The Reality of Women in the Universe of the Ancient Novel 9027214336, 9789027214331

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IVITR A Research in Linguistics and Literature

The Reality of Women in the Universe of the Ancient Novel edited by

María Paz López Martínez (Director), Carlos Sánchez-Moreno Ellart and Ana Belén Zaera García

40

John Benjamins Publishing Company

The Reality of Women in the Universe of the Ancient Novel

IVITRA Research in Linguistics and Literature Studies, Editions and Translations issn 2211-5412

This series aims to publish materials from the IVITRA Research Project. IVITRA carries out research on literary, linguistical and historical-cultural studies, and on history of literature and translation, specially those related to the Crown of Aragon in the Middle Ages and the Renaissance. The materials in the series will consist of research monographs and collections, text editions and translations, within these thematic frames: Romance Philology; Catalan Philology; Translation and Translatology; Crown of Aragon Classics Translated; Diachronic Linguistics; Corpus Linguistics; Pragmatics & Sociolinguistics; Literary and historical-cultural studies; and E-Learning and IST applications.

A complete list of titles in this series can be found on benjamins.com/catalog/ivitra

Editor

Vicent Martines Peres

Universitat d’Alacant / IEC / RABLB

International Scientific Committee Ignacio Aguaded Carlos Alvar Robert Archer Concepción Company Company Adelaida Cortijo Antonio Cortijo Ricardo Silveira Da Costa Ramon Ruiz Guardiola Antoni Ferrando Sara Poot Herrera Dominic Keown Coman Lupu Enric Mallorquí-Ruscalleda Isidor Marí Giuseppe Mazzocchi †

Juan Francisco Mesa Joan Miralles Josep Maria Nadal Veronica Orazi Maria Àngels Fuster Ortuño Akio Ozaki José Antonio Pascual Hans-Ingo Radatz Rosabel Roig-Vila Vicent Salvador † Francisco Franco Sánchez Ko Tazawa † Joan Veny Curt Wittlin †

Volume 40 The Reality of Women in the Universe of the Ancient Novel Edited by María Paz López Martínez (Director), Carlos Sánchez-Moreno Ellart and Ana Belén Zaera García

The Reality of Women in the Universe of the Ancient Novel Edited by

María Paz López Martínez (Director) Universidad de Alicante

Carlos Sánchez-Moreno Ellart Universidad de Valencia

Ana Belén Zaera García Universidad de Salamanca

John Benjamins Publishing Company Amsterdam / Philadelphia

∞

TM

The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of the American National Standard for Information Sciences – Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ansi z39.48-1984.

SCLASI DIO

DESPAN˜ O DA

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EES LAD TV

doi 10.1075/ivitra.40 Cataloging-in-Publication Data available from Library of Congress: lccn 2023032912 (print) / 2023032913 (e-book) isbn 978 90 272 1433 1 (Hb) isbn 978 90 272 4928 9 (e-book)

© 2023 – John Benjamins B.V. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, by print, photoprint, microfilm, or any other means, without written permission from the publisher. John Benjamins Publishing Company · https://benjamins.com

Table of contents Preface María Paz López Martínez, Carlos Mª Sánchez-Moreno Ellart & Ana Belén Zaera García chapter 1. Frauen in Wirtschaft und Politik der griechisch-römischen Antike Christoph Schaefer

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chapter 2. Lo status giuridico della donna nel diritto romano della tarda Repubblica e del Principato (II secolo a.C. – inizi del III secolo d.C.) Aldo Petrucci

16

chapter 3. Curare le donne nell’Egitto greco-romano: Alcune testimonianze dai papiri Nicola Reggiani

42

chapter 4. Realidad de la institución matrimonial en la ficción de las novelas grecolatinas F. Javier Casinos Mora

54

chapter 5. La expositio en Dafnis y Cloe: Una visión jurídica Ana Zaera García chapter 6. Consent in Greek and Roman marriage: A comparative note on the Achilles Tatius’ Novel Leucippe and Clitophon (8.18.3–4) Mª Aránzazu Calzada González

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chapter 7. Legal reality or storytelling? ᾿Εγγύησις in Heliodorus’ Aethiopica Carlos Mª Sánchez-Moreno Ellart

107

chapter 8. Warrior women: Between reality and fiction in the papyri of Greek novels María Paz López Martínez & Consuelo Ruiz-Montero

127

chapter 9. Egyptian feminine anthroponyms in ancient Greek novels? What onomastics may tell us about reality Ana Isabel Blasco Torres

149

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chapter 10. Narrative aspects of Callirhoe’s tomb: With an appendix on Seneca’s Troades, Act 3, and Jesus’ empty tomb Michael Paschalis

159

chapter 11. The home life of a heroine: The winter of Chloe’s discontent in Longus Niall W. Slater

173

chapter 12. Chloe as learning subject in Longus’ Daphnis and Chloe Janet Downie

181

chapter 13. Achilles Tatius’ Leucippe as a puella docta Nikoletta Kanavou

197

chapter 14. Le collane di Charicleia: Gioielli e identità nel romanzo greco-romano Ria Berg

206

chapter 15. The reality of women in ancient popular literature: The case of Alexander-Romance Grammatiki Karla

230

chapter 16. Kidnapping in the ancient novels Sophia Papaioannou

244

chapter 17. Tarsia nel lupanare: Ruoli femminili, generi letterari e tecniche narrative Luca Graverini

260

chapter 18. Plotting Plotina? The reception of an empress in Roman provincial prose (fiction) Yvona Trnka-Amrhein

277

chapter 19. Algunos aspectos de la mujer en la hagiografía bizantina Pablo Cavallero

297

chapter 20. De opere illicito: Motivos novelescos en un milagro de San Andrés (LA, II §§ 58–75) Carmen Puche López

329

chapter 21. Notes on women and the law in the novel Los amores de Clareo y Florisea by Alonso Núñez de Reinoso Regina Polo Martín

343

chapter 22. La ordalía en el judaísmo y derecho rabínico Cayetana H. Johnson

359

Table of contents

chapter 23. Semejanzas y diferencias entre las heroínas de la novela griega antigua y en la tradición sánscrita del Ramayana Blanca Ballesteros Castañeda

374

chapter 24. Queens, heroines and slaves: Women in two Persian Alexander romances (12th century) Haila Manteghi

382

chapter 25. “Parthian” women in Vīs and Rāmīn Leonardo Gregoratti

396

chapter 26. Configuración neurocognitiva del ideal amoroso y castidad en las protagonistas de la novela griega: Una mirada comparatista Benito García-Valero

407

Index locorum

416

Abbreviations

447

Contributors

448

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Preface The world is not respectable; it is mortal, tormented, confused, deluded forever; but it is shot through with beauty, with love, with glints of courage and laughter; and in these, the spirit blooms timidly, and struggles to the light amid the thorns. George Santayana, Platonism and Spiritual Life

Although Santayana was not exactly referring to the ancient novel when he wrote these words, this quotation expresses in our view, the role that love plays in most of the narratives of antiquity. It is widely known that love is at the centre of them, from which all adventures radiate, to the extent that the gods and fate conspire in its favour. But love, even though it is almost always the core of the ancient novel, does not eliminate other topics that the narrator must tackle, consciously or unconsciously, in order to construct his story. To put it in another way, love allows the narrative to flourish while at the same time embracing a range of diverse issues, such as questions of social or economic history, law, and gender. We believe the multidisciplinary approach that we undertake allows us to tackle these issues and delimit their true meaning In recent years we have witnessed something of a renaissance in the interest in the ancient novel across a wide range of fields. Individual novels are receiving more and more attention in the form of monographic studies, commentaries, new translations and even editions of the papyrological sources related to them. The ancient novel and its value as a source for the study of such diverse fields as literary criticism, social history and the history of law (to name but a few) is therefore the aim and justification of the present book. This volume gathers several chapters related to the condition of women in the ancient fiction, from what we hope will be as broad a perspective as possible. In our opinion, it is important not to restrict the study of the ancient novel to its role as a mere literary source about the Greco – Roman world. This is why we sought to integrate not only papers dealing with the Greek and Roman novel as a literary genre in its own right, but also as a historical document involving aspects as diverse as history, archaeology, sociology and the history of law. In our desire to broaden our perspective, we have perhaps extended our field too far, but we do not rule out that in doing so, we have been able to reestablish the context of some of these stories, which are strongly rooted in the Indo-European cultures. And we have not only referred to the Indo-European heritage, since we have also turned – in one single case – to other literature that have been essential to our own tradition, namely the Hebrew one. Moreover, some

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chapters do not deal directly with the novel but instead with the context of the ancient novel, be it historical, legal or socioeconomic. This book is aimed not only at scholars, but also at students and even general audiences, as is clearly reflected in the varying tones of its chapters. In the following lines, we shall try to give a brief overview of each of the contributions in order to provide a synopsis of the book and the aims that have guided it. We have already stated that our approach has been interdisciplinary, and this has inevitably conditioned the structure of the book: the twenty-six contributions in this volume have been divided into thematic blocks, based on the different approaches that the authors have adopted to tackle the subject. In a nutshell, we shall characterise each of these blocks in the following lines. The first block is about realia, so to speak, in the sense that they deal with the reality in which the fiction has been conceived. Where the second block is concerned, it focuses on the legal problems that can be deduced from the plots of the novels. The third one encompasses those contributions that deal with the Greek and Roman novel from the point of view of a classical philologist, literary criticism and literary theory. This is the, so to say, most orthodox part of the book, or at least the kind of contributions expected by the specialist in the ancient novel. The third group of chapters is dedicated to the tradition of the ancient novel, both in our most immediate cultural area (Middle Ages, Spanish Golden Age) and in other contexts, whether Indo-European (India, Persia) or of a different origin, although equally influential in our own, as is the case of Hebrew literature. Finally, a general chapter devoted to the neuroaesthetics paradigm. We think it is fair to point out that the greater length of some of the chapters is due not so much to our – never to be ruled out – arbitrary editing as to the fact that these contributions have a more general scope and serve as an introduction to each thematic block. Or, to put it otherwise, these chapters cover general aspects that are then dealt with in the following contributions, and therefore serve as a sort of introduction to them. We wanted to introduce two general chapters on the situation of women in Hellenistic and Roman times respectively. The first ("Frauen in Wirtschaft und Politik der griechisch-römischen Antike"), by Christoph Schäfer is a historical introduction covering a long period and, in our opinion, an essential requirement to reconstruct the context in which the ancient novel was conceived. Schäfer, who is a remarkable expert on the Hellenistic period (a biographer of Eumenes of Cardia and specialist in Cleopatra’s reign) makes this a very illuminating contribution. The second, by Aldo Petrucci ("Lo status giuridico della donna nel diritto romano della tarda Repubblica e del Principato (II secolo a.C. – inizi del III secolo d.C.)") offers a study of the legal status of women under the Principate, the period when the main novels of antiquity were written and referring also to their situation at the end of the Roman republic. Petrucci demonstrates once again the

Preface

rare ability to present complex problems with clarity and to write his introduction with great academic accuracy. The reader can find in both chapters the necessary updated bibliographies to further illuminate the problems. Nicola Reggiani ("Curare le donne nell’Egitto greco-romano: Alcune testimonianze dai papiri") lays out an exhaustive study of the papyrology and history of medicine, focused on feminine diseases and their medical treatment based on the documents of Hellenistic and Roman Egypt. In Reggiani’s view, the recognition of specifically female illnesses in the context of classical Greece, far from being an advancement, represented in practice an anthropological undervaluation of women. The scholar devotes some pages to the study of Soranus of Ephesus, who in some ways represents a paradigm shift, since it is possible that Soranus’ interest in women’s sanitary conditions later spread to Roman culture, or rather that also he himself was influenced by the Roman context. The author points to the important part played by midwives and medicae as a possible argument in favour of this thesis. With reference to the texts of the novels, Michael Paschalis presents a captivating chapter (“Narrative aspects of Callirhoe’s tomb: With an appendix on Seneca’s Troades, Act 3, and Jesus’ empty tomb") about the so-called ‘apparent death’ and the reiterative appearance of the tomb and funeral themes throughout Chariton’s novel. The scholar points out an element of comparison (from Chaereas’ cenotaph in Miletus) and evaluates its narrative function, as well as other related aspects (the ‘tomb by the sea motif ’ and the parallelisms tomb / ship; tomb / bedchamber). Bearing in mind the scholarly suggestions that Chariton’s novel may date from mid-first century AD, Paschalis draws a suggestive comparison to Seneca’s Troades regarding Andromache’s dream. As the author rightly points out, Callirhoe’s dream and Andromache’s dream both draw on the Achilles’ dream of Patroclus in the Iliad (XXIII 54–107), and in Aeneid (II 268–297) where Seneca’s Trojan Women are concerned. The dreams in Seneca and Chariton share the common element of “a husband’s ghost instructing his wife to save the life of their son". Niall W. Slater in his evocative chapter “The home life of a heroine: The winter of Chloe’s discontent in Longus" also explores the topic of heroines, with a focus on the seasonal structure of Daphnis and Chloe. The separation of the lovers during the winter and Chloe’s idea of bird hunting emphasises the qualities of the protagonist and her ability to reflect on the domestic sphere. Both lovers have a very different experience of winter and its confinement, and that difference could be related to their gender. Janet Downie (“Chloe as learning subject in Longus’ Daphnis and Chloe") starts from the concept of paideia. According to Downie, Chloe is related to the language of learning and understanding, as opposed to the part played by Daphnis, which is about teaching. The author emphasises that Chloe rejects the hierarchical frameworks of learning. At the beginning of the novel the protago-

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nist’s curiosity is focussed on the natural world, but in the end she develops her knowledge of social reality. Nikoletta Kanavou offers a delightful chapter on “Achilles Tatius’ Leucippe as a puella docta", with an understanding of this term in the context of the Roman love elegy. In the first two books of Leucippe and Clitophon the female protagonist bears a strong resemblance to an idealised figure, namely, the educated woman, described as being knowledgeable about music and poetry as well as being looser in her behaviour, who is at the centre of the Roman poets’ yearning for love. As the author points out, indeed, in Chariton or especially in Achilles Tatius, female protagonists play an important role in the plot, because of, among other reasons, their education. They propel the narrative forward by playing the harp or writing refined love letters. Significantly, this type of protagonist is absent in other authors such as Heliodorus, where the only female character who plays a musical instrument is a slave. We are aware of the importance of material culture and in the same way, we know that the study of realia offers quite an illuminating approach to literary texts. That is why we want to include an interesting contribution on archaeology related to the Greek novel, in “Le collane di Charicleia. Gioielli e identità nel romanzo greco-romano", by Ria Berg. This scholar deals with jewels in the Greek novel, especially in Heliodorus. Starting from Hellenistic jewellery, the author traces the evolution of jewellery fashions from Chariton to Heliodorus, on the basis of these literary sources. Heliodorus’ novel gives great importance to jewellery, and it is obvious that it reflects the fashion of the late Roman world; but the author, while focussing on this novel, does not fail to comment on various details of the presence of the jewels in previous novels. Starting with Hellenistic jewellery (figurative and incorporating some newly-found gemstones) and continuing up to Roman jewellery (non-figurative), the author highlights several parallel functions of jewellery in the novels, i.e. jewels as a sign of identity, jewels as a sign of danger or salvation and jewels as a moral symbol (according to Roman prejudice) or as a sacred ornament. Luca Graverini presents a remarkable chapter (“Tarsia nel lupanare: Ruoli femminili, generi letterari e tecniche narrative") that deals with an episode of the Historia Apollonii Regis Tyri. The author stands with the part of scholarship that considers Latin to be the original text of this novel, and rightly observes that there is no “sexual symmetry" between Apollonius and Archistratis. Graverini points out that “sexual symmetry" was coined by David Konstan’s analysis of love in the Greek novel (Sexual Symmetry, Princeton 1994). The episode of Tarsia, Apollonius’ daughter, kidnapped by pirates and sold to a brothel owner, asking for clemency from prince Athenagoras to preserve her virginity, involves a speech by Tarsia in the form of a suasoria according to rhetorical canons. The scholar, in

Preface

analysing this episode and its happy consequences, reflects on the narrative technique of the unknown author of the story with regard to the concept of credibility. He compares this episode with Ephesiaka 5.5–7 and furthermore, the rhetorical tradition leads the author to study the parallels (the contrast between prostitution and innocence) in Seneca the Elder or even in Christian authors such as St Cyprian of Carthage. To this end, the chapter ends with the study of the impact of this rhetorical tradition on the formation of hagiography. “Kidnapping in the ancient novels", by Sophia Papaioannou deals with a literary topic that is omnipresent in this type of narrative. We all know that kidnapping, and specifically the kidnapping of the heroine, is a common literary device in the ancient novel, but this author deals with aspects of kidnapping that have hardly attracted the attention of researchers, such as the transition between different narrative units (the technical aspects) and the configuration of the characters (e.g. the search for identity and identity formation). Kidnapping and pirates are always good resources to fire up a plot. Taking that into account, the author develops a study of Chariton and his use of these literary resources; in the same way, the chapter takes on other writers such as Xenophon of Ephesus, Achilles Tatius, Apuleius and Heliodorus. The author recognises some parallelisms between kidnapping and the rites of passage. The novel Daphnis and Chloe apparently is an exceptional case since kidnapping does not play any role in it. In her interesting chapter “The reality of women in ancient popular literature: The case of Alexander-Romance", Grammatiki Karla tackles the part played by three women (Queen Olympia, Rodogoune the Priestesses and Candace the Amazon) in the so-called Pseudo-Kallistenes’ book and its tradition. Karla starts from the semiotic concept of the ‘open text’ (a text lacking a standard or authoritative version) to raise the question of the relationship between this kind of fictional work and extra-textual reality. The case of Olympia, to give one example, is very significant because her role in the novel is clearly in contradiction with her image in the historiographical sources. In the novel she appears as a docile woman, uninvolved in politics, perhaps in order to present her within the conventions of that time. The same paradoxical contrast can be highlighted with the other two women (Rodogoune and Candace), who fit more closely to the traditional image in tales of the Oriental woman. In some way, the common trait of motherhood binds the three characters together. María Paz López Martínez and Consuelo Ruiz-Montero (“Warrior women in the papyri of the Greek novels") deal with a very special set of female characters that appear in the papyri of lost novels. The set comprises Parthenope (Παρθενόπη) a young Greek aristocrat who was the daughter of Polycrates, the historical tyrant of the island of Samos, Themisto (Θεμιστώ) who was the queen of a tribe of Amazons living near the Black Sea, Calligone (Καλλλιγόνη), a Pontic Greek princess who

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allies herself with Themisto (Θεμιστώ) and, finally, two Greek islanders Anthia (Ἄνθεια) and Thalassia (Θαλασσσία), who could have been involved in some type of political or warlike vicissitude in the context of the Peloponnesian Wars. Similarly, where the papyrological resources are concerned, Ana Isabel Blasco Torres in her engaging contribution (“Egyptian feminine anthroponyms in ancient Greek novels?: What onomastics may tell us about reality") tackles among others a very interesting papyrus that includes a Greek translation of a Demotic text, The Dream of Nectanebo, obviously related to the beginning of the Alexander Romance. In P. Leid. I U (= UPZ I 81) the name Ἁθυρεψε, or Ἁθυρ (σ)εψε is barely read. This name is related to the goddess Hathor. The author takes into account the corruption of the Greek text in order to justify her solution by means of strict textual criticism. How to correlate fictional female characters and real life or, in other words, how history (or rather propaganda based on stereotypes) is reflected in fiction cannot be neglected in a book on the ancient novel. In her contribution (“Plotting Plotina? The reception of an empress in Roman provincial prose (fiction)"), Yvona Trnka-Amrhein deals with women of the imperial family, starting from an approach focussed on provincial reality. She points out specifically Empress Plotina, the wife of Trajan, a character whose literary interpretations sometimes tend to that of a plotting woman. This appearance of the empresses in fictional texts is rare. A representative case of this reality is that of Empress Iulia Domna, praised by Philostratus for her patronage, merely for having commissioned The Life of Apollonius. This appearance of the empress cannot be considered fiction. Of course, this is why the author wisely chooses some sources in which fiction is involved (a fragment of the anti-Jewish Acta Hermaisci -P. Oxy. X 1242 = CPJ II 157, col. ii, l. 4–19-, part of the Acta Alexandrinorum) or in which fiction is clearly present because of its context (Apuleius Met. VII.6 2–4; VII.7). Other sources such as Pseudo-Aurelius Victor (XLII.21) or the Talmud are also borne in mind. The figure of Plotina as a plotting empress who tried to influence her husband emerges clearly from these texts, which on the other hand seem to respond to certain ideological models. Some research has been very optimistic about using of literary sources in general, and specifically the ancient novel to reconstruct aspects of the history of law. Of course, legal history can be studied, with due prudence, by means of literary texts but ancient novels normally offer an overstated and syncretic image of marriage, and that is why the task of distinguishing between different legal systems and different stages of these is challenging. Since marriage is conceived in most of the ancient novel as the ideal culmination of love and is therefore invariably the aim of the diegesis, ancient novels contain numerous references to the institution of marriage, especially with regard to its preparatory aspects, i.e. the giving of consent and the giving of dowries and nuptial gifts.

Preface

Francisco-Javier Casinos Mora deals with the contribution of novels to understanding the experience of marriage in the Greco-Roman world. His chapter (“Realidad de la institución matrimonial en la ficción de las novelas grecolatinas") is focussed on certain references in the novels, which present particular difficulties from a legal point of view, such as dotis pollicitatio, pretium virginitatis or premarital virginity and its religious and legal value. Ana-Belén Zaera García in her compelling contribution (“La expositio en Dafnis y Cloe: Una visión jurídica”) aims to study the exposure of the protagonists of Longo’s novel. An accurate analysis is carried out from a legal perspective, contextualising the events from the point of view of both Roman and Greek law. Literary fiction does not prevent the author from identifying the legal institutions of the time in the novel. Both Mª Aránzazu Calzada and Carlos Sánchez-Moreno Ellart study questions related to marriage and specifically the engyesis from different points of view and on the grounds of different sources. Mª Aránzazu Calzada (“Consent in Greek and Roman marriage: A comparative note on the Achilles Tatius’ Novel Leucippe and Clitophon (8.18.3–4)”) deals with the institution of engyesis as a feature peculiar to Greek marriage throughout the novel Leucippe and Clitophon, especially bearing in mind VIII.18.3–4. Starting from this text, the author compares Roman and Greek marriage regulations to understand the role of the bride’s father in marital consent. According to Calzada, the Roman patria potestas has no place in the Greek mentality and, apart from reasons of being set in Greek cities, it is difficult to think that Achilles Tatius could have valued elements of Roman marriage to construct his plot. Carlos Sánchez-Moreno Ellart (“Legal reality or storytelling?: ᾿Εγγύησις in Heliodorus’ Aethiopica”) for his part analyses the same institution in Heliodorus, the only author who preserves in some way part of the ritual lexicon of engyesis. The author is sceptical of Calderini’s position on this point, since in his opinion the Italian scholar projected concepts of Attic law onto texts that reflect the concepts of the Hellenistic and Roman periods. The engyesis may have survived as a cultural feature and as a literary device, but its role in the Greek novel has little to do with the control of citizenship it had in the classical polis. As we have already pointed out above, our desire to broaden the perspective that we intend to imprint on this book has also led us – we hope that no further than necessary – to include some chapters on traditions other than Greek and Roman, specifically Hebrew, Persian and Indian. We have focused on these traditions because of the deep influence they have had on Western culture. It does not seem necessary to mention here such well-known names as Panchtantra or Hitopadesha. to grasp these complex relationships among apparently distant traditions, but the Persian assimilation and reworking of stories of Greek origin makes it much easier to ascertain these links.

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The specialist in Hebrew philology, Cayetana H. Johnson Navarro tackles in her chapter (“La ordalía en el judaísmo y derecho rabínico”) the subject of ordeals in Hebrew law, which may at first seem far removed from the subject of the book. We must, however, not forget that ordeals are a very important narrative device in the Greek novel and that one of our sources for dealing with the problem is precisely a Hellenised Jew, namely Philo of Alexandria. The author discusses the role of ordeals in Hebrew law as an element of comparison to Greek and Hellenistic law in terms of the literary use of ordeals in the novel. With regard to the comparison between the heroines of the Sanskrit epic and those of the Greek novel, Blanca Ballesteros with her contribution “Semejanzas y diferencias entre las heroínas de la novela griega antigua y en la tradición sánscrita del Ramayana" deals with the psychological evolution of the characters of the protagonists – Sita and Callirhoe – as initiatory trials in which love must triumph over temptation. These protagonists become the main characters of their respective stories. Through their decisions, they solidly trace the path of the narrative. Sita and Callirhoe bravely confront the vicissitudes that strike them, with the clear determination to recover their true love. Haila Manteghi, a leading specialist on Alexander the Great in the Persian tradition, in her refreshing chapter on “Queens, heroines and slaves: Women in two Persian Alexander romances (12th century)" follows in the path of the novels about Alexander the Great and their dissemination in the Persian literature to determine the part played by women in two of these romances. As the author points out, heading her article with a poem by Hafiz, the figure of Alexander the Great that Persian poetry is interested in is the Alexander in love, not the king not the warrior. Manteghi outlines that the influence of Greek novel on Persian literature can already be detected in the Parthian period and later in books such as the Dārābnāma, of the Ayyubi era, largely influenced by Greek stories, of course by the Pseudo-Callisthenes, but also by Achilles Tatius and Heliodorus of Emesa. The second term of comparison is a Niẓāmī Ganjavī’s narrative poem, the celebrated Iskandarnāma, which includes different stories concerning Alexander the Great, dated to the Sasanian period, where women play a significant role. Queen Nūshāba, for instance, replaces Queen Candace of the Pseudo-Callisthenes. Another notable contribution on the Persian novel is that by Leonardo Gregoratti “Parthian” women in Vīs and Rāmīn". The author relies on the thesis of Vladimir Minorsky, who argues that this 11th-century epic poem is actually based on Parthian material (1st-3rd century AD). The female characters in this poem are noted for their courage and determination, which allows Gregoratis to draw comparisons with queens of the Arsacid period, according to Greek and Roman sources. As is widely known, in the first centuries of Christianity, it is not always easy to draw a radical divide between fiction and hagiography. Pablo A. Cavallero (“Algunos aspectos de la mujer en la hagiografía bizantina”) also approaches

Preface

hagiography but from a slightly different point of view. His contribution explores the features of Byzantine hagiography concerning women. The same virtues – chastity, courage – are exalted, but it can be said that in the stories featuring women there may be particularities. For example, only women appear as former prostitutes (Saint Thaïs of Alexandria), or disguised as such (Saint Pelagia of Antioch). The author sees the influence of the Empress Theodora in Justinian’s legislation, which persecutes prostitution but makes it easier to leave it. Since at least the studies on Saint Athanasius of Alexandria and his biography of Saint Anthony the Great, some scholars at the beginning of the last century (for example Reitzenstein) have wondered about the influence of other literary genres on the development of hagiography. Along the lines of Gerlinde HuberRebenich’s seminal book, Carmen Puche (“De opere illicito: Motivos novelescos en un milagro de San Andrés (LA, II §§ 58–75)”) addresses admirably the question of the relationship between a hagiographic text (in this case, the Blessed Jacobus de Voragine’s Golden Legend) and an ancient novel (Asinus Aureus). The comparison (or parallelism) between the treatment of women in Jacobus de Voragine (and in Saint Gregory of Tours, who dealt with this story previously), on the one hand, and in Apuleius, on the other, is very instructive. The plot of these two stories is interwoven with various elements such as jealousy or the contrast between divine justice (Jacobus) and human justice (Apuleius). Going back to law, and where classical tradition is concerned, Regina Polo Martín studies in her chapter “Notes on women and the law in the novel Los amores de Clareo y Florisea by Alonso Núñez de Reinoso”, a novel of the Spanish Golden Age, inspired by Achilles Tatius’ The Adventures of Leucippe and Clitophon. Her chapter explores the regulations of the Castilian law of the time in order to ascertain whether it is in any way reflected in the novel or it is instead mere remmants of the Greek context. Benito Elías García-Valero (“Configuración neurocognitiva del ideal amoroso y castidad en las protagonistas de la novela griega: Una mirada comparatista") deals with the part played by heroines in the Greek novel from the point of view of a relatively new paradigm, neuroaesthetics. Starting from the cognitive and affective structures of literature reception, the author focused on the heroines as those characters upon whom the impact of love and death is most evident. Death (or rather the desire for death), unity-in-love, and prototypical happiness are also discussed, by taking into account what the author calls ‘inherited brain concepts’. This is a useful tool for considering the value of such narrative structures. When consulting collective books, we have all had the not-always-pleasant experience of finding the bibliography at the end of the volume. We believe that it is preferable for each chapter to keep its own bibliography, so that the chapters

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xviii The Reality of Women in the Universe of the Ancient Novel

can be read independently and certainly more conveniently, which is why we have decided against a common list to close the book. We also believe that the compilation of the index deserves some remarks, insofar as it has been cumbersome, but this complexity corresponds to the diversity of the sources dealt with (literary, legal, archaeological) in chapters written in different languages and covering different periods of history and very different cultural contexts. In this sense, the difficulty of its elaboration is compensated by the usefulness of the result. We did not aim to take our editing work to the point of unifying the spelling of the English language. Since the book is written in different languages (English, Spanish, German or Italian), we have decided to respect the British or American spelling chosen by each author who wrote in English, although we have used British spelling in our preface or in our respective chapters. Likewise, in Cavallero’s chapter, we have opted to respect his own transcription into Spanish of the names of authors and saints, in many cases little known, in order to facilitate their dissemination among readers of any language. On a personal note, which in our view, should never be missing from a foreword, we shall confess that this book was conceived in November 2019, shortly before the pandemic struck. There are several people we wish to warmly thank, first and foremost being the other contributors for their willingness and enthusiasm about publishing in this volume even in the dire circumstances of this period, which has involved not only pessimism and fear, but also, on a more practical level, problems in accessing the literature and the need to work under a harsh lockdown. Somehow this extreme situation is likely to mark our lives forever. At a time like this, getting down to work has not been easy, and yet the contributors have risen to the occasion. This book has been possible thanks to the financial support provided by the Generalitat Valenciana, in the framework of the projects Realidad y ficción del empoderamiento femenino en los papiros de novela griega y su pervivencia en la cultura occidental: Reinas y guerreras, magas y santas, cortesanas y doncellas (AICO/ 2019/268) and Texto y contexto en los papiros de novelas griegas (límites entre realidad y ficción del universo femenino) (AICO/2021/184) and to Fundación BBVA (Programa Logos de Ayudas a la Investigación en el Área de Estudios Clásicos) of the Project Eroticorum graecorum fragmenta in papyris membranisve reperta. María Paz López Martínez Carlos Mª Sánchez-Moreno Ellart Ana Belén Zaera García Alicante, 14 de febrero del 2023

chapter 1

Frauen in Wirtschaft und Politik der griechisch-römischen Antike Christoph Schäfer University of Trier

The purpose of this paper is to deal with the role of women in Hellenistic and Roman societies in general, both in the private and public spheres. In doing so, the author focuses on specific examples, drawn mainly from literary and epigraphic sources, in conjunction with specifically juridical texts. Keywords: family, management, women’s trades, Hellenistic kingdoms, principate

Der Einfluss und die Handlungsspielräume von Frauen in Öffentlichkeit und Politik antiker Gesellschaften hingen stark von ihrem rechtlichen und sozialen Status ab. In den meisten Gesellschaften der griechisch-römischen Antike konnten sich Frauen juristisch nicht selbst vertreten, sondern waren auf männliche Vormünder angewiesen. Dies beschränkte zugleich oft genug ihre politischen Handlungsoptionen.1 So hatten sie etwa keinen Zugang zu den Volksversammlungen der griechischen Gemeinwesen. Erst im Hellenismus und der Kaiserzeit begegnen uns im griechischen Osten Frauen in Ausnahmefällen in politischen Ämtern wie etwa Plancia Magna, die im kleinasiatischen Perge das höchste und damit eponyme Amt gleich mehrfach bekleidete (IPerge Nr. 86, pp. 89–99 u. 117–125. Şahin, 1999, pp. 107–135 u. 153–164.). Solche Amtsträgerinnen kamen allerdings durchweg aus angesehenen und mächtigen Familien. Aus eigener Kraft, ohne diesen familiären Hintergrund in eine solche Position zu kommen, war praktisch unmöglich. Wiederum mag Plancia Magna als Beispiel hierfür dienen: Ihr Vater M. Plancius Varus, ein Großgrundbesitzer in Galatien und Pamphylien, war unter Nero in den römischen Senat aufgenommen worden. Unter Vespasian verwaltete er sogar als proconsul Pontus und Bithynien. Überdies war seine Tochter Plancia Magna 1. Grundsätzlich zu Geschlechterrollen cf. Rollinger/Ulf, (2000), Rollinger/Ulf, (2006), Späth/ Wagner-Hasel, (2000). https://doi.org/10.1075/ivitra.40.01sch © 2024 John Benjamins Publishing Company

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mit dem ebenfalls aus Perge stammenden C. Iulius Cornutus Tertullus verheiratet, der immerhin 116/117 n.Chr. als proconsul der wichtigen Provinz Asia vorstand und mit Plinius d.J. befreundet war. Dabei lag ihr Lebensmittelpunkt wenigstens zeitweise, vielleicht sogar hauptsächlich in Rom. Zur Übernahme der städtischen Ämter dürfte sie nach dem Tod ihres Mannes (nach 118 n.Chr.) nach Perge zurückgekehrt sein (Eck, 2000, pp. 644f. u. 657–660). Im Fall der Plancia handelte es sich allerdings um ein städtisches Amt im griechischen Osten, für den römischen Staat galt hingegen die eindeutige Regel, die der Jurist Ulpian schriftlich fixierte, dass „Frauen von allen staatlichen und öffentlichen Ämtern ausgeschlossen sind und daher weder Richter sein noch eine Magistratur übernehmen können“.2 Dies lag nicht zuletzt daran, dass die Römerin zunächst unter der patria potestas ihres Vaters oder später dann in der manus ihres Mannes oder der tutela des Vormunds stand. Diesen Formen der Gewalt waren neben der Ehefrau auch die Kinder, die Sklaven und die Freigelassenen unterworfen. Sie alle bildeten die familia, die – wie gesagt – unter der väterlichen Gewalt des Familienoberhauptes stand. Erst mit der Zeit entwickelten sich auch im römischen Recht Bedingungen, unter denen Frauen eigenständig handeln konnten. In der unter der Bezeichnung lex Iulia et Papia zusammengefassten Ehegesetzgebung des Augustus wurde festgelegt, dass freigeborene Frauen, die drei Kinder zur Welt gebracht hatten, rechtlich eigenständig (sui iuris) wurden und nicht weiterhin der potestas oder der manus bzw. der tutela unterstanden. Für freigelassene Frauen wurde die Hürde auf vier Kinder festgesetzt.3 Kein Wunder also, wenn Frauen in öffentlichen Ämtern in Rom keine Rolle spielten. Dennoch konnten sie, wenn sie einer der herausragenden Familien angehörten, erheblichen Einfluss auf die Politik nehmen, das allerdings dann indirekt. Dagegen eröffnete sich mit der Übernahme religiöser Ämter den Frauen ein Feld, das ihnen teilweise schon infolge der Art bestimmter Kulte sogar exklusiv vorbehalten blieb. In Athen agierten Frauen als Priesterinnen der Stadtgöttin, der Athena Polias, und verwalteten in dieser Position den Staatsschatz.4 Männer und Frauen übten Funktionen in den Kulten aus, besonders stark waren letztere allerdings in den Bereichen vertreten, in denen es um Fruchtbarkeit ging (Hartmann, 2007, 56). Kornmahlerinnen, Korbträgerinnen (Kanephoren) und schließlich auch die Mädchen, die das Unaussprechliche ins Heiligtum trugen (Arrhephoren), einen Gegenstand, der verhüllt worden war und dort deponiert wurde. Im

2. Ulp. 1 Sab. D. 50, 17, 2 pr. Schuller, (1987, p. 13). 3. G. 1, 145; 194 u. 3,46 f. Gardener, (1995, pp. 10–31). Cf. ausführlich hierzu A. Petrucci in diesem Band. 4. Lycurg. Fr. 5; Aeschin. Ctes. 18.

Chapter 1. Frauen in Wirtschaft und Politik der griechisch-römischen Antike

attischen Brauron spielten junge, als Bärinnen (arktoi) bezeichnete Mädchen im Kult der Artemis eine zentrale Rolle.5 Privilegiert waren die Vestalinnen, die in Rom für den Kult der Göttin Vesta zuständig waren. Mit der Übernahme des Priesteramtes wurden sie der patria potestas entzogen, konnten über ihr Vermögen selbst verfügen und auch vor Gericht aussagen. Beim Eintritt in dieses Kollegium von Priesterinnen im Alter von sechs bis zehn Jahren spielten Standesunterschiede keine entscheidende Rolle, 5 n.Chr. wurden selbst Freigelassene zugelassen.6 Nach einer Dienstzeit von 30 Jahren stand es den Vestalinnen frei, aus dem Priesteramt auszuscheiden und, wenn sie dies wollten, auch zu heiraten. Inwieweit die Unabhängigkeit und die Privilegien der Vestalinnen auch nach dem Ausscheiden aus dem Amt und erst recht nach einer Heirat erhalten blieben, ist unsicher (Gardener, 1995, pp. 31–35). In wirtschaftlichen Belangen kamen den Frauen durchaus eigene Funktionen und Kompetenzbereiche zu. Im griechischen Osten war die Frau eines Polisbürgers zunächst auf den Oikos, den Haushalt, beschränkt. Frauen ohne Bürgerrecht traten hingegen auch unabhängig in der Öffentlichkeit auf. Hier sind vor allem die Hetären herauszuheben, die uns als Begleiterinnen von Männern beim Symposion auf Vasenbildern begegnen. Sie unterhielten außereheliche sexuelle Beziehungen zu einem oder mehreren Liebhabern. Nicht selten waren sie persönlich frei und verfügten über eine bemerkenswerte Bildung und musische Fähigkeiten. Ihre Liebhaber mussten für den Lebensunterhalt aufkommen und sie mit Kleidern, Schmuck, Wohnungen, ja sogar Sklavinnen ausstatten.7 Diese Ansprüche führten dazu, dass die Hetären nur mit wohlhabenden und damit auch politisch relevanten Bürgern verkehrten, was ihnen einen gewissen Einfluss gesichert haben muss, den wir allerdings nur schwer greifen können (Reinsberg 1989, pp. 86–120, Hartmann, 2000, pp. 377–387). An der Seite ihres Mannes konnte eine Frau auch in der römischen Welt eine bedeutende ökonomische Funktion übernehmen. Als matronae führten die Ehefrauen der römischen Oberschicht insbesondere bei Abwesenheit des Hausherrn den Haushalt und sorgten sich um dessen Belange, wobei allerdings die Rechtsvertretung von männlichen Vertretern des Herrn übernommen werden musste. Sie konnten unter bestimmten Bedingungen selbst über große Vermögen verfügen und damit etwa auch ihre Söhne unterstützen (Günther, 2000, pp. 351). In etwas untergeordneter, aber gleichwohl steuernder Position agierte die vilica. Gemeinsam mit ihrem Mann, dem vilicus war sie in der Verwaltung von Landgütern tätig und hatte hier durchaus eigene Zuständigkeitsbereiche. Schon 5. Ar. Lys. 638–647. Hartmann, (2007, pp. 60f.), Waldner, (2000, pp. 53–81). 6. D.C. 55, 22. 7. D. 59, 35.

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Cato widmet der vilica in de agricultura ein eigenes Kapitel. Allerdings richtet er darin seine Empfehlungen vor allem an ihren Mann, wie sie zu behandeln sei und welche Aufgaben sie in der Sorge um das Personal (familia) und bei der Bewirtschaftung des Gutes habe.8 Noch deutlich detaillierter beschreibt Columella die Rolle der vilica, der er eine zentrale Funktion in der Verwaltung des Gutes und der Steuerung der Prozesse zuweist. Die Verantwortung für eine reibungslose und effiziente Bewirtschaftung trägt allerdings auch bei ihm der männliche Verwalter.9 In vielerlei Berufen arbeiteten Frauen sowohl als Freie als auch als Unfreie. Als Sklavin geboren (verna) war etwa die später freigelassene Friseuse (ornatrix) Dorcas, die zum Haushalt der Livia gehörte und infolge ihrer Zugehörigkeit zum kaiserlichen Haushalt schon eine herausragende Stellung einnahm.10 Im Textilgewerbe, als Ammen (nutrices) oder Hebammen (obstetrices), im Dienstleistungsgewerbe und als Künstlerinnen treffen wir Frauen an, wobei der soziale Rang höchst unterschiedlich war. So galten etwa die Schauspielerinnen im Mimus, ebenso wie die Kupplerinnen und Prostituierten, als infam (Günther, 2000, pp. 354–362). Ganz anders gestellt waren Frauen, die als Euergetinnen, als Wohltäterinnen, auftraten, die das Gemeinwesen mit Stiftungen unterschiedlichster Art unterstützten und hierfür zahlreiche Ehrungen erhielten. Sie kamen praktisch ausnahmslos aus den führenden Schichten der Städte und handelten im Interesse ihrer Familien wie etwa Menodora, die Tochter des Megakles, aus Sillyon, die Ende des 2. Jh. n.Chr. im Namen ihres Sohnes Megakles 300.000 Silberdenare für den Unterhalt von Kindern stiftete und des Weiteren in ihrer eigenen Gymnasiarchie den Mitgliedern der städtischen Gremien, deren Frauen und weiteren sozialen Gruppen, abgestuft nach ihrem sozialen Rang, genau bezifferte Summen zukommen ließ.11 Mindestens ebenso großzügig handelte Archippe aus Kyme, die nicht nur das dortige Bouleuterion neu aufbauen und weitere Baumaßnahmen durchführen liess, sondern auch wiederholt Opfer mit Speisungen veranstaltete sowie ebenfalls abgestuft nach Rang Geld an die Einwohner der Stadt verteilte.12 Fragen wir nach berühmten Frauen in der Politik der Antike, so tauchen schnell hellenistische Herrscherinnen wie Kleopatra VII. oder Olympias, die Mutter Alexanders d.Gr., auf die tatsächlich eigenständig politische Akzente setzten und ihre politischen Ziele mit der gleichen Konsequenz und ganz ähnlichen Mitteln verfolgten wie ihre männlichen Mit- und Gegenspieler. Problematisch ist 8. Cat. Agr. 152. Carlsen, (1995, pp. 17–19). 9. Colum. 12, 1–4. 10. CIL VI, 8958. Walser, (1993, S. pp. 40f., Nr. 11), Herrmann-Otto, (1994, pp. 103, Anm. 14 u. 105, Anm. 20). 11. IGR III, 801, Z.1–22. Beck, (2015, pp. 265–269). 12. IKyme 13. Beck, (2015, pp. 243–248).

Chapter 1. Frauen in Wirtschaft und Politik der griechisch-römischen Antike

allerdings die antike Überlieferung, denn starke Frauen in der Politik, die auch vor drastischen Maßnahmen nicht zurückschreckten, waren den antiken, meist männlichen Geschichtsschreibern oft suspekt und wurden dementsprechend tendenziös behandelt. Olympias etwa wird schon mit der Ermordung ihres Mannes Philipp II. in Verbindung gebracht, ohne dass diesbezüglich allerdings Klarheit gewonnen werden kann. Offenbar hat sie aber direkt im Anschluss an den Mord an den Säuberungsaktionen innerhalb der Familie mitgewirkt, die Alexanders Herrschaftsübernahme absichern sollten. So sorgte sie dafür, dass die kleine Tochter von Kleopatra-Eurydike, der jüngsten Mit-Gattin des Philipp, vor deren Augen getötet und diese zum Selbstmord gezwungen wurde.13 Während des Alexanderzuges hielt in Makedonien Antipatros zwar die Stellung für den abwesenden König, er sah sich aber durchaus mit Olympias‘ politischen Ambitionen konfrontiert. Nach Alexanders Tod griff sie dann in die Nachfolgekämpfe ein und suchte unter Einsatz aller Mittel ihrem Enkel Alexander IV., dem posthum geborenen Sohn Alexanders mit der baktrischen Fürstentochter Rhoxane, die Herrschaft zu sichern. Dabei geriet sie nicht nur mit Adea/Eurydike, einer anderen ausgesprochen starken Frau aus dem Haus Philipps, aneinander, sie schloss auch ein politisches Bündnis mit Polyperchon und Eumenes von Kardia gegen die anderen Diadochen, die letztlich aber im zweiten Diadochenkrieg die Oberhand behielten. Als sie schließlich bei den Kämpfen in Griechenland Antipatros‘ Sohn Kassandros in die Hände fiel, überließ dieser sie den Verwandten der von ihr ermordeten Makedonen, die ihr per Steinigung ein Ende bereiteten (Carney, 1987a, pp. 35–62. Shipley, 2000, p. 118f. Schäfer, 2002, pp. 44f. u. 119f.. Müller, 2021, pp. 295f. u. 300). Noch spektakulärer und aussagekräftiger hinsichtlich des ganzen Potentials und der Möglichkeiten von Frauen aus den hellenistischen Königshäusern ist allerdings die kurze aber steile Karriere der bereits angesprochenen Adea. Im Spätsommer oder Anfang Herbst 321 traf aus Europa kommend in Gestalt der Kynnane eine Tochter Philipps II. in Kleinasien ein, um hier ihre ehrgeizigen Pläne zu verwirklichen. Sie stammte aus der ersten Ehe des Königs mit der illyrischen Prinzessin Audata und war die Witwe des Amyntas, eines Sohnes von Philipps Bruder Perdikkas III. Sie hatte nicht die Absicht, selbst eine neue Verbindung

13. Ein Motiv hätte sie gehabt, ebenso die Verbindungen, allerdings ist die Quellenlage diffus. Der Attentäter wurde noch auf der Flucht gestellt und sofort getötet, was durchaus im Sinne und zur Verschleierung von Hintermännern oder -frauen gedient haben könnte. In jedem Fall nährt die Liquidierung des Täters, bevor dieser verhört werden konnte, den Verdacht, er sei kein Einzeltäter gewesen. In der Forschung ist die Mittäterschaft der Olympias umstritten. Cf. Green, (1991, pp. 105–110). Gehrke, (1996, pp. 28f.). Barceló, (2007, pp. 69–71). Fündling, (2014, pp. 161–167).

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einzugehen, Gegenstand ihrer Bemühungen war vielmehr ihre fünfzehnjährige Tochter Adea.14 Als Bräutigam hatte Kynnane keinen Geringeren als Philippos Arrhidaios, den schwachsinnigen Halbbruder Alexanders, ausersehen, dem zusammen mit dem Sohn der Rhoxane die Königswürde übertragen worden war. Nachdem sie sich gegen den Willen des Antipatros den Übergang über den Hellespont erzwungen hatte, zog sie dem Reichsverweser Perdikkas entgegen, in dessen Obhut sich die beiden Könige befanden. Als man im Hauptquartier des Chiliarchen die Nachricht vom Herannahen Kynnanes erhielt, wurde ihr Alketas, der Bruder des Perdikkas, entgegengesandt, um sie abzufangen. Es gelang ihr jedoch, dessen Soldaten für sich zu gewinnen, indem sie auf ihre enge Verwandtschaft mit Philipp und Alexander verwies.15 Alketas beseitigte daraufhin zwar Kynnane, hatte aber die enge Bindung der Truppe an das Königshaus immer noch unterschätzt, denn erzürnt über den Mord an einer Halbschwester Alexanders erzwangen die makedonischen Soldaten nun die von Kynnane angestrebte Heirat zwischen Adea und Arrhidaios.16 Inwieweit Adea hinter der Entrüstung der Makedonen steckte, liegt im Dunkeln, allerdings sollte sie nur allzu bald unter Beweis stellen, dass man sie in Anbetracht ihrer Jugend gewaltig unterschätzt hatte. Anders jedenfalls lässt es sich kaum erklären, dass Alketas sie verschonte.17 Nachdem sie durch die Heirat mit einem der Könige ihr erstes Ziel erreicht hatte, nahm sie den dynastisch aussagekräftigen Namen Eurydike an. Eurydike I., die Gemahlin Amyntas’ III., hatte nämlich als Mutter dreier Könige eine besondere Bedeutung erlangt.18 Konsequent bemühte Adea/Eurydike sich nun, diesem anspruchsvollen Namen gerecht zu werden, und begann – wenn auch wenig erfolgreich – gegen Perdikkas zu intrigieren. Dabei spielte sie vor allem ihre Herkunft sowie sicherlich auch ihre militärische Ausbildung aus und appellierte so an die Gefühle der makedonischen Soldaten. Die Tatsache, dass die Truppe ihr eine eigene Leibwache gab, um sie vor der drohenden Lebensgefahr in der Nähe des

14. Zur dynastischen Stellung der Kynnane cf. Heckel, (1983–1984, pp. 193f.). Pomeroy, (1984, pp. 6f.). Carney, (1988, pp. 392f.). 15. Polyaen. 8, 60. 16. Arr. Post Alex. 1, 22 f.; Polyaen. 8, 60; D.S. 19, 52, 5. Cf. Carney, (1988, p. 393). Carney, (1987b, p. 498). 17. Zur Diskussion um das jugendliche Alter von Adea-Eurydike cf. Berve, (1926, p. 12f., Nr. 23). Pomeroy, (1984, p. 176, Nr. 17). Carney, (1987b, p. 499). 18. Aus der Ehe Eurydikes I. mit Amyntas’ III. waren Alexander II., Perdikkas III. und Philipp II. hervorgegangen. Zum Wechsel des Namens bei makedonischen Königinnen cf. Carney, (1987b, p. 498). Bosworth, (1980, pp. 282f.).

Chapter 1. Frauen in Wirtschaft und Politik der griechisch-römischen Antike

Reichsverwesers zu schützen, unterstreicht ihre politische Bedeutung (Schäfer, 2002, p. 70f.). Als Perdikkas schließlich auf seinem Ägyptenzug den Tod gefunden hatte, witterte Adea/Eurydike offenbar Morgenluft und agitierte gegen die neuen Befehlshaber des Reichsheeres. Diese wussten sich schließlich nicht anders zu helfen, als den mit einem weiteren Heer heranrückenden Antipater als Nachfolger des Perdikkas durchzusetzen.19 Nachdem sie von Perdikkas’ Schwager Attalos neue Einheiten und Geld aus einer Kriegskasse von etwa 800 Talenten Unterstützung erhalten hatte, spitzte sich die Lage wieder zu.20 Als dann noch Antipater den versprochenen Sold der Soldaten nicht auszahlen konnte, kam es zum Eklat. In einer von Eurydike und Attalos inszenierten Heeresversammlung wurde sein Leben bedroht. Und nur mit Mühe konnte er in Sicherheit und Eurydike zum Schweigen gebracht werden. Antipatros wurde in seiner Rolle als Reichsverweser bestätigt.21 Er starb allerdings im Herbst 319 (Datierung Heckel, 2000, p. 48). Das Handeln seines eng mit Olympias verbündeten Nachfolgers Polyperchon war durch politische und militärische Misserfolge in Griechenland gekennzeichnet. Als diese offensichtlich wurden, ergriff Adea/Eurydike im Namen ihres Mannes die Initiative. Sie setzte den gerade von Makedonien abwesenden Polyperchon als Epimeletes der Könige ab, befahl ihm, sein Heer an sie abzugeben, und ernannte an seiner Stelle Kassandros, den Sohn des Antipatros, zum Vormund, der allerdings ebenfalls noch in Griechenland weilte. Die Gattin eines wegen Schwachsinns unmündigen Königs setzte also den einen Vormund ab und einen anderen ein. In dieser angespannten Situation trat Olympias auf den Plan, stellte gegen die mit ihrem Stiefsohn verheiratete Stiefenkelin ein Heer auf und marschierte damit in Makedonien ein. Die Truppen der Adea/Eurydike liefen kampflos zu Olympias über, als sich die Mutter Alexanders den Soldaten zeigte. Daraufhin ließ Olympias Adea/Eurydike und Philipp III. Arrhidaios hinrichten und zahlreiche wirkliche oder auch nur vermeintliche Feinde töten. Als Kassandros dann in Makedonien einmarschierte, musste Olympias in die Stadt Pydna flüchten, wo sie schließlich in die Hände des Kassandros fiel (Carney, 2021, p. 325f. Müller, 2021, p. 300). Ob die jugendliche Adea/Eurydike jemals ihren ehelichen Pflichten nachgekommen ist, steht in den Sternen, jedoch überraschte sie mit ihrer Eigeninitiative als Königin die altgedienten Generäle Alexanders und trug durchaus das Ihre 19. Arr. Post Alex. 1, 30; D.S. 18, 39, 2. 20. Arr. Post Alex. 1, 31; D.S. 18,39,2. 21. Arr. Post Alex. 1, 32 f.; D.S. 18, 39, 3 f. Cf. Errington, (1970, pp. 67f.). Mehl, (1986, pp. 30ff.). Ellis, (1994, p. 39).

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zu den harten Kämpfen um Alexanders Erbe bei, in denen sie letztlich ihr Ende gefunden hat. In beiden Welten – der hellenistischen wie der römischen – zu Hause war Kleopatra VII. Einerseits stammte sie aus dem Haus der Ptolemäer, andererseits war sie mit Caesar, aber auch mit Antonius liiert und verfolgte hier durchaus eigene Machtinteressen. Will man ihr Leben und ihre Herrschaft untersuchen, erweist sich die Quellenlage als ein Hauptproblem. Die antiken Autoren adaptierten praktisch ausnahmslos die von Octavian/Augustus propagierte Sicht der Königin als königliche Hure (regina meretrix) und femme fatale! Hinter dieser mit Erotik und Polemik aufgeladenen Überlieferung die tatsächliche Herrscherin des ptolemäischen Reiches und ihre politischen Ziele und Leistungen zu erkennen, wird daher zu einer echten Herausforderung. Betrachten wir aber einige Momente, in denen sie politisches Handeln zeigte oder auch in ein politisches Konzept eingebunden war. Mit gerade einmal 18 Jahren bestieg Kleopatra VII. nach dem Tod ihres Vaters im Jahr 51 v.Chr. den ptolemäischen Königsthron. Zwar war sie getreu der Familientradition mit ihrem Bruder, dem zehnjährigen Ptolemaios XIII., verheiratet, dennoch versuchte sie von Anfang an, die Regierungsgeschäfte zu führen. Für ihren Gatten, den kleinen Ptolemaios, übernahm ein Gremium von drei Personen die Vormundschaft. Ihm gehörten neben dem Eunuchen Potheinos der Feldherr Achillas und Theodotos an, der von der Insel Chios stammende Lehrer des Königs.22 Alsbald kam es mit der Umgebung ihres Bruders zu schweren Konflikten. Zunächst allerdings setzte sie sich ganz offensichtlich durch. Am 22. März 51 tritt sie bei kultischen Feierlichkeiten in Hermonthis bei Theben persönlich auf, wobei auffällt, dass eine Stele, die von der Inthronisierung des Buchisstieres berichtet, als Datierung die Angabe Jahr 1 eines nicht näher genannten Königs und der Herrscherin mit dem Kulttitel „Göttin Philopator“ trägt.23 Um Spielraum zum Handeln zu bekommen, hielt sie anscheinend den Tod ihres Vaters anfangs noch geheim, denn erst Ende Juni traf die Nachricht in Rom ein.24 Passend dazu favorisierte sie bis Mitte des Jahres eine Doppeldatierung ins 30. Regierungsjahr 22. Zu Potheinos Caes. Ciu. 3, 108, 1 ff; D.C. 42, 36, 1; Plu. Pomp. 77, 2 f. u. Caes. 48, 2. Vgl. Heinen, (1966, pp. 36ff.). Zu Achillas App. BC 2, 84; Caes. Ciu. 104, 1 f.; Plu. Caes. 49, 4; D.C. 42,4,1. Achillas dürfte einheimischer Abstammung gewesen sein, was ihn aber keineswegs beeinträchtigte, wenn es um das Ausfüllen seiner Position ging. Plu. Pomp. 77, 3. Heinen, (1966, pp. 41f.). Zu Theodotus Plu. Pomp. 77, 3 u. 80, 9; Plu. Brut. 33, 2 ff.; Liu. Per. 112; Vell. 2, 53, 2. Während Plutarch als Theodotos Herkunftsinsel Chios angibt, behauptet Appian, er sei ein Samier. App. BC 2, 84. 23. Buch. II, 13. Heinen, (1966, pp. 25f. u. 28). Hölbl, (1994, pp. 205 u. 254). 24. Cic. Fam. 8, 4, 5.

Chapter 1. Frauen in Wirtschaft und Politik der griechisch-römischen Antike

ihres Vaters und ins erste der eigenen Herrschaft.25 Am 2. Juli setzte ihr indes Onnophris, der Vorsitzende des Kultvereins der Isis Snonais, wohl in Soknopaiu Nesos eine Stele, in der nur noch das Jahr 1 angeführt wird. Während die Königin im Text ausdrücklich genannt wird, ist darüber ein männlicher Pharao abgebildet, der vor Isis opfert, die dabei ist, den Horusknaben zu stillen. Dies und weitere Merkmale lassen darauf schließen, dass in aller Eile ein für sie ursprünglich gar nicht bestimmter Stein umgearbeitet wurde. Von ihrem Bruder und Mitregenten fehlt hier allerdings jede Spur (Clauss, 2003, p. 118). Dies ist ein Indiz dafür, dass es ihr gelungen ist, in kürzester Zeit die Macht ganz an sich zu reißen.26 Aufgrund der von ihrem Vater schon verursachten Staatsverschuldung und von Engpässen bei der Nahrungsmittelversorgung infolge von Missernten gerät sie nach etwa zwei Jahren ins Hintertreffen und ihr Bruder bzw. seine Berater übernehmen mehr und mehr die Herrschaft. Seit Juni 49 zählt Ptolemaios XIII. folgerichtig eigene Herrschaftsjahre, die er von denen Kleopatras absetzt und diesen voranstellt, was wiederum höchst aufschlussreich hinsichtlich Selbstverständnis und Machtanspruch ist. So lesen wir verschiedentlich „Jahr 1 des Königs Ptolemaios, welches auch Jahr 3 der Kleopatra ist“.27 Ob Kleopatra eigenständig Rechtsakte vollziehen konnte, ist unsicher, vom Prinzip her entsprach dies weder griechischen noch ägyptischen Vorstellungen. Infolgedessen konnte sie keine Vormundschaft übernehmen, so dass ihre Position von Beginn an unter einer gewissen strukturellen Schwäche litt. Daher war die Heirat mit ihrem Bruder ein Muss, um handlungsfähig zu bleiben.28 Wie etliche ihrer berühmten Vorgängerinnen auf dem Thron war sie jedoch keineswegs willens wegen solcher Nachteile ihre Ansprüche zurückzuschrauben und schaffte es noch viel schneller als ihr Vater, den Hof so gegen sich aufzubringen, dass sie im Sommer 49 aus Alexandria fliehen musste (Hazzard, 2000, p. 149). Potheinos und seine Verbündeten hatten zunächst gesiegt. Es spricht eine deutliche Sprache, dass Kleopatra nun nach Oberägypten in die Thebais auswich, wo sie augenscheinlich recht beliebt war und von wo aus sie den Kampf um die Macht fortzusetzen gedachte. Aber auch hier wurde ihre Lage bald zu prekär, und so setzte sie sich 25. Noch am 21. Juni 51 trägt eine Eingabe an den Strategen Seleukos die Doppeldatierung. BGU VIII, 1832. Vgl. Hölbl, (1994, p. 205). Huß, (2001, p. 706). 26. PSI X, 1098b, Z. 3. 27. Vgl. SB VI, 9065, Z.1 f.; P.Lond. 827 = PFay. 151, Z.6 f. Zu den leicht chaotischen Datierungen, die in gewisser Weise die noch immer nicht endgültig geklärten Machtverhältnisse widerspiegeln, Heinen, (1966, pp. 30ff.). 28. Allerdings ist diese Geschwisterehe in Zweifel gezogen worden. Vgl. Criscuolo, (1989, pp. 330ff.). Hölbl, (1994, p. 205), folgt ihm in dieser Hinsicht. Man muss sich allerdings fragen, weshalb sonst Caesar darauf drängte, dass sie nach dem Tod ihres älteren Bruders den jüngeren ehelichte, wenn nicht hierdurch ihre Stellung abgesichert werden musste.

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aus Ägypten ab in Richtung Syrien. In Palästina, etwa in der Hafenstadt Askalon, wo man Münzen mit ihrem diademgeschmückten Porträt schlug, warb sie Söldner an für den militärischen Gegenschlag gegen die Armee ihres Bruders.29 Schließlich standen die Heere der Geschwister einander bei Pelusion gegenüber.30 Ehe es allerdings zur Schlacht kam, traf Pompeius auf der Flucht vor Caesar in Pelusion ein, wo er Unterstützung einfordern wollte, stattdessen aber auf Befehl der Berater Ptolemaios‘ XIII. ermordet wurde.31 Geschickt nutzte Kleopatra dieses Attentat auf den Gastfreund ihres Vaters, welches einen Tabubruch bedeutete und dazu beitrug, dass der wenige Tage später eintreffende Caesar letztendlich ihr mehr Vertrauen schenkte und den ägyptischen Bürgerkrieg zu ihren Gunsten entschied. Die Ereignisse, die zum Alexandrinischen Krieg führten, und dessen Verlauf bis hin zur Niederlage und zum Tod Ptolemaios‘ XIII. sollen hier nicht weiter ausgeführt werden.32 Wichtig ist, dass Caesar – obwohl Kleopatra von ihm schwanger war – ihr nicht alleine die Stellung der Herrscherin überließ, sondern ihr ihren zweiten, noch jüngeren Bruder als Ptolemaios XIV. zur Seite stellte. Auf Caesars Betreiben wurde eine Geschwisterehe geschlossen, so dass Kleopatra de iure erneut nicht alleine regierte, de facto aber hielt sie von nun an bis zu ihrem Tod die Regierungsgewalt im ptolemäischen Reich allein in ihrer Hand.33 Die Beziehung zwischen Caesar und Kleopatra blieb nicht ohne Folgen, im September 47 v.Chr. – Caesar hatte Ägypten längst wieder verlassen – wurde der gemeinsame Sohn geboren. Die Vaterschaft Caesars darf als gesichert gelten.34 Sicher hat Caesar auch der Namenskombination Ptolemaios Kaisar zugestimmt.35 Die Alexandriner machten daraus den Scherznamen Kaisarion/Caesarion (Schäfer, 2006, pp. 93f.)

29. Zum Ausweichen in die Thebais Malalas 9, 279. Vgl. Criscuolo, (1989, pp. 328f.). Zum Rückzug nach Palästina Str. 17, 796; App. BC 2, 84. Zur Münzprägung in Askalon Brett, (1937, pp. 452–463, bes. 455). Zum Aufenthalt in Askalon auch Hazzard, (2000, p. 150). 30. Caes. Ciu. 3, 103, 1 f.; Plu. Pomp. 77, 1. 31. Plu. Pomp. 79, 4 u. 80, 2 ff. Zum Mordkomplott gegen Pompeius Caes. Ciu. 3, 104, 2 f.; Plu. Pomp. 78ff.; D.C. 42, 4 f. Vgl. Heinen, (1966, pp. 65ff.). 32. Zum Alexandrinischen Krieg Clauss, (1995, pp. 27–32). Schäfer, (2006, pp. 61–80). Roller, (2010, pp. 62–65). 33. D.C. 42, 44, 2 ff. 34. Obwohl in der Forschung immer wieder einmal Zweifel an der Vaterschaft Caesars geäußert werden (z.B. Étienne, (1997, pp. 64f.), geht die große Mehrheit von der Echtheit aus. Ausführlich hierzu Heinen, (1966, pp. 181ff.). Deininger, (2000, p. 221). Schäfer, (2006, pp. 87ff.). 35. Hier hat gerade Jürgen Deininger vor nicht allzu langer Zeit in seinem grundlegenden Beitrag für Klarheit gesorgt. Deininger, (2000, pp. 221ff.).

Chapter 1. Frauen in Wirtschaft und Politik der griechisch-römischen Antike

Kleopatra aber wollte mehr als nur in Ägypten, einem Klientelkönigreich der Römer, regieren. Sie wollte den ganz großen Einstieg in die Politik der damaligen Welt. Den Schlüssel hierfür bildete ihre Beziehung zum deutlich älteren Caesar und so verließ Kleopatra im Juni 46 v.Chr. Alexandria mit dem Reiseziel Rom, wo sie mit dem Vater ihres Kindes zusammentreffen sollte. Sicherlich traf sie erst nach den Feierlichkeiten anlässlich von Caesars vierfachem Triumph im Juli 46 ein, in deren Verlauf auch ihre Schwester Arsinoë als Gefangene der römischen Öffentlichkeit präsentiert wurde.36 Ihr Eintreffen hatte den Charakter eines Staatsbesuchs, ein Bündnis- und Freundschaftsvertrag sollte geschlossen werden, durch den ihre Herrschaft in gleicher Weise abgesichert wurde, wie dies seinerzeit bei ihrem Vater geschehen war. Während ihres Romaufenthaltes führte sie ein großes Haus, auf ihren Festen und Banketten traf sich die bessere Gesellschaft der Stadt. Getreu den Gepflogenheiten hellenistischer Herrscherrepräsentation traten bei ihren Empfängen neben Künstlern auch Philosophen auf, an deren Diskussionen sich die Königin selbst beteiligte. Damit unterschied sich ihr Auftreten gravierend von dem römischer Matronen, die sich ganz anderen Konventionen unterwerfen mussten. Die Königin hingegen demonstrierte Reichtum und Lebensstil und setzte sogar modische Akzente.37 Wir können nicht bis ins Detail sagen, wohin diese Herrscherrepräsentation in Rom führen sollte, allerdings scheint sie in Caesars Plänen für die Zukunft des Imperiums eine bedeutende Rolle gespielt zu haben. Dieser hatte am 25. Juli 46, seinem Geburtstag, das von ihm in Auftrag gegebene Forum Iulium sowie als Hauptbau den in der Schlacht von Pharsalos gelobten Tempel eingeweiht. Anders als ursprünglich gedacht, widmete er ihn nun jedoch nicht der Venus Victrix, sondern vielmehr der Venus Genetrix. Damit wurde die Stiftung neu akzentuiert, der Aspekt der Venus als Stammutter des iulischen Geschlechts entscheidend hervorgehoben. Dies kam einem dynastischen Kult schon außerordentlich nahe und bildete den Auftakt für die immer vehementeren Anstrengungen Caesars um eine dauerhafte Konsolidierung seiner Monarchie.38

36. D.C. 43, 19, 2 ff.; App. BC 2, 101. Schäfer, (2021, p. 145). 37. Zu dem Sänger und Musiker M. Tigellius Hermogenes Porph. Comm. 1, 2, 1 ff. Vgl. Treggiari, (1969, pp. 269f.). Zum Auftreten des Philosophen Philostratos Anth. Graeca 7, 645 (Krinagoras von Mytilene); Philostr. Im. 1, 5. Fraser, (I, 1970, pp. 490 u. 494). Zur Haarmode Schäfer (2006, p. 97). Schäfer, (2021, p. 147). 38. Dabei trat die siegverleihende Funktion der Venus zwar etwas in den Hintergrund, sie blieb aber durch den Anlass der Stiftung weiterhin präsent. Schließlich galt die Sieghaftigkeit als ein entscheidendes Merkmal charismatischer Herrschaftslegitimation, und das nicht nur im hellenistischen Osten. Vgl. Weinstock, (1971, pp. 83ff.). Gehrke, (1982, pp. 247ff.).

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Wohin seine dynastischen Pläne konkret zielten, machte er in aller Öffentlichkeit deutlich, als er im Tempel der Venus Genetrix eine goldene Statue Kleopatras aufstellen ließ. Damit sprengte er den Rahmen profaner Ehrungen für die Königin und rückte sie in die Nähe seiner Ahnmutter. Der Akt entbehrte insofern nicht einer gewissen Logik, als Kleopatra sich wie andere Ptolemäerinnen vor ihr als Inkarnation der Isis präsentierte und in Ägypten entsprechend verehrt wurde. Im Zuge der interpretatio romana wurde Isis mit Venus gleichgesetzt, wobei dem römischen nunmehr ein ägyptisches Kultbild mit den Zügen der Königin an die Seite gestellt wurde. Aufgrund der Anwesenheit der Königin und ihres demonstrativ zur Schau getragenen Verhältnisses mit Caesar musste in Rom unwillkürlich die Frage nach einer etwa geplanten Verschmelzung der gens Iulia mit dem Ptolemäerhaus aufkommen. Dieses durch Caesarions Nomenklatur bereits in den Raum gestellte Konzept wurde nunmehr also auch kultisch flankiert.39 Einen derart weitreichenden Akt wird Caesar sicherlich mit ihr besprochen und geplant haben. Von Hause aus gewohnt, in Heiligtümern mittels Kultbildern präsent zu sein, könnte sie sogar den Anstoß für Caesars Initiative gegeben haben. In jedem Fall bedeutete die Berücksichtigung ihrer Person im Venus-Tempel einen enormen Fortschritt im Hinblick auf die Absicherung ihrer Herrschaft in Ägypten und einen Beleg dafür, wie weit sie ihre Macht auch im Hinblick auf das übermächtige Imperium Romanum hatte ausbauen können. Alles hing jedoch an der Person Caesars, solange dieser noch keine dauerhafteren dynastischen Strukturen geschaffen hatte. Wie sehr er daran arbeitete, zeigt seine rastlose Reformtätigkeit in den letzten beiden Lebensjahren.40 Auch wenn Kleopatra mit den dynastischen Bestrebungen ihres Liebhabers sympathisierte und ihn hierin unterstützte, muss ihr bewusst gewesen sein, dass die ihr und dem gemeinsamen Sohn zugedachte Rolle völlig unbestimmt blieb. Mit Caesars Tod konnten ihre für uns nur in Ansätzen fassbaren Pläne hinsichtlich einer Verflechtung zwischen den Ptolemäern und Rom nicht mehr realisiert werden. Völlig aufgegeben hat sie diese Idee allerdings nicht, auch wenn sie sich erst einmal um die inneren Belange ihres Reiches kümmern und die aus dem Bürgerkrieg zwischen den Caesarianern und den Caesarmördern resultierenden Herausforderungen meistern musste. Viele Jahre später aber ist Kleopatra mit Marcus Antonius ein weiteres und letztes Mal in ihrem Bestreben gescheitert, ihrem Reich in einer römisch dominierten Welt einen herausragenden Platz zu sichern und selbst großen Einfluss

39. App. BC 2, 102; D.C. 51, 22, 3. Hölbl, (1994, p. 266). Huß, (2001, p. 725). 40. Zu Caesars Reformen vgl. Schäfer, (2006, 100ff.). Zu seinen Eingriffen in den Staat und die Traditionen Jehne, (1987, bes. Pp. 372ff. u. 440ff.).

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zu nehmen auf die Politik der bedeutendsten Akteure des Imperium Romanum (Schäfer, 2006. Roller 2010. Halfmann 2011). In vielerlei Hinsicht steht Kleopatra beispielhaft für andere hellenistische Herrscherinnen – Olympias und Adea/Eurydike wurden schon genannt –, die ihrerseits ebenfalls persönlich Macht ausübten, die Regierungsgeschäfte steuerten, sich gegen Feinde behaupteten und so die Politik und die Lebensverhältnisse in ihren Territorien prägten.

Literatur Barceló, P. (2007). Alexander der Große. Darmstadt. Beck, M. (2015). Der politische Euergetismus und dessen vor allem nichtbürgerliche Rezipienten im hellenistischen und kaiserzeitlichen Kleinasien sowie dem ägäischen Raum. Rahden/Westf. Berve, H. (1926). Das Alexanderreich auf prosopographischer Grundlage, Bd. I–II. München. Bosworth, A. B. (1980). A Historical Commentary on Arrian’s History of Alexander, Bd. I: Commentary on Books I–III. Oxford. Brett, A. B. (1937). A new Cleopatra Tetradrachm of Ascalon. AJA 41, 452–463. Carlsen, J. (1995). Vilici and Roman Estate Managers until AD 284. Rom. Carney, E. D. (1987). Olympias. AncSoc 18, 35–62. (Carney (1987a) Carney, E. (1987). The Career of Adea – Eurydice. Historia 36, 496–502. (Carney (1987b) Carney, E. D. (2021). Transitional Royal Women. Kleopatra, sister of Alexander the Great, Adea Eurydike, and Phila. In: E. D. Carney/S. Müller (Hg.), The Routledge Companion to Women and Monarchy in the Ancient Mediterranean World. London/New York. 321–332. Carney, E. (1988). The Sisters of Alexander the Great: Royal Relicts. Historia 37, 385–404. Clauss, M. (1995). Kleopatra. München. Clauss, M. (2003). Alexandria. Eine antike Weltstadt. Stuttgart. Criscuolo, L. (1989). La succesione a Tolemeo Aulete ed i pretesi matrimoni di Cleopatra VII con i fratelli. In: L. Criscuolo/ G. Geraci (Hrsg.), Egitto e storia antica dall’Ellenismo all’età araba. Bilancio di un confronto. Atti del Colloquio Internationale, Bologna, 31 agosto–2 settembre 1987. Bologna. 325–339. Deininger, J. (2000). Kaisarion. Bemerkungen zum alexandrinischen Scherznamen für Ptolemaios XV. ZPE 131, 221–226. Eck, W. (2000). Latein als Sprache politischer Kommunikation in den Städten der östlichen Provinzen. Chiron 30, 641–660. Ellis, W. M. (1994). Ptolemy of Egypt. London / New York. Errington, R. M. (1970). From Babylon to Triparadeisos: 323–320 B.C. JHS 90, 49–77. Étienne, R. (1997). Jules César. Paris. Fraser, P. M. (1972). Ptolemaic Alexandria, 3 Bde. Oxford. Fündling, J. (2014). Philipp II. von Makedonien. Darmstadt. Gardener, J. F. (1995). Frauen im antiken Rom. Familie Alltag, Recht. München.

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Gehrke, H.-J. (1982). Der siegreiche König. Überlegungen zur Hellenistischen Monarchie. Archiv für Kulturgeschichte 64, 247–277. Gehrke, H. -J. (1996). Alexander der Große. München. Green, P. (1991). Alexander of Macedon, 356–323 B.C. A Historical Biography. Berkeley/Los Angeles/London. Günther, R. (2000). Matrona, vilica und ornatrix. Frauenarbeit in Rom zwischen Topos und Alltagswirklichkeit. In: Th. Späth/B. Wagner-Hasel (Hrsg.) Frauenwelten in der Antike. Geschlechterordnung und weibliche Lebenspraxis. Stuttgart/Weimar. 350–376. Halfmann, H. (2011). Marcus Antonius. Darmstadt. Hartmann, E. (2007). Frauen in der Antike. Weibliche Lebenswelten von Sappho bis Theodora. München. Hartmann, E. (2000). Hetären im Klassischen Athen. In: Späth, Th. / Wagner-Hasel, B. Frauenwelten in der Antike. Geschlechterordnung und weibliche Lebenspraxis. Stuttgart, Weimar. 377–394. Heckel, W. (1983–1984). Kynnane the Illyrian. Rivista storica dell’ Antichità 13/14, 193–200. Heckel, W. (2000). The Marshals of Alexander’s Empire. London 1992 (ND New York 2000). Heinen, H. (1966). Rom und Ägypten von 51 bis 47 v. Chr., Untersuchungen zur Regierungszeit der 7. Kleopatra und des 13. Ptolemäers, Tübingen. Herrmann-Otto, E. (1994). Ex ancilla natus. Untersuchungen zu den “hausgeborenen” Sklaven und Sklavinnen im Westen des Römischen Kaiserreiches. Stuttgart. Hölbl, G. (1994). Geschichte des Ptolemäerreiches. Politik, Ideologie und religiöse Kultur von Alexander dem Großen bis zur römischen Eroberung. Darmstadt. Huß, W. (2001). Ägypten in hellenistischer Zeit 332–30 v.Chr.. München. Jehne, M. (1987). Der Staat des Dictators Caesar. Köln / Wien. Mehl, A. (1986). Seleukos Nikator und sein Reich. 1.Teil: Seleukos’ Leben und die Entwicklung seiner Machtposition. Lovanii. Müller, S. (2021). Argead Women. In: E. D. Carney/S. Müller (Hg.), The Routledge Companion to Women and Monarchy in the Ancient Mediterranean World. London/New York. 294–306. Pomeroy, S. B. (1984). Women in Hellenistic Egypt from Alexander to Cleopatra. New York. Reinsberg, C. (1989). Ehe, Hetärentum und Knabenliebe im antiken Griechenland. München. Roller, D. W. (2010). Cleopatra. A Biography. Oxford. Rollinger, R./Ulf, Ch. (2000). Geschlechterrollen und Frauenbild in der Perspektive der antiken Autoren. Innsbruck/Wien/München. Rollinger, R./Ulf, Ch. (2006). Frauen und Geschlechter. Bilder – Rollen – Realitäten in den Texten antiker Autoren zwischen Antike und Mittelalter. Wien/Köln/Weimar. Şahin, S. (1999). Die Inschriften von Perge, Teil I: Vorrömische Zeit, frühe und hohe Kaiserzeit. Bonn. Schäfer, Ch. (2002). Eumenes von Kardia und der Kampf um die Macht im Alexanderreich. Schäfer, Ch. (2006). Kleopatra. Darmstadt. Schäfer, Ch. (2012). Kleopatras politisches Streben im Zusammenspiel mit Caesar. In: L. -M. Günther/V. Grieb (Hg.), Das imperiale Rom und der hellenistische Osten. Festschrift für Jürgen Deininger zum 75. Geburtstag. Stuttgart. 139–150. Schuller, W. (1987). Frauen in der römischen Geschichte. Konstanz.

Chapter 1. Frauen in Wirtschaft und Politik der griechisch-römischen Antike

Shipley, G. (2000). The Greek World after Alexander 323–30 BC. London – New York. Späth, Th./Wagner-Hasel (Hg.), (2000). Frauenwelten in der Antike. Geschlechterordnung und weibliche Lebenspraxis. Metzler, Stuttgart/Weimar. Treggiari, S. (1969). Roman Freedmen during the Late Republic. Oxford. Waldner, K. (2000). Kulträume von Frauen in Athen. Das Beispiel der Artemis Brauronia. In: Späth, Th. / Wagner-Hasel, B. Frauenwelten in der Antike. Geschlechterordnung und weibliche Lebenspraxis. Stuttgart, Weimar. 53–81. Walser, G. (21993). Römische Inschriftkunst. Stuttgart. Weinstock, St. (1971). Divus Julius. Oxford.

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Lo status giuridico della donna nel diritto romano della tarda Repubblica e del Principato (II secolo a.C. – inizi del III secolo d.C.) Aldo Petrucci

Università di Pisa

This chapter provides an overview of the situation of women in the field of Roman private law. It deals with the various situations in which women are placed, whether as married women, divorced women, concubines, mothers or widows, or as daughters subject to parental authority. Other related issues such as the tutela mulierum or the SC Velleianum are also studied. Keywords: woman, marriage, tutela mulierum, SC Velleianum, loco filiae

Sommario: 1. Considerazioni introduttive. – 2. La donna come compagna di vita. – 3. La donna come figlia in potestà. – 4. La donna come madre. – 5. La donna e gli aspetti patrimoniali. – 6. Le donne e l’esercizio di attività economiche organizzate (negotiationes). – 7. Le donne e le limitazioni di carattere processuale. – 8. Il quadro d’insieme.

1.

Considerazioni introduttive

Un quadro, per quanto sintetico, della posizione giuridica delle donne nel periodo storico qui esaminato, corrispondente in linea di massima a quello della presenza del genere letterario della novella nel mondo romano, richiede alcune precisazioni preliminari. In primo luogo, esisteva una distinzione fra donne nate libere (ingenuae), manomesse dalla schiavitù (libertae) e di condizione servile (servae). Nella mia trattazione, però, indicherò gli aspetti più significativi della condizione femminile nel diritto privato della prima categoria, con qualche riferimento anche alle altre due, mettendo in luce, nell’ordine, il ruolo della donna come compagna di vita, https://doi.org/10.1075/ivitra.40.02pet © 2024 John Benjamins Publishing Company

Chapter 2. Lo status giuridico della donna nel diritto romano

come figlia in potestà, come madre, come persona assoggettata a tutela e come gerente o titolare di attività economiche, terminando con l’esposizione delle restrizioni in campo processuale. Quale filo conduttore utilizzerò principalmente le Institutiones del giurista Gaio, scritte poco dopo la metà del II secolo d.C. non solo per la loro semplicità e chiarezza, essendo un manuale rivolto all’educazione dei futuri giuristi, ma anche perché ricco di informazioni sull’evoluzione storica delle normative sulle discriminazioni di genere dal periodo arcaico all’età in cui il giurista è vissuto. Infatti, come è noto, il grande vantaggio di quest’opera è di essere arrivata ai nostri giorni nel suo testo pressoché integrale, senza subire le modifiche e gli adattamenti apportati dai compilatori del Digesto di Giustiano (promulgato nel 533) alle opere degli altri giuristi della fine della repubblica e del Principato, per attualizzarle alla realtà del VI secolo. Ciò non esclude che possano servire a completare il quadro anche i dati raccolti in esse e nei frammenti delle poche altre opere giuridiche, tramandateci al di fuori della Codificazione giustinianea. Non sono invece necessarie molte parole sullo status giuridico delle donne nel diritto pubblico tardo-repubblicano ed imperiale, in cui, diversamente dal diritto privato, esse erano totalmente escluse dai diritti politici e dalla possibilità di rivestire cariche ed uffici: ancora agli inizi del III secolo d.C. il giurista Ulpiano dice chiaramente che una donna non può gestire una magistratura, svolgere la funzione di giudice ed assumere tutti gli uffici civili o pubblici (oltre a subire discriminazioni di tipo processuale), perché sono riservati ai soli uomini.1 Infine, un’ultima avvertenza. Ho scelto di basare il mio discorso sui contenuti delle fonti per due ordini di ragioni. Il primo: la bibliografia sulla posizione della donna nel diritto romano è immensa e passare in rassegna le opinioni anche dei soli più importanti Autori moderni occuperebbe interamente lo spazio di questo mio breve contributo. Mi limiterò perciò a riportare in una nota bibliografica finale quegli studi, la cui consultazione mi è risultata più utile. Il secondo: in una ricerca interdisciplinare ho preferito riprodurre e commentare direttamente i testi sui quali si è sviluppato il mio pensiero, per creare un immediato riscontro e favorire al massimo il dialogo con i cultori di diversi saperi.

1. Si veda Ulpiano 1 ad Sab. D. 50.17.2 pr.: Feminae ab omnibus officiis civilibus vel publicis remotae sunt et ideo nec iudices esse possunt nec magistratum gerere nec postulare nec pro alio intervenire nec procuratores existere (Le donne sono tenute lontano da tutte le cariche civili o pubbliche e perciò non possono né essere giudici né gestire una magistratura né chiedere in giudizio o intervenire per altri né essere procuratori).

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La donna come compagna di vita

a. Il matrimonio. Rappresenta la forma più diffusa di unione stabile tra un uomo e una donna. Quello legittimo, chiamato iustae nuptiae, continua a conservare un carattere rigorosamente monogamico,2 fondandosi sui due elementi fondamentali dell’affectio maritalis (la reciproca intenzione degli sposi di ritenersi marito e moglie) e della convivenza, normalmente inaugurata da una cerimonia di entrata della moglie nella casa coniugale. Accanto ai due elementi essenziali ora ricordati, erano richiesti anche quattro ulteriori requisiti di legittimità: I. La reciproca capacità naturale al matrimonio, raggiunta con la pubertà e la connessa capacità di procreare. Per le donne l’età prevista era di dodici anni (per gli uomini quattordici), con conseguente esclusione di sposalizi durante l’infanzia, come invece avveniva in altre civiltà coeve dell’antico oriente mediterraneo (ad es., in quella egiziana). II. L’assenza di certi gradi di parentela e la conseguente inammissibilità del matrimonio endogamico, per evitare i problemi derivanti dalla consanguineità. Erano vietati tutti i matrimoni tra parenti in linea retta – quindi non si potevano sposare madre e figlio, padre e figlia, nonno e nipote – e fra parenti in linea collaterale entro un certo grado, come, ad esempio, tra fratelli e sorelle (i matrimoni adelfici o consanguinei, frequenti nell’Egitto faraonico e tolemaico ed in altri regni ellenistici). Il divieto riguardava anche i matrimoni tra parenti collaterali entro il quarto grado, ma nel I secolo d.C. il grado viene abbassato al terzo (tra zio e nipote ex fratre), per permettere il matrimonio tra l’imperatore Claudio (41–54 d.C.) ed Agrippina (minore), figlia di suo fratello Germanico.3 III. Il conubium, consistente nell’esistenza tra gli sposi di una reciproca capacità giuridica di contrarre matrimonio. Si tratta di una capacità che doveva sussistere nei matrimoni tra cittadini romani e stranieri ed era normalmente riconosciuta in un trattato (foedus) o concessa dall’imperatore.4 La sua necessità perde importanza con l’estensione generalizzata della cittadinanza a seguito della costituzione Antoniana del 212. IV. Il consenso dei patres familias degli sposi, qualora fossero stati persone sottoposte a patria potestà.5 Detto requisito, pur restando formalmente, perde molta importanza già nell’epoca storica qui considerata. Un elemento che accompagnava il matrimonio nel diritto arcaico e che nel I secolo a.C. si può ritenere estinto o in via di estinzione, è l’acquisto del potere della manus da parte del marito sulla moglie, contemporaneamente o in un momento successivo al matrimonio. Se il marito era una persona

Chapter 2. Lo status giuridico della donna nel diritto romano

in potestà, la manus veniva acquistata dal titolare della patria potestas su di lui. Dei tre antichi modi di cui ci parlano le Istituzioni di Gaio,6 l’usus era scomparso, la confarreatio si utilizzava ormai esclusivamente per chi volesse rivestire certe cariche sacerdotali (di Flamine maggiore o di Rex sacrorum), dovendo nascere da un matrimonio “confarreato” e sposarsi con lo stesso rito, mentre coemptio si applicava ai soli fini fiduciari, di cui parleremo in tema di tutela nel § 5 sub a). La profonda evoluzione della società romana, che si verifica durante il II secolo a.C., permette anche alle donne di divorziare liberamente. Sul piano giuridico, il divorzio avveniva in modo molto semplice, mediante la cessazione dell’affectio maritalis e la fine alla convivenza coniugale. Qualora il marito fosse stato d’accordo, il divorzio si realizzava in modo consensuale, ma sarebbe potuto avvenire anche per iniziativa di uno solo coniuge (il marito o la moglie), cui l’altro non aveva facoltà di opporsi. Proprio per cercare di arginare il degrado dei costumi Augusto (31 a.C.–14 d.C.) fa approvare o ispira un pacchetto di leggi, che trovano applicazione almeno fino alla metà del III secolo d.C. Innanzitutto due leggi matrimoniali: la lex Iulia de maritandis ordinibus del 18 a.C. e la lex Papia Poppaea nuptialis del 9 d.C., il cui obiettivo era quello di incrementare i matrimoni e di favorire la procreazione di figli legittimi. Data la somiglianza del contenuto delle due 2. Gai. Inst.1.63: …neque eadem duobus nupta esse potest neque idem duas uxores habere (…né la stessa donna può essere sposata a due uomini, né uno stesso uomo avere due mogli). 3. V. Gai. Inst.1.58–64. Su Claudio e Agrippina v. Gai. Inst.1.62: Fratris filiam uxorem ducere licet; idque primum in usum venit, cum divus Claudius Agrippinam, fratris sui filiam uxorem duxisset; sororis vero filiam uxorem ducere non licet. et haec ita principalibus constitutionibus significantur (È permesso sposare la figlia del fratello, e questo è entrato in uso per la prima volta quando il divo Claudio ha sposato Agrippina, figlia di suo fratello; non è invece permesso sposare la figlia della sorella e tali disposizioni sono espresse così nelle costituzioni imperiali). 4. Gai. Inst.1.56: …si cives Romanas uxores duxerint vel etiam Latinas peregrinasve, cum quibus conubium habeant: cum enim conubium id efficiat, ut liberi patris condicionem sequantur, evenit, ut non cives Romani fiant, sed etiam in potestate patris sint (…se si sposano cittadine romane o anche Latine o straniere, con le quali abbiano il connubio: infatti il connubio fa in modo che i figli seguano la condizione del padre ed accade perciò non solo che diventano cittadini romani, ma anche che siano sotto la potestà del padre). 5. Tit. Ulp. 5.2: Iustum matrimonium est, si inter eos, qui nuptias contrahunt, conubium sit, et tam masculus pubes quam femina potens sit, et utrique consentiant, si sui iuris sunt, aut etiam parentes eorum, si in potestate sunt (Un matrimonio è legittimo, se tra coloro che contraggono le nozze vi sia il connubio e tanto l’uomo sia pubere quanto la donna possa procreare ed entrambi esprimano il consenso, se sono liberi da potestà/ sui iuris o anche lo esprimano i loro padri, se sono soggetti a potestà). 6. Gai. Inst.1.108–113.

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leggi, i giuristi del Principato ne parlano come di una sola con il nome di lex Iulia et Papia. Tali leggi imponevano un obbligo di sposarsi a tutti gli uomini liberi tra i 25 e 60 anni e a tutte le donne libere tra 20 e 507 e di generare figli, minacciando, in caso contrario, l’applicazione di sanzioni patrimoniali in materia successoria, consistenti nel limitare o escludere la loro capacità di ricevere per via ereditaria.8 Da tale disciplina erano esenti i soli discendenti in linea retta fino al terzo grado. La lex Iulia et Papia disponeva, inoltre, precisi divieti matrimoniali in riferimento a determinate classi sociali, sui quali torneremo fra breve a proposito del concubinato. In aggiunta a queste leggi ne viene votata un’altra sull’adulterio (lex Iulia de adulteriis coërcendis) del 18 o 17 a.C., la quale, senza intaccare la libertà di divorziare, vieta e punisce come crimini le relazioni sessuali con donne sposate (l’adulterio vero e proprio) o anche divorziate, vedove o nubili, purché consenzienti (lo stuprum), perseguendoli con un apposito procedimento penale (una quaestio perpetua) e sanzionandoli con la pena della relega su un’isola e della confisca di parte del patrimonio.9 Era permessa l’uccisione degli adulteri soltanto quando fossero stati sorpresi in flagrante: di entrambi, se compiuta dal padre della donna a casa propria o del genero; del solo amante della moglie, qualora fosse stato di bassa di condizione, se compiuta dal marito a casa sua. A lui era invece sempre interdetto di uccidere la moglie, ma avrebbe dovuto immediatamente divorziare, con l’invio di un libellus repudii (o repudium), per evitare l’accusa del crimine di lenocinio (lenocium).10 Nei rapporti patrimoniali tra coniugi il regime, che trova uno straordinario sviluppo nell’arco di tempo qui analizzato, è quello della dote (dos), formata da un complesso di beni trasferiti dalla donna, se sui iuris, o da un terzo (la dote adventicia) oppure dal suo pater familias, qualora sottoposta a patria potestà (la dote profecticia), in proprietà del marito, al fine di sostenere gli oneri del matrimonio (ad onera matrimonii sustinenda).11 Da tale definizione si può desumere la caratteristica precipua di questo istituto: la proprietà dei beni dotali va in capo al marito, ma è condizionata alla durata del matrimonio. Ciò spiega perché la dote si configuri anche come una garanzia patrimoniale per la moglie dopo il divorzio o la morte del marito. Proprio per questo, già in costanza di matrimonio, si introducono progressivamente dei vincoli alla libertà dell’uomo di amministrare ed utilizzare i beni portati in dote, pur essendone giuridicamente il proprietario. Il più rilevante è quello stabilito, nel 18 a.C., da un capitolo o parte della lex Iulia de adulteriis, che vietava al marito di vendere fondi costituiti in dote senza il consenso della moglie (invita uxore).12

Chapter 2. Lo status giuridico della donna nel diritto romano

Nelle ipotesi di morte del marito o di divorzio, solo la vedova o la moglie divorziata, salvo diversi accordi, avrebbe potuto chiedere agli eredi del marito o all’ex-marito la restituzione dei beni dotali. Unicamente allorché il padre della donna fosse ancora vivo, con la divorziata soggetta alla sua potestà, avrebbe dovuto essere lui a richiederne la restituzione, ma unitamente alla figlia (adiecta filiae persona), verificandosi una situazione di “litisconsorzio necessario”.13 Qualora la restituzione non fosse effettuata, contro l’ex-marito o gli eredi del marito defunto si poteva intentare un’azione chiamata dai giuristi romani actio de dote o actio rei uxoriae. Sulla quantità dei beni dotali da restituire incidevano diversi fattori, tra cui anche l’eventuale colpa di chi avesse determinato il divorzio. All’ex-marito era riconosciuto il diritto di operare delle trattenute, chiamate tecnicamente ritenzioni (retentiones), di parti della dote, tra cui, per esempio, quelle per i cattivi costumi della moglie (propter mores) e quelle per contribuire al mantenimento dei figli in comune in caso di divorzio avvenuto per colpa della donna o del suo pater familias (propter liberos)14.

7. Come si desume dai Tit. Ulp.16.1: … eius aetatis sunt, a qua lex liberos exigit, id est si vir … annorum XXV sit, aut uxor annorum XX … item si utrique lege Papia finitos annos in matrimonio excesserint, id est vir LX annos, uxor L … (… sono di quell’età, in cui la legge esige che abbiano figli, cioè se l’uomo … ha 25 anni e la donna 20 anni … parimenti, se entrambi abbiano terminato il matrimonio dopo aver compiuto gli anni stabiliti dalla lex Papia, cioè 60 anni per l’uomo e 50 per la donna …). 8. Maggiormente penalizzati erano i caelibes, un termine con cui si indicano sia uomini che donne non sposate, soggetti ad un’esclusione totale di poter ricevere beni per successione, mentre coloro che si sposavano, ma non avevano i figli, qualificati, con una forte colorazione discriminatoria, come orbi, subivano le stesse sanzioni, ma ridotte alla metà: v. Gai. Inst. 2.111 e 286–287. 9. Si vedano, ad es., D. 48.5.6.1 (Pap. 1 de adult.): lex stuprum et adulterium promiscue …appellat. Sed proprie adulterium in nupta committitur …stuprum vero in virginem viduamve committitur (la legge parla promiscuamente di stupro e adulterio. Ma propriamente l’adulterio si commette con una sposata, mentre lo stupro con una nubile o una vedova); D. 48.5.35 pr. (Mod. 1 reg.): Stuprum committit, qui liberam mulierem consuetudinis causa, non matrimonii continet, excepta videlicet concubina (Commette uno stupro colui che ha una relazione con una donna libera per consuetudine e non per matrimonio, ad eccezione naturalmente della concubina). 10. Cfr. Paul. Sent. 2.26.1 e 4–8; Coll. 4.2.3. 11. V., ad es., D. 23.3.56.1 (Paul. 6 ad Plaut.): Ibi dos esse debet, ubi onera matrimonii sunt (deve esserci una dote lì dove ci sono gli oneri del matrimonio). 12. Paul. Sent. 2.21b.2: Lege Iulia de adulteriis cavetur, ne dotale praedium maritus invita uxore alienet (Nella legge Giulia sugli adulterii è disposto che il marito non possa vendere un fondo dotale contro la volontà della moglie).

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b. Il concubinato. Il diritto romano riconosce il concubinato come unione stabile tra donna e uomo, alternativa al matrimonio, per effetto delle due leggi matrimoniali augustee sopra menzionate, in due situazioni: la prima riguarda i senatori, i quali non potevano sposare le proprie liberte né donne di spettacolo o prostitute, perché vigeva nei loro confronti un espresso divieto in tal senso.15 Si voleva infatti evitare che essi, in quanto esponenti dell’ordine sociale più elevato, turbassero così la composizione della classe senatoria. Il senatore, che volesse unirsi stabilmente con queste categorie di donne, dava vita ad un concubinato, con la conseguenza però che i figli non erano legittimi e non ricadevano sotto la patria potestà. La seconda situazione si collega all’introduzione del crimine di stuprum da parte della lex Iulia de adulteriis, con cui, come abbiamo visto, si puniva innanzitutto la relazione sessuale con donne non sposate (divorziate, vedove o nubili). Tale crimine non si commetteva, però, quando un uomo libero, anche se non appartenente alla classe senatoria, instaurava legami stabili con donne che facevano un certo tipo di mestieri (attrici, cantanti, danzatrici, prostitute, ruffiane) o di condizione sociale molto bassa. La loro unione non poteva configurarsi come matrimonio, ma nemmeno come “stupro”, costituendo invece un vincolo di concubinato. Anche qui i figli nati risultavano illegittimi e non erano sottoposti alla patria potestà. c. Le unioni con stranieri e con schiavi e le unioni omosessuali femminili. Vengono ad assumere rilevanza giuridica anche altri tipi di unioni stabili diverse dal matrimonio legittimo o dal concubinato, formando un quadro variegato a lungo trascurato dagli studiosi moderni, che se ne sono occupati spesso solo in materia di impedimenti al matrimonio.

13. Tit. Ulp. 6.6: Divortio facto, si quidem sui iuris sit mulier, ipsa habet actionem, id est dotis repetitionem; quodsi in potestate patris sit, pater adiuncta filiae persona habet actionem rei uxoriae; nec interest, adventicia sit dos, an profecticia (Fatto il divorzio, se la donna sia libera da potestà/ sui iuris, lei stessa ha l’azione per richiedere la restituzione della dote; se invece sia sotto la potestà del padre, questi ha l’azione per la restituzione della dote con l’aggiunta della persona della figlia; non rileva se la dote fosse avventizia o profettizia). 14. Tit. Ulp. 6.9: Retentiones ex dote fiunt aut propter liberos, aut propter mores, aut propter inpensas, aut propter res donatas, aut propter res amotas (Le trattenute dalla dote si fanno o per i figli o per i cattivi costumi o per le spese o per le cose donate o per le cose sottratte) e 6.10. 15. Tit. Ulp. 13.1: Lege Iulia prohibentur uxores ducere senatores quidem liberique eorum libertinas et quae ipsae quarumque pater materve artem ludicram fecerit, item corpore quaestum facientem (In base alla legge Giulia si proibisce ai senatori e ai loro figli di sposare le liberte e quante abbiano svolto attività di teatro o esse stesse o il loro padre o madre, e parimenti quante ottengano guadagni con il proprio corpo).

Chapter 2. Lo status giuridico della donna nel diritto romano

Sempre ponendoci nell’ottica femminile, esistevano forme di matrimonio celebrate con Romani da donne straniere prive del requisito del conubium: la loro frequenza è alla base dell’istituto della erroris causae probatio, di cui ci parla diffusamente ancora il manuale istituzionale di Gaio (Inst. 1.65 ss.). Infatti, provare l’errore giustificato sullo status < di cittadino > del coniuge (l’erroris causae probatio, appunto), dopo aver avuto almeno un figlio, rendeva legittimo il matrimonio, che un Romano e una Latina (o una straniera) oppure un Latino (o uno straniero) e una Romana avevano celebrato credendo di essere entrambi cittadini; ne conseguiva che i figli procreati venissero a ricadere sotto la potestà paterna. Questa disciplina piuttosto minuziosa, introdotta da senatoconsulti e costituzioni imperiali aveva di mira soprattutto le unioni tra soldati romani e donne della provincia dove militavano, quando non fosse stato concesso loro il connubio.16 Inoltre, abbiamo le situazioni di contubernio (contubernium), che si riferiscono sia al “matrimonio” tra uno schiavo ed una schiava, sia all’unione tra liberi e schiavi altrui.17 In quest’ultimo caso, allorché ad essere libera fosse stata una donna, era stato emanato, durante il regno dell’imperatore Claudio, nel 52 d.C., un senatoconsulto chiamato appunto Claudiano (SC Claudianum), in base al quale, se il padrone dello schiavo fosse stato consenziente, i nati da quell’unione sarebbero stati anch’essi suoi schiavi, anziché liberi; mentre, se si fosse opposto alla relazione, avrebbe potuto intimare alla donna libera di interromperla; qualora la donna, dopo la terza intimazione, non l’avesse interrotta, sarebbe diventava anche lei schiava del medesimo padrone. Più tardi, però, l’imperatore Adriano (117–138 d.C.) aveva in parte modificato il regime di questo senatoconsulto stabilendo che, in presenza del consenso del padrone del servo, i figli generati dall’unione con una donna libera, avrebbero seguito la condizione della madre.18 Infine, se ci soffermiamo sulle unioni omosessuali femminili, dobbiamo ammettere che, diversamente dalle fonti letterarie, quelle giuridiche tacciono, anche se si può ritenere certo che esistessero tra padrone e schiave. Ma si trattava di una sfera prettamente domestica e, come avveniva per l’omosessualità fra servo e dominus, non era intervenuta una regolamentazione giuridica, se non in via indiretta per reprimere atti di particolare crudeltà, di cui rappresentano un significativo esempio gli interventi dell’imperatore Antonino Pio. (138–161 d.C.)19 16. Come si può dedurre da Gai. Inst. 1.57: Unde et veteranis quibusdam concedi solet principalibus constitutionibus conubium cum his Latinis peregrinisve, quas primas post missionem uxores duxerint; et qui ex eo matrimonio nascuntur, et cives Romani et in potestatem parentum fiunt (Perciò anche ad alcuni veterani si suole concedere con costituzioni imperiali il connubio con

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3.

La donna come figlia in potestà

Come sottolinea Gaio Inst. 1.55,20 i figli, sia maschi che femmine, procreati da un matrimonio legittimo sono soggetti alla potestà del padre. La patria potestas continua a spettare esclusivamente agli uomini che siano sui iuris e sorge, oltre che sui figli, anche sui nipoti di entrambi i sessi, nati dalle nozze legittime (iustae nuptiae) dei figli maschi, mentre i figli generati dalle figlie femmine sposate cadono sotto la potestà del marito o del padre del marito. Invece, coloro che nascono da unioni

quelle Latine o straniere, che abbiamo sposate per prime dopo il congedo; e i figli che nascono da quel matrimonio sono cittadini romani e cadono sotto la potestà dei padri). 17. Paul. Sent. 2.19.6: Inter servos et liberos matrimonium contrahi non potest, contubernium potest (Tra servi e liberi non si può contrarre matrimonio, ma può esserci un contubernio). 18. Cfr. Gai. Inst. 1.84: Ecce enim ex senatus consulto Claudiano poterat civis Romana, quae alieno servo volente domino eius coiit, ipsa ex pactione libera permanere, sed servum procreare …sed postea divus Hadrianus iniquitate rei et inelegantia iuris motus restituit iuris gentium regulam, ut cum ipsa mulier libera permaneat, liberum pariat (Ecco infatti, secondo il senatoconsulto Claudiano, una cittadina romana, la quale si è unita ad uno schiavo altrui con il consenso del suo padrone, poteva rimanere libera in base a tale pattuizione, ma procreava uno schiavo …ma poi il divo Adriano, spinto dall’iniquità della soluzione e dall’ineleganza del diritto, ristabilì la regola del diritto delle genti, in modo che, rimanendo la donna libera, partorisca un libero); v. anche Inst. 1.91 e 1.160 sulla caduta in servitù della donna libera nel caso in cui il padrone del servo non avesse approvato l’unione, e Paul. Sent. 2.21a. 19. Gai. Inst. 1.53: Sed hoc tempore neque civibus Romanis nec ullis aliis hominibus, qui sub imperio populi Romani sunt, licet supra modum et sine causa in servos suos saevire: nam ex constitutione sacratissimi imperatoris Antonini qui sine causa servum suum occiderit, non minus teneri iubetur, quam qui alienum servum occiderit. sed et maior quoque asperitas dominorum per eiusdem principis constitutionem coercetur …de his servis, qui ad fana deorum vel ad statuas principum confugiunt, praecepit, ut si intolerabilis videatur dominorum saevitia, cogantur servos suos vendere. et utrumque recte fit: male enim nostro iure uti non debemus (Ma in questo tempo non è permesso né ai cittadini romani né a nessun altro uomo, che vive nell’impero del Popolo Romano, agire crudelmente oltre misura e senza causa sui propri schiavi: infatti, in base ad una costituzione del sacratissimo imperatore Antonino Pio, si ordina che chi abbia ucciso senza causa un proprio servo sia responsabile non meno che se abbia ucciso un servo altrui, ma anche un’eccessiva asprezza dei padroni è punita con un’altra costituzione del medesimo imperatore …per quegli schiavi, che si rifugiano nei templi degli dei o presso le statue degli imperatori, dispone che, se la sevizia dei padroni risulti intollerabile, siano costretti a vendere i servi. E correttamente si è stabilito ciò in entrambi i casi, perché non dobbiamo utilizzare male i nostri diritti). 20. Gai. Inst. 1.55: Item in potestate nostra sunt liberi nostri, quos iustis nuptiis procreavimus. quod ius proprium civium Romanorum est … (Parimenti, sono nella nostra potestà i nostri figli, che abbiamo procreato da un matrimonio legittimo. E questo diritto è proprio dei cittadini romani …).

Chapter 2. Lo status giuridico della donna nel diritto romano

non qualificabili come matrimonio legittimo non sono sottoposti alla patria potestà, ma seguono di regola la condizione della madre. Come accadeva già nel diritto arcaico, anche nel periodo qui considerato non aveva rilevanza la distinzione tra maschi e femmine in riferimento alla facoltà del pater di riconoscere o rifiutare i propri figli legittimi attraverso l’atto di tollere liberos. In età repubblicana alle donne nate libere mancava il prenome, essendo di solito chiamate con il solo gentilizio al femminile (ad es., Tullia, Cornelia, Giulia), mentre in età imperiale troviamo molto spesso anche l’indicazione del cognome sempre femminilizzato (ad es., Livia Drusilla, Annia Faustina, Domizia Lucilla). Sotto il profilo patrimoniale, la situazione delle figlie sottoposte alla patria potestà è identica a quella dei maschi: sono entrambi privi di capacità giuridica patrimoniale, e quindi non possono avere un loro patrimonio. Per contro, se hanno superato l’età impubere, possono compiere atti giuridici, i cui effetti positivi e negativi però, a partire dal II secolo a.C. con l’introduzione da parte del pretore delle actiones adiecticiae qualitatis, si trasmettono direttamente nella sfera patrimoniale dell’avente potestà.21 Da quel momento anche una figlia in potestà (filia familias) viene a configurare un rappresentante ‘organico’ del pater. Alle donne, in quanto escluse dal servizio militare, non è invece riconosciuto un progressivo acquisto di tale capacità, come avviene, già sotto il regno di Augusto, per i filii familias in riferimento al peculio castrense. L’entrata di una figlia nel collegio delle Vestali determinava la sua liberazione dalla patria potestà (Gaio, Inst. 1.13022), ma, anche al di fuori di quest’ipotesi, il pater avrebbe potuto volontariamente rinunciarvi mediante emancipazione. Il procedimento per realizzarla era semplificato nel caso delle figlie e dei nipoti (maschi e femmine): per tali categorie di persone, infatti, a seguito di un intervento della giurisprudenza pontificale nel corso del IV secolo a.C., la patria potestà si sarebbe estinta con una sola vendita fittizia, cui seguiva l’atto della definitiva 21. Secondo un’antica regola del diritto civile, i figli soggetti a potestà potevano solo migliorare la situazione patrimoniale del pater, ma non peggiorarla (v. Gaio 8 ad ed. prov. D. 50.17.133, con riguardo all’analoga situazione degli schiavi). La conseguenza era che tutti gli acquisti (denaro, cose, diritti) ottenuti attraverso la loro attività negoziale venivano ad aumentare il patrimonio paterno (Gai. Inst. 1.87), mentre non si trasmettevano debiti ed obbligazioni. Una tale situazione di squilibrio viene superata solo dal pretore nel II secolo a.C. attraverso l’introduzione di un gruppo di azioni, chiamate dalla tradizione romanistica, con terminologia non romana, actiones adiecticiae qualitatis, che rappresentano le basi sulle quali si fonda anche l’organizzazione giuridica delle attività economiche (exercitio negotiationum). 22. Praeterea exeunt liberi virilis sexus de parentis potestate, si flamines diales inaugurentur et feminini sexus, si virgines Vestales capiantur (Poi escono dalla potestà dei padri i figli di sesso maschile, se sono inaugurati flamini di Giove, ed i figli di sesso femminile, se sono scelte come vergini Vestali).

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liberazione mediante una manomissione. E la stessa semplificazione si applicava anche quando era data in adozione (mediante adoptio) una figlia o una nipote.23

4.

La donna come madre

a. Aborto. Nell’ordinamento giuridico della tarda Repubblica e di gran parte del Principato, l’aborto effettuato da una donna libera viene preso in considerazione esclusivamente come lesione alle aspettative del padre di avere il mancato neonato sotto la propria patria potestas, mentre restano in secondo piano gli aspetti relativi alla decisione sulla vita o morte del nascituro; da ciò si comprende come il diritto se ne occupasse solo all’interno di un matrimonio legittimo. La scelta di abortire spettava esclusivamente alla donna, ma allorché fosse sposata, l’interruzione della gravidanza si riteneva un atto immorale e contrario ai buoni costumi, che esercitava riflessi patrimoniali non indifferenti sulla restituzione della dote. Un cambio di rotta si verifica invece nella legislazione dei Severi, quando un rescritto di Settimio Severo e Caracalla (databile tra il 205 e il 211 d.C. e citato da Marciano 1 reg. D. 47.11.4) per la prima volta applica la pena dell’esilio ad una donna che ha abortito, trattando l’aborto come un crimine e non soltanto come una lesione del potere del pater familias. La svolta rappresentata da tale rescritto, commentata favorevolmente dai giuristi contemporanei, è dovuta, con molta probabilità, ad un profondo mutamento della mentalità sociale intercorso durante il II secolo d.C., per influenza soprattutto dei valori della filosofia neo-stoica, penetrata nelle élites, ed in parte del Cristianesimo, diffuso negli strati più bassi della popolazione. b. Riconoscimento dei figli e figli nati con deformità. Non era richiesto un riconoscimento del neonato da parte di una donna libera che partoriva, poiché la maternità era ritenuta sempre certa (di qui il brocardo mater semper certa est),24 ma la madre non acquistava mai la patria potestà su di lui. La nascita di un figlio con deformità, definito dai Romani, con un linguaggio crudo, come “mostro” (monstruum) o “prodigio” (prodigium), è stata prevista

23. La parola filius della norma decemvirale, con cui si stabiliva l’estinzione della potestà paterna dopo tre vendite, reali o fittizie, (mancipationes), era stata interpretata dal collegio dei Pontefici in senso restrittivo, limitandola ai soli figli maschi. Il risultato era stato che per tutte le altre persone non occorrevano tre vendite per estinguere la patria potestà, ma ne bastava una sola, a cui faceva seguito la definitiva manomissione nell’emancipatio o la rivendica della potestà del padre adottivo nell’adoptio: v. Gai Epitome 1.6.3, in base al quale si ricostruisce il testo di Gai. Inst. 1.132 a.

Chapter 2. Lo status giuridico della donna nel diritto romano

e regolata per effetto delle leggi matrimoniali augustee (lex Iulia et Papia) e del SC Tertulliano del II secolo d.C., in rapporto ai benefici che una donna poteva ottenere dal numero dei figli partoriti. Si faceva però una differenza: se la deformità del nato non faceva venire meno la sua forma umana (ad es., nasceva con tre mani o sei dita), la madre lo poteva conteggiare, altrimenti (ad es., nascita con due teste o due corpi) si manteneva l’antica regola per cui non andava annoverato. Tale distinzione serviva per la concessione del ius liberorum, per cui le donne, che avessero dato alla luce almeno tre figli, venivano liberate dalla tutela; tale numero saliva a quattro per le liberte sottoposte alla tutela legittima dei patroni. Allora, nel calcolo dei tre o quattro figli, si ricomprendeva un figlio nato deforme solo se avesse avuto forma umana.25 c. Maternità surrogata. L’ammissibilità per una donna di concludere convenzioni con cui mettere a disposizione il proprio utero, dietro compenso o meno, per generare ad altri un figlio è difficilmente immaginabile in età romana, perché, sul piano pratico, il problema si sarebbe potuto risolvere utilizzando a tal fine una schiava propria o altrui. Da un punto di vista strettamente giuridico, però, era vietato disporre delle parti del proprio corpo e farne oggetto di commercio: le fonti, infatti, affermano costantemente la massima, secondo la quale il corpo di una persona libera non può essere oggetto di valutazione economica (liberum corpus nullam habet aestimationem).26 d. Maternità contestata e curatore del ventre. Nel II secolo d.C. si disciplinano le situazioni di incertezza circa un’eventuale gravidanza in caso di divorzio o di morte del marito. Infatti, la donna divorziata, subito dopo il divorzio, o si rendeva conto di essere incinta all’insaputa dell’ex-marito oppure negava di esserlo, mentre l’ex-marito affermava che lo era. La prima ipotesi è contemplata da un senatoconsulto dell’epoca di Adriano (117–138 d.C.), ricordato come SC Planciano, contenente due fondamentali prescrizioni:27 la divorziata, quando riteneva di essere incinta, doveva denunziarlo all’ex-marito o a un suo rappresentate entro trenta giorni da quello del divorzio, essendo 24. Formulato già da Paolo 4 ad ed. D. 2.4.5: … quia < mater > semper certa est, etiam si volgo conceperit: pater vero is est, quem nuptiae demonstrant (…poiché la madre è sempre certa, anche se ha concepito da persona ignota, il padre invece è colui, che le nozze indicano). 25. V. Gai. Inst. 1.194: Tutela autem liberantur ingenuae quidem trium liberorum iure, libertinae vero quattuor, si in patroni liberorumve eius legitima tutela sint: nam et ceterae, quae alterius generis tutores habeant, velut Atilianos aut fiduciarios, trium liberorum iure tutela liberantur (Le donne nate libere sono liberate dalla tutela in base al diritto di tre figli generati, le liberte invece in base a quattro, se si trovino sotto la tutela legittima del patrono o dei figli del patrono; infatti, anche tutte le altre, che abbiano tutori di un altro tipo, come Atiliano o fiduciario, sono liberate dalla tutela in base al diritto di tre figli generati), Tit. Ulp. 26.8; Paul. Sent. 4.9. 26. Come si enuncia, ad es., in D. 9.3.7 (Gai. 6 ad ed. prov.).

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un lasso di tempo così breve finalizzato ad evitare incertezze sulla paternità; parallelamente, l’ex-marito, a seguito della denuncia, doveva o inviare dei custodi presso l’ex-moglie fino all’accertamento effettivo della gravidanza o comunicare alla stessa che non era il padre. Se invece l’uomo restava inerte, era obbligato, una volta nato il bambino, a riconoscerlo come proprio. L’obbligo veniva meno, qualora l’ex-moglie non avesse fatto la denuncia o avesse rifiutato i custodi inviati dall’ex-marito e confermati dal pretore. In caso di contestazione della paternità, la pronuncia conclusiva del giudice aveva carattere costitutivo dello status, qualora avesse riconosciuto il nato come figlio del marito divorziato. La seconda ipotesi accennata sopra richiedeva anch’essa uno specifico procedimento stabilito in un rescritto di Marco Aurelio e Lucio Vero (i divi fratres, 161–169 d.C.).28 In base ad esso l’ex-moglie era alloggiata nella casa di una donna molto onesta, dove era visitata da tre ostetriche esperte ed affidabili (scelte dal pretore), al fine di verificare la sussistenza della gravidanza. Se tutte o la maggioranza di loro avesse ritenuto la donna incinta, questa doveva accettare un custode, nominato sempre dal pretore e chiamato curator ventris, con il compito di aver cura della donna incinta e del concepito fino al momento della nascita. Se invece, in base al giudizio delle ostetriche, la donna non fosse risultata incinta, la stessa avrebbe potuto agire per iniuria contro l’ex-marito. Il curatore del ventre era deputato al mantenimento della donna, non in grado di farlo da sola, e soprattutto alla vigilanza che la stessa non mettesse in atto pratiche abortive, privando l’ex-marito, per quanto divorziato, dell’aspettativa di un figlio sul quale esercitare la patria potestà. A tale curatore si ricorreva anche quando il marito fosse morto e la moglie avesse creduto di aspettare un figlio da lui. In tal caso dovevano essere avvisati gli eredi del marito (sia testamentari che legittimi) perché, se fosse sussistito lo stato di gravidanza, il nascituro sarebbe potuto rientrare fra essi, rendendo perciò necessario verificare l’andamento e la conclusione di questa gravidanza e. Donne e potestà sui figli. Anche nell’arco di tempo qui esaminato alla madre non era riconosciuta sul piano giuridico una potestà sui figli. Quelli generati all’interno di un matrimonio legittimo ricadevano, come già detto, sotto la patria potestà, mentre i nati al di fuori di un matrimonio legittimo erano denominati naturali (naturales) e, pur seguendo di regola la condizione giuridica della madre, non erano sottoposti al suo potere, con la conseguenza di dover procedere alla nomina di un tutore da parte del pretore o del governatore della provincia, che si occupasse della loro persona e del loro patrimo27. Riportate e commentate nel lungo frammento di Ulpiano 34 ad ed. D. 25.3.1. 28. Cfr. D. 25.4.1 pr. (Ulp. 24 ad ed.).

Chapter 2. Lo status giuridico della donna nel diritto romano

nio. L’assenza in capo alle donne della patria potestà, inoltre, impediva loro di adottare un figlio e di assumere la funzione di tutore. Tuttavia, durante il II secolo d.C., i giuristi trattano alcune fattispecie concrete in cui delle madri si prendono cura dei propri figli e del loro patrimonio di fatto, senza la nomina di un tutore,29 mentre con i senatoconsulti Tertulliano e Orfiziano, come vedremo fra poco, si regola la successione intestata tra madre e figli.

5.

La donna e gli aspetti patrimoniali

a. La tutela sulle donne. Le donne impuberi sui iuris (perché non soggette a patria potestà) uscivano dalla tutela al compimento del dodicesimo anno di età, anziché del quattordicesimo (come avveniva per i maschi), ma, ancora alla fine della Repubblica, cadevano sotto un’altra forma di tutela, la tutela mulierum, finalizzata ad esercitare uno stringente controllo sulla loro amministrazione patrimoniale. Benché, infatti, fra i giuristi si trovi spesso affermato che la tutela sulle donne puberi si giustificava con la leggerezza d’animo (ob laevitatem animi) o la debolezza del sesso femminile (propter infirmitatem sexus),30 Gaio tuttavia lo confuta apertamente nelle sue Istituzioni (1.190), definendola più speciosa che vera (magis speciosa videtur quam vera), data la sua ratio di carattere puramente patrimoniale. Una donna sui iuris poteva divenire un canale attraverso il quale diminuire o dilapidare il patrimonio, in senso lato, familiare, riducendo le aspettative ereditarie dei suoi parenti in linea maschile. Mediante la tutela, invece, si realizzava una rigida vigilanza sui suoi principali atti di disposizione tra vivi e sulla possibilità di fare testamento. Per le donne esistevano gli stessi tipi di tutela degli impuberi: testamentaria, legittima e dativa. Se il pater nel testamento non indicava un tutore per la figlia pubere che diventava sui iuris, subentrava la tutela legittima prevista dalle XII Tavole, per cui ne diventava il tutore l’agnato di grado più vicino (fratello, zio o cugino da parte maschile) e, in mancanza, i gentili. Per le liberte diventava tutore legittimo il patrono, vale a dire colui che le aveva manomesse, e poi i suoi figli. L’assenza di un tutore testamentario o legittimo era sopperita dalla legge Atilia a Roma, che attribuiva la scelta al pretore, sentiti i tribuni della plebe, e dalla legge Giulia e Tizia nelle province, che l’assegnava al governa29. Come, ad es., D. 46.3.88 (Scaev.5 dig.), dove per quasi nove anni la madre si occupa della gestione del patrimonio e della persona della figlia impubere succeduta al padre morto intestato.

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tore, ma difficilmente essi avrebbero nominato un membro estraneo alla famiglia della donna.31 Nella tutela mulierum la funzione del tutore non è di sostituire la donna nell’amministrazione dei suoi beni, ma nel prestare la propria autorizzazione (l’auctoritas tutoris) ai soli atti di disposizione patrimoniale inter vivos più rilevanti, tra cui, ad esempio, le alienazioni di res mancipi o le assunzioni di obbligazioni.32 Più complesso ancora era per una donna fare testamento, in quanto doveva necessariamente seguire un procedimento con l’accordo di almeno tre persone: ella, infatti, con l’approvazione del tutore, compieva una vendita fiduciaria di se stessa, chiamata coëmptio fiduciaria o fiduciae causa, ad una persona da lei ritenuta affidabile. Questa, l’acquirente fiduciario, dopo averla comprata in maniera fittizia, la rivendeva con una mancipatio ad un terzo, il quale la riceveva come persona in causa mancipii e poi la manometteva, diventandone il tutore fiduciario (tutor fiduciarius), con la funzione di approvare il testamento redatto dalla donna.33 Da quanto si è detto si vede come operasse un triplice controllo sul testamento della donna: del tutore originario, dell’acquirente fiduciario e del tutore fiduciario, perché l’atto di ultima volontà era evidentemente considerato come lo strumento più pericoloso per la dispersione del suo patrimonio personale al di fuori dell’ambito della famiglia agnatizia. Ne erano esonerate solo le componenti del collegio sacerdotale delle Vestali, le quali non necessitavano di un tutore ed erano pienamente libere di testare.34 In epoca tardo – repubblicana, il regime appena descritto subisce importanti attenuazioni, dando così avvio ad una evoluzione, che porterà ad una progressiva scomparsa della tutela sulle donne nel corso del Principato. La prima di queste tappe è rappresentata dalla possibilità per la donna di rivolgersi al pretore tutte le volte in cui il tutore si rifiuti di prestare la propria autorizzazione. Di ciò parla Gaio (Inst. 1.190), osservando che questo magistrato spesso (saepe) poteva costringerlo ad approvare un atto di amministrazione patrimoniale della donna;35 anche se il giurista non lo dice, è logico pensare che il pretore intervenisse in suo favore causa cognita, cioè valutate le circostanze del caso e la richiesta della stessa. Poi, sempre in questo arco di tempo, nell’ambito della tutela testamentaria si introduce a favore della donna l’istituto della optio tutoris. Gaio (Inst. 1.150–153) ne parla per i mariti, che avevano le mogli in manu, i quali pote30. V. Gai. Inst. 1.144: veteres enim voluerunt feminas, etiamsi perfectae aetatis sint, propter animi levitatem in tutela esse (infatti gli antichi giuristi hanno voluto che le donne, anche se abbiano raggiunto l’età perfetta < cioè pubere > , fossero sotto tutela a causa della leggerezza d’animo).

Chapter 2. Lo status giuridico della donna nel diritto romano

vano lasciare loro nel testamento la scelta di un tutore in modo pieno (optio plena), nel senso che la donna ne poteva individuare un unico di fiducia o uno diverso per ogni atto patrimoniale che avesse necessitato la sua auctoritas, oppure in modo limitato (optio angusta), per cui questa facoltà era data solo per un atto o due o per il numero deciso dal testatore. Malgrado il silenzio del giurista, è probabile che l’optio tutoris si fosse poi estesa anche al caso in cui il testatore fosse il pater (anziché il marito) di una donna soggetta a potestà. All’inizio del Principato, Augusto, nelle sue leggi matrimoniali (§ 2 sub a) programmate per incoraggiare l’incremento demografico, concede alle donne di liberarsi dalla tutela a condizione di partorire un certo numero di figli.36 Tale diritto, designato come ius liberorum si acquisisce per le donne nate libere (ingenuae) con la procreazione di tre figli, che aumentano a quattro per le liberte, intenzionate a sottrarsi dalla tutela legittima dei patroni. Ma la tappa fondamentale si ha, pochi decenni dopo, con Claudio (41–54 d.C.), un imperatore fortemente condizionato dalla personalità delle due mogli, Messalina e Agrippina (minore), il quale, con una propria costituzione, ricordata come lex Claudia, abolisce la tutela legittima.37 Questo provvedimento, eliminando la forma di controllo più forte da parte dei parenti in linea maschile (gli adgnati), segna l’inizio di una rapida decadenza anche delle altre 31. Il regime giuridico appena descritto è basato su quanto si dice in Gai. Inst. 1.145–157 e 1.185. 32. Cfr. Gai. Inst. 1.190: … mulieres enim quae perfectae aetatis sunt, ipsae sibi negotia tractant, et in quibusdam causis dicis gratia tutor interponit auctoritatem suam; saepe etiam invitus auctor fieri a praetore cogitur (… le donne infatti, che hanno raggiunto l’età perfetta, trattano esse stesse i loro affari, ma in alcuni casi, ad esempio, il tutore interpone la sua autorizzazione; spesso anche contro la sua volontàè costretto dal pretore ad autorizzare) e 2.80: Nunc admonendi sumus neque feminam neque pupillum sine tutore auctore rem mancipi alienare posse; nec mancipi vero feminam quidem posse, pupillum non posse (Ora dobbiamo ammonire che né una donna né un pupillo possono alienare una res mancipi senza l’autorizzazione del tutore; una donna invece può alienare una res nec mancipi, un pupillo no), Tit. Ulp. 11.27. 33. Gai. Inst. 1.115a: Olim etiam testamenti faciendi gratia fiduciaria fiebat coemptio: tunc enim non aliter feminae testamenti faciendi ius habebant, exceptis quibusdam personis, quam si coemptionem fecissent remancipataeque et manumissae fuissent; sed hanc necessitatem coemptionis faciendae ex auctoritate divi Hadriani senatus remisit (Un tempo la vendita fittizia fiduciaria < la coemptio > avveniva anche per fare testamento: allora, infatti, le donne, ad eccezione di alcune, non avevano diritto di fare testamento altrimenti che se avessero fatto una vendita fiduciaria di se stesse, fossero state rimancipate e manomesse; ma il senato, in base all’autorità del divo Adriano, ha rimesso questa necessità di fare una vendita fittizia). 34. Gai. Inst. 1.145: … loquimur autem exceptis virginibus Vestalibus, quas etiam veteres in honorem sacerdotii liberas esse voluerunt … (… diciamo poi eccettuate le vergini Vestali, che anche gli antichi giuristi hanno voluto che fossero libere in onore del sacerdozio < che rivestivano >). 35. Gai. Inst. 1.190 è trascritto supra, nt. 32.

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due forme, la dativa e la testamentaria, quest’ultima già in declino per la diffusione dell’optio tutoris. Dopo Claudio, è Adriano (117–138 d.C.) ad intervenire per semplificare il procedimento di redazione del testamento da parte di una donna, facendo approvare un senatoconsulto, con cui permetterle di testare senza la coëmptio fiduciaria (Gai. Inst. 1.115a), ma, se sottoposta a tutela, con la sola autorizzazione del tutore (Gai. Inst. 2.118).38 La lettura più verosimile dell’intervento adrianeo è che le donne non sottoposte più alla tutela degli agnati o del tutore dativo potevano testare liberamente, senza alcuna approvazione, mentre la sua necessità restava solo per quelle ancora sottoposte a tutela testamentaria. Negli scritti della giurisprudenza della fine del II e degli inizi del III secolo d.C., che sono arrivati a noi, troviamo scarsi riferimenti alla tutela muliebre, a dimostrazione della sua decadenza, anche se a questo hanno potuto contribuire anche i commissari giustinianei, che li hanno eliminati in quanto non più attuali. b. Il SC Velleiano ed il divieto per le donne di intercedere con il proprio patrimonio in favore di altri. Sempre durante il regno dell’imperatore Claudio, quasi a compensare l’eliminazione della tutela legittima, si introduce per le donne la limitazione di poter intercedere patrimonialmente per altri (intercedere pro aliis), attraverso un SC ricordato come Velleiano del 46 d.C. Con esso si vietava a una donna non solo di assumere la funzione di garante in senso tecnico, ma anche, in modo più ampio, di compiere atti giuridici in favore di altri, che potessero occasionare per lei una situazione di rischio patrimoniale, come, ad esempio, prestando dei soldi ad un debitore insolvente anche senza essersi impegnata formalmente a garantirlo.39 Se nell’ottica moderna tale divieto è giustamente considerato una forma di discriminazione nella capacità di agire, nella logica romana esso è chiamato a svolgere anche una precisa funzione 36. Gai. Inst. 1.194, riportato supra, nt. 25. 37. Gai. Inst. 1.157: Sed olim quidem, quantum ad legem XII tabularum attinet, etiam feminae agnatos habebant tutores. sed postea lex Claudia lata est, quae quod ad feminas attinet, tales tutelas sustulit … (Ma un tempo poi, per quanto riguarda alla legge delle XII Tavole, anche le donne avevano come tutori gli agnati, ma poi è stata approvata la lex Claudia, che ha abolito queste tutele con riferimento alle donne …), 1.171: Sed quantum ad agnatos pertinet, nihil hoc tempore de cessicia tutela quaeritur, cum agnatorum tutelae in feminis lege Claudia sublatae sint (Ma per quanto riguarda gli agnati, in questi tempi non si tratta nulla circa una cessione della tutela, perché le tutele degli agnati sulle donne sono state abolite dalla lex Claudia). 38. Il testo di Gai. Inst. 1.115a è riprodotto alla nt. 33, quello di Gai. Inst. 2.118 è il seguente: Observandum praeterea est, ut si mulier, quae in tutela est, faciat testamentum, tutore auctore facere debeat … (Si deve poi osservare che, se una donna, la quale è sotto tutela, faccia testamento, lo debba fare con l’autorizzazione del tutore). V. anche Tit. Ulp. 20.15.

Chapter 2. Lo status giuridico della donna nel diritto romano

protettiva dei patrimoni femminili, impedendo che potessero essere compromessi non per obbligazioni proprie, ma altrui. c. Le donne e la successione ereditaria. Di come una donna libera non sottoposta a potestà fosse in grado di testare abbiamo già parlato nel punto a). In riferimento alla successione testamentaria, bisogna ricordare che nella tarda Repubblica esisteva per le donne sui iuris una limitazione alla capacità di ricevere per testamento (testamenti factio passiva), disposta dalla lex Voconia del 169 a.C.: in essa si vietava ai cittadini della prima classe dei comizi centuriati (quelli con censo superiore ai centomila assi) di istituire come erede una donna (Gai. Inst. 2.27440), ma si tratta di un divieto legato al movimento moralizzatore dei costumi femminili promosso da Catone il Censore nei primi decenni del II secolo a.C., che è stato sempre poco osservato ed è scomparso con la decadenza di questi comizi agli inizi del Principato (I secolo d.C.). Un altro profilo discriminatorio si può cogliere nella diseredazione dei sui heredes (quelli in potestà del testatore al momento della sua morte), che per le figlie si poteva disporre anche con formula generica, senza bisogno di indicare espressamente il nome, come si doveva invece fare per i maschi. (Gai. Inst. 2.127–128) In tema di successione intestata o legittima, il diritto pretorio (ius honorarium) aveva profondamente riformato il regime del diritto civile previsto dalle XII Tavole, ma era stato lacunoso in riferimento alle donne soprattutto su un punto: la successione fra madre e figli, che nel II secolo d.C. si ritiene perciò di dover regolare più specificamente attraverso l’intervento del senato. Infatti, nel sistema pretorio la successione tra loro rientrava in quella tra parenti solo di sangue (cognati), che erano posticipati ai parenti in linea maschile, gli agnati. Le innovazioni sono apportate da due senatoconsulti: Tertulliano e Orfiziano.41 Il primo, emanato nel regno di Adriano (tra il 117 e il 138 d.C.), stabilisce che, se una persona (maschio o femmina) muore senza testamento, dopo i figli, il padre e i fratelli maschi succede la madre (purché con ius liberorum); se il defunto intestato lascia solo una o più sorelle, la madre concorre con le stesse alla successione, mentre, qualora lasci fratelli e sorelle, la madre ne viene esclusa. Tale regime trovava applicazione anche per figli e figlie, il cui padre fosse incerto (vulgo quaesiti). In tal modo, nonostante sia preceduta sempre dai figli del figlio o della figlia morti e da alcuni agnati (il padre ed i fratelli e sorelle), la madre è preferita agli zii e cugini (gli altri agnati in linea maschile) e, nel caso in cui vi siano soltanto sorelle del defunto (anch’esse adgnatae), concorre con loro. 39. Cfr. la ricca casistica contenuta nel titolo 16.1 del Digesto. V. anche Paul. Sent. 2.11.1–4.

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Il senatoconsulto Orfiziano, dell’epoca di Marco Aurelio (tra il 161 e il 180 d.C.), è destinato invece a disciplinare la successione dei figli alla madre, con un contenuto profondamente innovativo: infatti, nel caso di sua morte senza testamento, al primo posto succedono tutti i figli e le figlie su una posizione di parità, sia avuti da un matrimonio legittimo, sia nati al di fuori, e perfino di padre ignoto (i vulgo quaesiti).

6.

Le donne e l’esercizio di attività economiche organizzate (negotiationes)

Nella tarda Repubblica e nel Principato le donne risultano molto attive nello svolgimento e gestione di attività commerciali e produttive, dimostrando, almeno sul piano formale, una “posizione di parità” con gli uomini. Ne abbiamo un preciso riscontro in dati puntuali provenienti dalla giurisprudenza romana, che trovano una preziosa conferma anche nelle iscrizioni apposte sugli oggetti della cultura materiale. Basta qui prendere in considerazione tre frammenti estrapolati dal commentario all’editto di Ulpiano in tema di azioni institoria, exercitoria e di quelle racchiuse nel triplex edictum (de peculio, de in rem verso, quod iussu). Con riguardo all’azione institoria, D. 14.3.7.1 (Ulp. 28 ad ed.) ritiene indifferente che l’institore preposto ad una negotiatio fosse uomo o donna oppure uno schiavo proprio o altrui (parvi – alienus); e lo stesso valeva con riferimento al preponente libero (item – praeposuit). Allorché fosse stata una mulier, i terzi creditori dell’institore, per le obbligazioni contrattuali rimaste inadempiute, avrebbero potuto far valere la responsabilità integrale (in solidum) della preponente con l’azione institoria sull’esempio di quanto avveniva per l’azione exercitoria prevista in caso di impresa di navigazione (nam et si mulier – exercitoriae actionis), sulla quale torneremo tra breve. Nell’ipotesi di institore libero di sesso femminile, i creditori avrebbero potuto scegliere se convenirla in giudizio in alternativa al preponente ed ella sarebbe stata comunque responsabile (et si mulier sit praeposita, tenebitur etiam ipsa), non potendo invocare il SC Velleiano per esonerarsi. Il testo si chiude con un’ulteriore precisazione: la persona in potestà che il negotiator preponeva come institore avrebbe potuto essere una filia o una schiava, senza che ciò 40. Item mulier, quae ab eo qui centum milia aeris census est, per legem Voconiam heres institui non potest, tamen fideicommisso relictam sibi hereditatem capere potest (Parimenti, una donna, che non può essere istituita erede in base alla legge Voconia da chi ha un censo di centomila assi, può tuttavia ricevere mediante fedecommesso l’eredità a lei lasciata). 41. Il cui contenuto è sintetizzato in Tit. Ulp. 26.8; Paul. Sent. 4.9 e 10 e ancora nelle Istituzioni di Giustiniano (I. 3.3.2–3 e I. 3.4 pr.).

Chapter 2. Lo status giuridico della donna nel diritto romano

fosse d’ostacolo ai suoi creditori di esercitare, in presenza di inadempienze contrattuali, l’azione institoria contro il preponente (sed et si filia – institoria actio).42 In tema di exercitio navis, secondo quanto si afferma in D. 14.1.1.16 (Ulp. 28 ad ed.), non aveva alcuna importanza che l’armatore, l’exercitor navis, fosse uomo o donna, persona libera sui iuris o alieni iuris oppure servo (parvi autem – vel servus), ai fini di far valere contro di lui l’actio exercitoria per le obbligazioni inadempiute dal comandante della nave (magister navis); un pupillo, invece, non avrebbe potuto esercitare un’impresa di navigazione in assenza dell’auctoritas del tutore (pupillus autem – tutoris auctoritatem).43 Questo commento del giurista è supportato da altri dati giuridici e da alcune fonti epigrafiche.44 Infine, interpretando le parole iniziali del triplex edictum, sempre Ulpiano 29 ad ed. D. 15.1.1.2–3 ci informa che, malgrado si facesse riferimento ad un negotium gestito con colui che si trova sotto la potestà di un altro (verba autem edicti – gestum erit’), l’uso del pronome al maschile (de eo loquitur, non de ea) non escludeva le persone in potestate di sesso femminile: pertanto, anche nei negotia conclusi con queste ultime, i creditori rimasti insoddisfatti avrebbero potuto agire contro l’avente potestà mediante le azioni previste nel triplex edictum (sed tamen – ex hoc edicto actio).45 Si aprono così scenari importanti per una valutazione del 42. D. 14.3.7.1 (Ulp. 28 ad ed.) Parvi autem refert, quis sit institor, masculus an femina, liber an servus proprius vel alienus. Item quisquis praeposuit < quis sit qui praeposuit, correzione ediz. Mommsen > : nam et si mulier praeposuit, competet institoria exemplo exercitoriae actionis et si mulier sit praeposita, tenebitur etiam ipsa. Sed et si filia familias sit vel ancilla praeposita, competit institoria actio (Poco importa poi chi sia l’institore, se maschio o femmina, libero o servo proprio o altrui. Parimenti < non importa > chi sia colui che ha preposto: infatti, anche se una donna ha preposto, competerà < contro di lei > l’azione institoria sull’esempio di quella exercitoria e, se la donna sia stata preposta, sarà responsabile anch’essa. Ma anche se sia stata preposta una figlia in potestà o una schiava, compete l’azione institoria). 43. D. 14.1.1.16 (Ulp. 28 ad ed.): Parvi autem refert, qui exercet masculus sit an mulier, pater familias an filius familias vel servus: pupillus autem si navem exerceat exigemus tutoris auctoritatem (Poco importa poi se l’armatore sia uomo o donna, padre di famiglia o figlio in potestà o servo, ma, se un pupillo eserciti un’impresa di navigazione, esigeremo l’approvazione del tutore). 44. Tra i primi v. D. 14.1.1.21 (Ulp. 28 ad ed.) e C. 4.25.4 (Diocl. et Max. a. 293); come esempi di epigrafi abbiamo quella funeraria proveniente da Siracusa, alcuni bolli di anfore del monte Testaccio e due iscrizioni di ambiente orientale. A queste iscrizioni potrebbe aggiungersi anche quella incisa su una tavoletta di bronzo, da poco ritrovata a Porto Torres (la Colonia Iulia Turris Libisonis) nel nord della Sardegna, qualora si accetti l’interpretazione, secondo la quale a ricoprire la posizione di vertice nell’impresa di navigazione sarebbe stata addirittura la Vestale Massima Flavia Publicia (vissuta nei decenni centrali del III secolo d.C.), che l’avrebbe gestita attraverso il proprio schiavo Eudromo. 45. Ulpiano 29 ad ed. D. 15.1.1.2–3: Verba autem edicti talia sunt: ‘Quod cum eo, qui in alterius potestate esset, negotium gestum erit’. De eo loquitur, non de ea: sed tamen et ob eam quae est

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lavoro femminile nelle attività commerciali e produttive, estendendo a filiae familias e ancillae tutto l’ampio spettro di negotiationes, che si potevano gestire all’interno di un peculio.46 Si tratta di testimonianze molto note, da cui si può rilevare come, grazie all’elaborazione dei giuristi, il diritto, almeno in età imperiale, fosse giunto a superare le «differenze di genere» nell’esercizio di gran parte delle negotiationes, senza che fosse d’ostacolo il divieto di intercedere pro aliis disposto dal SC Velleiano. Tali conclusioni non mi sembrano smentite nella sostanza dall’esplicita esclusione delle donne dalla professione di argentarius, menzionata da Callistrato 1 ed. mon. D. 2.13.12, in quanto si richiama ad una singola e specifica attività e la sua portata effettiva resta ancor oggi discussa.47 Insomma, nonostante vi sia un silenzio pressoché totale delle fonti letterarie su queste attività imprenditoriali o manageriali delle donne, le testimonianze giuridiche, incrociate con quelle archeologiche e della più recente documentazione della prassi (si pensi solo alle «donne in affari» nelle Tabulae Pompeianae Sulpiciorum), ce ne offrono un’immagine sufficientemente chiara ed esauriente.

7.

Le donne e le limitazioni di carattere processuale

Gravi discriminazioni di genere si registrano nell’ambito del diritto processuale, che i giuristi giustificano con l’ignoranza femminile circa gli “affari forensi”.48 Non feminini sexus dabitur ex hoc edicto actio (Le parole dell’editto poi sono queste: “Poiché è stato gestito un affare con colui, che era sotto la potestà altrui”. Si parla di colui e non di colei, tuttavia sarà data l’azione in base a questo editto anche con riguardo a chi è di sesso femminile). 46. Si veda anche Gaio 9 ad ed. prov. D. 15.1.27 pr.: et ancillarum nomine et filiarum familias in peculio actio datur: maxime si qua sarcinatrix, aut textrix erit, aut aliquod artificium vulgare exerceat, datur propter eam actio (l’azione nei limiti del peculio è data anche in nome delle schiave e delle figlie in potestà; soprattutto se qualcuna sarà sarta o tessitrice o eserciti un mestiere comune, l’azione è data a causa sua < quando sia inadempiente >). 47. Feminae remotae videntur ab officio argentarii, cum ea opera virilis sit. Un divieto così formulato non pare discendere da una norma espressa (peraltro non menzionata in nessuna fonte), ma da valutazioni di opportunità di data incerta, forse generalizzate dai compilatori giustinianei, senza che ciò, comunque, fosse di impedimento a servi appartenenti a dominae di esercitare un’argentaria peculiaris. Una sua spiegazione potrebbe essere quella della publica utilitas della professione di argentarius (affermata, ad es., in D. 16.3.8 Pap. 9 quaest.), che non avrebbe permesso ad una donna di intraprenderla. 48. Tit. Ulp. 11.1: Tutores constituuntur …feminis autem tam impuberibus quam puberibus, et propter sexus infirmitatem et propter forensium rerum ignorantiam (I tutori sono costituiti per le donne tanto impuberi quanto puberi, sia a causa della debolezza del loro sesso, sia a causa dell’ignoranza degli affari forensi).

Chapter 2. Lo status giuridico della donna nel diritto romano

solo, infatti, come abbiamo segnalato nel § 1, le donne erano escluse dalla funzione di giudice, ma non potevano neppure assumere il ruolo di rappresentante nei processi civili. Il primo impedimento il giurista Paolo, agli inizi del III secolo d.C., lo fa risalire a degli usi, recepiti dall’ordinamento, secondo i quali una donna non doveva ricoprire officia civilia.49 Il secondo impedimento non sembra invece essere stato originario, ma dovuto ad un editto pretorio (probabilmente del II secolo a.C.) che, nel ricordo della giurisprudenza, aveva tratto occasione dal comportamento di una certa Carfania, che aveva talmente importunato un pretore da spingerlo ad emanare un provvedimento contenente questa specifica proibizione. Da allora si era vietato alle donne di rappresentare processualmente altre persone, interdicendo loro di postulare pro aliis.50 Per quanto riguarda i processi penali pubblici (le quaestiones perpetuae), che sono istituiti e si sviluppano a partire dalla metà del II secolo a.C., l’incapacità originaria per una donna di proporre l’accusa (tranne nel caso di omicidio dei parenti più stretti) subisce una pluralità di attenuazioni in età imperiale (ad esempio, nelle ipotesi di iniuria).51

8.

Il quadro d’insieme

Dalle testimonianze contenute nelle fonti giuridiche che abbiamo analizzato in precedenza emerge una panoramica non uniforme della condizione giuridica

49. Paolo 17 ad ed. D. 5.1.12.2: …moribus feminae et servi, non quia non habent iudicium, sed quia receptum est, ut civilibus officiis non fungantur (…in base agli usi < non possono essere giudici > le donne e gli schiavi, non perché non hanno la capacità di giudicare, ma perché è stato recepito, che non assumano uffici civili). 50. Ulpiano 6 ad ed. D. 3.1.1.5: …in quo edicto excepit praetor sexum et casum …sexum: dum feminas prohibet pro aliis postulare. Et ratio quidem prohibendi, ne contra pudicitiam sexui congruentem alienis causis se immisceant, ne virilibus officiis fungantur mulieres: origo vero introducta est a Carfania, improbissima femina, quae inverecunde postulans et magistratum inquietans causam dedit edicto (…in questo editto il pretore indica il sesso ed il caso …il sesso, poiché proibisce alle donne di rappresentare in giudizio altri. E la ragione di questa proibizione consiste nell’evitare che contro la pudicizia consona al loro sesso le donne si immischino nelle cause altrui ed assumano uffici riservati agli uomini. L’origine dell’introduzione di questo editto è dovuta a Carfania, donna molto riprovevole, la quale, facendo richieste in giudizio in modo sfacciato e disturbando il magistrato, ha fornito l’occasione per l’editto). 51. Su questa incapacità cfr. Pomponio 1 ad Sab. D. 48.2.1; Papiniano 2 de adult. D. 48.2.2 pr. Più discusso è il contenuto dei due rescritti imperiali raccolti in C. 9.9.1 (Sev. et Ant. a. 197) e C. 9.9.7 (Alex. a. 223).

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della donna nell’arco di tempo, in cui nella letteratura latina trova piede il genere della novella. Con riguardo al diritto privato, risulta abbastanza evidente come nel II e nel I secolo a.C. siano ancora molto forti le discriminazioni di genere risalenti all’antico ius civile, che la iurisdictio dei pretori e l’interpretatio dei prudentes stavano lentamente superando in molti punti, quali la progressiva scomparsa della manus maritale, l’ampliamento della libertà di divorziare, la costrizione del tutore a dare la propria auctoritas ad un negozio voluto dalla donna, l’optio tutoris e la riforma della successione intestata mediante la bonorum possessio sine tabulis. Un cambiamento significativo si ha con la legislazione di Augusto (31 a.C.–14 d.C.), che introduce una precisa disciplina in tema di obbligo al matrimonio ed alla procreazione di figli, di concubinato e di repressione dell’adulterio e delle relazioni sessuali con donne non sposate. Se tali disposizioni, da un lato, fissano dei limiti piuttosto pesanti alla libertà (anche) femminile di scegliere la propria vita affettiva, dall’altro, prevedono, allo stesso tempo, delle importanti novità, come l’introduzione dello ius liberorum e la conseguente liberazione dalla tutela mulierum ed una prima chiara regolamentazione del crimen adulterii, con il divieto assoluto al marito di uccidere la moglie adultera, benché colta in flagrante. Questa contraddittorietà fra aperture e chiusure caratterizza anche le misure adottate durante il principato di Claudio (41–54 d.C.). Lo “storico” intervento di abolizione della tutela legittima degli agnati è compensato dall’emanazione del SC Claudiano, estremamente penalizzante per una donna che decidesse di avere un’unione stabile con uno schiavo altrui, e del SC Velleiano, la cui ratio appare certamente ambigua, dato che la protezione dei patrimoni femminili, sottostante al divieto di intercedere pro aliis, comporta però l’esclusione delle donne da una serie di attività di natura privatistica, tra cui quelle di fungere da garanti. Una maggiore attenzione verso lo status giuridico delle donne, che ne determina un sensibile miglioramento, si manifesta durante la dinastia degli Antonini, a cominciare dal regno di Adriano (117–138 d.C.). In questo periodo si registrano, infatti, una notevole estensione del conubium con Latini e stranieri (e quindi dei matrimoni legittimi), una maggiore facilitazione per redigere il testamento, l’approvazione di puntuali discipline circa le contestazioni sulle gravidanze delle donne divorziate e circa la successione intestata tra madre e figli ed un primo timido riconoscimento alle donne della possibilità di occuparsi delle persone e del patrimonio dei propri figli, senza procedere alla nomina di un tutore. Un tale quadro, così variegato ed oscillante, prosegue nell’età dei Severi (193–235 d.C.), in cui la giurisprudenza romana si dimostra pienamente consa-

Chapter 2. Lo status giuridico della donna nel diritto romano

pevole dell’esistenza ancora di non poche discriminazioni di genere.52 Infatti, agli indubbi progressi intervenuti in precedenza e confermati anche in quest’epoca fanno da contrappeso, ad esempio, la configurazione come crimine dell’aborto e l’esclusione dalla professione di banchiere. Ed è forse proprio quest’ultima a sorprendere maggiormente, dato che il settore delle attività economiche organizzate è stato uno di quelli dove, fin dal II secolo a.C., si era giunti, quanto meno sul piano formale, ad una situazione di più visibile parità tra uomo e donna.

