quickly beyond control and disturbs one’s enjoyment of life and prevents friendship—that is Philodemus’ sole argument against it throughout— whereas the pain of anger is self-limiting simply because it’s pain, and only chosen on sufferance and from hope of better things to come. Similarly, HoraFH¶VµPRUDO¶DUJXPHQWVDJDLQVWȝİȝȥȚȝȠȚȡȓĮ, discontent with one’s lot in life, in Sat. 1.1, against extravagance in sex and especially against adultery in 1.2, and for tolerance and understanding in friendship in 1.3 are directed to redoing a Bionean and Chrysippean Cynic-Stoic genre in a fully Epicurean style. Where touches of other schools’ ethical arguments are echoed they are selected for non-contradiction with the Epicurean telos: personal pleasure founded in absence of pain, and friendship both as protection and support, and as in itself the greatest joy that that tranquil pleasure makes possible. His language of argument is borrowed equally from Lucretius’ poetry and Cicero’s philosophical prose, so that he can avoid using Greek and interact with two great models of Latin style. But, so far as I can see, wherever Horace echoes Cicero’s discussions of ethical issues he wrests statements intended to favor the Academics, or beat the Epicureans over the head, to favor the Epicureans’ viewpoint instead. And wherever he builds a passage on Philodemus, Lucretius or Epicurus, or even echoes Cicero on the Epicureans, one gets “a sense sublime / of something far more deeply interfused,” (Wordsworth, Tintern Abbey 95-6); whereas whatever might be thought to come from the Stoics or Cynics or the Academy is momentary, lesser in extent, and sewn on in the usual style of Epicurean borrowings or doxographical summaries of other schools’ writings: not part of the structure, warp and woof. Let’s look at some examples. The opening three diatribe-satires, like Philodemus’ diatribe on anger and Lucretius’ diatribes in book 3 on the fear of death (so also the diatribe-elements in Philodemus’ On Death), and in book 4 on erotic love, appeal uniformly and solely to self-interest, peace of mind, the observance of natural limits, the avoidance of hostility from others, and the security and pleasure of friendship and goodwill, as

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motives for virtuous behavior. They reject Stoicism in the persons of ‘Crispinus’ and ‘Fabius’, ridicule the Stoic paradoxes, and criticize the Stoics as verbose and stylistically faulty writers of both prose and verse. If the poetic voice of the diatribist, gradually revealed to be Horace’s own voice addressing Maecenas, is that of a professed Epicurean, that doesn’t appear fully till Sat. 1.3.97-114. There Horace turns from his main point that friends should bear with each others’ faults—as only the Epicureans thought—to assure his audience that the human race started out with nothing to guide it into social life and the observance of justice and the prohibition of injustice, except pain and pleasure and the slow discovery among early men that utilitas results from making and keeping to contracts and friendships neither to harm nor be harmed. This is an axial passage of the poem: it depends wholly on the idea of justice peculiar to the Epicurean school expressed in Ȁǻ 31-38 and the idea of early human society expressed in Lucretius 5.925-1027. Nothing follows it but a further attack on the Stoic idea that there is some kind of ideal justice before which all faults are equally reprehensible, and a satire on the friendless (or nearly friendless) Stoic wise man who supposedly alone is king, all others being slaves (Sat. 1.3.115-142). But that means that from two obvious texts from Epicurus and Lucretius we’ve accounted for the entire fifty-line grand finale of the series of three diatribes: the speaker asserts his personal belief that: atque ipsa Utilitas, iusti prope mater et aequi [....] iura inventa metu iniusti fateare necesse est, tempora si fastosque velis evolvere mundi. nec Natura potest iusto secernere iniquum, dividit ut bona diversis, fugienda petendis. (Sat. 1.3.98, 111-114) (Utility herself (=ǡǛǏljNjɺǠLJǕǏǓNj) is the mother of justice and fairness... You’ll be forced to confess that laws were invented from fear of being hurt, if you run through the ages of our world from the beginning; nor does nature split ‘just’ from ‘unjust’ as she divides what feels good from its opposite, what we shun from what we pursue...)

Now here is the central Epicurean theory of ‘choices’ of the pleasurable and ‘avoidances’ of the painful as the ‘cradle argument’ for what is ‘natural’ to mankind from birth, NjɏǛLJǝǏǓǜ ǔNjʐ ǠǟǍNjlj, turnings to pleasure and avoiding pain—primary motives, not as Stoics call them ‘preferables’ and ‘dispreferables’, ǚǛǙǑǍǖLJǗNj țĮ‫ ܜ‬ȢǚǙǚǛǙǑǍǖLJǗNj—put as

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plainly as could be. And still more ‘deeply interfused’ echoes come out. For these lines in Sat. 1.3 echo Sat. 1.2: at quanto meliora monet pugnantiaque istis dives opis natura suae, tu si modo recte dispensare velis ac non fugienda petendis inmiscere (Sat. 1.2.73-76) (But how much better she teaches, how hostile to that stuff (i. e. ‘adultery’) is Nature, rich in resources, if you would just rightly deal with your needs and not go mixing together what we shun with what we pursue...)

And furthermore Horace’s father in 1.4, as well as giving him advice taken from Demea’s in Terence’s Adelphoe about how to avoid censure and earn goodwill, appears to think this the central lesson of philosophy: sapiens vitatu quidque petitu sit melius causas reddet tibi (Sat. 1.4.115-116) (your philosophy teacher will give you reasons later for what’s better to shun or pursue... )

If we look at 1.1 and 1.2 in this light, moreover, we will find that such a finale to 1.3 was predestined by them and by the earlier part of 1.3. Investigation of Horace’s philosophical sources as serious intertexts for the Satires hasn’t progressed much beyond Lejay, 1911, whose commentary gives all this material, but buries it in rafts of references to every other possible source. Lejay was a Catholic priest, and though liberal enough as a commentator (and never prudish), wasn’t eager for Horace to belong to Epicurus’ ‘church’. He also knew little or nothing about Philodemus’ prose, to judge from his note at Sat. 1.2.121 Philodemus ait. And, writing in 1911, he follows the old habit of attributing the satires one by one to different dates as if they were units whose sequence is unimportant. Thus several different prejudices lead him to obscure the clear implications of Epicurean sources he himself brings to the reader’s notice. Let’s look at a few of these and add in what we can from Herculaneum. In Sat. 1.1 it has always been seen that the speaker is a zealous student of Lucretius as poet. (From the beginning, Qui fit MAECENAS ut NEMo QuAM Sibi SorteM, which explodes the atoms of a significant word—the name—all over the line in the manner analyzed in Lucretius by

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Friedländer and Snyder). 39 But as his point is to rebuke discontent with one’s station in life as being caused subconsciously by greed and avarice, there’s nothing to distinguish the message as belonging primarily to one school except what the Epicureans would have called ǙɪǔȢǗǞǓǖNjǛǞǧǛǑǝǓǜ, QR YLVLEOH FRQWUDGLFWLRQ RI WKH YLHZ WKDW DQ (SLFXUHDQ LV VSHDNLQJ ȃR philosophy recommended discontent, greed or avarice, and neither did Epicurus. Nonetheless, just to look at three suggestive points, the speaker 1) sets off a prologue on discontent with one’s lot by paraphrasing Lucretius’ promise to Memmius to “sweeten the bitter cup” of his instruction by rimming it with the honey of poetry (DRN 1.921-950) collapsed into two and a half lines: quamquam ridentem dicere verum quid vetat? Ut pueris olim dant crustula blandi doctores, ELEMENTA vEliNT ut discErE priMA (Sat. 1.1.24-26) (though to speak the truth laughing what forbids us? as cajoling teachers sometimes give cookies to boys to win them to learn their elements/atoms…)

and 2) he ends Sat. 1.1 with Lucretius also (as the notes rightly say, and as Horace knew, the commonplace was filtered through both Bion and Epicurus before Lucretius; but Lucretius’ Latin is the reference point). Discontent’s unconscious source is avarice, in Horace’s (diatribic) view, and the unconscious source of avarice is fear of death in Epicurus’ and Lucretius’ view. 40 Thus, if we take it that Horace is preparing the thanks he is going to express to Vergil, Varius and Tucca in 1.5 and 1.6 for their friendship and their help in introducing him to Maecenas’ circle by peppering his opening diatribe with Epicurean references, we can better understand the logic of Horace’s conclusion: illuc unde abii, redeo, qui nemo ut avarus, se probet ac potius laudet diversa sequentis, […] inde fit ut raro, qui se vixisse beatum dicat et exacto contentus tempore vita

39 40

Friedländer (1941); Snyder (1980); Armstrong (1995b) 229-231. Konstan (2008) 41-76.

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Chapter Four cedat uti conviva satur, reperire queamus. (Sat. 1.1.108-9, 117-119) 41 (I return to my first point: it’s out of avarice that no one approves his lot and praises those diverse from it…. And that’s why we seldom can find a man to say “I’m blest to have lived this life” and depart from life when his time’s over, as a guest who’s had his fill.)

Horace liked his own idea of appropriating this Lucretian image for a ‘closure’ enough to try reworking it yet one more time for the closure of the Epistle to Florus, Epist. 2.2.214-216. The structural placement of the Lucretian echoes at end of prologue and end of poem is a direct appeal to Lucretius’ (and Philodemus’) readers in his audience—like Vergil and Varius, nearly as much addressees of the whole book as Maecenas himself. 3) The complicated and allusive ending is based on the following loose logic: no one accepts his own lot, not because he really likes anyone else’s, but out of concealed greed for something more. (In the context of the book the first satire waits to be fulfilled by the fifth and sixth, where Horace accepts with joy his own lot in life, as a low-born eques with great friends of whom Maecenas, Vergil and Varius are the greatest). But there’s another layer, and this one exclusive to the Epicureans. Greed for something more is in fact concealed discontent with life itself. And discontent with life is in fact concealed fear of death. That only makes sense in an Epicurean context, but the thought was familiar enough to readers of Lucretius and Philodemus. 42 Thus if you are simple enough to think this logic merely 41

Cf. Lucretius DRN 3.938-939, cur non ut plenus vitae conviva recedis? (Why not leave the banquet of life, a satisfied guest?) 42 Add in also the sly quotation from Epicurus (cf. fr. 175 Usener=Seneca Epist. 9.8, from a letter to Stilpo) (Sat. 1.1.80-85): “At si condoluit temptatum frigore corpus / aut alius casus lecto te adfixit, habes qui / adsideat, fomenta paret, medicum roget, ut te / suscitet ac reddat gnatis carisque propinquis. / non uxor salvum te vult, non filius; omnes / vicini oderunt, noti, pueri atque puellae.” ([If you alienate friends and family by your avarice] will you have anyone to sit by you if an attack of chill or some other sickness confines you to bed [lecto] and make you warm drinks and beg the doctor to raise you up and restore you to your children and dear relatives? Not even your wife or son want you back, all the neighbors and acquaintances, boys and girls hate you.). Seneca, in translating the relevant fragment of Epicurus he is discussing at Epist. 9.8 (one makes friends ut habeat qui sibi aegro adsideat “to have some to sit by him when he is sick”), uses more or less Horace’s own words. That fear of death motivates avarice and alienates family and friends is the theme of Philodemus [On Choices and

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wrong, like Heinze, you are not looking where Horace meant you to look. If the diatribe is a serious Epicurean statement it’s entirely coherent. As for Sat. 1.2, Gowers and other commentators rightly cite many a passage from non-philosophical source about the difficulties of the adulterer—the central theme of Sat. 1.2—and Horace’s sources are multiplex as usual, Cynic, satiric, comic, even Hellenistic epigrams, including one of Callimachus’, whose sentiments are emphatically disavowed in favor of those of a Philodemus epigram against adultery, which now only survives in what Horace translates of it. 43 But there is only one source-passage, from Origen, that coincides in detail with Horace’s main, Epicurean thesis that the only real reason not to commit adultery, as not to commit murder and theft, is to avoid not only the pains of punishment but the disturbance of soul caused by knowing you deserve it and others may know that as well. Adultery like any other crime is a threat to your inner peace: if it goes unpunished you will always know that you are guilty anyway: “the just man is utterly imperturbable, the unjust Avoidances] cols XIX-XX (XIX 12-21, XX 1-20 Indelli-Tsouna): ƻǛǦǞǏǛǙǗ ǎʌ ǚdž|ǝǑǜ ȢǚǙǕNjǧǝǏǣǜ ȳNjǟǞǙʔǜ ǝǞǏǛ|ljǝǔǙǟǝǓǗ, ɓǗNj ǎʌ ǎǓNjǛǔLJǝ˚ ǞȢ|ǗNjǍǔNj˪Nj ǚǛʒǜ ǞʒǗ njljǙǗ Njɫ|ǞǙ˪ǜƤ ǔNjʐ ǚǛʒǜ ȢǗNjnjǙǕʎǗ [ǐ]̆ǝǓǗ ɻǜ ȲǘǏǝ[Ǧ]ǖǏǗǙǗ NjɫǞǙ˪ǜ | ɯǝǞǏǛǙǗ ȢǍNjǒ̆Ǘ ǖǏǞNjǝǡǏ˪ǗƤ | ǔʞǞNj ǎǓʊ ǚNjǗǞʒǜ ȢǝǧǗǒǏ|ǞǙǓ ǎǓNjǞǏǕǙ˹[ǝǓǗ]. ǔNjʐ ǎǓǎǦNjǝǓǗ | Njɫ[ǞǙʔǜ ǏɎǜ] ǚǦǗǙ[ǟǜ ǚǙǕǕǙʔǜ. - - -]ǙǗ[- - - ǚǙ˜]|ǝſǓ ǔNjǓ[Ǘʊ] ǔNjʐ ǚǙLjǝǏǓǗ, [ɣǚǣǜ] | ǒˍǞǞǙ[Ǘ Ȣǚǣ]ǒ̆[Ǘ]ǞNjǓ Ǟʊ ǎ[ǏǓ]|Ǘʊ ǔNjǒ̧ >ȷǔ]NjǝǞǙǗ ȢǏʐ ǞǙ[Ǔ]ǦſǗ[ſ ǎǏ] | ǚ˪ǚǞǙ[Ǘ Ȧ]Ǘ ȷǣǜ ȢǚǙǒ[džǗǣ]|ǝǓ. ǔNjʐ Ǡ[ǙnjǙ]ǧǖǏǗǙǓ ǖLjǚ[ǙǞ̧ ȲǕ]Ǖljǚǣǝ[ǓǗ Ǟ]̆Ǔ ǖNjǔǛ̆Ǔ ǡǛǦǗǣǓ | Ǟ̆Ǘ ȢǗNj[Ǎ]ǔNjljǣǗ, ǎ[ǟǝ]ǖǏǞdž|ǎǙ‫ڿ‬Ǟ‫ۀ‬ǙǓ ǍljǗǙǗǞNjǓ ǔNjʐ Ǟʊǜ ǡdžǛǓ|ǞNjǜ ȢǚǙǝǞǏǛǙ˹ǝǓ. ǔȢǗ ǞNj˪ǜ | ȢǚǙnjǙǕNj˪ǜ ǞNj˪ǜ ǡǛǑǖdžǞǣǗ | ȢǚǙǞNjǛǞNjǛǙ˹ǗǞNjǓƤ ǔNjʐ Ǟʊǜ | ɞǛǍʊǜ ǔNjʐ Ǟʊǜ ȶ‫ڿ‬ǡ‫ۀ‬ǒǛNjǜ Ǚɪǔ ȢǗ|ǒǛǣǚljǗNjǜ ȢǗNjǕNjǖnjdžǗǙǟ[ǝǓ], ǔNjʐ ɫǚǏǛLjǠNjǗ[Ǚ]Ǔ ǔȢǗ ǞNj˪ǜ Ȳ|ǚNjǍǍǏǕljNjǓǜ ǔȢǗ Ǟ[Nj˪ǜ] ǎǓNj|ǞdžǘǏǝǓ ǔNjʐ ǞNj˪ǜ ȢǚǕNj˪ǜ Ǎlj|ǗǙǗǞNjǓ. ǔNjʐ ȢǝǧǍǔǕNjǝǞǙǓ | ǔNjʐ ȢǝǟǖǚNjǒǏ˪ǜ ǚǛʒǜ ǞǙʔǜ | ɟǖǙǠǧ[ǕǙǟ]ǜ (the avaricious “even before (death?) deprive themselves of every enjoyment, but so that the necessities of life will last them out; and they live by putting everything off as if at some later time they were going to partake of good things, and then go on to the end with their life unbalanced (ȢǝʕǗǒǏǞǙǓ) [...] (they) have done and will do unheard-RI WKLQJV țĮȚȞȐ) so as to put off immediately their terrors on every occasion which might turn out this way until they die. And in their fear that in the long term they may ever fail of their needs they become reluctant to share benefits and withhold returning benefits they have received. And when they lose money, they suffer the pains of Tartarus; and they take up angers and enmities that are inhuman and become arrogant in their pronouncements, their commands, their threats, and inflexible and unsympathetic to their kindred…”) 43 We now know from Sider’s (1997) edition that some epigrams beside this lost one (a pity that 38 Sider is only a Renaissance paraphrase from this very satire of Horace), namely 15 Sider and probably 22 Sider and 26 Sider, show that Philodemus as poet was consistently against adultery—like Horace—on prudential grounds.

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man full of the greatest disquiet”, Ȁǻ 17; “Injustice is no evil in itself but only by the suspicion one will not escape those appointed to punish such things,” Ȁǻ 34; “It is impossible for one who violates men’s agreement with each other not to harm or be harmed to have faith he will escape, however often he escapes for now, because it’s unknowable till death that he will escape,” ƵƯ 35. On a higher level, the knowledge of innocence before the law, or at least the primitive natural contract (Ȁǻ 31) not to harm nor be harmed, is an impregnable inner citadel for the Epicurean unjustly condemned to death or torture—that’s how virtue contributes to pleasure—as Philodemus explains at On Death 33.37-35-34. 44 On a lower and more humorous level, being integer vitae scelerisque purus (upright in living and free of crime, Carm. 1.22.1) protected Horace from an actual wolf, providing ȢǝǠdžǕǏǓNj Ȳǔ ǕǧǔǣǗ (no less), “safety from wolves,” and allowed him to go on singing of Lalagê. The Epicureans really did believe this, and they responded with total indifference to the predictable outcry from their opponents, “that means you would murder me/steal my wife/steal my goods if you knew you would get away with it!”. That would mean, an Epicurean might reply, that we’re back in the caves and need neither society, family, nor friends (tempora si fastosque velis evolvere mundi, Sat. 1.3.112). Perhaps then, and in that case, both you and I would have to do such things, who knows? But for now, given the social contract, it creates both safety and pleasure not to. That’s why a passage Lejay brings up, 45 Origen Contra Celsum 7.63 p. 385 Hoesch. (fr. 535 Usener), offers crucial light on Horace’s argument. Origen argues that Christians do the same thing as Scythians and Persians, just as Celsus claimed: they avoid altars and temples. But they do that for better reasons than Scythians or Persians, and only the reasons we do things matter in ethical thinking. ȲǔǔǕljǗǙǟǝǓ Ǟʒ ǖǙǓǡǏǧǏǓǗ Ǚɏ Ǟʊ ǞǙ˹ ƵǓǞǓLJǣǜ ƱLjǗǣǗǙǜ ǠǓǕǙǝǙǠǙ˹ǗǞǏǜ, ȢǕǕʊ ǔNjʐ Ǚɏ Ǟʊ ȸǚǓǔǙǧǛǙǟ, […]. ȢǕǕ̧ ɣǛNj ɣǝǑ ǎǓNjǠǣǗljNj ȲǝǞʐ ǚǏǛʐ Ǟ˜ǜ ǞǙ˹ ǖǙǓǡǏǧǏǓǗ ȲǔǔǕljǝǏǣǜ Ǟ̆Ǘ ǞǙǓǙǧǞǣǗ. Ǚɑ ǖʌǗ ǎǓʊ Ǟʒ ǔǙǓǗǣǗǓǔʒǗ ǔNjʐ ǚNjǛʊ ǠǧǝǓǗ ǏɔǗNjǓ Ǟ̇ ǕǙǍǓǔ̇ ȗȫ૳ ǗǙǒǏǧǏǓǗ ǞʎǗ ɫǚʒ Ǟ̆Ǘ ǗǦǖǣǗ ȳǞLJǛ̄ ǚǛǙǔNjǞNjǕǑǠǒǏ˪ǝNjǗ ǍǟǗNj˪ǔNj ǔNjʐ ǠǒǏljǛǏǓǗ ǞʒǗ ȦǕǕǙǟ ȢǗǒǛǨǚǙǟ ǙɔǔǙǗ. Ǚɏ ǎʌ Ȣǚʒ ȸǚǓǔǙǧǛǙǟǙɪ ǎǓʊ ǞǙ˹ǞǙ Ǚɪ ǖǙǓǡǏǧǙǟǝǓǗ, ɣǞǏ ȢǚLJǡǙǗǞNjǓǞǙ˹ ǖǙǓǡǏǧǏǓǗ ȢǕǕʊ ǎǓʊ Ǟʒ ǗǏǗǙǖǓǔLJǗNjǓ ǞLJǕǙǜ ǞʎǗ ȿǎǙǗLjǗ ǚǙǕǕʊ ǎ̧ ȢǚNjǗǞˍǗ ǔǣǕǟǞǓǔʊ Ǟ˜ǜȿǎǙǗ˜ǜǞ̇ ǏɒǘNjǗǞǓǖǓˎ Ǟ˝ ǞǙ˹ ǖǙǓǡǏǧǏǓǗȿǎǙǗ˝ ǔNjʐ ȶǝǒ̧ɣǞǏǠǟǕNjǔʊǜɀ ǠǟǍʊǜ ɀ ǒNjǗdžǞǙǟǜ ǚǙǕǕdžǔǓǜ ǎʌ ǚǛʒ ǞǙǧǞǣǗ ǔNjʐ ǔǓǗǎǧǗǙǟǜ ǔNjǞʊ Ǟʒ ȲǚǓǞǑǛǏ˪Ǘ ǞʎǗ ǞǙ˹ ȢǗǎǛʒǜ ȶǘǙǎǙǗ Ȣǚʒ Ǟ˜ǜ ǙɎǔljNjǜ ǔNjʐ Ǟ̆Ǘ Ǟʊ ȲǔǏljǗǙǟ 44

See Armstrong (2011) 113-116. See also Sider [(1997) 116-119] on epigram 15 Sider. Philodemus (15, 22 and 26 Sider) is consistently against adultery as too much trouble and too little pleasure.

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ǠǛǙǗǙǧǗǞǣǗ,·ɻǜ ǏɎ ǔNjǒ̧ ɫǚǦǒǏǝǓǗ ǖǙǓǡǏǧǙǗǞNj ǙɕǦǗ Ǟ̧ ɄǗ ǕNjǒǏ˪Ǘ ǔNjʐ ǞʒǗ ȦǗǎǛNj Ǟ˜ǜ ǍǟǗNjǓǔʒǜ ǔNjʐ ǞǙʔǜ ǙɎǔǏljǙǟǜ ǚdžǗǞNjǜ NjɪǞǙ˹ ǔNjʐ ǞǙǧǜ ǚNjǛ̧Ǚɕǜ ǞǓǜ Ȳǔ ǞǙ˹ ǖǙǓǡǏǧǏǓǗ ȢǎǙǘǏ˪, ǔȤǗ ȲǖǙljǡǏǟǝǏ ǎǓʊ ǞʎǗ ȿǎǙǗʎǗ ɟ ȸǚǓǔǙǧǛǏǓǙǜ. (Against Celsus, 7.63) (For example the Stoics and the Epicureans […] discourage adultery. But look at their reasons for discouraging adultery, how discordant they are. The Stoics do so because of the social contract (Ǟʒ ǔǙǓǗǣǗǓǔǦǗ) and the unnaturalness for a rational being of corrupting a wife already given by law to another man, and ruining another’s household. The Epicureans avoid adultery, when they avoid it, not for this reason, but because the highest good of their life is pleasure, and there are many things that destroy pleasure for one who gives in to this single pleasure, that of adultery: arrests, sometimes, exiles, deaths, and before those often dangers, in looking out for the husband’s absence and that of those who watch over his house: so that on their theory, if one could escape the husband’s notice and all his slaves’—and also that of those who consider an adulterer a disgraceful person—the Epicurean would in fact commit adultery for pleasure.)

The source Origen quotes is hostile to Epicureanism, ignoring the fact that if the ‘social contract’ is indeed simply neither to harm nor be harmed, they too frown on adultery ‘because of the social contract.’ The words “also that of those who consider an adulterer a disgraceful person” are slipped in by way of admitting, but grudgingly, what the real teaching is: crime is not only to be avoided because of retaliation from the victim, but because if you cannot face others with a clear conscience, you can neither be their friend nor even your own. 46 Lejay was alert to the importance of this parallel, which was already seen by Usener to have something to do with Sat. 1.2 (see Usener’s notes on fr. 535). 47 His impulse is to hide its proof of echoes in Horace’s language of Epicurean diatribe, but by a solution that makes Horace even more Epicurean than I would want: Sat. 1.2—Horace himself—is Origen’s source! Certainly Alexandria in the third century A.D. may have contained pamphlets written by bilinguals of all kinds—that’s a given after recent studies of Greco-Roman bilingualism—but Lejay did not stop to think that that would mean the impossible: that Horace was somehow an accredited source for Epicurean doxography in third century A.D. Alexandria. That 46

In Epictetus Diss. 3.7.13-18 Epictetus accuses a high Roman official who is an Epicurean of refraining from adultery, theft and murder only for fear of detection; but adds that after all “you’re not that different from the Stoics: we preach fine things and do base ones; you preach shameful reasons to do fine things.” 47 Usener (1963) 322.

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cannot have been, even in my perhaps too maximal view of Horace’s philosophical commitments. An alternate possibility is this. Lucretius in DRN 4 says nothing about adultery in his diatribe on erotic love—but Philodemus treats the subject in several epigrams for one of which Horace is the sole source, and his objections are parallel entirely with Origen’s. He also delivered, as he tells his students in On Anger, diatribes on erotic love. Now since we are at last able to compare a reliable text of On Death with Lucretius’ diatribe on death in DRN 3—and see that Philodemus’ arguments about facing death are almost always different from Lucretius’—it would be more plausible to assume that Horace is pillaging either directly from Philodemus’ prose, perhaps in his lost ǚǏǛʐ ȶǛǣǞǙǜ, or from that of Philodemus’ own teachers Zeno of Sidon and Phaedrus. More plausible, but still mere conjecture. What is certain is that Horace and Origen have a common source that ascribed exactly these details to an Epicurean diatribe deprecating adultery. Epicureans “avoid adultery because the highest good of their life is pleasure, and there are many things that destroy pleasure for one who gives in to this single pleasure, that of adultery” cf. Sat. 1.2.37-40; “arrests, sometimes, exiles, deaths,” cf. Sat. 1.2.41-46, 64-68; “and before those, often dangers, in looking out for the husband’s absence and that of those who watch over his house: so that on their theory if you could escape the husband’s notice and all his slaves” cf. Sat. 1.2.127-134)—“and also that of those who consider an adulterer a disgraceful person, then the Epicurean would have committed adultery just for the pleasure!” To the extent that last point is not taken care of (but cf. Sat. 1.2.61 bonam deperdere famam, to lose one’s good name) in Sat. 1.2, Horace’s father completes the thought in Sat. 1.4. By chasing pleasure you run through your inheritance (Sat. 1.2.62 rem patris oblimare, you pour acid on your father’s money= Sat. 1.4.109-111, you disgrace yourself with whores (Sat. 1.2.58-59, also at 1.4.111-112), you lose your reputation by adultery (Sat. 1.2.134, saying defiantly against the Stoics deprendi miserum est, Fabio vel iudice vincam “To be caught is an unhappy fate, I will win that case, even with Fabius judging” (Sat. 1.4.114 deprensi non bella est fama Treboni “Not pretty is the repute of Trebonius, caught in the act”, which is more like Origen’s admission that good repute matters to Epicureans). Horace doesn’t drop his diatribic points: he develops them more deeply throughout the book. Nearly all the rest of the body of Sat. 1.2 contrasts adultery with satisfying sexual desires simply and as Nature intends, in the spirit of Epicurus (fr. 440 [part] Usener): et obscaenas voluptates, de quibus multa ab illis habetur oratio, facilis communis, in medio sitas esse dicunt, easque si natura requirat, non

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genere aut loco aut ordine, sed forma aetate figura metiendas putant, ab iisque abstinere minime esse difficile, si aut valetudo aut officium aut fama postulet. (Cic. Tusc. disp. 5.94) (sexual pleasures, which the Epicureans talk about a lot, 48 are easy to find, and if nature requires them, are not to be estimated by birth, position or rank but beauty, youth and figure, and to lay them aside is easy when health or duty to friends or one’s good reputation (fama) requires that.)

That gives us not mere allusions or intertextualities: the whole structure of Sat. 1.2 and in fact of the book depends on the centrality of friendship for itself and for self-defense, and of good repute with friends and the world for self-defense, with identifiably Epicurean writing about these topics as a central underlying influence. 49 I will sketch two more instances where I have caught Lejay detecting a structurally important, not just locally important, Epicurean source, and then hoping to trivialize it. 50 At the end of 1.6 Horace describes an ideal Epicurean leisure-day, wandering idly round the city, returning to his Roman house, reading, talking to himself (Sat. 1.6.111-129), a perfect ‘stay-cation’ as we say nowadays; for he has not yet acquired a country house near Rome to perfect his leisure day by leaving Rome behind for the Sabine farm as he does in 2.6. (The passage there, from which I started, is among other things a deliberate reworking and strengthening of Sat. 1.6.111-129 to suit his new venue for philosophic leisure.) One finds from Lejay (1911, 200-201, on otior 1.6.128) that it is important to look at Cicero ad Fam. 9.20, where Cicero tells his friend Papirius Paetus, an Epicurean, that he is now forced to spend an ideal ‘Epicurean’ daily life in retirement from politics—and hates it. Epictetus rants (3.24) against the uselessness and sensuality of the ideal Epicurean day. Both their descriptions are mutatis paucis exactly and in detail the leisure day Horace describes 51. But that means all three passages have a lost Epicurean source earlier than Cicero, which will have praised this sort 48

Cf. Cic. Fin. 2.68 = fr. 415 Usener: de quibus ab Epicuro saepissime dicunt: in diatribes? 49 By ‘identifiably Epicurean’ I mean a stance in ethical diatribe always and centrally based on appeal to self-interest and self-preservation. It’s a great moment to me in the criticism of the Roman Odes when Oliver Lyne points out that the patriotism of their proem Carm. 3.1 is entirely Epicurean, “private and pleasurebased” in focus (Lyne 1995, 162). So are all Epicurean appeals to duty and virtue, Horace’s included. 50 Armstrong (1986) 277-283. 51 For a fuller discussion see Armstrong (1986) 277-279.

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of day: pleasure is being free of pain and just living, and the more active day has no rationale except to make the leisure day secure. But that secure Epicurean leisure day forms the peroration of Sat. 1.6, except for a comparison with a certain foolish Tillius, who went and spoiled his life by becoming a senator and can’t afford the required show of wealth: that’s ZKHUHȝİȝȥȚȝȠȚȡȓĮZLOOJHW\RX:H¶UHEDFNWRS(quare) 1(.1) again. How can so important a structural element as this closure merely happen once more to coincide with Epicurean teaching? Epictetus retorts that such a life is worthy only of a slave and a lazy one. I argued in 1986 that some Stoic had already made this counter-point before Horace’s day, and Horace saved it for Davus—his own slave—to tell him on the authority of “Crispinus’ janitor” in Sat. 2.7. I still believe that these references structurally illuminate the meaning of Sat. 1.6 and 2.7 as a whole; and there’s more. The first two satires of book 2, published five years later, are clearly identifiable as Epicurean in tone. In Sat. 2.1, the Epicurean jurist Trebatius Testa gives Horace legal advice that satire must not compromise one’s ȢǝǠdžǕǏǓNjȲǘȢǗǒǛǨǚǣǗ. He then learns that powerful friends guarantee Horace’s safety from any enemies he may make by satire: so in the end he approves. This is exactly the sort of question that an Epicurean lawyer would be asked and exactly the sort of response he would give. In Sat. 2.2 the Epicurean reference points are more complicated. This time Kiessling and Lejay offer two sources from the Master himself that are built into the structure of Ofellus’ Epicurean lecture on simple dining. There is Letter to Menoeceus 128-131, whose theory of dining underlies five substantial sections of Sat. 2.2. Lejay (315-316) finds that the details of this passage have influenced Horace’s Ofellus. Epicurus says in order 1. “bread and water give sovereign pleasure when one that is in need of them consumes them” (cf. Sat. 2.2.9-21) 2. “so that accustoming oneself to simple and inexpensive foods both fills one with health and makes a man fearless in the necessary work of his life” (cf. Sat. 2.2.71-77, 80-81) 3. “and also puts us in a better disposition for something more luxurious now and then” (cf. Sat. 2.2.8288) 4. “and makes us fearless in confronting Fortune” (cf. Sat. 2.2.107111, according to Lejay, but in fact the whole rest of the satire, Sat. 2.2.112-134 gives us an exemplum of this fearlessness, as Ofellus accepts his and his sons’ loss of their land under the Triumvirate). So by these four clauses, imitated in the same order Epicurus presents them, we can account for five passages that take up fifty lines at beginning, middle, and end of a 134 line satire. Lejay doesn’t mention that the Letter to Menoeceus, like the Tetrapharmakos and the Kyriai Doxai, was recommended by Epicurean teachers for rote memorization even to

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beginners. It could plausibly have been at hand verbatim not just to Horace, but even a prosperous, literate Italian landowner of moderate rank like Ofellus. 52 But there is more. Cicero (De Fin. 2.90-92) discusses this passage of Menoeceus and others like it from Epicurean texts now lost. Cicero, no doubt following a Greek source and Romanizing it, praises Epicurus’ view of simple dining and simple living before offering criticisms (De Fin. 2.90.1-2: sapientem locupletat ipsa natura, cuius divitias Epicurus parabiles esse docuit (Nature herself enriches the wise man with easilygotten riches, as Epicurus claims); parabiles = ǏɪǚǙǛljǝǞǙǟǜ, the Epicureans’ standard word for Nature’s ‘easily gotten’ goods). 53 Cicero says that Socrates’ simplicity also approached this ideal, and that Lucilius’ comic glutton ‘Gallonius’ was its antitype (90: cf. Sat. 2.2.47). So also Tusc. disp. 5.97-100, a remarkably friendly exposition-before-criticism of Epicurus on pleasure and pain, as Lejay finds, is verbally echoed in Sat. 2.2.1-7, 9-21(a), 21(b)-52 (!), 70-79. 54 Thus the Letter to Menoeceus and Tusc. disp. 5.97-100 furnish alternating structural elements layered in, in the exact order they occur in the original texts, that explain the whole progress of the discourse in Sat. 2.2 and nearly everything ‘Ofellus’ is made to say. That can only be explained by Horace’s having memorized Menoeceus (as good Epicureans were expected to do, poets or not) just as he memorized everything he wanted to use from Lucretius and Cicero as models of philosophical style. How Lejay convinced himself that he hadn’t just unwittingly explained the whole satire’s basis is hardly worth recounting. According to him Epicurus is copied “perhaps from a manual, perhaps from the original,” and Cicero is copied straight from Cicero, without Lejay’s reflecting that how Cicero describes Epicureanism in Latin is what Horace is interested in; or maybe from a common source? Cicero attended Zeno and Phaedrus’ lectures in Athens when young, and kept up friendships with Philodemus and Siro in middle age: so possibilities suggest themselves. 55 52

Crucial on this aspect of the Epicurean life—memorization—is Clay (1983) 80, 172-175 et passim; principal ancient texts: Diog. Laert. 10.12, Ep. Hdt. 35-36, 83, Cic. Fin. 2.20, ND 1.113. 53 Cf. Horace’s parabilem…Venerem facilemque, Sat. 1.2.119. 54 Lejay [(1911) 314-315] (he notes that Kiessling (1895) had also seen this paragraph of Men. as a key to Ofellus’ argument). 55 Lejay (1911) 324 was ahead of his day in his brilliant remark that Sat. 1.2 and Sat. 2.2 are really congeners, for 2.2. transposes 1.2 from the key of Sex into the key of Food. “In sum Horace only had to transpose the advice of the second satire of the first book (to 2.2); he was applying to the pleasures of the table the rule of the juste milieu already established apropos of the pleasures of love. The two

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On this basis one could suggest an Epicurean typology of the four ‘food satires’ in book 2: Sat. 2.2 (Ofellus, the Epicurean countryman: simple food, simple style, virtue and endurance); Sat 2.4 (‘Epicurean’ or merely hedonistic gourmandise, city style, attractive in theory); Sat. 2.6 (counterpart to 2.2: Horace the country mouse, eating Ofellan cuisine at a table of Ofellus’ look-alikes); Sat. 2.8 (counterpart to 2.4: the dinner of Nasidienus shows that Epicurean-hedonistic gourmandise, city-style, is a catastrophe in practice). I should take up this last argument at more length elsewhere: here verbum non amplius addam. Obviously the argument in general is this. Though it does not matter whether Horace actually joined the school, it’s important that his poetic voice in the Sermones takes Epicureanism seriously enough that the argument of many of them is incomplete if a critic dismisses the obvious and well known references to its literature as surface ornament. There are crucial structural questions that only a deeper look at the Epicurean subtext can resolve. Or to put it in another way, an essay on Proust and his persona and his war with Ste. Beuve’s ‘biographical’ and therefore reductive style of criticism, in the New York Review of Books by Edmund White, read as I was finishing this, might point the moral for us. 56 No doubt we can grant the satiric persona in Roman literature every sort of irony even against itself that scholars like Zetzel, Freudenburg, and Gowers demand. 57 No critical victories won by persona-theory need be abandoned. And yet, famously, Proust still felt genres of satisfaction were more closely connected by the ancients than by us: in literature courtesans figure in lists of dishes and friandises.” He goes on to cite a brilliant passage of J. Vahlen [(1907) I 7-12] in which he illuminates Plato Rep. 2.373a (Ǚɪǎʌ NjɯǞǑ ȿ ǎʑNjǓǞNj, ȢǕǕʊ ǔǕ˪ǗNjʑ ǞǏ ǚǛǙǝʍǝǙǗǞNjǓ ǔNjʐ ǞǛʋǚǏǐNjǓ ǔNjʐ ǞȨǕǕNj ǝǔǏʕǑ, ǔNjʐ ɢǢNj ǎʎ ǔNjʐ ǖʕǛNj ǔNjʐ ǒǟǖǓʋǖNjǞNj ǔNjʐ ȳǞNj˪ǛNjǓ ǔNjʐ ǚʍǖǖNjǞNj “the old diet is not enough, but they now need couches and tables and lots of other furniture and perfumes and incense and courtesans and fishcakes”) and defends the text against those who wanted to expunge or amend and courtesans and make James Davidson’s title Courtesans and Fishcakes impossible. Lejay then lists a number of verbal parallels between 1.2 and 2.2 which would do any modern intertextualist proud (324-325) and concludes predictably “the two are in the same vein, more Roman than literary, more popular than philosophical”, though even by the rules of 1911 what made these two pairs of adjectives opposing poles is unclear to me: does Roman mean ‘unliterary’? Is popular discourse like diatribe ‘unphilosophical’? This is one of dozens of places where Lejay was saying things that strike a modern reader far more deeply than his critical principles allowed him to articulate. 56 E. White “Proust the Passionate Reader,” NYRB 60.6 (April 4 2013). 57 Cf. Freudenburg (1993) esp. 8-27; Gowers (2012) 15-21.

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there was something personal to himself, though not ‘biographical,’ to be found in his fiction: a moi social, I as I interact with people on a social and more superficial level, and a moi profond, a more reflective and inward self. In that sense, just as Horace’s portrait of his own social status constructs a moi social, his Epicureanism in the Satires is part of his and his circle’s moi profond.

CHAPTER FIVE THE FIGURE OF NUMA IN OVID’S FASTI 1 MYRTO GARANI Introduction: Philosophy as wrapper It has long been recognized that Ovid’s Metamorphoses and Fasti are both enfolded with passages heavily encumbered with philosophical echoes. 2 Both poems open with comparable cosmogonic passages which initiate the intertextual dialogue with philosophy (cosmogony in Met. 1.5-88, Janus’ cosmogony in F. 1.101-144). In a similar vein, both poems, at least as they stand, culminate with passages which allude to various philosophical ideas (Pythagoras’ speech in Met. 15.1-484, the Goddess Vesta in F. 6.249-318). This philosophical wrapper, which then permeates the two poems, has so far been considered to be an eclectic amalgamation of Pythagorean, Empedoclean, 3 Epicurean and Stoic elements. 1

The research of this paper was aided through the generous support of E.L.K.E. 6SHFLDO $FFRXQW IRU 5HVHDFK )XQGV Ȁǹ   IRU ZKLFK , DP GHHSO\ grateful. David Konstan as well as Stratis and Eleni Kyriakidis painstakingly read and generously commented upon an earlier draft of this paper; this is the place to express to all three of them my sincere gratitude for everything and more; the remaining mistakes are of course my own. Lucretius’ translations are quoted from Rouse (1924), rev. by Smith (1992); the translations of Ovid’s Metamorphoses are from Miller (1916), rev. by Goold (1977) and (1984); of Ovid’s Fasti from Frazer (1931), rev. by Goold (1996); of Empedocles from Inwood (2001). 2 I take it for granted that Fasti should be read as a finished entity. For the relevant discussion see Miller (2002) 167-168 with further bibliography. See also Barchiesi (1997b). 3 For the parallels between Empedocles and Ovid’s cosmogony in Met. 1 and the Speech of Pythagoras in Met. 15 see Pascal (1905). Robbins [(1913) 403-404] doubts these parallels. For Empedoclean parallels in the Speech of Pythagoras see also Bignone (1916); Segl (1970); Della Corte (1985). Cf. also Rostagni (1924)

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Despite the unanimous agreement on the presence of these philosophical ideas within Ovid’s poetic corpus, there is no scholarly consensus about either the identification of their sources, nor their function. More to the point, although the publication of the Strasbourg papyrus of Empedocles in 1998 led to the revival of the discussion about Lucretius’ intertextual relationship with Empedocles, with just a few noticeable exceptions little attention has been given to Empedocles’ significance within Ovid’s poetic corpus. 4 Pythagoras’ speech in the last book of his Metamorphoses, the philosophical character of which has been heatedly debated, is a striking example. 5 In a key article, recently revised and republished, Hardie underscores anew the role of Empedocles within this passage. As he points out, “the juxtaposition of a sermon on vegetarianism with a lecture de rerum natura reproduces the duality of what modern scholars have seen as the two areas of Empedocles’ thought, the natural-philosophical cosmic cycle and the religious doctrine of the transmigration of souls.” 6 In fact, Hardie went so far as to claim that Ovid invites us to read the Roman epic tradition as ‘Empedoclean epos’. 7 In the present paper, I will focus on the figure of Numa within Ovid’s Fasti, in order to demonstrate that the way in which the poet sketches the king is particularly informative of Empedocles’ reception within his elegiac poem. Since Ovid’s two long poems, Metamorphoses and Fasti, were written in parallel, the former can be used as an interpretative compass to the latter and vice versa. 8 Within this framework, by taking as my starting point Hardie’s arguments regarding Ovid’s Metamorphoses 15 and then exploring Ovid’s intertextual relationship with Lucretius, I will show that, despite the fact that on the surface Ovid adopts an eclectic who tried to reconstruct an esoteric Pythagorean Hieros Logos, taking as his starting point the Empedoclean echoes that he spots within the Speech of Pythagoras. For older discussion about the presence of Empedocles in Ovid see Pfigersdorffer (1973), Rusten (1982). The scholarship about philosophy in Ovid’s Metamorphoses 15 is extensive; see e.g. Lafaye (1904) 191-223; Stephens (1957); Alfonsi 1958; Crahay & Hubaux (1958); Freyburger (1992). Seminal is Hardie’s work (2005), repr. in Hardie (ed.), (2009) 67-135. 4 Martin and Primavesi (1998). 5 For arguments for the parodical or satirical character of the speech see Galinsky (1967); Segal (1969); Holleman (1969); Galinsky (1975) 104-107 and (1998). On the contrary see Little (1970) and (1974). For a recent discussion of the passage see also Beagon (2009). 6 Hardie (2009) 138-139. 7 Hardie (2009) 67-135. For Empedocles in Ovid’s Met. 1.416-451 see Nelis (2009). 8 Barchiesi (1991-1992) 6-7; Green (2004) 16 n. 5, 28-29 for bibliography.

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philosophical stance, Empedoclean ideas can be identified more easily than was thought hitherto, and hence they are even more significant for the overall interpretation of the poem. 9

Tracking down Numa’s mentors (Ovid’s Metamorphoses 15.1-484) In the final book of Ovid’s Metamorphoses, Numa, the second king of Rome, makes a journey to the Italian city of Croton and asks Pythagoras to reveal the nature of things: non ille satis cognosse Sabinae gentis habet ritus, animo maiora capaci concipit et, quae sit rerum natura, requirit. (Met. 15.4-6) (He, not content with knowing the usages of the Sabine race, conceives larger plans in his generous soul, and seeks to know what is Nature’s general law.) 10

Although the tradition of Numa’s meeting with Pythagoras had been dismissed already in antiquity on a chronological basis, it is generally accepted that the king himself, as well as the institutions that he founded, were tinted with a Pythagorean colour. 11 Pythagoras, in Numa’s reply, delivers a famous speech in order to initiate the king into the mysteries of nature. In the first place, the philosopher launches an attack on animal sacrifice, advises abstention from flesh-eating (Met. 15.75-142), and argues for his belief in the transmigration of the soul (Met. 15.158-172). Within this passage, he claims divine inspiration and originality (Met. 15.143-152) and attacks the erroneous fear of death and the fables of vates (Met. 15.153-157). Instead, he explicitly assigns to himself the role of a vates, who has prophetic powers and thus fulfills the role of a social and

9

See also Garani (2011), (2013) and (forthcoming). Note the translator’s equation of rerum natura with “Nature’s general law”. For the notion of natural law in Lucretius see Garani (2007b). 11 About the relationship between Numa and Pythagoras see Diodorus Siculus 8.14; Cic. Rep. 2.28 (falsum); Livy 1.18 (falso); Dionysius of Halicarnassus 2.59.1; Plut. Num. 1.2-4, 8.4-10, 22.4. This tradition goes back to the 4th cent. B.C. In general about the significance of Numa’s religious reforms see Hooker (1963). For the presence of Numa in Augustan Poetry see Deremetz (2013). About the presence of Numa in Ovid’s Fasti see also Monella (2008). 10

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religious orator (vaticinari, Met. 15.174). 12 Mainly on these grounds, it has already been argued that Pythagoras stands in for the poet himself. 13 Pythagoras, then, goes on to reveal the principle of cosmic metamorphosis (Met. 15.176-459). Ovid’s multilayered debt to Lucretius’ poem in respect to Pythagoras’ speech has been widely recognized. 14 Pythagoras unmistakably assumes Lucretius’ corresponding role in DRN (quae sit rerum natura, requirit, Met. 15.6), where he initiates his pupil, Memmius, into the mysteries of nature. It is through this interpretative intertextual glass that Ovid invites his reader to receive the speech that follows. Contrary to Pythagoras, Lucretius rejects the idea of the poets concerning the survival of the soul after death and the concomitant fear of the punishment then (vatum / terriloquis victus dictis, overborne by the terrific utterances of priests, DRN 1.102-103). What is particularly significant for the present discussion, as Hardie has influentially argued, is that in his turn Lucretius shapes his idea of vates using the image of another of Pythagoras’ disciples, i.e. Empedocles. 15 While Empedocles assigns to himself various roles, such as those of the philosopher, poet, god, and prophet (DK31 B112), Lucretius considers him the archetypal vates. Lucretius appropriates Empedocles’ fillets and garlands (DK31 B112.6), which symbolize overpowering inspiration and mental strength, as well as the transforming effect of poetry (cf. DRN 1.922-935 with Empedocles DK31 B112.6). 16 While I postpone further discussion of Lucretius’ integration of other Empedoclean vatic traits, I focus now on a passage in which Lucretius associates himself and his master with Empedocles and Pythagoras respectively: 17 Humana ante oculos foede cum vita iaceret in terris oppressa gravi sub religione, quae caput a caeli regionibus ostendebat horribili super aspectu mortalibus instans, primum Graius homo mortalis tollere contra est oculos ausus primusque obsistere contra; quem neque fama deum nec fulmina nec minitanti 12

Myers (1994) 142-147. Cf. Hardie (2009) 144-145. Hardie (1991) 60-64; Barchiesi (1991-1992) 14-17; Barchiesi (1997a) 230-237; Green (2004) 70-71. 14 For echoes of Lucretius in Ovid’s Pythagorean speech see e.g. Bömer (1986) ad Met. 15.6; Galinsky (1998) 328-330. 15 Hardie (1986) 17-22. 16 Konstan (1988). 17 Furley (1970); Sedley (1998) 29-30. 13

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Chapter Five murmure compressit caelum, sed eo magis acrem inritat animi virtutem, effringere ut arta naturae primus portarum claustra cupiret. ergo vivida vis animi pervicit et extra processit longe flammantia moenia mundi atque omne immensum peragravit mente animoque (DRN 1.62-74) (When man’s life lay for all to see foully grovelling upon the ground, crushed beneath the weight of Superstition, which displayed her head from the regions of heaven, lowering over mortals with horrible aspect, a man of Greece was the first that dared to uplift mortal eyes against her, the first to make stand against her; for neither fables of the gods could quell him, nor thunderbolts, nor heaven with menacing roar, nay all the more they goaded the eager courage of his soul, so that he should desire, first of all men, to shatter the confining bars of nature’s gates. Therefore the lively power of his mind prevailed, and forth he marched far beyond the flaming walls of the world, as he traversed the immeasurable universe in thought and imagination)

In this passage, Lucretius praises Epicurus (DRN 1.72-74) in phrasing reminiscent of that used by Empedocles in order to eulogize his own master, Pythagoras, without mentioning his name: ɄǗ ǎʍ ǞǓǜ ȲǗ ǔǏʑǗǙǓǝǓǗ ȢǗʎǛ ǚǏǛǓʗǝǓNj ǏɎǎʗǜ, ɡǜǎʎ ǖʏǔǓǝǞǙǗǚǛNjǚʑǎǣǗȲǔǞʏǝNjǞǙǚǕǙ˹ǞǙǗ ǚNjǗǞǙʑǣǗǞǏǖʋǕǓǝǞNjǝǙǠ̆ǗȲǚǓʏǛNjǗǙǜȶǛǍǣǗy ɟǚǚʓǞǏǍʊǛǚʋǝ˚ǝǓǗɞǛʍǘNjǓǞǙǚǛNjǚʑǎǏǝǝǓǗ ˸Ǐ˪' ɣ ǍǏǞ̆ǗɢǗǞǣǗǚʋǗǞǣǗǕǏʕǝǝǏǝǔǏǗȷǔNjǝǞǙǗ ǔNjʑ ǞǏǎʍǔ ȢǗǒǛʗǚǣǗǔNjʑ Ǟ ǏɒǔǙǝǓǗNjɎʗǗǏǝǝǓǗ (B129) (There was among them a man of exceptional knowledge, who indeed obtained the greatest wealth in his thinking organs, master of all kinds of particularly wise deeds; for whenever he reached out with all his thinking organs he easily saw each of all the things which are in ten or twenty human lifetimes) (text and translation by Inwood)

Ovid himself echoes Lucretius’ praise of Epicurus when he introduces Pythagoras in his Metamorphoses 15.60-72. What is striking, as Hardie points out, is that “the object of praise, Pythagoras, is the same as that in Lucretius’ own model, in Empedocles (B129).” In fact, when it comes to the details, Ovid is more loyal than Lucretius to Empedocles’ image, both when he anonymously refers to Pythagoras (cf. Vir fuit hic ortu Samius,

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There was a man here, a Samian by birth, Met. 15.60), as well as when he resorts to the concept of “the mental ‘seeing’ of the master” (oculis ea pectoris hausit, / cumque animo et vigili perspexerat omnia cura, he feasted on with his mind’s eye. And when he had surveyed all things by reason and wakeful diligence, Met. 15.64-65). 18 Reading Lucretius’ passage from a different point of view, we may discern that Lucretius presents Epicurus’ assault on the sky as a Gigantomachy; in fact this could be called an “inverted Gigantomachy”, since in the end it is the philosophical giant that prevails. 19 Remarkably, this is the very imagery by means of which Lucretius also praises Empedocles, when he describes the sky-threatening Etna (DRN 1.722-725) and thus associates Epicurus also with Empedocles. In other words, Lucretius employs metaphorically the same mythical imagery twice and rationalizes it so as to convey the importance of Epicurus’ scientific breakthrough as well as Empedocles’ comparable achievement. Returning to Ovid’s Metamorphoses, it seems that Pythagoras distances himself from Lucretius’ scientific approach. As Myers suggests, “while Lucretius’ goal was to explain away the miraculous in the world … in order to prove that the world is governed by its own constant and fixed natural laws, the whole purport of Pythagoras’ discourse seems to be to inspire a feeling of wonder at the miracles of nature.” 20 At first glance Pythagoras appears to be the one who originally passed the vatic torch—this implying both poetry and philosophy—to Numa, his first Roman disciple. Still, the reader is faced with a textual inversion regarding the teaching process: since the figure of the Ovidian Pythagoras is indirectly informed by Lucretius and the latter’s vatic forerunner, i.e. Empedocles, Pythagoras becomes now Empedocles’ pupil. Given the impossibility of Numa’s mythical encounter with Pythagoras, the reader is taken aback by this new chronological confusion. And the question remains open: who is Numa’s master, Pythagoras, Empedocles, or both?

18

Hardie (2009) 143. Cf. Nelis [(2004) 3-4] about the double makarismos and the double allusion to Lucretius’ praise of Epicurus and to Empedocles’ praise of Pythagoras in Vergil’s Geo. 2.490-494. 19 Gale (1994) 44. Cf. Campbell in the present volume. 20 Myers (1994) 146.

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The idea of vates in Ovid’s Fasti: First considerations Ovid is assigned the name of vates several times in his Fasti. 21 For example, in the proem to Book 1—and hence to the whole poem—it is the God Janus who first calls him vates: disce metu posito, vates operose dierum, quod petis, et voces percipe mente meas. (F. 1.101-102) (Dismiss thy fear, thy answer take, laborious singer of the days, and mark my words.)

As Pasco-Pranger notes, the collocation vates operosus, reiterated in 3.177, condenses “the tension between the vatic ideal of inspired poetry and the work of poetic composition” and reflects “the complex relationship between Callimacheanism, vaticism, and antiquarianism in the Fasti.” 22 The poet is introduced again as vates in both celebrations of the Kalends of March, that is, the Matronalia (F. 3.167-170) and the procession of the Salii (3.323-326, quoted below). While embarking upon his account of the former, a festival which commemorated how the Sabine women intervened in the battle between their Sabine fathers and Roman husbands and eventually made peace, Ovid claims that: Si licet occultos monitus audire deorum vatibus, ut certe fama licere putat, cum sis officiis, Gradive, virilibus aptus, dic mihi, matronae cur tua festa colant. (F. 3.167-170) (If bards may list to secret promptings of the gods, as surely rumour thinks they may, tell me, thou Marching God [Gradivus], why matrons keep thy feast, whereas thou art apter to receive service from men.)

In order to understand better Ovid’s idea of vates, Pasco-Pranger argues that we should turn to the set of stories related to Numa Pompilius in Book 3 of his Fasti, where the nymph Egeria narrates how her husband

21

See Ahern (1990) for Ovid as vates in the Proem to the Ars Amatoria. Pasco-Pranger (2000) 275. Cf. in F. 6.8 the idea of vates associated with divine inspiration with Pasco-Pranger (2000) 289. For the concept of vates in Augustan poetry see Newman (1967). See also Dahlmann (1948); Bickel (1951).

22

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seeks a way to expiate Jupiter’s thunderbolt (3.259-392). 23 In this way, Ovid offers an aetiological explanation of the procession of the Salii on the 1st of May, during which the twelve priests of Mars carried twelve bronze shields called ancilia and danced through the city, along with that of the cult of the altar of Jupiter Elicius. This connection of Jupiter Elicius with the Salii is, remarkably, Ovid’s own innovation. Egeria’s narration can be subdivided into four episodes: in the first place, Numa meets with Egeria, who advises him what to do in order to mitigate Jupiter’s wrath (3.259-294); then Numa binds two rustic deities, Faunus and Picus, who eventually bring out Jupiter (3.295-326). What follows is Numa’s meeting with Jupiter and their negotiations about human sacrifice (3.327-348). In the end, a sacred shield falls from heaven as a sign of Jupiter’s favour and a pledge of Rome’s sovereignty (3.349-378); in order to protect the original shield, the smith Veturius Mamurius is asked to forge eleven copies of it (3.379-392). Numa in his turn institutes rites associated with these incidents. Pasco-Pranger’s discussion places the emphasis upon those vatic traits of the king, which point to his association with the poet of the Fasti. As she correctly points out, the meeting with Egeria, which takes place in a locus amoenus, abounds in programmatic language about poetic inspiration, which is considered to be of divine origin (3.263-264, 273276). At the same time, the poet himself confesses to have drunk from Egeria’s water “in little sips” (exiguis haustibus, 3.274). Given that Numa is thought to have composed the Carmen Saliare (3.388) and be the instigator of Veturius’ ‘artistic work,’ he figures as a poet and in this sense stands for Ovid himself. 24 The same programmatic elements can be also gleaned from the episode of the binding of Picus and Faunus, which takes place within the grove on the Aventine, itself described as being full of water and shady. Since Picus and Faunus refuse to speak about the topic suggested by Numa, they deliver a recusatio of big themes (magna petis, 3.313). Instead, they offer songs (carmina, 3.323) to bring out Jupiter Elicius. Along these lines, both the bound gods and the king as binder stand in as Ovid’s poetic models. 25 Taking these elements as her starting point, Pasco-Pranger offers the speculative suggestion that Ovid drew these stories from Varro, whose double etymology of the word vates (‘a versibus viendis’ and ‘a vi mentis’, emphasizing both his poetic inspiration and his mental force correspondingly) was plausibly catalytic for the 23

For detailed commentary of the passage see Bailey (1921) ad loc.; Bömer (1958) ad loc.; Ursini (2008) passim. 24 Barchiesi (1997a) 111-112. 25 Pasco-Pranger (2002) 298-299.

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reintroduction of the word by in reference to the inspired poet. 26 In sum, Pasco-Pranger argues that “Varro’s depiction of Numa may have in part shaped the formation of the vatic ideal in the early Augustan period, serving as a model for the learned, religious mystical leader of society.” 27 Numa does not appear in the poem for the first time in Egeria’s narration. Within the very same book, just a few lines above, Ovid resumes the narrative from the final book of his Metamorphoses Numa’s double dependence on the philosopher Pythagoras as well the nymph Egeria: primus oliviferis Romam deductus ab arvis Pompilius menses sensit abesse duos, sive hoc a Samio doctus, qui posse renasci nos putat, Egeria sive monente sua. (F. 3.151-154) ([Numa] Pompilius, who was escorted to Rome from the lands where olives grow, was the first to perceive that two months were lacking to the year, whether he learned that from the Samian sage who thought that we could be born again, or whether it was his Egeria who taught him.)

Numa is characterized here as both deductus (3.151) and doctus (3.153), thus looking back to the corresponding Alexandrian ideals of slender and learned poetry. 28 Even more importantly, Ovid establishes the nature of Numa’s apprenticing as two-fold, for it is not only poetic but also philosophical. This combination of poetical and philosophical elements is telling, since, as we have already seen in connection with both Lucretius and Ovid in his Metamorphoses, it looks back to the archetypal vatic ideal which was embodied by Empedocles. In fact, we should recall that this concoction of poetry and philosophy has been discussed also with regard to the figure of the god Janus in the first book of the Fasti. On the one hand, Ovid significantly presents Janus as the personification of cosmogony, who was then metamorphosed into an anthropomorphic god with two faces, being thus reminiscent of the Empedoclean monsters (F. 1.101-144). 29 Besides, given that Janus’ duty as 26 Cf. a versibus viendis in Varro LL 7.36 and a vi mentis in Varro apud DServius ad Aen. 3.443 and Isid. Orig. 8.7.3. See Pasco-Pranger (2002) 306-307. Cf. Maltby (1991) s.v. vates. For further discussion see also Dahlmann (1948) 337ff., also quoted by Hardie (1986) 20. 27 Pasco-Pranger (2002) 311. 28 Pasco-Pranger (2002) 292-293. 29 Hardie (1991) 50.

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celestial doorkeeper was to let Peace out into the world (F. 1.121-122) and confine Wars (F. 1.123-124), these two notions were notably identified with the Empedoclean powers of Love and Hatred and their alternation within our world. 30 At the same time, whilst Janus answers questions relating to his role in the history of Rome, he narrates the trick he employed in order to save Rome from the Sabine attack, namely his throwing of sulphur into the channels of nearby fountains and then opening them so as to repulse the enemy by means of boiling waters. As Green notes, in this context in particular Janus’ actions are reminiscent of the poet composing poetry (ipse meae movi callidus artis opus, I slyly had recourse to a device of my own craft, F. 1.268). 31 What is striking is the fact that the god is closely associated with Numa. When the latter adjusted the calendar and added two more months, i.e. January and February, he dethroned Mars from first place in the year and gave it to Janus, to whom the first book of Fasti is dedicated (F. 1.43-44). The king also founded a temple in his honor. Therefore, in order to explore the implications of Ovid’s vatic ideal, we should bear in mind that it is Janus, the Empedoclean God, who acts as the agent of the poet’s “baptism” as vates (F. 1.101). On this basis, in the following section I will suggest that Ovid does not look back mainly to Varro’s portrayal of Numa, but rather to Lucretius’ Empedoclean model of the vates, which he reshapes by simultaneously turning back to Empedocles himself. In this way, Ovid aligns Numa—and indirectly himself—with the tradition of philosophical poets.

Ovid’s Gigantomachy: Numa in action (Ovid’s Fasti Book 3). According to Egeria’s story, during Numa’s kingship people were frightened by the lighting and thunder of Jupiter: ecce deum genitor rutilas per nubila flammas spargit, et effusis aethera siccat aquis; non alias missi cecidere frequentius ignes: rex pavet et volgi pectora terror habet. cui dea ‘ne nimium terrere! piabile fulmen est,’ ait ‘et saevi flectitur ira Iovis’. (3.285-290)

30 31

Labate (2005) 182. Green (2004) 126.