Nota Come ho segnalato nelle considerazioni introduttive, riporto di seguito le opere, di taglio giuridico, che mi sono maggiormente servite per la redazione del presente contributo. Oltre alle nozioni di base reperibili nella più diffusa manualistica europea ed italiana sul diritto privato romano, in tema di status giuridico delle donne sono sempre molto utili, anche se meno recenti, gli studi generali di Bernardo Albanese, Le persone nel diritto privato romano, Palermo, Tipografia S. Montaina, 1979, pp. 289–302, 347–360, 529–537; Leo Peppe, Posizione giuridica e ruolo sociale della donna romana in età repubblicana, Milano, Giuffré, 1984; Eva Cantarella, La vita delle donne, in A. Schiavone (dir.), Storia di Roma, IV. Caratteri e morfologie, Torino, Einaudi, 1989, pp. 557–608; Giunio Rizzelli, Le donne nell’esperienza giuridica di Roma antica. Il controllo dei comportamenti sessuali, Lecce, Edizioni del Grifo, 2000. Dei lavori successivi ricordo ancora Eva Cantarella, Identità, genere e sessualità nel mondo antico, in A. Corbino, M. Humbert, G. Negri (a cura di), “Homo”, “caput”, “persona”. La concezione giuridica dell’identità nell’esperienza romana. Dall’epoca di Plauto a Ulpiano, Pavia, Iuss Press, 2010, pp. 79–90; Felice Mercogliano, La condizione giuridica della donna romana: ancora una riflessione, in TSDP, IV, 2011, 1–42, consultabile su Microsoft Word – mercogliano.doc (teoriaestoriadeldirittoprivato.com) Sulle giustificazioni della condizione di inferiorità femminile nelle opere dei giuristi romani e, più specificamente in Gaio, restano fondamentali i saggi di Renato Quadrato, ‘Hominis appellatio’ e gerarchia dei sessi: D. 50,16,152 (Gai. 10 ad l. Iul et Pap.) e Infirmitas sexus e levitas animi: il sesso “debole” nel linguaggio dei giuristi romani, raccolti ora in Gaius dixit la voce di un giurista di frontiera, Bari, Cacucci editore, 2010, pp. 51–92 e 135–176.

52. Come dice espressamente Papiniano, 31 quaest. in D. 1.5.9: In multis iuris nostri articulis deterior est condicio feminarum quam masculorum (In molte disposizioni del nostro diritto la condizione femminile è peggiore di quella maschile).

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Sul matrimonio e le altre forme di unioni stabili nella prospettiva della donna si rimanda a Carla Fayer, La familia romana. Aspetti giuridici ed antiquari, Parte seconda e parte terza, Roma, L’Erma di Bretschneider, 2004; Patrizia Giunti, Consors vitae. Matrimonio e ripudio in Roma antica, Milano, Giuffré, 2004 e Maria Virginia Sanna, Matrimonio e altre situazioni matrimoniali nel diritto romano classico. Matrimonium iustum – matrimonium iniustum, Napoli, Jovene, 2012; Francesca Lamberti, Convivenze e ‘unioni di fatto’ nell’esperienza romana: l’esempio del concubinato, in Revue internationale de Droits de l’A ntiquité (RIDA), 64, 2017, pp. 157–176. Sulla rilevanza dell’omosessualità femminile nell’età imperiale romana si veda sempre Eva Cantarella, Secondo natura. La bisessualità nel mondo antico, Roma, Editori riuniti, 1988, pp. 210–218. A proposito della legislazione matrimoniale augustea e della lex Iulia de adulteriis cfr., in particolare, Giunio Rizzelli, Lex Iulia de adulteriis. Studi sulla disciplina di adulterium, lenocinium, stuprum, Lecce, Edizioni del Grifo, 1997; Tullio Spagnuolo vigorita, Casta domus. Un seminario sulla legislazione matrimoniale augustea3, Napoli, Jovene, 2010. Sui profili patrimoniali connessi alla condizione femminile risultano ancora molto importanti gli studi di Pierluigi Zannini, Studi sulla tutela mulierum I. Profili funzionali, Torino, Giappichelli editore, 1976, e Studi sulla tutela delle donne II. Profili strutturali e vicende storiche dell’istituto, Milano, Giuffré, 1979; più di recente, v. Nikolaus Benke, Gender and the Roman Law of Obligations, in T. Mc Ginn (ed.), Obligations in Roman Law: Past, Present and Future, Ann Arbour, University of Michigan Press, 2013, pp. 215–246. Per le attività economiche si vedano, in particolare: Andreas Wacke, Die adjektizischen Klagen im Überblick I. Von der Reeder- und Betriebsleiterklage zur direkten Stellvertretung, in Zeitschrift der Savigny Stiftung (ZSS), 111, 1994, pp. 280–362; Jean-Jacques Aubert, Business Managers in Ancient Rome. A Social and Economic Study of Institores 200 BC – AD 250, Leiden – New York – Köln, Brill, 1994; Richard P. Saller, Household and gender, in W. Scheidel, I. Morris, R. Saller (eds.), The Cambridge Economic History of the Greco – Roman World, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 2007, pp. 87–112; Gérard Minaud, Les gens de commerce et le droit à Rome. Essai d’histoire juridique et sociale du commerce dans le monde antique romain, Aixen-Provence, Presses Universitaires Aix-Marseilles, 2011; Francesca Reduzzi merola, Le donne nei documenti della prassi campana, in Index. Quaderni camerti di studi romanistici, XL, 2012, 380–386; Rosanna Ortu, Condizione giuridica e ruolo sociale delle Vestali in età imperiale: la Vestale massima Flavia Publicia, Ortacesus, Sandhi edizioni, 2018.

Chapter 2. Lo status giuridico della donna nel diritto romano

In particolare, sulle limitazioni alla legittimazione all’accusa nei processi penali pubblici per le donne si veda F. Botta, Legittimazione, interesse ed incapacità all’accusa nei publica iudicia, Cagliari, Edizioni AV, 1996, pp. 239–247, 360–369.

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Curare le donne nell’Egitto greco-romano Alcune testimonianze dai papiri* Nicola Reggiani

Università di Parma

The contribution examines the attestations of women-related diseases and therapies in the Greek papyri from Hellenistic and Roman Egypt, connecting them to the progress of Hellenic gynaecological medicine from Hippocrates to Soranus. Keywords: ancient medicine, Greek and Roman gynaecology, Greek papyri

La ginecologia è sempre stata un aspetto problematico nella medicina antica. La concezione culturale della donna nel pensiero greco (e poi romano) era notoriamente negativa – basti citare il mito di Pandora, codificato da Esiodo (Erga 47–105), in cui l’origine di tutti i mali dell’umanità è una donna, oppure il famoso “biasimo delle donne” nel fr. 7 del poeta giambico Semonide1 –; la natura inferiore dell’organismo femminile era stata codificata filosoficamente e fisiologicamente da Aristotele2 e, dal punto di vista prettamente medico, dall’osservazione del corpo * Il presente contributo riprende e sviluppa una mia inedita conferenza, intitolata ἴδια πάθη:

la nascita nel mondo antico di una nuova sensibilità medica sul corpo della donna, tenuta nell’ambito del seminario “Donne e diritti: prospettive tra ricerca e territorio” per l’insegnamento di “Le donne nel pensiero politico occidentale” del Prof. Fausto Pagnotta (che ringrazio per l’invito), Università di Parma, 4 aprile 2019. I papiri sono citati secondo gli standard della Checklist of Editions (http://papyri.info/docs/checklist). Il contributo rientra nelle attività di ricerca del Progetto PRIN 2017 “Greek and Latin Literary Papyri from GraecoRoman and Late Antique Fayum: Texts, Contexts, Readers" (P.I. Lucio Del Corso, Università di Salerno), unità di ricerca locale dell’Università di Parma (coordinatore Nicola Reggiani). 1. Si tratta di una rassegna di dieci tipologie femminili differenti, tutte caratterizzate negativamente salvo la donna ‘casalinga’, l’unica virtuosa (cf. edizione e commento in Pellizer & Tedeschi, 1990) – del resto anche Ipponatte (fr. 68) scriveva che “con una donna, due sono i giorni più dolci: quando la sposi e quando le fai il funerale” … 2. Ad es.: “le femmine sono per natura più deboli e più fredde, e si deve supporre che la natura femminile sia come una menomazione. Per la freddezza il processo di distinzione all’interno si https://doi.org/10.1075/ivitra.40.03reg © 2024 John Benjamins Publishing Company

Chapter 3. Curare le donne nell’Egitto greco-romano

femminile come ‘devianza’ da quello maschile.3 In quei tempi era invalsa la convinzione – per noi moderni totalmente surreale – che l’utero fosse un organismo autonomo, che si muoveva all’interno del corpo femminile, provocando in tal modo fenomeni patologici. La nascita di una vera e propria ginecologia si fa risalire ai trattati ippocratici Malattie delle donne, Natura della donna, Malattie delle vergini (V/IV sec. a.C.) (Manuli, 1980), ed in essi permane una linea di fondo basata sul riconoscimento di malattie specifiche delle donne, derivanti dalla condizione specifica (deviante) del corpo femminile, che spesso risultavano sconosciute e necessitavano di cure appropriate: Tutte queste malattie (cioè quelle femminili) capitano soprattutto alle donne che non hanno avuto figli, ma anche spesso a quelle che ne hanno avuti. Esse sono gravi, come si è detto, e per lo più acute, pericolose e di difficile diagnosi, perché le donne partecipano delle malattie comuni, e ci sono casi in cui neppur esse sanno di cosa sono malate, prima di aver sperimentato le malattie causate dai mestrui e di esser più avanti con l’età. Allora la necessità e il tempo insegnano loro la causa di quelle malattie. E spesso nelle donne che non sanno da che cosa è provocato il male, questo diviene incurabile prima che il medico venga informato esattamente da parte della malata di che cosa essa soffra. Infatti si vergognano a dirlo, anche se lo conoscono, e per inesperienza e per mancanza di scienza ritengono che sia per loro indecoroso. Inoltre anche i medici sbagliano, non informandosi esattamente della causa del male, e curandolo come le malattie maschili. E molte ne ho viste soccombere così, stroncate da questi mali. Bisogna interrogare subito accuratamente sulla causa, perché la cura delle malattie femminili differisce molto da quella delle malattie maschili. (De muliebribus I 62)

Nonostante il punto di vista decisamente tradizionale, Ippocrate fotografava bene il problema. Contrariamente a quanto si possa pensare, il riconoscimento di malattie specifiche femminili non costituiva un vantaggio clinico, ma un grave difetto scientifico: da un lato, derivando questa idea dalla svalutazione antropologica della donna, essa provocava la vergogna nelle pazienti, e dunque un tardivo, se non mancato, ricorso al medico; dall’altro, vi era una totale inadeguatezza da parte dei medici maschi a gestire le situazioni; e il lavoro degli operatori sanitari

svolge lentamente (la distinzione è infatti una cozione, e ciò che cuoce è il calore, e ciò che è più caldo viene cotto), all’esterno invece per la sua debolezza raggiunge rapidamente la maturità e la vecchiaia. Tutti gli esseri inferiori giungono alla fine più rapidamente, come avviene sia nelle opere dell’arte sia nelle cose messe insieme dalla natura” (De generatione animalium 775a14–16, traduzione D. Lanza-M. Vegetti). Cf. Pagnotta, 2022. 3. Sulla condizione femminile nella medicina antica cf. Gourevitch, 1984. In generale sulla medicina antica si vedano ad es. Andorlini & Marcone, 2004, e Nutton, 2004.

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femminili4 non doveva essere particolarmente agevole. Il mitografo Igino riporta un’interessante ‘favola’ a questo proposito: I Greci non avevano ostetriche, per cui le donne, mosse dalla vergogna dei medici uomini, morivano di frequente (di parto): infatti gli Ateniesi avevano disposto che nessuno schiavo o donna imparasse l’arte medica. Tuttavia una tale Agnodice desiderò intensamente apprendere l’arte medica; pertanto, tagliati i capelli e indossato un abito da uomo, si affidò ad un certo Erofilo, medico di gran fama, per imparare la sua professione. Poi, dopo aver appreso l’arte e avendo saputo che una donna era sofferente per il parto, andò da lei, ma poiché quella non voleva darle fiducia, ritenendo che fosse un uomo, Agnodice, sollevata la tunica, dimostrò di essere una donna, e così la curò. Allora i medici iniziarono ad accusarla presso gli Areopagiti dal momento che, pur essendo un uomo, si prendeva cura delle donne che partorivano. Ma Agnodice, dopo essersi tolta la tunica ed aver dimostrato di essere donna, venne congedata. In seguito gli Ateniesi rividero la legge affinché le donne non di origine servile potessero apprendere l’arte medica. (Fabulae 273)

Al di là delle note di colore folcloristico, il racconto di Igino non elude la realtà, citando nientemeno che Erofilo, il fondatore della scuola medica anatomista alessandrina, nella prima metà del III sec. a.C. Gli studi anatomici di Erofilo ad Alessandria d’Egitto, infatti, portarono ad un deciso progresso nell’esatta conoscenza fisiologica dell’utero femminile e delle ovaie, deducendone l’analogia con i costituenti e le funzioni del resto del corpo femminile, e con l’apparato riproduttivo maschile, escludendone la pretesa specificità. Erofilo avrebbe scritto anche un trattato di ostetricia (Sul parto), purtroppo perduto (Von Staden, 1989, pp. 165–169 e 296–299). Così Galeno, sulla scorta degli studi anatomici alessandrini, avrebbe poi dettagliato: Tutte le parti che hanno gli uomini le hanno anche le donne, la differenza tra loro essendo in una sola cosa, che deve essere ben tenuta a mente durante la discussione, cioè che le parti delle donne sono all’interno del corpo, mentre nell’uomo sono esterne, nella regione detta perineo …. lo scroto prenderebbe necessariamente il posto dell’utero, con i testicoli giacenti al di fuori, accanto ad esso da ciascuna parte; il pene del maschio diventerebbe il collo della cavità che si è formata; e la pelle alla fine del pene, chiamata ora prepuzio, diventerebbe la stessa

4. Si è a lungo dibattuto sull’effettiva esistenza di medici generici di sesso femminile nell’Antichità, ma essa appare ora abbastanza sicura, almeno in età romana: cf. Buonopane, 2003. Da sempre è invece noto il ruolo delle ostetriche o levatrici (maiai in greco, obstetrices in latino) nell’assistenza infermieristica al parto: cf. Cacciapuoti, 2016. Su medicae e obstetrices cf. ancora almeno: Gourevitch, 1996; Alonso Alonso, 2011; Dasen, 2016; Buonopane & Soldovieri, 2018.

Chapter 3. Curare le donne nell’Egitto greco-romano

vagina … così anche la donna è meno perfetta dell’uomo per quanto riguarda le parti destinate alla generazione. Perché le parti sono formate in essa ancora nella vita fetale, ma non possono emergere ed essere proiettate all’esterno a causa della mancanza di calore …”. (De usu partium XIV 6–7 K.)

È evidente come, nonostante il progresso portato dagli studi anatomici erofilei, si rimanesse ancora parzialmente ancorati alla visione tradizionale di un corpo femminile imperfetto rispetto a quello maschile. Un passo decisivo verso il pieno riconoscimento della salute femminile come problema centrale della medicina venne invece da Sorano di Efeso, che non a caso studiò ad Alessandria, per poi esercitare l’arte medica a Roma, tra il 96 e il 138 d.C. Egli scrisse i Gynaecia, in 4 libri, che sono considerati il primo manuale di ostetricia e ginecologia compilato in modo scientifico e organico, senza pregiudizi sull’inferiorità femminile (Carra, 2022). Gli è anche attribuito un catechismo ginecologico (Cataperotiana). La principale opera erofilea ci è pervenuta attraverso traduzioni latine e compendi tardi, con l’eccezione di un unico testimone diretto, una pagina di codice papiraceo di IV secolo d.C. attualmente conservata alla Biblioteca Medicea-Laurenziana di Firenze (PSI II 117) (Andorlini, 2018, pp. 176–199).5 Il testimone papiraceo contiene fortunosamente un importante snodo critico del testo soraneo: la discussione scientifica (all’inizio del libro III) sull’esistenza o meno di idia pathe “affezioni specifiche” delle donne. Sorano chiarisce che pathos indica qualsiasi fenomeno clinico, non solo patologico. Esistono dunque dei pathe katà physin (“secondo natura”), che nella donna sono: mestruazioni, concepimento, gestazione, parto, allattamento. Le malattie sono invece pathe ou katà physin (“contro natura”). Egli riassume le teorie che affermavano l’esistenza di idia pathe femminili, per poi sconfessarle sulla base dell’anatomia erofilea, della teoria di Erasistrato sulle malattie generali (che negava l’esistenza di affezioni propriamente femminili) e delle scuole mediche asclepiadea e metodica, che affermavano l’inesistenza di differenze fisiologiche, eziologiche, terapeutiche tra uomo e donna. La conclusione definitiva, in Gyn. III 5, 1–2, è che non esistono malattie specifiche delle donne, ma solo le condizioni secondo natura (le funzioni propriamente femminili), mentre quelle contro natura sono le malattie. Il manuale contiene anche consigli tecnici e psicologici per l’assistenza ginecologica, che non era limitata solo al momento del parto: Definiamo una levatrice impeccabile se porta avanti professionalmente il suo compito medico; ma la definiamo la miglior levatrice se va oltre e, in aggiunta alla sua gestione dei casi, è ben esperta nella teoria. […] Ella darà il suo consiglio in accordo con il decorso della malattia; non si lascerà impressionare, sarà 5. Sul resto della tradizione soranea cf. Temkin, 1956.

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imperturbabile nel pericolo, capace di spiegare chiaramente le ragioni delle sue misure, sarà rassicurante per le sue pazienti, e sarà empatica. (Gyn. I 4)

La sopravvivenza del trattato soraneo su un papiro greco-egizio prova la centralità del discorso ginecologico anche lontano da Roma. I papiri greci, che conservano attestazioni ‘di prima mano’ sulla quotidianità dell’Egitto ellenistico, romano e bizantino (Reggiani, 2019a, pp. 13–66), dimostrano che le questioni sanitarie femminili non riguardavano solo la teoria medica, ma anche la concretezza della vita di tutti i giorni. Un frammento di lettera privata dall’archivio di Zenone (da Philadelphia nell’Arsinoite, metà del III sec. a.C.) può essere letto alla luce del discorso ippocratico relativo ai problematici rapporti fra medici maschi e pazienti femmine. Il testo è lacunoso, come spesso accade, e manca della parte iniziale; fortunatamente, tuttavia, rimane abbastanza per poter ricostruire il contesto: si tratta di una donna o ragazza ammalata, Philias, per la quale risultano vani gli sforzi del padre e di un dottore di nome Hermias, per cui vien fatto chiamare un altro medico, sempre di sesso maschile. Φιλιάδα ε[ ̣] ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣[ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣]|νομένων, παρηκολουθήκη δὲ | καὶ ὁ πατήρ σου. ἀνακληθεὶς δὲ | Ἑρ[μί]ας, ἐμοῦ ἐμ (= ἐν) Μέμφει ὄντος, |5 οὐ[κ ἠ]δύνατο ἰάσασθαι αὐτήν, | ἕως̣ ἐγὼ παραγενόμενος ὑγ[ί]ασα “… Philias … l’ha seguita con attenzione anche suo padre. Mi ha chiamato dunque Hermias, mentre mi trovavo a Menfi, poiché non riusciva a curarla, sicché, dopo essermi recato là, la guarirò”. (PSI VI 665, 1–6)6

Auspicando che la povera Philias sia potuta guarire, senza rimanere vittima del maschilismo della medicina ellenica, passiamo a notare come già nel secolo successivo si possano riconoscere i progressi scientifici favoriti dall’anatomismo alessandrino: alcuni frammenti papiracei di II/I secolo a.C., appartenenti a un anonimo trattato anatomico, si interrompono proprio all’inizio della sezione descrittiva dell’apparato genitale femminile, che fiduciosamente immaginiamo descritto nei termini oggettivi imposti dalla scuola di Erofilo piuttosto che con le fantasie aberranti della medicina arcaica e classica.

6. Al r. 6 l’edizione riporta ἕω[ς] {ω̣ς̣} ἐγὼ, come se l’autore della lettera avesse ripetuto per sbaglio le lettere omega e sigma. Da un esame attento della riproduzione digitale del papiro, tuttavia, mi sembra che la lacuna materiale, che si estende fra la prima parte di omega e l’epsilon di ἐγὼ, non sia sufficientemente ampia da coprire tre lettere, peraltro piuttosto estese orizzontalmente secondo i canoni della grafia cancelleresca zenoniana. Le tracce che si vedono sul bordo destro di questa lacuna non sono chiarissime, ma mi sembra che ἕως̣ ἐγὼ sia comunque meglio che postulare una ipotetica dittografia.

Chapter 3. Curare le donne nell’Egitto greco-romano

[κ]α̣[ ὶ τὸ] δ̣έρμα τὸ περὶ̣ [τ]ῇ [βαλ]ά̣[νῳ κ]α̣τ[ὰ] | [μ]έσον, π̣οσ̣θ̣ία̣, τ̣[ὸ δ]ὲ̣ ἄ̣κρον αὐ[τ]ῆ̣ς̣ καὶ̣ |5 [ὑ]π̣ε̣ρ̣τε̣ῖ̣νον τὴν̣ β̣άλανον, ἀκ̣ρ̣ο̣π̣[ό]σ̣θ̣[ιον]. | τ̣οῦ δ̣ὲ̣ αἰδοίου τὸ κάτωθεν ὄσχεος, ἐ̣ν̣ ᾧ̣ | [οἱ] ὄ̣ρ̣[ χ]ε̣ι̣ς, οἱ δὲ διδύμους προσαγο̣ρ̣ε̣ύ̣[ουσιν]· | [το]ύ̣των δὲ καλεῖται τὸ μὲν ἄν̣ω̣θ̣[εν] | [κ]ε̣φα̣λή, τὸ δὲ κάτωθεν πυθμ̣ή̣ν. [τὸ] δ̣ὲ̣ |10 [τῆς γυ]ν̣α̣[ι]κὸς αἰδ{ι}ο̣ῖ̣ο̣ν̣ κα̣[ λεῖ]τ̣αι ἐ̣π̣ί̣σιο̣[ν] ̣ [ ±2 ] | [ ±4 ] ̣[ ̣ ̣] ̣ ̣[ ̣] ̣[ ̣]ι̣ ̣ ̣ ̣[ ̣] ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣[ ±3 ] ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ [ | [ ̣ ̣] ̣ε̣υ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣υ̣ σαρκίον ε[ ̣]σ ̣ ̣[ κλει]|τ̣ο̣ρ̣ίδα καλο̣ῦ̣[σιν “e la pelle intorno al glande (si chiama), in mezzo, prepuzio, invece la sua parte superiore ed eccedente il glande, prepuzio alto. Dei genitali la parte sottostante (si chiama) scroto, nel quale (si trovano) i testicoli, (che) alcuni chiamano invece ‘gemelli’; di questi la parte superiore è detta testa, quella inferiore fondo. I genitali della donna si chiamano pube … carne … chiamano clitoride …”. (P.Iand. V 82 = P.TestiMed. 9, E, 3–13; traduzione G. Azzarello)

I papiri propriamente medici dedicati ad argomenti ginecologici non sono in ogni caso frequenti. Affinità testuali con Sorano mostra un frammento di trattato (BKT X 22), databile al I/II sec. d.C., che nella parte superstite descrive probabilmente le varie complicazioni che potrebbero sorgere al momento del parto, dal momento che, nel discorso purtroppo incompleto, si distinguono i termini tecnici δυστοκίαι (“parti difficili”, r. 6), τράχηλον (“utero”, r. 8) e una parola che termina con ]ομίας (r. 6) che si potrà integrare verosimilmente con ὀμφαλοτ]ομίας (“taglio del cordone ombelicale”) in caso di esito positivo, oppure ἐμβρυοτ]ομίας (“aborto”) in caso sciaguratamente negativo, piuttosto che φλεβοτ]ομίας (“flebotomia, salasso”). Il parto era in effetti il momento più difficile, e in un certo senso più periglioso, nella vita delle donne antiche: nelle parole di un’eroina tragica tutt’altro che debole, la Medea di Euripide, “Dicono che noi donne viviamo in casa una vita tranquilla, priva di rischi, mentre loro combattono: quanto sbagliano! Preferirei stare tre volte accanto a uno scudo che una sola volta partorire!” (248–251). L’ignoto estensore di una lettera su papiro, proveniente forse da Ossirinco e datata tra la fine del III e gli inizi del IV sec. d.C., era dunque pienamente giustificato nel preoccuparsi a proposito dell’imminente parto della propria sorella: γ]ρ[άμμα]|τα δηλ[ο]ῦ̣ν τά μοι κ[ ] ̣ερχόμενον· ἀλλʼ 〈ε〉ἰ καὶ τὰ μάλιστα ἐ̣λ̣ύπη|5σέν με ἡ σὴ ἀπουσία̣ [ ]α̣ξ̣ε̣ω ταῦτα ἐν μέρ〈ε〉ι. τοῦτο δέ σοι παρατίθημι | ἀξιῶν καὶ δεόμενο̣[ς] ̣ ̣[ ]α̣ι̣ τ̣ῇ̣ θυγατρὶ τ̣ῇ ἐμοῦ ἀδελφῇ Θεονίλλᾳ δικ̣αι | παραβάλλ〈ε〉ιν καθʼ ἑκάσ[την ὥραν καὶ πα]ρ̣αιν〈ε〉ῖν αὐτὴν τὰ εἰκότα ὅπως μηδα[μ]ῶ̣ς | λυπηθῇ. οἶδα γὰρ α[ὐτὸς καὶ πέ]π〈ε〉ισμαι ὅτι οἱ κοινοὶ ἡμῶν γ[ο]ν〈ε〉ῖς κ̣α̣τ̣α|βλέπουσιν αὐτὴν κ[αίπερ ἅπαξ δ]ὲ̣ καὶ δεύτερον ἐδεήθην αὐτῶν διὰ γρ[αμ]μά|10των τὴν αὐτὴν̣ ἐ̣π̣ι̣[μέ]λ̣〈ε〉ι̣αν [παρέ]χ̣ειν α̣ὐτ̣ῇ̣ καὶ πάντα τὰ εἰωθότα π[ο]ι|ῆσαι τῶν λοχίων. οἶδεν γὰρ ὁ θεὸ̣[ς ὅ]τ̣ι ἐβουλόμην καὶ τὰ μύρα κ[αὶ τὰ ἄ]λ̣λα | πάντ̣α̣ τ̣ὰ πρὸς τὴν χρ〈ε〉ίαν τῶν λοχίων ἀποστ〈ε〉ῖλαι ἀλλʼ ἵνα ̣ ̣γος[ ̣ ̣] ̣| μος τις π[ά]λ̣[ι]ν̣ γένηται οἱπʼ(= ὑπ’) οὐδενὸς ὧν σοι (= συ) οἶδας ἐπέσχομ̣[αι “Mi hai scritto che

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saresti stato sul posto; ora davvero la tua assenza mi addolora moltissimo, ma conto egualmente sul tuo aiuto. Ti chiedo dunque e ti prego caldamente di mettere a disposizione di Teonilla mia sorella tutto quello che serve e di esserle vicino ora per ora con i consigli opportuni perché non debba in alcun modo angustiarsi. So da me e sento dire dagli altri che i nostri comuni genitori (?) la disprezzano benché io li abbia pregati più di una volta per lettera di procurarle buona assistenza e di fare tutti i preparativi abituali per il parto. Dio sa se avrei voluto spedirle io stesso tutto ciò che serve per il parto, ma è accaduto che ne sono stato impedito da gente che tu non conosci”. (PSI VIII 895 = SB XXII 15560, 3–13; traduzione I. Andorlini-M. Manfredi)

Non sorprende che una parte del trattato soraneo fosse dedicata a fornire direttive psicologiche tanto alle partorienti quanto alle ostetriche o levatrici che le assistevano. La lettera appena citata ci permette di vedere bene in pratica la duplice preoccupazione attorno al parto: l’avere un valido supporto, tanto tecnico (i preparativi abituali) quanto psicologico (la buona assistenza).7 Procurarsi sostanze medicinali finalizzate evidentemente ad alleviare i dolori ed a facilitare l’atto del partorire sembra essere preoccupazione comune: così in una lettera di II/III sec. d.C., in cui una certa Thaisarion si rivolge ai propri fratelli e, fra saluti ed altre richieste, chiede che le sia inviato un prodotto necessario al parto: καὶ ἡμῖς (= ὑμεῖς) τὴν ἡμίσιαν πέμψα[τέ μ]ο̣ι̣ ῥαφαν[ελαίο]υ κεράμια δύο ὡς τῆς τιμῆς οὗ δεδαπάνηκα. καὶ γὰρ ἐγὼ χρ〈ε〉ίαν ἔχω [α]ὐτῶν ὅταν τίκτω. ⟦ ̣ ⟧ καὶ ὑμῶν γὰρ ἀδ[ε]λφός ἐστιν “… e mandatemi la metà, due giare di olio di rafano, della stessa qualità di quello che ho già usato, perché ne ho bisogno quando partorisco, e dopotutto è anche vostro fratello (?)”. (P.Mich. VIII 508, 14–17)

Non sappiamo a cosa esattamente servisse l’olio di rafano: Sorano nel suo trattato ginecologico consigliava di massaggiare il neonato con olio d’oliva, ma è forse più probabile che il prodotto, che tutt’oggi ha proprietà antidolorifiche, fosse destinato a facilitare le contrazioni.8 Si veda inoltre SB XX 15157 (Arsinoite?, prima

7. Sugli aspetti psicologici ed emotivi del parto nell’Antichità cf. Andorlini & Manfredi, 1981. Sulla compassione in Sorano e Celio Aureliano cf. Porter, 2016. 8. Olio di rafano ad uso medicinale è citato in un’altra lettera privata, dall’archivio eracleopolite di Atenodoro (ca. 21 a.C.–5 d.C.), in cui lo scrivente Erasistrato sollecita Atenodoro a fargli avere dell’olio di rafano, che gli serve per fabbricare un generico farmaco: Ἄμμωνοϲ τοῦ παρὰ … [̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ] | ε̣ν̣ου ὥ̣ϲ ϲε ἀναγκαῖον ἔγνων ἀϲπά̣|ϲαϲθαί ϲε καὶ ὑπομνῆϲαι περὶ τοῦ ῥα|φανίνου· νῦν γάρ μοι χρὴ ἀπράκτεωϲ | ημ̣ ̣τ̣α̣κονα ϲυντιθέντι τὸ δι᾽ αὐτοῦ | φάρ̣μ̣α̣κον ὅθεν εἰ̣ μή ϲοι φορτ̣ι̣κ̣ὸν | πέμψειϲ μοι ἄδ̣ολον ἵνα ᾖ χρήϲι|μον “Siccome Ammon, il … (si recava da te?) ho ritenuto necessario inviarti i miei saluti e rammentarti a proposito dell’olio di rafano: infatti adesso ne ho bisogno … perché sto preparando il farmaco con esso. Perciò, se non ne hai grezzo, mandamene puro, così che possa essere usato. Peraltro, fa’ attenzione alla tua salute, cosicché ti pos-

Chapter 3. Curare le donne nell’Egitto greco-romano

metà del I sec. d.C.), una lettera in cui il mittente richiede απόϲτ〈ε〉ιλον τῇ γυναικί μου | [ἐ]λ̣αίου κοτύλη〈ν〉 μία〈ν〉, \ἐν γαϲτρὶ ἔχ〈ε〉ι/ “Manda a mia moglie una ciotola d’olio – è incinta” (rr. 3–4), dove l’inserzione parentetica, aggiunta supra lineam, sembra essere una spiegazione per il prodotto desiderato – forse, in questo caso, comune olio d’oliva. La presenza delle ostetriche o levatrici, ormai ben nota agli studi di storia della medicina antica, specialmente attraverso le fonti letterarie ed epigrafiche, sembrano apparentemente assenti da questo tipo di documentazione privata, come se l’assistenza venisse garantita dai soli familiari, ma si tratta quasi sicuramente solo di un’omissione di una realtà così consolidata da essere data per scontata. Le ‘professioniste del parto’ compaiono invece esplicitamente nella documentazione pubblica, quando occorre fornire un parere medico ufficiale riguardo le condizioni di salute di una donna: e questo aspetto è del massimo interesse, perché attesta un certo riconoscimento sociale e legale del ruolo ‘infermieristico’ femminile. I testi relativi sono solamente due, ma di notevole importanza. Una petizione da Ossirinco del 326 d.C. denuncia ai nyktostrategoi (una sorta di ‘polizia notturna’) una violenza fisica contro una donna, il cui marito richiede che ella venga ispezionata da una levatrice per stabilire esattamente l’entità delle ferite: ἐπ〈ε〉ὶ τοίνυν | [ ±22 ] τὴν βιβλιδίων | ἐπίδοσιν̣ ποιο̣ῦμαι ἀξι[ῶν ±10 ] με͂ αν (= μαῖαν) ἐπιστα|λ〈ε〉ῖσαν ὑφʼ ἡμῶν (= ὑμῶν) ἀπαντῆσαι καὶ σημ〈ε〉ιώσασθαι τὴν | διάθεσιν αὐτῆς καὶ ἐνγράφως προσφωνῆσαι “Perciò […] faccio consegna di questa petizione chiedendo … che una levatrice sia incaricata ufficialmente da te e osservi le sue condizioni e lo riporti per iscritto …”. (P.Oxy. LI 3620, 15–19)

L’iter della ‘ispezione’ da parte di una levatrice, di cui una simile petizione costituiva la fase iniziale, può essere seguìto attraverso un papiro frammentario dall’Arsinoite, datato al 147 d.C., che nei righi iniziali conserva la fine di una petizione allo stratego per la tutela di un minorenne, in cui una certa Petronilla fa riferimento al rapporto ufficiale di una visita effettuata da una levatrice (Reggiani, 2022):

siamo ricevere in prosperità …” (BGU XVI 2619, 3–10). ῥαφανίνον (sc. ἔλαιον) è propriamente l’olio ricavato dal Raphanus sativus, che rientrava in numerosi preparati descritti nella letteratura medica, e non il rafano in sé, come interpretato dall’editore, William Brashear; il contesto d’uso di questo medicamento di preparazione casalinga non è però ulteriormente specificato. Altre richieste di olio di rafano da parte di donne (ad es. in BGU IV 1097, 13–14, del 41–67 d.C.; P.Oxy. LVI 3860, 22–23, da Ossirinco, del tardo IV d.C.) non sembrano invece connesse a pratiche terapeutiche – in BGU 1097, 14 si fa riferimento a ἐπιμήνια, che nel lessico medico indica le mestruazioni, ma in questo contesto sono più probabilmente scorte alimentari mensili.

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διεπέμψατό σοι καταμεμαθηχέναι | με σὺν μέαι (= μαίαι) καὶ ἐγνωκέναι κατὰ γαστρὸς̣ | ἔχουσαν “ti ha informato che mi ha visitato insieme con una levatrice e mi ha riconosciuta incinta”. (P.Gen. II 103, ii, 2–4)

Questa documentazione appartiene ad una procedura amministrativa romana ben nota e diffusa, che, sulla base di una petizione, si risolveva nell’invio di un funzionario ufficiale insieme a un medico (definito da un certo momento in poi ‘medico pubblico’) per certificare in un rapporto o referto ufficiale le ferite o la morte denunciate (Reggiani, 2018 e 2019b). Si nota che in altri casi, come in una petizione da Ossirinco del 305 d.C., viene esplicitamente richiesto l’intervento del medico pubblico per ispezionare una donna: ἀναγ|καίως ἐπιδίδωμ̣ι τάδε τὰ βιβλ̣ία̣ ̣, ἀ̣ξ̣[ιῶ]ν̣ δ̣ι̣ʼ ἑ̣ν̣ὸ̣ς̣ τ̣ῶ̣ν̣ | περὶ σὲ ὑπηρετῶν ἐπισταλῆναι δ̣η̣μ̣ό̣σ̣ι̣ον ἰα|τρὸν τὸν ἐποψόμενον ἅμα τῷ αὐτῷ ὑπηρέτῃ | τὴν τῆς συμβίου διάθεσιν καὶ ἐνγρά̣[φ]ως σοι προς|φωνοῦντας (= πρςφωνῆσαι) “…di necessità consegno questa petizione chiedendo che, attraverso uno dei tuoi collaboratori, un medico pubblico sia incaricato di esaminare le condizioni di mia moglie insieme con quello stesso collaboratore, e che ti riportino per iscritto …”. (P.Oxy. LXI 4122, 11–16)

Così accade anche nei due referti P.Oslo III 95 (96 d.C.) e P.Oxy. I 52 (325 d.C.), entrambi da Ossirinco, stilati da medici e relativi a ispezioni condotte su soggetti femminili. L’apparente aporia si risolve probabilmente pensando ad una diversificazione dei ruoli, in cui il medico era incaricato di verificare le condizioni fisiche esterne del corpo femminile in caso di percosse o altre ferite, mentre per ispezioni più intime era richiesta una expertise più specifica9 e forse anche più vicina alla sensibilità femminile, in modo da evitare spiacevoli imbarazzi. In effetti, in P.Gen. 103 si deve verificare lo stato interessante; in P.Oxy. 3620 il punto in cui si descrive la violenza subìta è purtroppo lacunoso, ma l’editore suggerisce che la vittima poteva essere stata incinta, come accade in P.Ryl. II 68 (Ermopoli Magna, 89 a.C.), petizione in cui una donna denuncia di essere stata percossa da un’altra donna e si dichiara incinta al quinto mese (non viene richiesta esplicitamente un’ispezione medica perché si tratta di una procedura invalsa in età romana) o in SB X 10239 (Ossirinco, 37 d.C.), in cui il tessitore Trifone denuncia la sua ex moglie Demetrous per aver ustionato l’attuale consorte Saraeus, che era incinta (e qui purtroppo manca la parte successiva della petizione).

9. Così come, per la probabile necessità di controllare gli organi interni di un cadavere, l’ispezione era stata affidata ai mummificatori di Ossirinco in P.Oxy. III 476 (159–161 d.C.), perché all’epoca i medici verosimilmente non possedevano sufficienti competenze in anatomia interna (cf. Reggiani, 2016).

Chapter 3. Curare le donne nell’Egitto greco-romano

Non sappiamo come e quanto la ginecologia soranea, così attenta al dato scientifico ma anche psicologico sulle condizioni sanitarie femminili, si fosse diffusa nella società e nella cultura romana, ma mi sembra che l’investitura ufficiale delle levatrici negli esempi sopra citati non sarebbe stata possibile in tempi precedenti. È perfino attestata, in una lettera sempre da Ossirinco, degli inizi del III sec. d.C., una figura definita “dottoressa”. Si tratta di un fratello, Harpokration, che scrive alla propria sorella, Herais, ἡ ἰατρίνη σε ἀσπάζε|ται “la dottoressa ti saluta” (P.Oxy. XII 1586, 12–13): un vero e proprio medico donna, o una levatrice così chiamata nell’ingenua riconoscenza di chi si era potuto giovare della sua assistenza? Con la sensibilità nei confronti della salute femminile e il coinvolgimento emotivo nel difficile momento del parto si può forse spiegare un’ultima, curiosa testimonianza papirologica: un’altra lettera scritta – stavolta su ostrakon – da un fratello alla sorella, nella Tebe della seconda metà del II sec. d.C., il quale mostra un tale slancio affettivo da identificarsi lui stesso con la partoriente! Μάξιμος Τιναρσιεγέτι τῇ ἀδελφῇ πλεῖστα | χαίρειν καὶ διὰ παντὸς ὑγιαίνειν· | ἐὰν ἔλθῃς εἰς τὰς ἡμέρας σου τοῦ τεκ〈ε〉ῖν, γράψον μοι | {ε}ἵνα εἰσέλθω καὶ τὴν λοχίαν σου ποιήσω, ἐπ〈ε〉ὶ οὐκ οἶ|5δά σου τὸν μῆνα. χάριν τούτου προέγραψά σοι, {ε}ἵνα | καὶ σὺ προλάβῃς καὶ γράψῃς μοι {ε}ἵνα εἰσέλθω ἐν | τῷ πλοίῳ τῶν κιβα̣ρ̣ίων {ε}ἵνα κἀγὼ (= καὶ ἐγὼ) μ〈ε〉ίνω ἐχόνομά | σου καὶ τὴν λοχίαν μου ποιησης. σοὶ γὰρ προσέχω ὅτι | ἐχόνομά σου μεν{α}ῶ τεκ〈ε〉ῖν. ἐὰν μὴ πέμψῃς ἐπʼ ἐ|10μὲ οὐ χάριτάν μοι ποιεῖς. ἔμελλόν σοι πέμψαι | ἀνγῖα (= ἀγγεῖα) εἰς τὴν λοχίαν σου· χάριν τούτου οὐκ ἀπέστ〈ε〉ιλα | {ε}ἵνα εἰσερχομένη (= εἰσερχόμενος) ἐνέγκω καὶ δύω (= δύο) μάτια θερμίων. “Massimo alla sorella Tinarsiesis tanti saluti e auguri di buona salute. Se sei ormai arrivata ai giorni in cui devi partorire scrivimi perché io possa venire costì e faccia il tuo parto: infatti non so di che mese sei. Proprio per questo ti ho scritto avanti, perché anche tu ti avvantaggi e mi scriva perché io venga con la barca dei viveri. Così potrò anch’io rimanere presso di te e tu potrai fare il mio parto. Ti prevengo che ho proprio voglia di partorire presso di te. Se non mi manderai a chiamare mi farai dispiacere. Volevo mandarti i vasi per il tuo parto; ma non te li ho spediti perché venendo li potrò portare io assieme a due sporte di lupini”. (O.Florida 12, 1–12; traduzione I. Andorlini-M. Manfredi)

Si nota, ancora, l’assenza forse solo formale della levatrice da un parto che il fratello rivendica come proprio, nonché l’apparato medico che veniva dispiegato per facilitare l’evento: i vasi dovevano forse contenere l’olio di rafano, od altri olî emollienti utili al medesimo scopo, mentre i lupini rientravano nella composizione di un impiastro topico finalizzato a facilitare ed accelerare il parto.10 Si prendevano,

10. Cf. Andorlini & Manfredi, 1981, p. 5.

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insomma, tutte le precauzioni necessarie per un felice decorso medico e psicologico del momento più significativo nella vita della donna, allora come oggi.

Bibliografia Alonso Alonso, M. A. (2011). Medicae y obstetrices en la epigrafía latina del imperio romano. Apuntes en torno a un análisis comparativo. Classica et Christiana, 6, pp. 267–296. Andorlini, I. (2018). πολλὰ ἰατρῶν ἐστι συγγράμματα, II. Edizioni di papiri medici greci, a cura di N. Reggiani. Firenze: Le Monnier. Andorlini, I. & Manfredi, M. (1981). Cenni sulla valutazione della componente psicologica nella normativa attinente il parto nella letteratura medica antica. In Atti del 1° Congresso congiunto italo-franco-spagnolo di psicoprofilassi ostetrica, Perugia, 28–31 maggio 1980 (pp. 1–12). Perugia: Galeno. Andorlini, I. & Marcone, A. (2004). Medicina, medico e società nel mondo antico. Firenze: Le Monnier. Buonopane, A. (2003). Medicae nell’occidente romano: un’indagine preliminare. In Buonopane, A. & Cenerini, F. (eds.), Donna e lavoro nella documentazione epigrafica (pp. 113–130). Faenza: Lega. Buonopane, A. & Soldovieri, U. (2018). Medica, obstetrix, iatromea. Note in margine a un’iscrizione inedita da Puteoli. In A. Marcone (ed.), Lavoro, lavoratori e dinamiche sociali a Roma antica. Persistenze e trasformazioni (pp. 272–283). Roma: Castelvecchi. Cacciapuoti, G. (2016). La figura delle obstetrices nella documentazione epigrafica: indagine preliminare. Ager Veleias, 11.08, pp. 1–137. Carra, E. (2022). Sorano e l’atteggiamento nuovo nei confronti delle donne. In Bovo, A. (ed.), La trasmissione del sapere medico: linguaggi e idee dai papiri ad oggi (in corso di pubblicazione). Parma: Artegrafica Silva. Dasen, V. (2016). L’ars medica au féminin. Eugesta, 6, pp. 1–39. Gourevitch, D. (1984). Le mal d’être femme. La femme et la médecine dans la Rome antique. Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Gourevitch, D. (1996). La gynécologie et l’obstétrique. In Temporini, H. & Haase, W. (eds.), Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt, 37.3 (pp. 2083–2146), Berlin: De Gruyter, Manuli, P. (1980). Fisiologia e patologia del femminile negli scritti ippocratici dell’antica ginecologia greca. In Grmek, M. D. (ed.), Hippocratica. Actes du Colloque hipocratique de Paris (4–9 septembre 1978) (pp. 393–408). Paris: CNRS. Nutton, V. (2004). Ancient Medicine. London: Routledge. Pagnotta, F. (2022). Aristotele e il corpo della donna: alle origini delle discriminazioni di genere tra bios ed ethos. In Bovo, A. (ed.), La trasmissione del sapere medico: linguaggi e idee dai papiri ad oggi (in corso di pubblicazione). Parma: Artegrafica Silva. Pellizer, E. & Tedeschi, G. (1990). Semonides. Testimonia et Fragmenta. Roma: Edizioni dell’Ateneo. Porter, A. J. (2016). Compassion in Soranus’ Gynecology and Caelius Aurelianus’ On Chronic Diseases. In Petridou, G. & Thumiger, C. (eds.), Homo Patiens – Approaches to the Patient in the Ancient World (pp. 285–303). Leiden & Boston: Brill.

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Reggiani, N. (2016). Ispezionare cadaveri: mummificatori, medici e anatomisti nell’Egitto greco-romano (a proposito di P.Oxy. III 476). Marburger Beiträge zur Antiken Handels-, Wirtschafts und Sozialgeschichte, 33 (2015), pp. 75–86. Reggiani, N. (2018). Ispezioni e perizie ufficiali nell’Egitto romano: il corpus dei rapporti professionali (prosphoneseis). In A. Marcone (ed.), Lavoro, lavoratori e dinamiche sociali a Roma antica. Persistenze e trasformazioni (pp. 203–219). Roma: Castelvecchi. Reggiani, N. (2019a). Papirologia: la cultura scrittoria dell’Egitto greco-romano. Parma: Athenaeum. Reggiani, N. (2019b). I papiri greci di medicina come fonti storiche: il caso dei rapporti dei medici pubblici nell’Egitto romano e bizantino. Aegyptus, 98 (2018), pp. 107–130. Reggiani, N. (2022). Medical Literary and Documentary Culture in Graeco Roman Fayum. In Jacob, A. & Schiødt, S. (eds.), Scientific Traditions in the Ancient Mediterranean and Near East (in corso di pubblicazione). New York: ISAW. Temkin, O. (1956). Soranus’ Gynecology. Baltimore & London: The Johns Hopkins University Press. Von Staden, H. (1989). Herophilus. The Art of Medicine in Early Alexandria. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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Realidad de la institución matrimonial en la ficción de las novelas grecolatinas F. Javier Casinos Mora Universidad de Valencia

The purpose of this work is to make evident how the informations about various aspects of the marriage institution contained in the Greco-Latin novels are not purely fictional data, but approximately respond to historical reality and are reliable enough to be contributed to the task of rebuilding a legal institution such as marriage in the particular eastern historical and geographical context of late Greco-Roman antiquity. Keywords: affectio maritalis, donatio propter nuptias, dos, engýesis, epigamía, gámos, pollicitatio dotis, pretium virginitatis, proíx, raptus

Las novelas grecolatinas, no siendo obras de género jurídico ni retórico, sin pretenderlo contribuyen muy valiosamente al conocimiento de la experiencia matrimonial en el mundo grecorromano. Efectivamente, la centralidad del tema amoroso en las novelas griegas y latinas explica que éstas contengan numerosas referencias al matrimonio, las cuales lo son especialmente a propósito de sus aspectos preparatorios, de la prestación del consentimiento y de la dación de dote y liberalidades, lo que suscita un indudable interés jurídico. Además de ello, la temática amorosa hace de las mujeres protagonistas indiscutibles de las historias narradas, de tal modo que las novelas aportan así una inestimable información sobre el universo femenino antiguo con un valor también jurídico. El conjunto de aquellas referencias al matrimonio nos ofrece una imagen de la institución jurídicamente sincrética, dada la confluencia de diversos paradigmas normativos, fundamentalmente griegos, romanos y orientales, si bien con predominio claro de los primeros, imagen sobre la que influyen el origen, las vivencias y los conocimientos de los distintos autores, así como firmes exigencias de índole literaria. El sistema matrimonial que reflejan las novelas grecolatinas estimadas en su conjunto puede organizarse en los siguientes tres grandes apartados: 1º Concepción y fines del matrimonio y actos preliminares: Esponsales o promesa de matrimonio futuro y prestación de dote y liberalidades; 2º Requisitos https://doi.org/10.1075/ivitra.40.04cas © 2024 John Benjamins Publishing Company

Chapter 4. Realidad de la institución matrimonial en la ficción de las novelas grecolatinas

para contraer matrimonio válidamente: capacidad civil, capacidad natural, consentimiento y forma; y 3º Delitos relacionados con el matrimonio. Trataré en esta exposición sólo de los dos primeros apartados citados. Comenzaré por los fines del matrimonio. Los contrayentes quedan autorizados por quien oficia la ceremonia nupcial legalmente a vivir juntos y a tener descendencia, siendo estos los dos grandes fines del matrimonio. Quien mejor lo expresa en el conjunto de las novelas es el personaje de Hidaspes, soberano de Etiopía y sacerdote de Helios, en la ficción de Teágenes y Cariclea: ξυνωρίδα ταύτην γαμηλίοις νόμος ἀναδείκνυμι, καί συνεῖναι θεσμῷ παιδογονίας ἐφίημι.1 El matrimonio es así el marco legítimo, autorizado socialmente, para la comunidad de vida, las relaciones sexuales y la procreación de hijos. Fin del matrimonio es, pues, ante todo, tener descendencia legítima, lo que constituye además un deber cívico, a veces ciertamente exacerbado.2 Una formulación precisa de tal deber cívico la he hallado en un pasaje del epistológrafo Aristéneto: ἐπ’ἄροτoς παίδων γνησίων τὴν ἐρωμένην ἠγάγετο γαμετήν:3 ‘condujo a su amante al matrimonio para el engendramiento de hijos legítimos’. Pero esa formulación en idénticos términos también la he encontrado en Luciano4 y en otros muy parecidos en Plutarco.5 Por ello, bien podría haber sido ἐπ’ ἀρότῳ παίδων γνησίων una expresión formularia como se ha sugerido (Bickerman, 1975, p. 9). A propósito de Aristéneto, como ha sido advertido (Tagliabue, 2013, p. 411 y ss.), son apreciables en sus cartas ecos novelescos producto de la intertextualidad, que afloran sobre todo en Leucipa y Clitofonte y en Habrócomes y Antía. Este autor refleja la tradición jurídica griega, una tradición compartida con Roma especialmente bajo el imperio de Justiniano I, poco antes del cual tuvo aquél precisamente su floruit, pues la finalidad del matrimonio legítimo romano (iustae nuptiae) es la procreación de hijos legítimos, expresada bajo la testatio o atestiguamiento formulario de liberorum quaerendorum causa uxorem ducere, el cual comparece en contextos jurídicos muy anteriores, como en Suetonio,6 a propósito de una rogatio 1. Hld. 10, 40, 2. 2. De hecho, en Esparta ese deber de la τεκνοποιΐα, ‘producción de hijos’, llegaba al extremo de que la mujer, si no tenía hijos con su marido, legalmente era impelida a cohabitar con otro hombre para procurarlos (X. Lac. 1, 8). 3. Aristaenet. 1, 19, 46–47. 4. Luc. Tim. 17: ἐπ’ ἀρότῳ παίδων γνησίων. 5. Plu. Coniug. 144, 5: πάντων ἱερώτατός ἐστιν ὁ γαμήλιος σπόρος καὶ ἄροτος ἐπὶ παίδων τεκνώσει. 6. Suet. Iul. 52: (…) legem, quam Caesar ferre iussisset cum ipse abesset, uti uxores liberorum quaerendorum causa quas et quot uellet ducere liceret.

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legis de Julio César, o en una obra jurisprudencial romana del siglo IV, como son los Tituli ex corpore Ulpiani.7 También la importancia de la descendencia legítima, procurada no sólo a través del matrimonio sino también de la adopción, era debida a razones de interés jurídico privado, como señala Iseo8 para el caso de Atenas. Se evitaba con ella que la herencia quedara vacante; se aseguraba la continuación de los sacra familiares; y se facilitaba que alguien cuidara de uno en su vejez, le procurara el enterramiento y le tributara las honras y los ritos y sacrificios fúnebres anuales. Idénticas razones podrían invocarse para el Derecho romano. Platón aduce en sus Leyes9 el anhelo de perpetuación de la estirpe familiar y razones parecidas. También la preocupación por la conservación del patrimonio familiar patrilineal implica la importancia de la descendencia legítima que proporciona el matrimonio en las leyes de Gortina. Pero no sólo el aseguramiento de la progenie es el único fin del matrimonio. También lo es, como he indicado, la convivencia y, más precisamente, el logro de una κοινωνία τοῦ βίου,10 ‘comunidad de vida’, la cual en absoluto puede identificarse ni reducirse a la mera unión sexual,11 como resulta incuestionablemente de la lectura de todas y cada una de las novelas. El trasunto de esa comunidad de vida es en Derecho romano el consortium omnis vitae.12 En dicha expresión omnis vitae no se refiere a la totalidad de la vida, entendida como espacio de tiempo y que haría del matrimonio una unión humanamente indisoluble, idea ajena a la mentalidad grecorromana, sino que se refiere a la plena compartición de la vida, esto es, la de todos y cada uno de sus órdenes o aspectos. Las Instituciones de Justiniano utilizan una expresión alternativa a la de consortium omnis vitae que elimina aquella posible anfibología: coniunctio individuam vitae consuetudinem continens.13 Esta finalidad de comunidad de vida se relaciona, en realidad, con el matrimonio entendido, no como acto, sino como estado de vida matrimonial y carece de reflejo en las novelas, pues excede de su marco narrativo, articulado en forma 7. Tit. Ulp. 3, 3: nam lege Iunia cautum est, ut, si civem Romanam vel Latinam uxorem duxerit, testatione interposita, quod liberorum quaerendorum causa uxorem duxerit, postea filio filiave nato natave et anniculo facto, possit apud praetorem vel praesidem provinciae causam probare et fieri civis Romanus. 8. Is. Fr. 2, 10 y 46; 7, 30 9. Pl. Lg. 721 b-c y 773 e y ss. 10. Esta expresión figura también en Plu. Coniug. 138 c; Isoc. Nic. 40; y Arist. EN. 1162 a 20. 11. Ulp. 33 ad Sab. D. 24, 1, 32, 13: Non coitus matrimonium facit, sed maritalis affectio. 12. Mod. 1 reg. D. 23, 2, 1. 13. I. 1, 9, 1.

Chapter 4. Realidad de la institución matrimonial en la ficción de las novelas grecolatinas

de un encadenamiento sucesivo de peripecias que culminan con la total remoción de los obstáculos que surgen inopinadamente e impiden alcanzar como objetivo un anhelado estado ideal de comunidad vital entre los protagonistas, el que proporcionará precisamente el matrimonio. Pero, habida cuenta de que rasgo característico del género de las novelas griegas es el final feliz, consistente precisamente en la consecución de la eliminación de las trabas que impiden la comunión vital, puede afirmarse que todas las novelas exhiben el fin de la comunidad de vida como elemento jurídico de la institución matrimonial, aunque no hablen explícitamente de κοινωνία τοῦ βίου. Descendencia legítima y comunidad de vida son, pues, las dos finalidades del matrimonio en el mundo griego, que las novelas reflejan de un modo u otro y que un autor del siglo I d.C., Musonio Rufo, fusionó bajo la siguiente feliz fórmula: Βίου καὶ γενέσεως παίδων κοινωνίαν κεφάλαιον εἶναι γάμου:14 ‘El fundamento del matrimonio es la comunidad de vida y de generación de hijos’. Por otra parte, las novelas tienen un sentido religioso-mistérico, particularmente palpable en las Etiópicas o Teágenes y Cariclea (Hidalgo de la Vega, 1988, 175–189), y una finalidad edificante y el matrimonio es presentado en ellas como un premio a la fidelidad amorosa que procede tras la culminación con éxito de lo que podría interpretarse como una suerte de camino iniciático colmado de pruebas, que han comprometido y hecho peligrar la castidad, finalmente superadas por el héroe y la heroína novelescos. La novela muestra el matrimonio como una institución sacralizada no como producto de la ficción, sino como reflejo de la sacralidad que históricamente tenía a la sazón el matrimonio, la cual a su vez no sólo mantendría, sino que enaltecería el matrimonio cristiano. Es claro que la fidelidad implica la virginidad prematrimonial de ambos novios y su fatigosa conservación constituye un motivo recurrente hasta el hastío en las novelas. Y es justamente ese elemento de la virginidad, como trataré de demostrar aquí, lo que sacraliza el matrimonio y lo adecúa a Derecho. No es de extrañar, así, que las novelas se hallen salpicadas de juramentos de fidelidad,15 los cuales no deben confundirse con las promesas de matrimonio con implicaciones más estrictamente jurídicas y en las que intervenía el padre o kýrios de la novia en lugar de ésta. Hallamos tales juramentos de fidelidad en novelas como Leucipa y Clitofonte, de Aquiles Tacio, y Teágenes y Cariclea, de Heliodoro de Emesa. Encontramos también en las novelas cómo la misma virginidad o el respeto a la virginidad del ser amado es objeto de juramentos,16 produciéndose por este último juramento, 14. Muson. Ep. 13 a. 15. X. Eph. 1, 11, 4 y 6; y 2, 7, 5. 16. Hld. 3, 17, 4 y 4, 18, 5–6.

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como se ha apuntado (Crespo Güemes, 1979, 171), la sumisión del varón amante a la mujer, lo que representa una novedad en la cultura griega y constituye una de las primeras manifestaciones literarias de este espíritu. Hay incluso ordalías sobre la virginidad, como la de la siringa, la de la laguna Estigia o la de la parrilla,17 lo que evidencia la sacralización del matrimonio, ordalías que consisten en pruebas físicas de extraordinaria dureza por las que se sometía al juicio divino la veracidad de un hecho alegado por un individuo, en este caso su pureza, de tal modo que, en caso de no superarse la prueba, se sufría el daño que físicamente conllevaba, por ejemplo, graves quemaduras, y que podía conducir a la muerte y, por el contrario, en caso de superarse, el acusador era condenado por calumnia. Se muestran en las novelas términos y elementos que evocan la idea del matrimonio como rapto o compra de la mujer,18 que no debe confundirse con el rapto como forma alternativa de matrimonio, como en Teágenes y Cariclea19 o en las reconstrucciones hipotéticas de las novelas de Metíoco y Parténope y Calígone (López Martínez, 1998, 138 y 150). De ello se colige la consideración de la mujer más como objeto que como sujeto del matrimonio, entendido éste como negocio jurídico, sin perjuicio de que objeto del negocio matrimonial lo fueran ambos contrayentes, no sólo la mujer, cuando mediaban intereses familiares o económicos. El matrimonio como acto responde en las novelas en esencia a la fórmula ‘entrega de una mujer por un varón a otro varón’, propia también de los tiempos de la Grecia arcaica y clásica (Leduc, 1990), reflejando así la realidad de la institución matrimonial de las ciudades griegas, compartida en los tiempos más antiguos por Roma, como revelan, entre otros, la expresión latina con que se indica la acción del varón de contraer matrimonio: uxorem in domum mariti ducere, o ciertos actos simbólicos en el complejo entramado de los festejos nupciales de costumbre. Efectivamente, ante todo, el uso de los verbos transitivos λαμβάνειν (tomar) y διδόναι (entregar), en relación con actuaciones que se verifican a propósito de un matrimonio, o de sus correlativos latinos accipere o dare en las novelas latinas Historia de Apolonio, rey de Tiro o Las metamorfosis; o el de un verbo cuyo significado específico es ‘entregar en matrimonio’: ἐκδιδόναι,20 equivalente a la locución πρὸς γάμον διδόναι, cuyo complemento objeto es en todos los casos la novia o

17. Ach. Tat. 8, 6, 12–15; Hld. 10, 33, 2. 18. Longus 4, 28. En Esparta había sido una forma de contraer matrimonio si se daba el consentimiento de la familia: Plu. Lyc. 15; X. Lac. 1, 5; y Hdn. 6, 65. 19. Hld. 5, 21, 1. 20. DGE: ἐκδίδωμι (3).

Chapter 4. Realidad de la institución matrimonial en la ficción de las novelas grecolatinas

mujer, refleja muy elocuentemente esa ancestral concepción.21 Son actuaciones en tal sentido cuya presencia es constatable en las novelas: La solicitud de la mujer a su padre o tutor por parte del pretendiente; el convenio entre el padre o tutor de la novia y el novio sobre la cesión de ésta al segundo; la tradición o entrega de la novia al novio (ἔκδοσις); y la conducción de la esposa a la casa del esposo, como parodia ritual y lúdica de un rapto. En todo lo cual son apreciables reminiscencias de una idea de matrimonio, cuyo efecto natural es la incorporación de la mujer en la familia del marido y su subyugación a la potestad marital o a la misma potestad bajo la cual se halla el marido, como también acontecía con el matrimonio romano en su etapa más antigua (véase Corbino, 2012, para mayor detalle). Otra cuestión es la percepción del matrimonio como vínculo jurídico, ajena al Derecho romano, esto es, como vínculo que se crea y debe romperse por instancias públicas y no por la sola voluntad de los esposos o cese del amor conyugal o affectio maritalis, como acontece en el matrimonio romano, que también aflora en las novelas. En Leucipa y Clitofonte se emplea, de hecho, sarcásticamente la palabra πεδηθῇς, ‘fueras sujetado con grilletes’, en alusión a los efectos de un matrimonio.22 Trataré, a continuación, de la prestación de liberalidades. En la mayoría de las novelas se constata como el compromiso solemne de matrimonio, ἐγγύησις, requisito esencial del matrimonio, tanto o más que el γάμος o matrimonio in fieri, era acompañado en unidad de acto por la entrega de una dote, proíx, si bien se trataba de negocios jurídicos autónomos; la segunda no era necesaria para la validez ni para la eficacia del matrimonio; y uno y otro negocios podían verificarse por separado, aunque habitualmente, como acontece en las novelas, se hacían a la vez (Biscardi, 1934). Como es sabido, la engýesis era un negocio jurídico de derecho de familia característico del mundo griego, por el que el kýrios o titular de 21. Un pasaje del historiador Jenofonte, que contiene ambos verbos, muestra con suma claridad lo afirmado: X. Oec. 7, 10: Εἰπέ μοι, ὦ γύναι, ἆρα ἤδη κατενόησας τίνος ποτὲ ἕνεκα ἐγώ τε σὲ ἔλαβον καὶ οἱ σοὶ γονεῖς ἔδοσάν σε ἐμοί; (“Dime, mujer, ¿Te has dado cuenta ya de por qué te tomé por esposa y por qué te entregaron a mí tus padres?”). La mujer es tomada por su esposo y es entregada por su padre o por su kýrios, en ningún caso interviene como sujeto activo en la descripción del matrimonio in fieri. Este pasaje se halla inserto en el libro VII del Económico de Jenofonte, el cual constituye todo un tratado en torno a la explicación de la diversidad de roles del esposo y de la esposa en el matrimonio y su descripción, así como del valor y utilidad de los hijos en el matrimonio. Se trata de un conjunto de textos muy interesante en relación con la historia de las mentalidades y sin duda también para los que analizan textos de la antigüedad clásica desde una perspectiva de género. La entrega de la mujer en matrimonio por su kýrios o por sus kýrioi es tema recurrente en los diversos discursos sobres las herencias de Iseo de Atenas. 22. Ach.Tat. 1, 8, 2: τί γὰρ ἠδίκησας, ἵνα καὶ πεδηθῇς; ᾐτεῖτο τὰ στρώματα καὶ τὰ ἱμάτια καὶ τὰς φιάλας.

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la potestad familiar sobre la novia, el padre de la novia o, a falta de éste, un hermano varón de ella23 o incluso sus hermanos varones conjuntamente,24 prestaba al novio o al kýrios de éste la promesa solemne de que se celebraría el matrimonio en el momento que se hubiese convenido. La engýesis colocaba a la esposa bajo la potestad o kýreia del esposo, equivalente a la manus o potestad marital romana que, privando a la esposa de capacidad jurídica, también le confería, en cambio, realce y dignidad social. Tenía también, pues, el valor de una conventio in manum romana, negocio por el que la mujer quedaba bajo la potestad del marido e ingresaba en la familia agnaticia de éste. Calderini (1959) ha identificado los distintos procedimientos, diríase poco ortodoxos por motivos novelescos, a través de los cuales acontece en las novelas la ἐγγύησις o compromiso matrimonial entre los interesados. En unos casos se producen promesas unilaterales de matrimonio debido a la imposibilidad de recabar el consentimiento paterno; otras veces, y partiendo de ese mismo presupuesto, la solución es la prestación de juramento de fidelidad o pureza entre los novios hasta que pueda obtenerse la autorización paterna o la sanción por un tercero con autoridad, v. gr. un rey, de la existencia del matrimonio; y, por último, hay casos en que la engýesis se produce de modo ortodoxo pero con la peculiaridad de recibir un aditamento de publicidad: 1. Promesa unilateral en el contexto de un banquete sin el consentimiento inmediato del kýrios de la novia en Leucipa y Clitofonte (Ach. Tat. 5, 12, 3); 2. Promesa anterior al matrimonio sin el consentimiento inmediato del kýrios de la novia en Quéreas y Calirroe (Charito 3, 2, 4); 3. Promesa en público de contraer matrimonio por el varón, siendo la futura esposa esclava suya, aprobada por el pueblo en Teágenes y Cariclea (Hld. 1, 19–23); 4. Manifestación de consentimiento matrimonial por los novios ante un individuo investido de autoridad, el cual proclama la existencia del matrimonio (Hld. 10, 40–41); 5. Rapto y posterior petición de mano al padre de la novia en Leucipa y Clitofonte (Ach. Tat. 8, 18, 3); 6. Manifestación de candidatura al matrimonio por pretendiente ante el padre o kýrios de la mujer y aquiescencia de éste en Dafnis y Cloe (Longus 3, 27, 29–30) y en Quéreas y Calirroe (Charito 1, 1); 7. Proclamación solemne coram populo de la promesa de matrimonio en Teágenes y Cariclea (Hld. 10, 40–41); y 8. Engýesis ‘regular’ con aditamento de publicidad en Apolonio, rey de Tiro (22) y en Teágenes y Cariclea (Hld. 5, 31).

23. El hermano por parte de padre varón como kýrios supletorio del padre también está previsto en las Leyes de Gortina, habida cuenta de la importancia jurídica de la existencia o no de hermanos varones en la disposición de los matrimonios de sus hermanas y en última instancia en la transmisión y conservación del patrimonio familiar: ICr. VIII 20–22. 24. Is. Fr. 2, 9: καὶ οὕτως ἐκδίδομεν αὐτὴν Ἠλείῳ Σφηττίῳ.

Chapter 4. Realidad de la institución matrimonial en la ficción de las novelas grecolatinas

En Dafnis y Cloe el autor evoca el matrimonio homérico, quizá por encajar mejor con el ambiente bucólico, sin presencia de la pólis, en que se desarrolla la trama. Los pretendientes compiten por ganarse la voluntad del padre o kýrios de la novia, ofreciéndole mejores hédna, ganado o riquezas,25 y Dafnis sufre porque su insolvencia económica le podría privar de la mano de Cloe,26 ahogando su tribulación el hallazgo de un tesoro por indicación de unas ninfas.27 También con un componente competitivo se nos presenta en la ficción el matrimonio en Siracusa, pues a juzgar por lo descrito en Quéreas y Calírroe en una asamblea popular (ekklesía) se habría elegido al esposo de entre un grupo de pretendientes en competición de méritos.28 No obstante, que un matrimonio se celebrara, como describe Caritón, no privadamente sino mediando la aprobación de un órgano político como la asamblea popular, sólo resulta verosímil y asumible si lo justifica el hecho de que de algún modo pudiese comprometer los intereses de la comunidad política y habida cuenta de la máxima relevancia pública del padre de la mujer, un estratego. Por último, al inicio de Historia de Apolonio, rey de Tiro, hallamos también esa concepción agonal de la elección de esposo, que evoca la figura de la Penélope homérica y sus recalcitrantes pretendientes. La prestación recíproca de liberalidades entre los novios es práctica habitual en las novelas y debía reflejar un uso extendido en la vida real. Para botón de muestra las palabras de Nausicles en Teágenes y Cariclea: ‘Te ofrezco a mi hija Nausiclea, aquí presente, con la mejor dote posible. Estoy seguro de recibir de tu parte un regalo semejante, desde que me he enterado de quiénes son tu familia, tu casa y tu país’.29 Por regla general encontramos la dote, proíx, también llamada ferné con un significado equivalente pero menos técnico, acompañando a la engýesis y siendo entregada por el kýrios al novio. También la oferta de dones de los pretendientes al kýrios, a la usanza de la sociedad arcaica del oikós, anterior a la pólis, la hallamos en novelas de gusto arcaizante como Dafnis y Cloe e Historia de Apolonio, rey de Tiro.30 En relación con esta última novela, figura en su pasaje 1 la expresión con hipálage magna dotis pollicitatio. Con tal expresión el autor de la novela se refiere a ofrecimientos de gran ‘dote’ por parte de los pretendientes a la mano de la princesa dirigidos a Antíoco, rey de Antioquía. Pero dos es un término latino con un preciso e inequívoco significado jurídico. Con él se designa el patrimonio que se 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30.

Longus 3, 25, 1–3. Longus 3, 26, 1–2. Longus 3, 27. Charito 1, 1, 11. Hld. 6, 8, 1. Hist. Apol. RA 1 y RB 2.

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entrega al novio matrimonii causa a ciertos fines, pudiendo, pues, sólo proceder dicho patrimonio de la novia o más habitualmente del padre de ésta y en todo caso de alguien procedente del entorno de ella o de parte de ella. Nunca en Derecho romano el librador de la dote es el esposo, ni es dos un término con el que se pueda designar indistintamente las liberalidades de los novios hechas entre ellos, como acontece con la voz proíx en griego.31 De hecho, Tácito observaba que la diferencia entre la dote romana y la dote germánica se hallaba justamente en el oferente, que para los germanos no era la mujer sino el varón: dotem non uxor marito, sed uxori maritus offert.32 Tampoco en las fuentes jurídicas romanas ni en las grandes obras de la lexicografía latina existe tal acepción del término. Veamos ahora la voz pollicitatio. Stricto sensu significa promesa pública unilateral hecha a una ciudad y constituye una específica institución de derecho público;33 y lato sensu promesa espontánea, unilateral y libre de forma, en oposición a stipulatio, promesa formal, es decir, promesa que presenta la estructura pregunta del estipulante-respuesta del promitente y que precisa para su formulación lógicamente de un previo acuerdo de voluntades. Obvias razones de contexto exigen relacionar la expresión pollicitatio dotis, utilizada en Apolonio, rey de Tiro, con el segundo de los significados apuntados. Pues bien, mientras que la stipulatio dotis era el principal modo formal de constituir una dote hasta el siglo V d.C. y vinculaba por su eficacia obligacional al promitente a la entrega de lo prometido como dote al estipulante,34 la pollicitatio dotis o pollicitatio rerum dotalium era a la sazón un simple ofrecimiento espontaneo o promesa no formal de dote, hecha unilateralmente por el oferente y de carácter no recepticio, siendo el oferente la novia o el padre de ésta más habitualmente y destinatario el novio, nunca a la inversa. Certifica este significado una lex generalis de los emperadores Teodosio II y Valentiniano III de 428, la cual consagraría la pollicitatio dotis como modo de constituir una dote y con ello terminaría con la exigencia de constitución formal de dote a través de promesas formales (sti-

31. BDAG, II (p. 1766): προίξ προικός: nuptial gift, dowry. 32. Tac. Ger. 18. 33. Institución a la que el Digesto de Justiniano dedica un título específico: D. 50, 12, 0. De pollicitationibus. 34. A la pollicitatio dotis se refieren las siguientes constituciones imperiales contenidas en el Código de Justiniano: C. 5, 3, 3; C. 5. 11, 0; C. 5, 11, 6; C. 5, 12, 1 pr. y 1; C. 5, 12, 13; C. 5, 13, 1, 7; y C. 5, 13, 3. También en el Digesto se invoca un rescripto de Septimio Severo relativo a una pollicitatio dotis, que resuelve sobre la interpretación que se ha de dar a un pacto sobre no entrega de la dote en vida del padre de la novia: Ulp. 34 ed. D. 23, 4, 11. Otro pasaje de Ulpiano se refiere a una pollicitatio dotis a propósito de una colación de dote: Ulp. 40 ed. D. 37, 7, 1, 8.

Chapter 4. Realidad de la institución matrimonial en la ficción de las novelas grecolatinas

pulationes).35 De este modo, a partir de entonces para la exacción de dote bastaba y se consideraba jurídicamente vinculante un simple ofrecimiento o promesa unilateral, con cualesquiera palabras, no recepticio, aunque no siguiera después un negocio formal o stipulatio. Es previsible que la pollicitatio dotis desde su puesta en valor por los citados emperadores hubiera desbancado a las promesas formales como modo de constituir dotes. En conclusión, la dote (dos) es una entidad patrimonial prometida generalmente por el padre de la novia al novio, ya se haga la promesa formalmente a través de una stipulatio dotis o libre de forma, unilateral, sin convenio, a través de una pollicitatio dotis. No es algo, pues, que pueda prometer un pretendiente al padre de la novia, como indica el pasaje 1 de la Historia de Apolonio, rey de Tiro. Pero entonces, si la pollicitatio dotis no puede ser una promesa de dote libre de forma ¿qué es la pollicitatio dotis en la Historia de Apolonio, rey de Tiro? Ante todo, no puede identificarse esta pollicitatio dotis con una donatio ante nuptias de un pretendiente, pues ésta presupone un matrimonio futuro ya concertado o prometido y en consideración al cual se verifica la liberalidad, cosa que evidentemente no acontece en el pasaje que nos ocupa, pues no se ha logrado todavía el consentimiento al matrimonio ni del padre de la novia ni de ésta y con la suma ofrecida lo que se pretende es precisamente doblegar esa voluntad. Por la misma razón, no es posible identificar esta figura con la llamada ‘dote egipcia’ o donación nupcial del esposo a la esposa, concebida al parecer a modo de indemnización por la pérdida de la virginidad (παρθενία), si bien prestada tras el compromiso patrimonial, no supeditada al hecho físico de la desfloración, a modo de praemium defloratae virginitatis, como acontece, por el contrario, en el caso de la Morgengabe germánica. Pareciera la pollicitatio dotis evocar los hédna homéricos (Kortekaas, 2007, p. 9), a lo que autoriza a pensar la probable redacción original en griego de la obra de la que la latina que conocemos sería un epítome, como sostienen muchos autores (véase en Puche López, 1997, p. 21–31, status quaestionis); también la atemporalidad en que discurre la trama; el gusto arcaizante del relato; así como el fin suasorio de los hédna, pues se perseguía con ellos impresionar y captar la voluntad del kýrios de la mujer. Son los hédna “regalos de boda entregados por el novio al padre de la novia para obtener su mano” (DGE) y, por ello, presuponen la inexistencia todavía de una promesa o de un compromiso o convenio de matrimonio, 35. Dicha constitución imperial está recogida en el Código de Justiniano: C. 5, 11, 6, a. 428: Imperatores Theodosius, Valentinianus. Ad exactionem dotis, quam semel praestari placuit, qualiacumque sufficere verba censemus, sive scripta fuerint, sive non, etiamsi stipulatio in pollicitatione rerum dotalium minime fuerit subsecuta. *THEODOS. ET VALENTIN. AA. HIERIO PP. * < A 428 D. X K. MART. CONSTANTINOPOLI FELICE ET TAURO CONSS. >

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tal como acontece también en el pasaje que nos ocupa; sin embargo, tampoco encaja con los hédna la pollicitatio dotis, pues aunque unos y otra coinciden en su propósito suasorio de matrimonio, nuestra pollicitatio dotis es esencialmente un ofrecimiento o promesa unilateral de cumplimiento futuro, no de cumplimiento presente, como puede acontecer con los hédna. Pues bien, a mi juicio, la pollicitatio dotis consiste en Historia de Apolonio, rey de Tiro en una oferta pública de contrato matrimonial en la que lo ofrecido es un precio, el precio por llevarse a la novia. Se evocaría así el matrimonio concebido como compra de la mujer, el dominante al parecer en la mayor parte de los pueblos en tiempos inmemoriales (Simmel, 1898), concepción de la cual quedaría en Derecho romano arcaico y clásico una impronta en la coemptio, un tipo de conventio in manum de la esposa que, no obstante, se verificaba, a diferencia del caso que nos ocupa, privada y solemnemente per aes et libram. Avalan esta interpretación otras alusiones a la pollicitatio dotis y que se hallan en el pasaje 19 de la novela36 (Kortekaas, 2007, p. 270, las pasa por alto). En efecto, en dicho pasaje se describe cómo el rey ordena a los pretendientes al matrimonio con su hija que indiquen en tablillas las sumas pecuniarias37 que ofrecen o prometen unilateralmente pagar como ‘dote’, dotis quantitatem, en realidad como precio y, a modo, pues, de licitaciones en una subasta. No se trata de una liberalidad con fundamento en un matrimonio futuro o presente, pues éste ni se ha convenido, ni se ha prometido ni existe todavía, sino que la entrega, en su caso, de esa suma pecuniaria ofrecida tendría por causa una contraprestación: el compromiso de matrimonio. No resulta así asumible la explicación de que el autor de esta novela hubiera recurrido en su traducción al término latino dos porque en el supuesto original griego figurase προίξ, término que a la sazón podía tanto significar dote (dos) como bienes entregados por el novio (cfr. Kortekaas, 2007, p. 10). Se da la circunstancia de que dos aparece también en la Historia Apollonii con el significado de ‘dote’ propiamente dicha, amplissima dos, si bien es cierto que tal presencia representa un problema de transmisión textual. En efecto, “la lectura que adopta aquí el editor es algo problemática, ya que no pertenece a los manuscritos básicos de RB, sino a RBern, una recensión derivada de RB, frente al numerato domus del ms. B y al numerator domus de β y π, lectura esta última recogida en otras ediciones” (Puche López, 1997, 161). De esta manera, mientras que en la recensio A sólo figura la pollicitatio dotis, en RB o, mejor dicho, en RBern, una recensión secundaria de RB, es extrañamente constatable tanto pollicitatio dotis como dos, esta última en el pasaje 23. Una explicación razonable nos la ofrece Kor36. Hist. Apol. RA 19 y RB 19. 37. O bienes: aurum, argentum, vestes, mancipia aut possessiones (Hist. Apol. RA 22).

Chapter 4. Realidad de la institución matrimonial en la ficción de las novelas grecolatinas

tekaas, para quien amplissima dos no derivaría de una fuente griega, sino que sería resultado de la aportación por RB de cierta pátina de rigor jurídico (Kortekaas, 2007, p. 315, también apunta el uso de dotem amplam en Apul. Apol. 102). Por último, no debe verse en esa suma o precio ofrecido por los pretendientes una manifestación del llamado pretium virginitatis, pues éste representa una institución, ajena a la tradición jurídica romana, o al menos no lo suficientemente acreditada como institución propiamente jurídica, y propia sobre todo de la germánica, consistente en una liberalidad que recibía la esposa una vez celebrado el matrimonio y acontecido el acceso carnal, a modo de homenaje, premio o regalo literalmente por la pérdida honesta de la virginidad. Se trataba de un regalo que el esposo hacía a la esposa al día siguiente del festejo nupcial a modo de premio por la pérdida de la virginidad en el tálamo nupcial. Esta institución gozó de gran éxito histórico y presenta innúmeras manifestaciones en el derecho medieval. Así, desde la longobarda Morgengabe, cuya cuantía limitó Liutprando a la cuarta parte (quarta) del patrimonio del esposo (Leges 7), pasando por el amabyr galés o el theóretron bizantino (Hexabiblos 4, 13 (10), 3), el cual, sin embargo, se hallaba disociado de los festejos nupciales y no se ofrecía necesariamente al día siguiente de las bodas, hasta el esponsalicio castellano o el creix o excreix de los derechos medievales hispánicos aragonés, catalán, valenciano y balear, entre otras muchas manifestaciones, especialmente en los países germánicos, nórdicos y anglosajones. A la vista de Tac. Ger. 18 podría parecer que la Morgengabe germana se remonta a la Antigüedad: Dotem non uxor marito, sed uxori maritus offert, si bien no puede afirmarse tal cosa con plena seguridad, pues el historiador se limita a indicar que la diferencia entre la dote romana y la germana se halla sólo en el cambio de roles de transmitente y adquirente, sin indicación de otros elementos como la causa (praemium virginitatis) o el tiempo (post coitum) necesarios para poder identificar la institución. No comparto la opinión de la existencia de una institución jurídica equivalente a la Morgengabe y demás en Derecho romano a partir de algunas constituciones imperiales y pasajes literarios, concretamente C. 5, 3, 20; C. 5, 16, 24; CTh. 9, 42, 1; I. 2, 7, 3; Nov. Val. 35, 8; Iuu. 6, 200 ss.; y Apul. Met. 6, 6 (Malavé Osuna, 2004). En Derecho romano estaban prohibidas las donaciones una vez celebrado el matrimonio cualquiera que fuera su causa. Por consiguiente, estaría prohibida una donación del tipo que nos ocupa por ser una donatio inter virum et uxorem (Ulp. 32 Sab. D. 24, 1, 1). Será Justiniano quien admitirá las donaciones del marido a la mujer ya sea quasi antipherna, a modo de compensación de dote o donatio propter dotem, ya sea por causa de matrimonio, donatio propter nuptias (I. 2, 7, 3), de modo que continuarán prohibidas el resto de donaciones por otras causas (donationes simplices), como aquellas cuya causa sea el capricho, el gusto o el placer de regalar del marido, libidinem, como expresa C. 5, 3, 20. Nada

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autoriza a otorgar aquí con seguridad un específico matiz sexual al término libidinem.38 Respecto al pasaje 6, 200 ss. de las Sátiras de Juvenal, la expresión quod prima pro nocte datur, ‘lo que se regala en la noche de bodas’, no parece sino un elemento más del banquete de bodas y en general de los festejos nupciales, entre los cuales se hallarían también, como indica el pasaje inmediatamente antes, una opípara cena y unas tortas o pasteles (mustacea). Hay que tener presente que la Morgengabe no es mero regalo de bodas, como el que se daba en las bodas griegas con ocasión del rito de los ἀνακαλυπτήρια o ‘desvelamiento’, sino que representa una porción importante del patrimonio del esposo. Aquí, en cambio, se trata de un obsequio de costumbre del esposo a la esposa y, además, no queda claro si se verifica inmediatamente después del banquete o si antes o después del transcurso de la noche de bodas. En cualquier caso, para ser pretium virginitatis habría de llevarse a cabo secundo nuptiarum die, de acuerdo con el cómputo romano. Tampoco se puede asegurar que el regalo lo sea en calidad de tal pretium virginitatis, pues no hay alusión alguna en tal sentido. En cuanto al pasaje Apul. Met. 6, 6, se habla de ante thalami rudimentum nuptiale munus obtulerat. Ante no es aquí un adverbio sino una preposición, una preposición de valor temporal que rige caso acusativo, siendo éste acusativo rudimentum, de lo contrario no se justificaría la presencia de este acusativo ni tendría sentido la frase. Ésta sería traducible por: ‘para ofrecérselo de regalo de bodas antes de debutar en el tálamo’. Por tanto, siendo anterior el regalo a la consumación del matrimonio es imposible que se trate de un premio a la virginidad. La referencia pudicitiae praemio en relación con las donaciones entre cónyuges aludidas en la constitución de Constantino de 321, contenida en CT. 9, 42, 1 y C. 5, 16, 24, podría interpretarse en el sentido de premio a la pudicitia de la esposa, pero entendido este término no estrictamente como ‘virginidad’, sino como ‘recato, pudor, honestidad, castidad’, es decir, en conjunto la virtud que cualifica a una buena matrona, pues sólo así tiene sentido la ficción favorable a ella, contenida en la citada constitución de que el esposo ha fallecido de muerte natural y no como resultado de la ejecución de una pena capital y establecida con el fin de proteger a la viuda que ha sido una buena esposa. Con esa ficción y por aplicación de una Oratio de 206 de Septimio Severo y Caracalla la esposa podría conservar las donaciones recibidas del marido no revocadas en vida del donante, ni habiendo existido actuaciones de éste de las que se dedujera su intención revocatoria (Ulp. 33 Sab. D. 24, 1, 32). En este mismo sentido es interpretable pudicitia 38. C. 5, 3, 20, 4: Simplices etenim donationes non propter nuptias fiunt, sed propter nuptias vetitae sunt: et propter alias causas et libidinem forsitan vel unius partis egestatem, non propter ipsam nuptiarum adfectionem efficiuntur.

Chapter 4. Realidad de la institución matrimonial en la ficción de las novelas grecolatinas

en la Novela 35, 8 de Valentiniano III, de 452, así como la locución φθóριον ἔδνον un papiro (PSI IX 1075) de 458, algo posterior, pues, a la fecha de Nov. Val. 35, 8 (cfr. Scherillo, 1929). Piénsese, por último, que instituciones que podrían sugerir la idea del pretium virginitatis, como el theóretron o los anakalyptéria, no existían a la sazón: el primero data del siglo X y los anakalyptéria, vinculados al paganismo, habrían desaparecido probablemente con él. Los regalos anteriores al matrimonio hechos directamente a la mujer, como joyas o vestidos, o a su padre o kýrios son o bien instrumentos de seducción o captación de la voluntad de estos, como en Dafnis y Cloe, Leucipa y Clitofonte39 y Teágenes y Cariclea (“en la mujer produce el oro o las piedras preciosas un hechizo inexorable”),40 o bien de refuerzo o acompañamiento a una promesa de matrimonio,41 o bien los presentes a la novia sólo parecen responder a una mera razón de costumbre social (νυμφικὰ δῶρα).42 También existe la donación hecha por el novio a la novia, una vez verificada la entrega de dote por el padre o kýrios de ésta. Pero tal donación no debe entenderse como contraprestación por la dote recibida, pues no tiene por qué darse una equivalencia de valor entre ambas prestaciones, ni tampoco se trata de un contra-don, pues el beneficiario de esa donación no es el que constituyó la dote, sino su hija o mujer sometida a su potestad. Una variada muestra de liberalidades con ocasión del matrimonio se halla presente en la novela Teágenes y Cariclea.43 Sobre los requisitos para contraer válidamente matrimonio en las novelas grecolatinas, cabe destacar, en primer lugar, la admisión de matrimonio entre esclavos, en contraste con el Derecho romano, que les negaba radicalmente la capacidad civil o connubio: Cum servis nullum est conubium.44 Así lo revelan Habrócomes y Antía y Teágenes y Cariclea. Por otra parte, las novelas muestran la admisión de la epigamía (equivalente semántico del latino conubium) o derecho a contraer matrimonio legítimo con elemento extranjero en los derechos griegos, en contraste con la endogamia propia de la Atenas clásica, que requería la condición de ἀστοί, ciudadanos, de los esposos, y prohibía en consecuencia cohabitar (συνοικεῖν) y procrear (παιδοποιεῖσθαι) con elemento extranjero. La infracción de esta interdicción constituye precisamente el argumento del Discurso

39. Ach. Tat. 8, 18, 3: Ἐγὼ γὰρ προῖκα ἐπιδοὺς οὐκ εὐκαταφρόνητον ἀγαπητῶς ἂν λάβοιμι τὸν γάμον. 40. Hld 4, 15, 2–3. 41. Hld. 4, 8, 7. 42. Hld. 1, 31, 1. 43. Hld. 1, 31, 1; 4, 8, 7; 4, 15, 2–3; 5, 19, 3; 6, 8,1; y 10, 14, 3. 44. UE. 5, 5.

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contra Neera de Demóstenes45 (véase Leduc, 1982, 21s., sobre endogamia en el sistema matrimonial ateniense). Tampoco reflejan las novelas impedimentos de clase social o prohibición de matrimonios morganáticos (véase una panorámica histórica de estos matrimonios en Radin, 1936), como los que impusiera Octavio Augusto en Roma por medio de la lex Iulia de maritandis ordinibus (18 a.C.), tal como resulta de la misma denominación de esta ley. En segundo lugar, y también en franca disonancia con el Derecho romano, las novelas exhiben una gran relajación, del mismo modo que otras fuentes literarias más técnicas, a propósito de lo que el Derecho romano valoró como impedimentos dirimentes del matrimonio de consanguinidad (συγγένεια) colateral. En Teágenes y Cariclea Caricles promete en matrimonio a su hija Cariclea con un primo de ésta.46 En Nino el protagonista habla de su deseo de contraer matrimonio con su prima, sin que esta circunstancia de parentesco colateral represente obstáculo alguno.47 De hecho, para el mismo ámbito cultural Ciro, como nos relata Jenofonte, habría contraído matrimonio con su prima, hija de Ciaxares;48 y para Atenas se refiere Iseo con naturalidad al matrimonio entre primos,49 así como Demóstenes lo hace al matrimonio entre parientes en tercer grado en línea colateral, como tío y sobrina.50 En derechos como el fenicio tampoco habría sido impedimento matrimonial en términos categóricos la consanguinidad colateral próxima, es decir, que era admisible el matrimonio entre parientes, siempre que no lo fueran en línea recta. Así, era lícito incluso el matrimonio entre hermanos de vínculo sencillo, siempre que éste lo fuera por parte de padre (consanguinei) y no de madre (uterini). Tal era, de hecho, el matrimonio proyectado entre el tirio Clitofonte y su hermana Calígona en la novela de Aquiles Tacio.51 También se desconoce en el Mediterráneo oriental el impedimento de afinidad colateral presente, sin embargo, en Derecho romano. En el Derecho hebreo rige para las viudas observancia de la llamada ‘ley del levirato’, si bien ésta se circunscribe al segundo grado de parentesco en línea colateral, esto es, a hermanos del fallecido,52 de modo que debían contraer matrimonio con ellos, pero siempre que aquél no hubiese dejado descendencia masculina. Tampoco la afinidad 45. D. Fr. 59, 17. Asimismo, incurría en atimía el que entregaba en matrimonio una mujer extranjera, fingiendo que era de su familia, a un ateniense: D. Fr. 59, 53. 46. Hld. 4, 6, 6. 47. Nino y Semíramis, PBerol. 6926, Fr. A, Col. II, 42. 48. X. Cyr. 8, 5, 19. 49. Is. Fr. 8, 7. 50. D. Fr. 59, 2. 51. Ach. Tat. 1, 3, 2. 52. Dt. 25, 5–10.

Chapter 4. Realidad de la institución matrimonial en la ficción de las novelas grecolatinas

colateral femenina era problema en Atenas, pues era lícito, como afirma Cornelio Nepote en su biografía del estratego Cimón,53 una suerte de ‘sororato’ o matrimonio sucesivo de un varón con dos sorores germanae, dos hermanas plenas o de doble vínculo: Atheniensibus licet eodem patre natas uxores ducere. A propósito de la promesa de matrimonio, su importancia es manifiesta a la vista del corpus de las novelas griegas, mucho más de lo que lo era en Derecho romano, hasta el punto de que el impedimento de bigamia parece retrotraerse al momento de la prestación de aquélla.54 La monogamia se nos muestra de esta manera como principio del matrimonio en la ficción literaria de las novelas griegas, lo que encuentra perfecto acomodo con la virginidad, παρθενία o σωφροσύνη, término este último empleado cuando se habla de la virginidad como comportamiento moral y no sólo, pues, predicable de la mujer sino también del varón (Kanavou, 2015), insistentemente invocada, como virtud moral y como requisito jurídico. Este enaltecimiento de la virginidad en las novelas no debe ser ajeno a la amplia difusión en el imperio romano del culto a Isis (Witt, 1971) y a sus afines Artemisa y Diana,55 y del cristianismo, también propugnador de la castidad. Sobre la capacidad natural para contraer matrimonio o pubertad, Nino y Semíramis proporciona una interesante reflexión, que también había sido objeto de disputatio fori en los inicios del Principado entre las escuelas de juristas romanos. En efecto, la edad de los contrayentes apta para el matrimonio debía en principio coincidir con el dictado de la naturaleza, con el inicio de la nubilidad femenina o de la pubertad masculina, a la que, ciertamente, se hace alusión en Dafnis y Cloe a propósito del primero: ἤδη γὰρ μειράκιον ἦν (“pues ya era un adolescente”),56 es decir, con la aptitud para la generación; sin embargo, la

53. Nep. Cim. 1, 2: Habebat autem matrimonio sororem germanam suam nomine Elpinicen, non magis amore quam more ductus. Namque Atheniensibus licet eodem patre natas uxores ducere. 54. Ach.Tat. 1, 11, 2: γαμεῖν μὲν οὐκ ἂν δυναίμην. ἄλλῃ γὰρ δέδομαι παρθένῳ. 55. Antía, de hecho, había sido consagrada por su padre a Isis al nacer y hasta la nubilidad: X. Eph. 3, 11, 4 y 4, 3, 3. Isis se revela en un sueño a Tíamis llevando de la mano a la doncella Cariclea: Hld. 1, 18, 4–5. Cariclea se consagra al servicio del templo de Artemisa y, por tanto, reverencia la virginidad: Hld. 2, 33, 4–5 y 10, 36, 2 y desprecia de Afrodita y del matrimonio hasta el nombre: Hld. 3, 17, 5. La madre de Tarsia e hija del rey Antíoco era suprema sacerdotisa de Diana y sobresalía por el celo con que practicaba la castidad: Omni castitatis amore assueta ut nulla tam grata esset Dianae nisi ipsa (Hist. Apol. RA 48). Jenofonte de Éfeso aparece también como un entusiasta del ideal de castidad. El grupo de vírgenes lideradas por la hiéreia Antía consagradas a Artemisa podría verse como un antecedente mutatis mutandis de las agrupaciones de monjas cristianas. 56. Longus 3, 30, 5. En Habrócomes y Antía se suceden los juramentos ante Isis de respetar la virginidad de Antía, como los de Anfínomo en X. Eph. 5, 2, 5 y de Políido en X. Eph. 5, 4, 7.

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necesidad de seguridad jurídica aconsejaba la fijación de una edad para todos los casos, criterio que acabaría por prevalecer en el debate jurisprudencial romano y por permanecer en la historia del Derecho romano57 por sus incuestionables ventajas prácticas y sobre el que también habían insistido, si bien elevando la edad núbil para evitar matrimonios demasiado prematuros, Platón y Aristóteles.58 Pues bien, el protagonista de aquella novela se queja amargamente, pues tal criterio, el de la edad, utilizado aquí por el novelista, le obligaba a esperar hasta los quince años para poder casarse. Se habría tratado de un criterio de naturaleza jurisprudencial o consuetudinaria, algo compartido con el Derecho romano, de ahí que se afirme que se trata de un nómos oú gegramménos, de una ley no escrita.59 El citado consejo de Platón y Aristóteles de elevar la edad requerida para contraer matrimonio y las edades de nubilidad propuestas contrastan con las mostradas por las novelas, las cuales reflejarían ciertamente un uso social muy extendido de matrimonios a muy temprana edad de los contrayentes, frente a lo cual se pronunciaron aquellos filósofos. De hecho, Antía sólo cuenta con catorce años cuando conoce a Habrócomes60 y al padre de Semíramis se le critica que no case a su hija, recién alcanzada la nubilidad, y no siga la ley de la naturaleza.61 Nada que deba sorprender, habida cuenta de que Derechos como el de Gortina o el romano fijaron la nubilidad femenina a los doce años.62 Así, adquiere sentido también aquella queja de Nino, a quien parecía excesivo esperar a los quince para contraer matrimonio, requerimiento de edad quizá propio de un Derecho parto helenizado. De hecho, Nino habría sido escrita muy probablemente en Partia en el siglo I a.C.; podría haber sido incluso la primera obra conocida del género, según las recientes investigaciones sobre origen y datación de esta novela (López Martínez, 2019, 27). La garantía de la descendencia, finalidad matrimonial antes señalada, y la ley de la naturaleza, fundamentarían tal uso social. Por otro lado, esa temprana edad de los cónyuges explicaría la abundancia de matrimonios concertados por los progenitores o tutores de los jóvenes esposos. Son una constante en las novelas los matrimonios concertados, preparados o impuestos a los esposos. ‘Un matrimonio maquina mi padre para mí’, lamenta

57. Así da noticia de ello en el siglo IV Macrobio: Nam et secundum iura publica duodecimus annus in femina et quartus decimus in puero definit pubertatis aetatem (Macr. Sat. 7, 7, 6). 58. Platón apuntaba como inicio de la nubilidad femenina los dieciséis años (Pl. Lg. 785 b) y Aristóteles los dieciocho años (Arist. Pol. 1335 a). 59. Nino y Semíramis. PBerol. 6926, Fr. a, Col. II, 74–75. 60. X.Eph. 1, 2, 5. 61. Nino y Semíramis, PBerol. 6926, Fr. a, Col. III, 83 ss. 62. ICr. XII 18.

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Caricles en Leucipa y Clitofonte;63 Calirroe ‘no sabía con quién se iba a casar.64 ‘Caricles ha prometido a la chica (Cariclea) con el hijo de su hermana’.65 Las comedias romanas de ambientación griega reflejan igualmente este uso social para épocas anteriores.66 A propósito de esta cuestión puede afirmarse que el matrimonio puede ser concebido lícitamente como un negocio en el que ambos esposos, no sólo la mujer, cuando son muy jóvenes, constituyen su objeto, actuando como sujetos en dicho negocio los correspondientes padres o tutores. El uso del verbo αἰτέω, ‘solicitar’, en relación tanto con la novia como con el novio, así lo acredita en sendos pasajes de Aquiles Tacio67 y de Longo.68 La existencia de los matrimonios concertados es debida por descontado a intereses novelescos, pues es muy productiva en términos narrativos esa circunstancia dramática; sin embargo, que un matrimonio estuviera impuesto o convenido por los respectivos padres de los esposos respondía también a la realidad, constituía ciertamente un hecho que contribuía a la formación del consentimiento matrimonial, del mismo modo que lo hacían otros hechos, pues obtener la conformidad al matrimonio es lo que verdaderamente importa, sean cuales sean las variopintas razones que hayan conducido a ella, como el amor entre los novios; el vaticinio de un dios revelado por un oráculo, como acontece en Habrócomes y Antía;69 la riqueza del novio; la cuantía de la donación hecha por el novio al kýrios; o la imposición de un matrimonio al raptor de una doncella, de lo que encontramos una interesante alusión en Leucipa y Clitofonte.70 Y es que, como se ha afirmado, “no había un derecho al amor ni para el hombre ni para la mujer, pues el amor no es nunca el fundamento de la institución del matrimonio en Grecia” (Biscardi, 1984–1985, p. 206), hecho que contrasta con Roma, en que la affectio maritalis, voluntad recíproca permanente de considerarse marido y mujer, representa el “triunfo institucional del amor” (Biscardi, 1984–1985, p. 209), lo que constituye una peculiaridad romana respecto a otras civilizaciones, la cual bien podría tener un origen etrusco, pues hay numerosos testimonios arqueológicos de sarcófagos y urnas funerarias, en que se representa a maridos y mujeres juntos (Biscardi, 1984–1985, ibidem), compartiendo espacio en actitud amorosa. 63. Ach.Tat. 1, 7, 4: καὶ ὁ Χαρικλῆς, “Γάμον”, εἶπεν, “ὁ πατήρ μοι προξενεῖ. Otro ejemplo de matrimonio impuesto en X. Eph. 2, 10, 2. 64. Charito 1, 1, 14: οὐ γὰρ ᾔδει, τίνι γ̣α̣μεῖτα̣ι . 65. Hld. 4, 6, 6. 66. Ter. An. 1, 5 y Plaut. Trin. 2, 59. 67. Ach.Tat. 2, 13, 2: ᾐτεῖτο τὴν κόρην. 68. Longus 3, 30, 2: Δάφνιν ᾐτεῖτο Χλόῃ. 69. X. Eph. 1, 7, 2. 70. Ach. Tat. 2, 13, 3.

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Fijémonos en la señalada imposición de un matrimonio al raptor de una doncella en Leucipa y Clitofonte: νόμου γὰρ ὄντος Βυζαντίοις, εἴ τις ἁρπάσας παρθένον φθάσας ποιήσειε γυναῖκα, γάμον ἔχειν τὴν ζημίαν, προσεῖχε τούτῳ τῷ νόμῳ. καὶ ὁ μὲν ἐζήτει καιρὸν πρὸς τὸ ἔργον. Pues, dado que hay una ley de los bizantinos, en cuya virtud, si uno rapta a una virgen y yace con ella, la hará su mujer, tendrá como pena el matrimonio con ella, se decidió recurrir a esa ley y a buscar la oportunidad de aplicarla.

Este νόμος Βυζαντίοις, invocado por Aquiles Tacio, me recuerda vivamente a la llamada por el rétor Calpurnio Flaco lex raptarum en sus Excerpta o Declamationes,71 así como también invocan esa ‘lex’ en alguna ocasión Séneca, el Viejo, en sus Controversiae y Quintiliano en su Institutio oratoria, lex raptarum cuya verosimilitud para el ius vetus romano y su derogación por una constitución de Constantino I72 sostengo en un trabajo (Casinos Mora, 2011). En lo sustancial νόμος Βυζαντίοις y lex raptarum coinciden: Matrimonio como sustitutivo de una pena capital en caso de rapto invita puella. Ahora bien, hay tres importantes diferencias que tienen que ver a su vez con divergencias estructurales e idiosincráticas entre los matrimonios romano y griego. La primera diferencia es que en la ‘ley de los bizantinos’ el matrimonio con la virgo rapta es impuesto ipso iure, pues tiene naturaleza penal, es una pena en sí mismo (ζημία), mientras que en la lex raptarum romana el matrimonio es una opción para la doncella, cuyo fin es precisamente soslayar la aplicación al raptor de una pena criminal, de una pena capital más específicamente. No en vano para el Derecho romano, no así para el griego, sin consentimiento real no hay matrimonio posible, presuponiéndose tal consentimiento en el raptor, pues la alternativa al matrimonio con la mulier rapta era para él la pena capital. La segunda diferencia es que en la ley de los bizantinos la tipicidad del delito sancionado con el matrimonio punitivo requiere el acto del ayuntamiento carnal de raptor y doncella, en tanto que para el matrimonio expiatorio de la lex raptarum basta que se haya producido la abducción violenta de la mujer (rapere), lo que resulta coherente con la irrelevancia del acceso carnal para la perfección del matrimonio romano como acto o negocio (non coitus matrimonium facit, sed maritalis affectio). Esta diferencia apuntaría a su vez a otra relativa a la distinta finalidad del rapto. Así, mientras el rapto griego lo sería siempre libidinis causa, el romano, o al menos el de la lex raptarum de Calpurnio Flaco, lo sería matrimonii

71. Calp. Decl. 25, 34, 41, 43, 46 y 51. 72. CTh. 9, 24, 1 pr.

Chapter 4. Realidad de la institución matrimonial en la ficción de las novelas grecolatinas

causa o libidinis causa, bastando la acción de rapere, secuestrar o retener físicamente, y no la de per vim inferre, forzar sexualmente. Por fin, la tercera diferencia es que mientras que en la lex raptarum romana el matrimonio lo sería indotata rapta, representando la exoneración de la dote para la doncella una suerte de incentivo económico a la opción matrimonial, en cambio, no hay referencia alguna a esa ausencia o no necesidad de dote en la ‘ley de los bizantinos’, lo que resulta lógico habida cuenta de la misma naturaleza punitiva del matrimonio. Podría concluirse que Aquiles Tacio pudiera no estar inventando esa ‘ley de los bizantinos’, sino invocando con ella una suerte de matrimonio punitivo, que recuerda al matrimonio expiatorio de la lex raptarum impuesto al raptor de una doncella como forma de castigar el crimen de rapto, pues el matrimonio es la pena (ζημία) que se impone al raptor. Repárese cómo mientras para los romanos el matrimonio con la puella rapta es un matrimonio expiatorio de una pena, ya que repara un daño y evita el castigo penal del raptor, para los griegos ese matrimonio se concibe como un matrimonio punitivo, es él mismo una pena criminal. Esta diferencia revela de manera muy elocuente la superior consideración social y jurídica de la mujer romana respecto de la mujer griega: ¡Un matrimonio con una mujer griega podía ser impuesto a un individuo nada menos que como pena criminal! A favor de la verosimilitud de esa ‘ley de los bizantinos’ campea un pasaje de Hermógenes de Tarso de su obra De statibus,73 en el que se describe que en Atenas en caso de violación de una mujer se podía constreñir al violador a un matrimonio sin dote con la mujer violada, pues la alternativa era la pena capital, requiriéndose, eso sí, el consentimiento al matrimonio de la mujer o de su kýrios. Se trataría aquí de una norma relativa a un matrimonio expiatorio con un sorprendente parecido con la lex raptarum de Calpurnio Flaco, con la diferencia de que en este el matrimonio expiaba o reparaba no una violación sino un rapto. El paralelismo con el matrimonio punitivo de Aquiles Tacio es también claro, lo que proporciona como mínimo credibilidad a la ‘ley de los bizantinos’, o quizá sea Aquiles Tacio el que aporte verosimilitud a esta norma aducida por el retórico Hermógenes. El raptum virginis es también evocado en Dafnis y Cloe en relación con el matrimonio, pero, en consonancia con el gusto arcaizante de esta novela, éste no aparece aquí como una sanción de aquél, sino como una forma matrimonial en

73. Hermog. Stat. 10, 79 y ss.: δύο τις κατὰ ταὐτὸν ἐβιάσατο κόρας, καὶ ἣ μὲν γάμον, ἣ δὲ θάνατον αἱρεῖται τοῦ βιασαμένου· ἡ γὰρ ἀξιοῦσα αὐτὸν τεθνάναι ἐρεῖ, ὅτι ἀμφοτέραις δώσει δίκην, εἰ τεθναίη, εἰ δὲ δὴ γήμῃ τὴν ἑτέραν, θάτερον μέρος ἄκυρον ἔσται τοῦ νόμου.

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sí misma, como una forma arcaica de matrimonio por hechos consumados.74 En efecto, se observa cómo, verificada la abducción de la mujer, se consumaba el matrimonio invita virgine con la unión sexual, un matrimonio que, por muy indeseado o deplorado que fuera, como mínimo habría impedido un matrimonio en óptimas condiciones jurídicas y sociales, un matrimonio ‘legítimo’. He ahí el grave peligro del rapto.75 De ello fácilmente se puede inferir la importancia de la conservación de la virginidad como requisito para la validez de un matrimonio legítimo. La virginidad prematrimonial tiene un innegable valor religioso y comunica esa plusvalía al matrimonio sacralizándolo y ajustándolo a la legalidad. Es por ello que Cariclea distingue al marido del amante, pues sólo para el primero se conserva la pureza, dado que el compromiso matrimonial es como un acto de consagración.76 También solo así se entiende cabalmente que la novia pueda ser sometida al desafío de una ordalía para la prueba de su virginidad, que en caso de resultar negativa podría conducirla a la muerte, siendo la condena por calumnia lo que aguardaba a quien había cuestionado la virginidad y excitado la práctica de la ordalía. Si prescindimos del juicio divino y de sus drásticas consecuencias, aún hoy en día existe a modo de ‘cuasiordalia’ esta prueba de la doncellez como requisito normativo consuetudinario de suma importancia en las bodas gitanas. De la misma manera, el hecho de que Dafnis y Cloe, una vez prometidos, debieran ‘quererse como hermanos’ (φιλείτωσαν ἀλλήλους ὡς ἀδελφοί) y preservar así la virginidad hasta el día de la celebración nupcial, momento a partir del cual serían marido y mujer (ἀνὴρ καὶ γυνή),77 es dato revelador de la suma importancia de la virginidad y ya no sólo desde una perspectiva moral sino también jurídica. También lo son: el juramento de Dafnis de no haber yacido con Cloe y de ser ésta doncella;78 la confesión de Clitofonte a su padre de haber consagrado su virginidad a Leucipa;79 la reflexión de Habrócomes de haberse mantenido inútilmente casto hasta el matrimonio ante el temor de sufrir un inminente estupro;80 el juramento de éste ante Antía de conservarse puro tal como lo estaba antes de sufrir 74. Longus 4, 28. 75. Longus 4, 28, 3: Νῦν δὲ τὴν μὲν Λάμπις ἁρπάσας οἴχεται, νυκτὸς δὲ γενομένης < συγ > κοιμήσεται. 76. Hld. 1, 25, 4. 77. Longus 3, 31, 4. 78. Longus 4, 31, 3: τὸν δὲ Δάφνιν ὁ Διονυσοφάνης ἀναστήσας μόνον ἀνέκρινεν εἰ παρθένος ἐστί· τοῦ δὲ ὀμόσαντος μηδὲν γεγονέναι φιλήματος καὶ ὅρκων πλέον, ἡσθεὶς ἐπὶ τῷ συνωμοσίῳ κατέκλινεν αὐτούς. 79. Ach. Tat. 8, 5, 7. Véanse también los pasajes 8, 17, 4 y 8, 18, 2. 80. X. Eph. 2, 1, 3.

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la prisión en Tiro;81 la conservación de la pureza de Calirroe como el más importante de los cuidados recibidos por ésta de sus padres (τὸ μέγιστον, καθαρὰν ἐτηρήσαμεν);82 el voto de consagración a la virginidad de Tarsia;83 o la amenaza de Cariclea de ahorcarse si alguien pretendiera mancillarla84 o su supuesta muerte por conservarse incólume.85 Todos estos datos apuntan hacia esa misma relevancia jurídico-religiosa de la virginidad como requisito del matrimonio legítimo, en franco contraste con el Derecho romano. El deseo por conservar la virginidad alcanza el paroxismo cuando en Metíoco y Parténope ésta se suicida tras ser raptada por el rey de Persia, si bien su muerte es sólo aparente, muestra del componente mágico de las novelas; o la protagonista lucha por mantenerla en la situación quizá más comprometida posible: siendo presa de un proxeneta y ante los individuos que pretenden arrebatársela, como acontece en Habrócomes y Antía, y en Historia de Apolonio, rey de Tiro. En el primer caso la estratagema de la protagonista para proteger la pureza presenta un alto nivel de patetismo: finge un episodio de epilepsia o ‘enfermedad de los dioses’ (νόσος ἐκ θεῶν) en el burdel al que había sido llevada, consiguiendo conmover a los presentes por compasión y por miedo a la vez y logrando así su propósito.86 En el segundo caso el ardid de la protagonista, Tarsia, es más prosaico y fatigoso, pero resulta igualmente efectivo: Narra entre súplicas y lágrimas sus grandes tribulaciones sucesivamente a sus clientes y éstos, conmovidos por su tristísima historia, le retribuyen generosamente sin yacer con ella. Tras cada servicio fingido, ella paga con el dinero recibido del cliente al proxeneta, indicándole que le entrega el precio de su virginidad: ecce pretium virginitatis meae.87 Tal pretium virginitatis recuerda aquel tipo de donación nupcial tan característica sobre todo del derecho germánico, Morgengabe, al que se ha aludido supra; sin embargo, significa aquí otra cosa bien distinta, pues Tarsia percibe una suma de dinero no por un servicio sexual prestado, como sería lo esperable en un burdel, sino por la conservación de su virginidad. Jurídicamente nos hallaríamos aquí en la esfera del derecho contractual, obviando, eso sí, que el arrendamiento de servicios se produce en el contexto de un delito de lenocinio en la modalidad de explotación comercial de un estupro, dada la condición honesta de la mujer no casada prostituida, al menos desde la perspectiva del Derecho romano tras la lex Iulia de adulteriis coercendis 81. 82. 83. 84. 85. 86. 87.

X. Eph. 5, 14, 4. Charito 1, 13, 8. Hist. Apol. RA 40. Hld. 1, 8, 3. Hld. 2, 4, 2. X. Eph. 5, 7, 3–5. Hist. Apol. RA 35. Cfr. Longus 3, 19, 2: μισθὸν τὴν παρθενίαν λαβών.

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(18 a.C.). Se habría producido en términos jurídico privados un cumplimiento ficticio de la prestación por la arrendadora del servicio con el consentimiento del arrendatario. La posterior ejecución del lenón por vivicrematio, que se describe en la novela, es una caricatura de iudicium populi, una mixtura de linchamiento popular y coerción del rey, producto de la fantasía del autor, y nada tiene que ver con la punición prevista en la ley octaviana ni en los cambios introducidos por Teodosio II a propósito de la punición del lenocinio en el siglo V: la damnatio ad metalla y el exilio.88 Pero esa exacerbación punitiva es reveladora de la extraordinaria importancia otorgada a la virginidad como bien jurídico, como lo es, más si cabe, la escultura en oro erigida en Mitilene en honor al rey Apolonio y a su hija con una inscripción en que se conmemora, respecto a ella, como gesta memorable la de haber conservado su virginidad, considerándose la más humillante desgracia el hecho de haber sido presa de un proxeneta, es decir, la circunstancia que más podría probablemente comprometer la virginidad de una doncella: (…) et Tharsiae pudicissime virginitatem servanti et casum vilissimum incurrenti (…)89 En las Fenicíacas de Loliano90 aparece una especie de pretium virginitatis en que el receptor es el varón, no la mujer. El extraño pasaje no puede esclarecerse por la existencia de una laguna. No creo que se refiera a lo mismo que Ach. Tat. 6, 1, 4, pues en éste la suma recibida por Clitofonte de Mélite es una ayuda para asegurar la fuga de aquél, no se trata de ningún tipo de recompensa (cfr. López Martínez, 1998, 201). Podría verse en ello una evocación de la institución jurídica del pallikariatikón, un correlato masculino de los ἀνακαλυπτήρια, una donación hecha por la viuda que convola a segundas nupcias al marido virgen y para compensarle por el disfrute de su virginidad y hay un papiro que recoge esta institución, PDura 30, de 232, y reminiscencias de este ‘precio de la virginidad masculina’ pueden observarse en el derecho matrimonial griego hasta el siglo XIX (Triantaphyllopoulos, 1988). Junto al matrimonio legítimo existiría otro maridaje fruto de la ἐπιθυμία, del apetito sensual, sin la investidura de sacralidad, sin el reconocimiento de los efectos jurídicos propios del matrimonio y sin la pátina de honorabilidad social del matrimonio legítimo (turpes nuptiae),91 en el que el simple gámos o copula carnalis representaría su consumación. Así se sugiere en Leucipa y Clitofonte a propósito de la supuesta desfloración de Leucipa.92 Esta unión socialmente estigmatizada guardaría cierta analogía con la que modernamente se genera entre las 88. 89. 90. 91. 92.

Que figuran en CTh. 15, 8, 2, a. 428 y en Nov. Th. 18, a. 439, respectivamente. Hist. Apol. 47. Lollian. Frag. A 2 r. Val. Max. 6, 1, 3. Ach. Tat, 2, 24, 2: Οἴμοι δειλαία, τοιούτους σου γάμους ὄψεσθαι οὐ προσεδόκων.

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parejas gitanas que quebrantan la norma consuetudinaria de la abstinencia sexual coital prematrimonial. También en derecho hebreo la relación carnal con virgen no desposada obligaba al matrimonio con ella.93 En Habrócomes y Antía parece confirmarse textualmente esa diferencia entre matrimonios legítimos y uniones que no lo son. En efecto, se utiliza la expresión γάμον νόμιμον, ‘matrimonio legítimo’.94 De ese modo, se diferencia el matrimonio nómimon o legítimo de otras uniones generadas por el acceso carnal. En Teágenes y Cariclea se halla una expresión análoga a aquélla: τὸ συναφείας ἒννομον συνάλλαγμα,95 de modo que si el carácter de legítimo no es algo intrínseco al matrimonio –el matrimonio o es legítimo o no existe –, sino una cualidad predicable del matrimonio, que lo dignifica religiosa y jurídicamente, cabe deducir que junto a ese ‘contrato legítimo de unión’ o matrimonio legítimo habrá otro no legítimo, que será una realidad con relevancia jurídica pero distinta a la del matrimonio legítimo, una suerte de matrimonio imminuto iure. El ius civile romano tampoco reconocía como legítimas las uniones que no reunían los requisitos de validez del matrimonio legítimo, entre los cuales no se hallaba empero la virginidad de los contrayentes, al menos como requisito ad substantiam de las iustae nuptiae. Con todo, la importancia de la virginidad de los contrayentes, afirmada con insistencia en las novelas, unida al hecho de que el acceso carnal origina también una unión, permite interpretar que en el derecho griego el gámos o acceso carnal era elemento estructural de una suerte de concubinato o matrimonio no legítimo por muy estigmatizado o coloreado de ignominia que estuviera. Ello unido a otras consideraciones, explicaría el temor ante la violación o el rapto de las doncellas, que producía esa unión, que las conducía incluso hasta el suicidio, como en una reconstrucción hipotética (López Martínez, 1998, p. 138) parece acontecer con Parténope en la novela homónima. Incluso un matrimonio sin consumación física es un ‘cenogamio’ (κενογάμιον), neologismo que paródicamente (Furiani, 1988) utiliza el personaje de Mélite como broma para describir su situación con Clitofonte, con quien acaba de prestar una especie de esponsales o votos nupciales sin ningún valor jurídico al someterlos a una condición suspensiva: la llegada a Éfeso y con ella la disipación de la sombra que Leucipa proyecta sobre la pareja.96 En el caso de matrimonio con mujer que forma parte de un botín de guerra, admitido que fuera el connubio, era lícito el consentimiento matrimonial tan solo

93. 94. 95. 96.

Ex. 22, 15–16. X. Eph. 1, 16, 7. Hld. 4, 10, 6. Ach. Tat. 5, 14, 2–4.

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unilateral. Así lo expresa el personaje Tíamis en Teágenes y Cariclea,97 en un pasaje muy interesante en materia de consentimiento matrimonial: Εἰ μέν γὰρ ἔδει τῷ τῆς ἀρχῆς ἀποχρήσασθαι νόμῳ, πάντως ἐξήρκει μοι τὸ βούλεσθαι· βιάζεσθαι γὰρ οἷς ἐξὸν τὸ πυνθάνεσθαι περιττόν. Εἰ δὲ γάμος, τὸ γιγνόμενον τὸ παρ’ἀμφοτέρον βούλημα συννεύειν ἀναγκαῖον. Καὶ ἀποστρέψας τὸν λὸγον, Πῶς οὖν ἔχεις, ὦ κόρη, πρὸς τὸ συνοικεῖν ἡμῖν, διηρώτα. Pues si hiciera uso del derecho que me da mi autoridad, bastaría con quererlo yo (el matrimonio) porque a quien le es posible obligar, preguntar es superfluo. Ahora bien, en una boda es necesario el consentimiento de ambos. Y dirigiéndose a ella le preguntó expresamente: ¿Cuál es, pues, muchacha, tu opinión sobre nuestra boda?

En realidad, la excepcionalidad de este caso, en que se admite el consentimiento unilateral, no hace sino confirmar la regla general de la bilateralidad consensual. Ahora bien, la exigencia de que el consentimiento sea de ambos esposos en el matrimonio, entendido éste in fieri, como como acto o negocio jurídico, significa que ha de proceder de ambas partes o entornos de los novios, siendo sólo esencial la voluntad del padre o kýrios de la novia y la del novio o el padre de éste en el caso de los matrimonios concertados, como se ha indicado. Distinta de la unilateralidad consensual es el matrimonio endogámico reglado e impuesto propio del Derecho ateniense y del gortinense, pues en ambos se prescinde del consentimiento de los esposos cuando se trata de la mujer heredera, la epíkleros en Atenas y la patroiȏkos en Gortina. En tales casos a fin de salvaguardar la conservación de los patrimonios en la familia paterna se imponía a la heredera no sólo el matrimonio sino el matrimonio con ciertos parientes varones siguiendo un criterio de prelación normativo.98 El consentimiento de los esposos dejaba aquí de ser requisito de validez del matrimonio. En materia de consentimiento matrimonial las novelas griegas ofrecen un cuadro variopinto que responde a diferentes paradigmas jurídicos, si bien con predominio del clásico ático, que otorgaba al padre el derecho a concertar el matrimonio de las hijas por medio de un contrato habitualmente verbal con el esposo.99 Se apartan así las novelas del matrimonio propio del derecho clásico romano, pues en éste el consentimiento individual de ambos novios, junto con, en su caso, el de aquellos bajo cuya patria potestad se hallan, es absolutamente necesario para la existencia del matrimonio. Así expresa con rotundidad esta communis opinio jurisprudencial el jurista Paulo en un pasaje no atetizado de sus 97. Hld. 1, 21, 2. 98. ICr. 7, 15–29. 99. Ach. Tat. 8, 18, 3.

Chapter 4. Realidad de la institución matrimonial en la ficción de las novelas grecolatinas

Comentarios al Edicto del pretor: Nuptiae consistere non possunt nisi consentiant omnes, id est qui coeunt quorumque in potestate sunt.100 En Las metamorfosis de Apuleyo observamos expresado este requisito por Venus a propósito de la unión de Eros y Psique, y junto a él una referencia implícita a la lex Iulia de maritandis ordinibus, que introdujo la interdicción de los matrimonios entre personas pertenecientes a distintos órdenes sociales, las impares nuptiae, como las designa el autor de Madaura: Impares enim nuptiae et praeterea in villa sine testibus et patre non consentiente factae legitimae non possunt videri.101 Si bien es cierto que algún jurista de la auctoritas de Ulpiano, observa cómo de facto se rebaja a mínimos, es decir, al silencio positivo u otorgante, la validez del consentimiento de la mujer,102 ello no autoriza a concluir que de iure el consentimiento matrimonial fuera un requisito para la validez del matrimonio de exigencia asimétrica o de distinta intensidad para los cónyuges. De hecho, la concepción del matrimonio propia del cristianismo, a la sazón ya en expansión, abundaría en la idea contraria, es más, enfatizaría precisamente la necesidad de un consentimiento inicial o consensus, libre de todo vicio de la voluntad y de uno y otro cónyuge por igual, como requisito ad substantiam del matrimonio. En Teágenes y Cariclea, una de las novelas de fecha más tardía (s. IV d.C.), podría leerse esa concepción ‘cristianizante’ del matrimonio cuando se narra la decisión de la protagonista de abrazar la castidad y de no unirse al esposo elegido por su padre para ella.103 Otros modelos de consentimiento matrimonial presentes en las novelas, ya apuntados por una estudiosa (Calero Secall, 2005), son: La intervención conjunta de padre y madre en la concertación del matrimonio de una hija, al parecer en uso desde una época más tardía. Así, en Habrócomes y Antía, donde se narra que ‘a Telxíone la entregaron sus padres en matrimonio a un joven del país llamado Androcles’104 o en Teágenes y Cariclea, en que declara Persina ‘consentiremos en darte un marido elegido y digno tanto de ti como de nosotros’.105 También una especie de ‘autoentrega’ de la mujer, de oferta de contrato matrimonial a iniciativa de la mujer de carácter recepticio, pues no se trataría de un matrimonio por consentimiento unilateral femenino, figura aquélla que en las novelas hallamos en

100. 101. 102. 103. 104. 105.

Paul. 35 ed. D. 23, 2, 2. Apul. Met. 6, 9. Ulp. de spons. D. 23, 2, 12. Hld. 2, 33, 5. X. Eph. 5, 1, 6. Hld. 10, 21, 3.

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Calirroe106 y fuera de ellas en documentos de la praxis matrimonial helenística.107 Esta posibilidad evidencia que en época helenística la mujer griega habría alcanzado cotas más altas de autonomía, seguramente por influencia de la mejor condición jurídica y social de la mujer romana. Con todo, se trata del consentimiento inicial del matrimonio como acto. Si hablamos del matrimonio in facto esse, del matrimonio como estado, como modo de vida en que se comparte lo divino y humano, el Derecho griego, a diferencia del romano, no exigió jurídicamente la permanencia del amor conyugal, la llamada affectio maritalis, como sustento del matrimonio, como requisito de su existencia. La affectio era igualmente requerida en Derecho romano en otras relaciones jurídicas, como el contrato de sociedad o la comunidad de bienes, en las que era determinante la voluntad firme y permanente de varios individuos de compartir o gestionar algo en común. Por último, sobre consentimiento matrimonial aprendemos en Dafnis y Cloe que en la hipótesis de padre esclavo de ambos novios o de uno de ellos se precisaba el consentimiento de los dueños respectivos.108 No existen requisitos jurídicos de forma en los matrimonios de las novelas y no pueden considerarse como tales los ritos religiosos y los festejos nupciales de costumbre, pues su no verificación no afectaría en absoluto a la validez del matrimonio. De forma similar a como acontece en Derecho romano, entre los variados actos, ritos o eventos que constituyen los festejos nupciales pueden hallarse los conducentes a la adquisición de la potestad marital sobre la esposa, la llamada manus. Todos esos actos, ritos o eventos que forman parte de los festejos nupciales presentan un mero valor ad probationem del matrimonio y, en su caso, los relativos a la potestad marital un valor constitutivo o ad substantiam de ella. Así, se representa de manera ritual y lúdica la comunidad de vida que se instaura entre los cónyuges, la conducción de la mujer a la casa del marido y el ingreso de la mujer en la casa y familia del marido.109 Además, se cantan himeneos para propiciar la procreación;110 se pronuncian palabras de buen presagio y chanzas; se ofrecen sacrificios111 y se toman augurios, que pueden suponer en ocasiones una diffissio o aplazamiento de la boda;112 se conduce a la novia al tálamo

106. 107. 108. 109. 110. 111. 112.

Charito 3, 1, 6 PGiss. 1. 2. Longus 4, 4, 3; 4, 6, 3; 4, 7, 2; y 4, 15, 4. Charito 1, 1, 13 y 14. Cfr. Ar. Au. 1735. Charito 1, 1, 13 y Hld. 6, 8, 2. Ach. Tat. 8, 19, 3 y Iambl. Epit. 2, 16 y Fr. 3. Cfr. E. IA. 642. Ach.Tat. 2, 12, 1–2.

Chapter 4. Realidad de la institución matrimonial en la ficción de las novelas grecolatinas

nupcial y se cantan epitalamios;113 distintos asistentes actúan y forman parte de la procesión representando ciertos papeles; y, por último, antorchas, perfumes, coronas, velo y galas114 de boda completan la perfomance. Se echa de menos en las novelas la referencia en las ceremonias nupciales al conocido acto ritual de lοs ἀνακαλυπτήρια o desvelamiento de la mujer, el cual iba acompañado de regalos de bodas, siendo conocidos estos también bajo el mismo nombre, lo que lleva a pensar en una figura equivalente a la germánica Morgengabe, si bien, como se ha apuntado (Perentidis, 1993, p. 4) el empleo del término ἀνακαλυπτήρια está acreditado en relación con regalos ofrecidos no a la esposa o a la novia sino a una amante y claramente a propósito de una relación pasajera y el término es también utilizado para el caso de desvelamiento íntimo de la mujer por su marido o amante, fuera de todo contexto festivo. La descripción más detallada de unos festejos nupciales en las novelas grecorromanas la ofrece Jenofonte de Éfeso en su Habrócomes y Antía.115 En fin, el consentimiento matrimonial, tal como se ha descrito, unido a los requisitos de capacidad civil y natural señalados, y a la engýesis, la entrega de la dote y el gámos, son los elementos estructurales fundamentales del matrimonio que reflejan en su conjunto las novelas griegas. Pero esos elementos también lo son principalmente del matrimonio griego fuera de la ficción, de modo que puede concluirse que las noticias sobre diversos aspectos de la institución matrimonial contenidas en las novelas grecolatinas no son datos puramente ficcionales, sino que responden aproximadamente a la realidad histórica y son lo suficientemente fiables como para ser aportados en la tarea de reconstrucción de una institución como el matrimonio en el particular contexto histórico y geográfico oriental de la tardía Antigüedad grecorromana.

Bibliografía Bickerman, E. J. (1975). La conception du mariage à Athènes [The Design of Marriage in Athens]. BIDR, 78, 1–28. Biscardi, A. (1934). I rapporti tra προίξ ed ἐγγύησις nel diritto matrimoniale attico [The Relationship between προίξ and ἐγγύησις in Attic Marriage law]. SIFC, 11, 57–80. Biscardi, A. (1984–1985). Mariage d’amour et mariage sans amour en Grèce, à Rome et dans les evangiles [Marriage of Love and Marriage without Love in Greece, Rome and in the Gospels]. AFGG, 20, 205–213.

113. Hld. 6, 8, 3. Cfr. E. Ph. 31 y Theoc. Idil. 18. 114. Charito 1, 1, 13 y Hld. 6, 8, 3. 115. X. Eph. 1, 8.

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Calderini, A. (1959). La ἐγγύησις matrimoniale nei Romanzieri greci e nei papiri [The Marriage ἐγγύησις in Greek Novelists and Papyri]. Aegyptus, 39, 1–2, 29–39. Calero Secall, I. M. (2005). Aristéneto y la realidad jurídica en torno a cuestiones matrimoniales [Aristenetos and the Legal Reality around Marriage Issues]. AMal, 17, www.anmal.uma.es/numero17/Calero.htm. Casinos Mora, F. J. (2011). Lex raptarum y matrimonio expiatorio. In P. I. Carvajal & M. Miglietta (Eds.), Estudios jurídicos en homenaje al Profesor Alejandro Guzmán Brito, I (pp. 595–623). Alessandria: Edizioni dell’Orso. Corbino, A. (2012). El matrimonio romano in età arcaica e republicana [Roman Marriage in Archaic and Republican Age]. Index, 40, 156–164. Crespo Güemes, E. (1979). Heliodoro. Las Etiópicas o Teágenes y Cariclea. Madrid: Gredos. Furiani, P. L. (1988). Gamos e kenogamion nel romanzo di Achille Tazio. Euphrosyne. Revista de filología clásica, 16, 271–280. Hidalgo de la Vega, M. J. (1988). Los misterios y la magia en las Etiópicas de Heliodoro [Mysteries and Magic in the Heliodorus’ Aethiopica]. SHHA, 6, 175–189. Kanavou, N. (2015). A Husband is More Important than a Child. The Endind of Chariton’s Callirhoe Revisited. Mnemosyne, 68, 944–949. Kortekaas, G. A. A. (2007). Commentary on the Historia Apollonii regis Tyri, Leiden-Boston: Brill. Leduc, C. (1982). Réflexions sur le système matronial athénien à l’èpoque de la cité-état (VIe–IVe s. av. J.-C.). In Groupe de Recherches Interdisciplinaire d’Étude des Femmes (GRIEF), La dot ‒ la valeur des femmes (pp. 7–29). Toulouse: Presses Universitaires du Midi (PUM). Leduc, C. (1990), Come darla in matrimonio? La sposa nel mondo greco (secoli IX–IV a.C.). In G. Georges Duby & M. Perrot (Eds.), Storia delle donne in Occidente. L’Antichità, I (pp. 246–314). Bari: Laterza. López Martínez, M. P. (1998). Fragmentos papiráceos de novela griega. Alicante: Universidad de Alicante, Servicio de publicaciones. López Martínez, M. P. (2019). The Ninus Romance. New Textual and Contextual Studies. APF, 65, 20–44. Malavé Osuna, B. (2004). Pretium pudicitiae y donación nupcial [Pretium pudicitiae and Bridal Gift]. REHJ, 26, 61–84. Perentidis, S. (1993). Dévoilement rituel et cadeau nuptial en Grèce et Byzance: continuié ou rupture? [Ritual Unveiling and Bridal Gift in Greece and Byzantium: Continuity or Rupture?]. RD, 71.1, 1–18. Puche López, M. C. (1997). Historia de Apolonio, rey de Tiro. Madrid: Akal. Radin, M. (1936). Legal History of the Morganatic Marriage. The University of Chicago Law Review, 4, 597–617. Scherillo, G. (1929). Un papiro del V. sec. (PSI 1075) in materia di rapporti patrimoniali tra coniugi [A Papyrus of the 5th century (PSI 1075) on the Property Relationships between Spouses]. Rendiconti del Reale Istituto Lombardo di Scienze e Lettere, 72, 276–280. Simmel, G. (1898). Die Rolle des Geldes in den Beziehungen der Geschlechter. Fragment aus einer Philosophie des Geldes [The Role of Money in Gender Relations. Fragment from a Philosophy of Money]. Die Zeit, 14, 172–174, 38–40, 53f. and 69–71.

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Tagliabue, A. (2013). Il romanzo greco al servizio dell’erotica passionale nelle Lettere d’amore di Aristeneto. In O. Vox (Ed.), Lettere, mimesi retorica. Studi sull’epistolografia letteraria greca di età imperiale e tardo antica (pp. 411–455). Lecce-Brescia: Pensa multimedia. Triantaphyllopoulos, J. (1988). Virginité et défloration masculines. In Proceedings of the XVIII International Congress of Papyrology. Athens 25‒31May 1986, II. Athens: Greek Papyrological Society. Witt, R. E. (1971). Isis in the Graeco-Roman World (Aspects of Greek & Roman Life). Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press.

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chapter 5

La expositio en Dafnis y Cloe Una visión jurídica Ana Zaera García

Universidad de Salamanca

From a legal point of view, we can affirm that the stories of the protagonists of Longo’s novel, Daphnis and Chloe, show the legal situation of the time, adapting the novel to local law. The literary fiction is not an obstacle to recognise that in the juridical field the work shows tints of reality, which proves that this literary genre constitutes a source of knowledge of Greek law. Keywords: patria potestas, ius exponendi, law and novel

En este trabajo intentamos evidenciar, desde el punto de vista del Derecho, las notas de realidad o de ficción que encontramos en la novela de Longo, Dafnis y Cloe, sobre uno de los temas más recurrentes en la literatura antigua: el abandono de los hijos. Trataremos identificar si la situación jurídica de los protagonistas se corresponde con el momento en histórico en el que se data o si, por el contrario, el entorno social y jurídico son atemporales. Aunque a priori la combinación de la novela y el Derecho puede resultar extraña, y más aún cuando hablamos del mundo griego, debemos tener en cuenta que, en el estudio del Derecho heleno y máxime cuando la ausencia de juristas nos priva de una literatura técnica, las obras literarias constituyen una fuente primordial de conocimiento. Por ello, en la investigación jurídica no debemos obviar ningún tipo de documento en los que la existencia de una institución o una norma venga implícita, aunque sea como fuente indirecta. La literatura es fiel reflejo de la realidad, mostrando situaciones conformes al Derecho, especialmente en materia de Derecho privado. En este sentido, también la novela, que hoy gracias a los importantes estudios realizados por la doctrina filológica ha dejado de ser un género de estudio marginal, (López Martínez, 1998; Ruiz Montero, 2006) debe considerarse fuente de primer orden, especialmente cuando su periodo de auge puede contribuir a esclarecer el Derecho aplicado en las provincias orientales. No

https://doi.org/10.1075/ivitra.40.05zae © 2024 John Benjamins Publishing Company

Chapter 5. La expositio en Dafnis y Cloe

obstante, hasta la fecha los estudios jurídicos que toman la novela griega como fuente de conocimiento son escasos, casi marginales. Como hemos señalado la exposición de los hijos ha sido un tema recurrente en la literatura griega y latina,1 y la novela no escapa a esta tendencia. Abandono, reencuentro y reclamación de paternidad protagonizan buena parte de la literatura antigua, convirtiéndose tanto en la tragedia como en la comedia en el eje central de las éstas (Casamento, 2019, p. 1). Sin embargo, aunque la temática se ha vinculado al relato de la mitología, nos encontramos ante el reflejo de la realidad social del momento. Desde tiempos antiguos el abandono de los hijos es una práctica arraigada en los pueblos de la antigüedad, consentida jurídicamente y socialmente (Volterra, 1960, p. 878).2 Un recurso habitual en el mundo greco-romano,3 si bien parece que fue más frecuente en la sociedad griega que en Roma (Humbert (1962, p. 93); Beauchet (1897, p. 85); Corbier (2001, p. 66)).4 En este sentido son elocuentes las recomendaciones de Platón y Aristóteles5 sobre el abandono de los hijos como medida de regulación de la población de ciudada1. En este sentido, Casamento, (2019 p. 1), “L’expositio di minori è notoriamente un motivo che torna con insistenza nella letteratura antica, greca e latina. Alcuni generi letterari come la commedia o il romanzo trovano una precisa ragion d’essere nell’abbandono di un minore, sicché l’evoluzione dell’opera viene di fatto a coincidere con i lunghi e complessi passaggi che porteranno al rinvenimento di tracce certe utili alla ricomposizione di nuclei familiari e alla riacquisizione alle famiglie di provenienza di giovani rimasti lungamente lontani, con happy end assicurati”. En este mismo sentido ya se pronunció Hands (1968, pp. 69–73). 2. Si bien, entre los estudiosos hay quienes sostienen que el fenómeno de la exposición de los neonatos en Grecia fue marginal, vinculándose al tema mitológico. Sobre esta cuestión véase Bonnard (2018, p. 232). 3. Sin embargo, cuentan Estrabón y Tácito que egipcios, judíos y germanos no tenían esta costumbre: Estrab. 17. 824; Tac., Hist. 5. 5 y Germ. 19,5. No obstante, y aunque en menor medida que las sociedad griega y romana, también entre los judíos se llevaban a cabo la exposición de los neonatos 4. López Eire, (1980, pp. 22–25). En Esparta al neonato se le sometía a una rigurosa inspección por los mayores y si apreciaban en él cualquier signo que le impidiese un desarrollo viril vigoroso, se abandonaba a merced de su suerte … Una práctica frecuente a la que se recurría no sólo por deformaciones físicas, también por cuestiones económicas o ante la sospecha de paternidad. Únicamente en Tebas se prohíbe la exposición de los hijos, teniendo los progenitores la obligación de entregarlos a los magistrados para ser dados en adopción. Por el contrario, las Leyes de Gortina facultan a la madre a exponer al hijo cuando nace después de haberse divorciado. Coll. 44–52 «Si una mujer separada da a luz, lleve al niño junto a su marido, a casa de éste, en presencia de tres testigos. Y en caso de que no lo aceptase, a discreción de la madre uede educar al niño o exponerlo. Tengan mayor fuerza en el juramento los parientes y testigos respecto de si llevaron al niño». Calero (1997, pp. 167–167) 5. Pl. R. 5. 460.c; 5 459 d; Arist. Pol. 7, 1335 b, 20. Viljoen, (1959, pp. 58–69) y Cameron (1932, pp. 106 ss).

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nos, aunque finalmente Aristóteles propone que sea prohibido por ley exponer a los hijos a menos que éstos sean deformes. Según Plutarco (Lyc. 16), Licurgo estableció la exposición obligatoria de los hijos con malformaciones.6 No obstante, entre las causas que motivaban el abandono de los hijos, no sólo se encuentran las malformaciones físicas,7 también la ocultación de los hijos por parte de madres solteras, la privación de descendencia al padre y cuestiones económicas entre quienes disponen de pocos recursos o en las clases sociales más pudientes para evitar la fragmentación del patrimonio familiar son causa habitual de esta práctica, siendo más frecuente en el caso de las hijas (Fossatti, 1983, p. 182; Cantarella, 1989, p. 559; Israelowich, 2017, p. 220).8 Por otra parte, encontramos en las fuentes (D. H. 2.15.) la prohibición del Derecho romano sacro de exponer a los hijos varones y a la hija primogénita; testimonio del que sorprendentemente no existe vestigio alguno en la ley decenviral. También Cicerón9 afirma que según una norma atribuida a Rómulo los padres tenían la obligación de alimentar a todos los hijos y no darle muerte hasta los tres años, excepto en el caso de malformación monstruosa, debiéndose en el caso de los hijos varones y de la hija primogénita realizar exposición únicamente con el conocimiento de cinco vecinos; en caso contrario, sufrirían la confiscación de la mitad de su patrimonio.10 Si bien, a pesar de estas referencias, lo cierto es que la exposición es un recurso implantado en la antigüedad greco-romana más allá de las malformaciones físicas que pudiese sufrir el recién nacido. Además, no es menos cierto que el carácter de la patria potestas romana incluye amplios poderes entre los que se encuentra el poder para exponer a los hijos en los días siguientes a su nacimiento, lo cual nos induce a pensar que la alusión de Dionisio no se corresponde con la realidad social ni jurídica.11 A tenor de las fuentes podemos afirmar 6. Las fuentes literarias romanas hablan de exponere filios recurrentemente: D. C. 45.1; Suet. Cal. 5; Suet. Aug. 65. 7. La exposición de los niños deformes venía, además de por el temor a que no llegasen a edad adulta, también por las repercusiones sociales que una malformación entrañaba. Evans Grubbs (2013, p. 88). 8. Israelowich, (2017, p. 220), para el autor el P.Oxy. IV 744 constata cómo el género de los hijos determinaba el abandono o no de los mismos. Una situación que entendemos es consecuencia directa de una sociedad en la que la necesidad de dotar a la hija para poder casarla supone una carga difícil de asumir para muchas familias. 9. Cic. leg. 3.19 10. D. H. 2.15.2; 11.15. 2 11. En este sentido es interesante la opinión de Israelowich (2017, pp. 217–218) para quien la idea de una posible ley de Rómulo tiene origen en la proyección en el pasado del deseo de la sociedad tardo-republicana de introducir una norma del estilo, intentando con ello reducir el excesivo recurso a la exposición del momento. Para Peruzzi (1970, p. 120) los romanos distin-

Chapter 5. La expositio en Dafnis y Cloe

que la práctica de la exposición además de no decaer, no encuentra impedimentos jurídicos para su realización (Lamberti, 2014, p. 4). Más aún, la exposición no constituyó una preocupación para el Derecho romano, la cual se atiende únicamente desde el punto de vista del pater. El derecho a exponer al hijo encuentra su fundamento en el carácter de la patria postestas o en el poder paterno que se le confiere al padre en el mundo heleno. Un poder que durante todo el Derecho clásico no se pone en duda (Capogrossi, 1982 p. 244), hasta el punto de que el padre cuando encuentra al expósito tiene derecho a recuperarlo. Situación jurídica que también el Derecho heleno reconoce al padre. Es el padre, tanto en la sociedad griega como en la romana, el único con capacidad para reconocer a los miembros de su familia y, por ello, quien puede ejercer la exposición. Y, aunque según Gayo12 la patria potestas es propia de Roma, lo cierto es que en Grecia el progenitor, además de ejercer la soberanía en el oikos, tenía gran autoridad sobre sus hijos (Paoli 1961, p. 305). En ambos supuestos el padre no pierde sobre el hijo expósito la potestas, del mismo modo que el hijo tampoco pierde su status, tal es así que ni podrá ser adoptado por quien lo acoge ni tampoco jurídicamente adquiere la condición de esclavo, aunque en la práctica así sea tratado.13 Centrándonos en el tema de nuestra investigación veamos el tratamiento que del ius exponendi se hace en la novela de Longo, intentando determinar si la naturaleza de ese derecho se corresponde con la regulación de la Grecia clásica o, si por el contrario, la influencia del Derecho romano marca el relato. La datación de la obra se sitúa en la segunda mitad del siglo II d. C., entre los reinados de Marco Aurelio y Cómodo,14 momento en el cual la exposición de los neonatos era todavía una práctica admitida y difundida. El autor contextualiza el abandono en el entorno pastoril en el que se desarrolla la obra, un marco histórico guían dos situaciones: por un lado, el momento del nacimiento hasta que el neonato es alimentado, cuando puede ser abandonado por el padre y, por otro, desde que es alimentado hasta los tres años, un espacio de tiempo en el que el menor no podía ser abandonado. Por el contrario, para Fayer, (1994, p. 141), la norma respondía a la necesidad política de tener el mayor número de ciudadanos posible. 12. Gai, Inst. 1.55. 13. Por el contrario, Monnickendam (2019, pp. 5 ss.), afirma que mientras el expósito que puede probar su situación mantiene el status, el padre, como resultado de la exposición, pierde la patria potestas, una situación que no se alteró hasta Constantino. Una situación que entendemos se aviene mal con la posibilidad que el padre mantiene de recuperar al hijo que ha expuesto, aunque ello implique el pago de los alimenta. 14. Ruiz-Montero (2006, p. 106), cree que “el contexto socioeconómico de la obra, la propiedad rústica que presenta, se ajusta bien a lo que sabemos del s. II d. C. Y hay rasgos de realismo en los personajes secundarios”.

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indefinido, donde el escenario y los personajes son griegos. A priori parece que se enmarca la situación en la realidad social y jurídica de ese momento, a pesar de encontrarnos con “noticias en la novela … que se corresponden a la época clásica y son anacrónicas en el Imperio” (Ruiz-Montero 2006, p. 106).15 Analizando desde el punto de vista jurídico el abandono de los dos protagonistas, Dafnis y Cloe, en principio es factible pensar que no desentona con la realidad clásica griega, donde, como hemos apuntado, la exposición de los neonatos era frecuente, pero tampoco con las costumbres romanas. Cuando Longo relata que son los padres de los protagonistas quienes llevan a cabo la exposición está narrando unos hechos que concuerdan plenamente con el escenario social tanto griego como romano, además de ser conformes al Derecho heleno, pero también al romano. En ambos casos es el cabeza de familia el único que dispone del poder para admitir a sus hijos en la familia, quien decide qué hijos se incorporan a la familia y, por tanto, quien pude legítimamente aceptar a su prole o someterla a la exposición, aun cuando éstos hayan nacido de un matrimonio reconocido por el Derecho, como parece que sucede en los casos de Dafnis y Cloe.16 El matrimonio representa tanto para el Derecho griego como para el romano el único escenario posible para el reconocimiento de los hijos legítimos,17 pero la entrada del hijo en la familia no se presupone por el nacimiento en un matrimonio legítimo, requiere de un acto expreso por parte del progenitor (Paoli 1961, p. 304).18 Jurídicamente 15. Para Edmonds (1955, p. 246) en ocasiones es difícil diferenciar los aspectos mitológicos de los históricos. 16. Muñoz García y Andrade (2006, p. 6.) “¿Quién era ese jefe de familia? Considerando que el padre era más causante de la domus que de los hijos (aspecto de algún modo secundario en Roma), tendremos que las palabras que lo designaban en griego y latín, paralelas y sinónimas, resultan elocuentes por sí solas. El paterfamilias, con su patrimonio, es el causante de la casa o familia; y si le llamamos oikodespótes, estamos refiriéndonos al que rige despóticamente la casa, esto es a los esclavos o familia. Así, pues, ambos términos son de hecho sinónimos, y lo son también oikía y familia, hemos de concluir que también lo son pater y despótes. Sin embargo, creemos, como lo hace buena parte de la doctrina, que la patria potestas romana presenta unas características propias, desconocidas para otros pueblos, aún en aquellos en los que se le reconoce un importante poder al padre”. 17. Para Haentjens (2000, p. 262) el problema del abandono de los menores no implica que los antiguos griegos y romanos fuesen unos bárbaros, pues con la exposición daban a los niños una oportunidad de vida. El abandono, a pesar de su crueldad, evita el infanticidio y no sólo por parte de las mujeres que querían evitar el escarnio público que representaba la maternidad de una mujer soltera, sino también cuando se lleva a cabo por parte del progenitor como jefe de familia. La diferencia es que sólo en el segundo supuesto estamos ante una exposición legítima, frente a la que lleva a cabo la madre temerosa de ser descubierta. 18. No es posible asegurar si en Grecia para el reconocimiento de los hijos legítimos era necesaria una declaración expresa o bastaba la presencia del padre en la ceremonia que festejaba

Chapter 5. La expositio en Dafnis y Cloe

la admisión en la familia es una facultad conferida al poder paterno y así viene enunciado por Aristóteles.19 En el supuesto concreto del abandono de Cloe, observamos que, aunque la doctrina especializada considera esto un hecho extraño en la comparación mitológica, lo cierto es que concuerda perfectamente con la realidad social del momento, donde las niñas eran abandonadas mucho más que los varones.20 En cuanto al recurso bucólico, identificado con el marco de la novela, puede hacernos pensar que se enmascara por imitación de los relatos mitológicos; pero nada más lejos de la realidad. El abandono en el contexto pastoril fue utilizado en la antigüedad de manera recurrente y, más aún, cuando dejar a un recién nacido en un lugar frecuentado por pastores facilitaba la posibilidad de supervivencia de los menores. En este sentido Boswell (1988, p. 179) duda del carácter ficticio del relato y lo identifica con una supuesta ley que prohibía a las clases altas entregar a los hijos a los pastores. No olvidemos que era habitual que los pastores recogiesen a los expuestos como nutritus o alumnus, sirviéndose el nutritor de su trabajo desde temprana edad.21 el nacimiento. No obstante, la declaración en la fratria confirmaba su reconocimiento (Paoli 1961, p. 304). Del mismo modo que en Roma la ceremonia de tollere liberos carece de valor jurídico. El hijo nacido de iustiae nuptiae está bajo la patria potestas desde el mismo momento de su nacimiento, o representa un acto de legitimación jurídica del nuevo miembro de la familia. (Lanfranchi, 1964, p. 46). Si bien, para algunos autores la ceremonia de tollere liberos representa la legitimación jurídica del status familiae del hijo (Volterra, 1951, p. 398). No obstante, entendemos que hacer depender la patria potestas de haber realizado la ceremonia de tollere liberos supondría negar la misma cuando no se haya llevado a cabo y, por tanto, admitir que quien encuentra a un expósito puede tener sobre él la patria potestas. La legitima pertenencia del neonato a su familia depende, tanto para el Derecho griego como para el romano, de la decisión del padre, sin necesidad de que exista una ceremonia. 19. Arist., Pol. 7. 14.10, 1335 b. 20. La exposición femenina estaba justificada por la posición de las hijas dentro de la familia y los gastos que la dote acarrea a la familia. Ou. Met. 9. 678. Para Cantarella, (1989, pp. 558–562) en una sociedad agrícola como la romana una hija es menos útil que un varón, pudiendo ser considerada una inversión pasiva, sin perjuicio de que el abandono indiscriminado de niñas podría poner en peligro la propia supervivencia del grupo. No obstante, las niñas sometidas a exposición tenían más posibilidades de sobrevivir que los varones, quienes las acogían tenían la posibilidad de venderlas como esclavas o someterlas a la prostitución. En este sentido Pomeroy (1997, p. 49); por el contrario, La Rue Van Hook (1920, p. 145) sostiene que no hay evidencias ni pruebas sólidas de que la exposición de los infantes fuese una práctica habitual que se mantenga en época clásica; también Haentjens (2000. p. 261). 21. Dos siglos después de la datación del relato de Longo una constitución imperial de Honorio y Teodosio II, dada en el 409 y recogida en el CTh. 9. 31 (Ne pastoribus dentur filii nutriendi), hace referencia al acogimiento de los menores por los pastores trashumantes. Véase Volterra (1980, p. 133) y Russi (1986, pp. 855–872).