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Chapter Five (Lo, through the clouds the father of the gods scatters red lightings, then clears the sky after the torrent rain: never before or since did hurtling fires fall thicker. The king quakes, and terror filled the hearts of common folk. To the king the goddess spake: ‘Fear not over much. It is possible to expiate the thunderbolt, and the wrath of angry Jove can be averted’.)

Numa participates in a scene composed out of similar narrative ingredients and objectives to those discussed above in relation to Epicurus and Empedocles in Lucretius’ De Rerum Natura. More precisely, the situation with which the Ovidian Numa is faced, and in fact motivates his actions within the episode under discussion, evokes Lucretius’ gigantomachic images, which involve a mortal who tries to usurp Jupiter’s arms. In an analogous way, Numa has to disarm the thunderbolt of Jupiter in order to protect his people and liberate them from their fear. In other words, the king is also challenged with a gigantomachic endeavour. What kind of action did Numa then take? Ovid seems to reply directly to Lucretius’ gigantomachic imagery (DRN 1.62-79, 1.722-725) by subverting it. In fact, I would like to suggest that this imagery serves for Ovid as the basis and starting point of his own Empedoclean version of the vatic ideal. In the first place, Ovid restores the thunderbolt to its mythical setting. In the philosophical context of the cosmogony in Metamorphoses Book 1, thunderbolts are considered to be the work of a ‘god’ and in this way they are remythologized (Met. 1.54-56). Yet, just before Pythagoras’ speech Ovid resumes the discussion of the rationalistic explanation of natural phenomena: quid deus, unde nives, quae fulminis esset origo, / Iuppiter an venti discussa nube tonarent, what God is, whence come the snows, what is the origin of lightning, whether it is Jupiter or the winds that thunder from the riven clouds, Met. 15.69-70). This ‘scientific’ approach is once again abandoned within the mythical world of aetiological elegiac poetry. Moreover, instead of a violent encounter directly with Jupiter, Numa modifies the standard Gigantomachic motif and initially wishes to subjugate the thunderbolt by expiating it; although the king exerts a certain degree of violence, by binding Picus and Faunus (F. 3.293, 3.306-308), who in turn cast the spell on Jupiter (F. 3.323), the final scene does not remind us in any way of a war, since the outcome of the ‘battle’ is decided—as we will see below—by means of a witty wordplay (F. 3.340-343). In this way Numa succeeds in ‘disarming’ Jupiter and thus appears to be a disguised Lucretian Giant. At the same time, we should also draw attention to the fact that Egeria narrates how Picus and Faunus drew Jupiter from heaven down to the Aventine so as to ask him what sacrifice he would accept in order to expiate his thunderbolts (eliciunt caelo te, Iuppiter; unde minores / nunc

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quoque te celebrant Eliciumque vocant, They drew (eliciunt) thee from the sky, O Jupiter, whence later generations to this day celebrate thee by the name of Elicius, F. 3.327-328). Wiseman points out that this is the only version according to which Jupiter did not appear of his own free will, but instead was forced to obey a magical spell (Iuppiter huc veniet, valida perductus ab arte, Jupiter will come hither, drawn by powerful art, F. 3.321). 32 Given that the verb elicere was used in other contexts in order to describe the imposition of a binding spell, such as the magic practiced by the Pythagorean sect, Wiseman persuasively suggests that the myth of Jupiter Elicius is Pythagorean in origin. 33 Taking Empedocles’ relationship with Pythagoras for granted, one could plausibly argue that Ovid intentionally employs this particular version of the myth of Jupiter Elicius in order to hark back to Empedocles’ role as a magician: 34 ǠʋǛǖNjǔNj ǎ̧ ɣǝǝNj ǍǏǍˍǝǓ ǔNjǔ̆Ǘ ǔNjʐ ǍʏǛNjǙǜ ȦǕǔNjǛ ǚǏʕǝ˚, ȲǚǏʐ ǖǙʕǗ̄ ǝǙʐ ȲǍʖ ǔǛNjǗʍǣ ǞʋǎǏ ǚʋǗǞNj. ǚNjʕǝǏǓǜ ǎ̧ ȢǔNjǖʋǞǣǗ ȢǗʍǖǣǗ ǖʍǗǙǜ Ǚɓ Ǟ̧ Ȳǚʐ ǍNj˪NjǗ ɞǛǗʕǖǏǗǙǓ ǚǗǙǓNj˪ǝǓ ǔNjǞNjǠǒǓǗʕǒǙǟǝǓǗ ȢǛǙʕǛNjǜ· ǔNjʐ ǚʋǕǓǗ, ɀǗ ǔ̧ȲǒʍǕ˚ǝǒNj, ǚNjǕʑǗǞǓǞNj ǚǗǏʕǖNjǞ̧ȲǚʋǘǏǓǜ· ǒʏǝǏǓǜ ǎ̧ Ȳǘ ɢǖnjǛǙǓǙ ǔǏǕNjǓǗǙ˹ ǔNjʑǛǓǙǗ NjɪǡǖʓǗ ȢǗǒǛʗǚǙǓǜ, ǒʏǝǏǓǜ ǎʌ ǔNjʐ Ȳǘ NjɪǡǖǙ˪Ǚ ǒǏǛǏʑǙǟ ˸ǏʕǖNjǞNj ǎǏǗǎǛǏʓǒǛǏǚǞNj, Ǟʋ Ǟ̧ NjɎǒʍǛǓ ǗNjǓǏǞdžǙǟǝǓ, ȦǘǏǓǜ ǎ̧ Ȳǘ ˖ƬʑǎNjǙ ǔNjǞNjǠǒǓǖʍǗǙǟ ǖʍǗǙǜ ȢǗǎǛʓǜ. (DK31 B111) (All the potions which there are as a defence against evils and old age, you shall learn, since for you alone will I accomplish all these things. You shall put a stop to the strength of tireless winds, which rush against the land and wither the fields with their blasts; and again, if you wish, you shall bring the winds back again; and you shall make, after dark rain, a drought timely for men, and after summer drought you shall make tree-nourishing streams which dwell in the air; and you shall bring from Hades the strength of a man who has died) (text and translation by Inwood)

32 According to Valerius Antias, Picus and Faunus told Numa what to do (Arnobius Adversus nationes 5.1 = Antias fr. 6 Peter). According to Plutarch (Numa 15.4), Picus and Faunus told him. 33 Wiseman [(2008) 157] refers to Cicero in Vatinium 14. Vatinius was an associate of P. Nigidius Figulus, who was described as Pythagoricus et magus (Jerome Chron. on 45-44 B.C., Olymp. 183.4, p. 156 Helm). See also below, n. 77. 34 Wiseman (2008). Cf. also Porte (1988).

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This Pythagorean dimension, which points to the supernatural or mythical facets associated with the sect, should be borne in mind for the discussion that follows. To take my suggestion further, Ovid’s contextualization and manipulation of Lucretian gigantomachic imagery is revealing of his own vatic ideal: whereas Numa, following his master, i.e. the Ovidian Pythagoras, harks back to Lucretius’ Empedoclean idea of vates, Ovid remythologizes this imagery, by restoring the figure of vates back to a mythical setting. This process, the germs of which are evident in Pythagoras’ amazement before the natural wonders in the Metamorphoses, informs the entire passage under discussion. With this mythological dimension in mind, let us consider further Numa’s intertextual debt to Empedocles as vates, this time in close comparison with Lucretius’ poem. While Lucretius substituted in the course of the poem Empedocles’ Calliope as source of poetic inspiration for himself and of information for Epicurus, and thus delayed her invocation until his Book 6 (DRN 6.92-95), 35 Ovid makes the source of Numa’s divine inspiration his spouse, Egeria, who is closely associated with the Camenae, the Italian counterparts of the Muses. 36 From a different point of view, at the beginning of Book 5, just before arguing that our world is perishable, Lucretius represents himself as a prophet: 37 Qua prius adgrediar quam de re fundere fata sanctius et multo certa ratione magis quam Pythia quae tripode a Phoebi lauroque profatur, multa tibi expediam doctis solacia dictis; (DRN 5.110-113) (But before I begin to utter my oracles on this matter, more solemnly and with more certain reason than those which the Pythia declares from the tripod and laurel of Phoebus, I will expound to you many consolations in words of wisdom.)

This passage bears strong Empedoclean connotations, since it looks back to the passage in Book 1 in which Lucretius eulogizes Empedocles by comparing him to a prophet (DRN 1.732: vociferantur) and his discoveries with the responses of the Delphic Pythia:

35

Garani (2008). For the Camenae see Karamalengou (2003) and especially (2005). 37 Clay (1983) 49-52; Castner (1987). 36

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quamquam multa bene ac divinitus invenientes ex adyto tamquam cordis responsa dedere sanctius et multo certa ratione magis quam Pythia quae tripodi a Phoebi lauroque profatur. (DRN 1.736-739) (Although in making many excellent and inspired discoveries they have given responses as it were from the holy place of the heart, with more sanctity and far more certainty than the Pythia who speaks forth from Apollo’s tripod and laurel.)

Yet it is only in metaphorical terms that Lucretius assimilates the concept of philosophical poetry to that of prophecy. Ovid, on the contrary, although he retains the oracular imagery, relegates it to the mythical episode of Picus and Faunus, for these two are considered to be oracular deities. 38 In fact, as Wiseman notes, in the Euhemerized version of the myth Picus and Faunus are presented as skilled prophets or augurs. 39 Hence, in this case as well, Ovid remythologizes Lucretius’ Empedoclean imagery. Last but not least, contrary to Lucretius and Epicurus, who reveal the whole truth of natural laws to their pupils and potential devotees, Picus and Faunus, the narrator as vates, as well as Numa are very much concerned about the limits of speech and piety: 40 “magna petis nec quae monitu tibi discere nostro fas sit: habent fines numina nostra suos. (F. 3.313-14) (Thou askest great things, such as it is not lawful for thee to learn by our disclosure: divinities like ours have their appointed bounds)

also, emissi laqueis quid agant, quae carmina dicant, quaque trahant superis sedibus arte Iovem, scire nefas homini: nobis concessa canentur quaeque pio dici vatis ab ore licet. (F. 3.323-26) (What they did when they were let out of the trap, what spells they spoke, and by what art they dragged Jupiter from his home above, ’twere sin for 38

Cf. Verg. Aen. 7.81-103, Ov. F. 4.649-668. Wiseman (2008) 162-163. For Faunus and Picus presented as prophet-kings see e.g. Plut. Quaestiones Romanae [Origo gentis Romanae] 268d. 40 Feeney (2006). 39

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man to know. My song shall deal with lawful things, such as the lips of pious bard may speak.)

and ut rediit animus, “da certa piamina” dixit “fulminis, altorum rexque paterque deum, si tua contigimus minibus donaria puris, hoc quoque, quod petitur, si pia lingua rogat” (F. 3.333-336) (When he came to himself, “King and father of the high gods,” he said, “vouchsafe expiations sure for thunderbolts, if with pure hands we have touched thine offerings, and if for that which now we ask a pious tongue doth pray.”)

From this point of view, Ovid echoes Empedocles’ concern about the limits of knowledge and piety: ȢǕǕʊ ǒǏǙʐ Ǟ̆Ǘ ǖʌǗ ǖNjǗʑǑǗ ȢǚǙǞǛʍǢNjǞǏ ǍǕʗǝǝǑǜ, Ȳǔ ǎ̧ ɟǝʑǣǗ ǝǞǙǖʋǞǣǗ ǔNjǒNjǛʎǗ ɞǡǏǞǏʕǝNjǞǏ ǚǑǍʏǗ ǔNjʐ ǝʍǚǙǕǟǖǗʏǝǞǑǕǏǟǔʗǕǏǗǏǚNjǛǒʍǗǏǖǙ˹ǝNj ȦǗǞǙǖNjǓʁǗǒʍǖǓǜȲǝǞʐǗȲǠǑǖǏǛʑǙǓǝǓǗȢǔǙʕǏǓǗ ǚʍǖǚǏǚNjǛ̧ǏɪǝǏnjʑǑǜȲǕʋǙǟǝ̧ǏɪʏǗǓǙǗȧǛǖNj ǖǑǎʍ ǝʍ Ǎ̧ ǏɪǎʓǘǙǓǙnjǓʏǝǏǞNjǓȦǗǒǏNjǞǓǖ˜ǜ ǚǛʒǜǒǗǑǞ̆ǗȢǗǏǕʍǝǒNjǓȲǠ̧ ʿ ǒ̧ ɟǝʑǑǜǚǕʍǙǗǏɎǚǏ˪Ǘ ǒʋǛǝǏǤǔNjʐ ǞʓǞǏǎʎ ǝǙǠʑǑǜȲǚ̧ ȦǔǛǙǓǝǓǒǙʋǐǏǓǗ (DK31 B3.1-8) (But gods! turn aside their madness from my tongue and channel a pure stream from holy mouths. And you, maiden muse of the white arms, much-remembering, I beseech you: what it is right for ephemeral creatures to hear, send [to me], driving your well-reined chariot from [the halls of] piety And do not be forced to take from mortals the flowers of fair-famed honour, on condition that you say more than is holy, in boldness, and then to sit on the peaks of wisdom, text and translation by Inwood)

Empedocles’ chariot is summoned from the realm of Piety and is wellreined, suggesting that the Muse’s revelation will be limited only to what is lawful for the mortals to hear. 41 So, when Ovid calls himself a vates in 41

Trépanier (2004) 57-65.

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the present context (3.323-326), he appears to be apprehensive about the religious lawfulness of his words. In his case, however, his concern necessarily has further political implications, connected with the degree of freedom to express oneself under the Principate. 42

Taking the Pythagorean cloak off: Numa and sacrifice (Ovid’s Fasti Books 3 and 4) As a rule, scholars emphasize the fact that, when Jupiter demands a human sacrifice, Numa circumvents it (F. 3.339-342). This denial is consistent with Numa’s typical Pythagorean objection to live sacrifices and his abstention from meat-eating, both ideas ensuing from the belief in the reincarnation. This is what Pythagoras explicitly states in his discourse in the Metamorphoses (Met. 15.75-112; cf. Numa in Met. 15.483-484 sacrificos docuit ritus gentemque feroci / adsuetam bello pacis traduxit ad artes, (he) taught holy rites and trained a fierce, warlike people in the arts of peace). For example, in that context Pythagoras censures the sacrifice of sheep and oxen: quid meruistis oves, placidum pecus inque tuendos natum homines, pleno quae fertis in ubere nectar, mollia quae nobis vestras velamina lanas praebetis vitaque magis quam morte iuvatis? quid meruere boves, animal sine fraude dolisque, innocuum, simplex, natum tolerare labores? (Met. 15.116-121) (But, ye sheep, what did you ever do to merit death, a peaceful flock, born for man’s service, who bring us sweet milk to drink in you full udders, who give us your wool for soft clothing, and who help more by your life than by your death? What have the oxen done, those faithful, guileless beasts, harmless and simple, born to a life of toil?)

At the same time, Numa’s dismissal of Jupiter’s request for sacrifice looks back intratextually to the first Book of the Fasti; within the framework of his explanation of the festival of Agonalia (F. 1.317-456), Ovid presents us with a history of animal sacrifice, which is prefaced by a praise of the Golden Age (F. 1.337-348) and correspondingly Ovid’s (Pythagorean) rejection of sacrifice (a passage which will be revisited below).

42

Pasco-Pranger (2002).

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Despite his anti-sacrificial credentials, in the episode in question (F. 3.259-398) Numa takes us aback by performing two sacrifices. 43 In the first place, while he tries to bind Picus and Faunus, he sacrifices a sheep to the spring (huc venit et fonti rex Numa mactat ovem, Hither King Numa came, and sacrificed a sheep to the spring, F. 3.300). Numa’s performance of sacrifice causes a crack in his Pythagorean identity. We should also bear in mind that the recipient of the sacrifice is the spring, i.e. the Nymphs. To our greater surprise, as a prerequisite to receiving the shield from Jupiter, the king performs a second sacrifice, this time of a cow (tollit humo munus caesa prius ille iuvenca, / quae dederat nulli colla premenda iugo, The king lifted from the ground the gift, but not till he had sacrificed a heifer, which had never submitted her neck to the burden of the yoke, F. 3.375376). As a consequence, Numa’s sacrifice brings about a discrepancy with his alleged philosophical adherence. At the same time, this very act, which in essence is a violent one, clashes also with one of the king’s intrinsic characteristics, i.e. his peacefulness. Scholars have emphasized the contrast that Ovid draws between Romulus, the first king of Rome, who is present at the Matronalia, the other festival which was associated with the 1st of May and Numa: principio nimium promptos ad bella Quirites molliri placuit iure deumque metu. inde datae leges, ne firmior omnia posset, coeptaque sunt pure tradita sacra coli. exuitur feritas, armisque potentius aequum est, et cum cive pudet conseruisse manus, atque aliquis, modo trux, visa iam vertitur ara vinaque dat tepidis farraque salsa focis. (F. 3.277-84) (At first the Quirites were too prone to fly to arms; Numa resolved to soften their fierce temper by force of law and fear of gods. Hence laws were made, that the stronger might not in all things have his way, and rites, handed down from the fathers, began to be piously observed. Men put off savagery, justice was more puissant than arms, citizen thought shame to fight with citizen, and he who but now had shown himself truculent would at the sight of an altar be transformed and offer wine and salted spelt on the warm hearths.)

43

There is a certain degree of ambivalence in our sources regarding Pythagoras’ total prohibition of animal sacrifice. See Burkert (1972) 180-182. However, Ovid’s Pythagoras is explicitly against it and this is what I take here for granted.

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To quote Hinds: “Numa, then, invites identification with the religious and unmilitary aspirations of the Fasti. Romulus represents the vanguard of the forces of martial epic which threaten those aspirations.” 44 This incongruity becomes stronger if we call to mind that not only the entire Book 3, but also the ceremony of the Salii itself, are dedicated to Mars, the God of war, who is addressed already at the beginning of the book. Likewise, one cannot disregard the fact that no matter the sacredness of the shield that Jupiter sends, its original function is bellicose. Numa’s atypical behaviour is particularly knotty, if we also bring to mind the fact that the king, figuring as an agent of peace, was associated with Augustus. Regarding the ritual of Salii, Bremmer notes that “the most striking change in the 1st century B.C. must have been the insertion of the name of Augustus in the Carmen Saliare.” 45 Although it is widely documented that in that period efforts were made to show a relationship also between Augustus and Romulus, 46 within the specific context of Ovid’s Fasti with its anti-epic generic objectives, the fact that Numa’s violent actions may seem to approximate those of Romulus is disturbing. To take our point further, if Numa takes after Romulus, whose martial behaviour Ovid explicitly rejects, then the reader is baffled regarding Ovid’s stance towards the emperor. 47 In order to shed light upon Numa’s behaviour, we may turn to a particularly significant passage in Book 4 of Ovid’s Fasti, in which the king is also the protagonist. Within the context of a book devoted to Venus, Ovid presents us with the aetiology of the Fordicidia, a fertility rite which would take place on 15th of April (F. 4.629-672). 48 On that day, a pregnant cow would be sacrificed by the pontifices (nunc gravidum pecus est, gravidae quoque semine terrae: / Telluri plenae victima plena datur, Now are the cattle big with young; the ground too, is big with seed: to teeming Earth is given a teeming victim, F. 4.633-634). According to the myth, during Numa’s kingship the equilibrium among the elements fire and water was overturned: nam modo siccus erat gelidis aquilonibus annus, nunc ager assidua luxuriabat aqua. (F. 4.643-644) 44

Hinds (1992b) 129. Bremmer (1993). 46 For Augustus’ approximation with Romulus see Hinds (1992b) 129. 47 Green [(2004) 12 n. 21] for a scholarly overview of clashing opinions regarding Ovid’s praise of Augustan institution. 48 Parker (1993); Fantham (1998) 211-219. 45

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(For at one time the year was dry, the north winds blowing cold; at another time the fields were rank with ceaseless rain.)

Crops and animals were being ravaged, and hence Numa was seeking a way to appease Earth, so as to avert the famine with which people were tormented. In the first place, he sacrifices two sheep, one in honour of Faunus and the other of Somnus (hic geminas rex Numa mactat oves, Here Numa sacrificed two ewes, F. 4.652). After performing various religious rites such as abstaining from love-making and meat-eating (F. 4.654660)—this time strictly in accordance with the Pythagorean tenets— Faunus finally appears and advises the king to sacrifice even more animals so as to placate the goddess Tellus: morte boum tibi, rex, Tellus placanda duarum: det sacris animas una iuvenca duas. (F. 4.665-666) (O King, thou must appease Earth by the death of two cows: let one heifer yield two lives in sacrifice.)

Numa is perplexed by Faunus’ enigmatic language (F. 4.668), but his wife Egeria once again intervenes in the narrative to explain what Faunus means: a pregnant cow must be sacrificed. Once the entrails of a pregnant cow had been offered (F. 4.671: exta bovis gravidae), the livestock started again giving birth to offspring and the earth became fruitful. As Parker remarks, this passage lacks the “good-natured humour that is found in the story of the thunderbolts.” 49 Line 4.666 looks back to Ovid’s history of sacrifice, within which he retells the Vergilian epyllion of Aristaeus’ bougonia; according to this, bees were successfully regenerated from the carcass of a bull: iussa facit pastor: fervent examina putri de bove: mille animas una necata dedit. (F. 1.379-380) (The shepherd did his bidding: swarms of bees hive out of the putrid beeve: one life snuffed out brought to the birth a thousand.)

The verbal echoes are striking; in both passages, the sacrifice of just one animal (una iuvenca, 4.666; una, 1.380) gives birth (det, 4.666; dedit, 1.380) to more than one soul (animas…duas, 4.666; mille animas, 1.380). And as I have argued elsewhere in detail regarding the Ovidian bougonia 49

Parker (1993) 214.

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(F. 1.363-380), Ovid’s emphatic contrast between many and one (mille…una, 1.380), brings to mind a passage from Empedocles: 50 ǎʑǚǕ̧ ȲǛʍǣ· ǞǙǞʌ ǖʌǗ ǍʊǛ ȵǗ ǑɪǘʏǒǑ ǖʓǗǙǗ ǏɔǗNjǓ Ȳǔ ǚǕǏʓǗǣǗ, ǞǙǞʌ ǎ̧ Njɰ ǎǓʍǠǟ ǚǕʍǙǗ̧ Ȳǘ ȳǗʒǜ ǏɔǗNjǓ. ǎǙǓʎ ǎʌ ǒǗǑǞ̆Ǘ ǍʍǗǏǝǓǜ, ǎǙǓʎ ǎ̧ ȢǚʓǕǏǓǢǓǜ· ǞʎǗ ǖʌǗ ǍʊǛ ǚʋǗǞǣǗ ǝʕǗǙǎǙǜ ǞʑǔǞǏǓ Ǟ̧ ɞǕʍǔǏǓ ǞǏ, ȿ ǎʌ ǚʋǕǓǗ ǎǓNjǠǟǙǖʍǗǣǗ ǒǛǏǠǒǏ˪ǝNj ǎǓʍǚǞǑ. ǔNjʐ ǞNj˹Ǟ̧ ȢǕǕʋǝǝǙǗǞNj ǎǓNjǖǚǏǛʌǜ ǙɪǎNjǖʊ ǕʏǍǏǓ, ȦǕǕǙǞǏ ǖʌǗ ǠǓǕʓǞǑǞǓ ǝǟǗǏǛǡʓǖǏǗ̧ǏɎǜ ȵǗ ȧǚNjǗǞNj, ȦǕǕǙǞǏǎ̧ Njɰ ǎʑǡ̧ ȷǔNjǝǞNjǠǙǛǏʕǖǏǗNjǗǏʑǔǏǙǜȶǡǒǏǓ ǙɯǞǣǜʯ ǖʌǗȵǗȲǔǚǕǏʓǗǣǗǖǏǖʋǒǑǔǏǠʕǏǝǒNjǓ! Ⱦǎʌ ǚʋǕǓǗǎǓNjǠʕǗǞǙǜȳǗʒǜǚǕʍǙǗ̧ ȲǔǞǏǕʍǒǙǟǝǓ Ǟ˝ ǖʌǗǍʑǍǗǙǗǞNjʑ ǞǏǔNjʐ Ǚɮ ǝǠǓǝǓǗȶǖǚǏǎǙǜNjɎʗǗy ˝ ǎʌ ǎǓNjǕǕʋǝǝǙǗǞNjǎǓNjǖǚǏǛʌǜǙɪǎNjǖʊ ǕʏǍǏǓ ǞNjʕǞ˚ ǎ̧ NjɎʌǗȶNjǝǓǗȢǔʑǗǑǞǙǓǔNjǞʊ ǔʕǔǕǙǗ (B17.1-13) (I shall tell a double tale. For at one time [they] grew to be one alone from many, and at another, again, [they] grew apart to be many from one. And there is a double coming to be of mortals and a double waning; for the coming together of [them] all gives birth to and destroys the one, while the other, as [they] again grow apart, was nurtured and flew away. And these things never cease from constantly alternating, at one time all coming together by love into one, and at another time again all being borne apart separately by the hostility of strife.

and they finish up many as the one again grows apart, in this respect they come to be and have no constant life; but insofar as they never cease from constantly interchanging, in this respect they are always unchanged in a cycle.) (text and translation by Inwood)

Therefore, in line 1.380 Ovid plausibly looks back to that part of Empedocles’ cosmic account according to which after the fall from the Golden Age, the one (i.e. the ox) is divided into many creatures (i.e. the bees) under the increasing power of Strife (i.e. slaughter of a sacrificial bull). 51 In line with this, Ovid alludes to the Empedoclean Strife. We should also keep in mind that, contrary to the sacrificial process in 50

Cf. B17.15-20, B26. For a more thorough analysis of Ovid’s bougonia with special emphasis on the intertextual dialogue with Lucretius and further bibliography see Garani (2013). See also Green (2004) 170-178. 51

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Fordicidia, which literally gives rise to two souls, within the miraculous frame of bougonia Ovid embraces Empedocles’ ‘supernatural’ idea of transmigration, which he employs allegorically in order to convey his message. It is also significant that this line precedes what is called Ovid’s ‘Empedoclean fingerprint,’ i.e. the pairing of two compound adjectives within the same verse, by means of which he alludes to both Lucretius and Empedocles: 52 quid tuti superest, animam cum ponat in aris lanigerumque pecus ruricolaeque boves? (F. 1.383-384) (What creature is safe, when even the wool-bearing sheep and ploughing oxen lay down their lives upon the altars?)

Ovid interjects a comment of his own so as to express his sympathy for both the ox and the sheep. By means of this passage, which is heavily charged with Empedoclean overtones, Ovid shelves his initial Pythagorean revulsion for sacrifice and seems to advocate that despite our sympathy for animals, from the Empedoclean point of view their sacrifice is the necessary precondition for life, pointing thus to the inevitability of the atrocities endured due to the war. 53 Surprisingly, oxen and sheep are the animals which Numa sacrifices as well within the episodes of both Books 3 and 4. It is therefore plausible that by these verbal and thematic intratextual references to the Ovidian epyllion of Aristaeus, Ovid associates Numa with Empedocles’ philosophical precepts. More precisely, it seems that Ovid picks up the thread from Book 1 and makes the king challenge his Pythagorean identity and adjust his behavior to more universal Empedoclean precepts; in the other way round, Numa’s atypical behavior reflects and is conditioned by his Empedoclean affiliation: only by a violent act, i.e. sacrifice, may peace be achieved. Like Aristaeus in Book 1, Numa is dressed in his most Empedoclean cloak, so as to reiterate the Ovidian claim that death is a necessary precondition for the creation of life. 54 In this respect, Numa’s live sacrifice fulfills the philosophical aspect of the Empedoclean vatic ideal.

52

For the Lucretian practice of alluding to Empedocles see Sedley (2003). Garani (2013). 54 Littlewood (2002). Littlewood has already associated Numa’s passage in Ovid’s Fasti 3 with Vergil’s account of Aristaeus’ bougonia and discussed their political implications. By means of my analysis here, his case is further strengthened. 53

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Restoring the elementary equilibrium: Numa as peace-maker (Ovid’s Fasti Book 4) The passage about Fordicidia deserves a closer look. Ovid implies that after Numa’s sacrifice of the pregnant cow, the elementary equilibrium between fire and water has been restored on earth. Ovid has dealt with the creative conflict of fire and water already in his Metamorphoses: 55 quippe ubi temperiem sumpsere umorque calorque, concipiunt, et ab his oriuntur cuncta duobus, cumque sit ignis aquae pugnax, vapor umidus omnes res creat, et discors concordia fetibus apta est. (Met. 1.430-433) (For when moisture and heat unite, life is conceived, and from these two sources all living things spring. And, though fire and water are naturally at enmity, still heat and moisture produce all things, and this inharmonious harmony is fitted to the growth of life.)

This notion about the relationship between the elements goes back to Empedocles. According to Varro’s Neopythagorean/Empedoclean etymology of Venus, the Goddess was born out of the union of fire and water (Igitur causa nascendi duplex: ignis et aqua. Ideo ea nuptiis in limine adhibentur, quod coniungit hic, et mas ignis, quod ibi semen, aqua femina, quod fetus ab eius humore, et horum vinctionis vis Venus, The conditions for procreation are two: fire and water. Thus these are used in the threshold in weddings, because there is union here. And fire is male, which the semen is in the other case, and water is the female, because the embryo develops from her moisture, and the force that brings their binding is Venus, LL 5.61.5-9). Given that within the Neopythagorean tradition the reconciliation of fire with water suggests the presence of Venus, herself generally equated with Tellus as Mother-Earth, 56 in his account of Fordicidia Ovid employs the imagery of the elements in order to spell out the way in which the Earth was placated. 57 In fact, this is not the only context in which Ovid embraces this Empedoclean idea of the relationship between the elements reflecting the dominance of Venus. Already in Fasti Book 1, as we have seen above, 55 Cf. Ov. Met. 15.237: quae nos elementa vocamus ([those things] which we call elements.) 56 For the widespread relationship between Terra-Mater and Venus in Lucretius see Fowler (1996). 57 Green (2002) 94-95.

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Janus describes how during the siege of the Sabines, he himself threw sulphur in the newly opened spring, known to us as Lautolae, so as to avert the enemies from the citadel. Accordingly, in that context war is avoided by the union of water with fire which suggests the pacific power of Empedoclean Love, which Janus embodies: 58 cum tanto veritus committere numine pugnam, ipse meae movi callidus artis opus, oraque, qua pollens ope sum, fontana reclusi, sumque repentinas eiaculatus aquas: ante tamen madidis subieci sulpura venis, clauderet ut Tatio fervidus umor iter. (F. 1.267-272)

270

(Fearing to engage in fight with so redoubtable a deity, I slyly had recourse to a device of my own craft, and by the power I wield I opened the fountains’ mouths and spouted out a sudden gush of water; but first I threw sulphur into the water channels, that the boiling liquid might bar the way against Tatius.)

It should not go unobserved that in the alternative version of this very story that Ovid narrates in his Metamorphoses, instead of Janus, it is Venus and then the Nymphs that intervene, so as to turn cold water into hot and thus for the two elements, i.e. water and fire, to be reconciled and act in unison: lurida subponunt fecundo sulphura fonti inceduntque cavas fumante bitumine venas. viribus his aliisque vapor penetravit ad ima fontis, et Alpino modo quae certare rigori audebatis aquae, non ceditis ignibus ipsis! 795 (Met. 14.791-795) (Now they placed yellow sulphur beneath their living spring and heated the hollow veins with burning pitch. By these and other means the reeking stream filled the fountain through and through, and you waters, which dared but now to vie with Alpine cold, did not yield in heat to fire itself!)

The presence of the Nymphs in that passage sets the alarm bells ringing, since it recalls their role as protectors of springs, who receive the sacrifice of Numa just before binding Faunus and Picus (F. 3.300). In a similar vein, in his account of Parilia (F. 4.783-806), the festival that 58

See Garani (2011) for a more thorough analysis of this passage along with discussion about Ovid’s intertextual dialogue with Propertius’ elegy 4.4.

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celebrated the birthday of Rome as well as the beginning of the shepherds’ year, Ovid presents us with multiple explanations about the origin of the custom that took place during it; according to this the participant had to leap the bonfires and sprinkle purificatory water around. One of the alternative aitia that he offers is based on the creative conflict between fire and water: 59 an, quia cunctarum contraria semina rerum sunt duo discordes, ignis et unda, dei, iunxerunt elementa patres aptumque putarunt ignibus et sparsa tangere corpus aqua? an, quod in his vitae causa est, haec perdidit exul, his nova fit coniunx, haec duo magna putant? (F. 4.787-792) (Or are we to suppose that, because all things are composed of opposite principles, fire and water—those two discordant deities—therefore our fathers did conjoin these elements and thought meet to touch the body with fire and sprinkled water? Or did they deem these two important because they contain the source of life, the exile loses the use of them, and by them the bride is made a wife?)

We should recall that Ovid says that the ashes of the calves that the eldest Vestal Virgin burns during the rite of Fordicidia are kept to purify the people on the day of Pales (F. 4.637-640); it may not be a coincidence that the two festivals, in which the role of the two elements is so dominant, are closely associated. Then, Ovid, once again assigning to himself the role of vates (4.807), retells the story of Romulus and Remus (4.808-862), which culminates with the death of Remus, Romulus’ mourning for his brother, and the foundation of Rome. Although in the first place Romulus hides his lament (4.845-848), his tears are eventually divulged and joined with those of the Quirites to wet the pyre: tum iuvenem nondum facti flevere Quirites; ultima plorato subdita flamma rogo est. urbs oritur (quis tunc hoc ulli credere posset?) victorem terris impositura pedem. (F. 4.855-858) (Then, the Quirites, though not yet known by that name, wept for the youth, and last of all a light was put to the pyre, wet with their tears. A city

59

Green (2002) 90-93.

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Chapter Five arose destined to set its victorious foot upon the neck of the whole earth; who at that time could have believed in such a prophecy?)

As Green correctly puts it, “Fire meeting water is the very act of creation—it is ‘Venus’—and at that moment, as fire meets water, the city emerges, ‘urbs oritur’. This is Venus’ city indeed. The elements of the month, the fire and water that are the creation of Venus, have been slowly assembled, until, at the given moment, they come together for the greatest creation of all: Rome itself. The dreadful act of fratricide has become the necessary prerequisite for the transforming act by which is generated the city that the brothers founded together.” 60 Therefore, here as well, the Empedoclean idea of cosmological Love, imposed by the union of fire and water, is invested with a political dimension, i.e. the creation of the city. To put our interpretation in a nutshell, given that in the passage on the Fordicidia Ovid describes sacrifice as a violent act with beneficial effects so as to reflect the generative power of Empedoclean Strife, and then the reconciliation of fire and water, which suggests the dominance of Empedoclean Love, it seems that he presents us with an Empedoclean cycle in which Strife is followed by Love with implications of political change. Bearing in mind this Empedoclean dimension regarding Numa’s (un-Pythagorean) dealing with sacrifices, we should now turn to explore the two episodes in Book 3, as a prelude to which Numa also performs sacrifices of sheep and oxen.

The narration of Egeria revisited: Numa’s Romulean performance (Ovid’s Fasti Book 3) After Numa’s first sacrifice, Egeria narrates how her husband followed her advice and bound Picus and Faunus (F. 3.293: vincula, 3.306: vinclaque, 3.307: vincula, 3.320: vincula). This binding scene recalls Silenus’ binding in Vergil’s Eclogue 6 (Ecl. 6.19: ex vincula) and more notably Aristaeus’ capturing and binding of Proteus both in Vergil’s Georgics 4, and especially his own revisiting of the very same episode in the first Book of his Fasti (Geo. 4.396, 405, 409: vinclis, 412: vincla; F. 1.370: vincula, 1.372: alligat). These scenes have been read as an allegory for the Stoic model of cosmic creation and are interpreted as conveying political connotations regarding the necessity and the positive aftermaths of civil war. 61 By resuming this imagery, Ovid carries along into Numa’s narrative cosmological undertones and creates corresponding expectations. 60 61

Green (2002) 93. Farrell (1991) 265-266; Morgan (1999) 78-84, 87-93, 105-134.

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At the same time, he subverts his intertexts: unlike Silenus or Proteus, these rustic gods do not deliver the truth while they are bound; instead, they demand to be released first (3.323: emissi laqueis). The cosmological expectations which arise with Numa’s sacrifice and the allusion to Aristaeus’ binding are further strengthened by means of the shield that Jupiter sends. 62 This shield, being an object of war, bears a particularly important semantic weight. In the first place, it recalls the shield of Aeneas in Vergil’s Aeneid (Aen. 8.630-728) and by implication the Clupeus Virtutis of Augustus. 63 The Vergilian shield, however, as has been repeatedly discussed, alludes to the Homeric shield in Iliad 18; while the latter has been considered to be an image of the universe, the ecphrasis inscribed on it depicts among other scenes two cities, one at peace and one at war which were famously interpreted by the allegorists as a reflection of the Empedoclean powers of Love and Strife, whose dominion in turn upon the elements brings about the creation and the dissolution of the universe (Il. 18.490-540). Aeneas’ shield carries along the philosophical bearing of its Homeric intertext, which, as Hardie explains in length, undergoes a ‘Romanizing’ process, by portraying Rome at peace and at war. 64 In his turn, Ovid picks up only one element from the Vergilian shield, i.e. the ancilia which fell from the sky (Aen. 8.664), and animates it (F. 3.373378); 65 the cosmological/philosophical semantic burden of Aeneas’s shield consequently seems to have been transferred by projection to Numa’s shield, which already forms a segment of the Vergilian one. At this point, we should underline the fact that even after Numa’s meeting with Jupiter, the latter did not stop sending thunder (ter tonuit sine nube deus, tria fulgura misit, Thrice did the god thunder from a cloudless sky, thrice did he hurl his bolts, F. 3.369) The reader could then turn again to Vergil’s Aeneid Book 8, in the context of which, when the Cyclopes are asked to forge Aeneas’ shield, they are said to be interrupted from making one of Jupiter’s thunderbolts (Aen. 8.427). Bearing in mind this Vergilian connection between the thunderbolt and the shield, one could account for the fact that in Ovid’s Fasti, after the fall of the sacred shield, the thunderbolts are received by Numa and his people with their negative semantic value neutralized, and instead implemented and counterbalanced

62

Stok (2004). See also Santini (2004). Littlewood (2002). 64 Hardie (1986) 340-375, especially 358-362; Gee (2000) 42-47; Nelis (2001) 345-359. 65 For the different versions of the myth reflected in the Vergilian plural (ancilia, Aen. 8.664) and the Ovidian singular (ancile, F. 3.377) see Ursini (2008) ad loc. 63

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by the significance of Jupiter’s present. 66 Since the receiver of the ancile, Numa, adheres to Empedoclean precepts, the philosophical connotations of the ancile itself are further disclosed and intensified. More to the point, whereas the shape of the shields of the Salii elsewhere was described as figure-of-eight shaped (e.g. Plut. Num. 13.5), Ovid makes the shield round: idque ancile vocat, quod ab omni parte recisum est, quemque notes oculis, angulus omnis abest: tum, memor imperii sortem consistere in illo, consilium multae calliditatis init. (F. 3.377-380) (and he called the shield ancile, because it was cut away (recisum) on all sides, and there was no angle that you could mark. Then, remembering that the fate of empire was bound up with it, he formed a very shrewd design.)

Because of its form, the shield looks forward to the figure of Vesta which dominates the last book of Ovid’s Fasti: forma tamen templi, quae nunc manet, ante fuisse dicitur, et formae causa probanda subest. Vesta eadem est et terra: subest vigil ignis utrique: significant sedem terra focusque suam. terra pilae similis nullo fulcimine nixa, aëre subiecto tam grave pendet onus. ipsa volubilitas libratum sustinet orbem, quique premat partes, angulus omnis abest, cumque sit in media rerum regione locata et tangat nullum plusve minusve latus, ni convexa foret, parti vicinior esset, nec medium terram mundus haberet onus. arte Syracosia suspensus in aëre clauso stat globus, immensi parva figura poli, et quantum a summis, tantum secessit ab imis terra; quod ut fiat, forma rotunda facit. par facies templi: nullus procurrit in illo angulus; a pluvio vindicat imbre tholus. (F. 6.265-282) (Yet the shape of the temple, as it now exists, is said to have been its shape of old, and it is based on a sound reason. Vesta is the same as the Earth; under both of them is a perpetual fire; the earth and the hearth are symbols 66

Gee (2000) 38.

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of the home. The earth is like a ball, resting on no prop; so great a weight hangs on the air beneath it. Its own power of rotation keeps its orb balanced; it has no angle which could press on any part; and since it is placed in the middle of the world and touches no side more or less, if it were not convex, it would be nearer to some part than to another, and the universe would not have the earth as its central weight. There stands a globe hung by Syracusan art in closed air, a small image of the vast vault of heaven, and the earth is equally distant from the top and bottom. That is brought about by its round shape. The form of the temple is similar: there is no projecting angle in it; a dome protects it from the showers of rain.)

Within the framework of Ovid’s aetiology regarding the circular shape of Vesta’s temple, the Goddess is said to be the same as the Earth, which is described as suspended in the middle of the universe. In a way similar to Numa’s shield, Vesta stands in also as an alternative representation of the world. Vesta’s intratextual association with Numa does not come as a surprise, since the king was the one who received her into her temple (F. 6.257-260). Scholars have already pointed out that by means of the word libratum (F. 6.271; cf. also 6.277 suspensus) Ovid echoes Aratus’ adjective ȢǞʋǕNjǗǞǙǗ in his Phaenomena and consequently the latter’s consonant world-view, which maintains the centrality, stability and equipoise of the earth (NjɪǞʊǛ ɣǍ̧ Ǚɪǎ̧ ɞǕʑǍǙǗ ǖǏǞNjǗʑǝǝǏǞNjǓ, ȢǕǕʊ ǖʋǕ̧ NjɯǞǣǜ / ȦǘǣǗ NjɎʌǗ ȦǛǑǛǏǗ, ȶǡǏǓ ǎ̧ ȢǞʋǕNjǗǞǙǗ ȣǚʋǗǞǑ | ǖǏǝǝǑǍʔǜ ǍNj˪NjǗ, ǚǏǛʐ ǎ̧ ǙɪǛNjǗʒǗ NjɪǞʒǜ ȢǍǓǗǏ˪, The axis however does not move even slightly from its place, but just stays for ever fixed, holds the earth in the centre evenly balanced, and rotates the sky itself, Phaen. 21-23). By means of similar phrasing, Ovid compares Vesta also with the armillary Sphere of Archimedes, the third-century Syracusean mathematician. 67 Given the Stoic affiliation of Archimedes’ sphaera as well as the corresponding allegorical interpretation of Aratus’ poem, the exegetic emphasis regarding the Ovidian Vesta has been prominently placed upon her Stoicising intertexts. 68 However, as Traglia has demonstrated, Aratus himself alludes to Empedocles (NǏ˪ǔʓǜ ǞǏ ǙɪǕʓǖǏǗǙǗ ǎʑǡNj Ǟ̆Ǘ, ȢǞʋǕNjǗǞǙǗ ȣǚʋǗǞ˚, / ǔNjʐ ǠǓǕʓǞǑǜ ȲǗ ǞǙ˪ǝǓǗ, ɒǝǑ ǖ˜ǔʓǜ ǞǏ ǚǕʋǞǙǜ ǞǏ, And destructive strife apart from these, like in every respect, and love among them, equal in length and breadth, DK31 B17.19-20). 69 Although Empedocles’ line is

67

Garani (forthcoming) in which I explore the Empedoclean echoes in Ovid’s Fasti 5. 68 Gee (2000) 92-125. For Vesta see also Newlands (1995) 129-145. 69 Traglia (1963) 387-388.

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particularly excruciating in its exact interpretation, 70 it is highly striking that the subject of the derogative adjective ȢǞʋǕNjǗǞǙǗ is the Empedoclean power of Strife. In fact, in Ennius’ Annales, Paluda virago, the embodiment of Empedoclean Discordia is also said to be ‘equal to the elements,’ whatever this means (Corpore tartarino prognata Paluda virago / cui par imber et ignis, spiritus et gravis terra, of hellish body daughter bred, woman of war in warrior’s cloak, for whom water and fire and breath and heavy earth are equal, Annales 7, fr. X 220221 Skutsch). 71 We have now safely identified an Ovidian line pregnant with multiple intertextual allusions to Empedocles, Aratus and Ennius. At this point, we should recall that Vesta is the guardian of the Palladium (F. 6.417-436) and Augustus’ household deity; her close association with Rome’s safety is disclosed in the aetiological story of Jupiter Pistor, in which she acts in unison with Mars, so as to protect the Romans against the siege of the Capitol by the Gauls in 396 B.C. (F. 6.349-394). More significantly, as Newlands notes, she is linked particularly with the Augustan concept of revenge and Mars Ultor, since she is associated with the murder of Julius Caesar (F. 3.697-710, 5.573-577) and the retrieval of the Parthian standards (F. 6.465-468). 72 It is this role of Vesta as an Empedoclean avenger which is further underscored by the intratextual connection with Numa’s shield. In this way, her function counterbalances Janus’ pacific character in the first Book of the Fasti. To turn back to Numa’s narrative, the initial focus of the episode, which is placed upon the sacrifices performed by Numa and the violence exerted against Picus and Faunus, as well as the magical spell put upon Jupiter, culminates in the fall of the round shield. Numa’s ancile recalls Rome’s past wars; its round shape, which associates it with Ovid’s Empedoclean Vesta, justifies its original warlike function, since it is a token of the way in which the present peace has been established and guarantees the future of Rome and its destiny (imperii pignora certa, sure pledges of empire, F. 3.354; memor imperii sortem consistere in illo, 70

Blumenthal [(1975) 21] summarizes the main opposing views: Strife is somehow equal to the other elements a) separately, or b) together, or c) in a state of balance or of equilibrium. Wright [(1995) 170] notes that “It is not that Strife is materially equal in weight to each or all of the roots but that its power can stretch evenly and comprehensively over them all.” 71 Hardie [(2009) 99] argues that Ennius perhaps deliberately misunderstands Empedocles’ lines as meaning that Discordia is “like or equal to each one of the four elements, not that she is made up of an equal portion of each of them. That however would be an easy misunderstanding or deliberate misprision.” Ennius’ translation is by Warmington (1956). 72 Newlands (1995) 132.

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remembering that the fate of empire was bound up with it, 3.379). Hence, the peaceful king Numa eventually overturns its negative semantic weight as a bellicose object and crystallizes it as just a ritual symbol. To quote Gee, “They [the shields] are themselves arma, as we remember, albeit symbolic (religious) weapons. They are thus a good image for the later Principate, a peaceful regime based on former conquest.” 73 To put this also in Hardie’s words: “Both war and peace attend the foundation of Rome, although as yet both are present only potentially. It is the actualization of war which dominates the first seven hundred or so years of Rome’s history, as it is the actualization of peace which will determine her future course.” 74 So, we indentify the same Empedoclean pattern that we have discussed above also in connection with both the accounts of Agonalia and Fordicidia: an Empedoclean cycle within which Strife is followed by Love. In a similar vein, as Littlewood points out, “As the temple of Janus was closed in peacetime and opened to signify war, so too the ritual of the dance of the Salii was performed in March and October to mark the beginning and end of the military year.” 75 In other words, in order to convey this interdependence between Roman war and peace, in his Fasti Ovid repeatedly resorts to the Empedoclean concepts of Strife and Love. As a consequence, we may claim that the Ovidian Numa, as the embodiment of the philosophical aspect of Empedocles’ vatic ideal, is presented as an agent of peace in an innovative sense, a compromise between the stereotypic images of Romulus and Numa. In this way, Ovid reflects and justifies Augustus’ behaviour regarding the civil war. 76

A reader’s guide to Ovid’s Empedocles (Ovid Fasti 3.339-346) Before we conclude, we should go over the way in which Ovid embraces the Empedoclean philosophical ideas within his Fasti. As we have seen, while in Book 1 Ovid deals with Empedocles’ ideas of 73

Gee (2000) 45. Hardie (1986) 361. 75 Littlewood (2002) 186. 76 Cf. Hinds [(1992b) 131-132] approaches the issue from the Romulean point of view and reaches to the opposite conclusion: “Augustus’ aim is to be a Romulus, but a Romulus who has many of the features of a Numa: both a man of war and an architect of peace. But that, in terms of Ovid’s version of the Romulean prototype, is an impossibility. […] By portraying Romulus as the unattractive and narrowminded warrior that he has always had the potential to be, Ovid indirectly call Augustus’ own values into question.” 74

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transmigration within the supernatural framework of bougonia, in his Book 4 he resumes these actual ideas, this time, though, by resorting to the literal image of a pregnant cow. In order to explain this change in the way Ovid contextualizes Empedocles’ philosophical precepts, we turn to the last part of Egeria’s narration, in which we read a lively dialogue, which takes place between Numa and Jupiter, who asks for human sacrifice (F. 3.339-46). The God asks for a head, instead of which Numa offers an onion (caput…cepa, F. 3.339-340). Jupiter insists on a man’s head and the king counter-proposes the hair of a man (hominis…capillos, F. 3.341). In the last round Jupiter explicitly repeats his request for a life and Numa agrees to a fish’s life (animam…piscis, F. 3.342). Ovid builds an etymological word play by means of sound-play (caput/cepa/capilli), syntax play and even an anagram (the word anima alluding to the fish maena, meaning the sprat). 77 At the same time, as Wiseman has already discussed, this dialogue explains the weird offerings at the altar of Jupiter Elicius, these being onions, a lock of hair, and live fish. 78 In line with this, one could plausibly think that these three offerings, which represent the human, animal, and vegetable kingdoms, reflect the corresponding transmigrations into various forms of living beings that Empedocles claimed to have gone through: 79 ɂǎǑ ǍʋǛ ǚǙǞ̧ ȲǍʖ ǍǏǗʓǖǑǗ ǔǙ˹Ǜʓǜ ǞǏ ǔʓǛǑ ǞǏ ǒʋǖǗǙǜ Ǟ̧ ǙɎǣǗʓǜ ǞǏ ǔNjʐ †Ȳǘ ȣǕʒǜ ȶǖǚǙǛǙǜ† Ɏǡǒʕǜ. (DK31 B117) (For before now I have been at some time boy and girl, bush, bird, and a mute fish in the sea.) 77

For further analysis of the etymologies within Numa’s humorous dialogue with Jupiter see Ahl (1985) 300-302; Porte (1985) 132; Gee (2000) 42; Ursini (2008) ad loc. It may not be a coincidence that the etymological practice was somehow closely associated with the Pythagorean sect. Nigidius Figulus, who by the middle of the first century B.C. brought back to life the teaching of the Pythagoreans in Rome, wrote a work in 29 Books entitled Commentarii Grammatici. This was a collection of linguistic, grammatical and antiquarian notes in which—among other things—Nigidius viewed the meaning of words as natural and offered Roman etymological explanations. See Rawson (1985) 123-124; Kahn (2001) 90-91. 78 Wiseman (2008) 163. 79 Cf. also Empedocles DK31 B82 ǞNjɪǞʊ ǞǛʑǡǏǜ ǔNjʐ ǠʕǕǕNj ǔNjʐ ǙɎǣǗ̆Ǘ ǚǞǏǛʊ ǚǟǔǗʋ / ǔNjʐ ǕǏǚʑǎǏǜ ǍʑǍǗǙǗǞNjǓ Ȳǚʐ ǝǞǓnjNjǛǙ˪ǝǓ ǖʍǕǏǝǝǓǗ (As the same things, hair, leaves, the close-packed feathers of birds, and scales on strong limbs grow) in which Empedocles brings forward the biological analogy and homology between leaves, scales, feathers, and hair and thus breaks down the barriers between plant, bird, animal and human life.

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Still, scholars have often pointed out that in the end Jupiter laughs, a reaction which may signal Ovid’s allusion to comedy. In fact, Wiseman went so far as to claim that the whole story that Ovid narrates is structured in such a way that it might have been once performed on stage. 80 Given the Pythagorean identity of Numa, one should recall that in middle comedy there was a group of plays which took their titles from disciples of Pythagoras and ridiculed the ascetic and vegetarian practices of the Pythagorean cults. 81 As Dutsch persuasively argues, such an antiPythagorean attitude may have plausibly found its way into Roman comedies in imitation of their Greek originals. 82 On this basis, one could possibly conjecture that, even if Ovid does not draw his narrative material from an actual fabula togata, performed during ludi scaenici, as Wiseman assumes, he seems to have intentionally taken over the motif of poking fun at the Pythagorean/Empedoclean ideas on transmigration by turning back directly to the Greek new comedy or its Roman equivalents. 83 In more general terms, by filtering Empedocles’ doctrine through the comic genre and remythologizing it, Ovid offers us a gloss regarding the way in which he assimilates these specific philosophical ideas; what he eventually achieves is to redefine the elegiac mould within which he digests dissimilar generic ingredients. 84

Conclusion Throughout Pythagoras’ speech in Ovid’s Metamorphoses, Numa remains a silent auditor. He reappears only when Pythagoras completes it, still, however, in reported speech:

80

Wiseman (1998). Cf. Alexis’ ƻǟǒNjǍǙǛljǐǙǟǝNj and perhaps ƾNjǛNjǗǞ˪ǗǙǓ, Aristophon’s ƻǟǒNjǍǙǛǓǝǞLjǜ, the younger (?) Cratinus’ ƻǟǒNjǍǙǛljǐǙǟǝNj. See Sanchis (1995); Arnott (1996) 579 with more references to comic fragments and relevant testimonies. See also Melero Bellido (1972). 82 See Dutsch (2009) and her chapter in the present volume for Pythagorean elements in Plautus’ Poenulus. As she argues, since Alexis happens to be the author of the ƵNjǛǡǑǎǦǗǓǙǜ, the main model for Plautus’ Poenulus, it seems perfectly reasonable to conjecture that his play mocked some pseudo-Pythagorean instructions for women and that some of that humor found its way into the Latin comedy. See also Leitao (1997). 83 See Fantham (1983) about Ovid’s interest in New Comedy in his Fasti. 84 A similar process of ridiculing the Empedoclean aspect of Janus and Vesta could be considered to be at work in the rape-story of Janus and Carna (F. 6.101-130) as well as that of Priapus and Vesta (F. 6.329-348). 81

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Within this passage, the verb ferunt (15.480) in a way undermines the validity of the claim that Numa truly received such an instruction from Pythagoras and Egeria. Still, the narrator hints here also at Numa’s additional information, which, however, remains undisclosed to the reader (aliis…dictis, 15.479). As our discussion has demonstrated, Empedocles may be plausibly seen as Numa’s hidden source of knowledge, which is laid open in Ovid’s Fasti Book 3. While Ovid combines a variety—of otherwise unconnected—myths relating to Numa, he invites us in various ways—intertextual and intratextual—to delve into the Empedoclean undertones of the passage and reconsider Empedocles, the emblematic vatic figure, as Numa’s major poetic and philosophical mentor. On the one hand, Ovid remythologizes certain Empedoclean ideas and motifs, so as to employ him as his poetic model. On the other, as regards the discussion about the civil wars and their decisive role in the establishment of Augustan peace, he resorts to Empedocles’ philosophical precepts, the semantic bearing of which is tailored, so as harmonize with the generic constraints of elegiac poetry. All in all, Numa is revealed to be standing in as both the poet and the emperor.

CHAPTER SIX MANILIUS AND STOICISM 1 ILARIA RAMELLI In dialogue with recent scholarship, I am going to study the presence of Stoicism in Manilius’ poem and its probable sources, including his astronomical sources, which also display Stoic influences. I set out to show that the Stoic heritage in Manilius mainly concerns ethics and cosmology, not only the latter, and demonstrate that Manilius is thoroughly in the Stoic tradition. I also analyze Manilius’ concept of progress and the theological and ethical value that he attaches to his study of astronomy. Manilius’ poem was strongly, and programmatically, intended as a philosophical poem—even a theological poem in Stoic immanentist terms—, and the model for it in the Latin world was Lucretius, although the philosophical orientation of these two authors was different. The problem of the function of mythological excursuses in Manilius will also be illuminated by a comparison with the Stoic hermeneutics of myths. Finally, I investigate how Stoicism works as a philosophical framework for Manilius’ political conception, and in this connection I tackle the puzzling question of Manilius’ attitude toward the imperial state.

Manilius and Stoicism: The Controversy The presence and role of Stoicism in Manilius’ poem is debated. Sometimes, the philosophical component of his poem is overshadowed, to the advantage of its technical and/or poetic components. Habinek presents Manilius as a poet of astrology in the context of an intensification of interest in this technique in the early empire, when astrology seems to 1

I am very grateful to Myrto Garani and David Konstan for their invitation to this volume and their helpful remarks, and to David Armstrong for reading my chapter and offering valuable suggestions.

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have filled a gap left by a crisis in augury and haruspication. 2 In this connection, Manilius chose to deal with astrological themes that were the most interesting for his public. Habinek sees a subtle allusion to haruspication in 1.16-17, in which Manilius depicts his poem as describing the praecordia mundi, and in the following description of himself as a vates, which in Augustan literature was understood as a prophet-priest, expert in victims and sacrifices. While Evans, following Housman, presents Manilius’ Astronomica as “the oldest surviving complete manual of horoscopic astrology,” 3 MacGregor thinks that the poem is not astrology at all, or at least that it does not offer any useful astrological technique. 4 Indeed, it is useless for the purposes of predictive astrology; what it aims at demonstrating, instead, is that the universe is governed by the divinity. The stars prove the existence of God and God’s providence. This is also what I have argued in my study of Manilius: 5 his is more a philosophical than a technical poem. Manilius’ poem was intended to be a philosophical poem; technical material is in the service of a philosophical discourse, and the model for it in the Latin world was Lucretius, although the philosophical orientation of these two authors was of course different and Manilius even seems to combat Lucretius’ views on his own grounds. MacGregor is right to mention that Chrysippus equated the aether with Zeus, thus joining cosmology and theology. 6 Indeed, that the main philosophical source of inspiration for Manilius is Stoicism is precisely what I have extensively argued. 7 Dio’s Olympikos (probably dating to A.D. 97), which MacGregor rightly connects with Manilius’ conception, 8 is indeed profoundly imbued with Stoic notions, especially the link between theology and physics given by allegory. 9 This link is a characteristic feature of Manilius’ Stoic poem. 2

Habinek (2007). See also Hübner (1984). For the Etrusca disciplina in this age see Ramelli (2003a) 49-83. For Augustus’ use of astrology for his own political propaganda see Volk (2009) 135ff. 3 Evans (1998) 343. Cf. Housman (1913). 4 MacGregor (2004) esp. 143-144. 5 See Ramelli (2008a) 1-688, esp. 1-78. 6 MacGregor (2004) 145. 7 Ramelli (2008a) 50-67. 8 MacGregor (2004) 145. 9 Dio speaks of the common notions or koinai ennoiai of the divinity and of the learned notions concerning it, which come from poets, legislators, artists, and philosophers, in a classification that comes from Chrysippus and grounded the theorization of Stoic theological allegory. See Ramelli (2008a) 744-745; 2008c, 55-62; for Chrysippus’ theory see Ramelli (2004a) 96-140; for its aftermath see Ramelli (2013).

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A nuanced approach, which allows room both for the philosophical and for the technical components of Manilius’ poem, is that of Volk, an expert in Latin didactic poetry. 10 She seeks to illustrate the various intellectual traditions that have influenced Manilius: cosmology, astronomy, astrology, literary genre, and philosophy. As for philosophy, and for Stoicism in particular, she warns that it was popular in the time of Manilius in Rome, and that Manilius could have absorbed it in a number of ways. At any rate, she does not in the end play down Manilius’ Stoicism as merely popular philosophy, but rightly acknowledges the importance of Stoicism as a system of thought in Manilius’ poem, concluding that “the Astronomica’s world view agrees with Stoic thought to such an extent that it would seem appropriate to label the poet a Stoic and conclude that the teachings of the school present a major—probably the largest—influence on his work.” 11 She nevertheless claims, however, that Manilius’ “mysticism” (the expression is hers) and his idea of God dwelling in the human being go beyond “orthodox Stoicism” (again her expression) with its strict theological immanentism and its materialism. 12 Though the idea that God dwells in the human being is itself a feature of Roman Stoicism, well represented in major Neostoics such as Seneca, teacher and then victim of Nero, and Epictetus, the philosopher-slave who inspired Marcus Aurelius and whose thought is transmitted by Diatribes and a Handbook; 13 as for his mysticism, it has at least an illustrious antecedent in the Old Stoa, with Cleanthes, not only in his Hymn to Zeus, but also, and especially, in his theological speculations. 14 Moreover, Volk dismisses the ethical and political aspects of the influence of Stoicism (especially Middle and Roman Stoicism) on Manilius, focusing only on the cosmological aspect. Indeed, the Stoic heritage in Manilius, which is evident already in his astronomical sources (principally Aratus and the Katasterismoi ascribed to Eratosthenes 15), mainly concerns ethics and cosmology, and not only the latter, as is often assumed and as seems clear still in a recent contribution by Habinek, who has argued that Stoicism influenced the language of Manilius to an even greater extent than has been usually acknowledged; however, Manilius rejected the doctrine of ekpyrosis at the end of his

10

Volk (2009). See also Volk (2002). Volk (2009) 226-234; quotation from 231. 12 This is also noted by Luck (2000) 104. Luck also speaks of ‘Eclecticism’ for Manilius. 13 Ramelli (1997). 14 Ramelli (2004a) 86-96. 15 See Ramelli (2008a) 169-171, and here below. 11

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poem. 16 The focus is on cosmology. Clearly, in a poem devoted to the stars and the sky, cosmological aspects are prominent. 17 In fact, notwithstanding the commonplace that Stoicism in the imperial age was exclusively interested in ethics, to the disadvantage of logic and cosmology/physics, cosmology had not at all died out in Roman Stoicism, as Seneca’s Naturales Quaestiones attest (and even the prominence of ideas of ekpyrosis and kataklysmos in his tragedies as well). 18 Moreover, physics was particularly interesting not only per se, but also for its relationship to theology, mediated by allegory, as is evident for instance in Annaeus Cornutus, just a few decades after Manilius. Physics was also an important basis for the ethical doctrine of RLNHLǀVLV, which was an essential feature in Stoic ethics. 19 Philosophy and astronomy are not separated from one another in Manilius’ view (Astr. 2.60-66; 2.115-124, 4.12-22 and passim), but interact and serve each other’s aims. Manilius often insists on the importance of following the right progression in didactic exposition, lest the implied disciple fail to understand the complex subject matter. Likewise Cornutus in his handbook of Stoic allegoresis of theological myths and cults addresses a disciple with the same didactic concerns. 20 Manilius’ Stoic inspiration was recognized already by Creech, 21 even though one may wonder whether Manilius adhered to Stoic ‘orthodoxy.’ This, however, is a question that can be posed also for the main Roman Stoic, Seneca, whose penchant for Epicureanism, for instance, is well known. Stoicism itself is complex, especially in the imperial age. According to the Middle Platonist and Neopythagorean Numenius, “the various positions of the Stoics have always been in contrast with one another, and still now they do not cease to be so ... in part they have stuck to their positions, in part they have modified them. Now, the first Stoics seem to have been too rigid; so, their dissensions were the cause of harsh polemics among subsequent generations ... and thus some boast to be more Stoic than the others” (SVF 2.20.1-7 = Numenius ap. Eusebius PE 14.728). 16

Habinek (2011). See also Luck (2000). 18 See Algra (2009). Seneca’s Naturales Quaestiones have been studied in their relationship to Stoic ethics by Berno (2003). 19 See at least Ramelli (2009a) with wide-ranging documentation. 20 On Cornutus see Ramelli (2004a) 275-347; Ramelli (2007a) 485-560; Ramelli (2003b) and the reviews by R. Radice, Aevum 79 (2005); F. Ferrari, Athenaeum 95 (2007) 550-551; J. B. Gourinat, Philosophie Antique 8 (2008) 286-289. The introduction, translation, and notes of Nesselrath (2009) are expressly based (see Vorwort, p. vii) on my essays and commentaries on Cornutus. 21 In the introduction to his translation of Manilius, Creech (1697) 60-65. 17

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A problem almost without solution, in this respect, is that of the philosophical sources of Manilius. Posidonius has been often mentioned, but of course his fragments—those which are ascribable to him with certainty—are scanty and make Manilius’ direct dependence on him doubtful. 22 The same is the case with the problematic relationship between Manilius and Hermeticism, i.e. the line of thought, allegedly going back to the legendary Hermes Trismegistus, that is expressed both in the Corpus Hermeticum and, more loosely, in popular texts of the imperial age: 23 affinities have been explained by dependence, but Salemme has called attention to the influence exerted by Stoicism on Hermetic doctrines, so that Manilius and Hermetic texts may be traced back to common Stoic sources. 24 In respect to an immanent conception of the divinity, Manilius sides with Stoicism proper (e.g. Astr. 2.116; 4.883-885), rather than with Hermeticism, which was rather pervaded by a transcendent notion of the divinity, up to the point of using voces mysticae and embracing apophaticism. His idea that the souls of virtuous people dwell in a heavenly region of their own, expressed by Manilius in 1.758-761, has been traced back to Posidonius, but without considering that no expressly Posidonian fragment contains such an eschatology. 25 Likewise, the spiritsoul-body tripartition, which is found in Roman Stoicism and is even reflected in the New Testament (especially St. Paul), 26 and which Manilius expresses especially in 1.718ff., is not found in the fragments that are ascribable to Posidonius with certainty. I shall shortly argue that Manilius’ idea of progress and of the primitive condition of humanity also seems different from that of Posidonius. On the other hand, the importance of astronomy in Manilius’ view seems to be similar to the importance ascribed to it by Posidonius, the author of a multivolume work On the Celestial Phenomena (e.g. fr. 16 Edelstein-Kidd = 311 Theiler), who identified the leading principle of the cosmos with the sky (frs 21 and 23 Edelstein-Kidd = fr. 345 Theiler); this is precisely a respect in which Posidonius assumed a certain distance from Panaetius, who denied an epistemological status to astrology (fr. 74 Van Straaten).

22 Volk (2009) 232 follows Salemme (1983) in declaring that Posidonius may well have been an important source of Manilius, but there is no way to prove this. 23 On the Hermetica see Ramelli (2005a). 24 On the possible relationships between Manilius and Hermeticism see Salemme (1983) 21-25, with past literature; Volk (2009) 234-239. 25 On this doctrine of ‘astral immortality’ see below. 26 See Ramelli (2006b).

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Cosmic Sympathy and the World Soul Two cosmological themes developed by Manilius that are part of an especially Stoic heritage are those of cosmic sympathy 27 and the world soul, which are closely intertwined. They are found everywhere, and run throughout his poem. For instance, in 2.64-66 Manilius programmatically states that he will sing how spiritus unus / per cunctas habitet partes atque irriget orbem / omnia pervolitans (one and the same spirit / inhabits every part and permeates the world / flying through everything.) 28 The notion of the cosmic soul has Empedoclean and Pythagorean origins, and especially Platonic, from the Timaeus (a dialogue that attracted a great deal of attention in Middle Platonism, which was beginning to flourish precisely in Manilius’ day); it has some Aristotelian roots as well, but it was developed particularly in Stoicism, in its own immanentist framework. In this perspective, from the Old Stoa (Chrysippus, SVF II.605) to Seneca (Nat. Quaest. 1, Praef. 13), the cosmic soul is a divine principle and the intellect (ǗǙ˹ǜ) of the cosmos. Zeno identified the cosmos and the sky with God’s very substance (SVF I.163) and Cleanthes (SVF I.532-534) similarly identified the pneuma and aether that permeate the cosmos with God. This immanentistic doctrine is the basis of the doctrine of cosmic sympathy, which emerges very clearly in Chrysippus (SVF II.411; 719). Both Chrysippus in his books On Providence and Posidonius in the thirteenth book On the Gods seem to have drawn a parallel between the intellect that pervades and vivifies the cosmos and the soul which pervades and vivifies a single body (SVF II.634; fr. 21 E.-K.). Cicero, who was not a Stoic himself but who offered a compendium of Stoic theology and cosmology in Book 2 of his De natura deorum, which Manilius probably knew given the close parallels between this book and the Astronomica pointed out by Reeh, 29 took over and translated the old-Stoic concept of cosmic or universal sympathy (ǝǟǖǚdžǒǏǓNj Ǟ̆Ǘ ɣǕǣǗ) into that of cognatio rerum (ND 2.19). In turn, Manilius, in the proem to his own Book 2 (2.60-66), states that God has power over nature and is to nature what the mind is to the body; God pervades all the world and governs it with a harmonious law. The cosmos lives in harmony and is moved by the Logos, in that one and the same spirit is immanent in all of its parts. In what follows, 27

On this see Volk (2009) 228. He is probably imitating a famous Stoic passage in Vergil (spiritus intus alit a spirit within sustains, Aen. 6.726). 29 Reeh (1973) followed by Volk [(2009) 233], who inclines to direct dependence. An alternative explanation can be that both Manilius and Cicero depended on a common source, undoubtedly Stoic. 28

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Manilius goes on to declare that this cosmic bond is necessary: it makes possible not only the life of the whole universe, but also human knowledge of it (2.115-116). The latter point depends on the principle, already supported by Parmenides (DK28 B16) and Empedocles (DK31 B19), that “like knows like.” On this basis Manilius can assert that human minds are in fact immense (Astr. 4.923-924; cf. 4.876a-881), and in this context Manilius’ theme of the human being as a microcosm (Astr. 4.886-887, 893-895) becomes clear. This is a Stoic theme, which obtained in Middle Platonism as well. Its roots are in Democritus and Aristotle, in the Old Stoa (Chrysippus, SVF 2.527-528) and, as it seems, in Posidonius (fr. 14 E.-K. = fr. 334 Theiler); it returns, in the late fourth or early fifth century, in the Latin Neoplatonist Macrobius’ commentary on Cicero’s Somnium Scipionis (2.12.11). 30 Manilius at 4.886-887 and 4.893-895 declares that human beings have the whole cosmos in themselves and each can be regarded as a small image of the cosmos, that is (in a Stoic immanentistic perspective) of God: an dubium est habitare deum sub pectore nostro in caelumque redire animas caeloque venire quid mirum, noscere mundum si possunt homines, quibus est et mundus in ipsis, exemplumque dei quisque est in imagine parva? (4.886-887, 893-895) (Can there be any doubt that God dwells in our heart and that souls return to heaven, having come from heaven? ... how could it be surprising that the human beings can get to know the universe, since they have the universe in themselves, and each of them is an example of God in a small image?)

Both ideas expressed in these verses, that of the presence of God in human mind and conscience, and that of the human being as an image of God, are widespread in Roman Stoicism: the former is exemplified, for instance, by Seneca in the age of Nero (Epist. 41.1-2) and Epictetus in the second century A.D. (Diss. 1.14; 2.8), the latter by Musonius Rufus (a Roman-Etruscan teacher of Stoicism exiled by Nero and author of diatribes collected and edited by a disciple), who expressly defined the human being ǖljǖǑǖNj ǒǏǙ˹ (Diss. 17.23-24). This is why for Manilius the study of the heavenly regions, which is depicted as a heavenly trip, is not an expression of foolish presumption or even impiety such as seems to be claimed by the anonymous author of the short poem Aetna: nam quae mortali †spes est quaeve† amentia, maius/ in 30

Ramelli (2007b).

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Iovis errantem regno perquirere velle (What hope a mortal harbors, what foolishness, to want to go around to investigate too much in the kingdom of Jupiter? Aetna 255-256 Richter). In Manilius’ view, the cosmological investigation cannot be impious, given that it is precisely the divinity who allows human beings to undertake it. As he himself puts it, “Who could ever know heaven if not by heaven’s concession?” (Astr. 2.115). Manilius is concerned with justifying the study of stars and heaven, and endeavors to remove any charge of impiety from it. One motivation that he offers is, according to Baldini Moscadi, that the study of stars and heaven can be considered to be the culmination of the spiritual development of humanity. 31 This motivation is ultimately of ethical nature.

Manilius on Fate and Human Responsibility Although Manilius is obviously interested in cosmology, there are conspicuous elements of his thought that bear on ethics, and particularly on a problem that was very relevant to Stoicism and was tackled especially by Chrysippus in his On Fate, Book 2: the relationship between Fate and human free will and responsibility. Fate, in turn, is dispensed by stars according to Manilius. Chrysippus attempted a reconciliation between Fate and human free will, but, in Cicero’s view (De fato 39), he was not successful, because his position in fact tipped rather to the pole of necessitarianism. According to Cicero and other sources (such as ‘Aetius,’ Hippolytus, and Eusebius), Chrysippus’ strategy (SVF 2.974-978) consisted in distinguishing different kinds of causes: SVF 2.974, p. 282 line 35—p. 283 line 4: Causarum enim aliae sunt perfectae et principales, aliae adiuvantes et proximae. Quam ob rem, cum dicimus omnia fato fieri causis antecedentibus, non hoc intellegi volumus: causis perfectis et principalibus, sed causis adiuvantibus et proximis, (Some causes are complete and principal, others are concomitant and proximate. Therefore, when we state that every event occurs by Fate according to antecedent causes, we do not refer to complete and principal causes, but to concomitant and proximate causes...); lines 8-9: Quae si ipsae non sunt in nostra potestate, non sequitur ut ne adpetitus quidem sit in nostra potestate, (Now, it may be the case that these are not in our power, to be sure, but this does not imply that not even our will depends on us...); lines 24-29: Ut igitur qui protrusit cylindrum dedit ei principium motionis, volubilitatem autem non dedit, sic visum obiectum imprimet illud 31 Baldini Moscadi (1980) 163-166. On the polemic between the anonymous author of Aetna and Manilius see Lühr (1971); De Vivo (1985).

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quidem et quasi signabit in animo suam speciem, sed adsensio nostra erit in potestate, eaque quemadmodum in cylindro dictum est, extrinsecus pulsa, quod reliquum est, suapte vi et natura movebitur (One who has pushed a cylinder has certainly given it the commencement of movement, but not the capacity to revolve; now, in the very same way, the object seen impressions one’s sight and, as it were, impresses its own shape on one’s mind and almost impresses its form upon the soul, but nevertheless the assent remains in our power, exactly as we have said that it is the case for the cylinder, which is pushed from the external but for the rest will move as an effect of its own nature). In sum, one’s assent to a certain course of actions is indeed determined by a cause, but not by a complete cause; rather, it is determined by a concomitant cause, and, consequently, it is partially free. Bobzien explains well Chrysippus’ compatibilism between Fate and free will: everything happens in accord with Fate, but the moral agent is responsible for his/her deeds insofar as these are not forced by external coercion. 32 Of course, one could object that much depends on what we mean with “external coercion”: should one not include in it, not only, for instance, violent threats, but also psychic problems? Cicero’s objection, in De fato 44 (lines 7-11), which Manilius is likely to have known, is that Neque enim Chrysippus, concedens adsensionis proximam et contingentem causam esse in viso positam, eam causam esse ad adsentiendum necessariam concedet, ut, si omnia fato fiant, omnia causis fiant antecedentibus et necessariis (Chrysippus, by admitting that the proximate and concomitant cause is located in the object seen, thinks that this is the determinant of the concession of one’s assent, so that, if Fate has power over everything, everything happens as an effect of antecedent and necessary causes). According to Cicero, as a consequence, the initial problem remains unsolved, and therefore, if everything depends on Fate, humans are not responsible for their deeds: si omnia fato fiunt,... efficitur ut nec laudationes iustae sint nec vituperationes, nec honores nec supplicia (If all things happen by fate..., it follows that neither praises nor blames are just, neither honors nor punishments, de Fato 40, 15-17) Manilius, too, addresses the core problem of the relationship between Fate and free will in the proem to Book 4 (4.12-22), where he insists on the pervasive necessity of Fate: fata regunt orbem, certa stant omnia lege (it is Fate that governs the universe; everything depends on a fixed law, 4.14). From each one’s birth there comes all the rest; this is a kind of fatalism that is clearly connected with astrological determinism: everything (riches, poverty, customs, character, vices, and so on) depends 32

See all of Bobzien (1998) with Brennan (2001).

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on the astral configuration of each one at birth. Fate governs not only each one’s life, but also the whole of human history. Indeed, Manilius soon after adduces some examples, especially from Roman history. Fate governs the universe and the behavior of each human being (4.18). Thus, in reference to the civil wars at the end of the Roman Republic, Manilius states that they were determined by Fate: non hominum hoc bellum est; coguntur tanta moveri (this war is not by humans: so great events are determined from outside, 4.84). This is the kind of astral determinism that at the end of the second and the beginning of the third century Bardaisan of Edessa was still concerned to refute, arguing that having riches and the like depends on Fate, but vices and virtues on free will. 33 However, Manilius does not give up moral evaluations, and his choice, which may seem contradictory (like Chrysippus’ compatibilism according to Cicero), is motivated by the following argument: we do not detest venomous herbs the less because they are not venomous by free will, nor do we appreciate good foods the less because they are not good by free will. In the same way, evil deeds must be detested and good deeds must be praised even though they do not derive from free will. Manilius even goes so far as to claim that a good deed deserves praise all the more in that it derives from Fate: nam neque mortiferas quisquam minus oderit herbas quod non arbitrio veniunt sed semine certo, gratia nec levior tribuetur dulcibus escis quod natura dedit fruges, non ulla voluntas. sic hominum meritis tanto sit gloria maior quod caelo laudem debent, rursusque nocentis oderimus magis in culpam poenasque creatos. nec refert scelus unde cadat, scelus esse fatendum. (Astr. 4.110-117) (For nobody would hate deadly venomous herbs the less, only because they are so not by a voluntary choice, but they come from a seed that determines their nature; delicious foods will not be less welcome only because it is nature, and not any free will, that provided the products. In the same way, all the more glory should be granted to human deserts in that they owe the praise to heaven, and on the contrary we should hate those culpable all the more, in that at their birth they were already destined to become culpable and to receive punishment. No matter from where the crime derives: it must be admitted that it is a crime.)

33

See Ramelli (1999b); (2001b); (2009b); (2012b).

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This, too, refers to a specific Stoic conception concerning the relationship between Fate and free will, which has its roots in Zeno, Cleanthes, and Chrysippus. Chrysippus used a simile to illustrate his thought in SVF 2.975: if a dog is bound to a chariot, there are two possibilities: either the dog follows the chariot voluntarily, in which case he follows it while at the same time he is dragged by it, or the dog refuses to follow it, in which case he is only dragged by it. In the same way, human beings can either follow their Fate spontaneously or be dragged by it, but in both cases they do what Fate dictates. Indeed, I have already mentioned that Chrysippus developed a theory of ‘compatibilism’ between Fate and human responsibility. Similarly, his predecessor Cleanthes addressed Zeus in verses reported by Seneca Epist. 107.10 = Cleanthes SVF 1.527 and Epictetus Ench. 53, by inviting him, as the representative of Fate, to lead him wherever he likes: Cleanthes will be ready to obey. If he did not wish to, he would have to obey all the same, but angrily and as an evil man, whereas, if he wishes to, he will obey happily and as a virtuous man. For the Fates lead those who willingly follow them, but drag those who are unwilling. In Seneca’s translation or paraphrase, ducunt volentem fata, nolentem trahunt (Seneca Epist. 107.11). This is a concept that is also expressed by a Syriac Stoic of the first century A.D., Mara Bar Serapion, as I have argued. 34

Astronomy and the Divine Since human behavior, according to Manilius (e.g. Astr. 4.114-117), is governed by the stars, the investigation of the stars, their movements, and the cosmos has an ethical import besides a physical one. Moreover, it has a religious value, since it is an investigation into the dispensation of Fate, the Stoic ưɏǖNjǛǖLJǗǑ, which permeates the whole universe and can be identified with the divinity itself. Indeed, in this Stoic perspective, Manilius’ astrological investigation, far from being impious, had a specifically religious value. For the human capacity to study the stars derives from heaven itself and is simultaneously the study of Fate and therefore of God, which is possible by virtue of the profound affinity between human beings and God. Manilius describes human beings as pars…deorum (2.116), and calls the supreme deity, coinciding with heaven and the universe itself, the “parent” of human beings (4.883-885). The context is, significantly, knowledge of the universe: “Nature does no longer lie concealed in any of its parts; we have explored in depth the 34

Ramelli (2012a).

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whole universe, we have seized it and taken possession of it, and now we can clearly see our father (nostrumque parentem ... perspicimus, 4.884885), we who are a part of it (pars sua, 4.885). And we have access to the stars, we who have been generated by the stars (genitique accedimus astris, 4.885). Manilius insists that human souls come from heaven and return to heaven (4.887) and claims that the human being is a microcosm, that is, a small image of the universe, and an image of God (4.893-895). Human beings are generated by heaven, and therefore by the divinity itself: an cuiquam genitos, nisi caelo, credere fas est / esse homines? (By whom, if not by heaven, should we piously believe that humans are generated? 4.896-897). This pivotal theme of the supreme divinity as the father of the human beings, or at least of those who use their logos, is well attested in Stoicism, and especially in Roman Stoicism (for instance in Musonius, Seneca, and Epictetus). 35 From the point of view of Manilius, astronomical and astrological investigation is a discovery of the divine, in which Fate—administered by means of the heavenly bodies—is, at the same time, divine providence. Manilius repeatedly expresses himself in an inspired and ‘mystical’ way when he treats the study of astronomy as a means to access the divine, as in 1.247-252: Hoc opus immensi constructum corpore mundi membraque naturae diversa condita forma aëris atque ignis, terrae pelagique iacentis vis animae divina regit, sacroque meatu conspirat deus et tacita ratione gubernat mutuaque in cunctas dispensat foedera partes (This immense universe, built up in a body, and the limbs of nature, created in different forms, as air, fire, earth, and the surface of waters, are all governed by the divine power of the soul. God permeates them with a sacred movement, and governs them with silent Logos, instilling into all parts reciprocal relations.)

Likewise, in 4.387-407, Manilius makes it clear that the object of his philosophical poem, and of the philosophical (Stoic) study of astronomy, is God and Fate: quod quaeris, deus est (What you are searching is God, 4.390).

35

See Ramelli (2002); (2004b).

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Because God is immanent to the cosmos, the latter is conceived by Manilius as a living being, an idea that is common among the Stoics and is famously already present in Plato’s Timaeus. The universe, in Manilius’ words, is a body in which the elements are the limbs and the soul is God, its active powerful essence (vis, 1.250), its vivifying spirit (conspirat, 1.251), its governing reason (ratione gubernat, 1.251). Continuing the metaphor, Manilius identifies the praecordia mundi with the Zodiac (3.61). Stars too are living beings, an idea that was shared by the Stoics since Old Stoicism (Chrysippus, SVF 2.613), and that was a Platonic heritage still present even in Christian Middle Platonists. 36 Zeno considered the stars to be endowed with intelligence; he deemed each of them ǗǙǏǛʒǗ ǔNjʐ ǠǛǦǗǓǖǙǗ and made of fire, the fire that is “creator” (SVF 1.120, 1-2); he ascribed to the stars a divine power or force, a vis divina (Cicero ND 1.36). Chrysippus followed Zeno on this score, regarding stars as living beings, endowed with reason and virtue (SVF 2.685), with an animalis intelligentia (SVF 2.92) and not only living, but even divine (ǒǏ˪Nj) and guided by Providence (SVF 2.527). According to Manilius, the study of the stars is a way to get closer to the divine. The technical, astronomical sources of Manilius’ poem show a further point of contact with Stoicism. The main source, with which Manilius draws a programmatic comparison, is the work of Aratus, who was a Stoicizing author himself. Another direct or indirect source seems to be the Catasterisms of Eratosthenes of Cyrene (third century B.C.), who was at least a disciple of eminent Stoic philosophers in Athens: Zeno and his pupil Ariston, besides the Academic Arcesilaus. 37 This work, which is handed down as a work by Eratosthenes, 38 concerns the origin of all constellations, forty-four in number, composed of 475 stars. According to Salemme, Manilius read all of this work, and not only a summary. 39 But the main source seems to be the poem by Aratus (first half of the third

36

E.g. the philosopher, theologian and exegete Origen of Alexandria († 255 ca.) and the theologian, philosopher and polymath Bardaisan of Edessa († 222). See Ramelli (2009b) 25-26, 213-214 and passim. 37 On Eratosthenes see Geus (2002). 38 Scholars have questioned its authorship—the editor of the Vatican Fragments, Olivieri (1897) does so—, and indeed what we have seems to be, at best, an abridgment and rearrangement, in a double redaction. Editions of the Epitome: Robert (1878) and Maass (1898). Translation in Condos (1997). The following recent editions ascribe it to Eratosthenes: Pàmias i Massana, (2004); Pàmias-Geus (2007). 39 Salemne (1983) 60-61.

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century B.C.). 40 He studied in Athens and adhered to Stoicism; he was close to the Stoics Perseus and Dionysius of Heraclea (later known as ‘the Apostate’, ɟ ǖǏǞNjǒLJǖǏǗǙǜ). His poem, Phaenomena, was praised by Callimachus, and was composed on the basis of Eudoxus, according to Hipparchus, who composed a Commentary on Aratus and Eudoxus. Aratus’ Stoicism emerges from his poem, especially in the initial hymn to Zeus, who is characterized as the supreme Stoic deity. His hymn is very similar to Cleanthes’ hymn to Zeus, especially in the declaration that human beings are children of Zeus, which corresponds to line 4 of Cleanthes’ hymn (ȸǔ ǝǙ˹ ǍʊǛ ǍǏǗǦǖǏǝǒNj, ǒǏǙ˹ ǖljǖǑǖNj ǕNjǡǦǗǞǏǜ / ǖǙ˹ǗǙǓ, From you, indeed, we draw our existence, being the only creatures that are an imitation of God, 4-5). 41 There is a Stoic element, for instance, in lines 96-136, on the constellation Virgo, interpreted as Dike, Justice, and in lines 758-772, in which Aratus expounds the notion that divine wisdom governs the whole universe and all its phenomena. A partial Latin translation of Aratus’ poem was composed, along with his Aratea and Pronostica, by Germanicus, who was adopted by Tiberius and was supposed to succeed him, but who died in 19 A.D. His Aratea is similar to Manilius’ poem, but Germanicus’ poem is not a philosophical poem, as that of Manilius was meant to be. Unfortunately it is impossible to assess whether Manilius knew Cleomedes’ astronomical work, which is in turn impregnated with Stoic ideas (it deals with the cyclical movements of heavenly bodies and is datable between the late Hellenistic and the early imperial era; the proposed dates range from Posidonius to the second century A.D.; the latter extreme, of course, would exclude that Manilius knew it). 42 In the proem to Book 2, Manilius claims that all kinds of didascalic poetry have been attempted, including the astronomical kind exemplified by catasterisms (2.25-38). While he criticizes such poems which reduced the sky to a ‘myth’ (fabula, 2.37), he reserves for himself a new poetic work: a philosophical poem, whose specific object is God (2.61-62). 40

Abry (2007) argues for an extensive and pervasive influence of Aratus on Manilius. However, Manilius’ fatalism differs from Aratus, and the Latin poet dropped both Aratus’ prelude to Zeus and the Dike excursus. Manilius replaced the Greek myth about the progressive degeneration of humanity with a more optimistic view of human history. 41 Indeed, it is uncertain whether Paul in Acts 17:28 has quoted Aratus or Cleanthes’ line, or perhaps both, since he himself says, “as some of your poets have stated”. Discussion and bibliography in Ramelli (2008b); more in (2012c). In Hellenistic Judaism, Aristobulus had already cited Aratus’ Phaenomena in order to illustrate Scripture, as we know from Eusebius PE 13.12.6. 42 See my Appendix to Manilius in Ramelli (2008a).

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Manilius and the Evolution of Society Manilius’ notion of progress is an interesting point to be examined against the backdrop of Stoic conceptions, which, however, are not unanimous. In 1.66-112 Manilius expounds his own idea of human history as a series of discoveries and improvements. At the beginning life was rudis (1.66), full of ignorance and wonder before natural phenomena, such as the sun’s rising and settings, because people did not know their natural causes. Humanity began to acquire some knowledge by trial and error, thanks to its docilis sollertia (1.95). Thus did the various arts appear, the last of which, and the highest, according to Manilius, being the science of stars and the cosmos. The Middle Stoic Posidonius, who has often been regarded as one of Manilius’ main sources, 43 did not think of the primitive condition of humanity as a state of ignorance, but thought that at the beginning human beings were governed by wise persons, for whom to govern did not mean to dominate, but to serve and to perform a duty (ap. Sen. Epist. 90). The Stoic allegorists too assume that myths and religious traditions and cults, going back to the beginning of humanity, include in themselves, under a symbolic veil, deep philosophical truths. In times closer to Manilius, this is evident especially in the neo-Stoic Cornutus, who declares that the ancients were not people of little value, but were able to express philosophical truths through ‘symbols’ and ‘enigmata’ (Comp. 35). Notably, Seneca, who did not embrace Stoic allegoresis of myths, 44 correspondingly denies, in Epist. 90, that humanity in its primeval state was governed by sages and could access philosophical truths at that early stage. Indeed, Seneca, the Neostoic, who reports Posidonius’ thought and was often influenced by Epicureanism, 45 at the same time disagrees with him on some points. While Posidonius thought that practical inventions were due to wise persons, such as buildings, work tools, use of metals, agriculture, mills, weaving, and so on, Seneca seems to believe that progress marks a moral decadence in humanity; thus, he deplores that weaving now produces clothes that do not cover one’s body; that buildings are now too high and risk falling upon those who inhabit them, and that they are full of gold and marble, but are also occupied by a mass of slaves, whereas primitive huts were occupied by free people (he is probably referring to freedom from passions and enslavement to passions). Seneca 43

This trend was inaugurated by Lanson (1887); Moeller (1901) 34ff.; Wageningen (1921) 16. 44 See Ramelli (2004a) 327-337. 45 See Gigante (1998); (1999); (2004); Ramelli (2005b) with further bibliography.

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concludes that these inventions come from reason, but not from perfect reason, and therefore they cannot be considered to be products of philosophy. Philosophers, Seneca avers, did not devote themselves to such practical inventions, but rather to the study of truth and nature, which is indeed the task of philosophy. Seneca does not believe that philosophy existed in those primitive times when the arts had not yet been invented, but also when vices such as greed and lust did not yet exist and had not yet begun to erode and disaggregate society (Epist. 90). Manilius’ position seems to be different from both that of Posidonius and that of Seneca. Manilius (1.66-112), unlike Posidonius, and like Seneca and the Epicureans, 46 does not think that humanity was initially governed by sages, but that it was immersed in ignorance. However, Manilius’ position seems to differ from that of Seneca as well, in that he does not state that material progress is paired with moral decadence: vice depends on the bad use of acquired arts, which, from his viewpoint, seems to bear on both moral responsibility and the influence of stars, whose effects are the expression of Fate. Manilius does not exclusively depend on Posidonius; he may rely on different sources, especially, as it seems, Epicurus’ thought, as reported in Lucretius (DRN 5.973-1023; 5.11051114). I have already mentioned that Seneca, too, was influenced by Epicureanism in many respects and was also ready to acknowledge this. Manilius balances necessity (ǡǛǏljNj) and reason (ǕǦǍǙǜ) as factors of human progress. While Posidonius, at least from his fragments in Seneca, seems to value only the latter, Epicureanism valued necessity more. But Manilius seems to propose a mix of the two, both necessity, which compelled human beings to usus (1.83), and reason (ingenium, 1.80), human intellectual resources, along with readiness to learn (docilis sollertia, 1.95). It is interesting to look at Cicero at this point: Elisa Romano has offered a comparative analysis of Cicero’s and Manilius’ accounts, which was taken over by Salemme, who deems Manilius directly inspired by Cicero. 47 In the light of Cicero’s neo-Academic affiliation, this might also account for some Platonic influences on Manilius, 48 which may have passed, as well, through Middle and Neostoicism, which in turn had absorbed Platonic elements. Thus, for instance, the concept of assimilation to God or imitation of God, which was of course formulated by Plato and is included for instance by Volk in the list of Platonic themes to be found

46

On the Epicureans’ conception of progress see recently Konstan (2007). Romano (1979a); Salemme (1983) 58-59. 48 These are rightly listed by Volk (2009) 239-242. 47

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in Manilius, 49 is a prominent feature in the ethical thought of a Roman Stoic such as Musonius Rufus. 50 But Cicero knew very well and praised Lucretius’ poem (ad Quint. 2.9.4, 54 B.C.), and according to Jerome (Chron. s.a. Abr.1923 = 94-93 BC, Olymp. 171a 3, p. 149 Helm) Cicero even edited Lucretius’ poem after the poet’s death in 51/50 B.C. and before its publication.

Manilius and Myth The much-debated problem of the function of mythological excursuses in Manilius’ poem, 51 which might seem odd in a technical poem, can be illuminated by a comparison with the Stoic hermeneutics of myths. Scholars have often remarked that Manilius’ model, the Stoicizing Aratus, already had mythological references in his poem. 52 Manilius does take up some mythological digressions from Aratus, but he expands and multiplies the mythological sections in his own poem. An apparent contradiction has been often pointed out between Manilius’ programmatic statement in the proem to Book 2 and his own use of mythological catasterisms. In that proem, Manilius blames past poets who composed catasterisms because they reduced the sky to a myth: quorum carminibus nihil est nisi fabula caelum (in their poems the sky is nothing but a myth, 2.37). But especially in Books 4 and 5 Manilius himself introduces catasterisms. An evolution in Manilius’ poetics might explain this problem. But the apparent contradiction between his criticism of catasterisms and his actual use of these is reduced if one considers that in the proem to Book 2 he contrasts his work not only with catasterisms, but also with many other poetic genres in order to claim novelty for his own poem. He had already done so in 1.1-6 (‘first’ in 1.4, ‘new songs’ in 1.4-5, ‘strange gifts’ unknown to his predecessors in 1.6). Indeed, in his proem to Book 2 Manilius lists among his predecessors Homer, with his Iliad and Odyssey, Hesiod, with his two poems, the authors of catasterisms, the author of a treatise on ornithology, Nicander with his treatments of medicine and zoology, and the poets who have spoken of Tartarus. Thus, not only vis-à-vis the authors of catasterisms, but also visà-vis these others, Manilius remarks that the paths of Mount Helicon have been abundantly trodden, and that his own work will be different (nostra loquar, 2.57). What he will expound as a novelty in the landscape of 49

Volk (2009) 242. See Ramelli (2001c) 1-35. 51 For a status quaestionis of the debate see Salemme (1983) 77ff. 52 See for instance Romano (1979b) and Liuzzi (1988). 50

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poetry, even of didactic poetry, is that nature coincides with the Stoic god (2.60ff.). This is, notably, the basic principle on which Stoic allegoresis of myths was based. As for the catasterisms that Manilius inserts, he does not focus exclusively on them. What he seems to criticize in the authors of catasterisms is not so much that they have narrated myths related to the sky, but that they have limited their exposition to the myths themselves, without analyzing the composition of the firmament, the laws that regulate its movement, the influence of the stars on the world, and all that Manilius himself expounds in his philosophical (cosmological) poem. In fact, in Manilius’ own poem, mythological excursuses, such as that on Andromeda (5.538-619), are not connected with technical astronomical demonstrations; myths are not directly functional in the technical astronomical context. So, do myths only have a decorative value? They also seem to support and exemplify a Stoic ethical discourse, 53 the motive of astral immortality for virtuous souls. Stoic ethics, as I have pointed out, underlie the whole poem of Manilius, who, notwithstanding the fatalistic and astral necessitarianism he supports, thinks that moral subjects can have merits that deserve a reward (4.114-117). Manilius’ position, between Fate and moral responsibility, may appear inconsistent, but this is exactly the same tension that is at work in Stoic ethics. Chrysippus was especially concerned with this problem and developed, as I have mentioned, a much criticized theory of compatibilism. But perhaps the most important element to be considered with respect to Manilius’ use of traditional myths in the context of a cosmological investigation, and indeed an exposition of physics, is the Stoic allegorical exegesis of myths in a physical (or sometimes ethical) way. Writing shortly before Manilius, Cicero, in his account of Stoic allegorical exegesis of physics in Book 2 of De natura deorum, 54 and the Stoic Cornutus writing soon after Manilius, in his Compendium theologiae Graecae, both offer excellent examples of Stoic physical allegoresis of myths. Stoic allegorists, starting from Zeno and above all from Chrysippus’ theorization of allegoresis (SVF 2.1009), intended to recover the cultural patrimony of myth, endowing it with a philosophical explanation. Indeed, the Stoics made allegory a part of philosophy, and specifically of theology according to Chrysippus. 55 It was not so much a 53

Sometimes Manilius even seems to change the mythological data at his disposal in order to convey a stronger ethical meaning, for instance in the case of the myth of Andromeda. See Ramelli (1999a). 54 See Ramelli (2007a) 443-483 the section on Cicero. 55 See Ramelli (2004a) 447-478, with conclusive argument on the role of allegory in Stoic philosophy.

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matter of confirming Stoic theology by means of myths, but on the contrary of valuing myths and rituals and a whole cultural patrimony, which was under pressure from rationalistic criticism. 56 The Stoic allegorists revalued this patrimony by endowing myths, rituals, and traditions with a deep philosophical meaning; myths express the ultimate truth about nature and the divine. Manilius, as a Stoic, is particularly interested in the integration of myth into the philosophical discourse. Even if it is true that his myths, such as the aforementioned myth of Andromeda (5.538-619) or that of Phaethon (1.735-749), are rather detached from his treatments of technical matters, they are not detached from his philosophical framework (notably, a Stoic framework). They have an ethical and a physical relevance, thanks to the ideal mediation of Stoic allegory. Indeed, catasterism myths were particularly apt to reveal a philosophical (in this case cosmological) truth in that the identification between their protagonists, the divinized characters, and physical realities, in this case heavenly bodies, is particularly immediate. This mechanism is the same as that at work in Stoic allegory, as exemplified by the report in Cicero’s ND 2 or by Cornutus’ Compendium Theologiae Graecae, in which, for instance, Apollo is the sun (32), Zeus is the aether (2), Hera is the air (3), and so on (or, in a more refined fashion, Apollo is the pneuma present in the sun, Zeus is that which is present in the aether, and the like). Manilius himself uses typical Stoic allegoresis of the mythological figures of the gods; for instance, he treats Hermes/Mercury at the very beginning of his poem (1.30-37) as the allegory of the Logos and rational investigation, exploiting the same interpretation given by Cornutus in his Compendium and by the Stoic tradition. Indeed, Manilius represents Mercury as the initiator, qua Logos, of the astronomical science and of philosophy and theology. As I have explained, then, all of the catasterisms narrated in Manilius’ myths, including those of Andromeda and Phaethon, illustrate the correspondence between heavenly bodies (cosmic realities) and divinities, in this case divinised human beings. Therefore they serve the purpose of Stoic allegoresis of myth in a double way: first they show the correspondence between physical realities or elements and divinities (the core of Stoic physical allegoresis), and then they also convey an ethical teaching about the divinisation of the virtuous.

56

See Ramelli (2013).

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Manilius and Politics It is also probable that Stoicism works as a philosophical framework for Manilius’ political ideas, and in this connection it is necessary to tackle the puzzling question of Manilius’ attitude toward the imperial institution. This is not a marginal problem. Another poet of the first century A.D. who received a Stoic formation, Annaeus Lucan, the nephew of Seneca and author of the poem Bellum civile or Pharsalia, reveals an ambivalent attitude toward the principate. At the beginning of his poem he praises the emperor, Nero, and treats him as a deity; but then he strongly criticizes both the imperial institution itself, as it emerged from the Roman civil wars, and the apotheosis of emperors. 57 For Lucan, the true embodiment of Stoicism is Cato the Younger, who committed suicide in order to keep his libertas, not only an ethical value but also a political one, especially for the senatorial class in Rome. Cato and his admirers thought that only a republican political form could guarantee it. Manilius also admired Cato the Younger, who is cited twice by him as a hero of libertas (1.797: Cato fortunae victor, Cato who defeated Fortune; 4.87: invicta devictum mente Catonem, Cato defeated, but with undefeated mind); 58 in some passages, though, Stoicism seems to provide a philosophical basis for the principate, as is the case in Seneca at least early in the age of Nero, especially in his De clementia. 59 But there are elements that raise the suspicion that Manilius was, or became, nostalgic for the republic. In 1.7-10 we clearly find a praise of the emperor: hunc mihi tu, Caesar, patriae princepsque paterque, qui regis augustis parentem legibus orbem concessumque patri mundum deus ipse mereris, das animum viresque facis ad tanta canenda. (It is you who gives me the courage and the strength to sing so great things, o Caesar, emperor and father of the fatherland, you who govern with august laws the obedient world and deserve heaven, which has been granted to your father, as you are a god yourself.)

57 See my chapter on Lucan in Ramelli (2008a) 1517-2207, and now Grimal (2010) with status quaestionis. 58 See my commentary on Manilius in Ramelli (2008a) nn. 14 and 33. 59 See my “Seneca the Younger,” in Blackwell Encyclopedia of Ancient History, Published Online: 26 OCT 2013. DOI: 10.1002/9781444338386.wbeah10065.

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I do not wish to enter into the debate on the identity of this emperor here and in 1.798-802. He may be either Augustus or Tiberius, but the praise for an emperor is manifest. In the final verses of Book 1 the divinity of the emperor is emphasized: sit pater invictus patriae, sit Roma sub illo, / cumque deum caelo dederit non quaerat in orbe (Let him be the undefeated Father of the Fatherland, let Rome be under his power, / and, having given a god to heaven, let Rome not request one on earth, 1.925926). In Book 1, the attitude toward the principate would seem to be positive (unless the words non quaerat in orbe in 1.926 are ironic). But in the following books there are no longer explicit praises of an emperor, and in the last book the emperor would even seem to be deliberately excluded from the ideal res publica depicted by Manilius. Astronomica 5.727-745 is not usually taken into consideration in the most recent discussion of Manilius’ relation to the Roman emperors. 60 This passage, however, draws a parallel between the hierarchy of stars in the sky and that of human beings in society. As the stars do not all have the same brightness, but are arranged in a hierarchical order, so also do human beings have different places in society; they are disposed in a hierarchy. Manilius describes such a hierarchy as follows, in a decreasing order: Principiumque patres retinent et proximum equester ordo locum, populumque equiti populoque subire vulgus iners videas et iam sine nomine turbam, sic etiam magno quaedam res publica mundo est quam natura facit, quae caelo condidit urbem. (5.735-739) (The Senators occupy the first place, and immediately after there comes the order of knights, and after them the people; still below, under the people, one could see the incapable populace, a mass with no name; likewise, the enormous universe is organized in a kind of State, made by Nature, who founded a city in heaven.)

Social order on earth reflects the heavenly order: divine rationality, which is immanent in the cosmos, is the source for both these parallel orders. Both hierarchies are rational, because, if all stars had the same brightness, they would burn the whole universe; likewise, if all people had the same place in society, anarchy would reign. Manilius entertains a negative view of the masses, which he deems to be characterized by furor, 60

Though Volk [(2009) 137-172] is a detailed and careful treatment, the question of Manilius’ possible republican nostalgia is not treated at all.

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foolishness and irrationality, and the dominion of passions: in populo scelus est et abundant cuncta furoris (crimes are among the populace and everything there abounds in foolishness, 2.600). 61 Such a perspective works well with the Stoic division of humanity into wise men and fools (e.g. in SVF 3.582-588; 3.671-676). The latter are those who do not use their reason to subjugate passions, and therefore commit scelera. Both furor and scelera are typical of the terminology related to pathƝ in Roman Stoicism. What is most relevant to my present investigation is that Manilius in this passage does not mention the emperor, nor does he even hint at this figure, and the hierarchy described by him is not different from that of late Republican times. Indeed, the decreasing order Senate > knights > people > masses is a social description that fits the late Republic as well as, or even much better than, the early principate, given that there is no allusion whatsoever to the emperor. It is true that the emperor, qua princeps senatus, was formally included in the Senate, but precisely the astronomical simile seems to exclude him: for the emperor corresponded to the sun (4.764-766), and this is not included, in Manilius’ view, among the stars. Manilius does not mention the sun anywhere in the passage at stake. Moreover, the denomination res publica (5.738) used by him in the same passage is ambiguous. This term, to be sure, was also used to indicate the Roman State in the early imperial times, but it can also be a more specific designation of the republican system. This ambiguity is strengthened by the absence of any reference to a princeps. It is not accidental that Baldini Moscadi hypothesized that Manilius belonged to the philo-Republican Stoic circles of which Lucan is an example. 62 Might perhaps a change in the principate during Manilius’ lifetime help explain his change of attitude and the suppression of the emperor in this passage? It is impossible to determine the date of the composition of the fifth and last book of Manilius’ Astronomica, in the final section of which the passage on the res publica is situated. It is not to be ruled out that Book 5 dates to many years after Book 1, and that during those years some change in the principate, say from the reign of Augustus to that of Tiberius, occurred to prompt Manilius’ own change of heart. We are not even entirely sure that the five extant books represent the totality of Manilius’ poem. The tenth-century Benedictine scholar Gerbert d’Aurillac, Epist. 8 Havet, knew eight books by Manilius, and this testimony was received as trustworthy by Thielscher. 63 According to Gain, the three lost 61

This conception is noted by Salemme (1983) 65-66. Baldini Moscadi (1981). 63 Thielscher (1956). 62

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books did not come after the fifth, but fell between Book 4 and Book 5; on this hypothesis, the latter would be the most recent book of all. 64 This suspicion is reinforced by the well-known fact that Manilius here and there says that he has treated, or will treat, in his work themes of which there is not the faintest trace in his extant books. Some ambivalence, however, is already present in Book 1, in which Manilius describes the princeps as a god, to be sure, and acknowledges Julius Caesar’s divine ancestry (1.798-799), but at the same time he admires Caesar’s opponents, such as Pompey, Cicero, and especially the Stoic Cato. For Manilius, indeed, the kind of astral immortality that awaits Augustus is granted to other noble figures who worked for the fatherland, and Pompey is said to have been an emperor before the empire itself: Pompeius orbis domitor per trisque triumphos / ante diem princeps (Pompey conquered the world and with his three triumphs / was emperor before the empire began, 1.793-794). Especially Cato, a kind of Republican martyr, is represented in Stoic terms, as one who, through suicide, has overcome fortune: et Cato fortunae victor (1.797). In addition to exalting Pompey as a princeps before the principate, and Cato as a Republican Stoic martyr, 1.775-804 also include Cicero among the virtuous who have merited an ‘astral immortality’ (1.794-795), and Brutus as well, the Republican hero who deposed the king Tarquinius (1.785) and who was easily associated with the more recent republican hero who killed Julius Caesar. This doctrine of astral immortality, which Manilius takes on in the aforementioned passages, is already present in a source that very probably was available to Manilius: Cicero’s Somnium Scipionis, from Book 6 of his De republica. Virtuous souls gain immortality (Rep. 6.13; 6.14; 6.16) and a place in the Milky Way (Rep. 6.13; 6.16; 6.26), rather than being deified in the strict sense. 65 Cicero, a Neoacademic who was deeply influenced by Stoicism and had a sympathy for it, especially for its service to the res publica (for instance, in its legitimization of traditional religion, useful for the State, also through allegory), strongly opposed Caesar’s apotheosis; like Lucan afterwards, he refused to attribute to a dead person honors that should be reserved for the gods, whether to Caesar or even to a virtuous man such as Brutus (Phil. 1.6.13). Seneca the Stoic, in his Ludus de morte Claudii, pokes fun at Claudius’ supposed deification: modo dic nobis qualem deum istum fieri velis ... deus fieri vult? Parum est quod templum in Britannia habet, quod nunc 64

Gain (1970). Cf. Reeh (1973) 154; Costanza (1987); Baldwin (1987) 102-103, suggested 22 A.D. as the terminus post quem for the composition of Book 5. 65 See Ramelli (2000), (2006a), and (2008-2009).

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barbari colunt et ut deum orant (Just tell us, which kind of god do you want this guy here to become. … Does he want to become a god? Is it not enough that he now has a temple in Britain, that barbarians worship this guy here and pray to him as a god?, 8.1-3); cogitate, patres conscripti, quale portentum in numerum deorum se recipi cupiat ... section 3 line 1 hunc nunc deum facere vultis? ... section 4 lines 1-2 hunc deum quis colet? Quis credet? Dum tales deos facitis, nemo vos deos esse credet (Please, consider, o fathers senators [sc. the deities presented as a senate], what a monster wishes to be received among the deities … Now do you want to make him a god? … But who will worship this god? Who will even believe that he is a god? If you make such people gods, nobody will believe that you are gods!, 11.3-4); olim, inquit, magna res erat deum fieri ... ne quis post hunc diem deus fiat ex his ... qui contra hoc senatus consultum deus factus, dictus pictusve erit… (One upon a time, he said, it was something respectable and great to become a god … From today on, let no one of these guys be made a god … whoever will be made, called, or represented as, a god against this decision of the Senate..., 9.3). Seneca is ironical about the ease with which emperors are made gods, 66 and intentionally uses the oxymoronic concept of the god who is a dead (a concept that will be deployed in Christian apologetics). This is why he insists on the burial of Claudius—the burial of a god! Claudii funus ... erat omnium formosissimum et impensa cura, plane ut scires deum efferri (The funeral of Claudius … was the most beautiful of all, with a profusion of expenses, obviously so that one might realize that this was the burial of a god, 12.1). Seneca’s attack is mainly ad hominem. 67 Manilius, too, might have changed his mind regarding the principate because of a change of emperor, or in the behavior of an emperor, such as that which Seneca experienced with Nero and undermined his Stoic political theories in De clementia. Lucan, too, denounced the imperial cult as a cult of dead people. And yet, in the proem to his poem, he depicts Nero as a god (BC 1.33-37), and in describing his deification he repeats key terms such as deus (BC 1.52) or numen (BC 1.63). But in BC 7.815-817 Lucan, in an address to divus Iulius, remarks that, in spite of his apotheosis, in fact he does not enjoy an 66

Divam Augustam, aviam suam, quam ipse deam esse iussit ... censeo ut divus Claudius ex hac die deus sit... Tunc divus Augustus ... inquit: ... ex quo deus factus sum... (The divine Augusta, his grandmother, whom he himself decreed should become a goddess … I establish that the divine Claudius from this day onward should become a God … Then the divine Augustus said: ‘Since when I became a god…, 9.5-10). 67 See Ramelli (2001a).

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otherworldly existence any more than others who died in the battle. And in 8.835 and 859-862 he criticizes the dedication of Roman temples and altars to Caesar, who, as a tyrant, was unworthy of them. In 6.807-809 a time is foreseen in which all leaders will die, including Caesar; Lucan adds (BC 6.809): Romanorum manes calcate deorum (trod the dead souls of the Roman gods!), with the oxymoron of the death of gods. Lucan would rather divinize Pompey (BC 8.861-862; 9.3-4; 9.7-9), whose spirit is expressly said to return in two Republican heroes, Cato and Brutus, the killer of Caesar, whom Lucan describes as a scelerum vindex (the avenger of guilt, BC 9.17). Lucan even turns the deification of emperors upside down: in the heaven in which immortal virtuous people dwell those who have been buried with gold and incense are not admitted (BC 9.10-11). The title of parens patriae (BC 9.601) and deification (factura deum, BC 9.604) are declared to be due, not to emperors, but to virtuous people, such as Cato. The latter, as the incarnation of the Stoic sage, is declared to be equal to, if not superior to, the gods (BC 1.128). If Rome continues to worship emperors instead of virtuous people, this is because Rome is not free (si steteris umquam cervice soluta, should you ever stand up free from the yoke of slavery, BC 9.603). Lucan, therefore, albeit after proclaiming Nero a god, turns to a harsh attack upon the deification of emperors, a deification that he, as a good Stoic, would like to reserve for the virtuous. In his case, as perhaps in that of Manilius, a change seems to have occurred in the imperial power, which explains the modification in Lucan’s attitude to Nero. Though Lucan took part in the first Neronia in 60 A.D. with a Laus Neronis, he became distanced from the imperial power to the point that he was condemned and died as a political opponent. This is also why an ironical interpretation of the praise of Nero in the proem has been repeatedly proposed (in this case, Lucan’s laus Neronis in 60 A.D., too, ought to be interpreted ironically). 68 Such an ironical hermeneutics would seem to fit Manilius’ didactic poem less well. But in case we exclude from Manilius an ironical intention, the passage from the praise of the emperor as a deity to the total disappearance of his figure from the ideal res publica would remain an enigma.

Conclusion Stoicism is prominent in Manilius’ poem as well as its very sources, including his astronomical sources, which in turn were influenced by 68

See documentation in my chapter on Lucan in Ramelli (2008a), esp. the introductory essay and the commentary.

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Stoicism. I have pointed out how the Stoic heritage in Manilius mainly concerns not only cosmology, but also ethics, and how Manilius is entirely in the Stoic tradition. The theological and ethical value that Manilius attaches to his study of astronomy is also to be read in a Stoic light. His poem was programmatically intended as a philosophical-theological poem in Stoic terms. The question of the function of myths in Manilius has also been illuminated by a comparison with the Stoic exegesis of myths. I have moreover shown how Stoicism works as a philosophical framework for Manilius’ political conception as well.

CHAPTER SEVEN ‘STOIC TRAGEDY’: A CONTRADICTION IN TERMS? CLAUDIA WIENER Hermeneutic problems Recent publications considering Seneca’s works both as a philosopher and a tragedian as a unitary whole [Volk and Williams (2006); Bartsch and Wray (2009)] have revealed that there is still much to be gained from investigating the relationship between these two facets of his literary production. In his well-known Loeb edition of Seneca’s tragedies, John G. Fitch sought to extricate himself from discussing the relationship between Seneca’s philosophical works and tragedies with this incisive sentence: “A Stoic tragedy would be a contradiction in terms” [Fitch (2002) I 25]. According to him, the differences in genre and literary tradition—and thus in the author’s intentions—between ancient tragedies and works of moral philosophy are too great. Optimism, he argues, is one of the cornerstones of the treatise on moral philosophy as viewed by the ancients. Fitch’s defence of this argument has had the merit of rekindling the debate. He was right to underline such a basic difference in intention and methodology. But Richard Tarrant [(2006) 5-11] has recently cast serious doubt on the optimistic nature of Seneca’s philosophical works. Furthermore, even if the optimistic view could in principle be supported by belief in the positive effect of a psychotherapeutic or didactic influence, there would remain another objection. It is problematic to assess the entire output of the Stoics only within the framework of the moral treatises which dominate Seneca’s philosophical works. In other words, should we consider that philosophical problems are dealt with only in treatises? Is the philosophy of first-century A.D. Rome limited to therapeutic purposes? And—last but not least—should the duty of an author whose works are based on the principles of Stoicism always be to deliver satisfying solutions to all the problems of the world?

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Alessandro Schiesaro’s metapoetic reading of Seneca’s tragedies 1 has called renewed attention to a fundamental hermeneutical problem, which was thoroughly scrutinised in the philosophical treatises of the Imperial period, namely, that poetry can influence its audience in direct contradiction to the moral and didactic purpose originally intended by the poet, because the figure of the criminal can arouse admiration rather than loathing 2. In his recent monograph, Gregory Staley argues, by means of a systematic survey of Seneca’s treatment of poetry in his philosophical works, that the problem cannot be solved in that way: “Even though the evidence for his knowledge [about psychological effects of poetry] largely comes from moralizing contexts, surprisingly Seneca does not advocate a narrowly moralistic or philosophical reading of poetry” 3. Instead, he demonstrates that the theoretical basis of Seneca’s tragedies is Stoic psychology. Seneca, as a Stoic psychologist, believes the audience of tragedies to be endowed with critical judgement. Exploiting this idea, Staley attempts to transfer the Stoic model of the three stages of an emotional response to the effect of the tragedies on their audience. Just as, in the case of an emotion, the initial reaction does not lead directly to action, but is followed by a conscious evaluation, so the audience of a Stoic tragedy will use its critical judgement only after the first emotional shock: “The vividness of tragedy’s images may arouse our emotions, but these are only preliminary and involuntary; we can in the end judge their true value.” 4 In my view, Staley is right to remind us of the sophisticated character of Stoic psychology, even as regards hermeneutic problems in the field of tragedy. The crucial point, however, remains unsolved: how is Seneca the tragedian able to guarantee that the audience will make correct use of this critical judgement and come to the conclusion he intended? The fact that Seneca did not exploit his own tragedies as moral and didactic exempla strongly supports the view that he did not intend tragedies to be understood in this sense. In fact, Seneca, unlike Chrysippus or Cicero, refrains from quoting examples from tragedies in his philosophical works, and does not include tragic characters among his exempla. Instead, he thanks the gods for providing the modern man with Cato, a contemporary moral authority and role model who makes Hercules and Ulysses—two figures often used by the Stoics—seem obsolete (cf. De constantia sapientis 2.1 and De providentia 3.14). He even regards the 1

Among others, see Schiesaro (1997) and his much noted (2003) monograph on Thyestes. 2 Schiesaro (1997) 102-109 and (2003) 228-235. 3 Staley (2010) 50-51. 4 Staley (2010) 95.

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penchant for tragic characters as a sign of bad taste, as for instance when he evokes the common attraction to the hero of Accius’ play, Atreus, and the use of Atreus’ adage oderint dum metuant (Let them hate if only they fear, De ira [3], 20.4. 1) as a guiding principle. Seneca himself thus calls our attention to the clear distinction between the two literary domains. Following on from this observation, the aim of this discussion will be to investigate the differences in argumentation, and thus in intention, between Seneca’s philosophical works and his tragedies. It is undeniable that the thematic content of Seneca’s works on moral philosophy overlaps with that of his tragedies: De clementia echoes the problem of political morality in the tragedies’ depiction of the tyrant, and Seneca applies his investigations in the psychology of the passions (De ira, De clementia) to his characters and their emotional development as they are pushed to crime by unrequited love or vengeance. Fortuna and fatum, discussed in De providentia, occur in Hercules furens and Oedipus, and constantia, discussed in De constantia sapientis, enables the innocent victim of tragedy to safeguard his or her dignity in death; even the Stoic concept of sympatheia is illustrated, during the plague in Oedipus and the eclipse of the sun in Thyestes. These correspondences should not be dismissed as merely coincidental, and are surely relevant to our understanding of the tragedies. Seneca’s philosophical works differ most obviously from his tragedies in their clear definition of the aims and methodology which he establishes programmatically in his Dialogi. In the tragedies, by contrast, we are left feeling alone and bewildered: as evil triumphs and innocent victims are destroyed, we are conscious not only of man’s helplessness, but also of that of the gods, who are unable to prevent the crime, and even seem to be on Medea’s side as she casts her spells. Moreover, as in many tragedies of Euripides, the figure of the criminal arouses considerable fascination. The determination and superior intelligence of Medea or Atreus command our respect. While we can plausibly explain our sympathy toward Medea by the fact that we also witness her desperate struggle against injustice, it is very difficult, in the case of Atreus, to justify a certain feeling of admiration for such an inherently loathsome character. For Atreus plans and carries out a heinous crime against his own innocent nephews, and yet we are unable entirely to shake off our sympathy for him. While we do not actually run the risk of imitating Medea or Atreus’ actions because we identify with them, we are still required to question the very foundation of our moral values. As outsiders, we can safely observe how long Atreus can continue to push back moral boundaries (modum excedere), but we are only left with a harrowing sense of tragedy as all the

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other characters—perhaps even the gods—collapse in failure. Could this feeling of helplessness be seen as evidence for an anti-Stoic manifesto? 5 I do not think so: the problem of theodicy is inseparable from the Stoic doctrine of providence. In his plays, Seneca adds a further level of awareness by suggesting that a higher logic is at work beyond the decisions and responsibility of individual human beings. In this particular case we are reminded of the Stoic concept of causal determinism 6, which appears in literature in the first century B.C.: divine providence does not take on the role of a guardian angel, but rather destroys individuals in a cruel stroke of fate, without any immediately apparent meaning or purpose. Seneca’s tragedies are not the only literary works illustrating this theory: both Lucan and Statius follow Seneca on this count. Anyone attempting to argue that the tragedies convey an anti-Stoic pessimism should first of all demonstrate that the determinism of the Stoics actually promises a better condition for mankind.

I. Methodological steps of Stoic psychotherapeutics Before we address the question of their possible relationship with the tragedies, we should analyse Seneca’s philosophical works with regard to their methodological approach and argumentative structure, and not reduce them to a simple collection of thematic materials and sources concerning Stoic doctrine. The Dialogi are protreptic essays; Seneca has to use different stratagems to convince us that it is profitable to live one’s life in compliance with the exacting requirements of Stoic doctrine. This effort of persuasion is most difficult in the case of general subjects, such as choosing the right way of life (De vita beata, De otio); it is most successful when it offers the prospect of therapeutic help in critical situations: the consolationes, for instance, help us to overcome the loss of a loved one. The protreptic and psychotherapeutic effects are attained through a succession of specific methodological steps, the purpose of which is progressively explained by the author. 7 Seneca usually begins by

5

After the important and now classical studies by Mazzoli (1970) and Dingel (1974) the problem has been discussed recently by Schiesaro (2003), Littlewood (2004) and Staley (2010). 6 Bobzien (1998). 7 For Seneca’s consolationes see Wiener (2008).

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criticising a popular, widespread opinion on an ethical problem. 8 He then diagnoses what wrong behaviour or negative consequences can be generated by belief in such an opinion. In this way he demonstrates that a generally accepted opinion is not necessarily correct. As Seneca calls attention to the dangers which lie behind commonly accepted opinions, he convinces readers of the necessity to re-evaluate their way of life and convictions. The aim of this manoeuvre is for the reader to acquire new standards in conformity with the principles of Stoicism. This is achieved in two steps: one must learn first of all to understand a situation from someone else’s perspective, and then to adopt a higher point of view, “to stand above things” (magnanimitas), and thus cease to be affected by external circumstances. Dialectical devices such as syllogism and analogy are also used to demonstrate that the opinion held by the reader does not pass the test of logical scrutiny. By means of this protreptic build-up Seneca makes it easier for the reader to apply a Stoic understanding of the real good and its relation to indifferent, that is, things like wealth and even health that are preferable but not ultimate goods, like virtue. This is a necessary step: one must have a set of rules in order to be capable of making a morally acceptable decision in all situations. The reader, however, has to learn to apply these newly acquired guidelines systematically to his daily life. This requires intensive training, for which Seneca provides help: he offers concrete advice on how to live one’s life, and invites his readers to choose a moral authority corresponding to their own status and time, such as a high-principled politician (Cato, or the emperor Claudius) or a strong

8

Seneca frequently starts from a common opinion fictitiously introduced by the person to whom he addresses the essay. The theme can be that of theodicy, as in De providentia and De constantia sapientis, where Lucilius and Serenus start from an accusation against the gods: how could they permit fortune respectively to allow a morally good man to suffer or a wise man like Cato to be humiliated? In both cases it will be proved that the opinions according to which we commonly understand the terms ‘kindly god,’ ‘suffering’ or ‘humiliation’ deviate fundamentally from the Stoic doctrine. The Stoic doctrine teaches one to be able to distinguish a real (moral) good from an adiaphoron, an external object. A fatherly god gives good men the chance to prove their worth and put their moral qualities to the test. The wise man cannot be humiliated because his magnanimitas enables him to stand above any kind of abuse. In the consolationes (Dial. 6, 11 and 12), Seneca also deals with the psychological problems of a man badly affected by the loss of a relative or friend. The aim this time is to reject false ideas concerning the misery of death and the apparent obligation to relinquish all joy as a sign of solidarity with the deceased.

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woman (Helvia’s sister or Livia, Augustus’ wife), to guide him or her along the way.