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Tampoco parece que sea una fabulación de Longo que ambos progenitores cuenten con recursos económicos. Existía entre los griegos de las clases sociales más altas la tendencia de limitar la procreación pues, como hemos señalado, subyace la idea de no desmembrar el patrimonio familiar entre muchos hijos, siendo frecuente exponer al hijo varón en la casa donde ya había al menos uno (Castellini/ Paoli, 1932). La tradición griega de no tener muchos hijos para evitar el desmembramiento del patrimonio justifica la exposición de los infantes entre las clases altas. Una práctica que, como se refleja en la literatura, estaba socialmente admitida. Y así parece reflejarse en la novela cuando Dionisófaes alega en la justificación del abandono de Dafnis el haberse casado muy joven y haber tenido primero a un hijo, luego a una hija, más tarde a Astilo y por último nació Dafnis, a quien expuso: 4. 24: Ἔγημα, ὦ παῖδες, κομιδῇ νέος. Καὶ χρόνου διελθόντος ὀλίγου πατήρ, ὡς ᾤμην, εὐτυχὴς ἐγεγόνειν: ἐγένετο γάρ μοι πρῶτος υἱὸς καὶ δευτέρα θυγάτηρ καὶ τρίτος Ἄστυλος. Ὤιμην ἱκανὸν εἶναι τὸ γένος, καὶ γενόμενον ἐπὶ πᾶσι τοῦτο τὸ παιδίον ἐξέθηκα, οὐ γνωρίσματα ταῦτα συνεκθείς, ἀλλ᾽ ἐντάφια…

El padre justifica el abandono de Dafnis argumentando: “pensaba que mi familia era suficiente”, “no lo abandoné por gusto”, sino por ser lo que convenía a su casa. En este caso la expositio habría tenido la función de reducir el número de herederos (Cantarella 1989, pp. 559–563), reflejo del poder de intervención que sobre la familia ejerce su titular y que, en algunos casos, se traduce en la en el control demográfico para reducir los posibles destinatarios del patrimonio familiar. El padre actúa dentro de los poderes que le son conferidos al progenitor. En el caso de Cloe cuando Megacles, su padre, descubre que la joven es la hija que abandonó al nacer, también procede a disculpar su actuación aludiendo a la precariedad económica que sufría: 4. 35.3 τόνου τῆς φωνῆς ἔφη ‘ἦν ὀλίγος μοι βίος τὸν πρότερον χρόνον: ὃν γὰρ εἶχον εἰς χορηγίας καὶ τριηραρχίας ἐξεδαπάνησα. Ὅτε ταῦτα ἦν, γίνεταί μοι θυγάτριον. Τοῦτο τρέφειν ὀκνήσας ἐν πενίᾳ, τούτοις τοῖς γνωρίσμασι κοσμήσας ἐξέθηκα, εἰδὼς ὅτι πολλοὶ καὶ οὕτω σπουδάζουσι πατέρες γενέσθαι.

El pago de los impuestos que tenía que realizar en el momento del nacimiento de Cloe no le permiten mantener a su hija, viéndose obligado a abandonar a la niña. Unos hechos probablemente nada extraños para un lector de su tiempo.22

22. Argumenta el padre que en el pago de coros trirretes gastó su fortuna. La alusión no puede considerarse un arcaísmo. Brioso Sánchez/ Crespo Güemes (1982, p. 138, n. 224) “Estas clases de impuestos extraordinarios con que los ciudadanos más acomodados costeaban las represen-

Chapter 5. La expositio en Dafnis y Cloe

En cuanto a la situación jurídica en la que se encuentran los nutriati en sus respectivas familias, podemos afirmar que no se produce la adopción de los infantes.23 En el caso de Dafnis quienes lo acogen tienen la condición de siervos, por tanto, jurídicamente no es posible la adopción;24 pero tampoco se produce en el caso de Cloe, acogida por un hombre libre. En este supuesto, se hubiese requerido celebrar una adopción inter vivos con el consentimiento del progenitor, situación que no consta. Por tanto, el acogedor será simplemente nutriator, quien, en ocasiones explotará económicamente a los acogidos o, como en la novela, los tomará como hijos sin reconocimiento jurídico alguno. Todo indica que la adopción quedaba lejos de los niños expuestos. Los alumni eran alimentados por padres de acogida y, dependiendo de las situaciones, serán tratados como siervos o como hijos, pero sin incidencia jurídica alguna en su condición dentro de la familia. El expósito, en cuanto que sigue estando bajo el poder paterno, no pierde la condición de hombre libre. Y así se pone de manifiesto en la obra. Cuando Dionisófanes reconoce a su hijo por los ropajes con los que fue expuesto, ejerce como padre desde ese momento y lo hace conforme a Derecho. Parece evidente que la reclamación de los expósitos encontrados era factible. Lo que nos lleva a preguntarnos si el padre biológico tiene algún derecho sobre el hijo que intencionadamente ha abandonado. La respuesta a este interrogante en el momento en el que se data la obra de Longo, es afirmativa. Longo incorpora en los acontecimientos la realidad jurídica reconocida tanto en Grecia como en Roma y que se mantiene en las provincias. El progenitor conserva sobre el hijo expuesto la patria potestas, el hecho de abandonarlo no le priva de ella, lo cual implica que si en un momento dado encuentra a su hijo no sólo puede recuperarlo, sino que jurídicamente se retrotrae al momento previo de la exposición. El abandono durante años no supuso cambio alguno ni para el padre, ni para el expósito.25 Así, en aquellos supuestos en los que el hijo sea acogido como esclavo, volverá a su status de nacimiento en el momento en que su padre lo reconozca como hijo.

taciones teatrales y el entretenimiento de los buques de guerra, se conservaron durante el Imperio, y de ello tenemos testimonios, al menos hasta el siglo IV. d. C.” 23. La adopción no debió ser una práctica muy difundida en el Derecho griego, realizándose únicamente con fines sucesorios. En este sentido Paoli (1961, p. 40–41) y Maffi (1992, pp. 223). 24. No nos queda muy clara la situación de Lamón y Mírtale con su amo. Las clases sociales serviles en Grecia tuvieron distinta condición dependiendo del momento y del lugar. Véase Finley, (1984, pp. 148–163). 25. Sen. Contr. 9.3: expositvm qvi agnoverit solvtis alvmentis recipiat. El Derecho romano, hasta el Derecho postclásico, cuando se acoge un niño abandonado como libre, no se pierde la patria potestas D. 40.4.29 (Scev. 23 dig.) Uxorem praegnatem repudiaverat et aliam duxerat: prior enixa filium exposuit … si pater eum ignoravit, et ideo, cum in potestate et ignorantis patris esset …

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Como se evidencia en el epistolario de Plinio, la situación que se describe en el relato de Longo es acorde con la realidad jurídica del momento. Plinio, como gobernador de la provincia de Bitinia, pregunta al emperador cómo resolver el problema de los denominados threptoi, es decir, de los nacidos libres que fueron expuestos, acogidos como esclavos y posteriormente encontrados por sus padres. En este supuesto la cuestión que se plantea Plinio es determinar qué Derecho aplicar, el romano o la norma local: Plin. Ep. 65 C. PLINIUS TRAIANO IMPERATORI [1] Magna, domine, et ad totam provinciam pertinens quaestio est de condicione et alimentis eorum, quos vocant ‘threptous’. [2] In qua ego auditis constitutionibus principum, quia nihil inveniebam aut proprium aut universale, quod ad Bithynos referretur, consulendum te existimavi, quid observari velles; neque putavi posse me in eo, quod auctoritatem tuam posceret, exemplis esse contentum. [3] Recitabatur autem apud me edictum, quod dicebatur divi Augusti, ad Andaniam pertinens; recitatae et epistulae divi Vespasiani ad Lacedaemonios et divi Titi ad eosdem et Achaeos et Domitiani ad Avidium Tigrinum et Armenium Brocchum proconsules, item ad Lacedaemonios; quae ideo tibi non misi, quia et parum emendata et quaedam non certae fidei videbantur, et quia vera et emendata in scriniis tuis esse credebam

No obstante, aunque la situación de los expuestos en la novela de Longo no se corresponde con la de los threptoi, sí nos permite conocer la realidad legal de los mismos en el Derecho griego y compararla con el relato que analizamos. Si bien, la situación de los expósitos a la que alude el autor no parece clara: se trata de expósitos que han sido acogidos como esclavos y que una vez manumitidos se debe determinar cuál será su condición y quién debe correr con los gastos de su manutención. En todo caso el autor no concreta si los threptoi han sido reclamados por padre biológico o si, por el contrario, la manumisión se le ha concedido por una disposición, puesto que ellos con su condición de esclavos no pueden reclamar la libertad. Ello nos hace pensar que son los progenitores quienes han iniciado el litigio.26 En cualquier caso, no cabe duda de que el emperador tiene la posibilidad de aplicar el Derecho romano o el Derecho griego. Trajano responde que entre las disposiciones que han dado los emperadores que le preceden no hay ninguna de carácter general que pueda aplicarse a todas las provincias, decidiéndose por aplicar el Derecho local, el de Bitinia.27 De la epístola se deduce que no hay duda de 26. Mordachai Rabello, (1979, 233 ss.) observa que en las cartas no se menciona al paterfamilias, lo que hace pensar al autor que es el propio expósito quien reivindica la libertad, momento en el que surge el problema de si debe pagar o no los alimentos al nutriator. 27. Para Pugliese (1982, p. 634, n. 6), contrariamente a la posición de Volterra (1939, pp. 453–455), Trajano no da una disposición concreta para la provincia de Bitinia, ni tampoco difiere del Derecho romano, sencillamente aplica los principios tradicionales tanto de Bitinia como de Roma.

Chapter 5. La expositio en Dafnis y Cloe

que el progenitor tiene derecho a reivindicar al hijo expuesto, también cuando se encuentre en situación de esclavitud. Por tanto, en el Derecho griego la exposición no rompe el vínculo potestativo entre el padre y el hijo, podríamos entender que únicamente lo suspende, sin ser equiparable a la emancipatio (Lanfranchi, 1964, p. 28). En este caso Trajano, que conocía la legislación de Domiciano por la que se había instituido la obligación de compensar a las familias que acogían a los niños nacidos libres y expuestos, aplica el Derecho de la provincia eximiendo a los padres de la obligación del pago de alimentos al nutriator. El emperador resuelve sin tener en cuenta el Derecho romano ni aquello que se aplicaba en otras provincias28 y opta por una medida condescendiente con los progenitores que abandonan a los neonatos sin considerar la situación de quien los ha acogido,29 evitando con ello el pago de la manutención a quien acoge y alimenta al expósito, pero respetando el Derecho griego. La respuesta se debe a que se aplica el Derecho de la provincia, diferente a lo que en otras partes del Imperio venía aplicándose, lo que no supone tampoco que fuese el Derecho aplicado en Roma: Plin. Ep. 66. TRAIANUS PLINIO [1] Quaestio ista, quae pertinet ad eos qui liberi nati expositi, deinde sublati a quibusdam et in servitute educati sunt, saepe tractata est, nec quicquam invenitur in commentariis eorum principum, qui ante me fuerunt, quod ad omnes provincias sit constitutum. [2] Epistulae sane sunt Domitiani ad Avidium Nigrinum et Armenium Brocchum, quae fortasse debeant observari: sed inter eas provincias, de quibus rescripsit, non est Bithynia; et ideo nec assertionem denegandam iis qui ex eius modi causa in libertatem vindicabuntur puto, neque ipsam libertatem redimendam pretio alimentorum. 28. Para Martín (2007, p. 624, n. 1047) de las palabras de Trajano se deduce que Domiciano había establecido en algún rescripto que se debía compensar a las familias que habían acogido a los niños nacidos libres y expuestos. Pero como Ponto-Bitinia no se encuentra entre las provincias a las que Domiciano se dirigía, Trajano tiene total libertad para responder aquello que crea más conforme: “Al revocar en la parte final de su rescripto la resolución de Domiciano sin referirse a ninguna provincia en concreto, Trajano pretende formular con el ello un principio general de aplicación en todo el Imperio”. 29. Para una parte de la doctrina Trajano lo que hace es aplicar el Derecho de la provincia, mucho menos riguroso que el Derecho romano. Entendiendo con ello que en Roma se establecía la obligación del reembolso de los alimentos como compensación. No obstante, la doctrina diferencia cuando el expuesto es acogido como libre y cuando lo es como esclavo, siendo únicamente en el segundo caso cuando el padre estaría obligado al pago de alimentos, como se deduce de los retóricos (Quint. Inst. 7. 1, 14–15). En este sentido se manifiestan, entre otros, Volterra (1951, p. 419) que deduce esta obligación como consecuencia del SC Planciano, que impone la obligación de alimentos al padre, también en caso de divorcio. Por el contrario, para Fossatti (1983, p. 186) las fuentes retóricas de las que se deduce el pago de alimentos por parte del padre, no encuentran reconocimiento en las fuentes jurídicas romanas.

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La solución de Trajano, como podemos observar, se acomoda a la situación que relata Longo; una vez más el relato de la novela no escapa de la realidad jurídica. El Derecho griego, igual que sucede en el Derecho romano, no otorga efectos jurídicos a la exposición del hijo, por tanto, no desposee al padre del poder sobre el hijo, como tampoco expulsa al hijo de la familia. Por ello, cuando el progenitor encuentra al hijo abandonado puede reclamarlo. Más aún, Longo tampoco hace referencia al pago de los alimenta a quienes han acogido y criado a los expósitos como hijos. Una situación idéntica a la que encontramos en el epistolario de Plinio, que, aplicando el derecho local, exime al padre de la obligación de compensar al nutritor, ni tan siquiera cuando el hijo recupera la libertad el acogedor recibirá la compensación de alimentos. El padre, como es el caso de Dafnis, recupera el hijo, aunque en este caso fuese su propio siervo. En el caso de Cloe, acogida como libre, tampoco cabe el ius retentionis frente al progenitor reclamante. Parece claro que para el Derecho griego la agnitio devuelve a los hijos expuestos a su familia, recobrando el padre el poder sobre ellos sin necesidad de realizar ningún tipo de acto. No se produce cambio alguno en su status por el hecho de la exposición. Ello encaja perfectamente con el hecho de que Dafnis pida permiso a su padre para contraer matrimonio con Cloe, pues se ha restaurado el vínculo paterno.30 No será hasta la época de Constantino cuando los progenitores que abandonan a sus hijos pierden los derechos que la patria potestas les otorga. A partir de este momento quien ha alimentado al acogido puede conservarlo bajo su acogimiento,31 iniciándose el camino hacia la protección de los menores en detrimento del poder paterno. Como hemos intentado poner de manifiesto la novela, al igual que sucede con el resto de géneros literarios, nos permite conocer la realidad social y jurídica del momento en el que se desarrolla. La ficción literaria no impide identificar en ella instituciones jurídicas reconocidas y reconocibles, convirtiéndose en una fuente de conocimiento jurídico más; por ello, sus aportaciones no deben infravalorarse, todo lo contrario.32 Recordemos que dentro de la ficción el lector debe reconocer 30. C. 5.4.16. 31. CTh. 5.9.1, establece que el padre que abandona a su prole pierde la patria potestas. Los emperadores cristianos condenaron la exposición (C. 8.51.2) y, Justiniano acaba declarando sui iuris e ingenuo al filius abandonado (C. 8.52.3). 32. Buis (2017, p. 6), “A falta de gran parte de los instrumentos jurídicos conservados de modo directo (como leyes o decretos) –recordemos que las normas positivas se inscribían en maderas que no resistieron el paso del tiempo –, debemos ocuparnos de orientar nuestras indagaciones hacia los testimonios extra-jurídicos. El material que proporcionan los distintos géneros literarios a lo largo de la Grecia arcaica, clásica y helenística –me refiero a la épica, la oratoria, el drama, los tratados filosóficos, la historiografía, la poesía lírica, las novelas, entre otros – es clave para permitir profundizar en las cuestiones que interesan a la historia del derecho.”

Chapter 5. La expositio en Dafnis y Cloe

en la obra ciertos visos de realidad, permitiendo cierta credibilidad (Crespo Güemes, 1979 p. 22), lo que concuerda plenamente con el relato que trasmite Longo. Centrándonos en la novela de Logo, observamos que el autor a lo largo de la obra recurre a distintas figuras jurídicas, buena parte de ellas tomadas del Derecho griego de la época, que no deben ser contextualizadas en la influencia que ejerce el Derecho romano en las provincias. Por ello, aunque en algún momento Longo, remontándose a épocas arcaicas,33 alude a figuras jurídicas ya superadas en el periodo histórico en el que se data la novela, la oscilación temporal en algunas instituciones jurídicas no es impedimento para afirmar que la mayor parte ellas se corresponden con la realidad socio-jurídica de las provincias helenas en ese momento, donde la influencia del Derecho romano convive con la tradición del lugar. Se constata que el Derecho local persiste frente al romano, siendo el que el autor plasma en el relato, máxime cuando va dirigido a un público que, en buena medida, conoce sus instituciones. En lo relativo a la exposición de los infantes, observamos que la situación jurídica de los expósitos encaja perfectamente con la realidad jurídica del momento, coincidente en buena parte en los Derechos griego y romano. Los expósitos no cambian su status jurídico, siguen el del padre y se mantenien bajo la autoridad paterna, por ello los hijos necesitarán el consentimiento paterno para contraer matrimonio. Esto indica que, en ningún caso, tendrán la condición de adoptados en la familia que los acoge.34 El relato de Longo, en buena medida, se corresponde con la situación jurídica del momento, poniendo de manifiesto que todo género

33. En este sentido llama la atención cómo Longo hace referencia al dinero que el novio va a entregar al padre de la novia. Vemos que en este caso se trata en realidad de un recurso a tiempos homéricos, cuya práctica hacía siglos que había decaído. No estamos ante la figura jurídica de la dote de la época clásica, sino ante el ritual matrimonial de esa época, en el que el futuro esposo paga al padre de la mujer por entregarla en matrimonio. No obstante, no debemos entender que se produzca la adquisición de la mujer. En todo caso, este ritual fue pronto sustituido por un matrimonio celebrado mediante una promesa como acto constitutivo de éste, es decir, de condición de legitimidad y donde la dote es una figura con entidad jurídica destinada a la mujer que salía de su familia para convertirse en esposa y en la que se concretaban sus derechos sobre el patrimonio familiar, alejada del concepto de dote en Derecho romano. No estamos ante la dote griega del periodo clásico, aunque se utilice el mismo término, más bien, podemos afirmar que sucede todo lo contrario. Hom. (Il. 16. 178, 190 y Od. 11. 117, 282.) Según Plut. (Sol. 20, 6), Solón restringió la dote para evitar que el matrimonio se convierta en un negocio. Véase sobre el tema, Harrison (1968, pp. 5 y 47) y Calero, (2017, pp. 250–255). Sin embargo, el poder del padre para dar a la hija en matrimonio sin el consentimiento de ésta sí corresponde con el Derecho griego (Paoli, 1961 p. 306). 34. Sen. Contr. 10.14 …, lo niños abandonados “no forman parte del Estado, pues no los encontrarás en el censo, ni en los testamentos”.

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literario, también la novela, debe considerarse una fuente más en el estudio del Derecho griego.

Bibliografía Beauchet, L. (1976 reimp. 1897). Histoire du droit privé de la République athénienne II. New York: Arno Press. Bonnard, J. B. (2018). L’exposition des nouveau-nés handicapés dans le monde grec, entre réalités et mythes: un point sur la question. PALLAS 106, 229–240. Boswell. J. (1988). The Kindness of Strangers: The Abandonment of Children in Western Europe from Late Antiquity to the Renaissance, New York: University of Michigan Library. Brioso Sánchez, M./ Crespo Güemes, E. (1982). Longo. Dafnis y Cloe, trad., Madrid: Editorial Gredos. Buis, E. J. (2017). ¿Por qué hablar hoy de Derecho griego antiguo? Aportes para una reflexión jurídica comprometida. Revista Jurídica de Buenos Aires, 94, 3–12. Calero, I. (1997). Leyes de Gortina, Madrid: Ediciones Clásicas. Calero, I. (2017). Derecho ático y ficción literaria: engýe, dote y sucesión en Eurípides, Revista Jurídica de Buenos Aires, 94, 243–264. Cameron, A. (1932). The Exposure of Children and Greek Ethics”, Classical Reviev 46, 105–114. Cantarella, E. (1989). La vita delle donne. En A. Momigliano & A. Schiavone. Storia di Roma 4, (pp. 557–608), Torino: Giulio Einaudi. Capogrossi, L. (1982). s.v. Patria potestà. En Enciclopedia del Diritto XXXII (pp. 242–245). Milano: Giuffrè Editore. Casamento, A. (2019). Patres non tantum natura. L’expositio di minori nelle declamazioni in lingua latina: il caso di Ps. Quint. Decl. Min. 278. Camenae, 23, 1–12. Castellini, B. – Paoli, U. E. (1932). s. v. espositi. En Enciclopedia Italiana, Roma: Istituto Giovanni Treccani. Corbier, M. (2001). Child exposure and abandonment. En S. Dixon, Childhood, Class and kign in the Roman world (pp. 52–73). London: Routledge. Edmonds, J. M. (1955). Daphnis and Chloe. London: Loeb Classical Library. Evans Grubbs, J. (2013). Infant Exposure and Infanticide. En J. Evans Grubbs & T. Parkin (Eds). The Oxford Handbook of Childhood and Education in the Classical World. Oxford; Oxford Handbooks Online. https://academic.oup.com/edited-volume/38682/chapterabstract/335911986?redirectedFrom=fulltext. Fayer, C. (1994). La familia romana. Aspetti giuridici e antiquari. Parte prima. Roma: ‘L’Erma’ di Bretschneider. Finley, M. I. (1984). La Grecia Antigua. Economía y sociedad. Trad. de T. Sempere. Barcelona: Crítica. Fossatti, M. B. (1983). Vendita ed esposizione dei neonati da Costantino a Iustiniano. SDHI, 49, 179–224. Haentjens, M. E. (2000). Reflections on Female Infanticide in the Greco-Roman World. L’antiquité Classique, 69, 261–265.

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Hands, A. R. (1968). Charities and Social Aid in Greece and Rome. London: Cornell University Press. Harrison, A. R. W. (1968). The Law of Athens. The Family and Propert. New York: Oxford University Press. Humbert, G. (1962). s.v. Expositio. En Ch. Victor Daremberg & E. Saglio (Eds). Dictionnaire des Antiquités Grecques et Romaines de Daremberg et Saglio (pp. 930–939). Paris: Hachette. Israelowich, I. (2017). The extent of the patria potestas during the High Empire: Roman midwives and the decision of non tollere as a case in point. Museum Helveticum, 74, pp. 213–229. Lamberti, F. (2014). La familia romana e i suoi volti. Pagine scelte su diritto e persone in Roma antica. Torino: Giapichelli Editore. Lanfranchi, F. (1964). Ricerche sulle azioni di stato nella filiazione in diritto romano. II, La c. d. presunzione di paternità. Bologna: N. Zanichelli. López Eire, A. (1980). El niño en la antigüedad clásica. Studia Pedagogica. Revista de Ciencias de la Educación, 6, pp. 17–38. López Martínez, M. P. (1998). Fragmentos papiráceos de novela griega. Alicante: Universidad de Alicante. Servicio de Publicaciones. Maffi, A. (1992). Adopzione e strategie successorie a Gortina e ad Atene. En M. Gagarin (Ed.). Symposion 1990. Vortrage zur griechischen und hellenistischen Rechtsgeschichte. Pacific Grove, California, 24.-26. September 1990 (pp. 205–223). Kolh: Bohlau Verlag. Martín, J. C. (2007). PLINIO, Epistolario (Libros I-X), trad. de José Carlos Martín. Madrid: Cátedra. Monnickendam, Y. (2019). The Exposed Child: Transplanting Roman Law into Late Antique Jewish and Christian Legal Discourse. American Journal of Legal History, 59, 1–30. Mordachai Rabello, A. (1979). Effetti personali della “patria potestas” I. Dalle origini al periodo degli antonini, Milano: Giuffrè Editore. Muñoz García, Á. y Andrade, G. (2006). La familia, célula de la democracia antigua y moderna: De Aristóteles a Tocqueville. Revista de Filosofía 54, 81–118. Paoli, U. (1961). s.v. Famiglia. NNDI VII, 36–46. Torino: Unione tipografico editrice torinese Peruzzi, E. (1970). Origini di Roma 1, Firenze: Valmartina Editore. Pomeroy, S. B. (1997). Families in Classical and Hellenistic Greece. Representations and Realites, New York: Clarendon Press. Pugliese, G. (1982). Note sull’expositio in diritto romano. En Studi in onere C. Sanfilippo VI(432–445). Milano: Giurffrè Editore. Ruíz Montero, C. (2006). La novela griega, Madrid. Russi, A. (1986). I pastori e l’esposizione degli infanti nella tarda legislazione imperiale e nei documenti epigrafici. MEFRA. 98.2, 855–872. Van Hook, L. R. (1920). The Exposure of Infams at Athens. Transactions and Proceedings of the American Philological Association, 51, 134–145. Viljoen, G. van N. (1959). Plato and Aristotle on the Exposure of lnfants at Athens, Acta Classica 11, pp. 58–69. Volterra, E. (1939). s v. Esposizioni dei nati. Diritto greco e diritto romano, NNDI, 878–879. Torino: Unione tipografico editrice torinese.

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Volterra, E. (1951). Un’osservazione in tema di tollere liberos, En Festschrift Fritz Schulz I (388–398). Weimar: Herm. Böhlaus Nachf. Volterra, E. (1980). Intorno alla formazione del Codice Teodosiano, BIDR, 83, 111–145.

chapter 6

Consent in Greek and Roman marriage A comparative note on the Achilles Tatius’ novel Leucippe and Clitophon (8.18.3–4) Mª Aránzazu Calzada González Universidad de Alicante

The final mention in Achilles Thacius’ story “Leucippe and Clitophon" of the paternal decision for the daughter to marry allows us to compare nuptial consent in Greek and Roman law, as well as the different legal consideration of the bride’s will in each of them. Keywords: Greek marriage, Roman marriage, consent, engyesis, Greek novel, Achilles Tatius τοῦτό μοι μᾶλλον ἀσθὲν εἰς τέλος τὴν ψυχὴν ἐξέκαυσεν Ach. Tat. 1.5

The purpose of these pages is to examine the part played by consent, both in Greek and Roman marriage, in the light of Achilles Tatius’ account of the love affair of Leucippe and Clitophon. I shall contrast Achilles Tatius text, still faithful to the Greek tradition on marriage despite being conceived in the second century AD and within the Roman empire,1 with the Roman texts in order to highlight the differences between the two legal systems. The marriage of the protagonists and that of Callisthenes to Calligone, Clitophon’s sister, as well as the novel’s happy ending, are the essential part of the account. In this way, the legally constituted marriage is conceived as an inalienable aspiration of the lovers, despite all the inconveniences they encounter in the path to it. I shall take as my starting point the reference in the final chapter of the novel (Ach. Tat. 8, 18, 3–4), which essentially makes it clear that the decision to marry does not depend on the bride, but on her father: 1. Leucippe and Clitophon is largely faithful to the Greek concept of marriage, but as Liviabella Furiani 1988 272 points out, although some of the technical vocabulary of institutions such as engyesis (or engye) is preserved (e. g. V.10.3), the meaning is not comparable to what it had in Attic law and sometimes more vague and general expressions are used (I.7.5). https://doi.org/10.1075/ivitra.40.06cal © 2024 John Benjamins Publishing Company

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νῦν οὖν εἰς τὴν Τύρον αὐτὴν ἀπαγαγεῖν ἔγνωκα πρός τὸν πατέρα καὶ νόμῳ παρ' ἐκείνου λαβεῖν τὸν γάμον. ἂν μὲν οὖν ἐθεληση μοι δοῦναι τὴν κόρην, ἀγαθῆ τύχη δέξομαι· ἂν δὲ σκαιὸς γένηται καὶ δύσκολος, παρθένον αὐτὴν ἀπολήψεται. ἐγὼ γὰρ προῖκα ἐπιδιδοὺς οὐκ εὐκαταφρόνητον ἀγαπητῶς ἂν λάβοιμι τὸν γάμον. ἀναγνώσκομαι δὲ σοι καὶ τὸ συμβόλαιον, ὃ φθάω πρὸ τοῦ πολέμου γράψας, δεόμενος συνοικίσαι τῷ Καλλισθένει τὴν κόρην, τό τε γένος αὐτου καταλέγων καὶ τὸ ἀξίωμα καὶ τὰς ἐν τοῖς πολέμοις ἀριστείας. τοῦτο γὰρ ἐστιν ἡμῖν συγκείμενον. ἐγὼ δέ, ἢν τὴν ἔφεσιν ἀγωνισώμεθα, διέγνωκα πρῶτον μὲν εἰς τὸ Βυζάντιον διαπλεῦσαι, μετὰ ταῦτα δὲ εἰς τὴν Τύρον". καὶ ταῦτα διαμυθολογήσαντες ἐκοιμήθημεν τὸν αὐτὸν τρόπον.

In my opinion, this is an undeniable (but also misleading) allusion to ἐγγγύησις (also ἐγγγύη), which had been the main requirement for marriage in Attic law (Beauchet, 1897, pp. 123–126; Harrison 1968: p. 9; Macdowell, 1978: p. 84), since it is the father – Hippias – who gives his daughter Calligone and is ultimately the one who gives consent. The bridegroom – Callisthenes – receives the bride legally from him and so it is expressed in the fragment when he tells how he decides to take her to Tyre, to Calligone’s father’s house, and take her legally as his wife. The vocabulary of this text is significant. Thus, it is stated: “I decided to take her to the father’s house and receive her from him (παρ’ ἐκείνου refers to Calligone’s father) legally" (νόμῳ). The bride’s consent is therefore irrelevant from a legal point of view (Guettel Cole, S, 2004, p. 153), but it is a powerful narrative element. The text clearly reveals that the decision to marry does not depend on the bride, but on her father who consents; thus, even if she were absent, the marriage would be fully valid. However, it should be made clear that the one who agrees to the marriage can be the father or the one who has the kyrieia, that is, the power over the bride, a power that could be compared to guardianship and not so much to patria potestas as some authors maintain. It is important not to mistake kyrieia and its role to patria potestas. Thus, certain similarities have been found between the Athenian marriage and the Roman marriage called sine manu (Cantarella, 1964, pp. 121–161).2 Although this issue cannot be developed here, it should be noted that the respective contexts of each institution are very different. Both the Romans (Gai. 1, 55) and the Greeks were aware that parental authority was specific to Roman law and that it was difficult to find parallels in other legal systems (D.H. 2, 27; S.E. 3, 211). It is significant that the allusions made by the Greeks to this institution reveal a lack of knowledge of its nature. 2. On this topic, Torrent, (2005, s. v. Matrimonium cum manu. p. 692). Regarding the marriage in Achilles Tatius (Liviabella Furiani 1988).

Chapter 6. Consent in Greek and Roman marriage

Both the demands of the story and the Greek context within the Roman Empire must be weighed in order to characterise the kind of marriage that is alluded to in this novel. In the following lines I will try to connect both spheres, i.e. the story and the legal context from which the author builds it. These are, obviously, indirect references to a legal context which, moreover, the author himself is far from knowing in detail. That is why it is significant that the institution we are commenting on is so important for the development of the action. The character of Callisthenes is at first only attracted to Calligone, but then falls madly in love with her and behaves in a way that would be expected of him in such a case, for he has abducted her – mistakenly believing her to be Leucippe – with the intention of keeping her by his side without any intention of marrying her. In the evolution of the character, we see how he moves from abduction, which has a novelistic function, and alludes to marriage in which abduction was part of the ritual but not the basis of the legitimate union, to respecting her virginity until her father legally gives her to him.3 At the beginning of the story, it is recounted how Callisthenes had fallen in love with Leucippe without actually knowing her and wanted to make her his wife, so he went to her father, Sostratus, to ask for his daughter in marriage. And her father," horrified by the wildness of the suitor’s life, refused" (Ach. Tat. 2, 13, 2), although he later regretted his contemptuous refusal when he talked to him about his daughter’s marriage (Ach. Tat. 8, 17, 7). As a result of the refusal, Callisthenes “plots not only to take revenge on Sostratus for his offence, but also to satisfy his own desire. For the Byzantines have a law that if one, after snatching a virgin, makes her his wife in advance, he will be punished by marriage, he took advantage of this law and sought the suitable moment for the action" (Ach. Tat. 2, 13, 3). As we already know, Callisthenes finally abducts Caligone mistakenly confusing her with Leucippe (Ach. Tat. 2, 16, 2) and the events that will conclude with the falling in love of Calligone and Callistes, their declaration of love (Ach. Tat. 8, 17, 3), the giving of the dowry (Ach. Tat. 8, 17, 4; 18, 4) and the marriage celebrated in Tyre take place (Ach. Tat. 8, 18, 3; 19, 3). From these sources it can be deduced that, although in a way alien to the meaning that ἐγγύησις had in its original context, from the verb ἐγγυάω, meaning in general “to offer something as security" but also “to give in marriage" (Partsch, 1909, pp. 46–54), Bailly (2000, p. 565.)4 is the element that in the Hellenistic and 3. Marriage by abduction cannot be explained as a phase in the evolution of Greek marriage (Daremberg/Saglio, s. v. Matrimonium, p. 1639). It was traditional and part of a ritual, but on the other hand abduction thus remains a real possibility to the extent that it was even persecuted by Constantine, vid. Schwartz, (2016, pp. 216–217). 4. Hdt. 6, 57; Pl. Lg. 923d and E. IA. 703.

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Roman context is associated with marriage and paternal consent.5 Likewise, ἐγγύησις can be considered relevant for the purpose of determining Athenian citizenship (D. 46, 2, 2) and, in the Hellenistic world, was perhaps significant to prove the link to the Hellenised environment. As a matter of fact, ἐγγύησις is not, as some authors have claimed, an institution comparable to the Roman sponsalia. Even in a context – the Roman context – where the true basis of this institution has been forgotten or perhaps adapted to new circumstances, the Greeks still perceive its importance. It is a different matter that in many Latin literary texts, as for example in Plautus, ἐγγύησις is interpreted by assimilating it to Roman models (sponsalia). But this does not seem to be the case in a Greek context. (Gaertner 2014: pp. 615–633) As far as consent is concerned – and ἐγγύησις is an element directly related to this requirement – the differences with Roman law are obvious and do not seem to have become blurred in the 2nd century AD, within the Roman Empire. The definitions of marriage, an institution belonging to the ius civile, imply its link with Roman citizenship and show its high status in Roman society, to the point of being principium urbis et seminarium Rei publicae, in the words of Cicero (Cic. Off. 1, 17, 54). It is well known that research offers notable discussions about the importance of consent as the basis of Roman marriage: whether it is contractual consent, according to the majority belief of the doctrine until the 19th century, or cohabitation, in the opinion of Manenti, a thesis generally supported and generally accepted until Orestano and Volterra maintained that the basis of marriage was to be found in consent, but this being not only initially but continuously enforceable. We shall highlight, by means of Roman legal sources, the differences between the Greek conception of marriage, which survives in the eastern part of the empire, and the Roman conception (Treggiari, 1982, pp. 34–44). D. 50,17, 30 (Ulp. 35 ad Sab.): Nuptias non concubitus, sed consensus facit.

This very conclusive statement by Ulpian6 is in fact taken from a concrete case, as is common in Roman jurisprudence, which was case law. In this occasion the Compilers have preserved the original text in another book of the Digest. Matrimonium being an institution of ius civile, the text comes from a commentary ad Sabinum. D. 35, 1, 15 (Ulp. 35 ad Sab.) Cui fuerit sub hac condicione legatum “si in familia nupsisset", videtur impleta condicio statim atque ducta est uxor, quamvis nondum in cubiculum mariti venerit. Nuptias enim non concubitus, sed consensus facit.

5. Sánchez-Moreno Ellart, (2013 s. v. “Marriage” pp. 4317–4318). 6. On the meaning of ‘nuptiae’, vid. Waelkens, (2015, pp. 226–227).

Chapter 6. Consent in Greek and Roman marriage

As we can see, the original case raised an issue of inheritance law. Someone in his will had made a bequest conditional on the woman’s marriage and Ulpian considered it relevant that she had been taken as his wife even though there was not yet cohabitation. What is relevant, he concludes, is consent. But this consensus, however, is not the initial one, but the one that is expressed in the type of cohabitation. In this, Roman marriage depends on society’s valuation of conjugal cohabitation. This is defined, as Orestano and Volterra pointed out, in two concepts; honor matrimonii and affectio maritalis. To sum up, whenever affectio maritalis disappears it can be stated that marriage itself also disappears (D. 24, 1, 32, 13, Ulp. 32 ad Sab.; Cic. de Orat. 1, 183; 238). Affectio maritalis is obviously more relevant than coition itself (D. 50, 17, 30, Ulp. 36 ad Sab.; Cic. de Orat. 1, 183; 238). In some way it played the part of the internal requirement of marriage, the external requirement, the honor matrimonii, being the public value of this affection (D. 39, 5, 31, Pap. 12 resp.).7 In my opinion, the last quoted text explains quite well what is meant by honor matrimonii and affectio maritalis. D. 39, 5, 31 pr. (Pap. 12 resp.): Donationes in concubinam collatas non posse revocari convenit nec, si matrimonium inter eosdem postea fuerit contractum, ad irritum reccidere quod ante iure valuit. An autem maritalis honor et affectio pridem praecesserit, personis comparatis, vitae coniunctione considerata perpendendum esse respondi: neque enim tabulas facere matrimonium.

The case deals with the question of whether it is possible to treat gifts (donationes) to a concubine in the same way as gifts between spouses which – as widely known – raised problems in Roman law. The jurist -Papinian- states that a relationship based on concubinage cannot be treated as one based on marriage, even when the concubine subsequently marries her former lover. Therefore, such gifts cannot be revoked as if they were gifts within the marriage, as the subsequent marriage does not change the situation in which the gifts were made (ad irritum reccidere quod ante iure valuit). Within this conceptual framework the jurist answers the question as to when the marriage bond can be considered to have begun. Papinian concludes that both the honor matrimonii and the affectio maritalis must be socially valued and that these requirements are the determining ones, since the existence of a marriage is not due to the written document.8 7. Sánchez-Moreno Ellart, (s. v. “Marriage”, pp. 4319–4321), relying on Volterra, (1955); Id. (1961) Orestano, (1951). 8. Sánchez-Moreno Ellart (s. v. ‘tabulae nuptiales’, 2013, pp. 6509–6510): The tabulae nuptiales were only indirectly a proof of marriage, since in Classical Roman law marriage required nei-

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I would like to make one more point, and the comparison is artificial because the requirements of matrimonial honour and marital affection elaborated by Roman jurisprudence are not really raised. We refer to the role of mutual consent as the basis of marriage in an episode of this novel. In that sense – and only in that – the marriage between Melite and Clitophon (V.14.2) is close to the Roman model and distances itself from the traditional Greek one. Saundra Schwartz has rightly pointed out that Roman marriage, including the Augustan legislation concerning this institution, had practically no influence on the provincial world, let by no means on that of the Greek tradition (Schwartz, 2016, pp. 6–7). This is why we will see that only traces of the Greek and Hellenistic marriage appear in the novel’s conception as decisive features, even though they are far removed from the original context. Everything is highly different in the novel of Achilles Tatius, that is why I will refer to the different texts in which parental consent is referred to as a key element. At the beginning of the story (the idea that paternal consent is decisive for the conclusion of the marriage is corroborated, since Hippias had first arranged the marriage between his children Calligone and Clitophon, given that Greek law traditionally permitted the union between siblings with a simple bond – on the father’s side, or even on the mother’s as in Sparta – and had begun preparations for the marriage, when Clitophon was nineteen years old, to take place the following year, and he had begun preparations for the wedding, to take place the following year, as the protagonist refers to and expresses it, although he also announces that “the Moirai – more powerful than men – had another wife for him". However, Fortune was about to act. After the arrival of his cousin Leucippe from Byzantium, Clitophon falls hopelessly in love with her and soon discovers that his love is reciprocated. Despite this, Clitophon laments to his cousin Cleinias: “I could not marry, for I have been entrusted in marriage to another maiden. And my father urges me to these marriages by asking fair things of me, that I should marry not a strange or ugly girl, nor even sell me for wealth, but give me his own daughter, beautiful indeed, O gods, before I have seen Leucippe"(Ach. Tat. 1, 11, 2). And he describes the anxiety that the situation causes him as if it were a quarrel: “I am on the border of two opposites: Eros and my father are in rivalry, how shall I settle the quarrel? Necessity and nature are fighting. I want, father, to decide in your favour, but I have a very difficult adversary. He tries the judge ther a written testatio (C. 4.21.6, cf. Kaser, 1971, p. 322) nor a formal ceremony, but only the two already mentioned requirements, i.e. affectio maritalis and honor matrimonii. We can also point out to some differences between Greek and Roman documents. Unlike Greek marriage contracts, Roman documents never included clauses concerning marital behaviour. They were mainly focused on financial matters (Gardner, 1986, p. 37).

Chapter 6. Consent in Greek and Roman marriage

with torments, he has presented himself with darts, he judges with fire. If I disobey him, father, I am consumed by his fire (Ach. Tat. 1, 11, 3). Clitophon regrets the impending wedding with his sister, hastily arranged by his father: “And after a few days, my father arranged the wedding more quickly than he had decided before … he hurried to marry us and thus prepared it for the next day … and thus celebrated the sacrifices that precede weddings … (Ach. Tat. 2, 11, 1–2). I gave up and looked for a remedy by which I could postpone the marriage"(Ach. Tat. 2, 12, 1). As is often the case in the Greek novel, at the right moment an ill augury brought about the suspension of the wedding: this bad augury was the abduction of Calligone by Callisthenes (Ach. Tat. 2, 16, 2) much to Clitophon’s relief: “And I breathed, as my marriage was thus unexpectedly undone, but I grieved, nevertheless for my sister fallen into such misfortune" (Ach. Tat. 2, 18, 6). We already know about the episodes that follow until the marriage of the protagonists takes place. We will dwell, therefore, only on those aspects that concern the problem we are dealing with. The protagonists decide to flee, which leads to all sorts of adventures and misadventures. Throughout novel, the two young lovers persevere in their love, promise each other fidelity (Ach. Tat. 2, 19, 1) and decide to marry, which will only happen at the end of the story, despite the tribulations and difficulties they suffer, including Leucippe’s three apparent deaths. s of a letter sent by Sostratus, Leucippe’s father, in which he expresses his willingness to give his daughter in marriage to Clitophon (5.10. 3). Hippias believes that the letter contains a promise of marriage that will make the lovers happy, but Cleitus receives the good news in the mistaken belief that Leucippe is dead: “O goddess, now he gives Leucippe to me and sends me to marriage … Woe to happy events that come at the wrong time! Woe to me, happy for a day! Weddings after death, hymenaeum after the threnody" (Ach. Tat. 5, 11, 1–2). At another point in the novel, allusion is made to the paternally imposed marriage of Charicles, who is in love with Cleinias: “My father is planning a wedding for me … with a view to getting riches he is bent on marriage", says Charicles, and Cleinias wonders what his lover has done to make his father give him a marriage because he considers marriage a disgrace and corroborates this with the allusion to the evils that women have caused with regard to marriage: if they love they cause death and if they do not love they kill" (Ach. Tat. 1, 8). The lovers express their willingness to marry, so that marriage is the institution that underpins the story from beginning to end. The will of the lovers overrides Hippias’ initial determination to marry off his children Cleitus and Callisthenes, as well as Sostratus’ refusal to agree to Leucippe’s marriage to Callisthenes. To sum up, the paternally imposed marriage provides the plot of the novel and enables the development of the love story.

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The novel unquestionably reflects the father’s power of decision regarding the marriage of his children, especially daughters, as is evident both when Hippias intended to marry his daughter to Clitophon and when he finally agrees to her marriage to Callisthenes. Likewise, Sostratus, Leucippe’s father, expresses his willingness in to give her daughter in marriage a letter sent to his brother Hippias to arrange the marriage between Leucippe and Clitophon.

Bibliography Bailly, A. (2000). Dictionnaire Grec-Français. Paris: Hachette. Beauchet, L. (1897). L’histoire du Droit privé de la république athénienne. Paris: ChevalierMarescq. Cantarella, E. (1964). La ἐγγύη prima e dopo la legislazione di Solone. Rendiconti dell’Istituto Lombardo, 98, pp. 121–161. Daremberg, Ch. V. – Saglio, E. Le Dictionnaire des Antiquités Grecques et Romaines. Paris: Hachette. Gaertner, J. F. (2014). Law and Roman Comedy. M. Fontane & A. C. Scafuro, The Oxford Handbook of Greek and Roman Comedy (pp. 615–633). Oxford: Oxford University Press. Gardner, J. F. (1986). Women in Roman Law and Society. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Guettel Cole, S. (2004). Landscapes, Gender and Ritual Space. Berkeley-Los Angeles-London: University of California Press. Harrison A. R. W. (1968). The Law of Athens I, Oxford: Clarendon. Kaser, M. (1971). Das Römische Privatrecht, 2. Munich: C.H. Beck. Liviabella Furiani, P. 1988 “Gamos” e “Kenogamion” nel romanzo di Achille Tazio. Euphrosyne: Revista de filología clássica, 16, pp. 271–280. Macdowell, D. M. (1978). The Law in Classical Athens. Ithaca (NY ): Cornell University Press. Orestano, R. (1951). La struttura giuridica del matrimonio romano: dal diritto classico al diritto giustinianeo. Milan: Giuffrè Editore. Partsch, J. (1909). Griechische Burgschaftrecht I, Leipzig: B. G. Teubner. Sánchez-Moreno Ellart, C. (2013) s. v. Marriage (Greece and Rome). Encyclopedia of Ancient History (pp. pp. 4317–4318). New York: John Wiley & Sons. Sánchez-Moreno Ellart, C. (2013). s. v. Tabulae nuptiales. In Encyclopedia of Ancient History (pp. 6509–6510). New York: John Wiley & Sons. Schwartz, S. (2016). From Bedroom to Courtroom, Groningen: Groningen University Library. Torrent, A. (2005). Diccionario de Derecho Romano. Madrid: Edisofer. Treggiari, S. (1982). Consent to Roman Marriage: Some Aspects of Law and Reality. Echos du monde Classique, 16, pp. 34–44. Volterra, E. (1955). La conception du mariage à Rome. Revue internationale des droits de l’antiquité, 2, pp. 366–379. Volterra, E. (1961). Lezioni di diritto romano. Il matrimonio romano. Roma: Edizioni Ricerche. Waelkens, L. (2015). Amne Adverso. Roman Legal Heritage in European Culture. Leuven: Leuven University Press.

chapter 7

Legal reality or storytelling? ᾿Εγγύησις in Heliodorus’ Aethiopica Carlos Mª Sánchez-Moreno Ellart Universidad de Valencia

Contrary to what Calderini claimed in a famous article, engyesis cannot be found in the Greek novel, let alone in Heliodorus of Emesa, except as a remnant of an institution that in the Hellenistic world had lost its original meaning. Unlike the New Comedy, we do not find the phraseology that was to be pronounced but merely slight traces of the original terminology. Keywords: engyesis, betrothal, law of marriage, Attic law, Hellenistic law, Greek novel, Heliodorus It isn’t, when you come to think of it, a quite respectable trade, the detection of the innocents, for aren’t lovers nearly always innocent? They have committed no crime, they are certain in their own minds that they have done no wrong. Graham Greene. The End of the Affair

It is almost a truism, to quote Bakhtin, when he states that the ancient novel is dominated by the private, individual world and that the social and political only appear insofar as they are useful to the story (Bakhtin, 1981, p. 109).1 In my opinion, any use of the Greek novel to extract information relevant to the history of law must bear this in mind, just as all the elements that make up the narration derive, in turn, from an entire literary tradition. The Russian critic (Bakhtin, 1981, p. 88) also outlines that one of the trials and tribulations that the protagonists of the Greek novel had to endure was the absence of parental consent to marry. This consent in Greek law was essentially centred on the will of the bride’s father. Furthermore, and legal issues aside, the part played by paternal consent in the plot of these novels is always decisive; in some cases, the young lovers hope to earn this consent by having preserved their 1. “These rhetorical, judicial and public moments, however, assume an external form that is not consistent with the internal and authentic content of an individual man. His internal content is absolutely private: the basic givens of his life, the goals by which he is guided, all his trials and exploits are of an exclusively personal sort and have no social or political significance at all". https://doi.org/10.1075/ivitra.40.07san © 2024 John Benjamins Publishing Company

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chastity after going on terrible adventures together, while in others they try to force consent by any means available. Accordingly, it is very typical for protagonists to promise each other eternal love in the expectation that they shall be denied the consent to marry. It is therefore no over-statement to say that with a few exceptions, the entire narrative underlying the Greek novel hinges on resolving this difficulty. As we all know, in Greek legal tradition, paternal consent was expressed by ἐγγύησις (or ἐγγύη2), an agreement between the ἐγγυώμενος (the prospective husband) and the ἐγγυῶν, the person who had the κυριεία over the bride (normally her father or in his absence, her nearest surviving male relative) (SánchezMoreno Ellart, 2013, pp. 4317–4318).3 Apparently, the will of the bride (ἐγγυωμένη or ἐγγυητή) was legally irrelevant.4 The role played by ἐγγύησις5 is thus one of the decisive features of Greek marriage law (Becker, 1931, p. 52, nn. 4–7.). It is therefore necessary to highlight the main characteristics of this institution in order to understand its place – if any – in Hellenistic and Roman fiction and specifically in the novel we have chosen for this chapter, Heliodorus’ Aethiopica. This type of ‘betrothal ‘of the bride, for lack of a better expression, while essential, had to be complemented by formally giving her to the husband (ἔκδοσις),6 and the cohabitation of the spouses (συνοικεῖν) was always indispensable for the marriage (γάμος) to be considered as such (Wolff, 1944, pp. 43–95). As some scholars have pointed out, the actual difference between ἐγγύησις and γάμος is that the former refers to making a contract and, the latter refers to carrying it out (MacDowell, 1978, p 86). In fact, ἐγγύησις was something more than a mere betrothal, since it was considered as an essential requirement of the Hellenic marriage, to the point that the Greeks themselves considered the marriage 2. Both forms are available in the sources, but in general the term ἐγγύησις is used, broadly speaking, by older writers, except for Is. 3, 58 vid. Lipsius, (1905, pp. 468–469 and n. 2). 3. In a context in which no technical term for marriage was available, the world ἐγγύησις puts emphasis on the fact that the κύριος of a child or woman has authority over her and responsibility for her acts, vid. MacDowell, (1978, p. 84). 4. From an anthropological point of view has been pointed out (Guettel Cole, 2004, p. 153) that “The formula identified the male as the active partner in sexual intercourse and the woman as the passive field waiting to receive his seed" But while this is sensible, it is still objectionable because in other civilisations the same agrarian metaphor exists with regard to marriage and women do not play the same passive role in marriage ceremonies. 5. All that has been said about ἐγγύησις as an essential requirement is, of course, without affecting cases where the marriage derives from epidikasia. 6. Both ἐγγύησις and ἔκδοσις are not exactly the same, since in the sources appear as separate procedures, vid. Lipsius, (1905, p. 469, n. 5) with sources.

Chapter 7. Legal reality or storytelling?

contracted in this way to be specifically Greek and they would even contrast this type of marriage to the marriage rites of other cultures (Becker, 1931, p. 52 n. 8),7 since this institution was located not only in Athens, but throughout the Greek world. As we have previously noted, the main point of this paper is not especially the true nature of ἐγγύησις, on which a relative consensus has been reached, but the possible survival of this institution into the Hellenistic and Roman periods, as well as the extent to which it was preserved, in order to elucidate how it was reflected by the Erotici Scriptores Graeci. Phrased differently, this paper aims to answer the following question: is this institution present in the Greek novel, and if so, to what extent? In addressing this problem, we have to bear in mind that we are looking at very different periods which could modify the defining features of this institution. The actual meaning of ἐγγύησις in the Greek novel, therefore, can hardly be identified with the institution we are familiar with by means of Athenian sources. The use of the Greek novel to characterise ἐγγύησις is in my opinion particularly risky, because the difference in contexts makes the comparison itself problematic. Nor should we forget that the role played by this institution in the realm of a fictional account may incorporate elements that do not exactly conform to the legal reality. In my view, we should take a stand from the outset: At least where consent is concerned, literary fiction reflects legal reality, albeit somewhat loosely. The haunting presence of paternal consent is an indirect but obvious sign of the survival of ἐγγύησις, although probably not in the same way we are accustomed to reading it from reading Athenian sources. It is plain that, while retaining certain elements of the Greek legal traditions, the consent we see in the Greek novel inevitably incorporates aspects of social life which in turn influence the law in some way. For example, the consent of the bridegroom’s father was not a requirement of ἐγγύησις but socially – in real life-it could be decisive, apart from acting as a fundamental literary device. The same applies to the consent of the bride’s mother, which was irrelevant from a strictly legal point of view.8 Therefore, the information we can glean from the novel tells us something useful about the workings of ἐγγύησις in the Hellenistic and Roman periods, but what we know from the Athenian sources will probably not help us much in reconstructing what ἐγγύησις meant in those periods, unless the Attic sources are merely used as a means of comparison in order to stress the differences between 7. Quotes for example D.H. 2, 24. For his part, Gernet, (1917, pp. 249–293, esp. 279, n.4) relies on Th. 2, 101, 5–6 and X. An. 7, 2, 38 in order to point out the cleavage Greek / Barbarian. 8. The consent of the bride’s mother, for example, (X.Eph. 5, 1) which might be socially very relevant but was not at all relevant from a legal point of view.

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both contexts. To advance our conclusions somewhat, we will say that Athenian law will serve only as a point of comparison, since most of its features will be deprived of its true nature in Hellenistic and Roman sources. From Aristide Calderini (1959, pp. 29–39) comes perhaps the only comprehensive work to deal with ἐγγύησις in the Greek novel. On the basis of his remarkable knowledge of this literary genre,9 Calderini compares the information on marriage in Greek novels in general to some documents on legal practice from late Hellenistic and early Roman Egypt. In any case, the author starts from the same concept of ἐγγύησις that can be derived from the Attic sources. That is why Calderini’s conclusions should always be the starting point for anyone studying this issue, but at the same time, of course, they must also be subject to criticism. We shall try to relate the assumptions of Calderini’s article to the greater knowledge we have today about law in the Hellenistic and Roman periods and consequently to stress the different context in which ἐγγύησις appears. If we decide to study this point so many years later, it is because, to the best of our knowledge, no one else has done so until now. After our assessment of the sources quoted by Calderini, his paper seems to us to be overly optimistic about the results that can be expected from the novels of this period. Because of the nature of this type of story, the novelist will give prominence to certain events that can influence the plot, and the father’s consent to a marriage is one of them. The same optimism can be argued with regard to this scholar’s statements on the documentation (papyri) related – or apparently related-to ἐγγύησις, but this point deserves to be dealt with in another article and will be treated only lightly here. I shall divide our paper according to the following outline: first, I shall define ἐγγύησις by looking not only to the current literature, but also to the old bibliography of the late 19th and early 20th centuries, an essential reference for reconstructing how and in what way the main features of ἐγγύησις were identified as essential to Greek marriage. I shall then consider whether the data derived primarily from Athenian law and secondarily from other Greek legal systems can be extrapolated – as Calderini assumes – to the Hellenistic and Roman eras and, specifically, whether they can be used to comment on the texts of the novels and specifically that of Heliodorus. Lastly and, as I have pointed out above, I shall conclude that the institution we are commenting on must be understood within the framework of the classical polis and that outside this context became profoundly deprived of its true meaning.

9. Calderini published this article some years after his accurate translation of the novel Chaereas and Callirhoe (1913).

Chapter 7. Legal reality or storytelling?

I.

How and in what way research came to consider ἐγγύησις as an essential requirement of Greek marriage

We do not need to inquire into the legal nature of this institution in depth, but only in order to distinguish the different stages of its development and to address the problem of the extent to which the Attic sources allow us to comment on the text of Heliodorus. Let us first cast a glance at the literature of the 19th and early 20th centuries, which is in my view where the problems that form the grounds of the subsequent debate are constituted. It is to Ernst Hruza’s (1892, pp. 25–27) credit that he pointed out the actual nature of the ἐγγύησις. His criticism, developed in his old but still seminal book, Beiträge zur Geschichte des griechischen und römischen Familienrechtes, can be summed up in few words: ἐγγύησις was not – as traditionally it has been considered in traditional scholarship – only a betrothal, but an essential requirement for the validity of the marriage (‘Ehebegründungsakt’), although ἐγγύησις is not sufficient for marriage to be considered to exist as such.10 This is not to say that this condition in itself constitutes a legitimate marriage, since – as pointed out before – the wife’s delivery to her husband and the couple conjugal life are essential requirements in this sense, but marriage is not possible, without ἐγγύησις preceding it.11 In his characterisation of ἐγγύησις, Hruza compares the role it plays in Greek marriage with the part consensus plays in Roman marriage. He reaches this conclusion on the grounds that consensus is the basis of marriage, and in Athenian law this is expressed by means of ἐγγύησις, since in this procedure the future husband and the person who has the κυριεία over the bride express their consent.12 ᾿Εγγύησις is therefore not merely a preparatory act like the Roman sponsalia, but an act that founds the marriage.

10. Harrison quotes Hruza, (1892, pp. 35–49), and Beauchet, (1897, pp. 123–126). Perhaps the best summary of Hruza’s thesis can still be found in Thumser, (1896, pp. 189–192). 11. Wolff, (1944, p. 51): “I have signified elsewhere my adherence to the theory which in its main features was first established by Hruza". 12. Hruza, (1892, p. 40) clearly contrasts sponsalia with ἐγγύησις according to the role played by consensus: “Das Verlöbnis ist die gegenseitige Zusage eine Ehe einzugehen, der Konsens ist die Begründung der Ehe durch Willenserklärung. Nach attischem Rechte aber erfolgen die eherechtlichen Akte nicht zwischen die Nupturienten, sondern zwischen dem Manne und dem κύριος der Frau (…). Sie (scil. die ἐγγύησις) (…) hat ganz dieselben Funktionen, wie der Konsensus nach römischem und heutigem Rechte. Sie ist kein blos präparatorischer Akt, wie die Sponsalien, sondern die Ehebegründung selbst."

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The greater part of scholarship accepted as a welcome finding this definition of ἐγγύησις as an essential preliminary agreement to legal marriage.13 As Biscardi (1972, p. 98) summarises, ἐγγύησις was not a constitutive act of the marriage, but was, in fact, an essential element of it.14 One of the best textbooks on Attic law, Harrison’s, is even clearer in his assessment: “We cannot regard ἐγγύη as in itself constituting a marriage, ‘betrothal’ is too week a world to translate it". However, we must admit that Harrison’s handbook is not so clear on tackling the real problem of how this institution affects the legitimacy of filiation and its citizenship. The status quaestionis he provides is certainly very detailed, but it seems more focussed on legal dogmatics, i.e., it focusses more on reconstructing a timeless archetype than on explaining the possible historical evolution of an institution that is present in various stages of Greek law. As Gernet (Gernet, 1917, pp. 277–278) rightly points out, we are actually talking about an institution that was a remnant of the past during the period of the orators, but which survived by adapting itself to other purposes. In reality, as pointed out earlier, Hruza’s theory meant taking a stand against all other research of the time (1892, pp. 35–36, n. 2). He acknowledges that the comparison between ἐγγύησις and the Roman sponsalia is at first sight compelling15 and, in fact, the homologation of sponsalia to ἐγγύησις occurs already in Roman times, when in the works of Plautus or Terentius we can detect that the Athenian institution is interpreted in the Roman way.16 Hruza, however, having developed a convincing explanation, somehow leaves out aspects of the historical development of ἐγγύησις, perhaps because his main concern was merely to distinguish it from betrothal.

13. Where Athenian law is concerned, vid e. eg. Lacey, (1968, p. 12), who defines in the glossary engye as: “Betrothal agreement, essential preliminary to legal marriage in classical Athens, except for epikleroi.". He later, by developing the same idea, sums up (105): “The law required that an Athenian marriage should be preceded by a betrothal agreement (engye) or a court judgment (epidikasia)". 14. “La ἐγγύη non era di per sè sola l’atto costitutivo del matrimonio, ma ciò nonostante, essa era essenziale alla nascita del medesimo." 15. In fact, the more the influence of Roman law is present in the analysis and commentary of the Greek sources, the greater the identification between Roman betrothal (sponsalia) and ἐγγύησις. This inevitably happens from the earliest editions of annotated Greek sources, as is the case of Petit, i.e. Petitus (1635), whose influence is still present in the nineteenth century. In his translation (34) and commentary (436–437), Petit assumes that we are dealing with an institution completely comparable to the Roman betrothal. This tendency appears still in an influential treatise, P. van den Es, 1864, pp. 6–7, where sponsalia are identified with ἐγγύησις. 16. Cf. e. g. Plaut. Ps. 1155–1158; Trin. 1157–1164. On this issue, vid. Paoli, (1962, pp. 31–50), and Gaertner, (2014, pp. 615–633).

Chapter 7. Legal reality or storytelling?

The crux of this question is why the same term is used both in the context of marriage and in the context of suretyship. This is not to delve into the problem of why the same term (ἐγγύησις, ἐγγύη) is applied to two distinct areas,17 but to highlight how this question has obscured other more relevant issues. In my opinion, a distinction must be made between the complex question of why two such different institutions share the same term18 and what actually guaranteed 17. Koschaker, (1937, pp. 7, 77–140b). This relatively old paper is still useful for an overview. Koschaker starts from the ‘communis opinio’ that marriage as purchase is a general feature of Indo-European legal systems, but on the other hand, (77–79). he is critical of this theory. He observes, for example, that the terminology does not always correspond to the sale. It is significant that in various Indo-European languages the bride price (‘Brautpreis’) differs from the buying price in general (‘Kaufpreis’). Koschaker attributes to the Pandektenrecht treatises the over-generalisation of the concept of property, so that the nuances are blurred. The acquisition of a wife is not exactly the same as the acquisition of a slave or a head of cattle (80–81). Koschaker refers to the complicated problem of the evolution of marriage from bride acquisition to ἐγγύησις. In Homer this acquisition of the bride is clear, although it cannot be identified with the purchase in general, but there is nothing to determine the role of an institution such as ἐγγύησις that appears later. In the ἐγγύησις all traces of marriage by purchase have disappeared to a greater degree than in the Roman coemptio (86–87). Moreover, ἐγγύησις is henceforth related to dowry, but it must be warned that dowry is not a requirement of marriage. There is also no relationship between dowry and ἐγγύησις, although in practice they are often linked (92). As far as arrhae are concerned, although in Byzantine law they appear in Byzantine law in connection with sponsalia, it cannot be deduced from this that the ἐγγύησις was originally constructed in this way, because in the Greek world they only appear in later times and through Eastern influence. Koschaker points out that betrothals of this type are documented in Hittite law. In any case, and despite his criticism of the usual conception of marriage by purchase, Koschaker acknowledges that it is difficult to reconstruct the path between marriage by purchase and ἐγγύησις, unless the latter is not interpreted as a vestige of the former. It is not possible to ignore that there must be some relationship between the two, the ἐγγύησις guarantee and the matrimonial one. Nor that the Roman sponsalia derive from sponsor, but the scholar concludes that this is perhaps an unsolvable problem. 18. Where this question is concerned, I must content myself with briefly pointing out the essential literature on the subject and with summarizing their main features. Partsch, (1909, pp. 9–12; 46–54), was, to the best of my knowledge, the first to raise the issue, in a commentary to Od. 8, 344–359, the famous Ares-Hephaistos and Aphrodite episode and where the first appearance of the term can be detected. According to Partsch (1909, p. 12) when Poseidon in his answer to Hephaistos is offering himself as guarantor of Ares. The common element of both institutions bearing the same name is that a symbolic handshake is involved. He resorts to etymological reasons and to the comparison with other Indo-European languages (46–47) to demonstrate that ‘hands’ (γυῖα) are implied in the term ἐγγύησις. Gernet partly disagrees with this interpretation. In agreement with G. Glotz’s, (1904, pp. 131–132), Gernet believes that Poseidon’s promise should be understood in the context of family solidarity and not as Poseidon offering himself as a hostage. Family solidarity would be then the common link between both kinds of ἐγγύησις. An alternative explanation by Wolff (1944, p. 48) relates this issue to

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ἐγγύησις in Athenian marriage in the extant forensic speeches. What I mean is that the fact that ἐγγύησις already existed before the warrant of citizenship was required does not imply that, at the time when Solon’s legislation demanded this requirement, ἐγγύησις did not properly exercise this function of controlling the citizenship of the prospective wife. In Athens the best evidence of Solon’s law19 concerning this institution can be found in a Demosthenes’ quotation (D. 46. 2, 18).20 Hruza (1982, p. 41) especially took this text into account. D. 46. 2, 18: ἣν ἂν ἐγγύηση, ἐπί δικαίοις δάμαρτα εἶναι ή πατήρ ή ἀδελφός ὁμοπάτωρ ἤ πάππος ὁ πρὸς πατρός, ἐκ ταύτης εἶναι παῖδας γνησίους.

We are concerned only with this part of the quotation, and not with the rest, which deals with the epiclerate, or the other possibility of entering into a legitimate marriage in Attic law (Harrison, 1968, pp. 9–12; Sánchez-Moreno Ellart 2012, pp. 2462–2463). What is effectively guaranteed, according to these lines of the Solonic legislation handed down by Demosthenes,21 is legitimate filiation and citizenship in particular.22 This idea that these were actually the major legal points involved in ἐγγύησις was already decisive in Eduard Gans’ commentary (1824, pp. 295 and nn. 20–21) who, in order to demonstrate this, put forward other texts from the Demosthenic corpus, such as D. 49, 72. Στέφανος οὑτοσί, καὶ ὑπελθὼν καὶ τὴν ἀρχὴν παρ᾽ αὐτοῦ πριάμενος, πάρεδρος γενόμενος, δίδωσι τὴν ἄνθρωπον ταύτην γυναῖκα, τὴν τῆς Νεαίρας θυγατέρα, καὶ ἐγγυᾷ Στέφανος οὑτοσὶ ὡς αὑτοῦ θυγατέρα οὖσαν: οὕτω πολὺ τῶν νόμων καὶ ὑμῶν κατεφρόνησεν. his theory of ‘disposition with an aim’. The common element would be that in both kinds of ἐγγύησις, a free person is handed over to another with a specific purpose and the transferring party retains some kind of right in the thing. Wolff relates this to institutions such as, for example, maritime loan. As for his terminological reasons, he points out the meaning of ἐκδίδοναι. This verb is used with the meaning of “to give in marriage”, but without the “implication”, that the transferor resigns in favour of the transferee his title to the object. When this implication is clear the verb is ἀποδίδοσθαι (‘to give up by sale"). 19. Leão/Rhodes, (2015, pp. 76–77, frag. 48b). This text was excluded as dubious by Ruschenbusch, 1966, as many concerning the law of inheritance. 20. The authenticity of this quotation can be proved by the use of the term δάμαρτα, which is very rare in prose. Concerning the ἐγγύη in the Solonian law cf. other sources in Cantarella, (1964, pp. 121–161, specif. 155 and. n. 126): D. 44, 49; Ar. V. 649–650; Arist. Ath. 9, 2 and Plu. Sol. 20. 21. As widely known, the authorship of this speech is controversial, vid. MacDowell, (2009, pp. 99). This point, however, is irrelevant for our concern. 22. On the disputed point on the status of illegitimate children, vid the still useful treatment by Wolff, (1944, pp. 75–85).

Chapter 7. Legal reality or storytelling?

The accusation against a courtesan, Neaira (Vérilhac / Vial 1998, pp. 46–47; Hamel 2003, pp. 47–55) is based on the fact that she had been living with an Athenian citizen and has passed herself off as a citizen, a situation that affected Neaira’s children, adopted by her husband, Stephanus, an Athenian citizen23 who in his turn ‘betrothed’ a daughter of Neaira as though she were his own daughter and an Athenian citizen (καὶ ἐγγυᾷ Στέφανος οὑτοσὶ ὡς αὑτοῦ θυγατέρα οὖσαν). Another source cited by Gans is also of interest to us, D. 44, 49: καὶ ὁ νόμος ταῦτα μαρτυρεῖ λέγων ‘ῆν ἂ ἐγγυήσῃ πατὴρ ἢ ἀδελφὸς ἢ πάππος, ἐκ ταύτης εἶναι παιδᾶς γνησίους’

The orator quotes the legal text literally: “Lawfully born are children of a woman whom her father or brother or grandfather has ‘betrothed’" To sum up, ἐγγύησις in the age of the orators embraces both the legitimacy of the children and their citizenship, as well as their entry into the phratria, which was clearly related to the qualities of being a citizen and a legitimate child. Notwithstanding this is not exactly the picture we shall find in the Greek novel and nor is it the image of what ἐγγύησις had been in the pre-polis era. In order to find the link between the two uses of the verb ἐγγυάω, (i.e.the matrimonial and suretyship spheres) it is probably often forgotten that in Athenian law (in the post-Solonian era), regardless of the conceptions that may have existed in the minds of the Greeks before the polis, the social conscience most likely identified ἐγγύησις with the father’s guarantee of the daughter’s legitimacy and citizenship, i.e. that she was born of a legitimate marriage between citizens. This explanation of Photiades (1920, pp. 100–154, especially pp. 110–112), deeply based on Gans,24 has been discredited (Harrison, 1968, p. 9, n. 1.) by appealing to the earlier origin of the ἐγγύησις, but Photiades’ theory probably serves to understand what Athenian citizens thought of this institution. This, of course, may not be true before Solon, since ἐγγύησις existed long before Solon and Pericles, nor would it explain the use of the same term in different spheres -i.e., the matrimonial and surety spheres-, but it was essentially true that in post-Solonian Attic law this was the purpose of this 23. This is an interesting commentary from the social point of view, but, on the other hand, it ignores practically every legal issue. For example, there is no mention to ἐγγύησις. 24. Gans insists on the idea that by means of ἐγγύησις the bride’s father declared that she was his legitimate daughter and an Athenian citizen. The institution is thus in a way reduced to the role it played in the classical polis. This idea was expressed by Dareste, Haussoulier & Reinach, (1891, p. 52): “L’ ἐγγύη est, au sens le plus étroite du mot, l’acte par lequel le κύριος de l’épouse atteste la filiation de celle-ci". Of course, the definition is very simplistic if one wants to enter into the debate about the origin of ἐγγύησις and its relation to the suretyship, but it is quite possible, at least judging by what Demosthenes says, that the bride’s κύριος had such a concept of the agreement that he and the future husband were entering into.

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institution. Photiades also provides some interesting reflections on Athenian society in classical times that help to understand the need for ἐγγύησις. On her view, ἐγγύησις was a result of the need to prove women’s status, and women in Athens by definition did not have the possibility of making themselves known in political life. It was therefore essential for their father or κύριος to prove that a woman was born of a legitimate marriage between Athenian citizens. We have to start then from the Athenian conception of ἐγγύησις to see whether it exists in the texts of the novel and in what form it was preserved, if indeed this can be proved. Just as the change of context (from the polis to the Hellenistic kingdoms and from the οἶκος to the individual) explains this evolution, the same can be said (although the problem does not concern us now) of the evolution of ἐγγύησις in the pre-polis period and the change of context it represents.25 II. Can the data of Attic law be used to comment on Heliodorus’ text? We have made this brief survey of the literature in which an accurate concept of ἐγγύησις was coined not just for the sake of bookishness, but because we want to highlight the differences with which ἐγγύησις might be understood in Attic law and also centuries later. As a matter of fact, the context of the Greek novel does not have much to do with what we have seen so far, and that is why I consider Calderini too optimistic when he claims that the Greek novel is a very useful source for the study of the institution we are dealing with. I have chosen the Aethiopica for my commentary precisely because among all the texts Calderini cites in his article, this novel by Heliodorus is the only one where significant terminology concerning the ἐγγύησις appears.26 25. As to what ἐγγύησις originally meant, prior to the role it played in the classical polis, we believe, with Finley (1959, p. 45) and Vidal Naquet (1965, pp. 111–148 and 1990, pp. 55–94, esp. 66) that the question has been posed in the context of a rather simplistic evolutionism. It is not clear, for example, that the marriage of Homeric times was properly a marriage by purchase. Moreover, Homeric marriage is always within aristocratic families (Vidal Naquet, 1965, pp. 119). In his commentary to Hdt. 6, 130, Vidal Naquet points out that the point is not to determine when Greek marriage moves from Homeric marriage (by ‘purchase’ or ἀγών) to ἐγγύησις since Cleisthenes of Sicyon after an ἀγών gives his daughter in marriage precisely by means of the formula of ἐγγύησις: “Le rituel civique recouvre ici et complète un mode de relations antérieur à la cité. Mais ce rituel ne s’est précisément constitué que lorsque le mariage et son corollaire, la naissance d’enfants légitimes, cessèrent de relever des alliances nobiliaires, des relations de γένος à γένος ou d’οἶκος à οἶκος; pour contribuer à définir la place du citoyen dans la cité. Au terme de l’évolution, à Athènes, la loi de 451 définit le citoyen comme fils légitime d’un citoyen et d’une citoyenne. Le mariage n’est plus alors un échange, mais un acte du droit interne de la cité" 26. The only exception is Ach.Tac. 8, 18, 3: νῦν οὖν εἰς τὴν Τύρον ἀπαγαγεῖν ἔγνωκα πρὸς τὸν πάτερα καὶ νόμῳ παρ ἐκείνου λαβεῖν τὸν γάμον. As long as the young man states that he needed the consent of the girl’s father, the ἐγγύησις can be detected to some degree.

Chapter 7. Legal reality or storytelling?

The Greek novel was conceived within a very different social and legal context from that of the Attic period and consequently, we can assume that the new framework of Hellenistic law and later the influence of the Roman legal tradition leads to a progressive decline of ἐγγύησις. Apparently, the essence of marriage remained unchanged, since by means of the ἔκδοσις the bride was still handed over by her father or to the bridegroom on the ground of ἐγγύησις, however, as MélèzeModrzejewski (2005, pp. 7–22) rightly points out, matrimonial law had been ultimately modified by the new family life organised by the Greek immigrants. Unlike in the Attic legal system, where we are dealing with the oikos as the centre of family law,27 a purely personal bond appears in the marriage contracts from the Hellenistic world preserved on papyrus and – I daresay – also within the framework of fiction. Where ἐγγύησις is concerned, this is one of the ancient formalities that practically disappeared in Hellenistic law (Mélèze-Modrzejewski, 2005, pp. 14–15). Perhaps one of the causes of this decline of ἐγγύησις is that it is in the practices absorbed by ἔκδοσις. The two procedures were clearly differentiated in Attic law,28 but in Hellenistic practices, at least judging by the evidence of the documents, the former tended to be confused with the latter, if it has not disappeared entirely. As a matter of fact, in the papyri it is difficult (to say the least) to find any evidence of ἐγγύησις. We shall deal with this point in another article, but for the moment it is sufficient to note that the only document where ἐγγύησις is allegedly mentioned, P.Enteux. 23 it is far from clear. Bozza (1934, pp. 205–244, especially 212–213) claimed that it was actually a document where ἐγγύησις was named, but – as Wolff (1939, pp. 24–25 and. n. 86) argued – the reading of εγγ[ on the verso, line 3 can be interpreted as a guarantee to secure the dowry and not as a mention of the agreement between the a prospective husband and the bride’s κύριος. Furthermore, and it is even more significant the text of P.Enteux. 23 (= PJ I 128) ll.5–6 makes it clear that common life between the plaintiff (the wife) and her husband (τὰ πρσήκοντα οὐ παρέχει ἐκκλείει τέ με ἐ[ ) already existed.29 27. I in general agree with the idea that the conceptual framework of Attic law is the oikos (Wolff, 1944, p. 93). Of course, some of MacDowell’s (1989, pp. 10–21) objections to this idea are sensible, but I do not think it can be said that in Attic law marriage was merely between individuals. 28. Wolff, (1944, p. 54); Bozza, (1924, pp. 352–383); Cantarella, (1964, pp. 126–127): Is. 3, 70 (ὅτε δ ἠγγύα καὶ ἐξεδίδου ὁ Ἔνδιος τὴν γυναῖκα); Is. 8, 29 (δίς ἐκδοθείσαν, δίς ἐγγυηθεῖσαν) E. IA. 703 (Ζεὺς ήγγύησε καὶ δίδωσ ὁ κύριος). 29. More recently, Yiftach-Firanko, (2003, p. 53), holds the same view regarding the disappearance of ἐγγύησις in the papyri: “In contrast to the Athenian engyê, evidence concerning the exchange of declarations is virtually non-existent". Yiftach-Firanko does not put forward

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At first sight the handing over of the bride (ἔκδοσις) is the key issue in the law of marriage in this context and if ἐγγύησις survived it was merely as a part of the unitary act ἐγγύησις / ἔκδοσις. This is a very significant reference to what role ἐγγύησις could have played in the historical and social context of the Greek and Roman novel. In the new social context of Hellenism both ἐγγύησις and ἔκδοσις seem to focus on the figure of the future spouses, so that sometimes we cannot find many traces in the documents of the old power of the father to arrange the marriage of a daughter. Significantly in the earliest marriage contract we have preserved from this period, the well-known PEleph. 1 the husband (Herakleides) claims that he has taken his wife (Demetria) from her parents, not just from her father (Ἡρακλείδου καὶ Δημητρίας λαμβάνει Ἡρακλείδης | Δημητρίαν Κώιαν γυναῖκα γνησίαν παρὰ τοῦ πατρὸς Λεπτίνου Κώιου καὶ τῆς μητρὸς Φιλωτίδος ἐλεύθερος) (Vérilhac/ Vial, 1998, p. 260). This case is not unique as far as the documents are concerned; another significant example, taken from Alexandrian documentation, is BGU IV 1100.30 It is also significant that in the Greek novel (X.Eph. 5, 1, 6) and in later authors, such as Aristaenetus the epistolographer (Aristaenet. 2, 8, 2), the consent or acquiescence of the mother is also expressed. Of course, this may reflect a social custom, without the slightest legal content, but we say that it is significant because it does not occur in texts from the time of the orators. In Modrzejewski’s (2005, p. 15) view, the marriage contract replaces “the solemn statements that accompanied the bride’s passage from her father’s power to her husband’s" and at the same time he highlights that the contractual clauses “suffice to ensure all the effects that joinder of the marriage produces concerning the legal status of the wife and children. Modrzejewski’s assertion is correct but, in my modest opinion, somewhat vague or ambiguous in terms of the actual value of the documents. In any case, he is undoubtedly right when he points out the main difference between the polis and the Hellenistic world in this context, namely that the barriers of the laws of each city that prevented mixed marriages had almost

P.Enteux. 23 in this regard, but does mention a late document (P. Cair.Masp. I 67092) as the only possible evidence, but he himself admits that this is too late and too vague. 30. π]αρὰ Ἀμμωνίου τοῦ Ἀμμω̣ν̣ί̣ο̣υ̣ Ἀ̣λ̣θ̣α̣ι̣έ̣[ως καὶ] |[τ]ῆς τούτου γυναικὸς Σεμέλης τῆς Ἀ̣μμ̣[ωνί-] |[ου ἀ]στῆς μετὰ κυρίου αὐτοῦ Ἀμμωνίου |[κ]αὶ παρὰ Ἀρτεμιδώρου τοῦ Ἀρτεμ̣[ιδώρου] |5Ἀλθαιέως. περὶ ὧν διεστάμεθα συν-|χωροῦμεν πρὸς ἀλλήλους ἐπὶ το̣ῖ̣σ̣δ̣ε̣ |ὥ̣σ ̣τ̣ʼ ἐπεὶ ἐγδέδονται ὅ τε Ἀμμώνιο[ς] |[κ]αὶ Σεμέλη τῷ Ἀρτεμιδώρου τ[ὴν] |ἑ̣α̣τῶν θυγατέρ̣α Ἀμμωνάριον [ ̣ ̣ ̣]

Chapter 7. Legal reality or storytelling?

disappeared. In the case of Egypt, for example, apparently only Alexandria had preserved such a regulation.31 We have repeatedly stressed that in Attic law, ἐγγύησις was directly related to the legitimacy of offspring and their access to citizenship. The woman was transferred from the oikos of her father to the oikos of her husband, merely for the sake of producing offspring. From this reality, it may be inferred that ἐγγύησις was deeply linked to the divisions across which the population of the polis was distributed, which in Athens, for example, included the deme, the tribe and the phratry. Nothing of the sort can be said of the social and legal reality of the Hellenistic and Roman world, with the exception – as already pointed out above – of the population of the newly erected poleis.32 Considering the social context of Helliodorus’ novel, and as far as the situation of women was concerned, it is obvious that Hellenistic law and especially Roman law was considerably more favourable to women than was Attic law (Gardner, 1986, pp. 14–22). The social context in which the Aethiopica is set reflects this reality again in a very significant way. To focus on the point that interests us, ἐγγύησις in Attic law was directly related to the transmission of the κυριεία to the woman, but the role of the κύριος gradually lost importance (Arjava, 1997, pp. 25–30 and Oudshoorn, 2007, pp. 354–366.). In both Hellenistic and Roman law, with due nuances,33 as it was still necessary for women legally to act by means of a κύριος, this requirement in practice became merely a formality.34 It should be added that it was not in all Greek cities that the power of the κύριος over women was so strong, and the cases of Athens and Gortyn seem to 31. Mélèze-Modrzejewski, (2005, p. 15), Alexandrian citizenship required “dual civic ancestry", but we are dealing with an exceptional case. Modrzejewski relies on Clarysse, (1988, pp. 137–141), where it is demonstrated that the daughter of an Alexandrian living in the chôra with an Egyptian woman was not an Alexandrian citizen. 32. As far as the newly founded cities are concerned, they are adapted – at least formally – to the model of the Greek polis. This is not the case in the rest of the Hellenistic and Roman world, at least according to the testimony of the chora in Egypt, an example to which we have recourse throughout this article, at several occasions. We do have some papyrological evidence from Alexandria of the phratry admissions in Alexandria: P.Hib. I 28; SB. VI 9559. On this point, vid. e.g., Murray, (1990, pp. 1–25); Murray, (2000, pp. 231–244). 33. Everyone is aware that the institution of the tutor mulierum is not homologous to that of the κύριος even if the Greek term used for both is identical. 34. Oudshoorn, (2007, pp. 360–365) discusses Cotton’s thesis on the guardianship of women. The κύριος (in the documents of the Judaean Desert called epitropos) plays a mere formal part, exactly as in Egypt: the woman herself is acting and the guardian only validates the act. In Babatha’s archive, playing the epitropos also a secondary role, seems more significant. For example, in Egypt a husband could play both roles as k κύριος and the other party, but things are not exactly so in Babatha’s archive.

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be exceptional.35 In the Hellenistic environment, it is difficult to imagine that the more restrictive regulation of women’s rights would have been maintained or that the role that the κύριος had played in these two cities would have been imposed. In short, although with ἐγγύησις the κυριεία upon the wife was still transmitted to the husband, its real significance was much less meaningful. Based on the differences between the legal regime of ἐγγύησις as transmitted to us by the Attic law sources and the Hellenistic and Roman reality, we will now examine the few texts where the traces of this institution can be noted. In fact, if we look at the terminology, it is difficult to identify ἐγγύησις in the text of the Aethiopica. We have moreover, the role played in the plot by the events that Calderini points to as evidence that such an institution existed at the time – and that it was part of the story – are not easy to discern. It is true, as Calderini (1955, p. 34) claims, that in the dialogue between Teagenes and Calasiris (Hld. 4, 6) some presence of ἐγγύησις may be pointed out; however, although the essence of this institution can indirectly be traced, in our opinion the plot constraints do not allow for much precision. Let us focus on this text. When Theagenes discovers that Chariclea has fallen in love with him, his first impulse is to run to her, probably to abduct her, but his friend stops him, grabbing him by his tunic. The friend makes him think of the girl’s father’s position and the punishment he might suffer for attempting to abduct the daughter of a prominent person of that city, and consequently advises him to ask for her hand. This is Theagenes’ response: « Ἐγὼ μὲν» εἶπε «καὶ τελευτᾶν οὐ διαφέρομαι τυχὼν Χαρικλείας· ἀλλ’ ὅμως, εἰ δοκεῖ, καὶ πρὸς γάμον αἰτῶμεν τῷ πατρὶ προσιόντες

Theagenes explains that he cares only about Chariclea’s love, even more than for his own life, but eventually gives in to Calasiris’ proposal.36 He says πρὸς γάμον αἰτῶμεν, or literally, ‘to ask in marriage’. He does not refer directly to the ἐγγύησις but obviously this idea is implied in what he is trying to convey. Calasiris then points out a serious obstacle to Theagenes’ plans, which is that Caricles had already pledged his daughter’s hand to a third party, namely a nephew on his sister’s side. 35. Although she does not tackle the legal problem Kamen (2013, pp. 87–88) is right in saying that de facto women were involved in business, including as moneylenders, regardless of what was legally enforced and that there is evidence of it. 36. Calasiris’ role is characterised by his cunning, which he shares with Chariclea. They have rightly been seen as having a role similar to that of Ulysses in the Odyssey, vid. Keyes, (1922, pp. 42–51, esp. 47).

Chapter 7. Legal reality or storytelling?

ὁ Χαρικλῆς ἀδελφῆς ἑαυτοῦ παιδὶ τὴν κόρην πάλαι κατηγγύησεν

In this situation we do detect a direct allusion to ἐγγύησις because the text uses the verb κατέγγυάω. This verb is also used in the context of marriage (cf. E. Or. 1079), but it is more widely used in the context of surety (D. 33, 10). It is clear that Heliodorus draws mainly upon Attic literary sources,37 so that the use of the word can be traced directly back to the latter. Hence, we find the same verb in Euripides. In fact, Euripides places these words in Orestes’ mouth, addressed to his friend Pylades: γάμων δὲ τῆς μὲν δυσπότμου τῆσδ’ ἐσφάλης ἥν σοι κατηγγύησ' ἑταρίαν σέβων.

Orestes reproaches Pylades for failing to marry his sister – Electra – to whom he was ‘betrothed’ (κατηγγύησα) in view of their mutual friendship.38 However, the same term does not appear when Chariclea is told that her father wants to arrange her wedding with Alcmenes. The girl is warned to flee before she has to act against her will (πρὸς βίαν) because of this. In this case, only γάμος and a verb without technical value appear such as σπουδάζω. τοῦ Χαρικλέους ἤδη σοι τὸν Ἀλκαμένους γάμον ἐσπουδακότος,

Indeed, the verb ‘κατέγγυάω’ no longer comes into view again to offer more information throughout the novel. In fact, other texts of Heliodorus where κατέγγυάω appears and which Calderini does not quote in his paper do not allow different conclusions to be drawn. Some are not exactly connected with marriage, but merely with the general meaning of promising or committing oneself (Hld. 2, 23, 4; 5, 28, 2). Others do deal with marriage, or more precisely with to grant a daughter’s hand in a way comparable to those already discussed, i.e. the power of the father to marry off the daughter is emphasised (Hld. 5, 21, 2; 6, 8, 2; 7, 24, 4; 7, 28, 3), but the texts have no real connection with the institution as we know it in Attic law. Book X deserves, however, some juridical commentary because of the lexicon Heliodorus employs there and, although it is clear to Calderini (1955, p. 34) that this chapter recounts the ἐγγύησις of Chariclea and Theagenes, it is certainly not 37. Keyes, (1922, p. 42), for example, points out that king Hydaspes is based on Xenophon’s Cyrus. Euripides is also a main influence. 38. The same verb in the context of marriage is available in other sources of the Greek literature under the Roman empire, vid., e.g., I. AI. 6, 10, 2, concerning Saul’s daughter: "κατεγγυῶ γὰρ, εἶπεν, αὐτῷ τὸν τῆς θυγατρός μου γάμον, ἂν ἑξακοσίας μοι κομίσῃ κεφαλὰς τῶν πολεμίων.

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possible to speak with certainty of this institution, at least in the strict sense of the word. Calderini affirms this in Hld. 10, 40–41, which we will comment on later, but his affirmation is not limited to these two chapters, for it is necessary to point out X. 24 first. In Hld. 10, 24, when King Hydaspes receives Meroboeus, who has returned victorious from war, he offers him the hand of his daughter with these words: Εἰς καιρὸν ἥκεις» ἔλεγεν «ὦ παῖ, τά τε ἐπινίκια συνεορτάσων καὶ τὰ γαμήλια θύσων· οἱ γὰρ πατρῷοι καὶ γενεάρχαι θεοί τε καὶ ἥρωες ἡμῖν μὲν θυγατέρα σοὶ δὲ νύμφην, ὡς ἔοικεν, ἐξευρήκασιν·

The terminology of ἐγγύησις is absent from the king’s words, and this trend will be echoed in Hld. 10, 39–41. It can be said that the only element linked to the ἐγγύησις is the fact that the father, in expressing his will as a such, declares that the celebration of the marriage is up to him. As for terminology, the sole significant term King Hydaspes uses is γαμήλια (τὰ γαμήλια θύσων). One of the criticisms that can be raised against Harrison is that he perhaps does not give too much importance to this ritual. He merely indicates that it was “an offering accompanied by a feast to phratry members".39 It can be argued that Harrison does not pay enough attention to the value of this procedure. In fact, every bride had to be presented by her father or κύριος to her prospective husband’ phratry (Lambert, 1998, pp. 181–185). This was a mechanism designed to prevent people without citizenship rights from infiltrating the institutions of the polis. Bearing in mind the part that ἐγγύησις played after Solon, as a guarantee for the bride’s legitimacy and citizenship, in my opinion γαμήλια became in my opinion more and more significant. But what is the point, however, of using an Attic term, which dates back to the Attic calendar itself, in a context such as that of Heliodorus’ novel? Of course, Heliodorus does not directly allude to the Attic procedure, but to a part of it, namely the sacrifice (he uses the verb θύω) and the ritual banquet offered to the goddess Athena on the day before a wedding (Poll. 8, 107). In the novel there is a sacrifice to the gods, the sun god and the moon goddess. In this we see another example of how Heliodorus uses Attic literary sources too freely. At the same time this fact greatly relativises the value of his work, beyond the illusion that he uses the same lexicon, as a source of reliable information about ἐγγύησις. 39. Harrison, (1968, p. 9 and n. 2; 61–70). Lambert, (1998, p. 181 and n. 206): “The otherwise useful account of Harrison (…) is, in my view, vitiated by his underestimation of the significance of phratry membership with respect to citizenship". Vid. recently, Blok, (2017, p. 111). The first scholar to challenge Hruza’s thesis – which he otherwise accepts – for not giving enough relevance to Gamelia was Thumser (1896, esp. 191–192). He relies on Is. 3, 76.

Chapter 7. Legal reality or storytelling?

The same ambiguity can be detected in the following text, also excerpted from Book X. Then comes the moment when King Hydaspes finally surrenders to the constant will of the gods and declares the union of the protagonists. Hld. 10, 40: Ταῦτα τοῦ Σισιμίθρου λαμπρῶς τε καὶ εἰς ἐπήκοον ἁπάντων ἐκβοήσαντος, ὁ Ὑδάσπης τὴν ἐγχώριον γλῶτταν καὶ αὐτὸς νῦν ἱείς, τῆς τε Χαρικλείας καὶ τοῦ Θεαγένους ἐπιδεδραγμένος, «Οὐκοῦν, ὦ παρόντες» ἔλεγε, «θεῶν νεύματι τούτων οὕτω διαπεπραγμένων τὸ ἀντιβαίνειν ἀθέμιτον· (2) ὥστε ὑπὸ μάρτυσιν αὐτοῖς τε τοῖς ταῦτα ἐπικλώσασι καὶ ὑμῖν ἀκόλουθα ἐκείνοις φρονεῖν ἐνδεικνυμένοις ξυνωρίδα ταύτην γαμηλίοις νόμοις ἀναδείκνυμι καὶ συνεῖναι θεσμῷ παιδογονίας ἐφίημι. Καὶ εἰ δοκεῖ, βεβαιούτω τὰ δόξαντα ἡ θυσία καὶ πρὸς τὰ ἱερὰ τρεπώμεθα.»

Again, Hydaspes’ words cannot be directly linked to ἐγγύησις. The bridegroom, for his part, does not declare his will, which is quite obvious at this point in the romance, but legally he should have manifested it in order to fulfil the formal requirements of this institution. Γαμήλια in its turn, appears again but without actual context (Vérilhac / Vial 1998, pp. 331–332). In this regard it is also very significant that the exact phraseology conceived for ἐγγύησις, known to us from other literary sources from the Attic period does not appear at any point in Heliodorus’ novel. In other words, the exchange of declarations, typical of the institution concerned, is wholly absent from the storytelling. Even less revealing is the following fragment, perhaps because the author does not need to dwell on the preconditions of marriage since they are no longer necessary to construct the plot. Nor do the invocations to the gods pronounced by King Hydaspes help us to relate this ritual to γαμήλια. Hld. 10, 41: Τούτοις εἰρημένοις ἐπευφήμησεν ὁ στρατός, καὶ κρότον τῶν χειρῶν ὡς ἐπιτελουμένοις ἤδη τοῖς γάμοις ἐπεκτύπησαν. Καὶ πλησίασας τοῖς βωμοῖς ὁ Ὑδάσπης καὶ μέλλων ἀπάρχεσθαι τῶν ἱερείων « Ὦ δέσποτα» εἶπεν «Ἥλιε καὶ Σελήνη δέσποινα, εἰ μὲν δὴ ἀνὴρ καὶ γυνὴ Θεαγένης τε (5) καὶ Χαρίκλεια βουλήμασιν ὑμετέροις ἀνεδείχθησαν, ἔξεστιν αὐτοῖς ἄρα καὶ ἱερατεύειν ὑμῖν.»

The narrator recounts the joy of the crowd when the engagement of Theagenes and Chariclea is announced, so that it looked – he literally says – “as if the marriage had already taken place" (ὡς ἐπιτελουμένοις ἤδη τοῖς γάμοις). It cannot be ruled out that Heliodorus distinguishes ἐγγύησις from marriage as such and he arguably also implies that it is necessary, so that he does not regard it simply as a mere betrothal, but it is all too vague and unspecific to draw any conclusions. Heliodorus unfortunately does not dwell on the requirements of this stage of marriage.

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At first glance we could say that it is obvious that the narrator’s purpose is simply to present the path of parental consent as unattainable and only secondarily refers to legal institutions related to marriage in order to further hinder the progress of the story. Heliodorus seems therefore to be most interested in the legal institutions he mentions or alludes to indirectly only insofar as their effectiveness in the construction of the novel’s plot. Of course, this can also be said of the New Comedy and specifically of Menander,40 to whom we owe much understanding of ἐγγύησις in Athens, but there is a fundamental difference and this comparison casts light on the problem; Menander writes for an audience confined to the polis and who were familiar with the institutions he mentions, whereas in the world of Heliodorus the use that can be made of legal material is in a way much more open and greater licences were allowed. In other words, Heliodorus is not necessarily referring to ἐγγύησις as it is known to us from the Attic sources, but merely as a feature of Greek marriage as long as it is useful for his narrative. With typical literary skill, Heliodorus alludes to this institution without deriving all the consequences that it had for the law of his time. In this sense the value of Heliodorus – and of Greek novels in general – as a source for legal history is very different from the use we could make of other literary sources. At the same time, the use we can make of Heliodorus is very different from the use we could make of, for example, Menander, because in the latter we find ourselves in a context circumscribed to the Athens of his time. For his part Heliodorus is not necessarily referring to ἐγγύησις as we know it from the Attic sources.

Acknowledgements I thank my friend Maria Vassileiadou for her help in reading the Modern Greek texts, especially the article by Photiades.

Bibliography Arjava, A. (1997). The Guardianship of Women in Roman Egypt. In B. Kramer/W. Luppe/H. Maehler and G. Poethke (Eds.), Akten des 21. Internationalen Papyrologenkongresses, Berlin 13.–19.8.1995, (pp. 25–30) Stuttgart-Leipzig: B.G. Teubner. Bakhtin, M. (1981). Forms of Time and of the Chronotope in the Novel: Notes towards a Historical Poetics. The Dialogic Imagination. Four Essays, Austin (Tx): University of Texas Press.

40. Cf. e. g. Men. Dysc. 842–846; Mis. 444–446; Sam. 726–728.

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Beauchet, L. (1897). L’histoire du Droit privé de la république athénienne. Paris: ChevalierMarescq. Becker, W. B. (1931). Platons Gesetze und das griechische Familienrecht. Munich: G. H. Beck. Biscardi, A. (1972), Diritto greco antico, Milan: Giuffrè Editore. Blok, J. (2017), Citizenship in Classical Athens, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bozza, F. (1934). Il matrimonio nel diritto dei papiri dell’epoca ptolemaica. Aegyptus, 14, 205–244. Calderini, A. (1959). La ἐνγύησις matrimoniale nei romanzieri greci e nei papiri. Aegyptus, 29, 29–39. Cantarella, E. (1964). La ἐγγύη prima e dopo la legislazione di Solone. Rendiconti dell’Istituto Lombardo, 98, 121–16. Clarysse, W. (1988). Une famille Alexandrine dans la chôra. Chronique d’Egypte, 63, 137–141. Dareste, R. Haussoulier B. & Reinach, T. (1891). Recueil des inscriptions juridiques grecques I. Paris: E. Laroux. Finley M. I. (1959). The World of Odysseus. London: Folio Society. Gaertner, J. F. (2014). Law and Roman Comedy. In M. Fontane & A. C. Scafuro, The Oxford Handbook of Greek and Roman Comedy (pp. 615–633). Oxford: Oxford University Press. Gans, E. (1824). Das Erbrecht in weltgeschichtlicher Entwicklung. Berlin: Scientia Verlag. Gardner, J. F. (1986). Women in Roman Law and Society. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Gernet L. (1917). Hypothèses sur le contrat primitif en Grèce. REG, 30, 249–293. Glotz, G. (1904). La solidarité de la famille dans le droit criminel en Grèce, Paris: Fontemoing. Guettel Cole, S. (2004). Landscapes, Gender and Ritual Space, Berkeley-Los Angeles-London: University of California Press. Hamel, D. (2003). Trying Neaira, Yale (N. Hav.)-London: Yale University Press. Harrison, A. R. W. (1968). The Law of Athens I, Oxford: Clarendon. Hruza, E. (1892). Beiträge zur Geschichte des griechischen und römischen Familienrechtes I, Erlangen-Leipzig: Georg Böhme Verlag. Kamen, D. (2013). Status in Classical Athens. Princeton/Oxford: Princeton University Press. Keyes, C. W. (1922). The Structure of Heliodorus’ Aethiopica. Studies in Philology, 19, 42–51. Koschaker, P. (1937). Die Eheformen bei den Indogermanen. In E. Heymann (Ed.) Deutsche Landesreferate zum II. Internationalen Kongreß für Rechtsvergleichung im Haag 1937 (pp. 77–140b). Berlin-Leipzig: De Gruyter. Lambert, S. D. (1998). The Phratries of Attica. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Leão, D. F. / Rhodes, P. J. (2015). The Laws of Solon: A New Edition with Introduction. LondonNew York: I.B. Tauris & Co. Lipsius, J. H. (1905). Das attische Recht und Rechtsverfahren I. Leipzig: Reisland. (repr. Hildesheim-Zurich-New York (1984). Macdowell, D. M. (1978). The Law in Classical Athens. Ithaca (NY ): Cornell University Press. Macdowell, D. M. (1989). The Oikos in Athenian Law. The Classical Quarterly, 39, 10–21. Macdowell, D. M. (2009). Demosthenes the Orator. Oxford: Oxford University. Press.

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Mélèze-Modrzejewski, J. (2005). What is Hellenistic Law? The Documents of the Judaean Desert on the Light of the Papyri from Egypt. In R. Katzoff & D. M. Schaps, Law in the Documents of the Judaean Desert (pp. 7–22), Leiden-Boston: Brill. Murray, O. (1990). Cities of Reason. In O. Murray & S. Price (Eds.) The Greek City: From Homer to Alexander (pp. 1–25). Oxford: Clarendon Press. Murray, O. (2000). What is Greek about the Polis? Politics: Studies in Ancient Greek History. Presented to Mogens Herman Hansen on his Sixtieth Birthday, August 20 (pp. 231–244). Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum Press. Oudshoorn, G. (2007). The Relationship Between Roman and Local Law in the Babatha and Salome Komaise Archives, Leiden-Boston: Brill. Paoli, U. E (1962). Comici latini e diritto attico, Milan: Giuffrè Editore (=(1975) Altri studi di diritto greco e romano, Milan). Partsch J. (1909). Griechische Burgschaftrecht I. Leipzig: B. G. Teubner. Petitus, S. (1635). Leges atticae. Paris: Sumptibus Caroli Morelli. Photiades, P. S. (1920). Περὶ τῆς ἐγγύης πρὸς γάμον". Athena, 32 100–154. Ruschenbusch, E. (1966), Solonos Nomoi. Wiesbaden: Steiner. Sánchez-Moreno Ellart, C. (2013). s. v. Epikleros. In Encyclopedia of Ancient History (pp. 2462–2463). New York: John Wiley & Sons. Sánchez-Moreno Ellart, C. (2012). s. v. Marriage (Greece and Rome). In Encyclopedia of Ancient History (pp. 4317–4318) New York: John Wiley & Sons. Thumser, V. (1896). "ΕΓΓΥΗΣΙΣ, ΓΑΜΗΛΙΑ, ΕΠΙΔΙΚΑΣΙΑ", Serta Harteliana. Vienna: Verlag von F. Tempsky 189–192. Van Den Es, A. H. G. P. (1864). De iure familiarum apud Athenienses. Leiden: Brill. Vérilhac, A. -M. / Vial, Cl. (1998). Le mariage grec. Athens: École Française d’Athènes. Vidal Naquet, P. (1965). Economie et societé dans la Grèce ancienne. La oeuvre de Moses I. Finley. European Journal of Sociology, 6, 111–148 (=La démocratie greque vue d’ailleurs, Paris 1990) 55–94). W. K. Lacey. (1968). The Family in classical Greece. Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press. Wolff, H.-J. (1939). Written and Unwritten Marriage in Hellenistic and Postclassical Roman Law. Haverford: American Philological Associaton. Wolff, H. J. (1944). Marriage, Law and Family Organization in ancient Athens. Traditio, 2, 43–95. Yiftach-Firanko, U. (2003). Marriage and marital Arrangements. Munich: C.H. Beck.

chapter 8

Warrior women Between reality and fiction in the papyri of Greek novels María Paz López Martínez & Consuelo Ruiz-Montero Universidad de Alicante | Universidad de Murcia

Women are especially attractive characters in the Greek novels. Some are queens or strategists who even lead armies while some influential women commanded the building of public works and exercised matriarchy. We center on five women engaged in the action described in six papyri. They are powerful, warrior women, involved in their homeland’s political affairs: Parthenope, Themisto, Calligone, Antheia and Thalassia. Keywords: papyrological fragments, lost Greek novels, powerful women, warrior women, Parthenope, Themisto, Calligone, Antheia and Thalassia

1.

Introduction

Among the characters that populate Greek novels, women are especially attractive. Indeed, they have marked personalities and they take action. Some are lovers, betrothed or wives who undertake solo expeditions in search of their husbands, confronting dangerous situations. Others are travellers seeking to broaden their horizons through land and sea adventures. Others still are educated women, who outface the pedantry of their male companions or they are wealthy prostitutes who pay for the sexual initiations of younger lovers. A number of queens or strategists even led armies while some influential women commanded the building of public works and exercised matriarchy. In this chapter we address the latter. Specifically, we centre on five women engaged in the action described in six papyri that contain fragments of lost novels. They are powerful, warrior women, involved in their homeland’s political affairs. One is a young aristocrat, the daughter of a renowned tyrant from the

https://doi.org/10.1075/ivitra.40.08lop © 2024 John Benjamins Publishing Company

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island of Samos (Parthenope/ Παρθενόπη);1 another is the queen of a country of Amazons located on the Black Sea (Themisto/ Θεμιστώ); there is also a Pontic Greek princess, an ally of Themisto (Calligone/Καλλιγόνη);2 and the final two are Greek islanders (Antheia/Ἄνθεια and Thalassia/ Θαλασσία).3 It is currently harder to determine the roles and backgrounds of the latter two, due to the crumbling state of the papyrus. They may, however, have participated in some political or war adventure during the Peloponnesian War. It is worth noting that the state of conservation in which the papyri were found is disparate: in some cases, complete columns of writing have reached us, in others, the text is full of gaps and unclear letters. Certain risks must thus necessarily be taken in order to reconstruct and interpret the contexts of scenes and story plots. That is why we set out here some plausible hypotheses. Indeed, both the corpus of novel fragments and the texts themselves are being extended, reviewed and studied on an ongoing basis.4

2.

Material aspects

We will focus on six fragments of highly varied bibliographical quality. All the materials come from Egypt, mainly from the city of Oxyrhynchus and date back to the second and third centuries AD. The corresponding novels must have therefore been written earlier, but not necessarily much long before. The heterogeneity of the formats was already visible in the case of novels of which several fragments have reached us, as in the case of Parthenope. With

1. The novel is known by the title Parthenope and comprises the following papyri: P.Berol. 9588, P.Berol. 21179, P.Berol.7927, P.Oxy.435, P.Mich.inv.3402v and O.Bodl.2175. Edition of the papyri by Stephens & Winkler (1995, pp. 81–89) and López Martínez (1998, pp. 121–132). All the sources of the novel are available in Hägg & Utas (2003). For further information on the novel, as well as an in-depth study and new editing proposals, see our articles (López-Martínez & Ruiz-Montero, 2013, 2016 and 2021 and López Martínez, López Juan & Navarro López (2022). They provide a recent bibliography, comments on the text, as well as a review of the novel’s different narrative possibilities. 2. PSI 981 and P.Oxy. 5355: Editions by Stephens & Winkler (1995, pp. 267–288), López Martínez (1998, pp. 145–155), Parsons (2018). See also: Ruiz-Montero (2020) and López Martínez (2021a) and (2021b). 3. PSI 726: Stephens & Winkler (1995, pp. 277–288); López Martínez (1998, pp. 296–306); Kaltsas (2020, pp. 27–49) and López Martínez & Ruiz-Montero (forthcoming). 4. The editions of reference of these fragmentary novels are: Stephens & Winkler (1995) and López Martínez (1998). For a recent overview of this whole series of fragments, cf. López Martínez (2021c).

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regard to P. Berol. 7927 + 9588 + 21179, dated between the first half of the second century AD and the third century AD, coming from Arsinoites (Egyptian Museum of Berlin), the novelesque text appears in the verse of a reused papyrus, while the virgin papyrus was employed to copy a document. The fiction text seems to be the work of a careless, inexperienced and/or non-Greek-speaking copyist. One can observe all kinds of errors: confusions between voiceless and sonorous consonants and hesitations regarding the treatment of scriptio plena / scriptio elisa, among others. In addition, the P. Mich. 3402 text dated the third century AD appears in the verse of a papyrus containing a document on the recto. However, the third fragment of the same novel -P. Oxy. 435 (Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library of Yale University) – dating to the first half of the second century AD and coming from Oxyrhynchus, is written on the recto and its verso is blank. To finish, we dispose of a modest ostracon with a text relating to the novel’s plot: an O. Bodl.2175 –ostracon dating back to the first century AD. The PSI 726 probably dates back to the late second century AD (Bibliotheca Medicea Laurenziana of Florence). Its origin is unknown. The novelesque text appears in the verse of a scroll and a fragment of the De Corona oration of Demosthenes is preserved on the recto. Does this tell us anything about the level of erudition of the scroll’s owner? The state of conservation is very poor, the scribe has rectified letters and one can also appreciate corrections in the right margin of the first two lines. Also coming from Oxyrhynchus are two preserved papyri of the novel in which Calligone is a protagonist: PSI 981 dates back to the second century AD (Archaeological Museum of Alexandria) and P. Oxy. 5355, to between the third and fourth centuries AD (Sackler Library, Oxford). Both novelistic texts were copied on the recto, while the verso was left blank. The PSI 981, for its part, is a luxurious scroll written with elegant letters and generous margins. Do the material aspects of this small sample of fragments allow us to draw any conclusions about the type of reader who would have been interested in the adventures of these female characters? Do they tell us about their level of wealth, or their social or cultural status? As we have just seen, in the case of Calligone, we dispose of two texts copied on a virgin scroll, one of which can even be regarded as luxurious; in the case of Antheia, we dispose of a papyrus recycled from a copy of a sophisticated literary text. Finally, in the case of Parthenope – a novel which had probably been more successful than the previous ones in the Empire – a fragment copied directly onto the recto, whose verso was left blank, has reached us, together with two private copies made in recycled materials, in addition to an unassuming ostracon – which could be a school exercise. That is, the repertoire ranges from luxurious copies, plain copies and even some amateurish copies, to virgin and recycled materials.

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In view of these data (Cavallo 1996), we are unable to draw any conclusions regarding the profiles of the customers or potential readers of these novels, in which these types of powerful women are the protagonists. We therefore deduce that in principle, such characters must have attracted readers from very diverse social and cultural backgrounds.

3.

The Samian Parthenope

Let us begin with Parthenope's novel. The protagonist is the daughter of Polycrates of Samos, described by Hdt. 3.124, though she is not named, nor is her relationship with Metiochus mentioned in the novel. The young man is a historical figure and the son of Miltiades, the famous hero of Marathon, and his first wife. Among the most interesting features of novelesque heroines are their names, which usually have an idealising function. The choice of names is utterly conscious, novelists often giving so-called “speaking names”. Such names sometimes provide information about a character’s physical appearance or role in the intrigue, the person’s trade or profession and/or social status.5 In this case, the young aristocrat is called Parthenope/ Παρθενόπη “who has a maiden’s face or gaze" and is interested in a man from Chersonesus. The latter, fleeing his homeland due to his stepmother’s intrigues, arrives on the island of Samos where he is welcomed as a guest by Calligone’s father. At some point in the action, Metiochus and Parthenope begin to share their destinies. Although we did not know the specific circumstances, we can assume that this occurs at a rather early stage in the adventure: according to Luc., De salt. 54 Κἂν εἰς τὴν Ἀσίαν πάλιν διαβῇς, πολλὰ κἀκεῖ δράματα· ἡ γὰρ Σάμος εὐθὺς καὶ τὸ Πολυκράτους πάθος καὶ τῆς θυγατρὸς αὐτοῦ μέχρι Περσῶν πλάνη, Parthenope went on a voyage (πλάνη) to Persia in search of her husband. Thanks to an eleventh century Persian version in verse of this novel, which seems to follow the Greek text quite closely, we know that the young heiress of the kingdom of Polycrates, called Ἁdhrā, meaning “Virgin”, could lead an army (vv. 38–39). Furthermore, she was precocious in her learning of letters and art (vv. 27–30), studying astronomy as well as writing at the age of seven, and excelling in eloquence and virtue (34–35). She engaged in sports such as polo, ball, bow and arrow, spear (31–32). In fact, the Persian text presents a scene (v.348ss) in which both protagonists share what was either a combat or a sports demonstration. The scene ends with a comparison of both on an imagined future battlefield (v. 366). In 5. Others are highly eloquent in this sense in addition to those collected here: Καλλιρόη, Ἀνθία, Χαρίκλεια and Χιόνη, to name but a few examples.

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P.Berol. 7927 + 9588 + 21179, both youths demonstrate their advanced education in rhetoric. The equality of both protagonists seems clear in this novel. Parthenope finds her husband after many adventures and dangers of all kinds and returns to her homeland to recover her father’s throne. We do not know whether she is accompanied by Metiochus, though this is most likely – as mentioned in the oldest novel of those that have been preserved in their entirety, the Callirhoe by Chariton of Aphrodisias. The Zeugma mosaic of ca. 200 AD depicts them sitting together. Of interest, in our view, is Queen Atossa, presented in the anonymous Tractatus de Mulieribus (Gera 1997, pp. 141–150).6 She could have been of Persian or Assyrian origin. In the Tractatus, she is the only daughter of a powerful man, whereas all the other women are the wives, mothers, and sisters of rulers. As she had no brothers who would have heirs to the kingdom, her father raised her as a boy, as Polycrates did to Parthenope. The tradition according to which she invented epistolary correspondence is comparable with the learnedness exhibited by Parthenope in her early years. She even adopted a masculine dress.7 Moreover, the fame she gained for her bravery and belligerence, that is, for being Amazonlike on the battlefield, reminds us of Parthenope’s character: did she exhibit these virtues while searching for her husband or, afterwards, upon her return to take her father’s throne?8 Another woman must be mentioned here: several sources, from Timaeus onwards, refer to the travels of Dido from her Phoenician country to Carthage. According to Justin 18.4.1-6–8, in her πολλὴ πλάνη, other characters joined her expedition, and she committed suicide to avoid a marriage.9 These central motifs are well known in all extant love novels, but they were probably already present in Parthenope and originated in historical Greek sources as well. Nevertheless, heroines in novels are always successful. They can manage to escape from these undesired unions, as we shall see later. 6. Hellanicus is the main source here. 7. In the Ephesiaca by Xenophon of Ephesus, the story of Aegialeus (5.1.7–8) includes his female partner in masculine disguise to flee from their country. The sources mention the Amazons’ clothing and highlight their use of “trousers”, cf. Mayor (2014b). Also, according to D. S. 2.6, 6–7, Semiramis designed a sort of travel garment when was called to the battlefield that concealed her female body. 8. According to Gera (1997, pp. 154–158), the Persian Rhodogyne was the bravest and most Amazon-like queen in the Tractatus de Mulieribus. She was, moreover, “a man-hater woman”. In P. Berol. 7927 + 9588 21179. 6–29 Metiochus refuses Eros' power, but we do not know whether Parthenope had previously shared this feature. In Hdt. 3.124–125, Polycrates' daughter promises to remain virgin until her father returns from war. 9. Gera (1997, p. 139) says that Timaeus states that “Dido” is a Lybian name meaning “wanderer”. Perhaps he included travels before her arrival to Carthage.

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4.

The Pontic Calligone and her encounter with the Amazon Themisto

In Calligone’s novel, there are two female warriors: Calligone and Themisto. The name Καλλιγόνη means “born beautiful, beautiful from birth". In P. Oxy. 5355, the protagonist is presented as the daughter of the king of Boristhenes,10 the historic Milesian colony of Pontus. This kingdom seems threatened by some political rival’s internal conspiracy or by some external danger, perhaps a Scythian attack, we do not know. The king’s sons are brought to safety in two or more ships.11 Calligone is shipwrecked in the country of the Amazons, whose queen is called Themisto. She receives her in her court and is impressed by the castaway’s beauty and stature. Calligone responds by saying that she has come in peace. She then becomes an ally of the Amazons, who are also immersed in a war – also against the Scythians? We do not know. In fact, in P. Oxy.5355, the Greek princess becomes her combat auxiliary, and acts as a warrior in PSI 981. That is, Calligone is a “para-Amazon", though an enamoured one. The mythology includes similar cases: Penthesilea, Hippolyta, Antiope, Thalestria ….12 Calligone helps them to organise and expand their army against the common enemy, incorporating soldiers from other peoples also ruled by women, such as the Maeotians, Sarmatians and Alans. The name Θεμιστώ, “the woman who is just", is a name that refers to Θέμις, the goddess of laws and eternal justice. It befits a queen and immediately defines her behaviour. It is linked to the mythical tradition in several ancient sources.13 Though the name does not appear in the sources as an Amazon, her homeland, Θεμισκύρα, mentioned above, is indeed widely cited in them. According to App. Mith. 78, the place is named after one of the Amazons, a tradition that the novel’s author may have been aware of. We know that the motif of the Amazons as 10. We do not know whether the prefix Eu- in P. Oxy. 5355.B.6 refers to the name Eubiotus. In this case, it would be the father. In this regard, and for other reading proposals, see RuizMontero (2020) and López Martínez (2021a), (2021b) and (2022). 11. The text contains τοῦ π̣α̣ι̣δ̣ίου, which could refer to the protagonist’s brother or son. Chariton 8.4.5 mentions the son that Callirhoe and Dionysius – who already has a daughter – have in common (εἰμὶ γὰρ τῇ ψυχῇ μετὰ σοῦ διὰ τὸν κοινὸν υἱόν, ὃν παρακατατίθημί σοι ἐκτρέφειν τε παιδεύειν ἀξίως ἡμῶν. μὴ λάβῃ δὲ πεῖραν μητρυιᾶς· ἔχεις οὐ μόνον υἱόν, ἀλλὰ καὶ θυγατέρα· ἀρκεῖ σοι δύο τέκνα). Ninus also refers to a lovers’ pledge (ἐνέχυρα P. Berol.6926 A.III.34–35). 12. The list of Amazons can be found in A.R.2.965; 995. Another catalogue, with speaking names can be found in D.S. 4.16, 2.46.4. It is impossible here to cite all references to Amazons, cf. Webster Wilde (2000), Schubert & Weiß (2013), Mayor (2014a), and Durán Velasco (2018), among others. 13. Hdn. De prosodia catholica 3.1.57:74; Paus. 10.24.3 This is the name of a Cypriot, Homer’s mother: see the data in Ruiz-Montero (2020).

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invaders of Greece together with Thracians and Scythians is still a familiar topo in the Empire’s rhetoric manuals. One can read this in Theon 114–115.2, which cites other warrior queens, such as the Massagetan Tomyris, the Sacian Sparethra, and Semiramis.14 Another author of the Second Sophistic, Polyaenus, tells romantic stories of warrior women, such as Tirgatao (8.55) or Amage (8.56).15 Plutarch’s work On the Bravery of Women testifies to the scholarly origin of these collections of stories; worthy of note, however, none of the women warriors found in the anonymous Tractatus de Mulieribus appear in that work.16 The Empire’s iconography also represents them, as illustrated in a painting in a patrician villa of Seleucia-Zeugma, city in which the Legio IIII Scythica resided, and which became one of the empire’s great cities.17 The Amazon Prothoe seems to be pictured in room P30 of the so-called “maison sans mosaïque". She was Hippolyte’s loyal companion in her fight against Herakles (D.S. 4. 16. 1–2). The illustration may be part of a series of twelve paintings of twelve Amazons, such as those Diodorus referred to. She is depicted in a similar way as other heroines, the exemplary wives of other adjoining houses, who could be interpreted as both, models of traditional feminine virtues and guardians of the queen’s virtue. In any event, the location in the house would fulfil a pedagogical and ideological function, in addition to an aesthetic one (Barbet, 2005, pp., 159–171). They may also be a sign of local identity. The military alliance between the Amazons and the heroine Calligone that is noticeable in our papyrus could still have been active in a later phase of the novel’s

14. Examples of women superior to men include: Theon 114–115 οἷον εἰ πλείους εἰσὶν ἄρρενες ἀνδρεῖοι ἤπερ αἱ γυναῖκες, καὶ τὸ γένος τῶν ἀρρένων τοῦ τῶν γυναικῶν ἀνδρειότερον. οὐ γὰρ εἰ Τόμυρις ἡ Μασσαγέτις, ἢ Σπαρέθρα ἡ Ἀμόργου τοῦ Σακῶν βασιλέως γυνὴ κρείττων ἐστὶ Κύρου, ἢ καὶ ναὶ μὰ Δία Σεμίραμις Ζωροάστρου τοῦ Βακτρίου, ἤδη συγχωρητέον καὶ τὸ θῆλυ τοῦ ἄρρενος εἶναι ἀνδρειότερον, μιᾶς μὲν ἢ δύο γυναικῶν Ζωροάστρου τοῦ Βακτρίου, ἤδη συγχωρητέον καὶ τὸ θῆλυ τοῦ ἄρρενος εἶναι ἀνδρειότερον, μιᾶς μὲν ἢ δύο γυναικῶν ἀνδρειοτάτων οὐσῶν, ἀρρένων δὲ παμπόλλων. 15. See again Gera (1997) for more information on these Oriental queens. 16. Cf. Gera (1997, pp. 35–36), who adds further catalogues of women and notes that the ἀνδρεία is not listed among the virtues of the women in Plutarch’s aforementioned work. The latter includes additional women, though they have no “official” power. Nevertheless, some stories exemplify this feminine ἀνδρεία in Ruiz-Montero – Jiménez (2008, pp. 111–113), which focuses on the study of the virtues of these women and their possible Platonic origin. 17. See the data cited by Barbet & Lalanne (2019). We agree with the conclusions of these authors. For the rest, we have cited other contemporary Syrian mosaics that adorned two villae located in the cities of Alexandretta and Daphne, near Antioch on the Orontes. In the latter is the renowned “The House of the Man of Letters”, in which scenes from two different novels, Ninus and Parthenope, are depicted. Cf. Quet (1992).

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intrigue: Themisto was able to help Calligone to retake her homeland, from which she had fled or was expelled. In the second fragment, PSI 981, the action is already taking place in the middle of the war. Calligone enters her tent, enraged, crying and looking for her sword. She blames her misfortunes on the goddess Artemis, a certain Erasinos, and the day she saw him on a hunt. This love encounter during a hunt in PSI 981 can also be found in Aen. 4.117–18 uenatum Aeneas unaque miserrima Dido/in nemus ire parant … Specifically, the following passage coincides with our papyrus: ille dies primus leti primusque malorum/causa fuit … (4.169–70). Evidently, we are witnessing a pre-configured love topos: in a context of amourous seduction, Plutarch says that Antony and Cleopatra share dice, drink and hunts: καὶ γὰρ συνεκύβευε καὶ συνέπινε καὶ συνεθήρευε καὶ γυμναζόμενον ἐν ὅπλοις ἐθεᾶτο (Ant. 29.2).18 In Char. 6.4.4–5, King Artaxerxes goes on a hunt to forget Callirhoe. But once there, the king loses interest in the hunt, thinking only of Callirhoe. He becomes aroused, imagining the absent heroine’s body; the author comments that Eros is present at the hunt, causing such passion.19 Ach. Tat. 8.12.3–8 follows this line and includes the aetiological diegema of Rhodopis, the lover of hunting and companion of Artemis, whom she promises to flee from men and from the goddess Aphrodite, who will later punish her. For this she employs Euthynicus, another lover of hunting and enemy of Aphrodite. The goddess succeeds in getting the two young people to see each other at a hunt, to have their eyes meet and to be both chased by Eros.20Artemis’ revenge will be to turn Rhodopis into water from the Styx river.21 18. Worthy of note, Ctesias (FGrH 688 F1b 8.6) described a Babylonian palace frieze in which Ninus is shown hunting a lion and Semiramis a leopard. The frieze has not been corroborated by archaeological data, although it is supposed to have depicted both heroes on an equal plane: Gera (1997, pp. 78–79). On this type of character, see the study by Ruiz-Montero (2011: 381–402). 19. … ἀλλὰ βασιλεὺς οὔτε ἵππον ἔβλεπε, τοσούτων [ἱππέων] αὐτῷ παραθεόντων, οὔτε θηρίον, τοσούτων διωκομένων, οὔτε κυνὸς ἤκουε, τοσούτων ὑλακτούντων, οὔτε ἀνθρώπου, πάντων βοώντων. Ἔβλεπε δὲ Καλλιρόην μόνην τὴν μὴ παροῦσαν, καὶ ἤκουεν ἐκείνης τῆς μὴ λαλούσης. συνεξῆλθε γὰρ ἐπὶ τὴν θήραν ὁ Ἔρως αὐτῷ, καί, ἅτε δὴ φιλόνεικος θεός, ἀντιταττόμενον ἰδὼν καὶ βεβουλευμένον, ὡς ᾤετο, καλῶς, εἰς τοὐναντίον τὴν τέχνην περιέτρεψεν αὐτῷ καὶ δι’ αὐτῆς τῆς θεραπείας ἐξέκαυσε τὴν ψυχήν, ἔνδον παρὼν καὶ λέγων … 20. … νεανίσκος ἦν Ἐφέσιος, καλὸς ἐν μειρακίοις ὅσον Ῥοδῶπις ἐν παρθένοις· Εὐθύνικον αὐτὸν ἐκάλουν· ἐθήρα δὲ καὶ αὐτὸς ὡς Ῥοδῶπις, καὶ τὴν Ἀφροδίτην ομοίως οὐκ ἤθελεν εἰδέναι. ἐπ' ἀμφοτέρους οὖν ἡ θεὸς ἔρχεται καὶ τὰς θήρας αὐτῶν εἰς ἓν συνάγει· τέως γὰρ ἦσαν κεχωρισμένοι· ἡ δὲ Ἄρτεμις τηνικαῦτα οὐ παρῆν. παραστησαμένη δὲ τὸν υἱὸν τὸν τοξότην ἡ Ἀφροδίτη εἶπε … 21. This is another novelistic stereotype: Achilles presents Euthynicus as a young and beautiful Εphesius, just as Habrocomes is described in X. Ephes. 1.1.5; 1. 4.1–5; cf. also Hld. 2.33.4–5, and,

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In PSI 981, Eubiotus is also present on the battlefield. He enters the tent with Calligone and hides the young woman’s dagger (ἐγχειρίδιον, ξίφος). Once alone with him, Calligone realises that Eubiotus has taken her weapon from her and orders him to return it. The young woman claims her Greek – not Amazonian – ancestry and threatens to kill him with her own hands. We know that suicide was the end of hapless Dido, who was madly in love with Aeneas. Calligone would attempt something similar here. Would there be any additional motive for Calligone’s contempt for Aphrodite or Eros? The reason for the failed suicide attempt – another topos of the novel genre22 – can also be found in Plu. Dem. 49.9. There, the protagonist wishes to take his own life with his sword (ξίφος), after hearing that he has to surrender to Seleucus, his victor. He is prevented from doing so by his friends (φίλοι).23 Of particular interest is the episode recounted in Plu. Alex. 51. 5–11, where one of the king’s bodyguards (σωματοφυλάκων) hastens to remove the dagger (τὸ ἐγχειρίδιον) without Alexander noticing: the king then calls his ὑπασπιστὰς and, in a fit of rage (ὀργή), pierces Clytus with a spear (αἰχμή) that he had taken, in turn, from Alexander, one of his porters (δορυφόρων). However, having recovered his senses after his outburst, the king repents and tries to commit suicide using that same spear, an act impeded by his personal guards (σωματοφυλάκων). It is interesting that in this same passage, Alexander uses the term ὑπασπιστάς, which designates the person responsible for carrying the warrior’s shield and that is quoted by Pollux 7.155 in the following enumeration: καὶ ἀπ' αὐτοῦ ἀσπίς, ἀσπιδηφόρος, ὑπασπιστής συνασπιστής, ὑπ' ἀσπίδα, συνασπίζειν προασπίζειν ὑπερασπίζειν, μικράσπιδα. The term seems comparable to the less frequent word παρας[πι]ςτην which appears in P. Oxy. 5355.ΙΙ.2.24 Furthermore, a suicide by one’s own dagger due to love is already cited by Nicolaus of Damascus in the letter that the Median general Stryangaeus addresses to the Sacian queen Zarinaea, who has rejected his love. The text comes from Ctesias FGrH no.90 F.5 and P. Oxy. 2330. before him, Metiochus in P.Berol. 7927, col. II. See the comment of López Martínez & RuizMontero (2021). 22. Cf. Charit. 5.10.10 He is the loyal friend Polycharmus who stops the suicide of Chaireas. The theme is of tragic origin. 23. τολμήσαντος δέ τινος εἰπεῖν [τι] ὡς Σελεύκῳ χρὴ τὸ σῶμα παραδοῦναι Δημήτριον, ὥρμησε μὲν τὸ ξίφος σπασάμενος ἀνελεῖν ἑαυτόν, οἱ δὲ φίλοι περιστάντες καὶ παραμυθούμενοι συνέπεισαν οὕτω ποιῆσαι. καὶ πέμπει πρὸς Σέλευκον ἐπιτρέπων ἐκείνῳ τὰ καθ' ἑαυτόν. 24. Cf. Basil. Epistul. 79.1. The term παρασπιστής is of poetic origin: in Eur. El. 883–88 Electra uses it to address Pylades, Orestes’ companion, entrusted as guardian since childhood. Cf. also D. S. 5.29.2, D. Hal. 2.13.3; 3.14.2; App. BC 2.14.95; Ael. Arist. Plat. 292–25.

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5.

The Islanders Antheia and Thalassía: The novel of Antheia

The first column, which is the best-preserved text, begins with a third-person narrative of a violent action, a revolt, a military incursion or an attack on a temple, along the lines of “Asian Vespers or Ephesus Vespers." This was a huge massacre organised by Mithridates of Pontus that spread to cities such as Ephesus, Pergamon, Adramyttium, Cos, Kaunus, Tralleis, Nisa, and Chios, in the year 88 BC. 25 We believe our fragment mentions the mutilation of a temple’s statues, followed by the end of a conflict between Greeks and Persians. Indeed, it refers to the intrigues of the eunuch Artoxares, who is ultimately forgiven due to his change of behaviour. We will come back to him later. The column ends with the mention of a woman’s feat, which seems to run parallel to the previous attack. Undeniably, the latter plays a key part in the unfolding of the intrigue: the woman carries an object hidden in her breast, a dagger, a poison or a letter, as discussed above.26 We do not know her name nor whether she is the novel’s heroine. The second column is clearer, and it seems to contain a recapitulation that is typical of love novel adventures. There is, however, a loose end: the fate of Antia, whether she is the protagonist or not. The column is narrated in a direct style, and begins with an account of the military events and their political consequences. They refer to the current political situation of Samos, now in the hands of Thraseas, who had some kind of relationship with Antheia – whether it was a lawful one or not, we do not know. Seven characters are listed here. Among them, at least one is a historical figure: Lysander, the “Spartiate”. The latter was a renowned, highly prominent Peloponnesian general in X., Hell. 1–3, who apparently delivered Antheia to Thraseas. Two women of action appear in this fragment. The first, Thalassia, seizes Kleandros’ ship and is reunited with Thraseas, with whom she has a friendly relationship – perhaps an erotic one. The second woman – whose truncated name ends in -τις and to whom we will refer to as X- τις – saves Antheia by refraining from giving her the poison (phármakon), thus disobeying Thalassia. She aligns herself politically with Antheia. This woman, for her own safety we understand, fleas Samos and thus manages to save herself.

25. This was already observed in López Martínez & Ruiz-Montero (forthcoming), citing texts such as Lys. 6.15; Galen. In Hippocratis aphorismos commentarii vii 18a.125.6–7; Arist. GA 772b16–18 and Phgn. 806b31–34. 26. Worthy of note, Hdt. 5. 20 already described how the Macedonians deceived the Persians by disguising themselves as women who were carrying concealed daggers with which they were then slayed.

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Therefore, if we take into account the woman mentioned at the end of the first column – and who may be the same as one of those appearing in the second – a total of four women would be cited in that papyrus (or three, if two of them coincide, as indicated above). As far as we can tell, all of them are active women as well as warriors. Of particular note is Thalassia, a sort of corsair or admiral, since she seems to captain her own ship.27 She would thus have a speaking name, “Marina”, as is Antheia’s name: Ἄνθεια, “Flower”. The text adds that Thalassia lives with Thraseas, the sole ruler, perhaps tyrannos, of Samos. This could indicate that Thalassia’s behaviour was ambiguous regarding Antheia, whether she is the protagonist or not. That is, that she may have changed attitude, since no punishment is mentioned. In the domain of novelesque intrigue, this action reminds us of that of the eunuch Artoxares, who appears in the first column. He seems to have been forgiven thanks to a significant act he fulfilled that redeemed him regarding his previous crimes. In the Ephesian Tales by Xenophon of Ephesus, we find evidence of links with Antheia’s story, regarding proper names and some thematic elements,28 such as poison. Here the potion is of a hypnotic nature and it is taken by the protagonist, Antheia, to escape from an unwanted marriage ("σὺ τοίνυν βοηθὸς ἡμῖν γενοῦ, φάρμακον εὑρών ποθεν, ὃ κακῶν με ἀπαλλάξει τὴν κακοδαίμονα" 3.5.7). The bandit Hippothous has an ambivalent behaviour, equally towards the heroine, as he will sacrifice her to Ares in 2.13.1-2 (without specifying a reason, only as a ritual); later, he rescues her from the brothel in 5.9.9, respects her in 5.9.13 and helps her to return to her homeland, which facilitates the heroes’ final meeting. Hippothous will share his life with his beloved (5.15.3–4) in Ephesus. It seems unlikely that Thalassia’s attitude towards the heroine is utterly negative – as in the case of Manto or even Rhenaia in the Ephesian Tales – since she would have received a punishment which would have been included in the second column’s final catalogue. Or it would have simply disappeared from the final listing. Of greater interest, we believe, is the comparison of Thalassia – whose name is in fact rather eloquent29 – with another female warrior, a naval expert and a somewhat key figure in a major historical episode, the battle of Salamis (480 BC), according to Herodotus. The woman in question is Artemisia, Queen of Hali27. See Morgan (2018), Kaltsas (2020) and López Martínez & Ruiz-Montero (forthcoming). According to Morgan, Antheia is not the novel’s heroine. 28. See the data in López Martínez & Ruiz-Montero (forthcoming), and, before, the editions of Stephens and Winklers (1995, pp. 277–288) and López Martínez (1998, pp. 296–306). 29. A “Thalassia” is mentioned between 140–124 B.C. in Tylos; she was a queen, the wife of King Hyspoasines. Other examples come from the imperial period: LGPN V A, and Rome (IGUR II 577). Morgan (2018, p. 87, n. 11) only mentions CIL VI 10112, referring to a female mime artist. A priestess of Artemis named Stertinia Marina is known in Ephesus, 54–68 AD: Kirbihler (2019, p. 25).

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carnassus through “a kind of subsatrapy” (Gera, 1997, p. 205), and who joined Xerxes’ expedition against Greece “with audacity and courage, without having any obligation to do so”: Ἀρτεμισίης δέ, τῆς μάλιστα θῶμα ποιεῦμαι ἐπὶ τὴν Ἑλλάδα στρατευσαμένης γυναικός, ἥτις ἀποθανόντος τοῦ ἀνδρὸς αὐτή τε ἔχουσα τὴν τυραννίδα καὶ παιδὸς ὑπάρχοντος νεηνίεω ὑπὸ λήματός τε καὶ ἀνδρηίης ἐστρατεύετο, οὐδεμιῆς οἱ ἐούσης ἀναγκαίηϲ (Hdt.7.99). Like other oriental warrior women, she was a widow and had a son. She excelled as a military adviser to Xerxes before and after the naval battle thanks to her cleverness (Hdt. 8.68; 101–102). So much so in fact, that the king would ask her to accompany his own illegitimate sons to Ephesus as their bodyguard (Hdt. 8.103–107). Gera had already identified Artemisia’s contradictory character in Herodotus:30 she may be a woman, but she is the only “man” at the battle (8.88); she is Greek, but on the side of the barbarians, and her cunning during an attack of a ship belonging to a member of Xerxes’ alliance allows her to escape to safety (8.87). As for her own nautical and martial skills, she would prove to be superior to both Greek and barbarian men at sea, and her bravery was compared to that of Themistocles in rhetorical sources, such as Theon’ Progymnasmata. Here, Tomyris is described as the bravest woman from the very beginning.31 In the tractatus de Mulieribus, Artemisia is also the quintessential warrior woman. Aristophanes mentions her in the naval battle, immediately referring to Amazons (Lys. 675–679). For this reason, Gera (p. 210) calls her “amazon at sea”. In Hdt. 8. 104–106 the eunuch Hermotimus accompanies Artemisia who is escorting Xerxes’ children. He is depicted as a powerful and vengeful man, in the vein of other oriental eunuchs who typically appear in Plutarch’s Lives, such as those of Artaxerxes (Artax. 29.1), Alexander (Alex. 30.2), Demetrius (Dem.25.8), Antonius (Ant. 60.1), etc. The Artoxares mentioned in our papyrus’ column I may follow this model. Gera again believes that Hermotimus is “as exceptional or “reversed” as Artemisia”.32 There were other late romantic stories about Artemisia.33

30. For her data and analysis see Gera (1997, pp. 205–218). 31. Theon, Prog. 114. Gera (1997, p. 218) quotes Plu. Them. 14.3, who recounts another anecdote about Artemisia at the battle. Polyaen. 53.2 tells that the panoply is given to Artemisia as an aristeῖon, a reward for bravery. 32. Gera (1997, p. 216). She stresses the power of eunuchs in oriental courts on pp. 82, 92; the eunuch Artoxares is mentioned on pp. 143–144 trying to usurp the throne. Ctesias seems to be the source of these eunuchs. 33. Phot. Bibl. cod. 190.153a.25 refers to the love story between Artemisia and Dardanus narrated by Ptolomeus Chennus.

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It is also telling that, according to Hdt. 8.90, Xerxes is observing the battle from a mountain and the scribes (οἱ γραματισταὶ) who were by him recorded (ἀνέγραφον πατρόθεν τὸν τριήραρχον καὶ τὴν πόλιν) every fact which seemed extraordinary to the king. The latter reminds us of the beginning of our papyrus' second column. Moreover, the Persian Ariaramnes, who was a friend of the Ionians, is quoted here. Also in 8.88, is an anonymous character located alongside Xerxes who is observing the battle and who shares his commentaries with the king. Our papyrus seems to echo a historical setting. The situation at Samos (col. II, ls. 3–4) is also referred to in Plu. Alc. 26; Lysander erects a trόpaion after the battle in Alc. 35, and is attacked by Alcibiades from Samos in Alc. 37, while he remains in a fortress; two accomplices of Lysander attempt to kill Alcibiades in Alc. 39.5, where a pόlisma is mentioned: our col. I, 17 mentions the substantive πολίχνη, which could be a place name.34 We already observed that the verb ἐγγράφω is typically used in archives and official documents:35 we can now add Plu. Sol. 11.1 ἐν τῇ τῶν Πυθιονικῶν ἀναγραφῇ, referring to Delphes' archives, and Lys.30.3, which quotes a βιβλίον, where Lysander's λόγος about πολιτεία was γεγραμμένος. The expression ἀνατείνας τὰς χεῖρας, or similar, to the gods, appearing in Plu. Ant. 44.5 has no less than 14 examples in Plutarch, according to TLG. The participle ἀνατείνας which ends col. I, could mean the same, although we have advanced some alternatives,36 such as τὸ ξίφος (cf. Plu. Oth. 15.3) – which could be the hidden object inside the woman’s chest in our col. I.

We do not know whether the suicide’s tópos, that we mentioned earlier in our commentary of Calligone, could have a place here as well, since a φάρμακον is quoted in col. II, 11–12. But it may have been an attempt to murder the heroine, planned perhaps by Thalassia or by the eunuch. Both subjects, that of suicide and that of poison, are combined in Plu. Ant. 78–79. In Ant. 78.1, Antonius commits suicide with his ἐγχειρίδιον / ξίφος. More interestingly, in Ant. 79.3–6, Cleopatra tries to do the same with the weapon she had access to at that moment, but Caesar’s friend removes her dagger, and shakes her dress in case it is concealing some 34. See Chantraine (1979, p. 926): πολίχνη, “bourgade” or “petit fort”, quoting Th.7.4; Beekes (2010, p. 1220): “πολίχνη, diminutive, often as a TN (toponym)”. Kaltsas (2020, p. 39, n.33 and p. 42, n.36) proposes to consider this substantive as a city name. 35. López Martínez & Ruiz-Montero (forthcoming). 36. Cf. n. 37. We may add that the same tópos appears as a stratagem in which the women are accomplices in Plu. Mulierum virtutes 246. F.10–13 ἀκούσαντες δ' οἱ Κᾶρες ἐκέλευον ἄγειν καὶ τὰς γυναῖκας. οὕτω δὴ φράσας τὰ πεπραγμένα Μηλίοις ἐκέλευσεν αὐτοὺς μὲν ἀνόπλους ἐν ἱματίοις βαδίζειν, τῶν δὲ γυναικῶν ἑκάστην ξίφος ἐν τῷ κόλπῳ κομίζειν καὶ καθέζεσθαι παρὰ τὸν αὑτῆς.

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type of poison: προσδραμὼν δὲ ταχὺ καὶ περισχὼν αὐτὴν ταῖς χερσὶν ἀμφοτέραις ὁ Προκλήιος “ἀδικεῖς” εἶπεν “ὦ Κλεοπάτρα καὶ σεαυτὴν καὶ Καίσαρα, μεγάλην ἀφαιρουμένη χρηστότητος ἐπίδειξιν αὐτοῦ καὶ διαβάλλουσα τὸν πραότατον ἡγεμόνων ὡς ἄπιστον καὶ ἀδιάλλακτον.” ἅμα δὲ καὶ τὸ ξίφος αὐτῆς παρείλετο καὶ τὴν ἐσθῆτα μὴ κρύπτοι τι φάρμακον ἐξέσεισεν. The scene is as novelistic as our Calligone and Antheia papyri. One could believe that one story has influenced the other. In this case, a biographical account about a powerful and warrior queen, like Cleopatra, would be the model of the papyrus warriors. We already know, however, the motive for the frustrated suicide in the Lives of Alexander and Demetrius. Both the biographical texts cited and the papyri can be traced back therefore, to a common historiographical source, or result, at least, from the same scholarly production. The biographical tradition – which was already novelesque in nature – was undoubtedly a milestone in the novel’s development.37 We mentioned the existence of another woman, X-τις (col. II, 7–10), a political supporter of Antheia, so it appears that she also had an active role in the intrigue. She seems to be an independent woman, another possible warrior, since she flees by sea and disobeys Thalassia. In our commentary on the papyrus, we proposed to see in the desinence – τις a possible oriental name, in the manner of the daughter of Mithridates, Μιθριδατίς, quoted in App. Mith 536. The suffix is also used for eastern city names, such as Ὀροβάτις in India (Arr. Anna.4.28.5), or those listed by the grammarian Herodian, in Egypt, Ἄβοτις, Κράμβοτις (De prosodia catholica 3,1). But we also find the suffix in Greek toponyms, such as ἡ Κασσοτὶς καλουμένη πηγή, mentioning Paus.10.24.7; and in demons, as one can read in Luc., D Deor 2.2.3 ἐγώ εἰμι, Πηνελόπη ἡ Σπαρτιᾶτις – and even in Greek female names, such as in Alciph.3.12.3 ἡ Φενεᾶτις. It is curious that this type of nominal desinence is considered atticistic in Moeris’s lexicon: βατὶς θηλυκῶς τὸ θαλάττιον Ἀττικοὶ, βάτος Ἕλληνες (192). Recently, Morgan (2018: 89–90) proposed that Antheia was an intercultural story located in Scythia, whose protagonist may have been an Amazon in love with a Greek. Morgan also associated Antheia with the fragments of Calligone and Chione, arguing that Amazons play a prominent role in all of them.38 We observed that a penchant for the Scythian landscape was typical of the Second Sophistic.39 All these authors are certainly sharing oral and written material of a historical or pseudohistorical nature, belonging to different ages. But the Colchis is quoted 37. Without this implying any sort of genetic relationship between genders: see Ruiz-Montero (2003,42–48). 38. We discussed this topic. See also Ruiz-Montero (2020) and López Martínez (2021a) and (2021b). Braund (2005) had already supposed “Scythian novels" existed. 39. Above, p. 9–10.

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already in Ninus frg. C, and the novel would perhaps be well suited to a ScythicalAmazon context.

6.

Literary models and realia

We will now comment on some of the references that may have served as models for the authors of these fragmentary novels when building the characters of Parthenope, Calligone, Themisto, Antheia and Thalassia. We are aware that the Greco-Latin sources provide many examples of powerful queens and that monographs have even been published on the subject.40 We therefore do not intend to exhaust the question here but to establish the bases of a line of research that we wish to develop in the future. Among the oldest precursors of all these queens or women who led armies, feature the Carian Artemisia mentioned above and Cleopatra VII, the last ruler of ancient Egypt’s Ptolemaic dynasty, whose biography reached us thanks to a range of – usually partial – sources in addition to papyri, coins and inscriptions. The Queen Berenice also has a role in the Babyloniaca by Iamblichus, a novel also lost and dated ca. 170–180 AD, of which no papyrus has been preserved. An interesting summary can, however, be found in the Library of Photius, cod. 94 (Barbero 2015). 41 Along with the above, we can cite many exotic, Egyptian or Assyrian queens and other eastern peoples, such as the Ethiopian Candace, the Persian Atossa, or the Assyrian Naqi’a-Zakutu, second wife of Sennacherib, and other foreigners who embody the stereotype of a beautiful, intelligent, powerful and very sexually active woman. The Assyrian Semiramis is very present in the Greek tradition; her name could be the Hellenised form of the anthroponym of the historical Sammu-rā mat, who died while her son Adad-nirā rī III was still a minor. As a widow, she thus had to assume the regency. A royal stele may refer to her as a heroic companion of her son, the king, on the battlefield. Diodorus of Sicily, based on the Περσικὰ of Ctesias, makes her the real protagonist of the second book of his Historical Library, surpassing the deeds of other great leaders of foreign peoples. However, although most sources cite Semiramis as the wife of the Assyrian Ninus, her name does not appear on either of the two papyri we retain from the text of Ninus’ novel (P.Berol.inv. 6926 + P.Gen. II 85 and PSI XIII 1305). Instead, the narrator refers to 40. In addition to the aforementioned annotated edition of Gera (1997), see Savalli-Lestrade (1994 and 2003) on Macedonian queens. Bielman (2002, pp. 64–91, 152–157 and 161–165). 41. See the recent edition of Barbero (2015).