Psychological knowledge and its limits At first glance, Fitch’s provocative thesis seems to be correct. In contrast to the “overt optimism of the philosophical works”, 9 which claim that every problem can be solved by using the Stoic value system, the tragedies almost seem to demonstrate that all such efforts are vain. Indeed, whenever Seneca’s ‘good’ characters attempt to defend their moral values with the very principles Seneca himself recommends in his philosophical works, they are unsuccessful. In the so-called ‘Affektdramen’, Seneca always stages at least one confrontation between the main character (who has yet to perform his evil deed) and another character whose moral reasoning leads him to issue a warning against the projected crime. The criminal, therefore, never acts in the heat of the moment; he makes a carefully considered decision. He is well aware of his mental condition and is even able to describe it as furor. The paradox in Roman poetry between the rationality of the decision-making process and the irrationality of the action itself has been aptly described by Christopher Gill as ‘selfacknowledged madness.’ 10 In order to overcome his inhibitions, the criminal needs to galvanise himself before the crime through a progressive build-up of the aggressive passions, hate and anger. 11 It is well established that the Stoic theory of the passions, discussed at length in Seneca’s essay De ira (Dial. 4.2-4), can be applied to the decision-making process leading up to the crime in the tragedies. 12 De ira, the largest work of the Dialogi, is composed of three books (Dial. 3-5). Its subject is also discussed in the so-called ‘Fürstenspiegel’ De clementia, which begins with the dismissal of the widespread opinion that a ruler should be allowed to manifest anger and ruthlessness in order to maintain his authority and protect his power when it is threatened. In both works Seneca rejects the Aristotelian doctrine of metriopatheia, 9

Fitch (2002) I 25. Gill (1997) 215-218. 11 For self-encouragement (‘Selbstaufreizung’) as part of the Senecan monologue see Heldmann (1974). 12 Bäumer (1982) was one of the first to demonstrate the strong influence of the Stoic theory on the structure of Seneca’s tragedies by means of a systematic analysis of the phases of Medea’s emotional development during the play. For a reconstruction of the Stoic concept of human action cf. the important book of Brad Inwood (1985) esp. ch. 3 and 5. 10

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which reflects the widespread opinion that we are able to control our emotions to some degree, and that anger can in some cases have a positive effect, such as that of stimulating troops or increasing one’s authority. Seneca’s aim in De ira is to demonstrate that we have no choice but to adopt the Stoic principle of excluding passions altogether if we wish to be sufficiently protected from the ravages of anger, that most dangerous of passions. Similarly, De clementia is structured in such a way as to support the view that a sovereign’s power can be secured in the long term only with the help of clementia: any manifestation of ira or crudelitas, instead of protecting the sovereign, exposes him to danger from his subjects, whose duty it is to fight despotism by attempting to seize power. 13 The famous opening chapters of the second book of De ira provide us with an important insight into the structure of the ‘Affektdramen.’ Seneca argues here that acting under the influence of passion is different from acting on impulse (impetu). Since other philosophical schools consistently consider ira as the desire to punish or rather avenge the wrongs one has suffered (cf. De ira [3.]3.3: Aristotelis finitio non multum a nostra abest; ait enim iram esse cupiditatem doloris reponendi (Aristotle’s definition differs little from mine; for he says that anger is the desire to repay suffering 14), it is not based on a mere instinctive reaction, but on a more complex process of conscious assent to impressions. Only the initial reaction (first motus) in the face of insult is instinctive, and cannot be controlled by the will (these initial impulses, accordingly, are dubbed propatheiai or ‘pre-emotions’ in some Greek sources for the Stoic theory). 15 The aggressive emotions themselves appear later, once the insult has been analyzed (second motus) and the victim yields to the impulse of revenge. This act of submission to the passions (third motus) stems from a conscious decision. This pattern of three motus has been much discussed. 16 13

For the argumentative structure of De clementia see Braund (2009). Translations of Seneca’s essay On Anger are taken from Basore (1928). 15 Cf. Graver (1999). 16 Dial. 4.4.1: Seneca’s model starts from the motus non voluntarius (the first prompting is involuntary, propatheiai), followed by a wilful decision: alter cum voluntate non contumaci (the next is combined with an act of volition), and then by an uncontrollable and emotional reaction: tertius motus est iam inpotens, (…), qui rationem evicit (the thrird prompting is now beyond control ... and has utterly vanquished reason). See Gill [(1997) 226-228] against Fillion-Lahille [(1984) 163169] who claimed that Posidonius was the source of the model of the motus of the soul rather than Chrysippus. Recently, Inwood has examined Seneca’s contributions to the developement of the will; rejecting the misleading invocation of various passages in which Seneca uses velle or voluntas, he points out that Seneca’s consideration focuses on self-control and self-command, “especially in 14

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In my view it should be seen as three successive phases of the emotional process: a study of the therapies corresponding to these three motus (De ira [4.]22-35) suggests that Seneca’s behavioural therapy is intended for the second phase in the pattern. This is the phase during which the subject decides in favour of, or against, a certain emotional reaction. The decision process can be influenced by reasoned arguments. The subject will come to realise that his impression of having been harmed or insulted was false: his desire for revenge is therefore unnecessary. At this point Seneca introduces a behavioural therapy which is roughly equivalent to Albert Ellis’s Rational Emotive Behaviour Therapy (REBT) 17 and which agrees with Fitch’s description of Seneca’s moral treatises as ‘optimistic’: Seneca argues that through training we can learn to alter our perception of a situation so as not to feel insulted by the behaviour of others. 18 Just as the praemeditatio malorum 19 protects us from an unexpected stroke of fate, we can control our reaction to things that trigger anger in advance by studying other people’s behaviour patterns. We have to learn to put ourselves in other people’s place, in order to accept the fact that they do not always want to insult us, but perhaps act in this way out of unease or ignorance. However, Seneca also provides advice to help those who have undeniably been the target of a deliberate insult: he concentrates his efforts on promoting magnanimitas and tranquillitas animi as adequate security against fits of anger (De ira [5.]6)—the awareness of my moral superiority makes me invulnerable to the insults of a potential aggressor whose moral standards are lower than mine. 20 The same argument is also his most the face of natural human proclivities to precipitate and the singling out of a moment of causally efficacious judgement or decision in the process of reacting to provocative stimuli” [Inwood (2008) 135]. 17 Albert Ellis (1913-2007), like Aaron T. Beck founder of a successful school of cognitive therapy, has been one of the most influential psychotherapists since the 1980s; Ellis himself made a point of emphasizing the parallels between his cognitive behavioural therapy and Socratic maieutics as well as Stoic methods (in particular those evident in Epictetus’ diatribes), cf. Hoellen (1992). 18 Wiener (2006) 35-39. 19 For the praemeditatio malorum see the most recent study by Armisen-Marchetti (2008). 20 Seneca avoids referring explicitly to the Stoic theory of indifferents; Nussbaum [(1994) 318] rightly explains the strategy of the Stoics: “Although many elements in the Stoic condemnation of passion do (…) presuppose the self-sufficiency of true good and the worthlessness of externals, we shall also find in Stoic moral psychology arguments that should give serious difficulty even to someone who is initially convinced of the true worth of external-related goods like personal love and political activity. Chrysippus is explicit that this is his design. He says that

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convincing proof that an emperor cannot feel anger: his majesty elevates him above all men, so that he cannot be affected by the insults of others (Clem. 1.7-8). In the third book of De ira, Seneca offers advice on how to help other people who are in danger of succumbing to a fit of rage (De ira [5.]1 and [5.]39). These emergency guidelines can be applied to our analysis of the argumentative devices used by some of the tragedies’ characters to try (and ultimately, fail) to pacify the enraged protagonist. In Seneca’s Medea, the nurse’s first attempt to placate her mistress occurs as Medea is putting herself in danger by publicly uttering wild threats against Creon and Corinth. The nurse tries to silence Medea with a rather self-evident argument: one should not advertize a revenge plan. It can only be effective if the victim is unsuspecting: Sile, obsecro, questusque secreto abditos | manda dolori. gravia quisquis vulnera | patiente et aequo mutus animo pertulit, | referre potuit: ira quae tegitur nocet; | professa perdunt odia vindictae locum (Be silent, I beg you, hide your grievances, lock them away in secret resentment. One who endures deep wounds mutely, with cool patience, can repay them; anger concealed wreaks havoc; hatred declared loses its chance for revenge, Med. 150154) 21. In this instance, the nurse assists her mistress in her desire for revenge, even though later on she will try everything to discourage Medea from carrying out her plans. This surprising change of direction can only be understood if one reads the third book of De ira, where Seneca gives instructions on how to bring an angry person back to his senses. At the very beginning of an outburst of anger, rational arguments have no effect on him; the only way one can restrain him is by using deception. The therapist then earns the trust of his patient by pretending to be on the same side as he. The intention here is to convince the patient to delay his plans until later; in that way he will have more chance of success and his revenge will be more effective: Primam iram non audebimus oratione mulcere. Surda est et amens; dabimus illi spatium. (...) ipsum quoque impetum, quem non audet lenire, fallet: removebit omnia ultionis instrumenta, simulabit iram, ut tamquam adiutor et doloris comes plus auctoritatis in consiliis habeat, moras nectet et, dum maiorem poenam quaerit, praesentem differet (We shall not venture to soothe the first burst of anger with words. It is both deaf and mad; we must give it room. (…) it Stoicism has arguments related to any major conception of the good that a pupil is likely to hold, so that, even if the pupil is not ready to accept the Stoic conception, he or she can be convinced in terms of his own conception that he has reasons to get rid of the passions.” 21 Translations of Seneca’s tragedies are taken from Fitch (2002)/(2004).

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will baffle, also, even the first outburst which it makes no effort to soothe, for it will remove all the weapons of revenge; it will feign anger in order that, posing thus as a helper and comrade of our resentment, it may have more influence in counsel; it will contrive delays, and will postpone immediate punishment by looking about for a heavier one, De ira [5.]39.23). The nurse adopts this very line of conduct, but her efforts in the ensuing conversation meet with little success. She becomes involved in a stichomythic exchange with Medea who, with great eloquence, defends her right to openly express her anger. However, Medea still follows her advice and refrains from harassing Creon as she sees him coming out of his palace, hiding in fear behind his bodyguards. Her self-control is evident as she obtains from him the right to speak in her own defence, thus gaining valuable time for the preparation of her plan of revenge. As might have been expected, the nurse is not able to persuade her to abandon this plan, and from this point on Medea no longer allows herself to be drawn into conversation with her (Med. 380-396). In Seneca’s Agamemnon, Clytemnestra’s nurse has considerably greater opportunity to influence her mistress, since she is able to intervene when Clytemnestra is still undecided about her plans. The motive for the crime is not ira, but self-preservation: Clytemnestra wishes to retain her position as queen of Mycenae, which she would lose if Agamemnon were to learn of her adulterous relationship with Aegisthus. To add to the precariousness of her situation, he is now in love with Cassandra, his concubine. The nurse does not yet have to fight an outburst of fresh anger; rather, she must argue against a decision that would expose her mistress to danger. Therefore, she can speak openly: she appeals to the dignity that is required by Clytemnestra’s title (Ag. 125: regina Danaum) and examines with her the possibility of concealing her adultery or of Agamemnon forgiving her. But as she raises the question of Clytemnestra’s maternal duties, the nurse reopens the wound inflicted by Iphigenia’s sacrifice, and Clytemnestra flies into a fit of hatred and rage which it is necessary to stop immediately. At that point the nurse follows the second step of Seneca’s guidelines in De ira (De ira [5.]39.4), according to which the subject’s anger should be confronted with powerful sentiments such as shame (pudor) or fear (metus): Omni arte requiem furori dabit. Si vehementior erit, aut pudorem illi cui non resistat incutiet aut metum; si infirmior, sermones inferet vel gratos vel novos et cupiditate cognoscendi avocabit (It will employ every artifice to give respite to the madness. If the victim grows violent, it will enforce on him a sense of shame or fear that he cannot resist; if calmer, it will introduce conversation that is either interesting or novel, and will divert him by stirring his desire for

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knowledge). The nurse attempted to utilise the effect of pudor once before, when she reminded her mistress of her rank as queen of the Danai and of her maternal duties; but after she inadvertently made the crucial mistake of reviving Clytemnestra’s painful memories, she has no choice but to exploit the intimidating powers of fear: speaking in a resounding, epic tone, she conjures up the image of a mighty ruler, master of Europe and Asia (Ag. 203-225). This is not only a rhetorical tour de force, perhaps meant to distract the queen from her anger; the aim here is above all to show that Agamemnon is a formidable warrior, who has never been beaten even by the greatest opponents, and that the Greek allies would not let the murder of such an illustrious man go unpunished. Clytemnestra’s behaviour in the ensuing conversation with her lover Aegisthus clearly shows that the nurse’s arguments and emotional influence have not been unsuccessful. Tarrant’s attempt to explain Clytemnestra’s sudden volte-face by a lacuna in the text 22 should therefore not be followed. In fact, during the dialogue with Aegisthus, Clytemnestra adopts all the nurse’s arguments to protect herself from Aegisthus’ blandishments. As he is afraid for his life, he uses every possible means to coax his lover into committing the murder. Clytemnestra’s new-found composure, which was based less on personal conviction than on the emotional impact of the nurse’s words, is shaken only by Aegisthus’ plausible threat to commit suicide. The general failure of the tragedies’ characters should not lead us to conclude that Seneca wishes to question the effectiveness of his own therapy. He points out the difficulty and the slim chance one has of successfully performing such an operation on someone else in De ira itself (De ira [5.]1). The whole treatise is constructed in such a way as to convince readers that it is absolutely necessary to make a profound change in their mindset and to undertake long-term training (DVNƝVLV).

Dialectical strategies versus moral values Any attempt to exert psychological pressure on someone else is therefore bound to fail as long as the subject’s value system is firmly entrenched in his mind. The dialogue between Atreus and his satelles in Seneca’s Thyestes turns out to be a debate where the powerful ruler’s nature, as it is widely perceived, clashes with the moral duty of a man. This conversation between Atreus and his attendant is disturbing insofar as it illustrates how easily dialectical methods of argument—the most 22

Tarrant (1976) 193, 217.

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efficient resource for establishing the truth, according to the Stoics—can be adapted to corroborate morally questionable statements. 23 Atreus pushes to the limit the idea that a ruler should be characterised by his capacity for self-determination and his authority; the conclusions he draws from this are of course not acceptable, but they are construed in such a way that they are very difficult to contradict: AT. proinde antequam se firmat aut vires parat, petatur ultro, ne quiescentem petat. aut perdet aut peribit: in medio est scelus positum occupanti. SAT. Fama te populus nihil adversa terret? AT. Maximum hoc regni bonum est, quod facta domini cogitur populi sui tam ferre quam laudare. SAT. Quos cogit metus laudare, eosdem reddit inimicos metus. at qui favoris gloriam veri petit animo magis quam voce laudari volet. AT. Laus vera et humili saepe contingit viro, non nisi potenti falsa. quod nolunt velint. (Thyest. 201-212) (ATREUS: (…) So, before he strengthens himself or marshals his powers, he must be attacked first, lest he attack me at rest. He will either destroy or be destroyed. Crime is set between us, for the one who seizes it first.— ASSISTANT: You have no fear of hostile talk among the people?—ATREUS: This is the greatest value of kingship: that the people are compelled to praise as well as endure their master’s actions.—ASSISTANT: When fear compels them to praise, fear also turn them into enemies. But one who seeks the tribute of sincere support will want praise from the heart rather than the tongue.—ATREUS: Sincere praise often comes even to a lowly man; false praise comes only to the mighty. They must want what they do not want!)

The starting point of the argument is identical to that of De clementia. In the previous monologue, growing fury provided grounds for Atreus’ conviction that he should take pre-emptive action against his brother to protect his own power and safety. One might plausibly expect the satelles to contradict this idea of a preventive strike by arguing that Atreus has nothing to fear from his exiled brother. Instead, he elevates the dialogue towards higher considerations: he reflects on the guiding principles which can have meaning even for an absolute monarch, namely, the opinion of his subjects and moral values in general. Atreus thereupon feels compelled 23

Cf. Littlewood (2004) 25-47.

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to formulate his own conception of absolute power, which he defines as the ability to exert pressure on others. Here, Atreus advocates the common notion which provides the starting point of Seneca’s essay on clemency (Clem. 1.3): power is essentially the right to use violence without having to be held accountable for it. In response, the attendant follows the same line of argument as Seneca in his treatise, and points out the risks involved in such a conception: fear turns men into foes (Clem. 1.8). The glory of a ruler, however, should consist in earning true favour through sincere praise. Atreus sticks to his own view, and argues that anyone, regardless of social status, can earn sincere praise, but that false praise, wrung out of unwilling subjects, is an unmistakable sign of the greatest power and rank. Therefore, false praise is deemed more valuable because it is more exclusive. The most fascinating aspect of Atreus’ argumentation is its perfidious logic. Seneca and Atreus both use syllogisms, the former to demonstrate the validity of the Stoics’ moral principles, and the latter to contradict them and justify his own perverted precepts. Premiss 1: every man can earn sincere praise. Premiss 2: only a powerful man can earn false praise. Conclusion: power is demonstrated only by false praise. According to Atreus, both these premises are correct. In response, the attendant attempts to invalidate Atreus’ false assumption that a ruler is subject to different moral standards: Rex velit honesta: nemo non eadem volet, Let a king want what is honourable: everyone will want the same, (Thyest. 213). Atreus disputes precisely this point: to force a ruler to submit to universal moral standards would amount to curtailing his power and his freedom: AT. Ubicumque tantum honesta dominanti licent, | precario regnatur. SAT. Ubi non est pudor | nec cura iuris sanctitas pietas fides, | instabile regnum est. AT. Sanctitas pietas fides | privata bona sunt: qua iuvat reges eant (ATREUS: Where a sovereign is permitted only what is honorable, he rules on sufferance.—ASSISTANT: Where there is no shame, no concern for the law, no righteousness, goodness, loyalty, rule is unstable.—ATREUS: Righteousness, goodness, loyalty are private values: kings should go where they please, Thyest. 214-218). Seneca has to reject the very same opinion in De clementia (1.8). There, his starting point is the notion that there is undeniably a hierarchical difference between ruler and subject. How can he then plausibly postulate that this difference does not hold true where moral duties are concerned? He does so with an analogy so flattering to the ruler that the latter cannot dismiss it. Insofar as a sovereign is allowed to consider himself a god on Earth, he must know how we humans feel about the reign of the gods over

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the world: all of us (including the sovereign himself) wish the gods to be merciful; we do not want inexorabilia numina (Clem. 1.7). The analogy is very suggestive, because on the one hand it justifies a monarch’s claim to power and right to divine majesty, and on the other, it specifies the concession required from the monarch: as the possessor of divine might and majesty, he also assumes responsibility for his subjects. This analogy does not work with Atreus: he has stopped believing in merciful gods. This is also the reason for his rejection of moral values altogether. His distorted reasoning is conditioned by the brutality of his past. At the beginning of De clementia, Seneca points out, not without good reason, that Nero, at the beginning of his principate, was in an ideal position to become a good ruler: he had not yet suffered any bad experiences and did not acquire power by force. In contrast, Atreus pours out his painful life-story when the satelles reminds him that in principle it is not permissible to harm another human being. Atreus, however, replies that other rules apply in the case of his brother, because Thyestes himself has desecrated every moral rule: SAT. Nefas nocere vel malo fratri puta. AT. Fas est in illo quidquid in fratre est nefas. | quid enim reliquit crimine intactum aut ubi | sceleri pepercit? (ASSISTANT: Consider it wrong to harm even a wicked brother.—ATREUS: All that is wrong in dealing with a brother is right in dealing with him. What has he left untouched by guilt, when has he refrained from crime?, Thyest. 219-22). Even if somehow we cannot but admire the determination with which Atreus sticks to his convictions and subsequently defeats all his opponent’s arguments, it is clearly shown later on that Atreus’ perception of his brother’s character is fundamentally one-sided. In the following scene, Seneca introduces Thyestes, who, altered by his years of exile, is nothing like the out-and-out villain Atreus described earlier on. So we learn to see the facts from another point of view. And a third one, that of the choral odes, offers us yet another perspective, since the citizens of Mycenae are those who suffer the direct consequences of their ruler’s actions. The revenge of a monarch is no private matter, and they are afraid that the strife between the two brothers might escalate into a civil war. Therefore, they pray for peace in a solemn procession and applaud the public reconciliation between the two brothers. Tragedy is naturally suited to such changes of perspective. In the moral essays, however, the reader can only learn to evaluate a situation or opinion from a different point of view if he is explicitly called upon, and indeed more or less trained, to reflect in this way. If we wish to look for a moral-didactic intention in Seneca’s tragedies, we will most likely find it in the way they encourage us to analyze received ideas and to acquire a

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different perspective from which we can assess the consequences of our actions in a more complex network of relationships.

II. Aequalis astris gradior: The self-sufficiency of the tyrant versus the magnanimitas of the Stoic sage Our fascination with the characters of Atreus and Medea lies in the consistency with which they live up to their perverted morals, without any consideration for the rest of the world and thus in a state of autarkeia, even if it is the autonomy of anarchy. In his interesting study, 24 Cedric Littlewood has attempted to explain the paradox whereby Stoic terms can be used by the evil characters of tragedy as arguments for their own aims. His conclusions are that the tragedies are set in a ‘broken world,’ where evil characters are able to live in autarky just as a wise man would do in the real world. These characters do express something that is close to autarky or self-sufficiency; however Littlewood’s argument, although it seems attractive at first glance, is less convincing on closer inspection. According to Littlewood, Seneca’s ideal of the Stoic sage and of his emancipation from external influences confirms the tendency of Stoic moral philosophy to encourage withdrawal into an inner world and the isolation of the wise man from external conditions. Therein lies the pessimistic concept of a ‘broken world,’ which would enable the evil characters of tragedy to apply perverted Stoic terms. To be sure, in his moral treatises, Seneca argues that the telos of selfdetermination and self-discipline should be the attainment of a state of magnanimitas, by means of which we are able to raise ourselves above external influences. Atreus, exhilarated by his crime, asserts his capacity for self-determination, and experiences a sensation of transcendence. He has overcome every obstacle and human principle, and feels equal to the gods: Aequalis astris gradior et cunctos super altum superbo vertice attingens polum. nunc decora regni teneo, nunc solium patris. dimitto superos: summa votorum attigi. bene est, abunde est, iam sat est etiam mihi. 24 Littlewood (2004) esp. ch. 2 “The Broken World”. Lefèvre [(1997a) 129-134] oversimplifies his view of Atreus as the epitome of a man controlled by his emotions (“Inbild des vom Affekt geleiteten Menschen”) is too stereotyped, since a classification of all vices evident in Atreus’s behaviour cannot sufficiently explain the motives that led him to commit such a gruesome murder.

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Seneca makes it clear, however, that Atreus’ joy will not last for very long, whereas the magnanimitas of the wise man allows him to reach the permanent happiness of tranquillitas animi. Indeed, Atreus’ satisfaction vanishes almost as soon as it appears. In Thyestes, Atreus reaches a shortlived state of voluptas, which drives him to ever greater excesses as he seeks new sources of satisfaction: sed cur satis sit? pergam et implebo patrem | funere suorum. ne quid obstaret pudor, | dies recessit: perge dum caelum vacat (But why should it be enough? I shall go on, and fill the father with the death of his sons. Lest shame should present any obstacle, daylight has withdrawn: go on while heaven is empty!, Thyest. 890-892). Littlewood’s analysis of the tragedies as a mirror reflecting a hopeless, broken world should thus be treated with caution. The wise man’s selfsufficiency enables him to withdraw from the outside world only in a period of crisis. A sage who continually seeks isolation contradicts Stoic moral doctrine as advocated by Seneca, whose proposed moral authorities were all active participants of the social and political life of their time, be it the politician Cato, Augustus’ influential wife Livia in the Consolatio ad Marciam, or his own mother’s brave sister in the Consolatio ad Helviam matrem. In De constantia sapientis and De providentia, Seneca highlights that the sapiens must prove his moral strength by facing the very obstacles of life; it is in times of crises that the sapiens in particular has to show his bravery in order to encourage the people around him. Seneca only recommends withdrawal from the outside world to those whose moral determination is not yet strong enough to stand the acid test. 25 Seneca’s attempt to explain how it is possible to corrupt moral concepts and perpetrate terrible crimes is more complex. The deliberate decision to commit a crime is only one step in a long process; and even that decision results not only from the criminal’s evaluation of the actual situation, but above all from his self-definition, which he has developed from his long-term experience and various other factors. The selfdefinition resulting from that process is perceptible from certain (false)

25 See Griffin (1968) esp. for epist. 14; Griffin (1976) 183-184; Wiener (2006), 169-171; Inwood (2007) 188-191 esp. for epist. 71.

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opinions which, should they be put into practice, lead to catastrophic consequences.

Medea fiam: How to become a Fury by self-definition The tragedies provide us with two distinct examples of self-definition: Atreus and Medea. Atreus has already finished the process of selfdefinition when the tragedy begins; Medea, on the other hand, completes the process on stage: she is gradually excluded from all the traditional social roles which would normally be open to her. In the antilabe at 171 (Medea—Fiam), Medea rejects the role of mother, which the nurse has brought up (mater es), when she realizes that her self-definition as mother is too closely bound up with her role as Jason’s wife (Cui sim vides) (NURSE: Medea—MEDEA: I shall become her. NURSE: You are a mother. MEDEA: You see by whom). In the deliberative monologue before the murder of her children, she eventually restricts her self-definition to the furor which enabled her to commit murder once already, that of her brother. In a perversion of Stoic thought, she explains her strength by all the pains she has suffered in the past: Medea nunc sum: crevit ingenium malis (Now I am Medea: my genius has grown through evils, Med. 910). At the very beginning, we see her praying; she appeals to those gods who are connected in various ways with her past and her personality. In her capacity as a wife and mother she asks for help from the Di coniugales and Lucina to save her marriage. Athena and Neptune are blamed for Jason’s ill-fated landing at Colchis, while Sol and Hecate and the gods of the underworld are called upon as witnesses to Jason’s oath. It is significant that Medea does not wish Jason himself to be punished for his betrayal; she demands retribution against those who arranged the new marriage in Corinth: King Creon and his daughter. She is not ready to abandon her role as the wife of Jason and the mother of his children. She does not yet know how hard it will be for her to give up her self-definition as the mother of her children 26 whom she (still unwittingly) condemns to become the instruments of her revenge: Mihi peius aliquid, quod precer sponso, manet: vivat. per urbes erret ignotas egens exul pavens invisus incerti laris; iam notus hospes limen alienum expetat;

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Chapter Seven me coniugem optet 27, quoque non aliud queam peius precari, liberos similes patri similesque matri. parta iam, parta ultio est: peperi. (Med. 19-26) (For the bridegroom I have a worse prayer in store: may he live. May he wander through unknown cities in want, in exile, in fear, hated and homeless; may he seek out men’s doors, by this time a notorious guest; may he long for me as his wife, and—I can make no worse prayer—for children resembling their father and resembling their mother. My revenge is born, already born: I have given birth.)

It is only as the sun is rising that Medea becomes aware of her new role on the stage. The moment Medea sees Sol, her ancestor, allowing another day to break as if nothing had happened, she turns from a defenceless wife praying to the gods for help into the resolute Medea who wants to—and must—implement her vengeful plans on her own. She now defines herself as a supernatural Fury punishing Corinth with cosmic and magical powers provided by Sol: Querelas verbaque in cassum sero? non ibo in hostes? manibus excutiam faces caeloque lucem! spectat hoc nostri sator Sol generis, et spectatur, et curru insidens per solita puri spatia decurrit poli? non redit in ortus et remetitur diem? da, da per auras curribus patriis vehi, committe habenas, genitor, et flagrantibus ignifera loris tribue moderari iuga: gemino Corinthos litori opponens moras cremata flammis maria committat duo. (Med. 26-36) (Am I stringing together futile words and complaints? Shall I not attack my enemies? I shall dash the bridal torches from their hands, and the light from heaven. Does the Sun, the sower of my family’s seed, behold this? And is he beheld? Does he sit in his chariot, and race along his usual course through an unclouded sky? Not return to the East and re-traverse the day? Grant me to ride through the air in my ancestral chariot, entrust me with the reins, father, and allow me to guide the fiery steeds with 27

Zwierlein [(1986) 126] following Ax, reads me coniugem opto. It makes a good sense, because every wish of Medea’s prayer is to be fulfilled; if she prayed me coniugem optet, it would be a wish that was not satisfied: for Jason does never long for her as his wife in that tragedy.

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blazing traces: Corinth, which blocks a pair of gulfs, must be consumed by flames and let the two seas converge.)

She is not yet aware that because of her new role as a goddess of vengeance she will be forced cruelly to renounce her former self-definition as a wife and a mother. At this point, intent on revenge, she directs her vindictive thoughts away from Jason towards the king of Corinth alone, who took her beloved Jason away from her (Culpa est Creontis tota, Med. 143). In fact, the planning and execution of her revenge on Creon take up more than half the play. She acts against Creon as a wife against a supposed tyrant whose actions have deprived her of her husband and destroyed her family. Medea’s determination is unflinching: she does not give up her revenge plans against the Corinthian dynasty, even after Jason admits that he was not forced by Creon, but deliberately chose to abandon Medea in order to start a new, carefree life with his children. Christopher Gill has recently described the children’s murder as ‘selfdivision’ in the sense of a ‘psychological disintegration’. 28 Medea has to go through a cruel struggle to break away from her self-definition as mother, and thus carry out her transformation into the vengeful Medea. As Gill points out, Medea’s renunciation of maternal love and the process of her self-definition as ‘evil’ (“to live up to her self-ideal as evil and violent”) 29, have no precedent in literature, not even in Euripides. As we follow Medea throughout the tragedy, it becomes increasingly clear that she has already experienced such a painful process of redefinition of her roles several times. After the chorus’s hymenaios, as she attempts to establish the object and manner of her revenge, Medea compares the damage caused to her by Jason (erepto patre | patria … regno, Med. 118-119) with the merita she has displayed to him. Jason abducted her, and her ill-fated love (saevit infelix amor, Med. 136) for him led her to renounce her role as daughter by betraying her father and as sister by murdering her young brother for Jason’s sake. Medea’s impressive negotiating skills in the dialogue with Creon stem from her ability to impersonate two different characters convincingly. In her defence speech, she plays the part of a princess and the daughter of a powerful king, whose sheltered life was shattered and thrown into misery by Jason’s arrival. In this way, Medea forces Creon to treat her as an equal, but most importantly she establishes a clear parallel between her case and that of Creon’s own daughter, which cannot leave him indifferent. 28

Gill (2009) 66-68. For the problem of Chrysippean monistic psychology see Gill (1997) 225-228. 29 Gill (1997) 222.

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However, Medea’s efforts to arouse Creon’s suspicions against his son-inlaw Jason nearly bring the negotiations to a close, since Creon is convinced that Medea alone is to blame for the murder of Pelias. At that point, Medea has to stop impersonating a princess. Her performance as a mother is more convincing, and enables her to obtain what she wants from Creon: her exile is postponed, providing her with the necessary time to accomplish her project of revenge. In contrast, she is unsuccessful in her self-definition as a loving wife when confronted with Jason himself. This experience is all the more painful considering she wants to preserve Jason’s love at all costs (as we already know from the way she shifted the blame onto Creon). But Jason is not willing to bear the burden of their marriage any longer. However, he will not give up his role as father, and uses this to justify his decision: the welfare of the children can only be guaranteed if they are able to return from exile and lead a normal life at the king’s court. It is Jason himself who provides the stimulus for the children’s murder, when he uses the fatal argument of pietas. Medea realizes that she cannot be his wife any more, and from that point on she struggles with herself to renounce her self-definition as the mother of his children. The dialogues in the first half of the play show that Medea has alienated herself from every possible self-definition in Greek society. This situation leads to two infanticides, each with a specific motive. The first murder conveys Medea’s desire to return to her former sheltered existence within her family. It does not stem from her desire to take revenge on Jason: as she has visions of a horde of Furies (Quonam ista tendit turba Furiarum impotens? What is the target of this wild throng of Furies?, Med. 958), she kills the child as expiation for the murder of her brother Absyrtus. By performing this sacrifice she tries to re-establish herself in her role as a sister, which she had relinquished out of love for Jason with the bestial murder of her brother. 30 But instead of that she attains a level of 30 In this context, Schiesaro [(2009) 231] points out that Medea’s desire may be compared to the psychoanalytic concept of ‘Ungeschehenmachen’. I think he is right, but I cannot agree with his view that Medea (unconsciously) manifests this longing from the very beginning of the play, wishing to return to the past and rejecting the future. For her denial of a future without Jason is not due to a desire to make things undone (‘ungeschehen machen’), but a natural reaction in view of the fact that her social existence itself is at threat. Arguing with Creon, she struggles hard to retain her old way of life, but not “to push her life backwards” [Schiesaro (2009) 228-229]. She uses the famous sententia: si placet, damna ream; sed redde crimen (If you so determine, condemn the accused—but give back her crime! Med. 245-246) as a rhetorical argument in order to demonstrate the impossibility of separating her own (guilty) life from that of Jason. It seems to me

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furor such as she had once experienced when killing her brother: quid manus poterant rudes | audere magnum, quid puellaris furor? | Medea nunc sum: crevit ingenium malis. (What great deed could be dared by untrained hands, by the fury of a girl? Now I am Medea: my genius has grown through evils, Med. 908-910). Only now is she able to commit the second crime, which is meant to consummate her estrangement from Jason and from human society. This second murder is thus clearly motivated by the sadistic desire to see Jason suffer as much as possible. But it is not enough for Medea to destroy her husband; when he offers his own life to save the child, she refuses his sacrifice. The matrimonial love which once bound her to Jason must be renounced ostentatiously, through the destruction of the pignora. At this point, alienated from society, she is able to return to being a sorceress and a priestess of Hecate, a role she had abandoned for the sake of Jason or else misused to murder his enemies. She leaves the stage as a powerful sorceress, in a chariot drawn by the serpents she prayed for during her first appearance on stage. This apotheosis comes as a shock: has Medea really acquired divine status? As Martha Nussbaum 31 has argued, Medea should more likely be understood as the symbol of a figure banished from the world of humans. But only the apotheosis of the last scene is ‘symbolic’. Medea’s progressive isolation from society is indeed very realistic, and it is as a result of this process that Medea subsequently defines herself as a furia, thus becoming an instrument of divine vengeance. As a punishment for her new self-definition she has to endure the painful self-mutilation and deformation which bring about her exclusion from human and divine society. So at first glance, we can understand Jason’s last words as raising the issue of theodicy: Per alta vade spatia sublime aetheris; | testare nullos esse, qua veheris, deos (Travel on high through the lofty spaces of heaven, and bear witness where you ride that there are no gods, Med. 1026-1027). If such crimes as Medea’s should remain unpunished, then there are no gods. 32 But the consequence of Medea’s cruel self-mutilation is not apotheosis. Medea’s magnanimitas remains illusory: as in the case of that Medea is using here an enthymema based on Roman commercial principles: she invested her innocence in Jason, the crimes she committed were the price she had to pay for him. Whoever wants to take possession of Jason has to give her back that lost innocence and thus repay the price. Since this is impossible, Creon cannot buy the object (Jason) from her. It follows that Medea will forever be the rightful owner of Jason, both inseparably linked through their mutual guilt. 31 Nussbaum (1994) 464. 32 Cf. Littlewood (2004) 15-18; Fischer (2008) 172-178.

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Atreus, it does not lead to a godlike status, but to complete isolation, because her new existence cannot be reconciled with any of the gods’ attributes. Where Medea rides there are no gods: she rides into nothingness.

Stolen existence: The tragic nature of Atreus We are left in a similar state of confusion about the role of the gods as we watch Atreus successfully luring his victim into his trap and sacrificing his brother’s sons in the course of a perverted ritual. Atreus offers up the sacrifice not to a deity, but to himself, and eventually makes his unsuspecting brother dine on the flesh of his own children: how can the gods tolerate such unbridled hubris? Seneca seems to be at a loss for an answer. One could argue all the same that the disruption of the world order, materialized in a solar eclipse which ends the day earlier than usual, is an instance of Stoic sympatheia. 33 But is that not further evidence for the helplessness of the gods? Here too, Seneca provides us with a preliminary psychological explanation of Atreus’ transformation from victim into murderer. Atreus’ revelations about his life during the dialogue with the satelles show us a man who has been damaged in every aspect of his self-definition: Thyestes not only attempted to usurp Atreus’ power, he also seduced his wife—with the result that the future of the dynasty is under threat, since Atreus cannot even be sure that the children he is bringing up are his own. Atreus is therefore deprived of his role as husband, father and brother, and pietas has become no more than an empty word for him. His uncertainty as to whether Agamemnon and Menelaus are his own sons or were born from Thyestes’ adultery with his wife remains the driving force for his crimes until the end, indeed until the very last verse of the play. Therefore, Thyestes is not the one who should be killed, but his innocent sons. The fatal realization that his own brother can act in such a way convinces Atreus that his revenge is a preventative measure. His perception of his brother’s character is so firmly entrenched in his mind that he is unable to re-examine it. His analysis is wrong, as the members of the audience will soon discover: at that point, they alone become aware of the complete

33

However, Littlewood [(2004) 17] rejects the notion according to which the disturbance of the physical order indicates that moral standards have been abased through a crime.

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change that has taken place in Thyestes, and realize that he no longer corresponds to Atreus’ image of him; he has been reformed by exile. 34 Thyestes also has a precise idea of his brother’s character, which he explains to his son and which, as we know, is correct. Against his better judgement, he accepts the offer of reconciliation—perhaps out of a sense of duty towards his children, whom he wants to save by exposing himself to the risk of his brother’s revenge—and tries to enjoy this new situation during the fatal banquet. 35 It is clear from his reaction during the solar eclipse that he is in fact willing to sacrifice himself. He wants to bear alone the full burden of all the evils foreshadowed by this omen: fugit omne sidus. quidquid est, fratri precor | natisque parcat, omnis in vile hoc caput | abeat procella ([…] every star is in flight. Whatever it is, I pray it may spare my brother and sons, and the whole storm spend itself on this worthless head of mine, Thyest. 995-997). Atreus’ self-definition, in contrast, is reduced to that of a tyrant. The process by which he is excluded from all his former roles as brother, father and husband is already completed by the time the play begins. It leads to a tragic misjudgement and fatal anagnorisis between the two brothers. They think they know each other, but their appraisal is mistaken, because they take it for granted that they can judge each other by their own standards. Atreus is able to justify his machinations by the fact that his brother is blinded by his lust for power and thus easily falls into his trap. Indeed, Atreus feels strengthened in his ability to judge his brother when the latter accepts the offer of reconciliation. Thyestes, on the other hand, assures his son Tantalus that he cannot trust his brother, but allows himself to be lulled into a false sense of security by the stage-managed public reconciliation. The anagnorisis occurs when Thyestes realises that his sons have been murdered (Thyest. 1006): he responds with a startling agnosco fratrem (I recognise my brother) as Atreus, holding out his sons’ heads, asks him scornfully: natos ecquid agnoscis tuos? (I suppose you recognise your sons? 1005). In his philosophical treatises, Seneca tries to teach us to acquire a different perspective from our ordinary one. This idea also occurs in his tragedies as a dramaturgical principle. There, however, Seneca attempts to convey the complexity of the process by which one attains self-definition 34

On Atreus’ grievance against his brother cf. Littlewood (2008) 246-253; Lefèvre [(1985) 1272-1278] rightly underlines the differing impressions we acquire of Thyestes, from the description by his brother, and from the statements of Thyestes himself in various situations. 35 Lefèvre [(1985) 1276-1278] demonstrates that Thyestes, far from being a Stoic sapiens, tries to become a ‘new Thyestes’ enjoying his new life—without success.

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within society. The protagonists seem to achieve self-sufficiency and reach a state equal to that of the gods, but in reality this is misleading: their situation has nothing in common with the magnanimitas of the Stoic sage. Rather, it is a kind of isolation from human society resulting from their misjudgement of their fellow men and of their own role in society.

III. The curse of the house of Atreus: Fatal predestination to crime Atreus is driven to murder by a pathological compulsion to commit a crime of unprecedented proportions: modum excedere is his ambitious aim. 36 This motive, however, is also the catalyst for his punishment, since ambition is by definition an obsession that can never be sated. Even as he imagines he has attained his goals, he is beset by doubts as to whether he has reached the highest level of fulfilment. After the murder, when he feels godlike, he is driven to the next crime by ambition (Thyest. 885-892). As he reveals to his brother with relish how the latter’s sons have died, he is struck by a mistake in his own orchestration of events: he could have derived much greater satisfaction from his crime had he forced his brother to kill his own children (Thyest. 1054-1068). The theme of insatiability, so central to Thyestes, is first mentioned in the prologue to the play. The speaker, the ghost of the dynasty’s ancestor Tantalus, announces that he is transmitting to his grandson the curse of insatiable thirst and hunger which he has had to endure as a punishment in hell. As Tarrant points out, this prologue performs no recognisable expository function; 37 we can even say that it has no direct effect on the subsequent events of the play. Its main function is similar to that of Seneca’s ‘continuation’ in Agamemnon, or Juno’s prologue in Hercules furens. Seneca opens up a new, supra-individual level of meaning for a crime—above and beyond the concept of human responsibility, which becomes apparent in the decisions of the protagonists during the play— and relates it to a central problem of Stoic philosophy: determinism, which seems to negate humankind’s freedom of will and action. Seneca’s Tantalus is an unusual spirit of vengeance: unlike Thyestes’ ghost in Agamemnon, he is not bent on revenge; he is only serving his sentence. Therefore, he obstinately refuses to execute his orders and 36 Cf. Seidensticker [(2002) 125-138] who describes the tendency towards the maius solito with the term ‘comparativus Senecanus’, which can designate not only the characteristics and behaviour of the evil character, but also a principle of Seneca’s rhetorical style and dramatic conception. 37 Tarrant (1985) 85.

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implores the gods to allow him alone to pay the penalty for a crime which he himself committed, without any effect on subsequent generations. But the Fury, goading him as an animal tamer in the Roman arena urges a convict towards his beasts, offers no compromise: Tantalus cannot expiate his crime alone; the effect of the curse must be transmitted to his grandson. Therein lies the parallel with the case of Thyestes. He too wishes and frequently asks to be allowed to pay for his actions alone, in vain; he too finally makes his innocent children the victims of the crime he has committed against his brother. Seneca thereby introduces into his tragedies the motif of the curse, which since Aeschylus had always been closely connected with the house of Atreus. 38 In terms of Fitch’s argument, this may be seen as a typical component of tragedy; and yet this element should not be dissociated from Stoic doctrine, but rather taken together with determinism, one of the central topics of Stoic thought. In the case of a crime we evidently do not have a linear chain 39 of causes, effects and circumstances, but much more intricate intertwinement of various causes and effects: as Tantalus’s fate shows, an individual cannot undo the consequences arising from his crime by serving the imposed sentence. The effects are too far-reaching to be felt only by the crime’s victim alone. Seneca thus interprets the eclipse of the sun—which is part of the traditional Atreus myth—according to Stoic notions of cosmology. 40 The disturbance of the cosmic equilibrium is brought about by the crossing of moral boundaries, a process which goes against human nature and thus becomes generally perceptible. A similar interpretation is given of the Theban plague at the beginning of Oedipus. But let us have a closer look at what Thyestes can tell us about the ‘curse’. The actions of Tantalus foreshadow the crime of his descendant Atreus: Tantalus murdered his son Pelops and served him as a meal to the gods in order to put their omniscience to the test. In the prologue, he announces that his descendants will commit crimes which will make him seem innocent: iam nostra subit e stirpe turba quae suum vincat genus 38

Fischer (2008) 227-243. Meyer [(2009) 72] offers a very helpful explanation of the metaphorical ‘chain of causes’; Chrysippus proposes an etymological connection between heimarmene and heiromene and thus thinks of a necklace (heirmos) as a set of beads strung together, just as the chain is a set of loops which are linked to one another. 40 For the influence of Stoic cosmology on Roman literature see Lapidge (1989) for recent discussion of the connection between Stoic physics and ethics; cf. Annas (2007) and Boeri (2009). 39

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Chapter Seven ac me innocentem faciat et inausa audeat. regione quidquid impia cessat loci complebo; numquam stante Pelopea domo Minos vacabit. (Thyest. 18-23) (Now from my stock there is rising a crew that will outdo its own family, make me innocent and dare the undared. Any space unused in the quarter of unnatural crimes I shall fill up; while the House of Pelops stands, Minos will never be empty-handed).

Atreus will surpass his ancestor in his crime: he will sacrifice not only one child, but the three sons of his brother; he will attempt not only to test the omniscience of the gods, but to set himself in their place. Tantalus knows that the crimes will take place even before they are committed. Should he also know how they will be committed, Stoic determinism would prove to be a kind of fatalism in which the Tantalids’ every action is preordained and the criminals have thus to be acquitted of their guilt. But neither Chrysippus 41 nor Seneca goes that far. Another important aspect is that the descendants of Tantalus do not seem to be able to commit a crime of their own volition. They need an external impulse, which Tantalus is supposed to provide, but refuses to do. The Fury has to force him: Perge, detestabilis | umbra, et penates impios furiis age (Proceed, loathsome shade: goad this unnatural house into vengeful rage, Thyest. 23-24). It is also the Fury who describes the ‘curse’ as a rabies which affects every generation of the dynasty, and does not leave any time to reflect upon a crime that has just been committed, as the next one, which will exceed it, already beckons: rabies parentum duret et longum nefas | eat in nepotes. nec vacet cuiquam vetus | odisse crimen: semper oriatur novum, | nec unum in uno, dumque punitur scelus, | crescat, (…) (let the parents’ frenzy last and the long-lived evil pass into the grandchildren. Let there be no space for anyone to loathe an old offence: let new ones always arise, and many within each one, and while crime is being punished, let it grow, Thyest. 28-32). She speaks not only of a chain or succession of crimes, but of an accumulation of ever more outrageous actions. The crimes themselves are described by the Fury in general terms, even though anyone who knows the story of the Atridae can identify them. Looking back to our question about the frontier between determinism and fatalism, we can say that the crimes themselves are not 41

For the moral problem arising when the Stoics’ logical demonstration of determinism is transferred to the field of ethics see Bobzien (1998) 242-314; Jedan (2004) esp. 143-150; Salles (2005) esp. ch. 3 and 4.

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foretold in any detail as regards the chronology of events, but only in their general effects: we are dealing with family struggles and acts of vengeance which contribute to the instability of the dynasty’s rule. Even if its members conduct a successful foreign policy, as Agamemnon did at Troy, Libido victrix remains the victorious enemy. The repercussions of the crimes will even be felt in the heavens (Thyest. 48-50), a fact which can be seen as announcing the eclipse of the sun later in the play: non sit a vestris malis | immune caelum—cur micant stellae polo | flammaeque servant debitum mundo decus? (And let heaven not be immune to your evil. Why are the stars glittering in the sky, their fires maintaining their due of glory in the firmament?). Some information regarding the characterization of the tragic “curse” may be gleaned from the Fury’s rhesis: the family’s predisposition to crime lies in its strong inclination towards vices such as libido and rabies. We get the impression from the prologue that this inclination is a kind of hereditary disposition transmitted by Tantalus to his descendants. In his moral essay On the Delays of the Divine Vengeance, Plutarch states that “ưɎ ǎ̧ ȲǝǞʐ [ǞǓ] ǚʓǕǓǜ ȵǗ ǚǛˍǍǖNj ǔNjʐ ǝǟǗǏǡʍǜ, ȶǝǞǓ ǎʏǚǙǟ ǔNjʐ ǍʍǗǙǜ, ȲǘǑǛǞǑǖʍǗǙǗ ȢǛǡ˜ǜ ǖǓˍǜ ǔNjʐ ǎʕǗNjǖʑǗ ǞǓǗNj ǔNjʐ ǔǙǓǗǣǗʑNjǗ ǎǓNjǚǏǠǟǔǟ˪NjǗ ȢǗNjǠǏǛǙʕǝǑǜ, ǔNjʐ Ǟʒ ǍǏǗǗǑǒʌǗ Ǚɪǡ ɿǜ ǞǓ ǎǑǖǓǙʕǛǍǑǖNj ǚǏǚǙǓǑǖʍǗǙǗ ȢǚʏǕǕNjǔǞNjǓ ǞǙ˹ ǍǏǗǗʏǝNjǗǞǙǜ (If a city is a single and continuous whole, surely a family is so too, attached as it is to a single origin which reproduces in the members a certain force and common quality pervading them all, Mor. 559d 1-4; trnsl. Einarson & De Lacy). On the other hand, the play itself serves to demonstrate the responsibility of each criminal for his own crime, since the motivation for a crime remains independent of all determinism: the criminal pursues a political or personal agenda which provides a sufficient motive. Wilful compliance with the emotion that will trigger the crime is further facilitated by the inclination towards rabies or libido as it overpowers ratio. As we can see in the prologue, Tantalus’ resistance is only finally broken by the unbearable agony of hunger and thirst which the Fury inflicts upon him. The furor he experiences is precisely that which he is transmitting to the following generation, as the Fury makes clear: suum infensi invicem | sitiant cruorem (and in enmity thirst for blood of their blood by turns, Thyest. 102-103). Atreus will effectively ‘inherit’ this unquenchable thirst for revenge; but he consciously accepts it, indeed, he even refers to his ancestors and follows previous examples as he proclaims that his ambition is to surpass all his predecessors. Seneca added a similar prologue to his Agamemnon, thus linking the two plays in a sequence. This time, the ghost of Thyestes appears on stage in Mycenae, plagued by even greater unease than in the underworld. His

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attempt to describe the locality to the spectator by deictic gesticulation is interrupted by his painful recollection: hic epulis locus.| Libet reverti (This is the place for feasts.—I want to go back, Ag. 11-12). Thyestes is also aware that the crimes committed by members of his family have escalated since Tantalus’ deed: Sed ille nostrae pars quota est culpae senex! (But that old man is as nothing to my guilt!, Ag. 22). Even though he considers that his family’s development in this direction has reached a temporary plateau with his crime of incest, he already announces another crime, the murder of glorious Agamemnon, and thus the continuation of the ‘curse’: Thyestes’ unholy feast will thereby be avenged, and a justification found for the incest: parantur epulae! causa natalis tui, | Aegisthe, venit (a feast is being prepared! The reason for your birth has come, Aegisthus, Ag. 4849). Obviously, Thyestes’ ghost does not need a Fury to urge him on; his internal furor provides a sufficient motive. His thirst for revenge must be transmitted to his son Aegisthus, who should therefore be divested of any moral inhibitions which could hinder the execution of his deed. The text as transmitted in the manuscripts suggests that Aegisthus, as the offspring of an incestuous relationship, is unable to feel any shame: quid ipse temet consulis torques rogas, | an deceat hoc te? respice ad matrem: decet (Why do you consult yourself, torment yourself, ask yourself whether this befits you? Look to your mother: it befits you, Ag. 51-52). Otto Zwierlein emends the text at this point; his version has respice ad patrem: decet, in which case Aegisthus would be called upon to avenge his father. 42 In both cases the “curse” is seen as a heavy burden to bear, in the former case as a moral handicap caused by incestuous parentage, in the latter as an act of vengeance for the previous generation, which seems more plausible when we look back to Tantalus in the prologue of Thyestes. Beyond the notion of ‘family curse,’ Seneca underlines the awareness that Agamemnon’s murder is in a fateful encounter with history through the visions of Cassandra, and thereby opens a further level of interpretation. The misfortunes of the seemingly successful house of Atreus derive not only from the curse which hangs over it, but also from retribution for the destruction of Troy: in her first vision, Cassandra foretells Agamemnon’s murder and her own death, and she interprets the fall of glorious Agamemnon as the fulfilment of his debt towards Dardanus, the ancestor of the Trojans: Et ecce, defessus senex | ad ora ludentes aquas | non captat oblitus sitim, | maestus futuro funere. | exultat et ponit gradus | pater decoros Dardanus (And see, the tired old man does not snatch at the fooling waters near his lips, forget his thirst, grieving at death to come. But Father Dardanus exults and treads a stately dance, Ag. 42

Zwierlein (1986) 256.

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769-774). In her second vision, as she delivers a simultaneous messenger’s report from outside about events inside the house (Ag. 867-909), Cassandra stresses the correlation between Agamemnon’s death and the fall of Troy: the hour of victory and celebration brings an unexpected doom. Cassandra explains the murder of Troy’s conqueror by Helen’s sister as fateful retribution for the role played by Helen in the destruction of the city. Such figures of thought should not be assessed only as rhetorically effective sententiae. Seneca’s tragedies raise the question of the conflicting relationship—inherent in the Stoic doctrine—between determinism and the individual responsibility of humankind. This problem is also relevant to other motifs of tragedy, for example in the case of the binding oath Jason swore when he requested Medea’s help in Colchis, which compels the gods to allow revenge to be taken on Jason as a punishment for breaking his vow. One reason why the theme of fate seems to be an attribute of tragedy rather than a central theme of Stoic philosophy is that the philosophical conflicts about the ‘causal determinism’ of the Stoics are played out in the arena of logic rather than in the moral treatises. This problematic is reflected in Chrysippus’ response to critics of Stoic determinism: he attempts to find solutions by distinguishing different types of causal factors. 43 This so-called ‘distinction of causes’ is dealt with by Cicero in his dialogue De fato, 44 which is devoted to Stoic logic, and by Plutarch in his polemical summary of Chrysippus’ reply to his sceptical critics (Stoic. rep. 1045), but not by Seneca, who does not even mention the problem in his moral treatises or in the Epistulae morales, when he explains the Aristotelian theory of causae; 45 Seneca explicitly addresses the problem of determinism only once, in his Naturales quaestiones (Nat. Quaest. 2.3243 Cf. Bobzien (1998) 38-44; Bobzien [(1999) 197-242] points out that Chrysippus did not attempt to give a complete classification of causes; rather, the criteria for the distinction of causes depend on the context of the argument in each separate case. Jedan [(2004) 153-156] ascribes the apparent inconsistency in Chrysippus’ use of modality to two different conceptions of fate and two different ways of viewing the world: the ‘Totalperspektive’ captures the point of view of an omniscient spectator and the ‘Partialperspektive’ considers only a certain state of the world at a certain time, under certain circumstances. Meyer [(2009) 71-90] approaches the problem in its physical aspect, and explains how the Stoics— according to the organological cosmic model—consider causes as bodies which exert an influence over other bodies, and how all the causes in the cosmos are united by the action of divine pneuma. 44 Cf. the recent commentaries by Schallenberg (2008); Mayet (2010). 45 Cf. Wildberger (2006) 37-42 on Sen. Epist. 65.1-4.

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38), when he characterizes the relationship between causes and effects as a distinguishing feature between Stoic cosmology and Etruscan divination 46, taking up the ‘Idle Argument’ of Chrysippus’s opponents in order to distinguish a Stoic determinism from a fatalism which would dispense humans from being confronted with moral decisions. 47 Similarly, the problem of human free will and its conflicting relationship with ratio or fatum is not discussed systematically in Seneca’s philosophical treatise. 48 So Fitch is right when he writes about the optimism of Seneca’s moral treatises. On account of their protreptic and therapeutic aims, Seneca’s moral works clearly have to be thematically restricted to the sphere in which human beings possess individual responsibility: their actions, for which they must themselves make decisions and which can therefore be assessed using moral standards. It is because of this kind of limitation that the impression of ‘optimism’ arises, even though Seneca’s intensive propaganda in favour of self-education and self-control immediately makes it clear how infinitely toilsome it is for the individual to safeguard his or her moral integrity. In contrast, the tragedies are designed, by virtue of their literary conception, to open up new perspectives. They do so by integrating into the sphere of ethics those problem areas which are traditionally assigned to logic by the demarcations of systematic classification. The tragedies thus more consistently surmount the barriers of the systematic division implemented by theoretical philosophy and achieve an important aim of Stoic doctrine. This has a specific meaning for our understanding of the tragedies: Seneca’s purpose is not so much to teach ethics—that is, to point out the consequences resulting from the abandonment of the recommended programme of self-discipline. Instead, the tragedies reveal the complexity and multi-dimensionality of the sphere in which humans perform actions. Tragedy is an eminently suitable genre to convey the complexity of the process whereby different factors combine to allow an event to happen: first of all because right from the start, its tradition 46

Cf. Hine (1981) 346 sq.: “The Etruscans suppose that omens are special interventions of god specifically intended to indicate the future to men. (...) The Stoics, on the other hand, say that omens are not special acts of god, but are no different from any other event in regard to the part which god plays in their occurrence; they possess predictive power because they are part of the total nexus of causes and effects by which the universe is ordered (so that, as we might say, prediction from omens is a species of scientific prediction).” 47 Seneca (Nat. Quaest. 2.35-38) discusses the problem how divination and prayers can be of any avail if fate is unalterable, see Hine (1981) 366-379; Bobzien (1998) 182-233. 48 Wildberger (2006) 336ff.

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incorporated the forces of fate as a motive for action; secondly, because the dramatic mode, unlike the narrative, enables the spectator to change his perspective and gain an insider’s view of the psychology of the characters. As we have seen above, this ability to switch one’s perspective is precisely what provides the link between the tragedies and the moral philosophical treatises, where it constitutes one of Seneca’s central educational objectives. So is a ‘Stoic tragedy’ a contradiction in terms? Admittedly, after having been trained by Seneca’s therapeutic essays to adopt a different point of view, we cease to view as ‘tragic’ an event felt as such because an innocent victim has been unexpectedly struck down by an unjust fate. Nonetheless, a Senecan ‘Stoic tragedy’ does not present an inherent contradiction, as the subject of fate remains a problem never entirely resolved in Stoic philosophy. As a tragic poet, Seneca cannot take for granted that his audience accepts the Stoic presupposition underlying his plays; the situations portrayed in Seneca’s tragedies require difficult moral decisions in the face of danger caused by the ‘cruel’ fata, which may not always favour the well-being of individuals. The issue of fate is preserved in the form of determinism; it is merely complemented by a critical outlook on events and forms of behaviour from an ethical, social, political, historical, and, if one wishes, metapoetic and hermeneutic perspective. 49

49 I owe special thanks to Alexandre Charles Johnston for his magnificent translation.

CHAPTER EIGHT CONSOLATION, REBELLION AND PHILOSOPHY IN LUCAN’S BELLUM CIVILE BOOK 8 1 FRANCESCA D’ALESSANDRO BEHR The Stoic matrix of Lucan’s Bellum Civile has been recognized for a very long time. Lucan grew up under the attentive eyes of his famous uncle Seneca and was a pupil of the well-known Stoic philosopher Cornutus: rhetoric and Stoic discourse must have been an essential part of his family’s heritage and “staple of his mental training.” 2 The text of the Bellum Civile confirms Lucan’s familiarity with many tenets of that doctrine. Relying on the work of Zeller, Haskins in his edition of the Bellum Civile lists many points of contact (the origin of the Universe, Fate, physics, the nature of the soul, virtue, suicide) between Lucan’s epic and Stoic doctrine. 3 Marti summarizes these points of contacts: Lucan follows closely the somewhat eclectic philosophy of the later Roman Stoics. His universe is the materialistic universe of the Stoics, created from the primal element, fire, by a divine ruler who has established the chain of causes for all eternity, binding to them man, the gods, and himself. All beings have a common origin and are inseparable from the gods, for all animate and inanimate things contain a spark of the divine fire. This fire, which has given birth to all things, will again consume the universe, for at the end of ages a conflagration will dissolve the whole world which will revert to primeval chaos. Fate, the power which rules over men and gods alike, is the eternally fixed order whose ultimate purpose is good. Lucan at times seems to lose sight of this ultimate end and bitterly complains of Chance and Fortune. We are reminded of Plutarch’s 1

Lucan’s translation is my adaptation of Jane Wilson Joyce’s (1993). My text of Lucan’s Bellum Civile follows A. E. Housman’s edition. 2 Haskins (1971) xxv; on the importance of Cornutus’ theories on Lucan’s formation, Most (1989); on Lucan’s education, Morford (1967a); Due (1970) 201224; and Lapidge (1989). 3 Haskins (1971) xlii-xlix quoting different loci from Zeller (1962).