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the prince’s future spouse as ἡ παις ἡ παρθένος and ἡ κόρη – “the young woman”, “the maiden”, and “the girl” – and the character is a shy young woman unable to speak in public. There is, naturally, a gulf between the couple in Ninus’ novel and the Semiramis of historiographical sources (López Martínez 2017a, 2017b and 2019). The P. Oxy. 5264 papyrus mentions the construction of pyramids during the conquest of Egypt by a queen whose name does not appear either on the papyrus (Trnka-Amrhein 2016c and 2018). Its editor cites several queens who could be the story’s protagonist: Semiramis herself, but also the Amazon Myrina, who launched a substantial construction campaign of large buildings. Another example is Nitocris of Egypt, who is referred to in the anonymous Tractatus de Mulieribus as the builder of a huge construction, perhaps a pyramid similar to the one built in Egypt by the Samian Rhodopis. Or the engineering works backed by another Nitocris of Babylon, a rather obscure figure (Gera 1997, p. 7 and 101–105). There may have been historiographical accounts of these queens, but no data on novels comparable to that under study has reached us. In any case, the legend of Semiramis reached Armenia thanks to Moses of Corene, History of Armenia (fifth century AD) (López Martínez 2019). Shamiran is the widow of King Ninus and falls in love with the founder of Armenia, Ara the Handsome. She thus invades his country to kidnap the beautiful prince. When he dies on the battlefield, Shamiran goes to Lake Van to establish a city and to undertake the construction of all kinds of infrastructures, including her own palace. There, she erects a mausoleum in which to bury the body of her beloved Ara. This story is in fact closer to Diodorus of Sicily’s accounts of Ninus than to the novel we know. Moreover, the poem Ḵosrow o Širin, composed by the Persian Neẓāmi in the twelfth century, refers to the figures of Shamiran, the queen of Armenia and Azerbaijan, and her niece, Shirin. Shirin is a strong and determined heroine who has received a thorough education both in artistic and intellectual subjects, together with physical and sports training – in the vein of Parthenope we referred to above. All of them (Semiramis, Shamiran and Shirin) would have been, like Parthenope, young princesses who were given advanced instruction in artistic and cultural disciplines, but also in the art of war (horseback riding, fencing, archery, etc.) until, as adult women, they made use of their power to achieve a goal. The Pontic Queen Dynamis, Δύναμις (62 BC–7 AD), whose name means “the Powerful One”, could be a reference to the Pontic princess Calligone (López Martínez 2021, pp. 12–13). She was the daughter or granddaughter of the famous Mithridates VI and, although Caesar refused to wed her, she later married Asander (44–17 BC). She was able to mint coins. Various inscriptions from Phanagoria, from 21 BC to 8 AD, refer to her as “queen”, “friend of Rome”, “Sav-

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iour” and “Euergetes”, as one can read in the inscription below, dedicated to her by the people of Agrippa:42 1

5

[β]ασίλισσαν Δύναμιν φιλορώμ[αιον], [τὴ]ν ἐκ βασιλέω[ς μ]εγάλου Φα[ρνάκου] [το]ῦ ἐκ βασιλέως βασιλέων Μιθ[ραδά][το]υ Εὐπάτορος [Διο]νύσ[ο]υ, [τὴ]ν ἑαυτῶν σ[ώτειραν κ]αὶ εὐε[ργέ][τι]ν [ὁ] δῆμ[ος ὁ Ἀγριπ]πέω[ν].

In the case of Themisto, the queen of the Amazons, Strabo (11.5.1–3; 12.3.15; 4.16.1) places these warrior women’s homeland in the Themiscyra fertile plain, in Pontic Cappadocia. He adds that the myths about the Amazon armies were still true in their time. The narration in App. Mith. 103 is thus unsurprising. According to the account, in 43 BC, during his triumph ceremony in Rome, Pompey paraded all the prisoners, among whom were “many women who had no less wounds than the men; and they believed that they were Amazons, either because the Amazons were a neighbouring people whom they had thus asked to form an alliance, or because the barbarians of that area called the women who were especially belligerent Amazons.” 43 The truth is that the tombs of women dating back to the fourth and third centuries BC have been found buried, in Ukraine, next to arrows, bows and other objects linked to horse dressage (Webster Wilde 2000, Molas Font 2013, p. 558–559, and López Martínez 2021a, p. 170). A concrete model – despite her exceptionality – is the Caucasian Hypsicrateia, Ὑψικράτεια. Her name signifies “she who has high-level power”. She was the sixth and last wife of Mithridates VI and was also named βασίλισσα (cf. P. Oxy. II.16); she was probably born between 100–90 BC, so she would have been 30 to 40 years younger than her husband (López Martínez 2021a). She is referred to by Plut., Pomp. 32.14–15, who called her “concubine” (παλλακίς) and by Valerius Maximus in Nine Books of Memorable Deeds and Sayings, 4. 5–6, ext. 2, who calls her “wife” and “queen” (uxor, regina). They probably met in 89 BC when she was -Mithridates’ stable boy. The young woman was a skilled horsewoman, an equestrian warrior who accompanied the king on the battlefield and remained by his side until his final defeat, in 63 B.C.

42. CIRB 978 and 979, cf. [https://epigraphy.packhum.org/text/183711?bookid=231&location =369]. 43. οὐ μείονα τῶν ἀνδρῶν τραύματα ἔχουσαι· καὶ ἐδόκουν Ἀμαζόνες εἶναι, εἴτε τι ἔθνος ἐστὶν αὐτοῖς γειτονεῦον αἱ Ἀμαζόνες, ἐπίκλητοι τότε ἐς συμμαχίαν γενόμεναι, εἴτε τινὰς πολεμικὰς ὅλως γυναῖκας οἱ τῇδε βάρβαροι καλοῦσιν Ἀμαζόνας. Arr. Ana. 7.13.2–6 also doubts that the hundred equestrian warriors that Alexander received from Atropates, the satrap of Media, were Amazons, as maintained in some sources.

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In 2006, a statue was discovered that had been erected during the reign of her granddaughter, Queen Dynamis (62 BC came to light. – 7 AD) mentioned above. An epitaph at the base of that statue, found in the city of Phanagoria, confirms that Hypsicrateia was not a concubine, but Mithridates’ legitimate wife (BongardLevine, Kochelenko Gennadii and Kouznestov 2006, pp. 255–292). It also confirms the use of the masculine version of her name: [Ὑ]ψίκρατες, γύναι βασιλέως Μιθραδάτου Εὐπάτορος Διονύσου, χαῖρε. “To Hypsicrates, / wife of king Mitridates / Eupator Dionysus, / salve”.

We have already referred to the data coming from the literary sources on the Amazons, most of which are linked to the Life of Alexander, in which Plu., Alex. 46. 4–5 refutes the existence of a “love affair” between Alexander the Great and “the Amazon" (Thalestria), citing many earlier sources.44 Some sources refer to Cyna or Cynnane, 45 Alexander’s sister on his father’s side (Molina Marín, 2018, p. 166). According to them, she fought following the Illyrian tradition against another woman, Queen Caeria, who died in combat. 44. On Thalestria, in Themiscyra, Str. 11.5.4; on Myrina, Amazon queen of Libya, Str. 3.54.2. Other comparisons between contemporary warriors and Amazons can be found in Suet. Caesar 1.22; ten Goth women regarded as Amazons parade in the triumph of Aurelian: Durán Velasco (2018), p. 96. The bellicose women of Colchis were assimilated with the Scythians of Lake Maeotis already in classical times: A. Pr.415–19; 728; and Eur. Her. 408–17 again refers to Amazons and her queen Hippolyte as Areś daughters. The The Periplous of Pseudo-Scylax 70–71 also mentions the Sauromaths and the Meotas as peoples ruled by women. The account of Hdt. 4. 110–17 on the union of the Amazons with the Scythians – from whom the Sauromaths would have descended – is well known. 45. Αὐταριᾶται μὲν δὴ ἀμφὶ τὰ αὑτῶν εἶχον· Λάγγαρος δὲ τά τε ἄλλα ἐτιμήθη μεγάλως πρὸς Ἀλεξάνδρου καὶ δῶρα ἔλαβεν, ὅσα μέγιστα παρὰ βασιλεῖ τῷ Μακεδόνων νομίζεται · καὶ τὴν ἀδελφὴν τὴν Ἀλεξάνδρου Κύναν καὶ ταύτην ὡμολόγησε δώσειν αὐτῷ ἐς Πέλλαν ἀφικομένῳ Ἀλέξανδρος Arrian, Anab. 1.5.4 and ἡ δὲ Κυνάνη Φίλιππον μὲν εἶχε πατέρα, ὃν καὶ Ἀλέξανδρος, ἐκ δὲ μητρὸς Εὐρυδίκης ἦν …. ἦγε δὲ ἡ Κυνάνη Ἀδέαν τὴν αὑτῆς θυγατέρα, ἥτις ὕστερον Εὐρυδίκη μετωνομάσθη, τῷ Ἀρριδαίῳ εἰς γυναῖκα ἣν καὶ ὕστερον ἠγάγετο Περδίκκα διαπραξαμένου, ἐφ ' ᾧ παῦσαι τὴν Μακεδόνων στάσιν, ἥτις ἐπὶ τῷ Κυνάνης πάθει ἀναφθεῖσα (ἐπὶ μέγα κακοῦ προεχώρει ἀνεδίδαξέ τε καὶ τὸ τῆς Κυνάνης ἐκτραγῳδήσας πάθος. καὶ ταῦτα διαθέμενος εἰς πόλεμον αὐτῷ τούτους κατέστησε Historia successorum Alexandri, 1.22.4, 1.23.2–6 and 1.24.5-5.. Also Δοῦρις δ' ὁ Σάμιος καὶ πρῶτον γενέσθαι πόλεμόν φησι δύο γυναικῶν, Ὀλυμπιάδος καὶ Εὐρυδίκης· ἐν ᾧ τὴν μὲν βακχικώτερον μετὰ τυμπάνων προελθεῖν, τὴν δ' Εὐρυδίκην Μακεδονικῶς καθωπλισμένην, ἀσκηθεῖσαν τὰ πολεμικὰ παρὰ Κυννάνῃ τῇ Ἰλλυρίδι Athen. 13,557 b-c.

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The naval context seems quite evident in the case of the fearless Antheia and Thalassia. We could equate them to corsairs or even shipowners. Artemisia of Caria was cited above, but in addition, there is evidence of the existence, in Imperial times, of navicularii, women who owned ships and fleets and even served as ship captains, as documented in D. 14.1.1.15 Ulpian, D. 14.1.1.16 and 19.2.19 (21).7. (Rodríguez López 2013, 255–256). There is also evidence of women gladiators and of the sporting events in which they participated.46

7.

Conclusions

It has already been acknowledged that Greek novels are “gynecentric” from an emotional viewpoint, but “androcentric” in terms of the political, economic and social power presented in these texts.47 “Feminism” is therefore only apparent; women’s superiority or autonomy in the novel is an “effet de genre” (Furiani 1989); Haynes, 2003, pp. 77–78 and Lalanne, 2019, p. 249). Faced with the impression of a mixed society in which men and women evolve equally, Lalanne added that in the society pictured in these novels, 26% of characters are female compared to 73% of men. The latter represents a sex ratio of 2.76, or, in terms of groups, 20% females versus 80% males.48 Let us move on to real-world data. The feminine patronage one can observe in Hellenistic times was not directed towards women, nor their public visibility. It did, nevertheless, pave the way for the Roman empresses and the oriental female benefactors of the imperial era.49 The increase in female visibility at this time is remarkable. Van Bremen cites highly conspicuous examples, but also adds that, although the “spirit of evergetism” was shared by men and women of the civic elites, women were “trapped” to a greater extent within the structure of civic obligations and expectations; despite rising wealth, positions and honours, their public image “emphasized the familial aspects of womanhood” (Van Bremen 1996, pp. 301–302). 46. Cf. Manas (2011). Miączewska (2012) presents a study on the literary sources and archaeological documentation available on this subject. 47. These are the conclusions of Egger’s (1994) study. 48. Lalanne (2019, p. 226). He adds that the general sex ratio of human societies is 105 males born for every 100 females. 49. It is one of the conclusions of the study of Bielman (2002, pp. 289–291), who observes that the role of queens is exceptional (pp. 297–298). He also identifies differences among women from different Greek localities (p. 306). Due to the importance of the cult of Artemis, Ephesus may be the city that offered the largest number of official positions to women during the second and third century AD: cf. Kirbihler (2019, p. 50).

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So how should one interpret the women of our papyri? Parthenope, Calligone, and, perhaps, Antheia, are protagonists. These women seem to possess political power. Moreover, they are warriors. Themisto belongs to the same category, while Thalassia, and X-τις may only be warriors, although we cannot be sure. Obviously, they do not respond to the traditional image of Greek women of classical times. Yet they are endowed with the typical boldness of Oriental women, as it has already been transformed in Greek sources. That is, they belong to the literary sphere, and, perhaps to the dream world of the Empire’s female readership.

Bibliography Barbero, M. (2015). I Babyloniaca di Giamblico: testimonianze e frammenti. Alessandria: Edizioni dell’Orso. Barbet, A. (Dir.). (2005). Zeugma II. Peintures murales romaines. Institut Francais d’Etudes Anatoliennes Georges Dumézil Istanbul: Paris. Barbet, A. & Lalanne, S. (2019). Femmes en peinture et gynécées à Séleucie- Zeugma. In S. Lalanne (Ed.), Femmes grecques de l’Orient romain (pp. 275–296). Besançon: Presses Universitaires de Franche-Comté. Beekes, R. (2010). Etymological Dictionary of Greek. Leiden: Brill. Bielman, A. (2002). Femmes en public dans le monde hellénistique, IV-I s. av. J.-C. Lausanne: Sedes. Braund, D. (2005). Neglected slaves. VDI. 4, 24–45. Cavallo, G. (1996). Veicoli materiali della letteratura di consumo. Maniere di scrivere e maniere di leggere. In: O. Pecere & A. Stramaglia (Eds.), La letteratura di consumo nel mondo Greco-Latino (pp. 11–46). Cassino: Università degli Studi di Cassino. Chantraine, P. (1979) [1933]). La formation des noms en Grec ancien. Paris: Klincksieck. Durán Velasco, J. F. (2018). Amazonas, mujeres guerreras en la mitología. La historia del mito desde la Grecia antigua, el mundo islámico y la cristiandad, hasta la conquista de América. Córdoba: Editorial Almuzara. Egger, B. (1994). Women and Marriage in the Greek Novels. In: J. Tatum (ed.), The Search for the Ancient Novel (pp. 260–28). Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Gera, D. (1997). Warrior Women: The Anonymous Tractatus de Mulieribus (Mnemosyne, Supplements), Leiden: Brill. Hägg, T. & Utas, B. (2003). The Virgin and her Lover. Fragments of an Ancient Greek Novel. Leiden-Boston: Brill. Haynes, K. (2003). Fashioning the Feminine in the Greek novel. London and New York: Routledge. Kaltsas, D. (2020). Antheia-Fragment: PSI VI 726. ZPE 216, 27–49. Kirbihler, F. (2019). Les prêtresses d’Artémis à Éphèse (Ier siècle av. J.-C.- III siècle apr. J.-C.) ou comment faire du neuf en prétendant restaurer un état ancien?. In S. Lalanne (Ed.), Femmes grecques de l’Orient romain (pp. 21–79). Besançon: Presses Universitaires de Franche-Comté.

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Lalanne, S. (2019). Femmes grecques de l’Orient romain. Dialogues d’Histoire Ancienne Supplément 18. Besançon Cedex: Presses universitaires de Franche-Comté. LGPN (1987- )=Fraser, P. M and Matthews, E. (eds.), Lexicon of Greek Personal Names, I, III.A, III.B, IV and V.A. Oxford: Clarendon Press. V.C López Martínez, M. P. (1998). Fragmentos papiráceos de novela griega. Alicante: Universidad de Alicante. López Martínez, M. P. (2017a). “El asirio Nino, personaje de leyenda y de novela”. In: M. J. Albarrán Martínez, R. Martín Hernández and I. Pajón Leyra, Estudios Papirológicos. Textos literarios y documentales del siglo IV a.C. al IV d.C. (pp. 99–115). Madrid: Fundación Pastor de Estudios Clásicos. López Martínez, M. P. (2017b). El cuerpo en los fragmentos de la novela de Nino: una interpretación en clave política. Res publica 20(3), pp. 581–602. López Martínez, M. P. (2019). The Ninus romance: New Textual and Contextual Studies. APF, 65(1), 20–44. López Martínez, M. P. (2021a). Calígone y su aventura con las amazonas (POxy. 5355 y PSI 981). In: M. J. Bravo Bosch, R. Rodríguez López, & A. Valmaña Ochaíta, Mujeres de la Hispania Romana. Una Mirada al patrimonio arqueológico (pp. 167–191). Madrid: Dykinson. López Martínez, M. P. (2021b). Amazonas allende los mares: Nuevas aportaciones a la novela griega Calligone (POxy. 5355 and PSI 981). Hofstra Hispanic Review 5(11), 23–53. López Martínez, M. P. (2021c). Von Schiffbrüchen, Reisen und Abenteurern – Die ersten griechischen Romane der Antike. Athleten. AW, 3, 72–80. López Martínez, M. P. (2022). The Pontic Princess Calligone, the Queen Themisto, and the Amazons in the Black See (POxy. 5355 and PSI 981). Archiv für Papyrusforschung und verwandte Gebiete,, 68.1, pp. 23–55. López Martínez, M. P., López Juan, A. & Navarro López, O. (2022). Parténope. Madrid: Turpin. López Martínez, M. P. & Ruiz-Montero, C. (2013). The Parthenope’s Novel: P. Berol. 7927 + 9588 + 21179 Revisited. JJP, 28, 235–250. López Martínez, M. P. & Ruiz-Montero, C. (2016). Parthenope’s Novel: P.Oxy. 435 Revisited. In: J. G. Montes Cala, R. J. Gallé Cejudo, M. Sánchez Ortiz de Landaluce & T. Silva Sánchez (Eds.), Fronteras entre el verso y la prosa en la literatura helenística y helenístico-romana (pp. 479–489), Bari: Levante. López Martínez, M. P. & Ruiz-Montero, C. (2021). Parthenope’s novel: P.Berol. 7927 + 9588 + 21179, II column revisited. AncNarr, 17, 1–23. López Martínez, M. P. & Ruiz-Montero, C. “PSI 726: Anthia’s Novel ”, Ordia Prima. Revista de estudios clásicos 1(2023), 1–17. Manas, A. (2011). New evidence of female gladiators: the bronze statuette at the Museum für Kunst und Gewerbe of Hamburg. The International Journal of the History of Sport, 28, 2726–2752. Mayor, A. (2014a). The Amazons: Lives and Legends of Warrior Women across the Ancient World, Princeton: Princeton University Press. Mayor, A. (2014b). Who Invented Trousers?. Natural History, October, 28–33. https://www .researchgate.net/publication/266969197_Who_Invented_Trousers Miączewska, A. B. (2012). Female Gladiators at the Roman Munera: a Fact or a Fantasy?. Res Historica, 34, 9–28.

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Molas Font, M. D. (2013). Alteridad y género en el mito de las amazonas. In: R. M. Cid López & E. B. García Fernández (Eds.), Debita verba: estudios en homenaje al profesor Julio Mangas Manjarrés (vol. 2, pp. 551–565). Universidad de Oviedo: Ediciones de la Universidad de Oviedo. Molina Marín, A. I. (2018). Alejandro Magno (1916–2015). Un siglo de estudios sobre Macedonia antigua. Zaragoza: Libros Pórtico. Morgan, J. R. (2018). ‘A Cast of Thousands’: The Riddle of the Antheia Romance solved (?). In: K. Chew, J. R., Morgan & S. M. Trzaskoma (Eds.), Literary Currents and Romantic Forms: Essays in Memory of Bryan Reardon (pp. 81–98). Groningen: Barkhuis. Parsons, P. J. (2018). 5355. Novel (Calligone). In: N. Gonis & P. Parsons, (Eds.), The Oxyrhynchus Papyri (vol. LXXXIII, 63–72). Oxford: Egypt Exploration Society. Quet, M. H. (1992). Romans grecs, mosaïques romans. In: M. F. Baslez, P. Hoffmann & M. Trédé (Eds.), Le monde du roman grec (pp. 125–58). Paris: Rue D’ulm. Rodríguez López, R. (2013). La mujer en el mundo laboral de la Roma antigua. In: R. Rodríguez López & M. J. Bravo Bosch (Eds.), Mulier: algunas historias e instituciones de derecho romano (pp. 241–262). Madrid: Dykinson. Ruiz-Montero, C. (2003). The rise of the Geek novel. In: G. Schmeling (Ed.), The novel in the Ancient World (pp. 29–85). Leiden: Brill. Ruiz-Montero, C. (2011). Mujeres desesperadas: tipología de la “enamorada asesina” en la novela griega. In: F. de Martino & C. Morenilla (Eds.), La mirada de las mujeres (pp. 381–402). Bari: Levante Editore. Ruiz-Montero, C. (2020). La novela de Calígone: el texto y su contexto literario. In: L. Conti et al. (Eds.), Homenaje al profesor Emilio Crespo (pp. 499–508), Madrid: Universidad Autónoma de Madrid. Ruiz-Montero, C. & Jiménez, A. M. (2008). ‘Mulierum virtutes’ de Plutarco: Aspectos de estructura y composición de la obra. Myrtia 23, 101–120. Savalli-Lestrade, I. (1994). Il ruolo pubblico delle regine ellensitiche. In: S. Alessandri (Dir.). Studi offerti dagli allievi à Giuseppe Neci in occasione del suo settantesimo compleanno (pp. 415–432). Galatina: Congendo Editores. Savalli-Lestrade, I. (2003). La place des reines à la court et dans le royaume à l’époque hellénistique. In: R. Frei-Stolba, A. Bielman & A. Bianci (Eds.), Les Femmes antiques entre sphère privée et sphère publique (pp. 59–76). Bern: Peter Lang. Schubert, Ch. & Weiß, A. (2013). Amazonen zwischen Griechen und Skythen. Gegenbilder in Mythos und Geschichte, Berlin & Boston: Walter de Gruyter GmbH. Stephens, S. A. & Winkler, J. J. (1995). Ancient Greek Novels. The Fragments. Introduction, Text, Translation, and Commentary, Princeton: Princeton University Press. https://www.jstor .org/stable/j.ctt7ztwdb Trnka-Amrhein Y. (2016). P. Oxy. 2564. A Queen and her pyramids. In: A. Benaissa & N. Gonis (Eds.), The Oxyrhynchus Papyri (vol. LXXXIV, pp. 40–46). Oxford: Egypt Exploration Society. Trnka-Amrhein Y. (2018). The Fantastic Four: Alexander, Sesonchosis, Ninus and Semiramis. In: R. Stoneman, K. Nawotka & A. Wojciechowska (Eds.), The Alexander Romance: History and Literature (pp. 23–48). Groningen: Bakhuis. ISBN 9789492444714 Webster Wilde, L. (2000). On the Trail of the Women Warriors: The Amazons in Myth and History, New York: Thomas Dunne Books.

chapter 9

Egyptian feminine anthroponyms in ancient Greek novels? What onomastics may tell us about reality Ana Isabel Blasco Torres Universidad de Salamanca

In this article, the Egyptian feminine anthroponyms occurring in the ancient Greek novels and in the papyrological fragments of lost novels, along with some aspects related to reality they may reflect, are examined. Keywords: Egyptian anthroponyms, feminine anthroponyms, ancient Greek novels, Onomastics, reality

In the ancient Greek novels – and in the papyrological fragments of lost novels – some characters bear Greek names, whereas others are referred to by foreign anthroponyms. Some of these foreign personal names can be identified as Egyptian, because they are attested in Greek, Egyptian or bilingual documentary sources and their Egyptian etymology is known, or because a part of their prototypes also occurs in other Egyptian anthroponyms. Most of the Egyptian personal names occurring in these texts are masculine; however, there also seems to be two feminine anthroponyms: Ἰσιάς, which can be interpreted as Egyptian at first sight, in Heliodorus’ Aethiopica and in the so-called novel of Tinouphis; and Ἁθυρεψε1 in the Dream of Nectanebo, a Greek translation of an Egyptian tale. In this contribution, the occurrence of Egyptian feminine anthroponyms in the ancient Greek novels and in the fragments of lost novels, along with some aspects related to reality they may reflect, will be analysed.

1. Egyptian anthroponyms in Greek transcription have been accentuated according to Clarysse (1997). https://doi.org/10.1075/ivitra.40.09bla © 2024 John Benjamins Publishing Company

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Egyptian masculine anthroponyms in ancient Greek novels: A general overview

Egyptian personal names are not frequent in ancient Greek novels. In Heliodorus’ Aethiopica three masculine anthroponyms occur: Καλάσιρις (< Gl-šr, “Soldier”2) (cf. Rutherford, 2000, p. 117–118), a priest (προφήτης) at Memphis and the father of Thyamis – a robber chieftain (λῄσταρχος) and leader of the boukoloi –; Πετόσιρις (< Pȝ-dỉ-Wsỉr, “He who has been given by Osiris”3), Thyamis’ brother; and Thyamis’ esquire (ὑπασπιστής), named Θέρμουθις, an anthroponym deriving from Egyptian Tȝ-Rnn.t, “Thermouthis”4 – the cobra-goddess especially venerated in the Fayum –, which was a feminine personal name in Egyptian. The use of Θέρμουθις as a masculine name in Heliodorus’ Aethiopica suggests that the author probably did not know the Egyptian meaning of the anthroponym. Apart from Καλάσιρις in Heliodorus’ Aethiopica, other Egyptian characters bearing Egyptian names are described as priests or magicians. Thus, in the novel of Tinouphis, Τίνουφις (< Ṯȝy-nfr5) seems to be a magician (μάγος) who is condemned to death and finally saved. Likewise, in Antonius Diogenes’ The Incredible Things beyond Thule, Πάαπις – a name from Egyptian Pa-Ḥp, “The one (m.) of Apis”6 – is referred to as a wicked priest (ἱερεύς) who was in Sicily,7 although he actually seems to be a magician who torments some characters of the novel.8 Egyptian names are also transcribed into Greek in Greek novels inspired by Egyptian legends or in Greek translations of Egyptian tales (cf. Tait, 1994, 2. Cf. https://www.trismegistos.org/name/389; Lüddeckens (1980–2000, p. 1033). 3. Cf. https://www.trismegistos.org/name/893; Lüddeckens (1980–2000, p. 298–299). 4. Cf. https://www.trismegistos.org/name/1381; Lüddeckens (1980–2000, p. 1074). 5. Cf. note 37. 6. Cf. https://www.trismegistos.org/name/667; Lüddeckens (1980–2000, p. 400). Like other graecised names (cf. Ἶσις, Σάραπις), in Photius’ Bibliotheca (and presumably in Antonius Diogenes’ The Incredible Things beyond Thule), the name Πάαπις forms its oblique cases in -ιδ-: Πάαπιν, Παάπιδος, Παάπιδι; cf. Gignac (1981, p. 56–57). However, in most Greek papyrological documents this name is usually declined -ις/-ιος. 7. Cf. Photius’ Bibliotheca, fr. 166: Πάαπίς τις, ἱερεὺς (109 a, 30); Ἐν ᾧ πάλιν Παάπιδι τῷ τρισαλιτηρίῳ περιπίπτει τῷ τυραννοῦντι συνόντι (110 a, 5), “Là, elle retrouva ce Paapis trois fois maudit qui vivait chez le tyran” (edition and translation by Henry, 1960, p. 141, 143). 8. Cf. for instance Photius’ Bibliotheca, fr. 166 (110 a, 40 - 110 b, 1): Ἐπὶ τούτοις καὶ ὡς Πάαπις διώκων μετ᾽ἴχνια τοὺς περὶ Δερκυλλίδα ἐπέστη αὐτοῖς ἐν τῇ νήσῳ, καὶ τὸ πάθος ἐκεῖνο τέχνῃ μαγικῇ ἐπέθηκε θνῄσκειν μὲν ἡμέρας, ἀναβιώσκειν δὲ νυκτὸς ἐπιγινομένης, “Ensuite, il rapporte que Paapis, suivant à la trace les compagnons de Dercyllis, les rejoignit dans l’île par un artifice de magie et leur imposa cette épreuve de mourir le jour et de ressusciter à la nuit tombante” (edition and translation by Henry, 1960, p. 144).

Chapter 9. Egyptian feminine anthroponyms in ancient Greek novels?

p. 214–215), which are generally related to royal characters. In Sesonchosis, an associate of the king called Πάμουνις (< Pa-Ỉmn, “The one (m.) of Amun”9) occurs (P. Oxy. XLVII 3319, col. 2, 11–12), aside from the royal name Σεσόγχωσις (< Ššnq).10 In the Dream of Nectanebo, the name of the hieroglyph-cutter is Pȝ-dỉ-Ỉs.t, “He who has been given by Isis”,11 which is represented as Πέτησις,12 and Petesis’ father is Ἑργεύς (< Hry = w, “They are satisfied”13). The name of the king, Nḫṱ - nȝy = wḥr - ḥb,14 seems to appear as Νεκτοναβῶς in Greek.15 The royal anthroponym Ỉmn-ḥtp, “Amun is satisfied”,16 which is generally transcribed as Ἀμενώθης, may also be found in P. Oxy. XLII 3011 (“Narrative about Amenophis”), l. 21–22: Ἀμενν̣.φ …;17 however, it is not clear if this fragment corresponds to a lost Greek novel or to a Greek translation of an Egyptian tale (cf. López Martínez, 1998, p. 344–345).18 9. Cf. https://www.trismegistos.org/name/722; Lüddeckens (1980–2000, p. 350). 10. Cf. P. Oxy. XV 1826 Ro., 4: Σεσόγχωσις; Vo., 1: [Σεσ]όγχωσις; 12: [Σε]σόγχω[σι]ς; P. Oxy. XXVII 2466, 27: Σεσόγγωσις; P. Oxy. XLVII 3319, col. 3, 4–5: [Σεσ]όγγωσις; col. 3, 13–14: Σεσόγ[γω]σιν; P. Oxy. LXXXI 5262, 7: Σεσόγγωσιν; P. Oxy. LXXXI 5263, fr. 2, col. 1, 20: [Σεσογγώ]σ̣εως; col. 2, 13: Σεσ[ο]γ̣ γ̣[ωσ; 16: Σεσόγ̣[γωσι]ν; 22: Σεσόγ[γ]ωσις. On the spelling of the name, cf. P. Oxy. LXXXI, p. 19–20: “In both 5262 and 5263, the name of the pharaoh is spelled with geminate γ (Σεσόγγωσις) as in 3319 and 2466. This spelling is unique to these four papyrus fragments. 1826 uses a γχ spelling (Σεσόγχωσις) which also appears in the Alexander Romance (…), Manetho’s Aegyptiaca (…), the scholia to Aristophanes’ Clouds (…), and the scholia to Apollonius’ Argonautica”. On this anthroponym, cf. https://www.trismegistos.org /name/1097; Lüddeckens (1980–2000, p. 970). 11. Cf. https://www.trismegistos.org/name/846; Lüddeckens (1980–2000, p. 290–291). 12. Cf. P. Leid. I U, col. 1, 8 (= UPZ I 81, col. 1, 1); col. 4, 9 and 19. Cf. also P. Leid. I U, col. 1, 12 (= UPZ I 81, col. 1, 5): {Πετ̣ε̣ει̣σ ̣ηη}. 13. Cf. P. Leid. I U, col. 4, 10: Ἑργῆος (genitive, instead of Ἑργέως). On this name, cf. https:// www.trismegistos.org/name/335; Lüddeckens (1980–2000, p. 746–748). On the representation of Egyptian yod as gamma in Greek, cf. Gignac (1976, p. 73). 14. Cf. Ryholt (1998, p. 200): “Both the present Demotic version and the Demotic sequel to Nectanebos’ Dream preserve the name of the king as Nḫṱ - nȝy = w - ḥr - ḥb, which represents an unetymological writing of Nectanebos II’s personal name (Historical form: Nḫṱ - Ḥr - ḥb), in contrast to that of Nectanebos I which is Nḫt-nb=f. Thus the king is indeed Nectanebos II as it has always been suspected”. 15. Cf. P. Leid. I U, col. 1, 10 (= UPZ I 81, col. 1, 3); col. 2, 2; col. 3, 2–3. 16. Cf. https://www.trismegistos.org/name/36; Lüddeckens (1980–2000, p. 67). 17. Cf. P. Oxy. XLII, p. 43 (commentary to l. 21–22): “Ἀμενν̣ῶ̣φε̣ι̣ν̣? Ἀμενν̣ῶ̣φθ̣ι̣ν?”. On the confusion between Ἀμένωφις < Ỉmn-m-Ỉp.t, “Amun in Opet” (https://www.trismegistos.org/name /8042; Lüddeckens, 1980–2000, p. 64) and Ἀμενώθης < Ỉmn-ḥtp, “Amun is satisfied”, cf. Quaegebeur (1986, p. 97–106). 18. The name Βόροχος/Βόχορος in Iamblichus’ Babyloniaca has also been considered as Egyptian by some scholars given the similarity between Βόχορος and some Greek transcrip-

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2.

Egyptian feminine anthroponyms in ancient Greek novels?

2.1 The presumable name Ἁθυρεψε in the Dream of Nectanebo What seems a feminine anthroponym Ἁθυρεψε occurs in P. Leid. I U (= UPZ I 81), bearing a Greek translation of the Dream of Nectanebo. This text is part of the archive of the katochoi brothers Ptolemaios and Apollonios (second century BC), which was found in the Serapeum near Memphis in the early nineteenth century.19 The variety of the Greek and Demotic texts composing the archive and the background of the two brothers have led to think that Apollonios might have been not only the copyist of some Greek literary works, but also the translator of the Dream of Nectanebo (cf. Jay, 2016, p. 309; Clarysse, 2010, p. 65). The corruption of the Greek text where the anthroponym occurs has made its reading difficult. In the editio princeps, P. Leid. I U, col. 5, 3, a date was read instead: Ἀθὺρ ε ὀψὲ θυγατέρα; and U. Wilcken read the term μυρεψε, which he corrected to μυρεψοῦ, “the daughter of a perfumer” (UPZ I 81, col. 5, 3). The reading of Ἁθυρεψε was proposed by W. Clarysse, who interpreted it as an Egyptian personal name in Greek transcription deriving from a prototype *Ḥw.t-Ḥr-špsy.t, “Noble Hathor” (Clarysse, 1983, p. 369;20 cf. also Koenen, 1985, p. 183; Ryholt, 2002, p. 231; Jay, 2016, p. 310). However, although this interpretation may be correct, it raises some questions that lead to think that the etymology of Ἁθυρεψε will only be confirmed when its Demotic counterpart is found. The first onomastic element Ἁθυρ- certainly corresponds to Egyptian Ḥw.tḤr, “Hathor”, as other Egyptian names in Greek transcription show: Ḥw.t-Ḥr is transcribed as -αθυρ at the end of anthroponyms such as Πετεάθυρις < *Pȝ-dỉḤw.t-Ḥr, “He who has been given by Hathor”;21 Τατεάθυρις/Τετεάθυρις and other variants < Tȝ-dỉ-Ḥw.t-Ḥr, “She who has been given by Hathor”;22 Σενάθυρις and tions of the Egyptian name Bȝk - n - rn = f, “Servant of his name” (cf., for example, Βόκχωρις: https://www.trismegistos.org/name/88; Lüddeckens, 1980–2000, p. 147). Cf. Photius’ Bibliotheca, fr. 94 (75 b, 1): Βόροχος ἤ Βόχορος ὁ κρίνων ἦν, κριτῶν τῶν κατ᾽ ἐκείνους καιροὺς ἄριστος, “Le juge était Borochus ou Bochorus, le meilleur des juges de l’époque” (edition and translation by Henry, 1960, p. 39); cf. also ibidem, note 1: “Selon Rohde, p. 370, note 1, le personnage de Bochorus rappelle le roi égyptien du même nom qui vivait vers 750 a. C. et dont Diodore de Sicile (I, 94) dit que ses jugements étaient célèbres”. However, the etymology of Βόροχος/Βόχορος is not clear. 19. On this archive, cf. https://www.trismegistos.org/archive/119; Clarysse (2010, p. 65). 20. Cf. ibidem: “De papyrus heeft αθυρεψε, wat wij verbeteren tot Hathur(s)epse(s) = Ḥw.tḤr-šps; Wilcken las μυρεψε en verbeterde tot μυρεψοῦ = de dochter van een parfumfabrikant”. 21. Cf. https://www.trismegistos.org/name/23084. 22. Cf. https://www.trismegistos.org/name/1363; Lüddeckens (1980–2000, p. 1222).

Chapter 9. Egyptian feminine anthroponyms in ancient Greek novels?

other variants < Tȝ-šr.t-(n-)Ḥw.t-Ḥr, “The daughter of Hathor”;23 or Τααθυρ < TaḤw.t-Ḥr, “The one (f.) of Hathor”.24 The υ is consequently the expected vowel between θ and ρ when the onomastic element Ḥw.t-Ḥr appears at the end of the names or when it constitutes the name Ḥw.t-Ḥr, “Hathor”,25 in status absolutus without any other onomastic element (cf. Vycichl, 1984, p. 291, 317: ϩⲁⲑⲱⲣ, Greek Ἁθυρ). However, in the only anthroponym attested in Greek transcription where Ḥw.t-Ḥr appears at the beginning of the name – as it would also be the case in Ἁθυρεψε –, the vowel represented between θ and ρ is not υ/ω,26 but ε, since it occurred in an unaccented syllable in Egyptian: cf. Ἁθέρητις < Ḥw.t-Ḥr-ỉy.ṱ, “Hathor has come”.27 This indicates that, although a name Ἁθυρεψε starting with Ἁθυρ- is not impossible,28 Ἁθερ- instead of Ἁθυρ- would be expected in an anthroponym beginning with Ḥw.t-Ḥr-. As a consequence, a name Ἁθυρ, “Hathor”, followed by an epithet which was originally not part of the anthroponym, should not be excluded: Ἁθυρ, (σ)εψε < Ḥw.t-Ḥr, špsy.t, “Hathor, (the) noble one”. Furthermore, the representation of Egyptian špsy.t as -εψε is probable, but not completely sure. The element špsy(.t) only occurs in Greek transcription in the anthroponyms Σέψις/Σαῖψις < Tȝ-špsy.t, “The noble (one)” (f.);29 Ψένσαιψις/ Ψένσεψις and other variants < Pȝ-šr-(n-)tȝ-špsy(.t), “The son of the noble (one) (f.)”;30 and Τάσεψις < *Ta-špsy(.t), “The one (f.) of the noble (one)”.31 Thus, in all the attestations špsy(.t) is represented as σεψ-/σαιψ-32 in Greek transcription, with Egyptian š rendered as σ – which could have been omitted after ρ in Ἁθυρεψε – and the consonantal group pš as ψ (cf. Old Coptic *ϣⲁⲡϣⲓ/ϭⲁⲡϭⲓ33). This term is also attested in other Demotic anthroponyms, none of which seems to contain the 23. Cf. https://www.trismegistos.org/name/1069; Lüddeckens (1980–2000, p. 1139). 24. Cf. https://www.trismegistos.org/name/1242; Lüddeckens (1980–2000, p. 1202). 25. On this anthroponym in hieroglyphic script, cf. Ranke (1935, p. 235, 6). 26. Cf. the Egyptian anthroponym Ḥr, “Horos” (https://www.trismegistos.org/name/356; Lüddeckens, 1980–2000, p. 786–788), which is mainly rendered as Ὧρος; however, it is represented as Ὕρος in O. Wilck. II 1188, 2. On the υ/ω variation in Greek transcriptions of Egyptian names, cf. Vergote (1973, p. 58). 27. Cf. https://www.trismegistos.org/name/315; Lüddeckens (1980–2000, p. 775). The name Ἁθέρητις is attested in, at least, SB VIII 9681, 4: Ἁθερήτιος. On the etymology of the name, cf. Uebel (1962, p. 151). The prototype of the name Ἁ̣θ̣έ̣ρθ̣ε̣ις, in P. Count. 6, 35, is not clear. 28. On the interchange of ε and υ in Koine Greek, especially in unaccented syllables, cf. Gignac (1976, p. 273–275). 29. Cf. https://www.trismegistos.org/name/13628; Lüddeckens (1980–2000, p. 1086). 30. Cf. https://www.trismegistos.org/name/10324; Lüddeckens (1980–2000, p. 267). 31. Cf. https://www.trismegistos.org/name/25922. 32. On the confusion of ε and αι in Koine Greek, cf. Gignac (1976, p. 191–193). 33. Vycichl (1984, p. 268); Crum (1939, p. 582).

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explicit mention of a deity.34 However, in Egyptian anthroponyms from the Old Kingdom the term špsy(.t) alludes to some deities, and names such as Špśś-Ḥwtḥr , “Hathor is noble” (Ranke, 1935, p. 326, 22: “Hathor ist herrlich”), are attested.35 Likewise, in texts from the Graeco-Roman period, špsy(.t) is a common epithet of Isis and other deities (Kockelmann, 2008, p. 51; Leitz, 2002, p. 47–49). Thus, although the translator or the scribe of the text may have omitted the σ due to the difficult pronunciation of the consonantal group -ρσ- and the name Ἁθυρεψε can derive from Egyptian *Ḥw.t-Ḥr-špsy.t, the υ vocalisation of Ḥw.tḤr > Ἁθυρ suggests that the anthroponym may have been composed only of the element Ḥw.t-Ḥr. If this hypothesis is correct, Ḥw.t-Ḥr > Ἁθυρ would not have been followed by any other onomastic element, but by an epithet which was not originally part of the anthroponym: Ἁθυρ, (σ)εψε < Ḥw.t-Ḥr, špsy.t, “Hathor, (the) noble one”. As a consequence, the translator of the text might have not distinguished the name from the epithet and might have considered the two as one anthroponym. More Demotic manuscripts containing the tale of the Dream of Nectanebo will hopefully come to light and help to confirm – or establish – the etymology of the name. In any event, the equivalence between Egyptian Ḥw.t-Ḥr and Greek Ἁθυρ is certain and the allusion to Hathor – the Egyptian goddess connected to love, dance and drunkenness – fits well with the plot of the Demotic tale.36

2.2 Ἰσιάς: An Egyptian or a Greek personal name? The feminine personal name Ἰσιάς occurs in Heliodorus’ Aethiopica (6.3.2; 6.4.1) – the girlfriend of a secondary character – and has also been read in P. Turner 8 (l. 25: τὴν Ἰσ̣ι̣άδα), containing the so-called novel of Tinouphis. According to the preserved fragment, Τίνουφις is a magician (μάγος) who, after being condemned to death, is saved by a man referred to as Σωσίας. Unfortunately, the fragmentary nature of P. Turner 8 does not allow to know the role of Ἰσιάς with 34. Cf., for instance, Tȝ-ỉmy.t-špšy.t, “The noble cat” (f.) (Lüddeckens, 1980–2000, p. 1050); Tȝḥf-špše.t, “The noble snake” (f.) (Lüddeckens, 1980–2000, p. 1078). 35. Cf. also other anthroponyms alluding to different deities, such as Špśś-Ptḥ, “Ptah is noble”; Špśś-Nśw.t, “Nesut is noble”; Špśś-Rʿ, “Ra is noble”; or Špśś-Ḥr, “Horos is noble” (Ranke, 1935, p. 326, 19–21, 23). 36. Cf. Koenen (1985, p. 183, note 91): “The theophoric name suits the function of the young girl, as this goddess was in charge of merry parties, dances, and drunkenness”; Ryholt (2002, p. 231): “Among other things, Hathor was, it may be recalled, the goddess of love and drunkenness. Yet Hathor also contains another, less pleasing aspect. She was once sent down to earth by her father, the sun, to destroy mankind. Hence her personality conveys an air of both romance and destruction, and the story evidently exploits this dual name of the goddess; Petesis is attracted to the girl and the affair eventually leads to his destruction”.

Chapter 9. Egyptian feminine anthroponyms in ancient Greek novels?

certainty. The masculine anthroponyms of the novel are multicultural: Τίνουφις (l. 16, 22) is Egyptian,37 Σωσίας (l. 20, 25?) is a well-known Greek anthroponym,38 and Μαγώας (l. 20) has been considered as Persian.39 This multicultural background found in both Heliodorus’ Aethiopica and the novel of Tinouphis seems also to be reflected in the Graeco-Egyptian name Ἰσιάς. The feminine anthroponym Ἰσιάς – and other itacistic variants, such as Εἰσιάς – occurs more than 30 times in several regions of Egypt (especially in the Fayum, the Delta, the Herakleopolite and the Hermopolite nomes, and in the areas of Thebes and Elephantine) between the third century BC and the fourth century AD.40 In the Greek mainland and the islands this name is also well attested in the Hellenistic and Imperial periods.41 In addition, two Demotic attestations of this anthroponym may occur in documents from the Ptolemaic period (cf. infra). All the variants of the feminine name Ἰσιάς start with Ἰσ-/Εἰσ- and have the Greek morphological ending -άς (genitive -άδος). Like other names such as Ἰσίδωρος/Ἰσιδώρα, Ἰσίδοτος/Ἰσιδότη, Ἰσιδωριανός, Ἰσιάδης, Ἰσιγένης or Ἰσίων, this anthroponym derives from the Greek form of the name of the goddess (Ἶσις) and not from the Egyptian one, which appears as ⲏⲥⲉ in Coptic and as -ησin Egyptian names in Greek transcription, such as Ἁρπάησις/Ἁρφάησις < Ḥr-paỈs.t, “Horos, the one of Isis”;42 Πάησις/Φάησις (Coptic ⲡⲁⲏⲥⲉ) < Pa-Ỉs.t, “The one (m.) of Isis”;43 Τάησις/Θάησις (Coptic ⲧⲁⲏⲥⲉ) < Ta-Ỉs.t, “The one (f.) of Isis”;44

37. The name Τίνουφις, which is so far unattested in Greek transcription in documentary sources, seems to derive from Egyptian Ṯȝy-nfr, an anthroponym attested in Demotic until the second century BC (cf. https://www.trismegistos.org/name/13988; Lüddeckens, 1980–2000, p. 1350). 38. Cf. https://www.trismegistos.org/name/5931. Σωσίας is listed in all the volumes (I-V.B) of the Lexicon of Greek Personal Names. 39. Cf. P. Turner, p. 38: “The exact name Tinouphis is not attested elsewhere, but is clearly meant to be Egyptian (…). Magoas is likewise unattested, but has an oriental ring and is reminiscent specifically – and significantly? – of Bagoas, a eunuch, who held great power under Artaxerxes III and engaged in military operations in Egypt. Sosias is a Greek slave-name familiar from Greek and Roman comedy. A fair ethnic mix; clearly we are in a Graeco-oriental world, and probably in Egypt; Magoas may then be a reminiscence of Persian domination, while the presence of a Greek points to a period after Alexander’s conquest”. Cf. also Stephens and Winkler (1995, p. 400). 40. Cf. https://www.trismegistos.org/name/3448. 41. The feminine name Ἰσιάς is listed in all the volumes (I-V.B) of the Lexicon of Greek Personal Names. 42. Cf. https://www.trismegistos.org/name/284; Lüddeckens (1980–2000, p. 807–808). 43. Cf. https://www.trismegistos.org/name/685; Lüddeckens (1980–2000, p. 354). 44. Cf. https://www.trismegistos.org/name/1237; Lüddeckens (1980–2000, p. 1166–1167).

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Πετέησις < Pȝ-dỉ-Ỉs.t, “He who has been given by Isis”;45 Ψένησις < Pȝ-šr-n-Ỉs.t, “The son of Isis”;46 or Σένησις < Tȝ-šr.t-n-Ỉs.t, “The daughter of Isis”47 (final position). The Demotic attestations Ỉsyȝs (O. Tempeleide, descr., p. 402: DO UCL, without number, l. 2) and Yss (P. Count. 46, fr. 5, col. 4, 245), which may represent the name Ἰσιάς,48 are “alphabetical” transcriptions of the Greek anthroponym. The Demotic way of writing this personal name confirms that Ἰσιάς was considered as Greek by the Demotic scribes.49 *** Egyptian personal names are rare in ancient Greek novels. These anthroponyms, which are all real names deriving from real Egyptian prototypes, were rendered into Greek characters, and most of them were graecised by the addition of a Greek morphological ending, which sometimes is not the same as that found in documentary sources (cf., for instance, Πάαπις,-ιδος instead of -ιος). Most of these Egyptian personal names are masculine and occur in Egyptian tales translated into Greek or in novels inspired by Egyptian tales, generally related to legendary kings (cf. the Dream of Nectanebo, Sesonchosis and possibly the Narrative about Amenophis). In addition, two names (Τίνουφις in P. Turner 8 and Πάαπις in Antonius Diogenes’ The Incredible Things beyond Thule) correspond to Egyptian magicians, and an Egyptian priest is called Καλάσιρις in Heliodorus’ Aethiopica. In the present state of our evidence, only one Egyptian feminine anthroponym seems to occur in an ancient Greek novel: Ἁθυρεψε, or Ἁθυρ (σ)εψε, in the Greek translation of the Demotic Dream of Nectanebo. This theophoric name, which undoubtedly appeared in the Egyptian originals and was transcribed into Greek without a Greek morphological ending, certainly alludes to the goddess Hathor (Ḥw.t-Ḥr). Because the onomastic element Ḥw.t-Ḥr is usually represented as Ἁθυρ in status absolutus, this transcription should probably be interpreted as Ἁθυρ (σ)εψε < Ḥw.t-Ḥr, špsy.t, “Hathor, (the) noble one”, instead of Ἁθυρ(σ)εψε < *Ḥw.tḤr-špsy.t, “Noble Hathor”. However, the interpretation of the name and the equivalence between -εψε and -špsy.t will only be confirmed once its Demotic counterpart is found. The feminine anthroponym Ἰσιάς cannot be considered as Egyptian, although it alludes to the originally Egyptian goddess Isis. This name

45. Cf. https://www.trismegistos.org/name/846; Lüddeckens (1980–2000, p. 290–291). 46. Cf. https://www.trismegistos.org/name/976; Lüddeckens (1980–2000, p. 228–229). 47. Cf. https://www.trismegistos.org/name/1065; Lüddeckens (1980–2000, p. 1116–1117). 48. The attestation in O. Tempeleide may also represent the masculine name Ἰσίας. 49. Cf. also Clarysse (2018, p. 202–203, 208–210, 212–219), who distinguishes between Egyptian and Greek Isis names.

Chapter 9. Egyptian feminine anthroponyms in ancient Greek novels?

appears in two novels reflecting a highly multicultural context: Tinouphis and Heliodorus’ Aethiopica, in which other Egyptian names also occur. All in all, no Egyptian feminine anthroponym seems to occur in ancient Greek novels, with the exception of Ἁθυρεψε, which appears in a Greek translation of a Demotic tale, and Θέρμουθις, which is considered as a masculine name in Heliodorus’ Aethiopica. Likewise, Egyptian masculine anthroponyms are not frequent as most of them occur in translations or novels inspired by Egyptian tales50 and in Heliodorus’ Aethiopica, in which Egypt serves as background. This seems to confirm, once more, that ancient Greek novels were generally intended for a Greek audience and that translations made Egyptian tales more accessible to Greeks even though some Greek translations of Egyptian tales might have not been originally produced for Greeks.

Acknowledgements I thank W. Clarysse for his comments on a draft of this article.

Bibliography Clarysse, W. (1983). „De droom van koning Nektanebo” op een Griekse papyrus (U.P.Z. 81). In Veenhof, K. R. (Ed.), Schrijvend verleden. Documenten uit het oude Nabije Oosten vertaald en toegelicht (pp. 367–371). Leiden: Ex Oriente Lux. Clarysse, W. (1997). Greek Accents on Egyptian Names. ZPE, 119, 177–184. Clarysse, W. (2010). Bilingual Papyrological Archives. In Papaconstantinou, A. (Ed.), The Multilingual Experience in Egypt, from the Ptolemies to the ῾Abbāsids (pp. 47–72). Aldershot: Ashgate. Clarysse, W. (2018). Isis Names in Graeco-Roman Egypt. In Gasparini, V., & Veymiers, R. (Eds.), Individuals and Materials in the Greco-Roman Cults of Isis. Agents, Images, and Practices. Proceedings of the VIth International Conference of Isis Studies (Erfurt, May 6–8, 2013 – Liège, September 23–24, 2013) (vol. I, pp. 198–220). Leiden: Brill. Crum, W. E. (1939). A Coptic Dictionary. Oxford: Clarendon. Gignac, F. T. (1976, 1981). A Grammar of the Greek Papyri of the Roman and Byzantine Periods, 2 vols. Milano: Istituto Editoriale Cisalpino.

50. Cf. López Martínez (1998–1999, p. 226): “The “superiority complex” of Greek nationalism is reflected, once more, in the small sphere of the papyrological fragments of the lost novels. The illustrious barbarian kings, like Ninus, Sesonchosis, and, possibly, Amenophis, are an exception. Their antiquity, considering the date of the novels in which they are principal characters, confers notable prestige on them. The respect in which the Greeks held the Egyptians in particular possibly helped to boost that prestige”.

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Henry, R. (Ed.). (1960). Photius, Bibliothèque, vol. II (cod. 84–185). Paris: Belles Lettres. Jay, J. E. (2016). Orality and Literacy in the Demotic Tales. Leiden: Brill. Kockelmann, H. (2008). Praising the Goddess. A Comparative and Annotated Re-Edition of Six Demotic Hymns and Praises Addressed to Isis. Berlin: de Gruyter. Koenen, L. (1985). The Dream of Nektanebos. BASP, 22, 171–194. Leitz, C. (Ed.). 2002. Lexikon der ägyptischen Götter und Götterbezeichnungen, vol. VII. Leuven: Peeters. López Martínez, M. P. (1998). Fragmentos papiráceos de novela griega. Alicante: Universidad de Alicante. López Martínez, M. P. (1998–1999). Greeks, Barbarians and Strangers in Papyrological Fragments of Lost Novels. Lucentum, 17–18, 221–227. Lüddeckens, E. (Ed.). (1980–2000). Demotisches Namenbuch. Wiesbaden: Reichert. Quaegebeur, J. (1986). Aménophis, nom royal et nom divin. Questions méthodologiques. REgypt, 37, 97–106 (= article VII in Clarysse, W., & Blasco Torres, A. I. (Eds.). (2019). Egyptian Language in Greek Sources. Scripta Onomastica of Jan Quagebeur (pp. 51–61). Leuven: Peeters). Ranke, H. (1935–1977). Die ägyptischen Personennamen. Glückstadt: Augustin. Rutherford, I. (2000). The Genealogy of the Boukoloi: How Greek Literature Appropriated an Egyptian Narrative-Motif. JHS, 120, 106–121. Ryholt, K. (1998). A Demotic Version of Nectanebos’ Dream (P. Carlsberg 562). ZPE, 122, 197–200. Ryholt, K. (2002). Nectanebo’s Dream or the Prophecy of Petesis. In Blasius, A., & Schipper, B. U. (Eds.), Apokalyptik und Ägypten. Eine kritische Analyse der relevanten Texte aus dem griechisch-römischen Ägypten (pp. 221–241). Leuven: Peeters. Stephens, S. A., & Winkler, J. J. (Eds.). (1995). Ancient Greek Novels. The Fragments. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Tait, J. (1994). Egyptian Fiction in Demotic and Greek. In Morgan, J. R., & Stoneman, R. (Eds.), Greek Fiction. The Greek Novel in Context (pp. 203–222). London: Routledge. Uebel, F. (1962). Ταραχὴ τῶν Αἰγυπτίων. Ein Jenaer Papyruszeugnis der nationalen Unruhen Oberägyptens in der ersten Hälfte des 2. vorschristlichen Jahrhunderts. APF, 17, 147–162. Vergote, J. (1973). Grammaire copte, vol. Ib. Louvain: Peeters. Vycichl, W. (1984). Dictionnaire étymologique de la langue copte. Leuven: Peeters.

chapter 10

Narrative aspects of Callirhoe’s tomb With an appendix on Seneca’s Troades, Act 3, and Jesus’ empty tomb Michael Paschalis University of Crete

In Chariton’s Callirhoe the heroine’s tomb and burial receive attention unparalleled in ancient Greek novels. As the physical manifestations of apparent death, they point either to death or to (anticipated) “resurrection” or to both, with reference not only to Callirhoe but also to Chaereas. Of the two major reappearances of Callirhoe’s tomb, at Miletus and Syracuse, the former (real) reproduces and the latter (metaphorical) inverts the initial burial. There is a prominent association in the novel beween tomb and ship in terms of identification, reversal, and proximity, as well as an intriguing one between tomb and bedchamber. The narrative suggests that Callirhoe’s tomb encloses her bridal chamber, and later the heroine becomes aware that not only was she buried alive but carried Chaereas’ child in her womb and Chaereas’ image on her ring. This reality will later affect the lives of both Chaereas and the unborn child. The Appendix discusses Seneca’s Troades, Act 3, where Andromache hides her son Astyanax in Hector’s tomb, as a possibly contemporary parallel to Callirhoe’s tomb. It also rejects the widespread association of Jesus’ empty tomb and resurrection with Callirhoe’s empty tomb and “resurrection”. Keywords: tomb, apparent death, resurrection, ship, bedchamber, womb, Andromache, Astyanax, Hector’s tomb, empty tomb, tumbōrukhia (“graverobbing”), Nazareth Inscription

At the beginning of Chariton’s Callirhoe the heroine receives a vicious kick in the diaphragm by her jealous husband. The kick stops her breath and causes her to fall into a coma. She is given a sumptuous funeral and is buried in the magnificent family tomb of her father Hermocrates, ruler of Syracuse. While inside the tomb she regains consciousness. Later she is abducted by pirates together with the funeral treasure and is sold in Miletus to Leonas, the steward of wealthy Dionysius. https://doi.org/10.1075/ivitra.40.10pas © 2024 John Benjamins Publishing Company

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Chaereas’ kick, the triggering event of the novel,1 is mentioned three more times in the novel. Its first and most significant reappearance occurs when Callirhoe has been buried alive, which is the second event that sets things in motion: having gradually regained her breath and consciousness, Callirhoe thinks she is waking up in her bridal chamber with Chaereas at her side; but then she sees the funeral accoutrement, remembers her husband’s kick that caused her to fall to the ground unconscious (τότ’ οὖν ἀνεμνήσθη τοῦ λακτίσματος καὶ τοῦ δι’ ἐκεῖνο πτώματος) and realizes that she has been buried alive (1.8).2 Callirhoe’s tomb (actually Hermocrates’ family tomb) and burial receive attention unparalleled in surviving ancient Greek novels – no comparison with the limited impact of Anthia’s Scheintod caused by a strong sleeping-potion at Xenophon’s Ephesiaca 3.5–9. They are exploited when Callirhoe regains consciousness; when Theron and his gang rob the place; and when Chaereas and the Syracusans discover that Callirhoe’s body is gone. Furthermore, they are included in summaries of the main events given within the novel. Beyond these occurrences Callirhoe’s tomb and burial are mentioned numerous times in real or metaphorical terms, are reshaped and reconfigured, and are assigned different roles in the context of plot, rhetoric, and characterization. The implications and consequences of apparent death constitute an intriguing topic introduced into the plot of the ancient novel by Chariton.3 Being the physical manifestations of apparent death they point either to death or to (anticipated) “resurrection” or to both, marking pivotal moments in narrative progression. I start by quoting 1.6.2–5, which describe Callirhoe’s funeral, burial and tomb: Who could fittingly describe that funeral? Callirhoe, clothed in her bridal dress, lay upon a golden bier, more stately and beautiful than ever, so that all compared her to the sleeping Ariadne. It was preceded first by the Syracusan cavalry, themselves and their horses in full regalia; after them the infantry carrying the standards of Hermocrates’ triumphs; then the council and, surrounded by the people, all the magistrates serving as a bodyguard for Hermocrates. Ariston, too, still ill, was carried in a litter, calling Callirhoe his daughter and his lady. After these were the wives of the citizens clad in black; next, a royal abundance of funeral offerings, first the gold and silver of the dowry, a beautiful array of garments (for Hermocrates had contributed much from the spoils of war), and the gifts of relatives 1. See further Paschalis (2013), 161–177. 2. Callirhoe remembers again the kick when she is locked up in the ship-tomb (1.14.7). The third reference is placed in Chaereas’ mouth (4.4.10 “Do not hold against me the impulsive kick”). 3. See Tilg (2010, passim); for Callirhoe in relation to the basic plot of the Iphigenia in Tauris as outlined by Aristotle see Paschalis (2013, 166–168); for other mythical precedents of apparent death see Lefteratou (2017, 49–50).

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and friends. Last of all followed the wealth of Chaereas: he wanted, if it were possible, to burn all his property with his wife’s corpse. The youth of Syracuse carried the bier and the rest of the people followed. Of the lamentations those of Chaereas were the loudest. Hermocrates had a magnificent tomb by the shore, visible to people far out at sea. This was filled like a treasure house with costly funeral gifts.4

The image of Callirhoe buried in her bridal dress5 and compared to sleeping Ariadne6 cuts across time. The only historical element in this description, and that by implication, are the standards of Hermocrates’ triumphs (σημεῖα τῶν Ἑρμοκράτους τροπαίων) and the rich spoils (πολλὰ ἐκ τῶν λαφύρων) offered as funerals gifts, presumably both connected with his victory against the Athenians in the naval battle of 413.7 This element fits in with recurring references in the novel to Hermocrates’ Syracusan victory. There are two major reappearances of Callirhoe’s tomb in Chariton’s novel, respectively at Miletus and Syracuse, the former (real) reproducing and the latter (metaphorical) inverting Callirhoe’s burial. At Miletus Callirhoe is persuaded by Dionysius to have a cenotaph built for Chaereas whose death she has been led to believe (4.1). The tomb is raised before the city on a mound by the shore. According to the narrator the tomb “is in every way similar to her [Callirhoe’s] own in Syracuse in shape, size, and opulence. And this, like that, was for a living person”. Even the funeral copies the one Callirhoe was given at Syracuse. It is the notion of symmetry in novelistic love,8 which underlies the erection of the tomb in memory of Chaereas: it is a monument to Callirhoe’s love for her living husband, a reminiscence of her own apparent death, and a hint that Chaereas will be “resurrected” like his wife.9 Towards the end of the novel Chaereas’ warship sails into the harbor of Syracuse having a tent on the upper deck covered with Babylonian tapestries (8.6.7–8). When it drops anchor, the crowds that gather wonder what the tent may conceal and assume that it is some valuable cargo, when suddenly the tapestries are drawn and a remarkable spectacle appears before their eyes: 4. The text of Callirhoe is by Reardon (2004). The translation is derived from Goold (1995). 5. See De Temmerman (2002, 165–187, esp. 168–169) on burial in bridal dress fitting both a fifth century BC as well as a first century AD context. 6. “Ariadne, like Callirhoe, suffered an injustice at the hands of someone she loved”, Cueva (1996), 473–484 (474). 7. For a detailed description of the funeral within its Syracusan and Athenian 5th century BC context see Smith (2007, 54–61) with earlier literature. 8. Konstan (1994). 9. Doulamis (2001), 55–72 (59).

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All were puzzled and straining their eyes when suddenly the tapestries were drawn aside, and Callirhoe was to be seen, clothed in Tyrian purple and reclining on a couch of beaten gold [ἐπὶ χρυσηλάτου κλίνης], with Chaereas sitting beside her in the uniform of a general. Never did thunder and lightning so startle the ears and eyes of witnesses! Never did anyone who had discovered a treasure of gold shout so loudly as the crowd did then at this unexpected sight too marvelous for words. Hermocrates leaped on board and rushed to the tent; embracing his daughter he cried, “My child, are you really alive or am I deceived in this, too?” “Yes, father, I am, and really so now that I have seen you.” Everybody wept for joy.

There is little doubt that what we have here is an inversion of the funeral of Callirhoe narrated in the corresponding Chapter 6 of Book 1. Chaereas’ ship having on deck a tent of Babylonian tapestries that conceals a bridal bed with Callirhoe on it (8.6) inverts the initial construction of the bridal bed inside the tomb (see further below). The funeral has been turned into a ceremony celebrating the definitive “resurrection” of Callirhoe (cf. 1.1.15 and 1.8) as well as of Chaereas lying beside her, who was also presumed dead. There is furthermore the close association between marriage and death, a recurrent and prominent feature in the novel: Callirhoe is buried in her bridal dress and comes back to life with Chaereas at her side on a bed made of beaten gold, like the one her body was placed inside the tomb – the present bed is a gift from the Persian King. There is also a subtle allusion to the robbing of Callirhoe’s tomb: public reaction to the event is compared to the emotion of someone who finds a treasure of gold (οὔτε θησαυρὸν εὑρών τις χρυσίου) – gold restored I would add or rather replacing the one found by Theron (1.7.4 ἐγὼ θησαυρὸν εὑρών) inside the “treasure house” (1.6.5 ὥσπερ θησαυρόν) that Hermocrates’ family tomb had been turned into. There is finally the association between tomb and ship, first suggested by the fact that Callirhoe’s tomb was located “by the sea in order to be visible to people sailing far out at sea” (ὥστε καὶ τοῖς πόρρωθεν πλέουσι περίβλεπτος εἶναι). This would be yet another adaptation of the “tomb by the sea” motif,10 most probably alluding to Achilles’ tomb in Od. 24.83 (ὥς κεν τηλεφανὴς ἐκ ποντόφιν ἀνδράσιν εἴη), which in 4.1.5 is quoted by Dionysius regarding Chaereas’ cenotaph, a replica of Callirhoe’s tomb. The location of Callirhoe’s tomb by the sea has also a practical narrative function, which is to foreshadow her abduction by the pirate Theron. The association of tomb and ship recurs on a number of occasions. When Callirhoe is taken aboard the pirate-ship she is immediately reminded of her tomb (1.11.3):

10. Pearce (1983), 110–113.

Chapter 10. Narrative aspects of Callirhoe’s tomb

[…] How much better it would be for me to lie dead in the tomb [ἐν τάφῳ κεῖσθαι νεκράν]! Then, at all events, Chaereas would have been buried with me. But now we have been parted both in life and in death.

And when later Chaereas recognizes the funeral offerings to Callirhoe found aboard the pirates’ cutter he exclaims in grief, identifying the ship with an empty tomb (3.3.15): Alas, Callirhoe! These are your things! This is the wreath which I put about your head; your father gave you this; and this is from your mother; and here is your bridal dress. This ship has become your tomb [Τάφος σοι γέγονεν ἡ ναῦς]. I can see your things, but where are you? Of all the contents of the tomb, the corpse alone is missing [ἀλλὰ τὰ μὲν σὰ βλέπω, σὺ δὲ ποῦ; μόνη τοῖς ἐνταφίοις ἡ νεκρὰ λείπει]!

It is on the location of Callirhoe’s tomb that Theron is later crucified, so that he may have a bitter view of the sea where his ship seized Callirhoe and where the Syracusans defeated the Athenian ships (3.4.18): Many of the crowd went with Theron as he was taken away; he was crucified in front of Callirhoe’s tomb [πρὸ τοῦ Καλλιρόης τάφου] and from the cross gazed out upon that sea over which he had carried Hermocrates’ daughter captive [καὶ ἔβλεπεν ἀπὸ τοῦ σταυροῦ τὴν θάλασσαν ἐκείνην, δι’ ἧς αἰχμάλωτον ἔφερε τὴν Ἑρμοκράτους θυγατέρα], whom not even the Athenians had captured.

In 8.6.7–8 the situation has changed dramatically vis-à-vis 3.3.15: Callirhoe reappears in the ship-tomb, this time not dead but alive. A further conspicuous and telling association is that between tomb and bedchamber. The narrative suggests on more than one occasion that Callirhoe’s tomb enclosed her bridal chamber or vice-versa that her bridal chamber was turned into a tomb. Let us consider the following two passages (1.8.1 Callirhoe regaining consciousness inside the tomb; 1.13.8 Leonas’ comforting words to Callirhoe): Then she began to stir, limb by limb, and opening her eyes she regained consciousness as though waking from sleep, and called Chaereas, thinking he was asleep at her side [αἴσθησιν ἐλάμβανεν ἐγειρομένης ἐξ ὕπνου καὶ ὡς συγκαθεύδοντα Χαιρέαν ἐκάλεσεν]. Chaereas will receive you back from the tomb as unmolested as if you had just left your own bedroom [ἀπολήψεταί σε Χαιρέας, ὡς ἐκ θαλάμου τοῦ τάφου σωθεῖσαν] – thanks to us.

Callirhoe was buried in her bridal dress lying (κατέκειτο) on a bed of beaten gold (ἐπὶ χρυσηλάτου κλίνης) and reappears to the Syracusans reclining (ἀνακειμένη) on a bed of beaten gold (ἐπὶ χρυσηλάτου κλίνης). Chaereas’ ship having on deck a

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tent of Babylonian tapestries that conceals a bedchamber inside it inverts the initial construction “bedchamber-inside-the tomb”. To be noted that there is a persistent association of this kind of bed with Chaereas and Callirhoe.11 Let us now examine how the construction “bridal chamber-inside-the tomb” is expanded and transformed elsewhere in Chariton’s novel. While Callirhoe is staying at Dionysius’ country estate, Plangon, to whose care she had been entrusted by Dionysius, sees her swollen belly in the bath and immediately realizes that she is pregnant (according to the narrator Callirhoe was at the beginning of her third month of pregnancy). When she informs Callirhoe of her condition, the latter bursts into expressions of grief (tears, cries, hair-tearing), blames Fortune for causing her to become the mother of a slave and eventually strikes her womb and cries out (2.8.7): Poor thing, before being born you were buried [πρὸ τοῦ γεννηθῆναι γέγονας ἐν τάφῳ] and handed over to pirates! What sort of life will you face? To what future shall I bear you, without father or country, and a slave? You had better die before your birth [πρὸ τῆς γενέσεως πειράθητι θανάτου].

The condition of the unborn child, who is physically alive but has no consciousness of his existence, is reminiscent of Callirhoe’s own condition when she was buried alive but unconscious in the tomb. The Greek in the passage quoted above is very expressive in this respect using verbal oxymora to emphasize the unborn child’s condition inside its mother womb and inside the tomb, a spatial sequence to which the reader may add the bedchamber in which he was conceived. The basic construction “tomb – bridal chamber” is thus expanded into “tomb – bridal chamber – womb”. From a modern viewpoint, Callirhoe carrying a child in her womb and lying inside the tomb-bedchamber evokes the well-known “matryoshka doll”, also known as “Russian doll”. For Plangon, who is serving the interests of her master Dionysius, the unborn child is a “means of persuasion”, capable of overcoming Callirhoe’s virtue as a wife and satisfy the love of Dionysius (2.9.1).12 But as regards Callirhoe, the fortune of the unborn child triggers in her an agonizing inner debate. She first meditates killing the child but then, unwilling to become another Medea, changes her mind. In favor of this second option she adduces the possibility that the child may be male and resemble his father; that he may one day sail to Sicily in search of his 11. Callirhoe sleeps with Dionysus on a gilded bed, but she dreams of Chaereas (3.7.5); and it is on such a bed, belonging to the Great King, that the sexual reunion of the couple takes place (8.1.14). On the gilded bed see James (2010), 1–10. 12. “Here you have a fine chance to satisfy your master’s love, with the unborn child as an advocate. You have found a sure means of persuasion. Mother love will overcome her wifely virtue.”

Chapter 10. Narrative aspects of Callirhoe’s tomb

father and grandfather; that the father may come to her aid and thus the child may bring about the reunion of his parents. The thought of killing the child in her womb brings back to her the memory of the tomb in which they were both buried alive (2.9.4–5): […] Are you, his mother, going to kill him when he has been saved from the tomb and from pirates [μήτηρ ἀποκτείνῃ τὸν ἐκ τάφου σωθέντα καὶ λῃστῶν;]? Think of all the sons of gods and kings we hear of that were born in slavery and later regained the rank of their fathers, like Zethus and Amphion and Cyrus! […].

The whole night long Callirhoe remained sleepless debating the issue with herself. When she fell briefly asleep, an apparition of Chaereas (εἰκὼν Χαιρέου), a full likeness of her husband, stood before her, just as the ghost of Patroclus that appeared to Achilles in Iliad 23.66–67 resembled living Patroclus – to be noted that the narrative establishes a clear parallel between the two couples, AchillesPatroclus and Chaereas-Callirhoe.13 The ghost had only the time to say “My wife, I entrust our son to you” before Callirhoe leapt up eager to embrace him (2.9.6): Thus she reasoned with herself the whole night long, but for a few moments sleep came over her. An apparition of Chaereas stood before [her], [in all things] like unto him, in stature and bright eyes, and voice, and wearing the same garments on his body. As he stood there he said, “My wife, I entrust our son to you.” He wanted to continue, but Callirhoe leapt up, eager to embrace him. In the belief, therefore, that her husband had counseled her, she determined to bring up the child.

The thought of the tomb in which she was buried alive is ever-present on Callirhoe’s mind but here the perspective changes. Now she seems to be concerned not with the bitter memory of her former burial but with lack of burial regarding Chaereas: in the Iliadic passage the psyche of Patroclus pleads with his dear friend that he should bury him as soon as possible so that he may stop wandering and pass the Gates of Hades (23.71, which is quoted in Callirhoe 4.1.3). As noted above, Callirhoe will later have a magnificent cenotaph raised for Chaereas when she is misled to believe that her husband is dead; but the above-mentioned dream of Iliadic inspiration seems to suggest that she herself subconsciously thought of Chaereas as being dead. The next day Callirhoe informed Plangon of her decision to keep the child but the latter immediately warned her that her master was too jealous to permit her to rear another man’s child: she would either have to kill the child or pretend that the child was Dionysius’ own. Callirhoe asked for time to consider the proposal. Once 13. See Morales and Laguna Mariscal (2003), 292–295.

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inside her room she held the image of Chaereas against her womb and proceeded to an imaginary deliberation involving the three concerned parties, husband, wife, and child (2.11.1): Going upstairs to her room and shutting the door, Callirhoe held the image of Chaereas [τὴν εἰκόνα Χαιρέου] against her womb and said, “Behold, we are three-husband, wife, and child! Let us plan together what is best for us all. […].”

When Callirhoe was buried alive she unknowingly carried Chaereas’ child in her womb as well as her husband’s image on her ring. She became aware of their existence quite accidentally, beginning with the latter which she first ‘detected’ in the following circumstances: she had just been sold by Theron to Leonas and locked up inside a room of Dionysius’ country house thinking of herself as imprisoned in “yet another tomb […] more lonely than the first!” (1.14.6 ἄλλος τάφος […] ἐρημότερος ἐκείνου μᾶλλον·); while beating her breast in lamentation she saw on her ring the image of Chaereas (τὴν εἰκόνα τὴν Χαιρέου) – the ring was the only thing she had kept from the funeral offerings (1.13.11), and it may have been placed on her finger by Chaereas himself to seal an eternal bond. She kissed the image and imagined her husband sitting by the empty tomb and repenting in grief (1.14.9–10). By holding the image of Chaereas against her womb she causes the reader to imagine that husband and son had “followed” her to the grave, the latter inside her womb and the former on her ring. Thus, Callirhoe’s tomb confirms its original character as a family tomb. Most importantly, it anticipates Chaereas’ later “death” and “resurrection” as well as the risk the unborn child will run of being killed by his own mother. The outcome of Callirhoe’s deliberation turned out to be the following (2.11.3): two votes (husband and son) in favor of life and one vote in favor of death (Callirhoe herself, who would prefer to die uniuira). Her husband’s reply she had had in the dream mentioned above and as regards the unborn child Callirhoe lent him her own voice (2.11.2): “[…] But you, my child, what do you choose for yourself ? Death by poison before seeing the sun [φαρμάκῳ τελευτῆσαι πρὶν τὸν ἥλιον ἰδεῖν], being cast out with your mother, and perhaps even denied a grave [τάχα δὲ μηδὲ ταφῆς ἀξιωθῆναι]? Or rather to live and have two fathers, one the leader of Sicily, the other of Ionia? […].”

Having decided to live for her unborn child’s sake Callirhoe informed Plangon and received assurances from her that her master would not treat her as a concubine but would respect her as a wife. To be noted that the possibility of lack of burial haunted Callirhoe not only as regards her husband (see above) but also as regards her unborn child “sheltered” in her womb.

Chapter 10. Narrative aspects of Callirhoe’s tomb

To sum up. I have outlined the impact of Callirhoe’s tomb and burial on the rest of Chariton’s narrative explaining their role in pivotal moments of narrative progression. As the physical manifestations of apparent death, tomb and burial point either to death or to (anticipated) “resurrection” or to both, with reference not only to Callirhoe but to Chaereas as well. Of the two major reappearances of Callirhoe’s tomb and burial, at Miletus and Syracuse, the former (real) reproduces and the latter (metaphorical) inverts the initial event. I have furthermore discussed the relation beween tomb and ship in terms of identification, reversal, and proximity. The most intriguing association is that between tomb and bedchamber. The narrative suggests on more than one occasion that Callirhoe’s tomb enclosed her bridal chamber or vice-versa that her bridal chamber was turned into a tomb. When Callirhoe was buried alive she unknowingly carried Chaereas’ child in her womb as well as Chaereas’ image on her ring. This reality anticipates Chaereas’ later “death” and “resurrection” as well as the risk the unborn child will run of being killed by his own mother.

Appendix Seneca’s Troades, Act 3 Taking into consideration scholarly suggestions that Callirhoe may date from midfirst century AD14 and that “Callirhoe” mentioned in Persius’ Satires 1.134 may constitute an allusion to Chariton’s novel, I would like to draw attention to Act 3 of Seneca’s Troades, which has been dated to a time not much earlier than 54 AD.15 My argument is not, however, intended as evidence for the dating of Chariton’s novel nor as an instance of intertextuality but approaches the Senecan text as a possibly contemporary parallel. The Troades Act in question has been praised for both its originality and its modernity.16 Here is a summary of events in Troades, Act 3. Andromache tells an old man of the frightening dream she had had the night before, which caused her to expect

14. Bowie (2002), 47–70; Tilg (2010), 59–79. 15. Nisbet (1990), 95–114 (96). 16. See Keulen (2001), 290–291 with literature. One of the statements commonly quoted is by Dryden (1668), 24: “The Master-piece of Seneca I hold to be that Scene in the Troades, where Ulysses is seeking for Astyanax to kill him; There you see the tenderness of a Mother, so represented in Andromache, that it raises compassion to a high degree in the Reader, and bears the nearest resemblance of anything in their Tragedies to the excellent Scenes of Passion in Shakespeare, or in Fletcher”.

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things worse than the fall of Troy itself: Hector, her dead husband, appeared to her in a dream and instructed her to hide their son Astyanax in order to save his life; seized with fear she awoke and vainly attempted to embrace the ghost of her husband (3.452–460): “Cast off sleep, my faithful wife, and rescue our son. He must be hidden, this is the only hope of safety. Leave off weeping. Are you lamenting Troy’s fall? I wish she were completely fallen! Hurry, take the little offspring of our house away somewhere, anywhere!” Cold fear and trembling shook me out of sleep; turning my eyes fearfully this way and that, and forgetting my son, I searched piteously for Hector, but the delusive ghost slipped right through my embrace.17

Callirhoe’s dream of Chaereas and Andromache’s dream of Hector draw on the above-mentioned (Callirhoe 2.9.6, 4.1.3) Achilles’ dream of Patroclus in the Iliad – the former directly and the latter through Aeneas’ dream of Hector in Aeneid 2.268–297.18 They share the unique element of a husband’s ghost instructing his wife to save the life of their son. In obedience to her husband’s command Andromache proceeds to hide Astyanax in his tomb. She does so because she expects the Achaeans to show respect for the place and because she feels that in this way she will entrust the son to his father’s keeping – a gruesome thought. In the meantime, the Achaeans have decided to kill Astyanax and thus eliminate the threat of his re-establishing Trojan rule in the future. They send Ulysses to fetch Andromache’s son. Confronted with the cunning Ithacan Andromache pretends that she does not know where her son is but, when Ulysses threatens to destroy Hector’s tomb, her feelings and especially the fear that in the collapse of the tomb the father may crush the son betray her and she is compelled to deliver Astyanax to his death. The confrontation of Andromache with Ulysses is a unique episode in ancient drama and rivals the best moments of Attic tragedy. Seneca, Troades Act 3 and Chariton’s Callirhoe – a novel in which tragic elements and even traces of Aristotle’s Poetics have been pointed out19 – share the following features: two male offsprings (Astyanax and Callirhoe’s unborn child), descendants of famous rulers, are “buried” alive in the tomb of one of their parents; each of them is or is expected to be the spitting image of his father; both come out of the tomb alive, but the former is destined for death and the latter for a glorious life.

17. The translation is by Fitch (2002). 18. Horsfall (2008), 235 with literature. 19. Tilg (2010), 130–137 with literature; Paschalis (2013).

Chapter 10. Narrative aspects of Callirhoe’s tomb

Jesus’ empty tomb Most recent references to Callirhoe’s tomb and ‘resurrection’ have been made in comparative studies of reactions, respectively before her empty tomb by Chaereas, Hermocrates and others (3.3.1–7) and before Jesus’ empty tomb by Mary Magdalene and other women (Matthew 28.1–8, Mark 16.1–8, Luke 24.1–12, John 20.1–13; all four canonical gospels end with a scene at Jesus’ empty tomb).20 At such an early date any influence, if it indeed existed, would probably have gone from Chariton to the Gospels and not the other way round – on this point I concur with Stefan Tilg.21 Thematic and even verbal similarities, however, between the Gospel story and Callirhoe or the Ephesiaca need not imply some sort of influence. The argument favoring the influence of the Gospels on these novels would be a classic case of the fallacy known as petitio principii, a form of reasoning in which the conclusion has been assumed in the premises: because the Gospels later became and still are very influential texts, they must have had an impact on pagan literature as early as possible, even at a time when they circulated within a narrow circle of people, even before their circulation in written form. It is well-known that the dates of the four canonical Gospels have been and still are a matter of speculation and range from about the 40s to about the 90s AD. But those who support Gospel influence on Callirhoe either make the date of a single Gospel fit their argument or adduce as evidence all four gospels regardless of date. Let me give one example. A lot has been made of the theme of τυμβωρυχία (“grave-robbing”) in connection with the abduction of Callirhoe and the presumed stealing of Jesus’ body.22 The tale that Jesus’ body was stolen by his disciples was spread by the soldiers guarding the tomb, who were bribed by the chief priests and instructed to do so. It occurs only in Matthew 28.11–16;23 which has led to the fallacious conclusion that Matthew’s gospel must be contemporary with Callirhoe and must have received instant and wide publicity. There is also the controversial 20. Tilg (2010), 59–65. For an overview of studies by novel scholars concerning the novel and early Christian literature see Konstan and Ramelli (2014), 180–197, with bibliography. Especially relevant are the contributions of Ilaria Ramelli, starting with her book I romanzi antichi e il Cristianesimo: contesto e contatti (2001), chapter 1. As regards biblical scholarship on the same topic see for instance Fullmer (2007), and Warren 2017. 21. Tilg (2010), 62. 22. Konstan and Ramelli (2014), 189: “The similarities between the entire scene in Chariton and the Gospel narratives in which Jesus’ tomb is found to be empty are indeed striking. Unlike the other themes such as crucifixion, apparent death, and resurrection, that of tumbōrukhia or tomb-robbing is the only one that did not become commonplace in the subsequent Greek novels, at least after Xenophon of Ephesus”. 23. Later occurrences are found in the Gospel of Peter and in Justin Martyr (2nd century AD).

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Nazareth Inscription, which classified corpse removal and tomb disturbance as a capital crime. Until recently it was most often connected with Roman reactions to early Christian reports of Jesus’ empty tomb; but a 2020 geochemical analysis of the marble on which the edict was inscribed has revealed that it did not come from Palestine but from the island of Kos, and that it dated to about 20 BC. The edict was probably issued by Caesar Augustus in response to the desecration of the grave of a famous tyrant from Kos named Nikias.24 Finally, the following verbal similarity has been adduced as a “striking” piece of evidence in favor of Gospel influence on Chariton: ἔκλεψαν αὐτόν, of Jesus’ body (Matthew 28.13); ἔκλεψαν αὐτήν, of Callirhoe (3.2.7). It should be noted, however, that the two phrases occur in entirely unrelated contexts: the former is placed in the mouth of the chief priests who instruct the guards to spread the lie of body theft; the latter is placed in the mouth of Dionysius who prepares to celebrate at Miletus a marriage worthy of Callirhoe’s nobility, arguing that her identity can no longer remain a secret.25 It would be highly improbable, in my view, to assume that Chariton received inspiration from the Gospel story of Jesus for Callirhoe’s apparent death, burial, and “resurrection”, that is for the very the foundation of his novelistic plot, the impact of which pervades the entire narrative. There is nothing in this presumed allusion to suggest “parody” of Jesus’ resurrection (Chariton’s intent is sometimes considered parodical but most often remains unspecified). Neither is there any trace of spiritual affinity with the Christian message. The scene with Chaereas finding Callirhoe’s tomb empty, looking up to heaven, stretching out his hands and asking in desperation which of the gods has become his rival and carried off Callirhoe, eloquently shows the cultural gap separating Callirhoe’s from Jesus’ empty tomb (3.3.4): Which of the gods has become my rival and carried off Callirhoe and now keeps her with him, against her will but compelled by a mightier fate? Is this then why she died suddenly, that she might not succumb to disease? So did Dionysus once steal Ariadne from Theseus and Zeus Semele from Actaeon. Or can it be that I had a goddess as my wife and did not know it, and she was above our human lot? But, even so, she should not have disappeared from the world so quickly or for such a reason. Thetis, too, was a goddess, but she remained with Peleus and bore him a son, while I have been deserted at the very peak of my love. What is my fate? What will become of me, poor wretch? Shall I kill myself ? With whom

24. Harper, et al. (2020). 25. “Already she [Rumor] is hurrying to Sicily with the news – ‘Callirhoe is alive! Tomb robbers opened the tomb and stole her and she has been sold in Miletus.’ ”

Chapter 10. Narrative aspects of Callirhoe’s tomb

shall I be buried? For this was my hope in my misfortune, that if I could no longer share my bed with Callirhoe, at least I would share her grave. […].

Bibliography Bowie, E. (2002). “The Chronology of the Earlier Greek Novels since B.E. Perry: Revisions and Precisions”, Ancient Narrative 2: 47–63. Cueva, E. P. (1996). “Plutarch’s Ariadne in Chariton’s Chaereas and Callirhoe”, AJP 117, 473–484. De Temmerman, K. (2002). “Institutional realia in Chariton’s Callirhoe. Historical and Contemporary Elements”, Humanitas 54: 165–187. Doulamis, K. (2001). “Rhetoric and Irony in Chariton: a case study of Callirhoe”, Ancient Narrative 1: 55-72. Dryden, J. (1668). Dramatick Poesie, An Essay. London: Henry Herringman, 24. Fitch, J. G. (ed., transl.) (2002). Seneca: Hercules, Trojan Women, Phoenician Women, Medea, Phaedra. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press. Fullmer, P. (2007). Resurrection in Mark’s Literary-Historical Perspective. London: T&T Clark. Goold, G. P. (ed., transl.) (1995). Chariton: Callirhoe. Cambridge, Mass. / London: Harvard University Press. Harper, K., et al. (2020). “Establishing the provenance of the Nazareth Inscription. Using stable isotopes to resolve a historic controversy and trace ancient marble production” Journal of Archaeological Science: Reports 30 (2020). Horsfall, N. (2008). Virgil, Aeneid 2: A Commentary. Leiden: Brill. James D. (2010). “Art of Gold: Precious Metals and Chariton’s Callirhoe”, ASCS 31: 1–10. Keulen, A. J. (ed., transl.) (2001). L. Annaeus Seneca: Troades. Leiden / Boston / Köln: Brill. Konstan, D. (1994). Sexual Symmetry: Love in the Ancient Novel and Related Genres. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Konstan, D. and Ramelli, I. (2014). “The Novel and Christian Narrative”, in E. Cueva and S. N. Byrne (eds.), A Companion to the Ancient Novel, Wiley Blackwell, 180–197. Lefteratou, A. (2017). Mythological Narratives: The Bold and Faithful Heroines of the Greek Novel. Berlin / Boston: De Gruyter. Morales, M. S. and Laguna Mariscal, G. (2003). “The Relationship between Achilles and Patroclus according to Chariton of Aphrodisias”, CQ 53: 292–295. Nisbet, R. G. M. (1990). “The Dating of Seneca’s Tragedies, with Special Reference to Thyestes”, Papers of the Leeds International Latin Seminar 6: 95–114. Paschalis, M. (2013). “The Basic Plot of Callirhoe: History, Myth, and Aristotelian Poetics”, in M. Paschalis and S. Panayotakis (eds.), The Construction of the Real and the Ideal in the Ancient Novel, Groningen: Barkhuis, (2013), 161–177. Pearce, T. E. V. (1983). “The Tomb by the Sea: The History of a motif”, Latomus 42: 110–113. Ramelli, I. (2001). I romanzi antichi e il Cristianesimo: contesto e contatti. Graeco-Romanae Religionis Electa Collectio 6. Madrid: Signifer Libros.

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Reardon, B. P. (ed.) (2004). Chariton Aphrodisiensis: De Callirhoe narrationes amatoriae. Munich / Leipzig: Saur. Smith, S. D. (2007). Greek Identity and the Athenian Past in Chariton. The Romance of Empire. Ancient Narrative Supplementum 9, Groningen: Barkhuis & Groningen University Library, 54–61. Tilg, S. (2010). Chariton of Aphrodisias and the Invention of the Greek Love Novel. New York: Oxford University Press. Warren, M. (2017). “Equal to God: Jesus’ Crucifixion as Scheintod”, in F. S. Tappenden and C. Daniel-Hughes (eds.), Coming Back to Life: The Permeability of Past and Present, Mortality and Immortality, Death and Life in the Ancient Mediterranean, Montreal: McGill University Library and Archives, 435–455.

chapter 11

The home life of a heroine The winter of Chloe’s discontent in Longus Niall W. Slater

Emory University

Within the seasonal structure of Daphnis and Chloe, Longus’s brief portrayal of winter contrasts with pastoral idealism elsewhere to foreground a sharper realism, especially in the lives of the title characters. In scenes not easily paralleled in other Greek novels, Chloe experiences realities of life for women in pastoralist households, rendering her temporarily ἀμήχανος (“helpless”). Winter thus disrupts the symmetries of experience for heroine and hero. Although Daphnis initially appears more active in attempting to overcome the separation, benevolent chance and Chloe’s newfound ability to work within domestic constraints restore sexual symmetry and renew forward movement of the plot. Keywords: ἀμηχανία, Daphnis and Chloe, domesticity, Longus, pastoral, realism, sexual symmetry, τέχνη, winter

The seasonal structure of Longus’s Daphnis and Chloe is well known, but while the pastoral lens idealizes some of that seasonality, other elements foreground a sharper realism.1 In terms of textual territory, winter makes a relatively brief appearance, but it frames scenes in the life of the heroine Chloe not easily paralleled in the other novels, in which the realities of life for the women of the pastoralist households enrich the reader’s understanding of both character and plot development, particularly for Chloe. The sudden onset of winter disrupts the symmetries of experience for heroine and hero.2 While on one level Daphnis appears more active in his attempts to overcome the separation, it is benevolent chance and Chloe’s ability to work within the constraints of household and family structure that carry both through to the next stage of the plot’s development.

1. See Gill (2018), 117–119 on the description of spring at 1.9. 2. For this important framework see Konstan (1994) and especially 79–90. https://doi.org/10.1075/ivitra.40.11sla © 2024 John Benjamins Publishing Company

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Longus does not simply structure his four-book narrative according to the seasons but plays with the boundaries to build some suspense. Book II ends with the miraculous rescue of Chloe and her flock from the raiding Methymneans and a celebration that becomes an autumnal festival, complete with sacrifice, piping, and dramatic dance. The performances of Philetas and Daphnis are not formally framed as a competition – indeed Daphnis takes and plays Philetas’s pipes as part of his own performance of the role of Pan while Chloe dances the role of Syrinx – but the result is still Philetas’s recognition of Daphnis as a worthy successor, to whom Philetas then gives his own great set of pipes. The book closes the following day with mutual oaths of love sworn by Chloe and Daphnis and apparent harmony, although Chloe demands a second oath from Daphnis, moved by “girlish simplicity” (τὸ ἀφελὲς προσῆν ὡς κόρῃ, 2.39.2).3 Book III begins with the Mytileneans mustering a military counterstrike to the Methymneans’ naval raid, somewhat unexpectedly with a land force.4 The narrator specifies that they chose to respond on land, fearing the perils of a naval expedition in winter (ὀκνοῦντες ἐν ὥρᾳ χειμῶνος τὴν θάλασσαν, 3.1.2). In military reality, campaigning in winter was a good idea neither by land nor by sea, but the land strategy may be chosen to echo Athenian military operations in the days of the Peloponnesian War. The Methymneans, however, discovering that their raid had not been justified, decide to sue for peace, offering to return everything they had seized during their incursion, and on those terms the whole affair ends: Ὁ μὲν δὴ Μηθυμναίων καὶ Μιτυληναίων πόλεμος ἀδόκητον λαβὼν ἀρχὴν καὶ τέλος οὕτω διελύθη· γίνεται δὲ χειμὼν Δάφνιδι καὶ Χλόῃ τοῦ πολέμου πικρότερος. ἐξαίφνης γὰρ πεσοῦσα χιὼν πολλὴ πάσας μὲν ἀπέκλεισε τὰς ὁδούς, πάντας δὲ κατέκλεισε τοὺς γεωργούς. (3.3.1) Thus was resolved the war between Methymna and Mitylene, ending as unexpectedly as it began. But for Daphnis and Chloe the winter was more bitter than the war, for a sudden heavy snowfall had closed all the roads and shut in all the farmers.

3. Text and translation (unless otherwise noted) are from Henderson 2009. 4. See Bowie (2019), 221 ad 3.1.2. In many ways this brief and aborted war narrative is the third and largest stage of intervention by the world of the city into the pastoral world so far. The muster of 3000 hoplites and 500 cavalry seems startlingly large in comparison to the pastoral world and its population. During the famous Mytilenean Revolt of 428/427 BC, the Athenians were able to blockade the city initially with a force 40 ships, carrying perhaps 1200 hoplites (Thucydides 3. 3–6), later reinforced by a further 1000 (3. 3–18). Kloft (1989), 47–48 estimates the citizen population of Mytilene itself as no more than 9000. For specific allusions to Thucydides in Longus, see Cueva (1998) and Trzaskoma (2005).

Chapter 11. The winter of Chloe’s discontent in Longus

This three days’ war, without a blow struck, therefore serves primarily as prelude to the forces of winter, which separate the young lovers more effectively than the Methymneans’ raid and temporary seizure of Chloe.5 For winter has a strongly differential impact on the lives and work of the men and women of the country farms. At first everyone seems to be enjoying themselves by the indoor fires, undertaking small tasks.6 Soon, however, we find that such things do not weigh as heavily on the men of Lesbos: οἱ μὲν ἄλλοι γεωργοὶ καὶ νομεῖς ἔχαιρον πόνων τε ἀπηλλαγμένοι πρὸς ὀλίγον καὶ τροφὰς ἑωθινὰς ἐσθίοντες καὶ καθεύδοντες μακρὸν ὕπνον, ὥστε αὐτοῖς τὸν χειμῶνα δοκεῖν καὶ θέρους καὶ μετοπώρου καὶ ἦρος αὐτοῦ γλυκύτερον· (3.4.1) the farmers and herdsmen were glad of a short respite from their labors, to be eating meals in the morning and sleeping in late, so that to them winter seemed sweeter than summer and autumn and even spring.

As J. R. Morgan notes, Longus deliberately contrasts the sweetness (γλυκύτερον) of winter for the rest of their pastoral society to its previously noted bitterness (πικρότερος, 3.3.1) for the young lovers.7 The Greek archaic picture of winter is generally harsher. Hesiod notes that winter holds men back from their work (ὁπότε κρύος ἀνέρας ἔργων / ἰσχάνει, Works and Days 494–495) but in no way describes it as “sweeter.” It is later tradition that finds in the winter a time for merriment, as in Vergil’s Georgics:

5. Although modern accounts of the island, cited by Vieillefond (1987), cci-ccii and nn. 2, 3 with further references, may suggest mild winters, such snowstorms are not unknown: see Arnott (1994) and Mason (2003) for winters on Lesbos. 6. ἀλλὰ πῦρ καύσαντες μέγα περὶ ᾠδὰς ἀλεκτρυόνων οἱ μὲν λίνον ἔστρεφον, οἱ δὲ αἰγῶν τρίχας ἔπεκον, οἱ δὲ πάγας ὀρνίθων ἐσοφίζοντο (“but instead they built a big fire at cock-crow and spun flax or plaited goat hair or designed clever bird traps," 3.3.3, trans. modified). The masculine articles (οἱ μὲν … οἱ δὲ … οἱ δὲ …) may designate mixed groups. Pliny, NH 19. 18 says that “spinning flax is fitting even for men" (linumque nere et viris decorum est), though by no means dubbing it exclusively a masculine occupation, and one suspects in a farm household more women would be adept at spinning (though cf. Kloft (1987), 55 and n. 38). Plaiting goat hair is for rope making (Vieillefond (1987), 137–138 ad loc. As Bowie (2019), 223 ad loc. notes, the bird traps look forward to Daphnis’s scheme to see Chloe. Cf. Doody (1996), 50 on Longus’s love of detail and associations of birds in this sequence (and Arnott (1994) on the realism of the bird descriptions in particular). 7. See Morgan (2004), 201 ad 3.3.4 on the tension between “the romantic values of protagonists … [and] the unsentimental hedonism of the realistic peasantry." Cf. Temmerman (2014), 214–215 on how Daphnis and Chloe can only contrast present sorrows (λυπηρὰς, 3.4.3) with past joys (τερπνῶν), having no way to name the sensation of missing each other. On “sweetness” of style in Longus see Hunter (1983), 92–98.

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                 hiems ignava colono. frigoribus parto agricolae plerumque fruuntur mutuaque inter se laeti convivia curant. invitat genialis hiems curasque resolvit

(1. 299–302)8

winter is the farmer’s lazy time. In cold weather farmers chiefly enjoy their gains, and feast together in merry companies. Winter’s cheer calls them, and loosens the weight of care

Hesiod contrasts the old man cut through by a bitter winter wind with a glowing vignette of the young unmarried woman protected inside the house: ἲς ἀνέμου Βορέω· τροχαλὸν δὲ γέροντα τίθησιν καὶ διὰ παρθενικῆς ἁπαλόχροος οὐ διάησιν, ἥ τε δόμων ἔντοσθε φίλῃ παρὰ μητέρι μίμνει οὔ πω ἔργ’ εἰδυῖα πολυχρύσου Ἀφροδίτης· εὖ τε λοεσσαμένη τέρενα χρόα καὶ λίπ᾽ ἐλαίῳ χρισαμένη μυχίη καταλέξεται ἔνδοθι οἴκου, ἤματι χειμερίῳ …

(Works and Days 518–524)9

the force of the wind Boreas … makes the old man curved like a wheel, but it does not blow through the soft-skinned maiden who stays at the side of her dear mother inside the house, still ignorant of the works of golden Aphrodite; after washing her tender skin well and anointing herself richly with oil she lies down in the innermost recess inside the house, on a wintry day …

In this we may charge Hesiod with a more “romantic” view of women’s lives in winter. Longus by contrast presses the notion that for women, winter if anything increases their work: ἡ μὲν δὴ Χλόη δεινῶς ἄπορος ἦν καὶ ἀμήχανος· ἀεὶ γὰρ αὐτῇ συνῆν ἡ δοκοῦσα μήτηρ ἔριά τε ξαίνειν διδάσκουσα καὶ ἀτράκτους στρέφειν καὶ γάμου μνημονεύουσα· (3.4.5) Chloe was awfully helpless and stumped, for her reputed mother was always with her, teaching her how to card wool and turn the spindle, and mentioning marriage.10

8. Text and translation of Vergil from Fairclough and Goold (1999). 9. Text and translation of Hesiod from Most (2006). 10. Vieillefond (1987), clxxiii reads this as socially normative success (“Chloé est de surcroît une ménagère accomplie”), but that is not Chloe’s experience at the time.

Chapter 11. The winter of Chloe’s discontent in Longus

Trapped inside, our heroine is without resources (ἄπορος) or contrivance (ἀμήχανος). Both terms have long classical pedigrees, the latter as early as Eurycleia’s lament that she is helpless to do anything for the long-missing Odysseus: ὤ μοι ἐγὼ σέο, τέκνον, ἀμήχανος (“O my child, how useless I am to you," Od. 19. 363).11 Yet in the post-Hellenistic age, ἀμήχανος may have a nearer and stronger resonance. It has been considered almost the formulaic epithet for the hero of Apollonius’s Argonautica, “resourceless Jason.”12 The term then migrates, however, to Medea in that poem, who claims her mind is helpless after her dream of Jason (φρένες εἰσὶν ἀμήχανοι, 3. 772)13 and reaches helplessly back for her homeland as they sail away (γαίῃ χεῖρας ἔτεινεν ἀμήχανος, 4.107). It appears for the last time in Medea’s supplication before queen Arete in Phaeacia and the other leaders for their protection against her father’s vengeance:                      οὐδʼ ἐνὶ θυμῷ αἰδεῖσθε ξείνης μʼ ἐπὶ γούνατα χεῖρας ἀνάσσης δερκόμενοι τείνουσαν ἀμήχανον·.

(4.1047–1049)

you have no shame in your hearts to see me stretching my hands to the knees of a foreign queen in helplessness.

Her plea sets in motion Arete’s plan for Medea and Jason to marry, thus inducing Alcinous to offer the couple his protection rather than returning her to her father. Intriguingly, Richard Hunter even connects ἀμηχανία in Apollonius with the “ephebic” challenges of achieving adulthood (Hunter, 1993, esp. 15–17). If this intertext is at all in the mind of Longus and his readers, does the allusion makes Chloe a Jason or a Medea – or both? Chloe is confined by the harsh realities of both nature and family to the space of her home. She and Daphnis both eagerly seek a τέχνη for seeing each other, but 11. Odysseus himself experiences ἀμηχανίη when he sees the Cyclops devour his comrades (Od. 9.295); Heubeck and Hoekstra (1989), 295 ad loc. assure us that this hapax legomenon “in fact prepares the reader to expect a μήχος (299 ff.) from Odysseus, who is never short of ideas (πολυμήχανος)." For ἄπορος, cf. Sophocles, OT 691; Aristophanes, Clouds 629. Euripides in Frogs 1429 denounces the citizen who is πόριμον αὑτῷ, τῇ πόλει δ᾿ ἀμήχανον (“resourceful for himself, incompetent for the city"). 12. First at Argonautica 1.460, ἔνθʼ αὖτʼ Αἰσονίδης μὲν ἀμήχανος. Text and translation from Race (2008). Cf. 3. 336, ἀμήχανον, where Race notes it could be masculine, applying to Jason, or neuter, referring to the impossible task. Helpless wonder (θάμβος … ἀμήχανον, 2.681) seizes the whole crew at Apollo’s epiphany. Hadas (1936) speculates on an earlier tradition of a “helpless” Jason. 13. Cf. 3.951, μεταλλήγεσκεν ἀμήχανος (“breaking off, helplessly distracted"); 3.1157, ἡ δὲ παλιντροπίῃσιν ἀμήχανος (“she, helpless in the face of her changing thoughts").

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it is Daphnis with the greater leisure (σχολὴ) accorded to his gender and “more sagacity than a girl” (ἄγων καὶ συνετώτερος κόρης, 3.4.5) attributed to him by the narrator who sets the plot in motion by going hunting for birds near Chloe’s dwelling.14 His “sagacity” is immediately ironized by his inability still to think of any socially sufficient excuse for calling on Chloe and her family (3.6.3–4). He has already given up and is starting home when chance or Eros takes pity on him: a dog steals the meat from the dinner table in front of Chloe’s father Dryas, and he pursues the dog out of the house – only to encounter Daphnis and promptly invite him in (3.6.5)! While Daphnis has chanced upon good fortune beyond his hopes (τυχὼν οὖν ὁ Δάφνις παρ᾿ ἐλπίδας, 3.8.1),15 it is Chloe who now exerts initiative and conscious τέχνη. Instructed to serve the wine at dinner, she pretends (ἐσκήπτετο, 3.8.2) to be angry that Daphnis was leaving without trying to see her and so serves him last, but she also first sips from his wine, thus giving him a secret kiss through the cup. Chloe’s parents press him to stay the night and share in a sacrifice to Dionysus the next day, to which he gladly agrees. They even allow him to go out with Chloe the next day for more bird-catching, affording time for private conversation and kisses. After the sacrifice and feast, Daphnis departs with a final kiss for Chloe. The last sentence of the sequence reports that Daphnis made many other visits, finally finding “other pretexts” (ἐπ᾿ ἄλλαις τέχναις, 3.11.3), so that the winter for them was not entirely without Eros (ἀνέραστον16). Artifice is never quite absent from Longus’s often simple-sounding narrative, but the harsh realities of cold weather and social confinement sharply separate Chloe’s experience of winter from that of Daphnis and indeed the rest of the novel. The novel’s second half in effect begins with two false prologues: both the military counterstrike as well as the harsh winter that threatens to put the previously inseparable heroine and hero on separate paths come to nothing. Chloe 14. Morgan (2004), 202 notes a visual allusion: “on sarcophagi bird-catching Erotes commonly illustrate winter as a stage in the cycle of life." 15. While others in the novel fail of their hopes, notably Dorcon (first of winning Chloe’s hand from her father, διαμαρτὼν ὁ Δόρκων ἐλπίδος, 1.20.1, and soon thereafter of his hope to take her by force in his wolfskin disguise, πολλὴν εἶχεν ἐλπίδα τῷ σχήματι, 1.20.1), Daphnis is fortune’s favorite, heretofore surviving both pirates and shipwreck παρ’ ἐλπίδα πᾶσαν (1.31.1) and finally winning the consent of Chloe’s parents to the marriage beyond any hope (παρ᾿ ἐλπίδα, 3.8.1) that they had. The tragic phrase παρ᾿ ἐλπίδας occurs first in the mouth of guard in Sophocles’ Antigone 393, bringing the captured Antigone back to Creon, but curiously it occurs in none of the other major Greek novelists. 16. Might this alpha-privative, first attested in Callimachus Epigram 34 [= AP 12. 148] but otherwise only in imperial Greek, take the reader back to Chloe’s ἀπορία and ἀμηχανία, now so successfully resolved?

Chapter 11. The winter of Chloe’s discontent in Longus

nonetheless experiences realities of women’s domestic life that might put an end to the way of life that she and Daphnis have so thoroughly shared since both were old enough to take the flocks out. Other novels show us heroines threatened by slavery and other dire dangers; Chloe is threatened with the possibility of dwindling into an ordinary wife, in the confines of a rustic homestead. A delicate interplay of chance and her initiative restore the shared experiences for now, though other challenges await.

Bibliography Arnott, W. G. (1994). Longus, Natural History, and Realism. In J. Tatum (Ed.), The Search for the. Ancient Novel (199–215). Baltimore: Johns Hopkins. Bowie, Ewen. (2019). Daphnis and Chloe. Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press. Cueva, Edmund P. (1998) Longus and Thucydides: A New Interpretation. Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies, 39, 429–440. Doody, Margaret Anne. (1996). The True Story of the Novel. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press. Fairclough, H. Rushton, & Goold, G. P. (1999). Virgil. New ed., revised by G. P. Goold. Cambridge, Mass: Harvard University Press. Gill, Christopher. (2018). Style and Ethos in Longus’ Daphnis and Chloe. In Kathryn Chew, J. R. Morgan, and S. M. Trzaskoma (Eds.), Literary Currents and Romantic Forms: Essays in Memory of Bryan Reardon (113–36). Groningen: Barkhuis. Hadas, Moses. (1936). The Tradition of a Feeble Jason. Classical Philology, 31, 166–168. http:// www.jstor.org/stable/264713 Henderson, Jeffrey. (2009). Daphnis and Chloe. Cambridge, Mass.; London: Harvard University Press. Heubeck, Alfred and A. Hoekstra. (1989). A Commentary on Homer’s Odyssey. Volume II. Books IX-XVI. Oxford and New York: Clarendon Press. Hunter, R. L. (1983). A Study of Daphnis & Chloe. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hunter, R. L. (1993). The Argonautica of Apollonius: Literary Studies. Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press. Kloft, Hans. (1989). Imagination und Realität: Überlegungen zur Wirtschaftsstruktur des Roman Daphnis und Chloe. Groningen Colloquia on the Ancient Novel, 2, 45–61. Konstan, David. (1994). Sexual Symmetry: Love in the Ancient Novel and Related Genres. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press. Mason, H. J. (2003). Winter on Lesbos: Imagination and Reality. Mouseion, n.s. 3 (3), 285–294. Morgan, J. R. (2004). Longus: Daphnis and Chloe. Oxford: Aris & Phillips. Most, Glenn W. (2006). Hesiod. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press. Race, William H. (2008). Apollonius: Argonautica. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press.

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Temmerman, K. (2014). Crafting Characters: Heroes and Heroines in the Ancient Greek Novel. Oxford, U.K.: Oxford University Press. Trzaskoma, S. M. (2005). A Novelist Writing ‘History’: Longus’ Thucydides Again. Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies, 45, 75–90. Vieillefond, Jean-René. (1987). Longus: Pastorales (Daphnis et Chloé). Paris: Les Belles Lettres.

chapter 12

Chloe as learning subject in Longus’ Daphnis and Chloe Janet Downie

University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill

Setting the erotic education of Daphnis and Chloe in the context of contemporary discourses of paideia, this essay argues that it is Chloe who represents the ideal learning subject. While Daphnis is associated with the language of teaching and training (διδάσκω, παιδεύω), Chloe is associated with the language of learning and understanding (μανθάνω). When her learning process is depicted in the novel’s inset scenes of mythological story-telling, Chloe repeatedly rejects or eludes hierarchical and transactional frameworks of education, modeling a reflective self-awareness and intellectual agency that separates her from Daphnis and connects her instead with adult figures like the Hunter-Narrator and with the novel’s implied reader. Keywords: Longus, education, paideia, mimesis, myth, eros, subjectivity

Daphnis and Chloe ends with the marriage of the novel’s young protagonists. In the final scene they are accompanied in procession to their bridal chamber by a crowd of guests and there the two young people complete together the erotic education they have pursued over the course of the novel’s four books: Δάφνις δὲ καὶ Χλόη γυμνοὶ συγκατακλιθέντες περιέβαλλον ἀλλήλους καὶ κατεφίλουν, ἀγρυπνήσαντες τῆς νυκτὸς ὅσον οὐδὲ γλαῦκες· καὶ ἔδρασέ τι Δάφνις ὧν αὐτὸν ἐπαίδευσε Λυκαίνιον, καὶ τότε Χλόη πρῶτον ἔμαθεν ὅτι τὰ ἐπὶ τῆς ὕλης γινόμενα ἦν ποιμένων παίγνια. Daphnis and Chloe lay down together, naked, embraced one another and kissed, as wakeful as owls that night. And Daphnis did something of what Lycaenion had taught him (ἐπαίδευσε). And then Chloe learned (ἔμαθεν) for the first time that what had happened in the woods was shepherds’ games. (4.40)

In this rite of passage, Daphnis and Chloe complete the transition from childhood to adulthood together, as a married couple. Their parity is emphasized in their https://doi.org/10.1075/ivitra.40.12dow © 2024 John Benjamins Publishing Company

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shared nakedness, their shared embrace, and their shared likeness to wakeful owls. But the two characters are also pointedly differentiated in the novel’s final line. Thanks to Lycaenion’s instruction, this is not Daphnis’ first experience of sexual intercourse: here, Daphnis repeats the practical lessons he was taught (αὐτὸν ἐπαίδευσε) earlier by the experienced older woman.1 Chloe, on the other hand, learns something new, “then, for the first time” (τότε … πρῶτον ἔμαθεν). She experiences sexual intercourse for the first time and in the process, the narrator tells us, comes to understand her past experiences in a new light. The narrator situates the sexual encounter in the context of education for both characters, but their respective profiles as learning subjects are quite different. The Greek novels are centrally concerned with the education and socialization of young people – “women included,” as Sophie Lalanne, in particular, has shown (Lalanne, 2014, p. 483). Lalanne describes education, particularly in the sense of civic education, as the “thème privilégié” of a genre that places preparation for marriage and adult life at its center (Lalanne, 2006, p. 16.). In Xenophon’s and Chariton’s novels, the social institutions and spaces of education are introduced early on as a way of establishing the life-stage of the male hero on the cusp of adulthood. So, Habrocomes’ study of “every branch of education” (παιδείαν … πᾶσαν, 1.2) is part of his elite profile and Chaereas is located within the social world of the gymnasium which “longed for him” (ἐπόθει, 1.10) when he withdrew, suffering from lovesickness. In Achilles Tatius’ and Heliodorus’ novels the heroines, too, are distinguished for their intellectual and cultural accomplishments. Leucippe reads and plays the cithara, while Charicleia has been raised within the temple cult at Delphi. Consistently, reference to the trappings of formal education serve to situate the main characters socially, in class and cultural terms. The theme of education takes on a different significance in Daphnis and Chloe, where learning itself, as a developmental process, is the substance of the story: two children on the cusp of adolescence set out together to learn about eros, reaching the telos of marriage at the end of the novel.2 The erotic symmetry that, as David Konstan has argued, is a distinctive feature of the Greek novels might condition us to look for educational symmetry as well, especially as the children begin their erotic education from a “reciprocal and undifferentiated,” epicene sex1. The indefinite τι (“something of what Lycaenion had taught him”) adds an element of uncertainty, perhaps reticence, that is open to interpretation. For Daphnis, too, there is some difference between his experimental, extramarital sexual experience with Lycaenion and his marital union with Chloe. 2. As Morgan, 1996 notes in his discussion of the “process of learning or maturing” (165) depicted in the novels, Daphnis and Chloe is exceptional: the thematization of the learning process is so deliberate in this novel that it has some affinity with the (later) conventions of the Bildungsroman.

Chapter 12. Chloe as learning subject in Longus’ Daphnis and Chloe

uality (Konstan, 1994, p. 80). Yet, Daphnis and Chloe pursue increasingly separate trajectories of development as they are enculturated into the gendered hierarchies of adult life. In an influential article John Winkler argued that, at its core, the novel tells the story of Chloe’s gradual absorption into an implicitly violent cultural system that denies her personal agency. What Chloe learns, according to this argument – in marked contrast to Daphnis – is submission, and Winkler puts this in explicitly educational terms: from Book Three forward, he writes, Chloe becomes “more and more a problematically mute pupil.” (Winkler, 1990, p. 104). Responding, in part, to Winkler’s reading of the novel’s cultural anthropology, and extending this gendered asymmetry into the realm of learning and human development, scholars have continued to read the relationship between Daphnis and Chloe in the novel’s final scene as a hierarchical relationship between teacher and student.3 But the characters’ relative positioning is more complex than the teacherstudent model would suggest. Over the course of the novel Daphnis and Chloe are given qualitatively different profiles as learning subjects. In this essay I establish first that the two characters are associated linguistically with different aspects of education. Of the two protagonists, Daphnis is more closely associated with the language of teaching and training (διδάσκω, παιδεύω). Chloe, by contrast, is associated with the language of learning and understanding (μανθάνω). In the second part of the essay, I argue that when her learning process is depicted in the novel’s inset scenes of mythological story-telling, Chloe repeatedly rejects or eludes hierarchical and transactional frameworks of education, instead modeling reflective self-awareness and intellectual agency. Finally, I set Chloe’s portrait as a learning subject briefly in the context of contemporary paideia. I argue that Longus accords Chloe a degree of intellectual agency that separates her from Daphnis, connecting her instead with adult figures like the Hunter-Narrator as a figure for the educational ideals of contemporary paideia.

Teaching and training Early on in the story of Daphnis and Chloe, traditional book-learning is set aside as an option for the two characters – foundling children who have been nursed by animals, rescued by shepherds, and raised by two humble families in 3. Morgan, (2004, p. 12): “On the wedding-night, the relationship between the newlyweds is that of teacher and pupil.” Konstan, (1994, p. 90): “Daphnis, at least in his role as teacher of the things Lycaenium taught him, seems to assume the role of agent or active partner.” Cf. Lalanne, (2006, p. 140): “jusqu’à la dernière ligne l’infériorité de Chloé par rapport à Daphnis est soulignée.”

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the countryside of Lesbos.4 Recognizing that the children come from elite backgrounds, their thoroughly rustic adoptive parents at first plan for a bookish education, having them instructed in literacy (1.8.1: γράμματα ἐπαίδευον) as part of a “refined upbringing” (τροφαῖς ἔτρεφον ἁβροτέραις) that is exceptional in their rural context. Soon, however, they change course. Advised by a divine dream to prepare the children for a pastoral life instead, the parents train the children – ἐκδιδάσκω (1.8.2) – in the management and care of the flocks and send them out into the fields. With formal, literate education foreclosed, the children’s emotional and social development becomes the focus of the novel. Still, the theme of education and the language of education remain important. This language frames the whole process of the children’s growth and enculturation and, specifically, the young people’s developing understanding of “the deeds and names of eros.” Over the course of the novel the language of prescriptive teaching and training – of παιδεία and διδασκαλεία – is applied in diverse contexts: to the poetic, moral education and musical instruction of traditional, literate paideia, as well as to instruction in other domestic and cultural arts relevant to pastoral life.5 This language is not exclusive to humans: both animals and people have the capacity for instruction. Human individuals train one another in the skills necessary to manage the flocks, just as animals are domesticated by being taught (παιδεύω) to obey the human voice.6 For example, the cowherd Dorcon teaches (διδάσκω 1.29.2; cf. 1.24.4) his cattle to respond to song – a song he had earlier taught to Daphnis, and Daphnis to Chloe. The language of teaching and training is thus prominent in the description of practical skills that support the organization of agricultural life, creating a cultural network in which humans and animals are interconnected. The young couple’s education in eros is set within this broader context of practical education and training. Although the language of erotic education is not fully explicit until their meeting with Philetas in Book 2, their inexperience in eros is framed from the beginning as a lack of knowledge and understanding. In 4. The story of Daphnis and Chloe is relayed by a Hunter-Narrator, whose encounter with a painting in a grove of the nymphs on Lesbos provides the opening frame for the novel. Maciver, 2020 offers a recent analysis of this narratological framing, arguing that the framing prologue establishes the Hunter as a “knowing narrator.” Maciver also provides an orientation to the scholarly conversation and its bibliography. 5. Reardon’s index provides a helpful concordance. The verb διδάσκω appears thirteen times in twelve different passages; its compound ἐκδιδάσκω appears once. The verb παιδεύω appears thirteen times, one of these in the compound form προπαιδεύω, in Reardon’s edition. The verb μανθάνω appears twenty-two times in twenty passages, and καταμανθάνω appears twice. Related nouns are rarer: παίδευμα (twice), παιδευτήριον (once); μαθητής (twice). 6. 1.22.3; 1.29.2; 1.31.2; cf. 2.16.2 (reference to badly trained dogs).

Chapter 12. Chloe as learning subject in Longus’ Daphnis and Chloe

Book 1, they begin to experience puzzling sensations of erotic attraction – first Chloe, when she watches Daphnis bathe; then Daphnis, when he wins a kiss from Chloe as the prize in a competition with the older, more experienced cowherd, Dorcon. For both characters this first encounter with eros is presented not just as a sensation but also as an epistemological problem. “What she was experiencing,” says the narrator, “she [Chloe] did not know (οὐκ ᾔδει), being just a young girl raised in the countryside who had never hear anyone speak the name of eros” (1.13.5). “I am sick,” Chloe reflects to herself, “but what the sickness is I do not know (ἀγνοῶ)” (1.14.1). Again, the narrator comments: “they wanted something, but what they wanted they did not know (ἠγνόουν)” (1.22.4).7 The two children feel their way along, lacking the language for what they are experiencing, until they meet the elder (2.3.1: πρεσβύτης) Philetas, who understands their predicament gives them instructions for how to remedy it. Once a herdsman and a lover himself, Philetas now tends a garden in his old age, where he was visited just this morning by the child-god Eros. “I have come to tell you what I saw and to relate to you what I heard,” Philetas proclaims to the young people (2.3.2). He tells Daphnis and Chloe that they are henceforth consecrated to Eros, and he speaks to the two of them at length about what this means, based on his own experience. At first, they are entertained by his story, enjoying it (ἐτέρφθησαν) “as if they were listening to a story (μῦθον) and not a reasoned account (λόγον)” (2.7.1). Ultimately, though, Philetas’ account is framed in educational terms, explicitly by the narrator and implicitly by the characters themselves. In the narrator’s words, “[a]fter instructing (παιδεύσας) them in this way, Philetas departed” (2.8.1). Although they fail to understand the theological implications of Philetas’ account of Eros – that the pain of erotic desire eludes physical remedies because Eros is not just a small boy, but a divine power – the children nevertheless attempt to derive a lesson from his instruction. There follow two separate scenes in which the children systematically compare (2.8.1 παρέβαλον) their own experiences with what Philetas has described and then, the next day, experiment (2.9.2 πειρατέον) with some of the remedies Philetas has suggested – kissing and embracing. These attempts to learn from their meeting with Philetas are described by the narrator as a “noctural lesson” (2.9.1 νυκτερινὸν παιδευτήριον) and “calculations” (2.10.1 λογισμοῖς), respectively.8 7. Cf. 1.32.4, Daphnis is describes as being young, rustic, and still ignorant (ἀγνοῶν) of the piracy (λῃστήριον) of love. 8. The narrator is technically an internal narrator (see Note 4 above) who adopts a variable or omniscient third person voice, purporting to represent the thoughts, feelings and speech of several different characters – especially Daphnis and Chloe and, briefly, their adoptive parents.

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While Daphnis and Chloe initially share the epistemological puzzle and the problem of eros, they quickly diverge both in their experience and in their attempts to learn about eros. Daphnis’ engagement with eros takes place in contexts that are framed by the practices and language of formal education. The highest concentration of the language of teaching and training in the novel – four instances of διδάσκω and four of παιδεύω – occur in the scene in which Lycaenion introduces Daphnis to sexual intercourse. An older, more experienced, city woman who has now come to live in the countryside with her husband, Lycaenion seduces Daphnis by claiming that the Nymphs have instructed her in a dream “to come to [Daphnis’] aid by teaching [him] the deeds of eros (διδαξαμένην τὰ ἔρωτος ἔργα)” (3.17.2). “Come,” she says, “make yourself my pupil (μαθητής) and to please the Nymphs, I will teach you (διδάξω)” (3.17.3). Daphnis begs her to waste no time in “teaching him the art” (διδάξαι τὴν τέχνην) and indeed offers to pay her for this instruction in animals and cheese (3.18.1–2). Lycaenion then “set about teaching Daphnis” (3.18.3: ἤρχετο παιδεύειν) and the reader is given the play-by-play, as Lycaenion gives instructions and Daphnis follows them – up to the point where “nature itself taught him what to do” (3.18.4: αὐτὴ γὰρ ἡ φύσις λοιπὸν ἐπαίδευσε τὸ πρακτέον).9 Daphnis’ learning about eros is practical. From Lycaenion, he has gained an understanding through hands-on experience of the physical requirements of sex. In this sense, he has been educated in a way that is not too dissimilar from the training of animals – for which the language of didaskalia and paideusis is also used, as we have seen.10 In keeping with this sense of erotic training, Daphnis immediately wants to run to Chloe and “do to her everything he had been taught, as if he would forget it if he delayed.” (3.19). Daphnis’ reaction, in other words, is immediately to practice – to repeat – the skill he has learned. The narrator describes him as “thinking like a shepherd” (3.19.1: ἔτι ποιμενικὴν γνώμην ἔχων). He has learned a physical routine and he is eager to put his skills to work – as indeed he does at the very end of the novel.

The degree to which the reader is meant to distinguish this internal narrator from the author is debated. See Maciver 2020 with bibliography. 9. Gilhuly, (2018, p. 123–4) argues that sex is mostly “left to nature” even in this scene, but that Lycaenion provides crucial cultural instruction in gender hierarchies, as Daphnis learns from this encounter “that the man goes on top.” 10. Epstein, 2002 argues that the novel draws Daphnis into close connection with the world of the animals and Pan.

Chapter 12. Chloe as learning subject in Longus’ Daphnis and Chloe

Chloe as learner Whereas Daphnis’ learning is presented in explicitly educational terms, and as a matter of training and instruction, Chloe’s profile as a learner is quite different.11 Chloe does receive direct instruction in some domestic activities, as well as in music – Daphnis, for example, teaches her to play the pipes at the beginning of Book 1.12 But when it comes to eros, Chloe is not closely associated with the language of paideia and didaskaleia. She certainly never is taught explicitly about eros in the way that Daphnis is in the scene with Lycaenion – not even, I argue, in the final scene of the novel. Daphnis alone is presented with a kind of erotic curriculum and skill set. No curriculum is offered to Chloe. She is characterized less as a recipient of instruction and more as a learner and a seeker, as a creatively engaged learning subject. Chloe’s education is bookended by two explicit references to her learning. In Book 1, she is instinctively curious about the natural world and motivated to ask questions, “seeking to learn (ζητούσης μαθεῖν) why the bird had that call …” (1.27.1). In the novel’s final scene, she is described as reflecting on her earlier sexual experiences in light of the sexual experience of her wedding night, as she steps into her social role as a married woman: “And then for the first time Chloe learned (ἔμαθεν) that what had happened in the woods were shepherds’ games.”13 In between these two direct references, Chloe’s learning process is presented by way of her response to three inset mythological stories. Many scholars have interpreted these stories as providing proleptic instruction for Chloe, offering what Lalanne describes as a paideia « spécifique au genre féminin » because they introduce her to the conventions of gender hierarchy in a threatening, male-dominated world (Lalanne, 2006, p. 137). Most discussions, however, have focused on the content of the stories themselves as objects of interpretation for the reader who is required to filter them through the uncertain relationship between Longus, as

11. Contra Winkler, (1990, p. 104), who describes “Chloe’s education” as being “conducted largely in terms of Daphnis’ more explicit education” and Lalanne, (2006, pp. 137–38), who describes the two characters’ education as complementary but tending in opposite directions – Chloe’s towards loss of autonomy, Daphnis in the direction of full male prerogatives. 12. Chloe’s mother also instructs her in domestic activities: “her mother, so-called (ἡ δοκοῦσα μήτηρ), was always with her, teaching (διδάσκουσα) her how to card wool and turn a spindle” (3.4.5) in preparation for her future role as wife and mother. 13. See above (p. 1) for the Greek text and context. The verb μανθάνω is used of other characters when they are said to “realize” or “understand” something. Interestingly, this language is used only once of Daphnis, when Lycaenion tells him he needs to “understand” that sex will be dangerous for Chloe.

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author, and the Hunter, as internal narrator.14 Here, I shift attention to Chloe’s response to the stories in their immediate narrative context. In this context, as a character, Chloe is depicted as evading or rejecting the hierarchical and transactional elements of contemporary education. In Book 1, Daphnis tells Chloe the story of how the wood-dove got her song. The story itself involves rivalry, jealousy and status competition, and its framing emphasizes educational hierarchy. In this etiological tale, the singing of a female cowherd, a parthenos, attracts the jealousy of her male counterpart, a pais. Spurred to competition and taking advantage of his stronger (male) and sweeter (young) voice, the cowherd succeeds in luring away part of girl’s own herd. Angered (ἄχθεται), when she realizes what has happened, the maiden prays to the gods to turn her into a bird: “And still now singing she announced her disaster, that she seeks her stray cows” (1.27). As Daphnis tells it, the tale is full of the agonistic language of rivalry (φιλονεικήσας), competitive performance (ἀντεπεδείξατο), and defeat (ἥττη), here in the context of a gendered contest between male and female in which female defeat is attributed to female inferiority. Didactic hierarchy is part of the dramatic framing too. Not only does Chloe “seek to learn” (ζητούσης μαθεῖν) what the wood-dove is singing, but Daphnis is described as “teaching” her: “Daphnis taught her (διδάσκει αὐτὴν) by recounting (μυθολογῶν) the oft-told story (τὰ θρυλούμενα).” While the phrase τὰ θρυλούμενα suggests that Daphnis’ story about the wood-dove is a traditional one, it might well be an improvised fiction. The story is not otherwise attested. Ewen Bowie sets this scene in the educational context of the progymnasmata, in which one of the earliest literary-rhetorical exercises involved improvising on mythological themes (Bowie, 2003, pp. 365–66). Similarly, Daphnis’ first erotic sensation, when he receives Chloe’s kiss as prize, takes place in the context of a competition with the cowherd Dorcon – a contest that is technically a beauty competition but also features competitive speech-making, as each of the male characters in turn talks up his own qualities and disparages those of his competitor (1.16.1–5). Daphnis’ and Dorcon’s speeches have the effect of a “miniaturised controversia” – a school exercise strangely transplanted to the pastoral setting that, as Ewen Bowie has put it, gives Daphnis “a streak of the mythologically learned sophist.” (Bowie, 2003, p. 364.) Here, in his etiological story of the wood-dove, Daphnis emphatically mimics a classroom scenario: he plays up his role as teacher, directing the story pointedly towards Chloe, with a didactic,

14. See for example Hunter, (1983, pp. 52–58), for whom the included narratives offer “layer after layer of meaning and resonance” (p. 57).

Chapter 12. Chloe as learning subject in Longus’ Daphnis and Chloe

moralizing tone: “So, there was a maiden, maiden … and a beautiful one indeed, who herded cows in the woods – as you shall hear (οὕτως).”15 It is not clear, however, that Chloe is willing to play the role Daphnis is so eager to assign her. Although Daphnis adopts a strongly didactic tone Chloe does not respond directly at all, let alone in a submissive or student-like manner. When Daphnis finishes speaking, the reader is returned to the narrative frame – “such pleasures the summer afforded them” – and the final episode of this book (a pirate raid) immediately ensues. This abrupt transition and the lack of insight into Chloe’s immediate response to the story is disorienting, inviting the reader to speculate and draw their own interpretive conclusions. If the story is intended to model male superiority and female inferiority, however, this is not a lesson that Chloe absorbs. As it turns out, when Daphnis is seized in the pirate raid, along with a number of cattle, it is Chloe who rescues him by way of music, playing the pipes “as loudly as she could” (1.30.1: μέγιστον ὡς ἐδύνατο). The cattle – trained by Dorcon – respond to Chloe’s piping by stampeding off the boat which capsizes, giving Daphnis the opportunity to swim away to safety (1.29.2). Chloe is successful and effective as a pastoral musician and has the upper hand here over the hapless Daphnis. The second mythological story, told in Book 2, highlights the transactional aspects of education through its content, its context, and the lesson that Chloe draws from the story. To the company assembled for a rustic sacrifice to Pan (who has just saved Chloe from abduction by pirates), Daphnis’ adoptive father Lamon relates the myth of Pan and Syrinx, an etiology of the pan pipes told to him once for a fee by a Sicilian goatherd. In Lamon’s account, Pan pursued the musical maiden Syrinx, who rejected his erotic advances, fleeing to the marsh when he threatened to impose his desires by force. Pan slashed through the swamp looking for her – in vain, since the gods had turned her into a reed. Pan is filled with wrath until he comes up with a way to transmute emotion into music: taking the reeds he has cut he binds them into a series of pipes – a proxy for the musical maiden Syrinx and an artistic sublimation of his thwarted emotions of eros and rage (ὀργή).16 Responding to the story with a further gesture of replacement, Daphnis and Chloe in turn act out the mythological story through interpretive dance, changing the ending in the process: when Chloe mimes Syrinx’s escape 15. ἦν παρθένος, παρθένε, οὕτω καλὴ καὶ ἔνεμε βοῦς πολλὰς οὕτως ἐν ὕληι. Bowie, 2019 ad loc. notes that οὕτω is “often used to begin a story.” In this very free translation I have tried to capture the way in which Daphnis’ repetition of οὕτω and οὕτως underscores his didactic purpose, insisting that Chloe attend to the story to come. 16. The πάθος in this line could refer either to Syrinx’s or to Pan’s emotion, now sublimated in musical invention.

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to the woods, Daphnis – instead of slashing through the reeds like Pan – picks up Philetas’ pan pipes and plays an emotional tune,17 apparently recognizing the power of art to sublimate emotion (including violence) and winning both the approval of Philetas, who gives him the pipes as a gift, and ultimately the prize of kissing Chloe.18 In this second myth, both children participate in creative mimesis, acting out the myth through interpretive dance.19 Beyond this, however, it is apparent that Chloe has reflected on the potential consequences of the story for her own life. When she and Daphnis swear oaths of their love for one another in another transactional scene – Chloe by the Nymphs and Daphnis by Pan – Chloe has the presence of mind to ask for a second oath, because “Pan is an amorous god and cannot be trusted” (2.39.2): she has learned something from the story of Pan and Syrinx.20 Of course, in this oath-giving scene, both children are depicted as innocent – Chloe in particular. The narrator says that “she believed him, being a young shepherdess,” opening the question up to the reader to decide whether we think she her trust is well-taken or misplaced, and on what grounds. For, her thinking process makes sense. Chloe modifies her behavior in light of the story she has heard and enacted, taking these mythological lessons beyond the classroom. So, the second tale offers a scene not just of mythological interpretation, but of moral education. The third story engages the same issues of the transactional and hierarchical aspects of education, while also introducing the question of the agency of the learner. This is an etiological myth of the origin of the echo, told by Daphnis in response to Chloe’s confusion about this phenomenon when she hears sailors’ voices echoing off the land.21 The myth of Pan’s desire for the nymph Echo combines two motifs from the previous stories: male jealousy of the girl’s musical abilities (cf. the wood-dove, Phatta) and frustration over erotic rejection (cf. Syrinx). This is in many ways the most graphic and disturbing of the three stories, for 17. Bowie, (2003, p. 368). Gilhuly, (2018, pp. 132–33) on how Daphnis and Chloe reshape the myths. 18. Violence (βία) is emphasized in the story but de-emphasized in the real-life dénouement, where Daphnis is described as kissing Chloe “when she had been found, as if she had fled for real” (2.38: φιλήσας ὡς ἐκ φυγῆς ἀληθινῆς εὑρεθεῖσαν τὴν Χλόην). 19. See Schlapbach, 2017, Chapter 5 on dance as a mechanism of enculturation in this episode. 20. This is perhaps also, as Bowie, 2019, ad loc suggests, a gesture towards Chloe’s broader learning from other stories that are not relayed to the reader but that circulate in her cultural environment including for example the story of Pan and Pitys which is only alluded to in the story of the wood-dove. 21. This was Chloe’s “first experience of what is called ‘echo’” (τότε πρῶτον πειρωμένη τῆς καλουμένης ἠχοῦς), and she questions Daphnis about the phenomenon (ἐπυνθάνετο τοῦ Δάφνιδος, 3.22.2–3).

Chapter 12. Chloe as learning subject in Longus’ Daphnis and Chloe

the sheer violence to which the male figure, Pan, resorts in his jealousy. Daughter of a nymph and student of the muses, the maiden Echo is musically gifted and devoted to virginity (φιλοῦσα τὴν παρθενίαν, 3.23.2) – both qualities that arouse Pan’s wrath.22 When Echo rejects him, Pan casts madness upon shepherds and goatherds who then tear Echo from limb to limb like dogs and wolves and scatter the pieces to the ends of the earth. As a favor to the nymphs, the earth hides Echo’s still-singing limbs inside her, which henceforth echoes back all kinds of songs: [the earth] sends forth her voice on the proposal of the muses and imitates everything just as the girl (κόρη) once did – gods, men, instruments, animals. She even imitates (μιμεῖται) Pan himself when he plays his pipes. And when he hears this, he springs up and goes in pursuit through the mountains – with no desire (οὐκ ἐρῶν τυχεῖν) other than to learn the identity of his invisible student (μαθητής) (3.23.4)

It is Pan’s violence against her that turns Echo into his “student”: her voice (from within the earth) now echoes and imitates (μιμεῖται) his own. Pan seems to take this (Daphnis’ telling of the story implies) as confirmation of his power over the girl. In fact, though, Echo imitates everyone equally – animal, human and divine – and she remains invisible and inaccessible to Pan, eluding his grasp. The myth undercuts Pan’s sense of his own authority. Without empowering Echo precisely, it raises questions about the balance of power between them and how each figure understands their own position. In a similar way, the narrative context destabilizes expectations in terms of the balance of power between Daphnis and Chloe. Assuming the position of teacher as he tells this story to Chloe, Daphnis insists on payment for his instruction, “demanding ten more kisses from her as a fee for the teaching” (3.22.4: αἰτήσας εἰ διδάξειε μισθὸν παρ’ αὐτῆς ἄλλα φιλήματα δέκα). Chloe, however, sidesteps the hierarchical and transactional structure that Daphnis attempts to impose on this teachable moment. At the end of the story, she does kiss Daphnis, but the kisses she gives are out of all proportion to the fee he had demanded (οὐ δέκα μόνον φιλήματα ἀλλὰ πάνυ πολλά, 3.23.5). Exercising agency in desire and acting out of a sense of abundance, Chloe eludes Daphnis’ control – just as Echo eludes Pan’s control in the myth.23

22. 3.22.3: Πὰν ὀργίζεται τῇ κόρῃ, τῆς μουσικῆς φθονῶν, τοῦ κάλλους μὴ τυχῶν. 23. Compare Chloe’s sense of agency here with her shame at the kiss that Dorcon exacted from her just before his death, in exchange for the pipes (1.30.1; 1.31.2 αἰδεσθεῖσα). In the earlier exchange, Dorcon took the initiative and kissed her, forcing her into a position she resented. Funke, 2012 argues that Chloe is one of relatively few characters in ancient Greek literature through whom female subjectivity and sexual agency before and outside marriage are presented.

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The inset mythological stories are certainly open to a range of interpretations, and readers of the novel tend to approach them through the frame established by Longus and his internal narrator, the Hunter. Chloe’s perspective as a character, however, is different. It may be that her interpretation of the myths is naive – as the Narrator judges explicitly on a couple of occasions – and it is surely the case that we as readers understand dimensions of the stories that she does not, given our position outside of the narrative. What remains important, though, is that the narrative grants her agency in response. Chloe takes the stories not simply as a warning or a negative model but engages them creatively as a learning subject. She does not submit to the conditions of instruction Daphnis is keen to impose but takes the educational interaction into her own hands.

Mimesis and the learning subject Chloe’s interpretive agency and judgment in these scenes of story-telling is quite different from Daphnis’ erotic training, which is depicted over the course of the novel in terms of the replication of physical skills. In part, there is an element of realism in connecting the male character more explicitly with education in a formal sense – and no less realism in the notion that girls’ moral education in the Imperial context was to be firmly (if subtly) controlled. 24 Apart from gendered realism, however, the differing portrayal of Daphnis and Chloe as learners also provides an invitation to the reader to consider broader ideas about learning in contemporary discourses of education – specifically, about cultural education as a mimetic process.25 From Plato and Aristotle forward, the moral, intellectual and cultural formation of children was regarded as a fundamentally mimetic process. The author of the Imperial-era treatise On the Education of Children (probably a contemporary of Plutarch) echoes a long tradition of Greek thinking on education when he describes the young child as highly susceptible to moral and intellectual influence, so that “just as seals (σφραγῖδες) leave an impression in soft wax (τοῖς ἁπαλοῖς ἐναπομάττονται)” so too teaching leaves an impression on their minds

24. See Xenophontos, 2015 on the place of girls in formal education and Wiersma, 1990 on the broad realism of the novels’ depiction of women. 25. Many have written on the role of mimesis in the novel in its literary and aesthetic dimensions. Herrmann, 2007 connects this topic to the context of education. He distinguishes three kinds of approach to education – by instruction; through nature; through mimesis – and examines mimesis as an educative process in the novel.

Chapter 12. Chloe as learning subject in Longus’ Daphnis and Chloe

(ἐναποτυπποῦνται).26 This author’s image of the wax seal suggests an unproblematic process of direct transfer by which the child’s mind retains a direct copy of the teacher’s. Other writers, however, explore a range of metaphors for the education process that incorporate more complexity. As Martin Bloomer has shown, the Roman writer Quintilian pays far more attention to what he describes as “the space of the child”, imagining the child “to be fed” (alendus) and “to be formed” (erudiendus), like a plant, an animal, or a piece of worked marble (Bloomer, 2011, pp. 112–13, n. 10). Ultimately, Bloomer argues, Quintilian imagines the child as an active agent and a learning subject in a quasi-textual process of education in which “[t]he child’s development becomes assimilated with the texts he reads, recites, annotates, and composes in a graduated and supervised routine.”27 When it comes to the discussion of literary mimesis as a learning technique, in Book 10 of the Institutio Oratoria, Quintilian makes it clear that the point is not to produce an exact copy, but to exercise judgement in the emulation of models: “the greatest qualities of an orator are inimitable (imitabilia non sunt): his talent, invention, force, fluency, everything in fact that is not taught in the textbooks” (10.2.5). Emulation of one’s predecessors is key, but this involves first-hand engagement: reading and personal judgment. 28 Other contemporary treatises on literary education for older youths and young adults – Plutarch’s How to Read Poetry, for example – focus on precisely this element of judgement as indispensable to the student’s development of moral and ethical values. On the spectrum of mimetic modes explored by contemporary thinkers, Daphnis’ education comes closer to the wax-seal model, while Chloe is the character who is represented as developing a capacity for intellectual, interpretive judgement.29 In Book 1, both children unconsciously imitate the world around them, skipping like the goats and singing like the birds. But while Daphnis remains attached to this animal realm, Chloe moves beyond it. The contrast is most explicit in a humorous scene in which Daphnis tries to get Chloe to experiment with him sexually by insisting that this is what the animals do. Consider the sheep and goats, he says: the male and female of the species appear to derive mutual pleasure

26. (Pseudo-)Plutarch, Moralia 3F. 27. Bloomer, (2011, p. 111). Quintilian, Bloomer writes, “gives far more attention than had his predecessors to the child as a learning agent” (p. 110). 28. Dionysius of Halicarnassus also differentiates between rote imitation and other forms of intellectual assimilation. 29. From the beginning of the novel, Chloe models observation, comparison and selfreflection in the education process, in the first moment of her sexual awakening, for example, when she observes Daphnis bathing. As she washes his back and finds him beautiful, she touches her own skin, secretly, to see whose is softer (1.13.2).

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from their sexual activity; surely we could copy precisely what they do? But Chloe objects that the analogy does not hold: animals do not typically lie down together, the way Philetas instructed them to do; and furthermore, the animals are woolly – not naked as Philetas suggested the children should be in order to accomplish the deeds of eros (3.14.3–5). Here, Chloe engages Daphnis (naively, perhaps) on the literal level he demands, but she does so by drawing him back to the guidance they received from their human teacher, Philetas. Without rejecting the possibility that the animals may have something to teach them, Chloe refuses to take this at face value, rejecting an overly simplistic approach to mimetic learning. Even though he is supposed to be “cleverer than a girl” (3.3.3) (Bowie 2019, notes and 3.4.5.), at the end of this interaction Daphnis, is upset at how much more ignorant he is than the sheep in matters of eros.30 Daphnis takes his cues from the animals and measures his intellect in relation to theirs. Chloe, on the other hand, is depicted as operating in the realm of reasoned – human – reflection.

Conclusion When Daphnis and Chloe complete their education in eros and cross the frontier into adult marriage at the end of the novel, they occupy gender-differentiated positions that are distant indeed from the parity they enjoyed as children. In light of the characters’ educational trajectories, however, the difference between them is not simply hierarchical; rather, it is a difference in kind. Daphnis has been instructed in the mechanics of sex by Lycaenion – he has been trained. Chloe, on the other hand, is depicted as coming to a revised understanding of her own past through the kind of independent reflection she demonstrates several times over the course of the novel in her response to mythological stories and in her interactions with Daphnis. 31 In yet another moment of autonomous self-reflection (ἔμαθεν), at the end of the novel she side-steps the teacher-student hierarchy, providing a model for culturally-embedded self-education through observation, reflection, comparison and adaptation. Chloe’s response to the myths told within the novel seems to model the kind of thoughtful response to poetic, mythological, literary texts that Longus’ reader is encouraged – through several layers of narratological distancing – to pursue as 30. Epstein, (2002, pp. 30–31) discusses this episode and argues that Chloe has a better understanding than Daphnis of how humans and animals differ. 31. Structurally, as Konstan, (1994, pp. 88–89) argues, the novel presents marriage as a telos. He comments too that the teachings of Lycaenion are suited to marriage but not to their earlier, youthful “polymorphous sexuality.”

Chapter 12. Chloe as learning subject in Longus’ Daphnis and Chloe

well. In the novel’s framing Prologue, the narrator asserts that his text will heal the sick, soothe the grieving, remind the lover, and instruct in advance the one who has never loved (τὸν οὐκ ἐρασθέντα προπαιδεύσει, Pr. 3).32 Readers of Longus’ novel should be skeptical of narrator’s rather bold pedagogical claim: does his story really bear out the notion that one can be instructed about love in advance? If so, then what are the lessons one might learn from the novel? These questions are left open for the reader: the narrator does not return at the end of the novel to close the frame. In any case, if the erotic education of Daphnis and Chloe is to prove instructive for the adult reader, surely this instruction will consist not in gaining the kind of physical understanding that Daphnis acquires, but rather in exploring the subjective experience of eros in the way Chloe is represented as doing in response both to the inset myths and to the world around her: examining her experience through the lens of other stories and developing gradually her own interpretation of the world she inhabits. In a novel saturated with ancient ideas and questions about education, it is Chloe – not Daphnis – who most suggestively models the ideals of contemporary paideia.33

Bibliography Bloomer, W. M. (2011). Quintilian on the Child as a Learning Subject. Classical World 105, 109–137. Bowie, E. (2003). The Function of Mythology in Longus’ Daphnis and Chloe. In J. A. López Férez (Ed.), Mitos en la literatura griega helenística e imperial. Madrid: Ediciones Clásicas. Bowie, E. (Ed.). (2019). Longus: Daphnis and Chloe. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Epstein, S. (2002). The Education of Daphnis: Goats, Gods, the Birds and the Bees. Phoenix 56, 25–39. Funke, M. (2012). Female Sexuality in Longus and Alciphron. In M. P. Futre Pinheiro, M. B. Skinner and F. I. Zeitlin (Eds.), Narrating Desire (pp. 181–196). Berlin, Boston: De Gruyter. Gilhuly, K. (2018). Erotic Geographies in Ancient Greek Literature and Culture. London: Routledge, Taylor and Francis Group.

32. Lauwers, 2011, p. 64 argues that the narratological effect of the prologue’s separation of narrator from author is to create an “intellectual distance.” The reader is invited to ponder the novel as an intellectual puzzle of the sort that educated individuals would have been familiar with from contemporary rhetorical-sophistic education. 33. I would like to thank María Paz López Martínez, Carlos Sánchez-Moreno Ellart, and Ana Zaera García for their invitation to contribute to this volume and Aldo Tagliabue for very helpful comments on a draft of this paper.

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Herrmann, F. -G. (2007). Longus’ Imitation: mimesis in the education of Daphnis and Chloe. In J. R. Morgan and M. Jones (Eds.), Philosophical presences in the Greek novel. Ancient Narrative Supplement 10 (pp. 205–29). Groningen: The University of Groningen Press. Hunter, R. L. (1983). A Study of Daphnis and Chloe. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Konstan, D. (1994). Sexual Symmetry: Love in the Ancient Novel and Related Genres. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Lalanne, S. (2006). Une éducation grecque. Rites de passage et constructions des genres dans le roman grec ancien. Paris: La Découverte. Lalanne, S. (2014). Education as Construction of Gender Roles in the Greek Novels. In E. P. Cueva and S. N. Byrne (Eds.), A Companion to the Ancient Novel (pp. 473–89). New York: John Wiley and Sons. Lauwers, J. (2011). A Pepaideumenoi’s Novel. Sophistry in Longus’ Daphnis and Chloe. Ancient Narrative 9, 53–75. Maciver, C. A. (2020). Longus’ Narrator: A Reassessment. The Classical Quarterly, 70, 827–45. Morgan, J. R. (1996). Erotika Mathemata: Greek Romance as Sentimental Education. In A. H. Sommerstein and C. Atherton (Eds.), Education in Greek Fiction (pp. 163–89). Bari: Levante. Morgan, J. R. (2004). Longus: Daphnis and Chloe. Oxford: Aris & Phillips. Schlapbach, K. (2017). The Anatomy of Dance Discourse: Literary and Philosophical Approaches to Dance in the Later Graeco-Roman World. Oxford: Oxford Unievrsity Press. Wiersma, S. (1990). The Ancient Greek novel and its heroines: a female paradox. Mnemosyne 63, 109–23. Winkler, J. J. (1990). The Education of Chloe: Hidden Injuries of Sex. In J. J. Winkler (Ed.), The Constraints of Desire: The Anthropology of Sex and Gender in Ancient Greece (pp. 101–126). London: Routledge. Xenophontos, S. (2015). Plutarch. In M. Bloomer (Ed.), A Companion to Ancient Education (pp. 335–46). New York: John Wiley and Sons.

chapter 13

Achilles Tatius’ Leucippe as a puella docta Nikoletta Kanavou

National & Kapodistrian University of Athens

Unlike other heroines of the Greek romantic novels, who are consistently chaste, the heroine of Achilles Tatius’ novel Leucippe and Clitophon displays a (temporary) lack of sexual reticence; she also possesses musical talent. These features are central to her characterization in the novel’s first two books, which, incidentally, bear the distinct influence of Roman love elegy. It is argued here that Leucippe is purposedly fashioned in the early part of the novel as a puella docta, the type of idealised artistic lady with libertine traits that arouses erotic passion in the Augustan love poets. In the novel’s later books, on the other hand, her characterization conforms to a more conventional image. Keywords: Achilles Tatius, Greek novel, Roman elegy, puella docta

The influence of Roman love elegy on Achilles Tatius’ Leucippe and Clitophon,1 especially its first two books, has been noted before.2 Achilles Tatius may have had access to these poems as a Roman citizen who presumably knew Latin (Whitmarsh, 2020, p. 31). Achilles’ first-person narrative, which expresses the perspective of the hero, is in tune with the personal tone of Roman love elegy, and the novel’s erotics echo the erotics of the Augustan genre. In particular, the courtship of Clitophon and Leucippe in the early part of the novel, with its poetic and libertine character, reminds the reader of the erotic plots that lie in the centre of that renowned Roman poetry genre, which is represented by the works of such poets as Ovid, Propertius and Tibullus (notably the novel’s second book ends with 1. The novel’s text is cited according to its latest edition (by J.-Ph. Garnaud, Les Belles Lettres, Paris 1991). Translations follow Whitmarsh (in Whitmarsh and Morales 2001). 2. Jones, 2012, pp. 168–172, 227–228, 261; Brethes 2007, passim; and, more recently, Whitmarsh, 2020, p. 31. The topic is treated extensively in a monograph by D. Jolowicz (Latin Poetry in the Ancient Greek Novels. Oxford 2021), which, however, appeared too late for me to consult. The idea that Roman elegy played a part in the genesis of the Greek novel as genre goes back to Rohde (1876, passim). https://doi.org/10.1075/ivitra.40.13kan © 2024 John Benjamins Publishing Company

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the famous debate on the relative merits of women and boys as lovers [Ach.Tat. 2.35–38] – a passage that echoes the spirit of Ovid’s erotic didactic elegy Ars amatoria). As far as literary imagery is concerned, it has been noted that the depiction of the struggle of Clitophon (as amator) to win Leucippe in book 2 in terms of the toils of a soldier of war (Ach.Tat. 2.4.5; 2.5.1; 2.10.3),3 a soldier at the service of god Eros, points strongly to the motif of militia amoris, which is familiar from Roman elegy (Christenson, 2000, 631). Little attention has been given, however, to one of the most notable manifestations of the influence of Roman elegy on Achilles Tatius’ novel, namely the depiction of the novel’s heroine, Leucippe, as a puella docta – the type of ‘educated girl’ that inspires eros in Ovid and his colleagues, and who is the addressee of many of their poems. It is the purpose of this paper to discuss the affinities of Leucippe’s characterization to this famous poetic type. It is first worth remembering that the term puella docta, which is used by the Roman love elegists, has a broad significance. Ovid and the other Augustan love elegists are often thought to have been inspired by specific real women who possessed intellectual and artistic skills, but not every poetic puella is historically identifiable;4 the term designates rather an idealized female figure, who serves as the object of the elegists’ poetic affection. This ideal puella combines features that the poets have experienced in their encounters with women, along with their idealized expectations of womanhood. In summary, the puella docta is defined by the following features: she is beautiful, literate, cultivated, and able to appreciate poetry; she is trained in music and dance (see, e.g., Hemelrijk, 1999, p. 79). She is the poet’s imagined audience and often demanding critic and judge. Such puellae are Propertius’ Cynthia, Ovid’s Corinna, Tibullus’ Delia etc.

3. ‘Ἔρως, ὦ γενναῖε, ἔφη, δειλίας οὐκ ἀνέχεται. ὁρᾷς αὐτοῦ τὸ σχῆμα ὡς ἔστι στρατιωτικόν· τόξον καὶ φαρέτρα καὶ βέλη καὶ πῦρ, ἀνδρεῖα πάντα καὶ τόλμης γέμοντα. τοιοῦτον οὖν ἐν σεαυτῷ θεὸν ἔχων δειλὸς εἶ καὶ φοβῇ; ὅρα μὴ καταψεύσῃ τοῦ θεοῦ.’ ‘My good friend’, he said, ‘Eros admits of no feebleness. You observe the military nature of his accoutrements, the bow, the quiver, the missiles, the flame: all manly things, and crammed with courage. And you are cowardly and timorous with a god such as that inside you? Be sure not to betray the god’ (2.4.5); ‘Μέχρι τίνος, ἄνανδρε, σιγᾷς; τί δὲ δειλὸς εἶ στρατιώτης ἀνδρείου θεοῦ;’ ‘How long will your silence last, O man without manhood? Why this cowardice in a soldier in the service of a manly god?’ (2.5.1); πρόσειμι θρασύτερος γενόμενος πρὸς αὐτὴν ἐκ τῆς πρώτης προσβολῆς, ὥσπερ στρατιώτης ἤδη νενικηκὼς καὶ τοῦ πολέμου καταπεφρονηκώς ‘Emboldened by my first encounter with her, like a soldier already victorious and contemptuous of the war, [I] attacked’ (2.10.3). 4. For Veyne (1983) the docta puella was only a literary construction, while James (2003, pp. 215–216) identified real Roman women that matched this model (e.g. Gallus’ Lycoris in Verg. Ecl. 10 – an alias, perhaps, for the actress Cytheris). The relevant debate is further complicated by the stylistic differences among the poets.

Chapter 13. Achilles Tatius’ Leucippe as a puella docta

This persona largely runs against conventional portraits of decent Roman girls and women. Literacy rates were low among women, even of the elite class, and musical skills were generally not seen a desired trait in a chaste woman, as they risked associations with moral licentiousness. Still, the puella docta is socially hard to place. The allure of her presence in the company of men, which emerged from her beauty and her artistic nature, is comparable to that of a courtesan,5 but the puella docta, whose erotic permissiveness is often rather covert, is a distinct type. She seems not to have belonged to a particular class (Hemelrijk, 1999, p. 6 and p. 276 n. 1; Gibson, 2003, pp. 32–34 described the puella docta as deliberately fudged in social status). Furthermore, she is not a perfectly consistent poetic type. On the one hand, hints at the erotic availability of the puella in many of the elegiac love poems may discourage the perception of her persona as suited to a marriageable young girl; on the other hand, some contexts clearly allow for this perception. A good example is Perilla, the recipient of a love letter from Ovid (Tr. 3.7), in which she is depicted as a chaste puella docta (especially ll. 3–4): aut illam invenies dulci cum matre sedentem, / aut inter libros Pieridasque suas ‘You will find her sitting in the company of her sweet mother or amid books and the Pierian maidens she loves’. (transl. A. L. Wheeler [Loeb])

Like the praised girls of Roman elegy, the heroines of the Greek novel were perceived of as beautiful, literate, intelligent women (Morales, 2001, pp. xi–xii), whose share in novelistic plots was equal to (if not more pronounced than) that of the male heroes. The heroines of Chariton and Achilles Tatius further receive or (like the heroines of Ovid’s Heroides) write letters6 as one of many ways in which they influence the novels’ action. Within this general frame, there is one novelistic heroine that surpasses all others in literary and artistic talent and arguably comes very close to the puella docta of Roman love elegy: Achilles Tatius’ Leucippe, especially with respect to the features, which she displays in books 1 and 2 of the novel. First, Leucippe is the intended audience of Clitophon’s rhetorical performance on the topic of eros in book 1 (even though he pretends to address his servant, Satyrus; Ach.Tat. 1.16.1). The scene takes place in the garden of Leucippe’s home, a type of locus amoenus; this setting was not unfamiliar to Roman elegists.7 In his attempt to impress the maiden and cultivate an erotic mood, Clitophon gives a 5. James (2003, p. 35 and passim) argued in favour of a connection between the puella docta and the type of meretrix in Roman comedy. 6. On these, see Repath (2013). Achilles Tatius’ Leucippe is the only active letter-writer (Chariton’s Callirhoe is the recipient of a letter). 7. See James (2003, p. 133), with references to Tibullus’ use of the countryside as a place of isolation for poet and puella.

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speech about falling in love and sexual unions in the natural world, employing imagery from the world of animals and plants. The scene of the declaiming Clitophon (which belongs to the novel’s sophistic properties) is comparable to the love poet’s performance, which is intended for the ears of his puella. Clitophon’s way of courting Leucippe, who is able to appreciate his elegant speech, suggests him as a poet-lover addressing his cultivated girl; like the puellae of Roman elegy, Leucippe remains rather silent, but the speech is not without effect: Ταῦτα λέγων ἔβλεπον ἅμα τὴν κόρην, πῶς ἔχει πρὸς τὴν ἀκρόασιν τὴν ἐρωτικήν· ἡ δὲ ὑπεσήμαινεν οὐκ ἀηδῶς ἀκούειν ‘During this exposition, I was eyeing the girl to see how she reacted to hearing about desire. She seemed to be signalling that the experience was not without a certain pleasure’. (Ach.Tat. 1.19.1)

Clitophon’s rhetoric succeeds in arousing an erotic sentiment in Leucippe and functions as a first step towards her seduction, just as the elegiac poets’ verses are meant to contribute to the seduction of the puellae (cf. Ou., AA 1.462: Tam dabit eloquio victa puella manus ‘A woman will give her hand, won by eloquence’, Transl. A. S. Kline).8 But Clitophon is not constantly viewed as ruling the game. His eros for Leucippe is in fact presented as a form of enslavement to her: δοῦλος γέγονα κἀγώ ‘I too have been enslaved’ (Clitophon admits to his cousin Clinias that he has fallen in love and was thus made a slave of Eros, Ach.Tat. 1.7.3). σὸν ἔργον ἤδη δέσποινάν τε καλεῖν καὶ φιλῆσαι τράχηλον ‘Your next task is to call her your mistress and to kiss her neck’ (Clitophon’s servant, Satyrus, advises his master to adopt a slavish behaviour towards the woman he loves, Ach.Tat. 2.4.4). ‘Χαῖρε, ἔφην, δέσποινα.’ … ‘Καὶ μὴν πέπρακέ μέ τίς σοι θεῶν ὥσπερ καὶ τὸν Ἡρακλέα τῇ Ὀμφάλῃ’ ‘Greetings, mistress’, I said … ‘After all, a certain one of the gods has sold me into servitude to you, as Heracles was sold to Omphale’ (Clitophon, addressing Leucippe, compares his status of enslaved lover to that of Heracles during his period of servitude to the mythical queen Omphale, Ach.Tat. 2.6.1–2).

Servitium amoris, the poet’s feeling of subjugation to eros and to his puella, is a common motif of Augustan love elegy.9 Furthermore, Clitophon’s use of the term κόρη for Leucippe perhaps includes a hint at the elegiac puella (cf. Whitmarsh, 2020, p. 140), especially in contexts such as the beginning of book 2 (described immediately below). The most striking analogy between Leucippe and the type of 8. Note that Clitophon’s cousin, Clinias, had also recommended the route of persuasion, but, somewhat paradoxically, warned against erotic talk and recommended a mystically silent approach to the girl (Ach.Tat. 1.10); Clitophon seems rather to adopt an Ovidean stance here. 9. See James (2003, p. 111) for a collection of references to relevant loci.

Chapter 13. Achilles Tatius’ Leucippe as a puella docta

the puella docta is indeed found at the start of book 2, when Leucippe plays the harp and sings, while Clitophon (accompanied by his servant) listens: ἐπὶ τὸ δωμάτιον ἐβαδίζομεν τῆς κόρης, ἀκροασόμενοι δῆθεν τῶν κιθαρισμάτων ‘We strolled towards the girl’s room under the guise of wanting to listen to her lyre-playing’ (Ach.Tat. 2.1; cf. ἡ μὲν οὖν μετὰ μικρὸν ἀπιοῦσα ᾤχετο· τῆς γὰρ κιθάρας αὐτὴν ὁ καιρὸς ἐκάλει ‘After a short while, she set off to go, as it was time for her to play the lyre’, Ach.Tat. 1.19.2).

She initially picks a Homeric theme (the fight between the boar and the lion, from Hom. Il. 16.823), but then she sings about the beauty of a flower (the rose) and its association with Aphrodite and love. Her singing comes after the – apparently successful – rhetorical epideiksis of Clitophon, which, we may infer, has activated Leucippe’s puella docta qualities. A little later, we find Leucippe again at the harp: Ἔτυχε τῇ προτεραίᾳ ταύτης ἡμέρᾳ περὶ μεσημβρίαν ἡ παῖς ψάλλουσα κιθάρᾳ10 ‘It had happened that on the previous day at around midday the girl had been plucking her lyre’. (Ach.Tat. 2.7)

As mentioned earlier, musical skills are a basic property of the puella docta of Roman love elegy (see Hemelrijk 1999, p. 83 and p. 277 n. 113 for examples). Leucippe’s romantic song adds to her seductiveness, much as music and dance enhance the erotic appeal of the puella. Notably at Ach.Tat. 2.7 Leucippe cuts her music short after falling for a ruse devised by the hero, which leads to the two of them exchanging kisses. The scene involves Leucippe’s chanting of an incantation to help heal Clitophon’s pretended bee-sting on the mouth; she sings with her mouth close to his, and they eventually kiss. This incantation, with its erotic outcome, is reminiscent of allusions to the use of spells and magic in Roman love elegy for the purposes of love. For example, the poet is prepared to drink magic potions in order to win the favour of his puella (Tibul. 2.4.55–60); in another instance (Tibul. 1.5.41–42), a puella is accused of having bewitched her vir;11 the elegiac poet’s words are taken to have the power of incantations, and thus to be able to compel love (Ou. Am. 2.1.27–28; Prop. 3.3.49; see further Dickson 1927).

10. Cithara is a kind of lyra, the musical instrument associated with doctae puellae. Cf. its mention by Ovid in a couple of lines that seem to define the nature of the puella (Am. 2.11.31–32): tutius est fovisse torum, legisse libellos, / Threiciam digitis increpuisse lyram ‘The safer course was fondly to keep your couch, to read your books, to sound with your fingers the Thracian lyre’ (transl. G. Showerman [Loeb]). Ovid mentions both the lyra and the cithara without distinction. 11. But note that magical acts in Roman elegy are sometimes associated with a lena ‘procuress’, a negative character, with opposing features to that of the puella (e.g. Ou. Am. 1.8).

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Admittedly, Roman erotic elegy is not the only home of puellae doctae. Young, educated women also feature in other contexts. A good example is Plutarch’s depiction of the daughter of Metellus Scipio, who: καὶ γὰρ περὶ γράμματα καλῶς ἤσκητο καὶ περὶ λύραν καὶ γεωμετρίαν, καὶ λόγων φιλοσόφων εἴθιστο χρησίμως ἀκούειν ‘She was well versed in literature, in playing the lyre, and in geometry, and had been accustomed to listen to philosophical discourses with profit’. (Plu. Pomp. 55)

Statius’ praise of his step-daughter (Silu. 3.5.63–67), a girl that ‘surely deserves marriage’ for her charms and artistic traits, is along similar lines.12 Achilles Tatius’ context of frivolous love and courtship, however, in which Leucippe’s character is introduced and in which she unfolds her alluring traits, points rather to the type of educated girl that was poetically constructed and venerated by Ovid and his colleagues. And as the personality of the elegiac puella is gleaned from the verses of the poet, who holds the protagonistic part in his poems, so is Leucippe viewed through the eyes of the novel’s first-person narrator and protagonist, Clitophon. Leucippe’s questionable morals in the first two books of the novel further align her with the puellae of Roman love elegy. After the pair’s initially subtle flirtation that included Clitophon’s speech on eros at the end of book 1 and Leucippe’s own musical performance at the beginning of book 2, she and the hero exchange kisses (Ach.Tat. 2.7),13 and they flirt covertly over dinner (Ach.Tat. 2.9). Most strikingly, Leucippe gives in to Clitophon’s request to meet in her bedroom (Ach.Tat. 2.19), which the hero achieves by getting his servant Satyrus to drug a watchful guard (similarly a puella may escape attention to be with her poet by getting her guard drunk, e.g. Ou. Am. 1.4.51–52). It is only the unexpected intervention of Leucippe’s mother that prevents full sexual intercourse between her and the hero (Ach.Tat. 2.23–25). The bedroom is a frequent meeting place of the vir and puella of Roman elegy (see James, 2003, p. 133 and passim), but a very unexpected location for a romantic hero and heroine to be found together. Clearly Leu12. It seems that the ideal of the puella docta gradually became more acceptable in Roman upper-class society, as noted by Hemelrijk (1999, pp. 81–83). 13. Note the explicit description in Ach.Tat. 2.7.4–5: ἡ δὲ προσῆλθέ τε καὶ ἐνέθηκεν ὡς ἐπᾴσουσα τὸ στόμα, καί τι ἐψιθύριζεν, ἐξ ἐπιπολῆς ψαύουσά μου τῶν χειλέων. κἀγὼ κατεφίλουν σιωπῇ, κλέπτων τῶν φιλημάτων τὸν ψόφον, ἡ δὲ ἀνοίγουσα καὶ κλείουσα τῶν χειλέων τὴν συμβολὴν … κἀγὼ τότε ἤδη περιβαλὼν φανερῶς κατεφίλουν ‘She drew near and placed her mouth upon mine for the spell: she began to whisper something, brushing the surface of my lips. I in turn began to kiss silently, concealing the sound of the kisses, while she parted and joined her lips … And then I threw my arms around her and began to kiss her openly.’ On the importance of kisses in the interaction between the poet and his puella in Roman love elegy, see, e.g., James (2003, pp. 155–211 passim) for the poetry of Ovid.

Chapter 13. Achilles Tatius’ Leucippe as a puella docta

cippe and Clitophon do not fall in love in the pure and sentimental manner, in which other novelistic heroes and heroines do, but instead respond to a mutual erotic attraction; Clitophon experiences it first and manages to get Leucippe to reciprocate. For his part, Clitophon puts into action some of the erotic advice which he received from Clinias (Ach.Tat. 1.10)14 and especially Satyrus (Ach.Tat. 2.4), that he should express his love both with words and in a physical manner, thus treating Leucippe as an elegiac puella in his own version of ars amatoria. At the same time, by making herself both romantically and sexually available to the hero outside the conventional context of marriage, Leucippe becomes associated with the light-hearted erotics that mark the relationship between vir/amator and puella. The worlds of the Roman elegist and Achilles Tatius only overlap to an extent, and it is important not to ignore their differences. Both are concerned with erotic tribulations and the manners and challenges of erotic pursuit, but the love affairs of Roman elegy do not end in matrimony, like the love story of Achilles Tatius. Heroes of the Greek romantic novels get married to their beloved girls in the end (or are married to them from the start and become separated and then reunited at the end), while the elegiac lover’s pursuit typically does not find (or even seek) such closure (cf. Prop. 2.7, and see Konstan 1994, p. 159; but perhaps a sort of ‘elegiac’ unhappiness lurks in the lonely trip of Clitophon after his wedding, which is alluded to at the beginning of the novel and remains unexplained15). Furthermore, Achilles’ heroine does not operate exactly like the Roman poet’s puella. First, contrary to the puella’s often ambivalent and even harsh treatment of the vir,16 Leucippe is unequivocally won over by the novel’s hero (note her letter of devotion to Clitophon during hard times, even as she believes him to have abandonded her; Ach.Tat. 5.18.2–6). In fact, the puella’s favours are not exclusive to the poet, and she may circulate between two (or more) men, while the novelistic heroine is dedicated to one man, the novel’s hero.17 The novel’s hero, too, is devoted to the heroine (despite his passing infidelity18), unlike the elegiac poet who may eventually 14. On Clinias in the role of ‘teacher’ (praeceptor amoris), a role usually reserved for the poet in Latin love elegy, see already Wheeler (1910, pp. 446–447); see also De Temmerman, (2014, pp. 181–182), with bibliography. 15. On the problems surrounding the interpretation of the novel’s ending, see, extensively, Repath (2005). 16. On the puella’s occasional harshness and infidelity to the poet, see James, (2003, p. 24), with examples. 17. Note Leucippe’s emphatic rejection of other prospective lovers, even risking her very safety and survival (see esp. her dramatic proclamation at the end of book 6). 18. Clitophon’s sexual encounter with another woman (Melite, at the end of book 5) is not typical of a romantic hero.

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lose interest in a puella (e.g. Prop. 2.11.1–6). Second, as implied already, while the elegiac puella is fashioned as the poet’s lover or prospective lover, the romantic heroine is destined to become the hero’s wife (which is indeed what happens at the end of Achilles’ novel, 8.19). Third, Leucippe appreciates fine talk and – like the Roman puellae – is an expert in music, but the line is drawn on dancing (another talent of the typical puella, which is, however, often regarded as a form of corrupt behaviour, a manifestation of promiscuity19); Leucippe performs music but does not show any interest in dance. Finally, although she flouts social convention in book 2, she submits to it again later in the novel, when she informs Clitophon that Artemis has ordered her to remain chaste until marriage and refuses his new advances (Ach.Tat. 4.1). Leucippe is a novelistic puella docta attuned to the limitations in female characterization posed by generic requirements of the Greek romance. The fashioning of Leucippe as a puella docta sets her apart from other novelistic heroines and bestows her character with individuality;20 it also serves Achilles Tatius’ ironic and satirical stance against the romantic ideal of a novelistic heroine.21 His Leucippe, who is very musical and highly erotic, is a female character that, for part of the novel, interacts with her surroundings in ways more similar to those of hetaerae than to those of a Callirhoe (in Chariton) or an Anthia (in Xenophon Ephesius) or a Charicleia (in Heliodorus). Notably no other romantic heroine displays a comparably loose erotic behaviour, or similar taste in music. Heliodorus’ musically talented girl, Thisbe, who plays the flute and sings stylishly to the lyre (Hld. 2.8), is a slave girl and only a temporary substitute for Charicleia. Drawing inspiration from Roman love elegy, Achilles Tatius provided his heroine with a temporary façade that humorously mixes familiar traits of romantic heroines with those of the morally less rigid elegiac puella or courtesan. Even though Leucippe turns to a more conventional model of behaviour in the course of the novel’s plot, the scenes in which she poses as a puella docta leave the reader a lasting impression and influence significantly her overall characterization.

19. Hemelrijk, (1999, pp. 77–80), citing authors from the imperial period. 20. A brief reminder here that characterization in the romantic novels is a fraught issue. In his relevant monograph, De Temmerman (2014) argued for a mixed view of the characters of novelistic heroes and heroines as both ‘typified’ and ‘individuated’ in accordance with the idiosyncracies of each romantic novel’s plot – in my view, a sensible approach. 21. On Achilles Tatius’ satirical humour, see e.g. Chew (2000).

Chapter 13. Achilles Tatius’ Leucippe as a puella docta

Bibliography Brethes, R. (2007). De l’idéalisme au réalisme. Une étude du comique dans le roman grec (préf. [en anglais] de David Konstan). Salerno: Helios. Chew, K. (2000). Achilles Tatius and Parody. CJ, 96(1), 57–70. Christenson, D. (2000). Callinus and Militia Amoris in Achilles Tatius’ Leucippe and Cleitophon. CQ, 50(2), 631–632. De Temmerman, K. (2014). Crafting Characters: Heroes and Heroines in the Ancient Greek Novel. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Dickson, T. W. (1927). Magic: A Theme of Roman Elegy. The Sewanee Review, 35(4), 488–498. Gibson, R. K. (2003). Ovid, Ars Amatoria, Book 3. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hemelrijk, E. A. (1999). Matrona docta: Educated Women in the Roman Elite from Cornelia to Julia Domna. London / New York: Routledge. James, S. L. (2003). Learned Girls and Male Persuasion. Gender and Reading in Roman Love Elegy. Berkeley / L.A. / London: University of California Press. Jones, M. (2012). Playing the Man: Performing Masculinities in the Ancient Greek Novel. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Konstan, D. (1994). Sexual Symmetry: Love in the Ancient Novel and Related Genres. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Repath, I. (2005). Achilles Tatius’ Leucippe and Cleitophon: What Happened Next? CQ, 55(1), 250–265. Repath, I. (2013). Yours Truly? Letters in Achilles Tatius. In O. Hodkinson, P. A. Rosenmeyer, & E. Bracke (Eds.), Epistolary Narratives in Ancient Greek Literature (pp. 237–262). Leiden / Boston: Brill. Rohde, R. (1876). Der griechische Roman und seine Vorläufer. Leipsia. Veyne, P. (1983). L’ Élégie érotique romaine. L’ amour, la poésie et l’ Occident. Paris: Seuil. Wheeler, A. L. (1910). Erotic Teaching in the Roman Elegy and the Greek Sources. Part I. CPh, 5(4), 440–450. Whitmarsh, T. (2020). Achilles Tatius Leucippe and Clitophon Books I and II. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Whitmarsh, T. and Morales, H. (2001). Achilles Tatius, Leucippe and Clitophon. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

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Le collane di Charicleia Gioielli e identità nel romanzo greco-romano Ria Berg

Institutum Romanum Finlandiae

In questo articolo si esamina il ruolo dei gioielli, oggetti femminili par excellence, nei romanzi greco-romani. Ci si chiederà chi sono i personaggi distinti dall’uso di gioielli e, in conseguenza, quale sia il loro significato nella costruzione della loro identità. Si analizzerà, inoltre, se è possibile identificare archeologicamente le tipologie dei gioielli usati nelle narrative. Keywords: Greek jewelry, Roman jewelry, gems, Greek women, Greek novel, Greco-Roman adornment, amulets, gnorismata

Nel lunghissimo arco temporale che passa dai secoli in cui si ambientano la maggior parte dei romanzi, V-IV sec. a.C., e i secoli della scrittura dei romanzi integralmente conservati, da Chaereas e Callirhoe di Charitone in epoca tardoellenistica agli Aetiopiaca di Eliodoro nel IV sec. d.C., anche la moda dei gioielli cambiava radicalmente. Il mondo classico ed ellenistico preferiva il gioiello figurativo in oro, che si esaltava nei dettagli ottenuti usando granulazione e filigrana, con minuziosa attenzione all’arte dell’orafo, creando elementi figurativi nelle collane e negli orecchini a forma di piccole statuette di Amorini, Nikai, anforette e colombe. Spesso l’ispirazione degli elementi era naturalistica: le collane erano composte da elementi floreali e vegetali (fiori, boccioli di loto, melograni, ghiande), intrecciati come delle preziosissime ghirlande.1 Nell’epoca tardoellenistica, invece, l’attenzione cominciava a focalizzarsi sempre di più, non tanto sull’esecuzione magistrale dell’orafo, ma sugli stessi materiali di cui erano composti i gioielli. Dopo Alessandro Magno, le pietre preziose esotiche – ametiste e smeraldi dall’Etiopia, granati, sardoniche e agate dall’India, perle dal Mar Rosso – circolavano con più facilità nel commercio ellenistico globalizzato, e occupavano un posto sempre più vistoso nei gioielli, inserite negli elaborati castoni di oro di 1. Per le forme dei gioielli greci di età classica ed ellenistica, vedi De Juliis 1984; Higgins 1980; per il loro uso, vedi Lee (2015, pp. 140–152). https://doi.org/10.1075/ivitra.40.14ber © 2024 John Benjamins Publishing Company

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collane, orecchini, anelli e braccialetti (Higgins, 1980, pp. 36–39; Schörle, 2015). Arrivando all’Impero Romano, la preferenza estetica andava poi nettamente verso la forma non figurativa, dove ci si dilettava nella visione delle superfici massicce e lisce delle pietre preziose, spesso solamente forate e, lucidate, talvolta lasciate nella forma naturale, creando il massimo effetto di peso, lucentezza e colore.2 All’orafo rimaneva solo il compito di creare semplici elementi di giuntura, cornice e catena tra gli elementi, a volte a forma di stilizzate pelte amazzoniche, o nodi di Ercole, pur mantenendo sempre alcuni elementi figurativi apotropaici (Figure 1). È proprio questo gusto per le pietre colorate che al meglio si trova descritto nel mondo dei romanzi.

Figure 1. Collane d’età romana imperiale al British Museum, da Marshall 1911, tav. LXI: (1) Collana di ametiste incastonate in oro, tra esse elementi di oro a forma di pelta, III sec. d.C., cat. 2749 (2) Collana con zaffiro centrale a granati laterali incastonati in oro, e un pendente a forma di farfalla, composta dalle stesse gemme, I-II sec d.C., cat. 2746. (3) Catena d’oro con pendente centrale ‘ad occhio’ di sardonica, a strati alterni chiari e scuri, III sec. d.C., cat. 2745. (4–5) Catene d’oro con la ruota della Fortuna come amuleto

In genere, lo sguardo degli scrittori dei romanzi sui gioielli è piuttosto sfocato, disinteressato all’esatto tipo dell’ornamento, così che nella maggioranza dei casi si usano semplicemente espressioni molto generiche, quali “ori e argenti”, “ori e collane”. Questo sguardo comincia però a mettersi a fuoco nei romanzi più tardi, in

2. Per i gioielli romani, vedi d’Ambrosio & De Carolis 1997; d’Ambrosio et al. 2008.

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particolare a riguardo delle gemme. Anche se sono poche le descrizioni lunghe dei gioielli a mo’ di ekphrasis, è evidente che i gioielli in essi descritti sono quelli del mondo tardoimperiale, che lo scrittore si diletta maggiormente a far visualizzare sottolineandone la tonalità dei colori e la lucentezza delle variegate pietre preziose. Nella mente dei narratori ci sono quindi i gioielli a loro contemporanei, piuttosto che quelli classici dell’epoca della narrazione, che sicuramente avrebbero dato esito a descrizioni dei loro soggetti figurativi rappresentati in oro, piuttosto che dei loro materiali. L’esempio migliore di queste tendenze sono gli Aethiopiaca di Eliodoro, scelti come punto di partenza di questo articolo, in quanto la trama del romanzo si intreccia profondamente con i gioielli. È allora opportuno dare almeno un sunto molto veloce dei suoi avvenimenti rocamboleschi, anche perché molti di essi sono topici e condivisi con le altre opere del genere letterario. Il romanzo tratta la storia della principessa etiope Charicleia, nata bianca da due genitori dalla pelle scura in quanto la madre, all’atto del concepimento aveva guardato intensamente un quadro di Andromeda dalla pelle bianchissima. La bambina viene allora per questo abbandonata, ma con un corredo di gioielli di riconoscimento, i.e. gnorismata. È allevata da pastori, e all’età di sette anni adottata dal sacerdote di Apollo, Charicle, che la porta a Delfi. Qua, divenuta giovane donna, viene riconosciuta grazie appunto al suo corredo di ornamenti dal prete Isiaco Calasiris, che le organizza un viaggio di ritorno verso la natia Etiopia, insieme al fidanzato Theagenes. Vengono, però, dirottati in mare, catturati dai briganti egiziani attratti dagli ori e dalla bellezza di Charicleia, finiscono poi nelle mani del mercante greco Nausicle, sono imprigionati dalla regina Arsace a Memfi, e solo dopo lunghe avventure raggiungono l’Etiopia, con finale riconoscimento tramite i gioielli, lo sposalizio e il lieto fine.

Gnorismata: I gioielli come segni di identità e identificazione Un consistente topos nel mondo del romanzo greco sono gli gnorismata, ossia i gioielli deposti vicino ai protagonisti abbandonati alla nascita, centrali anche nella narrativa degli Aethiopiaca.3 Sono questi ornamenti il certificato d’identità che ne permettono poi alla fine il riconoscimento e la ricongiunzione familiare. Le due scene, l’iniziale ritrovamento dell’infante con i suoi gioielli, e, alla fine, il ricono-

3. Per il tema dei gnorismata, vedi Russo & Stroppa 2014.

Chapter 14. Le collane di Charicleia

scimento del figlio/figlia smarrito/a, ora bene accetto/a dai genitori, sono talvolta dei momenti clou anche della narrativa della Nuova Commedia.4 Nel romanzo pastorale Dafni e Chloe5 gli gnorismata sono lasciati, in modo parallelo, a tutti e due i protagonisti. Chloe viene abbandonata in una grotta delle Ninfe con una cinta riccamente intessuta d’oro (μίτρα διάχρυσος), sandali (ὑπόδημα) e cavigliere d’oro (περισκελίδες χρυσαῖ). Un contadino la trova, capisce da questi segni le sue origini nobiliari, raccoglie la bambina e la custodisce, tenendo i suoi gioielli nascosti (Longus 1.5). Dafni bambino, invece, viene abbandonato con un mantellino purpureo con fibula d’oro (πόρπη χρυσῆ) e un coltello di avorio (Longus 1.2). Il cerchio si chiude nei capitoli finali, dove tutti e due vengono gioiosamente riconosciuti dai rispettivi genitori, per primo Dafni (Longus 4.21) e poì Chloe, dopo un sogno premonitorio in cui Cupido stesso invoca di mostrare gli gnorismata aurei agli invitati di una festa, tra cui ci sono i genitori della ragazza (Longus 4.34–35). È da notare, in particolare, la scelta del tipo di ornamenti di Chloe, ossia sandali e cavigliere. Questi non sono accessori tipici di una donna di rango, in quanto i loro piedi dovevano rimanere piuttosto nascosti che al centro dell’attenzione. Le cavigliere erano gioielli dalla forte carica erotica, spesso associati con etere, e ben si adattano alla natura amorosa della storia, essendo la figura di Chloe, non così strettamente verginale come quella di Charicleia (Berg, 2020). Il tema degli gnorismata è centrale nella trama degli Aethiopiaca, dove Charicleia viene abbandonata munita (almeno) di due anelli gemmati, di una preziosa cintura, di collane composte di gemme provenienti dall’India e dall’Etiopia e di alcuni bracciali (Heliod. 8.11.8) (Jones, 2005, p. 91). Nel corso della storia, il corredo di gioielli viene rivelato e descritto al lettore solo un pezzo alla volta, ognuno in un separato momento apicale della storia, mai nella sua integrità. Quando, a sette anni, la bambina custodita dall’etiope Sisimitres viene ceduta con i suoi gioielli ad un sacerdote delfico greco, Charicle, viene descritto il pezzo più vistoso del corredo, la collana gemmata, come certificato della sua nascita nobiliare (Jones, 2005, p. 86; Rush, 2012, pp. 139–140), 4. Jones (2005, p. 91). Russo & Stroppa 2014. Inoltre si ricordino i tre amuleti in pietre preziose in Menandro, L’arbitrato vv. 384–386, e una piccola spada d’oro e una piccola ascia bipenne ugualmente d’oro con su probabilmente scritti i nomi dei genitori e del bambino (ensiculust aureolus e una sericula ancipes itidem aurea, litterata), in Plauto, Rud. 1158. Nella commedia La Tosata di Menandro, vv. 768–772, inoltre, si tratta di due gemelli abbandonati con un tessuto ricamato d’oro, collana e gioiello gemmato, vv. 820–823: mantellina, e due fasce ricamate d’oro, denominate mitra e zone. 5. Il romanzo pastorale degli amori di Dafni e Chloe di Longo Sofista, datato al III sec. d.C., narra la storia d’amore di due giovani cresciuti come pastori, che si svolge integralmente nelle campagne di Mitilene sull’isola di Lesbo.

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Allora tirò fuori una piccola borsa che portava sotto l’ascella e mi fece vedere una splendida collezione di pietre preziose: c’erano in fatti perle (μαργαρίδες) della grossezza di una nocciola, perfettamente rotonde, di un candore e di una luminosità eccezionali; smeraldi (σμάραγδοί) e ‘giacinti’ (ὑάκινϑοι) – gli uni di color verde tenero come il grano in primavera, lisci e lucenti come gocce d’olio d’oliva, gli altri del colore cha ha l’acqua del mare vicino alla riva, ai piedi di uno scosceso dirupo, quando si increspa lievemente in superficie ed assume in profondità un colore violaceo. In breve, era tutto uno scintillio di vari colori che si mescolavano, uno scintillio che rallegrava la vista. (Heliod. 2.30.3: trad. A. Colonna)

Sisimitres rivela a Charicle, che adotta la bambina, come questa collana di pietre preziose (λῐθων όρμος), smeraldi verdi e ‘giacinti’ (probabilmente corindoni) viola, gemme entrambe prodotte dalle miniere dell’Etiopia, insieme a una cintura istoriata con geroglifici etiopi, fossero stati lasciati come gnorismata alla bambina.6 Nel V libro la narrativa si sofferma a descrivere un altro gioiello appartenente agli gnorismata di Charicleia: l’anello con ametista incisa. Quando la fanciulla viene imprigionata da un mercante greco, Nausicles, in Egitto, l’unico modo di liberarla da parte del custode della fanciulla, il sacerdote egiziano Calasiris, è il pagamento a mezzo di uno dei suoi gioielli più preziosi. In tale riscatto la protagonista viene scambiata per il valore di un gioiello preziosissimo ed unico, e ciò funge da salvataggio da deus ex machina. Calasiris prende l’anello dalla riserva dei suoi gioielli reali, facendo credere che esca magicamente dalle ceneri dell’altare durante il sacrificio a Mercurio, per non far insospettire Nausicles (Heliod. Aet. 5.13.2–4):7 6. L’Etiopia era famosa per le miniere di oro e di smeraldi, nome con cui venivano chiamate una serie di pietre dure, in particolare berilli, di color verde. Vedi Hilton (2016). Plinio mette il giacinto al terzo posto tra le gemme preziose (nat. 37.16): nullus namque color oculis æque placuit). Hyacinthus come nome poteva riferirsi a una serie di minerali diversi, zaffiro/corindone azzurro o topazio/zircone giallo arancio, vedi Devoto & Molayem (1990, p. 78). Plinio narra che anche questa gemma proveniva dall’Etiopia, e confronta il suo colore e l’effetto agli occhi dei “giacinti” e delle ametiste (nat. 37.41.125–126): Multum ab hac distat hyacinthos, ab vicino tamen colore descendens. differentia haec est, quod ille emicans in amethysto fulgor violacens diluitur hyacintho primoque aspectu gratus evanescit, antequam satiet, adeoque non inplet oculos, ut paene non attingat, marcescens celerius nominis sui flore. Hyacinthos Aethiopia mittit et chrysolithos aureo fulgore tralucentes. Le perle provenivano invece dal golfo persico, vedi Laplace (1992, pp. 192–193), Lefteratou (2019). Lefteratou (2019, p. 8) osserva come il greco Charicle veda nelle gemme proprio i colori della sua terra, la Grecia, il verde degli olivi e il blu rossastro del mare, ma secondo lei viene evitata in questo contesto la descrizione della pietra incastonata sull’anello, pantarbe con geroglifici, perché per lui troppo straniera. 7. Dubel (1990, pp. 107–109); Laplace (1996); Farnoux (2001, p. 222); Rush (2012, pp. 88–96); Whitmarsh (2002, pp. 113–114); Jones (2005, p. 86, n. 39); Lefteratou (2019, pp. 9–10).

Chapter 14. Le collane di Charicleia

Parlando, premeva nella mano di Nausicles uno degli anelli reali. L’anello era una perfetta meraviglia, da suscitare ammirazione. Il cerchio era di ambra, e nel castone c’era un’ametista etiope, dalla misura dell’occhio di una fanciulla, molto più bella delle pietre provenienti dalla Spagna o dalla Britannia; perché queste ultime hanno una debole brillantezza rossastra, come una rosa che sta solo aprendo il suo bocciolo e comincia appena a rosseggiare con i primi raggi del sole. Intanto l’ametista etiope emana un bagliore più profondo e scintillante; se la giri, emette raggi in tutte le direzioni, che non accecano, ma illuminano la vista. Hanno anche una virtù molto più grande di quelle occidentali e, non venendo meno al loro nome veramente tengono il loro portatore sobrio anche in mezzo a tanti eccessi. Questa proprietà accomuna tutte le pietre indiane ed etiopi: eppure quella che Calasiris ora dava a Nausicles, era ad esse ancora molto superiore. (trad. A. Colonna)

Segue una lunga narrazione del soggetto inciso sull’ametista, a tema bucolico, raffigurante un pastore con il suo gregge di pecore. La descrizione della gemma è stata analizzata profondamente come ekphrasis, dove si nota un’allusione-cameo quale omaggio all’idillio pastorale e all’antecedente storia amorosa narrata di Dafni e Chloe (Bartsch 1989, pp. 149–150; Rush 2012, p. 91). È da notare il motivo dell’occhio, che guarda ed è guardato: la gemma è paragonata all’”occhio di una fanciulla”, e il suo effetto luminoso ristora la vista di chi lo guarda.8 La forma dell’anello, un grosso castone di ametista con ambra nel cerchio (κύκλον ἠλέκτρῳ διάδετον), appare tipologicamente alquanto insolita. Il passo si presta a due interpretazioni: o il cerchio d’oro è incastonato intorno con inserti di ambra, oppure è lo stesso cerchio ad essere scolpito di ambra. Per la prima soluzione è difficile trovare paragoni materiali: anche se nel III-IV secolo d.C. appare il tipo di anello con piccole gemme tutto intorno, queste non hanno un castone centrale (Higgins 1980, p. 184). Per la seconda opzione si trovano invece vari confronti. Cominciando dal periodo tardo-ellenistico si conoscono gioielli scolpiti integralmente in pietre preziose,9 e nel II-III secolo d.C. appaiono gli anelli scolpiti in ambra, particolarmente diffusi nel nord-Italia e nell’area del Limes. Alcuni hanno anche un castone vuoto per l’inserimento di una gemma (Figure 2).10 Spesso non sono intesi per essere indossati al dito, in quanto il foro è troppo piccolo, ma evidentemente erano appesi come amuleti. Plinio annota che mentre l’ametista era creduta mantenere la sobrietà, l’ambra come amuleto – usata solo dalle donne e bambini – preservava, tra l’altro, il portatore dai deliri e dalla 8. Per il motivo magico dell’occhio e malocchio, vedi Jones (2005, p. 86 e infra). 9. Vedi, per esempio, Alexander (1928, p. 54), fig. 121: un anello tutto scolpito in cristallo di rocca, incluso un castone ovale, databile al II-I sec. a.C. 10. Per tale categoria di anelli, vedi in particolare Gagetti (2000, pp 270–232, cat. 15–19) che cataloga gli esemplari del Museo di Udine.

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febbre.11 L’anello descritto da Eliodoro, che combina l’ambra, proveniente dalle zone iperboree, e l’ametista etiope, era, quindi, un oggetto ostentatamente di lusso esotico, ma anche un amuleto fortemente protettivo. Da una parte, la sua preziosità comprovava le nobili origini della fanciulla, dall’altra, costituiva un paragone per lei stessa, come un raro gioiello che univa in sé elementi dal nord e dal sud.12

Figure 2. Anelli scolpiti in ambra II-III sec. d.C., Museo di Udine, Italia. Foto: Wikimedia Commons/ Giovanni Dall’Orto

Gioielli come pericolo e salvezza In generale, il ruolo dei gioielli nella trama dei romanzi è cruciale, tale da poterli definire come veri e propri protagonisti delle storie. Sono spesso essi stessi che mettono in moto lo svolgimento degli eventi, scatenando impulsi di desiderio di possesso e avarizia, e, dall’altro canto, come già accennato sopra, provvedendo a salvataggi miracolosi come gnorismata, riscatti monetari e amuleti. 11. Per l’ambra, Plin. HN 37.11–12. Vedi anche Lefteratou (2019, pp. 9–10). 12. Nel mondo mediterraneo antico, gli ingredienti del lusso femminile venivano considerati distanti e barbarici – venuti da Etiopia, India, Cina, Lidia, Arabia – ma l’arte di abbellirsi, le sue tecniche e i prodotti finali, veniva associati con la cultura greca, vedi Berg (2017).

Chapter 14. Le collane di Charicleia

Tra gli eventi-tipo causati dagli ori sono i pericoli durante la navigazione. Nel Clitophonte e Leucippe di Achille Tazio,13 nella scena della tempesta, gli ori e gli argenti, semplicemente per il loro peso, vengono così gettati in mare dalla nave (3.2.9). Tra i più frequenti topoi e svolte narrative, poi, quello che vede le navi con passeggeri attaccate per essere depredate degli ori in esse trasportati. Ad esempio, negli Aethiopiaca, la nave di Charicleia e Theagenes viene dirottata dai marinai che vogliono impossessarsi delle sue ricchezze, oro, argento, gemme e seta (χρυσοῠ, ἀργρύυ, λίθων πολυτίμων), (1.3); la nave del co-protagonista, l’ateniese Cnemon, è attaccata e catturata dai pirati alla ricerca dell’oro; inoltre, Charicleia inventa una storia da raccontare ai briganti, fingendo che lei e Theagenes sarebbero fratello e sorella partiti da Efeso, con un carico di ori e argenti sulla nave, attaccati dai marinai (1.22). Non solo sul mare, ori e argenti attraggono continui pericoli anche sulla terraferma. Negli stessi Aetiopiaca, la nave di Charicleia e Theagenes, una volta naufragata sulla riva egiziana, viene attaccata non da uno, ma da due bande rivali di briganti che rubano tali beni, insieme ai protagonisti. Charicleia e il fidanzato vengono poi rinchiusi dai banditi nella labirintica caverna, dove custodiscono il loro enorme tesoro di “ori, argenti, e oggetti preziosi”, per tenerli imprigionati durante un combattimento (2.17; 2.28). Quando fuggono dalla caverna, prendono con loro dal tesoro solo i propri gioielli gnorismata, tra cui la collana gemmata, e la corona sacerdotale portata da Delfi (probabilmente di foglie d’oro), considerando le altre ricchezze rubate come nefaste. Quest’ultimo episodio è una variante di un altro topos connesso ai pericoli causati dall’oro: la finta morte dell’eroina, il Scheintod, e la sua tumulazione con ricchi gioielli paragonabili a quelli della sposa, e successivo scasso della tomba e furto dei preziosi da parte dei ladri che la scoprono viva. Questo succede negli Ephesiaca,14 quando Anthia, creduta morta, viene sepolta con molti ori e argenti 13. Il romanzo di Achille Tazio, probabilmente databile alla fine del II sec. d.C., narra le vicende di due giovani di tal nome che si innamorano, ma l’amore è ostacolato dal padre di lui che gli propone invece come sposa Calligone, poi rapita da pirati. I due innamorati fuggono per mare, fanno naufragio e sono catturati da briganti, da cui riescono a scappare, ma Leucippe viene imprigionata da pirati e creduta morta, mentre Clitofonte sposa ad Efeso una vedova, Melite – proprio la donna cui Leucippe aveva fatto da serva come schiava. Quando il marito della vedova, in realtà non morto, torna, la vicenda si conclude tramite processi legali e sacrali che provano che tutti e due i fidanzati sono sempre rimasti casti, e si possono alla fine sposare. 14. Nel romanzo degli amori di Habrocomes ed Anthia di Senofonte Efesio, datato al I-II sec. d.C., narra la storia dei due amanti, che si sposano ad Efeso. Egli ha disprezzato e fatto adirare il dio Eros, e ricevono un nefasto oracolo, nonostante il quale partono per un viaggio e vengono catturati dai pirati e venduti in schiavitù, e subiscono separatamente varie disavventure in Egitto e Italia, rimanendo sempre fedeli uno all’altro fino al lieto fine.

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(3.8), attraendo così l’attenzione dei ladri, che rubano gli ori e la portano in schiavitù in Alessandria. Questo avviene anche alla bellissima Callirhoe, di cui narra Charitone d’Afrodisia,15 che dopo un calcio del marito geloso viene creduta morta e sepolta in pompa magna su un letto d’oro, accompagnata dall’oro della dote, da argento, da vestiti, e da gioielli, doni del padre, del marito e dei cittadini (1.6.2–4). Quando Callirhoe si sveglia, muovendosi, sente nel buio il tintinnio dei gioielli d’oro e d’argento (1.8.3). La tomba viene forzata da pirati guidati da Terone, attratti proprio dalla visione di tanto oro e argento nel corteo funebre (1.9); portano il tutto sulla loro nave insieme alla giovane donna. Callirhoe (1.13.11) viene venduta a un potente di Mileto, Dionisio, e le viene concesso di prendere con sé qualcosa dagli ori che erano stati con lei seppelliti: disdegna tutti i gioielli funebri che considera nefasti, e prende con sé solo il suo anello col ritratto del marito Cherea. Callirhoe contempla il ritratto dell’amato, scolpito dentro la gemma incastonata, presumibilmente sull’anello di fidanzamento, e piange. L’anello gemmato, come abbiamo visto, poteva richiamava all’antico spettatore la forma di un occhio incastonato in oro, con la gemma come pupilla, offrendo così qua un potente immagine dell’occhio innamorato che vede solo l’oggetto del suo desiderio, emblematico dell’ethos dei romanzi. Ai pirati, infatti, il resto degli ori porta sfortuna, in quanto trovano morte in una tempesta in mare, tranne Terone che viene soccorso e portato a Siracusa. Lì, la madre di Callirhoe, poi (3.3.4), riconosce gli ori rubati dalla tomba della figlia, e può partire l’operazione per il suo salvataggio. I gioielli sono, quindi, una continua causa di pericoli e sfortune, ma nello stesso tempo, sono anche spesso la stessa chiave della salvezza. Anche nelle Etiopiche durante tutte le avventure, l’etiope Chariclea riesce sempre a preservare i suoi gioielli di riconoscimento, che porta talvolta in un sacchetto, mettendoli sotto stracci di poco valore, talvolta legati di nascosto sul corpo sotto i vestiti. La stessa spiega che serviranno o per la sua sussistenza se cadesse in povertà, o, se dovesse morire, saranno i suoi ornamenti funebri (8.11.9–10). Tra gli gnorismata, la lunga cinta di tessuto (ταινία) con le scritte etiopi fabbricata dalla madre, la regina Persinna, viene sempre portata dalla ragazza legata intorno a sé. Meriel Jones ha ipotizzato che tale uso della cinta potrebbe anch’esso riferirsi al kestos 15. Il libro Τὰ περὶ Χαιρέαν καὶ Καλλιρόην sulle avventure di Cherea e Callirhoe di Charitone di Afrodisia è databile al I sec. d.C. Narra la vicenda della figlia del tiranno di Siracusa e del suo amato, che si sposano all’inizio della vicenda. Cherea colpisce Callirhoe facendole perdere i sensi, cosa che la fa credere morta. Ella torna in sé solo nella tomba, che viene di lì a poco saccheggiata dai pirati, che la vendono come schiava a Mileto. Il marito, cercandola, capita a Babilonia, dove poi si reca anche Callirhoe; là diventa capo di una banda egiziana di guerriglia, che rapisce Callirhoe, e i due tornano a Siracusa per un lieto fine. Per la figura di Callirhoe, vedi oltre, Egger (1994) e Lalanne (2018, p. 98).

Chapter 14. Le collane di Charicleia

himas, la magica cinta di Afrodite, ed essere inteso come un amuleto protettivo portato nascosto sotto i vestiti (Jones, 2005, pp. 91–92). Di fatti, la cintura, segnata con caratteri geroglifici, viene fatta decifrare dal padre adottivo Charicle a Delfi, che sospetta contenesse un incantesimo che mantiene la ragazza troppo casta ed avversa al matrimonio. In realtà, la fascia contiene la storia della sua nascita, e nel testo vengono anche lodati onore, virtù e modestia come ornamenti degni di una regina intesa forse come effettivo incantesimo per promuovere tali virtù, e salvare la ragazza da tanti pericoli e tentazioni alla sua castità. Prima della fine della avventura, nel settimo libro, Charicleia e Theagenes devono ancora affrontare a Memfi la perfida e lussuriosa regina Arsace, che viene descritta addobbata con diadema e collana scintillanti di oro e gemme preziose (7.19). Arsace si reca al tempio di Iside (7.8), in apparenza per regalare catene d’oro e gemme alla dea, ma in realtà per vedere Theagenes per cui nutre un desiderio adulterino. Una volta catturato e ridotto in servitù della regina, Theagenes deve servirla a tavola indossando anche lui (e suo malgrado) braccialetti d’oro e collane saldate con pietre preziose (7.27). L’uso vizioso delle gemme echeggia qua chiaramente le consuete tendenze anti-ornamento della retorica romana. Essa, da sempre avversa ai gioielli, li vedeva come simboli dello sfrenato lusso straniero, come strumenti di adulterio, e, per un maschio, emblemi di sottomissione ed effeminatezza.16 Per disfarsi di Charicleia, la regina Arsace cerca di bruciarla sul rogo a Memfi, ma da questo pericolo lei viene salvata, a sua volta, da un altro gioiello (8.11.4–9). Questo gioiello salvifico è l’ultimo degli gnorismata di Charicleia, l’enigmatica pietra pantarbe, incastonata nell’anello di fidanzamento dei suoi genitori (4.8.7, 4.11.2). La gemma, il cui nome significa “tutta-paura”, viene così da lei descritta (8.11.8–9): “incisa con caratteri sacri, è piena, come sembra, delle virtù potenti e occulte, le quali, come penso, hanno dotata la pietra del potere di repellere il fuoco e preservare dal fuoco chi la indossa”. Ella, indossandola di nascosto sotto i vestiti, rimane di fatto miracolosamente illesa (Lefteratou, 2019, pp. 15–16). Eliodoro non dà una descrizione più precisa del gioiello, e non menziona nemmeno il colore della gemma; l’esatta qualità della pietra rimane quindi materia di ipotesi. Tra i pochi altri passi antichi che menzionano la pietra prodigiosa detta pantarbe, c’è la descrizione di Philostratus, secondo la quale proveniva dall’India, aveva qualità magnetiche, e, invece di proteggere dal fuoco, poteva attirare a sé le altre pietre sottacqua.17 Gli alchimisti delle epoche successive consideravano il pantarbe una pietra capace di attrarre magneticamente l’oro – qualità data da Plinio a una pietra chiamata amphitane o chrysocolla (Plin. HN 37.147, 16. Per la retorica anti-ornamento, vedi Berg (2002); Olson (2008, pp. 80–95). 17. Lefteratou (2019, p. 16). Philostr., VA 3.46–47.

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Vitellozzi, 2018, p. 183). Anna Lefteratou suppone che il colore della pietra sia stato probabilmente rosso per assonanza con il fuoco, e nota che tra le pietre preziose greco-romane, quella chiamata ἄνϑραξ o carbunculus, ossia granato rosso, con leggere proprietà magnetiche, era ritenuta particolarmente resistente al fuoco (Lefteratou, 2019, p. 17). La studiosa ipotizza, in conseguenza, che il pantarbe di Eliodoro potrebbe essere o granato, o la pietra rossa ancora più dura e resistente, il rubino, dalle origini indiane e, seppur molto raramente, trovato anche in Egitto tra i reperti archeologici dell’epoca (Lefteratou 2019, pp. 18–19). Considererei come un’altra possibilità la magnetite, una pietra magnetica scura utilizzata per incantesimi amorosi.18 Su questa pietra sono spesso incisi i simboli di Helios (divinità a cui era devoto, secondo Eliodoro, il re di Etiopia), ed era considerata una pietra solare (Figure 3).19

Figure 3. Gemma magica in magnetite, con raffigurazione di Helios e Selene che si abbracciano, e testo AEHIOΥΩ ΩΥOIHEA. Mastrocinque 2003, 330, cat. 284

L’effetto benefico dei gioielli nei romanzi, è, in effetti, spesso legato alla loro potenza protettiva magica ed amuletica. L’oro stesso è simbolo di eternità, di divinità solari, ed è materiale fortemente associato a Venere. Le gemme verdi, i cosid18. Per esempio, la gemma magica in magnetite, nel Museo nazionale dell’Umbria, che raffigura l’incantesimo amoroso della c.d. “spada di Dardanos”: raffigurando da una parte Eros e Psyche, dall’altra Afrodite che vola su Psyche tormentata, sotto, dalla torcia di Eros, vedi Vitellozzi (2018, p. 183, fig. 3). 19. Plin. HN 37.10.54. Per esempio, William Gilbert, De Magnete, Magnetisque Corporoibus, et de Magno Magnete Tellure, London 1600, 2.38.

Chapter 14. Le collane di Charicleia

detti smeraldi, simboli di vitalità e crescita, erano le preferite durante i primi due secoli della nostra era. Nel terzo e quarto secolo d.C. vincevano invece in popolarità le pietre rosse e viola quali ametista, granata, corniola ed ematite. Quest’ultima, color sangue, era spesso utilizzata per pietre incise con simboli talismanici, in particolare quelle uterine a protezione delle nascite.20 I paragoni delle gemme con gli occhi rivelano che fossero visti anche come apotropaia contro il malocchio. Il ruolo di catalizzatore assunto dai gioielli nella narrativa dei romanzi crea complicazioni fino agli ultimi due capitoli della storia di Charicleia e Theagenes, dove devono ancora affrontare pericoli causati dall’oro e dalle gemme: vengono imprigionati in una guerra combattuta tra Egitto ed Etiopia per il possesso delle miniere di smeraldi (Heliod. 9.2), e messi in catene d’oro, simboliche della favolosa ricchezza dell’Etiopia (Hilton, 2016). La soluzione finale si ha solo quando la regina Persinna riconosce i gioielli della figlia – i braccialetti, la collana, la cinta e in particolare il suo proprio anello di fidanzamento, il pantarbe – e loro si possono finalmente unire in sposalizio e ricongiungersi alla famiglia reale etiope (Heliod. 10.13–14).

La sposa bellissima, ma senza gioielli Nell’arco della vita femminile nel mondo greco, il ruolo più centrale e vistoso dei gioielli era quello di adornare la sposa nel giorno di matrimonio, l’evento culminante anche nei romanzi. Le korai arcaiche ingioiellate possono, secondo alcune ipotesi, rappresentare delle spose.21 Un’infinità di scene di vestizione nuziale nel gineceo compaiono sui vasi ellenistici a figure rosse, illustrando come tale processo donasse per la prima volta alla sposa le “armi di Afrodite”, gioielli, profumi, belletti, che la rendevano irresistibile e desiderabile agli occhi dello sposo (Oakley & Sinos 1993, pp. 38, 44, 46). Questo ci porta ad osservare un curioso paradosso: nei romanzi le scene dove si descrivono maggiormente i gioielli non coincidono mai invece con l’apice della trama, ossia l’unione della coppia amorosa nelle nozze. Non appaiono, cioè, paragonabili “scene di vestizione della sposa” in forma

20. A proposito delle ametiste Plinio (HN 37.40.124) dichiara: «I Magi impostori assicurano che le ametiste tengono lontano l’ebrezza e che da ciò derivano il loro nome, e che inoltre a incidervi sopra il nome della luna e del sole e ad appenderle poi al collo con peli di cinocefalo e piume di rondine tengono lontani i malefici; e ancora che, in qualunque modo siano usate, assistono le persone che devono rivolgersi a un re», Plin. HN 37.40.124. 21. Per la questione, vedi Stieber (2010, pp. 136–137).

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letteraria. La bellissima protagonista non viene descritta addobbata con dei gioielli, ma solo splendente del suo fascino naturale. In Dafni e Chloe di Longus, questa tendenza prende spunto anche dall’ambientazione rustica e pastorale della storia: gli amanti si adornano a vicenda solo con delle ghirlande di lillà (Longus 1.15, 3.20, 3.22). Le loro nozze sono, linearmente, celebrate in modo rustico, senza ori e ornamenti (4.37). Negli Aethiopiaca, ugualmente i gioielli non vengono mai descritti addosso alla eroina Charicleia, la cui bellezza naturale attira su di lei ovunque si trovi gli sguardi di tutti gli uomini, facendoli innamorare (2.33.3).22 Anche se però ella porta sempre con sé i suoi gioielli reali di riconoscimento, non li indossa tuttavia neppure una volta nell’arco della storia. Nel IV libro il padre adottivo Charicle viene istruito ad invogliare la figlia a sposarsi, regalandole qualche “ricco gioiello, una collana di valore”, come se venissero dallo sposo: “Qual donna può sottrarsi al magico fascino (ἴυγγα) dell’oro e delle gemme?”23 Le regala, in effetti, una delle sue proprie collane etiopi, eppure lei resiste. Nelle descrizioni salienti della sua bellezza, Charicleia indossa solo ornamenti semplicissimi, come all’inizio del primo capitolo una corona di alloro, o nelle sue nozze alla fine del romanzo, un copricapo sacerdotale bianca (mitra). Le stesse tendenze sono osservabili anche negli Ephesiaca di Senofonte Efesio.24 Nel primo capitolo, Anthia appare naturalmente bellissima, come la prima fanciulla nella processione in onore di Diana (X. Eph. 1.2.5–7), con capelli dorati sciolti, occhi severi, vestita di porpora, con gli attributi della dea, ma senza gioielli (Breton Connelly, 2007, pp. 85–86). Nell’arco della storia la fanciulla celebra le nozze ben due volte. La prima volta è con l’amato Habrocomes, ma non c’è menzione alcuna del suo abito (X. Eph. 1.8). In contrasto, quando si sposa in modo forzato con Perilaos (X. Eph 3.5.1), indossa “tutti gli ornamenti da sposa” (κόσμῳ νυμφικῷ). Anthia usa, però, tali collane (περιδέραια) come pagamento per il veleno con cui suicidarsi la notte delle nozze per evitarne la consumazione (X. Eph 3.69–70); il suo corpo (creduto morto), viene poì seppellito in abito nuziale, ornato “con molto oro” (πολύν δέ περιθείς χρυσόν). Verso la fine delle sue tortuose avventure Anthia viene venduta ad un lenone di Taranto, che la espone come prostituta davanti alla porta, in abito fastoso, scintillante di gioielli di oro (X. Eph 5.98) – ma la donna poi scappa fingendo un attacco epilettico. L’uso dei

22. Qua un’eccezione significativa è rappresentata dai suoi ornamenti sacerdotali da lei portati a Delfi, di cui si parlerà infra. 23. ἶυγξ significa anche la ruota magica usata negli incantesimi amorosi, vedi Faraone (1999, pp. 151–152). 24. Per un riassunto della trama, vedi n. 16.

Chapter 14. Le collane di Charicleia

gioielli viene, quindi, associato non alla bellezza e all’amore, ma al matrimonio non voluto e negativo, e addirittura alla prostituzione. Nel romanzo di Achille Tazio, Leucippe e Clitophonte25 si nota ugualmente (Ach. Tat. 1.4; 1.19) come la eroina venga descritta sempre come bellissima, ma solo con termini del tutto naturalistici: la sua pelle è come avorio, latte o narciso bianco, le sue guance e la bocca come rose in boccio, gli occhi lillà, le sopracciglia di nero puro, i capelli ricci come edera e di color oro.26 Alla fine dell’ultimo capitolo nella scena della prova di verginità (Ach. Tat. 8.13) Leucippe appare per l’ultima volta, ed è vestita in modo quasi sacrale in tunica lunga di lino bianco, legata con una cintura, una benda purpurea nei capelli e a piedi nudi. Il matrimonio finale, poi, non viene affatto descritto, solo brevemente menzionato senza alcun cenno agli abiti e ai gioielli (Ach. Tat. 8.19). In contrasto, all’inizio dello stesso romanzo di Achille Tazio, appare come una sposa meravigliosamente ingioiellata la rivale di Leucippe, Calligone (Ach. Tat. 2.11), che il padre di Clitophonte, l’uomo di cui Leucippe si era innamorata, ha voluto come fidanzata del figlio. Qua il lettore può finalmente dilettarsi in pieno con l’ekphrasis di tutti gli ornamenti nuziali che sono stati procurati a Calligone, tra cui il vestito rosso porpora bordato d’oro e il collier composto da gemme multicolori (Ach. Tat. 2.11.2). Si tratta della più dettagliata descrizione degli ornamenti nuziali nei romanzi (Morales, 2004, pp. 141–142): Le pietre preziose gareggiavano insieme l’una con l’altra in bellezza e splendore. Il ‘giacinto’ fra esse era come una rosa congelata in pietra, e l’ametista rosseggiava splendente come l’oro. Nel mezzo erano tre gemme di variato colore, congiunte insieme. Al fondo del gioiello c’era una gemma nera, il corpo di mezzo appariva bianco nel nero, e dopo il bianco, in alto, c’era una pietra di color rosso. Il gioiello era incorniciato con oro, e somigliava ad un occhio d’oro.

Sono qua menzionati cinque tipi di pietre preziose: il monile si compone di ametiste e ‘giacinti’, i quali, paragonati alle rose, sono probabilmente qua dei corindoni rosa.27 Al centro, a mo’ di pendente, c’è un elemento composto da tre gemme incastonate in oro: rosso, bianco, nero, quest’ultime probabilmente sardonici. I confronti materiali includono collane tardo-ellenistiche, in cui le gemme sono incastonate in oro, e talvolta c’è un pendente centrale composto da gemme, ad

25. Vedi n. 15. 26. L’oro viene associato alle eroine solitamente come colore dei capelli. Per Callirhoe, nel romanzo di Chariton, eccezionalmente anche come colore delle guance: portata al tempio di Afrodite per la festa della dea direttamente dalla palestra ha le guance naturalmente arrossate “come oro su argento”. Vedi anche Kauffman, 2015. 27. Per la identificazione del ‘giacinto’, vedi n. 8.

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esempio a forma di farfalla (Figure 1).28 Il pendente centrale, pur accuratamente descritto, rimane enigmatico nella sua forma: se è da intendersi come composto da tre gemme incatenate una sopra l’altra, lascia però la difficoltà di spiegare come potesse avere la forma di un “occhio d’oro”. Se invece la descrizione cerca di illustrare una sardonica tagliata a strati sovrapposti multicolori, come un cameo, la forma di occhio sarebbe più plausibile. Esistono vari esemplari di collane con tale pendente centrale, concepibile come un occhio, tra cui un esemplare al British Museum (Figure 1). La descrizione della gemma centrale assomiglia anche alla lunga descrizione dell’occhio di Leucippe mentre piange, acquistando tutte le stesse tonalità del gioiello (Ach. Tat. 6.7).29 Ugualmente, nel suo racconto pastorale, Longus, narrando la bellezza di Daphnis con le parole di Gnatho innamorato (4.17), paragona il suo occhio a una gemma incastonata in oro (ἐν χρυσῇ σφενδόνῃ ψηφίς). Come si è già più volte notato, il motivo dell’occhio, che guarda ed è guardato, è importantissimo nella descrizione dei gioielli dei romanzi. In sunto, le giuste unioni d’amore sono quindi, nella retorica del romanzo, disadorne, e quelle errate, infauste e adulterine addobbate con fastosi gioielli. Ecco il paradosso: da una parte il gioiello si presenta come oggetto di massima ammirazione, il sommo della bellezza visiva, e allo stesso tempo, un oggetto volutamente evitato ed eclissato nelle descrizioni della eroina. Si sente, di nuovo, chiaramente la tendenza anti-ornamento coltivata dagli scrittori romani, invocata non solo dai sostenitori del mos maiorum e dai filosofi stoici, ma anche dai cantori dell’amore elegiaco, che raccomandano all’amata puella la bellezza naturale senza trucchi. Nell’epoca della scrittura dei romanzi, tale retorica era stata adottata, anche se per diversi motivi, anche negli scritti dei padri della chiesa quali Tertulliano e Cipriano.30

Gli ornamenti sacri: Il pettorale d’oro con serpenti Nel terzo libro degli Aethiopiaca di Eliodoro viene descritta la processione sacra al tempio di Apollo a Delfi, nella quale i due protagonisti partecipano, vedendosi per la prima volta e innamorandosi. La processione è caratterizzata da una profusione di ori e gioielli, sin dalle corna dorate dei cento animali sacrificali. Il 28. Per le collane gemmate tardo-ellenistiche paragonabili, vedi per esempio Marshall (1911, no. 2746); Pfeiler-Lippitz (1972, p. 108, pl. 30.1); Higgins (1980, pp. 165–166, pl. 56. Pl. 56). 29. Verso la fine della storia, Calligone viene di nuovo descritta come sposa dell’ex pirata, che le compra tutto il necessario per il matrimonio da nobildonna, oggetti preziosi, vesti e oro (8.17). 30. Cyprianus, De habitu virginum; Tertulliano, De cultu feminarum. Vedi Raditsa (1985); Berg (2002).

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giovane Theagenes indossa un mantello purpureo, ricamato in oro, e una fibula (περόνη) di ambra sulla quale appare in rilievo Atena con gorgoneion (Heliod. 3.3); anche tutti gli altri giovani Tessali suoi compatrioti portano spille d’oro nei loro mantelli. La eroina, Charicleia, porta una veste purpurea ricamata d’oro, cinta con un gioiello pettorale (ζώνη) in oro, di cui segue una lunga descrizione (Heliod. 3.4.2–6):31 Come descriverti il gioiello che portava intorno al petto? Ti assicuro che l’orefice aveva voluto dar prova in essa di tutta la sua arte, ch’egli né aveva mai prima prodotto un’opera così perfetta, né avrebbe poi saputo produrne un’altra eguale. Era questa composta di due serpenti, le cui code intrecciate dovevano trovarsi in mezzo alla schiena di chi se ne cingeva, mentre i colli attortigliati in ricurvo nodo arrivavano davanti fin sotto all’una e all’altra mammella; le due teste uscivano liberamente dal nodo e, quasi ne fossero le appendici, venivano a ricadere sui fianchi. Avresti detto non che i serpenti sembrassero muoversi, ma che si muovessero realmente; né avevano quel cupo e crudo sguardo, che di solito incute tanto spavento, bensì parevano immersi in umido sopore come illanguiditi dalla dolcezza di trovarsi presso al seno della fanciulla. Erano d’oro massiccio, ma di un colore azzurro molto scuro; l’arte aveva reso bruno l’oro, affinché nero e giallo mischiati insieme rappresentassero al naturale la qualità scabra e mutevole della pelle squamosa.

La descrizione del pettorale a forma di due serpenti è l’eccezione alla regola del look disadorno delle eroine; nella sua descrizione si può osservare ed elaborare più attentamente la natura sdoppiata, bella e pericolosa, del gioiello narrato. Si noti che il passo è eccezionale anche nel descrivere un gioiello figurativo minuziosamente forgiato come vivo, mobile, realistico finanche nella colorazione artificiale delle scaglie. Difatti, i gioielli a forma di serpente – braccialetti, anelli e collane – erano anche realmente un’eccezione significativa nella sopravvivenza come gioiello figurativo fino al IV sec. d.C. per le loro qualità apotropaiche e simboliche (Figure 4).32 La loro popolarità già calava, però, nel II sec. d.C., e

31. Hardie (1998, p. 35); Hilton (1998); Patera (2012, p. 24); Rush (2012, pp. 52–53, 169–170); Whitmarsh (2002, p. 120); Lefteratou (2019, p. 21); Nobili (2020, pp. 25–26). 32. Per gioielli a forma di serpente, in generale, vedi Guiraud 1974; Higgins 1980, 181, 183; d’Ambrosio, De Carolis & Guzzo (2008, pp. 17–18). A Pompei sono numerosi i braccialetti e anelli a forma di serpente, rare le collane (ad. es. d’Ambrosio & De Carolis (1997, p. 32, cat. 32, pl. III). Per le apparizioni di gioielli serpentiformi nella poesia e nella narrativa greca, vedi Rush (2012, p. 44).

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quelli prodotti diventavano più schematici e rozzi; qua la descrizione del gioiello è quindi da considerare in una certa misura arcaizzante.33

Figure 4. Due bracciali a forma di serpente in oro, III-II sec. a.C., Museo nazionale archeologico di Atene. Photo: Wikimedia Commons/George E. Koronaios

I serpenti sono qua chiaramente un’allusione alla divinità padrone del santuario, Apollo, facendo parte del mito di fondazione del luogo sacro.34 Potrebbe il gioiello riferirsi, quindi, ai gioielli effettivamente portati dalle sacerdotesse delfiche?35 Come analizzato da A.M. Sara Karatas, gli ornamenti usati dalle sacerdotesse e dai fedeli nell’area dei templi erano strettamente regolati da una serie di norme.36 Le immagini e i corredi funerari associati alle sacerdotesse greche, in generale, effettivamente, in più casi contengono braccialetti a forma di serpente – animale sacro a Dioniso e Iside, oltre che Apollo –, ma una tale cinta/pettorale non trova riscon-

33. Guiraud (1974, pp. 85–86), e tavola cronologica. 34. Anche un’altra inserviente del tempio delfico, Ion, porta una collana con pendente a forma di serpente, che incute paura negli spettatori, come gnorisma di bambino abbandonato (Euripide, Ion 1417–36; 1427–1429). 35. In genere, la topografia e gli elementi della cultura materiale descritti da Eliodoro sembrano riferirsi ai fenomeni a lui contemporanei a Delfi, piuttosto che all’epoca in cui si svolge la narrativa, vedi Nobili (2020). 36. Karatas (2020, pp. 160–161) ha efficacemente analizzato come l’uso della cintura zone sia vietato nelle leggi sacre di Delo e Lindo, probabilmente per riservarne l’uso a sacerdoti e sacerdotesse. Questo avviene forse perché il nodo viene visto come un elemento magico/impuro, ma forse anche per il materiale di cui è fatto la cinta, in quanto l’uso dell’oro è vietato in molti contesti dei santuari ai partecipanti nei riti, secondo varie leggi suntuarie.

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tri.37 In più, è da ricordare che la fanciulla Charicleia, portando arco e faretra, è qua vestita da Diana, una dea che non porta serpenti tra i suoi attributi vestiari.38 Piuttosto, l’ornamento sembra alludere ad un’altra dea virginale, Atena, che porta serpi intrecciate sotto il suo petto nella forma di aigis. Tale associazione, oltre a sottolineare la convinta verginità e la castità della ragazza degna di Pallade, la unisce visivamente con il suo futuro sposo, che indossa la fibula di ambra rappresentante Atena con l’aigis. Comunque, il confronto letterario più vicino alla forma del gioiello è sicuramente quello descritto da Nonnos nei Dionysiaca (Nonn. D. 9.130–131), grosso modo contemporaneo alla scrittura del romanzo. La balia di Dioniso bambino, Mystis, viene descritta come inventrice di tutti gli attributi del dio, tirso, cista mistica, nebris, e anche della cintura di serpenti (qua chiamata ἱμάς e μίτρα): “(Mystis) come prima cosa legava al suo corpo una benda di vipere intrecciate, in cui due serpenti ondeggiando intorno alla cinta su tutti e due i lati, con legami arrotondati, ed erano intrecciati insieme in un nodo serpeggiante.”39 Si conferma, quindi, anche Dioniso tra le divinità a cui allude il gioiello. Oltre alla figura zoomorfa, c’è da analizzare il tipo del gioiello. Viene chiamato ζώνη, una parola molto fluida che ha molti significati, tra cintura, fascia e pettorale, fatti di cuoio, tessuto, oro, anche ingioiellati (Lee, 2015, pp. 134–135).40 Per lo più è tradotta come cintura, ma c’è da notare che qua è descritto come fabbricata in oro massiccio da un orafo, ed è quindi un gioiello, un pettorale, piuttosto che una cintura. Bisogna quindi richiamare un altro significato della zone, quello delle fasce o catene incrociate sul petto tra i seni.

37. Breton Connelly (2007, p. 150), rilievo con fanciulla adorna di braccialetto a serpe, dal tempio di Artemide Ortheia a Messene; pp. 225–226, corredo di una sacerdotessa, con braccialetti a serpe da Aigai, Macedonia. 38. Per le vesti delle sacerdotesse, e le loro imitazioni dell’abito della dea e anche per il culto di Atena con aigis, vedi Breton Connelly (2007, p. 106). 39. Nel racconto di Nonnos appare anche un altro confronto col gioiello, il collare d’oro maledetto nella forma di serpente a due teste (amphisbaena), regalo di nozze di Efesto alla dea Harmonia, figlia di Afrodite, come vendetta (5.144–146): “Era come un serpente dalla forma circolare e dalla schiena decorata da macchie a stella. Perché come l’amphisbaena a due teste velocemente striscia e sputa veleno da due teste, arrotolandosi sempre di più a spirale doppia, la testa si unisce alla testa mentre salta strisciando con movimenti ondulatori della schiena: così la magnifica collana girava la sua ondulante schiena, con il paio di colli curvati che si incontravano al centro del petto, un serpente flessibile a due teste con scaglie pesanti, e con giunture ricurve il cerchio d’oro mobile si piegava intorno, fin quando la testa scivolava in cerchio muovendosi ondeggiando, e sembrava di emettere un sibilo dalle fauci.” 40. Per zone, mitra e tainia, vedi Russo & Stroppa (2014, pp. 139–140).

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Tale è anche la forma del kestos himas, pettorale-cinta decorato, un ornamento di Afrodite, strumento di seduzione d’omerica memoria.41 Nel mondo romano poteva essere chiamata catena, cestus o balteus; per esempio, Apuleio nelle Metamorfosi descrive Venere al sommo della sua bellezza, fragrante di profumi, nuda e adornata solo con tale cinta, balteus.42 Il gioiello, incrociato “a bandoliera” su petto e fianchi e spesso con un amuleto come elemento centrale, viene portato nei dipinti sempre sulla pelle nuda, sia da Venere e amorini (Figure 5), sia dalle donne delle pitture erotiche pompeiane,43 quale accessorio afrodisiaco, inteso ad attirare l’attenzione di chi guarda al seno, ventre, e fianchi, come effettivamente capita al narratore del romanzo di Eliodoro. Meriel Jones disquisisce su come il kestos himas, secondo gli scritti magici, fosse anche un amuleto nascosto dalle vesti, capace non solo di suscitare desiderio erotico, ma, nel caso, anche di farlo spegnere e salvaguardare così la verginità.44 Michael J. Bennet, invece, ha analizzato l’uso della parola zone in Omero, dove secondo lo studioso appare come simbolo di contrastanti e dualistiche qualità femminili: casta ed erotica, vergine e moglie, pericolosa ed innocua (Bennet, 1997, pp. 129–130). Curiosamente, il gioiello appare quindi come un oggetto di fantasia, creato come un ibrido che concentra simboli di una serie di divinità contrastati – da una parte Diana e Atena, emblemi della verginità più severa, e dall’altra Dioniso e Afrodite, dei dell’ebrezza amorosa. L’eccezionale apparizione del gioiello per aumentare il colmo della bellezza dell’eroina viene qua giustificata dalla sacralità degli ornamenti. Il gioiello serpentiforme, tuttavia, rappresenta appunto una natura binaria, che unisce contemporaneamente moderazione, sacralità e contenimento degli impulsi erotici mutuati da Pallade Atena, alla potenzialità del sottostante desiderio amoroso dovuto ad Afrodite, ossia la sessualità latente dell’eroina (Rush 2012, p. 170).

41. Omero, Il. 14.214–221. Per il kestos himas, vedi Lee (2015, pp. 137–138, fig. 5.5), Faraone (1990, pp. 220–221); Bélyácz & Nagy (2021). 42. Apul. Met. 2.20: Venus ipsa … omni Gratiarum choro stipata et toto Cupidinum populo comitata et balteo suo cincta, cinnama fraglans et balsama rorans. 43. Per le pitture pompeiane, vedi d’Ambrosio, De Carolis & Guzzo (2008, pp. 21–23, fig. 10, 11 a-b). Per le catene a bandoliera tra i ritrovamenti vesuviani, vedi d’Ambrosio & De Carolis (1997, pp. 65–66), cat. 193–194, tav. XVIII e XIX da Oplontis; Nelsen (2018). Per l’uso e il significato, vedi anche Berg 2018. 44. Attingendo in particolare dalle Kyranides, una raccolta di trattati di magia e medicina, riuniti nel IV secolo. Jones (2005, pp. 91–92).

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Figure 5. Venere con catene incrociate sul petto, possibilmente kestos himas con amuleti, in compagnia di Marte. Pompei, Casa di Marte e Venere (VII 9, 47). Immagine: G. Strafforello, La patria, geografia dell’Italia, vol. IV, Torino, 1894

Conclusione Cerchiamo infine di sintetizzare alcuni punti della duplice valenza dei gioielli nel romanzo greco-romano. Un’elementare funzione positiva dei gioielli, spesso adombrata e sottaciuta nei romanzi, è quella di essere uno status symbol, una garanzia della stirpe nobile ed elitaria della protagonista, semplicemente, un segno indispensabile delle donne d’élite. Questo viene accennato in alcuni pochi passi expressis verbis: In Leucippe e Clitophonte, alla fine del romanzo, lo sposo di Calligone le regala oro, vestiti e gioielli per il matrimonio, “degni di una donna aristocratica” (ἐσθῆτα τε καί χρυσόν καί ὅσα εἰς κόσμον γυναικῶν εὐδαιμόνων Ach. Tat. 8.17.4). Nel romanzo di Apuleio, le Metamorfosi (II sec. d.C.), Lucius incontra la zia Byrrhaena – che non conosce – e la giudica come una matrona benestante proprio per l’abbondanza di oro e gemme nei suoi vestiti: “Oro nei monili e nelle tuniche, qua intrecciato, là infilato, facevano capire che era veramente una matrona.”45 Eppure, anche per Apuleio la vera bellezza della donna 45. Apul. Met. 2.2: Aurum in gemmis et in tunicis, ibi inflexum, hic intextum, matronam profecto confitebatur. Vedi anche Lalanne (2018).

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non risiede nei gioielli ma nei bei capelli: senza di essi la donna non può essere bella seppure addobbata di ori e gioielli.46 Questo è in assonanza con il linguaggio di tutti i romanzi, dove la bellezza della eroina è naturale, mai derivata da gioielli e belletti. Soprattutto, il gioiello è metafora materiale per la maturità sessuale – per questo, riterrei, viene evitata la diretta associazione con la protagonista. In più, la narrativa asseconda i topoi della retorica romana contro l’uso dei gioielli e dei cosmetici artificiali. Infine, la descrizione delle gemme ha molto in comune con quella delle protagoniste: sono naturalmente belle, raggianti, desiderabili ma inviolabili (cf. 2.30.31).47 La bellezza di Charicleia è, infatti, paragonata da Sisimithres expressis verbis al lustro di una gemma ancora nascosta sotto terra (Heliod. 2.31.4). Le gemme e le protagoniste si descrivono con gli stessi termini naturalistici: sono tutte e due paragonate ai colori dei fiori, in particolare delle rose. Un ulteriore punto di connessione è la retorica dell’occhio – la bellezza che attira a sé gli occhi, e la forma dell’occhio del gioiello che caccia, a sua volta, i malocchi. La pericolosità del gioiello è anche metafora della bellezza della protagonista, che è condannata a suscitare il desiderio di tutti coloro che incontra, esponendosi così a un continuo pericolo. La bellezza del gioiello, come quella dell’eroina, causa, ma anche risolve i problemi con le stesse qualità di desiderabilità, rarità ed intrinseca nobiltà.

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46. Tanta denique est capillamenti dignitas ut quamuis auro ueste gemmis omnique cetero mundo exornata mulier incedat, tamen, nisi capillum distinxerit, ornata non possit audire. 47. Rush 2012, 140.

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Jones, M. (2005). The Wisdom of Egypt. Base and Heavenly Magic in Heliodoros’ Aithiopica. Ancient Narrative, 4, 79–98. Karatas, A. M. S. (2020). Greek Cults and Their Sacred Laws on Dress-code: The Laws of Greek Sanctuaries for Hairstyles, Jewelry, Make-up, Belts, and Shoes. Classical World 113(2), 147–170. Kauffman, N. (2015). Beauty as Fiction in Leucippe and Clitophon. AncNarr, 12, 43–69. Lalanne, S. (2018). A Mirror Carried along a High Road? Reflections on (and of ) Society in the Greek Novels. In M. P. Futre Pinheiro, D. Konstan & B. MacQueen (Eds.), Cultural Crossroads in the Ancient Novel, Trends in Classics, Supplementary volumes, Berlin: De Gruyter. Laplace, M. M. (1996). L’emblème esthétique des Éthiopiques d’Héliodore: une bague d’ambre au chaton d’améthyste gravée. In L. Dubois (Ed.), Poésie et lyrique antiques (pp. 179–202). Lilles: Presses Universitaires du Septentrion. Lee, M. (2015). Body, Dress, and Identity in Ancient Greece. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Lefteratou, A. (2019). Gemstones, Textiles and a Princess: Precious Commodities in Heliodorus’ Aethiopica. CJ, 115(1), 1–30. Marshall, F. H. (1911). Catalogue of the Jewellery, Greek, Etruscan and Roman in the Departments of Antiquities, British Museum. London: Trustees of the British Museum. Mastrocinque, A. (Ed.) (2003). Sylloge gemmarum gnosticarum, vol. I (Bollettino di numismatica, Monografia 8.2.I), Roma: Ist. Poligrafico dello Stato. Morales, H. (2004). Vision and Narrative in Achilles Tatius’ Leucippe and Clitophon, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Nelson, M. (2018). Excavated Roman Jewelry: The Case of the Gold Body Chains. In E. Simpson (Ed.), The Adventure of the Illustrious Scholar: Papers Presented to Oscar White Muscarella (pp. 614–644), Leiden: Brill. Nobili, C. (2020). The Sanctuary of Delphi in Heliodorus’ Aethiopica: Between Material Culture and Intertextuality. AncNarr, 16, 15–36. Oakley, J. H. & Sinos, R. H. (1993). The Wedding in Ancient Athens. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press. Patera, M. (2012). Problèmes de la terminologie grecque du vêtement: recherche sur la broderie. In I. Tzachili & E. Zimi (Eds.), Textiles and Dress in Greece and the Roman East: A Technological and Social Approach (pp. 117–130), Αthènes: Ta Pragmata. Pfeiler-Lippitz, B. (1972). Späthellenistische Goldschmiedearbeiten. AK, 15.2, 107–119. Raditsa, L. (1985). The Appearance of Women and Contact: Tertullian’s De Habitu Feminarum. Athenaeum, 73, 297–326. Rush, E. M. (2012). Writing Gems: Ekphrastic Description and Precious Stones in Hellenistic Epigrams and Later Greek Prose. Los Angeles: PhD diss. University California. Russo, S. & Stroppa, M. (2014). Gnorismata in Menandro e la cultura materiale nei papiri. In A. A. Casanova (Ed.), Menandro e l’evoluzione della commedia greca (Atti del Convegno Internazionale di Studi in memoria di Adelmo Barigazzi nel centenario della nascita, Firenze, 30 settembre–1 ottobre 2013) (pp. 131–143), Firenze: University Press.

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Schörle, K. (2015). Pearls, Power, and Profit: Mercantile Networks and Economic Considerations of the Pearl Trade in the Roman Empire. In M. Maiuro & F. De Romanis (Eds.), A Tale of Two Worlds: comparative perspectives on Indo-Mediterranean commerce (I–XVII c.), (pp. 43–54). Leiden, Boston: Brill. Stieber, M. (2010). The Poetics of Appearance in the Attic Korai, Austin: University of Texas Press. Vitellozzi, P. (2018). Relations Between Magical Texts and Magical Gems: Recent Perspectives. In S. Kiyanrad, C. Theis & L. Willer (Ed.), Bild und Schrift auf ‘magischen’ Artefakten (pp. 181–253), Berlin – Boston: Walter de Gruyter. Whitmarsh, T. (2002). Written on the Body: Ekphrasis, Perception and Deception In Heliodorus’ Aethiopica. Ramus, 31(1–2), 111–125.

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The reality of women in ancient popular literature The case of Alexander-Romance Grammatiki Karla

National and Kapodistrian University of Athens

The paper centers around the methodological question of whether “open texts” could be viewed as representing an image of extra-textual reality at a certain point in time. Assuming a positive answer to the question, it then proceeds to investigate, as a case study, the role of three women in the Alexander Romance, namely that of Olympias, Rodogoune and Candace. Curiously enough, the representation of Olympias in the work is in stark contrast with her depiction in historiographical sources (e.g. Plutarch, Arrian, Diodorus, Justin), as well as with the representation of the other two female characters of the Romance. One way to interpret this incongruity is to attribute it to a narrative technique aiming to present Alexander as a completely independent heroic character, without human weaknesses. On the other hand, the depiction of women in the Romance can be related to the assumed author’s social standing and stereotypes, and probably reflects quite faithfully the reality of the majority of women of the period. Keywords: Alexander Romance, fictionality, open text, female figures (Olympias, Rodogoune, Candace), narrative techniques, stereotypes

The Alexander Romance is a Greek text transmitted anonymously1 and dated to the late 3rd c. AD.2 It is a fictional narration of the great military leader’s life, from his birth until his death. The author of the Romance seems to have used two main sources: one epistolary novel and the historiographical work of an Alexandrian 1. It is also known as the Romance of Pseudo-Callisthenes, from the name of the historian Callisthenes of Olynthus, who wrote a (now lost) history of Alexander’s expedition, and to whom the Romance was erroneously attributed in 15th c. manuscripts. In what follows, the Romance of Alexander will be referred to with the term Romance. 2. For the dating of the Romance see Stoneman (1991, pp. 8–17), Nawotka (2017, pp. 3–5). https://doi.org/10.1075/ivitra.40.15kar © 2024 John Benjamins Publishing Company

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historian.3 It is also possible that the work also incorporates collections of letters with descriptions of wondrous voyages and adventures.4 The Romance is preserved in three principal versions, each containing material which differentiates it from the other two. The oldest version, (a), is based mainly on rhetorical texts and historical sources, and seems to be closer to the archetype. The Greek text of this version is transmitted by a single 11th c. manuscript (A = Parisinus graecus 1711). The second, (b), dated to the 5th c., incorporates fictional material from letters to Alexander’s mother Olympias and to his teacher Aristotle. The third, (e), dated to the 7th-8th c., is an even more extensive version, which includes additional fictional material, and can be seen as the product of a Judeo-Christian environment. The investigation of the reality of women in the Alexander Romance faces a wide set of problems, connected to the special nature of the Romance’s text. It is a fictional work, a work of popular literature that belongs to the so-called “open texts”, i.e. texts lacking authors or standard versions. Usually, such texts survive without an author’s name or attached to a pseudonym. They are notable for the stratification of the various sources, the fluidity of the narrative structure, the abundance of translations and versions, and the chameleon-like way in which they have come down to us (Fusillo, 1994, p. 239, Konstan, 1998, Thomas, 1998, Karla, 2009, pp. 26–28, Hägg, 2012, pp. 99–101). All these characteristics, and especially the stratification of the material, the mixture of material from different sources, periods and genres, do not allow us to draw safe conclusions cοncerning the reality of a society and a civilisation at a precise point in time.5 Nevertheless, the Alexander Romance is a literary text, which, irrespective of its sources, has its own aesthetic, and whose author has attempted to create a work possessing unity and cohesion (Karla, 2012). Consequently, the work in its present form derives from a certain civilisation and culture, it possesses autonomy and preserves the privilege of reflecting the mentality and the intellectual values of its era. Taking into consideration these two sides of the coin (the unity of a literary work, though based on stratified sources), I shall attempt to examine the manner 3. For a brief overview of current theories concerning the sources of the Romance see Koulakiotis (2006, pp. 190–194). See also Stoneman (2009). 4. The letters to Olympias and Aristotle containing wondrous stories were probably taken from a larger collection of letters and used as a secondary source. They belong to the genre of fantastic teratological literature, which differs from epistolary novels, although it has the same target audience. Its material derive from older traditions created as part of the legend of Alexander the Great, and started circulating quite early (possibly soon after the death of the king of Macedon). See Merkelbach (1954, pp. 100–108). 5. Hägg (1997) has set out these problems in his discussion of the research on the “reality” of the slave in the Aesop Romance.

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of representation of women in the Romance, and their function from the viewpoint of the work’s narrative technique. The female figures appearing in the Alexander Romance6 are Olympias, Stateira, Rodogoune, priestesses, Candace, the Amazon, Roxanne, and a local anonym woman of Babylon. They all belong to the higher classes except for the latter.7

The Olympias of the Romance The figure of Olympias is present throughout the Romance, from Alexander’s conception until his death. She holds a principal role at the start of the Romance in an embedded erotic story,8 in which she finds herself between two men, Philip, her lawful husband, and Nektanebo, her “lover”. Nektanebo, the last Pharaoh of Egypt, comes to the court of Macedon9 disguised as a magician, and falls in love with her. The description given in ch. 4 is characteristic: Now in Macedonia it became clear to all that Nectanebos was highly respected. His reputation, indeed, was so great that Olympias wished to interview him and summoned him while Philip happened to be away at a war. When he went to the palace, he saw that her beauty was brighter than the moon. He had been indifferent to women, restraining his mind from erotic desire. Now, stretching out his hand, he greeted her, saying: “A blessing on you, Queen of the Macedonians!”

It is worth noting that for the description of Olympias’ beauty the author uses the literary topos of the comparison with the moon (εὐμορφίαν τῆς σελήνης διαφορωτέραν)10 and that her beauty is described through the eyes of Nektanebo. Also, the narrator describes Nektanebo’s feelings not with the word “love” ἔρως, but erotic desire. This is not the idealized love one sees in the Ancient Greek novel, and the “love at first sight” familiar in that literary genre is here replaced

6. The present research is based on version a, edited by Kroll (1926). The English translation is that of Haight (1955). 7. It is the woman who gave birth to a monster in human form, the presence of which was taken as an omen presaging Alexander’s early death. On this story, see Konstantakos 2015. 8. On the Nektanebo’s episode in Romance, see Jasnow (1997), Konstantakos (2009). 9. He is the last Pharaoh of Egypt, about whom a whole legend has been created. See Matthey (2012), Nawotka (2017, pp. 37–39). 10. This comparison also in Achilles Tatius’ Leucippe and Clitophon 1.4.3. See Morales (2004, pp. 156–157); on the motif in general Nawotka (2017, p. 50).

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with the spark of desire at first sight.11 Motives are described in a different way for the two “lovers”. Nektanebo, in order to seduce Olympias and fulfill his desire, concocts a whole scheme of deception. Olympias invites Nektanebo, in his guise as a magician, in order to learn the future of her relationship with Philip. When Nektanebo asks “What do you wish to hear, Queen?” She answered: “I wish to learn the news about Philip. For rumour says that after the war he will forsake me and marry another.” (1.4) 12 So, it is Olympias’ feelings of insecurity about her relationship with Philip which lead her to call upon Nektanebo’s magic powers. She will call upon him again when her pregnancy advances, and she fears Philip’s reaction once he returns from his expedition.13 Jouanno (1995, 222) discerns a quasicomic dimension in Olympias’ role in the “love story” with Nektanebo.14 In the embedded story between Olympias and Nektanebo, Olympias is in general presented as a figure prone to deception, at the mercy of her fears of being abandoned by Philip, i.e. as a woman without intelligence, a simple instrument. She is an instrument for the satisfaction of Nektanebo’s erotic desire, a means of calming down Philip’s suspicions, a means for the birth of her wondrous son, Alexander the Great. Nektanebo allays her fears about her pregnancy, and comes up with a “magic” solution in order to convince Philip to accept Alexander as the son of a god. Olympias realises Nektanebo’s machinations only at the end of the story, when Nektanebo is already dead, and only after her own son reveals the plot to her:15 And going to his mother, he related to her what he had heard from the man and declared that he must be buried. Olympias was amazed on discovering that she had been deceived by magic spells and betrayed unwittingly. She prepared fitting burial for Nectanebos, had a grave made, and laid him there. (1.14)

The next episode, in which Philip marries another woman (1.20–22) also presents Olympias as a passive participant. Nowhere does the narrator give us a glimpse of Olympias’ feelings or reactions. The narration focuses instead on the reaction and 11. Also, the erotic desire that Nektanebo feels is not mutual (at least not at first), as in the case of the erotic romances (see Konstan 1994). On Olympias’ sexuality in Romance see Carney (2006, pp. 11). 12. On the importance of securing male descendants in the royal court of Macedonia see Howe (2015, p. 145). On this passage see Nawotka (2017, p. 55). 13. And when her belly grew large, she summoned Nektanebo and said: “Prophet, what am I going to do if Philip on his return finds me pregnant?” (1.7). 14. As an example, she draws attention to the pleasure that the queen seems to derive from her intercourse with the “divine”, (Jouanno 1995, p. 222), especially in ms. Α (1.6). 15. Cf. others traditions in which the story of the snake sire was presented as a deliberate invention of Olympias in Collins (2012).

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actions of Alexander, and the reader/audience perceives Olympias’ situation only through the words and actions of the main hero: Alexander, after receiving this omen, went away and arrived at Pella. There he found that Olympias had been discarded by Philip and he had married Cleopatra, the sister of Attalus. (1.20)

Alexander interrupts the wedding banquet and has a great row with Philip. Finally, with his intervention, the couple (Philip and Olympias) is reconciled, and the story has a happy ending. The way in which Alexander-as-Messiah addresses his mother and the “arguments” he uses are characteristic: Then Alexander, on leaving Philip, went to his mother and said to her: “Do not be angry, mother, over Philip’s treatment of you. For if he does not sense his guilt, all the same I shall be your avenger. So do you first go to him. For it is fitting for a wife to be subject to her husband." With these words, he roused his mother and led her to Philip. … With these words, Alexander reconciled his parents so that all the Macedonians marveled at him. (1.22)

Again, Olympias is at the back of the stage, a passive recipient of Philip’s decisions and of Alexander’s intervention16 and in the end it is she who, according to Alexander, must make the first move of reconciliation with the adultering husband, on the basis of the gnomic argument: “For it is fitting for a wife to be subject to her husband”.17 We see a similar representation of Olympias in the next episode as well, when Pausanias, a rich man from Thessaloniki,18 falls in love with her: “He fell in love with Olympias and sent minions to persuade her that she should leave Philip and marry him. Olympias did not agree to this.” (1. 24) After her refusal, Pausanias, knowing that Alexander is absent, devises a plot to murder Philip, “βουλόμενος ἁρπάσαι τὴν Ὀλυμπιάδα”.19 In the nick of time Alexander returns, finding Philip at his last breath, and Pausanias in the palace. The passive role of Olympias (Carney, 2006, p. 113), her role as victim is highlighted at the end of the

16. This is an almost ironic portrayal of Olympias, given that according to historiographic sources, the “real” Olympias, after Philip’s death had Cleopatra and her daughter killed, an action which caused Alexander’s great displeasure. 17. See also “For brave men fight in the open plain, women shut themselves up” (1.46) in his speech to Thebans. On these gnomic truths and their male-centered viewpoint see the last chapter of the book by Morales (2004, pp. 152–226). 18. On Pausanias see Nawotka (2017 pp. 86–87). 19. In some sources (Plu. Alex. 10.5–6; Just. ix 7) Olympias was accused for encouraging Pausanias to kill Philip. See Carney (2003, p. 234), Nawotka (2017, pp. 87–88).

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episode. Philip is dead, Pausanias has been put to death by Alexander, and her situation is expressed by a participial clause: τῆς δὲ Ὀλυμπιάδος συμφοραζούσης ἐπὶ τῷ συμβεβηκότι καὶ τῶν Μακεδόνων ἀτάκτως ἐχόντων παρεμυθεῖτο αὐτοὺς ἡ Ἀλεξάνδρου παρουσία [Now when Olympias learned what had happened and the Macedonians were in a tumult, the presence of Alexander calmed them.] (1.24) For the rest of the Romance, Olympias becomes a silent character. She never speaks, but is often mention, until the end of the work, as Alexander’s passive addressee. Characteristic examples include Olympias as the recipient of letters by Alexander, where he describes his travels (2.22, 3.27),20 or when he asks her in a letter to send clothes and gifts to the mother and the wife of Darius (2.22). Also, in the letters written by Alexander, he designates himself as the son of Philip and Olympias (1.38)21 and in letters addressed to him by others (e.g. Darius), the names of both his parents are given. Alexander appears to swear in the name of his mother (2.21), and in several passages his tenderness and love for his mother are apparent. For example, in India, in the temple of the Sun and Moon, when Alexander seeks to know the future, one of the first things he asks is “if I should again embrace my mother Olympias and the friends dear to me” (3.17). When he arrives at the palace of Candace and comes face to face with the Queen for the first time, her description is given through the focalisation of Alexander, who compares her to his mother: “On the next day, Candace appeared wearing her crown. She was a large woman with something divine in her appearance so that Alexander seemed to behold his own mother, Olympias” (3.22). Furthermore, at the palaces of Cyrus and Xerxes, when Alexander finds a golden cage with a dove with prophetic powers, he expresses the wish to send it to his mother: “And, indeed, in the centre of the ceiling hung a gold birdcage and in it was a large bird, a dove. This we were told gave prophesies to the kings and it was very old. When I wished to carry it off to send it to you, the priest said it was sacred” (3.28). When his mother writes to him several times complaining about her treatment at the hands of Antipater (“Now his mother Olympias often wrote about Antipater and her suffering because she, the mother of Alexander was despised and Antipater said what he wished, and she wrote down his strange treatment of her” 3.31),22 Alexander tackles the problem immediately, by sending Craterus.23 In his will, he takes great care of what will 20. On the “Miracle-letters”, see Arthur-Montagne (2014, pp. 178–187). 21. Cf. his speech to the Persians, where he designates himself as the son of Ammon and Olympias, as in his Will, the letter to the army and to rulers of the Rhodians (3.33). 22. Cf. Arrian, Alexandri Anabasis, 7.12.6–7. On the quarrel between Olympias and Antipater in the sources see Carney (2003, pp. 238–240), Carney (2006, pp. 58–59). 23. This event will trigger the plot for Alexander’s murder (3.31).

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happen to his mother, giving her the choice of her place of residence after his death: “Let Olympias, the mother of Alexander, be allowed to live in Rhodes if the Rhodians agree. For there is no authority to do anything without the consent of the Rhodians. And if she does not wish to live in Rhodes, let her reside where she wishes, taking the same journeys which she took also in the time of her son Alexander” (3.33).24 The difference between this fictional picture of Olympias and the Olympias known from historical sources (e.g. Plutarch’s Life of Alexander, Diodorus, Arrian, Anabasis of Alexander, Justin) is striking.25 For example, in Plutarch she is described as a dynamic woman, with a strong personality, involved in the worship of Dionysus, in the relation between Alexander and his father, and in politics.26 She does not hesitate to commit heinous crimes in order to establish her position in the Macedonian court (e.g. the murder of Cleopatra)27 or to avenge the death of her son (Plut. Alexander 77.2). Moreover, this image of Olympias contrasts with the way that other female characters are portrayed in the Romance, namely Darius’ mother Rodogoune28 and Queen Candace.

The Rodogoune of the Romance Rodogoune takes an active part in politics.29 She secretly sends a letter to her son, Darius (2.12), in order to dissuade him from continuing the war against Alexander.30 She warns him of the consequences that the continuation of the war would have both for the “inhabited world” and for the life of Darius himself, indicating, with an admirable sense of Realpolitik, what the great Persian king should do: 24. Jouanno (1995) isolates and examines all these expressions of love on the part of Alexander for his mother, in all the versions of the Romance. 25. On the issue see Jouanno (1995) and Carney (2019). See also Carney (2006, pp. 42–59, 111). 26. “The Alexander gives her a bad character: she is difficult, excessively jealous, and sullen (9.3) … pictures Olympias as a bad wife, a mother who worsens the relationship between her son and his father, and also as a murderous person (9.3, 10.1)” Carney (2019, p. 152). On the differences between Plutarch’s Life of Alexander and Alexander Romance, see Jouanno (2009). 27. On Cleopatra’s murder by Olympias for her own practical purposes, see Howe (2015). 28. According to historical sources, the name of Darius’ mother was Sisygambis, but in the Romance she bears the name Rodogoune. On the issue, see Jouanno (2002, pp. 147–148) in particular note 259 and Nawotka (2017, p. 169). 29. “Greek tradition insisted that the mother of a Persian king was a powerful political figure” (Carney 2003, p. 247). 30. It is characteristic that in the Romance there are a few letters written by Olympias.

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“Do not harass and shatter the inhabited world. For the future is uncertain. Give us hope for a better state of affairs. And do not, using violence, lose your life in a doubtful conflict”. As proof of her argumentation she uses Alexander’s behaviour towards the members of Darius’ family, which he had captured.31 This behaviour presages, in her view, the best possible solution of their differences through diplomacy.32 The Romance contains a second letter by Rodogoune (2.22), which is cosigned by Darius’ wife, Stateira (Merkelbach, 1954, pp. 37–38). This letter is an answer to Alexander’s letter, where he informs them in detail about Darius’ death, the legacy left to him by Darius to marry his daughter Roxanne,33 the sending of the dead King’s body to them so that it may receive the proper burial honours, and his plans about their future: “For I will establish you in the palace, permitting you to rule what tribes you choose. For the present, delay where you are until I shall stabilize matters there. For some are still in mad revolt. In accordance with the directions of Darius, I myself have deemed it fitting that Rhoxane should be my consort. Therefore, do obeisance to her as Alexander’s wife.” The content and the tone of Alexander’s letter shows respect and esteem towards them, as well as his will to allow them the privilege of choosing the kingdoms where they will rule. The written reply by Rodogoune and Stateira preserves the diplomatic political style, mingled with a religious element. Alexander is addressed as “new Darius” (Ἀλέξανδρον Δαρεῖον νέον) and declare themselves ready to act as intermediaries so that the Persian nations may be convinced to submit to Alexander as a divine ruler: (“And we have written to the people of Persia that they beg the gods in Persia to enthrone you with Zeus and that they do obeisance to you … We have written to the Persian people (this is for your information) that now we have recognized a young Darius and the sceptre of Darius is again in the hand of Alexander, the godlike, the benefactor of the Persians”.) Although Alexander refuses the offer to be recognized as a god, (Jouanno, 2002, pp. 192–193), the letter is indicative of the great diplomatic and political power that these two Persian women seem to possess in the Romance. The mother and the wife of Darius have the power to influence and control the Persian tribes in important matters of rulership and religion, and have their own way to negotiate and exercise diplomacy. Perhaps this way is gender-determined, as the path they choose is one of full submission, of unquestioning acceptance of Alexander as a new Darius in 31. On Alexander’s treatment of women of Dariu’s family in historical sources, see Carney (2019, pp. 148–151). 32. Darius’ reaction upon reading the letter is indicative: Darius, on reading the letter, wept, remembering his family. 33. On Rhoxane as daughter of Darius see Müller (2012, pp. 301–303), Nawotka (2017, p. 183).

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the place of Darius, and as their intervention for the deification of the new ruler approaches the limits of exaggerated flattery.34

The Candace of the Romance Candace is another female character which stands out in the Romance, appearing in an embedded story about Alexander’s visit to the kingdom of Semiramis (3.18–23). Alexander ardently wishes to visit her kingdom, “since it was very famous throughout the whole country and Hellas”. The narrator presents the woman who rules that land, providing information about her exterior appearance, her age, her marital status and her descent: “And a woman ruled the city, a very beautiful woman, who was middle-aged, a widow, mother of three sons. Her name was Candace. She was a descendant of the Queen Semiramis” (3.18). Alexander sends a letter to “βασιλίσσῃ Κανδάκῃ τῇ ἐν Μερόῃ”35 asking her to “Bring the shrine and statue of Ammon to the frontier that we may make a sacrifice to it. But if you do not wish to come with it, let us meet soon in Meroë and have a conference. Let me know your wish there” (3.18). Candace replies with a letter of her own, exhibiting force of character and keen arguments in order to reject both of Alexander’s requests. Her first argument relies on authority: The god Ammon has decreed that the statue should never be moved from its place, and all those coming to Meroe for it should be considered as enemies and resisted. The second argument is based on logic: we are a people that should be reckoned with, and we have 80 military units ready for battle. Candace’s refusal is accompanied by rich gifts, which testify to the land’s great wealth and power (gold, precious stones, ivory objects, Ethiopian servants, and various kinds of wild animals).36 Candace’s mention of the skin colour of her race is notable: “Do not make a mistake about our race. We are whiter in skin and more shining in soul than the whitest with you.” The queen’s claim, which makes a case for the superiority of her people based on the contrast between black and white seems to be a motive

34. “Alexander made Sisygambis his primary symbol of continuity with the Persian past. It is not surprising that a number of sources (Diod. 17.118.3; Just. 13.1.5–6; Curt. 10.5.19–25) report that Sisygambis killed herself after mourning the death of Alexander.” (Carney 2003, p. 247). 35. For Candace’s geographical location see Jouanno (2002, pp. 210–211); Nawotka (2017, p. 211). 36. Arthur-Montagne (2014, pp. 166–169) classifies Candaces’ letter as belonging to the “documentary letters”. Cf. Merkelbach (1954, pp. 106–107).

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common to the local literature,37 and constitutes an indication of her strong character and high intelligence. Her intellectual and strategic abilities, as well as her foresight, will be further demonstrated later on. One of the first steps that the queen takes, after the letter and the information she has received about Alexander’s exploits, is, according to the omniscient narrator, the following: “she spoke to one of her artists and ordered him to travel as if for a conference with him and surreptitiously to paint a portrait of Alexander and on his return to give it to her. On receiving it, she put it in a secret hiding place” (3.19). In the next episode, Candace’s son (named Candaules38 in the Romance) arrives at Alexander’s camp and with the assistance of the great leader he manages to take back his wife, abducted by the king of the Bebryces. Alexander then disguises himself as his follower Antigonus, and accompanies Candaules and his wife back to their land, supposedly as Alexander’s emissary. In this way, he gains access to the palace of Semiramis. The description of Candace is imposing, and Alexander is touched and impressed, comparing her to his mother (see above): “On the next day, Candace appeared wearing her crown. She was a large woman with something divine in her appearance so that Alexander seemed to behold his own mother, Olympias” (3.22). The description of Candace herself is framed by the description of her palace, which is presented as opulent and exotic. The Queen takes it upon herself to give Alexander-Antigonus a tour of her kingdom. When she hears his offensive words “All these things would demand admiration, if they were among the Greeks and not with you, because they have great mountains of varied colours", Candace grows angry and calls him by his name (Alexander). The recognition scene is reminiscent of tragedy, with the dialogues expressing the passion of the protagonists. Candace has the leading role, and manages to defeat the great hero. Her rhetorical questions and in general the exchange between the two opponents draws the picture of a dynamic woman who knows very well that the final outcome (Alexander’s life or death) depends on her will. This is indicated not only by the content, but also by the style of the dialogue. Alexander’s strong emotions are viewed through the queen’s focalization: “… Why do you tremble? Why are you troubled? … “Why rage? Why gnash your teeth? What can you do?” At the same time, her irony, the conscience of the importance of her victory, and her didactic tone are evident: “You, the sacker of Persis, the conqueror of the Indians, the man who threw down the trophies of the Medes and Parthians, now without wars or army are in the power of Queen Candace. So learn, Alexander, that, if any man thinks he is supreme in wisdom above all men, another mortal will display greater wisdom than his.” (3.22) 37. Jouanno (2002, pp. 88–89) with further references to the article by Cracco-Ruggini (1965). 38. Nawotka (2017, p. 213).

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Alexander’s answer is indicative of his ire: “If I had my sword, I would first kill you in order never to be subject to you, and then myself, because I betrayed myself.” (3.22), and it is an answer viewed again through the queen’s focalization: “This is a noble and royal speech” (3.22). The “solution” is given again by Candace, as further proof of the strength of her character. She reassures the hero (“don’t be destressed”),39 and promises to help him, as repayment for the salvation of his son and his wife. She points out that Alexander’s situation in her palace is far from easy, as the wife of her younger son is a daughter of Porus, who had been killed by Alexander. If Alexander’ true identity became known, he would surely be put to death. However, she assures him that his is in no danger “for I will guard your secret” (3.22). Her predictions come true in the very next episode (3.23). Candace suggests to her sons to offer gifts to the emissary and send him back to Alexander. Two of them, Candaules and Karagos,40 agree, but the third, the youngest,41 reacts, and proposes instead to follow the advice of his wife, daughter of Porus, and kill Antigonus. Candace has her arguments ready, and tries to convince her son with the claim that it would not make much difference to Alexander to lose one of his many emissaries. Her argument fails to convince him, and a row breaks out between the brothers. Now it is Candace who is distressed (ἀγωνιάσασα περὶ τῶν τέκνων) and asks for Alexander’s help: “Since you are resourceful on every occasion (πανταχοῦ φρενήρης γενάμενος), can you not by thinking find a solution so that my sons will not fight over you?” (3.23) Alexander responds immediately, and starts his arguments with the same one that Candace had used,42 taking it a step further by promising to entrap Alexander and bring him to their kingdom (τότε τὸν ἐχθρὸν ὑποχείριον λαβόντες ἑαυτοὺς ἐκδικήσαντες ἀναπαῆτε). Alexander manages to convince the brothers to accept his plan, and Candace, “marvelling at the cleverness of Alexander, said to him in private: “Alexander, would that you too were my son and that through you I were ruling all the nations. For you have taken the cities not by war, but by great strategy (ἀγχινοίᾳ πολλῇ).”43 It is not worthy that Candace’s admiring words betray not only her recognition of the hero’s superiority, but also her own secret ambition to rule the world. The story

39. I think that the meaning of “ἀλλὰ μηδὲν ἀγωνιάσῃς” is “don’t be distressed” (LSJ s.v. II) and not “But start no contest” as Haigh translated it. 40. On the name Karagos, see Nawotka (2017, p. 218). 41. This is a standard folk-tale motif, with the youngest of three sons displaying a different behaviour. The motif is already to be found in Hesiod’s Theogony, vv. 137–138. 42. Perhaps an indirect recognition of the queen’s rhetorical ability. 43. On this motif, see Jouanno (2002, p. 207).

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ends well, with everyone satisfied, and “Candace kept his secret” (ἐγκρατῶς τῆς Κανδάκης φυλαττούσης αὐτῷ τὸ μυστήριον).44

Conclusions In the Alexander Romance, the first paradox is that Olympias is presented as a passive, weak character, in contrast to her depiction in historiographic sources. Perhaps in this way the author aimed, as part of his narrative technique, to showcase his hero even more, and to reject the notion of a world-leader influenced by his mother,45 something that could be viewed as a human weakness. In the fictional world of the Romance, Alexander must be like a fairy-tale hero, the one that has all the solution, the saviour and preserver of his mother. So to the question as to whether the Olympias of the Romance evokes the real Olympias, the answer can only be negative, but it is certain that the author’s description is related to his own social situation and stereotypes, and probably reflects quite faithfully the reality of the majority of the women of the period. The second paradox is that Olympias contrasts within the Romance with the Oriental women like Rodogoune and especially Candace. The latter has great power and is the only one who succeeded in trapping Alexander. Of course one may attribute this representation of Candace to the author’s sources and the legends he drew upon for this episode. Is it the one exception which justifies the rule in the hero’s case? Is it the viewing of the exotic oriental peoples from an alternative viewpoint? In any case, the common element for all three women is that they are mothers, who display very strong feelings of love for their sons, an indisputably diachronic reality.

Bibliography Arthur-Montagne, J. (2014). Persuasion, Emotion and the Letters of Alexander Romance. Ancient Narrative, 11, 159–189. Carney, E. (2003). Women in Alexander’s Court. In J. Roisman, (Ed.), Brill’s Companion to Alexander the Great (pp. 226–250). Leiden/Boston: Brill. Carney, E. (2006). Olympias: Mother of Alexander the Great. London: Routledge.

44. On Candace’s story and its reception, see also Ehlert (1989, pp. 84 ff.) 45. See Carney’s remark (2006, p. 53): “Instead, the letters often employ Greek gender stereotypes to define Alexander in contrast to his mother, to demonstrate that he was a conventional Hellene, not a “mama’s boy””.

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Carney, E. (2019). Women and Masculinity in the Life of AlexanderAuthor(s). Illinois Classical Studies, 44, 141–155. Collins, A. (2012). Callisthenes on Olympias and Alexander’s Divine Birth. AHB, 26, 1–14. Cracco-Ruggini, L. (1965). Sulla cristianizzazione della cultura pagana: il mito greco e latino di Alessandro dallʼ eta antonina al Medioevo. Athenaeum, 43, 3–80. Ehlert, T. (1989). Alexander und die Frauen im spätantiken und mittelalterlichen AlexanderErzählungen. In W. Erzgräber, (Ed.), Kontinuität und Transformation der Antike im Mittelalter. Veröffentlichung der Kongreßakten zum Freiburger Symposion des Mediävistenverbandes (pp. 81–103). Sigmaringen: Jan Thorbecke Verlag. Fusillo, M. (1994). Letteratura di consumo e romanzesca. In: G. Cambiano, L. Canfora & D. Lanza, (Eds.), Lo spazio letterario della Grecia antica, vol. 1.3: I Greci e Roma (pp. 233–273). Roma: Salerno Editrice. Hägg, T. (1997). A Professor and his Slave: Conventions and Values in the Life of Aesop. In: P. Bilde, T. Engberg-Pedersen et al., (Eds.), Conventional Values of the Hellenistic Greeks (pp. 177–203). Aarhus: Aarhus University Press. Hägg, T. (2012). The Art of Biography in Antiquity. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Haight, E. H. (1955). The Life of Alexander of Macedon by Pseudo-Callisthenes. New York: Longmans, Green. Howe, T. (2015). Cleopatra-Eurydike, Olympias and a ‘Weak’ Alexander. In P. Wheatley, & E. Baynham, (Eds.), East and West in the World Empire of Alexander. Essays in Honour of Brian Bosworth (pp. 133–146). Oxford: Oxford University Press. Jasnow, R. (1997). The Greek Alexander Romance and Demotic Egyptian Literature. Journal of Near Eastern Studies, 56, 95–103. Jouanno, C. (1995). Alexandre et Olympias: de l’histoire au mythe. BAGB, 3, 211–230. Jouanno, C. (2002). Naissance et metamorphoses du Roman d’A lexandre. Domaine grec. Paris: CNRS editions. Jouanno, C. (2009). De la Vie d’A lexandre (Plutarque) au Roman d’A lexandre (Anonyme): réflexions sur la personne du héros. BAGB, fasc. 1, 98–119. Karla, G. (2009). Fictional Biography Vis-à-vis Romance: Affinity and Differentiation. In: G. Karla, (Ed.), Fiction on the Fringe. Novelistic Writing in the Post-Classical Age (pp. 13–32). Leiden, Boston: Brill. Karla, G. (2012). Νarrative techniques in the Alexander Romance, Mnemosyne, 65, 636–655. Konstan, D. (1994). Sexual Symmetry: Love in the Ancient Novel and Related Genres. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Konstan, D. (1998). The Alexander Romance: The Cunning of the Open Text. Lexis, 16, 123–38 Konstantakos, I. (2009). Nektanebo in the Vita Aesopi and in other narratives. Classica and Mediaevalia, 60, 99–144. Konstantakos, I. (2015). Death in Babylon: Alexander and the fatal portent (Alexander Romance III 30). Eikasmos, 26, 253–274. Koulakiotis, E. (2006). Genese und Metamorphosen des Alexandermythos im Spiegel der griechischen nicht-historiographischen Überlieferung bis zum 3. Jh. n.Chr. Konstanz: Universitätsverlag Konstanz. Kroll, W. (1926). Historia Alexandri Magni (Pseudo-Callisthenes). Recensio vetusta. Berlin: Weidmann.

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Matthey, Ph. (2012). Pharaon, magicien et filou. Nectanébo II entre l’histoire et la légende. ASDIWAL. Revue genevoise d’anthropologie et d’histoire des religions, 7, 197–203. Merkelbach, R. (1954). Die Quellen des Griechischen Alexander-Romans. München: C.H. Beckʼsche Verlagsbuchhandlung. Morales, H. (2004). Vision and Narrative in Achilles Tatius’ Leucippe and Clitophon. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Müller, S. (2012). Stories of the Persian Bride: Alexander and Roxane. In R. Stoneman et al. (Eds), The Alexander Romance in Persia and the East (pp. 295–309). Groningen: Barkhuis. Nawotka, K. (2017). The Alexander Romance by Ps.-Callisthenes: A Historical Commentary. Leiden, Boston: Brill. Stoneman, R. (1991). The Greek Alexander Romance. London: Penguin. Stoneman, R. (2009). The Author of the Alexander Romance. In: M. Paschalis, S. Panayotakis, G. Schmeling, (Eds.), Readers and Writers in the Ancient Novel (pp. 142–154). Groningen: Barkhuis Thomas, Ch. M. (1998). Stories without Texts and without Authors: The Problem of Fluidity in Ancient Novelistic Texts and Early Christian Literature. In R. F. Hock, J. B. Chance, J. Perkins, (Eds.), Ancient Fiction and Early Christian Narrative (pp. 273–291). Atlanta, Georgia: Scholars Press.

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Kidnapping in the ancient novels Sophia Papaioannou

National and Kapodistrian University of Athens

Kidnapping is an essential component of Ancient novel narrative because it is a major force behind the development of the plot. Additionally, kidnapping enables the author to experiment with travelling as a literary mechanism to signify transition (kidnapping initiates travelling which allows for convenient transition points, and supplies closures and openings to narrative units), but also to employ travelling as an allegory for soul-/identitysearching, as a means to trace characterization and as a rite of passage onto maturity. Keywords: kidnapping, peripeteia, identity, travelling, transition, rite of passage

A core motif of ancient narrative of all types, kidnapping operates on several levels. The motif betrays the Hellenistic provenance of the genre (e.g. Hägg, 1983; Reardon, 1971). Pompey’s command against the pirates in 67 BCE was the first decisive campaign on the part of the Romans to suppress piracy which devastated the coastal cities and the islands of the Mediterranean. When Augustus came to power he undertook a large expedition that nearly eliminated piracy – and along with it, kidnapping and enslavement – well into the late third century CE.1 On the other hand, pirates can really fire up a narrative of suspense. They are a convenient plot device to generate peripeteia, as they enable people to be transported beyond expectation to far-away places, or undergo drastic change of their fortunes. In four of the five Greek romances and in the two Latin novels of Apuleius and Apollonius, King of Tyre,2 kidnapping becomes the catalyst for 1. The reference work on piracy in the Ancient Mediterranean is de Souza (2002, pp. 149–224) discuss the gradual elimination of piracy in the Late Republican and Augustan/Imperial period, while pp. 225–240 discuss the situation in Late Antiquity after the third century. 2. The full extent of employing the kidnapping motif in Petronius cannot be ascertained; in the available fragment, kidnapping concerns male characters (Encolpius and his lover Ascyltus in ch. 27 reportedly were kidnapped by Quartilla’s men); and the employment of the trope is clearly self-conscious (it pokes fun at the kidnapping theme of young maidens in the romantic novels). https://doi.org/10.1075/ivitra.40.16pap © 2024 John Benjamins Publishing Company

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expanding the geographical territory of adventure, escalating suspense and introducing a new unit in the narrative, with its own cluster of episodes. Suspense and action in a novel begins when a young woman, usually unmarried and a virgin, is kidnapped or captured by robbers or pirates, with the intention to be sold for profit. On occasion, someone of the captors lusts for the woman and wishes to keep her for himself; more often, the new owner of the woman may be a brothel keeper; less commonly, the new owner is a good man, who falls in love with her and wishes to marry her. In the longer novels of Achilles Tatius and Heliodorus, that feature more elaborate plots, more than one kidnapping occur, as the leading heroine is abducted and relocated against her will, but also on her own, by faking her abduction, more than one time. Her beloved tries to follow her course and liberate her, but often suffers himself adventures of comparable nature and complication (he likewise falls victim to kidnapping, enslavement and ongoing relocation). Kidnapping, in short, and the separation that follows test the limits of love and devotion between the kidnapped heroine and her beloved. The kidnappers will stop at nothing in the novels, and they have no moral boundaries: they are violent, greedy and too often represent lust. The situation is so canonical that it bespeaks its rhetorical origins: in several of the Elder Seneca’s controversies the students of oratory are invited to discuss situations involving pirates and kidnappings. E.g. Controv. 1.2 reports the hypothetical case of a virgin who was kidnapped by pirates and sold into slavery as a prostitute. She kills a soldier to defend her virginity, she is arrested and tried, but she is acquitted and eventually wishes to become a priestess. Kidnapping by pirates in the context of this controversia alludes to the dangers that beset all maidens away from the world of the oikos, namely loss of virginity. Seneca’s speakers emphasize the impossibility of a kidnapped woman to manage to maintain her virginity – a theme, nonetheless, that is canonical in the novels. My overview will explore the significance of kidnapping for the development of the plot in an ancient novel. I will discuss three important functions of the motif. Not all three of them feature with the same intensity in all novels, and the variation allows for several important observations on the novelists’ literary selfconsciousness. Foremost, kidnapping is a catalyst that generates peripeteia and plot development. Then, it enables the author to experiment with travelling as a literary mechanism to signify transition (kidnapping initiates travelling, which allows for convenient transition points, and supplies closures and openings to narrative units), but also to employ travelling as an allegory for soul-/identity searching. In the romantic novels kidnapping leads the heroes alike in wellknown cities of the eastern part of the Roman world (Tyre, Ephesus, Miletus, Byzantium, Alexandria), and in unmarked, uninhabited territories (woods, caves, etc.); notably, from all romantic novels all references to Rome are omitted. Finally,

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kidnapping offers the heroes and heroines the opportunity to ‘develop’ both as literary characters and as individuals, i.e., to distinguish themselves from other heroes/heroines who suffer similar plight in other romantic novels, and to enter their individual rite of passage onto adulthood and maturity. The primary focus of my examination will be the five Greek romances, but since romantic stories are included in the texture of the more complex Latin novels I will make references to the latter narratives, as well, especially to Apuleius. My overview will begin with a discussion of the kidnapping theme in the earliest of the five romantic novels, Chariton’s Chaereas and Callirhoe, and I will point out how kidnapping operates on the three areas noted above. Subsequently, I will trace the elaboration of the trope and its canonization in the novels of Xenophon of Ephesus, Heliodorus and Achilles Tatius. I will conclude with a few comments on the absence of kidnapping from Longus’ novel.

Preamble: Chaereas and Callirhoe In Chariton’s Chaereas and Callirhoe, the earliest of the romantic novels,3 Callirhoe is carried off by pirates, and in Miletus she sold to Dionysius, the wealthy ruler of Ionia, who happened to be visiting the city at the time. Callirhoe’s story differs in several important details from the love story recorded in all other romantic novels, attesting possibly to its ignorance of earlier relevant tradition: the young couple meet and marry shortly after the opening of the novel (Charit. 1.1.11–16), but due to the devious machinations of jealous, rejected suitors, Callirhoe is accidentally hit by an angry Chaereas, who believes that she is cheating on him, and loses consciousness. As a result, she is thought to have died, and she is buried. A group of pirates break into the tomb to rob the rich offerings and find the young woman who has in the meantime recovered her senses and realized that she has been buried alive. When they realize that she is not a ghost, they deliberate about her fate, before their leader, Theron, decides to take her with them and sell her for profit. The narrative of the abduction is lengthy (Charit. 1.7–14) compared to kidnapping episodes in other novels, and the fate of Callirhoe is decided through climactic narration that includes an assembly of the robbers to debate on the matter; their speeches evoke situations known from epic councils or judicial discourses, as opposing arguments are heard before the leader of the band imposes his authority and decides to sell Callirhoe in some faraway place.

3. On the date of Chariton to the mid-first century CE, see Bowie, 2003, with an overview of earlier arguments.

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Callirhoe’s kidnapping manifests additional notable differences from the typical form of the trope as crystalized in the later novels: nobody becomes aware of her kidnapping when it takes place, because she is thought for dead; at the time of her ‘death’ and abduction Callirhoe is pregnant to Chaereas’ child, without him knowing; she is sold not to a brothel-keeper but to a good man, Dionysius, an aristocrat from Miletus, who falls in love with her and marries her. Dionysius is duped into believing that the child Callirhoe carries is his own (Charit. 3.7); the success of this plan necessitates the consummation of Callirhoe’s marriage to Dionysius. Second marriages and actually consummated second marriages similarly stray from the-kidnapping-of-a-virgin model. Also unorthodox is the decision of the heroine, when eventually is reunited to her first husband Chaereas, to leave her son behind with Dionysius along with a letter of farewell (Charit. 8.4.5) – a gift of consolation to her second husband (?) Finally, Callirhoe has repeatedly being characterized, unlike the other novels, as historical novel, because it does not deal exclusively with fictitious characters: Callirhoe is the daughter of the Sicilian general Hermocrates who led the Syracusan troops in their victory against the Athenian expedition in 413 BCE (Charit. 1.1.1). Chaereas and Callirhoe in their adventures cross paths with other historical figures, including the Persian satrap Mirthidates, the Persian king Artaxerxes (Artaxerxes II ruled between 404–358 BCE) who resides in Babylon, and Dionysius the tyrant of Miletus. Even the child of Callirhoe, who grows up in the palace of Dionysius, will supposedly travel to Syracuse when he comes of age, where he is destined to become the tyrant Dionysius I (Charit. 8.7.11–12). This “mixture of real and the imaginary on the same plane of representation” (Fleishman, 1978, p. 53)4 enhances the element of realism and the credibility of the story in a degree unmatched by the other novels.5 Callirhoe’s kidnapping by Theron and his gang initiates travelling and allows the readers to reflect on the dynamics of space in the romances. The pace of the narrative increases in correspondence with the speedy transportation of the heroes from the one end of the Mediterranean to the other. The novel begins and ends in Syracuse, but in between the protagonists travel to numerous places along the coast of the eastern Mediterranean and beyond: Callirhoe ends up in Miletus; Dionysus and Mithridates are called to Artaxerxes’ court in Babylon to settle their differences; Chaereas in Book 7 leading the troops of the Egyptian 4. On defining historical novel and the problems tied to it, Hägg (1987). 5. The historical element is enforced from the very beginning. Critics have repeatedly observed that Chariton’s opening sentence imitates the openings of Herodotus’ Histories and Thucydides’ account of the Peloponnesian war. On Chariton’s uses of history see Connors (2002); and the earlier studies of Hunter (1994); Alvares (1993); Bartsch (1934).

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rebels captures Tyre; then he wins a naval victory against the Persians in Egypt. Yet, geography in Chariton is carefully structured. As Whitmarsh has observed, “there is a broad geographical unity to each of the individual books of Callirhoe” (Whitmarsh, 2009, p. 42). Whitmarsh believes that the arrangement of geographic movement from one book to the next is designed to echo Herodotus, as some of the heroes’ journeys take place inside the Greek-speaking world and some in the non-Greek territory beyond the Euphrates, with Euphrates marking the border between the two (Whitmarsh, 2009, pp. 36–50). Also this transition from the familiar to the alien geographic space coincides with the opening of the second half of the novel (Charit. 5.1.3), while the individual and, in many respects, parallel journeys of Chaereas and Callirhoe converge but only briefly so.

Kidnapping and Peripeteia In Xenophon of Ephesus’ Ephesiaca Anthia is kidnapped under similar circumstances as Callirhoe (Ephes. 3.8.3–3.9.1): she is presumed dead and is buried, but robbers break into her tomb and take her (who in the meantime has returned to her senses) with them, and subsequently they sell her to traders. In Xenophon’s narrative, however, this recollection of Chariton’s plot launches the second phase of the novel. Anthia and Habrocomes are separated for the first time in book one, shortly after their marriage. As early as the beginning of their union they are informed that they are destined to become protagonists in a typical romantic novel: a soothsayer who discloses the couple’s mutual love to their families and brings about the wedding also predicts that the couple will undergo travails involving pirates, tombs, fire and flood, before they reunite and live happily ever after (Ephes. 1.8). The families in their effort to avert this grim future actually expedite it, for they send them away by sea to Egypt – and on the way there the couple is kidnapped at Rhodes by Phoenician pirates (Ephes. 2.2), and soon afterwards are forced on separate paths, comparably adventurous. Thus, the audience has the opportunity to follow two distinct micro-narratives of adventure and study two different developments in the aftermath of kidnapping. Later Anthia, who is sold by Lampon to Cilician traders, is kidnapped again by robbers led by Hippothoos. However, the robbers are ambushed and killed by Perilaos, who in turn liberates Anthia but gradually falls in love with her and asks her to marry him; she tries to avert this union, originally by postponing it, then by wishing to commit suicide by poison. Thus the heroine dies for a second time, and her death marks by default the end to her second phase of adventures. This second ‘peripeteia’ narrative in the aftermath of the second kidnapping elab-

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orates on a different potential novelistic script, which shares with Anthia’s earlier set of adventures the repeated effort to subject the heroine to marriage – threaten, that is, the mutual oath of chastity she and Habrocomes had taken. Plot development reaches an additional level of suspense with Xenophon’s clever entwinement of the two heroes’ individual ‘peripeteias’: Hippothoos, the robber who originally kidnapped and nearly killed Anthia in book 2, in early book 3 becomes Habrocomes’ dear friend. The association of kidnapping and a near-death experience distinguishes all novels, but it receives elaborate treatment in Achilles Tatius and Apuleius. The former employs the trope four different times, far more frequently than any other novelist, while the latter places at the center of his novel a chain of embedded stories developing around kidnappings. In Achilles Tatius, the kidnapping involves two different female victims, who have in common their attachment to the young hero/lover Cleitophon. The first kidnapping in Achilles Tatius is that of Calligone, Cleitophon’s first fiancée. She is kidnapped by Callisthenes, who mistakes her for Leucippe. Callisthenes is rejected by Leucippe’s father (Ach. Tat. 2.13), because his lifestyle is dissolute, and resorts to brigandage to take her (Ach. Tat. 2.18). He activates his plan in Tyre, the place where Calligone lives. He kidnaps Calligone in the fashion of a rapist and a pirate (Ach. Tat. 2.17.3 φύσει πειρατικός),6 but once he realizes that he has kidnapped the wrong woman, he does not harm her in any way; instead, he undergoes a radical change of character, for he falls in love with Calligone, respects her chastity, wishes to marry her, and eventually transforms himself to a distinguished general worthy to become Calligone’s husband with the approval of Calligone’s father. This first kidnapping story serves as a framer for the entire novel, in a way underscoring the kidnapping motif as cardinal for the composition of the archetypal romantic narrative. At the same time, once Calligone is kidnapped she disappears from (plot) sight, for the narrator of the entire novel, who is actually Cleitophon, does not care about his former fiancée’s fate – rather, he is relieved that the kidnapping has brought about “a solution to the problem of [his] wedding” (Ach. Tat. 2.18.5–6). The narrative returns to Callisthenes and Calligone (and the audience learns that their relationship eventually has a happy ending) only in the final chapters of the entire novel (Ach. Tat. 8.17.1–8.18.5). In fact, the speed by which the denouement is brought about is notable: upon recognizing that he kidnapped the wrong maiden, Callisthenes simply falls in love with

6. His outlaw-like profiling at the opening of the novel is stressed by a second character in the novel with the same name, Leucippe’s slave trader.

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Calligone (Ach. Tat. 8.17.3), and proceeds to prove himself a worthy and devoted husband to her and a distinguished son-in-law to her father.7 In addition to its function in the structure of Achilles Tatius’ novel, this first kidnapping has an important consequence in the development of the plot, because it clears the way for Cleitophon and Leucippe to be together once the obstacle of Calligone is removed. A series of faked or staged kidnappings follow, all of which conspicuously are accompanied by as many apparent fake deaths. Leucippe’s initial kidnapping is a fake one: she and Cleitophon elope after they stage their elopement to look like a kidnapping, but the ship they board to leave Tyre is taken by Egyptian pirates. An actual kidnapping happens, and both lovers are taken by force to Egypt. Leucippe is led to the bandits’ headquarters to be sacrificed in a particularly gruesome fashion (disembowelment) (Ach. Tat. 3.15). The sacrifice is witnessed by a heart-broken Cleitophon, who has been liberated by Egyptian soldiers in the meantime and in desperation considers suicide (Ach. Tat. 3.16), when he suddenly realizes that Leucippe is alive and the sacrifice was an act through the employment of theatrical props, executed by two of his friends who managed to deceive the bandits.8 Leucippe then is kidnapped a third time: a stranger named Chaereas, who in the meantime has befriended himself to the couple, falls in love with Leucippe and hires a band of bandits to kidnap her as they board a ship to go from the Nile delta to Alexandria. Chaereas carries Leucippe off on his own boat, and in order to discourage Cleitophon from following them he chops off and throws into the sea a female head, which Cleitophon mistakes for Leucippe’s head. Thus Leucippe’s kidnapping is matched with a fake and horrible death once again (Ach. Tat. 5.7). The repetition of this motif, that is so counteracting to the adventure-romance plot, experiments with the structural development of the narrative, by combining linear progression with circularity – in other words, the adventures of the couple continue but they appear to repeat themselves with notable similarity. The metaliterary character of this motif of repetition is remarked upon by Achilles Tatius, when near the end of the novel he introduces a third fake death of Leucippe (though one not tied to a kidnapping this time) and puts in the mouth of Clinias, Cleitophon’s friend, a comment that bespeaks the author’s literary self-consciousness: he makes Clinias wonder how 7. Callisthenes’ character transformation follows closes that of Chariton’s Chaereas, who begins the novel as a zealous and violent husband/lover to turn into a successful general and devoted husband, but the abruptness of Callisthenes’ transformation is unprecedented. The intertextuality between the two novels has been recently revisited in Bird, 2019, and adds weight to the view that the later authors of the romantic novels were aware of their predecessors, alluded to them on purpose and had generic self-consciousness. 8. The nameless girl in Philostratus’ Life of Apollonius of Tyana and Apuleius’ Psyche also come back to life after a type of an abduction that is closely associated with death.

Chapter 16. Kidnapping in the ancient novels

many times should Leucippe need to die and come back to life again before one realizes that this is a narrative convention (Ach. Tat. 7.6).9 Kidnapping becomes the core of thematically concentric embedded narratives in the story of the noble maiden Charite in Apuleius, Metamorphoses (2nd c. CE). The young woman is kidnapped by a group of robbers who consider selling her to a brothel-keeper (Met. 7.9.5–6). She becomes the narrator of her own story, which coincides with a dream she had, that became the catalyst for her to break her silence. Charite narrates to her guardian, the old servant of the bandits who abducted her, the story of how she had been kidnapped (Met. 4.26.3ff.). Immediately afterwards she describes a dream that terrified her and caused her to wake up in tears. This dream follows closely her actual experience: she was allegedly abducted after a band of robbers broke into her house. At the same time, the two kidnappings, in dream and reality, have significant differences: in the dream, Charite is kidnapped “right from [her] mother’s trembling arms” and shortly before her wedding; while the bridegroom dies while pursuing the kidnappers and urging the people who came to celebrate the wedding to do the same. The actual kidnapping, on the contrary, took place without anyone opposing the brigands, and without a citizen audience to witness it. Charite’s dream is recorded in Met. 4.27.2ff. Both real and imaginary plots agree that the kidnapping took place shortly before Charite’s wedding. Since the ritual of a Roman wedding involved the departure of the bride from her paternal home in the semblance of a mock-rape, Charite’s double kidnapping foreshadows her wedding.10 Indeed, during her captivity, Charite’s fiancé, Tlepolemus, manages to infiltrate the gang of the robbers and convinces them to appoint him as their leader. During a celebratory dinner in the aftermath of a successful raid, Tlepolemus drugs the robbers and frees his fiancée; Charite’s marriage is realized after all. The death of Tlepolemus in the dream may project forward to a later time of the couple’s life, when Tlepolemus will actually die as a murder victim. Charite herself, too, participates actively in the realization of Tlepolemus’ punishment plan, by pretending not to have recognized Tleopolemus. In short, the narrative structure of the kidnapping episode epitomizes the many layers of intratextual interaction that brings together the various episodes and narrative clusters in the Metamorphoses, and allows the reading audience to appreciate the literary sophistication that underlines the composition of novelistic action.

9. Achilles Tatius’ novel is profoundly self-referential; see Myers (2016). 10. See full discussion of the parallel weddings in Papaioannou (1998).

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Kidnapping and identity formation Ongoing travelling, far and wide, by sea and by land, is an integral part of the novelistic plot (E. Rohde, Der Griechische Roman und seine Vorläufer, Leipzig: Breitkopf und Härtel 1876, 178–183, argued that travel stories was the inspiration for the romantic novels). Kidnapping is a common cause forcing the heroes to undertake travelling. Their routes carry them to geographically significant and specific places, both to famous commercial hubs, like Tyre, Miletus, Ephesus and Alexandria, and to unchartered territory, such as woods, caves and deserts, and these journeys have a two-fold function: on the one hand, they operate as a mechanism of narrative transition,11 as they combine change of space with change of narrative focus; on the other, the travelling adventures following a kidnapping allow the heroes/victims to embark into a journey of self-searching which at the end leads them to abandon and question old identities, assume others, and eventually discover or build new ones.12 Chariton’s heroes travel from Sicily (the western end of the Greek world in the 4th c. BCE) to Asia Minor and Babylon (the eastern end of the Mediterranean), and ultimately back to Sicily. Kidnapping launches the beginning of a life or the quest for a new identity for Callirhoe: when Theron’s pirates find her, she is considered dead and she is buried in a tomb. Her resurrection is combined with her departure from the land where she lived her entire former life, and introduces her, albeit against her hopes and desires, into a chain of personal experiences that will lead her, at times forcibly, at times willingly, to assume new identities: she is sold as a slave, and then marries a second time. At the same time, Callirhoe’s loyalty to her love for her husband prohibits her from leaving behind her old self (that is, the memories of her former life at Syracuse) and fully transforming herself mentally, even though the discovery of her pregnancy necessitated that she accept the marriage proposal of Dionysius and embrace a new identity as Dionysius’ consort – a wedding in a way anticipated already by Chaereas, who, upon discovering that the tomb of his dead wife has been broken into, cries out that his dead bride, whom he compares to Ariadne, has been taken by Dionysus (Charit. 3.3.4).13 Callirhoe’s

11. In Whitmarsh’s words, kidnappers “are the enemies of narrative stasis, ever accelerating and renewing the plot in unpredictable ways” (2011, p. 47). 12. On the way identities are fashioned and re-fashioned in the Greek romances, see Whitmarsh (2011). 13. In fact, Callirhoe’s sustained comparison to Ariadne (occurring for the first time as early as 1.6, when the (so-believed) dead Callirhoe is said to resemble Ariadne sleeping on the shore of Naxos) is another identity thread running through the novel; on Callirhoe as Ariadne see Cueva (1995, pp. 39–44).

Chapter 16. Kidnapping in the ancient novels

kidnapping triggers an identity transformation for Chaereas, as well. Already in remorse for having caused her death, or so he believes, once he finds out that his wife is not dead, he leads an expedition to recover her. This journey will force him to confront many dangers, and, by becoming eventually the leader of a rebellion against the Persian Great King, lead many heroic deeds and redeem his former un-manly behavior. Anthia and Habrocomes is the second novel that features a couple whose troubles begin after their wedding, even though in their case the grim future has been foretold by omens prior to the marital union. Habrocomes never treats Anthia violently like Chaereas, yet he fails to defend her when they are attacked by pirates and kidnapped during their honeymoon voyage to Egypt. During the pirates’ raid, the couple surrenders without putting up any fight and offers themselves as slaves (Ephes. 1.13.6), while begging to be spared death and separation. In their case, their union is more important than any other aspect of their identity. Enslavement followed by mistreatment is a stage that is a staple in the peregrinations of all the heroes in the romantic novels, and occurs with notable variety that comments, among others, at once on the cruelty and on the omnipresence of the institution at the fabric of ancient societies across cultures. Heliodorus’ Ethiopica does not build on extensive travelling. Even though the plot involves a sea journey, from Greece (Delphi) southwards, ending ultimately in Ethiopia, the narrative begins in medias res (the only novel that adopts this narrative mechanism) and begins with a kidnapping: the heroine, Chariclea, and her beloved Theagenes, have already arrived at the Delta of the Nile, but a group of bandits attack their moored ship and kidnap both of them. For Chariclea this is truly a homeward journey, for the heroine’s birthplace and her biological father is the king of Ethiopia. Once Chariclea lands in Egypt her sufferings build on the change of individuals and situations associated with her; the diversity in interpersonal tension replaces the drastic change of scenery brought about by journeying. Even prior to the kidnapping at the opening of the novel Chariclea’s departure from her adopted home is effected by means of staged kidnapping. The young Thessalian Theagens, who falls in love with her but knows that he has few chances to marry her since Chariclea is already betrothed to another man, stages (at Eth. 4.17ff.), with the assistance of his friends, a mock-kidnapping in alignment with the practices of bridal abduction common in ancient society at the time.14 The kidnapping venture brings about identity transformation, first of all to Theagenes, who admits that he has become a pirate and a robber and has committed violent injustice (Eth. 10.37.1). An uncontested proof to this is the fact that his community 14. On Chariclea’s mock-kidnapping by / marriage to Theagenes in accordance with actual tradition, see Lateiner (1997).

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in Thessaly has disowned him and condemned him in his absence to execution (Eth. 10.36.4). The series of kidnappings that follow in succession once the two heroes land in Egypt strengthen rather than weaken their bond, and this because, in order that they may not be separated by their captors, they pretend that they are siblings rather than a couple. This enables them to be together longer than other couples and at the same time it tests their commitment to each other. Achilles Tatius and Heliodorus are the two novels that make the chastity of the protagonists crucial for the development of the plot and the core of every identity the heroes assume in the process. The recurrence of the kidnapping motif in the two texts hardens the heroes’ resolve at the same time it prolongs suspense. The kidnapped Charite’s case in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses illustrates the subconscious struggle with intergeneric identity—at work in all novels and in particular in Apuleius.15 Charite is a very complex character and undergoes many changes as a result of her experiences, which begin with her kidnapping. In the early stages of her story she is an innocent and helpless captive, who dreams of a replication of her personal, and as yet unfinished, adventure, to which she hastens to give a grim conclusion. In several respects she echoes an elegiac heroine in distress, an identity confirmed by a clear allusion in the text to this end. When she wakes up in terror from her dream in question – the time of this dream is the first night after her kidnapping – she laments and beats her breasts (Met. 4.25.1), and the description echoes the reaction of unhappy Amor upon witnessing erotic breakages, as described in Ovid’s Amores 3.9.9–10, as well as that of the epic Cornelia, Pompey’s wife, in her consideration of various methods of suicide as reported in Lucan, BC 9.106–7.16

Kidnapping and rites of passage Kidnappings remove violently the maidens away not only from their family and familiar surroundings but from their own identity which they are called to define anew. The kidnapping of freeborn girls by robbers or pirates prior to the novel is a common narrative situation in New Greek and Roman Comedy. Plautus’ Curculio, Persa, Poenulus and Rudens; Terence’s Andria and Eunuch; and Menander’s 15. On intergeneric intertextuality in Apuleius, see Harrison (2013). 16. Later, in the Metamorphoses, at a later part of Charite’s life, the heroine, now in a loving marriage, is confronted with the treacherous murder of her husband, and her tragedy causes her to behave in a way that resembles Vergil’s Dido. On generic complexity in Charite’s characterization see Finkelpearl (1998, pp. 76–77, 115–148).