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Despite Lucan’s sporadic ‘complaints,’ according to Marti, the Bellum Civile is basically an optimistic poem which features Cato as the Stoic incarnation of goodness, wisdom, and freedom from excessive passions, Caesar as the villain completely given to perverted desire, and Pompey as the Stoic on the path of virtue (proficiens) who, achieving tranquility and detachment, becomes a good leader just before his death. 5 For Marti, the poem would have ended with the apotheosis of Cato, the punishment of Caesar and the foreshadowing of the return of the Republic. Marti’s basic assumptions about Lucan’s serious and positive engagement with Stoicism—visible in many aspects of his poem as well as in his celebration of Cato as ethical essence of the story—have prevailed among Lucan’s critics for a long time. 6 We see these ideas well exemplified in Ahl’s seminal monograph on Lucan. 7 At the same time, what Marti judged to be momentary pessimism and sporadic lack of faith in divine providence has certainly been noted by other scholars. For instance, Haskins pointed out how Lucan’s narrator emerges in many passages as “deeply impressed with the wrongful predominance of chance and indifference of the gods…breaking out into utterances of distinctly Epicurean sound, as when he doubts whether Chance be not the arbiter of human destinies, or cries aloud that for us there are no gods—at least that care for our welfare.” 8 A quite original approach to this problem has been that of Narducci. In his 1979 book fittingly called Cruel Providence: Lucan and the Destruction of Augustan Myths, Narducci argued that Lucan’s narrative is built on a Stoicism emptied of optimism in Fate. According to the Italian scholar, while for the most part Lucan’s cosmos is Stoic in nature, we see in it a ‘gradual dissolution of Stoic theodicy’ a process itself initiated within Stoic debates 4

Marti (1945) 356. Marti (1945) 359-360 for Cato, 365-367 for Caesar, 367-371 for Pompey. Proficiens *U ȆȡȠțyʌIJȦȞ  LV WKH PDQ ZKR LV QRW \HW ZLVH QRU SHUIHFt but progresses towards virtue; Seneca’s Epist. 75 discusses the notion. About moral progress, see Rist (1969) 90-91 and more extensively Roskam (2005). 6 Rutz (1960); Brisset (1964); Bonner (1966) esp. 270-279; Dick (1967); Morford (1967b); Schotes (1969); Due (1970); Le Bonniec (1970) 160-63; Lapidge (1979); Liebeschuetz (1979) 140-155; Sullivan (1985); for a review of the most important scholarship written on Lucan up to 1985, see Rutz (1985). 7 Ahl (1976). 8 Haskins (1971) xlix. 5

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on Providence (“un processo di dissoluzione della teodicea stoica… matura[to] sul terreno stesso dei dibattiti stoici sulla provvidenza”). 9 In orthodox Stoicism, attacks against the good man can be understood and accepted as tests which fortify him and allow his virtue to become visible, yet Lucan tends to focus on the cruelty of such attacks, which if on the one hand confirm the invincibility of virtue, also have quite terrible historical consequences such as the end of the Roman Republic. 10 This poetic undermining of Stoic Providence, in Narducci’s view, goes hand in hand with an emphasis on the ‘autosufficienza’ (self-sufficiency) of the wise man. For the Stoics, in the wise man’s nature the conscious self occupies the place which divine reason holds in the universe, and these two forces (individual self and divine nature) always pull in the same direction, are in agreement (ɟǖǙǕǙǍljNj). The Stoic concept of ɟǖǙǕǙǍljNj is undercut in Lucan’s poem so as to give preeminence to the independence of the wise man and his individual resistance to the “odious chain of fates” (invida fatorum series, BC 1.70). 11 The recognition of ‘unorthodox’ Stoic tendencies or contradictions at the heart of Lucan’s poetic enterprise became a primary concern for scholars at the beginning of the 1980’s. 12 In several books of the period, the above mentioned tendencies are interpreted as signs of Lucan’s intention to undermine or ridicule Stoicism. W. R. Johnson (1987), John Henderson (1987), and Jamie Masters (1992) rejected the putatively Stoic Lucan in favor of a darker and grimly parodic poet who “describes and exemplifies a view of the cosmos as chaotic, fragmentary, and ultimately meaningless. Under this reading Lucan’s Cato becomes a nasty caricature both of the Stoic sage and of the traditional Roman vir bonus.” 13 This approach does not deny the poem’s Stoic color and inspiration but challenges the ultimate orientation and meaning of Lucan’s Stoic stance; it upholds the view of a poem in which civil war mirrors a chaotic and irrational universe in which a restoration of cosmic order is impossible because all is governed by Chance. In such a universe the gods may exist 9

Narducci (1979) 69. As we saw, the Bellum Civile presupposes Stoic tenets, yet Lucan creatively reelaborates Stoic doctrines. When I refer to ‘orthodox Stoicism,’ I employ the term in the sense of a Weberian ideal-type. As Brad Inwood explains the term “intellectual movement” is perhaps more apt to describe “the longevity and protean variability of Stoicism” [Inwood (2003) 1]. Important methodological remarks on ‘philosophical orthodoxy’ are in Inwood (1993) 150-153. 11 Narducci discusses the topic again (esp. 152-167) in his (2002) book. 12 Besides Narducci, Fredrich (1938) highlighted Lucan’s revolt against the Gods as dominant element in the Bellum Civile at a very early date. 13 Henderson (1987); Johnson (1987); MasteUV 6NOHQiĜ  10

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but the narrator is never quite sure how or whether they care about mortals. This basic uncertainty, at times quite similar to Epicurean nonteleological randomness, persists throughout the poem and it exemplifies (it is maintained) Lucan’s rejection of the Stoic creed. 14 Once the Stoic premises of the universe have been undermined and the world is described as prey to terrifying forces (Caesar, the gods), it is hard to explain how anyone can reasonably continue to behave according to Stoic dictates. In this kind of universe Cato the Stoic saint is destined to become a fool, a caricature or a completely ineffective character. While Henderson’s tantalizing article focuses on Lucan’s pessimistic belief in chaos by analyzing Lucan’s muddled, fractured, and baroque style, Johnson draws a memorable image of Cato as a blind and cartoonish hero who coldly marches among the dead bodies of his companions in the blood-drenched fields of Libya (BC 9.734-846) without ever doubting the validity of his mission. Cato is so preoccupied with the propaganda of freedom that he forgets all the rest, compassion included. Cato’s dogmatism, Johnson writes, “is no less ruinous of freedom […] than is Caesar’s countervailing fanaticism.” 15 Cato’s march in the desert with its grotesque descriptions and total destruction of the Republican army is certainly a challenge for those critics who believe in the sheer force and ultimate triumph of Stoic virtue in the poem. This is why those who wish to ridicule or undermine the viability of Stoic ethics often make use of this episode. Following in Henderson’s footsteps, Masters analyzes the pervasive theme of splitting and doubling in the poem and concludes that in Lucan’s epic “the alternatives are always the same: Pompey is not so different from Caesar (…).” 16 While several current critics of the BC, “peeling away simple Stoic or uncritically Republican interpretations” and discovering a “work as intrigued by the monarchical Caesar as it is disheartened by his opposers Cato and Pompey,” have embraced Lucan the political and philosophical nihilist, 17 Bartsch in her analysis of the style and ideological temper of the 14

On Lucan’s attitude towards the gods as similar to that of the Epicureans, see Jal (1962) 170-200. 15 Johnson (1987) 55. 16 Masters (1992) 65. 17 Quotations are from Ganiban (1999); Hershkowitz (1998a) 197- 6NOHQiĜ (2003), although rehearsing the idea of the ‘futility of goodness’ as paradigmatic of the poem, is convincing in explaining that Lucan’s attack of traditional Roman and Stoic ideas is coherent and rationally organized since “…it is possible to describe chaos without being chaotic, to document with clinical precision the absence of SUHFLVLRQ LQ ODQJXDJH WR PDNH D ORJLFDO FDVH IRU WKH DEVHQFH RI ORJLF´ >6NOHQiĜ (2003) 2]; Leigh (1997). About Leigh’s chapter on Cato in the desert, K. Eldred,

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poem is more circumspect in dismissing Lucan’s Stoicism and commitment to politics. Although in the first part of her book she insists on the disruptive and nihilistic facets of Lucan’s poem, eventually she reveals a narrator who sides with Pompey and political intervention. While the Cato of book 9 is a man whose philosophical stance does not produce anything positive, the Cato of book 2 receives the compliments of the narrator for his apparently illogical yet ultimately successful political commitment. Richard Rorty’s ‘political ironist’ is appealed to in order to make sense of the coexistence of two ideologically opposite positions, inasmuch as Lucan “recognizes the futility of ideological engagement and opts for engagement anyway.” 18 The narrator’s attitude parallels Cato’s attitude in the poem, a man skeptical about Pompey’s behavior and in general aware of the wickedness of civil war but willing to participate in it anyway. Lucan’s unveiling of the tragic paradoxes of human existence may suggest the author’s dissatisfaction with Stoicism but it does not coincide with a dismissal of engagement. If in the panorama of current scholarship on Lucan, Bartsch marks a sort of via media between the old and the new trend, a number of critics of Lucan continue to view Stoicism in the poem as an essentially positive element which the narrator seriously scrutinizes and sometimes criticizes but which remains an important frame for the evaluation of Lucan’s work. 19 Such approaches make clear that in general deconstructionist and nihilistic filters cannot be easily applied to Lucan’s work and it is necessary to find different ways to evaluate his Stoic background. 20

BMCR 98.1.12 has written: “New is L.’s suggestion that Cato’s aristeia against the snakes be read as a venatio. His conclusion that Cato’s journey through the desert may be understood as a demonstration of Stoicism debunked and thrown off course by the references to the arena, however, leaves the ideological implications of Cato as a spectator unmined while returning to the vein of previous interpretations of amphitheatrical elements in the poem which say those elements exist only to undermine traditional motifs and expectations.” In Leighs’ reading of the desert march [(1997) 274-282], Cato is satisfied with his soldiers just appearing to be virtuous. 18 Bartsch (1997) 101-102, quoting Rorty (1989); Panoussi (2000) 411. 19 George (1986) 362-389; George (1991) 237-258; Feeney (1991); Bartsch (1997); Gorman (2001) 263-290; Morford (2002) 189-208; Narducci (2002); Hill (2004) 213-236; Wick (2004); D’Alessandro Behr (2007); Stover (2008). For a general survey of approaches to Lucan not specifically philosophical but inclusive of those too from the year 1985 to 1999, see Esposito (1999) 11-37 and Narducci (1999). 20 Narducci (1999) 40-42 and 48-49.

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In my recent monograph on Lucan I tried to come to terms with the Stoic substratum of Lucan’s poetry by considering in depth Stoic poetics and the Stoic notion of apatheia. I hope I have demonstrated there how recent scholarship on Stoic apatheia does allow the Sage to maintain practical involvement in the world and also highlights the Sage’s controlled employment of passions. 21 As I wrote, Lucan’s allegiance to Stoicism and also to Aristotelian aesthetic principles is evident in his creation of a pedagogically useful mimesis “that expresses cardinal truths about human existence such as the individual’s moral responsibility and the absolute value of the good intentions” as well as in his “predilection” for Cato as a Stoic hero who is able to react sensitively to his environment and chooses “engagement” for the defense of Roman freedom. 22 While Lucan’s narrator denies Vergil’s civilizing providence and Stoic pronoia, he continues to employ Stoic virtus to justify political commitment and counts on Stoic poetics to inspire audiences to fight for freedom as well. Lucan’s penchant for Aristotelian tragic parameters is manifested in his programmatic statement on the representation of Pompey and the war: Cum bella legentur, Spesque metusque simul perituraque vota movebunt, Attonitique omnes veluti venientia fata, Non transmissa, legent et adhuc tibi, Magne, favebunt. (BC 7.210-13) (Whenever accounts of these wars are read, They will stir hope and fear alike, and useless prayers; Astonished, all will feel that these are fates yet to unfold, Not known facts, and oh Magnus, men will again warm to you!)

For Aristotle as well as for Lucan, the reader’s emotional reaction (whether it triggers “fear” “pity” or “hope”) is essential. In Latin, the expression spesque metusque (BC 7.211) is employed in connection to the emotional sphere and attonitus is equivalent to the Greek ekplektos. 23 These adjectives describe somebody experiencing enargeia, a kind of vividness which brings the object represented ‘before the eyes’ (ǚǛʒ ɞǖǖdžǞǣǗ, Rhet. 3.10.6) of the readers (Rhet. 3.11.1-4). 24 For both authors, the presence of the emotions does not preclude a reasoned judgment but 21 Inwood (1985); Irwin (1998); Engberg-Pedersen (1990) and (1998); Sorabji (2000). 22 D’Alessandro Behr (2007) 11. 23 D’ Alessandro Behr (2007) 78. 24 D’ Alessandro Behr (2007) 76-78 and Eden (1986) 71.

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accompanies it. Ultimately, what poetry fosters is not simply enthusiasmos but a return to reason, a desire to revisit the context under the guidance of rationality (e.g. Sen. Epist. 108.8-11). Seneca suggests that an effective style involving our emotions “produces the same effects of philosophical exhortation, reawakens the spark of virtue, inspires proper behavior, and can dispel mistaken judgments.” 25 Lucan goes beyond Aristotelian tragic parameters which recommend a high degree of identification between audience and positive characters when he insinuates his own persona within the text, breaks the illusion of the fiction, and interprets the significance of his narrative for his audience. By “[f]ostering emotional arousal but also reluctance to be moved, through several devices (apostrophe, irony, generalization, harsh humor, allegory), Lucan promotes a fiction that will fuel the reader’s critical ability and his awareness of the fiction qua fiction. In fact, through his style Lucan creates a mimesis that can be easily identified as such. Since the frequent direct addresses call our attention to the narrator’s mediating presence, they are defined by a lack of naturalism. They break the spell of the fiction and move the narration beyond enargeia (the stimulation of inward vision and the arousal of concomitant feelings aiming at evoking the scene of portrayed action as if it were real).” 26 The Stoics clearly understood that poetry can present a vivid picture of the soul under the influence of passions, yet, as G. Staley has recently argued discussing Seneca’s ideas about tragedy, they did not find the experience harmful: Influenced by Aristotle’s Rhetoric, the Stoics interpreted emotion as a cognitive and persuasive process in which judgment follows and is influenced by our preliminary and unavoidable emotional responses to powerful impressions. (…) Tragedy is therefore a portrait of the soul in several senses: The soul is the venue for the misjudgments that lead to tragedy; its plot is a depiction of this process of misjudgment; and the souls of tragedy’s audiences replicate in their responses the same process of judgment with the potential for a different conclusion. 27

The same is true in Lucan’s text where the narrator enacts a kind of Stoic poetics that brings to the fore his ethical concerns and promotes a detached spectatorship rather than total immersion in the narrative. Within this framework, Lucan’s Cato and narrator seek to persuade their audiences to steer away from wrong behaviors and judgments present in the narration and to arrive to the right kind of conclusion about the civil 25

D’ Alessandro Behr (2007) 101. D’ Alessandro Behr (2007) 105. 27 Staley (2010) 95. 26

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war, Caesar, or freedom: “Not only does Lucan’s Cato fight against Caesar’s tyrannical desires, mental lethargy, and the indifference of the gods; in the fight he uses the fire of his emotions and the ice of his philosophical commitment.” 28 In this essay I will explore the relationship between philosophy and poetics in Bellum Civile 8 a book which features the dying Pompey as a consoler of his wife and himself. While, on the one hand, I will underline the importance of Lucan’s engagement with Stoic philosophy and his predilection for Cato, on the other, I will expose his openness to ideas coming from other philosophical traditions. Not only epic discourse (especially Vergil’s), although crucial to understand the Bellum Civile, is criticized and undermined through concepts and objectives of Stoic provenience. As we will see, at times, Stoicism itself is interrogated, challenged, and redefined in the light of notions and impulses coming to Lucan from within that school or from other schools of thought. Stoic as well as Epicurean views coexist in the text and are particularly present when Lucan portrays the resigned and rebellious attitude of the dying Pompey.

Dying Pompey (Bellum Civile 8.70-85 and 8.613-636) In what follows I would like to focus my attention on a particularly complex Stoic moment in Lucan’s treatment of Pompey. After his defeat at Pharsalus, Pompey reaches Lesbos to embrace again his beloved wife Cornelia (BC 8.40-85). Here on the island, the two are finally reunited and the Roman general tries to address her fears and discomfort. Later, accompanied by her, he will depart to meet his death (BC 8.575-661). While the presence of two lovers and the very name of Lesbos suggest elegy, we also find a text saturated with tragic echoes and, when Pompey eventually speaks, with philosophical intimations. During their encounter Cornelia is utterly overwhelmed by the tragedy of defeat but Pompey faces the difficult moment with courage and dignity. From lines 40 to 75 Lucan narrates the encounter by focusing on the perspective of Cornelia; here the narration follows the pattern of elegiac poetry. Cornelia’s search (BC 8.40-49) for her husband by the shore of the island resembles that of Ariadne looking out at the sea for signs of Theseus (Catullus c. 64.126-129) as well as Ovid’s story of Ceyx and Alcyone (Met. 11.710-728). As the two lovers are reunited, Ovid is recalled again: Pompey’s embrace of Cornelia, who has fainted, (astrictos refovet 28

D’Alessandro Behr (2007) 163.

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complexibus artus. / […] in summum revocato sanguine corpus, [Pompey] brings back life to the rigid limbs by his embrace, once her blood has came back to the surface of her body, BC 8.67-68) is parallel to Pygmalion’s final embrace of the ivory statue that has turned into real girl (visa tepere est; / …manibus quoque pectora temptat; / temptatum mollescit ebur positoque rigore […] saliunt temptatae pollice venae, She seemed to become warm…also he touched her breasts with his hand, the ivory yielded to the touch having lost its hardness […] her veins throbbed coming in contact with his thumb, Met. 10.281-283, 10.289). Another obvious allusion is to Anna’s embracing of Dido at Aen. 4.648-692. (semianimemque sinu germanam amplexa fouebat, and clasping her dying sister to her breast, she moaned, 4.686), a gesture of deep concern followed by the sister’s intense although fruitless desire to resuscitate Dido. 29 At line 70, however, Lucan’s text takes a different turn. The tone changes as Pompey occupies center stage and brings to the narration a quite different message and set of intertexts. As he attempts to console his wife, Pompey brings into the narration the colors, tones, and topoi of philosophical discourse. Rhetoric and philosophy do not always live harmoniously, yet they do join forces in the effort to comfort troubled souls. Before the Hellenistic Age, philosophers had written on consolation as a response to suffering for the death of a beloved person or other terrible occurrences. Consolation is a recurrent theme in Plato’s dialogues about Socrates’ death. Antiphon the sophist is credited with a Techne Alupias or Art of Non-Suffering. 30 The older Stoics elaborated theories on how to deal with grief and excessive pain. 31 Crantor, a philosopher of the Older Academy, wrote a book Peri Penthous which is sometimes believed to be the first example of consolation and was considered a model by authors such as Panaetius, Cicero, and Jerome (Cic. Acad. Pr. 2.135; Jer. Epist. 60.5). Epicurus wrote letters of consolation as well. Consolatio became a genre when Hellenistic writers adapted existing philosophical analyses to focus on arguments against grief. By the time of Cicero, philosophy and rhetoric together shaped the content and character of consolationes now identifiable as a genre with thematic and structural conventions. Seneca, with his Consolations for Marcia, Helvia and

29

Cf. Bruere (1951) esp. 221. Simon (2008) 188. 31 Nussbaum (1994). 30

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Polybius, is part of a long tradition which includes the consolatory productions of Cicero, Ovid, Plutarch and Fronto. 32 Lucan had to be familiar with this tradition and employed it in reshaping the encounter between Pompey and his wife, for which he probably drew historical information from Livy. According to Bruere, 33 Plutarch’s Life of Pompey preserved the Livian story of the encounter between Cornelia and Pompey, so it is useful to compare Lucan’s narration with Plutarch’s in order to have some idea of the nature of Lucan’s original source. Plutarch’s rendition (74-75) is much less dramatic than the account contained in Bellum Civile, since in Plutarch Cornelia is able to recover by herself and Pompey is not featured as her consoler; instead he seeks the help and counsel of the Peripatetic philosopher Cratippus: NjɪǞʒǜ ǎʌ ǚǛʒǜ ƵǛʋǞǓǚǚǙǗ ǞǛNjǚʓǖǏǗǙǜ ǞʒǗ ǠǓǕʓǝǙǠǙǗ (ǔNjǞʍnjǑ ǍʊǛ Ȳǔ Ǟ˜ǜ ǚʓǕǏǣǜ ɞǢʓǖǏǗǙǜ NjɪǞʓǗ  ȲǖʍǖǢNjǞǙ ǔNjʐ ǝǟǗǎǓǑǚʓǛǑǝǏ njǛNjǡʍNj ǚǏǛʐ Ǟ˜ǜ ǚǛǙǗǙʑNjǜ, ɫǚǙǔNjǞNjǔǕǓǗǙǖʍǗǙǟ ǞǙ˹ ƵǛNjǞʑǚǚǙǟ ǔNjʐ ǚNjǛʋǍǙǗǞǙǜ NjɪǞʒǗ Ȳǚʐ Ǟʊǜ ȢǖǏʑǗǙǗNjǜ ȲǕǚʑǎNjǜ, ɣǚǣǜ ǖʎ ǕǟǚǑǛʒǜ ǖǑǎʌ ȦǔNjǓǛǙǜ ȢǗǞǓǕʍǍǣǗ ǏɒǑ. (Pomp. 75.3) (He himself [Pompey], however, turning to Cratippus the philosopher, who had come down from the city, complained and argued briefly with him about Providence, Cratippus yielding somewhat to his reasoning and trying to lead him on to better hopes…, trnsl. Perrin)

We do not really know if the episode is real. Aelian, in the third century A.D., believed that Pompey attended the house of Cratippus (VH 7.21) while Strabo talks about Pompey’s visits to Posidonius in Rhodes (Strabo 11.1.6). 34 In Lucan’s description and specifically in his last hours, Pompey seems influenced by philosophical discourse. Not only does he resemble Cato in his attire, he also speaks as Cato would have spoken, at once with detachment and concern. Cato is the only character in the Bellum Civile who, being free from excessive and personal concerns (nullosque Catonis in actus / subrepsit…. 32

About consolation as a genre see Buresch (1886); Fern (1941); Kassell (1958); Ochs (1993); Scourfield (1993). Most recently on Plutarch’s consolation to his wife, Baltussen (2009) and on Cicero, Erskine (1997) and Wilcox (2005). 33 Bruere (1951) 232 and Pichon (1912) 187. 34 Rawson [(1989) 241] points out that modern scholarship links “Pompey’s human resettlement of the defeated pirates with Posidonius’ Stoicism.” Pompey’s interaction with philosophers of his days is studied more in full in Rawson (1985) 106. Pompey’s direct contact with important Peripatetic and Stoic philosophers as presented in some historical sources may have helped Lucan in the creation of a ‘philosophical’ Pompey.

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sibi nata voluptas, into none of Cato’s deeds…self-indulgence played a role, BC 2.390-391), can judge matters properly and be moved in the right way. He is the one who can best perceive the tragedy of Rome’s enslavement and, with great humanity and sensitivity, cries about it (uni quippe vacat studiis odiisque carenti / humanum lugere genum, Only he was really free, lacking both zeal and hatred, to cry for the human race, BC 2.377-378). He is outraged at the gods’ decision to undermine Roman freedom. When their cruelty demands atonement, Cato wishes to perform what Timothy Hill calls a ‘Republican devotio;’ 35 he would like to become the sacrificial lamb for Rome’s expiation and the restoration of peace (sic eat: inmites Romana piacula divi / plena ferant, […] / hic redimat sanguis populus, / […] hic dabit hic pacem iugulus finemque malorum / gentibus Hesperiis, So be it: let the heartless divinities have Roman atonement in full […] let my blood redeem the nations […] my throat will bring peace and end of woes to Hesperia’s people, BC 2.304-305, 2.312, 2.317-318). When Cato talks to Brutus in Book 2, he explains that he is willing to reject the sage’s tranquility especially if it should resemble the gods’ ataraxia: In Cato’s reply to Brutus—“confident virtus follows the fate’s lead / the crime of the gods will be that they made me guilty, too” (sed quo fata trahunt virtus secura sequetur. / Crimen erit superis et me fecisse nocentem, BC 2.287-288)—virtue and fate are deceptively placed on the same path. While on the one hand the answer evokes Cleanthes’ well known line, ducunt volentem fata, nolentem trahunt, the fates lead the willing man and drag the unwilling,” Sen. Epist. 107.11.5), the substitution of trahunt for ducunt “suggests unwillingness on Cato’s part to follow the path prescribed by destiny.” 36

During his dialogue with Brutus, Cato makes clear that he is unwilling to stare passively at the end of the Republic. Even if he knows that freedom is doomed, he wants to participate in the fight. His participation is crucial at the level of social perception because on a practical level it demonstrates that there is still somebody willing to support the ethical ideals of the Republic. 37 This fight is understood by Cato as a necessary

35

Hill (2004) 230. D’Alessandro Behr [(2007) 159] quoting Ahl [(1976) 240]; cf. Narducci (2002) 386. The translations of Seneca are mine. 37 Hill (2004) is good at underscoring how Cato’s stance at BC 2.287ff. is not so much a “quasi-existential declaration of the importance of fighting for ideals” but a more pragmatic stance: “Cato believes that with a moral paragon such as himself 36

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evil which the gods are forcing on his innocence. As best as he can, Cato inhabits a world in which—according to the narrator—the justice of Jupiter and the benignity of Stoic Providence are failing: in Lucan as in Seneca’s writings the idea of Providence is undermined while the good man’s struggle against a hostile environment takes center stage. In his dialogue with Cornelia and later, at the very moment of his death, Pompey assumes this kind of Stoic attitude; he may not have behaved like a Stoic during his life—or up to this point in the plot—but it is clear that, as he approaches death, Lucan wants to make him praiseworthy specifically by describing him in Stoic terms and also showing the general at odds with the Gods. Pompey has already been characterized as carrying the signs of defeat on his entire body at BC 8.56-57: deformem pallore ducem voltusque prementem / canitiem atque atro squalentis pulvere vestes (the leader disfigured with pallor, his white hair plastered on his face, his clothing covered with black dust). His squalid and disheveled look brings back to the mind of the reader the mournfully attired Cato of book 2 (funerea…lana, ‘funereal wool’, BC 2.367) when with grizzled hair and untrimmed beard (intonsos rigidam in frontem descendere canos / passus erat maestamque genis increscere barbam, he had suffered his grizzled, unshorn hair to cover his reverend brow and a beard of grieving to grow on his cheeks, BC 2.375-376) he met his wife Marcia to remarry her. In general the two passages have much in common: besides the attitude of the men, the women’s pleas too are noticeably similar although Marcia, as described, is stronger than Cornelia. I believe that not accidentally Lucan evokes Cato just as Pompey tries to encourage and comfort his distressed companion by delivering what can be described as a consolation. From this moment to the time of his apotheosis, Lucan strives to give us a glorious, Cato-like image of Pompey, exploiting epic resources but also resorting to philosophical topoi. Obviously, Lucan’s Pompey does not follow the neat progressive askƝsis of the proficiens described by Seneca in Epist. 75, 38 but overall his previous ethical ambiguity and mistakes are smoothed over and given a philosophic color. 39 Like a philosopher, Pompey scolds his wife for putting her trust in the wrong pursuits:

serving in his army and state, Pompey will be forced in victory to respect the limitations set upon his own exercise of power.” (224) 38 Contra Marti (1945) 367-373. 39 On Marti’s misreading of Seneca 75, see Lintott (1971) 505; for a more precise exploration of Pompey as a Stoic proficiens who can backslide and sometimes stop to advance in his conquering of virtus, see George (1986).

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Chapter Eight prohibet succumbere fatis Magnus et inmodicos castigat voce dolores: “Nobile cur robur fortunae volnere primo, femina tantorum titulis insignis avorum, frangis? habes aditum mansurae in saecula famae. laudis in hoc sexu non legum iura nec arma unica materia est coniunx miser. erige mentem, et tua cum fatis pietas decertet, et ipsum, quod sum uictus, ama. nunc sum tibi gloria maior, a me quod fasces et quod pia turba senatus tantaque discessit regum manus: incipe Magnum sola sequi. deformis adhuc vivente marito summus et augeri vetitus dolor: ultima debet esse fides lugere virum. tu nulla tulisti bello damna meo: vivit post proelia Magnus sed fortuna perit. quod defles, illud amasti.” (BC 8.70-85)

70

75

80

85

(Magnus forbids her to be conquered by destiny and his voice reproaches her unbridled grief: “Why do you, a woman blest with noble forbears, let the first blow of Destiny break your stouthearted self-respect? Draw near an undying fame! The single source your sex has of renown is not law-giving, nor arms, but a husband in trouble. Take heart, and let your devotion wrestle with Fate—love me for the very fact that I am defeated! Now I’m a greater glory for you when the magistrates and devoted ranks of the senate and all my retinue of kings have left me. From this time be the sole companion of Magnus. The depth of woe, woe admitting of no increase is unbecoming while your husband is still alive. The last gesture of fidelity should be to mourn him dead. You have borne no losses in my war. After the battle, Magnus lives though his fortune is lost. What you lament is really what you loved.)

It would be easy to dismiss the passage in the manner of W. E. Heitland, 40 who considered it ‘abominable’ for Pompey’s self-centeredness and admonitory tone. Certainly the speech reveals a degree of Roman sexism and the mentality according to which the glory of a woman is completely dependent on her relationship to her husband. Yet what is intriguing here is Lucan’s desire to portray a Pompey fortified by philosophy and urging Cornelia to share in this attitude, by undermining 40

Quoted in Haskins’ edition (1971) lxiv.

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success (connected to marital fortuna) and by exhibiting a steady mind during adversities. Pompey bids his wife not to be conquered by fate (prohibet succumbere fatis, BC 8.70), and in fact challenges the woman to pit her pietas against fatum, to let her devotion “fight” (decertet, BC 8.77) with the circumstances. In order to help Cornelia to accept the present, Pompey employs Stoic refrains. It is important to limit excessive sorrow (inmodicos castigat … dolores, BC 8.71) and to embrace the crucible of defeat (ipsum / quod sum uictus, ama, love me for the very fact that I am defeated, BC 8.78). Only this act will allow her to demonstrate her affection for him as a person and not for his triumphs and success. In this difficult time, when fortune has stripped Pompey of everything, she has access to eternal fame (habes aditum mansurae in saecula famae, BC 8.74); when everybody is abandoning him, he represents a “greater glory” (gloria maior, BC 8.78) for her since she can really prove her marital fidelity to his sheer person rather than to his status. War may have deprived Pompey of victory but it hasn’t deprived Cornelia of Pompey’s life and love. The whole speech can be understood better when seen within the consolatory tradition of Seneca and Ovid. The argument echoes the way Seneca reminds Marcia of the helmsman’s excellence, which is tested, above all, during a storm: Simul cogita non esse magnum rebus prosperis fortem se gerere, ubi secundo cursu vita procedit: ne gubernatoris quidem artem tranquillum mare et obsequens ventus ostendit, adversi aliquid incurrat oportet quod animum probet. Proinde ne summiseris te, immo contra fige stabilem gradum et quidquid onerum supra cecidit sustine, primo dumtaxat strepitu conterrita. Nulla re maior invidia fortunae fit quam aequo animo. (ad M. 5.5-6) (Think that it is not a big deal to behave bravely during good times when life proceeds under a favorable wind; the excellence of the helmsman is not revealed when the sea is calm and the wind is cooperating; adverse circumstances are necessary to test the soul. Therefore do not yield, instead stand firm and bear whatever burden falls upon you, frightened only in the confusion of the first moment. Nothing enrages fortune more than a steady mind)

The pietas of a wife, her conjugal devotion, can emerge—like the virtus of the good man—only during adversities. Similar behavior is required from husband and wife in difficult moments: they both have to bear defeat with a steady mind and in the awareness of having lost nothing

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valuable. In this text too we have the personification of fortune, which becomes envious when confronted by a firm mind. Within Pompey’s consolation to Cornelia it is important to note at BC 8.76-77 (erige mentem, / et tua cum fatis pietas decertet) how the struggle of pietas against fatum is juxtaposed to the exhortation to accept adversities. This is a battle in which Lucan’s favorite characters are engaged. As I have written elsewhere, in the Bellum Civile the narrator represents Pompey “as a second unlucky Aeneas, for whom victory is not available and whose piety is not enough to succeed;” as a matter of fact “Pompey despite his love (amor) for Rome and because of his reluctance to kill fellow citizens (pietas), does not rise from his ruin.” 41 While in the Aeneid Aeneas’ pietas guarantees him success, in the Bellum Civile Pompey’s pietas triggers his rout; while pius Aeneas can adapt himself to the rhythms of Fatum and, in sync with it, produce a positive outcome, the pietas of Pompey—his hesitation to engage battle at Pharsalus as well as his general unwillingness to kill fellow Romans—accelerates his doom (cf. Caesar, prodest tibi … cum genero pugnasse pio, it was your advantage, Caesar, to have fought a pious son-in-law, BC 6.304-305; tenuit gladios, he held back the swords, BC 6.301). Pompey finds himself enmeshed in a world where divine anger is manifest (Iamque irae patuere deum, now the anger of the gods was manifested, BC 2.1). If at first he places his hopes in the favor of gods who should side with the better cause (causa iubet melior superos sperare secundos, the better cause bids [us] to expect the favor of the gods, BC 7.349), he soon discovers the opposite to be the case (Iam Magnus transisse deos Romanaque fata / senserat infelix, Already Magnus felt that the gods and fates of Rome had shifted, BC 7.647-648). As the narrator proclaimed at the beginning of book one, the gods are backing the cause of the winner (victrix causa deis placuit, the cause of the victor is pleasing to the gods, BC 1.128). In Pompey’s speech to Cornelia passive pietas is reshaped as active Stoic virtus, ready to fight fate; patient toleration of hardship—not necessarily followed by triumph—assumes a rebellious note which I characterize as stemming from a certain kind of philosophical environment reverberating in the Bellum Civile. While Pompey accepts his fate, several expressions in the text also reveal his belief in the unfairness of that fate and a degree of spite towards those divine forces which have allowed such a catastrophe. In this composite attitude, Pompey’s virtus resembles that of Cato defiantly at odds with what the gods have decreed for the city of Rome. Emanuele Narducci has convincingly demonstrated that even in some of Seneca’s writings there is an unresolved tension between the 41

Both citations in D’Alessandro Behr (2007) 84.

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willingness of the sage to accept hardship and the contempt felt by the same sage for that experience, e.g. effugere ista non potes, contemnere potes (you cannot avoid these hardships, you can despise them, Epist. 107.3.5-6); contemnite paupertatem … contemnite dolorem ... contemnite fortunam; nullum illi telum quo feriret animum dedi (scorn poverty … scorn pain … scorn fortune; I have given her no weapon with which she may strike your soul, Prov. 6.6.5-6.7.1). In a world forgotten by the gods, the conscience of the wise man has become a temple of justice and truth, the only locus of resistance to fate and wickedness, the only place in which virtus remains undefeated. 42 In Pompey’s consolation to his wife, the Catonian theme of ‘rebellion in acceptance’ is re-played and magnified by Lucan by echoing Tristia 4.3.69-84, a text in which Ovid is trying to console his wife after he has been exiled from Rome: nec tibi, quod saevis ego sum Iovis ignibus ictus, purpureus molli fiat in ore pudor. sed magis in curam nostri consurge tuendi, exemplumque mihi coniugis esto bonae, materiamque tuis tristem virtutibus imple: ardua per praeceps gloria vadit iter. Hectora quis nosset, si felix Troia fuisset? publica virtuti per mala facta via est. ars tua, Tiphy, vacet, si non sit in aequore fluctus: si valeant homines, ars tua, Phoebe, vacet. quae latet inque bonis cessat non cognita rebus, apparet virtus arguiturque malis. dat tibi nostra locum tituli fortuna, caputque conspicuum pietas qua tua tollat, habet. utere temporibus, quorum nunc munere facta est et patet in laudes area magna tuas. (Tristia 4.3.69-84) (Don’t let the blush of shame redden your cheeks, because I’ve been struck by Jupiter’s fierce lightning. But rise, in your faithfulness, to my defence, instead, be the example of a noble wife to me, and drown a sad theme with your virtues: glory climbs the heights by dangerous paths. Who would know of Hector, if Troy had been happy? The road to virtue’s paved with public ills. Tiphys the helmsman’s art, is idle when the sea’s calm: Phoebus, your art of medicine is idle if men are well. 42

Narducci (2002) 388.

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Chapter Eight The virtue that’s hidden and remains unknown in good times, appears, asserts itself, in adversity. My fate grants you the opportunity for fame: now the loyalty you bear me can lift its head. Use this time, in which the chance is given, and the widest field lies open to your glory, trnsl. A.S. Kline)

Ellen Oliensis’ remarks on these lines are particularly important for assessing Lucan’s attempt to give Pompey’s address an insubordinate edge. She writes: These closing lines are full of what might well strike a reader […] as specifically triumphal language: virtus exercised and demonstrated, the arduous ascent of gloria, the public renown conferred by titulus and laudes (as if Ovid’s wife were being primed to join the exemplary heroes whose statues lined the forum of Augustus), the flaunted pride of the caput conspicuum, focus of all eyes. 4.3 might then be read as a poem celebrating the triumph of the defeated, the arduous victory earned by moral virtus in the face of an omnipotent but perhaps not especially moral Jove. 43

What Oliensis has written in the quoted passage and also the general point of her article can be applied to Lucan’s representation of Pompey. We find in Ovid’s exile poetry a paradoxical oscillation: the poet represents himself as victim of Augustan anger as well as a defiant rival of the powerful leader. Similarly Lucan depicts a Pompey who laments his sad fate while demonstrating his ability to overcome that very fate by refusing to be crushed by it. As he approaches death, he strikes the very same pose and mimics that of philosophers and heroes with tragic 43

Oliensis (2004) 314, my emphasis. The passage is echoed in Pompey’s consolation of Cornelia (BC 8.70-85). Tristia seems to be a very likely direct intertext for both BC 8.70-85 and 8.575-636. In Ovid’s poetry of exile (as well as in his previous production) philosophical themes and philosophical language are present but only as a sort of external “patina.” For instance, in Tristia 5.10, it is impossible not to notice Ovid’s knowledge of philosophical ideas about the origin of language and echoes from Lucretius’ DRN [see Stevens (2009) 177-178], just as at Met.15.259-452 we see Ovid’s ironic employment of Pythagoras’ theories [Segal (1969) 278ff.]. As De Lacy (1947) observes about Tristia 3.7.43-52, although the “elevation of the goods of the mind above country, home, and life itself is indeed worthy of a Stoic, and the assertion that these higher goods are beyond the reach of Caesar’s power could hardly have been better expressed by Epictetus himself” (159)… “he [Ovid] conceived of philosophy not as a perennial search for truth, but rather as a collection of doctrines which could be effectively used on appropriate occasions in literary works” (160).

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destinies, men like Socrates, Thrasea Paetus, Cremutius Cordus, the younger Seneca, and above all, in this context, Cato. Let us look at Pompey’s last moment. At BC 8.575-636, he is leaving his boat to be transferred to that of the Egyptians. A few lines later his death is described as a Stoic death: Ut vidit comminus ensis, involvit voltus atque, indignatus apertum fortunae praebere, caput; tum lumina pressit continuitque animam, nequas effundere voces vellet et aeternam fletu corrumpere famam. Sed postquam mucrone latus funestus Achillas perfodit, nullo gemitu consensit ad ictum respexitque nefas, servatque inmobile corpus, seque probat moriens atque haec in pectore volvit: “Saecula Romanos numquam tacitura labores attendunt, aevumque sequens speculatur ab omni orbe ratem Phariamque fidem: nunc consule famae. Fata tibi longae fluxerunt prospera vitae: ignorant populi, si non in morte probaris, an scieris adversa pati. Ne cede pudori auctoremque dole fati: quacumque feriris, crede manum soceri. Spargant lacerentque licebit, sum tamen, o superi, felix, nullique potestas hoc auferre deo. Mutantur prospera vita: non fit morte miser. Videt hanc Cornelia caedem Pompeiusque meus: Tanto patientius, oro, clude, dolor, gemitus: natus coniunxque peremptum, si mirantur, amant.” Talis custodia Magno mentis erat, ius hoc animi morientis habebat. (BC 8.613-636)

615

620

625

630

635

(When Pompey saw the blade on him He covered his face and head indignant (to the idea) of offering it bare to fortune: then he closed tight his eyes and held his breath lest he may want to utter some words and mar his eternal glory with tears. But when Achillas pierced his side with the point [of the sword], without any lament, to the blow he assented despised the crime, and preserved his body still, and tested himself in death and these thoughts passed in his mind: “Future ages which will never be silent about Roman labors are watching now, the future from every part of the world fixes his eyes on this boat and Egyptian loyalty; now think about fame. Through a long life the tides of success remained with you;

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Chapter Eight the people ignore, unless you prove it in death, that you can endure adversity. Do not yield to shame nor resent the instrument of fate, whatever the hand that hits you believe it to be the hand of your son-in-law. Let them mutilate and scatter my limbs, nevertheless, gods, I am happy and of this no god can deprive me. Success can shift in life but nobody becomes wretched in death. Cornelia witnesses the murder and my Pompey. So much more steadfastly, I call on you, pain, repress your groans. My son and wife, if they admire me dead, they love me.” Such control of his soul Pompey had, such mastery over his mind while he was dying.)

Pompey, in the very moment of his death, composes a consolation for himself. As he loses “the right to control his own movements” (perdiderat iam iura sui, BC 8.612) he addresses himself and tries to remain in control of his spirit in order to be a good example for posterity and his family. In regard to this passage, D. B. George remarks: He thinks of his duty to history. He knows that he is representative of the struggle of the dying Republic for the generations to come (Romanos…labores 8.622). He is mindful that he must be an exemplum for posterity (nunc consule famae 8.624) as well as for his wife and son (8.634-635). When one recalls the doctrine of RLNHLǀVLV, this is all the more striking. For he had begun by reflecting on his duty to mankind, he ends by reflecting on his duty to his family. He has the concentric circles of RLNHLǀVLV in their proper relation. Moreover, he recognizes what is fated and accepts it (8.26-67). 44

Pompey is portrayed as a Stoic individual resolute in his desire to excel in his trial (seque probat, BC 8.621) and to become a worthy example for future generations (saecula Romanos … attendunt, future ages […] are watching, BC 8.622-623), but as we saw in his consolation to Cornelia, he is also at odds with the gods. Pompey is determined to prove to the entire world who he really is. He reminds himself that having experienced a long and successful life (fata tibi longae fluxerunt prospera vitae, you had a long and successful life, BC 625), it is time to prove that he can tolerate adversities, and that death per se cannot alter the happiness of a man 44

George (1986) 388. On Pompey’s death as example of performance which projects Roman masculinity and Stoic self control, see Rambaud (1955); Braund (2002) 101-102; Feeney (1986). For background on Pompey’s death, see Esposito (1986) and Esposito (1996). On the scene, most recently, Erasmo (2008) 108-127. For an influence of Lucretius’ DNR 3 on Lucan’s death of Pompey, Moretti (1985) 137-140.

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(mutantur prospera / non fit morte miser, prosperity changes, one does not become wretched in death, BC 631-632). In order to master his fear and suppress all external manifestations of suffering, Pompey carries out Seneca’s prescriptions featured in the seventy-eighth letter. Here the philosopher urged people in distress to turn their mind away from their present condition and pain (illud quoque proderit, ad alias cogitationes avertere animum et a dolore discedere, this will be helpful, to steer the mind away from the pain towards different thoughts, Sen. Epist. 78.18.12) and towards their reputation in the future (O quam magna erat gloriae materia, si spectaremur aegri! ipse te specta, ipse te lauda, Oh what a great occasion of glory if we could be watched while we are sick! Be your own spectator, your own admirer, Sen. Epist. 78.21.5-7). The mention of happiness and greatness in adversities evokes De Providentia 4.3.6, 4.4.12: opus est enim ad notitiam sui experiment. […] Gaudent, inquam, magni viri aliquando rebus adversis (if a man is to know himself, he must be tested; […] Great men, I say, rejoice oft-times in adversity). 45 The experience of suffering bestows knowledge; it tests the individual but it also reveals his strength to the world and to himself. Pompey acquires Stoic understanding through suffering, he realizes what is important and finally evaluates every aspect of life in the correct way: his death is not intrinsically important anymore, the destruction of the republic is what matters. Sadly this newly acquired understanding will not serve any purpose. Lucan’s poem is fundamentally tragic because virtue does not help the Republic. In the Bellum Civile salvation and freedom when possible are possible only at an individual level. The words nullo gemitu consensit ad ictum / respexitque nefas (without any lament, to the blow he assented / and despised the crime, BC 8.619620) are quite important to capture another aspect of Pompey’s attitude. Plutarch (Pomp. 79.4) recounted how Pompey died: ɟ ǎʌ ǞNj˪ǜ ǡǏǛǝʐǗ ȢǖǠǙǞʍǛNjǓǜ ǞʎǗ ǞʏnjǏǗǗǙǗ ȲǠǏǕǔǟǝʋǖǏǗǙǜ ǔNjǞʊ ǞǙ˹ ǚǛǙǝʗǚǙǟ, ǖǑǎʌǗ ǏɎǚʖǗ ȢǗʋǘǓǙǗ ȳNjǟǞǙ˹ ǖǑǎʌ ǚǙǓʏǝNjǜ, ȢǕǕʊ ǝǞǏǗʋǘNjǜ ǖʓǗǙǗ, ȲǗǏǔNjǛǞʍǛǑǝǏ ǞNj˪ǜ ǚǕǑǍNj˪ǜ (drawing his toga down over his face with both hands, without an act or a word that was unworthy of himself, but with a groan merely, submitted to their blows). 46 Cassius Dio enhanced the picture of this already quite favorable description by saying that the general died without emitting a word or a groan (Historia Romana xlii. 4.5). Lucan in his poem underlines this silence and strength. Perhaps he is trying to “attribute to Pompey greater Stoic endurance than Caesar had shown, 45 46

Translation by Basore (1928). Translation by Perrin (1917).

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since the latter uttered a single grown” at the moment of his death. 47 The verb consentire means “to assent, to agree with”; it suggests that Pompey accepts the blow—assents to it—without any attempt to resist (servatque inmobile corpus, [he] preserved his body still, BC 8.620). Ridley’s translation “nor sound nor cry / he gave, but calm consented to the blow” brings to the fore Pompey’s calmness, the man’s distance from and resignation to what is being experienced. The verb respicio (‘to look back’, ‘to have regard’, ‘to consider’, or ‘to contemplate’) seems to underline a similar yielding, yet it sits uncomfortably next to nefas. Some manuscripts preserve despexit—for respexit—and several commentators point out that the negative sense of nullo gemito should be carried on to the verb in question which should then be translated as “he did not consider/pay attention to the crime” (i.e. neque respexit). 48 But how can anybody consent to something unspeakably wrong (nefas) without any reaction? Luca Canali, in his translation, highlights the iunctura: pushing the interpretation a little bit further, he drives a wedge between consensit and respexit by writing “assecondò il colpo senza emettere un gemito: / spregiò il crimine” (“he seconded the strike without uttering a groan: / he despised the crime”). 49 While with his body Pompey communicates resignation, with his mind he conveys his negative judgment of the action. Canali’s translation underlines this dissociation, how the passivity of the body is in strident contrast with the rebellion of a mind which despises the criminal act. Jane Wilson Joyce too stresses the peculiarity of the Latin and, renouncing to be literal, translates “he did not give way to the stroke—not one groan!—/ but blotted out the atrocity, held his body stiff.” 50 The meaning of her line is difficult to pin down, since the adversative “but” seems to distance consensit from respexit, yet the line also suggests that the atrocity of the killing is somehow paradoxically obliterated, made vain, or cleansed by Pompey’s stern compliance.

47

Hammond and Amory (1967) 314; in Suetonius and in Plutarch’s accounts Caesar at first protests the violence and tries to defend himself; he becomes resigned when he sees Brutus. For Caesar’s death see Suetonius Caes. 82, Plut. Caes. 66, Appian BC 2.16.117; Jiménez Ramon (2000) 236. The best contribution on the relationships between Pompey’s and Caesar’s death is Esposito (1996) 98ff. Rambaud [(1955) 286] draws the picture of a noble stoic death for Pompey and Narducci [(2002) 332-335] also highlights the Stoic elements of Pompey’s final words. 48 Haskins (1971) 298. Postgate (1917) 104. 49 Canali (1981) 511. 50 Wilson Joyce (1993) 217.

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In Pompey’s self-consolation, Stoic athleticism and the Senecan idea of participation in the theatrum mundi (Prov. 2.7-9; Epist. 43.4-5) 51 become more and more tangible as Pompey defiantly addresses the gods and—like the Stoic sage—appears to be a veritable prophet of his future: “though men scatter and mutilate my limbs, nevertheless, ye gods, I am a fortunate man, and of this no god can deprive me.” (BC 8.629-631). E. Narducci has analyzed these lines in great depth. He sees in them the traditional philosophical motif of the past as no longer subject to the threats of fortuna (e.g. Sen. Brev. Vit. 10.2; Arist. Nic. Eth. 1139b 7-13) but also an unsettling sense of rebellion. He explains that for Lucan’s Pompey the enemy is not embodied by fortuna but by the gods themselves who should be the warrantors of a providential order in human affairs. In this kind of deteriorated environment marked by a sort of ‘anti-provvidenza,’ the wise man can be represented as happier, more just than the gods, and opposed to them. This is for Narducci how Lucan portrays Cato in book 2 and Pompey at 628-636. 52 The similarity and equality between sage and god characterizes Stoicism from the beginning. Homoiôsis theõi as a general phenomenon in Stoicism is illustrated by K. M. Vogt: The gods are, in all respects that relate to virtue, like the sage. Gods and sages are described with the same predicates—wise, virtuous, happy (eudaimôn), and perfectly reasonable. […] Chrysippus famously says that Zeus is not superior to a sage: “Zeus does not exceed Dion in virtue, and Zeus and Dion, given that they are wise, are benefited alike by each other whenever one encounters a movement of the other” (Plutarch, On Common Conceptions 1076A = LS 61J, translation LS). Chrysippus’s thesis is very strong: not only is Zeus not superior in virtue to Dion, but Zeus himself is called wise, and he can be benefited by a human being. The Stoic theory about the likeness of sage and god stands within the context of an ongoing ancient discussion about an idea that is most famously discussed in Theaetetus 176b-c. Here Plato has Socrates explain how one should try to become as much like god as possible…by using the expression homoiôsis theôi (literally, ‘assimilation to god’). 53

This idea is also very present in Seneca. Antonio La Penna painstakingly lists a high number of citations on the similarity between God and sage in Seneca’s writings. 54 For instance at Epist. 31.8.4-31.9.1, 51

C. Edwards (2007) 145-147. Narducci (2002) 445 and 383-395. 53 Vogt (2008) 113-114. 54 La Penna (1999) 345-376. At 366 he notices that this assimilation between the Stoic sage and the gods seemed slightly blasphemous or downright atheistic to some commentators of late antiquity and Christian writers. 52

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Seneca writes: Hoc est summum bonum; quod si occupas, incipis deorum socius esse, non supplex (This is the highest good, if you will obtain it you will start to be a companion of the gods, not their suppliant), and at Epist. 48.11.7-8 Hoc enim est quod mihi philosophia promittit, ut parem deo faciat; ad hoc invitatus sum, ad hoc veni (This is what philosophy promises to me, to make me equal to god; to this I was called, to this I come). The idea of the competition between sage and god is fully evident again in the following passage: Habemus aquam, habemus polentam; Iovi ipsi controversiam de felicitate faciamus. Faciamus, oro te, etiam si ista defuerint. […] Liber est autem non in quem parum licet fortunae, sed in quem nihil. Ita est: nihil desideres oportet si vis Iovem provocare nihil desiderantem. (Epist. 110.18.3-5, 110.20.1-4) (We have water, we have bread; let us compete with Jove himself for happiness. Let us compete [with him] I beg you, even if these things are missing. […] Free is not the one on whom Fortune has little power but on whom Fortune has no power at all. This is it: it is necessary that you desire nothing if you wish to compete with Jove who desires nothing, my translation)

If Seneca’s sage continues to be pius and tolerates with serenity all happenings because he is aware of their ultimate inclusion within a divine and just order (Epist. 76.23), in Lucan’s epic, virtuous individuals become rebellious and start to resemble bold characters of tragedy or epic. The line in which Pompey proclaims himself felix reminds us of Niobe’s proud boast at Ovid Met. 6.193: sum felix; quis enim neget hoc? felixque manebo (I am … happy—who could deny it—and I will remain happy). In the Aeneid only ambiguous or rather negative characters challenged the gods or Fatum (Mezentius, Juno, Juturna, Turnus, Euryalus’ mother), but in the Bellum Civile positive characters (or at least those most cherished by the narrator) feeling abandoned by the divinity start to show a will to challenge divine plans. Narducci understands well that the rebellion of the sage and his titanic attitude are phenomena rooted in philosophical discourse, most especially in Epicureanism and Stoicism. This correlation is fundamental because it helps to see how traditional epic discourse can be challenged, re-examined and ultimately re-shaped under the influence of ideas deriving from other genres and their models. 55 In our case Stoic philosophy provides a fundamental ‘anti-model’ to Lucan’s epic discourse.

55

This insight can be found in Perkell (1997).

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The importance of philosophical discourse as a tool through which the epic world can be tested and traditional discourse about Roman virtus requalified is apparent in an interesting article by L. Kronenberg on Mezentius. Here the writer justifies Mezentius’ actions in the name of Epicureanism. 56 I believe that Lucan was inspired by this famous comtemptor divum (Aen. 7.648, 8.7) when describing the dying Pompey. The two characters differ but they also strike us as similar in certain attitudes. Mezentius’ recognition of infelicitas (heu, nunc misero mihi demum / exitium infelix, nunc alte vulnus adactum! alas, now at last death is unhappy for wretched me, now the wound is driven deep!, Aen. 10.849-850) should be compared to Pompey’s opposite remark in which he considers himself felix (BC 8.630). Furthermore, while Mezentius analyzes his past actions and finds himself guilty (Aen. 10.851-854), Pompey is quite satisfied with his past (BC 8.625). Despite these differences, both men accept death with calmness, achieve a greater understanding of the status quo, console themselves and others by pointing out their mortal status, and maintain a proud brow. At the moment of death Mezentius addresses his faithful horse exclaiming, Rhaebe, diu, res si qua diu mortalibus ulla est, / viximus (Rhaebus, we have lived a long time, if anything for mortals is long, Aen. 10.861-862). These words remind us of Lucretius’ use of consolatio at DRN 3.931-939, in which he argues that people should depart from life with a sense of contentment: 57 Denique si vocem rerum natura repente mittat et hoc alicui nostrum sic increpet ipsa: ‘quid tibi tanto operest, mortalis, quod nimis aegris luctibus indulges? Quid mortem congemis ac fles? nam [si] grata fuit tibi vita ante acta priorque et non omnia pertusum congesta quasi in vas commoda perfluxere atque ingrata interiere; cur non ut plenus vitae conviva recedis aequo animoque capis securam, stulte, quietem? (DRN 3.931-939) (Besides, if nature should suddenly speak And herself in her turn would reproach one of us in this way: ‘What troubles you so much, mortal one, to indulge so much in too sickly lamentations? Why do you complain and cry about death? If your past life was pleasant, and it is not the case that all your blessings 56

Kronenberg (2005) 406. On Mezentius, see Thome (1979); Gotoff (1984); Leigh (1993) 91-96. 57 See Stork (1970); Price Wallach (1976); Reinhardt (2002) and (2004).

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Both Pompey and Mezentius manifest the understanding of having lived enough. They depart without regrets as if they heard and internalized Nature’s summons at DRN 3.931-949. Price Wallach has carefully analyzed Nature’s speech in connection with Cynic-Stoic diatribe and has found Lucretius influenced by Bion. 58 In the passage just cited, Nature is not pushing suicide but a positive acceptance of inevitable death. Whether somebody has led a good life or not, whether he could obtain more, should not matter, he can depart with satisfaction. Diatribe’s didacticism is quite visible (here and elsewhere in Lucretius) in the employment of a highly rhetorical style which includes direct address, polemical tone, and exhortation. These rhetorical devices are useful to produce a rather dramatic and vivid narration which can maintain or regain the attention of the audience. Lucan’s own style may have been influenced by diatribe. 59 In addition, Pompey’s full acceptance of his death and subtle scorn for the gods is matched by Mezentius’ brave acquiescence to death and scorn for the gods: nec mortem horremus nec divum parcimus ulli. /… nam venio moriturus (I do not fear death, nor care for any of the gods, /… I come with the intention to die, Aen. 10.880-881). Last but not least, Lucan’s line respexitque nefas (BC 8.620) seems antiphrastically to allude to Mezentius’ address to Aeneas: nullum in caede nefas (there is nothing criminal in (my) being killed, Aen. 10.901). Obviously while Mezentius does not consider his ending a terrible deed, Pompey criticizes it by his very disdain (see above). Kronenberg analyzes the Vergilian contemptor divum as an embodiment of a new kind of pietas conceived according to the lines and rhetorical strategies employed by Lucretius in his De Rerum Natura. Lucretius’ didactic poem contains a powerful depiction of the evils of religio (tantum religio potuit suadere malorum, such are the crimes to which religion induces, DRN 1.101) and it glorifies Epicurus’ defeat of religio, described as a monstrous tyrant (DRN 1.62-79). Lucretius also redefines pietas, stating that it is not found in traditional religious practices—praying and 58

Price Wallach (1976) 4-10 and 61-81. Diatribe was a fairly hybrid genre which delivered philosophical messages within an oration. For definition and bibliography see Kenney (1971) 18; Price Wallach (1976) 6. 59 As far as I know, the relationship between Lucan’s epic and diatribe has not yet been carefully investigated.

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sacrificing—associated with the gods, but it is the ability to view the world with a quiet mind (sed mage pacata posse omnia mente tueri, but rather to contemplate everything with a quiet mind, DRN 5.1203). 60 Finally Kronenberg observes that: Though most commentators compare Mezentius’ death to a gladiator’s (e.g., S. Harrison [1991, Vergil: Aeneid 10, Oxford] ad 10.907), there are also hints of a philosopher’s suicide in his complete willingness to die and his accepting of the sword (contra H. C. Gotoff [1984, “The Transformation of Mezentius”, TAPA, 114: 191-218], 210 n. 49). Mezentius’ knowing and willing death also contributes to the imagery of devotio that pervades his final scene…The portrait of Mezentius as a heroic, devotus general counters Cicero’s argument that Epicureans, with their philosophy of voluptas, could never attain the level of bravery reached by Decius in his devotio (Fin. 2.61). 61

In this interpretation Mezentius is an allegory for Epicureanism and Vergil’s readers are invited “to reconfigure the moral universe of the text and to redefine the meaning of pietas, much as Epicureanism itself attempted to do.” 62 I believe that we must put this idea to work in Lucan’s case as well, when he uses some of Mezentius’ traits to structure and qualify the death of Pompey. In conclusion, in book 8 as Pompey attempts to console his wife as well as himself, his behavior and the substance of his statements are colored and encouraged by motifs coming from philosophical and consolatory discourse. Lucan shows himself to be familiar with this tradition and resorts to it to construct a noble image of Pompey who is portrayed as a Stoic individual determined to become a worthy example for his family and future generations. Yet, while consoling himself and his wife, Pompey is also shown as at odds with the gods and Providence. In Lucan’s poem, the Stoic (as well as epic) idea of Providence is undermined while importance is given to the individual’s struggle against fate. If sage and gods can peacefully cohabit in a universe shaped by divine benevolence and rational order, “when one’s certainty about the rationality of the world is impaired … when history’s foresight becomes history’s pitiless injustice, the sapiens becomes the stronghold of freedom not by accepting fate and recognizing its rationality, but by rebelling 60

Kronenberg (2005) 406-407. Kronenberg (2005) 424 n. 79. 62 Kronenberg (2005) 427. According to Coppolino [(2005) 11-13] an indictment of traditional devotion as well as of pietas is carried out in the description of Lausus’ death through the employment of Lucretius’ DRN. 61

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against fate: this is the inversion that is at work…in Lucan’s Stoicism.” 63 This attitude characterizes Lucan’s Cato and, following Cato’s example, with resignation and rebellion, Pompey confronts a world in which the justice of Jupiter and the benignity of Stoic Providence are failing. In Pompey’s consolations to his wife and to himself we see how the exhortation to accept adversities is inscribed within the struggle of pietas against fatum. Pompey conceives of himself as victim of the gods as well as a defiant rival to them. He laments his sad and ultimately unjust fate yet he also demonstrates his ability to overcome that fate by refusing to be crushed by it. He is able to do this by adopting the strategies described and at times enacted by philosophers. The rebellion of the sage and his titanic attitude are phenomena rooted in philosophical discourse, most especially in Epicureanism and Stoicism. If on the one hand, this attitude reveals symptoms of a philosophical crisis within Lucan’s world, it also paradoxically reminds us of how much that world is imbued with philosophy. Traditional epic discourse 64 itself appears to be in crisis in the Bellum Civile, and it is explored and ultimately re-shaped under the pressure of ideas drawn from philosophy. It is philosophy that enables Pompey (and Cato) to rebel against destiny. The connection between the good man’s insurgence against the gods and Hellenistic philosophical creeds is one of the most interesting aspects of Lucan’s poem.

63

La Penna (1999) 367. What Gian Biagio Conte [(1986) 97ff.] in his seminal contribution has called the ‘epic code.’ 64

CHAPTER NINE PERSIUS’ FOURTH SATIRE: SOCRATES AND THE FAILURE OF PEDAGOGY 1 SHADI BARTSCH Persius’ relationship to Stoic philosophy poses a significant question in studies of the poet, but much of the debate has remained couched in terms of his orthodoxy on philosophical issues rather than broader issues. 2 Besides Persius’ self-identified status as a Stoic student (Sat. 5.35-51), his writings clearly reflect the orientation and emphasis of his fellow firstcentury Stoics, Seneca and Epictetus. There is the expression of such general tenets as the necessity for self-control and self-knowledge, the unimportance of indifferents like wealth and status, and the folly of the non-philosopher. Perhaps more importantly, we find in all writers that certain themes are emphasized: for example, the treatment of the body as a debased container for the mind rather than a neutral material coextensive with it; the interest in self-shaping and self-improvement via the meditatio and/or internal dialogue; support for a retreat into the self and for disregarding the opinions of the crowd (and politics generally). To be sure, Persius’ choice of medium raises interesting problems and paradoxes, as does his extensive play on his satiric predecessor, Horace. 3 But there remain other, different questions to be asked about Persius’ treatment of Stoicism as an integral part of his poetico-satiric project. The topic I address here therefore, is less about whether Persius is concerned to say something about Roman Stoicism, than how and why he says it in the context of his satirical framework.

1

I would like to thank the editors of this volume for their painstaking editing of this contribution. All translations are my own, except where otherwise noted. 2 For some exceptions, see e.g. the interesting work of Littlewood (2002) and Cucchiarelli (2005). 3 Hooley (1997) offers a comprehensive study of this topic.