Chapter 16. Kidnapping in the ancient novels

Sikyonioi, all feature freeborn Athenian girls who, prior to the opening of the play, were abducted and raised in brothels in order to become courtesans upon reaching the right age.17 In Comedy the abductees were babies or little girls at the time, with little memory of their lives prior to kidnapping (though some of them, e.g., Palaestra in the Rudens, are aware of possessing tokens that attest to a prior identity) – a crucial detail that has been altered in the ancient novels. Even so, once a pseudokore’s citizen identity is revealed, then the plot takes a new turn, and the play always closes with her wedding to another citizen, typically her beloved, who until the identity revelation could not legally wed her.18 In the romantic novels, the kidnapping of the heroine takes place as she is preparing to transition from girlhood to womanhood – either shortly before her wedding or very soon afterwards. In fact, this violent act of separation from one’s comfort zone was firmly present in the ceremony of the Roman marriage tradition. Marriage in ancient Rome involved a ritual that simulated rape/kidnapping. The bridegroom pretended to seize the bride from the lap of her mother or closest female relation in a ritual that recalled the rape of the Sabine women. It is hardly accidental that the initiation of the virgin heroines in the romantic novels into womanhood starts with an abduction by outlaws. Once at the hands of lusty bandits, the heroine (and less frequently the hero, as well) is constantly under threat of losing her virginity (or spousal chastity, if already married at the time of the kidnapping). Maintaining virginity is at the core of the maturation process for the protagonists; kidnapping and the dangerous situations associated with it initiate a series of threats. These threats test the lovers and their devotion to each other in many ways, but also make them less reserved, more self-reliant and occasionally very bold. In Xenophon’s Ephesiaca, Anthia is kidnapped by pirates and then sold to a pimp. Once she realizes that she is facing the danger to lose her virginity she feigns epilepsy, and her acting deterred her clients (Ephes. 5.7). Earlier in the novel Anthia does not hesitate to commit murder in order to safeguard her virginity (Ephes. 4.5). The most detailed and episodic description of this rite of passage into adulthood is recorded in Achilles Tatius. The heroine in this novel is kidnapped three times, and each kidnapping steels her determination not just to remain faithful to Cleitophon but also to maintain her virginity until her ordeal is over once and for all. The end of virginal status is a marker of closure – it concludes the narrative and completes the transition of the heroes from youth and immaturity to 17. For the motif of the abducted heroine who preserves her chastity in a brothel, in comedy and in fiction see Raffaelli (1984, p. 126); Panayotakis (2002, p. 106) (with earlier bibliography). 18. On the firm presence of post-Aristophanic comedy in the subtext of the Ancient Novel, see Smith (2013).

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adulthood. Distinctly, soon after Leucippe’s liberation from the first kidnapping, Cleitophon suggests that they have sex, but Leucippe refuses and attributes her decision to Artemis who at an earlier time visited her in her sleep and ordered her to keep herself chaste until the right time for their marriage came. Leucippe’s dream prompts Cleitophon to recall a dream of his own, a woman resembling a statue of Aphrodite, who blocked for him the entrance to Aphrodite’s temple all the while promising him that eventually he would become Aphrodite’s priest. As a result of this dream-exchange the two lovers see their union as a stable and longterm relationship, and agree to postpone sex until the right time comes. Heliodorus’ Chariclea and Theagenes reach a happy end to their travails not only by getting married but also by being ordained as priestess and priest of the Moon and the Sun, respectively. Chariclea’s rite of passage from maidenhood to womanhood is entwined with an anagnorismos, for her real father is the priest of Ethiopia – anagnorismos, reaching back to New Comedy, is the par excellence narrative technique for identity transformation and maturation of a young maiden, leading automatically to marriage and citizenship status. Finally, a priesthood is the closural fate for Lucius, the hero in Apuleius’ novel, whose transformation into an ass earlier in the narrative initiated a series of adventures triggered by his being seized (an equivalent to kidnapping but for the hero’s animal status at the time) by robbers. Lucius recovers his former human identity in the last book of work, but the novel closes with his initiation into the cult of Isis and assumption of the office of an Isis priest. The abandonment of maidenhood is a violent process emotionally, a rapture, and as such it is underscored in the novels by kidnapping anticipated or accompanied by supernatural events. The kidnapping of Calligone (Ach. Tat. 2.18) is augured by an omen (Ach. Tat. 2.12). Leucippe’s kidnapping and beheading (Ach. Tat. 5.7) are foretold by the picture of Philomela’s myth (Ach. Tat. 5.5).19 Charite’s experience, in Apuleius, is mirrored in that of Psyche, that occupies books 4–6, the core of Apuleius’ novel. Psyche is the heroine of the consolatory story narrated to Charite by the old servant of the robbers who took pity on her. Psyche undergoes a form of kidnapping, as well, albeit voluntarily and at the direction of the oracle. She finds herself in a different world cut off from all human interaction, and after undergoing several impossible trials with success, she wins back her husband, Cupid, and her kidnapping concludes with their marriage.

19. Achilles Tatius uses kidnapping and the travelling associated with it not only to fulfill a major convention of the genre but also as a pretext to display his rhetorical prowess at ekphraseis (1.1; 3.6–8; 5.3–5) including descriptions of strange beasts (3.25; 4.4; 4.19).

Chapter 16. Kidnapping in the ancient novels

Coda: Longus’ kidnapping-free novel Daphnis and Chloe stands apart from all the other novels, both in its static setting, as the narrative takes place almost entirely in the same artificial idyllic pastoral world in the hinterland of Mytilene, and in the relatively uneventful lives of the protagonists. It almost seems that Longus’ narrative reacts against the conventions of the genre in terms of topography and movement.20 The enamored couple never leaves the island of Lesbos – indeed the very fields, hills and woods where they were raised – and is spared the misfortunes experienced by the young lovers in the other novels. This emphasis on geographical fixity is underscored by a double failure to kidnap the protagonists away from their familiar fields and woods. Chloe is kidnapped by a gang of Methymnians (Long. 2.20), the residents of another major city of Lesbos, but on the same night and as the gang with their prisoner are on their way northwards to Methymna, Chloe is miraculously liberated by Pan (Long. 2.27–28) and is taken back to her woods to a great celebration. Earlier in the novel, at the end of book 1, Daphnis is kidnapped by pirates, but his kidnapping is even briefer, as it barely takes him a few miles offshore, before a sea storm, which was caused by his herd of cows that jumped into the water enchanted by Chloe’s song on the pan pipes, rammed and destroyed the ship carrying him off. Contrary to the pirates who drown, Daphnis falls into the water and swims back to the safety of his familiar home shores (Long. 1.27–31). The brevity and repetition of these abortive kidnappings suggest deliberate experimentation with the trope: contrary to the trend of the genre, that takes the protagonists via the employment of kidnapping across great distances to various locations all around the Mediterranean and pays little regard to time, Longus emphasizes the permanence of location and the slow-paced construction of the romantic affair / plot over a two-year period of time, or, according to Bowie (in his reference commentary on Longus), the “intensely described cycle of the seasons over two years” (Bowie, 2019, p. 1). In the course of the same two-year long period Longus packs a set of adventures that stress the sexual element typically emphasized in the abduction situations (the abducted young lovers are constantly threatened with sexual molestation) – Chloe is erotically besieged by the cowherd Dorcon; the retired cowherd Philitas produces a discourse on the nature and power of Eros; and then a city-girl, Lycaenion, offers practical instruction to Daphnis on sex (she is the first woman with whom Daphnis has sex) – the novel appropriately concludes in book 4 with the wedding of the lovers and the completion of their sexual union. Abduction in Longus never reaches its full metaliterary potential. As James 20. Cresci (1999), and Effe (1999), illustrate how Longus’ bucolic world draws inspiration from Theocritus’ countryside.

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Romm observes, “since romance pirates are always carrying romance heroes off to far-away places, the kidnapping of Daphnis seems for a moment to promise sea voyages and high adventure; but the gravitational pull of the pastoral world reasserts itself, and Daphnis is soon back in rural Lesbos” (Romm, 2008, p. 110).

Bibliography Alvares, J. (1993). The Journey of Observation in Chariton’s ‘Chaereas and Callirhoe’. Austin: Diss. University of Texas at Austin. Bartsch, W. (1934). Der Chariton-Roman und die Historiographie. Leipzig: Diss. University of Leipzig. Bird, R. (2019). Achilles Tatius and Chariton: Relations and Refractions. Mnemosyne, 72.3, 471–487. Bowie, E. (2003). The Chronology of the Earlier Greek Novels since B.E. Perry: Revisions and Precisions. AncNarr, 2, 47–63. Bowie, E. (2019). Longus: Daphnis and Chloe (Cambridge Greek and Latin Classics). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Connors, C. (2002). Chariton’s Syracuse and its Histories of Empire. In M. Paschalis & S. Frangoulidis (Eds.), Space in the Ancient Novel. Ancient Narrative Supplementum 1 (pp. 12–26). Groningen: Barkhuis. Cresci, L. R. (1999). The Novel of Longus the Sophist and the Pastoral Tradition. In S. Swain (Ed.), Oxford Readings in the Greek Novel (pp. 210–242). Oxford: Oxford University Press. Cueva, E. (1995). Literary Allusion and Myth in the Five Canonical Ancient Greek Novels (pp. 39–44). Chicago: Diss. Loyola University of Chicago. de Souza, P. (2002). Piracy in the Greco-Roman World. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Effe, B. (1999). Longus: Towards a History of Bucolic and its Function in the Roman Empire. In S. Swain (Ed.), Oxford Readings in the Greek Novel (pp. 189–209). Oxford: Oxford University Press. Finkelpearl, E. (1998). Metamorphosis of Language in Apuleius: A Study of Allusion in the Novel. Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press. Fleishman, A. (1978). Fiction and the Ways of Knowing: Essays on British Novels. Austin: The University of Texas Press. Hägg, T. (1983). The Novel in Antiquity. Oxford: B. Blackwell. Hägg, T. (1987). Callirhoe and Parthenope: The Beginnings of the Historical Novel. ClAnt, 6, 184–204. Harrison, S. J. (2013). Framing the Ass: Literary Texture in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hunter, R. L. (1994). History and Historicity in the Romance of Chariton. ANRW, 2.34.2, 1055–1086. Lateiner, D. (1997). Abduction Marriage in Heliodorus’ Aethiopica. GRBS, 38.4, 409–439.

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Myers, A. D. (2016). Self-reflexivity and Metafiction in Achilles Tatius’ Leukippe and Kleitophon. Birmingham: Diss.: University of Birmingham. Panayotakis, S. (2002). The Temple and the Brothel. In M. Paschalis & S. Frangoulidis (Eds.), Space in the Ancient Novel. Ancient Narrative Supplementum 1 (pp. 98–117). Groningen: Barkhuis. Papaioannou, S. (1998). Charite’s Rape, Psyche on the Rock and the Parallel Function of Marriage in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses. Mnemosyne, 51.3, 302–324. Raffaelli, R. (1984). Il naufragio felice. Porti, pirati, mercanti e naufraghi nelle commedie di Plauto. In C. Questa & R. Raffaelli (Eds.), Maschere, Prologhi, Naufragi nella Commedia Plautina (pp. 121–144). Bari: Adriatica Editrice. Reardon, B. P. (1971). Courants Littéraires Grecs des II et III Siècles Après J.-C. Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Romm, J. (2008). Travel. In T. Whitmarsh (Ed.), The Cambridge Companion to the Greek and Roman Novel (pp. 109–126). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Smith, S. D. (2013). From Drama to Narrative: The Reception of Comedy in the Ancient Novel. In S. D. Olson (Ed.), Ancient Comedy and Reception: Essays in Honor of Jeffrey Henderson (pp. 322–345). Berlin: De Gruyter. Whitmarsh, T. (2009). Divide and Rule: Segmenting Callirhoe and Related Works. In M. Paschalis, S. Panayotakis & G. L. Schmeling (Eds.), Readers and Writers in the Ancient Novel (pp. 36–50). Groningen: Barkhuis. Whitmarsh, T. (2011). Narrative and Identity in the Ancient Greek Novel: Returning Romance. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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chapter 17

Tarsia nel lupanare Ruoli femminili, generi letterari e tecniche narrative Luca Graverini

Università di Siena

A study on some aspects of female roles in ancient narrative. The topos of the “virgin in the brothel” is specifically analyzed, highlighting the differences and analogies between the anonymous Historia Apollonii Regis Tyri, Xenophon of Ephesus, and several other rhetorical and hagiographic sources. In the novel, the woman has usually a more active role, and more space is given to her emotions. Keywords: ancient narrative, female characters, controversiae, hagiography, Historia Apollonii Regis Tyri, emotions

1.

Introduzione

La Historia Apollonii Regis Tyri è un romanzo che ha una storia particolare. Ci giunge in numerose recensioni, cioè versioni diverse della stessa storia, la più antica delle quali (la rec. A) data al 5o-6o sec. d.C.; essa (e di conseguenza anche le altre che da lei dipendono) sembra rappresentare uno stadio di rielaborazione di un originale sul quale non possiamo dire molto, ma che vari indizi consentono di datare tra la fine del 2o e l’inizio del 3o sec. d.C.1 C’è ampio dibattito tra gli studiosi sulla questione della lingua in cui esso era scritto; non è il caso di discuterne in questa sede, ma a chi scrive pare ragionevole ritenere che esso fosse in latino e non in greco.2 Tra questo ipotetico originale e le prime recen1. V. ad es. Vannini (2018, p. xl). Da questa edizione sono tratte le traduzioni della HA usate in questo lavoro; quelle di altri testi, ove non indicato diversamente, sono mie. 2. V. ad es. Vannini (2018, pp. xl-xlv). La HA è stata oggetto di molti importanti studi recenti, a partire da Schmeling (1996); tra le edizioni critiche e commenti, i lavori più importanti e recenti sono Kortekaas (2004 e 2007) (K. è il maggior sostenitore della dipendenza della HA da un originale greco), Garbugino (2010), Panayotakis (2012). https://doi.org/10.1075/ivitra.40.17gra © 2024 John Benjamins Publishing Company

Chapter 17. Tarsia nel lupanare

sioni a noi attestate passano circa tre secoli, durante il quale il testo, anonimo, si è adattato a contesti sociali e culturali diversi (probabile indizio, questo, di una circolazione ampia e popolare della storia); una delle tracce più evidenti di questa evoluzione è la penetrazione in esso di alcuni elementi cristiani, che hanno comunque lasciato fondamentalmente inalterata la struttura pagana del romanzo (Garbugino, 2004, pp. 91–98; Schmeling, 1996, pp. 531–533). È difficile quindi, di fatto, trarre informazioni sulla “realidad” della condizione femminile da un romanzo il cui sviluppo si è apparentemente protratto per un tempo assai lungo subendo rielaborazioni e adattamenti di varia natura; si tratta poi di una difficoltà che si aggiunge all’estrema prudenza che è sempre opportuno usare quando si tenta di utilizzare la narrativa d’invenzione come fonte storica. In questo lavoro quindi mi asterrò dal tentare indagini di tipo storiografico e sociale e mi manterrò su un piano prettamente letterario, esplorando il variare della condizione femminile in testi per molti versi simili e comparabili, ma appartenenti a generi letterari diversi. La HA è una storia di viaggi e di avventure che sarebbe per numerosi aspetti molto ben assimilabile ai romanzi greci d’amore, se non fosse per una importante mancanza: appunto, l’amore. Non che il tema erotico sia del tutto assente nel romanzo. Apollonio è infatti coinvolto in ben due storie amorose: all’inizio tenta di ottenere in moglie la principessa di Antiochia, ma l’unione dei due è impedita dal malvagio re che, avendo con la figlia un rapporto incestuoso, la vuole tenere per sé e perseguita Apollonio. Poi finisce per sposare la figlia di Archistrate, re di Cirene (la chiameremo per comodità Archistratide, come nella rec. B, pur sapendo che il nome è una probabile interpolazione), dalla quale avrà anche una figlia chiamata Tarsia. Nella prima vicenda, quindi, l’elemento erotico è sostanzialmente soppresso prima ancora di comparire, e non ci viene offerta alcuna descrizione dei sentimenti della (mancata) coppia. Nella seconda, è Archistratide a innamorarsi perdutamente di Apollonio proprio come Didone si innamorò di Enea,3 mentre Apollonio stesso rimane apparentemente piuttosto blasé.4 In un dialogo con Archistratide (20,4–7), la principessa tenta obliquamente di far capire ad Apollonio di essere innamorata di lui, ma Apollonio, altrove lodato grandemente per la sua intelligenza, qui si rivela particolarmente poco intuitivo e non capisce il senso delle parole della donna. Non che questa ottusità vada intesa propriamente come un elemento di caratterizzazione del personaggio. Altrettanto 3. È proprio la tessitura intertestuale del racconto a richiamare potentemente alla memoria il modello virgiliano: cfr. spec. 17,1 filia regis … saeuo carpitur igne. 4. Questa non è una caratteristica costante del personaggio. Ad esempio, quando si ritrova solo e lacero su una spiaggia dopo un naufragio, Apollonio si sfoga nelle lamentazioni tipiche delle tradizioni epica e narrativa (12,2–6).

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poco perspicace si mostra ad esempio il re Archistrate, quando la figlia gli confessa in un biglietto di essere innamorata di “un naufrago privato del suo patrimonio”, ovviamente Apollonio (20,8): si tratta semplicemente di una tecnica narrativa dilatoria, che tenta di creare suspense riguardo a un avvenimento (il matrimonio tra i due) che ormai qualunque lettore intuisce essere inevitabile.5 Tornando ad Apollonio, quando legge anche lui l’enigmatico biglietto e finalmente capisce la situazione, la sua unica reazione emotiva è l’arrossimento del volto (21,6). Poco dopo il re Archistrate gli propone ufficialmente il matrimonio, e lui risponde semplicemente “sia ciò che Dio comanda e, se questa è la tua volontà, così sia” (22,7). È vero che poi, quando Archistratide morirà (ma come molte delle morti romanzesche, anche questa è solo apparente) dando alla luce la figlia Tarsia (25,6), Apollonio si esibirà nelle debite, sfrenate manifestazioni di cordoglio maritale; tuttavia la sua vita continua, e dopo aver affidato la neonata a due amici di Tarso, se ne andrà in Egitto dove rimarrà per ben quattordici anni, non sappiamo a far cosa (28,7). Quando invece, tornato dall’Egitto, crederà morta la figlia Tarsia, decide di lasciarsi morire d’inedia nell’oscurità della stiva della sua nave (38,6). In sostanza, nella storia di Apollonio e Archistratide viene meno quella sexual symmetry che David Konstan ha ben individuato come caratteristica fondamentale e costante dei romanzi greci d’amore (V. Konstan 1994). Oltre allo sbilanciamento emotivo tra Apollonio e Archistratide, è significativo il fatto che, all’inizio della relazione tra i due, lui funga da precettore di lei (18,3 ss.), quindi sia in una posizione di superiorità nonostante il suo status di naufrago benevolmente accolto nella reggia di lei, principessa di Cirene. Durante i lunghi anni in cui è creduta morta, Archistratide (a differenza di Apollonio e Tarsia) non vive in modo avventuroso, ma si limita a custodire la propria castità diventando sacerdotessa di Diana. Sia in termini di reazioni emotive che di di spazio narrativo occupato, il rapporto di Apollonio con la figlia Tarsia sembra quindi rilevante almeno quanto quello con la moglie Archistratide, se non più. Come vedremo, è nella relazione tra padre e figlia, e nelle azioni di questa, che la sexual symmetry di cui sopra viene almeno in parte recuperata. La HA, quindi, non è un romanzo d’amore – certamente non lo è secondo i canoni fissati dai romanzi erotici greci che possiamo leggere per intero. Come gli altri romanzi latini a noi noti, i Satyrica di Petronio e le Metamorfosi di Apuleio, la HA sembra cercare di ricavare spazi di originalità all’interno di una tradizione

5. Alla scelta narrativa, peraltro, non va considerata estranea l’ovvia passione della HA per indovinelli ed enigmi; su questo v. ad es. Vannini (2018, xxxii-xxxviii).

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narrativa dominata dalla produzione greca.6 Per essa si può adottare la definizione di “romanzo di virtù morali” proposta da Giulio Vannini (2018, xxv).

2.

Tarsia nel lupanare

Creduta dunque morta la moglie, Apollonio riprende la navigazione per approdare a Tarso, dove affida la figlia ai due amici Stranguillione e Dionisiade perché la allevino come fosse figlia loro, mentre lui si reca in Egitto (cap. 28). La bimba cresce, e all’età di cinque anni viene mandata a scuola per essere educata “nell’uso dell’intelletto, nell’ascolto, nell’eloquenza e nella buona condotta” (29,1). Compiuti i quattordici anni, viene a sapere dalla nutrice che Apollonio è il suo vero padre (29,5–11). Dionisiade a questo punto concepisce il piano scellerato di far uccidere Tarsia e tenere per sé le ricchezze affidatele da Apollonio assieme alla figlia: ma prima che il servo Teofilo possa portare a termine l’ordine nefasto della padrona, Tarsia viene rapita dai pirati (32,1). Mentre a Tarso la ragazza è creduta morta per malattia in seguito agli intrighi di Stranguillione e Dionisiade, i pirati giungono a Mitilene e la vendono all’asta (33,1). Il principe Atenagora è molto interessato all’acquisto, ma un lenone con un buon fiuto per gli affari rilancia sempre, fino a ottenere la ragazza per una grossa somma; Atenagora si consola, dicendo che in fondo potrà sempre presentarsi come primo cliente di Tarsia ed ottenere lo stesso privilegio spendendo molto meno (33,5). Tutto questo potrebbe lasciar prevedere un seguito non proprio esaltante dal punto di vista delle summenzionate virtù morali, ma le cose vanno diversamente da come Atenagora si aspetta. Quando il principe si presenta al lupanare, Tarsia si getta ai suoi piedi e lo scongiura: Abbi pietà di me! Ti scongiuro per la tua giovane età, non disonorarmi sotto un’insegna tanto infamante! Frena il tuo basso appetito e ascolta la storia della mia infelicità, o almeno abbi rispetto per la mia nobiltà!». Quando Tarsia gli ebbe raccontato tutte le sue vicende, il principe ne fu turbato e, impietosito e sconcertato, le disse [princeps confusus est et pietate ductus uehementer obstipuit et ait ad eam]: «Alzati. Si sa quanto è mutevole la sorte, siamo esseri umani. Anch’io ho una giovane figlia alla quale non vorrei mai che capitasse una sventura simile». (34,3–6)

6. Prudenza vuole comunque che si tenga conto del fatto che della tradizione narrativa greca abbiamo soltanto testimonianze parziali, e non si può escludere che esistessero romanzi più affini alla HA.

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Il breve dialogo sopprime il dettagliato racconto che Tarsia fa delle proprie disavventure. Evitare lunghi e inutili racconti riepilogativi di fatti che il lettore già conosce è una tecnica narrativa assai diffusa e che si può far risalire fino a Omero. Ad esempio Odisseo, quando giunge ad Itaca, racconta brevi storie autobiografiche nelle quali si finge un principe cretese (Od. XIII 256 sgg.; XIV 199 sgg.; XVII 419 sgg.; XIX 165 sgg.): queste storie hanno chiaramente lo scopo sia di proteggere la vera identità dell’eroe, sia di evitare che egli racconti un’altra volta le proprie ‘vere’ vicende, già note al lettore.7 Gli esempi si potrebbero moltiplicare; qui mi limito ad aggiungere Plauto, Poen. 920 s. dove il servo Milfione si prepara a riferire al padrone, ma in privato, delle informazioni che il pubblico già conosce, e rivolgendosi direttamente al pubblico spiega le ragioni del suo comportamento: Adesso entro, per raccontare queste cose al mio padrone. Infatti, se lo facessi venire qui davanti a casa e gli ripetessi un’altra volta le cose che avete già sentito, sarebbe una sciocchezza.

Il punto centrale, qui, non sono tanto le vicende di Tarsia, che già conosciamo, quanto il fatto che la cultura retorica da lei acquisita a scuola le permette di conservare la propria verginità facendo breccia nel cuore di Atenagora e suscitando in lui le emozioni richieste dalla situazione (princeps confusus est et pietate ductus uehementer obstipuit). Atenagora quindi si allontana, pagando generosamente per i servizi non ricevuti. Mentre esce, gli si avvicina il secondo cliente, un suo amico, che gli chiede come sia andata; la risposta del principe è sibillina: Come meglio non poteva: da far venire le lacrime!

(34,9)

Lo sconosciuto amico è rincuorato dalle parole di Atenagora, di cui inevitabilmente non coglie il doppio senso:8 entra fiducioso nel bordello e paga addirittura in anticipo, e anche più generosamente del principe, per servizi che anche lui è destinato a non ricevere. L’abilità retorica di Tarsia infatti entra in azione ancora una volta, anche se per il già visto principio di economia narrativa la scena è raccontata ancora più brevemente; fatto sta che l’amico di Atenagora se ne va anche lui senza che la verginità di Tarsia abbia corso alcun rischio (34,14–15). Qui è da notare un dettaglio importante. Atenagora non si era allontanato, ma era rimasto fuori della porta per vedere come sarebbe andata a finire per l’amico (34,10); quando questi esce, lo prende in giro e ride della sua ingenuità –

7. Su queste brevi storie come “semi di romanzo” v. Graverini-Nicolini (2019, p. 268), con ulteriori riferimenti. 8. Ma può senz’altro coglierlo il lettore: si ha qui un caso di “ironia drammatica”. Su questo procedimento narrativo v. ad esempio Graverini-Nicolini (2019, p. 311).

Chapter 17. Tarsia nel lupanare

che prima, naturalmente, era stata la sua propria. Preso gusto allo scherzo, i due rimangono lì a origliare: Che dire di più? Mentre loro se ne stavano a spiare da un luogo nascosto, tutti quelli che entravano davano una moneta d’oro alla ragazza e se ne andavano in lacrime. (35,3)

La retorica e la capacità narrativa della ragazza sono quindi infallibili, e le permettono di conservare la propria verginità a dispetto del gran numero di clienti interessati a coglierla. Il punto centrale del breve racconto delle vicende di Tarsia nel bordello è il modo sottile ed efficace con cui vengono trattati due elementi importanti in qualunque narrazione, le emozioni e la credibilità.

3.

Intermezzo 1: Emozioni

Ho già mostrato altrove che in un romanzo le emozioni narrate sono ‘contagiose’, e tendono a travalicare i limiti della rappresentazione debordando nei livelli narrativi superiori fino a coinvolgere il lettore esterno (Graverini 2013, pp. 124–129 e passim). Questo processo di metalessi emotiva è un elemento essenziale perché il lettore esterno possa raggiungere quella che Coleridge chiamava “una sospensione temporanea e volontaria dell’incredulità”:9 in sostanza, gli permette di entrare più facilmente nell’universo narrativo, identificandosi con il protagonista del racconto e con altri personaggi (Graverini, 2019, p. 169 e passim; Graverini, 2021). In effetti, è un dato di fatto noto già agli eruditi alessandrini che i personaggi di un racconto costituiscono un modello che tende a prefigurare e condizionare le reazioni emotive del lettore esterno.10 Stiamo parlando di un uso cosciente di tecniche narrative piuttosto sofisticate, che forse non ci stupiamo di poter attribuire ad un autore colto e raffinato come Apuleio; ma qui vorrei mostrare come esse siano in effetti all’opera anche in un testo più semplice e apparentemente popolare come la HA.

9. Coleridge (1817, cap. 14): “… It was agreed, that my endeavours should be directed to persons and characters supernatural, or at least romantic, yet so as to transfer from our inward nature a human interest and a semblance of truth sufficient to procure for these shadows of imagination that willing suspension of disbelief for the moment, which constitutes poetic faith”. 10. Ad esempio, lo scolio a Odissea 4,183 ss. (i versi che descrivono il pianto di Elena e altri personaggi che hanno ascoltato la commemorazione di Odisseo da parte di Menelao, che lo credeva morto) rileva bene questa corrispondenza tra le reazioni emotive dei personaggi del racconto e il lettore esterno; e gli esempi si potrebbero moltiplicare. Vedi Graverini (2013, pp. 123–124), e più in generale Graverini (2020).

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Nella HA, e in particolare nei capitoli dedicati alle vicende di Tarsia nel lupanare, questo contagio emotivo si rivela in effetti particolarmente complesso. Come si è visto, le emozioni che i lamenti e il racconto di Tarsia provocano in Atenagora (e poi, si suppone, in tutti gli altri numerosi clienti del lupanare) sono turbamento, compassione e stupore (34,5 princeps confusus est et pietate ductus uehementer obstipuit); ma abbiamo visto anche che il racconto non si limita a questa reazione patetica, in realtà piuttosto scontata. Atenagora, appostato nascostamente presso la porta del bordello, trova modo anche di ridere delle lacrime di tutti i successivi clienti di Tarsia, prima da solo e poi assieme a un suo amico; il che naturalmente significa che Atenagora ride anche di sé stesso, dato che a lui non è andata diversamente. Una stessa scena è quindi in grado di provocare pathos, riso, autoironia. Ora, il cumulo di emozioni contrastanti è un topos assai ricorrente nel romanzo antico.11 In questo caso, tuttavia, la doppia reazione emotiva di Atenagora è particolarmente significativa, e invita surrettiziamente il lettore a riflettere sulla duplice natura, tragica e comica allo stesso tempo, del romanzo.12 La storia di Tarsia è tragica, tanto da portare alle lacrime chi la ascolta; ma queste ultime provocano a loro volta il riso di chi le osserva a distanza. Atenagora e il suo amico, che prima vivono quegli eventi di persona e poi li guardano non visti da lontano, costituiscono un’ ottima figura per il lettore esterno, che sostanzialmente fa la stessa cosa e replica la loro complessa reazione emotiva.

4.

Intermezzo 2: Credibilità del racconto

Ogni narratore, anche un narratore extradiegetico e onnisciente come quello della HA, deve fare di tutto per facilitare quella sospensione dell’incredulità di cui parlavo sopra, un elemento essenziale per fare sì che il romanzo risulti gradito al proprio pubblico.13 Il narratore quindi non può sempre dare per scontata la propria onniscienza, e almeno in certe occasioni deve sforzarsi di risultare credibile. Quando un narratore racconta ciò che avviene tra due personaggi chiusi in una stanza, inevitabilmente esercita una forte pressione sulla disponibilità del lettore a credergli, specialmente se gli eventi narrati sono inverosimili o stupefacenti. 11. Per una discussione ormai classica ved. Fusillo (1990). 12. Un caso molto simile in Apuleio Met. 1,12,1: tunc ego sensi naturalitus quosdam affectus in contrarium prouenire. Nam ut lacrimae saepicule de gaudio prodeunt, ita et in illo nimio pauore risum nequiui continere de Aristomene testudo factus. V. Graverini-Nicolini (2019, ad loc.); e pp. li ss. sulla categoria bachtiniana di “seriocomico” applicata al romanzo antico. 13. Su questo cfr. Graverini (2009).

Chapter 17. Tarsia nel lupanare

E qui troviamo appunto non solo Atenagora, ma anche il suo innominato amico che, con le loro testimonianze, rafforzano lo statuto di verità degli eventi riportati dal narratore extradiegetico. E lo fanno nel modo più credibile: la loro conoscenza di quegli eventi è evidentemente autoptica, e non deriva dal ‘sentito dire’ – li hanno vissuti prima di tutto loro stessi, e poi li hanno visti confermati dall’atteggiamento dei clienti successivi.14 Si tratta chiaramente di una struttura di autenticazione tutt’altro che solida, dato che alla fine le parole stesse di Atenagora e del suo amico sono riferite dal narratore extradiegetico al quale bisogna comunque prestare fiducia; ma se questa struttura non può reggere l’urto di una stringente analisi narratologica, può certamente creare una sorta di ‘schermo fumogeno’ che rende più facile per il lettore sospendere efficacemente la propria incredulità. Torneremo in seguito sulla funzione di supporto alla credibilità del racconto affidata alle azioni di Atenagora e del suo amico.

5.

Precedenti comici e romanzeschi

Che una ragazza possa restare vergine in un bordello, e prima ancora a bordo di una nave di pirati, è in effetti un evento che può essere considerato a priori stupefacente e poco verosimile. Ciononostante, o forse proprio per questo, racconti di questo tipo non sono rari “nelle letterature di ogni epoca e di tutti i popoli”.15 Nell’ambito della cultura classica, storie di giovani rapite e cedute a un lenone abbondano nella commedia (v. ad es. Plauto, Curculio; Persa; Poenulus; Rudens; Terenzio, Eunuchus), ma in questa sede eviterò di analizzare questi paralleli: il punto centrale di questo lavoro è il ruolo della donna, e nella commedia la ragazza rinchiusa nel lupanare ha generalmente un comportamento piuttosto passivo, venendo riscattata da altri, di solito grazie all’inganno o alla buona sorte, più che proteggersi da sola come fa efficacemente Tarsia.16

14. Sulla preminenza dell’autopsia rispetto all’akoè quando si tratta di testimonianze di fatti che sono, o si vogliono far credere, realmente avvenuti v. Graverini (2007, pp. 166 ss.), con ulteriore bibliografia; il dibattito su questo tema è particolarmente importante tra gli storiografi, ma ha molta rilevanza anche per la narrativa. 15. Rizzo Nervo (1995, p. 92). Per brevi rassegne di testi greci e latini che sfruttano il topos, e vari riferimenti bibliografici, v. Schmeling (1996, p. 524); Stramaglia (1999, p. 326); Panayotakis (2002, pp. 106–107); Panayotakis (2012, p. 419); Garbugino (2004, p. 161 e nn. 36–37). 16. Le parole di Anterastile in Plauto, Poen. 1207–8 rappresentano bene la situazione tipica: un aruspice le ha predetto che presto sarà libera, ma lei commenta id ego nisi quid di aut parentes faxint, qui sperem haud scio.

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Sotto questo aspetto, semmai, è più interessante una scena del romanzo di Senofonte di Efeso, Ephesiaka 5.5–7.17 La protagonista Anzia finisce chiusa in un bordello, e ripetutamente lamenta la propria sorte senza però riuscire a far presa sui suoi persecutori. Alla fine, pur di proteggere la propria castità18 e scoraggiare i potenziali clienti radunati ad ammirare la sua bellezza, finge di svenire come in preda al “morbo sacro”; e per convincere il padrone del bordello, ovviamente più sospettoso e interessato dei clienti, dà prova delle proprie qualità di narratrice raccontando una storia horror su come aveva contratto la malattia.

6.

La sacerdos prostituta in Seneca. Ancora sulla credibilità del racconto

Torneremo in seguito brevemente sul romanzo di Senofonte. Adesso vorrei piuttosto valorizzare la tradizione retorica, con la ben nota Controversia 1.2 di Seneca padre, dedicata alla Sacerdos prostituta. Leggiamo la breve presentazione iniziale del caso: Una sacerdotessa deve essere la più casta tra le caste, la più pura tra le pure. Una vergine viene rapita dai pirati, poi comprata da un lenone e costretta a prostituirsi. Lei implorava i clienti che si presentavano chiedendo un’offerta gratuita. Un soldato che era andato da lei non riuscì a impietosirlo, per cui lo uccise mentre la aggrediva per farle violenza. Fu accusata, assolta, e ricongiunta alla sua famiglia. Adesso chiede il sacerdozio.

Il resoconto, come si vede, è estremamente breve e per nulla emotivo. Le linee narrative, nella prima parte, coincidono con la storia di Tarsia molto meglio degli episodi comici menzionati sopra: rapimento da parte di pirati, vendita a un lenone, compassione da parte dei clienti del bordello che risparmiano la sua verginità e lasciano comunque un’offerta. Naturalmente questo non vuol dire che la controversia senecana sia necessariamente la fonte dell’episodio di Tarsia, dato che la genericità e diffusione di questi motivi narrativi scoraggiano una precisa Quellenforschung. Tuttavia occorre riconoscere che la tradizione retorica fa da collettore di sequenze narrative provenienti dalle più varie tradizioni letterarie per creare gli exempla ficta necessari alle controversiae; a sua volta, l’universalità dell’educazione retorica rendeva disponibili queste sequenze narrative per ulte-

17. Per un buon commento e vari paralleli su questo breve episodio v. Stramaglia (1999, pp. 326 ss.). 18. Non si tratta in questo caso di verginità, dato che Anzia si era già sposata con Abrocome a 1.9–10.

Chapter 17. Tarsia nel lupanare

riori rielaborazioni.19 Quindi sarebbe affrettato concludere che c’è (o che non c’è) un rapporto diretto o indiretto tra Seneca padre e la HA;20 ma si può senz’altro affermare che la storia della vergine nel lupanare faceva parte di un repertorio comune a teatro, retorica e narrativa, e che i rapporti tra questi generi seguono spesso traiettorie nascoste, poco indagabili, talvolta sorprendenti. Dopo la breve presentazione, la controversia prosegue elencando le posizioni di numerosi retori, contrari o favorevoli alla concessione del sacerdozio. Se si trattasse di un vero processo di fronte a una giuria, il responso sarebbe netto: i contrari sono infatti circa il doppio dei favorevoli. Ma naturalmente non è il giudizio finale che interessa all’autore della controversia, quanto assicurare che la questione sia scandagliata da tutti i punti di vista possibili, a vantaggio degli studenti che dovevano essere in grado di fare altrettanto. Senza entrare troppo nei dettagli, i contrari alla concessione del sacerdozio rappresentano una sorta di summa dei pregiudizi maschili nei confronti di una donna che ha (potenzialmente) subito uno stupro: ammesso e non concesso che la sua castità sia rimasta indenne nel bordello, l’ambiente stesso la ha resa impura; e com’è che ha ucciso il soldato, ma non prima il lenone che l’ha comprata, e prima ancora non ha cercato di sottrarsi ai pirati? E certo deve avere avuto dei genitori indegni, se se la sono lasciata rapire – la sua educazione quindi deve essere stata assai carente. Ma l’argomento più forte è quello presentato per primo, attribuito in forme diverse a ben due retori: Porcio Latrone afferma di non sapere cosa la donna abbia patito inter barbaros, ma di sapere bene cosa avrebbe potuto patire (1.2.1): per giudicare della castità e purezza della donna, il dubbio è più che sufficiente. Sostanzialmente d’accordo è Fulvio Sparso (1.2.2), che si rivolge direttamente alla donna: “Quello che hai fatto mentre eri chiusa nel bordello non dobbiamo indagarlo, né siamo in grado di saperlo”. Nonostante la censura che molti di questi retori meriterebbero se giudicati secondo le concezioni moderne del rapporto tra i generi, dal punto di vista puramente narrativo non si può negare che Latrone e Sparso mettano il dito sulla piaga: è impossibile sapere con certezza quello che è avvenuto in una stanza chiusa o in terre lontane, se non si ritiene sufficiente la testimonianza della donna che quegli eventi ha vissuto. Ed è proprio a questo scetticismo narratologico che risponde, nella HA, la ‘testimonianza’ offerta da Atenagora e dal suo innominato amico. Il 19. Un esempio piuttosto noto di questa osmosi tra tradizione retorica e narrativa è l’episodio narrato in Apuleio, Met. 1.14, sostanzialmente analogo al “delitto nella camera chiusa” ipotizzato in Cicerone, Part. orat. 34 e 54: v. Graverini-Nicolini (2019, p. 190 ad loc.), con ulteriore bibliografia. 20. Piuttosto apodittico lo scetticismo espresso da Kortekaas (2007, p. 530 ad loc.) e Garbugino (2004, p. 161 nn. 36–37).

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loro spiare di nascosto l’atteggiamento dei clienti di Tarsia corrobora efficacemente il racconto di come la ragazza ha saputo mantenere la propria verginità: un racconto stupefacente e inverosimile, che però, per divenire anche tragico e commovente (e quindi conquistare l’attenzione e l’empatia del lettore), deve diventare anche credibile.

7.

Le vergini cristiane

Il repertorio di motivi narrativi comuni a teatro, romanzo e retorica di cui parlavo sopra non rimane confinato all’interno della cultura pagana, e contribuisce anche alla formazione dell’agiografia cristiana. Già Tertulliano e Cipriano riferiscono di condanne alla prostituzione per le vergini cristiane: Tert. Apol. 50,12: Poco tempo fa, condannando una donna cristiana al lenone piuttosto che al leone, avete confessato che un’onta al pudore è per noi da ritenere più terribile di ogni pena e di qualunque condanna a morte. Cipriano, De mortal. 15 Ecco che se ne vanno in pace le vergini, al sicuro e nella loro gloria … senza timore di corruzione e lupanari.

Questi due brani, risalenti rispettivamente alla fine del secondo e alla metà del terzo secolo, mostrano come nel periodo in cui sarebbe stato scritto l’ipotetico originale della HA storie di vergini rinchiuse in un lupanare erano ben note anche nella cultura cristiana. Ma il topos si diffonde ulteriormente nei secoli successivi, e dà luogo a narrazioni più ampie e dettagliate. Tipicamente, una ragazza cristiana che ha fatto voto di verginità rifiuta le avances di un pagano che quindi la denuncia alle autorità, e prima del martirio finale essa viene condannata ad un periodo di ‘prostituzione rieducativa e punitiva’ che naturalmente, grazie alla protezione divina, viene di fatto evitato. In sostanza il motivo della vergine nel lupanare, già sfruttato in vari generi letterari e penetrato nella letteratura cristiana nel periodo della redazione dell’ipotetico originale della HA, si sviluppa ulteriormente nell’agiografia – probabilmente anche con solide basi nella realtà21 – nei secoli in cui si originano le recensioni più antiche a noi disponibili della stessa HA.

21. Sulla prostituzione forzata delle vergini cristiane, forse una pratica legale consolidata nel tardo Impero, v. ad es. Lapidge (2018, p. 75 n. 78), con ulteriore bibliografia; Rizzo Nervo (1995, p. 94). Cfr. ad es. Passio S. Theodorae et Didymi (BHL 8073) 2,1 (in Lanéry 2004, p. 37): Iudex ait: “Domini imperatoresque nostri specialiter hoc sacra maiestatis suae uoce sanxerunt, uos uirgines, aut sacrificium celebrare diis solito more, aut detrectantes praeceptum, turpia lenonum lupanaria complere et seruatum diu pudorem expositum populari patere feruori”.

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Commentatori e studiosi del romanzo portano a confronto soprattutto il martirologio di Sant’Agnese,22 forse anche in ragione della sua popolarità. Le fonti più antiche di questo martirio, in realtà, non menzionano affatto la condanna alla prostituzione, soffermandosi genericamente sulla difesa della castità della martire: cfr. Damaso, Carmen 29 de S. Agnete Martyre in PL 13, p. 402, e Ambrogio, De Virginibus 1,2 (ambedue risalenti alla seconda metà del 4o secolo).23 Il tema compare successivamente e per aggiunte graduali, segno di una circolazione popolare della biografia della martire. Lo vediamo attestato per la prima volta in Prudenzio, Peristephanon 14, 21–60, datato all’inizio del 5o secolo. Alla santa basta l’espressione triste e pudica del volto per scoraggiare l’interesse della folla riunitasi per ammirare le sue grazie (40–42); un astante più audace, che la guarda lumine lubrico (45), viene accecato da un uccello. L’episodio acquista uno spazio più rilevante nella Passio Sanctae Agnetis dello Pseudo-Ambrogio (5o sec.).24 Qui la protezione divina giunge nella forma di una crescita abbondante e istantanea dei capelli, che coprono le nudità della santa nel tragitto verso il lupanare; e, una volta che lei è giunta nella sua cella, di una intensissima luce che impedisce a chiunque perfino di guardarla, oltre che di una stola candida con cui coprirsi. Un giovane più aggressivo le si avvicina comunque, e quella luce divina ne provoca la morte (ma poi Agnese stessa pregherà Dio di risuscitarlo). Più interessanti, per gli scopi di questo lavoro, sono le azioni precedenti di questo giovane: manda avanti i suoi amici, e li vede uscire pieni di ammirazione e stupore; allora li insulta chiamandoli impotenti ed effeminati, e si fa beffe di loro.25 Questo atteggiamento del figlio del prefetto, che richiama in parte quello di Atenagora e del suo amico appostati fuori del lupanare dove è rinchiusa Tarsia, è in realtà l’unico collegamento abbastanza preciso che lega la Passio di S. Agnese (ma non le versioni precedenti della vita della santa) alla HA. Mentre è chiusa nel lupanare, la santa martire appare totalmente passiva e fiduciosa nella protezione divina, a differenza di Tarsia che mobilita le proprie risorse retoriche e narrative per trarsi d’impaccio.

22. BHL 156–167. Cfr. Vannini (2018, pp. 259–60); Kortekaas (2007, p. 530); Panayotakis (2012, p. 423). 23. Oltre che in De officiis 1,41,204 e nell’Epistola 7. 24. BHL 156; PL 17, 735–742. Per un’ampia introduzione, trad. inglese e note di commento v. Lapidge (2018, pp. 348 ss.). 25. Cap. 8, col. 739: sed ingressus ut misit ante se pueros ferventes et turpiter saevientes, cum nimia autem veneratione et ingenti admiratione egressos coepit impotentes arguere, atque vanos et molles ac miseros iudicare. Et irridens eos, locum in quae virgo adorabat audacter ingressus est …

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Questa passività è in realtà pressoché una costante del comportamento delle vergini cristiane condannate alla prostituzione, che contrasta non poco con la notevole loquacità che esse dimostrano quando devono ribattere ai loro accusatori. Sia nella Passio latina del 5o secolo che nella tarda versione di Iacopo da Varazze, S. Agata26 rivolge parole di fuoco alla tenutaria del bordello, ma poi passa i suoi giorni piangendo e pregando finché la donna non si scoraggia; e, ci viene fatto capire, Agata non incontra mai alcun cliente. Santa Lucia, dopo la condanna del proconsole, è fissata a terra dalla potenza divina, il che impedisce a chiunque di condurla al lupanare.27 Anche Irene di Tessalonica non arriva mai alla casa di perdizione dove è destinata, dato che i militi che ve la dovevano scortare sono sviati da altri due soldati evidentemente inviati da Dio.28 Teodora viene invece effettivamente chiusa nel lupanare;29 appena entrata, prega Dio di liberarla, e queste sono le sue ultime parole pronunciate in quel luogo. Il primo cliente che le si presenta, infatti, è un soldato inviato da Dio che le fa indossare i propri vestiti e la fa fuggire, restando nel lupanare al posto di lei. La storia di Teodora è sostanzialmente identica a quella della anonima “Vergine di Antiochia”30 e a quella di Antonina.31 Trofima, una discepola dell’apostolo Andrea la cui storia è narrata da Gregorio di Tours,32 è condannata alla prostituzione. Nel lupanare, lei non parla né implora, ma si affida alla protezione di un Vangelo e della preghiera (la storia è abbastanza simile a quella di Agnese narrata nella Passio Sanctae Agnetis): Ma lei, una volta entrata nel lupanare, era sempre in preghiera. Quando vennero quelli che volevano abusare di lei, si poneva sul petto il Vangelo che aveva con sé, e immediatamente quelli perdevano ogni forza. Venne un giovane svergognato che voleva farle violenza, ma lei gli resistette; lui le strappò i vestiti, e il Vangelo cadde a terra. Trofima, in lacrime, alzò le mani al cielo e disse: “Signore, per il cui nome io amo la castità, non permettere che io sia violata!” E subito le apparve 26. Fonti: BHL 133. Vedi anche Iacopo da Varazze, Legenda Aurea 39, con l’introd. di Maggioni in Maggioni-Stella (2007). 27. Fonti: BHL 4992–97; Iacopo da Varazze, Legenda Aurea 4, con l’introd. di Maggioni in Maggioni-Stella (2007). 28. Il martirio di Irene (e delle sue sorelle Agape e Chionia: BHL 118–120) è confluito nella Passio di Anastasia e Crisogono, che risale probabilmente al 5o sec. Il testo è disponibile in Lapidge (2018, pp. 54 ss.), con ampia introduzione, trad. inglese e note di commento; ad Irene sono dedicati i i capp. 17–18. 29. Sul martirio di Teodora e le sue fonti latine e greche (BHG 1742 et BHL 8072–8073), v. Lanéry (2004) e (2007). 30. BHL 9030; cfr. Ambrogio, De Virginibus 2,4, e Legenda Aurea 60. 31. BHG 50. 32. Gregorio di Tours, De miraculis Andreae apostoli 23 (ed. Bonnet in MGH, SS. rer. Merov. 1.2, p. 389).

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l’angelo del Signore, e il giovane cadde morto ai suoi piedi. Lei, rinfrancata, benediceva e glorificava il Signore, che non aveva permesso che la violassero. Ma in seguito resuscitò il ragazzo nel nome di Gesù Cristo, e tutta la città accorse ad ammirare questo spettacolo.

In sostanza, sembrano esserci ben poche eccezioni alla regola per cui la verginità della santa condannata alla prostituzione è protetta da Dio, e non dall’eloquenza della santa stessa che se ne sta per lo più in silenzio e in preghiera. Una è la vicenda narrata da Palladio in Historia Lausiaca 6533 su di una giovane di Corinto, la cui storia è attribuita a Ippolito, discepolo degli apostoli: rinchiusa nel lupanare, la ragazza allontana i clienti raccontando loro di avere un’ulcera maleodorante “in un luogo nascosto” – un espediente non troppo diverso da quello adottato da Anzia in Senofonte Efesio (Stramaglia 1999, p. 326). Naturalmente la santa implora anche Dio; ispirato da Lui, un giovane soldato accorre a liberarla con l’espediente dello scambio di vestiti già visto nella storia di Teodora, di Antonina, e della anonima vergine di Antiochia. Ma si tratta, appunto, di eccezioni. Normalmente, come si è visto, le giovani martiri danno prova della loro forza e della loro capacità dialettica di fronte ai loro accusatori, ma quando sono condotte al lupanare è la potenza divina a venire in primo piano e a proteggerle.

8.

Conclusioni

Il topos narrativo della vergine nel lupanare evidentemente gode di una circolazione ampia e pressoché priva di ostacoli in una cultura tardoantica nella quale romanzo, educazione retorica e fede cristiana interagivano profondamente. Questo stesso topos tuttavia, e il ruolo in esso affidato alla donna, variano grandemente a seconda delle regole e delle consuetudini del genere letterario che lo adotta, nonostante certe inevitabili analogie nelle linee narrative. Il ruolo femminile è ridotto al minimo nella Controversia 1,2 di Seneca padre: poche righe all’inizio per descrivere la vicenda, poi tutto lo spazio è dedicato allo sguardo per lo più severo dei retori – uomini, naturalmente – che analizzano e giudicano le azioni della donna dal punto di vista del diritto e della morale. L’agiografia cristiana enfatizza l’eroismo della martire che difende fino all’estremo la propria castità, ma nonostante ciò raramente la santa rinchiusa nel lupanare dà prova di scaltrezza o altre abilità nel trarsi d’impaccio: la sua vera virtù risiede nell’affidarsi totalmente, tramite la preghiera, alla potenza salvifica di Dio. La grande diffusione di questo

33. BHG 1318h; BHL 9031, Suppl.

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motivo narrativo nell’agiografia cristiana, affermatasi proprio nei secoli durante i quali la HA si è evoluta nella forma che noi oggi leggiamo, non deve quindi indurci ad enfatizzare frettolosamente la patina di cristianesimo presente nella HA stessa: anzi, l’analisi di questo topos serve soprattutto a misurare la distanza che separa la narrativa pagana da quella cristiana. Nel romanzo, e perfino in un romanzo che reca alcune tracce di cristianizzazione come la HA, la giovane donna che si trova costretta a prostituirsi si affida non alla protezione divina, ma alla pietà dei clienti e soprattutto al proprio ingegno e alle proprie doti retoriche e narrative. Del resto, a differenza del dio cristiano, molte delle divinità del pantheon greco-romano sembrano più inclini a insidiare che non a salvaguardare la verginità o la castità delle belle ragazze: basti pensare alle numerose scappatelle amorose di Zeus, o leggere molte delle storie contenute nelle Metamorfosi di Ovidio; la fondazione stessa di Roma, stando alla versione narrata da Livio 1,4, deriva dallo stupro della vestale Rea Silvia ad opera di Marte. Verginità e castità erano certamente dei valori anche nella cultura classica34 (e proprio i romanzi greci d’amore lo testimoniano con evidenza), ma affidarli alla protezione divina potrebbe sembrare per certi versi paradossale – o, almeno, è chiaro che occorre scegliere accuratamente la divinità alla quale affidarsi.35 Il romanzo antico, poi, attribuisce spesso alle protagoniste femminili una capacità di agire e una risolutezza almeno pari a quella dei loro corrispettivi maschili (Konstan, 1994), e queste giovani donne sono spesso in grado di trarsi d’impaccio da sole. Tarsia riesce a proteggere sé stessa contro oppositori potenzialmente violenti, che vengono assorbiti dal racconto tragico della ragazza ed empatizzano con lei fino al punto di essere ridotti alle lacrime. Lo sguardo maschile di Atenagora e del suo amico li mette poi alla berlina; al lettore quindi, tramite il meccanismo dell’identificazione empatica, viene offerta un’ampia gamma di emozioni da provare che sostanzialmente evidenzia la natura seriocomica del romanzo. Da rilevare, in contrasto, l’assoluta mancanza di ironia e comicità nell’arido dibattito giuridico della Controversia senecana, e ancor più nella tradizione agiografica. Nella storia della Vergine di Antiochia narrata da Ambrogio in De Virginibus 2,4, ad esempio, la scena del cliente che entra nel bordello dopo la fuga della ragazza e scopre che quella che credeva essere una donna è in realtà un soldato ha notevoli potenzialità comiche, del tutto ignorate

34. La letteratura in proposito è vasta; qui mi limito a ricordare Sissa (1990) e Goldhill (1995). 35. Ad esempio, nella HA la moglie di Apollonio e madre di Tarsia vive molti anni osservando rigorosamente la castità nel tempio di Diana (27,10), che la ricompensa con la propria benevolenza (48,7).

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da Ambrogio che si focalizza sul contrasto tra fabulosum e verum e sulla dinamica della conversione.36 Il romanzo, come si è visto, può vantare un ventaglio emotivo più variegato. Soprattutto, in esso – a differenza che negli altri generi letterari esaminati – la donna ha un ruolo da protagonista: non resta in attesa di un salvatore come nella commedia, non è un puro oggetto di analisi come nella controversia di Seneca padre, né si presenta come un semplice per quanto eroico tramite per il manifestarsi della potenza divina come nella letteratura agiografica.

Bibliografia Coleridge, S. T. (1817). Biographia Literaria; or, Biographical sketches of my literary life and opinions. London: Rest Fenner. Fusillo, M. (1990). Le conflit des émotions: un topos du roman grec érotique. MH, 47, 201–221. Poi anche in S. Swain (Ed.), Oxford Readings in the Greek Novel (pp. 60–82), Oxford: OUP. Garbugino, G. (2004). Enigmi della Historia Apollonii regis Tyri, Bologna: Pàtron. Garbugino, G. (2010). La Storia di Apollonio re di Tiro. Introduzione, testo critico, traduzione e note, Alessandria: Ed. dell’Orso. Goldhill, S. (1995). Foucault’s virginity: ancient erotic fiction and the history of sexuality. Cambridge-New York: CUP. Graverini, L. (2007). Le Metamorfosi di Apuleio. Letteratura e identità. Pisa: Pacini ed. (= Literature and Identity in The Golden Ass of Apuleius, Columbus: Ohio State University Press (2012). Graverini, L. (2009). Useful Truths, Enchanting Fictions. Historians and Novelists at Play. CB, 83, 11–21. Graverini, L. (2013). Come si deve leggere un romanzo: narratori, personaggi e lettori nelle Metamorfosi di Apuleio. In M. Carmignani, L. Graverini, & B. T. Lee (Eds.), Collected Studies on the Roman Novel. Ensayos sobre la novela romana (pp. 119–139). Córdoba (Arg.): Brujas. Graverini, L. (2019). Atteone, Lelape, Diofane, Orfeo: Ovidio e Apuleio. In C. Battistella & M. Fucecchi (Eds.), Dopo Ovidio. Aspetti dell’evoluzione del sistema letterario nella Roma imperiale (e oltre) (pp. 153–169). Milano-Udine: Mimesis. Graverini, L. (2021). Music and the Poetics of Latin Narrative, in F. Buè, A. Vannini (Eds.), Sonus in Metaphora. La rhétorique sonore et musicale dans l’A ntiquité (pp. 151–167). Besançon: Presses Universitaires de Franche-Comté.

36. 2,4,31 Unus qui erat immodestior introivit. Sed ubi hausit oculis rei textum: “Quid hoc” inquit “est? Puella ingressa est, vir videtur. Ecce non fabulosum illud cerva pro virgine, sed quod verum est, miles ex virgine. At etiam audieram et non credideram, quod aquam Christus in vinum convertit: iam mutare cepit et sexus … Ad lupanar veni, cerno vadimonium: et tamen mutatus egrediar, pudicus exibo, qui adulter intravi”.

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Graverini, L. (2020). Testo e immagine nelle Metamorfosi di Apuleio, in G. Moretti e B. Santorelli (Curr.), Leggere e guardare. Intersezioni tra parola e immagine nella cultura latina e nella sua fortuna. Atti del Convegno Genova, 7-8 maggio 2019 (pp. 65–83). Genova: Università di Genova DARFICLET (“Latina Didaxis”, 34). Graverini, L., & Nicolini, L. (2019). Apuleio, Metamorfosi. Vol. I, libri I-III, Introduz., trad. e comm. di L.G., testo critico di L.N. Milano: Fondazione Lorenzo Valla-Mondadori. Konstan, D. (1994). Sexual Symmetry. Love in the Ancient Novel and Related Genres. Princeton (NJ): Princeton University Press. Kortekaas, G. A. (2004). The Story of Apollonius King of Tyre. A study of its Greek origins and an edition of the two oldest Latin recensions. Leiden-Boston: Brill. Kortekaas, G. A. (2007). Commentary on the Historia Apollonii Regis Tyri. Leiden-Boston: Brill. Lanéry, C. (2004). La Passion de Théodora et Didyme: Édition des traductions latines BHL 8072 et 8073. AB, 122, 5–50. Lanéry, C. (2007). La vierge au lupanar : réflexions sur l’exemplum hagiographique chez Ambroise de Milan (De uirginibus, II.22–35). REL, 85, 168–191. Lapidge, M. (2018). The Roman Martyrs. Oxford: OUP. Maggioni, G. P. & Stella, F. (2007). Iacopo da Varazze. Legenda aurea. Firenze: Ed. del Galluzzo & Milano: Bibl. Ambrosiana. 2 voll. Panayotakis, S. (2002). The Temple and the Brothel: Mothers and Daughters in Apollonius of Tyre, in M. Paschalis & S. Frangoulidis (Eds.), Space in the Ancient Novel (pp. 98–116). Groningen: Barkhuis. Panayotakis, S. (2012). The Story of Apollonius, King of Tyre. A Commentary. Berlin-Boston: De Gruyter. PL=J. P. Migne (Ed.). Patrologiae cursus completus: Series Latina, Parisiis: Turnhout 1841–1904. Rizzo Nervo, F. (1995). La vergine e il lupanare. Storiografia, romanzo, agiografia, in AA.V V. La narrativa cristiana antica. Codici narrativi, strutture formali, schemi retorici (pp. 91–99), Roma: Augustinianum. Schmeling, G. (1996). Historia Apollonii Regis Tyri. In G. Schmeling (Ed.), The Novel in the Ancient World (pp. 517–551). Leiden: Brill. Sissa, G. (1990). Greek Virginity. Cambridge (Mass.): Harvard UP. Stramaglia, A. (1999). Res inauditae, incredulae. Storie di fantasmi nel mondo antico. Bari: Levante Ed. Vannini, G. (2018). Storia di Apollonio re di Tiro. Testo critico, traduzione e commento. Milano: Fondazione Lorenzo Valla-Mondadori.

chapter 18

Plotting Plotina? The reception of an empress in Roman provincial prose (fiction) Yvona Trnka-Amrhein

University of Colorado, Boulder

This chapter explores the reception of the empress Plotina in three texts from three literary traditions within the Roman Empire: the Acta Hermaisci, the Talmud, and Apuleius’ Metamorphoses. It argues that the Plotina character we see in these texts is based on an idea of the Roman empress’ ability to influence the emperor to the detriment of provincial groups. This ‘plotting Plotina’ figure is the opposite of the official ideal found in Pliny’s Panegyricus and may develop the suspicion we see in Roman historical texts that Plotina exercised improper influence on Hadrian’s succession. Indeed, the motherhood of the ‘plotting Plotina’ character may respond to the problematic childlessness of the real empress. In addition to exploring how provincial texts fictionalized a historical woman to articulate the powerlessness of being a Roman subject, this chapter provides an example of how one theme could be deployed in texts from different cultures written in the same empire. It thus offers a perspective on how a broad understanding of ‘imperial literature’ can inform our knowledge of connections between the literary cultures that coexisted under Roman rule. Keywords: Plotina, reception of Roman empresses, Acta Alexandrinorum, the Talmud, Apuleius Metamorphoses, Roman imperial literature, provincial literature

The wives of emperors receive some notable cameos in the prose fiction of the Roman empire – notably Julia Domna, the wife of Septimius Severus, lauded as the commissioner of Philostratus’ Life of Apollonius of Tyana (1.3) – but it is harder to find sustained reception of the empresses in texts we might call prose fiction and perhaps we should not expect it. Scholarship has productively explored the apparent lack of interest in the Roman state, covert strategies for

https://doi.org/10.1075/ivitra.40.18trn © 2024 John Benjamins Publishing Company

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resisting Rome in literature, and the pointed absence of Rome in many Greek texts of the Roman imperial period, especially the five romance novels which represent the core of imperial prose fiction.1 Although women are much more prominent in the romance novels, their role is hard to correlate with the real world.2 This can change if we cast the net of fiction wider to include narrative texts that tell stories that did not actually happen but that do not often count as novels per se. Indeed, I suggest here that the figure of Plotina, the wife of Trajan, can help us connect three very different texts from the Roman provinces that exhibit similar modes of receiving this empress in the greater empire. They each represent different degrees of fiction and three language groups that were used in the Roman Empire: Latin, Greek, and Aramaic & Hebrew (the relevant text comes from the Talmud, which mixed both languages). These three texts reflect a variant on the tradition preserved in Roman history that Plotina unduly influenced her husband’s actions in the matter of Hadrian’s succession. This negative Plotina is of course in contrast to the official Trajanic portrait, which described her as self-effacing, subservient, and full of antique female virtue, and which can be found prominently both in art from Italy and in Pliny the Younger’s Panegyricus (where her name itself is suppressed).3 But the provincial texts have a different, localized focus that sees the empress as a force whose influence causes great harm to various non-Roman groups. This constellation of Plotina texts reveals how an important historical woman was depicted in different regions of the empire and thus provides a case study of how the various literatures that coex-

1. See e.g. Swain 1996, Whitmarsh 2001, Schwartz 2003, Whitmarsh 2013. 2. Egger (1999, pp. 129–136) argued that the freedoms and rights of women in the Greek romance novels lag behind female reality in the Roman Empire and that this may reflect many of the stories’ historical setting, e.g. in 5th/4th centuries BCE. Lalanne 2019 argues that the apparent prominence of women in the Greek novel is a deceptive ‘effet de genre.’ She points out that more freedom is accorded to non-Greek women, although the Delphic Assembly in Heliodorus and the Syracusan theater in Chariton admit women in a way that is not attested in the ancient documentation. For gender in the novel corpus, as generally recognized, see Finkelpearl (2014, p. 456) who stresses (following K. Haynes) that novel heroines could ‘represent Greece as triumphantly resistant to Roman imperialism’. 3. Roche (2002, especially pp. 47–49) and Müller-Reineke (2008, 621–624). Boatwright 1991a argues that the imperial women under Trajan and Hadrian had much less real power than empresses like Livia or the Severan women, possibly because they came from less aristocratic families. Thus, she suggests, individual dedications to these women were motivated ‘by the influence they were supposed to have with the emperors.’ Boatwright (1991a, pp. 530–532) dismisses the evidence that Plotina had influence with Trajan as mostly intended ‘to discredit’ Hadrian in the case of the succession or Trajan in the case of the Acta Hermaisci. For Boatwright, Plotina is the retiring woman Pliny the Younger presents her as.

Chapter 18. The reception of an empress in Roman provincial prose

isted in the Roman imperial world could interact and diverge as they negotiated the line between fiction and reality. What I would like to stress in this paper is that each of the three provincial texts fictionalized the empress to explain the utter powerlessness of certain provincials within the Roman Empire, possibly hitching their own version of Plotina to the negative image that had developed at Rome in connection with the succession. Like an evil and inescapable fate, ‘the plotting Plotina’ could be conjured to explain the ills wrought by the Roman state by groups in very different parts of the Empire. I thus suggest that we can trace the development of a type character who was used in Roman imperial literature, broadly construed as texts written in any language of the Roman Empire. Although each text was part of its own literary and cultural tradition, their specific use of the Plotina type can help us investigate what Roman imperial literature might be and how its constituent parts interacted and differed. In this paper I use the term provincial texts to indicate texts written in the provinces of the Roman Empire with an interest in the politics and culture of those places. This is somewhat different from the perspective taken by Barchiesi, who stresses the productive interaction between Rome and the provinces in Roman literature as a whole but denies that provincial literature ever fully emerged in the Roman imperial world, even if it got close with Petronius’ Satyrica and even closer with Apuleius’ Metamorphoses.4 This may be the case if we take a narrow view of literature produced in the provinces, confining our gaze to the traditional canon and works with aesthetic pretentions. If, led by Plotina, we look to intensely local texts like the Acta Alexandrinorum and the Talmud and juxtapose them with works like Apuleius’ Metamorphoses, which treats both the Roman center and the periphery in adapting a Greek story into Latin, we can get a richer picture of what provincial literature could be. Both variants of the ‘plotting Plotina’ type reflect the common ancient trope which warned of the problematic influence that could be applied by women in monarchies.5 It is unclear how the life of Pompeia Plotina, a wealthy, provincial, and childless empress, unrolled in reality instead of representation,6 and, as we shall see below, historically minded scholars have read the texts I will discuss 4. Barchiesi 2005. Barchiesi 2021 develops this discussion focusing further on Apuleius, who, he argues, tried to create an ‘imperial literature’ which provided a fictional space for communication and negotiation between center and periphery but that failed to take off widely. 5. E.g. the classic case of the supposed influence of eastern queens in Greek literature, on which see Hall (1989, pp. 95 and 201–210). Certain ‘bad’ Roman empresses could also be explained in this way, e.g. Claudius’ wife Agrippina, on which see Boatwright (1991a, p. 530), who notes that Plotina is the only Hadrianic or Trajanic woman to elicit this trope. 6. Roche (2002, pp. 59–60) argues against Boatwright 1991a that we shouldn’t take the official picture of the Ulpian women at face value.

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in different ways as evidence for her role and character. If, however, we leave the question of historical accuracy to the side, these texts can help us see how a negative type character of highly influential Roman woman represented by the name Plotina changed as it appeared in different provincial literatures, eventually receding so far from the historical figure that she is no longer the empress, but just a magistrate’s wife with the emperor’s ear. Since the name Plotina was not immensely common in the Roman Empire,7 it is not impossible that a Plotina figure who was not the empress would be associated with the most well-known Plotina there was. The elite Roman ‘Plotina’ thus becomes emblematic of bad imperial governance for the 2nd century CE, the way figures like Agrippina or Messalina had been the ‘bad empresses’ of the 1st century CE.8 The picture of Plotina as foe to provincial groups appears in the Greek Acta Hermaisci, a text preserved only on papyrus and belonging to the tradition modern scholars have named the Acta Alexandrinorum or Acts of the Pagan Martyrs, in the Rabbinic commentaries on the Hebrew Bible called the Talmud, and in the Golden Ass/Metamorphoses, written in Latin about provincial Greece by the Numidian Apuleius. While the first two texts represent serious and ongoing political/ethnic clashes, the third is likely a parody of the Plotina character. Similarly, while the first two texts represent local genres that could include fictional representations of the past, the third is unabashedly an experiment in fiction (even if that word did not exist for Apuleius) that appears to have aimed at a wide elite audience. Although the dates of all three texts cannot be pinned down precisely, I believe we can establish a plausible chronology that maps onto the gradual de-historicization of the empress as she develops into a stock character. The standard negative tradition of Plotina as mastermind of Hadrian’s succession appears for the first time in Cassius Dio (lived c. 150 to 235 CE), who heard the story from his father, who had been governor of Cilicia at the time (69.1).9 The Metamorphoses dates to the 2nd century CE, and the Oxyrhynchus papyrus of the Acta Hermaisci dates to the 2nd-3rd century CE, probably the later end of the range, but the papyrus may represent an earlier tradition. It is hard to know 7. Four other Plotinas are cited in the Prosopographia Imperii Romani (Dessau & von Rohden, 1898, p. 52). 8. Smallwood (1976, p. 391)’s comment on Acta Hermaisci that Plotina ‘was no Agrippina, meddling in political matters,’ shows how important the mainstream Roman historical tradition can be in the minds of scholars. If Tacitus had written about Plotina, we might have had a more nuanced picture of the empress that prefigured her scheming for Hadrian, although several scholars have held that Plotina does not lurk behind Tacitus’ Livia and Agrippina (Boatwright, 1991a, p. 531 n. 64). 9. It recurs in The Vita Hadriani from the Historia Augusta, Eutropius, and Pseudo Aurelius Victor Caesares, on which see Müller-Reineke (2008, pp. 625–626).

Chapter 18. The reception of an empress in Roman provincial prose

whether the Acta Hermaisci was composed during the reign of Trajan or sometime after, a question which in some ways depends on where one places it on the continuum between history and fiction.10 Capponi has recently argued that a series of Acta that includes the Acta Hermaisci closely tracks Trajan’s historical policy towards Alexandrians and Jews in various eastern provinces, although she admits that the account of the miracle of Serapis that follows the embassy is novelistic (Capponi, 2020). She argues in particular that the Acta Hermaisci should be dated to 113 CE as it reflects the hostile response of the Alexandrians to pro-Jewish decrees implemented by Trajan in order to secure the support of the various Mesopotamian Jewish communities for his upcoming Parthian campaign. These pro-Jewish decrees, she suggests, included the permission for Jewish refugees to return to the city of Alexandria that resulted in ethnic conflict. Others have tied the text’s use of the term ‘impious Jews’ with the revolt of 115–117 CE and dated its composition to this time or after.11 Although it is impossible to know when this politically motivated historical fiction was composed, it seems less likely that a text dramatizing the conflict between Jews and Greeks in Alexandria was composed after the revolt in which the Jews were more or less eliminated from Egypt for a considerable time (Vega Navarrete, 2017, pp. 171–172).12 The central material of the Talmud (the Mishna) is generally dated to the 2nd century CE, and the Palestinian version which preserves the Plotina story is thought to have been codified by the 4th century CE.13 The Rabbi who is cited as the source of the Plotina story, Simeon ben Yohai, seems to have lived in the late 1st to later 2nd century CE, and if we trust that the story was told during his lifetime we can use that as an approximate date.14 The provincial texts and Dio Cassius were thus composed around the same period, and it is impossible to establish a chronology among them, but the provincial texts at least lend themselves to a developmental model which I use to present the passages. The Acta ties itself to the reign of Trajan, the Talmud story relates to the reigns of Trajan and Hadrian, and the Metamorphoses represents a more timeless Roman Empire that can be seen as reflecting on the world of the 2nd century (for further specificity see below). It would have

10. E.g. Boatwright (1991a, p. 531) claims it is ‘a tendentious tract written in the Hadrianic period … to discredit the imperial decision made in favor of the Jews.’ 11. E.g. Tcherikover and Fuks (1960, p. 87), Mélèze-Modrzejewski (1987, p. 12) and Vega Navarrete (2017, p. 171). 12. For an account of the destruction of the Jewish community in Egypt after the revolt of 115–117 CE, see Mélèze-Modrzejewski (1995, pp. 207–225). 13. Two recent introductions to the corpus for Classicists are Boyarin 2017 (focused on the Babylonian Talmud) and Goldhill 2020 (on Rabbinic writing as a whole). 14. On his life, see Loewe (1961, pp. 112–115). His writings hold harsh positions on non-Jews.

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been especially clever of the provincial authors in question if they developed the provincial variant after hostility to the empress arose in the Roman center.15 Thus, they would be able to draw on the authority of the Roman concern to increase the plausibility of their own conception of the empress, but this is, of course, impossible to prove. Whatever their precise dates, each brief but pivotal appearance of Plotina represents an important glimpse of the reception of a historical empress in the provinces of her empire as well as a way into considering the depiction of real women in the world of Roman imperial ‘fictional’ prose. The Acta Alexandrinorum is the modern name for a surprisingly large body of texts that purport to describe embassies by prominent Greek Alexandrians before the Roman state and that showcase the persecution of elite Greeks by the Romans.16 In many of these texts the Alexandrians are in conflict with the Jews of Alexandria, and one such is the Acta Hermaisci, which features a dialogue between Trajan, a Jewish embassy, and an Alexandrian embassy at Rome. We do not know how the embassy ended, as the papyrus breaks off with a miracle effected by a bust of Serapis in support of the Alexandrians. Here I quote the passage concerning Plotina (P. Oxy. X 1242 = CPJ II 157, col. ii, l. 4–19):17 καὶ λήξαντος τοῦ χειμῶνος ὁρμίζοντ̣[αι εἰ]ς τὴν Ῥώμην. ἔμ̣α̣θ̣εν ὁ αὐτοκράτωρ ὅτι πάρ̣[εισι] πρέσβεις Ἰουδαίων καὶ Ἀλεξανδρέων, κα[ὶ ἐ]τάξα{ν}το τὴν ἡμέραν 〈ὅ〉τε ἀμφοτέρων ἀκούσεται. [ἡ] δ̣ὲ Πλωτεῖνα ἀπαντᾷ τοὺς συνκλητικοὺ[ς] π[αρ]α̣γενέσθαι κατὰ Ἀλεξανδρέων καὶ τοῖς Ἰουδ[α]ίοις βοηθῆσαι. καὶ πρῶτοι εἰσελθό(ν)τες οἱ Ἰουδαῖοι ἀσπάζονται τὸν αὐτοκράτορα Τραιανόν· ὁ δὲ Καῖσαρ εὐμενέστατα αὐτοὺς ἠσπ[άσ]ατο, καὶ αὐτὸς ἤδη προπεπεισμένος ὑπὸ [τ]ῆ̣ς Πλωτίνης. μετ᾽ α〈ὐ〉τοὺς εἰσέρχονται Ἀ[λ]εξανδέων πρέσβεις καὶ ἀσπάζονται τ[ὸ]ν αὐτοκράτορα· ὁ δὲ οὐκ ἀπηντήσατο, ἀλλ᾽ [εἶ]πεν· χαιρετίζετέ με ὡς ἄξιοι τυγχάνοντ[ες] τοῦ χαίρειν, τοιαῦτα χαλεπὰ τολμήσαντε[ς] Ἰουδαίοις; And when the storm stopped, they headed for Rome. The emperor learned that the ambassadors of the Jews and Alexandrians were present, and he fixed the day when he would hear both. But Plotina met with the senators so that they might be against the Alexandrians and assist the Jews. The Jews entering first greet emperor Trajan. Trajan in turn was greeting them most kindly, since he himself had already been persuaded beforehand by Plotina. After them the ambassadors of the Alexandrians enter and greet the emperor. He, however, did not greet them but said: ‘Do you greet me as ones who are worthy of greeting, although you have dared such terrible things against the Jews?’

15. Cf. Rodriguez (2019, p. 215, n. 19) following Temporini (1978, p. 100). 16. For the corpus see, recently, Harker 2008, Colomo 2016, Vega Navarrete 2017. 17. I follow the recent edition of the text in Vega Navarrete (2017, pp. 170–184). For another recent study of P. Oxy. X 1242, see Rodriguez 2019.

Chapter 18. The reception of an empress in Roman provincial prose

In this passage, a text written in explicit support of the Alexandrian Greek cause, Plotina’s machinations on behalf of the Jews are emphasized as the cause of Trajan’s hostility, but the empress’ real position on either party in reality is far from clear. There is no corroborating evidence for her support for the Jewish people in other extant sources, and thus some have wondered whether her preference is based on Nero’s wife Poppaea, whom Josephus in fact calls an advocate for the Jews (AI 20.195 and Vit. 16).18 Boatwright analyzed the Acta Hermaisci as an attempt to use the idea of ‘the influence the empress was supposed to have.’19 Mélèze-Modrzejewski, however, suggested that the enmity aroused by Plotina’s support for the Jews ‘was only heightened’ after the matter of Hadrian’s succession and that it reflects a negative tradition pre-dating the adoption affair, while Musurillo wondered whether the Acta’s portrait reflects a negative tradition about the empress that began with the Hadrian rumor (Mélèze-Modrezejewski, 1987, p. 14 and Mélèze-Modrezejewski, 1995, p. 196. Musurillo, 1954, p. 162). The last point depends on what date is assigned to the Acta Hermaisci, and it seems more likely to me that Musurillo’s direction of influence is correct. At any rate, the picture of Plotina presented here is a far cry from the official role vaunted by Pliny the Younger and celebrated in coinage. Instead of a silent figure at the side of the emperor, Plotina is mentioned as influencing both the Senate and the emperor in two different actions. The text does not refer to her as wife or empress, and thus the reader is meant to recognize her without any context (unless it was provided in the lacuna). The verb used for her intervention with the senators (ἀπαντάω) is unusual in the sense required by the text (Vega Navarrete, 2017, pp. 181–182), but it should suggest a physical visit, perhaps even imagined as a visit to the Senate itself, and may imply that persuasion was not necessary, either because the senators agreed or because Plotina had unquestioned authority. The verb used for her intervention with Trajan (προπείθω) suggests a more private context and also gives less authority to Plotina vis-à-vis her husband than vis-à18. Musurillo (1954, pp. 162–163), followed by Vega Navarrete (2017, p. 171). Earlier scholars compared Plotina’s advocacy to the presence of matronae during Claudius’ audience with Isidorus in the Acta Isidori, on which see Temporini (1978, pp. 92–93). In Josephus’ story of Jewish and Samaritan ambassadors before Claudius (AI 20.118–136), Agrippa II successfully uses Agrippina’s persuasion on Claudius to favor the Jews (see Harker, 2008, 154–155). Harker (2008, p. 158 n.115) also compares the attempted intervention of Pilate’s wife in the trial of Jesus to Plotina’s role in the Acta Hermasici. 19. Boatwright (1991a, p. 531). Temporini 1978, pp. 94–96 sees Plotina’s influence as an attempt to emasculate Trajan but suggests the picture may have had some grounding in reality given the Acta’s general elaboration of historical kernels. At p. 100 Temporini calls the Acta Hermaisci’s portrait of Plotina Hadrianic. Capponi (2020, p. 196) is also prepared to see truth behind this Plotina.

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vis the senators. Still, she is credited with influencing his policy in a way that Pliny would have found troubling. While Plotina is depicted as a supporter of the Jews in the Acta Hermaisci, she appears in the Palestinian Talmud and the Midrash Esther Rabbah as a hostile figure who influences Trajan against the Jews. This tradition is connected to the two Jewish revolts of the early 2nd century CE: in 115–117 CE and the Bar Kochba revolt of 132–135 CE. Batsch has recently stressed that unlike Classical texts and Classical scholars, the Jewish tradition saw these events as part of one long time of persecution and identified both Trajan and Hadrian as persecutors (Batsch, 2020). According to the story involving Plotina, her enmity to the Jews was responsible for the entire era of persecution and war (Batsch, 2020, p. 75).20 Several scholars have noted these texts in connection with the Acta Hermaisci as they present Plotina taking an opposite position to that imagined by the Greek Acta in response to a supposed Jewish insult to her family that represented serious disloyalty to the empire.21 Mélèze-Modrzejewski even suggested that the fact that Plotina is informed of this insult by anti-Jewish elements in the version told in the Midrash Esther Rabbah is ‘in some way’ a Jewish response to the Alexandrian claim in the Acta Hermaisci that the emperor’s council was filled with Jews (Mélèze-Modrezejewski, 1987, pp. 18–19; Loewe, 1961, p. 116; Rodriguez 2019, p. 217, n. 30.). It would follow that the anti-Jewish Plotina is a response to the pro-Jewish Plotina. Recently, however, Harker has placed the whole Talmudic narrative within the martyr/embassy model of the Acta more precisely, and I think he is right to see in this text what we might call a variant on a popular type of writing in the Roman Empire – a confrontation with the emperor in an audience or trial – although he stresses that the Acta Alexandrinorum are not as anti-Roman as many other comparable texts and that they share in some ideals of ‘Second Sophistic’ figures like Dio Chrysostom and Philostratus.22 I agree that 20. It is interesting to contrast this story with the story the Rabbinic texts tell about the start of the conflict under the Flavians that destroyed the Jerusalem temple. This time it is a petty personal dispute among Jewish people and perhaps the excessive religiosity of one Rabbi that inspire the war, on which see Goldhill (2020, pp. 13–14). 21. Loewe 1961, Temporini (1978, pp. 90–100), Mélèze-Modrezejewski 1987 partly repeated in English in Mélèze-Modrezejewski (1995, pp. 192–197 and 207–214), Harker (2008, pp. 152–153), Vega Navarrete (2017, p. 171), Rodriguez (2019, p. 216–218), Capponi (2020, pp. 195–196). 22. Harker (2008, pp. 141–173), who is careful to point out that we are not necessarily able to speak of ‘a clearly definable literary form.’ Cf. Mélèze-Modrezejewski (1987, pp. 20–21) who saw both the Acta Hermaisci and the Trajan tradition of the Talmud as united in their antiRoman departures from ‘official history’ and Loewe (1961, pp. 115–122) who read the stories as part of ‘the same genre of hate speech’ and suggested that the Talmud story may have served as ‘counter-propaganda’ to texts like the Acta.

Chapter 18. The reception of an empress in Roman provincial prose

the shape of both narratives shows that their authors are participating in a similar form of Roman imperial literature, and I believe this strengthens the possibility that the ‘plotting Plotina’ they both display can be viewed as a trope of texts written in the empire. Here, I focus on the depiction of Plotina, quoting the version of the story from the Palestinian Talmud, which like the Esther version is attributed to Rabbi Simeon ben Yohai (Sukkah 5:1, 55B). While this version leaves out the informers, it involves two children, a boy and girl, instead of the one son found in the Esther version.23 ‘In the days of Trogianos (sic. Trajan) the wicked, a son was born to him on 9th Ab, and they (the Jews) were fasting. His daughter died on the feast of Hanukkah. His wife sent him a message saying: ‘Instead of subduing the barbarians, come and subdue the Jews who have rebelled against you.’ He thought that the trip would take ten days, but he came in five. On arrival he found them studying the Torah and immersed in the following verse: ‘the Lord shall bring a nation against thee from afar, from the end of the earth, even as the eagle glides.’ He said to them: ‘Why are you so occupied?’ They said to him: ‘With so and so (i.e. the verse).’ He said to them: ‘It refers to a certain person who thought that it would take ten days to make the trip, and I arrived in five days.’ He set the legions around them and killed them. (Trajan) said to the women: ‘Obey my legions, and I shall not kill you.’ They said to him: ‘What you did to the ones who have fallen, do also to us who are yet standing.’ He mingled their blood with the blood of their men, until the blood flowed into the ocean as far as Cyprus.24

The climax of this story is the confrontation between Trajan and the Jewish people who are killed by him, and the Plotina material is not given much space or explanation. It seems that the empress supposed that the Jews mourned the birth of her son and celebrated the death of her daughter, not knowing or caring that these events coincided with important Jewish festivals. Of course, Plotina is generally recognized to have been childless, and the infants are a convenient extension of her role as wife. Here, as in Pliny, the empress is not mentioned by name, but she is pictured as having a more commanding influence over her husband than in the Acta Hermaisci.25 Instead of needing to corral senators and persuade her husband, Plotina sends instructions to Trajan which he accordingly 23. For discussion of the versions of this story, see Loewe (1961, p. 110). Mélèze-Modrezejewski (1995, pp. 209–210) suggests that the Midrash’s change of two children to one boy was an attempt to regularize the original story. 24. Translation from Harker (2008, pp. 152–153), following Mélèze-Modrezejewski (1995, pp. 209–211 and 213). 25. Mélèze-Modrezejewski (1987, p. 19) points out that the effect of her influence in the Talmud is much more catastrophic and violent.

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fulfills, postponing the Parthian war. While Plotina’s position is not (apparently) motivated in the Acta Hermaisci, she causes a terrible persecution in the Talmud through a misunderstanding generated by her ignorance of Jewish traditions and her feelings as a mother. A catastrophe for the Jews is thus not the result of politics or economics but the unlucky association of ideas in a royal female brain, already touched by grief. It is interesting that a further tradition suggests that the application of a Jewish embassy to an anonymous Roman matrona was necessary to end the prohibition of Jewish customs that began during the revolts of the first half of the 2nd century CE.26 We may wonder whether in a different version of this story the matrona may have been identified with Faustina the Elder, the wife of Antoninus Pius, or Faustina the Younger, the wife of Marcus Aurelius, since these emperors are potential referents of the ‘Antoninus’ who appears in conversation with Rabbi Yehuda ha-Nasi in other stories about the end of prohibiting Jewish customs and who symbolizes the good emperor in the Rabbinic corpus.27 In any case, Roman women play a surprisingly large role in the Talmud’s history of this event, suggesting that the trope Greeks used to apply to eastern barbarians of imperial women directing policy has been fully turned against the Romans.28 Turning to a very different type of text, we move to the story of Plotina in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses, an inset tale told by ‘the bandit Haemus,’ a persona assumed by Tlepolemus, who has infiltrated a robber camp to save his beloved Charite. Although not all would be sure that we can link this Plotina with the empress, Müller-Reineke has revived and strengthened this hypothesis, stressing that both Roman women were intensely moral and intensely devoted to their husbands, even if Apuleius’ Plotina has many children unlike the empress and is the

26. Batsch (2020, p. 79) citing Rosh Hashanna 19a. He points out that royal women or wives of Roman officials are recurrent characters in the Rabbinic stories, and that one Rabbi even marries a magistrate’s wife after her conversation to Judaism. Clearly the symbolic role of women and marriage for intercultural mediation is crucial here. 27. Smallwood (1976, pp. 467–486) discusses the lifting of some Roman prohibitions of Jewish customs already under Antoninus Pius. On ‘Antoninus’ in the Rabbinic texts, see recently Batsch (2020, pp. 78 and 82), Shahar (2021, pp. 246–254), and Oppenheimer (2021) with bibliography. While the commonly held position that the Talmud’s ‘Antoninus’ is Caracalla reflects improved relations between Jews and Romans under the Severans, Caracalla’s wife is not a significant figure. 28. Batsch (2020, p. 79), taking a more historical approach, wonders if we are meant to think of Roman female proselytes who advocate for the Jews. For the strict duality of gender within Rabbinic culture and the association of female bodies with the house and motherhood, see Fonrobert 2007. The Talmud’s ‘Plotina’ thus mixes the political power of the Roman woman with the motherhood deemed important for a Rabbinic woman.

Chapter 18. The reception of an empress in Roman provincial prose

wife not of the emperor himself but rather a wealthy procurator.29 According to ‘Haemus,’ Plotina was the wife of an exiled Roman courtier who brought about the destruction of his robber band and then interceded with the emperor to have her husband reinstated. The account opens with a detailed description of her character (Met. 7.6.2–4), quoted here in Ruden’s lively translation: 30 fuit quidam multis officiis in aula Caesaris clarus atque conspicuus, ipsi etiam probe spectatus. hunc insimulatum quorundam astu proiecit extorrem saeviens invidia. sed uxor eius Plotina, quaedam rarae fidei atque singularis pudicitiae femina, quae decimo partus stipendio viri familiam fundaverat, spretis atque contemptis urbicae luxuriae deliciis fugientis comes et infortunii socia, tonso capillo, in masculinam faciem reformato habitu, pretiosissimis monilium et auro monetali zonis refertis incincta, inter ipsas custodientium militum manus et gladios nudos intrepida, cunctorum periculorum particeps et pro mariti salute pervigilem curam sustinens, aerumnas adsiduas ingenio masculo sustinebat. There was a man in Caesar’s court who through his many services became renowned and prominent, and well-regarded even by Himself. He was the object of cunning accusations by people I shall not name, and rampaging envy propelled him into exile. But his wife, Plotina, a woman of rare loyalty and incomparable continence, who had laid the foundations of her husband’s household by serving ten terms in the army of childbearing, spurned and scorned the delights of the city’s luxury and became his comrade in banishment, the sharer of his misfortune. She cropped her hair, changed her attire to a masculine disguise, and girded on a belt stuffed with her most costly necklaces and coined gold. In the midst of the squadrons escorting her husband, among their naked swords, she fearlessly took part in all his perils. For the sake of his safety, she showed a man’s spirit in enduring anxiety without rest and afflictions without pause.

‘Haemus’ then explains how his band attacked the inn at Actium where Plotina and her husband were staying only to be repelled by the lady herself (Met. 7.7): nec tamen periculo levi temptati discessimus. simul namque primum sonum ianuae matrona percepit, procurrens in cubiculum clamoribus inquietis cuncta miscuit, milites suosque famulos nominatim, sed et omnem viciniam suppetiatum convocans, nisi quod pavore cunctorum, qui sibi quisque metuentes delitiscebant,

29. Müller-Reineke 2008, even if one does not follow the conclusion about Plotina’s relevance to Lucius. Recently, Mattiacci (2018, pp. 200–207) accepts the allusion to the empress as part of the inspiration for Apuleius’ Plotina. However, she sees the childlessness of the empress as an important difference and stresses that two further models are significant for the Metamorphoses’ character: the ideal Roman matrona and the Roman virago exemplified by Fulvia, Antony’s wife. 30. Ruden 2011, modified for Zimmerman’s OCT text.

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effectum est ut impune discederemus. sed protinus sanctissima – vera enim dicenda sunt – et unicae fidei femina, bonis artibus gratiosa, precibus ad Caesaris numen porrectis, et marito reditum celerem et adgressurae plenam vindictam impetravit. denique noluit esse Caesar Haemi latronis collegium, et confestim interivit: tantum potest nutus etiam magni principis. But we had to depart, after no trivial trial – for as soon as the lady detected the sound of a door beginning to move, she forayed with speed into the dormitory. There she raised rousing shouts – and created universal confusion – calling on the soldiers and her own servants by name (as well as the entire neighborhood) for reinforcements. It would really have helped had not everyone but her, amid the general alarm, ducked into hiding to save himself, with the result that we escaped unharmed. But this astonishingly virtuous, matchlessly faithful lady – you have to say that for her – had in the past gained some influence through her scrupulous behavior. Now, losing no time, she relayed her pleas to the divine Caesar, and she was granted both the swift recall of her husband and a full measure of revenge for our incursion. In short, Caesar decided he did not wish the professional society led by Haemus the bandit to exist; therefore, it perished without delay. That’s how much a great leader can do with a nod of his head.

Here we see a provincial complaining about how a woman named Plotina used her influence with the emperor to destroy his life. Of course, Plotina is here not the empress but rather an elite Roman woman who represents a type figure of ‘a noblewoman with potentially problematic influence at court.’ It is impossible to know who the ‘Caesar’ of Apuleius is, and whether a reader could or should be expected to link this story with any particular instantiation of the Roman imperial court. Millar argued that Apuleius was writing around 170 CE and that his text is set in the present. Interestingly, he points to an inscription of c. 176 CE that mirrors the situation of Haemus’ story: the emperor sent detachments (vexillationes) to Macedonia and Thrace to root out a band of bandits (Millar, 1999, p. 254). While this may suggest inspiration from the time of Marcus Aurelius, the use of the title ‘Caesar’ alone suggests the timeless role of the emperor more than one particular incumbent. By a similar but opposite process, if the historical empress Plotina has here become a type figure, partly dissociated from the real person, I suggest that this dissociation helps Apuleius satirize provincial texts which fictionalized the real empress as a force who would care enough about their lives to ruin them. The fact that the Metamorphoses’ Plotina has many children has made many scholars chary of identifying her with the childless empress, but it is notable that the empress has at least two children in the Talmud’s story. I thus wonder whether we can see here the further development of the ‘plotting Plotina’ figure who has receded even further from her historical namesake and whether Apuleius is in

Chapter 18. The reception of an empress in Roman provincial prose

fact mocking the use of this type figure in texts like the Acta Hermaisci and the story that was collected in the Talmud. I am not suggesting that Apuleius necessarily knew of traditions circulating within the Alexandrian Greek or Jewish communities, but he may have been playing with an idea of Plotina that was current in the provinces: a woman whose influence with the emperor was harmful to provincials and whose badness was eventually connected to her status as a mother. The excellence and ability of the Metamorphoses’ Plotina as a superlatively ideal wife who can also head off a band of robbers practically single-handed is itself so extreme as to be satirical. Since the story is told in the assumed persona of a provincial bandit in order to deceive other provincial bandits and the attempt is successful, ‘Haemus’’ rendering of this Plotina is presumably cast as plausible to people of non-elite status who could never hope to access the imperial capital.31 But perhaps a more knowing reader with more familiarity with the Roman center and the imperial image is meant to appreciate Tlepolemus’ deception at a deeper level, looking down on the internal audience who credulously believe the stereotype that a woman of the court could influence the emperor. The Metamorphoses itself is a text that highlights (and perhaps satirizes) the difference between the provinces and the Roman capital through, for example, the juxtaposition of Lucius’ experience of misery as an ass in Greece for ten books followed by his bliss as an Isaic initiate in Rome in the story’s final episode. We might thus not be surprised to see light mockery of a provincial trope in Apuleius’ novel, which is itself coy in its positioning as a provincial text and which presents a complex cultural and linguistic adaptation of its Greek models.32 Indeed, a different double reading of the Plotina story has been put forward by McNamara, who argues that it has at least two possible interpretations for its several internal audiences (the bandits, the internal narrator Lucius in ass form, and Charite, Tlepolemus’ captured beloved who alone knows his true identity) and that for Charite, the audience member with most knowledge, Plotina is supposed to figure as a model of ideal wifehood in her upcoming union with Tlepolemus.33 Charite in fact is later shown to follow Plotina’s lead as a devoted and violently vengeful wife in the tragic end of her and Tlepolemus’ love story. For Lucius (and the reader of the whole novel), Plotina should also most obvi31. Cf. Lateiner (2000, p. 321 n. 20), ‘The admirable … story of female fidelity seems credible only to an imperceptive audience of loutish bandits.’ 32. For the Metamorphoses and the provinces as well as Apuleius’ ‘Romanization’ of the ass story, see especially Hall 1995 (focusing on the Lucianic Onos), Harrison 2002, Finkelpearl 2007, Graverini (2012, pp. 165–207), Moyer 2016, and Barchiesi 2021. 33. McNamara 2003. Mattiacci (2018, p. 200) follows others in stressing that Plotina is a shock to readers used to the novel’s panoply of negative women.

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ously prefigure Isis who represents Lucius’ savior, the ultimate ideal wife, and a scorner of physical voluptas, the cardinal sin of the novel as a whole. Since, however, Charite follows Plotina’s model to her own death, McNamara further suggests that we should question Lucius’ account of Isis as the ideal female savior (and wife) and build on this cue to doubt by meditating on the proliferation of meanings and interpretations suggested by the Metamorphoses as a whole. At first Plotina and Isis may appear as an ideal, but this ideal may not be perfect for everyone. Building on the ambiguity already identified in this figure, I suggest that Apuleius’ Plotina may take on a further nuance given the background of the Plotina type that I have investigated in the Acta Hermaisci and the Talmud. For some, such as her own husband and presumably the Roman state and central Roman culture more generally, the Plotina ‘Haemus’ encounters is an ideal. For the provincials who feel her power, however, she is quite the opposite. It is impossible to know whether Apuleius points this out with the serious intent to comment on power differentials in the Roman empire or whether he is mostly mocking the provincials and their idea of ‘plotting Plotina,’ as the fact that the bandits are the story’s primary audience might suggest.34 Indeed, Mattiacci has recently read the story of ‘Haemus’ and Plotina as a celebration of Rome and the integration of the provinces into the Roman world that privileges the Roman center and eschews provincial resistance (Mattiacci, 2018). Since, however, serious and satirical often appear together in this text and the Metamorphoses has frustrated attempts at a unified interpretation, both pro-Roman and anti-Roman readings may be proffered by the author. It is particularly interesting that the 4th century Epitome of the Caesars by Pseudo-Aurelius Victor shows Plotina encouraging her husband to be harsher with procurators (42.21), a passage which suggests that her provincial role as plotter had become more central: Pompeia Plotina incredibile dictu est quanto auxerit gloriam Traiani; cuius procuratores cum provincias calumniis agitarent, adeo ut unus ex his diceretur locupletium quemque ita convenire: ‘Quare habes?’ alter: ‘Unde habes?’ tertius: ‘Pone, quod habes,’ illa coniugem corripuit atque increpans, quod laudis suae esset incuriosus, talem reddidit, ut postea exactiones improbas detestans fiscum lienem vocaret, quod eo crescente artus reliqui tabescunt.

34. Cf. Barchiesi (2005, p. 401) who encourages us to think of Roman texts being read in different parts of the empire and at pp. 404–405 suggests ‘the binding links and staggering differences of the Empire’ could be seen through literature like the Aeneid or Lucan’s Civil War read in the provinces. Finkelpearl (2007, p. 274) wonders whether Romans could be the audience of critique of Roman provincial administration in the Metamorphoses and Barchiesi (2021, p. 57) suggests that Apuleius fostered imaginary role reversals between the center and the provinces.

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It is incredible to relate how much Pompeia Plotina increased the glory of Trajan: when his procurators were disrupting the provinces with false accusations to the extent that one of them was said to address any wealthy fellow thus, ‘How did you get so much?’; another, ‘Where did you get so much?’; a third, ‘Give me what you’ve got,’ she admonished her husband and, reproaching him because he was so unconcerned with his reputation, made him into a person that afterwards spurned unjust requisitions and called the imperial treasury the spleen, because, as it increased, the remaining muscles and limbs dwindled.35

Müller-Reineke cites this passage as part of the more active persona given to Plotina in the ‘later sources,’ but I would like to refine this claim by identifying the provincial plotting Plotina in the background here.36 In this case Plotina is urging her husband to act to the detriment of provincial officials, merging the idea of Plotina’s reach into provincial matters with an undue influence over Roman citizens. Leaving aside Pseudo-Aurelius Victor’s much later text, we thus have three very different texts – one written by a Numidian about Greece, another a piece of Alexandrian political fiction, and the third an important story of the Jews of Judaea – united by a Plotina figure who influences an emperor to the detriment of Roman provincials. This represents a considerable spread of the Roman provincial world, and, I believe, it shows how profitable it can be to answer the recent call to read the Talmud within and against the literature of the Roman Empire as a whole.37 In both Apuleius’ Metamorphoses and the Acta Hermaisci a Plotina figure plays a role as intercessor for different provincial groups with the emperor. In each case this intercession turns out badly for the group responsible for the story, perhaps satirically in Apuleius. In the Talmud, Plotina hears about events in the provinces and changes provincial policy to drastic effect. Unlike in the tradition of Hadrian’s succession where Plotina seems to be working against the will of Trajan, the provincial stories depict her as upfront and direct in her political maneuvering. She does not appear to be persuading Trajan against his wishes. Another aspect of the ‘Plotina type’ is the importance of the children Plotina never had and her presumed role as mother. In the Talmud, in particular, Plotina

35. Following the translation of Mattiacci (2018, pp. 202–203) who modifies Banchich. 36. Müller-Reineke (2008, p. 624), followed by Mattiacci (2018, pp. 202–203). Boatwright (1991a, pp. 531–532) sees this as part of the morally unimpeachable Plotina. 37. For such calls, see Boyarin 2017 and Goldhill 2020. Most recently, Shahar 2021 profitably compares the portraits of Roman emperors in the Talmud with their depictions in Greek and Roman historical and biographical texts, suggesting (p. 258) that the Talmud’s accounts could ‘be affected, probably indirectly, by stories about the emperors which were current throughout the empire, such as those which found their expression in the Historia Augusta.’

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is defined and motivated by her success and failure as a child bearer, and in the Midrash Esther Rabbah’s version, the compression of two children into one son, who apparently dies soon after his birth, emphasizes Plotina’s failure to produce an heir and thus her failure as an empress, which leads to the unjust persecution of provincials. In Apuleius, ‘Plotina’ has an almost satirically large number of children (ten),38 and it is tempting to juxtapose this fictionalization of Plotina’s children with the fact that the affair of Hadrian’s succession would have been avoided if Plotina had had a son.39 The negative Plotina is thus in some respects closely tied up with the empress’ failure as a woman, and the type figure allows the reimagining of Plotina’s own complex relationship to childbearing.40 Of course, Plotina could and did appear positively in the Roman provinces in depictions of the imperial family set up by local elites that were one of the most common features of the Roman Empire and resulted from the practices of euergetism and the imperial cult. For example, Plotina’s actions on behalf of the Epicurean school at Athens in Hadrian’s reign were advertised in an inscription that memorialized letters from her and Hadrian (SIG3 834).41 We might also think of the famous city gate complex built by Plancia Magna in Perge (Pamphylia) in 121 CE that featured statues of Plancia’s family, gods, city heroes, and the family of Trajan and Hadrian including Plotina, Sabina, Marciana and Matidia.42 As Boatwright has argued, pointing in particular to the higher number of imperial women than men on Plancia’s gate, elite provincial women may have used the model of visible but retiring imperial women in public life to support their own public aspirations (Boatwright, 1991b, pp. 260–261).43 Plancia Magna’s husband, Julius Cornutus Tertullus, was suffect consul with Pliny the Younger in 100 CE, 38. McNamara (2003, p. 120 n. 69) connects this fertility to the figure’s role as ‘an impossible ideal.’ 39. Boatwright 1991a, p. 530 deflects the issue onto Hadrian, writing, ‘These slanderous rumors (of the relationship between Plotina and Hadrian) … reveal the fear and envy the concept of an influential empress aroused at this time, when the absence of male offspring rendered paramount the influence of the male amici principis and concilium.’ 40. Müller-Reineke (2008, p. 623 n. 16) stresses that because Plotina was childless ‘new visual modes for conveying female status and power had to be developed’ that did not involve motherhood. Boatwright (1991a, pp. 536–537) suggests that the lapse of dynastic succession in the Trajanic and Hadrianic period partly caused the diminished importance of imperial women either from fear of their influence in choosing a successor or from lack of justification for their authority. 41. See Boatwright (1991a, pp. 530–532 and 540), who takes this as ‘the one unimpeachable contemporary witness of Plotina’s influence with an emperor.’ 42. On the gate complex, see Boatwright 1991b and Gatzke 2020 with further bibliography. 43. She adds that the wives of Roman magistrates too could provide similar models.

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which indicates Plancia’s exalted position in the empire, and even after Hadrian’s controversial succession, her Plotina was Pliny’s Plotina.44 Although the evidence is too sparse to draw conclusions, it is tempting to suggest that in some cases there may have been a gendered provincial reception of the empress: women who sought public roles used her image as a positive model, while male groups who wished to explain their suffering at the hands of Rome conjured her as a hostile and unpredictable force, as seen in the three texts on which I have focused.45 I thus submit that thinking about the different provincial literatures of the empire broadly within the ambit of Roman imperial literature can help us see themes that were deemed useful to writers from very different cultural and literary traditions. The figure of Plotina may have been a particularly appealing character to fictionalize into a scapegoat for both Romans close to the court and provincials. As such, she could be the bad empress for the High Roman Empire, an ironic reversal of the careful Trajanic image. It would perhaps not be surprising if other empresses were received in unexpected ways in provincial fiction from around the empire, and the scrutiny of more texts from different literary traditions may reveal other cases. At any rate, the idea of the ‘plotting Plotina’ was productive throughout the empire in the 2nd century CE and later as an ever more fictionalized adaptation of a real woman.

Bibliography Barchiesi, A. (2005). Center and Periphery. In S. Harrison (Ed.), A Companion to Latin Literature (pp. 394–405). Malden: Blackwell. Barchiesi, A. (2021). Il provinciale. Apuleio, Roma e il romanzo. In B. Graziosi & A. Barchiesi, Ritorni difficili (pp. 53–125). Rome: Edizioni di storia e letteratura. Batsch, C. (2020). Les « amphores hadriennes ». Mémoires juives des empereurs Trajan et Hadrien. In S. Benoist, A. Gautier, C. Hoët-Van Cauwenberghe, & R. Poignault (Eds.), Mémoires de Trajan, mémoires d’Hadrien (pp. 71–82). Villeneuve d’A scq: Presses Universitaires du Septentrion. Boatwright, M. T. (1991a). The Imperial Women of the Early Second Century A.C. AJPh, 112, 513–540.

44. For the status of Plancia’s family, see Boatwright (1991b, pp. 253–254). 45. We might compare the difference in the status of women of the Roman imperial period as suggested by material culture versus that suggested by literature, sketched by Boatwright (1991b, p. 258). While the texts present a traditional picture of women confined to the household, coins and inscriptions from the Greek east attest women like Plancia Magna who shared in civic life on their own behalf.

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Boatwright, M. T. (1991b). Plancia Magna of Perge: Women’s Roles and Status in Roman Asia Minor. In S. B. Pomeroy (Ed.), Women’s History and Ancient History (pp. 249–272). Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. Boyarin, D. (2017). Judaeo-Aramaic (Talmud). In D. Selden & P. Vasunia (Eds.), The Oxford Handbook of the Literature of the Roman Empire (pp. 1–17). Oxford online preprint. Capponi, L. (2020). Trajan dans les Acta Alexandrinorum: un portrait contradictoire? In S. Benoist, A. Gautier, C. Hoët-Van Cauwenberghe, & R. Poignault (Eds.), Mémoires de Trajan, mémoires d’Hadrien (pp. 187–204). Villeneuve d’A scq: Presses Universitaires du Septentrion. Colomo, D. (2016). Interstate Relations: The Papyrological Evidence. In M. Edwards and P. Derron (Eds.), La Rhétorique du Pouvoir: Une exploration de l’art oratoire délibératif grec (pp. 209–260). Vandœuvre: Fondation Hardt pour l’étude de l’Antiquité classique. Dessau, H. & von Rohden, P. (1898). Prosopographia imperii romani saec I. II. III. Berlin: Apud Georgium Reimerum. Egger, B. (1999). The Role of Women in the Greek Novel: Woman as Heroine and Reader. In S. Swain (Ed.), Oxford Readings in The Greek Novel (pp. 108–136). Oxford: Oxford University Press. Finkelpearl, E. (2007). Apuleius, the Onos, and Rome. In M. Paschalis, S. Frangoulidis, S. Harrison, & M. Zimmerman (Eds.), The Greek and the Roman Novel: Parallel Readings (pp. 263–276). Groningen: Barkhuis. Finkelpearl, E. (2014). Gender in the Ancient Novel. In E. P. Cueva & S. N. Byrne (Eds.), A Companion to the Ancient Novel (pp. 456–472). Chichester: Wiley Blackwell. Fonrobert, C. (2007). Regulating the Human Body: Rabbinic Legal Discourse and the Making of Jewish Gender. In C. Fonrobert and M. Jaffee (Eds.), The Cambridge Companion to the Talmud and Rabbinic Literature (pp. 270–294). Gatzke, A. (2020). The Gate Complex of Plancia Magna in Perge: A Case Study in Reading Bilingual Space. CQ, 70, 385–396. Goldhill, S. (2020). Against Roman Rule: Rabbinical Writing as a Genre of the Defeated. In D. Selden & P. Vasunia (Eds.), The Oxford Handbook of the Literature of the Roman Empire (pp. 1–34). Oxford online preprint. Graverini, L. (2012). Literature and Identity in The Golden Ass of Apuleius. Columbus: The Ohio State University Press. Hall, E. (1989). Inventing the Barbarian: Greek Self-Definition through Tragedy. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Hall, E. (1995). The Ass with Double Vision: Politicizing an Ancient Greek Novel. In D. Margolies and M. Joannou (Eds.), Heart of the Heartless World: Essays in Cultural Resistance in Memory of Margot Heinemann (pp. 47–59). London and Boulder: Pluto Press. Harker, A. (2008). Loyalty and Dissidence in Roman Egypt: The Case of the Acta Alexandrinorum Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Harrison, S. J. (2002). Literary Topography in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses. In M. Paschalis and S. Frangoulidis (Eds.), Space in the Ancient Novel (pp. 40–57). Groningen: Barkhuis. Lalanne, S. (2019). Les femmes du roman grec entre réalités et représentations. In S. Lalanne (Ed.), Femme grecques de l’Orient romain (pp. 221–251). Besançon: Presses Universitaires de Franche-Comté.

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Lateiner, D. (2000). Marriage and the Return of Spouses in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses. CJ, 95, 313–332. Loewe, R. (1961). A Jewish Counterpart to the Acts of the Alexandrians. JJS, 12, 105–122. Mattiacci, S. (2018). Robbers, Matrons, and the Roman Identity of Haemus’ Tale in Apul. Met. 7,5–8. In E. Cueva, S. Harrison, H. Mason, W. Owens, and S. Schwartz (Eds.), Re-Wiring the Ancient Novel II (pp. 191–210). Eelde: Barkhuis. McNamara, J. (2003). ‘The only wife worth having?’ Marriage and Storytelling in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses. AncNarr, 3, 106–128. Mélèze-Modrzejewski, J. (1987). Trajan et les Juifs: propagande Alexandrine et contrepropagande Rabbinique. In J. Marx (Ed.), Propagande et contre-propagande religieuses. Brussels: Éditions de l’Université de Bruxelles. Mélèze-Modrzejewski, J. (1995). The Jews of Egypt from Rameses II to Emperor Hadrian. Philadelphia and Jerusalem: The Jewish Publication Society. Millar, F. (1999). The World of the Golden Ass. In S. Harrison (Ed.), Oxford Readings in the Roman Novel (pp. 247–268). Oxford: Oxford University Press. Moyer, I. (2016). Why Cenchreae? The Social Topography of a Desultory Crossing in Apuleius’ Golden Ass. Phoenix, 70, 129–146. Müller-Reineke, H. (2008). Rarae fidei atque singularis pudicitiae femina – The Figure of Plotina in Apuleius’ Novel (“Metamorphoses” 7.6–7). Mnemosyne, 61, 619–633. Musurillo, H. (1954). Acts of the Pagan Martyrs I. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Oppenheimer, A. (2021). The Severans and Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi. In J. J. Price, M. Finkelberg, and Y. Shahar (Eds.), Rome: An Empire of Many Nations. New Perspectives on Ethnic Diversity and Cultural Identity (pp. 260–271). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Roche, P. A. (2002). The Public Image of Trajan’s Family. CPh, 97, 41–60. Rodriguez, C. (2019). Les Juifs maîtres de Rome? Les accusations de l'A lexandrin Hermaiscos face à Trajan. In E. Nantet (Ed.), Les Juifs et le pouvoir politique dans l’A ntiquité grécoromaine: Histoire et archéologie (pp. 209–228). Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes. Ruden, S. (2011). The Golden Ass. (New Haven: Yale University Press). Schwartz, S. (2003). Rome in the Greek Novel? Images and Ideas of Empire in Chariton’s Persia. Arethusa, 36, 375–394. Shahar, Y. (2021). The Good, the Bad and the Middling: Roman Emperors in Talmudic Literature. In J. J. Price, M. Finkelberg, and Y. Shahar (Eds.), Rome: An Empire of Many Nations. New Perspectives on Ethnic Diversity and Cultural Identity (pp. 239–259). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Smallwood, E. M. (1976). The Jews Under Roman Rule: From Pompey to Diocletian. Leiden: E. J. Brill. Swain, S. (1996). Hellenism and Empire: Language, Classicism, and Power in the Greek World, AD 50–250. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Tcherikover, V. A. & Fuks, A. (1960). Corpus Papyrorum Judaicarum (CPJ) II. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Temporini, H. (1978). Die Frauen am Hofe Trajans: ein Beitrag zur Stellung der Augustae im Principat. Berlin: Walter de Gruyter. Vega Navarrete, N. (2017). Die Acta Alexandrinorum im Lichte neuerer und neuester Papyrusfunde. Paderborn: Ferdinand Schöningh.

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Whitmarsh, T. (2001). Greek Literature and the Roman Empire: The Politics of Imitation Oxford: Oxford University Press. Whitmarsh, T. (2013). Resistance is Futile? Greek Literary Tactics in the Face of Rome. In P. Schubert, P. Ducrey & P. Derron (Eds.), Les grecs héritiers des romains (pp. 57–85). Vandœuvre: Fondation Hardt pour l’étude de l’Antiquité classique.

chapter 19

Algunos aspectos de la mujer en la hagiografía bizantina Pablo Cavallero

UBA-UCA-CONICET-AAL

Women feature prominently in hagiography, either as authors or as protagonists or minor characters. Their social, economic, and cultural condition vary greatly in these works as well as their work and family situations. This diversity seems to be a reflection of “reality”, even in stories that aim at moral and spiritual development. Women occur both in private and public contexts and in both instances they may reach holiness, even though some circumstances require a supposedly manly strength. Women’s potentialities and values are depicted in a positive light by hagiography. Keywords: hagiography, manliness, woman author, protagonist, minor character, social rank, biography, narration, holiness, marriage and family

Sería un error pensar que la hagiografía bizantina deja de lado a las mujeres, pero ciertamente su presencia merece consideraciones variadas.1 El ‘género’2 se ocupa de narrar ficcionalmente la ‘vida de santos’, de modo que confluyen en él rasgos de la biografía, de la novela, de la historia, de la oratoria e incluso de la épica. Se centra en seres vinculados a Dios, que logran el cultivo de virtudes ‘en grado heroico’ (son ‘ascetas’), aunque nunca se les dice ‘héroes’ por la connotación mítico-pagana del término; ellos pueden tener algún don o carisma especial (curación y taumaturgia en general, clarividencia, consejo, ubicuidad, dominio sobre las fuerzas naturales). El santo es un ‘imitador de Cristo’ que, tarde o temprano, es reconocido como tal y adquiere veneración por parte del pueblo. El santo adquiere ἐγκράτεια ‘autodominio’ y muchas veces ἀπάθεια ‘impasibilidad’ (Cunningham, 1999). Puede tener distintos rangos socia1. Para una imagen general de la mujer en Bizancio cf. el capítulo específico en Cavallo, (1994). 2. Asumo aquí que es tal y dejo de lado la discusión acerca de su entidad. Sobre el tema véanse Reitsenztein, (1906), quien usó ‘aretalogía’, Delehaye, (41955), Hadas-Smith, (1965), De Certeau, (1968), quien propone ‘discurso hagiográfico’, Philippart, (1981), van Uytfanghe, (1993). https://doi.org/10.1075/ivitra.40.19cav © 2024 John Benjamins Publishing Company

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les (laico casado, monje, clérigo, obispo, magistrado) y desempeñarse de modos muy diversos (en la ciudad, en el desierto, en un monasterio, en una columna,3 disimulando o no su condición, siendo o no mártir, confesor, patrono, fundador; puede ser casado, viudo, célibe; vegetariano, akoímetos o ‘insomne’, néptico o ‘abstinente’; disfrazado o ‘pseudo-loco’ = salós, morós;4 puede ser estable o gyróvagos = kykleutés; estilita o kionita; salvaje = boskós). Obviamente, como toda biografía, el relato es una narración que selecciona episodios, alarga ciertas escenas y elide otras, usa fuentes escritas y orales, puede incluir idealización del personaje (Vida de Constantino) y tópoi vinculados con la infancia, la vida adulta y la muerte del personaje;5 pero además busca ‘edificar’ al público, exhortándolo a la vida virtuosa a imitación del santo. A veces hay también propaganda de un santuario y del culto allí desarrollado. Todo esto tiene siempre un fin didáctico, ‘edificante’, que es mostrar al lector la posibilidad de imitar al santo –un ser humano como él, varón o mujer – y, por tanto, a Cristo.6 Santas y santos testimonian lo dicho en 2 Corintios 4:7: “Nosotros llevamos ese tesoro en recipientes de barro, para que se vea bien que este poder extraordinario no procede de nosotros, sino de Dios", aplicado al poder de transformar las debilidades y pecados en santidad. En este marco del ‘género’ y limitándonos a las obras conservadas en griego, la presencia de la mujer puede ser encarada desde distintos aspectos: 1.

Desde el punto de vista de la autoría, hay muchos relatos hagiográficos que están en el anonimato, el cual puede deberse a la casualidad, a un error de transmisión, a un deseo de permanecer ignoto o a alguna otra razón; entre éstas, es posible pensar que alguna autora haya preferido permanecer oculta, sea por humildad, sea por obediencia a un superior, sea por creer conveniente que el público pensara que el autor era un varón. Esto último, claro está, se debería a la realidad de que rara vez la mujer tenía suficiente cultura como para escribir (proporcionalmente también eran escasos los varones que habían accedido a la educación escolar, generalmente religiosos, magistrados o nobles)7 y no faltaría quien lo viera inadecuado: hacer una ‘carrera’ era una

3. Es decir, si son monjes, pueden ser anacoretas o eremitas, cenobitas, estilitas, kionitas, dendritas, boskoí. 4. Se los considera κρυπτοί δοῦλοι ‘esclavos ocultos’. Cf. Flusin, (2004). 5. También hay tópoi sobre la materia, el autor, la redacción; el epílogo; los personajes secundarios, etc. Cf. Festugière, (1960), Grosdidier de Matons, (1970), Varvounis, (1998), Dickie, (1999), Delierneux, (2000), Agapitos, (2004), Pratsch, (2005), Cavallero, (2014). Sobre los aromas como vínculo con la santidad cf. Caseau, (1999, p. 109) quien señala “in Byzantium, neither desire nor pleasure were cancelled or denied; rather, they were transferred to different objects". 6. Esto hace que “the line between legend and history becomes irrelevant", Ashbrook Harvey, (1990, p. 37).

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posibilidad para pocos y los oficios solían adquirirse por experiencia práctica (como los de las parteras, enfermeras, costureras, meseras, cocineras).8 A pesar de esto, así como se conoce a Kassia, una himnógrafa, o a Ana Komnēnė, historiadora, se conocen nombres de mujeres a quienes debemos textos hagiográficos y, en otros casos, aunque no se las conozca, se deduce su condición: – Sergia, abadesa, autora de Traslación de las reliquias de santa Olimpia, s. vii; – Teodora Raulaina, c. 1300, es autora de la Vida de los hermanos Teodoro y Teófanes Graptói; – Tomaide, monja autora de la Pasión de santa Febronia (c. 600); – posiblemente una mujer de la familia Gouber compuso la Vida de Irene abadesa de Khrysobalánton, patrona de los calumniados (Efthymiadis, 2011, p. 128, Kaplan-Kountoura-Galaki, 2014, p. 400); – anónimas mujeres son autoras de la Vida de Auxéntios y Vida de la emperatriz Irene. 2. Desde el punto de vista del personaje, muchas más que las autoras son mujeres protagonistas del relato. Si recorremos un listado seguramente incompleto de la producción hagiográfica desarrollada en los tres períodos de la literatura bizantina, tenemos como resultado estos textos: – Gregorio de Nisa (335–392): Carta sobre la vida de Macrina (su hermana y formadora en la fe); – Gregorio Nacianceno (329–390): Encomio de su hermana Gorgonia; – Geróntios: Vida de Melania la Joven, c. 439; – Santiago el Diácono: Vida de santa Pelagia penitente; – Eustráthios: Vida de la mártir persa Golindukh (s. vi), reelaboración de una Pasión de Esteban de Hierápolis. Anónimas del período protobizantino: Vida de Sinclética; Vida de santa Olimpia; Vida y pasión de Susana; Vida de Domnica; Vida de María (c. 525–650); Vida de Matrona c. 550; Vida de Teodora de Alejandría, relato del s. vi; Pasión de santa Ágata (s. vi); Pasión de santa Lucía, con metáfrasis en s. ix; Vida de María Egipcia o Egipcíaca, relato muy famoso del s. vii, que algunos atribuyen a Sofronio; Vida de Sira (c. 620); Vida de Abraham y su sobrina María (original siríaco); Vida de santa Marta (s. vii); Vida de Santa María-Marinos, 7. Cf. Cavallo, (2004); Schreiner, (2004). Esta escasa alfabetización y selecto acceso a una educación superior hizo que la cultura bizantina (y no sólo ella) fuese principalmente de oyentes más que de lectores. 8. Sobre las mujeres que trabajan fuera de su casa cf. Fulghum Heintz, (2003), y Herrin, (2013, p. 97).

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que tiene una versión antiqua, una rescripta y una aucta además de la syriaca (Richard, 1975, Constas, 1996). – Constantino de Tío: Encomio de santa Eufemia (año 796); – Juan de Sardes (c. 765–818): Vida de santa Bárbara; reelaboración de un texto antiguo (c. 810); – Juan de Eubea (c. 800): Pasión de santa Paraskevė o Parasceva; – Teodoro Estudita (759–826): Panegírico de Teoctista; Encomio de santa Ágata; – Metodio (815–885): Encomio de santa Ágata; – Eutimio el Protoasecretis: Vida de María Egipcíaca; – Gregorio de Tesalonica: Vida de Teodora de Tesalonica, c. 900, la más larga dedicada a una mujer; – Nikėtas Mágistros: Vida de Teoctista de Lesbo;9 – Pedro de Argos (860–927): Vida de santa Bárbara; – Simeón Metaphrástēs, Vida y pasión de Eugenia, s. x; Martirio de santa Catalina; – Juan Zonarás (1074–1159): Vida de santa Eupraxia; – Juan Tzétzēs (1110–1185): Memoria de la mártir Lucía de Siracusa; – Nicéforo Prosoukh (s. xii): Santa María Egipcia, en verso; – Juan Kommerkiários: Vida de santa María Egipcia, en verso. Anónimas del período mesobizantino: Martirio de Julián y Basilíssa (s. viii); Vida de Xenofonte y María (con metáfrasis en s. x); Vida de la emperatriz Teófano; Vida de la emperatriz Teodora; Vida de Atanasia de Egina; Vida de Andronico y Atanasia; Pasión de san Teopempto y Teona (s. x); Vida de Irene, abadesa de Khrysobalánton (c. 1000); Vida de Marina de Scanio (s. xii); Hallazgo de reliquias y milagros de santa Fotina; Vida de santa Paresceva la Joven (s. xii); Vida de Tomaide de Lesbo (tres versiones en prosa y una en verso). – Job Iasitės: Vida de Teodora de Arta (c. 1270); – Juan Staurákios (s. xiii): Encomio de Teodosia de Constantimopla; – Teodoro Metokítēs (1270–1332): Discurso sobre Marina de Antioquía en Pisidia; – Nicéforo Calisto Xanthópoulos (s. xiv): Vida y milagros de santa Eufrosina la Joven; – Nicéforo Grēgorás (1292–1360): Vida de la emperatriz Teófano (año 1347), basada sobre la vida anónima del s. x; – Constantino Akropolítēs († 1324):10 Discurso sobre Teodosia, Encomio de Eufrosina la Menor, Loa de santa Hereocela.

Chapter 19. Algunos aspectos de la mujer en la hagiografía bizantina

Anónimos del período tardobizantino: Pasión de santa Inés, Martirio de santa Tatiana (ss. vii-xiv); Matrona de Quío (s. xiv). En algunos casos, el protagonismo está compartido con el de un varón, como en Abraham y su sobrina María, en Julián y Basilissa, en Xenofonte y María, en Teopempo y Teona, en Vida de Andronico y Atanasia, un matrimonio que tras la muerte de los hijos decide pasar a la vida monástica, o en Pasión de Galaktion y Epistema, joven matrimonio que no consuma su unión y se retira al monasterio. A veces el protagonismo es episódico y las mujeres suelen ser innominadas, como las disfrazadas de varones en los Relatos de Daniel de Skétis, por ejemplo el caso de Apolinaria (BHG 148). Esto ya nos introduce en otro aspecto. 3. Desde el punto de vista de la condición de la mujer, la variedad es amplia, casi tanto como en el caso de los varones, salvo excepción. Tanto varones cuanto mujeres tienen las mismas virtudes generales (humildad, castidad –sea en virginidad, matrimonio o viudez –,11 caridad, ascetismo, piedad, templanza, discreción, obediencia) y los mismos dones (taumaturgia, predicción del futuro, clarividencia, impasibilidad),12 aunque puede haber particularidades: sólo las mujeres aparecen como ex prostitutas, disfrazadas de varón (Van Pelt, 2018) y madres de santos, dado que también hay varones vírgenes y esposos piadosos. Pero en el caso de la mujer protagonista se destaca que su ascesis heroica las asemeja al varón: son mujeres de alma viril, que se casan con Cristo. Téngase presente que, al menos desde san Pablo, el hombre religioso es comparado a un ‘atleta’ y a un ‘soldado’13 (la áskesis, ‘ascesis’, es en principio ‘práctica, ejercicio atlético’), metáforas que apuntan a la fortaleza, autodominio, perseverancia en el entrenamiento y en la adversidad, adecuadas figuras para una cultura griega heredera de la clásica-helenística que enaltecía la educación física y preparaba para la guerra, factor este último que otorgaba al varón un poder sociopolítico especial. La idea de que lo masculino se vincula con el intelecto y lo racional y lo femenino con lo sensorial e irracional generó también el pensamiento de que acercarse a Dios implica ‘abandonar lo femenino’; más allá de las tradiciones derivadas del mito griego de Pandora o del hebreo de Eva, un autor como Filón, de gran influjo en la literatura cristiana, sostiene eso mismo: la mujer debe hacerse viril para acercarse a Dios (Baer, 1970, pp. 45–55, 9. Según Jazdzewska, (2009), es un texto fascinante por su “cultural heterogeneity”, en la que conviven helenismo y cristianismo, antigüedad y modernidad, tradición y experimentación innovadora, lo sagrado y lo profano, lo alto y lo bajo, el placer y el ascetismo, realismo y fantasía, individualidad y universalidad. 10. Según Talbot, (2011, p. 188), Akropolítēs compuso veintiocho vidas, de las que seis se centran en mujeres.

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y Mattila, 1996): para enfrentar el mal, hay que tener una fortaleza varonil. Salvando las distancias, cuando Ésquilo presentó a Clitemnestra como asesina de su esposo, la calificó como ἀνδρόβουλος, ‘de varonil determinación’ (Agamenón 11). De ahí que también en la hagiografía pueda decirse que las mujeres que entran a un convento (γυναικεῖος οἶκος) o son diaconisas ἀνδριούμεθα (Vida de Alypios estilita 17: 17) “hemos de actuar virilmente”, como la madre de Esteban el Joven, quien la compara con la bíblica Sara diciendo que “tiene un rango comparable al de Abraham”, de modo que asimila a las mujeres con los hombres.14 La ‘valentía varonil’, muy evidente entre las mártires pero también entre las penitentes, eremitas, tolerantes de violencia, etc., en realidad es una manera metafórica de expresar que la mujer llega a los mismos niveles de santidad que el varón, pues también ella es Χριστομιμητής. A pesar de esta similitud entre santos de uno y otro sexo, los manuscritos, frecuentemente, separan las vidas de hombres de las vidas de mujeres,15 aunque, como dice Ashton (2001, p. 1619), no es mejor ni peor la santidad masculina frente a la femenina: se trata de un modo de clasificación. Este rango de igualdad se ve también en la decoración plástica, que así como hace ‘relatos’ de las vidas de santos mediante la representación de escenas de sus vidas, también presenta la devoción y la santidad femeninas.16 Melania la Joven pudo ser enterrada con una mezcla de ropas femeninas y masculinas (cf. 69), porque no importa el sexo del cristiano sino que alcance la santidad. De acuerdo con la condición, la mujer puede aparecer en la hagiografía de estos modos: a. cuando es protagonista: * como emperatriz: hay vidas de las emperatrices Teodora y Teófano. Salvo de estas personalidades, de las santas no hay prácticamente otra fuente más que la hagiografía.17 Señala el autor de la Vida de la emperatriz Teófano que en ésta no hay ascetismo ni milagros ni martirio: es más una ‘biografía’ que una ‘hagiografía’, caso equivalente al de Constantino; situación similar se da en la Vida de la emperatriz Irene;

11. Es interesante que, quizás, el relator de la Vida de Nilo de Rossano no obvió un episodio donde se alude a una relación homosexual (testimoniada por la traducción latina de Guglielmo Sirleto, s. xvi), si bien las páginas fueron aparentemente arrancadas del ejemplar griego; cf. Luzzi, (2004, p. 181 y nota 28). Pero Luzzi, (2017), se inclina por un contenido neutro en la versión latina, sin sesgo sexual; y opina que las omisiones en dos códices no parecen simultáneas. 12. Hay algún caso de posible ‘estigma’ o herida, como por ejemplo la espina de santa Rita de Casia. Véase Burrus, (2003, p. 409), para el caso de Macrina, quien asimila la ‘marca’ hecha por Dios y revelada tras la muerte con la hagiografía misma que revela la santidad de la persona. 13. Cf. 1 Corintios 9: 24–27; 2 Timoteo 2: 3. Véase, por ejemplo, Vida de Antonio 12: 1.

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como esposa:18 la mujer podía casarse a los doce años –si bien la mayoría de edad era igual para ambos sexos, a los veinticinco años –, aunque en general se aguardaba a que fuera núbil, que tuviera ya la menarca;19 y el matrimonio solía ser fruto de un acuerdo entre familias, sobre todo entre las ricas.20 Atanasia, esposa feliz y madre, se hace religiosa, como su esposo, al morir los hijos, pero asume el disfraz de varón. Se trata como ella de esposas virtuosas (Gorgonia, María la Joven) y algunas aparecen maltratadas, víctimas de violencia doméstica (Tomaide de Lesbo, Matrona de Perge). La ‘emperatriz’ Teodora Petralíphaina de Arta, esposa del déspota de Epiro Miguel II Komnēnós-Doukás, fue exiliada, estando embarazada, y vivió en privaciones porque su esposo prefirió a una amante: una vez que el déspota se hubo arrepentido, ella lo perdonó y retornó; al enviudar, entró al convento de Arta que ella misma había fundado. Sobre el tema de la violencia doméstica, Tomaide de Lesbo compuso un synaxárion en ochenta y siete dodecasílabos, acerca de esposas que en la Constantinopla del s. x sufrieron a maridos violentos (Efthymiadis, 2014, p. 169); ella misma fue considerada santa por la caridad y la paciencia con que soportó la violencia de su esposo Esteban.21 En el caso de María la Joven, quien tiene un matrimonio feliz con Nicéforo, es acusada por su cuñado de fornicar con un esclavo, pero tras la duda e injurias hay reconciliación. Matrona de Perge es criticada

14. La γυνὴ ἀνδρεία ‘mulier virilis’ “che supera i limiti del proprio sesso grazie alla ascesi e si pone alla pari con il suo equivalente maschile, a volte sopravanzandolo", Giannarelli, (1989, p. 217). Véase Giannarelli, (1980). 15. Sobre estos aspectos cf. Constantinou, (2004, p. 416–420). La erudita exagera el papel de la sexualidad en la caracterización de la mujer santa, dado que ese rasgo también es fundamental en el varón santo, sea virgen, casado o viudo. También observa que no hay vidas de himnógrafas; pero quizás ellas no fueron santas … Sobre el papel del sexo en la hagiografía, cf. Kazhdan, (1990), y Cavallero, (2018). Sobre manuscritos de vidas de mujeres y la cuestión de su audiencia, cf. Rapp, (1996), quien señala que si el autor es un hombre supone una audiencia femenina, cosa que no se da si la autora o la peticionante son mujeres. 16. Gerstel, (1998), advierte que no es cierto que la mujer fuese segregada fuera del templo durante las celebraciones litúrgicas, aunque obviamente aparece con escasa función oficial (sólo podía ser diaconisa o ‘llorona’). Taft, (1998), destaca que, al menos en los primeros siglos, la mujer estaba en las galerías y no en el centro, y que esto se debía a decoro, protección, ordenamiento y “discriminación”. Entendemos ‘discriminación’ en su sentido etimológico: ‘distinción, diferenciación’, no ‘relegamiento’; la separación se debía seguramente a las razones indicadas. Sobre la mujer en la decoración véase también Rigueiro García, (2020). 17. Sobre las mujeres santas, Delierneux, (2004 y 2014).

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por su esposo porque ella decide abandonarlos a él y a su hija para retirarse; tras la muerte de la hija pasa por Émesa y por Jerusalén y su esposo sigue persiguiéndola; como madre: papel importante tienen las madres en Bizancio, pues suelen influir en los hijos y en su crianza más que los padres. Entre ellas se destaca Marta, madre de Simeón Estilita el Joven (Kaplan, 2004, pp. 35 ss), que tiende a ser particularmente venerada como santa madre de un santo, como santa Helena lo es de Constantino, también considerado santo. También Macrina la Mayor, abuela de Macrina la Joven y de Gregorio de Nisa. Son comparables a santa Mónica, madre de san Agustín. Caso especial es el de la anónima mujer perdida en una isla con su hijo, en una historia relatada por Pablo de Monembasia (BHG III 1449 a); como viuda: Olimpia, además de viuda, es diaconisa, es decir servidora, en Santa Sabiduría de Constantinopla;22 Teodora, s. ix, que se hace monja en Tesalonica junto con su hija Teoctista. La mujer anciana solía tener una autoridad dada por su ‘sabiduría de experiencia de vida’, como ya se daba en la sociedad arcaica reflejada por Homero. Si la viuda tenía medios de supervivencia, al no estar obligada ni social ni religiosamente a volver a casarse, gozaba de notoria

18. Sobre el matrimonio en general, Laiou, (1992). Walker, (2003, p. 215), dice que más allá de los extremos que presenta la hagiografía (prostitutas y vírgenes), “it is fair to say that married life was considered the norm in Byzantium. A model Byzantine union was one in which husband and wife were a ‘golden team’", es decir, donde hubiera harmonía y mutua colaboración. 19. Herrin, (2013, pp. 85–86). Sin embargo, solía haber ‘compromiso’ matrimonial aplicado ya a niñas de cinco años; cf. Laiou, 1992, p. 16. Sobre la interpretación de los problemas relativos a la menstruación y la falta de embarazo, para los que se usaban hierbas, supositorios vaginales, amuletos y plegarias, Fulghum Heintz, (2003). 20. Sobre el carácter civil, el carácter religioso y los impedimentos, Laiou, (1992, pp. 11–15). Véase por ejemplo Macrina 4, donde se señala el acuerdo familiar y no el amor de los contrayentes. De ahí que algunas personas prefieren no concretar la unión sexual por haber sido forzadas al matrimonio (Historia Lausiaca 67: 1). Sobre los diversos impedimentos para el matrimonio (el Orden sagrado, el padrinazgo, el grado de parentesco natural y la profesión religiosa), cf. Souarn, (1900, 1900b, 1901, 1901b, 1904), Darrouzès, (1977). También se objetaba la celebración de matrimonios durante la octava de Pascua; Grumel, (1936). Sobre los problemas legales generados por el rapto y el compromiso de boda, cf. Karlin-Hayter, (1992). Mediante la neará 89, de c. 900, León VI ordenó que todo matrimonio civil debía ser bendecido sacramente. Pero ya en el s. iv había una liturgia del matrimonio. 21. El nombre del esposo Στέφανος, alude a la ‘coronación’ en la celebración de la boda y a la ‘corona’ del martirio que representa para Tomaide su tolerancia. Delierneux, (2004, p. 352).

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independencia. Los monasterios solían tener adjuntos γηροκομεῖα, ‘asilos de ancianos’, en los que podían retirarse las personas mayores: así aparecen mencionados en la Vida de Teodosio de Teodoro, en la Vida de Eutimio de Cirilo, etc. (cf. Nearaí 19). Se conoce la historia de santa Natalia, esposa y viuda del mártir san Adrián de Nicomedía, la cual murió ante la tumba de su esposo tras restituirle una reliquia; como mártir: (Delehaye, 1921) por ejemplo, los casos de Tecla, de Bárbara, de Inés, de Tatiana, de Sira; el de María Golinduch tiene la particularidad de que se trata de una mujer persa, pariente de Cosroes II, que se niega a abjurar. Todas ellas manifiestan una fortaleza y valentía ‘varoniles’. Hay casos en los que el ‘crimen’ del que se las acusa es la magia, como ocurrió con Tatiana, asimilando los milagros obrados por su intercesión a actos de mago, aunque también son acusados de magia muchos santos varones (Cavallero, 2023). Es frecuente que se acentúe en ellas la modestia y la fortaleza varonil y que sufran mutilaciones (Detoraki, 2014, pp. 70–71) así como que se intente humillarlas con la desnudez, pero ésta pasa a ser instrumento de milagros y simboliza la santidad (Di Marco, 2010).23 Santa Febronia fue torturada sexualmente y martirizada c. 300; quizás el pudor hizo que no se detallaran abusos sexuales contra mártires varones.24 También hay mujeres mártires a causa de su iconofilia, como María la Patricia, Antusa de Mantineon y Teodosia, pero se duda de su realidad (Delierneux, 2014, p. 379). Co-protagonismo tiene Justina en los Acta Sancti Cypriani, poema que reúne tres textos unificados por la emperatriz Eudoxia en el s. v y del que queda un centenar de versos. Allí se presenta a un mago convertido al cristianismo.25 Según el relato, Cipriano estudia adivinación, astrología y magia y en Caldea encuentra al diablo en persona, quien le da un regimiento de demonios. Se instala en Antioquía, donde un joven le pide un encantamiento para seducir a la cristiana Justina; pero Cipriano se enamora de Justina quien, enarbolando la Cruz y recurriendo a la oración, no cede a los requerimientos del mago. Ante el fracaso del diablo, que

22. Sobre este rango White, (1989), y Karras, (2004), entre otros textos. Eran mujeres consagradas al servicio de la Iglesia, que se ocupan de dar el bautismo por inmersión a las mujeres, atender a pobres y enfermas o cumplir algún encargo especial. Se les imponía las manos como consagración, pero no recibían el Sacramento del Orden, a diferencia de los diáconos. Una diaconisa rica que tienta al santo ofreciéndole alojamiento aparece en Hypátios 8: 14–15. Santa Olimpia (cf. BHG II 1374) es mencionada también en la Historia Lausiaca cap. 56.

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intenta convencer a la joven citando la Biblia, Cipriano se convierte, quema los libros de magia, se hace sacerdote, luego obispo y muere mártir en Nicomedía junto con Justina; como religiosa: hay mujeres eremitas a quienes se les atribuyen “dichos”, como a los Padres del Desierto (por ejemplo, ammá Sara, Teodora y Synkletiké o Sinclética) (Guy, 1993, p. 252. Harmless, 2004, p. 440)26 y que son, prácticamente, las únicas de ámbito no urbano; y hay algunas que hacen peregrinaciones, como Tecla o Matrona de Perge. También mujeres cenobitas, reunidas en conventos especiales, con reglas de inaccesibilidad para el sexo opuesto, que regían también para los monasterios de varones (novella 133 de Justiniano, año 539) como así también compartían con éstos las normas de abstinencia sexual, pobreza y obediencia.27 Tal el caso de Macrina la Joven quien, al morir su novio, opta por la vida monástica. Otras entran al convento luego de enviudar, como Teodora, o por mutuo acuerdo con el marido, como Atanasia/Atanasio o como Atanasia o Anastasia de Egina quien, viuda, fue obligada a casarse de nuevo pero ambos cónyuges acordaron retirarse.28 Los conventos femeninos son numéricamente menores que los monasterios masculinos; el de la Virgen en Monembasía, un islote al sudeste del Peloponeso, tuvo fama. En el s. xiv Teodora Palaiologína Synadēnė fundó el convento de la Virgen de la Segura Esperanza, a donde se retiró después de criar cuatro hijos. También las monjas, no sólo las mujeres casadas, podían sufrir maltrato, como ocurre con Teodora de Tesalonica, quien a causa de desobediencia es obligada por la abadesa a pasar la noche al frío;29 como estilita: forma particular de la vida religiosa, se da en el caso de Maya.30 Esta espiritualidad podía generar rechazo por parte de quienes creían que expresaba un desprecio del cuerpo, de origen maniqueo, cátaro, priscilianista o gnóstico.31 Su extrañeza parecía mayor en el caso de una mujer, dado que el Nuevo Testamento registra solamente ‘diaconisas’, es decir mujeres que atendían o ayudaban a los apóstoles,

23. Sobre la desnudez, parcial o total, a la que se sometía a los mártires, cf. Zeitler, (1999). Hay también representación pictórica de María Egipcíaca penitente, (cuasi)desnuda o en el momento de recibir un manto. 24. Los hubo, según Eusebio de Cesaría, Historia eclesiástica VIII 12.7 y Mártires de Palestina VII 4. 25. Van Mal-Maeder, (2004), quien señala que es fuente de la leyenda de Fausto, según estableció L. Radermacher (1927).

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si bien la figura modélica de la Virgen, proclamada ‘Madre de Dios’ en 431, era un fundamento de peso para que la mujer ocupara espacios y formas de espiritualidad y ascesis.32 Las estilitas, como las eremitas, fueron las más ‘osadas’ entre las mujeres que se abrieron a formas no cotidianas de la ascesis, las cuales les otorgaban independencia respecto de su familia de origen y de un potencial cónyuge; como prostituta conversa: son famosas María Egipcíaca33 y Pelagia de Antioquía ex Porfiria,34 como también la cortesana Taide de Alejandría (s. iv), vinculada con san Pafnucio, cuya historia se conserva en traducción latina. El Nuevo Testamento daba algunos modelos, como María Magdalena y la mujer que derrama perfume en Jesús (cf. Juan 12: 3). Hay que recordar que la emperatriz Teodora, esposa de Justiniano, ejerció previamente la prostitución, como sus hermanas, para poder sobrevivir a la muerte de su padre; ella habría influido en la legislación que condena la prostitución y en la fundación de un asilo para quienes dejaban de ejercerla. Tanto las prostitutas conversas cuanto las mártires desnudadas y/o torturadas sexualmente transforman el ‘cuerpo tentador’ femenino en un instrumento de salvación del alma: lo mismo las vírgenes; como virgen: la virginidad o, al menos, la vida abstinente, debe su preponderancia a la preferencia que le dio san Pablo, más allá del

26. Véase Apophthegmata patrum 5: 13. 27. Cf. Talbot, (1998) y la bibliografía allí incluida (respecto del Monte Athos o Monte Santo, cf. su nota 26). Algunas familias destinan a su/s hija/s a ser criadas en un convento, sea por razones de pobreza o de devoción; esos no son casos de decisión personal. Diversos enfoques sobre el vínculo entre mujer y monasticismo hay en Perreault, (1991). 28. Véanse ejemplos en Alwis, (2011). Acerca del ‘matrimonio espiritual’ o cohabitación abstinente, cf. Hartney, (1999). También se retiran del mundo la sobrina de Hypátios y su esposo (Hypátios 53) y un matrimonio y sus cinco hijos (Hypátios 18: 3). Otro ejemplo en Amún de Nitria (Historia Lausiaca 8). No confundir a Anastasia de Egina (s. ix) con Anastasia de Sirmio (s. iii), cuyas reliquias pasaron a Constantinopla, depositadas en la iglesia de la santa Anástasis o Resurrección. Sobre iglesias dedicadas a santa Anastasia cf. Snee, (1998), y la bibliografía citada en su nota 1. 29. Sobre causas posibles del ingreso a un convento cf. Talbot, (1985). En la hagiografía en lengua siríaca se conserva el caso de Susana, quien llegó a ser abadesa de mujeres y de hombres; cf. Juan de Éfeso, Vidas 27, en Patrologia Orientalis 18, col. 541–558. 30. Sobre ellas, cf. Delehaye, (1908): hay testimonios de Epifanio en el s. ix, de la Vida de Lázaro Gelasiotes, s. xi, y de la lápida de una tal Μαῖα στυλίτισσα. 31. Sobre la cuestión del cuerpo y rechazo de lo carnal, cf. Eastmond, (1999).

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ejemplo mismo de Cristo, si bien Pablo elogió altamente el matrimonio como “sacramento grande”, imagen de unión de Cristo y la Iglesia (cf. Efesios 5: 32). En ese contexto cultural, es esperable que haya quienes den mucho valor a la consagración en virginidad. Así, aparecen en la hagiografía Macrina la Joven o Menor, Irene de Khrysobalánton (luego de no ser elegida en un concurso de novias opta por el monasterio y llega a abadesa) o Mamelchtha, ex sacerdotisa conversa y martirizada;35 como ‘loca’: la monja Isidora de Tabennisi, en Egipto (Paladio, Historia Lausiaca cap. 34)36 (Vogt, 1987). Las mujeres suelen actuar como ‘locas’ temporariamente. María, por ejemplo, se hace la loca para no casarse, pero cuando sus milagros atraen la fama, se disfraza con el nombre de Marinos para entrar a un monasterio de Jerusalén: pasa de ‘loca’ a disfrazada; como disfrazada: (Anson, 1974; Patlagean, 1976) la vestimenta de varones y de mujeres no era tan diversa como llegó a serlo a partir de la época renacentista y, de hecho, las denominaciones no eran divergentes ni los usos totalmente exclusivos; la mayor diferencia radicaba en el cubre cabeza, en que la mujer solía llevar velo ante el rostro, el peinado tenía otro estilo y, según sus posibilidades, adornos37 (luego se añadieron calzones para guerreros y para patricias). (Kazhdan, 1998, pp. 14–15. Véase también Bréhier, 1949) La mujer asceta desiste de todo adorno que ensalce su feminidad como poco valioso frente a los bienes espirituales (Walker, 2003b, p. 238); pero la disfrazada rehúye todo indicio que pueda asociarla con una mujer. Atanasia, la esposa de Andronico, asume hábito y aspecto varoniles para poder entrar a un monasterio de varones y así la creen varón hasta su muerte. A algunas las creen eunucos (para justificar la falta de barba), si bien la mujer estaba exenta de este tipo de mutilación sexual como también eludía la que se infligía a varones para excluirlos de puestos

32. No así funciones litúrgicas, en razón de que Cristo eligió solamente apóstoles varones (aunque María Magdalena es llamada “apóstol de los apóstoles”) y de la consecuente opinión de san Pablo (1 Corintios 14: 34–35). El canon 70 del Concilio in Trullo, año 692, conservó esta limitación para la mujer. 33. Para la tradición georgiana Mirachvili-Springer, (2012 y 2014). 34. Pelagia es la ex prostituta Porfiria. Su historia aparece independiente o inserta en otros relatos, como la Vida de Juan el Limosnero de Leoncio de Neápolis o la Homilía 67 de Juan Crisóstomo. Sobre Pelagia y María, Ward, (1987), Coon, (1997, cap. 4). Para Pelagia cf. Bohdziewicz, (2012). La historia de Pelagia tuvo relatos varios en diversas lenguas.

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de poder, generalmente el ser privados de los ojos o de la lengua: una persona vestida de varón pero con ciertos rasgos femeninos podía ser tomada como eunuco. Disfrazadas aparecen en Vida de Pelagia de Antioquía (s. v), de Santiago Diácono, donde Pelagia misma se hace pasar por un eunuco; Vida y pasión de Susana, anónimo del s. v; Vida de Teodora de Alejandría, c. 500; Vida de Eufrosina, c. 600; Vida de María-Marinos (c. 525–650); Vida de Matrona c. 550; Vida de Ana la Joven (s. ix); Vida y pasión de Eugenia, s. x, de Simeón Metaphrástēs; Vida de María-Marinos, c. 1100; Vida de Eufrosina la Joven de Nicéforo Xanthópoulos, s. xiv, de las cuales parecen ser seguramente históricas Matrona y Eufrosina la Joven. Suelen ser mujeres acusadas de tentadoras o de lesbianas; a Teodora la acusan paradójicamente de haber embarazado a una joven y debe ocuparse, hasta su muerte, del niño nacido. Habitualmente se descubre su identidad mientras están en el monasterio y son obligadas a abandonarlo; a otras se las descubre tras su muerte (el caso de Atanasia; Susana y Eugenia mueren mártires). Ellas justifican su disfraz como único camino para la santidad, porque la mujer santa debía tener, como ya señalamos, un carácter ‘viril’, si bien estaba condenado el disfraz por la Biblia (Deuteronomio 22: 5) y por los concilios de Gangra (año 340, canon 13) e in Trullo (año 692, canon 16) (Coon, 1997, cap. 2.). Aparentemente, el caso más antiguo es el de Tecla, quien se disfraza temporariamente.38 Se puede considerar que las disfrazadas son una variante femenina de los ‘locos’. (Constantinou, 2014.) Algunas lo hacen para forzar la conversión y otras para ocultar su santidad pasando inadvertidas, a diferencia del ‘loco’ que busca llamar la atención para fingir lo que no es, o sea, para ocultar también la santidad. Marina de Scanio se muestra como ‘loca’ y oculta su feminidad. Cabe destacar que no se trata de un ‘travestismo’ vinculado con una cuestión de ‘género’ o rechazo del sexo biológico, sino de un artilugio que permite facilitar a la mujer la vida ascética eludiendo peligros o cuestionamientos (de hecho, muchas santas no se disfrazaron, de modo que la ‘apariencia’ varonil era una estratagema para representar una actitud interior, que era la verdaderamente valiosa);

35. Su figura sería una invención popular, según Lequeux, (2013). 36. Aparece en versión latina en Apophthegmata 18: 24. 37. Acerca de los adornos y modos de embellecimiento, véase Walker, (2003b). Se trata de anillos, aros, collares, brazaletes, hebillas, además de cosméticos y artículos de tocador.

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como mujer que abandona su riqueza: lo hace Atanasia al decidir asumir una vida religiosa; también Domnica, que huye de Roma y, tras pasar por Alejandría, funda un santuario en Constantinopla; y Teoctista de Lesbo, quien también se hizo anacoreta. Otros ejemplos son la emperatriz Helena y Melania la Joven. Ésta era una aristócrata cuyo marido Piniano también opta por la vida ascética tras la muerte de los hijos y del suegro; ella reparte su vasta fortuna en obras de misericordia, funda conventos y monasterios, en un largo viaje por Sicilia, Tagaste, Alejandría, Jerusalén y Constantinopla, en cuya corte pronuncia discursos antiheréticos; y además es taumaturga, no sólo asceta (usa ropa áspera, ayuna cinco días por semana, duerme con cilicio, como un asceta varón).39 Matrona de Perge también deja su vida ‘cómoda’ de esposa y madre para retirarse. Sinclética o Synkletikė abandona su buen pasar en Alejandría para irse al desierto. Las mujeres que acogen vida religiosa visten un hábito de tela basta, como los varones, sin tintes, y suelen ir veladas, con el cabello corto, ocultando sus rasgos, lejos de todo ornato vanidoso;

b. cuando es personaje secundario o episódico (incluimos aquí a las mujeres que aparecen en obras generales como la Historia religiosa de Teodoreto, la Historia lausíaca de Paladio, el Prado espiritual de Juan Mosco, etc.), estas mujeres también son muy diversas en su condición, a saber: 1.

Vírgenes honradas, como las nietas de Filáreto (un propietario rural devenido pobre por tanta limosna concedida) que son candidatas en la búsqueda de una novia para el emperador (costumbre cuyo antecedente está en el AT, Esther 2, donde se organiza un concurso para elegir nueva esposa para Asuero) y una de ellas, María de Amnia, es la elegida;40 una especie de Cenicienta, que logra un notorio ascenso social, como sus hermanas Mirancia y Evancia que desposan a patricios; sus primas Helena y Eufemia son vírgenes que mueren jóvenes. Cuando se presenta la comitiva imperial, Filáreto acota que sus hijas, nueras y nietas no salen de sus habitaciones (139: 31–34 Fourmy-Leroy), pero posiblemente sea una hipérbole para indicar que son mujeres honestas y respetables, merecedoras de la candidatura: no se dan con extraños, por lo que no participan de la cena con los hombres de la comitiva, y, si salen de la casa, no lo hacen solas.41 En el punto siguiente veremos que la hagiografía muestra mujeres en la calle y en lugares públicos,

38. Acerca de que sea ella el punto de partida de las santas disfrazadas, cf. Anson, (1974).

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hecho quizás más frecuente entre las no aristócratas. También aparece la hermana soltera de Antonio abad, la cual luego forma una comunidad femenina (Vida de Antonio capp. 2–3, 54:8). En el Prado espiritual de Juan Mosco,42 una doncella se saca los ojos cuando un pretendiente le dice que ellos le despiertan pasión.43 2. Esposas y madres, mujeres honradas y virtuosas en un vínculo matrimonial elogiado, por ejemplo, en V. de Hypátios 5: 7. Había esposas de clérigos, dado que no era ni es obligatorio el celibato (salvo para los Obispos)44 como sí lo es hoy en la Iglesia de Occidente: en Vida de Juan el Limosnero (= VJL) 49: 1 ss., de Leoncio de Neápolis, un clérigo trabaja como zapatero para mantener a esposa, hijos y padres. Otros ejemplos de esposas son la de Filáreto, Teósebo, que le reprocha al marido tanta caridad, y su hija Evancia casada con Miguel y madre de seis hijos, su nuera Irene madre de siete; la esposa de Juan, el amigo de Simeón el Loco (cf. Leoncio de Neápolis, Vida de Simeón el Loco = VS 124: 11 ss.), y la madre del mismo Simeón (cf. VS 140: 10 ss.): ninguna de estas dos dialoga pero aparecen mencionadas como mujeres amadas que resultan ‘obstáculo’ para la vida retirada de los dos hombres, dado que el tenerlas implica deberes hacia ellas. También Juan el Limosnero puede asumir el patriarcado porque quedó viudo (cf. 45: 4), al igual que Espiridón (cf. Leoncio, Vida de Espiridón 104: 22, en la versión de Teodoro de Pafo 3: 2 ss.). En cambio, está la mujer del vendedor de posca, la cual trabaja en la calle junto con éste (VS 146: 10 ss.) y es testigo de algún milagro; también la mujer del tabernero, a la que el Loco finge violar (VS 148: 1 ss.) y que lo rechaza; o las mujeres que están en el baño público y lo echan cuando él se introduce entre ellas (VS 149: 9 ss.); o la esposa del pobre sin recursos en Espiridón de Leoncio 107: 23, Cavallero et alii, (2014) y Van den Ven, (1953). Un caso ejemplar, al menos, por su nombre connotativo, Sophronía, es el de esta mujer que aparece en el cap. 16 de Espiri-

39. Sobre estos personajes y su resignación de la riqueza, Coon, (1997, cap. 5), quien los trata junto con el caso de la romana Paula, cuyo elogio se debe a san Jerónimo. Helena aparece en el marco de la Vida de Constantino de Eusebio de Cesaría. Sobre Melania, cf. Clark, (1989). 40. Sobre este tópos Treagold, (1979), Rydén, (1985) y Vinson, (1999). El caso de María parece ser el primero de estos ‘concursos’ en ámbito bizantino. La boda con Constantino VI fue en 788 pero el emperador repudió a su esposa en 795 y la envió a un convento, lo cual fue un escándalo político-social. 41. Según (Laiou, 1981) el enclaustramiento femenino habría sido más flexible en el s. xii.

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dón, mujer devota casada con un pagano, cuyo esposo se admira por el milagro que él mismo presencia. También aparecen María, madre de Teodoro de Sykeón, que intenta educarlo como cortesano, y Teoctista, madre de Teodoro Estudita.45 Tomaide de Alejandría es mujer casada que se niega a ser violada por su suegro, quien la mata por ello. En la historia de los cuarenta mártires de Sebaste aparece la figura de la madre del más joven de ellos, que lo alienta a perseverar en la fe a pesar de la tortura.46 En la Vida de Xenofonte y María, este matrimonio tiene dos hijos, Juan y Arcadio; los pierden en un viaje y los creen muertos pero los hallan en Jerusalén gracias a una visión: Xenofonte se hace eremita y María, monja, por mutuo acuerdo.47 3. Además de las madres biológicas, la hagiografía menciona también madres ‘espirituales’, mujeres que han sido mentoras de santos, como Macrina lo fue para su hermano Gregorio de Nisa. Tal el caso de la monja Basilina, mencionada en la Vida de Juan el Hesicasta 23–24 que Cirilo de Escitópolis incluye en Vidas de santos palestinos; o una innominada en la Vida de Teodosio Cenobiarca 1, de la misma colección. 4. Religiosas varias. En la Vida de san Lázaro del Monte Galesion, cap. 56, se hace referencia a una mujer estilita. Ya mencionamos vírgenes que se retiran a una vida consagrada, como lo hacen también muchas viudas, a veces a los conventos fundados por ellas mismas. 5. La mujer pecadora suele aparecer en la hagiografía como prostituta, lasciva, fornicadora, adúltera, adivina o hereje.48 Se podría pensar que se cargan las tintas contra ellas en el plano sexual, pues en realidad este tipo de pecado no es, obviamente, exclusivo de la mujer: difícilmente en este campo pecarían solas. Incluso los monjes incurren en pecados de esta índole. En VS 165: 20, aparece un señor notable que está muy enfermo y el santo le recrimina que ‘manche’ el lecho de su mujer.49 Una adivina-maga, fabricante de amuletos y hechizos, aparece en la VS 96: 22–97: 6, a quien el santo saca de su oficio mediante un ‘talismán’ cuya inscripción le prohíbe ejercer, el cual

42. PG 87, col. 2913 AB. Cf. Λειμωνάριον τὸ παλαιόν, ed. Agia Anna, 2011. 43. Dice Paladio en Historia Lausiaca 67: 1: “En esta ciudad de Ancira muchas otras vírgenes, como dos mil o más, y mujeres dueñas de sí e insignes se distinguieron" Ἐν ταύτῃ τῇ πόλει Ἀγκύρᾳ πολλαὶ μὲν καὶ ἄλλαι παρθένοι ὡς χιλιάδες δύο ἢ πλεῖον καὶ ἐγκρατευόμεναι καὶ ἐπίσημοι γυναῖκες διαπρέπουσιν (Bartelink). 44. Si un clérigo era electo para el episcopado, debía ser soltero o viudo o, si era casado, su esposa debía entrar a un convento voluntariamente.

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tiene un efecto apotropaico de modo similar a una reliquia o un Crucifijo; la mujer lo acepta, interesada, porque lo ve como un amuleto similar a los que ella ofrecía: la astucia del santo la vence. Las prostitutas son tan mal vistas como los actores varones: no era tanto una cuestión de sexo sino de oficio. También hay herejes varones, como el vendedor de posca en VS 146: 21, 154: 7, un severita acéfalo, texto en el que se califica de hereje a Orígenes (152: 6–7), o Arrio, Eusebio y otros en la Vida de Espiridón, cap. 6, de Teodoro de Pafo, así como hay también magos y adivinos varones (Hypátios 42–43). En cuanto a las prostitutas, la ya citada VS de Leoncio de Neápolis dice πολλάκις δὲ καὶ γύναια ἄσεμνα καὶ πορνικὰ τὰ μὲν ἐπὶ νόμιμον γάμον παιγνικῶς ἔφερεν, τὰ δὲ σωφρονεῖν διὰ χρημάτων ἀνθηρευόμενος ἐποίει, ἄλλα δὲ καὶ τὸν μονήρη βίον μετέρχεσθαι διὰ τῆς προσούσης αὐτῷ καθαρότητος κατήνυγεν. Muchas veces a las mujeres irreverentes y prostitutas, a unas las llevaba juguetonamente a una boda legal, a otras las hacía ser castas ‘recazándolas’ mediante dinero y a otras las hacía arrepentirse para que pasaran a la vida solitaria a causa de la pureza que estaba en él. (145: 11 ss. Rydén-Festugière)50

En otro pasaje (VS 155: 2 ss.) se cuenta que “había veces en que echaban sus manos las indecentes mujerzuelas al vientre de aquél [el santo] y lo molestaban y palmeaban y pellizcaban"; él se deja hacer porque tiene impasibilidad y

45. Cf. la Catequesis fúnebre por su madre Teoctista, de Teodoro Stoudítēs, BHG 2422. 46. Cf. Basilio de Cesaría, Homiliae XIX In sanctos quadraginta martyres, PG 31, col. 524 B. 47. Cf. BHG 1877, con varias versiones y una metáfrasis de Simeón Metaphrástēs, ésta editada por A. Galante en Analecta Bollandiana 22 (1903), 383–394. 48. Sobre el caso de Leoncio de Neápolis y su comparación con otras fuentes, Fernández, (2016). En cuanto a la herejía, es interesante la comparación entre la fidelidad conyugal y la fidelidad a la fe ortodoxa en VJL 47: 16 ss. 49. Véanse por ejemplo Kazhdan, (1990), Cavallero, (2018). Stolte, (1999, p. 81), señala que el adulterio era más grave en la esposa que en el esposo; esta distinción, más allá del castigo, perduró en la legislación occidental hasta el s. xx, porque el adulterio femenino corría el riesgo de traer hijos ajenos al hogar, mientras que el masculino, no. No se apuntaba a la gravedad del hecho en sí (Mateo 27: 32, donde se equipara para ambos sexos) sino a sus consecuencias familiares. Si los esposos bizantinos acordaban un ‘divorcio’, debían devolver las aportaciones o dotes y no podían volver a casarse, lo cual indica un influjo del cristianismo sobre la ley romana antigua; cf. Stolte, 1999, p. 84. Podían ser causal de divorcio el adulterio, la impotencia masculina durante tres años, el atentado de un cónyuge contra la vida del otro, la lepra; Laiou, (1992, p. 17). Un divorcio infundado y seguido de boda le costó el trono y la vista a Constantino VI.

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prefiere fingir indecencia antes que ser considerado santo (156: 14); pero en otro pasaje (157: 17 ss.) castiga a unas maledicentes: Pues en una ocasión, al danzar unas muchachas y hablar mal contra otros, decidió pasar por aquella calle. En efecto, cuando lo vieron comenzaron a hablar contra los abbâdes. Poniéndose a rezar el justo, queriendo hacerlas sensatas, enseguida Dios las hizo bizcas a todas.

No se aclara que fueran fornicadoras, sino que se señala que asumían actitudes de burla y calumnia contra otras personas; algunas se arrepienten y son curadas; otras no: “Si no las hubiera hecho bizcas Dios, habrían superado en libertinaje a todas las mujeres de Siria. Pero por medio de la enfermedad de sus ojos, se apartan de sus muchos males" (VS 158: 6 ss.). El castigo, pues, responde a su pecado e impenitencia pero también es preventivo de pecados más graves. También hay prostitutas en VJL 37; pero éstas son visitadas por el anciano Vitalio que les brinda lo que él ganó a cambio de que no se prostituyan; y reza por ellas de modo que su labor movía a compunción a muchas de tales mujeres y sobre todo cuando en la noche lo veían extender las manos y orar por cada una. Por eso también unas cesaban de fornicar; otras, tomaban además marido y se tornaban sensatas; otras, dejando totalmente el mundo, se pasaban a la vida monacal. (VJL 37: 95 ss.)

Obsérvese que el relato entiende que las mujeres pueden ganarse la vida de otra manera: “por su admonición y ruego las mujeres no venerables cesaban de pecar" (37: 100), aunque en muchos casos incurrían en el pecado por hambre,51 de modo que los ejemplos famosos de María Egipcia y de Pelagia no son aislados. Pero es destacable que el santo censura fuertemente también al varón fornicario: De ahí que un día, al salir él al alba de lo de la regenta de tales mujeres, les sale al encuentro un hombre impuro que entraba para fornicar con ella y, cuando lo vio –me refiero ciertamente a don Vitalio – salir de allí, le da una cachetada diciéndole: ‘Malísimo burlador de Cristo, ¿hasta cuándo no vas a renunciar a tus cosas?’ (VJL 37: 104 ss.)

La actitud misericordiosa apunta también a los varones, tanto al adúltero cuanto al cornudo, pues se condena el pecado pero se quiere la conversión del pecador: 50. Prostitutas y concubinas, que generalmente asumían esos papeles por pobreza, podían lograr a veces un matrimonio; cf. Herrin, (2013, pp. 16–17).

Chapter 19. Algunos aspectos de la mujer en la hagiografía bizantina

Al escuchar que alguien de los notables guardaba rencor hacia otro magistrado –pues < éste > con la mujer de aquel había cometido adulterio, por lo que < le > guardaba rencor el mencionado de los notables–, el gran Juan, tras amonestarlo muchas veces, no podía persuadirlo para que se reconciliara con el susodicho. (VJL 40: 1 ss.)

El adulterio es mencionado de nuevo en ese relato cuando el protagonista reflexiona sobre la muerte; y apuntando tanto a hombres cuanto a mujeres dice : (VJL 42: 32 ss.) Y, a veces, o bien yaciendo yo con la ramera, o bien pasando el tiempo con borrachos o mal hablados, o bien simplemente adherido al restante pecado de la vida, por una parte la abeja va a uno y otro lado y recorre valles y quebradas, buscando reunir para mí un fruto para endulzarme la garganta que pronuncia cosas impuras; por otra parte, el racimo de uva se apura por madurar mediante la canícula, para llenarme la boca y regocijar el corazón que desobedece al Hacedor; las flores compiten entre sí para deleitarme los ojos que hacen señas a rameras y mujeres ajenas para la disipación; la higuera se alborota para adelantarse a proveer mi mano con grandeza y mi boca con dulzura, las cuales poseen y besan a la mujer ajena. Haciendo tales obras, en efecto, oh hermanos, y recibiendo a cambio tales beneficios, ¡qué pensamiento humilde y abajante debemos tener al pensar en nuestra última y estremecedora hora!

No se sabe cuál era el pecado de la mujer que, en VJL 54: 4 ss., ruega el perdón al Patriarca escribiendo su culpa en una nota sellada; tiene la particularidad de ser mencionada con nombre propio (54: 46–47), Anastasia, nombre connotativo por su significado (’trastorno, alteración / resurrección’), dado que la mujer está arrepentida. 4. Más allá de las que ejercen prostitución, aparece asimismo una esclava fornicadora que, además, calumnia a Simeón el Loco diciendo que él la había violado y que era el padre del bebé que ella esperaba (cf. VS 151: 10 ss.) porque, como advierte el relato, no quería “delatar la esclava al que había fornicado con ella": el varón pecador queda entre bambalinas hasta que ella debe denunciarlo para poder parir. Caso similar pero peor es el de la mujer casada y adúltera que, en Vida de Espiridón, cap. 15, asegura que el hijo que espera es de su marido, aunque éste estuvo ausente veinte meses: su pertinacia provoca su muerte (cf. 230: 16–17); aquí la ficción destaca dos aspectos más graves que en el de VS: la mujer era casada y no se arrepiente.52 Quizás por la gravedad de

51. El Prado espiritual de Juan Mosco menciona casos de este tipo en los capp. 136, 186 y 207.

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su posición es que ella es, al menos en ese relato, la mujer episódica que más discurso tiene, con una actitud agresiva e insensata. 5. Mujeres conversas, como el caso de la ex ramera Porfiria-Pelagia, cuya vida tiene muchos relatos; uno está inserto en la VJL de Leoncio, 48: 24 ss., a cuento de que no se debe juzgar: pues muchas veces vemos el pecado del fornicador, mas no contemplamos la conversión suya, que hizo ocultamente; y hay veces en que contemplamos a uno robar, mas no conocemos las angustias y las lágrimas que presentó a Dios. Pero hay veces en que nosotros lo tenemos por lo que lo vimos, ya ladrón, ya fornicador, ya perjuro, mas por Dios fue acogida su oculta conversión y confesión, y es valioso para Él (48: 69 ss.).

El mismo rango como personaje episódico tiene la ramera arrepentida de Espiridón, en el cap. 7 de la versión de Leoncio y en el cap. 5 de la de Teodoro. 6. Aparecen también mujeres necesitadas. Es relevante el comentario que Leoncio hace en VJL 6: 15: “por una parte, les daba a los hombres un kerátion y, por otra, a las mujeres y muchachitas, como miembros más débiles, [les daba] dos"; queda claro aquí que el hagiógrafo observa que las mujeres están más indefensas para sostenerse, quizás en referencia a que no tienen un oficio o a que corren más peligros en soledad. En VJL 22: 21 ss. se cuenta de san Serapión quien, “al pedirle limosna una mujer viuda porque sus hijos tenían hambre y al no tener él nada por entero para darle, hizo que ella lo vendiera a unos mimos"; es decir, la viuda, sin ningún sostén económico,53 se ve obligada a mendigar. Lo mismo hacía la mujer que acompañaba a un monje eunuco calumniado (cf. VJL 23: 7 ss.) y que era una hebrea indigente en busca de conversión (cf. 23: 75 ss.); ambos son flagelados y confinados porque el Obispo cree la denuncia de fornicación, de lo cual se arrepiente al saber la verdad (observemos de paso que el varón castrado, excluido del trono como todo mutilado, podía hacer carrera palaciega o eclesiástica o ser un humilde monje, pero podía también ser un asceta y llegar a la santidad).54 Otro caso es el de una mujer que reclama justicia al Patriarca porque sufre injuria de su yerno (VJL 30: 1 ss.; se sabe que mujeres actuaron en sede judicial como demandantes, defensoras o testigos)55 y lo enfrenta en plena calle, no en los momentos que el Patriarca reservaba para impartir justicia normalmente (cf. cap. 4: 5 ss.). En Espiridón, cap. 9, aparece una mujer extranjera, esposa de un soldado, que implora por su hijo muerto:56 su fe es tal que se anima a encarar al santo arrojándole el niño a sus pies, sin poder hablarle en su lengua; 52. Un paralelo masculino de la muerte como consecuencia de pertinacia es la del estafador con dolores que se niega a devolver lo robado (Hypátios 44: 8–19).

Chapter 19. Algunos aspectos de la mujer en la hagiografía bizantina

7.

ella misma es objeto de un gran milagro duplicado, la resucitación. Mujeres necesitadas de ayuda son también la hija endemoniada de Martiniano en Antonio 48, la niña paralítica y con secreciones en Antonio 58, Policratía de Laodicea, curada a la distancia (Antonio 61), la mujer que ruega por su hija endemoniada (Antonio 71), la mujer estéril que recibe la intercesión del santo (Hypátios 27: 31–37), otra endemoniada (Hypátios 40) y una posesa curada (Hypátios 44); una mujer que necesita alojamiento y es enviada al ξενίδιον (Hypátios 35: 4–5). Por supuesto, muchas mujeres necesitadas aparecen en las colecciones de milagros de curación, como Milagros de san Artemio, Milagros de Ciro y Juan, Milagros de Kósmas y Damianós, con un papel y una actitud similares a los de los varones: la fe y la predisposición a la conversión son la clave para la concreción de la taumaturgia. Pero asimismo aparecen mujeres con ciertas capacidades y muy generosas. En VJL 9: 30 ss., una viuda que tenía un solo hijo le dona quince kentenária para las obras de caridad. La ya mencionada Sofronia, de Espiridón cap. 16, es una mujer propietaria, que acoge reiteradamente al santo en su casa, con el acuerdo de su esposo pagano que aumenta su admiración por el santo y que, en la versión de Teodoro de Pafo, se convierte y bautiza. Domnina de Siria,

53. Si no tiene algún negocio, debería volver a casarse, lo cual obligaría al nuevo marido a mantener a los hijos de su esposa, mientras que ella estaba en desventaja para cuestiones de dote (προίξ o προῖκα; sobre los acuerdos nupciales, Caracausi (1990) incluye los términos ἀντιπροίκιον, θεώρητρον, προικοσυμβόλαιον y προικοσύμφερον, de los cuales hasta ahora el TLG sólo registra θεώρητρον, frecuente desde el s. vi). La vida de la mujer corría peligro en los partos, pero muchas quedaban viudas porque sus maridos morían en guerra o en trabajos excesivos. 54. De las tres mil veintitrés ocurrencias del término εὐνοῦχος en el TLG, solamente seiscientas cuarenta y una son anteriores al s. iv. Es un término muy usado en Bizancio (el pico estadístico está en el s. iv y le siguen los siglos xi y x; el autor que más lo usa es Constantino Porphyrogénnētos, seguido de cerca por Juan Crisóstomo, según los datos aportados por el TLG). Puede haber un personaje secundario, como el que referimos aquí o el de Daniel Estilita 71: 19, o meras menciones, como en Geróntios, Melania la Joven 2: 11.42, 2: 13.12. Sobre eunucos cf. Tougher, (2002 y 2008). Sobre eunucos y santidad cf. Ringrose, (1999). 55. Acerca de este aspecto de los derechos femeninos Beaucamp, (1998). 56. La dificultad de los partos y la escasa salud de los niños son realidades que preceden y siguen a Bizancio. Recordemos, por ejemplo, que la reina Ana Stuart de Gran Bretaña tuvo diecisiete partos y sólo un hijo logró sobrevivir unos pocos años. Algo similar ocurrió con Catalina de Aragón, primera esposa de Enrique VIII, quien perdió cinco hijos, muertos a las horas o días de haber nacido. Teodora de Tesalonica entró al convento a los veinticinco años una vez viuda y habiendo muerto dos tercios de sus hijos; cf. Laiou, (1992, p. 11). En el Bizancio del s. xiii/xiv, la mitad de los niños moría antes de los cinco años y sólo un seis o siete por ciento de la población superaba los cuarenta y cinco años; Hennessy, (2010, p. 82)

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mencionada en la Historia religiosa de Teodoreto de Cirro, prefirió una choza en el jardín en vez de la casa de su madre y tuvo más de doscientas seguidoras. En la Vida de Matrona aparece una mujer rica, Anastasia, que hace donaciones para construir y sostener monasterios, mientras que la esposa de Esporacio dona un lote. 8. Forma femenina pueden tomar también ciertas entidades abstractas; en VJL 6: 50 ss. se relata un sueño en el que aparece la Compasión o Limosna como mujer, muchacha luminosa y ornada, coronada y alegre. En cambio, una mujer enorme y rodeada de cerdos representa la Tentación con demonios, en Hypátios 45: 6.57 9. Mujeres de la corte son mencionadas en algunas ocasiones: las hermanas del emperador Teodosio visitan al santo, quien les da su bendición (Hypátios 37: 2–4); la emperatriz defiende a los monjes ἀκοίμητοι evitando que los echen (Hypátios 41: 15–20); la emperatriz Eudoxia visita a Daniel Estilita (cf. Vida de Daniel Estilita, versión antigua, cap. 35 Delehaye). 10. Viudas aparecen también episódicamente, como la hermana de Hypátios (Hypátios 53) o Hipacia, hija de Filáreto, que pasa a ser suegra del emperador; y Teósebo, viuda de Filáreto, quien restaura templos, funda monasterios y hospicios y a la que el autor califica como θεοσεβής jugando con su nombre (165: 32 ss. Fourmy-Leroy, cf. 115: 3). Más allá de las Vidas en sí, también hay recopilaciones de milagros que funcionan como relatos hagiográficos (Efthymiadis, 2014 b), de las que ya mencionamos algunas centradas en santos varones; entre ellas está Milagros de Tecla, s. v, colección centrada en una mujer taumaturga.58 Al igual que los textos con foco en varones, la difusión sugerida por la transmisión conservada es muy diversa: hay obras testimoniadas en varios manuscritos y otras en uno solo, como la Vida de Melania la Mayor. Si bien esta última situación sugiere poca propagación o escaso éxito, no se puede descartar la mera casualidad. En cuanto al público, un determinado sector de la sociedad puede sentirse identificado o inspirado por la vida del santo: tal el caso de Vida de Macrina, 57. Que la mujer resulta una tentación contra la abstinencia del varón asceta aparece reiteradamente en las biografías de varones; por ejemplo, el Prado espiritual de Juan Mosco menciona este hecho en los capp. 3, 14, 19, 31, 39, 45, 60, etc. 58. Sobre la presencia de la figura de Tecla en la hagiografía y la difusión del texto, Delehaye, (1925, pp. 49–57), Narro Sánchez, (2013). Basada sobre el apócrifo Hechos de Pablo y Tecla, el autor debió de ser un escritor de Seleucia, conocedor de la retórica y de la historiografía clásica, que usa ese conocimiento para defender la posición cristiana de Tecla; sobre esto Narro Sánchez, (2010, 2012, 2016).

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que apunta a mujeres nobles. Sin embargo, el hagiógrafo tiene una intención didáctico-espiritual muy amplia, a tal punto que a veces opta por un lenguaje bajo o más ‘popular’ y un estilo más sencillo para llegar más fácilmente a los iletrados (prólogo de Leoncio en VJL 70 ss.), (Garzya, 1973, pp. 1183–4) de modo que también los relatos sobre mujeres se orientan, en general, al gran público.

Conclusiones Como se ve, pues, la presencia de la mujer en la hagiografía bizantina dista de ser escasa, si bien es proporcionalmente menor que la de los hombres. Pero esa presencia parece reflejar varios aspectos de la realidad femenina: –

–

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el ámbito de la mujer era, según la tradición secular, más ‘íntimo’ e ‘interior’ que el del hombre, centrada ella en la crianza, cocina, limpieza, costura-tejido, lavado, aunque a veces el hombre se encargaba de estas tareas;59 en consecuencia, si el acceso a la educación externa al hogar era limitado para los varones en Bizancio, más aún lo era para las mujeres. La gran diferencia entre unos y otras era el cuidado de los niños, casi exclusivo de la mujer, y la milicia, exclusiva del hombre; el papel ‘interior’ de la vida femenina le dio a la mujer una imagen de mayor ‘debilidad’, como de una “segunda clase”, (Kazhdan, 1998, p. 19 por lo que se creía que debía cultivar un carácter ‘varonil’ –es decir, una resistencia poco frecuente en la mujer pero habitual en el hombre– para acceder a ciertas labores, decisiones y conductas: de ahí que la mujer debió ser viril o fingir virilidad para acceder a unas prácticas de ascetismo que eran muy duras incluso para los varones, lo cual significaba un alto grado de fortaleza y autodominio, obviamente posible en la mujer, sobre todo cuando salía del ámbito ‘hogareño’, pues una esposa, una madre, una viuda, podían también ser santas dentro de su hogar, en la vida cotidiana, incluso soportando valientemente la violencia doméstica, demostrando una “suave fortaleza”;60 y asimismo hubo mujeres que abandonaron el ‘estereotipo’ de ama de casa y no sólo compartían el trabajo exterior con el marido sino que, en acuerdo con su esposo, a veces persuadido, se hacen peregrinas y ascetas, sea invirtiendo

59. Kazhdan, (1998, p. 17), opina que los datos “allow us to raise the question whether there was a drastic difference between men and women within the household. I am inclined to answer this question negatively". 60. El título de la recopilación de trabajos de Coon-Haldane-Sommer, (1990).

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para ello sus bienes, como Melania la Joven, o viviendo de servicios y limosnas, como Atanasia; así, hubo mujeres que no sólo fundaron cenobios y los dirigieron sino que también cultivaron el monaquismo anacoreta, asumiendo privaciones que demostraban esa fortaleza y ese autodominio heroicos, apartándose del papel más habitual de esposa-madre, cf. Talbot, 2001; y hubo otras que, en su vida cotidiana, sea como solteras, casadas, viudas, madres de familia, fueran burguesas o aristócratas, alcanzaron la santidad más frecuente, aunque menos evidente, por el cultivo continuo de las virtudes; lo relevante es que la abundante literatura hagiográfica, que en un largo período asumió la novela y la épica menos cultivadas, les haya dado un lugar como autoras, como protagonistas y como personajes episódicos, sea en actitudes censurables, sea en admirables e imitables y a veces insólitas (¡Melania pronuncia discursos en la corte!), las cuales se verificaban también en personajes varones, y como integrantes de estratos socio-económicos muy variables (mendigas, pobres, vendedoras, propietarias …), lo cual refleja la realidad que se daba también en la audiencia;61 esto sugiere que, aun en medio de una sociedad que centraba en el hombre la vida exterior o pública, se consideró que la santidad no era cuestión de sexo, que la mujer podía ser obstáculo para ella como los hombres, pero también podía ganarla como los hombres; y esto, dicho incluso por autores varones. No coincidimos, pues, con la afirmación “Men were wortier than women, monks were holier than nuns": (Ashbrook Harvey, 1990, p. 47) los relatos de santos varones muestran largamente que ellos también debieron luchar contra sus vicios, debilidades y yerros, pues Adán no fue menos pecador ni menos responsable que Eva, el uno y la otra habían recibido previamente las mismas naturaleza y dignidad y ambos sufrieron las mismas consecuencias espirituales y sensoriales de su pecado; en esto la hagiografía siguió la imagen que de la mujer hay en la Biblia, texto base fundamental, pues la Hagía Graphé es intertexto continuo de la hagiografía:62 Eva tiene a María como contraparte; y Sara, Miriam, Rajab, Débora, Rut, Ana, Judith, Esther, la madre de los Macabeos, Isabel, María Magdalena, Marta y María de Betania, María de Cleofás, Juana, Priscila, la hemorroísa, la viuda de Naím o la samaritana y tantas otras mujeres de los Testamentos anticipan el lugar y las variantes de la mujer bizantina en la hagiografía;63 la mujer

61. Sobre esta variedad en la realidad social reflejada cf. Patlagean, (1968 y 1968b.) Véase también Teja, (1999). 62. Cf. Coon, (1997, cap. 1), aunque se ocupa más de la hagiografía occidental.

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de Lot, por ejemplo, es mencionada en Antonio 20:1, como ejemplo de quien vuelve a la vida mundana;64 así, a diferencia de la Pandora y la Eva de la Antigüedad, la mujer bizantina muestra que también aquéllas pueden ser redimidas y transformadas en mujeres positivas, fuertes, virtuosas, como la María que aplasta la cabeza de la serpiente (cf. Apoc. 12 frente a Génesis 3: 15) y se hace una “nueva Eva”, así como Cristo es el “nuevo Adán” (1 Corintios 15: 45–47).65 Frente a la creencia de muchos,66 la mujer no tiene por qué estar necesariamente asociada al pecado, al mal, a la decadencia moral, a la debilidad física, psíquica o espiritual.67 Los autores de estas ficciones reconocen en la mujer la capacidad de ser igualmente piadosa, virtuosa, fuerte, emprendedora, como lo puede ser un hombre, más allá de las diferencias de sexo, temperamento, educación, labor:68 Teodoreto de Cirro, por ejemplo, la elogia explícitamente en Historia religiosa 29: 1. Τῶν ἀρίστων ἀνδρῶν τὴν πολιτείαν συγγράψας προὔργου νομίζω καὶ γυναικῶν οὐδὲν ἧττον εἰ μὴ καὶ μᾶλλον ἠγωνισμένων ἐπιμνησθῆναι. Αὗται γὰρ εὐφημίας μείζονός εἰσιν ἀξιώτεραι, φύσιν μὲν ἀσθενεστέραν λαχοῦσαι, τὴν αὐτὴν δὲ τοῖς ἀνδράσι προθυμίαν ἐπιδεικνύμεναι, καὶ τῆς προγονικῆς αἰσχύνης τὸ γένος ἐλευθεροῦσαι. (ed. Canivet-Leroy) Al escribir la conducta de los excelentes varones, considero útil también acordarse de que las mujeres para nada menos sino también más han combatido. Pues éstas son muy merecedoras de una mayor alabanza, por una parte al tocarles en suerte una naturaleza más débil, por otra demostrando el mismo ardor anímico que los varones y liberando a la raza de la vergüenza ancestral.

63. La Biblia sostiene la igualdad esencial de la mujer y el hombre, desde la imagen mítica de haber sido creada del ‘costado’ del hombre como ‘carne de su carne y huesos de sus huesos’; esta posición fue mantenida por los Padres de la Iglesia en general, aun cuando la figura de Eva como ‘la tentación femenina’ hacía que muchos desconfiaran de la mujer, actitud que es vista como misoginia por muchos: Cunningham, (2010, pp. 156–157). 64. Cf. Génesis 19: 26 y Lucas 9: 62. 65. Cf. Catecismo de la Iglesia católica nº 511. 66. Cf. algunos ejemplos, a partir de Neófito el Recluso, en Galatariotou, 1984-5. 67. En la Vida de Andrés el Loco II 2224 Rydén, se pregunta “¿Creó el diablo a la mujer?” y la respuesta es negativa. Sin embargo, Ashbrook Harvey, (1990, p. 41), considera que “the image of women as a whole remained unredeemed", afirmación con la que no concordamos: hay buenas y malas mujeres como hay buenos y malos hombres (en Espiridón, por ejemplo, aparecen varones avaros e inmisericordes que no se arrepienten ni se convierten).

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No se trata, pues, de ‘empoderar’ a la mujer pasando de un extremo a otro, sino de equipararla al hombre como su par natural. En la historia hubo importantes y relevantes reinas y emperatrices (Catalina la Grande, Isabel de Hungría, Cristina de Suecia, Victoria del Reino Unido, por mencionar sólo algunas, además de las que han muy bien destacado James, Garland y Herrin en sus estudios);69 y hoy tenemos numerosas mujeres que ocupan puestos de relevancia no sólo como gobernantes de sus países sino también como directoras o presidentes de organismos internacionales, además de que hubo y hay relevantes figuras femeninas de la ciencia y de las artes. Pero también la historia cuenta con numerosas y grandes santas y a veces doctoras de la Iglesia (Hildegarda de Bingen, Catalina de Siena, Teresa de Ávila, Teresita de Lisieux, Bernardita, Teresa de Calcuta), algunas de las cuales han sido guías y motivadoras de ingentes emprendimientos y han llegado a tener trascendencia mundial. Y muchas mujeres permiten verificar el dicho “detrás de un gran hombre siempre hay una gran mujer”. El camino fue largo pero continuo y la hagiografía bizantina muestra un hito ‘realista’ en el derrotero, más allá de las aportaciones ficcionales y sus objetivos didácticos, con las luces y las sombras de la vida de la mujer, pero con una visión positiva de las potencialidades y los valores femeninos.

Bibliografía Agapitos, P. (2004). Mortuary typology in the lives of saints Michael the Synkellos and Stephen the Younger. In P. Odorico & P. Agapitos (eds.), Les vies des saints à Byzance. Genre littéraire ou biographie historique? Paris: Centre d’études byzantines, pp. 103–135. Alwis, A. (2011). Celibate marriages in late Antique and Byzantine hagiography. The Lives of Saints Julian and Basilissa, Andronikos and Athanasia, and Galaktion and Episteme. London: Continuum.

68. De tal modo, la mujer se hace un poco menos outsider, como la consideró Smythe, (2010, pp. 74–5). 69. James, (2001); Herrin, (2001; Garland, (2006); y Herrin, (2013, capp. 7, 8, 10 y 11). Valga mencionar a Gala Placidia, Honoria, Eudoxia, santa Pulqueria (que prefirió compartir el trono y se casó con el viudo Marciano, ambos en abstinencia), Verina, Ariadna, Martina, Teodora (que defendió a los monofisitas contra la opinión de su marido Justiniano I y sofocó la revuelta de Niká), Irene (quien mutiló a su hijo y a sus cuñados para ser la primera emperatriz titular entre 797 y 802), Eufrosina, Zoe, Kassia (una Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz en Bizancio), Ana Komnēnė, etc., quienes desempeñaron papeles relevantes en la historia política, social y cultural bizantina (Teófano como consorte de Otón II, emperador del Sacro Imperio). Recordemos que fue la emperatriz Teodora, viuda de Teófilo y regente de Miguel III, quien puso fin a la larga controversia sobre los íconos. Sobre algunas de estas mujeres: Holum, 1982, Angelidi, 1996, McCash, 1996, Hill, 1999.

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Angelidi, Ch. (1996). Pulcheria: la castità al potere. Milano: Jaca Book. Anson, J. (1974). The female transvestite in early monasticism. Viator, 5, 1–32. Ashbrook Harvey, S. (1990). Women in early Byzantine hagiography. Reversing the story. In L. Coon, K. Haldane & E. Sommer (eds.), That gentle strenght. Historical perspectives on women in Christianity (pp. 36–59). Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press. Ashton, G. (2001). The generation of identity in late medieval hagiography. London: Routledge. Baer, R. (1970). Philo’s use of the categories of male and female. Leiden, Brill. Beaucamp, J. (1998). Les femmes et l’espace public à Byzance: Le cas des tribunaux, Dumbarton Oaks Papers, 52, 129–145. Bohdziewicz, O. (2012). La ‘historia de Pelagia’ en la Vida de Juan el Limosnero de Leoncio de Neápolis. Byzantion Nea Hellás, 31, 189–202. Bréhier, L. (1949). La femme dans la famille à Byzance. Annuaire de l’ Institut de Philologie et d’Historie Orientales (Pankarpeia. Mélanges H. Grégoire), 9, 105–108. Burrus, V. (2003). Macrinas’ tatoo. Journal of medieval and early modern studies, 33/3, 403–417. Caracausi, G. (1990). Lessico greco della Sicilia e dell’Italia meridionale (secoli X-XIV). Palermo: Centro di Studi filologici e linguistici siciliani. Caseau, B. (1999). Christian bodies: the senses and early Byzantine Christianity. In L. James (ed.), Desire and denial in Byzantium. Aldershot: Ashgate, 101–109. Cavallero, P. (2014). ¿Una prueba de autoría? La inmediatez como tópos en Leoncio de Neápolis. Νέα Ῥώμη, 10, 37–66. Cavallero, P. (2018). ‘Τὸν ἄριστον βίον’ (Hist. Lausiaca 62). Castidad y soberbia en el contexto ascético de la hagiografía protobizantina. Anales de filología clásica, 31/1, 37–47. Cavallero, P. (2023). Función de la magia en la literatura hagiográfica bizantina. In L. Pégolo, E. Tola, V. Diez (eds.), Homenaje a Alfredo Schroeder. Buenos Aires: Universidad de Buenos Aires, en prensa. Cavallero, P. et al. (2014). Leoncio de Neápolis: Vida de Espiridón, edición crítica con introducción, traducción, notas y apéndices. Buenos Aires: Universidad de Buenos Aires, FFyL. Cavallo, G. (1994). El hombre bizantino. Madrid: Alianza. Cavallo, G. (2004). Le pratiche di lettura. In La cultura Bizantina, vol. I de Lo spazio letterario del medioevo, 3: Le culture circostanti. Roma: Salerno, 569–604. Clark, E. (1989). Piety, propaganda and politics in the Life of Melania the Younger. Studia patristica, 18/2, 167–183. Constantinou, S. (2004). Subgenre and gender in saints’ lives. In P. Odorico & P. Agapitos (eds.), Les vies des saints à Byzance. Genre littéraire ou biographie historique? (pp. 411–423). Paris: Centre d’études byzantines (Actes du colloque (2002)). Constantinou, S. (2014). Holy Actors and Actresses. Fools and Cross-Dressers as the Protagonists of Saint’s Lives. In S. Efthymiadis (ed.), The Ashgate research companion to Byzantine hagiography (pp. 343–357). Farnham: Ashgate, II. Constas, N. (1996). The Life of saint Mary/Marinos. Introduction and translation. In A. Talbot (ed.), Holy women of Byzantium. Ten saint’s Lives in English translation (pp. 1–12). Washington: Dumbarton Oaks. Coon, L. (1997). Sacred fictions. Holy women and hagiography in Late Antiquity. Philadelphia (The Middle Ages Series): University of Pennsylvania Press.

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chapter 20

De opere illicito Motivos novelescos en un milagro de San Andrés (LA, II §§ 58–75) Carmen Puche López Universidad de Alicante

In this paper we have analyzed a miracle of Saint Andrew that Iacobus de Voragine included in his Legenda aurea (LA, II §§ 58–75). In this miracle, the motif of the trial for incest appears, together with the motif of Potiphar. We put it in relation to a story contained in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses (X, 2–12), since both stories share many common elements. Our comparative analysis reveals how the hagiographic story draws on certain novelistic elements and adapts them, giving them a new meaning to highlight the power of the saint. Keywords: Legenda aurea, hagiografía /hagiography, incesto / incest, Apuleyo /Apuleius

1.

Planteamiento y objetivos

Enseñar lo nuevo a partir de lo conocido es un procedimiento utilizado con gran eficacia didáctica por los creadores de relatos sobre figuras de santidad. El género hagiográfico, para cumplir con la función aleccionadora que le es inherente, recoge y reutiliza tópicos y motivos de muy diversa procedencia para captar la atención de su público y hacerle llegar de manera eficaz el mensaje de la fe cristiana. Recurre a modelos literarios conocidos y atractivos que, como afirma Huber-Rebenich (1999, p. 195) se dirigen más a las emociones del receptor que a su intelecto y otorgan a sus modelos de santidad, en principio lejanos y abstractos, la concreción de héroes y heroínas que resultan cercanos y familiares para el público por otros géneros literarios.1

1. Sobre estos “role-models”, cf. Huber-Rebenich, 1999, particularmente pp. 192 y ss. https://doi.org/10.1075/ivitra.40.20puc © 2024 John Benjamins Publishing Company

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Así, en los relatos hagiográficos podemos encontrar estructuras narrativas propias de tradición oral y popular, como en la leyenda de san Marcelo, que es presentado como un héroe de cuento (Picard, 1990; Guidorizzi, 1983; Bundy, 1987 o Puche, 2019), o parlamentos patéticos, procedentes de la tragedia, en los que miembros de la familia suplican al mártir que renuncie a la fe cristiana para salvar su vida. Así ocurre, por ejemplo, en la leyenda de san Sebastián recogida en la Legenda aurea de Jacobo de la Vorágine,2 en la que los padres de los hermanos Marceliano y Marco tratan de disuadirlos de su inminente martirio con discursos llenos de dramatismo que hacen vacilar la resolución de los mártires y llevan al santo a intervenir con una suasoria dirigida a los progenitores para que acepten de buen grado la pérdida de sus hijos.3 O también podemos hallar motivos elegíacos como el paraklausithyron,4 que aparece fugazmente en, por ejemplo, la leyenda de santa Thais, una meretriz convertida, dando concreción y “color” a la narración para explicar su belleza y el poder de su atractivo sobre los hombres,5 o en la leyenda de santa Justina, mezclado en este caso con el motivo de la magia

2. La Legenda aurea de Jacobo de la Vorágine (LA) es una de las compilaciones hagiográficas más importantes del s. XIII. Sobre ella, cf. entre otros, Boureau, 1984; Reames, 1985; DunnLardeau (Ed.), 1986; Maggioni, 1995; Degl’Innocenti & Ferrari (Eds.), 1998; Fleith & Morenzoni (Eds.), 2001; Le Goff, 2011; Maggioni, 2012; Epstein, 2016. Para las citas del texto latino seguimos la edición de P. G. Maggioni (2007). Para las citas del texto de Apuleyo seguimos la edición de Relm (1968) 3. LA XXIII, §§ 10–22: Aduenit igitur mater et soluto capite scissisque uestibus uberibusque ostensis aiebat: “O perdulces filii, circumdat me inaudita miseria et intolerabilis luctus. Heu me miseram, amitto filios meos ad mortem ultro tendentes, quos si mihi hostes auferrent per media sequerer bella raptores, si uiolenta iudicia concluderent carcerem irrumperem moritura. Nouum hoc pereundi genus est, in quo carnifex rogatur ut feriat, uita optatur ut pereat, mors inuitatur ut ueniat. Nouus hic luctus, noua miseria in qua natorum iuuentus sponte amittitur et parentum miseranda cogitur senectus ut uiuat”. Hec dicente matre pater senior adducitur manibus seruulorum et capite adsperso puluere huiusmodi uoces dabat ad celum: “Ad mortem ultro proficiscentibus filiis ualedicturus adueni ut que mee sepulture paraueram, in filiorum sepulturas infelix expendam. O filii, mee baculum senectuctis et geminum meorum uiscerum lumen, cur sic mortem diligitis? Venite huc, iuuenes, et flete super iuuenes sponte pereuntes. Venite huc, senes, et mecum super filios plangite. Huc accedite, patres, et prohibete ne talia patiamini. Deficite plorando, oculi mei, ne uideam filios meos gladio cedi.” 4. Sobre este tópico de las puertas cerradas, que remonta al género de la comedia, cf., entre otros, Copley, 1956; Giangrande, 1974; García Fuentes, 1976; Lieberg, 1996 y Moreno Soldevila, 2011. 5. LA CXLVIII, §§ 1–2: Thaysis meretrix, ut in uitis patrum legitur, tante pulchritudinis extitit ut multi propter eam uenditis substantiis suis ad ultimam paupertatem deuenirent; sed et amatores sui pre zelo litibus inter se consertis frequenter puelle limina sanguine iuuenum replebant.

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que, tratando de conseguir su amor, utiliza el mago Cipriano.6 Y, más allá de eso, el motivo adquiere particular relevancia en la leyenda de san Adriano (Moráis, 2018), una historia con amor y desamor, con equívocos entre enamorados en la que Adriano, como si de un amante elegíaco se tratara, suplica en un determinado momento a su esposa Natalia que le abra la puerta, cuando ella, a modo de domina elegíaca cristiana, creyendo que Adriano ha escapado traicionando su fe, se niega a recibirlo.7 Así pues, en esta leyenda, que contiene otros elementos interesantes como, por ejemplo, los parlamentos patéticos de Natalia, que recuerdan a la Tisbe ovidiana, o su gesto de arrojarse a las llamas en las que arde el cuerpo de Adriano, que evoca de alguna manera a Evadne o a Laodamía,8 hay una escenificación y dramatización del amor entre los cónyuges que va más allá de la preservación de la castidad y de la sustitución, característica de los relatos hagiográficos, del amor entre amantes por el amor a Dios.9 En esta confluencia de formas literarias que enriquecen y dan cercanía y “vida” a las leyendas de santidad, un género literario particularmente importante 6. LA CXXXVIII, § 62: Vnde et amplius in amorem Iustine estuans, ad ostium uirginis diu uigilauit et quandoque in feminam quandoque in auem se, ut uidebatur, arte magica commutans, cum uenisset ad ostium uirginis, neque femina neque auis, sed Cyprianus protinus apparebat. Sobre esta leyenda cf. Huber-Rebenich 1999, p. 198. 7. LA CXXVIII, §§ 30–32; 42–51: Illa autem putans quod martyrium refugisset amarissime flebat et cum uidisset eum surgens uelocius ostium domus contra eum clausit et dixit: “Longe a me efficiatur qui a deo corruit! Non mihi contingat loqui ori illius per quod dominum suum abnegauit!” […] “Aperi mihi, domina mea Natalia! Non enim ut putas fugi martyrium, sed te, ut promisi, uocare ueni”. Que non credens ait: “ Vide quomodo me seducit transgressor, quomodo mentitur alter Iudas! Fuge a me miser, iam me ipsam interficiam ut satieris”. Et dum moraretur ad aperiendum dixit ei: “Aperi citius! Nam uadam et ultra non uidebis me et post hoc lugebis quod me ante exitum meum non uideris. Fideiussores dedi sanctos martyres et si ministri me requirentes non inuenerint, substinebunt sancti tormenta sua simul et mea”. Hec audiens Natalia aperuit et sibi inuicem prostrati ad carcerem simul abierunt. 8. Es interesante observar que este detalle narrativo de que Natalia se arroja al fuego en el que se consumen los cuerpos de los cristianos y una lluvia divina extingue las llamas (LA CXXVIII, § 86: Cum autem corpora sanctorum in ignem precipitarentur, uoluit et Natalia se cum eis in ignem precipitare, sed subito uehementissimus imber erupit et ignem extinguens corpora sanctorum illesa seruauit) solo está recogido en la compilación de Vorágine, y no aparece en la obra de sus predecesores Jean de Mailly y Bartolomé de Trento. Sobre estos legendarios, cf. Maggioni, 2012. 9. Como afirma Cataudella (1981, p. 945): “Il racconto agiografico è, da questo lato, assai affine al romanzo erotico: dopo tutto, la sua formula strutturale è la stessa che quella del romanzo […], tranne che al posto di una copia umana si ha una copia divina o semidivina, formata di un Santo o di una Santa, e del mistico Sposo, Dio, e che l’epilogo della storia non ha come termine il ricongiungimento, le nozze, ma il ricongiungimento consiste nel martirio, che è, per il Cristiano, un congiungimento mistico con Dio.”

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es la novela. Muy lejos queda ya la queja de Cataudella (1981, p. 931) sobre la poca atención que se ha prestado a las relaciones entre ambos géneros y, de hecho, las nuevas tendencias en el estudio de la hagiografía, como señala K. Staat (2018), prestan particular atención al análisis de sus técnicas narrativas y sus elementos literarios. En el marco del estudio de estas relaciones entre hagiografía y novela, de relatos que realimentan relatos, son muy numerosos los ejemplos especialmente interesantes que podríamos aducir, como el de la mujer devota de la Virgen que, para salir al paso de habladurías sobre su afectuosa relación con su yerno, planifica cuidadosamente su asesinato contratando los servicios de dos sicarios que lo matan en la bodega, adonde ella misma lo había enviado a por vino, y coloca después el cadáver en el lecho para que, cuando fuera descubierto, pareciera que había muerto durante el sueño.10 En este trabajo nos vamos a detener en un milagro de san Andrés en el que aparece el motivo del juicio por incesto,11 unido al motivo de Putifar, que, como también señala Cataudella (1981, pp. 935–938), es familiar tanto a la novela como a la hagiografía. El milagro está relatado en la Legenda aurea de Vorágine (LA, II §§ 58–75) y, antes de él, aparece en una obra de Gregorio de Tours (Bonnet (ed.), 1885, p. 379 (cap. 4). Sobre esta obra de Gregorio de Tours, cf. Van Kampen, 1991 y Adamik, 2000) y en la compilación de Jean de Mailly (Maggioni (ed.), 2013, cap. I §§ 39–63. Cf. Boureau, 2004, pp. 1070–71). Resumimos la historia: un joven cristiano se presenta ante el santo Andrés y le cuenta que su madre ha pretendido seducirlo y que, ante su rechazo, ella misma lo acusa ante la autoridad de haber pretendido forzarla. El joven pide ayuda al santo, asegurando que no declarará contra su madre. Tiene lugar el juicio y el joven, efectivamente, guarda silencio cuando es interrogado. El santo increpa a la mujer que, a su vez, insinúa que el santo ha sido el mal consejero del muchacho, de modo que el juez decide condenar a muerte al joven y enviar al santo a prisión. San Andrés, entonces, ruega a Dios y se produce un gran terremoto, la mujer muere fulminada por un rayo y todos los presentes, aterrados

10. LA CXXXVIII, § 165–168: Cum igitur mulieris animum tanta falsitas concussisset, timens ne in uulgi fabulam uerteretur duos rusticos alloquitur et si occulte generum strangulare uelint, cuilibet XX solidos pollicetur. Quadam ergo die eos in cellario recludens maritum suum ex industria aliquo ire consuluit et filiam alio transmisit. Tunc adolescens iussu domine sue cellarium ut uinum afferret ingreditur et mox a latronibus strangulatur. Mox socrus ipsum in lectum filie detulit et quasi dormientem uestibus circumtexit. 11. Sobre el incesto, que es un tema, además, particularmente importante y controvertido en el s. XII, cf., entre otros, Rank, 1992 [1912]; Archibald, 2001; Tomea, 2005; Quadrelli-Subrani, 2020.

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y temiendo por su vida, suplican al santo su intercesión. Con una nueva oración del santo acaba el terremoto y el juez y toda su familia se hacen creyentes. El milagro, incluso en su brevedad y escasez de detalles narrativos, evoca inmediatamente el relato contenido en las Metamorfosis de Apuleyo (X, 2–12) sobre la malvada madrastra despechada que, al ser rechazada por su joven hijastro, decide buscar su perdición. Resumimos brevemente su contenido: un decurio, viudo y padre de un hijo ejemplar, contrae nuevo matrimonio y la mujer, abrasada de incontenible pasión por su hijastro, le confiesa finalmente su amor a este que, aunque horrorizado y escandalizado, trata de calmarla con promesas diferidas. Cuando ella comprende que el joven no va corresponder a su requerimiento amoroso, decide asesinarlo mediante un veneno valiéndose de la ayuda de un esclavo. Pero es el hijo menor, fruto de este segundo matrimonio, el que por azar encuentra el vino en el que estaba el veneno, lo toma y muere. La mujer, buscando su venganza, acusa al hijastro ante el esposo de un fallido intento de violación y del envenenamiento, como represalia, del hijo de ambos. El padre cree a su esposa y busca justicia en los magistrados. Se celebra el juicio, en el que comparece el esclavo apoyando con su testimonio la acusación de la mujer y la condena a muerte del joven es inminente. Interviene entonces un anciano médico, que demuestra que el veneno lo había comprado el esclavo y no el joven y, además, explica que él, desconfiando del esclavo, no le había vendido veneno, sino tan solo un narcótico. Y, efectivamente, se comprueba la veracidad de sus palabras cuando acuden al sepulcro del hijo menor, al que habían enterrado, que en ese momento está despertando de su sueño. La mujer es condenada a destierro perpetuo, el esclavo cómplice es condenado a muerte y el esposo de la mujer recupera de esta manera a sus dos hijos.12 Naturalmente, hay enormes diferencias entre el magro y escueto relato hagiográfico y el rico relato apuleyano, que abunda en tópicos como el ataque de Cupido o la enfermedad de amor, elementos poéticos, parlamentos dramáticos y cuidadas piezas oratorias. También es evidente que hay numerosos motivos, episodios y personajes del relato novelesco que no encuentran correspondencia en nuestro milagro. Sin embargo, ambos relatos comparten el mismo motivo básico y la misma secuencia narrativa de la madre/madrastra que, despechada por el rechazo de su hijo/hijastro ante sus eróticos requerimientos, lo acusa falsamente

12. El tema del incesto aparece en las declamaciones (cf., entre otros, Breij, 2009 y 2015; Santorelli, 2020 y Vizeu Lopes, 2021) y Apuleyo, sin duda conocedor de esta tradición retórica, desarrolla esta interesantísima historia que concluye con el triunfo de la verdad y el castigo de los malvados. Sobre este relato, cf., entre otros, Tatum, 1999, pp. 188–189; Shumate, 1999; Zimmerman, 2000; Smith, 2007; Buffa Giolito, 2004; Palacios, 2009; Facchini, 2011, pp. 307–309.

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de intento de violación y, con su calumnia, aboca al joven a lo que parece una inevitable condena a muerte. Por ello, vamos ahora a hacer un análisis comparativo para comprobar qué hay de común y de diverso entre ambos relatos y cómo el relato hagiográfico se nutre de determinados elementos novelescos y los adapta dotándolos de un nuevo sentido. Para este análisis tomamos como referencia el texto de Vorágine, si bien haremos también alusión a las versiones de Gregorio de Tours (GT) y de Jean de Mailly (JM), cuando presentan diferencias de matiz respecto a la de Vorágine que nos parecen significativas.

2.

Análisis comparativo LA, II §§ 58–75 / Met. X, 2–12

En el relato del milagro los tres personajes principales son, naturalmente, el santo Andrés, el joven y su madre, a los que podemos sumar la figura de autoridad (praepositus) que dicta sentencia cuando tiene lugar el juicio y, como un personaje más, el público mismo que asiste al juicio y que viene a ser un correlato, como después diremos, del propio público al que va destinado el relato hagiográfico. En el relato de Apuleyo, que tiene una intriga mucho más compleja y elaborada, aparecen, además de la madrastra y el joven, muchos más personajes relevantes como son el padre/esposo, el hermanastro, el esclavo cómplice y, particularmente, el sabio y prudente médico que, después de vender al sicario de la madrastra un somnífero en lugar de veneno, demuestra en el juicio la falsedad del testimonio del malvado esclavo, desvela la verdad de lo ocurrido y se convierte en el artífice del feliz desenlace. Veamos en primer lugar la “pareja” protagonista en ambos relatos, formada por el joven, ejemplo de bondad y honradez, y su madre/madrastra, encarnación del mal y de las más terribles y abyectas pasiones humanas. La mujer (significativamente, el único personaje femenino de todo el relato) se caracteriza en ambos casos por su instinto lujurioso y, tras ser rechazada, por un oscuro y criminal deseo de venganza que la lleva a querer acabar con la vida del muchacho: en el relato hagiográfico, llevándolo ante la justicia y acusándolo de haber querido forzarla; en el relato novelesco, planeando asesinarlo con veneno y, cuando el plan falla, acusándolo ante el esposo del intento de violación y, además, del asesinato, a modo de represalia, de su hermanastro, que por un azar y un error había ingerido el veneno destinado al muchacho. Esta perspectiva misógina es compartida por ambos relatos, de modo que el narrador (supuestamente, Lucio) de las Metamorfosis la califica ya al principio de naturaliter impudica (X, 2, 3) y, más adelante (X, 3, 1), la define como dira illa femina et malitiae nouercalis exemplar unicum, en tanto que en el relato del mila-

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gro será el propio santo quien la increpe en un determinado momento llamándola crudelissima feminarum (LA, II, § 66). Por lo demás, es importante el matiz diferenciador de que, en un caso, se trata de la madrastra, una figura que recoge un motivo tradicional folklórico y se remonta a su antepasada mítica por excelencia, que es Fedra, mientras que, en el otro, se trata de la madre, cuyo odio y cruel deseo de venganza resultan particularmente terribles porque atentan directamente contra el instinto natural de amor y protección que debería caracterizarla en tanto que progenitora del joven. En marcada antítesis con el personaje femenino de la madre o madrastra, tenemos al muchacho, hijo modélico caracterizado por su cultura, piedad y modestia, tal como se le describe en el relato de Apuleyo (X, 2, 1: iuuenem filium prope litteratum atque ob id consequenter pietate modestia praecipuum, quem tibi quoque prouenisse cuperes uel talem). Su actitud, además, ante la madrastra, que yace enferma de amor, es solícita y respetuosa, con una preocupación propia de anciano (X, 3, 1: Nec adulescens aegrae parentis moratus imperium, senili tristitie striatam gerens frontem, cubiculum petit, uxori patris matrique fratris utcumque debitum sistens obsequium) y, cuando ella le confiesa su desbocado deseo, adopta una actitud prudente y moderada, tratando de calmar con promesas diferidas la pasión de ella y tomando después la decisión de huir en cuanto le fuera posible, si bien sus pretextos no podrán, al final, evitar que la madrastra se dé cuenta de su rechazo y decida, por ello, asesinarlo. En el relato hagiográfico, carente, por supuesto, de todo este desarrollo narrativo, es el propio joven, del que solo sabemos que es cristiano,13 el que se dirige directa y secretamente a san Andrés (§ 58: quidam iuuenis christianus secretius sancto Andree dixit) para explicarle que ha sido víctima de incestuosas proposiciones por parte de su madre (§ 59: mater mea pulchrum me uidens de opere illicito attemptauit). Los términos para definir al personaje (iuuenis y pulchrum) subrayan la belleza y atractivo del muchacho pero, lo más significativo sin duda, es la especificación de su condición de christianus que, en el contexto del relato, le otorga todo el respaldo moral: no hace falta saber nada más de él, y cualquier otro tipo de calificativos, como los que encontramos en el relato novelesco, se hacen innecesarios para que el lector sepa, desde el primer momento, que el joven es la víctima inocente de las asechanzas de su madre y que ella es el personaje malvado de la historia.14 13. En la versión de Gregorio de Tours, en cambio, el joven sí tiene nombre: cap. 4, l. 7: Puer quidam Sostratus nomine christianus. 14. La versión de Gregorio de Tours alude de forma más explícita y expresiva a su deseo incestuoso: cap. 4, ll. 8–9: “Mater mea concupiuit formam speciei meae et iugiter me insectatur, ut commisceam ei.” Cf. Adamik, 2000, pp. 36–38.

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Así pues, a la circunstancia, tan habitual en muchos relatos hagiográficos, de que el/la mártir encuentra los primeros y más graves peligros para su fe en el seno de su propia familia pagana, se suma en este caso la circunstancia de que, en un trastocamiento absoluto del orden moral, es la propia madre del joven la que trata de seducirlo, atentando contra su castidad y poniendo en peligro su pureza de corazón. Su inocencia y bondad se hacen aún más evidentes cuando, después de decirle al santo que su madre ha llevado el asunto ante los tribunales con la intención de hacer recaer sobre él su propio delito (§ 60: Cui dum nullatenus assentirem, iudicem adiit uolens in me crimen tante nequitie retorquere), asegura que él guardará silencio porque prefiere morir a difamar a su madre (§ 62: nam et accusatus penitus reticebo malens uitam perdere quam matrem meam tam turpiter infamare). Su determinación –ejemplo de pietas cristiana – de guardar silencio para no declarar contra su madre diferencia al joven del relato hagiográfico del joven del relato apuleyano, ya que, en el caso de este último, aunque no se reproduce su discurso de defensa como tal, sí se da a entender de forma indirecta que lo hay.15 Esta decisión, que va contra el deseo natural de defender su inocencia y hacer que la verdad salga a la luz, responde en último término a una absoluta confianza en Dios y en la justicia divina, de la que el santo será mediador, y por eso el joven pide ayuda al apóstol para no morir injustamente (§ 61: ora pro me ne moriar tam iniuste). El santo accede a tan justa petición y acompaña al muchacho cuando es citado ante el tribunal (§ 63: Iuuenis igitur ad iudicium uocatur et illuc eum Andreas prosequitur). De esta forma, en el enfrentamiento judicial, que es el momento clave del relato, entra en escena el santo, cuya función en la intriga corresponde, en buena medida, a la del médico anciano en la novela, ya que es el que demostrará la inocencia del muchacho. Pero, a diferencia de aquel, que deja al descubierto las mentiras del esclavo y demuestra con razones y pruebas irrefutables el plan criminal tramado contra el joven, san Andrés intervendrá en la escena desde un plano superior, acompañado de un poder sobrehumano, divino, que le permitirá resolver la situación sin necesidad de comprobación de los hechos ni de pruebas que demuestren qué es lo que ha ocurrido en realidad. Lo que de verdad importa en el relato hagiográfico es mostrar la actuación de la Providencia, cuya voluntad el santo canaliza a través de la oración. Se produce, por tanto, una especie de inversión del esquema narrativo del relato novelesco: mien15. Met. X, 7: Haec ad istum modum gesta compluribus mutuo sermocinantibus cognoui. Quibus autem uerbis accusator urserit, quibus rebus diluerit reus ac prorsus orationes altercationesque neque ipse absens apud praesepium scire neque ad uos, quae ignoraui, possim enuntiare, sed quae plane comperi, ad istas litteras proferam.

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tras que, en este, el feliz desenlace llega por un desarrollo natural de los hechos y tiene una justificación racional y una lógica interna, en el relato del milagro ese desenlace ya está previsto desde el primer momento y el foco narrativo se centra en cómo se produce esa intervención de la Providencia, de qué forma irrumpe lo sobrenatural en la escena y cómo se manifiesta el poder taumatúrgico del santo ante los ojos de la multitud. De hecho, los milagros, que son un campo abonado para demostrar la superioridad de la figura de santidad, suelen tener lugar ante una muchedumbre que contempla esas maravillas, resulta aleccionada y se hace creyente.16 Podríamos decir, por tanto, que el público que en el relato asiste y presencia el juicio funciona como un personaje más y puede ser identificado con el público al que van destinadas las propias leyendas hagiográficas. A continuación, se narra cómo la mujer lo acusa a porfía y cómo el joven, interrogado una y otra vez permanece en silencio (§§ 64–65: Accusat constanter mater filium quod se uoluerit uiolare. Interrogatus pluries iuuenis an res taliter se haberet, nihil penitus respondebat). Ambas partes insisten, pues, en sus respectivos comportamientos y la misma escenificación de la situación crea cierto suspense sobre el peligro, cada vez más evidente, que corre el muchacho, que renuncia a defenderse para no perjudicar a la que es su acusadora.17 Es en esta situación de tensión máxima para el joven cuando tiene lugar la intervención del santo, que increpa a la mujer por su lujuria y su deseo de venganza, añadiendo el detalle, no mencionado anteriormente, de que es su único hijo (§§ 66–67: Tunc Andreas matri dixit: “Crudelissima feminarum, que per tuam libidinem unicum filium uis perire!”), lo que deja aún más en evidencia la maldad

16. Como señala Huber-Rebenich (1999, p. 191): “The miracle shows, which always take place before large crowds of people, offer to the Christian public, at least in fictional form, a kind of substitute theatre”. 17. Tanto Gregorio de Tours como Jean de Mailly incrementan el desarrollo dramático y el suspense de la escena dando voz directamente tanto a la madre (GT: cap. 4, ll. 14–16: Mater autem instanter accusabat eum dicens: “Hic, domine proconsul, oblitus maternae pietatis affectum, stuprose in me conuersus, uixque potui eripi ne ab eo uiolarer”; JM: I, § 47: Mater autem instanter accusabat eum dicens: “Hic, domine, uoluit michi uim inferre uixque potui eripi ne ab eo uiolarer”) como al magistrado que actúa como juez (GT, cap. 4, ll. 16–18: Cui ait proconsul: “Dic, puer, si uera sunt quae mater tua prosequitur”. At ille tacebat. Iterum atque iterum proconsul interrogabat et nihil respondit.; JM: I, § 49: Cui prepositus: “Dic si uerum est quod mater tua dicit”. At ille tacebat.). Además, ambas versiones añaden el detalle, ausente en la versión de Vorágine, de las dudas del juez y el llanto de la mujer (GT, cap. 4, ll. 18–20: Durante autem eo in silentio proconsul habebat cum suis consilium quid ageret. Mater autem pueri cepit flere.; JM: I, §§ 51–52: Durante eo in silentio prepositus consulebat suos quid ageret. Mater autem pueri cepit flere.)

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de una madre que supuestamente debería velar, con más celo si cabe, por la protección de su único hijo.18 Ante esta increpación, la mujer, que ha hecho valer ante la autoridad su condición de víctima y se halla en posición de fuerza, trata de involucrar de alguna manera al santo en el supuesto delito de su hijo (§§ 68–69: Tunc preposito dixit: “Domine, huic homini filius meus adhesit postquam hoc agere uoluit sed nequiuit”) y el juez, sin dudarlo ni un momento, decreta la condena a muerte para el joven y la reclusión en la cárcel para el santo (§ 70: Iratus itaque iudex iussit puerum in saccum linitum pice et bitumine mitti et in flumine proici, Andream uero in carcere reseruari donec excogitaret supplicium quo periret.) Esta brevedad narrativa contrasta enormemente con la pormenorizada escenificación del juicio apuleyano, en el que hay un in crescendo especialmente dramático que desemboca en el rotundo consenso de los senadores para la condena del joven, solo impedida por la intervención del médico que tiene lugar a continuación. Dentro de estas diferencias, resulta interesante que la forma de muerte elegida coincida en ambos relatos: el culleus, que es un saco embadurnado de pez y betún dentro del cual el joven debe ser introducido (Met. X, 8, 1: Nec quisquam decurionum tam aequus remanserat iuveni, quin eum evidenter noxae compertum insui culleo pronuntiaret). Se trata de un castigo reservado a los parricidas y el hecho de que sea la condena elegida en el relato hagiográfico (que añade el detalle, ausente en la novela, de que el saco será arrojado al río) equipara el delito de incesto con el de parricidio.19 Justo cuando la muerte del muchacho parece inevitable, actúa el santo, quien, revestido de ese poder superior que antes decíamos, comienza a orar y obrará el milagro: con su oración, un trueno terrible aterroriza a todos los presentes, un gran terremoto los postra a todos en tierra y la mujer muere alcanzada por un rayo que la abrasa. Se ha hecho justicia, justicia divina. La multitud pide protección al santo para no morir, y él, nuevamente con su oración, hace que todo pare y se 18. Frente al crudelissima feminarum de Vorágine, en Gregorio de Tours y Jean de Mailly encontramos un O infelix que le confiere rasgos de personaje de tragedia. El primero vuelve a ser, además, más explícito en relación con la pasión amorosa de la mujer (GT, cap. 4, ll. 20–22: Ad quam beatus Andreas apostolus ait: “O infelix, que fletus emittis amaritudinis ob stuprum quod in filium agere uoluisti quam in tantum concupiscentia praecipitauit ut unicum amittere filium libidine inflammante, non metuas.”; JM: I, § 54: Ad quam sanctus Andreas: “O infelix que per tuam libidinem unicum filium uis perdere!”) 19. De hecho, en la versión de Gregorio de Tours aparece el mismo término que en la novela, especificando que es el castigo propio de los parricidas (cap. 4, ll. 24–25: Proconsul autem de his ira commotus, iussit puerum mitti in culleum parricidae recludi et in flumine proici), mientras que Jean de Mailly se acerca más al texto de Vorágine (I, § 57: Tunc iratus prepositus iussit puerum mitti in saccum pice et bitumine linitum et in flumine proici).

Chapter 20. De opere illicito

produce la conversión del juez y toda su familia (§§ 71–73: Sed orante Andrea tonitruum horribile omnes terruit et terre motus ingens cunctos prostrauit et mulier a fulmine percussa et arefacta corruit. Orantibus autem ceteris apostolum ne perirent, orauit pro eis et omnia cessauerunt. Tunc prepositus credidit et domus eius tota.)20

3.

Unas breves reflexiones a modo de conclusión

1.

El relato de nuestro milagro se alimenta de un personaje femenino de sólida tradición retórica y literaria y de un motivo narrativo, el del juicio por incesto, particularmente novelesco y atractivo. Los paralelos con el relato apuleyano son claros, si bien el debate judicial terrenal, que consigue desenmascarar a tiempo y hacer justicia por procedimientos puramente humanos, se transforma en un contundente acto de justicia divina que impacta y aterroriza a la multitud presente y provoca la conversión a la fe cristiana del propio juez y los suyos. 2. Lo que interesa poner de relieve en el relato hagiográfico es el poder del santo, que no actúa como mediador entre madre e hijo para aclarar los hechos, sino como intermediario entre Dios y los hombres, como ejecutor de la voluntad divina, que no permitirá que el joven virtuoso muera, y su actuación tendrá, además, el corolario de la conversión del juez y su familia. Mientras que en el relato novelesco es el médico el que demuestra con pruebas la verdad de lo ocurrido, aquí es san Andrés el que “sabe” de la inocencia del muchacho y el que con fenómenos sobrenaturales paraliza la decisión del juez y se adelanta al castigo de la mujer, que muere fulminada:21 es el símbolo del poder celestial que se cierne sobre la tierra. 3. Por otro lado, la versión de Gregorio de Tours, más atenta al componente sentimental y erótico, es la que más recrea el modelo literario que subyace en la figura de la madre, mientras que la versión de Vorágine es más austera

20. Las versiones de Gregorio de Tours y Jean de Mailly recrean con más detalle la escena y, al igual que antes, otorgan voz a esa multitud aterrada que suplica al santo (GT, cap. 4, ll. 28–30: Tunc proconsul prostratus pedibus sancti apostoli ait: “Miserere pereuntibus, famule Dei, ne nos terra deglutiat”; JM: I, §§ 60–61: Tunc prepositus prostratus pedibus apostoli orauit dicens: “Miserere nostri, domine, ne nos terra deglutiat”.) En la versión de Gregorio de Tours, incluso se añade el detalle de que, una vez que cesa el terremoto, san Andrés los reconforta y sana: cap. 4, ll. 31–32: Ipse autem circumiens eos qui turbati iacebant, cunctos reddidit sanos. 21. En la novela, en cambio, la mujer solo es condenada a un exilio perpetuo y el condenado a muerte es el esclavo cómplice (Met. X, 12, 4: nouercae quidem perpetuum indicitur exsilium, seruus uero patibulo suffigitur).

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y apunta hacia una mayor distancia narrativa y una reducción de elementos dramáticos y literarios.22 4. Sin embargo, a pesar de esta mayor concisión, el relato de Vorágine sigue funcionando como atractivo reclamo para hacer llegar ese mensaje incuestionable y genuino del género hagiográfico: la demostración del poder de Dios y de la justicia divina, que siempre libera al inocente y, sobre todo, al creyente.

Bibliografía Adamik, T. (2000). Eroticism in the Liber de miraculis beati Andrea apostoli of Gregory of Tours. In J. N. Bremmer (Ed.). The Apocryphal Acts of Andrew (pp. 35–46). Leuven: Peeters. Archibald, E. (2001). Incest and the Medieval Imagination. Oxford. Bonnet, M. (Ed.) (1885). Gregorii episcopi Turonensis, Liber de miraculis beati Andreae apostoli, MGH, Script. Rerum Merov. I, 2, pp. 371–396. Hannover. Boureau, A. (1984). La Légende dorée. Le système narratif de Jacques de Voragine (†1298). Paris. Boureau, A. et al. (Eds.) (2004). Jacques de Voragine. La Légende dorée. Paris: Gallimard. Breij, B. (2009). Incest in Roman Declamation. In L. Pernot (ed.), New Chapters in the History of Rhetoric (pp. 197–214). Leiden/Boston: Brill. Breij, B. (2015) [Quintilian] The son suspected of incest with his mother (Major Declamations, 18–19). Cassino: Edizioni Università di Cassino. Buffa Giolito, M. F. (2004). La caduta dei re: Fedra e Ippolito banalizzati (Apul., met. X, 2–12). Euprhosyne, 32, 189–202. Bundy, D. (1987). The Acts of Saint Gallicanus. A study of the structural relations. Byzantion, 57, 12–31. Cataudella, Q. (1981). Vite di santi e romanzo. In Letterature Comparate. Problemi e Metodo (Studi in onore di Ettore Paratore) (pp. 931–952). Bologna: Pàtron Editore. Copley, F. O. (1956). Exclusus amator. A Study in Latin Love Poetry. Michigan-Oxford. Degl’Innocenti, A. & Ferrari, F. (Eds.) (1998). Tra edificazione e piacere della lettura: le vite dei santi in età medievale. Trento. Dunn-Lardeau, D. (Ed.) (1986). Legenda aurea. Sept siècles de diffusion. Texte latin et branches vernaculaires. Actes du Colloque. Montreal. Epstein, S. A. (2016). The Talents of Jacopo Da Voragine: A Genoese Mind in Medieval Europe. Ithaca-London. Facchini, B. (2011). Giurisprudenza da favola. Note sul lessico giuridico delle ‘Metamorfosi’ di Apuleio. Lexis. Poetica, retorica e comunicazione nella tradizione classica, 29, 301–324.

22. En términos de M. Goullet cuando explica los procedimientos de reescritura hagiográfica, estaríamos ante un ejemplo de “réduction par concision”: “La réduction par concision opère au niveau des microstructures (phrases, groupes de mots) et vise à produire un texte nouveau, plus court, qui peut à la limite ne plus conserver un seul mot du texte original, mais qui conserve la totalité de ses parties.” (2005, p. 92).

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Fleith, B. & Morenzoni, F. (Eds.). (2001). De la sainteté à l’hagiographie: genèse et usage de la Légende dorée. Genève. García Fuentes, Mª C. (1976). La elegía de la época de Augusto. CFC, X, 33–62. Giangrande, G. (1974). Los tópicos helenísticos en la elegía latina. Emerita, XLII/1, 1–36. Goullet, M. (2005). Écriture et réécriture hagiographiques. Essai sur les réécritures de Vies de saints dans l ’Occident latin médiéval (VIIIe-XIIIe s.). Turnhout: Brepols. Guidorizzi, G. (1983). Motivi fiabeschi nell’agiografia bizantina. In P. L. Leone (Ed.), Studi bizantini e neogreci. Atti del IV Convegno Nazionale di Studi Bizantini (Lecce-Calimera aprile 1980 (pp. 457–467). Galatina. Huber-Rebenich, G. (1999). Hagiographic Fiction as Entertainment. In H. Hofmann (Ed.), Latin Fiction. The Latin Novel in Context (pp. 187–212). London-New York: Routledge. Le Goff, J. (2011). À la recherche du temps sacré. Jacques de Voragine et la Légende dorée. Paris. Lieberg, G. (1996). I motivi principali dell’elegia augustea. Prometheus, 22, 115–130. Maggioni, G. P. (1995). Ricerche sulla composizione e sulla trasmissione della ‘Legenda aurea’. Spoleto. Maggioni, G. P. (Ed) (2007). Iacopo da Varazze. Legenda aurea. Con le miniature del codice Ambrosiano C 240 inf. Firenze: SISMEL, Edizioni del Galluzzo. Maggioni, G. P. (2012). Riletture e riscritture agiografiche del XIII secolo: i leggendari abbreviati. In M. Garcia Sempere & A. Llorca Tonda (Eds.), Vides medievals de sants: difusió, tradició i llegenda (pp. 11–34). Alacant. Maggioni, G. P. (Ed) (2013). Jean de Mailly. Abbreviatio in gestis et miraculis sanctorum. Firenze: SISMEL, Edizioni del Galluzzo. Moráis Morán, J. A. (2018). The Romanesque Casket of Saints Adrian and Natalia (the Art Institute of Chicago): Cultural Context and Artistic Analisis. Imago Temporis. Medium Aeuum, XII, 161–190. Moreno Soldevila, R. (ed.) (2011). Diccionario de motivos amatorios en la literatura latina (ss. III a.C. – II d. C.). Huelva: Universidad de Huelva. Palacios, J. (2009). De la doctrina platónica a la literatura latina: las nociones de ‘lenguaje’ y ‘retórica’ en el episodio de la madrastra en Apuleyo Met., 10.2–12. In L. Galán & G. Chicote (Eds.), Actas de las III Jornadas de Estudios Clásicos y Medievales “Diálogos culturales”, 12 al 14 de septiembre de 2007 (pp. 243–255). La Plata. Picard, Ch. (1990). Il était une fois un évêque appelé Marcel. In M. Sot (Coord.), Haut Moyen Âge. Études offertes à P. Riché (pp. 79–91). Paris. Puche López, M. C. (2019). La leyenda de Pilatos en la Legenda aurea de Iacobus de Voragine: estructura narrativa y exemplum a contrario. Hagiographica, XXVI, 221–259. Quadrelli, S. & Subrani, E. (Eds.) (2020). Il motivo mitico e letterario dell’incesto tra antico e moderno. Ravenna: Angelo Longo Editore. Rank, O. (1992 [1912]). The Incest Theme in Literature and Legend. Fundamentals of a Psychology of Literary Creation. Baltimore – London. Reames, S. (1985). The Legenda Aurea: A Reexamination of Its Paradoxical History. Madison, WI and London. Relm, H (ed.) (1968). Apuleius I. Metamorphoseon Libri XI. Leipzig. Santorelli, B. (2020). Sic irasceris parricidae? Paternità e cronologia relativa delle Declamazioni maggiori 18 e 19. Pan. Rivista di Filologia Latina, 9, 131–142.

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Shumate, N. (1999). Apuleius’ Metamorphoses. The inserted tales. In H. Hofmann (Ed.), Latin Fiction. The Latin Novel in Context (pp. 113–125). New York: Routledge. Smith, S. D. (2007). Wonders beyond Athens: Reading the “Phaedra” Stories in Apuleius and Heliodoros. In M. Paschalis & S. Frangoulidis & S. Harrison & M. Zimmerman (Eds.), The Greek and the Roman Novel. Parallel Readings (pp. 219–237). Groningen: Barkhuis & Groningen University Library. Staat, K. (2018). Late Antique Latin Hagiography, Truth and Fiction: Trends in Scholarship. L’Antiquité Classique, 87, 209–224. Tatum, J. (1999). The Tales in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses. In S. J. Harrison (Ed.), Oxford Readings in the Roman Novel (pp. 157–194). Oxford: Oxford University Press. Tomea, P. (2005). Il segno di Edipo: parricidio, incesto e materia tebana nelle fonti agiografiche medioevali (con una Vita inédita di Sant’Ursio). In E. Renard & M. Trigalet & X. Hermand (Eds.), “Scribere sanctorum gesta”. Recueil d’études d’hagiographie médiévale offert à Guy Philippart (pp. 717–761). Turnhout. Van Kampen, L. (1991). Acta Andreae and Gregory’s ‘De miraculis Andreae’. Vigiliae Christianae, 45 / 1, 18–26. Vizeu, Lopez, A. C. (2021). Incesto, tortura e silêncio: um caso de família na Declamação Maior 18, de Pseudo-Quintiliano. CALÍOPE Presença Clássica 39/1, 4–39.

chapter 21

Notes on women and the law in the novel Los amores de Clareo y Florisea by Alonso Núñez de Reinoso Regina Polo Martín

Universidad de Salamanca

This paper analyses some of the aspects relating to women and the law in the first Byzantine novel published in Spain in 1552, Los amores de Clareo y Florisea y los trabajos de la sin ventura Isea, written by Alonso Núñez de Reinoso, the first nineteen chapters of which were inspired by the Greek novel written by Achilles Tatius, Leucippe and Clitophon. In particular, it studies the female models embodied in the novel and in addition, some of the legal realia found in the work, such as matrimony, adultery and the presumed death of an absent spouse, all of which are legal precepts that determine the destiny of the two main characters, together with an analysis of whether Reinoso’s novel contains any reference to Castilian regulatory laws of the time, regarding these legal issues. Keywords: Byzantine novel, Reinoso, female models, matrimony, adultery, presumption of death

1.

Introduction

This paper was part of a research project, Reality and fiction in respect of female empowerment in the Greek novel papyri and their continuance in Western culture: Queens and warriors, sorceresses and saints, courtesans and damsels I, funded by the Generalitat Valenciana (the regional government of Valencia, Spain) in 2019.1 First and foremost, it should be noted that the title includes the words “Their continuance in Western culture” and this paper comes under this heading using Alonso Núñez de Reinoso’s novel, Los amores de Clareo y Florisea y los trabajos de la sin ventura Isea, the first example of the Byzantne novel in the Golden Age; a 1. The chief researcher is Professor Dra D.ª M. P. López Martínez and her reference is AICO/ 2019/268. https://doi.org/10.1075/ivitra.40.21pol © 2024 John Benjamins Publishing Company

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literary genre which clearly took its inspiration from the novels of classical antiquity, including the Greek works which are- in this case papyrus fragments – the subject under study in this research, The novel was published in Venice in 1552. Its links to the Greek novel are beyond question in that Clareo y Florisea according to M.A. Teijeiro (1998, p. 31), “is assumed to be a 16th Century adaptation of a Greek novel, Tatius’ Leucippe and Clitophon”. This paper focuses on the first nineteen chapters which most clearly adhere to the Byzantine novelistic tradition, as the remaining chapters follow the model of chivalric novels and so are not of concern in this analysis. Secondly, the aforementioned project title includes the novel’s principal characters who are women, and it is this theme that will be analysed in Reinoso’s work. It deals with female empowerment and female models that can be found in the fragments of Greek novels that have been preserved. These chapters of Los amores de Clareo y Florisea will be approached from a gender and also a legal perspective and will analyse the female models in Reinoso’s novel and some of the legal references – legal realia – in the novel relating to women and their legal position. These references will also be placed in the context of Castilian law of that time, in the 16th century, in an endeavour to determine whether, in the novel, Reinoso has slipped some mention of law into the text.

2.

The Spanish Byzantine novel

Specialists unanimously hold that Los amores de Clareo y Florisea y los trabajos de la sin ventura Isea is the first Spanish Byzantine novel, Therefore, it would be appropriate to take a brief look at this literary genre, typical of the Renaissance period. As J. González Rovira (1993, p. 16), notes, the main problem facing 16th century novelists is “that of discovering or promoting an entertaining narrative that would fulfil the expectations of a reader whose sensitivity and ideology had changed from the Middle Ages to the era of the Counter Reformation, which at the same time would be able to evade criticism or censure”. The response was largely to “recover the classical novel”, that is, affirming “the existence of the prestigious model of ancient Greece as opposed to the chivalric literary model which made the Byzantine novel the narrative fiction genre that best responded to Cicero’s otium cum dignitate” (González, 1993, p. 16). M. Á. Teijeiro (1991, p. 7) links the emergence of the Byzantine novel with two phenomena, On the one hand the “revival of classical culture, a return to the ancient Latin and Greek models” and on the other, “a new way of understanding the world through its most varied artistic expressions, which, over time, would lead significantly to practi-

Chapter 21. Notes on women and the law in Los amores de Clareo y Florisea

cal adherence to the theoretical doctrines of Christianity”. He explains that the Byzantine novel was well received by Erasmists and reformers of the time2 “who attempted to adapt it to their ideology” (Teijeiro, 1991, p. 9), but he states in turn that in these novels they also discovered the “perfect model of a Christian courtly gentleman” confirming the transformation of this genre with the passage of time “as a result of Counter Reformation culture” (Teijeiro, 1991, p. 9), concluding that “the Byzantine narratives were a genre that came to be identified with the aesthetic and moral needs of religious thought, from Erasmist reforms to the Baroque Counter Reformation” (Teijeiro, 1991, p. 10). This classical inspiration underlying Spanish Byzantine novels came specifically from two Greek novels:3 Leucippe and Clitophon written by the 2nd century Alexandrian author Achilles Tatius4 and Theagenes and Chariclea by Heliodorus in the 3rd century,5 both of which were widely known throughout 16th and 17th century Europe. In turn, this Byzantine genre provided a counterpoint to the reviled chivalric novels, a genre which, although contemporaries acknowledged “their capacity for entertainment, they also noted that they had a number of shortcomings” (González, 1996, p. 15). Humanists considered them to be a “model of unhealthy customs that deceive young people, leading them astray” (Teijeiro, 1988, p. 66). The Byzantine novel enjoyed enormous success among the public in general, as “in addition to having a happy outcome, it managed to bring together in a single text the love of two beautiful young people and a series of hazardous adventures” (Teijeiro, 1988, p. 16),6 added to the fact that the Byzantine genre “is less exhausting and more realistic than the chivalric novels and other narrative genres of the period” (Teijeiro, 1991, p. 11). Therefore, they attracted the youth of their time who, as M. A. Teijeiro indicates (1988, p. 52), were able to identify with them for their “lofty sense of platonic love, on an almost supernatural plane, rising above the wiles and intrigue” typical of these novels, logically, apart from the desire for adventures or the yearning to discover new worlds, which were also transcendent themes in these novels: Nevertheless, they were equally interesting

2. The Erasmist reception is described by González (1996, pp. 16–18). 3. See Ruiz, 2006 and López Martínez, 1998 for interesting discussions on the Greek novel in general and particularly on the papyrus fragments of these novels which have been preserved. 4. See in this regard Ruiz, 2006, pp. 116–129. 5. And in respect of this novel, see Ruiz, 2006, pp. 133–148. 6. J. González Rovira (1996, p. 16) based the popularity of this narrative genre with the public of that time on the fact that “from a moral perspective it is more acceptable than other genres; chaste love of the main characters, the truth of their arguments and above all the existence of a prestigious model of Greek antiquity …”.

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for many women, not only because their gender features prominently in these stories, but also to a considerable degree “the story is aimed at female listeners, a widely used literary device at the time” (Teijeiro, 1988, p. 52). In short, according to M. Á Teijeiro (1988, p. 69), what determines the success of these novels, and I would add their consequences, were the “balance in the plot between love and adventure”; their plausibility and their moralistic component, which presupposes the support of both Erasmists and Counter Reformists; the wide praise received from contemporary writers; innumerable editions of the novels and “acknowledged prestige of those pens who found in it the perfect structure for their stories (Lope de Vega, Cervantes or Gracián)”.

3.

Alonso Núñez de Reinoso and his novel Los amores de Clareo y Florisea

Little is known of the life of this novel’s author, with much of it mere hypothesis and conjecture. According to the information provided by M. A. Teijeiro, who gleaned facts from earlier authors who have studied his life and career,7 it appears that he was a native of Guadalajara, who was born around 1492. He may have had two brothers, Diego and Martin and a sister Isabel who is mentioned by Reinoso in his poems. It is likely that he belonged to a family of converted Jews, thus his childhood was probably comfortable and well to do, with no money worries, and in his youth, at his parents’ wishes, he studied Law at the University of Salamanca. The reasons for his departure to Portugal are unknown, but there he mixed in the poetic and literary circles of that country at the time, and befriended writers such as Sá de Miranda and Bernardim Ribeiro, and he was also a protégé of the Jewish Nasi family. According to Tejeiro, the reasons why he left Portugal following the death of Ribeiro are unclear, although it may well have been due to Gracia Nasi’s departure for the Low Countries in 1535 – as one of his patrons, along with Juan Micas, to whom Clareo y Florisea- is dedicated. Thus, it may well have been that he suffered the arduous circumstances of exile along with the Nasi family. Tejeiro explains in particular that (1991, pp. 39–42) Gracia Nasi, by then Beatriz Mendes, having taken her husband’s name, on the death of the rich Portuguese merchant Francisco Mendes in Portugal in 1535, left for the Low Countries with all her family setting up a trading emporium in the city of Antwerp from where she was forced to flee to Venice, having fallen into disfavour with the Regent Maria of Hungary for refusing to grant her daughter’s hand to one of her courtiers. They were also obliged to flee Venice following the Decree of 1550 expelling the Jews, 7. We follow his explanations for this short biographical sketch in Teijeiro (1991, pp. 12–15).

Chapter 21. Notes on women and the law in Los amores de Clareo y Florisea

and sought refuge in Ferrara, where they were well received by its monarchs, but there was further misfortune when, following an outbreak of the plague in the dukedom, the Jews were accused of spreading the disease, which led to their expulsion in 1551. Returning to Venice once more, she was arrested, accused by her own sister, and all her assets were confiscated, however she was freed thanks to the intervention of the Turkish sultan Suleiman, and the family – except for her nephew Juan Micas, who was married to her daughter Reyna, and her brotherfled to the safe haven offered by Constantinople. Having established the fact that Reinoso accompanied the family on their travels, little of certainty is known about his life after 1552, with Teijeiro assuming that he may have accompanied Gracia to Constantinople or perhaps remained in Italy, or he may even have tried to return to Spain. As to the novel itself, two main issues have been addressed and discussed in this regard. The first refers to its structure, as it has two completely differentiated parts, with the unfortunate Isea acting as narrator of both. The first section comprises the first nineteen chapters and clearly corresponds to classical Helenistic tradition, inspired by Achilles Tatius’ novel, Leucippe and Clitophont, and recounts the love story of Clareo and Florisea and all the adventures and vicissitudes that they endure before they are finally able to marry. Three secondary stories are interspersed in the narrative, told in respect of the three islands of Delights, of Cruelty and of Life. Conversely, the second part, comprising the remaining thirteen chapters of the book, seems to be the story of a chronicle of chivalry8 in which Isea becomes the companion in the adventures of the knight Felesindos of Trapisonda, in his search for his beloved, the beautiful Luciandra, held captive in the House of Eternal Rest. It is worth mentioning that a number of studies of Reinoso’s work identify the main characters in the novel with real people, so that the story told by Reinoso reflects avatars of the lives of genuine people, expressing their opinions, or providing glimpses of real events in the narrative. Therefore, according to M.A. Teijeiro (1991, p. 44), the characters have a “dual historical-literary personality", In particular, they coincide in that behind the character of Isea is concealed the personality of Reinoso himself,9 and the Great Lord of Egypt embodies the person of Dame Gracia Nasi – his Hispano-Portuguese patron .10 The knight Felesindos’ identity is more open to conjecture as there are some who hold that he is the personification 8. M. Á. Tejeiro (1991, p. 26) believes that this is “a recourse used as an excuse, in order to describe a series of fantastical adventures, just like the books on chivalrous knights”. 9. This opinion is voiced by M. Bataillon, C. H. Rose and Teijeiro himself (Teijeiro, 1991, pp. 43–53). 10. Thus Bataillon and M. Á. Teijeiro consider (Teijeiro, 1991, pp. 37–42).

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of Juan Micas, and yet others identify him with Feliciano Silva, friend of Reinoso and author of the chivalric romance Amadis of Greece.11 The second question focuses exclusively on the first nineteen chapters, namely, determining the extent to which Clareo y Florisea is merely a copy of Leucippe and Clitophont, and whether Reinoso had read the whole novel, or had only been able to read the four first chapters, as he confessed to familiarity with the work Amorosi Ragionamenti, an Italian translation of 1546 by Ludovico Dolce, which contains only books five to eight of Leucippe and Clitophon (Teijeiro, 1991, pp. 29.-30). There are many different opinions, but in any case, as M. A. Teijeiro (1991, p. 33) points out and as S. Zimic had discovered, in 1551 a full Italian translation appeared in Venice, the work of Anibal Coccio, of the book, Dell’amore di Leucippe y Clitophonte, nuovamente tradotto dalla lingua greca, by the Alexandrian author Achilles Tatius, which Reinoso may well have read and therefore was familiar with the complete Greek novel, despite denying this fact in his prologue. For this reason, Teijeiro (1991, p. 33) calls it “the story of a half-truth” and J. González Rovira (1996, p. 165) mentions “Reinoso’s controversial sources”. In any case, regarding whether or not Clareo y Florisea was “an imitation of Leucippe and Clitophon” as Menéndez Pelayo states (Teijeiro, 1991, p. 33), Teijeiro (1991, pp. 32–33) expressly indicates that to consider Reinoso “as a mere translator of his Italian colleague is clearly an error if we consider the fact that, despite the undeniable similarities, there are also evident differences in terms of structure, content and theme”,12 whereas J. González Rovira (1996, pp. 165–166) indicates that “Clareo’s main interest lies in the fact that it is one of the finest exponents of what humanist narrators considered to be the doctrine of imitation, as, based mainly on narrative elements of different origins, both classical and modern, he constructs his novel as a renewed alternative to entertainment genres with an unquestionable didactic value”. Furthermore, he highlights the fact (González, 1996, p. 170) that this novel would acquire an “original dimension”, as it “could be identified with the Jewish diaspora”, based on the fact that it could well be that, behind the figure of Isea, is Reinoso and “his frustrations and problems … because of his possible “converso” (reformed Jewish) origins”. He considers (González, 11. Bataillon is of this opinion and the same solution is favoured by M. Á Teijeiro, whereas Rose identifies the character with Feliciano Silva, Reinoso’s friend (Teijeiro, 1991, pp. 53–61). 12. He explains that the originality of Reinoso’s work with respect to Dolce’s translation lies in the “innovative issues that Reinoso raises in his work” in “the accuracy of the disturbed psychology noted in some characters” in “the radical about turn in their behaviour compared to the hero of the original tale”, in “the fact of dispensing with long digressions and descriptions that made the original such heavy going” in “avoiding any kind of situation that lacks plausibility or entails a certain audacity: the “inclusion of a series – three in all – of secondary stories; in “altering … the personality of the narrator” (Teijeiro, 1991, p. 32).

Chapter 21. Notes on women and the law in Los amores de Clareo y Florisea

1996, p. 176) that Reinoso’s portrayal of the character of Isea represents a striking innovation, underlining the fact that one of his main contributions to development of the genre is that “he introduces episodes from various sources in order to complement the gaps in his partial knowledge of Tatius’ novel” specifically, the events that take place in the islands. The first nineteen chapters relate how Clareo and Florisea fall in love and decide to depart for Alexandria together, however they delay their marriage for a year until they can reunite with Clareo’s brother, in the meantime pretending to be brother and sister. In Alexandria, a pirate known as Menelao is enamoured of Florisea and asks Clareo for her hand, believing that he is her brother. When his request is rebuffed, he abducts Florisea, pretending to kill her on the ship in which he flees with his captive. At this point Isea appears in the tale, and believing Clareo to be a widower, falls in love with him and after considerable endeavours, she manages to marry him, however, her bridegroom imposes the condition that their marriage will not be consummated until they reach Ephesus where Isea was born, and where they plan to settle. Following a sea voyage involving numerous adventures, they arrive at Ephesus and discover that Florisea was not in fact dead, but that she had been held captive and enslaved by a pirate, the servant of Isea’s husband. A huge muddle ensues as Isea who has no idea who Florisea really is, feels sorry for her and takes her on as her maid, while Clareo, when he recognises Florisea, refuses to consummate his marriage to Isea. The situation is further complicated when Isea’s husband Tesiandro also falls in love with Florisea but she rejects him. Tesiandro, in his desire to gain Florisea’s love, deceives Clareo who had been taken prisoner, accused of adultery, fooling him into thinking that his beloved has died. Clareo, in order to punish Isea, is accused of Florisea’s death, while also recognising that this was instigated by Isea. Finally, after several episodes and the appearance of Florisea alive and well, the two lovers return to their country where they are welcomed and are able to marry, while Isea is left alone and dishonoured, and so she decides to leave Ephesus in search of new horizons and tranquillity. At this point, the second part of Reinoso’s work begins.

4.

Women and the law in Los amores de Clareo y Florisea

The first task here is to identify the different types of women that are portrayed in Reinoso’s novel, focusing in particular on the two main characters. On one hand, there is Florisea, described as a young maiden of virginal beauty. Thus, Clareo refers to her in his laments when he believes her dead, beheaded by pirates on their ship in the port of Alexandria:

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¿Where are those beautiful light eyes now? Where now that flaxen hair, those pearl white teeth, that rosebud red mouth, that slender neck, that beautiful brow, those pink and white cheeks? (Tejeiro, 1991, p. 80)

Florisea’s beauty never fades even when she has become a slave: Turning onto a path … we saw a damsel coming towards us, so broken and naked that her body was revealed, and she came shackled with heavy chains; her hair had been shorn and yet despite her shaven disfigured head which showed her great misfortune still her comely and graceful face was apparent. (Teijeiro, 1991, p. 109)

Isea is equally beautiful and young, a fact that is apparent when Rosiano, Clareo’s friend and companion who accompanies him in all his adventures and travels, informs Clareo that Isea has fallen in love with him and wants them to marry. It is a more detailed description than that of Florisea: She who loves you ….; is beautiful, for her face is white and reflects great majesty, full of stately honesty, with natural colouring free from all artifice, so comely that it seems like milk and blood combined, and her hair is red and curly from what I could see, because she was dressed as a widow still; but I was lucky enough to see properly all that I have told you, and as she stood to take her leave she seemed to me to have a tall and graceful body. (Teijeiro, 1991, p. 84)

In both cases, the whiteness of the women’s complexion is praised as a sign of physical beauty, emphasising in the case of Isea that her beauty completely lacks artifice. Our attention was drawn to the contrast between Florisea’s blonde hair and her light eyes whereas Isea has curly red hair. We speculate that this could be a depiction of two archetypal females, Mary and Eve, that Reinosa would have been aware of as they were fully defined figures from the Middle Ages onwards. While the Virgin Mary, who is portrayed as blonde and blue eyed, represents the demure and submissive woman, Eve, in contrast, is the model of a lively more vivacious woman. This cannot be said to be entirely true, as at no time is Isea presented as a jovial vivacious woman, however it is certainly true that Florisea fulfils the stereotype of the young and virginal woman, who is always presented as blonde with blue eyes and pale skin, as in this case.13 Apart from the two main characters in the chapters analysed, other women are mentioned, but we are not provided with their physical details. For example, the episode of the island of Delights recalls that the princess Narcisiana lived there and she was so beautiful that anyone who saw her would die within the hour (Teijeiro, 1991, p. 71), but details of her physical features are not given. Fur13. Interesting works on this issue include López Cordón (1994, pp. 79–108) y Villalba (2003, pp. 273–289) to name just a few.

Chapter 21. Notes on women and the law in Los amores de Clareo y Florisea

thermore, Ibrina, the wife of the innkeeper where Isea lodges in Alexandria and with whom Rosiano, Clareo’s friend falls in love, is described as “a very beautiful woman, joyful and noble, but very modest and honest” (Teijeiro, 1991, p. 82), but her physical features are not described. As to social position, there is no question that Florisea is well born, as numerous passages of the novel mention that she is the daughter of one of the most important men in Byzantium, Heliseno (Teijeiro, 1991, pp. 68 and 165). However, at another point in the story, as a result of her trials and vicissitudes, she is enslaved and has to serve as a maid, as will be seen later. Isea is also of noble rank. She states as such when she begs Rosiano to convey to his friend her wish to marry Clareo “…tell him, speak to him, let him know of my wealth and that I am nobly born …” (Teijeiro, 1991, p. 83),14 and she has her own property, which is not her husband’s because as he is a condemned prisoner says Isea : “…seizure of all his property was decreed, and that which did not belong to me was taken, because they allowed me my freedom” (Teijeiro, 1991, p. 136). Apart from these two, in the novel we find other women of different social strata: queens, such as Sagitaria who lives on the island of Delights (Teijeiro, 1991, p. 71); princesses, such as Narcisiana mentioned above, daughter of the king of Macedonia (Teijeiro, 1991, p. 70); a lady who is the daughter of the most important gentleman in Valencia, Belesinda (Teijeiro, 1991, p. 94); and the duchess of Athens on the island of Life (Teijeiro, 1991, p. 101). Reference is also made to witches, as Isea believes that Florisea is a sorceress because she had told her when she was Amete’s slave that she was from Thessaly and was called Lacerna.15 With respect to legal realia, this paper only has sufficient space to address one of these, thus we will confine ourselves to dealing with the civil status of the main characters. Florisea remains single throughout almost all the chapters in which her character appears, and only at the novel’s ending does she marry Clareo. It is striking that when they are betrothed at the start of the novel, it is not with their parents’ 14. This is repeated on several occasions throughout the text. On arrival at Ephesus following her journey it states: “Later that day (because we arrived very early in the morning) in the afternoon I sent to prepare the horses and carriages to visit my possessions, which were many and prosperous, both close by the city and farther afield …” Teijeiro (1991, p. 109). Again, at another moment, it is stated that: Isea is “the most important lady in this whole city, and the richest and most good looking, with the finest and most noble family and relatives …” Teijeiro (1991, p. 111). 15. Isea states “Yesterday you told me that you were from Thessaly, and I know well that the women of that land are well versed in matters of enchantment, and they know so much that they can take their spirit and make anyone love them however strong they be …” Teijeiro (1991, p. 113).

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consent, but instead they flee together to Alexandria,16 agreeing to live as brother and sister until Clareo’s brother Florisindos arrives, when they will marry (Teijeiro, 1991, p. 69). With this background, she receives a marriage proposal from Menelao the pirate, who asks for her hand from the person that he believes to be her brother Clareo, who refuses and as a result, Menelao abducts her. She then reappears in Ephesus as a slave.17 Subsequently, Isea, unaware that she is Clariseo’s beloved, saves her from this plight and employs her as her maid servant,18 and Tesiandro, Isea’s husband, falls madly in love with her and also proposes marriage, although she rejects him, and so Florisea fears that he may try to force her, (Teijeiro, 1991, pp. 123 y 125). Finally, she marries Clareo when they return to their native Byzantium (Teijeiro, 1991, p. 137). In turn, Isea appears as a widow throughout most of the story,19 contracting marriage with Clareo, who does not love her, however, as he was alone in Alexandria with no money, his friends encouraged him to take her as his wife.20 Clareo agreed, with Isea accepting the strict condition that the marriage would not be consummated while they remained in the land where he had lost Florisea, nor on the sea that served as her grave, that is, until they reached Ephesus (Teijeiro, 1991, pp. 90 and 98). Later, when her husband Tesiadro appears, she is portrayed as an adulteress, and believes that she must leave, living as an outcast, condemned to wander and dwell in foreign lands.21 Therefore, marriage and adultery are the two main legal realia mentioned in this novel in respect of women, and they are the determining factor in the ultimate destiny of the two main characters, a happy outcome for Florisea, who marries

16. The novel states: “…leaving their parents with their departure no less dismayed than they were sad and unhappy”, Teijeiro, (1991, p. 69). 17. “She was taken prisoner by a former slave of my husband” known as Amete, says Isea, as he had paid 50 ducats for her to the pirates who had stolen her away from Alexandria (Teijeiro, 1991, p. 109). Her plight is described in the harshest terms: “…he brought her in chains, and every day flogged her cruelly” (Teijeiro, 1991, pp. 109–110). 18. It is added “…she was a poor servant, captive and maid, of a lady of that city named Isea” Teijeiro (1991, p. 120). 19. It is said of Isea: “…who is a beautiful widow, who goes by the name of Isea, a young lady aged eighteen years and native of Ephesus”. Teijeiro (1991, p. 84). 20. “And the reason was that, as the year in which Florisindos was due to arrive had passed, and he failed to appear, Clareo and his companions (who had spent all that they owned) now found themselves in dire straits, and to resolve the situation they persuaded Clareo to marry me”. Teijeiro (1991, p. 90). 21. Isea asks herself: “Because how can I be among people who, because of you, have labelled me adulteress, and I will be called that as long as I live and even after my death?” Teijeiro (1991, pp. 116–117).

Chapter 21. Notes on women and the law in Los amores de Clareo y Florisea

her beloved, and a terrible fate for Isea who, branded an adulteress, is forced to wander foreign lands. Is it possible that these realia in some way reflect the laws that governed Castile at the time of the novel’s publication? Regarding matrimony, Reinoso’s text cannot be said to confirm in any way the legal regulations on marriage in Castile at that time, however, nor does it refer to any other earlier legal system. No connection can be made from these references that would indicate that Reinoso intended to reflect the perception and legal form of marriage at the time of writing his novel. Matrimony in 16th century Castile in the upper echelons of society was, as M. Aranda Mendiaz (2008, p. 89) explains, “a mere exchange, in which the economic factor prevails” adding that “a woman was simply a chattel to be exchanged: she was an asset who would follow the dictates of her father or guardian, in a world where assets and property were of paramount importance, along with continuation of the family lineage by producing progeny”. As to its regulation,22 E. Gacto (1984, p. 38) highlights in respect of Modern Castile, “the extraordinary stability of the regulatory structure on which family relations were based” stating that for Castile, “the general guidelines were drawn up in the Partidas, the laws or codes that literally and faithfully repeated the Roman system of the late Justinian Christian period” with the reforms of the Cortes legislation, above all the Laws of Toro, “generally minimal and detailed and which were almost always promulgated to clarify and focus on doubtful points of law”. According to Gacto (1984, pp. 41–42), “until the Council of Trent, marriage was still a matter of simple consent, the affectio maritalis between the parties resulted in an authentic marriage”. But as M. Bermejo indicates (2009, pp. 119–120), the proliferation of clandestine marriages was favoured by “the actual establishment in the 12th century of the official Catholic doctrine on spouses, by placing extraordinary emphasis on the consensual nature of marriage”.23 In such a way that, in endeavouring to eradicate it in the 4th Council of Letrán in 1215 “the wedding was imposed in facie ecclesiae and in the presence of a priest with the public exchange of vows by the spouses, and preceded by the banns designed to facilitate the detection and denouncement of any possible impediments” although its effectiveness was seen to be very limited as the “requirement of making it public, which was necessary for legal purposes, continued to entail the nullity of any marriage celebrated without it” (Bermejo, 2009, p. 120). In Castile, the Royal 22. Obviously, it is not a question of carrying out a detailed analysis of these issues, which, moreover, have already been addressed in studies of varying degrees of interest. 23. See the different positions of Graciano and Pedro Lombardo on matrimonial consent, of the spouses and as a result the marriage and the success of the consensual thesis in the shaping of matrimony in Sánchez-Arcilla (2010, pp. 12–31).

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Jurisdiction punished secret marriages with a substantial financial penalty and the Laws reproved, albeit without penalty, secret marriages, which include those contracted without their parents’ permission (Bermejo, 2009, pp. 121–22). Subsequently, Law 49 of Toro imposed in the case of clandestine marriage the severe penalty of confiscation of all assets to the benefit of the Treasury and banishment from the kingdom on penalty of death, adding that contracting this type of matrimony was just cause for parents to disinherit their children (Bermejo, 2009, p. 123).24 In any case, the features of marriage, according to E. Gacto (1984, p. 39), were: monogamy, indissolubility, canonical origin, requirement for the parties not to be related in any way, and the absence of any religious link contracted by either, whereas he indicates that the effects of such a marriage were, “on the one hand, the creation of a legally perfect domestic community, which will grant to any children of that union full legal status when defining their situation; and on the other, from a financial perspective, the emergence of a set of expectations and controls that each spouse would have regarding the other’s assets, and which is constituted on the basis of contributions and common gains” (Gacto, 1984, p. 42). The definitive enshrinement of matrimony was confirmed in the Council of Trent, a few years after publication of Reinoso’s work. Its discussion was postponed until the final year of this assembly, held in 1563. In particular, according to R. Jimeno (2015, pp. 164–165), “these issues were addressed in Session 24, which concluded on 11 November 1563 with promulgation of twelve canons and a «Decree on the reform of matrimony », the Tametsi, in ten chapters”, which was recognised as law by Philip II in a Royal Charter of 12 July 1564. The sacramental nature of marriage was established in the first canon, and in addition, the Decree considered clandestine marriage to be illegal, establishing “conditions for the validity of the institute of matrimony: publication on one hand, and the canonical form on the other” (Jimeno, 2015, p. 166). This translated to the need for proclamations and cautions or publication of the banns on three successive holidays and blessing of the marriage by the parish of the bride or delegated priest before two or three witnesses (Gacto, 1984, p. 47). Finally, according to R. Jimeno (2015, p. 167), marriage “should be celebrated in the eyes of the Church without impediment, and a liturgical form would be required that included asking the spouses for their consent and the priest’s statement: «And I join you in matrimony in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit», or other words, according to custom in each province”. From this moment canonical marriage was compulsory for all baptised persons. 24. With respect to the need for the parents’ or their relatives’ consent see Gibert (1947, pp. 706–76), Bermejo (2009, pp. 140–157) and Montanos (2015, pp. 263–282).

Chapter 21. Notes on women and the law in Los amores de Clareo y Florisea

As we have indicated, Reinoso fails to mention how marriage is perceived in his novel. He provides explicit details of the marriage of Isea and Clareo, without mentioning any of the above requirements. In particular, in terms of form, Reinoso’s description does not correspond to the formalities required under canonical law of the era .25 As to the adultery, which in Reinoso’s text is what determines Isea’s future, with respect to the Castile in which the author lived, E. Gacto states (1984, p. 39) that “monogamous matrimony is reinforced with classification of the crime of adultery”, but “it is penalised in a discriminatory way based on gender: the woman commits adultery when she commits a sexual act, even if it is occasional, with any man who is not her husband”. The probable cause, according to Gacto (1971, p. 908), was “the need to prohibit with serious penalties those situations which could easily lead to alterations or violence” therefore, there were reasons “of pure and simple utility for maintaining the external social order”. Also, because according to the Laws, “a man’s adultery does not damage or dishonour the woman, however, the reverse is true in the case of a woman” (Bermejo, 2009, p. 158). With respect to regulation of female adultery, the Royal Jurisdiction, following the Fuero Juzgo or Visigothic Code, “entitles the outraged husband to do as he wished with the lovers and if they had no legitimate offspring to take their property” but on the condition that “neither of the pair are killed, and granting a pardon to the life of the other party” (Bermejo, 2009, pp. 165–166). E. Gacto explains (1984, p. 39) that “the husband was allowed to kill the guilty parties himself or hand them over to justice to administer capital punishment”. Conversely, according to M. J. Collantes de Terán (2013, p. 338), the Laws, and in compliance with Roman law, “punished women with public flogging and confinement in a monastery with loss of the dowry, deposits and financial gains awarded to the husband and the adulterous partner condemned to death”.26 E, Gacto explains that (1971, p. 914), a married woman’s adultery was punished with a “series of provisions which were more severe for her adulterous partner than for herself ”. The provisions of the Laws of Toro referred to in this crime follow the trend of the

25. He mentions a celebration and that the next day “we met in the temple of the Goddess Isis because there in the presence of that goddess we resolved to do what we had to do; and it was thus that before those companions, and Ibrina and her husband (under oath, because that was the usage) he received me as his wife and I took him for my husband and lord of all my goods and chattels. And this came to pass with the conditions established”. Teijeiro (1991, p. 92). 26. A detailed study of this crime can be found in Collantes de Terán (1996, pp. 201–228).

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Royal Jurisdiction.27 Collantes de Terán indicates (2013, p. 338) that the New Collection of Laws of Castile “gave preference to the Fuero Juzgo or the Visigothic Code and the Royal Jurisdiction – over the Laws – in terms of the mode of punishment of this crime, imposing both personal and property penalties”. However, we consider that Isea had not committed adultery, as when she contracted marriage for the second time, she believed that her husband had died. And for this reason, although one of the definitions offered by E. Gacto (1987, p. 465) of the bigamist is: “that person who enters into two or more marriages at the same time, that is, during the life of the previous spouse", we do not believe that nor was she guilty of this crime. Isea received news that her husband had been lost at sea28 and from that moment she considered herself to be a widow. In the Castile of that time according to S. Coronas (1983, p. 312), in the sphere of matrimony “the requirement of certainty regarding the death of the absent spouse, pertaining to Roman-Visigoth law was seen to be notably relaxed by social perception which tended to presume with ease the death of the absentee spouse” but progressively, papal decrees” reaffirmed the need for a firm certainty that the absent spouse was dead, before being allowed to proceed to marry again”, requirements which were also contained in texts influenced by Roman canonical law (Coronas, 1983, p. 315). The problem was then raised of obtaining the ecclesiastical judge’s moral certainty in the case of presumed death of the absent spouse, which was defined in accordance with the Instructions of the Sacred Congregation of the Holy Office, the first of which dates from 1670, considerably later than the date of publication of Reinoso’s novel (Coronas, 1983, p. 316). We do not find any allusions in Reinoso’s novel to these issues which legally profiled the absence of the spouse in Castilian law of the era. In short, Reinoso wrote the novel without in any way being constrained by references to the legal regulation of marriage, adultery and the presumed death of an absent spouse in the Castile of the second half of the 15th century. This means that we find references to these legal realia but they are totally devoid of any possible relation to the legal reality current at the time that the author was writing his novel.

27. It is analysed in Bermejo 2009, pp. 172–182. For example, the Law 82 of Toro had established that “the husband who kills adulterers, even in the case of in flagrante delicto, shall not gain the dowry, or the deceased’s assets, thus imitating the New Compilation”, Collantes de Terán (2013, p. 340). 28. He says “…I am from the city of Ephesus, I came there to Alexandria accompanied by many of my house and entourage. And the reason for my coming was to learn of my husband who had embarked there; and the news that I was given was that he had been lost at sea”. Teijeiro (1991, p. 81).

Chapter 21. Notes on women and the law in Los amores de Clareo y Florisea

Bibliography Aranda Mendiaz, M. (2008). La mujer en la España del Antiguo Régimen: Historia de Género y Fuentes Jurídicas. Las Palmas de Gran Canaria: Manuel Aranda Mendiaz. Bermejo Castrillo, M. A. (2009). Entre ordenamientos y códigos. Legislación y doctrina sobre la familia a partir de las Leyes de Toro de 1505. Madrid: Editorial Dykinson. Collantes de Terán de la Hera, M.ª J. (1996). El delito de adulterio en el derecho general de Castilla. (The crime of adultery in general law of Castile) Anuario de Historia del Derecho Español, 66, 201–228. Collantes de Terán de la Hera, M.ª J. (2013). Algunas consideraciones sobre el delito de adulterio: un proceso de finales del siglo XVIII (Some considerations on the crime of adultery: a procedure of the late 18th century). Anuario de Historia del Derecho Español, 20, 331–352. Coronas González, S. M. (1983). Absence in historical Spanish law Anuario de Historia del Derecho Español, 53, 289–332. Gacto Fernández, E. (1971). Illegitimate parentage in the history of Spanish law Anuario de Historia del Derecho Español, 41, 899–944. Gacto Fernández, E. (1984). The legal framework of the Castilian family Edad Moderna. Historia. Instituciones. Documentos, 11, 37–66. Gacto Fernández, E. (1987). The crime of bigamy and the Spanish Inquisition Anuario de Historia del Derecho Español, 57, 465–492. Gibert Sánchez de la Vega, R. (1947). Family consent in matrimony according to Spanish medieval law Anuario de Historia del Derecho Español, 18, 706–761. González Rovira, J. (1996). La novela bizantina de la Edad de Oro. Madrid: Gredos. Jimeno Aranguren, R. (2015). Reform, counter reform and matrimony: law of the two Navarres Anuario de Historia del Derecho Español, 85, 151–172. López Cordón, M.ª V. (1994). Conceptualisation of women in the Ancien Regime: Sexist archetypes Manuscrits: Revista d’història moderna, 12, 79–108. López Martínez, M.ª P. (1998). Fragmentos papiráceos de novela griega. Alicante: Universitat d’A lacant / Universidad de Alicante, Servicio de Publicaciones. Montanos Ferrín, E. (2015). Parental consent in the marriage of women and the ius commune system. In F. L. Pacheco Caballero (Ed. and coord.), Mujeres y Derecho. Una perspectiva histórico-jurídica. Encuentro de Historiadores del Derecho. (1976), pp. 263–282. Barcelona: Associació Catalana d’Història del Dret «Jaume de Montjuïc». Ruiz Montero, C. (2006). La novela griega. Madrid: Summary Sánchez-Arcilla Bernal, J. (2010). The creation of the link and clandestine marriages in the Lower Middle Ages. Cuadernos de Historia del Derecho, 17, 7–47. Teijeiro Fuentes, M. Á. (1988). La novela bizantina española: apuntes para una revisión del género. Cáceres: Ediciones Universidad de Extremadura. Teijeiro Fuentes, M. Á. (1991). Los amores de Clareo y Florisea y los trabajos de la sin ventura Isea. Cáceres: Ediciones Universidad de Extremadura.

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Villalba Pérez, E. (2003). The image of women in literature and painting in the Golden Age. In M.ª P. Amador Carretero, & M.ª R. Ruiz Franco (Coords.), Representation, construction and interpretation of the visual image of women: acts of the Tenth International Conference of the Spanish Association of Research into the History of Women (10, 17–19 April 2002, Madrid) (pp. 273–289). Madrid: Archiviana.

chapter 22

La ordalía en el judaísmo y Derecho rabínico Cayetana H. Johnson UESD

The power or right to decide the Law in Israel was in the hands of the priests and rabbis, who had the ability, even in doubtful cases, to interpret, modify or expand it, and occasionally, to repeal it. In Biblical times, the Law was primarily in charge of Priests and Levites and they were the serving judges of the High Court in Jerusalem, the highest institution to decide serious and difficult cases. In the last two preChristian centuries and throughout the times of the Talmud, the scribes (“Soferim”), also called “The Wise Men” (“Hachamim”), were the qualified and authorized persons for having received the true interpretation of the Law. according to the tradition of the Elders or the Fathers coming from Moses, the Prophets and the men of the Great Synagogue. In the first century, there is a great evolution in the legal interpretation of the Law and a greater demand is sought in the rigor and judicial expertise. Rabbi Johanan Ben Zakai is one of the great representatives of this trend, especially around the application of the ordeal of Numbers 5, from Mosaic times, on adultery. The practical abolition of this penalty is a great advance in the search for justice and, at the same time, an advance in the solution of family conflicts, which, in the words of Zakai “does not come to declare clean or unclean and to separate or bring closer together”, at a time when Levitical laws of purity and family matters ruled all Jewish life. Keywords: Judaism, rabbinic era, Mishnah, Talmud, Sotah, Babylon, bitter waters

I.

Introducción

Las instituciones sociales, las costumbres, la vida cotidiana de la antigüedad, suelen provocar un profundo interés en los pensadores actuales, debido a que la mayor parte de las veces están absortos en los problemas prácticos de nuestra avanzada civilización; los registros y los anales de la antigüedad tienen un gran https://doi.org/10.1075/ivitra.40.22joh © 2024 John Benjamins Publishing Company

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valor directo porque ayudan a resolver la complejidad de los problemas cotidianos del presente al observar aquellos que se dieron en el pasado y su resolución en las prácticas de justicia, por ejemplo. No hay duda de la influencia del derecho romano o las leyes griegas en el mundo occidental, junto con los valores cristianos en cuanto el cristianismo se convirtió en la religión oficial del Imperio Romano Tardío y se abrió camino a través de los diversos pueblos que fueron sustituyendo las tradiciones locales por la nueva religión emergente, con las nuevas instituciones que ello conlleva. Sin embargo, la tradición jurídica que rodea al cristianismo tiene una gran deuda procedente de los principios consuetudinarios y razonamientos legales del judaísmo. Y aún más, forma parte de un conjunto sociojurídico propio del mundo semítico dominante en el Próximo Oriente antiguo que tuvo su máximo esplendor en Babilonia. Ecos de esto último se pueden observar en algunos textos del Antiguo Testamento, el Libro Sagrado del pueblo de Israel. En su conjunto, los semitas eran gentes educadas y profundamente religiosas, algo que se puede observar a través del gran número de excavaciones en la región próximo-oriental. Los dioses humanizaban a los hombres al producirse un “descenso desde lo alto”1 y así pudieron desarrollar leyes justas e instituciones permanentes como reflejo de la estabilidad divina que otorgaba lo sagrado en el plano de la existencia humana material. El legado escrito en la forma de tablillas ayuda a entender mentalidades y desarrollos de pensamiento que identifican un espíritu de rectitud concreto y real para conducirse en la vida cotidiana y política, con una cosmovisión práctica en lo colectivo. En los corpus jurídicos babilonios, cada frase es técnica y legal, en un grado que a menudo desafía la traducción en las lenguas occidentales. El estilo de redacción es sumamente formal, algo que contrasta con los elementos coloquiales de las cartas privadas. A menudo se suelen introducir temas secundarios que no son relevantes para el tema central del escrito y, desde el punto de vista sintáctico, hay una aparente desconexión que viene dada por la estructura interna de las lenguas semíticas como el acadio, el hebreo o el arameo, cuya formación de vocabulario parte de una raíz tripartita primigenia y, como toda lengua aglutinante, la prefijación o la sufijación de elementos gramaticales hace que se establezca una perspectiva de la realidad sin perder el núcleo esencial de significado.

1. Enuma Elish (1994). Tablilla V, 1–8: “Él preparó sus moradas para los dioses y dispuso en constelaciones las estrellas que son sus imágenes. Determinó el año, delimitando sus secciones; estableció tres estrellas para cada uno de los doce meses. Después de determinar así la duración del año, fijó la estación de Nebiru para definir la cohesión de los astros, y a fin de que ninguno cometa falta o negligencia en su recorrido junto a ella, estableció las estaciones de Enlil y Ea”.

Chapter 22. La ordalía en el judaísmo y Derecho rabínico

Por muy numerosos que sean los documentos, no se presentan formando una serie jurídica especializada. Suelen agruparse por colecciones y de esta manera los encontramos como el archivo de un templo o pertenecientes al ámbito privado, como los de una familia aristocrática, que por razones patrimoniales procuraban proteger la herencia de los descendientes y el buen nombre. En otras ocasiones, en las excavaciones se encuentra un gran número de documentos mercantiles. Por lo observado, se detecta un estilo conservador en el mantenimiento de las leyes y la vida cotidiana de Asiria y Babilonia se mantuvo durante siglos sin alteraciones sustanciales. En el fondo, la sociedad refleja así su preocupación de no alterar el orden cósmico sancionado por los dioses en el plano terrenal que le corresponde vivir.

II.

Procedimientos jurídicos en el Próximo Oriente antiguo

A lo largo de la mayoría de los períodos de la antigua historia del Próximo Oriente, las disputas legales se resolvían por medio de rituales religiosos, por ello, su papel era sumamente importante. En no pocas ocasiones, los jueces a veces los utilizaban arbitrariamente, pero también y a menudo eran necesarios cuando los magistrados sacerdotales sentían que la evidencia era insuficiente o, al menos, demasiado ambigua para emitir un veredicto decisivo. En consecuencia y por lo observado en los diversos textos, los rituales, o procedimientos de culto, se dividen principalmente en tres categorías: el juramento, el oráculo y la prueba u ordalía. Por medio de estos procedimientos, los tribunales apelaban a lo divino para solicitar ayuda y tomar decisiones en el asunto objeto de sentencia. Sin embargo, algunos estudios recientes han detectado cambios en el cómo y con qué frecuencia se utilizaban estos procedimientos en épocas posteriores, principalmente en Mesopotamia. Por lo observado, parece ser que el grado en el que los tribunales mesopotámicos se apoyaban en estos métodos rituales disminuyó en los períodos neoasirio, neobabilónico y persa (Joannes, 1997, pp. 163–174), es decir, entre los siglos VIII-VII y IV a.C. aproximadamente. Además, es importante incluir la evidencia de los textos bíblicos, específicamente los textos legales sacerdotales y deuteronómicos del antiguo Reino de Judá. A través de los estudios de derecho comparado se puede poner en evidencia los cambios en las leyes judiciales judaítas y las mesopotámicas. De esta manera y siguiendo el estilo interdisciplinar que se suele utilizar para estudiar el conjunto del Próximo Oriente antiguo, los trabajos comparativos en el campo jurídico ayudan a explorar la posibilidad de una relación entre los cambios que tuvieron lugar en la tierra de los dos ríos y la legislación y sus procedimientos en el pueblo hebreo. Tanto en el material bíblico como en el mesopotámico, parece haber una evolución distinta hacia una mayor confianza en métodos racionales o empíricos para

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decidir los casos. La mayor parte de la evidencia de esto último, tanto la bíblica como la de las tablillas cuneiformes, tiene lugar a finales del siglo VII hasta el comienzo del s. V a.C. (Jursa, 2005, pp. 1–2). Tampoco se debe interpretar este cambio como el resultado de un proceso de secularización novedosa en el Próximo Oriente antiguo, sino que hay que ver en ello otros factores, como los económicos o los políticos, que invitan a confiar más y, en ocasiones, de manera estricta en lo que hoy se conocen como procedimientos forenses: procedimientos judiciales y de investigación basadas en la audiencia de declaraciones de testigos y examen de las evidencias físicas.2 Sin embargo, tanto el procedimiento ritual como el forense, a pesar de una mayor exigencia en el empleo de la racionalidad jurídica, continuaron en uso de manera continuada y combinada entre sí. Cuando los tribunales del Próximo Oriente antiguo empleaban el juramento judicial, se requería que uno de los litigantes (con menos frecuencia, los testigos de los litigantes) jurase en el juicio por la verdad de los hechos ante uno o más seres divinos (Magdalene, 2007, pp. 55–65). Normalmente se interpretaba que el litigante ganaba el caso, sin embargo cuando los tribunales recurrían el juramento, estaban transfiriendo la responsabilidad de asegurar que se hiciera justicia a la corte divina, que seguramente castigaría a cualquiera que jurara falsamente (van der Toom, 1985, pp. 45–55.). El juramento judicial era el utilizado con mayor frecuencia, por lo que se observa en los registros. Por ejemplo, en los archivos del mundo acadio mediados del III Milenio a.C., que comprende el período neosumerio y babilonio antiguo; el procedimiento se conservó hasta bien entrado el período neo-asirio (s.VIII a.C). El juramento judicial aparece mencionado también y con frecuencia en los textos bíblicos: (1) En toda clase de fraude, sobre buey, sobre asno, sobre oveja, sobre vestido, sobre toda cosa perdida, cuando alguno dijere: Esto es mío, la causa de ambos vendrá delante de los jueces; y el que los jueces condenaren, pagará el doble a su prójimo. Si alguno hubiere dado a su prójimo asno, o buey, u oveja, o cualquier otro animal a guardar, y éste muriere o fuere estropeado, o fuere llevado sin verlo nadie; juramento de Yhwh habrá entre ambos, de que no metió su mano a los bienes de su prójimo; y su dueño lo aceptará, y el otro no pagará. (Éxodo 22, 9–11) (2) Si en la tierra que Yhwh tu Dios te da para que la poseas, fuere hallado alguien muerto, tendido en el campo, y no se supiere quién lo mató, entonces tus ancianos y tus jueces saldrán y medirán la distancia hasta las ciudades que están alrededor del muerto. 2. Para los procedimientos seculares y divinos, Jackson (2006, p. 398).

Chapter 22. La ordalía en el judaísmo y Derecho rabínico

Y los ancianos de la ciudad más cercana al lugar donde fuere hallado el muerto, tomarán de las vacas una becerra que no haya trabajado, que no haya llevado yugo; y los ancianos de aquella ciudad traerán la becerra a un valle escabroso, que nunca haya sido arado ni sembrado, y quebrarán la cerviz de la becerra allí en el valle. Entonces vendrán los sacerdotes hijos de Leví, porque a ellos escogió Yhwh tu Dios para que le sirvan, y para bendecir en el nombre de Yhwh; y por la palabra de ellos se decidirá toda disputa y toda ofensa. Y todos los ancianos de la ciudad más cercana al lugar donde fuere hallado el muerto lavarán sus manos sobre la becerra cuya cerviz fue quebrada en el valle; y protestarán y dirán: Nuestras manos no han derramado esta sangre, ni nuestros ojos lo han visto. Perdona a tu pueblo Israel, al cual redimiste, oh Yhwh; y no culpes de sangre inocente a tu pueblo Israel. Y la sangre les será perdonada. Y tú quitarás la culpa de la sangre inocente de en medio de ti, cuando hicieres lo que es recto ante los ojos de Yhwh. (Deuteronomio 21, 1–9) (3) Si alguno pecare contra su prójimo, y le tomaren juramento haciéndole jurar, y viniere el juramento delante de tu altar en esta casa; tú oirás desde el cielo y actuarás, y juzgarás a tus siervos, condenando al impío y haciendo recaer su proceder sobre su cabeza, y justificando al justo para darle conforme a su justicia. (1 Reyes 8, 31–32) Con respecto a la utilización del oráculo, se recurría a él cuando se buscaba el veredicto directamente de la divinidad y se utilizaba toda la parafernalia del culto de esa deidad. Evidencias de este tipo de procedimiento son más bien escasos por lo excavado hasta el momento. Los oráculos y los procedimientos adivinatorios prevalecían, pero muy pocos registros existentes muestran que los tribunales de primera instancia se basaran en ellos para decidir los casos. Hay al menos tres juicios de época neoasiria en los que se puede leer que el dios Adad (divinidad de la tormenta) fue quien emitió el veredicto (Jas, 1996, 17–19 n. 7 y 21–24 n. 10 y 11). También en Mesopotamia se podía recurrir a las plegarias como expresión del deseo de una buena resolución judicial.3 Desde el punto de vista bíblico, es llamativo el caso de Acan, quien introdujo anatema en el grupo de israelitas liderado por Josué, el lugarteniente designado por Moisés para entrar en la Tierra Prometida:

3. Abusch, (1987, pp. 15–42), el autor propone que ante la incapacidad de una resolución judicial humana, se utilizaba la adivinación como medio para resolver el asunto.

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Entonces Josué rompió sus vestidos, y se postró en tierra sobre su rostro delante del arca de Yhwh hasta caer la tarde, él y los ancianos de Israel; y echaron polvo sobre sus cabezas. Y Josué dijo: ¡Ah, Señor Yhwh! ¿Por qué hiciste pasar a este pueblo el Jordán, para entregarnos en las manos de los amorreos, para que nos destruyan? ¡Ojalá nos hubiéramos quedado al otro lado del Jordán! ¡Ay, Señor! ¿qué diré, ya que Israel ha vuelto la espalda delante de sus enemigos? Porque los cananeos y todos los moradores de la tierra oirán, y nos rodearán, y borrarán nuestro nombre de sobre la tierra; y entonces, ¿qué harás tú a tu grande nombre? Y Yhwh dijo a Josué: “¿por qué postras así tu rostro? Israel ha pecado, y aun han quebrantado mi pacto que yo les mandé; y también han tomado del anatema, y hasta han hurtado, han mentido, y aun lo han guardado entre sus enseres. Por esto los hijos de Israel no podrán hacer frente a sus enemigos, sino que delante de sus enemigos volverán la espalda, por cuanto han venido a ser anatema; ni estaré más con vosotros, si no destruyereis el anatema de en medio de vosotros. Levántate, santifica al pueblo, y di: Santificaos para mañana; porque Yhwh el Dios de Israel dice así: Anatema hay en medio de ti, Israel; no podrás hacer frente a tus enemigos, hasta que hayáis quitado el anatema de en medio de vosotros”. (Josué 7, 6–13)

Probablemente la prueba judicial conocida como la prueba del agua o del río descrita en textos mesopotámicos4 no era un procedimiento desconocido en los antiguos reinos de Israel y Judá.5 La ordalía del río era uno de los procedimientos

4. Código de Hammurabi, Ley 2: “Si alguno ha lanzado un maleficio sobre un hombre sin prueba de culpabilidad, el maleficiado se arrojará al río. Si no puede salir, su casa pasa a quien le lanzó el maleficio, pero si el río lo devuelve inocente, sano y salvo, su enemigo es digno de muerte, y aquél que pasó por la prueba del agua es quien se apoderará de la casa del otro”. Traducción adaptada de P. Handcock (1920). 5. Sobre las referencias bíblicas de esta prueba, ver P. K. McCarter (1973, pp. 403–12). McCarter concluye que la mayoría de las alusiones a la ordalía acuática en la Biblia hebrea son de naturaleza metafórica procedentes de conceptos mitológicos que Israel y Judá compartieron con otras sociedades antiguas del Próximo Oriente. No hay mención de ella en los textos legales bíblicos y, por lo tanto, existe una gran duda con respecto a si alguna vez fue parte del sistema judicial de Judá.

Chapter 22. La ordalía en el judaísmo y Derecho rabínico

especiales que buscaba un veredicto de la corte divina.6 Normalmente, a uno de los litigantes se le indicaba que entrase en un río y se observaba qué sucedía. Desafortunadamente, no se dispone de los detalles del procedimiento aunque lo más seguro es que el criterio a aplicar era que si la persona flotaba, era inocente, mientras que la que se hundía era culpable. Las referencias a esta experiencia del río aparecen en varias colecciones de leyes a lo largo del tiempo.7

III.

El ordenamiento jurídico en el pueblo judío: el caso de la ordalía bíblica

Parece razonable sostener que algunas partes de los cinco libros de la Torá o el Pentateuco bien pueden revelar una serie de tradiciones legales que estaban operativas en la antigua Judá y que formaban parte del acervo cultural judicial de sus pueblos vecinos en el Proximo Oriente antiguo. Los textos clave del libro del Deuteronomio son importantes porque parecen estar orientados hacia el método forense en lugar de los procedimientos religiosos en la resolución de las disputas legales. Sin embargo, suele darse alguna excepción y se puede leer en Deuteronomio 21, 1–9. En este texto se describe el descubrimiento de un cuerpo asesinado sin evidencia o indicios sobre quién podría ser el agresor. Debido a esta falta, se llama a los ancianos de la ciudad más cercana a la ubicación del asesinato para realizar un ritual de purificación (trasunto de cuestiones de tabú con la muerte al mismo tiempo) y se realiza un juramento que los absuelve de culpa. También existe la posibilidad de que la mayor parte del libro se originó en la última mitad del siglo VII a.C., particularmente durante el reino de Josías de Judá (640–609 a.C.) y, por lo tanto, desde poco antes del inicio del período neobabilónico del rey Nabucodonosor II y el exilio del pueblo de Israel, de alta repercusión nacional y religiosa. En consecuencia, los autores deuteronomistas debían ser en su mayor parte funcionarios religiosos además de políticos-consejeros del rey Josías y debieron tolerar el uso de procedimientos judiciales cúlticos en un tribunal central, el santuario de Jerusalén reformado por este rey piadoso.

6. En el judaísmo la utilización del agua desde el punto de vista ritual es tan importante como el fuego en los casos de ordalías, ampliamente mencionados en el Antiguo Testamento. Su uso no es ajeno al mundo griego donde se pueden leer relatos donde la divinidad interviene para la resolución de casos de culpabilidad o inocencia. Es sumamente interesante el ejemplo de la narración de Creso, rey de los lidios, quien es salvado por una lluvia enviada por el dios Apolo de ser cremado bajo el mandato del rey persa Ciro: cf. Pomer Monferrer (2019, pp. 188–189). 7. Para ver textos y los estudios sobre el tema: Bottéro, (1981, pp. 1005–1167); Durand (1988, pp. 509–39).

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Dentro de este desarrollo de la práctica jurídica de pruebas o indicios forenses, la acusación del adulterio o Sotá se presenta como una de las cuestiones más comprometidas en la reflexión del concepto judío de justicia. Hasta hace poco, las discusiones sobre el ritual Sotá de Números 5 se movían en un callejón sin salida entre la opinión de que proporcionaba a las esposas protección contra maridos celosos y otra opinión de que principalmente suponía una subordinación y control hacia las mujeres. Números 5: 11–31, que describe el ritual de la esposa acusada de descarriarse o Sotá, plantea importantes problemas de interpretación. El texto especifica cada detalle de una ceremonia única, que incluye una ofrenda de cereales, un juramento, una maldición y una bebida que contiene suciedad y una serie de maldiciones escritas. Los maridos celosos y cargados de sospechas hacia sus esposas estaban obligados a llevar a sus mujeres ante el sacerdote para iniciar la ordalía: El Señor le ordenó a Moisés que les dijera a los israelitas: «Supongamos que una mujer se desvía del buen camino y le es infiel a su esposo 13 acostándose con otro; supongamos también que el asunto se mantiene oculto, ya que ella se mancilló en secreto, y no hubo testigos ni fue sorprendida en el acto. 14 Si al esposo le da un ataque de celos y sospecha que ella está mancillada, o le da un ataque de celos y sospecha de ella, aunque no esté mancillada, 15 entonces la llevará ante el sacerdote y ofrecerá por ella dos kilos de harina de cebada. No derramará aceite sobre la ofrenda ni le pondrá incienso, puesto que se trata de una ofrenda por causa de celos, una ofrenda memorial de cereal para señalar un pecado. 11

12

Colocando a la mujer ante Yhwh y despeinándole el cabello, el sacerdote la obliga a beber una poción de agua, cuya mezcla es el polvo del suelo del tabernáculo y la tinta de las maldiciones que se han sumergido en estas “aguas de la amargura” que “trae la maldición”: El sacerdote llevará a la mujer ante el Señor, pondrá agua pura en un recipiente de barro, y le echará un poco de tierra del suelo del santuario. 18 Luego llevará a la mujer ante el Señor, le soltará el cabello y pondrá en sus manos la ofrenda memorial por los celos, mientras él sostiene la vasija con las aguas amargas de la maldición. 19 Entonces el sacerdote pondrá a la mujer bajo juramento, y le dirá: “Si estando bajo la potestad de tu esposo no te has acostado con otro hombre, ni te has desviado hacia la impureza, estas aguas amargas de la maldición no te dañarán. 16 17

Chapter 22. La ordalía en el judaísmo y Derecho rabínico

Pero, si estando bajo la potestad de tu esposo te has desviado, mancillándote y acostándote con otro hombre 21 – aquí el sacerdote pondrá a la mujer bajo el juramento del voto de maldición –, que el Señor haga recaer sobre ti la maldición y el juramento en medio de tu pueblo, que te haga estéril, y que el vientre se te hinche. 22 Cuando estas aguas de la maldición entren en tu cuerpo, que te hinchen el vientre y te hagan estéril”. Y la mujer responderá: “¡Amén! ¡Que así sea!” 20

Si la mujer es culpable, su matriz caerá, no podrá concebir hijos y se enfrentará el ostracismo; si ella es inocente, entonces podrá concebir: 23 24 25 26 27

28

El sacerdote escribirá estas maldiciones en un documento, que lavará con las aguas amargas. Después hará que la mujer se beba las aguas amargas de la maldición, que entrarán en ella para causarle amargura. El sacerdote recibirá de ella la ofrenda por los celos. Procederá a mecer ante el Señor la ofrenda de cereal, la cual presentará sobre el altar; tomará de la ofrenda un puñado de cereal como memorial, y lo quemará en el altar. Después hará que la mujer se beba las aguas. Cuando ella se haya bebido las aguas de la maldición, y estas entren en ella para causarle amargura, si le fue infiel a su esposo y se mancilló, se le hinchará el vientre y quedará estéril. Así esa mujer caerá bajo maldición en medio de su pueblo. Pero, si no se mancilló, sino que se mantuvo pura, entonces no sufrirá daño alguno y será fértil.

Con el advenimiento del período rabínico en la segunda mitad del siglo I d.C., la acusación de Sotá se mantuvo en el Talmud, en concreto como el quinto tratado del orden Nashim (= mujeres) en la Mishná.8 Otras consideraciones y novedades han de tenerse en cuenta si se cuestiona hasta qué punto seguían los jueces dictando sentencias de este tipo, especialmente a partir de la destrucción del Templo de Jerusalén y la consiguiente diáspora del año 70 con los romanos de Tito. Sólo en los capítulos 4 y 6 de Mishná Sotá se discute el tema que da título al tratado,9 mientras que los otros cuatro capítulos (5 y 7–9) contienen largas digresiones que, aparentemente, no tienen nada que ver con la condena de adulterio. En el capítulo 5 se discute el punto de la ley en el que la presunta adúltera debe abstenerse de acercarse tanto al presunto adúltero como a su esposo, norma que refleja la 8. Nota aclaratoria: el Talmud está dividido en dos, la Mishná y la Gemará; las dos constituyen la tradición oral del judaísmo. 9. En el campo de la literatura rabínica se sabe que muchos nombres de tratados son antiguos, a los que se hace referencia explícita en los textos talmúdicos. Compárese con la argumentación dada por Nahum Epstein (1948, pp. 989–993).

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derivación bíblica de Rabbí Akiva (n.50 d.C.-muerto desollado por el emperador Adriano en el 136 d.C.) que es sancionada positivamente por su maestro Rabbí Josué. De aquí se siguen otras innovaciones hermenéuticas presentadas “en ese día”,10 por Rabbí Akiva y su discípulo Josué hijo de Hircano. De manera similar, el capítulo 7 abre su lista de normas que la halajá establece para la realización del juramento antes de beber el agua amarga, que puede hacerse en cualquier idioma. Después de enumerar 6 pronunciamientos adicionales, que igualmente se pueden recitar en cualquier idioma, la Mishná enumera 8 recitaciones que sólo pueden realizarse en la Lengua Sagrada. Este cúmulo de sentencias y digresiones tiene su explicación en la larga trayectoria de compilación de los tratados de la Mishná, que al final culminan en la consolidación del trabajo monumental que es el Talmud, escrito entre los siglos III y VI d.C. La explicación académica comúnmente aceptada para tales digresiones sostiene que, en una etapa preliminar de la redacción de la Mishná, se produjo la recopilación de diversas colecciones sobre el tema y dado que las colecciones de la Mishná en su conjunto se compusieron y transmitieron oralmente, el redactor final de la Mishná, Rabbí Judah Ha-Nasi (ca. 200 d. C.), evitó separar todas las declaraciones históricas de las colecciones que ya habían sido memorizadas por los transmisores orales y prefirió incorporar todas ellas, apartándose así de cualquier borrado intencionado. De lo que se trata es de recoger, en un proceso típico de jurisprudencia, cualquier norma que viniera de su tradición ancestral como parte de la reflexión legislativa, incluso las anacrónicas. En consecuencia, las unidades pre-redactadas anteriores a las reformas de Rabbí Akiva y su aplicación posterior se conservaron en el capítulo 5 al igual que las fórmulas de recitación de los capítulos 7–9 debido a que contienen sentencias relevantes, desde el punto de vista formal, para la acusación de Sotá.11 Los cambios definidos por Rabbí Akiva no se pueden entender sin otro gran rabino, Yohanan Ben Zakai (nacido en el año 1 d.C.- m. 80 d.C.; fue testigo de la destrucción de Jerusalén por Tito antes mencionada), quien era discípulo de Hillel el Anciano; ambos eran contemporáneos de Jesús de Nazaret. De Zakai se conserva la siguiente leyenda:12

10. Este tipo de expresiones suele indicar una novedad en el comentario rabínico, especialmente cuando se va establecer un cambio importante: Epstein (1957, p. 423). 11. Hanoch Albeck (2008), su comentario del orden Nashim, 230–231. 12. Jacob Yuval, (2012, pp. 88–107). También ver Talmud de Jerusalén, Mishná Sotá 9:9:2.

Chapter 22. La ordalía en el judaísmo y Derecho rabínico

Cuando los adúlteros se multiplicaron, las aguas amargas (sotá) cesaron, y Rabbí Yohanan Ben Zakai lo trajo a su fin, porque está escrito: ‘Yo no castigaré a vuestras hijas cuando ellas forniquen ni a vuestras nueras cuando ellas comitan adulterio, porque los hombres van ellos mismos hacia las prostitutas y hacen sacrificios con las prostitutas sagradas; el pueblo sin entendimiento caerá.’13

Lo que se puede destacar de esta afirmación es, por un lado, la voluntad de abolir esta institución de Sotá, a todas luces de fuerte contenido misógino y, por otra parte, se pone en evidencia la doble moral social de tiempos bíblicos (el profeta Oseas parafraseado por Zakai vivió en el s. VIII a.C.), que, traído al siglo I de Era Cristiana, no dejaba de ser llamativo; los grandes memoriones rabínicos eran las voces de la moral colectiva en todo tiempo y lugar. En este contexto y sentido, se puede interpretar mejor el pasaje neotestamentario de la lapidación de la mujer adúltera de Juan 8, 1–7, en el que se menciona la obligación de dar muerte a esta mujer porque “En la ley, Moisés nos ordenó apedrear a tales mujeres. ¿Tú qué dices?” (v. 5). La respuesta de Jesús de Nazaret es impecable por lo que omite, puesto que en ningún momento se menciona la prueba de las “aguas amargas” como medio de defensa/acusación en esta doble función de Sotá. Así cobra más sentido interpretar este episodio como la fase de transición en el que probablemente se estaba aboliendo la acusación de Sotá, por tanto: 6 7

Con esta pregunta le estaban tendiendo una trampa, para tener de qué acusarlo. Pero Jesús se inclinó y con el dedo comenzó a escribir en el suelo. Y, como ellos lo acosaban a preguntas, Jesús se incorporó y les dijo: – Aquel de vosotros que esté libre de pecado, que tire la primera piedra.