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To start with, let us note that Persius—like Seneca 4—explicitly expresses disdain for enticing or pleasurable approaches to pedagogy, thus drawing a sharp line in the sand between himself and the Epicurean Lucretius, another philosopher-poet. Lucretius famously characterized his verse as honey on the cup of philosophy (Lucr. DRN 1.936-950, 4.1-25). Persius’ poetry has no honey: its sharp (acer) verse instead scrapes us and assaults us in a new poetics of discomfort. 5 In adopting this unusual stance, Persius might seem to echo a Platonic bias against the pleasure of poetry (and its corollary, deception), 6 but in fact his reception of the Stoic inheritance of Platonic topics and assumptions is not so clear-cut. In Satire 4 in particular his focus is not so much on the philosophical problem of writing in poetry, as on the critique, in poetry, of a series of Platonic dialogues—in particular, the Alcibiades I, the Symposium, and the Phaedrus. As such, his own writing offers a dialogic answer to the Platonic tradition and the topics of pedagogy, pleasure, and dialectic. Among the Satires, it is the fourth that points most conspicuously to its philosophical antecedents and their claim to teach a form of wisdom descended from the Socratic project. Indeed, Satire 4 trumpets its status as the heir apparent to several of Plato’s dialogues. It summons up most immediately the first Alcibiades, which stages a conversation between Socrates and the young Alcibiades, but also, to a lesser degree, the Symposium and the Apology. 7 The satire shares with the first Alcibiades the topos of a conversation between Socrates and Alcibiades on the latter’s ethical fitness to lead the Athenian demos when he lacks self-knowledge; 8 with the Symposium, the evocation of the sexual component to the Socrates-Alcibiades relationship (cf. Symp. 216d-219d); with the Apology, 4

Cf. Sen. Epist.75.5-7, Epist. 108.9. Cf. Freudenburg (2001) 182: “Lucretius rimmed his bitter cup with honey. Horace passed out cookies to recalcitrant schoolboys. Persius intensifies. His patients are not suffering from slave-boy sniffles. They are ravaged from within by a fatal disease…. So Persius gives it to them, and to us, boiled-down, straight and hot. No ‘pleasurable’ honey around the rim.” On Persius’ rejection of Lucretius’ metaphor, see similarly Bellandi (1988) 34-38. On acer as a critical-rhetorical term, see Bellandi (1988); Dessen (1968) vi-vii; Kenney (2012) 115. 6 As laid out by Moss (2006). 7 On the Alcibiades I as model for Satire 4, see e.g. Jahn (1843) 167-172; Dessen (1968) 58-70; Ramage (1974) 121-125; Morford (1984) 50-51; Littlewood (2002) 56; P. A. Miller (2007); Dessen [(1968) 104] notes that the reference to the Alcibiades I at Epict. Diss. 3.1.42 suggests particular Stoic interest in that dialogue. 8 “The subject of this self-conscious satire, then, is the translation of the Socratic ‘Know yourself’ into a different genre. With what voice are you to ‘know yourself’ in satire?” [Littlewood (2002) 56]. 5

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the implicit questioning of the value of Socratic pedagogy. Yet Persius’ satire does not only inherit these themes, but also revisits and reworks them in a way that renders deeply problematic the Platonic assumptions that underpin their philosophical teachings. The first Alcibiades, whatever its authenticity, was often placed at the head of collections of Plato’s works because it seemed to represent so many of his arguments in nuce; 9 among the neo-Platonic commentators it was considered not only a fine introduction to Plato’s thought, but also a protreptic to philosophical study. 10 The dialogue certainly has protrepticlike features: first, its dramatic timing at a particular point in a young man’s life, when he is just getting ready to enter the political sphere; second, its rare happy outcome, in which Socrates actually succeeds in persuading the young Alcibiades that he needs to know more about himself before he addresses the Athenian assembly; and third, by implication, its revision of the some charges against Socrates as reported in Plato’s Apology, Xenophon’s Memorabilia, and the lost kategoria Socratous by Polycrates—in particular that he corrupted the young with his philosophical arguments. 11 In contrast, the Alcibiades of this dialogue is no manipulator of the state to his own narcissistic ends, but rather an interlocutor who leaves his session with Socrates much the wiser about his deficiencies, and fully resolved to address them: Ȉȍ. ǹ੝IJ૶ ਙȡĮ ıȠ੿ ʌȡ૵IJȠȞ țIJȘIJ੼ȠȞ ਕȡİIJ੾Ȟ, țĮ੿ ਙȜȜ૳ ੔Ȣ ȝ੼ȜȜİȚ ȝ੽ ੁį઀઺ ȝંȞȠȞ Įਫ਼IJȠ૨ IJİ țĮ੿ IJ૵Ȟ Įਫ਼IJȠ૨ ਙȡȟİȚȞ țĮ੿ ਥʌȚȝİȜ੾ıİıșĮȚ, ਕȜȜ੹ ʌંȜİȦȢ țĮ੿ IJ૵Ȟ IJોȢ ʌંȜİȦȢ. ǹȁ. ૅǹȜȘșો Ȝ੼ȖİȚȢ. Ȉȍ. ȅ੝ț ਙȡĮ ਥȟȠȣı઀ĮȞ ıȠȚ Ƞ੝į’ ਕȡȤ੽Ȟ ʌĮȡĮıțİȣĮıIJ੼ȠȞ ıĮȣIJ૶ ʌȠȚİ૙Ȟ ੖IJȚ ਗȞ ȕȠ઄Ȝૉ, Ƞ੝į੻ IJૌ ʌંȜİȚ, ਕȜȜ੹ įȚțĮȚȠı઄ȞȘȞ țĮ੿ ıȦijȡȠı઄ȞȘȞ. ǹȁ. ĭĮ઀ȞİIJĮȚ. Ȉȍ. ǻȚțĮ઀ȦȢ ȝ੻Ȟ Ȗ੹ȡ ʌȡ੺IJIJȠȞIJİȢ țĮ੿ ıȦijȡંȞȦȢ ı઄ IJİ țĮ੿ ਲ ʌંȜȚȢ șİȠijȚȜ૵Ȣ ʌȡ੺ȟİIJİ. ǹȁ. ǼੁțંȢ Ȗİ. Ȉȍ. ȀĮ੿ ੖ʌİȡ Ȗİ ਥȞ IJȠ૙Ȣ ʌȡંıșİȞ ਥȜ੼ȖȠȝİȞ, İੁȢ IJઁ șİ૙ȠȞ țĮ੿ ȜĮȝʌȡઁȞ ੒ȡ૵ȞIJİȢ ʌȡ੺ȟİIJİ. ǹȁ. ĭĮ઀ȞİIJĮȚ. 9

According to the testimony of Diogenes Laertius 3.62. See Pradeau [(1999) 2224] on the Alcibiades in antiquity, and Denyer (2001) 14-25 in favor of its authenticity. The most comprehensive treatment of its reception in antiquity, from Plotinus to Olympiodorus, is in Segonds’ 1986 introduction to Proclus’ commentary on the Alcibiades. 10 Jordan (1986) 314. 11 According to Isoc. Busiris 5, Polycrates named Alcibiades in particular as a pupil of Socrates.

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Chapter Nine Ȉȍ. ૅǹȜȜ੹ ȝ੽Ȟ ਥȞIJĮ૨ș੺ Ȗİ ȕȜ੼ʌȠȞIJİȢ ਫ਼ȝ઼Ȣ IJİ Į੝IJȠઃȢ țĮ੿ IJ੹ ਫ਼ȝ੼IJİȡĮ ਕȖĮș੹ țĮIJંȥİıșİ țĮ੿ ȖȞઆıİıșİ. ǹȁ. ȃĮ઀. Ȉȍ. ȅ੝țȠ૨Ȟ ੑȡș૵Ȣ IJİ țĮ੿ İ੣ ʌȡ੺ȟİIJİ ǹȁ. ȃĮ઀. [...] ȁ੼ȖȦ į੾. țĮ੿ ʌȡઁȢ IJȠ઄IJȠȚȢ ȝ੼ȞIJȠȚ IJંįİ Ȝ੼ȖȦ, ੖IJȚ țȚȞįȣȞİ઄ıȠȝİȞ ȝİIJĮȕĮȜİ૙Ȟ IJઁ ıȤોȝĮ, ੯ ȈઆțȡĮIJİȢ, IJઁ ȝ੻Ȟ ıઁȞ ਥȖઆ, ıઃ į੻ IJȠ੝ȝંȞ· Ƞ੝ Ȗ੹ȡ ਩ıIJȚȞ ੖ʌȦȢ Ƞ੝ ʌĮȚįĮȖȦȖ੾ıȦ ıİ ਕʌઁ IJોıįİ IJોȢ ਲȝ੼ȡĮȢ, ıઃ į’ ਫ਼ʌ' ਥȝȠ૨ ʌĮȚįĮȖȦȖ੾ıૉ. (Alc. I. 134c-d, 135d) (Socrates: Then you or anyone else who is to be governor and curator, not merely of himself and his belongings in private, but of the state and its affairs, must first acquire virtue himself. Alcibiades: That is true. Socrates: Hence it is not licence or authority for doing what one pleases that you have to secure to yourself or the state, but justice and temperance. Alcibiades: Apparently. Socrates: For you and the state, if you act justly and temperately, will act so as to please God. Alcibiades: Naturally. Socrates: And, as we were saying in what went before, you will act with your eyes turned on what is divine and bright. Alcibiades: Apparently. Socrates: Well, and looking thereon you will behold and know both yourselves and your good. Alcibiades: Yes. Socrates: And so you will act aright and well? Alcibiades: Yes…. And yet I say this besides, that we are like to make a change in our parts, Socrates, so that I shall have yours and you mine. For from this day onward it must be the case that I am your attendant, and you have me always in attendance on you, trnsl. W. R. M. Lamb)

The Alcibiades I, then, offers a corrective view to the Alcibiades of the Symposium, the handsome youth who seems more concerned with Socrates’ erotic rejection than with learning philosophy; and certainly a corrective view to the historical facts. In reality, of course, Socrates’ most famous student came to a bad end: audacious and flamboyant, an advocate of the disastrous Sicilian expedition, he betrayed Athens for Sparta, Sparta in turn for Persia, and then Persia in turn for Athens, and finally met a violent death in Phrygia. As such, he posed a conspicuous stumbling-block for adherents of the efficacy of any philosophical pedagogy. We might speculate that Alcibiades’ bad example, along with that of several other infamous Socratic students, is the reason why in the Apology Plato has Socrates insist that he is not actually a teacher of men and as such cannot assume responsibility for such characters (Plato Apol. 33a-b). In picking this dialogue as his model, then, Persius would be staking his distance

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from the alternative versions of Alcibiades available to him, and especially that of the Symposium. This Alcibiades confesses in fact that his best way of dealing with Socrates is to run away from him: ı઄ȞȠȚįĮ Ȗ੹ȡ ਥȝĮȣIJ૶ ਕȞIJȚȜ੼ȖİȚȞ ȝ੻Ȟ Ƞ੝ įȣȞĮȝ੼Ȟ૳ ੪Ȣ Ƞ੝ įİ૙ ʌȠȚİ૙Ȟ ਘ Ƞ੤IJȠȢ țİȜİ઄İȚ, ਥʌİȚį੹Ȟ į੻ ਕʌ੼ȜșȦ, ਲIJIJȘȝ੼Ȟ૳ IJોȢ IJȚȝોȢ IJોȢ ਫ਼ʌઁ IJ૵Ȟ ʌȠȜȜ૵Ȟ. įȡĮʌİIJİ઄Ȧ Ƞ੣Ȟ Į੝IJઁȞ țĮ੿ ijİ઄ȖȦ, țĮ੿ ੖IJĮȞ ੅įȦ, ĮੁıȤ઄ȞȠȝĮȚ IJ੹ ੪ȝȠȜȠȖȘȝ੼ȞĮ. (Symposium 216b 3-6) (I know that I cannot answer him, or say that I ought not to do as he bids, but when I leave his presence the love of popularity gets the better of me. And therefore I run away and fly from him, and when I see him I am ashamed of what I have confessed to him, trnsl. Jowett).

In the idealizing Alcibiades I, by contrast, Alcibiades admits that he has failed to learn from his guardian, the statesman Pericles, but blames himself for inattention (118e), and he explains his siblings’ bad behavior by claiming they are demented or, alternatively, stupid. But where Pericles has failed, Socrates of course succeeds, highlighting all the more the particular talent for dialogue and persuasion that the philosopher possesses. If, as Epictetus tells us in Discourses 3.1.19, Socrates persuaded not one in a thousand, his success in the first Alcibiades is noteworthy indeed. We might feel justified, then, in anticipating that Persius picked this dialogue to imitate out of all the aporetic or ambiguous conversations in which Plato’s Socrates engaged, to enact for us effective dialectic, or at least, effective philosophical pedagogy in action; and we might expect from Satire 4 an adaptation of Platonic dialogue to satire, a Roman version of the give-and-take of dialectic that reproduces for us the benefits of a philosophical guide in conversation. 12 And Satire 4 fulfills, at its opening, precisely such expectations. Already in the first lines of the satire the correlation with the Alcibiades I is striking, as Socrates and Alcibiades take up a conversation about self-knowledge spurred, apparently, by Alcibiades’ misguided decision to take up a career in politics: 12

Persius’ philosophical orientation is Stoic, of course, whether we feel the philosopher or the satirist has the upper hand in his corpus; but the Stoics themselves were quick to trace their intellectual descent from Plato, and the main themes of Satire 4—self-knowledge, the folly of seeking public approval, and the primacy of philosophy over politics—are staples of both schools. Persius himself draws attention elsewhere to the Socratic allegiance of his Stoic teacher, Cornutus, by referring to the latter’s Socraticus sinus (Sat. 5.37). On the Stoic outlook of the Satires, see e.g. Martin (1939); Ramage (1974); Reckford (2009) 65-67, 118-21, and passim.

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Chapter Nine ‘Rem populi tractas?’ barbatum haec crede magistrum dicere, sorbitio tollit quem dira cicutae. 'quo fretus? dic hoc, magni pupille Pericli. scilicet ingenium et rerum prudentia velox ante pilos venit, dicenda tacendave calles. (Sat. 4.1-5) (You’re handling public affairs?” Imagine the bearded teacher says this, the one a drink of terrible hemlock carried off. “Relying on what? Tell me, ward of great Pericles. I suppose intelligence and swift discrimination in affairs have come before your beard, and you know how to speak or hold your peace.)

So too in the Alcibiades I Socrates is incredulous that Alcibiades is preparing to take up his place among those managing the affairs of the city (ǚǛNjǞǞǦǗǞǣǗǞʊ Ǟ˜ǝǎǏǞ˜ǜǚǦǕǏǣǜ Alc. 1.118b), and there too, Alcibiades’ confidence seems to be incorrectly placed in his natural abilities rather than in the philosophical training that Socrates offers. The echoes are noteworthy. The quo fretus? of line 3 recalls Socrates’ question at Alc 1.123e: ǞljǙɰǗǚǙǞ̧ȶǝǞǓǗɣǞ̄ ǚǓǝǞǏǧǏǓǞʒ ǖǏǓǛdžǔǓǙǗ(What then is it that the young man puts his confidence in?) and the mention of ‘great Pericles’ hearkens back to Alcibiades’ confidence in Pericles’ power at Alc. 1.104b. And when Persius’ Socrates sarcastically imagines Alcibiades addressing the crowd on what is right and wrong—hoc puta non iustum est, illud male, rectius illud (Citizens, this [say] is unjust, that’s ill-advised, that’s a better choice, Sat. 4.9)—the verse recalls Socrates’ statement in the Greek original that Alcibiades cannot yet have any conception of right and wrong (ƽǃ. ƻ̆ǜ ǙɰǗ ǏɎǔʓǜ ǝǏ ǏɎǎʍǗNjǓ Ǟʊ ǎʑǔNjǓNj ǔNjʐ Ǟʊ ȦǎǓǔNj, ǚǏǛʐ ʁǗ ǙɯǞǣ ǚǕNjǗˎ ǔNjʐ ǙɮǞǏ ǖNjǒʖǗ ǠNjʑǗ˚ ǚNjǛ̧ǙɪǎǏǗʒǜ ǙɮǞ̧NjɪǞʒǜ ȲǘǏǟǛʗǗƠ Then how is it likely that you would know what is just and unjust, when you are at a loss in this way about these matters and clearly have neither learnt them from anyone nor discovered them yourself?, Alc. 1.112d). Finally, in the lines that follow, Socrates continues his commentary on Alcibiades’ philosophical ignorance, invoking both the “scale of justice” and the Stoic idea of the moral rule (regula): scis etenim iustum gemina suspendere lance ancipitis librae, rectum discernis ubi inter curva subit vel cum fallit pede regula varo, et potis es nigrum vitio praefigere theta. (Sat. 4.10-13)

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(For you know how to weigh justice on the twin scale of the wavering balance, you distinguish what’s right from the wrong on either side, when the rule misleads with incorrect markings, and you can mark a black theta next to a vice.)

The weighing of moral choices is a metaphor used by Plato himself (cf. Plato Prot. 356b, Rep. 8.550e), while much of the Alcibiades I delves into the possibility of errors over just and unjust choices based on incorrect criteria. If at this point we were to look for any divergence from the Platonic dialogue in the satire, it would only be Persius’ change of the original political context from Athenian democracy to the Roman Republic: the demos have become Quirites, and our speaker Alcibiades recalls Vergil’s famous statesman simile from Aeneid 1.148-153, where a leader outstanding in pietas and noble deeds calms a riotous mob. Following his original, Persius has set his dialogue in the Roman equivalent of a state in which elites might actually hope to shape political decisions. At this juncture, however, the dialogue between Alcibiades and Socrates swerves violently off-course and reveals itself as neither the scene of a successful dialectic nor a protreptic that shows the happy consequences of embracing the Socratic or the Stoic life. 13 In the lines that follow, the satirist disengages himself from the Platonic master-text, and where the Alcibiades I continued in a give-and-take between the two men about the qualities necessary for leadership, Socrates here launches into a violent attack on Alcibiades’ relationship with the popellus and his luxurious tastes: 14 quin tu igitur summa nequiquam pelle decorus ante diem blando caudam iactare popello desinis, Anticyras melior sorbere meracas? quae tibi summa boni est? uncta vixisse patella semper et adsiduo curata cuticula sole? (Sat. 4.14-18) (Why don’t you stop tossing your tail before your flattering public before your time, Mr.Good-Looking on the surface (no use in that), when you’d be better off sucking down undiluted hellebore?

13 It is interesting that the note of discordance introduced here (4.7) by the Ovidian fert animus, from the first line of the Metamorphoses, leads in fact to a metamorphosis of this happy scene. 14 As Bellandi [(1988) 58] notes, instead of Socratic irony, we get lacerating sarcasm.

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Chapter Nine What’s the Highest Good to you? To have lived without cease off an epicure’s plate, your skin always nursed by the sun?)

The general import of these lines is clear: Alcibiades, far from debating the meaning of justice, has yielded to a life of luxury and already needs the philosophical cure provided by hellebore. Hellebore, according to Chrysippus, was the prerequisite drink for the would-be philosopher (Ǚɪ ǒʍǖǓǜǍǏǗʍǝǒNjǓǝǙǠʓǗɀǗǖʎ ǞǛʐǜȲǠǏǘ˜ǜǞǙ˹ ȲǕǕǏnjʓǛǙǟǚlj˚ǜ It’s not right to become a philosopher unless you’ve had three drinks of hellebore in a row, Lucian Vit. Auct. 23). Its use, moreover, had good satiric precedent: Horace’s Damasippus (quoting one Stertinius in turn) expounds on the Stoic paradox that most men are mad and opines that the largest doses of hellebore should go to the covetous (Sat. 2.3.82; cf. Ars Poet. 300). Pliny too lists hellebore as a cure for madness, among other ailments (NH 24.60, 25.22). 15 Hellebore, then, was believed to cure insanity (it also purged the intestines): the man who chooses luxury over wisdom needs it because he is, in effect, mad. Madness, however, is not all that ails our Platonic version of a proficiens. To make matters worse, the tail-tossing metaphor (“Why don’t you stop tossing your tail before your flattering public?” Sat. 4.14-16) introduces a sexual element into Alcibiades’ failure. To be sure, there is no reason to pick a single option as the referent of this image of a fawning display, and dogs, peacocks, even lion cubs have been suggested as the possessors of the tail. 16 But cauda is also a slang term for penis, as Cicero observes at ad Fam. 9.22, and Persius has good Horatian precedent for this usage: Horace employs the term cauda for penis twice, once when an adulterer is deprived of his, the other time when his slave Davus describes how he sates his lust (Sat. 1.2.45; 2.7.49). 17 The presence of the penis on display is significant because it, too, looks back to one of the principal 15

Cf. also Hipp. Epidemics 5.2, in which ‘Ǟʒ ǠdžǛǖNjǔǙǗ’ stands in for hellebore, here too a cure for madness. 16 The scholiast Cornutus suggests that Persius is thinking of a pet dog (cf. the Horatian precedent in Carm. 2.19.30 and 3.11.15); Kissel [(1990) 518] takes it to refer to a peacock, also with a parallel in Horace (Sat. 2.2.26); in their commentaries ad loc., Jahn (1843) argues for a horse, and Conington (1874) offers a lion cub. 17 Dessen [(1968) 67] and Littlewood [(2002) 67] take cauda here to mean penis. Littlewood similarly takes nervi at line 4.45 to refer to penis, and draws the point (79) that “Alcibiades’ effeminate body, the truth, is concealed by his beautiful words. Socrates’ criticism is true because it tears away the words to reveal the body beneath. Socrates’ last attack on Alcibiades (4.47-50) represents him as the slave of his penis and his thirsty ears.”

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concerns of the Alcibiades I: Alcibiades’ sexual self-display picks up on Socrates’ fear in the Alcibiades I that he will emerge as an erastes of the demos rather than as a good student of Socratic philosophy. 18 That is, Socrates is concerned that Alcibiades might find himself “seduced” by the prospect of popular influence: Ȉȍ. țĮ੿ Ȟ૨Ȟ Ȗİ ਗȞ ȝ੽ įȚĮijșĮȡૌȢ ਫ਼ʌઁ IJȠ૨ ૅǹșȘȞĮ઀ȦȞ į੾ȝȠȣ țĮ੿ ĮੁıȤ઀ȦȞ Ȗ੼Ȟૉ, Ƞ੝ ȝ੾ ıİ ਕʌȠȜ઀ʌȦ. IJȠ૨IJȠ Ȗ੹ȡ į੽ ȝ੺ȜȚıIJĮ ਥȖઅ ijȠȕȠ૨ȝĮȚ, ȝ੽ įȘȝİȡĮıIJ੽Ȣ ਲȝ૙Ȟ ȖİȞંȝİȞȠȢ įȚĮijșĮȡૌȢ· ʌȠȜȜȠ੿ Ȗ੹ȡ ਵįȘ țĮ੿ ਕȖĮșȠ੿ Į੝IJઁ ʌİʌંȞșĮıȚȞ ૅǹșȘȞĮ઀ȦȞ. İ੝ʌȡંıȦʌȠȢ Ȗ੹ȡ ੒ IJȠ૨ ȝİȖĮȜ੾IJȠȡȠȢ įોȝȠȢ ૅǼȡİȤș੼ȦȢ· ਕȜȜ’ ਕʌȠį઄ȞIJĮ Ȥȡ੽ Į੝IJઁȞ șİ੺ıĮıșĮȚ. İ੝ȜĮȕȠ૨ Ƞ੣Ȟ IJ੽Ȟ İ੝Ȝ੺ȕİȚĮȞ ਴Ȟ ਥȖઅ Ȝ੼ȖȦ. (Alc. I 132a) (And now, unless you are corrupted/seduced by the Athenian people and become base, I shall never forsake you. For I fear this especially, that you become a demos-lover and be corrupted. Many Athenians have come to that already, noble ones too. For “the demos of the great-hearted Erechtheus” is attractive [Hom. Il. 2.547], but you must see it naked: so take the precaution that I recommend.)

In this erotic metaphor the young and beautiful eromenos Alcibiades is cast as an erastes, and of the demos at that. But Alcibiades needs to realize that the demos is ugly: Socrates advises him to get a look at his love-object in the nude—if nothing else turns him off, that will. 19 This literal nudity represents, of course, the moral ugliness of the demos when scrutinized from a philosophical point of view and the moral poverty of its choices. As an eromenos, a love object, the demos has the potential to corrupt its lover (the erastes) rather than producing in him the sublimated sort of love that leads to self-improvement and self-knowledge. In the Alcibiades I, of course, such a fate is happily averted. But not so, it seems, in Persius’ satire. Here, Alcibiades’ apparent failure to show himself responsive to Socrates’ teachings—together with his interest in leading by charisma rather than wisdom, his taste for the self-indulgent life-style, and his erotic self-display—suggest that this Alcibiades represents the worst-case scenario worried about by Socrates at the end of the Platonic dialogue. That is to say, Alcibiades-on-display is shown as already having entered into an erotic relationship with the demos/popellus: it is as if we have jumped forward to the end of the Socratic dialogue, and indeed beyond it—to the historical failure of Alcibiades to turn out as he promised and as Socrates hoped. In Persius’ forward-looking view, 18 19

Dessen [(1968) 62-63] points out the parallel. One might compare the cure for love that Lucretius offers at DRN 4.1153-1170.

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Alcibiades has already been revealed as having failed to follow the correct path. Thus the assembly referred to as a potential future audience in the Alcibiades 1 is already in the past, cast as the occasion on which Persius’s Alcibiades was engaged in displaying his (pea)cock to his audience. This Alcibiades is, as it were, post-corruption: he cares more for the opinion of others and for popularity with the mob than for the values of the philosopher. The satirist drives this home by comparing him to an old crone who hawks herbs to slaves for a living (4.19-22): both make their living by selling what they have, with the implication that the pretty-boy Alcibiades, more like an eromenos here than an erastes, has effectively prostituted himself to the people. 20 Indeed, the rem populi of the opening line may now take on its own sexualized hue: Alcibiades is handling not so much the body politic as its ‘thingy.’ 21 By these modifications to the Alcibiades I, then, Persius raises again the very question which that dialogue tried to put to rest: that of how to teach philosophy effectively in the face of Socrates’ failure to do so. 22 For he has made of the idealized Alcibiades a demagogue and a practitioner of very much the wrong kind of the care of the self, and his choice of the only dialogue in which Alcibiades shows promise of philosophical progress merely highlights Alcibiades’ failure to do so in this satire: our revisionist Alcibiades is a philosophical flop. This rewriting of the Alcibiades I suggests that in the eyes of our satirist, Socrates’ pedagogic technique leaves something to be desired. At the very least, Socrates was wrong, Persius seems to say, to approach his student as a lover, for it is precisely his student’s erotic proclivities, his love of the popellus, that has led him astray. Alcibiades likes the naked demos, and, in turn, displays himself to it naked as well in a debauched version of the erotic reciprocity 20

On the politician-figure as a prostitute, see Reckford (1962) 486; Dessen (1968) 66; Pasoli (1972). 21 Dessen [(1968) 66] points out that rem tractare to refer to politics is much rarer than rem gerere. Barr (1981) argues for ‘penis’ with reference to Cic. Phil. 2.78. Cf. also Adams (1990) 62 and Reckford (2009) 106. 22 Persius’ manipulation of the Socrates of the Alcibiades I is even more striking in that we don’t expect a Socrates to be obsessed with personal grooming. This is Epictetus’ point at Diss. 3.1.43: ȢǕǕ̧ɣǛNj, Ǟʑ ǕʍǍǏǓ ƽǣǔǛʋǞǑǜ Ǟ̇ ǔNjǕǕʑǝǞ̄ ǚʋǗǞǣǗ ǔNjʐ ɻǛNjǓǙǞʋǞ̄ ˖ƬǕǔǓnjǓʋǎ˚· ‘ǚǏǓǛ̆ ǙɰǗ ǔNjǕʒǜ ǏɔǗNjǓ̧ Ǟʑ NjɪǞ̇ ǕʍǍǏǓƠ ‘ǚǕʋǝǝǏ ǝǙǟ ǞʎǗ ǔʓǖǑǗ ǔNjʐ ǞʑǕǕǏ ǝǙǟ Ǟʊ ǝǔʍǕǑ̧Ơ ǖʎ ǍʍǗǙǓǞǙ· ȢǕǕʊ ‘ǔʓǝǖǏǓ ǝǙǟ ǞʎǗ ǚǛǙNjʑǛǏǝǓǗ, ȶǘNjǓǛǏ Ǟʊ ǠNj˹ǕNj ǎʓǍǖNjǞNj̧ Ǟʒ ǝǣǖʋǞǓǙǗ ǙɰǗ ǚ̆ǜƠ ɻǜ ǚʍǠǟǔǏǗ. (But see what Socrates says to the most beautiful and blooming of men Alcibiades: ‘Try, then, to be beautiful.’ What does he say to him? ‘Dress your hair and pluck the hairs from your legs.’ Nothing of that kind. But ‘Adorn your will, take away bad opinions.’ ‘How with the body?’ Leave it as it is by nature, trnsl. G. Long).

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that lies at the basis of the sublimated love of the Phaedrus, Symposium, and Alcibiades I. In the dialogues of assured authenticity, Plato himself, as we might expect, put the blame for Socrates’ historical failure at Alcibiades’ own feet. In the Symposium in particular, he tried to exculpate Socrates by showing that Alcibiades’ character, and in particular his excessive selfregard and hybris, predetermined the outcome of their mutual association. 23 That is, in his account of how he failed to seduce Socrates, Alcibiades complains that he was forced to become an erastes instead of an eromenos because Socrates did not respond to his sexual cues; worse still, Socrates’ arrogance in rejecting him led Alcibiades to a state of humiliation and misery: ਥȝȠ૨ Ƞ੤IJȠȢ IJȠıȠ૨IJȠȞ ʌİȡȚİȖ੼ȞİIJં IJİ țĮ੿ țĮIJİijȡંȞȘıİȞ țĮ੿ țĮIJİȖ੼ȜĮıİȞ IJોȢ ਥȝોȢ ੮ȡĮȢ țĮ੿ ੢ȕȡȚıİȞ—țĮ੿ ʌİȡ੿ ਥțİ૙Ȟં Ȗİ ફȝȘȞ IJ੿ İੇȞĮȚ, ੯ ਙȞįȡİȢ įȚțĮıIJĮ઀· įȚțĮıIJĮ੿ Ȗ੺ȡ ਥıIJİ IJોȢ ȈȦțȡ੺IJȠȣȢ ਫ਼ʌİȡȘijĮȞ઀ĮȢ—[...] ȉઁ į੽ ȝİIJ੹ IJȠ૨IJȠ IJ઀ȞĮ Ƞ੅İıș੼ ȝİ įȚ੺ȞȠȚĮȞ ਩ȤİȚȞ, ਲȖȠ઄ȝİȞȠȞ ȝ੻Ȟ ਱IJȚȝ੺ıșĮȚ, ਕȖ੺ȝİȞȠȞ į੻ IJ੽Ȟ IJȠ઄IJȠȣ ij઄ıȚȞ IJİ țĮ੿ ıȦijȡȠı઄ȞȘȞ țĮ੿ ਕȞįȡİ઀ĮȞ, ਥȞIJİIJȣȤȘțંIJĮ ਕȞșȡઆʌ૳ IJȠȚȠ઄IJ૳ [...]. (Symp. 219c-d) (This man so much got the better of me, looked down on me, laughed at my beauty, treated it criminally—and it was just in that respect that I thought I was something, gentlemen of the jury; for it’ s up to you to judge Socrates’ arrogance…. “What state of mind do you think I was in after that: on the one hand thinking I’d been humiliated, on the other admiring the man for his nature, his self-control and courage?, trnsl. Rowe).

Here Socrates provokes a flawed and narcissistic Alcibiades to reject philosophy. 24 In the first Alcibiades, by contrast, Socrates starts the dialogue by referring to himself as the first of all Alcibiades’ lovers, but it is 23

Although Alcibiades launches the charge of hybris at Socrates here, it is Alcibiades who was traditionally associated with this trait. See e.g. Xen. Mem. 1.2.12, Thuc. 6.15, and Plut. Alc. passim. 24 For interpretations that understand the Symposium as critical of Socrates, see Gagarin (1977) 22-37; Vlastos (1981) 31-32; Nussbaum (1986) 166-167, 173-174; Rosen (1987); Lutz (1998); Bloom (2001) 104-105, 127, 135-139. Significantly, of the two other individuals in the Symposium who are called victims of Socrates’ hybris by Alcibiades, one, Charmides, was also a student and possibly an eromenos of Socrates, but abandoned philosophy for politics and became a leader of the hated Thirty who overthrew the democracy in 404 B.C. As Gagarin [(1977) 35] remarks “Charmides is thus another example of Socrates’ failure to produce intellectual or moral improvement in the promising young men with whom he associates.”

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Alcibiades who has rejected Socrates through his conceited self-regard: the philosopher comments that it is difficult for a lover to have dealings with a man who does not yield to lovers (104e). 25 Alcibiades’ own status as a prickly rejecter of erotic advances reverses the valence of the Symposium, and ensures that his rejection by Socrates disappears from the picture. When he then decides to study again with Socrates at the end of the dialogue, the difficulties of the Symposium are put fully to rest. In contrast to both these accounts, Persius’ Alcibiades is an evident failure without any possibility that an exoneration of Socrates can emerge from the text. But the portrait of Socrates may be more critical still, dragging the philosopher into the negatively-charged sexual context in which Alcibiades himself is mired in this satire. Soon after Socrates’ caustic remarks to Alcibiades about his self-exposure, we hear another interlocutor complaining of the miserliness of one Vettidius. He has barely finished when a third voice seems to break in: 26 at si unctus cesses et figas in cute solem, est prope te ignotus cubito qui tangat et acre despuat: 'hi mores! penemque arcanaque lumbi runcantem populo marcentis pandere vulvas tum, cum maxillis balanatum gausape pectas, inguinibus quare detonsus gurgulio extat? (Sat. 4.33-38) (But if, oiled up, you take a break, and focus the sun on your skin, there’s a stranger next to you to nudge you with an elbow and spit out: “Such habits! That a fellow should weed his penis and the nooks of his privates, and spread his saggy hole for the public! Since you comb out a pomaded beard on your jaws, why does a shaven worm stick out from your groin?)

Who is the bearded yet genitally depilated figure who is taking a break from his exercises at the gymnasium? A number of scholars have assumed it is Alcibiades himself, given the reference to sun-bathing and the oiled body on display, but the beard militates against such an interpretation—he 25

Note however that Socrates’ daemon has advised him for many years not to speak with Alcibiades, Alc. 103a. 26 On the distribution of the dialogue’s speakers, I am in agreement with the sensible views of Henderson (1991) and Hooley (1997) neither making formal allocations of the spoken lines. Cf. in a similar vein Dessen (1968) 64. After the first 22 lines, it is impossible to make definitive claims about who is speaking at any given time, which seems to be part of the point of a satire in which the endless reciprocity of attacks on others is a principal theme.

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is after all ante pilos in line 5. 27 Perhaps it is significant that best-known ancient story about a sunbather is Diogenes Laertius’s tale about Diogenes the Cynic: ȲǗ Ǟ̇ ƵǛNjǗǏʑ̄ ȿǕǓǙǟǖʍǗ̄ NjɪǞ̇ ˖ƬǕʍǘNjǗǎǛǙǜ ȲǚǓǝǞʋǜ ǠǑǝǓǗ, “NjɒǞǑǝʓǗ ǖǏ ɡ ǒʍǕǏǓǜ.” ǔNjʐ ɣǜ, “ȢǚǙǝǔʓǞǑǝʓǗ ǖǙǟ,” ǠǑǝʑ (One day Diogenes was sunning himself in the marketplace [ƵǛdžǗǏǓǙǗ?]; Alexander came up to him and, standing over him, said, ‘Ask me for anything you want.’ Diogenes said, ‘Get out of my light’, Diog. Laert. 6.38). There is some support for taking this sunbather too as a philosopher in the odd fact that the association of beard plus depilated genitalia was a topos in the satiric critique of would-be Stoics and Cynics at the end of the first century. In many of these cases—the give-away was apparently the fact of depilation—the philosopher was associated with the unmanly role of the eromenos; though an adult, he played the despised role of the penetratee. Martial in Epigram 9.47 addresses a philosopher who is constantly lecturing about the great minds of Greece, but whose buttocks are as hairfree as those of a young boy: Democritos, Zenonas inexplicitosque Platonas quidquid et hirsutis squalet imaginibus, sic quasi Pythagorae loqueris successor et heres. praependet sane nec tibi barba minor: sed, quod et hircosis serum est et turpe pilosis, in molli rigidam clune libenter habes. Tu, qui sectarum causas et pondera nosti, dic mihi, percidi, Pannyche, dogma quod est? (You prattle about Democritus, Zeno, and enigmatic Plato, and any grubby figure shown hairy on a bust— as if you were successor and heir to Pythagoras! And sure, your beard is just as long as theirs. But you have something those goaty, hairy types abjure: that stiff-with-dirt beard over a baby-soft bottom! You who know the origins and arguments of the schools: tell me, Pannychus, what’s the dogma on buggery?)

And elsewhere Martial advises the wild divorcee Galla to be careful if she dates a philosopher: they look stern and hairy on the outside, but under the rustic appearance lurks a cinaedus, a ‘pansy-boy’ who only wants to be 27

As D’Alessandro Behr [(2009) 242-44] points out (against the many critics who have assumed this criticism is directed at Alcibiades), Alcibiades was not bearded. Since Socrates has a beard in line 1, and the beard is the traditional mark of the philosopher, it seems it is the philosopher himself whose habits are degenerate. So too Peterson (1973) 208-209.

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penetrated by other men (Epigrams 7.58). 28 The emphasis in all of these is on the self-depilation and violated masculine integrity of the apparent philosopher, whose ascetic exterior hides a collection of unmanly desires and practices. These unappetizing descriptions, when juxtaposed onto the attack on our bearded man, are enough to raise the specter that he is perhaps none other than the magister barbatus of the satire’s first line. 29 He spreads his buttocks for the public here for two reasons, presumably: he is an eromenos himself; and he wants the attention of the popellus. The first makes sense in the context of the Platonic dialogues to which, as we have seen, Persius is responding: it is in fact Socrates’ great triumph in the Symposium that he has turned from being Alcibiades’ erastes to his eromenos, that is, to Alcibiades’ object of desire. And in the first Alcibiades too, when Alcibiades signals at the end his willingness to dance attendance on Socrates rather than vice-versa, the same reversal in their erotic relationship is implied. But why does Socrates, too, want the attention of the popellus? Because, complained our first-century Romans, most second-rate aspiring philosophers were not content to practice in obscurity: they put on a show of philosophy, but only because they had an audience. Not only is the politician a prostitute—Socrates’ worst-case scenario in the Alcibiades I—but in this satire, the philosopher too emerges as one. 30 A parallel in Epictetus is particularly interesting here. In Discourses 3.22.10-11, Epictetus mocks the would-be philosopher who says to himself: IJȡȚȕઆȞȚȠȞ țĮ੿ Ȟ૨Ȟ ijȠȡ૵ țĮ੿ IJંș’ ਪȟȦ, țȠȚȝ૵ȝĮȚ țĮ੿ Ȟ૨Ȟ ıțȜȘȡ૵Ȣ țĮ੿ IJંIJİ țȠȚȝ੾ıȠȝĮȚ, ʌȘȡ઀įȚȠȞ ʌȡȠıȜ੾ȥȠȝĮȚ țĮ੿ ȟ઄ȜȠȞ țĮ੿ ʌİȡȚİȡȤંȝİȞȠȢ ĮੁIJİ૙Ȟ ਙȡȟȠȝĮȚ IJȠઃȢ ਕʌĮȞIJ૵ȞIJĮȢ, ȜȠȚįȠȡİ૙Ȟ· țਗȞ ੅įȦ IJȚȞ੹ įȡȦʌĮțȚȗંȝİȞȠȞ, ਥʌȚIJȚȝ੾ıȦ Į੝IJ૶, țਗȞ IJઁ țંȝȚȠȞ ʌİʌȜĮțંIJĮ ਲ਼ ਥȞ țȠțț઀ȞȠȚȢ ʌİȡȚʌĮIJȠ૨ȞIJĮ. (I wear a cloak now and I shall wear it then: I sleep hard now, and I shall sleep hard then: I will take in addition a little bag now and a staff, and I will go about and begin to beg and to abuse those whom I meet; and if I

28 Cf. also Juv. Sat. 2.8-13, for a hairy philosopher who delights in being penetrated. 29 For the periphrasis of “bearded man” as naming a philosopher, see e.g. Hor. Sat. 2.3.35; Persius Sat. 1.133; as well as the sources gathered in Kissel (1990) 502503. 30 A problem addressed e.g. by Seneca at Epist. 16.2-3, Martial 9.7, Epict. Diss. 3.12.1.

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see any man plucking the hair out of his body, I will rebuke him, or if he has dressed his hair, or if he walks about in purple, trnsl. G. Long).

Epictetus, of course, hardly endorses this procedure; if that’s what you think a philosopher does, he notes, you are not yet ready to become one. But it is not irrelevant here that our sham philosopher clings to the idea that his calling is to walk around publically attacking the moral failings of others—above all, those failures that corresponded to an excessive or effeminized care of the physical self. This would-be Socrates imitates his peripatetic (though not Aristotelian) predecessor, but focuses not so much on the nature of wisdom as on the excess grooming of his targets. He thus echoes the attacker of our bearded sunbather: we have, it seem, a plethora of philosophers attacking philosophers, and all of them hypocritical. Let us move on from Socrates to the second main topic of Satire 4, one that scholars have found puzzling because it seems to represent a shift away from the topic of philosophy and from the concerns of the Alcibiades I, 31 but which we should now be able to read as a direct continuation of the topos of philosophical/critical reciprocity. Referring back to the attacks of Socrates on Alcibiades and of the unknown philosopher-interlocutor on the naked philosopher-depilator, Persius laments the fact that the main characteristic of these men is that they are busy criticizing the moral failings of others: 32 caedimus inque vicem praebemus crura sagittis. vivitur hoc pacto, sic novimus. (Sat. 4.42-43) (We wound each other and in turn provide our shins to the arrows. This is how we live, this is what we know.)

And Persius goes on to point out that we are hypocrites one and all: under our gleaming armor, we hide our own wounds (Sat. 4.44-45). The theme picks up the earlier comment that no one attempts to descend into 31

The subject of complaint as early as Casaubon’s (1605) edition ad loc. See contra Dessen [(1968) 62] who focuses however on the examples of the wrong sort of epimeleia heautou at Alcib. 124b-131a. 32 Cf. Hooley (1997) 136: “Vivitur hoc pacto / sic novimus confirms this: not ‘we recognize that we may be hurt in turn,’ but ‘we understand this process, this convention.’” Peterson [(1973) 205] has focused on this line: our self-knowledge is this, to concur in this process of fruitless critical exchange, thus keeping ourselves from far more painful inward regard. Sic novimus, in this way we know. The pact: “not to know.” As Hooley [(1997) 136] points out, these lines are modeled on Horace Epist. 2.2.97, of mutual flattery.

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themselves, but instead we look to the fault of others (ut nemo in sese temptat descendere, nemo, / sed praecedenti spectatur mantica tergo!, No one tries to descend into himself / but looks at the pack on the back of the man in front, 4.23-24), which introduced the series of attacks that followed. Accordingly, when Persius laments that in our eagerness to reciprocally criticize each other, we fail to examine ourselves, it is clear that the castigating, castigated philosophers of Satire 4 are as implicated in the lack of self-knowledge as their failures of students. The reciprocity of mutual attack, the blows aimed at each other’s shins, represent a curious transposition of the reciprocity for which the Alcibiades I was most famous. This was the philosophical reciprocity between erastes and eromenos that led, not to mutual recrimination, but to the very self-knowledge whose absence among men Persius laments in Satire 4. When in this dialogue Socrates tries to explain to Alcibiades the way in which self-knowledge, finally, can be attained, he uses the analogy of an eye seeing itself in the eye of another to explain that the reciprocal ‘gaze’ of two souls provides the path to wisdom: Ȉȍ. ૅǼȞȞİȞંȘțĮȢ Ƞ੣Ȟ ੖IJȚ IJȠ૨ ਥȝȕȜ੼ʌȠȞIJȠȢ İੁȢ IJઁȞ ੑijșĮȜȝઁȞ IJઁ ʌȡંıȦʌȠȞ ਥȝijĮ઀ȞİIJĮȚ ਥȞ IJૌ IJȠ૨ țĮIJĮȞIJȚțȡઃ ੕ȥİȚ ੮ıʌİȡ ਥȞ țĮIJંʌIJȡ૳, ੔ į੽ țĮ੿ țંȡȘȞ țĮȜȠ૨ȝİȞ, İ੅įȦȜȠȞ ੕Ȟ IJȚ IJȠ૨ ਥȝȕȜ੼ʌȠȞIJȠȢ ǹȁ. ૅǹȜȘșો Ȝ੼ȖİȚȢ. Ȉȍ. ૅȅijșĮȜȝઁȢ ਙȡĮ ੑijșĮȜȝઁȞ șİઆȝİȞȠȢ, țĮ੿ ਥȝȕȜ੼ʌȦȞ İੁȢ IJȠ૨IJȠ ੖ʌİȡ ȕ੼ȜIJȚıIJȠȞ Į੝IJȠ૨ țĮ੿ મ ੒ȡઽ, Ƞ੢IJȦȢ ਗȞ Įਫ਼IJઁȞ ੅įȠȚ. ǹȁ. ĭĮ઀ȞİIJĮȚ. [...] Ȉȍ. ૔ǹȡ’ Ƞ੣Ȟ, ੯ ij઀Ȝİ ૅǹȜțȚȕȚ੺įȘ, țĮ੿ ȥȣȤ੽ İੁ ȝ੼ȜȜİȚ ȖȞઆıİıșĮȚ Įਫ਼IJ੾Ȟ, İੁȢ ȥȣȤ੽Ȟ Į੝IJૌ ȕȜİʌIJ੼ȠȞ, țĮ੿ ȝ੺ȜȚıIJ’ İੁȢ IJȠ૨IJȠȞ Į੝IJોȢ IJઁȞ IJંʌȠȞ ਥȞ મ ਥȖȖ઀ȖȞİIJĮȚ ਲ ȥȣȤોȢ ਕȡİIJ੾, ıȠij઀Į, țĮ੿ İੁȢ ਙȜȜȠ મ IJȠ૨IJȠ IJȣȖȤ੺ȞİȚ ੖ȝȠȚȠȞ ੕Ȟ ǹȁ. ૓ǼȝȠȚȖİ įȠțİ૙, ੯ ȈઆțȡĮIJİȢ. (132e-133a, 133b) (Socrates: And have you observed that the face of the person who looks into another’s eye is shown in the optic confronting him, as in a mirror, and we call this the pupil, or in a sort it is an image of the person looking? Alcibiades: That is true. Socrates: Then an eye viewing another eye, and looking at the most perfect part of it, the thing wherewith it sees, will thus see itself. Alcibiades: Apparently. [….] Socrates: And if the soul too, my dear Alcibiades, is to know herself, she must surely look at a soul, and especially at that region of it in which occurs the virtue of a soul—wisdom, and at any other part of a soul which resembles this? Alcibiades: I agree, Socrates, trnsl. W.R.M. Lamb)

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It is the reciprocal interaction of the two souls engaged in dialectic which renders the wisest part of each soul visible to the other, and this mirroring makes possible in turn self-knowledge and knowledge of the Good. Aristotle may have said that a friend is another self, but for Socrates, a friend provides the reciprocal exchange that leads to the gnothi sauton. For Persius, however, this philosophical exchange is apparently too idealistic to be realizable. In this satire that makes a mockery of the Alcibiades I, Socrates is an irascible potty-mouth, Alcibiades is past salvation, and ‘philosophers’ lash out at each other in a way that allows them to ignore their own failings. Successful dialectic has been replaced by mutual recrimination, while the philosophical relationship based on the mutual idealization of lover and beloved becomes a diatribe in which both the love object and the lover are unmasked as narcissistic and given over to the wrong kind of eros. Socrates-as-pedagogue, in short, has given way to Socrates-as-pervert. And in Persius’ defense, it is hard to think of occasions in which philosophical dialectic is shown as being of much success even in the Platonic dialogues, where its reciprocality is limited and seems to lead most often to incomprehension or irritation on the part of Socrates’ interlocutors. Persius’ distaste for the assumptions of the Alcibiades I is not surprising. I have discussed elsewhere the effect of Roman homophobia (for want of a better word) on the reception of the Greek philosophical tradition. 33 The Roman intolerance of the idealized pederastic relationship which had been featured (if only to be sublimated) in several of the Platonic dialogues manifested itself not only in the contempt they felt for the “philosophizing Greeklings” but even in the context of Roman Stoicism, where the more tolerant attitude of the Greek Stoics was criticized by Cicero and others on at least two grounds: it was both unmanly and philosophically incoherent. Stoic attitudes towards same-sex love thus show a shift from the Hellenistic period to early imperial Rome. Chryisippus and Zeno, who seem to have supported the ‘philosophic’ love of boys, 34 took up a stance similar to the Platonic one in focusing on the philosophical possibilities inherent in eros and in attempting to identify it with friendship. 35 Cicero, however, mocked this Stoic amor amicitiae and

33

Bartsch (2006) 95-103, 168-71. See Diog. Laert. 7.129-130 and SVF 3.650-653. This citation is repeated in Latin by Cicero at Tusc. disp. 4.72. On homoerotic Stoic eros and its role in promoting concord in the ideal Stoic city, see Schofield (1991) 43-46. 35 See Babut (1963); Rist (1969) 65-68, 79-80; Nussbaum (1995) 261. 34

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the principles on which it stood (Tusc. disp. 4.33.70-71); 36 perhaps more pertinently, the first-century Stoic Musonius Rufus condemned male-male sex as para phusin, against nature, and only endorsed sex within marriage and for the propagation of children (Discourse XII ‘On Sexual Indulgence’ 86.4-10 Lutz). 37 More dramatically still, Seneca identified as Stoic frauds those philosophers who did urge their followers to find young men for philosophical loving: such men urge us to vices under the disguise of the Stoic school (Epist. 123.15). 38 However, if like his Roman Stoic peers Persius reacts negatively to the erotic component of Socratic philosophy, 39 he nonetheless offers us at the end of the fourth satire another option for the practice of philosophy altogether. Instead of an erotic dialectic à deux as practiced in the Alcibiades I and the Phaedrus, Persius suggests in his final two lines that we abjure the problems of reciprocal criticism altogether to focus our criticisms on ourselves: 40 respue quod non es; tollat sua munera cerdo. tecum habita: noris quam sit tibi curta supellex. (Sat. 4.51-52) (Spit out that which you are not: let each man take up his own burden. Live with yourself, and know how defective your furnishings are.)

The apparently sudden shift to self-inspection and self-criticism as the culminating point of Persius’ adaptation of the Alcibiades I parallels, of course, the Roman Stoic attention on self-examination as the path to selfknowledge and self-improvement—hence such practices as the daily meditatio and the testing of oneself against future exigencies. 41 The reflexivity of the command to live with oneself similarly echoes Roman 36 See similarly Plut. De comm. not. 1072f-1073d and Lucian Dialogue of Courtesans 10, which includes mockery of such ‘philosophic’ boy-love. 37 See Foucault [(1986) 150-85] on the focus on marriage found in the Stoics writers of the imperial period. 38 Plato in the Laws is much less permissive about same-sex sexuality; cf. 636c and 838-839d. But the Roman Stoics do not explicitly look back to these prohibitions on what they called ‘Greek love.’ 39 As Littlewood [(2002) 57] remarks: “The authority of Socrates and the philosophical dialogue are compromised as they are reworked in the context of Persius’ satire.” 40 For other possible interpretations of tollat sua munera cerdo (Sat. 4.51) see Kissel (1990) ad loc. The suggestion of Haywood [(1969) 14-15] “Let Cerdo cancel his show” makes little sense in context. 41 On these practices, see esp. Newman (1989).

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Stoic—specifically Senecan—employment of linguistic expressions that emphasize that one is both subject and object of philosophical amelioration. 42 Similarly, the criticism of looking to the general public for approval (egregium cum me vicinia dicat, / non credam? when the neighborhood says I’m outstanding, shouldn’t I believe them?, Sat. 4.46-47) is paralleled in Senecan texts that advocate ignoring public opinion. 43 But Persius’ new emphasis also picks up his own skepticism, elsewhere in the Satires, about the pedagogic value of even his criticism of his peers. 44 As Persius himself tells the story, his satiric/philosophic advice is heard only to be ignored or to elicit gales of laughter from uncomprehending listeners, as, for example, at Sat. 5.189-191: 45 dixeris haec inter varicosos centuriones, continuo crassum ridet Pulfenius ingens et centum Graecos curto centusse licetur. (Say this among the bulging-veined centurions, and at once huge Pulfenius sends out a horse-laugh and bids a chipped hundred-as piece for a hundred Greeks.)

Perhaps this is why the first and programmatic satire starts out with Persius acknowledging that no one will read his work, so that he ends up digging a hole to bury the whole lot in (Sat. 1.120). The other alternative to rejection by one’s audience is, of course, unacceptable: what you say must be corrupted enough to reach its auditors erotically, like the tickling verse that penetrates the Roman elite’s backsides in Satire 1.20-21 (cum carmina lumbum / intrant et tremulo scalpuntur ubi intima versu, when the poetry enters their loins / and their insides are tickled with the quivering verse). This distasteful performance, complete with the orgasmic poet reciting his poetry, 46 may occur here in the context of Persius’ criticism of poetic taste, but it provides a notable parallel to what the Greek 42

Bartsch (2006) 246-250. See e.g. Sen. Epist. 29.12, 99.16-17, 113.32; Vit. Beat. 2.1-4. 44 Littlewood [(2002) 69-71] well points out how the vocabulary of criticism in this poem’s speakers echoes that of the satirist himself elsewhere, as if Persius deliberately undermines the value of his own carping about morals. Our readings diverge, however, as he sees no salutary counterbalance to this negativity elsewhere in the Satires. 45 Cf. the aliquis de gente hircosa centurionum (Sat. 3.77) and his comments at Sat. 3.66-76. 46 Sat. 1.17-18, sede leges celsa, liquido cum plasmate guttur / mobile conlueris, patranti fractus ocello (you’ll read on a high seat, once you’ve cleared your supple throat / with a fluent arpeggio—an effeminate with an ejaculating eye.) 43

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philosopher would presumably like to do as an accompaniment to his pedagogic undertaking—at least in Persius’ jaundiced view. Yet despite this focus on the necessity for us to “look at the packs on our own backs,” Persius does not in his poetry abjure philosophical exchange altogether. A single scene of successful pedagogy is modeled in the Satires: Persius’ account of his own relationship with his Stoic teacher, Cornutus, described for us in glowing terms in the fifth satire. This pedagogic relationship, we are told, saved Persius in early adulthood from the temptations of the Subura—the Roman red-light district—and straightened out his wavering character through the effect of philosophical exchange (Sat. 5.30-44). Picking up earlier metaphors from his corpus, Persius describes the moral formation of his character here as if it were an earthenware pot shaped by a lathe 47—a telling contrast to the metaphor of the badly baked pot at Sat. 3.20-24, which needs to be refashioned on the potter’s wheel. Under Cornutus’ influence, it seems, Persius emerges as solid earthenware: cum primum pavido custos mihi purpura cessit bullaque subcinctis Laribus donata pependit, cum blandi comites totaque inpune Subura permisit sparsisse oculos iam candidus umbo, cumque iter ambiguum est et vitae nescius error diducit trepidas ramosa in compita mentes, me tibi supposui. teneros tu suscipis annos Socratico, Cornute, sinu. tum fallere sollers adposita intortos extendit regula mores et premitur ratione animus vincique laborat artificemque tuo ducit sub pollice voltum. tecum etenim longos memini consumere soles et tecum primas epulis decerpere noctes. unum opus et requiem pariter disponimus ambo atque verecunda laxamus seria mensa. (Sat. 5.30-44)

30

35

40

(When the purple-edged toga was no longer my strict guardian and boyhood’s medal dangled as an offering to the high-girt household gods, when my companions were alluring, and the folds of my toga now let me cast my eyes with impunity over the whole Subura, and when life’s path was uncertain and wanderings ignorant of life 47

The metaphor of the artifex is not an uncommon one for the Stoic philosopher and his raw material (the soul); cf. Bartsch (2009) 209-210. For the contrast with the half-baked student of Sat. 3, see also Reckford (2009) 116.

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led my bewildered mind to the branching crossroads, I made myself your adopted child. You take up my tender years in your Socratic breast, Cornutus. Then, your rule, skillful at being undetected, straightens out the twisted character to which it is applied, and my spirit is molded by reason, and works at being persuaded, and takes on a crafted look under your thumb. I remember how I consumed long summer days with you, and with you plucked the first bloom of the night in feasts. We two share one work and one rest equally, and we relax our serious discussions with a pleasant meal.)

This passage in praise of Cornutus offers a parallel to Alcibiades’ praise of Socrates from the Symposium and functions also as an answer to the failed educational program of Satire 4. 48 We have, once again, a young man just exiting boyhood and looking to find guidance for the future. Like the Alcibiades of Satire 4, who announces, sum candidus (4.20) Persius too describes himself as clad in the white toga of the Roman adult citizen of the res publica; we may even see in this candidus (5.33) the idea of candidatus, or running for political office, an echo of Alcibiades’ political aspirations in that dialogue. 49 The Stoic rule, or regula, of Sat. 4.12 returns, here invoked not sarcastically but described as effectively straightening out the wayward Persius. And in the description of Cornutus’ character as fallere sollers (5.37), finally, we might even see a hint at the use of Socratic irony. 50 The passage, then, sets itself up as a sort of counterpart to Socrates’ relationship with Alcibiades in Satire 4 and in the Symposium. But the differences between the Cornutian and Socratic methods are pointed. Instead of appealing to Persius as an erastes might lure his eromenos, with the promise of wisdom in exchange for erotic license, Cornutus’s friendship is strictly platonic—no pun intended (or rather, a reverse pun). Alcibiades in the Symposium claimed that the effect of Socrates’ words on him were erotic; that Socrates, like a flute player who charms the souls of men, made him feel like a Corybantian reveler (Symp. 215b-216a); that Socrates so much resembled the Sirens that Alcibiades had to shut his 48

Reckford [(2009) 114] points to another model active here as well: “The subtext…of Persius’ ‘revelation’ to Cornutus is the difference between their philosophically grounded friendship and the patron-client relationship of Maecenas and Horace.” 49 Cf. Lewis and Short s.v. IIA1. 50 The Cornutan scholia ad loc. suggest that this term refers to the gentleness with which the sapiens must approach his student, lest he scare him off the pursuit of wisdom by the harshness of his doctrine, the asperitas doctrinae.

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ears—presumably since the Sirens too held out the promise of knowledge, but offered only destruction to the man who approached them (Symp. 216a-b). Here, on the other hand, eros is absent and there is no need for a beautiful body to provide the spur to philosophy. Persius and Cornutus spend entire days together, but not entire nights (as per Alcibiades’ lament at Symp. 219d). And indeed, in taking up with Cornutus Persius is actually being saved from the lures of sexuality in the Subura, habitual haunt of prostitutes. The differences between the two teachers extend beyond the simple absence of eros to encompass once again the issue of philosophical reciprocity, here figured literally. Already Persius has described Cornutus as so generous with himself that he allows his pupil to internalize him, to put his teacher deep in his fibra, where he takes on a role that cannot be described in words: tibi nunc hortante Camena excutienda damus praecordia, quantaque nostrae pars tua sit, Cornute, animae, tibi, dulcis amice, ostendisse iuvat. pulsa, dinoscere cautus quid solidum crepet et pictae tectoria linguae. hic ego centenas ausim deposcere fauces, ut quantum mihi te sinuoso in pectore fixi, voce traham pura, totumque hoc verba resignent quod latet arcana non enarrabile fibra. (Sat. 5.21-29)

25

(To you, I give my heart now, at the Muse’s urging, to be sifted thoroughly, and I am happy to show you, Cornutus, how great a part of my soul is yours, sweet friend. Tap on me, you who are skilled in distinguishing what sounds solid versus the plaster of a deceitful tongue. For this I would dare to demand a hundred voices, in order to express in a clear voice to what degree I have fixed you in the depths of my breast, and that my words reveal all of what lurks, indescribable, in my deepest entrails.)

Cornutus, in short, does not hide his goodness within, but shares it with his pupil, letting Persius fix him in his breast and his entrails. Persius, in turn, has already given Cornutus his heart, so that the exchange of body parts recalls the philosophical idea of the dialectical exchange which was painfully aborted in the mutual association of Socrates and Alcibiades in the Symposium. There, Alcibiades saw the beauty of the wisdom within the Silenus-figure of Socrates but Socrates refused to give it up, comparing such an exchange to the famous swapping of armor by Diomedes and

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Glaucus in Iliad 6, gold armor for brass (Symp. 218e-219a). Cornutus’ Socraticus sinus (Sat. 5.37 Socratico…sinu) is not to be confused with the one with which Alcibiades cuddled during that lonely night in Socrates’ bed. Similarly, the idea of the erotic reflection of the lover and beloved in each other’s eyes that the Alcibiades 1 posits, like the Phaedrus, as a stepping-stone to philosophy, is here replaced by a very different form of embodied exchange. 51 We might ask: Why has Cornutus’ teaching been internalized in Persius’ fibra in particular? The term is not commonly used as metonymy for one’s ‘insides’ or ‘heart;’ its most common referent is to the organs used in extispicy, and in particular to the liver. 52 Do Persius’ philosophical thoughts and feelings represent the sort of truths about the world that would be revealed if an extispicy were somehow carried out on his own organs? It is more likely that the explanation for this curious usage comes from a Platonic text, the Timaeus, in which the liver is singled out not only as the organ of divination but also as a mirror that reflects the contents of the mind’s thoughts (Tim. 71b). Moreover, the liver is described as a source of bitterness (ǚǓǔǛǦǞǑǞNj ȶǡǙǗ, Tim. 71b) with whose help the rational mind can control the desires of the appetitive part of the soul. Persius’ liver, then, just like his acerbic verse, is a mirror for the thoughts of his mind and a curb upon his non-philosophical desires. Satire 5, then, offers by way of revision of the Socratic dialectic a scene of pedagogy that leaves out the elements that Persius (and perhaps his Stoic peers) found most troubling about the Platonic model of philosophical education. Socrates may have warned Alcibiades about the risk of becoming a demos-lover and thus entering into a form of political prostitution, but Persius eliminates all forms of eros from his idealized philosophical relationship and replaces erotic reciprocity with a purified 51 Persius, then, would seem to agree with Michael Gagarin’s closing comments in his study of the erotic failure of the Symposium [(1977) 37]: “It thus seems legitimate to conclude that the educational theory which emerges from Socrates’ doctrine of eros and which seems to be embodied in Socrates himself has, in spite of its advantages, certain inherent difficulties. Although it permits the perfect learner […] to attain ultimate knowledge of the Forms, by placing most of the burden of learning on the learner himself it seems to ensure that most who seek to learn will fail. […] In this regard, Socrates’ doctrine of eros…justifies his own career as a perfect example of the lover/philosopher’s progress, while at the same time implying that others who do not succeed have only themselves to blame. […] As a teacher of others, Alcibiades reveals, Socrates is a failure.” 52 Cf. Lewis and Short s.v. II: Val. Fl. 7.355; cf. Verg. Aen. 6.600: conscia deorum (as giving prognostics; v. above I.), Tib. 1.8.3; cf.: sibi commissos fibra locuta deos, Prop. 4.1.104.

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metaphor of the exchange of hearts and minds. Mutual criticism is acknowledged as an inefficient way to proceed and given up in favor of introspection—or in favor of a Stoic, rather than Platonic, form of dialogue. Socratic hybris—and its correlated fear of rejection—cannot interfere in the philosophical project. In sum, Persius’s satires rewrite the Socratic scene, picking up the challenge of a philosophy that claims to rely on an erotic spur to knowledge, and answering it with the staging of a relationship between teacher and student that takes what is good from Platonic dialectic and sheds what cannot have a place in the life of the Roman Stoic philosopher—all in the acerbic verse of a master-satirist.

CHAPTER TEN STOIC THOUGHT AND HOMERIC REMINISCENCE IN VALERIUS FLACCUS’ ARGONAUTICA 1 A. ZISSOS I. Introduction If Roman narrative epic habitually incorporates elements of philosophical doctrine, the goal is never a fully elaborated exposition, but rather a selective appropriation of, principally, ethical and cosmological notions to contextualize, enrich, or aggrandize the unfolding tale. 2 Imperial Roman poets could select from an extensive inventory of philosophical doctrines, incorporating whatever they deemed suitable to a particular theme. On the whole Flavian epicists exhibit a somewhat narrower repertoire than their more eclectic Augustan predecessors, making Stoicism their philosophical wellspring. 3 This reflects the “cultural moment” of the epics, which were composed when Stoicism had established itself as the preeminent philosophical school at Rome. In discussing the three major Flavian epics, 1

For the text of Valerius Flaccus I have used my commentary [Zissos (2008)] for Book 1 and a very provisional text of my own devising—but rarely deviating significantly from Liberman (1997) and (2002)—for the rest of the poem; all translations are my own. 2 It might nonetheless be said that poetry became a privileged locus for the Roman engagement with Stoic cosmological ideas. The practical orientation of Roman thought led to a concentration on matters of ethics, at the expense of abstruse cosmological speculation. As a result, as Lapidge [(1979) 350] observes: “speculative cosmology fell into desuetude and was effectively abandoned … It passed from the domain of the philosophers to the domain of the poets.” 3 Cf. Colish (1985) 225: “the Stoic elements that occur most typically in Latin epic poetry are relatively few in number. They touch mainly on the themes of fate, the gods, and the interaction of the divine will with human choices, and on the moral character of the epic hero as well as the personages with whom he is contrasted.”