Lo destacado del debate es cómo quedó abolida la ordalía por adulterio. Si realmente se creía que la Sotá tenía eficacia divina, si su poder sobrenatural estaba garantizado, entonces no tendría sentido abandonar la práctica, por el contrario, se habría intensificado si se presta atención a lo dicho por Yohanan Ben Zakai. Sin embargo y teniendo en cuenta las sentencias rabínicas formuladas, la Sotá debió funcionar como una forma de control social y moral y no tanto desde el punto de vista material, especialmente si se tiene en cuenta el ambiente de diáspora y de peligro de degeneración de las tradiciones tras la destrucción de Jerusalén. En consecuencia, el problema sobre una aparente desigualdad aquí entre hombres y mujeres bajo la ley bíblica se resuelve con el argumento sobre la penosa condición de la moral pública en general.14 13. La cita bíblica empleada por Ben Zakai procede de Oseas 4, 14. 14. Sobre el papel de las mujeres en la Biblia hay amplio material escrito y comentado en las tradiciones rabínicas, el tono general es que la mujer judía era la representante de las mejores virtudes (Libro de Proverbios) por su importancia en la descendencia matrilineal y se alaba

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Con la destrucción del Templo de Jerusalén y la diáspora posterior el ritual sacerdotal de Sotá habría sido difícil de mantener y puso de manifiesto, además, las tensiones que ya se estaban dando desde el comienzo de la era rabínica entre los intérpretes de la Ley y la clase sacerdotal; los primeros estaban representados por la corriente farisea, que es la que termina por dominar el pensamiento y el razonamiento jurídico de los sabios judíos del Talmud. Ello tampoco quiere decir que los rabinos evitaban los aspectos rituales de su religión y cultura y ello se percibe en la tradición midráshica.15 Por otra parte, se puede encontrar otra referencia sobre esta cuestión de Sotá y el tono social de su aplicación en el Protoevangelio de Santiago, un evangelio no canónico que narra desde la infancia de María de Nazaret hasta su edad adulta en la tradición cristiana; data del siglo II d.C. Cuando las autoridades judías descubren que María está embarazada antes de casarse con José, dice el sumo sacerdote: – “Devuelve la virgen que habías recibido del templo del Señor”. José arrasándose en lágrimas … Dijo el sumo sacerdote: – “Os daré a beber el agua de la prueba del Señor y pondrá de manifiesto vuestros pecados ante vuestros mismos ojos”. El sumo sacerdote la tomó, se la dio a beber a José y lo envió al desierto. Y regresó completamente indemne. También se la dio a beber a la joven y la envió al desierto y bajó completamente indemne. Todo el pueblo se admiró porque su pecado no apareció. >El sumo sacerdote dijo: – “Si el Señor Dios no ha puesto de manifiesto vuestro pecado, yo tampoco os condeno”. Los dejó marchar. José tomó a María y marchó a su casa lleno de alegría y glorificando al Dios de Israel.16

su belleza (Cantar de los Cantares), que debía ser exhibida con discreción e incluso protegida. En este sentido las Madres de Israel son las dignas representantes de mujeres que gobiernan el hogar y lideran la construcción nacional del pueblo hebreo, bien por conversión (caso de Asenet, Rahab y Rut) o bien porque arengan a las tropas israelitas (como en la batalla del Monte Tabor con Débora, juez de Israel). Aunque dependían de muchas decisiones por parte de los hombres, su estatus es elevado y considerado, de hecho la literatura canónica y apócrifa reflejan una enseñanza moralizante en paralelo a otras figuras legendarias del ámbito griego, aunque no siempre con final feliz: cf. Pervo (1991, pp. 145–160). 15. Nota aclaratoria: el Midrash es el conjunto de enseñanzas contadas en forma de historias, que explican pasajes y leyes de la Torá. Se encuentran por toda la literatura rabínica, en el Talmud, en textos previos y posteriores al mismo y en recopilaciones especiales. Son las parábolas utilizadas por Jesús de Nazaret, por ejemplo. 16. El protoevangelio de Santiago, colección Apócrifos Cristianos (1997, pp. 118–119).

Chapter 22. La ordalía en el judaísmo y Derecho rabínico

Aunque los detalles de esta prueba de las “aguas amargas” se apartan mucho de Números 5, la narración sí presenta al sacerdote del templo que preside un caso en el que supuestamente se comete adulterio y se verifica que no hay evidencia necesaria para condenar. Igualmente es llamativo que el sumo sacerdote impusiera la bebida al varón, no solamente a la mujer que ya muestra un embarazo avanzado.17 Para un texto que probablemente fue escrito fuera de Israel mucho después de la destrucción del templo, el Protoevangelio parece dar fe de la duradera influencia del ritual de Sotá lejos de los círculos sacerdotales y rabínicos (Horner, 2004, pp. 328–329). A pesar de la amplia circulación del Protoevangelio de Santiago y la Mishná, que eran aproximadamente contemporáneos, sigue sin estar claro qué significó el ritual para los judíos y los primeros cristianos o incluso si se mantenía su práctica legal en algún lugar.

Conclusión Después de este breve itinerario sobre cuestiones de derecho rabínico, el tratamiento de la Sotá no hace más que presentarnos la complejidad de la composición literaria rabínica, a su vez, fruto de una larga tradición de creencias, supersticiones y fe, donde la influencia de los textos y tradiciones prebíblicos en la canonización y composición final de la Biblia y el Talmud son más que evidentes. El poder de las maldiciones bíblicas no sólo son importantes cuando se mencionan sino cuando se realizan. En su contexto bíblico, el texto de Sotá es algo más ya que es la forma típicamente judía de presentar rituales acompañados por textos legales relacionados con los conceptos de separación y la reintegración de personas excepcionales en la comunidad. Al igual que el nazareo y el leproso, la mujer sospechosa de adulterio debe someterse a un riguroso procedimiento ritual para atender su situación excepcional y proteger a la comunidad; pero, a diferencia de ellos, el estatus de la mujer sospechosa en sí mismo es ambiguo porque al final debe prevalecer un sentimiento de haber hecho justicia en pura clave farisea del principio de in dubbio, pro reo. Aunque indudablemente protege la seguridad de mujeres en cuestión, el ritual, sin embargo, pone en juego la credibilidad del sacerdote, el marido y el sistema ritual sobre un terreno moral y legal inestable. Los rabinos conservaron la estructura represiva del ritual de Sotá desde el punto de vista formal que sirve a la tradición después de la destrucción del Segundo Templo en el año 70. Pero también los rabinos del Talmud demostraron una voluntad de cuestionar la moralidad de la Sotá, no simplemente por 17. Nota aclaratoria: según la costumbre judía, el comunicado de embarazo se realizaba en el quinto mes. José recibe la noticia al sexto mes. De ahí el dilema de Sotá y su miedo.

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cuestionar la moralidad de su tiempo en general, sino que también quisieron exponer la hipocresía del comportamiento de los hombres. Es más, sus preocupaciones por la moralidad y la textualidad iluminan estas mismas tendencias en el texto bíblico. El texto de la Sotá, como gran parte de la tradición bíblica, mantiene el pasado y el presente, a través de la escritura y el habla, en una permanente tensión dialéctica. La maldición y el ritual ya se sabe que eran antiguos cuando se escribió el texto, pero no llegaron a desaparecer incluso después de que el ritual se suspendiera oficialmente. El hecho de que de manera recurrente se actualicen determinadas lecturas sobre el tema de Sotá, no hace más que evidenciar que, cada cierto tiempo, los conflictos humanos persisten y se enfrentan la Ley, la mujer, el hombre y sus tradiciones en el mundo judío. Ser el Pueblo Elegido no es fácil.

Bibliografía Abusch, T. (1987). Alaktu and Halakhah: Oracular Decision, Divine Revelation. HTR, 80, 15–42. Bottéro, J. (1981). L’Ordalie en Mésopotamie ancienne. Annali della scuola normale superiore di Pisa 11/4, 1005–67. Enuma Elish (1994). El poema babilonio de la Creación. Ed. y traducción de F. Lara Peinado. Madrid: Trotta. Epstein, N. (1957). Introduction to Tannaitic Literature. Jerusalem: E.Z. Melamed, ed. Handcock, P. (1920). The Code of Hammurabi. New York-Macmillan: The Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge. Hanoch Albeck. (2008). The Six Orders of the Mishna. Jerusalem: Bialik Institute. Horner, T (2004). Jewish Aspects of the Protoevangelium of James. Journal of Early Christian Studies, 12 (3), 328–329. J. M. Durand. (1988) “L’Ordalie,” en Archives Epislotaires de Mari 1/1, ARM 26/1 (Paris: Editions Recherche sur les Civilisations, 509–39. Jackson, B. S. (2006). Wisdom-Laws: A Study of the Mishpatim of Exodus 21:1–22:16. Oxford: Oxford Univ. Press. Jacob Nahum Epstein. (1948). Mavo LeNusah HaMishnah, Jerusalem: Magnes Press. Jas, R. (1996). Neo-Assyrian Judicial Procedures. Helsinki: Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project. Joannes, F. (1997). La pratique du serment à l’époque néo-babylonienne. In Jurer et maudire: Pratiques politiques et usages juridiques de serment dans le Proche-Orient ancien, ed. S. Lafont (pp. 163–74). Paris: L’Harmattan. Jursa, M. (2005). Neo-Babylonian Legal and Administrative Documents: Typology, Contents and Archives, Guides to the Mesopotamian Textual Record I (pp. 1–2). Münster: UgaritVerlag. Magdalene, F. R. (2007). On The Scales of Righteousness: Neo-Babyionian Trial Law and the Book of Job. Providence, R.I.: Brown Judaic Studies.

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McCarter, Jr., P. K. (1973). The River Ordeal in Israelite Literature. HTR, 66, 403–12. Pervo, R. (1991) Aseneth and her sisters. Women in Jewish Narrative and in Greek Novels. En Women Like this. New perspectives on Jewish Women in the Greco-Roman World. Amy-Jill Levine Eds. (pp. 145–160). Atlanta, Georgia: Scholars Press. Pomer Monferrer, J. J. (2019) “Fuegos que no queman en la novela griega antigua y las ordalías en Aquiles Tacio y Heliodoro”. En Pietat, prodigi i mitificació a la tradició literària occidental, edd. Juan José Pomer Monferrer y Jordi Redondo (pp. 183–201). Amsterdam: Adolf M. Hakkert Publisher –188–189. van der Toom, K. (1985). Sin and Sanction in Israel and Mesopotamia: A Comparative Study. Van Gorcum: Assen. Yuval, J. (2012). Jews and Christians in the Middle Ages: Shared Myths, Common Language. En Demonizing the Other: Antisemitism, Racism and Xenophobia (pp. 88–108). Amsterdam: ed. Robert S. Wistrich.

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Semejanzas y diferencias entre las heroínas de la novela griega antigua y en la tradición sánscrita del Ramayana Blanca Ballesteros Castañeda In this paper, I present the common context of Kallirhoe in Charito of Aphrodisias’ Kallirhoe with Sita, Rama’s wife in the Ramayana. The ancient Greek novel and the Sanskrit epic share several passages with Greek novel: the marriage, maybe an adultery, the lost of the husband or lover, the abduction by another man and the slanders from other women or citizens that marks the moral of the moment, the rumours that shake the marriage or relationship or the fight for power. But everything ends happily because the power of their love. Keywords: Kallirrhoe, Chereas, Rama, Sita, Greek novel, Ramayana

1.

Características esenciales de la novela griega

Aunque las novelas griegas antiguas (a partir de ahora: novela griega) difieren no sólo entre sí sino, obviamente, con la épica sánscrita (Ramayana y Mahabharta especialmente) en muchos aspectos, ambos géneros literarios comparten, esencialmente, el argumento (Temermann, 2014, p. 3 y Ruffing, 2002, p. 256). En resumen, narran la historia de una joven pareja de origen noble que se ve obligada a separarse, por engaños y traiciones, y que, después de viajes, penurias y desventuras, se reúnen felizmente de nuevo, habiendo recuperado su dignidad original en sus ciudades y sus reinos. Entre los rasgos que se destacan en estas parejas están la inquebrantable fidelidad a su amor, que resiste los embates del azar y la maldad ajenos. Los episodios de separación y de viajes por países extraños tienen una extensión superior a los demás capítulos, las descripciones están llenas de exageraciones, que buscan provocar la angustia y la sorpresa del lector al mismo tiempo que las sufren los protagonistas.

https://doi.org/10.1075/ivitra.40.23bal © 2024 John Benjamins Publishing Company

Chapter 23. Las heroínas de la novela griega antigua y en la tradición sánscrita del Ramayana

La edición del texto griego de Calírroe que he utilizado es la de Georges Molinié (2003), la traducción al castellano es la de M. Cruz Herrero Ingelmo (1987) y la de Ramesh Menon (2010), para una edición actualizada en inglés del Ramayana.

2.

Rasgos principales de Calírroe (Calírroe) y Sita (Ramayana)

2.1 Calírroe Calírroe era hija del famoso general Hermócrates, defensor de Siracusa contra los atenienses, en la expedición naval de los años 415–413 a.C. (Herrero, 1987, p. 29). En la composición de la novela griega, así como en el Ramayana, se pueden encontrar rasgos de otros géneros literarios, como la épica, la retórica, la comedia nueva. Se encuentran reminiscencias de Safo, Demóstenes, Menandro o Apolonio de Rodas en los momentos de gran tensión emocional y también fragmentos de discusiones privadas: los pretendientes rechazados o los bandidos que encuentran a Calírroe en la tumba. Especialmente brillante es el discurso de Quéreas en Babilonia en el que da muestras de gran habilidad retórica. En cuanto al retrato íntimo de los protagonistas, Caritón presta mucha atención a los sentimientos, al dolor, a los temores, a la falta de resolución de las situaciones, en los que demuestra una enorme empatía hacia los personajes, ya sean griegos, bárbaros, reyes o esclavos. En la novela griega y también en el Ramayana, el amor es el dominio de la mujer.

2.2 Sita Es importante destacar que la influencia en la India del Ramayana y del Mahabharata continúa hoy en día. A lo largo de los siglos, estos poemas han ejercido una función esencial en la formación emocional, estética y moral de la India (Bhattacharji, 1980, p. 66). En el Ramayana, Dasharatha, rey de Ayodhya, gracias a una mediación divina, logra tener hijos de sus tres esposas: Kausalya, Kaikeyi y Sumitra. Rama es el mayor, hijo de Kausalya. Bharata es hijo de Kaikeyi. Los otros dos son gemelos, Lakshmana y Satrughna. En Mithila, una ciudad cercana, vive la hermosa Sita. Cuando llega el momento de que Sita se case, se plantea una prueba a los pretendientes: los príncipes deberán ser capaces de tensar un arco gigante. Rama, no sólo es capaz de alzarlo con sus manos, sino que además es el único capaz

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de tensarlo. (Cf. Hom. Od. xxi, 405–410). Así fue como Sita eligió a Rama como esposo, ante las miradas de decepción de los demás pretendientes. –

‘– I think I can lift bow and string it. May I try?’

(1.16)

Rama y Sita aparecen como jóvenes obedientes, mucho más sometidos a los padres o a las tradiciones que los personajes de la novela griega. En el Ramayana aparecen más personajes femeninos, igualmente interesantes, que desatan su furia contra Rama y Sita abocándolos al destierro y la vergüenza.

3.

Comparación de los personajes femeninos de ambas obras

Según Temermann (2014), las características de los personajes de la novela griega antigua se basan en una serie de rasgos de su propio carácter y comportamiento. Estos mismos rasgos pueden reconocerse también en la figura de Sita:

3.1 La castidad El término griego εὐφρωσύνη no tiene que ver, en realidad, con la castidad entendida como tal sino con el modo de ser y de comportarse que conlleva la condición femenina y que es la garantía de felicidad (Lidell-Scott: merriment). Al final de la historia, Calírroe se define a sí misma como παρθένος y después como γυνή (Temermann, 2014, 6). La εὐφρωσύνη está conectada con su φιλανδρία, su amor por Quéreas y su heterosexualidad. – –

Καλλιρρόη μὲν οὖν εὐσταθὴς καὶ ἄπειρος κακοήθους ὑποψίας. ‛Calírroe es equilibrada e inexperta en sospechas maliciosas’. θαυμαστόν τι χρῆμα παρθένου καὶ ἄγαλμα τῆς ὅλης Σικελίας. ‛Un prodigio de muchacha y adorno de toda Sicilia’.

(1.2.6) (1.1)

En el Ramayana, Sita es el ideal de mujer casta y de perfecta esposa según las exigencia morales y religiosas del hinduismo: el dharma. – – –

‛– I bless you Sita, purest of women’ (1.14) ‛– He had never encountered such chastity.’ (1.6) ‛– I am another man’s wife, Kamshasa. How can you even think of me as becoming yours when I am already given? Not this time but forever. I love him.’ (2.6)

Chapter 23. Las heroínas de la novela griega antigua y en la tradición sánscrita del Ramayana

3.2 La nobleza (εὐγένεια) Calírroe es incapaz de entender su condición de esclava (Temermann, 2014, p. 68). – –

‘ζητεῖς μέν, ὦ τέκνον, πάντως τοὺς σεαυτῆς: ἀλλὰ καλῶς καὶ τοὺς ἐνθάδε νόμιζε σούς: Διονύσιος γάρ, ὁ δεσπότης ἡμῶν, χρηστός ἐστι καὶ φιλάνθρωπος. (2.2) ‛– Buscas, hija, sin duda a los tuyos, pero considera con toda razón que también los de aquí son tuyos, pues Dionisio, nuestro amo, es bueno y humano.’

Las personas de la nobleza y la aristocracia tienen un halo especial que las hace diferentes a ojos de los demás incluso en las condiciones más adversas. Por ejemplo, Sita: –

‛– We called her Sita because we’re found her in a furrow at the head of the pillow, and we soon realized she was no ordinary child. Her devotion to her parents, her uncarry knowledge of people, her compassion, her gentleness and grace, and not least, Muni, her beauty, are scarcely of this mortal world.’ (1.16)

3.3 La inexperiencia (ἀπειρία) La inexperiencia (Temermann, 2014, p. 66) es efecto, en buena parte, de la εὐγένεια, ya que Calírroe es de familia noble y es ajena el mundo de la esclavitud y a los traficantes y sus trampas (πανουργίας ἄπειρος δουλικῆς). Rama es condenado a exiliarse de Dandaka vana. Sita quiere acompañarlo. –

‛– If you have been banished to the Dandaka vana, then so have I. I will go with you, Rama. My place is at your side, with you, I would walk down the paths of hell.’ (2.11)

En Ayodhya, Sita se queda sin la protección de Rama y bajo la obediencia a Bharata: –

–

‛– Bharata will be king, and a king will abandon even his own child if it does obey him (…) From today you are not his older broter’s wife but his subject.’ (2.15) No obstante, en la selva, Sita está expuesta a otros peligros y Dasharatha lo sabe: ‛– How will Sita hear the terror of the beasts of the jungle?.’ (2.15)

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3.4 La confianza A pesar de la inconformidad con su nueva situación de esclava, Calírroe se ve obligada a confiar en alguien y decir lo que la angustia: Quéreas debería haber llegado ya a Mileto. Su confidente es Plangón, una esclava veterana. A ella sí la considera de la familia (συνήθη). –

‘ἐγὼ Πλαγγόνι ταύτῃ χάριν ἐπίσταμαι: φιλεῖ γάρ με ὡς θυγατέρα.’ (2.7.6) ‛– Yo le estoy agradecida a Plangón aquí presente, pues me quiere como una hija’.

Sin embargo, este afecto es falso, pues Plangón, por orden de Dionisio y en secreto (ἀφανής), se ha ganado (ἐπεδείκνυτο) la confianza de la joven con un despliegue teatral de su estima hacia Calírroe. En el caso del Ramayana, la malvada mujer que lleva a Rama al exilio y al posterior rapto de Sita es Kaikeyi, esposa del padre de Rama y madre de Bharata. Kaikeyi se recluye una noche en el krodhagraha o cámara de la furia o la tristeza (2.21).Nunca lo había hecho, así que Dasharatha se agita de preocupación. Todo es una farsa. Kaikeyi, simulando estar enferma o sumamente agraviada por algo, chantajea a su marido recordándole que ella lo ayudó en el pasado y que por esta razón le correspondían dos favores (bendiciones) y le obliga a hacer venir a Rama a sus aposentos. Rama, que piensa que Kaikeyi siente por él una gran estima, sin embargo, descubre que es mentira: –

‛– She has been with me since I was a child. Spare her life for my sake!’ (2.64.9)

La posición de Kaikeyi es egoísta y deplorable: presiona a Rama con la devoción y obediencia que debe a su padre para que se exilie, ya que Dasharatha ha aceptado los deseos de Kaikeyi, nombrando a Bharata su sucesor: – –

‛Kaikeyi said without emotion: I want Bharata to be crowned in your place. (…) Would you do this to keep your father honor?.’ (2.8) ‛Rama: I must leave you to go away to the Dandaka vana. For fourteen years I must live in the forest to honor my father’s boon to Kaikeyi’ (2.11)

3.5 El matrimonio frustrado Quéreas parece haber ganado el voto de Eros para desposar a Calírroe, pero el resto de pretendientes se niega a aceptar la derrota, animados por la Envidia: –

Τοιοῦτον ὑμνοῦσι ποιηταὶ τὸν Θέτιδος γάμον ἐν Πηλίῳ γεγονέναι. Πλὴν καὶ ἐνταῦθά τις εὑρέθη βάσκανος δαίμων, ὥσπερἐκεῖ φασὶ τὴν Ἔριν. (1.1.16)

Chapter 23. Las heroínas de la novela griega antigua y en la tradición sánscrita del Ramayana

–

–

‛A sí cantan los poetas que fue la boda de Tetis en el Pelión. Pero también aquí se encontró una divinidad envidiosa, como allí dicen que estuvo Eris’. ‘Εἰ μέν τις ἐξ ἡμῶν ἔγημεν, οὐκ ἂν ὠργίσθην, ὥσπερ ἐν τοῖς γυμνικοῖς ἀγῶσιν ἕνα δεῖ νικῆσαι τῶν ἀγωνισαμένων: ἐπεὶ δὲ παρευδοκίμησεν ἡμᾶς ὁ μηδὲν ὑπὲρ τοῦ γάμου πονήσας, οὐ φέρω τὴν ὕβριν.’ (1.2.2) ‛– Si fuera alguno de nosotros el que se hubiera casado, no me habría encolerizado, pues, como en los concursos gimnásticos, uno solo de los concursantes debe vencer. Pero, ya que ha sido más estimado que nosotros el que en nada se ha esforzado por la boda, no soporto el ultraje. γενέσθω... τὸν γάμον θάνατον τῷ νυμφίῳ ποιήσωμεν.’ (1.2.4) ‛Convirtamos esta boda en muerte para el novio’.

3.6 La ambigüedad moral Calírroe está embarazada cuando cae en manos de Dionisio y su ἀπειρία vuelve a hacerse patente, ya que ella no conoce su cuerpo lo suficiente como para percatarse de su preñez, sino que es, una vez más, Plangón la que aprovecha su experiencia (πεῖραν … τῶν γυναικεῖον) para acercarse a Calírroe y explicarle lo que le pasa. Plangón utiliza su influencia sobre Calírroe para intentar que acepte casarse con Dionisio, ya que está en una posición realmente frágil, ahora que espera un hijo. El matrimonio con Dionisio, incluso estando embarazada de otro hombre, sería la solución para evitar la vergüenza pública. Calírroe se debate entre su antigua posición de εὐγενῆς, aunque embarazada de Quéreas y ahora esclava, y el deseo de mantener a su hijo con ella: – –

Πάλιν δὲ μετενόει καί πως ἔλεος αὐτὴν τοῦ κατὰ γαστρὸς εἰσῄει. (2.9.3) ‘Pero después cambiaba de sentimientos y de algún modo le entraba piedad por lo que llevaba en el vientre’. ‘δός μοι’ φησὶ ‘καιρὸν εἰς σκέψιν: περὶ τῶν μεγίστων γάρ ἐστιν ἡ αἵρεσις,’ (2.10.8) ‘– Dame tiempo para reflexionar, pues mi elección es acerca de las cosas más importantes’.

Virtud, llamativa palabra para una esclava embarazada que va a desposarse con su amo para hacerle creer que el hijo es suyo. Conseguirlo depende de la bondad de Dionisio, para lo que Plangón tiene un plan. Es sorprendente, a ojos de un lector u oyente piadoso, que una desesperada Calírroe pida a la propia Afrodita que su plan de casarse con Dionisio no sea conocido por los demás, ciudadanos y esclavos. Lo que pone de manifiesto que el concepto de virtud es una cuestión social. En cambio, Sita mantiene su promesa de amor y fidelidad a Rama por encima de todas las cosas, (Menon, p. 9):

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– –

‛Sita remains the archetypal image of chaste Indian womanhood’. ‛It was Sita’s chastity and courage that ultimately were needed to vanquish Ravana of Lanka (a Demon)’.

A pesar de estos rasgos, sí se produce un cambio de conducta o en una respuesta ambivalente cuando las situaciones son críticas, por ejemplo, la esclavitud de Calírroe y su matrimonio con Dionisio, o cuando Sita acompaña a Rama en su destierro. Esta circunstancia (liminalidad, Haynes, 2005, p. 78) podría explicar la aparente incoherencia de los roles tradicionales de género y de los comportamientos propios de personas civilizadas.

3.7 La divinización Calírroe es comparada con la diosa Afrodita: –

–

–

ἦν γὰρ τὸ κάλλος οὐκ ἀνθρώπινον ἀλλὰ θεῖον, οὐδὲ Νηρηίδος ἢ Νύμφης τῶν ὀρειῶν ἀλλ̓ αὐτῆς Ἀφροδίτης. (1.1.2) ‛Su belleza era no humana, sino divina y no propia de una Nereida o de una ninfa de las montañas, sino de la misma Afrodita’ ὥστε ἐνδεδυμένης αὐτῆς θαυμάζουσαι τὸ πρόσωπον θεῖον πρόσωπον ἔδοξαν ἰδοῦσαι: ὁ χρὼς γὰρ λευκὸς ἔστιλψεν εὐθὺς μαρμαρυγῇ τινι ὅμοιον ἀπολάμπων, (2.2) ‘Su asombro no fue menor que la admiración que, vestida, les había producido su rostro, que parecioles un rostro divino: pues su piel blanca brilló al punto con un resplandor semejante a un centelleo’ ‘δόξεις, ὦ γύναι, θεασαμένη τὴν Ἀφροδίτην εἰκόνα βλέπειν σεαυτῆς.’ (2.2.6) ‘– Te parecerá, mujer, al contemplar a Afrodita, que estás viendo una imagen de ti misma’

Calírroe representa una mujer legendaria que comparte rasgos de Helena de Troya y de Penélope. Como Helena, tiene relaciones con diversos hombres, Quéreas y Dioniso, y, como Penélope, se mantiene fiel en su amor por Quéreas (Temermann, 2014, p. 51). En el Ramayana, Rama es reconocido como el avatara del dios Vishnú y Sita como su esposa, la diosa Lakshmi, diosa de la felicidad. –

‘Sita was like the Goddess Lakshmi risen in her primordial lotus.’

(1.18)

Chapter 23. Las heroínas de la novela griega antigua y en la tradición sánscrita del Ramayana

4.

Conclusiones

En este trabajo he expuesto los rasgos comunes de las heroínas de dos obras distantes, pero que comparten referencias comunes, entre ellas, la épica. La novela griega tiene un desarrollo más sofisticado, como he comentado antes, con influencias de la comedia o la retórica, mientras que el Ramayana es una obra épica transmitida oralmente, datada alrededor del 300 a.C. En ambas obras, el papel de la mujer protagonista es aún más importante que el del hombre, más expuesto a sus debilidades, como también lo son otras mujeres en papeles más secundarios, pero definitivos para aumentar el dolor de las protagonistas. Calírroe y Sita, sin embargo, saben salir adelante para recuperar su amor. En muchas ocasiones, como he mostrado, la heroína es identificada con una particular diosa: Afrodita y Lakshmi, respectivamente, y esta identificación se aprecia en los ritos (de preparación para el matrimonio o de desfiles públicos) que son todo un espectáculo para el pueblo. Estas manifestaciones de divinidad subrayan la superioridad inherente de la clase social a la que ellas pertenecen. Por esta razón, la castidad y la fidelidad y la sabiduría, en sentido amplio, que han demostrado Sita y Calírroe caracteriza a las elites. Por último, la superioridad de los personajes femeninos se refuerza a través de su enfrentamiento con el mundo violento de los hombres, o de la autoridad masculina que se les trata de imponer (Haynes, 2005, p. 79).

Bibliografía Bhattacharji, S. (1980). Validity of the Ramayana Values. In Raghavan, V. (Ed.), International Seminar on the Ramayanana Tradition in Asia, Sahitya Akademi, (pp. 76–92). Haynes, K. (2005), Fashioning the Femenine in the Greek Novel, London-New York: Routledge. Herrero Ingelmo, M. C. (ed.), (1987), La novela griega antigua. Quéreas y Calírroe/ Habrócomes y Antia, Madrid: Akal. Menon, R. (2010), The Ramayana. A modern translation, Harper Collins Publishers India: New Delhi Molinié, G. (Ed.) (2003), Le Roman de Chaireas et Callirhoe, Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Ruffing, K. (2002), Einige Überlegungen zum Bild der indischen Frau in der antiken Literatur, in: Ch. Ulf, R. Rollinger (Hrsg.), Geschlechter – Frauen – fremde Ethnien in antiker Ethnographie, Theorie und Realität, Innsbruck-Wien-München-Bozen, (pp. 253–268). Timmermann, K. de (2014), Crafting Characters: Heroes and Heroines in the Ancient Greek Novel, London-New York: Oxford.

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Queens, heroines and slaves Women in two Persian Alexander romances (12th century) Haila Manteghi

University of Muenster

This paper endeavours to portray the role of women in two Persian versions of the Alexander Romance from Medieval period. These women are not simply Alexander’s lovers or opponents, but his educators, an element of independence and empowerment. They present different views of women’s roles as the forces of wisdom, justice, and love. Keywords: Alexander Romance, Shāhnāma, Firdawsī, Dārābnāma of Ṭarsūsī, Iskandarnāma, Niẓāmī, Persian popular romances, PseudoCallisthenes

‫ما قصه ی سکندر و دارا نخوانده ایم‬ ‫از ما به جز حکایت مهر و وفا مپرس‬ The yarn of Alexander and Darius is not A tale I have read. Do not ask me to relate Aught but romances of fidelity and love.1

Ḥāfiz

Introduction In the verse quoted above, it is not at all odd that Persia’s supreme poet of erotic love, Ḥāfiz of Shīrāz (d. 1389), should profess his complete disinterest in the violent quarrels and epic warfare between Alexander and Darius, and claim instead to be exclusively preoccupied by erotic romances and tales of faithful love. It is worthy of note, however, that in Ḥāfiz’s second hemistich there is an allusion to a little-known romantic epic called Mihr o vafā by Rashīdī Samarqandī (c. 1100). This title although literary means “love and fidelity”, it also refers to the name

1. Ḥāfiz, (1359/1980, ghazal 264:7). https://doi.org/10.1075/ivitra.40.24man © 2024 John Benjamins Publishing Company

Chapter 24. Women in two Persian Alexander romances

of the protagonists of the romance (the lovers), Mihr and Vafā. Ḥāfiz’s use of this title is double meaning, to create a contrast with the story of Alexander and Darius, which deals with war and quarrels, while the romance of Mihr and Vafā deals with “love and fidelity”. Ḥāfiz’s verse demonstrates that the story of Alexander and Darius was not just familiar enough to everyone in his medieval Persian audience to immediately grasp the allusion, but could also be suitably juxtaposed to the sort of epic verse which celebrated the arts of love rather than the exploits of war. Actually, in the heroic deeds of Alexander, both in poetry and prose,2 love plays an important role. Alexander has to face with queens and female warriors who are active part of the story, having their own opinions and behaving independently. They are an important element in the narrative, helping the protagonist’s development in his quests. This paper endeavours to highlight some of these women through some stories from the Dārābnāma of Ṭarsūsī (twelfth century) and the Iskandarnāma of Niẓāmī (d. 1202). Due to the importance of the Shāhnāma of Firdawsī (d. 1020) which contains the first extensive Alexander Romance in Persian, there are also some references to it throughout the paper. The characterization of women in these works, although they belong to different genre, portrays them as equal, even superior to the male characters of the story, capable of transforming them.

Some female characters in the Dārābnāma There is some evidence that stories from the Parthian period have come down to us, according to Khares of Mytilene, as recorded by Athenaeus (13.575), who mentions the story of Zariadres and Odatis (Boyce, 1955, pp. 463–77) and in the Vis o Rāmin of Fakhr al-Dīn As‘ad Gurgānī, in which the author describes how he took a popular story in the Pahlavi language and put it into verse.3 In the course of oral transmission, these narratives became mixed with other kinds of popular lore, both religious and secular. In the Islamic period, some of these stories were written down, set down in prose and have survived to the present. The Dārābnāma is one of this body of literature. It is a unique example of Hellenistic literature in the Persian language in which the influence of three Greek novels can be detected: the first and most obvious of which is the Pseudo-Callisthenes. Secondly, most of the adventures of the Dārābnāma’s heroes in the Greek islands bear a great resemblance to the adventures of Odysseus and other sea-wandering 2. For more detail see Manteghi (2018, pp. 1–9). 3. Fakhr al-Dīn Gurgāni (1337/1958, pp. 20–1); Minorsky, (1946, pp. 741–64); idem, (1947, pp. 20–35).

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heroes in Greek romances such as Leucippe and Aethiopica. Lastly, elsewhere in the Dārābnāma there are fragments of the Metiochus and Parthenope (Vāmiq o ‘Adhrā in Persian).4 In general, the Dārābnāma demonstrates great knowledge of Greek tales, presenting the characteristics of a Greek novel (e.g. travelling in the eastern Mediterranean and the Near East, Egypt, etc.).5 Its oldest manuscript, on which the printed edition is based, was written by or at the order of a Zoroastrian of Iranian origin (Pārsī) in India.6 It is dated 992/1584–85 and was copied from a manuscript in the possession of the Moghul Emperor (Ṭarsūsī, 1344/1965, pp. 24–5). It is ascribed to a certain Abū Ṭāhir Ṭarsūsī (or Ṭarṭūsī) whose nisba (name of origin) can be linked with either Ṭarṭūs in Syria or Tarsus in Cilicia. Either place could have preserved Greek traditions well into Islamic times. The date of the compilation of this romance is quite uncertain. However, according to the editor, its compilation belongs to the twelfth century AD (Ṭarsūsī, pp. 26–7). Ṭarsūsī’s Dārābnāma (Book of Dārāb), based ultimately on the PseudoCallisthenes tradition and Persian legends.7 It contains some major motifs like warlike women and the survival of a popular belief in the goddess Ānāhītā as represented by one of the female characters, not found in any other Persian Alexander Romance. Therefore, it will constitute one of the most important elements about the role of women in the Alexander Romance in the Persian world. One of the most important elements of the Romance consists of legends on Alexander’s birth and who his mother/father was. In general, the Dārābnāma follows the Khudāynāmag tradition (e.g. in terms of Alexander’s Persian ancestry), being similar in this respect to the Shāhnāma of Firdawsī and the Arabic histories (Manteghi, 2018, pp. 21–45). However, comparing the story of Alexander in the Dārābnāma with the other sources, we find certain secondary accretions which show us that it is a repository of deep Iranian historical memories which reflect some of the most primordial mythological motifs of the Iranian people. For instance, in the Dārābnāma we read that in a battle between the Qayṣar of

4. On the frequent echoes of Hellenistic novels in the Dārābnāma see Davis, (2002, pp. 29–36). See also Hägg and Utas, (2003, pp. 144–9). 5. For examples in the Greek novels, especially in the case of the Alexander Romance see Romm, (2008, pp. 109–26). 6. According to its French translator Marina Gaillard, the fact that the manuscript was copied by a descendant of Iranian Zoroastrians is important because we could suppose that the rather un-heroic image of Alexander which is found in this story might have appeared acceptable and entertaining enough for them to order a copy of the manuscript. See Gaillard, (2009, p. 328). 7. See Stoneman (2012, pp. 14–17). Ṭarsūsī (1344/1965–1346/1968).

Chapter 24. Women in two Persian Alexander romances

Rūm8 and Queen Humāy, Dārāb forces the Qayṣar, who is Philip’s brother here, to surrender. Dārāb and Humāy decide to free the Qayṣar on the grounds that they are related. Queen Humāy says: “we will pardon you because you are of the race of Frīdūn, and Dārāb is a descendant of Kay Qubād. On the Day of Judgement there should not be enmity between Frīdūn and Kay Qubād.” (Ṭarsūsī, 1344/ 1965, p. 350). Later it is established that Philip, the grandfather of Alexander, is the brother of the Qayṣar (Ṭarsūsī, 1344/1965, p. 358). Thus, it is made clear even before the birth of Alexander that the ruling family of Rūm had links to the Iranian royal line. Accordingly, Alexander is related to the Iranian royal house on both his father’s and his mother’s side back to king Frīdūn. In this version, the families are more closely related than in the other versions, in which Alexander’s mother is only Philip’s daughter and has no Iranian genealogy. In the Dārābnāma the genealogy of Alexander is even more complicated. This romance, as a Hellenistic romance has some scenes set in Egypt.9 One example of such Egyptian traditions concerns the lineage of Humāy (Alexander’s grandmother); the oldest is the same as that which appeared in the Shāhnāma of Firdawsī and major sources which describe her as the daughter of King Bahman/Ardashīr (Artaxerxes I). In addition, in the Dārābnāma she is mostly called Humāy bint Ardashīr (Ardashīr’s daughter). However, there is another account, which appears in just one manuscript of the Dārābnāma,10 according to which Humāy is identified as the daughter of King Sām Chārash of Egypt. A similar tradition regarding Humāy’s descent is given in the epic narrative Bahmannāma (The Book of Bahman)11 Bahman was driven out of Iran by the conspiracy of his first wife (a princess of Kashmir called Katāyūn)12 and lived incognito in Egypt, where he met Humāy, the warrior daughter of Hārith, the king of Egypt. After engaging in several armed campaigns and trials of combat against her, he married her and regained his throne with her help. Later, when Bahman felt his time had come, he appointed Humāy as his successor, and she reigned justly. 8. In the Persian Alexander Romances, Philip (and Alexander too) is normally identified as Qayṣar of Rūm, i.e. the Byzantine Caesar. However, the author of the Dārābnāma invented a new personage out of this title and presented him as Philip’s brother. 9. Barns has examined the Egyptian contribution to the development of Greek romance. See Barns, (1956, pp. 29–36). 10. See the introduction in Ṭarsūsī (1344/1965, p. 14). 11. Irānshān b. Abū’l-khayr, (1999, pp. 591–603). 12. According to the anonymous Mujmal al-tavārīkh, Bahman first married the princess of Kashmir (Katāyūn or Kasāyūn) but she fell in love with a man from Kashmir called Lo’lo’ and took power. Bahman was forced to escape to Egypt, where he met Humāy, the Egyptian king’s daughter, before returning to Iran and killing Katāyun. See Mujmal al-tavārīkh wa al-qiṣaṣ, ed. M.T. Bahār (1318/1939, reprint. 1389/2010, p. 30).

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Alexander also spends most of his childhood in Egypt because his mother, after her rejection by Dārāb due to her bad breath, married Fīrūz Shāh, the king of Egypt. This story obviously recalls the story of Nectanebus, the last Pharaoh of Egypt, and Olympias.13 On his march to Egypt, Alexander kills his stepfather.14 When Alexander arrives with his army, Fīrūz Shāh goes to him disguised as an ambassador in order to find out whether he is indeed Alexander. But Alexander recognises him and takes him to Amorium, where he is strung up on the gallows. The Dārābnāma not only contains an abridged version of the Metiochus and Parthenope (Vāmiq o ‘Adhrā) and allusions to other Greek stories and legends (such as adventures in the Greek islands) but also a wealth of other references and various Greek personages and names. For instance, Dārāb falls in love with a widowed queen of Greek origin called Ṭamrūsīya. Their adventures in the Greek islands are unique in the Persian literature. They have to face storms at sea, talismans, cannibals and sea monsters, and are saved from trouble by prophetic dreams, magical cures and divine intervention. Ṭamrūsīya’s brother, Mihrāsb, marries a mermaid (dukhtar-i ābī). In revenge, the mermaid’s sea-husband captures Ṭamrūsīya and abducts her. The mermaid returns to the sea after four years. Mihrāsb sets sail, reaching an island of one-eyed people. Another importance of the Dārābnāma is that we find some parts, which demonstrate the survival of the role of the goddess Ānāhītā in the Persianisation of Alexander. William Hanaway was the first scholar to draw attention to the representation of the goddess Ānāhītā in the Dārābnāma through the character of Būrāndukht, Dārā’s daughter (Hanaway, 1982, pp. 285–95). Ānāhītā was closely connected with royalty and the legitimacy of kingship. She was identified on Sasanian coins as being present at the investiture of some of the Sasanian kings (Frye, 1963, p. 92.). The association of this goddess with Alexander may have been another way to legitimise his kingship. The function of conferring legitimacy or divine approval upon a king is clearly depicted in the Dārābnāma through the character of Būrāndukht.15 Therefore, Alexander became associated with both the establishment of religious and royal legitimacy. He is frequently associated with the goddess Ānāhītā who bestowed legitimacy and assumed the role of protector and conveyor of farr (khvarnah, divine glory) to the kings. In this manner, not only through his lineage (both mother and father) but also through the acquisition of divine glory, Alexander the Great is very much a Persian king. He represents not only the ideal and charismatic leader but also a worthy foe who serves as 13. On the role of Nectanebus in the Alexander Romance see Stoneman (2008, pp. 13–24). 14. In the Greek Alexander Romance, Alexander kills Nectanebus, his real father. See PC (I, 14). 15. For example see Ṭarsūsī, Dārābnāma, vol. II, p. 92.

Chapter 24. Women in two Persian Alexander romances

perhaps the best example of a foreign ruler who became integrated and accepted within the conquered culture. He is a hero whose literary journey across the world from West to East and into the nether regions of the world’s mythological imagination found him serving to legitimise the royal claims of any king who could trace his lineage back to a glorious past. Therefore, Darius’ daughter, Būrāndukht, plays an important role in the story. She saves Alexander in various scenes throughout the story. She does so when he has been thrown off his horse. She also rescues him from captivity, leads the army, fights in single combat and is a model of the brave and warlike hero, while Alexander generally manages to surmount the various obstacles by virtue of his cleverness, charisma, charm and good looks rather than any exercise of manliness or courage. In order to explain Alexander’s lack of heroism in the Dārābnāma, Gaillard suggests that Būrāndukht might best be understood to be the true hero (or rather heroine) of the story and that the glorification of Iran is the main theme, not Alexander. She concludes that: Thus Alexander could be an imperfect man for an audience of Muslim combatants but nevertheless a hero for the Islamic faith; and for a more hostile audience, possibly Zoroastrian, he would be a laughable anti-hero who certainly destroyed their religion but who was not even able to succeed in the religious mission which is supposed to be his greatest claim to fame. (Gaillard, 2009, pp. 328–9)

All this material is new and unique in Persian literature. The Dārābnāma forms a specific amalgam of elements originating from the Greek and Persian narrative traditions. When Iran was conquered by Alexander the Great at the end of the third century BC, the area had long been dominated by cultures of Indo-Iranian origin. It then soon became part of the Hellenistic sphere of influence, which resulted in a number of Persian parallels to classical Greek narratives that may date from this period (Rundgren, 1970–71, pp. 81–124). Any attempt to delineate exactly what was contributed by each of these traditions is beyond the scope of this paper, and certainly there is a large amount of overlap between the different categories of narrative elements.16 In any case, as Stoneman affirms, “Alexander’s conquest of Iran, besides being a historical turning point, was a turning point in the development of Persian storytelling, which started the flow of Greek story-patterns into Persia where before it had gone the other way.” (Stoneman, 2005, p. 17). The Dārābnāma is certainly the best representation of this exchange between Greek and Persian literatures among all the extant Alexander Romances.

16. On the specific elements in the Persian popular romances see Hanaway (1971, pp. 139–61).

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Some female characters in the Iskandarnāma of Niẓāmī Ganjavī Almost two centuries after Firdawsī (940–1019 or 1025), on the other side of the Persian world, in the trans-Caucasian city of Ganja (in modern-day Azerbaijan) on the border of Byzantium, another Persian poet chose to recast the life of Alexander the Great as his last work. Niẓāmī Ganjavī is known primarily for his five long narrative poems,17 known collectively as the Khamsa (Quintet) or Panj Ganj (Five Treasures), which were composed in the late twelfth century. They were widely imitated for centuries by poets writing in Persian as well as Urdu and Ottoman Turkish (F. de Blois 1373/1994, vol. II, pp. 808–9). In particular, his Iskandarnāma became an inspiration for poets in every corner of the Persian world, including Amīr Khusraw of Delhi in India (1253–1325) with his Ā’īnayi Iskandarī (Alexander’s Mirror)18 and Jāmī (1414–92) with his Khiradnāma-ye Iskandarī (The Alexandrian Book of Wisdom)19 among others. The Iskandarnāma of Niẓāmī contains two parts, the Sharafnāma (the Book of Honour)20 recounts Alexander’s adventures during his conquest of Asia, from the Persian Empire to India and China. In the second part, the Iqbālnāma (The Book of Fortune) or Khiradnāma-yi Iskandarī (The Book of Alexandrian Wisdom), Alexander is represented as a sage and prophet who assembles a great library and is surrounded with the greatest philosophers of the ancient world. In general, Niẓāmī develops three different aspects of Alexander’s legendary personality in the Iskandarnāma: as a world-conqueror or Kosmokrátor, as a sage or king constantly surrounded by philosophers and, finally, as a prophet in the Islamic tradition. The Iskandarnāma of Niẓāmī contains some pre-Islamic stories concerning Alexander, in particular from the Sasanian period, although the heart of story is based on the Greek Pseudo-Callisthenes tradition. Niẓāmī relates some stories, which are not found anywhere else. In order to highlight Niẓāmī’s brilliant attitude towards the female characters, we provide a brief description of these tales.

17. They are the Makhzan al-Asrār, Khusraw o Shīrīn, Laylī o Majnūn, Iskandarnāma, and Haft Paykar 18. This work is edited by Mirsaidov (Moscow, 1977). 19. For more detail on this work see Bürgel, (1996, pp. 415–38). 20. In India it is known as the Iskandarnāma-yi barri (The Adventures of Alexander by Land) because most of the adventures take place on land, while the Iqbālnāma is known as the Iskandarnāma-yi baḥrī (The Adventures of Alexander by Sea) due to the fact that the adventures occur on the sea.

Chapter 24. Women in two Persian Alexander romances

Apollonius and the sorcery of the dragon Zoroastrian girl21 In the Iskandarnāma, it is not Aristoteles but Apollonius of Tyana, who accompanied Alexander in his adventures. According to the Sharafnāma, following his successful campaign against and defeat of Darius, Alexander then left the area of Mosul in Iraq and headed towards Babylon where he battled with and subdued the sorcerers who were followers of Hārūt, the great Magician of Babylon. He then quenched the sacred fire and destroyed “the sorcery-book of Zand” (Niẓāmī, 1378/1999, p. 241). Alexander also “offered religious guidance to the Babylonians by proffering them the faith of his ancestor (Abraham), wiping clean the soot and smoke of fire (-worshipping) from their hearts” (Niẓāmī, 1378/1999, p. 241). Then he marched towards Azerbaijan (Niẓāmī’s homeland), where he also destroyed and extinguished “that fire of ancient times”. In an interesting passage here, Niẓāmī narrates a story in which a Zoroastrian girl, who “lived in attendance and service of that fire-temple according to the Zoroastrian religion and the custom of Magi” (Niẓāmī, 1378/1999, p. 242), turned into a dragon to protect her fire-temple – since an episode of dragon-slaying should never be missing from any Alexander Romance.22 According to the Sharafnāma, in a fire-temple in Adharābādigān (Azerbaijan), there was a girl called Azarhumāyūn, a sorceress of the lineage of Sām. When Alexander’s army wanted to destroy the fire-temple, she appeared as a dragon to protect it. Alexander asked his chief minister for a spell by which the dragon could be defeated. The minister replied that only Balīnās (Apollonius of Tyana),23 “master of sorcery” knew the remedy against this enchantment. Balīnās explained to Alexander that a form like this (dragon) only appeared with the practice of sorcery. The following passage develops the idea: That sorceress cast no end of magic spells that bewitched all and sundry. No spell, it seemed, could work against her, for all spells and imprecations cast on her hurled right back at those who sent them. All wise and clever men were thus quelled and made captive by that sorceress’ artifices. A time came, however, when these contretemps passed and that lucky star came to hand by which he (Balīnās) could subdue that sorcery. He commanded that a handful of rue seed be cast on 21. Niẓāmī, 1378/1999, pp. 242–245. 22. Regarding the motif of dragon-slaying see Ogden, (2012, pp. 277–294). 23. On the identification of Balīnās with Apollonius of Tyana see Plessner (pp. 994–5. Piemontese in his translation of Amīr Khusraw’s Ā’īna-ye Iskandarī believes that Balīnās is Eupalinus of Megara, an ancient Greek engineer who built the Tunnel of Eupalinus on Samos Island in the sixth century BC. See Amīr Khusraw of Delhi, Lo specchio Alessandrino, trans. Angelo M. Piemontese (1999).

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the dragon, which quenched and quelled her like water does fire. By that single ruse he confounded all her tricks and overcame her quackery and legerdemain. (Niẓāmī, 1378/1999, pp. 243–4)

When the dragon-form was dissolved and Balīnās saw that beautiful girl, he fell in love with her. He stopped Alexander’s soldiers from killing her and gave her security in his own protection. Then Balīnās presented the girl to Alexander who gave her to him as wife, and from her, says Niẓāmī, “Balīnās learned all forms of sorceries, and because of her he bears the name today of ‘Balīnās, the Magician’.” According to these verses, Apollonius acquired his qualities as a magician from a Zoroastrian girl, and in this context it is worth mentioning that curiously enough in “Apollonius’s two letters to Euphrates (Epp. Apoll. 16–17), where he tried to explain to Euphrates what being a magician really meant, he admits that the kind of religion held by the Persian Magi is closest to his spiritual needs. The Magi’s persuasion is his religion”.24 “Similar contradictory opinions were expressed on Pythagoras, Orpheus, Plato and Socrates, who were also said to have practised magic and to have maintained contacts with the Magi”.25 As Niẓāmī located this story in Azerbaijan, it is possible that he had set to verse popular lore and legends in circulation about Balīnās in his homeland.

Alexander at the court of Queen Nūshāba (Candace) One of the passages in the Sharafnāma narrate the episode of Queen Nūshāba quite extensively. For Niẓāmī, Queen Nūshāba replaces Queen Candace of the Pseudo-Callisthenes26 and Queen Qaidāfa of Firdawsī.27 Niẓāmī located her kingdom in Barda‘ (Partaw in Caucasian Albania), a city which was in Niẓāmī’s neighbourhood. Khāqānī of Shirvān (ca. 1127; d. between 1186–7 and 1199),28 a contemporary poet who lived nearby in Shīrvān, close to Niẓāmī’s hometown, quoted the story of Queen Candace in many verses of his Dīvān.29 Khāqānī’s quotations indicate that the story of Queen Candace was a popular one in Azerbaijan where both poets lived. However, as Khāqānī mentioned the queen by the

24. See the chapter on “Tradition on Apollonius’ Magic” in Dzielska, (1986, p. 89). See also Bürgel, (2000, pp. 129–139). 25. Bidez, (1938 p. IX and 33); Gagé (1968, pp. 339–45). 26. In the Greek Romance (PC, III, 18–23) she is renowned as the Queen of Meroe. 27. Firdawsī, (1389, pp. 51–74). In the Shāhnāma she is known as the Queen of Andalus. 28. On Khāqānī’s life and works see Beelaert, (pp. 521–529. 29. Khāqānī Shirvānī, (1338/1959, pp. 80, 177, 403).

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name of Qaidāfa (Candace), this demonstrates that Niẓāmī change of her name to Queen Nūshāba was deliberate, perhaps so as to present a more familiar name to his audience (F. de Blois, p. 614). The tale consists of two parts. Firstly, Alexander went in disguise to Nūshāba court who recognised him because she had had his portrait painted. Secondly, there is a banquet in honour of the queen. Niẓāmī dedicated more than fifty verses to the description of Nūshāba’s country, palace and court: A thousand virgin girls were at her service and, besides damsels skilful in riding, thirty thousand swordsmen in her army. However, no men had access to her court, except those who were close to her. Her counsellors were all women who had no husband.” (Niẓāmī, 1378/1999, pp. 277–78). “Her throne was made of crystal (bulūr) embedded with such great amount of precious stones that they shone at night like the moon. Besides worshipping God, they had no other occupation except drinking, eating and sleeping. She spent the night worshiping, and the day drinking accompanied by music and the songs of minstrels”. (Niẓāmī, 1378/1999, pp. 279–80)

Upon hearing the tale of such a fabulous queen and her court, Alexander became more eager to visit Nūshāba’s country. Along with a small entourage, Alexander camped near the borders of her kingdom. When Nūshāba realised that Alexander had camped nearby, every day she sent him a different kind of food made from native products of her land. This charming and hospitable behaviour of course only increased Alexander’s desire to visit her, although – typical military strategist as he was – he also wanted to obtain news of the secrets of the administration in her kingdom, so as in Niẓāmī’s words, to “discover whether the tale was true or false” (Niẓāmī, 1378/1999, p. 281). To this end, he travelled in disguise to her court impersonating himself as his own ambassador. When Nūshāba was informed that the “king of Rūm” (shah-e rūm) was in her country, she sat on her throne with a “ball of amber” (ma‘anbar turanjī) in her hand.30 When she received Alexander, he did not unloose his sword nor did he kneel before her, as was the customary protocol among messengers. Nūshāba, who previously had Alexander’s painting, immediately saw through his disguise and recognised him. However, she did not expose her knowledge of his person until Alexander delivered his “king’s” message to her in a bold and arrogant way. She then revealed to him that she knew who he really was. When Alexander rebutted her accusation and continued to deny his real identity, she

30. According to S. Ḥamīdīyān (editor of the Iskandarnāma) it was customary for kings (or queens in this instance) to hold amber in their hands for its fragrance. See Niẓāmī (1378/1999, p. 282, note. 5).

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became insistent and spoke sharply to the conqueror, commanding her courtiers to bring forth the piece of silk on which Alexander’s image had been painted. Alexander turned pale and became frightened when he saw his own image, having now being forced to disclose his true personage. At this moment, Queen Nūshāba relented and softened towards him and spoke gently with him. The first portion of the Nūshāba episode has crucial importance in the context of its significance for Alexander’s progress towards the perfect kingship. The parallel episode in the Shāhnāma (which concerns Qaidāfa, Queen of Āndalus) is very close to the Greek version (PC, III, 18–23). However, Niẓāmī’s treatment of the story differs both in the attention and importance accorded to the female character (i.e. Nūshāba) and in the alteration of some details. The ethical significance of this episode is indicated in Nūshāba’s speech where she accuses Alexander of immaturity and arrogance (Niẓāmī, 1378/1999, p. 285). As Niẓāmī has her declare: “she showed him first his own image so that he might recognize and appreciate hers.” (Niẓāmī, 1378/1999, p. 287). Without self-knowledge, one is not able to see the Divine, here represented by the female character who portrays the divine immanence: the Lady Beloved as theophanic receptacle.31 Thus, Nūshāba becomes a mirror in which Alexander may contemplate and apprehend the qualities of his own soul that had been first symbolised by his painted image. As he finally accepts her superiority, Niẓāmī portrays her queenly wisdom as incarnating divine guidance for Alexander in his quest for moral perfection and self-knowledge. Almost at the end of the Sharafnāma the poet relates how Alexander rescued the queen Nūshāba who was captured by Russians (Niẓāmī, 1378/1999, p. 419). At this juncture the ruler of Abkhaz came to Alexander and complained to him about the tyranny of the Russians: Those quarrelsome Russian tribes, the Alān and Gark Ambushed and attacked us hard like a barrage of hail! They’ve overthrown all Barda‘s kingdom and carried Off by pillage many cities full of wealth with them! They’ve borne away in rapine Nūshāba, our queen, Upon the stones of war her flagon lies broken! (Niẓāmī, 1378/1999, p. 420)

In order to release the queen and help the people of Abkhaz to defend themselves against the Russian attack, Alexander marched from Jayḥūn River (the Turkish name for the Amū Daryā [its Arabic name] or Oxus River [its Greek name]) towards Khwārazm till he reached the Steppe of Qipchak (dasht-i Qafchāq). 31. This motif of the Sophianic Feminine in Niẓāmī’s romances has been extensively treated by Barry (2014, pp. 139–54).

Chapter 24. Women in two Persian Alexander romances

There, seven battles took place against the Russians. In each battle, Niẓāmī narrates the heroic acts of soldiers from both armies. However, perhaps the most interesting point is the story of a female warrior, a Chinese slave girl who fought bravely and made Alexander to fall in love with her.

Alexander in love: The tale of the Chinese slave girl In the seventh battle, Alexander fell in love with a warlike woman who was a Chinese slave. Niẓāmī dedicates a whole episode on their affairs.32 In a beautiful and long passage – quite unusual and remarkable in Persian epic poetry for its celebration of the domination and superior erotic power of the female over the male’s martial prowess, and for its detailed descriptions of Alexander’s love-making with her – Niẓāmī describes her as an epiphany of the Eternal Feminine to whom even a world-conqueror had to succumb (1378/1999, pp. 486–98). Thus, Niẓāmī claims that neither heroic actions nor clever statecraft is sufficient to make the perfect king. Rather, the true ruler needs the informing power of love to display valour and dispense justice. It is through love that he reaches self-knowledge, which is, after all, the explicit goal of the quest undertaken by the protagonist in his journey towards spiritual kingship, i.e. in order to become a prophet. *** While the Dārābnāma relates stories for entertainment, since it is a popular romance, Niẓāmī’s characterisation of women elaborates the Sophianic Feminine throughout his Book of Alexander. All these women, whether queens or slaves, are powerful, with their beauty, wisdom and abilities. Without their help and education, Alexander would not have been able to obtain the spiritual dimension; he had in the Islamic tradition. Most of these characters already existed in the Greek Pseudo-Callisthenes. However, their special role in Alexander’s development as an ideal king is a measure of the esteem Hellenistic culture has always enjoyed in the Persianate world.

32. Niẓāmī (1378/1999, sections LXIV and LXVII).

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Bibliography Abel, A. ‘Iskandar Nāma’. In Encyclopaedia of Islam, Second Edition, edited by P. Bearman, Th. Bianquis, C. E. Bosworth, E. van Donzel, W. P. Heinrichs, P. J. Bearman (Volumes X, XI, XII), Th. Bianquis (Volumes X, XI, XII), et al.. Amīr Khusraw Dihlavī. (1362/1983). Khamsa, ed. A. Aḥmad Ashrafī Tehran. Lo specchio Alessandrino, trans. Angelo M. Piemontese (Soveria Mannelli, (1999). Barns, J. W. B. (1956). “Egypt and the Greek Romance”, Mitteilungen aus der Papyrussammlung der Österreichsichen Nationalbibliothekn n.s. 5, pp. 29–36. Barry, Michael. (2014). Farīd-od-Dīn ‘Attār: The Canticle of the Birds Illustrated through Persian and Eastern Art, trans. A. Darbandi and Dick Davis. with commentary by Michael Barry. Paris. Beelaert, Anna Livia. “Ḵāqānī Šervānī”, EIr, XV/5, pp. 521–9. Bidez, J., Cumont, F. (1938). Les Mages Hellénisés, Zoroaster, Ostanes et Hystaspe d’ après la Tradition grecque, Paris. Boyce, M. (1955). “Zariadres and Zārer”, Bulletin of School of Oriental and African Studies 17, pp. 463–77. Briant, Pierre. (2003). Darius dans l’ombre d’A lexandre. Fayard. Briant, Pierre. (2015) Darius in the Shadow of Alexander. Translated by Jane Marie Todd. Cambridge, Mass.; London: Harvard University Press. Bürgel, J. Christoph. (2000). “Occult Sciences in the Iskandarnameh of Nizami”, The Poetry of Nizami Ganjavi, Knowledge, Love and Rhetoric, ed. K. Talattof and J. W. Clinton (New York, pp. 129–39. Bürgel, J. Christoph. (1996). “Jāmī’s Epic Poem on Alexander the Great: An Introduction”, Oriente Moderno 15.76, pp. 415–38. Davis, Dick. (2002). Panthea’s Children: Hellenistic Novels and Medieval Persian Romances New York. de Blois, F. (begun by Ch. Ambrose Storey), (1994). Persian Literature: Poetry to ca. A.D. 1100 to 1225, London. Dzielska, M. (1986). Apollonius of Tyana in Legend and History, trans. Piotr Pieńkowski Rome. Firdawsī. (1389). Shāhnāma, ed. Khāliqī-Muṭlaq and M. Omīdsālār. 3rd ed. Tehran. Gagé, J. (1968). Basiléia, les Césars, les Rois d’ Orient et les Mages, Paris. Gaillard, Marina. (2009). “Hero or Anti-Hero: The Alexander Figure in the Dārāb-nāma of Ṭarsūsī”, (2009). Oriente Moderno 89.2, Studies on Islamic Legends, pp. 319–31. Gurgānī, Fakhr al-Dīn. (1337/1958).Vis o Rāmin, ed. M. Maḥjūb. Tehran. Ḥāfiz. (1359/1980). Dīvān, ed. Parvīz Nātil Khānlarī. Tehran. Hanaway, William L. (1971). “Formal Elements in the Persian Popular Romances”, Review of National Literatures 2, pp. 139–61. Hanaway, William L. (1972). Persian Popular Romances before the Safavid Period (PhD thesis Columbia University, (1970), published by UMI Dissertation Services. Hanaway, William L. (1982). “Anāhitā and Alexander”, Journal of American Oriental Society 102.2, pp. 285–95. Hanaway, William L. “Eskandar-Nāma”, Encyclopaedia Iranica, VIII/6, pp. 609–12. https:// www.iranicaonline.org/articles/eskandar-nama

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Hanaway, William L. “Dārāb-Nāma”, Encyclopaedia Iranica, VII/1, pp. 8–9. https://www .iranicaonline.org/articles/eskandar-nama Irānshāh Ibn abī al-Khayr. (1370/1991). Bahmannāma, ed. Raḥīm ‘Afīfī. Iran, Tehran. Khaleghi-Motlagh, Jalāl. (1375/1996). “Tan kāma-sarāyī dar adab-i fārsī”, Majāla-yi Irānshināsī 8.1, pp. 20–2. Iran. Khāqānī Shirvānī. (1338/1959). Dīvān, ed. Sajjādī. Tehran. Manteghi, H. (2018). Alexander the Great in the Persian Tradition, History, Myth and Legend in Medieval Iran, London. Minorsky, V. (1946). “Vis U Ramin, A Parthian Romance” Bulletin of School of Oriental and African Studies 11, pp. 741–64. Minorsky, V. (1947). “Vis U Ramin, A Parthian Romance” Bulletin of School of Oriental and African Studies 12, pp. 20–35. Mujmal al-tavārīkh wa al-qiṣaṣ, ed. M. T. Bahār (Tehran, (1318/1939, reprint. 1389/2010). Niẓāmī Ganjavī. (1378/1999). Sharafnāma, ed. V. Dastgirdī. re-ed. Sa’īd Ḥamīdīyān. 3rd ed. Iran. Niẓāmī Ganjavī. (1376/1997). Iqbālnāma, ed. V. Dastgirdī. re-ed. S. Ḥamīdiyān. Tehran. Ogden, D. (2012). “Sekandar, Dragon-Slayer”, Alexander Romance in Persia and the East, ed. R. Stoneman, K. Erickson, I. Netton, Groningen. pp. 277–294. Plessner, M. “Balīnūs”, EI2, I, pp. 994–95. Ṣafā, Dh. (1363/1984). Ḥamāsa-sarāyī dar Irān, Tehran. Ṣafā, Dh. (1371/1992). Tārīkh-i Adabīyāt dar Irān, Vol. I, 12th ed. Tehran. Ṣafā, Dh. (1373/1994). Tārīkh-i adabīyāt dar Irān, Vol. II, 13th ed. Tehran. Stoneman, Richard (trans.), (1991). The Greek Alexander Romance. London/New York. Stoneman, Richard. (2008). Alexander the Great: A Life in Legend, New Haven. Stoneman, Richard. (2012), “Persian Aspects of the Romance Tradition”, The Alexander Romance in Persia and the East, ed. R. Stoneman, K. Erickson, I. Netton, Groningen. pp. 14–17. Ṭarsūsī. (1344/1965–1346/1968). Dārābnāma, ed. Dh. Ṣafā. 2 vols. Tehran. Ṭarsūsī. (2005). Alexandre le Grand en Iran, Le Dārāb Nāmeh d’Abū Ṭāhir Ṭarsūsī, trans and annotated Marina Gaillard. Paris.

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chapter 25

“Parthian” women in Vīs and Rāmīn Leonardo Gregoratti

Durham University | Università di Udine

A few decades ago in a series of articles, the Russian orientalist Vladimir Minorsky argued that the Persian romance novel Vīs u Rāmīn by As’ad Gurgānī re-elaborated materials derived from the court minstrel tradition of the Parthian period noble houses. His assumption was mainly based on the political system described in the poem. Enlarging the scope of the investigation this paper aims at connecting what is known about the role of women at the Arsacid court with the prominent role of women as decision makers in the novel. Keywords: Parthia, Arsacids, women, Minorsky, Vīs u Rāmīn, court, novel, love, queen Šahru, queen Mousa

The Shāhnāmeh (Ferdowsi, 2016), the Book of the Kings by the Persian poet Ferdowsī, an epic poem composed between the end of the 10th and the beginning of the 11th century AD, plays for Iranian literature and culture a role similar to that of the historical books of the Old Testament for the Jewish historical identity and culture and the poems of Homer and Virgil for the classical world, limiting the countless possible comparisons to the most famous and influential works of ancient times. They all narrate the stories and the deeds of mythical or quasimythical illustrious kings and heroes of the past, ancestors of more recent and, therefore, more familiar to the reader historical figures, presented to the audience with a patina of historicity to explain the origins of the contemporary world. Therefore, these works aimed at shedding light on the events of the past, which gave shape to the contemporary culture and society the readers live in, providing the historical reasons why the present time of their audience looked like it did. In the Book of the Kings, like in the other texts mentioned, the public dimension of the protagonists is almost exclusively taken into consideration and displayed. What mainly counts for the narration is what the heroes did and said publicly, for their contemporaries to witness, or the events and thoughts that moulded their public behaviour. Kings and heroes are on the stage. Therefore, it is fundamental that their people, subjects, and fellow noblemen are present to https://doi.org/10.1075/ivitra.40.25gre © 2024 John Benjamins Publishing Company

Chapter 25. “Parthian” women in Vīs and Rāmīn

see their feats or hear the protagonist’s narration. This creates a sort of collective knowledge of the events, which can be transmitted through generations, becoming collective memory of the people. The kings and heroes on the scene are all, therefore champions of virtue and moral integrity, incarnating the “spirit” of the people and times to which the readers (and the author) belonged and celebrating the values of the contemporary society as it should ideally be or as their leading classes would like it to be. Evil and amorality are often prerogatives of the country’s enemies and of the antagonists of the kings and heroes. Heroes’ reprehensible conduct always causes tragic consequences and punishments for them and their people. In this continuous display of public virtue and epic action, not much is left to the private sphere of the protagonists’ lives. What is private is not interesting for building a grandiose “national” epic unless it is fundamental to explain the “historical” events. Several decades ago, Mary Boyce (1957; Boyce 1983, p. 1156; Yarshater, 1983, pp. 457–459 and 473–5; Wiesehöfer, 1994, pp. 185–187; Shahbazi, 1993; Boyce, 2000) followed by other scholars discussed the origins of the stories collected in the Shāhnāmeh. Taking note of the various elements anchoring it to a preSassanid milieu, she formulated the hypothesis that the epic main corpus derived from the poems composed and performed by the gōsān, court troubadours who used to play at the court of the noble Parthian houses of the eastern satrapies. These works had as protagonists the mythical ancestors of local Parthian aristocracy and were clearly composed and performed to remember their glorious past and celebrate the host’s household. Thus, according to this idea, the material which later merged in the Book of Kings originated in the 1st-2nd century AD in the eastern portion of the Parthian empire. It was then transmitted and reshaped through the Sassanid era to be finally written down in an organic form by Ferdowsī. Half a century after Ferdowsī (1040–1054 AD) (Minorsky, 1946, p. 741; Southgate, 1986, p. 40) another author, Fakhruddīn As’ad Gurgānī, apparently reelaborating materials derived from the same pre-Sassanid minstrel tradition, produced a completely different literary work: Vīs u Rāmīn, the account of the troubled love story between queen Vīs and her husband’s brother Rāmīn.1 The plot, often compared with that of the later medieval European Tristan et Iseult, with whom it shares several elements suggesting some influence,2 is completely different from that of Shāhnāmeh.

1. Where not otherwise indicated, the translation followed is by Davis (2009). 2. On the topic Zenker (1911a); Id. (1911b); Schroeder (1961); Gallais (1974).

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Šahru, the no longer young but still charming queen of Māh (Media) (Minorsky, 1946, pp. 747–751), refuses an offer of marriage from the Great King and supreme lord Moʾbad Manikān of Marv. She promises that if she bears a daughter, she will give her to him as a bride. A daughter, Vīs, is born, but by the time she reaches marriage age, Šahru has forgotten the promise and marries the girl with her older brother Vīru. The Great King claims what has been promised a long time before starting a war against the ruling household of Māh. The latter is defeated, and Moʾbad bribes Šahru to hand her daughter to him. Moʾbad’s brother Rāmīn escorts Vīs to her new husband and falls in love with her. Unwilling to sleep with the old king, the young princess asks for assistance from her old nurse, who makes a talisman that causes Moʾbad’s impotence through witchcraft. The talisman is lost forever in a flood, making it impossible for the king to consume his wedding. Vīs falls in love with Rāmīn and sleeps with him before they flee to Media. Moʾbad chases them, but the intervention of Šahru avoids war, and she persuades her daughter to get back. A series of episodes follows in which the two lovers exploit any chance to stay together unbeknownst to the king. They are always almost caught in adultery until, at a banquet, Moʾbad threatens Rāmīn with his dagger. Rāmīn then asks to be sent to Māh, where he is seduced and marries a beautiful woman named Gol. While Vīs is enraged by Rāmīn’s infidelity, the prince grows tired of his new wife and hurries to Marv in the middle of a snowstorm in hope to reconcile with his love. Vīs rejects all his pleas but soon regrets it, and the two lovers are reconciled. With the help of the witch/nurse, they plan an insurrection. Dressed as women, Rāmīn and his companions storm Marv castle, kill the garrison, including Moʾbad’s brother and lieutenant Zard and steal his treasure. The Great King gathers an army to punish the revolt, but many lords pledge loyalty to Rāmīn. The Great King’s sudden death during a boar hunt avoids civil war. (Minorsky, 1946, p. 753) Rāmīn returns to Marv in triumph, is crowned king and marries Vīs. The two reigned for eighty-one years together and have two children. After two years of mourning at Vīs’s tomb, he too dies. As evident from the concise summary, the difference with the Book of Kings is striking. Vīs u Rāmīn is a romance novel. The main subject is the love between the two protagonists, a private affair, which influences the outside world only because of the royal dignity of the characters involved. The whole story takes place in royal palaces, private chambers, locked bedrooms, secret meeting places. The political and historical element remains in the background, major political events like Moʾbad’s military campaigns against the Romans (Pp, 197–198, 223) are only briefly mentioned and mainly functional to explain the sovereign's absence and the relative freedom of the two lovers.

Chapter 25. “Parthian” women in Vīs and Rāmīn

Also in Vīs u Rāmīn the protagonists are kings, princes and courtesans, but there Gurgānī shows the private sphere of the men of power: the court pleasures, the hunting excursions, the banquets, the love game, the luxury jewels and clothes, in the frame of a hedonistic lifestyle probably not different from the one the court minstrels personally witnessed in the aristocratic palaces where they performed. In this private world, a prominent role is played by women. They are the masters of the love game. Like queen Šahru they decide marriages, refuse kings’ offers, oppose their will, and reconcile the enemies. Like Vīs, they choose their partners, make fools of mighty kings, or play the role of problem solvers through shrewdness or supernatural means like the nurse. Far from being passive subjects of men’s will, like often in epic narrations in Vīs u Rāmīn, women are the actual decision-makers, full protagonists of the story and their destiny. Within this private world of pleasure, the detailed representation of sensual love is striking, and in clear in opposition with the chaste love of epic poems (Southgate, 1986, pp. 46–48). Also, the description of adultery not only marks a neat difference with the Shāhnāmeh but also challenges the morality of the contemporary society to Gurgānī.3 This element seems to speak for a much older origin of the story, in accordance with what the author says in the prologue to the poem.4 Later Persian authors already dated the story to the early Sassanid age or to the Arsacid period (Minorsky, 1946, pp. 741–742; Southgate, 1986, p. 40.). According to Minorsky’s series of studies, the key for dating the original material is the political organization referred to in the text. The existence of a supreme king like Moʾbad and later Rāmīn, to whom vassal kings pledged loyalty like the household of Media (Māh) and the many others from Khuzistan to Central Asia, mentioned in the lists of queens (ll. 29–32, p. 3; ll. 1–6, p. 4) and regions that 3. For the author’s historical context, see Molé (1959); Cross (2015, pp. 20–26). 4. Prologue. VII. 31, 35, 39, 51–50 (Ed. Rowshan), p. 17 (Gurgānī, Fakhr al-Dīn (1972). ed. Morrison); Gurgānī’s patron, Abu l-Fatḥ, the governor of Isfahan, asks his opinion about the story. The poet tells him that it “It is a very beautiful story, compiled by six learned men. […] But its language is pahlavi; those who read it don’t know its meaning. Not everyone reads that language well or understands it if they do […] Now the ancient bards have told this story of Vis & Rāmin, they showed skill in fārsi, for they were masters of speaking fārsi”. Therefore, the governor gives the poet the task of modernizing it and rendering it understandable by his contemporaries. Minorsky, 1946, p. 743; Minorsky, 1962, pp. 278–282; Cross, 2015, pp. 26–35. In this context, the meaning of “pahlavi” and “fārsi” stirred an intense and still ongoing debate connected with the composition dating of the original text. Not being an expert in the field, I limit myself to indicate the fundamental bibliography on the topic; Gabrieli, 1939, pp. 168–172; Boyce 1957, pp. 37–38; Kobidze 1967; Lazard 1983.

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appear in the first episode of the story (ll. 3–6, 17–18, p. 1; ll. 1–3, p. 2; ll. 11–13, p. 30; ll. 5–6, p. 489), would indicate the Arsacid rule organization, even though the names recorded do not seem connected with the Parthian state (Minorsky, 1946, pp. 755–761; Minorsky, 1947, pp. 20–23 and 31). The Parthian Empire was characterized by a typical decentralized nature. From the 2nd century BC, after conquering Mesopotamia, the Arsacids used to confer ruling prerogatives to local lords and monarchs bound to the Royal house through an oath of allegiance.5 Thus, within the empire, autonomous kingdoms and dynasties coexisted, dependent on the Great King. New kings were regularly appointed or promoted in the place of rebel ones; sometimes, a local dynasty was substituted by an Arsacid one. This ruling system lasted until the fall of the Arsacids in the first third of the 3rd century AD, with the vassal kingdoms gradually gaining more independence from the central authority (Gregoratti 2017a; Id 2017b). If in the Book of Kings, Parthian royal names appear indicating a possible connection with noble houses’ stories. In Vīs u Rāmīn, only the father of Vīs, Qāren, king of Media/Māh. l. 11, p. 26; ll. 25 and 30, p. 29; ll. 9–10, p. 137.) seems to be linked with the Kārēn family, who supported the Roman candidate to the throne, Meherdates against Great King Gotarzes II (49–50 AD) and was defeated (Tac. Ann. 12. 10–14; Bivar, 1983, pp. 76–77; Dąbrowa 1983, pp. 121–122; KarrasKlapproth, 1988, pp. 48–49; Dąbrowa, 2017, pp. 178–179; Schlude, 2020, p. 124). In the final battle against the Great King, the family leader lost his life like King Qāren in the novel (ll. 23–24, p. 34; Minorsky, 1946, p. 756; Minorsky, 1947, pp. 24–25 and 30; Boyce 1957, pp. 37–379. Minorsky’s considerations have been broadly accepted (Boyce, 1983, p. 1158; Widengren, 1983, p. 1267). However vague and not decisive, the similarity with the Arsacid ruling system remains the main argument for the Parthian dating of the original material of the novel. Due to the peculiar private nature of the story and the scarcity of sources concerning court life during the Parthian period,6 it is hard to gather in the story enough elements to prove the validity of Minorsky’s theory. Still, there are some similarities in the description of the behaviour of the protagonists of the story, the female characters, as independent and resolute that remind of similar attitudes shown by female members of the Arsacid Royal house in Greek and Roman sources. A few years ago (Gregoratti, 2012), I argued that these portraits of female princes and queens showing a resolute behaviour in opposition to men indecisiveness and passivity could be a literary topos western 5. The eighteen regna of the famous passage by Plin. N.H. 6. 112; Keall (1994). 6. Glimpses from that world are provided by the stucco decorations of some Arsacid palaces: Kaim (2016).

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authors played with in order to establish and strengthen the link between Parthian society and ancient Persian one, highlighting the eastern barbarian weaknesses. If, on the one hand, this idea is still valid and it is undeniable that Roman authors played on similarities with Herodotus’ and other authors’ accounts of strong women by the Achaemenids to shed some particular light on the Arsacids, on the other hand, it is highly improbable that such episodes recorded by different authors and sources were wholly made up. Most probably, these episodes originated from actual historical events referring to real leading women. Noting similar extraordinary female behaviours in a novel dated to the same period, if on one side constitutes a too vague connection to help establish more precisely the date of the original material, can nonetheless provide some new elements and interesting connections to be considered alongside Minorsky’s hypothesis. Concerning the rare references in the sources to females and their connections with political power, the role of queen Šahru, Vīs’ mother, is the most intriguing. At the beginning of the story, Great King Moʾbad offers her the choice to be his wife or his lover (ll. 13–15, p. 5; Southgate, 1986, p. 44). Šahru is already married (ll. 8–12, p. 6) but this does not seem to constitute the main problem. Furthermore, the king grants her that she will rule his realm along with him. Worth noting is that the role of wife and mistress does not seem to imply substantial differences. Being a mistress is in no way a lower condition in comparison with a wife. More relevantly, independently by her state, Šahru is offered the possibility to co-rule the kingdom along with Moʾbad. At the end of the novel also Vīs is seen sharing the power with her new husband Rāmīn (ll. 9–10 and 23–24, p. 492). The episodes where an explicit reference to co-rule is mentioned, remind some cases of powerful queens and mistresses who enjoyed relevant power at the Parthian courts. The most famous one is, of course, the slave-queen Mousa (Flav. Jos. Ant. Iud. XVIII, 42–44; Debevoise, 1938, pp. 147–148; Ziegler, 1964, pp. 52–53; Frye, 1984, p. 237; Wolski, 1993, p. 148; Bigwood, 2004; Strugnell, 2008; Gregoratti, 2012, pp. 184–186; Madreiter and Hartmann, 2021, pp. 238–240). Sent as a gift by emperor Augustus to Phraates IV of Parthia to celebrate the satisfactory conclusion of the negotiations in the year 20 BC, the italic slave girl had more ambitious plans for her future than remain one of the many royal concubines in the gynaeceum. She actively did her best to increase her powers and influence within the royal palace and on the king himself. The Great King, struck by her charm and beauty, elevated her to the rank of queen once she gave birth to a child. Having earned the king’s favour, she influenced the king’s decisions to eliminate the obstacles that stood between her own offspring and the throne. She persuaded the monarch to send his sons, born from other royal consorts and therefore more

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legitimate to the succession, to Rome as hostages. Once she got rid of her rivals’ sons, she assumed the rank of the main queen, the mother of the only heir to the throne. Through Phraates IV’s poisoning, she managed to get her son Phraates V on the throne and join him in co-ruling the empire. According to Flavius Josephus’ dubious account, in 2 AD, she married her son with whom she had a relationship, elevating herself to the rank of both Queen Consort and Queen Mother and thus affirming her ruling role. That circumstance is also confirmed by her image appearing on the coins next to that of the king with both divine and royal attributes, a unique case in Parthian numismatic tradition (Sellwood, 19802, typ. 58, pp. 189–190; Pasmans 2005; Bigwood 2008, p. 249; Coloru 2015, pp. 181–182. Another case is that of queen Anzaze and King Kamnaskires of Elymais, a Parthian client kingdom: Harmatta, 1982/1984, pp. 171–175; Hansman, 1990, p. 5; van’t Haaff, 2007, Typ. 1, pp. 63–67; Coloru, 2015, pp. 183–184). Queen Šahru in the novel is an energetic and independent woman who “made slaves of Kings” (l. 26, p. 6) like Musa and had “more than thirty children” from different men; “she has not borne two children to one single husband” (ll. 27–32, p. 141; Southgate, 1986, pp. 44–45). As queen of Māh, she seems to completely overshadow the king, her husband, who barely is mentioned in the story as well as her son, Vīru. She arranges the wedding policy and even celebrates herself the marriage between her son and her daughter (ll. 7–12, p. 17; ll. 4–9, p. 19). It is suggested that queen Šahru belongs to a higher rank of nobility than her husband, partly explaining her prominence in public and private affairs. A similar circumstance is present again in Josephus historical account (Flav. Jos. Ant. Iud. XVIII, 339–354; Cohen, 1976, pp. 30–37; Bivar, 1983, p. 72; Frye, 1984, p. 232; Neusner, 1984, pp. 61–67; Brizzi, 1995, pp. 70–71; Fowler, 2008, pp. 147–162; Huber and Hartmann, 2006, p. 502; Gregoratti, 2012, pp. 187–188). During the reign of the Parthian Great King Artabanus II (first half of the I century AD), Two Jewish outlaws, Anilaeus and Asinaeus, obtained control over Babylonia with the king’s consent and soon, because of their plundering activity, got into conflict with the local Parthian aristocracy, who owned the estates targeted. Mithridates, a member of the high nobility related to Artabanus himself, whose daughter he had married, faced the band but was defeated, captured and humiliated, being forced to ride naked on the back of a donkey. Reluctant to take the field again, he was persuaded by his royal consort, unwilling to stay with a husband who refused to redeem his honour. The anonymous princess’ higher rank is a crucial factor in influencing her husbands’ political decisions as queen Šahru did (Southgate, 1986, p. 45). The role the latter plays after her husband’s defeat and death, negotiating the re-marriage of her daughter with the triumphant Great King without consulting her son the

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new-made king (pp. 49–51; 55–56), reveals who wielded the real power in Media and reminds the case of the famous Helena, the converted Jewish queen of Adiabene, a vassal kingdom of Parthia (Flav. Jos. Ant. Iud. XX, 26–32: Gregoratti 2012, pp. 187–189; Marciak, 2014; Marciak, 2017 pp. 350–359). When her husband, king Monobazus, died, she gathered in council all the dignitaries of the kingdom, nobles, satraps and generals, to ensure their consent to the accession to the throne of prince Izates, the favourite of the dead monarch, whom he preferred to his older son Monobazus. In those circumstances, the old queen’s resolution was striking and aimed at avoiding dynastic strife. Moreover, she persuaded the council to grant support to the prince chosen by the defunct. Thus, in a time of crisis, Helena constituted a figure of continuity and stability for the kingdom. A similar political far-sightedness is seen in another minor female character in the novel: the Great King’s old mother. She is the one able to calm down her enraged son who was planning to kill Rāmīn showing him that killing his brother, his successor to the throne, being Moʾbad childless, would throw the kingdom into chaos and anarchy after his death and his family would lose the control of it (ll. 11–26, p. 152). A last female character in the novel deserves a final mention: the witch/nurse. Her relevance for the plot is fundamental even if she is the only major character belonging to a lower class and not to the aristocracy (Cross 2015, p. 208, More on this character in Morrison 1974). On the political level, she manages to convince the two lovers to rebel against the Great King and start a civil war (ll. 14–22, p. 466; ll. 14–16, p. 479; l. 16, p. 488). Furthermore, she is the mind behind the plan of insurrection and its success (Southgate, 1986, p. 45). Vīs u Rāmīn is a female novel. A novel about private affairs taking place in the distant past, in a world of pleasures and courtly leisure, a world of which women are the absolute masters. In that world they enjoyed levels of freedom and independence, which certainly seemed outstanding to the 11th-century Persian reader. Still, in the novel, a few references to political and public life are present. Also in these contexts, the female characters show skills and capacities that match and sometimes overcome those of the male leaders. From the scattered references in the historical narrations of western authors, it seems that examples of historical figures of firm and resolute women able to influence the political choices of the male leaders, existed in the Parthian world. Possibly the minstrels who composed the original material of the novel had in mind these same women or similar ones, unknown in the West. Maybe that the ladies portrayed by Josephus were only a small selection which made through into western historiography, of a perhaps non-unusual type of court female personalities who through their bonds with kings and leaders managed to exert a substantial political influence. These were the ladies the minstrels saw at the noble courts

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in which they performed, noble Parthian ladies able to make “slaves of Kings", thus managing to wield power inside and outside the palace. Still, the secret power they detained was not deemed worthy of appearing in the epic stories of the Shāhnāmeh and was seen as an exotic anomaly by Flavius Josephus but made them the absolute protagonists of that novel of private affairs and secret love intrigues which is Vīs u Rāmīn.

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chapter 26

Configuración neurocognitiva del ideal amoroso y castidad en las protagonistas de la novela griega Una mirada comparatista Benito García-Valero Universidad de Alicante

This chapter analyses the configuration of plots in Greek novels under the basic principle of material welfare and erotic desire as they are understood by Patrick Colm Hogan and under the notions of brain concepts formulated by the neurobiologist Semir Zeki. As a result, this paper considers Greek novels as an almost prototypical example of what is known as romantic tragicomedy. The Greek version of this genre focuses on stories of two young lovers who are forced to split their paths and undertake adventures before they can finally reunite again at the end of the plot, which is normally enabled by fate. In the configuration of these characters, the Zekian concept of unity-in-love is evident. In fact, according to Zeki, this concept is found in every culture due to biological reasons. On the other hand, fulfilling the ideal of unity-in-love entails the presence of moral values in these stories, like chastity or virginity, which determine the purity of the protagonists, very often challenged during the adventures of the heroine. These moral aspects imbue these novels with a religious value that may imply desires of ecstasy or death, being both ways for soothing the desire of reunion and for easing the fusion with the object of love. Keywords: Greek novel, neuroesthetics, chastity, cognitive studies, prototypical narratives

La novela griega es un género1 propio de lo que Patrick Colm Hogan, desde una perspectiva cognitivista, describe como tragicomedias románticas. Según este 1. Resulta problemático, a pesar de la convención, calificar como género al grupo de textos que identificamos como novela griega, ya que, según Bergson (1988, p. 500), los términos equivalente en griego clásico para referirse a estos textos pueden traducirse por historia, mito o drama en distintas lenguas, lo cual permite hablar de la condición embrionaria de lo que luego sería la https://doi.org/10.1075/ivitra.40.26gar © 2024 John Benjamins Publishing Company

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autor, podemos encontrar ejemplos de este género de narraciones en todas las culturas, y por ello constituiría lo que define como universal literario absoluto (2003, p. 19–20) y nos permite estudiar comparativamente la prevalencia en otras culturas de historias de amor similares a las planteadas en la novela griega. En coincidencia con estas hipótesis, propongo aquí enriquecer la caracterización de la configuración del ideal amoroso que rige en la novela griega con las contribuciones de la neuroestética, concretamente, de los estudios del neurobiólogo Semir Zeki sobre el concepto cerebral de unión en el amor, como forma de contribuir al estudio de textos narrativos similares a la novela griega presentes en la literatura universal.

1.

Los rasgos de la novela griega atendidos cognitivamente

De la variedad de rasgos que caracterizan a las novelas griegas (estructura episódica; sucesión de aventuras; orígenes históricos de sus tramas – cfr. Mendonza, 1979, p. 365-; exotismo; joven pareja protagonista de aristócratas heterosexuales, donde la heroína suele desempeñar un papel activo -López Martínez, 2020, p. 95-; florecimiento durante los cuatro primeros siglos de nuestra era), nos interesa en esta ocasión su argumento nuclear: dos amantes no pueden realizar su amor porque los avatares de la suerte los obligan a separarse y emprender largas aventuras hasta que se reúnen de nuevo al final de la trama para satisfacer su deseo amoroso y recuperar el puesto perdido en la sociedad tras su marcha. Este tipo de argumentos universales quedan configurados por dos de los objetivos o principios que rigen la organización de la vida humana, según la recuperación que Colm Hogan hace de la teoría estética sánscrita: se trata de los términos kāma y artha, y que según él sostienen el desarrollo de las narraciones tragicómicas (2003, p. 93). En ellas, el principal objetivo de los amantes es la unión romántica (kāma) y el poder social (artha), después de verse desprovistos en la mayor parte de los episodios de ambas condiciones. Kāma es un dios hindú, equivalente en parte a Eros, cuyo nombre se traduce como “placer” o “placer sexual”, y cuya acción sostiene el deseo de los amantes de reunirse definitivamente. Artha suele traducirse por “prosperidad”, y hace referencia al poder político y al bienestar material, y su importancia para la novela griega es también crucial: suelen ser razones políticas o patrimoniales las que impiden en algún punto el matrimonio de los dos amantes, como sucede ejemplarmente en Nino, en cuyos fragmentos encuentra RuizMontero (2006, p. 57) el motivo del obstáculo legal a la boda con Semíramis. Igual novela en Occidente, así como de la abundante diversidad de naturalezas de los textos agrupados bajo la etiqueta de “novela griega”.

Chapter 26. Ideal amoroso y castidad en las protagonistas de la novela griega

sucede en Calírroe, dada la oposición del padre de Quéreas a casar a su hijo con una muchacha de mayor alcurnia; o en Leucipa y Clitofonte, pues al concierto matrimonial de su padre habría de oponerse Clitofonte si se quisiera casar con Leucipa, objeto de su amor. Estas palabras de Clitofonte bien muestran el dilema entre deseo (kāma) y obligación hacia el patrimonio y poder político de su familia (artha): “Estoy en medio de dos formas opuestas: es un pleito entre Eros y mi padre. El uno está ahí plantado con el poder que le da mi respeto, está el otro arrellanado atizando la candela” (Aquiles Tacio, I, 11, 3). En los relatos que se han preservado, las novelas griegas acaban con la reunión de los amantes en un final feliz que frecuentemente implica también aumento de poder político (de pastores a señores pasan Dafnis y Cloe al final de su aventura) o incluso una entronización, como en las Babiloníacas de Jámblico. Por lo tanto, los principios kāma y artha, en conflicto al comienzo de las tramas, acaban conciliados al final de las mismas. Este final feliz, así como el tipo de amor profesado por sus protagonistas, nos permite hablar del fuerte componente idealista que actúa en la conformación del género y que coincide, además, con los rasgos que prototípicamente Colm Hogan atribuye a las narraciones tragicómicas románticas. El uso que de la noción de prototipo realiza este autor (Colm Hogan, 2003, p. 57–9) acerca su aproximación teórica a la lingüística cognitiva, así como su atención a las nociones de exemplum y esquema. En el siguiente epígrafe propongo la conformación de estos prototipos no solo con base en la selección de rasgos comunes tenidos como centrales en un grupo diverso de textos literarios concretos, conformados por la tradición cultural y los fenómenos de contacto, sino también mediante su universalidad, posiblemente explicable también por la concurrencia de procesos neurocognitivos determinantes del concepto suprahistórico de unidad en el amor.

2.

Las cualidades del concepto unidad en el amor: Bases neuroestéticas

El estudio del enamoramiento realizado por Claudio Guillén en su ínclito manual (2013, p. 265) arroja una serie de aspectos comunes en el desarrollo de este proceso psicológico a pesar de la diversísima procedencia cultural de los exempla analizados: el enamoramiento es o bien súbito, y marca un destino desvelado a los amantes en forma de unión de almas (un tipo de enamoramiento del cual es buen ejemplo Clitofonte, que al ver a su prima Leucipa siente el dardo erótico), o bien es paulatino, construido sobre los distintos contactos que los protagonistas mantienen (un tipo del que Dafnis y Cloe dan muestra). Las variantes de estos dos enamoramientos son prácticamente infinitas pero, una vez instalado el amor, emerge el anhelo de encuentro y unión con el amado. El neurobiólogo Semir Zeki entiende que la aspiración del amor hacia la unión está regida por el concepto

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unidad en el amor, que impele “en los amantes una relación pasional y romántica que busca la unión entre ambos, más allá de la intimidad sexual, que sin embargo se torna la forma más cercana de conseguir este concepto de raíces biológicas” (Zeki, 2009, p. 23; traducción propia). Este arraigo biológico se debe a que el concepto unión en el amor es, para Zeki, del tipo heredado (inherited concept), diferente por tanto de los conceptos que el cerebro, en su función natural de adquisición de conocimiento, conforma a partir de la abstracción de rasgos de elementos agrupados bajo una misma categoría, lo cual caracteriza a los conceptos adquiridos (acquired concepts). El ideal de la persona de la que queremos enamorarnos sería un ejemplo de concepto adquirido: es la suma de rasgos ideales abstraídos de las distintas experiencias que mantenemos en vida. La constancia del color, sin embargo, es un concepto heredado: a pesar de que en el crepúsculo una hoja refleje más luz roja que verde, el cerebro está determinado en percibir la hoja como verde, ya que sobre nuestra percepción actúa la constancia del color. El ideal unidad en el amor se comportaría como este último tipo de conceptos: la prueba que esgrime Zeki es la presencia universal de historias que muestran el anhelo hacia la unión que los amantes experimentan. En este movimiento, Zeki se sitúa además en las antípodas de los posicionamientos deconstruccionistas contemporáneos, para los cuales el amor es una construcción social explicable históricamente: para él, la esencia del concepto de unidad en el amor está presente en todas las culturas y en todas las épocas (se trata de un concepto inserto en la misma arquitectura del cerebro), y ello demuestra su validez universal y su naturaleza biológica, no social. El neurobiólogo expone una serie de comportamientos hormonales en los que la oxitocina y la serotonina tienen un papel radical (2009, p. 139) para fundamentar neurológicamente los comportamientos de apego y placer que actúan en el enamoramiento y presionan al sujeto hacia la unión con el objeto amado. El sexo cumple un papel fundamental en esta experiencia, ya que las áreas cerebrales activas durante la práctica sexual y aquellas encargadas del enamoramiento se solapan, y ello permite a Zeki concluir que la unión sexual es la experiencia que lleva al ser humano a estar lo más cerca posible de ese ideal de unión romántica que lo determina biológicamente (2009, p. 140). Ejemplo de ello bien podría ser el continuo anhelo de Cloe y Dafnis por lograr el encuentro sexual, una meta que es el punto final de todo un proceso de aprendizaje en el que tienen lugar otros encuentros sexuales (como el que mantiene Dafnis con Licenion, quien lo inicia en las artes sexuales) o la lección del veterano Filetas. La naturaleza de la trama de las novelas griegas puede explicarse por la plasmación literaria y prototípica del concepto biológico de unidad en el amor: como si no existiera otro sentido en sus vidas, los protagonistas acometen cualquier empresa con tal de reunirse de nuevo. Por el camino median secuestros de piratas, muertes fingidas, guerras y otros avatares que no acaban siendo más que los

Chapter 26. Ideal amoroso y castidad en las protagonistas de la novela griega

entretenimientos que el destino se permite antes de conceder la reunión final. La importancia de lo que Konstan (1994) identificó como simetría sexual permite que ambos protagonistas sean igualmente importantes en la gesta del reencuentro. Si bien la mujer suele tener un papel más activo y las páginas dedicadas a ella suelen ser más numerosas, ambos protagonistas son tanto objeto como sujeto de deseo. A esta prevalencia absoluta del amor sirve la devoción en estas novelas a diosas estrechamente vinculadas con esta fuerza cósmica (Isis, Afrodita o Deméter), o las caracterizaciones que algunos de sus pasajes realizan de Eros, como la que enuncia el sabio Filetas en su famoso discurso: el amor es definido como una fuerza regente del resto de elementos (estrellas, animales y vegetales, pero también de otros dioses). Esta cosmovisión amorosa impregna las novelas griegas, diáfanos ejemplos del tópico omnia vincit amor, y en las que toda anécdota es interpretada como una argucia del destino o de los dioses para lograr la reunión final. El universo en estas novelas es todo un cosmos: un conjunto ordenado de elementos cargados plenamente de sentido, a pesar de la sucesión de separaciones y desgracias que habían obstaculizado el encuentro de los amantes.

3.

El papel de la castidad y la virginidad en el ideal amoroso

Siervos de un amor ideal, los protagonistas de las novelas griegas son asimismo personajes idealizados que culminan las mejores virtudes comúnmente atribuidas al perfecto amante en diferentes culturas. No son rasgos prototípicos (pues los ejemplos de Don Juan o el príncipe Genji, junto otros muchos ejemplos, otorgan una rica diversidad a los tipos de amantes en la literatura), pero sí son apreciados en muchas culturas los rasgos de castidad y virginidad. Culmen de tales virtudes son Rama y Sītā, pareja protagonista de la epopeya del Ramaiana; los caballeros de las novelas de caballería, y por supuesto de su parodia maestra, El Quijote; o la pareja casta Majnún y Layla en la famosa leyenda árabe, donde el padre de la joven impide el matrimonio, favoreciendo la entrada de la pareja en el rango de historias tragicómicas según las caracteriza Colm Hogan. A pesar del impedimento, Majnún, propenso a la locura, debe tanta devoción a Layla que acaba enamorándose de su propia idea de la muchacha, desinteresándose por la Layla real (un proceso quijotesco en sentido inverso: tan enamorado está Majnún de su ideal de Layla que rechaza incluso reunirse con ella cuando se le presenta la ocasión para no decepcionarse). Por ser Layla un ideal, y por tanto un concepto cerebral de naturaleza abstracta, el contraste con la realidad es en ocasiones motivo de desdicha, y de estos procesos nacen, dicho sea de paso, el tema tan manido en el arte del contraste entre la realidad y el deseo, alimentado por la insatisfacción que

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la realidad provee de todas las condiciones que la idealización inherente a todo deseo conjura. En las novelas griegas la castidad o sophrosyne es un valor rector de la moral de sus protagonistas: en uno de los fragmentos que conservamos de Ninos, el protagonista presume de su castidad a pesar de haber disfrutado de diferentes placeres sensuales en su corta edad. El personaje nos cuenta que mantiene la castidad por no apagar el deseo hacia su prima, objeto de su amor (Ninos, A, 15). En el mundo griego en el que se ambientan estas novelas, el matrimonio es curiosamente una forma de preservar la virginidad o parthenía (Ciocani, 2013, p. 113–4), que no es un concepto reducidamente genital sino una condición de fidelidad constante hacia el marido o la mujer que, consagrada en el matrimonio, se prolonga incluso más allá del coito. Uno de los motivos argumentales más frecuentes en la novela griega es la sobrenatural belleza de los protagonistas, a menudo motivo de lamento especialmente por parte de ellas, ya que su refulgente atractivo acarrea muchos desafíos a la preservación de su castidad. Así encontramos, por ejemplo, a Antía condenando su belleza como fuente de traición (Efesíacas, V, 5, 5). Preservar la castidad es por tanto una obsesión en buena parte de estas historias griegas, igual que le sucede a Sītā en el Ramaiana, que tras haber sido rescatada del palacio de Ravana ha de pasar la famosa prueba de fuego para probar la fidelidad hacia su marido durante tan largo período. El motivo tiene su eco en la historia de Parténope (López Martínez, 1998, p. 138), que, en uno de los uno de los episodios de la versión cristiana de la novela, sobrevive a las llamas como forma de mostrar su consagración a Dios y evitar el matrimonio. El matiz cristiano del amor idealizado es, en este caso, desencarnado y puramente espiritual, y se diferencia en tal punto del general en la novela griega. Es necesario observar que las protagonistas de las novelas griegas son las que más deben conjurar y pergeñar el mantenimiento de su castidad y quizá sea este uno de los motivos de que mantengan un rol tan activo, en ocasiones más que el protagonista masculino; rasgo que por otra parte contradice muchos de los prejuicios sobre la función de la mujer protagonista en la literatura antigua. En cualquier caso, el camino del amor se concibe en estas novelas como una senda de ascensión espiritual que fácilmente se reviste de connotaciones religiosas (y de ahí la importancia de las diosas a las que se consagran los protagonistas, e incluso la interpretación mistérica que de estas novelas realizó en su momento Merkelbach). La castidad y la virginidad son formas de consagrar este amor idealizado que aspira a la unión, como se ha explicado, o incluso al éxtasis, dado que en la plena realización del ideal, el sujeto amante deja de ser él mismo para fusionarse con el objeto amado. Así lo explica Clinias, primo de Clitofonte, en su instrucción:

Chapter 26. Ideal amoroso y castidad en las protagonistas de la novela griega

No sabes lo que es ver a la amada: […] los ojos, al reflejarse mutuamente, modelan, como en un espejo, las imágenes de los cuerpos y la destilación de la belleza, al fluir a través de los ojos hasta el alma, alcanza una determinada unión a distancia, siendo así un cierto grado de la unión corporal, pues es una nueva especie de abrazo de los cuerpos. (Aquiles Tacio, I, 9, 4–5)

Estas palabras, que bien demuestran el concepto de unión en el amor tal y como Zeki lo entiende, tiene claras resonancias con el mito del andrógino que Platón relata en su Banquete. Zeki encuentra además que este ideal del amor no es único en la literatura amorosa, sino que también se extiende a casos de la literatura religiosa, como la mística, que recurre con frecuencia al lenguaje erótico para transmitir la experiencia de comunión con Dios. Y junto a la imaginería erótica, la relacionada con la muerte cobra también una importancia trascendental que se materializa en la novela griega. La disposición del sujeto amante a abandonarse a sí mismo en pro del objeto amado puede ser tenida como una especie de muerte cuyo tránsito no es temido. En realidad, puede ser incluso deseado, si con ello se logra en la otra vida la ansiada reunión con el amante, configurando la versión extrema del tópico omnia vincit amor: el amor post mortem, según el cual ni siquiera la muerte es suficiente obstáculo para el amor verdadero. Impelidos por el concepto unidad en el amor, el anhelo de fusión con el amante lleva a los protagonistas de la novela griega a desear la muerte en varias ocasiones, como manifiesta Quéreas al conocer que Calírroe estaba casada con Dionisio (Calírroe, IV, 3, 9), o como manifiesta Quíone en un fragmento novelesco en el que los amantes parecen decidir el suicido como solución a la imposibilidad de vivir juntos (III, 16–24). Las novelas griegas, como cualquier tragicomedia romántica, intercalan con frecuencia imágenes sobre la muerte con las amorosas e incluyen varios episodios que implican la muerte o la muerte aparente, según entiende Colm Hogan (2003, p. 24), y tan bien ejemplifican Calírroe (que sufre una muerte aparente tras la violenta patada del confundido Quéreas) o Antía en sus respectivas historias, en las que el reencuentro final con el amante es vivido como una especie de apoteosis a la que sigue el comienzo de una nueva vida. Incluso después de creer la muerte del amado, el amante sigue dependiendo de su ideal amoroso, y la determinación del concepto heredado de unidad en el amor pide al amante añorar la muerte, no solo como forma de aliviar el sufrimiento de la separación, sino también como unión última con el amado. Al igual que el amor extático, la muerte disuelve al ego, y así parece ser más accesible la fusión anhelada. En varias tradiciones religiosas se compara este tránsito mortal con la unión amorosa con Dios. Bien conocidos son en nuestra tradición los versos de Santa Teresa al respecto, pero también resultan relevantes las palabras de Khrisna en la tradición hindú sobre fusión última con su amante Radha, que solo podrá conseguir cuando se extinga su ego tras la muerte y se funda con el ser

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eterno e incognoscible o Brahman (Zeki, 2009, p. 154). En estas cosmologías, la comunión con Dios es ejercicio del amor supremo, al cual se rinde la castidad y virginidad del alma de una forma análoga a la relatada en las novelas griegas.

4.

La novela griega, piedra angular de la tradición de la tragicomedia romántica

A modo de conclusión, conviene resumir aquí la trascendencia que el género de la novela griega reviste a la hora de ejemplificar el prototipo de tragicomedia romántica, configurado en este capítulo a partir del estudio cognitivo de la formación de conceptos en el cerebro, de la mano de la neuroestética de Zeki, y del papel que los principios vitales de deseo y placer (kāmā) y de satisfacción material o bienestar (artha) tienen en el desarrollo de sus tramas argumentales. Buena parte de su estructuración es universal, ya que encontramos historias de amantes que, ante motivos sociales, familiares o políticos, han de verse separados, implicando a menudo episodios en los que la muerte o la falsa muerte está implicada, aunque el profundo anhelo de reunión los conduce a un final feliz de reencuentro y recuperación que mejora además su nivel de poder político o social. Las novelas griegas son resultado de un proceso de profunda idealización en el que el concepto heredado de unidad en el amor participa verticalmente. Los personajes no vacilan de sus sentimientos en ningún momento, apenas evolucionan ni sorprenden psicológicamente (en clara sintonía con los preceptos clásicos aristotélicos y horacianos, que prescribían la coherencia psicológica constante los personajes) y habitan un cosmos donde todo acto y anécdota tiene el sentido que marca su predestinado reencuentro. El cultivo de la castidad y la virginidad, especialmente difícil en el caso de las heroínas, son pruebas de carácter que acaban adquiriendo el matiz religioso que ha alentado con fundamento las teorías que las consideraban partes de ritos iniciáticos. Sin quizá llegar a tanto, sí es posible afirmar con rotundidad la presencia evidente del componente religioso en estas novelas, dadas las bendiciones y guías conferidas por las diosas del amor a sus devotos protagonistas. Además, en las cosmovisiones de estas novelas, la muerte no es temida, sino una manifestación más del supremo éxtasis amoroso, en el cual los amantes funden sus seres en fiel cumplimiento de la versión más fidedigna del concepto cerebral heredado de unión en el amor, que salva a los amantes protagonistas pero condena a todos aquellos que, como Majnún o Don Quijote, se hacen siervos de un ideal puramente abstracto que alimenta el deseo al tiempo que pone en evidencia la naturaleza limitante de la realidad. La novela griega es una forma narrativa cuya estructura se explica por la estructuración propia de la mente humana, poblada de conceptos cerebrales ideales que, como diría Mark

Chapter 26. Ideal amoroso y castidad en las protagonistas de la novela griega

Turner, piedra angular del cognitivismo, se expresan narrativamente en la realidad comunicativa y artística.

Bibliografía Bergson, L. (1988). Literatura griega postclásica y de la Antigüedad tardía. In W. Wischer (coord.), Akal Historia de la Literatura. El mundo antiguo (1200 a.C.-600 d.C.), vol. 1 (pp. 478–504), trans. J. Martínez de Aragón. Madrid: Akal. Ciocani, V. E. (2013). Virginity and Representation in the Greek Novel and Early Greek Poetry, PhD Thesis. Toronto: University of Toronto. Colm Hogan, P. (2003). The Mind and Its Stories. Narrative Universals and Human Emotion. Cambridge: University of Cambridge. Guillén, C. (2013). Entre lo uno y lo diverso. Introducción a la Literatura Comparada (ayer y hoy). Barcelona: Tusquets. Konstan, D. (1994). Sexual Symmetry. Love in the Ancient Novel and Related Genres. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Longo/Aquiles Tacio (2002). Dafnis y Cloe. Leucipa y Clitofonte, trad. M. Brioso Sánchez. Madrid: Gredos. López Martínez, M. P. (1998). Fragmentos papiráceos de novela griega. Alicante: Universidad de Alicante. López Martínez, M. P. (2020). Investigar en femenino sobre novela griega: reflexiones en torno a una hipotética existencia de mujeres novelistas en la antigüedad. In I. Balteiro (ed.), Las mujeres visibles (pp. 83–105). Alicante: Universidad de Alicante. Mendoza, J. (1979). Quéreas y Calírroe. Efesíacas. Fragmentos novelescos. Madrid: Gredos. Ruiz Montero, C. (2006). La novela griega. Madrid: Síntesis. Zeki, S. (2009). Splendors and Miseries of the Brain. Love, Creativity and the Quest for Human Happiness. Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell Press.

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Index locorum Greek and Latin ACHILLES TATIUS (Ach.Tat.) Leucippe et Clitophon 1.1.3.2:68 n. 51 1.3:213 1.16.1:199 1.22:213 1.4:219 1.4.3:232 n.10 1.7.3:200 1.8:105 1.8.2:59 n.22 1.9.4–5:413 1.10:200 n.8; 203 1.11.2:69; 104 1.11.3:105; 409 1.19:219 1.19.1:200 1.19.2:201 2.1:201 2.4:203 2.4.4: 200 2.4.5: 198 2.5.1: 198 2.6.1–2:200 2.7:201; 204 2.9: 202 2.10.3:198; 198 n.3 2.11:219 2.11.1–2:105 2.11.2:219 2.12:256 2.12.1:80; 105 2.13. 2: 71 n.67; 101 2.13.3: 71 n. 70; 101 2.16.2:101; 105

2.17.7:101 2.18; 249; 256 2.18.5–6: 249 2.18.6: 105 2.19: 202 2.19.1: 105 2.23.25:202 2.7.4-5: 202 n. 13 3.2.9: 213 3.15: 250 3.16:250 4.1: 204 5.5: 256 5.7: 250, 256 5.10.3: 105 5.11.1–2: 105 5.12.3: 60 5.18.2–6: 203 6.1.4: 76 6.7: 220 7.6: 251 8.13: 219 8.13: 135 8.17.1:249 8.17.3: 101; 249 8.17.4: 101; 225 8.17.7: 101 8.18.3: 60; 67; 78 n.99 101; 116 n.26 8.18.3–4:99; 116 n. 26 8.18.4: 101 8.18.5: 249 8.19: 206; 219 8.19.3: 80 n. 111; 101 18.18.4: 101

Index locorum

ACTA ALEXANDRINORUM (A.AL.): 277; 279; 280; 282; 284 ACTA HERMAISCI P. Oxy. X 1242 = CPJ II 157: 278 n.3; 280 n. 8; 281; 282; 283 n.18; 284 n.21; 286; 289; 290; 291 AEGYPTI REGINA P. Oxy. 5264: 142 AESCHINES (Aeschin.) Ctesias (Ctes) 18.:2 n. 4 AESCHYLUS (A.) Prometheus Uinctus (Pr.) 415–19:144 n. 44 728: 144 n. 44 ALCIPHRO (Alciph.) 3.12.3:140 AMBROSIUS MEDIOLANIENSIS (Ambr.) De Virginibus 1,2:271 2.4: 272 n.30; 274 AMBROSIUS, PSEUDO Passio Sanctae Agnetis 271 Passio S. Theodorae et Didymi 2,1:270 n. 21 AMENOPHIS P. Oxy. 3011:151 ANTHEIA PSI VI 726: 128 n.3; 129; 136; 137; 140; 145 ANTONIUS DIOGENES (Ant.Diog.) Mirabilia ultra Thulem (Τὰ ὑπὲρ Θoύλην ἄπιστα) 150 n. 6; 156 APOLLONIUS (A. R.) Argonautica 1.460: 177 n. 12 2.681: 177 n. 12 2.965: 132 n. 12 2.995: 132 n. 12 3. 336: 177 n. 12 3. 772: 177 3.951: 177 n. 13

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4.107: 177 4.1047–1049: 177 APOPHTHEGMATA PATRUM AEGYPTIORUM 5. 13: 307 n.26 18. 24:309 n. 36 APPIANUS (App.) Bella Ciuilia (BC) 2.14.95: 135 n. 24 2.84: 8 n.22; 10 n.29 2.101: 11 n.36 2.102:12 n. 39 Mithridatica (Mith.) 78:132 536:140 103:143 APULEIUS (Apul.) Apologia (Apol.) 102:65 Metamorphoses (Met.) 1.12.1: 266 n. 12 1.14: 269 n.19 2.2: 225 n. 45 2.20: 224 n. 42 4.25.1:254 4.27.2: 251 4.26.3.ff:251 6.6:65; 66 6.9:79 n. 101 7.6.2–4:287 7.7:287 7.9.5.6:251 10.8.1: 338 10. 2–12:333 10.2.1: 335 10.2.3: 334 10.7: 336 n. 15 10.8.1:338 10.12.4: 339 n. 21 ARISTAENETUS (Aristaen.) 1.19.46–47: 55 n. 3 ARISTIDES, AELIUS (Aristid.) 46.292-25: 135

Index locorum

ARISTOPHANES (Ar.) 649–650: 115 n. 20 Lysistrata (Lys.) 638–647: 3 n. 5 Nubes (Nu.) 629: 177 n. 11 ARISTOTELES (Arist.) Atheniensium Respublica (Ath.) 2.3.2: 119 9.2: 114 n. 20 De Generatione Animalium (GA) 772b16–18: 136 n. 25 Physiognomonica (Phgn.) 806b31–34: 136 n.25 Politica (Pol.) 7, 1335 b, 20: 70 n. 58; 85 n. 5 7. 14.10, 1335 b: 89 n.19 ARRIANUS (Arr.) Anabasis (An.) 1.5.4. 145 n. 45 4.28.5:140 7.12.6–7: 235 n. 22 7.13.2–6:143 n. 43 Post Alexandrum (Post Alex.) 1.22: 6 n. 16 1.30 1.31:7. n.19 1.31: 7 n. 20 1.32: 7 n. 21 Historia Successorum Alexandri 1.22.4: 145 n. 45 1.23.2–6: 145 n. 45 1.24. 5–5: 145 n. 45 ATHANASIUS ALEXANDRINUS ET PSEUDO ATHANASIUS (Ath.Al.) Vita de Antonii (V.Anton.) 2–3: 311 54:8: 311 ATHENAEUS (Ath.) 13.575:383 13.557 b-c.: 144 n. 45

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AURELIUS VICTOR Epitome de Caesaribus 42.21:290 BASILIUS CAESARIENSIS (Basil.) Epistulae (Ep.) 79.1: 135 n. 24 CAESAR IULIUS (Caes.) De bello Ciuili (Ciu.) 3.108.1: 8 n. 22 3.103.1: 10 n. 30 3.104.2: 8 n. 22; 10 n. 31 CALLIGONE PSI VIII 981: 129; 134 P. Oxy. LXIII 5355: 129 CALLIMACHUS (Call.) Epigrammata (Epigr.) 34 [= AP 12. 148]: 178 n. 16 CALLINICUS MONACHUS (Callinic.Mon.) Vita Hypatii (V.Hyp.) 5: 7: 311 8.14.15: 305 n. 22 18.3: 307 n. 28 42.43: 313 44.8.19 316 n. 52 53: 307 n. 28; 318 CALLISTHENES, PSEUDO (Ps.Callisth.) Historia Alexandri Magni 386; 390; 392; 393 CALPURNIUS FLACCUS Declamationes 25: 72 n. 71 34: 72 n. 71 41: 72 n. 71 43: 72 n. 71 46: 72 n. 71 51: 72 n. 71 CATO (Cat.) De Agri Cultura (Agr.) 152: 4 n. 8 CHARITO Callirhoe

Index locorum

1.1: 60; 376 1.1.11-16: 246 1.1.16: 378 1.1.2:380 1.2.2:379; 382 1.2.4: 379 1.2.6: 376 1.6:162 1.6.2–4:214 1.6.5:162 1.7.4:162 1.7–14:246 1.8: 160 1.8.1:163 1.13.8:163 1.8.3:214 1.9:214 1.10:182 1.11.3: 162; 163 1.13.8: 163 1.13.11: 166; 214 1.14.6:166 1.14.7: 160 n. 1 1.14.9–10:166 2.2: 377; 380 2.7.6: 378 2.8: 378 2.8.7: 164 2.9.1:164 2.9.3: 379 2.9.4–5: 165 2.9.6: 165; 168 2.10.8: 379 2.11.1: 166 2.11.2: 166 2.11.3: 166 3.2.4: 60 3.3.4: 170; 214; 252 3.3.15:163 3.4.18:163 3.16.24: 413 4.1:161 4.1.3:165; 168

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4.3.9:413 5.1.3:248 5.10.10: 135 n. 22 6.4.4–5:134 8.4.5: 132 n. 11; 247 8.6:162 8.6.7–8:161 8.7.11-12: 247 CHIONE Codex Thebanus Deperditus 140 CICERO (Cic.) De legibus 3.19: 86 n. 9 De officis (Off.) 1.17.54: 102 De oratore (De Orat.) 1.183: 103 1.238: 103 Epistulae Familiares (Fam.) 8.4.5: 8 n. 24 COLUMELLA (Colum.) De Re Rustica 12.1–4: 4 n. 9 CONCILIA Concilium Gangrense (CGangr.) 13: 309 Concilio in Trullo 70: 308 n. 32; 309 16: 309 CTESIAS (Ctes.) FGrH 688 F1b 8.6: 134 n. 18 CURTIUS RUFUS (Curt.) 10.5.19–25: 238 n. 34 CYPRIANUS (Cypr.) De Mortalitate (De mortal.) 15: 270 CYRILLUS SCYTHOPOLITANUS (Cyr.S.) Vita Iohannis Hesychastis (V.Io.) 23–24:312 Vita Theodosii (V.Thds.) 1:305

Index locorum

DAMASUS (Dam. Papa) Epigrammata Damasiana Epigramma 29: 271 DEMOSTHENES (D.) De Corona 129 Orationes 33.10: 121 44.49: 114 n. 20; 115 46.2.18: 114 49.72: 114 59.35: 3 n. 7 DIO CASSIUS (D.C.) Historiae Romanae 42.36.1.: 8 n. 22 42.4: 10 n. 31 42.44.2: 10 n. 33 43.19.2: 11 n. 36 45.1: 86 n. 6 55.22: 3 n. 6 55.22.5.: 12 n. 39 DIODORUS SICULUS (D.S.) 2.6: 132 n. 7 4. 16. 1–2 133 n. 12; 134 5.29.2: 136 n. 24 6–7: 132 n. 7 17.118.3: 240 n. 34 18.39.27 n. 20 18.39.3: 7 n. 20 19.52.5: 6 n. 16 DIONYSIUS HALICARNASSENSIS (D.H.) Antiquitates Romanae 2.13.3: 135 n. 24 2.15: 86 2.15.2: 86 n. 10 2.24: 109 n. 7 2.27: 100 3.14.2: 135 n. 24 11.15. 2: 86 n. 10 ERASISTRATUS (Erasistr.) 3. 5. 1–2: 45

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EURIPIDES (E.) Electra (El.) 883–88: 135 n. 24 Heraclidae (Heracl.) 408–17: 144 n. 44 Iphigenia Aulidensis (IA) 703: 101 n. 4; 117 n.8 Orestes (Or.) 1079: 121 EUSEBIUS CAESARIENSIS (Eus.) De Martyribus Palestinae (MP) VII 4: 306 n. 24 Historia Ecclesiastica (HE) VIII 12.7: 306 n. 24 GALENUS (Gal.) De Usu Partium 14. 6–7 K: 45 In Hippocratis Aphorismos Commentarii 7. 18a.125.6–7: 136 n. 25 GREGORIUS MONACHUS Vita S. Lazari Galesiotae: 307 n. 30; 312 GREGORIUS TURONENSIS (Greg.Tur.) De miraculis Andreae Apostoli 4. 1. 7: 335 n. 13 4.11.8-9: 335n. 14 4.11.14–16: 337 n. 17 4.11.16–18: 337 n. 17 4.11.18–20: 337 n. 17 4.11.20–22: 338 n. 18 4.11.24–25: 338 n. 19 4.11.28–30: 339 n. 20 4.11.31–32: 339 n. 20 23: 274 n. 32 HELIODORUS (Hld.) Aethiopica 1.3: 213 1.19–23: 60 1.21.2: 78 n. 97 1.22: 213 2.8: 204 2.17: 213 2.23.4: 121

Index locorum

2.28: 213 2.30.3: 210 2.31.4: 226 2.33.3: 218 2.33.4–5: 69 n. 55; 134 n. 21 3.3: 221 3.4.2–6: 221 3.17.4: 57 n. 16 4.6: 121 4.8.7: 67 n 41; 67 n. 43; 217 4.11.2: 215 4.18.5–6: 57 n. 16 5.13.2–4: 210 5.21.1: 58 n. 19 5.21.2: 121 5.28.2: 121 5.31: 60 6.8.1: 61 n. 29; 67 n. 43 6.8.2: 80 n. 110; 121 7.8: 215 7.19: 215 7.24.4: 121 7.27: 215 7.28.3: 121 8.11.4–9: 215 8.11.8: 209 8.11.8–9: 215 9.2: 217 10.13–14: 217 10.24: 122 10.36.4: 254 10.37.1: 253 10.39–41: 122 10.40: 123 10.40.2: 55 n. 1 10.40–41: 60; 122 10.41: 123 HELLANICUS (Hellanic.) 131 n. 6 HERMOGENES (Hermog.) De statibus (Stat.) 10.79: 73 n.73

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HERODIANUS (Hdn.) De Prosodia Catholica 3.1: 140 3.1.57:74; 132 n. 13 HERODOTUS (Hdt.) 3.124: 130 3.124–125: 131, n. 8. 4. 110–175. 20: 144 n. 44 5.20: 136 n. 26 6.57: 101 n. 4 7.99: 138 8. 68: 138 8.87: 138 8.88: 138 8.90: 139 8.101–102: 138 8.103–107: 138 HESIODUS (Hes.) Opera et Dies (Op.) 518–524: 176 Theogonia (Th.) 137–138: 240 n. 41 HIPPOCRATES MEDICUS (Hp.) De Natura Muliebri (Nat.Mul.) 43 HISTORIA APOLLONII REGIS TYRI (Hist. Apol.) 18.3: 262 20.8: 262 21.6: 262 22.7: 262 25.6: 262 28.7: 262 29.1: 263 29.5-11: 263 32.1: 263 33.1: 263 33.5: 263 34.3-6: 263 34.5: 266 34.9: 266 35.3: 265 38.6: 262

Index locorum

RA: 64 and 262 1: 61 n. 30; 63 19: 64 n. 36 22: 60; 64 n. 37 35 75 n. 87 47: 76 n. 89 RB 2: 63 2: 61 n. 30 19: 64 n. 36 20.4.7: 261 HOMERUS (Hom.) Ilias (Il.) 14.214-221: 224 n. 41 23.66-67: 165 16. 178. 190: 95 n. 30 Odyssea (Od.) 1.183: 265 n. 10 8. 344–359: 113 n. 18 9.295: 177 n. 11 11. 117. 282: 95 n. 30 13. 256: 264 14. 199: 264 17. 419: 264 19. 165: 264 19. 363: 177 21.405–410: 376 23.66-67: 165 23.71: 165 24.83: 162 HYGINUS (Hyg.) Fabulae (Fab.) 273: 44 HYPATIUS (Hypat.) 53: 307 n. 28 IACOBUS DE VORAGINE Legenda Aurea II 58: 337 58–75: 332; 334 60: 336 61: 336

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63: 336 64: 337 65: 337 66: 334 66–67: 337 68–69: 338 71–73: 339 XXIII 10–22: 330 n. 3 CXXVIII 1-2: 330 n. 5 30–32; 42–51: 331 n. 7 62: 331 n. 6 86: 331 n. 8 CXXXVIII 165–168: 332, n. 10 CXLVIII 1–2: 330 n. 5; 332 IAMBLICHUS (Iambl.) Babyloniaca: 154 n. 18 IOHANNES DE MALLIACO Abbreviatio in Gestis et Miraculis Sanctorum I. 39-63: 332 I. 47: 337 n. 17 I. 49: 337 n. 17 I. 51–52: 337 n. 17 I. 54: 338 n. 18 I. 57: 338 n. 19 I. 60–61: 339 n. 20 IOHANNES MOSCHUS Pratum Spirituale 136: 315 n. 51 186: 315 n. 51 207: 315 n. 51 IOSEPHUS (I.) Antiquitates Iudaicae (AI) 18. 42–44: 401 18. 339–354:402 20. 26–32:403 20.118-136: 282 n. 17 20.195: 283

Index locorum

ISAEUS (Is.) III 58: 108 n. 2 70: 117 n. 28 76: 122 n. 39 VIII 7: 68 n. 49 Fragmenta (Fr.) 2.9: 60 n. 24 2.10: 56 n. 8 2.46: 56 n. 8 7. 30: 56 n. 8 IUNIANUS IUSTINUS FRONTINUS (Iust.) Historiarvm Philippicarvm T. Pompeii Trogi Libri XLIV In Epitomen Redacti 13.1.5–6: 238 n. 34 18.4.1-6–8: 131 IUUENALIS (Iuu.) 6.20: 66 LEONTIUS EPISCOPUS NEAPOLEOS Vita S. Joannis Eleemosynarii (VJL) 6.15: 316 22.21: 316 23.7: 316 23.75: 316 30-1: 316 37: 314 37.95: 314 37.104: 314 40.1: 315 42.32: 315 48.24: 316 49.1: 311 54.4: 315 54.46–47: 315 Vita S. Symeonis Sali, Confessoris (VS) 96.22: 312 97.6: 313 124: 11 ss.: 311 140: 10: 311 146: 10: 311 146.21: 313

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148.1: 311 149. 9: 311 151.10: 315 152.6–7: 314 154.7: 314 155.2: 313 156.14: 315 157.17: 314 158.6: 314 165.20: 312 230: 316 Vita Spyridonis 6: 313 7: 316 9: 316 15: 315 16: 311; 315; 317 104.22: 311 107.23: 311 LIUIUS (Liu.) Periochae 112: 8 n. 22. LONGUS Daphnis et Chloe Pr. 3: 195 1.2: 211 1.5: 182; 209 1.8.1: 184 1.8.2: 184 1.13.5: 185 1.14.1: 185 1.15: 218 1.16.1–5: 188 1.20.1: 178 n. 15 1.20.3: 184 n. 6 1.22.4: 184; 185 1.24.4: 184 1.27.1: 187 1.27.31: 257 1.29.2: 184; 184 n. 6; 189 1.30.1: 189;191 n. 22 1.31.1: 178 n. 15; 191 n. 22 1.31.2: 184 n. 6; 191 n. 21

Index locorum

1.32.4: 185 n. 7 2.3.1: 185 2.3.2: 185 2.7.1: 185 2.8.1: 185 2.9.1: 185 2.9.2: 185 2.10.1: 185 2.16.2: 184 n. 6 2.20: 257 2.27.28: 257 2.39.2: 174; 190 3.1.2: 174 3.3.1: 174; 175 3.3.3.: 194; 175 n. 6 3.4.3: 175 n. 7 3.4.5: 176;178; 187 n. 12; 194 3.6.3–4: 178 3.6.5: 178 3.8.1: 178; 178 n. 15 3.8.2: 178 3.11.3: 178 3.14.3–5: 194 3.17.2: 186 3.17.3: 186 3.18.1–2: 186 3.18.3: 186 3.18.4: 186 3.19: 186 3.19.1: 186 3.19.2: 75 n. 87 3.20: 218 3.22: 218 3.22.2-3: 190 n. 20 3.22.3: 191 n. 21 3.22.4: 191 3.23.2: 191 3.23.4: 191 3.23.5: 191 3.25.1–3: 61 n. 25 3.27.29–30: 60 4.17: 220 4.21: 209

431

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4.24: 90 4.34–35: 209 4.35.3: 90 4.37: 218 4.40: 181 LUCANUS (Lucan.) Bellum Ciuile 9.106–7: 254 LUCIANUS (Luc.) De Saltatione (Salt.) 54: 130 Dialogi Deorum (DDeor.) 2.2.3: 140 Timo (Tim.) 17: 55 n. 4 LYCURGUS (Lycurg.) Fragmenta (Fr.) 5: 2 n. 4 LYSIAS (Lys.) 6.15: 136 n. 25 30.3: 139 MENANDER (Men.) Epitrepontes (Epit.) 384–386: 209 n. 4 Dyscolus (Dysc.) 842–846: 125 n. 40 Periciromente (Pc.) 768–772: 209 n. 4 820–823: 209 n. 4 MOERIS (Moer.) 192: 140 MUSONIUS RUFUS (Muson.) Epistulae Spuriae (Ep.) 13.a: 57 n. 14 NICOLAUS DAMASCENUS (Nic.Dam.): 135 NINUS P. Berol. inv. 6926 (fr. A + fr. B) + P. Gen. II 85: 132; 132 n. 11 PSI XIII 1305 / (frg. C): 141; 143 O.Edfu. 306 NONNUS EPICUS (Nonn.) Dionysiaca (D.) 9.130–131: 223

Index locorum

NOUUM TESTAMENTUM Epistula ad Corinthios (Ep.Cor.) 4.7: 298 9.24-27: 302 n. 13 14.34–35: 308 n. 32 15.45-47: 321 Epistula ad Ephesios (Ep.Eph.) 5.32: 308 Epistula ad Timotheum (Ep.Ti.) 2: 3: 302 n. 13 Euangelium secundum Iohannem (Eu.Io.) 20.1-13: 169 12: 3: 307 Euangelium secundum Lucam (Eu.Luc.) 24.1-12: 169 Euangelium secundum Marcum (Eu.Marc. ) 16.1-8: 169 Euangelium secundum Matthaeum (Eu.Matt.) 28.1-8: 169 OUIDIUS (Ou.) Amores (Am.) 1.4.51–52: 202 1.8: 201 n. 11 2.1.27-28: 201 n. 10 3.9.9–10: 254 Ars amatoria (AA) 1.462: 200 Metamorphoses (Met.) 9. 678: 89 n. 20 Tristia (Tr.) 3.7: 199 PALLADIUS (Pall.) Historia Lausiaca (H.Laus.) 8: 307 n. 28 34: 308 56: 305 65: 273 67.1: 304 n.20; 331 n. 43 PARTHENOPE 129; 130; 386 O. Bodl. 2175: 128 n. 1; 129 P. Berol. 7927 + 9588 + 21179

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139; 131 6–29: 131 n. 8 P. Mich. 3402:128 n. 1; 129 P. Oxy. 435:128 n. 1; 129 PAUSANIAS (Paus.) 10.24.3:132 n. 13 10.24.7: 140 PHILOSTRATUS (Philostr.) Vita Apollonii (VA) 277 3.46–47: 216 n. 17 Epitome (Epit.) 16–17: 393 PHOTIUS (Phot.) Bibliotheca (Bibl.) 94: 141 94.75 b, 1: 152 n. 18 109 a, 30: 150 n. 7 110 a 40–110 b 1: 150 n. 8 190.153a.25: 138 n. 33 166: 150 n. 7 PLATO (Pl.) Respublica (R) 5. 460.c: 85 n. 5 5 459 d: 85 n. 5 PLAUTUS (Plaut.) Poenulus (Poen.) 920: 264 1207–8: 267 n.16 Pseudolus (Ps.) 1155–1158: 112 n. 16 Rudens (Rud.) 1158: 209 n. 4 Trinummus (Trin.) 1157–1164: 112 n. 16 PLINIUS MAIOR (Plin.) Naturalis Historia (HN) 6.112: 400 n. 5 19.18: 175 37.147: 215 37.10.54.: 216 n. 19

Index locorum

37.11–12: 212 n. 11 37.40.124: 217 n. 20 37.41.125-126: 210 n. 6 PLINIUS (Plin.) Epistulae (Ep.) 65: 92 66: 93 PLUTARCHUS (Plu.) Vitae Parallelae Alcibiades (Alc.) 26: 139 35: 139 37: 139 39.5: 139 Alexander (Alex.) 9.3: 236 n. 26 10.1: 236 n. 26 10.5.6: 234 n. 19 46. 4–5: 144 51. 5–11: 135 77.2: 236 Antonius (Ant.) 29.2: 134 44.5: 139 78–79: 139 78.1: 139 79.3–6: 139 Brutus (Brut.) 33.2: 8. n. 22 Caesar (Caes.) 49.4: 8. n. 22 Demosthenes (Dem.) 49.9.: 135 Lycurgus (Lyc.) 16: 86 Otho (Oth.) 15.3: 139 Pompeius (Pomp.) 32.14–15: 143 33.2: 144 55: 202 77.1: 10 n. 30 77.2.: 8 n. 22

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77.3.: 8 n. 22 78.: 10 n. 31 79.4: 10 n. 31 80.2: 10 n. 31 Solo (Sol.) 11.1: 139 20: 114 n. 20 20.6: 95 n. 33 Themistocles (Them.) 14.3: 138 n. 31. Moralia 3F: 193 n. 26 Mulierum Virtutes 246. F.10–13: 139 n. 36 Coniugalia Praecepta 138c: 56 n. 10 144.5: 55 n. 5 POLLUX (Poll.) 7.155: 135 8.107: 122 POLYAENUS (Polyaen.) 8.60: 6 n. 15 and 16 8.55: 133 8.56: 133 PORPHYRIO POMPONIUS (Porph.) Commentum in Horatium (Comm.) 1, 21: 11 n. 37 PROTEUANGELIUM (Proteu.) 370; 370 n. 16; 371 PRUDENTIUS CLEMENS, AURELIUS (Prud.) Peristephanon Hymnus (Perist.) 14, 21–60: 271 PTOLOMEUS CHENNUS (Ptol.Chenn.) 138 n. 33 SCYLAX (Scyl.) Periplus (Per.) 70–71: 144 n. 44 SENECA (Sen.) Controuersiae (Contr.) 1.2: 245; 268 9.3: 91 n. 25

Index locorum

10.14: 95 n. 34 Troades Act.2: 159; 167; 168 SESONCHOSIS P. Oxy. 2466: 151 n. 10 P. Oxy. 3319: 151 n. 10 P. Oxy. 1826: 151 n. 10 P. Oxy. 5262: 151 n. 10 P. Oxy. 5263: 151 n. 10 SEXTUS EMPIRICUS (S.E.) 218: 100 SOMNIUM NECTANEBI P. Leid. I U: 152 1.2: 151 1.8: 151 1.10: 151 n. 15 4.10: 151 n. 13 5.3: 152 SOPHOCLES (S.) Antigone (Ant.) 393: 178 n. 15 Oedipus Tyrannus (OT) 691: 177 n. 11 STATIUS Siluae (Silu.) 3.5.63–67: 202 STRABO (Str.) 3.54.2: 144 n. 44 4.16.1: 143 11.5.1–3: 143 11.5.4: 144 n. 44 12.3.15: 143 17. 824: 85 SUETONIUS (Suet.) Augustus (Aug.) 65: 86 n. 6 Caligula (Cal.) 5: 86 n. 6 Iulius Caesar (Iul.) 1.22: 144 n. 44

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TERTULLIANUS (Tert.) Apologeticus (Apol.) 50.12: 270 THEO Progymnasmata (Prog.) 114–115.2: 133 114–115: 133 n. 14; 138 n. 31 THEODORETUS CYRENSIS (Thdt.) Historia Religiosa (H.Rel.) 310; 317; 321 THUCYDIDES (Th.) 2.101.5–6: 109 n. 7 3. 3–6: 174 n. 4 TIBULLUS (Tibul.) 1.5.41–42: 201 2.4.55-60: 201 TIMAEUS 131; 131 n.9 TINOUPHIS P. Turner 8: 155; 155 n. 39; 156 TRACTATI DE MULIERIBUS ET GYNAECIA INCERTI (Gyn.) BBKT 10.22: 47 P. Iand. V 82 (P.Testi Med. 9): 47 VALERIUS MAXIMUS (Val.Max.) 4. 5–6, ext. 2: 143 UELLEIUS Historiae Romanae 2.53.2: 8 n. 22 VERGILIUS (Verg.) Aeneis (Aen.) 4.117–18: 134 Georgica (G.) 1. 299–302: 176 XENOPHO (X.) Anabasis (An.) 7. 2.38: 109 n. 7 Historia Graeca (HG) 1–3: 136

Index locorum

Oeconomicus (Oec.) 7.10: 59 n. 21 XENOPHO EPHESIUS (X. Eph.) 1.1.5: :134 n.21 1.2:182 1.2.5–7:218 1.2.5:70 n.60 1.7.2:71 n.69 1.8:218 1.8:248 1.11.4: 57.n.15 1.11.6: 57.n.15 1.16.7: 77 n. 94. 2.2:248 2.7.5:57 n. 16 3.5.1:218 3.5.9:160 3.8.3:248 3.9.1:248 3.11.4:69.n.55 3.69–70:218 4.1.5:134 n.21 4.3.3:69.n.55 4.5:257 5.1.6:118 5.2.5:69.n.56 5.4.7:69.n.56 5.5-7: 118 5.7:255 5.14.4:75 n.81 5.98:218

Other languages and/or traditions ALONSO NÚÑEZ DE REINOSO Los amores de Clareo y Florisea y los trabajos de la sin ventura Isea ENUMA ELISH Tabula V. 1–8: 360 n. 1 FIRDAWSĪ Shāhnāma: 383; 384; 385; 386; 390; 391; 390 n. 27 GURGĀNĪ Vīs u Rāmīn: 398; 399; 399 n. 4; 400; 401; 402; 404

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IOHANNES (EPISCOPUS EPHESIUS) Vitae Sanctorum Orientalium 27: 307 n. 29 MOSES ARMENUS CHORENENSIS Historia Armenica 142 NIẒĀMĪ Iskandarnāma: 383; 384; 389; 389 n. 17 and; 390; 391 n. 30 Ḵosrow o Širin: 142 RASHĪDĪ SAMARQANDĪ Mihr o Vafā: 382 RAMAYANA 1.14: 376 1.6: 376 1.18: 380 2.6: 376 2.8: 378 2.11: 377; 378 2.15: 377 2.64.9: 378 ṬARSŪSĪ Dārābnāma 382; 383; 384 n. 7; 385; 385 n. 10; 386 n. 15; 387; 393 ʹUNṢΥRĪ Vāmiq o ‘Adhrā: 130, 386. 34–35: 130 38–39: 130 348: 130 366: 130 TRISTAN ET ISEULT 400 VETUS TESTAMENTUM Canticum (Ca.) 370 n. 14 Deuteronomium (De.) 21. 1–9: 363; 365 Esther (Es.) 2: 310 Exodus (Ex.) 22.9–11: 362

Index locorum

Iosue (Io. ) 7.6–13: 364 Oseas (Os) 4.14: 369 n. 13 Prouerbia (Pr.) 369 n. 14 Reges (Re.) 8.31–32: 365

Legal sources CODEX IUSTINIANUS (C.) 4.25.4: 35 n. 44 4.21.6: 104 n. 8 5. 3. 20: 65 5.4.16: 94 n. 30 5. 16. 24: 65; 66 5. 11. 6.: 62 n. 34; 63 n. 35 8.51.2: 94 n. 30 8.52.3: 94 n. 30 9.9.1: 37 n. 51 9.9.7: 37 n. 51 CODEX THEODOSIANUS (CTh.) 5.9.1: 94 n. 31 9.24.1.pr: 72 n. 72 9. 31: 89 n. 21 9.42. 1: 65; 66 COLLATIO LEGUM MOSAICARUM ET ROMANARUM (Coll.) 4.2.3: 21 n. 10 DIGESTA IUSTINIANI (D.) 1.5.9: 39 n. 52 2.4.5: 27 n. 24 2.13.12: 36 3.1.1.5: 37 n. 50 5.1.12.2: 37 n. 49 9.3.7: 27 n. 26 14.1.1.15: 145 14.1.1.16: 35 n. 43; 145 14.1.1.21: 35 n. 44 14.3.7.1: 34; 35 n. 42 15.1.1.2–3: 35; 35 n. 45 15.1.27 pr.:36 n. 46 16.1: 33 n. 39

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16.3.8: 36 n. 47 19.2.19 (21).7: 146 23. 2. 1.: 56 n. 12 23.2.2: 79 n. 100 23.2.12: 79 n. 102 23.3.56.1: 21 n. 11 23.4.11.: 62 n. 34 24.1.1: 65 24.1.32.: 66 24.1.32.13: 56; 103 25.3.1.: 28 n. 27 25.4.1 pr.: 28 n. 28 35.1.15: 102 37, 7, 1, 8: 62 n. 34 39.5.31: 103 39.5.31 pr.: 103 40.4.29: 91 n.25 46.3.88: 29 n. 29 47.11.4: 26 48.2.2 pr.: 37 n. 51 48.5.6.1: 21 n. 9 48.5.35 pr.: 21 n. 9 50.17.133: 25 n. 21 50.17.2 pr.2 n. 2; 17 n. 11 50.17.30: 102; 103 EPITOME GAI (Ep. Gai) 1.6.3: 26 n. 23 GAI INSTITUTIONES (Gai Inst.) 1.53: 24 n. 19 1.55: 24 n. 20; 87 n. 12; 100 1.56: 19 n. 4 1.57: 23 n. 16 1.58–64: 19 n. 3 1.62: 19 n. 3 1.63: 19 n. 2 1.65: 23 1.84: 24 n. 18 1.87: 25 n. 21 1.91: 24 n. 18 1.108–113: 19 n. 6 1.115ª: 31 n. 33; 32; 32 n. 38 1.130: 25 1.132 a.: 26 n. 23

Index locorum

1.144: 30 n. 30 1.145: 31 n. 34 1.145–157: 31 n. 31 1.150–153: 30 1.157: 23 n. 16; 32 n. 37 1.160: 24 n. 18 1.185.: 31 n. 31 1.190: 30; 31 n. 32; 35 1.194: 27 n. 25; 32 n. 36 2.111: 21 n. 8 2.118: 32; 32 n. 38 2.127–128: 33 2.274: 33 2.286–287: 21 n. 7; 33 INSTITUTIONES IUSTINIANI (I.) 1.3.3.2–3: 34 n. 41 1. 3.4 pr.: 34 n. 41 1. 9. 1.: 56 n. 13 2. 7.3: 65 LEX IULIA DE ADULTERIIS COERCENDIS 20; 22; 40 LEX IULIA DE MARITANDIS ORDINIBUS 19; 68; 75; 79 LEX PAPIA POPPAEA NUPTIALIS 19; 20; 27 NOUELLAE IUSTINIANI (Nou. Iust.) 133: 307 NOUELLAE VALENTINIANI (Nou. Val.) 35. 8: 65; 67 PAULI SENTENTIAE (Paul. Sent.) 2.11.1–4.: 33 n. 39 2.26.1: 21 n. 10 2.19.6: 24 n. 17 2.21ª: 24 n. 18 2.21b.2: 21 n. 11 4–8: 21 n. 10 4.9: 27 n. 25; 34 n. 41 4.10: 34 n. 41 TITULI EX CORPORE ULPIANI (ULPIANI REGULAE) (Tit. Ulp.) 3.3: 56 n. 7 5.2: 19 n. 5

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6.6: 22 n. 13 6.9: 22 n. 14 11.1: 36 n. 48 11.27: 31 n. 32 13.1: 22 n. 15 16.1: 21 n. 7 20.15: 32 n. 38 26.8: 27 n. 26; 34 n. 41 SENATUSCONSULTUM CLAUDIANUM 23; 38 SENATUSCONSULTUM ORFITIANUM 29; 33; 34; SENATUSCONSULTUM TERTULLIANUM 27; 29; 33 SENATUSCONSULTUM VELLEIANUM 27

Sources from other traditions CODEX HAMMURABI Lex 2: 364 n. 4 TALMUD Gemará: 367 n. 8 Mishnah Sotah 5: 366; 367 7: 368 9: 368 9.9: 368 n. 12 Sukkah 5:1, 55B Torah 285 Samaritik 726–728: 124 n. 40

Papyrological and epigraphic sources PAPYRI BGU (Aegyptische Urkunden aus den Königlichen (Staatlichen) Museen zu Berlin, Griechische Urkunden) IV 1100: 118 BKT (Berliner Klassikertexte) X 22: 47

Index locorum

O.Florida (The Florida Ostraka. Documents from the Roman army in Upper Egypt) 12: 51 P.Cair.Masp (Papyrus grecs d'époque byzantine, Catalogue général des antiquités égyptiennes du Musée du Caire). I 67092: 118 n. 23 P.Eleph (Aegyptische Urkunden aus den Königlichen Museen in Berlin: Griechische Urkunden. Elephantine-Papyri). 1: 118 P.Enteux. (ΕΝΤΕΥΞΕΙΣ: Requêtes et plaintes adressées au Roi d'Égypte au IIIe siècle avant J.-C.) 23: 117; 118 n. 23 P. Gen. (Les Papyrus de Genève) II 103: 50 P.Hib. (The Hibeh Papyri) I 28: 119 n. 32 P.Lond. (Greek Papyri in the British Museum) III 827 (= P.Fay. 151): 9 n. 27 P.Mich. (Michigan Papyri) VIII 508: 48 P.Oslo (Papyri Osloenses) III 95: 50 P.Oxy. (The Oxyrhynchus Papyri) I 52: 50 XII 1586: 51 LI 3620: 49; 50 LXI 4122: 50 P.Ryl. (Catalogue of the Greek and Latin Papyri in the John Rylands Library) II 68: 50 PSI (Publicazioni della Società Italiana per la ricerca dei papiri greci e latini in Egipto) VI 665: 46 VIII 895 (= SB XXII 15560): 48 IX 1075: 67 X 1098: 9 n. 26 SB (Sammelbuch griechischer Urkunden aus Aegypten) VI 9065: 9 n. 27 VI 9559: 119 n. 32 X 10239: 50 XX 15157: 48

Inscriptions Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum (CIL) VI 8958: 4 n. 10 VI 10112: 137 n. 29

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Corpus Inscriptionum Regni Bosporani (CIRB) 978: 144 n. 42 979: 144 n. 42 Inscriptiones Creticae opera et consilio Friederici Halbherr collectae (ICr.) VII.15.29: 78 n. 98 VIII 20–22: 60 n. 23 XII 18: 70 n. 62 XLIV 52: 85 n. 4 Inscriptiones Graecae (IG) III. 801: 4 n. 11 Inscriptiones Graecae urbis Romae (IGUR) II 577: 138 n. 29 Die Inschriften von Kyme (Ikyme) 13: 4 n. 12: 292 Sylloge Inscriptionum Graecarum (SIG3) 834: 292

Abbreviations BHG BHL CPG LACL LGPN LIMC NDPAC PG PL RAC TRE TLG

= Bibliotheca Hagiographica Graeca = Bibliotheca Hagiographica Latina Antiquae et Mediae = Clavis Patrum Graecorum = Lexikon der antiken christlichen Literatur = Lexicon of Greek Personal Names = Lexicon Iconographicum Mythologiae Classicae = Nuovo dizionario patristico e di antichità cristiane = Patrologiae Graecae cursus completus = Patrologiae Cursus Completus. Series Latina = Reallexikon für Antike und Christentum = Theologische Realenzyklopädie = Thesaurus Linguae Graecae

Contributors 1.

Blanca Ballesteros, [email protected]

2. Ria Berg, [email protected] 3. Ana Isabel Blasco Torres, [email protected] 4. Mª Aránzazu Calzada González, [email protected] 5. Francisco-Javier Casinos-Mora, [email protected] 6. Pablo Cavallero, [email protected] 7.

Janet Downie, [email protected]

8. Benito Elías García-Valero, Benito.garcí[email protected] 9. Luca Graverini, [email protected] 10. Leonardo Gregoratti, [email protected] 11. Cayetana-Heidi Johnson, [email protected] 12. Nikoletta Kanavou, [email protected] 13. Grammatiki Karla, [email protected] 14. Haila Manteghi, [email protected] 15. María Paz López Martínez, [email protected] 16. Sophia Papaioannou, [email protected] 17. Michael Paschalis, [email protected] 18. Aldo Petrucci, [email protected] 19. Regina Polo Martín, [email protected] 20. Carmen Puche López, [email protected] 21. Nicola Reggiani, [email protected] 22. Consuelo Ruiz-Montero, [email protected] 23. Carlos Sánchez-Moreno Ellart, [email protected] 24. Christoph Schaefer, [email protected] 25. Nial W. Slater, [email protected] 26. Yvona Trnka-Amrhein, [email protected] 27. Ana Belén Zaera García, [email protected]

This volume gathers chapters related to the condition of women in the ancient novel. To broaden the perspective, it integrates not only papers dealing with the Greek and Roman novel as a literary genre in its own right, but also as a historical document involving aspects as diverse as history, archaeology, sociology and the history of law. The twenty-six contributions in this volume have been divided into thematic blocks, based on the different approaches that the authors have adopted to tackle the subject. The first block is about realia – the reality in which the fiction has been conceived. The second block focuses on the legal problems that can be deduced from the plots of the novels. The third block encompasses deals with the Greek and Roman novel from the point of view of classical philology, literary criticism and literary theory, with chapters dedicated to the tradition of the ancient novel, both in our most immediate cultural area (Middle Ages, Spanish Golden Age) and in other contexts, whether Indo-European (India, Persia) or of a different origin.

isbn 978 90 272 1433 1

John Benjamins Publishing Company