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Margarethe Billerbeck aptly refers to “das obligate Stoizische Kolorit der Zeit.” 4 But if some manner of Stoic influence on the major Flavian epics is widely acknowledged, it remains unevenly treated. Whereas Statius’ Thebaid and Silius Italicus’ Punica have received ample critical discussion, the Argonautica of Valerius Flaccus remains curiously underexamined. A telling index is that Marcia Colish, in her wide-ranging survey of Stoicism in Roman literature, published in 1985, does not even mention the Argonautica: of the three Flavian epicists, Valerius alone is excluded from her chapter on Roman epic poetry. 5 A year later Billerbeck, in her just-quoted article on Stoicism in Flavian epic, gives the Argonautica short shrift, discussing only Valerius’ treatment of Hercules— and that by way of contrast with Silius’ treatment. These scholars well represent general critical tendencies: outright neglect or carefully circumscribed examination has been the rule. 6 One reason for such critical diffidence is an underlying ambivalence in the Flavian Argonautica itself. The influence of Vergil’s Aeneid on Valerius’ poem can hardly be overstated; but, as I have discussed elsewhere, the Argonautica manifests a marked tendency to undercut or ‘deconstruct’ the historical master narratives and informing ideologies inherited from the Augustan epic. 7 This holds for philosophical content as much as for anything else. In those parts of the Aeneid that might be characterized as ‘Stoicizing epic,’ Vergil undertakes seamlessly to incorporate Stoic content, to present a coherent ethical and cosmological framework for the narrative action, and to afford individual treatments a degree of contextual autonomy and internal consistency. Valerius, by contrast, tends to immediate and conspicuous ideological juxtaposition, whereby mutually contradictory ways of apprehending and explaining the cosmos, rival philosophical views, are aired side by side. The Stoic elements in Valerius’ epic, however hedged and undercut, constitute a fundamental difference vis-à-vis his principle narrative model, Apollonius Rhodius. This reflects the discrepant cultural milieux of the two poets, as well as the influence of intervening Stoicizing writers, 4

Billerbeck (1986) 3130. Colish (1985). 6 Ripoll (1998) an analysis of notions of heroism in all of Flavian epic, is perhaps the most thoughtful and comprehensive treatments to date. It reaches the conclusion that, like other Flavian epics, the Argonautica is not a Stoic epic as such, but an epic influenced by Stoicism, often via textual intermediaries, Vergil’s Aeneid above all. 7 Zissos (2005). 5

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including not only Vergil, but also Aratus (along with his Roman translators), Manilius, Lucan, and Seneca. The converse is also true: Apollonius includes various non-Stoic philosophical content that Valerius excises from his treatment. So, for example, on the eve of departure, Apollonius’ Orpheus, in the guise of philosopher-poet, sings an Empedoclean cosmogony (1.496-511, an important inspiration for Vergil’s Song of Silenus in Eclogue 6), which thematizes the triumph of order over disorder. The effect of the song mirrors its theme: it restores concord among the Argonauts, who had been on the verge of coming to blows. Valerius has none of this: at the corresponding moment his Orpheus provides a pertinent Argonautic prehistory, singing of Phrixus and Helle and how the golden fleece came to reside in Colchis (1.277-293). A similar tendency is evident vis-à-vis Vergil, whose poetry evinces an affinity for Epicureanism as well as Stoicism. Though profoundly influenced by his Augustan predecessor, Valerius does not follow him in his philosophical eclecticism. 8

II. Stoic Heroisms A reader encountering the Flavian Argonautica for the first time might well gain a misleading initial impression of a fully committed engagement with Stoic ideas. For the opening book of the epic is not only the most densely packed with Stoic notions, but also the most coherent in its exposition. 9 It is particularly concerned with exploring the attributes of the 8

See e.g. n. 77, below. For the philosophical eclecticism of Vergil’s poetry, see Farrell’s chapter in this volume. 9 Though this section is principally concerned with Valerius’ initial exploration of heroism, it is worth mentioning a few additional touches that contribute to the overall Stoic atmosphere of the opening book. The authorial request at 1.10 eripe me populis et habenti nubila terrae (‘raise me up from the nations and the cloudbearing earth’; the visionary seeks to ascend to the pure upper air) offers a trace of Stoic physics. The description of the sky as plenum certis … aera pinnis (the air filled with the sure-signifying flight of birds, 1.233) touches on the Stoic conception of the universe as full of signs adumbrating divine will. A fleeting vision of universal cataclysm in the corrupt and possibly lacunose textual sequence at 1.828-831 (… non illa [sc. the underworld] ruenti | accessura polo, victam si volvere molem […] ingenti iacet ore Chaos, quod pondere fessam | materiem lapsumque queat consumere mundum; it [sc. the underworld] would not share in the fate of the plummeting sky even if the overwhelmed mass were sent rolling ... there lies Chaos with its vast mouth, which could swallow up matter, grown tired from its own weight, and the plummeting universe), is used to convey the vastness of the underworld. This vignette owes something to Stoic thought, according to

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Stoic hero, for which it offers two fully elaborated, but very different exemplars.

a) Hercules Very early in the narrative the reader encounters the great hero Hercules, whom Valerius, following Apollonius, makes an initial participant in the expedition. That Hercules undergoes a Stoicizing ‘makeover’ vis-à-vis the Hellenistic epic is perhaps unsurprising. 10 In the wake of Prodicus, Stoic writers had made Hercules their creed’s emblematic hero. His patient submission to earthly trials and consequent heavenly ascent were assimilated to the conduct of the Stoic wise man. He thereby became an important allegorical subject for the Stoics, who were preeminent in the tendency to ‘internalize’ his labors. 11 By the Flavian period, the conception of Hercules as a Stoic hero was well established across a broad spectrum of literary genres, including epic. Valerius achieves a particularly effective merger of the ‘Stoic’ Hercules with his counterpart from the mythographic tradition. 12 His Hercules embodies an uncompromising virtus that is as much ethical as physical; he is a paradigm of human excellence, ever striving for Stoic apotheosis, tirelessly undertaking the earthly trials that will lead to his celestial ascent. 13 Traditional episodes, such as the abduction of Hylas, are transformed into Stoic instances. Herculean exploits not previously which the cosmos underwent periodic cataclysm, reverting to primeval chaos and being consumed by divine fire (ȲǔǚǧǛǣǝǓǜ). 10 Apollonius’ Hercules is an archaic type, a figure of excess whose sheer physical power sets in relief the new heroic conception embodied by Jason. Valerius’ treatment is altogether different: the comic aspects of Hercules’ depiction in the Hellenistic epic are either muted or transformed—in the latter case, often in a philosophical vein. It is, nonetheless, important not to overlook Valerius’ characteristically complex allusivity. Passages like Jason’s wistful reminiscence quaerit inops quondam ingenti comprensa trahentem / vina manu et durae referentem monstra novercae (he looks for in vain [for Hercules] drawing wine with his mighty hand and telling of the monsters of his harsh stepmother, 3.609610) offer fleeting traces of the comic tradition. 11 Colish (1985) 31. 12 Ripoll [(1998) 112] well discusses Valerius’ synthesis of popular mythological conceptions of Hercules on the one hand and Stoic conceptions on the other. 13 Billerbeck [(1985) 350] and Ripoll [(1998) 131] detect Senecan influence in Valerius depiction of Hercules, the former adducing the austere brand of Stoicism, the latter the hero’s mortal progress—though not all critics will agree with their views of the Senecan Hercules.

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associated with the Argonauts’ voyage, such as the liberation of Prometheus, are added to expand his role and emphasize his service of the divine (Jovian) order. François Ripoll has noted the progression in the career of Valerius’ Hercules, from his Twelve Labors, firmly set in the narrative past (1.34-36), performed with some reluctance at the behest of a tyrant, to the Argonautic expedition, which he joins as an eager volunteer (1.107-111), to the deliverance of Prometheus, which he undertakes joyfully, fully grasping his role as an instrument of divine will (4.75-81).14 The Stoic trajectory of Hercules’ exploits is firmly established in the opening book. As the Argo sails away from Thessaly, and the heroes’ adventures begin, Jupiter looks down approvingly from the firmament: siderea tunc arce pater pulcherrima Graium coepta tuens tantamque operis consurgere molem laetatur (patrii neque enim probat otia regni). (1.498-500) (Then the Father in his starry citadel, observing the glorious undertakings of the Greeks and so great an enterprise beginning, is glad. For he does not approve of the leisure of his father’s reign.)

This is clearly indebted to the theodicy at Verg. Geo. 1.121-124 and, as in the model, there is an implication of “the Stoic gospel of work” displacing the Epicurean preference for otium. 15 A little later in the same scene, Jupiter exhorts the heroes in unmistakably Stoic terms: “tendite in astra, viri: me primum regia mundo Iapeti post bella trucis Phlegraeque labores imposuit; durum vobis iter et grave caeli institui. sic ecce meus, sic, orbe peracto Liber et expertus terras remeavit Apollo”. (1.563-567) (“Strive for the stars, heroes. It was only after the battles with fierce Iapetus and the labors of Phlegra that royal power set me supreme over the universe. For you I have made the skyward path hard and toilsome. Only so did my Liber, having traversed the globe, only so did Apollo, having experienced life on earth, return to heaven.”)

The supreme god extols that virtus caelestis by which worthy mortals may be elevated to the firmament as the final reward for outstanding 14 15

Ripoll (1998) 101-109. Following the discussion of Verg. Geo. 1.121-124 at Colish (1985) 228-229.

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earthly achievement. 16 The posthumous elevation to the realm of the stars of those who have acted with surpassing virtue, here signaled by the imperative tendite in astra, is, as Billerbeck observes, Roman Stoicism at its most characteristic. 17 Jupiter recapitulates the fundamentals of its eschatology: quasi-immortality of the soul, obligations and responsibilities of mortal life, post mortem reward. 18 The expression durum … iter … caeli, which smacks of Stoic allegory, speaks to the conception of mortal experience as entailing arduous trials of virtue, and hints at the difficult ‘ascent’ to the status of Stoic sage. If Jupiter’s exhortation is broadly directed (viri, 1.563), he nonetheless casts his eyes upon Hercules and the Dioscuri (robur | Herculeum Ledaeque tuens genus, looking upon the might of Hercules and the offspring of Leda, 1.561-562) as he makes it. Somewhat later in the narrative, in the course of a dream visitation to Hercules, Hylas offers an ad hominem recapitulation: “surge age et in duris haud umquam defice; caelo mox aderis teque astra ferent …” (4.35-36) (“Arise, now, and never fall short in difficult circumstances; soon you shall reach the heavens and the stars will bear you …”)

It is characteristic of Valerius’ approach that the Hylas episode, a salacious tale of erotic triangulation in previous versions, is pressed into service to further the account of Hercules’ Stoic ascent. The Flavian Argonautica is unique in associating the liberation of Prometheus with Hercules’ participation in the Argonautic expedition, making it the sequel to his accidental abandonment in Mysia after the abduction of Hylas. In this episode, emphasis is placed not merely on the immensity of the task, but also on the great hero’s eagerness and joy in exercising his virtus in the furtherance of divine mandates (4.80-1). The liberation of Prometheus is 16

Cf. Pun. 3.594-596, where Silius invokes the same principle in the context of the Flavian dynasty, thereby associating the imperial family with paradigmatic Stoic heroes, including of course Silius’ own champion Scipio Africanus. 17 Billerbeck (1985) 346. Underwriting Jupiter’s exhortation is a Stoic (and specifically Posidonian) principle of apotheosis, found elsewhere in Roman literature at, e.g. Cic. Rep. 6.13; Sest. 143; Verg. Aen. 1.259-260, 9.641; Sil. 13.635. 18 Strictly speaking, the Stoics did not hold the individual soul to be immortal; it lasted some time after death, and longer in the case of the wise; but all souls were consumed in the conflagration (n. 9, above).

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Hercules’ curtain call, his last appearance in the poem: he disappears from the narrative after having attained a more-than-human status, as a prelude to his apotheosis.

b) Aeson No less Stoic in character, albeit very different in tone and content, is the episode of the suicide of Jason’s father Aeson, which concludes the opening book (1.693-830). The inclusion of the suicide of Jason’s parents shortly after Argo’s departure is a bold narrative stroke. It draws upon the version preserved at Diod. 4.50.1-2 and Apollod. 1.9.27, in which, after Pelias orders Aeson’s execution, the latter drinks bull’s blood, while his wife ends her own life with a dagger. Valerius is apparently the first poet to make use of this tradition. 19 His treatment transforms the intriguing variant into a Stoic instance, creating a brilliant interiorization of heroic virtus. The Flavian poet expands and adapts the basic story line, modifying the account of the suicide to evoke contemporary ‘political’ suicides by members of the senatorial class, the so-called ‘Stoic opposition.’ Valerius’ heroization of Aeson entails a radical transformation of the feeble and infirm figure inherited from Apollonius. 20 Though partially modeled on Vergil’s Priam, Aeson is in important respects cast as the quintessential Stoic martyr, with the murderous tyrant Pelias a stock Stoic villain. 21 Aeson embodies the ideal of a hero who, after a life well spent, courageously faces death in intolerable circumstances. It is the ghost of his father Cretheus who first urges Aeson to take his own life: “quin rapis hinc animam et tremulos citus effugis artus? i, meus es, iam te in lucos pia turba silentum secretisque ciet volitans pater Aeolus arvis”. (1.749-751)

19

Ap. Rhod. 1.263-264 leaves Aeson ailing in a sickbed, with no hint of fraternal violence; Ov. Met. 7.159-293 and Man. 3.12 (cf. 5.465-467) follow the tradition reported in the Nostoi (fr. 7 Bernabé) that Aeson was still alive on the Argonauts’ return, and subsequently rejuvenated by Medea. 20 See Zissos (2009) 363-364. 21 The psychological diagnosis of Pelias at 1.22-30 is cast in Stoic terms: the tyrant living in perpetual inquietude, both ruling by terror and overwhelmed by anxiety is, as Scaffai [(1986) 234-5] observes, a Stoic cliché, frequent in Senecan prose and drama.

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This exhortation to suicide inaugurates the Stoic tone that pervades the rest of the episode. Implicit in Cretheus’ appeal is the reassurance that death liberates the soul, an oft-expressed belief in Seneca and Lucan. 22 It reflects the familiar Stoic valorizing of the soul as the primary element of the body-soul dyad (on which more below). 23 The conception of the body as a prison for the soul—signaled here by effugis artus—is a commonplace of ancient philosophical thought, with its roots primarily in Platonism. 24 Roman Stoic writers had retained and elaborated the prison metaphor, which was consistent with their view of corporeal existence as intrinsically corrupt and burdensome. Aeson’s Stoic suicide represents a kind of equivalent act in the twilight of life to the (otherwise unattested) heroic deeds of his earlier days, a fitting response to a tyrant’s abuse of power. Suicide thus becomes, as elsewhere in Flavian epic, a second route to glory for the hero, corresponding neatly, if all too grimly, to contemporary history. 25 Stoic thought approved of suicide only under specific circumstances, and insisted that the decision be dispassionate, rational, and lucid. 26 These criteria are evidently met by Aeson’s careful deliberations (1.755-773), which include the desire to set a proper moral example for his youngest son. His concluding consideration of how best to end his life (1.767-773) owes something to Lucan’s account of Pompey’s death (Luc. BC 8.618836). 27 It embodies a properly Stoic ideal, effecting a convergence of traditional epic heroism and Stoic suicide. Critics have noted the evocation of the Stoic notion of libertas in Aeson’s deliberations. 28 For Stoics, 22

E.g. Sen. Ag. 591; Epist. 12.10; Ira [5].15.3-4; Prov. 2.10; Luc. BC 6.721-722. Aeson’s subsequent reference to imperium Iovis (1.788) speaks to the need bravely to endure mortal life, probably signaling once again the Stoic notion that mortal life is an ineluctable burden to the soul. 24 TLL iii.437.55 ff. The idea appears to have originated with the Orphics, though Plato (esp. Cra. 400c, Grg. 493a, Phd. 67d, 82e) was the primary influence on later authors. 25 Ripoll [(1998) 375] usefully documents the emergence of suicide as a new heroic act in the literature and thought of the early empire; for the connection to contemporary history, see Zissos (2009) 354-360. 26 See e.g. Cic. Fin. 3.60-1. 27 Hershkowitz (1998b) 133-134. 28 Hershkowitz (1998b) 132; Ripoll (1998) 390. 23

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choosing the time and manner of one’s death (quo fine, 1.768) in the face of tyrannical compulsion was the ultimate expression of freedom in both a moral and political sense. Aeson inhabits a tyrannical, quasi-Roman world in which political libertas is unavailable; accordingly, he exercises the philosophical libertas that was, in the Stoic view, available to the wise in any age. The concluding underworld scene is pervaded with a sense of Stoic consolation. Aeson’s entry into Elysium is preceded by a reworking of the well-known eschatology of Aen. 6.660-665. In his enumeration of blessed souls qualifying for an Elysian afterlife (1.835-841), Valerius includes a category not found in the Vergilian model: … [patet cui] studium mortales pellere curas, culta fides, longe metus atque ignota cupido (1.837-838) (… it opens for one whose concern was to banish the cares of mortals, who exalted truth, for whom fear was distant and desire unknown …)

These criteria of admittance clearly have to do with living according to philosophical precepts, and there is more than a hint of Stoic proficientes about it. 29 Ripoll has noted the specifically Stoic tenor of longe metus atque ignota cupido: metus and cupido/libido are two of the four passions that the Stoic strove to keep at bay (see e.g. Cic. Tusc. disp. 4.11). 30 Mortales pellere curas speaks more broadly to the goal of philosophy in the conventional Roman view, i.e. to relieve the oppressive emotional burdens of mortal life. Valerius’ nod to Stoic ideals is a suggestive updating of the Vergilian eschatology, but it is the location of this sequence at the culminating moment of what is arguably the epic’s most Stoically-inflected episode that affords it particular weight. In the figure of Aeson the Flavian Argonautica offers an emergent paradigm of Stoic heroism; in that of Hercules it presents a wellestablished Stoic “saint.” 31 If both figures constitute major elements of 29

Here, as Feeney [(1991) 336] observes, “is a sure reward for the virtuous and the philosophical.” 30 Ripoll (1998) 394. 31 The collocation in Valerius’ early narrative of two ‘brands’ of Stoic heroism generates an interesting political ambivalence. Under the empire, Stoic thought, through its ready identification of the political order with the natural order, lent itself to ideological appropriation by Augustus and his imperial successors [see, e.g., Billerbeck (1985) 36]. But Stoic thought was also one of the ideological underpinnings of a political movement championed by members of the displaced

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Valerius’ engagement with Stoic ethics, their textual lifespan represents a comparatively small portion of the epic. Aeson dies at the end of Book 1; Hercules is abandoned by the Argonauts in Book 3, and disappears from the narrative altogether before Valerius’ “proem in the middle.” The death of Aeson and, even more so, the loss of Hercules to the expedition raise the issue of heroic succession. This is particularly pertinent to the representation of Jason, since he is both the lone surviving son of Aeson and by far the most prominent of the Argonauts in the second half of the poem. But in terms of the Stoic paradigms of heroism embodied by Aeson and Hercules, Jason proves to be a spectacular failure. 32 The initial Stoic ‘energy’ provided by these two heroic types seems to dissipate in the subsequent books. This regressive pattern is characteristic of the epic more broadly, which exhibits a general waning of uplifting teleologies in its second half. 33

III. Cosmological Complications I have argued elsewhere that Valerius uses Homeric allusion as the most sustained intertextual counterweight to the enormous influence of Apollonius’ Argonautica and Vergil’s Aeneid on his poem. 34 There is in the Flavian Argonautica a persistent refashioning of traditional Argonautic episodes along Homeric lines. This resort to Iliadic and Odyssean intertexts effects a kind of ‘return to origins’ for the genre as a whole, counteracting the gravitational pull of Vergilian epic norms. In the case of philosophical content, Homeric allusion is doubly offsetting, inasmuch as its terms of reference are both pre-Vergilian and pre-Stoic. In Roman culture as much as in Greek, Homeric epic retained a singular authority, as a font of wisdom of various kinds. Vergil’s displacement of Homer from poetic preeminence was never fully achieved, in part because of the Aeneid’s immense debt to the earlier poems. In literary terms, Homeric epic remained authoritative, the standard against which all subsequent exemplars measured themselves,

Roman aristocracy: the so-called ‘Stoic opposition’ under Nero and the Flavians, whose celebrated suicides punctuate the historical record. 32 So, e.g., Feeney (1991) 334. Otte [(1992) 110] has well discussed the “devolution of Jason’s character” in the poem’s second half, though somewhat implausibly attributing it to the corrupting influence of eastern civilization. 33 See Zissos (2004) 338-343. 34 Zissos (2002) 87-95.

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including the Aeneid. 35 From a philosophical point of view, the Iliad and Odyssey were sources of “primitive” cosmological and theological notions that were fundamentally incompatible with Stoic doctrine, as well as that of other schools. Homeric epic thus constituted a particular crux; with respect to the gods, it was open to charges of “blasphemy” that were generally resolved by allegorical interpretation. 36 What makes for a particular tension in the case of Stoicism is that it was, among the ancient philosophical schools, peculiarly resistant to the tendency to make of Homer a proto-philosopher, whether through pervasive allegorizing or other means. 37 I have argued elsewhere that antinomy and contradiction are fundamental compositional elements in Valerius’ epic. 38 These register with particular frequency in the presentation of Stoic matter, which is often set against intrinsically incompatible mythographic themes and ideas derived from Homeric epic. The result is a programmatic equivocation in the face of competing systems of thought. In setting Homeric thematics against Stoic elements, Valerius might be said to stage, as it were, a peculiar revival of “the old quarrel between poetry and philosophy.” The Aeneid exhibits clear Stoicizing tendencies in its presentation of the gods, of fate, and of ethics: it was precisely Vergil’s updating of Homeric theology that made this possible. Valerius in effect reverses this procedure: Homeric allusion is deployed to reintroduce suppressed notions that destabilize the Vergilian fusion of the traditional epic deorum ministeria and Stoic doctrine. The approach is targeted and strategic: as will be seen,

35 That the two texts were ‘in competition’ even as the Aeneid was being composed is evident from the famous advertisement at Prop. 2.34.66 nescio quid maius nascitur Iliade (something greater than the Iliad is coming into being). Farrell’s chapter in this volume has pertinent remarks on Vergil’s complex engagement with Homeric epic. 36 There were, to be sure, more drastic responses: Plato was so dissatisfied with the Homeric representation of the gods that he famously proposed, in the Republic, banning the Iliad and the Odyssey from his ideal state (10.606-607). 37 Long [(2004) 58-84] making use of the often neglected testimony of Cornutus (70-71), argues that, contrary to established opinion, the Stoics neither read Homer allegorically nor treated Homer as an allegorist. He may go too far in asserting that “there is no evidence that the Stoics took Homer to be a philosopher or Stoic sage.” But as he points out, Sen. Epist. 88.5 ridicules the whole idea of Homer being a philosopher of any persuasion, including a Stoic, and the joke “would be in bad taste if the school of his allegiance had allegorised the poet in the way commonly proposed.” (64, n.11). 38 Zissos (2005).

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the Flavian poet has recourse to much of the most philosophically problematic and theologically scandalous Homeric material. 39

a) Jupiter and Fate As Richard Heinze has shown, the reconciliation of Homeric myth and Stoic philosophy achieved in the Aeneid entails a delicate balance with concessions on both sides. 40 Vergil had to restrict himself to hints and glimpses: the philosophical “truths” could not come at the expense of the traditional epic pantheon. The interfering Olympian deities were a generic necessity. The incorporation of Stoic matter required the reconception of only one of them, the supreme god Jupiter, vis-à-vis his Homeric guise. This reconception provides the essential component of any coherent merger between the traditional deorum ministeria and Stoic theology. Jupiter thereby becomes qualitatively different from the other Olympians: he is a supreme deity, associated with the entire cosmos and its laws and mechanisms. Vergil was obliged to depict Jupiter anthropomorphically, but he kept the personal aspects to a minimum. In an initial Vergilian gambit, Valerius establishes Jovian oversight of human affairs early in the narrative. As in the Aeneid, a scene on Olympus provides the occasion for Jupiter to outline his providential plan for human history (1.503-573; cf. Aen. 1.223-296). The sight of the Argonauts setting sail from Thessaly triggers a dispute between divine opponents (Sol, Mars) and supporters (Juno, Minerva) of the expedition. In response to Sol’s complaint, Jupiter, assuming the role of originator and guarantor of fata, quells the dispute by affirming the due unfolding of events:

39

So, for example, Valerius offers an inventive prehistory to the Lemnian episode at 2.82-100, which amounts to a collage of divine ‘flashbacks’ from the Iliad: Hephaestus cast from Olympus by his angry father (Hom. Il. 1.590-594), the shortlived rebellion of the Olympians against Zeus (Il. 1.396-400), Hera punished by her husband, by being suspended from the sky by a golden chain (Il. 15.18-24). This series, in conjunction with an allusion to the tale of adultery of Ares and Aphrodite (Od. 8.266-366), brings into view a number of theologically problematic Homeric episodes that were subjected to allegorical interpretation by embarrassed ancient philosophers. Indeed, as Feeney [(1991) 329] observes, the Iliad 15 tale gave rise to quite possibly the most famous Homeric allegory of all, and Valerius has relocated it in a starkly cosmological context. Later Valerius reworks other notorious episodes: the girdle of Aphrodite, and the nearly forestalled death of Sarpedon (both discussed below). 40 Heinze (1908) 293-299.

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… “vetera haec nobis et condita pergunt ordine cuncta suo rerumque a principe cursu fixa manent …” (1.531-533) (“All these things were established by me long ago; they are unfolding in their predestined order and remain unalterable from the world’s original course.”)

Jupiter’s serene perspective and his insistence on the fixity of fate are both palpably Vergilian, and have clear Stoic resonance. His providential control—nobis is both dative of agent and poetic plural—is affirmed as an all-embracing principle, in operation since the beginning of time. The will of Jupiter is here tantamount to fate, to the immutable patterns of history that constrain every individual being. 41 This accords with Stoic thought, which deemed the connection between God and Fate so close that the latter could be called the former. 42 Jupiter affirms the necessary and ineluctable working-out of an originary causal nexus—and the affirmation is made in evocative language. 43 Implicit here is the Stoic notion of fate as

41

Seneca uses the metaphor of writing at Prov. 5.8.8-9: ille ipse omnium conditor et rector scripsit quidem fata, sed sequitur; semper paret, semel iussit (Though the creator and regulator of the universe himself wrote the decrees of fate, he nonetheless obeys them. He obeys eternally; he decreed but once.). 42 Cf. Sen. Ben. 4.7.2.2-4: nam, cum fatum nihil aliud sit, quam series inplexa causarum, ille est prima omnium causa ex qua ceterae pendent (for since fate is nothing more than an interwoven chain of causes, he [sc. the personified deity representing fate] is the first cause of all events, upon which the rest depend). 43 In ordine, for instance, there is a hint of the Stoic notion of the predetermined ordo mundi (for which cf. e.g. Man. 1.119, 3.168; Sen. Nat. Quaest. 7.25.6). Jupiter will again use ordo in prescribing limits to the interference of the lesser gods in the outcome of the Colchian civil war, and the destiny of Perses in particular: illum etenim talis rerum manet, accipite, ordo … (Such—hearken!—is the order of events that awaits him, 5.680). Likewise fixa reflects the Stoic conception of fate as involving an interdependent chain of events, each fully determined by its predecessors. For fixus speaking to the Stoic notion of predestined and unalterable sequence of events, cf. Luc. BC 5.105 (of the Delphic oracle): fixa canens mutandaque nulli (singing of fixed events that none may change), a passage Valerius may have had his eye on. The same Stoic notion of an orderly and ineluctable nexus of causes in the universe is found at Man. 4.16: finis … ab origine pendet (our end depends upon our beginning), and more elaborately at Luc. BC 6.611-612: a prima descendit origine mundi | causarum series (the series of causes proceeds from the origin of the universe).

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an interconnected series or “concatenation” of material causes (ǏɏǛǖǦǜ NjɎǞǓ̆Ǘ). 44 A number of critics have seen the subsequent narrative as conforming to Jupiter’s initial Stoicizing asseveration. There are, to be sure, later passages in which Jupiter’s commands are equated with the dictates of fate, among them Iovis imperiis fatoque teneri (3.620), imperio … Iovis … fati certa … lege (4.708-709). There are also, however, moments of slippage, in which a more personal deity lurks behind the Stoic language. The expression fata Iovis (4.127), for example, though sometimes adduced as a Stoicizing Vergilian reminiscence (cf. Aen. 4.614), is more problematic than it may seem. 45 It is uttered by Neptune, who is speaking not of the impersonal unfolding of providential destiny, but of Jupiter’s favoritism towards his own progeny: vincunt fata Iovis, potior cui cura suorum est (The destinies of Jupiter, whose concern for his own is greater, prevail, 4.127). This is an incongruous personalization and diminution of Stoic language, now referring to competing nepotistic networks, in which Jupiter’s progeny is favored over Neptune’s by virtue of his greater power. Friedrich Mehmel remarks on the ‘Sinnlosigkeit’ of this Vergilian echo; but it is perhaps better viewed as a deliberate subversion of Vergil’s Stoicizing idiom. 46 Neptune, indeed, is not the first god to charge Jupiter with favoritism—and such accusations are not entirely without foundation. 47 That the gods under Jupiter jealously pursue their own self-interest, and that of their mortal progeny, often in ignorance of fated necessity, is clear enough. 48 What is rather less Vergilian—and more theologically

44

The expression ǏɏǛǖǦǜNjɎǞǓ̆Ǘ had been rendered literally by Manilius as rerum … catenas (Man. 4.394). Stoic etymology derived ǏɏǖNjǛǖLJǗǑ, the word for fate, from İ۟ȡȝȩȢ(‘concatenation’ or ‘chain’); cf. Chrysippus, De Fato SVF 2.917, 918, 920; and see the useful discussion of Lapidge (1979) 349. 45 Billerbeck (1986) 3130. 46 Mehmel (1934) 95. 47 Sol makes an implicit charge of nepotism at 1.511-512, which Jupiter feels obligated to rebut at 1.533-535 by affirming the determination of individual destinies without regard to genealogy. But Valerius reports that he glances at Hercules and the Dioscuri—that is, his as yet mortal progeny among the Argo’s crew—as he does so (1.561-562, discussed above). Jupiter then proceeds to cite his divine sons Bacchus and Apollo as exemplars for apotheosis. All this has the feel of a family affair—though it is true that, as Billerbeck (1985) 346 points out, Bacchus, Hercules and the Dioscuri belonged to the Stoic canon of heroes. 48 Mars unabashedly declares est amor et rerum cunctis tutela suarum (All love and protect their own domains, 5.643). In the opening of a prayer to Sol, Aeetes

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problematic—is the degree to which Valerius includes Jupiter in such patterns of conduct. As already observed, Vergil’s Jupiter is largely stripped of personal attributes and motives in order more closely to approximate the Stoic conception of deity, which was not anthropomorphic. 49 Valerius, by contrast, punctuates his treatment with theologically devastating moments of Jovian partiality, as when, during the Colchian civil war narrative, Jupiter considers saving his son Colaxes from his fated battlefield death: “ei mihi, si durae natum subducere sorti moliar atque meis ausim confidere regnis, frater adhuc Amyci maerens nece cunctaque divum turba frement, quorum nati cecidere cadentque. quin habeat sua quemque dies cunctisque negabo quae mihi. ” (6.624-629) (“Alas, should I undertake to rescue my son from his harsh destiny, and make bold to depend upon my supreme power, my brother, still grieving the death of Amycus, and the entire throng of gods whose sons have fallen or are to fall would protest. No—let his appointed day take each hero; I will deny to all the gods what I deny to myself.”)

Here, rather startlingly, the supreme deity’s allegiance to a principle of constraining causality appears to have been abandoned. 50 This soliloquy is an unmistakable “replay” of Hom. Il. 16.431-461, where Zeus earns a rebuke from an outraged Hera for considering averting the doom of his favorite Sarpedon, against the dictates of fate. 51 The model passage demonstrates that in the Homeric epic the decrees of fate do not constitute addresses his divine father as fatorum … tutela meorum (guardian of my destiny, 5.246). 49 See the valuable discussion of Heinze (1908) 293-294. In the Aeneid Jupiter never intervenes directly in the action, whereas Valerius’ supreme god sometimes does—as when, for instance, he applies soporific nectar to his agitated son Hercules after the disappearance of Hylas (4.15-17). 50 Indeed, Jupiter seems rather less concerned with fata than, say, Juno does in forestalling an early death for Pelias at 2.1-5 or Minerva in preserving Perses at 6.740-751. 51 The reworking is in fact compound, since Zeus’ response in the Homeric model, the shedding of bloody rain drops (Il. 16.459-460), is picked up in the earlier scene, which Jupiter refers to here, in which Neptune produces a bloody tide in reaction to the looming death of his son Amycus at the hands of Pollux (4.132). See further Zissos (2002) 89 n. 75.

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an absolute constraint on events and the gods’ shaping thereof. They constitute rather a moral imperative, and Hera clearly points out to Zeus the boundary between right and wrong that he would be transgressing, along with the license this dubious precedent would set for the other deities. Valerius’ introduction of this ‘soft’ Homeric version of fate injects a discordant note into the Stoic calculus that has till this point predominated. 52 By the terms of his initial Stoicizing treatment, the notion of Jupiter acting against the decrees of fate is nonsensical. A rift is created by setting the Homeric conception of Zeus as a personal anthropomorphic deity against the Stoic notion of the same god as the impartial originator and guardian of the fates. The anthropomorphic Zeus distraught at the looming death of his favorite Sarpedon in Iliad 16 is fundamentally different from the impersonal Vergilian deity whose will is identical with destiny. 53All this plays havoc with the Vergilian conception, clearly invoked in the opening book, of fate as nothing but the will of the highest god. Unlike Vergilian fata, Homeric ǖǙ˪ǛNj is “an intangible power standing alongside the gods, in no actual relationship with Zeus.” 54 The problem with Valerius’ ‘replay’ of the Iliadic model passage resides in the opposition it establishes between Homeric ǖǙ˪ǛNj and Vergilian fata. Valerius’ Jupiter makes clear that it is the anticipated moral outrage of the other gods that convinces him not to interfere with Colaxes’ destiny. He makes a sensible choice—but it clearly is a choice. He himself frames the matter as a “future less vivid” condition (“should I rescue my son, the other gods would protest”). He comes off as an astute ‘reader’ of Homeric epic, and hence more alert to the attendant difficulties of his impulse to

52

Cf. the observation of Heinze [(1908) 294-295] that once Vergil’s Jupiter has settled on some future development, it becomes fixed and immutable. 53 Valerius goes out of his way to emphasize Jupiter’s emotional distress, starting with the lead-in to the just-cited utterance: iamque pater maesto contristat sidera vultu | talibus aegra movens nequiquam pectora curis (And now his father [sc. Jupiter] darkened the heavens with his sad countenance, fruitlessly vexing his dejected heart with such complaints as these …, 6.622-623). The pathetic exclamation ei mihi with which Jupiter begins his soliloquy is a striking touch, equivalent to Zeus’ ɾ ǖǙǓ in the model passage (Il. 16.433), again underscoring the supreme god’s emotional distress. Jupiter’s reluctant self-restraint is confirmed at the moment of Colaxes death: nato non depulit ictus | Juppiter (But from his son Jupiter did not avert the blow, 6.652-653), which again draws attention to the possibility of a nepotistic intervention on his part, a contingent Jovian intervention. 54 Heinze [(1908) 293] cited from the translation of H. Harvey et al. (Berkeley 1993) 236.

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interfere than in the model passage. 55 At the same time, Jupiter’s ‘providence’ is here reduced to a modest metaliterary competence, that is, his ability to anticipate the scolding he would receive from his fellow deities for contemplating interfering with destined events. Thus, however deft this Homeric appropriation is in intertextual terms, it clearly entails a metaphysical falling off vis-à-vis the opening book, offering a conception of the supreme deity that is, from the perspective of Stoic thought, theologically regressive. This Jupiter is not above the fray, but part of it; he is at best a mere custodian of fate, subject to the same nepotistic impulses as his fellow Olympian deities. Far from being a transcendent divine force, he is a mere primus inter pares, as Heinze aptly characterized the Homeric Zeus. 56 Valerius’ treatment of Jupiter generates theological incongruities that are never resolved. The poet has rather chosen to set two conceptions—the impassive Stoic deity of the Aeneid and the self-interested Homeric king of Olympus—against one another, to generate interference patterns arising from alternating Vergilian and Homeric intertextual appropriations.

b) Tempestuous Aetiologies As Jean Soubiran has noted, Valerius’ frequent astronomical references constitute an important departure from the Hellenistic Argonautica. Apollonius makes of the Argonauts’ voyage an essentially ‘terrestrial’ adventure, with comparatively few mentions of the sky or of celestial bodies. Valerius, by contrast, situates the Argonauts in the broader universe: the sky and stars are recurring terms of reference in the narrative—a feature at least partly attributable to the influence of intervening Stoic literature. 57 At the same time, of course, the emphasis in the Flavian poem on the inception of navigation makes the arrangement and movement of the stars in the firmament and the perceived meteorological “implications” of that movement a natural concern. This interest gives rise, in the middle of the second book, to a majestic Stoic vignette of the changing seasons:

55

Hershkowitz (1998b) 91-93. Heinze (1908) 293. 57 Soubiran [(2006) 134-135] attributing the difference to intervening scientific and Stoic literature, including Aratus and his Roman translators. As he notes, “toutes ces notions d’astronomie, chères de surcroît aux Stoïciens grecs et romains, sont “dans l’air” beaucoup plus qu’ au IIIe s. av. J.-C.” 56

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Here Valerius clearly evokes the Stoic conception of Jupiter as a force immanent in nature, the pervasive divine intelligence that permeates the universe and regulates its operation. Stoic pantheism is accommodated by a familiar poetic expedient—the partial assimilation of Jupiter to natural law, to the eternal and immutable Mind of the universe. 58 The language of this brief vignette is carefully chosen; Valerius has made every word count. That nature’s cyclical alternations take place according to the “law of heaven” (lege poli) evokes the Stoic notion of a universal law of nature, the mandates of eternal reason that govern the cosmos. The conception of nature as regulated by law was fundamental to Stoic physics, as well as a commonplace of Roman Stoic literature. 59 Aeternum volvens opus speaks to the regular periodicities and the overarching cosmic order to which Stoic thought was fully committed. It may owe a specific debt to Seneca’s opus hoc aeternum irrevocabiles habet motus (this eternal creation [sc. the universe] has irrevocable motions, Nat. Quaest. 7.25.6, on the regular and undeviating motion of heavenly bodies). There are perhaps, in addition, hints of the providential Zeus of the Stoic poet Aratus, who stresses the regularity and predictability of the stars and their movements. For Aratus the reliable patterns of the celestial sphere were the visible proof of Zeus’ providential care for human beings (Arat. 5-13). But the majestic Stoic tenor of this cosmological vignette is not permitted to stand unchallenged. Valerius positions it within a textual sequence that simultaneously invokes rival theological conceptions. The narrative context is the Argonauts’ lengthy stopover on Lemnos, an island whose exclusively female population takes full advantage of the procreative possibilities offered by the unexpected arrival of a shipload of male heroes. And Jupiter himself, the poet tells us, assists their erotic enterprise by delaying the expedition: deus ipse moras spatiumque indulget amori (the god himself grants delay, and time for love, 2.356). This declaration, and the verb indulget in particular, smacks of the benevolence of a personal anthropomorphic deity tampering with nature’s 58

Already Cleanthes’ Hymn to Zeus conceives of the supreme deity as regulating all things by law. 59 See e.g. Sen. Prov. 1.2 (on the aeternae legis imperio regulating the stars); Luc. BC 2.9-10.

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periodicities in order to permit an erotic interlude. The motif reaches back to Homeric epic, which has Athena extend the night of Odysseus’ and Penelope’s reunion in order to allow them more time together in their bedchamber (Od. 23.241-246). If this initial hint of a personal Homeric deity indulging favored mortals problematizes the Stoic purport of 2.357358, the immediately following declaration, which foregrounds divine anger over human wickedness, generates a full-fledged antinomy: saevior haud alio mortales tempore gentes terror agit; tunc urget enim, tunc flagitat iras in populos Astraea Iovem terrisque relictis invocat adsiduo Saturnia sidera questu. (2.361-364) (At no other time of the year does a more terrible fear agitate mortal races; for it is then that Astraea demands Jupiter’s wrath against nations and, having left the earth, calls upon Saturn’s star with ceaseless complaint.)

Here Valerius flatly contradicts the earlier Stoic tableau by attributing the stormy conditions to the goddess Astraea, demanding punishment for the wickedness of humankind. Astraea (usually identified with ǻȓțȘ and Iustitia) is widely identified as the last deity to abandon the earth, fleeing in the Age of Bronze in dismay at human wickedness, and seeking refuge in the heavens, where she became the constellation Virgo. The story of Astraea is a frequent point of reference in ancient literature. 60 But the idea of her urging Jupiter every autumn to punish the human race with bad weather is, as far as we can tell, a Valerian innovation. As earlier critics have noted, it appears to be a variation on Hom. Il. 16.384-392, where Zeus is said to send down bad weather in late summer in indignation at human wickedness. 61 From a Stoic perspective, of course, divine anger as a basis for the management of the mechanisms of natural law is an absurdity; the associated conception of human history as a series of declining ages is equally inadmissible. This brief textual sequence enacts a kind of ‘epistemic distress,’ providing three competing explanations for a meteorological event: Stoic divine law (lege poli, … aeternum volvens opus), an ad hoc intervention 60

E.g. Arat. 96-136; Verg. Geo. 2.473-474; Ov. Met. 1.149-150; [Sen.] Oct. 423ff.; Juv. 6.19. In the case of Aratus, however, it is bracketed out as ‘another tale’ that is in circulation, so as not to undermine the Stoic framework. 61 Poortvliet (1991) 204. Along with this Homeric inflection, a second influence would appear to be Hes. Op. 256-262, where ƯljǔǑ complains to her father Zeus whenever she sees false judgments, and he visits his wrath upon the unjust society.

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reflecting the indulgence of an anthropomorphic supreme deity (indulget), or the recurring enactment of divine wrath punishing mortal sin (iras | in populos). 62 We might crudely categorize these theories of causation as philosophical, poetic, and ‘religious’ respectively. 63 The net result is something like the narrativization of a multiple-explanation device, generating contradictions between rival principles of apparently equal validity. This equivocation highlights the difference between the ‘scientific’ view of Stoic cosmology—whereby an impersonal causal system, the operation of naturae leges, is seen to cover all meteorological phenomena—and the more “archaic” assumption that divine psychological impulses lie behind at least some of them.

c) Compound Eschatologies An equally sophisticated intertextual complication of Stoic doctrine occurs in Book 3, at the conclusion of the Cyzicus episode, an Argonautic misadventure inherited from Apollonius that Valerius transforms in important ways. 64 Most suggestively for present purposes, the Flavian poet makes the Argonauts’ inadvertent slaughter of Cyzicus and his subjects, their former hosts and guest-friends, the impetus for the exploration of a variety of psychological and metaphysical issues. As in Apollonius’ account the Argonauts are unable, in the aftermath of the calamity, to resume their voyage to Colchis. But whereas the Hellenistic poet has the Greek heroes delayed by inclement weather, Valerius makes them linger in the wretched kingdom through psychological trauma: they are immobilized by grief and a sense of guilt (3.362-369). At length Jason approaches the seer Mopsus, inquiring into the nature of his comrades’ misery and seeking a remedy to it. By way of response, Mopsus delivers a metaphysical disquisition, opening in a lofty didactic tone (“dicam … ac penitus causas labemque docebo”, “I shall tell you,” he said, “and thoroughly explain the causes of this failing”, 3.377), and with a 62

Feeney [(1991) 323] hesitatingly remarks that “Jupiter himself cooperates” here, as earlier at 2.199, clarifying in a footnote that “Jupiter appears to be allowing time for the Argonauts’ love because he is heeding Astraea and providing grief for the humans.” But this does not account for lege poli: it is an attempt to reconcile the irreconcilable. The three causations are mutually exclusive, and their tight juxtaposition is meant to draw attention to their incompatibility. 63 They are similar to the three causalities proposed by Jason at 1.670-674: nature, chance, divine anger, now on the authorial level. 64 Garson [(1964) 268] well discusses the “complete artistic remodelling” of the episode vis-à-vis the Hellenistic model.

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suggestive glance at the stars (astra tuens, 3.378). He then proceeds to affirm the Stoic doctrine of the celestial origins of the human soul: … “non si mortalia membra sortitusque breves et parvi tempora fati perpetimur, socius superi quondam ignis Olympi, fas ideo miscere neces ferroque morantes exigere hinc animas redituraque semina caelo. ” (3.378-82) (“Though we suffer mortal bodies, brief allotments, and a short span of fate, it is nonetheless not proper for us, who were formerly the kindred fire of high Olympus, to disseminate slaughter, to expel with the sword lingering souls, seeds that will in due course return to heaven.”)

These verses offer a clear articulation of the Stoic doctrine of human consubstantiality with the divine. With socius superi quondam ignis Olympi (3.380) Mopsus sets out the well-known dogma of the fiery origins and divine nature of the human soul. This reflects the Stoic view of God as an ethereal fire permeating all things, but especially human beings. The human soul was seen as reason immanent in creation, a fragment of the divine ǕǦǍǙǜ, with which it reunites after corporeal death. 65 For the Stoics each human being was a fragment of divinity, even if that person was, at least for the duration of his or her terrestrial existence, a self-conscious and individual being. With mortalia membra … perpetimur Mopsus expresses the familiar philosophical view of the human body as intrinsically burdensome and corrupt, a source of suffering for the soul. 66 This reflects the Stoic valorizing of the soul as the primary element of the body-soul dyad. 67 For the Stoics, of course, the body was the source of the 65 Cf. e.g. Sen. Epist. 66. 12.3-4: ratio … nihil aliud est quam in corpus humanum pars divini spiritus mersa (reason is nothing more than a part of the divine spirit sunk into a human body). 66 Cf. e.g. Sen. Epist. 65.16.5: nam corpus hoc animi pondus ac poena est (for this body of ours is a burden and hardship for the soul). 67 Preiswerk [(1934) 437-8] well discusses Mopsus’ ‘Platonic’ emphasis on the importance of the soul and the comparative devaluation of the body, which in the Flavian Age was predominantly associated with Stoic doctrine. He adduces numerous passages in which Seneca expounds on the triviality of the body, the shortness of mortal life, and the heavenly origins of the human soul: ad brevissimum tempus editi, cito cessuri loco venienti … (we are born for a very brief span of time, soon to cede our place to the next comer, Marc. 21.1.3-4); cf. 2.3-4, 24.5; (mens) non est ex terreno et gravi concreta corpore, ex illo caelesti spiritu descendit (the mind is not formed from the same substance as the heavy

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passions, and so the origin of misperception, and hence of human vice. The Stoic view was that soul’s release from the physical body was a gain, not a loss. At the same time Mopsus insists on the Stoic imperative to live out one’s mortal life, to fulfill one’s earthly destiny. 68 As has long been recognized, Mopsus’ disquisition to this point is indebted to the underworld exposition of Anchises to Aeneas at Aen. 6.724-751. 69 The Vergilian passage offers a conception of the human soul and its eschatology inflected with Stoic (and of course Platonic) ideas. Valerius’ mobilization of the metaphor semina in reditura … semina caelo (3.382) articulates the philosophical idea of the divine origin of the human soul in Vergilian language, harking back to caelestis origo / seminibus (Aen. 6.730-731). 70 But hard upon the lofty Stoicizing incipit, Mopsus lapses into a more ‘poetical’ metaphysics, reporting that a human life also leaves noncelestial residues—shades in Hades, and, in the case of crime victims, avenging ghosts roaming the earth in the company of Furies to torment the guilty (3.383-388). Such ideas are of course antithetical Stoic teaching; and whereas Stoicizing epic and tragedy freely admitted them, they studiously avoid the kind of jarring collocation in evidence here. Valerius’ inclusion of these incompatibilities in the very same discourse—even the very same sentence—produces a conspicuously problematic effect. Mopsus’ departure from his initial Stoic exposition is reinforced by other suggestive details that establish an “Homeric” narrative situation. Jason’s despairing companions, the poet informs us, have lost mindfulness of their homecoming (patria ex oculis, 3.367), a symptom that is, of course, a leitmotif of the Odyssey. Furthermore, Mopsus reports that he

terrestrial body, but descends from the celestial spirit, Helv. 6.7.2-4); (of Scipio) animum quidem eius in caelum ex quo erat redisse persuadeo mihi (I am convinced that his soul has returned to the skies whence it came, Epist. 86.1.3-4); mens dei, ex quo pars … in hoc pectus mortale defluxit … quod numquam magis divinum est quam ubi scit … nec domum esse hoc corpus, sed hospitium, et quidem breve hospitium (the mind of god, of which a portion flows down into this mortal breast … which is never more divine than when it recognizes that this body is not a [permanent] home, but merely a guest-chamber, and indeed one of short duration, 120.14.2-6). 68 Cf. the earlier discussion of imperium Iovis (1.788), n. 23 above. 69 So, e.g. Summers (1894) 67. 70 Cf. Garson [(1964) 271] who observes that in both passages “the subject is the soul after death, with Stoic doctrines, and the similarities of thought and tone are more striking than the few verbal ones.” Vergil’s semina, echoed by Valerius, is equivalent to Stoic ǝǚǏǛǖNjǞǓǔǙljǕǦǍǙǓ.

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learned the remedy for his companions’ psychological morass in the course of a strikingly Homeric katabasis: “… memori iam pridem cognita vati est procul ad Stygiae devexa silentia noctis Cimmerium domus et superis incognita tellus, caeruleo tenebrosa situ, quo flammea numquam Sol iuga sidereos nec mittit Iuppiter annos.” (3.397-401) (“There is, long known to the mindful seer, a distant land that inclines downward to the silence of Stygian night. This is the home of the Cimmerians, unknown to the gods above, a shadowy land of dark desolation, where the Sun never directs his flaming chariot, where Jupiter never sends the star-driven seasons.”)

Mopsus’ words here unmistakably evoke Hom. Od. 11.11-20, where Odysseus describes his own descent to the underworld, which began with a journey to the land of the Cimmerians. As in the model, so here the Cimmerians live in a remote and sunless region shrouded in perpetual gloom, near which are the dark realms of the underworld. After his Stoic preamble, then, Mopsus has veered abruptly toward the Homeric supernatural. The Odyssean touches continue with the mention of the shade Celaenus, otherwise unknown and probably a Valerian invention. It is from this exceptional nether figure that Mopsus received instructions in the underworld on how to perform the appropriate propitiatory rites: “ille mihi quae danda forent lustramina caesis prodidit, ille volens Erebum tenebrasque retexit.” (3.409-410) (“He revealed to me what lustrations must be made to the slain; he willingly unveiled the gloom of Erebus.”)

This detail creates a further correspondence to the Odyssean model, with Celaenus answering to the role of the Homeric Tiresias. Like Odysseus, Mopsus reports his descent into the underworld to consult a shade endowed with extraordinary knowledge and learn of a ritual to appease supernatural wrath. Valerius’ inventive Homeric replay results in a jarring metaphysical clash, with Stoic ideas and formulations drawn from Vergilian epic set against incompatible Homeric elements. The immediate collocation of Stoic doctrine and Homeric notions of the supernatural obliges the reader to negotiate a conceptual impasse arising from the poet’s simultaneous

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affirmation of mutually contradictory systems of metaphysics. 71 In allusive terms, Mopsus opens in Vergil’s underworld and then ‘vaults,’ as it were, into Homer’s.

IV. Divine Persuasion The later narrative continues the pattern of equivocal engagement with Stoic ideas. As the action shifts to Colchis and Medea’s liaison with Jason becomes the vital fulcrum of an overburdened plot, the intertextual dynamics become more complex, though Homeric allusion remains a central component. Valerius’ handling of the well-known love story of Medea and Jason is more innovative than is generally acknowledged. 72 Traditional accounts of Medea’s passion readily lend themselves to treatment in terms of Stoic psychological theory; and Valerius elsewhere demonstrates his capacity to sketch characters according to these principles. 73 But the Colchian princess’ inner conflict between ratio and furor, familiar to Flavian readers from the accounts of Ovid and Seneca, barely registers. Valerius’ Medea consistently demonstrates an impressive capacity to control wayward passions. The poet makes clear that, left to her own inclinations, she would never betray father and fatherland for Jason. But Medea cannot be left to her own inclinations, for, in the wake of the loss of Hercules, her magical assistance to Jason has become the sine qua non of his acquisition of the golden fleece. Her erotic passion for Jason is accordingly ‘manufactured’ by Juno and Venus very much against her own psychological disposition. Indeed, Valerius’ towering innovation in the later narrative resides in the Colchian princess’ long and determined struggle against the efforts of the goddesses Juno and Venus to subject her to erotic engulfment. Over the course of several hundred lines spanning the sixth and seventh books, the Flavian Argonautica makes this struggle 71

Critics have often sensed a want of consistency on Mopsus’ part in this episode, though without attempting to account for it. To be sure, one is hard-pressed to explain why a propitiary ritual to appease the dead (3.448-455) is required in the case of the Argonauts’ inadvertent slaughter, for Mopsus has explained that in cases of involuntary killing, the killers are not troubled by the shades of the slain, but rather by their own grief (3.391-396). Does Mopsus, revealing a shrewd psychological bent, provide what amounts to a placebo cure to ease the wrenching grief of his comrades? If so, surely any ritual would fit the bill, and there was no reason to mention and apply the one learned from Celaenus. 72 See Zissos (2012). 73 See n. 21 above.

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an obsessive focus. Medea’s resistance is emotionally and ethically anchored in her connection to father and fatherland, and is encapsulated in the terms pietas and, above all, pudor. The Colchian princess struggles heroically against the combined forces of two great divinities. Critics have noted the disproportionate effort expended by the goddesses, the fitful and convulsive straining of the divine machinery in comparison with Apollonius’ account. Valerius, in other words, takes a decidedly idiosyncratic approach to accounting for Medea’s conduct—and one that plays havoc with the conventional Stoic analysis of passions as correctable errors of judgment. The unfolding narrative is further distanced from Stoic psychological theory by the irreducibility to allegory of the goddesses who incite Medea’s passion. 74

a) Allegorical Seduction The first stratagem essayed by the goddesses is a resoundingly Homeric one. Before attempting to catalyze Medea’s passion, Juno pays a visit to Venus to enlist her assistance. In an elaborate replay of the prelude to the Dios Apate at Il. 14.187-223, Juno requests from Venus the loan of her irresistible girdle (cingula) and, though intending to use its power on Medea, gives as pretext her wish to seduce Jupiter (6.455-466). This pretense is both unsuccessful and unnecessary as Venus is more than willing to assist Juno in her intended project (6.467-468). Its significance is rather intertextual: Juno’s dissimulation neatly reproduces the deceit of the Homeric original, in which Hera, though intending to seduce Zeus, had pretended to need the țİıIJȩȢ to heal a rift between Oceanus and Tethys (Il. 14.200-210). The Flavian poet achieves an ingenious metaliterary layering: Homeric truth has become Valerian pretext. In a further Iliadic homage, the Flavian poet has the powers of the girdle exercised in the course of an elaborately Homeric ǞǏǓǡǙǝǔǙǚljNj, in which Juno, disguised as Medea’s sister Chalciope, leads her to the city walls to behold the Greek heroes fighting as allies in the Colchian civil war. In Valerius’ day the girdle of Aphrodite would have inevitably raised the specter of allegorical interpretation. The model passage, the Homeric Dios Apate, had notoriously presented philosophers of all stripes with a singularly unacceptable myth. This difficulty was resolved through an inventive array of allegorical interpretations, of which Heraclitus’ natural

74

The point is well made by Ferenczi (1998) 344-345.

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allegory (Homeric Problems 39) was perhaps the most famous. 75 Such allegorizing, of course, equates the girdle and what it stands for to positive impulses or tendencies (whether specifically human or in the cosmos more generally). Against this well established hermeneutic trend, Valerius reimagines the girdle as a monstrous supernatural object that catalyzes base and shameful passions: … dedit [sc. Venus Iunoni] acre decus fecundaque monstris cingula, non pietas quibus aut custodia famae, non pudor, at contra levis et festina cupido adfatusque mali dulcisque labantibus error et metus et demens alieni cura pericli. “omne” ait “imperium natorumque arma meorum cuncta dedi: quascumque libet nunc concute mentes.” (6.470-476) ([To Juno Venus] gave the dangerous adornment, the girdle abounding in abominations. Alien to it are piety, concern for reputation, and shame; in their place are fickle and hasty passion, inducement to evil, sinful action sweet to wavering minds, fear, and demented concern for a stranger’s peril. “I have given you all my power, my sons’ full arsenal” she said. “Now go and agitate the hearts of whomsoever you wish.”)

In terms of prevailing philosophical metaphors, this is boldly revisionist: the Homeric ǔǏǝǞǦǜ is recast in relation to psychological or emotional disturbance. Thomas Baier is certainly right to see in Valerius’ negative treatment a reflection of the Stoic disapproval of the passions. 76 The description suggests the view of the passions as a diseased state of the intellect brought about by false perception. At the same time demens alieni cura pericli, which speaks to Medea’s particular situation vis-à-vis Jason, carries a subtle anti-Stoic charge in characterizing transnational sympathies as psychologically aberrant. The Flavian Argonautica seems thereby to affirm the importance of patriotism and national allegiance—an issue of obvious relevance to the unfolding plot.

b) Cosmopolitan Passion A crucial point of Valerius’ țİıIJȩȢ sequence is that, unlike in the Homeric model passage, the girdle does not achieve Juno’s purpose. 75

Platonists opted for an allegorical reading touching on spiritual beauty (Plut. Quomodo adul. 19E-F); for a Stoic interpretation see Cornutus Theol. Graec. 24 with Lapidge (1979) 366. 76 Baier (2001b) 214 on 6.471-474.

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Medea does not succumb; she is able to resist the seductive power of a device that had overwhelmed the mindfulness of the Iliadic Zeus. In the wake of Juno’s failure, Venus takes matters directly in hand. She descends to Colchis in disguise and employs a combination of supernatural powers and shrewd argumentation to convince Medea to elope with Jason. To this end the goddess makes appeal, in a crowning rhetorical flourish, to the Stoic notion of the world-citizen: “… quippe (ut iam reputentur munera divum) omnibus hunc potius communem animantibus orbem, communes et crede deos. patriam inde vocato qua redit itque dies …” (7.226-229) (“But [that we may now ponder the gods’ gifts] consider rather that this world is common to all living souls, and regard the gods too as universal. Call your fatherland all the sun traverses on its daily course …”)

The ‘touch of Stoic cosmopolitanism’ in these verses has long been recognized. 77 Stoic thought affirmed the fundamental unity of humankind, through universalizing notions of human community that transcended conventional national allegiances. Patriam … vocato | qua redit itque dies (Call your fatherland all the sun traverses on its daily course, 7.228-229) invokes this transnational ideal, succinctly articulating the Stoic conviction that the cosmos itself is the only legitimate ‘fatherland’ for human beings. 78 In this natural moral community of rational beings all were 77 See, e.g., Mozley (1934) 337; Preiswerk (1934) 438. Perutelli [(1997) 278] notes a neat philosophical shift in Valerius’ treatment of the present scene, which is partially modeled on Vergil’s Dido episode, with ‘Circe,’ Medea’s aunt, here assuming the enabling role of Dido’s sister Anna. As Perutelli observes, “Pare notevole che, mentre l’intervento di Anna nell’ Eneide contiene velati motivi epicurei, questo della falsa Circe sia cosi chiaramente stoicheggiante. L’inserzione corrisponde, anche se in un’ occasione poco propizia, a un tentativo di nobilitare ulteriormente i personaggi e in particolare Medea.” The Stoicizing rewrite of Vergil’s Epicurean scene is a splendid point, and an example of Valerius’ narrowed philosophical focus, his tendency to eliminate or rechannel the non-Stoic explorations of his models. 78 Venus’ declaration finds very close parallels in a number of Senecan passages. Preiswerk [(1934) 438] adduces Ot. 4.1.1-4: duas res publicas animo complectamur, alteram magnam et uere publicam qua di atque homines continentur, in qua non ad hunc angulum respicimus aut ad illum sed terminos civitatis nostrae cum sole metimur… (we should conceive of two commonwealths, one great and truly common to all, encompassing gods and men, in which we

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‘fellow citizens.’ The shared possession of the universe by all, expressed here by omnibus … communem orbem (7.227), was a fundamental tenet of Stoic ethics—and an important historical contribution to the concept of universal humanity. 79 But the brief philosophical modulation of Venus argument is, of course, a towering instance of hypocrisy. Valerius’ decision to have a highminded Stoic principle articulated by his ethically-challenged goddess of love is perhaps the most ironical moment in this frequently ironic epic. The irony is magnified by the discursive situation, which exhibits an almost Ovidian complexity. Venus does not appear to Medea in propria persona; she disguises herself as the latter’s aunt Circe, in order to maximize her persuasive authority. This fantastical Homeric figure is pressed into service as the spokesperson for a post-Homeric ethics. As “Circe,” the goddess proceeds to offer her own globetrotting as an exemplum for Medea: “nunc Ausonii coniunx ego regia Pici” (“now I am the royal spouse of Ausonian Picus”, 7.232). This is an outlandish distortion: Picus had in fact rejected the amorous attention of Circe, who, thereupon, vindictively transformed him into a bird. 80 And lurking behind this unstated aporneosis is of course Circe’s broader career of metamorphic magic, by which she had transformed countless human beings into animals. Given the fundamental Stoic differentiation between animals and human beings, with only the latter sharing in the divine ǕǦǍǙǜ, the irony of “Circe,” a figure notorious for bestializing human beings, spouting principles of Stoic ethics could hardly be stronger. 81 This is, in short, a singularly degrading ‘Homeric’ framing of Stoic content. 82 should not look to this cornerstone or that, but rather measure the boundaries of this state of ours by [the reach of] the sun); Marc. 18.1-2; patriam meam esse mundum sciam et praesides deos… (I shall bear in mind that my [true] fatherland is the world, and its governors are the gods, Vit. Beat. 20.5.5-6); Ira [4].31.7. Perutelli [(1997) 278] points to additional, if looser, Ciceronian parallels: Fin. 3.19, 64 (= Chrysippus De iure et lege, SVF 3.333); Leg. 1.7.22-23 (= SVF 3.339). Cicero also speaks Stoically of “the community of human beings” at Offic. 1.22. 79 For the association of this idea with Stoic thought, see e.g. Plut. De Alex. fort. 329a-b; Epict. 1.9.3-6. 80 Verg. Aen. 7.187-191; Ov. Met. 14.320-434. 81 Circe’s well-known isolation, her rejection of the company of her fellow divinities, further contributes to her inappropriateness as a spokesperson, even by anthropomorphic analogy, for the Stoic ideal of universal human community. 82 In terms of Stoic ethics, of course, the self-serving thrust of ‘Circe’s’ exemplum amounts to a disqualification. A right-thinking Stoic did not relocate to improve his or her personal situation, or to satisfy erotic passions, but to serve the human race as such (typically as a teacher or political advisor).

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Valerius abuses a philosophical principle through a violently ironic framing that reduces Stoic ideas to a meaningless situational rhetoric. The broader implications are equally devastating, for here the poet unmistakably rejects Stoicism as an unfailing source of philosophical ideas on which to base ethical judgments.

V. Conclusion More than three decades ago, Gordon Williams observed that where Stoicism appears in Flavian epic, it does so in a “vague, watery form.” 83 With regard to the Argonautica many critics appear to have agreed, and the discussion has advanced surprisingly little from that proposition. It is certainly true that Valerius’ epic has many “vague and watery” Stoic moments. 84 But there is at the same time a more targeted engagement at work that called for more precise articulations of Stoic ideas. These cases are broadly negative in purport, rejecting Stoicism as a privileged conceptual matrix around which the action of the Argonautica can be read and “meaning” securely constructed. In the schizophrenic narrative universe of Valerius’ epic, ambiguities and contradictions seem to gainsay any firm assertion of philosophical doctrine. The Flavian poet was more committed to interrogating than to affirming the premises of “Stoicizing epic.” His interrogation, structured around Homeric allusion, resensitizes the reader to the necessary acts of containment, evasion, and omission that grand generic undertaking necessarily entails.

83 84

Williams (1978) 284. See n. 9 above.

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INDEX LOCORUM

AELIAN Varia Historia 7.21: 227 ANTIAS (ed. Peter) fr. 6: 139 n. 32 APOLLODORUS Bibliotheca 1.9.27: 275 APOLLONIUS RHODIUS Argonautica: 69 n. 15, 278, 285 1.263-264: 275 n. 19 1.496-511: 271 APPIAN Bellum Civile 2.16.117: 238 n. 47 ARATUS Phaenomena: 57 1-2: 49 cited 5-13: 286 21-23: 155 96-136: 174, 287 n. 60 758-772: 174 ARIPHRON (ed. Furley – Bremer) Paian to Hygieia fr. 6.3: 54 n. 80 ARISTOTLE Metaphysics A 3, 983b: 66 n. 6 Nicomachean Ethics 1125a 12-13: 11 n. 43 cited 1139b 7-13: 239

Rhetoric 2.2: 106 n. 27 3.10.6: 223 3.11.3-4: 223 ARNOBIUS Adversus nationes V.1: 139 n. 32 AUGUSTINE De Civitate Dei 7.34-35: 7 n. 28 CASSIUS DIO Historia Romana 42.4.5: 237 CASSIUS HEMINA (ed. Peter) fr. 30 (=Pliny NH 13.84): 7 n. 28 CATO (ed. Sblendorio Cugusi) fr. 1: 17 n. 64, 18 fr. 42: 19, 19 n. 69 fr. 54: 17 n. 64 fr. 81-88: 17 n. 64 fr. 93 (De suis virtutibus): 18 cited frs 93-97: 18 fr. 94: 18 n. 66 fr. 95: 18 n. 66 fr. 96: 18 n. 66 fr. 97: 18 n. 67 cited fr. 156 (De agri cultura): 17 CATULLUS 13: 94 64.126-129: 225 85: 94 n. 8

332

Index Locorum

CHRYSIPPUS Testimonia de vita et scriptis (SVF, ed. von Arnim; vol. ii) 20 (= Numenius ap. Eusebium PE 14.728): 164 Logic (SVF, ed. von Arnim; vol. ii) 92: 173 Physics (SVF, ed. von Arnim; vol. ii) 411: 166 527: 173 527-528: 167 605: 166 613: 173 634: 166 685: 173 719: 166 974: 168-169 cited 974-978: 168 975: 171 917 (De Fato): 282 n. 44 918 (De Fato): 282 n. 44 920 (De Fato): 282 n. 44 1009: 178 De iure et lege (SVF, ed. von Arnim; vol. iii) 333: 296 n. 78 339: 296 n. 78 Ethics (SVF, ed. von Arnim; vol. iii) 582-588: 182 650-653: 261 n. 34 671-676: 182 CICERO Academica Priora (Lucullus) 2.135: 226 Ad Atticum 16.11.4: 23 n. 82 Ad Familiares 9.20: 123 9.22: 252 Ad Quintum Fratrem 2.9.3: 76 n. 31 2.9.4: 177 Aratea 1.1: 49 cited

Brutus 65: 16 n. 59 De Fato: 215 39: 168 40 (lines15-17): 169 cited 44 (lines 7-11): 169 cited De Finibus 1: 95 2: 95 2.20: 125 n. 52 2.20.12-14 (cited): 38 2.61: 243 2.68 (Epicurus fr. 415 Usener): 123 n. 48 2.90.1-2: 125 cited 2.90-92: 125 2.119: 90 n. 69 3.19.64: 296 n. 78 3.60-61: 276 n. 26 De Legibus 1.7.22-23: 296 n. 78 De Natura Deorum 1.36: 173 1.43-49: 43 n. 50 1.113: 125 n. 52 2: 178, 179 2.19: 166 2.63-72: 41 n. 45 2.72: 32 n. 19 De Officiis 1.22: 296 n. 78 1.50-58: 24 n. 82 1.51: 24 n. 82 1.58: 23 n. 82 3.62-7: 23 n. 82 De Republica 1.15-16: 83 n. 53 2.28: 130 n. 11 6 (Somnium Scipionis): xv, 83-84, 183 6.13: 183, 274 n. 17 6.14: 183 6.16: 183 6.26: 183 In Pisonem: 94 68-72: 90 n. 69

The Philosophizing Muse 71 (cited): 94 In Vatinium 14: 139 n. 33 In Verrem 2 IV.127: 10 n. 40 Philippicae 1.6.13: 183 2.78: 254 n. 21 Pro Archia 27: 9 n. 39 Pro Sestio 143: 274 n. 17 Tusculanae Disputationes 1.5: 1 1.5.12-16—1.6.1-4: 2-3 cited 1. 6.13: 4 n. 13 1.19: 75 n. 27 1.27: 5 1.28: 5 n. 16 1.29: 5 2.1.1-2: 8 n. 34 2.1.1-6: 4 cited 4.5.15: 4 n. 11 4.5.18–19: 4 n. 12 4.11: 277 4.33.70-71: 262 4.72: 261 n. 34 5.94: 122-123 cited 5.97-100: 125 CLEANTHES Hymn to Zeus: xiii, 26, 45, 163, 286 n. 58 1-3: 49 cited 1: 51 cited 4-5: 174 cited 10-11: 54 cited 15: 54 n. 80 cited 15-17: 51-52 cited 15-22: 55 20: 57 20-21: 55 cited 24-25: 55 cited 32-35: 52-53 cited Logic and Rhetoric (SVF, ed. von Arnim, vol. i)

333

486: 50 (cited) 487: 51 (cited) Physics (SVF, ed. von Arnim, vol. i) 527: 171 532-534: 166 COLUMELLA Res Rustica 1.4.4: 74 n. 25 3.10.20: 74 n. 25 3.12. 5: 74 n. 25 6.27.5-7: 74 n. 25 CORNUTUS Compendium Theologiae Graecae: 178, 179 2: 179 3: 179 24: 294 n. 75 32: 179 35: 175 70-71: 279 n. 37 DEMOCRITUS (DK 68) B11: 53 n. 76 DIODORUS SICULUS Bibliotheca Historica 4.50.1-2: 275 8.14: 130 n. 11 DIOGENES LAERTIUS Lives of Philosophers 3.62: 247 n. 9 6.38: 257 cited 7.129-130: 261 n. 34 10.12: 125 n. 52 10.117 (=Epicurus fr. 536 Usener): 97 DIOGENES OF OENOANDA (ed. M. F. Smith) fr. 3.VI.2-4: 33 n. 21 fr. 56.I.10-12: 46-47 n. 60 cited

334

Index Locorum

DIONYSIUS OF HALICARNASSUS Antiquitates Romanae II.59.1: 130 n. 11 DONATUS (ed. Brugnoli and Stok) Vita Vergiliana 79: 85 n. 58 cited EMPEDOCLES: 76-77 Fragments (DK31) B3.1-8: 142 cited B17.1-13: 147 cited B17.7: 57 B17.7-8: 56 cited B17.15-20: 147 n. 50 B17.19: 56 B17.19-20: 155 cited B19: 167 B26: 147 n. 50 B71.4: 57 cited B82: 158 n.79 cited B105: 75 n. 27 B109.3: 56 B111: 139 cited B112.6: 131 B115.14: 56 B117: 158 cited B128: 58 cited B129: 132 cited B132: 53 cited Fragments (P. Strasb. gr Inv.1665-6, ed. M&P): 129 a (i) 6: 56 cited d 2-10: 56 n. 83 d 3-10: 59 n. 89 cited ENNIUS Annales (ed. Skutsch): 6-7 Book 1 frs II-XIII: 84 n. 56 frs IV-V: 3 n. 9 fr. VI: 6 n. 20 fr. IX.11: 3 n. 9 fr. LXII: 5 n. 16

Book 7 fr. Ia 210: 4 n. 13 fr. X. 220-221: 156 cited Epicharmus (ed. Warmington): 6, 7, 9 fr. 1: 7 n. 29 cited fr. 2: 7 cited fr. 3: 7 n. 31 cited fr. 4-6: 8 n. 33 fr. 6 (=Varro LL 5.59.7-9): 8 n. 32 fr. 7: 8 cited frs 10-14: 8 n. 33 cited Euhemerus (ed. Warmington): 5, 6, 8, 9, 10, 19, 20 119-25: 18 121-125: 9 cited 134-138: 9 n. 37 Medea (ed. Jocelyn) fr. 107: 5 n. 18 Phoenix (ed. Jocelyn) fr. CXXVI 254-257: 5 n. 18 Saturae (ed. Warmington) Book 3, 8-9: 5 n. 17 Varia fr. 14-19: 5 n. 17 Inc. fr. 21: 5 n.17 Ex tragoediis incertis (Warmington) fr. 400: 4 n. 14 EPIC FRAGMENTS (ed. Bernabé) Nostoi fr. 7: 275 n. 19 EPICTETUS: 163 Dissertationes 1.14: 167 1.9.3-6: 296 n. 79 2.8: 167 3.1.19: 249 3.1.42: 246 n. 7 3.1.43: 254 n. 22 cited 3.7.13-18: 121 n. 46 3.12.1: 258 n. 30 3.22.10-11: 258 cited 3.24: 123 Encheiridion 53: 171

The Philosophizing Muse EPICURUS Ad Herodotum 35-36: 125 n. 52 83: 125 n. 52 Ad Menoeceum: 97 n. 12, 124 122: 33 n. 21 128-131: 124 Sententiae Vaticanae 10: 38-39 cited 29: 38 54: 33 n. 21 ȀȪȡȚĮȚǻȩȟĮȚ: 38, 124 11: 33 n. 21 cited 17: 119-120 cited 31: 120 31-38: 115 33: 107 34: 120 cited 35: 120 cited Fragments (ed. Usener) fr. 175 (=Seneca Epist. 9.8): 118 n. 42 fr. 221: 32 cited fr. 415 (=Cicero Fin. 2.68): 123 n. 48 fr. 440: 122-123 (partly cited) fr. 535: 120-121 cited fr. 536 (=Diog. Laert. 10.117): 97 EUSEBIUS Praeparatio Evangelica (eds Sirinelli and des Places) 13.12.6: 174 n. 41 14.728 (= SVF 2.20.1-7): 164 FESTUS (ed. Lindsay) 183, p. 178, 19-22: 7 n. 28 GELLIUS Noctes Atticae 12.4: 9 n. 39 15.11: xii 17.17: 6 n. 22 HERACLITUS (DK 22) B64 (= B79, ed. Marcovich): 54

HERACLITUS PONTICUS Quaestiones Homericae 39: 294 69.7-8: 80 n. 41 HESIOD: 177 Works and Days 1-2: 48 cited 111: 59 n. 88 179: 56 256-262: 287 n. 61 HIPPOCRATES Epidemics 5.2: 252 n. 15 HOMER: xxvi Iliad: 79, 80, 81, 177, 279 1.68-71: 39 n. 37 1.70: 39 1.396-400: 280 n. 39 1.590-594: 280 n. 39 2.412: 53 2.547: 253 6: 267 14.187-223: 293 14.200-210: 293 15.18-24: 280 n. 39 16.431-461: 283 16.384-392: 287 16.433: 284 n. 53 cited 16.459-460: 283 n. 51 18.490-540: 153 22.178: 53 23.21: 108 Odyssey: 79-81, 177, 279 6.42-45: 34 8: 80 n. 42 8.266-366: 280 n. 39 11.11-20: 291 18.87: 108 23.241-246: 287 HOMERIC HYMNS To Apollo [Hymn 3] 1: 48 cited

335

336 To Aphrodite [Hymn 5] 1: 48 cited HORACE Ars Poetica 55: 100 148-149: 113 cited 300: 252 437-451: 98 464-466: 75 n. 27 Carmina 1.3.6: 100 1.6.1: 100 1.11.8: 97 n. 12 1.20: 95 1.22.1: 120 cited 1.24: 98 1.24.10: 100 1.38: 95 2.5: 95 n. 8 2.14.9: 100 n. 17 2.16: 97 n. 12 2.19.30: 252 n. 16 3.1: 97 n. 12, 123 n. 49 3.3.1-4, 7-8: 102-103 cited 3.28: 95 n. 10 3.29: 97 n. 12 3.11.15: 252 n. 16 4.12: 95 4.12.13: 100 Epistulae 1: 97 n. 12 1.2: 100 n. 17 1.5: 95 1.7.25-28: 94 n. 8 1.14.36: 95 n. 8 2.1: 3 2.1.50-52: 3 n. 9, 6 n. 19 cited 2.1.247: 100 2.1.250-251: 104 cited 2.2.97: 259 n. 32 2.2.211-216: 95 n. 8 2.2.214-216: 118

Index Locorum Sermones (Satirae) 1: 101, 102, 104, 112, 114, 116-118, 124 1.1.1: 116 cited 1.1.13-14: 109 n. 31 cited 1.1.24: 88 1.1.24-26: 117 cited 1.1.80-85: 118 n. 42 cited 1.1.108-109: 117-118 cited 1.1.117-119: 117-118 cited 1.2: 101, 104, 108, 112, 114, 116, 119, 121-123, 125 n. 35 1.2.37-40: 122 1.2.41-46: 122 1.2.45: 252 1.2.58-59: 122 1.2.61-62: 122 cited 1.2.64-68: 122 1.2.73-76: 116 cited 1.2.119: 125 n. 53 cited 1.2.119-122: 95 n. 8 1.2.121: 94, 98, 116 1.2.127-134: 122 1.2.134: 122 cited 1.3: 101, 104, 112, 114, 116 1.3.97-114: 115 1.3.98: 115 cited 1.3.111-114: 115 cited 1.3.112: 120 cited 1.3.115-142: 115 1.4: 99, 100, 104, 112-113, 116 1.4.105-137: 113 1.4.109-112: 122 1.4.111-112: 122 1.4.114: 122 cited 1.4.115-116: 116 cited 1.4.141-143: 99-100 cited 1.5: 104, 112-113, 117-118 1.5.27-33: 99 1.5.40: 99 cited 1.5.101-104: 99 cited 1.6: 104, 112-113, 117-118, 123124 1.6.55: 100 1.6.65-93: 113 1.6.111-129: 123

The Philosophizing Muse 1.6.128: 123 1.7.25-28: 94 n. 8 1.10: 99, 100, 104, 112-113 1.10.44-45: 100 1.10.81: 99 cited 2.1: 124 2.2: 97 n. 12, 104, 124, 125, 126 2.2.1-7: 125 2.2.9-21: 124, 125 2.2.47: 125 2.2.9-52: 125 2.2.26: 252 n. 16 2.2.70-79: 125 2.2.71-77: 124 2.2.80-81: 124 2.2.82-88: 124 2.2.107-111: 124 2.2.112-134: 124 2.3: 96, 104 2.3.35: 258 n. 29 2.3.82: 252 2.4: 126 2.6: 96, 104, 123, 126 2.6.60-76: 92-93 cited, 100 2.6.65: 96 cited 2.6.67: 96 cited 2.7: 104, 124 2.7.49: 252 2.8: 126 2.8.21: 100 2.8.63: 100 IAMBLICHUS Life of Pythagoras 267: 20 n. 70 ISIDORE Origines 8.7.3: 136 n. 26 ISOCRATES Busiris 5: 247 n. 11 JEROME Chronicle (ed. Helm)

337

s.a.Abr.1923 = 94-93 B.C., Olymp. 171a3 , p. 149: 177 on 45-44 B.C., Olymp. 183.4, p. 156: 139 n. 33 Epistulae 60.5: 226 JUVENAL Satire 2 8-13: 258 n. 28 Satire 3 77-78: 10 n. 40 Satire 6 19: 287 n. 60 LACTANTIUS Divinae Institutiones Book 1 (De Falsa Religione) 9: 5 n. 18 11: 8 n. 36 13: 8 n. 36 14: 8 n. 36 17: 8 n. 36, 9 n. 37 22: 8 n. 36 22.5-8: 7 n. 28 Book 4 28: 32 n. 19 LIVY Ab Urbe Condita 1.18: 130 n. 11 39.40.4: 16 n. 59 cited LUCAN Bellum Civile: 180 1.33-37: 184 1.52: 184 1.63: 184 1.70: 220 cited 1.128: 185, 232 cited 2: 222, 239 2.1: 232 cited 2.9-10: 286 n. 59 2.287-288: 228 cited 2.287ff.: 228 n. 37 2.304-305: 228 cited

338

Index Locorum

2.312: 228 cited 2.317-318: 228 cited 2.367: 229 2.375-376: 229 cited 2.377-378: 228 cited 2.390-391: 227-228 cited 5.105: 281 n. 43 cited 6.301: 232 cited 6.304-305: 232 cited 6.611-612: 281 n.143 6.721-722: 276 n. 22 6.807-809: 185 6.809: 185 cited 7.210-213: 223 cited 7.211: 223 7.349: 232 cited 7.647-648: 232 cited 7.815-817: 184 8: xxi-xxii, 225 8.26-67: 236 8.40-85: 225 8.40-49: 225 8.56-57: 229 cited 8.67-68: 225-226 cited 8.70-85: 225, 230 cited, 231, 234 n. 43 8.76-77: 232 cited 8.575-661: 225 8.575-636: 234 n. 43, 235 8.612: 236 8.613-636: 225, 235-6 cited 8.618-636: 276 8.619-620: 237 8.620: 238 cited, 242 8.621: 236 8.622: 236 8.622-623: 236 8.624: 236 8.625: 236, 241 8.628-636: 239 8.629-631: 239 8.630: 241 8.631-632: 237 8.634-635: 236 8.835: 185 8.859-862: 185

8.861-862: 185 9: 222 9.3-4: 185 9.7-9: 185 9.10-11: 185 9.17: 185 9.601: 185 9.603: 185 cited 9.604: 185 9.734-846: 221 LUCIAN Dialogi Meretricii 10: 262 n. 36 Vitarum Auctio 23: 252 cited LUCILIUS (ed. Krenkel) fr. 1: 21 frs 23-26 and 27: 21 n. 72 frs 771-773: 21 fr. 774: 21 fr. 800: 21 fr. 832: 21 fr. 834: 22 frs 834-835: 21 frs 836-838: 21cited fr. 839: 22 cited fr. 841: 22 fr. 1249-1250: 24 fr. 1339: 24 n. 84 fr. 1340-1341: 24 n. 84 fr. 1342-1354: 22 fr. 1342-1343: 22 cited fr. 1344: 23 fr. 1347: 23 fr. 1348: 23 cited fr. 1349: 23 n. 79 fr. 1357: 24 n. 84 Unassigned fragments (ed. Warmington) 1207-8: 23 LUCRETIUS De Rerum Natura: xiii, 234 n. 43 1.1: 39, 51

The Philosophizing Muse 1.2: 49 1.2-4: 52 cited 1.6-9: 52 1.21: 54 cited 1.24: 52 cited 1.28: 46 1.40: 40 1.62-65: 37 1.62-79: 37, 138, 242 1.62-74: 131-132 cited 1.66-67: 37 cited 1.72-74: 132 1.101: 242 cited 1.102-126: 28 1.102-135: 84 n. 56 1.102-103: 131 cited 1.115-126: 3 n. 8 1.117-119: 28 1.118-119: 29 n. 9 1.121: 3 n. 8 1.126: 28 1.671: 79 n. 38 1.715: 65 1.716-733: 35 cited 1.717: 36 1.718: 36 1.722-725: 133, 138 1.725: 36 1.730: 36 1.731: 36 1.732: 36, 140 1.735-749: 179 1.736: 37 1.736-739: 141 cited 1.737-739: 37 1.738-739: 37 cited 1.740-741: 37 cited 1.921-930: 27-28 cited 1.921-925: 28 n. 7 1.921-950: 117 1.922-935: 131 1.931-934: 31-32 cited 1.935-950: 246 1.936-945: 112 2.14: 53 2.15: 52, 53

339

2.29-33: 96 2.55-56: 53 2.55-61: 54 2.61: 54 2.600-660: 40 n. 40 2.655-660: 43 n. 51 3: xxii, 113-114, 122, 236 n. 44 3.1-2: 32, 52, 53 3.1-13: 29 cited 3.4: 30 n. 13 3.13: 31 cited 3.14-15: 38 3.14-22: 33-34 cited 3.59: 54 3.87-88: 53 3.87-93: 54 3.931-939: 241-242 cited 3.931-949: 242 3.938-939: 118 n. 41 cited 4: 113-114, 122 4.1-25: 28 n. 7, 31 n. 18, 246 4.1026-1287: 108 4.1153-1170: 253 n. 19 5.8: 36 cited, 38 5.11-12: 52 5.43-44: 46 n. 60 cited 5.82-90: 99 5.110-112: 38 cited 5.110-113: 140 cited 5.110-125: 36 5.392-415: 40 n. 40 5.538-619: 179 5.925-1027: 115 5.973-1023: 176 5.1105-1114: 176 5.1203: 243 cited 5.1392-1396: 96 6.35-36: 53 6.35-41: 54 6.56-66: 99 6.67: 53 6.92-95: 140 MACROBIUS Commentarii in Somnium Scipionis 2.12.11: 167

340

MANILIUS Astronomica: xv 1.1-6: 177 1.7-10: 180 cited 1.16-17: 162 1.30-37: 179 1.66-112: 175, 176 1.66: 175 1.80: 176 1.83: 176 1.95: 175-176 1.119: 281 n. 43 1.247-252: 172 cited 1.250: 173 1.251: 173 1.718ff.: 165 1.735-749: 179 1.758-761: 165 1.775-804: 183 1.785: 183 1.793-794: 183 cited 1.794-795: 183 1.797: 180 cited, 183 1.798-799: 183 1.798-802: 181 1.925-926: 181cited 1.926: 181 2.25-38: 174 2.37: 174, 177 cited 2.57: 177 2.60 ff.: 178 2.60-66: 164, 166 2.61-62: 174 2.64-66: 166 2.115: 168 2.115-116: 167 2.115-124: 164 2.116: 165, 171 2.600: 182 cited 3.12: 275 n. 19 3.61: 173 3.168: 281 n. 43 4: 177 4.12-22: 164, 169 4.14: 169 cited

Index Locorum 4.16: 281 n. 43 cited 4.18: 170 4.84: 170 cited 4.87: 180 cited 4.110-117: 170 cited 4.114-117: 171, 178 4.387-407: 172 4.390: 172 cited 4.394: 282 n. 44 4.764-766: 182 4.876a-881: 167 4.883-885: 165, 171 4.884-885: 172 4.885: 172 4.886-887: 167 cited 4.887: 172 4.893-895: 167, 172 cited 4.896-897: 172 cited 4.923-924: 167 5: 177 5.465-467: 275 n. 19 5.538-619: 178, 179 5.727-745: 181 5.735-739: 181 cited 5.738: 182 MARTIAL 7.58: 257-258 9.7: 258 n. 30 9.47: 257 cited MENANDER RHETOR (ed. Russell and Wilson) 1.337.25-26: 46 n. 57 METRODORUS (ed. Körte) fr. 37 (=Epicurus Sent. Vat. 10): 3839 cited MUSONIUS RUFUS (ed. Lutz) Discourse 12 (On Sexual Indulgence) 86. 4-10: 262 Discourse 17 (What is the Best Viaticum for Old Age?) 23-24: 167

The Philosophizing Muse

NEPOS Cato 3.1: 16 n. 59 ORIGEN Contra Celsum 7.63 p. 385 Hoesch. (=fr. 535 Usener): 120-121 cited OVID Ars Amatoria: 134 n. 21 Fasti: xvi 1.43-44: 137 1.101: 137 1.101-102: 134 cited 1.101-144: 128, 136 1.121-122: 137 1.123-124: 137 1.267-272: xvii, 150 cited 1.268: 137 1.317-456: 143 1.337-348: 143 1.363-380: xvii, 147 1.370: 152 1.372: 152 1.379-380: 146 cited 1.380: 146-147 1.383-384: 148 cited 3.151: 136 3.151-154: 136 cited 3.153: 136 3.167-170: 134 cited 3.177: 134 3.259-294: 135 3.259-392: xvii, 135 3.259-398: 144 3.263-264: 135 3.273-276: 135 3.274: 135 3.277-284: 144 cited 3.285-290: 137-138 cited 3.293: 138, 152 3.295-326: 135 3.300: 144 cited, 150 3.306: 152

3.306-308: 138 3.307: 152 3.313: 135 3.313-314: 141 cited 3.320: 152 3.321: 139 cited 3.323: 135, 138, 153 3.323-326: 134, 141-142 cited 3.327-328: 138-139 cited 3.327-348: 135 3.333-336: 142 cited 3.339-342: 143 3.339-346: 157-159 3.340-343: 138 3.341: 158 3.342: 158 3.349-378: 135 3.354 cited: 156-157 3.369: 153 cited 3.373-378: 153 3.375-376: 144 cited 3.377-380: 154 cited 3.377: 153 n. 65 3.379: 156-157 cited 3.379-392: 135 3.388: 135 3.697-710: 156 4.629-672: xvii, 145 4.633-634: 145 cited 4.637-640: 151 4.643-644: 145-146 cited 4.649-668: 141 n. 38 4.652: 146 cited 4.654-660: 146 4.665-666: 146 cited 4.666: 146 4.668: 146 4.671: 146 4.783-806: xvii, 150 4.787-792: 151 cited 4.807: 151 4.808-862: 151 4.845-848: 151 4.855-858: 151-152 cited 5.573-577: 156 6.8: 134 n. 22

341

342 6.101-130: 159 n. 84 6.249-318: 128 6.257-260: 155 6.265-282: xvii, 154-155 cited 6.271: 155 6.277: 155 6.329-348: 159 n. 84 6.349-394: 156 6.417-436: 156 6.465-468: 156 Metamorphoses: xvi, 129 1.1: 251 n. 13 1.5-88: 128 1.54-56: 138 1.149-150: 287 n. 60 1.416-451: 129 n. 7 1.430-433: 149 cited 6.193 cited: 240 7.159-293: 275 n. 19 10.281-283: 226 cited 10.289: 226 cited 11.710-728: 225 14.320-434: 296 n. 80 14.791-795: 150 cited 15: xvii, 129-133 15.1-484: 128, 130 15.4-6: 130 cited 15.6: 131 15.60: 132-133 cited 15.60-72: 132 15.64-65: 133 cited 15.69-70: 138 cited 15.75-112: 143 15.75-142: 130 15.116-121: 143 cited 15.143-152: 130 15.153-157: 130 15.158-172: 130 15.174: 131 15.176-459: 131 15.237: 149 n. 55 15.259-452: 234 n. 43 15.479: 160 15.479-484: 160 cited 15.480: 160 15.483-484: 143 cited

Index Locorum Tristia 2.255-262: 44 cited 3.7.43-52: 234 n. 43 4.3.69-84: 233-234 cited 5.10: 234 n. 43 PANAETIUS (ed. van Straaten) fr. 74: 165 PARMENIDES (DK28) B16: 167 PERSIUS: xxiii 1.17-18: 263 n. 46 cited 1.20-21: 263 cited 1.120: 263 1.133: 258 n. 29 3.20-24: 264 3.66-76: 263 n. 45 3.77: 263 n. 45 4: xxv, 246, 249 n. 12 4.1: 257 n. 27 4.1-5: 250 cited 4.5: 257 4.7: 251 4.9: 250 cited 4.10-13: 250-251 cited 4.12: 265 4.14-16: 252 4.14-18: 251 cited 4.19-22: 254 4.20: 265 4.23-24: 260 cited 4.33-38: 256 cited 4.42-43: 259 cited 4.44-45: 259 4.45: 252 n. 17 4.46-47: 263 cited 4.47-50: 252 n. 17 4.51-52: 262 cited 4.51: 262 n. 40 5: xxv, 267 5.21-29: 266 cited 5.30-44: 264-265 cited 5.33: 265 5.35-51: 245

The Philosophizing Muse 5.37: 249 n. 12, 265, 267 5.189-191: 263 cited 7.11: 6 n. 19 PHILODEMUS Epigrams (ed. Sider) 1: 94 n. 8 5: 94 n. 8 6 (AP 11.34): 95 n. 8, n. 10 15: 119 n. 43, 120 n. 45 16: 95 n. 8 22: 95 n. 8, 119 n. 43, 120 n. 45, 149 n. 42 26: 119 n. 43, 120 n. 45 27: 92 cited, 93, 94, 95 28: 95 n. 8 38: 119 n 43 On anger [De ira, Ȇİȡ੿ ੑȡȖોȢ, ed. Indelli]: xv-xvi, 100-101, 104, 112-113, 122 I.5-VIII.9: 105 II: 111 n. 36 VII 6.-26: 107-108 cited VIII 20-41: 108 cited VIII 20-XXXI 24a: 106 IX 18-X 1: 109 cited XIII 16-17: 109 n. 32 cited XIV 27-29: 109 n. 32 cited XVII 8-15: 109 n. 32 XVIII 19: 109 n. 32 cited XVIII 35-XIX 40: 110 cited XVIII 35-XXXI 40: 110 XIX 12-35: 110 cited XX 19-34: 110-111 cited XXVI 1-3: 109 n. 32 XXVI 33: 109 n. 32 cited XXVIII 4-5: 109 n. 32 cited XXVIII 17-18: 109 n. 32 cited XXXI 12-24: 111 cited XXXI 24b-XXXIV 6: 106, 111 n. 38 XXXI 24b-L8: 106 XXXIV 16-L 8: 106 XXXV 34: 106 n. 26 XXXVI 23-28: 110 n. 33 XXXVIII 5-9: 111 n. 34

343

XL 1-26: 107 On Choices and Avoidances (ed. Indelli-Tsouna) Col. XIX 12-21: 118-119 n. 42 cited Col. XX 1.20: 118-119 cited On Death (De Morte, Ȇİȡ੿ șĮȞ੺IJȠȣ, P.Herc. 1050, ed. Henry): xv, 88, 97, 98 n. 15, 100, 112-114, 122 33.37-35.34: 102 n. 22, 103, 120 34.35-35.2: 103 35.34-36.26: 103 On flattery (De adulatione, Ȇİȡ੿ țȠȜĮțİ઀ĮȢ, P.Herc. 222, ed. Gigante and Capasso): xv, 88-89 On Frank Criticism (=On freedom of speech) (De libertate dicendi, Ȇİȡ੿ ʌĮȡȡȘı઀ĮȢ): xv, 88, 106, 112 On the Gods (De dis, Ȇİȡ੿ șİ૵Ȟ, ed. Diels) Book 3 col. 13.36–14.6 (=Hermachus fr. 32 Longo): 91-92 cited, 93 On the Good King according to Homer (De bono rege secundum Homerum, Ȇİȡ੿ IJȠ૨ țĮș’ ੜȝȘȡȠȞ ਕȖĮșȠ૨ ȕĮıȚȜ੼ȦȢ, P.Herc. 1507): 100, 112 On Music (De musica, Ȇİȡ੿ ȝȠȣıȚțોȢ, ed. Neubecker) 4.28.1-22 (= SVF 1.486 part): 50-51 cited On Piety (De Pietate, Ȇİȡ੿ İ੝ıİȕİ઀ĮȢ, Part 1, ed. Obbink) 71.2044-45: 38 cited On Piety (De Pietate, Ȇİȡ੿ İ੝ıİȕİ઀ĮȢ, Part 2, ed. Obbink forthcoming) col. 60 = P.Herc. 243.4 (ed. Schober): 41 cited col. 113= P.Herc. 1428 fr. 17 (ed. Henrichs): 41-42 cited, 55 n. 81 col. 114= P.Herc. 1428 fr. 18 (ed. Henrichs): 42

344

Index Locorum

col. 123 = P.Herc 1428 col. 1 (ed. Henrichs): 57 cols 126-127 = P.Herc. 1428 col. 45 (part): 42-43 cited, 50 n. 69, 57 On Piety (De Pietate, Ȇİȡ੿ İ੝ıİȕİ઀ĮȢ, P.Herc. 1428 (ed. Henrichs) cols xi.5-xii 10: 44 n. 52 On Poems (De poematis, Ȇİȡ੿ ʌȠȚȘȝ੺IJȦȞ) 71 n. 20 On Property Management (De oeconomia, Ȇİȡ੿ ȠੁțȠȞȠȝ઀ĮȢ, P.Herc. 1424, ed. Tsouna): 102 n. 20 cols 12-28: 95 n. 9 ȆȡȠȢ IJȠȣȢ [-] P.Herc. 1005, col. iv, 9-14: 33 n. 21 PINDAR Nemean Odes 7.1-6: 54 n. 80 Olympian Odes 14.4-9: 54 n. 80 PLATO Alcibiades I: xxiii, 246, 247, 248, 251, 252, 254, 259, 262, 267 103a: 256 n. 25 104b: 250 104e: 250, 256 112d: 250 118b: 250 118e: 249 123e: 250 cited 124b–131a: 259 n. 31 132a: 253 cited 132e–133a: 260 cited 133b: 260 cited 134c–d: 247-248 cited 135d: 248 cited Apology: 246, 247 33a–b: 248 Charmides 154b: 21 Cratylus

400c: 276 n. 24 Gorgias 493a: 276 n. 24 Laws 636c: 262 n. 38 838-839d: 262 n. 38 Phaedo 67d: 276 n. 24 82e: 276 n. 24 Phaedrus: 246, 262, 267 Protagoras 356b: 251 Republic 2.373a: 126 n. 55 cited 8.550e: 251 10.606-607: 278 n. 36 Symposium: xxiii-xxiv, 246, 248 215b–216a: 265 216a-b: 266 216b 3-6: 249 cited 216d–219d: 246 218e–219a: 267 219c– d: 255 cited 219d: 266 Theaetetus 176b-c: 239 Timaeus: 166, 173 43a: 57 n. 85 71b: 267 PLAUTUS Captivi: 11, 13-14 274-275: 12 cited 284: 12 cited Curculio: 11, 15 288-291: 10 cited Menaechmi 11-12: 6 n. 23 Mercator 145: 19 145-146: 13-14 cited 147-148: 13-14 cited Poenulus: 159 n. 82 228-232: 14-15 238: 15

The Philosophizing Muse Pseudolus 683-687: 12-13 cited Rudens 986: 14 n. 48 987: 14 n. 48 PLINY Naturalis Historia 7.100: 16 n. 59 13.84 (=Cassius Hemina fr. 30 Peter): 7 n. 28 17.19: 74 n. 25 17.27: 74 n. 25 17.120: 74 n. 25 24.60: 252 25.22: 252 29.14: 16 cited, 16 n. 58 PLUTARCH Lives Alcibiades: 255 n. 23 Caesar 63.7: 93 66: 238 n. 47 Cato maior 21-23: 15 22.5: 16 n. 56 cited 23.1: 16 n. 57 cited, 20 23. 2-3: 16 n. 61 Numa 1.2-4: 130 n. 11 8.4-10: 130 n. 11 13.5: 154 15.4: 139 n. 32 22: 7 n. 28 22.4: 130 n. 11 Pompeius: xxii 74-75: 227 75.3: 227 cited 79.4: 237 Moralia Quomodo adolescens poetas audire debeat 19e-f: 294 n. 75 Quaestiones Romanae [Origo gentis Romanae]

345

268d: 141 n. 39 De Alexandri magni fortuna aut virtute 329a-b: 296 n. 79 De sera numinis vindicta 559d 1-4: 213 cited De communibus notitiis adversus Stoicos 1072f-1073d: 262 n. 36 1076a: 239 De Stoicorum repugnantiis 1045: 215 (Pseudo-PLUTARCH) De Vita et Poesi Homeri (ed. Keaney and Lamberton) 92-160: 81 n. 46 PORPHYRY De abstinentia (ed. Nauck) 2.20-22 p. 150.9-151.13: 58 POSIDONIUS (ed. Edelstein and Kidd.) fr. 14 E.-K. (=fr. 334 Theiler): 167 fr. 16 E.-K. (=fr. 311 Theiler): 165 frs 21 and 23 E.-K. (=fr. 345 Theiler): 165 fr. 21 E.-K: 166 PROBUS Vita Catonis 1: 6 n. 22 Vita Vergilii: 98 n. 15 PROPERTIUS 2.34.66: 279 n. 35 cited 4.1.104: 267 n. 52 4.4: 150 n. 58 Pseudo-AURELIUS VICTOR De viris illustribus 3: 7 n. 28 Pythagorean Golden Verses 38b: 15

346

Index Locorum

QUINTILIAN Institutio Oratoria 12.11.23: 16 n. 59 SAPPHO (ed. Voigt) fr. 2.13: 48 n. 64 SENECA Apocolocynthosis [Ludus de morte Claudii] 8.1-3: 183-184 cited 9.3: 184 cited 9.5–10.1: 184 n. 66 11.3-4: 184 cited 12.1: 184 cited De Beneficiis 4.7.2.2-4: 281 n. 42 cited De Clementia: xx, 180, 184, 189, 193, 200 1.3: 199 1.7: 200 1.7-8: 195, 199-200 1.8: 199 Dialogi: xx [1] De Providentia: 189, 191 n. 8, 202 [1].1.2: 286 n. 59 cited [1].2.7-9: 239 [1].2.10: 276 n. 22 [1].3.14: 188 [1].4.3-4 [4.3.6, 4.4.1-2]: 237 cited [1].5.8.8-9: 281 n. 41 (cited) [1].6.6.5–6.7.1: 233 cited [2] De constantia sapientis: 189, 191 n. 8, 202 [2].2.1: 188 [3-5] De ira: xx, 192-193 [3].20.4: 189 [3].3.3: 193 cited [4].4: 106 [4].4.1: 193 n. 16 [4].22-35: 194 [4].31.7: 296 n. 78 [5].1: 195, 197 [5].6: 194

[5].15.3-4: 276 n. 22 [5].39: 195 [5].39.2-3: 195-196 cited [5].39.4: 196 cited [6] Ad Marciam: 190, 191 n. 8 [6].2.3-4: 289 n. 67 [6].5.5-6: 231 cited [6].18.1-2: 296 n. 78 [6].21.1.3-4: 289 n. 67 cited [6].24.5: 289 n. 67 [7] De Vita Beata: 190 [7].2.1-4; 263 n. 43 [7].20.5.5-6: 296 n. 78 cited [8] De Otio: 190 4.1.1-4: 295-296 n. 78 cited [10] De brevitate vitae [10].10.2: 239 [11] Ad Helviam: 190, 191 n. 8, 202 [11].6.7.2-4: 290 n. 67 cited [12] Ad Polyvium: 190, 191 n. 8 Epistulae Morales ad Lucilium 9.8: 118 n. 42 12.10: 276 n. 22 14: 202 n. 25 16.2-3: 258 n. 22 29.12: 263 n. 43 31.8.4–31.9.1: 239-240 cited 41.1-2: 167 43.4-5: 239 48.11.7-8: 240 cited 65.1-4: 215 n. 45 65.16.5: 289 n. 66 cited 66.12.3-4: 289 n. 65 cited 71: 202 n. 25 75: 219 n. 5, 229 75.5-7: 246 n. 4 76.23: 240 78.18.1-2: 237 cited 78.21.5-7: 237 cited 86.1.3-4: 290 n. 67 cited 86.15: 74 n. 25 88.5: 279 n. 37 90: 175-176 99.16-17: 263 n. 43 107.3.5-6: 233 cited 107.10 (=SVF I.527): 171

The Philosophizing Muse 107.11.5: 171 cited, 228 108.8-11: 224 108.9: 246 n. 4 108.10: 51 cited 110.18.3-5: 240 cited 110.20.1-4: 240 cited 113.32: 263 n. 43 120.14.2-6: 290 n. 67 cited 123.15: 262 Naturales Quaestiones: 164 1, Praef. 13: 166 2.32-38: 215-216 2.35: 47 2.35-38: 216 n. 47 7.25.6: 281 n. 43, 286 Tragedies: Agamemnon: xx, 210 11-12: 213-214 cited 22: 214 cited 48-49: 214 cited 51-52: 214 cited 125: 196 203-225: 197 591: 276 n. 22 769-774: 214-215 cited 867-909: 215 Hercules furens: 189, 210 Medea: xx 19-26: 203-204 cited 26-36: 204-205 cited 118-119: 205 cited 136: 205 cited 143: 205 cited 150-154: 195 cited 171: 203 245-246: 206 n. 30 cited 380-396: 196 908-910: 206-207 cited 910: 203 cited 958: 206 cited 1026-1027: 207 cited Oedipus: 189 [Octavia] 423ff.: 287 n. 60 Thyestes: xx, 189, 197 18-23: 211-212 cited

347

23-24: 212 cited 28-32: 212 cited 48-50: 213 cited 102-103:213 cited 201-212: 198 cited 213: 199 cited 214-218: 199 cited 219-222: 200 cited 885-889: 201-202 cited 885-892: 210 890-892: 202 cited 995-997: 209 cited 1005-1006: 209 cited 1054-1068: 210 SERVIUS In Verg. Aeneidem: 82 n. 50 1.387: 83 n. 54 cited 3.68: 83 n. 55 3.443: 136 n. 26 (DServ.) 5.95: 83 n. 55 6.136: 83 n. 55 6.295: 83 n. 55 8.349: 32 n. 19 10.564: 83 n. 55 In Verg. Bucolica: 67 1.1: 67 n. 9 cited 3.111: 70 n. 17 6.13: 67 n. 8 cited 6.31: 64-65 cited, 65 cited (Serv. and DServ.), 66, 77, 85 6.41: 64 cited In Verg. Georgica 1.72: 77 1.86: 77 1.107: 77 1.243-4: 77 cited 1.247: 77 (DServ.), 78 n. 35 (DServ.) 1.252: 77 (DServ.), 78 n. 35 (DServ.), n. 37 cited (Serv. and DServ.) 2.478:77 (DServ.), 78 n. 35 (DServ.) 2.483: 77 2.484: 77 2.490: 77

348 3.280: 77 (DServ.) 3.525: 77, 78 n. 35, n. 36 cited 4.51: 77 4.153: 77 4. 219: 61 cited (DServ.), 77 (DServ.), 78 (DServ.), 85 4.221: 78 n. 38 cited 4.226: 78 n. 38 (DServ.) 4.363: 77 4.379: 77 (DServ.) 4.381: 77 4.399: 77 SILIUS ITALICUS Punica: xxv, 270 3.594-596: 274 n. 16 13.635: 274 n. 17 SOPHOCLES Oedipus Tyrannus 158-159: 48 STATIUS Thebaid: xxii, 270 STOBAEUS 83.13-84.1: 23 n. 80 STRABO Geographica 11.1.6: 227 SUETONIUS De Grammaticis et Rhetoribus 1: 9 n. 39 1.1: xii 2.1: 68 n. 14 De Vita Caesarum: Divus Julius 82: 238 n. 47 THEOCRITUS: 70-71 1: 68, 79, 86 n. 59 8.11-24: 68 n. 13 THEOGNIS 1.192: 56

Index Locorum THUCYDIDES 6.15: 255 n. 23 TIBULLUS 1.8.3: 267 n. 52 VALERIUS FLACCUS Argonautica: xxv-xxvi 1: 278 1.10: 271 n. 9 cited 1.22-30: 275 n. 21 1.34-36: 273 1.107-111: 273 1.233: 271 n. 9 cited 1.277-293: 271 1.498-500: 273 cited 1.503-573: 280 1.511-512: 282 n. 47 1.531-533: 281 cited 1.533-535: 282 n. 47 1.561-562: 274, 281 n. 47 1.563: 274 1.563-567: 273 cited 1.670-674: 288 n. 63 1.693-830: 275 1.749-751: 275-276 cited 1.755-773: 276 1.767-773: 276 1.768: 277 1.788: 276 n. 23, 290 n. 68 cited 1.828-831: 271 n. 9 cited 1.835-841: 277 1.837-838: 277 cited 2.1-5: 283 n. 50 2.82-100: 280 n. 39 2.199: 288 n. 62 2.356: 286 cited 2.357-358: 286 cited, 287 2.361-364: 287 cited 3: 278 3.362-369: 288 3.367: 290 3.377: 288 cited 3.378: 289 3.378-382: 289 cited 3.382: 290

The Philosophizing Muse 3.383-388: 290 3.391-396: 292 n. 71 3.397-401: 291 cited 3.409-410: 291 cited 3.448-455: 292 n. 71 3.609-610: 272 n. 10 cited 3.620: 282 cited 4.15-17: 283 n. 49 4.35-36: 274 cited 4.75-81: 273 4.80-81: 274 4.127: 282 4.132: 283 n. 51 4.708-709: 281 cited 5.246: 282-283 n. 48 (cited) 5.643: 282 cited 5.680: 281 n. 43 cited 6.455-466: 293 6.467-468: 293 6.470-476: 294 cited 6.471-474: 294 n. 76 6.622-623: 284 n. 53 cited 6.624-629: 283 cited 6.652-653: 284 n. 53 cited 6.740-751: 283 n. 50 7.226-229: 295 cited 7.227: 296 7.228-229: 295 cited 7.232: 296 cited 7.355: 267 n. 52 VALERIUS MAXIMUS Facta et Dicta Memorabilia 1.1.12: 7 n. 28 VARRO De Lingua Latina 5.59.7-9: 8 n. 32 (Ennius Epicharmus fr. 6 W.) 5.61.5-9: 149 cited 7.36: 136 n. 26 VERGIL Aeneid: xxv, 76, 79-85, 87, 95, 107, 270, 278-280, 285, 1.4: 66 n. 5

349

1.148-153: 251 1.223-296: 280 1.259-260: 274 n. 17 1.387-388: 83 4.614: 282 4.648-692: 226 4.686: 226 cited 6: 66 n. 7, 83, 86 6.660-665: 277 6.723ff.: 82 n. 48 6.724: 78 n. 38 6.724-725: 82 n. 49, 84 n. 57 cited 6.724-751: 82 n. 48, 290 6.726: 166 n. 28 6.726-727: 84 n. 57 6.730-731: 290 7.81-103: 141 n. 38 7.187-191: 296 n. 80 7.648: 241 8.7: 241 8.427: 153 8.589: 54 n. 78 8.630-728: xvii, 153 8.664: 153 9.641: 274 n. 17 10.849-850: 241 cited 10.851-854: 241 861-862: 241 cited 10.880-881: 242 cited 10.901: 242 cited 10.907: 243 12.107: 66 n. 5 Eclogues: xiv, 63-72, 74, 87 1.6-8: 72 n. 22 1.16-17: 72 n. 22 1.40-41: 72 n. 22 3: 68, 72 n. 22, 79, 86 n. 59 3.37: 69 3.43: 69 3.44: 69 3.47: 69 3.48: 70 3.60-63: 72 n. 22 3.84-87: 70 n. 18 3.104-105: 72 n. 22 3.106-107: 72 n. 22

350 3.108: 70 n. 17 3.109-110: 70 n. 17 5: 72 n. 22, 86 n. 59 5.56-80: 72 n. 22 6: xvii, 66, 68, 73, 76, 84, 86, 271 6.7: 98 n. 15 6.5-12: 98 n. 15 6.19: 152 6.20-22: 67 n. 8 6.27-30: 69 n. 15 6.31-32: 64 6.31-40: 63-64 cited 6.32-33: 64 6.71: 69 n. 15 7: 72 n. 22 9: 70 9.11-13: 70 n. 19 9.27-29: 98 n. 15 9.32-36: 72 n. 22 9.46-50: 72 n. 22 10: 86 n. 59 Georgics: xiv, 72-79 1.84-93: 73 cited 1.121-124: 273 2: 76, 86 2.473-474: 287 n. 60 2.478-482: 80 n. 42 2.490-494: 133 n. 18

Index Locorum 2.490-502: 75 2.490-492: 75 2.493-502: 75 4: xvii, 80 n. 42 4.221: 78 4.382: 64 4.396: 152 4.405: 152 4.409: 152 4.412: 152 4.563-564: 61 APPENIDX VERGILIANA Aetna (ed. Richter) 255-256: 167-168 cited Catalepton Poem 5: 62 n. 2 Poem 8: 62 n. 2 XENOPHON Memorabilia: 247 1.2.12: 255 n. 23 ZENO CITIEUS (SVF, ed. von Arnim, vol. i) Physics 120.1-2: 173 163: 166

GENERAL INDEX

A Aeson: xxvi, 275-278 Aesthetic: value: 69, 70, 87; debate: 71; principle: xxi aesthetics: 6, 68 n. 13, 69-70, 72 n. 22, 79 Agonalia: 143, 157 Alcibiades: xxiii-xxv, 246-261, 265267 Alexis: ȀĮȡȤȘįȩȞȚȠȢ: 14; ȆȣșĮȖȠȡȓȗȠȣıĮ: 14, 159 n. 81; ȉĮȡĮȞIJ߿ȞȠȚ: 14-15, 159 n. 81 allegory, allegoresis, allegorization, allegorical (exegesis, image, interpretation, reading): (Stoic) of Aphrodite / Venus: xiii, xiv, 39-43, 45, 54, 57; biographical: 67, 77; of cosmos: 68, 79; of cosmogony, cosmic creation: 80, 152; (Stoic) of Gigantomachy: 36; of Hercules: 272-275; of Juno: 79; of myths: xiii, 175, 178; Stoic(s): 41-44, 50, 55, 178-179, 279; philosophical: 79; of natural philosophy: 79; of transmigration: 148; and Aratus: 155; and Chrysippus’ theorization: 178; and Cicero: 178-179, 183; and Annaeus Cornutus: 164, 179; and Empedocles: 153; and Heraclitus’ Homeric Problems: 294; and Homer: xv, xxvii, 153, 279, 293-294; and Lucan: 224; and Manilius: xix, 162, 179, 243; in Servius and Vergil: xivxv, 66-68, 77-79, 86, 152; and

Valerius Flaccus: xxvii, 280 n. 39, 272-275, 293-294 allegorist (Stoic): xix, 153, 175, 178-179, 279 n. 37 ancile, ancilia: 135, 153-154, 156 Andromeda (Manilius’ myth of): 178-179 anger: 80-82, 106-107, 192-197, 232, 234; see also Bion On Anger: xvi, 105; Philodemus On Anger apatheia (Stoic): xxi, 223 Aphrodite: xiv, xxvii, 26-27, 40-41, 43, 45, 48, 49, 56-59, 80, 280 n. 39, 293; see also Venus apotheosis: 9-10, 86, 180, 183-184, 207, 219, 229, 274 n. 17, 282 n. 47 Ariphron: 54 n. 80 Aristoxenus of Tarentum: 6 Astraea: 287; see also Iustitia astronomy: xviii, 161-163, 165, 171-172, 186 B biography, biographical: allegory: 67, 77; auto-: 113; criticism: 62, 87; exegesis: xii; interpretation: xiv, 76; philosophical: 66-67, 72, 85-86, 88, 90; tradition: 62 n. 2, 63; see also vita tradition Bion of Borysthenes: xvi, 105, 109, 113-114, 117, 242 bougonia: xvii, 146-148, 158 C Cato the Elder: xii, xiii, 2, 9, 15-19, 20-22, 25, 30-31, 74

352

General Index

Cato the Younger: 180, 183, 185, 188, 191, 202; in Lucan: xxii, 219, 222-223, 225, 227-9, 232, 235, 239, 244. clupeus virtutis of Augustus: 153 Conon of Samos (astronomer): 68 consolatio, consolatory tradition: xxii, 98, 140, 190, 202, 218, 226-227, 229, 231-233, 236, 239, 241, 243-244 Cornutus (in Persius): xxv, 264-267 cosmogony: 9, 66 n. 7, 69 n. 15, 80, 80 n. 42, 86, 128, 128 n. 3, 136, 138, 271 cosmology: xii, xxvi, 7, 75, 161164, 166, 168, 186, 211, 216, 269 n. 2, 288 cow (sacrifice of): 144-146, 149, 158; see also oxen Crates of Mallos: 68 n. 14 Cratinus: ȆȣșĮȖȠȡȓȗȠȣıĮ: 159 n. 81 D determinism: xix, xxi, 169-170, 190, 210-217 diatribe (ǎǓNjǞǛǓnjNjlj): xvi, xxv, 100109, 111-115, 117, 119, 121123, 126, 167, 242, 261, 194 n. 17 E education (philosophical) / educational: 265, 267; theory: 267 n. 51 Egeria: 134-138, 140, 146, 152, 158, 160 ekpyrosis: 163-164 Empedocles: as archetypal vates in Lucretius: xvii, 131, 136; cycle in: xvii, 129, 147, 152, 157 enargeia: 223-224 Epicharmus: xii, 6, 8, 15, 20; see also Ennius Epicharmus erastes: xxiv, 253-255, 258, 260, 265

Eratosthenes of Cyrene Catasterisms of: xviii, 163, 173 eromenos: xxi, 253-258, 260, 265 eschatology, eschatological: xv, xxvi, 3, 66, 83, 85-87, 165, 274, 277, 288, 290 Euhemerus of Messene: 8-9; see also Ennius’ Euhemerus euphonist theory: 71 exemplum / exempla: 124, 188, 236, 296 F fatal, fatalism: xxi, 169, 173 n. 40, 210, 212-213, 216, 246 n. 5 fate: xix, xxi, xxii-xxiii, xxvi, 14, 28, 39, 43, 47, 81-84, 86, 122, 154, 157, 168-172, 176, 178, 190, 194, 211, 215-220, 223, 228, 230-234, 236, 243-244, 253, 269 n. 3, 271 n. 9, 279, 280-285 Faunus: 135, 138, 139 n. 32, 141, 144, 152, 156; see also Picus Fordicidia: xvii, 145, 148-149, 151152, 157 four-element theory: xiv, 7, 36, 39, 52, 56, 64-66, 72, 74-75,78-80, 82, 149-150, 152-153, 156 Fulvius Nobilior: 9-10 Furor: xxvi, 80, 107, 181-182, 192, 203, 207, 213-214, 292; see also anger Fury: 203-204, 206-207, 211-214, 290 G gigantomachy: 36-37, 133, 137 Golden Age: 58-59, 143, 147 H Hercules: xxvi, 9, 86, 188, 270, 272275, 277-278, 292 Hermeticism, corpus Hermeticum, Hermetic doctrine, Hermetica: xviii, 165

The Philosophizing Muse Hylas: 272, 274, 283 n. 49 hymn(s) (philosophical): 39-60, passim; see also Cleanthes’ Hymn to Zeus, Homeric Hymns. I indifferents (Stoic theory of): 191, 194 n. 20, 245 Iustitia: 287; see also Astraea J Janus: xvii, 128, 134, 136-137, 150, 156-157, 159 n. 84 Jupiter: xxvi, 8-9, 18-19, 168, 229, 244, 273-274, 280-297, 291, 293; Elicius: 135, 137-139, 141, 143-144, 158; Pistor: 156; see also Zeus K kingship theory: 80-82 L Laelius: 4, 19 Lautolae (spring of): xvii, 150 locus amoenus: 135 M magnanimitas (of the Stoic sage): xxi, 191, 194, 201-202, 207, 210 metemspychosis: 6, 66 n. 7, 83 n. 55; see also metensomatosis, transmigration metensomatosis: 86; see also metempsychosis, transmigration metriopatheia (Aristotelian doctrine of): 192 multiple explanations (technique of): xiv, 73-75, 151 N Naevius: xii, 15 Neopythagorean: 149, 164 Nero: 163, 167, 180, 184, 185, 200, 278 n. 31

353

Numa: xvi-xvii, 1, 7, 9, 20, 128-160 passim O RLNHLǀVLV (ethical doctrine of): 23 n. 82, 236 optimism (in Seneca’s tragedies): 187, 192 optimistic view: of human history: 174 n. 40; Horace’s self portrait: 105; in Lucan’s Bellum Civile: xxi, 219; of philosophy: xx-xxi, 187, 194, 216 oracular: imagery: 141; philosophy: 28, 37-39 Orpheus: 69 n. 15, 271 oxen (sacrifice of): 143, 148, 152; see also cow P Parilia: xvii, 150 pedagogy: xxiii-xxiv, 245-249, 264, 267 pessimism: xxi, 190, 219 pessimistic: 201, 221 Phaethon: 40 n. 40, 179 Picus: 135, 138, 139 n. 32, 141, 144, 152, 156; see also Faunus pietas in Lucan: xxii, 231-232, 242244; Roman: 23 Plotius Tucca: 88, 98-99, 101, 104105 Pompey 183, 185; in Lucan: xxiixxiii, 219-244 passim; Probus: 6 n. 22, 66 n. 7, 98 n. 15 Proclus (commentary on Plato’s Alcibiades): 247 n. 9 Proficiens (ƻǛǙǔóǚǞǣǗ): 219, 229, 252 progress (Manilius’ concept of): xix, 165, 175-176 propatheiai: 106, 193 n. 16 providence: xxi-xxii, 47, 162, 172173, 190, 219-220, 223, 227, 229, 243-244, 285;

354

General Index

pseudo-pythagorean, pseudopythagoreanism: xii, 7, 14-15, 19, 20 Pythagoras: xvii, 31, 61, 83, 93, 128-133, 136, 138, 143, 144 n. 43, 159-160, 234 n. 43, 257 Pythagorean(s), Pythagoreanism, Pythagorizing: xii, xv, xvi, 1, 3, 6-7, 14-15, 17, 26, 28, 66 n. 7, 77, 82-84, 130, 139-140, 143144, 146, 148, 152, 158 n. 77, 159, 166; anti-: 15, 159 Q Quintilius: 88, 98-101, 102 n. 22, 105 S Sacrifice: xvii, 58, 130, 135, 138, 143-145, 148-150, 152-153, 156, 158, 162; of Iphigeneia: 196; and Seneca’s Atreus: 208209, 212; and Seneca’s Medea: 206-207 Scipio Aemilianus: 9-10, 83 Shield of Achilles: 68, 79, 153; of the Salii: 135, 144-145; in Vergil’s Aeneid: xvii, 153 Siro: 62 n. 2, 66-67, 68 n. 12, 85, 102 n. 22, 125 Socrates: xxiii-xxv, 21-22, 125, 226, 235, 239, 245-268 passim soul: xviii, xix, 4, 6, 8 n. 32, 28, 3233, 43, 46, 53, 57 n. 85, 78 n. 38, 81-82, 83 n. 55, 84, 86, 107, 119, 129-132, 146, 148, 165169, 172-173, 178, 183, 185, 193 n. 16, 218, 224, 226, 231, 233, 260-261, 264 n. 47, 265, 267, 274 n. 18, 276-277, 289290, 295 suicide: xxvi, 180, 183, 197, 218, 242-243, 275-276. syllogisms (in Seneca): xx, 191, 199

sympathy / sympatheia (ǝǟǖǚdžǒǏǓNj) (cosmic): xviii, xx, 166-168, 189, 208 T Tellus (goddess): 146, 149 Temple of Hercules and the Muses: 9 Terence: Adelphoe: 2 n. 6, 116; Eunuchus: 2 n. 6 Thales of Miletus: 12, 14, 64-66, 77 therapy: behavioural in Seneca: xx, 194, 197; of the soul: 32, 107, 110 n. 33, 112 U Ulysses: 188 V Varius Rufus: 88, 97, 102 n. 22 vates: Empedocles in Lucretius: 131; Manilius 162; Ovid as: 134-137, 140-142, 151; Pythagoras’ role as: 140; Varro: 135-136 Venus: xiii, 9, 27, 39-44, 48-49, 5152, 54-55, 58, 83, 145, 149, 150, 152, 292-296; see also Aphrodite Vesta: xvii, 127, 150, 153-155, 158 n. 84 virtue, (personified) Virtue: 2, 5 n. 18, 15, 17-19, 22-24, 46, 47 n. 63, 97, 102, 104, 119, 120, 123 n. 49, 126, 169, 172, 190, 217220, 223, 227, 236, 238, 247, 259, 273 vita tradition: 62-63, 75, 85, 88, 90; see also biography, biographical Z Zeus: xiii-xiv, 8, 26, 41-43, 45, 4759, 162, 171, 174, 179, 239, 280 n. 39, 283-287, 293, 295; see also Jupiter